She hadn’t spoken to him hardly at all in almost four days and he was fine with that…for now. There was obviously some shit they needed to hash out but for the time being Wolverine was grateful for the calm before the storm that was surely coming. He knew it was going to be a major bust up when they did start talking. He just wasn’t sure how to start or what the fuck to say. She didn’t seem to be in any hurry either, so he bided his time.
They still did tai chi in the morning, although she shot him glares anytime he tried to correct her posture. And meditation practice wasn’t going well at all as neither of them could concentrate, the tension between them on a rising simmer and ready to boil over anytime. She was irritable in the extreme and kept making huffing noises every few minutes and fidgeting. It seemed to be a lost cause, but he insisted they keep at it. Maybe he just enjoyed banging his thick head against a brick wall. But at least he could sit near her for a little while each day and, with his eyes closed, not have to see Rogue giving him pissed off looks or rolling her eyes at everything he said and did.
She wasn’t giving him anything he could work with. After the first day of her stony silence he’d tried clumsily to slip back into the routine of the way things were before; she’d thrown a lamp at him the when he came into her room after hearing her shout in her sleep. Afterwards, he’d laid on the couch listening all night to her thrash in her dreams, his nightmares. And he’d heard her crying again. Been like that for days now.
Yup, giant bastard, that’s me. Might as well tattoo it on my forehead. He’d done all of to her, to them, acted rashly every step of the way, only thinking about what he’d wanted and not what was best for her. And now she was paying the price for it. He was too, but he didn’t count.
Rogue spoke only to tell him to no longer bother her with sparring in the afternoons and went off on her own into the woods to do god knows what. Skewer some chipmunks or something from the look on her face. She returned each evening around sunset and stomped into the house to change out of her uniform, then flopped into her rocking chair on the porch and proceed to try get off her face on his whiskey, though her healing factor made it harder than before. She’d put a major dent in his liquor supply.
Wolverine could relate. Whenever something was eating at him he tried to drink it away too. Never worked, he knew that from experience too.
He’d tried to cajole her with some drinking banter, just to cut the tension, and all he got was a middle claw rudely extended, so he shut up. He started staying inside the cabin while she drank on the porch each night. He laid on the sofa, occasionally stoking the fireplace, smoking, and chewing the inside of his cheek nonstop. Meals were awkward when they took them together, both of them chewing and not tasting, alternating between trading sulky expressions, and staring at their food.
It was close to lunchtime on the fourth day, and they sat there in fruitless stillness in another mediation clusterfuck, neither able to still their minds to allow for emptiness. While on the outside he looked composed, inwardly Wolverine was beating himself up and alternating between deep bouts of self-pity and roaring arguments with the animal that needled him constantly with selfish, lecherous thoughts.
C’mon bub. She’s been panting for it for days. You can smell it on her, underneath all that delectable pissed off smell. Mmmmm, tasty.
Shut up, she’s just a kid. She’s fucked up and it’s my fault he argued silently.
She hasn’t been a kid for a long time bub. You know it, you can see it. Those legs, that hair, the leather grrrr.
Alright, so she’s a woman now. But she doesn’t need this shit. We’re no good for her and we’re the reason she’s a mess.
She doesn’t look like a mess to us bub. Go on…look at her.
Wolverine cracked an eye and saw that Rogue had abandoned all pretenses at trying to meditate and had instead stretched out on the grass, one hand tucked behind her head. She appeared to be dozing. His eyes roved over her skin, bared by the shorts and t-shirts she was still co-opting from him for some reason, as mad as she was. She probably got a kick out of messing with him, showing all that untouchable skin.
Damn it, she needed to cover her ass up, he didn’t need that sort of temptation. Those long pale legs finely muscled from years of Danger Room training and missions, arms he knew were strong, magnificently so since she’d absorbed a lot of his strength, but still smooth and soft looking, like silk if you touched it.
She made a noise in her sleep and shifted, rubbing one thigh over the other as she stretched.
He closed his eyes again. The notion of touching Rogue’s skin, especially those thighs, made the beast cackle over the possibilities of getting around all that exposed flesh and the danger of slipping up making it even more exciting.
Fuck. He had to get out of here.
He grunted and stood up, flicking grass off his sweatpants, and strode over to his bike. He didn’t bother to look back at her, especially those legs. He hadn’t ridden the damn motorcycle once since he’d been here. Too preoccupied with Rogue and everything that had happened. He needed a nice long ride to clear his mind. Then he’d figure out how to break this impasse they had reached and put this shit behind them and refocus on getting her into a fit state to return to the Institute where Chuck could sort it all out and hopefully repair their friendship…and maybe neuter Wolverine while he was at it.
He stomped on his boots, threw his leather jacket on over his bare chest, kicked the bike to life, and took off.
Yup, a long ride was exactly what he’d needed. Somewhere along the couple hours he drove aimlessly through winding coniferous forests and over a mountain or two, realization had hit his dumbass.
He was in love with the little shit. Oh hell, I am. And if he wasn’t mistaken she wanted him too. She, not it, wanted him, not it.
It wasn’t just lust between them, god he hoped not, although that had helped things along quite a bit. She’d been his best friend for ages, really the only true friend he could ever remember having. Sure he’d had comrades, soldiers in arms from what parts of his fractured memory he could tie together, drinking buddies, guys he played pool and poker and shot the shit with, Chuck the stiff father-ish figure, X-men teammates, but no one like Rogue. And he’d been there for her, almost died a handful of times over to protect her, and not just as a teammate. He’d walk through fire for her. Come to think of it, he had done just that during a raid on mutant slave labor camp in Nebraska.
She was someone he could just be himself and have to always be gruff and snarly all the time. Although he’d done his fair share of that recently. No wonder she was pissed off.
Before he’d shouted in her face that she had a monster inside her, things had been rolling along pretty well. Even though she’d gone wild, just like his selfish side had wanted, she’d been enjoying herself. Dancing around, running, leaping through the trees, reveling in his acquired strength, stealth, enhanced senses.
She’d liked her mutation for the first time in her life and not felt evil or guilty for taking it b/c he’d given it to her freely.
A gift.
One that he’d snatched out of her hands in his anger.
Fuck, she’d even said she understood him better now. And she did, he realized. He had to pull the bike to the side of the road to process that flash of insight. He wasn’t the world’s quickest thinker when it came to anything besides kicking ass, so he needed to sit for a bit and mull it over.
He jammed down the kickstand, levered a leg up over the bike and leaned against it, rubbing his jaw. She was more than his best friend. She was the one person who understood him in this shithole world, knew what he was like at his worst, when he was ripping guys apart on missions then coming back to the mansion in a pissy mood and destroying the Danger Room and snarling at students. He’d killed Jean and she hadn’t felt revulsion or anger towards him like some of the others had. She told him she felt sad for him, not Jean. Rogue knew how much it hurt him to kill her. And she’d helped him move through the guilt and accept he’d done what needed to done, what Jean had needed. When most people shied away from him Rogue had stuck close to him through it all and each time welcomed him back to the mansion like a hero back from war, all hugs and admiration and affection.
Now Rogue taken one a very real and visceral part of his mind and powers, even the basest part of him that he himself had loathed and fought against for so long…and she’d loved it and wanted share her new understanding with him. She knew exactly what it was like to be him now, to have his nightmares, his healing, feel the surge of energy and strength and the need to hunt, draw blood just to satiate primal lust, the desire to inflict pain on her own body just to slake the animal inside for a while.
She’d walked a lot of miles in his shoes and reveled in the journey. He wasn’t alone and that what scared him, not the gold in her eyes or the sight of her going in for a kill or the way she’d arched under him, begging for him to take her. She’d done everything he’d ever asked of her and offered him something more than he’d ever dreamed. Someone at his side, no matter what, a real partner, a mate.
And what had he done? Told her she was fucked up. Just b/c she’d come on to him and he had freaked out. Maybe that hadn’t been totally her, maybe it had, but he hadn’t needed to be such a dick about it and run off like she was radioactive or something. Probably just reminded her that her skin made her poison. He’d never treated her like she was a leper when others did, even the other students at the Institute who should’ve known better.
But he’d done it too, treated her like damaged goods, and he was going to apologize. HIM the fucking Wolverine apologize…and hell hadn’t frozen over. And if that meant he had to tie her to a goddamn chair to make her listen to him he was going to do it and make amends. He would make her see he understood her b/c she was him, and even though he was a world class wanker she had to hear him out, and hopefully forgive him.
Wolverine been too busy brooding over one thing she’d absorbed from him rather than seeing the whole picture, all things she loved about him that were now a part of her. Rogue wasn’t a kid anymore. She was his equal.
Nah, fuck that.
She was definitely his superior in every way, and he was going to explain that to her right now and set shit right and maybe come out of this with something more than he’d ever dared hoped for.
He started the bike again and turned around, a wolfish smile on his face as he prepared for what he was certain was going to be an epic battle. She was as stubborn as him after all. Hell, she was worse.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Motorcycles are better than a shrink.
Chapter End Notes:
It's about time he figured it out.