Here we have Draft 2, which incorporates Meg's and Jen's
suggestions, plus some punctuation correction etc. I did on my own.
Title:
Off the Corner
Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@att.net]
Summary: Still AU. Logan takes Rogue home. Sequel to "First
Trick of the Day"
Series: Off the Corner - yeah, it's a series. Sigh.
Rating: R - language, sex, violence.
Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this
piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
Archive: With "Angel of the Evening" and "First Trick
of the Day"
Feedback: You know you want to.
Notes: Thanks to my beloved betas -- Dot, Meg, Jen, and Pete -- who
don't understand my hooker!Rogue fixation any more than you do <g>.
And to Dark Ferret for the lipstick idea.
< > indicates thoughts
// // indicates dreams
***
Off the Corner
Logan unlocked the door to the dingy apartment he was
renting on the Lower East Side. His client had booked a room for him
at the St. Pierre, all expenses paid, but that was too public, too
easy to trace. Logan hired a homeless guy to check in under his name
and live on room service and champagne while he rented out an old
cold-water flat by the week -- under an assumed name and in cash.
Not traceable.
Rogue took in the two rooms, which were strewn with
what few clothes he owned, empty pizza boxes, fast food wrappers and
beer cans. "Suddenly, my life doesn't look so bad," she
muttered, picking her way through the mess to the couch.
He stood in the doorway, realizing what it looked like
through her eyes. "Hey, I can still get you a room --"
She looked back at him, eyes wide, scared. "No,
no. It's -- cozy."
"Cozy?"
"Cozy," she affirmed, pushing some junk onto
the floor and settling on the couch. "I kinda like it."
He felt the goofy grin spread across his face before
he could stop it. He didn't let it linger, though. He was the Wolverine.
He was a badass. He wasn't at all nervous and happy because he had
an eighteen-year-old hooker in his living room.
"I'm gonna take a shower," he said, jerking
his head toward the bathroom. "I'll be right out."
She nodded, already absorbed in one of the newspapers
lying on the couch.
He shucked his clothes and stood under the hot spray
gratefully. He felt dirty, which was kind of funny, considering what
he did for a living. But just hearing that dickwad call Marie names
made him sick; it made him think of the times he'd used her, paid
her for sex. Was he really any better than the pimp?
His thoughts were interrupted when she yanked back the
shower curtain and stepped into the tub with him.
"Marie!"
"Lean back," she murmured, pushing him against
the tiling. He noticed that even though she'd removed her boots, she'd
kept her latex suit, gloves and stockings on. And she'd reapplied
her lipstick. She pressed those wine-dark lips to the sensitive spot
just below his ear and then dragged them down his neck and chest,
leaving a waxy trail behind. She stroked his cock with a sure hand
as she pulled the condom out of her cleavage.
"Marie, what are you doing?" he choked out.
"What's it look like, sugar?" she drawled
as she rolled the condom onto his hard length.
"You don't -- we don't --" he sputtered, blinking
and trying to regain his focus as her mouth engulfed him.
She stopped and he almost cried out at the loss of her
warmth. "That's what you like, right?" she asked softly,
her eyes dark with emotions he couldn't identify. No fear -- just
gratitude, trust, and was that desire? He nodded dumbly, but then
shook his head.
"No, not like this," he said, his voice rough.
He didn't want her to fuck him out of gratitude. But he did want to
fuck her.
She apparently didn't get it, because she swung them
around -- he moved unresistingly -- and wrapped one leg around his
waist, bringing her groin into contact with his. He gasped as he felt
the metal of a zipper brush against the sensitive head of his penis,
and then he grabbed her hips and pushed her up the wall, taking her
other leg and pulling it around his hip. Her hands were already between
them, one back to stroking him while the other unzipped the suit and
let the full, rich scent of her arousal loose inside the steamy shower.
He swallowed convulsively, breathing it in.
He was poised at her entrance when he said, "We
shouldn't-- You don't have to--"
"I want to," she whispered, guiding him into
her wet heat and dropping her head to the side. He leaned in to nuzzle
her neck and she snapped to attention. "Be careful!" she
hissed. "My skin --" He figured it was hard for her to form
coherent sentences. God knows, he could barely understand a word she
was saying, so submerged in the rhythm their bodies were creating
was he. "My skin is dangerous," she said.
"Okay," he replied, and then the time for
conversation was past. He buried his face against her hair, where
it appeared to be safe, and reveled in the feel of her gloved hands
scraping down his back and her heels digging in to the backs of his
thighs as he thrust into her while the hot water poured over them.
"Logan," she whimpered, her voice thready.
He could feel how close she was to coming; he could smell it. "Logan,
please. Logan!" she moaned and then she made these little noises
in the back of her throat as she climaxed. It was the sexiest thing
he'd ever heard.
He grunted and growled and cried out her name as he
finished thrusting into her and shuddering with his release. "Oh,
baby, fuck, Marie," he muttered when he could speak again.
She trailed a gloved hand down his chest as she untangled
herself from him. "Thank you," she said, in the same sweet
voice she'd thanked him for dinner.
Then she stepped over the edge of the tub and was gone.
He stood under the water until it got cold, wondering
what she was thinking, and what he should do next. He hoped that what
they'd just done wasn't some sort of payment, or a mistake, because
it was damn near the best sex of his life, and he'd had plenty --
that he could remember.
He braced an arm against the wall and leaned on it after
he turned off the water. He tried to think of something to say when
he went out into the other room.
***
Scott waited patiently as Professor Xavier finished
his phone call. The professor had called him into the office for a
reason, and Scott had a feeling it had something to do with the fact
that Magneto's associates had been spotted a few days ago in Toronto.
Xavier put the phone down and looked at his surrogate
son. "Sabretooth is in New York. Mystique is with him."
He steepled his fingers and sighed. "I'm afraid they are looking
for the girl, Rogue."
Scott looked up, startled. "Rogue?" He remembered
the thin, scared girl whose life he'd saved at the Statue of Liberty.
"Yes. She remained in Manhattan after she left
us. I've been keeping tabs on her."
"What-- Why--"
"She may not have wanted to stay here, Scott, but
since we failed her so grievously, I felt the least I could do was
watch over her. She's not had an easy time of it."
"No," Scott murmured, thinking of his own
inability to control his gift, and how bad it must be to never be
able to touch.
"She's currently in the company of another mutant.
His name is Logan. His thoughts are very confused, but I think he
may be the Wolverine we've all heard whispers about."
Scott raised an eyebrow. "I thought Wolverine was
a legend, a story to scare children and keep mutants in line. I mean,
a beast-man with razor-sharp metal claws? What kind of mutation is
that?"
"He exists, Scott, and he's with Rogue. I fear
that the metal claws are the result of experimentation."
"But how -- who would do such a thing?"
Xavier sighed. "I don't know. I will keep an eye
on the situation, Scott. You should keep the team on alert, in case
Rogue needs rescuing again."
Scott smiled grimly. "Of course. I'd like to avoid
the mistakes we made at Liberty Island. And get rid of Sabretooth."
The professor nodded. "It was not your fault she
was hurt, Scott. And we did save her life."
Scott laughed bitterly. "After what they did to
her, I'm not so sure she should thank us for that."
***
Logan took a deep breath and swung the bathroom door
open. Marie was curled up on the couch, staring off into space.
"Hey." He spoke softly, not wanting to startle
her. She jumped anyway.
"Hey, yourself." She swallowed and sat up,
and he could see the mask slipping into place as she schooled her
features to friendly disinterest.
He sighed internally. He wanted her to be comfortable
and he had a feeling that fucking her was not the smartest thing he
could have done. He knew she enjoyed it -- wanted it, even -- but
still, he didn't want her out of some misplaced sense of gratitude
or pride. The next time they had sex, he promised himself, it would
be on equal terms. She would come to him through her own choice, not
because he'd taken her in when she had nowhere to go. He decided that
casual would be the way to go for now.
"You need a shower?"
Her lips turned upward slightly, a hint of a smile.
"Do you think I need a shower?"
<Shit.> "That's not, that's not what I meant.
I just thought you might like to, you know, clean up."
She thought about that for a second and then nodded.
"Okay."
He reached into the closet, pulled out a towel and handed
it to her as she brushed past him into the bathroom. "I'll find
something for you to wear."
"Okay."
She shut the door and he looked at the clothing scattered
in the room. He grabbed a sweatshirt and wrinkled his nose. Needed
to be washed. He'd done laundry the other day. Where was the laundry
bag? He found it, empty except for a couple pairs of boxer shorts
he rarely wore, sweatpants, and an olive green t-shirt. That would
do.
He heard the water running, so he opened the door without
knocking. He said, "I'll leave the clothes on the towel rack--"
his voice died away as he got a good look at her. She wasn't in the
shower yet; she stood facing the mirror on the medicine chest and
turned at the sound of his voice. Her back was crisscrossed in scars
like the ones on her face and there were others running along her
belly and thighs. "Fuck, Marie."
Her arms flew to her chest in an attempt to cover herself.
"I'll go now," she said dully, reaching for her rubber suit.
"God, kid, no. Just --" He shook his head,
unable to think of what to say, knowing that nothing he said could
make it better. "C'mere." Remembering what she'd said about
her skin, he held the shirt in one hand and the shorts in the other
and pulled her into a hug. He rested his chin on her head and said,
"I'm not gonna make you leave. I said I'd take care of you, and
I meant it."
She sniffed. "I, I don't know what to say."
"Then don't say anything," he replied, his
voice gentle. "Take a shower, get dressed, and then we'll talk.
Okay?"
She swallowed hard. "Okay."
He sat in the living room, trying to figure out what
he could do to help her. He'd already stopped wondering about *why*
he wanted to help her -- he'd accepted her into his life and he wasn't
letting her go. That was the end of it. And when she finally spilled
the name of the bastard who'd fucked her up like that, well, the world
would be short one evil cocksucker. Logan doubted anyone would miss
him.
He heard the water being shut off, and in a few minutes
she came out of the bathroom wearing the boxers and t-shirt, wet hair
hanging down her back and dirty clothing in her hand.
"Better?" he asked.
Again, the half-smile. "Much. You don't know how
warm one of these things gets," she said, holding the suit up.
He noticed she'd put her gloves back on, though they had to be wet
from her time in the shower with him. She plucked at the boxer shorts.
"I think I need something that gives a little more coverage,
though." He patted the cushion next to him, but she remained
standing. "I told you, my skin is dangerous. Bad things happen
when people touch it."
"Like what?" He wondered how come nothing
bad had happened to the asshole who'd shredded her.
"I suck out their energy and their memories,"
she said softly. He blinked. "Yeah, freaky, huh?" He patted
the sofa again. "Are you sure? Most people don't want to get
too close."
"I wouldn't ask if I wasn't sure, kid," he
rumbled. "I got gloves around here somewhere." He leaned
over and shuffled through some of the clothes he'd piled on the floor.
Then he remembered. "You see that black duffel bag over by the
TV?" She nodded. "Bring it here."
She did as he asked. The bag was heavier than it looked.
"What the hell do you have in here?" she asked, dropping
it with a thump on the couch next to him.
"Tools of the trade," he responded mysteriously,
unzipping the bag and digging through it.
"And what do you do, Logan?" she asked, her
voice teasing.
He liked that she could tease him. No one else ever
had. He wouldn't have let anyone else get away with it. "I'm
the best at what I do, Marie, but what I do isn't very nice,"
he answered, not wanting to tell her right away. As professions went,
assassin wasn't much higher up on the social scale than hooker. He
found his favorite pair of black leather gloves and pulled them on.
"All right now," he said, deftly changing the subject, "I've
got gloves on, so you can take those wet ones off."
"But--"
"Off," he commanded.
"Yes, sir!" she snapped, with a mock salute.
He grinned and pushed the bag onto the floor. "Now,
sit down." He thought about asking for her story again, but turned
on the television instead. They had time.
When she fell asleep, he carried her to the bed and
tucked her in tenderly, surprising even himself with the depth of
emotions he felt. <Is this love?> he wondered, sliding into
the bed behind her and wrapping her in his warmth.
***
// He could smell the champagne mixed in with the blood.
His blood. He wanted nothing more than to move, but he couldn't. He
could only watch helplessly as they cut into him, the scalpels sliding
easily through his flesh, cutting all the way to the bone. //
He tossed and groaned, awakening the young woman sleeping
in the circle of his arms. She turned to face him.
"Logan," she whispered, "wake up."
He didn't respond. His thrashing only got worse.
//They were laughing. He could hear them laughing as
he tried to scream in agony, only to be thwarted by the tubes shoved
down his throat. He was going to kill every last one of them. He'd
make them regret they'd ever been born. They called his name and he
cursed them.//
"Logan," Marie said, a little louder, leaning
over to reach out a tentative hand and touch his shoulder.
Faster than she'd have thought possible, he bolted upright,
she felt something warm and cold at the same time slide through her
body. His eyes were open but unseeing.
"Logan," she said again, unable to move.
Suddenly, he realized what he'd done. "Oh, God,
no! Marie!" He retracted the claws just as quickly, and she fell
back. He slid an arm around her and whispered, "Hold on, kid.
Hold on," as he fumbled for the phone.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, seeing the horror
in his eyes as she reached a bare hand toward his face.
"Marie," he groaned as her skin met his. He
marveled in the feel of her soft, warm hand against his cheek. He
pressed his lips to it, savoring the taste and smell of her before
he became aware of a strange pull. Then he felt himself -- everything
that made him Logan -- thoughts, memories, quirks -- flowing into
her.
She gasped as she felt his strength course through her,
healing her wounds. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "It
was an accident."
Then everything went dark.
***
The first thing he noticed was the scent. It was good.
He liked it a lot. It was the girl's fragrance -- Marie. Her name
was Marie. And it was mixed with his. There was salt, as well. He
felt the wetness -- tears.
"Marie?" he asked, his voice rusty from disuse,
opening his eyes slowly.
"I'm right here." He felt rather than heard
her words, her breath soft against his ear. She was behind him, her
arms wrapped around his chest. She was wearing the sweatshirt he'd
picked up earlier, as well as her gloves. "Are you all right?
I'm so sorry."
He turned over to look at her. "I'm the one who's
--" his words died on his lips as he took in her appearance.
"Marie?" He closed his eyes and then reopened them, unable
at first to take in the sudden change in her appearance. He reached
out and cupped her cheek, not even really aware that he still had
the gloves on, not caring if he didn't. "You're so beautiful,"
he whispered, running his thumb over her lips as his fingers traced
the newly-healed skin of her face. "The scars?"
She licked her lips and swallowed. "They're all
gone. You, you healed me, Logan. All of me." She placed her hand
over his and turned her face into his palm, placing a gentle kiss
on the leather. "I'm so sorry. I just wanted to touch you once
before I died. I didn't think it would hurt you." He felt tears
splash on his arm. "I never meant to hurt you."
He wrapped an arm around her as his right hand continued
to stroke her face. "You didn't hurt me, Marie. You, you saved
me as well. I--" He didn't have the words for it. His empty existence,
the living from day-to-day that he'd been doing for the past fifteen
years had never brought him peace or happiness. He woke every morning
and tried to kill himself, and cursed God and the doctors who'd cut
him open as he watched himself heal. It was almost funny. At first,
he'd gone to great lengths to die, but over the years he'd settled
for cutting open a couple of veins and seeing if he'd heal before
the blood-loss killed him.
But now, now that he'd seen his own death -- stared
it in the face, because he had no doubt this slip of a girl could
have killed him if she'd held on too long -- he didn't want it anymore.
He wanted to live. More specifically, he wanted to live with Marie.
"I know," she answered, breaking into his
reverie. "You're up here." She tapped the side of her head.
"Ah, shit, kid. I'm sorry."
"No. No." She shook her head for emphasis.
"I like it. You, you fit. We fit. It's not like the others."
His ears perked at that, though she didn't notice. "You're not
fighting me -- you're just there."
"Others?"
She bit her lip at the slip. "Um, one or two. Mistakes."
She pulled away and stood, wrapping her arms around herself. "The
first boy I ever kissed was in a coma for three weeks. And, and--"
"The bastard who hurt you," he prompted.
"No. He used a knife or his claws. He never touched
me. But Magneto--" she broke off. "This man who wanted to
use my skin -- he touched me. And then the doctor -- you'd like her,
she's a redhead -- she helped me, but she brushed against me accidentally.
And her fiancé, when he saved my life..."
"You got a real party goin' on up there, huh?"
That won him a watery chuckle. "Kinda."
He nodded toward the bed. "Get back in here, Marie.
I'll feel much better if you're next to me."
She shook her head. "Logan, I don't want to hurt
you again."
"Jesus, Marie, I put three metal blades through
your chest. I'm --" he fumbled for the words, "stunned that
you stuck around long enough to put some more clothes on. I'm the
one who's sorry. I'm the dangerous one." It was sinking in --
the fact that he'd almost killed her. "It's what I am, Marie,
what I do," he said in a low, harsh voice. "I'm a killer."
"No, Logan. No." She denied it vehemently.
"You saved me."
"If I didn't have these things," *snikt*,
"I wouldn't have had to." He retracted the claws and put
his head in his hands. "*I* don't want to hurt *you* again."
That brought her back to the bed. She put an arm around
his shoulders and stroked the back of his neck. "It's not your
fault. You didn't *ask* for them." He waggled his head, not committing
to yes or no. "We're a fine pair," she said, laughing a
little.
"We certainly are," he replied, his own mouth
starting to quirk into a grin. "Sleep now?"
She nodded. "Okay."
They rearranged themselves in the bed. Marie pressed
herself to Logan's back, wrapping her arms around his chest, so that
if he accidentally extended his claws while he was sleeping, she'd
be safe.
He lay awake, enjoying the feel of her against him,
listening to her even breathing. Their conversation had drained what
little energy he'd recovered, but he didn't want her to know how weak
he really was. He was afraid -- yes, he, the Wolverine -- was afraid
that she'd leave and never come back if she thought she'd hurt him,
and he decided that he needed her, and she him, and they'd work out
the details later.
End
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