The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Sorry this chapter is a little late. Busy weekend :o)
Oh God I am dead. I am dead and this is hell.
Somewhere near me the ear-splitting sound of curtains being swished open saws into my head, and blinking into the blinding light that ensues I amend my previous thought. This is worse than hell. Far worse.
...Where am I?
I swallow lumpily, my tongue feeling furry and thick in my mouth. God, that’s disgusting. And... Christ what is that?! A giant shadow looms over me, two horns curling up from its head. Son of a... maybe I AM dead! The freaking Devil is... is... oh. Shit!
Worse. It’s far worse.
It’s Logan.
I cringe inwardly. This is not good. Well, at least, that’s what my brain is telling me. The rest of me is torn between hoping that if I huddle by the pillow and make myself as small as possible it will somehow make things better, and fizzing in nerve tingling recognition of him being so damn close again. God, but he is close. And annoyed. Lips pressed tight. Radiating tension.
I try and ignore the way my stomach flutters. Karma freakin’ owes me for this one.
"Drink." Water is shoved unceremoniously into my hand so violently that most of it sloshes over the covers. I would refuse it, but right now I don’t think I could counter the gripping reflex, let alone form the words. I gulp down a few mouthfuls, try not to look too pathetic. Especially after last night...
Oh... man. Last night.
Nothing like a disgusting hangover to sharpen hindsight. Ouch.
Fuzzy snatches of images flash back to me. Drunken swaying, hissed out words, blood on my arm... he cut me! The realisation dawns again and I look down as if expecting it to be half severed.
There’s nothing but the tiniest scratch.
I look at him suspiciously, but his only reaction is to reach down from where he’s lurking over me and snatch the glass from my hand before I spill the rest. It happens almost too quickly for me to process it. Or maybe my brain’s just too slow. It fights to catch up and I blink blearily. "’M I still alive?"
"Apparently."
I wince a little at the tone. Then I take a deep breath, which turns out to be a really bad idea as the extra oxygen makes my vision swim. Yuck. Right now I wish more than anything that I’d been born with Kitty’s powers. Hell, I’ll settle for stealing them. At least that way I could just sink into the covers, through his bed and into the oblivion of the floor below.
His bed.
Not exactly how it played out in my teenage fantasies.
Ugh.
I wait for a wave of nausea to pass then slowly let my eyes re-focus on the room. Everything drifts; gaze wondering over edges of furniture, towel hung over the back of a chair, worn patches in the carpet. I make a half-hearted attempt to take control of the situation, try hard to pinpoint which part of my forehead is responsible for the vicious stabbing pain that seems to have taken up residence there, but my brain doesn’t want to bend to my thoughts today. All it wants to do is think about Logan. Which is just not fair.
Every single nerve I have seems to be fine-tuned to his presence. They’re going la la laaa we’re next to Logan and we know exactly what he looks like under that shirt. Stupid nerves. He must be able to sense it too. Stupid senses. It doesn’t help that the covers wrapped around me smell deliciously like him either, making my head spin even further.
Stupid pheromones.
I’ve gotta get out of here before I do something stupid.
...Okay... more stupid. Because this is obviously not me at my... Actually what is this?
Seriously? Why am I here? After what I did to him? I yelled, fought, used my power, I mocked him... and yet he still helped me out?
Fuck. Why?
I feel horribly guilty all of a sudden and I hate that. It makes me irritated. "I thought I told you to leave me alone."
He just gives me a look. I’m pretty sure it could wither small children.
"What?" I glare back.
"You’re a mess," he states bluntly, "and you stink."
Ouch. There’s no need to be nasty about it.
"Well you have vomit on your shirt," I point out snarkily.
"It’s yours," he snaps back.
Ah.
I really hope none of the memories of last night return to me right now.
Maybe I’m just dreaming the whole thing anyway. I mean, seriously, how likely is it that I’m actually here in Logan’s bed? Ha! Yeah, right... Hallucination is by far the most likely explanation. It’s an elaborate ruse created by sick imagination. I just need to tell myself to wake up. Concentrate really hard, maybe click my heels together...there’s no place like home.
He gives me a look. The kind you’d give a crazy person on the street before crossing hastily over to the other side. I have a suspicious feeling the last part of my random chat with myself may have been out loud.
Oops.
Maybe I’m still drunk.
Maybe I’m a figment of his imagination. Ha. Then that would make him the nut case.
Or not.
Oh God I feel sick again. And figments of imagination don’t feel sick. I hate hangovers. I hate life. I hate wanting to run my hands all over his body. I hate that I can’t. I hate that I’m here. I hate... everything and everyone even the cutest fluffiest kittens. Hate them all. Yuck. And I hate feeling sick.
He must see my pallor go from pale to grey-green, because he disappears for a moment, only to return with another glass of water, which is once again thrust in my hand. The look on his shadowed face makes it’s official. He’s mad, and I’m screwed.
Unfortunately not in the good hot and sweaty way.
"Here." One of his shirts, a clean one, is shoved in front of me. "Take this, go clean up."
I...what? My self-pity party suddenly dissolves and I stare blankly at the material in my hand...Why is he giving me a shirt? Am I naked or something? My pulse races. Oh my God. Did I take my clothes off and do something hideously embarrassing like fail to seduce him? Is that why he’s still mad? Is something wrong with my bodysuit? Did I-
"Your excuse for a top is filthy."
Oh.
I sneak a peak under the covers. Still fully dressed. And he’s right, I don’t want to know what’s all over me, but it I think at least half of it must be vodka based. Oh this is rough. I am never going to drink again. Ever.
I wait for him to leave, but it’s a small room and without him stepping outside he’s not going anywhere. So under his disapproving gaze I sway woozily to my feet, which are hot and sore from all the dancing, my humiliation complete as I trip over his boots on the way to his bathroom.
Why the fuck is there no shower in here?
"Closet, kid. Bathroom’s that way."
Right.
This just keeps on getting better.
Once under the pummelling jet of hot water, which is far nicer than the one in my crap excuse for a motel room, I start to feel a little more coherent. Which, after my mind jumps to about six different conclusions at once, all of them humiliating, I decide is not necessarily a good thing.
What I’d really like to do, other than curl up and die in a dark room somewhere, is to sneak out the window. But unless I’m planning on crawling down the fire exit and walking home in my disgusting clothes looking like a hooker, or in nothing but his shirt, which although huge, is loose enough to blow around everywhere and reveal far too much...therefore also looking like a hooker, then I guess I’m stuck here until he deems otherwise. And staying here... in his room... it’s not a good thing.
Really.
There are all sorts of reasons... and... stuff. Because I’m not the impressionable girl I once was.... well, most of the time anyway. Because I’ve come to realise that actually I really don’t know him that well at all. Because he’s mad. And I’m mad too. Because he’s not part of my life anymore.
So. Not good. Nope.
I let the water wash the filth out of my hair and I resolve not to think about him any further. Which is pointless, because the more I try not to think of him, the more I think of him.
Always, it was always quiet whispers amongst the staff, amongst the adults; awww look, Rogue’s a bit taken with Logan. Let her have her crush. It’s harmless. She can’t touch anyone anyway. He knows she’s a child. Always the same. Their sympathy. Their knowing looks. And I hate the fact that somehow this is all rising to the surface again. I thought I’d got through this!
Dammit! Why, of all people, did it have to be him? Coming out here all heroic and ‘I’m doin’ you a favour kid’. Why couldn’t they have sent Storm... or Dr McCoy or someone who doesn’t look like sex in jeans. Why him? Why Logan?
Why does he still affect me so much? I hate that.
...No, that’s not true. Unfortunately.
I hate that I don’t affect him back.
Ugh.
I hate that I’m admitting this to myself as well. Honesty sucks. I much prefer denial.
I stay in the shower far longer than is necessary, yeah call me a coward, whatever. Prolonging the inevitable and all that shit. By the time actually I get out the room is swamped in thick clouds of steam, condensation dripping in little rivers down the walls. I wipe a layer off the mirror, wincing at the squeak it makes. The sight it reveals is not pretty. Dark smudges bruise my eyes and my pasty skin is colourless in comparison. Even my lips are pale and devoid of life. I look about as hung over as I deserve.
I don’t know if I can do this. A hand goes shakily through my stringy wet hair. This whole dealing with Logan thing, it wasn’t an eventuality I countered for in my bid to escape life at the Mansion. I need distance. I need the chance to be cold. Calculating. And I don’t get any of these things when I’m around him. He screws everything up.
I suck in a deep breath. Maybe I just need a moment, just to think rationally.
Maybe I need some sort of plan.
Right...
Deciding I need a plan, however, is not very helpful in actually thinking up one. My brain is refusing to talk to me after last night, and between me and the boys upstairs, even Magneto, we come up with... absolutely nothing. Great. Spend your life silencing the voices, and when you want them? Nada.
Again. Karma. You bitch.
I’m going to have to go out there. I’m going to have to form coherent sentences and think up...reasons...and excuses and shit. I’m going to have to pretend I don’t care, and I don’t want to do this. I’ve already faced him twice – isn’t that enough? Can’t I just curl up and wait for the world to go away?
"You comin’ out any time today?"
Apparently not. Well, screw you world.
Feeling tetchy and more than a little sorry for myself, I grab a towel and scrub at my skin until it’s almost red. Then I pick up Logan’s shirt. Big mistake. It’s clean but as I slide it over my head, the familiar smell of him envelops me like a warm hug. In a plunge of sensation it suddenly reminds me of all the times he touched me. Just little gestures, a brush of a hand, a hug, when no one else would. My annoyance is crushed. A sharp spike of emotion twists inside my chest and all of a sudden there’s lump in my throat so big it hurts.
I clench my jaw, tell myself it’s the hangover.
Yeah. Right...
Oh fuck this. I’m not going to mope over... over nothing! There was nothing between us. There is nothing. And there won’t be anything. That's just the way it is. The part of me that was Marie, the part that wants to weep and sob and snivel, well she can fuck off! I don’t want to cry. Not here anyway.
Besides, what good’ll come of it? Nothing. I go in the bathroom a drunken mess and come out an emotional one? Yeah, that would really convince him I’m doing alright for myself.
I tug the shirt down so that it covers my knees and look at myself in the mirror. I stare for so long that my features begin to blur into each other and my face is no more than a big smudge. Then I take a deep breath and venture out of the bathroom.
Way to make an entrance. There’s some trash on TV and his jaw clenches as he senses me, but he doesn’t look up. Even though I walk past. Even though I’m in nothing but his shirt.
Some things never change.
I curl up in one of the chairs as I wait for him to say something, I don’t know what. Declare his purpose, demand I go back to school or... whatever. But he just continues watching the screen.
God, there’s not even anything on! It’s some crappy black and white re-run.
I cough.
Yep. Still watching.
Fine.
"Logan?" Okay, so that sounded tetchier than I had planned. I resist the urge to get up and wave my hand in front of his face, check his vital signs. "You bring me to your lair," I gesture sarcastically to the room around me, "and now you’re just going to ignore me?"
That at least gets me a cursory glance. "I’ve nothin’ to say to you kid."
I try to answer back, but he holds up a hand to shut me up. "Leave it. I don’t wanna know."
"But-"
"Leave it."
And that’s it. No recriminations, no anger, no... no... nothing. Just a big fat blank wall of blankness.
Ouch.
"So that’s it? I can go?"
"I’m not your keeper. Do what you want."
I frown. That wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. So what? He just fixed me up, and now I’m free to go? No more ties? No more guilt? "You’re not gonna try and convince me to go back to the Mansion again?"
At least that results in movement. He turns his head to look at me, then gets up out of his seat, walks towards me in a way that’s most definitely feral. I shrink back slightly. What’s he going to do...?
Oh. Apparently nothing. He walks past, into the bathroom.
A moment later he comes back out with the scrunched up mess of my clothes in one hand. "Would it make any difference if I did?"
"...No."
"Then there would be no point, would there." The clothes are shoved into my hands.
"So what’s this? Take your clothes, get out and have a nice life?"
"Your choice, kid."
Fine.
You know what? That was my choice. Good. I’m pleased.
I am.
And fuck it that it NOT disappointment I’m feeling.
I head back into the bathroom, forcing myself to ignore the coldness in his voice. It's easy to pretend when you're as well practised as I am. Or at least it should be. Dammit, how can he be so irritating? So fucking stubborn? I sulkily shake out my top, planning to put my disgusting clothes back on and get the hell out, but... ugh... even in my desperate state I can’t bring myself to do it. They’re vile and it makes my stomach swim just thinking about them.
I swallow my pride. Go back over out over to where he’s sitting in front of the TV again. "Can I borrow a belt or something?"
He just raises an eyebrow.
"I can’t go out like..." I gesture to myself. "Not unless I want to be arrested anyway."
He shrugs. "Not my problem."
My temper itches at his tone, but I force myself to stay calm. "Please," I say through my teeth.
"Like I said, not my problem."
"Oh come on!" I fling out the pile of my clothes from the night before. "These are a mess!"
He gives me a look. Then in one movement he’s out of his seat, everything is snatched from my hand and thrown unceremoniously into the trash.
"Hey," I cry, but it’s too late. He sparks a match and drops it in, the whole lot going up in crispy flames.
"What did you do that for, they could’ve been washed!"
"So what? I’m supposed to care? You’re out here fuckin’ up your life and I’m supposed to give a damn about what you wear?"
"Well it would be a start!"
"What the HELL do you think I’m here for, huh? Vacation?"
Oh there is no way he's going down that path with me. No. Fucking. Way. How dare he! The 'let's pretend I care more about you than I do' path, where glances are shared, emotions caught... mainly mine... then he goes off and fucks the next thing on two legs. I've been there before and I'm damn well NOT going there again! "How about obligation, huh? Guilt? Boredom? I don’t know. They’re the usual reasons. Pick one." I throw his own words back in his face. "I don’t care!"
His expression hardens to stone. He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me a moment longer, face unreadable, then turns back to the stupid re-run and starts watching again.
Argh! I hate arguing with someone who won’t argue back!
Fine.
No... it's not fine. I'm still damn well stuck here.
I take a deep breath. Try a different track. Force my voice to stay level. "Y’know, I am sorry for the other day. I didn’t plan on hurting you."
I wait for a response. But... nothing.
"You just... you surprised me."
I swear I just saw a tumbleweed.
Oh come on! Give me something to work with. Talk to me! I’m apologising here! Making the effort!
Besides, I do regret hurting him. A little bit.
Okay I admit, part of me is still smug that it was so easy. He only ever lets his guard down with a few people and up until then I was one of them. I very much doubt I still am.
I try not to frown as I realise actually that feels kind of rotten.
"And I’m sorry for last night," I add, when he still doesn’t respond. If I’m going to grovel, I might as well do it properly.
"Thought you were leavin’, not making conversation."
Argh! How is he so frustrating! That gets him a glare as I spy my boots over by the door and stomp over to pull them on angrily. "I’m still here because I’m still half naked!"
"You’re covering up more than you did last night."
"How nice of you to notice." I look around the room for anything to tie the stupid shirt down. Curtain cord, wire, anything.
He watches me. Eyes narrowing as I start ripping out the draws from the dresser. Does no one keep anything like that in motel rooms anymore? Is the risk of hanging that great?
"What?" I snap to his cold expression.
He comes over, yanks my hand away from his duffle before I go routing through that as well. "What do you want?"
"All I want from you," I hiss, "is this." I fling out a hand towards his belt. I don’t mean to grab it, just point, but he’s not taking any chances. His hand comes up in an instant. Quick and hard. It grabs mine round the wrist, slams it back against the wall so that my knuckles crunch, and belatedly I realise he’s wearing gloves.
Dark eyes bore into mine. "Don’t test me kid. You have no idea."
You know what? Neither does he. That hurt!
My free hand shoots upwards, aiming for skin. I know I’m not quick enough to get to his face or arms, so I aim for his shirt, slamming my palm against the warm material, fingers snaking between the buttons before he can stop them, hovering millimetres away from his skin.
For a moment I think I’ve got him. His grip on my wrist loosens slightly and I begin to feel almost smug. But the instant I start to relax, he moves. Jaw tightening, reacting so fast that I don’t even see the movement. Just a slick scrape of metal against bone and the warm impression of claws against my stomach.
Fuck.
Okay. So now we’re even.
I don’t take my eyes off him; he glares right back. A threat? Probably. He reminds me of his namesake, tense and ready to move in for the kill.
...And he feels so warm and solid through the thin material.
I did not just think that. I did not just start perving while I... man, but it’s distracting.
Threat or not, for a moment my brain can picture nothing but the thought of what he looks like naked. Which is wonderful, but no use to me at all. Damn my freaking hormones! I force myself to shove the image aside.
Focus. I can do this.
His eyes narrow, and the voice that rumbles over me is edged with anger. "What game are you tryin’ to play here?"
I can see him breathe, feel the tension in the muscles under my hand, see his shoulders rise and fall. I can smell the faint tang of cigars. He’s changed his clothes I notice with a mixture of relief and embarrassment. Both emotions I push away, I’ll deal with them later, right now escape is more important. Preferably without being maimed first... although... if you’re gonna go... what a way to go.
Dammit! Concentrate!
I keep my voice light. Well I try to. I hope he’s not listening carefully enough to notice the tremble. "If you have any spare clothes that aren't huge," I let my hand fall just that little bit lower, sliding it around the buttons so that there’s always a part of me only a fraction away from touching his skin, "that could solve all this."
He stiffens and the grip on my wrist tightens. For a moment I think that’s it, game over. But he makes no effort to stop the other hand, so without giving myself time to think about what I’m actually doing, I let it slide lower.
He’s watching me. Guarded. Waiting.
"A smaller jacket?"
And lower.
His nostrils flair as he breathes in the scent of me and for some reason that tiny movement makes my stomach flip. But I don’t stop. I can do this. I can.
My fingertips brush the buckle of his belt. I’m so close. "Do you have anything, other than your shirt, that would fit me?"
At first... no answer. Then he breathes out slowly through his nose. His jaw clenches. "No," he says, eventually.
No? ‘No’ to stop what I’m doing? Or ‘no’ he doesn’t have anything that will fit? Give me specifics here damn you!
But he’s not trying to stop me. His hand’s still tightly gripped round my wrist, granted, but his eyes have dropped to his belt. They’re dark, and they’re watching.
Waiting.
Oh God.
What the fuck am I doing?
Seriously? What part of my brain ever convinced me this was a good idea? My hand is two inches above his freaking crotch!
Is he afraid of me? That’s unlikely. Not with the edge of his claws pressed up against my belly. Is he letting me do this? What does he think this is? Does he know I’m going for his belt? Does he think I’m trying to...to...?
No, he would never... would he?
But he’s...
Something unfurls in the pit of my stomach. A combination of fear and exhilaration. I’m not sure what to do now. I’m so shocked! This wasn’t a part of the plan. Although it was a kinda spur of the moment thing and I’m no longer sure what the plan was. Dammit, why does nothing go the way it should? And why am I so nervous. It’s a freaking belt. That’s all it is. A piece of ugly battered leather.
I just have to forget it’s currently wrapped around his hips.
His toned, strong, warm, denim clad hips. That for some reason he’s letting me touch.
I swallow. This time my innocent nervousness is not feigned, it’s real. Even as I’m doing it I can’t believe I’m really doing it. And I certainly can’t believe he’s letting me do it.
I look down at my hand, swallow the butterflies in my stomach, hook my fingers into the end of his belt and... tug it free.
That seems to jolt him out of wherever he’s been. His voice is thick when he speaks. "Marie. I said no."
Oh.
Right.
Okay, so it was a ‘stop what you are doing’ no. Of course it was. What the hell else would it be?
A well of emotion rises up and threatens to crush me. Disappointment. It’s fucking disappointment of all things.
He batters my hand away, drops the other and steps back. Then in one angry movement he’s pulled the belt from around his hips and shoved it at me. "Take it. And get out."
I don’t wait to be told twice. Before he can stop me, I’ve wrapped it around my waist and I’m out the door. Running fucking fast.