Touch of Fate
Chapter One: Chasing Shadows
The dim light from the bar flickered, casting faint shadows along the wooden floors of the establishment. The air was thick with smoke, heavy laughter, and the lingering scent of bourbon. Logan, or Wolverine as some called him, sat hunched over at a corner table nursing his third drink of the night. He liked the solitude, the anonymity that these out-of-the-way places provided him. Life with the X-Men had its rewards, but every now and then, he needed to get away, to wrestle the ghosts that still haunted his mind.
But tonight, Logan wasn't alone.
A faint shift in the air signaled her arrival before he even looked up. The familiar scent of something wild and feminine reached him, and he knew exactly who it was. He lifted his gaze, and there she was, a splash of something pure and resilient in the gritty backdrop of the bar. She was dressed in her usual long-sleeved attire, gloves pulled high over her wrists despite the heat, and that unmistakable streak of white running through her hair. Rogue.
"Logan," she said, a smirk curving her lips. Her voice held that Southern drawl that could knock a guy down if he wasn't careful. "Fancy seein' you here."
"Didn't think you'd be the bar-crawlin' type, kid," he replied, setting down his glass and raising a brow. Rogue had a way of popping up in places he least expected her.
She laughed and took a seat across from him. "You never know where I might show up," she said, shrugging. "When I heard you were in town, figured it wouldn't hurt to see what you're up to."
Logan didn't miss the glimmer in her eyes. He knew what she was up to, and it wasn't just checking up on an old friend. She was chasing shadows, just like he was. He'd known Rogue long enough to understand that under that tough exterior lay a heart that beat to the tune of her own set of worries and wants, just as restless as his own.
"So," he said, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "What are you runnin' from?"
She averted her gaze, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "Can't a girl just want a drink without having to explain herself?"
"Can, but that ain't your style," he replied.
She sighed, her gloved fingers tracing the rim of a nearby glass, though she hadn't ordered a drink. "Maybe I'm just...tired. Tired of people looking at me like I'm dangerous. Or like I don't belong."
The hurt in her voice was a familiar one, and Logan felt an old ache stir in his chest. He knew exactly what she was talking about; he'd seen that look in people's eyes more times than he could count.
"Rogue," he said, his voice softer. "We're all dangerous in our own way. But if anyone gives you trouble, you know I'll set 'em straight."
She smiled, a hint of relief softening her expression. "Appreciate that, sugar," she said. "But sometimes, I feel like... like maybe if I could just control this power of mine, things could be different. Maybe I could get close to people. Maybe I wouldn't have to always keep my distance."
Logan looked at her, and for a moment, the bustling noise of the bar faded away. He could see the weight of her loneliness, the way it pressed down on her despite her brave front. She wasn't the only one with ghosts, but Rogue's haunted her in a way he knew too well.
"Close enough for you?" he asked, leaning forward just a fraction. He could tell she was caught off guard, but she didn't pull away. A delicate tension hung in the air, their unspoken fears and desires swirling around them.
Her gloved hand reached out, her fingers brushing his knuckles. She knew the limits of her touch, yet here she was, daring to get close. "Closer than I thought I'd get," she whispered, her gaze holding his.
In that moment, it felt like they were two halves of a whole—fiercely guarded, wary of attachment, yet inexplicably drawn to each other. They were both scarred, both haunted, and yet, somehow, neither wanted to be anywhere else.
For now, it was enough.