At your request—I realized that no, I have not yet resolved or even addressed the Logan/Jean relationship tension—a grievous oversight on my part, since it was an integral part of the last movie, so it must obviously be resolved. WELL—not RESOLVED, as you can see from its shortness—that's the beauty of their relationship—the sexual tension and eternal question—why IS Jean with Scott?
BTW—I really am, for some strange and infuriating reason, on a kick where I feel I can please everyone. Reading reviews, however, has assured me this is not so: some people are crying for a Remy/Ro relationship; other purists are demanding Remy/Rogue as usual . . . Anyway. I see the movies as a chance to show as much of the X-men's history, however corrupted, as can possibly be condensed into two hours or less. If you noticed, Remy and 'Ro have met each other almost the same way they have in the comics—with Remy rescuing 'Ro, and during a pinch, no less. There are other parallels, too—I wonder who can find them . . .
I am also struggling to figure out exactly how the next movie will resolve, and to write it [assuming that Remy is, of course, the main character]—but there is no way that Remy will end up with Storm. I'm afraid Remy/'Ro lovers are in a minority, and it is no part of the true continuum in any way, shape, or form—I totally do apologize, I'm gonna have to write a fic about that as well. However, they ARE going to . . . Oh, just read it, and I'm sorry if it's not to your liking. I hope it doesn't disgust you too much.
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Logan, not being one for subtleties, decided to end all his musings and resolve the Jean issue. He walked boldly into the med-lab and blurted plainly, "Why have you been avoiding me?"
Jean was taken aback. " . . . Avoiding you? Is that what you think?"
"I don't know what I'm supposed to think, Jeannie." He seemed perfectly calm and collected—impossible to be angry with. He sat down and gazed at her deeply.
As she continued taking syringe inventory, Jean defended herself with a stiff "I've been in the med-lab since we returned. If anything, I think it's you that has been avoiding me."
"Is that an invitation?" he deadpanned, an irrepressible smirk twisting on his lips.
"Logan," Jean turned, exasperated, "do you really want to know why I can't be in the same room with you?"
"I'm all ears, Jeannie." He sat comfortably motionless, with the open, stoic face of a martyr.
"All right. You asked for it," she sighed. "Four little words—I AM A TELEPATH. It is incredibly uncomfortable for me to be around you, doubly so when Scott is around—I can't help but wonder how I don't actually bleed when I'm in the same room with you two together."
She paused for a deep breath and an undetectable psychic scan. Nothing. This was getting frustrating.
Jean was tired of being dumped on. "Let's resolve this right now. I like you, Logan—but I love Scott." You'd think it would have some effect on him . . . "I am going to marry Scott. I don't want to hurt you, but I will not give up my fiancé just because you don't approve of him, and I refuse to feel guilty about that." The piece de resistance: "I'm sorry Logan, but I am not interested in a relationship with you." She held her breath as he ruminated on that information slowly.
He stood and came close. Inches from her, he murmured, "I'm glad we got that straightened out, Jeannie." Then he walked out as Jean stared, dumbfounded.
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Rogue smiled shyly at Logan when he stalked past her in the hall, but he didn't notice. His eyes were hard, and he seemed to be headed for the garage—he was probably upset about something. She pretended not to care, but it had hurt when Logan had more or less brushed her off, but she still liked him, not to mention that she still felt deeply indebted. She felt as highly-strung as a violin string, but that was no excuse for being so crabby. She could just smack herself for being so mean to Bobby when he had asked her what was wrong. She'd snapped at him in the hall in front of everyone, on the way to Scientific Machinery Design & Implementation class . . .
She plodded up the steps on an errand for Scott—as they'd entered, he'd told them quite curtly (he was wearing his I-just-lost-an-argument scowl) that they'd be having a visual presentation in the sub-basement. Then he turned to her and asked her to go fetch Storm, since she had volunteered to oversee the exercise. So now, she herself got to be the verifier of all kinds of gossip and she got to see Storm, who happened to be one of her favorite instructors. The day might finally be looking up. She reached the landing at the top of the stairs, and saw that the door to Storm's attic greenhouse was open. The sunbeams from her numerous skylights danced across the oaken hallway floor, a tapestry of rich, dark shadows.
Storm never had guests. When asked about family, she usually said something or other about them living too far away. Yet through the leaf-choked doorway—plants competed fiercely for space in Storm's lush attic garden—Rogue could hear a young man's voice, low and warm, with Storm's silvery laughter mixing in. From the sound of their voices, they were approaching the door, so Rogue flattened herself to the wall where she could still hear.
Inside, Storm and Gambit were quickly forming an easy friendship. His initial reserve, Storm had found, hid a keen mind and a quick wit, along with the ability to charm anyone's boots off.
"So you had a run of bad luck, did you? " Rogue heard Storm tease. She next heard a purr of thunder as Storm summoned a miniature storm cloud to gently mist her extensive collection of exotic plants.
Gambit, as well, was quite at ease in Storm's presence. He delighted in making this beautiful, dignified woman break into outraged laughter.
"De worst, chere. Believe me, I am usually a very lucky man."
Marie peeked around the doorjamb, through banana and hibiscus leaves, The stranger—the stranger from Jubilee's gossip!—was still hidden from view by the plants. She wanted to see him. His accented voice (she thought he might be Cajun) was just. . . sexy. There was no other word for it. Everything he said was a flirt.
"Well, your obvious innocence notwithstanding," Storm smiled, then spoke more seriously; "I've been wondering. No one can quite explain why it is you helped me. Why did you?"
"Ah . . . jus' right place, right time—I tol' you, Stormy: I'm a very lucky man."
"Do not call me 'Stormy,'" she threatened half-seriously as she sent the tiny thundercloud his way. He leapt from his comfortable seat, yelling and dodging as the tiny cloud pelted him with surprisingly large, cold raindrops and a few sharp particles of hail—an action which just so happened to bring him into Rogue's line of vision. She gaped. She just couldn't help it.
He was gorgeous. A little older than herself, he jogged to a graceful stop in perfect—perfect—view. "Now why'd you go 'n get me all wet, chere?" he bantered back, grinning a roguish grin to melt any woman's heart. "Dat's no way to pry an answer from a man,"—his long auburn hair flashed in the sun as he shook raindrops out of it —"an' it's mos' uncomf'rtable f'me in my fragile state." He had a body to die for. (--with bandages, thank you Jubilee's friend's girlfriend or whoever . . . wait till the gossip rings heard this.)
"I mean it, my friend. You had no obligation," Storm sighed as she slowly blew the cloud back over her plants. "Why on earth did you help me?" She managed to stare levelly at him while intuitively watering each plant perfectly.
" . . . Call it a weakness," he said finally, with a cryptic smile, taking off his sunglasses to wipe the mist off on his pants, " . . . Stormy," he added, breaking into a mischievous grin. Just as Storm gave him a reproachful look, he stiffened and turned slightly—towards Rogue. She tried to duck back into the hallway, but the leaves rustled, giving her away.
"Who's there?" called Storm's calm, melodious voice.
"I t'ink we got us a spy, Stormy-cloud." He sounded amused.
"Come in, whoever it is." Storm was getting impatient, but whether at him or her she couldn't tell—Marie sucked it up and ducked underneath the leaves.
Gambit felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Hard. Ducking under the gracefully drooping branches and lush tropical flowers was . . . an angel. Slim and curvaceous, her glossy brown hair, with an odd streak of white in front, was gathered into a loose braid that fell over her shoulder, wisps brushing her smooth, heart-shaped face. Sensitive lips were curved in an embarrassed smile, while her wide green eyes flashed a rebellious, if interested challenge at him—she knew she'd been caught in the act, but she blamed him for her getting in trouble. He wasn't speechless, but he was a beat late in bowing over her hand—gloved in thin, warm green silk—and kissing her fingertips. He felt the power of her gaze, looked up, and realized too late that he didn't have his glasses on. "Enchante, Mad'moiselle," he murmured, lost in her eyes. She didn't appear to mind about the glasses.
"Yes, Rogue?" Storm asked, breaking the spell. "What did you need?" Back to Earth—Marie shook herself for spacing out. Darn romantic nonsense; it got her into trouble every time.
"Storm," she reported dutifully, "Scott sent me to tell ya that we're havin' a presentation in the sub-basement—said you'd know what ah was talkin' about."
"Oh, yes. I'll be right there. Keep our 'guest' company for a moment, would you please?" She added as she walked to her adjoining room to freshen up.
Rogue turned back to the stranger, and was pleased—and discomfited—to find he was still holding her hand. His long, elegant fingers were warm through the silk gloves. "J'ai rencontré un ange, [I have met an angel]," he breathed.
"Well, hello to you too," Marie laughed nervously, "but we might have problems gettin' to know each other if we don' speak the same language." Her heart was pounding. His eyes—his eyes were beautiful.
The grin spread slowly across his face once more. "I t'ink we speak de same language jus' fine, chere." He leaned over and plucked a hibiscus flower from a stalk that was simply dripping with the fragrant blooms, reached up to tuck it behind her ear, and—she flinched.
"Here, I think I've found a shirt you could wear," Storm said suddenly from behind him, inspecting a plain white button-down shirt. "It's been in the bottom of my drawer a while, but . . . " At his blank look, she explained, "I can guarantee that you won't want to miss what's going on in the sub-basement, my friend."
"But . . ."
"No buts. However long you stay here (and I hope it is for a long time), the Danger Room is one thing you cannot afford to miss."
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How's THAT for a cliffhanger, folks? ;)
HEY! I just saw a concept sketch for X-men 2 of BEAST!!! How cool is that! And we all thought they made Jean a doctor so they wouldn't have to make a Beast. Of course, if could be fake . . .
A note of explanation for tentative faerie believers:
[Fairy]: a tiny, TINY, tiny classification for a single species of small, benign, helpless but beneficial faeries in female form.
[Faerie]: when capitalized, a world of mystical enchantment, where the ancient spirits (faerie) dwell. When unspecified, it refers to any and all denizens of that, the land between waking and sleeping, the land of eternal spring, where wisdom is indistinguishable from whimsy, and danger lurks in every dark crevice. These are creatures of air and imagination, dependent on nature and our open minds to exist. In short: boggarts, bogles, bocans, bugganes, brownie, blue-caps, banshees, miffies, nippers, nickers, knockers, noggles, lobs, hobs, scrags, ouphs, spunks, spurns, hodge-pochers, moon dancers, puckles, thrumpins, mawkins, gally-trots, Melsh Dicks . . .
Guess which one I believe in.
By the way, I highly recommend the books "Faeries" by Terry Jones and Illustrated by Brian Froud (the source of my quote), and "Good Faeries, Bad Faeries" by Brian Froud alone—possibly the coolest book I have in my collection. ;)