Rogue lapped her plotted course once more: bedrooms, Danger Room, Underground, garage, and still no sign of Logan. The team had returned an hour ago with minimal damage and many rescued mutants, so that stress was off, at least. Bobby had broken one pinkie finger and Kitty had a sprained ankle, but otherwise they were intact. Rogue had spent the last two hours settling five scared mutant kids into dorm rooms and getting them calmed, fed, oriented, and organized. She was exhausted. The last two days had taken their toll on everyone. With a sigh of resignation, she returned to her own room shortly after midnight and collapsed into bed, almost instantly asleep.
*
“How’d you get those scars, honey?” The waitress with the forgotten name mumbled as Logan’s hands grazed over her breasts. She’d pulled his t-shirt off and unbuckled his belt, but so far he’d only gotten her shirt and bra off. They tumbled onto her sofa, too occupied to bother getting as far as the bedroom.
“Unh... huh? Those? Oh. Knife. Long story,” he mumbled as his hand slid up her thigh beneath her skirt. She kicked off her heels and wrapped one leg around his hips.
He was glorious! Best looking guy she’d bagged in years, all muscle and hair and sexy male voice and long legs and shoulders out to goddamned ‘there’. Nice bulge in the front of those skin-tight jeans, too. He had to be well hung. She’d snap a few pics of him after he went to sleep, to show him off to her girlfriends. His hands grabbed the waistband of her pantyhose and he tugged them down and off her legs, two bodies fumbling in the darkness for less clothing and more touching.
“Where’s the uh....” he started looking around, before she pointed to a little ceramic dish on the end table and he quickly produced a foil packet. “Handy. Were you a Girl Scout?”
“Yeah, I’m always prepared,” her hands went to his fly and she tugged the zipper down, reached in, and filled her searching hand with his hardened flesh. Casting her eyes back up at him, she grinned evilly, “I knew it. You’re hung, and honey, I’m a happy camper.”
The words rattled something inside Logan’s head. He’d heard Marie’s voice saying those exact same words the night before when he’d lain with her. The woman was rolling the condom on his erection and pulling him down on top of her, wrapping her legs around him, ready to go. Hell, he hadn’t even touched her down there yet. Suddenly, he didn’t want to touch her. The room swam slightly, and he felt dizzy. Too much booze, wrong woman, strange place, bad things.... his erection softened as she pulled him tightly against her heat.
Struggling to pull back from her spread legs, Logan muttered, “No, can’t,” and withdrew from her awkwardly. His cock was flaccid and the look on her face spoke volumes.
“What’s wrong, honey? Did I hurt you?”
“Uh, no, just.... don’t. I can’t stay here,” ignoring the rubber, he shoved himself back in and zipped up. “Sorry, I just... I can’t be here right now. Gotta go. Sorry,” and he stumbled for the door. He heard her yell something as he descended the stairs, still tugging on his t-shirt as she cussed him soundly. Logan missed the last step and stumbled drunkenly into the parking lot, face burning with shame and stomach feeling like he was going to vomit, and he did. When the retching subsided, he spat to clean his mouth, and looked around for his truck.
Grabbing a bottle of stale water from the floor of the truck, Logan rinsed his mouth and leaned his forehead against the door of the cab, trying to catch his breath and get his brain straightened out. Something was wrong with him, physically wrong. The rubber was bothering him, so he unzipped and threw it on the ground, then zipped up again.
“Yeah, dipshit, you’re human now. That’s what’s wrong, ya fuckin’ genius,” he muttered as he drank some water, lost it, then rinsed again. His whole body seemed in pain, joints aching, stomach protesting, head thumping. “If this is what a hangover feels like, I feel sorry for the rest of you shithead drunks,” he spoke to the city block of old brick buildings and the surrounding night. “What do you do when you hit bottom in one day? I can’t fight, I can’t go on rescue missions, I can’t be faithful, but I can’t fuck, and I can’t live like this, so what do I do now?”
Logan turned and leaned against the fender of the truck, his gaze momentarily distracted by the flicker of a neon sign in the next block, outlined by the space between two buildings. Locking the truck and walking the hangover off was the smart thing to do - he knew he was in no shape to drive. The bar was closed, so what was open at this hour that would have a neon sign throbbing in the darkness?
Steadying himself, he started walking toward the bright blue and green sign, hypnotized by it’s lure and his own innate curiosity. Rounding the corner, he gazed up at the sign hanging from the corner of the building. Twenty-four hour tattoo parlor: perfect. Maybe there were gods living beneath the city asphalt to guide people toward what they needed. Pain, and more pain would clear away a lot of cobwebs. Pain he could handle, could understand, and deal with in his own way. He pushed open the door and started surveying the scratch covering the walls. It was all good; their ink pushers had real talent.
The regenerating mutation had never allowed him to be tattooed, his skin instantly rejecting the ink when it was injected. No one had been able to mark him, let alone do anything creative. He’d given up years ago. Things were different now.
One of the tie-dye-clad guys walked up, “See something you like, bud?”
“Yeah, that,” Logan pointed to one piece of scratch, “but I want some changes made, a couple of things, and some lettering, can you do that?”
“That’s what we do, man; lots of custom work. How big, where on the body, how much you wanna spend on it? We do discounts for cash on the barrel head, or there’s an ATM and a debit card reader, too.”
“‘Bout that size, a little more detail; I got cash. Dunno where, though...”
“You want it to show in public?”
“Nah, it’s kinda personal.”
“You got a lot of body hair?”
“Yeah. Hell, put it right here,” Logan patted his low belly, over the right hip bone, just above the edge of the groin/thigh intersection. “I got bare skin right there.”
“That’s right on the pelvic bone, man, and you’re lean and mean. Gonna hurt like a son of a bitch, but it’ll be aesthetically balanced if we curve the lines just right.”
“Well, we are supposed to suffer for our art, right? Hurt me.”
“Dude! I’m your man! Come on back.”
With a sketch pad and pencil, Logan laid out the changes he wanted in the tattoo, paid up front, dropped his jeans and laid back in the chair, saying, “Make that ‘r’ a capital, like a name.”
Over an hour later he’d finally stopped sweating and squeezing the arm of the chair, the endorphin rush soaking in and making him about half high, or else the booze wasn’t wearing off; he wasn’t sure which. The pesky, incessant buzzing finally ended and he breathed a sigh of relief as a slather of cool ointment and then a bandage was applied over the tender, freshly inked skin.
Crawling across the bench seat of the truck, Logan pulled the door shut and collapsed into a blessedly numb sleep.
*
As Storm rolled out of bed the next morning, she heard a light tap at her door. Mystique slipped in at her invitation, and laid out an idea.
“I know how to contact Toad. He and I have always been tighter than the rest of Eric’s original team. If anyone would talk to me, it would be him. I know Toad, and I know how to work him. I think that’s where I should start.”
“Then do it. I’ll get you a car and a cell phone. You are not to bring anyone back here, and tell no one where you are staying. If any of these rules are broken, I’ll make sure you pay for it, either at my hands or at Logan’s. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Storm’s eyes held a level of menace that Mystique rarely saw in the Weather Witch.
“I understand perfectly, and believe me when I say this: I’m not interested in running afoul of the Wolverine. I’m still wearing his scars,” she raised her shirttail and displayed the three parallel lines of scar tissue across her belly, the product of her fight with him on Liberty Island. “I learn my lesson the first time.”
“Smart girl. Let’s go downstairs and I’ll introduce you as our new substitute teacher. The staff and students who might recognize you have been briefed, so as far as my people are concerned, you’re Becca Lee.”
*
Logan grunted in his sleep and turned his head away from the shard of sunlight that splintered through the windshield onto his face.
‘Wake up, nimrod,’ the voice grunted in the back of his brain. Tossing one arm over his face, Logan tried to sleep off the wild voice.
“Shu’p, muh’fucker,” tossing again, he bumped the tattooed spot against the gearshift and the stab of pain jarred Logan half awake. Drowsing against the heat of the morning sun warming the interior of the truck’s cab, he slid back into blissful sleep. Another jab of different pain from somewhere else brought him back to half-consciousness again.
‘Get your shit together and get home to our woman,’ the snarling voice sniped at him. Logan yawned and made a snarking sound before opening one eye. He was alone in the cab: good, so the voice was definitely inside his own head again, thus nothing to worry about. But he couldn’t resist the bait.
“Whadya mean, ‘OUR’ woman? When did you figger into the mix?”
‘When you started bein’ thick between the ears, ya dick. She knows, and I know, but you just ain’t figured it out yet. It must be tough, bein’ as slow as you.’
“Figured out what?”
‘She’s your mate, bub: your alpha, your other half; or in your case, your better half because you’re about as fucked as anybody needs to be right now. You claimed her two nights ago, so what the hell are you doin’ sleepin’ it off in an alley after tryin’ to tumble some barfly in a shit-hole dive? Ya know, I learned a lot while you’ve been takin’ time off to heal up: people think you’re the upstanding, noble, modern-primitive guy, and I’m the feral, vicious, hair-raisin’ bad-ass. They’re wrong. I’m the one that’s actually got his shit together. And you? Logan? Yer just a fucked up mess. Guess which one of us can effectively DO somethin’ about that situation. I’ll save you the time thinkin’ it through, bub: it ain’t me.’
“Shit.” Logan threw his arms across his forehead, trying to wake up and clear the fog from his brain. Suddenly the cab of the truck felt too hot and too small and he sat up shaking his head and slamming the door open to draw a breath of fresh air. Once his head stopped wobbling and his eyes focused, he jammed the key in the switch and headed for the nearest truck stop, flop house or street shelter. He could buy a shower and get cleaned up before going back to the mansion.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Fumbling, philandering, and the philosophy of art.