So your conscience finally hit you
And you’re feeling guilty
And you’re wishing I was there
So you wanna say you’re sorry
Well, please forgive me if I’m too gone to care
You can take back your goodbyes
Wipe off those sad eyes
‘Cause I’ve got some tears of my own
Weather man says it’s gonna rain tonight
The kind of storm where the basement floods and you lose the lights
Should have thought of that before
‘Cause I’m not your blue sky anymore
So you heard the pitter-patter of a lost heart beating
And learned what it was for
So you made a list of shoulders that you’d be needing
Well mine aren’t yours anymore
Come on show me your temper
Be the man I remember
So I won’t forget what you’ve done
Weather man says it’s gonna rain tonight
The kind of storm where the basement floods and you lose the lights
Should have thought of that before
‘Cause I’m not your blue sky anymore
Don’t wanna be that blue sky
I’m not your blue sky anymore
Overlap: Chapter One
I had a son who died.
I still have the ultrasound-the only picture we go the chance to take. I keep in the drawer of our bedside table, but it spends most of it's time in my hands. I can see him any time I want...which is most of the time. Jubilee once said I was going to wear it out with my constant looking and touching. A joke in poor taste, I thought. But I don't take the black sheet out when she's around anymore. It is proof my child existed, though He was a baby who never drew breath, never opened his eyes to look at me, never sucked from my breasts.
Jean says He wasn't a person. I don't understand, though she's certainly explained it to me often enough. She sits me down and repeats it, like I'm an idiot who needs to be told over and over. She says an infant must take a breath outside the womb to be called a baby. Mine was just a fetus, she says. Not a He, an It. I still don't understand. I spend most of my days trying to work out this reasoning, like it's an equation harder than trigonometry. I usually end up just staring at the wall.
I heard His heartbeat. I carried Him. I fed Him. I felt him kick inside me, shift beneath my skin. I don't understand. I don't understand.
Logan and I never settled on a name. Would He have been a Mark? A Tyler? Jesse? Chris? Logan mentioned 'James' a few times, and we considered putting that as a middle name. I've always been partial to 'Leon'. Would we have called him by his full name when we were angry? When we were proud? Would his friends have given him nicknames at school? In sports?
He was supposed to have a name. He was supposed to breath. He was supposed to cry in the middle of the night and take his first steps and watch Saturday morning cartoons. Curl up in our laps. Get his first crush. Swear He hates us when we take away his video games.
There's a hole in me for all the things He was supposed to do. And it hurts. It hurts. It hurts.
Logan blames me. He's always staring. I keep my head lowered so I don't have to meet that gaze. Even when his words are kind I can feel the accusation in them. He thinks I lost control, that my disgusting mutation drained the life out of our child. He thinks it's my fault. He thinks I made Him into something Jean would forever refer to as an It. Hank says that's unlikely, that we will never know what caused the miscarriage....Isn't that a strange phrase? The very sound of it implies you did something wrong...But it's what Logan thinks. He doesn't even have to say the words out loud.
But he is nothing if not stubborn. The Wolverine wouldn't want to give up the match even if he knew there was no way he could win. So he stays.
He stays with me even though every cell in his body longs to run.
And his touch makes me sick now because I know--I know--it's driven by a sense of duty. Sometimes I feel angry enough to slap him. Other times, I'm just too tired. I don't want to see him leave. I don't want him around. I wonder how long Logan will stay in the cage before quitting the fight.
He hasn't, yet.
I hate Logan for that.
I love Logan for that.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Their son died.
He doesn't know what to say to Marie.
There must be some words he can use to make things right. Some action he can take to make things the way things were before. Before world beneath their shoes disappeared.
Logan doesn't understand. Everything had been....perfect. He had never inhaled such happiness before. It was like seeing the Canadian Rockies for the first time. Wonder and awe every day. Logan doesn't understand....but perhaps he should have learned. When had he ever kept something so good? He'd started to be one of those people. One of the people who had real lives and futures.
And it was just one day. One fucking moment that took away that chance.
Logan sees her when he shuts his eyes, how she'd looked, how she smelled when it happened. Marie had been climbing down the staircase, stoically bearing her weight and another's and why hadn't he offered her his arm? Or had he tried, and she waved it away? One hand on the banister, the other over that beautiful hump he'd put in her stomach. They'd been heading toward the movies, or dinner, or some other destination he could not recall and didn't care to.
He did remember the second when that smile slipped off her lips. How her expression became puzzled, then tight with sudden pain. Her gasp. Her fingers lifting off the banister; arms going around her stomach, clutching. Tilting over in a cramp. The sudden red blooms on her jeans, terrible flowers. Spreading.
Her knees had buckled, as if wishing to kneel before an alter he couldn't see. Marie had cried his name, and Logan had caught her before she could crack her head, tumble down the stairs.
Logan remembers scooping her up--heavy with his child. Screaming for help. For Jean, for Hank, for anybody.
And it didn't matter how loud he screamed, how fast they moved.
Too late.
Marie blames him. She never looks him in the eye, and even when she does he can feel the betrayal in them. Why didn't he watch over her better? Why did they continue to have sex? Why didn't he sense something was going wrong that day inside her? She berates Logan with her silence.
At night Marie lays on the far side of the bed, a hundred mile chasm between them. She curls into herself and stairs at the wallpaper. When he attempts to cuddle, she pushes him away. Tells him she's too hot for him to be near--she's tired, she has a headache, she's just not in the mood. Snaps at him when he tries to hold a conversation.
He misses her.
~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~
The bug taps against the window, reeling back before attacking it again. The buzzing isn't audible, but I can hear the clicking against the glass and it's driving me crazy. I hope there are no cracks anywhere in the sill it can get in through. Jubilee calls them mosquito eaters, says they're harmless. I just call them creepy.
I hate insects. They're one of the reasons I always wanted to live in Alaska. They're just so...so...blluuu-uuggcchh. I can barely tolerate butterflies, even. You should have seen me on the trip to the Monarch exhibit last month. I kept twitching, brushing my arms and back though none of them touched me. I could feel them. Bobby and Jubilee thought it was hilarious....I mean, butterflies are okay if they are in a picture, or several feet away. It's just when they are close enough to touch, when I can see their legs and feelers and--
I shudder. The mosquito eater or whatever it's called relents, decided to go harass someone else. I make sure it flies away, isn't trying to trick me into letting down my guard. Can't see it anymore. Good. I can keep reading my book without getting bit.
I love this spot. The Professor offers every member of the junior team a room of their own, and this window seat totally makes up for the fact he gave me the smallest one. It's got the perfect amount of light, the softest cushions. With a soda and a packet of vanilla wafers, I could stay here for hours.
And fully intend to.
It's Sunday, after all. No team practices and all my friends are all at church or in bed. There's nothing in the world that could coax me away from the brilliance of Audrey Niffenegger.
Except...
No. Nevermind.
It doesn't matter if that sound has been imprinted in my head for eight months. Thousands of engines make that noise. Thousands of people ride motorcycles.
It doesn't mean anything.
Okay, so it's coming down this street. That doesn't mean....Alright, so that orange cloud of dust indicates the rider is coming up the drive and passing through...passing through the...gates....Why am I craning my neck? I should go back to reading. This chapter isn't going to finish itself. Heck, it's probably just that LeBeau guy. Remy.
Suddenly this window isn't so perfect. I'm at entirely the wrong angle. I see a figure, male and tall. My palm is pressed against the glass--I can't remember putting it there. Why is my heart beating so fast? It must be that Mountain Dew. All that sugar in my blood. I see dark hair--brown? Spiked?
Remy doesn't wear a jacket like that.
The engine shuts off and he's walking around to the front doors. He's to my right, and far below me. He is about to reach the arch, pass out of my sight completely when he pauses. Turns his head, looks up. And I don't know if it's coincidence or if he smelled me (through glass and brick?). But Logan's gaze fixes on me, like there was no where else his eyes could possibly go.
He grins.
That seat may as well have been a catapult. My book falls to the ground--I'll have to smooth out the pages and apologize to it later. I'm flying: across my room, out into the corridor. My feet slap the wooden floor and the rugs. It's a good think they've been sanded and varnished so smooth; I've never heard of anyone catching a splinter here. I'm only wearing a pair of thin socks (with pictures of little ducks on them. They're my favorites.)
"Not 'sposed to run in the halls!" a little girl screeches at me. Down the stairs, taking them three at the time. He's back. He's back. He's back.
Logan's back.
My only defense is that I was running too fast for my common sense to catch up. It seemed the most reasonable action in the whole world when I saw him there--all muscle and flannel and cocky smirks. I leap, throw my arms around his neck.
Logan appears surprised, but he catches me all the same. I'd probably have fallen on my ass otherwise, and wouldn't that be a great welcome?
He crushes me so tightly against his chest all the air goes out of my lungs. That's okay. There are worse things to be squeezed against. Soft shirt and concrete-hard body. Cigar smoke and road dust and Logan. Logan's here.
His arms loosen and I stumble back. "Logan," I protest. There was absolutely no reason to let me go so soon. Oxygen smoxygen. Nobody has held me like that...ever.
"You miss me kid?"
"Not really," I reply, eyeing his arms and calculating what might result in another one of those hugs.
Logan laughs--a quick sound as rare as a unicorn but much manlier. It's enough to make me look up again, though I have not abandoned hug-quest.
His expression is as close to cheerful I've ever seen it. And so...so warm.
"How are you doing?"
That's just one of those questions people throw around. A prelude to serious conversation, or a polite filler when no other conversation can be thought of. Nobody has ever asked me as if they care about the answer. But then again, Logan never says more than necessary. If he asks, he wants to know.
"I'm okay." I swear at myself for giving such a pedestrian, social-reflex answer. "How are you?", I add to make up for it. His lips twitch.
Logan looks good. A little tired, windblown. He's larger-than-life, makes everything behind him fade into the background. The mansion's foyer--which has always impressed me, though I've been here almost a year--is dull with The Wolverine standing in it. He's just as I remember. Handsome, hair unusual but fitting. I want to touch the spikes.
He's studying me with as much focus as I am him, like a book he'll have to take a test over later. I'm a little self-conscious about that pimple on my right cheek. His eyes drift lower, down my neck. They turn dark and I wonder what kind of book this man is reading. Why is Logan staring at my---
"What's that?"
Oh. Never mind. I reach up to touch the silver 'X' pendant I had clipped next to his tags. "This? The Professor gave it to us when we graduated and signed up for the Xmen."
It's funny how his jaw can get so tight like that, so quickly. I'm suddenly reminded of the tougher-than-steel metal under that skin, so deceptively normal looking.
"You joined the team?" His voice is harder than that adamantium. Logan raises his eyebrow at me.
"Just the junior group." Scott says I'll be in training for another six months before I can actually accompany them on missions. I can't wait.
Logan doesn't seem assured by this distinction. He's looking at me rather coldly, as if disgusted. A complete one-eighty from a few moments ago. Like I'm nothing.
I can't...I don't...I don't even know the words to describe how that expression makes me feel. And then he bares his teeth at me.
"Didn't take you for the hero-type, Kid." He seems offended by the very idea.
"I'm not. I just like kicking ass."
Like you. Remember?
His face softens, but I think it's from sheer force of will. Logan doesn't respond to me, just stares until I squirm. A few students descend the stairs in search of breakfast and I can't even say good morning back to them. That would require looking away, thinking of something other than Logan and how this intense examination makes me feel. If I break his concentration, who knows when anyone will look at me like that again?
I know. I know it doesn't mean anything. I know it's just Logan, just one of his natural skills, like hunting. He can convince anyone that they are important, that they are the only person that matters as long as he is watching.
I've seen him look at Jean that way.
The light from the chandelier glints off his face. The green in Logan's eyes absorbs it, like a forest pine tree touched by the morning light. Nothing escapes those eyes. Reading me completely, even the fine print. They widen; his nostrils flex and I feel like I'm telling him secrets I didn't even know I had.
My hands fidget at my stomach, a worried reflex. His eyes dart to them. My fingers lock together. I think about my nails, painted such an obnoxious yellow. Jubilee insisted on doing them, and friendship dictates I wait at least two days before taking it off. I hope Logan doesn't--
"You're not wearing gloves."
A statement as much as a question and how could I forgotten to mention such a huge thing?
I smile with a delight that hasn't lessened despite the number of weeks that have passed. My skin is not deadly anymore. I can touch. I can touch. I can touch.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The speedometer reads '14721'. He can't wait to see One-Eye's face.
Logan took care of the bike, of course. He's no amateur. No dents, and hardly any scratches. But perhaps he ignored one or two--or twenty--shortcuts on the way to and from Alkali Lake, more than strictly necessary. The thought of pissing off Scooter is one of the few things that pulled him through after the disappointment at the military compound.
And The Kid, too. Logan's been thinking about the girl he'd met in Laughlin city more than he expected....rather frequently, actually. Almost every day, but he won't confess to any time length shorter than that.
He presses the metal bar down with the tip of his boot until the bike stands on it's own. It's in the same spot he'd stolen it from, and that's no coincidence.
Cobbled stone and a school whose architects must be living well now-steak and lobster every night. Logan takes a deep breath, tasting chalk and grass and children. Sunlight makes the soil beneath his shoes warm, will keep the motorcycle hot even with the engine shut off. A crane fly buzzes around his ear and Logan swats it absently away. He hooks his thumb around the strap of his rucksack, moves toward the doors.
It's mid-morning and (among many other things) Loan can hear a multitude of lungs, pipes swishing, cell phones and alarm clocks going off. A T.V. delivering the speech of a cartoon, another an Evangelist (he knows which one he prefers).
Logan strides up the walk, around flower pots and little cherub statues. He can sense eyes on him, and wonders if it's Xavier's telepathy. Can't the old man just use a video camera? He hears a gasp, the click of fingernails hitting glass and no, no it's not Chuck at all.
She's watching him from the window, four floors up. Hair with that bolt of white through it. Huge, delighted eyes. Body pressed so hard he can see each button on her shirt--even with the glare of the sun on the panes.
He'd only really known Marie a day or two, but her's was a face he could never forget. She beams at him, and Logan feels his lips stretch as well, as if of their own volition.
She vanishes in a blink, as if she'd never been there at all. Logan lets his feet carry him to the doors--which are propped up in appreciation of the fortunate weather.
He listens to the clatter of footsteps--the noise of a hundred people but the force of only one. He's barely made it inside when The Kid appears on the landing, racing down. Her fingertips barely graze the railing and Logan worries she will trip. Marie is panting and he does not notice the way her breasts bounce with the movement. He doesn't. Not at all. Even if they are perky and full and make the nicest sound when they rub the cotton of her blouse.
She shouts his name joyfully.
Logan would have been dazed at the magnitude of her excitement, if he'd had the time to process it. He (literally) cannot recall anyone reacting to his presence in such a way. Certainly, barkeepers all along the fight circuit look forward to the business The Wolverine will bring. And an even greater number of women in towns across of the Northern Hemisphere are always thrilled by Logan's arrival--changing their sheets and panties in the hopes he will warm them. But the look of pleasure, of welcome on The Kid's face is so unprecedented Logan wants to turn around, see who she's really staring at. It's borderline ridiculous.
But he only has time for a bolt of shock before Marie is flying at him. She would have been a blur of flesh and wavy hair without his senses. As it is, Logan's mind registers every eyelash, the exact tone of her blushing cheeks, the moisture on her lower lip.
Her arms sling themselves around his neck; her body strikes his. Logan catches her reflexively. She's squeezing him, and he he has to ignore the instinct to call it an attack and respond as such. It's not.
It's a...it's a hug. One of those social conventions normal people do not include him in, lest he pop his claws. Unless it is followed by a bend over the nearest bed/table/tree stump, you just don't hug The Wolverine.
Logan doesn't want to hurt The Kid's feelings, though, so he returns the embrace the best he can. Her hair tickles his face; her breasts and thighs are smashed against him and hey--hey, this is easy. He's pretty good at this.
Marie...Marie smells nice. Like ink and honeysuckle and warm bread. Scents he'd never thought to combine but they are oddly...
His body suggests, 'Tree stump?' and Logan releases her, lest she notice his perverted instincts.
"Logan!," Marie greets him sweetly, eyes shining.
"You miss me, Kid?" He can't get over it. Nobody's looked at him like that...ever. It makes Logan want to grab her again.
Her skin is flushed all the way down her throat, past the collar of her shirt and he's rather intrigued as to how far it goes. Marie's gaze falls, perhaps embarrassed by her unrestrained display.
"Not really," she says to his elbows, trying to salvage a measure of dignity. It's such an obvious lie Logan has to laugh (when was the last time he did that?). Her eyes snap back up to his face and every fleck in the irises speaks of youth, of life. It's like she is glowing from within. Not hopeless or desperate as they'd been in that Alberta bar. Logan is happy he left The Kid here. This school must really been the place for her.
But he's even happier he came back.
He can't be certain, though, of her well-being. Not based on only a few minutes and a smile. Logan promised to look out for Marie, after all. He isn't one to shirk the few promises he's ever committed himself to. He has to know. He has to be sure.
"How are you?"
"I'm okay. How are you?"
It's that flash of surprise before she answers that sparks his worry. Is she trying to deflect focus on to him? 'Okay' is not a satisfactory response. 'Okay' could mean anything. It could be 'pretty good' or 'barely tolerable'. Which one does Marie mean? Which? Is something wrong that his senses can't pick up?
Physically, The Kid seems well. Healthy flesh tone, strong lungs. Curvy, and Logan likes that (in a woman, his mind finishes without his permission). He measures the pulsing in her neck. Even, if a little fast. Good. His eyes follow a familiar chain down to where it ends, her cleavage. His tags twinkle in the soft valley between her breasts. Logan's own heartbeat quickens at the sight of those fleshy mountain; at the 'Wolverine' branded on the metal strip ("Property of" may as well have been etched in beside the name); at the...at the silver 'X'...hooked onto the chain as well. What the--
"What's that?", he demands. That spot--that chain is his. He doesn't share.
Marie makes a little noise, touches the 'X' almost sheepishly. "This? The Professor gave it to us when we graduated and signed up for the Xmen."
"You joined the team?" So that's what was wrong. He really didn't come back fast enough. They've corrupted her.
"Just the training group," she says.
As if that makes a difference. As if the geeks won't be shoving her into that suit, pushing her off to face Sabertooth before the leather is even broken in. Shit. Logan thought The Kid had more sense.
"Didn't take you for the hero-type, Kid."
"I'm not. I just like kicking ass." Her chin lifts defiantly, proud of herself. But Marie's voice is less confident than her words and something in them requests his approval. He's can't give it to her, but he works to smother his irritation. It's none of his business anyway, he tells himself.
Yes it is, he thinks a moment later. Logan promised to look after her. Hell, she's just...she's just misguided. He's here now. He can protect her.
A blond boy and three younger teens (all wearing pajama pants featuring some sort of beaming sponge) stumble down the oak steps. They rub their eyes and debate the relative merits of Spiderman and Ironman.
"I'm telling you. It doesn't matter whether Peter Parker doesn't have to recharge. Without anything for him to climb on, he's dead. Ironman would blast a hole through his head like that...Hey, Rogue," the boy says to Marie. She doesn't even turn around, just gives a noncommittal, "Hhm-mmm" and continues to stare at Logan.
He wonders vaguely what they must look like, facing off in the sun-filled entrance way. How long can they stay like this before the real geeks start to swarm in? He doesn't want to part from The Kid just yet, though a shower would be nice. Can he get the same room as last time?
Where does Marie sleep?
She's not talking and he's afraid to open his mouth lest he yell at her for joining the Xmen. He wonders why The Kid is gaping at him. Does she expect him to do a trick? Make a funny face? Say something profound and earth-moving? She must be crazy to think The Wolverine would do any of those things...but with...with that glow in Marie eye's, maybe he could try--no. Definitely not. What's wrong with him?
What is she comparing him with--to look at him like he could stave off the Apocalypse if he had the slightest inclination. How have they been treating her here?
Logan studies Marie as if he could see past those brown eyes into her thoughts. As if he could see everything she has in the months he's spent on the paved (and not so paved) roads of Canada. How can he start fulfilling his promise?
She shifts her weight from foot to foot and Oh Jesus that's an...interesting...addition to her scent. She fiddles with the lowest button on her shirt. Logan finds himself staring at her hands. Is she going to undo the button? No,. Her fingers weave together, grip loosely. Marie has slender wrists, the undersides milky white. He wants to touch them, see if they're as soft as he--
Hey. Logan is tracking the thin blue lines below her palms when something clicks in his mind, something he hadn't registered earlier. Marie's hands, her flesh up to where her purple sleeves end, are bare. Very bare. As in non-gloved.
It's not like it makes him uncomfortable--he's got the healing fact. But Logan remembers The Kid being pretty obsessive about keeping herself covered. Was she in that much of a hurry to see him? Is she doing it for self-defense? Why would Marie seek that sort of protection?
"You're not wearing gloves," he informs her. Logan wants to solve the mystery quickly, hopes the answer won't make him want to kill somebody. He just got here, after all.
She seems a little stunned, and then her face breaks into a grin that makes the previous ones seem like frowns. He relaxes, because whatever the reason is, it can't be too bad. He never wants that smile to go away.
"I can touch now," Marie says, with a look of pride. "Ororo showed me some techniques. Meditation and stuff. She works with alot of the students. We've been doing them together every day, and I...found control. I don't even know how to explain it."
"That's fantastic, Kid." He grins at her to show he means it, but his arms don't seem to think that is sufficient. They pull Marie against him in a way Logan pretends translates to 'Congrajulations'.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Story Notes:
The format of this shouldn't be too difficult to understand(I hope).
"~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~" =denotes a switch from present to past, or visa versa.
"&&&&&&&"= means a change of character P.O.V.
":::::::"= seperates scenes within P.O.V.
My beta has informed me that everything pas this point in the A/N is just an excuse for my rambling. Please feel free to skip this.
This story was part inspired by the song "Blue Sky" by Emily Welt/Keith Urban, and part inspired by the book "The Time Traveller's Wife", by Audrey Niffenegger. It's absolutely brilliant, one of my top favorite books(and that's saying something, for me). In fact, if you'd like to log off right now and go get it, I totally understand.
I do not think this counts as a songfic, but I will include the lyrics anyway, if only because I really like them.
I've got a few AU's I want to try out, but I wanted to take a little break with this one. And I've been doing alot of Logan P.O.V lately, so I wanted to ease out of that. I love writing from his perspective, but I don't want to get stuck in that groove. You know what I mean? I think it'll come out to about five chapters...but I've said that before.
I struggled with this chapter, because I've been so busy since last Thursday. I didn't get a chance to write much. It always stresses me out. I'm so afraid I'll get out of the habit and hit Writer's block.
I've got two endings in mind-one sad, the other less so. I really do intend to flip a quarter. But if you can get through the angsty bits, well...I have to say, I a little addicted to happy endings.
I don't want to make this "Science Geek Series" all over, but I find it hard to imagine Logan being accepting of Marie joining the team, in any story. I hope you won't think it's similar.
And, finally, I hope you enjoy. Please review.
"~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~" =denotes a switch from present to past, or visa versa.
"&&&&&&&"= means a change of character P.O.V.
":::::::"= seperates scenes within P.O.V.
My beta has informed me that everything pas this point in the A/N is just an excuse for my rambling. Please feel free to skip this.
This story was part inspired by the song "Blue Sky" by Emily Welt/Keith Urban, and part inspired by the book "The Time Traveller's Wife", by Audrey Niffenegger. It's absolutely brilliant, one of my top favorite books(and that's saying something, for me). In fact, if you'd like to log off right now and go get it, I totally understand.
I do not think this counts as a songfic, but I will include the lyrics anyway, if only because I really like them.
I've got a few AU's I want to try out, but I wanted to take a little break with this one. And I've been doing alot of Logan P.O.V lately, so I wanted to ease out of that. I love writing from his perspective, but I don't want to get stuck in that groove. You know what I mean? I think it'll come out to about five chapters...but I've said that before.
I struggled with this chapter, because I've been so busy since last Thursday. I didn't get a chance to write much. It always stresses me out. I'm so afraid I'll get out of the habit and hit Writer's block.
I've got two endings in mind-one sad, the other less so. I really do intend to flip a quarter. But if you can get through the angsty bits, well...I have to say, I a little addicted to happy endings.
I don't want to make this "Science Geek Series" all over, but I find it hard to imagine Logan being accepting of Marie joining the team, in any story. I hope you won't think it's similar.
And, finally, I hope you enjoy. Please review.
Author's Chapter Notes:
This chapter is dedicated to candy stores, Holiday Inns, and late night television.
Chapter End Notes:
Took me a good three hours to type up and shift to this site, but there we go! Thank you so much for reading; I hope you liked it, and will review. Feedback is the best writing tool in the world. Please? Pretty please? With rubber duckies and oreos?