He found her in a seedy little dive on the corner of Clemens and Talent called "Easy Street", pounding away on an upright black-finish Falcone that had seen better days while a young Bruce Springsteen-wannabe wailed away into the microphone.
It was Saturday night.
He had no trouble picking up her scent through the low-hanging layer of smoke, the rich aroma of hops and barley and the stench of unwashed bodies. She smelled like Secret, baby powder and the Crabtree & Evelyn body lotion he'd bought her for her birthday last year. He'd suffered through at least twenty different assaults on his nose until he found "lily of the valley" – not too strong, not too cloying, both innocent and carnal at the same time.
Both he and the Wolverine were able to swap a few nightmares for some hot, sweaty, fantasies of his baby girl and her soft, silky – oh yeah, that's it, darlin' – very naked skin and that goddamn lotion.
It was Saturday night in the middle of July.
He walked up to the bar, bought a beer, and made his way to the back where it was dark and anonymous.
It was Saturday night in the middle of July and Marie was on fire.
She was writhing on the piano bench like she was part of the goddamn floorshow, tendrils of her brandy-colored hair clinging to her throat and beads of sweat sliding down her temples to trace her jawline.
He caught himself growling low in his throat; the Wolverine was enjoying the voyeuristic interlude a little too much for his own good. He pulled out a Brazilian and went through the comforting ritual of clipping and lighting it.
Her fingers were slamming down on the keys, following the boy's gravelly voice and gritty strumming as he sang his anthem of teenage lust and desperation. The song finished with a few intricate chord progressions and a bit of tricky melody-work before she faded away gently to a round of hearty applause.
He fought the urge to gut every single one of the good ol' boys who were whistlin' and hollerin' and treatin' her like a fuckin' piece of meat. Thank God none of `em tried to make a move on her as she headed for the bar as she was checking her black lace gloves and smoothing her damp hair back from her face.
He felt like someone had sucker-punched him when she caught sight of him sitting at her table and lit up like a kid's face on Christmas morning. She grabbed her beer and made her way to him, her shocks bouncing with every step she took.
"Hey there, sugar," she said in a normal tone, trusting his hearing. "Mind if I join you?"
He gave her a cocky smile and kicked a chair out for her.
"Such a gentleman," she said, slipping into it gracefully. "So what brings you to my neck of the woods?"
He gestured to his mug and cigar. "Little drinkin', little smokin', maybe a little ass-kickin' if I'm in the mood. How `bout you?"
She sat forward, leaning her elbows on the table, lost in thought. "Just getting away from the crowd. It's kinda nice finding a place where I can play a Jim Steinman tune for a crowd that appreciates it."
"You mean Jubes and Kitty don't like rock opera?"
"Not as much as you do."
He grinned and planted his cigar between his teeth.
"So how're ya feelin'?"
She tipped up the bottle and he watched the long smooth column of her throat work as she swallowed.
Lord have mercy.
She put the bottle down on the table and ran her thumb over the label. "Better. The Boys were getting a bit too loud tonight."
"What `boys'? These wannabe badass bikers?" He growled and cracked his knuckles.
"No, sugar. My boys: David, Erik, Johnny, Bobby…you." She lifted her eyes from the bottle and looked into his. "Sometimes it feels like I have so little left that's me, that I have to go looking for it."
"Like a sleazy bar on the wrong side of town?"
Her smile was a bit lopsided. "Well, the piano is a little out of tune, but I've learned to take what I can get."
He frowned at that. Something in her tone made the Wolverine edgy.
"So what happened? You were gone like a bat outta hell."
"What do you think happened?" She shook her head and her tone was gentle and sad. "Bobby told me I had no business cleaning out John's room. I told him he's delusional that John will ever come back. He said I don't know John as well as he does. I said, `Well, I did get a pretty good idea of his state of mind that last day.' And Bobby came right back with `You had no right to go prying into John's mind'. Then I really lost it and told him I wouldn't have had to if he'd had the balls or common sense to try and counteract John when he was out there trying to roast those cops. Then Bobby told me he couldn't because when we…when we kissed in his bedroom, it took most of his power out of him. He had barely enough to freeze his momma's tea."
She dropped her head into her hands, her voice low against the sound of the jukebox, but still audible to his enhanced hearing. "And now all they're inside my head, arguing all the damn time over who's right about humans and mutants. And Erik are siding with John, David's siding with Bobby and you…you're just staying neutral because you think John's nuts and you hate Bobby."
She lifted her chin and her eyes pinned him against the wall.
"Why, Logan? Why do you hate him?"
He sighed, but remained silent.
She extended her gloved hand. "Come on. We've always been honest with each other."
He reached for her, then reconsidered and pulled back. "It's complicated, darlin'."
"Quantum physics is complicated, Logan. Learning to speak Navajo is complicated. Telling me why the `you' inside me resents Bobby should be a piece of cake."
He remained silent.
"It's not like I don't know how much you care about me," she said, her eyes drifting to his hands.
God, how she loved his hands, those hard, strong, magical appendages that brought her back from the darkness, birthed her for a second time that warm autumn night on Liberty Island.
His head snapped up.
"I've known for years," she whispered. "But I'm not a little girl anymore. Isn't it time to put the psychological shotgun and shovel away and let me grow up?"
He reached out and took her hand, squeezed it gently.
"Hey, I promised to protect you. That includes mentally snarling at any horny teenage boys who come sniffin'. But I see your point. You're twenty-one and you don't need me pullin' that kinda shit from time to time."
"Just for the record, sugar, it's all the time. Especially when I wear this top."
The black fishnet encased a skintight black camisole that was molded onto her tiny ribcage and amazing breasts. Torture never looked so fuckin' tasty.
She giggled and he relaxed. Strange how seeing her dimples and that itty-bitty gap between her teeth calm the beast inside more effectively than his attempts to reason with it.
"Maybe we should go bareback one more time so I won't feel paranoid going out on dates," she suggested, her left hand going for the buttons at her wrist.
"No!" he said, snatching his hand away.
She stared at him, the furrow between her eyebrows deepening.
"You don't need another dose of this rednecked Canuck kickin' around in there."
She snorted. "Logan, don't be an ass. You're the best behaved of the Collective – that's what I call y'all – though Inner-Logan does tend to get a bit more excited than the rest when I take my showers."
Pervert.
He was a goddamn pervert.
A goddamn lucky pervert who got to see Marie naked on a daily basis. Maybe even played an active part when she took off the gloves and spent some quality time with her pink parts.
The Wolverine's reaction to that mental image was immediate and visceral. He groaned and sank down low into his seat.
Her giggles erupted into a full-blown belly laugh. "Gotcha!"
"You're drunk," he said, relieved the shadows and his chops hid the hot blush creeping up his face.
She leaned in, the motion pushing her breasts together and up. "You wanna know what your favorite part?"
"Your mouth," he shot back. "When it's shut."
She rolled her eyes, pursed her lips and blew him a kiss. "Sorry, sugar. But it does run a close second to my—"
She didn't have chance to finish her sentence because he clamped his hand over her mouth.
Strangely enough, he didn't feel the contact open up for several seconds. Maybe it was the alcohol she'd ingested, or the combination of her lipstick and the sweat on her skin from the evening's heat, but he had a full five seconds before he felt the pull start to happen. He was lucky enough to take his hand away in time before he started to go light-headed.
She just sat there, a stunned look on her face.
"Eyes," she whispered.
"What?"
"My eyes. You like them best. When I wake up and I see the sun streaming in through my windows and Inner-Logan knows I've slept through one more night without waking up to the sound of my screams. When I see danger coming and Inner-Logan knows he can help me get out of the way in time."
He felt the blood draining from his face and it had nothing to do with the after-effects of touching her.
"But most of all," she continued, her eyes glassy with tears. "When I catch you looking at me and Inner-Logan knows what you're feeling and he knows I feel it, too."
He didn't say anything. What was there to say?
"He told me what you thought about that first time you saw me in that dive in Laughlin City. He told me what you felt that day you left me with your tag. He sure as hell broadcasted loud and clear what you wanted that night you came to my room and you thought I was sleeping. Do you remember that night, Logan?"
He nodded, unable to meet her eyes.
"And if Stryker hadn't come a knockin' on our door, I'm pretty sure I know what would have happened – nothing. Because I'm still a little girl in your eyes, sugar. And you know what? I've accepted that I always will be. So I'm doing the best I can with what I can have."
She swallowed the last of her beer and set the bottle back on the table.
"Bobby's not good enough for you," he finally said after a long silence.
She leaned in, all velvety white skin glowing through her sheer top and a trace of lilies of the valley clinging to her cleavage.
"But you don't think you are, either."
She draped her scarlet scarf around her neck and tucked her streaks behind her ears. She bent down and retrieved her purse and then looked him dead in the eye.
"Call me old-fashioned, Logan, but I'm not about to go chasing after a man who still thinks I'm jailbait even though I'm legally old enough to drink, smoke and fuck my way from one side of this country to the other."
She got up from the table, slapped a twenty on the bar and left.
He caught up with her in the parking lot.
He told her he was worried about her getting into an accident as she tried to drive the Porsche through the streets of Salem with after four beers.
She told him in no uncertain terms to screw himself as she slid the key in the lock and turned it.
He slammed the door shut as soon as she opened it.
He'd failed to notice a few things tonight. Like the fact that she was wearing a pair of black leather pants that look like they'd been spray-painted onto her perfect ass and racehorse legs. Or that her top – the aforementioned black fishnet over a skimpy black spandex camisole – left little to his imagination and a lot to fuel his fantasy life.
Fuck this bein' noble shit. Better just get it outta his system before he exploded.
He grabbed her arm and whipped her around, pressing her against the Porsche.
"I hate that little ice prickle because Scooter and Chuck and `Ro think it's `appropriate' for him to be interested in ya. I hate him even more because I see you puttin' on makeup and lipstick and I know that lucky sonuvabitch is gonna get to kiss that gorgeous mouth of yours, even if it's only for a few seconds. And I really fuckin' hate him because of the way your voice goes all soft and breathy when you say his goddamn name."
She lowered her eyes to the front of his white T-shirt, stained with grease and oil and dust, and found herself mesmerized by the rise and fall of his chest, the harsh sound of his breathing. Her hips were pressed tight against his and she felt each of the individual metal buttons of his fly digging into the soft skin of her abdomen, the almost unbearable friction of his jean-clad thighs rubbing against her. The wanting was centered there, scalding her as it swirled low in her abdomen, flaring every second or so to radiate up her spine and out the tip of her fingers.
"Say my name."
"What?"
"My name." His voice was hoarse, crackling against her skin as he breathed her in. "Just once, say it like ya say his."
She looked at him, wondering if he had lost his mind.
A warning growl was all she got as he ducked his head to suck a bit of the skin on her neck through her scarf. She shuddered as she felt her knees give out.
He bent down and hauled her up against him, his big hands bringing her thighs up to wrap her legs around his waist. She crossed her ankles and gasped at the friction as he ground himself against her.
"Say my name, goddamn it!" he whispered in her ear, right before he licked the innermost curve with his tongue. Not enough to open contact, but more than enough to make her arch into him as she pumped her hips and moaned long and low into his shoulder.
"Put me down!" she pleaded in a whisper. "This isn't you. This isn't us!"
"You mean you don't like it?" he asked, his voice raw with a hint of mockery. "Say it, darlin'. Say it and I let you go right now."
She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a surprised groan of delight as his hand snaked up her torso to hold her in place while he went back for more of that sensitive spot on her neck. Then his hands were on her breasts and she was pressing herself into his palms, alternately gasping and whimpering as his fingers found her nipples and brought them into play.
Unfair! she wanted to shout to anyone in hearing distance, but the parking lot was deserted. Hell, he could lay her down and fuck her blind on the hood of the car and there'd be nothing and nobody to interrupt them but the staccato barking of the junkyard hound dog three doors down.
How the hell had this happened?
At this point, she didn't much care. All she wanted was to get out of there and maybe, if she was lucky, get off in the privacy of her own room.
One thing was for sure and certain: none of her juvenile gropings with Bobby had ever made her feel like this.
Damn, he smelled good. Beer, cigars, musk, Irish Spring soap and clean laundry registered in her brain as he growled in her ear and nuzzled her hair as – God help her – she became an active participant in this crude seduction, working herself on him, panting and biting the thick pad of muscle under her mouth.
"Jesus Christ, babydoll!" he swore, his thumbs digging into the hollows of her hips as he moved with her, matching her frantic pace.
"Yes. Yes, yes, yes!" she sobbed as she tipped her head back to rest on the roof of the car. "Don't stop! Please don't stop!"
Through her half-closed eyes she could watch him as he watched her.
Nothing was left of her mentor, her protector, her hero. He was all animal now. And while one side of her shivered in fear, another side of her – darker, deeper, more primal – was screaming for more. Begging for him to lay her down, slice open the center seam on her absolutely favorite pair of pants and –
"Logan! God, Logan!"
Her scream was mercifully muffled by the solidity of his cloth-covered shoulder as the fiery pressure burst inside of her, radiating in jolting, molten waves down her legs, up her spine, along her arms, as her fingers and toes and face tingled with ecstasy.
A few dazed seconds later she felt the sharp bite of his canines on the tendons of her neck and the reverberation of his long, low growl as he jerked against her once, twice, three time and collapsed against her, muttering her name as if it were both a curse and a benediction.
Marie opened her eyes to find Logan standing in front of her.
"You all right?" he asked.
She was sitting on the asphalt of the parking lot.
She checked her watch. No more than five minutes had passed.
"Huh?"
"You seemed to black out there for a minute, darlin'. Had to catch you before you fell and hit your head."
She checked her neck. No bite marks.
What the hell?!
"Look, I've been all kinds of a righteous asshole tonight. What say I take you to the diner and treat you to a milkshake and a plate of chicken fingers?"
But she was most definitely coming down from the great-granddaddy of all orgasms. Blood was still throbbing between her legs and if she moved too suddenly, she triggered another mini-blissfest.
Just the first of many darlin'.
It was then that she felt him.
The Wolverine…quieting inside of her psyche, the nerve pathways he so recently stimulated calming down.
Any way you want it, I'm ready.
She'd absorbed him, for the third time. But this time around, she'd taken the animal into herself, not the man. And he certainly didn't see her as a child anymore.
Just be sure you know what you're askin' for.
She took the hand Logan offered her and stood up.
"Yes. Food. Good thing."
"I'm parked over there." He gave her a half-cocked smile and gestured with his thumb to his means of transportation. She should have guessed he would have swiped Scott's bike.
He climbed on and she swung a leg over and snuggled up against him.
"Logan?" she whispered.
"Hmmm?"
"Nothin', sugar. Just wanted to say your name."
He started the bike and revved the engine.
You and me, just around midnight. I'll be waitin', babydoll.
She shivered in the eighty-degree heat and held on.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
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Author's Chapter Notes:
I swear to God, this was not supposed to be smutty, but the Wolverine came out to play and you can guess what happened. Hop on over to my site to read the Notes Section. http://www.geocities.com/greenowl99