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It was Logan who taught Rogue to this song.
Rogue told herself: never again. Logan left her and she was going to stick to Bobby, that was what she was going to do.
But Logan was back. No explanations, just bike, and leather jacket. The man Rogue fell for, the one who took her for the wildest ride across the country just to return her to school because he had his own business - and minded it.
Rogue loved Logan breathless. Logan never said so, but when he took her hand and led her away from the school, Rogue knew he loved her, too. When he turned his face to her on the ride, when he looked at her, smiling. When he kissed her and gasped and swore just to kiss again, Rogue knew he loved her.
She was seventeen, and he was - late thirties? She had never known how old he was, but it wasn't important. Important was what Rogue saw in Logan's eyes when she came to him and asked - would he make out with her if he knew she wouldn't kill him?
Logan didn't answer for a while. Rogue took off her nightgown, the silk one, Xavier must have been crazy rich to have these gowns for his pupils. Logan watched her with his wolfish dark eyes, his thin, handsome mouth shut, his jawline firm. The symmetry of his face was ideal in the twilight.
When Logan commanded Rogue to get the hell out of his bedroom, it was too late for she saw what a single look at her naked body did to him, did to his raving flesh. Rogue stood both her knees on the bed and asked Logan once again. Would he?
"I would," told Logan, "even if it killed me. But it wouldn't."
"I will kill you," said Rogue desperately, "I will kill you like everybody else."
"I am immortal," said Logan. "No one can kill me. I've been shot in the head, and I am alive."
"But I hurt you," reminded Rogue. "I hurt you, and..."
"No," Logan snapped. "That won't do. Go and find herself a boyfriend. I'm not fucking you tonight. I'm not fucking anyone."
"But you want it," half-asked, half-said Rogue. Her despair gave her strength and she crawled to Logan, stopping inches before his face. She was so ashamed of her nakedness and boldness she shivered, but she wasn't going to stop.
She loved him.
Logan looked at Rogue seriously. There was so much sadness in his eyes. If he swore and told her to get the fuck off, she would understand. But he said, "Yes. I do". And kissed her.
That was the day the school talked that Rogue nearly killed Logan, but Logan survived. He survived that night and many others. Did they call Rogue whore? Maybe. But she didn't know them and they meant nothing to her. There was only Logan who took Rogue's hand instead of leaving alone.
He saved her life, giving her his powers on the Lady Freedom's torch. She was only seventeen, but she loved him, and he loved her, and the months they had spent on the road were the happiest in Rogue's life till Logan told her he need to go where she couldn't follow her – and he took Rogue back to Xavier's school.
She didn't cry. She was eighteen, technically, the what happened between them wasn't a crime anymore. But when Logan left, Rogue said she wouldn't wait for him. He had broken her heart, and Bobby repaired it. He loved Rogue, he loved her as much as she loved Logan, but Logan left her.
And then he was just sitting in the living-room, among all the lacquered wood, luxury couches, and antique cupboards. He sat before the dark screen of plasma TV – Rogue was right, Xavier was crazy rich – with cola instead of beer, and Bobby wanted to tell him "put your hands of my gurl", but Rogue stopped him by telling, "Bobby, have you lost your mind? Logan is a teacher."
"He was your teacher, too?" Bobby asked darkly.
"Yes," Rogue said stubbornly, "he was."
They both knew they were lying. Pupils still talked much about Rogue and Logan. She ran away with an older man, with killing Wolverine. They came to the school together, so when it all had started – when Rogue was fifteen? Fourteen? The talks were dirty, but Rogue told herself she didn't care. She needed nobody but Bobby and Bobby would freeze the shit out of everyone who would try to badmouth Rogue aloud.
But... still, there was Logan in the living-room with his pathetic cola. The man who was Rogue's reason to cry in the night and to say he meant nothing to her in the daylight. And he was singing quietly that song, the one he sang when chopping wood or boiling coffee on the open fire. The one they sang together, and he looked weary, and he looked tired, and he looked lost.
I remember one September
Taking arms up to the crown
Beaten up and broken down
Oh, Rogue who was standing in two steps from the arch into the living room, in her nightgown and bathrobe, with a cup of tea in her hand and a Marks' "Capital" under her arm, she put her hand on the wall and screwed up her eyes. They sang it in the car in the middle of nowhere, an Oklahoma dusty field under the summer stars. And they kissed like coevals though Logan jerked from pain as Rogue's lips left dark spots of the rot on his skin.
Logan moaned, and jerked, and swore, but he never stopped. And he never really died when they did it in the back seat. He told her he wanted to settle down. Rogue told him she wanted to know more, wanted to finish her education. Logan said he knew just a place to start again. Until one day he said he must go and find his memories. Did he find them?
And the maid that Connaught gave us
Who could save us from our shame
Grace O’Malley was her name
Rogue loved the song and loved the woman – Grace O'Malley, the Pirate Queen. She said she wanted to be her if born centuries ago. Logan laughed, bit off the pointy end of a cigar and told – how do you know, maybe you already are one? You are a rogue, right? And she was a pirate. Ain't no big deal, the difference between those two.
There was Bobby, lying in the boys' bedroom upstairs, thinking of Rogue with tenderness and devotion. Bobby holding and kissing her hand in the glove. Bobby wishing to get Rogue acquainted with his parents. And Logan in his stupid white singlet and old jeans, singing an Irish song by Canadian band with his hoarse voice.
Granuaile the Pirate Queen
Flashing eyes so wild and green
I was only seventeen, boys
I’d no right to be
In Grace O’Malley’s company
It was the chorus, and it smashed right into Rogue's heart. Logan used to sing it looking on the road, Rogue's hand – in glove, always in the glove but in the bed when Logan was prepared - on his shoulder. He sang, and she sang with him. There were only them, the song and the road. Nothing in the world would keep Rogue's mouth shut, and she sang with him so quiet she nearly whispered.
Granuaile the Pirate Queen
Flashing eyes so wild and green
I was only seventeen, boys
I’d no right to be
In Grace O’Malley’s company
It was Logan, lying naked in the bed, asleep, his arm on his face, his belly slowly going up and down, Logan smiling and clenching cigar in his teeth. Logan holding Rogue in his arms, squeezing her so tight she heard her ribs cracking and telling her – look, I'm still a bigger threat than you. You can't hurt me. Don't be afraid. You can't hurt me, little Rogue Queen.