They'd been on the Harley for almost sixteen hours, stopping only occasionally for food and fuel; it had long since gotten dark, and the night was cool and foggy. Although she hadn't said a single word about it, Logan knew Rogue had to be getting uncomfortable, as the wind was cold and damp, and she'd been burying her face inbetween his shoulderblades for the last eighty miles or so.
"You all right, darlin'?" he asked, turning his head to let the wind carry his voice to her.
"Tired," she called out over the roar of the bike's engine and the road noise. "Think Ah might fall asleep soon."
"Better not," he replied. "Ya fall asleep, you'll fall off the scoot." He looked up at the big green sign they were approaching, and sighed in relief. "We're in luck - there's a town comin' up in a coupla miles. We'll get a room there and crash out fer the night."
"Great," she answered sleepily, and snuggled down into his back again.
He took the next exit and followed the "Lodging" sign's directions - and shortly found himself driving through what looked to be a pretty bad neighborhood. If it were just him, he'd blow it off as nothing and hit the nearest bar while he was at it, but having Rogue with him was an altogether different matter. "This place don't look so hot," he said, glancing left and right, taking in the surrounding area and subconsciously memorizing the placement of pedestrians and other vehicles. "Think you can hold on 'til we get to the next town?"
She didn't even look up this time, and her voice came out somewhat muffled. "Nothin's gonna happen. Ah'm with you. Plus, Ah gotta pee."
Logan sighed again, this time in frustration. "Again? Jesus, Marie, yer bladder's the size of a flamin' chickpea."
She giggled. "Well, this chick's pee is gonna be all over this seat if y'all don't stop, an' Ah mean soon." She paused, then made a noise like a groan. "God, Ah really jus' said that, didn't Ah?"
He nodded. "Yep."
"Shit. Ah'm gettin' punchy enough to make lame jokes - ya better stop an' let a girl sleep, Logan."
"All right, all right." He guided the bike into the parking lot of a sleazy little no-tell motel and killed the engine. "C'mon - and stick close."
She waited until he'd unstrapped the leather satchel of necessities from behind the buddy seat and then she stood up, hugging one of his arms and leaning on him heavily. "No problem, sugah - Ah'm so tired Ah can barely walk, let alone wander off."
He led her into the rental office, glaring at the attendant's knowing smirk, and paid for a night's stay; he took the key, wrapped an arm around Rogue protectively, and together they trooped off to a room around the back of the building. He unlocked the door and swung it open to reveal a small, shabby, sparsely-furnished room with a decades-old television set and a bathroom in the back that Logan could already smell the mildew in. "Here we are," he said, and guided her over to the bed. "Home crap home - at least fer tonight."
She eyed the bed warily, squinting as he snapped on a cheap lamp mounted to the wall. "Tell me those sheets're clean."
He set the bag down, picked up a corner of the blanket, and sniffed it. "Well..."
"Oh, God." Her nose wrinkled in disgust, she raised her eyes to regard his somewhat amused expression and sighed. "Do Ah wanna know what they smell like?"
He snorted and let the blanket fall back down onto the dingy mattress. "Well, she wasn't a real blonde."
Rogue's hand flew to her mouth in horror, and Logan was hard-pressed not to burst out laughing right then. "Oh, God! Okay, Ah ain't tired anymore."
"Oh, c'mon, it's just a little peroxide. 'Sides, the room's already paid for."
She flopped down into a moth-eaten chair in the corner and heaved a sigh. "Great. Ah knew Ah shoulda waited."
He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you hafta pee?"
She folded her arms and gave him a Look. "Check the bathroom first."
The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. "Why?"
"Ah wanna make sure there's no roaches!"
Trying hard not to laugh, he poked his head into the bathroom, turned the light on, and went very still.
"What?" she asked, inching forward to the edge of the seat; when he didn't answer, she curled her hands under her chin nervously and whispered, "Logan? What is it?"
There was the distinct snikt sound of his claws extending, and he growled, charging headlong into the bathroom.
She leapt up and ran after him, eyes huge. "Logan! What is it!?"
Logan was standing very calmly in the middle of the room, a wicked little grin on his face. "The shower curtain's awful," he said, poking one of the plastic curtain rings with his claws, then retracted the blades, laughing. "No roaches, though."
She stared at him for about fifteen seconds before flying at him and smacking his arms and chest furiously. "You big jerk! Ah was scared outta mah mind!"
He didn't even try to fight back - he just held up his hands to protect his face and kept right on laughing.
"Gah! Ah'm gonna go get a Coke." She stomped away from him, and his mirth vanished.
"Hold on, darlin' - lemme go with ya."
"Ah'm fine, Logan," she snapped, opening the front door. "The machine's just around the corner - Ah saw it when we came in."
She slammed the door on his puzzled expression and stormed down the dimly-lit passageway to the vending area, grumbling. What the hell was his problem, teasing her like that? Here she'd been so worried, and all she'd asked him to do was check the bathroom, for God's sake! Call her girly, but she really didn't want to sit down to take a leak only to have a half-dozen roaches crawl across her butt. She shivered at the thought and plunked some quarters into the outdated Coke machine, jabbing the cracked plastic button with its yellowed label as if she were angry at it.
"Whatsa matter, baby?"
She turned around quickly to see two men standing not five feet away, wearing identical leering expressions and looking about as trustworthy as a couple of tomcats in a canary shop. "Nothin'. Leave me alone." She turned to head back to the relative safety of the room, but one of the men grabbed her by the upper arm - hard - and stopped her.
"Aw, c'mon, baby, that ain't no way to be. We're jus' bein' friendly." The guy was a big blond bruiser of a man, well over six feet tall and weighing in at around three hundred pounds; his compatriot was darker, shorter, and a little thinner, but built like a brick shithouse.
Rogue was utterly terrified.
"Lemme go!" she demanded, trying to pull away, and the guy's big gorilla mitt squeezed her arm still harder, making her yelp. "Ow! Quit it, you're hurtin' me!"
The shorter man came closer, getting right up in her personal space until she was backed up against the soda machine, her eyes wide. "What's gotcha in such a pissy mood, huh?" he asked, stroking a grimy hand down her cheek. "Yer John short'cha on the tip?"
She blinked in surprise, then laughed, despite her fear. "Ah'm not a hooker!"
"Good," the taller man said with a yellow-toothed grin. "That means you'll be nice an' tight."
Pure terror swelled up in Rogue like a crashing wave; without her powers, she was just like any other normal girl, vulnerable and completely defenseless against these two towering maniacs that seemed to have very unpleasant ideas rattling around in their empty skulls. "N-no," she said, horrified to hear her voice come out as a thin squeak. "Leave me alone!"
"Do yerself a favor, baby," the blond said, and started to pull her towards him. "Don't fight. It won't hurt near so much that way."
Rogue took a deep, shaky breath, summoned all her strength, and screamed: "LOGAN!!"
"Bitch!" the tall man slapped her across the face, silencing her, and grabbed her ponytail, twisting it around his fist. "You keep yer fuckin' mouth shut!"
"Take yer hands off her." The men spun around to see Logan standing right behind them, eyes dark with fury.
"Beat it, runt," the darker man spat. "Whores're a dime a dozen in this town. Get'cher own - this one's ours."
Logan growled and stepped closer. "She ain't no whore. Now take yer hands off her, before I take 'em off myself - at the wrists."
"She looks like a whore to me," the blond replied, pulling Rogue's ponytail back sharply to look her in the face. "Oh yeah. She look like a whore to you, Devon?"
The shorter of her captors - Devon - leaned in very close and stared hard into Rogue's wet eyes. "Oh, yeahhh. Looks like a whore to me." He dipped his head down to sniff loudly along her exposed throat. "Smells like one, too."
Logan gritted his teeth and stepped closer. "Last warning."
"Hm," the blond man said airily, "if she looks like a whore, and smells like a whore..." He reached down with his free hand and squeezed Rogue's right breast brutally, making her shout with pain. "Hm. Feels like one, too. Must b-"
And that was as far as he got before Rogue suddenly found herself sitting on the ground, her shirt wet and sticky, her eyes staring blankly down at a dismembered hand lying on the pavement in a little puddle of blood.
Devon was curled up on the ground beside her, howling with pain, having apparently gotten a size eleven-and-a-half boot to the jewels; the big blond guy was cowering beside the Coke machine, clutching the bloody stump of his arm and quite openly pissing himself. Which was understandable, considering Logan had his claws up against the guy's throat and was snarling furiously. "Warned ya, didn't I, bub? That girl's too good fer the likes o' you sleazoids to even look at her! You touch her, yer gonna be in a world o' hurt!"
"Aw, c'mon, man, please, please, don't kill me, don't kill me..." The guy was crying now, shaking all over.
Logan's grin was cruelly sadistic as he lowered his lethal claws to the crotch of the man's jeans, pressing just hard enough to cause dark rosettes of blood to blossom on the wet denim. "Ya wanna find out how many more body parts I can slice off before ya die o' blood loss?"
Rogue found her voice. "Logan!" He turned to look at her and she ran to him, hair wet from the now-falling rain, shirt soaked with blood and clinging to her. "Logan, no! Please, let's just go back to the room...?"
The feral beast in Logan was still hungry, still angry, still growling for vengeance and blood and justice... but the man in him saw the poor girl standing there, heard the fear in her voice, and knew she was what was important, not his own bloodlust. He retracted his claws and stood up; the two would-be rapists ran off as best they could, and good riddance. "You all right, sweetheart?" he asked gently, taking in her bloody, bedraggled state and reddening cheek.
"Logan, Ah'm... Ah...." She burst into tears, the terror having passed, leaving hysteria in its cold wake.
"Shhh. Shhh, c'mon, darlin', let's get you inside." He wrapped an arm around her and guided her back to the crappy little room, where he shut and locked the door, then sat her on the bed.
"Ah'm sorry," she was sobbing, her face buried in her bloodstained hands. "Ah'm so sorry... Ah won't go off like that again..."
He brought a damp washcloth from the bathroom and knelt in front of her. "Shhhh. Hush, darlin', it ain't yer fault." He gently moved her hands away from her face and began to wipe the blood from them. "Shit like that ain't nobody's fault. Stupid bastards think they got the right to do whatever they want to a woman..."
She cried harder. "But if Ah hadn't..."
His expression hardened, and he wiped her face. "Then they'd-a picked on some other girl - one that didn't have nobody lookin' out for her. Hell, ya prob'ly jus' saved some poor girl's life."
"Ah... Ah wanna take a shower."
He looked at her for a minute, brows scrunched together in concern; she seemed to be in shock, her eyes wide and wet and blank, her body limp and slouched over like she had no muscle control. He was both desperately worried about her and furious with himself for letting her out of his sight - especially in this neighborhood. "Sure, darlin'. Come on, I'll help ya up." Gently cupping her elbows to support her, he helped her to stand, then led her slowly to the bathroom.
He sat her down on the closed lid of the toilet and went to the shower; holding the curtain aside, he started the water up and let it run for a minute or two, testing the temperature on his wrist and adjusting it accordingly. After a short time, he turned to her and pushed the curtain shut. "There ya go, darlin', all set. You go ahead and get in whenever yer ready - I'll be right out here, watchin' TV or somethin', if ya need anything."
"No!" she blurted loudly, and he blinked in surprise.
"No?"
"Ah..." She dropped her gaze to the peeling linoleum floor. "Ah don't... wanna be... alone."
He ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. Understandable. You, uh, want me to close my eyes or somethin' while ya get in?"
She shook her head no, very slowly. "Logan... help me. Please."
He blinked again. "Help you, sweetheart?"
"Ah... Ah can't... Ah jus'.... Logan. Please."
The look on her face shattered his heart into a million aching pieces. "Okay, darlin'. Okay. C'mere." He helped her to stand, then began to unbutton her blood-splattered sleeveless blouse; she stood there and let him, silent tears running down her face, and when he pulled the two halves of material apart and slipped the shirt down and off her shoulders, she didn't even blink. He got her arms free of the wet cotton and tossed the ruined blouse aside, not really caring where it landed, then unfastened the button and zipper of her jeans, watching her face cautiously.
She didn't say anything, her expression unchanged.
He eased the denim down her long, smooth legs and allowed her to brace herself on his shoulder as he lifted first her left foot, freed it, set it back down, then repeated with the right. He got her shoes and white socks off and cast them aside with the shirt and jeans, then stood back up, trying not to notice how fucking lovely she was, so pale and soft, in that green satin bra-and-panty set. He considered unhooking her bra, but decided against it; she was obviously somewhat traumatized, and she needed his support and understanding, not his ogling.
He held the shower curtain back and took her by the elbow again, gently. "Here ya go, c'mon. I'll sit right over there, I promise. Won't leave the room."
"Help me," she whispered, eyes riveted to the floor.
"I'm tryin', darlin', but I can only do so much - you can take off yer dainties once ya get in there, if ya need to. I promise, I ain't goin' anywhere."
She leaned against his chest, trembling. "Logan. Please. Help me."
And then it finally sunk in - she wanted him to help wash her off. Ohhhh sweet Jesus. How much self-control did she think he had, anyway? "Darlin'... I don't think..."
"Please." Her voice was so small, so desperate, so full of sadness.
He sighed. Maybe she needed him to get the blood off of her because it was his fault it was there. Maybe he just really needed a shower and she was too flamin' sweet to tell him. Maybe this was an entirely unhealthy way for her to deal with what had just happened... but at that point, he didn't really give a damn. She was asking him for help, and goddamn it, he was gonna help her. For her, he could have the self-control of a god. "All right. Hang on, darlin'."
She stood and waited, eyes down, as he pulled his shirt over his head and flung it aside; he toed off his boots, then unfastened his belt buckle and tugged his jeans down. Ridding himself of both socks, he cast those aside as well, then paused. He still had a thin gray pair of boxer briefs on; he really could've used a good wash, and he wasn't sure if... No. He decided to leave them on - he could shower by himself later, after she'd gone to sleep. This was about her, not him, and he figured she'd probably recover from her recent ordeal much faster if she didn't have a stiff nine-inch reminder that men are horny pigs poking her in the hip. Because while he might have had the self-control of a god, he still had the body and instincts of one of said horny piggish men, and upsetting her further was not really something he wanted to do.
So, underwear still firmly in place, he came back over to her and held the shower curtain open for her. "Here we go, Marie, hop in."
Far from hopping, she stepped cautiously into the musty old bathtub, hanging onto his bicep for support; there were a few trial-sized bottles of shampoo lined up along the front edge of the bath, and a somewhat melted-looking bar of Dial soap in the soapdish, and although it was no five-star Hilton, the hot water pouring over her more than made up for the shabbiness of the facilities.
He turned her gently to face him, lathering a washcloth, and set about scrubbing the blood off her creamy skin; he carefully washed both her arms and hands, then her shoulders, then swept the sudsy cloth down over her collarbones - and stopped cold when he saw the livid purple bruise just visible above the edge of her bra cup. He growled angrily, eyes darkening. "Bastards."
She looked down, saw what he was looking at, and started to cry again, which made him feel like a grade-A, number-one, first-class asshole. "Ah never thought," she sobbed, covering her face with her soapy hands, "Ah never thought about how Ah'd protect mahself without mah powers... Ah jus' wanted to touch people without hurtin' 'em... Ah never thought about what Ah'd do if someone tried to hurt me!"
"It's okay, darlin'," he soothed, only vaguely aware of the soft rumble of a purr he was emitting to comfort her. "You got me to look out for ya. I promised I'd take care of ya, and I'm a man o' my word."
She looked up at him for the first time since they'd gotten into the shower, her eyes shining and full of something like hope. "Really?"
He smiled at her gently. "Really."
She sighed and finally relaxed, the smell of her fear vanishing in the air with the clouds of steam pouring off the hot water; he reached up and tilted the showerhead down as far as it would go, directing the spray at the floor, then turned her around and helped her to sit on the floor of the tub, the water tumbling down onto their legs. He pulled her back against him, his legs on either side of her body, and unfastened her ponytail. Then he picked up one of the little bottles of shampoo, pouring its contents into his palm, and rubbed his hands together; carefully, he started to work the lather through her hair, ridding it of all traces of blood.
She leaned back against his chest, draping one arm over his bent knee, and stroked the soft, dark hair on his shin; his strong fingers massaged her scalp in infinitely gentle circles, his whole body was vibrating from the purring noise he was making, and she'd never felt so safe in her entire life. She felt for this man like no one else - this man of complexities and paradoxes that boggled her mind with their depth and passion. This man that was both savagely violent and incredibly tender, callously cruel and sweetly compassionate, rough and beautiful, a lover and a fighter. This man that had just sliced a hand off another human being just for touching her was now washing her hair with such care, as if she were something precious and as fragile as spun sugar besides. It was astounding.
He pushed her forward a bit, nudging her head under the spray to rinse her hair, and when all the shampoo was washed away, he pulled her hair back over her shoulders and sat back as if he were waiting for something. Truth be told, he had no idea what he was supposed to do next - she seemed a good deal better, and he couldn't smell any more blood on her, so he just figured he'd let her decide when the shower was over. This was her therapy, anyway.
He rested his hands on his knees, and she looked at them; they were large and strong, the palms broad and square, the fingers long and thick with somewhat ragged fingernails. The dark hair on the backs grew in neat lines toward the outside, and the veins and tendons beneath stood out prominently against his tanned skin. She couldn't remember ever having seen such lovely hands on a man, and knowing there were three lethal blades inside his forearm that came out of those hands made them all the more beautiful. She lifted one, and he humored her, letting her tilt it and turn it and examine it from every angle like an artist.
He was sort of amused by her curiosity until she cupped his palm with one hand, straightening his wrist, and said, "Show me."
"Show you what, darlin'?" he asked, though he knew damn well what she wanted.
"Show them to me." She stroked her fingertips over the sensitive skin between his knuckles, and he shuddered. "Please."
"Why?"
"Ah... Ah need to see 'em. Please."
He sighed, not really sure if this was a good idea or not, but if that's what she wanted... God, he was going to have to watch it, or he was going to end up pussy-whipped by the end of the fucking trip. "All right. Watch yerself." She took her hands away, and he made a fist; the tendons in his forearm twitched and tensed, and the claws sprang violently from their housings with a snikt. "There. That what'cha wanted?"
Without another word, she picked up the washcloth from where he'd discarded it on the soapdish, and started to wash the shining blades.
He tensed, watching her warily. "What're ya doin', darlin'?"
"What's it look like?" She stroked the white cloth up and down each claw, taking great care with the razor-sharp edges, each pass of the terry like a caress.
"It looks like yer playin' with fire, darlin'. You be careful, those're--"
"Sharp?" she asked, her tone so matter-of-fact it was almost flat. "Yeah, Ah know. Ah just watched ya lop off a man's hand with 'em, Logan. Ah think Ah got an idea what they're capable of." What you're capable of, she wanted to add, but didn't.
"Look, I..."
"Hush, you're gonna make me slip, sugah."
He shut up.
She ran the cloth over all three blades, one at a time, then held his hand under the spray of water pouring down on them, rinsing them and leaving them squeaky clean and as shiny as a mirror. Not that they needed the cleaning - nothing really stuck to adamantium, least of all blood - but they did seem a little more reflective, a little... purer.
She picked up his other hand. "Now these."
He complied, extending the claws obligingly, and watched in rapt fascination as she gave that set the same loving treatment; he loved the way she caught her lower lip between her teeth when she ran the cloth over the honed edges, as if in deep concentration; the way she cradled his forearm between her left arm and her breasts; the way she smiled when she caught her reflection in the flat of the blades. She held that hand up to the water, rinsed the claws off, and turned to look over her shoulder at him.
"You can put 'em away now."
He smiled and retracted the claws - then gasped in surprise when she immediately picked up his left hand and stroked the already-healing cuts between his knuckles. Oh dear God, she couldn't have pressed his buttons any harder if she'd grabbed his cock and bit his nipple; he could never quite explain it - even to himself - but anything related to his claws seemed to be some kind of a super-erogenous zone. When they were sheathed, the tendons in his forearms that controlled them were incredibly sensitive, mostly because the sharp edges of the blades, when pressed, cut into him and caused some kind of twisted pleasurepain that made his mind reel. When they were extended, the wounds they made in his hands stayed open and raw and tingled like a severe sunburn; if those wounds were stroked very lightly, whether or not his claws were still out, it sent a jolt of oh-my-God straight down his spine and into parts that really had nothing to do with his claws. And the fact that she was sitting inbetween his legs in nothing but a skimpy, wet pair of panties and a satin bra that left little to the imagination, stroking his hands in just the right way... Well, that godlike self-control was starting to slip.
It got worse when she lifted that hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles.
"Marie," he gasped, and she repeated the action on the other hand.
She held his hand to her heart, and rewarded his patience and compassion with a warm, sincere smile. "Thank you, Logan." She turned fully to face him and lay flat on his front, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her wet hair sticking to his chest in pretty spiderweb patterns. "Thank you - for everything. Ah don't know what Ah'd do without you."
He wrapped his arms around her and held her to him, inhaling her sweet scent and feeling like the king of the fucking world. "I know how ya feel, darlin'."
They got out and dried off, and he only bitched a little bit when she stole his favorite flannel to use as a sleepshirt; she went into the bathroom with a clean bra and panties and changed while he stayed in the main room and got out of his wet undershorts and into a nice dry pair of boxers and some drawstring pants. Afterwards, she sat on the bed and brushed her hair while she watched him do pushups, counting aloud for him and teasing him occasionally by pressing her foot down inbetween his shoulderblades while he was trying to press up. "C'mon!" she'd giggle, leaning her weight on him. "You can do it!" And he would, straightening his arms with a playful growl and nearly knocking her over backwards.
Sometime around three in the morning, he crawled into bed and she curled up beside him, her body warm and soft against his side; he wrapped an arm around her and she snuggled up to his bare chest, her slim fingers toying drowsily with the crinkly hair on it, and promptly fell asleep.
Lying there in the dark, stroking her soft, still-damp hair, he exhaled deeply and thought: If this was only the first night... God, this is gonna be one hell of a road trip.
END.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
WARNINGS: Violence and attempted rape.