Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...
Summary: Logan's memory returns at an inopportune time.
Rating: R, sex, language, mature themes
Warning: Um, this is in really bad taste? It deals with a highly sensitive topic. If you're easily squicked, don't read. If you know what the title means, you'll see why, but to say more would be to give it away.
Spoilers: This is movieverse, but I'm stealing stuff from Origin, through issue #3, so read at your own risk. Again, take the hint, people. This is *me* we're talking about, even if I am being Cryptic Warning Girl.
Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
Archive: Lists, Muse's Fool; you want *this*? ::boggles:: Feel free.
Feedback: Better than a stick in the eye. Flames welcome. It's *cold* here. Just be prepared to have them lobbed back at you, with interest. And anyway, I'm told they're a sign you've "arrived." <g>
Notes: Thanks to Jen, Pete, Dot, and Meg. And Laura, who found the funny (sort of) for me. And Bonnie, who had faith. *g* "The near future" per the movie, means 2005 to me. Jean is 35. Also, if you're interested in seeing my timeline, let me know. I've got it all figgered out. <g>
< > indicates thoughts
Jean smiled as she smoothed back her hair and checked her dress in the mirror one last time.
She looked fabulous.
Since her relationship with Scott had ended six months ago, she and Logan had dated a few times, each waiting for the other to take their heavy flirtation to the next level. She'd been surprised at his gentlemanly behavior, expecting to be thrown down on the bed and ravished the first time they were alone together, but that hadn't happened.
She finally decided that she wasn't going to put up with his unexpected dithering anymore. She was going to do it, and do it tonight. Hence, the little red number, the black fishnets and the fuck-me pumps adorning her feet.
<Oh yes,> she thought, <Logan is mine tonight.>
She knew he was having a session with the Professor right now, and she'd asked him to stop by her room when it was done.
They had made some slight progress in digging up some of his memories, and so he met with Charles daily to continue to piece together his past.
Impatient, and a little nervous, she found herself straightening up the room. She picked up a picture of her grandmother, dressed in the chicest fashion 1945 had to offer, and whispered, "You'd like Logan, Grandma. He really is a gentleman underneath all that macho bluster."
After sprinkling rose petals amid the sheets, she checked her hair again, and decided on the perfume she only wore on special occasions -- Shalimar. She sprayed her neck and wrists, and then the backs of her knees, between her breasts and the curve of her abdomen under the dress. She wore no underwear.
She lit the candles when she sensed him coming down the hall, and leaned back casually on the bed when he knocked.
She slid off the satin bedspread and onto the floor with a thump.
"Come in," she said, lowering her voice to a sexy purr as she climbed back onto the bed. She felt to make sure her hair was still in place.
He stalked into the room, his face creased in a half-grin. "Jeannie," he growled. She tilted back on her elbows and he leaned over her, kissing her passionately.
They were lost in the moment, tongues dueling as they quickly undressed each other, all the flirting and waiting of the past few months over.
Logan slowly slid the red dress off her body, following the silky material with his mouth. He frowned as he tried to place the perfume she wore. Mingled with the scent of her arousal, it was curiously familiar.
Jean was drowning amid the sensations Logan's hands and lips were producing as he kissed his way down her body. She flung one arm out and knocked over the picture she'd spoken to earlier.
She raised her hips and he pulled the dress off and tossed it away, taking her left leg and slowly unhooking the garter and rolling the fishnet stocking gently down. He dropped it on the floor and kissed her instep, tickling her with his muttonchops.
"Mmm, Rose," he murmured, licking the back of her knee, his eyes closed as he reveled in the taste of her.
<Yes, rose petals. He likes that. Good,> she thought.
He ignored her whimper as he repeated the process on her other leg, this time sucking on each of her toes and sending jolts of pure desire through her body.
Again, upon reaching her knee, he whispered, "Ah, Rose. So good. So sweet."
<You really like roses. Or --> "What did you say?"
"What? Nothing," he replied, bewildered, running a hand up her silken thigh. Finally, he stroked the wet folds of her sex, breathing in her scent as she writhed in pleasure, making her forget whatever it was she was going to ask him.
And yet a third time... "God, Rose," he growled.
<He's not talking about flowers.> She pulled away.
"What did you just call me?" she asked.
Logan leaned over her, ears burning in embarrassment. He *never* used the wrong name. It was one thing he'd learned a long time ago, and as a rule of thumb it had served him well over the years.
"What? Nothing. Um, you smell like roses?" he said, but it didn't sound convincing even to his own ears. Yet she accepted it, opening her arms and allowing him to kiss her again.
He nuzzled behind her ear as his hands teased and molded her full breasts, before one slid lightly over her body to once again cup her sex.
She opened her mind to him, knowing he would be projecting and she wouldn't be intruding on his privacy.
What she saw confused her slightly, breaking through the need skating along her nerves. It was a younger version of herself, with lighter skin and green eyes instead of brown.
And her name was Rose.
She sat up suddenly, shoving him backwards. He landed on his ass, eyes wide.
"Who the hell is Rose?" she demanded.
"Huh? What?" he fumbled, as memories came flooding back to him. Red hair, green eyes, and the scent of Shalimar mingled with her arousal.
"Rose? Rose uh... Hallett? No, Howlett. That's it! She's, she's my -- wife." He looked up at her in wonder. "I had a wife, and her name was Rose Howlett."
Jean ripped the sheet off her bed and wrapped it around herself. She looked at the nightstand, and saw the picture of her grandmother had been knocked to the floor. She grasped it with her mind and it clattered against the floor. She steadied herself, trying to process Logan's words, and then floated it over to him. She said, voice trembling, "This Rose Howlett?"
He took the frame and froze, staring at it, then looking up at Jean. "Jesus fucking Christ."
She chewed on her cuticles as he rose and began pacing. "This was nearly a Greek tragedy," she said in horror. "That's my grandmother."
Logan stopped in his tracks. "Oh, God," he muttered. "I think I'm going to be sick."
"She always did say I was the spitting image of her," Jean muttered, dropping the sheet in order to pull her dress on.
He leered at her for a moment, then clapped a hand over his eyes. "Fuck. I can't look. This is so wrong," he moaned, turning his back on her.
"Tell me about it," she said, her voice rising as the situation sunk in.
"But, but how?" Logan asked, resuming his pacing as he looked longingly at the photograph. "We only had the one son, John. He--"
"Uncle John, yeah," Jean said. "I heard a lot about him. He converted to Catholicism and became a priest."
"A priest?" Logan choked out. "What the flamin' hell..."
"He ran a very rich parish in Chicago, until he died. You'd have been proud. Grandma was."
"But, but-- the healing factor." He was near tears, mourning a son he hadn't seen in over seventy years, even if he was a priest.
"None of us inherited it. You had another child," she whispered, suddenly seeing beyond her own horror to what this moment must be like for him. "Apparently, you ... disappeared before Grandma realized she was pregnant again. She was older than they thought was safe, but my mother was born healthy in 1933. Mom was thirty-seven when I was born -- a miracle baby, they said, because they'd tried for so long without any luck." She slumped back down on the bed, resting her head in her hands.
He wasn't looking at her anyway. He stared out the window, but what he saw was obviously very far away. She could tell he was piecing together the memories that had surfaced.
"They took me," he muttered. "The government. Told Rosie I was dead. They knew what I was. They threatened to kill her if I tried to contact her. They'd been keeping an eye on me since the war -- the Great War. I -- I didn't know. I found out after -- found the files, and then they took me again and did this." The claws slid free of his wrists as if of their own volition, speaking to the years of despair and loneliness he'd spent, both in captivity and afterward. "Did she --"
The pain in his voice pulled Jean out of her own misery. She was uncomfortable and definitely needed to take a shower. Maybe a week under the hot water would be enough time to wash off the feelings of guilt and disgust that seemed to be sticking to her, inside and out. She couldn't touch him. She couldn't touch anybody ever again. She needed to scrub, desperately.
But he looked so forlorn and he was one of her best friends, despite this huge and sudden shift in their relationship. She laid a tentative hand on his arm, exhaling when he didn't flinch.
"No, she never married again. Uncle John took care of her, then she came to live with us until she died." It was her turn to get lost in memories. Her grandmother had been her favorite relative, and it had hurt when she'd died. "She told me stories about the house you grew up in, and then about the Yukon, and living with the miners. I thought she was the coolest old lady ever."
"She was," Logan murmured. "She saved my life more than once. When the claws -- and my father -- and Dog..." He stopped and swallowed. "She took care of me when I couldn't take care of myself. And I loved her," he finished hoarsely.
He jiggled the picture frame in his hand. "Can I--"
"Yeah," she said softly. "I'll have copies made. I --" She was startled to see him crying, though her own eyes were not exactly dry.
"I'm sorry about -- this," he said finally.
"Let's never speak of it again," she replied, shuddering. "Okay, Grandpa?"
He snorted and glared at her, looking more like the Logan she was used to. "Don't *ever* call me that again." She giggled at the horror in his voice, and had to rein herself in, or she'd be hysterical in the classic sense of the word, and that would do neither of them any good. Finally, he relented. "Okay." He ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath and said, "I guess we should tell Chuck, though."
She nodded, and they went downstairs.
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