***
She pressed the pen against the page again, leaving a spot of blue ink upon the sheet. Glittering eyes stared at the idle hand, ungloved, holding the letter in place, smudging the freshly printed letterhead. Her family name lie scrawled across the stiff parchment, yet she barely recognized the word, nor could she speak the syllables without stumbling. And each time she attempted to pronounce the thing, it hung in the air past her chapped lips like an anvil cloud, waiting to unleash a chaotic storm.
The ballpoint touched the letter again, and this time, her jubilant scrawl stuck firmly, tracing out his name with a steady hand. She read them out as she wrote, as though delivering a speech to the room, rather than writing one out. A few anxious tears stained her cheeks, but dried out before they could fall against the desk.
“Dear Logan,” she mumbled as she withdrew her hand again, and stared down at the words with regret. Her shoulders were heavy with frustration and stress. She longed for his bold grasp, his healing touch, and his surprising sensitivity from so blunt a person. Rogue would be one of the few to ever see that soft gentility in so savage a man and a mutant as the Wolverine, but it was there all the same. It hid somewhere behind his violent sapphire eyes.
“I should have told you before I left. I’m certain that you already know or suspect that something about me has changed.” Her fingers clenched into a fist. Were these really her thoughts? She came across as so refined and fragile. Could this really be a clear representation of the woman she might have been? She pressed the pen firmly back to paper and began again, drumming her knuckles upon the wooden table.
“Something happened. I don’t remember where it happened or why, and I’m scared. I always thought my life would be easier this way, but it isn’t. It is so much harder, and you aren’t here to help me.” She blinked at the words, considering crossing them out and beginning again. It was difficult to admit that she needed help or that she was frightened by anything. How could she admit that she was vulnerable?
Fingertips lingered on the edge of the page, quivering. The temptation to crumble the words and throw them from the nearest window overwhelmed her thoughts. At last, she shut her eyes and allowed the tears to fall for a moment, to stain her sullen white face with pain. Her lower lip trembled, and her attractive features contorted. The pen fell pathetically from her grasp and rolled onto the floor, forgotten.
“I’m here, kid.” His voice growled quietly against her ear, so close that she spun, falling from her chair. Certain it was a ghost; the tears came harder. Yet something protected her from the floor, cradling her like a child. It was the type of touch she had not known since…since infancy.
“I’m an old soul, darlin’. And we old souls-we figure shit out.”
***
End.
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