Author’s Note:
Thanks so much for reading my little work of fiction. I’m a huge Rogue/Wolverine fan as well as a Rogue/Magneto (from the comic) fan. I’ve enjoyed some fantastic stories on this website and I wanted to contribute one of my own.
Disclaimer: Marvel rules and ownes, and in 1998 I should have bought their junk stock at $0.33 cents a share when I could have. Thanks to Stan for giving us something to think about.
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Chapter 2
Logan could hear the captain whistling over the rush of the ocean water outside the port window. The sound was out of tune, but he didn’t care--it was just something he took note of while he worked.
Hunched over the side of the cramped little tub, Logan held Marie’s head carefully, tipping it back into the bath, using his long fingers to massage the suds from her silver and dark auburn brown locks. Water droplets touched her face but she didn’t flinch; she lay perfectly motionless, perfectly serene. His mind was clinical and detached as the last of the suds gave way and he dribbled the white conditioner that smelled like creamy coconut against her crown before rubbing it all in, careful to get the ends.
She’d once told him the ends were the important part, so he paid careful attention to those.
Her hair floated around her like a sea of mahogany and he wrapped his right hand in the mass, bringing it all together to rinse. Complete, he picked up the hand towel draped over the side of the tub, brushing away the water droplets that had fallen against her cheek.
“Sorry about that, kid.”
He worked in silence for the most part, the gentle creaking of the boat the only sound beyond the muted splashing he made as he bathed her. His hand worked carefully around the feeding tube, connected to nothing but a long plastic tube and heavy clamp. He was acutely aware of the fact it’d been five days since her last liquid meal, and was grateful that he could at least coax her into swallowing water to keep her hydrated. Logan didn’t even pretended to know what he was doing in the medical arena, so he hadn’t bothered grabbing any of the liquid bags when he’d left the mansion. He wanted to be mad at himself, but he acknowledged he’d probably kill her with some infection before she died from starvation—it was little consolation, but he had to take what he could get.
In the next moment he made his mind go blank as he washed her lower body, his hands making clinical movements around the cathider tube, careful not to tug on her end, or the one connected to the yellow bag hanging over the side of the tub.
When his work was finished he gave a half smile and drained the water, brushing back the hair from her face when it clung. Shifting to a crouch, he gathered her remaining medical requirements and then lifted her effortlessly into his arms. He hated that she weighted next to nothing, no more than a hundred pounds at the most; her frame lithe, thin, and waifish. Her curves were gone, wasted away as the weeks had turned to months on that damn bed at Xaviers’.
But his mind didn’t dwell, he had things to do. Today was important, today, they arrived.
He carried her into the cabin they’d been given. It was cramped and small, but it made this particular task simple even if it did make others more difficult. Walking over to the bed they shared, he placed her on the towels he’d already laid out. Rearranging her limbs, he set to work with another towel, and buffed the water from her skin, taking care to cover her modesty when he could. When he was done with her body, he raised her head and wrapped her long hair in the towel, tucking the ends to keep everything neat and tidy. Finished, he turned to the end of the bed where he’d laid out her clothes for the day.
Picking up the white cotton sundress he started undoing the buttons. The captain’s thirteen year old daughter had sold him the dress when she’d peeked her head into their room and seen that Marie was naked under the sheets. It was a testament to her youth that she didn’t think anything untowardly was going on with the comatose girl. She’d simply asked why the pretty lady wasn’t wearing some of the clothes she’d seen him take out when he first arrived. He’d shrugged, not wanting to admit his stupidity to the girl, but said anyway that he’d only brought her some pants and they wouldn’t work. Young, she didn’t ask questions and left, but she’d come back five minutes later with the white sundress and offered to sell it to him if it fit Marie. He’d smiled at that, she wasn’t shy that was for sure, but he’d taken the dress, shooed her away and found it fit Marie nicely. The fact that she could wear clothing that fit a thirteen year old girl instead of a nineteen year old woman bothered him, but what could he do? Nothing that he wasn’t already doing. So he’d pulled out a hundred dollar bill and snuck it to the girl when her dad hadn’t been looking.
Logan liked Marie in this dress. She still looked small and waifish, but it was the kind of dress he imagined she might have worn if her skin wasn’t poison, and she was back home in Mississippi. Little white and silver buttons ran from knee to breast, and he found it was both easy to dress her in, and flattering on her figure.
Releasing the final button he set to work. Carefully he worked her limbs into the dress, and when the last button was in place, he found the fluffy pair of white socks at the end of the bed and slipped them over her always cold feet, rubbing his hands over them to try and start the warmth.
With a smile, he gently tugged the towels out from under her body and then lifted her up, leaning her frame against his massive chest as he removed the wrapping from her hair. The brush he used glided through the damp strands easily, in long unbroken strokes. He was no stylist, didn’t really give a damn about her hair, but he knew she liked to take care of it, and that she liked it long, so he obliged her. They had hours and hours before they had to be anywhere, so Logan continued to brush out her locks until they were more dry than damp. To pass the time he hummed a few rowdy drinking tunes knowing they made her smile.
Once he was satisfied, he moved out from behind her, laying her back among the mountain of pillows and then turned on the CD player next to the bed. He’d found the CD in the scrapbook the second night on the boat. He’d been looking for something through the pictures, what it was he wanted to find he didn’t know, but he hadn’t found it in the images of her life before her powers had stolen her innocence. The CD had been in an envelop in the back, it caught his attention because of the label, “Marie’s Lullaby”. He’d figured out the piano music was a home recording during the first listen, but it’d taken him another few to realize that she was the one playing. It was the sound at the end of the third track, a haunting melody that undulated darkly, creating an ominous sound that didn’t quite fit with the other pieces on the CD. When the piece was over, it was her heavy sigh he’d heard on the recording, and preserved for all time, the sound of her brushing her delicate hand through her hair.
Those little things meant so much to him now. All the things she couldn’t do, trapped in her own body like some inhumane prison. He didn’t believe for a second that she was a vegetable. He could feel it, smell it on her, she hadn’t left him, she was still here, just…not. What he wouldn’t give to have her just move her eyes under her lids though, to stretch a finger, to make just one tiny little sound to let him know that even the world’s most incredible telepaths were talentless. He’d give anything he decided, anything and everything, even if he had to lie, cheat, and steal it, just to see her smile one more time.
With a sigh, he turned to look out the window, watching the waves lap at the porthole. The seas were relatively calm, which suited him just fine, he was a land lover, not some stupid sea dog. Who ever heard of a Wolverine at sea?
But his thoughts weren’t funny, and like a crashing wave, a sense of hopelessness fell upon him. Six months, what if he was wrong? What if Chuck The Fuck had been right and there wasn’t anything left of his Marie? He wanted to deny it, to denounce it. She had to be in there, somewhere.
With a great sigh he moved off the bed and walked over to his leather jacket. From the hidden pocket he withdrew her photo.
She was sitting on the steps outside the front door of the mansion. Her hair was shorter back then, but still gloriously long as it fell to curl lightly just over the swell of her generous breasts. Her deep V tee shirt didn’t leave a lot to the imagination, but he knew it was her only outlet, her only way to express her own sexuality, so he’d never said anything. In the picture she was leaning one shoulder back while the other tipped slightly forward. He knew her all too well, knew she hadn’t meant to strike such an erotic pose, with her perky breasts jutting forward and her slight lean that gave the camera the perfect angle to see what exactly was hidden under that dark green shirt and the airy black scarf. Her tight, black jeans rode low, and despite her best efforts to cover everything dangerous, a nice sized length of peaches and cream skin showed at her hips. She’d worn black opera gloves for the picture. They weren’t the nice leather one’s he’d given her for Christmas two years ago, but she’d told him later they didn’t cover her upper arms so she hadn’t been able to wear them with that shirt. Her smile was generous and yet secretive, and he knew with that animal instinct of his, she’s been thinking about him when the picture had been taken. She hadn’t looked primal or innocent, just his girl, sitting on the steps, thinking about him one sunny afternoon. That was the picture she’d given him for Christmas, and it was the way he thought about her even now.
He chuckled as he walked back to the bed and sat down, looking at the picture and then peeking over the edge to watch her sleeping. Any mutie telepath reading his thoughts right now would think he was a fucking pervert, but that wasn’t it at all. She was his kid sister, the family he’d never had. He’d held her when Bobby had refused her after she’d taken the cure, watched her struggle with who she was now that she could be whatever she wanted, whispered to her soothing, desperate, and, brotherly words of protection when he’d found her wrists slashed in the bathtub before the shit had hit the fan. Logan was a man of few words and even fewer promises, but a train ride had extracted from him his most lasting promise to date, he was going to protect her, no matter what the cost.
He sighed again, it was getting to be a habit. Shaking his head of the melancholy, he stood up, gave her knee an affectionate pat and smiled down at her, figuring she could hear his smile. “I’m gonna go top side kid, see if I can’t figure out how much longer we’re gonna be bouncing around down here. We’re almost there. I’ll be back in a few.”
Moving to the peg he put his leather jacket on. If anyone asked he’d tell them it was because the wind was a bitch in the middle of the ocean, but if he were honest with himself, it was because his jacket still smelled like her. Slipping the picture back into the hidden pocket, he opened the door and closed it softly behind him.
The boat was rocking, but not enough to send him off balance. He didn’t bother with the handrail as he took the stairs up, blinking his eyes a few times and he ascended into the wheel room. The cheeky little entrepreneur was sitting next to the window, music blaring into her ears from the twin white cords connected to her iPod. Any fool would know she was going to be deaf by the time she was thirty if she kept the music that loud, but he didn’t bother mentioning it.
Catching the captain’s eye, the older looking man nodded. “Good timing, take a look at that.”
Maybe he’d expected to see a killer whale, or maybe a pod of dolphins, hell, even a giant squid devouring the boat would have been more understandable to what he was seeing. All around them, as far as the eye could see, ships, some bigger, some smaller were moving in the same direction, heading southeast, heading home.
Instantly he felt a little sick. Again he went over in his mind why this was the right choice, the only choice he had left. Xavier wasn’t helping, wanted to wash his hands of Marie and let her rot in her own body until it was a mercy to just shut her down permanently. He couldn’t keep her. His talents were limited to chugging beer, beating the shit out of rednecks, and being hit on by anything with T&A, and a few without the T. Logan knew he couldn’t get her the kind of treatment she needed, hell, he didn’t even know where to start looking. But there—he looked towards the horizon—there, he saw a glimmer of hope. He didn’t know exactly what it was going to cost him, he figured it was going to be plenty, probably nothing he wanted to pay, but he’d pay anyway, happily, if it gave Marie a fighting chance. He just needed a glimmer of hope, and if he had to beg the devil for it, then he’d get on his knees.
“If that ain’t a sight I don’t know what is,” said the captain, Logan hadn’t bothered to remember his name, Bob, Jo, Chris, it didn’t matter, he had a boat and it was for rent, so he’d thrown five grand in cash at the old man and told him to move his ass—what his name was hadn’t really been a deciding factor.
But Logan was in a dark mood and his response reflected it, “It’s the end of the fucking world, bub.”
Hard working eyes turned to look into his own. Logan liked this guy, he didn’t ask a lot of questions, just where are we going, when do you want to be there, and do you want cabin A or cabin B? The guys brown beard raised up at the corner, attesting to a smile. “Well, you wanted to go there.” And he shrugged, dismissing the topic. This guy didn’t give a damn, just wanted to get paid during the off season like every other pirate on the high sea.
Logan didn’t bother to acknowledge him again, just turned around and walked to the cabin door, opening it to the bitter cold of the middle of nowhere, and yet the edge of somewhere. The little redhead looked up at the cold gust of air, gave him a little smirk and then returned to mouthing the words to Warrant’s Cherry Pie. Something about watching a thirteen year old girl listening to that song made him pity her, so he stepped out into the cold and walked to the back of the boat.
His eyesight was shaper than most mutants, and a telescope compared to any humans. He didn’t have any trouble squinting over the distance and checking out the bright assortment of mutants on the boat to his right. Three of them were standing on the deck, and they all stuck out like sore thumbs. One had violet hair, the other green scaly skin, and the third, well that guy was actually floating so no big guess about what his powers were.
To his left the other boats showed similar images. Did these jokers know what they were getting themselves into? Did they understand the price they were about to pay for their new home? Logan didn’t think so, in fact, he knew so. None of these idiots had any idea that they were only as good as their powers, and if they had to die to give something for the cause, well, then they were going to die. Period. End of subject. No, they didn’t have a clue, but two white streaks in a cascading wave of mahogany hair, attested to the price some of them would pay—the dead smell of fish in the air promised what was around the corner for others.
With a shake he leaned his back along the cabin wall and took a deep breath. It was a mistake, fish made him gag, but he needed the oxygen, needed to get the blood pumping and his brain thinking one step ahead. This wasn’t going to be a fun meeting, of that he had no doubt. In fact, Logan was pretty sure there was going to be blood, and a lot of it, preferably not his, and under no circumstances Marie’s. They were headed into a fortress, and he knew he was wearing the enemies colors. It didn’t matter that he was about to switch sides. No one was going to wait long enough for him to explain. He needed to plan carefully, figure things out precisely, and make sure Marie was out of danger when the fists started flying. Not having a clue how he was going to do that, he chuckled to himself and then pulled a cigar out of his right breast pocket and lit it. The deep drag soothed his nerves a little, nicotine always did that for him. It was a mystery from his past, but not a pressing one, so he didn’t bother to think on it too long.
He remembered watching Marie out of the corner of his eye when he’d lit up in the cab of his pick up all those years ago. She’d looked disgusted, and he’d been tempted to blow the smoke in her face just to give her hell for trying to steal a ride. It wasn’t until they were well and good ensconced in the mansion before she’d told him over a beer and a cream soda that cigars could kill him. He’d just raised his eyebrow with a “yeah right” expression. But his Marie was a smart little minx, she’d turned the tables on him. Taking a pull off her soda she’d made a face and then looked him dead in the eye, “They could kill me, you know.” He’d scoffed, but put out the cigar. He’d never smoked around her again. She’d been right, and he couldn’t risk her.
She was too important to him—his little sister—his family.
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