Cruel As the Grave…Song of Songs
God, this trip is such a nightmare. I shouldn’t have come.
The Professor meant well, giving us a chance to get away together for a couple of days. Practically a vacation; no meetings with officials, no work, no hours spent hunched over a microscope. I should be enjoying this. I used to love to travel.
It’s just so exhausting, somehow. It seems like Scott and I have been fighting forever, and it’s not going away just because the scenery changes. I really thought it might this time, with less day-to-day stress and a chance to just relax on the trip down, but it seems like everything I do is wrong, and I am so sick and tired of that pained attitude and the veiled comments that I could scream.
And I don’t even have the normal excuse of not knowing what he’s thinking. I can feel his disapproval blipping at me from across the room, a constant low-level irritant. He won’t say anything; I’m just supposed to get it, what he’s upset about this time. We’re in such a vicious cycle, and I’m tired of apologizing for things I don’t really think I’m doing wrong.
There’s always something. Tonight it’s how I’m dressed. But I’m not playing this game, not tonight. What I’m wearing is perfectly appropriate for where we’re going, and I’m not going to walk into a bar dressed like I’m attending a Cabinet meeting, whether he likes it or not. Black leather pants, boots, and a gauzy red shirt; I’ve got a camisole under it and there is nothing untoward on display. This is not 1805 and I don’t care what he thinks.
It’s just that what he thinks is starting to give me a headache. As Scott pulls the car up to the curb and parks I feel in my clutch for the vial of Tylenol and curse mentally; apparently I’ve left it in our room. Perfect. Just perfect.
Without a word, Scott gets out of the car and starts around to open my door for me, but I don’t wait for him, swinging it open and getting out before he can get there. And the disapproval increases, how dare I take away his right to be a perfect outward gentleman, but I ignore that and walk ahead of him towards the bar.
God, I need a drink. And I’m going to have one, official business or not.
The bar is called Devereaux’s. The front room is reasonably crowded, with people playing darts and pool, watching a college football game on a big-screen TV at one side and cheering on their favorites. I know Scott already has the place scoped out and he starts directly towards the back, but I head for the bar and ask the woman behind it for a brandy. Scott stands behind me, practically tapping his foot with impatience, and when the woman brings me my drink he asks for a light beer.
The first sip burns my throat a little and I blink back moisture in my eyes. The blonde bartender gives me a friendly smile as I put down money for our drinks, and her cheerful thanks make such a stark contrast to the anger I can feel welling up behind me that it makes me want to toss back the whole glassful and order another.
I make myself take another slow sip instead. Scott leans in behind me. “We could have gotten a drink in the back.”
“I know. I wanted one here.” I don’t turn. “You know we’re early. Just relax, will you? We have all night.”
“I can think of about a dozen places I’d rather be, if you just want to get a drink. Can we get this finished and get out of here?” His voice is so cold.
“I like it here. And we can’t get this finished until the fights are over, so take it easy.” I turn then, and once again I find myself trying to placate him. “Come on. This is supposed to be a fun trip.”
Same old pattern. His mouth makes a thin line. “This place is a dump. If the kid is here, the sooner we get her out, the better.”
I just look at him. I swear, Scott didn’t used to be like this. I don’t know what happened. When we were in college, it was always him trying to drag me off from my studies to have fun, remind me that there were other things in life than one more paper or experiment to finish. Responsibility hasn’t been very kind to him, I think. I sigh, and pick up my glass. “All right. Let’s see what we can find out.”
I follow Scott through the bar, past a shrieking crowd of college kids who are thrilled by a play that’s just been made on the television, and the urge to stop and join them is almost irresistible. They’re having such a good time, and whether their team wins or loses, they won’t care for more than a minute. A tall blond young man moves out of my way with automatic courtesy as I edge by his group and makes a gesture that would be a tip of the hat if only he were wearing one: Southern manners, the boy was raised right. I give him a smile just as Scott turns to make sure I’m behind him. Damn.
“Come on.” A large man stands at the back of the room, by a door; Scott walks up to him, has a quiet word, passes over a discreetly folded bill. And we go through the door.
It’s a different world.
Outside, the kids were cheering for their alma maters with fervor, but here, we’re suddenly transported back to the Colosseum. This crowd is electrified, out for blood, and there’s no screen between them and their gladiators—I can smell the sweat and the blood that’s already been spilled tonight. The noise is incredible. I hear the wet, thick smack of flesh on flesh and the sharp lash of pain that follows assaults my senses.
It’s like a hit of cocaine. I push past Scott and get my first clear view of what’s happening in the back of the room.
That first look—it’s a shock. Pure primeval power, ancient instinct, kill or be killed. The presence, as the fighter turns and I see him full-on for the first time—I know it’s something I’ll never forget.
I barely notice his opponent, though in any other company he’d stand out, huge and bald and muscular. But the man facing me is different, and not just because I happen to be seeing him from the front.
He’s dark, bearded. I can feel the intensity of his gaze from here as he takes a step back, lifting a hand to wipe a trickle of blood from his chin. Both fighters are shirtless, circling, taut and alert, looking for each other’s weakness. Sweat glistens on his shoulders as he lifts his arms, readying his fists.
He’s enjoying this. I can tell.
And suddenly there’s a flurry of motion as he sees an opening and unleashes a furious assault on his opponent, his fists landing blow after blow against the larger man’s midsection. The bald man staggers back against the bars of the cage that encloses them and I can’t even hear the punches land over the roar the crowd of men lets out. The energy rises even further as the dark man waits, circling again, prowling in that circumscribed space. I watch, transfixed.
“Over there.” Scott’s voice, crisp and unemotional, in my ear. “By the bar.”
I don’t want to look away, but reluctantly I turn my head. It’s another shock.
She’s so young. That’s my first thought. The girl is standing up on the crossbars of her stool so she can see over the crowd, and she’s screaming right along with the men. Long dark hair streams down over her shoulders as she claps, raises her hands to her mouth to yell encouragement to her chosen fighter. I can see she’s wearing long black gloves, and they look incongruous with the shirt and jeans she’s wearing, as does the fringed scarf she’s got around her neck.
I’m sure it’s the dark man she’s cheering for. I can’t hear what she’s calling out over the crowd, but even as I watch she suddenly throws her hands up in the air, her face alight with triumph, the roar of the crowd increases even more, and when I turn back to the cage the fight is over, the tall bald man sprawled unconscious as the ringmaster raises the other man’s arm in victory.
“Winner and still champeen! The Wolverine!” I didn’t know they actually said things like that. The victor stands still for just the moment, and then he’s turning his back, stalking away from me and out of the cage, disappearing.
“Come on.” Scott takes my arm and starts to push through the sudden rush of people shoving towards the bar. “Let’s just get her and get the hell out of here.” Someone elbows him and he puts out an arm to shove back. “Hey! Watch it.”
“Watch it yourself, buddy,” slurs that particular reveler, but Scott pays no attention. He’s intent on his objective, but before we can get through the influx of drinkers demanding refills, the dark-haired fighter appears beside her, still pulling a white-t-shirt back over his head. He tosses a leather jacket down onto the bar beside the girl and then she throws her arms around his neck and he lifts her up off the barstool, his still-intense expression dissolving into a grin as the burly bartender reaches over to slap his shoulder in congratulations. The girl is laughing, and I see her bring one hand up to gently touch his cheek, as if to rub away the hurt from one of the blows he’s taken.
“Great,” Scott mutters beside me. “Who the hell is that? Her boyfriend?”
Automatically I shake my head, even though that’s exactly what it seems like. “I don’t think—” I don’t think now is the right moment, is what I don’t think, but Scott doesn’t wait to hear my opinion. He elbows past another knot of people, not even really making sure I’m behind him, and taps the fighter on the shoulder firmly.
“Excuse me. We need to speak to you.”
The man turns, setting the girl down on the floor next to him, and fixes Scott with the same intent stare I saw during the fight. Then his gaze flickers to me, and—it’s hard to describe. Like a sudden flame, an instant of utter and perfect calm in the center of a storm, a moment of silence in the maelstrom around us.
Scott doesn’t notice it. He just continues with his standard introduction, telling them our names, the name of the school, leaning in slightly as he uses the word ‘mutant’ for the first time. But the girl notices. I see her eyes move from Scott to me as well, and then something about her changes, as though a veil has come down over her face.
“What do you want exactly?” The dark man doesn’t look in the least receptive.
“We’re here looking for a girl who was taken from Meridian, Mississippi ten days ago,” Scott tells him, and at that I put a hand on his arm, because I know that’s the wrong way to go about this, but it’s too late. The fighter’s eyes narrow, but before he can answer the girl steps forward, shrugging off the arm he still has around her shoulders.
“I’m Marie D’Ancanto. I’m the one you’re looking for. But I wasn’t taken anywhere. I left.” She lifts her chin to look Scott in the eye as she speaks, but her voice shakes a little. “I’m not going back.”
I have to admire her for that. Scott transfers his smooth, reasoned, prepared speech to her instead, and as she stares at him a little blankly, the man beside her turns his attention back to me. This time it’s more than a quick glance. This time he lets his gaze linger, sweeping up and down and taking his time. Then he deliberately leans between Scott and the girl and holds out a hand.
“Jean, right?” His fingers close over mine. “Name’s Logan.” His deliberate use of first names, when Scott introduced me complete with title, stops the school-related spiel and Scott turns to me, frowning slightly. “You a teacher at this place?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“So what’s your mutation?” He raises one eyebrow inquiringly and I’m a little surprised at the sense of humor he’s revealing. I feel Scott’s hand on my arm, but I ignore it.
“I read minds.” He looks skeptical. “Like now you’re thinking…you don’t believe I can.”
“Jean,” Scott hisses in my ear. “This is not the time or the place.”
I don’t care. He’s right, of course, but I pay no attention. This man’s interest is as intoxicating as the brandy that’s beginning to work its way through my system. He leans a little closer to me and one corner of his mouth twists in a wry half-smile. “Okay, Red. Read my mind.”
There’s no one in this bar except the two of us. I don’t know what the hell Logan’s mutation is, but that power he definitely has. I don’t think who might be watching or even what they might see. I’m breathless, I’m giddy, I’m feeling nothing but the connection between the two of us. I lift my hand to his temple, not quite touching but so close, and I open my mind—Christ. Images assault my brain, and they’re nothing like I would have imagined. I can’t even sort them out, they’re so painful and brutal. It feels like an attack. I suddenly realize that Scott has grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand away from the man’s face—
“Okay. That’s it. We’re getting out of here.”
I open my eyes. I’m not even sure when I closed them. The first thing I see is Logan, all vestige of amusement fled from his expression, and then I see the girl.
Oh, god. She looks like…she looks like I’ve just slapped her in the face. This is going all wrong, and I don’t know what to do. Scott has my hand in his now, and he’s leading us out of the bar.
At least the two of them are coming with us.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
The storm begins to brew, and Jean Grey tells how it happens.
Chapter End Notes:
Thanks to all who have taken the time to comment. Your wonderful feedback is what makes it all worthwhile.