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FIC: "In a Thousand Miles": Rogue/Logan: NC-17: 1/4

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  • Jenn
    I m a sick puppy. Sheesh. Title: In a Thousand Miles Author: jenn Code: Marie/Logan Rating: NC-17 Part: 1/4 Summary: Logan runs away. He doesn t go
    Message 1 of 1 , Nov 7, 2000
      I'm a sick puppy. Sheesh.

      Title: In a Thousand Miles
      Author: jenn
      Code: Marie/Logan
      Rating: NC-17
      Part: 1/4
      Summary: Logan runs away. He doesn't go alone. Rogue wears leather.
      Light angst, because I've never managed yet to write without it.
      Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. I have no money. I am making no
      money. I'm a student. Suing is pointless unless you're just panting for
      my collection of semi-rare books, and they aren't that great. Trust me.
      Author Notes: First story I finished, style issues, but the sex sort of
      worked, so I'm releasing anyway. Betas--Anita and Sam, you are blessed.
      Thanks for the help.

      * * * * *

      Part 1: Road Trip

      The highway drifted by in thick black streaks, broken briefly by dull
      flashes of white, and Marie watched it happen because there really wasn't
      much else to do. Her fingers drummed on one leather-coated leg in the
      rhythm of a song she couldn't remember.

      "Where are we going?"

      No answer.

      But why the hell would he make it easy? It'd never been easy--not for him,
      not for her, not for him in her at those odd moments that seem somewhere
      between dreams and rated fantasies and memories that always involved sharp
      objects and someone screaming. And she'd had a few of all of those.

      More than a few.

      And she couldn't even say she hadn't enjoyed some of them.

      She brushed her hair back and turned her eyes on him. He wasn't looking at
      her, but that could be because the road stretched far and wide and God knew
      if even he knew where he was going.

      She hadn't even known he'd come back.

      He'd come home and was going again and this time he was taking her with
      him, embodying every sordid fantasy of her life and then some. No bags
      packed because whatever the hell was driving him might not last and she
      didn't want to waste a second to let him reconsider. Pulled out of her
      room at midnight, dressing in his in the clothes she'd grabbed by touch on
      her closet floor. Dog tags and all, a loose sweater and jeans and his
      jacket, blood staining the only gloves she could find, from a fight three
      days before that she'd been trying to forget. She'd forgotten underwear
      but didn't much care right now.


      He didn't answer and she let it slide, because this was Logan and he didn't
      explain and somehow she didn't want him to. Instead, she looked out the
      window and thought that maybe if this was part of one of those dreams, she
      already knew the ending.

      There was snow on the ground and she remembered taking the younger kids out
      one day in early November to play in it and getting defeated by Scott in a
      snow battle where his visor came in too damned handy. She remembered
      looking up to see Logan watching her again and remembered when her breath
      caught that she could only be second best and substitute.

      She remembered Scott looking at her and wondered if Scott thought the same

      But the difference between seventeen and twenty-four was as obvious as the
      blood soaked into the leather on her hands and a touch on her skin from
      bare human fingers that she hadn't had in more years than she cared to
      remember. On the back of her neck, so brief her body didn't betray her for
      once and she'd turned in bed and taken his hand without comment when he
      pulled her up and out and on his little cross-country run that she'd shared
      only in his memories, never in his life.

      That was four hours ago and the road they were taking was north. She'd
      never been this far from home before off a mission and she wanted it to

      "Can I turn on the radio?" Maybe he didn't hear the irony in her voice.

      At least, so her nerves didn't work themselves into knots because she was
      learning control of herself faster every day and nerves didn't help it stay


      That was the first word he'd said to her since he'd wakened her.

      She stripped the glove off, stretching her fingers briefly, before reaching
      and pressing the tiny button as she never could have managed with fingers
      encased in stiffening leather. The station was rock and it was better than
      silence so she leaned back and stripped her other hand bare. The leather
      smelled like blood and a long dormant memory enjoyed it more than she could
      quite admit.

      She was twenty-four going on a hundred. Nothing could really surprise her


      Well, he could.

      She turned her head so fast that there was a brief amused image of her
      skull floating past him out the open window. That's sleep deprivation,
      Rogue. Don't giggle.


      She wondered if answering had been the wrong thing to do, the silence
      stretched so long.

      "This'll be the last town for awhile." She looked out the window--and
      indeed, that was a town out there. His wallet landed squarely in her lap
      and she hadn't even seen him move.

      Translated from Loganesque--hungry/bathroom/toiletries, get them here. She
      had the card.

      "Got it."

      * * * * *

      She got gloves first, because the ones she had weren't going to last much
      longer and she hated the feel of drying blood flaking on her skin. She got
      a toothbrush because dental hygiene was the only good memory she had of her
      mother, and she picked up nachos and cheese and bread at the back of the
      store because she figured if she wasn't hungry now, she would be soon. She
      picked up those other things that the five minutes she hadn't been willing
      to risk would have gotten her for free from her bathroom and figured Logan
      would understand. Then she went to the restroom at the side of the store
      and stripped off his jacket and filled the sink and got her hands clean,
      scrubbed the flaked blood from her nails and ran wet fingers through her
      hair. When she looked in the mirror, she was still surprised to see the
      woman look back at her, impossibly older than the image she carried of
      herself. The fine bones, the dark eyes, the dark hair laced in a slowly
      increasing line of white.

      Then she touched the back of her neck with a wondering finger, because he'd
      touched her there and it had been too long.

      When she came out, he opened the trunk and dropped everything in and she
      relaxed into the seat and wondered why he was run and wanted her along for
      the ride.

      * * * * *

      She was half-asleep when she felt the car stop and drowsily reached for her
      new gloves, but gloved fingers closed on her wrist. Slitting her eyes
      open, she saw dawn rising over snowy hills and apparently, wherever they
      were running was where they were.

      Temporarily, anyway.


      "Yeah." She stretched her back and the joints popped audibly. She heard
      him get out and opened her door to view the motel that didn't look too
      inspiring at first glance, but if it had a useable mattress she'd be
      thrilled. He gave her a key and she went inside--it wasn't locked, so he'd
      already scouted the area--and found something firm and warm by touch and
      fell down on it without worrying about her boots or his jacket wrapped
      around her. She was trying to get the blanket out from under her hips with
      minimal moving when she heard the door close and the sound of blinds being
      drawn down.

      He didn't want to drive during the day. Fair enough, a good adventure
      always occurred at night in the woods, where they most assuredly were. He
      moved so silently that she didn't know where he was and exhaustion didn't
      contribute toward general alertness, but on the other hand, this was Logan
      and she suspected that the silence would have been the same if she was
      fully awake as well. She got the blanket out finally and felt him catch
      her feet, stripping her boots off of her. His hands lingered on her calves
      and she drowsily enjoyed the touch on soft leather, almost like bare skin.

      "Where are we?" She could barely find the thoughts to put together into

      "Canada, one hour ago." He pulled the rest of the blanket and sheet from
      under her hips. His voice was rough. "Go to sleep."

      "I need m'gloves." She felt naked without them.

      "No you don't."

      The blanket settled over her and she stopped trying to fight the exhaustion
      and let herself drift off. There was an fanciful moment where she thought
      he brushed rough fingers through her hair.

      Had to be her imagination. She wasn't Jean.

      * * * * *

      It was after dark when he woke her up, dropping a greasy bag beside her
      head with a smell that would wake the dead. The questions she wanted to
      ask weren't worth the risk and she ate in silence, picking up the soda from
      the nightstand as he went outside. She wondered vaguely if he was worried
      about being followed.

      She also wondered who would have the nerve to follow Logan when he ran.

      She was cross-legged on the bed eating the last piece of chicken when he
      came back in and placed a hand on either side of her, looking into her
      eyes. She couldn't read what was in the cool hazel.

      She'd never been afraid of him. He knew that.

      "You smell like him." His voice was low.

      She dropped the bones back in the bag and set her hands just inside his,
      leaning back look up at him from beneath half-closed eyes, so the advantage
      wasn't all his. She wouldn't let him see her hands shake.

      "Didn't think you'd noticed."

      "Take a shower."

      She'd do it because she wanted one badly, not because it was an order
      direct from him--and she told herself that too. The bags were on the floor
      at her feet and she stripped to the skin with the bathroom door open so he
      could watch her do it. The shower was hot, a marvel she'd not really
      believed possible, and she scrubbed the sweat away and checked the injuries
      she'd sustained a few days before.

      The bruises on her skin weren't from fighting and he'd known that when he'd
      seen them, and she got a kind of sick satisfaction out of that. When she
      came out he was gone and so were her clothes, but there were clean clothes
      on the bed--no underwear still--and she got the jeans and sweater on and
      twisted her hair up out of her eyes.

      When he came back in, she was ready, tags visible outside the sweater and
      he glanced at them once before he went into the bathroom.

      * * * * *

      The difference between seventeen and twenty-four wasn't the loss of baby
      fat or the curves of her body or the look in her eyes that was a good
      indicator that whatever was behind them, it wasn't young anymore and
      possibly hadn't been in a long time. It was all internal in what she could
      and couldn't do, what she could settle for, and when he stopped to pick up
      the bags in front of her she ran her bare fingers down his leather-covered
      back, felt the muscles tense but he didn't move away. She pulled on his
      jacket and followed him outside and it was snowing. The air was cold and
      she had vague amused notions of her wet hair freezing into the shapeless
      mass it was now before she dropped the motel key on the bed.

      It was beautiful. New York didn't snow like this.

      "Can you drive in this?" She waved a bare hand at the flakes and watched
      them settle on the sleeve of the jacket.

      He cracked a grin and she answered it without thinking.

      "I've driven in worse. Get in."

      She crawled in through the driver's side and found the car surprisingly
      warm--so that's what he'd been doing. He restarted and they were moving
      down a road that was more white than black even in the latest part of dusk
      and she put on her seatbelt because her flesh didn't regenerate and her
      bones weren't made of metal.

      "Where are we going?"

      "I'll know when we get there."

      Which is how he'd lived his whole life. She liked it and opened the jacket
      so she wouldn't get too warm..

      She wouldn't ask why they were running. She might agree with the answer.

      "How long?" He could have been asking her opinion of the snow outside, for
      all the expression he put in it. It was one of those disturbing things
      that kept the girls of the mansion fascinated--Marie in their number--he
      had the hottest and fastest temper anyone had ever seen, but when his mood
      switched was when they watched him, because it was when he was quiet that
      he was his most dangerous.

      As so many mutants on the wrong side of their silent war had found out to
      their monumental dismay.

      She didn't pretend she didn't understand what he was asking--and who he was
      asking about.

      "A year or so." He'd left and come back and left again and waiting just
      wasn't an option anymore. She could substitute just as well as he could.
      He'd taught her that.

      Too damned bad it wasn't as successful as she wanted it to be.

      "Last night?"

      She'd been alone when he'd found her but an hour earlier she hadn't been.
      And she wondered at the back of her mind if he'd waited for Remy to leave
      or it had been the purest and best form of good luck in the universe that
      he'd come in afterward.


      Remy was going to be pissed. That was a thought that belonged in the
      mansion, not on the road. She let her hair down and braided it back from
      her face, watching the snow fall and trying to stop the quivering of her

      He'd never asked before. Her personal life had never caught his interest.

      "How far?"

      >From the corner of her eye, she saw him considering his answer.

      "Another night."

      This was Canada post-equinox--she knew how he went when something was
      driving him and thought of eleven hours of silent darkness. It wasn't
      unpleasant--she shared a room with three girls and trained in groups when
      she wasn't there, and she could remember times running in the woods just to
      get away from it all. It would be slogging in three feet of snow with
      muscles that hadn't been developed enough to do it and dropping in
      exhaustion against a tree and wondering where he was now.

      Who he was with, why he was there, what her name was this time or if he
      even cared. He probably couldn't remember all his lovers--she knew the
      ones at the school, when she'd been eighteen and watched from behind a
      corner of the hall when they went to his room. She knew the ones he'd
      taken before that one long ago day he'd touched her without gloves to
      protect him, surrounded by twisted metal and beside the body of the man
      who'd tried to kill her.

      There was some irony in that she'd lost her virginity before she had sex.

      "Do you even know where we're going?"

      {Don't ask why. God, don't, Rogue, don't even think it.}


      She turned on the radio and noticed that she still didn't have her gloves.
      Twisting around, she rummaged in the backseat and he caught her bare wrist
      without his eyes leaving the road.

      "You can control yourself, right?"

      She considered the question, twisted it in her mind, and gave her answer.

      "Yeah." She dropped the gloves on the floor and turned around again,
      sitting back in the seat and trying to remember if anyone except Xavier had
      let her test herself. If anyone had not been afraid to let her try. She
      knew she could do it.

      But her bare fingers made her feel more exposed than standing naked in
      front of him in the motel room.

      * * * * *

      It couldn't possibly qualify as a town, but it had an all-night convenience
      store and a disturbingly cheerful clerk and when Logan sent her out to
      finish the shopping, she kept watching him from the corner of her eyes.
      She got the directions to an obscure and doubtless dirt road glorified into
      prominence with a name like Algera that was apparently the last leg of this
      journey and while she was checking out, she looked at a map of Canada and
      tried to trace their route to date. At best, it was convoluted. At worst,
      it was damned impossible to follow.

      When she got back in, she let her eyes close briefly and leaned back into
      the seat.


      She was always tired--that was the definition of superhero. Anyone playing
      at the corporate rat race could have sympathized with four hour sleep and
      days that sometimes bled into night into nothing but constant and unending

      They couldn't have sympathized with the things she did during those periods
      of activity, because a superhero didn't brag. A pity. She'd like just
      once to see some human wander up and tell her he thought her mutation was
      the best thing he'd ever seen, since she'd just saved his life with it.

      She liked the stillness around and inside her and lowered her head onto his
      thigh, letting her eyes drift closed to the steady hum of the engine and
      the skin-warmed denim under her bare cheek.

      "They work you too hard."

      She smiled at the concern. There were those long days when she didn't see
      him at all and then he'd come--at eighteen, she'd run down the stairs so
      fast she'd almost tripped over her own feet and he'd picked her up off the
      floor and she curled her head into his jacket because his was the only
      physical contact she ever got. At nineteen, she'd controlled herself with
      some effort and walked and at twenty, she'd only quivered inside when she
      heard the motorcycle outside.

      Even his steady gaze at Jean Grey couldn't dampen that sheer exultation,
      though. Every time.

      "I'm fine."

      Right now, she was, as fine as she'd ever been in her life. She was a
      college graduate and she had studied biology and anatomy under Jean for a
      year before she started the advanced science classes to complete her
      degree. And Jean had left her the passwords for the computer when she
      studied alone and probably knew what Marie had been using them to access.
      The body beneath her cheek she'd only seen naked once and long ago, but she
      knew every inch, every mutated gene, and every muscle better than her own.
      She caught herself tracing the line of his thigh to his knee with one hand
      and stopped herself, but he hadn't said anything, so she let herself enjoy

      "Go to sleep. I'll wake you up when we get there." She felt his hand in
      her hair curving against her cheek and she caught his fingers between her
      teeth with a twist of her head. The leather was new and she pressed
      harder, taking in the supple feel and scent.

      And he still didn't pull away.

      She let it go and felt his hand settle in her hair, and the rhythmic
      stroking put her to sleep.

      There were no dreams. She didn't need them now.

      * * * * *

      webpage: www.geocities.com/seperis

      "If you had a cow and an apple tree, and if you tied the apple tree in your
      stable and planted the cow in your orchard, with her legs up, how much milk
      would you get from the apple tree or how many apples from the cow?"

      Take a guess
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