The Eclipse
After Alkali Lake

Musings in May – Weeks after


It snowed every night that April after the goodbyes were said… after Alkali Lake.

Locals of that hamlet in Westchester were long used to unexplainable weather phenomena. Flashes of angry thundershowers. Frustrated hailstorms which would dissipate like a calming exhalation. Balmy, cheerful days warming well within winter. The townies and weekend commuters from “The City� tolerated the quiet frost which accompanied the nighttimes, always to be reclaimed by the sun come the mornings.

Those April days were soon followed by May and her seasonal winds of promise and life. With each day born, all hint of midnight snow would melt and fade. The activity of daytime, the appointments to keep, the lessons to teach, allowed one to forget, for her to forget, if only for a few fleeting moments. Constant activity was key. But, ultimately, with the slumber of the young and the retirement of responsibilities came the quiet, dark night highlighted by the moon and her accessorizing stars, glittering like playmates, treasured companions. Time for reflection, remembrance, regrets. Soon soupy grey clouds blanket the indigo skies. Large, fat flakes gracefully dance their downward ballet. Miniature foliage from a dying dream. Occasionally, the winds would whip violently, like a tantrum or a thought shook out of the mind. The lush green grasses off Greymalkin Lane would become covered by white. Well-loved flowers braced themselves for their now accustomed forced, nightly winter.

There would be no color again this night over the house Xavier built. Built to protect, house, educate, self-actualize – train, perhaps – and ultimately love those who yearned to love themselves when the others would not.

Of color, there was none to be seen from this high vantage point. No red. No longer. Ororo surveyed her black and white world – and isn’t it all black and white anyway? – overshadowed by intangible grays. Biting breezes blew over the home where she has lived for countless years. For years far longer than those she had spent with her own parents, her actual flesh and blood, her true genetic family. This place, this home, was quickly becoming unrecognizable, although tauntingly familiar in its routine. Too much has changed, too quickly. Too soon.

And as she was silently and delicately held aloft in the winds of her Goddess’ conjure, over the estate which carried the name of the man and the movement she committed herself to so long ago, one thought whispered like a twisted affirmation of the truth in her mind…

How I have failed you so.



Between gloved index and thumb, a No. 2 pencil wiggled loosely. She gnawed at her lower lip while toes wriggled in her thick soled boots. At her teacher’s instruction, Rogue turned to page forty three. Brown flecked green eyes quickly scanned the fresh pages for any pictures to distract herself with. Her mouth bunched to one side as she sucked on her canine and incisor in idle disappointment. Soft velvet fingers lightly brushed over the neatly lined up letters and spaces combining into words on the mass printed page. Times New Roman, 10 point font? Or is that Bookman? Rogue decided she likes Arial while twirling a lock of her hair nonchalantly. Deep auburn with a bold strand of white twisted about the deep green index finger of her other hand forming a long two toned rope. Her eyes began to glaze over as the words thickened and blurred into horizontal stripes on the pages before her. She sighed a silent breath and looked for stimulation outside the window of the classroom as her teacher’s soft voice started to morph into the Mwanh Mwanh’s of a covered trumpet horn.

Her vision floated about the outer scenery of the grounds of the estate - well at least the portion off the eastern part of the mansion. The bright blue sky, the deep lush green of the trees that line the wide flat expanse of grass, the birds of reds, blues and purples were back now to join the bland browns of the ever-present sparrows, adding their melodic songs to the monotonous chirpings she had grown accustomed to. As she lost herself in thoughts of the subtle yet poignant changes marking the end of the dead rustlings of winter to the ever present undercurrent of motion and hum of life reborn with the blowing breezes of spring, her eyes fall on a tree and a man, standing side by side, and her eyes soften and mouth downturns.

Two silent companions motionless except for the movement spurred on by warm breezes blowing. She watched as her other teacher, Mr. Summers, stood before a thin white barked tree in the middle of the open glade. Rogue blinked at the recognized figure and his silent stare at a tree. The May breeze blew through his brown hair, its length longer than what she and it was accustomed to. Above and around him the slight yet blossoming leaves rustled in its own playful melody. If he heard its tune, he didn’t show it. The slump of his shoulders and his downcast head was a stark contrast to mirthful dance of branches and its dressing. Odd companions the two were. The tree had an unusual attendant in the brooding figure while itself stood tall, unabashedly free, holding up its branches and leaves high in wild abandon.

The curious pair was seemingly out of place with the rest of the natural surroundings. Thick brown barked trees native to this part of Westchester lined the outside the glade. Proud and strong, Rogue commented to herself while turning her attentions away from the living statues of the field. She flashed a slightly bitter smirk while contemplating the lifetime of trees. THOSE trees, they carry a kind of silent conceit one cannot help but respect. They had laid roots here at the estate now called Xavier’s for years. They been seen’t it all. Natives, settlers, squatters, slaves, runaways, lovers… branch swinging children, neck swinging captured - now mutants. Like seasons. Life and death comes, goes and comes again. Those trees done seen’t it all. And what strange fruit those wide-trunked trees must have had to bear. She returns her attentions to Scott as he suddenly moved forward a step and gently rested his forehead on bark. Yes, that thin tree next to the thinning man are indeed out of place, Rogue decides. That tree was only planted there weeks ago and he, well, he’s not the man Rogue remembered. She slowly gulped to remoisten her throat. A lot of changes around the same time. The time was April… after Alkali Lake. The teenager frowned deeper at the sight and the thought. Her face turned away and she roughly plopped her back on her chair’s. She wiggled her pencil idly between her thumb and middle, her eyebrows furrowed in old, deep thoughts.

She briefly smiled as a familiar gruff voice sighed resignedly in her memory. No matter how long and far he had gone, it is as if he never left her behind. She missed the little jewels he would spontaneously blurt out, he was never quite aware how profound he truly was.

And so it goes…

Indeed, Logan. Indeed. Comes, goes… you WILL come again.

Before, when she was just known as Rogue, cynicism was the salve that desensitized and ultimately protected her. But now she’s also Marie. And for Marie, who in her short life has had her share of disappointments and has witnessed the random acts of cruelty men were wont to inflict on his fellow, the honest reality of the beauty of man was like a bad dream. A slow, agonizing, surrealistic, cruel, visual and physical night terror experienced during that day above the green and blue-grays -- above Alkali Lake.

Not many words were spoken after the screams of grown men died down. Just the echo of too-fast beating hearts vibrating within the hull of the ship they were cocooned in, hovering, waiting, above raging swells and lumber carcasses. Nothing more to be done, it was all already done. A narrow escape from a certifiable death, only to be saved by the most horrific and selfless act Rogue’s young life had to witness. A selfless act that rivaled and surpassed many of Logan’s – because at least he lived.

That day, weeks later, amidst yet another daydreaming session during class, one of many attention deficit moments she would regress into while “moving on�, beyond the contemplation of trees and a man’s fingers gently caressing bark, in her thoughts Rogue would contemplate the delicate balance, that fine line, between adult self-assuredness and childlike confusion. Marie pondered the notion that mere choices could make everything tilt either way. Sanity and insanity. Life and death. Rogue and leader.

“Death is whimsical,� she overheard her teacher whisper to herself one day when she thought the others couldn’t hear. Uttered like a realization, an irony she only shared with herself, as always.

She recalled and reflected on those scant minutes, weeks prior to today’s twirled locks of hair and eyes glazing over during a recitation of Ibsen’s ennui. Marie mentally proceeded to deconstruct, rewind, review. She tried to find meaning and etymology in the words spoken only by horrified stares, blank eyes, tearful blinking.

Silence was never so deafening.





Alkali Lake – Then
She’s gone-
Don’t SAY that!
She’s gone…

On a perfect day, Scott Summers would often be so stoic and stiff to the point of other’s amusement. Logan, outside his fearful yet noble rages, was known to be the most emotionally unmovable. And never the twain shall meet; much less find anything to be considered common ground that would not include a snide comment or a silent threatening glance. On this day, the two were locked in an embrace of despair, brothers in act and feeling. And although Logan was turned away from her and Bobby, Rogue noticed the unfamiliar shudder of his body, supporting both the weight of Scott’s sorrow and his own intolerable shock and grief. Silent, except for the brief loud intakes of breath is body forced. Logan’s body denying him what his mind wanted to stop -- to breathe, to live, to continue yet another agonizing day. His words, cruel yet confirming still hung in the air: She’s gone.

Ororo, like a lost child, peered out of the pilot’s window. Persistent. Silently frantic. Looking. Looking. With unhad x-ray vision, she willed her eyes to see deeper, deeper still, into the swells of the now formed river. A sign, any sign, of her. That’s a rock. There, the remains of a violently uprooted tree. That - that’s a body... The leap of the stomach. The tight grasp of console. Then the glint of a belt, green fatigues, not black leather or red hair. That’s not her. Yet still she searched, helpless, unable to stop her now futile mission. Her self imposed duty taunted by the swift moving waters underneath the Blackbird, now more a rapid than a river.

The new one, the blue one, truly a mutant in form and ability, glanced from face to face. Completely unfamiliar with this new group who sought him, found him, had him join in their search for their companions, saved them all in one way or another, and now fully immersed in their grief. The Nightcrawler’s yellow eyes darted to Scott, who had become unintelligible in his cries and pleas for sanity, gripping at Logan’s collar like a madman, drowning. To Logan, whose eyes were in open REM, reading invisible lines in the air for meaning. To Ororo, unaware of the misery behind her, yet Scott’s sobs provided the background symphony for her shopping.

Kurt Wagner’s eyes then rested on the professor, who he had heard about from Ororo and Jean Grey herself. He who the other held to the highest regard. He who was responsible for their focus, temperament, goals - their makeshift family. He now relegated to merely sit to watch, helpless in his inability to stand, crawl, walk on his own, his chair long ripped from him in his abduction. His physical vulnerabilities cruelly balanced by his unsurpassable mental abilities. Professor Xavier seemed to have aged 20 years within the three minutes they witnessed the waters overtake and claim Jean Grey as part of the new landscape. One of his first students sacrificing herself for the good of them all, and for the continuance of his cause. His hands trembling, periodically clenched in random patterns. Head down. He had the power to dance and peruse minds, all minds, but with the wisdom and honor to not do so. His own distress amplified by the distress of the others. Jean Grey was Scott’s love, Logan’s passion, Ororo’s sister, the children’s teacher, his responsibility. He let out a moan, low, breathless, without soul, his dream a nightmare. He was prepared to die for his morals but he was now aware he was unprepared for his children to make the same sacrifice.

His moan somehow cut through the wall of Scott’s dirge. Ororo, long trained to be sensitive to the calls of the man she loved and respected, her chosen father, quickly snapped out of her focused trance. Reacting to the mournful cry, she quickly turned around in confusion. She then saw. Saw the two men reduced to children. Saw the rescued children – currently overlooked and forgotten – reduced to unwilling witnesses to pain and consequences well beyond their years. Like deer caught in the headlights of the speeding disaster of mutant existence – the reality and the pain - the adults were long accustomed to, the children mingled wide eyed in the back of the cabin. Ororo saw Marie and Bobby, clinging to each other, clutching the tangible. Ororo blinked slowly at the pair, both too young and foolish to realize that a normal life of infatuations and crushes – love - were out of reach for a mutant, especially for an X-Man. Scott’s sobs tickled a familiar memory of loss in the back of her mind. Today was evidence of their mutated lifestyle.

She looked at them. The children and Kurt looked back at her, to her, silently bombarding her with questions and pleas. What should we do? What happened? Please make it go away. For a moment, her eyes reflected the same terror and need as she quickly looked to her mentor, the one man who always had the answers. And then she saw. She saw the state the Professor was in. The wind howled outside the fuselage. The clouds moved swiftly in the winds across the sky many miles in the heavens. The elements acquiescing to her notions, calling to their mistress. It was up to her.

Her breaths came quickly as her lungs reminded her to breathe. Ororo turned quickly again to the window for another glance to the waters. Be sure. Her brows furrowed as she focused back to the cabin. The men lost in grief, the professor lost to his failure. With her eyes trained on her mentor, she slowly reached the few feet from her pilot’s perch to her teacher’s position, capturing his cheek with her outstretched hand. All eyes, save for those of the two who loved Jean Grey as a woman, were fixed on this moment. Empathy, understanding, without their crutch of telepathic thought, communicated by their eyes, between the daughter and the sire. With her touch, his eyes raised from their sorrowful weight to her soul searching ones. His blues looked into her dull, seemingly artificial browns, and like a regretful boy his eyes creased and cringed in begged for forgiveness. Her reply was in shared sorrow but with acknowledgment and promised resolve. Both hands gripped either side of his face as she lowered herself to him, his face returned downwards in acquiescence, her lips met his forehead, his responsibility now relieved. Foreheads met as she pulled it together with a settling breath, shaky in the inhalation soft and steady in its release.

I will make it better.

Head still down turned, buoyed by hers, his hand reached up and caught her wrist. Only they would know but it was understood, whether telepathic or not, communication was completed. “Washington,� she whispered as a confirmed conclusion. Their mission not yet done, the Movement still must move on. She stood up and looked about the cabin once more. With steady eyes she looked back to the children. Nod of the head indicated sanity and promised progress.

It’s okay.

A few of the children exhaled, unaccustomed to a world where adults did not know what to do. Ororo looked at Jubilation Lee with a twitch of her brow. Jubilee was the oldest amongst those in the rear. With her teacher’s message received, Jubilee, at first unsurely, started to rouse the children. Comfort and prepare. We are heading home. Satisfied with the girl’s progress, Ororo then looked to Marie and Bobby next. Pull it together, prepare and move. Marie, unable to find the needed movement in her body, just looked up wide-eyed at her teacher while Bobby’s eyes never left the ground, too much too soon. This is not real. Storm’s eyes softened slightly. Then her eyes furrowed in purpose. It is. Pull it together.

Ororo last turned to the brothers in grief. She paused in empathy and in her need to join them in mindless despair. As eyes resting on Scott, her hand caressed down the back of his head to his neck as if to gently knead away his grief. With soft eyes and tilted head, she then looked at Logan. Unaware, still staring into nothingness, his body shaking with his and his companion’s disbelief.

“Logan,� she uttered softly.

No response from the Wolverine, gone into worlds he foolishly thought were possible.

“Logan,� she spoke again, with a sharper tone to gain his attention.

This he heard finally and looked at her with a dull fire in his eyes, amazed to be thrust from that safe place he created for the moment, undoubtedly one with Jean.

“We have to go,� softly again but with purpose. “We have to go on. We have to finish.�

“No,� he spoke, voice hoarse with pain, barely above a whisper. Please no.

Her eyes held his steadily. Yes.

With outrage the dull fire grew to insane intensity.

“NO!� he screamed.

The professor’s head fell lower. The children, even the teens, jumped at his fury. The Blackbird echoed with his angry outburst.

“No! It’s not over! We are not leaving! We can’t…� He roared, stuttered, pleaded. Yet he knew the truth. She knew he knew. Death was a mutual acquaintance.

Her steady, firm gaze infuriated him. His claws popped out with a fierce metallic *SNIKT* in his instinctual, irrational defense of this fight. Three indestructible blades unsheathed inches from Storm’s face. He growled challengingly. Beneath the confrontation, Scott gave off a sob in semi-assent. Relenting to his once rival to fight the fight against which he felt too weak to endure, the truth. Yet Ororo Munroe, designation: Storm, fondly endeared silently as Goddess, did not flinch at Wolverine’s outbursts and posturing. Eyes steady, separated from his by adamantium, she read past every emotion clouded judgment, she was talking to the man.

She moved closer to him still. He leaned back, slightly startled by her unfamiliar forward movement. She rested her free hand on his shoulder, just beside Scott’s fist clutching Wolverine’s leather collar. She repeated the words he uttered only moments before, yet from her mouth they sliced into him with a terrible progress that only could be matched by his claws.

“She’s GONE.� Each word uttered as its own statement. Windows of the soul. So trite, so true, she remarked to herself as looked into his grays reading the range of emotions. With her eyes, she showed him her heartbreak.

My best friend, too. My sister, too. My love, too. She’s gone.

She continued to ignore the possible unpredictable danger as she moved ever closer to Logan. Her right hand slid down Scott’s shoulder to clutch his arm in a half hug, her grip on Logan’s firming as Scott’s relaxed.

“Retract your claws, Wolverine,� she said firmly. Her eyes furrowed to meet his challenge.

Metal claws flirted dangerously with her eyelashes as he growled one last warning. Her hand left his shoulder and gently enveloped the side of his face, fingertips about his earlobe, bottom of her hand at his chin. Her eyes softened slightly, her mouth pressed together firm. With a breathy gasp, his claws slowly retreated, his hand dropping to his side in defeat. But his eyes still burned, anger focused on her unwelcome company.

She pulled both men to her, her arm scooping Scott closer and her hand reeled Logan to rest on her cheek. She held them both then raised her head, whispering words to Logan only they two could hear. His chest rose and fell. She pulled back and with her head down turned, glanced up at Logan’s eyes, her hand trailing down the nape of his neck to his upper shoulder to cover Scott’s hand. As he answered her words with a startled look, she swiftly robbed Logan’s shoulder of Jean’s fiancée’s hand. Logan recovered with look of confusion as he realized Ororo’s theft. She took the weight and responsibility of Scott from Wolverine and maneuvered with soft, soothing words the broken shell of their field leader to a seat and gingerly buckled him in.

Logan was left standing in disbelief. Her words’ breath still tickling his ear, reeling from the burden relieved. He suddenly became aware of the cabin and her contents and looked around. While adjusting Scott, Storm whispered to Kurt instructions to ready the cabin. He avoided Wolverine who then saw Marie, his eyes confused, flashed with sudden recognition. She gave him a quick smile to show she was uninjured, his constant source of worry. Faces quickly fell as they looked at each other with the memory and realization. No, it’s not all okay. He then plopped into his seat. Ororo, bent low in constant activity, moved from Scott to the Professor and finally to Logan, rearranging positions, securing buckles, assuring the men’s safe shipment home.

She fastened Logan in and temporarily the strength in her legs gave out from underneath her as she rose to straighten them. She quickly recovered by grasping firmly to the armrests on either side of Logan, then lowered herself to her haunches willing her body to steady. Suddenly self-conscious of the others thinking she was not in control, she feigned activity by stroking down the arms of his suit quickly. Brush. Down the top then sides of his legs. Brush. Brush. Like she was cleaning of dirt and dust, her face unreadable during her unconscious act. She went to brush down the front of his chest and slowed down lost in her thoughts, stalling her having to rise and pilot the plane away. Reality suspended in nervous ticks. He remained motionless during her absentminded act. Uncomplaining. Lost again, unable to look up at her. He, like the others, didn’t return her favors with their own recognition of her loss.

In a squat before him, between his knees, her forearms resting on his thighs, lost in her thoughts she allowed her forehead to rest on his chest. She fisted her hands until the leather covering her knuckles groaned. How I envy your rage, Wolverine. His eyes blinked softly, aware.

With a deep, settling breath, she quickly rose and surveyed her ship. Kurt had cajoled the kids into semi comfort. At first, a few resisted due to his startling appearance, but his experience with funny faces and self-effacing humor soon convinced the others.

With routine focus Ororo’s hands and fingers danced between the navigation controls and the plane’s flying mechanisms. About to initiate the last motion, she paused, finger hovering above the large red button, as she scanned outside her window once more, a final confirmation. A slight silence of everyone’s seemingly held breath, awaiting her next move. Even Logan lifted his head enough to watch her lean her head against the window, slowly scanning from right to left. Then her back silently collapsed and she pressed the thrusters firmly. The Blackbird groaned in movement, as it rose over Alkali Lake with a hum and made its way south. First to Washington, then to Westchester. Back to home.

Another sob was heard from Scott, the movement away from the scene bringing a sense of finality too much to bear. Wolverine held his head in his hands, trying to will these thoughts – and why the hell not THESE memories – out of his head. The Professor turned away from everyone as if in shame. Kurt settled in and buckled up by the children, looking down in part confusion and sadness. Storm sat low in her seat, arms on both arm rests, watching the scenery move in front of her. Her breathing shallow, sedate. She again forgot to breathe, her body going through the usual motions of survival. A weight settled on her chest like bricks. Brick by brick by body…

Not again.




In medias res…

Westchester – After Alkali Lake

The color red taunted him like the memory of water to a dehydrated man, the want of heat to the bitterly cold. Today, the shades of red added detail to his eye whites, yet the sight of it burned his rods and cones.

Logan meditated on past visions and gradients of the hue while running his tongue roughly against the palate of his closed mouth.

The flushed cheeks to an off-color remark. The cosmetic stain of the bitten bottom lip during a suggestive silent pause. The rosy strands of hair he stroked so carefully - so clandestinely - when she wandered too close to his reach. The color of Red.

The pale garnet orb had made its way across the clear cloudless aquamarine, marking the passage of hours during this longest day, a week after the longest ride back to Westchester via Washington - after Alkali Lake. The blooms and breezes of a forthcoming spring seemed a bitter irony to the theme of that day: mourning a loss, a beautiful, intriguing woman, comrade fallen, maiden sacrificed, Jean.

Logan did not fail to recognize, as the sun hit the treetops over the western edge of the estate, the sky had exploded into a riot of purple pinks, oranges, and of course, as his eyes blinked hard, those accursed reds.

The subtle scarlet tint of her hair against pale skin. The blush of aroused lips after a stolen, passionate kiss. The crimson silk that slipped slightly down her shoulder in a shaft of light. The colors of Red.

Yet the heavens’ visual scream seemed appropriate. Set the sky afire.

There was no body. No coffin. So in the open glade between the mansion and the eastern forest, they buried the roots of the Quercus Alba, a tree, instead. It was Storm who picked the white oak for the tree dedicated to her best friend’s memory. Overhearing the kids’ translation for her logic, apart from its ghostly white bark, Jean’s tree would grow a strong, majestically straight trunk of few peer, an exceptional shade tree. There they can gather, remember, find comfort. But Logan knew trees. He wasn’t stupid. Come the fall, the foliage would morph into the most spectacular array of reds. Well after the maples have shed bare, that slender slight white oak would burn on.

Logan did not expect to see the autumn here at the living mausoleum called school Xavier built.

The beer he had been nursing was slightly bitter and always caused the faint furrow of the brow with its tartness. He poured part of the bottle's contents into his mouth and held, allowing the liquid to settle amongst the taste buds, savoring the barley. Slowly the flavor and its texture traveled to the back of his throat where he forced it down. That initial taste would be followed by more of the beer, downing with deep, well-practiced gulps. Watching the remaining liquid settle in the bottle, he waited for the buzz, his welcome companionship. But those feelings of warm clarity and dull thoughts were always too fleeting.

Once again, he cursed his mutant healing factor under his breath.

Empty bottles peopled amongst his feet, finding shelter under the bench he sat upon by the mansion’s back door outside the kitchen, evidence of this common coping ritual of his. His searching for any feeling other than those this place had been wallowing in for the past week. And it’s been a week, he kept reminding himself, since they returned… after Alkali Lake.

Logan’s lips thinned into a line as he released a torrent of air out his nostrils in frustration. How many beers would it take? Another six pack? A keg? Perhaps all the gallons that pounded into Jean’s body, bruising her skin, pouring into her lungs. His eyebrows furrowed at the thought. Perhaps THAT would be the amount that would dull the pain, haze the memories - blind him to the color of red.

Logan swallowed deep to prepare for another helping of beer. Eh, maybe after a few more of these beers he would gain some real clarity, he decided. An answer at least. Ever since that day above the Lake, the woven voices of a man’s screams, a mentor’s moans and the gentle warm whispers of a woman echoed in his head. A round robin of pleas, sobs and quiet murmurs, joined by his own voice uttering less a question and more a statement above all.

There had to be another way.

Logan wasn’t stupid. He did the calculations. Made the analysis. Within the three days since he had come back to this mansion these people were attacked, their precious children terrorized and kidnapped, their struggle for mutant inclusion jeopardized, their lives in constant danger. And, again, the entire human race was almost obliterated. His chest jumped in sardonic cough. Never good luck when he and Xavier’s mixed, he equated. Was it him or these people? He couldn’t tell anymore, but to him it all seemed fucked.

Three days. His mouth screwed into a tight lipped sneer. Just three fucking days.

By the third day, they lost one of their own. His discovery of Stryker and the Weapon X Project, after fifteen years of searching, now seemed incidental. That third day he lost whatever chance he may have had for happiness with a woman. He wet his lips in thought then kept them folded over each other. Perhaps his last chance for happiness ever.

Not hardly, he corrected as he gave himself another cynical snort. He felt he was close. Close to being part of something. Something good for once. A family. A goal. Acceptance. The love of a woman? He blinked in warmed reflection. Well, that would have made it perfect. He swirled the beer in the bottle as his smirk fell to a contemplative frown. Too perfect. His frown deepened and his head lowered further.

And so it goes.

Nearby, a sparrow chirped. It flitted about between sprouting carpet and blooming canopy. From roots to branch. Picking up twigs, swiftly rising to deposit, boldly dropping, coasting to land and then picking up again. Nesting. Instincts. Its nature. Time to start over again. Beneath the low hanging branches of the companionable tree, bustling with life and activity, rooted beside the mansion’s back door, Logan sat motionless, only his slow eye-blinking marking the movements of his mind. His chest rose against the weight of his thoughts.

He didn’t know if it was him or these people…

He exhaled a sigh.

It all seemed ridiculous now, but for a moment he was happy here. Here he dared even to hope, he realized, raising his eyes to the heavens and treetops. So close. Perhaps the closest he had ever been in his long life of roads, side stops, one night stands, by passes, bar fights, dead ends. Pretty pathetic, he remarked to himself, narrowing his eyes. Yep, he was so close: gave nothing, got nothing, lost everything.

Another snort into another bitter smirk.

And so it continues.

Without thought, Logan allowed the bottle of backwash to roll out of his hand which rested on his knee and watched it sloppily land on the other bottles strewn along the grass of the yard and the stone tiles that lined the underneath of the wrought iron bench.

The clink of the bottles, the thud, the silence. He watched the collection of brown glass in their various positions. The way the light distorted through the curvatures of the cylinders. He blinked steadily, dispassionately. The breeze blew, running over his moistened lips, his slightly disheveled hair. The leaves above him rustled in movement. The gentle wind rushed past his ears adding intonation to the silence. His head again lowered with even heavier thoughts, closing his eyes while his face continually contorted with the memories of the day.

Others came. With their “so sorries� and “what a lovely person she was� niceties, pleasantries, background noise. Of those who were former students and fellow mutants - and there were only a few - they stood around and sat about with blank looks on their faces. There would be a quiet word shared with Scott, a respectful nod to the Professor, a long hug with Storm, wistful yet concerned looks to the next generation. Mostly hands wrung through hair, deep swigs of colored liquors, long stares into tree lines and one tree in particular. Looking bewildered, tired, weary. The day being a harsh reminder of the life they were genetically predisposed to be mindful of. Reminder of the doctrine they left behind when they “graduated�. Reminder of why they left. And why did they leave? Well, the answer seemed pretty simple to Logan as he furrowed his brows in thought. Perhaps they didn’t want to be part of this glade destined to be a forest populated by memorials of those who fought and fell. An outdoor dormitory of the dead. He slightly shook his head in part disbelief and part annoyance. Right now, the reason why they kept fighting escaped him, cause what went down with Jean… THAT certainly wasn’t the only solution.

The question unanswered bothered Logan, the feeling of uncertainty itching at his knuckles. There had to be an answer to why Jean died.

There HAD to have been another way.

Logan didn’t hear the approach being so deep in his thoughts of that day - the day of the memorial. He couldn’t identify by smell, his breath being so drenched with several hours’ worth of beer. Logan’s senses were as useless now as he had been feeling all week.

It was the harsh scuff of Scott’s shoes on the stone outside the kitchen door that announced his presence to Logan. Still in his suit with tie undone and the top few buttons freed, Scott paused and leaned against the door frame. He took a deep breath of outside air and glanced with the side of his eye at Logan who grew slightly uneasy with the additional company. Self conscious, Logan unnecessarily repositioned himself upright on the bench. Scott was also a little caught off guard and was expecting some peace after all the guests they had to deal with the past few days. Logan gave him a quick nod of acknowledgment which was met by a sincere smile. No words, no talk necessary. Both were glad for that. The two men settled into an easy silence, raising their eyes to review the scenery in companionable solace.

The sun had almost completed its slow descent behind the trees. Only the tip of the sinking bright arc was visible before it, too, relented to the elevated green horizon. Gone, but its remaining rays blazed over the ragged treetops. Logan stole a glance at his companion and wondered if behind an artificially red tinted perspective, could Scott truly appreciate the sight. Nevertheless, a slight contemplative smile crept to Scott’s lips and Logan’s eyes dropped to the ground as the sky exploded into a brilliant array of reds and oranges, dancing in their fight against the dark night to come.

Set the sky afire. Blaze until that final wisp. Stubborn, persistent embers struggling for last licks in the ashes.

Logan swore he could even hear the sky’s dying scream.

Logan’s intentionally idle attentions were suddenly interrupted as Scott slowly positioned himself by him, pushing aside glass cylinder obstacles with his feet absentmindedly, setting himself roughly alongside on the bench. Logan continued to watch in his periphery as Scott rested his right arm on the backrest between the two of them, knees apart, finding whatever comfortable position his weary, emotion-spent body could find. Warm salty saliva started to coat Logan’s teeth causing him to swallow hard. Logan didn’t need his senses to know that for Scott today was really hard. Too hard for Logan to begin to understand.

Logan missed the woman with the fire-licked hair and groin-stirring smile. He was regretting the absence of the uncomfortable yet invigorated down-turned glance at his prurient attentions, spurring him on to more uninvited advances. Logan missed the anomaly he labeled as Red.

Scott Summers missed Jean Grey.

Indeed, Scott also knew the seasonal hues of her coloring and the various dimensions of her smiles. But he also knew far more of the woman than Logan could possibly imagine. More of what Logan probably couldn’t even fathom. The order in which she ate the portions of her dinner. The subtle facial cues signaling either distress, confusion, amusement, arousal. Her favorite movie. Her worst memory. The exhilarated look when she used her power. Her ever present hesitation when deciding to do so. Her ability to say the right things when confronted before a hostile audience about the state of mutant affairs. The nasty things she would say when she felt slighted, eventually backing down yet never admitting she was wrong. The whole package.

In the end, Scott had what Logan had wanted. And in that way, Scott will always have that on Logan. The love a woman, that smart, beautiful, intriguing woman. Scott had Jean Grey. Had her, kept her happy, and Hells Yeah he scowled in anger when Logan was putting the shine on her. A small smirk barely ghosted Logan’s lips as he realized all that posturing and one-upping the two of them shared was pretty empty. Scott was protecting something that in the end Logan didn’t want. Logan wanted the passion and the ache. Scott wanted to protect the life, the reality, his world with one woman.

For a moment, a odd thought crossed Logan's mind. So what loss was Logan mourning then? But that thought disturbed him. It seemed dishonorable. Inappropriate. He shut his eyes firmly as he chastised himself. It's not that easy to push aside and catalog this, he told himself. Deep down, he knew this wasn't as black and white as that. And besides, this was Red.

But it is all moot now. Soon, this will all be in the past. Filed in that rusty cavity he calls a chest under a coulda been and a that time when. Drink a beer, pour out a little, finish the malt, move on. It's all undoable now. All water under the-

And he sighed. It wasn't going to be so easy to push it all away this time. He knew that.

The sound of rustling preceded the arrival. The breeze blew through the trees beyond the glade. As if the shaky exhalation of a long held breath. The sensations and sounds relaxed Logan’s thoughts, the change spurred on by the gentle nudges of nature. The branches, more so than leaves in this hint of spring, whispered and swayed in response to the breezes. They seem to titter in their own language that soothes the ears of men with too many thoughts in weary minds. The musical chatter hummed in his ear like another spoken language, female, not understood, that with warm, sweet breath was the catalyst for the theft of a hand.

Perhaps also inspired, Scott left his reverie over the tree line and turned his attentions to the bottles below. They chimed softly with another light nudge of his foot. Logan reached down his right to his end of the bench and deftly pulled up two more bottles. He pointed one towards Scott with raised eyebrows of suggestion. Scott looked at the offering for a moment then accepted with a smirk. After opening, he downed it in a sophomoric gulp. He was already warmed by the few social fraternal toasts with his now departed former classmates. The ever present responsible voice in his head weighted the consequences of mixing brandy and beer, but at this moment, chemistry and gastroenterology didn’t have much purchase with him. His post-swig grimace caused Logan to smirk at him with a slight grunt of amusement. Scott returned the facial gesture, however sheepishly, with a companionable nod in gratitude. Then with deep exhalations and relaxed arms, they both returned to their own respective deep thoughts masked by their supposed review of the scenery before them.

Logan supposed that at this point, people talk. They say something to each other. You sit together alone, watching the sunset, drink in hand – and alcohol certainly releases the tongue. It was a heavy day, he was there. But what else was there to say? What wasn’t already beat to death by the others? So sorry… What a nice person she was… Time will heal all… All bullshit. Stupid things people say to fill in dead air. To make themselves feel better. Logan didn’t feel like playing that game. Besides, he was there.

He opened his beer and took another long series of swigs. When the bottle left his lips, it was almost emptied. He released a long satisfied sigh, waiting, wait for it. Yes… that’s better.

During this time, Scott’s attention was focused on his own brown cylinder of promise. His brows were furrowed and his mouth slightly agape, as if he had his own words to say. He, too, also felt there was a space needed to be filled. Air held then exhaled, his stopping and starting, never saying. And then it came.

“You know,� his voice cut through the quiet, startling Logan who quickly turned his attention to him, brows raised. “I never HAD a Plan B. She was it.�

The concentration in Logan's face was evident as he digested the information, considered the concept. Then it became clear to him. The tension in Logan's body eased somewhat then. Scott's confession had the odd effect of absolving Logan of a personal crisis of his own. 'No Plan B?' Logan’s face softened. His mouth screwed into a frown of conclusion.

Perhaps then, that was the danger.

The thing with amnesiacs, there are no childhood dreams. No lessons learned in youth to build upon. No legacies from the past to uphold. Therefore, no future. No long term plans. You don't know where you come from so you don't know where you're going. No roots, just roads. You don't stay in one place long enough to be stuck without any options. So there are no substantial plans, much less secondary ones. You follow your gut and your instincts. Thinking reminds you of what you don't have. So you take what you can get and then move on. Logan's regrets, much like his ambitions, were short term. Short lived. Much like his forced inebriation. Much like his boots staying under one bed. His frown changed texture. And the one time he considered changing that lifestyle, it all went to shit on him. Yes. The danger. But Logan still had options.

Scott continued looking to treetops, the brilliant colors of the setting sun had long burned off, the blues darkened progressively, the scenery took a ghostly air. Scott sighed and took another sip, this time deeper than the first, face clenched past the unfamiliar bitterness to take in as much as the ale would offer.

Logan watched him finish the beer and then returned his attentions back to his empty, about to toss it to the ground with the others. Then he saw the pile, perhaps dozens of bottles strewn about and abandoned. Lying in precarious poses, all around his feet and beyond like a battlefield's belongings, the evidence of a good fight fought. Those bottles died with honor, the war did not end though at their own individual ends. It intrigued Logan how he found slight entertainment with this.

Logan immersed himself into the problem of bottles. The sudden need to get up and remove them from the carefully manicured grass and carefully placed stone compelled him to rise. The concepts of plans echoed in his head. Plans should always be short term, never long. Long term plans can always get thwarted, short term is quick and easy. Pick up the bottles, place them in the trash. Soon all will be clean and done. A good plan. And he was now committed to the execution of this new plan; he does it so well.

He patted Scott’s upper knee as he silently got up. Scott watched as Logan bent over to start gathering the bottles, three in each hand, to deposit them into the large garbage bin a foot or so from the bench. Scott made movements to get up but Logan refused the help with a wave. Relenting, Scott settled back to the bench, his eyes keeping busy watching Logan’s current occupation. After the last empty was tossed, Logan reached to the ground beside where he was sitting at the bench. He came up with the large cardboard box, opened roughly, that held the remaining beers and placed it roughly beside Scott on the bench. They both shared smiles at Logan’s offering. Scott gave him an 'understood' nod and Logan did the same. Scott watched Logan stretch vertically and then start walking towards the door, giving Scott a rough pat on his shoulder while passing him.

“Logan,� Scott uttered quietly while rising from the bench. Logan turned and found himself face to face with his companion.

Scott presented his hand. Logan looked at it first, sizing it up as was often his habit, before he understood the gesture. Logan put his hand in his and they shared a firm shake. Their hands mingled for a moment as their eyes met. Logan blinked as if in agreement to words not uttered then stepped away. Scott smiled slightly, and continued to look after him as Logan moved towards the doorway, into the house.

After a few more minutes of standing in silence, the dark now fully enveloping the manse, Scott, with a sigh, returned to the bench. Roughly sat, opening another beer. The soon-empty bottle he had gripped tightly before he tossed it to the ground.



in medias res…