Soft on Bright

Scott

by jenn

Author Notes: Foofish angst. Nod to the lovely Donna for her Logan and Homer reference (Adaptations). I liked it so much I had to borrow it.

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He didn't like the reputation as a tight-ass even though he'd earned it fairly enough, and he didn't really strive all that hard to get rid of it. Like the glasses and the button-down designer shirts, it was an intrinsic characteristic, and people would ask if something was wrong if he didn't show his usual degree of anal-retentiveness on a daily basis. Same if Logan quoted some Greek poetry during a low-key chat on fighting techniques, and Scott remembered the appalled look on the man's face when he realized what he'd said. Long ago and far away, before Logan's balance had finally adjusted to life in one place for relatively long periods of time and he spent too much time alone. Before, when he ducked at the sight of other people and hid in the Danger Room under the pretext of practice. Before he figured out in his own way that security didn't always have to be bought.

Before. The word covered a lot of sins and a shitload of time.

There had to have been a time Scott was more than an interesting and annoying combination of iconoclanic worship and odd trademarked habits, though the students would swear every way from Sunday that they didn't know he'd been anything else . Probably be shocked to know Scott left dirty underwear on the floor for Jean to collect with a patient sigh and that his handwriting was so bad he had to use a computer for to-do lists and post-it notes.

Expectations could be more binding than personality quirks, all things considered.

So he kept up his evening routine of checking security (though in memory, the Mansion and the grounds were close to impregnable) and went into the living room with nothing more pressing on his mind than seeing what was on the television, since Jean was in Manhattan for the night. A fifteen minute phone call and two infomercials later, he was walking the halls again and wishing he was the type that could assuage restlessness with aggression, but exercise did less to relax him than to remind him how he hated to be alone.

It was, however, something Logan did nightly, and Scott on a moment of inspiration turned toward the hall that led to the gym and listened for a minute to the sounds within, coming from the half-open door.

A little surprised--Logan didn't usually like company. Not so surprised after all--the voice was familiar.

"Logan--"

"Shit, you gotta do it this way?"

Scott Summers was no more invulnerable to simple curiosity than any other person in the Mansion, anality aside.

It was easy to lean a little into the doorframe and get the best view, with the gym lights on low--Logan's sight was just as good in dark as bright--and the hall lights completely off--another form of anality for electricity bills and the hours he spent on simple bookkeeping that he should really feel more comfortable turning over to Bobby with the degree in accounting. Someday.

"You make things difficult," and Rogue was in view, crouched lightly on the balls of her feet beside a weight bench. Looking less glamorous and less dangerous than she really was--stripped down to a t-shirt that had seen better days and sweatpants that had probably been in the laundry basket before being absently pulled on for lack of anything else to wear. Dark hair pulled back in a careless ponytail that shaved years off her age--whatever the hell that was in actuality--black-gloved hands the only thing that would ever have set her apart from any run-of-the-mill girl in the world, rested casually across her knees, not quite her weapon of choice but definitely her most valuable commodity. Big dark eyes that gave away much faster than her body that she was more than the sum of brown hair and intensive training and ordinary prettiness that gave the mistaken impression of fragility.

Logan threw the towel aside, pacing the room like a cell--Scott honestly couldn't remember Logan not in some kind of motion, even of the smallest and most insignificant kind, and given the excuse, he was energy personified, which made you wonder more than probably healthy about his sleeping habits and the insomnial streak that ran through him every once in awhile. Turned on his heel to face her, and on a normal night, Scott would've been spotted within three seconds of getting in range of Logan's senses.

Not a normal night. Obviously.

"I ain't havin' this conversation again." Turning to kick a sixty pound weight out of his way without noticing, marking a clear path from wall to wall, the easier to brood with space surrounding him.

"Considerin' we haven't had the conversation yet, sugar, when you keep cuttin' me off--"

"And will you lose the fucking 'sugar' crap?"

Rogue sighed and resettled her hands--her balance was amazingly good, but Scott supposed that six years of drilling had taught her more than how to disarm an enemy in under five seconds and the most lethal use of boots with good heels.

"You took all the good profanity already and I like to be original in my endearments. Sugar."

A growl that is cut off almost as soon as it began. And Rogue lowered her head for a second, staring down at her hands.

"Look, it's not like I'm asking you to do somethin' weird--and if you don't wanna--"

"Want to and will are two fucking different things, and what the hell put this in your head anyway?" And before Scott's interested eyes, Logan dropped on the weight bench in front of her. She shifted her position easily, turning to face him, resting one hand against his leg and taking a breath, ponytail swinging idly with the motion of her body.

God, she looked young. If she was twenty-five years old yet, Scott would have been surprised, but Rogue didn't share any better than Logan did and personal information was something she'd limited to the point of silence. Deep South accent and a new habit of using endearments no matter the provocation, that was as much as they ever knew.

Sometimes Scott thought she did it for Logan as much as for herself, protecting him from the corner of being the only one with secrets, without a past. To those who didn't know them, it could be disturbing to see the echoes of similar personality traits reflected between them, as much a product of their friendship as Rogue's mutation.

"I'm askin' because it's somethin' I want--I mean, shit, Logan, you want me to just pick up someone in a bar or somethin'?"

Oh. Yeah. Characteristic of Rogue--throw out what she wanted in the bluntest possible terms and expect you'd be able to deal with it. She didn't want much, so bending over backward to please her was a distinct probability in most events.

And apparently, the bar idea wasn't too palatable, if the look on Logan's face was any indication.

"Rogue--"

She frowned then, standing up in an easy, languorous movement that held the attention of most males longer than was really strictly necessary. Bit her lip, and Scott had seen that look before, as she began to utilize memories that had no practical experience behind them, a gloved hand reaching out, fingers brushing against his cheek. Where her mind knew what to do even if her body didn't, and Logan shut his eyes briefly.

"If you tell me no, I'll stop askin'," she said finally, and her hand began to drop. Before her fingers moved more than an inch, Logan caught her wrist, turning his head, brushing a kiss against her palm. Breathing deeply for a second, and Rogue smiled then, taking the bare step that separated them and slowly lowering herself into his lap.

Logan didn't screw around with team members, students, faculty. He had an apartment in the city for whatever he did off-duty while still on call, and his downtime was spent as far away from Westchester as he could get and still be on the same planet. One of those mental things, Scott had often supposed, the categorization Logan tended to prefer in his life, separating the barfighter-cum-assassin from the X-Man, the differing ethics Logan played by depending on who he was

Scott, watching Rogue's tentative touches across the bare skin of his shoulders, the wonder lighting her face at a body that responded to her, supposed it was only a matter of time before Rogue called him on it.

She bent her head, free hand unfastening her hair so it fell in casual disarray around her shoulders as she leaned forward, and Logan had worked his way to her wrist, biting sharply at the leather-covered skin, and even from his vantage point, Scott saw the shudder go through her body, heard the soft gasp as she twisted her head around, meeting the dark eyes that regarded her with the same hunger that Scott remembered Logan once turning on Jean. Maybe still did, but compromise was compromise, and Scott didn't look for reasons to get paranoid anymore. Making himself miserable wasn't something he enjoyed as much as his attitude sometimes might suggest

"You sure about this?"

Wide eyes, she licked her lips.

"Yeah. I'm sure."

It wasn't quite what Scott expected, the careful slide of his hand over her back, shifting her closer, lowering his mouth to her clothed shoulder and sending another shudder through her--and it probably wasn't what Rogue expected either. Nothing actively scared Rogue anymore--with her combined memories, so little was an actual mystery. One hand slid through sweat-slicked hair and she shifted her weight onto her feet, barely touching the floor, setting a slow, sensual rhythm that brought a gasp to her lips, then the softest purr of satisfaction from Logan, when both hands locked on her hips and shifted her slowly forward until they were body to body and her head tilted back, eyes closed.

It was too dark to see her face other than the green eyes that light always picked up and the sheer power inside her that sometimes seemed to reflect off her skin like a warning. But a man who was used to near death experiences probably didn't get more than an adrenaline rush from close contact with her.

He watched in fascination as Logan traced the clothed body with bare hands, skating close to the dangerous territory of unprotected upper arms and throat, down across her sweats-covered thighs and she matched the low purring, like a cat that had discovered the perfect stroke. Cupping her breasts through her shirt. All the time, keeping that intense gaze on her face, the little smile curving her mouth.

"Rogue--" breathy, harsh, and she opened her eyes. Sliding a hand to twist gently in her hair, tilting her head a little. "Why this way?"

The drowsy pleasure dissipated, and the large hands dropped to her waist, stopping her rocking, bringing the green eyes wide and fixed on his face.

"Logan--"

"It won't be casual. Not us. Not ever."

Before Scott's quite surprised eyes, Rogue was on her feet, almost a full two meters away.

"No--" She stopped short, biting her lip and straightening, arms crossed across her chest defensively. "Why the hell are you making it complicated? Of all people, I thought--" she cut herself off, gritting her teeth. "Sex isn't--"

Logan shrugged, steadying his breathing without effort, though if Scott was a gambler he'd bet anything this room would be in use for the rest of the night after that little display. Rogue was shaking her head angrily, twisting her hair from her face but nothing was around to hold it back.

Both were so quiet that Scott could hear the uneven sound of Rogue's breathing, and Logan leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees, cocking his head slightly at her, all intense animal focus and fragile control that just might break any given second.

"You wanna reduce it to a bathroom break, fine. But you're not usin' me as practice."

At any other time, Scott would have been caught before he could witness any of this. Any other night, he *would* be caught and he and Logan would be having a wonderfully relaxing argument at the top of their lungs. Any other night, Rogue's very good sense of self-preservation would have kicked into effect. Any other night--*one* of them would have noticed. Backing away from the door in belated realization that Rogue, who looked poised to run at a moment's notice, would catch him, Logan's eyes shot to him, narrowing so briefly that Rogue never would have seen it, before fixing back on her, but the warning was clear.

Get out.

And Scott Summer's self-preservation instincts were functioning just fine, thank you.

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