Twenty
Rogue
She wakes up suddenly, her head throbbing. Everything is shrouded in pre-dawn light, and her eyes dart back and forth wildly before she realizes where she’s at. Beside her, Remy still sleeps, the long lines and hard planes of his naked chest rising slowly up and down. She clutches her head and moans slightly, realizing the severity of the hangover she’d likely be nursing all day. Her mind desperately searches for th e details o f last night, the images fuzzy and disparate, before finally summoning the memories of her pleading with Remy in the hallway, and the shouts of lovemaking that had followed suit.
And then and only then does she remember why.
“ Fuck,” she whispers to herself, eyes helplessly darting past the Miles Davis and Duke Ellington posters and random stacks of playing cards to Remy’s door. She had no way of knowing if Logan was still here or not, wasn’t sure now if she wanted to know. She glances down guiltily at Remy’s sleeping form once more, just as Xavier’s voice pops into her head.
Pardon the early morning wake-up call, but there will be an incredibly important debriefing in fifteen minutes in the War Room. All staff must be accounted for.
Just then, Remy moans from his side of the bed, flops over and puts his face into the pillow and groans.
“Dat some sadistic sort of alarm clock, eh?” he mutters, rubbing his own forehead in exhaustion before turning and settling his eyes on Rogue. She watches as he frowns slightly, groggily sitting up a little more in bed.
“You ok, petit?” he asks cautiously, moving to run a hand over her naked shoulder.
“Sure, sugar,” she murmurs, hugging her arms to her body more tightly, staring off through the faint light in the window.
“You seem miles away from Remy,” he mutters. At that, she turns back to him and attempts a smile. Rogue’s not entirely aloof, and is able to appreciate the view. He looks delectable like this, thin sheet barely covering his waist, all tan and toned, with the those burnt russet locks of hair falling across his forehead. Remy has always reminded Rogue of fire, and with all that literal kinetic energy always surging through him, she’s not far off the mark. She quietly moves closer to him then, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead, and cradles the line of his jaw for a moment.
“You need a shave,” she murmurs, before brushing a thumb over his lips and then adds apologetically, “And thank you, for last night.”
He smiles devilishly at her, before easing her to lie against him, and kissing the top of her head. For a long moments, they stay like that, both of them knowing they need to get up and both of them not feeling very compelled to. After a few minutes, however, he’s speaking once again.
“So...tell Remy,” he murmurs into her hair. She smiles at his continual use of the third person, and turns to look at him with a coy smile.
“Tell Remy what?” she asks playfully, but his look is serious as he adds, “About him.” Rogue’s smile instantly falls as she bites her lip, casting her eyes downward.
“Remy’s no fool, mon chéri . You loud in bed sometimes, especially when Remy does your favorite things, but you not that loud. And besides, you always forgetting, Remy’s an empath. Tu jouais avec le feu,” he says carefully, and Rogue can’t help but blush a deep shade of crimson.
“He was...uh. I mean, I was...young,” she finally manages to say, and his mood turns on a dime. He’s instantly angry, so much so his eyes are practically smoldering with heat.
“How young, petit ?” he manages to ask. She bites her lip, but doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to put pressure to her head to quell the ache that’s just doubled in intensity.
“If de chien sale took advantage of you-” Remy starts before Rogue immediately interrupts.
“No! Well...maybe. I mean, I agreed to... everything,” she mutters, looking down for a moment. Rogue suddenly doesn’t like this conversation anymore, or the way it’s making her feel, because she feels young, unsure of herself, blind. In fact, she’s felt that way ever since she regrettably ran into the miserable feral bastard. And she’s done it all to herself.
“Why’d you bring him here den, chere?” he asks carefully, practically reading her mind. Rogue blinks at him once more, before sighing. She feels the need, the want, to be as honest as she can with her lover, and with herself. And Rogue’s starting to get the feeling that, if she’s not, Remy could probably suspect it. So, she tries.
“I...I don’t know. But he knows something, babe. And as soon as we find out what he knows, I want him gone,” she mutters, finally moving away from Remy, peeling the sheets off her and standing to stretch in the morning light.
“Remy could easily arrange that ,” he mutters. He’s magically procured a playing card from the desk where they’re scattered and is now flipping it deftly back and forth between his lithe fingers, even as his eyes stay settled on Rogue’s curves. She turns back to him and smirks.
“I appreciate that. But there’s no need to go to the trouble, sugar. Who knows if he’s even still here,” she says, before padding onto the cold marble of Remy’s washroom.
“Rogue…” Remy mumrus, still from bed. She pops her head out of the door, raising one eyebrow at him
“You done with him though, oui ?” he asks. She sighs, biting her lip once more before cocking a brow and sauntering back into his room. His attention is now solely focused on her.
“ Yes ,” she says, before touseling his hair and leaning downward to kiss him deeply.
---
Ten minutes later, every single X-Man looks miserable and exhausted as they wait in the War Room, and it’s the first time Rogue notices everyone is accounted for. Kurt and Beast talk hushedly in the corner, Bobby has his head down on the table like a hungover teenager, and Storm is rubbing her temples tiredly. Jean and Scott sit together, but aren’t speaking, at least not vocally. A few of the other junior staff members, Hisako, Megan and Sam, sit further to the back as Remy and Rogue are some of the last to file in. Rogue plops into a chair, still very aware of her cloying headache, as Remy sweetly hands her a mug of steaming hazelnut coffee he had made her on the way out, and she shoots him an appreciative smile as a thank you. She sips it idly, her attention flitting to what she can make out of Kurt and Hank’s conversation, but she only catches every third or fourth word. Kurt must sense her eavesdropping, because gives her a friendly nod from across the table, until his smile falls, catching something and behind Rogue. Rogue frowns too, as she turns around just to watch the Professor enter, and, trailing behind him, brooding and dark, but also freshly showered and shaved, Logan. Rogue’s fingers grip her mug of coffee more tightly as her stomach clenches. Now, especially, he looks exactly like the man who had fucked her in the back of his trailer all those years ago. The tension must be pouring off Rogue, because Remy clears his throat, shooting her a look. “So apparently not gone, petit ,” Remy barely whispers, and instantly Logan’s harsh, hazel eyes glance over to the pair of them fiercely. Rogue grimaces, before attempting replacing the look with one of confidence, even as her head throbs all the more violently.
You owe him nothing, a voice whispers to her in her own mind, and she realizes, surprisingly, it’s Jean that’s telling her this. Rogue shoots a look at the older woman, her privacy feeling suddenly very violated.
Sorry, but he’s projecting. A lot, she mentally murmurs, as she shoots Rogue an apologetic look. Rogue frowns even more so, and sinks down in her seat, wishing she could phase through the floor like Kitty used to, just as the Professor starts speaking.
“Thank you all for joining me so early this morning. Scott, if you’d like to start the debrief,” he gestures to the team leader, but Scott, just as surprised as everyone else in the room, is eyeing Logan suspiciously, who has taken a seat next to the professor and is scowling in everyone’s general direction.
“So, Charles. Our hostage is...staying?” Scott asks, and Rogue hears Logan audibly growl, even as the Professor clarifies.
“No longer a hostage. Everyone, this is Logan, and he’s our guest. I’ve offered him a room and have returned his belongings. He will be staying with us for a couple of days on his own volition, as I provide him assistance on some personal matters,” Charles explains. Something once more clenches inside of Rogue, and she can do nothing about the chagrin radiating off her. She feels Jean still staring at her, and she wishes she wouldn’t. As if on cue, Jean looks away, suddenly very interested in inspecting her nails.
“So is our... guest staying for the meeting?” Scott presses.
“Seems like it, Slim,” Logan growls, and Scott throws him a look that’s remarkably clear what he thinks of this decision, even through his crimson glasses, before quickly typing something into the computer at the front of the room and summoning marked-up blueprints of the lab from the previous night.
“After three days of carefully planned recon, we somehow missed the set-up and detonating of a large explosive blast near the perimeter of the building. Along with Mr. uhh Logan’s presence, there seems to be a third party at work here. We’re not sure who intervened or for what purpose, but most of the product that was being distributed via Shanghai Petrochemical was destroyed before we ever made our way inside,” Scott finishes.
“It was the General,” Logan growls and every mutant in the room suddenly is staring wildly at the stranger.
“Excuse me?” Scott asks.
“The explosion. Pretty sure that was him. He got wind of you all. Sloppy recon. Destroy the evidence,” he mutters into a mug of coffee he’s drinking that currently sports the Xavier’s logo. For some reason, this puts Rogue off immensely, as she swallows the bile that is currently trying to rise in her throat.
“We don’t have evidence that the General was behind the lab,” Scott says curtly, but Logan is already shaking his head.
“He’s got his hands in all the cookie jars, Scooter. The lab workers, they were all Army. Didn’t your folks notice the tattoos?” he asks, shooting a accusatory look in Rogue’s direction. “Shanghai might be supplyin’ them, and the government might be condoning all this shit, but it’s Army-sanctioned, that’s for fuckin’ sure,” he says smugly, and Rogue’s anger spikes at his hypocrisy. Shanghai Petrochemical is a subsidiary of Sinopec. Every mutant knows that. The Sinopec that Logan, so many years ago, was employed by.
“And why do you care?” Rogue blurts out before she can help herself, and his eyes are burning into her in an instant. Remy’s got a hand on Rogue’s own, but she swats it off quickly. Remarkably, it’s the Professor who speaks next.
“Logan is here to learn more about the General and his potential whereabouts, Rogue. If the General has something to do with this, we need to know,” Charles states calmly.
“But why would the General want to destroy his own product?” Bobby asks suddenly, and Logan only snorts in response.
“Kid, don’t be naive. There are hundreds of these fucking labs all over the world. Ain’t gonna hurt him one bit to give up one of ‘em to make sure the product ain’t gonna fall into the wrong hands,” he says once more.
“And at least we’ve made some headway on that front, thanks to Kurt,” Scott butts in, once more taking control of the conversation. “Hank, would you care to enlighten us?”
Hank sighs, running a large paw through the blue fur of his hair. “I’m afraid this is far worse than we fear. I’ve been running tests on the materials all night, and I do not have much for you yet, but this seems to be nothing like the detection devices we believed them to be making.” At this, a chill shoots down Rogue’s spine, just as Remy once more is whispers, “ Chere” to her. She looks up to him, only to follow his gaze back down to her hand, which has squeezed the metal of the table so hard she’s made permanent dents in it. She immediately withdrawals it as if she’s been burned, and, taking a quick glance at Logan, she notices his eyes are also staring at the ruined edge of the table before he looks her directly in the eyes once more.
Fuck.
For the rest of the meeting, Logan is mainly silent. The typical debriefing protocol follows, along with the basic housekeeping matters related to both the upcoming school week and any proposed missions. Luckily, matters on the agenda were blessedly brief, as Scott gives the orders all missions will be held off until Hank can further inspect the product they managed to secure from the lab. As soon as the meeting is adjourned, Logan trudges out quickly, and Rogue feels her anger spike again. The way he’d been drinking his coffee, throwing out suggestions, at times even giving orders, it more than irked her. This was her refuge, her home, and she’d be damned if she was going to let him stroll out of the War Room like he fucking owned the place.
“Excuse me,” she mutters to Remy, and before he can stop her she gets up quickly and stalks toward the man who had betrayed her, who had ruined her, who had turned her life into a living nightmare. It was time to talk.
Logan
He knows it’s gonna happen before it does. It ain’t hard to hear those feet plod down the hallway, gaining speed, and he’s in no mood for whatever shit she plans to fling at him. He’s no idiot though; he sees the inevitable when it’s starin’ right at him. Anticipating the blows before they happen, he darts into his guest room easily enough, as he’d be damned if the whole gaggle of freaks heard the shouting match that was bound to take place. And after last night’s stunt, the harlot had whatever was comin’ to her.
He has time to barely turn around when she’s fuming in his doorway. He can’t help but snort, turning on his heel once more to paw at the mostly-empty bottle of brandy the Elf had bribed him with last night, before she starts spittin’ profanities at him.
“Listen, you hairy, good-for-nothing, sadistic asshole bastard,” she begins, before he rounds on her. She doesn’t flinch as he gets close and then moves past her to shut the door behind the woman who’s lookin’ to give him hell.
“Proceed,” he grounds out, downing the glass of brandy in one single gulp. She looks at him with disgust, still fuming.
“I see you’re still the same goddamn alcoholic you always were,” she spits, and he can’t help but bark out a laugh.
“Seein’ as I can still smell the gin on your breath, kid, you might check yer hypocrisy at the fucking door,” he snarls, stalking past her again to grab the bottle once more.
“ My hypocrisy?!” she hisses. He only blinks at her, before willing himself, with every inch of control he had learned in the past few years, to slow his breathing. To calm the fuck down. If only so he didn’t do anything he might faintly regret.
“Listen, kid. Before you keep running that foul mouth of yers, how about I remind your forgetful ass that you dragged me here, yeah? And I ain’t fuckin’ interested at all in whatever shit you wanna blame on me,” he mutters, quickly and effectively polishing off the bottle. She’s got her thin arms crossed in front of that same-as-ever ample chest, and he can’t help but growl. He hadn’t wanted to go to that fucking meeting as much as she wanted him to be there, but Chuck had insisted, and after he had learned how fuckin’ clueless they all seemed to be, he had decided it was best if he schooled ‘em on a few important issues.
“I-” she stammers, before exhaling deeply, letting her arms drop. Her anger is still smoldering, but the point he’s made has taken some of the wind out of her sails, thank fuck.
“I only brought you here, James Howlett, because I want information. You know things we don’t,” she mutters, before grimacing slightly, clasping her head in what looks like pain. Serves her right, with how loud she was fucking that cajun swamp rat last night and how much she was slurrin’ her words. Hope she has the fucking hangover to end ‘em all.
“Well that’s for fuckin’ sure,” he spits, scrounging around for a pack of cigars on the desk and shakilly lighting one, seeing as he had run out of his typical vice.
“ Why are you staying? We let you go. Why do you care about any of this? And why the hell were you gutting Army members practically alongside us last night?”
Logan sighs, breathing out a puff of tobacco smoke as he does so, before he turns to her once more.
“Listen kid, my business is my business. And don’t you dare think for a second that you know me well enough to guess at my intentions or doubt my reasons for havin’ ‘em,” he mutters, snubbing out the cigar forcefully on the ashtray.
“You… ugh,” she manages, suddenly plopping down exasperatedly on his freshly-made bed. Fucking wonderful, he thinks to himself. Now the whole goddamn room is gonna smell like this crazy, deranged woman.
“Trust me,” he retorts. “As soon as I get what I need, I’m gone. I can’t fucking stand this place. Stuck on lofty ideologies and empty promises, catering to a buncha self-entitled, renegade purists ,” he snarls, taking up to pacing the tight space Rogue’s given him. He should really just pick her up and haul her ass out of here, even if he has it on good authority she could likely do the same.
“ Purists?” she snaps. He holds his tongue from continuing down that path, sighing once more.
“Look, kid. I’m not interested in diggin’ up the past if that’s what you’re-” At this, Rogue snorts and interrupts him.
“ Of course you’re not. Why would you own up to all the deranged, stupid shit you put me through?” Rogue hisses, and at this Logan pauses and carefully turns, as something deep inside his chest lurches.
“Is that...is that what you actually fuckin’ think , Rogue?” Logan asks truthfully, before he can stop himself. His question immediately puts her off, leaves her tongue-tied as he struggles with the conception of himself she’s just laid at his feet.
“You...you used me,” she murmurs defeatedly, and he watches as she wraps her arms around her thin frame. Any trace of baby fat, of youth, has been erased from her features. She’s lean and hard now. He’s careful with what he says next.
“I recall you sayin’ you wanted to be used,” he barely growls out.
“And you took a frightened, impressionable seventeen-year-old girl at her word,” she whispers viciously.
“Only because I thought she wasn’t so stupid that she couldn’t understand a basic warning when she heard one,” Logan snarls. And that’s it...something changes, something breaks, and she blinks her glossy eyes, standing stubbornly.
“Get what you need out of this place, and leave,” she says vehemently. “And don’t ever fucking come back,” she mutters, turning on her heel to leave. He growls, but says nothing, as he lets her walk out of the door and past the three or four kids who had gathered around it. He snarls, stalking forward, and glares at them.
“Get the fuck out of here unless you wanna lose a limb,” he barks, before slamming the door in all their faces behind him.
--
The rain’s nothing but a soft pattering outside, and the muted light casts shadows on her skin, even as he leans down to take her mouth once more.
“No,” she manages to say after the passionate kiss, and he growls, before moving to her neck and nuzzling into it, finding solace.
“Once more,” he barely is able to communicate, but he already feels her shaking her head at him.
“Absolutely not. I’m a human being, Logan. I need sustenance. Rest,” she mutters, cradling the side of his head in her palm, even as he hovers over her. He growls at her gently, but she only smiles, and he lets her turn him so his back is flat on their messy, rumpled sheets. Outside, the rain picks up. Always, everyday, in San Francisco, the rain.
She gently draws circles into his chest, as he breathes out, understanding that maybe he deserves this kind of physical torture she’s inflicting on him.
“But yer on call tonight, darlin’,” he mutters, and she only smiles at him, albeit a bit sadly.
“And you’ve been off on a fishing boat for the past four weeks,” she mutters, before kissing the side of his jaw once more.
“Tis the season,” he jokes, but as he looks at her again, he notices something in her eyes has gone dark. He sits up a bit more, putting his face into her neck, before gently placing his teeth at her pulse and biting down slightly. She gasps a little, and he growls in satisfaction, but even as he lifts himself off her, the look remains.
“What is it, babe?” he asks quietly.
She bites that full lip of hers, before murmuring, “Were you ever in love...before?” His faint grin fades and his brows furrow as he considers her question, and wonders what made her ask it.
“This life or the past one?” he mutters, and she frowns, once more bringing her lips up to gently press them to his. They both know what he means. In the last two years, a tumultuous swarm of memories have returned to him, along with the knowledge that he’s likely closer to two hundred years old than not.
“The one...you remember best,” she murmurs, lying back on the pillow once more. Logan blinks at her, as something deep inside of his heart quivers. The pitch dark black of the Canadian wilderness. Snow so deep at times it would pass the windows. A spread of brown hair on a thin, cheap pillow. The tinny hum of the camper heat coming on.
“Yeah, darlin’,” he finally murmurs. “Yeah. I think so.” She frowns slightly, running a soft hand through his unruly hair, before whispering, “What happened?”
Once more he frowns, before lying completely back down on the mattress and exhaling steadily.
“What always does. I fucked it up,” he admits, and he realizes his hands have formed into fists at his sides.
“Did she love you?” Itsu’s voice is barely above a whisper, and he wonders why she needs to know this. Maybe so she can see you as more human, the cynic in him ponders, and he frowns more deeply before responding.
“I...don’t know,” he grumbles, before adding, “Enough of this…” He once more kisses her deeply, his tongue rolling over hers. She moans in response. But still, she pulls back after it’s over, looking at him intently.
“It is ok... to have a past,” she says simply.
“Or several lifetimes’ worth,” he mumbles before he can help himself, casting his gaze downward.
“N“,” she says, getting his attention, threading her fingers through his, slowly dragging them over the outline of his hands, pressing her fingers tenderly between the sensitive places between his knuckles, just as a chill runs down his spine.
“Just because we are different, does not make me afraid,” she lazily whispers in his ear. He offers her an indistinct growl, before glumly adding, “Maybe you should be.” She squeezes her hand tighter around his.
“Stop this self-pitying. It’s not like you,” she says firmly. He sighs, realizing, of course, she’s right, before his mind flits to another source of trouble that’s been lingering in the recesses of his brain.
“Listen darlin’, these laws they’ve passed,” he begins, before she cuts him off with a frown.
“I don’t want to talk about them,” she interjects, but he brings a finger to her chin so she has to look him in the eye once more.
“You know I’d marry ya if I could,” he murmurs. She blinks at him through a soft smile.
“Anata wa watashi no ottodesu, hōritsu ga nani o itte mo, Yūkan'na,” she whispers in his ear, and he growls contently in response. The last part’s a nickname she’s only given to him. He knows, now, that this is one of the most profound signs in her culture of love. He gives in, then, and sighs, moving to sit up in bed.
“Ok, darlin’. Sustenance. Tea?” he asks.
“Please,” she smiles coyly, and he can’t help but grin at her once more.
--
He meditates for hours to calm down. He stays for long, unwinding stretches deep in his own mind, rooting himself to the earth, grounding himself in all the concrete, sturdy things he’s always placed his faith in. The natural order of things. The simple flow of life and energy through time. When he finally comes to himself, he can breathe again, although the sun has long-since set in the sky. He sniffs the air curiously, wondering what he’s missed, as he slowly gets up off the floor. His stomach grumbles in hunger, but he deftly ignores it, intent, instead, on booze.
He plucks out a google search on his phone and finds only human bars in a close radius.
“ Fuck ,” he mutters to himself, before deciding that it would have to do. It only takes another sniff of the air in search of the stench of oil to navigate himself to the expansive garage, and his eyes easily settle on what he needs. A brand new, sleek Davidson Electra Glide. He practically salivates at its beauty as he easily shoves a claw into the ignition, jerking upward to hotwire it. It howls to life quickly enough, and he’s hightailing it into the dark as easily if the bike had been his own.
A handful of minutes later, he gives the bouncer a fake H-ID number, one of several he’s recently used, and slides into the bar easily enough. The music is loud and pounding and it’s not the sort of joint he would choose, but as long as the fuckin’ booze is flowing, he’s more than satisfied. And it is. He orders a double whiskey and effectively puts it away before ordering another, easily pawing for a hundred dollar bill out of his leather jacket pocket. He nurses the second, taking a glance around the club, when his nose dutifully picks up the scent.
Her scent.
He sniffs the air again, and this time he follows it to the center of a crowded, sweaty dance floor, to see Rogue, up against some human woman, dancing as if her soul was on fire. He should be angry, he should be pissed he managed to pick the one bar in town she’s at, but, instead, he smirks. He watches her lithe form move fluidly in time to the music, his left brow arched in curiosity as he downs the second drink. Another’s been replaced, along with a bottle, and Logan passes another hundred to the bartender, intent to stay settled in for the night. There’s no way, in this packed and seething place, she would ever notice he’s there.
For over an hour, she dances. The sweat pours off her, and her scent is sweet and thick and wanting. It’s a scent he hasn’t smelled in a decade, and it makes him want to drink. He’s finally able to appreciate her, and the woman she’s become, mainly because she doesn’t know he’s here and also because she’s not hurling expletives at him, and he’s smart enough to shut up and be grateful for the experience.
It’s only until she starts kissing some random stranger, hard, that he gets agitated. He watches, helplessly, as a woman and a man grab her by the hand, lead her off the dance floor and into the hallway. Logan can’t help the snarl that escapes his lips. He deliberately turns down his hearing, deciding he doesn’t wanna listen to her fuck another person or more two nights in a row. He takes his time, polishing off the entire bottle to receive just the faintest of highs, before he decides he’s had enough. He pays up, and stalks off in the opposite direction Rogue and the others had gone. He’s outside to be greeted by the warm, summer air, but, to his surprise, he sees her, unaccompanied but smelling like sex, fiddling with the keys to a bike. His bike. The bike he left her with.
That was fucking quick, he thinks bitterly, even as he stand only a few paces away from her. She’s intoxicated, and probably high, and he watches as she drunkenly drops the keys, and then he decides he doesn't want to hear the news in the morning that her body’s been wrapped around a tree trunk, so he steps forward, quietly.
“Hey, kid,” he murmurs, boots crunching on gravel as he walks toward her. She hazily stares up at him, confused, until her eyes fly open wide.
“ You,” she spits, before hoisting her leg over the body of the bike. He whips out a hand over hers, realizing purposefully he’s just touched her bare skin for the first time without feeling like his insides are being ripped out of his body, before yanking the keys from her hand.
“Hey!” she grouses, but he’s already shaking his head at her.
“Nobody needs to die tonight, darlin’, even the likes of you,” he growls, flinging them around his finger. She stares at him hard for a few minutes, before she practically loses consciousness, swaying on the spot. He has an instinctive hand to her shoulder to steady her, which she easily shrugs off, spitting a “Let go of me,” and he immediately does so, knowing full-well she doesn’t realize that those were the last words she’d spoken to him over ten years ago.
“You need a ride?” he still manages to ask, and then, remembering the events of the past two days, bitterly adds, “I’m sure I can sneak ya past Gumbo’s room, if he doesn’t know yer out fuckin’ random strangers. Humans, no less. What would yer precious X-Men say?” She shoots him a foul look, but says nothing, before, silently and without any effort at all, lifts herself up into the air a few feet.
Fuck. At some point, Rogue’s killed someone who can fly.
“Impressive,” he snorts, and she rolls her eyes at him. “Why take the fuckin’ bike at all, then?” he asks with an arched brow. She frowns and says nothing, before deftly disappearing into the black night, silent as can be. He sighs, dumbstruck by what he’s just witnessed, now staring at the set of keys still in his hand, before glancing down at the old Harley Rogue’s somehow managed to keep runnin’ all this time.
“Hello again, you piece of shit,” he drunkenly grumbles to the bike, and decides, against his better judgement, to rev the engine, kick the throttle, and take off onto the winding, black roads of upstate New York.
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