Title: Won't Leave
Author: Shana Nolan
Email: aericura@micron.net
Fandom: X-Men (movie)
Rating: PG (mild language, implied sexual stuff)
Summary: Logan watches Rogue sleep and ponders. (yeah, that's deep *g*)
Genre: vignette, Logan POV, romantic stuff ;) (L/R)
Disclaimer: Fox and Marvel Entertainment Group have the X-Men and their movie. Stan Lee, I worship at your feet. I don't own anyone and I don't intend to sell this. no money, no sue, no powers. but my CB handle was Phoenix (great, date yourself, why don't you)
Archive: myself, X-Grrls, XMMFF, Diebin's fic closet, Haven o' Fic, Lady Yann's, Movieverse, Taya's, others ask
Comments: are welcome. Flames, however, are only accepted from a mutant named Pyro and even he knows better.
To: Diebin. She's the one who got me to post this, despite the fact that my Logan Muse still has the smug look on his face. He does know that I'm not technically a L/R 'shipper... right? *g*

I feel like a stupid teenager doing this.

And maybe I should; but here I am slipping down the hall, using instincts that I honed for survival to go and watch a girl sleep.

First time I did it by accident, walking down the hallway to grab a snack and get some fresh air, one of those damn dreams waking me up in a cold sweat over images I still can't figure out.

The door was cracked open, and I looked in. I could catch her scent drifting by me in the hall, and like some colossal pervert I crossed over to the doorframe, nudged it open and stood there.

It's a damn lucky thing they moved her to her own room not too long ago.

I stood in that doorway for fifteen minutes, lingering, watching her breathe, the covers pulled up around her waist; the only reason I stopped was because I heard someone else in the hall.

Doing it is one thing. Getting caught is another.

And I'm doing it again. The door is latched again, mostly closed but not enough to make a noise as one of my fingers ease it open.

Teenager. Dirty old man. Peeping Tom.

Prudes, all of you.

She really is a beautiful girl. She sleeps so peacefully, her hands uncovered by those gloves, her hair all splayed over the pillow, that white streak laying across her forehead.

And I really wonder if she ever takes those tags of mine off. I don't have the heart to ask for them back, and she hasn't asked me if I wanted to take them back, so I guess we're officially in limbo when it comes to them.

S'alright, I can live without them. I'm still not sure what they mean to me, but they're there. They look better around her neck anyways.

Or should I say they look better with the actual tag hanging between her breasts?

I know it's there and I also know I shouldn't stare, but dammit, it's hard. Like how she's laying now, propped up a bit on her pillows like she was reading and fell asleep that way, the little piece of metal with my other name hangs down just right, pressing the nightgown in towards her flesh, accenting her chest in the way that I've always loved, the silky fabric outlining her body in a way that makes me want to enter the room, lean across the bed and kiss that pale skin all over.

Hmm, that would be my body betraying me. If I stand right, without causing pain to parts that seem bound and determined to act out, I might not make an ass of myself.

But not if I linger too long. This is the point that I leave, preventing myself from doing exactly what I want to do and causing a world of trouble.

Could be worth it, though.

She stirs, rolling onto her side, her face sweet and relaxed, stretching a leg under the blankets.

Leave now or wake her up with a kiss, death be damned.

Leave now.

I should really leave now.

So I do. I stalk down, urges cast to the wind, the hall to the kitchen for something cold and chaste to drink, trying to purge the lewder of my thoughts.

And promise myself that one day I won't leave.