SUMMARY: Rogue's got a birthday and Logan doesn't like it when she wallows. Written for Em Meredith's birthday bubblefic book, but I decided it sucked too much to make it in there. I guess that means you should read it at your own risk. ;)
Rogue heard the familiar cadence of his boots on the hardwood floors and didn't bother to open her eyes. He'd find her; he always did. She'd stopped being surprised by him years ago. Deciding to ignore him, she slid further into warm bathwater and concentrated on wallowing.
Thirty.
The number loomed like some giant, unforgiving brick wall dropped unexpectedly in front of a speeding car and, Rogue thought darkly, the brakes weren't working. Belatedly, her hyperbole registered and she realized Logan was right; she'd clearly been spending too much time with Jubilee.
But, hell, she deserved to be melodramatic about this -- she was turning thirty. Reaching up, Rogue pulled a lock of hair forward, staring at the brilliant white-blonde streak. Soon, she mused, people would stop thinking of her hair as a fashion statement and start assuming she was going prematurely grey.
Out in the hallway, Logan knocked twice, waited about five seconds, and let himself into her small suite. She knew he would smell the bubblebath immediately, if he hadn't already picked it up from the hall. Sure enough, he moved soundlessly across her thick carpet and knocked on the bathroom door. "Marie?"
"Bubblebath," she said by way of greeting. She really wasn't in the mood for him tonight. She couldn't take much more of his unspoken disapproval, but she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't go away quietly. "Enough suds for you to stop loitering in the doorway," she added a bit grumpily.
She expected a smartass response, maybe a snort and a "You ain't got nothin' I haven't seen before, Marie." She didn't know quite what to make of the odd silence before he pushed the door the rest of the way open and moved approximately six inches closer. His expression was hard to read in the flickering candlelight. "Something happen I should know about?"
Rogue blinked. "What?"
Inclining his head toward the ragtag parade of candles marching across the countertop, Logan said, "Usually you do this when you're upset."
"Do this?" Rogue echoed, shaking her head a bit. She'd dug out every single candle she could find in her room, and lit them all with one of Logan's old lighters. She'd stolen it during her helpless crush phase; she kept it because the thought of Logan actually buying a blue plastic lighter with an American flag on it still entertained her whenever she got bored enough to try to imagine it.
Logan frowned for a moment. "Wallow," he answered, his tone suggesting that she damn well knew what he meant and shouldn't force him to actually verbalize things because that never ended well for either one of them. She remembered that particular tone of voice too well; he'd used it the night he told her that, no, he didn't love her and he wasn't waiting for her to grow up so he could run away with her for some big fucking happy ending involving ridiculously tall cakes and poufy dresses. (His words, obviously.)
Rogue pushed the memory away and glared up at him. She was wallowing, of course, but she lifted her chin and insisted, "I'm not wallowing."
Logan didn't dignify that with a response. "Nothing I should worry about, then?"
Rogue bristled. "Since when do you worry about me?" As soon as the words left her mouth, his eyes blazed with anger. Wincing, Rogue tried to take it back. "Wait--"
"What the fuck does that mean?" Logan demanded, body coiled tight with anger.
And they were off. She recognized the beginning of one of their knock-down, drag-outs and for once, she held no anger, no irritation -- nothing to fuel her end of the argument. Instead, she just felt... drained.
"Nothing," she answered tiredly. She remembered when they used to be able to talk without these landmines. It was probably longer ago than she thought, considering she thought she should be turning maybe 24 (not thirty!), but she still missed him. She'd always thought her affection for him would wane, especially after their blowup when she'd turned 21, but no matter what she did, no matter who she dated, she had this damn soft spot for Logan that never seemed to fade.
She braced herself for whatever was coming and turned her gaze to where he stood, still just inside the door. Working his jaw, Logan crossed his arms and stared at her. "Kitty and Jubilee took you out last night?"
Rogue couldn't believe he wasn't pressing her. They'd always argued, but over the years, much of the playfulness had been supplanted by bitterness on both sides. Looking back with the wisdom of a nearly-thirty-year-old woman, she concluded that she'd done her part to ruin things between them. She'd disappointed Logan repeatedly -- first by hanging on tight to her hopeless crush, and later by growing up and not needing him anymore.
"Yes," she answered belatedly. "We went to a nice place in the city. Weird place," she corrected herself. "Over in the industrial section. Nothing else really around late at night."
"Sounds dangerous," he said, his gaze drifting down toward the bubbles.
"I'm not a kid," she shot back, pushing herself up a little in the tub, letting the bubbles slide right down to the edge of indecency to prove her point.
Logan shifted almost imperceptibly, focusing once again on her face. He studied her with an unreadable look. "So that's it."
"Excuse me?" Rogue asked, scowling a little. He was already irritating her. She should've told him her bubblebath was low and he'd have to stay outside. Or go away.
"You're not a kid anymore."
Rogue wrinkled her nose. "I just said that."
"You're wallowing over your birthday," Logan told her.
Scowling, Rogue averted her face, staring fixedly at the bubbles slipping between her fingertips. "So what if I am?"
"It's just a number," Logan said, sounding completely disinterested.
With a sigh, Rogue lifted a hand and waved it toward the door. "Yeah, I'm overreacting. It's fine. I just wanted to have a glass of wine and a nice, soothing bubblebath. You don't have to cheer me up or anything."
"Who said I was trying?" Logan asked, lounging against the doorframe. When she glanced over at him, his belt buckle gleamed dully in the candlelight.
She felt a surge of anger. "Whatever. You can go back to poker or skirt-chasing or buffing your claws -- whatever you were doing before you came in here. I'm fine."
Logan made an indescribable noise of displeasure, the kind of sound he'd normally make in the middle of a cagefight, but Rogue stubbornly kept her attention on her kneecaps where they poked up through the bubbles, waiting for him to answer.
He didn't.
Exasperated, Rogue threw her hands into the air. "Why are you in here bothering me, Logan? Don't you have anything better to do?"
"Not really." He was still just leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, staring at her with a bland expression on his face. What the hell was going on? He was supposed to be cursing and pacing and storming out by now -- they'd played this particular game a thousand times before.
She spluttered something that barely resembled words, and she could tell by the slight twitch of his lip that he was holding back laughter. It just made her angrier. "Jerk," she muttered, but he didn't rise to the bait.
"You should appreciate what you have, Marie," Logan told her, and as hard as she tried, she couldn't read any irony in his expression.
Shaking her head slightly, Rogue narrowed her eyes at him and asked, "Mystique? Is that you?"
"Real fucking funny, Marie," Logan growled. "I'm serious. You've got friends and this life and you've done a lot of good stuff since you got here."
Rogue felt very seriously out of her depth, staring wide-eyed at this man who was acting nothing like he was supposed to. Logan didn't wax philosophic about life or suggest that people should stop and smell the roses -- he was too busy tearing out of town on a motorcycle in search of a nice piece of ass or a good cage fight circuit or, occasionally, stranded mutant kids in need of a gruff talking-to and a ride to Xavier's. "I don't understand," she admitted.
Logan gave a frustrated sigh. "It's your birthday, Marie. You're supposed to pay attention to all the stuff you did during the year on your birthday."
"You are?"
"Yes," he answered, clearly irritated now. "You are."
Glancing away, Rogue thought back over the past few months. He might have a point, but they were so locked into squabbling over everything, that she automatically answered, "I got a really rockin' haircut in April."
Logan glowered at her. "Marie--"
"Oh, and there was that time I held a door open for this little old man in a white fedora. He seemed grateful," she continued, unable to stop now that she'd started. "Few weeks ago, Bobby got me a Diet Coke from the fridge without me even asking first. Is that the kinda thing you mean?"
"Being a bitch isn't going to drive me outta here tonight," Logan said grimly.
Rogue blinked, unable to fathom what the hell that could possibly mean. She probably should've focused elsewhere (just what would drive him out of here?), but the first thing out of her mouth was, "I am not a bitch!"
"Didn't say you were," he answered, still looking a bit peeved.
"Oh, don't play word games with me," Rogue spat, shifting angrily. She wanted to stand up and confront him nose-to-nose. (Well, really, nose-to-breastbone.) Stupid bubblebath. (Stupid height difference.) "Jackass," she added, glaring up at him.
"Never said I was a good guy, Marie," he pointed out, unperturbed by her outburst. In fact, the angrier she got, the more he seemed to relax.
"Believe me, I know exactly what kind of guy you are," she answered, flashing her best scowl. She'd learned it from him, of course, but she would never be half as intimidating as Logan at his crankiest.
As if agreeing with her silent evaluation, Logan merely raised an eyebrow at her. "What kind of guy is that?"
"Don't ask questions you don't want to hear the answer to," Rogue shot back, feeling cruelly gratified when he flinched. So he did remember what he'd said to her that night, years and years ago, when she'd finally forced him to set her straight. He didn't love her, didn't want her, didn't have the foggiest idea why she would've thought he did. As much as she'd hated him for saying all those things, he'd had a decent point -- she had asked. She'd learned her lesson well that night. She never asked him real questions anymore, because he wasn't the kind of man who would lie to her.
And, apparently, he wasn't the kind of man who would let her vicious remark go. "I don't take advantage of scared, abandoned kids," Logan answered heatedly. He was angry now, getting angrier. This, at least, was familiar ground.
"I wasn't a kid," she answered by rote.
"You're not a kid now," Logan argued. "You were a kid when I found you in that bar."
"Found me," Rogue scoffed, shifting a little more so she wouldn't get a crick in her neck from staring up at him. "I found you, and when I needed a quick exit, I climbed into your truck. All you did was think twice about leaving me to die of exposure in the middle of goddamn Canada."
"I did more than that," Logan countered, moving closer, towering over her. "But my point stands. I don't take advantage of kids, Marie."
Rogue lifted her hands to her face, pressing her palms against her eyelids until she saw bright sparks from the pressure. "Why are we talking about this again?" she wondered. Because, really, it had sucked enough the first time. That was nearly -- God -- nine years ago, now, and she could remember it almost word for word; she had no need to relive it. And she was supposed to be relaxing in her bath. Or wallowing over being old and alone, not wallowing over him. Not again.
"You brought it up," Logan pointed out, and he sounded almost amused, which infuriated her further.
"I did not," she shouted, suddenly on the verge of tears without knowing why. "Logan, would you please just... go?"
"No," he answered, but his voice was different now. Softer. Gentler. "You're an adult now, Marie," he continued. "I know you're still mad at me for saying no, but I figured you're old enough now to understand."
She finally looked up at him, angry and hurt and wanting nothing more than to smack him across the face. "Understand what?"
"Flea," Logan said by way of an answer. "He's 17 and he's got one hell of a crush on you."
Rogue gave him a skeptical look. "He does not." But she as she let the suggestion settle, she remembered Flea acting flustered around her the last few weeks, even dropping his art supplies in the hallway when she was wearing that really cute red dress. Huh.
Logan bared his teeth in a rather scary imitation of a smile. "Yes, he does. Would you date him?"
She recoiled, wrinkling her nose. "Of course not! Logan--" And she understood. She was Flea. Had been Flea. Whatever. Embarrassment washed over her, and she knew her cheeks were flushed a deep pink. Rogue raised her hands to cover her face. "Get out," she ordered quietly.
"Marie--"
"Get," she repeated, louder now, "out."
"No."
"Logan--"
"I just want you to understand why, Marie," he said, sounding unusually earnest. Still, she couldn't lift her head, couldn't face him just yet, even as he continued, "I never claimed to be a good guy, Marie, but you were too young. It was never you; it was just circumstance, but you wouldn't believe me."
"I believe you," she whispered. She didn't. Not really. Because she only knew Flea as a student. She hadn't tried to give her own life save Flea's a couple days after they met. She understood Logan's point, but it wasn't the same. She wasn't the same as Flea. She'd been old since she kissed David, cynical since she spent eight months hitchhiking across the United States and Canada learning exactly what men expected when they picked up teenaged girls by the side of the road.
"Marie."
She took a shuddering breath and forced herself to lift her head. Defiantly, she met his gaze. "It's not the same."
"Marie--"
"It's not and you know it." Rogue waved off his protests, more than eager to drop the humiliating subject. "Don't worry about it, Logan. I understand. I believe you. Whatever. Just -- please, go."
He stood there silently for a long moment as she struggled against tears. Finally, he crouched down beside the tub and reached over, tugging gently on a lock of her hair. "Listen up," he ordered, speaking deliberately. "You know I don't do this feelings shit, right?"
She nodded, still unable to look him in the eye.
"I miss you," Logan said gruffly. "I miss the way you were with me before all that shit happened."
"That was years ago," Rogue pointed out, her voice trembling with strain.
"Nine years isn't much for me," Logan answered.
"Eight-and-a-half," she corrected.
With a snort, Logan said, "Eight years and ten months."
A little surprised at the precision of his statement, she glanced over at him. "Why do you remember that? You're horrible with dates."
"I always remember your birthday," Logan answered evenly.
She considered that. "Yeah, but--"
"You waited two months after you turned 21," Logan interrupted. "And you turn 30 in a few days. I ain't a mathematician, but..."
Rogue accepted that, but she was still confused. "Why now?" she asked. "Why'd you come in here tonight and drag all of this stuff up?"
Logan tilted his head. "Truth?"
"Truth."
"I know it still bothers you," he answered simply. "I don't ever want you to hurt because of me, Marie."
His declaration left her speechless. She'd assumed that their tense relationship was the result of Logan feeling tethered to his promise to take care of her even after she'd proved unworthy of his affections. But he seemed to be saying--
"I'm also a little selfish," Logan admitted, the edge of his mouth turning up.
That sounded far more likely. Rogue narrowed her eyes. "What's that mean?" she asked, her tone wary.
His gaze slid down to her neck, to her breastbones, to the rapidly diminishing layer of bubbles hiding her body from him. "Knew you'd be in here wallowing, which meant," he answered, that heated gaze lifting once more to meet hers, "that either you'd be a captive audience and I'd be able to have my say, or you'd storm out of here. Naked." Logan lifted one insolent eyebrow. "Win-win situation, if you ask me."
Rogue tried to summon words, but she just -- win-win situation? Because he might see her-- "Are you serious?" she asked, incredulous. Could he possibly have decided now, nearly nine years later, that maybe he did reciprocate?
Logan merely lifted an eyebrow. "Do you believe me?"
She felt her cheeks flush as she stared at him. "That you wanted to see me naked?"
His lips twitched with amusement. "That what I said years ago had absolutely nothing to do with you," he corrected.
Nodding stupidly, Rogue answered, "What about the other thing?"
Rocking back on his heels, Logan held her gaze. "What other thing?"
So he was going to make her say it. What a big shock. Logan was many things, but easy had never been one of them. Rogue screwed up her courage. "Do you want to see me naked?"
"You ever looked in a mirror?" Logan asked.
What the hell? Rogue blinked. "Yes."
Leaning closer, Logan once more let his gaze drift down her body. "What do you think?" With that, he rose to his feet and headed for the door (giving her, incidentally, a truly amazing view of his ass).
Rogue stared after him, open-mouthed. "Logan."
In the doorway, he paused, half-turning. "Yeah?"
She had a million questions to ask him, and no idea where to start. As much as she wanted to jump him immediately, they were so strange with each other that she knew they'd have to fix that first. (Which sucked, because she really, really wanted to jump him immediately.) Meeting his gaze, Rogue shrugged, unable to articulate her churning thoughts.
Logan actually grinned at her. "You're not wallowing anymore," he pointed out smugly. "Oh, and, Marie?"
"Yeah?"
"Happy birthday."
THE END