Disclaimer - Marvel own them. I don't. Don't sue.
Dedications: For Jenn and Sare, for all their encouragement.
***
In typical Logan fashion, he didn't realise he was fucked until something hit him right between the eyes, grabbed his balls and shook him up and down.
Figuratively, of course.
But that was what happened.
Her name had been one of those single-syllable abbreviations. Jenn or Kath or something, but he honestly couldn't remember and it didn't matter anyway.
She was in a bar, like most of them. She was gorgeous, like most of them - he wasn't going to deny that. What was the point? She was a brunette, like some of them. He didn't think he really had a particular 'type' that he liked - brunette, blonde, or red head (despite even Jean). Just a woman who was attractive and confident.
As the saying went, she had that in spades.
They flirted forever. She was one who enjoyed the chase as much as he did; sometimes playing hard to get, sometimes touching a particular body part in a particular way that should have been illegal in public and probably was.
Okay, so maybe he did have a particular type.
She told him she hadn't come out with the intention of meeting anyone, and he believed her. He couldn't say the same for himself, but he believed her.
He discovered that she knew her way around a bedroom. Or - in actuality - she knew her way around the bedroom, the bathroom, and the motel door. She seemed to have almost his energy level, too, which was just as well.
It was only later - after - that the truth of what had happened hit him. Not what they did, or where they did, or who he did it with…just that one little detail that he'd certainly been aware of but hadn't realised the significance of until he was lying across the bed; sleepy, barely awake, and the closest he ever got to being content.
He'd made her wear gloves.
And with the terrified realisation of a man who suddenly came face to face with his own personal nightmare, he immediately understood why.
In less that a minute he was more or less dressed, out the door of the motel, driving his bike out onto the road, any contentment long since gone.
He never seemed to stop moving. Even before there had been some kind of stability; he was guaranteed to be able to stay in one town for a least a few weeks - sometimes months - before someone got suspicious. Now it was just go in, hit something, get paid, and leave.
Never knowing names. Never remembering faces because he could only see the one.
And it was fucking wrong.
He barely slept. He couldn't allow himself too. That way lead memories, voices, smokescreens, and - ridiculously - a bad case of being greeted in the morning by nothing but his own erection.
It was fucking wrong.
He tried having sex with a few women, but he wouldn't - or couldn't - without the gloves, which somehow made it worse. As if he were ruining the image of who and what she was by making them put them on. But it was the only way.
Somewhere along the way, he stopped himself from realising just which direction the fights were taking him in, and early one Sunday morning he arrived back at Xavier's School for the Gifted.
It was quiet, of course. No one stirred except for one particular female that he could smell the moment he entered the building. He winced a little, inwardly, knowing that it was his nightmares that kept her up.
He continued to follow her scent and it didn't take long to find her; she was in the game room, absently playing with the balls on the pool table. That must have been a new addition since he left.
Logan had imagined a few scenarios as to how their reunion would go, and he had comfortably settled on this one: He would lean - nonchalantly - against the doorway or a wall and watch her for a while, smirking. Eventually she'd become aware of his presence and look up, all big eyes and pouty lips. "Logan?" She'd ask, as if uncertain. "Hey kid," He'd respond, proud of himself and the situation. The dog tags hanging around her neck would glitter in the faint light as she ran towards him and threw her arms around him.
Yeah, yeah he liked that.
Of course it wasn't what happened.
The first difference was his severe reaction to her. He'd expected a reaction - had long been having a reaction even when she wasn't there - but nothing to this scale.
She was in her nightgown, which was pretty he supposed but nothing to write home about. That wasn't the shock, however.
It was sleeveless.
He nearly collapsed, but didn't, and nearly collapsed again just because he was having such a reaction to a bare arm. Arms. Plural. There were two of them. Two gorgeous, sexy…and hell, that nightgown did look damned enticing on her…
Then there was her reaction. He'd barely had time to take in the way she looked when she sniffed suddenly and threw her head back to stare at him.
Dimly aware of the narcissism he somehow found the time to be unutterably glad that she had gained that skill from him. He could honestly say he left something behind, something he had never done before.
"Logan…"
It was the moment she murmured his name that he only remembered something else, something he had knowingly or unknowingly forgotten. Something that put the entire situation - the entire room - at risk, because if he had known what he had just remembered all along, he'd probably already be in the process of making use of the pool table for a recreational but definitely not intended use.
But he hadn't remembered. And he'd comforted himself with the fact that although he'd never, ever do anything - there were some lines even he wouldn't cross - he could at least see her. Touch her, even lightly.
And now he remembered.
She was legal. Had been for three months.
Fuck.
He wasn't a man who was known for his use of words, but even he said nothing as he walked towards her, she walked towards him, and they made use of the pool table for a recreational but definitely not intended use.
The first time she touched him and he realised she wasn't sucking the life out of him, it nearly had the same reaction through sheer shock.
Rogue…Marie…laughed, the first time he heard the unusual but goose-bump forming sound.
They moved back to his room which was still his - never going to explain the stains on the pool table - and snuggled in the bed.
A snuggler.
He couldn't believe he. He, the legendary Wolverine, permanent owner of six metal knives of certain death, was a snuggler.
And he was smiling. Logan didn't smile. He smirked. He might even grin sarcastically. He didn't snuggle in a bed that was too small with a woman who was too incredible, knowing he'd have to deal with Cyke, Jean, Xavier and Storm tomorrow, and not giving a shit.
"What are you thinking?"
He said nothing. He pulled her closer, kissed her head, and smiled.
~FINIS