Early August was still high tourist season at Yellowstone. The campgrounds within the park were usually booked months in advance, and Tom rarely had a slot or two free at any given time between April and September. He had just received a last-minute cancellation for one of the r.v. slots when the camper pulled up to the office.
He noticed the plates first. British Columbia, unusual. Ontario, sure, but B.C.- didn't see those too often. The camper wasn't too remarkable-smallish- big enough for two or three maybe in a tight squeeze. Not new but not all that old either, relatively clean, looked well kept.
A man got out of the driver's side and marched up to the office. Tom tried to look busy for a few seconds.
"Got any vacancies?" the man asked.
Tom could have sworn the guy growled.
"You're in luck. Just got a cancellation a few minutes ago."
Tom kept his face in a carefully neutral expression as he sized up the stranger. *'Whoa, check out this guy's hair!* The hair on the man's head was so unruly that I stood up in two points. Tom hadn't seen sideburns like that since the early seventies.
"You need a hook-up?" Tom asked.
"Yeah."
The man pulled out an impressive wad of cash.
"How long'll you be stayin'?" Tom croaked, his eyes still on the cash.
"Just one night."
Tom felt mildly disappointed. Still, a guy carrying that much cash around might be up to something shady.
The door swung open again and a little girl stepped into the office. She bore a startling resemblance to the man: same unruly hair, same canny, golden-hazel eyes. She wore an identical outfit- dark blue t-shirt and jeans, although he doubted the man was wearing pink sneakers. Tom couldn't see the guy's feet over the desk.
"Daddy?" the girl called.
"Yeah, baby."
The man turned his head toward the girl. Tom couldn't believe the change in the man's expression, suddenly all warm and soft.
"Can I get a soda?"
The man's brow furrowed for a second.
"Just one, darlin'. But no Coke. You'll be up all night."
The girl pouted.
"Ooooh. Ooookay."
She vanished silently out the door. Tom guessed in the direction of the soda machine outside the office.
"Cute kid," Tom said.
"Sure is," the man said fondly. He signed the registration form where Tom indicated and forked over the cash for one night.
"Married?" Tom asked.
The man looked up sharply. For a second, Tom thought he wouldn't answer.
"Divorced."
"Your ex care about you taking her little girl camping?"
"Nope. Doesn't get to say. I got full custody."
"Wow. Cool, but a lot of work," Tom said.
"Nope. She's a good kid. We get along great."
"Must be hard, though, raising a kid by yourself," Tom commented.
The man shrugged and grunted. Tom sensed there was a whole lot of story behind this man and his daughter, but he could also tell he wasn't going to get much more out of him.
It was an unusual combination, too, father and daughter. He saw lots of guys traveling with guys, guys with girls and fathers with sons, but almost never fathers with daughters. Sometimes there was a guy who _said_ he was traveling with his daughter, but the girl was usually quite a bit older and you could tell something weird was going on. Tom didn't get any "kiddie porn" vibes off this guy though, and the little girl seemed happy enough.
"You've got number thirty-six," Tom said to the man, and pointed up the road. "Just follow the loop to the right, then follow the signs and arrows. We have a laundry and showers back here at the main building as well as a snack bar and arcade that are open 'til ten. Should be an easy walk from your site."
"Thanks," said the man.
"Have a good time," Tom called, but the stranger was already out the door.
Tom only saw the man and his daughter one more time. Two hours after the camper pulled around the bend towards site number thirty-six, he saw the man and the little girl walk by the office to the main building. The man was carrying what looked like a drawstring laundry bag. The girl chatted merrily away, her face turned to her father with a happy smile.
An hour-and-a-half later, Tom saw them walking in the opposite direction, the man still carrying the laundry bag, the girl now carrying a paper cup with a straw. They disappeared around the bend in the road, the girl still chatting, the man nodding and smiling at her.
By the time Tom started his shift early the next morning, the camper was gone. Curious, he pulled out the registration card the man had filled out the previous afternoon. "John Logan" it read in block letters with a sprawling signature at the bottom. In the "Guest Number Two" space was the name "Rose Logan".
Tom never saw John or Rose Logan again.
Logan pulled off the highway near Toronto to look for a phone. He found one in a drugstore parking lot ten minutes later.
"I'm gonna call Grampa Charlie," he said as he climbed out of the truck.
"Okay, Daddy," Rose chirped. Daddy called Grampa Charlie once a week to 'check in'.
Rose watched her father pick up the phone and dial a long series of numbers. He turned to Rose with the receiver to his ear and waggled his fingers at her. She waggled hers back, giggling.
"Hi, Charles." Logan's attention snapped back to the phone when he heard the 'click', then Charles's voice.
Since it was a warm day, Rose had her window rolled down. She could hear her father's end of the conversation with Charlie, her unofficial grandfather.
"Yeah, just checking in...No I hadn't heard... What do you mean, 'they let her out', don't they know...Yeah, yeah, okay...No, I'm gonna take Rose straight to the cabin...Yeah, I do...because I'm her father, dammit!...Sorry, sorry...I'll call you if I need help or somethin', thanks...No, thanks, really...Watch out for yourselves, okay? If she comes around, call the fucking police, okay? Don't try to help her or some shit like that!....Yeah, thanks Charles...Yeah, goodbye."
"Uh oh," Rose said when she saw Daddy's face. He was mad. Really, really mad.
Logan stalked back to the truck and jumped in. He pulled out of the parking lot considerably faster than he had pulled in.
Rose regarded Logan silently for the next half hour, trying to gage his mood. Logan never spoke or took his eyes off the road. Finally, Rose felt she needed to speak.
"Daddy?" she asked tentatively.
"Yes, baby."
He didn't sound mad. At her, anyway.
"Are you mad at me?"
Logan's face softened.
"No, baby, I'm not mad at you."
"Who are you mad at, then?" asked Rose.
"I'm only kinda mad. I'm mostly- upset," Logan replied.
"Why are you upset?"
Logan paused and debated how much of the truth he should tell her. He decided honesty, minus the small, ugly details, was the best approach.
"They let Mommy out."
"Oh."
Rose had only the most vague memories of her mother, whom they had left for good when Rose was four. Her earliest memories of Mommy were happy but fuzzy. The clearer, later memories of Mommy were mostly of her yelling, throwing things and hitting Daddy.
"Is Mommy going to come after us?" she asked Logan in a small voice.
Logan's heart lurched in his chest. It was terribly, terribly wrong for a six-year-old to be afraid of her mother.
"No," he lied.
Logan bought the cabin the same month his divorce was final. The original owner had passed away in his sleep at age eighty-three in the bedroom Logan now used as his own. The old owner's daughter was glad to sell it- she told Logan that she had no desire to drive the eight hours northeast from Edmonton just to sit around in the wilderness by herself. Logan and Rose loved it. Logan kept it well stocked in preserves and canned goods, a cord or two of wood stacked by the back door. Eight months out of the year, they called it home. In the late spring and summer, they packed up the camper and meandered across the continent, sometimes stopping to visit Grampa Charlie and Logan's old friends in Westchester.
Logan and Rose had been on their way home when he found out his ex-wife was on parole. His plan was to head straight for the cabin, cutting three weeks off their intended traveling time. Rose didn't protest, which told him that she was more frightened than she let on.
They pulled into their driveway shortly before dark on the fifth day. Logan decided to leave the major unpacking for the morning, taking only the perishable food and some clothing from the camper to the house. He unshuttered only the front door and both kitchen windows, then checked the propane tanks in the back. There was plenty of fuel and everything was hooked up fine, so he could start up the refrigerator and the pilot light on the stove no problem.
They had a quick dinner. Afterwards, Logan washed the dishes and Rose dried. They packed a few essentials away in the cupboards and the clothes in the dressers.
Rose went obediently to bed for a change, nearly stumbling in her exhaustion on her way to her bedroom. She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Logan kissed his daughter goodnight, then went out on the back porch for a cigar and a beer. He wondered where Marie was tonight, and if she already knew Logan and Rose were no longer living at the mansion. With any luck, it would be years before she figured out where they were. No one, not even Charles, knew Logan's address and telephone number. All Charles knew was Logan and Rose were somewhere in Canada.
Logan got up and stubbed out his cigar. Fifteen minutes later, he crawled into bed. He lay awake for a very long time, staring at the ceiling. He wondered at what point his life had gone terribly, irrevocably wrong. He wondered if there had been a moment, a day, an hour when he might have saved Marie from herself. He pleaded with her several times to get help, but she always refused. Even during her lucid moments, which became farther and farther between, she couldn't seem to grasp the damage she was inflicting on her marriage and her family. Logan endured much- first verbal, then physical abuse. The day she turned on Rose, Logan realized things had gone too far. He waited until Marie went off to work, then packed their terrified daughter in the car, along with a few clothes and toys, and drove to Westchester.
Marie figured out where they were pretty quickly. After a couple of embarrassing and terrifying incidents, Logan went to see a lawyer. He filed the restraining order and the divorce papers on the same day.
The last time Logan spoke to Marie was at the prison. She was just beginning a two-year sentence for assault and battery and assault with intent to kill, after throwing a man through a plate glass window at a restaurant.
"He called me a mutie," she muttered, unremorseful. She barely registered Logan's presence.
When Logan left the prison that day it was clear the woman he married was dead and gone. He felt an odd compassion for her. More than anyone, Logan knew what it was like to wage war inside your mind. In his case, Logan and the Wolverine coexisted in an uneasy truce, Logan usually dominant, Wolverine, the hunter-killer, emerging in times of great stress or danger.
The body of his former wife was now controlled by the amalgam that was Rogue. There was nothing left of Marie behind those dark, angry eyes.
Logan lay awake for a very long time. When he finally succumbed to sleep, he rested fitfully, waking several times in the night from half-remembered nightmares and a pervasive feeling of dread. It took an entire pot of coffee the next morning to get him going for the day.
Logan and Rose settled easily back into their old routine. Extra weeks before the school year meant extra time that Rose could spend with Monica, her best friend and 'next door' neighbor, who lived almost a kilometer down the dirt access road that was their 'street'. They spent most days at Monica's house. Logan suspected that Monica's mother thought Logan was more than a little strange, and preferred to keep the girls under her own watchful eye. Logan didn't mind having the time to himself.
Two weeks before the start of the school year, Logan dropped Rose off at Monica's and headed for the hardware store. It was a perfect day to finish off the work on the house. Winter would come soon and stay long. He picked up new hinges for the kitchen window shutters and a big roll of fiberglass insulation for the attic floor. They'd lost way too much heat through the roof the previous winter. He left the roll of insulation in the back of the truck when he pulled in his driveway, but took the bag of hinges and screws with him to the toolshed.
He noticed the door to the shed was unlatched and slightly ajar. *Goddammit, I told Rose not to play in there.* He was angry and a little surprised that she had disobeyed him after his last lecture. It wasn't a safe place for a child to play. Logan retrieved his hammer and drill from his workbench and looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing was knocked over and the nozzle on the kerosene tank was still on tightly. He closed the door and deliberately latched it before heading for the kitchen.
An hour later the shutters were successfully rehung and had new, rust-free hinges. Logan let himself in through the back door into the sunny kitchen. He washed his hands in the sink and grabbed a beer from the fridge. The insulation could wait until after lunch. Right now, he needed a break. He grabbed the paper off the kitchen counter and sat down at the table. The luxury of having the house to himself for a few hours meant he could take his time and read the paper from front to back and savor his beer before his next chore.
Logan spread the paper across the table and took a healthy swallow of beer. Something nagged at the edge of his consciousness, but he couldn't place what it was. Has he left the tape player on in the living room this morning? He got up and went to the living room to check. Nope, the player was off. He came back to his seat in the kitchen and sat down, not as relaxed as before, his senses on alert. In the back of his mind, the Wolverine growled, his hackles raised. Logan sniffed the air, trying to place what woke the Wolverine. What was it? He sniffed again. The smell. There was a new smell- mango. *Marie always loved that mango shampoo.*
*Jesus, he thought. Don't look behind you, don't look, don't-*
He felt a rush of air a fraction of a second before something smashed into the side of his head, sending him cartwheeling to the floor. He lay stunned, staring at the worn linoleum tile.
"Hi, sugar," cooed a syrupy voice behind him.
He felt the floorboard creak. A booted foot smashed him hard in the kidneys. He groaned and rolled over on his back, seeing stars.
"Miss me?" asked Marie sweetly, a toothy smile plastered on her face. The eyes above the smile were hard and cold.
*I forgot she could fly*, he thought, just before her boot smashed into his midsection. He felt a couple of ribs give.
*Fight back*, growled the Wolverine.
"No," Logan said aloud.
Marie looked at him quizzically, then picked him up and threw him through the kitchen wall. He landed in a pile of splintered wood and plaster on the living room floor.
Logan staggered to his feet, his hands raised defensively.
"Please, baby-"
"Shut UP!" she howled, her eyes dilating in rage.
She punched him hard in the mouth, smashing his front teeth.
*Forgot about the super strength, too.*
The Wolverine howled for blood. Logan accepted the blows passively.
Hazily, he remembered driving away from their apartment with Rose, realizing he knew what 'a fate worse than death' meant. He was living it.
Right now, a part of him wanted to lie down and die to escape the pain.
*Get up, you bastard, snarled the Wolverine. Kill her before she kills you.*
*Maybe if I just lie here and take it, she'll lose interest and go away*, rationalized Logan.
*Didn't work for that year she beat the shit out of you*, quipped Wolverine. *Remember?*
Marie grabbed a handful of Logan's t-shirt and dragged him into the front hallway. She kicked him several times in rapid succession: belly, head, back, knee, belly again. Logan thought he felt something give in his midsection at the second kick to his belly. Was he bleeding internally yet? Sure felt like it.
Marie stepped back and appraised Logan for a moment before loping over to something propped behind the front door. She picked it up one-handed and carried it back to Logan. He recognized the worn handle with its faded red paint.
*My axe. Guess it wasn't Rose in the shed after all.*
With detached horror he watched Marie swing the axe back and forth experimentally, in a low one-handed arc. Back and forth, back and forth. On the next backswing, she grabbed it two-handed and continued the arc overhead and down.
*She's using the blunt end*, he noted, just before it connected with his face. *She wants to make this last.*
On impact, the axe shattered the bridge of his nose. Logan felt his sinuses and throat fill rapidly with blood. He gurgled, struggled to breathe. The axe arced again. He felt a sharp, crushing pain in as his right cheekbone and jaw came loose.
The axe rose and fell again. This time it impacted his sternum with a crunch and a pop.
The next blow snapped his right collarbone.
"Had enough?"
Logan thought he heard amusement in her voice. Between the pain and the lack of oxygen, he had to fight to stay conscious.
Marie abruptly dropped to her knees beside him.
"What do ya think, Logan?" she asked. "Should I finish you off, then take my baby home? I bet she'll have a lot more fun with me, yessiree."
*Yeah, she'll probably finish you off, then go rip your little girl to shreds*, said the Wolverine.
Logan had a vivid flash of memory of Marie holding Rose up by one arm, Rose's little feet flailing in the air, the four-year-old shrieking with terror. Logan left with Rose that day. *Not my baby, she can do anything she wants to me, but she can't hurt the baby.*
Marie brought the axe overhead from her kneeling position. Almost in slow motion, Logan watched the axe reverse in midair, the blade edge now forward. She meant this to be the killing blow.
*So what'll it be, asshole?* asked the Wolverine. *Lie down and die, and let her take your little girl? Or finish it. Now.*
His vision was graying. He had only a few seconds of consciousness left.
*Decide*, demanded the Wolverine.
When it came to Rose, Logan and the Wolverine were very much united.
*Finish it*, said Logan, and let the Wolverine slip his restraints.
Marie must have been surprised when the all-but-dead man sat up. It spoiled her aim for one thing. The axe blade imbedded itself in the floor where Logan's neck had been.
"Shit," muttered Marie, and yanked at the axe in the floor.
Logan pivoted toward her on his hip as best he could. Even as his vision dimmed, he saw her eyes widen, a flicker of shock in them.
She didn't have time to react, and probably barely registered the *snikt* before he struck. He drove his right hand through her chest; his left went under her chin and upwards, then tore to the left. He didn't have time to examine his handiwork before the darkness swallowed him whole.
When he woke, Jean Grey was kneeling over him. She was working intently on his injuries.
"Rrrrr-."
He tried to speak but his mouth and jaw wouldn't work.
"Logan, don't talk," Jean commanded. "Your jaw's completely crushed."
*Rose.* He spoke in his mind, knowing Jean would hear it.
"She's fine. Ororo went to pick her up at Monica's house."
Logan relaxed. That was good. Rose knew and trusted Ororo. Monica's mother wouldn't give her much of a hassle.
"Logan, I'm so sorry," Jean continued, her face a mask of dismay. "We were a couple of hours away, tracking- her. I thought she was just lying low for a while. Then I picked up your pain. We got here as fast as we could once we realized she found you and that she was-"
"Oh, God, I'm so, so sorry."
Jean looked like she was going to cry.
*Not your fault*, he thought/said. *Mine.*
"No, Logan."
There was ferocity to Jean's tone that surprised Logan.
"You were protecting your daughter. Thank God Rose wasn't here. Thank God."
*She's dead*, Logan said. It wasn't a question.
"Rogue," Jean said.
*Yes.*
Jean nodded. "She- it was quick. Probably instantaneous."
Logan nodded, or tried to.
"You did what you had to do, Logan. No one is going to blame you for what happened."
*Except me*, thought Logan. *Could you have done it?* He asked Jean.
Jean flinched.
"If Scott had gone insane and attacked Rachel you mean?"
*Yes.*
Jean looked away, pale, but he could see in her far away eyes and the set of her jaw that she was considering it. She turned back to Logan, a fierce light in her eyes, a mother's protectiveness.
"Yes," she said firmly. "I would have hated every second of it. I would have hated myself for doing it, but I'd do anything for Rachel. Anything."
"Oh, Logan."
He could hear her complete, horrible understanding in those two words. He laid alone in his own misery for a few minutes, watching as she gained control of herself and swiped the tears from her face, the professional again.
"I need to push your jaw back into place so it'll set properly. This is going to hurt."
Logan always appreciated that Jean wasn't one of those doctors that lied to her patients. He may have screamed, but he wasn't entirely sure. There was an audible snap as Jean used her entire body weight and the considerable strength in her fingers to push the already-setting bones into their proper places. Logan felt a white-hot pain, then nothing again for quite some time.
He was still lying on his back when he woke up. This time, he could feel a humming vibration under his back and the high-pitched whine of the Blackbird's engines. He could hear murmuring voices at a distance to his left. The cockpit. Several voices- Scott, Ororo and to his relief, Rose.
"We told her you had an accident," Jean said to his right. "She knows we're taking you back to New York to help you get better. She doesn't know about- her mother. I thought you would want to tell her yourself."
"Where's Marie?" he asked. The jaw was stiff but functioning.
Jean's face was solemn.
"She's behind the curtain there," she said, gesturing to the rear of the compartment. "I put a blanket over her when we got to your house. Scott carried her back to the plane before Rose and Ororo arrived."
It was strangely compassionate behavior towards a woman who had become and enemy and an embarrassment to Xavier's institution, but Logan was touched. He supposed they could afford a little sympathy, now that she was no longer a threat.
"It was mostly sympathy for you," said Jean.
"Am I projecting again?" Logan asked.
"Just a little." Jean smiled.
For a second it was achingly reminiscent of the smile she gave him the day after the Statue of Liberty incident, when he woke up in the med lab. The day after he saved Marie.
Jean smile vanished. "Logan-"
She reached out and gripped his hand firmly.
"You're going to need time to heal- physically and emotionally. I'm going to keep you in the med lab for a couple of days. You've really taxed your healing abilities."
"I'm gonna want to take Rose home to Canada as soon as I can," Logan said with quiet conviction.
Jean considered him a moment.
"You take all the time you need, Logan. Both of you. Rose doesn't remember Rogue that well, but she's going to need to work through this, too. Let us help you, if we can."
Jean gave Logan's hand a squeeze.
"Rest, Logan. You need to rest."
Logan closed his eyes. He would heal from his physical wounds in a couple of days. If Xavier allowed it, he would bury Marie on the school grounds. She had been happy there, for a while. They both had.
He felt a deep ache in his chest that he knew wasn't an injury. Maybe some day he could take the time to grieve for her properly.
"Not yet," he said quietly and welcomed the darkness.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Plot bunny was provided by Stephen King (yes, THAT Stephen King) in his book On Writing. In it, he sets up a very scary scenario, then asks the reader/student writer to switch the gender of the protagonist and antagonist. This was my take on it. The title is filched from Abraham Lincoln's Second Inaugural Address. I'm studying history- whaddya want? Dedication: To Errie and Meana for a lovely first beta. Thanks for your encouragement!
Warning: Physical abuse, CHARACTER DEATH
Warning: Physical abuse, CHARACTER DEATH