It started at the stroke of midnight, when an unsuspecting Rogue was roused from sleep by two snickering women brandishing a bottle of tequila.

"Wakey, wakey!" chirped an entirely too cheerful voice, inches from Rogue's ear.

"Mmmph," Rogue responded intelligently.

"C'mon, girl," Jubilee ordered, poking a sharp finger into Rogue's rib cage. "Wake up. Just for a second."

Rogue stubbornly kept her eyes closed. "No." She scrunched further into the covers, turning her face into the pillow, breathing be damned.

"You're already awake," Kitty said, always the reasonable one. "Don't you want your present?"

Present? Turning her head very slightly, Rogue took a breath and opened one eye. "Present?"

"Hell, yeah," Jubes answered, waggling the bottle inches from Rogue's face. Too close, in fact, for her to read the label.

Rogue's mind clicked sluggishly into gear. Birthday. Right. It was her birthday tomorrow. Or, really, today, since it was after-- "Are you kidding me?" Frowning, she pushed herself upright. "It's a Tuesday night."

Jubilee smirked. "So?"

"So," Rogue answered with a flash of irritation, "I have things to do tomorrow. I'm not going to get trashed at 12:02 on a Tuesday night--"

"Technically," Kitty interrupted, "it's Wednesday now."

Rogue gave Kitty her best withering look. "It's not Wednesday until I go to sleep and wake up. During *daylight*."

"Chica," Jubilee shot back, plopping down on the edge of Rogue's bed. "Did you miss the part where I'm holding a bottle of tequila?"

Kitty held up a lime and a saltshaker in silent agreement.

Rogue groaned. "One shot," she said. "And then I'm going back to sleep."

"Whatever you say, babe," Jubilee answered breezily. She gestured for Rogue to scoot up toward the headboard, and then scrambled farther over on the mattress to give Kitty room. With a flourish, Jubilee tossed the bottle cap in the general direction of the door. "Kitty?"

"Would you hold this?" Kitty asked, handing off the saltshaker to Rogue so she could fish in her pocket for -- a knife?

Rogue shook her head. "What are you--?"

"Wolvie's never around when you need him," Jubilee mused with a grin, watching Kitty struggle to cut the lime and not her own fingers. "Babe. Why didn't you do that in the kitchen?"

Kitty's glare was the only answer she gave. After a few moments, she had the lime sliced into several reasonably sized slices. "Okay. Birthday girl's first."

Rogue gave Jubilee a puzzled look and accepted the full bottle of tequila. "Where are the shot glasses?" Because she was more of a beer drinker, but her impression of doing shots was that it necessarily involved shot glasses.

"Shot glasses are for pussies," Jubilee opined. "Upend the bottle."

Groaning, Rogue considered her options. This didn't seem like the kind of situation that could end in anything except badness. Or drunkenness. Or possibly drunken badness. "Jubilee--"

"Drink, woman, or I'll sic Remy on you."

Rogue heaved a dramatic sigh. "Fine," she said, lifting her wrist to her mouth. Balancing the bottle between her thighs, she sprinkled salt onto her damp skin and licked. Ick. She lifted the tequila to her lips and tipped it back, nearly choking as the liquor stung her lips and burned all the way down. "Gah!" she yelped, reaching blindly for the lime slice. Eyes watering, she sucked the sour juice until her mouth cooled.

Her abdomen felt as if she'd swallowed a campfire. Rogue blinked a few times, all traces of her sleepiness gone.

Jubilee was still laughing, leaning back against the paneled walls. "Oh, babe," she chortled. "The look on your face -- Ouch! Kitty!"

Kitty had a mean elbow. "You're next, Jubes. Oh!" She brightened, suddenly, turning to Rogue. "Here."

Rogue stared blankly at the felt tip marker in Kitty's hand. "What's that for?"

The look Kitty gave her suggested that maybe the tequila was already affecting Rogue's ability to think. "For keeping track."

Rogue blinked. Maybe it *was* already affecting her, because -- "Of what?"

"Of how many you've had," Kitty explained patiently. "So none of us gets *too* drunk."

Rogue wanted to say how incredibly stupid an idea that was, but she took the pen instead, and drew a short, blue line on the inside of her forearm. "Thanks," she added belatedly. "Jubilee?"

"Oh," Jubilee crowed, reaching for the saltshaker. "This is going to be *fun*!"

---

Two hours later, Rogue had seven increasingly unsteady pen marks on her arm and a serious case of the giggles. Kitty was barely conscious, lying in a ball at the foot of Rogue's bed, and Jubilee was spread-eagle on the floor, laughing intermittently as she stared at the ceiling.

"You should jump'm," Jubilee slurred, nodding a little wildly.

Snickering, Rogue slid further down the headboard and attempted to peer over the edge of the bed at her friend. "Huh?" Because she could hear individual words, but they weren't making a hell of a lot of sense in context. 'Cause Rogue was pretty confident that they'd been talking about... Um... Well, something to do with music maybe?

"You. Should. Jump. Him," Jubilee repeated, carefully enunciating each word.

"Oh, God," Rogue muttered, burying her face in the blanket. "Not this again." Jubilee was laboring under the delusion that Logan was secretly in love with Rogue. When faced with the damning evidence that Logan had never so much as hinted at anything remotely resembling secret love, Jubilee would generally wave a dismissive hand and declare that Logan was simply waiting for Rogue to admit her own undying passion for him. Which was stupid and totally not true.

Well, except the part about her own undying passion, though she could kick Kitty's ass for phrasing it that way.

"Please," Jubilee scoffed, blinking several times as she attempted to focus on Rogue's face. "You're so hot for him it's funny!" She frowned. "Not funny. Wait. Is that right?"

Scrunching up her face, Rogue attempted to concentrate. Then she shrugged awkwardly and started giggling again. "I have no fuckin' idea, Jubes." Her words sounded a little slurred to her own ears. "Juuuubesssss," she repeated loudly, trying to make her tongue work properly, despite the fact that it felt numb.

"What?" Jubilee asked, struggling upright. Her eyes widened and she lifted both hands to her head as if to hold it in place. "Oh, God. Dizzy. Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy."

"Lie back down," Rogue suggested. "That worked for Kitty. Right?" No response from the prone figure at the foot of the bed. "Kitty?" Rogue nudged Kitty with her foot.

"Wazzuh?" Kitty asked, jerking her head up and staring blearily at Rogue. Her short hair stood up in odd tufts, and her mouth hung open as she looked blankly around the room.

The image was really just too funny, and once again, Rogue was overtaken by laughter.

Kitty groaned. "I'm goin' t'bed," she announced, leaning up on one hand until she was at a 45 degree angle from the bed. She frowned, reconsidered, and flopped back down onto the mattress. "I'm sleep'n here, 'kay, Rogue?" Before Rogue could answer, Kitty's breathing deepened and slowed, and in no time at all, she was snoring softly.

"We should've been drinking water," Rogue muttered, idly playing with a loose thread on her blanket. "Maybe we wouldn't be so drunk."

"Drunk," Jubilee declared, "is good."

A sharp knock at the door, and then a frowning Logan was standing in the doorway. "It smells like a distillery in here," he announced, studying the three slumped figures. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Rogue grinned stupidly at him. Truth be told, she did want to jump him. Who wouldn't? "Hi, Logan," she greeted cheerfully.

He let go of the door and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Rogue blinked, trying to force her eyes to focus a little bit better. Holy hell, he was hot. Especially when he was all glower-y and fierce. Like now. "You're drunk," Logan pronounced.

Nodding emphatically, Rogue tried to sit upright. "I'm legal," she announced proudly. The expression that flitted across his face piqued her interest, but it was as if there were a layer of cotton between Rogue's observation skills and her interpretation skills. "We're celebratin'."

"Without me?" Logan asked, in a tone that Rogue couldn't begin to interpret; if she didn't know better, she'd think it was suggestive.

Jubilee turned quickly to gape at him. "Ohhh," she said, starting to grin. "Kitty. Hey! Kitty!" she shouted, leaning over to thwap Kitty's arm. "Let's go."

"Wha--?" Kitty asked, curling deeper into the blankets.

"Logan," Jubilee answered, her tone quite suggestive, "wants to celebrate with Rogue."

Rogue's cheeks felt hot. She wondered if it was the alcohol or the embarrassment at Jubes' implication. Because that girl was reading way too much into Logan's words. He obviously didn't mean it *that* way.

Right?

Rogue tilted her head and stared at Logan, trying unsuccessfully to read his expression. He didn't seem at all uncomfortable with her scrutiny. Of course, her vision was a little wobbly around the edges, so she couldn't really judge. But he just stood there, arms crossed, and stared right back at her.

"Ooooooh," Kitty answered, struggling to sit up and swing her legs over the edge of the bed. "Is she gonna jump'm?"

"Kitty!" Rogue squeaked, kicking her off the bed.

"Hey!" Kitting yelped, landing in a heap on the floor beside Jubilee. "What are you -- Oh. Hiya, Logan."

Rogue buried her face in her hands, unable to bring herself to look at the expression on Logan's face. He was probably smirking in that really obnoxious way of his. He knew he was hot -- women practically fainted when he stalked past them on the streets. Or in the hallways at school. Or by Rogue's table at lunch, wearing those tight jeans with that giant belt buckle --

Wait. What was she supposed to be thinking about?

Oh. Right. The utter humiliation of Logan smirking about her. Or maybe he was looking horrified, 'cause, wow, did he *not* treat her like he treated most women. And that really pissed her off, now that she thought about it.

Because she was hot. Or, at least, she was relatively sure she wasn't *hideous*, deadly skin be damned. And she knew for damn sure that she had a killer rack. Why the fuck didn't he look at her *like that*, anyway?

"C'mon, you two," Logan said. His voice was closer to the bed, now, and Rogue figured he was picking her friends -- her *former* friends -- from the floor. "Rogue, stay right there," he ordered.

Face still carefully averted, Rogue nodded her agreement. There were times when rebellion was called for, but her equilibrium was seriously compromised right now, and she didn't figure she'd make it far if she tried to run away.

"Nighty-night, Rogue," Jubilee sang. "Enjoy your present -- Ow! Quit it, Wolvie!"

As soon as Jubilee's irritable mutters and Logan's biting retorts faded, Rogue opened her eyes and glanced around. Good. She was alone. Excellent.

Unsteadily, she pushed herself to her feet and weaved in the general direction of the door. Her hand-eye coordination was seriously shot, but she managed to get the door closed, and fumbled for the lock. It didn't want to work.

"Dammit," Rogue muttered, leaning down. She opened her eyes wide, hoping that would help. The ridiculously tiny little knob-lock-thingie was still too blurry. And if she wasn't mistaken, she actually had *two* right hands.

Which would actually be kind of a cool mutation.

Snickering at the thought, she concentrated and reached slowly for the lock, until she felt the metallic bump beneath her fingers. She was still trying to figure out whether to turn it clockwise or counter-clockwise when she heard that familiar sharp knock.

"Oh," she said, trying to stand up.

But Logan opened the door without waiting for permission, and she was far too drunk to get out of the way, and --

She was on her ass with one hand pressed to the knot forming on her head. "Motherfucker!"

"Shit, baby," Logan groaned, kneeling beside her on the floor. "You okay?" His hands were on her shoulders, fingers squeezing tight. "Rogue? C'mon, darlin', look at me."

"No," she pouted, rubbing gently at the stupid knot on her stupid head from the stupid door. "Stupid Logan." And where the hell was the dull haze of all of the alcohol she'd imbibed when she needed it? Her head *hurt.*

"I'm sorry," he muttered, his fingers trailing lightly through her hair. "Do you need me to get Jeannie?"

"Jeannie," she repeated bitterly. Yeah, so Jean was thin and gorgeous and smart and graceful, but was she *really* that much better than Rogue? What was Logan's obsession about, anyway? And why did thinking about Jean make her head hurt even more?

"Yes," Logan answered slowly, gloved fingers reaching for her chin to angle her face up. "Jeannie. You might have a concussion." He inhaled, grimacing. "On top of about a quart of tequila."

"Nuh-uh," Rogue insisted, holding up her marked forearm. "See?"

Logan squinted at the lines. "What the fuck is that supposed to be?"

She frowned at him. "I only had that many." Studying her arm, she began counting slowly. "One, two--"

"Seven, baby," Logan interrupted impatiently. "When did you start drinking?"

Rogue blinked. "Um."

With a sigh, Logan guessed, "Midnight?"

Grinning, she nodded with enthusiasm, then ceased all movement and sat very, very still on the floor. Oh, shit.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no.

Logan studied her face, then groaned. "You're gonna throw up, aren't you?"

"No," Rogue answered in a tiny voice. Maybe if she just closed her eyes -- Whoa. Bad idea. Seriously bad idea. "I'm fine," she added for good measure.

Luckily, Logan had always been able to tell when she was lying. He lifted her easily and hustled into the bathroom, depositing her on the floor in front of the toilet just in time.

It was disgusting and humiliating, and Rogue felt about thirty-seven times better when she was done throwing up. Logan flushed the toilet without comment, and then dug her mouthwash out of the medicine cabinet and helped her to her feet.

"Thanks," Rogue muttered, swishing the cool liquid around before spitting it into the sink. Her stomach still felt pretty iffy, but she really, really, really needed to lie down. Like, ten minutes ago.

"Bed?" Logan suggested. She nodded tiredly, her head throbbing more than ever, and let him help her under the covers. He dragged her trashcan over to the bedside, then stood watching her with unreadable eyes. "I'm going to get Jean to look at you."

"Logan," Rogue complained. "I'm *fine.*"

"You didn't get sick until I knocked you on the head," he pointed out. "Might be a concussion."

"It's not," she answered, her eyes slipping closed against her will. She snuggled deeper into the covers.

"How do you know?"

"Had one before," she answered, her words blurring together as alcohol and exhaustion eased her toward sleep.

"I'm staying here," Logan declared.

"Whatever you want, sugar," Rogue answered.

---

All night, every time Rogue fell into a decent sleep, Logan would shake her shoulder until she grumbled and cursed her way into wakefulness. Each time, he would make her drink a few sips of water, ask her if her head still hurt, and then check her eyes. She would complain that she was fine and that she just needed to sleep it off, and then he would sit back in her reading chair and watch as she drifted back off to sleep.

In the morning, Rogue woke gradually, groaning at the slivers of sunlight piercing her eyeballs. She rolled carefully over, and squinted at the clock: 10:30.

"Good Lord," she muttered, tossing a forearm over her face. She'd slept pretty late and she felt like crap. Her head throbbed. Why did--?

And it all came back. Every horrifying detail, right up to the part where Logan held her hair back while she vomited, which she recalled with spectacular detail.

"Oh, my God," Rogue moaned, squeezing her eyes shut tight. What if he was still in her room? What if he was watching her right this second. She lay still and tried to *feel* his presence.

Nothing.

Cautiously, Rogue opened her eyes and scanned her room, then let out a sigh of relief. She curled up on her side and lay in bed a few more minutes, staring at the smudged lines on her forearm. She was going to *kill* Jubilee. And Kitty.

Rogue's limbs were still a little weak and trembling when she rolled to her feet and moved carefully toward the bathroom. She stopped in surprise when she flipped on the light and spotted the note taped to the center of her mirror.

*Go see Jean about your head.

Logan*

Frowning, Rogue crossed her arms and read the note repeatedly. Damn. No sign of hidden meanings. No suggestive "don't worry about puking in front of me; I still think you're hot." Or reassuring "I didn't actually understand what Kitty meant when she suggested you jump someone." Not even a kindly "hope you're not totally useless with a hangover today."

Though if she tried really hard, she could maybe read a little bit of "sorry I bashed your head in with the door" into the note. He was, after all, suggesting follow up care.

"Idiot," Rogue muttered, tearing the note from its mooring and crumpling it into a ball. She brushed her teeth twice, swallowed three Advils, and then flipped on the shower. She stayed under the spray a long time, letting the heated water revive her as much as it could.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop reliving the nightmare that was Logan's appearance in her room the night before. He was about the farthest thing from stupid possible, so there's no *way* he'd misunderstood Kitty and Jubilee.

"God," Rogue muttered, considering her options as she dressed in her most comfortable jeans and an old, soft green sweater. Her reflection in the mirror was pale, if not pasty, and seriously lackluster. Rogue frowned at her double, then grabbed a soft black scarf and tied it jauntily around her neck.

She still looked hungover. "Shit."

Rogue sighed and turned away from the mirror. She checked to make sure her door was locked, then grabbed her worn copy of The Great Gatsby and curled up in her armchair. She wasn't *hiding* from Logan or anything, just taking some time to recover.

Around noon, when Daisy was tossing Gatsby's clothes around, there was a knock at Rogue's door. She froze, staring in wide-eyed horror at the doorknob.

"Rogue?"

It was Jean. Oh, thank God. Rogue set Gatsby down and unlocked the door. "Hey, Jean," she greeted. "C'mon in."

Jean, impeccable as always, smiled kindly as she stepped into Rogue's room. "Good afternoon, Rogue. How's your head?"

Rogue's smile disappeared. "Logan told you what happened?" she groaned. The mental image of him recounting the humiliating incident to the beautiful doctor was something Rogue didn't really want to deal with. Damn Logan to hell, anyway.

Jean seemed a little confused. "Well, yes. He told me that he opened the door into your skull and then you threw up."

Rogue buried her face in her hands. "Oh, this is just perfect," she muttered. Not only had Rogue embarrassed herself in front of Logan, but her actions sent Logan to Jean. Not that Rogue harbored any fears about Jean leaving Scott, but any time Logan spent an hour in Jean's presence, he was besotted again. It made Rogue insane.

"Rogue?"

Sighing, Rogue dropped her hands to her sides and stood there listlessly. "Yes, he hit me in the head. Yes, I puked. But I was really, *really* drunk at the time." Rogue pulled back the sleeve of her sweater to show the faded but still visible blue ink marks. "See?"

Frowning, Jean studied her forearm. "What are those marks?"

"Seven shots," Rogue explained. "Of tequila. I threw up because of the alcohol." Rogue met Jean's skeptical look. "I've had concussions before, Jean. I remember what they feel like. I'm hungover, not concussed." She dropped her gaze, muttering, "I'd rather be concussed."

"I'm sure you're right," Jean answered easily. "Still, it would make me feel better to do a quick exam."

Rogue grinned crookedly at Jean. "Whatever you say, Doc."

Jean whipped out her penlight and a pair of latex gloves and did a cursory exam, asking Rogue questions about her headache and her dehydration. When she was finished, she nodded. "Drink lots of fluids today, Rogue. You'll feel much better if you eat something, too."

"So I was right?"

"Yes. You were right." Jean smiled. "No concussion. Just -- watch out for doors, okay?"

Rogue snorted. "Tell Logan to watch out for people's *heads* when he's opening doors."

To Rogue's surprise, Jean's smile faded quickly. "He feels terrible, Rogue."

Rogue blinked. "What?"

"He was waiting for me in the hallway when I woke up this morning," Jean explained. "He stayed up with you all night and wouldn't agree to get some rest until I promised to check on you."

Rogue waved a hand in the air. "That's just his protective streak."

Jean watched her closely for a long moment before answering. "No," she said slowly. "I think there's more to it, Rogue." Off of Rogue's dumbfounded look, Jean merely squeezed Rogue's hand and excused herself, not bothering to elaborate on exactly what she was implying.

When Jean left, Rogue found it next to impossible to get back to Daisy's torrid affair with Gatsby. Because Jean couldn't really mean that Logan--

No. Logan didn't--

Did he?

---

By the time Logan showed up at her door around 4:30, Rogue was about to go stark, raving mad. Nothing was making sense, and she was torn between crawling into Logan's bed, and hauling ass to the train station for a long overdue vacation somewhere far, far away.

His familiar knock set her nerves jangling, and Rogue pushed herself to her feet. And waited. Frowning, she called, "Come in." The hell? He never waited for permission.

Logan pushed the door open slowly and took two steps into the room, his intense gaze scanning her figure. "You see Jeannie about your head?"

Rogue frowned. "Good morning to you, too."

Logan scowled back at her. "It's afternoon. Did you see her?"

"Yes," Rogue answered, one hand on her hip. "I'm fine. No concussion."

The tension in Logan's shoulders eased, just a little, and he leaned back against the paneled wall, arms crossed over his chest. "How're you feeling?"

"Much better," Rogue answered awkwardly. All she could think about was the comforting weight of his hand along her spine as she vomited. God, she wished she could take back the night before.

"Know why you got sick?" Logan asked, watching her with unreadable eyes.

Rogue could feel the flush across her cheeks, but held his gaze defiantly. "Yes." Why the hell did he have to *talk* about it? It wasn't bad enough that he'd seen her throw up, now he wanted to *discuss* it?

"You need to learn to drink better, baby," Logan declared, one eyebrow raised almost in challenge.

Puzzled, Rogue stared at him. "Okay," she answered belatedly. And since when did he call her "baby?"

At that, Logan actually grinned, leaving Rogue more befuddled than before. "Good," he answered. "You got plans for tonight?"

Rogue blinked. "Tonight? What?"

"We'll start tonight," Logan answered, pushing away from the wall and walking toward her slowly.

Watching his approach, Rogue's nervousness kicked up a couple of notches. She lifted her chin. Never show fear. He'd drilled that into her, and she was determined to live up to his expectations. Except that the feeling uncoiling in her gut wasn't fear, precisely. She couldn't quite identify *what* it was, because he was still walking toward her with a really intense expression on his face, and how were people supposed to be able to *think* with someone looking at them like *that*?

Rogue swallowed hard. "Start what?"

But Logan didn't answer her question. He stopped inches from her and asked one of his own, his voice low. "Do you trust me, Marie?"

Marie? He hadn't called her that in a long damn time. Rogue had no idea what the hell was happening, but he'd asked the one question she could always answer without thinking about it. "Yes."

"Good." Logan reached out and traced one gloved fingertip along her cheekbone. "Be ready in a half hour."

---

Twenty-seven minutes and one quick shower later, Rogue stood, naked, in her closet, hands on her hips. She pulled on her cutest underwear, a matching set in dark green silk. What the hell was she supposed to wear to learn how to drink with Logan? What did that even mean? Where were they going? What was he *thinking*?

"Shit," Rogue muttered. "Shit, shit, shit."

She had a pair of tight black pants in one hand when Logan's familiar knock sounded on her door. "Fuck." When he didn't just barge in, Rogue leaned out of the closet and yelled, "Come in."

The door opened, and Logan froze, his eyes sliding down to what little of her he could see. Specifically, her half-naked torso.

Rogue blushed. "Um. Where are we going?"

Logan blinked, looking as off-kilter as she'd ever seen him. It seemed like a struggle for him to stop staring at her chest and look her in the eye. "You can wear whatever you want, baby, as long as you're wearing *that* underneath." He stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him with a decisive kick.

Rogue's mouth dropped open, but she wasn't able to string words together. What was *that*? Was he *flirting* with her?

Logan seemed to be recovering. He crossed his arms and leaned casually back against the door, his gaze raking down her body once more. "Dress warm."

Dress warm? What the hell? But Rogue nodded and retreated into her closet. Dress warm. He was wearing a really excellent pair of jeans, and his usual flannel shirt with two jackets. But since that was what he wore *anywhere*, it didn't really help her pinpoint where they'd be going.

"Fine," she muttered, grabbing her only pair of leather pants. Leather was warm, right? She slid them on, then layered a tight black tank top beneath a semi-sheer shirt. She'd just rely on her jacket and the alcohol for warmth. Because she'd never seen Logan look at her like *that* before, but she really wanted to see it again.

Repeatedly.

She paused to adjust her tank top, letting the strap of her bra show. Just in case he needed reminding, since he seemed to appreciate it. Rogue tugged on a pair of leather boots, grabbed her thinnest gloves, and sauntered out of the closet. "This okay?" she asked him, twirling slowly to a stop, one hip jutting out as if she were on a runway. The heat of his gaze burned and crackled over her skin. Hell, if he kept staring at her like that, she wouldn't need a jacket at all.

"More than okay, baby," Logan answered. His unique form of a compliment. "Bring a change of clothes."

Rogue actually choked, all of her newfound confidence fleeing in the face of his implication. "What?"

Logan gave an impatient little sigh. "We're staying somewhere else tonight. I figured you'd want to have clothes for the morning."

"Logan!" Rogue admonished, irritated. He was such a *guy* sometimes. Honestly. "You should've *told* me I needed to pack!"

She turned back toward her closet, but Logan was beside her, suddenly, his hand on her upper arm. "I'm not taking you to a hotel, Marie," he murmured, holding her so close she could feel the heat of his body along her spine. "Just bring a change of clothes."

Not a--? But where--? "Logan?"

He leaned in closer. "Trust me," he said, his warm breath skating across her throat.

Trust him. Yeah, right.

And, wow, he was *definitely* flirting with her. Her knees were a little unsteady at the thought, but she straightened her spine and nodded. Since he didn't let go of her arm, Rogue grabbed her abandoned jeans, a black sweater, and a change of underwear (silky and black) and tossed them into a bag. "Okay," she said, her voice sounding a little shaky even to her own ears. "I'm ready."

*I think,* she added silently.

---

When Logan turned off of the Merritt Parkway in Meridan, Rogue frowned. Where in God's name was he taking her? She glanced over at him and hooked a thumb at the window. "I need to go to Connecticut to learn how to drink?"

"Nope," Logan answered.

God damn, he could be frustratingly tight-lipped. "So we're just going to Connecticut to soak in all of the lovely..." Rogue frowned, unable to come up with anything uniquely Connecticut-y. She shrugged and said, "Scenery?"

"I know a guy," Logan said, his gaze steady on the road as he turned up a small state road.

Eyes narrowed, Rogue studied the scenery as it zipped past. Lots and lots of trees. The occasional small house. Nothing much in the way of bars or taverns. "You know a guy who owns a bar in the middle of the woods?"

Logan spared her a half-grin. "Who said anything about a bar?"

Perplexed and a little apprehensive, Rogue turned her attention back out the window. He wasn't taking her to a hotel or a bar, and he was driving her to the middle of nowhere-- "Oh, c'mon, Logan!" Rogue complained. "You *know* I can't stand camping!"

He smirked at the road. "Learn to love it, baby."

"It's my *birthday*!" Rogue pointed out, truly irritated. "It's my day to be pampered and taken care of and showered with gifts!"

Logan turned his head and stared at her with dark eyes. "And you think none of that can happen while we're camping?"

Rogue's brain stuttered and went temporarily offline. Logan. Pampering her. In a tent.

Oh, the mental images. Rogue curled her hands together in her lap to curb her sudden, insane urge to grab that giant belt buckle of his and pull him on top of her.

Smugly, Logan gave her a half-nod. "That's what I thought."

She wanted desperately to ask him what the hell *that* meant, but she was also terrified. What if she was totally misreading him? What if this was all his big-brotherly idea of helping her grow up, what with learning to drink and learning to camp and shit?

"I'm gonna kill Jubilee," Rogue muttered.

Logan just laughed and flipped on his blinker.

---

Well, Rogue thought as she stubbornly refused to help Logan set up the tent, at least there's a tiny, little bathroom with a working toilet. She was *not* the kind of girl who could make do with an abandoned stand of trees and a convenient leaf. Rogue shuddered at the memory of the one time she, Kitty, Jubes, Bobby, and John had attempted a camping trip. The guys loved it; the girls ended up at a motel straight out of *Psycho* when they realized there was no working toilet on the side of the mountain.

Either Logan remembered her complaining about that particular trip, or he knew her well enough to know she wasn't into roughing it.

Turned out the guy Logan knew was Jason Millar, owner of a campsite in Meridan, Connecticut and possessor of a really amusing Boston accent. He introduced himself as "Jason Millaahhh," and Logan elbowed her sharply in the ribs when she started to snicker. She'd elbowed him right back and told him he'd better damn well pamper her and if there wasn't an actual, functioning bathroom--

At which point, Jason had jumped in and offered to give Rogue the tour. The tour consisted of the small bathroom facility, the main office, and a bunch of stone circles scattered across what passed as a campsite. Looked like Logan and Rogue would be the only people there, which wasn't doing wonders for Rogue's nerves.

What the hell was Logan playing at? She still had no idea, but she would admit to enjoying the view as he kneeled and pounded stakes into the ground. Manual labor did amazing things to his body. Hell, standing still did amazing things to his body. *Breathing* did amazing things to his body.

When he'd finally finished pitching the tent, Logan rose to his full height and tossed the mallet in the bed of the truck. He pulled out a battered old trunk and placed it on the ground near the fireplace. "You want a fire yet?" he asked.

Rogue tilted her head, considering. "Did you bring marshmallows?"

Popping open the trunk lid, Logan held up a decent-sized bag. "Yes."

Rogue grinned. "Are we going to make S'mores?"

Logan pulled out a package of graham crackers and a giant Hershey bar and tossed them at her. "You can make as many as you want, baby. But you need to eat some real food, too." He reached back into the trunk and pulled out a small cooler, which he opened to reveal two thawing steaks and a few ears of corn, still in the husk.

Impressed, Rogue raised her eyebrows. "No cake?" she teased.

"No cake," Logan confirmed, reaching back into the trunk. "But there is dessert." He lifted a full bottle of tequila from the trunk and set it on the tailgate.

Interesting. He was making her what promised to be a really nice dinner, and then he was going to get her drunk. Rogue flashed a slow grin. "Maybe I'll learn to love camping after all."

Logan nodded. "That's what I'm counting on, darlin'."

Oh, *really*? Rogue studied him as she set about building a fire. He certainly *seemed* to be flirting with her. Her stomach gave a slow flip-flop and she wasn't sure she'd actually be able to drink much of anything.

---

Dinner was delicious, and Rogue made a few borderline obscene noises when she first tasted the steak. When she glanced over at Logan, he was watching her with an odd intensity, and she felt the blush steal across her face. Given the food, the company, and the impending alcohol intake, Rogue was pretty sure she wouldn't need the fire to stay warm.

It was lovely anyway, and she and Logan were sitting cross-legged on a blanket, plates on their laps. He'd actually snagged some of the professor's real plates and silverware, which sent Rogue into a small fit of laughter when he pulled them out. Logan didn't seem particularly amused by her reaction, so she'd patted his arm and thanked him again for the trip.

"Really, Logan," Rogue said, gesturing at the remnants of her steak and her half-eaten ear of corn. "This is delicious. Thank you."

He shrugged. "You should learn to cook."

"I can cook!" Rogue shot back, defensive.

Logan merely raised a skeptical eyebrow and let that pass. He'd finished his meat in record time, then polished off two ears of corn. "You ready for dessert?"

A thrill of nervousness shot through Rogue, but she forced herself to breathe normally and nodded. "Sure. Tequila and S'mores."

Logan grimaced. "That's disgusting, baby," he said, even as he handed her the stick he'd de-barked for her to toast marshmallows. "You cold?"

Rogue considered, but shook her head. The night air was cool, but she was close enough to the crackling campfire -- and to Logan's steady warmth --to be comfortable, even in her admittedly skimpy shirt.

Nodding, Logan shifted on the blanket, stretching out on his side. He twisted the cap of the tequila bottle off and leaned it against his stomach. Rogue watched with probably a little too much interest, and Logan glanced up at her with a smirk. "Your marshmallow's burning."

"Oh!" Rogue jerked it out of the fire and brought it to her mouth, blowing the fire out. It was Logan's turn to watch her intently, and again she was blushing. Settle down, girl, she told herself. She blew softly on the marshmallow again, then tilted the stick in Logan's direction. "Sure you don't want some?"

Logan wasn't much for sweets, and he surprised her by leaning forward and biting the end of the marshmallow off. His gaze locked with hers as he sucked the treat into his mouth.

Rogue was pretty sure she was no longer breathing. Then Logan gave her a smug grin, and she inhaled sharply, pulling the stick back and bringing it to her own lips. She licked carefully, the warm, sugary marshmallow oozing into her mouth. Eyebrows up, she eased the rest of it into her mouth and added a satisfied moan for good measure.

To her delight, Logan reached almost desperately for the tequila and tossed back a healthy swig. Hissing, he swallowed it down without bothering with the lime slices on a small plate between them.

Rogue was caught somewhere between triumph and embarrassed laughter. Her relationship with Bobby had never progressed to this sort of heated foreplay -- if that was indeed what it was, since she was still half-convinced she was reading Logan wrong.

Eyebrow raised in challenge, Logan held out the bottle. "Drink?"

Even before she accepted, Rogue knew it was a bad idea. She'd have no control over her mouth, and she was likely to jump him if she got a couple shots in her. But she also knew that if she stayed stone sober, she'd simply implode from the sexual tension without mustering the courage to try anything.

With shaking fingers, she accepted the bottle and brought it to her lap. She eased the edge of her glove down to expose her wrist and held his gaze as she licked it. The salt was a slight shock to her system, but she tried hard not to make a face. With the first swig of tequila, she wasn't able to curb her instinctive reaction. "Yikes!" she yelped, and all but lunged for the lime slices. Her movements nearly toppled the bottle, and Logan reached out to grab it from her, bringing them closer.

For a long, heated moment, they stared at each other.

Rogue's eyes were still watering a bit from the bite of the tequila, and her insides were heating up. In more ways than one, the longer he looked at her like that.

Slowly, she released the bottle and sat back up, watching as he knocked back another shot. Accepting the unspoken challenge, she repeated her ritual and downed another one, sucking on the lime a little longer this time, letting the alcohol burn away her inhibitions.

Logan studied her face for a long moment, then reached behind him and produced a bottle of water. "Let those shots settle in, baby," he murmured, offering her the water. "Alternate with this so you don't get too drunk too fast."

With languorous movements, Rogue moved her marshmallow stick to the edge of the blanket and rolled to her side, then onto her stomach, until she was at an angle to Logan. Conveniently, her new position gave him a stellar view of her cleavage, which he appeared heartily to appreciate.

"Jesus," he muttered, and took another shot. When Rogue reached for the bottle, Logan shook his head. "Trust me, darlin'. Drink the water."

She obeyed, downing a third of the bottle in the hope it would cool her down. Then she met Logan's heated gaze again, and she didn't think much of anything could cool her down at this point. Her stomach fluttered in trepidation. Could this actually be happening? It seemed unreal.

Logan's attention shifted, and he stared past her out into the forest, his expression as relaxed as she'd ever seen it. His fingers tapped the neck of the bottle, and Rogue was a little surprised to see how much they'd drunk already. Even as she tried to count shots, Logan lifted the bottle and took another.

"Why'd you bring me here?" Rogue asked before she could think the better of her question. Immediately, she regretted asking, wished she could take it back. If she was wrong about his intentions, she certainly didn't want to know now. Except maybe she did, so she could start to breathe normally again.

He just watched her for a long damn time, until Rogue broke and reached for the bottle. Logan kept a tight grip when she first grabbed at the cool glass, then relinquished it. "You might want to slow down," Logan commented. "Drink more water."

Rogue shuddered as the tequila hit her stomach. Her limbs were starting to feel a little bit disconnected from her body, and she knew whatever tenuous control she'd had over her mouth before was long gone. "Why?" she repeated, softly this time.

Logan shifted on the blanket, propping his head on his palm. He eased the bottle from her fingers, his free hand bracing it against his stomach. "You really need to ask me that?"

Hmmm, he was giving her a way out. Rogue thought maybe she should take it. She forced a too-bright smile and said, "For my birthday, of course. I just meant -- why camping? I'm not really the outdoorsy type."

For a long moment, Logan watched her with an unreadable look. "You are the outdoorsy type, darlin', you just don't know it yet," he answered.

Laughing, Rogue dropped her forehead to the blanket and muttered, "Outdoorsy, my ass."

Then she froze, because Logan's fingers were drifting through her hair, cradling the back of her head. As his palm landed on her shoulder, Rogue lifted her head and stared, wide-eyed, as Logan shifted a little bit closer, still lying there on his side looking utterly unconcerned.

How the fuck could he look so *normal* when his hand was on her shoulder, heating her entire body?

"Look around," Logan told her, his voice low and warm. "It's beautiful out here at night. You'd love it if you'd give it a chance."

Mesmerized, Rogue nodded. Then she reached for the bottle, eschewing the salt and lime to take another swig of tequila. Given her position, it was awkward, and she spilled some amber liquid down her chin. Spluttering, she handed the bottle back to Logan and started to reach for the trail of alcohol.

"No," Logan instructed, his hand on her shoulder guiding her down. "Flip over."

Laughing was the furthest thing from her mind as Rogue obeyed, lying on her back and breathing quickly and shallowly. Logan shifted closer, his gorgeous face looming over her for a moment before he leaned down. His tongue traced the line of tequila along the side of her neck, under her jaw, across her chin, and then, holy mother of God, he was kissing her.

Quick, purposeful kisses, pressed to her lips as she lay completely frozen below him. Logan pulled back, a small frown wrinkling his forehead, and Rogue realized she was about a half-second away from blowing this.

"No!" Rogue yelped, her arms looping around his neck to hold him in place. "Don't go," she whispered, trying to adjust to this reality. This reality where *Logan* wanted her. The thought was enough to turn her insides to marshmallow, but she couldn't think about that right now. Not when those intense eyes of his were staring down at her. Rogue leaned up and kissed him almost chastely, testing the feel of his lips against hers.

It was incomparable.

With an appreciative groan, Logan settled more completely over her, his thigh nudging hers, his chest pressed up against her breasts. He kissed her harder, more insistently, and Rogue felt the electric jolt of his tongue sliding against hers in the split second before her mutation latched on. She pulled back, and Logan stared down at her with a slightly dazed look. "Damn," he muttered.

And Rogue started to laugh, a joyous, relieved, surprised kind of laugh, her arms tightening around his neck. "Is this really happening?" Because she'd had a lot to drink, and she really didn't want this to be an alcohol-fueled dream.

Logan shook off the lingering effects of her mutation and pressed a lightning-quick kiss to her lips. "If you want it to."

"I want it to," Rogue answered, hooking a leg up around his hips to draw him closer.

Dropping his head, Logan groaned. "Wait. Wait."

She beamed at him. "Wait for what? You got me all liquored up, Logan. Believe me when I tell you I'm waiting for you to take advantage of me."

He laughed into her neck, his forehead resting against her hair, and Rogue tightened her grip on him sensing that he was about to pull away.

"Darlin'," Logan said, lifting his head to pin her with his gaze. "We can't do this tonight." But his hands said something else, sliding possessively down her sides, fingers digging into her hip to hold her flush against him.

Rogue pressed her advantage, sliding her palm down his spine to that incredible ass of his. "We can do this tonight," she countered. "We *should* do this tonight."

Logan kissed her again, kissed her until her mutation began to pull at his mind. "I want to, baby, believe me. But we have to be careful."

Careful. "Oh." Reality crashed headlong into Rogue's living fantasy, and she looked away. "Sorry."

"Don't," Logan admonished, his tone firm. He reached up with gloved hands and held her chin, urging her to meet his gaze. "Look at me, Rogue. Look at me." Stubbornly, he waited until she complied. "I'm not blowing you off," he said, his hazel eyes serious. "I'm not fucking around, here. But we need to be careful, and I'm not going to take advantage of you."

Rogue blinked a suspicious wetness from her eyes. "I was kidding."

"I know," he answered, his fingers threading through her hair to cradle her head. "But I want you to remember everything," he said.

The words were nearly enough to send her over the edge, given his proximity and his heated gaze. Her fingers clutched at him. "You promise this isn't a one-time-only deal?" she asked, her voice shaking again.

In answer, Logan leaned down and kissed her again, and it was laughter and caring and heat and love, all wrapped up into that kiss. Only after he fell to the blanket beside her did she realize that wasn't her reaction, but *his.* He pulled away before she could get much, but his feelings for her -- God.

He was lying on his back, eyes closed, breathing heavily. And, she noted with interest, sporting a pretty impressive erection. As much as she would love to have her way with him right there in the forest, he had a point about being careful. Help was a long way away, and maybe the first few times they tried, they should be within shouting distance of Jean and Hank.

"You okay?" Rogue whispered, rolling tight against his side, slinging her thigh over his, letting it rub against him until he groaned and opened his eyes.

"Better than," Logan murmured, slipping an arm around her to pull her close. "Do you understand?"

"Yeah," Rogue said, pressing kisses to his shoulder, his chest. "I understand." She let her fingers wander over his stomach, clutch his belt buckle suggestively.

"You're going to kill me," Logan muttered, reaching with his free hand for the tequila. He downed another shot, then tossed the bottle in the general direction of the woods.

"Hey!" Rogue yelped.

Logan grinned at her. "You've had enough, darlin'."

She wiggled a little closer. "Not nearly."

His arm tightened around her in response, and they lay in silence. Rogue looked up at the sky, at the stars twinkling down between the trees. It really was beautiful out here.

"You're right, Logan," Rogue murmured.

"'Bout what?"

Her fingers squeezed his wrist where it lay against her stomach. "Maybe I am the outdoorsy type after all."

She could hear the smile in his voice when he leaned close to her ear and said, "Happy birthday, baby."

THE END

End Notes: Yes, 30 shots were consumed during the writing of this fic. By the characters. Not by me. ::innocent whistle::