Touch and Other Unnatural Phenomenon

by jenn (jenn@igg-tx.net)

Author Notes: I had no intentions of writing a sequel. But my darling Sare weeks ago wanted a pick-me-up and I'm SUCH a sucker for her being cute and writing Liquid!Sex (go ahead, ask. <g>). Foof. Seriously foof, with tiny bits of angst sprinkled through to make a good mix. Think stew.

Dedication: Sare, Beth, Ally, Ann, and Molly. Love you.

*****

I hate the Brotherhood.

True, I've had personal issues with them for a *long* time. They tried to kill me before I even had a chance to finish growing up, so that pisses me off. They tried to kill Logan a couple of times, and that *really* pisses me off. Sabretooth, I have on good authority, has a pair of my underwear and that *seriously* pisses me off--and I really could've lived without knowing that.

But this was a whole new level of hate.

"Rogue? You okay?" A tentative approach by Bobby, a squeak, a quick withdrawal to the other side of the plane. Must still be growling. Good.

The Professor makes noises about how we should understand and try to reason with the Brotherhood--not use deadly force and all that crap. How they have a different philosophy and our only way to overcome it is to be an example or something of the right way--whatever the hell that means. Swell, I say. I'm all for the peaceful solution and group hugs and intervention therapy or whatever--but not, *not*, during my night off. And sure as hell not during the one night it looks like James might actually sleep long enough for his mother to get seriously laid.

Yes, I am that shallow. Sue me.

So I hate them. I *hate* them. I mean, shit, do we attack their headquarters at nine at night, prime sex time? Do we? No. We're *civilized*--we kick ass well before the sexual games begin and we try to get all finished up in time to get home for some great post-mission lays before going to sleep. Like all normal superheroes do.

This mission sucked more than normal, and not just because I was only fourteen seconds from orgasm when the alarm went off (though that is reason enough for any mission to rate high on the Rogue shit-o-meter); it was the *single* most idiotic mission on God's green earth. I mean, if there *had* to be Brotherhood activity, and they *had* to interrupt my sex night, couldn't they at least have done something interesting? Seriously--two gross of used computer processors and a few crates of vacuum tubing and some wiry things--what the *fuck* good will that do? Upgrade their network? Build an evil computer? Give Sabretooth a new hobby besides collecting X-Women underwear? *What* were they going to use that crap for?

I didn't care--let them build six evil computers, Kitty could write a virus or something and wreck it and that, my friend, means the rest of us get to stay in bed with our orgasms--er, husbands. I *cared* that the alarm interrupted not only some seriously good foreplay, but woke up James as well, and Logan, being Logan, was off me and in the nursery before I could get my legs together or remember what on earth the alarm was for. I *cared* that these idiots chose *the* night I'd painstakingly planned fun and games and ice cream and a brand new leather bustier I special-ordered that--*fuck*--Logan didn't even get to see before I was tramping downstairs in hastily donned sweats thinking of the way Sabretooth's hide would look as a rug on my floor.

And James was asleep. *Asleep*. Don't they realize how *damned* impossible it is to get my son to sleep more than two hours running when we can be conscious enough to enjoy it? They aren't just evil and sadistic--the Brotherhood--they're *monsters*.

So yes, I have issues with Brotherhood philosophy, but at least that's understandable. But there is no way in *hell* that anyone, even them, can justify interrupting sex. The *first* sex since James was born, and that was four very long, very exhausting, very frustrating months ago.

Four *months*.

For that alone, they sure as hell deserved to die.

"Rogue? You okay, chere?"

I growled at Remy, who was wise enough to back off and retreat to the other side of the plane--he got laid any night he wanted, the bastard. Jean was somewhere in back--and it couldn't have been my imagination that she looked disgruntled when she came into the locker room to get dressed. And yes, she *did* smell like she'd been up to something interesting too, so maybe that explained why Toad not only got levitated, but spun about against all the laws of man and gravity before he landed in an undignified, vomiting heap outside the warehouse.

She looked maliciously pleased with that little show. I wondered if Nathan slept badly too.

With a glance at the other occupants of the Blackbird, I wrapped my arms around my knees and took a long, deep, eminently satisfying breath, because it was not yet midnight and therefore, Logan *would* probably be awake. And shit, if he wasn't, I was damn well gonna *wake* him.

Don't, and say it twice, don't interrupt the X-Women during sex night. Or your ass is so much grass, my friend.

Logan took to fatherhood with amazing (and generally entertaining) enthusiasm. Diapers, midnight feedings, screaming, inconvenient spitting up--nothing fazed him. Which I suppose when your former line of work was on the order of fight clubs and contract assassination, your tolerance for the gross and annoying is pretty damn high.

He even knew how to launder any and all stains out. Perfectly. Including getting blood off leather. There's a *lot* to be said for a husband with an interesting past.

The thing is--Logan *liked* James. Loving him was natural, but actually enjoying all those weird and strange baby habits and characteristics for their own sake--he didn't expect that at all. I had my suspicions from the first time Jean and Scott had a meeting in Washington and left Nathan with me (and by extension, Logan), in which I caught the Resident Badass stretched out on the floor of our room, tickling the child into a fit of giggles. To be truthful, it's probably a pretty open secret--Logan loves kids. All kids, any age, any temper. He moans and gripes about it with Loganesque growling and mild histrionics--but it can't be denied. And better--he's*good* with them. He projects strength and protection and safety like no one's business, which Scooter saw right off and mercilessly exploited. When he's sent on kid-fetching missions, they sense it immediately and practically throw themselves at him.

Try getting him to admit it, though. It's fun.

We decided on bottle-feeding before James was born, which meant research into types and kinds and long hours with Jeanie going over specific details. There was a probability James would inherit Logan's healing factor, since mutation is pretty much a guaranteed circumstance of the product of two mutants, so dietary requirements might be slightly different for a child who required upper level protein and calcium and had an ultra high metabolism.

I think Jean took a certain amount of pride in the fact she was one of the few doctors who was working directly with mutant-based pregnancies--she and Hank, during her first pregnancy, had done dozens of tests and research, including being able to identify the presence of the X-gene as early as fifteen weeks. Not that this information ever left the lab--we all knew the consequences of prenatal detection, and luckily, so few doctors worked with mutants, it was unlikely that any doctor any time soon would be able to duplicate her results--or had a true genius like Hank to interpret those results.

My pregnancy went far more smoothly--in some ways--than Jean's because of the new information. At twenty-five weeks, amniocentesis was performed and it was confirmed my child would have his father's senses from birth (as some mutations were likely to do), but there was debate on whether there would also be an inheritance of my mutation as well. In any case, as the Professor was quick to point out, mine would most likely manifest itself, if it ever manifested at all, during adolescence, not at birth.

Some comfort. But definitely some. And figuring that there was a good fifteen to sixteen years before I needed to do any serious worrying--not to mention the fact that certainly by that time, we'd have figured out a way around my little issue--I put the matter out of my head for the time being.

Not that I was thinking much those first days. Oh no. Roguey was passed out on the bed, sleeping her two and a half months of exhaustion away. And I damned well deserved it. Well, and Jeanie gave orders about it, that for once I totally agreed with.

As I slept, Logan adapted himself to caring for a small, helpless, loud little creature with a definite lack of respect for either his male dignity, sideburns, or clothing. My first vision on waking up (still groggy and therefore less tactful than I could have been) was Logan expertly preparing formula and trying to work out the best position for feeding. In a rocking chair. By the window. Frowning hard in concentration.

The imagery entertains me to this day when I'm bored. Laying there, I had to wonder if Jeanie was keeping a telepathic watch just for the amusement factor. Hehehe, Jeanie, if only you knew--the man did his research. You have no idea the number of books stacked in our closet.

I seriously don't think I can be blamed for laughing when I saw them together, and Logan grinned at me and climbed back into the bed with James in tow so I could get a good look at my firstborn while fully conscious.

First thought--he didn't look much like me.

An odd thing to say--in general, babies don't look like much of anyone unless there's a truly radical looking parent in the mix--distinctive nose, eyes, skin, something like that. Neither Logan or I have particularly outstanding physical characteristics, so the baby should have looked like--well, a generic baby with a vague, imaginary resemblance to someone in our general family (or rather, my general family).

But God, he looked exactly like Logan. Same dark hair--and so much of it. Same nose--even crinkled just like his father. Big eyes that were infant blue now, but I just knew would probably be hazel when they changed. Fascinated, I carefully pulled the blanket away. Same long-fingered, strong hands, same general body shape.

This was what my husband looked like as a child. God. I glanced up at Logan, watched him watch our son with that same intensity, remembering all the times he listened to James move inside me.

Logan had taken the bottle away to let me look--the blue eyes crinkled open and stared into mine accusingly, tiny hands reaching out, and then a soft rumbling--low for an infant--before the most adorable sound on earth, like a cross between a feral puppy and a shriek--and Logan gave me the bottle with a smile.

My son even growled. How cute.

"God," I whispered, awed. The reality was setting in--this baby was mine. Logan stretched out on his stomach beside us as I turned fully on my side and unbuttoned my pajama top--babies liked the feel of bare skin, I read up on it, even when I wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to touch him. Carefully, I scooted until James was against me and then gave him the bottle with a trembling hand.

His nose twitched a little as he took in my scent--and on some instinctive level, he recognized me. Reached for me with both tiny, velvety hands, blindly finding the bottle with his tiny mouth on the first try. My hand was shaking so badly it was quite an accomplishment at that.

Then those tiny hands grabbed for my skin and latched on.

Against. My. Skin. Human skin, against mine. My body, my mutation, recognized James as a part of me--no draw, no pull, no fear. Just warm, squirming, fat infant against me. Seven years since someone had touched me without danger--seven years since bare skin was against my own. Logan reached over, taking one of my gloved hands, pulling the silk away, tossing it off the bed, and I ran a bare, wondering finger over my son's face while he fed.

Magical. It was magical.

"Logan--"

"Yeah," he whispered, and when I looked up, the dark eyes stared into mine. A quirk of his lips while he resettled himself, drawing a finger along the tiny spine presented to him. "Cries a lot."

"You don't say."

A full grin before he reached behind him, pulling up his gloves and pulling them on. Then a gentle stroke of my face as I lay back down on the pillow, looking between them.

That was the happiest I could ever remember being.

"He looks just like you," I said softly, and Logan nodded a little, eyes narrowing in thought. "Does he always growl when he's hungry?"

Logan chuckled.

"So far." A pause while James stretched, leaving us both breathless in speechless admiration. "Jeanie finished running the tests this morning. You have a check-up tomorrow afternoon."

"Oh." I watched James suckle--tiny fingers kneaded into my skin and I pulled him closer. "He's--he's perfect, Logan."

"You did this." A brush along my face that I leaned into, before he smiled again, shifting closer so James lay curled between us. I caught his hand, turning it over, pressing a kiss into his gloved palm.

"We did this."

"I just fed you."

"And carried me around, and cleaned up after me--"

"Tried to kill several of your friends--"

"Read up on everything we needed to know--"

"Growled at your doctors--"

"Put up with my bitching--"

"Was the reason you gained thirty-eight pounds and your ankles swelled."

Ooh. Good point.

I laughed softly and James' fingers twisted in my skin. God, I'd never get over that--they'd have to pry James away from me.

"Gave me this."

Just for a second--for that second--something flashed across his face. I don't know if this--us, me and James, this life--was something he ever wanted before. But watching him look at James, then at me, draw his gloved finger across his child--our child--I knew, I *knew*, that this was what he wanted. He looked at me--and God, he knew me too well, he read it on my face. Turned my face with his palm, and I scooted enough to rest my head against his shoulder, shutting my eyes, bare hands pressed against James' silky skin.

"Thank you, baby."

His voice was soft--the first time I'd ever heard that. I burrowed a little closer.

"For throwing up on your shirt for six months?"

"Well, no--"

"For making you sleep on the floor after the peanut butter and chicken incident?"

He winced.

"You keep a diary or somethin'?"

"Good memory, sugar." A hand slid into my hair, slowly working through the tangles.

"Marie--"

"Hmmm?" I was getting sleepy again--and I felt James's fingers nudge my breast, taking a firm grip. Two men in my life who liked them. How flattering for a b-cup.

"Thanks for this."

I forced my eyes open and looked up at him.

"Anytime, sugar."

Ororo landed the Blackbird and I was off the plane first by virtue of the fact that I was closer to the door than Jean. Only because of that. And it was a close thing, because there was a real possibility she would have TKed me out of the way if I hadn't moved fast enough.

No fear of that. I was unfastening my uniform top before I'd even gotten my feet on the concrete floor of the hangar. Post-mission briefing my ass--I'd kicked Sabretooth to kingdom come (my *underwear* damn it!), the used processors were safe for whatever people need used processors for, the bad guys were in custody or on the run, and we all arrived back minimally injured. Enough said.

One step, two steps, Logan-please-be-awake, three steps, four steps, where-the-hell-are-the-top-of-these-stairs, five steps, six steps, seven steps, eight steps, fuck-it-start-jumping--and boom, I was on top of the catwalk and the door was only a few blessed feet away.

Logan-be-awake, James-be-asleep, shit I *will* get laid tonight, I don't care if Logan's only half-conscious to do it.

The elevator, in all the time I'd lived at the Mansion, had never moved so slowly, despite my repeated, frantic pushing of the button, and Jean had plenty of time to sprint the distance between us and slide inside while the door meandered its way shut. I didn't grudge her that.

Mostly.

"Rogue."

"Jean."

I leaned against the back wall and closed my eyes, remembering where Logan had left off in foreplay. New bustier upstairs waiting for a showing, black silk tights, brand-spanking-new gloves I'd had custom fitted and created *just* for the specific purpose of seeing what kind of interesting sounds I could get out of my lover in under ten minutes. As the elevator opened (still slow, we needed to have that fixed), Jean darted out (closer to the door) and I was right behind her.

We gave each other a glance, stairs looming before us.

Our men were up there--probably calmly sleeping their night away while we were slaving away fighting for world safety and ideals and--and my damned *underwear*, and how the hell did that bastard get a pair of my underwear anyway? Why did he want them?

Oh, don't go there. This was sex night. Sex-night-after-battle, which should mean VERY good sex night. Especially sex-night-after-battle-sans-our-menfolk. Hehehe.

Jean and I, being each the better half of a committed, with-children relationship, had our own peculiar difficulties. With the changes in dynamics, certain alterations had to be made to our daily lives and most especially protocol for missions. One, both parents could *not* be on a mission at the same time until the child in question had reached a certain age. What exactly this certain age would be was debatable, but Nathan was barely two and James was four months, and this wasn't it yet. In any case, Logan and Scott had unwillingly agreed to the split--in the *theoretical*.

Which led to difficulty number two--that being the menfolk.

In the practical, both men threw fits whenever Jean and I went off without them, despite the fact one of us was a TP/TK and I was--well, shit, the enemies had gotten into the interesting habit of wearing layers when they saw me, and what does that say? The tantrums were annoying but they had to live with it--Ororo was a fine field commander and tended not to hover over either of us as if we'd break during a strong wind or something along those lines.

Damn them.

In any case, we glanced at each other, then took for the stairs. Jean muttered something about her hair and we both reached the top and split up to approach our separate rooms with a nod at each other and a tacit understanding that we wouldn't be seeing each other at breakfast. Maybe not even dinner.

If the men got *really* lucky.

Fifteen feet and one door separated me from sex. And Logan.

Not for much longer.

One month after James was born, my parents reappeared in my life.

Now, I won't say that they have an instinct for grandchildren--but does anyone besides me find it all too convenient that, after four years of silence broken only by highly stilted biannual phone conversations and the occasional curious question as to if I was 'cured' yet, they show up a *month* after my son was born?

Hmm.

The last time I'd talked to them had been well before I became pregnant--I think that backs up my grandchild-instinct theory pretty damn well. I was in the garden with Logan and James and glanced up--and there they were. Ten feet away, the Professor just behind them.

Four hundred and forty four thoughts chased through my head all at once and I couldn't settle on a single one. Shit, I wasn't ready for this.

"Marie?"

Years of memories flooded me with that voice, heard live and in full color, so to speak, for the first time in years. My mother's voice in the hall, arguing with my father what they were going to do about me--night after night while I curled up in my bed under layers of blankets and a half a dozen pajamas and shirts and sweaters and gloves, wishing I could just die.

I took a breath, trying to think of something to say--anything, really--when Logan looked up from another long contemplation of James' endlessly interesting characteristics (infant growling, kicking his feet, gas, things Logan finds amazingly absorbing entertainment. Double hmm). Caught the unfamiliar sounds and scents of approaching people, tensed automatically beside me.

Still in mission-mode. Not a good start.

It took him less than a second to identify them--I looked a lot like my mother. Hazel eyes narrowed for a moment as he took their measure, instinctively evaluating them for potential threat. I could have told him my physical well-being wasn't the issue--my emotional, however, was falling to pieces around me.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice just a little too high to really be anywhere near being mistaken for casual and my body, all of its own accord, began to press backwards. Logan's hand closed over my thigh before I could fall over him and James trying to retreat, and both my parents froze as they came from behind the wealth of bushes and flowers to get an unimpeded view. Which, granted, had to be just a little surreal, since Logan had just returned from a mission and was still in his uniform pants and boots, though the top was hanging over a convenient bush. Large, slightly growly, sweaty, hairy male in a t-shirt and leather pants playing with a one month old--yeah, okay, so I could see their point. I'd even taken a picture and the camera was beside my leg.

Ah, those Kodak moments.

My father frowned at Logan, at the gloved hand that still rested on my leg. Just like old Dad, focus on the small and insignificant to play down the significant. Why on earth would it matter if there was someone touching me?

"Who the hell are you?"

Under normal circumstances, this would have degenerated quickly. But James sighed and gurgled something (gas again?), instantly reminding Logan of his presence. With a glance at me, he slowly sat back and waited for me to handle it. Stand-by rather than full alert, so to speak.

This could have been one of those times I wouldn't have minded if Logan handled it for me. Being a grown-up and equal and all that crap really sucked sometimes.

"Hi, Mom, Dad." Thinking, I'm married, this is my husband and son, why the hell are you here, the biannual phone call really was plenty of contact, thank you very much. The Professor had always thought I should mend my fences--Logan was against that, and I understood his reasoning completely. He'd never forgiven them for throwing me out on my own. This attitude was formed long before we became 'we', the very first time the Professor mentioned that I might be interested in re-establishing connection a few weeks before my eighteenth birthday, when his one letter to my parents (by my consent, in case they still cared I was alive) was answered.

The Professor thought I should try and mend the fences, placing the envelope before me like a talisman, proof of my former life, of possibilities I'd given up on.

It was one of the few times Logan actually went flat against the Professor's recommendation and meant it. I'd seen them argue before, of course, over all manner of silly and not-so-silly things. From the mundane, such as whether or not I should live at home or get my own apartment in the city when I started college (Logan--home, security, fewer idiots, better food; Prof--apartment, independence, experience, closer to school) to the theoretical (my first mission, Logan insisted on going on as my mentor and basically watchdog; the Prof wanted to send Scott).

Never before or since, however, had it been a non-negotiable, no-talk-it-through-for-an-acceptable-compromise--the Professor would *not* tell my parents where I was until the second I was ready. Not an address or a phone number, not a way to trace me or find me. His words, verbatim. Simple result of breaking that was a Marie-and-Logan disappearing act for keeps, and the Professor understood that wasn't a threat at all. That was a completely sincere promise.

I'd sat in the big easy chair in the corner while they hashed it out and nodded along, and Logan took me out for ice cream and asked me for the first time what happened during the months I was on the road before finding him. And for the first time, I wanted to tell.

After I finished high school and in my first year of college, I used a campus phone to call them, using the number the Professor had given me, eyes shut against the noon sun and hunched into the booth, my heart beating so hard it was a toss-up as to whether I'd be able to hear anyone's voice if the phone picked up. My mother answered and for some reason, I'd almost started to cry.

I was getting that feeling again.

"Fuck," Logan murmured, eyes flicking to me briefly. So Logan had no enthusiasm for seeing my parents show up. The softest of warning growls, the hand on my thigh tightening briefly, before he gave me a long look that said more than anything he could have told me that it was my decision.

But he'd never forgive. Never. Doubly so with James now laying inches away, proof of what parenthood was to him. He'd kill and die for James without even a thought. He didn't understand, couldn't understand.

And looking down at James, neither could I.

"Marie." My mother's voice was soft, and her eyes went back down to the James--I followed her gaze and saw Logan tickling James' stomach while he waved tiny hands in the air, growling cheerfully.

My father was still looking at Logan. I reached down, covering Logan's hand with mine. Took a long breath. I could do this. I wasn't sixteen anymore.

"Why are you here?"

They were staring at Logan touching me--couldn't imagine anyone wanting to, not with what I was. I could read it in their eyes.

"You--you're cured?" Edged with hope, with happiness lighting their eyes, maybe their daughter was finally normal, maybe they could finally admit they had a daughter, maybe she wasn't a freak of nature--*fuck*.

"No."

It hurt to see that light die.

I wanted to say--look, see, I'm not so terrible, not so horrible, am I? Screw you for not wanting me, he did, they did, everyone else here did. But a breath, a moment to recenter myself, and I was back in control. James reached up tiny hands towards me, and I leaned down, carefully supporting his head as I picked him up, remembering Logan showing me the illustrated guide to baby care that described--in detail--the proper way to hold an infant.

I needed those memories to remind myself who I was now.

"He's tired," I said softly--maybe my parents heard or not, it didn't matter. The silky-soft cheek was pressed against mine, and the wide blue eyes were crinkling closed as I rocked him. Curling a hand under him to rub the small of his back, I shut my eyes tight and tried to think.

I didn't want James here for this, that was for certain. No way on this side of hell.

"Rogue?"

Jean's sensitivity to emotion was perhaps what brought her out--or maybe the Professor gave her a heads-up and Jean's perceptive as hell anyway. I could only be mutely grateful. Taking the edge of the blanket, I curled it around my hand so I wouldn't brush her accidentally and Logan helped me stand up. Gently, Jean took James and cradled him close, eyes fixed on mine.

"He's sleeping," I told her unnecessarily. She nodded, feeling everything I couldn't say, understanding.

"I'll lay him down with Nathan." A glance at my parents, then a slightly raised brow, before pulling the blanket over James' eyes so the sun wouldn't wake him during their walk. With another smile, she left the garden as quietly as she had come.

My mother's eyes followed her, and there was something in them that made the knife twist a little deeper.

She wanted her grandson.

Somewhere in me, I was sixteen and unwanted and tossed out of my home, because I was no daughter of theirs. Shit.

"What do you want?" I asked firmly, and Logan's gloved fingers laced through mine, silent support for whatever I chose to do--though I got the distinct impression that if I wanted to throw them out he'd cheerfully hold open the gate. Taking a breath, I thought again--hard.

The question might very well be, what do *I* want? Damned if I had an answer.

"We--we wanted to see you, sugar." I shivered at the endearment. "We--Marie--"

"Rogue."

Flat silence--I supposed they remembered my note on the bedside table, the hasty, wet scrawl of a cross between a good-bye and raw rage translated to paper, the name signed at the bottom. I looked between them, trying to read them, define their motivations, something--but my brain was shut down, too shocked, too angry, too afraid. I couldn't do this now. I simply couldn't. And call it weakness or childishness or anything you want, but I wasn't ready--I needed time. Logan knew it, felt it in the grip of my fingers and turned us both so my back was to them, touching my face briefly.

"You don't have to do this." Voice soft, pitched for me alone. I shut my eyes, leaning briefly against his shoulder. God, he understood. "You don't need to do this. You can walk away."

There's nothing on earth like your unwanted past coming back to haunt you. Nothing. Staring up at Logan, at a man who wanted his past so badly it kept him up at night--it couldn't have been easy to say that. But he believed it. For me.

"I can't--"

"Marie--" My father, and my eyes burned--oh God, I was going to cry. Too much. No, not here, not in front of them, I couldn't do that, I didn't want to do that. Logan's hand dropped from my face, resting on my hip for a moment, looking down at me for a long moment. Then the slightest nod, before he lifted his head.

"Tomorrow." Flat voice, no compromise. "You wanna stay until then, talk to the Professor." And he took the decision out of my hands and turned us both toward the garden gate.

"Who the hell are you to speak for her?"

Logan turned briefly, and I'd never heard him sound like that before this moment--not when he went against Magneto, Sabretooth or Mystique or any anti-mutant idiot. No one.

"Her husband."

*****

Carefully, I opened the door, peering inside, waiting for my vision to adjust to the lack of light.

Shit. Logan was asleep.

Now, given, the danger of actually being impaled had diminished over time. Logan had taken in my scent for long enough that his unconscious mind never interpreted me as a threat, even during the worst of his nightmares that I woke him from. When I went to sleep right beside him, that is.

Things got trickier when he went to sleep and I wasn't there at the time. Not that anything like mortal wounding had ever happened--but the danger factor was still around. And James *wasn't* in the room, which meant my restless little darling was quite asleep. So getting Logan up was going to be difficult. I couldn't just yell--I had to be sneaky.

Sneaky. Hmmm.

Logan slept lightly, most of the time. But the last months since James' birth (not to mention the utterly tension-filled three months beforehand), had worn down even his energy level, and he was likely to sleep harder now than before. On the upside, he rarely had nightmares when he was truly exhausted. A nice boon we'd noted early on in our relationship--a lot of sex before sleeping also seemed to have a positive effect on his sleep patterns.

On the downside, it might take some serious planning to get him awake without rousing James, the school, or most of the state of New York. That's okay--I'm an X-Man. I can plan.

First things first--shower. I had Sabreblood on me, not exactly prime Logan-arousal scent--at least, not the kind of arousal I was going for. There was also the off-chance that the sounds of the shower would wake him up. Good to go. I stripped my boots at the door, pulling off my top and pants as I walked, then my socks, putting them all in the laundry bag in the bathroom and flipping on the hot water.

Bra next (what, you think I grabbed panties before I left? Ha.), then stepped inside and grabbed the nearest bottle of shower gel. Melon. Dandy.

A quick scrub, and since I was in the shower anyway (and on the off-chance Toad-vomit- scent clung), I washed my hair, then quickly rinsed off and climbed out, grabbing a towel from the rack and drying myself as I emerged from the bathroom, pulling my hair up in it when I was done. No more Sabreblood or sweat or Toad-vomit (ick, yes, but GOD it was fun to watch him squirm!) or anything else, just me.

And no Logan awake, pantingly eager to resume Sex Night. Damn.

Now for my equipment of seduction. Not that technically I needed it--four months, for God's sake, he'd gotten seriously turned on watching me try on shoes earlier that week--but I was all for making marriage full of the unexpected. Bustier first--nice, left an inch of skin exposed between it's edge and the tights. Check. Black reinforced silk tights. Check. Black gloves. Check. One box of condoms--check--hmmm, better make it two. Black heels. Oh yes, check. New black scarf, wrapped around throat sensuously, check.

He was going to like this. I just had to wake him up enough to enjoy it. Or at least enough so I could enjoy it.

As I walked out of the closet, I took in the sight of my sleeping lover. He looked so much like James when he slept. Same crinkled eyes, flat on his back, bonelessly relaxed in deep sleep. He's the only person I'd ever met who still could sleep like that.

Note--don't think of son while trying to decide best way to waken husband for Great Sex.

Decisions, decisions.

Carefully, I drew the blanket away. Grinned when I noted he'd gone to bed naked. Good man. Very good man. Very convenient too.

Slowly, I pulled off my scarf.

Even a feral sleeping Logan couldn't consider oral sex a threat.

*****

Logan had strong opinions on what to do about the parent situation. Very strong. Perhaps even edging into adamant, without compromise or recourse. Such a surprise.

"Tell them to leave."

I shut my eyes, laying back on the bed, drumming my heels against the frame, staring up at the elegantly tiled ceiling for inspiration. This wasn't going to be easy.

"It's not that simple, sugar--"

"It *is* that simple." He was pacing--and God, he was actually jerking when he moved. Beyond angry. Beyond pissed. Beyond anything I'd ever seen in him--and I sat up to watch him, fascinated despite myself.

"Logan, they're my parents. I can't--"

"They abandoned you." Flat condemnation. Nothing else needed.

"Logan--"

"They threw you out--shit, baby, you could have died out there and who the hell would have known? Eight fucking months alone--you were barely sixteen and you weren't--"

"Sugar--"

He turned to look at me. mouth set.

"I don't want them near you, near our son, period. That's it, Marie. That's the short version."

I didn't even want to hear the long. Logan has a fabulous memory--give him a few hours, I could probably hear the entire re-telling of my life to this point and every single situation I had been injured in or could have died in marked out with special attention to circumstances and ways it could have been avoided.

"I didn't die."

"You could have." Arguing this was going to be pointless, I could already see it.

"Logan, I'm not saying I want them at Christmas or to visit regularly or anything--"

"At all."

Shit. This wasn't going to work, and why the hell couldn't he listen to me?

"You don't control me."

Oh dear *God*, that was the wrong thing to say. That was *so* the wrong thing to say, so much so that I knew the second the words escaped my mouth that this was jumping to worse. He turned on me, dropping onto the desk in a single motion, and the hazel eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that chilled me.

He'd never looked at me like that before.

"I've never tried to. Ever." Eerily quiet, controlled. Pre-rage. When he was doing his ultra-control thing, when somewhere in his head he was carefully chanting his mantra before he became seriously destructive. When Wolverine would make an unscheduled appearance and pretty much end anything resembling rational conversation.

Shit.

"I know--" Appeasement--

"I've never tried to run your life. I've never tried to force you into anything you didn't want to do."

--was not going to work.

"Logan--"

"I never thought I had the right to decide what the fuck you do with your life. I never even fucking tried."

Logan had never seemed particularly sensitive either about the age difference or the fact that he was, for all intents and purposes, my protector long before he was anything else (the Mansion's efforts notwithstanding). A good thing or our relationship might have had some serious issues along the way.

But it *was* a sensitive spot, apparently, and hell, I'd never even guessed. Yay for me, I'd managed to screw with his head on top of him having to see the two people he blamed for the fact that I currently hosted two extra personalities in my head. Great. Just great. Real good, I was going to end up in divorce court the way I was going here.

"Logan, I know that. I've always known that. I'm sorry--that came out wrong." I stood up, shakily crossing the room before gingerly sitting down on his lap. A pause, then he slid his arms around me, pulling me bruisingly close--

--my parents had reminded him how many times he'd almost lost me. Shit. I'd managed to really wreck things.

"But this time is different, Marie. This isn't just you either--you bring me and James along on this one."

I sighed, turning my head into his shoulder, trying to pull something together. Because, and this was the kicker, Logan *was* a parent, so he saw things from that point of view and couldn't understand. But he didn't *have* parents, he couldn't remember being anyone's son. The whole concept was foreign to him.

"Logan, I want you to listen. If--" I took a breath, let it out, making up my mind. "If you feel the same after I'm done, I'll do what you want, okay? I'll tell the Professor to send them away and I'll never contact them again."

He tensed beneath me briefly, weighing the options in his head, then relaxed, stroking my hair back.

"Okay."

A pause, while I gathered my thoughts. Then I sat up, resting a hand on his shoulder, meeting his eyes. He needed to see this as well as feel it.

"What they did is unforgivable. I know. I can't--can't forgive them either, not yet. Maybe not ever. Not completely. Not--not for keeps. But--" I took a breath, thinking of James. "They're still my parents. I'm not--I'm not saying that they should be around all the time, or that we visit weekly, or phone calls every day. I can't handle that, not from them. But this is part of my past, sugar--I can't turn away from that and think I'm doing the right thing. They--they get tomorrow, okay? I'll go alone--"

"Fuck that."

Oh. Not alone. Okay.

"With you, just me and you and them. That's it. They can talk. And I can--I can think about what they say after, okay? Give me time to think about them, what they want to say, if they're--"

"If they're sorry for almost getting you killed a few times?"

I bit my lip.

I needed this. God, I wished they hadn't come, that they hadn't suddenly decided that this was the moment they needed to reappear in my life after a good MIA stretch. But they *were* here. He had to understand how important the past could be. He had to.

"I need to know why. Why me being a mutant made them hate me. Wh-what was so wrong with me, that it was enough that--if--if being a mutant was all it took to hate me so much." I drew in a breath--even to my own ears, my voice was getting shaky. "Wh-wh-why they stopped loving me, so I know what I did--"

Funniest thing, until that moment, I never realized how very many ways this little visit was going to screw with me.

"God, baby." He drew my head back down, sliding his fingers through my hair. "There's nothing wrong with you. They were--shit, baby, you're perfect."

"You always say that."

"I'm right, too."

"You're a little prejudiced."

A pause.

"You're afraid."

I burrowed into Logan's shoulder and he pried me up, holding my face between his hands, staring into my eyes for a long time. I should have known I couldn't hide this from him indefinitely.

"What are you afraid of?"

"I need to know so much--I need to know these things." I felt myself begin to tremble, tightened my hold on his shoulder. "I need to know that it wasn't my fault--"

"It wasn't--"

"That there wasn't something wrong with me, that made me--"

"Shit." He got it, I could see it reflected in his eyes and I wanted to hide. "You think one day I'll walk on you? This is what it's about?"

They had me sixteen years before I manifested--how could they hate me just for that? Sixteen years versus one single episode, one change. I couldn't understand that and I needed to.

"No." Maybe. "I--but one day, maybe--I mean if even my parents hated what I am so much, how do I know one day you won't--you won't start hating what I am too? I don't--I know you'd never leave me, but--but I don't want you to stay because of obligation either." I took a breath, let it out slowly. "I know I'm being silly, it's knee-jerk, you know? It's just--"

"I understand." Logan looked thoughtful, then traced my face with a finger. "And you're right. We'll talk to them tomorrow."

Wow. That was extremely unexpected. I stared at his chest (great view, by the way), wondering what he was thinking.

"You don't have to--"

A slow, wolfish smile.

"Oh yeah, I do."

*****

Logan snored softly--how cute. James snored exactly the same way. I took a minute to enjoy the comparison, then carefully pressed the rest of the sheet aside, taking in the long, lean body of the single hottest man I'd ever seen.

Then began the careful process of draping my scarf.

There are a thousand ways to wake up someone and I've used a lot of them. Shake them on the shoulder--sometimes gets me pinned down to the bed on my back for non-amorous reasons, but I'm an understanding gal, and anyway, well, the reasons sometimes don't *stay* non-amorous for very long. Shout from across the room. Cold water down their underwear, or in Logan's case, sensitive areas. Option three didn't really appeal to me though--I was trying to get certain sensitive areas interested, not frightened into hiding.

Take their cock in your mouth with only a superfine silk scarf between your lips and their skin--

"Mmmm."

--oh yeah, sugar, that'll work. Probably thought he was dreaming. Had to hope he was dreaming of me.

With a smile, I took the head carefully between my teeth, pressing down slightly, then let my lips close and sucked. Once. Hard.

Not only was he fully erect, he was also fully awake. I'm the oral sex goddess. All hail.

"*Fuck*, baby."

I giggled--as much as I could with a lot of Logan in my mouth--and let my lips slide down. It had taken time to learn to relax enough to get by my gag reflex. Being me, I was determined to master it. Being Logan, he was willing to act as my practice equipment anytime I wanted. Being a superhealer--well, I got a lot of practice.

Locking my eyes to his, I let him go all the way down my throat.

"Oh *God* baby," he whispered, and gloved hands slid into my hair, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. I swallowed once, just to hear him moan again, then slowly slid up until I had only the head still in my mouth. Let it out and blew gently, gaining myself a shudder, before running my tongue teasingly over the head and down the big vein on the underside, reaching carefully to trace the inside of his thighs with my fingernails.

"Baby--that is--no, don't stop--a hell of a way--RIGHT THERE--to wake up."

With a grin, I pulled away, climbing on the bed and settling myself comfortably between his legs, running my hands up and down the spread thighs, before pulling the scarf off and unwrapping the condom.

"Good evenin', sugar."

Still breathing erratically, he cocked an eyebrow at me.

"Yeah, you could say that." His eyes traveled down my face, freezing at the black bustier with its laced front, the black tights, down to the black heels pressed against his calves. Beneath the hand I had braced lightly on his chest, his heartbeat jumped.

Excellent.

"Heels?"

I smiled slowly, placing the condom over the tip of his cock, stretching my arms on either side of his hips and letting my mouth hover inches above him--not to mention giving him an excellent view of my cleavage.

"You've been planning this." Growly, slightly breathless. Always good to hear.

"Ya think?" I grinned, letting my tongue dart out to run quickly around the head, before settling back down. "Make yourself comfortable, sugar--you're gonna like this."

Logan prides himself on the fact that, yes, he has stamina. In fact, it became something of a challenge early on to see how fast I could make him come. Different methods have different results, and oral wasn't Logan's preferred method of sex--at least, not with me.

This method, however, is almost a guarantee of orgasm in under five minutes and Logan shuddered under me as I went to work. In one easy motion, I wrapped my lips around the head and pushed the condom down with tongue and teeth, sucking him deep into my mouth, feeling his hands settle in my hair, breathing erratic and broken with short, rather interesting exclamations and promises--which I sometimes held him to, such as Kilt Night.

Hehehe. Kilt night. That was fun.

"Yes, baby--right there--God, baby, good, good--*shit* Marie."

He tensed under my hands--the clock in my head said I may slide in at under five minutes. Soft pulsing, then a brush of my tongue across the base, taking his sac between my fingers. I drew in a breath and slid my lips all the way to the base. One swallow, two swallows--

"Oh *God* Marie! YES!"

Four minutes, fifty-seven seconds and my sex-deprived-for-four-months-lover was happy. Gimme a medal, baby. I kept position, letting him soften in my mouth, licking gently, then pulled up, giving him a long, satisfied smile before stripping the condom and tying it off, tossing it (with perfect accuracy, I might add) into the trash can by the bed. Sitting back on my heels, I waited while his breathing evened out and the hazel eyes opened, regarding me with a mixture of lazy pleasure and amusement.

"You really didn't like to be interrupted, didja?"

"Nope." I braced a hand on either side of him and moved my legs to either side of his thighs, lowering my head until my damp hair trailed up his body. "How you feeling, sugar?"

An eyebrow arched and he reached for me, running his hands up my thighs, along the bare skin of my waist, up to the edge of the bustier.

"Nice."

"Yeah. I thought so too." Climbing a little farther up, until our mouths were inches apart, my hair a curtain around us. I settled down on my knees, just over the rapidly-awakening erection that snuggled itself into the crease of my ass, bringing a soft moan from between my lips. Logan reached down, finding the scarf, pulling it quickly between us and over my mouth before he kissed me, hard, biting sharply on my lower lip, thumbs lazily circling my nipples.

Oh yeah, he was *definitely* awake. Good for him. Even better for me.

"Have fun tonight?"

"Yeah," I murmured, and his hands closed over my waist, pulling me up and sitting up with me, finding a leather-coated nipple with his teeth. My back arched and his hand twisted in my hair, drawing my head back.

"What'd you do?"

What *did* I do? Fuck if I knew--his other hand was massaging my waist and pressing my hips into his, settling up a slow, maddening rhythm that just barely brushed my clit. Not enough--not *nearly* enough. I pressed down harder and he bit down sharply.

"God," I whimpered.

"Tell me what you did." Licking the mishandled flesh, he switched breasts, pulling my hair farther, my head back. I took a breath, staring at the ceiling, trying to recenter my mind. Did something tonight--something important. Did something--

"Beat up Sabretooth."

"Mmm. What else?" Then ducked his head to suck and that was it, I was done. I pressed down into him, trying to move both of us into the best possible position, trying to get him closer, right--in--that--perfect--spot-- "Baby--oh, no. Talk to me."

Fuck. I mean, damn, I wasn't going to *get* to. I reached down between us, gloved hands sliding over his chest, getting a soft growl for my efforts.

"Watched Toad whirl in the air," I answered breathlessly. "Oh sugar, please, yes--"

"That's what you call a mission report?" He freed my hair, both hands going to my hips, pressing me down again--so damned *close* to the right spot.

"Fuck mission reports." There. Gloved hands finding his cock--and yes, he was so ready, why *wasn't* he inside me where he damn well should be? I ground down again, reaching for the condoms, when he caught my wrist, flipping me onto my back and neatly straddling me, grinning down.

Very nice maneuver. Couldn't do a damn thing with my legs, his leverage was good, and my wrists were trapped. I smiled up at him, licking my lips, and his gaze followed the motion of my tongue. Four months, sugar, and the sprog was still asleep. Let's play.

"You havin' fun, sugar?"

"Only just begun." He lowered his head, brushing his tongue briefly over the exposed skin of my upper breasts, pulling back before my mutation clicked on. Shamelessly, I arched into it--coincidentally trying to knock him off me.

"Oh, very clever, darlin'." Another grin as he leaned over again, rubbing his cock against my barely-covered stomach.

"Come on, sugar." I shimmied a little, hearing his indrawn breath--he went without sex for as long as I did, damn it. Now he gets all content to tease.

Both hands left my wrists--that was encouraging--and then I was on my stomach and he ran both hands over my ass and my back--

--ah, this was going to be *fun*. I got it.

*****

I suppose, by most lights, the interview went relatively well, even if it started thirty minutes before I got there, thanks to some judicious maneuvering by Logan. I should have guessed, of course--when he'd gotten into bed with me that night, he's still had that oddly considering look and put far too much effort into distracting me from worrying about my parents. Or asking him why he kept smiling in that particular way of his, the smile that in other people would have qualified as mischievous--except of course, Logan's concepts of mischief gives the word a whole new meaning.

Mischief, for example, was his fifth-favorite hobby, Sabretooth-baiting. Hehehe. Mischief. Cute.

In any case, when I went in, Logan was smoking a cigar by the window with elaborate casualness and my parents had a look of shell-shock about them that told me my darling, mischievous husband had given them the Cliff Notes version of my life since I met him--predictably the hideously unvarnished and brutally truthful version, since Logan just wasn't a huge fan of the sugarcoating method of storytelling.

I was trying hard to be pissed about it, but couldn't really summon anything but a sort of general irritation that he seemed to think I couldn't handle this myself. Sitting down in the chair across from them, there was an awkward silence before my mother began the surreal stream of small talk to get things moving--she was always legendary at Meridian dinner parties for that ability. I wasn't even surprised.

"How long have you been married?"

Hmm. Answer the question honestly or not?

"For awhile." From the corner of my eye, I saw Logan finish his cigar and begin his usual pacing routine, good for any and all impatient-Logan occasions--if watched long enough, it actually turned out to be a perimeter sweep pattern, and I wondered, every time I saw it, if he ever noticed.

This, of course, made my parents even jumpier. If that was possible. Which he was probably going for. Hmm.

"You have--a baby?"

The tone surprised me a little--shouldn't have, though. I was my parents' only child, a one-shot deal, so to speak. They were looking at their estranged and only possible source of grandchildren. Sitting back a little in the chair, I tried to decide how much into this sharing I wanted to get. When it came down to it, I didn't want to share James, even a little, even like this, with them.

"Yes."

My mother seemed to sense my feelings on the subject and retreated, quickly beginning another series of questions. Things I hadn't shared on the phone, she'd never asked about--what college I went to, how I'd adapted to New York winters, how my job was going. Almost random things, that seemed so trivial, except they weren't trivial to her. Her eyes flickered to my bare hands periodically--and if anyone had asked me why on earth I'd chosen to discard gloves for this interview, I couldn't have told them. Maybe I was making a point? Or being needlessly petty. I honestly didn't care.

"Why are you here?" I'd graduated from high school and college without them, married and given birth without them, started a career and became a superhero--yes, without them--and they showed up now, when my life was finally relatively stable. Impeccable timing. Just peachy. "You could have asked this over the phone--you haven't before now, so why?"

I think Logan chuckled. Bluntness suited him. My mother bit her lip, glancing at my father briefly, before turning her eyes on me.

"We wanted to see you, baby."

"You've seen me." Get to the point.

"Marie--Rogue." A sigh. "We--we were wrong, sugar. We--we--"

"Wanted to make sure you were doing as well as you'd told us on the phone." My father--big Senator Kelly supporter, from a nice, long line of racists dating back a few hundred years. The pride I felt.

It wasn't the words, I had to guess much later, that got my back up. It was the tone. As if I was lying, as if this was something he couldn't credit. A place his mutant-freak daughter was accepted, even liked--*married* of all things, which probably seriously screwed with his notions on reality. He didn't get it, couldn't get it--probably was watching for something, some overt sign of hostility, of whatever preconceived notions he had on what mutants did in their homelife. I could almost guess he expected some run-down hovel on the edge of town, surrounded by accumulated garbage, and find us inside doing human sacrifices or something along those lines. What evil mutants did, after all. We couldn't live normal lives, have families, enjoy picnics in summer or drive to the grocery stores and shop like normal people. He still didn't quite get that.

"I'm doing fine. I'm glad you stopped by." Not really. "Is that all?" I gave them a few seconds and Logan, who no doubt was absolutely ecstatic by this development, was making his inconspicuous way to the door, oh so ready to be done with this. I couldn't even blame him. "Okay." On my feet, see, that wasn't so hard, one step, two steps, three steps--

"Marie."

I'd given up a long time ago believing anything in my life would ever be simple.

"We came--because we want to be part of your life. I know we--that what we did was wrong," she rushed out, without a glance at my father. "I've missed you. There hasn't been a day that's gone by that I haven't regretted that you left, how you--how you were alone."

"I wish I'd known that when I was hitchhiking my way across the country," I answered calmly--I hoped calmly. God, please let it be calm, don't let anything show, I was older and wiser and I didn't need them for anything.

"Marie--"

"Or when Magneto decided I'd be a good way to power his new toy. Or anytime in that first year when I wanted to die because I felt so alone."

My mother paled. That felt indecently good too.

"But now, you want to see me, and now, you want to make up. Don't you think it's a little late for that?"

"It's not that simple." My father now, looking combative, not a massive surprise. I could guess this little field trip hadn't been his idea. "Marie, sit down and listen--"

That was *so* the wrong way to deal with an X-Man.

"I'm not in your home any longer and I'm not sixteen." Both my parents started, and I did too, just at the hard sound of my own voice. At my sides, my hands were clenched into tight fists. "Why. Are. You. Here?"

For a moment, I thought my father would simply get up and leave, but it was always a point of interest that my mother, though she played the part of submissive wife pretty damn well, had a stubborn streak as wide as mine. She straightened in her chair, catching my father's hand before he could do anything rash, and met my gaze without flinching.

"We were wrong, Marie."

Somehow, I didn't expect that. Apparently, my father hadn't either.

"Honey--" Dad seriously underestimates my mother.

"I never wanted you gone, baby. Never."

What a pity she hadn't had this sort of spine when I left.

"I--"

"I know it's been a long time--and I gave you your space, sugar. I wanted to give you that at least, let you be happy. I wanted--wanted to let you do this at your own pace. We were wrong to let you leave--"

"--throw me out--"

"I wouldn't've, Marie." She stood up, taking two steps toward me. A pause, then her slim hand rested on shoulder, tentatively at first, then stronger. "I'm sorry you felt the need to run. We--as soon as I knew you were okay, I contacted your Professor. I didn't--I wanted to be sure you were all right."

I thought about the phone calls, the stilted questions, the long silences. The touch of her hand and I pulled away, feeling my eyes begin to burn, my mouth going dry as I thought of all the things that could have been different if they'd been what I needed. If they'd been my parents in every sense of the word, the people they should have been, the person I would kill myself trying to be for James.

Somewhere in the back of my mind was Jean, who'd taken up the space my mother had abandoned, and the Professor, who'd been the father I wished I could have had. Scott, who helped me with homework, and Ororo, who took me shopping. Jubilee and Kitty, the sisters I always longed for.

And Logan. Logan, my world for so long that these people that stood with me in the room were little more than shadows.

I met my mother's eyes, seeing the answer to the question--this wasn't for me at all, this unexpected visit. It wasn't to make peace with me--it was to make peace with themselves, that they'd done the best they could. They wanted forgiveness. They wanted to ease their conscience. They wanted me to say it all worked out for the best.

They were asking for one thing I could give--the one thing that was more true than I expected when I asked myself the question.

"I'm okay now." I paused, feeling Logan close behind me, wondering if the Professor was watching, wondering if he'd be disappointed in my choice. It was true, I was. I wasn't sixteen and alone anymore.

I turned toward the door, seeing Logan's slight smile, the tiniest shake of his head as he opened the door for me. My mother took two faltering steps, then paused.

"Marie?"

I shook my head and felt Logan's hand on my back, warm and comforting and promising that no matter what I decided, he'd support me. No matter what I chose, he'd help me. And no matter what I became, he'd always love me.

"I do forgive you," I heard myself say quietly, turning to look at my parents. "Goodbye."

Logan shut the door behind me and, in our room, he held me while I cried.

*****