A/N: Welcome to a sprawling series of bedathon one-shots. I wrote this first story hoping to follow Rogue to a path often experienced by those in the most vulnerable households. It has a trigger warning for implied domestic violence. While I wouldn't usually choose to 'spoil' a storyline, I wanted everyone to be comfortable with what they are about to read because, once suffered or witnessed, domestic violence is challenging to overcome. All in all, I hope this one-shot finds you safe, happy and well.


The Resurrection of the Rogue


Gruff, pensive and brooding, Logan tracked Marie to Hoboken, New Jersey, eight months to the day he last laid eyes on her. His enhanced hearing monitored the bustling urban landscape around him as he locked the truck. If New York was the city that never slept, its sister state couldn't be far behind. Sirens wailed, vehicle horns honked, and assholes in their baggy pants loitered on street corners hawking tiny bags of whitish powder. Sidestepping a fire hydrant, he pocketed the keys and eyed the shabby apartment building.

He always thought that when he finally located her, her modest home would come equipped with the old country charm she constantly craved. When he learned she had run and taken up waitress duties, he figured the escape led somewhere up north, with a white picket fence and a friendly neighbourhood diner. He could picture her serving tables in Alberta and forever fighting snowdrifts with her southern drawl and short skirts. But this place didn't suit the kid, and it kicked his ass firmly into the territory of a blackened mood.

After the events of Alcatraz, he hit the road and headed onto the cage fighting circuit. Eventually returning, the lust for violence sated, and his head finally calmed, his thoughtlessness had been rewarded with a Marie-shaped hole in his life. Once she had taken the cure, she gave Drake what he wanted, and the asshole soon moved on. With Logan gone, she hightailed it and cut contact with the X-Men. Her phone disconnected a week later. Then, the emails bounced back.

Gossip about her whereabouts continued to spread, and on Logan's second day back at the mansion, he smoked and drank through a heavy spell of worry. With the promise to take care of her hanging low over his head, he asked Storm to trace her social security number, and here he found himself outside Marie's apartment with a scowl.

The stifling temperature of another record-breaking day in August did little to quieten the complaints from Marie's lips. From Florida to Maine, the heatwave defeated the most vulnerable in society, and the news troubled her gentle soul. With a tentative sigh, she half-concentrated on the tiny TV screen on the cluttered kitchen counter and prepared dinner. The long-sleeved shirt and leggings were as dark and dreary as her current mood. She momentarily gazed out the kitchen window, watching the red-hot, hellish summer sun slowly set on the horizon. Preoccupied by severely sullen thoughts, a loud knock on the front door startled her. She anxiously checked the time on the kitchen wall and dampened the worst of her worries.

An impatient Logan waited in the communal area. He smelled the overcautious scent that belonged to a scared Southerner and heard the soft, hesitant footsteps as she unlocked the door. The sounds of the chains and bolts rattling were music to his ears as he braced himself for a full-blown argument. The door opened the tiniest of cracks, and he caught sight of the two-toned hair for several seconds.

Marie peered out for a moment and, recognising his face, made her feelings immediately known. He instantly jammed the door with his boot and stopped her from shutting him out of her life again. The hesitation turned to worry. The worry morphed into fear, and she shuffled away and returned to the kitchen barefoot.

He pushed the door open and looked around at the smallish living room. He had seen tin cans bigger than this apartment. There were no photos or pictures and nothing of any real value. Several scents lingered in the air, one he had grown fond of over the years, and the other belonged to an unknown male. With a heavy sigh, he retraced her footsteps until he reached the pine-clad galley kitchen. Watching her from the doorway, he noticed the suspicious avoidance of eye contact. Deliberate and calm, he crossed the threshold and closed the distance between them in the cramped space.

The loose hair, long and wild in the summer heat, framed her face and concealed a secret. She pinned her solemn gaze to the knife and carefully chopped the vegetables as the comforting smell of cigar smoke closed in on her. Thoughts immediately turned to ignoring, flouting, and snubbing his ever-dominant presence, but he made things difficult.

His fingers tugged lightly at the infamous white streak, and she focused on a favourite chopping board. She immediately felt his gaze tense when he gathered the hair and brushed it from her face. Releasing an anxious breath, thoughts spun aimlessly, searching for another plan to scheme and plot haphazardly. They both stilled, and she casually glanced at his boots until he moved again. When he leaned closer and studied her face, she finally gazed into the eyes of the Wolverine.

With a furrowed brow, Logan traced his thumb gently across the faint bruise under her right eye. He reached for the neckline of the cotton shirt and drew it downward a little, spotting several more bruises on her collarbone. Scowling, he felt her pull away and watched as she busied herself with pots, pans, and dish soap. He moved closer again while she vigorously washed at an already gleaming dinner plate.

He gradually tugged a sleeve upwards to her elbow, finding marks that resembled thumb and fingerprints. The disappearing act, the disconnected phone, and the bounced emails suddenly made sense to him. With an impending growl, he leaned against a kitchen counter and observed her closely.

Marie rolled the sleeved shirt down and searched for the words to share with her unexpected visitor. She grasped at a cluster of ready-to-spew excuses, desperate to protect her boyfriend, but when she dared gaze at Logan again, he shook his head with a growl. Identifying the look in his eyes frightened her, though not as much as the jingling of keys at the front door. Bracing herself for more violence, she wandered from the sink and nervously dried trembling hands.

An enraged voice called out, agitated and furious because his dinner wasn't ready. The front door slammed shut, the sound of footsteps stumbling under the weight of a heavy, unpaid bar tab. Drunken expletives mixed with vicious, violent, and specific threats toward a girlfriend he believed he owned.

Something tumbled over along the route to the kitchen, and the sound made Marie flinch. Spurred on by fear, she frantically cleaned up the mess on the counters. Her desolate eyes widened with panic, and she waited for her boyfriend to enter the room. Time almost stood still when he drunkenly appeared in the doorway, holding two bottles of whisky as he ranted about a lack of respect. She parted her lips to explain, ready to make excuses as always and afraid of the consequences.

Partially hidden by the kitchen door, Logan continued to scowl at the tiled floor. In a string of time-worn moves often practiced in cage matches, he harmonized the murderous thoughts with his clenched fist and felled Marie's unsuspecting partner. One brutal punch knocked his newly unconscious target in the air and shattered the bottles to the floor. He heard Marie gasp but raised his hand with a growl to stop her from surging forward.

The drunk landed with a sickening thud, and Logan's unsatisfied gaze softened when it snapped to Marie. His boots crunched against the glass as he closed the distance between them. Scooping her into his burly arms, he carried her down the hall. When he opened the front door, with a gruff command of the situation, he set her down in the safety of the communal area. Snagging the keys from his jeans pocket, he tipped her chin upward until their eyes met.

"Go wait for me in the truck," he ordered in a no-nonsense tone.

His first spoken words to her in eight months seemed to shake Marie from the fogginess of thoughts and the blame game. She took the keys silently and, with one last glance toward the apartment, realised everything inside was tainted. Feeling beaten, defeated, and vulnerable, it wasn't only those caught out by the weather who suffered in their homes. As she wandered cautiously to the staircase, she faltered and gazed over her shoulder at Logan. He gave her a firm nod and waited for her to pick up the pace.

When Logan heard her reach the truck's safety, he returned to the apartment and ominously locked the door behind him. While he lit a cigar and breathed in a lungful of smoke, he savoured the familiar taste and waited for his victim to wake. His ears eventually picked up the drunken, pained groans from the next room. He looked intimidating in his wife-beater, jeans, dog tags, and combat boots. Still, the dangerous scowl he wore as he returned to the kitchen would have scared the toughest of men on the darkest corners of the globe.


A concerned Logan watched Marie in the rear-view mirror. She sat in the backseat, the furthest away she could be and gazed down at her lap. He drove them to Westchester, his head racing in an intense marathon as it pieced together the past hour. As he left the apartment, a middle-aged and frumpy female stopped him in the halls and congratulated him. She wanted to shake his bloodied hand and even offered a reward of a decent-smelling pot of chilli for his troubles. Many neighbours in the apartment block knew of the abuse, but none had been willing to step in and put a brutal stop to it. It made him rage internally as he gripped the steering wheel in a white-knuckled fury.

When they finally reached the mansion after midnight, Logan guided the traumatised Marie to his bedroom with a hand resting against the small of her back. She had nowhere else to lay her head with her old accommodation occupied by a raft of new students. He figured she would sleep but watched her head straight for the bathroom in a detached daze. After showering and dressing elsewhere, he dragged a worried hand through his damp hair and listened to her tears. She should have known by now that the sound of a shower head wouldn't fool his senses. He could hear the gentle sobs and sighed to himself.

After several more minutes, he knocked on the bathroom door. She ignored him, and he backed off, pacing the room like a caged animal. Her tears always had a way of wearing him down and niggling at his forever-frayed temper. Eventually, he opened the door and cleared his throat as he peered inside to check on her. She gazed wordlessly from the shower cubicle floor, swiping tears, and watching him approach. Sparks never flew amid emotional turmoil, but in that moment, she understood they were still firm friends.

Logan grabbed a sizeable fluffy bath towel off a gilded rail and offered his hand. After all, he didn't want Marie to drown in tears and figured it would fix some of the hurt in her head if she rested for a while. She put her hand in his without a fight, and he hauled her upright. He glowered at her body, mapping out the visible bruises that littered her pale skin and could feel the rage loosen inside him again.

She took the towel and shielded the injuries from his furious gaze. Tears streamed down her face again, and she shuffled forward in search of a safe place to mourn the end of a violent relationship. Burying her face against his bare chest, his arms wrapped protectively around her.

Despite their eight-month absence from each other, their friendship remained intact regardless of what happened on their travels. He would always look after her, no matter their choices in life. While she cried, he reached over and turned the shower off. The only sounds he heard now belonged to her broken and bruised heart.

"What he did wasn't right," he muttered, chin resting against her head.

The towel hung loosely in her hand, and she closed her eyes, wishing the memories of the last few months faded and floated away. She felt him steer her gently into the bedroom after a while, her exhausted feet shuffling along. He wrapped the towel around her properly, re-gifting part of the dignity she had lost since he last saw her. While she stood there, almost in a depressed trance, he rifled through his drawers and handed her one of his wife-beaters and a pair of sweatpants that engulfed her bottom half.

A wordless Marie pulled the shirt on and draped the towel over the chair. She glanced at him, and he gestured to the bed.

"You can sleep there, and you'll be safe," he said, walking to the door.

Sat on the bed, a faint whisper betrayed fears because she worried about what would happen once loneliness crept into every inch of her mind. "Please don't leave me."

Logan's troubled gaze snapped to the terrified Southerner perched on the pillows. He closed the door again and retraced his steps, settling down on the duvet and pulling her close. The continuous low hum of the air-conditioning unit constantly interrupted the eerie silence of the stifling warm night. At a quarter to three that morning, the haunting sound of an owl hooting in the darkness stirred him from a peaceful slumber. Minutes later, he fell asleep again with Marie's face nestled against his chest.

The resident feral's early morning rituals had imprinted heavily on her mind, and his memories still lodged deep in her psyche. She, too, valued the sunrise and the tranquillity of the mansion grounds before anyone else woke. But confusion reigned that morning until the memories of the previous night's barefoot escape flooded back. With a gentle sigh, she gazed at her gruff rescuer.

Already awake, his eyes studied the shadows on her face as the morning light streamed through the open window. He traced a thumb across the blueish-grey bruise under her eye and wished it would vanish altogether.

"I'll be okay," she promised softly, her trusting gaze never leaving his.

With some trepidation surrounding those words, he glanced down at her bare chest. Her breasts had spilt over the loose fabric during the night, and he tugged the shirt material up to save her from embarrassment.

She kissed his cheek with a faded smile. "You're always saving me, Logan."

Clearing his throat roughly and awkwardly, he eased his body out of the bed, and Marie caught sight of the problem. She affectionately called it his 'morning wood'. With his memories more evident than before, she settled back into bed and closed her eyes, pretending not to have noticed.

She knew his affliction had nothing to do with them sharing a personal space. He had always been this way and would carry it to his grave if he died early one morning. The thought of someone cramming his erection into a casket tickled her, and for the first time in over half a year, she almost felt alive as the loose laughter escaped her lips.

Later that evening, they stood at his bedroom window and watched the blazing sun setting on the horizon. Besides venturing outside for an emergency clothes shop with a generous Storm, she resorted to hiding in the safety of Logan's room, reading romance novels, or watching reruns of Bewitched.

Captivated by the late summer scenery, they watched in silence, side by side, with his arm wrapped around her shoulders. Their curious gazes darted to the air-conditioning unit when it suddenly whirled, spluttered, and stopped working.

Logan sighed heavily and tried every which way to fix it, even electrocuting himself when he stabbed the circuits with an annoyed set of claws. With a smile, when Marie laughed, he glanced at her and shook his head at the show of a morbid sense of humour. If one faltered, the other always picked up the slack, but it amused him when she laughed at a near-death experience.

She waved at him to join her in bed. They would find a way to get through this heatwave together, which eventually led them to camp in the shower cubicle, propped up against the tiles as the cold water poured over their semi-naked bodies. As they sighed in unison, cooling off in the welcome wetness, she slipped her hand into his. At that moment, neither of them said a word. They focused on each other, gazes turning into appreciative looks. The spark in the relationship had returned but never normally travelled further than a sequence of longing stares.

The penetrating gazes almost lasted a lifetime, only broken when Logan turned off the shower. Dripping wet, they continued to hold each other's hands, but ever the pragmatist, he stood to his feet and led them to the bedroom.

She peeled off her soaked clothes and glanced at him as she lay on the bed. Wordlessly, he rolled the heavy-duty duvet off the mattress and removed his wet sweatpants. Their unconventional night featured no more touching and little signs of affection. They settled peacefully beside each other and finally regained a loose-minded armistice in undisturbed sleep.

An aroused Logan opened his eyes at barely six that morning, feeling his hardened member grazing against body heat. Already awake, Marie watched keenly and acutely, weighing up the options after ending the worst relationship of her life. She lay in his arms, and they faced each other as his length brushed innocently against her inner thighs. The humidity between them intensified, as did the shared heat in their gazes.

Logan shook his head because it wasn't a good idea. It was too soon; she still wore the bruises and fought through trauma. He would continue to protect her, even if it were against himself.

"I understand," she whispered faintly, biting gently on her lower lip when his member brushed a sensitive spot at the entrance of her sex.

Tracing the bruise under her eye, his gaze narrowed. "Did that hurt?"

She shook her head because the aches were sexual, not upsetting or unkind. "I used to pray every night that you would find me."

"Then why did you slam the door in my face?" he asked gruffly, searching her face for answers.

"I felt ashamed. My life was never mine after I met him, Logan. He was kind at first but changed after a few weeks. When he first hurt me, I thought I deserved it." She heard him growl. "No, I really believed it. I thought it was my fault because he wasn't happy with me. I didn't clean like his last partner. I couldn't cook like his mama and didn't wash his clothes how he wanted. Nothing was ever good enough, and I lost myself in the pain. Every bruise he gave me, I thought I deserved it because I couldn't be the perfect girlfriend."

The growling Logan wished he killed the son of a bitch. One savage beating wasn't enough. Broken ribs would heal, and bloodied wounds would be stitched closed, but she would carry the trauma for the rest of her life.

"Look, you're perfect the way you are, Marie. Once those bruises heal, we'll make this work between us, you hear? You and me, out there on the open road, heading straight to Anchorage. I'm in this for the long haul once you're ready. The ball's in your court, okay?"

Her gaze sparkled as she wandered through his gruff words to uncover a promise she never felt truly worthy of. Her hesitant hand groped at the air before it stroked against his willing member. Fingers gently paraded across the twitching length, growing more confident as she watched his gaze gloss over with rampant lust.

She pushed away the horror of the recent past, the humidity in the room seemingly soaring to record levels, and packaged her response in a telling smile. "If I touched those balls gently and pointed to my court, would you run away from the corniness of my words?"

An amused Logan chuckled and rested a hand on her creamy hip. "That depends on the rules of the game."

"Unfortunately, the cheesiness is contagious," she advised him, teasingly kissing his lips. "I'm wondering if the balls can stay home, but your Canadian hockey stick can visit the shade of my Southern court."

He snorted at the corny analogy, chalking it up to a clumsier than usual chat-up line. Giving it some thought, he cupped the side of her face with his free hand. His eyes never left hers.

"You sure you're up for this?" She nodded vigorously, and he sighed, still in two minds, but she stroked his cock until he grit his teeth with pleasure. "This is a rebound, you know."

"No, it's a rebirth," Marie promised him, returning faithfully to her roots of loving Logan but without the distance or hidden lust. As he tenderly entered the warmth of her sex, their passionate gazes locked, and she gasped in appreciation. "It's the resurrection of the Rogue."