"So The Wolverine's back?"
"Yep."
"Really?"
"Really really."
"You're shitting me."
"I shit you not."
"Like, OMG."
"I know."
Jubilee is on my bed, bright yellow sandals kicked to the floor. I'm trying not to think of her feet on my pillow and how I'll have to change the case as soon as she leaves. It's just gross. She blows a bubble with her gum, a piece she's been working on for two weeks, Jubilee informs me. I congratulate her.
I'm cleaning my room--or pretending to, shifting the piles of clutter from one corner to the other--and trying to decide if it's too early to see Logan again. But of course it is. I've only been upstairs a half hour or so, and he's probably busy. Talking to Professor Xavier and Jean and getting settled in and taking a shower and....and....how much longer should I wait?
Jubes isn't fooled. I think she's enjoying this reversal of our positions, with me the hyper one for a change. I can't sit down for more than a few seconds before bouncing up again. I wish she'd leave, so I can do my happy dance. She's grinning from ear to ear and I can't blame her. Especially after all the hours she's spent describing (in full, technicolor, disgustingly graphic detail) the progression of her relationship with John.
Not that Logan and I are in a relationship. I didn't mean to imply that at all. That's just...that's just ridiculous. He's only a friend, and even 'friend' is a stretch because he's just arrived and neither of us think in those terms about each other, especially not him. And if you add up all the conversations we've actually had, they'd fit on a post-it note with room to spare. And I barely know him and Logan barely knows me--even if he saved my life and a piece of him exists inside my head...And he's The Wolverine, for Christ sakes, and he's probably been with a bunch of women I don't begin to compare to, and he would never look my way. And I'm too young and impressionable and he's just some guy who let me ride in his trailer. And he's just a friend--did I already say that? And he'll think I'm stupid. How does he put up with me? And I just need to chill out calm down shut up right now.
"So you guys gonna hang out or somethin'?"
"Dunno," I say, and shrug as I tie the ends of my trash bag together.
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It's Logan who comes to find me. His knocks are quick, hard, like he's using the side of his fists rather than the knuckles. I jump off my bed, thinking maybe, just maybe there's a mission. I know what you're thinking: that I'm still in training pants; why the hell would they need me? But you never know. Sometimes Scott does these 'practice emergencies', picking the most random times. They're never really surprises, 'cuz he's always winking and grinning at the other teachers the night before, or that morning. You just have to look out for that. But I haven't seen Scott today, so I don't know.
Logan stands with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, frowning at me. He's changed shirts, and jeans, but I wonder at the presence of that jacket. Is he cold? Is he leaving again? So soon?
I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but Logan has always felt like....I dunno....a wall. He's just there, looming up. It's hard to believe that anything could be behind him, or anything that matters. He's so sturdy and magnetic I never know if I'm really leaning toward him or if that's just in my head. Either way, I am always afraid I'm going to bump into his chest and look like a damn fool.
"Hey....Logan."
"You weren't downstairs," he declares, matter-of-factly.
Was I supposed to be?
"Was I supposed to be?"
Logan gives a little hrrmph. "For lunch," he explains, as if this is too obvious and a waste of his voice. "All the other kids went down there to eat. Why didn't you?"
"Oh." I glance back at the digital clock beside my bed. It's only a little past noon. "I don't know."
That answer doesn't seem to satisfy him. But maybe somebody else pissed Logan off. He looks me up and down, hard set to his jaw.
"You sick, Kid?"
"No," I say, surprised. Do I look sick? "I guess I was reading. I didn't notice the time."
He's gonna think I'm a nerd.
There are creases in his forehead.
"So you're gonna go now, right? You're gonna go eat?"
I think about saying yes, if only to quiet his bizarre jitteriness. And then I consider the crowds of students, swarming over a well-stocked fridge that will soon be empty of anything decent. John and the other boys messing around, telling Chuck Norris and dead baby jokes. The end to my peaceful Sunday.
But if Logan's going to be there....
"Yeah. I'll-"
"We could go somewhere," he blurts. "To eat. You know, outside the mansion." The way he says it, I almost expect Logan to shuffle his feet, look away. But he doesn't. He stares right at me.
People use that phrase, 'I could hardly believe my ears' alot, but cliche or no, there you have it. A sense of giddiness sweeps through me, and my grin is too big, but who cares?
"Okay."
"Okay," he agrees.
"Okay," I chirp again. Logan raises an eyebrow at me.
I turn, to fetch my purse and oh--oh, lord. Logan's following me in. He's coming in my room. He's coming in my bedroom. Oh my god. Oh my god--shit, why didn't I clean better? There's my big teddy bear, right in the middle of my bed next to The Time Traveller's Wife. Fluffy periwinkle bedsheets, a Disney soundtrack sitting on top of my CD player and god, isn't that cringeworthy? I check that my wallet is in my bag, fit the strap over my shoulder. Logan's eyes are making a circuit around my room--stopping every few feet, making judgements. He smirks at me. "Ready?"
"Yes," I say, wincing at the sight of three plastic eggs behind him--silly putty.
With my luck we'll end up at McDonald's, and he'll make me get a Happy Meal.
....Actually, chicken nuggets don't sound too bad. I could go for that.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
I can tell he wants to take the bike, but Scott must have whisked it away the second it's captor was out of sight. I heard Jean yelling at her husband awhile back, telling him to stop complaining; it was just a motorcycle. He sulked for weeks.
Logan sniffs around the garage for a few minutes, checking out the different vehicles before picking a sleek silver one (I can't tell a Mercedes from a....other car...brand...thingy). He grins.
"We'll take this one."
It's Scott's.
The doors aren't locked. Who would steal a teacher's car? A teacher who can cut you in half with one piercing stare--literally. But considering Logan's history, perhaps that wasn't the wisest of decisions on Cyclops' part.
The seats are black leather, spotless and smooth. It still has that New Car smell, though he's had it for a long time now. Either Scott is extraordinarily careful with his possessions, or he just doesn't leave an imprint.
Logan's body settles heavily into the driver's side. He's too big, struggles with the little lever. He has to push the seat back all the way to fit his legs inside comfortably. I think he looks more natural in a dirty pickup, not something that would the yearly wage of most families. And I mean that in a good way. A very good way.
He tilts his head, eyes the ignition and then me. Shit. He doesn't have the keys. Shit shit shit. We'll have to go back inside and --OH, no. Never mind. A claw on Logan's left hand shoots out, making a hissing sound as it does. The blade shines, even in this dim garage light--or maybe because of it.
It's longer than I remember. Sharper.
Logan slides it into the keys slot, twists, and the engine hums to life. Scott's gonna be so mad. Hope he doesn't yell at me.
It's strange, to have intimate knowledge of how that claw feels inside my chest. Even stranger to look at something and be able to say, 'that almost killed me'.
I gulp. Can't help it.
Logan's eyes flicker toward me, and his face goes pale, just for a second.
"Sorry," he mutters.
"No--it was--doesn't bother--nothing." I'm not sure what I want to say, so all that comes out in a jumbled ball. I look down into my lap, embarrassed. I hear the blade retract, and then we're pulling out, driving.
I had a dream, a few weeks ago. Logan's blood made the claws rust inside him and he died from the poison. I woke up screaming, bawled into my pillow for an hour.
Jubilee said, "Doesn't he heal from, like, anything? Don't be retarded."
She didn't understand.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
We drive through Westchester. I graduated months ago, am free to leave whenever i like (though perhaps not in a stolen vehicle), but unexpected time outside the mansion still seems to pass slower, with more meaning. Illicit air tastes sweeter.
And being with Logan makes it all the more thrilling.
Every now and then we point to a restaurant, pretend to debate it and shake our heads. I don't like spicy foods; he's sick of diners. But we're not in a hurry. Logan seems more at ease, behind the wheel of a car. I ask about his travels, about Canada and everywhere else he's been. His answers are short, vague, but not in a 'shut-up' way. If anything, he seems to enjoy the questions-smiling warmly at me every now and then.
He tells me about a barkeeper with OCD, who wanted to mop the ring after every mach. One opponent slipped and was out cold before Logan could even throw a punch. He describes waitresses who slapped their bosses, chased after customers who failed to tip.
And then he talks about what it's like to drive through mountains in a blizzard, to stand in the woods knowing you're completely alone, to see an Alaskan river turn to ice in minutes,
I'm biting my lip to keep myself from drooling. But apparently doing that while staring at someone gives the wrong impression. Whoops. Logan's eyes dart back and forth from me to the road, lingering on me longer than the former. He swallows, clears his throat.
"How 'bout there?"
"Huh?"
I want to hear more about the river.
"There." He jerks his head to a building on the right. A steakhouse.
"Looks good."
Tell me more about Alaska.
He turns in. It's crowded, but not packed. Logan finds a parking space next to a minivan, who's owner had pasted a truly huge 'Obama-Mama' sticker on the side.
This is a nicer place than I'm used to, and I'm glad I brought my purse instead of sticking with the money in my back pocket.
He gets the door for me.
The hostess takes one look at Logan, and seats us immediately, leaving some high school seniors standing at the door, glaring. We get a booth in the corner--comfortable burnished wood, softened from so many customers. It smells great in here, like smoke and foods you'll never find on a Weight Watchers list. My stomach growls noticeably.
Logan doesn't wait to order, which pleases our waitress to no end. Except for the train, I've never seen him in a public, normal setting. Almost every girl in the room is looking his way (much to the irritation of their dates), their gaze taking in and then discarding me as a kid sister, or something close. I wonder if this magnetism is part of his muta--no, no, it's just Logan.
"A man who knows what he wants. I like it." The waitress, a woman not too much older than me, smiles at him, bats her eyes. She's got curly blond hair and breasts twice my size. I feel like I should take her notepad and apron, head into the kitchens while she takes my place. Stupid bimbo. Stupid blond bimbo. Stupid blond pretty bimbo, with earrings I saw at the mall but couldn't afford.
He gives her a slight, appreciative nod and tells me to take as long as I want. A menu is dropped in front of me.
"Do you know what you want to drink, hun?"
"Sprite," I mumble.
"Alright-y. I'll be back in a minute, you guys." There's no venom in the grin she shoots at me, and I decide she's just an equal-opportunity flirter.
I'm not sure if I've ever had a day quite like that one. I don't get to ask Logan more about Alaska; I don't even have much time to eat. He fixes his gaze on me--steady, serious--and begins firing questions, one after the other. About my health, about the school, my plans. It's an interrogation. A dank room with rats and a single light bulb would make a more appropriate setting. I'm ashamed that there isn't much to say. Nothing he'd find interesting, considering all the places he's been and everything he's seen.
I tell him about Jubilee, how she's my best friend but acts like she's a permanent sixth grader; how I scraped through Calculus with a D+ and The Professor adjusted my grades. I'm not sure how that leads to a discussion of my place on the X-Team, but soon Logan is cutting into his steak like it's personally offended him.
I don't know why he's so unhappy. I love being on the team, training, knowing that I can help others by pushing myself. I've never had a purpose in life before.
Logan tells me to be careful committing myself, that I may see things differently down the road. If he had said, 'when you grow up', I would have walked out of here right then.
"I'm not a child, Logan."
He grimaces, slices at the meat until the knife screeches on the plate below. I wonder why he dislikes the Xmen. They saved my life. His life. What could be wrong with people trying to fight hatred? Especially if those people can follow through with their promises. And what's the matter with me wanting to be a part of that?
Logan just clenches his jaw.
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I'm not sure what makes him change his mind--though Jubilee has any number of theories. She swears money changed hands, that The Wolverine is richer than god now. But she doesn't know Logan at all. But whatever the reason, in only a couple days he has settled into a teacher's half-suite and the position of Co-Trainer...and The Professor has his name printed on a team locker.
Scott's pissed, like a dog poked one too many times with a stick. Of course, he doesn't speak to the junior team about it. Why would he? We're only the people he's supposedly going to work with for years to come. In group practices, he plays the diplomat--graciously sharing strategies, class time, and work space. when Logan gets too rough, or too visceral in his battle descriptions, or uses more than five cuss words in a sentence, Scott will clear his throat, gently chide him. He never screams, though that vein twitching in his temple says he'd like to.
I wake up every day with one thought: 'Logan's Here.' My heart pounds and I'm grinning a dumb smile before I even open my eyes because today, just like the day before, I get to see him. It's an amazing feeling, to want to be with someone--and you do.
He's on one of the top floors, just below Storm, and if he's awake we have breakfast together. Logan growls, says it's disgusting how early I get up (seven o'clock isn't bad, is it?), and swears he's going to start feeding me sedatives. But he's never really angry, when I knock on his door. A wife beater shirt and thin sweatpants, or sometimes just a pair of boxers, and an expanse of muscles and hair I'd wake up at five o'clock to see. It makes me quake, and I have to dig my fingernails deep into my palms. He'll scratch his chest, smirk, and promise to be out in a minute or two. And he always is....Breakfast turns into lunch, which turns into dinner--with maybe a walk, or a card game, or a drive around town in between.
It's only those training sessions that bother me. It's impossible for me to throw myself into the workout like before--I'm always acutely, desperately aware of him. My mind is screaming: "Logan's here, Logan's here, Logan's here", when it should be saying "Right hook, duck." The former never fails to fill me with an inappropriate joy, but his presence makes me fumble simple attacks, miss opportunities to block, take hits that should have been easy to avoid.
I'm ashamed, knowing Logan is watching, judging. It feels like his eyes are always on me, there every time I look up. But I know that's impossible; I'm just being conceited. I'm doing just as poorly as Logan expected. The worst part is, he doesn't yell at me like he does the other students--in fact, for The Wolverine, his reprimands are positively gentle. But behind every soft correction, I hear 'pathetic', 'weak', 'not fit'. I guess Logan thinks I'm too hopeless to really work with.
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I've got The Boy In Striped Pajamas in my lap, and despite the clenching in my chest and the stinging behind my eyes, I can't stop turning the pages. My heart is breaking as I reach the back cover, as with only the best, most beautiful of novels.
I am sitting in the...well, you can't really call it a backyard...back acre of the mansion, using my jacket as a blanket. (The grass has been cut short by the diligent gardeners, and I have only ants and a few flies to worry about.) The sun warms my hair and the back of my neck quite pleasantly. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, hug the book to my chest and contemplate starting it again.
"Kid?"
My muscles spasm; I jump. I hadn't heard a sound. Yet another embarrassment. Xmen are supposed to be alert to their surroundings, 100% of the time. I failed.
But then again, nobody can prepare for Logan.
"Hi."
He's wearing a brown shirt, a pair of jeans with dirt at the cuffs and a surly frown. "Why are you crying?"
Oh, boy. I feel myself blush. "I'm not," I say, scrubbing at my eyes.
"Yeah. You are."
"I mean, I'm not really. I was just...reading something sad."
"Just reading," Logan echoes. Skepticism written in every letter. He looks tense, upset.
"Yeah."
"You sure there ain't nothing else you wanna tell me, Kid?"
"No." I clear my throat. "It's just a...um...really good book. They make me...um...cry sometimes."
"That right?"
"Mm-hmm." God. He thinks I'm crazy.
He scans the field behind me, squinting. Then back to me, and it's strange how only a few moments with him, just a few moments that wouldn't matter if they were spent with anyone else, can set me so off kilter. I wonder why his opinion matters so much to me.
"So whatcha doin' down here?"
"I told you. Reading."
"The book that's making you cry," he confirms. If he weren't, well....Logan, I'd say he looks vulnerable for a few seconds, almost hurt. "You didn't come by this morning."
Oh, Lord. Kitty said if I was any clingier the school was going to stage an intervention. She said The Wolverine would be crawling out his window to get away if I couldn't tone it down.
I laugh, like it's nothing. "Just thought I'd give you the morning off. Didn't want to bug you."
Logan makes a little partial-growl in the back of his throat. "You know you don't hafta worry 'bout that, Kid," he says, annoyed. He glares and I don't know what to say. After a minute or so he offers me a hand--warm and large and noticeably calloused. "Goin' for a walk. You wanna hold this for me?"*
Oh my god. That's just so...so...so...I'm grinning. "Yeah," I whisper shyly.
I take his hand and he lifts me up, just like that. He's so strong, it's crazy. I pick up my jacket, shake the dirt out, tuck it and The Boy In Striped Pajamas into the crook of my elbow--using one hand, because his won't let me go.
I've seen more of the area around the school in the two weeks since his arrival than in all the time that came before. I had never walked so deep into the woods--because of insects, of course, and I'm never sure where The Professor's property ends. If you cross that line where I grew up, you'll be crapping bullets the next day. But Logan says I'm wrong, that this all belongs to Xavier. It goes on for miles. It's hard to comprehend.
We don't go by the feet-worn paths made by the other students. He doesn't give them a second glance. He guides me through non-trails, just gaps between the trees. But I never about getting lost with him.
Squishy leaves under our shoes. Scraggly bushes and trees with bark like scabs, and thick maples. Logan's hand. The smell of cigars. Logan. His voice, alerting me to animal tracks I can't see, but pretend to. His thumb sometimes randomly moving, making gentle circles over the back of my palm.
It's nice.
He asks about the book I'm carrying, and I describe it the best I can, fumblingly. That question is always hard, and it usually ends with me chopping up the story. But these woods smell good and so does he, and when a grasshopper brushes at my knee, I hardly jump at all.
I could stay out here all day.
Maybe we will.
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My feet patter on the rubber pads of the treadmill. I can't look down, because the spinning treads make me queasy. Scott put in one of those holographic walls--the kind where you can pretend you're running through a meadow or a desert or Narnia--but I don't turn it on, because it gives Logan a headache. He thinks the treadmill is a pansy machine unless it's switched on the highest speed. But he only says that because the one time he stepped on, it cracked under his weight.
I've got something better than a simulation to watch. Logan's across the room, doing sit-ups on the grey mat. I stare happily at his muscles contracting and releasing--glad we're alone, and glad he isn't facing me because I'd have to look away. I get to see his back, all sleek and wired and Logan-y.
It's a good day for exercise.
He moves forcefully, with animalistic purpose even when he's not going anywhere. Usually there would be four to five girls down here for the show, playing with the hand weights and giggling. But Jean organized a trip to the mall for those students with money and, as I said, we're alone.
I focus on regulating my breathing, and trying not to get so distracted I slip and fall. Logan slows, stops. I hope he does push-ups now. They're my favorite.
No. He's getting to his feet. He glances my way, quirks his lips in a faint smirk. I watch him cross over to the bench press (adjusted for the residents with super-strength). Logan loads as many dumbbells on the bar as Colossus, arranges his body on the seat beneath. I wait for him to call me over--the other day he scolded me for a half hour straight for not using a spotter--but he's silent.
Hypocrite, I snort.
Then I picture it. His grip, not tight enough. Or maybe a muscle spasm. Or the weights not attached evenly. Whatever scenario, that bar slips, comes down on his neck. I can almost hear the sound it would make. His thrashing body. The choking.
And I know. I know he's strong; I know he can heal; I know he doesn't need me. But once that image is in my head, I just can't pry it out.
"Logan?"
"Yeah?"
He twists his head to look at me.
"You want me to spot you?"
Both eyebrows shoot up, and his lips twitch uncontrollably. "Sure, Honey," he manages, as if something about my offer is amusing.
I spin the dial on the treadmill until it clicks off. Step down. My legs feel funny. I've been running a long time.
I stand behind Logan, my knees touching the black cushion he's laying on, hands beneath the bar. I'm not even pulling (not doing anything, really) yet I can feel the dumbbell's mass, radiating out with cold enormity. I can't imagine lifting it myself.
Logan doesn't seem to have much--or any--trouble with it, though. His arms pump up and down, almost effortlessly. I've got the best angle in the whole world. His body stretches out in front of me--three hundred pounds of Wolverine. I'm having thoughts my mama would never approve of. She'd probably slap me, command I turn my mind to the topics of a lady and call her church friends for guidance. Those thoughts have been coming more and more lately, usually when I'm laying in bed or with Logan...which means pretty much around the clock. My ability to control them is decreasing inversely.
I don't know what's wrong with me. I've never reacted this way to any of the boys here. Not Bobby or John or Piotr. I can't explain the tickle in my stomach, my thighs, or why I can't stop noticing the things I definitely shouldn't be noticing...Like how his hair looks, falling out of his face, or how his eyes are locked onto me-dark as coal and burning twice as much. How sweat pools a little in the dip of Logan's breastbone, and that line of hair that runs down to his waistband is black from moisture, matted down. And beneath that--
Logan grunts, and his hips flex. Buck. Arch.
Several things happen in that split second it takes for my eyes to return to his face. A blur, too quick to register completely. The bar dropping into it's notches with a bang, shaking the machine. His body twisting. The grown when he stood up. His eyes.
And he's moving so fast. So fast. I'm stumbling and he's backing me up, into the wall. At first I think he's mad-what did I do? What did I do? Logan's right hand strikes the panel behind me, stays there. I'm pinned in. Surrounded by him. But no, no. There's a light in his expression that doesn't fit anger--it's close to happy, but I can't give it a name.
He leans in so close, sniffing at my hair and I can't help but breathe Logan in too. I'm trapped and his mouth is smiling, just a little bit, so warmly-so warm I'm-I'm unravelling. My brain isn't working and neither is my throat I can't speak can't breath gotta-gotta check those team records is he always this big what's happening what's he doing and I laugh a little, smile because I'm nervous or scared or something and Logan's fingers are sliding through my hair, gripping tight, too tight, pulling my head backwards ohmygod his eyes are so bright his stomach against my stomach what's going on is this a joke is he messing with me ohmygod Logan Logan is he gonna kiss me holy shit ohmygod his lips he's gonna kiss me Logan's gonna kiss me ohmygodohmygodohmygod shut up brain, just shut up relax stop thinking shut up ohymygod he's gonna--
Mmf.
~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~
Logan hunts down Scott before Xavier. He doesn't have far to go--all the teachers work on the first floor, just off the entrance hall. The Prick is in his office, and so is his red haired wife. Jean has her arms crossed over her chest and Scott's fingers are red with the ink of a grading pen he gripped too tight. Residue of sharp words hang in the air; an imbecile without his mutation would be able to sense the argument that had just taken place. Scott's lips tighten even further when he spots The Wolverine in the doorway, but Logan steps in anyway.
Jean twirls, beams at him. "Well, hello Stranger!"
She takes the few steps that separate them, winds her arms around his neck with more grace but less enthusiasm than Marie. She aligns her figure to his, squeezes a little tighter than necessary. "Long time no see. We've all missed you."
Over Jean's shoulder, he sees Summer's face go pale with anger. He can almost hear One-Eye's asshole pucker, so he returns her taunting embrace. "Missed you too, Jeannie," he purrs.
He doesn't like being used to screw with other people, but that look on Scooter's face outweighs his irritation. The doctor steps back, pleased with the jealousy she evoked in the room, but not completely satisfied. She never is.
"Sweetie, don't you wanna tell Logan hello?"
"Yeah, Cycke. Dontcha wanna welcome me home?" Jesus. Did he just call this place 'home'? It's okay, it was just a joke. It's okay.
"Where's my bike?" Scott demands. Jean tuts.
"In a ditch."
Damn that man's stupid mutation. Logan would have liked to see Cyclops's eyes bug out. "You're fucking kidding me."
"Yeah, I am. It's outside."
Jean shakes her head disapprovingly. She tells her husband to watch his language.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Summers asks her, coolly. He wonders what happened to the adoring couple they'd been before he left. Her back goes stiff, her tone icy.
"I don't know, Scott. I thought I might just--"
"I need to talk to you about Rogue," Logan interrupts, no longer entertained by the preliminaries.
Jean freezes. "Rogue? What about her?"
"Not with you. Him."
"Oh," she says. "Well then. Maybe I do have somewhere to be."
She moves around Logan, high heels clicking out of the office.
"See ya, Jeannie."
She doesn't reply.
He thought Scooter would take the opportunity to fuck with him, dangle what he wanted over his head before pulling it away. But he doesn't. Scott seems tired, deflated. Logan smells no delight in his refusal.
He tells him that the team is Rogue's choice, that she signed up the moment she turned eighteen. Nobody's forcing the girl; she doesn't even use her mutation. He says she's proud of herself--and she should be, because Rogue is a great fighter, lots of potential--and the happiest she's been since Logan left.
"I can't take her off the team, Logan, and I won't."
And something about the hardness in Scooter's face, the weary finality, the nonresponse to any creative threats, makes Logan think he actually means it.
"Fuck you," he says, respectfully, and leaves without popping his claws as he had intended.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Chuck welcomes him back like the prodigal son--shrugging off the Alkali Lake affair with an apologetic, 'win-some-lose-some' expression. Logan doesn't have the time to get angry, though on the road to Westchester he thought a great deal about what he'd say to the old man. Now that he's actually here, though--watching Xavier smile and nod with that assured, knowing ease--he can't find the words.
He keeps thinking of Marie, how her fingers clutched the back of his shirt.
Chuck gives him directions to a spare bedroom, to the laundry chamber. He encourages Logan to rest, settle in before they work out his employment.
"What employment?"
"On the teaching staff." Chuck waves off his growls. "Don't fret; we'll hammer out the details later. I apologize, but I have a meeting scheduled with some investors and they are a very impatient group. We'll talk again soon."
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He unpacks in a room with walls the color of spoiled eggplant. It doesn't take long, because all he owns fits inside one backpack (which is starting to get holes in the bottom; he needs to buy another). Logan examines everything-- the closet, the dresser, the TV, the bedside table. He takes a piss in the small bathroom, does all the things necessary to make a foreign, impersonal environment his own.
Logan doesn't know how long he's going to stay, but has a sneaking suspicion that it won't be one or two days...and that doesn't alarm him half as much as it should. He thinks it will be nice to eat food not soaked in dubious grease, sleep on unstained sheets, and spend some time fulfilling his promise to The Kid.
Speaking of which....No. No. It's too soon. Not even an hour has passed since he last saw her. Marie's probably busy--surfing the net or painting her nails or watching American Idol. Whatever girls do. He's not really up to speed on their habits when they don't relate to sex.
Logan reclines back on the bed (there are four pillows: the bottom two are firm, the top fluffier than marshmallows for their user's mix-and-match pleasure), and entertains himself. Three times. Even that gets a little boring, and the minutes on the clock are ticking by so slowly.
Maybe Marie is downstairs, playing Foosball like that day he left. If so, there was no reason Logan couldn't go down. Hang out. See her. After all, how can he look out for The Kid up here in his bedroom?
So he changes jeans, strips to his bottom shirt (when you travel light, wearing layers is just a sensible method of carrying clothes). Logan throws his jacket back on (because you never know when you'll have to run, and this thing has been with him for as long as he can remember) and heads out.
No Marie in the pack of students around the Foosball table, or in the library, or the kitchen. He returns to the rec room, takes a seat on a couch that should logically be covered in juice stains, but is spotless from weekly dry cleaning.
She's probably in her room. But she'll be down soon. It's nearly lunchtime, and teenagers eat constantly-right? Logan's not sure why seeing The Kid again is so important, or what's stopping him from going to find her room, if he wants to so badly.
Or maybe he does.
Maybe that's a lie.
Maybe some flag goes up in his head, declaring that you only track down a woman in her bedroom for one reason. But obviously his brain is stuck in Wolverine mode, because were he to go up there it would be for strictly platonic purposes.
A girl with a neck brace sits beside him, takes the remote and turns the channel to some squeaky chick flick. Apparently this sets off a subsonic pulse to all the uteruses on the first floor, because in minutes the couch is swarmed. They're giggling, staring at him, and Logan's stomach turns from the fumes--acne cream and badly mixed perfume. He shoves himself up, flees to the kitchen: equally crowded but less feminine.
This is annoying. How can anyone stand to be around so many people, all the time? It's driving him crazy. And where is Marie? Why isn't she down here, hanging out with all the others? Is she shutting herself off? Is something wrong?
Piles of Frito's and sandwich meat on the counter. Students tearing into the meal like it's going to be their last. Has Marie eaten today? Is she hungry? Is she healthy?
Logan waits, paces. His mind turns in obsessive circles, building up a restless, primitive concern he can't defeat with logic. The blue numbers on the microwave's clock change from '11:59' to '12:00', and it's official: Marie isn't here. Marie isn't here. He has to go get her. If she's upset, he'll find out who hurt her. If she's anorexic, he'll shove a burger down her throat. Simple and foolproof.
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Her door is covered with pictures--not movie stars or male models, like those of her neighbors, but art: Thomas Kinkade and Josephine Wall most prominent--so thick he can't see the wood underneath. Logan raps his fist against an iridescent swan. He hears bed springs, quick feet on the carpet. The knob twists, pulls back.
Marie's chin is a little pink, like she's been leaning it on her hand. He smells excitement, surprise, and pleasure. In that order.
"Hey, Logan," she says, with a slight hitch in her voice. But she doesn't seem sad, just a little breathless.
A door clicks open, a few doors down, and a mousy head peeps out, then back in. Whispers about The Wolverine and Rogue, a call to come "check this out".
"You weren't downstairs," he says, to explain his presence and inquire the reason behind it.
"Was I supposed to be?" Marie asks. Not belligerent, merely curious.
"For lunch. All the other kids went down there to eat. Why didn't you?"
"Oh." Marie appears taken aback. She looks away, perhaps searching for an answer, or a lie that will satisfy him. "I don't know," she says.
Gotta do better than that, Darlin'. He wonders if something is wrong with his nose. It's not registering any distress in her scent, and that discrepancy is driving Logan mad.
"You sick, Kid?"
What diseases wouldn't his senses pick up?
Marie blinks, shakes her head. "No. I guess I was reading. Didn't notice the time." Her words trail of, and she flushes.
Yeah. His mutation is fucked up today. He smells truth, with a touch of embarrassment. Again Logan's mind blares the word 'anorexia'. He knew a woman in Oregon who'd go days without eating--chewing on the ends of Q-Tips when the hunger got too strong (he slept with the nutbag's roommate, not her). As stated before, Marie looks healthy to him, not too thin. But you never knew. Maybe he came back just in time.
"So you're gonna go now, right?" he asks her, the taste of urgency thick in his mouth. "You're gonna go now?"
She bites her lip, seems to argue with herself. She takes too long. Logan pictures himself dragging Marie downstairs, sitting her down in the kitchen an forcing her to eat--forkful by forkful, if necessary. Then he sees the groups of students, how humiliated she would be.
"Yeah," she says, "I'll--"
"We could go somewhere to eat. You know, outside the mansion," he suggests, thinking it would go easier in a setting where nobody knows them.
Her eyes light up, glitter with delight. She beams. "Okay!"
He's relieved. "Okay."
"Okay," she says again.
He wonders if they'll do this all day. Blood flows to her cheeks, painting them a pleasant shade of scarlet. She turns and heads into her room, nudging her door open a bit more as she does so. He accepts the unspoken invitation, steps in a few feet after her. He hears Marie's heart pump a nervous rhythm.
The bedroom is small, with a bathroom on the right that makes his enormous by comparison. It's...cozy, Logan thinks, and finds his lips twitching. The bed takes up most of the space and--Jesus, no. That's not a good thought at all. Stacks of books everywhere, one laying open on the bed beside a stuffed bear. Maybe she was being honest. Sketch books, some origami swans on the dresser. Needle and thread on top of a torn pair of jeans. The concentrated scent of Marie. He inhales deeply.
She flutters around, uncertainly picking up her purse. Logan hopes she won't want to change clothes. He couldn't take it.
There's a bra--silver, with white lace--poking out from underneath her bed. Does she see it?
"Ready?" he inquires. And she must notice the bra, because she's turning even redder.
"Yes."
Marie slams the door behind them with a little more than the required force.
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Two regular-sized houses could fit in the garage. Sparkling chrome, glossy paint. No model older than a year or two. No spare parts laying around, no oil drips. Do they make the shop class scrub the floors, or the cleaning staff? The anal-ness of it makes Logan's skin crawl.
Behind a metal wall with two locks but no doorknob, he picks up the aroma of the bike's distinctive oil and himself, after so many months of riding it. If Scott were here, he'd ruffle his hair. Little tyke. It's almost sweet, One-Eye thinking he could hide something from The Wolverine. To drive that pint home, Logan finds the best of the Scooter-scented vehicles, a Porsche with black trim.
"We'll take this one," he tells Marie. That smile on her face--the one when she's trying to hold in a laugh--might be his favorite.
The car reeks of cologne and hairspray. He's surprised that she's breathing it in so casually; it's almost choking him. Logan breaks the metal bar under the seat, to teach Scott that real men need leg room.
He considers teaching her how to hot wire a car (a usefull skill they probably leave out of the lessons here), but decides to save time. He can show her later.
A quick pain of muscles ripping, a single talented strip of adamantium. Slide it into the ignition, turn, and there we go.
Marie makes a noise. It's slight, but the fragrance that accompanies it makes Logan's eyes snap to her. She's staring at the claw with a nauseous expression...and a little bit of fear. Fuck. He remembers the scent of her blood--never got it out of his head--the shock, the night he'd woken and discovered what it felt like to stab a seventeen year old, innocent girl in the chest.
"Sorry," Logan tells her, knowing that nothing ever gets erased, even accidents.
She stutters some words of acquittal, but they don't make him feel any better. It's okay, though. It is. He'll make that night up to her.
They drive for a long time, from one end of Westchester to the other. Neither of them are in a particular hurry. Logan answers all of her questions, even the most random of ones. He scrapes his mind for stories to tell, though there aren't many--certainly few that would interest her, and even fewer that do not contain karma sutra and an inordinate amount of vodka. He'd gladly drive to Texas if Marie would keep looking at him that way: fascinated, eating up every word, hungry for more. And fuck, if that ain't the wrong metaphor to use. It's putting pictures in his head that absolutely never be painted there.
Biting her lip, so enthralled, so eager...Stop it. Stop thinking about that.
"How bout there?"
"Huh?" Sweet voice, taken off guard.
"There." Logan nods to the first restaurant he sees. It could be a Hooters or a Chuckie Cheese; his brain isn't functioning well enough to read the sign. He just needs to stop--get them out of this confined space, to somewhere the air doesn't taste so much like her.
"Looks good," she says, a little grudgingly.
When they stop, he has the brief, crazy urge to run around and open Marie's door before she does. But that's ridiculous: he's never done that for any woman with working limbs of her own. And it's too late, anyway. By the time the thought passes through Logan's brain, Marie's already outside the car.
He does get the door of the restaurant for her--holds it wide and steps back. And that cute little 'thank you' smile she gives him might change his mind about chivalry.
A perky waitress guides them to a table in the back. It's a steakhouse of the nicer variety--cloth napkins instead and lit candles. the scent of meat drifting from the kitchen puts Logan in the mood to hunt.
"Steak. Rare." he tells the woman. She plays with the ends of hair dyed just that morning, from the smell. "And a beer."
"A man who knows what he wants. I like it."
Marie frowns jealously, and he feels guilty for not waiting--isn't this supposed to be about feeding her? "Take as long as you want, Kid." he says apologetically. The waitress lays a menu on the table and excuses herself.
She's playing with the edge of the leather-rimmed sheet. Logan watches her, prepares for a struggle but doesn't get it. She studies the bulleted items calmly, and when the waitress returns Marie orders brisket with a side of okra.
He's had drinks, sometimes a pizza with people on the fight circuit--out of boredom, if it was a guy, a prelude if it was a woman. But this has to be the first casual, full meal he's ever shared with someone he planned to see again the next day.
He likes it.
With no distractions or pressure from anything but the waitress, returning to fill their glasses, he thinks its the best time to ask some questions of his own. She tells him what it's like to live with the people who grade your tests; get a scraped knee bandaged in a lab that would make Batman envious. Marie seems comfortable, and Logan soaks up the details of her life, storing what makes she enjoys or doesn't in his mind for future reference.
She says she's grateful The Professor changed her math score so she could graduate. It doesn't surprise him--what wouldn't Xavier do for a potential Xmen?
He tries to stay quiet and listen impartially when Marie talks about the team--just a nonjudgmental friend. But that's difficult. She's so young. She doesn't know how she wants to spend her life. She's just running down the first, closest path that looks good. But that's okay. It is. He'll be here when Marie is ready to quit. He can...he can stay until then. For her. Yeah.
The rest of the meal passes harmoniously, until the check is brought to their table. Marie pulls an indigo wallet out of her purse, starts counting out money for her side of the meal. Logan snaps at her to put it away, annoyed that she would assume he'd make her pay. What kind of man does she think he is?
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Logan tells Xavier he'll work with the junior team: no more, no less. He's no interested in the gym class or any of the other students--just Rogue, and the kids in her group by default. But Scott still throws a hissy fit, wailing about the need for consistency, Logan's lack of propriety and gentle tact.
Scooter doesn't remember that territory disputes go out the window the moment the alpha dog shows up.
Chuck plays peacemaker, using sissy words like 'Co-Trainer' and 'face of unity', resulting in him forced to stand with Summers for three hours a day, trying to teach people who still watch cartoons to kill. Scott's idea of training is closer to pillow fighting, and he becomes unreasonably shrill when Logan tries to introduce a little blood.
But he didn't lie about Marie. She is good. Not the best, but head and shoulders above the other mini-mutants. Almost against Logan's will, he's proud of her. She doesn't lose her head in the midst of confrontation, doesn't back down when she gets hit. Marie knows how to identify an opponents weakness; she can have them on the floor in minutes. She's talented. Any win is taken in stride, but a loss will have her obsessing for hours.
He's concerned about that insecurity, that hesitancy. She gets nervous sometimes, starts thinking too much. You can see it in her eyes, the twist of her body. She'll be doing well, moving naturally, skillfully. Then there's a hitch--a moment when she stops trusting her instincts, and she fumbles. Whoever Marie is fighting at the moment jumps at the opportunity, so much so that Logan wants to step in himself. His knuckles itch every time she's hurt. She shakes it off, but glances back at him with such guilt his voice box closes up. He can't bring himself to shout when all his strength is keeping him from idiotic moves, like hugging her.
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Marie wakes him up at an ungodly hour every morning. Chipper smile, wide eyes so innocent when she asks if he was asleep. He'd claw anyone else who tried it, but can't find the necessary anger with her.
That happy look when he opens the door, as if pleasantly surprised every time to find him there again.
That way Marie's eyes go up and down his chest, fingers twitching at her side, as if wanting to reach out and touch.
That special scent he shouldn't enjoy and definitely shouldn't encourage, but does. Sometimes Logan strips down before opening the door, just to see the expression on her face.
He can't start his day anymore without those things. They're vital, like food and beer and a shower after a long day spent around too many scents. He lays in bed, staring at the ceiling at six thirty in the morning, waiting to hear the swish of her skirt, the perky knocks on his door.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Today, the sounds don't come and neither does Marie. At first he's furious, when he finds her safe on the back lawn. A book in her hands, no trace of injury or threatening presence. It had been a bad night for him, a wake-up-screaming night, and he lay in bed for hours on a salty pillow, wanting to see her, waiting for their ritual. And then he'd ran around the mansion, frantic, with thoughts of lax security and uncaught members of The Brotherhood. Convinced if Marie didn't come see him, she couldn't't.
Re-evaluating that belief now, those tears are the only thing that stops him from yelling. He wants to scoop Marie up like a worried parent at the mall. Kiss her cheeks and hug/shake her into not frightening him again.
"Kid?"
She jerks, startled like a deer by gunshot. She twists around, seeming both pleased and humiliated to see him. "Hi", she greets him, sheepishly.
"Why are you crying?" What'swrongwhat'swrongwhat'swrong--
"I'm not."
Bullshit.
"Yeah, you are."
Marie squirms, awkwardly stammers a few lines about the book she's reading. He struggles to understand how paper and ink could upset her, decides females are just a weird breed. The bigger question is: why would she choose a story that makes her cry, over a man who never would? Logan tries not to feel insulted as he puzzles it out.
Summers pissed him off last Tuesday, said he'd get bored in a few weeks when the novelty of hanging out with Rogue wore off.
But maybe it's the other way around.
Maybe Marie's tired of him.
Logan grits his teeth, asks her to go for a walk with him.
Her hand is soft, like butter without the moisture.
He hangs on tight.
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He performs sit-ups on the chilly gym floor. Up down, up down. Marie's behind him, jogging on the treadmill. Logan likes how they can do this--just be together. No one else around, no pressure to act a certain way, and no mandatory conversation. It's the closest he gets to meditation.
Her panting breath and the sound her thighs make rubbing together serves for excellent background music. Logan knows she's staring at him, inhales the evidence of her gaze. It makes him forget everything Chuck said about impressionable girls and safe barriers. Lately it's all Logan can do not to kiss Marie silly every time he catches that scent, or her lips get all trembly when she looks his way...not that he's looking for a relationship or a tumble with The Kid. But sometimes it's hard for him to remember why those are bad ideas.
He gets bored with the sit-ups. They're too easy; his mind is wandering with a dangerous freedom.
Logan pushes himself up off the mat--so thin it's worthless; he doesn't know why Scott lays them there or why he uses them--and goes to the bench press. It's the only piece of gym equipment he actually likes. Half the dumbbells are weighted specially, twice what normal people could bear. With all of those loaded, this exercise is almost a challenge.
He looks back once at Marie before laying down. A little pink triangle snakes out of her mouth, runs across her lower lip. Jesus.
But the twang of apprehension reaches him, just as his fingers are encircling the bar.
"Logan?"
"Yeah?"
"You want me to spot you?"
Aww. That's-that's cute. Logan fights hard not to laugh, because her face is so serious. Does she really think she could lift the weights, even if it were possible for him to drop them? Poor kid.
"Sure, Darlin'," He humours her so she won't feel bad.
Marie nods, turns off her machine and comes toward him. He can see a strip of skin peeking out from under her shirt. And Logan has to look away now because all amusement has left him and he's back to his "Shouldn't" thoughts.
She's above him, face upside down from this perspective. So close.
Logan can't feel the dumbbells, rising and falling in his grip. They are weightless, hardly there at all because he's got the perfect view of the underside of Marie's breast. He can almost see a nipple, through the filmy t-shirt she wears when running. The slender curve of her neck, the hair slipping out of a scrunchy she always puts in but can never keep for long. Lips that look even fuller, lashes even thicker from this angle. And Marie's eyes are going down his body in the same way.
He smells toothpaste and pancake syrup, sweat and that baby powder she rubs on after deodorant. Honeysuckle and cotton and ink. Marie scents. Curiosity and arousal and--oh Jesus. Jesus.
Are you kidding me, Logan thinks, before any cognitive ability shuts down. Are you fucking kidding me?
She's ovulating.
Something clicks inside him, like a button being pressed. A huge, red button similar to the nuclear one featured on the president's desk. Everything sharpens to predator-clarity. The iron bar settles into it's braces, though by pure coincidence because he abandoned the weights without a second thought.
Marie's gasping, and he can see each individual taste bud in her mouth. She's walking--no, tripping backwards. A little fear, a lot more surprise. Logan stalks her, charged by a mindless heat. His body urges her into a corner, blocks an escape route to the right. Marie's skin is pale and soft and beautiful. He has to feel it, has to taste it. She's so pretty. Beautiful. And she's excited now, really excited. He can smell it. All the air his lungs can hold don't seem enough.
Marie stares up at him, eyes sparkling. She doesn't speak. Her heart is beating so fast, fluttering.She blushes, giggles nervously. The sound shoots straight to his groin. He's hard, so hard, and burning. Squishing her against the wall, grinding but it's not enough. It's not enough. Fuck barriers.
Brown strands on a flushed cheek. Logan brushes it away before burying his fingers in her hair. Palm molded around her skull, little dips and bumps. He wants to feel everything, all of her.
She doesn't know what to do so he draws her head back, angling it. Logan kisses her hard, deep. She makes a little noise and he slides his tongue over her teeth until she opens to him. Tastes so good. So sweet. Not as gentle as he'd like, but she's not complaining.
Arching, slender body. Plastering herself against him. He's petting, tickling, squeezing, and the animal is screaming for him to drop the preliminaries. He pulls his mouth away so she can inhale quickly, before swooping down again. Young body, supple. Tender and firm at the same time. Wet fragrance filling his nostrils. The Wolverine is telling him to take her now, right now. Right here. And Logan's is in complete agreement.
So he stops.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Greetings, awesome readers! Long time no see.
I have to apologize again, for the slow update on part two of the second chapter. I'm usually a quick poster, and I generally stick to my word when I say things like, 'a week' and 'soon', but in this case it was unnavoidable. I think you'll understand when you see the size of this baby. It took up fifty six pages on paper...of course my handwriting is large, and there were many paragraphs scratched out from a nasty bout of writer's block I caught. This "Past" section was a little tough to write, getting our couple from point A to point B, and I'm a bit tense about it. But, as ever, I hope you'll enjoy/review it. See you at the bottom. ;-)
P.S. You'll find an asterick by the line adopted from nanowrimo. I don't want to spoil it here. Thank you to the generous writer who suggested it.
I have to apologize again, for the slow update on part two of the second chapter. I'm usually a quick poster, and I generally stick to my word when I say things like, 'a week' and 'soon', but in this case it was unnavoidable. I think you'll understand when you see the size of this baby. It took up fifty six pages on paper...of course my handwriting is large, and there were many paragraphs scratched out from a nasty bout of writer's block I caught. This "Past" section was a little tough to write, getting our couple from point A to point B, and I'm a bit tense about it. But, as ever, I hope you'll enjoy/review it. See you at the bottom. ;-)
P.S. You'll find an asterick by the line adopted from nanowrimo. I don't want to spoil it here. Thank you to the generous writer who suggested it.
Chapter End Notes:
Hey, guys. I'm super mambo anxious to hear your thoughts on this section, even more than usual. Please review.
Additionally, I found something you all might wanna check. Google "love calculator", and pick the first of the results. Type in our couples (first and last) names. ;-)
Additionally, I found something you all might wanna check. Google "love calculator", and pick the first of the results. Type in our couples (first and last) names. ;-)