Logan is starting to find flashes, and he manages to keep them long enough to piece them to other flashes, and slowly, the images in his dream start to make that much more sense, eventually grouping together to form a memory, a piece of himself that he didn't have when he started.
And through the years, he's remembered a lot of things that way, and he knows that his life didn't just begin with the chill of adamantium, or the searing pain of needles, or the hoarse whispers of a woman trying to soothe him after waking with his claws-made purely of bone-extended, screaming in the silence of midnight calm. He knows that he had friends, once, people that could be in one place and in another place in the next instant, or friends who never stopped talking, or friends that could do anything with a thought-or even friends that weren't very good friends, nails growing into razor sharp claws and small, bare feet pounding against the damp earth, screams echoing from a house behind them as their entwined hands tightened upon one another with fear.
He can't remember what happened to them yet, and almost doesn't want to know, but the distinct flashes of another time flare up in his head for a moment before dying back down, and the insanity of it is soon interrupted by the light overhead flickering to life, a soft humming accompanying it, and Logan looks up from his distracted gazing down at the counter to see Storm, in her nightgown and fuzzy slippers, her white hair disheveled and tangled at the bottom, her dark eyes dimmed with sleep. She looks over at him and slowly shuffles to the refrigerator, the sound of her shoes sliding against the kitchen floor loud in the silence, and she takes a near empty carton of milk with her in her travels to the chair opposite him, plopping down soundlessly and chugging down the milk in seconds, resting her face in her hands sleepily.
"Rough night?" Logan asks her teasingly, and her small smile of defeat is nothing compared to the way her eyelids droop, revealing how tired she is. "You could say that," she murmurs lowly, swallowing the residual film of the milk as she turns to toss the carton into a nearby trashcan, and she turns back around, not caring to see if she made the shot.
"Yeah, I've had a few of my own. What's keeping you up?"
Storm glances up at him and frowns, a moment of clarity returning to her as she throws up her hands, frustrated.
"Kurt's upset about something-he did something wrong, apparently. A sin, but he won't tell me which, and he's been up all night praying-relentlessly." She sighs, and the sound grates on his nerves, but he stubbornly ignores his uneasiness. "Can't get much sleep when your husband is mumbling beside you."
He nods in agreement, just before she gives him a penetrating stare, eyeing him curiously.
"And what's keeping you up?"
He shrugs, still guarded after so many years of being in her familiar company.
"Bad dreams," he half-lies, and averts his eyes to avoid meeting her steadfast gaze, scratching at a stain on the marble top of the counter, his reflection caught, eerily clear, in the stone. A warm hand falls on his own, mocha skin looking even darker in the shadows, and she smiles sadly over at him.
"It'll get better, in time," she says softly, and he gives her a quizzical look.
"What will?"
"The loneliness, the memories. It'll all work out; it always does."
Before he can thank her, or squeeze her hand in gratitude, Storm's eyes fall shut of their own accord, and her head lolls back, her shoulders relaxing with slumber. Stifling his laughs, Logan slides out of his chair and gently scoops her light body into his arms, the top of her hair resting against his shoulder, and he quietly treads from the kitchen and down the hall, carefully climbing the dangerously creaky stairs to make it to her bedroom, shouldering the door open without making a sound.
Nightcrawler sits, legs beneath him, on the covers, eyes closed in prayer as his lips move soundlessly, and Logan can catch a few syllables that are higher than the rest of the near nonexistent words, before he steps on a whining patch of floorboards, startling the man. Kurt looks up, quickly blinking over to adjust his vision, and his glowing yellow eyes fall upon Storm's limp form held securely within Logan's arms, smiling softly as he scoots over to his side of the bed, beckoning Logan over.
He gently sets Storm on the bed and Kurt tucks her in, gazing down at her lovingly, and she turns in her sleep, nestling against Kurt's chest. Rosary beads, bright blue in the moonlight cast through the windows, shake ever so slightly as Kurt nods in thanks to Logan, who returns the gesture with one last look at Storm, smiling at his friend.
As he leaves, he makes sure to be extra quiet, and hears the returning echo of Kurt's low prayers, wondering what the man could have done to make himself so occupied with forgiveness, and catches a few words that aren't-for once-directed at Heaven.
"Sleep well, Meine Liebe."
Logan can't stop the smile that spreads on his face, and the ghost of Storm's words sounds in his head, a memory he desperately wants to hold on to.
Yes, it will work out.
Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated! ;)
Prompts, ideas, and ships are welcome!
Some Logan and Storm bonding requested by Sekhmet49.
Meine Liebe=My Love
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