The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Fuck.
I don’t mean to be rude and swear. My momma would be ashamed. But seriously. Fuck.
My heart thuds somewhere deep within my chest, my entire body prickling with a sensation that lifts all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. He’s here, looking at me.
Fuck, he’s here? He came all the way out here? To where I am? To where I was-
Fuck.
I bite my lip, blush furiously, then look away. Hoping that physics have radically altered enough in the last few minutes to allow the earth to swallow me whole. This feels like one of those horrible surreal moments. You know, like the dream when you’re wondering around, chatting to people, when you suddenly realise you’re naked?
I hate that dream.
And right now I don’t have a clue what to say. Not only is Logan bristling like a caged animal in my motel room... which feels weird enough all by itself, believe me; but sooner or later the question of what the hell took me so long to open the door is gonna come up. And that’s one thing I do not want to have to explain...
...Yeah, Logan, it was nothing. I was just pretending to be you and I got carried away and began to jerk myself off. Christ. Even I think that’s weird.
Let’s just not go there.
God, but the atmosphere is tense. What’s he doing here anyway? Does he think I’m in danger? I mean, you don’t just go chasing after people without a reason... do you?
I try and suppress the sudden fluttering in my stomach that thought brings. Dammit. I don’t want to start thinking like I’m sixteen again, it gets me nowhere. Keep a cool head Rogue.
...Still...
Nervous tension tickles over my skin as I watch him take in my surroundings. I study his reactions, see him making a hundred judgements from the cast of his eyes alone. Noticing the half unpacked duffle. Run down motel. Dodgy end of town. Yeah... no matter what I want to believe, it doesn’t take a genius to work out what he’s thinking. Runaway kid. Mess. An obligation he’s gonna have to sort out so he can tell himself he’s done something worthwhile.
Yay. So nice to be so highly regarded.
You know, one of these days it would be nice if someone came hunting me down because they were driven crazy with lust and desire for me. Not just for a misplaced sense of over protectiveness.
I sneak a glance up at him, looking for hidden traces, just in case... but nope. No desire. No lust. Just a frown. More of a scowl really.
Well screw him. This time I’m actually doing alright for myself without his help thank you very much. Ha!
...Kinda.
God it’s really hard to feel smug, when your body can’t understand if it’s agitated or turned on. His very presence alone is enough to threaten my carefully controlled exorcism of painful emotions, and I resent that! I’d much rather be in numb denial than that stupid, giddy, painful confusion I used to feel when he was around.
His heat, it radiates off him and I feel my nostrils flair unconsciously at the familiar scent he brings. Damn nostrils. Traitors! It’s such a slight movement, but he notices it alright, I see his eyes flicker. Nothing escapes his attention.
But he doesn’t say anything.
Nothing at all.
Nada. Zilch.
...Okay, so that’s weird.
And awkward.
Seriously. Why isn’t he saying anything? He was the one that burst in here! Now he’s just leaning back against the cheap wooden table, folding his arms as he looks at me. In that judging, feral, direct way.
You could slice through the tension with a hot knife.
Or a hot claw. Heh.
"So what you doin’ here kid?"
Ah, so he does speak. There’s disappointment in his tone and it reaffirms everything I thought about him being here for an obligation. And I take it all back about the silence thing. Silence is good. Silence is no questions asked.
"Marie?"
Oh.
Why did he have to say that? I swallow, suddenly feeling like I’m choking on barbed wire, all closed in and claustrophobic. I hate that name.
"It’s Rogue," I return, letting my accent run deliberately strong. "And I’m fine."
That gets me a raised eyebrow. "That’s not what I asked."
Well it’s the only answer he’s gonna get. He may look like freakin’ sex on legs, but he is a whole lot of things that I do not want to deal with right now. Argh! And I hate that he’s managed to make me angry as well! Damn him!
I eye up the door. It wouldn’t be running away. More like self preservation. If something’s aggravating you, you get away from the cause of the aggravation.
...Right?
I try to walk past him to get to my bag, but he stops me with a hand to my arm, eyes briefly travelling over my dishevelled appearance to judge me accordingly. I can feel my cheeks colour under the heat of them, painfully aware that he must sense the lingering traces of desire.
"What you doin’ here?" he says again.
"I should be the one asking you that question."
"So ask."
"What if I don’t care?" That comes out a little more bitter than I expected.
He doesn’t react though; instead his gaze falls to the messy bed and the heap of towel on the floor beside it. He tries a different line of questioning. "Were you alone?"
Nothing. There’s nothing there to indicate any emotion at all. No jealousy, no desire. Just ‘I-said-I’d-look-out-for-you-kid’ concern.
I hate that.
I’m so tired of seeing it in his eyes. So. Frickin’. Tired. It wakes something inside of me, a ribbon of defiance, my god-awful stubbornness rearing its ugly head. "Alone?" I pout. "Well I am now." I indicate towards the bathroom with a jerk of my head. "Back window. You scared him. He thought you were my boyfriend returning."
Ha!
Oh...interesting... Something fleeting crosses his expression.
He doesn’t like that, I realise. Doesn’t like the casualness with which I just tumbled a couple of lovers into our conversation. Is he jealous? Probably not. But the thought narks at him all the same.
Score for Rogue.
"So?" I add, when he says nothing more. "You come here just to discuss my sex life?" ...My imaginary sex life, yes, but he doesn’t need to know that.
"Marie-"
That fucking name again. "It’s not how I pay my way or anything," I add off hand, as if it means nothing. "Or at least, not anymore."
At that he does something really weird. Unfortunately I don’t recognise it for what it is until it’s too late. He pushes himself away from the table until he’s right in front of me, invading my personal space, breathing in the air around me until the tension humming off him is almost contagious. Then he steps back.
"Strange that I can only smell one scent then." His voice stays level. "Yours."
Um...Shit!
...I forgot about that.
I try my hardest not to be totally mortified. He knows I was...I was... God I can’t even bring myself to think it now, just in case it prints the words across my face or something. Was. Getting. Herself. Off.
Oh that’s so embarrassing.
I force myself to stay calm. I will not blush again, I will not! I try to make my face stay its normal colour though sheer will power alone. Think about something else. Quick!
...Like what the fuck he’s doing barging in here in the first place? He has no right!
Yeah, that’s better. Anger I can control. Anger I can harness. This is my life now, and I distinctly remember telling him to leave me alone. I don’t want his goddamn brotherly affection. Not when he’s there one moment and gone the next. Not while he works his way through a steady stream of blondes, brunettes and redheads. It hurts too fucking much.
"Go away, Logan."
"No."
I give him my best attempt at a scathing look. "So what? You just gonna stand there all day?"
If I’m hoping for a reaction, well, it doesn’t get me one. All that happens is that his lips press together to form a tight line. "I think," he says, deliberately controlled, "that you’ve got some explainin’ to do."
"In what way?"
"Well for a start you can explain why the hell you took off!"
Okay, now that one? Pisses me off. He’s allowed to take off and I’m not? "What right have you to care? You weren’t there!"
"It doesn’t matter where I was. I get this call from ‘Ro, then another from Jubilee sayin’ you’d gone missing. They thought you were with me."
Jubilee phoned Logan? God, she must have been desperate. He makes her so nervous that I swear she’d pee her pants if he so much as growled in her direction.
...Ugh, and that thought sends a wave of guilt washing through me. Great.
I hate that. I hate guilt. It’s always overshadowed everything. Guilt at being what I was, guilt that my skin was a danger. Guilt that I failed my parents by becoming a freak. Dammit, I promised myself I wouldn’t feel guilty anymore. "So what?" The words snap out of me. "They don’t own me. I can do what I like."
"They don’t own you? Kid, they care about you. They were your friends! D’you have any idea what you put them through?"
Oh there is no way I’m gonna take a lecture on the morals of up and leaving from the master of it himself. How the fuck did he find me anyway? The cell was the only device I owned that could be tracked. "Look, spare me the lecture, okay? Why are you here? Have they sent you to come and get me? Am I a mission now?"
"Come to take you home. Where it’s safe."
Yeah. That just gets him a look.
"You’re livin’ in a motel room."
I glare at him. "It suited you fine for long enough."
"That’s different."
"Ha!" He doesn’t look too impressed that I actually laugh at that. "Yeah. Right. You say it often enough maybe even you will start believing it."
"Marie." It’s a warning.
"My name," I say once again through clenched teeth, "is Rogue."
And that’s it. I have officially had enough. I don’t need this. It’s surfacing all sorts of emotions that I really don’t want to think about, and if he’s just here to lecture me? Then I don’t want to listen. Simple as that.
I try to push past him.
Again that hand shoots out to my shoulder and stops me. Hard. "It ain’t that easy, kid." The words roll out in a growl. "Didn’t come all the way down here just to have you walk out on me."
But this time I don’t back off. "And what? You think you can stop me?"
It’s not the response he was expecting.
His eyes narrow and I instantly sense him reassessing the situation. His guard goes up, something which rarely happened around me, and he tries to read me, tries to gauge the depth of what I really mean.
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in the last couple of months though, it’s how to manipulate disguises. I keep my expression schooled. A sassy mask.
He doesn’t like it.
"Why are you doing this?" This time his words carefully measured, as if he’s talking to a stranger. "Thought you were happy back at the Mansion."
"You don’t notice much do you?"
"I wasn’t around much."
"I know!"
He watches me, face impossible to read. "Was that a problem?"
I scowl. "No. Why would it be?" I stoop down to start picking up all my stuff off the floor, hoping he doesn’t see it for the distraction it is.
"Then why are you out here? What d’you want?"
"What I want is to be left alone."
"Is it because of that boy? Drake?"
Bobby? Ha! That almost makes me laugh out loud. Almost.
A little part of it rings too close for comfort. The betrayal, the way everyone else seemed to accept them as a couple so easily. Yeah. Screw them.
He’s still looking at me. Waiting for an answer.
"What?" I snap.
"Kid, when you run away, you run away from somethin’."
"Well, you oughta know." I turn and start shoving my stuff in the duffle. I can’t stay here anymore, not with him knowing where I am. It could put the whole job in jeopardy.
"Somethin’ made you hurt."
"No something did not make me hurt. I’m fine."
"Was it the cure?"
That just earns him a look.
"Was it me?"
Oh for fucks sake. I do not want to have this conversation now. Just go away.
"Marie?"
Argh! "Not everything," I hiss, "is about you." My voice slides along that cold edge of anger. "The only person that this is about, is me. Not you. Not Bobby. Not anyone else at that FUCKING mansion. Just me. My choice."
Why does nobody get that?
Shoving the last of my stuff into the duffle, I ignore the little voice that tells me that it’s probably because it isn’t true, and I turn my glare up to meet him. "I don’t have a life there anymore. Let me go."
"Kid..." there’s a frown, and it deepens as I try and shoulder past him again. But like before, he resists it with no visible effort. "Wait-"
I snarl. "No." I’m not waiting any longer. I angrily shoot out a hand, still un-gloved, and I grip the first bit of skin that it comes in contact with. His forearm. And I hold on.
My skin. The weapon.
He’s so shocked that he doesn’t even try to react. There’s no fight; my power doesn’t give him the chance. I want this, and it responds to me, taking instant hold. I feel the heady rush of stolen life, the blur of his thoughts and the confusion they bring. With others it’s different, but with him, it’s like a drug. It’s energy, it’s feral darkness.
He just stares at me in disbelief, eyes straining, face contorting, struggling to breathe as his knees crumple and give way and he slithers down the wall, desperately trying to grasp something for support.
Well, what did he expect? Some weeping little kid begging him to take her back? Begging for a ride in his trailer? Yeah, well, I’ve been there, done that. Bought a whole freakin’ t-shirt factory. Look where it got me.
I’m no longer that kid, I don’t need him, and I don’t look back as I walk out the door.
The next day I’m the one’s that’s late. Mystique’s already sat looking bored in the diner. I can tell it’s her by the sultry way she’s twirling a fork round her fingers. She treats it like a weapon. Total give away.
"So..." she sounds irritated. "You get held up in traffic or something?"
"Oh don’t you start," I huff as I slump into my seat.
Last night was so much fun. I spent most of the evening trailing around in the rain trying to find another motel, which was easier said than done because apparently there is now some sort of big time medical conference going on this weekend. It also didn’t help that I growled at the first place to turn me away, and tried to pop claws I didn’t have at the second. The Wolverine needs some serious anger management classes or something.
In the end, the little hole of a room I found was about the size of a shoebox, and grimy to boot. Fun.
Then to make things worse, I had to stay in all night, flicking between lame re-runs and news channels, trying not to resent the slimy condescension of Senator Edson and his on-going arguments over the goddamn Mutant Registration Act, instead of going out to explore like I usually enjoy so much. Because I know Logan. And I know he won’t give up that easily. Especially since I dropped him. That’ll piss him off.
I look up and notice that Mystique has stopped her fork twirling, and is watching me in that disconcerting way of hers. "You want to talk about it?"
"No." End of conversation.
Instead I tell her about the bank. The security, the panic buttons. The lot. If I’m businesslike and professional and I concentrate on that, then I don’t have to think about him. Right?
Yeah. I wish that worked.
"Night and day shift?"
"Both heavy," I reply. "But night would be better. Less risk of civilian casualties." Something I avoid at all costs. I may be a Rogue, but I’m no killer. Between Logan and Eric I’ve memories of enough war and useless death to last two lifetimes.
"You sound like you’ve got it all sorted. Want me to deal with the security system?" Her eyes flash in anticipation.
Do I? I don’t know. Usually I like to do these things myself, but today I’m feeling so out of sorts, that to hell with it. "Yeah. Sure."
I don’t really care.
And I hate that.
Where’s my buzz? Where’s my anticipation? Yesterday it was so strong! I’m usually as high as a kite on the idea by now, but today all I can think about is the look of shock in Logan’s eyes as he crumpled to the floor.
What? I didn’t kill him. The man heals. It’s not like I caused any permanent damage or anything. And I haven’t peeked at his memories. Well... except for one about killing Jean, and that was enough to put me off the rest.
I sigh angrily to myself, and Mystique stops whatever it was she was in the middle of saying and sits back in her chair to give me her unimpressed look. "Right, that’s it."
For a moment I think we’re about to have an argument, but then a slow spreading smile starts forming across her glossy magazine features and she points her fork in my direction. "You need a night out. Tomorrow, we work. Tonight? We play."
I shake my head. "Nah, I don’t think..." I automatically begin, but then I stop myself. Think for a moment. Usually I avoid her nights out; she has untapped resources of stamina and could drink Colossus under the table. But you know what? This time she’s right. I do need something. A chance to let my hair down and get rid of some of this tension that seems to have appeared out of nowhere. An excuse to bury some more memories.
Yeah, why not?