Author Notes:
There are only two absolutes in stories--a beginning and an end. So I decided to be different and start at the end. We'll get to the beginning later.

Dedication: Sare for the beta and the good advice. Love ya, darling.

*****

St. John wondered what in the name of God could be so fascinating about a library this late at night. Given, Rogue had asked Bobby, smiling and leaning over to expose quite an interesting amount of cleavage there (so St. John looked, it wasn't a big deal, he was a guy, those were breasts, and sometimes, Rogue didn't wear a bra). Frankly, if Rogue had asked him to help her look something up, he would have probably said yes in very much the same breathless voice as Bobby.

Given, she didn't, so he could be really amused at Bobby's expense and laugh over his mashed potatoes. Where Bobby wouldn't see, of course.

She said she was fine, and he believed her. Rogue didn't brood, period. Not when she could help it, definitely. So she was fine, and he believed her. Was gonna ask her, however, when she and Bobby got done, if she was at all interested in a work-out downstairs. He could see even now the twitch of her hands, a sure sign that she needed to vent and really, was there a better way to release aggression by kicking someone's ass? So she really couldn't kick his yet--she was getting quickly and steadily better and it was becoming a real challenge to win. Which was fun--Rogue was a hell of a lot more focused when she fought than anyone he'd ever met, and she rarely fell for the same trick twice. Only real thing working against her was her weight and her height, and Logan was teaching her how to compensate for that pretty damn well.

Now pushing nine, he knew bedchecks were coming soon, and Rogue would be turning in and sending Bobby home like a good little puppy. And he was definitely gonna be having that talk with Bobby. He'd even practiced it--sort of. Well, thought it through. Still no idea how it would begin--or how it would end--but the middle was along the lines of could Bobby get around to getting over Rogue and maybe consider that St. John wasn't playing this time around? Maybe?

Rolling over, St. John kicked his bedspread and bunched his pillow up in frustration. So he was a guy--guys just didn't have this conversation. Girls did--they usually started it off, leaving appropriate openings for the guys to throw something out, then it was all left up to the girl to make sense of it. He should have asked Jubes--oh yeah, that would be all kinds of fun, Jubes, how exactly do I go about telling Bobby I'd just really love it if he'd stop salivating over Rogue and maybe salivate over me for awhile? Jubes would give him a patient look and just tell him to say it like that, and no, he wasn't going to say it like that. Though God, he really couldn't think of a better way.

So guys should never have to initiate this sort of thing. That was a given. But he would have to, and if he wanted to get Bobby's attention before the kid fell asleep--or worse, have the conversation before Bobby passed out from sheer boredom while St. John struggled--well, he'd better have something ready.

Maybe jump him at the door. Hmm.

No, that wouldn't work. St. John hit his pillow again and growled--shit, they were learning way too much from Logan, period. Jumping Bobby wouldn't work. One, he'd promised himself that he would not, would *not*, do anything with Bobby that fell into the sexual or semi-sexual arena until Bobby got over Rogue. Two--well, before he'd made that resolution, he was jumping ole Drake every chance he got, and it really hadn't penetrated Bobby that maybe it was more than late night fun and games.

Hmm. Okay, jumping was out. It would have to be conversation. Fuck.

Oooh, a note. St. John sat up, considering that. Maybe he could write it if he couldn't say it, leave it someplace for Bobby to find. But that just edged on something from teen-angst television, and anyway, if he couldn't think of a damned thing to say, writing it would be worse. Much worse.

So, no jumping, no note. That still left him with a talk, and he still didn't have the words, and damn, it was nine, where the hell was Bobby?

A knock at the door brought him up straight and he saw Mr. Summers do a quick check--hey sir, here I am, everything's good, you know? Being a good little student in bed. Mr. Summers gave him a nod and the door closed.

Still no Bobby, it was definitely nine, and Rogue was gonna get her ass kicked royally for breaking lights-out.

Softly, the door opened, and a head peeked in. Definitely not Bobby. Long hair, a gloved hand gripping the edge of the door, the hall lights around her. Rogue was pretty easy to identify.

"Johnny?"

"Hey Roguey. Shit, babe, you're gonna get in some trouble if you get caught."

"Aw, fuck it. Jubes'll cover for me. What, you want me to leave?"

"Nah. Where's Bobby?"

Carefully, Rogue slid inside, pushing the door shut behind her.

"He ran into town to pick up a few things." Oddly, Rogue lingered by the door, then started playing with her scarf. Watching him, which was all kinds of weird and not a little creepy, before she finally seemed to make a decision. Her hand slid up to her throat and began to unknot her scarf.

"Um, Rogue, whatcha doin'?" He felt himself shift his feet to the floor as she stopped by the lamp he'd been using earlier, flipping it on with one gloved hand, then stepping back, still comfortably in the warm light. The scarf she laid on the bedside table, then she met his eyes, her fingers sliding down and beginning to unbutton her shirt. "Rogue--"

"Come on, Johnny." Low, the light drawl thickening her voice as she unbuttoned her jeans, letting them fall onto the floor. Beneath, he could see the silk bodysuit, but she didn't move for a moment, just watching him, then stepped out of them, kicking the jeans aside.

"Rogue-"

"You wanna play?" Leaning a little, she picked up her scarf, leaving her shirt on, before she took another step toward him, and he hadn't even known he was sitting up until he felt her crawl onto his lap, a knee on either side of his hips. "You scared of me, sugar?"

"No," he breathed. Didn't know how his hands got to her waist, sliding up over the shirt before back down, resting briefly on her hips. "Rogue. It's not--"

He felt the silky scarf trail across his throat, then through it, her damp mouth and his entire body went still, hands locked on her hips. She shifted a little, placing herself over his erection, and all the blood in his body went south and stayed there. Then a slow rocking, and St. John got a hand in her hair, pulling her mouth up, staring into her eyes.

"What are you doin'?" he whispered. She smiled, one hand on his shoulder, pushing him back on the bed and bracing herself over him. He couldn't read a thing on her face at all.

"I thought you'd done this before, sugar." She laughed softly and settled herself again, beginning a slow rocking. "I'll be careful, Johnny. Trust me."

Oh, he wasn't worried about that. The scarf was carefully placed over his mouth, then a kiss--almost chaste, and he turned her head a little, feeling her open her mouth and God, this was damned interesting, more than he'd ever suspected. And the feel of those leather-gloved hands sliding under his shirt, up his bare chest over his shoulders, while she continued that slow rocking that was driving everything out of his mind but--

--but God, she felt good. He pushed the shirt back, pulling it off her, rolling on his side so he had easier access, running curious fingers over the body beside him through the silk bodysuit. Trailing a hand across her breast, and she hissed softly.

"Yeah, Johnny," she whispered. "That works." Then an arm locked around his back and damn, one condom and three seconds, he could be inside her, and he wanted it, wanted it now. No, not now, make this fun. Sliding her down, he leaned over, pulling the scarf over her mouth to kiss her again, taste her through silk, so different from any other kiss he'd ever had, and she locked a leg around his knee, pulling him closer.

"Rogue--"

"Don't stop, don't think--"

"Rogue--" God, she wasn't supposed to be here, where was Bobby? He felt her hands drop to the waist of his sweatpants, running absently over his thigh, getting a feel for everything she could--

"Look--" God, that was good, she had good hands-- "Rogue--," he'd never get a word out if she didn't stop touching him, if she didn't stop tasting so good, if she didn't purr with every stroke of his hands, tracing the curve of her waist, cupping her breast and her head went back, extending her throat. Pulling the scarf down, he licked at the silk-covered skin and she arched against him. "Rogue--"

"Just for fun, Johnny. It doesn't have--God, yes, sugar--doesn't mean anything."

Which was fine--didn't mean anything. He slid down a little farther, rocking against her to get that shudder that was addictive to watch, nipping at the skin of her chest. Sex didn't have to mean anything. Two friends, having sex--he could deal with that. No problem. Bobby was out somewhere, it was just a--

Bobby was out somewhere, he had been with Rogue--he didn't leave her voluntarily, therefore Rogue sent him into town.

Through his shirt, Rogue's nails dug in when he reached a nipple, biting softly before running his fingers down her side, resting briefly at her hip. Even through silk, she tasted fantastic, and he'd never had a lover this responsive, this fast.

Rogue was in a bodysuit, Bobby was in town. It didn't mean anything, it didn't mean--

"Johnny--" A low gasp when he skated to her other breast, the silk growing damp from sweat and his mouth. He liked it, liked the taste and smell of her, how she moved under him. Even Bobby--

Fuck, couldn't his mind shut down and let him enjoy this? He lifted up on his elbow, grinding against her sharply, pulling the scarf back over her mouth and kissing her again, feeling her move up against him, how warm she was, how soft. How delicious. How--

--how she sent Bobby to the store. She hadn't been wearing a bodysuit at dinner. He'd seen the shirt she was wearing, and she'd shown cleavage. No bodysuit. Bobby went to the stores, she went to her room, changed clothes. Came in here.

"Good, Johnny." Tiny pants he could feel against his hair and her nails through her gloves skating across his stomach under his shirt, making him hiss. Rogue never did anything on impulse. Everything had meaning. Running a hand down her thigh, pulling it up against his hip, his own breath coming too fast. Rogue was Rogue, there was nothing in her that screamed she did anything casually.

Rogue thought through everything. She planned things and carried through.

One leather-covered hand slid in his sweatpants, finding the line of his boxers, and leather on his cock was better than anything--oh God, that was good, that was good, why the hell was she doing this? The leg around his locked, a hand on his shoulder, and he was on his back, trying to breathe through the sensation, it was sooo fucking good--

"You like that sugar?" A long stroke and how could he possibly *not* like that, how good it felt, how wonderful, God she was good--but hell, she'd had Remy and all of Logan's memories and she knew more than probably anyone else at the Mansion. Oh it was good, it was so good, she was good--

"God, yes."

--she'd had Remy to get the experience to match her memories, to put into practice what she knew in theory. Rogue always had a reason. He looked up at her, dark eyes, dark hair, practiced hands knowing everything, her mouth coming down on his collar over his shirt, biting slightly--

"Rogue, babe--"

"That's it, sugar. That's it--" He traced her back through the silk, across her ass, down over her thigh and sliding between her legs, careful of the opening, wondering where his gloves were--

Rogue didn't believe in casual. Rogue always had a reason, and it always went back to one thing, one person--

It took everything in him to grab her hand, pull it out of his sweatpants--oh God, what the fuck are you doin', Johnny? What the fuck does it matter? She looked up, he could read surprise there, surprise and something else. But he'd played proxy for Bobby, and he couldn't face this, face making himself into a proxy for--

"This is about Logan, isn't it?"

She froze. Just for a second, but it gave everything away and he somehow got his other hand up, pushing her away, moving away from the bed, unable to look at her. Running his hands down his body roughly, still feeling her touch him, aroused and sick and angry all at the same time.

"What does it matter? It's just sex, Johnny."

If it meant nothing, or it meant something he could live with. He couldn't live with this.

"I won't be a substitute. And I won't be your personal method of revenge. You won't leave this room and let him smell me all over you."

She didn't move for a second.

"Why do you care? What do you think he'll do, call you out? Kick your ass in class tomorrow?"

No, he didn't care, but really, that thought hadn't occurred to him before. Fuck.

"He doesn't want me, Johnny. Not like that, so it doesn't matter."

"If it didn't matter, you'd never come to me." He was breathing too heavily and his body was wondering if he'd just lost his mind, because why the fuck did he care? "If it didn't matter, you'd go to anyone, but you came here." He looked at her now, seeing the smeared lipstick, the clench of her fists. "If it didn't matter, you wouldn't wear his shirt when you came here. So he could smell it when he got it back, so he could smell you and me and this."

She sat up now, slowly--methodical Rogue, didn't lose her temper, didn't act out of anger, though now she was, she really was, even if she wouldn't believe it, even if she thought she was being just as cool as always. She was two steps beyond angry, and nothing less could have made her try this, take advantage of their friendship. He had to believe that, had to believe it right now, that nothing else, for no other reason, would she do this to him.

"You don't mind playing proxy for Bobby," she whispered, and he shut his eyes, entire body stiffening.

"Get out." Get out, before he started screaming, before the sudden heat he felt rise up in him started getting beyond his control, before he admitted to anyone, especially her, that maybe when he touched Bobby, Bobby was thinking about Rogue.

He heard her quiet movements as she got dressed, absently tying her scarf back around her throat, picking up Logan's shirt from the floor. Fully dressed, she paused and he thought she might say something else, something that he couldn't handle--something to make him break right now, God, shut up Rogue, keep your fucking mouth shut. There was a quiet knock at the door before it opened abruptly, and Bobby came in, frowning a little to see him standing there.

"Hey, you still up, Johnny?" His eyes lit on Rogue and he smiled--never seeing the mess of the bed, the mess of St. John standing perfectly still in the middle of the room. "Hey Rogue. Couldn't find you in your room--Jubes said you hadn't come back yet."

"Just waitin' for you, Bobby," she drawled, and St. John watched her slowly walk over to Bobby, that smile on her face, the one where men would fall over themselves to see. "Come on--let's go break some serious student conduct rules. See ya, Johnny-boy."

"You wanna come, Johnny?" But Bobby didn't even look at him and Rogue had a gloved hand against Bobby's shoulder, blue eyes focused on her completely, and for an insane second, St. John almost said yes. Yes, hell yes, he was coming, this wasn't happening, Rogue wouldn't do this to him, or to Bobby. But she would, this wasn't the same girl he spent every day with, this wasn't the girl he went clubbing with and had slept beside and woken up from nightmares.

"No," he heard himself choke out, and he never was even sure Bobby heard him, as Rogue walked out, Bobby like a dog in heat behind her, watching the sway of her ass as they went out the door. Softly closing, and St. John stood perfectly still, trying to breathe through the rage. Temperature rising and he spun on his heel, needing an object--shit, nothing here--focus, concentrate--then going into the bathroom, flipping the shower on cold and standing under it fully dressed as it evaporated the second it got too close to him, kicking the drain closed so maybe the tub would fill up a little and he could sit very still and find his center.

It didn't control him. Beneath his feet he felt the porcelain heating up, knew the pipes were going too--it didn't control him--water didn't get close enough to even sprinkle his skin--it didn't control him--he knew this, he learned from this, he wasn't, he wasn't--

Stop. Breathe. Hands clenched at his sides, breathing out while everything twisted and he worked his will, forcing calm, forcing control, forcing anger down and away and nothing and no one was worth losing everything he'd worked to achieve. Nothing.

She didn't do that. She would do that. She did do that, and she was doing it right now. Leaning back against tiles that were slowly becoming hotter and hotter, St. John shut his eyes and sank down, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his head on his knees, saying his mantra over and over, hot water turned to hot damp air rushing over him.

The End