TIMELESS
Warnings:
M-rating, Logan/Scott Summers, Out of every canon, freeform, lots of fluffiness (maybe too much but times are a-changing and world needs fluffiness), non Graphic-sex
1.
Autumn has already cast its goldening powers on leaves and branches while, even during daytime, rain is pearling over the humid earth with translucent dew.
It is a cozy and splendid season, comfortable and peaceful, but on this deserted high land of the Canadian Border woods seem to have already welcomed winter and its freezing temperatures. Sometimes it also snows.
Nonetheless, Nature is an understanding and faithful friend and all in all its colours, sounds and pungent smells are ripe and simple. They're trustworthy, in their mutations, because they're bound to follow a mysterious order and, in this, human instincts have always put their faith.
Especially if this particular instinct we're focusing on - a sometimes-overwhelming-and-brutal kind of instinct - lives in a world where every man, friend, place, time, seem to be a mockery version of something that expired long long time ago, in a dusty cloud of fake realities. World itself has started to fade in lines and meanings and no man should tear himself apart like this, no man could bear this dullness, this slow but inexorable fading out. But this particular man is not eve a man, and his stubborn instinct keeps coming out of perils and fucked-up realities only with one, ancestral and unstoppable pull: survive, no matter what. And although the man is consumed, bones-tired, abandoned, with no purpose at all...
(give a man a purpose and he will change his destiny. Here's something interesting. It's cruel: he once told it to a very special rival of his, and now he finds himself obliterating his life with the same lack-of he was trying to denounce...but back to the millenium he said his motivational quote, oh yes, back then, he found the fucking Boy Scout looking at him. Not seeing the beast nor the troublemaker. Only a team mate. Fair enough... ),
Well, although the man sometimes feels himself on the edge, this very thick-headed instinct we're bubbling about won't let the man be. It forces him to live, to hold on to something even if there's nothing left to hold onto. And bends him to be hurt and possessed by guiltiness, and stirs the knife in his ancient, fresh wounds with a steadiness that borders a crazy dread. And so, as we said, no man should suffer this ill-fated destiny.
No one, maybe, except this one that is half human, half beast, half old, half renewed, half shattered and half whole again. One whose life has been punctuated by fatal junctions and loss and pain. One who's now hurt and tired, and whose heart lies somewhere, thrown away and ragged like an old, worn out and dirty canvas.
Well, there's this man now leaning on the heavy wooden door frame of the lonely log he chose to shut himself in. He slides his careful eyes on the empty landscape and sips some beer from his muddy coloured bottle. He takes a puff on his thick strong-smelling cigar. He is silent, relaxed but still watchful, and he is as alone as he has been for the last few days. For the last few weeks. Well, maybe for the last few months - he just doesn't know anymore - because he has really lost the track of time, somehow, he really has lost the track of it all. What he may find outside his wooden log is a mystery, all the worlds he's been into just collapse in his vision like an indistinct blur. He sometimes believes he's 2000 years old, or he couldn't be feeling so deadly alive.
He sips his beer again and again finds himself trying not to think too hard. His checkered red jacket isn't enough and he should wear something warmer. But he can't bring himself to care about it, not even a little. As long as he doesn't brutally fight or dig for his own death, he cannot really get sick. Cold, hot, snow or rain it doesn't make any difference because HE's different and no matter how much he struggles to forget ...every day something reminds him this. And again, those thoughts, those dangerous ideas he has, starts to fill his brain to the brim, lurking out of their safe corners like lingering dark shadows. Everything is really confusing and keeps mingling and scattering in thousands different fragments. Fragments of memories, of people, and above all fragments of time. This new present he chooses to ignore, the future present he lost , his mysterious past he cannot seem to grab a hold on to. How can he keep living among all the others? He doesn't know them anymore and he doesn't know if his present life has been a convenient lie or a ignorant truth up until now. Or - needless to say - an entangled mix of the twos.
There are days in which he'd want to die, if he could, days in which he would want to forget and days in which he'd want to have all his memories back and know them all, all the faces he met and all the lips he's licked, all the skulls he crushed and all the tears he gulped down. And then, when he finds himself alone at night, he'd want to forget everything once again, (even the motherly love and the fatherly pride he knows he never knew...a simple hug, a close word of encouragement, a smile. So simple. So empty.)
And then the flames. Red flames in which he knows he has burnt countless times. Flames, they were in her hair, they had been there throughout all the years, and flame of his eyes, like a curse, like a fearful power. All red, all red. He's no bull but he knows he could go mad anytime. He went, actually.
But what was her name again?
Which were the true red flames he chose long time ago?
He cannot seem to...
Well, she was gorgeous, at least this is simple to recall. She was herself like a burning pit of stars and energy and love and passion and...everything.
Thus she faded, and as his wild hair have eventually started greying, the thoughts of her have done the same.
The other red glorious sparkle – the one that glowed trough nicely-shaped eyes and a nicely hairless face - though, haven't disappeared yet.
It took more time to seep down to his adamantium bones, it took much more effort to see who he really was.
And his beauty came out to his eyes very late, only when he was already lost, vowed to a cause bigger than his own strength.
He now stands in a natural tranquility but still this pang of regret cannot seem to go away. It's sharp, tiny and subtle. The boy-scout should have stayed by his side. Together, they could have saved all the others and the whole world. He chose differently, because destiny is a fucking bastard and it's still laughing at all their noble principles and good intentions and suffered sacrificed.
What still remains is yet to be seen, but by now is very feeble indeed.
Not to mention the struggle of suicide when you have a stubborn healing factor.
§§§§§§
The land is motionless and its static beauty is an abiding cradle.
The line of the horizon is filled with the spiked silhouettes of evergreen trees and every other sound is muffled by the soft, humid earth.
Snow starts piling up and it's glorious. Another lonely winter has come. Mankind, really, should not exist anymore.
He'd like to say it will be his last lap on this Earth but…
Suddenly – before all the other things – he catches a whiff in the air.
His head shots in that very direction.
No imminent sound can be heard but, after a while, a subtle, snowy crunch-pat-crunch comes out clear.
Heavy boots on a thin, frozen layer of snow.
Someone is coming and he realizes his breath is now coming out in heavy puffs.
Who might ever be?
A stupid question. Inside it, a primal fear.
He had hoped to be left alone up until now.
§§§§§§
It's a man but, in his humble opinion, it might also be a ghost.
Heavy ruby glasses and dark, copperish hair. They used to be lighter. He supposes time's gone forward even for the guy (but not for him. Time has gone in the wrong way, then backwards, then in the wrong way again…and then the old world disappeared and he simply quitted).
A growl starts to fill up his throat.
Which time-version of Scott Summer is going to bother him soon?
And, above all, why?
He's still very tall, the damned Slim, and even if he's still far in the distance, he hold his hand up to be seen.
- Logan.- he pants after a while, still not too near. The last inhabited village is at least one week far from there and the man looks worn out. In the end he take the almost invisible path to Logan's cabin.
- Logan!- he calls again, this time his voice sounds like wavering, almost watery.
Logan is paralyzed. He puffs again smoke from his cigar and leans heavily on the doorframe.
Somewhere, inside his furry and adamanted chest, something stirs, almost trembles.
The way he said his name is…is like having back his dear, old world.
- Bub.- he says in a murmur.
The other arrives and smiles at the word. Some things never change.
§§§§§§
It might be a dream or it might not, it's not really this the matter.
Scott Summers is now by the fireplace and drinks thirstily from a cup of really hot something and he doesn't say a word.
Not one.
He just drinks.
And Logan stays behind him, amazed and terrified, his beastly-self long gone.
- Are you in?- Scott finally says.
- Dunno.- Logan mumbles. He shuffles his spikey hair. Then he sits beside the fireplace as well, and cautiously asks:
- Which one are you?-
Scott lift up his face from the hot cup he's helped himself with.
His expression, hidden by the red lens, his almost unreadable.
Logan would say he's scared but he cannot really be certain.
- I'm the right one.- Scott speaks loud and clear.
- Tsk!I've seen so many…of you, in these years.- Logan exhales a long, tired breath, and he talks to himself, almost, like if he's alone.
- I've come for you.- the other says. Logan looks up at him, suddenly, and he knows his face looks older than ever, the very image of graveness.
He thought he was immune, he thought he was free.
But someone – again – has come to bother his sweet oblivion.
- What do you want? What do you mean?- Logan asks, sharply.
- It's just like I said. Logan.- The other is unmovable, as always. But It seems he has a ton of words to say all glued to his very properly speaking tongue. As always.
§§§§§§
Logan is nervous.
He's not waking up from this strange dream. It all seems to be real.
He stands up in his kind-of-a-living room, familiar wood all around him.
His noWhen in this cozy nowhere has been violated and his will falters.
His senses are tingling in wake, he can hear, smell, taste things he thought he forgot.
He can't trust him.
He'll bring mayhem.
§§§§§§
- I travelled from multiple timelines just to find you.-
- Just like all the others before you. Dozens of you, trying to have me back in their when.-
- I don't want to…I just…-
- Shut it. You don't know anything. You…don't know.-
- Know what, Logan?-
- You don't know!-
- What?!-
And the room starts spinning.
Fuck.
§§§§§§
Scott Summers has always been rather reliable.
He never behaves differently, Logan knows this straightforwardness of his very well.
- Why?– so he asks, almost feebly – why…Have you come for me, then?-
The clawed mutant scrape his forehead wit big, blunt hands, his expression so untypically tired, worrisome.
Summer hesitates. He clasps his hands together, unsure.
His words of truth are near the point of no return but he still won't talk.
Logan absent-mindedly gazes outside the window, where the snow is really starting to wrap up everything.
- How are all the others? Are we…talking about our others?-
- Could you really be able to tell the difference?-
- HOW, I said!-
- COULD?!-
- Yes, I could! They smell differently in different universes!-
- So…you know!-
- What?-
- You know I'm the right one!-
- Yes…yes you are.-
Scott tenses again and gets near Logan.
He grabs his shoulder as he's done countless time in a different era.
- Dead. All dead.-
§§§§§§
- What do you want? You didn't tell…-
- I…-
- Why have I to come back, this time? Havoc? Murder? Clones?-
- You don't…-
- I won't. I won't be your Lazarus. I won't shed blood anymore.-
§§§§§§
But then Summers exhales again, and again grabs Logan's shoulder while kneeling down in front of him.
- You don't have to. You're not going anywhere.-
- I don't understand. Speak.- he commands, this time roughly.
- Logan. I came to stay.- and at these words there's howling wind in Logan's mind.
- To stay?- the meaning is not clear.
Is this Scott – his Scott, the real one, the one and only Slim – not asking him anything?
- Yeah – he says and suddenly smiling brightly – with you.-
Logan's eyes are wide open in shock.
This time won't go back or forth as an insane merry-go-round.
He came to stay.
With him.
§§§§§§
§§§§§§ end part 1
§§§§§§
Yuki Says:
You know what, guys? I don't want to care about canon anymore. I don't, really. They took all our heroes and shattered them and cut them into tiny little pieces and this disgusts me.
What is up here must be taken as a simple, light thought of mine.
I'm not trying to say "the end" I'm not trying to determinate my universe, I'm sick and tired of parallel universes, and my James is, too. Who wouldn't be?
So, I let them be just themselves and f**k all the impossible and all the…gone.
It's ok. Everything is ok.
It's just that sometimes we must remember "2015 sucks" even for Marvel Superheroes.
I don't know about time anymore.
Really, guys, it's time to let them be. They must really miss each other.
Didn't have tis betaed. Sorry for eventual mistakes, you know, always over-checking but if you don't see them anymore they just won't come out.