He'd loved her with the quick passion that equaled his own fury. He would have been strong for her, weak for her; anything she wanted. The one who sticks around. The good guy.
And then she was gone, and she hadn't chosen him anyway. She chose the one who came first. Yet the part that surprised him was that he admitted defeat to comfort his rival. Their source of conflict was gone.
But still, she was gone, and that left him hollow. Stryker was gone too, and Deathstrike, and his mysterious past. What else was there? Nothing left to hate, no one left to love...
She came to him. No, not her-- this one came wearing a black dress, on a black cloud, floating. In striking contrast, her skin was white, luminescent; dead white, icy as the bleached forelock of her hair. Her innocent, tainted eyes were frightening, black and white starkly juxtaposed.
An ungloved hand beckoned to him. They drew closer, not using steps. "Ah can give you a kiss to make the pain go away," she murmured in a soft, Southern voice, young and sweet enough to melt adamantium. He could have loved her, if he could let go... But he couldn't. He could only take what she offered and no more.
His voice rumbled softly, "Are you my angel of death?"
"Yes," she intoned. "I don 't have wings yet, but I might fly someday, and then I will be strong." She leaned toward his face. He could feel that her face must have been cold, because the heat of his hot cheeks was draining away as she whispered, "Can you give me the gift of life as you once did? The gift that will keep me strong? I would give you the gift of death. We would both be happy, wouldn't we? It 's a fair trade..."
"Yes," he grumbled softly, kindly. He was numb to any further words.
He reached out to touch her pale face, leaned down to brush his lips against hers. He could already feel his life flowing away, sapping away into whatever life was next...
Until the alarm clock went off and his animal roar drowned it out. Metal claws slashed through the clock and part of the night side table. The claws retracted and the only sound was muffled panting. He wiped the sweat from his brow in frustration as a muttering voice broke the panting rhythm, "So close, so real, so close..."
There was nothing left for him to do but to swallow everything and go through another day, go through the motions.
He plodded apathetically down the mansion stairs to breakfast. A few kids were already there, talking in small groups. To him they always seemed to be conspiratorial, maybe because the world taught them to hide or be destroyed. That 's what he 'd learned. Then he saw Rogue sitting alone, trying to open a jar of strawberry jam for her toast and looking very much alive, the most subtle hint of color rising to her cheeks with the effort. She noticed him, and calling him over, remarked, "Hey Logan; you 're strong, could you help me with this?"
He sauntered moodily over to her. "Sure kid," he mumbled without emotion. The unwilling lid came free in his hands. "Glad to be useful." He looked at Marie and realized it was true. She was smiling her thanks, that sweet Southern smile that could melt adamantium.
And then he knew. He had something to live for, because she still needed him. And the ones who hurt her, Magneto, Mystique; they were people for him to hate. And he knew he could love her now -- he didn't know in what way or to what degree, but he did know one thing. He could stick around. He could be the good guy.
He sat down and ate with her.
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