It wouldn't be so bad if I couldn't hear them fucking.

If I couldn't hear the bed squeaking, the soft, breathy little moans she makes, that godawful Cajun French bullshit he spews when he's really havin' a good time.

There's no way to drown it out - they're two doors down the hall from me, for Christ's sake! How the hell Pete manages to sleep through that shit, I'll never know.

And then there's the scent. The sweet little tendrils of her arousal that seep through the crack under the door and get blown at me in hot gusts from the ventilation system. If it were just the scent, I might be able to handle it, smother it with air freshener and aftershave and the smell of the Zen aromatherapy candle on the nightstand.

But I can hear them.

I hear his breathing speedin' up, and the headboard bangin' against the wall; I hear her unintelligible moans of pleasure turn into "Oh god"s, and I can't ignore it anymore.

Because that's what she says when I fuck her that hard.

Those moans are mine, you coonass bastard - I've fucked her in that bed, and she's made those noises just for me. Is she as wet as she was when I fucked her last night? Is she hangin' on to you with both legs, coverin' you with so much sticky sweetness that it's drippin' off your balls and makin' your thighs slippery? I hate you so much right now, LeBeau, and all I want to do is bust in there and wrap your girly-ass ponytail around my fist and drag you offa her - but I can't. I got no right to. Because she picked you, and she didn't pick me, and I'm just the other man.

But you don't know that. Don't know she was in my bed last night while you were at the bar gettin' juiced. Don't know it was my ear she was pantin' all those dirty words into. Don't know I was poundin' your woman into the mattress almost every night the entire three weeks you were in Shreveport on recon.

Of course you don't know.

Because I'm the other man.

Her dirty little secret.

And god damn my overactive imagination, because I can see her in my mind, the way she is right now: all that long, beautiful hair spread across the pillow; those big green eyes lookin' up at you all dewy and half-lidded; those full pink lips parted and moist, beggin' to be kissed and bitten. I see her arch and I hear her gasp and I smell her come and I have to get OUT.

I could go to the bar, have some nameless, faceless fuck, lose myself in another woman's arms - but it's pointless, because the only woman I want right now is getting fucked by her boyfriend.

I find myself in the woods, and I ain't too surprised, because Nature always takes care of her own; even though I'm a good half-mile from the mansion now, I imagine I can still hear it - the sound of my girl, who is not my girl, in the arms of another man, and the rage swells in me. It churns and roils and grows, rising like the lava in a volcano; my heart is pounding, driving all that boiling, frothing blood into every goddamn vein in my body, and if I don't destroy something, I'll explode.

The forest offers up a sacrificial lamb: a cluster of maple trees growing by the ravine at the edge of the cove. I pop the claws and make some kindling, but it doesn't help. I stab the blades all the way into the fat trunk of a big old oak tree, but that doesn't help, either. I pull the claws back in and pummel the tree until chips of bark are flying and the skin is flayed off my knuckles and I can see the glint of metal through the gaping, ragged holes in my hands - but that doesn't help, either. The pain in my chest is still worse than the pain in my hands, tight and suffocating and miserable.

My hands are sticky and dripping with blood, the tree is pulped, and I want to go back in there and repeat the process on LeBeau, to bash his pretty face until it's unrecognizable, and then I'd cut a nice painful hole in his chest and rip his heart out, just so he can see how it feels. Then, just as the light's fadin' from those glowy red eyes, I'd throw Rogue down on the floor beside him and fuck her into the carpet - just so the last thing he'd see is the man those moans are really meant for.

The lump in my throat fights its way out and becomes a horrid sound, not quite a howl and not quite a groan; it's hoarse and broken and wretched, a sound that should never have come from a man like me, and I hate it.

I hate it even more when I realize it's a sob.

My legs give out on me and I sink to my knees; the earth opens up its moist, mossy arms and welcomes me; and although a part of me wishes she had heard the door slam and had come after me, I know she won't, and I'm sorta glad for that, too.

Because this moment is mine and mine alone, and no one ever has to see the baddest motherfucker on two legs face-down on the forest floor, choking on rage and bitter hatred and dead, squashy leaves.

Right now, he's probably coming deep inside her, just like I did last night, and she's probably tearing long, deep scratches down his back with her nails, just like she does to me. But those scratches heal right up on me, and no one ever sees the evidence; and he'll go out in the morning and play basketball shirtless and show off just how damn good a lover he is. The only things I'll have in the morning are the memory of this moment, and bruised knuckles - I've pulverized 'em pretty bad this time, and by the time my healing factor gets everything knitted up real good, it'll be lunchtime.

I hate myself for this night, this moment of weakness I told myself I was strong enough to bear; I hate him for doin' all those things to her, even though it's his fuckin' right to; and for one tiny fraction of a second, I try to hate her - for lettin' him do it, for enjoyin' it so damn much. But I can't. It ain't her I hate - never has been, never will be. She's got every right to enjoy it. He's the one she picked; he makes her happy, she was his long before she was mine-and-not-mine, and I'm just the other man.

round here we talk just like lions / but we sacrifice like lambs / round here / she's slipping through my hands


It's just before dawn when I decide to go back to the mansion; birds are chirpin' and the dew is stuck to the grass and trees and me, and I'm soggy and exhausted and miserable. The walk up to the house is slow and heavy, like my boots are fulla lead, and I know that's only half because I'm so damn tired - the other half is because I really, really don't want to go back in there. Especially if they're still at it.

My room is quiet and still, thank god, and I somehow manage to peel off my clothes and fall into bed.

The room is sickly green and full of watery light; on the other side of the glass is Silver Fox, her palm pressed to the side of my coffin, her smile distorted and distant through the bubbling liquid, her face a battered mess. "Sacrifice," she says, and steps away.

I push my claws out and it burns, burns like white-hot fire; I slash my way out of the box, sending shards of glass everywhere, and as I watch, they turn brown and I discover I just busted my way out of an oak tree that's streaming blood. Someone calls my name and I turn, and there's Mariko, looking fresh and sweet in her summer yukata, her hair twisted up off her neck and held by a big comb with long fingers. Fingers with claws. Vic's claws. And he's laughin' at me, stroking Mariko's neck with his other hand. "Sacrifice," he says, and slices her throat.

I run at him, roaring, and there's Yuriko, her long claw-fingers slicin' my chest open. "We talk just like lions," she whispers into my ear, her nails digging into my ribcage to poke at my heart. "But we sacrifice like lambs."

I shove at her, but I'm so tired, so fucking tired, and I'm runnin' down the hall, my wet feet slippin' on the mansion's hardwood floor; the tubes and wires hangin' off me make clattery sounds against the floor and the walls and the furniture, but no one hears it. I don't know where I'm going - anywhere but here.

I hear a woman cryin' from somewhere, and I realize it's Rogue's room. I don't know why she's cryin' and I want to help, so I watch my hand come out and wrap around the doorknob, my knuckles shredded and bleeding; the door opens in slow-motion to let me see LeBeau fucking the hell out of her, and I can't stop him. She's not crying, she's moaning, and the walls are crumbling, covered in blood, water everywhere, and I reach out to her; she gets further and further away, she's slippin' through my hands and her cries are ringin' in my ears, and I can't fucking breathe because the water's in my lungs and I'm back in the box and I can't see anything but bubbles and tubes and lines and there's blood in the water and why isn't anyone hearing me scream because I can hear it and why isn't she coming to help me because I need her, I need her and she's over there and she's got him and she doesn't need me and the metal is coating my bones and it hurts it hurts it fucking hurts and they're cuttin' into me and I can't move I can't breathe and they're slicin' my heart out and I'm healin' up too fast for 'em so they do it again again again it hurts so fucking much and I can't make 'em stop 'cause I can't move and I can't think and Jesus, it hurts so bad and I can't take it I can't take it I can't I can't I can't--

I sit up with a yell, the sweat pourin' off me in sheets, and I must still be dreamin' because I can still hear them fucking.

A creak.

A moan.

A murmur.

Not again.

Not again, you son of a bitch, not again!

Throwin' clothes on. Shovin' my feet in my boots. Tremblin' with fury and distress and I don't know what the fuck to do.

I don't have the strength to slaughter any more trees, but the leaves still welcome me, and the dew hides the sweat and the moisture on my face that I'm not even going to acknowledge this time; all I want to do is put my head in her lap and I'm shakin' all over and I know it ain't because it's so fucking cold out here. Jesus. I can't take much more of this. But I will. Because I have to. Because I can't imagine life without my girl. Because I'm the other man and this is the life of the other man, and I'll fucking take it because it's the best I'm gonna get from her. Because I ain't the one she picked, and even if I'm nothin' more than a good fuck to her, I'll take it. Because... Because I need her. And I can do this. I'm the Wolverine, goddamn it, and I never give up. Ever.

Judgin' from where the shadows are, it's around eight when I wake up, and the sun's warm and comforting on my back; I drag myself up off the soft ground and head back to the house one more time, and when I get there, I find out a third of the team - including the Cajun - is gone, off on a two-day pickup mission in California. At least I won't have to run into the smug, well-laid bastard in the halls for a while, which is somethin' of a relief. I consider goin' on up to Rogue's room and reclaimin' what ain't mine, but I squelch the thought because I ain't in the mood for LeBeau's sloppy seconds. I'm too tired, anyway. That thought almost makes me laugh, because I once fought Omega Red for eighteen hours straight, and one night of mushy chick-flick angst reduces me to a washed-out scrap of nothing. Jesus H. Christ.

"Logan?" I look up and there she is; I wasn't paying attention and almost ran into her. Hmf. I got no idea what to say, especially since she's lookin' at me like that and she's wearin' that long white nightgown and she smells like him.

I walk past her, and it's such a damn hard thing to do that my boots thump heavily on the wooden floor. "Go back to bed."

"Logan, wait!" She catches my arm and gives me a little tug; I turn to face her because I'm a fucking weak shit today and I can't even deny her that much.

"What?"

Her eyebrows draw together and she studies me carefully, which I don't like. "What happened?"

"Nothin'. Go back to bed."

She folds her arms and purses those gorgeous lips the Cajun was kissin' the hell out of a little while ago. "Bullshit. Talk to me."

Talk to her? Fuck, I can barely think straight, and she wants me to be coherent enough to talk? Fuck that. "What makes you think somethin' happened?"

Without saying another word, she reaches up and plucks a leaf or two from my hair, then holds them in front of my face.

"Shit," I mutter, and run a hand through my hair, dislodging a few more leaves and a coupla little twigs.

She takes my hand and looks at it; it's pretty well healed up, but there's a few ugly gashes still, and the skin around my knuckles is puffy and fat and about as many colors as the autumn trees I just beat the shit out of. "Logan," she whispers, her voice awful with concern. "What'd you do?"

I shrug, because it's all I can think of to do.

She looks up at me again, her long fingers stroking the jagged Technicolor train wreck of my left hand. "Please tell me whatever did this looks worse'n you do."

I think of the ten square feet of forest I destroyed, the trees that're pretty much firewood, the poor old oak that's pulped enough to Just Add Water and make decent if lumpy paper, and I can't help but chuckle. "Yeah. Doubt they feel much worse, though."

"Oh, Logan," she says, and I hate that look in her eyes. Don't look at me like that, darlin' - don't fuckin' pity me!

I yank my hand away from her and tromp past, headin' for my room. I'm tired o' this goddamn game, tired o' hurtin' like this. Tired o' bein' second best. She chases after me and I stop her in the doorway, which must surprise her, if the look on her face is any clue. Bet you thought I'd invite you into my bed to keep me warm and comfort me, didn't you, darlin'? Not today. Not now. Because you smell like him, and it hurts too much.

"At least let me put some ice or somethin' on it," she says, and I bark out a little laugh. Ice?

"I'm fine, darlin'. Go back to bed." I go to shut the door on her goddamn pitying look - and she sticks her foot in front of the jamb and stops me.

"All right," she says, eyes hard all of a sudden. "You don't wanna tell me what happened, fine. It's your business. But Ah'll be damned if Ah'm gonna let you go to bed like that." She shoves past and grabs my wrist to drag me after her. "You're havin' a bath, sugah, and if you don't stop sulkin' like a toddler, Ah swear Ah'll take this ring off and put your sorry ass down, and then do this."

I glance at her right hand, at the silver filigree ring Forge made for her for her birthday last year; it uses the same dampening technology the Genoshan collars did, so it suppresses her powers as long as she wears it - but it's a hell of a lot more fashionable. I wish for the millionth time that she'd picked me to try out its skin-to-skin uses the first time. "Darlin'..."

"Hush," she snaps, and plunks me down on the toilet lid with a none-too-gentle shove. She turns away to start up the bathtub taps, givin' me a nice view of her backside as she bends over; I can see the perfect peach of her bare ass through the soft white cotton of her nightgown, and for just a second, I feel like reachin' over and givin' it a stroke and a pinch... But she still smells like him. And it's even more obvious from this angle.

She turns back to me and reaches for the hem of my shirt, but I catch her wrists. "Don't."

"Oh, stop," she says, like she's scoldin' me, and smacks my hands away. Why I let her do it is beyond me - maybe I'm just too tired to fight her. She pulls my shirt over my head and tosses it into the clothes hamper by the window, then hauls me to my feet and goes for my jeans.

"Rogue," I warn, and throw in a little growl for good measure. I'm pissed at her, dammit. Well, okay, I'm trying to be pissed, and she's tryin' to peel my clothes off!

"Don't you growl at me," she huffs, waggin' a finger at my face. "Ah'm gettin' you outta these - what the hell did you do to these jeans??"

I look down at the mud and peat and blood and general outdoor slop stainin' my Levis, and I almost laugh. Shit. Did a real number on myself. I don't know what to say, so I just shrug again, which doesn't improve her bitchy mood one bit.

"Ah swear, Logan..." she mumbles, opening my belt buckle and kneelin' down to pull the denim off my legs, takin' the boots with it. Once she's got me stripped down to what nature gave me, she points imperiously at the steaming bathtub. "Get in. Go on."

I growl at her, because I'm gettin' tired o' bein' whipped.

She yanks the ring off her hand and uses her super-strength to shove me into the bathtub, the skin-to-skin contact so brief I don't even feel the pull. "Ah said, get in!"

Water. Water. Don't like the water. Makes me think of bubbles and tubes and I don't want to be here and it's water it's all over me it's not green but it might be any second and holy shit holy shit holy shit I'm under the water and I see her lookin' down at me and she's all distorted and oh shit oh shit oh shit I can't sacrifice anymore, I'm sorry sweetheart, so damn sorry!

I come up outta the bathwater with a roar, claws out, and she's backin' up, eyes wide. "Logan...!"

Next thing I know, she's backed up all the way to the wall, and my claws're pressin' ever so slightly against her soft white throat and god, she still smells like him.

"Back off," she says, her voice firm, gaze never unlockin' from mine. "Logan. Back. Off. Now."

I growl, tryin' to focus past the anger and the hurt and the fuckin' jealousy that's killin' me from the inside out, and her hand comes up to caress my cheek.

"Logan," she whispers.

I lean into her hand instinctively, savorin' the soft touch of her smooth palm, the tickle of her fingers in the hair on my face... and the pull hits me. She hasn't put her ring back on, and suddenly I'm on the floor, kneelin' at her feet, my face pressed up against her thighs, protected by that thin cotton nightgown. Shit.

She goes real still for a bit, and then her hands are strokin' my hair, so gentle it hurts. "Come on."

She gets me back into the tub, the ring back on her finger, and rolls up her sleeves; without another word, she dumps shampoo into her hands and washes my hair, her fingernails massagin' my scalp; she washes my face, my neck, my back, my arms; she leans me back against the lip of the tub and washes my chest, my belly, my legs; she pulls off her nightgown and climbs in with me, and the water overflows onto the floor.

I take the soap from her and wash LeBeau's scent off of her; she slides over my front, slippery and slick with water and suds, and that's when I notice it.

Danglin' from a silver chain around her neck is the pendant I gave her for her last birthday, the same birthday she got her ring; I didn't have much to give her, so I gave her a piece o' myself - pretty literally. It's the tip o' one o' my bone claws, only about a half-inch long, and bonded with adamantium; I found it in the first Weapon X compound Jube and I explored a while back, and I'm guessin' it was a tester o' some kind. There's a hole drilled in the wide end and the adamantium coats the tunnel, so I know it was drilled before it was bonded - maybe to test the metal's ability to get into tiny spaces, I don't know. But it's a part o' me, and it's hangin' from a chain so fine I almost can't see it, and it's nestlin' into her cleavage like it belongs there. And it does. Because now I understand.

She whispers my name against my lips and kisses me, her wet hands slidin' up into my hair, her soft body heaven to hold; I pick her up and carry her to my bed, still drippin' water everywhere, and lay her down. Because now I understand.

I lick every drop o' water from her skin, lingerin' in areas of interest, until she's writhin' and beggin' and knottin' her fingers in my hair; I push her legs apart and slide down between her thighs and pull every bit o' the Cajun outta her with my tongue, the taste of him bitter and sharp like an orange that's gone bad. And when she arches into my mouth and comes, she's mine. Not his. Mine. Because now I understand.

I push into her, no condom this time - she's been on the pill since she got that ring, I ain't worried about it - and she's so hot and wet and infinitely more welcomin' than those cold, damp leaves I laid in for so long last night. And even though the scratches heal up the minute she tears into my back, I savor every second of the pain, cherish the look on her face, the tight press of her thighs on my hips, the little flutterin' kisses she leaves all over my lips and nose and cheeks. I can do this. I can enjoy this. It ain't about reclaimin' or jealousy or showin' the Cajun up.

Because I finally understand.

I'm not the other man.

LeBeau's the one she settled for.

Because she knows she'll never tame me, and no matter how much I want her, no matter how hard I try, I've always been a loner, and I need the room and the freedom to be who I am. I'll always come back when I'm done wanderin', because home is where she is - but she needs someone who won't wander. And she finds that in him. She finds all those things in him that she can't find in me, like a bedmate who won't wake her up with his godawful nightmares; a smilin' face in the mornin' instead of a grouchy son of a bitch who can't even add two and two till he's had a cuppa coffee; a young, charmin' man who'll do what she wants, not a grizzled old dog who's learnt way too many tricks in his day.

But it's that part o' me hangin' around her neck that tells me who she really belongs to.

And now I understand.

I'm not the other man.

I'm the one she can't have.

I fuck her long and slow, takin' my sweet time, and in this moment, she's mine; she moans and wails and clutches at my shoulders, my hair, the headboard, the sheets; sweat glistens all over her skin and she's covered in my scent; she's drippin' wet all over, and I'm soaked in her; I'm drownin' in her and in this moment... I'm hers.


END.