Summary: For so many years he has been too busy being chased by his demons. Too afraid to face his angels. Tonight he receives a visitor. Movieverse, post X2.
Categories: General Characters: None
Genres: Romance, Angst
Warnings: Violence, Adult language, Sexual Situations
Challenges: Series: None
Chapters: 5
Completed: No
Word count: 40919
Read: 13178
Published: 03-18-04
Updated: 04-02-07
1. One by NemesisBecoming
2. Two by NemesisBecoming
3. Three by NemesisBecoming
4. Four by NemesisBecoming
5. Five by NemesisBecoming
Aspirat primo Fortuna labori “
Fortune smiles upon our first effort (Virgil)
Completion Date: March 17, 2004 (prt. 1a)
Continuity: Movieverse. Post-X2, years after. References to moments from comicverse canon. Movieverse allows for these liberties. I thank them for that.
Rating: Subjective. Contains angst, off-color language, mild sexual references, mild violence. But then again, that’s life.
Acknowledgements: Thank you to Syrinx for the spark of inspiration when, during a mundane moment “ ironing my shirt for work “ a line from one of her pieces, “Why am I always here?” flashed in my mind thus torturing me the entire ride in the subway while Bjork wailed in my ear. (ref: “Tangled”)
And a reverent thank you to Toni Morrison for the poetic word and concept of “rememory”. (ref: Beloved)
Dedication: To my parents. Born worlds apart, their time together too fleeting.
I am still trying to define “meant to be”.
Rememory
The white moon postures against a canvas of varying degrees of cobalt, detail of topography barely discernable without moonlight.
He sat by himself admiring the water of the lake before him. Waters still, undisturbed, for once. A liquid mirror, reflecting Ororo’s ‘Bright Lady’. Logan smiles to himself at her concept. Like two moons before him, both full and round. One in the heavens, one on earth. Their resemblance to each other uncanny, yet as different as life and death. One tangible, the other a shadow, a memory.
He regards the paradox, winces slightly at the irony. It reminds him of his purpose here tonight.
He is waiting for her. He closes his eyes knowing she will come.
Logan is at peace, for once. For now, with eyes closed, he is not afraid. This place. It reminds him so much of the lake “ “their lake” he dares to label. His and Ororo’s. There he feels safe. His favorite spot on the estate, the lake besides the willow tree. There he had spent so many quiet moments away from the cacophony of students, the constant alarm of missions, the judgmental intrusions of others. There he talks about anything, everything, nothing. He enjoys her company. Watching clouds, connecting stars, staring at the insides of eyelids but not sleeping. All with her. With Ororo. Forever he will associate that lake with her.
The corners of his mouth momentarily downturns in thought. He misses his friend.
This place is not their lake. He has not shared Ororo’s company in quite a while; at least it feels that way.
He exhales a long breath of regret. For so many years he had been too busy being chased by his demons. Too afraid to face his angels. Too busy losing, too afraid to gain. That must change one day.
“I remember this place,” said in wonder, uttered wonderfully.
Logan’s ear twitches and his stomach drops at the sound of spoken music. Her voice. A light, airy soprano sung song. His expected and wanted visitor. He gulps hard. How long has it been? Decades, he assumes. He can only assume.
His eyes open to find her sitting, hugging her knees, looking up at the sky, fascinated. Luminescent, as if she emits her own light. She is a distance from him, facing the waters. He does not see her face, just her hair, shade of moonlight, breeze blown -- he himself feels no air. His gaze softens at the sight of her. How long has it been? Decades, he estimates. He can only estimate.
“It is very beautiful out here, yes?” she says, directed at no one.
“Yes,” he answers. He somehow finds his voice. He somehow does not rush upon her. He somehow doesn’t grab her, to somehow not let go a second time. Somehow he will not lose her again.
“I wish I were here once more,” she murmurs, softly, a tinge of remorse.
She startles Logan when her head turns and he sees her features. Sapphire blue eyes widen in curiosity. “Do you find peace here?”
He half smirks in thought and finally tears his eyes away from her. He breathes a deep breath and looks over the waters, the sky, the mountain looming in the distance, white capped. He is surrounded by whites and blues.
“Here,” he begins while he returns his eyes to her, “it finds me.”
She smiles serenely and turns back to the sky, satisfied with the answer. He smiles in return, amused by his own words. He is suddenly self-conscious. In her presence, he finds himself uncharacteristically poetic. He was glad he got it out without hopefully sounding too stupid.
“You deserve peace, my love,” she spoke too casually, as if in passing.
He quickly sobers, his eyebrows gather, the endearment taking him off guard.
“Do you?” he asks quietly.
Her moonlight mane shifts as she lowers her head. She then stretches her arm behind her for support as she turns to face him again, her eyes reacquaints herself with his face.
“Logan, I never stopped.”
He is finally back, back home. Home to her.
He drenched in sweat, road dust and exhaust, coating his five-day facial growth. He looks forward to hot water, cool sheets, warm body, soft. The only light in the space he races to enter is the light he let violates the dark: a bright widening slot, a reverse shadow of the opening door -- his silhouette seeks her out. He enters their room; right now it is only a room they share. One day he wants to give her more. White hair curtains the pillow as he sees his shadow trace the curve of her brown, naked back.
She sleeps in the nude. Always in the nude. God bless her.
He dares not get too close to dirty her yet he cannot resist reading her spine with his fingertips. Down her back, pushing down the covers, revealing her lower back, her hips. She has the sensitive nerve endings as if of a flower. Satin sheets, Egyptian cotton, -- only the softest. A sensualist. She can feel everything.
She twitches with a gentle start like she was robbed from a very, very happy dream. He wants the dream to continue. He quickly brings himself close to her careful not to jostle the mattress. Concerned not to alarm her to his arrival.
“It’s me, it’s me,” he lightly grumbles into the nape of her neck. His engaged hand trails around to palm her stomach.
She inhales deeply through her nose and elongates as she stretches. She feels behind her for his head, finds his hair and grabs a comfortable handful. As she’s exhaling she pulls him closer, rubbing his cheek to hers. She moans a semblance of his name. She is now covered with his filth; he decides he should bathe her.
She settles her head back on the pillow. Body still twisted, hand still planted firmly in his hair as she blinks back the sleep to refocus on his eyes. Grey, clear, always smiling when she looks into them.
“Mzungu…?” she croaks. The music of her voice still discernable.
“-Chisi, yes,” he laughs into her cheek, always amused by her off-color pet name in her native Swahili for him. A private shared joke regarding her initial impression of him when they first met.
Her eyes clear and she rests them on his face. She smiles at the lines the dirt has made around his eyes. Reminds her so much of that first day. He grins in appreciation as he runs his gaze through each and every facial curve and bend he has already committed to memory. A slit of light avoids his shadow and shines on her eyes. They twinkle aquamarine when she’s happy.
She states the obvious, loving to feel the deep vibrations against her chest when he speaks.
“Home?” Her eyes widen in excitement. They sparkle light aquamarine.
He slowly shakes his head in the negative as he focuses on her mouth. Her eyes furrow in concern and confusion.
He captures her lips with his own, a kiss pent up and practiced in his dreams for a week. He pulls back and she exhales in satisfaction. Breath of jasmine.
“NOW I am home.”
They smile.
She watches him in amusement as Logan looks down and smiles. She lays on her side perpendicular to him supported by her elbow, a little farther from the water, a little closer to him. She mingles her fingers together as he scratches his eyebrow in reflection.
Her smile fades and her eyes fall to the ground. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.”
He also sobers and looks up, searching past her hair to her eyes. “I am sorry, too.”
White tresses dance a graceful anchored ballet about her face as they both watch her fingers idly play with grass. She looks up again to study him, his attention trained to her caress of blades.
“Why am I here?” spoken quietly, pensively. The impossible now happening confusing her.
Logan quickly meets her gaze and his eyes wrinkle in focus. It seemed like a loaded question to him. One he doesn’t even want to start to answer. Now is his time. He wants to know more. More of what he has missed. More of what he has lost. Her being here now is not the issue. It’s the why she was gone in the first place. Why is there no turning back. Why…
“Why aren’t I with you?” he redirects with a hint of need.
Her eyes widen and she tilts her head. She seems to look deeper into him, a realization made.
“You remember… don’t you?” she asks him with genuine surprise.
He blinks and nervously tries to put together an explanation.
“Yes,” half-truth. “No,” the other half. He exhales a deep releasing sigh. “I’m starting to,” the truth.
He runs his hand through his hair in frustration at his coming confession, ashamed at its contents. “I wanted to forget for so long. And…” how to avoid the details but still make her understand, “I made it go away.”
She ruminates over this for a moment, processing the possibility of the concept. Then she leans forward with a half smirk. “But she reminded you, didn’t she?” Part pride, part irony.
“She-?” he was for a moment loss on the allusion.
From somewhere over the waters, deep gentle laughter, alto, mirthful, float towards him. The hairs at the back of Logan’s neck start to activate. Oh, yeah. Her.
“She reminds me,” he starts to answer glumly. He visualizes milk chocolate fingers run through long ivory hair, head thrown back by a deep throaty laugh, all done with controlled abandon. A beautiful, inspiring display few had the honor to see. A sight he saw more and more frequently as the bond between them became stronger. Her.
He forcefully blinks the vision away. “Yeah, I see that now,” voice rich with remorse.
He felt it was starting to get too crowded and he continues to mentally shake away the intrusion. He didn’t want to go there, not just yet. That part was complicated. One thing at a time. He just wants to remember first. He wanted to remember more about this woman before him. What he was like before -- with her. What it was that had escaped him. What he had that he let slip through his fingers.
She rises every morning with the sun. He wakes when he feels her absence from their bed. He finds her by the window watching the sunrise with her head poking through the closed heavy curtains, unwilling to blind him while he sleeps off another late night. He forces himself out of bed to join her by the window, holding her around the waist from behind, his own head poking through closed heavy curtains, just to be in her company.
At the kitchen table, he absentmindedly makes circles about the arch of her foot resting on his lap making her toes twitch. When the banter turns suggestive, he’ll run his nails up the sole of that captured foot, feeling her muscles tense under his touch.
They enjoy showers together. She loves to bathe alone. She starts the water insanely hot, loving to feel the heat tingle her skin and the steam on her face. She stays in the tub until the water cools and she giggles as she splashes the coldness on her face.
He sits beside her during her baths with his head resting on the tub’s edge. He asks her for stories she must speak in her people’s language, catching few details, enjoying the melody of her voice, of her words.
She has filled the room with plants and flowers of every shape, size and color. She speaks, hums and sings to them as she dusts every leaf, mists every blossom and caresses every bud into opening. Wherever he goes, whenever he happens to see some mysterious, unique plant, he’ll bring it home to her anticipating her face’s glow in delight at his newest gift for her.
He enjoys how she always smells fresh. Her natural perfume eases him when he has to leave her for days at a time. She finds her plant blossoms dried and crushed when they fall from his shirt pockets when she does the laundry.
They take endless walks in the park, getting lost strolling with no premeditated direction. She notices every nest, every wildflower, every fungus they come across. He loves smelling the scent of trees through her hair.
He always insists on being between her and the roadside when walking on the sidewalk, unintentionally entertaining her when he dances from her right side and left side depending on which block they crossed.
She rarely raises her voice in anger. Instead, when she feels she has been slighted, she will conduct a war on your sanity. Revenge via prank. Lotion in the conditioner bottle. Chocolate sprinkles mixed in with coffee grinds. Soy milk instead of good old fashioned whole… insanity.
He enjoys taking her to exotic restaurants, finding endless amusement with how her face changes with each new dish. She turns a darker shade and her tongue pants with Mexican. Her mouth puckers and eyes widen with curry. She looks at him like he’s crazy over sushi.
She finds fascination in their different hues of skin color. She finds her deep chocolate against his pale butter pecan more complementary than contrasting. She’ll lay with him in bed with their arms together in the air commenting how beautiful the tones are. He’ll test her theory by running his hands all over her skin, all over her body.
When in mixed company, especially in public places, he keeps her within eyeshot. When he is close enough to be able, he stays near her always in touch: hand on the knee, fingertips at the small of her back. Reassuring her, reassuring him.
She tolerates hockey and will sit with him in front of the television while he watches, with eyebrow raised and mouth creased in skepticism. She always interrupts his enjoyment of a great face-off by asking whether or not the players just standing there continually slamming their fists in one other’s face is really part of the game. Every time.
His facial expression is often so rigid and unreadable. She loves knowing that he holds all his emotions and expressions in his smiles. She can tell between embarrassed, triumphant, aroused, happy, thoughtful… all dependent on the rarest twitch of facial muscles, the barest flash of teeth. All come into play, she notices, when he is with her.
On request, he does “the boxer dance.” He can’t recall when this started or why it cracks her up so much. But when she watches him dress, he must turn his back to her and shake his boxer-clad ass back and forth with varying speeds.
He does this knowing it will make her smile. He likes to make her smile.
Logan grins broadly at his past, for once. Memories long forgotten come rushing back to him, like scented water pouring out of an overflowing tub when the body shifts. His eyes fall on her and he finds her with the same euphoric glow he carries. She lays on her back parallel to him, feet toward the water, head by his lotus bent knees. As the memories come, she comes, closer, closer still.
“Are they difficult?” she asks lightly as she turns to look up at him. He blinks and shakes his head slightly, not catching the reference. His head tilts with a questioning smirk.
“The rememories?” she explains. “Are they difficult?”
He smiles and chuckles at her constant wrestling with the English language. He feels so easy with her. Talking with her again is like a favorite easy chair after a long harrowing journey.
“No,” he responds, still warm from the memory of crushed blossoms and awkward giggles over curry. His look then sobers into a frown. He has missed so much. How much as he lost all these years? A familiar frustrated ache begins to gather at his temples.
“Yes,” he corrects himself gruffly. He has been feeling constantly conflicted lately.
She gives him a sympathetic half smile then returns to looking aimlessly at the sky.
“I, myself, remember,” she starts matter-of-factly, “and they, the rememories, they are good.” She turns her head to look up at him again. “I always smile when I think of you,” and does so brilliantly.
He allows the corners of his mouth to turn up slightly as he regards her statement.
“How was I like then?” he asks softly, leaning down towards her. It was important for him to know.
She crosses her arms, looks to the skies and breathes deep through her nose as she gathers her thoughts.
“You smiled more,” she answers, then with a shrug, “you did when you were with me.” After a pause, she rolls over to her stomach and settles her head in her elbow-supported hand. Her toes wiggle behind her as her eyes take on a mischievous blue sparkle.
“I watch you now,” she says covertly, like anyone else could hear. “You are starting to smile again. This is good,” with a wide, knowing grin.
He bypasses the present tense reference not allowing her to change the subject.
“Did I make you happy?” he persists, ever uncharacteristically softly.
She lets out a reflective giggle as she lays her head down on her folded forearms and smiles at him.
He blows out his mouth as he runs his hand over his face.
“Okay…” he begins, eyes roam the ceiling in thought. “So… ‘jahm-bow.’”
“Yes, jambo,” she smiles as her face hovers over his supported by her bent arm.
“Hello,” he states to confirm.
“Nidiyo,” she agreed.
“Hah-bar-ree?” his face contorts in question.
“NiDIyo!” in delight, thrilled in his progress. “Also for ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’.”
“And, uh…” okay, slowly now, get it right… ”nin-nah-mim-bah.”
She squeals in surprise, barely containing her furious giggles with her hand over her mouth.
“What?”
As he found amusement and endearment in her pronunciation of his language, she found the same in his of hers. With legs in various combinations of entwinement, they would lie in bed playing tongues, speaking tongues.
“What is it?” he demands with laughter in his voice. His eyes sparkle as he watches her demonic possession by giggles.
She finally catches her breath and composure. She takes her free hand and plops it playfully on his chest.
“So you are with child, Logan?” she teasingly confirms with raised eyebrows.
“That’s what I said?” a wide smirk spreading over his face. Yeah, that IS funny.
She slowly nods as her fingers busy themselves with his chest hair. His grey eyes runs over her face settling on her blue eyes. He imagines the beautiful daughters this woman can create. They will make their future husbands insanely lucky men.
She tugs on the hair caught in her fingers, making him yelp in surprise. Message received. He lets out another frustrated breath while he thinks of more practical phrases for him to learn in Swahili.
“How do you say…”
“Hapana!” she interrupts firmly, determined for him to learn properly. She pronounces slowly and restarts the question for him, “Unasemaje kwa…”
“Oo-nah-say-mah-je-kwa… ‘I want a beer’?”
“What?!” she gets out with another set of laughs. He squints his eyes in mock seriousness, his lips smirk. She throws her hand up, “Goddess!”
She bunches her lips up to one side of her mouth in thought. “You like it cold, yes?”
“Nidiyo,” he nods. He starts to finger the hollow at the base of her throat.
She ignores his intended distraction. “Uh… Tafadhali nataka bia baridi.”
His hand drops. No playtime now. “Toffa-dolly hot-kah-,“ he starts quickly.
“Polepole,” and then did as she instructed, slowly. “Tafadhali… nataka… bia… baridi.”
He repeats just as slowly, enunciating each syllable. “Tah-feh-dah-lee nah-ta-kah bee-ya… uh… bar-rah-dee.”
The mattress suddenly quakes with her laughter “No!” she shrieks. “NO-no-no-no-no-no-no!” she trails off as her face collapses unto his chest, shaking back in forth in amusement.
“What? What did I say?” he says in exasperation, tossing his hand to the ceiling.
“You just-“ she barely got out between breaths. She lifts her face, “it was just WRONG!” she merrily spat out. She is overcome by her melodic laughter, suddenly violated by a fierce “snort”. Her hand shoots up to cover her mouth again and she collapses backward onto the pillow lost in her surprised, again giggle-ridden, shock.
He just lies there watching her in amused fascination. He marvels to himself how such an ordinary, albeit unattractive, sound come from this beautiful and carefree woman. And why is this woman with him? And why does he question his happiness with just-this-one woman? And when will she finally stop giggling at him?
With heavy controlled pants, she composes herself. She turns to look at him with an exhausted look still filled with pleasure.
“Eh,” she throws her hand up in exaggerated resignation. “At least you stopped asking for curse words.”
His eyes quickly roam the ceiling again as he tries to remember that name she keeps calling him.
“Mzungu chisi,” he summons slowly with a widening grin.
Another light chuckle from her as raises herself to again settle above his head. “Yes, you are a ‘crazy white man’,” she purrs into his cheek. He laughs. He wonders to himself why does he let her get away with that. She then brushes his lips with hers, reminding him why and he growls in answer with a playful sneer.
He flips them both, suddenly shifting their arrangement in the bed so he’s now on top of her -- the unexpected movement forcing a surprised screech from her. He is suddenly warm with passion from the sound she emitted. He likes the fact that she’s a screamer.
He positions his lower body between her legs and easily cradles her head in his hands with his arms beneath her shoulder blades. She moans in delight at the ease their bodies conform to this familiar position. His weight so comfortable for her to bear. He begins to nibble on the area right behind her ear and she smiles broadly, loving being manipulated by him so expertly.
“How do you say ‘please’?” he rumbles softly, punctuated by forward movement with his groin.
“Ta-FA-DHA-li,” she gasps, reacting to his thrust.
He gently rubs the side of her nose with his.
“Are you happy?” he breathes into her mouth.
She cruelly pauses, forcing him to look at her squarely, eyebrow arched, in question.
“Nimefuhari…” she confirms tenderly as she smiles. “Sana,” she emphasizes with an eyebrow jump.
“Mmm…” He half-smirks at her precociousness. His grey eyes lock on to her blues.
“Oo-nah-say-mah-jay-kwa ‘love’?”
“Nakupenda.” Her hand reaches above him and she runs her fingers along his hairline, her blue eyes monitoring its progress.
“Nakupenda wewe,” she whispers earnestly. She then looks back at his greys and smiles.
“Nakupenda wewe, Darlin’,” spoken in resolute seriousness as he leans forward to kiss her. She captures his lower lip between her teeth and gently bites. He reacts with a passionate growl and deepens the kiss. It was already past the point of no return when she whimpered “please.” His hips start to move over her with more focus and intent.
“How do you say ‘beautiful’?” he groans, soon about to re-prioritize his ability to speak.
Breath of jasmine. His lips hover open over hers to breathe it in. With the faintest of touches, he feels her lips curve and circle to form the vowel. She exhales softly to sound it out. He envisions the roll of her tongue while drinking in the vibrations of the deliciously repetitive consonants…
“Ororo.”
“You were good to me,” she whispers lightly, still beaming from the moment.
“Just not good enough,” he roughly states, in an accusing way.
She looks at him startled for a moment then sucks her teeth at his unappreciated retort. Her eyes furrow in frustration.
“You were always off…” she begins as her open hand makes its slow passage from her left to her right and her eyes peruse the skies as she mentally recounts and lists.
Her hand drops as she resigns herself to not knowing where to begin and she heaves a weary sigh to an old, endless, repetitive argument only she remembers.
“You were OFF,” she says with annoyed finality.
“I think we should go back.”
“Back where?” he answers vacantly.
“Back home. Let’s go back.”
He looks up from his boots at her incredulous. She measures his reaction and continues further, very carefully.
“You were-“ she starts then decides to change direction. “WE were happy there.”
“You’re not happy here with me?” he asks sitting up. Where is she going with this?
“I am very happy with you,” she replies quickly with a grin. “But… you are not here. You are gone all the time.” She pauses to gauge again.
He groans and runs his hand over his hair. He knew this was coming.
“Where is it that you go, Logan?” she continues, meeting his weary look. “Take me with you.”
“No. No you can’t come with me,” shaking his head vigorously. He bents over again and busies himself with his boots, not wanting this to proceed further. She waits patiently for him to finish, she does want this to proceed, finally. When he completes his double knot he finds her still sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at him, eyebrow raised. He sighs inwardly. He sees his usual evasions will not satisfy her this time.
He leans forward and speaks slowly, hoping just his words will make her understand and this conversation would blessedly end. “It’s not safe… these things I do.” He gives her a firm look, “you just have to understand.”
“I have to understand?” now its her turn to look at him disbelief. “Help me understand. I did not leave my friends and family and everything I know for this.”
“You just don’t get it,“ he quickly dismisses as he rises off the chair.
She watches him go for his bag; amazed he would even put her off like that.
“Help me!” she says, with her voice uncharacteristically forceful. He stops at her shout, unaccustomed to such an outburst from her.
“Listen, this is the way things are. At least for now,” he quickly explains.
“Until when?” she retorts just as quickly, folding her arms and settling into her hip.
He is finding it difficult to maintain a respectful tone with her as he gestures with both hands open, trying to emphasize his point. “This is who I am,” he says with finality. “If you love me-“
Her head snaps back at his logic. “If I love you, I should understand? So my not understanding this and not feeling good about your leaving me for days, weeks at a time is me not loving you?” No, that was not his point he says to himself as he goes to hold his forehead in his hand. His feet start moving backward under their own accord as she continues, not easing up for one moment. “If you loved me YOU would try to understand. Have you done that? Tried to understand me? What I want?”
His back hits the wall and his throws his hands up in an exhausted plea. What she wants. What has he been doing all this time?
“What DO ya want, Darlin’?”
“What?!” Was he not in the room just now? “I want us to be together. If it’s here or at home, I don’t care. Just-“ She balls her fists by her head and her whole face seems to tighten in frustration. Even she’s starting to get tired of hearing her voice right now. She takes a deep breath to gather focus again. “What’s going on, Logan? You know me, I’ll understand anything!”
He really doubts that he comments to himself as his back slides down the wall and he settles into a squat, head resting on hands, elbows propped on knees. He feels he has to hold his cranium together, the headache warning an explosion he doesn’t want to have happen.
His silent non-response to her question infuriates her further but she keeps it in. She knows she has to approach him carefully. She stoops to squat in front of him to speak to him at his level. She leans in towards him and proceeds at a more civil tone, her irritation still apparent.
“Why did you bring me here to begin with? Why did you take me from my family?”
Anger starts to tighten at his stomach. He did not “take” anyone, and the implication offends him. Like he was some caveman who bopped her over the head and slung her over his shoulder.
“You LEFT with me,” he grunts through gritted teeth.
“To go with YOU,” she responds with a louder tone than intended, pointing her finger.
“Please,” he groans again, his arms falling away from his head. Just STOP this already. Why must she make it so difficult to protect her? “I don’t want you to get hurt,” he winces at his voice being more whine than a statement.
Her face wrinkles with elevating ire. “You’re not hurting me?” She pauses for his recognition. He gives her none, just an exasperated sneer. “No, YOU don’t get it,” she throws back at him.
She gets up and starts to pace about the room. Her face feels warm. She is constantly running her fingers through her hair in frustrated thought. He watches her, regarding how beautiful she is when she’s angry. Absolutely the last thought he should share with her at this time. She stops and throws up her hands in resignation. They fall and hit her jean-covered thighs.
She breathes a deep settling breath, her voice coming calmer. A decision made.
“Maybe I should go off for a couple of days,” she says over her shoulder to him.
His head snaps up at her and he feels his body hair begin to stand.
“You are going nowhere,” he states firmly in a tone he never uses with her as he rises soundlessly.
Her head cocks back in reflexive defiance. “You go where you please, I go where I please,” and she starts to make her way to the closet to gather her things.
His speed takes her off guard when he suddenly appears in her path. “You are going nowhere,” he avows again, moving towards her making her step backwards until she meets the wall. “You belong here, with me,” his face unreadable, his tone unmistakable.
Unaccustomed to conflict, she compels herself to lift her chin to him to look him dead in the eye. She finds grey has darkened to almost black. She refuses to lay down on this, his physical size aside. “And where do I belong when you are not here with me?” she whispers unflinchingly.
Her boldness insults him. She knows he cannot and will not hurt her. His jaws grind as he steps back with clenched fists, trying to contain himself. “I did not bring you all this way for you to leave me!”
“Why did you bring me then?”
He looks back her trying to find a safe strategy. She’s like no other opponent he ever had to face before. He can’t approach her like he does the others. He can’t go after her like the Wolverine usually would. He knows her motivations are not to harm him but to help. She loves him. And he loves her more. But certain things can’t be changed about him. She has to understand that. He has to try to make her see without showing her.
In a move to contain her, he reaches forward and captures her face with his hands, more for his sake than for hers. He wants to stop the questions. Stop the accusations. Stop her pain and his inability to help her.
She tries to back up with his movement, not allowing him to circumvent the issues on hand with their shared, familiar physical passion for each other. She will not be moved.
She steps out of his cradling of her cheeks and swats his hands away, unintentionally hitting him about the chest in aggravation.
“Niliku-DHANI dhahabu KUM-be a-DHABU!” she mumbles to herself in irritation.
“Whoa, whoa! What in the hell does THAT mean?” The phrase didn’t sound pleasant and he lifts his arms in confusion.
“Never mind, Logan! Just- if you are going to leave “ again - then I’m leaving too!” and she begins to walk away from him a second time.
His breath leaves him. He feels his pulse pound in his throat. It’s all slipping away now. A familiar growl emanates from deep inside of him, his claws itch at his knuckles as his defenses instinctively engage. “Please…” he barely utters through his strained voice. He feels it’s his final warning.
He swiftly grabs her by both the shoulders to gain control of her movements. He swings her around to face him and inadvertently slams her back against the wall harder than he ever would have intended if he were in his right wits. A startled, forced “oof” comes out of her as she hits the wall.
“DON’T DO THIS!” he roars. She looks at him with wide eyes and she wonders if she may have gone too far with him. He sees the fear in her and it pulls the man who loves her back.
“Don’t, he repeats between gritted teeth. “I love you, don’t do this.”
They stare at each other, both panting for air. They both could lose everything right now. The weight of the impending finality settles between them.
He whispers one-word pleas to her as he rests his forehead on top of hers. Her eyes roll to the back of her head at the touch of his skin and the feel of his breath on her. Her angry breathing slows and then hitches to stifled sobs. Instead of tears, she weeps her feelings, her loneliness, her worry. Past all anger and frustration, she wants him safe and happy with her.
“We can’t keep going through this, Logan,” she whispers to the space between them. “I can’t keep waiting.” He lessens the grip he had on her shoulders as her forehead slips to rest on his chest. His heart beats a familiar staccato rhythm, reminding her of her country, calling her home.
“You’re killing me inside,” her tears are too imminent. She swallows the taste of salt. “Every time you go, I DIE.” He reaches around her and covers her shoulders with his arms, holding her like he’ll never let go, rocking her back and forth.
Her hands fist at the shirt cloth on his outer shoulders. “How do I know you’re coming back?” she tugs at the shirt emphasizing each question. “How do I know you aren’t dead somewhere? And who will let me know?” Her voice emotionally cracks at the notion, her legs give out from underneath her at the thought. He was already trying to hold the weight for the both of them. They both slowly collapse to the floor together.
“’Re, please…” he tries to quiet her, her words breaking him up inside. He settles her in his arms, cradling her with her head on his chest, stroking her hair.
“A week here. Five weeks that other time…” she continues unabated. She pulls on his sleeve with her tension. She tugs harder and harder. He could almost feel it give.
He grabs her hand with that of the pulled arm and lifts her fingers to his mouth. “Please stop it,” he whispers into her index and middle while using them to trace along his lower lip. “I can’t lose you,” he pulls them further and places her middle finger between his teeth. Very… gentle… pressure. She exhales in emotion. She can’t lose him either. “I need you,” he murmurs, barely audible against her palm.
She slides her palm from his mouth and runs it along the side of his face. “I need YOU, Logan.” She turns his head so she could look at him. She sees his emotion, his weariness. She sees he doesn’t want to go either. Why can she not make him stay then? “Stay home,” she says gentler. “Stay here. Please don’t go.” She reaches further up his head and fists his wonderfully soft hair. She pulls him closer, rubbing her cheek with his. “If you love me, if you love us, don’t do this.” She feels his body tense up and his other arm reaches around her back into a full hug again. She follows his suit and positions herself on her knees to hug his head. “I… am… begging… you.”
She feels him trembling beneath her, a sensation she has never experienced. She is slightly alarmed, not knowing the source of his internal struggle. “Please…” she hears him utter weakly. He sounds like a boy, lost, abandoned. She instinctively kisses him on his temple, trying to quiet the turmoil. “Don’t leave me alone,” he continues as he fists the back of her shirt. It almost hurts her since he also captures her skin but she does not let on as her kisses trail down his face. He raises his face meets hers and she finds his eyes light grey, bloodshot, liquid in pent up emotion. He whispers another plea into her lips. “I can’t be alone again.”
She is sorry for yelling at him. He is sorry for handling her. She whispers affirmations in his ear where her voice offended him. He moans apologies against her skin where he gripped her too firmly. She kisses his hands in forgiveness. He kisses her breasts in repentance. She runs her fingers through his scalp to release his tensions. He runs his teeth down her throat to lessen the pain. She nips at his nipples in playful punishment. He sips at the back of her knee in delicious torture. She grips his shoulders to hold him closer. He palms her thigh to be closer still. She smiles when his passionate gaze meets hers. He smiles when she cannot gaze at him any further. She runs her fingernails down his shoulder to show him the pleasure of torment. He pulls her hair firmly against her scalp to show her the freedom of compliance. She cries his name to remind him. He roars her name to remind the world. They rest in each other’s arms. Any more movement superfluous.
She reaches over to his side of the bed with her arm to find just sheets, just blossoms on his pillow. She pushes up from her face down position in alarm. No, please do not be gone. She starts to arise from the bed to search for him and feels a weight on her side of the mattress. Spinning around she finds him sitting by her, watching her sleep. She starts to smile and then notices he is fully dressed, boots tied, jacket on with his bag at his feet. Her breath hitches as she shakes her head back and forth at him with sadness and pleading in her eyes. She collapses back onto the bed, face first into her pillow, trying to contain her forthcoming sobs.
He runs his palm up her back to her hair to stroke it gently. As her back starts to shake with her stagnant unproductive emotion, he leans over her and turns her onto her back. Her hands cover her face, her head still shaking her head “no”. She is unwilling to face his leaving. He leans his face over hers trying to move her hands to no avail.
“I will be coming back,” he whispers gently to the back of her hands. “I just have to do this… thing. I can’t get out of it.” He pauses for any response from her. She doesn’t give him the satisfaction. He grips her wrists and lowers her hands to her chest. She turns away from him, holding back the tears, mouth grimacing in pain. Breathing steady.
“I’ve made promises to people. These are dangerous people,” he continues to explain as he tries to move to within her line of sight to get her attention. She avoids him by closing her eyes to him. With still no reply from her, he places his head on her chest gently and places her hands on top of his hair. She does not grip it she usually would. He wants her affection. She offers him none.
“One day this will stop, just right now I can’t,” he breathes into her breast, the pain in his voice so evident. Her frown deepens at the sound. She looks at the top of his head rising and falling with her breathing. This man is her joy. This man is her torment.
He feels the change of her gaze and he lifts his head in hopes of a reaction from her. She turns her head away from him again in the opposite direction, biting on her lower lip. He quickly captures her head in his arms to prevent further movement. She shuts her eyes ever firmly; she can taste blood from her lip.
“Promise me you’re going to be here when I return,” in desperate frustration. Her whole body seems to clench underneath him. “I need to know you will be here.”
He runs his fingers through her scalp and tenderly grabs two handfuls of silken ivory hair. He faintly rubs his lips against her cheek to her ear. His voice breaks as he asserts one fact he can confirm for her tonight.
“I will DIE out there if I don’t know.”
Her breathing hitches as she pants for more air releasing all the emotion she was holding back. Not fair. Not fair. He can’t do this to her. Not fair. As much as she does not want him to leave, she wants him to come back, to live. Why put the onus of his life on her? If she had so much power over him, he would not go.
“Promise me,” he persists as he pulls back to search her eyes once again.
He sees the pain he has caused her, but she doesn’t understand. And she must never know what type of man he is when he leaves her side. The violence, the death, the apathy. She does not know it’s the music of her laughter and the breath of jasmine that keeps him from completely losing it out there. How the others spend their downtime with cheap booze and cheaper women, bar fights and alley brawls just to tide them over until the next mission, the next near fatal hurrah, their next crime against borderline morality all under orders. He needs to know he has more. He must know he hasn’t lost all semblance of what humanity he has left.
He must know angels do exist. He needs to know if angels can love demons.
A tear runs out the far corner of her eye creating a trail that leads to the entrance of her ear. She exhales a settling breath as she finally turns to regards his face. Those precious lips, his endearingly unruly hair, his deceptively soft ever-present stubble, his beautiful grey eyes now creased in pleading. How she wishes she could look into those eyes forever.
She knows she will regret her next words forever.
“I promise.”
in medias res (in the middle of things)
Looking forward…
Contemplate: An open mind opens the experience…
Author’s Notes: This was intended to be a one-piece/one-shot, but because of its ever-increasing length, I, woefully, was forced to separate it into four chapters. In essence, part one is now in two and I grit my teeth in frustration. I regret the interruption in the intended flow. I hope the story works in this format. Feedback is necessary in a person’s growth (hint, freakin hint).
Further, this last scene was very difficult for me to get through. I feel it is incomplete, not fleshed out and all around rushed. Please forgive.
For those who are confused by various character references and the time shifting that is in constant play throughout this piece, I ask you hang in there and please don’t give up. Answers are forthcoming. Again, and I feel I should emphasize ad infinitum: this was to be one chapter broken into two.
Mea culpas if my use of Swahili is incorrect. It is not my first language, yet I use it with the highest-level respect. Besides, I have enough trouble with my native tongue: English (aiight?!). Of course, a huge liberty was taken with the translation of Ororo. I could not find its etymology or origin but I do recall her name meaning as such.
Facilius per partes in cognitionem totius adducimur “
We are more easily led part by part to an understanding of the whole (Seneca)
Completion Date: April 2, 2004 (prt. 1b)
Dedication: Once so strong now held together by comfort. Do I yearn to be free or am I just foolishly yearning? I am still trying to define “meant to be”.
Rememory, part two
The white moon maintains a goddess-like stance against a canvas of varying degrees of cobalt, detail of topography determined by moonlight.
Logan is not alone by the lake before him. The waters, once so still, now rolls a queasy dance, as if a stone was tossed to disturb its previous peace. The visual distortion of his best friend’s “Bright Lady” wobbles disoriented. Logan sadly cringes at Ororo’s now ironic concept as he glances at his companion. Two moons before them: one full and round, one marred and damaged. One in the heavens, one on earth. Their resemblance to each other, right now incidental. But their relation to him and his world more fundamental than life and death. One tangible, the other a shadow, a memory.
He again regards paradox, winces deeply at the endless possibilities of fate. His purpose here tonight… incomplete.
Silence weaves between the two companions like an annoying, uninvited mime. In their communal air, there was so much to say with no ability or attempt to articulate. Hand gestures, stuttered sentences, extraneous. What there was to say and the time when it was to say it was in their shared past. Opportunity gone forever.
The wake of their mutual “rememory”, as his wanted and welcome visitor beside him would so innocently label, left a reopened wound.
The passion they once shared, it bled so deep. The passion of want, the passion of need, the passion of anger, the passion of sadness, the passion of loss, the passion of gain, the passion of desperation, the passion of a pleaded promise… left everything exhausted. Too much done. Too little completed. The passion now, as was eventually then, was bled dry. Rememories were the only products of what existed between the two of them.
At one time, in another life, Logan asked the woman who loved him to go against her better judgment and wait.
Logan’s stomach twists tight as he looks over to his guest, bent over on her knees like a flattened Z. Thick white hair hung over her head and dark brown face as she concentrated on her entangled fingertips. The hurt from their past still tangible. He is now remembering what he put her through.
With a single tear she promised she would wait.
During the rolling silence, he contemplates whether it is a woman’s plight for her happiness to be determined by the whims and wants of the man whom she loved. To hold one hand in front of her face unable to bear the pain. To hold him closer with her other hand unable to bear the loss.
And she waited, as she promised.
Or perhaps it was him. What he demanded as love from a woman. Using her up, sucking all her emotions dry until only a shell is left if she so chose. But he knew she had no choice in the matter, he would never have let her go.
Leave your home, leave your family. Be with him and accept whatever unreasonableness his life has to offer. His wanting it all with no movement from him outside of what’s necessary. That was his all or nothing. So she left her world for him. But he would not leave his. And he had it all. The woman he loved plus the action he craved.
And she waited, until she could wait no longer.
Perhaps now, years later, he can find the words to explain how he couldn’t be Regular Joe. Midnight Foreman. Mr. Nine-to-Five. Big Man Overtime. Captain Paystub. He just wasn’t built for that, literally. Artificially. Genetically.
And so she stopped waiting.
Or perhaps they were all just excuses. Excuses still. Because he knows now he could have stopped. She asked… he could have stayed. He should of. Yet here he is, decades later “ decades, he sees that now “ with nothing to offer but excuses. An excuse doesn’t warm the bed. An excuse does not hold you tightly while watching the ever-changing colors of sunrises, each different by the seasons. An excuse is not an emotion, it’s the absence of reason.
He knows now he had no reason.
But she did.
Logan takes a deep breath to prepare himself. He still had so many questions. He knew his visitor had much more to reveal about him. He only had minute details he needed to have strung together. But he wants to know more about her. To remember why she loved him. To remember why she stopped. He had to go there.
“Did you love him… more?” Logan asks quietly, but with an obvious intent.
Her brow furrows in part annoyance. She has her own set of topics she wants to avoid. Her look then softens. Still, there was a purpose to her visit. How can he understand her lesson if she evaded his questions? She rose slightly and slowly exhaled through her nose as she gazed at the waters. She is thinking of him. Another man.
“He loved me in return,” she gently dodges. Uttering vacantly, still in her dream. A faint smile plays on her lips as she resurrects the other man in her mind. Logan feels his skin crawl, still envious after all these years.
“I loved you,” Logan growls, harsher than intended, snapping her out of her reverie of his rival. Her blue eyes shot to him immediately.
“As I did you,” she returns quickly in explanation. “But,” she searches for the words, where to start. Some way to make him understand. Her eyes creased in held in frustration. It was so difficult to love another after him. Logan looked at the visitor. His grey eyes focused on her, unmoving. She eventually let out a resigning sigh.
“It cannot be undone now, can it?” she states, sadness dripping from each vowel.
His eyes drop in sad assent. He knows too well the painful truth of that statement. Fifteen-plus years of previously established experience taught him that.
She bites her bottom lip reacting to his sullen response. Her mouth then thins in new focus. There is one thing she could try make clear to him. She leans towards him with her eyes on the apex of his crossed legs, not wanting to see the hurt in his eyes.
“I see now that some things are, perhaps, never meant to be,” she starts carefully.
His breath hitches and he shuts his eyes. The words hang in the air and float on thier own breeze, circling them and drifting over the waters, seemingly up to the moon.
She lifts her gaze to his face and moves closer to gain his attention. He finally reopens, aware there was more to the point. Light grey eyes meet her blue firm look.
“Other things…” she pauses and inhales to collect the thought properly. She wants to say it correctly, a word that he never taught her and she knows is too fitting for the lesson she came out of the ether of his mind to show him. She inhales slowly to prepare the word’s passage.
He watches her lips as they pronounce each syllable in its most basic form.
“…they are… in-eh-vit-tah-bull.”
And she waited as she had promised, and is there when he returns. Dusty bags hit the floor with an announcing thud. Embraces so deep making the spine crack. No words to speak as they rememorize features with their fingertips and lips. The world about them grows disoriented and blurred as they spin each other and fall to be cushioned by sheets. And he thanks her for her promise, for her patience, for waiting. For she waited weeks for him, as she would continue to for all the nights forthcoming.
He no longer tells her when he is leaving. The signs are there days in advance. A phone call waking her and robbing his arms from her waist. One word exchanges to answer the ring “ When? Where? Time? Then *click*. Minutes pass as he remains seated on the bed. He will return to lying with her with no further words or sleep to be shared. The days following the call he will laugh a little less, hold her a little longer, and gaze at her endlessly. He will take her wherever she asks, buy her whatever she doesn’t, and only leave the bed when she does. And she no longer begs him to stay. The signs are there during those days in advance. He is finding it increasingly difficult to gather his gear each time he has to go. His boots are constantly in transit from the regular spot, to be found further and further from the door. His flak jacket is nomadic traveling to an unaccustomed drawer, perched high above a kitchen cabinet, finally behind the refrigerator. The keys to his bike…well. He will scour the room for his things with a faint smile on his lips. She will sit watching his progress with her knees pulled to her chest and an innocent look on her face. When he retrieves his things he holds her tightly running his face through her hair, rumbling playful endearments in her ear. She will try to return the affections but she stiffens a little more each time as their odd dance continues… every time he has to go.
She finds dried blood on her blossoms. They fall from his shirt pocket as she does the laundry. He is usually so careful to conceal all traces of his life away from her. Her hands tremble as she investigates further. There are more traces of red on his clothes. His? Whose? She finds large stained gashes on a t-shirt over where his heart would be. She lets it fall, burying her now crimson-tinted petals beneath it.
He wakes when he feels her absence in the bed. He wearily rises, aching. He had collapsed after returning from yet another endless week. He finds her sitting by herself by the drawn heavy curtains holding her face in her hands and her elbows on her knees. He smells the salt of her tears as he softly creeps closer to her. She does not answer his questions and is resigned to holding her. She stops her silent tears after a while but is still stiff under his touch.
Her goodbyes start to lose their usual flair for ceremony after a time. From long, ornate, exaggerated exhibitions of adoration prolonging his departures, to solemn, deep hugs that linger until she releases him. Soon she doesn’t even escort him to the door. He finds his things easier now. They no longer disappear. He figures she has started to accept the absences. It was only a matter of time. He waits for her to acknowledge his goodbye. Lately she remains seated with hands clasped. Her head down, she responds with barely a nod.
He loiters by the closed door listening to her non-action. Her now passive affections were once so fiery. He pauses further and further from the entrance of their room as time goes on. He leans on the doorframe leading out the building feeling the breeze on his face. The weather would have made for a nice walk in the park today. He looks down to the street at his ride. How he misses the breath of jasmine. He sits upon his bike alternating looks between his hand on the throttle to back up to the window of their room. Considering, reconsidering. The laughter, her smiles, the quiet softness. The stiff touches, the limp embraces. The silent glances from the side of her eyes. The ignition. The road ahead. The road is the only constant in his life. Never changes. Always fixed in one direction.
She sits in the dark alone, again. Where he is, what he is doing… the images and scenarios dance and taunt her mind. Where she is, obvious. Here. Where she wants to be is clear. Not here in the dark, sitting alone and waiting… forever. She cringes at the thought of red on bleached cotton and dark bruises on light tan skin. Will this be the time he won’t come back? From the outside, she hears drums in the distance. Her muscles start to relax at the bassline. She knows they’re calling to her. The drums have always provided answers in the chaos. She is wanted, she is needed, outside. She feels compelled to follow their staccato rhythms. A practice taught her from birth.
He allows himself a few more moments before returning home. This road is in one direction, back to her. He stands beside his bike alternating looks between his hand on the brake handle, ahead towards the road before him, to behind him, the roadside bar where the others have gathered after the tour. Boots scuffle while shifting direction. The collection of empty thuds caused by well-worn wood beneath his soles. Eyes adjusting to the darkness of the interior. The teasing yet knowing looks from the group - it was only a matter of time. He joins in a couple of stories and play-by-play recaps with the guys from the mission. He enjoys the talking instead of the silence and then the eventual questions that escalate at the end of that road. He agrees to at least one beer and pauses before he pops the cap off. He studies its deep brown color and its bitter taste as he runs the liquid around his mouth with his tongue. He reflects how her blue eyes are more often than not framed in red and moist with unshed tears. His throat goes dry. He lifts his hand to gain attention while another story is started. Index finger in the air. A nod of acknowledgement. He is slid another beer.
She sits in the park listening to drums. She closes her eyes and envisions the savannah she had left, the faces she had loved and the life she has left behind. These drums are a mere shadow, a weak interpretation, of the rhythms she knows so well. They have no real meaning. But the locals here play these drums with more passion and emotion than her own people, a concept she previously took for granted. These people yearn for a home they have never known but were taken from long ago. She faintly smiles sullenly at that existence. Her eyes shoot open as she hears an expletive near her. She finds deep brown eyes peering at her in amazement, growing wider as her eyes meet his. His light brown face flashes a brilliant smile as he picks up the things he dropped and introduces himself. She warily accepts his name and gives him permission to sit beside her, but not too close. She finds his velvet voice soothing; he uses clever words to make her smile. She relaxes slightly and decides, regardless of the profanity he spoke earlier, she can tell he’s a religious man. He carries the name of a biblical king and during pauses in conversation he calls out to his ‘Sweet Jesus’ while looking at her.
He allows another woman to breathe his name into his ear. Breath of tobacco, eyes of dull wood. With fourth beer in hand and eyes closed, he imagines graceful chocolate fingers trailing up his chest, tickling his neck. He envisions full, smiling lips with exhalations of interest and promise from an ivory haired angel. Course voice and slurred sibilants awaken him from his liquid induced hallucination. He recoils in disgust, more at himself, as the female with the uninteresting name and unoriginal come-ons presses closer. Rough, callused hands. Lipstick on pale yellow teeth. Pallid complexion of too much alcohol and not enough sun. He pushes her away while rising. The barstool falls with a loud complicated bang from the clumsy movements. He hears an amused chuckle and turns to find one from his group watching him and finding comedy. Thick straight hair of ebony framing her smooth tan face. Blue eyes almost impossibly darker than her locks blink at him knowingly. As she sits with the others from the mission, her own gun sitting between her legs, she gives him a thin-lipped smirk at his bar side situation. He creases his eyes at her in annoyance. She knows him and he knows her… too well.
She is used to the curious attentions of others. She is found fascinating for all the wrong reasons she usually asserts. But the one before her with the confident grin looks at her differently. She chooses to ignore the change but is still intrigued and talks to him longer than she usually would another. He asks for her name. He asks if she is from the area. When he hears her accent, he asks of her country. She doesn’t mind the personal intrusion. She talks at length about the savannah, the people, the large mountain that has always loomed in the distance. She finds she may be too comfortable with this stranger and stops. She feels she may be beginning to overstep by telling this one who leans closer and closer with each question things she has not yet shared with the man who loves her. The man with the bronze skin and the sparkling eyes, a scoundrel king, continues by asking of her language. He asks of her customs. He runs a long finger across the line of his lower lip and asks of the colors of the sunsets there. Her eyebrow arches. No one has ever asked her that before. A brilliant smile to match his begins to blossom on her lips as she rests her face in her open hand. She closes her eyes and commences to paint for him the watercolors of her dreams.
His fellow operative uses the name of a clever, vicious animal. She has proven to be nothing but to him. As he heads for the door she also stands, positioning herself to not be avoided. She lights her cigarette and blows its exhaust in his direction as he stops before her. She slowly gives his body the once-over with her eyes as he continues to look at her in irritation. When their eyes meet, she faintly smiles and her eyebrows jump in silent suggestion. Leaving so soon? One more for the road. One more for old times’ sake. He gives her a disgusted snort as his feet start moving again. He doesn’t give her a second look as he maneuvers past with the slightest brush and goes out the door to his bike. A quick amused exhalation escapes through her nose before she takes another drag. He never looks back, she knows him well. She reveals the barest of a cynical smirk as she hears the engine turn over and the tires skid then tear down the road. She drops her cigarette and puts it out with the toe of her boot while in the expanding distance his grip tightens on the throttle. She shakes her head in bitter irony; some things will never change.
She has learned a new language. The language of the smiling one’s people. This language is expressed through the liberation of music, and she feels her velvet-voiced escort embodies it. So playful, so scandalous. It plays and floats within the boundaries of tempo and rhythm. So free, so unrestrained. The mind and the body are slaves to mischievous riffs. Notes are diffused like colored lights through the smoky rooms he brings her to. Competing melodies are amplified by the liquid highs in geometric containers he puts in her hand. She is amazed and entranced by this new world. She is heady and euphoric by these fresh experiences. Led by the scantly demonic tones, the hips cannot help their seductive rock. Her palm cannot hide her coy, possibly inappropriate smiles. And constantly in the background, under the structured chaos, a drumbeat keeps sanity. The scoundrel king kisses the back of her hand as she begs her departure for the night. He flashes her a quick grin with an unmistakable glint in those deep brown eyes. As he holds her hand gently and affectionately in his, so very close to his lips, he tells her with warm breath that tickles the hair on her wrist… it’s jazz, Baby.
He is finally back home. Home to her. As he takes flights of stairs two steps at a time, he looks forward to hot water, cool sheets, warm body, soft. He opens the door to find the room darkened, the air slightly stagnant. As he opens the window to let in air and streetlight, his confusion starts to elevate to alarm as he surveys the room. The room is as it was before but her clothes discarded on the bed smell smoky and sweet at the same time. Vinyl records with names he barely recognizes like Ella, Holiday, Thelonius and Miles have joined their record player. Ellington watches him with unmoving eyes as he goes to the closet to find newer clothes of hers and his shirts and slacks pushed further to the back. As he runs his fingers down the line of occupied hangers, he smells the sweetness of blossoms and pungency of cigarette smoke. Simone smiles at his discovery of bags takeout food in the fridge, remnants of half eaten meals. She usually cooks everything she eats and it is he who she dines with. His eyebrows crease. Armstrong grins as he picks up the most recent addition to the laundry. He finds her shirt stained with red where her heart would be. He lifts it closer to his nose. He smells her. He smells the faint trace of her sweat. He can never mistake the smell of red wine. By the neckline he smells deeper. He smells a cologne, not his, not hers. Beneath the musk, the faint smell of sandlewood.
She comes home humming a tune she learned earlier and finds him sitting in the dark by the drawn heavy curtains with his jacket still on. The sight of him after so much time startles her and she almost drops her keys and purse. She squints in the darkness and calls his name. He doesn’t answer and remains seated partially concealed by shadows, just watching her. She places her bag, keys and jacket on the bed and slowly walks towards him alarmed there might be something wrong. He watches her movements and the way the hem of the elegant skirt she is wearing sways with the motion of her hips. It swishes lightly against her knees as she steps closer. She lowers herself to be face to face with him grasping his cheeks with her hands. He sees she is wearing makeup. His eyes are dark and do not leave her face as she asks him what is the matter. He watches every muscle movement of her expression as if he’s trying to read something she’s not saying. She figures he is exhausted again. She is happy he is home. She wants to hold him; she has so much she wants to share with him.
He breathes deep to smell her when her hands leave his face to wrap around and gather around his neck for an embrace. He grimaces as he gets a whiff of more smoke, more cologne mixed in with her scent. His fists clench in anger as his mind races with the thoughts of others being in her presence, wanting her company. Trying to take what’s his. Then he remembers the feel of rancid breath by his ear and unwanted suggestive glares of an unworthy woman. His stomach drops at his wasting his time and his woman’s time on disgraceful distractions. He keeps his mouth and his suspicions to himself. His hands trail up her side to hold her frame closer to his. His grip strengthens as the sensation of her body against his releases all anger and uncertainty. He exhales a liberating breath. He knows he’s been away too long this time. He holds her tighter. He shouldn’t have gone, again. But this time, he knows shouldn’t let go.
She senses something different in him. His initial stiff embrace deflated into his virtually collapsing in her arms. Her innate concern for him gets the better of her as she grips him about his shoulders to hold him closer. He sucks air through clenched teeth at her touch on a sensitive area. She suddenly recoils and quickly moves away at his pain. She looks at his shoulder and the mask of agony he now wears. She closes her eyes and air blows out of her nose as she covers her face with her hands. She rubs her face a little and then runs her palms through her hair as she rises to get up. She wearily blinks at him while standing above him, her hands on her hips. He looks up at her with a half smile. She tries to reflect his amused dismissal of his pain but it only results in a forced smirk. She turns away and walks to the kitchen asking him if he is thirsty, hungry, or does he want a bath in a monotonous tone. She goes off to busy herself with her own task of duties without waiting for an answer.
He remains seated in the dark by the drawn heavy curtains with his jacket still on and watches her in constant motion. Refrigerator and cabinet doors bang a little too loudly as she goes about fixing him a drink. He watches with sad fascination as she continually gnaws on her lips and her hands wring as she maneuvers about the small area. It seems she is successful in finally distracting herself to other thoughts. She starts to hum a light yet melancholy tune he does not recognize. A faint reflective smile starts to play on her lips and her movements become more graceful as the song progresses. Perhaps it’s the song that changes her mood. Perhaps it is something else. He calls out her name to bring her back to him. She stops surprised, her song and movement interrupted. Her face falls while she wonders what he called her for. They look at each other for a moment, he still in the shadows, she framed by fluorescent light. She tilts her head still waiting. His head drops. He doesn’t want to ask questions. He, like she, does not know if he is prepared for the answers. She creases her eyes, unsure of what to make of him lately. She misses the man she used to know. As she turns back to being occupied by glasses, liquids and musical thoughts, he watches her and remembers when she would hum close to his ear, melody carried by the essence of jasmine.
He closes his eyes remembering her smile. How he misses her smile.
“It was hard for her, after I left…” she spoke vacantly. It was not quite a question, not quite a statement.
Logan turns to find his visitor now beside him. Sitting upright, knees at her chest, she is staring blankly over the waters at the reflection of the moon. Her gaze has a dreamy aspect to it, more so than before. His lips thin in empathy at her sadness over things she neither had the fortune nor the power to regret. Then his eyes crease to look at her warily, wearily. He knew where she was going with this.
“…when we died, yes?” she finished her thought turning to meet his eyes. Aquamarine starts to liquefy in emotion and question. He breathes slowly out his nose. He could never deny those blue eyes anything. She did not come all this way to not know. After all his evading, she did want an answer finally.
From across the waters, another female voice carries towards them as if with the waves. Playful rich chattering, deep-chested laughter, calming to a hum of a random tune. One of many sung during a task or chore enjoyed. Her. The sound of the other voice calms him so familiarly, so utterly. So much so it disturbs him. Alto, reserved, often bursting out in uncontainable laughter, often in private, and only when he presses. His guest’s daughter.
Logan blinks back the vision as he looks down in thought, trying to find a way to proceed gently. Her daughter. There was so much this woman beside him has also missed.
He can avoid reality no longer. He lets out a resigning breath.
And so it goes.
“Yeah,” he starts.
Her daughter, his best friend “ damn near like brothers. Her insistence to share; her refusal to take. In their many late night discussions, his confidant doesn’t speak of the loss of her mother, of both parents, at such a young age. But he knows, every day, she feels the loss, the emptiness.
“Yeah, it was hard for her,” he glumly continues.
Ironically, he thinks to himself, both of their pain, his and her daughter’s, came from the same source. The hole created by this woman before him now. The endless possibilities of how their lives would have been different, completely altered, if his visitor did not leave them. If she never died. The ultimate “What If?” that has haunted his best friend forever and now torments him. He smirks at yet another paradox. They have so much more common than they even began to realize.
Logan freely allows images of the daughter of the woman he loved, the friend he knows so well, to flood his mind. Her warm, calming looks; her cold, remorseless stares. Her shining eyes, they themselves being blue and clear like her mother’s. Clear, blue, yet defiant… hard. Cerulean ice. She had seen and done so much. She had to fight every waking and oftentimes resting moment of her life, literally, since she was a child. He smiles at his friend’s complicated spirit. Her reluctance to hold a gun, her mastery when she wielded one. Weirdly enough, regardless of his mutant abilities and his fierceness, he found he felt more protected in her company than not.
“But she’s the toughest broad I know,” Logan adds lightly, trying to give the mother beside him reassurance. Her daughter was a survivor. Yet she hasn’t lost her soul. Her strength under pressure; her grace in battle. She was perhaps even stronger than he. Again, he sees that now.
“But you know otherwise, don’t you?” his guest intones knowingly. His smile drops with his thoughts interrupted and looks over to find his visitor resting her head on her knees, smiling at him with an intentional sly grin. “She shows you in her own way. She only shows you, ” she emphasizes.
“I do the same,” he says looking at his hands, uncomfortable with her implication. “We are good friends,” he tries to clarify.
His hands wring about themselves as he thinks of all those moments he and his visitor’s daughter have shared over the past few years, first as teammates then as friends. His eyes close and he sees her child now. Her cerulean eyes creasing and sparkling roguishly as the tip of her tongue and upper teeth flirt with her lower lip, trying to contain a laugh that he induced. Her soft, strong hand playfully pushes his head away in response to an off-color remark she feels he should be punished for. She chuckles at his crude mischievousness. Few in the mansion do. He smiles deep at the memory. It feels good to make his friend laugh. It feels good to be one of the precious few who can. His eyes open and he vaguely sighs at the odd feeling creeping at the center of his stomach, right at his diaphragm.
“I have only a few,” he drifts off, spoken low more to himself than to his companion.
“That fits,” the visitor returns lightly, wistfully. He quickly glances at her and finds her watching him with a knowing grin planted firmly on her face, like she was trying to get a point across. His gaze drifts away from her and back to his hands. Her mouth closes into a thin-lipped amused smirk as she regards this additional episode of his dodging. She decides to let it go for now and returns her attentions to the waters again. She falls into deep in thought of woman whose topic Logan has been so deftly trying to skirt.
The ivory haired guest joins her voice to the hummed tune of the other’s across the waters. They join in almost perfect synchronicity it seems to Logan. His visitor’s soprano to the other voice’s alto. Her melody to the other’s harmony. A tune they obviously knew during the short time they were together. Logan doesn’t know the song as well as they. But he knows it. He heard his friend hum it before, in private when gardening or while walking in the woods. During her moments of reflective solitude. He watches her during these moments; his friend does not know this. He has been watching her more and more from the shadows lately. He watches in silent awe at her face full of longing and regret yet with a slight glow to her face when she is alone. As if she exists in a different world in her head. She is remembering something pleasant but gone.
Logan swallows to relieve the constriction in his throat. The woman beside him continues to intone with the other, her face reflecting her own solemn thoughts of loss. He knows, listening to the nature of the duet, a third voice is supposed to join this song. And that voice is not his. He frowns. The loss of love is not just his affliction.
The song has ended and the voice across the waters continues with it seems another verse. His guest does not rejoin the movement but instead sighs softly, caught up in her reverie.
“She is so much her father’s child,” she says with a slight frown, contemplating the traits of the two people she spent her last moments of life with. “So guarded,” she lists with slight concern in her voice. She looks over the waters with creased eyebrows. No doubt reviewing her daughter’s life without her and how she had to adapt. His friend always had to be mindful of her constantly changing surroundings and her intensely sensitive yet powerful birth written gifts.
His visitor’s intense look then softens as she comes to a realization.
“Yet so free, ” she completes the previous thought with a wide amazed smile.
Logan looks at his companion again. Her face bright with thoughts of her daughter, her flesh and blood. Her Baby-Girl. He regards the woman’s flowing white hair, gently cascading about her face and down her back, her slight, graceful hands, so soft, always so active when in deep thought. Her daughter carries so many of her mother’s physical qualities, but yet a bit more. Which of the two is more beautiful, an unfair assessment and incidental he decides. But here, at this moment with the reflective peace in his visitor’s face, she and her daughter look so much alike that he doubts he could ever look at the younger of the two the same way ever again.
“She is so much YOUR child,” he asserts in a whisper to her. It is her turn to be interrupted from her thoughts and she faces him as she regards his statement. She smiles gently at him and tilts her head in question.
“You see her, you see me?”
He slowly, vaguely nods. She blinks her eyes sadly and looks off at nothing at particular. They sit in silence. Again the annoying mime returns. So much to say. Nowhere to begin.
*Whomp*
Logan inhales quickly through his nose in surprised reaction to the sound; it seemingly rang in both his ears. He looks towards his companion as he starts to feel a tingle starting at the base of his skull. Inside his head.
*Whomp* *Whomp*
He blinks harder as they come. Her eyes fall to him and she sees his confusion and realizes another one is coming, a rememory. But this time the rememory is induced by him. She smiles calmly to reassure him. His breathing deepens as he prepares himself for these new sensations.
*Whomp* *Whomp* *Whomp*
She holds his gaze to focus him. He sees now. She is teaching him. Teaching him to remember himself. The vibrations travel through his head like cascading water. A tingle, a release, like long rusted over gates being inched opened. As she showed him before, now he must show her. He swallows again. She shouldn’t see what he has to remember.
*Whomp* *Whomp* *Whomp* *Whomp* *Whomp*
The sound is getting louder. It is taking his mind to another place, a place he feels he doesn’t want to go. A place he was hiding from her. She doesn’t belong there. She shouldn’t see. His visiting teacher continues to smile serenely at him, showing him she is ready. His eyes furrow in concern. He should have told her the truth from the beginning. A familiar feeling of fear starts to overtake him. No. He doesn’t want to do this. His hands start to grip the hair on either side of his head, as if to stop the progression. His whole body clenches in fear and panic.
*Whomp**Whomp**Whomp**Whomp**Whomp**Whomp*
“Logan,”
The sound’s advance stops. The absence of chaos startles him and he quickly turns and looks at his companion.
She is leaning forward to look him square in the eye. She speaks as if she was supplying an answer to her previous question.
“Then you know I never left you alone.”
*Whomp**Whomp**Whomp**Whomp*
*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*
*whrrrrrrrrrrrrrr*
In media res
“Then B-I said, Hov remind yourself: nobody built like you, you design yourself. I agree, I said, my one of a kind self get stoned everyday like Jesus did. Well he said, I said- has been said before, just keep doing your thing, he said. Say no more. …was it all a dream?” “ Jay-Z, “A Dream”, Blueprint 2
Completion Date: May 16, 2004 (prt. 1c)
Warning: Contains extremely graphic violence, imagery and strong language.
Acknowledgements: To my Yorkshire chum, the voice that Echoes against the sunset, and my Stormy friend who whispers to trees. Your support and encouragement makes the creativity continue, for this I thank you. Double blessings to Ms. ‘Ko - for the focus and the deadline to set me back on track.
Rememory, part three
This was it, he decided. Last time.
*Whomp**Whomp**Whomp**Whomp*
*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*
*WHRRRRRRRRRRRRRR*
The downdraft created by the helicopter’s rotors in full rotation whips Logan’s hair into a frenzied dance. The noises of its winds pulsate in his ears, drowning out surrounding sounds. He leans against the body of the helicopter alit in a grassy glade that rises above the jungle; upper body against the open cabin door, his left foot resting on the left skid. Around his right boot, crimson pools of communal blood ripple. All around him the almost turquoise grasses vibrate. He, unlike his hair, remains motionless, only occasionally adjusting his grip on the gun he grasps beside him, his eyes trained on the tree line. Alert. Ready. Waiting. Wounded.
Logan’s mouth contorts into a down turned sneer as he applies pressure to his hold of his middle, keeping his insides from spilling out. Trying to maintain his focus, he surveys the scene around him dispassionately. The clearing designated as the extraction point was randomly scattered with bodies contorted in disfigured positions. Beyond this, the jungle at the foot of the landing zone’s rise. Beyond that, the camp. Well, he smirks bitterly to himself, it WAS a camp. They were first introduced to its existence with a series of “X’s” and arrows on a map. Now the only significant topographical feature to this place is a burnt out ten acres in the middle of this dense jungle. Current population: Debris. Discarded remnants of burning shacks, destroyed jalopies, bodies, limbs, discarded shoes; alone forever, a random soot covered soccer ball rolls aimlessly.
Logan bends over sharply and cringes in reaction as another wave of burning pain ran from his oozing gut and travels swiftly throughout his body. With a settling snort he assesses his possible continued tolerance of this open ended torture. He figures his constitution could stand an extra dose of morphine more than he the pain and he starts to grope one of his pants pockets on his legs to retrieve the mediject cylinder. Once gripped, he exposes the syringe needle by ripping off the yellow cap off with his teeth, spitting it out to his right. He swiftly stabs his thigh with the tranquilizer and squeezes, he grits and tries to maintain an air of healthy control as he sees the rest of the team appear and make their way to the helicopter. Repositioning himself straighter, he tries to rearrange his face to mask the pain as they come closer. His face settles for a look of detached determination. His body on the other hand has its own motivations. He camouflages a groan through his sneer, the unintentional reaction to the sickening sensation of the narcotic and the agonizing expulsion of shrapnel from his womb. Another surge of nausea fed by the blended sour sweet stink of cooking flesh, gunpowder and diesel fuel gather and marinate at the back of his throat.
He vigorously shakes his head to regain focus. The morphine only provides a faint hum of relief thanks to his healing abilities and the severity of the wound. The drug seems to be affecting more his mind than his nervous system as his senses play havoc. His ears vibrate with the constant whir of the rotors whipping through the air and the dull ring of eardrum damage. Painfully he swallows back impending bile.
His teammates are walking, damn near strolling, to the site. Before his eyes they morph and blur into distorted shapes and corrupted forms. He shakes their demonic transformations away. He cannot allow himself to collapse from his injuries as much as his body wants him to. Not here. Not in front of them, he asserts to himself as he watches them either side step or step over bodies. His teammates smell the wounded. They gauge everything for weakness. It’s their job. He grimaces in disgust as he watches Mastodon crouch down to roughly frisk and defrock a body scavenging for intelligence. They have no problem feeding on their own.
The pilot of the chopper thumps about in the cabin behind Logan impatiently, anxious to take off. Logan continues to ignore his questions of his strike team’s progress. Barely gave him a nod when he crawled to standing as the transport landed after he was deposited there, barely conscious, by one of the team. Logan hears the pilot groan in disgust as he notices the others’ approach and he roughly sits to buckle up, clicking switches as he goes.
Maverick and Wraith make it to the helicopter first. Wraith slowly removes his rifle in its sling from his shoulder with one hand while dropping his gear bag roughly by his feet. Mastodon, the relative newbie, trots forward to the two men, bent over to one side with the weight of his gear and rifle while holding a bloodied rag to his neck with his other hand. Maverick turns to shout instructions to the last two. They lag behind, slowly making their way up the rise to the copter.
Noting the lack of haste, Logan holsters his gun and straightens up further. There was no longer a sense of immediacy Logan acknowledges as Wraith takes out a silver cylindrical case and holds a fresh cigar from it in between his teeth. He tosses his gear in the open space beside Logan into the belly of the cabin. All so casual, all so easy. The mission was done, everyone was dead. Logan barely hears the order Maverick shouts to the remaining two who approaches. Logan grits his teeth and swallows to reduce the flavor of bile as Silverfox and Sabretooth look up at Maverick to acknowledge the new order, carelessly toss their bags to Mastodon and then turn back to the clearing unholstering their guns to survey the dead. Ollie Ollie Oxen Free, an eerie voice chatters in Logan’s head. Come out, Come out…
Logan grimaces at the faint metallic taste of his own blood in his mouth as his eyes dart around in chemical disorientation. Silverfox and Sabretooth are on possum duty to find those who play. He wonders how long he can hold out while waiting for departure. Hallucinations meld with the actual visual nightmare as he follows their progress from body to body checking for survivors, shooting those who have to insure they wouldn’t. A coup de grace? A final insult from the victors? Just part of the full service they provide, really. Another wave crests over Logan as his eyes start to hood, trying to keep focus on his teammates.
He sees Silverfox crouching over someone prone on its stomach. She pushes the body over with one hand while pointing her gun at its head with the other. Something must have gotten her attention. Perhaps an eyelash moved on its own. Perhaps the movement was just the helicopter’s wind. Perhaps she just was being sure. The shot barely registered above a firecracker over the rotor beat. She casually stands while fishing in her flak pocket pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. She bends away from the direction of the draft for a moment, still holding the gun, her hands cupping her mouth. She comes back up with her hair whipping about her face and freshly exhaled smoke trailing behind her. She briefly glances towards the helicopter. Their eyes meet. She smirks in her characteristic bitter bravado. His eyes hood further in delirium and he sneers in reaction. Her cocky, harassing smile. She taunts, she teases…
…Men with their conceit adjusted left and gun held right fall and collapse at her feet like heart wounded suitors. She offers as appeasement only her tight-lipped smile, showering with both hands blazing her affections wrapped in bullets and debasing labels. She switches positions, only penetration at the end of her blade. Wantonly passionate assertions hit each and every intended mark. Men grab their chests, cradle their skulls, frequently “ reactively “ clutch at their groin searching as they fall, wounded by her cavalier attention. She licks her lips in excitement, flipping back her painfully straight ebony hair. Looking for more worthy stimulation, she steps over her prematurely capitulated callers, leaving them to lie, bleed, emote and groan…
Logan deeply grunts, squeezing his eyes shut while trying to shake the delusion away. He breathes hard against his sneer as he watches her already swaggering off. Her gun swings alongside her. Off to find another to judge and execute. Nearby Sabertooth picks up a body and hold the was-face up to his face. He jostles the sack of weight a little then roughly tosses it aside and stalks another. Clothing and hair whipping in the wind.
Logan tries distracts himself as he regards the action they’re walking away sated from. The engagement between ‘they’ and ‘them’. He smiles faintly. It was good. Damn near worth the week and a half tracking through dense vegetation and dodging wildcats. Seventy two hours well spent crouching in mud and slithering about tree roots monitoring and memorizing the movements of targets. Hiding, blending, deceiving. The 98 minutes it took to approach and crouch in position waiting for the right moment. The seconds it took to take on, bring down, cut-shoot-stab, and then hop back up for another. It was well fought, he sneers in amusement. These people were tough assed bastards. They fought hard and kept on coming. Home team warriors maneuvered easily in their own element, throwing anything and everything they thought they had at them. One would think they had figured out the odds when they found themselves fully surrounded, out gunned, out of their last. Unintelligible words of surrender, heads bowed, coming towards the squad meekly as if to surrender. Get close enough for the team to touch and up goes the arms, down drop the live grenades out of armpits. Dive for cover and avoid the blast, the heat of the shockwave, flying body parts and organs, coming up with their blood splattered all over. Yeah, his nose flared as he smirks. Crafty, fearless. No lying down. No turning back.
Energetic movements in Logan’s periphery distract him from his thoughts. The young Mastodon bends against the draft and swiftly gathers discarded gear while keeping himself low to the ground. Regulation crew cut, his face screws past the wind in focus as he goes about this task. Mastodon’s mission enthusiasm reminds Logan not everyone sees the fight as he does. Logan’s eyes rest on the lines of bag straps Mastodon holds in his hands. His view rises to watch Mastodon ungracefully bound towards him. Well practiced cadence. One, two. One, two…
…Forget the stories you’ve been told. Erase your conscience and ignore your soul. Fight to win. Fight to prove. You try to kill me, I’m killing you. Collect your stripes to cover your green. You have no family just the team. Freshman, Junior, Senior, ghost. Don’t violate the order. Do maintain the post. Compete to win. Compete to prove. To be of the top, your heart you lose. Ranger, Seal, Beret, X. Do the worst to be of the best. One, two. One, two….
Logan blinks from the hallucination and his eyes settle on one of the bodies, its blue shirt flaps in the wind. His eyebrows furrow and his lids narrow as he recalls the animation of the fight. He suddenly wonders to himself who were these people. Communists? Rebels? A death squad? The left end of his mouth curves up in amusement. Terrorists or are they called Freedom Fighters now? He exhales in irony. Doesn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter when the order was placed weeks ago. When his Team gets called in, anything within their radius dies. Both the sides of his mouth curve down. But too many died this time. Women and children were caught in the mix, and that wasn’t detailed in the intelligence. And those details became inconsequential when in the mix of it. But that detail hits home when it’s all finished and done and all you have is bodies. Wide brown eyes permanently staring into blue skies, mouths yawn into infinite scream…
Wraith’s weight enters and settles in the copter. Logan turns his head to watch Wraith now sitting wide kneed in the other side of the cabin by its own doorway. Still rolling the cigar circumference in three fingers, Wraith regards its shape and runs its length slowly past his nostrils, trying to savor its scent over others. He puts all his concentration into cutting off the end. He moistens his lips as he brings it to his mouth. Logan finds himself watching thick tanned fingers coming together as one hand produces a flame…
…Different theatres of hell create different shades of men, shadows of souls, ghosts of humanity. Eyes grey out the color, they see past the dimensions. Walls are mere suggestions. Barricade yourself for security, for safety. He’ll appear, fire lit eyes “ you’ll die astounded. Try to defend with rounds and rounds. Unaffected, untouched, you disappear under his shadow. He invades your personal space leaving only space for one person. Then he’s a figment. Like smoke. Poof. Pow. Gone…
Wraith’s face is now surrounded by clouds with his first puff. He finishes a semi satisfied exhale and their eyes meet. Logan notices the change of the absence of color as Wraith blows the flame of his light. He is left with only an aura of cigar smoke around him. There is nothing communicated in the eye contact. No messages, no emotion. Nothing more than a glance. Logan blinks as Wraith’s eyes drift away to stare out onto his side of the jungle. Logan attentions turn back to his side, needing the stimulation of activity.
Maverick high steps it up into the transport. He looks over at Logan as he takes one of bags from Mastodon outstretched hands. He quickly looks him over and nods his chin up. Logan waves his open hand at him to indicate he’s fine. Maverick returns the affirmative nod and goes back to his work. He could have been crying or happy, the face wouldn’t change Logan remarks to himself. Maverick leans out from the cabin door and his lips and tongue folds into each other as he emits a high pitched whistle to signal Silverfox and Sabretooth. Gaining their attention, Maverick head slowly scans the treeline again. His face unmoving, his eyes only squinting in focus…
…Mask the pain, the anger, emotion. No laugh lines. No smiles, no squints. No sneer of fury. Just action. Click-snap-bang… thud. Take off the demon visage. Walk through chaos with barely a twitch. Wade through death with barely a blip above systolic. Without a flinch he’ll dissect. Without a blink he’ll butcher. With nary a shudder he’ll watch life force bubble and froth from the throat. He’s seen it before. It’s always the same. It’s just his job. Click-snap-bang… thud.…
Logan breathes deeper to try to clear his thoughts, inhaling some semblance of fresh air. He looks for any kind of identifying markers clueing him to his location before they leave this behind. Where were they this time? All the different mission situations have been starting to haze into a blur. He looked at the plant life and the makeup of the dead. Is this Laos? Honduras? Somewhere between Nigeria and Biafra? Definitely nowhere on the Sinai Peninsula. They just knew land at “X”, follow the long curving red marker line to the area circled and extract at the other “X”. Where they here to fight someone’s six day war? Border dispute? Economic insult? He gripped his middle gingerly as a dull ache sharpened. It really pissed him off that he didn’t know.
He moved his arm away as he looks at his middle area. Literally, a bloody mess. The pain reminds him he is still alive as he watches his wounds slowly repairing itself. It’s going to take a while this time. He was cut pretty deep, almost to his framework. This time, he almost didn’t make it. But he is going to survive. That’s why he’s here, why they keep calling him. Logan. Codename: Wolverine. Black ops, covert strike, tough sonovabitch. Super. Soldier…
…He is above skill, below radar. Form and function perfected. Hunter personified. Expel the gun, unsheath his flak and custom armor, dissolve the backup. He remains naturally, methodically, flawlessly, inherently - dangerous. Well seasoned and salty. Natural machine. Mechanized naturally. His training and experience in black ops and special forces culminate in a ruthlessness and paranoia that is beyond normal human boundaries. He isn’t a normal human. He has no boundaries. No borders, no line. No separation from him. And you. His hand, your throat. Your struggle, his sneer. Your heart, his blade. His steel, your blood. Your gasp, your God. Him. Separate the man from the animal. Prejudice the animal from the man. No boundaries, no? No. No separation of him. And him. And him, from him. Black eyes, black heart. Grey eyes…
The absence of external pressure worsens the pain forcing him to reposition a new hold. He looks down at his feet trying to gain a point of concentration. He squints in confusion as he notices movement off his right knuckle. His stomach drops as he raises his hand and sees a long lock of wavy brown hair with skin still attached holding it together. Blood, lock, scalp stuck and dried to the back of his hand. He grimaces in both pain and memory. He takes his blood stained left and pulls the scalp remains off by the hair with a sickening tug and rip. He holds it up and watches it blow for a moment before letting it go. It glides a careless progress down, blown by the draft to join the rest of the mess on the grass. He sneers as he searches out Sabretooth. He finds him taking the more brutal route in dispatching a prone injured. Sabretooth brutally swings with his right the base of his unloaded rifle against the head repeatedly until satisfied. He raises to standing with a satisfied grin and belatedly stalks back to the copter. As he approaches, Logan notices something turquoise swinging from his left wrist. Another wave of nausea comes over him as his anger grows. That bastard. That sneering murdering immoral…
… He steals the light from women’s eyes. They sense his leer and bad intentions before they feel his hot rancid breath. Eyes dilate and quiver in fear at his advance. He prefers the rip to the puncture. Fight - please fight - back to extend his glee. As the blood ebbs and the blush fades, so do the glimmer. The eyes are left as empty pools, to reflect his grinning scowl of satisfaction. He lives for death, toasts with blood. His only mortality, the violation of one’s life…
Logan’s heart pumps stronger and faster in anger as Sabretooth trots closer and closer to the helicopter. Logan waits for him to get nearer so he can focus all his pain and ire at that blond headed, bloodthirsty bastard. They- she was an innocent. The increased heart rate starts to push more blood out of Logan’s wound. He starts to feel dizzy, losing focus of his intended victim’s approaching form. No, he was wrong, Logan curses to himself under his breath. The fight today wasn’t completely worth it.
Silverfox reaches the helicopter before Sabretooth and hops up, pushing Logan’s head to the side by his temple with three fingers. He roughly bats her hand away in annoyance. He feels the vibration of her amused chuckle as she sits behind him, back to the pilot position. Her interference distracts Logan enough to Sabretooth’s arrival who steps into the cabin and sits in the other side, opposite Wraith. Now focused on their departure, Logan hoists himself inside to sitting on the cabin floor, leaving his legs dangling outside.
Silverfox takes a long drag of her quickly shortening cigarette and without turning reaches above her and pounds on the wall separating her and the pilot roughly. The rotors whip louder. The copter’s balance shifts.
Logan repositions himself as gravity dances. He grimaces past the sick elevator like sensation of the copter’s trying to gain lift and he breathes deep to maintain consciousness. He makes his mind work overtime in distraction. Everyone’s in the cabin now. Every one. Each one…
…No names. Just codes. All One. Not just a One. They are a machine. A unit. No official designation or true name. Deceptively generic. Like Plan A. Tab B. Team X. But there are no rules. No referee. Zone offensive, man on man defense. No over time. No foul calls. Definitely no do-overs. Fight, win, go home. Be on call. No prejudice, no politics. No black, white, yellow or brown. Team deniable. Players unidentifiable. Government unblamable. X…
He heaves as he gingerly lays his back down on the cabin floor. His feet swing in open air. The helicopter continues its abrupt ascent and then banks left. Horizontal tilts to become almost vertical for Logan. Everything shifts in the new direction of gravity. Ammunition, unsecured gear even Logan’s body starts to lean towards the open door and his body slightly slips to follow its feet. Logan does nothing to prevent momentum as he watches Maverick support himself with his hand against the frame. A rifle slides towards the opening. He hears someone stop it with a foot. As the helicopter completes its acute turn, the scenery of the ground below take up most of the door’s view. Like a Lincoln Log scene scattered with little green army men, like boys playing War. Green, trees, burning wood huts, a makeshift soccer field. Blood, Bodies. Abandoned.
With the crook of his elbow now covering his closed eyes, he surrenders himself to the nauseous motions of the airborne vehicle and the queasy momentum of his spinning brain. His gut still burns, the healing seems agonizingly slow. He got it real deep this time. For a moment, he thought this indeed was it… the last time.
The copter completely rights itself. The vibrations of the mechanisms keeping them in flight agitate his head adding to his sick. He almost didn’t make it this time, he realizes that. As he forces the whir of the rotor to lull him to a tentative rest he knows he will not miss this place. And he didn’t even have a real idea of where his body would have been dropping. That’s bullshit. He’ll never enjoy these sickening physical feelings. The ebb of the after battle adrenaline leaves his body exhausted of whatever combat euphoria he may have had; like after the climax of cheap spontaneous sex, a wave of disgust, a tinge of regret, a sense of bewilderment. She was right. Who would have told her? How would she have known? She would have still been there, waiting, with no damn clue.
That’s bullshit. That’s IT.
*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*Whomp*
*Whomp* *Whomp* *Whomp* *Whomp* *Whomp*
*Whomp-pomp* *Whomp-pomp* *Whomp-pomp*
He succumbs further into his injuries. Nothing left to do but be shipped back. Back home. Back to her.
This is it, he decides. This is the last time.
His ears are starting to ring again. It grows louder and starts to gain intonation. Wide eyes, contorted mouth. Why? The wail, the scream intensifies. It pierces his temples. His hands grip in tension. He starts to see red behind his clenched eyelids…
~
Deep red trails down the rough tan of Logan’s skin. Spurred to movement by the addition of water. Diluted further by the chemical combination of soap. His naked body is a three dimensional canvas. A solid muscle masterpiece of chaotic, multicolored splatterings. As Logan vigorously soaps, scrubs, rinses and repeats, the vivid Jackson Pollock transforms into the lush swirling strokes of a brilliant van Gogh. His hands lather the grays, greens, reds and whites about every inch they can reach. With each thorough repetition the colors that slide down to his ankles gradually fade. The over flowing pool of frothy primordial soup at his feet creates a river on dark gray asphalt. The river empties into a rusty drain grate, some of its openings clogged with whatever solid filthy masses Logan carried to cleanse himself of. The liquid swirls around the opening of the drain, faster and with more organization forming a vortex. A polluted whirlpool into which all the fading colors and their once compositions disappear into the blackness, never be considered again.
Logan lets the thick stream of water linger on his face. He holds the rubber hose consisting of his improvised shower above him as he lowers his head. The shockingly cold water runs down the back of his neck, past his shoulders, down his lower back; rinsing whatever soap film and muck is left from his scrubbing. Weeks of no washing, no changing and crawling through the jungle had seemingly soaked into his skin, deep into his dermis. He’ll never get it all off, he frowns. He feels clammier than the Everglades, filthier than the LaBrea. He gingerly bends over, lifting one foot then the other, soaping and rinsing each. He feels he brought the jungle back with him; under his fingernails, matted into his dark hair, and, he cringes while gently running his hand over the still open wound below his breastplate, pushing through his gut.
His hose arm drops and the water splashes roughly onto the hangar floor. He shakes his hair out with his other hand as he hears the movements of his teammates behind him. From over his naked back he sees the others in various stages of undress, semblances of personal grooming or just wearily lounging about the front end of the hangar by the open door. Officially, the mission is completed and they are all back on friendly soil. This time is theirs to spend and Logan sees no need to waste his staying in their company any longer. He looks forward to the road and the throttle. A real shower with hot water, holding warm body, soft. He won’t miss this. He won’t miss them. This is it, he silently cursed before he even strapped on his gear weeks ago. Last time.
And the jungle was indeed far behind them. From the extraction point via helicopter, they traveled in a theoretical straight line. Escape the dense bush to land at an unlabeled airfield. Board a cargo plane flown by men who don’t converse and sit cramped together with the other equipment for hours until the next destination. No in-flight movie, no little bag of peanuts, no window seat. Finally disembark at an unnamed base. No ceremony or regard. No pat on the back, no marching bands, no grinning girls in bikinis waving beer in thanks. Just reconnoiter, regroup, refresh at this unnumbered hangar at this unmapped military site. Which military? Don’t ask. A water hose for the hero’s anointing. Mechanics’ soap for scented oils. It was the same every time. Logan didn’t know who made the rules, what clean manicured hand pushed with index and middle the chess piece from H4 to G6 on the global board. He had his suspicions but a soldier never questions, just delivers. When feet deep in a mortar hole with all the Fourth of July letting loose at his direction he would imagine men in smoky rooms coughing out orders from deep leather chairs. They sip burgundy brandy while scarlet blood flow. Comfortably relieve themselves in gold inlayed urinals while he walks through shit. Those faceless, nameless chess masters he will not miss either, he faintly smirks. For a moment, he wonders if *they* will miss *him*.
With no towel to dry himself off, Logan grabs his second to last clean white t-shirt and wipes the water from his face while dropping the hose to the ground for the next to wash. There were only two hoses with which to clean and Sabretooth was already engaged with the other one. Humming a disjointed contented tune of his making, Sabretooth scrubs soap into his unkempt blond hair mercilessly with his nails. His large well-built frame he does not bother to turn from the others. He briskly makes a once over with the fuzzy bar. Over and under and well in-between, obscenely making a show of his familial relationship between he and his manhood. Keeping his eyes off him more out of distaste than courtesy, Logan pads past him with purpose holding his boxers close in front of his privates, moving forward to a stool where he left some of his things by.
In the front of the hangar, leaning on the right edge of the doorway, Silverfox looks over her shoulder casually blowing out smoke to punctuate the movement. She starts to grin as she watches Logan a distance behind her swiftly dry himself with the makeshift towel. She finds fascination in his usual sanitary routine. She knows it well.
After drying himself discretely between his legs, he throws the shirt on the seat. He quickly steps into his underwear - she allows her eyes to linger fondly - then he sits on the stool over the shirt. He rubs his hands briskly together with lotion preparing to apply after, of course, a little talcum thrown into the front of the shorts. She smirks seeing the different levels of opportunity. With a passing word to her smoke buddy sitting outside and the toss of the cigarette in an aimless direction, she struts past Maverick sitting idly on a large tool cabinet into the belly of the hangar towards the water hoses, unbuckling her belt for her turn.
Logan keeps his head down, not acknowledging her presence. He knows she was watching. He has made ignoring her an art form as of late. It wasn’t always this way. And he knows she hates to be ignored. Their relationship now is her always trying to get a rise out of him, one way or another. It’s a game they play but with only one willing participant. As she is approaching, he keeps his attention on rubbing the white lotion on his arms and legs. He keeps her, as one does with all unpredictable animals, in his periphery.
Silverfox stops at the vacant hose and continues her undressing. Sabretooth’s trill melody an odd accompaniment to her slow strip. Logan is all focused on his own business, not wanting any sort of talk. Yet, although there was no conversation started, Sabretooth begins to chatter, still enthused from the action hours before.
“I liked those bastards,” he spits out with a spray of water.
Logan says nothing although he, Silverfox and Mastodon are in his immediate vicinity. Logan snaps his fingers over at Mastodon to get his attention. Mastodon looks up from his lotus on the floor a few feet in front of Logan sitting over a medical case he was engaged with. His hands were stained with blood from his neck wound he was trying to clean and dress. Logan motions for the bandages and gauze tape silently with his fingers and open hand. Mastodon tosses them one-handed his way.
“They had heart,” Sabretooth continues in idle thought, “wouldn’t lay down for shit.”
Silverfox unlaces and kicks off her boots. She steps out her socks and wriggle to toes for newfound freedom as she lets her pants drop. With her hands on her lower back she arches backward, stretching out to counteract the seemingly endless sitting hunch she had to endure during the trip back north. Her long back hair falls straight down towards the floor, her shoulder holster she still wears flap open towards gravity. Logan concentrates on covering the gash with a large bandage. Leaning to one side to keep it from falling, he picks his fingernail along the tape to find the opening.
Sabretooth’s trails off into deeper thoughts of a more immoral nature. They do not notice his looking off in the distance with a growing leer; his soap hand lingering about his groin, moving in slower circles.
“Even their women,” he murmurs with a sinister chuckle. His prurient suggestion not lost on the three. Silverfox’s head quickly whips around. At first taken aback her face immediately twists into severe irritation. She sucks air between her incisor and canine to show her displeasure. Mastodon just shakes his head lower. He rarely converses with Sabretooth outside of the field, seeing nothing he wants to learn from the brute’s experience. Logan’s eyebrows furrows slightly, trying to regard Creed’s voice as just white noise. The white gauzed tape makes a painful ripping sound that echoes throughout the hollow structure as Logan quickly unravels a piece.
Sabretooth continues his reflective snickering as Silverfox snaps him out of it with the sharp clicks of her locking and loading her gun in warning. He glances at her in astonishment from the interruption and meets her hard glare with his amusement. He snorts at her unfazed by unsaid threats.
“Yeah,” he continues as his vigorous scrubbing returns. “They had heart.” His smile widens with a punch line. “And guts, and spleen and…” he chuckles out.
“Shut up, Creed.” Silverfox sharply orders through gritted teeth, obviously near her limit with him. He goes back to scrubbing his back with a pleased hiss.
Logan fastens the last of the tape and stands up to step into his jeans; his dogtags chime slightly as he bends “ gingerly - to pull them up. Logan’s obvious haste catches Creed’s attention. A salacious interest creeps over Creed’s face. Pissing off Fox was one thing. Getting under Logan’s skin was far more rewarding.
“Hey!” Creed barks. Logan doesn’t slow the fluid motion of sliding his last white t-shirt over his head. Unabated, Creed stretches his left arm towards Logan’s line of sight, jiggling the long silver chain double wrapped around its wrist at him. Logan’s eye catches on the small turquoise charm dangling from one of the strands. A small, almost childlike shape of a butterfly hangs under Creed’s damp wrist, pink soapy water dripping from it. His stomach drops at the sight of the charm and the memory of the wearer. A residual echo of a woman’s scream rings in his ears over the sound running water. Her wide brown eyes stared at him emotionless, hopeless, dead. A deep growl emanates from deep within Logan and he meets Creed’s deriding smirk with a teeth-baring sneer.
Pleased he got his attention and itching for more, Creed crudely snips, “Maybe your frail would like this, hmm?” Logan’s eyes quickly start to darken to black. His knuckles burn, angry for freedom and his growl of anger resonates throughout the hangar. Logan knows he’s being taunted for someone’s sick enjoyment but Creed should not have gone there. That depraved, immoral, son-of-a-bitch…
“Creed!” Maverick shouts from the front of the hangar, watching the escalation of the group’s exchange the entire time. None of the faces, save Mastodon’s, turn to acknowledge him. “Cut it out,” he commands sternly. Maverick snorts a frustrated breath out his nose and runs his fingers across his scalp. Great soldiers, he acknowledges to himself, but downtime is always a wildcard when those three are in company.
The two men maintain a stare of defiance, each daring the next to make a move, any move. Logan wasn’t in the mood for this but he’s quickly gaining the motivation to finish it, all of this, now and for all. He’s two heartbeats away from popping the claws out of his hands and performing a spontaneous lobotomy on the lousy bastard. Fuck him for even bringing her concept in their company. Silverfox’s excited chuckle throws him off his momentum. He sees her biting her upper lip in anticipation. Her eyes sparkle at his loss of control. Never one to give her what she wants, Logan pulls back the urge to maim. He growls louder in warning to Creed then quickly turns back to his clothes, briskly tucking his shirt into his jeans and fastening them. As Logan picks up his things and stalks away Sabretooth’s pleased low laughter vibrates through the air.
“It’s obvious, you know,” Silverfox sings mockingly to Logan’s back, enjoying the new game. Logan closes his eyes firmly and stops, cursing under his breath. Here they go again. Fox and Creed could never stand each other but they always find some sort of mutual kinship over tag teaming on Logan.
Logan turns his head slightly to look at her out of the corner of his eye. She motions to her stomach area with her index finger in wide circles.
“Slop-pee,” she mouths quietly. Her lips thin into a mock sympathetic smirk and her head slowly shakes back and forth. He wrinkles his face at her and continues away from them to the front of the building. Silverfox smiles broadly while wrenching off her t-shirt, content with her parting dig. Just a shirt and what God gave her… of course. Her display is answered with Creed’s approving whistle. Mastodon looks up at the call and tries to hide his embarrassed grin. She throws Creed an ‘as-if’ look, lifting the hose to wet her hair.
Maverick pushes himself up from sitting as Logan approaches. They give each other a familiar nod of regard as they stand together by the opening of the doorway. Outside, the flat gray asphalt surface of the airfield stretches endlessly with other hangars scattered about its rim. Beyond them, the distant tops of pine trees. He takes in a deep breath. It was the cool scent of those needles and the air that gave him the clue he was back up North, back where they started. North America. Canada specifically. Just a few hours southbound on the road back to New York. Back to the city. Back to her. He looks up to gaze at the bright blue sky with pale white cirrus clouds lining the undercarriage of the heavens. He wonders where she is right now and under which distant cloud she is now standing.
“You HAVE been distracted,” Maverick quietly remarks to him, breaking Logan of his train of thought. One side of Logan’s face wrinkles in slight irritation and his eyes drop forward, but he does not answer.
Silverfox’s voice trumpets from around her soapy shoulder with perfect timing as always. “It makes you an *impotent*…” pause for effect, “soldier!” she gleefully mocks. From behind him, Logan hears Sabretooth laughing heartily.
Maverick’s head drops with a disturbed groan while Logan rolls his eyes. Yep, that’s his cue. He quickly turns and bends down to his bag he arrived with containing the rest of his things. He puts on his socks and boots tugging sharply on the laces as he ties them. He internally talks his way through this, trying to keep calm. He’s on his own mission now: get up and get out. Away Leave was getting fewer and farther between all the point-and-shoots they’ve been sent out on recently, especially since The Cold War was heating up, cooking with a different flavor each progressive year. He needs the time away. He needs to get back and take care of who needs him. Get up. Get out. Get gone.
From the outside edge of the hangar doorway, a large puff of smoke bursts and then sails with the breeze. On the floor beside where Maverick was sitting before, by the tool cabinet, a large black duffel bag lay conspicuously. Half collapsed unto itself. Very lightly packed. While Maverick watches casually, Logan rifles through it, sorting through small, brown drawstring pouches each with black markered initials on them. He picks up and tosses aside in the bag “C.N.”, “J.W.”, “V.C.” until he finds “L”. Logan stands with the pouch in his hand and starts to untie it. Maverick turns back to the outside scenery.
Logan turns it upside down, emptying its contents: his wallet, his ID, wad of cash that was crudely stuffed into it while they were gone. The trappings and minutiae “people” carry. Perhaps a picture of a loved one. A matchbook of a particular restaurant in the neighborhood. Evidence of civilization. All of it gets handed in before the mission. Everytime. Sheep dipped. No identity. No life on the outside. You submit it at the door and leave it all behind. If you get killed or caught where you weren’t officially supposed to be, you became deniable. How to know where he came from or who he belonged to? Even what nationality he was? The perfect soldier. Executable when not claimable. Governments maybe suspected but never blamable. And so their lives were a gamble, playable. Yes, so perfect. Possibly die by order and die alone. Accept the risks and pay the price. Disappear behind someone’s border and if you’re never heard from again, who would miss? Chess pieces are played to be expendable. All for the greater good of the game. And the war machine belches on.
Logan carelessly tosses the empty pouch upon the now open black bag. The other five pouches sit waiting to be claimed. Logan looks around covertly to glance at his other teammates as he stuffs his personal things into various pockets on his person. If it weren’t for the occasional socializing outside the field, they wouldn’t even know each others names. The names they use outside “the life”. But they never discuss specifics. Sports, battle recall, personal hygiene… all open topics. But who may or may not be waiting for you, kids, where you come from, never subjects to be broached.
Mastodon finished attending to his wound and now sits leaning on the wall with his knees pulled near his chest. His arms rest on his knees and his head is back trying to catch some rest while waiting his turn. He’s the newcomer, the newest recruit. He takes the ribbing and the occasional hazing from the others in stride. He always showers last and has to do so fast because the others will be finished leave him without thinking twice. Logan’s mouth twitches with the barest of smirks. Mastodon came to them confident, slightly cocky but humbled. He was with one of the best covert teams in the black ops biz. The big leagues. The baddest set of guns the government keeps concealed. He knew he had a lot to learn if he wanted to be the best as well. Not every man gets chosen to be part of a super soldier crew. So he keeps quiet, his head down and his eyes open, but never blinks. Logan wonders if he ever was so green and hopeful in his long life.
“Psst, Creed…” Logan hears Silverfox whisper low. He finds Mastodon also has Silverfox’s attention. Her eyes sparkle mischievously as she keep them trained on Mastodon’s open mouthed napping form. She stretches her free wet arm behind her to Sabretooth, motioning with her wiggling fingers for his gun. Logan arches an eyebrow at her. Yes, always keep an eye on Silverfox. Females have vicious streaks that can never be matched by a man. Don’t let her dark blue eyes behind the batting eyelashes fool you. Women can be twice as malicious and ferocious as any man, but their viciousness comes from a different place within themselves. No posturing, no overt bravado. They’ll slide right up beside you, gently find and tickle your softest places then rip out pieces of your flesh just to see you scream. Absolutely the most dangerous of creatures on earth. And Silverfox is their patron saint.
With Creed’s gun in her palm, she rests the tip of her tongue on her upper lip and closes one eye, pointing and aiming directly at the sleeping kid. A deafening shot reverberates throughout the hangar. A loud squeak followed by the explosion of blood and solid masses bursts around Mastodon. His whole body jumps with a start and he opens his eyes in shock at the sight of blood all over him. As Silverfox giggles deeply, the kid tries to scamper up from his sitting position, stumbling over himself. He finds the source of the blood and with a yelp of distaste he kicks the now open cavity of a large rat away from him across the floor.
“What the fuck, Fox?!” he screams in confusion.
“What?!” she gets out between giggles with her arms outstretched in question. “You were going to shower anyway!” bending her naked body over in laughter. The kid is obviously pissed but isn’t about to say anything back to her. His frustration dripping off his face along with the blood and rat guts.
“Awww… Butch up, Hump!” she hoots while handing the gun back, handle first, to Creed.
“Fox! What the fuck was that?” Maverick shouted exasperated, annoyed he’s sounding more like a babysitter minute by minute.
Silverfox pouts innocently. “It was gonna bite the kid, North.” She chuckles again, turning back to her washing. Logan puts up his hand to shield him from the kid who is left standing dripping with the animal’s filth, trying to find a direction to shake at.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Maverick mumbles to himself. He holds his eyes with his right and walks further outside.
Logan idly watches how the water trails off Fox’s dark straight hair down her back meeting her light tan flesh right above her rear. His eyebrows wrinkle together. How could a woman so easy on the eyes be so hard to stomach? He frowns and goes to get his flannel shirt and lumberman’s jacket he wears in colder climes. No, not all women are like her. Some have softer skins and softer hearts. Fox has not always been this way, at least this cold. But Logan guesses it must be true: One man can make one woman hate all men.
He walks to the front again near Maverick who watches Logan hastily putting on his over-shirt then jacket. Maverick wants to say something to Logan, he wonders how he should say it. Not a diplomatic man by nature, truly a soldier’s soldier, he knows how to give orders but not how to make gentle suggestions. He and Logan share a quiet respect for each other, never stepping on the other’s command, assisting when necessary, leaving the other be when essential. Everyone needs to be at 150% when in the field; even those two back there in the peanut gallery, Maverick assesses. But Maverick has noticed a change in Logan, a more detached aspect. The hesitation to consider consequences. No longer the apathetic disregard of his own survival. Logan is rarely in the moment and his distractibility almost got him and the others killed. It *has* been obvious that Logan has someone who waits for him now. That alone motivates soldiers to become men and not blindly obeying machines. Logan the machine is far more valuable to them than Logan the man.
Fully dressed and ready to go, Logan is in the mood for a smoke. John Wraith is unseen but not far. Logan can smell his unwashed sweat mixed in with the sharp woodsy aroma of his favorite pastime. Taking a couple steps to the outside where he knows Wraith is, he pulls out a half smoked cigar out his jacket and starts to pat down his pockets for his lighter. Idly, like a routine frisking, he pats the front and back of his jeans, squeezes the pockets of the jacket like a sponge and then goes to the pocket of his flannel. From the outside he feels the rectangular shape of his metal lighter but buffered with something else inside, something softer. His eyebrows knit in confusion as he reaches inside. The smooth coolness of the pewter casing, beneath that… almost silken…
“Hoo, Boy!” Creed bellows from Logan’s immediate vicinity. Surprised by the closeness of the outburst both Logan and Maverick turn their heads to its direction and is brutally confronted by a wet, dripping, stark naked Victor Creed, grinning like a Cheshire Cat out by the doorframe.
“Am I hungry and horny!” he announces gleefully, stretching in the open air, everything out and unabashedly hanging. An ‘Oh, Jesus’ is moaned from Mastodon who quickly shuts his eyes and turns as if his corneas were burning. Maverick just sighs loudly, lowering his head. Distracted from his discovery, Logan snatches the lighter from the pocket. With a flick of the wheel and flint he lights the cigar and snaps the casing closed, moving away from the prurient spectacle. Creed sneers, enjoying the outraged attention, wants a little more stimulation.
“Bet that piece of ass of yours can cook up some sweet tail,” he chides in Logan’s retreating direction. “Think she would mind a visit from a real man, Runt?”
Instantly Logan’s body stiffens and curves in anger. His knuckles burn for action as the growl within him grows. His intended half turn was interrupted into a quarter as Maverick roughly grabbed him with both hands on the shoulders.
“Okay! Okay- That’s it!” Maverick shouts to Creed behind him as he pushes Logan back. “Creed, shut the fuck up! Go jack off or something.” He walks Logan further outside of the hangar. Satisfied, Victor chuckles while slowly padding back into the hanger to get into his clothes.
After a few steps and couple of pats to jostle Logan to his senses, Maverick and Logan stop again and set a respectful distance from each other. Still pissed, Logan idly drops his lighter back into his pocket. The odd weight that shakes in the pocket reminds him of what he felt in there previously. He put his fingers back inside and feels the silk again and closes his three fingers around it to pull it out.
“Do you want to go grab a beer?” Maverick says quietly, hoping for the opportunity to have that talk with Logan.
Logan looks at the small white blossoms he had forgotten in his pocket. He feels their soft texture, their scent lightly reaching his nose. He frowns slightly. He put them in his pocket as he was leaving New York the last time. When he left her those weeks ago. When Maverick repeats his name for an answer, Logan barely heard him. He shook his head slowly in the negative.
“I gotta go,” Logan says softly, flatly, still focused on the blossoms.
Behind them, sitting in a wide kneed squat up against the outside wall of the hangar, Wraith’s aimless attention suddenly shifts to Logan. His brow wrinkles in curiosity as if he heard something between Logan’s words.
“Okay,” Maverick answers unfazed. Now is as good as any, he says to himself, preparing to broach the subject of Logan’s outside activities. “I think we have another couple of weeks until-“
“No,” Logan says firmly, looking Maverick in the eyes. “I’m gone.”
Maverick’s head snaps back in surprise, obviously not seeing that coming. Wraith breaks into a wide grin. He chuckles low and looks out at the horizon with a deep puff of his cigar. Logan looks back at his fingers and brings the blossoms to his face.
“Gone,” Maverick restates again in startled confirmation. His jaw twitches in annoyed frustration. Damn you, Logan, he curses to himself. Always pulling this shit.
The fragrance of jasmine assaults Logan’s senses and he willingly melts into cotton sheets, their coolness tempered by the warm body he knows will be beside him. Running his fingers along her spine, down the length of her arm to knit his fingers with hers. He feels the fine hairs on her neck with his lips. The cool Canadian air rustles his hair as he remembers the feel of her ivory tresses in his rough hand. She is turning to speak to him. His breath deepens in anticipation. He wants to hear her voice, hear its music, hear the gentle chatter of her language. But all he hears are those words that have haunted him since she spoke them and lost the ignorance of their meaning.
“Nilikudhani dhahabu kumbe adhabu.”
He frowns deeply. The words she spoke in obvious frustration when she drew a line in the sand and he stepped over it, making it irrelevant. She spoke it like a cuss, a curse. He feels ten pounds heavier at the memory. The back of his throat tightens, making him swallow. She didn’t really mean that, did she? It was spoken in passion, in anger. He shouldn’t really take serious things said in anger, should he? And if it is true, how can he change it?
“Logan!” Maverick states firmly to snap him out of it. Logan turns in annoyance. He stuffs the blossoms back into the pocket roughly. One blossom slips from his fingers and starts to fall down towards the asphalt. Wraith and his dull brown eyes are the only witnesses to its gentle descent.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Maverick declares with a stern look in his eye.
“It’s going to have to,” Logan replies, turning to grab his bag from off the floor by the doorway. The blossom still falls its graceful ballet. Wraith quietly watches it, fascinated.
“It won’t,” Maverick says flatly, hands on hips, watching Logan’s movements with growing frustration. Logan approaches Maverick again and abruptly stops in front of him, preparing a retort. The blossom hits the floor. Once it does, Logan’s boot steps on it roughly as he stands before Maverick face to face. Wraith is the only one who sees this and he chuckles loudly at the choreography. Logan and Maverick are startled by Wraith’s animation. Usually so quiet and to himself unless necessary. It was if they didn’t have an audience. His sudden manifestation was out of the air like a ghost.
“Only a matter of time,” Wraith’s underused deep baritone chuckles, his vocal chords well worn by smoke and battle shrieks. He spoke it like an unpolished jewel years of age and experience formed but still went unrecognized by others. They stare at him for a moment, trying to understand the surreal moment and Wraith’s babblings. Still covered in blood and filth, he has no haste in cleaning himself. Outside the field, he goes about mundane tasks as if in a dream, waiting for the next call. A shower is just running water over sins, he resigned to himself long ago. All the soap in the world couldn’t wash all the blood stained on his hands.
Logan blinks away from Wraith who has now turned back to his blank stare of the horizon. He turns back to Maverick and raises his hands as if in surrender.
“I’m OUT!” he states firmly, harsher than intended. He walks to the side of the hanger where he left his bike parked. Now in his pants, Sabretooth catches Logan’s words.
“Hey, Fox!” Victor yells behind him while watching Logan load and mount his bike, “Logan’s pulling out.”
“Eh. Used to it.” She idly answers, not looking up, still in the double entrendre mindset she and Creed played with earlier. The roar of the engine turning over shoots her head up from her washing. She turns and runs her hand over mouth blowing out and water spurts out like a whale air hole. Her eyes recognize Sabretooth’s meaning and for a moment disappointment flashes across her face.
“Again?” she whispers quietly. The tiny glimmer of hurt quickly is replaced by mean spiritedness as she quickly recovers her sarcastic demeanor. “No BIG deal, right Creed?”
“Which one do you think the frail is?” Creed returns lightly with a chuckle.
Enjoying the concept, she smiles knowing not all relationships can be so easily walked away from. Her hose drops and she walks with her back straight to the outside of the hangar, much to the grinning approval of Sabretooth again.
“Hey, Logan!” she hollers, padding to the outside of the hangar, not bothering to cover her nudity. He stiffens again at the close proximity of her voice and the mischievousness laced in it. He turns to her and finds her standing outside the hangar door, dripping wet, soap bubbles sliding off her glistening skin. She stands legs and palms together, mocking the stance and visage of devotional prayer. Maverick watches her beside him with eyebrow raised. She closes her eyes playfully and slowly bows forward.
“Shiva is watching,” she chants. She straightens with a wry smile. She sharply 180’s it back into the hangar, a chuckle and swaying ass in her wake.
Logan’s eyes firmly close and his mouth thins in irritation. Damn her, she was right. Every Plan X as a Plan B. Protocol failsafes. Indeed, there was a referee if a flag was thrown or a player fouled out. He opens his eyes and sees Maverick glaring at him. But he would have to deal with that later, Logan decides. Absolutely, it was a matter of time. He revs the throttle loudly, about to peal out with no parting words.
Back inside the hangar, Mastodon still wiping off with his own filthy shirt, notices Logan left all his gear behind. Only catching part of the exchange, he runs out to the bike just gaining Logan’s attention before his departure.
“Yo!” Mastodon yells and motions with raised arms. “What do you want to do with your stuff?” he barely makes out over the roar of the engine.
The engine snarl louder this time as he looks at the bloodied youth unemotionally. The road is in one direction. Back to her. Only thing he will allow between himself his return to her is distance and time. He will shorten both without the extra baggage of this life he is leaving behind for her. For the both of him. They can all go to hell. The fighting, the wars, the team, the men in Corinthian chairs and corrupted perspectives. They can all burn in the fires of their own design…
The back tire spins on the asphalt leaving behind skid marks, smoke and the smell of melting rubber.
In his ears now is the sound of the engine, the wail of the wind and the rhythm of his pulse as he speeds faster across open runway towards the trees.
His last order. His impromptu parting words.
“Burn ‘em.”
in medias res
“Please be careful, don’t let your heart and mind stay at war. All the things that cause you pain, well it seems they all were knocking at your door.” “ Carl Thomas, “Rebound”
Warning: Contains violence, strong language and strong racial overtones.
Summary: The Bastard. The Beloved. The fucking Betrayal.
Movieverse, Ro/Lo, post X2.
Rememory, part four
The only thing Logan will allow between he and her now is the road.
The road.
The beloved. The road. The burn.
The road. The distance. The speed.
The Interstate. The toll. The Bridge.
The City. The Drive. The Exit.
The traffic. The neighborhood. The side street.
The familiarity. The apartment. The exhale. Home. He is home. Home to Her.
The dismount. The stretch. The glance. From the alley, the view of the entrance. At the entrance he sees the doorway. At the building... The woman. His woman. He is home.
The warm ache of the belly with the recognition... The Beloved. His Beloved. Home.
The elation. The quick step forward... The stranger. A stranger. The stranger at the doorway. He closes the door like it wasn’t so strange. The stranger’s so familiar. Familiar to her. But not to Logan.
Logan’s confusion. His pause. His bewilderment. His inner denial to his eyes’ truth. Truth? His darkening eyes. His stare. The stare.
The Beloved... with a Stranger. And Logan burns.
Her smile. Her giggle. His whisper. His lips near her ear. And she laughs. His smile. His hand. The small, her back. Their stroll. Her hair. The breeze. His fingertips on her elbow to the cross of the street.
Their respectful distance. His stolen squeeze. Their smiles. Their hands; they hold.
Logan burns.
With the fist. The sneer. The knot of the belly. The growl. The follow. The watching. The bewilderment. He sees them lag with their stroll. Here’s the avenue. Turn the corner. To an alley. An alley...
Logan burns.
That Bastard.
That bastard’s grin. His swagger. His self-assuredness. His gestures. His jokes. Her laughs -at his jokes? Logan burns. He burns at the bastard’s tall gait, winking brown eyes, warm tan hand- Her deep brown shoulder.
Into the alley. They go to a door. With the open comes the music and the smoke. And they are laughing. (They all are laughing.) And the bastard, he guides her inside. And then they enter into the music, and the laughter. Logan’s woman. Then door starts to close and then just an alley. And Logan.
The Burn.
Logan halts and then stares. His confusion, his bewilderment. And he churns while he rationalizes and he bargains with his eyes. And he’s angry while empty while torn while compressed. And then within him, the growl and the fire mixes the burn. But there’s hope within the outrage and there’s denial amongst the rage. And so he lingers, in the alley as he waits. And he waits. And he watches by the door for the door to open. But with that door, when it opens, will another door within him close? But he waits. And he waits. And as he waits, comes the door...
The door, it opens. Out comes the music and the laughter. There’s that Bastard with some company. Two friends. Two men. And that bastard presents a cigarette. Then he lights, and he drags. And with a long satisfied exhale, he leans and he grins. And all Logan sees is this bastard who was with his woman.
It’s all peaked inside him now and heightened: the fire and the burn. All he is the the flame and the inferno, the growl and the heat. His knuckles they burn and they itch for action. He’s all action now as he moves towards the bastard with barely a moment.
The bastard had no time to see or prepare. His friends back off instinctively startled as if by a bomb. And Logan has him now against the wall, hard on the wall. All the while his hands are on fire and pressing on racing throat. And it burns. And they burn...
The Beloved. The Bastard. The Burn.
The Burn.
Logan burns.
And in the alley... They- Go
.
Logan bares his teeth and growls in fury as his fingers clench and close over the Bastard’s throat. The body he holds so fiercely he slams against the alley wall, barely registering the loud ‘OOF’ of the wind being knocked out of the other’s lungs. As the object of his fury is momentarily stunned, Logan can feel the speeding pulse held under his fingertips. His menacing sneer widens as his victim’s reactive confused and frantic struggling is useless. With each desperate pant to replace violently stolen oxygen Logan hears, he feels his own carefully crafted control slipping. The red brick mental wall Logan has spent years building and maintaining between ‘He’ and ‘Him’, only to open the gate between the two when necessary, starts to crack and loosen. It’s either Logan or ‘The Wolverine’ who will deal with this outrage. Right now both are working in tandem and in one thought.
The Bastard. His Beloved. The fucking betrayal.
The startled brown eyes across from Logan’s darkening grays widen in surpise and question. Caught off guard and struggling, the prey with the light brown hands paw and claw at his attacker’s forearm and wrist firmly attached to his abused neck. The stranger’s once well worn cool exterior is shaken with his abrupt slam against the wall. His sharply dress-slacked legs and gator covered feet kick out from underneath him trying to gain some firm ground now that he’s the focus of a two-handed grip, slightly lifted and mostly choked. He swings and flails in some weak semblance of defense “ yet he does not connect progressively with the hits. Logan’s grip impossibly tightens. The other gasps for air. The menthol smoking Cassanova’s two friends are left agape and somewhat helpless. They look around in confusion and alarm along with the others who just happened by the scene. But none join in for their comrade’s defense.
It’s a theatre of reality’s absurdity. Two men in an alley outside a club locked in a heated confrontation. One in a severe disadvantage merely on the strength of his race and genetic makeup, the combination of which makes him socially unwelcome. Logan pulls him then pushes suddenly, slamming the guy into the wall again for good measure. His hairs stand in anticipation. The one at the end of his wrath has no idea how deep the disadvantage goes. Jim Crow’s been retired but its still social in its security and whoever sees this fight and has a problem with it is not Logan’s care nor issue. This fool could try to hit back “ and Logan wishes he would - even though there may be consequences for dickless here to consider outside this alley. Doesn’t mean two shits to Logan.
Logan eyes the rapid race of the throat before him. So close. So easy. He could crush his windpipe as easily as an aluminum can - and he wants to. He can bash his brain into bran, collapse his skull like a overripe pumpkin - and he can’t wait to. Slowly gut him like a pig on a spit - all in due time. Logan has this bastard now. He’s his like she is his. This bastard. Logan has him. Got ‘him’. The asshole with the musky, cigarette smoke mixed with sandalwood scent Logan can pick out from thousands. ‘Him’ who has been close enough to Logan’s woman for her to carry his smell when Logan comes home to her. And Logan came home to find his woman in the company of this sonovabitch, guiding her with his hand on her hip to some jazz playing dive off of some alleyway.
The Bastard. His Beloved. Logan burns.
Logan wants to, he anticipates to, all in due time. But first Logan decides he should know his name. Know the name of the cocksucker who thought he had the balls - Logan will soon have them mounted above his TV to gloat over while watching hockey.
“What the fuck? Man, do I know you?” Bastard shouted with a half-confused plea. His eyes darts as he quickly tries to recount what possible slights he did recently could have his back thrown up against the club’s outer wall in broad daylight.
“What the fuck are you doing with my girl?” Logan demands in a growl from between his bared teeth.
“Your girl?” His eyes slightly furrow with slow recognition, “‘Re?” His brown eyes start to crease deeper as two adds with two into an obvious answer.
Logan’s stomach wound churns with the tone in the guy’s voice when he uttered Logan’s nickname for her. His face reacts in kind as his eyes squeeze together willing himself not to completely lose it, at least not- right- now.
“Pretty casual with her given name, aren’t you, Asshole?” Logan utters between clenched teeth. He presses him harder against the wall and leans closer sneer to gape. He could crush and slice so easily, this fucking breathing piece of meat. Just how familiar IS this sonovabitch with ‘Re anyway?
“Where is she and who the FUCK are you?” Logan continues to growl slow, deep and purposeful. Two shy from unintelligible grunts. The mental wall is being pushed and clawed from the other side.
Pressed between a physical wall of brick and a wall of muscle, and although obviously in the position of disadvantage, Captain Misplaced Confidence starts to smirk in amazement, his suspicions confirmed.
“You’re ‘him’, aren’t you? Yeah, Lone-Gone,” the smirk widens into an amazed smile. Finally, a face to the name. His competitor identified, vying for the same prize. Mockingly, contender number two spews out the variation of Logan’s name like a taunt, an old punch line between drinking buddies. Yeah, he grins in challenge, he’s been thinking about the boyfriend just as much as Logan has the challenger. “Son of a bitch,” the rival mumbles in wonder. Finally, after all this time.
The tightly packed bricks of Logan’s mental wall continue to crumble at the mortar. Logan expected fear, pleading, urine in shorts at this confrontation, not a smirking face daring him. The misplaced cockiness to the conflict and his potential danger infuriates him.
“Watch your mouth, Bub.”
“Boy?” the contender screeches a few octaves higher. An age-old insult was perceived behind Logan’s words. Not Logan’s spoken intention, but he is still pleased with the result. “I ain’t no mother fucking boy. I’m the MAN taking care of your WOMAN while your punk ass has been ghost,” he spits out in retort. Bastard shoves at the shoulders of the imposing figure instead only moving Logan’s shirt. The loose flannel opens revealing leather straps, holster hugging the ribcage.
In their breathy struggle, they barely register the panicked scuffle of shoes and the banging of the door being thrown open as someone rushes inside.
With the discovery of the weapon, Captain Cassanova’s head wrenches back and he looks over Logan with a raised eyebrow and his own sneer, feigning unconcern and bravado.
“What? You gotta piece on you or something, Man?” his voice went down to its regular deep street octave, laced with confidence, posturing, no outward hint of fear. But Logan can sense the other sees now the potential danger; this could end up being more than just a shoving match over ego and a pretty face.
Logan’s threatening countenance intensifies in his groin-shifting enjoyment of this sweet torture. So close, so easy. He loves it when they have no fucking clue how close they are to the devil. Those final seconds before the epiphany when the face of horror replaces ignorance are so fucking priceless. Logan leans in closer, barely breathing on his face.
“Trust me, I don’t need a gun for assholes like you,” Logan faintly chuckles in taunt. Anxious to literally prove his point, Logan rears his right arm back firming his hold with his left. He prepares the mother of all fists into this guy’s overconfident face.
This BASTARD. The burn. The Belo-
The forward fist staggers in mid-air. Logan’s eyes widen.
The heavy metal door to the club slams open and a cacophonous gumbo of horns, bass and piano keys come spilling out. A heavy set woman with dark skin and orange lipstick holds the door open with an outstretched arm. Following behind her is ‘Re, her white hair continues forward over her face with her abrupt stop at the sight before her.
“Logan?” she utters in disbelief. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes dart to both men in alarm, trying to understand the position they are in.
Logan turns his head to look at her still holding Bastard firmly. The other releases his anticipatory cringe to find himself looking straight at the fist that stopped less than a foot from his face.
Logan’s throat goes dry at the sight and confirmation of her. Oh God, it IS ‘Re. Not that there were many blue eyed, deep brown, white-haired African women running around New York City but in his startled mind he was hoping it was a trick. An insane figment of his imagination. ‘Re. His ‘Re. What the hell is she doing here? His mind starts swimming with insane questions of this insane moment. Why is she here? With him? Without Logan?
He feels his chest starting to tighten as the tension in his stomach muscles lessen. No. He intensifies his sneer and turns back to the third element in this puzzle. Him first, then her. Him he can deal with, and deal with slow and painful. Logan will have to figure out what happened with his woman after he gets rid of this uninvited third party.
“What are you doing here, ‘Re?” he speaks while looking directly back into the bastard’s eye. DO something stupid. Look at her wrong. Any excuse, please.
“Logan, please. What’s going on?” ‘Re questions in alarm, her voice shaky with fear. She sees the scene before her. Her escort to the club held up against the brick wall by Logan’s hand on his neck while bystanders stand by and around. She sees the face of fury and determination on Logan. Her alarm is heightened. Only she and Logan know how dangerous the situation could escalate to. No, she says to herself as she moves slowly towards them. Not here. Not now. She suddenly propels herself forward to the men to prevent further madness. She does not know what set Logan off, but she must stop this now. She goes behind Logan, trying to pull him away by his shoulders. “Logan, just stop. Let him alone.”
“Is this him?” Logan asks, shrugging her off and punctuating his question by slamming the rival’s body with both hands against the wall. With each slam comes a reactive groan of pain from the other.
“Him?” she tries to understand while flinching at the violence, confused by the aggressive action. “What are you talking about?” She repositions herself beside the two engaged in confrontation. The others watching tut in slight concern, not a place she should be in right now. But none move to guide her away. “Why are you out here like this?” she continues, trying to distract him by trying to put herself in his line of sight.
“The cheap cologne,” Logan lists with a slam. “The stink of menthol cigarettes.” Slam. “Is this HIM?” he shouts louder coupled with a harder slam that bounces Mr. Menthol’s head against the wall.
“Arrgh! Go fuck yourself, Man!” ‘Him’ shouts in reaction to the slams, batting Logan on the side of his shoulder.
“Yes!” she screams in frustration. Her efforts to distract are not working. She sees who’s quickly coming into control. Now fully between the two, facing Logan, she tries to coax his fingers from around the throat. “Yes, Logan,” she answers again, this time speaking in a more controlled tone. “But he’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, man,” chuckles the end of Logan’s hand with raised eyebrows. “A ‘friend’,” he finishes with a smirk. Logan growls louder at his sarcasm.
Every cell in Logan’s body is inflamed. His gut is burning and his head is starting to ache. That brick wall within him is quaking, the cracks along it - weakening it “ are lengthening. Logan now has the body to go with the smell. The brown eyes to go with the cologne. He has the face. Now all Logan needs is the name. Then he’ll provide the body.
“What’s the asshole’s name?” he growls, his bared white teeth drying exposed to open air.
“Lone-Gone,” the chuckler quickly shoots back. There’s always room for more sarcasm. “OOF!” his body replies as Logan just as quickly reacts to the insult, slamming him again.
“Logan, please!” ‘Re screams while stealing a quick pained glance at her friend. She then puts her left hand on Logan’s outstretched shoulder while still holding the wrist by her friend’s throat with the other. She speaks the name slowly as she looks at Logan, her eyes begging for the end to this.
“His name is David.”
“David,” Logan repeats the name low. He lets the consonants play between his tongue and palate. Runs the vibrations through his mouth. He licks his lips in anticipation.
His name is David.
“Yeah, David,” her friend reconfirms with attitude. “Nice to meet you. Kiss my ass.”
“Stop it!” she reprimands in a forceful whisper towards David. “That’s enough of this!” David looks back at her with brief annoyance and concern at her involvement. She could get hurt, and this is definitely not the position David wants her to see him in. ‘Re softens her eyes and turns back to Logan, trying to find an angle to snap him out of his rage.
“Logan,” she starts with more gentleness in her voice, “Nothing good can come of this.” Maybe she can talk him out the alley with no further trouble. Maybe try some reason, or perhaps-
Nothing good, a voice grumbles in slight amusement in Logan’s head.
Logan turns to her and sneers deeper. Nothing good is all he sees right now. There was the breath of jasmine, the laughter of music, the smile he has kept in his mind’s periphery for weeks. But he just now saw her smile without him, enjoying time with this- this David. No, not good, he repeats to himself. He looks deeper into the face of the woman he thought he knew. He feels salt water gather between his teeth. Women, they- they…
They can caress the soft places within you never thought you had then rip out the pieces just to… just to…
In his barely contained rage and outrage, Logan quickly blinks back his red rimmed eyes while staring straight at her.
“Who… the FUCK… is David?”
‘Re’s head snaps back in quiet shock at the question. She gets it now. She now realizes the magnitude of what he has been thinking. How could she have been so naïve? She steps further away from David and closer to Logan, putting herself in full view to block Logan’s of David. She talks softer now, more intimate, trying to make Logan realize with her words and proximity where her heart truly lays.
“He’s not ‘Logan’,” she answers calmly, punctuating his name with her raised brow and a slight smile. He emits a loud growl at the answer, not satisfied. Behind her, David’s brows furrow at the couple’s exchange. Unabated by Logan’s grunts, ‘Re continues to try to soothe Logan back to her.
“I am happy to see LOGAN. Are you happy to see me?” she questions with a tilted head and a forced smile, her eyes still reflects her anxiety. Standing off to the side are two of David’s friends. The taller, darker of the two raises his eyebrow as he watches this strange spell the woman is casting on the irate man with just her words and her smile.
“Yes, you are,” ‘Re nods as if in confirmation. She rubs the arm that’s attached to David softly as if to knead the muscles into releasing its tension. Logan’s eyes never leave her, assessing for any possible deception behind her words. “Let’s let go of him now, okay? Let’s go home now. I’m glad you are here,” she adds lightly.
Logan only growls in reply. His look intensifies and he turns back to David who flinches in Logan’s change. Logan’s fingers on brown skin clench. He has no intention of letting the bastard go. Smell. Face. Name. Body. That was the plan.
“Hey!” ‘Re’s voice sharpens as she moves her head in reaction to Logan’s, not allowing him to lose her view. Her tone softens as she regains his attention. “Hey… Let’s go home.”
Successful in blocking Logan’s sight of David, she rubs the side of his face with the hand that was on his shoulder while gently prying his fingers off David’s throat. Now fully engaged with her touch, her sight and her smell which has been amplified by the raised body heat of her distress, Logan’s face starts to soften. She continues to softly croon and his grip starts to loosen. Startled by the turn of events, David finds himself being slowly lowered back to the ground. ‘Re replaces Logan’s hold of David’s throat with her hand, silent in her relief of being able to cajole Logan’s release and starts to lead him away.
As he is lowered, David finds his feet while rubbing his neck to massage away the violence. Stumbling forward supporting himself with his hand on his knee, he coughs and sputters while watching the couple walk away. The bystanders part before them with either curious or amused looks on their faces. David’s two friends join him, patting his back in concern. The shorter and heavier of the three comrades starts chattering, amazed and recounting the events.
“What the hell was that? Yo, Black- that was some shit! Munny, you okay? You cool? Yo, Black, you saw how he-?” The smaller one continues prattling in amazement while Black keep his eye warily on the parting duo, his hand companionably on David’s shoulder.
David ignores both the chatter and the fraternal presence while his eyes also follow ‘Re leaving with ‘him’. The couple are steps from the entrance of the alleyway, the long brick corridor opening to the street ahead. As the people continue to part, passing cars can be seen while in the foreground ‘Re continues to whisper close to Logan’s ear reaching up to his height to stroke his head, fisting his dark, wild hair.
David looks after them in perplexed infuriation. No. Not like this. He finally got to see the guy ‘Re has been telling him about every time David dared to get closer to her. This woman whose smile never quite left him that first day he happened by her in that park. He always wondered what kind of man could both possess such a creature yet never be around enough to show her off properly. The idiot, David had always chuckled to himself. Never knowing what type of woman he had, taking her for granted.
But now he’s seen “heh- Lone-Gone and he knows this ‘boyfriend’ of hers is crazy. Hell, okay… Any self-respecting man would toss table and shove broken glass against the throat of anyone pushing up on his girl. But David grinds his teeth recalling that look in Logan’s eye. Barely controlled fury behind the dark black pupils. Something just beneath the surface that was inherently dangerous and borderline insane. He’s seen that look of dark, unabashed brutality in a man’s eye before. David knows the face of indifferent cruelty and he won’t let THAT face walk off with ‘Re. No, David determines as his face screws into focused determination and he straightens to follow behind them. No, this won’t end like this. And besides, it takes more than threats and some strong arming to keep a Munroe down.
Logan allows himself to be led out of the brick laid hallway by ‘Re with his eyes closed and holding his forehead in his hand. Mother FUCKER. What the fuck is going on? He looked into ‘Re’s eyes as she told him what’s what with that- that- His face clenches back up in anger when he remembers the asshole smirking at him like he knew a secret and that secret started with the words ‘your girl and I’. That bastard.
‘Re felt Logan’s body stiffen and slow as if he was preparing to turn back. She holds him tightly by his arms and tries to lead him further out the area. She looks ahead at the sunlight and the street. Children gathering in front of the Five & Dime across the roadway, hopping, chanting and banging their palms against the glass window trying to get the storekeeper’s attention. So close now, she chants to herself. Almost there. She’ll get him home, calm him down and explain the misunderstanding to him. So close to the street now. They were so close to another bad episode. Thank goodness that’s finished with no-
“So this is him? The fabled Logan?” David chides behind the departing couple.
Logan abruptly stops in reaction to the mocking tone. ‘Re releases a short disappointed gasp as she grits her teeth in anxiety. They were so close. A few more steps to the street ahead. She almost got him out of there and out of danger.
“Blows in and out of town, leaving his woman all alone,” David continues spurred on by his regained attention. He starts towards them with arms gesturing in cocky motions with his taunts. “All ready to lay claim the second he decides to show his face.”
The growl begins within Logan. The vibrations to the low rumble echoing in ‘Re’s chest. No, please not here, she prays as she looks at Logan cautiously with worry. Logan bares his teeth and grinds them as he quickly turns around to face David. His body starting to slump and curve into an aggressive stance. ‘Re quickly puts her hand on his chest in a weak attempt to contain him and she furrows her face at David in severe annoyance.
“Stop this! This is not the time. We have to-“
“No, this IS the time,” David quickly interrupts while not taking his eyes off of Logan’s. “We gotta catch him when we can, right Long-Gone?”
A snicker is heard in the periphery from one of the two friends of David’s who were never quite that far from the action. They shadow him with every movement, just off to the side, keeping track of the situation.
“Be quiet, please!” she is almost begging now but more imploring in anger. She straightens her arm in David’s direction holding her palm up as if she could make him stop his forward movement. Logan’s body tenses in anticipation. David does not acknowledge her gesture. The men’s eyes are locked. David audaciously narrows the distance between them.
“Are you just here to give her a quick pat on the fanny before ripping off again?” David questions with a cocky side nod to his head and raised eyebrow. He gestures to his friends in jest. “Watch it! Don’t let him catch anyone near his ‘piece’ or else its heads busting time… is that how it goes?” he chuckles.
“All this shit you’re talking right now is not helping your ass,” Logan grumbles in retort, taking one lumbering step toward David. The sneer has traces of a smile. It’s back. Like the warm burn in the chest from a downed scotch. “Not one fucking bit.”
“Logan, just ignore him. Please,” ‘Re pleads in a low whisper to him. “Not here. Don’t hurt him.”
Without leaving his brazen gaze on Logan, David sucks his teeth at the concept and brushes off the notion with streetwise intonations. “Hurt me? Man, he just caught me off guard and shit. So, what? She’s your side piece or something?”
‘Re gasps at the comment and quickly snaps her head towards David in shock. Her quick head movements between David and Logan starts to loosen the once neat upsweep of the upper portion of her hair. Tendrils of ivory start to escape the lightly fastened half knot. The large light purple blossom fastened at its apex starts to nod downwards, losing its anchored position.
Logan’s fists clench tighter and his knuckles start to whiten. He takes that last taunt from David as more of an insult to her than to him and the wall within him loses a couple more bricks from the top.
“You sonovabitch,” he warns between his teeth. David’s friend Black shifts his weight to his other leg uncomfortably while David’s smirk widens to a smile, pleased with Logan’s infuriated response. Black knows David likes to push and push just to see how far he can take a situation. Plenty of times Black had to pull an irrational, enraged guy off his laughing friend when David pressed all the right buttons in the proper order to make the other snap.
“Keeping your chocolate loving in Harlem? Too embarrassed to show her off to the whities downtown?” David threw out at Logan’s anger-strained face.
Logan barely stifled a roar in response. Now that one bit. Bit too close for comfort. Different levels of mixed emotions started to wash over Logan, guilt and frustration above all. It hasn’t been easy for the couple to be together in public. The looks, the whispers. The occasional insult leading to a fight. But to have this sonovabitch throw it in his face on top of everything…? More bricks within him fall.
“It’s not like that!” ‘Re shout surprises the both of them, fully stepping up to David and confronting him with her outrage. David looks at her in confusion as if he didn’t know she was there and then his look falls to concern and regret. He forgot that remark would hurt her as much as it would gnaw at Logan. It takes two to be part of a couple. Two against the world that couldn’t see past black and white. David’s mouth then thins at her constant defense of the hard panting Neanderthal who just one minute before had him thrown up against the wall like a child. Obviously she doesn’t see what he sees..
“Oh, how you know, ‘Re?” he says with annoyance. As he gets more emotional his comfortable street drawl grows thicker and more pronounced. “Where he be at this whole time? Where he coming from now?”
“Stop putting shit in my girl’s head,” Logan steps in, trying to get ‘Re out of the ‘conversation’. He attempts to position her away in case they decide to get physical again.
“Your WOMAN’s head is screwed on pretty tight if she wants to be the hell away from your never around ass,” David barks forcefully, his full attention back on Logan, waiting for the wrong movement from Logan for the right punch from David. Fuck it all now.
“Looks like to me she’s passing time with you, coming home with me,” Logan retorts with a sideways smile. David ain’t the only one with a couple of good ones to dish out.
“Alright, this ends!” ‘Re orders loudly, trying to regain control of the rapidly disintegrating situation. She grabs Logan by the shoulder and tugs him towards the street. Unabated, Logan and David maintain their provocative stares.
“Let’s go!” she yells again, frustrated at her lack of attention from them.
Logan and David talk volumes in the cold glares they share. A promise of a really good ass kicking from both sides, they both exchange teeth-baring smirks in anticipation.
Very fucking funny, David thinks as his eyes narrow at Logan. David shifts his position. He always has more verbal ammunition to fight with. He pushes the button every man has. The big red one with the plastic cover over it to prevent accidents. Oh this one won’t be no accident, he grins.
David croons the words slow like maple syrup over velvet. Bedroom voice lounging with Barry White playing in the background. The slower the better, to make the words sting.
“Nah, BABY. We got this, you go back inside, ‘Re.”
David ends it with a smirk. Logan’s eyes widen in-
The rumble is in Logan’s ears. The wall is too weak and collapses under the explosive pressure from the other side. Logan stumbles back and blinks fast trying to regain some sense of sanity, cause he couldn't have heard what he thought he heard. Some say its like ‘blacking out.’ For Logan, everything turns red before his eyes. All he knows is that he must have, no he definitely heard what David said. Logan stutters for a moment then his words are garbled while his cranium roars.
“BABY?”
“Logan! No…” ‘Re’s stomach drops as she slowly steps backwards from Logan. David’s chest meets her back as he watches in amused triumph.
“Did you just call her 'Baby'?!” Logan roars in fury.
So the fuck what? David eyes him in taunt, reveling in reaction. Then his eyebrows knit. First surprise then confusion then “ What the-?
It is proceeded by an inhuman roar from the enraged Logan. Next comes the familiar yet sickening sound like the husking of fresh corn as bone rubs against bone along his forearm, past his wrist and pushes out violently from between his knuckles. The bravado sneer on David’s face quickly falls into shock and disbelief, his eyes grow wide at the folly of Mother Nature. Three long straight protrusions each ending in a gleaming sharp point out of the back of Logan’s hands. White, straight and strong with Logan’s own blood clinging its surface; more blood trails down from his knuckles where the claws have escaped their housing. Three unsheathed bone swords pointing straight at David’s ashen face. Logan grimaces with the burning yet companionable pain his claws’ appearance brings, but it won’t hurt him half as much as it will this asshole when he sinks his bone claws into this smirking, cocky, sonovabitch’s…
--
Bone-?
*SNIKT*
Beneath the white moon against the cobalt canvas, beside the lake whose waters churn and roll in an unseen disturbance, Logan stares wide-eyed and panicked at his unsheathed claws now shining of metal. Bone? His claws were bone? The rememory showed bone. How could this be? He thought…
Sitting close beside him, though she did not react to the claws’ appearance, his guest, his once lover ‘Re, looked at them with curiosity. He stares at her with his mouth agape, panting. What does this mean? Her eyes squint reactively at the moonlight reflected off the metal and hitting her eyes. She then looks at him and is more perplexed by his shaken reaction.
She tilts her head and glares at him with disbelief. “You do remember? Don’t you?”
He stares at her, panting shallow. His head slowly begins to shake ‘no’. Remember? No. Oh, God, he didn’t know. None of this he knew.
He holds his head with his now unfamiliar claws still dangerously unsheathed and pants faster and faster in incredulity and turmoil. The chaos of his mind, his memories and everything he thought was real reflected in the waters before him. Choppy, turbulent, unpredictable.
Everything he knew was wrong. He just assumed. All these years… He only could assume…
--
“Nooooooooo!”
*SNIKT*!
--
In medias res…
4/1/2007
When morning comes again I have the loneliness you left me
Each day drags by until finally my time descends on me
I go to sleep, and imagine that youre there with me
“I go to sleep”, Sia cover
Warning: Language and racial overtones.
Summary: “We Munroes- we don’t stand down, lie down or kneel down! Come at us the wrong way, we throwing down, you understand me?”
Rememory, part five
*SHRRIPPT*
“Holy shit!”
It's a communal shout as the circumference of the people surrounding the quarreling spectacle expands with the appearance of Logan’s mutation. The loud gasps of surprise coupled with female screams of terror quickly halts, leaving nothing but the scuffling sounds of David’s feet instinctively scampering backward accompanied by Logan’s menacing growl of engagement.
In an alley, outside a speakeasy, surrounding two men and one woman, after the initial shock and reactionary exclaim, no one says anything. Everyone stifled into paralysis. Everyone except those three.
All eyes are fixed at this panting, angry apparition with his infuriated breaths echoing throughout the corridor, and the woman who stands before him, ridiculously in-between the men as if she can protect the panicked one behind her against the looming, snarling man-now-animal inexplicably equipped with bone claws.
“Logan! No!” ‘Re screams as she puts herself in the direct path of the strike zone. If he’s going to hit David, he has to hit her first. All Wolverine can hear is the roar of outrage and fury coming from within. This sonovabitch David crossed into wrong territory when he even *thought* he could come at Logan the way he did. 'Baby?!?' Ha-ha *this*. The Wolverine rears his armed fist preparing to strike at David. David, catching on quick to the newly improvised rules of the game, continues to throw himself back against a wall in his attempted flight. With nowhere else to retreat to, he cringes knowing his good looks will be gone forever.
It’s an odd, jerky three-way tango. Wolverine grunts in short frustration with the constant obstruction and deftly maneuvers new angles to get at his prey. David jumps and dodges in the quick movements of the mutant, seemingly almost impatient for the inevitable stab. Between them,‘Re makes no such careful movements, and with each ocho cortado or molinete, grows more and more anxious. Yet she continues with all-wide eyes, open palms and weak attempts at a soft, soothing voice to lure Logan back to sensibility.
“Logan… Logan, NO,” she states firmly but softly. “Logan, it’s okay. We are not going to do this here.” Her voice is cracking, trying to swallow back being overwhelmed in helpless emotion. And it starts to dawn on her: this is not ‘Logan’.
Wolverine continues to move forward and she follows his movements, step by step, backwards and to the sides to protect the person of David. Black-eyed fury still smolders in Wolverine’s eyes as he tries to regain a clear position to David around her head.
“Logan, Darling. Let’s- WHOA!” he had quickly shifted to his left seeing an opening that ‘Re soon closed just as quickly. Her voice continues to falter. He’s not letting up. She’s never felt *this* helpless before him ever. What is happening? This is too insane.
“Holy shit!” David exclaims through broken voice. Okay, THIS is something he never had to deal with before. David is very much mindful of the loss of safety of his person but he also sees the danger ‘Re is putting herself in. David tries to guide her with a hand to her hip away the few times she isn't so quick to compensate for Logan’s movements. David's continually thinking quick. Nothing in his mental toolbox has anything for this.
In the ever-erratic movements, the large flower blossom which was already precariously fastened her disintegrating hairstyle finally fully dislodges and starts to slip down her shoulder, between her and David, to the ground below. Unseen, it is pushed first by ‘Re’s heel then forward by David’s toe as they shift about to avoid Logan’s ever aggressive movements.
And the dance continues. Media vuelta. Mordida. Quebrada.
“Logan… *SNAP!* Logan!” she snaps her fingers in front of Wolverine’s face to regain his attention. She is only answered with louder growls from him. She sees no recognition in his face, only his continued fury.
“Goddess, it’s not working,” she whispers in despair. David hears this and his stomach drops. She starts to heave in frightened frustration. She’s not bringing him back. David’s testicles jump further into his stomach with the thought that if *she* has no clue what do to, there’s no holy way he does. Meanwhile the boyfriend is working himself up more and more.
“You callin her 'Baby?' You fucking think I’m some kind of punk?” Both David and ‘Re stare hopelessly into Wolverine’s dark, empty pools that were once his eyes. David cringes in fear of the furious uncertainty. ‘Re face falls into slight horror; she’s never seen this man before.
Wolverine continues to snarl and roar in infuriation, his words barely discernible as English. “You have no fucking clue where I have been or what I have gone through to get back here. I’ll be damned if I let some chickenshit Jodie smile in my face and palm my woman.”
Molton lava pumping through his veins. Electricity shooting through his nerves. There it is. The terror, the fear, the taste of the opponent's realization before the almighty strike and Wolverine laps it all up hungrily. Like the tapping of the foot before the long-awaited smoke. Inhaling the coffee fumes before the first morning sip. He’s been waiting for this since Canada. Since the shower and the dangling chain around Creed’s wrist. Since the talk of frails and ass. Since the one-word interrogation in Spanish after his last kill. He’s got some shit to work through and he will work it all through the body of this sonovabitch.
Yet the mutant also tastes something sweeter and foreign beneath the menthol-flavored panic. He shakes it away as his vision gets redder and more focused on this piece of meat before him.
“Wha- What the FUCK?” David spits out. In his anxiety he grabs the shoulder in front of him. Logan sees that movement. No. Bad move. He is touching- he is holding onto-
Wolverine gives off a massive roar and rears up further about to plant everything he has into this feeling-up mother fucker-
“Logan, PLEASE!” Her scream pierces the alley and Logan stops startled. “You’re scaring me!”
He looks down and blinks trying to focus. He sees her finally. She is in front of David and directly in the line of fire of him and his claws. She covers her mouth with her hands, gasping in fright. He shakes his head in surprise. He did not know she was there.
“Logan, don’t do this. Please.” She is sobbing now, tears rolling down her cheeks, her eyes wide in fright. His eyes crease at the sight and state of her. Inside he feels a slight pulling back of the adrenaline.
“’Re?” he whispers, like a self-clarification.
“Please stop it. I’m sorry, whatever you need. He’ll leave us alone. I just want to leave now.”
It tastes sweet with an edge of tart… her fear. No- terror.
“David, get out of here. Just leave us alone, please.”
“Wha-?” David’s throat is suddenly dry. His testicles dance again when Wolverine’s eyes shift to him at the mention of his name and the discovery of his movement. Red-rimmed eyes narrow in threat “I dunno what's-”
She turns her head slightly making sure he can hear her. “David, tell him this is over. Tell him you’re not going to do anything.”
David looks at the side of her face trying to digest her words. Logan is just panting over the both of them, trying to process this.
“TELL HIM!!” 'Re screams. David's stunned inaction panics her further. He quickly snaps out of it at her yell. His eyes dart and he sees his two friends in the background. Sonny, for once, is left without words, with a hand covering his mouth and eyes wide. Black has his teeth clenched and eyes furrowed in frustration and focus “ with the unmistakable undercurrent of fear. David and Black exchange glances. Yes, David silently agrees, maybe THIS TIME he HAS gone too far.
“S’okay, man. It’s cool. You got this,” David blurts in assent throwing his palms up, shaky as they are, in a sign of compliance and slides slightly away along the wall with his eyes down.
“See? Nothing’s going on,” 'Re pleads and considers trying to bolster her argument by attempting a step closer to Logan.
But yet none of them move. David and 'Re too afraid to not knowing if it will set him off again. Logan’s stands, panting, facially constricted as his body demands him to go forward but something else inside him wills him to stop. His eyes presses desperately shut.
“Please, Logan.” She whispers in frantic terror, only audible to him. “Please.”
He opens to look at 'Re. She is still emotionally short-winded, eyes open in question, rimmed red, watery, scared yet exhausted. He looks into her eyes of blue, but they soon begin to morph to gaze back stronger as eyes of deep brown. Eyes he left thousands of miles back at the jungle. The eyes he looked deep into before a white flash of heat and everything, even him, fell to pieces. The alley of brick and stone melts into the lush flora that surrounded that shadowy jungle glade. The sounds of the passing cars and sidewalk radios get remixed into the distant concussion pulses of exploded arsenal and the yells of militia. The crowd surrounding them became the trunks of the canopied hardwood trees that stood as unemotional witnesses to that last fight. That girl- Her straight brown hair unkempt, her ponytail shook free from her attempts to flee. The girl- With her hands to her chest holding that- She was before him then, much the way 'Re is now, questioning him in desperation with her tear-stained brown eyes. She, too, was also begging -pleading- to leave, to leave with the man she loved. But he- and then Logan- so then she-
[Porque?]
“NO!!”
David and 'Re jerk startled by Logan's roar. He grips his head with his hands while his claws are still engaged staggering backwards grunting in agony as if a bomb went off in his head. Re, confused, tries to follow his movements but David instinctively grabs her by her arm to hold her back.
Logan continues to stagger backwards through the grass... No- the alley. Eventually his back meets with the opposite wall. He reacts immediately, spinning around to face this unexpected obstruction. Quickly his claws go back into their sheathes right before he violently punches the brick wall in frustration. The blood from the holes of the claw’s retraction mix with the wounds now created by the punches.
With each violent slam of his fists into the wall, David flinches, knowing that the power of each strike was originally meant for him, and tipped with claws no less. His knees feel a little weak at the notion. Thank goodness for Black’s hand on his arm from behind. The three stand together in shock at the sight in front of them.
Logan releases all the rage and bewilderment at the wall. The pounding soon slows to frustrated hits resting his forehead on the wall. He lets out a loud mournful groan turning and sliding down resting his head and back on the wall, knees buckling beneath him.
All watching in stunned silence. David's friend in the periphery, Sonny, the shorter and louder of the two, finally finds his breath with the barely audible, “Holy shit.”
“'Re?” Logan shouts out blindly. His blood-covered hand reaches out while he holds his head with the other. “N-?”
“Yes, it’s me.” She had already shaken away David's grip at the first utterance of her name.
She quickly runs to him, falling down to her knees to grab at his hands, to console him with her presence. She ignores the blood and holds his hands to her chest while placing her forehead on his.
“It’s me, Logan. I'm here.”
“I didn’t mean to- I didn’t know-” he explains like a chastised child. He wants to let her know it wasn’t his fault. It was Him. The other one, he engaged him first. “They were only trying to-” He had given them a warning. That guy didn’t have to- “I was just doing my job. I was just-” Logan feels that girl will never understand; he'll never be able to answer her question. How do you answer ‘Porque’?
“It’s alright, Logan. It’s over now.” She has no idea he isn’t talking about this fight in this alley but another one miles away in location and reality. But being all too aware of the eyes around them, her first priority is to get him away from here. Back into their room. Back to their world where its safe.
“'Re- You don't understand. I almost-”
“Yes, Logan. I want to know. But come on. We'll get up and-” She somehow cajoles him to standing and she starts to walk him out of the alley, leaving the three men gaping behind them. All the while, 'Re's voice continues her soothing, almost musical cadence. “Logan? We’ll go home now. Look, you’ve hurt yourself. We’ll go home and make it better.”
Logan opens his eyes and finds the jungle has retreated. Instead of blood splattered grasses, he sees the dirty gray of the asphalt beneath him and the retreating feet of the onlookers creating a path to their exit, thanks to the determined and warning eyes of 'Re while holding and guiding him. He looks down at his hand and barely regards the blood on him but with the sight of her hands covered in red he pants faster in panic. 'Re quickly recognizes this and briskly wipes them on her skirt, clearing her hands but not improving the horrific sight by the crowd of her covered in blood.
“No! No, it is not my blood. See? Sijambo. I am fine. Hali ngani, hah? How are you doing, my Mzungu Chisi?”
And left in their wake, amongst the others who are whispering to themselves, are the three men, David and his closest friends. Bound together by not only their word, but by constant association. “Black”, “Sonny” and, logically, “Munny”, a warping of David's last name.
“Holy sh- Yo, Black! You seen that shit?”
Black makes no movement to answer Sonny. He still holds on to his best friend, mouth slightly agape trying to process the just-ended scene in front of them. David, on the other hand, is left still panting, his heart starting to slow their race, recovering from having to face the black eyes of his then-impending mortality. He runs his fingers through his short hair as he tries to regroup his thoughts. Still quickly trying to analyze not only the confrontation, but the odd dynamic of the couple walking away from them. He's also wondering whether he gives enough shit to care or just to laugh this one off as he usually does. But, no matter how hard he runs his nails through his scalp, David is left in shock.
The mind adapts to continuous adversity in remarkable ways. Black people pride themselves with an unusual adeptness for street common sense. They are wary of everything yet surprised by nothing as people who live precariously on the periphery do. Surrealism and realism goes hand in hand when the profane and sacred reply in familiar head nods and share a beer, usually on the corner, swapping tales and dropping names. A man who has seen everything from dogs and fire hoses put on schoolchildren to a cop who turns a blind eye at an inequitable slight and then smacks a woman with the friendly end of his pistol without the transitional blink reacts to surreal drama in front of him in the only way his cerebellum can process. In amazed and nervous laughter, cause surely this done beat all. In this fine tradition, the round-cheeked Sonny chuckles uncomfortably yet in awe.
“I mean, hoe-lee shee-it! He’s a mutant.”
“Not now, Sonny. Please.” David replies flatly. He sees the couple approach the corner of the building, about to make that left onto the sidewalk. After that turn he could either not see this woman ever again or be the stupidest man alive and search her out another day to persist his affections upon her.
“Ain’t that about'a- Black!” Sonny's energy could have been more helpful during the fight than in his now excitedly running his mouth. “Yo, you saw that? Ain’t that a kick in the head?”
“Just shut up! I need to think.” David's feeling really stupid right now.
“Oh, NOW you think? Wasn’t quite thinking straight with the whole exotic eyes, hair and accent thing.”
“Damn,” Black's finally found his voice.
“And the boyfriend’s white. Yeah, that’s pretty sticky enough. But leave it up to Munny to piss off one of those new, im-prooved white boys. One of those freaking mutants they’re starting to talk about.”
Adrenaline still is pumping in David’s veins. Whether its his instinct to fight or flee he still can’t decide. In his mind are extremely convincing reasons for both.
“Motherfuckin CLAWS, Man. You saw that? Rolling up with fucking claws and shit. Badass as HELL!”
His first clear motivation, though, is to move away from the yammering jaws of his friend, Sonny, whose unending commentary is the last voice he needs out of the many now running in his head. Second loudest is his mother’s voice telling him how a woman should be treated. Meanwhile, he also hears his father sucking his teeth at him. He never did know how to translate those constant verbal jewels of the elder Munroe.
“Absolutely classic, Man. You certainly know how to pick ‘em, I swear to God!”
David feels the need to pace some of this residue energy away and is about to step forward when something suddenly catches his eye below him. Directly underfoot he finds the large purple blossom he remembers accessorizing 'Re not too long ago almost about to be flatted by his shoe. He glances up at her parting figure leading Logan away, her hair now totally free from its almost perfect arrangement before. He slowly stoops down to pick it up. With furrowed brow, he regards it closely, as if to smell it, twirling it slightly by the stem.
He recalls mentally noting how perfectly the subtle purple-tinted color complemented her while bound to her hair. The large, distinct petals bouncing along with each step as they walked down the street together. When he didn't think she would notice at the traffic light, he daringly stroked one supple petal with his finger, craving the feel of its soft texture. The softness gave way to silk the deeper within to the core, flooding his imagination and fascination with this woman. He wanted to get closer. To have more. More of her softness. If only...
“This is crazy,” he mutters low to himself and to the blossom that captures his breath. He looks up at the couple again. They are almost at that corner. “No. Not that easy,” he says slightly louder, twirling the flower faster to match the gears in his head. He feet starts to propel him forward causing a startled reaction from his two friends. David quickly drops the flower into his blazer pocket. “I can't let it go down like this. 'Re!”
“What the HELL?!” Sonny utters in disbelief. He quickly catches David by the crook of his arm wrenching it back while trotting up to face him. “Man, you'se crazy?!”
“No, leaning back and doing nothing is crazy,” he counters quickly.
“Mun,” Black's voice is deep with seriousness laced heavy with concern. “What you thinking, brother?”
“He’s dangerous. He may turn on her.” Out of the two of them, Black would understand and probably back him up. They always got each other's back.
'Re cringed slightly at hearing David call to her. She quickly looks over to Logan whose face is still tensed with some sort of inner turmoil she is starting to suspect goes deeper than this argument. She is nearly pulling him out of the area once she hears the men's low voiced argument behind them, hoping against hope against another episode. She'll deal with David later, Logan's her first priority.
Logan almost killed a guy just now. He knows that. And he would have killed a guy right in front of 'Re. Bewildered would be an understatement. He still can't quite pinpoint where exactly he is. He's still trying to discern between reality's sounds and the echoing cacophony in his head. Joyful squeals of sidewalk skipping children or the screams of women running from a firefight. Booming percussion from a passing car radio or launched grenades. He lost it back there and with that he almost lost it all. He's chanting to himself left foot right foot left to keep himself moving until he can get his senses straight. He just needs to get straight again.
Throughout all the noises, both real and imagined, one word pierces all.
Sonny throws his hands up from his obviously suicidal friend in jive relent. “Not for nothing, but all this over some African bitch-“
“What?! What the-?” David quickly turns to face his friend. Face creasing and eyes wide in heightening fury. “What the fuck you call her?”
“What?” Sonny has his palms up and eyes clueless like he just said the sky was cloudy. “U’m just saying all this shit and the BITCH ain’t even wor-“
With a quick OOF, Sonny is abruptly doubled over after the fist to the gut by David. He falls HARD to the ground gripping his middle with David standing over him like he's about to pounce and roll on him further.
“Don’t you ever- EVER!” David shouts at his friend with pointed finger.
“Fuck, Munny. Damn!” Sonny spits out to the ground.
“You don't ever call her no type of names and-” Black grabs his infuriated friend from behind to prevent another punch or perhaps this time a kick which inflames David more. David successfully shakes the larger one off. “Oh, you grabbing folks now, Black? NOW you trying to break shit up?”
With the heard female gasp and the sharp change of footfalls behind them, the three look towards the street to find Logan and 'Re watching. 'Re slightly turned with a look of shock at more instances of sudden violence. Logan turned the same, his eyes refocusing his ire.
“Oh, what the fuck?” David calls out, “She heard you?!” Sonny yelps a couple of octaves higher than usual at Logan's sudden personal attention.
Like a shot, David grabs Sonny by the collar and starts to shake him vigorously up to his feet. “I told you, you idiot, to mind yourself around her. What the hell is wrong with you? DAMN!”
Before Black can stop him, David pulls the shaken Sonny towards the couple. Alarmed and confused, 'Re's eyes go wider and she starts pulling away cautiously at Logan's arm trying for another exit attempt. David's proving as unpredictable as Logan. Logan eyes everything closely as David and his haul gets closer. Sonny, disoriented and still bent over slightly from the fierce right to the gut looks up and sees himself almost directly in the path of Logan. His mouth suddenly goes dry with those darkening grays focusing straight at him, Logan's teeth baring in salivated anticipation.
“Go!” David orders, pointing at 'Re. “Apologize!”
“Whut?” Sonny turns to David in confusion. ‘Re looks at David also with the same look on her face. Logan's eyebrows furrows barely concealing his bemusement as he watches David’s intention.
“Fucking apologize or I swear to God…” David's pinch on the back of Sony’s neck punctuates his point.
“Shit! Okay, I’m sorry!” Then he quickly adds to 'Re trying to sound as pathetically sincere as he's able, “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole! Shit, Munny!”
'Re gapes at the hapless sight. “I- uh. Okay...?” She offers a disoriented shrug. “Accepted?”
“OKAY!” Sonny yelps again in response to, hopefully, 'Re's adequate assent. “She said 'Okay,' D! Damn!”
David takes what seems to be eternal seconds regarding 'Re and Sonny, evaluating whether he's satisfied. He then grabs his friend with both hands about his collar and wrenches Sonny's face to his face. His mouth and eyes constrict madly like he's about to unload more obscenities then he visually releases a breath, and fixes his gaze hard on him. “Hide. Now,” David mutters low to Sonny's startled look.
Sonny's disheveled person suddenly drops to the ground and he, without much grace, scampers away.
The four watch him trot out of the alley, taking a right, to jog down the block. 'Re then looks at David who is still looking overly annoyed at his friend and his outburst. When their eyes meet, gives him an exhausted, outraged sigh. But deep down she isn't surprised. All these weeks in his company, she knew he was particularly sensitive to his friends and acquaintances being on their best behavior and showing her the utmost respect. She never once, though, saw his flashes of anger. Although she must admit his reaction to a cuss at her direction was appreciated, in the back of her mind she whispers to herself, 'Not you too.'
Despite her sign of frustration at him and the situation, David still holds her gaze with conviction. “He shouldn’t have said that,” he says with a slight explanatory shrug.
“Thank you for that,” she starts cautiously, completely aware that Logan is still in an episodic state. She tries, unconvincingly, to gain control during the lull in activity. “Um, we gotta go now,” trying to pull Logan out again.
Also seeing an advantage in the few seconds of peace, David takes a chance and reaches out to them outstretching his arm as they attempt their exit. “No. No, you can’t,” his voice is quieter with a bit of hesitation.
“What?” 'Re gasps at another David-led interference. Logan, who barely moved to begin with, still stares at the other man sizing up his options through his haze, barely stifling a growl.
At the sound, David quickly retracts his reach and throws his arms up to show no disrespect or aggression. “All this here, I didn’t know,” he begins to Logan. “I mean I *knew* but...” He sighs at himself at his uncharacteristic lack of articulation. He might as well speak plain. “‘Re. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell him what?” Logan demands, immediately releasing her grasp of him.
“Tell you what?” She's surprised by the perceived accusation. “You knew- He knew I was spoken for.”
David roughly scratches the back of his head. No, *that* he knew. He waves in the direction of the boyfriend. “The mutant thing…”
She visually recoils at the concept she felt was so minor in her perception of her man. “What would it have mattered? I’m not discussing this now,” completely entrenched in being annoyed.
“No, you're right. It doesn't matter. It doesn't make a difference but-” he adds quickly. Jesus, how does he say this without all hell breaking loose? Shit, his dumb ass shouldn't have said anything at all. Dammit.
Logan tilts his head in both curiosity and in anticipation, awaiting whatever David is evidently about to throw at them. The brown-skinned man is obviously in full inner dialog now, constricting his face as if to speak but trying to stop himself at the same time. A baffling sight akin to watching a cat's hind legs running at full speed with the fore paws braced in front in dead brake.
“I...” Either let her go and shut the fuck up or be the stupidest mother fucker alive and-
David is feeling like the stupidest mother fucker ever.
“I can’t let you leave with him,” he exhales out in one breath, ending with a slight cringe.
Verbal chaos.
“Let?! Listen, Jack. You're this close to-” Logan barely kept himself from pouncing on the fool.
“David! You have no right-” 'Re's too through with all of this insanity. She didn't even want this confrontation to begin with, much less for it to continue.
David just holds his palms up speaking in normal tones trying to get his say above the two speaking over each other. “Hear me out-”
“We are LEAVING now!” 'Re states with finality.
“I don't ever want to see your face again,” Logan sneers in menace.
David kicks in with his Big Man voice to Logan at the threat. Balls to the wall, oh, he WILL be heard.
“With all due fucking respect, you seem like a pretty dangerous, on-edge motherfucker. And I am just not too God damned comfortable with her leaving with you. Frankly, Man, I don't know if you’re going to be throwing HER up against a wall later on over this. Or if you'll get all pissed off and claw-like one morning if the eggs ain’t over easy properly!”
Logan snarls while moving to regain a more combative stance. David's going places in his relationship no one has the right to go.
“No, David!” 'Re yells in defense. “He would never do that...!” but her voice falters at the end of the statement. Like a flash of memory that blinked before her eyes and stifled the conviction in her words. An abrupt slam of unspoken realization punctuated by a dull thud. A female back hitting drywall resulting in a surprised forced exhalation. The burning imprints of fingers desperately clutching her shoulders to keep her from leaving during an impassioned fight. Her face falls slightly as those words were uttered. She then steals a glance at Logan who caught the inflection, knowing what caused it. He looks at her with a ghost of guilt in his darkened eyes. No, he swore to himself that night. He would never do that... again.
David watches the look they shared while measuring the weight and cadence of her words. His jaw twitches and firms in realization and understanding at her unshed admission. Due to his many years on the streets, he has learned to read messages in looks and unspoken words like a blind man knows Braille. His back steels in his own conviction. He's made up his mind. He should have known to trust his instincts from the door. And he will gladly take this guy's femur “ or whatever fucking bones those are “ in his gut if he knows he's on the side of the angels. And the thought of anyone manhandling this woman he's grown to seriously care about is righteousness enough.
David straightens up to his full length and without fear takes a couple of steps towards Logan, his dark brown gaze firm in his eyes. He talks slowly and with no wavering in his resolve.
“Man, I don’t know what you do, who you are, or what’ch you’re all about. I don’t fucking care.” His face is stern. He points and gestures with authority. “But if anything happens to even one little hair on her head and it’s YOU and ME.”
Logan steps closer to his challenge, adding more wildness to his physical menace. “What happens to her is my business, not yours.”
David doesn't stifle a short laugh. “Again- with all due FUCKING respect, great fucking job you’ve been doing so far…” David's not backing down, and not allowing any quarter.
“That’s enough!” 'Re yells, trying to physically inject herself between them again. “You are going too far, David.”
Sucking his teeth and gasping in frustration at her, he backs up slightly and addresses her in his loss of patience.
“Nothing's too far! There is no 'far enough' when it comes to you, Girl!” David then shifts his look back at her always absent boyfriend. The erratic, violent one she's been defending. The one David thinks doesn't deserve her. “And he should know that already.”
The two men stare at each other. Their mutual distaste is clear. Yet, between the men, their look reflects a certain regard. They tested each other, drew their own respective lines in the sand. Made it particularly clear what their stances are. Logan sized this fool up. He knew he could tear him apart within seconds. But in David's eyes, he could see that he didn't care. David's eyes... clear, defiant, like ice in his convictions. His stare... cold, remorseless, ready to throw down in his determination. His fierceness and resolve only partially concealing an inherent wild mischievousness in the face of an almost assured defeat. Logan had to admit to himself 'how remarkable' in a man in the face of personified danger. Almost an honorable stupidity. Stupid just the same.
“*I'm* going,” 'Re interrupts in defeat, so exhausted and frustrated in the men's obvious intent on posturing and aggression. Supposedly the fight was about her but with her having neither say nor effect on the combatants. She throws her hands and starts to walk out of the alley, though slowing the closer she gets to the street.
The farther 'Re walks from Logan, the harder the invisible tug to her grows. All between the two men now with her absence is space and opportunity. Yet neither takes advantage.
Logan, steps forward once to David. The other, unmoving, maintaining his stare and stance. Logan decides he should impart some wisdom on this 'boy' with an aggressive grimace. “You should stand the fuck down when you are obviously outmatched and outmuscled, asshole.” Logan then slowly turns to follow 'Re whose steps slowed considerably to stall.
David cracks a sardonic half-grin. “Not in my nature. You’ll see that soon enough,” he ends with a head nod.
“You talking about natures here, Bub?” Logan waves his closed fist above him while continuing towards 'Re to follow her. Thick streams of blood still congealing to the back of his hands like grotesque red paint trails.
David slowly trails out of the alley behind them, Black shadowing him within arm's length. David continues to regard the confrontation and the woman in contest, gritting his teeth in dissatisfaction in the outcome. “Yeah, I think we understand each other, Long-Gone,” he mutters to Logan's retreating back.
'Re had slowed her deliberate stroll to a linger at the mouth of the alleyway, pausing and turning to make sure Logan was behind her. The closer Logan gets to her position, his pace quickens, barely brushing past her as he took the left to the sidewalk of the side street. 'Re is startled as he breezed past her so abruptly, looking after him with a distressed look her face. She then glances back into the alley, to David. Her face softens and her eyes fall at how badly everything had turned out. As David approaches closer she realizes how quickly Logan is now pacing and starts after him again, calling for him to slow, her thin heels shuffling beneath her haste.
David and his companion finally make it to the end of the alley, to the sunlight of the street. He watches 'Re's jogging form running after that erratic and still slightly stumbling man of hers. Logan, in his full exit of the area, proceeds to hold his head again in the evident waves of confusion if not complete disorientation he exhibited when he was in that bloody rage and attacked the brick wall. David's eyes crease in disbelief. The heavy hand of his best friend on his back reminds him that it all really did happen. And as he turns to say something to Black, David also remembers it all happened in public, at his usual haunt. Where everybody knows him. Shit.
He looks back to gage Logan. The distance was far enough now. Can't leave shit like this.
The bystanders started to snicker a little louder. David is now more aware of how the whole fight looked, especially when the other guy is George Jefferson-walkin off into the sunset with the girl. Fuck. And he has to live here. Dammit.
Clear the throat, adjust the groin to the left, stand straighter, cock the head back…
“Yeah! You got me?” Now project using the diaphragm. Make sure the arm gestures are exaggerated and forceful. “We Munroes- we don’t stand down, lie down or kneel down! Come at us the wrong way, we throwing down, you understand me?” Now look around real quick to gage how the others are reacting to your in-the-street taunt.
Black just comes up behind close to David, keeping his eye on the retreating form of Logan, just in case he DOES turn back. David continues in his weak taunt, Black swears theatre is in his friend’s blood. “When you learn to properly care for your woman, holla back. Otherwise I’m in the side of your eye and all in your ass! Until SHE tells me different!” That should do it.
“Growlin ass sonovabitch,” David mumbles in a more normal turn. He pivots to find Black beside him. David smirks while still continuing his long distance posturing by proxy. “He ain’t doing shee-it. I’ll take a baseball bat over bone any day.”
“Oh-Kay, Munny. Whatever,” Black chuckles at his friend humoring him with wide eyes. He takes advantage of David's back being turned from the departing couple during their conversation and takes David by the shoulder to try to direct him back into the club with a heavy handed pat. “Let’s get a drink,” he knows his best friend needs one, and so does he for that matter cause Sonny was right. This was a new one. Mutants. Yes, that IS some shee-it.
David shrugs him off and walks back towards the street to keep an eye on the departing couple. He knows it's not over for him. Not for a long shot.
“Logan, wait!” 'Re shouts, trotting behind him unprogressively in her heels. He is only a few steps ahead of her, but his distance is too far for her. And it's been too long a time since last she's seen him for him to be so far.
Logan barely dodges a pedestrian while walking purposefully, holding his head to abate the pounding and the noises. The jungle's coming back for him. The noises, the yelling and then David's taunting. He almost just killed a man just now. He's almost about to real soon if the motherfucker doesn't shut up. He grunts and bends over trying to still everything around him. A high pitched tinny rings in his ears.
“Logan!” She's caught up to him. Panting while she bends over to find his face. “What is it? What's happening?”
He remains bent over, resting his hands on his knees. His eyes stay fixed on the gray sidewalk beneath him, trying to quell the beginning of nausea. With each breath he does an inventory. Okay. Concrete, not grass. Those feet, the hand on his back. That's 'Re. He's back. Back in New York. Back with her. It's all over. Whatever happened back there, it's gone now. He attempts to straighten up and begin walking again but suddenly everything grows disoriented again. Like it was back at the LZ, waiting for the others. While under the effects of the morphine. These waves of sick he thought were gone during the couple of hours ride back. Something must have brought them back, exacerbated it. The shock and anger of the thing with 'Re and- He groans again and clutches his stomach. Through his shirt clothes he feels wetness.
At his pain, 'Re screams to him again. Just give him a damn minute, he says to himself. He looks up and sees a stoop leading up to an entrance to a building. “Wait- a fucking second. Just let me-” and he slowly straightens himself, just reaching to the banister to pull himself to sit on the stairs.
At the sight of small spots of blood below his ribs beginning to seep through his t-shirt, 'Re silently gasps and backs up in shock. Her eyes go wide at the thought of him bleeding. Instinctively she looks around as if for help. She looks back and sees David and his friend leaning up against the lamppost outside the alleyway down the block. No, it didn't happen back there, she remembers. Logan roughly sits on the worn marble stairs and leans back to touch that sore spot on his torso again, sucking his teeth, cursing low to himself and then holding his head with his elbows resting on his knees. Muttering unintelligibly in between moans, quieting the physical pain while sorting through the stuff in his head.
'Re slowly lowers herself beside him, a step lower, trying to see his face through his hands.
“What the fuck was that, 'Re?” he growls unaggressively through the many levels of hurt.
“What was what, Logan?” she answers softly. “Are you in pain? Why are you bleeding there?”
He gives off a short, sardonic grunt. “That, Woman. What the fuck were you doing back there with-”
“There was nothing going on,” she answers flatly, slightly sucking her teeth. “I told you.”
“Fuck what you told me. I have eyes. What are you doing out with some guy?”
“David- He's just-” How stupid she feels right now. In hindsight, maybe he was a bit too friendly. “They're my friends, Logan. I was just out-”
“No. No friends.” He says this like a finite conclusion. A Golden Rule never to be broken. “We have no friends, 'Re. It's just you and me.”
“What?” the realization to his obtuseness hits her like a slap. “'No friends?' What does that mean? I just stay upstairs-?”
“Yes-”
“-by myself all the time? For days, weeks-?”
“Yes. There you stay safe. Stay there until I get back. Waiting for me-”
“I WAS waiting for you!” That fire again in her belly. First lit then quickly extinguished when she tried to ultimatum him months ago for a change in their lifestyle. “Every day I waited for you. That's not fair, Logan. You can't have it both ways. That's not right. It doesn't work that way.”
“'It doesn't-'” Logan spits out a mordant chuckle. Fucking Maverick, again. His absolute insistence that Logan's leaving the Team would neither happen nor be allowed. “Why is everybody telling me that?” 'Re looks at him in annoyed confusion to his reference. “It HAS to. Or else it will all-” but she's about to retort again. Her eyes watery in emotional fury dampened with confusion. Those eyes, they look like-
[Porque?]
“Jesus Christ!” Logan spits out in his reactive cringe to the flashback. That girl- Why didn't she listen to him- Why didn't she- 'Re flinched along with Logan's shout, watching him holding his head again more confused than ever.
“Jesus... Re- you don't understand-”
“I want to understand!” He never explains. The constant walling out one side of his life to the one he shares with her is getting to be too much. “Please... Why?”
The slight desperate whine to her question makes him flinch again to the memory of the girl in the jungle. “Stop! Stop that-”
“Wha- what am I doing?” she almost pales at his visible pain.
“God... Re. I almost-” his voice is choking. She's still in his head. That girl. She's staring at him, demanding an answer.
“Almost what?”
He had no answer for her. They were orders. He was following through on his orders. She got in his way. The 'frails'- they always get in the way. “I didn't come for this. From so fucking far.”
“What happened?” she leans closer to him. He never says anything about where he goes or why he must leave time and time again. She is hoping this some sort of breakthrough. He'll finally tell her something to make everything about their solitary lives make sense.
“You never would have known.” That was the last thought in his head before he went down back there in the jungle grasslands. 'Re. She never would have known. As his face met the earth he knew this was his last time and she would have been waiting forever.
“Please tell me.”
“I almost fucking di-”
BR-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-RAP!
Across the street, a shopkeeper closes the security gate for the evening. The fierce series of clacking so close in proximity jars Logan with the sounds' resemblance to gunfire. He's back there. Back in the jungle. As he stares out into the unseeing distance, thick vines of suffocating green starts to creep and overtake the street before him. The sounds of the children nearby playing a form of localized tag around the legs of passing by adults, mailboxes, garbage cans and parked cars begin to morph into the audio of frightened screaming, panicked footfalls and cries for sanity. Feckless laughter of flirting teenagers idling on street corners remix into shouts of position or the last spontaneous syllables of prayer.
Through the haze he hears 'Re. Screaming to him. Logan. No. Please don't do this again. What is he doing, he asks with his blank eyes and gaped mouth. His nails in his anxiousness digs into his hands, the last bodily reflex to regain reality. Behind the percussion of explosions and the ever-constant staccato of gunfire, white static noise as if from an open channel radio grows in intonation. Talk to her, he hears 'Re screaming. Come out of it and tell her what happened. Her voice fades further and further into the periphery.
But she's gone now. It's the jungle. With its screams and the rapid fire. The explosions and the smoke. Red mixing with green and then the white hotness leading to the slow stinging burn. The white noise it grows. It seems to fill up his spacial existence.
{{Westside! *KKRCK* Report! It's all gone to shit!}}
No! He didn't want to be here again!
And with the visual cacophony, along comes the voices, more noises to add to his disorientation. The faces of the people constantly challenging his resolve and his choices. Their taunting words.
David's resolute, angry face, questioning his worth. “Who you are-”
Silverfox joins him with a sarcastic smirk and mouthing words, twirling her finger around her midsection pantomiming his injury. “Slop-ee.”
“What you do- What’ch you’re all about- Nothing's too far!” David shouted. Logan cringes now like a corrected schoolboy.
“My nature,” he repeats to himself. On this stoop and back in that alley.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Maverick's stern voice of finality.
“Watch it, Dickless!” Victor Creed's throwaway mock behind his back after that innocent's kill.
{{Logan, your position! Where are you?!}}
“Matter of time,” Wraith's flat, gravelly voice. His eyes just as lifeless. Like he knew something. Like he knew this would happen. Like the acts of wars were always a smoke's wisp away.
“Frail,” the word poured out of Creed's mouth like crystallized syrup. “Don’t let the skirts throw ya!”
“Porque?” The girl. Her eyes. Her heartbeat competing with a timer...
KA-THUMP KA-THUMP *tick* *tick* *tick*... BOOM-
Beside 'Re on the street, Logan reacts again as if to an explosion. His head wrenches back in pain to 'Re's astonishment and he holds his ears to quell the noise she does not hear. A high pitched ring like his ear drums were punched through with a vengeful fist. Below that brain-piercing sound, muffled greatly, the radio in his head. The panicked cries of a female dueling with that of the woman beside him....
It all goes white.
Where it's blue and white, with the woman sitting immediately before him providing the only browns, Logan holds his ears in pain. In this cobalt world of his subconscious, he also fights the images and voices training down upon him like a freight train. In this internal space of Logan's self-imposed reflections, which has stood as the launching pad of all his forgotten memories, his 'rememories' as his long unremembered visitor 'Re calls them, he fights desperately against these recollections still.
This vision of 'Re, long deceased but now re-imagined and re-alized, sits on her knees in front of him trying patiently to refocus him. To help him from fighting himself; to stop him fighting things that cannot be changed, only recognized, re-evaluated and accepted.
“Logan... let it go. Let it come forth,” she speaks calmly but with purpose to talk him out of his fugue.
“No- I can't,” his voice is choking. He doesn't want to see what happened in the rememory. Still doesn't want to see now. He came here, to this cobalt world, to remember, but he didn't want *this*. Not these memories. “I am-”
“You have to see, Logan. You said you wanted to see.”
But he said, years ago, he didn't want to know anymore. The little bit, and it was scarcely nothing, that he learned about his past, how he became the adamantium-laced mutant that he is now, told him it wasn't worth it. On the shore of Alkali Lake, when he ripped out and threw down his dogtags, he swore to himself that he would move on. Start from there. Live on with his life. Never look back again.
But it wasn't that easy, he realized later. What he didn't want to come forth was destroying the little happiness he allowed himself in this world of Xavier's he started to nest in. But it was all coming back. The memories from his past. Shaking him for attention. Both in his night times and in waking life. Wanting its recognition. He couldn't run away from what- From who-
Who am I?
Years ago, Logan asked a question. Buried up to the knuckles in the underarm of a man grimacing in the agony Logan and his claws were subjecting him to in his heartless interrogation, Logan wanted answers.
“Who am I?” Logan demanded with bared teeth and the promise of slow murder in his eyes to the man who taunted him with his knowledge.
Stryker. The man who took it all away. The man Logan depended on to give it all back.
Through his pain, Stryker still laughed. He knew he wasn't expendable yet. Wolverine still needed him. Stryker had his secrets. Logan's secrets. He still had a chip to bargain with though as hopeless as the stakes were.
With an anguished yet triumphant look, Stryker drawled out his reply, “If you really knew...”
He gave no answers. Stryker never intended to.
“If you really knew about your past... What kinds of person you were!”
But his desperate taunts haunt Logan still. They've floated around in his head, in this blue, blue subconscious world ever since.
Hearing the voice of the man floating around her, 'Re is determined to cut through the malicious mocking to help Logan find his answer. “You must remember, Logan.”
“No. I don't want to anymore, 'Re. Stop this. Make this stop.”
“This is what you wanted, Logan. What you came here to see.”
Who has the answers, Wolverine?
Logan opens his eyes and looks desperately back at 'Re. “I came here to see you.” He wants the good times. He wants to remember the happiness he once shared with the hopes that maybe he could find that internal peace again with another person.
You volunteered...
“You came for the truth,” she responds sternly. There is no happiness without some struggle. Nothing, not life, not even death, comes without the other side of pain. Avoiding one does not make the other come so easy. “Don’t turn away now.”
If you knew the kind of person you used to be...
“No. I don’t want to anymore,” he shuts his eyes again, gripping his hair. He fights harder.
You’re an animal then, you’re an animal now!
“What happened, Logan? Only you can see it.”
People don't change, Wolverine.
He's panting faster. Stryker is louder as if sitting upon his shoulders.
“An animal…” he weakly counters.
Animal then…
“I’m an animal,” He pulls his head down further almost in a fetal position above his lotus bent knees.
“No, you know different!” She shouts in frustration.
She's unable to bring him out of this cycle of self-pity and insecurity. Stryker, along with Logan's many other mental demons, are dominant here. Here in this safe place Logan has unknowingly cultivated for years within him. This place where even the actualized inner wall where in his wiped past he had kept one side of himself from the other, the “animal” and the man, remains here, broken and in pieces, shattered finally with the process that stole his memory. Only now in the last few years in the safest place for all mutants has he been able to begin to find balance. Balance and the tools to merge the man and the personified residual effects of his mutantcy. Here he still allows his guilts and personal torments to inhibit him.
'Re's face fixes into a look of slightly familiar determination. She knows one sense of comfort she can arm herself with. A person who will rouse him to motivation. The one anchor in his life that will spur him to unlatch and release all of his defensive armor, giving him reason to lay them about his feet.
She closes her eyes and holds her hands above his head. Her mouth twitches in distaste with Stryker's voice still resonating trying to offset her efforts.
Animal now…
She holds one hand in front of Logan's closed off face. Fingers preparing for movement.
“No-! That’s who- An animal! A killer!” Logan screams. 'Re's middle finger and thumb join to quickly-
*SNAP!*
Logan's head rebounds with the sharp sound. Fingers snapping. But the audio joined with the paper-like snip of a photograph being flicked in his face.
“What I do and who I am are two different things.”
“Ororo?”
Logan's eyes open to the familiar, soft voice of his best friend. He sees her, as he did a few years back. Her face wearied and dirty from their recent mission. A mission that went bad. They are sitting on the floor, uniforms partially undone, unkempt, filthy from battle resting in a metallic hallway of the sub-basement below Xavier's mansion. The first moment of peace after the gunfire and the angry men. The screams of powers unleashed and bodies falling. The fierce close combat and the blood. There was blood. There was blood on the arms of her uniform, drying, congealed. Her face still carried the salty traces of tears that cut through the traces of smoke and ash on her face.
After her statement, she had closely regarded Logan. Looking at him for any response to her personal statement of being. Challenging him to do the same.
“This 'Storm'. A storm is a thing. I am more than a thing, a wielder of abilities or mutant powers. Beyond that is a person.” She had broken her stare at him for a moment, her eyes went distant as if to remember a long held regret. “I've made mistakes. I live with them everyday.” She brought her eyes back to him, harder than before. “That's what I must do. *WHO* I am.”
He looked up at her from his newly revealed cigar back then, in the hallway. He arched an eyebrow, waiting for the point to her impromptu speech.
“Wolverine. Do you know the difference?” she wanted an answer. With the nature of questions, the arched intonation her voice had to make belied the hoarseness from the previous minutes' impassioned screaming. She was emotional then. Upset at the actions that she felt were necessary for the resolution of the mission. How quickly she turned the situation and conversation back to him. How remarkable.
He met her eyes without pause, always up to a challenge of any sort. “Yes.”
She kept her gaze on him. Not judging, that would be another set of looks. More regarding. Reading behind his throwaway tone translating the texture of his answer. Unwavering in her analysis of him. Eyes he recognizes well now after the recent rememory.
After a stretch of silence, her eyes went wide and she flashed her palms flagging her impatience in his not going further. “So?”
“So?” he spit back, annoyed. What did she want? A dissertation?
“Are you just 'The Wolverine'?”
He gave her a short, amused grunt. If she wanted self-analysis, she was going to the wrong guy. “That's all what I am, Darlin,” he spoke out to the air, reveling in the sight of his soon to be enjoyed smoke.
“Not 'what'. 'WHO',” she spoke quickly and resolutely with pointed finger. Like a rule of titanium never to be broken. “Never 'what'. Remember that.” He looked at her cautiously, not understanding. She laid her head back on the wall, tilting, brows still furrowed in the finality in her words, still waiting for an answer. He frowned at her, about to tell her where to stuff her questions. She interrupted without hesitation.
“Tell me-”
Before him and his eyes lost in that recent scene of his present, 'Re pushes still beyond the memory.
“Remember, Logan.”
Ororo's lips thin, waiting for her answer. “Tell me about 'Logan'.”
“Remember, Logan.”
Logan pants again and closes his eyes shut in the subconscious world. He closes his eyes to the sub-basement and the determined, waiting eyes of Ororo. Her voice floats about still, asking for his answer.
“Remember,” 'Re continues. “Show me, Logan.”
It's all rushing back at him from those scant moments of quiet during the hallway flashback. The noises of the jungle. The street sounds of the alleyway fight. Even the white noise from the radio. Stryker's voice still wants attention. 'Re's calming cadence pushing him to continue. Ororo's flatly placed questions.
“You know what happened, Logan.” 'Re speaks into his face. “You know...”
“You *do* know there is a 'Logan', right?” Ororo pushed further. “I want to know-”
If you really knew-! Stryker crooned to goad Logan in the biting Canadian cold.
It's overwhelming. The voices of taunting, pushing, egging. The white noise of radio static occasionally broken by shouts grow until it surrounds him like an avalanche. He's fighting. 'Re grits her teeth as he doesn't let go. Stop fighting, she says below what would have been breath.
“No- I don't know. Stop-”
One more. One more should do it.
'Re's face is determined yet calm like the visage of a saint's statue in a grandmother's kitchen. “Remember, Logan. Remember why...”
*SNAP!*
“So-”
Logan's eyes open to Ororo's voice again. She is different, livelier here. Her face is smiling, she is playful, teasing without malice in her easy way, the way she is in private with him. They are outside beyond the mansion on Xavier's grounds, by the lake. Their lake he dared to call it after a while. It was nighttime under the brightest moon in recent memory. Weeks ago. Before the little life he started to be comfortable with and build at Xavier's all went to shit. Her bright eyes competing and winning against the moon's light. She had snapped a photograph in his face out there then, challenging him for an explanation of the image's contents, laughing, already knowing. He was laughing with her at that time. He is smiling now. That night, everything was going to change. Everything between the two of them. He was going to- He really wanted to- But then it all went wrong.
“So-? Tell me the story, Logan?” She giggled then. He smiled in response and moved in closer...
He wants to answer her. He wants to go to her and give her an answer finally. He needs to. He has to make it all right. Reverse what went wrong. He'll tell her. He'll show her.
The image in the picture in her hand, it's moving. The image is green. Green and brown. It's moving forward, moving faster. It's like an overgrown pathway of flora. And he's running. Running in the picture; within the picture. The image in the photo grows larger. The white noise of the radio shouting in chaos grows again. That and the sound of his footsteps. The image overtakes him with Ororo's smiling face falling into the periphery. He is running. Running faster. The trees, they're all around him now. Must run faster. He is-
{{*KKKKKKKKRCK*}}
in medias res
(Confused? A lot of shit going on? Yup. Imagine how Logan feels. Count to two “ two days “ and get an answer and resolution. Well, one resolution. Not all. That would be too easy.)
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.