The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Story Notes:
This started out as a series, but a glitch in the archive's software stopped me from adding to it. I have deleted the first few chapters from my account and have started over as a chaptered story. Thus, all previous ratings and feedback are gone. I've done minimal editing to the first 2-3 chapters, and will post them probably all in one fell swoop, or very soon.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Rogue can read the Wolverine like a book sometimes...
Logan’s out for blood tonight.
I could tell as soon as he came stomping down the stairs. Since I can’t touch him... yet, I get my illicit kicks by studying him. I’m pretty sure he knows I watch him a lot, but he’s never said anything about it, so I continue to indulge myself in the eye candy that is Logan.
Granted, maybe I understand a lot more about him because I have touched him. He still resides in my head, in some undetermined and unpredictable fashion. The Wolverine in my head whispers hints and secrets when Logan’s behavior comes close to mystifying me. I find it strange the feral part of his nature is sticking with me so much stronger than the more civilized man that is Logan, if indeed Logan and the Wolverine are two distinct personalities dwelling in the same muscle-packed body that’s going out hunting a cage fight tonight.
He’s been twitchy the last few days; out of sorts, but without an obvious reason for his moodiness. And yeah, I’ll grant you it’s tough to describe someone as being both twitchy and too quiet at the same time, but that man can do it.
The clothes and the timing are giving him away. It’s Saturday night and too late for the typical eight-ball, beer-drinking night out. He’s not dressed up, so he’s not going cruising for women. But that man could troll for women even in his old clothes and come up with a full stringer. No, he’s out for blood, for a little semi-sanctioned violence, with the promise of cash and cooch at the end of the night. Not that he’s been hurting for either lately, but the man just seems to need to cut loose and inflict pain sometimes.
Or let people inflict pain on him -- I’ve never really been too clear on that subject. And my Inner Wolverine won’t discuss it.
Anyway, he’s wearing those old, faded, tight-around-the-ass jeans that are ready for the rag bag. There are oil stains on the left knee and a hole in the other knee, and I know one pocket must be in shreds because he occasionally leaves a trail of small change across my bedroom carpeting while passing through. I need to patch that pocket for him. I can patch the knee, too. I can sew.
Dare I measure his inseam? Ah-ha! That’s one plot I can percolate for a few nights’ fantasizing.
The faded blue t-shirt is tight enough to show every ripple of muscle across his shoulders and chest, and the sleeves are rolled up to display thick biceps that will melt women and put fear into men. The corner of the pocket is dangling loose where I tore it. That was a long story, but the damage was truly unintentional. We were wrestling over a corn dog.
I won.
He actually got the corn dog, but he wrestled me when everyone else refused to get within arm’s length of untouchable Rogue. I’ll make all the corn dogs he wants, any time. He’s worth it.
He’s wearing the brown biker boots, the old, beat-up ones that are for dirty jobs only. I know some of the stains are blood, some are motor oil, and one is grass from yesterday when he kicked a soccer ball to some kids and accidentally stubbed his toe in the lawn. They laughed, he snarled, they went quickly away.
“Hey, kid,” he comments as he moves toward the door, “whatcha doin’ tonight?”
“Nothin’,” I reply in a breath, sounding as bored as possible.
He spends several moments just studying me like a bug under a magnifying glass. Then, “Why?”
Sheesh, dude! Either ask me along with you, or don’t stir the pot. I’m untouchable, unbelievably bored, and cranked with hormonal angst. I wuss out and answer, “I lack inspiration, I guess.”
He’s on the verge of asking me to do something with him, I just know it. Movie, dinner, bike ride, cage fight -- I don’t care. Just ask, dammit! Bust me outta here....
There’s the patented smirk, almost a smile, eyes warming, and yes, it’s there -- an actual smile! He’s so handsome when he smiles. He needs to do more of that....
He’s walking toward me, he’s reaching out, and there go the fingers into my hair. I love that, I love him, I love that he’s not afraid to get as close to touching me as we can get.
“You busy tomorrow night?” He’s so damned close to me, I can feel the heat off of him.
“Uh.... I... uh...” That’s me, a stuttering idiot; just answer the damned question! I hate it when I babble, but it just falls uncontrollably out of my mouth, “I have to teach a class at three, should be over by four-thirty, and yeah, yes! I am free after that, all night. Yours for the taking.”
I see something fire in his eyes when I say that, but he doesn’t push it beyond that point.
“Pencil me in - we’ll do something, go somewhere. We’ll decide tomorrow. Okay?”
“More than okay, sugar - it’s a date. Where are you goin’ for a cage fight tonight?”
“How’d you know I was goin’ out for a fight?” He deftly dodged my actual question.
I tap the side of my head knowingly, “I’m a different kind of psychic.” I give him the wise, all-knowing smile.
“You’re a scary little woman sometimes, you know that?”
“Yeah,” I breathe at him, “I kinda like it that way.”
“Me, too,” he whispers back and plants the world’s fastest smooch on my forehead, right between my eyes, tugs my hair, and heads for the door again.
Six AM rolls around, and I’m dragging my carcass out of bed for an early teacher’s meeting before classes start. Through the wall, I hear the shower running in Logan’s room. While I’m brushing my hair and putting on earrings, I hear the bed springs squeak. He’s just coming home as the sun rises.
Not able to resist, I knock lightly on his door as I head downstairs for breakfast, knowing he isn’t asleep yet. He knows it’s me -- he can smell me through the door.
“What’s up, darlin’?” I open the door at his words and he’s sprawled in the bed, apparently naked beneath the sheet that’s up to his waist; sleepy, clean, and apparently relaxed now. Oh, how I just want to crawl in there with him. God damn this mutation of mine!
“You okay, Logan?”
“Aces.”
“Good. Get some sleep, sugar. We’ve got a date tonight, remember?”
“Lookin’ forward to it.”
“See ya tonight,” and I shut the door quietly so he can sleep. As long as I know he’s okay, I can get through another day.