The joy of love is too short, and the sorrow thereof, and what cometh thereof, dureth overlong.
--Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d'Arthur


Rogue found Logan in the sunroom, which made sense in an odd, Logan-ish way. He would be the kind of person to sit in a sunroom in the middle of the night. He was sitting in one of the wicker chairs, smoking and brooding. "Logan?" She was tentative, not knowing if she'd get a welcoming nod or a warning flash of adamantium.

His eyes flicked to her, then away. He stared blankly at some imaginary spot in the dark.

Taking his non-response as a good sign, she sat down on the wicker ottoman in front of his chair. "I saw-- the door was open, and I smelled your cigar," she said. "We haven't talked in--"

"I'll put it out if it bothers you," Logan said, shifting his gaze to the burning stump of cigar in his hand.

"No, no," Rogue said. "I didn't mean... I kind of like it, actually. Maybe you're still with me a little, huh?" She smiled weakly and tried to catch his eye.

He didn't say anything; he didn't even grunt.

"Logan... you have to stop wearing that shirt," she said, hoping she sounded surer of herself than she felt.

He met her eyes at that, hot anger flashing behind his. "What the fuck do you care what I wear?"

Anyone else would have quivered in their shoes at his tone of voice. Rogue just frowned. When he first turned up in the pale paisley shirt--it couldn't have been more un-Loganish if it had pink fuzzy kittens all over it--she just figured it was laundry day and he'd pulled it out of the grab bin while his real shirts dried. Then he'd worn it the next day, and the day after.

She wasn't the only one to have noticed; she asked 'Ro about it in the kitchen one day.

"I don't know where he got it," 'Ro said. "He probably just doesn't feel like shopping for new shirts right now."

"It was hers." Rogue and Storm both turned and faced the doorway in shock. Scott stood there, arms crossed. His face was unshaven and his cheeks hollow. "She took it out of the hand-me-down box once when she needed something to sleep in. I-- it was in the laundry room. She needed to do laundry."

"You haven't said anything," Rogue whispered.

Scott's jaw muscle clenched. "What am I supposed to do? Keep fighting him?"

---

"I don't give a good Goddamn what you wear," Rogue said, her accent deepening. "I care that you're freaking out. I care that you're grieving and you won't talk to anyone, not even me."

He narrowed his eyes. "Why would I wanna talk to you?" he said. It came out a half growl.

Rogue stood up, anger racing through her. Anger at him, and at herself for letting his words affect her. "Oh, I don't know, Logan. Maybe because through no fault of my own, I know you better than anyone else here? Maybe because I'm actually stupid enough to care about you and your dumb feelings? Maybe-- maybe because I knew her, too? I miss her, too." Her voice betrayed her by cracking on the last word.

"You don't know what you're talkin' about, kid," he said. He ran one hand through his hair, which was even more scruffy and wild than usual. He, too, hadn't shaved in days, and his face was overrun with hair.

"I don't?" Rogue asked. "I don't know what it's like to lose someone? I knew her for longer than you did, you know. I knew her while you were off hunting for something you had to come back here to find anyway." Her tone turned hard. "You think I don't know what it's like to yearn for someon-- something you can't have? Damn it, Logan. Every single person in my head wants something or someone else. I've started to think it's the normal human condition." She laughed shortly. "I-- I even know what it's like to look at her and want to bury my fingers in her red hair and pull her against me. And... I know you wear that shirt because it smells like her. So don't tell me I don't know what the hell I'm talking about."

---

Logan blinked and looked at her--really looked at her--for the first time since she came into the sunroom. She was standing over him, hands on her hips, lips pursed. She was right; he hadn't thought about her having him in her head, that she really might know what was going through his mind. "You know," he said dully.

"Yeah, I've got some idea," she said, cocking her head and quirking her mouth. "I know this," she gestured widely with her arms, "isn't good for you. It's eating away at you from inside." She took a deep breath. "So what's it gonna be, Logan? You need to rustle up a fight, or something. Should we hunt down Mystique and beat the crap out of her? Or we could go after Magneto--I could suck the life out of him and you could do your slice and dice thing."

He shuddered involuntarily. Mystique. He hated himself now for his act of supreme self-delusion in the tent near Alkali. He'd let himself believe it was her. The thought now made him nauseous, but what was even worse was the tiny itching thought in the back of his brain--the thought that said Mystique might still be willing to play the role.

That thought made him want to pop the claws and slice off certain valuable body parts.

"We aren't gonna be rustling up any fights," he said. It was bad enough she got caught up in the whole business with Stryker.

"Well, if you insist on wearing that shirt in public, fights are gonna come lookin' for you, sugar," she said, touching his shoulder to let him know she wasn't serious.

He snorted, looking at Rogue's gloved hand on his--her--shirt. A glance at her face showed concern and compassion, and just a hint of what might be love. What kind, he couldn't say. He didn't know much about it, but he was pretty sure what he'd felt for Jean had been love. It plagued his mind and hurt too much to be anything else. Why it had hit him out of nowhere after fifteen years of empty living, he didn't know. Frankly, he didn't want to know. All he knew was that he'd felt it, and it had been terrible and wonderful all at once.

If he closed his eyes, he could still taste her lipstick.

Rogue's--Marie's--eyes met his and he saw her heart in them. He knew she felt something for him that was bigger than friendship or gratitude; it was why the Popsicle had bluffed and blustered when Logan came back. He'd sensed it, and didn't like it.

It couldn't be the kind of love he'd felt for Jean, though. He wouldn't wish that on anyone, not even his worst-- well, okay, he wouldn't lose sleep if Magneto were pining away for some unattainable love.

Marie, however... she didn't deserve any kind of heartache. To be so close to someone, to know--know--that they wanted you almost as much as you wanted them, to sense their heart rate increase and scent shift when you walked near them... To almost have what you wanted, only to be told 'no.' And now, to see the man she'd chosen over you so overwrought with grief that he was barely a husk of his former self, to look at him and think, 'at least she chose you.' No one deserved that kind of pain.

Physical pain he knew--he could deal with; this kind of pain ran deep and no healing factor could fix it. Nothing could fix it. Nothing.

He dropped his gaze from her eyes and noticed, not for the first time, how full and soft her lips looked.

---

"What are you doing here, Marie?" He made his voice low and deep, and watched as her lips parted and her tongue emerged to wet them, just before she spoke.

"I told you, I was passing by and saw the door open..." She bit lightly at her bottom lip--a nervous habit, suddenly transformed into a seductive maneuver.

He stood and she took a step back, letting him walk around the ottoman. "Why are you really here?" he asked, adding a hint of growl to his tone. She flushed and he could see her blood pumping through the large vein in her pale neck.

She back-stepped once more and looked at him quizzically. "W- what do you mean?"

"I mean, why are you talking to me in the middle of the night when your boyfriend is right upstairs?" He walked towards her, backing her against one of the glass walls in the sunroom.

He was noticing all kinds of things about her, now. How her skin was smooth and almost translucent; how her breasts were ample and womanly; how her breathing was becoming ragged because of his nearness; how she looked at him like he was the only important thing in the world. The only important thing. "What do you want to do, Marie?" he asked, running one large hand up to her ribcage, placing his other hand on the glass beside her head. He towered over her, caging her in.

"I- I was worried about you," she said, nervousness and arousal pouring off her in waves.

"Don't worry," he whispered, leaning closer till he was almost touching her. "I can take care of things," he said. Then he kissed her--quickly, a soft peck before her skin could react. She responded by parting her lips and tentatively putting her arms around his neck.

He kissed her again, a little longer this time. Closing his eyes, he slid his hand from her ribcage to her back, pressing her to him, leaning in for a deeper kiss. He didn't notice that she kept her eyes open.

It wasn't fixing it; it couldn't fix it. Maybe it could chip away at the pain, just a little. Maybe Marie could make him whole for a while, at least. He pressed into her, opening her mouth further with his tongue, tasting the warm candy-sweetness of her, letting her taste him.

Then the pull started. He felt himself drain into her and even that was better than empty pain.

She shoved at his chest, temporarily stronger as he was weaker. "Stop it!" she said, rubbing roughly at her eyes as he stumbled back. "Damn it, Logan..." her voice was choked and her eyes were red and teary. "Don-- please don't mak--"

"Shut up," he said harshly. "Don't say that. Don't you say that."

She looked at him full on. The hurt in her eyes cut him; he had to look away from it. "Bobby's waiting for me," she said, as she ran past him.

He watched her go, then sat back down in his chair, re-lighting his cigar. His mouth tasted like candy.

The shirt didn't even smell like her anymore.


---end---