At Twenty
by
Jenn


Author Notes: Sare, for the beta. I adore her.

Disclaimer: I don't own them--can't afford it. Don't sue.

---

"Last time I checked, I don't need your fucking permission to take her to a movie."

Oh damn. Damn, double damn, triple damn. I *knew* this would happen.

This is what I hear coming from the living room. Well, it has couches and a TV and lots of knick-knacks, so I call it the living room. Some people call it the TV room. That works too. I wonder why people don't just call it the couch room.

And I'm focusing on that because--because it's a lot easier than focusing on what is going on in there. I stand just out of sight of the open door so they don't know I'm here yet.

"We have rules--" It's Scott, in that patented patient voice he uses whenever he talks to Logan. Which annoys Logan more than anything he actually says. Truth be told, it annoys me too. Sometimes I think Scott actually *wants* to get Logan pissed.

Right now, it sounds like he's talking through his teeth. Not unusual either. And from the intensity, it started well before I got downstairs and I'm even guessing it started on another topic entirely and drifted here, because Scott's anal, but he's not that anal.

I can almost hear Logan take a breath, trying to cool down.

"She's twenty and it's a movie--I'm not taking her to fucking Canada for a month. I'll bring her home before midnight and I'll even bring her home in one piece."

Scott looks pissed when I steal a glance--not exactly unusual when Logan's home. I've never seen two people less compatible. Logan'd kill me--and Scott would help, if I ever said it--but they are *waaay* too much alike to get along very well. That's the whole damned problem. At first, it was about Jean--God knows where Scott picked up the notion that one day Logan's just gonna toss her in the trunk of some random car and run for it, but he had it for awhile, which pissed off Jean so enormously that I can't even go into the fights *they* had, because they were the silent kind. The not-looking-at-each-other-at-breakfast kind, the set-lips-in-the-danger-room kind, the avoiding-each-other-between-classes kind.

The days Scott gives a pop quiz over southern nineteenth century literature and grades hard, and Jean stays in the lab whenever possible.

Now, it doesn't even have that cover, since Logan may enjoy looking at her--okay, I know he enjoys looking at her--but he's never done anything--that I know of, and trust me, I'd know--about her. Or anything with her that Scott should be worried about, that is.

Of course, Logan doesn't tell *Scott* that

"Marie." Logan doesn't even turn around, but Scott does, looking startled--embarrassed? I'm not sure, because my head goes down *quick*.

Of course, Logan knew I was here, probably as soon as I arrived, and I move into full view and pull at my gloves a little and try to pretend that I wasn't eavesdropping or anything like that, but totally focused on the fact that the leather has a crease in it that I need to fix.

"Yeah?" Smooth, Rogue. Nonchalant. You didn't hear them fight. This glove was giving you *waaaay* too much trouble for you to wonder why they're yelling at each other again. Not that you don't know why.

"You ready?" There's traces of residual anger in his voice but that's all and since it's not directed at me, I'm not going to worry about it.

"Sure." I try not to look at Scott when I say it. The crease in my glove is important. It's gotta go.

Scott doesn't say anything--he's backing down because I'm here. He just *looks* it and then turns and leaves. Logan's still angry, but he shakes himself out of it and comes to the door and I see the car keys in his hand.

No motorcycle. Damn.

"Take them off." The command--and that *is* a command, folks--is tossed at me like a brick.

Huh?

"Huh?"

The corner of his mouth twitches--he wants to smile but that's just not Loganish--doesn't like giving the impression of having a sense of humor. That wouldn't work with his careful construction of a reputation for constant, brooding anger.

He pulls both my hands up and I look at them kind of blankly--oh damn, he can't mean--

"I can't." I try to pull away but he's a hell of a lot stronger than I am--pretty much an exercise in futility. One eyebrow goes up--yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that look, that look that is on the edge of sheer, stubborn patience that wears me down before he even begins. Like he knows he'll win, it's just a matter of time.

Unfortunately, that's usually true. But not in this case, damn it.

"It's dangerous."

"So's walking 'round with metal in your hands, but you've noticed I manage anyway." He's already gotten one off my fingers and is steadily pulling down.

"That's different. Yours is based on muscle control." I try to jerk away. I fail. The shock. "Mine isn't. Someone could accidentally touch me." That's one of my nightmares. He knows that--or he damn well should.

He shakes his head and the palm of the glove is sliding off my left hand. I try to make a fist--God, this is childish--but it's too late and the leather is flexible and comes right off. He holds it for a second and then drops it in his jacket without comment, going for the other one.

"Logan--"

"No one will touch you by accident. I'll be there. And if they touch you on purpose, they'll have a hell of a lot more to worry about than whether or not you suck them into your head, darlin'." And there goes my other glove and I try to hide my hands in my coat. I can't help it. He chuckles and fishes them out and turns me around. Before I can stop him, he unfastens my scarf and then I'm standing there, pretty much the personal, Marie-type definition of naked--all the danger areas are open for grabs.

Then I realize something else, when he turns me and pulls the coat open--shit.

"I'm not wearing it." He'll strip me of it too, the bodysuit. He's done it before--okay, that fantasy hasn't come true yet, but he ordered me to my room once and wouldn't take me shopping if I didn't take it off. It's rare he goes after my gloves, though. And he's never taken the scarf.

Maybe I should have just sat down that day and said take it off me yourself. Maybe I should have worn it today and--damn, another opportunity wasted.

He checks anyway, runs his fingers over my shoulders, pushing my coat down to see the short-sleeve shirt I'm wearing.

"Why does it matter?" I ask him when he's satisfied.

"Because it does." Sooo informative. He believes in the direct route.

"Why?"

He shakes his head and turns and pushes me to walk. And I do--this is alone-time with Logan and it would take a hell of a lot more than his peculiar obsession with my skin being bare to get me to give it up.

Hell, I can't imagine anything that *would* make me give it up.

"You should be able to dress like any normal girl."

Woman. I'm twenty. The inflection he puts on that is just annoying--I'm not three or thirteen, Logan, so please, do me a favor and at least *consider* the concept that I don't need a babysitter.

Well--okay, unless it's him.

God, I really am hopeless, aren't I?

"I'm not normal."

"Then why leave at all?" He waves the scarf significantly and drops it on the floor without a glance. I glance, but it's sort of futile to try and grab it up or anything, so why bother? "Just lock yourself in your damned room and don't ever take a single risk. You might as well if you're going to hobble yourself like this all your life."

That makes me stop--shit, he *knows* what can happen! I could fall against someone by accident or forget and touch someone or I could--

"That's not fair." It's not really me in danger--this is for other people. "I could hurt someone." I could hurt you.

That's the fear that keeps me awake. I remember--and he damned well should--that's he's one of only two who came out of Marie's patented cop-a-feel relatively intact--and the only one to survive the double feature.

"Everyone takes that risk the second they get up in the morning." He pushes me again to get me moving. "Everyone has the possibility of hurting someone by accident. That's what bein' alive means, and you can't live your life worryin' about it."

He acts like this is nothing--this is just Marie-anality, damn it, and it's not.

"I could *kill* someone!" He's opening the door and herding me through like a recalcitrant child being sent to bed--there's a nice thought--and I know if I try to stop, he might very well just pick me up and carry me.

Okay, now *that* is a nice thought.

"So could I. One accidental twitch--" And I almost jump at the slide of metal three inches from the side of my face. Wide-eyed, I watch it slide back in--I've never been able to admit to anyone that watching that is--amazing. And he hates to do it and I know that, so I enjoy the view while I can. "And someone's dead. Like you could've been if I hadn't been careful. If I hadn't learned to control it."

This is Logan's interesting way of making a point--hehehe, no pun intended. He tends to avoid the tactful whenever possible.

"It's different."

"It's different because you want it to be."

"It's different because--"

"Because I couldn't cover these with something--I *had* to learn to control it or someone in the cage would die or I'd kill someone by accident. There wasn't the option of finding some adamantium gloves to keep it from happening. And you'll spend the rest of your life with your life preserver of gloves and scarf because you don't want the responsibility of learning to either control it or compensate for the fact you can't. You'll play it safe. Stop being so fucking afraid of yourself."

Okay, that pisses me off. I spin around on the sidewalk and face him.

"You think I *like* looking like a modern-day mummy?"

He considers me coolly--he never gets mad at me. Amused, frustrated, even annoyed, but never, never mad.

"Yeah, I think you do." It took a moment for me to digest that. "You like to make the point that you're not normal--you're not like some of the others, that carry visible signs of difference--you pass easily enough for normal and you don't like that. If you could, you'd wear a sign around your neck to declare to the world you're a fucking leper or something. You're not."

That hurt. And it's not true. It's *not*.

"You're wrong." So am I--there are some things that would make me leave, and I want to turn around and stomp straight back inside right the hell now. And I won't cry, because I'm not a seventeen year old kid, I'm a grown woman and I don't--I don't--

"Marie." It's softer, and his fingers brush my cheek--he's wearing gloves so there's no danger. "Look at me."

I don't want to, but he presses my head up so our eyes meet. And it's the fact it's night and the moon is the only real light that makes him look different to me, like he's actually seeing me--like I'm more than the annoying kid who nags him to teach her to fight or take her to the mall or asks to learn to ride a motorcycle and almost kill us both in the process.

"You're safe with me. There won't be any catastrophes because you act normal for a night. The world won't end, no one starves to death in some third world country, and keeping up this weird penance because you were born a mutant ain't going to change a damned thing. Take a risk." A pause, and a slight quirk that could be a smile. "Trust me."

He's the easy part. Trusting myself is not what I do best.

I find myself nodding and, satisfied, he slides an arm over my shoulders and presses me along. And maybe it's the moonlight that makes me think I saw something, because he's my friend and the person I trust most and I'm his responsibility and his friend--and maybe there are times he doesn't think I'm a burden.

* * * * *

It was after the movie that a few things started happening, as they always seem to do.

He was right, though I hate to admit it. No one came within a foot of me and my paranoia was pretty much kept in check. It's one of those things about Logan--he can keep people at a nice distance with little effort. It's all in the body language, the scowl, and to be honest, I can't say it isn't a hell of a lot of fun to watch him part the sea of people without effort. They *stumbled* to get outta his way.

The weird part is, I'll bet they go home and wonder why they did it, because it isn't like he waved about those claws and growled at everyone or made some general aggressive movement to warn off the unwary or anything. He's damned restrained in public, to be honest--in fact, on pure visual, he doesn't look any gripier than any other poor guy dragged to a sappy girl-move by his girlfriend--yeah, yeah, I know, I'm not his but I had the fantasy and it works for me. You have a problem with that?

Anyway, as Logan so blithely puts it, with one of those wicked grins, it's all in the smell.

It's instinct, pure and simple--normal people--hell, even other mutants--pick up on the differences that aren't apparent to the naked eye. It's funny--I know what he's capable of, I know what he's done, and I've never been afraid of him. They see him at four feet away and just *know* somewhere in the back of their minds, that his kind use their kind for practice shots.

Hehehe. It's cute.

But that's men, not women, and I have no desire to go into the effect all that has on any women within ten feet. Because it's just depressing.

"Hungry?"

I consider that--popcorn isn't filling by any stretch of the imagination and Logan isn't fond of anything that wasn't once penned in some sort of structure and going 'moo' at some point in its existence.

"Yeah. Where'd you have in mind?"

As usual, he keeps a grip on my arm or my hand--I've noted that, like I'm liable to jump ship and run for no good reason. Or maybe it's just because he likes to prove his point about the Demummification of Rogue by showing he doesn't mind touching bare skin.

But honestly, while both theories are good, I think the real reason is something he won't admit to, even if asked.

It's defensive.

Logan, unlike most people, is *always* on guard. Every minute, every second--his adrenaline spikes must be through the roof. Everything is a possible enemy and every place we go is checked for possible danger. It's not even completely conscious--it's absolutely instinctive now. He keeps that contact because if anything happens, at all, I get jerked directly out of the line of fire.

How do I know this? Let's just say his startle reflexes have caught me unaware before and it's not that hard to put two and two together.

Since it's touching him, I don't give a good damn the reason.

"Come on. We'll walk." He gives me a smirk.

Now, you may not know this about him, but Logan's concept of a short walk isn't like anyone else's. Don't get me wrong, he likes to drive--but that whole open air and yourself alone in the universe thing really affects him more than he's even aware.

"You're kidding." I'm really afraid he's not.

"You need the exercise."

I growl at him and he chuckles--he gets a huge kick out of me doing that and I'm not sure why. I remember, though, awhile back, Scott was disciplining me for some infraction when Logan was in the room and I did it--unconsciously, to be honest--and Logan set off into a fit of laughter that had us all blinking, even Scott (okay, so I couldn't see him blink, but his mouth fell open). The other students were more nervous than when he prowls around growling and looking *waaay* too interested in kicking someone's ass.

Scott forgot to punish me, by the way. The shock was too much for him.

"Where're we going?" He just pulls me along behind him without much interest in whether or not I'm voluntarily following--which of course I am.

"It's a place I found. You'll like it."

Hmmm. Something Logan found.

"A bar?" I have my suspicions.

A twitch of his mouth.

"No."

"You're kidding."

Another chuckle.

"When you're twenty-one, darlin'."

Damn.


"Cute." I'm not against the idea, though--this is Quality Time With Logan. I have no problems with that.

It's down three streets and then we get to one of those areas of town that scream Bad Things to Young Girls (or Young Women, rather), but this is Logan's natural territory--it's a hell of a lot more interesting than those nightmarish social events that the Professor's supporters throw every once in awhile. Fund-raisers.

I've noted Logan always manages to have somewhere he just *has* to be in Canada or Greece or Peru around the time one of those show up. Far enough away that even a teleporter couldn't get him back for it.

So I'm skeptical. It's damned convenient, doncha think?

When we arrive, though--well, I just don't see the attraction.

It's a diner, rather generic--but that kind that's sort of comfortable, all linoleum and chrome, old but clean, where you sort of feel comfortable spilling your coffee and picking your teeth in public. Kind of--well, there. And I wonder sort of what he was doing here until I see a waitress and then just sigh to myself because--

--she's a redhead and that's all I really need to know.

She doesn't come over--an unbearably perky little blonde bounces about with that look that says girl-talk with yonder redhead has said some interesting things and is he actually going to be picking up a chick with me here? But no--he asks for coffee, I ask for coffee, and she pouts--she does, I swear--and leaves.

"Interesting place." I'm waiting for an explanation--lets face it, look around, this ain't Logan's type of place.

He glances cursorily at me but his attention is on the menu.

"Yeah."

I think.

"Why do you like it?"

He looks up at me and I see that glimmer of a sense of humor.

"Take a good look around and tell me what you see." Then back to the menu--I looked at it once when I sat down and trust me, it shouldn't entice that kind of devotion.

So I look. And look some more. Waitresses--okay, two are definitely in his taste range, excluding the perky blonde because he's not that type--I think. Clean floor. Food. Coffee. Is it the coffee? I taste the coffee and no--I don't think the coffee would do it.

It takes me a minute to check the other occupants because, frankly, I'm just not getting it.

Then...

"Oh." A small voice.

He smiles then, eyebrows going up, mocking me a little, and I wonder why I didn't see it before.

"They're mutants, aren't they?"

"Yep."

A tall woman--you wouldn't know except for her eyes. Some guys in the corner--the flash of dark blue skin beneath a blue glove--I check his face and yeah--there it is. A quick scan confirms what I already kind of figure--I live at Mutant High, this is Mutant Diner. Okay.

"When'd you find it?"

He puts down the menu, giving me a long look.

"A year or so ago. Got bored with the kids, started checking out the city."

And you're telling me *now*?

I look at my menu again and he pushes it down, which is unusual enough that I wonder what's on his mind.

"And you notice, they aren't trying to hide, doncha?"

I grit my teeth. Another lesson. Swell. I need more fucking lessons. It can't just be about food, can it--has to be one of Logan's patented little attempts to turn me into a well-rounded little hero.

"He's wearing gloves." I almost point too, but even I have better manners than that.

"He can't touch anything above a certain temperature."

Logan isn't the most social fellow I've ever met, so I gotta guess he picked the info up from Redhead, who is definitely avoiding us at all costs. Which is nice--I'm not up to talking to someone he's fucked, because then I may ask her how it was--

--but damn, is that tempting or what?

He watches me look over the room again, then look at him.

"I get your point." Reluctantly and under protest, but yeah, I get it.

"And it took less time than usual. Good girl."

Good *girl*?

So we order--by the way, their hamburgers are great, which I have to admit is also a definite selling point--and Logan, who isn't usually a talker, leaves me to glance around the room and generally mull what I have learned.

What have I learned, exactly?

One--arguing with Logan is an exercise in futility, unless you're Scott, in which case it can be fun to watch if you're not the subject.

Two--he wants me to act normal

Three--he apparently has thought about this a lot, because too much of this smacks of planning. Because, and let's all be honest--you couldn't pry this many words out of the Silent One with a fucking crowbar under normal circumstances.

"Logan?"

Some sort of grunted affirmative answer to show he's listening--that poor plate is demolished. And he eats *alot*.

I think carefully.

"Why tonight?"

Attention and undivided at that--he's quick on the uptake. And I see him consider several possible answers, and finally just goes with his favorite method--the blunt and quick way.

"You're not just Rogue." A pause, while he looks at me, studying my reaction. "You don't have to spend the rest of your life being a mutant and using it as an excuse to avoid bein' anything else."

Take a risk. That's the lesson. Which makes me think he knows more about what happened between Bobby and I than I ever guessed he'd care to know.

I could. I could reach across the table and touch him and he'd know real quick that it's more than friends, more than mentor/student, more than that icky filial thing that I have to believe he still thinks it is.

And I look at my bare hands for a minute, remembering how he had to pry my gloves off me.

So I nod and look down at my plate--equally empty--and hear the waitress come with the check.

That's a risk I'm not prepared to take.

I wonder if he'd be disappointed in me if he knew I was still afraid.



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