Everything was Just. Fucking. Soaked.

Heavy sheets of cold rain fell from angry clouds, drenching everything minutes after the storm rolled in. Even the wind would have given a certain Weather Witch a run for her money. In no time streets turned into makeshift rivers and not even the tires in the line of parked cars could block the debris that would only clog the drains. The city was a maze of concrete that wasn’t meant to withstand this heavy rain.

Logan sneered at the thought.

People had spent millions of dollars and more time than he had been alive – maybe, hard to tell at this point – to handle what nature threw at them. Didn’t matter, these urban waterways would just keep gaining momentum until a flash flood formed somewhere. Idiots would panic. Same old.


Logan didn’t usually mind the rain, not with his past drifter lifestyle. He had slept outside in enough storms before he started earning good money from cage fighting. It was a pain in the ass, but it wasn’t the fucking wet death that people here seem to think it is.

What he did hate was how things looked when it rained here. At least when he stuck to the forest in those broken early days the rain made everything greener, more alive. The earth greedily welcomed the precipitation. Here in the city, it was all so…gray. All of it. It could’ve been the effect of the constant sheets of falling water, the oppressive cloud cover, or maybe it was just his mood.


He glances down with that in mind and tries to take in her expression, but she’s turned her face away. Her arms are crossed over her chest and he can tell that she’s just barely tolerating sharing the same space as him. If it wasn’t for this damn rain she wouldn’t have to. He doesn’t know if he should hold onto the anger that’s been simmering under the surface or feel relieved that she hasn’t walked away from him yet.

They’d been stuck under the awning since she had marched out of the hotel, with him stomping after. The actual stakeout mission over long before the argument began. And what a good goddamned mess that had been. The yelling, the accusations, low blows dealt on both sides. They had been with each other long enough to know just what buttons to push, where to throw the verbal punches so they did the most damage. Neither one of them ever did anything half-assed, that was for sure. So when all was said and broken she stormed out of the room, but it felt too much like giving up for Logan not to follow her all the way downstairs and out the door. And now they just had to wait out the storm.


She wouldn’t make a run for the truck, especially in this monsoon. She had stabbed her legs into a longer pair of jeans this morning and they’d be soaked through if she tried. There were few things Marie couldn’t tolerate on a good day and one of them was wearing a wet pair of jeans. Today wasn’t a good day. So no, she wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Of course he could’ve gone and brought it around; he didn’t give a shit about getting wet, but that would give them a break. Time, even briefly, to get away from one another and lessen their feelings, their reasons for arguing.

He focuses on the dirty little stream flowing alongside the curb. Water under the bridge.

They’d each force themselves to forget the fight and just continue on, like they’d been doing for some time now. Get the truck, load their bags, drive back to the mansion, and ignore this new fissure that had opened up. They would go ahead and carry around some underlying coldness for a while, stiffly interacting with each other when others were around. All too common these days. And they already had too much goddamn distance in between them lately for his liking.

So they would wait it out. Together.


The wind shifts and the rain starts to invade their dry space under the awning. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her take baby steps in his direction, all the while trying to make herself smaller so she won’t get wet. The action also makes sure she won’t get too close to him. She’s covered, but even if she wasn’t her skin stopped being a problem for her a long time ago. He wants to think that she’s covered up because of the cold, not to rankle him by denying him access to her body.

He should be thinking of something to say before the storm lets up. After all, he’s the one who wanted to stick this out instead of getting the truck. He wanted, for once, for them to just fucking deal with their shit. So he tries, but all he can manage is a grunt. He still can’t see her face, but notices the increased tension in her shoulders and hears her huff a frustrated sigh in response.

Looks like they used up all their words arguing.

Every time she shakes or flinches from a splatter of rain he has the urge to pull her close, wrap her in his beat up jacket, and tuck her in his arms. It’s so strong it’s almost a compulsion. Maybe because she’s visibly getting colder and wetter. Most likely because it’s the only way he knows how to get close to her again. If he can’t get it one way part of him is desperate enough to force it another way. She’s got Carol’s strength now though, so even his adamantium-laced arms would have a hell of a time holding on to her. He’s pretty sure his body is the strongest part of him too, so if he physically can’t hang on to her then what chance does he have?


Even with all of the shit he’s gotten into over the years his life has never been so fucking complicated. He’s pissed about that. At least part of him is. The rest is just guilty for even thinking that. The alternative is that he wouldn’t have her. Then again, he’d never have to go through this if he didn’t. Fucking complicated.


He doesn’t realize he’s clenching his fists until he feels the dull ache that’s become so familiar lately. Maybe if he rubs his knuckles hard enough he can keep resisting the urge to shake her and demand some kind of fucking explanation. When the pain stops he hazards a look at his hands. Normal hands, uncalloused hands, strong hands as she once called them. Just a hint of raw skin around the knuckles. Couldn’t the lab have given him something useful? He doesn’t have Chuck’s big ol’ brain to figure this shit out. He doesn’t have Hank’s nice words either. Hell, he’d almost admit to envying Scooter’s pansy-assed knack for patience right about now.

He’s got nothing. He supposes he never really did – no, that’s not true. He had something once, but it looks like she’s not his anymore. More pain with that thought, not in his hands this time.


Marie stumbles into him as some asshole clocks her shoulder on his way out of the rain. Fucker doesn’t even apologize, which only makes Logan’s knuckles itch.

“Asshole.” Marie grumbles. He can’t be sure if she’s talking about the dick that pushed her or if she’s referring to him. That’s when he looks down and sees that his right arm is around her. He won’t pull away – she’s going to have to move if she doesn’t like it. So he waits for her to pull back.

And he waits.

Waits some more.

She’s got to notice. She hasn’t touched him since their fight, much less looked at him. She’s got her pride in spades. But he’s not one to talk.

Then she leans in a little. It’s warmer under his jacket and that’s where she’s slowly headed, making sure her cheek doesn’t graze the cold zipper. This should be a victory. He should feel like he’s won after holding out, but he’s more confused than before. She still hasn’t looked at him. Now all he can see is the top of her head and the shock of white striped through her pony tail. Her body still tense, prepared for another round of fighting.

He’s sick of dancing around whatever the hell the problem is. A guy with an adamantium-reinforced skeleton shouldn’t be doing any kind of dancing for Christ’s sake. Does he want to risk her pulling away if he says something though? When just a few seconds ago all he wanted was her in his arms like this?


Logan has never, ever in his few remembered years genuinely apologized to anyone. Never seriously considered it until now. He has no fucking clue what he would be sorry for, but he vaguely thinks women like to hear that sort of thing. If he doesn’t know, then he guesses it wouldn’t really solve anything. It’d be the same as bringing the truck around and letting it go right off the bat. No, that’d be a temporary fix and he’s never been a Band-Aid kind of guy. But his standard, “what the hell is your problem, bub?” wouldn’t go over too well with his girl either.

She lets out a long sigh and he can’t remember ever hearing Marie sound so damn tired before. He recognizes it though because he feels the same way. Has been for a while now. He’d been so focused on figuring out where her passion and fire went when they weren’t arguing. He now realizes that she might be thinking the same thing about him. She should. The only things he puts effort into nowadays are figuring out who the hell she’s turned into and then fighting with her. Even that’s changed. How’d she put it after their first argument not long after they got together? Something like they were fighting for each other. She had a lot more words about that and they were better than he could come up with, but it made sense. And he can see the difference now. Now each fight is breaking them apart. They’re going to ruin each other if they keep going like this.

So that’s what he tells her.

Because he wants to start fighting for each other again.

Because he’s the one who’d rather wait out the storm with her than walk away.