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“I've brought you the doughnuts you wanted, alright?” Logan said, shaking the buys out of the packer. “I had to fucking trudge through half the city to get them. I'm tired of this bullshit. Eat doughnuts from the shop at the corner, they are all the same.”
“What's this?” Rogue took moist pasteboard basket with sickening stains, smelling with salt. “And why is it so green and melting? It looks like Blob's vomit.”
“Here's your pistachio ice-cream,” Logan explained, crumpling the packet and throwing it into the overfull waste-basket. “Remember you moaning someone has eaten it again? Like I can't eat an ice-cream in my own house.”
“It's Xavier's house, and we pay the rent together,” Rogue yawned. Her hair was messy and she felt like it was her turn to take the garbage out, but as Logan skipped his two or three turns, it was he who should do it – or he skipped it last week?
“Whatever. I've found the ice-cream at another end of that blasted half the city. Woman, open a beer for me,” Logan grumbled.
“Like some has cut off your arms and you haven't grown them back again, or what?” Rogue looked at Logan surprisingly.
“Like I'm going to make you a fucking dinner,” Logan took the knife out of the drawer and tried it with his thumb finger. He didn't cut himself on it, though the knife was blunt and Logan frowned. “Be a good girl a go open me a beer,” he demanded, throwing the knife into the sink and searching for an another one.
“Two beers,” Rogue opened the fridge's door and tilted to the light. The choice was limited, neither she nor Logan was housewifely. But, thanks to Logan, they always had the beer and snacks – and cheese so old its molt was going to evolve one day.
“I want only one now,” Logan rumbled with the cutlery, cleaning a place on the table. A tomato fell off, rolled on the floor and got under the sink. The meat he took from the market looked unhealthy, but, as for Rogue, all the raw meat looked unhealthy.
Logan told he knew how to buy meat. As he did it hundred years before Rogue was born, she believed him.
“I'm drinking too,” Rogue straightened up with two beers in her hands, closing the fridge door with her knee. “Gimme your claws...” she said to Logan and he reached out his hand, unpacking the meat with another one. The claws popped out with the metallic yelp. Rogue clang the caps on the claws and pulled.
“Here you go,” Rogue put his beer before him, sitting down sitting at the table.
When cooking, Logan put his bottle on the counter near the sink and took a sip every two or free minutes, stirring the meat, sizzling on the fire. It went dark in the street, so Rogue turned the kitchen light on. Logan's spine was wide and knobby because of the muscles. He wore singlets under the jacket even in autumn, but If the autumn was cold, he also used checkered shirts.
Rogue used Logan's checkered shirts, too – she needed something to sleep in.
“The weather is shit,” Logan grumbled as Rogue put her chin on her hands. She was still a bit sleepy. She remembered telling Logan she was hungry and he grumbled something about her making a sandwich, and how she kicked him under the blanket that morning. “The wind is blowing like hell. I don't give a damn but people is so fragile. I can accidentally put out my claws and some shit like a valet guy who always sticks bills on my car's window can blow right onto them. He-he.”
“Logan,” Rogue rolled up her eyes.
“Logan what?” Logan took the cigar out of his pocket, bit the pointy end and reached for the lighter. There were grease stains at his singlet already, as Logan despised apron with butterflies hanging from the crochet. “I am not good. I am reasonable.”
“Firstly, you are not reasonable,” Rogue started bending her fingers. “You know does Cyclops call you? Logan the Human Disaster. Secondly, take the cigar out. I'm not eating your stuff with ashes. It tasteless enough by itself.”
“Look, if you wanna chef, go to the restaurant, okay?” Logan threw the spatula into the sink and wiped his hands with the towel not even going to remove the cigar. The meat started to sizzle and Logan opened the cupboard door and the tins of beans fell out with a loud bang. “I love beef stew with beans.”
“And to fart under the blanket,” Rogue muttered under her breath, leaning over her bear. Shame on her, but she just couldn't help saying that.
“Whadda you say?” Logan's expression was priceless. It was hard to keep the beer in the mouth and pretend Rogue was not going to burst out laughing, but she somehow survived the moment.
“Nuthin,” Rogue swallowed and answered in Jean Gray's soft manner. “Keep bustlin' about, hunny.”
“You think I can't hear you rippin' one by one in the bathroom?” Logan snorted vengefully, taking the cigar out and putting it into the ashtray. “The walls are shaking.”
“I can only guess why not all of your pants have burning holes on the back,” Rogue snarled joyfully. She felt so down that evening, but Logan came and bring the life along. Could she even think about talking to Bobby like that?
“Goddammit! Now we have beer stew,” Logan was the first to spit out his beer, laughing. He had just opened the lid and the beer poured into the pan, raising clouds of steam.
“Just keep on cookin', let's call it meat & beer stew,” Rogue advised, jumping off the stool and approaching Logan. Her pace was unsteady and she felt her eyes becoming wet again. She wanted to touch him, to know he was real, but she didn't even know if she was real, and it wasn't just a dream.
Rogue missed Logan. He missed him for all the years he searched for himself. God, she missed him so much she thought with a tear in her heart. What would she do if she lost him? Logan said it never could be, but Rogue was used to losing. What if...
“Are you crying?” Logan asked, putting a hand on Rogue's shoulder.
“No, I am not...” Rogue started, but Logan didn't give her a chance to explain.
“Don't cry, birdie,” Logan said with that unexpected tenderness Rogues always loved. Such a big, brutal man, always with a cigar, beating his knuckles bleeding, catching bullets with his teeth and healing his wounds while still having knives in them, he wasn't meant to be that way. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying here, with you. Okay?”
Rogue nodded. She couldn't speak, her throat contracted. Desperate sobs were running up her chest, but she was not going to cry – no, no, she shook her head. Logan wanted to hug her, but she pushed his hands away gently, leaning over the sink.
“Some more bear to the cutlets. Bear it better, huh,” Logan claimed, pouring the remains of the beer from the bottle into the pan. The stew hissed weakly. “It's time for tomato, but I've lost that damned son of a bitch.”
“You have no sense of humor,” Rogue sighed, looking Logan into the eyes, and he rubbed her chin. He had rough hands, and when she kissed them, Logan looked at her as though she was kissing his soul instead, raw and naked before her confused gaze.
“You have it even less, birdie.”
When Logan kissed her, Rogue panicked if he fainted if she hurt him again, but he didn't. Jean proved to be right. Rogue finally mastered her curse.