Rogue's drunk while telling this, I'm drunk while writing this, and it's a story that takes place in a bar when everyone's drunk. Say no to alcohol, kids!
I remember that night. It was like any night. I'd had too much to drink, by normal standards. Fuck normal standards – by my standards I'd barely had a drop. I was alone but not lonely, happy with my slightly inebriated state and focusing on the good memories that fluttered through my head like fireflies, appearing from the darkness than disappearing back into the bleakness of my mind. I sat there watching the miserable souls around me. There was one reason that you'd go to a place like that – other than the obvious reason of wanting to drink yourself into oblivion – and that was to make your life look good by comparison. And my life was looking pretty damn good. Sure, I was alone in the world, cursed with a mutation that literally sucked the life out of people, but at least I didn't look like I barely found the strength to drag myself out of the gutter to spend my last dime on some moonshine swill. No sir, it was top-shelf swill for me.
Wait, I had a point here. I suppose I shouldn't drink when talking about my drinking, I always go off tangent. So, back on tangent – I remember that night. Three years post X. Post Xavier's School for the Gifted, post being a junior member of the X-Men, post taking a phony cure. Hadn't heard hide nor hair from any of the X-geeks since then. And yes, I was just fine with that, thank you very much. I had a life, a lonely life, but a life nonetheless. Almost finished with my BA in sociology, regular job working at the GAP, and a plethora of friends who lived in my own head. About half of those mind-mates were alcoholics – Oh, sorry Erik – "connoisseur of ardent sprits," and thus the regular appearances at the local dive bar.
Someone had just put Conway Twitty on the jukebox and I had to stop from laughing out loud at the protests from my friends in my head. Everyone but Cody was bitching about how ridiculous they thought it was. "In-bred red-neck crap," I think was how John put it. So says a man who listened to dubstep. But in walks the one person from Xavier's that I genuinely did want to see again, if only to make sure that he was alive and well. Logan.
Not sure who was more surprised to see who, but even the Logan in my head let out a loud "Holy shit." Not sure how long we stood there slack-jawed staring at each other, either. Blame the five whiskey sours for that one, folks. Guess it was a while, because the bums in the bar were now looking at us like we were the ones to be pitied.
"Kid?" He barely eked out. And what the fuck? The Wolverine isn't supposed to eke out words. He's supposed to bellow them, or roar them, or some other manly shit. It's kind of his thing. Glad I didn't still have a thing for him, 'cause his stock would have plummeted faster than on Black Tuesday at that little gem.
I don't know why we're wired the way we are, but for whatever reason, my instinctual reaction to seeing him had been what it always had been him. I stood up, went over, and gave him a careful but genuine hug. Don't even remember willing myself to do it. If you ask him, he'd probably say that his hug back was just as instinctual. No – don't ask him now. My story, bitches. Point is, after all that time, things hadn't changed between us. I think we're the closest thing either of us has to family. Or, you know, family that can stand us/doesn't want to kill us. Because we both have that. But I think Wolvie sending Sabertooth a Christmas card and me having a pleasant conversation with my folks are about equally as likely. The same likelihood of Jean being dead for real, aka none.
Anywho, we sat, and drank, and talked, and drank, and reminisced, and drank, and then we drank. Okay, I said I remembered that night. I didn't say that I remembered the whole night. I remember everything up to the world falling off its axis and making me all dizzy. Stupid off-balance planet. After that, there is a bit I don't remember. I do know that Logan had caught me up to speed on his life, and boy did it ever make my life look like a still-life painting. He had lost himself, found himself, remembered his past, fallen in love, and gotten back to being the bad-ass hero with a heart of gold that I know and love. Sometime between filling me in on everything and the world tripping and making me pass out for a bit, he explained that he was there at the bar to meet up with yet another old friend. One that he had just remembered. One that he owed a debt to. I figured that anyone who helped my Logan out deserved a drink, on me. Honestly, I probably was so far gone that I was thinking about what the color purple tastes like, but my good intentions were there, I'm pretty damn sure of it.
I came to, resting comfortably against the insanely buff chest of Logan. Seriously. How much does that guy work out? Is it even possible to be that buff without becoming a freaking caricature? You can't tell me that insane musculature isn't a part of his mutation, you just can't. He tells me it's just the way he lives. Hank's furry blue butt it is. Dude's got some awesome X-Gene shit going on there, and I'm jealous. Oh crap, the tangent's way over there again. Give me a sec, I'll get back on it. But before that – Fuck Logan's fucking amazing muscles. Fuck.
"Ya back with me, darlin'?" He asks. I smile and nod, not because I'm sober by any stretch of the imagination, but I realized that he just called me darlin' instead of kid. About damn time – I was a month away from turning twenty-three. But I guess pretty much anyone is a kid to him. He realizes I'm still smashed, but smiles anyway, because that's the kind of friend he is. It crashes down on me about how much I've missed him. I tell him so. "Missed you too, kid," he replies. Oy, with the kid again.
He laughs and I realize that I said it out loud. I do that sometimes. With all the voices and alcohol, the internal and external conversations and monologues sometimes get confused. Wait . . . which one is this right now? External, pretty sure. Cool. So I down as much water as Logan can force in me, along with a generous helping of complimentary ten-year-old bar pretzels, and start to sober up. We sit there in silence for a while, and the only thing I can think to say to my oldest, and possibly only, friend is "I'm glad your past didn't destroy you." What kind of thing is that to say to someone who's been what he's been through? I wish I had a way with words, but I don't, but I look over at him, and . . . he got what I was trying to say. He held my gloved hand real tight and gave one of those rare real Logan smiles. And I gave him a rare real Marie smile in return.
*ahem* Some asshole coughs, ruining a beautiful moment between friends. Wolvie looks up and there stands this tall, handsome guy who's wearing sunglasses. I give my most lady-like snort, because who wears sunglasses at one a.m. in a dingy bar? We're past trying to look cool here, dude. Judging by Logan's reception of the man, he's the old friend. Not that he looked too old to me. Late 30s, tops. But the kind of late 30s where you've stayed in shape and you're way hotter than any 25-year-old underwear model out there. We're talking Johnny Depp kind of hot. Damn, out of water just when I need it the most. And that's before he took of his sunglasses and showed his incredible eyes.
They start chatting, but Logan's still holding me close, making sure I don't pass out. But if I had passed out at that point it would be because of the Cajun hotty sitting across from me. I listened to them talk, trying my best not to melt into a puddle of estrogen every time that "Remy," as he called himself, in the third-person for some weird reason, looked my way. I caught enough of their conversation to feel bad about not understand the whole of their conversation. You know? They had clearly been through some tough shit together, not that Wolvie needed any more of that on his plate, and the bits that they did bring up made my heart ache for both of them.
Round about last call, Logan and Remy ran out of things to say to one another. I would have expected them to wallow in their miserable memories till they got kicked out of the place, but Logan just looked wistful. Yet another thing the Wolverine isn't supposed to do. Along with dressing up like a fairy princess. *gasp* Oh my God, Logan! You totally have to dress up like a fairy princess for Halloween. I'll love you forever! Okay, fine, I'm going to love you forever even if you don't do it, but I'll love you forever and a day if you do do it. Who am I kidding? Looking wistful and eking out something are as un-manly as he'll ever get. I'll take what I can get.
While Logan was contemplating his navel (which is probably as muscular as the rest of him) Remy turned his attention to me. Which I was totally not okay with and desperately wanted at the same time. It suddenly struck me that I had just met the man, but had also just heard about some of the worst episodes of his life. So "What's your sign" was out as an ice-breaker. When he asked me how I knew Logan, I told him. Honestly. I had never done that before, recited my life on the road, the terrors of being almost killed twice in as many days, and the constant battle in my head to be in control of my own body. I figured I owed him that, he had already unwittingly shared so much with me.
When I finished, I could see out of the corner of my eye that Logan looked awe-struck. Like I said, I hadn't even shared it with him. But he had never asked. Ask, people! That's the only way you'll ever really know. But Remy, he just gave me a sad smile and nodded. He understood. And that was it for me. He looked at me like a kindred spirit, a beautiful woman, and a friend. And we had just met. From there on, there was no turning back for me.
Yeah, I remember that night. The night that I reconnected with my best friend and met my husband.
"Lovely speech, chere. Now put down de vodka."