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Fic: Comfort Me With Apples: R: 1/2 - L/R

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  • victoria p.
    Title: Comfort Me with Apples Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@att.net] Summary: He could play the badass loner with everyone else, but she *knew* him, knew
    Message 1 of 1 , May 27, 2002
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      Title: Comfort Me with Apples
      Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
      Summary: "He could play the badass loner with everyone else, but she
      *knew* him, knew his heart and mind and soul, and she knew he hurt, just
      like everyone else. And it was her job to make sure that hurt was
      bearable when it couldn't be avoided altogether."
      Rating: R - sex
      Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this piece of
      fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
      Archive: Lists, Muse's Fool. All others, please ask. I'll say yes.
      Feedback: It's shagadelic, baby.
      Notes: Thanks to Jen, Pete/M'Rae, Dot, and Meg. Written to the sounds of
      "Hallelujah" (the Jeff Buckley version) and my own melancholia. *g*

      ~*~

      Comfort Me with Apples

      "Comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love." Song of Solomon

      ~*~

      It was sunny the day they buried Silver Fox.

      Logan stood at the gravesite, and stared into the merciless sun, eyes
      narrowed against the glare.

      Rogue looked over at Ororo, pleading, and the weather witch inclined her
      head slightly. Her eyes glazed over and the sky darkened, leaden clouds
      rolling in from the east.

      The service soon ended, and the adults and students from Xavier's School
      headed back toward the parking lot.

      Logan stayed behind, stoic until the end, as if standing guard over the
      coffin of his dead lover.

      Rogue settled on the grass a few feet away, waiting, watching. Her heart
      ached with love for him, and pain for his loss. She knew he'd never love
      her the way he'd loved Silver Fox, but she wanted to be there for him,
      because she knew he needed a friend, now more than ever.

      The clouds had dispersed and the sun was setting when Logan finally
      headed toward the parking lot. Rogue rose, dusting grass and dirt off
      her gray dress. It flared about her ankles, swaying gently in the warm
      spring breeze as she moved. The sheer gray scarf around her neck trailed
      behind her like a fairy pennon.

      He stopped and waited for her, all the while avoiding her gaze. She knew
      he hated to be pitied. She also knew how sympathy was sometimes the
      hardest thing to bear, so she said nothing, just wrapped herself around
      him on the motorcycle as he drove them home.

      ***

      She followed him silently up to his room, her hand clasped tightly in
      his. He didn't even seem to notice he'd taken it, and she bit back a
      sigh. She was such a fixture in his life, she could probably dance naked
      around the living room and he'd just ask if she were cold. She figured
      it was one of the things about not aging like normal people that made
      him forget she'd grown up. It irritated her, but she'd given up on
      trying to prove it to him.

      Silver Fox had often treated her like a child, as well. She knew it
      wasn't meant maliciously, that she was no competition for the lovely
      woman from Logan's past, but it had rankled.

      She stopped that line of thought, remembering her mother's long-ago
      admonitions not to speak (or think) ill of the dead.

      And really, Silver Fox had died horribly, tragically, killed by
      Sabretooth in a battle that never should have happened. She should have
      retreated with the rest of the X-Men when the soldiers arrived to take
      the Brotherhood into custody.

      Rogue knew Logan blamed himself, and she knew he would carry it with him
      forever unless she somehow convinced him that it wasn't his fault. He
      could play the badass loner with everyone else, but she *knew* him, knew
      his heart and mind and soul, and she knew he hurt, just like everyone
      else. And it was her job to make sure that hurt was bearable when it
      couldn't be avoided altogether.

      She'd long since resigned herself to living like a nun, in service to
      the Wolverine instead of to the distant and wrathful God of her
      childhood. She knew Jean and Scott felt she was throwing herself away,
      that just because she couldn't touch didn't mean she couldn't fall in
      love and have a relationship. They didn't realize she'd done so the day
      Logan had saved her life on the Statue of Liberty, if not the day
      before, when he gave her a ride in his trailer.

      He dropped heavily onto the bed; the sound of creaking springs brought
      her back to the present. He still had hold of her hand, so she curled up
      next to him, dangling her still-booted feet off the bed and resting her
      head on his chest.

      They slept for a while, and when she woke, it was dark. She could tell
      Logan was already awake, his body tense beneath hers.

      "Shh," she whispered, rubbing her cheek against the soft cotton of his
      shirt, as her gloved hands traced soothing circles on his chest.

      "Marie." His fingers tangled in her hair, raising her face to his.

      "It's okay," she answered. "I understand."

      He shook his head, eyes dark with some emotion she couldn't identify.
      She raised a hand and gently ran her thumb over his eyebrows, the arch
      of his cheekbones, his lips.

      "Marie." This time it was more of a groan, and she pulled away, afraid
      she might have hurt him. He'd never minded her touch, never reacted
      badly, but she knew she could be scary, even covered head-to-toe.

      "I'm sorry," she said, levering herself up off the bed hastily. He
      reached out and took her hand again, his grip adamant.

      "Don't be," he replied. "Don't ever be sorry, darlin'." She swallowed
      hard at the whiskey and sandpaper edge in his voice. It couldn't be
      right to want him so much even when he was in pain.

      "Do you want me to go?"

      He hauled her back down onto the bed. "I want you to stay," he
      whispered, his mouth tantalizingly close to her ear, his breath sending
      shivers down her spine.

      She sat up and he grunted. "I'm just going to take my boots off, Logan."

      "Good idea." He followed suit, then lay back again, pulling her with
      him.

      They rearranged themselves on the bed, and this time, he was the one
      whose hands started wandering, tracing idle circles over the small of
      her back. She snuggled in closer, her legs tangling with his, making her
      aware of the moist heat centered between her legs.

      He continued stroking her back, but with his other hand reached over to
      the night table to grab a pair of gloves. After pulling them on, he
      traced her features. Neither of them was breathing steadily when he was
      done. She looked up into his eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with what
      looked like desire.

      Rogue found herself unbuttoning his shirt, years of dressing and
      undressing in gloves making her fingers nimble. She opened the shirt and
      stared down at the broad expanse of his chest, flashing back suddenly to
      the first time she'd seen him.

      She gulped, and his mouth quirked in a half-grin that made her melt. He
      reached out and took her hand, placing it over his heart. "Please?" he
      asked, and she knew how much that must have cost him.

      She began touching him again, feeling the soft mat of his hair through
      the thin cotton of her gloves. She stared, fascinated, at the play of
      muscle beneath flawless olive skin, only gradually becoming aware of his
      hands moving over her in much the same way.

      "Logan?"

      "Tell me it's okay," he pleaded.

      "It's okay, sugar. It's all gonna be okay," she murmured, pressing
      herself flush against him and throwing one of her legs over both of his.
      Her long gray skirt pooled around their hips. She straddled him, her
      body seeming to know instinctively what to do, even though she wasn't
      that experienced. She simply rocked back and forth, stroking his chest
      and shoulders in what she hoped was a soothing manner.

      His hands moved up under her dress, the leather cool against her heated
      skin. And then he cupped her breasts, thumbing her nipples. The
      sensations he produced made her gasp in shock, and he smiled.

      God, she'd do anything to make him smile. It couldn't be wrong. Not
      after all the pain he'd suffered.

      His hands fumbled with the clasp to her bra and she giggled. "Having
      some trouble there, sugar?"

      He growled, so she reached around and undid it for him, sliding it off
      through her sleeve. "Damn gloves," he muttered, and she could feel her
      smile falter. He must have noticed it too, because he pulled her down on
      top of him, one hand still stroking and kneading her breasts while the
      other skated the curve of her hip.

      "Logan? If you don't want--"

      "I do," he interrupted. "Don't stop."

      She used her scarf to press kisses to his face and chest, thinking only
      of making him happy, keeping him safe and warm and comforted, here in
      the cocoon of her arms.

      His hands were more insistent now, moving from her hips to her ass and
      then making her jump in surprise when she felt leather on the inside of
      her thigh. He took advantage and rolled them over, pinning her beneath
      him as he lavished kisses on her through the scarf. She ran her hands
      over his body, finally stopping at his zipper. He raised an eyebrow,
      then groaned when she freed his cock. He guided her strokes, showing her
      what he liked, and she felt her own arousal grow as she recognized the
      power she held.

      His nostrils flared, and she could feel the blush stealing up her cheeks
      when she realized he could smell her, and that her scent was turning him
      on even more.

      He gave a predatory smile, fierce and triumphant as he slit a hole in
      her pantyhose and stroked her sex. She gasped and his tongue was in her
      mouth. She was all sensation, his hands leaving incendiary trails along
      her already-burning skin. Then his hands were gone and she heard a low
      whine; it took her a second to realize it came from her own throat. His
      grin was back, and she bared her throat to him instinctively. He nipped
      at her clavicle as he pressed the condom into her hand, then helped her
      roll it on.

      He braced himself on his elbows and looked down into her eyes. "You
      sure?" he asked, and the ferocity was gone, replaced by tenderness that
      made her heart ache.

      "Yes, Logan," she answered. <Always.>

      He slowly pushed into her slick passage, his eyes locked on hers. She
      bit her lip at the strangeness of it. She tensed and he stopped.

      "Marie?"

      "S'okay," she told him. "Just... different."

      Realization dawned on his face and she turned away, once again blushing,
      all her awkwardness returning. <God, remind him you're a virgin. Way to
      keep the mood going.>

      "Look at me," he demanded, cupping her chin. "This is -- different --
      for me, too."

      She nodded. "It must be weird to be with someone you can't touch."

      "Not that. Because it's you."

      "Oh." She shifted, trying to get used to the feel of him inside her,
      trying to figure out what he meant and failing. Coherent thought fled as
      his fingers began circling over her clitoris. "Oh!"

      "Is that better?"

      She swallowed hard and nodded again. "Please--" Her voice sounded
      strange -- all high and needy and not like herself at all.

      He ran his thumb over her full lower lip before taking her mouth in
      another kiss. His hands were everywhere, pushing her knees a little
      wider, touching her face, rubbing circles around her clit as he sheathed
      himself fully in her tight sex.

      "God, Marie," he breathed. Again, he waited for her to adjust before
      thrusting his hips, slowly at first, then faster as he began to lose
      control. She wrapped her legs around him and began to move with him, her
      body tautening like a bowstring. She knew she was heading for what would
      most likely be the most intense orgasm of her life when he groaned and
      pumped jerkily into her.

      Even through the condom she could feel the warmth of his come, and she
      clenched her inner walls around him, as if in making him climax inside
      her, she could absorb his sorrows the way her skin absorbed his life
      when they'd touched.

      He collapsed on top of her, but gently, so she didn't have to bear his
      full weight. He buried his head between her breasts, and when he finally
      looked up at her, she could see a single tear trailing down his cheek
      before it fell, salty and wet, onto her dress.

      She protested when he pulled out, but he shucked the condom and she
      realized that, of course, that had to be done. He zipped his pants
      carefully, buttoned up his shirt, and gathered her close. He was asleep
      within moments.

      She blinked, staring at the ceiling, heart still racing, body still taut
      and frustrated at the abrupt end of their coupling.

      Slowly, so as not to wake him, she slid a hand between her legs and
      quietly finished what he'd started, before she, too, drifted off to
      sleep.

      ***

      He surfaced slowly, enjoying the languid transition between dreaming and
      waking in a way that he seldom had before. Usually he woke in a cold
      sweat, rushing out of sleep, with the nightmares chasing him, clinging
      tenaciously to his mind.

      He felt her warmth wrapped around him and inhaled deeply.

      Marie. God.

      Really, they might have been the same thing, as far as he was concerned.
      Though if there was a God, Logan thought he'd still prefer Marie. At
      least then he'd know love and mercy were forthcoming, and heaven could
      be had on earth.

      He ran a hand over his eyes.

      She'd been a virgin. Up until last night, no one had ever touched her
      the way he'd touched her. It made him want to beat his chest and howl in
      triumph, while at the same time, he felt like the biggest bastard ever.

      He'd taken advantage of their friendship. He'd *known* she wouldn't say
      no, known she'd do anything to comfort him. And he'd accepted it.

      He was the Wolverine, and he was now looking for pity fucks from the
      woman he loved. It was apparently the only way he was ever going to get
      her.

      He cursed silently at the way his body responded to the feel of her
      pressed against him. She was his best friend, his drinking buddy, his
      confidante.

      His girl.

      Two silly little words that meant everything, if they meant anything at
      all.

      His best friend. The thought almost made him laugh, even in his grief.
      The idea that this slip of a girl -- woman, now -- could be his best
      friend would have made him howl in laughter six ears ago. Hell, the idea
      that the Wolverine would even *have* a best friend, let alone a young
      female one with whom he wished to share even more, was so improbable
      that if he hadn't been living it, he wouldn't have believed it himself.

      If she knew his feelings toward her had grown, that he had fallen in
      love with her, he was sure she'd go running in the other direction.

      She moved in her sleep then, clocking him on the nose with one
      outstretched hand as she turned over. He inhaled deeply, imprinting the
      scent of her arousal on his brain. And then he frowned; the realization
      that he'd rolled over and fallen asleep, sated, leaving her unsatisfied
      and having to take care of her own release increased his own
      self-disgust.

      He shifted uncomfortably. If he were honest with himself, which he tried
      to be, he'd admit he squirmed, embarrassed at his own selfishness.

      Yet more proof that he was no good for her.

      He took the small hand and kissed her palm tenderly. He could wake her
      up and show her, he thought. He could make her writhe beneath him and
      scream his name as she came. His body thought it was a good idea, and he
      slid one hand down her side to rest on the curve of her hip, making lazy
      circles on her belly with his thumb.

      Her eyes fluttered open and for a moment, in their dazed and sleepy
      depths, he could almost believe that she loved him, that she hadn't
      simply been offering comfort in the only way he would allow.

      "Logan?" She pushed the hair out of her eyes and he thought she looked
      beautiful, all sleepy and disheveled, her cheeks flushed and her lips
      swollen. He loved that he'd done that to her, even if he hadn't finished
      the job himself. "You okay?"

      "Yeah, darlin'. How you feeling?"

      She smiled then, a secret smile that made fire run in his veins. Maybe--

      "I'm," she paused, blushed, and dropped her gaze. He ran a gloved finger
      down her cheek but said nothing. Just waited, hoped. "I'm a little sore,
      I think." And that answered that question. Had he really been expecting
      some sort of declaration of love? <I really am an ass.>

      He must have frowned again, because she added, "But it's okay. Really.
      I'm okay. I just want you to be okay, too." She bit her lip and dipped
      her head, the silk of her hair spilling over his hand. "I'm so sorry
      about Silver Fox. I know how much you loved her. How much she meant to
      you." He wouldn't -- couldn't -- deny that. She'd been a beautiful
      woman, proud and strong and passionate. Even if he couldn't remember it,
      she'd been part of his past, and he'd loved her for it, for giving that
      back to him.

      But it wasn't the same as what he felt for Marie. The past was exactly
      what Silver Fox was, what she'd meant. He'd thought Marie was his
      future, but she'd seemed oblivious to his advances, chaste as a nun in
      her long skirts and black turtlenecks.

      Until last night.

      He'd needed her and she'd been there. She always was.

      He wondered why she hid herself in long skirts and shapeless sweaters,
      because after last night, it was obvious that her skin was no obstacle,
      and her body was beautiful -- strong and lithe and made to fit against
      his.

      Marie wasn't done talking. "I can't, I can't even imagine what it must
      be like for you. I wish, I wish I could do more to help."

      He swallowed hard, hope dying in his heart. He suddenly felt trapped by
      this conversation, by the whole awkward situation. He got out of bed
      abruptly. "I'm going to go north for a while." A snap decision, made
      before he screwed up and took advantage of her again, ruining their
      friendship for good. He could get over this. He *would* get over this.
      He was the Wolverine, and he was not in love with a woman who didn't
      love him back.

      She nodded, her hair falling into her eyes, masking her expression. "Of
      course." She looked around, and he felt her withdraw before she even
      left the room. "I guess I better go then, so you can get ready." She
      scrambled off the bed, grabbing her boots and bra from the floor, a
      bright red blush staining her cheeks again.

      He cursed himself. It was her first time, and he was making a mess out
      of it, practically throwing her out of the room. <Say something, dammit.
      And something good. Not something stupid.> She was at the door when he
      croaked, "Marie?" She turned, hand on the doorknob, a questioning look
      on her face. His mind raced with things he wanted to say. 'I'm sorry I'm
      a selfish bastard.' It was true, but he didn't think it would work --
      she'd only smile sadly and leave. He knew her well enough to know that.
      'Give me a chance and I'll make you come so hard you pass out' seemed a
      little crude for someone who'd just had sex the first time, even by his
      standards.

      "Logan?" she prompted.

      "I'm sorry I-- I didn't mean to take advantage," he blurted, watching in
      horror as hurt chased shock across her face. "You're still my girl,
      right?" <Oh, God, I am an ass. Please let me be struck by lightning
      right *now*.>

      "Always." It was the barest hint of a whisper, and then she was gone.

      He sank down onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow where she'd
      slept, playing the scene over and over again, only each time, he managed
      to tell her he loved her, and she reciprocated, and they went back to
      bed.

      Somehow, he doubted that would ever really happen now.

      He finally got up and packed his bag.

      He would be back, he knew that even as he left. He couldn't stay away
      from her for long, even if she didn't want him. But he could lose
      himself in the quest for vengeance for a while. And when he returned,
      this would be past, one of those things that they'd laugh nervously
      about and drop quickly if the subject ever came up, much like his
      infatuation with Jean.

      He wondered how he could be so stupid twice, and vowed that the third
      time he fell in love, it'd be with someone who loved him back.

      ***

      Rogue made it back to her room without anyone seeing her. She watched
      from the window as Logan tore down the driveway on his bike; she'd known
      he would only turn to her for comfort, that it hadn't mean anything to
      him beyond the sheer physical need to prove he was still alive. In her
      head, she knew that. Her heart and stomach, however, didn't seem to
      understand.

      She'd thought nothing could be worse than never having what you wanted.

      She'd been wrong.

      She wondered if he'd been able to pick up on her feelings, if she'd
      somehow given herself away. She resolved to ask Jubilee if she talked in
      her sleep.

      Stripping, she slumped on the bed, clutching the stained dress and
      ruined pantyhose to her chest, the scent of Logan and sex both
      comforting and heartbreaking. She cried, then, for what she'd had, and
      what she would never have.

      The sobs had stopped by the time Storm found her, still in that same
      position.

      "Rogue, child, I know you're upset, but you're going to make yourself
      sick if you keep crying," the weather goddess said gently.

      Rogue stared at her, too grateful for her presence -- and her lack of
      fear at being confronted with so much deadly skin -- to tell her to
      leave, and yet too embarrassed to explain the real reason for her tears.

      Storm chivied her into a bath, running the water and practically pushing
      her into the tub, lethal skin notwithstanding.

      When she was done, Storm put her to bed and promised to bring her some
      food later. Rogue nodded and fell asleep, happy that someone else was
      making decisions for her at the moment.

      Her discarded clothes were gone when she woke, and she cried again for
      the loss of even her mementoes of the brief encounter.

      Then she resolved to be done with crying and to get on with her life.
      She didn't want to be pale and sickly when Logan came home. She didn't
      want him to feel bad for not loving her, or guilty for leaving her. And
      she certainly didn't want him -- or anyone else -- to think she was
      pining away for him. That would ruin their friendship, and that was as
      important to him as it was to her.

      ***

      victoria

      --

      "I go online sometimes, but everyone's spelling is really bad. It's
      depressing." Tara, _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_

      --

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