Marie hummed gently as she rolled Xavier’s repurposed wheelchair across the worn, lived on timbers of the lake house. Logan and Storm had refurbished it not long after she had been released from the med-bay yesterday, allowing her more mobility. Sunlight beamed merrily through dusty curtains in the living room, furniture long out of use now bleached by constant exposure. Her fingers trailed along the linen slipcover, fingering a bright fucshia stain.
Charlie had spilled his kool-aid there when he was two. She smiled, remembering the frantic “Uh oh,” that had alerted her to the boo-boo. She was pretty sure her son had picked that up from Logan, who had taken to using, “Uh oh,” with emphasis instead of “Holy shit,” once he had realized that Charlie emulated almost everything that he did.
Which, to his mother’s chagrin, had included cursing. Watching toddler lips form the words “fuck” and “you” to Storm, babysitting him on date night, had been an appallingly hilarious experience. Logan had almost peed himself, of that she was quite certain.
For the past week, Logan had been unbearably attentive. She knew he had probably taken advantage of her respite in the medical ward to attempt to conceal some of the things that he thought would damage their tentative truce. His favorite picture of her, in her yellow sundress was in a new frame. Charlie’s room had been repurposed as a den. Her rocking chair had a new cushion, and a small love seat replaced the big boy bed her darling son had once been so proud of. She wasn’t sure where all of Charlie’s pictures had disappeared to, but could still faintly see the growth marks Logan had nicked into the woods with his claws as Charlie had grown.
Their first night together in the Lake House, they ate dinner silently, her favorite Italian dish. Afterwards, Logan had plucked her from the chair and into his arms on the worn sofa. She lay comfortably between his legs, and he had softly sniffed her hair, winding long ebony strands around his fingers. His lips placed gentle kisses along her neck as he plaited her long, black hair.
“You feeling alright, darlin?” Logan asked, lips whispering along the skin at the edge of her ear.
She shuddered gently, nodding. He felt good. It felt good to be in his arms, wrapped up and warm. Marie snuggled deeper into his embrace, suddenly overwhelmed. It was too much at once.
Too much good.
Logan intertwined his fingers with hers. The warm metal of his wedding band, the band he had never taken off, mocked her. Her finger was bare, her diamond hidden under the floor boards upstairs. She felt dirty, ashamed. Unlike Logan, she had been unable to cope with the implications of the promises they had made in the marriage altar and the marriage bed.
She had run. Logan had held on.
Marie didn’t know exactly when she started crying, or exactly why she was crying; catharsis is never easily explained. Logan, to his credit, said nothing. Just held her. A tangible anchor, tying her down, keeping her safe.
He lifted her in his arms once more, walked up the stairs to their bedroom. Gently, Logan laid her on the bed, shaking fingers fumbling clumsily as he tugged her sweatpants down and unbuttoned her top. He gently positioned her legs so that she was in her favorite position to sleep. She blinked at him through silent tears as he stripped down to nothing, then slid into bed behind her, pulling her close.
“Love you, darlin,” Logan whispered.
“Love you,” Marie choked, clenching the hands that wrapped tightly around her desperately.
“Baby, I know we can fix this,” Logan growled, voice gravelly as he stroked one hand along her hip bone, “Just, give it some time, please.”
Marie half-grinned through her tears, “Don’t worry, Logan. I don’t think I’m going anywhere.”
“This time you’re not getting the chance,” he growled, teeth nibbling along her the soft curve of her neck.
She stiffened, suddenly, breath catching in her throat, somewhere in between the massive lump she couldn’t swallow and her mouth. “Logan,” she gasped, his fingers sliding underneath her pale pink tank top to stroke her flat stomach, “What am I to you?”
This time, Logan froze, fingers still absent-mindedly tracing patterns on her skin, “You’re everything, Marie.”
Feeling unbelievably guilty, and to Logan’s distress, Marie sobbed herself to sleep, safely ensconced in her husband’s arms.
Today, after being spoilt with toast, cheese grits, and smoked sausage in bed, dressed, and situated with an ergonomic back brace in her wheelchair, Logan left to teach his classes at the mansion, and Marie took it upon herself to clean up the Lake House. It was obvious someone, probably Kurt, had been asked to straighten up when Logan left. However, men, more often that not, cleaned at a much poorer standard than any woman held herself to. That explained the strange arrangement of knick-knacks, the half-cleaned, streaked sunroom windows, and the spare bedding, sitting atop the washer, smelling soured due to being wet for too long.
Unconsciously going into “mom” mode, she began dragging the pile to the sunroom to air out. With a little difficulty, Marie managed to rev her mechanical chair across the door jam between the kitchen and porch. There, comforters, sheets, as well as pillow cases and their occupants, found temporary homes sprawled across the hammock, wicker, and other various sundry pieces of outdoor furniture. Rolling herself around, she propped open the sunroom windows, letting warm, sunny air rush in. She breathed deeply. She could almost imagine Charlie laughing in the backyard if she tried hard enough... Shaking her head, she turned, and with effort, the wheelchair was forced back inside, bumping into the credenza behind the sofa.
The credenza slid back, the red edge of a padded binder peeping out from underneath. Gold writing emblazoned the side, spelling out Charlie’s name in childish letters. Leaning down as far as she could, Marie managed to scoot the binder out from under the credenza. Puzzled, Marie pulled it into her lap, then moved towards the streaky windows, and opened it.
The first page held an eight by ten glossy photograph of Charlie, clumsily taped in with childish fingers on to striped background paper. His soft brown hair fell every-which-a-way. Blue crayon spelled his name below, the ‘R’ turned around backwards. Her fingertips traced the contours of his face, lip trembling as she realized that the binder was full.
Of pictures.
She turned the page, clumsy hand writing spelling ‘Mommy & Daddy’ over a five by seven picture of Marie and Logan dancing. Marie was wearing Logan’s favorite yellow dress, her fingers twined with his. Her chocolate waves fell, curling around her bare shoulder blades. Logan wore a plain blue t-shirt and jeans. A leather patch from an X-men uniform had been pasted in the bottom corner. She rubbed the worn, burnt edged leather, and turned the page.
Logan and Marie, cooking for the mansion’s annual Fourth of July celebration. Infant Charlie sat on Logan’s shoulders, kicking his feet amicably, a toothless, gummy grin, cupcake icing all over his face. On the same page, Charlie at the beach for the first time, shoving fistfuls of sand in his mouth, another of him naked, chasing seagulls, Logan trying to catch him, arms outstretched.
Then it was Charlie’s first Christmas, his beaming face patting a scoot-along motorcycle, Marie steadying him as she pushed him across the hardwood floors. Charlie paddling in the lake, Logan, too heavy to swim, sitting with him in the shallows. Logan strumming on a six string guitar while Charlie slammed pots and pans onto the kitchen floor.
Marie, sleeping with Charlie in her arms, his little head covered in a paisley bandana. Logan, making silly faces at the doctors as Charlie laughed and clapped his hands. The whole family sledding down the hill next to the Blackbird’s launch pad after a New York blizzard, then making a snow-Magneto. Marie and Logan, out of focus, kissing next to a roaring fire.
Charlie had taken that picture. His little thumb was just visible in the edge of the photograph.
The tape was less childishly done now, as well as the captions, and Marie could see Logan’s rugged touch on the photo album. In the next photo, Charlie sat on Logan’s lap, rinkside at a hockey game, face enthralled as Logan roared his approval at whatever was happening on the ice. The picture below it was of Marie, sitting on a picnic blanket, a tired Charlie stretched out in her lap pointing at clouds.
The pictures of Charlie covered in tubes, wires, and machines were the worst. Marie’s face looked back at her, haggard, strong, impossibly brave. Logan’s eyes were impossibly heartbroken. The next-to-last picture was of one rugged, calloused hand holding one tiny, tiny hand. The very last was taken before Charlie’s final operation. They all wore white cotton t-shirts and blue jeans, sitting underneath a massive shade tree on the lake house lawn. They were all tan. They’d just returned from Disney World.
They looked so happy. Charlie had scribbled a childish message and a heart beneath the picture.
Underneath, a much finer, more experienced hand had written, “My Family.”
“Logan,” Marie whispered, tears welling up once more. Gently, she placed the red photo album on top of the credenza, then rolled her chair towards the staircase. Once there, she dragged herself out by her arms and onto the highest step she could reach, pulling her body, useless legs trailing behind, up banister spindle by spindle. The jerking motion knocked the chair sideways, leaving it helter-skelter at the bottom step. Exhausted by the time she reached the top, she managed to tug on one bed frame leg, sliding underneath. Her fingers found the board she was looking for. Popping it up, she scrabbled around desperately until her fingers closed around something cold and hard.
Lifting it, she buffed it on her cardigan, then pulled herself back out from under the bed to lay on the massive flokati rug covering the hard woods. The diamond engagement band, fused with a white-gold wedding ring twinkled merrily in the sunlight. Sighing in relief, Marie lifted up her left hand and slid it on her ring finger.
It was a little loose. She’d lost weight since she had last worn it.
Laying her hand underneath her head, Marie decide to lay bonelessly on the floor. She was so tired, and her arms and back ached from the effort it took to pull herself up the stairs. Tears drying on her cheeks, her eyes fluttered shut, and she slept, cheek planted firmly into the soft fabric of the lush rug.
------
Logan sighed wearily as he trudged out of the mansion, dodging mutated rug rats left and right as he meandered down the pebbled pathway that led towards the Lake House. Seven periods a day of physical education and self-defense, especially when one was training the next, junior level of X-men, was downright grueling. He hoped Marie had fared well by herself all day.
The thought made him break into a jog, his combat boots crunching the ground beneath him with each step. He paused underneath the large shade tree on the Lake House lawn. A simple, ivory marker lay there, flowers blooming across the top. Walking towards the marker, Logan leaned against the tree, sliding his back down the bark until his butt, and boots came to rest above the marker.
Beloved son, Xavier James Logan
Brushing away dust and dirt that had blown atop the marble, Logan placed his hand on the stone, warm in the afternoon sun. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, a slight smile on his face, “I got your Momma to come home. Not without a helluva lot of trying.”
He shut his eyes, enjoying the wind that gusted against his cheeks like a playful child, “Yeah, yeah, I know bub,” he huffed, “She’s a stubborn one, but I’m going to keep my promise to you, you hear?”
One finger patted the grave solemnly, “I promised you I’d take care of your Mom, Charlie, since you wouldn’t be here to take care of her anymore, and I intend to hold true to my word.”
The wind blew strongly again, this time bringing a smile to Logan’s face. “Yeah, I’ll go check up on her.”
Patting the grave again, Logan stood up, wiped a single tear drop from the corner of his eye and turned towards the Lake House again. Approaching the back door, Logan saw all of the spare linens strewn about, willy nilly, air drying in the sunlight. Apparently, Marie hadn’t approved of Storm’s cleaning services.
Running a hand through his hair and sniffing his armpits, Logan decided that he was clean enough to greet the lady of the house. He leapt up on the top step, ignoring the bottom two, and removed his boots, letting them fall in a pile on the faded, hand-painted welcome mat. Stalking towards the open inside door, he glanced around the open great room for Marie, only to find her chair empty, tipped over at the foot of the stairs.
Panic shot through him like lightning, and a guttural growl tore from his throat. Inhaling deeply, Logan darted towards the chair. If she had fallen, she’d be right there.
She wasn’t.
“Marie?” Logan snarled, absolutely furious at himself for leaving her alone now, “Marie?” A whiff of her pungent scent trickled down from the loft, and Logan charged up the stairs, skidding around the landing to find Marie sleeping, peacefully on the floor, right hand tucked underneath her cheek, left hand, diamond ring glinting in the sunlight, lying beside her face.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Logan’s heart almost stopped at the sight of her wearing the wedding band he had given her so long ago. Instantaneously, feelings of possession and desire shot through him, quelled by the sight of the black brace attempting to alleviate pressure from her compressed disks.
Leaning down, he touched her face gently, lips inches away from hers.
“Marie?” he whispered, his mouth ghosting kisses across her forehead, nose, and cheeks, “Wake up.”
Marie’s eyelashes fluttered gently against his cheeks. “Logan,” she mumbled, arms stretching above her, legs still, “I had the strangest dream.”
“What was it about?” Logan asked, one hand beneath her knees, the other behind her back as he lifted her onto the bed.
“You and Charlie,” she said, a warm smile spreading across her face. He settled in next to her, head propped up on one elbow. “You were sitting under our tree with him, he was happy, he wasn’t...hurting anymore.”
“That sounds nice,” Logan said, a lump forming in his throat.
“It was, oh he was beautiful,” she whispered, “just like he always was.”
“Did he say anything?” he queried, one hand stroking the side of her cheek, rug marks had been pressed into it by the carpet.
“He said,” Marie began, eyebrows furrowing, eyelids drooping sleepily, “thank you...for keeping your promise. What promise did you make Charlie...Logan?”
“That I would take care of you,” Logan squeaked, hoarsely, “forever.”
Marie’s brown eyes stared into his own, wide awake. “I guess I’m a horrible mother, then, running away like that.”
“Marie,” Logan growled, grasping her chin tightly, but gently, in his fist, “You are a wonderful mother, and even though...” he paused then, searching for the right words, “even though you ran, I understood it was something you had to do, something you were dealing with on your own. And God, I could’ve, I would’ve, Marie I would have climbed to the moon for you, you and Charlie.”
“I was horrible to you,” Marie hissed, anger directed inwards, “I left you, and you hurting like that. All I could think, was that I was somebody’s mama,” Marie gasped, choking back tears, “But now I’m nobody’s mama.”
Logan leaned forward, cupping her cheek in his hand, breath brushing against her eyelids. He gently grasped her shoulders, settling her into the pillows beneath him, then straddling her on all fours, careful to avoid her waist. Trapping her torso between his powerful forearms, Logan leaned down, lips crashing into Marie’s, desperately seeking to siphon off some of the grief, rage, and helplessness that she was trying to sort through.
His tongue tangled with hers, her hands sliding up his back to find fistfuls of his dark, unruly hair. He laved along the edge of her neck, suckling at the junction of her collar bone, teeth sending shivers down her arms and the uninjured portion of her spine.
“Logan,” she groaned, absolutely breathless, lips moving frantically against his neck, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Marie,” he growled, fingertips gently plying along the contours of her chest, “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. You’re here now, with me, and that’s all that matters.”
“I needed you the whole time, the whole time I was gone,” her hands ran down his chest, towards the waist band of his pants.
Logan, despite the almost overwhelming excitement that shot through him at her action, grabbed her hand, tying up her fingers with his own. “No, Marie,” he managed to grind out, “Not now.”
“Do you not want me, now that I’m...like this?” Marie asked, face turned away refusing to meet his gaze.
“Goddammit, Marie, I want you. I’d want you if you had four eyes and three tits for Chrissakes.” Logan practically snarled, “But you’re still recovering, I’m still recovering...I want this, but I want it to be right.”
He captured her lips with his own again, gently coaxing her to open up. He poured his passion into the kiss, his love, his adoration, his overwhelming need for not just her body, but her soul. Pulling away, he brushed her hair back from her face, his touch was gentle and loving.
“Now,” he purred, fingers massaging Marie’s arms until they felt like jello along with her insides, “What do you think about taking a bath?”
Wrinkling her nose, Marie lifted one eyebrow comically, “You do kinda stink.”
“Oh really?” Logan snarked, his mouth half-smiling. Lifting her up, he pulled the cardigan and lightweight jersey dress he had helped her put on that morning up, up, and off to puddle in a corner. Unfastening the spinal cord brace and leaving her sprawled, naked on the bed, Logan stood up to pull his black tank top off, shucking out of his shorts.
He leaned down, his skin sliding deliciously against the parts of her that were still fully aware of him, and led her into the bathroom. Marie was lucky enough that she was truly only paralyzed from below the waist and down. She still had possession of her faculties. Logan settled her on the toilet and turned away to start the bath. Embarrassed, Marie took care of business and flushed hurriedly, managing to clumsily clean herself before Logan turned around again.
The two-person garden tub Storm had installed for Logan when the Lake House was first renovated was fabulously deep. A small scoop of bath salts, the same tub Marie had left here five years ago, untouched, made the smell of lavender and jasmine permeate the room. Logan picked her up again, then stepped into the tub, growling a little at the heat. He set Marie down, feet first, her toes touching the water limply.
“Pull me up, pull me up!” Marie clamored, wishing desperately she could move her legs, “The water is too hot!”
Lifting her as requested, Logan reached to turn on the cold water, then froze halfway.
“The water is too hot?” He asked, staring at her.
“Yes, it’s too hot, is there a problem with that, mister?” Marie teased.
“Marie, your toes touched the water. Not any of the rest of you,” he hissed, hope swelling in his chest.
“I can feel it?” Marie asked, wonder in her voice, “I can feel it?! Logan, put my feet in the water again.”
Logan dipped her gently once more, and her toes radiated painful signals straight up her legs and to her spine. “I can feel it.” Marie gasped, in shock, “The pressure, the pressure must be going down in my spine!”
“Baby?” Logan gasped, and she turned to see him staring at her, eyes open in shock, “I don’t think that’s exactly it.” Blue veins riddle his skin, and suddenly, his persona slammed into her like a floodgate, her mutation kicking on like two teams of draft mules as she uncontrollably drained him.
She felt, rather than heard the pop as Logan’s healing slammed her spinal cord back into alignment, and she scrambled away from him, desperate to stop touching him as he convulsed, seizing on the tiled bathroom floor.
“Logan!” Marie shrieked, leaping up in shock. It was like Meridian all over again. David, collapsing, writhing from a drain gone too far. She reached for his arm, then jerked back as if she were burned, running as fast as she could towards the phone in the kitchen.
Pressing the speed dial, Marie felt tears streaming down her cheeks in silent waves as the mocking ring echoed in her ears. “Pick up, pick up, please, for the love of God!” she wailed.
“Xavier’s School for the Gifted, this is Headmaster Monroe.” Storm’s pleasant dulcet tones recited.
“Storm!” Marie yelped, “Storm, come quick, it’s Logan!”
“And what exactly is wrong with Logan?” Storm snarled, silent, distant frustration with Marie at abandoning Logan for so long spilling over spitefully.
“My mutation, it’s back.” Marie sobbed.
“Holy shit.” Storm growled. “We’ll be right there.”
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Author's Chapter Notes:
A/N: Sorry it's taken so long for this chapter, there should only be one more after this! I did promise it would be a short story ;) I think 5 chapters qualifies as short :P Let me know what you think!
"Yes I'd rather hurt, than feel nothing at all" - Lady Antebellum "Need you Now"
"Yes I'd rather hurt, than feel nothing at all" - Lady Antebellum "Need you Now"