A Little More Than Intimate
by
Jenn
Author Notes: Interestingly, this was the original storyline for the stories in the Hope continuity. I changed the format of the series and decided tonight to re-write this completely and see what happened.
Dedication: To Andariel for the beta, Beth, Diebin, Ann, and jengrrrl for interesting thoughts.
You'd think--you know, just once--fate would give me a break. Not a big break--I'm not askin' that ye olde Mother Nature step in and reverse my mutation here, though that would be all kinds of swell. I'm not asking for world peace--today, anyway--or that all humans and mutants come together in the love and all that crap. I'm not asking much, all things considered.
Just one date where Logan and I don't end up in a situation. Just one--one, normal, eat your dinner and pay for it, then leave without bloodstains on your clothes date. Seriously, that's *not* too much to ask.
The guy was very unconscious less than fifteen seconds after it started, and Logan had a grip on my arm before I'd even had the fun of enjoying the moment, palm covering my knuckles. Even through the gloves, they felt sore.
"Come on, darlin'."
"Logan--"
"Yeah, I know." He kicked the guy's body out of the way, dropping a wad of cash on the remains of our table before leading me calmly toward the exit. I glanced briefly around the silent restaurant before Logan opened the door, glancing outside before ducking us both casually onto the sidewalk, dropping his jacket around my shoulders to hide the streaks of blood on my shirt, arm around my waist. "Fucking idiot."
"Yeah, I was thinkin' that, sugar." It never failed, which was why I just gave up altogether on heels and went back to either boots or flats whenever we went out. Behind us, there was the sound of sirens and Logan jerked me into an alley. Leaning against the wall, I stripped off my slippers and noted the silk had become stained with--fuck, blood. I wasn't even sure Jubes could get that off. Chinese silk too--Logan bought them for me in Hong Kong a few months ago. Fuck twice.
"One date." Logan was talking through his teeth as he checked the street, before coming back to me and taking my shoe. "That isn't much. One. Fucking. Date."
Logan observed awhile back that there was just something about me that screamed people should touch me. Random people, for no good reason. Now, besides the danger factor, which really must just soak off of me like a scent (Logan says I smell like apricots, but he's a guy too) and requires idiots to try their luck, Logan has odd and distinct ideas of what constitutes proper behavior toward me. Touching me is a punishable offense. Usually accompanied by some sort of physical reminder that they can take home with them--black eye, scar, a rib or two. Nothing serious. Or more than a hospital night or two.
Don't get me wrong, I don't get off watching men fight over me--but I do get some thrills over being part of the fight. That's the Logan in me, so he really can't complain too much.
Usually.
And God, Logan's hot when he's fighting.
But one date. One single date going right wouldn't hurt, would it?
"I need new shoes." He shrugged, reaching down for my foot and slipping the shoe back on while I braced a hand on his shoulder. "Damn."
"I'll get you more."
"I like these."
A soft growl--not at me, particularly, just in general. When he straightened, I pulled my arms through the jacket and buttoned the top, then let him slide an arm around my shoulders.
"Okay, so where to now?"
Good question. Logan glanced out the street, then shook his head, carefully walking me out. With the shoes and their oh-so-interesting brown-red patterns. Well, as long as no one checked out my feet, we'd be okay. Normal people walkin' down the street. Nothing odd going on here. So the girl looks a little young. In New York, no one gives a good fuck.
"When are you due back?" Logan asked me and I tried to remember.
"Ummm--not 'til tomorrow. Same time you are. Tryin' to get rid of me?" Fat chance--Logan hates sharing at all, especially on the rare nights when it's just us. Especially when they turn out like this.
"Nah. Wondered if you were drivin' back or stayin' the night."
He never takes me for granted, ever. I rolled my eyes, wondering in the back of my mind if the day will ever come he will trust me enough to not feel the need to ask.
"Like I'd come into the city and not stay. Come on, sugar. Let's go."
It was three months after we first had sex that Logan got the apartment.
When he was on-duty, he stayed at the Mansion. The apartment was his own private retreat--I don't think any of the other X-Men know where it is and it'd be a cold day in hell before I show them. In fact, I considered it something of a relationship milestone when he asked me to come with him to look over a few--because it's one thing to be fucking him, but quite another to be allowed to know him.
Hell, the fact he actually went and *got* it was a hell of a milestone in general. I don't think other people quite understand that him getting that apartment meant he was stickin' around. When he stopped staying at the Mansion every trip to Westchester, when he invested money, everything changed. New York was someplace he chose to stay in, not merely one of a thousand different stops, and he had the legally-binding lease agreement to prove it.
Back entrance, of course--the entire reason he chose this place was the number of ways in and out. There were a lot. Good security, but not so good as to make criminals curious what was in there. Nice to look at but not too nice. A relatively safe part of town, but not too pricey. Not because of money--because of caution. And the building didn't have too many tenants and not one of them was the type to be neighborly or curious.
Logan down to his toes.
On the second floor, and he got out his keys, opening the door to usher me in first--somewhere along the line in his past, he'd picked up some seriously archaic little mannerisms like that. The place was still in progress--or rather, accretion. Left to his own devices, Logan actually only required two things--a bed, a working refrigerator, and a television. Preferably in the same room. At which point he discovered that dating me had certain perks--not the least of which was the fact that I had Jubes and Kitty and unlimited funds to play with. Made the purchases, and Logan and I personally picked up the furniture that night.
His personality is stamped over everything. He approved of everything I bought, but the fact that I picked out the furniture puts me in here too, and I think he likes that.
At the door, I took off my shoes, glaring at the stain, before dropping both by the door. Pulled off the jacket, putting it up before Logan could comment, and finding my way through the dark by memory before finding the couch (falling over it, shit, memory be damned). Logan chuckled and flipped the lights on while I righted myself and brushed my hair out of my face. Picking my legs up, he sat down.
"You okay?"
I shrugged a little, and laying down was sort of nice, with Logan rubbing my feet absently through my hose and drawing leather-covered hands over my calves. Soothing, even.
"Sorry."
"S'okay. Next time, we order in."
I sat up, turning slightly to see him in the dim light from the window, and he brushed his knuckles over my face briefly. "Or maybe that diner downtown you like so much."
"Yeah." He mulled that briefly--he likes going there, but not when it's just us. We're bound to run into someone we know, and Logan's time with me is his time, private time. Period. I understand that--I never feel like I have enough time with him. It just seems wrong to lose any more.
"I'm gonna go change," I said, glancing down at my shirt. Ruined. Damn. Logan turned his head and the hazel eyes rested warmly on the bloodstains--which happened to cover a certain part of my anatomy he's always found interesting.
"Mind if I help?"
I grinned and stood up, stretching a little, feeling his eyes on me.
"Thought you'd never ask."
His room's pretty large--a huge selling point, believe it or not, with lots of closet space. The better to store the weaponry, my opinion on the subject. Glancing into the open bathroom door, I focused briefly on the sink, where two toothbrushes were in residence.
I have a toothbrush here, all my own. That's when I realized Logan meant business.
We'd been having sex for four months and it was one month after the acquisition of the apartment that I stumbled into the bathroom and saw it. I always brought my own stuff. Always. I never take anything for granted, ever--and I think Logan likes that, that I didn't expect anything more than he's willing to give, any more than he's ready for.
Never pushed, except for that first night when I crawled into his bed and explained that I wasn't his student, that he didn't have to keep me at a distance anymore. We'd been growing apart and it frightened me until I understood why. Understood that in growing up, I'd lost something, that if left to his own devices, Logan would lock me out. He couldn't handle wanting someone he'd treated as his daughter. He'd bandaged my wounds and slept with me through my nightmares, threatened my boyfriends and taught me to fight. Logan in the middle of a reverse Oedipus complex--he could sometimes make things more complex than they really needed to be.
I had to prove it--prove I wasn't the skinny kid he picked up or the little girl he'd promised safety. Logan wasn't big on discussion or philosophy, so sitting down and explaining the lack of bloodtie, my way-beyond-jailbait age, and my interest didn't cut it. Stripping my clothes off inch by inch in front of him and letting him shift the child I'd been into the woman I was--that was the sort of message that got through. The first time for us together, in his bed in the Mansion, when he watched me undress for him, touch him, when I slid down onto him, with that first sucked breath as he entered me, my hands braced on either side of him--that was the evidence he needed. Concrete things. Physical proof of an abstract concept.
He memorized me that night--every inch of my skin, every mark, ever scar, every curve, every sound I could make, every way he could arouse me. In the morning, he pulled the curtains closed and since it was our day off, he locked the door and got back in bed with me. Took in everything about me so the shift was complete and concrete, until in his mind I wasn't a child and never would be again. Until there was nothing about the woman that was a mystery, until he wrapped me up in a sheet and went to sleep beside me for the first time, curled into his arms, our combined scents imprinted into us both.
Four months later, I had my own toothbrush at his apartment. Red, his favorite color on me, by the sink, just waiting for me to notice.
I locked the door and got in the shower and cried for fifteen minutes. It was the first time he acknowledged, even like this, that I was more than one of his many lovers, that I was important enough to rate something like this, something permanent.
He was telling me I was permanent.
Other things came after. The section of the closet. Two drawers in the dresser, one stocked with scarves and gloves and bodysuits and assorted specialized merchandise for skin issues. My favorite shampoo and conditioner and shower gel. My own sponge. Things that were meant to be permanent, things he'd probably thought about long before he'd got them. Because Logan might act on pure instinct, but his life was his and his alone, and sharing even a little took effort. And his instincts were rarely exactly in my favor in that way.
I didn't bother with the lights--I was going to trust that my memory was good enough and that he hadn't bought any new furniture or left any sharp objects--say, newly-cleaned katanas--out where I could trip over them. Finding the wall, I braced a hand against it as I began to unbutton my shirt, but his fingers on mine stopped me, turning me around to face him, taking a breath, as if to confirm who he was touching.
Slowly, he finished with my shirt, sliding it off my shoulders, then my skirt, marking me with the brush of gloved fingers on bare skin. Tracing the line of my waist, my hips, up to my breasts, my shoulders, cupping my face briefly. Down over my back, then crouching and slowly pulling down my hose and underwear, lifting my feet to remove them. Surrounded by a circle of silk and wool, he unhooked my bra and let that fall too.
"You're beautiful, baby," he breathed, and I blushed, always did. Dangerous, five feet eight inches of possible death in front of him, and that's what he thought. No one else could I do this for, no one else could I ever have stood naked in front of, nothing to do with modesty or vulnerability, everything to do with fear and danger. No one else could make me feel secure when I could kill them by accident. He's the only lover I've ever had that I could make love to without my clothes to protect my skin and my soul. Only my gloves that cover me to my elbows.
But Logan's never been like anyone else. I've loved him for so long, but it's only recently I've come to discover that even though I have so much of him in my head, there's so little I truly know about him.
Gently, he pressed me back against the wall, one of my scarves draped across my throat. Kissed me through it, the line of my shoulder, gloved hands still tracing my skin. Up my throat, a brush of his tongue, just behind my ear, a shiver running through my body. Bit lightly, not enough to break the skin, enough to bruise.
A private place to prove ownership with my blood.
"Logan--"
"Shh." A breath against my ear, cupping my breasts with leather-coated fingers, forehead against the wall beside my face. Breathing me in. He always touches me like I'm fragile at first, even after watching approvingly when I knock out a man twice my weight.
Then he kissed me, through the fine silk of my scarf, opening my mouth. Tongue running across mine, over my teeth, sealing my lips to his until I couldn't breathe and didn't want to ever again, and he was pressed to every inch of me. I draped my arms across his shoulders when he worked his patient way down my body with only that scarf between us--my breasts, my stomach, my inner thigh, a matching bruise just inside. Places on my body only he's ever seen and touched and mapped.
Then slowly back up, until his scent was all over me, from his hands, his mouth, his body. Lifting me up against the wall, kissing me again when I locked my legs around him, the jeans harsh against my inner thighs. Gloved fingers between my legs, pressing inside.
"Wider, baby."
I ran my hands down his back, arching a little into his touch. He knows how to make it fast or slow, how to build it up so hot I forget everything, every lover I've ever had, every encounter in every European slum and every high-class hotel and every endless night alone.
"Good girl." A breath against my mouth, when I struggled to get his jeans unbuttoned, finally getting the zipper down, touching him with gloved hands--always somewhere in me relieved, so relieved, that he wants me, can't truly believe it until I can touch him, see him, know physically that it's true. The condom was in his pocket, and I tore the foil myself, putting it on him, arching slightly to encourage him--then the first hard thrust that pressed me into the wall when he covered my mouth with his, taking in my first gasp.
First time is always about possession--so I'm marked inside and out, so there's nothing about me that is anything but his. Tracing my body with each thrust, kissing me so he feels every gasp--he never loses control that first time. It's not about him at all--it's about me, about ownership, about showing me everything he can't and won't say the only way he knows how. It's about feeling me shiver against him, hearing me moan, watching me come just for him, for what he does to me. His mouth was against my throat when he came, and he braced a hand against the wall to hold us steady as we shuddered through the aftershocks.
"I love you," I whispered against his hair, feeling his panting breath on the bare skin of my shoulder, wrapping my arms more tightly around his neck.
And always--always, it's like the first time for us both. The first time he pushed inside my body and inside my mind. The way he meets my eyes so I know everything he doesn't say.
I know he loves me.
* * *
It was early morning when I felt something on my back. Faintly cold, and I grasped at it, frowning as I brought it around. Stared at it vaguely for a second before the sense penetrated my sleep-fogged mind and I half sat up, hearing him chuckle beside me.
"You sleep light."
"Eh, it's my day on-duty. Whadya expect?" Turned it over in my hand, hoping to God I wasn't shaking. My keychain, a new key and a piece of paper wrapped around it. Key to his apartment and his security codes.
Another small step that was so big it shook me.
"Just in case." He covered my gloved hands with his, smiling a little like a kid who knew that it was Saturday and time to do some serious mischief, before he licked my shoulder. Bodysuited now, pulled on earlier that night, definitely not going to be used again. "Feel free to use it."
"I can have wild parties here?"
"If you clean up afterward, feel free, baby." A brush of his lips against my shoulder before he went to the shower and I rolled on my back and stared up at the key clutched in my hand.
A concrete thing. Physical proof of an abstract concept.
Love.
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