Disclaimer: The X-Men and all related characters are property of Marvel.

Author's note: Howdy, howdy, howdy

Sorry for that leave of absence. Did I really publish last in February? Yikes! I'm going back to shorter chapters, so hopefully I can get more substance out in a faster manner.

I basically just wrote this in a few hours today, so if you notice any typos, spelling, or grammar issues, let me know.

Son

Rogue threw herself across the room, flinging one leg in front of the other, while doing her best to ignore the blinding pain that coursed through her body. The sun was barely up. Pale pink light filtered in through the curtains from her high-up, east-facing window, lighting the room just enough for her to maneuver without tripping over her clothing strewn across the floor.

The night before she'd torn off what clothing she could so she wouldn't overheat during the night in the stuffy cottage. Which meant her socks, boots, borrowed shirt, and belt became hazards on the floor.

The place she called home wasn't much to sneeze at, in fact, sometimes she feared that if she did sneeze part of the ceiling would collapse. It was a simple three-room cottage. When she walked in the front door, she was maybe ten yards from the back door. A single hallway bisected the cottage, a parlor opened immediately on the right, her bedroom door halfway down the hall on the left, and the tiny kitchen (just a stove, a water pump, and a table) was nestled in the back on the right.

The parlor contained borrowed furniture and a fireplace barely big enough to heat the room. Two bar chairs that had met one too many bandit heads sat against one wall, Rogue had fixed them up, gluing and sanding the splinters back together. They were reliable most days, though the cushioned leather needed replacing. Against the opposite wall was a second-hand couch from the hotel. Warren had given it to Rogue after a particularly wild night at the hotel.

Her room was furnished in the same style. The bed, a remnant from Hank's failed marriage, took up half the room. A broken tavern table with two wooden chairs occupied an open corner. A wardrobe that had gone mysteriously missing from Room XVII of the hotel had resurfaced, painted green, in Rogue's room. It was barely enough to fit four coats in, but Rogue didn't own much else. Kitty had left a nightstand that didn't fit in her home next to Rogue's bed. It was a narrow little thing, only a Bible fit in the top drawer and a pistol fit in the bottom.

The outhouse was out back. If she felt like washing, she spent the night somewhere else in town, usually paying with beer or handiwork.

The structure aged with Rogue. When she first arrived in Xavier, it was nothing more than four walls that encompassed a bed. Through the years, she'd added on, building the place up with her hands and her friends. It wasn't incredibly sound, but it was family, so the cracks in the ceiling always seemed to be smiling down at her. The hay from the stables next door that filled the gaps between boards was like an uncle's beard. The hallway leading between the front and back door was dirt, purely because of the amount of filth Rogue tracked in, but every spring it grew flowers to welcome her home. It was shabby, but it was hers.

Groaning, she scooped up her clothes from the day before and plopped down on her bed. Sitting was much better for her pain. She pulled back on her bloody socks and muddy boots, before looking around the room for her binding undershirt. Even though her chest was bound with bandages from the doc, she still didn't feel secure going out without her undershirt which flattened what breast tissue she had.

She spotted the shirt across the room, draped over the chair. It was nothing more than a black, sleeveless cotton half-shirt with a thick stretch of leather sewn into the chest. She layered her clothing carefully on top.

Although she'd lost a shirt, one sleeve left behind wherever Wanda had doctored her up, at least her favorite brown jacket was still intact.

Throwing herself forward again, she used the footboard and the chair in the corner to steady herself as she planned her route to the back door. The trek to the outhouse took what felt like an eternity. The narrowness of the hallway helped, as she could support herself between the two walls with no difficulty. The air outside was chilly, the brisk wind snapped against her face and sent shivers down her back. Soon the sun would warm the air, leaving her shivers as nothing more than a daydream.

When she was finished, she trudged back into her house, going into the kitchen to wash. She pumped the faucet, washing one hand at a time. She ran her damp hands through her hair, giving a minute effort to style it.

Loud pounding sounded against her front door. It seemed she'd gotten ready just in time.

"Rogue! It's me, Logan! Doc said he wanted you there at nine!" Logan shouted from outside.

"I hear ya!" Rogue called back, grabbing her gloves from her pocket. Her early morning adrenaline had faded, and she felt woozy on her feet. She sat down quickly and shouted to Logan. "The door's open. Come on in!"

The door creaked, and heavy boot-falls announced Logan's arrival. "Where you at, kid?"

"Kitchen." Rogue answered. "Straight back, to the right."

Logan's boots clicked down the hall, getting sharper once they hit the wood. "You've got quite a garden growin' in yer entryway, Rogue." The man said as he came into view. His eyes swept the kitchen quickly before landing on Rogue in the corner. His eyebrows raised up to meet the brim of his hat. "You feelin' better today?"

"Was." Rogue grunted, the pain in her chest squeezing the words out of her. "Not so sure anymore."

Logan shook his head, his quite chuckle filling the room. "You are a piece of work. Lemme help you up, then let's get to the doc."

Rogue nodded, squinting her eyes against the pain. Logan put an arm under each of Rogue's armpits and lifted her up. He smelled of whisky and tobacco, but also of the hotel's lavender soap. His face was devoid of dirt and, ignoring his large sideburns, clean-shaven. She was only inches from his face, and his eyes locked with hers. They were the same blue of the early winter sky.

He stepped back suddenly, holding Rogue at an arm's length. An unreadable expression on his face that faded in a second; he replaced it with a frown. Fear seized Rogue's heart and she couldn't breathe. Could he know that quickly?

His eyes darted down to Rogue's midsection, and she followed his gaze. Crimson speckled her gray shirt.

"Dammit Rogue, the doc ain't gonna be happy with you." Logan shook his head. "I knew I smelled blood."

"It coulda been my socks." Rogue shrugged, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

Logan gave her a look that said she was the strangest person he'd met. He looped an arm under her arms. "Lean on me, let's get you fixed up."

She stood several inches taller than Logan, so they hobbled awkwardly down the street. As they went, she could feel the warm blood trickling down her arm from her cut. Beads of blood pooled into streams from a scrape on her stomach. The air was no longer brisk. No shivers came to relieve the heat.

They reached Hank's home after several long minutes of struggling. Hank and Kitty sat on the swing in the back, and when they came into view, Kitty looked up expectantly. Rogue managed a weak smile.

"Ah, Rogue. I'm glad you could make it." Hank said, standing. He gestured to Kitty. "Miss Pryde and I were just talking about you." A smile stretched over his face.

Rogue felt heat build behind her cheeks. Hank was the only one in the town that knew she was a girl in man's clothing. And yet… he still tried to play match-maker between her and Kitty.

If Rogue was a man…

"Doc," Logan interrupted, "Rogue is bleeding again."

Hank sighed. "It was to be expected. You just can't sit still. Bring him in."

Rogue and Logan followed Hank into the house. The first room, painted green, had a couch with a sheet thrown over it and a table with medical equipment. Hank waved his hand at the couch dismissively.

"Put him down there then leave us."

Logan set Rogue down gently, and gave him one hesitant look before walking out the door.

Hank stood still and observed Rogue for a silent minute. Her skin squirmed under his gaze, feeling like she'd disappointed him somehow in tearing her stitches.

Finally, he spoke. "Strip. Let's see how bad it is." He pulled a pair of cloth gloves out of his pocket and slipped them over his hands.

Rogue complied, Hank assisting her with her jacket and pants. Soon she was just sitting in her socks, boxers, and undershirt. Hank crossed his arms and gave her a stern look. "You can't wear that dreadful thing when your ribs are broken. They'll never heal." Rogue fingered the fabric, not wanting to take it off. "Rogue." She sighed, and undid the clasps on the side, flinging the undergarment onto her pile of clothing.

Hank knelt next to her and inspected her arm. Cutting off the bloody bandage, he ran his fingers over the wound, a frown on his face. "Definitely tore your stitches." He gave her a look of pity. "What will it be, Mr. Rogue? Whiskey? Bobby's moonshine? Pietr gave me some his brew, if that's more your style."

Rogue shivered. "That nasty Russian piss? I don't know how he drinks it." She shrugged. "But it numbs fast, gimme that."

Hank put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a little shake. "Brave man."

She watched him get up and walk out of the room. He returned with a clear bottle and tin cup. Handing the cup to her, he poured. She downed the full cup, her nose and throat burning, and stuck out her empty cup to be filled again. Hank complied.

With a little bit of liquid courage, she asked her question as Hank set the bottle down on the table beside her. "Hank… when you know… what I am… why do you-?"

"Refer to you as a man?" He finished, picking up a needle and thread from the table. Glancing over his shoulder at her, he smiled. "Because that's how you want to be perceived."

"But-"

Hank turned fully around. "Rogue, when you're as old as me, you stop caring. You are also one of the bravest and most dangerous people I know, so I have no intention of doing you wrong."

Rogue nodded, his words rolling around in her head. She hardly noticed when he stuck the needle into her flesh, but as a reaction, she gulped down the remainder of her drink.

"The Indians around here have a word for people like you. They call you 'two-spirit', someone who is more open to the world." Hank said, tugging the thread through her skin a final time and tying it off. He stood and gestured for Rogue to stand and stretch her arms over her head. He unwrapped her chest bandages and threw the stained rags into a pile. Taking fresh linen shreds, he wrapped them around her chest. "Our world is filled with people who can kill with a touch, read minds, conjure fire… how strange is it that a born-woman might be a crafted-man?"

"Hank… promise me ya won't tell anyone." Even though he'd never said anything in ten years, Rogue said it anyway.

He paused, a bandage in his hand. He straightened up and looked at her. "Rogue, I practically raised you. I wouldn't put you in danger."

She sighed, and nodded. Hank finished binding her chest, and took an alcohol soaked rag to her scraped stomach. Breath hissed out through her teeth, the burning sending aches into her fingertips. When he had finished sterilizing, he wrapped linen there too.

"Now, I need a promise from you." Hank said, helping her sit. He dragged two chairs out of the corner and sat in one. Rogue stuck her injured leg out, and he placed it on the other chair. Adjusting his glasses, he inspected her leg, his fingers grazing over her skin. He was silent while he worked, fixing her brace and replacing the bandages. After a few minutes he spoke again. "You have to promise me you'll try to be happy. That you'll be careful, but you won't let who you are stop you from doing anything." He looked up at her, and smiled like she remembered her father smiling at her once. "It's all you can want for a son."

Son.

Rogue took a deep breath, and looked up at the ceiling. The two of them repeated this ritual on occasion, but she always felt the same. Suddenly struck by his love for her. It had been a long time since her parents had claimed her as their child… and never as a son. Strange that at twenty-two years old, she should stop feeling like an orphan. But when she thought about it, she had stopped being an orphan the moment she set foot in Xavier.

"I don't think," she lowered her head to look at him, "I could have a bettah person to call a parent."

Hank chuckled. "Now, you also have to acknowledge Kitty's advances."

"Oh mah gawd." Rogue blurted. She quickly apologized. "I cannot do that."

"She's terribly in love with you."

"I know."

"You could-"

"No."

Throwing his head back, Hank gave a full-bellied laugh. "At least we have that in common."

Rogue raised an eyebrow, a grin spreading over her face. "And what is that?"

"We're both terrible with women."

A/N: And this is where I remind you to review!

As always, thanks for reading. If you want to let me know what you thought, please leave a review.

I make no promises as to when I'll update next. D-Factor is waiting on an update (it's nearly ready to go, Beta just has to look at one last scene), and after that I should update Unexpected my Teen Titans shorts fic. If you're bored, check those out!

Next time: Logan meets the mysterious Mayor Xavier, and learns a bit about these Brotherhood Bandits. Rogue's least favorite person is in town, and Logan can tell why. A liar, a thief, and a ruthless gambler, Gambit threatens both of their sanity. But something he says strikes a chord with Logan. Something about Rogue.