Sunday

(For Now: A/U of At Eighteen)

by jenn

Author Notes: I A/U'ed this around the time I wrote "At Twenty",though to be honest, this was written before A Year and a Day, my first posted X-Men fic. I couldn't face trying to work in yet another subplot to the For Nows--Marie had enough stress, ya know? And my beta's response to this sucker was less than enthusiastic. It probably rates among my absolute worst work, to be perfectly honest. Anyway, enjoy. It's weird and possibly quite wrong on many, many levels. I was told I was evil. Oh well.

* * * * *

Stop counting.

But she couldn't sleep and in her own room she knew the number of tiles from left to right and top to bottom, counted those on nights when she'd been so young that she hadn't been able to tune out the voices eternally echoing in her head. Left to right, thirty six and a half, up to down twenty-nine and three quarters. Work the math and she could get the size of the room.

Problem was, this wasn't her room and some of the tiles were in shadow, so her counting always stopped short.

"Stop thinking so loudly."

She started a little, turned to see him watching her.

"You're the most telepathically deaf person I've ever met," she answered. "You can't hear what I'm thinking."

"I can smell it on you." A finger traced the line of her bare arm and she wished she wanted to pull away.

And guilt should have been just a little bit stronger, a little bit more merciless, and she wished she felt just a little bit worse, and she might have been able to if he had left, as she'd half-expected, knowing him like she did, knowing his favorite reaction to change and stress was to run far and long.

Then she could quietly and without effort wallow in guilt. But he was still here, apparently had no intention of running off, and she resented him for acting out of character.

"Don't you have to be on the road somewhere?"

She could have hurt him with that once--she used to be able to hurt him just by smiling, and never wanted to, but time had passed and he had changed. She had changed, that she'd lash out like that, and she didn't like it.

"The idea's tempting just now, but since I only did get home a couple of weeks ago, maybe you'd just wait a few damned days before throwing me a goodbye party, huh? Or maybe you could just get up and get the fuck out of my room if you're going to be a bitch, Jeanie."

And she hated him for being right.

"Where's Cyke now?" It was conversational and she'd never known him to be deliberately malicious--he just didn't think like that. It was a question, no more and no less.

"In Washington with Ororo," she answered reluctantly. "Until Sunday."

She heard his grunt of assent, then a soft sigh, the sound of the sheet being untwisted from between her feet, resettled across her knees before he relaxed onto his stomach, watching her behind eyes that never seemed even as human as Scott's..

"Do you wish you felt guilty or something?"

And that demanded a reply--too damned bad she didn't have one. She sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest.

"Your clothes aren't in any condition to be worn," he said, softly, and she knew he wasn't trying to hurt her--he was stating bald facts and she could easily have hated him for that if it had even been possible. "Look in the closet--some of Marie's are in there--they'd fit you until you get to your room."

That brought her head around sharply and he smiled at her expression.

"Or do you think I don't know where she sleeps when I'm gone? Can't blame her--in a choice between here and the dorms, I'd chose here too. I just make sure to not let her know I've caught her and leave her clothes in the laundry."

"That's not why." She blurted it out, knowing he already knew--that was in his eyes too.

"She's two years off from being anywhere near ready. I can wait."

This had to be the most surreal conversation she'd ever had with him. And possibly the longest.

"What if she moves on before you get around to her?"

Slightly narrowed eyes, consideration of the possibility.

"I try not to think about that, but you gotta love a woman who likes to dig the knife in."

Uncertainly, she picked up the outer blanket, beginning to wrap it around herself in preparation to getting up--

"You do remember I've seen you without your clothes, right?"

She gritted her teeth.

"Shut up."

* * * * *

It only got worse.

It was the bruises that her shirt barely hid yet no one noticed. It was the lab, where all her experiments worked, and it was class, where for once everyone had their homework done and even seemed interested in what she was teaching. It was pushing Logan down on her desk during lunch, and it was the gym where she watched him drilling the younger kids in simple self-defense and everyone seemed in such a damned good mood.

It was even Rogue, sitting down beside her to watch too, and chatting brightly about shopping that afternoon and Logan agreeing reluctantly to take her. So far as she'd been able to tell, Rogue alone seemed to have that effect on him.

This shouldn't be a perfect day to place on a Hallmark card for distribution to the masses.

A supply closet, an hour after he deposited Rogue in the dorms, balancing herself against the wall, trying to keep her eyes closed so she could convince herself that she was thinking about someone else when she wasn't.

God, she was a bad liar and it was showing, and the twitchier she got, the more everyone looked. They didn't know through some mystical bond with their own kind as mutants, they didn't know because they saw her trying desperately to get to her room before anyone saw the state of her shirt and skirt, and they didn't know because it showed on her face. Because it didn't. They had no clue, except they were beginning to think that Jean missed Scott, and every time she tested the mental waters of the school, that's what she got. And she was testing to the point of ethical uncertainty.

"Jean?"

It was Xavier, and he was at the door of the classroom she hadn't left.

"I'm sorry--I didn't hear you--" She touched her forehead.

"You seemed upset." The cultured voice, that calming presence that he radiated without effort, that he'd trained her into--yes. She knew it all and then some. And he wasn't nipping at her mind, hadn't tried to delve in to find out what was wrong with her, and maybe she should have disliked that he'd kept his ethics when she'd abandoned hers, that nothing had changed despite what she'd done.

That was the kicker--the world had gone on and on and on and no one knew.

And he waited, offering silent support, and some part of her wanted sit down on the floor as she had when she was sixteen and slowly going insane from the pressure of a thousand thoughts around her, just sit at his feet and let that powerful mind buffer her until she could stand to face the world again.

"Your shields are improving," he commented, ever so gently, the words skittering across the surface of her mind without reproach. It was a quiet acknowledgement that she'd shut her mind down hard the second that she was aware of his presence.

"Yeah." She let herself down on the desk--she'd cleaned it three times and maybe he'd remember that she usually didn't do that and jump to conclusions--but why should he?

"Where is Logan?"

God oh God.

"How the hell should I know?" It broke out before she could think better of it and he studied her briefly before moving a foot closer, into a range he could easily pick up every emotion if he opened her up even a little.

But he didn't, because he trusted her, respected her--more, he respected the privacy of the mind.

"I understand you saw him after he returned from his outing with Rogue," he answered. "I want to go over the progress reports he submitted yesterday on the youngest class."

It was near evaluation time--she'd forgotten that and she'd help organize it. With a small sigh, she shook her head.

"Probably at dinner."

"No--they ate in town, I understand."

Where had he gone? His room--maybe he left--no, that wasn't like Logan, these days he gave advanced warning and she thought that he'd be waiting until the classes ended.

"If I see him, I'll let him know," she answered. The Professor nodded, turning easily and wheeling himself from the room. When the door closed quietly behind him, she let herself sit on her very clean desk and wonder if anyone would ever notice.

"You actually wanna be caught, don't you?"

She didn't lift her head.

"How do you do that?" His silence always seemed almost magical to her--when he'd worked with her in the lab, she'd sometimes studied that with a scientist's fascination.

"All part and parcel of being mutant, Red." He deliberately moved like a normal human did so she could track his progress toward her desk by sound.

"Where were you?"

"In your office, finishing the evaluations. Which apparently, I need to discuss with the Professor."

"Why my office?"

"I needed a computer terminal to load the results and it was closest."

She didn't answer that because it was logical--he'd used hers or Ororo's every time he was here.

"You didn't answer the question."

She lifted her head then.

"No, I don't."

"Would that bother you, if no one ever suspected anything? If you kept your reputation clean and everything went just on normally? It would, wouldn't it?"

"Why don't you stay away from me?" Her voice was low.

"Because you don't want me to--I can tell that from the other side of the school."

She turned her eyes up on his.

"Do you even know why?"

"No."

"Do you care?"

"Sometimes." There was a faint lilt of irony in his voice. "Only when you're not there."

She waited for a moment.

"What about Rogue?"

He leaned closer, bracing a hand beside hers on the desk.

"I could ask you the same question about Cyke, but I know the answer already."

"What do you want?"

A brush of lips against the side of her neck and she leaned into it.

"Whatever I can get."

She stood up unsteadily, glancing at the door.

"My room."

* * * * *

There was something infinitely sick about fucking Logan on Scott's bed.

Watching Logan falling asleep on his stomach beside her and tracing the lines of muscle on his back and the smooth skin that shouldn't feel quite so natural under her fingers--instant regeneration made him near perfect. And she desperately wished she could hate herself, just a little.

"Jean?"

"S'okay." It was close to night--she wondered if anyone was curious as to where they were. No, of course not. She was a faithful wife who had put her wedding ring on the bedside table and Logan was doubtless in some bar doing whatever he did for amusement--rape the sheep and terrorize small children.

He was good with kids. She didn't know if she liked that, either. She didn't like not being able to categorize him.

She hated when she watched him with Rogue.

"Why don't you call her Rogue?"

He didn't even turn his head, though his muscles were relaxed against her fingers.

"She's a kid."

"What difference does that make?"

"To me, a hell of a lot."

She mused on that as well, knowing that he tended to categorize things too and doing the math she came up with the right answer. Marie kept her young and off-limits--Rogue was the woman she'd be soon, someone Logan could pursue.

She lowered her head, tracing the back of his neck with the tip of her tongue, felt the low growl she liked to get out of him.

"Two years, huh?"

"There's something weird about discussing Marie when I'm with you, Jean."

"You don't usually discuss other women with those you fuck?"

Before she could even breathe, he'd rolled over, trapping her on her stomach under him.

"I'm not fucking you."

She rubbed lightly against him, stretching out a little beneath his weight, feeling the brush of his teeth in her shoulder.

"What do you call it, then?"

"I'm making love to you. You're fucking me. There's a difference."

That could have hurt if it wasn't so damned true. She lifted her hips when he slid a hand beneath her stomach, breathing out in shock at the first thrust.

"I'm sorry, Logan." She gripped the headboard with both hands, pushing back against him, eyes closing.

"No you're not."

* * * * *

"Rogue!"

It had to happen--and he was right, she wanted to be caught, because there was no reason to seduce anyone on the gym floor. And she wanted to swear it was impulse when she came in to watch him work out.

But it wasn't.

So yeah, she wanted someone to find out. And Rogue had, in such a spectacular fashion. If she'd had a choice, that probably would have been the one.

She was still sweating when she pulled on her shirt. Logan was staring at the door and she couldn't read his expression at all.

"Fucking goddamnit to hell." And the enthusiasm level in the profanity was so low that Jean looked up to watch him snatch his shirt off the floor. He didn't even look at her before he started to the door.

"She'll never forgive you."

It was out of her mouth before she could even take it back and it made her sick that she meant it, every malicious word. There was a stiffening of the muscles across his back and she heard the sound of metal when he slammed a fist into the wall. When he turned around, she drew back.

"You knew. What the fuck are you doing, Jean?"

He didn't even wait for an answer, but went out the door, pulling his shirt on as he stalked, and she unsteadily walked to look at the imprint of his fist in the wood, the four perfect holes that went--oh, about nine inches deep. Then she went to make a notation for repairs.

She was a sick bitch.

* * * * *

The whole campus was the pale azure of general good feelings, so it was easy to spot the edgy black and red of Rogue. Logan was sometimes harder to catch--strong mental discipline she'd encountered only in Xavier was unevenly applied and she wondered if he remembered more he would be better able to control it. She followed the path to the forest, the living beacon of rage and hurt impossible to miss.

"What the fuck do you think I was doing? And don't you dare give me that crap about being concerned on Cyke's behalf, Marie, because I know a hell of a lot better than that!"

She couldn't hear Rogue's reply, and wondered if Rogue even understood that the fact he'd stalked her out here meant something. That he'd lost his temper meant something. Probably not--she was too young, even with her plural memory and eyes always looked as if they had seen too much.

And too hurt.

"It's not like that! Shit, Marie, act for a second like a grown-up and not a spoiled fucking child--"

The slap echoed in the quiet of the forest and Jean caught her breath as she came downwind--Logan wouldn't appreciate being spied on, even by her.

"I *am* a child, remember?" Now Jean could see and hear, watched the young girl spin hard enough on the ground to pull up dirt. "Eternally seventeen Marie, little fucking sister." Rogue's language deterioration and the loss of the soft drawl were both warning signs. Jean had worked with her often enough to control the flood of those other memories when Marie was unable to completely control herself, but stress and sleep were when she was vulnerable. And Rogue was never physical in her anger.

But Logan was.

"What do you want me to say?" It was defeat, even if Rogue couldn't hear or understand it.

"Tell me how good she was and how it was worth it."

"It was both."

Startled silence--honesty was what Rogue hadn't expected, and Jean shook her head at it.

"Tell me it won't happen again."

A silence that stretched and Jean took a breath.

"I can't."

"Can you even tell me why?" She was Rogue again, not channeling, the red suddenly twisting down to the sick yellow of jealousy and hurt.

"No."

Silence. She saw Rogue's face tighten for a second, then a breath let out as yellow bled into the soft green of hurt acceptance.

"Will it end?"

"Yes."

That should have hurt them both, but Jean didn't see a spike in the emotional aura and drew away. Walked back to campus, thinking it was two days from Sunday.

* * * * *

And still no one noticed.

It began to piss her off--Rogue's eyes didn't meet hers but she felt them on her when she wasn't looking, an eternal testing of every movement and every word that made her feel like she was performing on a stage. Knew Rogue had certain areas of her mind that even the deepest mental exercises between them had never touched, places that were created and maintained by memories that weren't her own.

She had Eric's ability to hold a grudge, Logan's hot temper balanced by her own cool reason and her youth. Rogue would forgive Logan--but she'd never forgive Jean.

And that, to her surprise, did hurt.

"Rogue."

They were alone in the lab.

"Don't you even fucking dare." The accent was light, almost gone, and she knew whatever part of her had been awakened in the gym, it wasn't going back to sleep anytime soon.

She wanted to say she didn't have to explain herself to an eighteen year old kid, but the words stuck--because neither had Logan. And it stuck because she knew he meant it--two years he'd wait for her to be old enough to know who she was and what she really wanted.

She was living out a fantasy--he was purging an obsession. God.

She knew why.

"Rogue--"

"You didn't win." And the dark eyes looked into hers briefly. Flickering with all that heat that you only really have in youth, when everything is black and white.

"It was never a competition."

Dark hair flipped back--the girl pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

"I won't always be eighteen," she said softly. Seriously. Picked up a test tube in gloved fingers. "I won't always be too young. I won't always be untouchable. You won't always have him. Not because you don't want to. Because he chooses." A pause. "But you know that, right? You thought you had all the control. Is it a turn-on, to know that, to believe that? To think you can break him? Just with a smile and closing your legs? Sunday Scott comes home, classes end, and Logan'll leave. But you'll be out of his head for good." A soft smile. "And it'll never happen again."

And Jean knew she was right.

The End