A/N - Here's a new chapter containing a smut scene between Logan and a familiar woman. You will also meet one of the major storylines that shocks poor Rogue.
I would love to hear your thoughts on the story so far. Do the words flow? Are Logan and Rogue believable as father and daughter, or is this a step too far into an alternative universe? Are you a traditional fan of Gambit and Rogue together? Do you want more fluff scenes between father and daughter? Are Wolverine and Mystique a believable couple? What would you like to read in the next chapter?
Chapter 3
November 1984. Laughlin City, Alberta, Canada.
Rogue groggily opened her eyes and lifted her face gingerly from the snowbank she landed in. She shivered as she pushed herself to her feet, her icy surroundings sending chills through her trembling body. Glancing over her shoulder, she searched for any sign of a landmark because this didn't look like New York City.
The quietness was only punctured by two intoxicated patrons exiting a nearby building, joking and badgering each other with tales of recent conquests. In their fur-lined jackets, they swayed drunkenly in their badly laced boots and exchanged whoops and cheers with a passing vehicle.
She turned around, and her eyes searched the car lot. Cars and pickup trucks lined the allocated parking spots, and the two drunken men drifted to a stop and watched her. One of them wolf-whistled sharply in the frosty air, and she wrinkled her nose with a gentle scoff. They could barely stand upright but still brazenly offered a 'good time at her expense'.
Confused by her surroundings at first, she spotted a busy bar ahead. It was familiar but looked tired and dated as always. "It's Laughlin City," she whispered and walked in the direction of the tavern.
"Come here!" the intoxicated man shouted, collapsing in the snow when his legs gave way under the weight of twelve beers, four shots of whiskey, and a punch to the head.
"No, she's mine," his friend snapped angrily, launching a further attack with his fists. "I spotted her first!"
Rogue kept her distance from the drunks, watching them squabble and roll into the road. Shaking her head at the turmoil of her first few minutes in the past, she darted inside the grimy bar in search of safety and warmth.
A wave of smoke, liquor, and sweat greeted her as she weaved through the bustling crowd. The dark, dreary interior looked the same. She gazed at the empty cage and remembered seeing a brooding and brutal Logan for the first time. Frowning, she checked the watch on her wrist. Could it be the year 2000?
A date appeared when she repeatedly pressed a gloved fingertip to the watch face. She read it, thought long and hard, and gazed around again. When she reached the bar, she sat on a stool and wondered what to do next. Why did the watch bring her here?
She examined the crowds. Everyone smoked. Everyone drank. Everyone looked like they were having fun apart from her. No, wait. She saw Logan wearing a scowl. Now, she didn't feel lonely or lost in her pity party.
Pulling her hood up, she tried to hide her face from view while she glanced curiously at him. He didn't notice her and busied himself lighting a cigar.
He asked the barman for a beer as he settled on a stool for a night of drinking. Scratching at the stubble on his jaw, he frowned at a long-legged blonde with sparkling blue eyes and flawless bone structure. "The answer's still no."
The woman approached anyway, sauntering toward him with a mesmerising swing of her hips and smelling purely of lust. She leaned against the bar, invading his personal space with her ample cleavage and a silver dress that clung to every curve.
Tracing her hand across his jawline, she picked up his beer and sipped it. "I'm searching for a man with certain abilities."
He raised an eyebrow at her nerve and snatched the bottle from her hand. "Are you deaf?"
"Ornery, ableist, and you know how to make a woman feel special. You're obviously the man of my dreams," she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
He ignored her and drank his beer as she stroked his jawline. Eventually, he knocked her hand away and heard her dissatisfied sigh. "I'm not joining any crackpot team," he warned with a scowl.
Rogue watched from three stools away, her eyes narrowing at the woman's familiar face. She heard the whispering voice of a reminiscing Mystique narrating in her mind. Oh, this brings back memories. She shook her head in disapproval and looked away, fighting the urge to holler obscenities at Logan. He always made poor decisions about the ladies he allowed into his life.
The woman continued to gaze intently at his face, smiling knowingly. She could change his mind with the drop of her hat. No, she never suited a single piece of headwear, but she would enjoy stripping out of her dress and pooling it at his feet.
Drumming her perfectly polished red fingernails against the bar, she bided her time. "The invitation is still open."
Growing tired of her scent crowding his nose, Logan grumbled under his breath about 'the need for space' and drained the last drop of beer.
With another lazy puff of his cigar, he sighed heavily. "Go fuck yourself," he demanded, his eyes narrowing while he hoped the message was understood loud and clear.
Smirking, she continued to invade his personal space until their bodies touched. "I would rather fuck you," she whispered teasingly in his ear, her confident hand sliding across his denim-clad thigh and towards his groin.
"Someone, please put me out of my misery," a disgusted Rogue pleaded, noisy enough for them to overhear as she stared at the tip jar.
Logan glanced at the moping kid briefly before he returned his attention to the mystery woman. He toyed with a lock of her golden hair and considered his options as she reached for his shirt buttons. With another sniff of her lust, his decisions reversed from impartial to interested as his cock twitched impatiently in his pants.
"You're eager," he chuckled, suddenly in the mood for some strip-and-fuck action in the back of his camper.
"I'm a busy woman, and I don't like to be kept wanting or waiting," she lamented, her lips touching his as she unbuttoned his shirt.
Grunting, he shifted on his stool and snuffed his cigar in the ashtray. His hands slid across her hips and rested on her perfect ass. "Is that so?" They kissed roughly and embraced as they hurriedly made their way to the exit.
A stunned Rogue couldn't believe how fast it happened. One minute he ignored Mystique's advances, and the next thing she knew, they were sucking each other's faces. She followed them outside and glimpsed at the date on the watch.
Her thoughts somersaulted into an erratic-styled cartwheel that almost fractured her fragile mind. She felt more than just a little nauseated as the truth dawned on her. If it was November 1984, and she was born in August 1985, that meant, oh no. She sunk her face into the palms of her hands and refused to watch them undressing as they climbed into the back of Logan's camper. She travelled into the past to accidentally visit the night she was conceived.
"What's your name?" Logan questioned as he nudged the camper door shut with his boot. He pulled his jacket and shirt off, dumping them on the untidy floor, unbothered by the disorganised mess surrounding him. His belongings littered the sides, the floor, the bed, and the seats. He didn't care because his lack of housekeeping never dampened his turbulent love life.
"You'll have to earn your information," Mystique replied suggestively, intrigued by the rough growl tearing through his gravelly throat. "You don't like that, do you? You want to be in control."
"I'm always in control," he confirmed darkly and closed the distance between them, his eyes several shades duskier in the dimly lit camper.
Amused, she brushed the clutter off the single kitchen cabinet and perched on it, her heeled shoes abandoned in the snow outside. She watched with growing interest as a gleaming claw glided from his knuckle. They were feet apart; she could feel his heated breath on her neck as he sliced through the straps of her dress. "I don't have any more clothes."
He watched her dress spill down her front, unsurprised to discover her without a shred of underwear on her upper half. "Who said you'd be needing them?"
He sheathed his claw, and his cold palms explored every inch of her breasts. Smirking at her murmurs of approval as he roughly tweaked her nipples, his hands dropped to his belt buckle.
Mystique smiled in anticipation at the sound of him unbuckling his belt and tugging down the zipper of his jeans. Her plan worked perfectly, as usual. "It's cold in here," she murmured heatedly, gathering the hem of her dress toward her hips to tempt him further.
"We've got plenty of ways of keeping warm," he answered gruffly, eyeing her tattered dress.
He unsheathed his claw again and sliced through the material, tearing the silvery fabric off her enticing, muted skin. When he released the shredded fabric from his hand, he stroked her thighs and raised an eyebrow when he noted she didn't wear panties.
"You're keen, aren't you? Like a packhorse with a one-track mind," she voiced, pleased by her off-kilter comparison.
He snorted at her words and growled in appreciation when she reached for his aching member. Gritting his teeth, he felt it gradually rise under her expert touch. Not one for foreplay, he liked to dine on the mains before the flames were snuffed out. For him, this was just another quick fuck in the back of his camper minus a condom because his mutation kept his health spotless.
Without a hint of tenderness in his touch, he dipped a surveying finger between the warmth of her folds, impressed she was already wet. With a growl reverberating through his chest, he shifted closer, eased his member inside her and welcomed her pleasurable moans.
Her smooth, forceful legs wrapped around his waist, their heated gazes locked, and the power play between them ignited. Like a reckless, sex-filled game of predator vs. prey, their hips were driven together as they battled to be crowned the most dominant.
He cupped her curvy ass and supported her weight across the carpet; their naked skin rippled with a passionate heat that almost left them breathless. They kissed and traded the taste of beer, cigar smoke and champagne. She murmured enthusiastically, and he growled receptively at her scent as they chased the fringes of a powerful wave of pleasure.
When she demanded further roughness, her voice reached a fever pitch. With his lip curled in a snarl, Logan slammed her back against the wall, and the fragile structure of the camper quaked violently under his rapidly dominant thrusts.
In a broken daze, Rogue returned to the lonely bar stool and buried her head in her hands. She felt sick to her stomach, and it wasn't from the time travel. Trips were never kind to her wherever her feet seemed to land. When even the past wished to bury her under a Rockie Mountain-sized heap of trauma, she needed to question the choices she made.
"What can I get you?" the barman asked her while he served another customer, his permed hair a sign of the times.
"Brain bleach, please," she murmured, feeling sorry for herself as she raised her head and gazed at the notices behind him. As she read one of the signs, she smiled slightly at her plan and his wild hairstyle. "Can I order something on a bar tab?"
He nodded and served another customer. "I'm assuming you know one of the regulars?"
Plucking the sticky laminated menu from the bar, she quickly searched the food offerings and picked the most expensive meal. Maybe those disturbed pangs in her stomach were there because she hadn't eaten, thanks to Logan. She pushed the thoughts of her own conception from her disturbed mind and focused on improving her social skills.
Pointing to an empty booth in the corner, she glanced at the barman. "I'll have the biggest steak dinner with extra fries and a few pancakes on the side, please. Try not to forget the maple syrup, and can I add an orange soda and a glass of ice to my order? I'm going to sit over there."
"What name's the tab under?" he asked, jotting down her items onto a pad of stained paper with a barely functioning pen.
"Wolverine," she answered softly and wandered over to her table.
While patiently waiting thirty minutes for her meal, she drank her soda, and her enjoyment faded. She almost felt guilty sitting here expecting her dinner while grounded. But no, she wasn't grounded in 1984. Rogue didn't even exist; they were too busy creating her in a clapped-out camper in a car lot in Canada. Clapped-out? Whose phrase had she stolen now? Mystique refused to claim the ridiculous words, and she rolled her eyes.
"I don't remember asking you," she replied, drawing the curious stares of onlookers.
Sighing, she slumped a little in her seat, embarrassed by talking out loud in front of others. Why did she always do that? These voices in her head were murdering her social skills. Couldn't she even travel in time without embarrassing herself? Her thoughts turned to the surprise party from the day before and Logan's broken couch. While she chewed on her bottom lip, the guilt weighed her down. It shouldn't have happened. The more she thought about it, the less sense it made. Did teens her age always want to party? Maybe her mutation made her see things differently. Parties felt dangerous to a girl with poisonous skin.
Eventually eating every bite of her poorly cooked dinner, she picked up a serviette and asked a sparkly-dressed woman in the next booth if she could borrow a pen. Only then did she notice that everyone seemed to have a perm or mullet resting on their heads. The eighties were a strange decade, weren't they?
Quickly, she wrote a note on the serviette and spotted Logan entering the bar. That was her cue to leave. As she shuffled free of the booth, she left the message behind and disappeared into the crowd as she tapped at the watch, deciding it was time to rescue her book from the dirt.
A satisfied Logan, dressed in his wifebeater and jeans, and minus his belt, headed to the bar to buy some beers. His skin glistened with sweat, and he lit a cigar while waiting to be served. Thoughts turned to the naked woman in his camper, and he frowned when the barman handed him the check. "What's this?" His eyebrows shot to his hairline. How much for a fucking steak?
The barman took the check, read through it, and indicated each item he had jotted down on the receipt. "You ordered six beers, and the rest is for the steak meal, orange soda, pancakes, and extra maple syrup that some girl added to your tab."
"What girl?" he demanded to know bad-temperedly and looked around with a fierce glare.
"She sat over there in that booth," the barman answered and went to serve another impatient customer.
Stalking over to the vacated seat, Logan sniffed the scent of steak, pancake batter, and orange soda. He spotted black ink on the serviette and snatched it into his hand. While he read the handwriting, his brow furrowed. "Thanks for dinner. I'm sorry about the party and couch."
With a confused growl, he carried the napkin with him and followed the girl's scent through the crowds and toward the restrooms. Determined to learn her identity and force her to pay her own way, he opened the door and entered the women's bathroom. He found empty stalls, and a drunken guy in a fur-lined jacket crashed out on the tiled floor.
Logan nudged him with the toe of his boot. Nothing. The guy was out cold. With a grumble, he spotted a lone glove on the floor and picked it up. He eyed the note again and returned to the bar to pay the entire tab, frustrated at his failure to catch the kid.
Westchester, New York. September 2003.
A trembling Rogue slid down her bedroom wall, clutching the woman's sparkly pen in one gloved hand. Her other hand remained bare because she lost her glove in the fight. Blinking away tears, she hugged her knees to her chest and focused on locking away the flood of new memories in her mind.
She glanced around, recognising her bedroom, but specific photos and pictures dotted about didn't belong on the walls. Staring at the calendar directly above her head, she sighed and checked the watch. She had the correct town in the right country but skewered the month and year and blamed the drunken man who attacked her.
"Shit," she whispered, the annoyed cusses spilling from her bitter lips. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"
Her wandering gaze focused on the photos again, and her eyes narrowed. Something unusual caught her attention, and she left her spot on the carpet and crept closer. The tears flowed down her cheeks, and she gasped. She could touch without harming anyone. How did that happen?!
As she circled her room, she spotted a photograph on her desk that caught her eye. Pictured were the X-Men, including a scowling Victor and Logan on the edge of the group. Some of the faces she knew, others were a complete mystery. She posed beside Logan, smiling in a green chequered dress with a brown leather belt fixed around her middle.
Racing to her closet, she flung the squeaking doors open and searched through the coat hangers. Gone were her skin-covering clothes, replaced by colourful editions of flimsy, floral, floating fabric. Her mood lifted. Her confidence skyrocketed, and suddenly, she noticed a large brown envelope on the floor beside her bedroom door.
She picked it up and read the name and address. Rogue. Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Blah, blah, blah.
Curiosity got the better of her as she wondered who had written to eighteen-year-old Rogue. Tearing the envelope, she emptied the contents on her desk. A set of black and white photos greeted her.
Her brow wrinkled, and she glimpsed through them. Curiosity turned to shock, shock disintegrated into a puddle of despair, and her troubled eyes widened as a distraught gasp escaped her lips.
Each photo showed nothing but trouble with a capital T for Future Rogue. "Oh no," she whispered, sitting on her chair before her legs buckled. Gazing through the images again, she drank in the sight of one of her most anxiety-ridden worries: intimacy.
A prickly sentence hollered repeatedly in her mind, and she couldn't escape it because who had photographed her naked in a field with Gambit?