Title: Performance Anxiety
Fandom: X-Men (Original Timeline Movies)
Rating: Teen
Length: 1,536 words
Character: Logan, Marie (Rogue), Ororo Munroe
Pairings: Logan/Rogue
Content notes: Chef Marcus Samuelsson is an award-winning chef, restaurateur, cookbook author, philanthropist, and food activist. He co-founded Red Rooster Harlem and is actually married to model Maya Gate Haile.
Author notes: I’ve told this story too many times, but in 2012, I wrote a fanfic and a "friend" told me that the story was boring and had no voice. I haven’t posted a fic outside of the The Anonymous Community on AO3. until now! Here goes nothing...
Summary: First date jitters send Marie on a wild anxiety spiral.

She has to be doing this wrong. The goal is to recreate a dinner he may have had on his trip to Japan. More importantly, it's the first time he would come to her place, instead of her going to his. He understands that, after years of watching police procedurals, how wary she is of inviting any man into her home, let alone someone like him.

They had met at the coffee shop he ran, owned by an old friend from upstate New York. She had come in after work, to grab something sweet for her walk to the subway. She spoke softly about her job as he took her order, eyes more intent on her than during a regular interaction with a barista. The second day, he encouraged her to have a coffee and scone to stay. He instructed other employees to close and spoke about his past in the war, about feeling out of place when he got back home, how taking over this place had helped him to fit back in. The third day, he had asked her to dinner, and then dessert and then…

"I don't usually do this," she had said breathlessly, when they'd kissed in the car. Her hands scratched the sides of his beard, desperately pulling him over the divider between their seats. "I don't want this to be a one-night thing. I - I want to… do this the correct - oh, yes, do that again," she moaned.

A low chuckle grazed across her neck, following the path his teeth had just left.

"The old fashioned way, huh? How about you make dinner tomorrow? I think you'd be more comfortable at your place. And if I try anything, you know where all the knives are, kid," he said.

She laughed. Some of the sexual tension eased from her shoulders, down through her arms, and out from her fingers. Her hands slid from Logan's face to his chest, the red and black flannel shirt soft under her skin. "Dinner. Tomorrow. Of course," she agreed. "Goodnight, Logan."

"Goodnight, Marie."
* * *
She snaps out of her reverie, letting the warm and fuzzy feelings of last night transform into tonight's ball of anxiety. Marie places her hands on the smooth buttons of the Instant Pot, eyes darting back and forth between the machine and her phone. The carrots, onions, potatoes, garlic, ginger, water, and curry roux are prepped on her cutting board. Chicken thighs on the stove, dredged in flour, ready to drop into the Dutch oven, and shiitake mushrooms rest on the counter, rubbed with oil and togarashi to roast. She presses SAUTE, then pours oil into the silver pot. The sizzle she's waiting for doesn't come, so she turns her back on the cursed pressure cooker. Logan will be here in an hour; she does not have time for an anxiety spiral.

Marie looks around her one-bedroom apartment, looking for anything else that she can fix. The living room is straightened up as much as she can on such short notice. Television mounted on the wall, sound bar installed behind, and a series of board games in a cabinet underneath. She wonders for the third time that day if this many board games makes her look like too much of a nerd and rejects the thought again. If board games are what drives him away, then it's doubtful that the dick will be worth it.

Marie's hands shake with anticipation. She takes a deep breath, lets her shoulders drop below her ears.

"It's fine. It'll be fine. We'll have dinner… watch some Netflix… maybe kiss a little. Maybe more," she says. Marie straightens her apron to cover the coral blouse she'd changed into after work. A popping sound alerts her that the oil has warmed up.

The aromatics go in first, garlic, onion, and ginger scenting the kitchen. Potatoes and carrots are next, then the water, and the curry bricks rest on top. She switches from SAUTE to PRESSURE COOK and sets the timer for 15 minutes.

One challenge down, two to go. The mushrooms go in the oven without much fanfare so the last obstacle is chicken katsu. Marie checks the time - Although she has 30 minutes to make magic happen, Marie has never deep fried a chicken in her life. Sweat collects on her forehead just as her throat begins to run dry. Later, she'll blame the city heat, but right now she needs to phone a friend before she reaches full on panic mode.

"Hey, Siri, call Ororo."

“Calling UNO PIZZERIA,” Siri announces.

"What the fuck, Siri?" she says softly.

She cancels the call before it has a chance to go through. Marie’s not desperate enough to order pizza just yet. She gives up and manually dials Ororo on FaceTime. $1000 and this damn phone never gets a non-Western name right on the first try.

A beautiful woman with rich mahogany skin answers the call. Three assistants buzz around her, one curling her hair, another applying makeup, and the third working on nail polish.

“Hey girl, what’s up?” Ororo says. Then she looks closer. “You look stressed. Everything okay?”

“I have a man coming over in 26 minutes and I decided to make chicken katsu curry to impress him. Of course, I’m only now realizing that I don’t have a thermometer for the oil or the chicken, and it’s too late to throw these thighs in the Instant Pot. What do I do?” The words come out in a rush.

Marie hears a few laughs on the other side of the call. She takes another deep breath, yet her breathing refuses to slow. She checks the clock again. 23 minutes.

“Wow, so you need to fry chicken, and you call your Black friend?” Ororo says, clearly joking, but Marie is so far past appreciating humor that her next words come out forcefully.

“I need to fry chicken so I called Marcus Samuelsson’s wife! Or were those blurry wedding photos I saw online Photoshopped for a slow news day?”

Marie constantly wonders where she went wrong that she and Ororo both went to NYU, yet she does freelance contract law, while Ororo works at the UN and just eloped with one of the world’s most famous chefs.

“Okay, listen, if you have a wooden spoon, stick it in the oil and check the bubbles. A lot means it’s ready, too much means you went too hot. Or you can drop a popcorn kernel in the oil, but you risk it popping back at you, which hurts like hell… and, yes, we did get secretly married. Tonight is our official couple debut, hence all of this,” she gestures to the glam squad just as someone else breezes past the camera with a rack of brightly colored clothes.

A rueful smile passes over Ororo’s face. “I have to get dressed, but if the food doesn’t work out, just order a pizza and take off your clothes. Works for me every time.”

“I’ll try that and let you know how it goes. When you get back to New York, I expect details about this alleged Wakanda wedding.”

“Deal. Talk to you later,” her friend says. The call disconnects, throwing her right back into a spiral. Marie rolls her shoulders once more, prepares herself for the battle ahead.

The next 15 minutes passes in a flurry that leaves her covered in flour, with the chicken finishing in the oven. The timer on the Instant Pot goes off just as Logan buzzes the door to her apartment. How fucking dare he get here early?

She trips on her way to the buzzer, stumbling over her own feet.

"Logan?" she says, voice full of anticipation.

"Hey kid," he says, vocal fry turning his voice into a whisper-growl that sets her body aflame.

"Apartment 616," she says on a shaky exhale. A few minutes later a knock comes at her door. She fidgets with the lock on the door, opens it, only to find one brown eye peering at her through the inch-wide gap between the door and the frame.

Fuck, she forgot to undo the chain above the handle.

"Just checking it's you," Marie says smoothly. She shuts the door, slides the chain to the left, and opens it again to view Logan completely. He's in a plain white shirt and jeans, with a belt that has a large buckle, and a 6-pack of something in his hands.

"Molson," he says, lifting it up. "It was a favorite of mine when I lived in Canada."

Logan steps over the threshold, fully entering her space. He reaches behind him to close the door gently. He lays each hand on either side of her waist, loose enough that she could break the hold, but firm enough Marie feels halfway between being held and being trapped.

Heat pools in her belly at the sensation.

"I made chicken katsu curry, since you… uh… spent time in Japan,” she says. Without input from her brain, Marie’s lips move up to meet Logan’s. He leans towards her, meeting her halfway, promptly taking control of the kiss. Maybe she hadn’t done everything the correct way, but at least the effort had been worth it.