From Scott Summers' Personal Journal:

Between the time that Rogue and Logan first showed up until Jean's death, I don't think I slept a single night through peacefully. Not that I slept much after, either, but at first, my insomnia owed to that son of a bitch waltzing into our lives and acting as if he could take Jean away from me with a snap of his fingers. There's confidence, and then there's plain hubris. It wasn't as if I'd never before had a man make a bid for her attention, but usually, all it took was showing up at her side for the interloper to drop it.

Not with that Canadian bastard. I was a joke to him, a wet-behind-the-ears puppy to be ripped off at his pleasure. Steal my bike, steal my car, steal my woman . . . He wanted my life.

Well, cocksucker, I worked too hard to get this life, so go win your own. That's what I wanted to tell him, but I kept it locked behind my teeth and my poker face.

Yet it wasn't Logan's disrespect that kept me up at night. It was the way Jean responded to him.

I may wear dark glasses, but blind, I'm not, and I saw how she liked his attention. I heard some of the girls call him "sex with legs." They'd never say that of me. I actively seek to avoid it, in fact, and never came on to Jean the way he did, all brusque and manly. She always told me she preferred a gentle touch, but if so, why react to him like she did? Just something different after nine years?

"Don't be so insecure, Scott," she'd said to me more than once while the fuzzball was around, and after he'd left, too. And once, she'd yelled, "If you're so damn worried about it, why don't you just marry me? It's not like I'm the one holding out here."

I'd yelled back, "Maybe I don't want to marry someone who wants someone else!" and stormed out of the bedroom. We didn't talk for two days, and when we finally did return to speaking, we pretended nothing nasty had been said at all.

That's how I handle conflict. I don't. I'm a master of avoidance. But it wasn't just Jean's attraction to Logan that kept me up at nights. After she used Cerebro to find Rogue, something profound began to go wrong with her powers. It started small. Headaches, sudden shakes as if she'd forgotten to eat, and most disturbing, the inability to shield herself from the thoughts of others. She said it was just a reaction to using that damn machine, and would pass. I believed her because I needed to; I felt helpless. But it didn't get better, it got worse, and I said nothing because confrontation, like conflict, isn't something I handle well - at least not when it comes to the personal, and especially not if we were having trouble in other areas already.

So I felt as if my entire world were coming undone while I lay on my back in bed at night, waiting for the bedroom to start shaking. When it did, I'd wake her from whatever nightmare she was having and pretend nothing weird was going on. Now I look back and curse myself for not saying anything sooner. Instead, I treated her as if I didn't trust her - so she didn't trust me with whatever was happening to her.

I want to blame her for that. I want to hate her, and sometimes I do. But then the truth bites me on the ass. Whatever was going on with Logan, whatever she felt, I acted like a five-year-old about it. It hurt that she might find someone else attractive - someone so different from me. It hurt, dammit. But I couldn't just tell her that, and now I wonder, if I had, would things have been different?

I find it ironic that Logan's offered to teach me how to fight. I look forward to it, because I want just one good swing at him - break his nose, his jaw . . . I don't care what. It'll heal, but it'll hurt, at least for a minute. Maybe it'll hurt like I hurt so he'll know what it feels like to be me with this huge, gaping hole inside my chest that won't ever stop bleeding.

That assumes he'd care, of course. He wouldn't, the smug bastard, and I'll die and go to hell before I tell him how I feel.

Thus, my chronic insomnia had me up at two in the morning, sitting in the dark of the den, staring mindlessly at a black TV screen. He must not have realized anyone was there until stepping into the room and sensing my movement as I looked around - perhaps smelling me. (Must not have been too hard, since we'd been working on repairs all day and I was sweaty.)

He stopped short and I stood, turning to face him as if unconsciously preparing for battle. Even in the dim light from the windows, I could see that he was fully dressed and carrying a backpack. "You're leaving," I said.

Shrugging, he moved forward, headed for the door. "Don't worry - your bike and your car are still in the garage. I called a taxi."

I wasn't sure what I felt. Relief, certainly. I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't be glad to see the back of him. But the rage boiling beneath that surprised me. "Your business done here, so you're moving on? Responsibility isn't your strong suit, is it, Wolverine?"

Turning, he stared. "Like it matters to you."

"It might matter to the kids - to Marie. Did you even tell her good-bye?"

"Left her a note." Logan turned his head back towards the door. "Look, I don't, ah, do well with my boots under one bed for long."

"The kids don't need one more person giving up on them."

"I ain't giving up on them."

"No, of course not. You're just sneaking out in the middle of the night."

"I ain't sneaking. I'm leaving. I'm in people's way, so I'm getting out of the way."

"What in hell gave you that idea?" Logan only shrugged in reply, but didn't move any closer to the door, either. "Fine," I said at last. "Go - but then come back. You owe the kids that, Logan. And you owe me self-defense lessons - or don't you keep your promises?"

"I keep 'em. But you can take care of yourself, I think."

"Nice of you to notice."

He shuffled his feet, a soft rasp on the carpet. "Kid - Scott - I think maybe we need some space, you'n me." His breath gusted out. "I didn't mean to cause trouble for you and Jeannie." I tensed, not knowing how to respond to that unexpected apology. "It was just a way to yank your chain, then . . . she was . . . ." He paused, finishing finally, "You ever want something so bad you could taste it? But you didn't even realize you wanted it till it was right in front of you - so close - but you knew you didn't deserve it, or have a prayer?"

I felt gut-punched. "Yes. I have."

"She made me feel like that. It's just what she was, y'know?"

"I know." For the first time since Logan had arrived, I felt some kind of genuine kinship with the man. "Jean was my world, Logan. Or a big part of it."

He nodded, still not looking at me. I could discern his silhouette against the light from the windows. "I didn't see what she meant to you at first, but yeah, on the plane, at the end - " He turned while I was mute with pain, and headed for the door. Opening it, he paused. "You can tell the kids I went to Japan."

"And what do I tell them when they ask if you'll be back?"

"Tell 'em, yeah, I'll be back. I guess I got responsibilities now, eh?" And the door clicked to behind him.

Returning to the couch, I collapsed on it. Some of the knots inside me had loosened. not all of them, but some.

A humorous afternote: The line "Steal my bike, steal my car, steal my woman . . . He wanted my life," is a deliberate paraphrase of James Marsden's own words about Wolverine's jealousy of Cyclops. :-D