A/N: Hi everyone! I originally posted this humorous at first but then incredibly dark Rogan fic back in 2010, and then I deleted it. However, recently, on my return to fanfiction, I received a direct message asking what happened to it. The Logan/Rogue fan requested its return. Thanks to her use of Wayback Machine, she rescued two chapters. A little faffing about and I recovered all the chapters, started to rewrite EVERYTHING and, you know how it is, question my younger self.
I'm reposting the story and dedicating it to loved-up Logan and Rogue's biggest fan, ArielleMoonlight. Are you all ready to travel back in time to 2010 when this was first posted? I can't quite believe how fast the years have flown by! And yes, I named the first chapter after asparagus. I hope that gives you a lovely bit of insight into me thirteen years ago, typing manically away, and thinking I'm clever.
First a Peek, Then a Poke
Chapter 1
Asparagus
The endless summer days were long, drawn out, and offensively humid if you harnessed the ability to smell body odour within ten miles. The entire country was blamed for global warming; George Bush's smug face was plastered over every news channel while he pawed over the Idiot's Guide to Battle Cries and the Art of Starting Pointless Wars. Birds needlessly chirped. Kids screamed bloody murder for no goddamn reason. The sizeable sun sizzled high over Westchester, and Wolverine, the retired cage fighter of the mansion, brooded alone in the kitchen.
The kitchen. The kitchen of all places. Goddamn it, those thoughts stuffed full of complaints weren't fit to tie Logan's bootlaces. He wouldn't allow his students to bellyache in one of his defence classes. Complaining when you were in the midst of battle remained a screw-up, but grumbling when you had been chased out of the garage? Now, there was nothing wrong with that.
Hell yeah, he was the biggest hypocrite on this side of the Pacific, but no one would dare call him out on it. They didn't have the balls for one thing, and if they dared grow a pair, there would be an easy enough fix. He would castrate them with one brutal swipe of a claw. The Wolverine brooded alone in the kitchen, not on a battlefield, and slumped at the table with an ice-cold beer.
Five minutes later, Logan lazily lifted his head as Leech walked in. One meaningful growl and the boy shot out of the kitchen with a squeak.
Sometimes he wondered if he could get used to scaring the crap out of those who should know better than to stray into his brooding time. Maybe it even made his life worth living now he'd been kicked out of the garage on a Sunday afternoon. He should be working on his bike, not nursing a beer, and reading about horny students fucking in the park on page four of the local newspaper.
Karma could be a bitch, and so could Storm to some extent. The goddamn weather witch had given him his marching orders after an altercation with some smart-ass kid. Now his ass had been ordered out of the garage for an entire day. What the hell was he supposed to do until midnight? Still, he begrudgingly respected her for taking on the responsibilities of this place; it had to be tough stepping up to the plate after the loss of half of the teaching staff. And shit, she would light a fire under his grumbling ass cheeks if he fought over his territory. He was just sitting here, happy and carefree, on another stifling Sunday afternoon.
He snorted and explored his thoughts further. Yeah, I'm so fucking pleased about it. I'm on my fourth beer. Goddamn women and their hormones. I know it's her time of the month. What the hell does it do to them? Losing a little blood must really fry their brains or something.
Logan slouched in the creaking chair and used his teeth to snap the cap off another icy bottle of beer. He had turned into a whipped bitch and hadn't noticed the transformation until recently. It should have done more than draw an irritated growl when his testicles shrivelled and dropped out of his wuss of a scrotum.
Snorting in amusement, he reminded himself of something important. "I'm the motherfucking Wolverine, and I eat balls for breakfast."
With a grimace, he wondered if those words seemed almost shady to the point of no return. Blaming the beer continuously poured down his gruff throat, his gaze snapped to the newspaper page. "Horny students offending the good people of Westchester, huh?"
After a while, his ears perked up at the sounds of hesitant footsteps stopping directly outside the kitchen door. A familiar scent wafted into the room and smelled of vanilla, a faint whiff of disinfectant, and moodiness that clung to every particle in the air. Great, that was just what he needed: another temperamental female.
Marie marched into the kitchen, slamming the door against the wall with an echoing thud. Raising both eyebrows, he shrugged and concentrated on draining the last drop of beer. At least an ice-cold mouthful of frothy liquor couldn't answer him back or knock his ass into next week with a string of cusses.
She might have taken the cure, but it hadn't dented her fiery temper. The sassy and stubborn Southerner could still fight, spit, and holler with the best of them. He blamed himself; her innocence had been tainted when she strayed uninvited into his life. But there were still glimpses of that shy, wayward runaway hiding in her head. It was too well hidden, though, and buried under the rubble of bad influences and poor lifestyle choices.
When she finally turned to face him, her emotionless gaze crept across the empty beer bottles cluttering the table. The first thing he noticed was her eyes. They were red and puffy. Still, she glared defiantly at him, and it really wasn't any of his business. They kept their private lives separate; they always had done. Yeah, he'd made a casual promise to look after her; it didn't involve sticking his oar into her personal life, though. Okay, it did, but only when he felt that protective tug, and it had been years since he last saved her life.
An arch of an eyebrow was all he could offer. That and a heavy sigh. A mansion full of emotional brats felt like hell on earth, and it seriously messed with his brooding time.
"Can I have one?" she asked, gesturing at the bottle and biting her lower lip.
When did she ever drink anything other than shitty-flavoured water and iced tea? Nodding curtly, Logan jerked his thumb at the refrigerator and watched her retrieve a bottle. This might have been the perfect opportunity for one of those so-how-you-doing talks but cage-fighting, ass-kicking, beer-drinking, motherfucking assholes didn't chat about feelings or life in general. Especially not before they'd had the opportunity to drink their weight in malt whisky, smoke more cigars than their estimated combined age, and pass out in a drunken heap in the front yard.
He mulled over his thoughts. Fuck that. I'd heal within seconds, then would have to listen to a crying, over-emotional kid. I don't like it when she cries. Yeah, I know, I'm not heartless but don't tell anybody, or I'll hunt you down. Do you really want me to turn up on your doorstep in the middle of the night? What the hell do you mean 'yeah'? I'm the Wolverine, not some over-sexed fantasy with sun-kissed skin and an urge to fuck everything with a pulse.
A beer bottle appeared directly under his nose, and he wondered if he had drunk too much booze as he glanced up at her.
"I can't find the bottle opener," she said softly.
That would be because Logan crushed it under a boot the last time he'd run out of beer. He wasn't entirely sure why he blamed the bottle opener, but it had to be one of those male-only methods of dealing with obstacles that littered his path. Just like when he hungrily eyed women over half his age, scratched his balls in full view of five or more witnesses and belched loudly in that expensive restaurant Storm booked for her last birthday. That type of behaviour was the real reason why guys wore the pants in relationships. They didn't give a shit, and that fact should be memorialised with more beer.
Snatching the bottle from her grasp, Logan handed his teeth the vital task of snapping the cap free from its boozy prison. He idly wondered what would happen if he chipped a tooth. Would it heal? And, more importantly, did he care? Those were the thoughts of a brooding yet thoroughly bored mutant on a Sunday afternoon.
Marie accepted the drink and raised it to her lips. "Thanks."
Logan grunted in response and watched her sitting down opposite him. There went his brooding session, but he had something else to focus on because he was suspicious of her puffy eyes and downcast face.
"Do you want to talk?" he asked gruffly, his gaze never leaving the safety of the refrigerator they watched out of necessity. It was either that or count the stack of unwashed plates in the sink, and both knew that if they were caught staring at them long enough, they would be lumbered with the task of loading the dishwasher.
She immediately shook her head and drained a quarter of the beer. "No thanks."
Releasing a sigh of relief, he brooded to the sounds of her shuffling her feet. This felt alien to him; they hadn't spent much time together since the shit hit the fan. He had no goddamn idea how life had been treating her since she took the cure.
"Do you want to talk?" she questioned, making him feel like a kid.
"No," he snorted, feeling slightly guilty when her face fell even further.
Logan's eyes darted back to the fridge, and he fished for a topic that wouldn't piss her off, make her cry, or heap further problems onto his denim-clad lap. His thoughts were no goddamn help, either.
I doubt she wants to chat about how I'd like to show Shania Twain a thing or two in bed. Hey, even an asshole like me can't escape country music. No matter how fast I run, it still catches my ass. She ain't a hockey fan, either, which is her loss.
What the hell does the kid like? Wait, there was that band. Goddamn it, what were they called? It could be a vegetable or some kind of fruit. I know it wasn't celery, lettuce, or peas. Who the hell would name a band after a stick of celery?
Asparagus? Jesus Christ, I hate asparagus. Never, ever feed me asparagus. I don't care if we haven't left my bed in days, and you think I've over-exerted my goddamn-self. I'm not eating asparagus. I've got a healing factor, and asparagus is my goddamn Kryptonite.
I once fought over a bar stool with Superman and drank the pansy ass under the table. He ended the night curled up in the fetal position, whimpering about Lois Lane. She's one fuckable-looking woman, even if she wears the pants in that relationship. I like to be the dominant one. I'm not having any woman leading me by the balls, even if they've shrivelled up and headed so far south, they're on a penguin's lunch menu.
It really must suck to live on fish for an entire lifetime. You might as well try steak at least once, and my balls are the best meat out there. There'll be no need for a toothpick either, and there's no flossing on my watch. My balls are a Canadian delicacy, so look me up in the phonebook. I'll come running with a pack of condoms, a pair of handcuffs, and a thing or two to teach you, Darlin'.
Now, where the hell was I? Carrots, potatoes, tomatoes? Fuck it, and fuck these pansy-assed thoughts that stink of nothing but beer and goddamn desperation.
A bad-tempered Logan scowled at Marie. "You wanna go to a bar?"
Settling on his favourite bar stool, Logan held up two fingers and eyed the scrawny, unshaven guy manning the bar alone until his co-worker returned from the restroom. "Two beers."
"Wait, I haven't even looked at the menu yet," Marie protested, hoisting herself onto a bar stool and fumbling with the sticky laminated list of cat's piss and side orders. "Ooh, they serve cocktails."
Shaking his head at her sudden burst of enthusiasm, he glanced back at the impatient barman. "Two beers."
She huffed, and they fell into a comfortable silence once more. They had ridden the motorcycle over here, and Logan knew the kid was one hell of a lightweight. She'd had one beer before they'd left and nearly hit the tarmac twice during the journey. Her clumsiness almost rewarded him with a heart attack, too, as he swerved traffic and constantly scowled over his shoulder.
Two bottles of beer were placed in front of them both, and she voiced her thanks, nearly toppled off the stool, and then immediately suckled on the bottle.
"Do you come here often?" she asked him, sounding like a walking-talking male cliché.
"Yeah," he grunted, searching his jacket pockets for his lighter and wondering how much booze she had knocked back before interrupting his brooding session in the kitchen.
Collecting the sticky menu, she read through the dozen or so choices. "I still want to try a cocktail."
He rolled his eyes and balanced the cheap cigar haphazardly on the bar's edge. "Uh-huh."
"We should share Sex on the Beach," Marie excitedly suggested, tapping her finger against the fruiter section of the menu.
Logan temporarily abandoned the search for the lighter and stared at her in amazement. He felt as though he'd stepped into the Twilight Zone. One sniff, and he immediately knew that she wasn't menstruating; the madness was all in her goddamn mind, then.
Shaking his head, his fingers brushed against the lighter, and he snagged it. "You don't need more drink," he blurted out, wincing immediately because he sounded like the second coming of Scott Summers.
"Every lady here, there, and everywhere is entitled to make up her own mind," she shot back, shifting on the stool and proudly draining her beer bottle in seconds flat with a gentle burp.
His eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and he watched her slam the empty bottle on the bar. Where the hell had Marie gone? His Marie. The girl that wouldn't say boo to a goose or look a gift horse in the mouth. Yeah, he was pretty hung up on animals today. It all started that morning with Storm's cattiness and claws.
The southern spitfire investigated the menu without a care in the world. "I really want a cocktail, but which one should I choose first? I'll have a big, old jug of Sex on the Beach, please," she told the stocky, gold-toothed, and heavily tattooed guy behind the bar. "Ooh, and can I have a Satan's Whisker too? That has gin in it, right?"
The two barmen nodded and went about their business, clinking glasses, shaking, and mixing a heavy concoction of beverages, much to her delight. "This is the best idea you've ever had, Logan," she giggled, gazing at him.
He watched the two barmen fixing the drinks and thought it would have been better to battle over his territory with Storm than drag Marie to a bar. He decided to wait it out and keep a close eye on her. Surely, a couple of fruity cocktails wouldn't turn the tide or cause her to crumble into a howling heap on the floor.
Marie sniffled bitterly. "I don't think Bobby finds me attractive anymore."
Logan heaved a sigh and searched for an answer as the bar around them buzzed with low lives and habitual drunks. The initial lingering thought greeting him was 'good'; she deserved better than that iced-up prick. Drake always smelled like peanut butter and Kitty fucking Pryde.
"I think it's because I threw all my gloves away. He won't let me touch him, Logan."
Carefully observing her out of the corner of his eye, he quickly gestured for the barman to come over. "Another beer."
"I even bought him Viagra off the internet."
He shifted uncomfortably on his stool, and hundreds of R-rated ice prick jokes drowned his subconsciousness. Sadly, it didn't extend to Marie's voice, and he tracked each word with an even heavier sigh.
"Bobby has problems standing to attention," she complained a little too loudly for his liking. They received questioning looks, and Mr Heavily Tattooed to His Fucking Eyeballs smirked. "I told him it must be his diet because he only wants to eat peanut butter."
The thoroughly amused barman chuckled at the conversation, and Logan growled at the moping Southerner sitting beside him. When that had little effect, he turned his glare on the barman. "When you're finished smirking, I'll have a bottle of whisky."
"Hey Buddy, it's not my girl that's lighting up the place with her talk," he answered with a grin, throwing a suspiciously flirtatious wink Marie's way and skulking off.
Another saddened sniffle left her lips. "Bobby used to wink at me like that."
Growling irritably, Logan snatched the bottle of smooth amber liquor from the barman's hand. He instantly poured himself a drink in a glass that needed swapping for one the size of Canada. The evening seemed to drag with all the unwanted discussion of Viagra and limp icicles, and he was ready to say, 'fuck it' and drown himself in a barrel of cheap whisky if it continued.
"Are you going to drink that?" Marie slurred and pointed to the untouched beer.
Logan slid the bottle to her and turned to the grinning bastard who proudly flashed a patch of scribbles on his flabby chest. If things got too heated and he displayed anything beyond his belly button, the asshole would have a new claim to fame: The only barman without fingers, and barman needed fingers, right?
Looking around, he cracked a comfortable smile. He wanted to avoid the scent of trouble because he searched high and low for an atmosphere like this. It's perfect. A drunk passed out by the door in a pool of spit and saliva. After a heated exchange with his claws, the jukebox remained permanently broken, and every inch of space smelled overwhelmingly of beer and women. What more could you ask for?
At least his rambling whisky-induced thoughts weren't centred on his balls this time. Still, he'd rather hold an internationally televised speech on his own scrotum than think of Drake's limp dick. But if he iced it, maybe it wouldn't stay limp?
"Quit flirting and give me another goddamn bottle!" Logan suddenly bellowed, making both Marie and her new friend jump in the process.
"You've really got a pair of lungs on you, Logan; I'd hate to hear you in a fit of an orgasm," she commented with an inebriated giggle. "I think I still have one of your memories in here somewhere." Closing her eyes, her face was contorted into what could only be described as a comical attempt at drunken concentration.
She isn't relieving one of my moments, is she? Why couldn't the cure strip every piece of my memory from that goddamn playground she calls her mind? Shit, it better not be that time I got myself handcuffed to the bed by that nut with the wild hair. I'd rather have had sex with a vacuum cleaner. Did she just shudder? Shit, she's really doing this to me. What the fuck's wrong with her?
"Jesus Christ, Marie!" he grumbled, shaking her by the shoulders.
"Snap the hell out of it. You're showing this place a new brand of crazy."
"That lady was the crazy one," a giggling Marie pointed out and shrugged his hands away. "Did she really do that to you with a piece of asparagus?"
Logan could only grimace painfully at the memory. He fucking hated asparagus.
