Spoilers through 1.22, Leave It To Beaver.

A/N: Wow, my very first Logan pov. Don't hold back. Tell me if it sucks. I was reading another fic this morning and the first two lines of the story bounced into my brain and wouldn't go away. Italics are Logan's internal thought.


It hits him as he hits the water.

I don't want this. I don't want to die.

The water swirled around him, tangling his clothes around his limbs, sucking him downwards into the darkness below. Funny. You really don't know what you've got until it's gone. He would have snorted, but that would have involved inhaling about a gallon of sea water, and he wasn't prepared to do that.

This is bogus. Where's my life?

The water is confusing, rushing over his skin, all consuming. He knows that you're supposed to see your life flash before your eyes as you die...and he feels gypped that he only gets to complain about wasted old cliches.

It's fitting.

His jumping from the same bridge as his mother. He wonders if she still wanted to die when she hit the water. He wonders if she's down here somewhere. He wonders why it's taking so long. He wonders where his light at the end of the tunnel is...and then realizes that he left her back on the bridge and she wouldn't be coming to help him out of the mess that has become his life...and his death.

Mom...Lilly...I'll be seeing you soon.

His limbs are heavy now, his lungs nearly bursting with the need for air that he can't give them. Peace sweeps over him, as he slows his frantic movements. He realizes that there's a soothing quality about the water, and he stops fighting it. His eyes close.

Good-bye.

Rough hands grab him from the water, pull him from his peaceful cocoon. He is flung unceremoniously onto the beach, strangely missing the feel of the water brushing his skin and swallowing him whole. The sounds around him are garbled and confused as he tries not to cry.

It was almost over.

He cries anyway, his tears silent and mixed in with the dampness of his skin. He is glad that no one can see them as his chest heaves with foreign feeling air. His arms and legs are lead and he can't lift them. Can't fight to get back into the water, to get back to the peace he so desperately needs. A voice penetrates his fog. His name is cried out across the busy beach with the lights and the sirens and the voices, and he tries move, tries to find her. If he can't have the water, then he wants her. Her hands are suddenly on his face, tender kisses on his skin. He wants to hold her, to tell her it will be all right. He can't.

Veronica.

He can die now.