Okay, so here I say hi and all. Hi! Following we have
something random that occurred sheerly because deep
down in my slasher's heart, I have a fondness for
Logan and Rogue, and felt inclined to sketch them out
as I see them. So... yeah. And kudos to Kate for being
obsessive, and listening to me ramble about this.
Characters portrayed within belong to someone who is
not me, and they actually get to make money. Lucky
Rogue has a candle, a personality, and a couple chats
with Logan. Rated PG.
List archive only.
Jean had brought her a candle one night, mere hours
after Logan left for the fifth time. A thick,
purplish-blue chunk of a candle, and Jean had perched
carefully on the edge of the bed, moving it from one
hand to the other and back again, and hadn't looked at
Rogue very much at all.
And they had a talk where nothing much was said, and
after Jean smiled with a shadow in her eye and left,
Rogue put the candle on her bedside table and went to
sleep. And it was the day before Logan returned, yet
again, that she glanced up from a book and noted for
the first time that she had forgotten to take the
sticker off the side. Slick milky-blue waves of wax
had eased their way down, so that Rogue only knew the
scent was 'Handpoured Rain' because it was one of
those conversational nothings that she and Jean had
talked about that night.
Something, that was nothing, about how God poured the
rain, and Rogue had said she'd never noticed the rain
smelling like much before, but that it seemed right
for the candle to smell so rich, because a man had
poured it, after all. A man, doing things a little
Logan had changed very little in nearly two years, and
after he showed up at breakfast, exactly three months
to the day of his last departure, Rogue stood and
stared at herself in the mirror, and she wondered if
maybe it was different for him, seeing other people
Because he always seemed the same, always rather
consistent in his glib shucking of expectations laid
at his feet. Logan was Logan, which worked for him.
Tested, tried and true, and Rogue had slipped out of
her childhood with two things intact: Logan's
intermittent presence, and a sense that she would
never be so startlingly firm a personality as he was.
But it was his appearance more than anything else that
made her wonder. Two years should have done
*something*, and yet there Logan was at breakfast,
with the same crook in his eyebrows and the same fine
lines set against his eyes and mouth, lines that
suggested yes, once, he may have smiled quite often.
Rogue knew she was changed; older, perhaps wiser, but
whatever she was, it was *different*, and when Logan
tossed the occasional glance her way, he must be
seeing someone who had never crawled into his life via
a rickety trailer.
She wondered if there were changes in him, after all;
if maybe he looked in the mirror and knew that face,
that face cast in iron time, so well that he could
catch minute adjustments. She wondered if maybe Logan
knew himself better than anyone should have to know
themselves, despite the mystery of his past.
She was leaning against her desk when he knocked,
using a small pocketknife to scrape drippings of wax
from the curved side of her candle. Very slowly, the
label was coming back into view, though much of the
ink had peeled away with wax and drifted to the floor
in unhindered shavings.
He poked his head in with a quirk of a questioning
grin, and when she nodded him inside, he mimicked her
posture against the desk, a mere two feet away. Rogue
had a flash of feeling dangerously naked in short
sleeves and no gloves. "You're making a mess."
Rogue smiled down at the label and its faded words.
"Wax is easy to clean," she said. "All you have to do
is scoop it up and put it back in the flame, and
you've managed to keep the candle going."
"Huh," and Logan was tipping his head to the side,
watching her, and she could feel it without looking at
him. "I was looking for you."
"You found me."
"Right. Jean said you'd probably be here."
"It *is* my room, Logan."
"It *is* the middle of the day, Marie," he teased,
right down to the faded accent. "So?"
Rogue lifted her eyes and his were suddenly digging
into her, and she wondered how it was that he made it
okay that she could never touch him. How he got right
inside and made it something more than flesh could
"I like it here," she said after a moment. "I like it
being my own." Her attention fell to her hands, and
she closed the knife with a soft click. "I never wear
my gloves in here, did you know that?"
"Your turf, huh?"
"Yeah, somethin' like that." Rogue shook her head
slowly and looked up again. "So? You got any crazy
adventures to tell me about?"
"Depends. Want to come take a walk with me?"
She smiled, and it felt easy, how it almost always
felt around him, and she set the candle on the desk.
"Sure," she replied, and started for the neat pile her
gloves were in on the bed.
But he followed, and she had to flinch away when he
put his hand down atop the fabric. "Leave them off."
"Rogue. Trust me?"
And she nodded, but insisted on slipping into a
button-up with long sleeves, and he didn't say much
when she stuffed her hands into her pockets. "Where
are we walkin' to?" she asked in the hallway.
"Nowhere." He grinned, which looked wonderful because
it was just so rare, and she'd always appreciated the
things she seldom, if ever, got to see. Like Alaska,
and like the contrast of her own skin against
another's. "Everywhere," he added. "You up to it?"
"Lead the way, sir," she laughed, and she wondered why
he was in such a good mood. But it didn't matter for
long, because he just was, and they walked across the
lawns of the school and they talked. And it was sunny
and bright but refreshingly breezy, and Logan was
wearing his light denim jacket, so Rogue pushed her
sleeves up and walked with her hands loose, and she
had managed to make Logan laugh exactly 4 times by the
time they walked inside for lunch.
She didn't see him again for four days, but it was
okay because they had established long ago that should
he leave without a goodbye, he would become quite
familiar with the vicious streak she assured him she
had. Then she saw him around every once in awhile, and
it seemed he was staying, at least for the time being.
Summer ended and Professor Xavier told her she could
keep her private room as long as she liked, as long as
she felt she needed to stay. She started school once
again; classes at the community college meant long
days of long sleeves and long gloves, and with the
heat of August still clinging, there was nothing she
liked more than to return to her room and close the
door and put on the one pair of shorts she owned.
She took to burning her candle in the evenings instead
of just late at night, and the label was very soon
coated with streaks of wax again. And this time she
could tell that if she scraped it again, the label
would come off, too.
So she left it alone, because she thought that
sometimes it was the label that made the thing, even
if it had to remain obscured.
She was reading philosophy articles on identity when
Logan knocked, and it was late in September already so
she'd suspected it was coming.
And he came in and sat with her on the bed, and after
he tipped his head to see what she was reading, he
furrowed his brow a bit. "This actually interesting?"
Rogue nodded, but slowly stopped the motion as Logan
grinned broadly. "What? What's so funny?"
"Nothing. It's just been awhile since I've seen that
wide-eyed, earnest look."
She bit her lower lip and watched him carefully. "It's
been awhile since I've been a wide-eyed, earnest girl,
"Guess so," he muttered, playing with the edges of her
He seemed surprised. "You knew?"
"Felt about that time," and she forced a smile that
was brighter than she felt, and lifted one hand to the
metal chain around her neck. "So, is this the time
you'll be needing these back?"
Logan blinked and shook his head. "Not a chance, kid."
"I'm not a kid anymore."
"I noticed," he said, and looked over at the candle
she had burning on the table. "Nice smell."
She nodded. "I like it."
And then Logan was slumping, and glancing around like
he didn't know what else to say, or do, and he seemed
like he didn't really feel right looking at her,
either. So on impulse, Rogue leaned over and blew out
the candle, and the wax burned enough to make her
hiss, but she dipped her finger in anyway and let it
dry in a thin coat across her fingertip.
Now Logan was looking at her, and his eyes never left
hers as she reached and slid just the one finger
across his cheek, following the line of bone under his
eye to his nose, and then across the bridge to the
But she could feel the wax chipping, and she withdrew
her hand and smiled and absently rubbed the rest of
slick layer away. "You're comin' back."
"Right. And you'll be here."
"Nowhere else," she agreed.
He was the one to lean forward and hug her, and a
minute later she was alone with her homework.
Her homework, and the gently fading cloak of the