Of all the ways Rogue has imagined this particular moment, it never, ever involved Federal Express. And she's always assumed Logan would actually *be* there for it.
Hell, she even described it to him once. On that long ago night when she drew him a post-nightmare bath, she settled comfortably on the cold tile floor (turned carefully so the sight of his aroused, naked body wouldn't distract her) and told him a story. A fantasy, really. *Her* fantasy, which was surprisingly simple -- that he would eventually realize he was crazy in love with her. That was all. But in the strange intimacy of the moment, sitting beside him as he relaxed in the tub, she found herself spinning a tale for his amusement. She explained to him but that he was so damn contrary that he'd probably have his epiphany when he was about as far as it was possible to get away from New York. She grinned and told him that he would haul ass across the country to get to her and steal her away in the middle of the night.
As it turns out, she's wrong about most of it.
For example, she never thought there would be a plane involved. Given that her limited experience with planes includes being sucked out of a depressurized cabin and crash-landing a jet, she's not all that fond of planes as a general rule. But considering what's waiting for her at the other end of this particular flight, she's willing to grit her teeth and swallow the panic.
Rogue smiles politely at the flight attendant and refuses another in-flight beverage. Checking her watch, she groans -- another hour to go. She's really not sure she can wait a whole hour; she's been waiting for this for what feels like forever, and she's half-afraid this is some sort of cosmic joke. Or possibly a really strange dream.
Because Logan even knowing what FedEx is, never mind *using* it, is just too damn strange. So unlikely, in fact, that she didn't believe it at first. She stood in that intimidating foyer at the Mansion, mouth hanging open, staring down at the purple and orange envelope clutched in her gloved fingers. Yup, that was his writing. And it was her name. She ignored the people gathering around her in the foyer and jiggled the envelope a little, like a kid on Christmas morning, trying to guess the contents. She glanced around at the curious expressions watching her, all wanting to know what the hell was inside, then carried the envelope up to her room to open it in private.
And when she stopped two steps into her room and tore it open, she realized she hadn't even come close to guessing what was inside.
Rogue glances down at the purple cardboard corner peeking out of her carry-on bag. Her version of a talisman. She wonders if her fellow travelers think she's crazy for staring at her bag and grinning like an idiot every few minutes. She figures she's got a right to be a little loopy -- it's fucking weird to have all of this dropped on you out of the blue.
Well, out of a FedEx envelope. Same thing.
Three nights before the FedEx envelope arrived, Logan called Rogue. He did that occasionally, but not often enough for Rogue to really be *used* to hearing the words, "Logan's on the phone for you." She ignored Scott's amused smirk and stared a little blankly at Piotr before accepting the phone.
"Thanks," she added belatedly.
Piotr nodded and collapsed onto the couch beside her. His bulk nearly catapulted her onto her feet, but Rogue stayed put, pulled the phone to her ear and said, "Logan? How are you, sugar?"
"Still standing," he answered, something like amusement in his voice. "You busy?"
Curiosity overcame her shock, and Rogue settled more comfortably against the arm of the couch. "Just watching baseball."
He chuckled just a little. "Are you that bored, darlin'?"
The endearment warmed her, but she didn't comment on it. "Scott likes it," she said. Logan's only answer was a derisive snort. "It's all about strategy," Rogue explained, giving Scott a saucy grin. He had his face angled toward the TV, but she knew him well enough to know he was watching her; he'd worried about her "infatuation" with Logan, though he'd come to accept it over the years. She even thought, of late, that some of Scott's lectures on strategy had more to do with winning Logan over than with field combat. "Winning requires strategy and patience," she said in a fair imitation of Scott, her grin widening when he choked on a laugh. "All kinds of stuff we're supposed to incorporate into our training."
"It's boring as shit," Logan opined. "You want to learn strategy, tell Xavier to teach you some chess."
Snickering, Rogue said, "Logan, my daddy taught me to play chess when I was eight."
"You any good?"
He actually sounded interested, and Rogue frowned. She couldn't figure him out.
In the last year, Logan'd been away a lot. She suspected it had to do with that night she'd drawn him a bath. For reasons she still couldn't articulate, she'd been totally honest with him, and he'd been totally aroused by her, and the combination... Well, he'd been running ever since, even when he was home. Now he'd called from God knows where to chat about her childhood? It was absurd. But if he wanted to feed quarters into a payphone while she told him about Meridian, then she'd talk herself hoarse. Because she understood his reasons for running, but she missed him with a fierce ache that never seemed to ease.
So she snuggled further into the couch's embrace and said, "I can hold my own."
She could tell he was smirking when he answered, "We'll have to play sometime."
"You play chess?" She was surprised by that, but she couldn't really say why. He was a skilled strategist, but he seemed too... active to sit around in a paneled study and play parlor games. Of course, the mental image of Logan and the professor sipping tea and playing chess was pretty damn amusing.
"Sure," Logan answered. "I play sometimes."
"*You* any good?"
He chuckled. "I can hold my own, kid."
Smart ass. She knew a challenge when she heard it. "As long as you're sure your manly ego will recover from being beaten by a girl." She waited, grinning, for his rejoinder. Something about her age, about his unparalleled chess skills -- *something* -- but when he answered, he didn't say anything she expected.
"You've gotta lose some battles to win the war, Marie," he said, his tone mild.
His remark hung in the air for a moment while Rogue tried to decipher what he meant. She was pretty sure he was no longer talking about chess. Problem was, she didn't know exactly what he *was* talking about, and she'd be damned if she'd ask.
When in doubt, poke fun, she decided. "Logan, sugar, you've been hanging around with Scott a little too much."
It was true; what time Logan did spend at home was split between Rogue and, surprisingly, *Scott.* They had some sort of grudging friendship going, and Rogue knew the best way to leave either one of them spluttering was to bring it up.
Like now, for instance. Rogue was pretty sure Logan made some sort of outraged denial, but she was too busy avoiding the pillow Scott lobbed at her to pay attention. Still laughing, Rogue pushed herself up off the couch and tried to glare at Scott. "Well," she said with false offense, "I can tell when I'm not wanted."
Grinning, Scott pretended to be watching the game and ignoring her antics. "Bring me a beer when you come back," he called after her.
"Like hell," she yelled with an accompanying hand gesture that -- judging from the snickers -- Scott and Piotr both saw.
Out of habit, Rogue slipped into the kitchen. Growing up, the living room was for company and the family room was for television, but the kitchen was for long, intimate, revealing conversations. Xavier's modern, spacious kitchen was light years away from Rogue's mama's butter yellow cabinets and tan linoleum floor, but the association remained. Rogue wasn't sure Logan would do any revealing at all, but he didn't seem to be in a hurry to get off the phone. Rogue pulled a beer from Logan's poorly hidden stash in the fridge and twisted off the cap. "Sorry 'bout that, Logan," she said, sliding into a chair and taking a swig of beer. "What were we talking about?"
"You knowing when you're wanted," Logan answered immediately, and there was something in his voice that she couldn't quite identify. Something that put her on full alert. Before she could come up with a response, Logan asked, "Done anything interesting since the last time I talked to you?"
"Same old, same old," Rogue temporized while she considered how to answer his question. Stupid wrist. Maybe if she buried the bad news in a bunch of other stuff... "Training sessions. Really annoying classes at SUNY. Got a little bit hurt in the field. Watched some baseball with--"
"Hurt?" Logan demanded, and all traces of teasing were gone.
Rogue sighed. She should've known she couldn't slip that past him. He went a little crazy when she got hurt. "Broken wrist. That and some bruises. I'm fine."
"Why the fuck didn't you call me?"
Irritation flashed inside of Rogue. "Didn't know which cheap motel in what godforsaken town I should try first. When are you gonna stop running away--?" She stopped herself before she could say, "from me?"
"I'm not running, Marie, I'm working. And you could've asked the professor--"
"He offered," Rogue interrupted, her tone defiant. "I said no."
A cold silence settled over the line and Rogue wanted to take the words back. If he got pissed and hung up now, she'd have to go begging to the professor for information on how to track Logan down to apologize. Still, she couldn't quite make herself say she was sorry. She said nothing instead.
"Why?" he asked after a moment, but instead of anger, he sounded... well, if Rogue didn't know better, she'd think he sounded a little bit scared.
"Because I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily," she answered grudgingly. It was the truth, if not the whole truth. She also didn't want him to come tearing back to the Mansion to play nursemaid. That always seemed to remind him that she was younger and inexperienced and, well, she wanted him to see her as she was. As a woman.
"You tell me when you get hurt," Logan replied, his tone flat. "Period."
"Why?" Rogue demanded. "You don't call me whenever you're hurt."
"Yes, I do," he answered flatly.
It took a couple seconds for his meaning to register. He called when--"What happened?" she demanded, suddenly understanding why he always sounded so pissed off when he was the one asking that question. Anger was easier to handle than this white hot flare of panic. "Are you okay?"
"I heal," Logan answered, his tone dismissive.
It took effort for Rogue not to throw her bottle at the wall. He could be so very frustrating. "Doesn't mean you don't hurt, Logan."
"Tell me what happened." Clearly he was done discussing his injuries, whatever they might be.
"It was my fault," Rogue explained tiredly. She flexed her wrist; it was pretty much healed, just gave her a twinge every once in a while. "I didn't see the guy in the corner until he was right on top of me and I didn't have time to pull my gloves off."
Logan's voice was hard and a little bit intimidating. "Who was it?"
"Some sadist down in east Texas. We rescued a couple of mutants from his basement. Torture, abuse, that sort of thing." And *those* were some images she could really have done without. Logan's nightmares about being a lab rat were bad enough, but this new influx of memories suffused with a sick pleasure in *hurting* others... Rogue shuddered.
"Did you touch him?" Logan asked. His tone was much softer now, and she wondered how much he could infer from her silences.
"He got my arm all twisted up behind my back and tried a headlock," Rogue answered, grimacing a little at the memory of his damp, overheated skin against hers. "He had short sleeves on."
"Fuck," Logan muttered. The expletive was accompanied by something that sounded suspiciously like metal-enhanced knuckles meeting wall plaster at high velocity.
"Your turn," Rogue said. She was marshaling arguments, mustering every last bit of persuasive Southern charm she could think of because she was sure Logan wouldn't tell her a damn thing without some serious cajoling.
"I found a lab down here," he said.
Rogue blinked. He found-- She shook herself out of her surprised silence. "Down here being...?"
"Southeastern Mexico," Logan answered. "It's mostly jungle. Good place to hide a lab. No one close enough to hear any screams."
Rogue winced, remembering his nightmares with a sickening clarity. He'd screamed until his voice gave out.
"Guards?" Rogue asked after a moment. He'd probably taken 'em out and gotten seriously injured in the process, and he was all alone down there hurting and why the fuck wouldn't he just *admit it* already so she could take care of him when he needed it?
"It's abandoned now," Logan said. "No guards."
No guards, Rogue puzzled. "I thought you said you were hurt," she blurted without running it past her common sense. Logan didn't answer, and Rogue could've kicked herself. He *was* hurting, just not physically. God, she was totally screwing this up. She apologized by saying, "I'm glad you called."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She took another swallow of beer, picked at the label on the sweating bottle. "Does it help?"
He sounded a little confused when he asked, "Does what help?"
"Calling," Rogue answered. "When you're -- When you call here, does it help?"
She didn't even breathe as she awaited his answer.
"Yeah," he said finally. "It helps."
Rogue decided the conversation was probably getting a little too serious for him, so she dropped her voice an octave or so and injected some over-the-top sexual innuendo into her words. "I'd help you a lot more if I was there in person."
"Marie," Logan admonished, but he was smiling when he said it. A companionable silence held for a bit, then he asked, "Anything else happen?"
She thought about it. "Not really."
"So you're still with Remy."
Blink. "I'm--" She shook her head a little. "What? Logan, Remy and I -- Remy's just--" Killing time, she thought, hating herself a little bit because it was true.
"Convenient," Logan suggested.
Rogue winced at the implication. He wasn't far off the mark, and her only defense was that Remy understood the situation -- she wasn't hurting him, not really. "Uncomplicated," she corrected, and it was sort of true. "We're not--"
"No," Logan interrupted, his voice pained. "I don't need to know."
What the hell? Where was all this coming from? The only thing that made sense was that he'd finally realized she was all grown up and in love with him. She'd tried brutal honestly once before, that night she'd drawn his bath, and she'd worried for a year that she'd scared him off for good. Maybe he was just particularly thick-skulled. Maybe it had just taken a damn long time to sink in.
Absurdly, all Rogue could think of was Scott's little lecture on nothing ventured, nothing gained. Well, Scott, she thought, here's hoping you're right.
She closed her eyes and took a calming breath. "Logan," Rogue said quietly. "I'm getting tired of waiting."
"So am I."
Three days later, his simple admission still gives her the chills. She shivers, just a little, and gives her seatmate a sideways glance. Good, Rogue thinks when she realizes that the older woman's asleep. Rogue figures that a grinning, shuddering passenger might freak people out a little if they noticed; still, she's having a hell of a time controlling herself.
I won't have to control myself for much longer, she thinks giddily. She bites her glove-covered knuckle to stifle inappropriate giggles.
The flight attendant moves down the aisle again, and Rogue lifts a hand to draw her attention. Not wanting to wake her seatmate, Rogue quietly requests a glass of ginger ale.
Ginger ale was her mama's cure for upset stomachs. Rogue's pretty sure it won't work on this strange fluttering in her abdomen, this mixture of anticipation and nerves and lust that she's been feeling for three days. At least, Rogue thinks as she accepts the plastic cup with a smile, it'll give her something to do with her hands.
The ginger ale bubbles merrily in her mouth, slides down her throat, and she shudders again, remembering the sound of his voice.
"So am I," he said, as open and honest as she'd ever heard him. His response and his candor were so unexpected that Rogue was momentarily struck dumb. The words lingered for a moment, echoing down the phone line while Rogue scrambled for something to say in reply.
But he spoke again, "There's a disembodied voice telling me my time's up."
A joke lurked somewhere under the surface, something about literal versus metaphorical, something about the voice of God, but Rogue couldn't pull it together. "You're going?" was all she managed.
"Forty seconds," Logan answered. "Listen--"
"Logan," she interrupted, her voice spiraling higher. Forty seconds? Shit. She hadn't said enough, not *nearly* enough. She needed to tell him--
"Don't," Logan said, cutting off whatever embarrassing, besotted thing she'd been about to say. "I'm headed back to the States. Should take a couple days of driving. Roads down here are for shit. Twenty seconds."
"Okay," Rogue said stupidly. "Um… Drive safely." Even as the words left her mouth, she dropped her forehead to the table with a loud thunk. Stupid. What a completely inane thing to say.
Logan actually sounded amused when he answered, "Can't promise you that, darlin'. I'm in kind of a hurry."
A hurry? Rogue wondered. What the--
"Five seconds," Logan said. "Watch the mail."
The mail? "Logan--"
Click.
The connection went dead and Rogue sat upright in shock. "Fuck!" she yelled, very nearly hurling the damn phone across the room. She inhaled a deep, slow breath, then stood with short, controlled movements and drained the rest of her beer. Which was most of a bottle, since she'd been concentrating much harder on the man on the phone than the beer in her hand.
Their odd conversation left her unsettled and uncertain. He'd said he was tired of waiting, but then -- it didn't make any sense.
"Fuck," she said again. Scowling, she stalked into the TV room and threw herself back down onto the couch. The end of the baseball game did nothing to distract her from Logan, and the looks Scott and Piotr kept throwing her way were annoying to the extreme.
After five minutes, she retreated to the Danger Room to work out some aggression. It helped. Marginally. But she didn't think she'd get much sleep.
She was right.
In fact, she hasn't slept much the last three nights -- two nights of confusion and one night of jittery anticipation have left her bone-tired. Rogue shifts in her seat, giving her seatmate an envious look. She wishes she *could* catch a nap while they're airborne, but the seat only tilts back about two degrees, and the upholstery is too rough.
"Miss?"
Rogue jumps a little, startled. The flight attendant flashes a plastic smile. "Your cup?" she prompts. "We'll be landing soon."
Soon, Rogue thinks as she hands over the cup, we'll be landing soon. Her stomach lurches as the plane begins to slow, gliding down towards the desert. Her ears clog up and she forces a yawn, wishing she'd thought to bring gum. But she really never thought there'd be a plane, so she never tossed gum into her contingency bag. Clothes and scarves and toiletries, yes. Sexy underwear, hell, yes. Gum, no.
Sexy underwear. The thought makes her grin like a lunatic. Again.
It's back, that feeling of unreality. She's been cycling between elation and disbelief since she tore open the FedEx envelope yesterday. Instinctively, she eyes the corner peeking out of her bag and tells herself not to be a total dork. It's real. She doesn't need to look at the envelope's contents again. She really doesn't.
But her insecurity wins out and she reaches down to snag that bright purple and orange envelope with gloved fingers. It catches on something, and Rogue jiggles it a little until it slides free. She sits up, grinning stupidly at the sight of his scrawl.
Her name. The Mansion's address. And her favorite part: "From: L., Quintana Roo, Mexico."
She has the absurd mental picture of Logan roaring out of the jungle on a motorcycle and striding into a FedEx office. She'll make him tell her the story as soon as she sees him, because she suspects it'll be amusing. How many FedEx offices can there *be* in the middle of nowhere, Mexico?
Her fingers trace the letters lightly, and she puts off opening the envelope until she can't wait another *second* to see the contents. Logan is a practical man, not a romantic. When she opened the envelope yesterday in her room, she found two items held together by a simple paper clip.
No candies. No Hallmark cards. No artifice. Instead, Logan sent her a plane ticket and a note.
The ticket was one way, LaGuardia to Las Vegas, and Rogue understood immediately.
The note, which Rogue fishes out of the envelope to reread, is on simple white notebook paper. It says:
Marie--
I'm done waiting. Meet me in Vegas -- it's faster.
Logan
She's not usually one for girlish emotion, but she had actually cried a little, mostly at the enormity of the moment. Because that moment she'd been waiting for finally arrived, and it wasn't fantasy. It was better; it was real life.
Her cheeks ache from all the grinning she's been doing, but she can't stop, especially not with that simple, revealing note clutched in her hand. She understands what he means -- now that it's here, now that it's real, waiting for him to drive all the way up to New York would be excruciating. This is what she's wanted since they met, and she knows, now, that he feels the same. He doesn't have to say it; she knows he loves her. He could've had her any time he wanted her, and he knows it, but he chose Vegas for a reason.
The plane's tires screech onto the runway, bounce once, and then catch. Rogue tucks Logan's note carefully back into its FedEx envelope, then tugs her carry-on out from underneath the seat. She places the envelope in the bag and locates her lip gloss.
As she recaps the small tube, the pilot comes over the loudspeaker: "It is our pleasure to welcome you to Las Vegas."
And she smiles.
THE END
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to my beloved betas, Em, kate, and Meg, for everything; to Devil Doll, for the excellent pinch-hitting and suggestions; and to katherine, for writing such a fabulous story in the first place, for trusting me with her universe, *and* for leading me to the title.