He moved silently through the woods, his heart starting to beat faster in anticipation of seeing her. Maybe this time, he thought, but couldn’t even finish the thought in his own head. What did he even want to happen? He didn’t know. He clenched his fists in frustration with himself.
He knew she was getting frustrated with him as well. Every day the warm happiness that spiked her scent when she first saw him faded, her scent becoming tinged instead with vexation and a hint of sorrow at his continued silence as the day wore on.
He knew she likely thought that he was still afraid of her mutation, still a little angry at her for hurting him. She probably thought that fear and wariness caused him to keep this careful distance between them. How could he even begin to let her know how completely wrong she was?
It was not her he feared, but himself. What he might do if he got closer to her. The feelings she evoked in him frightened him with their intensity. He kept his face impassive as she talked, afraid to show how her slightest smile made his heart leap, how his gut churned with rage when she described how others had hurt her. No one had ever shown him such tacit faith. No one had ever trusted him with their thoughts and secrets. She had a power over him that he couldn’t explain, let alone resist.
Not a big talker, she had called him. Did she realize that he could probably count on his fingers the number of people he had spoken to in the three years of his life that he could remember? This...proximity to her. He craved it. He needed it. And if he started talking to her, he would say something to drive her away. He knew it, and it terrified him.
Maybe if he could keep this distance between them, he could hide it from her just a little bit longer. Hide what kind of animal he was -- the violent thoughts and impulses that goaded him. The dim and fractured memories that haunted him -- memories of pain both inflicted and received. He sometimes wondered how much of his amnesia was an unwillingness to remember, a subconscious cowardice that kept him from looking fully at the shadows that danced along the edges of his broken mind.
From the bits and pieces of memory that surfaced in flashbacks and nightmares, the person he had been was even worse than the brutal and damaged person he was now. No good person knew the things that he just instinctively knew -- how to fight, how to kill. How to pick up pretty much any weapon -- a 9 millimeter or shotgun, even a bow and arrow once -- and use it as naturally as breathing. Even just knowing what they had done to him -- he was pretty sure that torture like that hadn’t happened to him by chance. Even if he couldn’t remember exactly what it was, he knew in his heart that he must have done something to deserve it.
She sometimes talked about how her mutation worked, and every time she broached the subject his gut clenched with fear, his heart triphammering in his chest. She had taken his memories, taken him, into her mind. Even though she told him that she had locked them up right away -- reassuring him earnestly that she wouldn’t peek or pry -- he couldn’t stand the thought of it. It felt like a ticking time bomb, waiting for the moment when it would become clear to her exactly what he was. Her tolerance of him -- even more than that, her affinity for him -- was already inexplicable. If she got even a hint of what he was, this fragile arrangement between them would be shattered.
A cold wind whipped past him, making him shiver. Dry leaves were thick on the ground, and soon the first flakes of snow would start to fall. His metal-laced bones ached just thinking about it. He should have begun his southward migration already. Maybe that was the best that he could hope for -- that today would be the day when she would recognize what he was, and would send him away. That today she would bring an end to this tormenting cycle of anticipation and apprehension. Because god help him, but he could not.
_____________
She smiled, warm and wide when she saw him, and he couldn’t help himself, the tugging sensation in his chest pulling him closer to her than ever before. He stepped cautiously past the chopping block, able to see at this distance how her skin had turned golden from the sun over the past few months, tiny freckles dotting her cheekbones. Her hair was up in a casual knot at the back of her neck, one stray lock of platinum grazing her cheek. The cold breeze had pinkened her cheeks, and she wore a sweater under the old shirt she used as a smock.
“I was just tryin’ to figure out if this one is done, ya know?” She spoke to him easily, as if they were just picking up a conversation from earlier. “That’s always the hardest part, I think...as hard as gettin’ the first brush stroke down on the canvas, is knowin’ which brush stroke is meant to be the last.”
She took a step or two back, narrowing her eyes at the canvas. “That was my biggest mistake when I first started paintin’. I would keep goin’ and goin’ until the piece looked so overworked I just wanted to pitch the whole thing in the trash.” She set her brush down, wiping her hands on her smock before turning the easel towards him.
“What do you think? Does it look done to you?”
He couldn’t help but take another step forward, the riot of color and movement drawing him in. He didn’t know jack shit about art, but this painting was beautiful. It was everything he loved about these woods. She had somehow managed to capture the peace, the beauty -- even that little hint of danger lurking underneath.
He looked up at her and nodded, watching her eyes widen and her breath catch for a moment in surprise at having elicited a response from him.
She busied herself with turning the easel back around and packing up her brushes, trying to hide that little smile that quirked her mouth, but he could smell her rush of happiness on the cool breeze. He breathed it in, trying not to let himself become giddy with it. Something was different about her today. She was practically humming with excitement.
Her gear stowed, she met his eyes again. “Let me get this stuff inside and get cleaned up a bit, and I’ll bring out lunch, okay? I got somethin’ special today.”
Her eyes twinkled with mischief, and his heart managed to simultaneously jump and fall. What was she up to?
She disappeared into the house with the leather satchel she used to store her box of brushes and her palette. He looked back over his shoulder for a minute, half-considering a cowardly retreat back into the woods. In the end, though, he drew even closer, moving around to the front of the easel again for another look.
He had never seen anything like this, never seen anything on canvas or paper that made him feel something like this. It was almost like a soft echo of the feelings she evoked in him -- happiness, and warmth, and wonder. He reached out a finger, lightly brushing the edge of the canvas where he could tell the paint was dry, feeling under his fingertip the tiny ridges of the brushstrokes. She made this.
He heard the door start to open and by the time she stepped onto the porch he was back where he had been standing when she went into the house. The soft checkered blanket she usually used for picnicking was over her shoulder, but she was lugging a bigger basket than usual.
He stood his ground, frozen with indecision, as she came within a few feet of him, whisking the blanket out so that it almost brushed the toes of his boots. She sat down carefully on her end, busying herself in the basket.
She put out two plates as usual, one in front of her and one at the far edge of the blanket. A thick sandwich, some autumn strawberries, a creamy wedge of cheese. It was even more tempting than usual, being close enough to see and smell the food she was laying out for him. She always set a place for him, never showing if she was discouraged by what must have seemed to be his continued rejection.
Finally, she reached into the picnic basket again. “Just one more thing,” she murmured, her brow slightly furrowed with concentration as she felt around with both hands.
“Aha!” she exclaimed, triumphantly, holding up a frosty bottle of beer in one hand and a bottle opener in the other.
She looked up at him, her deep dark eyes shining with hopefulness. “Care to join me?”
Well, damn.
___________
She held her breath as the man’s eyes narrowed on the beer and then darted back to her face. At first she thought she might have pushed him too far as his gaze blazed over her, assessing, his eyes wary and suspicious. She had to stifle a sigh of relief as whatever he found in her face seemed to ease his tension. His hard expression softened, looking almost amused.
He sat down, off the edge of the blanket but within reach of his plate. She tried not to bounce with glee. He raised a sardonic eyebrow in her direction.
“Um...oh!” She hurriedly set the beer and bottle opener in the neutral territory of the blanket between them.
He hesitated for a moment and then reached out, pulling them towards him and popping the top. She watched, rapt, as he tilted his head back and took the first deep swallow, his tanned throat working. He closed his eyes and sighed, the look on his face damn near to ecstasy, and she busied herself back in the basket before he could catch her watching him.
She focused her gaze on her hands, popping a bottle of her own. She wasn’t usually a beer person, but she had to admit it went well with the cool autumn breeze and the company of this man.
They ate in companionable silence for awhile, Marie commenting from time to time about the next painting she had planned, the book that she was reading, how she should really get on with chopping wood now that winter was coming...
At that he smiled, a real genuine smile, and she smiled back reflexively before she realized.
She felt humiliation flush her cheeks. “You...you...” she sputtered.
She put her hands over her face, groaning. “I knew it! You saw all of that...my pathetic attempt at wood-choppin’.” She peeked through her fingers. The smile had faded from his face, his eyes growing wary again.
She suddenly saw the humor in the situation. One giggle rose up in her chest, and then another. Soon she was laughing uncontrollably. “I...and then the axe fell right outta my hands...and then I didn’t even know which way to chop it...” She could barely squeak the words out between gales of laughter. He started chuckling too, and the sight of him made her laughter worse until finally she flopped down on her back on the blanket, holding her sides, taking deep breaths to try to calm herself.
“Ow,” she said ruefully, letting her eyes drift closed. “I don’t think I’ve laughed like that since I was a kid.”
Suddenly a shadow blocked the sun and she opened her eyes to find his upper body looming over her. She froze as his hand came towards her face, her breath catching in her throat.
“Be...be careful,” she managed.
His eyes met hers, intent, and he nodded. Then his hand reached forward, brushing the strand of hair out of her eyes, carefully tracing it behind her ear.
He held her gaze for an electric moment and then sat back, pushing back to the edge of the blanket.
She turned on her side, watching him, not sure what to make of him. He took another bite of his sandwich and tilted the beer bottle up, even though it was obviously empty. Was he...nervous?
She sat up slowly, her heart thumping. She dug in the basket again, pulling out another beer. She held it up, watching the light gleam through the bottle.
“I’ll trade you for this one.” She heard her own voice, soft and raspy, and wondered at her boldness.
He looked at her, suspicion in his eyes again. She saw him tense his muscles as if to rise.
“Wait...don’t go. Please.” The lock of hair fell over her eyes again, and she pushed it back impatiently. “Just your name. That’s all I want. Somethin’ to call you by.”
He continued to regard her watchfully.
“I just...” She stopped, wondering if she was risking driving him away for good. She took a deep breath and continued. “I promised you I wouldn’t peek at your memories, and I haven’t. But sometimes I get them anyway. Sometimes they come out when I’m sleeping...”
He leaped to his feet, his hands clenched in fists by his side. She hurried to stand also, taking a step back to avoid spooking him more.
“I...I didn’t mean...not just that one. The real bad one, when they put the metal in you. I mean, I got that one, but it’s not the only one.”
She could hear him breathing roughly, short panting gulps of air rasping through his throat. A snarl tore from him, low and deep, and she saw the claws shimmering at the surface of his skin. At first she thought he was angry with her, and then she saw the pain and self-hatred in his eyes.
She was furious with herself. Why couldn’t she explain it better?
“I didn’t mean it like that, to make you feel bad. I just...I saw when you met Gus. I know that other name -- Wolverine. And I know that it’s not really who you are. I mean it is, but it isn’t. Just like I’m not Rogue, but I am. And I thought if you could tell me who you really are, I mean your real name, I would be able to...”
She stopped, uncertain of what she was even trying to say. “Dammit, this is comin’ out all wrong.” She felt a lump rise up in her throat, tears starting to sting her eyes. He didn’t look as angry but he was still frozen in place, his whole body tense.
“I just know...I know that people have hurt you. And I know it’s hard to open yourself up to someone after somethin’ like that. It’s hard for me too, but I’m tryin’. For you. And I thought maybe you could try too. If not for me, then for...” she trailed off. “For...beer,” she finished awkwardly, feeling beyond foolish. The plan had seemed so much better in her head.
She saw him turn his head, looking toward the woods again as if planning his escape. Then he looked back at her, and a shudder seemed to run through his whole body. His stance relaxed just a little.
“Logan.” The word was barely understandable, a rusty growl formed into speech between his clenched teeth.
She felt her heart leap in her chest. “Logan?” she repeated tentatively.
He clenched his fists and released them, taking a restless step. “Logan.” It was clearer that time, more like a word than a growl.
She felt the smile spread across her face as relief rushed through her. “Logan,” she repeated. “It...it suits you.”
He looked uncomfortable, turning again towards the woods.
“Wait!” She held up the beer. “You forgot this.” She smiled. “A deal’s a deal.”
His eyes searched her face for a long moment. “Not for beer,” he finally said. “For you.”
She felt the blush rising up in her cheeks but he had already turned away, his loping stride taking him back into the depths of the woods.
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For Springbok the Mighty!
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