"I don't ask for much, do I, Logan?" Rogue demands, hands on her hips. She's a vision of fury, eyes narrowed, lips drawn tightly together, body practically vibrating with tension.

She's fuckin' gorgeous, Logan thinks, but he knows better than to mention that just now. She'd kick his ass.

"No," he admits grudgingly. Because she's hot, but she's also a little bit scary. He remembers with fondness the halcyon days when she'd gaze at him adoringly. She didn't do much of that anymore. She still has lots of great smiles for him -- the loving smile, the come-fuck-me smile, the you're-such-a-moron-but-you-amuse-me-anyway smile -- but like most couples, they spend a considerable amount of time squabbling. Consequently, she's less likely to be gazing adoringly these days than glaring irritably.

Like now.

"I mean," she continued, that expressive facing of hers displaying her irritation, "I don't give a shit about anniversaries or birthdays or --God -- Valentine's Day--"

"I remembered your birthday," Logan interrupts, a little defensive. Because he had remembered. He even remembered in time to think about what to get her. The emerald pendant sparkles merrily up at him from just above her dangerous curves.

She doesn't look impressed. "Don't try that again, Logan," she scolds, but her fingers skim over the gem. She can talk all she wants, but she cried when he gave it to her and she's never taken it off. "My necklace has nothing to do with you completely forgetting tonight."

"I was--" he starts, but the way she purses her lips makes him reconsider. Because he really doesn't have a decent excuse.

No X-Men emergencies.

No sneak attacks by the Brotherhood.

Not even last-minute tickets to the Redwings-Flyers game.

True, that last one wouldn't have pacified her, but it might have been worth facing down the Wrath of Rogue.

An impromptu trip down to Atlantic City with Remy and Scott, however, is not worth this kind of grief. Hell, Logan doesn't even particularly like that Cajun bastard, but Jean's very pregnant and very irritable, and she ordered her husband out of the house. Scott, caught between relief and disappointment, suggested Atlantic City to Remy and Logan, and Logan had shrugged his assent. The thought of a few decent rounds of poker had outweighed Remy's presence as a traveling companion, and Logan had completely forgotten Rogue's simple request about tonight.

"I'm not a shrew," Rogue continues when it's clear he's not actually going to say anything in his own defense. "I don't make you watch Meg Ryan movies. I don't expect flowers. I don't even care that you fall asleep ten seconds after orgasm."

"I know." He's amused and appalled at the same time that this tiny slip of a woman has him so thoroughly in hand, because he wants to cross his arms and argue with her, but all he says is, "I'm sorry."

She tilts her head, her hair cascading down her back. "I'm not ready to forgive you yet," she decides.

With a heartfelt groan, Logan watches her turn on her heel and slam her way into the bathroom, shutting him emphatically out. He's frustrated, of course, but there's a masochistic part of him that enjoys the hell out of watching her get utterly pissed, even if he's almost always the one she's getting pissed at -- she's hot when she's like this.

On the other hand, Cranky Rogue means no sex for a while.

Not for too long, because her sex drive rivals his own, but being unable to reach for her whenever he wants to tries his limited patience. They've been together nearly two years, and he's become surprisingly used to being with Rogue, to being them.

He hears the water start up in the bathroom and knows she'll be breaking out the strongest smelling bath salts she has, just to piss him off. Logan finds himself grinning stupidly at the door -- he just can't get enough of this woman.

Of course, he should've been there tonight. She really doesn't ask for much from him. She accepts his many, many faults and loves him anyway, and when he fucks up, he doesn't have to wade into the hell that is a florist to hold his nose and pick up a flowery apology. Sure, he ranks Xavier's occasional soirees just beneath florists in his list of hated things, but she had a point about that lecherous creep, Dave the Vibrator.

Dave the Vibrator's dubious mutation allows him to flood atoms with excess energy. Logan has no idea what the fuck that really means, but in practical terms, the twitchy freak can make solid objects jiggle. Trembling Dave tried real hard to convince people to call him Richter, but Logan's off-the-cuff remark about vibrators stuck.

Dave the quivering jackass thinks his particular mutation makes him God's gift to women; women seem to disagree with that assessment. That little fucker'd been all over Rogue at the last party; the only reason Dave the fucking pissant vibrator was still drawing breath is that Logan hadn't been there. Few details had reached Logan about what, exactly, the desk-rattling asshole had done, but from what little Rogue said, he'd suggested that Rogue's skin wouldn't affect a certain inanimate object that he could make vibrate in a pleasurable way.

Logan's knuckles burn as he swallows back his rage. It's not that he cares -- much -- that guys hit on his girlfriend. Rogue is hot; it's only natural. He wouldn't be this pissed off about Dave the pansy-ass vibrator if something he'd done hadn't so thoroughly creeped Rogue out. Because she wouldn't have asked Logan to attend the party unless she really needed him there.

Shit.

Grumbling to himself, Logan trudges into the hallway, headed for the kitchen. Xavier's got quite a wine cellar, but he also keeps a decent selection in the rack outside the formal dining room, which is Logan's first stop. He doesn't know shit about wine, but Marie prefers reds, so he grabs a bottle with a label that's mildly interesting.

In the kitchen, he rummages through the cupboards to assemble stemware, a small plate, and a small hunk of gourmet cheese. Rogue would slice it into event-appropriate shapes, but Logan has no idea what shape says "Sorry I was a thoughtless jackass." Probably donkeys, but Logan's not about to try anything more complicated than basic geometric shapes.

"Whatever," he mutters, plunking the block of cheese onto the plate. He can always use the claws upstairs if necessary.

In the hallway, he encounters Scott, who flashes a sheepish grin and asks, "You, too?"

Logan grunts. "She's pissed I forgot about the thing tonight."

"Richter was there?"

Logan merely growls in reply. Scott's probably the only one who actually uses Dave the Vibrator's stupidass "code" name; it's not helping Logan's mood.

Nodding, Scott says, "Jean's angry too, even though she sent me away. I think it's the hormones -- OW!" He breaks off, wincing, and brings a hand to his head.

Logan quirks an eyebrow.

"She told me if I don't return with ice cream in the next five minutes, I shouldn't bother coming back at all." Scott leans closer, as if lowering his voice will shield the thought from an angry telepath. "Hormones."

"Good luck," Logan smirks. Then he remembers what's awaiting him upstairs and sighs.

Scott has the temerity to laugh at him. "You, too."

Logan snorts and starts up the stairs. It takes concentration to get the door open without dropping everything, but he manages.

One step into the room and he recoils. She used a lot of bath salt. Logan's eyes actually start to water and he tries breathing through his mouth. He sets the bottle of wine on the desk and manhandles the glasses into position beside it. Popping a single claw, he slices the cheese quickly and efficiently into small squares. Then he jabs the tip of his claw into the cork and eases it from the bottle. "Corkscrews are for pussies," he mutters, pouring a generous amount of wine into each glass.

"Marie?" Logan calls, awkwardly holding the two full glasses in one hand and the cheese plate in the other.

"What?" she shouts.

So she's clearly still pissed, Logan thinks. Good to know. "Got something for you," he says.

Marie snorts. "I've had it many times before, Logan, and it's not enough to make me forget I'm mad."

"Like hell it's not," Logan shouts back, a little bit miffed. He hears what sounds like a strangled laugh, but decides to ignore it. Except he's a little bit strident when he adds, "And that's not what I meant."

Silence. He knows she's curious, now, so he doesn't say anything else. She's not quite as impatient as he is, but she'll give in soon enough.

"Fine," she snaps, and Logan grins smugly at the door. "Get in here."

Not an auspicious beginning, but he'll take what he can get. The cheese plate balanced precariously on his forearm, Logan frees up a hand to open the bathroom door.

The tub is along the right-hand wall, and all he can see from his vantage point is the back of her left shoulder, her slim neck, and the loose knot of hair atop her head. He takes a step into the room, then another, finally adjusting to the biting artificiality of the bath salts and bath gels and bath bubbles. And she's even lit three different scented candles, adding to the pungent atmosphere.

When he's standing beside the tub, she looks up at him, and his gaze slips past her eyes, down to where the emerald rests against her skin, just above the bubbles. He swallows a grin, knowing she's doing her best to torture him, keeping all the good stuff covered by the damn bubbles.

Logan meets her eyes, and the edge of his mouth tilts upwards. "Enough bubbles?"

She raises an eyebrow in challenge, lifting a leg gracefully out of the tub to rest it along the lip, giving him an eyeful of damp, pale skin. "You can never have too many bubbles."

Logan breathes carefully through his mouth, but he can taste the lavender on his tongue. He feels like an idiot towering over her, so he places the small plate of cheese on the lip of the tub, then hunkers down beside her elbow in an awkward squat. "Wine?" he offers.

She's still irritated, her lush mouth twisted into a frown, but after a moment, she nods and accepts the glass. She takes a sip and can't quite suppress the satisfied smile that slides across her lips. "Not bad. What vineyard?"

Logan blinks. "Uh..." He left the bottle outside the door, but when he shifts in preparation to go look, Marie's fingers glide down his forearm. Huh. So she's not that eager for him to leave. Logan figures this is a good sign and settles back down.

With a fondly exasperated expression, she guesses, "You grabbed the one with the least amount of 'crap' on the label, didn't you?"

He hides his chagrin behind the wineglass, taking a too-long sip. It is decent, as far as wines go, so Logan shrugs. "S'okay."

Rogue leans her head back against the tiles, turning a little to hold his gaze. "You gonna apologize again?"

"You gonna blow out some of those candles if I do?" he shoots back.

She grins, acknowledging the hit with an arched eyebrow. "You should've been there tonight."

Logan knows she's right, but he's not in the mood for penance, so he snags a small square of cheese from the plate and lifts it to her lips. "Open."

Rogue takes her sweet time deciding, but she obeys, flicking her tongue out to slide against his fingers as he feeds her. Thank God she's learned to control her mutation enough for brief touches. "Mmmm," she moans, real throaty, just the way she knows drives him crazy.

While her mouth is full, Logan shifts, reaching for the fluffy bath towel tossed onto the countertop. He folds it in fourths and places it next to the tub for his knees, then fishes the thinnest pair of black silk gloves he has out of his back pocket and tugs them on. He prefers leather, but they don't hold up well during waterplay.

Rogue is watching with decided interest as he settles on his knees beside the tub, his left hand landing unceremoniously on her exposed shin. She shifts her wineglass to her right hand and reaches out, cupping his cheek for a long moment. "You think wine and cheese and sex are gonna fix this, sugar?"

Logan pins her with a challenging gaze. "No, but I think wine and cheese and sex will soften you up to accept my apology."

She snickers, just a little, then takes a long sip of wine in lieu of an answer.

Logan takes that as agreement, and lets his fingers start to trace small patterns on her leg. She likes it fast when she's wound up like this, but Logan's determined to drag it out. Because he sucks at saying what he means, and he really sucks at apologizing, but when he touches her, he knows she can feel what he can't say.

"More?" Logan asks.

Rogue shakes her head slowly, her expression unreadable. "You know, sugar, you never asked me how Dave the Vibrator was tonight."

Logan's hand tightens on her knee, his whole body tenses up. His voice is deadly calm when he asks, "Something happen I should know about?"

Even Rogue knows not to push him when he's like this. She shakes her head. "Nothing he needs to die for, Logan. Stupid stuff."

Logan's hand smoothes over her knee, massaging her thigh softly. "You know I'd kill him if he hurt you, right, darlin'?"

"I know," she answers. She shifts a little in the water, and the movement sends up a new wave of overpowering scent. This time, however, Logan can smell her, too. His fingers inch up her thigh.

"No one hurts you," he tells her. It's as close as he can come to a declaration of love, most days, but she knows what he means. Her free hand slides through his sideburns, through his hair, and tugs him closer. Logan leans up, taking care not to knock the cheese into the tub, and kisses her.

It's slow and gentle and so fucking good. The slow burn of her mutation takes longer and longer to start up every time he touches her, and it's no longer incapacitating. Rogue hasn't figured out how to stop it entirely, but she's gained enough control to allow for brief skin-on-skin touching.

Reluctantly, Logan settles back onto his knees and squeezes her thigh.

Rogue's eyes are dark and intense as she watches him. "I danced with Dave the Vibrator."

Logan hesitates again, trying to read her expression. Why the hell is she talking about that twitchy freak when he's got his hand between her legs? "Yeah?"

She nods, her tone carefully casual when she adds, "He was a perfect gentleman. At first."

Fucking bastard. "What'd he do?" Logan grits out, his fingers digging into her thigh.

"He knows about my skin," she explains, "but he was still pretty... hands-on."

What the fuck does that mean? "What the fuck does that mean?" he demands. Loudly.

"Sugar, ease up on my leg or you're gonna leave a bruise."

Logan releases her, sitting back on his heels to glare at her. "Hands-on?" he repeats. Because his understanding is that the quaking idiot doesn't need to touch stuff to make it vibrate. And the thought of that little bastard touching her--

"Yup.

She certainly isn't making this easy. "In what way?" Because Logan needs to know how many different ways he'll have to kick Dave's vibrating ass.

Rogue shifts, sitting up a little in the tub. "Well, first he had his hands on my hips, but then he slid 'em around back, trying to pull me closer, you know?"

Logan growls. The mental picture he's getting is not making him happy.

Arching an eyebrow, Rogue continues, "His hands were real low on my back, sorta inching down -- quit growling, Logan -- but I pulled back and he got the point. For a bit."

"Why're you tellin' me this, Marie?"

She tilts her head, considering his question. "I guess I'm telling you so you'll understand why it's gonna take a little while for me to stop being pissed at you."

Logan moves quickly, his hands on her shoulders yanking her closer. They're kissing again, and this time it's a battle, fierce and angry and passionate. When he pulls back, she's breathing hard, her eyes wide and dark, and he's a little lightheaded from the combination of her, her power, and the nightmarish mix of scents in the room.

"You just lay back, baby," Logan murmurs, sliding a possessive hand down her chest, pausing to cup her breast. He fondles her carefully, bringing her nipple to attention before moving to the other breast. "Let me start making it up to you."

Her laughter ends in a gasp as his gloved hand slips down her abdomen, down between her legs. She leans back, letting her legs fall open to him, and he wishes like hell the fucking bubbles would dissipate already.

She's moving a little, sending small waves to lap against the ceramic tub. His fingers slip inside of her and back out, his thumb circling her clit as she lifts her hips in appreciation. It's surprisingly intense, feeling her body respond to him under the blanket of bubbles. He can't see what he's doing, but he can feel every goddamn move she makes, every twitch of her muscles.

He trains his gaze on her face, drinking in the way those big dark eyes of hers watch him. Her mouth hangs slightly open, and her breathing is rapid and shallow. Logan shifts a little, slipping his free hand beneath the water to pinch a nipple, skim over her abdomen.

Rogue's hands tighten on the edges of the tub, bracing herself so she can start to move, lifting and rolling her hips as he works her. She's getting close, he can tell by the noises she's making, so he starts to encourage her. "Yeah, darlin', that's beautiful. You like that?"

"Yeah," she manages, her voice edged with desperation.

Her eyes begin to drift shut and Logan moves quickly, leaning up and over the tub to slam his mouth down onto hers. She's ten seconds from orgasm and her control is all but shot, so their kiss is short and electric, leaving him with less energy and her with heightened senses just as she flies over the edge.

Logan keeps his hands moving on her, prolonging her orgasm as she shakes and shudders beneath the water. She is so fucking gorgeous.

When Rogue's head drops back against the tiled wall, Logan pulls his fingers from her, squeezing her thigh as she fights to bring her breathing back under control.

"You softening up?" he asks with a smug look. He's hard as a fucking rock and the sooner she forgives him, the sooner they can take care of the problem.

Rogue doesn't bother to open her eyes, but she makes a face at him all the same. "Maybe." Her fingers unclench from the lip of the tub and reach for him, tracing up his biceps to his neck, his chin, his cheek. She pats his muttonchop affectionately. "So do you want to hear the rest of the story?" she asks, lazily opening her eyes.

Story? Logan wonders. "What story?" Rogue glares at him. "Oh," he says, his good mood suffering with the remembrance. "The vibrating freak?"

"Yes," Rogue answers, pushing herself up until those breasts of hers are almost out of the water. She stops and gives him a knowing smile. "Dave the Vibrator."

It's damn hard to maintain an erection while discussing Dave the fucking Vibrator, but Logan doesn't think Rogue's gonna let this go. He thinks about it for a moment. "Will I need to go kick his ass if you tell me the rest of the story?"

She's smiling now, and there's a smug quality to it that he finds totally hot. "It'd be a little redundant."

Logan settles back, quirking an eyebrow at her. This sounds like his kind of story. "Do tell."

"If you'll remember, we left off with Dave the Vibrator attempting to get a little too friendly with certain portions of my anatomy." She rolled her eyes. "Stop growling."

"Can't help it, darlin'."

"Neanderthal," she says, but she makes it an endearment. "So I pulled away from him so he'd get the picture and quit it. Only he didn't seem to understand."

"Stupid little prick."

Rogue smirks at him. "Not that little."

Logan freezes, spine straight, muscles rigid. "Excuse me?"

"Apparently," Rogue drawls, "Dave the Vibrator likes to dance. He likes it at lot."

"I'll kill him."

"You will not," Rogue counters. "So after he tried to feel me up and then tried to, uh, introduce me to his stupid not-that-little prick --seriously, Logan, it's been two years; the growl isn't impressing anyone in this room -- Twitchy apparently decided to..." She pauses, tapping her fingers in that way of hers that means she's searching for an appropriate euphemism. She brightens after a moment and says, "He decided to demonstrate his ability."

Logan has to concentrate very, very hard to keep from popping the claws. "He did what?"

"You know my black dress?" Rogue asks. "The one with the sleeves?"

It takes him a moment to get past the blinding rage, but he's had some intense fun with Rogue while she was wearing that particular dress. "Oh, yeah," he says.

"You remember the zipper in the back?"

Early on in their relationship, he'd unzipped it with his teeth. "Yeah, I remember the zipper." He gives her a heated look, and from the sudden flush on her cheeks, she remembers that night, too.

"Yeah, well, he made it..." She shrugs. "Vibrate."

Logan blinks. "Made what vibrate? The zipper?"

Grinning, Rogue confirms, "Yup. The zipper."

The balls on this guy to go around... vibrating other men's women. "I'll kill him."

"I took care of it, sugar," Rogue assures him, placing a calming hand on his shoulder to get him to meet her gaze.

"Whaddya mean, took care of it?"

With a practiced flippancy, Rogue shrugs and says, "I told him I didn't appreciate him vibratin' my belongings and then I knocked him out."

"You--" Logan stops, shakes his head. "You knocked him out?"

Rogue is beaming at him now. "Yup."

"You knocked out Dave the Vibrator?"

"Yup."

"At Xavier's shindig?"

"Yup."

She is so fucking hot. Logan wants to kick himself -- how could he have missed that? "My girlfriend knocked out Dave the Vibrator?"

Rogue sat up in the tub, bubbles streaming down her torso to uncover those breasts of hers. "Hell, yeah."

Logan shifts, getting his feet under him and reaching for her as he begins to rise. "Out," he orders. Because he has to have her now, if not sooner.

"Where're we goin'?" Rogue drawls, a perfectly smug grin on her face as she lets him lift her out of the tub.

"That," Logan says, gesturing to the tub, "was my apology for missing tonight."

"Oh, really," Rogue shoots back, snickering a little as he swipes at her body with a towel, paying careful attention to her breasts and her thighs. "And what's this?"

"This," Logan answers, tossing the towel onto the floor and pulling her towards their bed, "is congratulations for knocking out that vibrating freak."

THE END