Overlap: Chapter Five
Days slip by, weeks. I'm not sure how many, nor would I care if you told me the number. I live in a cold mist that leaves my mind--what little that remains--numb, my skin clammy and my eyes wet.
He's not here.
I eat, go to the bathroom, when I remember to, when I absolutely must. Jubilee used to drop off 'Care Packages'--crackers and peanut butter and fruit roll ups--until Hank made her stop. He said that if I don't take care of myself, we'll have to talk about medication. So I try. I really, really try. To remember food, to brush my hair, to not make so much noise that somebody comes to check on me.
Sometimes I forget.
And he's not here.
I store up all my lucidity for those thirty minutes or so when I must convince others to let the sharp objects in my room remain there. As long as I make that long walk to the kitchen at least once a day, I'm mostly left alone, to my own devises. And without Logan, that isn't much.
I spend most of the time when I'm not pretending I'm still human curled up in a ball. Staring at the wall or my knees or nothing at all, and you'd be surprised how easily that is to do. I'm not always certain of the details of last week, or yesterday, but that doesn't bother me. I know it can't have been to different from today. Occasionally I get out that ultrasound, touch the upper corner, the shape Hank had labelled as an arm. But I can't see my son anymore. Just blue and black squiggles.
I stand--sometimes sit, if my knees won't hold me--in the shower and forget what I'm supposed to be doing. An hour, two hours. That bar of soap gets heavier and heavier until it falls out of my hand. The water goes from warm to tepid to cold to absolutely freezing, but it's all the same to me. I barely feel the spray. My eyes are glazed and my lips are parted and I'm someplace else.
And I think about happy things, the really beautiful things in life that are so bright they have no choice in the end but to burn in on themselves. Until there's nothing left but char to show that once upon a time, something had been good.
In old films, they'd show you the spinning hand of a clock, the flipping of calender pages. I have no such measurement to offer.
I know that it is colder outside. The mansion's heater clicks on every half hour or so.
I know The Professor fell, lost control of his wheelchair outside. Jubilee keeps chanting the words "old age" and nodding wisely. She says there was hardly any snow or ice on the ground at all, but the gardeners were ordered to spread salt on every inch of cobblestone. Everyone's coats smell like the sea.
I know that Jean has recovered from my touch; I can hear her yelling at the students, the cleaning staff, about wet shoe prints and mud.
I know that she and Xavier and all the other residents have begun to lose interest in me. Jubilee's, even Ororo's, lectures on "moving on" sound forced these days, obligatory, and I think they long to follow their own advice. Their visits will shrink, become increasingly infrequent until they won't even be capable of meeting my gaze when I'm downstairs. It's fine. I'm glad for them.
Constant sadness is boring. I think I learned that lesson better than any other here.
I know that my body's schedule is wrong. Sometimes I get to the kitchen right before lunch, other times so late that even the night owls have gone to bed.
I know that my eyes are closed more than they are open. And I'm absolutely positive every time I awake that this time Logan will be here. He's just in the bathroom, outside in the hall, on his way with breakfast. But inevitably I'll start blinking. And it will occur to me how rarely Logan left my side when I was asleep. And if he's here, why am I clinging to his flannel shirt--the one I'd pulled from the dirty laundry on the day I hunted down absolutely every scrap he left behind. A cigar stub, a receipt for oil and another for Valentine's Day chocolates, beer caps, a wrench, and the cell phone issued to the Xmen.
This shirt is my prize. I'd been hysterical when I pulled it out of our hamper. Held it to my nose and rocked back and forth and wept frantically. Deep, ratcheting sobs that leave splinters in your throat because they are hungry more for air than tears. They tug at the lining of your lungs, your stomach, until you can't decide if you're more exhausted or dizzy. The first time I experienced those sobs, with that shirt, I stayed on the bathroom floor until I drifted off to sleep. And I thought, I wouldn't wish this on anybody. Not on anybody. Not even Jean, because a small, quiet place inside me says she's already done it; she already knows.
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Logan made a mistake with her shirts.
He shouldn't have taken the ones Marie wouldn't miss. He should have brought her favorites, the ones that she wears most frequently. The ones that care the most skin oils, the most sweat, the most Marie.
He pretends she's there in the blouses long after her fragrance starts to fade out, hunts ghost scents in his own belongings, in the lining of the pickup. Her body's signature dims first, them Marie's shampoo, then the detergent she favored.
And when no vestige of Westchester is left, when the shirts are nothing but fabric--spoiled by Canadian air and too much handling--Logan's sanity goes with it.
After leaving Xavier's, he had driven without pause for anything but gas, trying to snap the elastic band that threatened to send him flying back to Marie with every spin of his tires. Logan crossed the continent, and it wasn't far enough. He buried himself in Canada, tried to get back to what he did best and found he was no longer good at it.
Conscious or otherwise, there is never a moment when Logan isn't thinking of Marie. Not a minute when The Wolverine doesn't have his teeth sunk in, isn't biting at his mind. Not a single fucking second when the animal lets Logan forget how he broke the most important, most iron clad of Nature's laws.
You don't abandon your mate.
Ever.
He did.
Cage fights hold no interest for him. They're just a convenient supply of physical pain, a way for him to keep moving down the road. He gives challengers more time to knock him around before striking back, even allowing a few to win. Logan enjoys the well-placed kick, the jab to his stomach, the brass knuckles snuck in to the ring. All things he deserves (though not enough, never enough) but can't do to himself. He becomes tired, forgets why defending himself could ever be a good idea.
A bar, a fight, a man grown overconfident by The Wolverine's lack of response. His taunts, the screaming jeers of the crowd, a knee that crash-lands dangerously close to his testicles. Logan wonders if Marie has been eating enough. Did Marie buy a new winter jacket? It's getting cold out, and last year her coat was getting thin.
"Stupid pussy. Just give it up now. Made a real big mistake gettin' in this cage, bitch."
Logan pictures her life slowly moving forward, healing. And then he sees the inevitable. Boys. Bobby and Pyro and all the other nameless threats that had always been there, waiting for a chance with his girl. Men jumping to fill the space he'd left.
It takes eleven men to pull Logan off of his opponent. He'd battered in the man's skull.
And he wonders when he became the kind of man whose hands never stop shaking. The kind of man prostitutes fear--or perhaps pity--enough to turn down.
And in his dreams, Marie is screaming. And he never reaches her before the sound cuts off.
And the barkeepers start refusing to place his name on the fight list. The owners tell him, "We let in drinkers, but not drunks." And Logan wants to scream at them, Don't you know I'm The Wolverine? I don't get drunk.
And he thinks about people, and how easily they break. How Marie and he tore each other to shreds with the best of intentions.
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"What are you doing?"
I can't remember falling asleep (though, honestly--who can?); I thought I was just resting. My body feels like it's tied down with those sandbags that control theatre curtains. Keeping my eyes open is an act defiant of gravity. I'm curled up like a cat in Logan's chair, my head on pillow supposedly placed there by him. It's soft and cool and I'd trade it in a heartbeat for his brick-hard arm--the absence of which must have woken me up.
Logan is stripping the covers off the bed, one at a time, until I can see the purple flower pattern woven into the bare mattress. There are red splotches, damp looking. I guess those are from me.
He barely glances at me. "Gonna take these down to the laundry room. Get some fresh sheets and cleaning shit for the floor."
I blink, inexplicably confused at what sounds like daily life. I slowly conclude that our night is officially over, try to work out what that means for me. We were both supposed to be at Team Practice today, but it's probably over by now. I wouldn't go anyway. I'm too sleepy. And sore. And spending the day analyzing what happened fits more smoothly into my schedule.
I've got the towel he dried me with draped over my waist. I pull it up, press it to my chest. It doesn't cover much.
Get ready for that gentle let down speech, my practical--though not particularly kind--side warns me. Save your fantasies for later. Don't embarrass yourself. Don't act like a girl. Just appreciate what you have of him, while you have it.
And I do. I do.
I reach down, snag my blouse. Where did my bra get to?
"What are you doing?" Logan demands, lifting his head and frowning.
I flush. Guess he thinks it'd be wrong to put these on again, especially with that soy sauce stain. Though I'm reasonably certain Logan has reworn clothes a time or two. What other choice do I have?
"I didn't bring anything else," I explain.
He nods toward the dresser. "You can borrow one of my shirts."
"But I can't walk all the way to my bedroom in just that. It's two floors down."
"Why do you need to go to your room?"
"Because that's where I live. Oddly enough."
Logan sets the heap of covers down, crosses over to the chair.
He places one hand on the armrest, bends down. I lean back reflexively, not intimidated--okay, yes intimidated.
"I meant," Logan speaks quietly, "why do you have to go at all?"
His eyes burn with an intensity that suits a very different question much better. I draw in a shuddering breath, feel a balmy relief smooth over me. "I-I g-guess I d-don't," I stutter.
The ups and downs of my emotions are more like a jackhammer than a roller coaster. They're starting to wear me out. Logan trails his knuckle over my stomach, and I relax.
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It all happened so fast...God, what am I describing? A bank robbery? It's more as if I was pushed off a hill. Rolling, tumbling, faster and faster. Stop? How could I? Why would I?
I'm not going to say that there are no opportunities to think about what we're doing. There are. There are plenty. But I lock those voices of practicality and doubt and my mother out of my mental conferences.
Those first few days--about three or four, I think, but perhaps as many as five--I never step a foot outside Logan's door.
In that time, I don't think his hands ever left me for more than thirty-minute intervals. I forget when 'dressed' meant anything other than his shirt.
Not that I'm dressed very often.
I've never been touched so much, so constantly. It had taken me so long to gain control over my skin--not that my parents were much inclined toward cuddles and kisses. And ever since that long-sought breakthrough I've been excited, thrilled, with every handshake, every brush of shoulders. You'll find me drunk with happiness hours after a hug.
But this...
This...
This is no handshake.
These days swallow my wildest dreams, overflow every pore that had been starving for touch. And sometimes, somehow, make me hungry again. I let waves of pleasure carry me through hour after hour, as Logan turns my body into mercury, tame lave. His to play with.
He's like the activities director on a cruise ship. He's always, you know...ready. I don't think he even sleeps. But if Logan does, then it's long after I've passed out, and he's up, ready to go, long before my eyes open.
I suggest once or twice, that we have to go outside. That I have training. That The Professor is going to me mad at me for missing so many sessions. Logan looks t me, says "Yeah". Then he'll kiss whichever body part is nearest to him--my neck, my stomach, my ankle. And in a few minutes I'll have no idea who Xavier is.
I begin to suspect he does this on purpose.
Every few hours Logan gets this look on his face, and he will yank on a pair of sweatpants. He tells--no, orders me to stay where I am and hurries out of the room. It doesn't usually bother me, because when he leaves I rarely find myself in a moving frame of mind.
Logan returns so fast I imagine he jogged the whole way. With food--which for some reasons he calls "provisions"--or lotion, condoms or aspirin. Once he made me sit in the tub with warm oils for two whole hours. He knelt by the rim and played with my hair, or teased me with the washcloth, but nothing more. And I couldn't complain, because when I got out I could move without that stiffness, open my legs without wincing.
He's so...so...focused. When we eat, Logan half-glares at me. He sits still, barely taking a bite, and watches me until my plate is empty. As if I'd try to toss something in the trash if he's not careful. Sometimes I expect him to scoop even the last traces of ketchup up and tell me to open my mouth. But when I set my fork down he'll calmly move the plate to the nightstand. And for the next few hours, food will be the last thing I'll think about.
Every now and then Logan starts certain things that would give all the preachers in Mississippi to coronaries, stuff Sex Ed teachers wouldn't be able to wrap their minds around. I don't like saying no to him, but whenever the blushing in my cheeks is hot enough for me to choke out that timid, "I don't want", Logan hardly blinks. It's like he has too many things in his plans to worry about one of them. I can see him mentally scratch whatever it was off, move onto the next number on a list I'm convinced is infinite.
And perhaps that happens more than every now and then.
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The air in the hall tastes funny. Stringent. In fact, everything outside of Logan's bedroom seems wrong. Too clean. I've stepped onstage but I've already been behind the curtain and this background looks nothing but fake.
Logan tells me to go to my room, start getting my things together. He says he has to talk with The Professor, that he'll come find me later.
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When I reach the Girl's Hall, heads peek out of rooms and pop back in like some enlarged version of whack-a-mole. I hear whispers, scrambling thumps, and several "she's" and "Rogue's". I'm sure it's my paranoia--a side effect of prolonged Logan exposure. But perhaps not, because I've barely opened my door before Jubilee and Kitty are there, prepared to maul me like bears craving honey if I don't supply them with details.
By room fairly rocks with the decibels of their squeals, and they bounce as if the floor is a carpetted trampoline. But I have to be careful, because I know their delight is not purely for triumph. They are acting as reporters, soaking up my words to deliver to the rest of the mansion. That glorious "first-hand-account". This is too much an ancient reality of school life for me to feel betrayed, or irritated, though sometimes I yearn for that mythical trust between friends. And it doesn't matter how vague my descriptions are; by the end of the day everyone will swear that we had a sex fest of epic proportions. Which it was, but that's not my point.
But aside from Kitty and Jubes, and a handful of students bold enough to ask me outright-- "Hey, what did you guys do?", nobody else comes to talk to me. More specifically, none of my old teachers come to question/yell at me. I think Logan must have asked them not to.
I pack my belongings into a duffel bag and two large boxes. Half-hazard, leaving the least desired items scattered around the room. Logan said he wasn't sure if we were staying or going, but to be ready all the same. I'm not worried. My heart's pattering and the carpets tickling my feet through my socks, and no matter where I sleep tonight I know Logan is going to be there. And that makes it fine. Wonderful. Perfect.
I'm cramming the last of my favorite books into the second box--contemplating the sacrifice of a few Stephen Kings for The Thirteenth Tale. Logan knocks--just a few taps with his knuckles, because the door isn't closed all the way.
He says Xavier is giving us a bigger room, the same size as Jean and Scott's. It's not much larger, but it's in a more private wing and doesn't smell like a fast food restaurant. He grins at me, touches my hair. And picks up a box.
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Do you know what it is like to get exactly what you were to frightened to admit you wanted? Please trust me when I say that I hope you do. I really, really hope you do. How do you take something so strong and fantastic and pack it into a format so ordinary as daily life? It's like having access to the best paints, the colors that can make eyes well up without their owners knowing why. A brush who's hairs are so trim and absorbent that the object itself seems to have it's own private ambition for a masterpiece. And then using them on a paint-by-number.
Logan never puts the toilet seat down. He leaves blobs of toothpaste in the sink, his clothes all over the floor. He never makes the bed and I'm always cleaning up ashes from his cigars. He growls when Bobby comes within a fifty-foot radius and nobody wants to be my partner in combat training because if I get a bruise Logan's claws come out.
But he kisses me every morning and whispers that it's okay to go back to sleep, if I want to. He brushes my hair when I get out of the shower, but promises me that it looks good tangled. He holds my hand in front of everyone and lets me take up most of the dresser drawers. If I even hint that I'd like a snack Logan will run to the kitchen and if I don't know what I want he'll bring back plates and plates for me to choose from. Without me asking--and I never would--or Logan saying a word, or bathroom cabinet is filled every month with cotex, feminine wipes, baby powder and Tylenol.
He calls me gorgeous and stares like he means it. He holds me and we go for walks or dinner out or a movie or just stay in bed all day. And I'm in a state above ecstasy right up to the day I hold that stick in my hand and watch that little blue plus sign appear.
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Logan is in Texas, with Scott and Ororo. They're looking into the recent sighting of a blue woman and the more recent disappearance of several known mutants. He calls me every evening. It's been eight nights since he left, six days past the square on my calender where I put that little red dot. And I think about Xavier's lake and the reeds and little twigs floating around us. The tickling laps of the water and how tightly my heels dug into the backs of his thighs.
I go back to Jubilee for a second, a third, a fourth test--which she readily gives on the condition that I never ask why she has them. I stare as the crosses show up, one after the other. Chew my lip and then my nails. And all the while, without any intention to do so on my part, my fingers trace slow and constant circles over my stomach.
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He says that Scott is being a douche and that they haven't found a single blue trace leading them to Mystique. He says he has a headache and, in a gruff, faltering voice that doesn't handle the less-manly emotions well, that he misses me.
I don't speak much, and his warm, throaty voice dies off because I'm usually the one who keeps the conversation going.
I pick at my nightgown, roll the hem up and down compulsively and listen to him breath.
"You tired, Baby?"
I inhale slowly, shakily. Try to imagine I'm talking to someone who matters less. Stare at my pale legs, touch my stomach.
"No." I mumble. I gulp, swallow back nerves and everything I've ever read, seen, or heard about men and their fear of the P-word. I try to imagine something other than me beneath my fingertips. It's strange, how an image can grow, how you can want something so instantly and thoughtlessly.
I address the air in front of me, not the phone's speaker, about the plus sign. And I imagine Logan's hands and his eyes and wonder what would happen if they went away.
I tell him about the many tests I took and there's a deep, gaping pause. And then, it doesn't matter how many states separate us, I can see his smile as if he were sitting right in front of me.
"On my way home, Darlin'."
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The animal took over.
Logan has never before been able to say those words without some form of violence following.
He hadn't even been aware of that primal thrum that should have retreated--or at least not put up much of a fight--after he found release, after he carried Marie out of the shower. But it remains: not an angry pounding in his blood stream, nor a harsh surge that shoves aside any inclination towards humanity. Instead, Logan is overthrown by instincts that languish, give him a false sense of control as they spread insidiously throughout his limbs.
The Wolverine leaves him his tongue, so that the words coming out are soft assurances, words, rather than growls and coarse "turn around's"
And for once, it isn't a bad thing. For once, letting the animal guide him in his dealings with Marie is the right, the perfect thing to do.
Not that Logan has any other choice. The Wolverine's goal is clear--to keep him from fucking things up.
He keeps her in his bedroom until he's certain Marie knows who she belongs to (a concern that takes precedence over everything except her health and others knowing). He makes sure she eats plenty and regularly, that her muscles do not get sore enough to prevent touching. He struts his talents, lets the female know that he can keep her satisfied.
Logan feels no surprise, no bemusement at this unprecedented length of time spent with one girl, too preoccupied with more frantic emotions, borderline panic--because it's not enough.
An hour spent licking the skin at her throat, two hours in the curve of her knee. Six days of listening to Marie whimper, gasp, purr his name.
It's a blink.
He needs more, more. It's not enough. It's not fucking enough.
And the terrifying, incredible, beautiful thing is--Logan doesn't think it ever will be.
Those few minutes downstairs (too far away for comfort) are spent gathering supplies to keep her body strong and fending off verbal assaults from the mansion residents. They wish to interrogate, accuse him. Rally their pitchforks and torches and place Logan on a suitable country road to chase him. Or form a rescue committee, storm his bedroom to see if their Rogue is ductaped to his bed or decomposing under the bathroom sink.
But it's fairly easy to brush them off, not least because their affronted squawks hold no interest for him. Logan's responses consist of grunts, repeated "She's not a child.", "None of your business.", and "Fuck off." He bares his teeth, lets just enough insanity and Wolverine show to make them rethink bothering her, and turns back to the microwave and Marie's dinner.
Logan could have remained cloistered away with her for a month, two months. Hell, forever seems an appealing number. But the smell in the bedroom is starting to get to him, and even his lust-ridden mind knows that it wouldn't be right, wouldn't be healthy, for Marie. The animal permits this train of thought, so it must grudgingly agree.
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He expects Chuck, of all the school's adults, to blow a gasket over his--(Logan's mind stutters over the unfamiliar word "relationship")--with Marie. Not least because it's The Professor's carpet and furniture they're staining, his old student Logan is diddling.
Logan expects it--has already calculated the costs of a used trailer and which part of Canada Marie would most enjoy--but that is not what he receives.
Xavier blinks, listens quietly during Logan's speech (which is brief--"Me n' Rogue are together. You wanna give us a fresh room?"). Wheels plays with an unopened letter on his desk, his thumbs rubbing the corners, preoccupied. Logan notes the looseness of skin over The Professor's knuckles, the thick indigo veins beginning to show through and, faint on the underside of his wrist, a liver spot.
A silence throbs in the office, and he has enough time to read 'Attorney At Law' in fine print on the letter. He thinks Xavier might not have heard him, when the old man smiles, nods.
"Well, allow me to offer my congratulations. I am so pleased for you both. I hope you will treat that young lady with the respect she deserves."
"Thanks. I will."
"Now, I am reasonably sure we have one or two couple suites available that might suffice, though I hope you are not expecting a personalized apartment. My resources are not infinite."
"Close enough."
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She's bent over a cardboard box, hammering a thick, red-bound
text into a gap too thin to fit it. Logan is impressed with how quickly she packed--no arguments or alarm at the short notice. A duffel bag and a couple of boxes, the kind that holiday turkeys are delivered to the mansion's Cook in. More than Logan himself would take, but a light enough load for a woman.
Marie's bent over, her ass so unconsciously displayed that Logan wants nothing more than to unzip and cover her body with his own.
But at his quick knock, her body twists. And that smile is so reflexive, so euphoric, that sex is the last thing on his mind (alright, not the last. But further down the list.). Logan just wants to look at her.
"Hey," Marie chirps, beaming.
"Hey, Baby."
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The first time Logan tells Marie, tells anybody, that he loves her, is not in a moment of any particular significance. It's not before or after sex (or not directly). He is neither whispering in her ear or looking down into her eyes, or intending to profess anything at all when it slips out.
She's standing at the bathroom sink. Cotton t-shirt and a white silk skirt. Mixing sugar and vegetable oil and honey together in a bowl and going on and on about how crazy it was for girls to buy body scrubs when--
Logan's not listening. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the indents in the back of her knee, at the jagged ends of her hair. Marie snaps a lid shut, puts her concoction away in the cabinet. He watches her lick a drop of honey off her thumb.
"--skin feels so great and soft afterward. And it doesn't have all those random chemicals they throw in to make the bottle look fancy."
Logan opens his mouth to say, 'Come here.' How could those syllables stretch and melt into--
"I love you."
How?
It's an accident, a blip in his brain, a betrayal of his tongue.
Logan doesn't need to see her face, reflected in the mirror. He doesn't need to see her teeth biting her lip in a smile, that little half-restrained bounce. The wild drumming of Marie's heart tell him enough.
"I love you too," she whispers with her head down, in a voice nowhere near the nonchalance she's aiming for.
Logan grins, thinking it wouldn't be so terrible if his tongue slipped up again.
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Marie won't let him stay in the shower when she shaves her legs. She swears up and down that she won't use his razors, but he'll find the space between the blades clogged later. She complains when Logan doesn't use an ashtray, or put his shirts in the hamper, but her book are everywhere. He can't put his foot down without stepping on one. She begs him to rent pansy chick flicks, but falls asleep halfway through.
And he's not alone. Any time of the day or night he can reach over, feel Marie. See her. Smell her on his skin. Hear her heartbeat. So is it hard, this change of everything he's ever known? No. Easiest thing in the world. He's grateful for every second with her.
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"Somebody's gonna see."
"No they won't."
"They will."
"They won't."
"They will!"
"Baby, it's supper time. Everybody's inside that kitchen, stuffing their faces."
"What if somebody goes for a walk?"
"I'll hear 'em."
"What if they see me first?"
"I'll kill 'em."
"What if--"
"Marie, get in the fucking water. You wanted to go skinny dipping."
"I was joking."
"Marie."
She squats and tugs off her clothes reluctantly, looking over her shoulder every few minutes. A bizarre striptease, particularly from Logan's point of view three feet below, already in the water.
He's hard as hell.
Inch by inch Marie scoots over the edge, dropping only at the last minute. She complains about bugs, the cold, their lack of swimwear and what everyone will say if they catch her naked--until he touches her.
They don't swim.
The poles that support the dock are so softened by moss and moisture that the fear of splinters is groundless, laughable. Which is fortunate--because Logan doesn't want Marie's back to get scratched.
Little ripples touch the underside of her breast, cling for a moment and pull away. But they don't rise much higher. Logan holds her up, presses her against the support beams.
Mud. Arousal. Salt. Grass. Her hair. A leaf. Her mouth. Water. Water. Her legs. Warm. Wet. Marie.
Three squares of adamantium are visible between his knuckles and the squishy wood. Pain that's doesn't take much effort to ignore. Logan weighs three hundred pounds, Marie about one-thirty, and if he tried to keep them above water and fuck at the same time they'd drown.
Moist skin. Shoulders going up, down, up. Her eyes closed. Legs twined around him like the thickest of rope. Grunts yanked from his passageway, one by one, like buckets from a well. Shoving himself harder. Marie's lips moving with senseless noises of pleasure. His teeth scraping over her jaw, down the slope of her neck. Little yells, a barely restrained roar, tears of exertion.
Flesh within pulling, siezing, drawing every drop of fire he releases deep inside and holding it there.
Panting, frantic licking. Trying to stay a still as possible. Marie's head lolling. Soft "Mmm's". Growls. A thin reed clinging to her arm. Ripples. Pink skin above her breasts. Crickets singing somewhere. A dragonfly. Still. Be still.
"I love you."
And then a loud beeping. That piece of metal Scott had given him weeks ago and which he had left in his jacket's pocket. At the moment Logan can't think of anything he could have done more stupidly. Above him, with the rest of his discarded clothes. A steady, monotonous ring only slightly better than a alarm clock. Marie doesn't seem to hear, and Logan burries his face in her shoulder, mentally cursing any and all technology.
It stops for a few gloriously silent moments--he thrusts upward, enjoying that sweet clamping of her inner walls--and then begins again.
Marie stirs this time. "Whahizzat?" she mumbles sleepily, her hands weakly gripping him. "'Zatchurr phone?"
"No," Logan tells her, and whoever's calling. He sucks her collar until she gasps. Maybe they could do it on the bank. In the grass. Yeah. With Marie on top, so she won't complain about ants and sand and shit. Yeah. Yeah.
Excuse me, says the last voice in the world Logan wants to hear. I offer my most sincere apologies for disturbing you. I must ask you to join the team in the debriefing room.
'Piss off, you hairless wrinkled fuck', Logan thinks at Xavier, not willing to make concessions to courtesy in his own mind. 'Before I cripple you further.'
I cannot, I'm afraid.,Chuck responds evenly, with none of the fear that should naturally accompany an interruption of Logan and sex. There is a serious situation that I believe requires your presence. One that, as of now, may involve Mystique.
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Logan can hear Scott next door, shower pipes and thumping and a male voice that should never be permitted to reach that pitch. It's giving him a sharp headache--though truthfully, he's had one since he kissed Marie goodbye in the hangar of the Blackbird.
He wonders how Scooter can be so cheerful, away from his wife, and concludes (as he has so often) that One-Eye isn't a real man. Scott volunteered for the mission, though Xavier had wanted those team members who could blend in in rural Texas. He had insisted on taking Jean's place in the chosen group, and the red head had looked at her husband not with concern, or surprise, but with fury.
It doesn't take long for Logan's curiosity to fade--about the time that Scott stops singing the latest and greatest of Britney Spears. His thoughts slide back, as they so easily do, to his girl.
It's been eight days, and a very tiny part of him is clinically fascinated by the intensity of his Marie-withdrawal.
Logan clicks a nail against the cell phone's window. He leans back against the headboard, flips up the top and begins pressing numbers. It's embarrassing, how many times a day (an hour) he's considered calling Marie. Yesterday they interviewed the diner owners who'd spotted the blue bitch. Logan had to ask Ororo to keep the phone away from him, lest he stop every ten minutes to check if Marie's cold was going away.
One ring. Two rings. Three--
"Hey, Logan."
"Hey, Darlin'. What you up to?"
Nothing, she says. Nothing at all. And from there her responses contain the same vague simplicity usually attached to his. Logan doesn't notice at first, revelling in the sound of her voice. He offers a few general complaints about being away from her, and she says--"That's too bad" and "Miss you two." But there's a distraction in her voice, a pitch that takes on that same nervousness she shows when he introduces a new position in bed.
"You feeling alright?"
"Mm-hmm."
"That cold medicine working?"
"Yep."
"Not nauseous anymore?"
"Yeah."
"You sleeping okay?"
"Yeah."
Logan's brow draws tightly together. He listens to her breath, tries to ignore Scott as he takes up "Baby Bye-Bye-Bye". His chest rises and falls, synchronized with the puff of static from the receiver.
"You tired, Baby?"
"No."
He wishes he could see her.
"Logan, there's something I need to....there's something I need to tell you."
Isn't it odd, how a person can be blinking and looking around when their heart has stopped? Must be his mutation.
"Yeah?" Logan hopes that it doesn't come out a strangled as it feels.
Too many inhales pass before the cell-noise takes the shape of words.
"I was supposed to get my...uh...period about a week ago, and I....well, I didn't. So...um...I took this test thing....And I checked it a bunch of times. And I think I'm, you know...maybe pregnant?"
Logan sits, blinking. Five times. Six. Seven. Eight. And her stutters walk slowly along the path from his ears to his brain.
He sees her--filled with him, plump with him. Something growing that will make Marie his forever.
Holy shit. Holyfuckingshit.
Logan's heart jump starts back on, works double time to catch up with the lost moments. His lips pull taut in a grin wider that he's ever given before, but he doesn't notice.
Whooping, bouncing up and down is how those lacking testicles (as ever, Scott) celebrate, so Logan balls up his fist and strikes the mattress a few times with hetero-acceptable glee.
"On my way home, Darlin'," he tells her.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
She stretches, and her ankle slides down his leg. "We can have a baby shower. People get all kinds of stuff from those things. A crib, toys, maybe a stroller."
"Okay."
She's so pretty.
Logan tugs the bedsheets up to her breasts, slides himself underneath.
"We have a hospital beneath us. Isn't that great. You don't have to worry about driving across town, with me screaming and about to pop in the backseat."
"That is great."
The Wolverine wants to deliver the kid himself.
He picks up a lock of her hair, tickles her nose.
"What are we gonna do when the baby gets too big for this room?"
"Move out, I guess."
"Where?" Marie looks at him with wide, serene eyes. There's a little smile dancing around her lips, like a pleasant secret she hasn't shared. These days it never goes away.
"Wherever you want," Logan says. He smiles back at her. His hand slips down to her stomach.
"Mmmmmm." Marie purrs. And Logan thinks, I'm gonna ask her to marry me. After the baby is born. So she won't hafta plan two things at once.
She closes her eyes, but continues on with the questions she's asked him every day for three weeks now. "What if he gets my skin?"
"Won't matter. You learned to switch it off; he'd learn to switch it off."
"But what if he puts someone in a coma before that?"
"Baby, what did Hank tell you? Mutations are passed through the dad's genes. Our kid will probably have my healing. And he'll be big-," Logan kisses her, "-and strong-," he kisses her again, "-and he won't be hurt by anything."
"But what if-"
"Don't worry. Everything's gonna be alright."
"You promise?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I promise."
~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~
I open my eyes to pitch darkness and the pealing of a bell. It's in my head, I think to myself, and this revelation of my insanity comes with no surprise...nor any emotion at all. My eyes are swollen from tears, my stomach is empty, and a migraine keeps my head feeling like a broken egg held together with scotch tape. But these pains are too mundane, with me so constantly I can't remember life without them. I press my mouth to Logan's shirt and try to pull sleep back over me, like a quilt.
But the jangling doesn't quieten, not seeming to understand my lack of interest. For some reason it's hard to ignore, drills right through the haze and me. And when the ghost of an idea trickles through the layers of my brain I sit up, scramble out of the covers with atrophied limbs unaccustomed to any movement not thought out in advance.
On the floor by the dresser lays a cellphone, plugged into a charger and a socket whose edges are trimmed in gold paint. I haven't touched it for months.
It's screen is lit up.
It's vibrating.
It's making the bell-sounds.
It's ringing.
It could still be in my head, but if so it is the most welcome of hallucinations. It could be a wrong number, a telemarketer (though mine is unlisted), and if that is the case I will be making a noose quite soon.
I stagger across the floor, my arm flailing for that piece of plastic. Pick it up, press the "yes" button to accept the call. I'm shaking.
Say 'hello', but my throat is closing up and to me it sounds like--"Hell?"
A voice nobody in the world can mistake.
"Marie. Marie. Baby. Marie?"
Oh my god. Oh my god. My knees jerk--they won't support me for long. A feeling so electric it's pure pain, jolting through my muscles and my tired heart.
Oh god. God. God. God. God. Logan.
I open my mouth and crippling euphoria turns to horror, because no sound emerges. None at all. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't speak. My tongue, my throat, my lungs are frozen.
"Marie? Please. Please. Baby, please."
And Logan's voice grows softer and softer, until it dies entirely.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
A phone booth in Churchill with broken glass and the overwhelming fragrance of cat piss. Stains in the corner. Mold. Shit. Logan puts his hand on one of the panes absently, and presses. The spider who'd started it is invisible, but the web of cracks grow.
The machine is so grimy and old that Logan thinks the animals have it right, this box functions best as a litter box. But that's okay. He can pretend it works. He can make Marie say whatever he wants her to.
He lifts up the handset (a brown and yellow spider crawls out of one of the cracks), slides a few grimy quarters into the slot. Punches nine of the twelve buttons, their numbers worn down bast visibility.
Logan's eyesight has dimmed; to him, his hands are starting to look their age. He holds the receiver up to his ear, feels the tickle of real spiderwebs.
Soft, weary dial tone. Ringing. He doesn't count them, he's content to stand here. Logan's eyes slip close. His breathing is labored. Even The Wolverine is tired of fighting.
(...Marie....Marie...Marie...Marie...)
He lets the rings continue beyond any sensible time, just trying to find that old thread connecting him to Westchester. If he were imagining this, Marie would have answered immediately. If he were imagining this, Marie would--
"Hello?"
Something inside him whines, nuzzles the sound of her voice. Tiny lakes form in the corners of his eyes, create rivers.
"Marie. Marie." It's a carress. "Baby. Marie?"
He hopes she'll forgive this intrusion on her new life. He just--he just wants to listen to her. Just--just for a moment. That's good. That's good enough.
"Maire?" Nothing on the other end. Only static--that of wires and a long distance call, not of her breathing into the speaker. "Please," he begs. "Please. Please. Baby, please."
Nothing.
Nothing.
Silence.
Logan whimpers. Slowly and tiredly raises the phone away from his ear. Maybe he'll curl up somewhere. Maybe he'll just sit in here for awhile.
The handset slips into it's hooks, just barely kisses the switchook that would kill the connection.
And he hears it--her--a warbly, hoarse voice. Strained and broken. "Hey, Logan." A whisper.
That oh-so-familiar greating, and so much more.
~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~
I had a son who died.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
I never, ever ever (ever to the infinite power X 24) thought this chapter would take so long. I had the "Present" section done within a couple of days, but apparently there are fiction monsters out there who hate bursts of inspiration and wants to see them die. I'm so sorry. It was killing me, but I wrote every day as much as I could. Someone I know died, and it had me upset and distracted for awhile. I got a new kitten (his name is Kahlua) who takes any moment when you are not paying attention to him as the go-ahead to claw every surface in the house.
I'm pretty happy with how this chapter came out (I should be--three weeks is a long time, like a year in self-absorbed writer world), and with most of this story, and I truly hope you are too. I'm grateful to the amazing writers and readers on this site. This (final!) chapter is dedicated to my beta (who starts work at Hastings today, and will not read this update 'til tomorrow. All mistakes are mine.), cell phones, peppermints, Law and Order marathons, and as always, those who reviewed this angsty, rambling mess. I literally can't thank you enough. Your words are the only thing that kept me biting on my pen, and I hope you will share your feedback again. My fingers will stay crossed.
I'm pretty happy with how this chapter came out (I should be--three weeks is a long time, like a year in self-absorbed writer world), and with most of this story, and I truly hope you are too. I'm grateful to the amazing writers and readers on this site. This (final!) chapter is dedicated to my beta (who starts work at Hastings today, and will not read this update 'til tomorrow. All mistakes are mine.), cell phones, peppermints, Law and Order marathons, and as always, those who reviewed this angsty, rambling mess. I literally can't thank you enough. Your words are the only thing that kept me biting on my pen, and I hope you will share your feedback again. My fingers will stay crossed.
Chapter End Notes:
Epilouge: Jean falls out of the Blackbird. The End.
Wow. Long, wasn't it? It came out to eighty-two pages in my notebook, and your reading it makes it worth it. Thank you, thank you, thank you for helping me click that "fineshed" button. I am going to clean house, while I'm hoping you'll click that review button.
Wow. Long, wasn't it? It came out to eighty-two pages in my notebook, and your reading it makes it worth it. Thank you, thank you, thank you for helping me click that "fineshed" button. I am going to clean house, while I'm hoping you'll click that review button.