i remember kneeling beside you in
the darkness
and attempting to catch the blood
between my fingers as it drained from you.
but the physician could not even heal
himself.
they had taken that away, stolen the gift.
in the end i could only watch.
--I Could Only Watch by Darkstar
September, seven years earlier:
He didn't need to be here for this-he'd walked out of Jean's lab two hours before and he knew she expected him to leave immediately, and the thought had teased him.
A lot of thoughts teased him though-the feel of Rogue's-Marie's-skin under his fingers, under his face when he felt his body leeching heat from it, but no tingle of reviving power. It stuck with him for far longer than he ever would have suspected-teased him with a soft itch under his skin, though perhaps that was merely his healing factor fixing any remaining damage. Absently, he flexed an arm-good as new. Flip of his wrist and the claws sliced outward, loud in the silence of pre-dawn, suddenly remembering how hot they felt sinking into Marie's chest. Shaking himself from the uncharacteristically intense memory, he let them slide back in, watching as the wounds healed.
No change.
The porch was silent-the X-idiots were wandering around, doing whatever they did post-mission. Logan knew downstairs, somewhere, Rogue's-Marie's-body was being prepared for burial. No funeral homes or medical examiners for a nameless runaway mutant, too many questions-Jean signed off on the death certificate with a sigh and didn't ask why he sat in the room to watch.
She'd asked him if he knew her name, though, and he'd said Rogue, softly, surprising himself, wondering why it was so important to keep her name close, something that he shared with her, with a dead girl that three days ago he'd never even knew existed.
He supposed he could be considered next of kin, in the very loosest sensem of the word. No one had asked how long he'd known her, no one had asked why he was with her. That should have surprised him, and before, he would have answered if they'd asked. Now, he didn't want to. That was something else that belonged solely to him-her name, her history, their history.
Or the lack thereof, as the case might be.
*I'll take care of you.*
*You promise?*
Yes, he had, and he thought about lighting his third cigar of the night. He had to wonder why he was still wearing gloves-he could smell her on them, the lightest, lingering trace of her imprinted into the leather that he hadn't discarded with the uniform. Quickly, he put down the cigar, pulling them off so the smoke from the cigar wouldn't further dilute it, tucking them into his pocket.
"Logan?" The door swung closed behind them, almost silent on the well-oiled hinges, then came the sound of heavy feet, crossing the distance between them before stopping just beside him. Scott.
The boy's scent was awash with heavy traces of shock-Logan recognized the signs, recognized more in his expression than he'd expected to find, far more familiar than he was comfortable with. Sick disgust, failure, a pounding, almost merciless anger that would target anyone and anything in range, and that odd control that Logan wouldn't pretend to completely understand, that let the younger man continue to function as long as he was needed. And he was needed-Logan read the demoralization of the other team members in every line of their bodies, had to respect the man beside him that was keeping himself together, and by extension, keeping his team together.
Logan wondered if he should pity him; his mission had failed-failed completely and absolutely. They'd gotten nothing out of this except a dead body and the knowledge that a portion of New York and a group of world leaders were going through some serious issues right now. They could be dead, dying, changing. He knew Scott was worrying about it, knew the Professor was awake downstairs, reading the reports, preparing for a worst-case scenario except-
--except there was a surreality to all this. Logan stared at the unlit cigar. For some reason up there-he hadn't even considered failure. Not really. Not concretely. He'd promised, and up until the moment her skin let him touch her, he'd believed, with a curious certainty, that it would work, that this one time, he could be more than just a
the loner, that-
--fuck, where the *hell* was this coming from?
"Scooter. Got lost looking for the bathroom?"
He expected hostility. Something. Even hoped for it, to drag some emotion out of himself that wasn't this strange inner silence. Maybe he was in shock too. She was just a girl-just a girl he'd picked up and knew for three days. A runaway, like a thousand other runaways, with the bad luck to be a mutant and the worse luck to have a mutation that an egomaniac had found useful. Nothing special, no one he'd cared about, and he hadn't-
"You okay?" asked Scott, voice low, and he dropped uninvited onto the step beside him. Something was extended in one hand that was steady, but Logan sensed it wouldn't stay that way too long. A bottle-some damn good whiskey from the scent-and Logan took it from him, absently turning it over to look at the label, confirm its quality.
"I'm fine. You?" Was he fine? Was this fine? He couldn't remember feeling like this before-as if he were waiting for something. He wasn't even sure for what.
"I'm sorry, Logan." Scott's voice was slightly hoarse-had to give the kid credit for control, because he was doing a damn fine job. Logan shrugged, pulling out his lighter and biting off the tip of the cigar, then considering, he pulled out another and tossed it into Scott's lap.
The younger man picked it up as if he expected it to bite him.
"I don't smoke."
"You look like you need to."
That earned him a laugh-not a real one, and the scent was changing, was different-Logan wondered why Scott wasn't with Jeannie, letting her give what comfort she could. Shit, he would be-would have pulled her into bed, let red hair and beautiful eyes start erasing the images that were burned into the empty spaces of Logan's mind, of dark hair streaked with white and closed eyes, warm flesh replacing the feel of cold, a living, breathing body driving out the empty weight of the dead.
The way those brown eyes hadn't opened. The way she hadn't breathed. The deafening lack of a heartbeat that he'd tuned himself in to hear. It was supposed to be there. When he touched her, he should have felt something-life, energy. Her. But there was nothing. Nothing but the painfully tiny weight of her body and the long neck titled back against his arm, the spill of lifeless brown and silver hair.
Remembering the sound of her scream, he jerked his lighter up, touching the tip of the cigar, then turning slightly to gaze at the younger man. Scott was studying the long brown cylinder with an abstracted look, like a student who knew the theory but not the practice.
"Bite the tip off."
The visored gaze jerked up and Logan almost thought he looked offended.
"I know how to smoke a cigar. I don't-"
"You said that. Do it anyway."
There was a pause while the visored gaze studied him, then flickered back to the cigar. Logan almost grinned at the soft sigh.
Scott obviously knew what he was doing-he bit the tip off with a grimace at the flavor, sliding it between his lips, and Logan lit it efficiently before tucking the lighter away in his jacket and drawing in a long breath of fragrant smoke.
"How old was she?"
Logan paused at that. She didn't have a name, an age, a family. When they buried her today, there would be no one to mourn her, no one to remember her other than as a temporary student, a failed mission, a fading memory. These people-they wouldn't remember her for long, with their saving the world creed and their numerous living charges.
She'd be buried here, as nothing more than potential.
"Sixteen," he said softly, staring into the driveway, at the puffs of dust that rose with the light early-morning wind. Seventeen? Maybe fifteen, but sixteen sounded right. Drew in another breath of smoke, holding it to excuse the way his eyes began to burn. She was so small on Jeannie's examining table-face starkly white in death, the harsh flourescents sucking away the little color that remained in her face, her lips. Letting out the smoke when his lungs began to burn, he looked at Scott briefly and saw the visored gaze was fixed somewhere distant.
"So young."
Young to be on the road. She'd touched three people since her change: the boy in her hometown; he, Logan; and Magneto, the bastard that had killed her up there-now locked securely up by the government. Dawn was rising soon, and Logan knew that he had to be away before then-had to. He couldn't be here to see them bury her. But that didn't seem right somehow-that no one would mourn her. They'd mourn Rogue, the mutant who had died-but somehow, they wouldn't be mourning Marie, the runaway girl Logan had first seen through the wire of a cage in a bar in Laughlin.
"I need to do rounds." Scott was standing up, snuffing out the cigar and tucking it in his jacket pocket. Logan glanced up and Scott shrugged a little. "The kids are upset."
Why the fuck should they be? Irrational anger unexpectedly boiled up from Logan's chest, and he heard the beginnings of a soft growl. They didn't know her, not really-they'd known her for two days, short fucking days. She'd-she'd attended some classes, and hadn't he seen her wandering around with some kid? Blond kid-
Logan stood up, smashing the cigar down on the edge of the porch. Being alone didn't seem as attractive as it had only ten seconds before. He didn't like the way the wind slid through the trees in the heavy silence-he could almost imagine it was her voice.
"I'll go with you."
The children were sleeping, mostly. Scott checked door to door, and Logan observed his care not to disturb them. Most of them probably didn't know what had happened, would find out in the morning, except a few who'd been sitting downstairs. Vaguely, Logan recalled the tiny group in pajamas by the rec room door, running up to Scott when he'd passed on his way outside, remembered someone asking about Rogue in a frightened voice.
He'd been out before he'd heard Scott explain what had happened, and hadn't really considered what Scott must have told them.
Logan stopped at sounds coming from the last door down the hall. Scott paused, giving him a curious glance.
"What?"
"Fifth door-someone's up." He shouldn't be doing this-he had no reason following this kid around the campus while he did bedchecks on little anklebiters, but it kept him from thinking, and he liked that. He liked the mindless task of looking at people who seemed perfectly content not to know that someone had died tonight.
Scott headed toward the door and Logan followed, glancing around briefly, taking in the scents. Someone had been crying-some anger, a little shock, nothing like what was coming off Scooter still, though. Scott stopped in front of the door, pausing briefly, before knocking once.
The silence that suddenly descended was not unexpected, and Scott knocked again before opening the door, stepping inside and stopping still. Logan moved so that he could see what-and realized with a shock whose room this was.
Marie's.
Her scent was soaked into it, battling against that of the four living kids crowded onto the floor and her bed. He moved closer, breathing it in almost unconsciously. It would fade soon, he knew-but so strong right now. It was as if-God, as if she was still here somewhere.
"Sir." Blond kid, face red-that was the one he'd seen walking with Marie. The boy pulled himself awkwardly to his feet, blinking at the sight of his teacher, probably not even seeing Logan standing just outside the door. "Sorry, sir, I-"
"It's okay, Bobby." Logan glanced at the small brunette on the floor, one of Marie's pillows under her arms. The steady dark gaze was fixed on Scott, but suddenly flickered to him in surprise. Asian girl-he wondered if Marie had met her. "Are the rest of you okay?"
There was a chorus of nods from the little group and Bobby-that was right, he remembered now-Bobby nodded mutely, not yet sitting back down.
"Jubilee, Kitty, you need to be in bed." Scott's voice was kind.
"We were-we were just talkin'," the Asian girl countered defensively, clutching the pillow a little tighter. Shit, she looked young- fifteen, sixteen? No older than Marie, certainly. Logan stepped in a little closer and Bobby's eyes widened at the sight of him. The girl didn't-the clear brown eyes met his without hesitation. "Hi-Logan?"
"Yeah." The other girl must be Kitty-and there was the fire-kid that 'Ro had called St. John, crouching almost protectively beside Bobby. He thought they were waiting for him to say something-shit if he knew what, and why the fuck was he here?
Most of these kids were runaways, the Professor had said during that tour, when he'd watched Rogue acclimatize herself to her new circumstances. She'd gone up in the world fast, from alone to truck to expensive Mansion and clean clothes and regular meals. Looking at the four children, he wondered if they'd been runaways too, and only by the grace of God finding their way here.
"...and get some sleep, okay? The funeral is tomorrow." Scott said, and Logan tuned out his voice. He didn't need this, didn't really give a shit about the girls who were giving him that look Marie had-as if they saw something that he didn't when he looked in a mirror. He suddenly wondered, for no reason, what the fuck Marie had been thinking, climbing into his camper. No matter how limited her options had been, it made him wonder. It was one of those things he would have asked her one day-if she'd lived.
If.
It was one of those things he'd never have the answer to, unless he decided to sit these two girls down and have them explain why they were watching him as if they weren't afraid at all, when by all rights they damn well should be.
Turning on his heel and ignoring Scott's surprised question, he went back down the hall, took the stairs two at a time and finding the elevator, blindly pushing in the code combinations the Professor had given him. Leaning back against the wall, he took a deep breath.
He could still smell her on him-she'd been all over his uniform, and God, he should shower again, because it was getting to him. That scent. That-
The doors opened and Logan bolted out, feeling as if he'd just escaped the labs again. He could hear his heart pounding, his breath coming too fast, flight-or-fight kicking into high gear without a check-in at his head for consultation. The sterile hallway held her scent perfectly from when they'd carried her-body-from the Blackbird.
Slightly surreal, stalking down the hall, following the dying scent of her until he was in Jean's lab, walking to the wide metal bed Jean had been examining her on. Jerking back the sheet with a hand that shook, he stared into the silent face of this girl he didn't know.
"Why the fuck did you get in the truck?"
She was so still-he remembered how still she could be-watching him in the ring with a combination of fascination and disbelief, sitting on that barstool, curling up in the truck seat beside him, brown eyes turned down, little smile trembling on her lips hidden by a fall of dark hair.
He remembered how she'd warned him about that guy with a knife, watching him as if she knew that he could never kill when she looked at him from only feet away. Remembered that same clear gaze when she'd looked up at him in the train and asked him for one thing.
*You promise?*
"What the fuck did you see, Marie?" he asked, and touched her skin with his bare hand-perfectly fucking safe skin now, and he'd give anything if it would start pulling at him, if he could feel that hot, electric current that hurt-but shit, he'd welcome it, he'd give anything for it. She should be up in her room, sleeping her night away, safe and secure in a new home with a new life, gossiping with those girls, doing whatever it was that teenaged kids did together.
She should have her eyes open to look at him with that frightening, addicting trust. A look that made him want to live up to whatever silly, girlish images she had of the man she thought he was...even made him, however briefly, want to be worth that look. Slowly, he ran a hand over her face-God, she was cold, like she'd never been alive at all. Memorizing her face by touch, over the strands of white laced hair, slowly over her shoulder, feeling fragile bones through thin skin.
She'd be buried today, forgotten in a few years. Those kids upstairs-they'd had lives before her and would have lives after her; this was nothing to them. To Scooter, to Jeannie-to them all, it was a failed mission for a little girl they hadn't even known.
"I would have known you, kid," he heard himself say softly, stroking back her hair.
He wanted to know now-wanted to know everything about her. Her family, her friends, her favorite color, her favorite food. He hadn't asked her anything useful in the truck, hadn't asked her all those questions that hadn't seemed important, because he was going to leave her at the next stop.
But now, he wanted to know everything-did she like the school, did she like that Bobby-kid. If she'd forgive him for failing.
Shit, of course not. He'd gotten her killed. Having his fun kicking that motherfucking Sabrewhatever's ass, playing around with that blue bitch, letting that psychotic bastard pin him down-she was screaming and all she'd wanted in her life had been to be safe.
He was going to forget her too, with enough time. He'd forget the light drawl in her voice, the tilt of her head. He'd forget-
"L-Logan?"
He jerked around, claws extended-but the little girl by the door didn't draw back. Jubilee, he thought-the brown eyes widened and she paused, like anyone with sense, but being one of the population of three so far that seemed to have something seriously wrong with her self-preservation instincts, she simply slipped inside, closing the door behind her. God, she was young-even younger down here, when he could look at Marie next to her.
"What the hell do you want?" He let the claws slide back in and her gaze followed, a little fascinated.
"J-just to see if you were okay." A little pause, but she didn't come any closer-eyes slipping to the bed where Marie was laying under that sheet before darting away. He wondered if she'd ever seen a dead body before. He had-he'd caused some of those deaths. Like this one. Like this girl.
"Fine kid. Get out." He wanted to turn his back on her. But-he didn't.
Jubilee didn't retreat, and he wasn't even surprised-see population of three theory. Instead, she stayed by the wall, watching him with brown eyes that seemed to want to creep inside his head and take a good look around. He could have told her it would be a bad idea all around for her to try-she'd run and never stop.
"She-she talked about you, you know."
He strangled the growl that rose up inside him. She *had* talked. All past tense. It didn't matter.
"I picked her up off the side of the road. Nothing in that."
Jubilee shrugged-he'd guess she was a little spitfire, no question, the way she raised an eyebrow at him.
"She thought it was more." A pause, and he realized that she was still in her nightclothes-little pajamas with fish on them. Marie had been wearing a nightgown-had anyone ever wondered why on earth she'd come to his room in the first place? Why had she done that? Why the fuck had she been wandering around the Mansion, and why had she come looking for him, why-"She liked you."
That just raised more questions he had no answers to; questions he was sure he would have asked her one day, after all this. Maybe on the lawn outside, she would have grinned up at him and answered, little gloved hands clasping her knee.
"You should go to bed."
Jubilee nodded, agreeing.
"Yeah, Mr. Summers'll have my ass if he finds out I have the access codes." She shrugged carelessly, and Logan watched her sidle to the door, giving him a sideways glance from the corner of her eyes. "I'm-I'm sorry. I didn't know her that well or anything but-but I'm sorry."
So was he. God, more sorry with every passing second. Sorry that he hadn't gotten her age, just so he'd know, so something would be on that stone besides that name and a date of death. There was that burning again in his chest-something in him trying to get out, he wasn't sure what. He pushed it back in, forcing it under control.
"Get out." His voice softened as she winced, slowly turned toward the door. "I'll walk you up in a second." No idea why he made the offer, turned his back, angry at himself, and heard her quiet acceptance before slipping out. He looked at Marie's face.
She was so thin-she hadn't been eating, had probably been half starved. She'd almost swallowed his beef jerky whole, then had smiled at him as if it'd been steak or something. He touched her face again, running a finger down her cheek gently.
There it was-right there. Right there-the line of her throat that he'd never seen on any woman before, the sideways tilt of her head when she'd asked him a question, the way she'd pursed her lips when she'd thought through her answer.
He wanted to remember-remember every single thing; sight, sound, and feel.
"I'll remember you, Marie," he said softly, leaning down and brushing a kiss across her forehead. The burning increased, but he didn't care, even when he pulled away, feeling the hot dampness on his face, seeing the drops on her forehead that he smoothed into her skin. "I won't forget." Not if those government fuckers got him in the labs again and sucked everything else out of him. Her scent, her smile, the way her eyes lit up, the sound of her voice, her name. Especially her name.
He walked Jubilee up to her room, thinking of Marie's smile, trying to brand her face into his consciousness completely. She wouldn't be forgotten, not by anyone here. When Jubilee tentatively asked him for his version of how he met Marie, he found himself telling her, starting from the moment he caught her scent in the cage. Later he sat by Jubilee's bed, watching her fall asleep and thinking of Marie and how this little girl couldn't be much older-just as lost, but not nearly as alone.
An hour later, he'd tracked down a pad of paper from the art room by smelling out the location of the paints, and then a pencil from the desk drawer. Sitting by the window as dawn spread rich-orange fingers across the sky, Logan began his first sketch. It was terrible and he tossed it on the floor, vaguely aware that there was something strange about what he was doing, but he didn't really care.
He could remember Marie.
When Jean tracked him down six hours later, he was surrounded by crumpled paper and two broken pencils. Logan thought-rather distantly, when he felt Jean touch his shoulder and ask if he was okay-that maybe in this picture, he'd get it right, get that tilt right, the fall of her hair, the curve of her throat.
That's when the dreams began, with the first finished sketch.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000