She couldn’t remember having ever been this nervous in her entire life, not even on the one ill-advised blind date she’d agreed to go on several years ago. Compulsively pushing her bottle of beer around in the condensation that had gathered under it, she reflected that it was probably because, this time, she was going into it with her eyes wide open.

There was something to be said for closing your eyes before you jumped, she decided.

“You want another, honey?” the bartender asked, leaning over the counter towards her. She leaned back slightly, away from him, and shook her head with a demure smile. She was too tense to speak; her throat too tight to even manage a sip of her beer.

This was it, the deciding moment. Considering the outcome of tonight was going to affect the only steady relationship in her life pretty drastically, whichever way it went, she figured she had a right to a little melodrama, and she intended to wallow in it as long as she could. Logan had called her again -- and she hadn’t been expecting that -- and said in a rough, urgent voice, “I need to see you.” Her heart had dropped into her stomach and she hadn’t been able to breathe until long after he’d added, “We need to talk.”

She still wasn’t sure how she’d managed to keep from squeaking, “We do?” at him and instead had answered him with a quiet, steady, “Okay. Where?”

“I dunno - pick a town,” he’d said, and she’d smiled, an odd, fluttering mix of nervousness and excitement in her belly. She’d named a small, rural town on the coast of northern Florida, and though he hadn’t asked why there, she’d heard the curiosity in his silence.

“I know somebody there, or used to,” she’d explained, and he’d made a small acknowledging sound. “Been there before.”

“Me too,” he’d said, and it was her turn to be surprised and curious, but he wasn’t offering any further information. She’d managed to beat him there, having been halfway through Alabama by the time he’d called, and he’d called again the day before to say he’d be pulling into town tonight, and why didn’t she pick a spot and meet him there?

So she’d picked the Shipwreck, a small bar that had been built onto the Keaton Beach Hot Dog Stand, and had been staring out the window at the sunset over the glassy-smooth gulf until it faded. Deep purple streaked the horizon just above the water, stars appearing in the indigo sky, and she sighed, turning back to the bartender. She’d been waiting there for ages it seemed, and his estimated time of arrival had been two hours ago.

She ducked her head, biting the inside of her cheek and willing herself not to cry. He’d changed his mind; he’d backed out. He wasn’t coming. Pushing the beer away, she leaned across the bar and motioned for the bartender, who came running, his flip-flops making a smacking noise against the rough wood floor.

“What kin I getcha, honey?” he asked, his round, aging face splitting into an eager-to-please smile. “’Nother beer?”

“No, thanks,” she said softly. “Do ya have any whiskey?”

“Sure do, honey. Any kind in particular?”

“Beam?” she asked, then nodded when he confirmed that they did have it. She looked down and began tugging the gloves off her hands as he plopped the shot glass down on the bar and began filling it with Jim Beam. Whiskey shots were always taken with bare hands; it was just tradition. She allowed herself the melancholy bitterness of remembering that it was tradition because she always drank whiskey with Logan and Logan always ended up removing her gloves at some point, whether to be antagonistic or simply encouraging she’d never figured out.

She took a deep breath and reached out for the shot glass, but gasped in surprise when a hand snaked around from behind her and snatched it up before she could. She half-turned on the stool, looking up just in time to see the precious liquid being emptied into the upturned mouth of a dark-haired man -- and she knew that profile.

He slammed the shot glass back down on the bar and looked down at her with a rakish grin. Black grease was streaked across his cheek and above his right eyebrow, and his hair was even more disheveled than normal. He took her breath away.

“Sorry I’m late, darlin’,” he said in a low, rumbly voice that did funny things to her insides. “Truck broke down just outside’a Perry. Took me forever t’get the damn thing fixed.”

She was still just staring at him, her mouth hanging slightly open. Why had she never seen him like this before? How had she missed the sheer sexuality that he exuded? How had she made it all these years being immune?

She shut her mouth with a ‘snap,’ regathering herself, and reached up to his face, chuckling, “Yeah, you got grease right --” She stopped, pausing with her hand a few inches away from his skin. She’d forgotten she wasn’t wearing her gloves.

He reached up and scrubbed at his cheek with his own bare hand, not seeming to notice how close his hand was to hers as he did. She caught her breath at the easiness of his trust, his confidence in her to not hurt him. Nobody else even came close to being as comfortable with her as he was. No one ever had.

He met her eyes seriously, noting her steady observation of him and returning it. She suddenly realized how close he was to her; she could feel the heat radiating from his chest through the sleeve of her shirt, could feel the slight brush of his belt buckle against her denim-covered hip.

“Did I get it?” he asked quietly, and she shook herself a little. Get what? Oh - right. Grease.

She looked at his cheek, noticing that he’d only managed to rub the oil deeper into his stubble and sideburns. “As good as ya can right now,” she temporized, and he nodded, satisfied, as he slid onto the high stool beside hers.

“So what’s good here?” he asked, and she smiled.

“Well, you can get food - I think the Hot Dog Stand is still serving shrimp baskets and hamburgers.”

“No hot dogs?” he asked, and she grinned at him.

“I’m sure they’re serving hot dogs, too,” she answered lightly before continuing. “They’ve got a full bar -- well, as full as you’re gonna get around here -- and their whiskey ain’t half bad.” She sent him a mild glare. “’Course, you’d know that better’n me.”

He grinned and gave her a sly look out of the corner of his eye. “Gotta say, I needed that drink.”

She smiled wryly and shook her head. “There’s also a nineteen-layer cake --” she paused at his skeptically raised eyebrow and nodded emphatically. “Nineteen,” she repeated. “Local lady named Selma makes them. They’re damn good, too. You can get lemon cheese or yellow with chocolate frosting.”

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Which d’ya think I’d like better?”

“You want cake?” she asked, mildly surprised. “You ain’t normally one for sugar, sugar.”

The look he sent her was nonplussed, and she snickered at her own wordplay, causing him to roll his eyes. “Yeah, I want cake,” he said deliberately, and she nodded, making a mock-impressed face.

“In that case -- lemon.” Her eyes were mischievous and he snorted.

“I didn’t ask which one you wanted,” he pointed out, and she shrugged.

“You know you’ll end up givin’ me the rest of it once you get tired of it,” she argued. “Might as well get somethin’ at least one of us’ll like.”

He couldn’t debate her logic, and her expression was positively smug as he waved the bartender over and ordered two more rounds of Jim Beam, a hamburger, and a slice of lemon cake.

“So tell me what you’ve been up to,” she said quietly, nervousness beginning to resurface with the lull in their friendly banter. In the silence of the spaces between, it was too easy to remember how close they were to changing, and she was afraid to deal with that at the moment. He was her best friend, always had been, and she liked it that way. She sneaked a glance at his profile and reflected that she wouldn’t object much to being best friends plus some, but losing what she already had... well, that just wasn’t an option.

“Not much,” he answered soberly, bumping the stolen, empty shot glass back and forth between his hands on the bar. “Drivin’. Thinkin’.”

She took a deep breath, sliding her hands back into the soft suede of her gloves to try to cover up some of the nakedness she was feeling. This was it -- the moment where they segued into the serious part of this and she found out which way it was going to go. Gathering every last shred of her courage -- and desperately wishing he hadn’t stolen her shot of whiskey -- she studied the varnished oak bar with much more intensity than it deserved and asked in a small voice, “Whatcha been thinkin’ ‘bout?”

It was his turn to inhale and hold it for a moment, but when he finally spoke, his deep, raspy voice was steady, though quiet. “You, mostly.”

She felt a blush creep across her cheeks and fiddled with the fingertips of her gloves, pulling anxiously at the suede and then smoothing it back over her hands. “I --” she started, but just then, the bartender returned with their two helpings of Jim Beam and a plate with a large slice of cake on it.

Logan ignored the arrival of the food in favor of listening to her, silently encouraging her to continue, but she slid the plate over to herself and broke off a tiny piece of cake, popping it into her mouth. He watched her for a few moments before it became obvious that she wasn’t going to finish her sentence, then snatched the plate away from her.

“This is my cake,” he reminded her petulantly, and she smiled around the bite she was savoring. He looked down at the slice then, furrowing his brow as if in concentration.

“What’sa matter, sugar?” she asked with amusement, swallowing her bite and reaching over to break off another. “Forget how ta eat?”

“Nah,” he answered slowly. “Just tryin’ t’ figure out how she made the layers so damn tiny.”

“Oh,” Rogue laughed. “She bakes ‘em that thin and then pounds ‘em outta the pan. I rented one o’ her apartments once, and she lived right above me -- took me the longest damn time t’ find out what that noise was. For awhile, I thought she just must like t’ hang pictures.”

Logan snorted in amusement, then grabbed a nearby plastic fork out of the Dixie cup on the bar -- Rogue bit her lip, deciding not to question the sanitary condition of the utensils out loud -- and cut himself off a huge chunk.

“Hey!” she protested. “Slow down, big fella -- leave some fer me!”

He just shoveled the bite into his mouth and raised both eyebrows at her, daring her to make something of it. She sighed and pushed herself further upright, straightening her spine.

“Hey, Joey,” she called to the bartender. “Get me another piece o’ Miss Selma’s cake, wouldja?”

“You got it, honey,” Joey called back from the other end of the bar, and Logan tilted his head questioningly.

“And a glass of water,” she added on. He nodded confirmation, and she smiled sanguinely at her dinner partner. Date? Friend.

“Whatcha want another one for?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“Figured I wanted more than the crumbs you’re gonna leave for me.”

He nodded slowly, but still seemed a bit perturbed.

“Speakin’ o’ crumbs,” she murmured, leaning over to him, “you’re makin’ a mess, sugar.” She lightly brushed a few bright yellow crumbs away from the corners of his mouth. He froze for a moment at the touch of her glove against his face, and she pulled away, suddenly embarrassed.

“Rogue,” he said, a little strangled-sounding due to the cake he was still trying to swallow, and she met his eyes openly. “I think --”

The clatter of a plate and a glass of water sliding across the bar interrupted him and he growled softly. Joey backed away quickly, and Rogue stifled a nervous giggle at the unlucky barkeep’s reaction. Poor Joey - he always did have bad timing.

Rogue pulled the new plate closer to her, breaking off small pieces of cake and eating them slowly while she watched Logan’s jaw clench and relax rhythmically as he ate his own oversized bites. Finally, he paused for a moment between one bite and the next, and on impulse, she pinched off a piece of her slice and brought it to his lips. He opened them obediently and she slid the treat inside, snatching her hand back before he could bite down on her fingers as well. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t done before, but this time it seemed... different. His reaction was, well, different.

He savored it slowly, then looked at her with dark, unreadable eyes and said with great conviction, “Yours is better.”

A wide grin spread across her mouth and she said brightly, “Of course it is. It’s mine.”

He nodded, and his voice lowered a notch as he answered, “That’s what I meant.”

That odd, fluttery feeling spiked in her stomach again and she leaned on the bar with one elbow, peering around to see his face. “I think we need t’ have a talk, mister,” she said quietly, and he nodded again as nonchalantly as if she’d told him what she’d had for dinner. Which, come to think of it, was exactly six bites of lemon-cheese layer cake and half a beer.

“S’why I asked ya t’ meet me,” he finally said, his tone friendly, but neutral. Rogue shook her head and went back to her cake, baffled by his behavior. One moment, she could swear he was flirting with her, the next he was as casual as ever, just pals having dinner at the same place.

While she was musing, Joey brought Logan’s food, setting it down warily on the bar before he ventured to ask Rogue if she’d like anything else. She shook her head in the negative, and he left with one last anxious glance toward Wolverine.

“I think you scared Joey,” she confided in a stage whisper, and Logan just shrugged, dragging his tongue over the back of his fork to erase any lingering traces of the lemon icing, having finished off the entire slice. She watched him, half amused and half... something else. She wasn’t exactly allowing herself to go there right now, not until they had an honest, serious talk about what was going on.

“I guess you like the lemon more than ya thought ya would,” she observed, and he ignored her grandly, reaching over to her plate and cutting off a piece of her cake. “Get off!” she scolded, slapping his hand away, and he chuckled, scooping the bite into his mouth. She rolled her eyes in mild exasperation as he tossed his fork into the wastebasket visible behind the counter.

He then turned his attention to his ‘real’ food, picking up the burger and chomping off a healthy mouthful. She fought her impulse to laugh at him -- she’d always sworn he could probably eat a whole steak in two bites if he really tried. While he was working on that bite, she reached over to snitch one of his fries. He caught her wrist before she could grab one, however, and she looked up at him in indignation, sputtering as he shook his head deliberately.

He swallowed his mouthful of burger before saying, “Not with your gloves on. You’ll ruin the leather.”

Blushing a little, she twisted her hand out of his grasp and removed the glove before reaching back for her denied treat. He grinned at her, and she smiled back, popping the greasy potato into her mouth and chewing with real delight. “Mmm,” she hummed. “Just how I like ‘em; crispy and salty.”

Without a word, Logan picked up a small cluster of fries and popped them in his mouth, nodding in agreement after a moment. “They’ll do.”

Their interaction remained the same -- casual, bantering, friendly, normal with a few moments of odd tension -- through the rest of their meal and the toss-back burn of Jim Beam. Finally, when Joey started wiping down the bar in a not-so-subtle hint that he was ready to close up shop and go home, Rogue stood from her perch on the stool and stretched languidly, sighing in pleasure as her vertebrae snapped into place.

Logan did much the same, standing and cracking his neck, before pulling on the bomber jacket he’d taken off several hours prior. They’d paid their tab a long time ago, so all that was left was to wave goodbye to Joey (though only Rogue did, probably to Joey’s relief) and walk slowly from the bar, laughing softly when the lights went out barely ninety seconds after the doors had closed behind them.

The night was clear and brisk, with a stiff, salty wind blowing off the gulf. It whipped Rogue’s hair around her face, and she reached up to gather it into her hand, trying to keep the stinging strands out of her eyes.

“Where you stayin’?” Logan asked as she steered them toward the long wooden pier that followed the rock jetty out into the water.

“One of Selma’s apartments,” she answered as they reached the little gazebo at the end of the pier and settled onto one of the benches, a little sheltered from the wind below the flimsy lattice. “Right up the road, on the canal, across from the marina.”

He nodded. “Saw it comin’ in.”

She swallowed nervously, wondering where this was going. It was obvious from his behavior -- his body language, his flirting, even the tone of his voice and the occasional heat in his eyes -- that something had shifted in him. She would venture a guess that he’d decided to pursue something romantic with her, and it simultaneously thrilled and terrified her. She had this feeling that it could -- would -- be so good between them, but there was the ever-present fear that it would eventually come to naught, faltering and falling apart, and leaving them with nothing, not even each other.

She realized that thought frightened her more than anything because, no matter what else in her life she’d lost, he’d always been there for her to fall back on. He’d always been around to pick up the pieces, and she always felt put-back-together when he did. Who would put her back together if he was the one that broke her?

“Hey,” he said quietly, reaching out to tap her knee with his knuckles, drawing her attention. “What’s wrong?”

“Just... worried,” she answered honestly. “Worried about... how, or -- or if -- this is gonna work.” She turned her eyes up to his, letting the full honesty of every emotion come to the surface and knowing he could see it, could read her, even in the dimness of the moonlight.

He nodded thoughtfully, turning his hand over so that his palm cradled her knee, squeezing softly. “So you do wanna go ahead with this? Just makin’ sure, darlin’.”

She nodded. “If -- if you do, I mean,” she added on, and he tilted his chin down in a perfunctory affirmative gesture.

“Yeah,” he confirmed aloud, and she sucked in a sudden breath, her heart giving an odd little jump. There -- it wasn’t just an idea anymore, not just guesswork and inference. He’d admitted it. He’d said it out loud.

He wanted a relationship with her.

She gave in to the little smile that tugged at her mouth, though her pulse still pounded with anxiety... and excitement. Still, she couldn’t help remembering all the many conflicts she and Remy’d had over physical intimacy and wondering if that wouldn’t soon be an issue with Logan.

“Logan, about...” She stopped, clearing her throat and blushing, feeling ridiculous but wanting this out of the way now so she didn’t have to worry about it later. “About... touching... and... stuff...” Shit, I sound like a goddamn high school freshman.

He shook his head, one hand coming up to chuck her lightly under her chin, the friendly gesture immediately turning into a soft caress as his fingertips danced lightly across her cheekbone, careful not to stay there long enough for her skin to affect him. “Not ‘til we’re both ready,” he said, gently emphasizing the both. “There’s no rush.”

Her brow furrowed, and she opened and closed her mouth a few times. “But...”

“Ain’t no use in jumpin’ in too fast,” he insisted. “It’ll happen, darlin’, but only when the timin’s right.” His voice softened as he confided, “I ain’t lookin’ to screw this up.”

“Me neither,” she answered, relief in her tone as she felt her cheeks pink from more than the night wind. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, sliding his hand down her arm to take her gloved hand in his. “I’ve always taken care of ya, right?” he asked, and she nodded. “Don’t see why I oughta stop now.”

She blinked back sudden tears and leaned forward, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re amazing,” she told him sincerely, her voice choking in her throat.

“I’m all right,” he grinned, bringing his free hand up to tug on a few strands of white hair that had blown free of her restraining grip. “You ain’t so bad, either.”

“Thanks,” she laughed, feeling lightness bubble up inside of her. In spite of everything that could go wrong, she was suddenly the victim of a lively hope that this was going to work out just fine after all.

The End