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FIC: A Change To Color 4/7 : NC-17: Rogue, multiple pairings

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  • Jenn
    4/7 Logan met me for lunch--not exactly by invitation, but when my heart thumped, I figured this would work just as well. We raided the fridge and settled at
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 2, 2001
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      Logan met me for lunch--not exactly by invitation, but when my heart
      thumped, I figured this would work just as well. We raided the fridge and
      settled at the kitchen table with cold chicken, a loaf of bread, and some
      butter. I pulled on my gloves--habit, more than anything--before I started
      hunting for edibles.

      Neither of us were fond of vegetables. So those were sadly lacking.

      And we chatted. It was odd, how simple it was, like nothing had changed,
      so different from the last two times. He asked me about my day and
      actually seemed interested to know that my classes were going well,
      though--though every once in awhile I'd catch a glance from him, and I
      couldn't read it at all.

      "I'd like to learn to drive that damned bike," I told him, maybe a little
      plaintively, because he chuckled.

      "Do you even have a license yet?"

      Details, details.

      "Not yet." I put down the chicken leg (now bone) and we both went for the
      last piece of bread. I got it first and probably looked as smug as I felt.
      He growled at me and started laughing when I growled back--I can growl and
      damn well.

      "I'll take you out tomorrow afternoon, if you want to learn," he said
      finally, pushing the plate back. "If you can manage not to wreck the damn

      "I'm not the one that went through his windshield like a bullet, sugar," I
      answered, leaning back in my chair and bracing a leg on the edge of the
      table, cradling the beer he let me grab from the back of the fridge. One
      of his. "Before you start castin' aspersions on my driving, check your

      "Fuck you, darlin'."

      "Hate the truth, doncha?" I didn't know where all this good humor was
      coming from--and I leaned closer to take another piece of chicken and
      something crossed his face and he caught my hand. And even when he pulled
      it, I didn't really get what was wrong--

      --and it took a second to recognize I'd grabbed the gloves I'd worn
      yesterday. Last night.

      He smelled Scott on them. A lot of Scott.

      I schooled my face to confusion, my heart beating so hard I could hear it
      echo in my ears. "What's wrong?"

      The real question was actually--why the hell do you care?

      Logan didn't answer for a minute, then dropped my hand like it burned and I
      grabbed the chicken, lacking anything better to do. And for some reason, I
      couldn't read the expression on his face.

      "How're you and Remy?"

      The jump in subject was startling and I tried to get my mind back in place

      "Fine, I guess."

      I wasn't sure. I should have talked to him. Maybe considered going by and
      telling him goodbye, see ya, but this isn't working, and God, I'm sorry I
      fucked you and did it for all the wrong reasons. I'm sorry you loved me
      and I used that when I was looking for a way to escape my own life.

      Maybe drop off another necklace and get as free as I could.


      It was her scent, her voice, and my body went completely still when she
      came up behind me.

      "Hey, Jeanie."

      It shocked me, how much it could hurt, even without hate. Maybe because of
      it. Maybe because there wasn't anyone to blame now. No one I could turn
      on and scream it was all their fault.

      Nothing except a pile of what-might-have-beens surrounding me in a nasty
      haze of colors I was tired of seeing.

      It's strange, but until that point I'd managed to avoid seeing them
      together--really, er--*together*. As a couple. Oh, I had the glimpses,
      and those were enough--but I hadn't seen this. Not the way the brown eyes
      warmed, not the way Jean moved toward him, not even registering I was
      there. And--and it wasn't like he jumped up and kissed her or anything
      overt happened--she just brushed her hand across his shoulder and his
      entire focus shifted to her, completely and absolutely and--and now I
      understood how the moon felt when the sun came out.

      Like I wasn't there at all.

      At first, I didn't even think they noticed me leave. But as I opened the
      door, I caught Logan's eyes on me again, before Jean stepped between us.

      * * * * *

      I found Scott alone in the conference room. It was suddenly awkward and I
      stayed at the door as he cleaned up the papers and switched off devices and
      generally did normal-Scott things that would have fooled me a long time ago
      into believing that was all there was to him.

      So I didn't say anything at first, just watched him move. The neat
      precision, the calm arrangements--shelving this, considering where that
      item would go, putting it all in place. Any day at the Mansion, nothing
      changed except everything.

      One day, I wanted to ask him why. What happened in their room that nasty
      night that screwed up everything for us. Hell, I wanted to ask her that
      too, get a glimpse of her eyes when they looked into Logan's and see if
      they were like his.

      I took in his appearance, neat as always--an uncreased black turtleneck and
      khaki pants. Perfectly clean shoes, probably immaculate white socks. I
      watched him place both hands on the conference room table and lower his
      head for a minute, taking a breath, and I remembered his cool voice when he
      delivered the weekly update to all of us here this morning.

      I remembered Jean reaching over to touch Logan's hand and the way his long
      fingers clenched behind his back, where only I could see it.


      He didn't stiffen in surprise or even turn around, so maybe he knew I was
      there after all. The long fingers didn't move and I found myself looking
      at him, the slim body and the strong line of his jaw. And I found myself
      unwinding my scarf, running it between gloved fingers, slowly walking to
      stand beside him.

      "Hey." His voice was low and I reached out and touched his cheek, wishing
      I could feel his skin. "You need anything, Rogue?"

      "Not really. Are you okay?"

      "Just tired." He smiled and it was so forced it hurt me to see it. Hurt me
      to think about it.

      "Come on." I caught his hand and pulled it and he looked up, surprised.
      "It's late, you know. Tired is usually an indication that it's time for
      bed. So go."

      A smile curved his mouth--a small one, but it was there, and he followed me
      out of the room. We took the stairs--which in retrospect probably wasn't
      the best idea, since the elevator let out on the other side of Logan's
      room, not requiring us to cross in front of the door.

      And if we'd walked by three seconds later, we both could have probably
      dismissed it as imagination or even pretended we didn't hear. But I chose
      the stairs, Scott stole my scarf and made a run for it, and we both heard
      it when we skidded past Logan's door.

      "God, Logan."

      Through several walls, somehow it dims. It's a little more abstract, and
      it may sound odd, but you stop hearing it after awhile. But this wasn't
      dismissible or ignorable and Scott went completely and utterly tense beside
      me and stared at the door. It was the first time I forgot how hurt I was
      to see that hurt burned into him.

      Everything he had never let me see before, I saw in that second, an instant
      before it was gone. Everything that as Leader he couldn't afford to ever
      act on, that he could never say, and I realized that no matter how much
      color I saw, he saw more. He saw every possible complication and ever
      possible problem and in the space of a second he turned away as Scott and
      walked to his room and gave me a nod before he shut the door.

      I stood in the hall, scarf forgotten in my hand, but there weren't any more
      sounds, like we were only meant to hear that one and no more.

      Like destiny or something.

      Well, fuck destiny. It'd screwed with me long enough.

      * * * * *

      Maybe he expected me, I don't know. Two hours later, in my favorite
      flannel pajamas, gloved hands, standing at his door like any waif on the
      street and he was in red tonight and let me in and closed the door behind
      me. I took my place on the obsessively neat bed and waited for him to sit
      and we looked at each other.

      "What if it isn't always in color, Scott?" I asked him, and he looked at me
      and he wasn't even surprised.


      I unwound my scarf from my pocket and put it on the bed.

      "Black and white for one night," I told him, trying to keep the shaking out
      of my voice. Trying to keep my hands still, slow the beating of my heart.
      Hoping I wasn't wrong, feeling the sweat break out on my palms, feeling
      sick and scared and higher than I can ever remember.

      He didn't move, didn't even breathe I think.


      "Just say yes or no. One or the other. Don't complicate it. Don't
      rationalize it."

      It was a long moment before he stood up and walked to the door and
      everything twisted in me, but all he did was stop and ask me to turn on the
      lamp. With shaking fingers, I did, and he flipped the light off and sat
      down beside me.

      "You need gloves."

      He smiled then, something in his face that had nothing to do with Jean or
      Logan, something I had put there that blocked it, at least for a little
      while. At least for now. Still looking at me, he stood up, walking to the
      dresser, finding what he wanted by touch, as anyone could expect of Scott,
      so organized. Pulled the soft gloves on he'd used when he was training me
      years ago, still watching me while I played with the scarf and tried to
      breathe through the sheer shock of what I was doing and why I was doing it.

      When he sat down, I lifted the scarf and he took my face in his hands and
      kissed me--no different from the night before, just as gentle, just as
      sweet, just as addictive. Followed the line of bones on my face, the curve
      of my ear, down my neck to my shoulder. Found the edge of the nylon
      bodysuit I wore and then--then he laughed and looked at me with this
      wonderful smile that took my breath away completely.

      "You're prepared."

      "I learned from the best."

      He kissed me again, sliding his hands over my shoulders, shifting closer,
      his tongue tracing the interior of my mouth slowly, patiently, as if he was
      tasting something sweet. Looked at me again, before dropping his fingers
      to the front of my pajama jacket and unbuttoning it, watching my face to
      make sure it was okay. Always careful, always Scott right down to the tips
      of the fingers that traced my skin over the nylon, slipping it off my
      shoulders and looking at me.

      Then dropped the scarf and kissed me, hard, and I shut my eyes in shock and
      almost pulled away, but he was already moving back--and in my head there
      was nothing of Jean or Logan or anything else--but just me. How much he
      wanted me, how I tasted and smelled--things that made my breath catch.

      "So you know for sure," he said softly when I looked at him again, eyes
      wide. "Nothing else."

      Then he kissed me again, fine silk between us, and I raised my hands to
      touch him--finally. Feel the lines of muscle in the slim body, the
      strength I'd relied on more often than I hadn't, slipping my hands down to
      the hem of his shirt and pulling it up. He let me, moving back when he had
      to, then taking my face between his hands to kiss me again, press me back
      onto the bed, the comforter soft against my back, and cool before my skin
      warmed it.

      Easily, he sat up, letting me slide the pajamas down off my hips with
      shaking hands, raising himself on one elbow beside me when I turned on my
      side to face him, kissing me again and I forgot all about the fabric that
      had to cover me to protect him, forgot everything else in the damned world
      when he drew his fingertips down my chest, traced my stomach, then skipped
      back up to cup my breast, so lightly, so gently.

      Then he leaned down and silky blonde hair brushed my chin when he licked
      the tip of one nipple. I shuddered and slid on my back and he followed,
      one hand catching mine and our fingers lacing together, his arm supporting
      him when he nipped me lightly, sending something hot through my body that
      was as different from Remy and Bobby as--well, as night from day. Slipping
      to the other breast, taking his time between them, feeling his breath
      shorten against me before he traced down onto my stomach and too near my
      bare legs.


      He flashed up a grin so brilliant the words died in my throat. I had never
      made anyone look at me like that before.

      "Don't worry."

      I stared up at the ceiling when he positioned my legs, and I felt the silky
      brush of his hair against the bare skin of my thighs. Then--then
      everything just changed when he parted me through the thin nylon and I felt
      the brush of his tongue.

      "Scott," I whispered on a gasp. Desperately, I locked my legs in place,
      trying to breathe through the sudden heat that strengthened with every
      brush of his tongue through the thin cloth, every slide, and I fought to be
      careful, felt his gloved hands on my thighs, and arched into him. To
      everything he made me feel and the sparks of light that danced in front of
      my eyes. "God, Scott, please, yes, please--" I know I said more, probably
      a lot more, but that's the only things that made any sense. And I felt him
      slip back up my body and I ground against him when he found my mouth
      through the scarf, fingers digging into his back, swallowed his groan
      and--God, I was doing this. I was making him whisper my name like that.
      Run his fingers through my hair and kiss me again as if he'd never do
      anything else. As if he never wanted to do anything else, not ever. And--

      And I laughed when he kissed me and it was so good--it was everything this
      was supposed to be, that it had never been before, not in reality, not in
      borrowed memory. No guilt or anger and nothing in it edged with bitter
      regret. I stared up at him when he traced my face with the tips of his

      "Do you have--"

      "In the drawer."

      Always prepared.

      I pushed him on his back and laughed when I looked down at him and he slid
      his hands over my hips and thighs. Smiled up at me, slightly flushed, very
      aroused when I rocked into him again, watching his breath catch and the
      tightening of his shoulders beneath my hands.

      I twisted to open the drawer, felt him sit up and his mouth fastened on my
      breast and I gasped and he laughed again and grinned up at me when I
      dropped the condom on the bed.

      "You're good at this," I told him, bracing myself on my arms and staring

      "I'm very flexible."

      "Even better."

      It was a simple matter to unlace the top of his pajamas, red plaid that I
      might end up with a fetish for, finding the opening in the shorts and
      carefully sliding the condom on. Feeling his eyes on me when I did it,
      letting him roll me on my back and I moved my legs and stared up at him,
      wetting my lips when his smile faded and the look on his face changed
      before he moved into me in one hard thrust that took my breath.


      And he smiled a little, but pulled the scarf between us to kiss me again,
      rocked out of me only to slide in again, making me bite his tongue through
      the silk, hearing another groan out of him and gripping his back, moving up
      against him with every thrust.

      And everything suddenly became the grip of my fingers on his back, the only
      anchor I had, and the feel of his lips on mine and the heat that was
      burning all the way through me. The smell of his arousal and my own, the
      way he braced an elbow by my face and lifted his head to look in my eyes
      and I knew I was so close--and he was taking me there.

      "Come on, Rogue, please, let me--" It was a staccato rush against my
      cheek, another long thrust that jerked my body, shot tiny stars in front of
      my eyes.

      "Scott, please, I'm--don't stop, God, please--" Please don't stop.
      Nothing had prepared me for this.

      "God, Rogue, yes, good, come on, look at me, Rogue, please--"

      I stared up into the smooth glass, feeling the knots in my body twist so
      tight I was shaking with it and I knew--it was so close--

      "Yes, Scott, please,--yes, that's it, I can--I can--"

      "I'm here, Rogue, come on, I'll--*Rogue*--" And he cupped my face to look
      at me, stare in my eyes when I began to shake and I know I screamed
      something when it happened, the heat running all the way through me to my
      toes, and I couldn't see anything at all and I bit his shoulder through the
      scarf, feeling the break of skin and his groan and suddenly he shouted
      something--I couldn't understand it--and he lay still on top of me and I
      stroked his hair while the sparks still danced in front of my eyes.

      "God," he whispered into my hair. I turned my head, carefully, and he met
      my eyes. He licked his lips, pulled my scarf over to kiss me again,
      rolling on his side and taking me with him, holding me close. "Rogue--"

      No one had ever said my name like that. He breathed out sharply, and I
      felt his body relax against mine.

      "Go to sleep," I whispered. A smile turned his lips.

      "I'm not that rude. Move over and I'll pull down the covers."

      I giggled and did so and he pulled the red pajamas pants back on--hell, I
      *was* going to get a fetish now--and we slid under the blankets. And as my
      eyes closed sleepily, he turned me over and curled around my back, one arm
      around my waist, the other above my head, his breath warm on my hair.

      And I laced my fingers through his against my stomach and fell asleep too.

      * * * * *


      --When I watch that scene I do not think "Oh, he's such a good father
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