Disclaimer: Not mine.

And Then There Were Two

Logan/Wolverine

I sigh, pace around the room. Once, twice. Then stop, look around in irritation, pace some more.

I repeat this cycle a few times, then drop my head into my hands, rubbing my temples and wonder just what the hell is driving me to distraction like this. No, that's not true; I know exactly what the problem is. Who the problem is. But my preoccupation with her is bad. Unhealthy. To be avoided at all costs. Well, most costs, anyways.

I walk down the halls, barely noticing the various children and teens that move out of my way. It's weird, that this place could be fuller than ever and still so damnably empty. I keep turning around and expecting to see a flash of red hair or ugly pink visor, expecting to hear a spectral, disembodied voice, offering opinions and comments before vanishing again.

Living in fucking limbo, that's what I'm doing. I've lost the need to know who I am, where I've come from, and I have nothing to replace the sense of purpose, however vague it may have been. No ambitious goals, no real desire for revenge, not even a person to fill the gaping whole where I used to have that itching need to know. Nothing.

Well, there is the equally itchy and unhealthy fascination with a dangerous and possibly unhinged woman, with questionable morals.

I do seem to like them dangerous and potentially unhinged, don't I? No, that's not really fair. How was I supposed to know that Jean was… what she was?

Ah, fuck.

I want to be away from small, optimistic children, and I really want to be drunk. Like, falling-down drunk. When was the last time I was properly pissed, anyways?

Too long. Definitely, too long ago.

/\/\/\

I wake up, rub the palms of my hands against my eyes and groan. I drank last night, way too much, and my problems are still here this morning. I hate how that works.

This isn't fair. I know that I sound like an angsting teenager when I say that, but, well, fuck it. They must be contagious. It isn't fair that I loved her, and lost her (killed her, I didn't just lose her I killed her, she's gone), and now, the only other person to make me look up and take interest is goddamn Mystique. Who the hell thought that was a good idea, I wonder? There is some god, somewhere, and it is not smiling on me at all.

Fuck, maybe I just have a thing for redheads.

Anything is better than the thought that I sort of liked her when she was alluring, confident and mysterious, instead of broken like she seems to be now. Certainly it is better than considering what it means that I want to put her back together.

I want to do something. I need to be doing something. If I were smart, I would be a hundred miles away from this place, away from the temptation. But I'm not, and I'm halfway to her room.

"Logan." But, from the sound of Ororo's voice, I'm not likely to get any closer. "Yeah?"

"What are you doing?" I try not to look guilty. I don't have any reason to feel guilty, I tell myself, but she has a talent for making me feel it anyways. "I need to see Mystique."

"Oh," she says the look on her face inscrutable. "Well, behave yourself. I'm going to go pick Kurt up."

"Right, well," I say before realizing what she has just said. "What? But he can just do his 'poof!' thing and be right here! He's already been here, right?" She just smiles. "Yes. He could simply 'poof!' himself here. But he has asked me to come and drive with him instead." I laugh.

"Oh. The hell's he been doing, anyways?"

"I don't know. All he said is that it was personal, and must be done." I mentally add the accent, and can imagine him saying something like that. "Right," I grunt noncommittally, and we both keep walking. It irritates me a bit that I couldn't be interested in her instead. That would make my life so much easier; she isn't crazy, unbalanced, broken, or spoken for as far as I know. But that would be too easy, wouldn't it?

I open the door to the room she's in, quietly, and look around. It's almost completely undisturbed, as though she isn't there at all. She's sitting on the bed, her back pressed into the corner, legs pulled up to her chest. She looks at me, wide-eyed and startled, when I enter the room. I feel something strange and indescribable when I see her – it isn't right. She should be in total control, or at the very least look and act like she is. I just feel like vulnerable looks wrong on her, somehow.

"Mystique," I say, settling into the chair across from the bed, furthest from her. She looks at me impassively, but the curious tilt of her head betrays her interest. "It's Raven now, as I'm sure you can see." I take in her new appearance properly, as I hadn't bothered to do before now. Her hair, while still red, is now duller, less shocking. The same has happened with her eyes, and of course the alarming blue skin now looks soft and white.

In fact, she would be quite attractive this way. Except whenever I look at her I think about how much more... whole she would be with blue skin and bright yellow eyes and her strange, almost musical voice. "Good point," I say, belatedly.

I sit there, in silence, for the longest time. I don't say anything, don't even look at her, and she returns the favour (mostly; sometimes I can feel her eyes on me). I'm more relaxed in her presence than I am anywhere else, with anyone else, which is weird. Hell, it's bordering on suicidal. I look up at her, and she has a book cradled in her lap (I wonder where it came from?), but she's looking at me with her head tipped to the side again I wonder, not for the first time, just what I think I'm doing here. Then I realize, what I am doing is absolutely nothing.

I stand, but then I can't decide if I want to leave or step forward and commit myself to whatever this is. It feels like that one step forward would seal my fate, set this one course of action in stone.

I don't think that I'm quite up for that right now, so instead I turn around and walk out, without a word.

/\/\/\

I keep going back, almost every day for about two weeks. Sometimes it's complete silence, and sometimes we talk. We talk about the past mostly, skirting around anything in the last few years. The present is dangerous territory.

I never take that step. I'm always sitting in the chair by the door, and she is always curled on her bed. I wonder how much time she spends there, since I turn up at different times in the day.

I stand up, hovering once more on the invisible line that I have drawn. I turn to leave, but her voice (the wrong voice) stops me. "What exactly are you doing here?" I think about it for a minute. I don't know what to say.

So instead I step over my imaginary line.

Maybe she senses the significance of it, maybe not. Either way, she smiles that Mystique smile that says I know what you're thinking and I know what you're feeling and I have you right where I want you. It looks strange, out of place on this face, but so very right. I walk forward as she stands, and we meet halfway, standing close but not touching. I loom over her, which would make most people back away. Instead, she stares challengingly.

I growl, and her grin gets wider. Frustrated, I erase the grin. With my mouth. Later, I may decide that this was a bad idea. Right now, though, I let the deep, pleasant warmth settle along my spine and pull my arms around her waist. I feel her hands (soft and smooth, and there's something not-quite-right about them) wander across the sides of my face, down my neck, along my shoulders.

Then she shoves, hard, and I'm lying lengthwise on the bed with Mystique/Raven crouched above me. The look in her eyes is predatory and it may say something unfortunate about my mental health but I think that she looks... better, more natural like this. She laughs, low, harsh and breathless, and then her mouth descends again, and I reach up to pull her closer. She splays her fingers along my chest, surprisingly gentle, and I shudder.

This feels familiar.

I run my hands along the inside of her shirt, and feel the rough raised edges of old scars. I rub the pad of my thumb along one of the long, sweeping curves and she hisses into my mouth (which is a sensation which demands repetition) and digs her nails into the fabric at my shoulders.

Then I sit up and shift her off of me. "This isn't going to work," I say by way of explanation, my voice hoarse.

"What, again?" Her voice is brittle with fake levity and real hurt (where the hell did that come from?). "Well," I say, gesturing vaguely at the ceiling, "there are security cameras in this room, and I don't feel like giving anyone that kind of show just now. But I'll be back."

She looks at me, eyes narrow and intent. "What do you want with me?"

I don't meet her eyes. "I don't know."

/\/\/\

I'm walking through the halls, late at night, smoking. It's the only time I can smoke inside without getting looks.

I approach the dining room and see warm light spilling forth from it. Curious (who would be up this late other than me, and what are they doing?), I creep up to the threshold and look in. Ororo and Kurt are sitting at the long table drinking something from steaming mugs. I back away as quietly as I can and leave them to whatever they're doing.

My glance didn't last, but it was long enough to freeze a tableau of sorts in my head. Kurt is talking animatedly, his mug forgotten on the table. Ororo is looking at him, captivated or fascinated, and nursing the steaming cup in both hands. I caught a glimpse of a bright blue tail, coiling around her ankle, retreating and returning. And they looked… peaceful. I haven't seen her looking anything but harried, overworked or haunted in too long, so I guess I'm grateful for this distraction (and completely willing to gut the blue man should he mistreat her).

It also compounds my feeling of loneliness. I want something to hold on to. Someone. I can't say anyone, because that obviously isn't true.

I resume wandering, more agitatedly this time. I growl under my breath. I clench my fists, extending and retracting the claws one by one. I walk faster and faster, the only noise in an otherwise silent building. I suddenly feel full of restless, pent up energy.

I leave the building, taking harsh, deep breaths of the cool night air. I stop, stand stock still for a moment. Then, without a warning, I am running. I don't know why, or where. I just need to move.

Finally, I stop and sit down in the cool, soft grass. I stare up at the night sky, surprisingly clear tonight. People think that we go up there when they die, but right now, tonight, I can't help but feel that it is nothing but emptiness, that death is just that; death. I wonder sometimes when exactly I am going to die. I'm pretty damned old already, and feeling the emptiness, the aloneness, pretty strongly.

Why is it that the only comfort I can seem to find in the gaping hole Jean left in me is her?

/\/\/\

Wow. I suck. Sorry to anyone who is still reading for taking so long. I'm not going to make any more promises about when things get finished, although I still swear that I will end it eventually. Also, I'm considering upping the rating. Would that bother anyone a whole lot?

Colvine.