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FIC: One Reason: NC-17: Rogue, Logan/Rogue, Xavier, Bobby

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  • Jenn
    Title: One Reason Author: jenn Codes: Rogue, Logan/Rogue, Xavier, Bobby Rating: NC-17 Summary: Logan s nightmares don t just occur when he s asleep. Rogue
    Message 1 of 1 , Feb 5, 2001
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      Title: One Reason
      Author: jenn
      Codes: Rogue, Logan/Rogue, Xavier, Bobby
      Rating: NC-17
      Summary: Logan's nightmares don't just occur when he's asleep. Rogue fixes
      things. Angst.
      Author Notes: This hit me at something around 2:30 in the morning (THANK
      YOU DIEBIN, I DIDN'T NEED SLEEP!) a few days ago and I actually had a dream
      with pink elephants because of it, which is really unrelated to the subject
      at hand but I thought I'd share. That means it's destiny, you know. Sare,
      you are blessed, you beta and make me feel good about myself. I'm always a
      fan of that. Lena, you darling, I owe you for the AIM chatty beta and
      fixing the whole metal underwear thing.
      Archiving: List, otherwise ask.
      Disclaimer: My computer is a Pentium 400 and my connection speed sucks.
      If I owned them, I'd have a 1.5 GHz and a T-1 connection, not to mention a
      house in the Hamptons and a jade Jaguar with my name on the license plate.
      Come now.

      * * * * *

      Some people said they did it for money, for power, or for themselves. For
      ideals or for survival or for faith. She'd distilled it down to one
      concept, one meaning, that she took as her own with the name she'd given
      herself.

      They did it for love.

      The kind that was branded into you so deeply you stopped trying to see it
      for what it was and called it anything else, because it seemed so cheap a
      reason, so pointless, so meaningless compared to other reasons, other
      words, that all came down to mean the same thing anyway. When you put one
      thing above yourself and your life, above your ethics and ideals, and once
      you did that, it stopped being anything but. Some people couldn't handle
      that.

      She could.

      * * * * *

      {--Night was when she felt him closest, almost as if she could reach out
      and touch wherever he was--curled up in bed beneath a cotton comforter
      smelling of detergent and perfume and the sweat of nightmares. She could
      imagine him inches away, guarding her sleep as he'd guarded her life.--}

      {--"Rogue, where're you going? It's late."--}

      {--"I'm sorry, Bobby."--}

      {--"Being a substitute isn't all it's cracked up to be."--}

      {--"Nothing's as good as a fantasy, sugar. Remember that next time I
      ask."--}

      * * * * *

      Midnight in winter was when things happened and she didn't know why. She
      had a theory, but theories were like toilet paper, disposable after one
      use.

      He woke her with a tap to her mind and she dressed without asking, because
      she already knew the answers.

      She took the keys from the Professor's slim hand, picked up the credit
      cards and cash to stuff in her jacket pocket, took the paper from the edge
      of the desk, his neat print trailing the exact center of the page, four
      simple addresses with a number after each one. He asked her if she wanted
      this, if she could do this, if she wished to go alone.

      He always asked, as if one day she'd say no. Maybe he hoped she would.

      She answered yes to all three and left, booted heels slamming into the wood
      of the downstairs floor, out into the sharp wind of the coldest night in
      recorded New York history. The digital phone was tucked into her bag and
      so were spare clothes and spare cash. Got in the car and warmed it up,
      pulling out the paper to memorize the addresses, then warming her gloved
      hands between her legs until she was sure the car would run. Setting it in
      reverse, she backed out of the garage and jerked it into drive. Five miles
      outside of Westchester, she opened the window and dropped the phone on the
      side of the road.

      He never wanted to know everything.

      * * * * *
      {--"When did you become someone's lap dog, Rogue?"--}

      {--"Marie."--}

      {--"You never told me your name."--}

      {--"It doesn't have anything to do with you."--}

      * * * * *

      They all called her Rogue, and she lit a cigarette with a shaking hand as
      she left New York fourteen minutes and fifty-two seconds behind her. Names
      were important things--Shakespeare could write a fucking play decrying the
      significance, but you defined your name after awhile, until the image that
      jumped into the head and heart on hearing had nothing to do with Webster's
      Dictionary and the alphabetized entries running like a trail of ants' feet
      down the page. Roses would stink if they weren't roses. It was that
      simple. She'd never been a big philosophy student, but she did have
      beliefs, and when she looked in the mirror, she saw Marie looking out at
      her, Marie who knew more about names and definitions than Rogue ever could.

      * * * * *
      {--"How bad is it?"--}

      {--"It is difficult, Rogue. Can you handle this?"--}

      {--"That's not important. He is. Tell me what to do."--}

      * * * * *

      It wasn't public yet, and that was what she counted on.

      Cities were dazzling things under a winter's moon, and Marie opened her
      second pack of cigarettes when she drove three hours later into Baltimore,
      the distinctive white streak covered with store-bought dye she'd applied on
      the road. She broke through the yellow tape surrounding the convenience
      store under the burned-out lights of the city streets and got only a glare
      from the homeless man shacked up on the floor by the door. A brief touch
      of her skin knocked him out and she reorganized the images he gave her and
      checked the name on the list she carried in her jeans pocket before
      carrying him out and pressing him into the alley two blocks away with a
      twenty in his pocket that he'd never remember getting.

      She could still smell him here, deliciously familiar, addictive, see the
      stains of blood mixed brown with the dust of numerous feet. A rush of
      adrenaline that made her shiver a little, smiling as she ran a gloved hand
      across the floor and flaking brown clung to her fingers. Made her circuit
      of the store with a can of gasoline and a cigarette--sometimes she could
      believe she was less immortal than she was.

      She made it look easy, though it wasn't at all, this was a science she'd
      learned in the labs of the school, and she finished dumping the gasoline in
      a sloppy line that hid the tiny bomb she'd assembled the week before in
      shop class for her final. Setting the trigger, she walked away and got in
      her car, wiping the smell of the place from her skin before stripping off
      the latex gloves and coiling them in the bag beside the box she'd taken
      from the lab.

      She hit the trigger thirteen miles away and felt the explosion impossibly
      in the soles of her feet.

      * * * * *

      {--"This isn't who we are, Rogue."--}

      {--"Give me a name."--}

      {--"There has to be another way."--}

      {--"Just a name. I'll take care of it."--}

      * * * * *

      The second was the easiest. It smelled like ancient lead paint and the
      odors of rancid meat, which wasn't much of a surprise, and a brush of her
      fingers across the wall brought green-blue flakes raining down across her
      arm. Three flights of stairs that desperately needed repairs and creaked
      under every step of her foot, and she came to the fifth door on the left
      that looked like a good wind would knock it down.

      But all she needed really was the key she'd taken from the manager's
      office, so she used that instead, walking into the stinking apartment,
      pulling on a fresh pair of latex gloves and pinning them over her sleeves.

      She straddled the body of the thirty-year-old man in his bed and asked
      questions he probably didn't have the answers to, and that was a shame.
      She lowered her mouth to his and he tasted of tobacco and lust and hatred,
      and after she was done she tucked fifty dollars into his jeans and left the
      gasoline-stained gloves tucked around his hands and the can in the corner.

      From a payphone outside, she called the police and told them where to find
      the arsonist.

      * * * * *
      {--"I don't want it this way, Rogue, but we don't have a choice."--}

      {--"He's not responsible."--}

      {--"Rogue--"--}

      {--"I'll take care of it, Chuck. Doncha worry 'bout a thing."--}

      * * * * *

      She changed cars at the third address and dropped the cash on the desk in
      the dim lights, and he handed her the keys without comment. Her hat hid her
      face and she pulled her jacket closer when she walked outside, knowing her
      lone figure wasn't unusual enough to attract attention. When she got in,
      she drove to the last address and a handful of twenties got her the room
      number and key.

      He could get awards for predictability.

      The woman alone on the bed was rocking slowly back and forth, blonde hair a
      curtain over her face and gloved hands wrapped around her knees as if
      trying to draw so far in herself she'd never come out. There was still
      that piece of paper trapped in her trembling hand--probably fished from his
      jacket, thrown over the edge of the bed. Blank green eyes came up and
      Marie saw the imprint of an old bruise at the corner of her mouth and shook
      her head. Distantly, she could hear the shower and saw the steam crawling
      out from under the door.

      "What triggered it? You know?"

      The woman shook her head frantically and was reaching for her clothes.
      Marie threw a wad of bills on the bedspread.

      "Get out."

      The bathroom door wasn't locked and Marie let herself in, dropping to her
      knees beside him, sitting unmoving on the toilet, running her hand over his
      denim-covered leg. He didn't respond, and she traced up to his face,
      feeling him slowly lean into the touch. Even through her glove, his skin
      was damp--shock, she was used to it.

      "I'm here, sugar, everything's gonna be fine. Come on, you're gonna get
      sick or somethin'."

      She couldn't be sure he even recognized her, but that didn't matter anyway,
      so she stood up, pulling him to his feet, turning off the shower quickly
      before lead him back into the bedroom, mercifully silent, even if a cloud
      of cheap perfume seemed to linger. Pushing him down on the bed, she took
      off her jacket and lowered herself down beside him.

      "Logan?"

      His eyes were closed and she lowered her head, brushing a kiss across his
      mouth, pulling away at the images, a shock to her mind and felt his hand
      close over her wrist before she could breathe--then a sudden jerk and her
      back was to him, his hand around her throat, over her turtleneck sweater,
      an arm around her waist, pinning one arm to her side.

      "Logan," she whispered. Keeping her free hand down, closing her eyes,
      tightening her control until she could be sure that if he accidentally
      brushed her skin, nothing would happen. A long moment where sparks danced
      in front of her eyes and then he slowly loosened his grip. A breath
      against her hair, then the scrape of rough skin against her cheek, behind
      her ear, remembering her scent. "That's it, sugar. It's Marie. I'm
      here." Carefully, she reached up with one hand and pulled her glove off
      with her teeth, closing it over the hand on her neck, softly loosening the
      fingers. "It's me, baby. I'm here."

      "Marie."

      She breathed out as his hand slid to her shoulder.

      "Everything's okay. I took care of it." She shut her eyes when his hand
      slid up her waist, over her breast, then down to her hip. "I'm here."
      Covered his hand with hers, sliding it back up to her breast, feeling her
      body tighten at the touch. Lacing her fingers through his, she gently
      pulled him away. "Not here, sugar. We gotta run."

      Nothing but breath against her hair, and she slowly turned, looking into
      his eyes for a moment. ''Just stay here. I got it, sugar. Everything's
      gonna be fine."

      She knew where everything was and found his clothes and left him to sit
      quietly on a chair while she searched the bathroom, latex gloves snapped
      over both hands while she searched for any trace--there was nothing she
      needed to worry about too much, he'd never miss the blood-stained shirt and
      jeans, she had replacements in the car. Going through the room, she
      stripped the bed and packed the sheets in a plastic bag in the trunk before
      going back in and leading him out. Another wad of bills left in the middle
      of the mattress, just in case.

      When she slid into the driver's seat, his hand closed over her thigh
      briefly and she breathed out sharply.

      "Not here." She threw the keys on the doorstep and closed the car door.
      "Soon, sugar."

      * * * * *

      {--"Why are you doing this?"--}

      {--"Sometimes you ask stupid questions, Bobby boy. Why does anyone do
      anything?"--}

      {--"You're telling me this is for love?"--}

      {--"Everything ends up being for love, sugar. Sometimes we just fool
      ourselves into believing it's for more."--}

      * * * * *

      It was just as nondescript, but the manager nodded in short recognition
      when she handed over cash and ducked back out, wrapping her jacket around
      her. Sliding inside, she pulled him behind her and locked the door,
      wrapping her body all around him and sliding her mouth open under his when
      he picked her up from the floor. He turned her around, running curious
      hands down her back and over her jeans, reaching around her waist to
      unbutton them and press them down, crouching as they slid down her calves.
      Tilting her head back, she breathed out with the chill air against her body
      and the warm touch of his mouth over the back of her knees when he lifted
      each foot from her clothes. Then a brush over her underwear and they fell
      to the floor with the sharp sound of unsheathed metal.

      "All yours," she whispered, and a hand at her waist pressed her down. She
      pulled her turtleneck over her head and felt teeth sink into the side of
      her throat. "Yes, sugar. Just like that." He pressed against her,
      growling softly, and she moaned when a hand slid up to cup her breast.
      "Like you want, like you like it, Logan." She clenched her teeth at the
      first rough thrust, feeling the warm lips on the back of her neck, the
      hands on her hips steadying her as a wave of pure lust went through her,
      taking her breath completely and she buried her face in the mattress, nails
      digging into the edge, until he pulled out, turning her so fast she barely
      registered what he was doing until she was on her back on the bed, sliding
      her nails down his back and whimpering with the force of the next thrust
      she could feel all the way up her body.

      She locked her eyes on his face--the one time, the only time, he was
      completely hers, completely Marie's, the one he wanted, the one he needed,
      and she ran her fingers through his hair and he kissed her, taking her
      mouth with the same strength he did her body. She wanted it rough, wanted
      the bruises to prove to herself that this happened, so she could run her
      fingers over them in the shower and believe, that at least for those few
      hours he'd never remember, he knew she was his, as she'd known since that
      truck so long ago that God, she shouldn't remember every smell and every
      sound and every confused feeling that had coalesced into something
      achievable when the first call came, when she took it herself and found out
      what true love meant.

      Locking both legs around him, she caught a breath when she met his
      eyes--nothing quite human looked out right now. It never did.

      * * * * *

      {--"Why? Can you tell me that?"--}

      {--"Ask me somethin' easy, sugar. Ask me why I'm still alive. Then you'll
      know everythin' you need to know about me."--}

      {--"Gratitude isn't love, Rogue."--}

      {--"Who said anything 'bout being grateful?"--}

      * * * * *

      She came with a scream, her entire body shuddering, sinking her teeth into
      flesh that would heal almost immediately, and shivered when she felt him
      come too, with a low growl that was as much possession as pleasure. Dark
      eyes closed and Marie waited, patient, taking in the moment that meant
      everything to her, shudders still running up and down her body, holding him
      until she knew he was asleep, then rolling him gently beside her and
      running her fingers over his skin.

      Not a mark on him.

      She got up after a few more minutes of luxurious touching, feeling, being
      perfectly happy with the world--beginning the final stage of her mission.
      Took a long shower, fingers lingering over the imprint of teeth on her
      shoulder, and she could almost be angry she had to wash the scent of him
      off her skin. Outside the motel she set the fire that burned the bloody
      clothes, dropping the used gloves in as well. In the manager's office, she
      got the phone and made the call to the Mansion.

      "Rogue?"

      "Everything's fine. Tonight."

      Then she hung up and went back to the room, knowing he'd still be asleep,
      and began the clean-up, brushing a bare hand over his shoulder and getting
      everything she could, knowing he was knocked out completely after that.
      Processed the images, sitting on the floor and rocking through his rage and
      shame and hate that tried to claw itself out of her skin.

      The bruises on her skin healed and she hated that.

      When she was done, the motel sheets were changed and not a trace of her
      remained on his skin. God, she hated that too. Then packed everything up
      and sat down on a chair with a cigarette and a magazine grabbed from the
      office to wait, her hair pulled up in a loose ponytail and a turtleneck and
      sweater covering her skin. Black leather gloves covered her hands, to hide
      the broken nails and cover the stains from oil.

      * * * * *

      {--"Is it worth it?"--}

      {--"Tell me you wouldn't do the same, if you had the chance. Tell me you
      never have."--}

      {--"It doesn't make it right."--}

      {--"Don't bother justifying. It just is, sugar."--}

      * * * * *

      "Marie? What the fuck are you doin' here?"

      She grinned at him briefly and put down the magazine, folding in the page
      so she could read the article later.

      "You called."

      He frowned, then pushed the blankets back unself-consciously--she'd dressed
      him with care, but was always unsure how much he'd remember. A hand went
      to his head and he growled something in a language she didn't know, and
      wondered if he realized what he was saying.

      "Don't remember."

      "You never do. Better accommodations than usual," she snickered, and he
      threw a pillow at her.

      "Fuck, my head hurts. How long?"

      The answer was on the tip of her tongue, ready and waiting.

      "Two days, sugar, out like a light." She kicked her feet off the desk and
      stood up. "Come on--Jeanie will wanna check you out, make sure
      everything's okay up there. You feel up to a nice drive?"

      He cocked his head at her briefly, and sometimes, she saw something in
      them, something that stopped her heart and scared her worse than anything
      else ever could--that one day, he'd wake up and remember. Just a little.
      But that'd be enough, and she had enough of him in her to know what he
      would do if he ever found out, if he ever *knew*.

      But the look faded, dismissed as imagination, and she bounced up, the kid
      he wanted her to be, bright and happy and laughing as she fished out her
      car keys from her jacket pocket.

      "Come on. Let's go."

      "Yeah." Softly. "Let's go."

      * * * * *

      {--"Rogue is all in our imagination, isn't she?"--}

      {--"She's real enough, Professor. Marie just has first claim, y'know."--}

      {--"Rogue is one of us."--}

      {--"Yeah, well, Marie says the X-Men can take a flying jump with their
      ideals. It'll be okay. She only comes when she's called."--}
      * * * * *

      Some people said they did it for money, for power, or for themselves. For
      ideals or for survival or for faith. She'd distilled it down to one
      concept, one meaning, that she took as her own with the name she'd given
      herself.

      They did it for love.

      So did Marie.

      The End.

      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
      www.geocities.com/seperis

      --Hi, My Name Is Jenn, and I have Serious Issues with Marie wearing gloves
      to bed. On Principle.--Sare on "Evil Plot Bunny #1: The Evil Sare
      Tortures Jenn Via AIM One Night"

      --Yeah, it's like being in love with hospital gravy.--Nacey on Jean's
      personality

      --Sentinels--the anti-mutant groups' wet dream--as defined by Siale
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