Prologue:
It was pitch black, everywhere she turned. Left, right, up, down, the direction made no difference as she moved, desperate to find something—anything—in the darkness. Panic swelled in her chest and she brought her hand up to her throat, but there was nothing, no smooth skin, no warm and tempoed heartbeat, just air, empty lifeless nothingness.
Thrashing she looked down at herself, despair filling her as she realized there was no self, there was nothing; just blackness upon empty, hollow blackness. She searched the dark for her hands, her gloves, her precious, precious gloves, but she couldn’t see them, feel them in the nothingness.
“NO!” she thought, opened her mouth to scream the word, but there was no sound, nothing. Simply and absolutely, nothing.
Eyes that would have widened in panic didn’t, a heart that would have raced couldn’t, hands that might have pulled at her hair wouldn’t, and she was empty and without feeling.
Then, as quickly as it came, the panic slipped beyond her, past her thoughts that dropped into the abyss of emptiness. She was floating, drifting, caught on a gentle wave of calm surrender.
“I’m dead.” The words weren’t words at all, but the lack of feeling, of sensation, the embrace of quiet over chaos.
“How?” She wondered, how did this happen. She couldn’t remember, it was getting hard to remember anything. She reached, pushed, stretched, not wanting to lose herself completely, fought with all her strength and found a thought.
Rogue.
Oh. That’s me. The realization startled her and she felt the rocking motion shift a little out of synch.
Rogue.
She was getting tired. Not sleepy, just more and more relaxed in the tranquility of darkness.
The word slipped away quietly and she rocked.
Later, it didn’t matter how much later, she decided to reach again, to stretch for something else. It took longer this time to find something, and that seemed strange to her for some reason.
Logan.
Peace washed over her. Logan. She liked that. The darkness sang to her softly as she floated. That was a good one, she’d hold onto that one for a while.
Logan.
Eventually, she let that thought slip away as well.
If it was a long time later, she didn’t know, couldn’t tell as she continued to drift, but she thought she might like to pull another thought back. It felt like it’d been a while since she’d had the last one. So once again, she stretched, invisible tendrils of self reaching into the abyss for something tangible, something that would catch her attention. Anything out of the ordinary darkness; something to fill the emptiness.
What she found, what came back to her changed the blackness. Bright bands of red raced across her, through her, pushing against her and bringing pain. Lightning flashed, illuminating the blackness, casting light on still images no longer cloaked in the dark. Images she didn’t want to see, forcing thoughts back to her, pushing memories back into her mind that made her scream, the sound no longer silent but echoing, bouncing back to her, heightening her terror.
Thrashing she pushed away the images, closed her mind from those horrifying thoughts, those pictures that now seemed to move as the lightening came faster, more pronounced. Color invaded the darkness, stark greens, violent oranges, bitter blues.
Bitter and cold blues.
Crying out she reached up, trying desperately to pull herself up and away from the madness that surrounded her. If she could just stretch, just reach, she could push past them, force them back, make them leave her in peace.
Peace!
“Logan!”
Suddenly strong hands, bones reinforced with unnatural strength were pushing her down, and the pain, the blinding agony of touch was all consuming. It wrenched the breath from her body forced her to feel, for the first time in an eternity her arms, bent at the elbow, her back, crushed against solid rock, her legs bent and kicking, frantic to find purchase, her hands, like claws as she dug them into warm flesh covering cold steel, and her head slammed against the ground until she saw stars.
And when the stars cleared, she saw Logan, and there was no peace, no joy, only pain, fear, and terror. There was no softly whispered words of affection or gentleness in the ways of all big brothers. There was only hatred.
“Marie! Stop, you have to stop!”
“NO!” And that was her voice, her words, pushing past newly discovered lips. Lips used for whispers now turned to snarls. “Noooooooooo!”
His face, twisted in pain, eyes filled with loss stared down at her as he gritted his teeth. “Marie, don’t—“
Lifting her chin she screamed at him, raised her face and screamed with wild eyes and complete abandonment. She wasn’t there, all that was there now was the pain, the anger, the betrayal, and the hate.
She watched the black lines of his veins pop out across his face and stopped her screaming immediately, and smiled. The draw was painfully delicious and she hooked her fingernails deeper into his skin to keep him from pulling away.
Mine.
“Logan! No!”
And then, like sweet mercy, the colors faded, receded into the darkness, and left her alone in the blackness.
******************************************************************
Later, much later, she knew that at least, she felt a stirring again in the darkness. She cringed, the images from before were gone from her memory, but she could remember the pain and she didn’t want that again. She pulled back, tighter into the darkness and waited until the stirring stopped and then went away.
Floating, she was floating. The darkness was a comfort to her now, by itself it lulled her into peaceful contemplations of nothing. Drifting on that gentle current, she remained, untouched and uncaring.
Until the reminder of the colors and the pain disappeared, and once again, she decided to reach out into the darkness for something other than nothing. This thing was different though, the touch of it was smooth, metallic, and hummed slightly—in a different tune from the darkness. She hesitated, afraid to draw it closer, instinctively fearing the return of the pain. But she wanted it, this thing that was at once frightening and fascinating.
Drawing it closer she examined it. In the darkness it shined like a brilliant gold beacon. She touched it, running her mind across the smooth lines to the pointed edges and then back again.
“What is it?” she wondered pressing it to her lips, tasting the metal.
Out of the abyss came the answer.
The Star.
“A star.”
The Star.
“The Star.” And the blackness seemed to nod in agreement.
With a gentle sigh she curled her body, the darkness, around the brilliant gold star, caressing it with her fingers, savoring the feel of it against her body.
She drifted timelessly, looking at the little star, gazing at its beauty in the nothingness. Touching it, smelling it, tasting it, absorbing the material into herself, making it a part of herself—filled the void, filled in the time.
So beautiful.
There is meaning to it, said the darkness.
Meaning?
Yes.
So she drifted, rocking slowly, contemplating meaning.
And then, for no reason at all, she turned to the darkness, holding the star before her.
“What meaning?”
Hope. Replied the darkness.
But she shook her head, the meaning lost. “I do not know hope.”
And instantly she was awash in warmth, love, affection, devotion, possession. It expanded through her, giving her definition in the darkness, making her feel when there was nothing for so long.
I can show you hope, but it will be painful. It is beyond the darkness, beyond self, you must come to it, reach for it, and I will catch you. Reach for me, and I will catch you and bring you hope.
“Reach for you?”
Yes.
“I am afraid.”
Fear is natural.
She let that float through her, natural, normal. She wasn’t normal.
“No pain.”
There is always pain.
“No.”
There is plenty of time. Rest, wait, I am here, you are not alone.
***************************************************************
Logan did not make his decision lightly. He spent months mulling it over, watching the news, and trying to decide what was the right thing to do. He was a bastard, a hypocrite, worse, but in this, this one fucking time, he needed to do the right thing. So he waited, watched the news, and listened for double meanings in those unforgettable words.
He lasted about six months, six months of bitter hatred forming at the back of his throat for Storm who refused to enter her room. Six months of contempt for Jean who did her job but always made it known she did it for him. Six months, eleven days of listening to Bobby the Bitch bang the kitty cat in the pantry downstairs. Six months, eleven days, fourteen minutes of watching Xavier in his new and improved body, walk down the hallway looking as if he hadn’t become a murdering bastard. Six months, eleven days, fourteen minutes, and some odd seconds of watching her and knowing there wasn’t a god damned thing he could do to help her.
And then he came on the news. It wasn’t the first time, but this time mattered. Scott had shaken his head and made idle threats, Beast had quoted a bunch of bullshit that didn’t make any freaking sense, and Storm had dropped her head into her hands, her white hair flowing like spun silk.
Jean, that bitch, kept projecting erotic images into his mind until he wanted to punch her.
Then there was Xavier—Chuck—the fucker. Yeah, Chuck had decided his old pal was a nut case after that and left the room. Scott had followed him. Jean had caught his eye and licked her blood red lips.
He’d just scowled at her and flipped her off.
Standing, he’d made his intentions known, and Storm had looked up at him with her sad pitying look, Beast had nodded but returned to his rant, and Jean, demented, redheaded Jean, had rolled her eyes, pursed her lips and said what they’d all been thinking.
“You’re wasting your time, she’s a vegetable.”
His claws had extended before he’d even known what he was doing, and her eyes had widened just a fraction of an inch before they’d flashed, burned flaming orange, and she’d risen, ready for the fight, eager to push her body against his and use her powers in that way Chuck was still blocking her from even attempting.
She’d smiled, as Beast jumped to his feet, hands extended in placation, while Storm’s eyes had flashed white before returning to her normal color, realizing she had no will to fight in this battle.
She agreed with Jean.
“Say that again, Jeannie. I’m beggin’ ya.” He’d flexed his arms, feeling the muscles ripple over Adamantium laced bones.
“Logan, please—“ Beast had still been trying, although it was pointless.
With a twisted smile, white teeth flashing brilliantly against her lips Jean had smiled a malicious, cruel smile, “You can talk to her all you want, Logan, read to her, brush her hair, rock her in your arms and it won’t make a bit of difference.” Her eyes flashed again, “She doesn’t even know you’re there.” And her words, those self righteous, all knowing words, had hit their mark.
But not as she’d intended.
Without a word, he’d turned his back on her, on the others and walked out of the brightly lit teacher’s lounge. He passed others on the way but didn’t see them. Small kids, tall kids, it didn’t matter they were all the same.
Lambs to the slaughter.
At the top of the stairs he turned right, passed four doors and then turned the knob.
This was her old room.
He’d found her duffle bag in the closet, buried under the kitty cat’s brand new lingerie collection. It was a big bag, but not nearly big enough to hold her life in it as it once had when she’d run cross country to escape.
Her things were in the single dresser, pushed against the wall, and covered in crap that wasn’t hers. The top drawer contained the usual, and he’d grabbed a handful of the necessities before shoving them into her pack. The second draw had her sleeping clothes and he pulled out his favorite, the one she hated the most, the one she’d worn the night she’d touched him for the very first time. The tear had long since been repaired by skillful hands, and he’d touched it reverently before placing it into the bag. Shirts, pants, warm socks—because her feet were always cold—all had gone in, but the last drawer, that was the hard one.
Her entire life had fit into a single dresser drawer. If he’d compared it to his own life, she had a lot more than he’d ever had, but he didn’t compare and it was heartbreaking. There was a scrapbook laying on top, the cover classic and so very her. Beneath it was a map, crinkled and worn, the pin marks still visible where the paper had been punctured. A framed photo, a smiling couple he’d never seen before was under a stack of papers, and he’d put it into the bag because it looked like the type of thing she wouldn’t want left behind.
He hadn’t taken any of her gloves, she didn’t need them anymore.
Standing, he’d gone to her nightstand and hooked his fist around her most prized possession. They felt light in his grip, but their emotional weight pulled his heart to his knees. Wrapping them around his wrist he’d heard the tinkling of metal tags, and caught one, running his thumb over the only word printed on it, “Wolverine”.
After that he’d left her room and gone to his own. There’d been plenty of room left in her duffle and he’d shoved his own meager possessions into the bag on top of her own. He’d stopped at his desk, lifting the picture she’d give him of herself, in it she was smiling a soft, warm smile, the kind he remembered belonged only to him.
Reverently, he’d taken the picture out of the silver frame and put it into the pocket of his black leather jacket. Then, without a glance back, he’d turned around and left the room that had been his home for the last three years.
The hallway had been deserted, but as the elevator doors had opened, Scott had been there, looking a little startled before his brow had furrowed at the sight of him carrying the duffle.
“What’s the deal, Logan?” But he hadn’t answered, just got in and pushed the button for the subfloor. But persistent as ever, Slim had tried again. “What are you doing?”
“What I should’a done months ago.” Had been his only response, and for some strange, knowing reason, Scott Summers, Xavier’s golden child, made no comment.
At least until he’d gotten out of the elevator and taken a half dozen steps towards the infirmary.
“Where will you go?”
He hadn’t bothered turning. They didn’t like each other, and they never would. He couldn’t blame the guy. A year ago he’d been jonesing after his girl, and now his girl was throwing herself at him every chance she got. No love loss what-so-ever.
“Anywhere but here.”
His steel toed boots had echoed down the long corridor but he hadn’t been paying attention. All that mattered now, was getting out, getting away, and making good on his promise.
The antiseptic smell hit him like a sledge hammer as the automatic door had swooshed open. She was in the furthest part of the infirmary, back behind some equipment. Jean had claimed it was to give her more privacy; he knew it was so that they could forget about her.
But he couldn’t, he never would, and as he’d walked towards her bed his heart throbbed in his chest and his fists clenched against the duffle strap. Why had he waited so long to get her out of here.
The soft beeping reminded him that she’d need constant medical attention, so he knew he had to move fast. He didn’t have the luxury of meandering down the coast in Summer’s stolen bike, this time, he needed to move his ass.
She lay like a sleeping angel, surrounded by soft layers of comfortable white bedding. Jean had called it wasteful and ridiculous when he’d bought the fluffy down comforter and plush cream blanket. He hadn’t cared then, just wanted to make her comfortable.
Her hair was finely brushed and naturally styled in soft waves that would have touched her lower back had she been standing. The shocking white streaks grew as well as the rest, framing her face in diffusing white.
Bare arms rested above the covers and he reached out, touched her wrist before taking her hand in his—skin on skin—because he knew she would have liked that had she been awake. But her expression remained serene and empty, and he’d waste no more time.
“Nothing to worry about, Darlin’. I’m gonna take these needles out of your arm, sorry if that hurts a bit.” With gentle, careful fingers he’d removed the tape covering the IV, and slowly removed the long, thick needle, wincing a little to himself in memory of how much that could hurt. “Sorry, kid. There, all done.”
Reverently, he pulled down the fluffy down comforter, nearly all the way off the bed. He’d found the thin circular pads that monitored her heartbeat and pulled them off quickly, whispering an apology. Instantly the machines around him began to scream loudly, shrieking in protest to what he was trying to do. Without a thought, he’d popped his claws and silenced them in shower of sparks. By the time the sound of metal crashing against tiled floor was through echoing in the large square room, he’d wrapped her body in the plush, cream blanket and lifted her weightlessness into his arms, cradling her head close to his body and he’d instinctively curled around her protectively.
“Ok, kid, here we go.”
And with a turn and not a single backwards glance, he’d walked out of the infirmary, down the hallway of gawking children and the shamed eyes of Bobby the Bitch and the kitty cat, through the large oak doors and around the side of the grounds to the garage.
He thanked his stars that she had convinced him to buy a new car nine months ago. The red jeep had one last stop to make.
Holding her with ease, he’d popped the trunk, the back seat permanently down, and laid her across it. She was so slight she looked like a child, a little girl sleeping in the back of her daddy’s pick up. But she wasn’t sleeping, and he wasn’t her daddy. He’d rested the duffle bag beside her, hoping it would add some mass so she wouldn’t feel so alone in the back. With a quick tug he’d taken off his leather jacket and lifted her head, making it into a pillow—because she liked the way he smelled. His hand had brushed the silvery locks from her face and he’d tucked them behind her ear before adjusting the blanket to more comfortably cover her. Then he’d smiled at her heart covered socks and closed the hatchet door with a resounding click.
When he’d looked up, a small group of kids had been watching them, the Chinese girl who’d once been her friend gave him a sad look and a half wave as she’d watched him round the jeep and climb into the drivers side, starting the car with a low purr.
His hand had gone to the rearview mirror, adjusting it so that he could see her. But when that wasn’t enough, he turned in the seat, reached out those cumbersome 12 inches and ran his hand over her hair, smoothing the flyaway’s.
Then he’d thrown the car into drive and left the grounds.
Xavier’s mental voice had hit him as he’d been forced to wait for the gates at the end of the drive to open fully. His message had been clear and to the point, and Logan had made sure the self righteous bastard had heard every curse word he’d ever known.
“If you try to wake her up, I will know, and I will stop you, Logan.”
He’d growled then, low, menacing, and deep, a warning, a promise.
“Fuck you, Chuck.”
And he’d driven to the docks.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
I've been told that the first chapter is a little weak. It's intentionally vague. Don't let the simple style sway you, it's simple for a reason, and I am not a simple writer. Try the first two chapters and if you're still not convinced then thank you for reading, I appreciate it.
Chapter End Notes:
Ok now, remember what I said, the first part is a simple writing style for a reason, try Chapter 1 and then judge this story. And thanks for reading!