"I hate this shit."
Logan stood with Marie in front of a massive wall of paint chips. He held a list in his hand. The blocky masculine scrawl read:
Kitchen - green
Head - blue
Downstairs - light brown
Loft - dark brown
"Come on. It's not that bad."
"The fuck it's not."
Things were still strained between them after everything that had happened at The Red Door. They hadn't talked about it much beyond Marie sharing she felt a little weird and Logan's flat response back: 'Don't.' It somehow seemed worse now — and painfully inescapable — here in the white, brightly-lit paint aisle of their local hardware store.
This was the first time they'd been out together since that night, after a week of avoidance, awkward silences and stilted conversation. Finally, this morning, the Wolverine had showed up at her door, thrown down the bag she still hadn't come and collected, and ordered her out of bed at an ungodly hour. She and Jubilee were still sleeping off their Friday night drunk when he threw a jacket at Marie and told her that she had five minutes to get ready or he'd put her in his truck, TARDIS pj's and all.
Maybe his way was better, she mused, reading the colors on the swatches to avoid another awkward conversation. He'd always been direct. He didn't usually want a long conversation, but he was right to make them face this sooner rather than later.
She'd insisted on coffee first and she sipped it slowly, feeling slightly ridiculous standing there with him. He'd barely given her time to pee, change and brush her teeth. Her morning hair was big and a little wild. The quick finger-comb in the truck had done little to tame it, but every now and then he'd catch it in the corner of his eye and smirk a little at her. That was progress, even if it came at the expense of a bit of her pride.
It felt slightly ludicrous to be standing there with the Wolverine doing something as mudane as buying paint. He was a fighter and a killer; the deadliest weapon in their arsenal. But he was a man, first. He rarely let the others see that part of him and she knew her presence with him now was significant, despite their lingering awkwardness.
Logan stood before the wall, shaking his head in exasperation.
"Who the fuck needs this many colors?" He grunted, thrusting the list at her. "You do it. You're the artist, kid."
"Hey, it's your house, cowboy." He bared his teeth at her, which only made her think about how they'd felt under her fingertips and against her nape. Neither of them moved. Stalemate. "Fine. Together then."
"Mmph."
"Sugar, that better be the grunt of 'Yes, ma'am. I aim to do just that'. Or it's gonna get ugly. Clean-up on aisle…." she glanced up at the sign. "Four."
"Don't dare the Rogue?"
The last time a dare was involved, she'd licked him. Would there ever be a time when a conversation with him didn't make her think of that night?
"Nope. Don't wake her up before eight on a Saturday unless Gerard Butler is downstairs in a kilt declaring his undying love or you come bearing a big plate of greasy food and a little hair of the dog."
"Jesus. That pansy? You could have at least gone with Chuck Norris so I didn't hafta disown ya." He chuckled at her sass and then frowned at the wall of colors. There was no 'blue' or 'green' or even 'brown'. "Christ. Mango Chutney? Butterscotch Sundae? Graham Cracker Crust? Who thinks this shit up? We paintin' here, or havin' lunch?"
She had to admit, some of them were pretty bad. "Hey, if you think I'm gonna paint your entire house, then it's lunch for a month of Sundays. To start."
"Deal." He didn't even hesitate and she realized she'd set that bar much too low. Dammit. She punched his arm and then winced as the metal underlying the heavy muscle popped her fingers. Despite the twinge of discomfort, the familiar camaraderie felt good. They were slowly finding the way forward. It was new and a little scary, but good, too.
"Heh. Serves ya right." He sighed and took a sip of his own steaming coffee. "Let's do this, huh?" Despite his griping, Logan had some surprisingly strong ideas about the interior of his home. He tended towards rich warm colors that reminded him of the forest in fall; warm ochers, vivid reds, burnt oranges, deep greens and strong browns that gave a comfortable, homey feel. He didn't like bright white, or that industrial gray that gave a sterile, institutionalized feel. Marie could empathize.
"Okay. First off, I'd suggest leaving the kitchen until after the counters are in. The wall color will depend on that."
He nodded, grunting his assent.
"I think you're right on the money with brown downstairs. A good neutral like that'll make the walls disappear and feel like the forest is all around you when you look out the window."
"Sounds good."
"I'd suggest a deep chocolate for that section of the wall flanking the fireplace and a warm, mid-tone brown for the rest. If the color is too light, it'll distract from the view, especially at night, and the deeper color will show off the river stone hearth around the fire."
"Heh." He handed her a paint chip that read Muddy Mississippi and they shared a smile.
"That'd be good for the fireplace wall." She pointed out two others, Cigar Bar and Cowboy Hat. "Either of those would work downstairs."
He selected Cigar Bar, naturally.
"What do you think about extending that color up into the loft and doing an accent wall up there instead of a different brown?"
"I dunno."
"The color would flow better that way and nobody'd see the pop of color up there with the shoji screens drawn." Marie smiled inwardly as he drifted towards the reds and oranges. She knew her Wolverine. "Maybe burnt orange?" That would look good with the screens he'd designed. Ebony wood with rice paper panels and a few Japanese maple leaves for interest and to reflect his love of nature and of Japan. It would glow warmly in the light of the hurricane candles he preferred, too.
He bypassed Pumpkin Butter and Monarch Wing and settled on Bourbon Bottle. "Not the way I normally kill a gallon of the stuff, but I reckon it'll do."
She giggled. "See, it's not so bad."
She was right, but he'd never say so. "Mmph."
"Blue for the bathroom?"
"Yeah, but not…" his voice trailed off, but she knew what he meant. Nothing ecovative of the tank from his nightmares or the wall of water that had swallowed one of their team at Alkali Lake.
"Sure." She kept her voice light. "What about a deep teal instead?"
"Teal?"
She handed him a chip. "Mermaid Tears?" he scoffed.
"Fine then." She chose another by color without looking at the name.
"Sensual Jade?" His eyebrow rose and she blushed, thinking about all the sensual details they'd shared. Had she really told him she'd come three times on his bike on the way home? Marie could hardly look at him, even now, without imagining what had played out behind his closed door that night after he'd left her. "You're turnin' pink, darlin'."
"Stop that." She rolled her eyes at him, only half teasing.
He plucked a deep, smoky teal from the wall of chips and handed it to her, wordlessly.
"Sea Glass?"
He fingered the frosty drop of sea glass at her throat. It was the first time he'd ever acknowledged the gifts they'd given each other that windy February afternoon. And the first time he'd touched her since they'd returned from the sex club.
She shivered lightly. It felt different now. More electric. She could tell he felt it too. He'd lingered a beat too long in the hollow of her throat and then jerked his hand away with a nonspecific grunt and a swallow of hot coffee big enough to make him curse under his breath as it burned his mouth.
It was too much in this brightly lit place with nowhere to hide from the fire in his eyes. Marie stroked the pendant and then tucked it away under her scarf, wanting to feel it against her skin, and because it seemed to be charging them both with something better left alone.
"Hey, I thought you liked sea glass," he finally offered as they made their way to the counter.
"I do."
"Good." He took another sip of coffee and she was jealous of his ability to continue to enjoy a hot beverage immediately after burning the crap out of his mouth. That just wasn't fair. "Paint first. Then food, huh?"
"Steak and eggs?"
"Deal."
~ooOoo~
"God, that was good." Marie put her silverware on her plate and eyed Logan's last strip of bacon.
"Hmph." He tore it in two, handed her half and swallowed his down with some strong black coffee.
"Mmmm…."
"You put away enough fried potatoes and grease to kill your hangover, kid?"
"Yep. I'm back among the living. Might let you stay that way now, too."
"Heh. Fair enough."
The paint chips were spread across the table. They'd been discussing the plan of attack while they ate. Now, Logan's hand rested on the one called Sea Glass, but his eyes were on her necklace, shining softly between her breasts in the early morning light.
She touched the frosty pendant with a shy smile. The fiery red was one of the rarest colors. "Thanks for this, sugar." She'd never acknowledged the gifts they'd given to each other that day either. "How did you know?"
He shrugged. "You told me you liked it once."
"I did?"
He nodded. It had been years ago now. A random comment he'd filed away. That she'd forgotten their conversation made him feel better, not worse. She wasn't a young girl with a crush anymore, memorizing their every exchange in painful detail. Though to be honest, he wasn't sure it had ever been just that. But neither of them had been ready for the promise of what lay between them. He wasn't sure they were ready now, either. But they'd both grown past the roles they'd originally defined for themselves.
What had happened last weekend at The Red Door had been about breaking more than just traditional boundaries.
"Why sea glass?"
"What?"
"Why that and not somethin' fancier?" In his experience, most women liked diamonds or pearls.
"I like the idea of it mostly."
"The idea?"
"Most of it's made from slag that glass foundaries dumped into the sea at the end of the day back in the 1800's. Some of it comes from shipwrecks." She smiled at him, but her eyes softened. "This piece could very well be older than you, sugar."
"Mmph." Something tightened in his chest.
"Some of it's just old bottles tossed into the ocean. I kinda like the idea that something beautiful can come from a thing most people think is trash. That something thrown away and—and broken can be made more beautiful by rolling with the hard knocks of life, rubbing against the sand and grit until it becomes flawless. There's a good lesson there, I think. I'd rather have that next to my skin than gold or diamonds."
He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her answer had shocked him.
"I like that real good."
He was coming to realize that while they'd always talked, she'd held things — important things about herself — apart from him. She'd shown him the girl and kept the woman locked inside because something in her told her they both needed it. That she was beginning to reveal these personal details about her private heart felt good. He understood the metaphor was larger than a piece of glass. It encompassed both of them. It was elegantly drawn and the complexity of it surprised him a little.
There was much more to her than he'd previously realized and he wondered, not for the first time, what a girl like that saw in a man like him over the long haul. Sure, the protection and security had probably been pretty appealing in the beginning, but she didn't really need those things from him anymore and yet here she was. In his truck. In his life. In his business all too often. In his heart and mind. In his dreams. His fantasies.
In everything but his damned bed.
"I like old things."
That amused him, but under it was something deeper than a pithy, offhand comment. Something must have shown on his face because her scent changed, sliding towards spice and honey. She didn't say anything, but she looked like she wanted to.
He wondered if she ever would.
A memory rolled over him, sharp and hot. Her wrist trapped in the noose he'd made of her scarf and the words she'd given him that bound him just as tightly. Her response to his shibari lesson had been to imagine how his claws would have felt on her skin. Not his mouth. Not his hands. His claws.
Jesus Christ. The Rogue had matched him at every turn. Even innocent as she was, in the throbbing darkness of that place, she'd teased him and licked him and then claimed him before them all.
And here? Now? At this table? She just looked at him with those big, burning eyes and said nothing.
Nothing.
Her scent spoke, however, and it was all he could do not to brush her wild hair aside and bite her again.
There was a long, charged moment where they simply watched each other with new eyes. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three.
There was a little wild in her smile, like always. And a shadow in her eyes that told him she wasn't yet so uncomfortable with the No Man's Land they were in that she was willing to risk what they had for a shot at something more. Not yet.
Their shared past flickered in his head; a string of lighthouses leading him from the darkness. Marie arguing with him on a snowy road, trading names in his truck, wrapping her fingers around his tags, welcoming him back with a warm hug, standing at his side in the leather. Hell, laying floors and drinking beers and talking under the stars until they began to fade from the sky…
He shoved up from the table and went to pay the tab with a grunt.
The waiting was hurting them both.
Up next: Here I Go Again. A nighttime exercise turns into something neither of them anticipated as Logan and Marie wind closer and closer to the breaking point...