Author Notes: My canon on the Mansion sucks, but it just seems logical they'd have some kind of security in place, you know? Thanks to Sare for primary beta.

*****

"Are you mad at me or somethin'?"

St. John looked up from his bed, a little startled, shifting so he could see Bobby as he got dressed. Jeans, nice shirt, hair still wet from the shower. Very delicious. Question asked. He had to answer. Was he?

"No."

Shit, he wasn't sure. Was he mad at Bobby?

Bobby, however, took it at face value and finished dressing, grabbing his shoes from the closet and dropping on his bed to put them on.

"You sure you don't wanna go?" Nothing more than curiosity, question dismissed from mind. St. John had said no, therefore no issue of anger. Didn't occur to Ice Boy that maybe St. John wasn't even sure of the answer to the question. Sometimes, Bobby-boy had all the sensitivity of a goat chewing on aluminum cans. St. John shook his head quickly (imagery of Bobby chewing thoughtfully on a can notwithstanding), turning back to the magazine, but the thought wouldn't leave his head, and why wouldn't it anyway? It was a simple question that he hadn't been able to find an answer to. Was. He. Mad. At. Bobby. Question mark. Damn, he had no clue.

"Okay. We'll be late, so I guess I'll see you at breakfast." Looking uncertain. Maybe a little nervous, and St. John nodded absently, waving a hand goodbye while he kept his focus on the magazine like it was the most interesting thing on the planet, not realizing until several seconds later that it was upside down. Damn, don't let Bobby see that. A pause, then the sound of Bobby's feet going to the door, the door opening and closing, and down the hall Bobby went, to club and maybe make out with Kitty.

Shit. He rolled on his back and closed his eyes, letting the magazine slither to the floor.

This was so not the person he wanted to be. St. John did not sit around in some sort of weird Dawson's Creek-esque brooding thing, waiting patiently for his Joey--or whoever the hell was with whom these days--to figure out the Meant To Be portion of the show that was pretty much self-evident to everyone but the one languished after. He was a mutant, not a teen angst victim, and there it was.

Grabbing his pillow and a spare blanket, he got up and decided to find something else to do. Like, now. Before he caught himself doing something worse, like pulling out that damn picture and using it for recreational purposes, and *why* in the name of God had he asked Rogue to do that? Though it was a damn good picture. She could really draw.

Five steps out the door, right downstairs, it was a warm night, he'd go outside, maybe meditate or contemplate the trees or read his magazine--the magazine that was on his floor and shit, now he'd have to go back for it. Shit. Turning, he stormed back halfway down the hall and was startled by a sound that he knew--*knew*--he could not possibly have heard. Because Kitty and Jubes were clubbing with Bobby and Remy, and Rogue was probably trying to convince Logan that she'd love to be drawn naked or whatever the hell it was they did behind that door, and while it might not be sex or any variation thereof, he knew it couldn't all be sleep.

No one could sleep that much.

But there was that sound, and it sounded like he felt--which was bad and almost enough to make him walk by the girls' door. Almost. However, not exactly in the emotional peace and stability zone himself, there was something appealing about being able to share the misery. He pushed the door open to see Rogue curled on her bed, crying.

And that stopped him, because aside from that one day, he'd never seen her cry. Rogue fought for what she wanted or she worked for what she wanted. Rogue just didn't cry. Period.

Rogue didn't look up, didn't even react, which in some way made it worse, because Rogue of all people was hyperaware of her surroundings, always worried about someone coming too close--and all those reflexes of hers were good, damn good. Pausing, somewhere in him he knew she wouldn't like this, not at all, not being seen when she wasn't in control.

"Rogue?" Fuck it. He felt like crap, she felt like crap, they should definitely feel like crap together. That's the whole point of having friends, after all.

Head came up, so sharply he knew she'd definitely been too lost in her own misery to even guess someone else was around. Stared at him a second through red-rimmed eyes, startlement replaced instantly by anger. One hand, covered in the edge of her sheet, came out to swipe angrily at her tears.

"Oh fuck, get the hell out, Johnny."

As bitchiness went, it was pretty subdued. For Rogue, anyway.

He almost did too--he knew all about wanting to curl up somewhere and not let anyone see you. He could write the fucking treatise on the subject, truth be told. And so far as he could tell, it'd never done anything but made him feel that much worse and he usually ended up with an upper level temperature that required another hour of meditation to bring down, a headache, and a seriously nasty attitude for hours later directed at anyone who crossed his path.

So instead, he hoisted his pillow higher and secured his blanket under his arm, Under Rogue's startled eyes, he walked across the room, climbing over her to sit against the wall, dropping his pillow beside hers. Gave her a speaking look before pushing her blankets down and sliding under them, then bracing himself on an elbow to look down at her.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" She was too startled to be angry, which was good, because Rogue-anger tended to be verbal and lengthy and sometimes, on the training ground, ended up bruising. So to speak.

"Talk." Settling himself, he found the edge of her blanket, pulling it up to his hips, and looked startled when she rolled over completely, reddened eyes staring reproachfully into his. "Look, if this is about the fire alarm--"

"Yeah, sugar, that was interesting." She straightened a little, then shifted so an arm was tucked neatly under her head. "How the hell bored did you get to start superheating metal like that? And where the hell did you do it? Even the sublevels went off."

St. John shifted, looking innocently at the far wall.

"Oh, you were down there?"

An odd expression crossed her face.

"Yeah. You're just lucky you didn't get caught. What, you and Bobby-boy decide to play game of chicken with the building or somethin'?"

He'd figured she'd know what happened. Didn't guess why, and that was good. Let's keep it that way, Johnny-boy.

"Where's Logan?" he asked, pushing one of her legs over and wishing he'd grabbed his bike gloves. Oh well--he had his blanket tucked between them. Glancing down at her, he took in the dark blue t-shirt and when he'd kicked her he'd felt the flannel pajama bottoms and the cotton socks she always wore to bed.

Another odd expression.

"Um--he and Cyke and Co went on a mission. They won't be back til later, so--I'm here tonight."

Here tonight. Not asleep in Logan's room where they had a several-day streak of good-Rogue nights, not even a peep in the hall--either she was sleeping better or Logan did a better job than them at getting her up. Shifting a little more, St. John finally got comfortable and caught her eye. A delicate flush stained her cheeks and he suddenly wondered if she'd really taken the Leaders' little talk to heart. Shit, and she'd be pissed as hell if she knew they'd listened in on it, too, which meant approaching it directly was so out of the question.

Before he could get a way to put the thoughts together, Rogue rolled over on her side to face him, one gloved hand (she slept in gloves when she was alone? What kind of weird emergency would she need gloves for during sleep?) going out to tentatively touch his shoulder.

"You gonna talk to Bobby anytime soon?" she asked, and St. John knew he flushed, and not a delicate Roguey-flush either. Something hot and bright that he knew was rushing over his entire body. Rogue snickered and her fingers dropped away and he caught them quickly with his free hand.

"Men don't talk."

"You're eighteen, sugar. You're not a man."

He snorted.

"Thanks, Roguey. I need that, you know? Just on top."

Her smile faded a little and she tilted her head to look at him, but she didn't pull her hand away.

"Johnny--you know I don't give a good damn who is with who 'round here, ya know? But you and Bobby--honey, this has been several months. Just sit him down, explain what's goin' on in your head. He's not stupid, he's a good boy. Just--dense. You're not makin' it clear."

"He wants you." And there was no way there had been actual resentment in his voice--no way in hell. Rogue sighed, shaking her head.

"He wants the idea of me, sugar. He doesn't know me." Another sigh, and he shifted a little closer--Rogue did her best difficult sharing when there was physical contact, her greatest level of comfort achieved. He supposed she associated it now with trust, since the only ones who touched her were her friends, and of course, Logan. At his motion, she lifted her head and he carefully slid an arm under her head, and her face was neatly against his clothed shoulder. "He likes--he likes the idea of something broken he gets to fix. He wants to be the one to do it, to make me better. He doesn't understand--he doesn't get that I'm not fixable."

"Rogue, that's bullshit. There's nothing--"

"Hush." Absently, her hand felt the skin of his wrist--she was concentrating now. "Johnny, you and the others--you've seen some things. But--I'm not fixable. I'm gonna be broken for the rest of my life. I'm never gonna be just me again, with only my own thoughts in my head. I'm always gonna be--more. And less, I guess." She blew out a breath and he felt her relax against him. "I don't sit around and mull the whole 'Rogue will be deprived of human contact' thing, because I'm not, in every way that counts. But--" she lifted her hand from his, taking her glove between her teeth and pulling it off, showing off the white skin. "See this? My weapon, whether I want it to be or not."

He looked at the bare hand, the long fingers, taking the sheet in his hand and carefully brushing his fingers along her skin, looking at the almost healed wounds. Left hand hadn't taken the heavy damage of her right hand.

"I'm not afraid of you."

She drew in a shuddering breath.

"You don't hafta be, sugar. I'm scared every single minute for you. For all of you."

Ouch. St. John wrapped the fingers in his hand, drawing her closer, not liking how that sounded. Wondered what it must be like, to take their casual touches and be afraid all of the time. Hating the Leaders, because he knew that Rogue just wasn't the type to brood like this--they'd put these thoughts back in her head and she was sitting in here alone, away from Logan's room, because they'd shattered her control again and she didn't want to be unbalanced in front of Logan. Running the sheet-covered hand up her arm, he finally came to her face.

"If I lose control, I can cremate you in under fifteen seconds. Not even water vapor left."

Her eyes widened a little, a quick breath from between parted lips.

"Bobby once gave a girl at a club frostbite. Just when he kissed her. Kitty had quite a thriving career as a street thief before she came here and once phased through a wall with a seventy foot drop on the other side. Jubes--well, ask Jubes one day about Los Angeles. Logan put nine inches of adamantium through your body during a dream, and ole Mr. Summers is death with two eyes if he even stumbles and his glasses come loose. You're not the only one with issues, babe. There's a damn good reason we're all here and not wandering the world lookin' for something to destroy." A pause. "I'm not scared of you, Rogue. You can't do anything to me that I can't do to myself just as well or more thoroughly."

"I don't have your control."

"You will."

He meant it, knowing her, knowing the will that hid underneath her smiles and behind her dark eyes.

"Bobby--" he stopped, sighing softly. Knowing she wasn't going to let it drop. And shit, he'd dragged out her personal life, so he supposed she deserved the same in return. "If he wants--more--he'd know, right?"

"Not if you don't even give him the option." A pause, and she reached down, pulling her glove back on, and he felt cool leather against his face, a contrast to the heat he felt at thinking of Bobby. "Is he bein' particularly dense? Yeah. He's eighteen and all hormoney or whatever. Johnny--he ain't touchin' anyone but you. And trust me, I'd know. He thinks of it--as friends, you know? With benefits, I guess the term would be. You want serious, he don't know that." Her mouth quirked. "And makin' out with Kittycat and Jubes on one night probably didn't cement in his mind the idea that he's more than a friend to you."

Fuck. Drinking night.

"Who said I want anything serious?" Wow, and he really *couldn't* sound any less convincing.

"The fact that you haven't said you don't. Not to him, not to me. Your silence on the subject is just deafening, sugar. I know all about wantin' things you think you can't have. But--you gotta jump. Just do it. Walk in, sit him down, get some things straight. I think he'll respond well."

"Or he'll say fuck no and walk out, and I've lost my best friend."

For a second, he saw something flicker in her eyes, something that was both hope and fear.

"I know." Almost a whisper. "Trust me, sugar, I know all about that."

They were both quiet and he watched the movement of her mouth and carefully shifted onto his back. She began to pull away--and he did want her to sleep comfortably, so he let her. Grabbed his blanket and tucked it over her arm, and pulled her back with a grin, so her face and body were rested on a very well-covered arm and chest. Absently, one gloved hand rested on his chest, drawing idle circles, and he was an adolescent, that did things. Grinning, he shook his head.

"You don't have to stay, Johnny."

"You sleep better when you're not alone," he answered. "I do love you, babe, but I'm not gonna be dragged back in here from my room because you take a bad trip through your own dreams. Conveniently, I'll be right here to wake up. Save me a trip through cold halls. Go to sleep."

"Yes, sir," she muttered but he heard the edge of amusement in her voice. "Tell me you're gonna talk to Bobby."

Turning his head, he felt her hair brush his cheek.

"I'll talk to Bobby."

"Cool." He listened to the pattern of her breathing. "And Bobby's right, sugar. You *are* warm."

That brought both his eyes wide, but she snickered and he heard her drifting off to sleep. Oddly comforted by the girl in his arms, he went to sleep too.

The End.