Summary: Lots of Logan and Marie angst basically. Does have a happy ending though.
Written years ago but thought I'd upload again.
Fighting Emotions...Logan sat alone at the kitchen table, beer in one hand and cigar in the other - the usual 2am routine after he had woken from the nightmare.
The room was in darkness although the moonlight streamed in through the open windows bathing the furniture in a soft white hue. He could almost feel its touch the length of his back, like a woman's sensual caress.
He liked the half-light. The moonlight. It brought out something primal in him that was totally unconnected to the Wolverine: an awareness of being a part of a bigger picture. For a fleeting moment the idea made him feel significant somehow. Playing his role, for the greater good he hoped, in a world that was becoming more and more fucked up.
He scrubbed a hand over his face realising that his short time at the Xavier Institute, and moreover as part of the X-Men, was already affecting him in a way that seemed alien. He wasn't used to all this thinking, all this deliberating - only functioning - existing. Moving from day to day with as little fuss as possible: eat, drink, drive, fight, fuck, sleep.
Simple.
He lifted his beer bottle to his mouth and swallowed down the last of the bitter tasting liquid.
Simple, he repeated to the silence of his mind. Just how the Wolverine liked it.
He slammed the bottle back down onto the table.
So when had it all become so fucking complicated?
Jean had been gone a month now and the school was still weighted by grief. Scott, quite naturally, had bore the brunt of that grief and had temporarily left the mansion for some time alone. To his irritation Logan found himself missing the poker assed team leader, surprised to be feeling guilt at coming between him and Jean during those last few months, tainting what little time they would have had left.
In hindsight, he realised that he had never loved Jean exactly. He had cared for her a great deal but was more in lust than love, the Wolverine hungering the challenge, the need to conquer.
Only she had not submitted.
In a perverse kind of way he admired her all the more for that.
He had thought the rejection would've proved a bitter blow to his ego, but after all that had happened he just felt a great sense of loss. For himself. For the school. Even for Scott.
He wasn't used to caring for people and didn't know whether he liked it or not. It left a strange taste in his mouth. Was a bitter pill to swallow. Because caring was what was provoking all this constant thinking.
The Wolverine demanded he pack his bags and get back on the road, where he could just go back to existing. Everyday he almost gave in to him but something held him back.
Marie?
He'd never forget that horrific moment in the X-Jet when he had thought he had lost her. Seeing her clinging onto that chair for dear life, hearing her scream above the wail of the wind, knowing that he was helpless this time, that he couldn't save her - it had all but yanked out his heart.
And then, for a split second that seemed like an eternity, as death swept up to triumphantly claim her, their eyes had met and locked, and he had seen a moment of calm amidst her terror. He knew then that she had accepted the inevitable - she even offered a hint of a smile - but it was a sad smile, accompanied by a wash of deep regret, that etched itself so clearly upon her face that, if she had have died, it would have haunted him for the rest of his days.
But she hadn't died - Jean had.
He lifted his cigar from the ashtray and brought it to his lips, sucking in the sweet poison as if his life depended upon it.
But why regret? Dare he hazard a guess?
He blew out the smoke and watched it writhe and gyrate in the half-light, momentarily mesmerized by its seductive motion. It reminded him of her. How she might move beneath him...
He shook his head angrily, alarmed by his chain of thought. She was a kid, god-damn-it. Barely eighteen.
His gaze snapped up to the door then, his heightened senses detecting movement. Sniffing the air he was taken aback to catch Marie's scent. Just a hint but it was becoming stronger as he realised she was on her way to the kitchen.
Fuck.
She padded into the room in a black velvet dressing gown, her white locks of hair vivid in the half-light. Switching on the light she regarded him casually, as if she had expected to find him there.
"What do you want, Marie?"
"Why do you always sit in the dark?"
Logan blinked as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. "I asked you first."
She headed for the fridge, opening it to retrieve a carton of orange juice. "I was thirsty."
"Liar."
She poured herself a drink regardless, and sat opposite him at the kitchen table.
Meeting his eyes she shrugged. "I was worried about you."
"Don't be."
She ignored him. "Ever since Jean - " she faltered. "Ever since Jean died, you've been this closed book." She offered him a fleeting smile. "Not that you were ever an open book to begin with but we did get to see a few pages."
Logan frowned, wondering whether everyone thought too much. "So?"
She sighed. "So - talk to me. Open up to me. I know you better than anyone, after all." She tapped the side of her head. "Got you in here, haven't I."
Despite his dark countenance he conjured a hint of a smile for her benefit. "Sorry about that, kid."
"I wouldn't change it for the world," she reassured softly.
It was almost painful to run his eyes over her face - so young; so innocent still.
He really didn't think he could handle this tonight. Couldn't stand Marie so close to him like this, her scent wafting over him - a bittersweet torment. He felt his anger rise. "Stop loving me, Marie. It's sick and twisted."
He hated seeing the hurt on her face. "Are you saying that I'm sick and twisted?"
"No," he insisted quickly. "Just any ideas you have of us - of us being together."
"Who say's so?" She watched him anxiously. "You?"
He peered down at the table, unable to meet her eyes. "Yeah."
"Liar!"
"Touché," he whispered beneath his breath.
For a long time silence reigned as a biting tension gathered around them. Marie sipped her orange juice, watching him determinedly, whilst he stared at the label of his beer bottle - anywhere but at her.
"Can I ask you something, Logan?" Her voice literally made him jump it came so unexpected.
Although he kept his head bowed, his eyes flicked onto her.
"Did you - " she started, and his brow creased in tense anticipation. "Did you love Jean?"
Logan felt the room close in around him and for a moment he found it hard to breath. Standing up suddenly, he pushed his chair out noisily from under him. "Leave it, Marie," he warned, making to leave the room.
"Why should I?" she snapped, twisting in her chair to stare after him.
"Because I said so!"
"And since when have you had any say over what I do?"
He didn't answer, continuing his journey.
"Where are you going?" Marie demanded.
"To bed," he growled.
"Take me with you!," she blurted desperately and he knew her words had come out unintentionally, in the heat of the moment. At the same time the implications of what she said sent a fire surging through his veins. "Marie," he warned for a second time, voice suddenly hoarse and gravelly.
But he knew that if he looked at her, if he met her eyes, he would be lost.
Fighting to restrain the Wolverine within him, who wanted nothing more than to drag her from that chair and take her hard and fast against the wall, he turned and walked away. As the darkness of the corridor devoured him he realised he had no choice now.
He had to go back to just existing.