Summary: Sequel
to "A Conflict of Interests."
Disclaimer: I don't
own anyone.
Author's Note: Okay,
this got really, really dramatic, really, really fast. See what you think.
And It Is Bitter
By Jane Westin
Let me just clarify something here. When I asked Logan to
come find me later, I meant later as in "after dinner." I meant later as in
"before bedtime."
I did not mean
later as in "two in the morning."
I don't mean that I was sleeping or anything. Actually, I
was prowling around the grounds; I was too wired to even think of doing
anything that didn't involve moving around. I positively hate stupid drama like
this, and I hate it even more when it keeps me from blissful, blissful sleep.
And I can't say I am terribly pleased
that Logan found me at this hour, but I am, at least, relieved to see that he's
still around.
So now here we are, facing each other like two cowboys in
a standoff, although I admit Logan looks more the part than I do.
Come to think of it, looking the way he does, I think I
probably have a better chance at victory. I
don't look as though I've been awake for several days on end.
In fact, I don't think I've ever seen him look this
beat-down. He's got big circles under his eyes, his broad shoulders are
drooping, and he's walking so slow I'm wondering if he hasn't just run the
gauntlet or something. I saunter up to him and tap him lightly on the arm.
"What's happening, champ?"
He shakes his head silently. I smell whiskey on his
breath.
I tap my fingers against my thighs.
"Okay…um…hey! How about we go find somewhere to talk, what
say."
The corner of his mouth quirks upwards in what might be a
glimmer of a smirk, but he just nods. With a long sigh, I reach for his hand,
and I'm relieved when his fingers clasp around mine hard enough to bring pain.
Good…the Logan I know's in there somewhere.
We walk slowly to the gazebo out back. He sits down on the
bench and I sit across from him, propping my feet up beside him. "So talk,
already."
He raises his eyebrows at me, tucking the corners of his
mouth in and exhaling loudly through his nose. "Well, I talked to Marie."
"Okay…" I wait to hear more. He leans forward and rests
his forearms on his thighs, staring down at the floor.
"I don't think it was exactly what she wanted to hear," he
says quietly.
His tone is somber, his eyes downcast. Gone is the fierce
aggression and defensive combativeness and quick temper. Gone are the lewd
innuendos and suggestive smirks and good-natured growls. Here, now, he is only
a man with too much on his mind and without the energy to hide his weariness.
It is a rare occasion that this side of him emerges. I
know I am the only one at the Mansion to have seen him like this: after
missions, sometimes, and especially when the body count is high, he comes home
with haunted eyes and won't talk to anyone, sometimes not even me. It is why he
never stays long at Xavier's. It is why he always runs.
I wait. I know it is the only way he will talk to me; I
learned long ago never to push him when his mouth is still and he won't meet my
eyes.
He has his own demons to battle.
After a long pause, he begins to speak.
"I found her just before dinner in your room," he begins
brokenly. "I thought it would be a good time to talk…you know, chat over food,
catch up." He shakes his head. "Not such a good time after all."
I listen and learn that the first thing she said to him
was that she loved him. That she'd always loved him. She'd stood before him,
looking up at him "with those big brown eyes," he says bitterly—and asked him
if he loved her. And he'd had to tell her no, Marie—not like that.
He tells me that she refused to listen. Tried to seduce
him; threw herself on him, really, and he had to push her away. Had to hold her
down in the butterfly chair in our room—my butterfly chair, and he adds that he
almost laughed at the irony—and tell her the very words I know she dreaded
most. I learn that she screamed that she loved him and always had, and why
couldn't he love her back, goddamn him to hell! She screamed that she had
waited for him. She screamed that I took him away from her and she wanted me to
die. She threw his dog tags in his face. She told him that she hated him, hated
him forever and never wanted to see his face again as long as she lived. He had
let go of her hands then and she'd slapped him across the face as hard as she
could and then fallen back into the chair, curled up, and sobbed. He'd tried to
talk to her, but she wouldn't look up; tried to touch her, but every time he
reached for her gloved hand, she'd snatched it away. He says the last thing
he'd heard as he left her there in our room were five words, spoken in a tiny,
heartbroken voice.
"You said you'd protect me."
He stops talking and just sits there, head in his hands,
his breathing harsh and ragged. I know it has taken a massive effort on his
part to tell me all this. He is not, by nature, a talkative man, and especially
not when the topic is painful for him, as I know this topic is.
I don't say anything, just sit there, watching him.
"I don't really know what happened next," he says after a
long moment. "I drank." He barks a laugh, and it is bitter.
At last he looks up at me, and his hazel eyes seem to be
black with despair. "Jubilee—"
I walk over to him, sit down, and put my arms around him.
He turns his face into my shoulder. I feel his eyes close. He doesn't cry,
doesn't even move, and the defeat in his demeanor scares me. I stroke his hair.
There is no way to make this easier for him.
Despite the gruffness, despite his seeming lack of
interest, I know Logan cares deeply for Rogue. I know that at some point in
that cold, cluttered, long-gone camper, something in her called out to him, and
it connected him to her in a way that I will never understand. No matter how
many times he leaves, I know that he will always come back, and I know that he
will always come back because of her. And I do not resent that. Envy it,
perhaps, but never resent it.
When he said he'd protect her, I know he meant it from the
depths of his soul. To keep her safe means everything to him; to fail her would
break his heart. I can only imagine how her words must have shattered him.
I understand what tonight meant to him, and to her.
For him, the bond connecting them stretched.
For her, it broke.
***
There you go…I'll do my best to make a happy ending out of
this big nasty mess. If you've got any ideas, review or email me and let me
know! ~Jane
