Overlap: Chapter Two-Part One
"Please, Baby," Logan whispers into my ear. So quiet, so needing. You'd almost think he's sincere. If I had his senses, I'd be able to....No. Never mind. I don't need them. Nice act, Logan.
His hands, slipping over the covers, over my stomach and I can almost feel him wishing his child were in there. His hot breath on my neck and I have to get away. I have to get away now, before I start to believe the lies he's whispering.
"Please."
I push his arms down, slide through the gap. I feel the clench of his muscles, his reluctant release. Have to get away. Have to. I head to our bathroom--my only escape option, undressed as I am. The closet doesn't count.
I can still hear him, murmuring behind me. Hurt.
Hot water, pounding on my chest--my shoulders--my face. Stinging, concentrated rain. I twist the knob to the right, as far as it will go. Hotter. I deserve this pain. It's my own kind of penance.
I'm not even Catholic.
Soap. Foamy. It looks like my skin is sizzling. The bath gel says "Moonlight Path". The bottle is purple, with a fake-exotic nozzle, likemost of the stuff Jubilee uses. It's not mine, or at least not bought by me. I've used unscented since I moved in with Logan. I try to picture him in Bath and Body Works, but am unable.
I can't smell the soap; my nose is too stuffy.
Scrub. Rinse.
Scrub. Rinse.
Maybe I should turn the water down.
Scrub. Rinse.
I'm using too much.
Who cares?
I'm tired.
I want to go to bed.
Can't.
Therapy with Jean today.
When did Logan buy this?
The shower burns.
The bathroom door doesn't slam, but the curtain is pulled back hard enough to screech on the metal pole. Steam has filled the room, like wet smoke, but I can still see his face. It's got splotches of red--not from heat, like mine. At least not the same type of heat. He's angry. Furious.
Good.
He grabs my arms, half throwing himself at me. Logan's chest is bare, but he's wearing sweatpants. Water is spraying everywhere, soaking through the towel I always lay protectively on the floor.
He fills my vision, huge and quivering and undeniably male and I can feel my detachment starting to slip. I'm terrified--of myself, if not of him. I focus on the space above his head, on the wooden frame of a picture I can barely see. Kitty got it for us, and I can't even remember what it looks like right now.
"Goddamnit," Logan snarls at me, brimming with rage. I wonder if he's gonna hit me, flinch back reflexively at the thought. I don't know where it came from--he's never hurt me. Never. Soap gets in my eyes and it stings. Can't wipe it away because he's not letting me move. My arms will have bruises later.
I open my mouth, but no words form. Was I going to tell him stop? Get away? I love you? I don't have the time to think or make a sound because his lips are there, crushing. Our teeth crack together, and I taste copper. Is this a kiss?
It hurts.
God. God. Logan.
It doesn't.
Logan.
The hot water is more painful than this.
Logan.
His lips gentle suddenly, like shifting gears. They move slow, over my mouth, sink into it. A caress with his tongue.
Logan.
It feels good.
Logan.
I've missed him.
Logan.
He puts a leg into the tub. The grey cotton turns black.
Logan.
He's all around me, his hand on my hips now. Massaging, drifting up and that feels....that feels nice.
"Baby," he purrs.
Logan.
My back against the tiles. It's slippery.
Logan.
His tongue on my neck.
Logan.
"I want you," he mumbles into my throat. Suckling. Kissing.
I want--
He turns off the water.
"Baby....Marie..." Throaty rumble.
Liar.
"Stop," I tell him. I push against his wet torso, then shove. He doesn't move, not for the longest time (adamantium skeleton, remember) but perhaps it's only a few seconds.
"Stop. Stop."
"Marie?"
"Let go of me."
"Please, honey. I...I just want--"
"Stop it. Get away from me."
"Baby, don't--"
"Don't touch me!"
He steps back and I have to be careful now, not to look at him. I can't.
He's silent now, doesn't say a word, doesn't try to stop me. Can't look at him. Don't look at him.
I climb out of the shower. Grab a towel, wrap it around me. I care more about covering myself than getting dry, though that's stupid. He's seen everything already. He just shouldn't have to look at me.
I put on the first clothes my hands touch in the drawer.
I'm shaking.
What time is it?
9:30.
My appointment with Jean is at ten.
It's cold in here.
Can't stop sniffling.
Jean's always early.
That's okay, I didn't want breakfast anyway.
I'm never hungry anymore.
Our door makes the softest of clicks when it shuts.
I leave Logan still standing in the bathroom.
______________________________________________________________________
"How are you today?" Jean asks.
There's a paperweight on her desk, shaped like an elephant. It's pretty.
"Rogue?"
I hate that question.
"Fine," I tell her.
She sits behind her desk, one leg crossed delicately. Her hair is curly and shining, and must have taken a long time to fix. Mine is just frizzy from the shower.
Logan.
I watch her lips move, not really paying attention. She's the one who demands I come talk to her, since Dr. McCoy took over as the mansion's resident doctor down in the lab. She's been having some trouble herself.
"You've been coming here for almost two months, Rogue. How much progress do you feel we've made?"
I don't know, I think.
"I don't know."
She's only done a year in psychiatric studies. Jubilee says she's not a real counselor, just says she is. She's using me for practice.
That's not the answer Jean wants. She frowns at me--thoughtfully, of course.
'
She talks more than I do--rambling on for twenty minute stretches. I think this is her therapy, too. Scott's been gone for five months now. On a mission, they say. Helping set up the mutant school on the East Coast but everybody knows he left her.
I know, I know. That's rude.
How long 'til Logan leaves me?
We'll be honest about it. We won't say he's going on a mission.
We won't.
"Have you been eating, Rogue?"
"Yes."
"You're still losing weight."
"I'm eating."
"And your insomnia? Are you still having trouble sleeping?"
I wonder if Logan's looking at the ultrasound. I can always tell when he does, because it's in a different position in the drawer. He never takes it out when I'm there, as if he thinks I'll get jealous.
"Rogue?"
"Yes."
Why are you so surprised, Jean? It's only been two days.
"Is there anything you'd like to talk to me about, Rogue?"
No.
"I don't know."
I don't want to be here.
"Would you....like to discuss your relationship with The Wolverine?"
No.
"You mentioned last time that things have become tense lately. Is that still true?"
I can't tell her about this morning.
"Yes."
She places her elbows on the desktop. "And?" she prompts.
"He hates me."
The words spill out like they'd been waiting behind my teeth.
"Oh, I'm sure that's not true, sweetie. Don't think like that. I'm sure...I'm sure he cares for you a little. Remember what we talked about the other day?"
Yes.
"It's just...men like him weren't built for commitment. He'd probably would have left even if you carried the fetus full term. It's just, with all the pressure he's been under these past months...Do you need a tissue, Rogue?"
I'm so tired.
Logan.
"I'm tired."
"Oh. Let's finish the session, alright?"
"Fine."
"As I was saying, it's not just you. It's not just you, it's him. And these circumstances. It's very common for a miscarriage to hurt a relationship."
My chest hurts.
"It's no one's fault," she's saying. "And you can't let it destroy you like this. You're so young."
It's strange, how much she can read. I only spoke three words.
"Sometimes, when things get really bad you just have to let go. Move on with your life. Do you understand me?"
The paperweight has blue sparkles floating inside.
"Rogue?"
She says my name a lot.
"I heard you," I say.
I don't understand.
"Have you considered leaving him?" Jean is leaning toward me, across the desk. Her eyes are so intent. Can't look away. "I know you love him, sweetie. You know this sense of obligation he feels toward you could make him stay for far longer than any real affection--but do you really want that? Why prolong this?"
Logan.
"You should let him go, Rogue. You know you're hurting him like this, so why not stop?...Please, take as many tissues as you need. I understand."
I wipe my eyes, blow my nose. I can't believe that whimpering sound is coming from me.
Jean pushes back from the desk, her chair rolling on the carpet. "I think that's enough for today." She stands up. "Why don't you go rest?"
She reminds me of my Saturday appointment. She'll track me down if I don't go. It's a half week away, but my days blur together. I'll wake up tomorrow and it will already be time for me to sit in this office and study that paperweight again.
I'm lying.
My days drag on. They're endless.
_______________________________________________________________________________
I should eat.
It's eight 'oclock, and my stomach is growling. I wouldn't pay much attention to it--deciding and cooking and chewing just seems to take too much effort these days. But until tonight Logan's been here, with bowls and plates of my favorites, coaxing and pleading me into every bite. I know I said I can't stand him being around, I'm just...used to it.
But he's not here now. I haven't spoken to Logan since this morning. He hasn't left the mansion; he's just been in the Danger Room all day.
I checked.
Several times.
I feel myself sigh, and I lay my book down. I need to get used to doing things myself.
__________________________
I don't eat that night. I don't even make it to the fridge.
There are kids up, watching some Jim Carey movie in the T.V. room. They're throwing popcorn at each other. A few yell a hello at me, but most are too preoccupied.
I hear their voices from down the corridor--the sounds, if not the words. And I feel the same way you get after a bad fever: clammy, nauseous. My head hurts but my feet keep moving.
Hank says our subconscious records every thought, every smell, every noise we've ever experienced. If we didn't have it, we'd lose our minds from detail overload. Mine must have had an error in it's code or something, because that night is there every time I close my eyes. It won't leave. I see it. I see them.
Her hair is spread across that new table everyone had pitched in to buy. The pepper shaker had tipped over and the air conditioner makes waves in the black-and-grey sand.
The half-empty bottle on the counter, condensation pooling on the blue marble.
Her legs, spread wide. That dress pushed up far enough to show the scar on her hip.
The dampness of Logan's clothing. The sound his shoes make on the linoleum. His fingers shaking, redoing his belt.
The look on his face when he saw me there. Perhaps in other languages there exist words to describe it, but there are none in English.
Horrified is as close as it gets, and I wonder how it's possible he didn't sense my approach.
I guess he was busy.
Jean is oddly quiet. She sits up without even looking at me, adjusting her clothing.
Logan's lips move soundlessly. Eyes dark and wet and stricken.
"Baby, this...Baby...I didn't...Jesus, Kid. I didn't...I..."
I turn away.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
He stares at the shape Marie's figure makes beneath the covers, tracing it with his eyes. That middle part rises shallowly--she never sleeps deeply anymore, unless she takes one of the pills Hank gave her and Marie rarely does. She hates them. But comfortably or not, she is asleep now. And maybe he can...maybe he can...
Logan shifts himself over the mattress. Gingerly, lest she awake and be angry. He presses the length of his body to hers--lightly, so lightly. Aligning himself to her form. He can feel the heat of her form through the sheets.
He misses her. God, he misses her. Logan craves to be near Marie, inside her again. Let her heartbeat set their tempo. But he'd settle for a kiss, a touch, a look--just one--that says she doesn't hate him. Yeah. Yeah, he'd happily take...any of those.
She doesn't resist his embrace, and Logan shuts his eyes, pretending. His cheek resting on her hair, which smells like everything else in this room-sadness. His arms itch to surround her, bind her to his chest.
He kisses the back of Marie's head-can't help himself. She makes a soft noise, stirs. She goes tense against him. Logan can't see her eyes, but knows they are open and probably upset. He draws in a deep, slow breath. He draws in a deep, slow breath. He wants her. Needs her, so fucking badly.
Logan considers it a miracle when Marie's doesn't pull away immediately, even leans back a little. His heart gives an especially painful throb, jump starting into a foolishly hopeful rhythm.
"Baby, please," he says softly. Logan dares to let his palm graze the quilt that covers his girl until his arm encircles her ribcage. Feels so good.
The quickening of her own heart rate and he just wants to hold her. He just wants to hold her. Please, please, let her let him hold her.
"Please."
Marie squirms, and Logan wants to grip her harder, force her to stay with him. He could, of course, He's The Wolverine. Nobody can get past him unless he permits it.
She shrugs him off like a jacket no longer wanted, scrambling into the bathroom without once looking back.
"Marie, don't--"
The door closes, and expanse of white cutting her off from sight. He feels a blinding pain somewhere behind his eyes. In a few moments, he hears the sound of running pipes and her nightgown hitting the floor.
Logan sits up, drags a hand through his hair. His body is sore, aching with jilted desire. It feels like he's spent the night sprinting through a burning building (it's not a metaphor, he's done it before). He listens to Marie in the shower, feeling rejection turn to frustration. Anger has always been the best substitute for grief and Logan eagerly embraces it. Why? Why is she doing this?
And it doesn't matter that he knows the answer to this question. His body doesn't understand, and neither does The Wolverine, who only sees a mate not fulfilling her pact. He views the world in terms of physical, and what's happened is incomprehensible. He can't cope with a hurt equal to Marie's, if not expressed the same way. Added to a natural urge to speak through his body, so starved now. He felt less alone on the fight circuit, before meeting her.
A few minutes more--steam has begun to appear beneath the bathroom door--and Logan has spent the last reserves of his patience. He's pissed. He wants to grab Marie, shake her (his mind stops just short of the word 'slap'). Logan imagined gripping her throat in his teeth, fucking her until any and all control belongs to him again.
It's an incredibly tempting idea. Logan slides over the messy sheets (tangled from his kicking inside a nightmare--not, obviously, the more enjoyable activity). He can feel blood humming in his arteries, fire that makes his hands tremble and his lips pull back over his gums. Static crackling. He bumps into the side table, where she keeps the picture of their almost-son.
He wants to throw himself at the wood, but it's only a few feet away and he hasn't built up quite the dramatic force required. The door isn't locked--not that it would matters if it were.
The bathroom reeks of that soap Logan had bought her the other day. A friend of hers suggested it would make a nice gift. He'd spent an unreasonable time in the store, trying to figure out how the makers knew what moonlight smelled like.
He sees Marie's fleshy silhouette. The shower curtain is a filmy barrier. He rips it aside.
Marie's face shows vague startlement, but her eyes keep the detached lethargy he so despises. Open lips and pinkened caramel skin. Hair black with water. Streams running over, between, her breasts, down her navel.
Logan feels himself take hold of her arms like a vice. He wants inside that skin, so deep she can never push him out. He wants to coat her scent with his own. The shower is burning and Logan enjoys it. The pain fits well with the furious thunder inside his chest. Marie's gaze touches his, studies Logan before silently sliding past. She stares at the wall behind him as if the man who loves her isn't there, or doesn't matter.
He swears. Screaming at her would be a waste of breathe. He slams his mouth down on hers. He thinks of bruises, of Marie feeling him long after the touch has ended. Wet, swollen tissue. He kisses her hard, pries her lips apart and takes, takes as much as he wants. His torso pressed against her, hair scouring softer flesh.
Marie moans, a stifled, "Mmmmmh."
Her right hand settles on his elbow, her other arm around him. Pulling Logan closer, or at least not resisting.
Logan thinks about hitching up Marie's leg, pinning her to the wall.
She blinks, lashes fluttering up and down. Her eyes cary a sheen of tears and want and Marie, his Marie.
Logan makes an effort to lighten the pressure of his mouth. His lips move soothingly over her raw ones. Gentling, apologizing. Rages seeps away with the remembrance that he can't harm her.
She kisses back.
He steps into the tub (Logan considers carrying her to the bed, or perhaps lowering her to the bathroom floor. But this option requires less movement on his part). He touches her like he hasn't been able to in months and she responds--Jesus, she's responding.
"Baby," he says. He's excited as a little kid (with a much larger sex drive). Logan presses her back and he's ready, too ready and this isn't going to last long but that's okay, that's okay he'll make it good for her he will he will he will....
Marie makes the best sound in the world when Logan kisses her neck, saying hello to her old favorite spot. She arches up and he nuzzles the skin, bites and sucks. "I want you," He tells her. He's thinking--Marie Marie Marie Marie.
Logan turns off the water-- because it really is too warm and that's surprising since Marie hates high temperatures; he can't even get her into hot tubs--and slides a thumb under the waistband of his sweats. "Baby," he says. "Marie."
"Stop."
Huh?
Logan wants so badly to have misheard her.
She's pushing frantically at his chest, struggling in the tiny space. He thinks she's frightened, that he's going too fast. Logan brushes the hair from her face, squeezes her hips--to calm her and ensure she doesn't slip in the water.
"Stop. Stop," she cries out, twisting.
He's confused, stung (and still utterly, desperately aroused). Pressing pleading kisses to her skin, rubbing his nose on her cheeks. "Marie?" Don't do this. Don't do this. Don't do this. Please don't stop.
"Let go of me."
He begs until she screams not to touch her. It hits him hard, worse than a kick in the nuts because that word, that ability--Touch-- is everything to Marie. A valuable cog is missing and his whole universe is collapsing. Logan releases Marie, stumbles back. She almost trips in her hurry to get away, but he doesn't reach out. Marie snags a towel, keeping her back to him in cruel shyness.
And once again he looks at the girl refusing to look at him, watches her walk away. He's frozen in place, listening to dresser drawers opening and their bedroom door shutting.
He stands there for a long time.
______________________________________________________________________
Word spreads quickly through the student body. The Wolverine has commandeered the Danger Room, growling and threatening anyone who challenges his take over. The few stupid enough to try leave in tears (even the boys). Eventually Xavier makes it official--though by then there is no need--announcing that Professor Logan is engaged in a rigorous training and all students fond of their limbs are advised to work elsewhere.
Logan doesn't pay much attention to the intercom, or the big fuss they make later. It's all exaggeration. He grabbed that kid by the shirt collar, no the throat; he pushed Drake into the hall, he didn't toss him. And Logan only popped his claws once or twice. Just for show.
He spends all day running through simulations--dismembering Sabertooth, Mystique, and various robots repeatedly. When he's killed them in every way he can think of (and that's saying something), Logan sits in the control booth, attempting to hack into Scott's account. Summer's was a prick, and a pansy to abandon his wife like that, but his training programs are beyond criticism. Even by The Wolverine's standards.
He could have left a password behind, though. Fuck. Logan pounds on the keyboard a few minutes until his frustration with technology outweighs his desire to fight ComputerMagneto. Instead he sits, watching old recordings of training sessions with Marie. It's at this point that Bobby Drake opens the door and Logan pushes/throws him back outside.
Iceman doesn't tell anyone about The Wolverine crying.
He growls his way into the gym. The reports that he trashed all the exercise equipment are false. He only poked a few holes in the punching bag. That's all. That bill Chuck sent him is ridiculous.
Logan doesn't rest, doesn't drink or eat. He throws himself into whatever semi-challenge presents itself; into the flurry of movement and sweat and pain that lasts a few seconds or less. He's trying to trick his body into believing these are actual fights, get his blood racing. Maybe then he can summon up some real interest in being anywhere Marie isn't.
_____________
He showers in the locker room reserved for the Xmen, though he's always disliked it there. It's not the smell of other bodies, or the fact that even the bathrooms down here have sliding metal doors that gets to Logan. It's, strangely, the new bar of soap the cleaning staff places in every stall, every morning. Such a small thing to piss him off. He supposes they throw out the 'old' ones, no matter their state of use. Chuck's thinking his team were too good to use the same bar twice. Marie used to laugh at him for complaining so much about it.
Logan's not thinking about soap or snobbery right now, though. Just Marie. It's getting late in the evening, and he's kept one eye on the clock--wondering if she's eaten, knowing she probably hasn't. Marie has lost so much weight. Hank talks about depression, and imbalance of hormones after the miscarriage. He says it's common. Lately it's a struggle to get her to finish a slice of pizza.
The obstinate half of him is replaying this morning, and every similar situation from the past few months. It says he's her lover, not her babysitter; he doesn't deserve this; it's not his responsibility. It says fuck this shit.
He wonders if she'll prefer a turkey or chicken sandwich.
____________
Jean's leaning against the fridge like she knew Logan would come down her, has been waiting for him. But she moves aside when he reaches to get a beer, and deli meat.
She gave up asking him to "go into counselling" but always seems to be hovering around, just waiting for him to sprout a uterus and ask to talk about his feelings.
He doesn't know what to think of Marie in therapy. She always seems especially miserable after the appointments.
"Hows it going, Logan?"
Jean gives him that sad, sympathetic smile, the one the faculty puts on every time Logan walks in the room. He's grown to expect that smile, and hate it. The ones Jean gives are different, though. They're so full of knowing and pity and he wonders what Marie says to her.
Logan jerks his head in the redhead's direction, a nod of acknowledgement, a grunt to say 'fine'. He pops the cap off his beer, arranges sandwich ingredients on the table.
"Did you have a pleasant work out?"
"Mmmh." Maybe he'll make himself something too. He's hungry.
"Is that for Rogue?"
"Mmmh." White bread or wheat?
Jean sighs, plays with a diamond necklace laying in her cleavage. She lays one hand over his, on the counter top.
"Logan, I think we should talk." She looks at him solemnly, lower lip protruding a bit.
"What is it?"
She lets her gaze fall. "It's about Rogue. You and Rogue, actually."
His stomach jerks a little, and he stares at her. Jean waits for him to respond but when Logan doesn't she continues, slowly, choosing each word with the greatest of care. "Logan, I haven't wished to say anything that would violate Patient Confidentiality, but some thing have come to my attention and I feel my silence isn't doing any good."
The food lays untouched on the marble. Logan sets his beer down.
"I'm aware..." Jean bites down on that lower lip, brow furrowed. "I'm aware of the tension in your relationship. I believe it's having a harmful effect on Rogue. The stress isn't healthy, not for either of you."
Refrigerator humming gently in agreement.
"All this waiting around, maintaining the status quo, is not good. It's hurting you, and it's destroying her....I think it's torturing Rogue. Haven't you noticed? She can't move on, stuck like this. She's afraid of hurting you, but her...her grief is starting to out weigh that."
Something strange in Jean's scent, but Logan can't focus long enough to give it a name. "She say that?" His jaw is clenched tight.
Jean nods empathetically, probably thinking of Scott. "I know it's not my place, but perhaps it's time you considered a separation."
Jesus. Did he just flinch? Did The Wolverine just flinch?
"I know you love her, Logan." Her voice is soft, a hypnotic whisper. "You want to do what's best for Rogue. And....and I believe, I truly believe it would help you as well. When was the last time you thought about yourself? Your needs?"
Her hand slides up his arm. Logan swallows.
"It's been a long time since you had any...physical comfort, hasn't it? You're not like others. You need touch, not words. It's not natural for you to go without."
She steps close, leaning into his chest. Murmuring in his ear. It's hard to think. He feels a light presence in his brain but can't even concentrate on that. His mind is scrambled and he wants....he wants....he just wants. Logan is consumed with lust, a longing for someone else. Later he'll guess that those weren't just his emotions. But right now his vision is blurry and he's only aware of the body--warm, and female, pressed to his.
"I understand," Jean whispers. And then he's kissing her. Deeply, frantically. Squeezing his eyes shut, feeling her...her. She throws her arms around his neck, tugging him in. Logan grabs her hips, grinding the bulge in his hips to her curves.
Somehow they're moving, spinning. Bumping into a flat, wooden something and she's touching him, rubbing. She seizes his belt, slips the zipper down in well-practiced motions. She's biting him, dragging her nails over his shoulders. Logan pinches her breasts and the woman in his arms is arching back, laying down. "Yessss...." she says.
The sound her thighs make against the denim of his jeans, opening, sliding up. Wet smell. Soft hair.
"Logan. Yes."
Logan opens his eyes. And something is wrong. This is wrong. Wrong. That hair is supposed to be brown, not red. Those eyes are supposed to be hazel and he's supposed to be with Marie. He wants Marie.
Logan halts, pulls back.
"C'mon," Jean urges. Theres a vile taste in his throat. They've knocked over the pepper shaker; seasoning are going up his nose but that's not what's making his eyes water.
"I'm sorry, Jeannie," he tells her gently. "I can't." He pulls his pants zipper back up, fits the end of his belt back in the loop. He wants to go upstairs and find Marie. Feel Marie.
His body, of course, recognizes her arrival long before his fog-filled brain does. A quiet gasp, and a scent he'd welcome any time but this. An electric current jolts down his spine and it's the closest The Wolverine has ever come to feeling really, truly sick.
Marie stands in the doorway, wearing an old baseball t-shirt she used to call "lucky" and a pair of holey jeans. He'll always remember that look on her face. A thousand times more hurt than the night he'd stabbed her. Shocked without shock, like he had surpassed her worst expectations of him.
Logan glances at Jean, sitting up slowly on the table, the most sullen of expressions on her face.
"Baby, this...." Part of him thinks they will just laugh this off. He didn't actually do anything with Jean, after all. Nothing happened. It didn't. The rest of him is aware, had registered the moment Mare came within range, that something indefinite has been lost. "Baby..." He tries anyway, stumbling desperately over his words. "I didn't..."
The way she's looking at him..."Jesus, Kid. I...I didn't..."
Marie gives him the most imperceptible shake of her head, backing away. Turning, walking. And then running.
He follows her.
Behind them, Jean buries her face in her palms.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
I apologize for the delay in posting. This chapter was turning out much longer than I expected, and I only just finished the "Present" section of it last night, so I decided to split it into two part. Couldn't wait another week-I was going through posting (*couch cough* review *cough cough*) withdrawl. I'm sorry for the angst in this,and can almost 95% guarantee a quick update for the "Past" section...probably a week or less. I hope you'll like it, and review....Oh, and I had planned to put the Now section in bold, to seperate it from the Then, but I understand that's hard to read for a long period of time. So just imagine it, m'kay?
Chapter End Notes:
Yay! You made it down here! Thank you and please please review. Pretty please? Feedback is always appreciated, invaluable.