You’d love to go to her, but you’re afraid to break the silence. Her scent still lingers. You can taste her on your lips. Salty sweetness of her arousal overpowering the bitterness of rage and anger. Your fingers still warm from when you touched her. Small drop of blood between your middle and ring finger when you nicked her accidentally. It’s burning your skin. Burning because she was so carried away that she didn’t even notice when your claw parted her skin and you’d like to go to her to apologize and lick clean the small wound on her left breast, but silence of your room is too alluring and you just sit on the chair she guided you to, your head resting back and eyes closed. Besides, the door is locked. To get out you’d have to fuck up the lock, and then there would be nothing between you and the disturbing individuals.
Last screech and claws slide to their sheaths, relieving the pressure from muscles and vessels. Your fingers tingle and you feel like scratching your palms, but it’ll go away if you ignore it. It’ll soon go away. Just like the taste of your own blood, it’ll fade away soon, as soon as your healing knits up last shredded vessels from your ears that are still slowly trickling the red syrup to the back of your throat.
“Marie…”
Voice raspy, vocal chords rusty from being so rarely used. Marie. Not the kid. Not the Rogue. Marie. Even when storm so adamantly keeps referring her as the traitor, as something that doesn’t belong, she still uses her code name. Somehow it feels like it nullifies everything else she says. Makes void her claim that Marie doesn’t belong in here anymore. No normal person uses codename.
“Marie…”
Voice more clear now. She’s Marie to you. Not the kid. Not the Rogue. Just Marie. Your shield. Your home. Your world. Everything. Just few doors down the hall, guarding your sleep, and the key to your room, the key to your life with her life. You can see it. You can envy it. Small slip of steel nestled between her pert breasts under her nightgown. A place where nobody in their right mind would even dream to touch, not even now. They know. All of them. It was a death sentence before, and it is a death sentence even now to lay your hands on her.
“Marie…”
And she’s not yours. Not yours to protect. Not yours to fuck. Not yours to go to. She lives just few doors down the hall with Bobby Drake. You’d take her. You’d fuck her. You’d keep her, but you can’t because she’s not yours to have and hold. Another man’s got her heart and soul. You may have a piece of her, she’s given you a splinter from her core and made it clear that it’s something that belongs just for you, given out of free will, and she’s got you, all of you, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter because Drake is there to hold her, making love to her, keeping her safe and cherished. But for how long?
“Shit.”
You fucked it up. She didn’t notice the small cut just above her nipple. But Drake will wonder about her shredded pajamas. Drake will notice the cut when she picks a new top and pulls it on. Drake will notice the dark red rose of blood blossoming through the soft cotton, and he’ll ask her what is it all about. He’ll ask her, and she’ll tell him, because she’s not a liar. And now you find yourself wishing, hoping against hope that Drake isn’t every bit of a man he should be to be worthy of her, that he’ll just let it go as what it was to her, small sliver of comfort and reassurance offered to a friend when everything else was crumbling down like a house built on clay.
“Fuck.”
And you just know what will happen. You can already smell the scent of her tears. Can hear the soft whisper of bare feet hitting the thick carpet on the corridor, approaching your door. Key clinking against the dog tag she still carries around her neck.
“Fuck…”
Yes. You fucked it up. And there’s nothing you can do to make it right. Nothing you can say to erase what happened earlier. What is done is done, and she’s taken the fall for you. Does it make you a bastard when you can’t keep away the smile that’s spreading on your face when the lock is rattling and the doorknob starts to turn? Wipe off the grin before the door opens. Wipe it off, you pathetic bastard, you just ruined her whole fucking life with your stupid stunt, and she’s probably coming just to tell you that it’s over, that she’s going to pack her bags and move on, because she truly doesn’t have a place in here anymore. And you don’t have a say over that matter. You don’t. You don’t fucking have a say over nothing in her life; try to get it through your thick skull.
“Logan?”
Sneaking in. Keep your poker. Eyes closed. Head thrown backwards, hands splayed against the armrests. Sleeping. Yes. Sleeping.
“Logan? I just came… I wasn’t really thinking earlier. I didn’t mean to lock you up in here, I was just… I’ll leave the key to your desk. Good night.”
Creeping closer. Tiptoeing over the hard wooden floor. Standing so close you can feel the heat radiating from her, you bathe in it; enjoy the relaxing aura she carries within her. She’s leaning closer. Closer. Lips brushing your forehead. Your closed eyelids. Tip of your nose. Tickles, but you’re sleeping.
“I’ll be in my room if you need anything. I told Bobby not to ice you. Sleep well. Lock the door after me, okay? I don’t want Storm creeping up on you when she’s like that. I don’t trust her.”
Tiptoeing out. You can hear Bobby whispering something to her. Just outside of your door. Her answering. Bobby peeking in. Can see him through lowered lashes. There’s anger in his gaze, but also understanding. He’s not judging. Not judging even when his girlfriend returned with shredded pajama, clearly ravaged earlier.
“We’ll both be here if you need anything.”
You nod upon hearing his whisper. Then they’re both gone and you scramble hastily to the door that Drake left partially open and slam it shut, throw on the lock and the deadbolt you installed just few months ago because you were getting tired of the people sneaking in and trying to rescue you from your nightmares.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This one spawned a plot. One, maybe two more chappies to go.