Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know

what despair is; then winter should have meaning for you.

.

Sanity can easily erode during long waiting periods.

Fortunately, there are ways to distract oneself.

"Dude puts a whole new meaning on that weight of the world thing. The Prof is thinking of putting him on the junior team. Thank god I'm moving to varsity," St. John comments, and she tunes back in.

"Well, you never know why the Prof does the things he does," Jubilee replies confidentially. Then, she leans closer and whispers, "I heard there's shit going down with that whole Mutant Registration Act."

Rogue tunes back out.

Sometimes she wants to smack them all upside the head. What exactly do they know about shit? About being different? Yes, they're mutants, yes, some of them haven't lived with the Brady Bunch, but, God, what do they know?

"Yeah, guess we need every mutant we can get," Bobby shrugs, then coughs. He's been coughing a lot lately.

Again, Rogue listens quietly. The class started forty-one minutes ago, and he's still not there. Today's News: Stock Market plunge, baby in a well, famous actor caught getting liposuction.

No attacks on plastic prisons. He should be here. Where is he?

"Like I, for one, don't think we're in trouble. I mean, like, this isn't the Middle Ages. No Spanish Inquisition breakin' down the door, burnin' witches, you know?" Kitty says from her nicely polished desk. She's been scribbling hearts and arrows for thirty minutes on her notebook, and Rogue is getting antsy.

"Not according to Monty Python." she mutters to herself.

The doors open, and he's here.

He doesn't come in completely, though. He's standing at the entrance, talking to someone. Jean. Perfect, tall Jean. With her red hair and red lips and red blouse. Does she do it for him, Rogue wonders? Dress in so much red?

Red has never been Marie's color.

She wouldn't wear it now, not even if her life depended on it.

She remembers her mother's red silk blouses and what wearing them of Fridays meant. Red stop signs, and red jelly on sharp claws, and cool, red grass.

Bobby coughs again, so she stops her bemused analysis of scattered, foreign memories, and looks at the door again.

If she were capable of jealousy on such trivial matters, she would probably recognize it now. Hypothetically, she should be jealous of Jean. Jean can touch. Jeannie can get Wolverine back with two words. Miss Grey has Scott smiling at her.

"—six, five, four, three—" St. John mumbles excitedly, glaring at his watch.

The bell rings, commotion ensues, and Rogue stands up.

"I'll catch you guys later," she whispers to Kitty, absentmindedly watching her classmates leave. Jean is leaving, too.

So, she walks toward his desk. There's a rhythm to her step. Almost a bounce.

She's not going to ask him where he was. She doesn't care. It's none of her business. She's not Jean, she doesn't have to know.

"Tomorrow?" she smiles brilliantly, clutching her textbooks to her chest.

"Well, hello to you, too." Grinning, he sits behind his desk, looking at her.

"What did Miss Grey say?" she leans against his desk.

"She called it a wonderful experiment in will-power."

Rogue wrinkles her nose. "No, seriously."

"Said I should wear plastic eyewear, and shove a pineapple up the bastard's ass." He's still looking at her, and were it not for the glasses, his eyes would probably sparkle.

She giggles, shaking her head. She could classify this as a 'moment,' but it breaks much too soon.

Scott's standing up slowly, an angry look on his face.

He's looking at something behind her, and she doesn't have to turn around.

Her stomach tightens, throat constricts, lips part.

"She sure got a mouth on her." And it's that voice. The one she can sometimes remember. The growling, deep voice that feels like silk on the back of her neck.

"Hey, Kid."

Logan.

.

He's tracking snow all over the hardwood floors.

His boots are covered with dirty snowflakes, melting into the shiny parquet. He's leaning against the door frame, cocky and arrogant, and Scott wouldn't mind wiping that smirk off his face.

"Logan?" Rogue asks carefully, as if she's imagined this scene so many times it has lost its meaning. For a moment, something soft flutters across Wolverine's features, erasing that superior quality he's engraved into his personality.

It's a strange rivalry Scott's experiencing.

Not quite hate, because Scott Summers has been trained not to hate, but close. Men are wolves; they live according to rank. Alpha and Omega with legions of Betas. Scott is Fearless Leader, has always been, and believes always will be, but Wolverine's an Alpha, too.

And what Alpha wants, Alpha gets.

So Scott stops his analysis before he comes to a conclusion he certainly won't like.

"You came back?" Rogue frowns in slight confusion, and the Wolverine straightens.

"Nah, Kid, I'll be leavin' soon. I got some business to take care of here with Wheels, and then I'm off," he mumbles darkly, and finally steps into the classroom.

Scott observes quietly as Rogue searches for an appropriate question.

"You're okay, though?" she asks finally.

The Wolverine watches her, hurt and tarnished, hazel eyes focused on the those silvery streaks, then nods.

It isn't harmless rivalry anymore, Scott knows.

It is a competition, one that shouldn't happen, but most assuredly will.

"Wolverine. Brought my bike back?" he finally speaks, arms crossed.

The man shifts his glare to him, and suddenly, the smirk is back. "Didn't see no one ice skating in hell lately. You?"

He can feel his lips thinning, and a familiar burning at the corners of his eyes tugs at his concentration. Sometimes, when Jean mumbles in her sleep, late at night, he wonders. Wonders what he'd do to Wolverine if he was allowed to. If he was free to zap—

Free? Wasn't he free?

"Do I need to break you two up?" a voice floats in behind Wolverine.

"We ain't dating, Jeannie," a vicious grin before he faces Scott again. "Where's Chuck?"

"His office. I'm sure you remember where that is," Scott replies coldly. Jean scowls at him, a little angry and a lot disappointed, but not that it matters now that Wolverine is back.

"I was headed there myself, Logan," she says and finally notices Rogue, staring at her silently.

Unconsciously, Scott takes a step closer to the student, and watches as Wolverine grins his least offensive grin at Jean.

He's almost out the door before he turns around. "I got a whole day for you tomorrow, Kid. What do you say?"

And that's a question Scott would like an answer to, as well.

To his mild surprise, Rogue is looking at him, not Wolverine. Big brown eyes questioning, wondering, asking for advice, guidance, help.

So, he puts aside his selfish reasoning, and gives the slightest of disinterested nods.

"Yeah. Tomorrow," she says softly. The Wolverine stares for a moment, at Rogue, then Scott, promptly rushing off after Jean.

Scott ignores the drifting laughter. Jean's laughter.

The room tumbles into silence as he sulks. He won't recognize it as sulking, but Rogue does. In a heartbeat, she's standing in front of him, small and different and not as young anymore.

"When can we go next?" she asks, boring her eyes into his glasses.

He watches her for a moment, then says without sighing, "Two weeks. I'll make the appointment."

"Thanks," she says meaningfully.

.

Logan is leaving.

He hasn't said goodbye this time. And this time, she's not going to run after him.

She watches him stomp through snow. For a moment, she's compelled to go to the door, and tell him that the driveway is shoveled clean, but she notes the look of satisfaction on his face, and thinks better of it. She leans against the windowsill, absentmindedly noting the patterns her warm breath makes on the frosty windows.

Then she sees it.

The bike. Mr. Summers' pride and joy, take two. It is leaning against the siding, unprotected from snow and Wolverine because Mr. Summers is too trusting sometimes. It stings for a bit when she sees it yanked onto the iced gravel, and again, she almost runs out to tell him not to.

But someone's tapping her on the shoulder, so, startled, she turns around.

"Something's wrong with Bobby," Kitty whispers to her. She is wearing The Shirt again. Pink and sparkly and so Kitty, and Rogue's never been happier to have bought it.

"Rogue, did you hear me?" Kitty says again, little louder this time. "Something's wrong with Bobby."

Soon, Rogue is standing up, somewhat panicky and lost. Kitty tugs at her arm persistently, so she yields and lets herself be led away.

A last glance out the window assures her that Logan is once again gone.

And then, the hallways are a blur.

"Is that right?" she hears someone ask. Not too distant, but tinny and echoing. The room is before her. Kitty nods and stares at the wooden doors. Bobby's room, she mumbles.

"And how long has this been going on?" the voice asks again, and now Rogue can recognize it. Jean.

The doors swing open, and Jean looks out. A look of almost-relief breezes across her face when she sees Kitty and Rogue; harmless children to the mighty doctor. She closes her eyes lightly, and Rogue knows she's talking to the Professor.

What about, Rogue wonders fleetingly.

She dares a peek. Behind Jean, stands a fidgety St. John. There's coughing in the background, so she steps around the good doctor and enters the room.

Kitty follows, but no one notices.

Bobby, and his baby blue icicles, is pale. As white and chalky as the snow outside. His lips, those full, rosy lips that tell the worst jokes, are familiarly red. And those long, thin fingers that play the piano on Sunday mornings are bloody. She steps closer to touch them, but a hand touches her shoulder.

She spins around, lips parted, brows drawn, and questions Jean. "What happened?"

"It's the flu," Jean says unconvincingly. Kitty starts sobbing in one of the white corners, so Jean tries again, softer this time. "Just a virus. Nothing to be concerned about. We'll take him to the infirmary and he'll be okay in no time."

And something about the way Jean says virus, with a hint of foreshadowing and fear, worries Rogue.

Two boys, one tall and one new, creep into the room quietly. Rogue watches Kitty numbly. The smaller kids, youngest one missing, are now assembled at the door, observing in confusion and a kind of wonderment. She remembers those expressions.

And she remembers Mr. Summers bursting into the room to take care of everything, just like he is now.

His lips are a thin line, his profile strong and stoic like the winter outside, and, yes, now she knows something is wrong.

The boys, deft but wobbly, handle Bobby, and Rogue watches him disappear through the scratched doors.

She glances at Kitty, who sometimes has a sense about these things. Like late at night when Rogue is ready to sleep, but Kitty tells her not to. You'll have a nightmare, she often tells her, so Rogue talks about silly things like boys and movies until pink little Kitty is asleep.

And now, those small pink shoulders are shaking as Kitty cries silently. St. John is staring blankly at the windows, holding her, so Rogue draws her gaze up to look for reassurance.

Slowly, as if he were unsure of himself, Mr. Summers reaches out toward her. She feels the prickle of tears behind her eyelids, so instead of letting them fall, she steps forward into his warm arms. He holds her stiffly, uncomfortably, but she doesn't care. She curls her hands on his chest and rests her head.

The children have scattered around after Jean, some shouting and running straight into Ororo's loving arms. The room is deathly quiet, save Kitty's soft whimpers.

Rogue's eyes are wide open, but she's calm. The arms around her tighten, and suddenly, the embrace isn't stiff, nor uncomfortable. It's warm and comforting and answers a part of her question.

She looks out the window. Snowflake after snowflake falls, drifting onto the glass windows.

Winter is coming.

No, she corrects herself.

Winter is here.