Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.
Author's Note: Fits into the continuity of 'Secret Burdens' but also works as a stand-alone.
Touch
"Nothing seems right in the world unless they are holding each other."
They always seem to be touching.
Rogue notices it first at a barbecue, of all places. Logan is manning the grill, flipping burgers and hotdogs on the patio while the kids run in exhaustive circles through the grounds on the Xavier estate. Hank yells something adult-ish to the bickering teens by the stairs. Kitty drops the bag of hotdog and burger buns, littering bread all over the wood of the deck while Piotr tries desperately to gather them before they hit the floor. Bobby laughs and helps collect, spouting some ten second rule nonsense. Warren tries to organize the plates and silverware on the table closest to them.
It is in the midst of this that Rogue first notices Storm joining Logan at the grill. She leans in casually, placing a chaste and short-lived kiss on his lips. But his hand is at the small of her back, her own hand resting on his shoulder.
It is unassuming. It is unconscious. It is without glaring meaning. Their hands do not leave each other until one has to move out of some obligatory duty to the others.
Rogue finds their touch rejoined as soon as they are by each other's sides again. A stray hand on a waist. The brush of a shoulder. The tender press of lips. An unconscious reach for one another.
Rogue smiles softly to herself and brings her cup of soda up to her lips to hide her amusement.
There is something comforting and reassuring about their constant touch.
Something safe in the knowledge of their grasping, their need.
Nothing seems right in the world unless they are holding each other.
When he wakes with a start he finds she is already awake beside him, her hands running gently along his face, her voice soothing and hushing as he pants, sweaty and terrified. She is easing him once more into steady sleep before he has time to remember the nightmares.
"You're the one who wanted me to teach them self-defense!" Logan's growl is biting and angry as he stomps into the kitchen, Ororo trailing in his wake.
"You do not need to give a child a concussion to teach them self-defense," she screeches, her arms thrown up in the air.
Sitting in their stools at the kitchen island, Warren and Piotr stop picking at the bag of chips before them to watch the scene.
Logan throws open the refrigerator door. "Well, maybe he'll remember his shields next time." Logan stops and chuckles, reaching for a beer from the shelf. "Or maybe not, concussion and all."
Ororo's nostrils flare, her hair sparkling with electricity as he closes the refrigerator door. "This is no laughing matter, Logan. You are responsible for the safety of these children." Her eyes are heated and pleading all at once, her fingers curled into fists at her side.
Logan waves her off and moves to sit beside the boys at the kitchen island. "He's fine, darlin'. No need to get your panties in a twist."
Ororo sucks in a sharp breath and grabs at the bottle of beer just as Logan is raising it to his lips. She yanks it from his grasp and throws it to the floor in a fit of rage, her eyes blanking white before the glass can even shatter.
Warren and Piotr stare wide-eyed and still. The air crackles around them, beer pooling in a frothy puddle over the shards of glass.
Logan does not move from his position on the stool. Instead, he licks his lips, twists his neck to peer at her and there is a harsh line where his mouth should be.
Ororo cannot help the small swell of satisfaction beginning in her gut. She pulls a finger to jab him in the chest. "You are suspended from teaching until further notice, Logan."
He almost splutters.
Warren and Piotr slip silently from the room, chips forgotten.
Logan narrows his eyes quickly and reaches for her finger, still resting against his chest. He pulls it slowly and intently away, his eyes steady and heated on hers. "Don't point that at me, darlin', unless you're ready for it to get bitten off."
Ororo pulls in one long, slow steady breath, the slight twitch of her lips a warning to Logan. Her finger rises back up to prod him in the chest and stay there.
Something rumbles in Logan's chest before he steps closer toward her.
Every year, Ororo visits their graves. Every year, Ororo clears the withered petals of flowers past and places fresh bouquets at the tombstone bases. Every year, she traces the names in carved stone. Three names. Three wishes. Three somber prayers.
Every year, Logan links his fingers with hers and lets her sob into his chest.
Her fist is flying through the air toward his cheek and he catches the motion just in time to duck and roll out of arm's reach. She grunts in frustration, following up with a kick and then a knee. He deflects them easily and bounces away, laughing, his fists brought to his face in protection.
"That all ya got?" His taunt is a breath of hot air, a jagged pant between jabs.
Ororo smirks grimly as she steps back and gauges his position on the Danger Room floor. They are both sweat-drenched and heaving labored breathes. And they are both defiant.
But she can tell that his endurance will win this round. She is already flagging, already slowing and stunted in her movements. Some days she curses his healing factor.
She feints to the right and then swings hard around left to catch his ear. He barely blocks in time, but it is enough to throw him off balance, for his footing to stumble. She takes advantage and levels him with a roundhouse kick, her white ponytail whipping in her wake.
Logan takes the full force of her kick, tumbling to the floor, but not before he gets a handle on her retreating leg, grasping awkwardly at her ankle and pulling her with him. She shrieks in surprise, jolted by the tug of his strength on her calf and she falls with him, pulling her hands up to brace herself on the floor. She hits it hard, one hand catching her weight but the other not fast enough and she slams a shoulder harshly into the ground. Logan falls on his back with a grunt beside her.
Ororo moans and pushes at the floor to pick herself up but Logan has wrapped a hand further up her leg, gripping her thigh and yanking her toward him.
This time, her shriek is a mix of pain and laughter, and he has his arms clamped tightly around her atop him, keeping her from standing. He buries his face in her neck and holds her tighter to him.
"Logan!" she reprimands, though laughing. "You have not conceded yet."
Logan snorts into her hair and pulls back to look at her. "I don't believe you've won this one, darlin'."
Ororo narrows her eyes and stills against him, a slow devilish smirk spreading across her features. Logan has only a moment to raise a brow before she arches her back sinuously, her hips pushing meaningfully into his.
Logan grinds his teeth, his eyes widening minutely and there is a short breath catching in his throat.
Ororo cocks a brow. "Uncle?"
Logan moves a hand down the length of her back and moves his face into her neck once more, pulling in a deep steadying breath. "Uncle," he breathes raggedly, flipping them swiftly so that her back is to the floor and he has her pinned with his form.
Ororo lets out a short chuckle, her own hands reaching to thread through his hair.
Logan sniffs loudly and then pulls his head back to lock eyes with her. "God, you reek."
Ororo's mouth drops open instantly, one hand swatting him in his arm. "Well, if that is how you feel then…" She moves to extract herself from his arms.
Logan buries his face in her hair once more, his arms tightening on her. "Don't move."
Ororo stops and smiles against his neck. His breathing is deep and steady at her ear. They do not move for several minutes.
Her breath is warm against his lips. One of his hands slides up the smooth skin of her back to rest against the nape of her neck, twining his fingers into the threads of her hair. She sighs against his mouth, her body keening and smooth against his.
There is the twist of sheets caught around their bare legs.
The sweat-slicked skin.
The ragged heat of pants between them.
The tender ache as their lips meet.
Logan grasps her chin in his palm, twisting her head this way and that to assess the damage. She is too fatigued to resist much, but her narrowing eyes and sighs of "Logan" in an exasperated tone tell of her exhaustion and mild frustration with his fretting.
Logan hardens his eyes and releases his hold of her face, only to rest his hand on her knee. "That was too fuckin' close, Storm." His tone is tight and angry.
She tries to close her eyes to the harsh lights of the Blackbird's interior as they speed through the air, but the darkness only makes her world spin faster. She opens her eyes to see Kitty standing close by them, gripping the handle in the ceiling for steadiness as the plane rattles around them. The young mutant's eyes are concerned and hesitant on the two. Storm swallows and softens her expression, though she's sure it does little to lessen the bruises and long gash lining her cheek. "I am alright, Kitty, really."
Logan snorts derisively before her, crouched on his haunches as he examines her form sitting on the cot in the back of the Blackbird.
Ororo turns her gaze to his and purses her lips, ready to snap in defense. She stops at his gaze. His grip on her knee tightens reflexively. His voice is gravel when he opens his mouth. "You scared the shit outta me back there." He ends on a shaky exhale, his eyes moving to look somewhere past her shoulder, where he doesn't have to meet her eyes. He blinks and then looks down, his jaw set tight.
Ororo furrows her brows and jostles at the Blackbird's twists through the air. Her hand is warm on his atop her knee. "Then I'm doing my job," she laughs breathily. But the recent scare of their last fight is still fresh and humming beneath her bruised skin.
When he looks back up at her, he shakes his head, snorting at her comment.
A smile tugs at both their lips and the warm breath of relief is blossoming in their chests.
Ororo is asleep on the couch in the rec room when Logan finds her. She is laid out on the cushions, her back against one of the arms with a book fallen to her lap. Logan smirks, lifts her legs carefully and lowers himself to the couch, where he replaces her legs on his lap. She stirs softly, mumbling something incoherent but her lids remain closed. Logan pulls the book from her slim fingers and reaches back behind the couch to place it on the table there. He returns his gaze to her face. His smile is natural and slow-blooming. He waits for her to wake.