9. Peace?
He could still taste her. 0600 hours, and he should be asleep, but instead, he was sitting in the corner of his room, thinking about a girl. Logan shook his head in disgust and dragged deep on his cigar. He had chosen his favourite from the small stash that travelled everywhere with him; a familiar, faithful friend that took him back to … Havana. And her.
And fuck it, if Marie didn’t taste better than any cigar he’d ever had. Then and now. She had been mesmerising tonight. Last night. Whatever. Dangerous and intoxicating and burning hotter than the goddamn sun. And that was before he had even laid a hand on her. When she’d finally stopped running, it had been like a supernova. He was surprised they hadn’t lit up the garage, the way the passion between them had exploded. It had been almost frightening, the level of want and need and how he would have done pretty much anything to be inside of her. His universe had shrunk to the space of one small woman, and everything else had just vanished.
It was a dangerous place to be, he realised. Something was niggling him, something about last night that wasn’t right, but damn if he could find the energy to care. He was alone, behind a locked door, no one to take advantage, and he was gonna enjoy those memories all over again. Knew he’d have to face those ugly little truths soon enough, but right now, he was gonna enjoy the fucking afterglow.
What sort of fucking pansy word was afterglow, anyway? Not a word he’d ever used before, that’s for sure – but he’d seen her eyes, as he yanked her towards him for one last kiss, and that’s what they had. He was used to sated women, satisfied women, but that had been something else. That had been fucking coming home, and she knew it.
He knew it too. Figured he’d always known, even if he had forgotten for a while.
He’d come here to do a job. Knew he would see her, thought it wouldn’t matter. Thought it’d be easy - maybe even fun, to fuck with her a little. He shifted in the chair, uncomfortable with the thought. How had he forgotten? Four years, and he’d forgotten who they were, for fuck’s sake.
Rogue and the Wolverine. Electron to fucking proton. Most irresistible force in the universe. Poor Logan and Marie – they just twisted in the wind, trying to fight that. He had tried to resist, especially when he saw parts of her just slipping away, but he was a weak fucking bastard when it came to this girl. Always had been. Logan dragged hard on the thick stogie, noting with disgust that his hands were shaking. What she did to him! He should fucking call it the Marie effect.
He’d been hit by a truck. Every muscle in his body was screaming, and his head felt ready to split in two, but … his hands were shaking. And not with the pain. He wanted to drag her into him and touch every single place he’d ever fantasised about and it was insane she could do that to him with just one kiss; one little, terrified, terrifying touch of her lips against his.
“Do it again,” he growled, needing to chase away the horror in her eyes. And needing a hell of a lot more, too, but clamping down on that because this was all about her, and about touch, and about what she needed.
A smile fought its way onto her face, and she lowered her lips to his again, and the taste turned him inside out, again. When she raised his hand to match her bare fingers to his, they were both shaking, and when she ran her fingers up past his elbow, lingering wonderingly over his bicep, then around onto his chest, bare nails flicking at his nipple. And he was shaking all over, and fucking aching for her, just from that, and his cock was pressing at his jeans. And she saw that, watched it rise. Sneaked a peak at him, eyes like boiling chocolate, white teeth worrying her lip with indecision. He didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle, but fuck it all, he prayed.
He saw the moment she decided, the flare of daring igniting in her eyes. They sought his as she lifted her weight from his thighs to slowly slide forward. She was careful, at first, most of her weight on her spread knees, and her frame tense. Even so, his cock was straining towards her, and even through her shorts and his jeans, he could feel her burning him with her warmth. And wetness, more smell than feel right now, but there. So close. He couldn’t help it, then, the long, low moan, and when she realised it was pleasure making him do that, she took a deep breath and sank right down, so deep he would have been inside of her if there hadn’t been two layers of denim between them. The world went black as he shut his eyes for a moment, and it wasn’t until he felt her tugging at his arm he realised she was taking off his wifebeater, and fuck, he couldn’t screw this up. Wanted to do this right. For her. So he sat on his hands and let her explore his chest, and if his hands crept into her hair when she bit at his nipples, he told himself he was holding on to his fucking sanity, not to her.
Because she wanted to explore everything and her hands were already stroking dangerously low in back of his jeans and the slow undulation of her hips had become sharp and jerky and she was beginning to huff with frustration. The animal was snapping at his control, yelling at him to flip her over and dive inside, but that bastard couldn’t be here, now. This was for her, and it was about her touching him. He’d fucking cut his own hand off before he broke that trust … but she was crying now. Little sobs with her eyes screwed shut as she ground down.
So he sank his hands onto her hips, and guided her. Around, and down, as he rose to meet her. Leant back, and she followed him down, gasping at the friction. Forward, around, and down, as she shuddered. Forward, around and down, as she climbed. Forward, all little gasping cries. Around, to a long, load moan. Down, and he thrust upwards into her centre, and she screamed something that sounded like his name as the convulsions took her.
He gathered her against his chest and dropped a kiss on her sweaty forehead. His cock throbbed with every aftershock that rippled through her, but he ignored it. He needed this more.
He flinched, remembering the joy on her face and the way she had nestled into him. She had trusted him, then. Maybe even loved him a little. Yet, a few months later, she had walked away without a backward glance. Given up on him. He’d spent years trying to figure out what had happened there, what had gone wrong, and never figured it out. Never even came close.
And if this didn’t make things more fucking confusing. He was used to Victor wanting to kill him, that wasn’t new, but … it hadn’t been Victor yesterday afternoon. He would’a bet good money that it had been Marie staring out of those eyes … pissed off, homicidal Marie, but still her. Still in charge.
So what had turned her into that catlike creature, basking in the afterglow? Now, that dazed, rosy girl was mostly Marie, and that bit of Rogue that obviously appreciated a damn good fucking. Logan’s lips twitched at the memory – a damn good fucking! – but it wasn’t enough to banish his trepidation. Rogue. She was a complicated creature, and things weren’t right there. The balance was off, and he needed to figure out how much of it was Sabretooth and the other personalities in her head, and how much was him. What he’d done to Marie.
Just as well they had unfinished business, really. Moth to a flame, Rogue to the Wolverine. And he wasn’t above using that. Logan contemplated the cigar in now steady fingers a little longer, before stubbing it out in the ashtray balanced on the arm of the chair. He barely voiced the thought in the quiet of the pre-dawn, but it sounded like a promise anyway.
“I sure as hell ain’t giving up on you, kid. No matter what I have to do.”
Xavier’s gig would be easy, but it was the other that had him worried. Brotherhood was bad news, but double-crossing them? He knew two-dollar whores that had more honor than his client did, but he owed her, and this had been her price.
But if she thought Marie was going to be the one to pay it, she was fucking wrong.
*
Rogue breathed in the sunrise and sank deeper into the meditation. Logan had taught her tai chi, but yoga was hers. Now, when the lines between them were freshly blurred, she needed this. Mindfulness. Fully present.
Still fucking blissed out, she capitulated with a smile. High on no sleep and the best sex of her life. Meditation, schmeditation … it ain’t gonna work when you can still feel him inside of you, kid.
Long habit pushed her forward through the postures, movements smooth even as her attention fractured. The warmth of the sun as it stroked her leg … as warm as his tongue had been. The kiss of the wind on skin tender from his beard. The ache of muscles sore from the cycle of tension and release, over and over and over again.
She had been barely able to walk from their time in the garage, so he’d wrapped her around him and had carried her inside, only to stumble on the back stairs. They’d landed in a heap, struggling desperately to contain their laughter, and when their eyes met, proximity sparked a different response. He’d kissed her, slow, and it was so goddamn good she had moaned with disappointment when he stopped. So he kissed her again and that one had an edge to it, and then, somehow, they’d been fucking on the stairs, her hands gripping the guard rail for support as he slammed into her from behind, and she had no idea what it was she yelled when she came, but she reckoned it might have been his name, and they probably heard it in the next town.
Eventually, they’d made it back to her room, and this time, it had been slow. How’s your control, he’d said, and then proceeded to make her lose it. Scientific, he’d said, and kissed every inch of her skin; lips and teeth and stubble sensitising her so much that she felt like live current, a seething mass of sensation. She had been sobbing for him when he finally slid inside, and in her relief, she had let go completely, and he had seeped into her, just enough to share his awe, and tenderness, and the ferocious, hungry desire that always, always lurked beneath.
She took a deep breath, remembering that feeling, and lifted her face to the risen sun. He made her feel like that – energised, warm, safe – and it was so fucking unexpected, she laughed with the thrill of it.
“Get a grip, Marie,” she scolded herself as she bowed in final salute. And made a mental note to tell Wolverine about the security cameras when she saw him at breakfast. She smirked. Maybe they could review the footage together.
*
The image wavered hazily in the binoculars, then resolved itself into a black-clad woman. The watcher caught her breath as twin white stripes glowed in the sunrise slowly illuminating the mansion’s back lawn. It was her, then. Where was her wariness, her alertness? This woman had turned her face to the sun, to bask, and her movements lacked their usual tension. She never once sniffed the wind, or looked towards the dark line of trees where any number of enemies might have been hidden. Was hidden, if you wanted to come down to it.
She supposed they were enemies, now. Rogue had made her choices, and they had brought the girl here. It was galling, and very, very unfortunate. Because wheels were turning. Her pawn was in place, chaos crouched on his formidable shoulders. One death, one merciful, necessary killing, and this horrendous stalemate would be broken. Pain lanced through her, but she pushed it away – a sacrifice, for the greater good.
As the angle of the light changed, the Watcher sniffed and climbed higher in the tree. Took one last look at the woman moving towards the final poses of the Salute, puzzling over the changes in her.
No realisation came, so she bowed in acceptance, hands steepled over her forehead.
“Namaste, child. May we all find peace, one day.”
***
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Author's Chapter Notes:
And ... we finally make it into the next day. Hopefully the pace will pick up at some point ;) And plot makes a slight return here. Somewhat.
Chapter End Notes:
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