"Psst... Erica..."

Logan could hear the young waitresses' whispered conversation without even trying. For a minute, he tried to focus his attention on something else, then gave up. Crimes like eavesdropping had long ago become petty change in the grand scheme of things.

"Who's that guy who's always in here?"

He could feel their eyes on him. He simply took another sip of coffee and twitched his paper to straighten it.

"Who, Logan?" Erica shrugged. "He's been coming here since I started, and long before then, too. Heck, Joe says he's been coming here since before the second prohibition."

The other waitress frowned. "But that was almost forty years ago... He doesn't even look that old."

"He's got some kinda mutant power," Erica answered. "Keeps him alive, keeps him strong..."

"Keeps him good-looking," the other interrupted, a comment that brought a smile to Logan's lips. "What else do you know about him?"

"Nothing much," Erica said. "He was married, a long time ago. Ever since his wife died he hasn't kept a woman for more than a night. That's all I know and that's less than he cares to share." She finished with an air of finality and the other waitress caught the hint.

She was still looking at him, though, and it was making him uncomfortable. He folded his paper, mumbled his thanks to Erica and dropped a few twenties on the counter before he left the bar.

The wind outside bit into him, and he shoved his hands in his pockets and ducked to try and keep himself warm. It seemed like the cold affected him more now, or maybe he was just cold all the time.

For a minute, he considered calling a cab; but traffic in New York city hadn't changed with the times and it would almost be faster to walk. Petroleum-powered vehicles had been banned awhile ago, and the smooth, comfortable machines of today didn't appeal to him. He missed his old bikes, the noise and the feeling and the sensation of speed and power. In general, he missed the good old days.

It took him almost an hour to reach his destination, but he hadn't tired. For a moment, gazing at the mansion that had been his home for so many years that he finally could hardly bear to visit anymore, he was transported back to a happier time. He could see, in his mind's eye, five generations of kids playing on the well-kept lawns, their births and lives and deaths gone in a blink of an eye, hardly remembered by anyone but him.

He shook his head, pressed his thumb to the lock on the gate and leaned forward to have his retina scanned. He hadn't been home for over a year now, but this was a special occasion.

Sounds of celebration met his ears as he made his way up the walk, and he could smell vanilla cake and melted wax. It was a good smell, a home smell, a happy smell... And one he wasn't a part of anymore.

He had meant to sneak in the back way, say a few hellos, and head out. Unfortunately, at Xavier's, sneaking is quite impossible.

The happy atmosphere in the kitchen changed as he entered. It didn't drop entirely, but his presence just seemed to have a sort of numbing effect on the crowd. He didn't care. He pressed his way through a few people like he didn't notice they were there until he ran into the one person he was looking for.

"Hello, Logan."

"Hey, Rachel."

He looked at the old woman for a few long seconds, taking her in. She was indeed old--111 that very day--yet tucked away in the back of his mind were the memories of her first, 11th, 51st birthdays. After her parent's deaths she had pretty much taken over the school, and ruled it well since. Even now, her frail body supported by a wheel chair, gray hair almost all gone, and her eyes dulled with blindness, she still had an essence of power that came with the Phoenix she had long ago inherited.

He bent down to hug her, and she hugged him back. His lips brushed her worn cheek, and he clenched his eyes shut as he held back the tears he'd been holding in for years. "Happy birthday, darlin'."

Thank you for coming, Logan, she murmured in the back of his mind.

He pulled himself away, shrugging even though she couldn't see it. You know I wouldn't miss your birthday, he thought back.

The chatter had started back up. Someone offered him a plate of cake and ice cream. He accepted it.

"Staying long?" Rachel asked, as though she didn't already know the answer. She was one of the few people Logan had never been able to keep out of his head.

"Maybe for tonight," he answered. "Not longer. But I've... got some other people I need to see."

She nodded. She, out of all people, understood.

Logan wasn't one to talk to graves. He figured he started doing that, he would definitely go crazy. Besides, talking to the dead like they could hear only made the hurt worse.

Sometimes, though, he had to come up here; had to run his fingers over the granite and touch the names engraved on it if only just to convince himself that the memories he held weren't dreams or fantasies. They had been real.

He started at the older graves; Xavier first, followed by most of the original X-Men, those who had considered the mansion their first or only home. Then the next generation--many of the X-Men's children, and several others who had joined in to carry on Xavier's dream. And after them, a few of their children's children.

Too many deaths. Too many memories.

Three days later he watched them lower Rachel's coffin into a grave next to her parents' and realized he couldn't take this anymore.

He and two of Rachel's closest grandsons stayed behind to shovel in the dirt. They could've simply found someone with superstrength to dump it all in, but that seemed far too impersonal for the woman who'd given as much to this school as Xavier himself. None of the three spoke, but Logan knew they were all caught up in their thoughts, him especially.

No, he couldn't take this anymore. He realized he was now the only person on Earth who knew that Katherine Pryde always ordered a Reese's Pieces blizzard when she went to Dairy Queen. The only person who knew that Scott Summers had once snapped and called Xavier a 'bald-headed idiot who couldn't stop talking and ACT until nuclear warfare destroyed his front lawn'. The only person who knew that Remy LeBeau had been partially responsible for the Morlock Massacre, and who knew that he had never actually forgiven himself for it.

He had buried more bodies than he wanted to think about, but he could remember each one. Without any government meddling, his healing factor mended his brain cells and made sure each memory was as fresh as the day it was made. He couldn't take it anymore, couldn't take waking up from screaming nightmares with no one to listen to him talk it out, couldn't take the pain of realizing no one probably ever would.

He found his way to the med lab while most of the school nibbled ham sandwiches and murmured platitudes that were mostly bedazzled versions of "well, she was old, and it's not like we weren't expecting it." He could remember when Cassandra Nova had managed to tear her way though the Institute; he could remember her tearing the flesh of his arm and Beast telling him he had enough tranqs to put a brontosaurus under. He had told Hank to keep his meds; now he was going to cash in on that promise.

The pills were easy enough to find, and his conscience didn't even twitch as he sliced the lock open. His mind was made up; he felt charged in a way he hadn't felt for years. He wasn't going to second guess this. If he waited, he knew he would.

Twenty probably would've been enough to kill an ordinary person; he grabbed three bottles just in case. No one questioned him as he left the mansion. No one really talked to him anymore.

It was a short walk to the ocean. Winter was staring, and the angry roar of the waves could be heard though he couldn't see the water in the dark. Drowning. Creed had suggested it once, as a good way to kill Logan. He figured the man might have been right about something for once.

He sliced off the tops of the little white bottles, letting the caps fall down into the water. After the second bottle, he was filling woozy; his vision was beginning to blacken as he downed the third. He didn't fight it. Tilting forward, he let himself fall into the abyss, hoping he would pass out before he hit the rocks below. He didn't want pain to be the last thing he felt. Whatever was left of his rational thought wondered if there would be something after this. The idea quickly fled into the blankness. It didn't matter if there was anything in that great beyond. He didn't want anything more. He had lived long enough. Now he just wanted to stop.

He was gone before his body hit the water.

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Apologies to everyone for the sucky ending.

Also, please write me a review and tell me who you thought of when you read Logan had a wife. For me, it was of course my OC Rip, but I want to know who popped into your brain, cannon or OC.