Unspoken: Standing Still

Standing Still
by jenn

Rating: PG-13 (language)

Summary: Logan thinks. Rogue comes by. Things happen.

Notes: <sigh>English lit. You had to test my memory, didn't you Min? And Darkstar, who reminded me of the damn poem when I was setting up her webpage. Talk about freaky serendipity.

Citation: "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot.

Date: September 26, 2001

There was a special spot in hell just for those who got into impossible situations.

He packed and repacked his bag five times, and found some sort of strange comfort in folding and refolding his clothes. He had a thing about order--not that he'd ever admit it, even to Jeannie, though she'd probably suspected the truth, considering how much time they'd spent together. Sometimes, that made him uncomfortable, that she knew him that well. Too well, actually, remembering nights sitting beside an open fire and how the tension lines in her face had decreased the farther they'd gotten from civilization, how she'd told him about her life and the long, elegant fingers she'd used as a doctor and a researcher, nights hidden under the bed to escape the pressure of the minds around her. She'd told him his mind was quiet, and he'd wondered sometimes, just sometimes, what exactly that meant. But discussing telepathy always gave him the feeling of wandering through a bad episode of the "Twilight Zone", so he'd taken her statement at face value and left it at that. If it made her life easier, then good for her.

In all honesty, he'd admit it to himself, he'd liked the company. Big plus, she was a genius at poker. And they got themselves blacklisted from a few Canadian bars for that little trick.

Logan stared at the bag as if he actually had an intention of using it.

God, he wanted a beer, right this second. His mind might be quiet to telepaths, but that didn't stop the scent and feel of massive tension throughout the Mansion, and to his own disgust, that was enough to give him headaches. Dear God, headaches. Short his series of concussions, he'd never had one in his life. He didn't get headaches.

Welcome to the world of emotional upheaval, bub. This is the reason you don't stay anywhere very long.

The sixth time he unpacked, he gave up and put his clothes away and dropped on the bed, imagining he could still smell Rogue lingering on the clean sheets.

He wasn't leaving.

Jean expected him to be around, Xavier was making strange noises about teaching combat, and Scooter had a garage full of interesting toys that, try as he might to resist, were just too damn interesting for any one man to get away from. These people worked with nitrous on engines and owned their own jet, for God's sake. All things considered, there were much worse places to be.

And there was Rogue.

Ah no, don't go there. Look at the situation. See the complexity. Don't. Go. There.

Fuck. He was already there.

He smelled Ororo cross in front of his door and go down the hall, probably on her way to her attic retreat. 'Ro. Smelled like thunderstorms and clear December nights in the mountains and the ocean during a tropical storm. Tall, beautiful, elegant, fabulous body--

--not a brunette.

Logan lay back on the bed and sighed, staring up at the ceiling.

Crap. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.

Getting up, he stored the bag neatly away on the closet shelf and took a moment to acknowledge someone had updated his wardrobe since he'd arrived. There were new clothes hanging on the rail--just from morbid curiosity, he checked the sizes.

Yes, they fit. Of course they fit. On the floor were a pair of new boots as well, and for some reason, he had to check them out, and took them to the bed with him to look over.

In other words, be honest with yourself here, Logan, you don't wanna leave this room. Fuck, you're a coward.

Her scent hit him as if out of nowhere, and he dropped the boots and waited as she slowly made her way towards his door. She might not be coming here, after all--there were the student quarters down the hall, Jean's room, shit, for all he knew, they had an armory around the corner that he didn't know about that she went to for weapon's cleaning once a week. God knew, they had everything else. But the slow stride slowed further, coming at his door, and if he wasn't mistaken, there were edges of hesitation before she came to a complete stop.

She stood there for a very long time, and Logan waited out her decision. It had been made--you didn't come down this far out of your way and then choose not to do it. She was wondering if he'd comment on her visit the other night and the fact he'd spent one of the more surreal nights of his life in a chair watching her sleep. Wondering what he thought of her, of her frankly nasty situation, if he expected something from her that she wasn't ready for, or worse, if he expected something she was. A soft knock sounded on the door, and he took a breath, then walked to the door and opened it.

"Rogue."

"Hey."

It might not have gotten any farther than that, to be honest--she looked tired and he would swear she'd lost weight since the last time he saw her. No, he knew she had--he knew every line and curve of her body from their interesting bonding experience on the Statue, and the elegant face was definitely thinner. Older too--when he'd met her, he would have pegged her for barely twenty. No way to do that now. The long, dark hair was braided back loosely, the streak of white in vivid evidence. Without even meaning to, he reached out and touched it, tracing along her face. She wore it like Scott wore his glasses--a visible, painful reminder of what she was.

"I sort of like it," she said softly to his unasked question. "It wasn't as if the gloves didn't brand me enough."

The bed might be stripped of the sheets that had been soaked in her scent, but the live-action version of it was just as addictive. Dropping his hand, he took a step back and waited to see what she wanted.

"You busy?" Her eyes went to the bed, and a little smile curled up the corners of her mouth. "I see you found--"

"The clothes, yeah." He stepped back another step and held open the door, inviting her in. Didn't even think of closing it though--some part of his mind recognized the impropriety of it, and when in his life had propriety been an actual concern? That would be here, now, with her, and a bed. Just not a good idea with a closed door any way you cut it. He'd sat through last night and wasn't in the mood to test himself that hard again. "What, you people have a Wal-Mart down in the basement or something?"

Rogue giggled--cute.

"Most kids come here without much of anything--we've perfected the art of getting them what they need without hurting their pride by making them ask. Which, usually, they won't anyway."

Made sense.

"Besides, we needed to get rid of overstock--too much in your size."

He tilted his head.

"You tell the kids that too?"

She chuckled softly.

"Every time."

She came to a stop in the middle of the room. Black gloved hands clasped together behind her, loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled to just below her elbow glove line, plain jeans and black boots. She wasn't very tall, didn't look very strong. He wondered how she could put on one of those uniforms and possibly do anything useful other than wait to be rescued.

Of course, appearances could be very deceiving. He knew that intimately. But it put a new complexion on Xavier's offer of a teaching position--not that he suspected the old man of doing a little subtle maneuvering of his personnel here and there. No, he *knew* Xavier was doing it deliberately--Jean at a conveniently remote cabin in the Catskills, Rogue in need of some serious combat training, and he and Scott were just being given a little too much opportunity here.

He'd bet money Rogue was a knockout in spandex. Shit, she'd be a knockout in a potato sack.

"You want to take a walk and test out those boots?" she asked, finally, turning a little to face him, the casual, practiced smile stretching her lips, convincing to anyone who wasn't as attuned to her as he was. Logan hesitated, trying to feel her intentions, but didn't read anything except simple friendliness--and just below that, stress. She took classes from Summers in control, that was for certain, because her expression was utterly smooth, giving away nothing, her body at ease, even if her scent betrayed her. She wanted out of the Mansion so badly she vibrated with it, and she wanted it with someone who wouldn't ask her questions she couldn't answer.

Well, he could do and be that.

"Who says I'm going to keep them?"

Her smile widened.

"Request from a lady, sir."

He smiled and gave in gracefully.

"Anything for a lady."

Under her amused gaze, he changed boots--they fit, of course, just as he'd known they would, and better than his old ones. Faintly disturbing, that. Stomping to get the feel of them, he looked up to see her waiting at the door.

"'Let us go then, you and I'," she said with a gesture toward the door and a playful grin.

"'When the evening is spread out against the sky.'"

She turned on him, eyes wide and dark, mouth dropping open, shock wiping away everything else. He liked that look on her face. He made a mental note to keep it there.

"How do you know Eliot?"

He gave her a grin before getting her hand, pulling her unresistingly through the open door. This could be interesting.

"Let's find out."

~*~

Blind Jump by jenn

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Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.