‘Look over your shoulder
And tell me what’s coming.’
--Mark Heard
It never ceases to amaze her even after all these years how fluently the slurred syllables slide off his tongue. It’s not a language she would have guessed that he spoke, but when she thinks about it, she can see how it makes sense. He is, after all, Canadian. But there is a difference between Canadian French and Parisian French, and he speaks them both with disarming ease.
She isn’t a stranger to this city of lights and neither is he, nor are they strangers to each other, but the faint music wafting up from the café a few streets over from their fourth-floor flat seems to falter and hang in the tense air. She is annoyed that he is standing by the window but she refuses to say anything about it. She is sure that he hears the occasional harshness in her exhale that she cannot help, a signature of her frustration, but he doesn’t look at her.
“I hate accordions,” she finally murmurs, turning over onto her stomach on the queen-sized bed, staring blankly at the wall with its yellowing paint. Antique white, she catalogues automatically.
He grunts softly but she isn’t expecting any further response, so when he murmurs quietly, “You didn’t always,” she is surprised enough to blink but not enough to turn over.
There are a lot of things I didn’t always do, she thinks to herself and a heavy sigh escapes her. “I hate this city,” she whispers miserably, her eyes closing.
This time, his lack of response is enough to induce her to look over her shoulder, and the _expression on his face gives her pause. A twinge of guilt settles in her stomach and she rolls over to her side, watching him. “Come away from the window, Logan,” she coaxes, and he slowly turns his head to look at the bed, appearing to consider it.
After long moments, he simply shifts his gaze to the street outside again, and she flops onto her back, pushing an irritated breath through clenched teeth.
“You don’t hate the city,” he says, and she lifts her head, her cynically questioning gaze finding him. “You hate me.”
“Logan, no I –” She seems to be sighing all too much lately, and she’s growing to resent that as much as her reasons for it. She bites off her exhalation and rolls her eyes instead. “Don’t be such a drama king,” she mutters, throwing one arm above her head on the pillow, the other resting across her stomach.
He shrugs one shoulder matter-of-factly. “You do.”
It slips out before she even realizes she’s going to say it. “I didn’t always.”
His eyes finally meet hers, and for the first time in weeks, she sees something in them beyond weariness and determination. There is the ghost of warmth, the presence of a memory, and the lines on his face soften infinitesimally as he murmurs quietly, “I know.”
“Logan,” she whispers, almost desperately, and she doesn’t know just what she’s asking him for. His gaze holds hers for a moment longer before it returns to the soft golden glow of the lamps on the rain-drenched streets below.
The moment is gone… just like everything else.
‘I was a free man in Paris:
I felt unfettered and alive.’
-Joni Mitchell
Eight Years Earlier
The woman on the radio has a beautifully smoky voice, perfect for the subdued jazz that accompanies her, but Marie can’t understand a word she’s singing. “I wish I knew French,” she smiles, and he grins back at her.
“Be glad you don’t,” he smirks. “It’d ruin the song for ya.”
She snorts at him in amusement, and his hand moves over the pale, concave slope of her small waist, feeling the gooseflesh beneath his palm. “Cold?” he asks. “Want me to close the window?”
She shakes her head quickly, and he chuckles. Despite the chill of December that hangs in the Paris morning, the window to their small apartment is open about six inches; the three apartments below theirs are contributing enough heat through the hardwood floor that they have to let some of it out in order to breathe comfortably.
The white cotton sheets are twisted about their limbs, and she kicks one leg petulantly in an attempt to free her ankle. He reaches down to assist her, sliding the makeshift hangman’s noose off, and then his hand skates up the inside of her leg until his fingertips caress the crease between her thigh and her body. She draws in a small breath and looks at him with heated eyes, her legs falling open in invitation.
“Sore?” he questions, but she shakes her head again and he smiles. Her control has been improving gradually over the years and now she can hold onto most of it for hours at a time, but not without constantly drawing just the surface energies of whomever she’s touching. Logan has been feeling the slow drain, like low-voltage electricity, humming along his body for a long time and knows that his healing mutation has probably taken care of whatever discomfort she would otherwise be feeling.
He lowers his head to her skin, licking up her rib cage, and she twists, giggling softly about how it tickles. His mouth finds her pale peach nipple and latches on, and her giggles quickly turn to breathy moans as she arches into him, her hands threading through his hair to hold him to her. They have been making love for hours and neither of them is in a hurry now, so they take their time pleasuring each other with hands and mouths and tongues and the long, luxurious stretches of satisfied bodies.
When he finally enters her again, pushing into the newly-familiar warmth between her legs, she looks up at him with eyes that burn with a depth of love he’s only guessed at before but now feels arcing through his own veins. “Merry Christmas, Logan,” she whispers, and he kisses her softly, tenderly.
“Merry Christmas, Marie.”
‘Hands rhythmically grope the sheets again for you
And, off-rhythm, the time slows to make moments eternal’
--Sixpence None the Richer
Present-Day
She awakens with a start and sits up, clutching the covers to her as the chill of the room slides beneath them. The bed beside her greets her hand with impersonal coolness and she automatically looks for him, panic rising in her throat, but he isn’t anywhere to be found. Logan, however, is still by the window and suddenly everything comes rushing back. It is too much for her to handle. Her nerves are taut as a piano wire and her emotions are raw and tender, and he has been at the window for the past two days, only taking breaks to use the bathroom. And he’s not the one she wanted to see.
“Goddammit, Logan, get away from the fucking window,” she snarls, temper rising swiftly beyond rational thinking when he doesn’t acknowledge her.
She swings her legs off the mattress, the cold air no longer felt beneath the heat of her anger, and stops in shock when he barks, “Stay down!”
“What the hell for?” she demands, sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling her nipples push against the thin cotton of her camisole in response to the winter atmosphere and the adrenaline in her body.
“Don’t be an idiot, Rogue. They’ll see you.”
“Oh, but they haven’t seen you anytime in the last fucking week you’ve been standing there because you’ve suddenly developed a *third* mutation of being invisible!”
He doesn’t acknowledge her outburst, gazing unblinkingly out at the street. She glares at him for a little while longer, but she is exhausted and her fury quickly deflates, leaving her cold and drained. Wrapping the comforter around her, she stands beside the bed, ignoring his sharp glance.
Halfway covering a yawn, she asks in a bored tone, “What the hell are you lookin’ for, anyway?”
“Anybody suspicious,” he answers, and she snorts. “What?”
She laughs, and her fatigue quickly becomes evident as the giggles turn breathless and high-pitched, sounding more hysterical as she collapses to the floor and tries to muffle them in the comforter.
“What?” he demands again when her snickers fade.
“That’s perfect. That’s just great,” she whispers, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes. “You’re just gonna stand there for the rest of your life, lookin’ for anybody who don’t look right. They’re gonna find us, and you’re gonna be so damn old you won’t even be able to keep them away from the skeleton on the bed that used to be me…” And suddenly the tears aren’t from laughing anymore and she pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her forehead on them while she lets the passion of loss and confusion sweep over her.
“Logan,” she whispers after her quiet sobs have become sniffles. “I’m tired. I’m tired of running.”
His silence bears the heavy trace of emotion now, and she turns her head so that she can peek at him. She can tell something is working at him but he is keeping it deep inside, his dark eyes roving the darker alleys and the shadows in every doorway. She wonders how many of those shadows are just in his head.
“Can’t we stay here?”
“No.” His answer is quiet, but sharp.
“I’ll learn French. I already know a little.”
“No.”
“Then let’s go back to New York –”
“No fucking way in hell.” And this time his head snaps around to pin her with a glare, anger smoldering in his expression.
“Dammit, Logan, I’m not a child!” she shouts, and he flinches, fury sparking in his eyes. She knows he is angrier that she has increased their chances of being discovered than the fact that she yelled at him, but right now she wants to push as many buttons as she can. She needs a release. “I haven’t been a child in years.”
“I know that,” he growls, and she can tell there is more that he wants to say but won’t.
“Go on,” she prompts as he turns back to the window. “Say it.”
“Say what?” he murmurs, and she hears defeat in his tone.
“Whatever the hell it is you want to tell me.”
He appears to consider it but just shakes his head, his attention focused on some imaginary threat below their apartment. She pushes herself up off the floor, standing by the bed for a moment to see if he will tell her to get out of sight, but it is as if she doesn’t exist. Finally, she climbs back into the bed and lies down, pulling the comforter up to her chin.
“You were right,” she finally whispers. “I do hate you.”
‘Maybe I’m too young to keep good love from going wrong,
But I’m much too old to just break free and run.’
--Jeff Buckley
Five Years Earlier
She remembers how she drifted away from Bobby. After Alkali Lake, their relationship couldn’t stay the same anymore. He wanted to take it further, but she didn’t want to go that far. She wasn’t sure yet that she was comfortable trying something as big as sex – and, she admitted, some part of her was holding out for someone more, well, perfect. She liked Bobby, but she couldn’t see herself spending the rest of her life with him.
But because she wouldn’t let the relationship go forward and it had to go somewhere, she told him that maybe it was better for both of them if they saw other people. She knew he thought she was specifically referring to Logan for herself, but even if she treasured the idea as a fantasy, she didn’t think it would ever happen. And then it did.
Bobby found a girl he liked very much and Rogue was happy for them. Logan had been a constant around the mansion since Jean’s death, though he didn’t take an active part in community life. After she broke up with Bobby, she had plenty of time to sit with him and sneak sips from his beer. He let her; she only had five months until she turned twenty-one and he was never a stickler for staying too closely within the lines.
It worries her that there is no longer a fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach when she thinks about the first time he kissed her, the bitter taste of the shared brew sharp on her tongue, or the first time he touched her skin-to-skin, his hand sliding under her shirt in the dark as they sat together on the back steps, or even the night she gathered every last shred of her courage and fell in love with him for real as he kept his eyes on hers without looking away and made to love to her for the first time.
She worries that she is drifting away from Logan too and fears that it means something is wrong with her; both of her boyfriends have just sort of…faded from her life. She wonders if that means she is the one who is really fading. Logan is a drifter and he likes it that way. She doesn’t mind that; she is just afraid that she is caught in a different current now. Even though he calls the mansion home, he roams for weeks at a time. At first she went with him and saw the world through a rosy haze of love and physical satisfaction. She thinks she has had sex in at least five different countries and more states than she can count on both hands.
But she grew tired of traveling, wanted a place to put her feet down, and so she’s been staying at the mansion while he’s been moving around. They are still ‘together’ and every time he comes back he sleeps in her bed. Or she sleeps in his while he’s gone; she isn’t quite sure how that works. But it’s beginning to feel like routine now, and she doesn’t miss him when he goes away. She worries about what that means.
She looks over at him, and his eyes are open, watching her. They are at once regretful and unabashed, and she knows he knows what she’s thinking. He’s thinking the same thing and the real sucker-punch is that it doesn’t bother either of them.
“It’s over, isn’t it?” she asks quietly, and his voice is just as soft when he answers.
“I think so.”
She frowns a little and places her hand tenderly on his cheek. “It was good, while it lasted.”
He turns to kiss her palm affectionately and agrees. “It was.” He places a hand on her waist and squeezes just a little. “I’m leaving again tomorrow to go to Japan. I’ll ask Chuck to have a room ready when I come back.”
She nods and her smile is sad. “I did love you.”
He kisses her mouth gently. “I know.” His lips find her forehead. “You, too.”
She closes her eyes, sleep finding her as she lies beside him, and she can’t tell if the beginning of tears in her throat is from relief or regret. When she awakens the next day, he’s gone as if he were never there and for a brief moment she misses him.
She thinks it’s an awfully sad way to spend Christmas morning.
By the next Christmas, however, there is a new face under the mistletoe with her and she wonders sometimes why Logan never came back.
‘I’d like to say you’re gonna make it, children
Like to say that everything will be all right.’
--Bryan Duncan
Present-Day
“Marie.”
The voice is soft and whispery through the haze of sleep that surrounds her, and she feels a comforting warmth wrapped around her body. “Remy?” she whispers, turning her head towards the voice.
“No. It’s Logan.”
She jerks awake sharply, sitting up so quickly she almost slams into him. He pulls back in time to avoid a bloody nose, but just barely. “Sorry,” she murmurs, rubbing her hands over her face and keeping them there for a moment just in case the tears start before she can stop them. “Did you want something?” she asks once she is certain her voice is under her control.
“We’ve got to go.” He levers himself from the bed and begins throwing things into their packs, a dark shape in a darker room.
“What? Why?”
“We’ve been here too long. It’s getting dangerous.”
She is feeling frazzled, frayed, and pushed past her limits. She can’t keep moving like this. “Okay. Have a nice life.” She lies back down and snuggles under the covers, feeling the chill from the rapidly cooling spot where he had been lying.
“Marie—”
“Logan, you haven’t called me Marie in at least five years.”
“I haven’t seen you in nearly that long.” She can’t see him clearly in the dimness, but she thinks she can feel his eyes on her. They burn, as always.
“Yeah. So. You just go on your merry little way, and I’ll stay here and learn how to speak French. I’m not going anywhere.”
He is in front of her in less time than it takes her to blink and his breath is hot on her face as he hisses, “Rogue, listen to me. I saw what they did to your boyfriend. I was *there* and I couldn’t stop it. I’m not waiting around to risk seeing them do the same thing to you.”
She clenches her jaw until her head throbs and she feels the enamel of her teeth grinding together violently, but it doesn’t stop the tears that won’t be held back any longer. She’s been fighting them for six months and she isn’t strong enough to do it anymore. He sighs and his body seems to relax minutely as he climbs onto the bed and gathers her to his chest as she sobs.
Once she quiets, he whispers softly, “I’ve watched too many people die to watch it happen to you. I loved you once.”
She doesn’t say anything for a long time, but finally she sniffles and murmurs, “How did she die, Logan?”
He shudders and tenses, but answers her in a steady voice. “I was in the garden, meditating.” She wrinkles her forehead in a valiant attempt to picture that, but fails. “A sniper got her through our bedroom window.”
“How long were you married?”
A sharp intake of breath and then, “Two days.”
She looks up at him and her sympathy is genuine as she whispers, “I’m sorry.”
He drops his arms from the embrace and stands, running a hand through his hair. He half-shrugs, then nods. “Thanks.”
Without another word, she slips from the bed and picks up where he left off, tucking articles of clothing into their bags. Now that her emotions have subsided, she feels the nip of the winter air and wrestles a long-sleeved shirt on over her head before continuing to pack. When his gaze follows her curiously, she looks at him and asks quietly, “So where are we going?”
He sighs and sinks onto the bed, looking a little lost. “Don’t rush,” he finally says. “We might as well wait ‘til morning. They haven’t found us for the last few days; a few hours won’t kill us.” He quirks a wry grin. “Hopefully.”
She slowly drops the bag she is holding and walks to the window where she looks out at the scene that has held his attention for the last three days. There aren’t many lights at this time of night, but she can see enough to tell that it is a uniquely European scene, aged and elegant, and she runs her hand through her hair, feeling her own multitude of years creeping up on her. She really isn’t a child anymore, and she thinks suddenly that she doesn’t have time for these childish games she has been playing.
“Logan,” she murmurs without turning to face him. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For hating you. You didn’t deserve it.” She wraps her arms around herself and focuses intently on the dim streets below. “It wasn’t your fault things didn’t work out between us the first time. You’re not the reason they finally passed the MRA and have been hunting us down like dogs.” Tears well up in her eyes and she manages to whisper in a shaky voice, “You didn’t kill Remy.”
She does turn then, and though the image of his face is wavy and blurred through her tears, she can tell his expression is pained. “I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry Jean died. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it last with us. I’m sorry Mariko was killed. I’m sorry– ” She chokes and pauses to compose herself before continuing, “I’m sorry for everything.”
He holds her gaze for long moments and whispers, “So am I.”
She nods her acceptance and wipes her tears on her sleeve before looking back out the window. A thought occurs to her and a sudden crooked smile limps across her face. “Hey, Logan?”
“Yeah?”
“Merry Christmas.”
He looks startled, but his eyes lighten just a little and he almost chuckles as he answers her, “Merry Christmas, Marie.”
The End
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Author's Chapter Notes:
"Allumé" is French for "lit." This is a fic I wrote last Christmas, but just now got around to polishing for postability. This takes place approximately ten years after X2, assuming Rogue was about 19 in X2. The official website listed Anna Paquin’s birthday for Rogue’s, so I’m going by that. Summary quote from “Treasure of the Broken Land” by Mark Heard.