Always Wanting Her: He hated the damned healing ability, he hated not being able to drown his thoughts in a drunken haze like everyone else. He hated how much he wanted her. Logan centric with an obvious Rogan touch.

Disclaimer: I don't own Logan, Rogue, or even Scott's nifty (though kind of geeky) visor. Sadly. (:

Rating: PG-13 for language and suggestive content.


God, what in the hell was wrong with him?

The beer went down easily, aided by the familiar sights and sounds of the bar. A Van Halen tune blared from the jukebox in the far corner, much to his chagrin. Enhanced hearing was a real bitch sometimes. People large and small, black and white, drunk and sober; all were present. They helped blanket him with a vague sense of reality even as he drowned himself in his own thoughts.

He sat alone in the corner, his back braced against the wall, and his thighs gripping the cracked surface of the bar stool under him. The lights were dimmed low, saving him from having to meet the curious glances that were constantly sent in his direction. It was easier, he knew, simply pretending that he didn't notice. It allowed him a bit of privacy as he wallowed in his own thoughts, the slew of empty beer bottles on the scarred bar top in front of him the only real evidence that he was trying to get drunk.

Damned healing ability. Sure, every now and then it came in handy. He didn't mind making a few bucks while getting to knock some unlucky SOB's teeth out. It kept the urges at bay, kept him human. But, the only thing he really wanted was to get ass-over-teakettle drunk, and it just wasn't working. It never did.

"'Nother round?" a burly, masculine voice boomed.

His hazel eyes flickered toward the source of the voice immediately, his lips curling around the cigar perched precariously in the corner of his lips. The fingers of his right hand curled around the brown bottle lazily, he pulled the damp cigar out of his mouth, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. "Keep 'em comin'," he ordered hoarsely, lifting a speculative brow when the bartender seemed to hesitate.

The man looked to be in his sixties, his arms decorated with a wide variety of tattoos that no doubt depicted a rather interesting scrapbook of his life. His face bore the wrinkles and lines that only time and real heartache could give a man. His dark gray brows furrowed together, a bushy mustache twitching over his heavy upper lip before he slowly shook his head. "Your funeral, buddy."

If only.

Sure, those thoughts littered his head now and then, but Logan wasn't foolish enough to believe that drinking would be the death of him. He'd nursed five bottles of high proof liquor in two short hours before, and his liver had somehow managed to thwart his plans. Didn't seem fair, really. Not when he thought about all of the lucky assholes around him that were able to forget their problems when they aimed for the bottom of the bottle.

The bartender cleared away the empties efficiently, muttering a bit under his breath before placing a bucket on the aged surface in front of Logan. "This'll keep you in business for awhile, buddy. Holler if you need me."

Logan sent a silent thanks to the man, knowing that if he was in a better mood he might have actually appreciated the effort. The six-pack on ice in the bucket would keep him occupied for another hour, maybe a bit more if he stretched it out. He probably would. There was too much on his mind for him to focus too completely on the task at hand.

And that task was finding away around his Goddamned mutation so that he could get as drunk as possible.

Plan still wasn't working, he admitted to himself as he finished off what had to be his twelfth beer of the evening. It tasted okay going down, which was a small consolation. At least the bar catered to his interests and kept one of his more favored imports in stock. Otherwise, he might've had to order a fifth of something that might get him riled up instead of settled down.

Beer did that too him; settled him down. It was cool and comforting and went down easy. Sure, bourbon did that after awhile, so did scotch. Every now and then vodka did too, but it tended to put him in a fighting mood. Bar wasn't made for fighting, not really. Too many people, too many tables. There wouldn't be enough room for him to really get moving, to really lay into someone. At least, not enough to ease the tension.

The mirror that lined the wall behind the bar caught his attention, and he found himself staring at his own darkened reflection.

A leather jacket, the tags, and the damned claws were the only thing he had from what he referred to as his blurry past. He'd woken up dazed and confused, some jackass claiming to be a buddy leaning over him and smelling like gumbo. In the fifteen odd years since, he still hadn't found any real clues that pointed out who he'd been, or even what he really was. He didn't even have the damned tags anymore; the kid did.

His gut clenched uncomfortably, reminding him of the heated fight he'd had not even a year ago atop the Statue of Liberty with some fur ball named Sabretooth. Sure, the man had seemed familiar, but all Logan had been worried about then was ripping his fucking head off and shoving it up his ass. At least he'd gotten a good fight out of it, had managed to make sure that ol' Mags was stopped.

Course, he'd almost lost her.

He hated that, hated knowing that he'd wasted so much time thinking he was better than Sabretooth, so much quicker and faster, that he'd nearly lost her. If he'd been faster, if he hadn't underestimated the hulk of a man, she might not have suffered. She might not have died.

Blasted healing. Sure, it didn't let him get drunk, but it'd brought her back from the ledge. He'd held her against him, clinging to her and willing her back. Somehow, despite all the odds, that absorbing power of hers had latched on, draining him dry.

He hadn't minded. Still didn't, not really.

Finally, the damned thing had come in handy. After years of wandering around alone, after looking for something that had always stayed just out of his reach, he'd been able to do something worthwhile. Course, there was the fact that he'd been subject to nearly the same thing when they'd first arrived at the School. He'd woken up from a nightmare and nearly killed her.

Dammit, he'd never get over how she looked then. It haunted him more than her still body pressed against his as he'd willed her mutation to kick in.

He couldn't quite figure out what in the hell was wrong with him. He'd spent the better part of the last year making sure that he was as far away from the School, from her, as possible. And yet, he'd never been able to pull himself away completely. No matter how many miles he put between himself and the people, the kid, that had made the School a home, he just couldn't disappear into the horizon.

Not that he wanted to. Not completely.

Part of him wanted to accept the fact that he'd changed, if only slightly. Sure, he was still surly and part of him would always be aching to rip something, or preferably someone, a new one. He still liked to smoke and drink and knock a few dip shits around if only to pass the time. But, he had changed.

He found himself returning, always going back and staying for longer periods every time. Despite his nature, he accepted responsibilities, agreed to help out with defense classes when he was around. He didn't mind it. Not so much. It was nice, the change in pace. It was all so different from the life that he had lived for some fifteen odd years and warranted him a different outlook on life.

Should stay away, he couldn't help but think to himself, his gaze unfocused as he stared down at his half-empty beer. Should leave it be.

It wasn't all his fault, not completely. It wasn't as if he'd known that she would be down in the kitchen late at night. Sure, it wasn't uncommon for the squirts to wake up in the middle of the night and go searching for a snack. He'd caught her scent moments before she'd came into view, but hadn't expected the mere sight of her to do such a number on him.

Dammit, when in the hell had she sprouted legs that ran on forever? Who in the hell had told her it was fine to go gallavanting in a school, a school filled with hormonal little jackass boys, no less? His pulse picked up at the thought, at merely remembering how stunned he'd been when he'd rounded on her.

She'd been eating ice cream, that much he remembered for certain. She'd spared him a wicked smile, one that would have made a nymph proud. Her legs and arms had been bare, the little black shorts probably appropriate in her mind but most definitely not his. The dark red tank top, the logo of his favorite hockey team, had warranted him a good two, three seconds to check out her cleavage.

When in the hell had she'd grown up?

He hated himself. He hated the way that he'd eyed her hungrily for all of a few seconds before shaking it off. Even now, just thinking about it, a curl of heat brewed low in his gut. He'd smelled the faint surprise that quickly evolved into a controlled curiosity. He could have had her then, he knew. He could have wrapped his hands in her long silky hair, shoved that ice cream container out of the way, and shoved her against the counter to take what he wanted.

But he hadn't.

No, Goddammit it. He'd taken the high road and managed to make an excuse, his thoughts whirling, and found his way out to the garage. He still wasn't sure how he'd found his way to the bar, wasn't even really sure where the bar actually was. He just knew that he was there, that he was there and she was most certainly not.

He hated it, hated wanting her so damned badly. He was too old, too rough, too wrong. If someone else in his position had ever looked at her like that, he'd have gutted them. And yet, he couldn't shake it.

Dammit, he always wanted her. But, he never touched her. It hurt, Goddammit. It hurt all over and made his gut clench uncomfortably.

It hurt almost more than he could stand. Dammit Marie.

He frowned as he focused on finding the bottom of yet another bottle. At least the beer wasn't dangerous. He knew what waited ahead of him no matter how many he drank: sobriety.


'Always Wanting You' - Merle Haggard

. . .

Always wanting you, but never having you.

Makes it hard to face tomorrow, cause I know I'll wake up wanting you.

Always loving you, but never touching you.

Sometimes hurts me almost more than I can stand.

A possible follow-up is already in the works. Let me know what you think, darlings (: