A/N: This story was inspired by the song's "Can't Fight This Feeling Any Longer," by REO Speedwagon, "So Come Over," by Kenny Chesney, and "Kiss The Girl" from Little Mermaid. I have been told that we cannot post song lyrics, even if we disclaim them.

If anyone knows whether this is true or false, please let me know!

Disclaimer: I don't own the songs "Can't Fight This Feeling Any Longer," by REO Speedwagon, "So Come Over," by Kenny Chesney, and "Kiss The Girl" from Little Mermaid, nor do I own X-Men or its characters

Can't Fight This Feeling Any Longer, So Come Over

I sat there on my bike, listening to the engine tick after having shut it off, and took in the bar who's parking lot I was sitting in. Wasn't exactly run down, but it wasn't shiny new either: the paneling seemed worse for wear, but the door looked sturdy and the windows looked fairly clean; even the bright, big, neon "Jukebox Bar" sign still worked, though it looked like it could definitely use a bit of TLC. I sighed and dug out a cigar as I climbed off my bike and made my way in to the bar.

After I walked through the door, I stood in the doorway taking in my surroundings. The bar didn't feel hostile, but old habits die hard, you know? It got quite as most of the bar-goers looked at me, sizing me up. I did the same, practically looking each one in the eye like I meant business, and backed it up with a good few sniffs to make sure nothing smelled funny. After they went back to their drinks and whatnot, and I was sure no one was gonna try something funny, I made my way to the bar, sitting at the far corner where I could see and hear everyone and everything. In seemingly no time flat, the bartender made his way to me. Even though the bar didn't give him much space, I could tell he was pretty laid back and wasn't really threatened by me, just wary. He was bald and had a decent sized beard; was about average height, but something said he could handle his own. Seemed like a guy I could get along with.

Cleaning a glass and looking me in the eye, he said: "What can I get ya?"

I looked right back at him and chewed on my cigar before I told him: "Whiskey, straight. Here," I pulled out my wallet and laid a few $20's on the table. "I'll take the whole bottle, if you don't mind."

The bartender stopped cleaning his glass and looked at me. And I mean really looked at me, like he'd seen me before though he didn't know where; it was kinda creepy.

I didn't like it.

"What, bub?" I snapped, "Something you wanna say? I got something in my teeth?" Whatever he had been thinking, I must have snapped him from it because he grabbed the bills, turned back to the shelves of alcohol, grabbed a bottle and a glass, and turned to hand them to me. I looked at the bottle disbelievingly when I saw the name.

"'Four Roses?'" I looked at him, "what kind of pansy shit is this?"

He stared back just as hard. "It's damn good whiskey, is what it is. Of all the years I been serving it, I ain't never heard one complaint. And there have been guys ten times as surly as you that have enjoyed that whiskey. Drink up." With that, he turned and headed to the other end of the bar and left me to drink.

I looked back at the bottle. Grumbling and growling about stupid, know-it-all bartenders, I poured myself a small glass and took a sip.

You know what? That bartender knows his stuff because, dammit, this has to be the best damn whiskey I've had this side of the border.

So I kept drinking. And as I drank, my body relaxed as much as my healing factor would let me. My senses opened up just a bit more and the steady noise from the other people in the bar wasn't irritating for once. The jukebox was playing an old country tune – I couldn't tell you the name or the singer – but it was sad and depressing and seemed to fit my mood. So I sat there, drinking my drink, listening to the comforting white noise, and letting my body take care of the alcohol as it saw fit, when it started up again. Or, should I say, he. Him being the reason I'd come here.

I felt the Wolverine in the back of my mind slowly push to the forefront as the alcohol did its job. Well, shit.

You're and idiot, you know that?

I just stared at my reflection in the mirror, took a sip, and, as stupid as it sounds, answered back.

Oh yeah? How so?

He growled. Are you really that stupid? Are you really that blind? You hurt her with those stupid words that came out of that stupid ass mouth of yours! I really must have pissed him off because usually he doesn't talk that much; he's more of instinct, feeling, and growling, you know?

I snorted and took another drink. Yeah? Well it serves her right; she got no business crushing on me anyway. I practically spit out my drink as I watched my eyes go from a grey-green and flash a brilliant gold.

You idiot! He roared and then started stomping around in my mind. Gave me one hell of a headache, but what surprised me the most was that he didn't fight for control. You blind, fucked up, ignorant, childish, idiot! How can you not see it?!

I snapped back. That's exactly the reason she has no business getting mixed with me… us… whatever: we're fucked up! I sighed and took another sip, then continued: She deserves so much better than we can give her… than I can give her. She's been through hell and I don't wanna give her more.

He continued to growl and pace in my mind, but he seemed to have calmed down enough that it didn't feel like a jackhammer had been taken to my skull.

And you don't think she's safer with us? I didn't answer. I took another sip and stared in the mirror, right back at myself. It was a while before he continued.

She's 23; plenty old enough to start dating, to find a mate… to settle down… Ever wonder what it would be like if she chose us?

I had. Too many times to count. And you know what scares me the most? How very nice, and warm, and good a relationship with her seems… so good I want it so bad.

Then the jukebox played a new song, one I seemed to recognize somehow. As I listened to the lyrics, I realize the song was by that Kenny guy the KitKat seemed to like so much. I focused on the song for a bit, letting the lyrics flow over me as he sang the first bridge and chorus: "Forget about your friends, you know they're gonna say/We're bad for each other, but we ain't good for anyone else/I told you I wouldn't call, I told you I wouldn't care…"

And for whatever reason, I couldn't stop thinking about Marie. Sweet, gorgeous, amazing, kind, loving Marie… about how I had hurt her… and I felt the walls I had built so hard to protect her start to crumble, piece by piece.

Wolverine seemed to calm down a bit, recognizing the change in me.

You do know she's our mate, don't you?

I didn't quite like that. Okay, I did, but…

But that doesn't give her a reason to be shackled to some fucked up, ex-military experiment, does it? I snapped. I finished my glass, poured another, finished it off too, and filled the glass once more.

He stilled in my mind. You think mating works that way? That she doesn't have a choice? I stayed silent. Idiot. Mating is a choice between two souls. If one doesn't agree to the bond, then the two souls aren't mates. You think she would be our mate if she hadn't already chose us as hers?

I finished the glass and poured another as he simply paced around. Then he was still.

She chose us just as much as we chose her. Why should we force her to be unhappy because you are afraid? Once again, I didn't answers. She wants us… she needs us… she loves us… and we feel the same. Why should we fight it?

He finally retreated to the back corners of my mind and let me think about it. A part of me still didn't like it, but that part was getting smaller and smaller.

So I sat there, drinking, as the jukebox pulled another stunt and played a song that, this time, I did recognize… and it scared the hell out of me so much that I just stared as the opening lines of REO Speedwagon's song, "Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore," started playing and the opening lines were sung: "I can't fight this feeling any longer/And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow…"

I slammed back that glass and quickly poured the last of the bottle into it as the bartender made his way back over.

"You alright, man? You looked a little spooked?"

I looked at him and he looked at me. When I calmed down, I looked deeper and saw something that hinted at I-think-I-know-something-you-don't-but-I-hope-I'm- going-crazy type thing, you know? Like what he knew… he wished he didn't know it… or what he thought he didn't know.

"Yeah, just someone seemed to pick a song on that damned jukebox that… hit a little close to home, you know?" That look in his eyes got stronger; discomfort, worry, frustration, and – get this – resignation all seeped into his scent. What the hell…?

He sighed, then answered, "No one has chosen a song on that jukebox for years… it broke a while back and a friend of mine tried to fix it. But all he could do was get it to play any random set of songs… no matter how many quarters you put into that thing, you won't be able to pick a song to save your life."

I stared at him. Something fishy was going on… not life-threatening-fishy, but fishy all the same. "Why don't you get it fixed?"

He shrugged. "At first, I didn't have the money. Then the random set of songs started to grow on the regulars and pretty soon I just decided I didn't want to bother it at all." Then he stared hard at the jukebox, almost like it would tell him its secrets. "However, there are days where it really acts up and scares folks…" He looked at me. "Kind of like you… play a song that 'hits a little to close to home'…"

I looked at him. "Uh-huh…" I sat there for a bit and finished off my drink. Standing, I stretched, put on my coat, and threw a few more bills down on the counter… a tip, you know?

"Well, thanks. You were right," I said, "That was some damn good whiskey." I turned to walk out and the jukebox did the strangest thing I've ever heard: it started playing, I shit you not, "Kiss the Girl," from The Little Mermaid (don't ask me how I know that one… I got stuck with babysitting the real young ones, the boys lost the coin toss, and we all were forced to watch that movie three times straight)… and right in the middle of that song too! "Sha-la-la-la-la-la/My, oh, my/Look at the boy too shy/He ain't gonna kiss the girl…"

I stared at the jukebox, then the bartender, back to the jukebox, and I finally settled on him.

"Broken, huh?"

"Yep." He said, looking a bit uncomfortable, but more tired.

"Right…" I said, swallowed, and practically hurried out the door.

Broken jukebox my ass… but it did have a point…