Blue Are The Songs Of Despair
"Have you come to gloat?"
The gruff voice startles her a little, he's closer than she'd expected him. At least is IS the Wolverine. She thinks she can get him where she wants him. Much easier than Storm, and she hadn't even wanted to contemplate Hank.
She doesn't look up from the headstone.
No, she wants to say. I loved him. Did from the moment he found me. No matter how infuriatingly naive and passive he was. No matter how hypocritical, when my results suited him but he condemned me for my methods. I never stopped.
But she has come here with two goals, and the first she has just fulfilled.
She tears her eyes away from the headstone and pastes an unpleasant smile onto this hated face.
"Had to see it for myself," she drawls. Then, looking around, "I like what you've done with the place. I hear graveyard chique is all the rage in modern landscaping."
He has come a few threatening steps closer, and she relishes his clenched fists.
"Why are you here?"
"Like you said, to gloat," she says, aiming for cruel nonchalance. She doesn't feel it quite has the right nuance, but judging by his growl, it's good enough. "Had to make sure the cueball was really gone."
She bites down on the sob in her throat, regretting that choice of words. She had called him that, the last time she saw him - her irreverent nickname for the venerable professor that was once her floppy-haired older brother. It had made him grin. The memory is raw and close.
She shoves the thought away, because Logan is where she wanted him, up close and approaching boiling point.
"Get out," he grits. "Get the fuck out of here."
"Or you'll what?" she asks sweetly.
He strikes like a snake, and once she would have anticipated the motion and turned into it, but some of her speed and agility was her mutation, and gone now. And anyway, she has no intention of defending herself. He yanks her wrist behind her back.
"Don't you ever get tired of wearing other people's faces?"
She feels a burst of genuine anger for the first time in weeks, and years of training haven't completely abandoned her. She spins and kicks high, catching him under the chin. His head snaps back and he grunts, but she can't follow through, his grip on her wrist is too tight. She instinctively reaches to shift, slide herself out of his iron grip, but there is that gaping hole inside of her, the ability she no longer has, and it takes her breath, raw and painful. She stutters to a halt.
He is behind her now, heavy arm around her throat, and she feels the pressure against the arteries. His other hand is against her chest over her heart, and she can feel the tips of his claws pressing against her skin.
"I should just-" he growls in her ear.
She vaguely, lightheaded thinks
Yes.
Please.
Then there is only blissful darkness.
(X3. Even though I keep pretending that film never happened. I don't even know. There might be more.)