You know that he loved her first.
--
You ran away from The Mansion the minute you could. You've had enough, enough, enough.
Jean decided to die in this big dramatic way that only she could, saving everyone in the process.
John abandoned all of you for Magneto.
Scott kept crying, Ororo stopped smiling, Bobby -
Bobby just looked haunted. Like his picture perfect little world had imploded and there was nothing, nothing he could do about it.
And The Professor. He kept on teaching. Like nothing had ever happened.
'Would you like to speak to me, Rogue?' he asked you once, smiling beatifically.
'No,' you said flatly. Stay out of my head.
Did everyone seriously think that after the Professor nearly fried humanity's collective consciousness, everything would go back to normal?
--
You celebrate your nineteenth birthday alone. Crying over broken dreams.
--
Maybe love has a different name. Torture, maybe. Evisceration, definitely. You've touched him enough times to know that.
--
You don't expect him to look for you. Maybe he would have, in a different world. Before Jean died. Before Stryker. Before the disaster at Alkali Lake.
Stupidly, you still hope - no, pray - that he tries anyway. Because as you watch the blood drip from the cuts on your thigh, you remember the way he made/makes you feel.
--
You have other ways of forgetting.
--
Three knocks on your door, and your first thought - Logan? - swiftly followed by - stop dreaming, girl - and you're on your feet. Gets lonesome, living this double life (Jane, not Marie, twenty one, not nineteen, hopeful, not broken), so any distraction is a welcome one.
You crack the door open, your gun snug in the backpocket of your jeans. Just in case. Because there are enough people out there who hate you for existing.
'L-Logan?'
It's Logan alright. Not a cut on his lip, not a bruise on his face, but that's never been a measure of how injured he is.
You sink into his arms and hug him so tight it's shameful.
'Marie,' he whispers back, not letting go.
--
You both stay quiet at first. He unpacks his gear - where's he been? will he leave? please don't go - excuses himself to use the bathroom, and after you see him cough up blood, and take off his ripped singlet from underneath his jacket, you realise that yeah, he's been in a fight.
'So,' you say casually, 'how'd you find me?'
He smiles, leaning back against your couch.
'Asked Xavier.'
You swear under your breath. 'I left The Mansion to get away from him. Why's he still poking around in my head?'
'Easy there, kid.' He gets up and sits next to you, wrapping his arm over your shoulder. You sigh and shudder, leaning your head on his chest. Good thing his jacket's thick enough to keep your toxic skin at bay.
'He poked around 'cause I asked him to. Everyone knows you want to be left alone. I'll go if you -'
'No! No.' Shaking furiously, your face crumples into something you wish he'd rather not see. He holds you closer, and you could just curl up like this forever-
He sniffs. Once. Twice.
'You're bleeding.'
Your hand goes automatically to your thigh.
'It's nothing,' you lie.
'Doesn't seem like nothing to me,' he says quietly.
'I told you,' you say, and your voice is turning into broken glass, 'it's nothing.'
'If it's nothing,' he replies calmly, ''then you won't mind if I take a look.'
You start to tremble.
'It's only me, Marie. I'm not here to hurt you.'
You close your eyes. Unbutton your jeans. Pull it down to your knees. You hear him gasp, then go quiet.
'Marie-'
'It takes the other pain away,' you say softly, dampness trickling down your cheek.
--
He trails light kisses on your scars - one by one - and you exhale when he lifts his face up. His eyes are wet.
'Why didn't you tell me-' he starts, then stops, despair in every word.
You chuckle sadly. 'Didn't know how to find you. Didn't know if you'd come.'
He gets up, rubbing at his eyes.
'I sure ain't leaving now.'
--
He doesn't ask how you set up this whole apartment by yourself. You'd rather not tell him. You've slaved, heart, body, and soul, to stand on your own two feet, and you've got the scars to show for it.
Some wounds are better left unspoken.
--
'So how long will you be stayin'?' you ask, flipping the egg over, hearing it sizzle.
'As long as you need me, Marie.'
You turn away so he won't see you cry.
--
'Thank you - thank you for finding me,' you say softly, in the midafternoon heat.
He smiles.
--
'Do you think of her much?' you ask. Unnecessarily. Clearly, you enjoy pain.
He doesn't miss a beat. 'Every single day.' He looks at the sadness in your eyes. 'But she's gone. You're here.'
'I can't complete with her.'
He brushes his fingers across your cheek.
'Nobody's asking you to.'
You swallow thickly, your eyes blurring.
'Aren't you scared, when you touch me?'
He shrugs. 'Nah. I heal. What's the worst that can happen?'
--
You both figure out pretty quickly that the worst case scenario is an hour or two of unconsciousness, give or take a few minutes.
'Logan?' you whisper guiltily.
'I'm here,' he slurs, waking up.
'We don't have to do this-'
'I want to, Marie. I - I think I'm getting the hang of this.' He takes a deep breath, sighing against your skin, making you want to cry all over again.
'You're so beautiful.'
--
Your patchwork version of happiness is good enough.
And you learn that applying liberal amounts of lipstick makes kissing him a lot easier.
THE END
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