He's been out cold for two days now.
I tried to stay away at first, thinking that it would be for the best. But there's a weakness in me that can't help creeping back.
I watch over him from a distance and I wonder if he senses me. There are no nightmares down here. Sleep is too heavy, and he looks peaceful. Sometimes I even get close enough to trace the faint frown lines on his forehead. But I never touch him, no, not that. Not even with my gloves on. Not even when his eyelids flicker softly in his sleep, and I long for the contact. Just for a moment, just to remember the rough of his stubble on the backs of my fingers, just enough to fix it in my memory. But it feels like invasion. I don't have the right.
So I just watch.
Everyone wonders what happened. There's been talk. Gossip. But Hank's been good to me. He told everyone Logan got into a fight, and no one was surprised. He didn't mention me, and I'm grateful.
If I'm honest, I'm not sure that I want him to wake up. Does that make me a bad person? I was getting on with my life, coping with it, and then he came back and tangled everything up again. Only this time he's the screw up. Not me. Or maybe he was always the screw up... I don't know.
I make an effort. Construct a half decent front to hide behind. I try to carry on with the everyday things, but I'm torn between so many emotions that I'm a mess. Things set me off. Little things. Events that should be of no consequence. I put my laundry on too high a setting, and shrink my favorite top. My fingers fumble and I drop a mug, then stare at the shattered pieces on the floor until Jubilee comes in with a sad smile, and cleans it up as she makes me a fresh drink. One of the smaller kids comes up to me and gives me a flower he picked from the garden because he said I looked sad, and I take it, and then I go to my room and cry for hours.
I have so many voices running through my head that I'm not sure who I am anymore. All those years, he was my anchor. He kept that little bit of me, that bit that was purely *me*, safe. But now it's gone, and I'm adrift. I'm lost. And I'm longing for the shuttered control I felt before he came back.
I don't know what to make of him anymore. I never thought of him as perfect, far from it, I'm not blind. But he was always there for me, like a barrier, a comfort zone between me and the rest of the world. Even when he wasn't there at all.
But now he's turned the tables. He's switched channels without me noticing; gone on self-destruct; drinking, fighting. Sleeping around. And it's because of me. Because of what he did to me. Because he was so goddamned sorry.
There's a gentle knock at my door. I get up reluctantly to open it. I really don't want to see anyone right now.
It's Hank.
"He's awake."
I keep my expression schooled. Carefully calm. But I feel my pulse quicken. Traitor. "Has he said anything?"
Hank shakes his head. "Not much. He asked after you. If you were ok. Just thought I'd let you know." He gives me a kind smile before he goes. It's meant to be reassurance, but it feels like pity.
I close the door behind him and turn to lean on it. Now I add guilt to my list too, although why I should feel it is beyond me. Perhaps it's because he's the one in the med lab fighting to heal, while I'm here trying to emotionally detach myself from it all. Trying to kill it off, thought by thought, until I'm dead inside. At least that way it won't hurt anymore.
And there's guilt at sifting through his memories too. I feel like a voyeur in my own head, but I can't help it, they rise to me unbidden, as much as I want to keep them buried.
I begin to understand what he's been through. Smothering his desires in alcohol and violence. Burying them deep, burying them well. His mind is a dark place; there are things there that I don't want to know. Things that frighten me.
And I don't understand what he feels for me. It's such tide of emotions, so mixed up, that it hurts my head. Possession, want, lust, warmth, yes warmth is in there, but so is hate, so is pain, so is this bitter self-dejecting sorrow that drives him to destroy.
I could go and see him again, Hank hints at this enough times, but I don't. Not now when he's awake. I wouldn't know what to say. What is there to say to someone that despises himself for wanting you? Who, one moment acts like you've got a restraining order out on him, and the next... I shiver at the memory of his touch. And I know that even when I finally give in to the heaviness of my head and drag myself into bed during those dark hours of the morning, I won't be sleeping.
It's those hours. The early ones. The time between the fat sinking moon and the first dusky hints of dawn. That's when it hurts the most. That's when he haunts my dreams. His memories, my fantasies, bleeding in to one. Mingling, stirring into a maelstrom of images that still grip the edges of my mind when I wake. Flashes of skin on skin. Of raw possession. Of claiming; fierce and dark. Snatches of tangled legs. Sweaty, writhing and salty. Fingers curling into sheets. Aching. Snarling. Hard and tense and deep. Heels pushing, feet sliding, thighs gripping. Body arching. Muscles straining...
It leaves me feeling drained. Hollow.
A few more days drift absently by, without consequence, like I forgot to live them, and he is a man of his word. As soon as he's able, in fact long before he should even be out of the med lab, he has packed his bags and is ready to go. I hear this from Storm of all people. Second hand gossip. Old news. Apparently everyone knew before me. Not that I can blame this on anyone but myself. I haven't exactly been outgoing recently.
And I don't know what to do. Do I run after him? Do I beg him to stay, knowing that every time he looks at me he hates himself just that little bit more? Is that what he feels? Do I try and stop him?
In the end I just sit blankly in the rec room. Not waiting, but listening, I guess. Listening for the sound of his boots. A familiar sound I know so well, one that still makes my pulse pound and my chest wrench.
Maybe it won't come. Maybe he's changed his mind, absolved me of having to make a decision. Maybe he's... But his footfalls echo ominously down the stairs, solid and real, and the heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach begins to makes me feel sick. I head to the door. I don't really know what I'm doing, there's no great plan in my head of what I'm going to say. I just... I have to see him. Almost to convince myself that it's happening. That he really is going.
He turns to me when he catches my scent. He looks strained. Drawn. And my heart crumples.
Dark eyes reach mine and they pierce me, searching for something. But it's an effort to meet them. I feel ashamed when I look away, concentrating instead on the ugly pattern of the rug at my feet. Thick woven strands. Garish clashing colors. I follow it as it repeats, counting the number of times in my head. One. Two. Three. Four.
He moves to come closer and I can't help it, the pain is tangible. I flinch. I know he sees it.
His eyes close. "I didn't mean..." He steps back, keeps the distance that's opened like a chasm between us. "I didn't..."
Five. Six. Seven. It's starting to make my vision swim. It splits into two as I loose focus. No longer even looks like a rug. I try and get my mouth to work. "Logan?" I'm not even sure what it is I'm asking, so quiet that I barely even hear it myself.
"Just ask me, Marie," his voice is hoarse, and I look up. "Just ask... I'll stay."
But I can't. I can't say it. He's lust and fear and darkness all tangled up together and I can't separate them. I don't know how.
He sees me hesitate, and nods, the expression on his face closing as he turns and picks up his duffle.
And I watch him walk out. Out of the door and out of my life.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Here's part three. *Hugs Wolvie'ess for the beta*