Wir Sind Keine Dämonen

She watched him leave, tags still curled in her fingers. She was not sad, but smiled sadly. Idly, she put on the tags.



Damn that’s weird, Logan’s voice murmured from her head. Rogue tilted her head.



What is?



Watchin’ myself do things from here. It’s damned weird.



Rogue shook her head and went back to the foosball game with the boys. The voices in her head were rare, unless she really let them, but with Logan gone and promising to return she tried to keep things minimal. Internal conversation with extra personalities was unhealthy enough, but she worried about invading the privacy of his mind, or of somehow confusing a talk with the Logan in her head for one with the real one at some point. She had no doubt he would return, even if that alone confused her somewhat.



Somehow, having him in her head, she knew he was forcing her to take his earlier advice. He wanted her to be a kid, to forget the road a little. Now she was willing to try a little.



She had tried to call Jack, her former surrogate father, now that Magneto was locked up. His number had been disconnected. She had to face the fact that she may never see him again. The remains of him in her head had offered some comfort, and told her to move on, and take Logan’s advice. She told him the same things she had told Logan.



She would try.



~



Classes had been awkward. Following the Statue of Liberty she had taken various aptitude and entrance exams for Xavier’s School for Gifted. Her scores were very good, and logically she could have sought to graduate right away, but much of her knowledge on the tests had come from Erik, and she was unsure about how he would fade from her mind. Cody was gone. In any case, her math was still weak. School continued.



~



Rogue had avoided her for a long time now. She could feel the other girl’s eyes burning her clothing and replacing it with something yellow. The vibe of a fashion guru was one Rogue had always found very unnerving. Yet…the siren song, the lure that was music...



Jubilation Lee had an electric guitar and an amp. She was pretty good. Rogue knew this because upon hearing the first few chords as she passed Jubilee and Kitty’s room on the way to her own private one, she had paused. She had listened. Jubilation Lee liked rock and roll. Rogue had not held a guitar since she stopped traveling with Jack over a month ago. Rogue found herself knocking hesitantly on Jubilee’s door. The guitar within struck a discordant note.



“Am I too loud?” Jubilee called. Rogue smirked.



“Has that ever stopped ya before?”



There was a pause. The sound of approaching feet. Jubilee opened the door and looked at Rogue, slightly perplexed. Rogue’s eyes scanned the visible room, but did not fall on the guitar, her sacred quest.



“Uhm…”



“You play?” Rogue asked. Jubilee blinked. Few people in the mansion had seen Rogue smile, let alone sparkle, seemingly enthused.



“Yes.”



“C-can Ah...” She stopped. “Sorry, Ah’m bein’ so rude. Ah’m Rogue, and Ah used to play a lot but have been in withdrawl for ages now…” A knowing look, and then faint amusement crossed Jubilee’s Eurasian features.



“Ah. I see. Come on in, girlie,” Jubilee commanded, swinging the door open wider and beckoning. Rogue’s hesitation was minimal at best. It vanished when her eyes settled on the guitar. She had expected yellow, but the instrument was dark cherry red. Rogue bit her lower lip and approached it.



“Can Ah…”



“Go ahead,” Jubilee assured. Rogue lifted the instrument and sat down on the end of the nearby bed. She plucked experimentally and Jubilee shut the door before approaching.



“Can you still play?” she asked. Rogue shrugged.



“Do you mind if Ah take off my gloves?” she said, very cautious. Jubilee’s face showed recognition, a flicker of fear, but it was well founded.



“Sure. I’ll be careful.” Rogue smiled in thanks, and balanced the instrument on her lap as she pulled off the short gloves and pushed back her long sleeves at the wrists. Lifting the neck of the guitar and feeling the first chord, her breath caught. She played. Jubilee gaped. It was the opening to the Santana song ‘Smooth’ and it was nearly flawless. Rogue stopped and lifted her fingers from the guitar’s neck.



“Ow,” she whimpered.



“Damn, chica!”



“My callous is all gone…”



“That was bitchin’! What else you play?”



Rogue looked up at Jubilee. They smiled at each other faintly.





“You like Johnny Cash?”



“Never heard of ‘im, Chica.”



“Yer shittin’ me!”



“’Fraid not.”



“Damn.”



“Yeah, well, I need to introduce you to some serious Van Halen. You give me this ‘Cash’ and we’ll call it even.”



“Ah like the way you think, Jubilation Lee.”



~



Sleep was something that varied from person to person even on a normal basis. In a house full of mutants, it was one of the lesser abnormalities to have strange sleeping habits. Rogue stepped very lightly and even the mansion’s most notoriously creaky steps scarcely murmured under her feet as she slunk to the kitchen. The kid who never slept gave her a passive greeting and she tossed him a tired smile.



“Nightmares?” he asked.



“Same old, same old,” she replied. He nodded and she continued slinking. He did not know how it fazed her to say something like that, to have such a stable life that there was a “same old.”



Plucking a bottled water from the fridge, and glancing in the freezer only to find her stomach roiling at the thought of ice cream, Rogue plopped herself down on a barstool and sat at the center island of the kitchen counter with the cool bottle on her temple.



I’m sorry, kid, Logan’s voice murmured.



Don’t be. I’m alive, ain’t I?



You still shouldn’t have to deal with…Images: green water, needles, metal, champagne. Rogue swallowed thickly.



Neither should you. Her mind was silent at that. She opened the water bottle and guzzled half of it. She took in a long breath through her nose, catching the smells of dinner, disinfectant cleaner, spices and other semi-comforting kitchen smells, she let herself calm. It helped clear away the remembered smell of metal-seared flesh. At least it hadn’t been one of Erik’s nightmares. He may be locked up from taking control or influencing her daily life, but his mind was still in hers, and she still remembered the Statue of Liberty and all that went through her mind.



A faint creak outside the kitchen caught her attention. Jean stepped in, and looked surprised to see her. Rogue smiled a little, and acknowledged that the expression had some Logan in it. Maybe it was the large amount of male psyches, maybe she had only just noticed it about herself, but Rogue admitted, at least to herself, some attraction to the same sex. Having Logan in her head made time with Jean slightly awkward by extension, and Rogue was immensely glad her mind tended to be so difficult to read.



“Hey, Jean. Can’t sleep?” she asked. Jean rubbed one her eyes, looking pretty and rumpled.



“No, I’m just a rare variety of sleepwalker. What are you doin’ here?” she murmured. Rogue shrugged.



“Can’t sleep,” she said primly. Jean rolled her eyes.



“No kidding?” she joked. Rogue raised her eyebrows. Sighing, Jean turned to the refrigerator and pulled out some mint chocolate ice cream. Rogue eyed it, still mildly nauseous, and took another swig of water. What she really wanted was beer. Elbows on the table, Rogue folded her hands around the water bottle and fiddled with it, then just set it down, still eying the creamy frozen confection.



“Don’t shoot such offensive looks at my ice cream,” Jean teased. Rogue shrugged.



“My stomach’s upset, ‘s all,” she muttered. Jean opened the pint of ice cream. Behind her, a drawer slid open, a spoon hovering up and out of it into Jean’s waiting hand.



“See, why couldn’t Ah get a mutation like that? Useful, that is at least,” Rogue muttered. Jean scooped a spoonful of ice cream and laid it across her tongue thoughtfully, removing the spoon very slowly. Rogue blushed a little and cursed Logan mentally. She cursed him even more when he laughed.



“If you wanted to, you could take it,” Jean mused. Rogue wrinkled her nose, resting her chin on her gloved hands.



“That’s not funny,” she said. Jean shrugged, lifting but not consuming, another spoonful of ice cream.



“I’m not suggesting it is, but just thinking logically.”



“And of course I feel like knocking my friend into a coma for a week or so,” Rogue muttered. Jean swallowed her spoonful of ice cream and sighed, patting Rogue’s covered wrist.



“I’m sure it could be worse,” she offered. Rogue shot her a look that was at once incredulous and sardonic. “You could gain physical characteristics of the people you touch like…hairiness. You could have gotten Logan’s sideburns.”



They stared at each other for a beat, and then burst into giggles.



“Okay, okay, so it could be worse,” Rogue snickered. Jean shot her the long look that women who know things always seem to have handy.



“So why can’t you sleep?” Jean murmured. Rogue raised one eyebrow, not in a sarcastic Logan-like manner, but in a tired ‘do you really wanna know?’ manner. Jean’s fine brows knit in concern and Rogue melted a little. The sigh of the busted but resigned adolescent escaped her.



“Nightmares,” Rogue muttered. Jean nodded a little. “Not mine,” Rogue added when Jean seemed about to ask what they were.



“Ah, I see.”



“Logan’s tonight.”



“You get them a lot?” Jean asked. Rogue nodded.



“Every night. Logan’s from the lab. Erik’s from the camps. Occasionally one of mine from the statue of liberty slips in as well,” Rogue said it idly, and picked up her water again. Her eyes flickered up to Jean, who looked more deeply concerned.



“But Charles locked Erik up, right?” Jean inquired. Rogue shrugged.



“He can’t take over, and when I’m awake he can’t do anything, but dreams go wherever and take from whoever.”



“Charles could…” Jean began, but a look from Rogue quieted her. Jean sighed. Rogue shrugged casually, but the telepath could tell some of it was artifice.



“It’s not too bad most nights. Ah can get back to sleep once I’ve calmed down. Some nights are just like this…”



“And others?” Jean prompted, sensing more. Rogue’s jaw clenched for a moment.



“Some nights it’s so bad Ah get sick to my stomach, throw up, and feel the chills into the early hours of the morning,” Rogue whispered. A long pause passed between them, and Jean stared at her. Rogue was old behind that delicate young face, dark beneath her youthful glow, and harsh beneath it all. Jean took one of her gloved hands and squeezed reassuringly. Rogue nodded a little in thanks, but they both knew it had little effect. The Rogue had been alone for a long time now, and she was strong. Jean thought for a moment that the girl could handle anything, and maybe she could.



~



It had started out innocently enough. Rogue was designed to be a creature of movement. After exposure to Logan and by extension Wolverine, that gave her more violent urges. She had taken Tai Chi in that time Long, Long Ago in a Small Town Far, Far Away. Seeing her moving and stretching, Orroro had offered to teach her some basic yoga, which she explained that she had learned originally for meditation purposes to help control her mutation. Rogue accepted, and found herself enjoying the weariness after practice with Orroro, who was advanced and thus hard to keep up with. The tiredness, the slight pains, the feeling of strength: she found that she liked it, and was a little disturbed. Logan apologized from somewhere in her mind, and Rogue felt better.



When she discovered the weight room, she also discovered a new hobby in putting on a show.



Dressed in a black sporty tank top and matching calf-length skin-tight exercise pants, Rogue was a sight in the weight room on butterfly press, treadmill and bench press. Boys would watch, on rare occasion actually drool, but never approach, and never touch. It was gorgeous skin and a gorgeous body, but above all it was deadly.



Still, despite her newfound activity, Rogue felt restless. She liked feeling worn out after exercise but it was tedious, and dull. She wanted to fight, and she knew it. Mr. Summers started to take notice when she stopped practicing somewhat elegant Tai Chi and started instead violently pummeling punching bags in the weight room. Her moves were instinctive, and she did not think about them, but they caught Scott’s attention.



Rogue began to notice that when she staged situations in her mind, moves came easily to her. They belonged to fighting styles she had never heard of, but that she knew. Training scenarios she set up for herself were almost militaristic and she never carried them out. Rogue and the Logan within her mind suspected their origin, but discovered them with similar surprised fascination. When Rogue caught Scott watching her increasingly often, she tried to tone it down, but then she would grow restless again.



Finally he approached her about the team, about the X-men. He said he was going to start training a junior team. Rogue had smiled brightly.



“Consider me a recruit. When do we start sparring for hand-to-hand combat practice?”



Scott had seemed a little unnerved.



“Eager, are we? In any case I would like to see what you can do. I’ve already examined Bobby, John and Kitty. You and Pete are my remaining recruits for consideration,” he explained. Rogue nodded. “Just…please don’t break anymore punching bags.”





Rogue eyed the sad bag, still-leaking sand as it swung back and forth. She looked at Scott again.



“Give me something better to hit, and you have a deal,” she assured. Scott actually smiled a little.



“We’ll start with me this evening after dinner. I plan on talking to Pete later, and if all goes well all recruits will meet then, and I can finish preliminary examinations.”



~



Hair tied back, Rogue met Scott in the gym, dressed in a black T-shirt, cotton gloves that went halfway over her upper arm, and loose black cotton pants. Her hiking boots made intimidating sounds on the wooden floor, accented by the light metallic tinkling of the dog tags at her neck. Scott raised a brow.



“Nice try. I’ve seen what women can do with a half-decent pair of boots. Barefoot, please,” he commanded. Rogue smirked a little.



“Ah just like boots, Mr. Summers, and not just as offensive weapons.” In any case, she slipped them off, stretched a little, and stepped up on the mat, facing her Physics teacher and looking forward to getting in a few good hits. He tossed her a pair of padded sparring gloves before putting on his own. Kitty showed up just as they lowered into stances. This time Logan was practically whispering advice in Rogue’s ear, and she almost encouraged it.



Kitty watched them circle each other.



“Attack me,” Scott commanded. Rogue, instead of pausing to consider as he expected, immediately launched at him and put him on the defensive. She was small, but fast, and the strength behind her blows surprised him. The stick-like half-starved girl Logan had dropped off had filled out on three meals a day, and then slowly turned into a surprising amount of muscle. Rogue launched quick punches, but Scott kept her at enough distance to stop her from hitting his legs and knocking him off-balance. Rogue switched tactics a little, feinting a hit for his face, then dropping into a crouch and launching forward. As a result she caught him in the stomach with her shoulder and managed to sweep his feet out from under him. Kitty gaped. Bobby and John had entered as well, and were staring.



Scott, however, was getting past Rogue’s looks and his own expectations, and really beginning to fight. He pushed her back with a kick to the stomach and regained his feet. On the defensive, Rogue parried his blows, but found herself loosing ground.



I’ll be damned. Pansy-ass isn’t half-bad.



Not helping me, Logan.



She lashed out at Scott’s legs with a kick but he caught it and yanked her toward him, seizing one of her arms and twisting it behind her back. Rogue gave what was distinctly a growl and tried to elbow him. When he caught it, she seized the drawstring on his sweats, twisting and yanking until she heard a snap. Scott made a surprised sound and his grip loosened involuntarily as he tried to move to keep his pants up. Rogue managed to jerk away and face him, rubbing her formerly pinned arm and grinning a little. Scott re-tied his damaged drawstring.



“Resourceful,” he admitted. Rogue grinned, then attacked.



Pete arrived and whispered to Bobby, “What’s going on?”



“Mr. Summers is examining Rogue’s fighting ability,” Bobby said automatically, his eyes glued to Rogue.



“Oh…she’s pretty good.”



“Uh-huh,” Bobby grunted.



“He’s beyond verbalization just now, Pete. Just hope he doesn’t have to stand up soon,” John sneered. Bobby punched him in the shoulder.



Rogue only gave up when she was well and truly pinned. She had been just regularly pinned twice already, and had managed to get back up. Now she was facedown, Mr. Summers holding her hands behind her back and pinning her legs down with one of his. With a light growl, she relaxed and reluctantly admitted defeat. Scott eased off her and she rolled onto her back, breathing hard and satisfied to see that he wasn’t exactly calm and collected either. She was bruised, and oddly giddy about it. She took Scott’s hand when he offered it and he pulled her to her feet.



“No way in hell are you not on the team,” he muttered to her. Rogue arched a brow at him in surprise, but smiled as Scott turned to address the others.



~



It had been four months since Logan left when people at the mansion had started to understand Rogue’s behavior to her satisfaction and she began to relax a little. When she was covered up very well, she was approachable and social. Short sleeves and long gloves meant that she expected distance, due to the exposed strips of skin on each arm. Exposed shoulder means she allows few people near her today. Short gloves paired with short sleeves or other exposing apparel were the signal to leave Rogue the fuck alone.



Yet, still Bobby tried to approach her today. She had already growled at him once, but he had returned and looked apologetic. Maybe he really…maybe he could…



Rogue tried to shake off hope. It was a tenacious little bastard and could bring no end of pain when its illusion’s shattered, to Rogue’s impressive degree of experience. Bobby was very patiently still trying to speak with her. She should have growled at him again, but…she softened.



She let him approach without her customary air of threat. She began talking with him, and by extension John. She had forgotten some of the better aspects of relating to males. For one thing, she had a use for the random hockey trivia in her head. And yet…



It had been a while since she had let herself think about touching people. She was very physically expressive; it was just part of her nature, and now she had to restrain it. The only touch she got was covered skin on covered skin during sparring matches. She was far less worried that way.



~



“Do you ever sleep?” Jubilee yawned. Rogue arched a brow, sipping from a brown glass bottle. Her hand covered the label.



“Enough to have reason to wake up and be down here,” Rogue offered. Jubilee grumbled, rubbing her eyes. “Why’re you up this time, Jubes?”



“Fuckin’ exams,” the other girl snarled and managed to find a glass. Rogue eyed Jubilee’s bunny slippers with amusement. “I need a break from crammin’ though. You. Entertain me,” she demanded, jabbing a finger at Rogue. Rogue stared at the finger. Jubilee put the finger to use and used it and its fellows to maneuver a gallon of milk out of the fridge. She poured herself a glass and put it away again.



“Fine. What kind of entertainment?” Rogue inquired. Jubes sat across from her and sipped her milk. She eyed Rogue.



“Informative, entertaining but deep and revealing conversation. I know the last bit is your weak point, but come on it’s two in the morning, neither of us may remember later,” Jubilee declared. Rogue sighed.



“You start it,” she commanded. Jubilee pouted.



“Bitch, now I can’t think of anything,” she whined. She laid her head down on her arm next to her glass of milk, trying to think of something. Rogue took a long pull from the bottle in her hand and waited. It took almost a full minute. Abruptly, Jubilee sat up straight again and pointed an almost accusing finger at Rogue.



“You!” she demanded.



“Yes?



“What’s with you and Bobby?” Jubilee inquired, looking her most shrewd. Rogue blinked.



“Nothin’,” she said truthfully. Jubillee waggled the accusing finger. Rogue had the distinct and increasingly tempting urge to bite it.



“That would be the problem. Why not?”



Rogue stared.



“I asked you a-“



“Jubes, my skin sucks, literally,” Rogue spat solemnly. Jubilee made a dismissive gesture that at least got rid of the accusing finger.



“Oh, ‘your skin, your skin.’ Bobby boy has been pining for you and chasing you for months, so I think he’s aware of the need for care surrounding your skin,” she dismissed. Rogue huffed a little. “Just, please don’t tell me it’s ‘cuz you’re pining after tall, dark and hairy off in Canada.” Rogue paused, then burst out laughing. At the sense of wounded pride from her spare psyche Logan, she laughed harder. Jubilee frowned. “Oh come on. Everyone in the whole school talks about your huge crush…”



“Jubes, ya know me almost as well as Jean, which means ya know me better than most of the people in this damn school. Do I seem like the pinin’ type?” Rogue sniggered. Jubilee considered this, apparently for the first time.



“Well…no. Not in the slightest. Damn.”



“What?”



“Well…you’ve got to admit the story has so much romance…”



Rogue stared at Jubilee blankly. “What?” she managed. Jubilee sighed a long, lovelorn sigh that even Jane Austen would question as overdramatic and rambled for nearly ten minutes about deep convictions, symbolism, love at first sight, innocence and burliness, and all manner of things. Marie fell off her stool laughing when she finished. Jubilee was put out.



“Jubes, Jubes. My god, Jubes! Ah mean, yes he’s hot as Hades, but have you all really developed this elaborate fantasy…”



“It’s a good fantasy. Very hot.”



“Jubes!”



“What?”



“Just…just...Listen, Jubes. Ya know me. Ah don’t do hope, Ah stick with Murphy’s Law.”



“Remind me…Murphy?” Jubes questioned.



“‘If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong,’” Rogue quoted. Jubes nodded. “See? Ah know Logan doesn’t do sappy romantic junk. Ah know Ah don’t like sappy romance.”



“Oh come on,” Jubilee teased. Rogue shook her head.



“I hated the movie ‘Ever After,’” she confessed. Jubilee gaped at her, apparently considering this tantamount to treason. “And ‘Titianic’ even more.”



“Wha-buh-HERETIC!” Jubilee declared, and the accusing finger was back. Rogue batted it aside with her bottle, which she then drained. Jubilee arched a brow. “That’s not soda.”



“Molson,” Rogue muttered under her breath.



“What’d you say, Chica?”



“Nothin’, Jubes. But, seriously, Ah don’t like romance because every romantic notion I’ve gotten has gone bad. Hell most of the decent long-term life notions Ah’ve ever had turned out bad. Ah’ve learned to see through the hope and the bullshit both and live in the real world. With Logan Ah know he barely knew me, but he made a promise and we have a connection. Ah have him in my head and he’s important to me, but Ah know he doesn’t see me…Ah just know he’s not interested. With Bobby Ah don’t know,” she said finally. Jubilee wanted to attack the anti-romance grounds again, but forcibly sobered a little.



“You don’t know and so you’re afraid,” she determined. Rogue snorted.



“Ah’m afraid of very little, Jubilation Lee,” she grumbled.



“Then let Bobby in,” Jubilee murmured. Rogue stared as Jubilee walked out of the kitchen.



“Ah need more beer…”



~



It was like a thousand other nights he’d spent on the road. A dark bar, the air filled with smoke and the scents of booze, broads, bullies and bullshit. It was just Logan’s kind of place. It smothered his senses until he was all man, because the beast simply couldn’t stand it.



He had fought in a cage, just like any other night in a thousand. He had won, which was equally familiar, if not more so.



Everything had a vague familiarity to it. Certain details differed: the faces of the women watching him, their identities, the identities of the men he fought, of those in the crowd, the ratio of tobacco cigarette smoke to the more exotic things burnt and inhaled, the bartender’s scars, the odd scents of other passers-by.



Everything was familiar. Logan was content to relax in its haze.



The door opened and shut. A small female shape entered, dusting frost off of her bare arms. Slightly odd, but anything can happen. It might be Canada but she was neither Inuit nor pure Anglo. Her skin was an almost grayish light brown, her frame seems classical, and her face has distinct touches of India in the shape of her large eyes, their fine brows, the lines of her nose, and the delicate shapes of her wrists that seem elegant and beg to wear golden bangles. Logan felt sure that she would have delicate feet to dance on or stand in odd Yogic poses on. They were covered by a pair of long pants of baggy denim that hangs low on her hips. It seemed a feat that she does not trip over the hems.



She perched on a barstool with the air of a sphinx and ordered the highest proof rum the bartender has in stock. Jamaican rocket fuel, she mutters under her breath with a faint smile to herself that does not reach her eyes; it hidden by the dark hair, a hand’s width past her shoulders, that frames her face. The bartender was a little startled when she looked up at him to take her drink from his hand. Her eyes were a predatory pale green. Logan eyes her strange belt, wrapped twice around her hips and yet its beginning, end and buckle seem impossible to make out. The belt has scales of black and grey.



Logan tried to catch her scent in the air, but there was too much in the way and he ended up filling his sinuses with smoke and musk. He sneezed. The woman, sipping her rum like water, glanced at him. He too was surprised by her eye color.



He wondered…



Mutant?



She tossed back the rest of her rum without the barest hint of a shiver, tossed down crumpled bills on the counter and moved toward the back.



She passed Logan, who could smell the outdoor air that permeated her clothing. She wears only a grey tank top and those pants. And gloves. Logan’s eyes narrowed. She hadn’t brought in a coat, and by the complete absence of the familiar smells of fuel and vehicles, Logan judged that she had been on foot, perhaps in the woods. The denim of her baggy pants is soaked up to her knees from melted snow. Logan inhaled a little more deeply just as she was closest on her way past.



His heart nearly skipped a beat. The animal within stirred.



He wanted to smell again, but could not. She was once more surrounded in a shielding cloak of smoke and other barroom smells.



He didn’t care. There was no doubt. His head whipped around to stare.



No tags.



But, she smelled like adamantium.



Sensing his gaze, she looked over her shoulder at him, her curiosity bland. She showed no recognition of him, but her suspicion is clear. Logan moved to stand, but a man with a tray piled with empty beer glasses interferes.



Once he had raged his minimum amount at the man and scared him shitless, she was gone. Out the back, surely, because she had not passed by him again.



The bartender tried to stop him as he went after her, moving toward a door marked ‘Employees only.’ Logan gave a glare and snarl. The Bartender let him pass.



Out the back door there was only snow. Logan’s eyes shifted downwards to glare at it in contempt, or perhaps track his quarry. His brow furrowed.



Pawprints?



~



Jubilee had quickly forgotten the beer thing. It had been a rare moment of weakness, Rogue was convinced, until the next night she went wandering about after nightmares.



Thunk.



“Shit!”



Rogue paused. That had come from outside. That had been on the roof. She unconsciously slipped into a crouch. Her step almost unnaturally quiet, she moved toward where she thought she had heard it. Ears now attuned, she heard low cursing and feet on roof tiles. She pressed against the wall beside a half-open window that lead to a near-flat patch of roof from which there was a pretty good view of the garden–not that she would know.



She listened.



The crinkle of paper.



Sound of liquid in a bottle sloshing.



The sound of someone adjusting their position on the roof.



Click. Ka-snap. Click.



Rogue smiled. She silently pushed the window open all the way and climbed out, bare feet quiet on the roof. John stared into the flame of his lighter, a large glass bottle covered by a brown paper bag settled on a bit of decorative molding at his side. The top of the bag was twisted around the neck of the bottle in the shape of a hand.



“Boo,” Rogue said mildly. John jumped violently, the flame in his hand growing and sputtering. Rogue was torn between worrying about the flame and laughing. John snapped his lighter shut.



“Dammit, Rogue!” he hissed. Rogue smirked a little and stepped up beside him. She wore real pajamas tonight instead of a nightgown. The black silk went a little oddly with her cotton gloves. She reached across John and picked up his bottle. John watched her warily. She plopped down beside him, took an impressive swig and handed it to him. He blinked a few times. Rogue allowed herself a small shiver.



“Mmm…bourbon. Cheap ass bourbon, but oh well,” she commented. John offered a rare half-smile.



“My, my, Goody Rogue knows her liquors?” he inquired, tossing back a swallow of bourbon and shivering. Rogue snorted.



“One: whoever told you Ah was ‘Goody’ is a liahr of the worst caliber, and two: Ah got a violent Canadian cage-fighter with claws, a mutant terrorist and a Blues man in my head, and yah don’t think Ah know my liquors?” she retorted. John blinked rapidly a few times again and looked at her a little more appraisingly.



“Point made,” he murmured. Rogue took the bottle again, tilted it back and swallowed twice before lowering it again.



“What’re you doin’ out her aside from drinkin’?” she asked. John snorted this time, gently taking the neck of the bottle in a three-finger grip, his ring and pinky finger raised to the side of it with his lighter between them. He put the bottle in his lap, not drinking it yet.



“Thinkin’,” he said cryptically. He turned to her. “You?” Rogue stared into his dark eyes for a moment, her glare telling him distinctly that his answer was unsatisfactory.



“Nightmares woke meh. I heard ya out here,” she replied. John shook his head a little and stared straight ahead, his hand shifting the brown paper thoughtfully.



“When you say nightmares…”



“Tonight it was mine,” Rogue murmured. When John glanced at her, her eyes were half shut and staring out at the woods behind the mansion.



“My parents called today,” he offered quietly. Rogue focused on him again. His lips were drawn in a thin line and his fingers twirled his lighter endlessly in a motion of nervous seething. When he met her gaze, daring her to offend, she only gave an understanding nod. He looked away. “They wanted to know if I’m still having problems.” He gave a bitter almost-laugh. “I had fun explaining to them the permanency of my ‘problems.’” He tossed back another pull of bourbon. Rogue wore a bitter smile now, her eyes cold.



“Ah woke up and heard the doctors explainin’ it all to my parents. It’s amazing what people say when they think the mutie is asleep,” she recalled, voice harsh. Something nudged her shoulder. Without looking, she took the bottle and her own heavy swallow. It wasn’t really a big bottle. It was nearly gone now. She reached around John, who tensed and moved away a little from her skin, and set it back on the little flat-topped bit of decoration it had rested on when she arrived.



She and John sat for a little while.



He gave a ragged sigh, head dropping between his bent knees and his fingers tightening in his hair.



“Damn fucking assholes fucking just throw me away like I’m fuckin’ radioactive,” he breathed tightly. Rogue looked at him for a moment, like a housecat with wide eyes and unreadable intent, over her arms, folded on top of her knees. John flinched at first when she touched him, but relaxed a little. Arm partway around him, she squeezed the muscle that sloped from neck to shoulder in her gloved hand, her thumb rubbing back and forth a couple times over the collar of his t-shirt.



“Ah’m not gonna tell you it’ll be okay, if only because I know you’d call it bullshit and you may well be right,” she whispered. John listened, but did not move, did not look up. “It might not be all right.” She watched him, her brown eyes sparkling and earnest. “These people, our goddamn parents, are supposed to love us forever and no matter what.” Her own voice was angry.



“It’s inhuman,” John whispered, and squeezed his eyes tight shut, damning the tingling burn starting at their corners. Rogue clenched her jaw, keeping her breathing as even as she could.



“Nah. It’s in all our natures, we’re all fuckin’ human, they just…they can’t deal with it and it’s so damn wrong, but they think they can’t, and they believe they can’t. It’s like religion. There’s no good way to argue with it, no good way to get rid of it and most of the time those who have it can’t help it,” she grumbled. John gave a faint half-laugh. He sat up a little and touched her gloved hand.



“Thanks,” he said. Rogue nodded.



“No problem,” she returned. John held the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, the other three pressing his lighter to his palm.



“God, life sucks,” he hissed through gritted teeth.



“Life sucks, death sucks and the afterlife is probably borin’,” Rogue concurred. John shot her a half depressed, half-amused look.



“Where do you get this shit? First the religion crack…” He seemed to be getting control again. Rogue shrugged.



“Ah used to hang out with Blues players and sometimes when they were at a club or somethin’ Ah’d sit and talk with some stand-up comics who used the same stage,” she admitted. She looked at him a little more seriously. “Ya settlin’ up alright?” she asked. John nodded.



“Yeah, time and humor heal all wounds,” he mused bitterly. Rogue patted his shoulder blade and crossed her arms over her knees again. John stretched his legs out and leaned back, resting his weight on his palms, arms behind him.



“Ah’ll see if Ah can persuade Jubilee to clean out her closet. She’d love to watch half her wardrobe go up in flames if it means she can shop to replace it,” Rogue offered. John contemplated the possibilities.



“What’re the odds that yellow jacket-“



“Zero, Johnny; she loves that thing,” Rogue sighed. “Though there are times Ah’d like to see it sizzle.” They shared a moment of mutual amusement and both stared at the sky for a while. Suddenly John burst out laughing. Rogue arched a brow, her mouth quirking in a curious quasi-grin.



“What?” she demanded. John sobered.



“Ah, just thinkin’ that Bobby is gonna kill me,” he snickered. Rogue blushed a little, but shook her head. “I’m out on the roof drinkin’, staring at the stars and emotionally sharing with the girl of his dreams,” John crooned. Rogue flicked the side of his head but he only snickered again.



“Yah’re an ass, John,” she huffed. John shook his head, grinning still.



“Oh, he’s got it bad for you, Rogue. He even does the odd girlish romantic sigh,” he swooned. Rogue smacked his shoulder. “It rots my teeth, and look! You’re blushing like a schoolgirl! Ooh, you like him too! How precious!” He laughed again and Rogue finally growled. He sobered a little and shot her a coquettishly disbelieving look.



“You, are an ass,” she snapped. John fluttered his eyelashes.



“So, Rogue, why play so hard to get if you blush so very hard–see there it is!–when I talk about Bobby’s little infatuation, hmm?” he pried. Rogue sighed, crossing her arms over her chest and looking away.



“Why does everyone ask me that?” she huffed under her breath. John’s interest was piqued. He leaned over so the messy hair on the back of his head nearly brushed her lap and gave a cocky grin. Rogue glared down at him. “Ah don’t know if Ah like ‘im. Ah don’t know if Ah can even attempt a…a relationship with my skin! Ah don’t know if Ah wanna go through the pain of tryin’ and failin’…”



“At least you haven’t said, ‘Ah’m in love with a hairy Canadian who saved mah life and looks good without his shirt on,’” John teased in a high-pitched mockery of Rogue’s speech. Rogue arched a Loganish brow and growled. “‘And he’s so sexy when he grrrrowls’” John added, sitting up in order to swoon properly. Rogue did snigger at that.



“Ah’m not the pinin’ type, John,” she said firmly. “Ah’m not lustin’ away after my absentee hairy Canadian lover.” She glared at John when he looked mocking and incredulous. He reached toward her and she immediately flinched back out of reflex, but John was persistent. His finger pressed down the fabric of her pajamas just under the second button and felt the chain of Logan’s tags. He raised his eyebrows emphatically.



“There’s a bit of metal in your cleavage that suggests otherwise,” he snorted. Rogue scowled.



“The man saved my damn life, gave me his memories and trusted me with the only thing linkin’ him to his past. Between my respect for him, my thankfulness and him in my head, Ah think it’s understandable that Ah wear these. And give me more credit. Ah can see that he likes Jean, that he likely sees me as a kid, that he isn’t into ‘romance’ and that Ah’m the girl with fuckin’ deadly skin. Yes, the man is hot, but Ah’m not delusional, ergo Ah’m not pinin’ away for Logan,” Rogue scoffed. She had practiced that speech in her head a few times since talking with Jubilee.



“Ergo?” John asked.



“The mutant terrorist in my head is quite eloquent,” Rogue muttered. John nodded.



“Alright, fine, so maybe you’re heart isn’t stolen away by tall, dark and burly,” he turned aside and had a coughing fit. Somewhere near the end was something that sounded like “denial” before he turned back to Rogue who flicked him off. He ignored it with the casual ease of one used to being flicked off. “So, what, you’re scared? Bobby’s a pushover...”



“And Ah’m a dangerous bitch,” Rogue grinned sweetly. “Ah kill with a touch, Ah get kidnapped so my powers can be manipulated, Ah am bitchy and Ah have a small collection of potentially violent psyches in my head. I don’t know if Ah like Bobby, but Ah’d rather not suck him dry,” Rogue snapped. John blinked once.



“Ignoring possible innuendo…”



“Ass,” Rogue growled.



“It seems to me he knows that. Hell, look at the boy, have you seen a better definition of ‘careful?’” John argued. Rogue shook her head.



“John…Ah don’t know what Ah want, Ah don’t know what would happen…” It makes me want to run just thinkin’ about it. Ah still don’t know if Cody even woke up. She looked up at John seriously. “And what about you?” she asked quietly. John raised a brow.



“What about me?” he asked. Rogue shrugged a little.



“Ah just…when Bobby first started flirtin’ with me you acted almost jealous. Now you’re tryin’ so hard to get me to accept him…” She looked at John. Her eyes were soft but knowing. John’s ears colored and he swallowed tersely.



“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” he said, looking away.



“John?”



“Mmm?”



“Do you love him?” she murmured. John went as stiff as rigor mortis, then seemed to crumble a little, baring his teeth as he rubbed the back of his neck.



“I like him. It’s…it’s bloody goddamn confusing and messed up but…”



“No more than me likin’ a man who looks old enough to be my father but could be older than Ch–Professor Xavier,” Rogue murmured. John looked at her again. She looked back.



“Damn. We’re fucked up,” John said sincerely. Rogue smiled bitterly.



“Why do you want me to go ahead and date Bobby?” she asked. John shrugged.



“He wants you. I want to see him happy and figure myself out anyway,” he muttered. Rogue nodded a little.



“For that, maybe Ah’ll give it a try soon,” she mused. “It’ll help me figure myself out, give you time to figure yourself out, and Bobby to figure out if I’m really what he wants.” She looked at John, who did look nervous.



“You can’t just be using him, or-“



“Ah know, John. Ah won’t. Not anymore than he’s usin’ me,” she said knowingly, whether he knows it or not. John nodded, a little thoughtfully.



A short pause passed.



“How the hell did this whole talk happen?” he wondered suddenly. There was a line of grey dawn on the horizon. Rogue chuckled.



“We both had a lousy time at some point t’day, both drank whiskey and both started ramblin’,” she sighed. John shook his head, counting subjects on his fingers.



“Nightmares, personal history, parents, religion, standup comedy, wardrobe fires, Bobby’s infatuation, you’re tragic love of a Canadian hairy man…”



“Hey!” Rogue protested.



“Your denial of said love for a Canadian hairy man, insecurities, relationships, sexuality…”



“Yours anyway. If it helps any, I’m bi,” she offered.



“Dating–wait, what?” John sputtered. Rogue sniggered.



“I’m not real sure how much of it is that all but one psyche besides my own up here is a guy,” she said, tapping her right temple, “or if it really is pure me, but Ah was open-minded about it before I manifested anyway. It was just small-town Mississippi, so there was really no way to discuss, test, find context for or even observe for the sake of, figuring out one’s possibly varied tastes in that area.” She put two gloved fingertips under Johnny’s chin and shut his mouth, smirking as she pulled her hand back.



“You…like girls?” he managed, dumfounded. Rogue shrugged.



“And guys. Admittedly it made things a little awkward with Je–Dr. Grey.”



“You have a crush on Jean Grey?” John hissed. Rogue winced.



“No, more like an awkward degree of attraction. I’m not in love with her, or ever going to be in all likelihood but…the woman has…she’s gorgeous,” Rogue finished finally, blushing a little. John blinked several times in rapid succession.



“Wow.”



“You say nothing, I say nothing,” Rogue said flatly, extending a gloved hand.



“Yeah, sure,” John said, shaking it gingerly. “Wow. That’ll fuel my fantasy life for a while, though,” he sighed. Rogue slapped his arm.



“Don’t tell me that!” she groaned. “It might interfere with mine!”



John continued laughing and making the odd suggestive remarks for several minutes. At some point the bottle fell off the roof and, due to the effects of one extremely dense tree, did not break but indeed lost its bag and landed with only a few large cracks in it in a birdbath that rinsed away any possibly incriminating evidence. John was laughing madly as Rogue growled and pulled on his ear when they were interrupted.



“Ahem.”



Rogue and John froze and slowly looked back toward the window. Orroro, wrapped in a bathrobe with her hair still dripping from her shower, shot the pair a disapproving look. Rogue could see how hard the woman was fighting down her amusement and was still unable to stop the corner of her lips from quirking into a slight smirk.



“What are you two doing?” she inquired. Rogue and John exchanged glances.



“Therapy,” Rogue said. Orroro’s eyebrows raised.



“Therapy?” she asked.



“Uh, yeah. ‘My life sucks’ Anonymous, only not anonymous really,” John explained. Rogue nodded quickly.



“M.L.S.A.O.N.A.R., Miss Munroe,” she assured.



“We’re working on a catchier acronym,” John added.



Orroro stared at them for a long time, inwardly steeled against the urge to laugh hysterically. It took her a while to trust her composure once more and feel that she could act thoroughly disapproving. She gave a heavy disapproving sigh and stepped back from the window.



“Just get back in here, alright. If you two get caught again, you’ll deal with Scott,” she warned.



“Yes, Miss Munroe,” they chimed and hustled through the window. Orroro watched them shuffle off down the hall and listened to their laughing whispers, then shook her head in resignation and bemusement.



~



Rogue half-collapsed onto the bench after her workout. She was the only team member who could spar with Peter and have a chance in hell. Not that it was much of a chance: more than an ice sculpture’s chance, but only just. He tossed her a towel and a water bottle on his way to the locker room.





“Good one, today, Rogue,” he panted. “It’s getting harder to keep you caught.”



“Thank ya, Pete,” she replied. “Ah’m still a far cry from kickin’ yar ass,” she complained playfully. He laughed and went on his way. Rogue admired the movement of his muscles under his sweat-soaked shirt. She was only human. She looked up to see Kitty glaring at her from where she practiced her moves on a punching bag. Rogue gave a reassuring head shake, denying her romantic interest in the Russian boy. Kitty pouted. Rogue mouthed “later,” and began rubbing her head down with the towel to get rid of some of the itchy sweaty feelings, and to end her silent conversation with Kitty.



Regaining her strength before she attempted walking to the showers, Rogue let her eyes scan the room as she opened her water bottle. Kitty was practicing basic moves and strength training. She didn’t need as much fight training, her specialties being infiltration, electronics and stealth. Rogue had to admit the girl had a good defense. Now that’s how you go about being untouchable. Rogue smirked a little to herself, and let her eyes keep moving.



Kitty could control her untouchable nature, and even if she couldn’t it wasn’t deadly. Rogue couldn’t help but wonder why she had yet to pursue Peter. Her eyes shifted lightly toward the door to of the boy’s locker room, her mind replaying the image of his muscles shifting under skin and fabric as he walked.



Her eyes shifted to Bobby, who was meant to be practicing blocks and disabling with John under Scott’s watch. Scott seemed to be elsewhere now, though. Iceman and Pyro were discussing something. Rogue tilted her head as Bobby mimed a fighting motion and an icy steam escaped his attacking hand. John said something sarcastic and Bobby snorted. John maid a loud sound of disapproval and anger as an icicle appeared in his ear.



Rogue’s lips twitched in absent amusement, but her thoughts had turned elsewhere. John seemed to be cursing at Bobby.



Rogue found her eyes appraising Bobby’s build, the shape of his arms and his chest. Catching herself she looked away. Scott and Jean were having a hushed conversation off to the side. Jean had a hand on her temple and Scott looked concerned, holding her other hand in both of his. They were so close together. Rogue sighed. Jean had been having a hard time, lately. Her powers seemed to be getting stronger, and she was awake at night almost as much as Rogue. They spoke little about their nightmares, but Rogue still worried.

Scott leaned forward and pressed a kiss on Jean’s forehead, the small intimate gesture changing Rogue’s stream of thought. Her eyes moved away again.



She had thought Logan might do something like that. The way he had looked at her just after she had told him she didn’t want him to go…



She had been surprised, and knew he was too. Her gloved fingers idly traced the chain of the dog tag near her collarbone. Did she have a crush on him? No. Was she pining away for him? No.



Did she love him? Yes. Did she miss him? Yes.



Was he part of why she was so reluctant to let Bobby be more than just the friend he currently was?



…



Rogue tossed the towel across her shoulders and stood up, bruises as worn-out muscles giving enthusiastic protest. Rogue showed no sign of her pain on her expression. Deep in thought, she tended to close off instinctively. She scarcely heard Bobby laughing at John, or Scott barking at them to get back to work.



She could just faintly hear the shifting of the metal chain around her neck as she strode into the locker room.



~



Rogue was not surprised to find Jean already waiting for her in the kitchen that night. Weary but still feeling traces of adrenaline, she plopped down on a stool across from the telepath and sighed, resting her brow on the cool countertop.



“We’re regular insomniacs,” Jean muttered.



“Nah. We still sleep. Just not nearly as much as normal human beings,” Rogue drawled into the countertop. Jean smiled wanly. “And ya’ve had it worse than Ah have lately.”



“Yeah,” Jean murmured, the smile fading a little. Rogue sighed and propped her elbows on the counter, crossing her arms and lifting her head to rest her chin on them. Her expression was troubled.



“Ah hate people,” she muttered. Jean raised a brow. Rogue ran her fingers through her hair, or at least tried; it was rather tangled. “Ah never got along with most of ‘em even back in Mississippi. After all that happened with runnin’ away an’ being on the road I was damn sure Ah was done with ‘em,” she grumbled. “Hard enough to trust any of ‘em, but ya end up doin’ it anyway. Then they betray ya, or they go away, or they do stupid shit, or ya hurt them…it’s all just too messy. It hurts too much. To hell with it,” Rogue buried her face behind her arms. Jean watched her, stirring the mug of tea she had made absently with her telekinesis.



“But?” the telepath asked finally. Rogue gave another bone-deep sigh.



“But Ah’m still fuckin’ human,” she finished weakly. “Ah’m a sensual person, and Ah still…Ah still want to feel another person’s body around every once in a while, and not just so far as lust goes–not that I lack that by any means…”



Jean blushed a little.



“Ah know Ah’m gonna be here for a long while. Ah let some people in. Ah just…it’s all Bobby’s fault, dammit!” she complained. Jean smirked a little now.



“I did note that he seemed quite persistent,” she mused. Rogue sat up a little, holding her head up with both hands buried in her hair on either side of her head, looking at the counter instead of Jean.



“Stubborn Ice-prick,” she grumbled.



“You don’t like him?” Jean inquired. Rogue’s eyes scanned the countertop as if trying to read the answer but finding that it was written in Arabic.



“Ah don’t know. He seems so…” she grasped at air for words.



“Not-Logan?” Jean inquired. Rogue snorted.



“Yea, but that’s not it.” Wholly, she did not add aloud. “He’s just a boy. A relatively attractive boy, a smarter-than-average boy, a polite boy, a persistent, awkward and cautious boy, but he’s just a boy. He feels so young to me,” she murmured. “Too young, too fragile, too clumsy, and Ah don’t want to hurt him just because Ah want to find out if Ah’m still young enough to like it, or because Ah want another body not a foot and a half away at all times.” Having finished her speech, Rogue picked up Jean’s tea and took a sip, setting it back down in front of the telepath. She wrinkled her nose. “Ya put sugah in Earl Grey?” she snorted with a faint grimace.



“If you don’t like it, that’s what you get for theft,” Jean replied.



“Fair ‘nough,” Rogue murmured, looking away. Jean sighed very quietly and for a long moment they both mulled over Rogue’s problem.



“You’re too old for your shape, Rogue,” Jean began, “Not that you haven’t grown into it a little more the last few months.” Rogue smirked a little, but blushed too. “You’ve lived a life that aged you, and you’ve live other people’s lives in memories and nightmares enough…there’s no way to judge how old you should really be considered. It’s understandable that you might find it hard to relate to Bobby romantically because of that, but how much of it is really how old you think you are and everything else: your fear, your distrust, maybe some lingering romantic feelings elsewhere? What do you want Rogue?” she finally asked. Rogue looked up at her, into those knowing eyes, now tinted with concern. She looked at her gloved hands, fingers wrapped around each other.



“Ah want to know what it might be like, even if it’s just for a little while,” she whispered. Jean reached over and squeezed her hand a little.



“You deserve to have that,” Jean assured. Rogue’s face clouded over for a moment, unreadable.



“Ah’ll take your word for it. Thanks, Jean,” she murmured, smiling a little at last.



“Glad I could give you some advice. You never usually ask.”



“Ah usually kinda…go into my own mind and ask around,” Rogue admitted.



“Did it not help this time?” Jean asked. Rogue pursed her lips a little, blushing faintly.



“Ah…didn’t want to ask ‘em about this.”



“Hmm, understandable, really, I suppose.”



“Heh, yea,” Rogue agreed. “Ah think…Ah’m gonna try to get back to sleep.”



“I think you’ll succeed,” Jean mused. Rogue shrugged.



“Ah can try.”