Okay, so I was slightly bored and needed a break from AUNIL and I was flicking through the channels and 'The Dog Whisperer' was on. For the first time ever I watched it and then these plot bunnies ensued. Yes, I really need to get a life, but I couldn't pass up this chance to write another fic revolving around a sassy Rogue!

Rogue's character is in no way based on the person we all see in the films. I've spiced her up a little bit, given her a mouth we can all be proud of, and made her into a slight rebel. So, you have all been warned.

There is no Rogan in this story; I decided to go down the guardian route. :P

01.04.10 - As of today; I'm beginning to overhaul this entire story. Chapter 1 is complete, so please be patient with the young woman that has little else to do on a chilly April Fools evening.

Edit: OK, this is terrible of me, but I need to overhaul this story once again. Today is the 14/07/13. Where have I been? God knows.

Speedos, Bras and Cesar Milan

I'm lazing in the rec room in a silly, stupid, but fun attempt at avoiding the dreaded 'H' word: Yes, homework. There's nothing worse than piles and piles of papers, books and all-round mountain of dead trees with your name on. The X-Men kill trees to torture me with homework. Hundreds of thousands of trees die each year because Mr Summer has an ink pen stuck up his behind. I'm sure of it, I know I'm right because my name's Rogue, and I've never been wrong before.

It's the weekend, Saturday to be exact. Jubilee and Kitty have gone to the mall to spend their allowance on shorts skirts and penis-shaped candy canes because they're crazy. Bobby and John are doing whatever seventeen-year-old boys do in their spare time, and me? Well, I'm stuck here because Cyclops says I need to concentrate on my schoolwork. 'School is important, Rogue. Yadda, yadda yadda. You're a bright girl. Blah, blah blah. You have great potential, you just need to concentrate and stop daydreaming in all your classes'.

So, I decided to listen to Mr Summers, stop daydreaming and do my homework, sort of. I'm procrastinating; Yes, I Marie D'Ancanto, aged sixteen-years-and-five-months, have turned into the biggest procrastinator in the world. I'm also proud of it, too. Yes, I'm proud. I might not be out in Westchester buying candy porn, but if being a procrastinator was a job, I'd be chairlady and well paid for the hours I've spent staring at the TV today. The problem is though, once you decide on yawning along the route of ignoring the homework, you have to drown your brain in cable programmes.

My plan was to be lazy, which is how I found myself in the rec room, taking over the TV remote and complaining to myself because there's damn all on. Well, unless you enjoy watching the Weather Channel. Oh, heavy rain and storms forecast for Florida, and there was me thinking it was always sunny there. The beaches look pretty though, just as pretty as they were is Mississippi. Man, I feel homesick, but I have other things to whine about.

Wow, Spring Break is coming up and Jubilee and Kitty are already planning on going. They asked me to join them and I really want to go, but there's something standing in my way. The something has a name he found somewhere and it's Logan. He saved my life, he fed me beef jerky when I was starving and he didn't treat me badly when he found out about my mutation, but he's been driving me crazy lately.

I turn the remote over in my gloved hands and wonder how I've been left alone this long. The doors are wide open, the sunshine is flooding in and hugging every inch of the room, but I'm alone. I can hear birds singing, students playing and splashes from the swimming pool. It's a sweltering day in New York, there's a heat wave at the moment, which makes me smile when I realise Kitty and Jubes' candy sticks are going to melt in their purses. The temperature has been creeping up all week, close to smashing local records and it makes me worry about Bobby. It might not only be candy crunchers that melt in the April heat.

"Hey," a gravelly-voiced Logan grunts, tromping into the room with a raised eyebrow cast my way. He looks at me and I look at him as he drops down onto the couch beside me.

"Hey," I answer softly, still twisting and turning the remote in my covered palms. Pausing, I move one of the cushions to sit on top of my math homework and I go back to fidgeting again.

His eyes follow my hand and he frowns slightly, his mind putting two and two together. "Haven't got anything better to do today?" he says casually, stretching his legs and resting his feet on the coffee table.

"No," I sigh quietly, pretending I haven't seen the questioning look he's giving me. Heck, I'm bored to death and I can't help but wonder about Storm's relationship with the Weather Channel. Does she like it? Should she work there? Would her PR team ask her to dye her hair if she became famous for her weather predictions?

"It's a nice day outside, Kid," he replies, ones of his large hands pushing the cushion away from my homework. "Why aren't you playing with those dumb friends of yours?" He picks up my crumpled pieces of paper and starts to scan the half finished sums, scribbled out numbers and a drawing of Mr Summers getting chased by a broom wielding Jean. "I can't smell them, but they must be around here somewhere."

"I don't play, I'm sixteen," I tell him, wrinkling my nose and changing the channel. Gazing away from a re-run of The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air, I glance at the snooping mutant sitting beside me. "Are you trying to get rid of me, Logan?"

Logan snorts in amusement and quirks an eyebrow at me. "No," he answers steadily, turning the first piece of paper over and smirking when he spots another sketch of Cyclops. This time I drew him with a potbelly and a pig snout.

"You are, you're trying to get rid of me," I reply suspiciously, taking my homework back and abandoning it on the coffee table.

He scoops up my math papers again and shakes his head. "No, I'm not."

"You're lying!" I respond, punching him lightly on the arm in retaliation. "You know how I feel about lying, Wolverine."

"How do you know I'm lying, huh?" he questions, throwing a cushion at me with a smirk. "You ain't the Professor, darlin', you don't read minds."

"You told me to go outside and enjoy the sunshine. I dress like an extra from The Addams Family and I'm allergic to sunlight," I utter sarcastically, watching him roll his eyes. "Well, I'm right, aren't I? You want to watch something in here and now you're regretting not buying the TV I spotted at Walmart last week. I told you to buy it and you said no."

"Fine," Logan groans in defeat. "You're makin' me miss the game."

No, not hockey, anything but damn hockey! It's one of those sports I really hate with a passion. Alongside football, baseball, golf, badminton, tennis, figure skating... Why don't I just cut to the chase and say that I dislike every sport that has ever been invented since the beginning of time. I'll also take offense to any type of so-called sport that will be invented, played and bet upon in the near and distant future. "Hockey on a Saturday afternoon, Logan. Why?" I whine in disgust, furiously flicking through the channels and settling on MTV.

"Yeah, hockey on a Saturday afternoon," he answers, checking out the second torn piece of paper.

I sigh and turn up the volume on the TV a little when the commercials are finished. "Logan, we'd be considered as friends, right?"

"Yeah darlin'," he replies, arching a bushy eyebrow and watching the paper in front of his nose carefully.

"And you know that I love you, right?" I remark pleasantly, mouthing the words to the warbling sounds of a Michael Jackson track.

He gives me a sharp look. "Kid, you're doing this work, there's no getting out of it."

"I'm not talking about my homework," I complain, wishing he'd listen to me. "I know you agreed to be my guardian now and I feel the need to let you in on a not so little secret. You're old, Logan, I mean reaaallly old. You're really ancient and you're even older than the Professor and he is old. You must be older then the Professor, Scott and Jean's ages combined and that's a shock to me, how do you feel about that? You're a walking, talking, smoking, drinking fossil on denim clad legs."

"Is this goin' somewhere?" Logan replies, with a prominent frown etched on his face.

"Of course it is. Do you think that I'm just rambling on for my own benefit?" I ask with a look of disbelief. "Even though you're older than all of the graves in the nearby cemetery, I'm really fond of you. So, usually I would do anything you asked, but nothing short of a group of hot sweaty guys dressed in see-through Speedos, dropping by and asking me to rub suntan lotion onto their muscular backs is going to make me surrender this remote, capisce?"

Logan sits there in stunned silence for a few minutes digesting my statement. "Kid, you worry me sometimes." He sighs heavily, shaking his head. "Now give me the remote."

"No!" I cry furiously, scrambling out of his reach. "Didn't you listen to a thing I said? And anyway, I was here first!"

"Yeah, I did unfortunately and guess what?" he snorts, standing to his feet and cocking his head to the side. "What I say goes."

"Actually, the only thing that we've established so far is that you're older than any other living creature in the world," I point out, stepping behind the couch.

Logan growls. "Marie, I'm not playing here."

When Logan drifts away from the use of that slightly annoying and usually half grunted nickname of mine, it's never a good sign. It usually means one of two things; either I'm pissing him off to the point of serious harm or he's drunk an entire cellar full of the Professor's malt whiskey again.

I decide to weigh my options up in my head and I come to one conclusion. "I'm not either," I sigh lightly, gripping the remote even tighter in my palms.

"Hand the remote over," he orders, taking a threatening step towards me.

"Okay, but on one condition," I inform him with the appearance of a sly grin.

"No blackmailing me, darlin'," Logan snarls, holding out his hand and waiting impatiently. "I'm watching the hockey match."

I gaze down at the remote in my hands and I cheekily wink at Logan. "You really want this remote? Well, come and get it," I say brashly, jamming the remote in my bra.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, his eyes darting away from my newly deformed chest. Folding his muscular arms, he leans against the wall and fixes me with a glare. "What do you want?"

"Oh, it's nothing much really. It's just Jubilee and Kitty have asked me to hit Miami with them for spring break. Isn't that nice of them?" My voice drops to a mumbling, very low whisper half way through my sentence. I'd be surprised if even Logan heard.

Logan steadily blinks at me and furrows his brow. "You wanna run that by me again? I thought for a second there you were asking to go to Miami."

I shuffle my feet and adjust my bulging bra. "Jubilation Lee, that's the girl that likes yellow, and Kitty Pryde, she's the one that can walk through walls. Well, they've politely extended an invitation to me, Rogue, the girl that you met in Laughlin city, that's in Canada and Canada is a different country to America. Rogue, who is also known as 'kid' and occasionally gets called by her first name which she really doesn't like, is standing right in front of you. Rogue and remember that that's me, is asking her loving and generous guardian if she can please except her friend's invitation and go to Miami for spring break. Miami is a place in Florida and Florida is known for its friendly people and low air fares."

"Hell no," he snorts, staring me down. "So put a cork in it, kid."

I gasp, the pictures in my head of me enjoying my spring break starting to fade. "But Logan, that's not fair. I have to go!"

He turns away from me and sits back down. "I said no."

"You didn't even hear me out," I complain, ignoring one of the dark looks I've become immune to. "You should at least let me finish. I mean, it's not fair, you're never fair."

"Life ain't fair. So you'd better start gettin' used to it," Logan responds harshly, holding his left hand out. "Now are you gonna give me the remote? I'm missing the game."

"Hell no," I say, doing my best impression of him. "I'm nearly seventeen, you know, and that means I'm not a kid. In fact, I'm at an age where things can easily go one way or the other. How would you feel if tomorrow morning during breakfast I announced that I'm giving up my studies and becoming a pole dancer? Just think of the headlines: the untouchable pole dancing mutant whore. I think I could pull it off, Pyro says I have stripper legs."

Logan scowls darkly. "That won't be happening, and when the hell did Flame Boy see your legs?"

"You need to stay on topic, Logan. And because you won't listen to me, I don't feel like I could trust you with the remote. Maybe I'll give it to you tomorrow, or maybe I'll wait until I become a stripper. Most ladies who do that type of thing get paid in money, but I'll demand remote controls as payment instead."

"Marie," he snarls warningly, with the added thunderous growl.

Our argument is interrupted when Mr Summers appears in the room. He strides in front of the couch with all the grace of a social outcast suffering from a stick lodged permanently up his rear end. "Rogue, it doesn't look like you're spending your Saturday wisely."

I feel slightly surprised and almost queasy as I share my oxygen supply with the likes of Cyclops. I would be a traitor to my own kind if I even dared answer him back, so I pretend to have temporarily lost my hearing.

"Take a hike, Summers," Logan growls, shooting Scott a look that could scare a pack of starving lions away from a fallen deer.

"I really don't want this turning into another fight, Wolverine." Scott replies, attempting to soothe Logan's infamous short temper.

The Canadian shot Cyclops with a dark stare. "Then do me a favour and leave."

"I'm only here to talk to Rogue," he sighed, gesturing to me. "I had to have a word with her earlier because of her poor grades. She's supposed to be catching up with some of her schoolwork."

"If you have a problem with Rogue, you come to me," he says firmly, rising from the couch again. "You know full well I signed those damn guardianship papers for a reason and it wasn't so I could show the people down at City Hall I could spell my own name."

I guess sounds can be deceiving and even if this argument appears to be about me, it's really not. I think they're huffing and puffing over Jean again. I bet you weren't expecting that, were you? Scott and Logan get into a cock fight almost hourly over silly things and it's only because Mr Summers likes red and he knows Wolverine does too.

As they argue, I slide back onto the couch. I remove the remote from the safety of my bra, making sure that Logan is still butting heads with his rival as I switch the channel. "Aw, The Dog Whisperer is on." Settling down to watch the episode as the arguing continues around me, I listen closely to Cesar Milan as he advises a middle-aged couple about their two dogs. One is a quiet, well-behaved Irish Red Setter and the other is a Rottweiler with a bad attitude and aggressive tendencies, who apparently displays a vast amount of dominance in their household.

Yes, a pat on the back, a chocolate chip cookie and a bottle of Molsons will be given to everybody that is on the same wavelength as me. After all, I'm fantastic, I hate homework and I want to go to Miami for spring break.

I glance at the bickering Logan and Scott, and then back at the TV screen where the two dogs are also clawing and snarling at each other. Hmm, I think I've finally found a way to repress the inner boredom that is niggling away at me, that and annoy the hell out of Logan at the same time. If one small Mexican man can become the 'Dog Whisperer', what are the chances of a sassy, rebellious young mutant from Mississippi transforming herself into the Wolverine Whisperer?

And as an afterthought, I felt the need to tell you all that I am really not a fan of men in Speedos.