She had the gloves off, but they were right next to her on the table so it wasn’t clear whether or not she had her control on. She’d finally reached the point that her mutation only activated when she deliberately turned it on, but sometimes she would hold it on for long periods of time, and wear the gloves again. No one asked her why. She’s Rogue; she does these things.
Logan sat across from her on the other side of the counter. He watched her examining her hands and arms, the perfect, pale and deadly skin. He took a sip of his beer and eyed the two empty bottles at Rogue’s elbow next to the gloves. There was another she’d halfway emptied at her other side. But she was looking at her arms, turning them and letting her hands tilt back so the pale blue veins in her wrists stood out a little more clearly.
“I used t’ have a lotta scars,” she said softly. “When I was Marie.”
Logan said nothing. She knew he was listening.
“From gettin’ inta fights, or from somethin’ goin’ awry while I worked on the theater sets, or from fightin’ through the more stubborn undergrowth in the woods when I went off through ‘em on my own, but some of ‘em were just mine,” she murmured. The statement wasn’t sad or contemplative. It almost had a hint of pride. “I wanted outta there for a long time. The life was too easy. I wanted struggle and physical fightin’ and real livin’.” She tilted her head as she traced invisible lines across the outside of her forearm. “It was a little bit a’ power, knowin’ I wasn’t afraid of the pain, and that the blood was interestin’ t’ watch...t’ taste. And they looked just like the cuts I picked up on accident all the time. I’m a good liar, and that was somethin’ powerful, too, that no one could tell when I was lyin’.” A thoughtful look crossed her face. “There was this other kid who sliced up the insides of his wrists and wore eyeliner and did a buncha other stuff for attention.” She shook her head. “I didn’t understand him at all. I asked him about it once and he said he got a high off the endorphins and that it helped him cope with life.” She snorted. “I told him quite simply that tattoos were more tasteful and sent a more coherent message anyway.”
Rogue held out her arms straight, almost as if offering them to Logan, her palms and tender inner arms facing upward, exposed. She let her hands tilt back again, one more stretching the delicate skin of the inside of her wrists so that her veins stood out a little more. The skin was unmarred: pale and perfect. She looked up at Logan and met his gaze. “I’m glad I left that life back there.” Drawing her hands back, she rested her elbows on the counter and picked up her beer again, takin’ a sip.
“Do you miss the scars?” Logan asked softly.
Meeting his gaze, Rogue smiled a little. “They wouldn’t mean much here and now, would they?” She shrugged. “I don’t miss ‘em. They don’t really belong t’ me as I am now. Not now that it seems I have that life I was lookin’ for.” She smiled more brightly, a touch of something bitter and hard in it, but it was happy about being bitter and hard. “In this life, which I think is gonna go on for a lot longer than the previous one had ever aspired, scars aren’t important. I don’t need them. I have stories and memories instead of excuses and lies. I have the streaks. I have a little collection of ghosts up here.” She pointed at her head. “I’m finally really livin’. I’m the warrior I’ve always really wanted t’ be, and I’m finally free enough t’ be myself that I don’t need to try and write it in my skin with somethin’ sharp.” She grinned a little darkly. “My skin kinda speaks for itself, now, anyway.”
Logan’s eyes wandered over her bare arms and shoulders, the dusky grey tank top, the soft cotton shorts that barely covered more than a few inches of her long, pale legs. “That it does, Darlin’,” he agreed.
“I’ve noticed, t’ most people it’s said things like ‘keep away’ and ‘danger’ and things. Still does. But not you, Sugah. What’s it say t’ you?”
Logan considered. He looked into her eyes, chocolate brown and deep. “Perfection,” he said simply, and watched her reaction.
Rogue looked a little surprised, but smiled smoothly. “I’m too flattered t’ make a joke about masochism,” she mused.
“Is it gettin’ me anywhere?” He drained his beer and added the empty bottle to her collection, still not lookin’ away from her eyes.
She didn’t look away either. “There’s not too many places t’ go, since yer already in the two most important ones. Here.” She touched two bare fingers to her temple. “And here.” She brought her hand down so the same two fingers rested over her heart.
Logan’s eyes left hers long enough to watch the gesture, and his gaze lingered near her heart before he met her gaze again. “You sure ya want me anywhere else?”
She folded her hands on the counter and leaned forward. “Everywhere else.” Then she leaned back a little, but didn’t fully straighten up. “Ya think you can handle that?”
He smiled a little. “I’m glad you don’t need scars. You won’t be gettin’ any new ones while I’m around, which will be a long time, Darlin’.” It was almost a warning.
“As long as ya can stand me, Sugah, you have me,” she said softly.
For a long moment, they stared at each other, silently communicating more than words could have ever spoken. Rogue broke eye contact in order to tilt her head back as she drained her beer. Logan eyed her throat intently.
She picked up the other three empty bottles and walked over to the sink to rinse them out. Then she dropped them in the recycling bin and returned to the counter. Ignoring her own stool, she walked up to Logan and leaned her hip against the corner of the counter. “I’m actually pretty glad those scars are gone,” she said quietly, running her fingertips across Logan’s knuckles. “It’s kinda...the way ya affect me. Ya erase all the little meaningless or foolish thoughts from my head an’ all that’s left is me in the truest version of myself, and what I really want.”
“What do you want?” he rumbled, but it was barley more than a whisper.
Rogue smiled softly. “I thought that was pretty obvious, Sugah.” She picked up his hand off the counter and kissed the spaces between his knuckles softly: unhurried caresses, soft press of lips brushing his skin. “I want you. All of you. For as long as inhumanly possible.” She looked up in time to see his eyelids flutter shut.
“Marie...”
“And yeah, I know exactly what it all really means.” Rogue leaned a little closer. “The only question left is whether yer willin’ t’ take what’s yours, Logan. I’ve been waitin’ for ya t’ do it the whole time. It shoulda occurred t’ me sooner that you were holdin’ back ‘cause ya were worried.” She placed his hand so his palm rested over her heart and she looked into Logan’s eyes as they fell open, staring at his own hand with a mixture of surprise and restrained hunger. “Ya can stop with the worryin’, Sugah.” She smiled bitterly and he could see the bright flecks of green in her eyes that hadn’t been there before their last mission: the remnants of a woman Rogue had drained, and whose psyche she had done unethical things to in the draining process that had caused a flicker of horror to cross Xavier’s face. Needless to say, Carol Danvers was very, very dead, and Rogue felt quite good about apparently having the woman’s powers permanently. “The only way ya can hurt me, now, is t’ push me away.” Rogue released his hand, but it lingered over her heart.
His free hand settled on her hip and then pulled suddenly so she jerked forward and landed on his lap, straddling him. Logan marveled at how brilliant her smile suddenly was, how incandescently happy, and damned himself for not doing this sooner. His hand on her chest could feel her heartbeat speed up, and he could hear it, too. It was beautiful.
“Mine,” he said softly.
“Yes,” Rogue hissed, leaning into the touch eagerly, her arms wrapping loosely around his neck to keep her balance and bring her face closer to his. Her hold tightened instinctively as Logan abruptly stood up, his hands cupping her ass. She wrapped her legs firmly around his waist and gave a low purr. “Finally,” she groaned, and kissed him fiercely.
They both ignored the pair of gloves left on the counter behind them as Logan carried her upstairs, fully intent on claiming what was his and letting Rogue claim what had been hers for a long time.
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Story Notes:
I thought this up whilst writing "I'm the Rogue" so I was already thinking about how I was gonna handle Carol Danvers *there* and some of that is definitely in this fic, but I also read a fic (I have to stop and read while I'm in the midst of writing something, or I run out of inspiration juices and my brain partially implodes) where Rogue attempted suicide and I got to thinking about cutting and other things and how no one had ever quite approached different reasons behind it other than the classic self-hate/apathy or pain-helps-me-cope or I-want-to-die angles. And then Rogue started talking. Her thoughts are based on those of a real person, and a good friend, who shall remain anonymous.