She was moaning like a fucking 70’s television cop car siren.

It was as distracting and it was annoying. He reached around to put his thumb in her mouth and she sucked on it greedily, making him grunt in relief. Mistaking the sound for pleasure, she twisted her tongue around the digit, illustrating her prowess with her tongue, biting its soft, fleshy pad teasingly. She tried to look back at him, but seeing her face would ruin it too, so he shoved her face back, causing her to gasp in surprise and look down again. Pissed off now, he quickened his pace, the sound of his belt buckle jangling from where it laid open at the top of his thighs, the brass Indian chief bruising the back of hers. He grabbed her hand and brought it down between her legs, unwilling to wait for her. She went back to that caterwauling again, but with a shudder, he held on, gripping her dark hair, clinging to the image he needed to push him over the edge.


Ah want you, Logan.


He squeezed his eyes tight. Almost there. Just. One. More. Fucking. Second.


Touch me, Logan.


He felt her shake as she came, shoving her ass back against him, hollering.


Ah need more.


He flinched, emotional revulsion fighting against physical release as he managed to finally empty himself over a now too thin back, a too thick waist, a too narrow set of shoulders. In the smoke thickened bar, he convinced himself she was just right, but now, under the glare of the single parking lot light, everything about her was fucking wrong.

He stepped back, and she could hear the sounds of his belt clipping back together. Breathing hard, she looked over her shoulder and pouted, seeing him adjust his t-shirt back into the waistband of his jeans. “That’s it, big man?” She stood up to face him, her heavily kohl rimmed green eyes shifting down to his crotch, the slow deliberate licking of her red stained lips repulsing him further. “Are you sure you don’t want something more?”

“Gotta go, pretty lady.” He tipped his cowboy hat to her, not giving a shit that she glared at him, insulted that he turned her down. He walked back to his bike, and it roared to life, its rumble deep and powerful as he waited for her to stomp angrily back into the bar, the door crashing closed behind her. The bar-owner didn’t look too pleased that Logan had taken his old lady out back in less time it took to serve him two shots of whiskey and in the mood he was in, he couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t drive the poor bastard’s skull straight through the wall. As Logan pulled onto the highway, he decided to bypass this town and continue through to Calgary, determining he’d do great time if the storm clouds continued to stay behind him.

Next time, she needs to have longer hair. And be a fucking mute.


*****



She was the last one.

With Kayla, it had been everything; love, hatred, betrayal, disappointment, shame and anger. For all the love she had for him, she didn’t trust him, and it was the fault of that dysfunction, that flaw, that made him lose everything, and become a killing machine. Her part in transforming him into the first Weapon X had devastated him, and he had raged a long while at her gravesite, searching for the forgiveness she needed. And, after several nights, immersed in his grief, Kuekuatsu finally gave the wild roses to his Moon, his trickster, his cruel ex-mistress, finally setting the Wolverine free.

Each apology was different; he acknowledged his mistakes, and for the first time, acknowledged theirs as well. Janet for being a part of Department H’s military encampment and being his keeper; Itsu for expecting him to prove his worth to her family when his love should have been enough; and Mariko for rejecting the animal in him and for setting a standard so high that even she couldn’t attain it, loving honor more than him. They all had expected something of him, from him, their love conditional, finite. Janet, Itsu, Mariko, Kayla, he said goodbye to them all, relinquishing the false purity of their memories. Standing by their tombstones, he confessed that he loved her, loved her more than he ever did them, and he wasn’t sorry. Wasn’t sorry at all.


*****



Nothing ever bled into each another, each town, each motel room, each bar, they all had their own distinctive mark. Sure, the roads looked similar – the town stores, the town bars, the town motels – but they were never the same. It was the tough guys who were similar, coming out of the wood work when they heard the Wolverine was in town, the screams of the crowd, bloodlust on their faces identical to the spectators from the night before. But the towns themselves, they were always different. Something as simple as the shape of the trees, the outdoor paint of the local barber shop, the type of flowers used outside their town halls; it would tell him he was somewhere different, getting closer.

There were only a few people in the bar, a couple of truckers playing a game of pool, a woman sitting by the back table, trying to convince her drunk husband to come home. He ignored the backhand the man dealt her, narrowing his eyes through the smoke of his cigar, fighting down the impulse to protect the frail. He recognized a ritual when he saw one, one that she obviously clung to, her body reacting to the violence, loving it. She needed no hero.

The bartender was switching through stations of the beat up radio by the cash register, trying to locate some music through the static, swearing under his breath when he could only get newstalk. He flipped past something, something and Logan snarled, demanding he put it back, put it BACK goddamnit.

Fear doing something unpleasant to his stomach, he did, catching the station, barely, the hiss still audible. He stared at the dangerous man sitting in front of him, nursing his whiskey, amazed to see his face soften, eyes warm, as the voice rang out through the bar. The truckers complained - take that opera shit off Barry, fer cryin’ out loud - stupid, stupid - the metallic ringing of claws in their direction making them choke back their words. The Wolverine didn’t make a sound, returning those horrific weapons back into his forearms, and Barry raised the volume, hoping to calm him down further.

Despite the stench of fear that now hung over the small bar, they listened. The couple, the pool players, the bartender, they all listened and understood. Her voice was absolutely, fucking beautiful. Logan closed his eyes, hearing his Marie sing, “Un Bel Di”. He gripped the old faded waybill with the words “Georges Bizet – CARMEN – Anina World Debut – Frankfurt Opera House ” that he always carried in the front pocket of his jacket, listening, listening, translating the words, and she was singing to him. To him.


All this will happen,
I promise you this
Hold back your fears -
I, with secure faith, wait for him.



He left, the sound of her voice disappearing with him, into the day.


*****



Logan found himself sitting in the bedside chair of his motel room, in the dark, whiskey bottle in hand, cigar in the other, waiting for the evidence of the evening’s fight to disappear from his battered body. It never took much to send him back in time, back to before.


Ah love you, Logan.


Her voice, that sweet, honey laden sound that visited him every night, comforting him, tormenting him. I know you love me, darlin’, I know.


Ah always loved you.



He shut his eyes and angled his head, almost wishing the pain would go away, but still relishing in the harshness of it, needing it. I know that too, darlin’. It’s what made me come back. Every time.


You don’t have to love me.



He knocked back the rest of the throat burning fluid, slamming the empty bottle onto the night table, face hardening, chest tightening. I don’t have to love ya, darlin’, I need to. I need to.


Ah can’t stop loving you.



Logan dropped his head onto his hands. I hope so, darlin’. I fucking hope so.
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