Chapter Two: Disarmed
Logan grounded me, and as my grounding agent, he reminded me that even without my powers, I still needed to be able to protect myself. At first I resented his comment, as though he thought I was weak since giving up my mutant abilities.
"You don't have to be weak; that's my point. Alright? I promised to take care of you, and I will. But you're gonna have to learn to take care of yourself, too."
Still bristling at the implication of his words, I blew out a breath, my arms crossed. "Ok, so what do you suggest, Mr. Logan?"
"Simple: you're gonna learn to fight."
My irritation was quickly replaced by a sinking feeling in my gut. Me? Fight? On my own, I was an uncoordinated mess. With my powers, I was able to borrow a bit of others' abilities to compensate for my lack of grace, coordination, and balance.
"You're kiddin', right?"
His wordless expression told me he wasn't. I grimaced.
"Don't give me that. I'll teach you everything you need to know."
That time I groaned. The pressure of being supervised by Logan, the hard ass he was, only made the thought worse. On top of that, I had already embarrassed myself in front of him enough during Danger Room sessions. Now his focus was going to be entirely on me?
At first, I was thoroughly embarrassed as he had me practice stances, postures, and strikes without a partner, and I still landed on my butt. It didn't help that he was easily annoyed by it all. It was probably only his commitment to me that made him stick it out, because I could tell that he would have liked to just walk out on me many times. He called for frequent breaks, more so that he could smoke a cigar to calm himself down than to give me a few minutes to regroup. He never verbalized his frustrations, though, and I commended him for that. I was ready to scream at myself. Eventually, though, I started to get better.
One night a few weeks later, sleep was impossible. I'd tried, but Logan's nightmares were haunting me again. Though the cure had taken away my mutant powers, it seemed my memory couldn't be freed from all those I'd touched; and because Logan was the person I'd had the most physical contact with, it was usually his memories that came second only to mine. Lucky for me, the nightmares didn't come nearly as often for me as they did for Logan.
He was sitting in the corner of the sectional couch in the lounge when I went downstairs, his legs sprawled in front of him, and one elbow on the back, his cheek resting on his lose fist. He appeared tired and agitated as he seemed to look past the glow of the television. His eyes shifted in my direction as I walked around the room.
"What are you doing up?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Same as you, I assume."
A look of confusion passed over his face, and I sat down next to him, grabbing a throw blanket to wrap around myself. He turned his attention back to nothing in particular, only momentarily glancing down at the coffee table where the remote lay.
"Well good luck findin' somethin' to watch. This thing's useless at two in the morning."
I didn't bother trying to change the channel because I knew he was right. We sat there in silence, and I barely paid much attention to the old, corny sitcom. The overused laugh-track was enough to help me forget the hellish images that had been stirred up by my subconscious, and I laid my head against the back of the couch, feeling my eyes start to fall closed.
Electrifying pain shot through my body, and I felt the hot burn of razor blades as they popped out of my hands. I could hear a voice that wasn't my own roaring out of my throat and boring into my ears.
I jolted awake. Logan didn't seem to notice, his mind somewhere else entirely. I looked down at his other hand—a large paw that currently rested on his open thigh—and my eyes were drawn to the spaces between his knuckles.
I don't know why I wanted to touch them. I chalked it up to the strange connection I had with Logan, and how I knew intimately the first-hand account of the torture he'd suffered at the hands of Stryker and his lackeys. As tired as I was, I suppose I didn't have the mind to inhibit my impulse, because not a moment later, my fingers touched the back of his hand. Living a life suffocating in gloves for the last few years had the odd effect of enhancing my sense of touch, and I swore I could feel every vein and tendon beneath his skin as my fingers moved up to his knuckles where his claws came out.
I didn't have to look up to know I'd regained Logan's attention. His eyes were intensely focused on me, and though I probably should have stopped, I didn't want to.
I felt the extra bones that hid his retractable metal claws, and I was intrigued. I knew that for Logan, they were a burden in a way similar to my own mutant abilities. Still, I loved them simply because they were a part of him. They represented the animal he tried at all times to contain; but it was the beautiful and perhaps tragic coupling of the animal with his gentler, kinder side that had drawn me to Logan from the start, especially since I was one of the few people privileged enough to witness the latter.
I ran the tips of my fingers over his larger ones, and he let me turn his hand over so that I could feel his roughened palm. It was then that the jarring nightmares were entirely forgotten as I was sucked into the experience of being able to touch him—, and I mean really touch him. To touch was a miracle, but to be able to feel Logan was a like a hypnotic dream. I didn't stop, continuing down so that I could press the dip in his upturned wrist and stroke the fine, course hairs that covered his muscled forearm. My face heated as I contemplated the raw power in that one limb alone, and I was amazed that he was letting me touch him.
X-X-X
Though the nightmares were no less bothersome, knowing where they'd come from made it possible for me to at least feel like I had some control over them. Snippets of my time under Stryker's laboratory needles floated in and out of my consciousness, but I paid them less attention now. I focused instead on trying to let them slip out of my awareness altogether because I was too tired to fight the memories. Hell, I was too exhausted to care that my efforts were still in vain. I just hoped my exhaustion would take over soon and end the battle for me.
Maybe it was because I was so exhausted, or because I knew rationally that those nightmares were behind me that I didn't flinch when I felt soft fingers against the back of my hand. I lifted my head to look over at Marie, studying her distant expression as she gently rubbed between my knuckles.
I was sensitive when it came to my hands. The knives inside them itched always, like a trigger finger. Around Jean, I'd felt disarmed—like I hadn't needed to protect myself, or her (though the irony of that didn't escape me). Marie was different than Jean. As strong as she was becoming, she was still vulnerable, and from day one, I'd felt a responsibility to protect her.
But there in the lounge of Xavier's mansion, sitting alone in the dark at 2:00 am with her gentle fingers against my skin, there was no need to keep up my defenses. She wasn't going to hurt me, and there was no threat to her safety. Rather, there was a sweetness in the moment that had me stunned.
I could see the wonder on her face as I let her turn over my hand, and I realized that until that moment, she hadn't been able to fully enjoy her ability to touch. No doubt she'd been hoping to explore it with that Drake kid (something I didn't want to contemplate), but seeing as how their relationship had ended when she'd returned from taking the cure, whatever plans she'd had had likely been screwed.
The coldness that seemed ever present within me melted away—a feeling only Marie could make possible—and I began to feel that familiar low-burning sense of gentle possessiveness in my chest. I didn't know how else to define my end of the unbreakable bond between us.
She seemed to finally realize what it was that she was doing, and I saw her face register the reality of the situation before she looked up at me with apologetic eyes, slowly retracting her hand from my arm. Thanks to the blue light from the television, I could see the rising color in her cheeks.
"I-I'm sorry."
"Nah, don't be," I reassured her quietly. "I get it."
"You do?"
I reached out to her with an open palm. "You wanted to touch people," I said simply.
Her eyes flitted back and forth between my face and my hand, as though uncertain. Finally, she placed her hand in mine and continued her tactile exploration. Watching her was like witnessing a blind person see, or a deaf person hear for the very first time, and I imagined that's what the experience must feel like for her.
Her hand moved further up my arm than it had previously, and I felt my face shift to a thoughtful frown. I couldn't remember anyone ever touching me that way before—with the innocence of a child. But when her eyes met mine again, I saw something else there, something that didn't belong to a child.
She was studying my face, and she took her bottom lip between her teeth.
"What?"
She hesitated. "C-can I…?"
I felt her fingers tremble against my shoulder as she kept her eyes on my face. She wanted to touch that, too. I gave the barest nod, not sure I wanted her to, but also not sure I could refuse her.
I stopped myself from flinching as her hand came closer to my face, not out of fear of her touch, but I suppose out of my own uncertainty. However, when I felt those soft fingertips against my cheek, I felt a level of calm I wasn't used to. The uncertainty was still there, and I continued to wonder what I was seeing in those pretty brown eyes that made me… Fuck, nervous is the only word that came to mind.
I remembered Jean's touch so vividly; how it had always seemed to make me feel like I was burning up. But Marie's… Marie's was like a soothing salve, and I couldn't comprehend it. How could a girl whose mutation was deadly skin-to-skin contact ordinarily have a touch that felt like it could heal the soul?
I dropped my gaze as those fingertips moved up over my brow and down the bridge of my nose, feeling torn. At once I enjoyed the sensation and its calming effects while unable to convince myself that the whole thing wasn't wrong. She was comforting, but too close for comfort. I didn't want to move an inch, and yet I wanted to retreat.
"I think she's a little taken with you."
Jean's words echoed in my head (more damn irony), and when Marie's fingers began to trace my lips, I took her hand to slowly pull it away. Meeting her eyes, she looked as though she was afraid she'd gone too far.
"How was that?" I asked, pushing aside my own fucked up feelings on the matter and dodging her apparent nervousness. I gave her hand a light squeeze to reassure her.
She looked down and looked away, and I could see her wheels turning as she tried to come up with an answer. She struggled to find words, and I didn't have the heart to let her fumble for them forever. I put my arm around her and pulled her into my side, which seemed to help her relax. Her shoulders heaved beneath my hand as she drew in a deep breath. I had to try hard not to let my head fall to rest on hers when she fit so perfectly against me. Little did I know that I would find it impossible not to think about her touch in the coming weeks.
X-X-X
It had taken my tired brain a few minutes to catch up, and when it did, I was mortified when I realized I'd been touching Logan without his say so. Of course, if he hadn't been okay with it, I was sure he'd tell me to stop, or pull away—or something. The fact that he hadn't done any of those things made me giddy, but I was still embarrassed.
I'd gotten so caught up, not just in feeling, but in feeling Logan, I felt like I could die happy just having savored the feel of his roughened, weathered skin. That didn't stop my brain from protesting, imagining all sorts of other things I could do with Logan that involved more intimate touching.
I really had to get it together.
My apology was hollow to my own ears, and part of me just wanted to get up and run out the door. Something in Logan's face stopped me, though, and his next words took me by surprise. Duh, of course he would understand my fascination with touching him—though I could tell he didn't understand all of it, and that was fine with me. He probably would have run out the door if he'd known the whole truth. Still, if he let me breach his boundaries that much, maybe I could push a little more…
With his silent nod, I could feel my pulse quicken, and I was sure Logan had to hear it. My fingers brushed against his cheek and felt the prickle of his stubble and sideburns, and it crossed my mind that the experience was like being face-to-face with a bear: large, feral, and dangerous, but somehow strangely subdued. I moved them up over his brow and down the hard ridge of his nose, remembering the first time I'd seen him, cage fighting in that bar in Laughlin City.
I could tell then that he was different, and when I saw him pop out those claws in barely restrained fury, I was actually relieved to find someone who was like me. Maybe I should have been afraid of him, but I hadn't been. I'd thought for sure he was going to leave me there, but the heart underneath all those threatening stares, feral growls, and metal claws had come as a welcome surprise.
Logan's eyes had fallen, and he looked uncomfortable somehow. It occurred to me that I might have pushed too far. As my fingers passed over his lips, my suspicion was confirmed as he pulled my hand away. He didn't vocalize any discomfort with the situation though, probably to spare my feelings.
"How was that?"
I was grateful to Logan, and I didn't want to stop touching him, but I couldn't say what I was thinking out loud. While the whole thing had been completely innocent, I felt guilty because not all of my thoughts were, and I was afraid I was too transparent—that he knew what I was thinking and would force some distance between us. I knew Logan cared about me, but he didn't like me the way he'd liked Jean—the way he still loved her—and it was doubtful he ever would even if she was gone and I no longer had the ability to kill him.
To me, Logan was like some dark version of Superman. He was strong and untouchable, but the goodness inside him had been twisted and tainted. It was still there, buried under layers and layers of defenses that were meant to help him survive. I was lucky to be one of the few who got to experience it.
I loved Logan. In what way, I was still trying to figure out, but I did love him. Yet he seemed so far out of my reach, even now.
Not knowing what to say, I wasn't able to say anything. My fears were eased when he pulled me into his side. It seemed like everything was going to be fine, thank goodness. I welcomed the warmth of his body and the press of his strong arm around my shoulders, as well as the ability to hide my heated face from his intense gaze.
When I finally went back to bed, sleep still didn't come easy. My brain was too busy running in circles around Logan.
X-X-X
The training process was long and grueling, but I was able to take pride in my hard work when I no longer fell, Logan had to correct my form much less, and it became a lot easier to maintain stamina as I practiced with the punching bags.
Logan never sparred with me, the both of us knowing it was pretty pointless since the only thing that would accomplish would be giving me broken hands at the very least. Training or no training, I couldn't beat metal. I did enjoy the few times he touched me, either to fix my form or to show me how my moves would land on my opponent. To not have to worry about hurting him with my skin was like a miracle.
We were in the courtyard one warm, sunny day as he put me through my paces while he stood there with his hands on his hips.
"Your opponent strikes on your left." I dodged and struck with my right fist. "He swings high." I dove low and spun, giving an upper left-hook. "Good. Left kick. Right kick. Give 'em the heel. Don't let up, keep goin'."
"How long do you want me to do this?"
"Quit complaining and watch your feet."
"I'm not complaining, it was just a question!" I fired back, burning up and glad I'd put my hair up so that it was off my neck and shoulders. I shouldn't have put any attention on a comeback, though, since I ended up tripping over my own feet and landing face down in the grass.
I heard Logan let out an exasperated breath before he moved to stand in front of me as I sat up.
"Stop payin' attention to me and watch what you're doin'."
"Hey, I'm doin' a lot better than I was."
"Yeah, well a misstep like that could get you killed."
As I improved, his annoyance waned and I was able to more easily see what was beneath it: it was fear. I hated to admit it, but I was more vulnerable without my powers. Just because I didn't have them anymore didn't mean I wasn't still a target. I lived and associated with other mutants, and even if I didn't, the world could still be a dangerous place.
He was right. I couldn't rely solely on him. I had to be able to rely on myself in desperate situations.
I got to my feet and grinned up at him. "You're cute when you worry, Logan," I said just to tease him.
He glared at the word 'cute.'
"It's not gonna be cute when you're dead."
"I'm doin' the best I can. You just have to be patient with me, okay? Until then, I trust you not to let me die," I said, placing a hand on his chest.
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. The annoyance and concern were replaced by anger, guilt, and grief, and he averted his eyes. "Yeah, well I don't know if I can promise that," he said, turning and moving several paces away from me.
My face fell and I slowly took a few steps toward him. "I'm sorry, Logan. That wasn't the best thing to say—"
"Forget it," he said abruptly, turning to wave me on. "Just get back to your training."
I bit my lip, feeling like a heel, but turned away from him and continued my stances.
It was unfair of me to put so much pressure on Logan. He had saved my life a few times, but to ask him to keep doing it? No, I needed to hold my own, and if something happened to me, it was going to be because I screwed up, not because Logan did. He had suffered enough, so I would do what I could to make sure I didn't need his protection all the time.
X-X-X
Fifteen years I wandered, alone, no place to call home, looking out for me and only me. It got lonely. Sometimes I'd pick up a chick here or there for the occasional one-night stand, but something told me I was better off not getting attached. What could a guy with amnesia give to another person anyway?
Then I found Marie, and from that day forward, my life (or what I could remember of it) had never been the same. I found these geeks, led by that old man in the wheelchair, and dammit, I actually learned to like them. If I was being even more honest, I even learned to love a few of them.
I don't know if I had a father, but Chuck became like one to me. In his gentle manner, he steered me off of my lonely road and helped me find a reason to live. Marie became part of that. She reminded me that there were things in this world worth fighting for: things like innocence and peace. Without her, I might have walked out on Charles that day I woke up here in the mansion.
And then there was Jean. Oh God, Jean. Despite her engagement and eventual marriage to that dick Summers, there was something between us I couldn't explain. It was more than hot passion—it was genuine attraction. I couldn't help but think she only stayed with that jackass out of a sense of obligation when what she really wanted was me. After Summers's death, I thought I could help her. I thought I could be what she needed—what we both wanted. I thought I was strong enough to save her.
Chuck's death made me question everything he'd taught me about hope. Jean was the one who helped me hang onto that hope. I believed so much that I could do it, that I could pull her through all of Magnito's brainwashing. In the end, I had to destroy her. I could still hear her plea for me to save her, and I could still feel my claws pierce her body—see the expression on her face as she finally found peace in her own death.
I'd already lost Charles and Jean. While I cared about Storm and Fuzzball, and the kids, the only person left that kept me grounded was Marie. She had a future, and I didn't want it to be cut short. Though I'd try my damndest, I couldn't rely on myself to be there to protect her, not when I couldn't protect Jean and the Professor.
That's why I pushed her so hard. That's why I got so frustrated when she made a mistake. I wanted her to be the perfect warrior to defend herself when I inevitably couldn't.
She wouldn't be perfect. She was trying her best, and she was doing well, but perfection wasn't possible. I had a hard time accepting that. What if we both failed, and she wound up dead? I wasn't sure I would be able to recover. I was doing a shitty job dealing with Charles's and Jean's deaths as it was.
Somehow, Marie seemed to understand more than I had shared. She approached me as I stood by the memorials for Jean and Charles, standing with me in silence while I contemplated my losses and counted the few good things I still had going for me. She didn't speak until I turned my attention to her.
"I know why you do it," she said.
I looked down at her, confused. "Do what?"
"Why you push me so hard."
"Uh…yeah. Sorry about that."
"Don't be. I understand, and I appreciate it. Despite your promise, it's not your job to take care of me. I'm not that helpless little girl anymore."
No, she wasn't. Though she still had some growing up to do, she was far from the naïve, scrawny kid I found in the back of my truck a few years back. Still, she wasn't indestructible like me. Hell, Chuck had seemed pretty indestructible even if he had been confined to a wheelchair, and look what happened to him.
I'd dropped my gaze to the grass at my feet, but looked up again when I felt the weight of her hand press against my arm.
"I miss them too, you know."
I didn't push her away when she hugged me—the only person who had the privilege of doing so. Instead, I relaxed into it and wrapped my arms around her. The pain would never go away, but at least I had Marie. For how long, I didn't know, but for the time being, she was there, and she was okay.
