The Girl: Chapter Four
"Sir?"
"Yeah?"
"Why are you...uhhm...doing this? Why do you keep giving me-giving me this-this stuff?"
"Hey, if you don't want it--"
"No! No, I-I do. It's just-I don't-I don't...."
"Gonna finish that thought today Kid? I have shit to do."
She was biting her lip, staring at him with a teenager's version of determination.
"I just....I don't know what you-what you expect for-I mean, in-in return."
She tripped over her words enough to give most people a moment of pause. But Logan was accustomed to others stuttering in his presence, and easily made the translation from Fear-Speak to English.
"Don't expect anything.’Cept maybe for you to quit askin' me that same fucking question. You want the food, take it. If you don't, then don't. It's that fucking simple."
Oddly, it was the kindest thing he'd said for weeks, and the most words shared between the girl and him.
As he shut the door to his apartment he wished, absently, that he had let her talk a little more--not enough to go back and initiate a conversation, of course...But had it been really necessary for Logan to rush through the encounter? Was he in that much of a hurry? Had he needed to snap at her?
She had a nice voice.
.....And if he wanted (not that Logan did) to spend a few moments enjoying one of perhaps five sounds that did not scratch his eardrum, then why shouldn't he? After everything Logan had been forced to put up with on this mission, all the work he had done for a team he barely believed in...didn't he deserve that? A tiny piece of something in the world that wasn't contemptible, repulsive, bad?
What the hell was he thinking?
Of course not.
He didn't deserve anything.
Logan showered quickly, pulled on a clean shirt. His dirty clothes were starting to pile up; from the looks of things it would soon be time to endure the chemical/mildew reek of the laundry room. Maybe he could take them to the dry cleaners instead. The ones here might be used to removing blood.
When he left the rooms again (to knock on the door of a man who would regret answering for the rest of his-albeit very short-life) the girl was still there. Just a few feet down the hall, picking at the box of strawberries he'd thrust into her hands. Logan found himself giving her a jerky nod of greeting as he passed.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
They fell into (what was the word?) that quicksand of daily repetition: a routine.
Logan had spent years trying to avoid them. He had wandered across continents instead of settling into some suburban niche, had made a living out of splitting his knuckles rather than donning a suit and taking phone calls in a cubicle. The quickest way to lose a limb would be to tell Logan that travelling and cage fights were routines as well, but he already knew. He was content enough with those miserable habits (smoking, drinking, fucking) that he had chosen himself--and perfected. At least those brought with them a familiar unhappiness, one that he was unwilling to relinquish for the risk of Change.
Routines were dangerous, terrifying things. Logan dreaded them more than a kick to his testicles, more than Scott Summers singing, more than an open bottle of Nair. Routines were as frightening as black holes and nearly as inescapable.
He'd always blame the girl fro dragging him into one.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The cashier was a man in his forties, with gnarled hands and a pinched face. He resembled one of those withered heads found in voodoo shops. He used a pencil and a sheet of notebook paper rather than a machine (the store lacked a cash register, though a faded square on the counter suggested that one this wasn't true) to add up Logan's purchases. Beer, a box of matches, toilet paper, and two plastic-wrapped sandwiches that smelled fresher than anything else in the room. Between each scribbled price, the man licked his thumb, squinted, and cocked his head at the previously written number.
His prison record probably stretched as long as his scraggly ponytail--though Logan had neither interest nor right in judging him.
"Nine an' a half dolluhhs' an' we'll call it even, Suh."
Logan placed a twenty dollar bill on the counter and watched the cashier's face light up.
"Keep the change."
:::::::::::::::::::::::
His schedule was erratic; much of his "work" taking place long after the street lights (the few that worked) came on. But that depended on his victim, and the best time to find whoever it was alone. Sometimes this meant past midnight or early afternoon, or as he/she was on their way to lunch, or heading out for their morning jog. It didn't matter much to Logan. At some point he would kill them, just as at some point he would sleep. When those points were did not trouble him as much as it might others. His wasn't an average job.
However, lately--for no determinable reason-Logan found himself free in the evenings. Around dinner time. And, coincidentally, around that time he'd also find himself near a convenience store/restaurant that happened to have something he figured the kid would eat.
Logan would buy something for himself--potato chips, cigars--so that he could convince himself that he wasn't going out of his way for the girl.
::::::::::::::::::::::
The grey sheet of clouds which hung over the city eternally--like some peculiar, unwanted, ceiling--broke that evening. It thundered and poured for approximately ten minutes, then stopped when the sky grew bored and decided to return to it's sullen immobility. Logan was soaked, but somehow not angry by the time he reached the tenement. He liked the smell of rain.
As he walked, he thought about the mission. The trafficking cell was breaking up, it's members scrambling. A month, two at the very most, and he would have hunted them all down. It would be over. Some routine cleanup, a phone call, a drive that wouldn't take long. A small fortune of a paycheck, signed by Xavier--not that Logan particularly needed or cared for that much money.
But he would no longer be bothered by the girl. He would no longer be bothered with her trailing him or demanding food or giving those girlish "thank you’s”. He would no longer be bothered with the way she looked at him, as if he were actually making a difference.
Best not to get his hopes up. The mission could take longer. It could.
:::::::::
The girl took the sandwich in a delicate grip, as if it were a Sapphire and not stale bread she was holding. Instead of the customary 'Thank you', she said, "Mister?"
Logan stared at her.
She looked down, to the cover of her book. Anne Frank.
"I didn't mean to--to make you angry. Earlier. I like--I mean, I appreciate you doing...this. It's really--it's really nice of you."
She got a grunt and a scowl for a reply, but as he turned the doorknob to his apartment he growled, “My name ain't 'Mister'. It's Logan. Use it."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
As previously stated, routines were dangerous. They numb you. So sly and total was their take over that you start to think--hey, this isn't so bad. The girl might not be a complete menace. And--and if he actually enjoyed those moments spent in her presence, who was around to call him, The Wolverine, a hypocrite? Who would dare?
But the thing about routines was that when they were broken their effect could be freeing--or devastating.
The girl didn't show up the next night.
Or the night after that.
:::::::::::::::::::::::
The small expanse of floor, a little less dusty than it's surrounding carpet, was empty. Without the girl and her books to break up the lonely image, the corridor once again could have made a screenshot for a horror film.
Logan didn't go searching for her this time; he was busy. If the girl couldn't be bothered to be in her spot, outside his door, where she was supposed to be, then that was her problem. He wasn't going to chase after the kid.
It wasn't his job.
He put the taco he had bought for her in his fridge, though reheated ground beef was disgusting. There was a hockey game he had planned to watch, but he gathered his dirty clothes and took them down to the laundry mat. Walking slow, breathing deeply.
Logan wasn't looking for her. But the girl was absent from any of her usual places, so it hardly mattered if he was. She wasn't here. Period.
Upon his return, Logan took the girl's food and consumed it in three slow, childishly defiant bites. Fuck her.
::::::::::::::::::::
The following evening, Logan stood in line at one of the more sanitary Chinese restaurants in the city. The meal cost forty-five dollars and barely fit inside three grocery sacks. Logan figured that if the kid wasn't there tonight, the wasted food and money would provide the excuse his anger needed. He might even track the girl down--drag her back to the tenement, to the fourth floor hall. If he was stuck there, so was she. He could cram Singapore noodles down her throat. Make her--make her say those things she'd said before. About him being nice.
The possibility that the girl wasn't there because she couldn't be there never crossed his mind. He wasn't worried, certainly not panicked. He didn't miss her.
But all of that proved unnecessary, because tonight the girl was there. Waiting for him. In her place.
Her eyes held a little less life, a little less curiosity in the world around her. It may have seemed a cold stare to anyone without his senses, anyone who couldn't smell the sadness that kept her shoulders tense and her lips wobbly.
It was on Logan's tongue to ask, What happened?. But he kept the words in his mouth.
He wasn't someone who asked questions like that; he didn't care.
They shared a look that was both apologetic and broken and cautious--all of which belonged to her, of course.
At the other end of the hall, someone was throwing a party. Lavender-tinted smoke drifted out of the door, along with the occasional man or woman. Shaking, twitching, wiping their noses as they stumbled to the stairwell. Too thin and too stoned, they released giggles that could have been sobs or screams. The walls quite literally rocked with the music they left behind--the rhythmic base pounding made Logan queasy. It wasn't a safe place to sit near, and he was surprised that the kid would have risked it.
A Hispanic man with an upper lip rubbed into an angry scarlet passed them, and barred his teeth at the girl. It might have been a smile. His pupils were mere pinpricks, but he was still jonesing for something. He took note of the glaring man already standing over the girl and kept walking, but the next one might not.
"Let's go. You can eat in my apartment."
Her eyes widened and she shook her head vehemently.
Logan hadn't meant the words as a refusable invitation, but he decided not to tell her that just yet. Opting instead for a method Logan rarely chose without sarcasm, coaxing, he said, "I don't think you wanna stay out here, Kid."
He walked over to his door, held it open with an expression that brooked no argument. But though her gaze followed the plastic bags he held, she did not shift from her cross-legged position. Her cheeks turned pink.
"No," she said. "No, thank you sir--Logan. I don't want to."
Logan made an irritated harrumph noise, a low growl. His mind roiled with not-nice things concerning the girl, but for some reason his voice was even (some might even call it soft) when he asked again.
"Look, Kid. I don't really give a fuck what you do either way. Just don't be stupid about it. I ain't gonna touch ya, ain't gonna make you stay. Leave whenever the hell ya want, just....c'mon."
If the last word came out as something more than soft, something like pleading, Logan didn't notice.
The girl studies him, visibly weighing her options. Logan must have ended up on the better half of the scale--he even briefly entertained the idea that she believed him, trusted him.
Or maybe she was just hungry. Either way, the girl got to her feet.
She followed him in.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Hello!! I do believe I've broken my record for rambly-author's notes. >takes bow, waves trophy<
Firstly, something has been brought to my attention by an awesome reviewer--who I am very grateful to for pointing it out. I was told that there are some missed words/grammar mistakes within this story, for which I am truly sorry for. Please do not blame my beta; she catches most of the typos I make-quite an impressive number. Some slip through the cracks and that is understandable, considering how by the time I finish typing up a chapter there's very little time left for me on the computer. And, unfortunately that means that Erica gets a frantic call from me, the gist of which is-- "'Bout to post! Hurryhurryhurryhurry HURRY!"
After a few token complaints--"Why can't you just wait?", "Rose, I'm busy."”Rose, I'm at the altar.", "Rose, I'm going into surgery." (Just kidding).--she always runs to her computer. Statues should be built in her honor.
Anyhoo, my point is: the mistakes are mine, I'll try to re-edit from now on, and my beta is awesome.
Secondly, I couldn't believe the number of beautiful reviews I received for the last chapter. Some made me literally jump up and down and some, I'm ashamed to say, literally made me tear up. Then again, I cry at books and movies and particularly touching commercials (like those Allstate advertisements and those commercials where they show abused animals and play Sarah McLachlan songs? Yeah. I know.) so don't think you're too special. ;-) Thank you so much. I will never ever stop appreciating the time you spend to give feedback on my work.
This chapter is a bit longer, as promised. But I didn't quite reach the Rogan scenes I had been planning. Sorry, and don't worry: it's coming.
Please enjoy.
Firstly, something has been brought to my attention by an awesome reviewer--who I am very grateful to for pointing it out. I was told that there are some missed words/grammar mistakes within this story, for which I am truly sorry for. Please do not blame my beta; she catches most of the typos I make-quite an impressive number. Some slip through the cracks and that is understandable, considering how by the time I finish typing up a chapter there's very little time left for me on the computer. And, unfortunately that means that Erica gets a frantic call from me, the gist of which is-- "'Bout to post! Hurryhurryhurryhurry HURRY!"
After a few token complaints--"Why can't you just wait?", "Rose, I'm busy."”Rose, I'm at the altar.", "Rose, I'm going into surgery." (Just kidding).--she always runs to her computer. Statues should be built in her honor.
Anyhoo, my point is: the mistakes are mine, I'll try to re-edit from now on, and my beta is awesome.
Secondly, I couldn't believe the number of beautiful reviews I received for the last chapter. Some made me literally jump up and down and some, I'm ashamed to say, literally made me tear up. Then again, I cry at books and movies and particularly touching commercials (like those Allstate advertisements and those commercials where they show abused animals and play Sarah McLachlan songs? Yeah. I know.) so don't think you're too special. ;-) Thank you so much. I will never ever stop appreciating the time you spend to give feedback on my work.
This chapter is a bit longer, as promised. But I didn't quite reach the Rogan scenes I had been planning. Sorry, and don't worry: it's coming.
Please enjoy.
Chapter End Notes:
This chapter is dedicated, as almost all of them are, to the people who click that review button. 'Couldn't do this without ya'll. (Well, I probably could. But I wouldn't want to.) Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. The next chapter should be posted in a week, as usual. :-)