*
He'd been moping for days, sinking further and further into that place he seemed to go every Christmas. Rogue, everyone thought, must have some secret knowledge of why Logan hated the festive season so much. Rogue, everyone said, should be able to talk him out of it. Rogue, everyone knew, had a special relationship with Logan – he wouldn't want to make her Christmas miserable.
Rogue, she thought viciously, didn't have a clue.
She refused to go poking around in his memories just to satisfy someone else's curiosity, but something told her there was nothing there anyway. There was something in his eyes when he looked at her that told her they were the problem, or that she was. Her first Christmas here, it had been awkward, and the second, she'd felt abandoned. But last Christmas … she'd just learnt control and his coldness had been like a slap to her now-touchable face. She'd been dreading this since August, waiting for him to withdraw from her, to retreat behind a wall of “busy right now kid” and “have fun, Marie.”
Yet here she was, standing outside his door, trying to figure out what to say. She collected her courage and raised her hand to knock, when a long groan stopped her. Logan?
Undoubtedly him, that raw, strained whisper. Pitched low, but she could still hear every word.
“I want you, and I’m hating it. I want to be your friend, or mentor or something. Not some dirty old man who just can’t wait for you to grow up a bit.”
She knew who he was talking about. She'd always known. Innocent virgin Marie was a convenient fiction they preserved for the sake of peace, but she had three teenage boys, an ancient lecher, a vile truck driver, and him in her head. And every one of those voices was keen to tell her just what it meant when his eyes drifted down her lycra-clad body, or shifted to dark gold after sparring. As if she couldn't have figured it out from the physical evidence anyway.
She wanted to answer him. To make all that pain and self-loathing go away. To make him happy. Not that way, she assured herself quickly, but then her thoughts ground to a halt.
Yes, that way, she realised. It was time. She'd finally learnt control. She was learning to fly the Blackbird. She was risking her life on a regular basis as a member of the X-men. She'd grown up, and he'd been so busy torturing himself, he'd missed that fact.
“Merry Christmas, Marie,” she murmured to herself, knowing he would hear it. She leaned into the door, and pressed her lips to the wood, leaving him with her scent and the sound of her kiss. “See you soon,” she breathed, then backed away to return to her own room.
The leathers were somewhere on her top shelf, she remembered. She just hoped they still fit.
*
He forgets to breathe when he hears her voice. She can't have heard him, his secret is safe, he tells himself, before giving in to puzzlement. Merry Christmas, Marie? Why would she wish herself a merry Christmas?
Then he hears the sound of her lips sliding together, a juicy pucker and the delicious rush of air as she releases the kiss against the wood. He bolts from the chair, and flings the door open, looking up the hall for her, but she's gone. Her scent, though. She's left her scent on his door, and the animal in him starts to growl and thrash at that, because – she's left her scent on his door. She's marked him as being hers, and suddenly, he knows what she wants for Christmas.
“Oh yeah,” his conscience jeers. “You're in so much trouble, bub.”
He tries to be worried. Panic stricken, even. But he knows the difference between anticipation and dread. And he's familiar with that slow, heavy, hot feeling, even if he hasn't indulged it lately.
“It's Christmas. Time for indulgence,” something whispers in his ear, and he hopes that's not his conscience, or they're well and truly screwed.
*
Turns out, they do still fit. The leather pants slide on like a dream – she might even be leaner, now, Marie realises. Daily combat training will do that for a girl, she figures.
The jacket, though. It's tight, and she's not sure it would be comfortable, zipped right to the top. It'll be fine for riding – she'd be wearing a shirt underneath, then. Now, though. She looks at herself in the mirror, and tugs the central zipper a bit lower. It's kinda … indecent, but she's breathing hard just looking at herself like this, black leather and a tremulous smile and such intent in her eyes.
She thinks about swapping her motorcycle boots for black stilettos, then scotches the idea. “Nothing like a pretty girl in butch boots,” he growls inside her head, and she tells him to quit it, because she's not going to do this in stereo. She's not sure she's ready to handle one Logan, let alone two, but the doubt is a tiny voice next to the excitement snapping at her nerves, and the slow wash of heat through her veins.
Her hair is up high in a ponytail, and she pulls it free, letting it fall about her. Long, sweeping strokes with the antique hair brush that has been with her since Meridian, every pass an exercise in sensuality. Kohl about her eyes, and lipstick, she decides. Her hand hovers over the more usual pinks and berries before digging to the bottom of her makeup bag for the one lipstick she's never worn. Chanel calls it 'Passion' and as the colour embraces every contour of her lush lips, she begins to believe it. The deep, dark red banishes her uncertainty, and looks downright sinful when her lips curve into a seductive smile.
“Promises, promises,” she murmurs, and swings her way out of the bathroom, and down the hall.
*
He's debating whether to go after her when he hears her boots striding down the hallway. Her scent follows a moment later, and Marie is suddenly married with leather, and pheromones, and heat. His mouth goes dry, and when she bangs on the door – three sharp raps, no sign of reticence at all – his feet won't move for a second.
And when they do move, his brain is screaming at him - “don't! Ignore it! Open that door and everything changes!” but it's too late, and everything has changed already. Everything changed the minute he met her, really, but they were too new to each other to know that, and now, they know each other, and they know what's at risk.
He yanks the door open wide.
*
“Hello Logan.”
He's wearing a pair of tight jeans, no shoes, and a white t-shirt that is downright making love to his pecs. Usually she'd be struck dumb at the sight, but something – the leather? The lipstick? - is working for her tonight, so she doesn't just say hello. She practically purrs his name.
His mouth is moving, but when nothing but splutters eventuate, she realises he is the one who has been struck dumb tonight. She laughs at that, and her triumph makes her bold. She places a hand in the middle of his chest (pecs, her libido moans) and pushes hard, so that he stumbles backwards into the room. She calmly turns and locks the door, then stalks back to him. Poor, dazed man.
“You are my friend, you know. The best friend I'll ever have. Part of that is because you are an amazing mentor. You taught me how to look after myself, you taught me how to lead a team, you taught me to stand up for other people. But you didn't teach me those things because I was a student, or because I was a teenager who needed your help – you taught me because you were my friend, Logan. You cared about me.”
She drags in a breath and blinks back the tears that were threatening to fall.
“And yes, I was 15, and 16, and I'm still 17, but … we've waited, Logan. I've grown up. I'm 18 in two weeks and maybe we should wait until I'm legal and all, but … sugar. You're not a rules and regulations man.”
She steps into his body then, sliding her thighs right up to his and resting her head on his chest. “You're not a dirty old man. You're not. You're not forcing me into anything. You're not taking advantage. You're just … I'm kinda hoping that … ”
Nerve fails her, just for a second. She thinks of how she looked in the bathroom mirror, all sleek black leather and lush curves. She remembers that deep, dark red and looks up, into his eyes, strong again.
“You're just taking what's yours, sugar. And I'm taking what's mine.”
She stands on tiptoe, then, and makes it clear that the time for talking is past. Red lipstick stains his lips, then smears a path down the side of his neck. His chest is decorated with it, and in return, he transfers the colour back onto her body, marking her in a thousand dark red smears.
Christmas carols drift through the open window as she helps him pull off her boots and peel the leather down her legs. He wants to stay there, and she is tempted to let him, until an icy draught on her bare upper body reminds her that he is big, and warm, and she wants to wrap herself in the strength and heat of him.
“I need you,” she moans, and he returnsto her, making her warm, and then hot - love and lust and passion and need boiling and bubbling until her entire world erupts into shudders of white hot bliss.
Her voice is croaky when she can finally speak.
“So that's what they mean when they say 'All her Christmases came at once.'”
*
On Christmas Day, the gift exchange is dragging on and on, until Professor Xavier finally calls her name. Her friends go first, giggles and gags and obnoxious smells and colours and noise. Then all eyes turn to him, and he freezes.
It's time.
He brings out the two packages. One is small and exquisitely wrapped, with all the bows and fripperies that the giftwrap girl could offer. The other – he winces, because he can see what a bad job he did, now, but it's too late because Marie's setting the vanilla body cream to one side, and tearing of the paper with gusto.
She looks at the silk sheets, and her jaw drops.
“Logan! They're gorgeous! They're gonna look so good on the bed in our new apartment,” she squeals, and then claps her hands over her mouth, mortified. They had planned to break the news slowly. To Xavier, first, then to her friends, then to whoever else needed to know. (No one, Logan had said, but she had shushed him with a kiss, and then they weren't talking anymore.)
But it's good this way, he realises. Just like that, it's done. Everyone told at once, and it's a fait accompli. The apartment is theirs, only waiting for furniture and her 18th birthday, not necessarily in that order. He's restoring an old sleigh bed as a surprise, and in two days, he'll abduct her from her own birthday party to take her into town, and walk her into their new bedroom with his hands covering her eyes. Then he'll push her back onto that bed, and they'll christen it, and it will be their life, just like that.
He can feel himself letting go of all the negative emotions that he's loaded onto this garish, consumerist holiday, and as the guilt and shame and sadness evaporate, he starts to feel other things. The happiness in the room. The generosity of spirit. The joy in giving.
Christmas, and a miracle has happened.
He's loving it.
fin
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
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Story Notes:
so, I'm still writing Sleeping Dogs. Just in case you were wondering. But for some crazy reason I've decided to write a fic a day as part of 12_daysofficmas over on LJ. (http://12-daysofficmas.livejournal.com/). I'm working across all of my fandoms, but and this is my Logan and Rogue entry.
It's a Christmas story, and in 2008 I wrote my first-ever Christmas story, called "Hating it". I always promise sequels and never seem to write them ... but this time I have.
It's a Christmas story, and in 2008 I wrote my first-ever Christmas story, called "Hating it". I always promise sequels and never seem to write them ... but this time I have.
Chapter End Notes:
Excuse the schmaltz! It probably wont happen again!