Wolverine had expected more stony silence when he returned in a spray of gravel under the motorcycle’s wheels, maybe something large and heavy thrown at his head. He would’ve settled for her flaying the skin from his hide with a vicious combination of curses and screaming accusations for leaving again. She had always hated it when he left, always.
What he was not at all prepared for was what greeted his eyes when he pulled up to the cabin just after sunset. Rogue was cooking what very much smelled to be venison over the fire pit in the front yard. There was a blanket spread out, a bottle of red wine sitting next to 2 glasses and Christ almighty she had the radio out and tuned to some country music station and a slow melancholy song drifted on the night air.
He slid from the bike and sniffed the air, paranoid. Nope, not Mystique. And unless body snatching pod people from another planet smelled like sandlewood and citrus that was definitely Rogue sitting there, poking at what smelled like foiled wrapped potatoes in the coals of the fire like it was the most normal thing in the world. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him, which made his spine stiffen immediately. She was up to something for sure.
He tested the air again. Nope, still not Mystique, although that would explain the scene before him a helluva better than anything his mind could come up with at the moment. Rogue might blow hot and cold in her moods a lot, but this sudden shift from Arctic glacier to sunny tropics was suspicious in the extreme. Right now he’d rather have Magneto show up floating a couple of tanks above Wolverine’s head than deal with the enigmatic, suspiciously smiling woman in front of him. At least with Buckethead you knew where you stood.
“Uh, Rogue,” he cleared his throat.
“Shh, sugah, I don’t wanna talk right now,” she drawled in a honeyed voice and smiled sweetly at him again. Klaxons signaling Def Con 4 danger levels sounded in his head; even the animal inside him was growling at the unseen but obvious danger. “It’s gonna be a few more minutes sugar before the steak is ready. Why don’t you pour us some wine?” She gestured to the merlot sitting on the blanket.
Dumbly, Wolverine did as she asked, using one claw as a corkscrew. He sniffed the wine. Didn’t smell like poison, but he waited for her to take a sip before he did. Hmm. He never drank this stuff, it wasn’t exactly the most manly booze, but this was pretty good. Dry, tart, no sissy fruit taste at all. Not bad. He took a generous slug, rolling it around on his tongue, appreciating the smoky taste. Aged in oak barrels, if he wasn’t mistaken. He shook his head. Next thing you know I’ll be doing fucking wine tours in Napa in a polo shirt. He grunted, disgusted at the image, and swallowed the wine.
Rogue was back at the fire pit, testing the foiled wrapped potatoes and flipping his steak over. “Don’t worry sugah, it’s rare,” she grinned as she slid his steak onto a plate with a potato. He poured them both another glass of wine while he waited for her steak to finish cooking. She also liked hers rare just a little more done than the seared and almost bloody state he liked his. He grunted approvingly as he took his first bite, after the obligatory sniff to make sure she wasn’t feeding him skunk or possum. He arched an eyebrow at her, wondering where the meat had come from.
“I got it this afternoon while you were out: a young female, barely mature. And I didn’t have to chase but trapped her right quick and made it painless.” She smiled sweetly again. Red warning signs were still sounding in his head but they were muted by the delicious taste of the venison and the wine she poured into his glass, refilling it.
“Nice touch not letting it run, saves it from being gamey,” he grunted. He hadn’t taught her that yet, but guess she drew that from his experiences in her mind.
Oh that. He was supposed to talk to her about something important, but exactly what it was momentarily escaped his mind as she took his empty plate into the house, then came back out with another bottle of wine and another sweet smile.
“Hey Rogue-” he began, unsure if he should leap right into telling her he loved her or start off with a straightforward apology for freaking out on her a few days ago or…
“Hush sugah, I don’t want to talk about anything else tonight.” She poured him another glass of wine, then lay down on the blanket, crossed her legs at the ankles and struck a pose of advanced relaxation. “We can talk tomorrow. Tonight I just wanna lay out here and count stars.”
He looked up. Well, it is pretty nice out. And if she had defrosted enough to cook him dinner, was kind enough not to pour strychnine in his drink, and then saved him from starting a difficult conversation he really didn’t know how to have…well, Wolverine wasn’t going to argue with her tonight. He stretched out beside her, grateful she was wearing her old baggy jeans and a long sleeved shirt in the cooling air b/c he didn’t want to get distracted by the sight of her bare skin. He just wanted to relax tonight, let things be good for a night before he had to get down to business tomorrow and the “serious conversation” that might end well or, more likely, blow up in his face.
Rogue kept pouring the wine, a third bottle having appeared as though by magic, and he obligingly let her refill his glass a couple of times. She drank with him, at least she appeared to b/c he was getting too relaxed to notice she only wet her lips and occasionally poured out her glass to give him the impression she was getting as hammered as he was. The only poison Wolverine’s healing factor had to struggle against was wine simply b/c he never drank it and his body wasn’t sure how to handle this new form of inebriation. Also, it didn’t go down hard like beer, whiskey or the other liquors he usually favored so he polished off a lot more of it than he normally would with Jack Daniels or bourbon.
The Wolverine was not a sloppy drunk, but he was feeling insanely relaxed and content as he lay on his back and enjoyed the spins the stars were entertaining him with and the sound and smell of Rogue lying next to him, staring up at the sky. He tried to find a cigar in his jacket and one appeared in front of him, already lit, in a small gloved hand. He smiled and grunted a hazy “Thanks” in her direction, feeling all was right with the world and his girl at the moment. He’d just let it be for tonight.
No sir, Wolverine wasn’t feeling any pain at all as his girl slipped one covered arm around his shoulders and snaked it under his neck. Another arm appeared another across his chest, and she leaned into him.
A kiss would be perfect was the last thought he had before Rogue’s forearms tightened around his neck, crushed the external and internal carotid arteries on both sides, and rendered him unconscious instantly.
She grinned to herself, kicked over the fourth bottle of wine Wolverine had almost finished off single-handed. She’d pulled that little lethal chokehold from Wolverine’s own subconscious reserve of military training that lurked in both their heads. She would’ve killed anyone else with that hold but knew he would be alright and it hadn’t even hurt, which she’d been careful to avoid. Ok, she had been tempted to knock him out with a blow to the head while formulating her plan, but she remembered her own accusations of him inviting people to hurt him and thought a more humane method was appropriate.
Congratulating herself on the perfect execution of step one, Rogue headed for the jeep.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
It's not that hard.
Chapter End Notes:
Poor Wolverine, he really is out of his league.