Title: "Like Open Doors" 1/1
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: X-Men
Rating/Classification: R, mild language, angst, J/W
Disclaimer: Until Northstar joins a boyband, make mine Marvel!
Summary: Picking up after UXM #423. Jubilee is trapped in a lonely place. Can her friends bring her back? Can one *specific* friend bring her back?
Notes: To Dare for the everflowin' river of W/J love. I hope you're not disappointed. And to Chrissy for letting me fic at her even when she's on another continent.
*Call my name and save me from the dark.*--Evanescence.
If she closed her eyes, she could still see Angelo. Gray-skinned in death like he had been in life. Death with a capital "D". The kind you didn't come back from. So, she'd taken to leaving her eyes open at all times.
So far, she'd gone six straight days without sleep.
And Logan hadn't left her side for more than a few minutes at a time. As if he could make up for all their years apart with constant proximity. As if he could keep her alive with the sheer force of his will.
After the first thirty-six hours of sleep deprivation, he'd learned to keep his rough murmurs of "You need to rest, Kid" to himself. Especially when she'd punched him. Not hard enough to break her fist against his bones, but hard enough to satisfy herself and annoy him. Anyone else raising a hand to him would lead to a nice game of three claw monte, but
never her...no, that, at least, was consistent in her life. So, instead, he just slung an arm around her as she slouched on the couch and channel surfed, seeing nothing of the images that flashed by at lightning speed.
She ate when he told her to. Opened her mouth, swallowed when he poked her. She moved like a sleepwalker to the bathroom and every time she'd stumbled, nearly collapsing on the tiles, he'd been there to scoop her up and hold her close and nod when she fiercely told him it was just because she hadn't totally healed.
He pretended not to look at the faded marks on her wrists and ankles.
He pretended he didn't see Angelo reflected in her red-rimmed, forced-wide, eyes.
And he didn't ask what she'd been through.
He just knew.
So, the morning that the dusty, mud-caked, convertible pulled into the mansion's long driveway, spilling out a Rogue with a hideously obnoxious diamond on the ring finger of her left hand and a smirky, satiated, Cajun, he made only one suggestion.
"Wanna play a little two-on-two?"
"For old time's sake?" she wondered, her lips quirking as a series of girly "Oh, my GOD, you got MARRIED?!?" and "Let me see that ring!" screams echoed through the halls. And that was just Northstar and Bobby. She didn't want to find out what happened when Jean and Storm and Paige all got wind of the Mr. & Mrs. LeBeau situation.
She had a feeling Remy and Rogue didn't either.
So, they readily agreed...the Cajun's fingers lingering just a second too long as he ruffled her hair was the only indication that he was afraid for her, *of* her. And Rogue, after "just a minute, shugah," hugged her close and pressed her lips against her forehead in a firm, soft, kiss. Feeling the other woman's bare skin so freely against her own for the first
time...it was almost enough to make her break. Cry. And she trembled but held it back long enough to make it out to the court.
Since their opponents were rather happily powerless, the standard "No Powers" rule was a moot point. And the first laugh out of her throat in days came when she remembered a charged up ball and Rogue flying through a brick wall. In simpler days. When everything was Wolvie and the gang and her yellow vinyl trenchcoat.
She no longer remembered where she'd lost that. Along with her innocence.
It was enough of a thought to drain the smile from her face and make her reach for the unassuming orange and black basketball that held no memories, no judgment of her, no sepia-tinted picture of a girl with spiky, short hair snapping her bubblegum.
"Y' t'ink you can beat Remy, petite...? I be in de best shape of me life," Gambit taunted, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he guarded her. Even without his mutant abilities, he was lean and agile and practically glowing. "Bet you ain't been gettin' de work-out ma chere been
givin' me."
She scoffed, "I don't need to know about your sex life, Gumbo!" as she began to dribble, shifting her body instinctively away from him. Logan was across the court, near the three point line, waiting for her to pass...and he was eyeing Rogue like she was Apocalypse or Creed. Neither the belle's charming smile and ultra-short shorts nor the flash of her wedding ring would deter his focus.
She'd missed that.
Logan always there.
Watching her back.
If only he'd been there....
*No*. Nonono.
She zipped around Remy, shaking her head, driving her knees forward. And instead of passing the ball to Logan, she leapt up, a perfect three-point shot sinking into the basket from her numb fingers.
When she hit the ground, she hit it hard.
And crumpled into darkness.
Into the place she hadn't wanted to return to.
Where Angelo's ghost was waiting.
And Wolverine couldn't follow.
***
"Jubilation..."
He couldn't stop repeating her name. Like every time he said it, it was a lifeline, an anchor, keeping her firmly in her bed, in her life. In *his*.
"Jubilation, I know this is funny after me tellin' you to sleep, but I want you to wake up. Wake up and look at me. I even brushed my teeth."
Her hand was warm in his and Hank and Annie assured him that all her vitals were normal. That her body had just made an executive decision to nab all the rest that her grieving mind had been trying to deny it ever since she'd been infused with Warren's blood.
He didn't quite believe them.
He never really believed anything anyone told him.
It was the only way he knew how to survive.
It was how Jubilee had survived.
Except that she'd always believed him.
He'd been her one exception.
The years had tempered her like steel and she was whip thin beneath the bruises. Not the thinness of a scrawny thirteen-year-old who ate Twinkies like there was no tomorrow because she was growing and full of energy but the lean form of a young woman who was too busy fighting to feed herself and too busy running to rest.
But now all the fight was gone out of her. And she had nowhere to run.
"Jubilee." He stroked her hair back from her forehead and it spilled like black silk through his fingers. With her bright blue eyes closed, long lashes shadowing her pale gold skin, she looked hauntingly like Mariko...austere and beautiful.
And way out of his reach.
He traced her eyebrows with his fingertips, marveling at the smooth gap between them, the sharp lines of her nose and cheekbones. No more baby fat. No curves. Just angles. This was a woman's face, not a little girl's.
"Jubilation...yer scarin' me," he whispered...and he knew it was in more ways than one.
Her lashes fluttered and she moaned, softly, twisting beneath the sheets. As she rolled over on the pillow and one eye opened, she murmured, drowsily, "Ya deserve it for feeling me up."
He laughed despite himself, to the tune of massive relief, but yanked his hand back and dropped it into his lap.
She was back. That was all that mattered.
His girl was back.
He just had to make sure that she never left him again.
***
Fourteen straight hours of sleep were almost a lifetime's worth.
She woke up older.
With firm, tobacco-scented, fingers brushing against her skin.
And it wasn't lost on her that the moment she was out of the abyss, he pulled away.
As if he *couldn't* make up for all their years apart with constant proximity. As if he *couldn't* keep her alive with the sheer force of his will.
Logan knew she was older, too.
Maybe he knew what dreams she'd had while sleeping.
Maybe he knew that Angelo had been with her. Smoking a cigarette and cussing in Spanish and telling her she had no obligation to stay with him. That he didn't hate her for being alive when he wasn't. That he was glad she was back with her family where she belonged. That she belonged with Wolverine.
That she was *safe* with him.
Finally safe. Safesafesafe.
She choked against her palms as he rose and mumbled something about getting
Hank. "No...no, don't leave, Wolvie!" she pleaded as the first tears began to spill over. And the second. And the third. "Don't leave me."
"I won't." He swallowed, hard, looking down at her with so much naked fear. Nothing hidden like the others, who had all been walking on eggshells and speaking inside each other's heads for days. "Not ever, Darlin'," he promised, softly, climbing into the bed and pulling her into his lap, locking his arms around her, and cradling her against his wide chest. "I won't ever leave you again."
As she remembered the excruciating pain in her palms, her feet, in her entire body...remembered screaming until her throat was raw...she couldn't tell him that she no longer believed him.
Everybody left.
Everybody died. Died with a capital "D."
She shuddered, turning her face into his shoulder, inhaling the wood-smoke smell of his skin. How many times had Wolvie left her before? There were no guarantees. None. It could all be over in a flash.
And she was just so tired of being alone. Of being caught between light and dark, life and death, wake and sleep.
That was her reasoning, she told herself, for shifting in his lap...for trailing her mouth up his neck, his bearded jaw...for kissing him. He'd employed toothpaste and mouthwash on her teasing suggestion of a few days ago...but beneath that was the familiar taste of cigars and beer and something wild. Something that was intrinsically Logan. Something that made her want to crawl inside him and wrap herself in the indestructible adamantium that coated his bones, make it her cage.
It was like surfacing from a long, slow, nightmare. Sleeping Beauty kissing the prince and coming back to life. But he was no prince. Just hers. Trembling beneath her hands, rippling, gasping, as his lips disobeyed him and kissed her back, devoured the tears on her tongue, drank the salt from her skin. If he let himself, he would rip her into shreds...eat the pieces. She'd teased the beast. She *needed* the beast.
"Jubilee..." he growled, palms spanning her waist in an effort to disentangle himself. "Jubilee...what...Kid...*fuck*..."
"No...not 'Kid'..." she corrected, covering his hands with her own, digging her knees into his hips as she breathed in tandem with him. "Not a kid, Logan...not anymore..."
She'd seen too much.
Felt too much.
Lost too much.
Wolverine wasn't going to be next on that list.
Not if she could help it.
"I ain't doin' this..." he hissed, but it was too late because he already was. Claws popping, slicing at the paper-thin material of her nightshirt, the seams of her panties, as he bore her down to the mattress.
She slid her hands up his back, clutching at his shoulders underneath the stretched-tight fabric of his t-shirt. *Yes.* "Please...please, Logan." Bring her back to life. Keep her there. They had both been taken down off the crosses...and now all she wanted was resurrection.
Six days without sleep was nothing compared to years without seeing her best friend, her partner, every single day and now she was starved for his touch, for the feel of him, the taste of him...for that sense of completion that she only experienced when he was with her.
He surrounded her. Supported her. Saved her.
And she wanted him to fill her up.
To fill all the places that were empty.
"Jubilee." It was a last-ditch effort to push her away. A whisper laced with equal parts guilt and desire and overwhelming love. "Darlin'..." And if he'd really wanted to, he could have broken away because even her skinny legs clasped around his waist were no match for his strength...could have gone all noble and reminded her of how he'd begun as a father figure, become a brother, and couldn't possibly be her lover.
If he'd really wanted to, he could have broken her heart. Lord knew, he had done it a million times before.
"Logan..." She wound her fingers in his hair, the sharp points scratching against the raised scars, on the fleshy part of her palm Where she was rough, he was soft...where she was curved, he was sharp. Didn't he know, by now, that he was all that stood between her and complete destruction? "Don't stop. Not now."
If he stopped, it would kill her.
And she'd had more than enough of death.
***
He didn't know how long he'd been alive. How old he was exactly. But he knew that there were a handful of women who had grabbed him by the balls and tugged him out of the woods and made him want to be a better man. Fox, Mariko, Jeannie...hell, even Viper and Yukio given enough whiskey and sex.
But first and foremost was Jubilation Lee. Not quite a daughter. Not quite a wife. Never a baby sister. His partner. His other half. His best friend.
He'd almost lost her.
Seeing her up there on that cross...unconscious and broken and weak... he'd gone insane for a minute or two. And, then, when she'd fallen on the basketball court, he'd pushed away Remy and Rogue and swept her up in his arms despite all their good intentions. She was his to take care of. Just *his*. And maybe he was still insane. More berserker than he'd been without the adamantium. Insane for stripping her naked and craving the feel of her warm skin against his. For putting his mouth on her pulse just so he could be sure that her heart was beating.
The man in him wanted him to shove off. To run. To run and never look back. To pretend he was honorable and caring and gentlemanly enough to treat her with some tiny bit of respect.
The animal in him recognized her scent, marked it, and screamed "mate." And "mine." Mineminemine.
And she didn't want him to stop.
Poised above her slender body, balanced on his elbows as she clamped onto him with her gymnast's legs, he wasn't even sure he *could*.
"Logan, please," she repeated, voice low and husky as she brushed her fingers against the fly of his jeans. No "Wolvie"...not now. Maybe never again.
When he grabbed her hand, stopping its quest, she winced, and he hissed, "Fuck, I'm sorry," instinctively flipping so it was now her above him...so light, so barely there...that only the heat between her thighs and the fireworks in her eyes were any indication that he wasn't alone in her bed having some sort of sick dream.
The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her again.
But he was going to.
Afterwards.
***
She moved how he told her to. Opened her mouth when he kissed her. She spun like a dancer against him and every time he thrust upwards she met him, matched him , nearly exploding in a shower of sparks from the sheer joy of it...and he held her close and nodded when she fiercely told him she was fine, had healed, could take it all.
He pretended not to look at the faded marks on her wrists and ankles as he kissed every inch of her.
He pretended he didn't see her heart reflected in her wide, tear-filled, eyes when he sank deep inside where no one else had ever quite reached.
And he didn't ask if she loved him.
He just knew.
Just like she knew that the next time she woke up, she would wake up alone.
Everybody left. *Logan* left.
He'd broken her heart a million times.
Tomorrow, it would be a million and one.
But if she closed her eyes, she could still see him.
Always there.
--end-
May 22, 2003.
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: X-Men
Rating/Classification: R, mild language, angst, J/W
Disclaimer: Until Northstar joins a boyband, make mine Marvel!
Summary: Picking up after UXM #423. Jubilee is trapped in a lonely place. Can her friends bring her back? Can one *specific* friend bring her back?
Notes: To Dare for the everflowin' river of W/J love. I hope you're not disappointed. And to Chrissy for letting me fic at her even when she's on another continent.
*Call my name and save me from the dark.*--Evanescence.
If she closed her eyes, she could still see Angelo. Gray-skinned in death like he had been in life. Death with a capital "D". The kind you didn't come back from. So, she'd taken to leaving her eyes open at all times.
So far, she'd gone six straight days without sleep.
And Logan hadn't left her side for more than a few minutes at a time. As if he could make up for all their years apart with constant proximity. As if he could keep her alive with the sheer force of his will.
After the first thirty-six hours of sleep deprivation, he'd learned to keep his rough murmurs of "You need to rest, Kid" to himself. Especially when she'd punched him. Not hard enough to break her fist against his bones, but hard enough to satisfy herself and annoy him. Anyone else raising a hand to him would lead to a nice game of three claw monte, but
never her...no, that, at least, was consistent in her life. So, instead, he just slung an arm around her as she slouched on the couch and channel surfed, seeing nothing of the images that flashed by at lightning speed.
She ate when he told her to. Opened her mouth, swallowed when he poked her. She moved like a sleepwalker to the bathroom and every time she'd stumbled, nearly collapsing on the tiles, he'd been there to scoop her up and hold her close and nod when she fiercely told him it was just because she hadn't totally healed.
He pretended not to look at the faded marks on her wrists and ankles.
He pretended he didn't see Angelo reflected in her red-rimmed, forced-wide, eyes.
And he didn't ask what she'd been through.
He just knew.
So, the morning that the dusty, mud-caked, convertible pulled into the mansion's long driveway, spilling out a Rogue with a hideously obnoxious diamond on the ring finger of her left hand and a smirky, satiated, Cajun, he made only one suggestion.
"Wanna play a little two-on-two?"
"For old time's sake?" she wondered, her lips quirking as a series of girly "Oh, my GOD, you got MARRIED?!?" and "Let me see that ring!" screams echoed through the halls. And that was just Northstar and Bobby. She didn't want to find out what happened when Jean and Storm and Paige all got wind of the Mr. & Mrs. LeBeau situation.
She had a feeling Remy and Rogue didn't either.
So, they readily agreed...the Cajun's fingers lingering just a second too long as he ruffled her hair was the only indication that he was afraid for her, *of* her. And Rogue, after "just a minute, shugah," hugged her close and pressed her lips against her forehead in a firm, soft, kiss. Feeling the other woman's bare skin so freely against her own for the first
time...it was almost enough to make her break. Cry. And she trembled but held it back long enough to make it out to the court.
Since their opponents were rather happily powerless, the standard "No Powers" rule was a moot point. And the first laugh out of her throat in days came when she remembered a charged up ball and Rogue flying through a brick wall. In simpler days. When everything was Wolvie and the gang and her yellow vinyl trenchcoat.
She no longer remembered where she'd lost that. Along with her innocence.
It was enough of a thought to drain the smile from her face and make her reach for the unassuming orange and black basketball that held no memories, no judgment of her, no sepia-tinted picture of a girl with spiky, short hair snapping her bubblegum.
"Y' t'ink you can beat Remy, petite...? I be in de best shape of me life," Gambit taunted, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he guarded her. Even without his mutant abilities, he was lean and agile and practically glowing. "Bet you ain't been gettin' de work-out ma chere been
givin' me."
She scoffed, "I don't need to know about your sex life, Gumbo!" as she began to dribble, shifting her body instinctively away from him. Logan was across the court, near the three point line, waiting for her to pass...and he was eyeing Rogue like she was Apocalypse or Creed. Neither the belle's charming smile and ultra-short shorts nor the flash of her wedding ring would deter his focus.
She'd missed that.
Logan always there.
Watching her back.
If only he'd been there....
*No*. Nonono.
She zipped around Remy, shaking her head, driving her knees forward. And instead of passing the ball to Logan, she leapt up, a perfect three-point shot sinking into the basket from her numb fingers.
When she hit the ground, she hit it hard.
And crumpled into darkness.
Into the place she hadn't wanted to return to.
Where Angelo's ghost was waiting.
And Wolverine couldn't follow.
***
"Jubilation..."
He couldn't stop repeating her name. Like every time he said it, it was a lifeline, an anchor, keeping her firmly in her bed, in her life. In *his*.
"Jubilation, I know this is funny after me tellin' you to sleep, but I want you to wake up. Wake up and look at me. I even brushed my teeth."
Her hand was warm in his and Hank and Annie assured him that all her vitals were normal. That her body had just made an executive decision to nab all the rest that her grieving mind had been trying to deny it ever since she'd been infused with Warren's blood.
He didn't quite believe them.
He never really believed anything anyone told him.
It was the only way he knew how to survive.
It was how Jubilee had survived.
Except that she'd always believed him.
He'd been her one exception.
The years had tempered her like steel and she was whip thin beneath the bruises. Not the thinness of a scrawny thirteen-year-old who ate Twinkies like there was no tomorrow because she was growing and full of energy but the lean form of a young woman who was too busy fighting to feed herself and too busy running to rest.
But now all the fight was gone out of her. And she had nowhere to run.
"Jubilee." He stroked her hair back from her forehead and it spilled like black silk through his fingers. With her bright blue eyes closed, long lashes shadowing her pale gold skin, she looked hauntingly like Mariko...austere and beautiful.
And way out of his reach.
He traced her eyebrows with his fingertips, marveling at the smooth gap between them, the sharp lines of her nose and cheekbones. No more baby fat. No curves. Just angles. This was a woman's face, not a little girl's.
"Jubilation...yer scarin' me," he whispered...and he knew it was in more ways than one.
Her lashes fluttered and she moaned, softly, twisting beneath the sheets. As she rolled over on the pillow and one eye opened, she murmured, drowsily, "Ya deserve it for feeling me up."
He laughed despite himself, to the tune of massive relief, but yanked his hand back and dropped it into his lap.
She was back. That was all that mattered.
His girl was back.
He just had to make sure that she never left him again.
***
Fourteen straight hours of sleep were almost a lifetime's worth.
She woke up older.
With firm, tobacco-scented, fingers brushing against her skin.
And it wasn't lost on her that the moment she was out of the abyss, he pulled away.
As if he *couldn't* make up for all their years apart with constant proximity. As if he *couldn't* keep her alive with the sheer force of his will.
Logan knew she was older, too.
Maybe he knew what dreams she'd had while sleeping.
Maybe he knew that Angelo had been with her. Smoking a cigarette and cussing in Spanish and telling her she had no obligation to stay with him. That he didn't hate her for being alive when he wasn't. That he was glad she was back with her family where she belonged. That she belonged with Wolverine.
That she was *safe* with him.
Finally safe. Safesafesafe.
She choked against her palms as he rose and mumbled something about getting
Hank. "No...no, don't leave, Wolvie!" she pleaded as the first tears began to spill over. And the second. And the third. "Don't leave me."
"I won't." He swallowed, hard, looking down at her with so much naked fear. Nothing hidden like the others, who had all been walking on eggshells and speaking inside each other's heads for days. "Not ever, Darlin'," he promised, softly, climbing into the bed and pulling her into his lap, locking his arms around her, and cradling her against his wide chest. "I won't ever leave you again."
As she remembered the excruciating pain in her palms, her feet, in her entire body...remembered screaming until her throat was raw...she couldn't tell him that she no longer believed him.
Everybody left.
Everybody died. Died with a capital "D."
She shuddered, turning her face into his shoulder, inhaling the wood-smoke smell of his skin. How many times had Wolvie left her before? There were no guarantees. None. It could all be over in a flash.
And she was just so tired of being alone. Of being caught between light and dark, life and death, wake and sleep.
That was her reasoning, she told herself, for shifting in his lap...for trailing her mouth up his neck, his bearded jaw...for kissing him. He'd employed toothpaste and mouthwash on her teasing suggestion of a few days ago...but beneath that was the familiar taste of cigars and beer and something wild. Something that was intrinsically Logan. Something that made her want to crawl inside him and wrap herself in the indestructible adamantium that coated his bones, make it her cage.
It was like surfacing from a long, slow, nightmare. Sleeping Beauty kissing the prince and coming back to life. But he was no prince. Just hers. Trembling beneath her hands, rippling, gasping, as his lips disobeyed him and kissed her back, devoured the tears on her tongue, drank the salt from her skin. If he let himself, he would rip her into shreds...eat the pieces. She'd teased the beast. She *needed* the beast.
"Jubilee..." he growled, palms spanning her waist in an effort to disentangle himself. "Jubilee...what...Kid...*fuck*..."
"No...not 'Kid'..." she corrected, covering his hands with her own, digging her knees into his hips as she breathed in tandem with him. "Not a kid, Logan...not anymore..."
She'd seen too much.
Felt too much.
Lost too much.
Wolverine wasn't going to be next on that list.
Not if she could help it.
"I ain't doin' this..." he hissed, but it was too late because he already was. Claws popping, slicing at the paper-thin material of her nightshirt, the seams of her panties, as he bore her down to the mattress.
She slid her hands up his back, clutching at his shoulders underneath the stretched-tight fabric of his t-shirt. *Yes.* "Please...please, Logan." Bring her back to life. Keep her there. They had both been taken down off the crosses...and now all she wanted was resurrection.
Six days without sleep was nothing compared to years without seeing her best friend, her partner, every single day and now she was starved for his touch, for the feel of him, the taste of him...for that sense of completion that she only experienced when he was with her.
He surrounded her. Supported her. Saved her.
And she wanted him to fill her up.
To fill all the places that were empty.
"Jubilee." It was a last-ditch effort to push her away. A whisper laced with equal parts guilt and desire and overwhelming love. "Darlin'..." And if he'd really wanted to, he could have broken away because even her skinny legs clasped around his waist were no match for his strength...could have gone all noble and reminded her of how he'd begun as a father figure, become a brother, and couldn't possibly be her lover.
If he'd really wanted to, he could have broken her heart. Lord knew, he had done it a million times before.
"Logan..." She wound her fingers in his hair, the sharp points scratching against the raised scars, on the fleshy part of her palm Where she was rough, he was soft...where she was curved, he was sharp. Didn't he know, by now, that he was all that stood between her and complete destruction? "Don't stop. Not now."
If he stopped, it would kill her.
And she'd had more than enough of death.
***
He didn't know how long he'd been alive. How old he was exactly. But he knew that there were a handful of women who had grabbed him by the balls and tugged him out of the woods and made him want to be a better man. Fox, Mariko, Jeannie...hell, even Viper and Yukio given enough whiskey and sex.
But first and foremost was Jubilation Lee. Not quite a daughter. Not quite a wife. Never a baby sister. His partner. His other half. His best friend.
He'd almost lost her.
Seeing her up there on that cross...unconscious and broken and weak... he'd gone insane for a minute or two. And, then, when she'd fallen on the basketball court, he'd pushed away Remy and Rogue and swept her up in his arms despite all their good intentions. She was his to take care of. Just *his*. And maybe he was still insane. More berserker than he'd been without the adamantium. Insane for stripping her naked and craving the feel of her warm skin against his. For putting his mouth on her pulse just so he could be sure that her heart was beating.
The man in him wanted him to shove off. To run. To run and never look back. To pretend he was honorable and caring and gentlemanly enough to treat her with some tiny bit of respect.
The animal in him recognized her scent, marked it, and screamed "mate." And "mine." Mineminemine.
And she didn't want him to stop.
Poised above her slender body, balanced on his elbows as she clamped onto him with her gymnast's legs, he wasn't even sure he *could*.
"Logan, please," she repeated, voice low and husky as she brushed her fingers against the fly of his jeans. No "Wolvie"...not now. Maybe never again.
When he grabbed her hand, stopping its quest, she winced, and he hissed, "Fuck, I'm sorry," instinctively flipping so it was now her above him...so light, so barely there...that only the heat between her thighs and the fireworks in her eyes were any indication that he wasn't alone in her bed having some sort of sick dream.
The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her again.
But he was going to.
Afterwards.
***
She moved how he told her to. Opened her mouth when he kissed her. She spun like a dancer against him and every time he thrust upwards she met him, matched him , nearly exploding in a shower of sparks from the sheer joy of it...and he held her close and nodded when she fiercely told him she was fine, had healed, could take it all.
He pretended not to look at the faded marks on her wrists and ankles as he kissed every inch of her.
He pretended he didn't see her heart reflected in her wide, tear-filled, eyes when he sank deep inside where no one else had ever quite reached.
And he didn't ask if she loved him.
He just knew.
Just like she knew that the next time she woke up, she would wake up alone.
Everybody left. *Logan* left.
He'd broken her heart a million times.
Tomorrow, it would be a million and one.
But if she closed her eyes, she could still see him.
Always there.
--end-
May 22, 2003.