*****

The plaster in front of Rogue's room was becoming way too familiar. So was the blanket he grabbed off his bed the second Bobby stumbled up at the sound of Rogue's screams--Japanese this time, St. John could identify Rogue in six languages and Bobby could identify Rogue's breathing at fifty feet--and out the door.

So it wasn't the most interesting thing on earth, unadorned plaster--St. John might have resented Rogue if he didn't know what torture these nights were for her and how much she absolutely required someone to ground her back down when she woke up. It wasn't optional--and unfortunately, Kitty and Jubes were in Los Angeles on their summer break before the combat training started next week or they'd be back on Rogue-sitting duty.

And a change: Remy sat with him, smoking cigarette after cigarette and as tense as Rogue probably was. She got Remy's nightmares now--extremely unformed, since she hadn't gotten much out of his head. Tonight was not a Remy night, but St. John knew Remy blamed himself for the shift back into frequent bad nights. Which in all fairness he should--Rogue had taken every single precaution under the sun. Remy himself had admitted he'd slipped up and stupidly too, which was just on this side of unforgivable. Damn it.

It was something, though, that the first thing out of Remy's mouth when he woke up was asking how Rogue was and the second was to get his ass in gear and downstairs to talk to her. They'd all left him alone in the isolation chamber with her and whatever had happened, they came out friends, and Rogue was released back into the general population with a strict agreement to start counseling with the Professor twice a week the moment he returned from his trip to D.C. She said she didn't mind, and she probably didn't--Professor Xavier was one of those people you could talk to about anything.

Dr. Grey and Mr. Summers were a different story entirely--they had both had long talks with her that she'd left with tight lips and a stiff-legged step and she wouldn't say what they told her--though St. John could guess. Keep your hands to yourself, Rogue, and your legs closed until you get some control. We don't wanna clean up your messes. Or something more diplomatically phrased to that effect. Like a teenager needed more problems in their lives, and didn't Rogue have enough without being thrown some sexual hang-ups as well? Shit.

They had also told Bobby something like that, that it wouldn't be a good idea for him to continue to pursue her, considering the circumstances--Bobby had told St. John and St. John had spent the morning unfreezing everything in their room and hating the Leaders for fucking around where they had no business. As far as St. John was concerned, their sex lives were their own and no one had the right, not even their guardians (and they were eighteen and could legally screw anyone above the age of consent they wanted to), to tell them who and when they could fuck. Yeah, so Rogue could suck life through her skin--conceivably, Bobby could freeze his lover to death and St. John himself could turn them into something charbroiled, and both of those in a lot less time than it took for Rogue to completely drain a person dry. It was all a matter of perspective and taking basic precautions, and Rogue had done everything right. Except maybe choose Remy, who apparently needed to have a little talking to as well, if he somehow forgot that touching Rogue's bare skin, even post-orgasm, was *not* a good idea.

And while St. John would have been thrilled if Bobby stopped pursing Rogue, he didn't want Bobby on those terms--and frankly, wouldn't accept him either. Which is why he'd spent the last two weeks out of Bobby's bed and with the firm resolution that either Bobby was gonna come to him for keepsies, no Rogue-fascination attached, or not at all. He just couldn't handle taking second place anymore.

"Gimme one," he asked Remy, stretching his legs out in front of him to ease the cramping muscles, and Remy silently took out a cigarette and extended the lighter. With a smirk, St. John cupped his hand and lit it himself, drawing in a lungful of smoke and blowing out, trying to relax into the wall a little more and tune out the sound of Rogue's voice.

Still in Japanese--Magneto had faded and the kicks into Polish and German were almost nonexistent these days. All Wolverine, all Remy. All shit she was once again pulling together piecemeal and trying to regain her balance in the only way she could, minimal guidance because no one knew enough about her mutation to show her themselves.

So it was odd, all things considered, to hear her yelling something--and someone answer her. In the same language.

Both he and Remy jerked around at the new voice, someone St. John vaguely recognized--someone who looked shocked as hell that he'd said anything and began to growl in a way vaguely reminiscent of Rogue--

"Wolverine," he whispered, and the gaze at the door jerked down, paying attention to their presence for the first time.

Oh fuck.

"What the fuck are you doing in front of Marie's door?"

Marie? St. John struggled to his feet, automatically backing off from the sheer threat the man managed to give off without even taking a step toward them or doing anything but stand there looking at them. That ability he'd seen Rogue utilize when she fought--he could see so much of what he'd observed in her reflected in the man in front of him--the original owner of all those personality quirks--hopefully the underwear dislike too, and St. John force himself not to look down and check.

Tall. Not very happy to see them--oh, use another word, actually pissed as hell, and under it all, worry, bone-deep and almost tangible.

And Rogue's ability to exude pure sexuality was right here and shit, St. John was responding without even thinking and dropped the blanket just a little to hopefully hide his reaction. Remembered suddenly that Wolverine had an amazing sense of smell--oh crap, this couldn't be good.

"Well?" A hand came up and St. John was assaulted by memories of Rogue's drawings, those claws--and took another step back. Remy looked rooted to the spot, but maybe that was the smarter way to go, because Wolverine's attention was on the idiot stupid enough to move when seen. Yippee, Johnny-boy, you're a bright one.

"She-she-she's havin' a bad night." Probably wasn't the type to like 'sir' tacked on, and St. John glanced desperately at the door, then back at Wolverine, who looked far too interested in getting answers from them. Rogue's next garbled words, however, jerked the dark eyes back to the door and he, St. John, was completely dismissed from mind and the door knocked open and out of the way. St. John had a good sense of self-preservation, but this was one of those times curiosity had to win. Leaning against the open door frame, he watched Wolverine approach Rogue's bed, meeting the eyes of a startled Bobby before Wolverine knocked him off the bed and onto the floor--not violently, more absently, the way you swatted a fly. Bobby was a big fly, given, but to be perfectly honest, he wasn't sure the man had really seen Bobby as anything but an impediment to getting to Rogue (Marie? Marie. Hmm.). He wasn't hurt, that was obvious, but so startled he didn't move from his sprawl a good ten feet away, almost against the closet door--a very good idea, St. John thought, and would have been impressed with Bobby's good sense if it had been deliberate. Behind him, St. John felt Remy creep up and they realized, all at once, they were in the perfect position to watch the reunion.

Rogue wasn't really awake yet--it always took awhile to get her up, one of the scarier things about those bad nights. Logan had already pulled gloves from his pocket and they could hear him talking to her--a few minutes in Japanese (which seemed to quiet her down a little), then switching into English, a hand sliding into her hair and tilting her head toward him.

"Marie, wake the fuck up, baby. Now."

No one talked to Rogue like that--and her name was Marie. That was new, and he put that away in his memory and turned his full attention back to the scene in front of him. At the command, her eyes opened instantly, jolted by something new, or someone new, or hell, by probably the presence of Wolverine in the flesh and not the part he played in her dreams.

But no one talked to Rogue like that. No one. Not even her friends. Except the Leaders, and she tuned them out the second they tried.

"Logan?" Sitting up, pushing her hair back with one hand, eyes wide. Then again, as if she had to say it just to make it real. "Logan?"

Cool. Marie and Logan. Got it.

The way she said it though--no one in St. John's life had ever sounded like that before, as if every single thing ever desired in life was handed over on a silver platter. For once, Rogue forgot her dangerous skin, forgot whatever it was she'd been told and everything she'd experienced, threw herself forward into Wolverine's arms with no inhibition at all, and St. John watched her shatter completely, breaking into sobs that hurt to hear. Six months worth of control broken in that single instant, all guard let down the way she never quite could with them.

That Logan was surprised was obvious--but certainly not unwilling in any way, shape, or form. With a shift, he'd picked her up from the bed and cradled her on his lap, stroking the long hair back, growling softly at the fading black eye and dark circles of bad nights, leather-covered fingers stroking across her cheek, turning her head to take in every angle. She wrapped both arms around his back, burying her head against his jacket, shaking so badly they could hear the sound of her teeth chattering and Wolverine shifted again so his back was to the headboard, rocking her carefully, not seeming to care anything about all the exposed skin of her face and arms and the edge of her t-shirt that rode up to show inches of dangerous skin. They could hear his voice--too quiet for them to quite understand exactly what he was saying, but whatever it was, it was bringing her down fast. The bone-tight grip of her fingers relaxed, but she didn't move, content to be held and cuddled and treated like something infinitely precious and valuable, eyes open but barely in drowsy peace, something he'd never seen on her face before. After a few minutes, Logan was kicked off his boots and Rogue said something that he laughed at and let her go briefly, pulling off his jacket and tossing it to the floor.

He pushed her blankets out of the way and St. John realized that now would probably be a very good time for a tactical retreat--moving quickly, he grabbed Bobby from the floor and half-dragged him to the door, pulling them both out. Logan didn't even look at them, and St. John dropped Bobby beside the shell-shocked Remy and bolted for the handle to pull the door closed. When he glanced inside, Rogue--Marie? Really?--was crying softly but looked a hell of a lot calmer than she'd ever been after a nightmare curled up on her side with Wolverine braced on one elbow above her, still talking softly, a hand stroking back her hair.

And he shut the door quickly and quietly. No need to push his luck.

* * * * *

"Where the fuck does he think he gets off--"

Bobby was half-torn between fuming and playing the part of Romeo to Rogue's rather reluctant Juliet, which was something to see, St. John had to admit it. And St. John probably would have been a hell of a lot more sympathetic, or consoling, if he didn't have so much to think about. Remy had wandered back to bed and it had taken St. John several minutes to coax Bobby away from Rogue's door. Somehow, he doubted Logan would like them hangin' out there--and if the man's sense of smell was as good as rumored, St. John would much prefer to be several doors away. Just in case.

Her name was Marie. That would take some getting used to.

"--shit, she's falling to pieces and what does he do? He's in there taking advantage of her fragile emotional--"

Practice in combat. Practice in sex. The slow shift of her clothes off the sweats thing under Jubes' influence, the use of make-up from Kitty, the practice at using her sexuality as naturally as breathing. The way she always watched everything and everyone, the way she measured out her reactions, even the way she drank, the slow opening of her personality and her work to learn to trust those around her, the fact that Magneto had faded and Remy was repressed, but Logan never really was. Not entirely. That he was the only one that could break out of her still, the personality she was guarding in herself like a miser to its gold. Fuck, fuck, fuck, St. John didn't know whether to be impressed with her abilities or utterly amazed that she'd managed to hide what she was doing so well.

"--and shit, she's probably young enough to be his granddaughter--"

There was actually a purpose to everything she did, and St. John was really amazed at himself that he hadn't seen it before. Because, yeah, he could be clueless, but he hadn't made a single deduction and that was a hell of a lot of evidence. Why she didn't want Bobby, why she'd chosen Remy, the one with the least possibility of emotional entanglements. Why she never showed a single weakness if she could help it.

"She can't be ready for that. She's so easily injured--"

Why when she'd absorbed Remy, she'd lost so much control. She didn't want another personality to influence what she was trying to become. All for the man now cradling her to sleep in her room, the only one she'd really accept comfort from, because he was probably the only one who understood what she was, what she was becoming.

"Fucking bastard, walk back in like nothing happened--"

"Bobby." St. John's voice was even. Bobby stopped short mid-pace. "Sit the fuck down, kiddo."

Bobby sat down beside him. Which was nice--no longer had to crane his neck up to see him. With a glance at the younger boy, St. John decided Bobby just needed to relax a little. The blue eyes were filled with hurt and St. John couldn't help but sympathize--wasn't he in the same position? Of course, he, St. John, was giving out to get the boy and Bobby couldn't to get the girl.

"She needs him, Bobby. You saw how she relaxed? Cool it, let her. She's been through enough." Wolverine--Logan, flip it to Logan--was on Rogue-sitting duty. Bobby was no longer needed to run play knight (horseless, of course), and that was good. Rogue had someone who probably understood her better than any of them could and could deal with her nights--also good. Rogue now had adult, fully grown-up protection from other well-meaning adults--very, very good.

Abruptly, Bobby leaned over, dropping his head with a sigh in St. John's lap. Absently, St. John caressed the blonde hair and thought about everything that had happened over the last few weeks.

He got the feeling things would be getting really interesting *really* fast.