A little taken with him.
A little taken with him? With him?
I could hardly believe it when the girl across the hall, Kitty, her name is, told me what she overheard and asked in a shocked voice if it could possibly be true. Was I in love with the mysterious, clawed cage-fighter who had picked me up in Canada, saved my life atop the statue of Liberty? The man with no last name, who stomps through the quiet, comfortable halls of the school in his heavy boots, growling and snarling at nearly everyone he encounters? No. Absolutely not.
Every time I think of Jean Grey, my blood starts to boil. Talk about taken, she's the one who can't look away when Logan glances over at her, even if she is with gorgeous Mr. Summers, who looks like the men I saw once in a friend's copy of Playgirl -- broad-shouldered with sculpted features, his eyes unreadable behind dark glasses. I can't believe she said such a thing to Logan of all people. He must have been completely bewildered, since he doesn't strike me as the romantic type. More than once, Kitty and I have snickered about that. I've laughed about it until my sides hurt, until tears have run down my cheeks, and I haven't been able to look him in the face since. Of course, he probably takes it to mean Jean's statement was true. What else is he supposed to think about a girl who blushes and flees whenever he walks into the room? It doesn't help that Kitty and Jubilee, some of the friends I've made since starting school here, giggle and point at him when we're together, or that he has likely overheard the outrageous jokes Jubilee makes about us. I got a serious dose of him, twice now, and the arrogance in him probably convinces him I'm head over heels in love. Well, I'm not. I'm so not. Just because every other woman he's ever seen has wanted him doesn't mean I do.
I am perfectly happy without him. Of course I am, why wouldn't I be? After all, we scarcely know one another. He is simply a man many years my elder, someone who I met in a smoky, nondescript bar, who finally broke and gave me a ride after nearly abandoning me somewhere in Canada. He could have been anyone. I only ran out after him because he was a mutant, like me, and the rest of the crowd at the seedy place in Laughlin City seemed less than welcoming after I called out and warned him about the man with the knife. There is nothing else. Well, we're on a first name basis. We exchanged some glances at the bar, a mutual acknowlegement of mutation when the television broadcasted a story about the conference at Liberty Island. He looked right at me when he was about to impale the jerk who pulled a blade on him, maybe because he has some mysterious code of honor that prevents him from slicing up people in front of innocent girls, or something, though certainly not because he wanted to protect me from that part of him. He saved my life. And I have him in my head, but only because he stabbed me through the chest and I stole a dose of his powers, knowing, somehow, it would heal me. So he was my victim, and I was his. That is hardly the makings of a romance novel.
A father figure isn't what I need, especially not from a man who is nothing like my father. Logan is brash, rough, scary. He swears like a sailor, carries the scent of whiskey and cigar smoke on his clothes, has nine-inch claws and isn't afraid to use them. Okay, so I don't fear him like everyone else does, but I'm not in the market for a body-guard. What I need is Bobby. Sweet, considerate, gentle Bobby, the sensitive type, like I imagine Scott to be. He makes me flowers out of ice and asks about my feelings. He is safely non-passionate, happy to stay in the realm of hand holding and dreamy expressions, not going around murdering people or yelling or fucking nameless women in bars. He doesn't stab himself through the heart to rescue me or go around slashing people, coming back smelling like someone else's blood. I can cry on Bobby's shoulder; the one time I cried on Logan's, he smelled irresistably of pheremones and seemed ready to either bolt at any second or take me right there on the train. Though he didn't do either, I must give him credit for that. But how could I be taken with someone who calls me 'kid' and walks around engulfed in a silent pain he won't speak of? I don't want a brooding man with metal on his bones. I want Bobby.
Bobby is faithful and boyish. He has this slow, nervous smile he flashes sometimes when we start to get close, although obviously, considering my skin, there has not been a lot of contact yet. We study together in my room sometimes, though, and he will rub my knuckles through my ever-present gloves and we will stare deep into each other's eyes for a long time, until the door opens or someone shouts out in the hall and breaks the spell. I can't believe Jean Grey, a psychic of all things, would mistake the love I have for Bobby as something I feel for Logan.
I took on his traits for a while, after the Liberty Island incident. I craved cigars and a love of the smell of them has lingered with me, even though, when I tried smoking one, the ashy taste in my mouth made me nauseated and I coughed for a good ten minutes before getting my breath back. Liquor, too. I found my way to Logan's stash and helped myself to a few sips, and I liked it for a while but it burned my throat the last time I tried it, when his thoughts were fading slightly and I was more myself. I picked up his language, said things that would have made my momma wash out my mouth with soap. It seems funny, now. I suppose if I was ever taken with him in any sense, it was just because I had him in my head. Maybe it was his ego, just his love of himself that made Jean think I felt anything for him. Though, I wonder how that could be, since Logan doesn't seem too proud of himself, at least from what I've seen. He is scared of himself. Sometimes he hates himself. Mostly, he is a complete mystery to himself and there are parts that urge him to learn more, parts that would rather not know.
If I wanted a bad boy, I would fall in love with John. It wouldn't be too hard. He's good looking, I suppose, and has a dangerous streak that makes him desireable. Although I consider him immature a lot of the time, his features look good in firelight, and considering he's always playing with his lighter and starting small fires in ashtrays, he looks attractive a lot of the time. There is an ever-present glint in his eye, a mischievous look a lot of the other girls here find adorable, and he likes me well enough. He flirts with me a lot. There is a little bit of sadness and anger carried with him everywhere, like a watered-down version of Logan. I can't understand why Jean would think I'd want Logan when I'm friends with so many boys. Piotr, even. Quiet, considerate Pete. He doesn't seem afraid of my mutation, even teases me about it sometimes, makes lighthearted jokes about me bringing men to their knees that are a fine example of dark Russian humor. I have friends who aren't scared. The fact that Logan isn't scared is completely irrelevant.
He did tell me that he would take care of me. On the train, when I was so overwhelmed with guilt from using my mutation on him, even though if I hadn't, I probably would have died. But, considering I was blubbering about Professor Xavier being angry with me, he probably thought of me as a dumb, scared kid, some whiny brat wasting his time. It was probably a lie to get me to shut up, so he could bring me back to the mansion and get back to looking at Jean's ass. Of course, he did save me. And he doesn't seem like the hero type. I probably appeared incredibly young to him, childish and naive, too infantile to give Magneto a hit of my powers and free myself, needing to be rescued instead like some pathetic damsel from a fairy tale. Logan would want to protect me, I guess, so Jean would have yet another reason to adore him. Getting hurt just meant she'd be able to play doctor with him again. He probably wanted another excuse for her to admire him shirtless and drool over his perfect body.
There is a sudden rap at my door and I start, dragged out of my thoughts. "Kid?"
It's Logan. Just Logan. Unwanted Logan, who I definitely am not taken with, who I don't fancy, who is completely irrelevant to my happiness. So why is my heart pounding? Nerves. He startled me. "Yeah?"
He opens the door and there is concern in his eyes, warmth too. "Just got back in. Saw you weren't down there in the rec room with the rest of 'em. I wondered if you could use a little company. Want to go for a ride?"
Maybe he feels responsible for me, like in those legends, which say if you save a person's life, you are responsible for it afterwards. Or maybe he pities me, all alone in my room, skin carefully guarded by cloth, while the rest of the mansion's inhabitants run around in shorts or make out discreetly in dark corners, not at all worried about the effects of a touch. "It's okay," I tell him. "I'm fine."
Quizzically, he looks at me. "Would it help if I said I needed company?"
"Do you?"
He nods. "Yeah."
"Find out anything?" I heard he was having a session with the professor today, trying to uncover some information about his buried past.
"Maybe." He shifts a little, looking uneasy.
"Are you leaving?"
He frowns slightly, looking thoughtful. "I might be, not for too long though. The professor has some more ideas about how to get this information out of my head. I won't go until he knows more." He looks nervous. "He thinks it's repressed."
My heart skips a beat. "Does that mean it's bad?" I remember reading something once about repressed memories. No one's mind ever tries to protect them from the good ones.
"Could be." He aims for a light-hearted tone and fails miserably. "My healing factor," he explains. "Might have something to do with it." He shrugs off the thought. "So, you want to go someplace? I'm starving."
"Yeah, all right." It's almost time for dinner and I'm hungry too. I slip on a pair of boots and wonder if I should run a brush through my hair. It isn't that I like him, I just want to look my best in public. It's so rare that I get to go out now, though to be honest, I don't particularly miss it. Aside from the occasional shopping trip or movie, I don't see the point, and I feel safer on the grounds of the school. My hair will get windblown if we take the bike, and knowing Logan, we will, but I brush my hair anyway and put it up in a ponytail so it won't be too awful after the ride. I add a little lip gloss and check my reflection in the mirror; satisfactory. Logan studies me, unblinking. I expect him to smirk at me; a little girl playing dress up in his eyes, no doubt, but he doesn't. He merely looks thoughtful.
"Do I look all right?" I ask.
He nods and grins. "You look great."
So, I don't like him, not like that anyway, but my heart still flutters at the comment. It is a compliment after all. Just because I appreciate flattery doesn't mean it's anything special simply because he said it. Teasing, wanting him out of his grave mood, I bat my eyelashes. "Why, thank you sugar. You look quite handsome yourself, you know." It's true. The t-shirt emphasizes the muscles of his chest and his jeans are tight enough to showcase -- well, never mind. I blush a little. He is a man, after all. And not exactly hideous.
He takes my hand as we walk out, holding on a little too tightly, in a gesture that is almost possessive. I squeeze his fingers reassuringly and watch his tense shoulders relax a bit. He squeezes back, his grip firm even though a few of the kids glance at us with eyes wide like saucers. I feel giddy, though I don't know why. We pass the room where some of the older students gather to watch television and play games. I notice Bobby there, laughing and playing some card game with Pete, but instead of calling out to him, I keep quiet. Normally, I would say something, tell him where I was going. After all, I have nothing to hide. I'm hanging out with Logan, who is no one special. I wouldn't hide the fact that I spent time with Scott, after all. But still, I don't speak. Logan ushers me over to the bike and gives me an affectionate look, warmth in his eyes, and as he revs the machine to life, wrapping my arms around him and telling me to hold on tight, I think there might have been some truth to Jean's statement after all.