He was at the third town before he realized that he missed her. He wallowed in the reassurance over his near sightedness that he'd never missed anyone before. Not once. Not in the whole fifteen years, even when he had stayed in one place for a time, long enough to make some acquaintances but short enough so as not to be noticed, not to be asked embarrassing questions he had no answers to.
She'd been the first and somehow that was comforting.
Nevertheless as soon as he recognized the feeling, that emptiness in the pit of his stomach, the tense, edgy sensation he got, the disappointment that every brown haired woman he saw failed to have two bolts of white adorning her face; he growled in agitation and shook himself as if to purge her from his consciousness.
Regardless, that night he dreamed about her, his subconscious rendering a perfect image of her in his mind despite his effort to forget her. He dreamed he was kissing her and it was as arousing as it was innocent. Long, soft kisses, kisses that gave as much as they took. Sweet kisses that were enough in and of itself, more intimate than the best sex he could remember, more special.
The best part was that he was touching her, his hands twined in her hair, her lips soft and sweet under his.
He woke up sweating, vowing to rid himself of her for good. He didn't need this complication, he'd promised to look after her and he would, he'd go back and protect her, he'd die for her he just couldn't allow himself to miss her.
He told himself that he didn't miss her while he ate his breakfast at a fast food joint that served everything with extra fat. He didn't miss her when he saw the snow begin to fall again outside or when a woman with chocolate brown eyes asked him for directions.
Missing her would mean he cared and the great Wolverine cared about nothing but himself. Missing her here, now when he was searching for the truth to his all-elusive past would mean that he cared about something more than his quest, more than answers.
He cared about her he just couldn't miss her.
In the fifth town he found himself paralyzed outside a store window, eyes wide in wonder at the beauty sculptured before him, his hands itching to stroke its cool curves. It was the accidental bump of a man behind him that made him growl and break eye contact. When he turned back all he saw it was only a violin, its craftsmanship exquisite even to his untrained eye but the wonderment and desire to touch it was gone.
That night he rang her for the first time. He'd been gone a week and he cursed himself for his weakness. Her breathy excitement when she sighed his name was worth the blow to his manhood but he had to know because he had never been affected by music before, least of all simply by an instrument.
Do you like the violin kid? He'd asked out of the blue, cutting off her happy exclamation of life at the mansion. It was the only thing he could think of, that somewhere along the way while she was sucking him into herself to heal he got some of her by mistake.
She'd been flustered and confused by the question stammering a quick yes before the obvious why?
Just curious is all kid, he'd lied hoping she'd elaborate.
My mother was a music teacher, her husky drawl mesmerizing. She played the piano, it was her favorite, tried to get me to love it like she did but I couldn't. The violin was my passion ever since I saw the State Orchestra perform when I was seven. There's just something about its sound that radiated through every pore of my body. I feel most alive when I play.
She'd ended the conversation with a quite Be careful, I miss you. All he'd managed was a grunt.
The next day he went back and brought the violin. It reminded him of her but he told himself he was holding on to it because the town didn't have a viable courier, he didn't want it broken.
The real reason was that he missed her. He'd take the violin out of its leather case at night and simply stare at it, not touching or trying to play but just staring so as to get the wide eyed fascination of its beauty, the feeling that was Marie inside his head, the feeling that made him believe she was with him, the feeling that eased the missing a little.
He was too busy trying to understand the missing that it was another week before he realized he missed more than her friendship. He was in a bar, not fighting just drinking when she'd sat down next to him and started flirting, she hadn't even bothered to disguise what she wanted and that was him.
He'd flirted back shamelessly, aware were it was going, admiring her petite but well filled out frame, porcelain skin and dark brown hair. It wasn't till he finally looked in her eyes and noticed that they were green and not chocolate brown that he realized. It hit him in the gut so hard he nearly doubled over. She wasn't Marie so she wouldn't do.
He went back to the motel he was staying in and destroyed the room in anger at himself for taking the one pure thing he'd ever had and turning it into more, turning it into something that could hurt her.
His love could hurt her. He was too old, to cynical, too jaded, to rough. He wasn't what was best for her.
Nevertheless he still missed her, he still carried around the violin, still looked at it each night before he went to bed, even when Marie started to fade from his mind.
He still rang her every few days and he didn't know who was more surprised, her or him.
The conversations were mostly one sided, her doing most of the talking and him grunting when appropriate. He just needed to hear her voice, to know she was alright, to elevate missing her just a little.
They ended the same way though every time. With a hushed be careful, I miss you, and that warmed him more than anything else.
It wasn't until after he'd been to the base, seen the desolation and found a little of the procedure that had been done to him, enough to wonder if he wanted to know more yet enough to know he needed to know why, that he called her again.
She'd been worried he could tell but she hadn't said anything, not even to ask when he'd be back. He was glad because he didn't know. He missed her more each day yet dreaded going back simply because if he discovered she loved him as he loved her nothing would keep him from her, not even himself. He knew that was wrong, knew she could find better than him, so much better.
So he grunted at her be careful, I miss you, and went back to his old life, went back to the fighting and drinking at least, the whoring did nothing for him now. He spent his evenings with Marie's violin.
He vowed to stop the calls and managed to limit them to twice a week. The days cascading from today I can ring Marie to a few more days, to today I can ring and back again until he managed, through shear stubbornness and too much alcohol, to not ring her for a week straight.
He crashed on the eight day, exactly three minutes past the week mark. He'd rung but hadn't said anything her husky sleep ridden hello going unanswered. Somehow she'd known it was him and had whispered his name.
He'd just kept breathing, hoping she wouldn't hang up the phone. She'd talked about nothing and everything, her voice low from sleep, he'd listened to every breath, breathing her in, having his fix, and when his pride could take it no more he'd grunted, staying on the line to hear her usual parting words only this time they'd been different.
Logan be careful, I love you.
And he'd been made whole.
He'd lasted two more days till he cracked. Two days of trying to ignore what she'd said, two days trying to tell himself she meant love you like a brother, two days of listening to the Marie in his head tell him he was wrong, tell him he was afraid and so was she but she loved him.
On the second day he realized he had to go back, had to know for sure, had to stop missing her.
On the third day he posted the violin, knowing that it would get to her before he could. He scribbled her a note, hoping she'd understand but wanting words of love to come from his lips for the first time, he'd never said them before and wanted it to be right. So he'd written the next best thing:
Marie,
I miss you.
Logan
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