Ariesque Presents:

Back in the Day: The Legend of Logan's Kin

Genre: AU/Romance/Drama

Rated: PG-13 for language, violence.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or lyrics of any songs I place in my story, although I do wish I did.

A/N: I'm none too convinced about this chapter. However, it will do for the time being. Please R&R! Another summer already winding down -.-

31. According to Scott

Outskirts of New York, 1877

When I am dead, I pray that my body be cold, my scattered memories with it. My gravestone will read: Good riddance. Scott Summers was Good as Done with this World. Or maybe I will have to shorten it. Or buy a rather large tombstone.

In either case, I am not the same person. I know this only by what I am told, not by what I've done or what has been said about me. Though I sorely wish that were not the case.

So goes the memory of my parents. Of little Alex Summers, screaming as the officials carried him away from that horrible carriage accident. This is all I remember from my childhood. Dead parents. Separated from sibling. But I don't remember much of anything else.

To be sure, I don't remember much. I don't even remember colors besides red, but I guess that doesn't really matter. There could be worse things. I should know. Like a memory that doesn't make much sense at all.

Sometimes I think of it, and I don't really know why. I can hear her bright, undulating laughter as I run after her. I'm suddenly eight years old again, chasing a girl I don't recall, except that her hair was red. There's nothing much to the memory, I guess. On a particularly gloomy night on my watch, my thoughts would turn to her, but I can't place the scene, the person. Yet her laughter always finds me. Maybe if I ever do see her again, I will know her by her laugh. Maybe. I've lived too long to hope for these things to happen anyhow.

And then here I am, nearly thirty, most of life certainly spent. I do not know how my hands came to be so rough. The lines drew themselves deeper into my skin so that I was marked like a map, stretched from coast to coast. I was riding the rails and on horseback, living in the dunes and the badlands and marching my way to kingdom come, as the Buffalo soldiers once sang.

For a man who has lived by the law all his life, the West was wild country. You never know where the cities ended and the deserts began. All you knew was that there was constant dirt-taste in your mouth and dust in your eye and danger all around.

I had a long time coming. Four years with the United States Military, Ninth Cavalry, two as Marshal in the southwest corner of the States. No man's land populated by apprehensive, suspicious folks who could not quite accept a mutant for a lawman. No matter. It was a long two years, chasing that Brotherhood Gang only to have them suddenly slink away and come up from the other end by the time I could catch my breath. I was tired of the chase. And as much as I wanted, I could never quite get away from what was chasing me.

Two years after my time with the military, and I still awaken from the same awful dream. Daniels caught in a shower of arrows, dead on my account. My own arm still hurts, its ghost-wound never allowing me to forget.

. . .

It was getting around the end of April this year when I saw Remy LeBeau again, very suddenly and after a long string of my comings and goings. I had resigned as Marshal that same morning, and though no one blamed me and that my replacement was a sort of a dingle-head, I was downright done with the whole fiasco. It never suited me. The people never trusted me. Even now, I can feel their suspicion flicker at me. You ever know it? When you try your damn-hardest, and even that is not enough? Everywhere I turned, I came up short.

And that was how Remy found me, drinking the same bottle of turkey gin until the room became a slanted frame. I went to pour myself another, only to find someone had moved the gin away. Remy's hand on the bottleneck. Come to think of it, he was smiling, those red eyes of his glowing in the darkness.

"Get out," I snarled. I hadn't a clue how he had even got in.

"Good t' see y' too, mon ami." He slid my glass away and poured himself some gin. "Dis any good? Heard y' was holed up here de whole day already."

"Come to gloat?" I tried to shove away but any movement risked having the fire come up. I tried not to look sick, but I was worse than miserable at the moment.

"F' what? I didn't win anythin'." He swallowed the stuff and pursed his lips. "Tasty." After a minute, he said, "I heard y' up an' left de military. Took up residence in de West. Wanted t' see it myself."

"Yes, well, I'm glad to be done with it." All I could see was Daniels taking an arrow in the chest for me. A debt I can never repay. "Someone with a sense of humor stuck me with the Ninth Cavalry. I was the only white man in the regiment. After that stint with Magneto, I was returned to my unit." I was not sorry for it, though, not by a long shot. Those were some of my best years, by far. "There was this soldier, and damnit, Rems. He was my friend. He was my friend when I had first joined." Evan Daniels had helped to allay tensions between the others and me, many never having dealt with a mutant, let alone a white one. But then, in my last year with the military, we were attacked. "I tore off my bifocals and let the power drain me cold. I woke up the next morning and wished I hadn't. Daniels didn't make it. He was sixteen years old."

I had never told a soul about that day. Hearing myself say it made me shake, the old fear rising in my chest, my voice. That horrible day rushed through me and I broke into a cold sweat, remembering. Calling out, trying to find Daniels in the chaos of bloodshed and felled men. The arrow slicing into my arm, rearing me almost senseless with pain. And the power, instantaneous once those bifocals came off, pulsing through my eyes, ending it all and draining me until there was nothing left to give.

Magneto, somewhere, must be laughing.

"Sorry t' hear it, Marshal," Remy said, bringing me back from my temporary lapse. Maybe the alcohol was making me sentimental. But the thief seemed genuinely sad, which never amounts to any good. Even he didn't have the heart to cajole me about it.

"Don't call me Marshal." I felt the anger slosh upwards. "I'm nothing but a joke out here."

For a while we sat saying nothing, swallowing the turkey gin in slow, painful sips. Then Remy asked, "What're y' gonna do now?"

I was not sure. "Honest, I've always thought I would stay with the military. But then Daniels died and I didn't have my heart in it. He had given me this." I show Remy the picture. "It's the same girl you showed me before I returned to military duty." The girl, her colors masked in sepia. "He told me she has red hair."

Yes, Remy confirmed with a nod of his head, his eyes fixed on her portrait. And then after a spell: "She loved y'."

I flinched. That's what Daniels had said. "Who is she?" I gasped.

Remy did not respond immediately. He was watching my face carefully, as if deciding how to tell me. "Her name is Jean," he finally said.

. . .

There were so many letters. I let him sit with me until I come around, well enough to read them. And once I started, I couldn't stop. Riveted in this history unfolding before my eyes. History I never knew had taken place.

So many letters. They were a part of my things when I was taken by Magneto, who in turn gave them to Remy to destroy. "My dearest Scott." I look closer at those words, disbelieving that all of them belong to me. Her hand is met with skilled penmanship that wraps me in its loops and sprawling, curved alphabet. Her letters sweep me far from this desert, away from the new frontier, talking about a life I cannot begin to imagine. Mornings spent mending and sewing, helping her father prepare his lectures for the college, visiting the sick. The newest wave of disease among the soldiers despairs her. She sends ahead clothing, blankets, medicine, her picture. She cannot wait to see me again. Three years, she promises, in every letter. Forever, sincerely yours, she signs her name: Jean.

I dwelt on it, but I could not place her. As if she's been washed away, leaving no mark, no recollection on my behalf. But Remy could not have orchestrated such an elaborate lie. He has better things to do with his time.

When Daniels had asked me about her sometime after I had rejoined the army, I shrugged it off because I hadn't any idea what he was talking about. Evan had known me before I had been taken by Magneto, and he was flabbergasted, completely caught off-guard by how I seemed to have forgotten everything. And seeing her letters now, staring at her portrait with a different set of mind, I could understand how Daniels felt, how she ain't the kind of thing you forget.

I picked up a plain gold band. It was nothing much, really, except that upon closer inspection, I saw my initials carved on the inside. I have it here, safe in my knapsack. I don't dare take it out, afraid to have it spring some ghost-hand that might want my initials against her skin.

"Where has she gone?" I looked to Remy who suddenly had nothing to say. His hesitation alarms me. She's dead, I finally conclude. Such a waste. I feel a slight pang of pain in my chest for the girl I don't remember.

Remy stares at me hard, his ruby eyes calculating. And then he says, "She's still in New York. Still waiting f' y'."

Six years, I think to myself. Six years is a long time coming.

But how could I forget her? She ain't the kind of thing you forget.

And that's when Remy tells me. Things I don't understand. Magneto having my memory erased by some other mutant. Xavier distancing himself from me. Remy shoving Jean Grey's picture into my hands.

It occurs to me that perhaps that lone memory of me as a boy chasing some mystery girl is the last of what remains of her. Maybe the mutant who had done it had run out of time and couldn't quite replace that memory. Maybe he left it to further confuse me, to rip my mind to shreds trying to remember her. Or maybe he had done so on purpose, as if to push me headfirst into a rather deep well in order for me to get to the bottom of it.

Confusion looped itself in my mind and my thoughts swirl with denial, disgust, and somehow, with hope. My head was adamant that this is all wrong, that I don't even know of such a girl. But those letters, that ring…and Evan Daniels' strong and singular belief that I had me a sweetheart all told my heart something completely different.

I rubbed my eyes underneath my bifocals. I was so tired, so damn tired with all these revelations. In my head, the color of her hair was brighter than ever. "What should I do?" I didn't really expect an answer, especially not from the likes of Remy LeBeau. So when he didn't say a word, I found myself wondering what he was thinking.

The fire popped and glowed as Remy turned the now-empty bottle on the table. His mouth bent into a frown as he shot me a look that sent me on a train back to Bayville.

. . .

Massachusetts had seen the last cold remains of a long winter cling to its counties. Some patches of snow had recently fallen when I arrived, a bit unprepared with my thin coat and military cap. But I kept telling myself I wasn't to stay long.

Charles Xavier lived in upstate Massachusetts, out by the Eastern Coast which bordered along the neighboring states. I had traveled there only a few times, from the patches of memory I still had. We had lost communication since.

The mansion itself was still very pristine with its high windows and wrap-around porch. The doorbell was a single, simple chime. These things had not changed.

And the professor himself had not aged. He let me in, allowed himself a smile, observed that I had grown taller, a mustache. We had not seen each other for a long time.

I did not mention Jean Grey. I stoked the fireplace and made us tea. I pretended not to know about the girl he supposedly kept away from me. And I suppose I was angry at one point in time, but standing in his parlor six years later, I felt the old, tired ache of finally returning home to a place I didn't belong.

"I have hurt you," he suddenly said, a studied look to his face. Perhaps he had always known I would return.

I said, "So it's true." In my head, I thought: Jean Grey. And he nodded to confirm it. "Why'd you do it?" Not to accuse, no; more out of curiosity than anything. He had pushed me away at my most vulnerable. I mistook it for something petty, selfish; yet here, seeing him in his wheelchair after all those years in the West, I felt almost pity for the professor.

"She was my student." It was very simple, to be told. If he lost her, what would he have? I could almost see her now, grown yet still young, smart and capable. She would be a thing to lose, and this would be a very empty house indeed.

So I let the matter rest. I said, "If you want me gone, I will go. I only came to find out if it's all true. I won't see her and there is nothing left for me here. I have taken up residence in the West, anyway. I'm ready to call it home."

No. His voice, in my head, a flat, almost beseeching plea. There is something I've been meaning to do.
We had talked about it before. He was looking to find mutants, to help them have a safe place to turn. To teach them that powers are gifts, and to use them to help humans.

And my first assignment was the Rogue.

. . .

Back in these woods, I can hardly keep up. She has seen the light of his cigarette, puffing mysteriously in the lonely darkness of these trees. I think for a second how her feet are so nimble, so accustomed to this unforgiving terrain. My boots strain despite their worn leather. I want her back by my side, for comfort perhaps, but more because I do want her to go to him.

It's selfish, I know, being that he was her savior back in the South, where they lynch once provoked. She owes him her life; she holds him in such high regard that I hardly compare.

I wonder how it would be if the situation were switched somehow, if I had been the one to find her first.

Remy LeBeau emerges then, and I know she's a goner.

I know him by his cigarettes. Lucky Strikes? I can't recall. His face is haggard, the lonely red of his eye glimmering in the gloom. He opens his arms to her and she does not hesitate to move in. Almost instantly, he is a different man. The look on his face, the way he holds her to him, like he thought her dead or something worse. Is it real? No matter: there's nothing I can do now.

But then when he sees me, something in him changes. He gives me that look, the same one when I asked him about Jean Grey. And it's almost automatic, the way he shifts his gaze and I follow it. Follow it to someone who's watching above us through the trees.

My feet in their boots take on a life of their own. Remy begins to call me back, but I'm too far-gone to listen. The ground is slippery from the recent rain; I have to hold out my arms to climb up to where she stands waiting. Still waiting. After all this time.

I remove my military cap. It's terribly damp in these woods, heavy with fog after the rain. My boots are wet, feet cold, my hands tremble as if I've been deprived of drink. Somehow, I am reminded of the Confederates who followed Major Lee out of Virginia, some deserting as they left in a hurried, desperate rush to escape. Somehow, I know the same fate awaits me. But I can't go back; I've come much too far to leave.

For a minute, I just stand there, frozen to the ground. Surprise rendering my mind blank.

She looks just like her picture.

"I'm sorry, miss." The apology tumbles out of me, almost immediately. "I thought…" I cough, realizing I'm stammering. "I thought you were someone I knew." How can I not remember her? How can I not know her now, if I knew her ever?

Retreat. Raise that white flag and call it quits. I turn, and then, suddenly, she says my name.

"Scott?" I look back at her. Her red hair is bright despite the darkness. "It is you, isn't it?" My heart is pounding in my chest as I nod. "I've read Remy's mind to know as much." Deep inside me, something familiar blooms in my chest. She knows me. I want to take it and run to her; I'm undulated by a million things I've always wanted to tell her. I almost smile. I almost laugh; have I got a story, I want to tell her: one day, I had proposed. And miraculously, you said yes. It took a friend to die, and six years with the government but here I am. All of this, and it's brought me back to you.

But then she shakes her head, and just like that, this fantasy of mine absquatulates into thin air.

"Nothing. Not a single thing," I hear her say. "Remy LeBeau insists you…" She pauses, thoroughly confused. "But I don't know you at all." Her hands go to her face. She is horrified. Her eyes do not register familiarity. And as I approach, she takes a few steps back. Fear rising in her face.

The diamond on her finger catches my attention. I am dead-wrong about this girl: my own ring is plain. Retreating suddenly becomes vital, inevitable.

"I am to marry," she says. "I love him," she says. I try not to look at her, beating my own emotions back with all the energy I can muster. But I cannot help feeling that I had been betrayed, that I was placed in a position to believe this girl— this beautiful, bright-eyed girl—had said yes. To me.

And then I know it; I know it just as I turn away. I've wanted this—wanted not just her, no, but somebody. Anybody, to come back for. It's that hope that drove me across the country, had me growing fond of Rogue. That hope that someone might want me too. And it sickens me, how I've allowed Remy to feed me these stories until I became genuinely, irrevocably in love with a girl I don't even know. Who doesn't even know me.

And it's as though I'd finally hit rock-bottom after being pushed off a ledge. Wake up, idiot. I might have kissed her and held her hands and told her I loved her, or maybe I never did any of those things. Is this what Remy has done to us? What we have done to ourselves? I wish I never saw her. I wish I never did believe him. I wish he never found me that day in my room, drinking myself to oblivion and desperate for a friendly face. I wish he had never shown me her picture or that gingersnap box filled with letters I don't remember writing. A scam, a scandal. I hate him all over again.

My legs have a mind of their own, and I'm running to get the hell out of there, if only to leave those stillborn hopes behind me.

Painfully, the memory of the little girl with the blazing red hair sears through my mind. Her bright laughter bores into my head like a sharp spoke, and I veer off the ledge, stumbling in my hurry to get away.

And what exactly could I expect? The hot anger sparks tears in my eyes. Six years is a long time to be away. But she ain't the kind of thing you forget.

The thought propels me forward. Retreat, I keep thinking, down the hill, where Remy and Rogue are waiting.

I see him first and I lose it. My rage, driving a fist into his face. Remy stumbles backwards, falling hard because he hadn't expected it. His hat flies off with the impact. Rogue cries out; dives down beside him, protecting him. From me.

"You bastard!" The words rip out of me and look past Rogue to where Remy's trying to get back on his feet. "You fucking bastard!"

Remy, gingerly holding a hand to his face, murmurs, "Guess she didn't come 'round after all."

"Sure as hell she didn't." My voice breaking, spitting out such fiery words. "All this time, you had me believing she was mine. Bullshit." My tone startles me, but I can't help it. Without saying much, she had dashed my hopes and pinned me in a place where I couldn't lie to myself. "She is marrying someone else. She doesn't know me at all. She never did. None of it was ever real."

"I ain't a liar," Remy rattles quietly. He hangs his head, and Rogue goes to hold him. Somehow, this grinds into me. Not you too, I want to say. "You're worse off, Rogue. It's obvious you belong to him. A pet, nothing more."

Something vicious lights her eyes. "Yah wanna say that again, Marshal?" She's a rogue all right. And despite my anger, my despair, I have to smirk.

"One in the same; I should've known. Xavier was wrong. You'd never come along. You wouldn't know safety if it came up and bit you."

"Well, yah sure ain't it, Summers. I'd rather be taken by the Assassins than run along with you." And I hate to admit it, but she's got a point there.

I look past her, where Remy sits, his eyes downcast. "Have to say, LeBeau, you had me for awhile. Guess the ruse is up. Take it you're happy now that you've had me strung along in your little game?" He doesn't pipe up, and I'm glad of it. My hand hurts where it's connected with his face. My chest heaves and I try to make a point of it, try to stick it to Remy while he's not fighting back, but then I stop, long enough to notice that we've got ourselves an audience.

Jean Grey has made it down, stopping just at the foot of the hill, one hand resting on a nearby tree to steady her. She doesn't move once she's seen me staring. Her round, hollow eyes are sad.

Immediately, I step away, feeling just like a child who's been caught doing something very bad. She doesn't say anything, only watches us in her removed silence. It all but confirms it and my chest hurts now for a different reason. Reminding me that she does not know me at all.

I'm making things all-overish. I have shown that uglier side, the part of me that hates who I am and where I've been, what I've seen and what I've done. Daniels' last wish: to have me return to my sweetheart. What would he think now? All those wasted nights outside the campfire, trying to convince me when she doesn't even exist.

So I withdraw. Follow the stars and go back the way I came. I will return empty-handed, or maybe I will not return at all. Xavier does not have to know about Rogue or Remy for a time.

And it disgusts me, how long I've been caught up by the very notion of a love that I can't remember. Because she ain't the kind of thing you forget.

32. The One He Chose

Outskirts of New York, 1877

Rogue's hold around Remy did not lessen any. Not until Scott Summers had long left them, his figure retreating into the din of the forest, did she finally let go of him, sprawled across the sodden floor, too stunned to even move.

"There now," she whispered, retrieving his cowboy hat and replacing it on his head. "He's gone. Rest easy."

The look on Remy's face alarmed her. He was stricken, as though his very being had been beaten, and though Scott had only hit him once, the force had been a powerful one. Already she could see that Remy's right eye had begun to swell shut.

Perhaps he had noticed Rogue's face twist into unspoken anguish, for Remy suddenly smirked, trying to be reassuring for the both of them.

"Oh, come on, Rogue. It's not as if y' ain't seen me hurt before." And then he took her gloved hand in his, feigning seriousness. "But f' now on, we've got t' stop meetin' like dis."

She smiled then, relieved to see the old Remy hadn't changed a bit. She worked her arms around him, falling against his chest, and resumed her place beside him. As though it didn't matter. How suddenly, the space between them narrowed until it just about disappeared altogether. A few months ago, she would have been appalled, the very idea of touching him. His mere touch sent her spiraling backwards, desperate to regain the void between them. But now, holding him, she clung to Remy as though she were drowning. He was, indelibly, her only means of survival.

That's when she noticed the young lady, standing just a few feet from where Rogue and Remy sat holding each other. Her hair was red, her eyes a steady green. Rogue couldn't make out the color of her dress, but she could see how damp and distressed it was, rendered to rags by the recent rain. And then it dawned on her: Remy's Northern gal. This must be the coveted Jean Grey of Annadale-on-Hudson. There was no mistaking her likeness from the newspaper.

They locked gazes almost instantly. Jean mouthed, Rogue. As if she had come to see her for herself. There was a knowing look in her face as she watched them from a distance, and then, quietly, she turned away, raising her skirts to keep from dragging in the mud. Her shoulders hunched, her hair a tangled mess down her back, she looked as though she had lost something she could never retrieve. She had come for him, Rogue vaguely realized, burying her face deeper into Remy's shoulder. Her next thought had her paralyzed: he had not wanted her after all. If Remy indeed had to choose, he had made his decision very clear.

It was a long time before he released her. And when he took her hand and said, Let's move on out, Rogue, she did not hesitate to go with him.

33. Proposal

Grey Estate, Annadale-on-Hudson, New York, 1871.

It's late afternoon and Scott Summers has found himself back on the path that leads through the gate towards the rear of her estate. Those wretched azeleas of her mother's greet him as he lets himself through the expanse. A hot air's blowing, and his military jacket immediately becomes stifling. There isn't much time; he is to report to the deployment trains in two hours. Their time together has dwindled into mere minutes. And what had seemed like a good idea when he decided to join the military has become the boiling point of contention between him and Jean. She was against the idea from the very start. She fought him all the way to the recruitment center, and when he signed the papers she walked out on him. Even now, she was not entirely convinced. Lie low for awhile, he had told her. Magneto can't follow me out West. I will send for you in three years. And perhaps he had done it for her honor, to appease her parents and earn himself a name, but Scott knew she did not care for any of that. In the end, she would have loved him all the same.

That is what drives him across the grass, to their favorite tree tucked away from the rest of the estate. He finds her asleep under its shade, wearing an olive dress that is massive in its folds of lace and calico. Scott takes a second, wanting to keep this memory of her alive for just a moment longer, before dropping his knapsack and stretching out beside her.

Thinking like a soldier, acutely aware that precious seconds are ticking away, threatening to collapse this dream before it could ever begin, he presses his hand to hers. And it is imperative that she see him this one last time before he leaves altogether.

Then she rouses, and the relief breaks through him, cracking like ice under pressure. Her first reaction is surprise in finding someone else nearby, but then she recognizes him and settles back against the grass, a smile dappling her lips.

"Scott," she says imperviously, fitting herself to him, an arm behind his head, "your thoughts woke me."

Somehow, the world seems almost quiet as Scott struggles with what to say. And just when the silence becomes too much, when his time is all but up, her eyes grow large and suddenly she's up on one arm, staring at him and knowing what he will say.

Her smile widens, giving him the courage to continue. "Marry me, Jean," he says.

And time is suspended, as if they're caught between pendulum swings as she's looking at him, her arms sliding around him, her lips finding his.

How simple, how truly wonderful, that she says yes.

34. Boston Rail

New York, 1877

Scott Summers made it to the station before the final warning whistle. It was raining again, a light, hazy morning to greet him back to the North.

Once inside, he fumbled with his military cap, that last token of a life out West. What remained from that life was he himself—his sunburned face, his coarse hands fitted with leather gloves. He walked between the booths, settling for peanuts from a butch, trying to find an open seat. And then something caught his eye and he could not quite tear himself away.

She was alone, sitting by the window so as to observe the bustling of people below her. He had been so lost in his watching her that he hardly noticed other passengers trying to get around him.

In the morning light, her beauty was a thing to see. Her red hair was tucked carefully beneath a dark bonnet, tied under her chin in a precise bow. She was slight of frame, her face perfectly angled and proportioned. Ironic how he had promised himself earlier that he would put last night behind him. No more chasing a singular memory, no more trying to piece together his past when it refused completion. No, he couldn't live his life like that. He had no choice but to move on.

Seeing her again, it was as if she had appeared just to challenge him. Putting it behind him would be harder than he thought.

And as if she had overheard the prattling of his mind, her head turned around and caught sight of him standing there with his cap in his hands. Her fair face gave way to a delicate pink flush in her cheeks—she had recognized the dapper man in his faded military blues.

"Scott Summers." She smiled, the flush deepening a little.

"Miss Grey," he gently acknowledged with a nod of his head, meaning to move away. But then he remembered how she had stood staring at him back in the woods, unable to tear herself away as he took out his frustration and anger on Remy. "I should apologize; I had left your company so abruptly…" He stopped short. He saw that she was still smiling.

She nodded. "Down in that valley, you were fighting with Remy. I couldn't help overhearing some of it."

A warm, disappointed flush overcame him. "I'm sorry you did." He shook his head. "I'm sorry I said it."

"You were angry."

"That's no excuse." She gazed at him curiously. He was the first to turn away.

Jean said, "To think, I came all this way for a reason to change my mind…suppose I might've liked to pop him one myself." This earned her a small smile from Scott. "It is funny though, running into you again." She sat back, trying for a lighter topic. "Are you from the North too?"

Scott smiled. "Originally. I have business in Bayville."

Her eyes lit up. "As do I."

Perhaps it was the way she looked at him—those kind eyes, her inviting smile—which made him bold, strangers that they were.

"May I…join you?"

How simple, how truly wonderful, that she said yes.

35. Reroute

Appalachian Trail, 1877

The bridge was glowing tonight. Logan had tried to skirt the Appalachias, but Anna Marie's scent was so strong here. He had no choice but to venture deeper into those woods in which he had had such a bad history. His guilt embedded in the abandoned town, the naked forest, the blunt, heavy scent of blood by the river. It rattled him, how Anna Marie would end up where he had left off.

From his position, he could see that McCoy's lamplights were lit. The doctor was in. Logan vaguely hoped he would not meet him tonight. And then he caught whiff of a familiar scent and immediately knew there were worse things in these woods tonight.

"Ironic finding you here, the last place I'd seen you. Reckon the girl killed herself? That weakling. It was bound to happen."

Logan sneered at the shadows. "Sabretooth." Creed drew forward then, towering in his full height, threatening in his long overcoat and dumpy cowboy hat.

"It smells a lot like the wolf-girl died yesterday, don't it?" He grinned cruelly. "But you're not a nostalgic, Wolverine. We are an unforgiving breed, you and me."

The claws had come out, and Logan held them at an angle for Sabretooth to see. "There a reason you haven't torn into me yet?"

"Oh, I'm tempted, honest. But there are more urgent matters at the present." He drew back, suddenly observant. "You're looking for someone. Why else surface after so long? The Tracker has got an agenda."

Not good, Logan thought. If Sabretooth knew who he was looking for…"You stay away from her," Logan warned through set teeth.

"The Rogue Murderer, of course. But you, Wolverine, know her…personally. She's Logan's Kin," he teased.

That nearly tore him to pieces. "Bastard!" But then some new, familiar scent in Sabretooth's coat pocket distracted him. And Creed knew it; he laughed so hard, it hurt Logan's ears. He pulled out the piece of cloth and held it out to Wolverine. The smell. Logan's eyes widened. The last piece of the puzzle.

"His name is Remy LeBeau," Creed said without missing a beat. "She's traveling with him, Wolverine. She has never left his side. He is working for us, since you left us behind." There was a note of betrayal, of disappointment evident in his voice.

"She ain't safe," Logan growled.

"No, she's not," Creed agreed. "So what are you waiting for? Gonna sit around and watch? He'll turn her over to Magneto and then what will you do?"

Logan hadn't a clue, but he knew he must do something. So he fell away, tentatively watching as Sabretooth watched him, and then he bounded forward, following this latest scent, finally seeing the path clearly laid out before him. Sabretooth's laughter rang in the distance.

"Swing hard and kill him!" he shouted after him, a bit too happily. Logan could only hope that he wasn't too late.

Endnotes:

In the Evo Series, I found Rogue's attachment to Scott certainly annoying. So I turned it around in this fic and had Scott wondering after her for once. He was so caught up with Jean, he always overlooked the girl who was watching him from a distance. Not that I wanted him to notice, but still. Unrequited love is what we're all familiar with.

Personally, I found my JeanxScott arc sorta overbearing. Too many things happened. Too many things to explain. I wanted to include a lot, like Scott's experience as a Buffalo Soldier, his friendship with Evan Daniels, his first-hand account of watching Evan die. But I found that it was all very meticulous and heavy, and I believe if I do write something else about Scott and Jean, it will have to be its own story. That I can look forward to. So, I decided to leave it very open-ended, because we can all hope for a happy ending :D

But enough about that. Unto my wonderful reviewers:

ishandahalf: Yes, we have to keep Remy interesting with all the layers and drama and baggage. Thank you for your undying support through it all! We will soon make out with Rogue and Remy to the West or South or somewhere that Logan might not find. But that's to be seen ;D

KitChi: I'm so happy you found my story! And I'm sorry that I can't promise to update as fast as I'd like, but I can promise that there are more twists to this story to come! Thank you for your review!

zulka: Remy's confounded, surely. He thought he wanted Jean, always wanted Jean, but when he finally got her to himself, he could only think of Rogue. And a good thing too, because Scott's back in the picture *sigh* Too be honest, I never did like Jean and Scott in the Evo Series but I did not like them with other people either. So, to put it plainly, I wanted to do this couple justice for once. And though they are still strangers at the end of this chapter, who knows? It might just work out between them :D But again, that's another story in itself.

Guest: No problem, thanks for letting me know you're reading it! I always love me a review. I think the fact that Jean merely saw Scott was not enough to ignite the Phoenix again, especially since she cannot associate such strong feelings as she did when she knew him. Erasing her mind of Scott was to ensure that would not happen again. Remy was hoping that them meeting each other would rouse those memories on Jean's part, fill in those gaps, and accept Scott as her fiancé once more. But as it were, nothing happened. And Scott could only react as though he had been snubbed. But there is hope for Jean and Scott, and Remy and Rogue too. But who's to say when/if Logan catches up to them?

Thank you all for reading and staying true to this story! I love you all!

Up Next: In which there is Rogue and Remy. What will come of their relationship, fast unfolding, developing into something more? Will Logan have his say before the day is done? Or will it all unravel, just as soon as it begins?

Something sinister comes this way. Stay tuned! And while you're at it, please review!