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Fic: Night Visits: Reconnection (3/6) [L/R] R/NC-17

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  • Victoria P.
    Disclaimers etc. in Part 1. Also a strong R or NC-17 for sexual situations Oh, and I apologize for Remy. I m still trying to get the hang of his patois.
    Message 1 of 1 , Nov 7, 2000
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      Disclaimers etc. in Part 1.

      Also a strong R or NC-17 for sexual situations

      Oh, and I apologize for Remy. I'm still trying to get the hang of his
      patois.

      < > indicates thoughts
      // // indicates dreams
      ~ ~ indicates telepathic conversation


      Night Visits

      3. Reconnection

      Three days later, they were in Vancouver. He dropped Sue off at her
      friend's house, making sure she was actually welcome before he left.
      He hoped she was, because she was getting on his nerves. Always
      talking, always fiddling with the radio, and always badgering him to
      call Marie.

      So he waited with her on the doorstep. The door opened and a bleach
      blonde squealed, "Susie Sue! You made it!" She gave Logan the
      once-over and said, her voice dropping an octave, "Who's your friend?"

      "This is Logan. He helped me out when I was stuck."

      "I'll bet he did," the blonde said. "Why don't you come in for some
      coffee?"

      "Got business to take care of," he said shortly and walked back to
      his trailer.

      "Call her!" Sue shouted as he pulled away. He raised a hand but
      didn't turn around.

      He soon found himself in a dive bar in a slightly seedier part of
      town. Vancouver didn't have much seediness, and you had to work to
      find it, but he had a nose for the type of place where he'd be most
      comfortable.

      He sat and drank and watched the Canucks lose to the Rangers. Damn,
      everything made him think about New York. He'd had another dream last
      night, which made the first look like a Disney flick. Maybe if he
      called her, the sound of her voice would bring him back to reality.

      He got up and went to the payphone in the back, ignoring the fact
      that it was 3 am on the East Coast. He pulled out his phone card and
      punched in the numbers, his heartbeat quickening like a teenage boy
      calling his first crush. He told himself to calm down.

      "Hello," a voice said breathlessly after three rings. He froze.
      Jean's voice, not Marie's. He could have sworn he'd dialed directly
      to
      the kid's room. "Hello?" she said again, impatiently. He felt all the
      pain of her rejection flood back and hung up abruptly, resting his
      head on the wall above the phone.

      He went back to the bar and knocked back a few of shots of Wild
      Turkey in quick succession, feeling sorry for himself. It took a lot
      to get him drunk, but he was on his way when he suddenly cursed. He
      *had* dialed Marie's room direct. If Jean was there in the middle of
      the night, something was wrong.

      He headed back to the phone, praying everything was all right. The
      phone rang four times, then he heard Marie's voice, filled with
      sleep. "Hello?"

      "Hey, kid. You okay?" he said, relieved.

      "Logan!" She perked up. "That was you earlier, wasn't it." It wasn't
      a question.

      He shifted uncomfortably, though she couldn't see him. "Yeah. I,
      look, is everything all right? Why was Jean in your room?"

      "Oh, the usual nightmares and stuff," she said, striving to sound
      unconcerned. It didn't fool him.

      "Shit." He was having sex dreams about her while she was still
      suffering from his nightmares. "I'm sorry, Marie. For everything." He
      hoped he didn't sound too pathetic.

      "I am, too, Logan. I was outta line. I understand what you're going
      through. I just don't like to see you hurtin', ya know?" she said
      gently, and he smiled at the southern accent that even three and a
      half years in New York hadn't erased. "When you comin' home? I miss
      you."

      "I miss you, too, Marie." His voice was rough with an emotion he
      wasn't eager to identify. "I'll call you soon."

      She sighed at his non-response to her question. "You better, sugar.
      And be careful. Okay?"

      When had she started calling people "sugar"? he wondered. "I will,
      kid." He broke the connection.

      ***

      "I love you," she whispered into the now-dead phone, before replacing
      the receiver on the cradle. She sighed. It was so typically Logan to
      call at 3 am, not thinking about waking her or anyone else, since he
      was up.

      At least he was safe. She'd been angry at how he'd gone without a
      word, but anger had quickly turned to regret, guilt and worry.

      She walked over to her dresser, picking up the intricately carved
      cedar box he'd brought back from Canada for her the first time he'd
      left. Opening it, she pulled out his dog tags. She'd taken them off
      in anger when he'd left this time. But he did still care, even if it
      wasn't the way she wanted him to. He wouldn't have called otherwise.
      She traced the letters of his name with an ungloved, unmanicured
      hand, and then slipped the chain on over her head. She'd missed the
      feel of the tags around her neck and it was almost a relief to have
      them on again.

      She climbed back into bed and slept dreamlessly until her alarm went
      off.

      ***

      She had class all morning, and then training with Scott and the other
      X-Men in the afternoons. She had been offered a spot on the team, as
      sort of a junior member, and since her power was basically only good
      only under emergency circumstances -- and in close quarters -- Scott
      was training her rigorously in fighting and other skills.

      Evenings were spent doing homework and watching way too much
      television. That was her routine now that Logan was gone. When he
      left, she'd found herself at loose ends. She finally gave in to
      Remy's pursuit and went out with him, more to break up the monotony
      of
      her days than out of any real desire for him.

      He wasn't a bad guy, really, though his constant use of the third
      person when talking about himself drove her nuts sometimes. They went
      out to the movies or dinner, and then he'd whisper sweet nothings in
      her ear and they'd fool around in the backseat of his car. He was
      quite adept at touching her without actually touching skin.

      They were parked on the far edge of the property, away from the
      prying eyes of both teachers and younger students. She was just
      starting to get lost in the sensations his hands were producing when
      he found the dog tags.

      "What's dat, chere?" he asked, pulling them out of her shirt. "Why
      you wearin' these again? He abandoned you, chere, and he ain't comin'
      back. Not wit' Jean marryin' Scott."

      "He is coming back," she insisted, hugging the secret knowledge of
      his phone call to herself.

      Remy shrugged. "If you say so, petite. But I don't like seein' my
      girl wear another man's chain. Take it off."

      "What?"

      "It ain't right for you to wear his chain. You Remy's girl now." He
      tried to lift the chain over her head.

      On some level, she knew he was right. Wearing the dog tags was like
      wearing a sign saying she belonged to Logan, but it also gave her a
      piece of him that no one else, not even Jean, had. She wasn't ready
      to let that go, and she certainly wasn't going to let Remy dictate
      terms to her.

      She snatched the chain angrily and said, "I'm nobody's girl, Remy. I
      belong to me, and I'll wear what I damn well please." She got out and
      slammed the door. It was dark, but they weren't that far from the
      house.

      "You got to give him up, chere," he called after her. "He only gonna
      break your heart again." She flipped him off and stalked away.

      Back in her room, after she calmed down, she hoped they'd still be
      friends -- when she and Bobby had broken up, there hadn't been any
      tension, just the acknowledgement that comfort and convenience
      weren't good enough reasons to stay together.

      She crawled into bed, comforting herself with a brand new romance
      novel and a Hershey bar. The hero (who always looked like Logan,
      regardless of how the author described him) had just taken the
      heroine (the role she assigned to herself) in his arms and was
      kissing
      her passionately, when the phone rang. She jumped. It was 1 am.

      "What?" she barked into the receiver, startled.

      "Marie? It's me."

      "Hey, sugar, I'm sorry. I was just readin' and I got scared when the
      phone rang."

      <Sugar. I think I could get used to that.> "Whatcha readin'?" he
      asked, more to have something to say than out of any real desire to
      know.

      "Oh, this cheesy romance novel about a duke who falls in love with
      his kids' governess. But she's really not a governess, she's an
      heiress in disguise, on the run from her mean old uncle, who's trying
      to marry her off to one of his repugnant friends."

      He laughed. "The crap you read, Marie. I swear I'm surprised they let
      you bring that shit into the house."

      "Oh, it's very educational, Logan," she teased. "In addition to
      learnin' all about the nineteenth century British aristocracy and the
      Napoleonic Wars, I've learned all sorts of funky sex stuff that--"
      she broke off, hearing his sudden intake of breath. She'd forgotten
      who she was talking to and she blushed scarlet. She was glad he was on
      the other side of the continent, unable to see.

      "I hope you're not plannin' on tryin' any of it out," he said sharply.

      She laughed mirthlessly. "Not likely, since I just broke up with Remy
      tonight."

      "You what?"

      "Broke up with Remy. He was tellin' me what I should and shouldn't do
      as his girl."

      She heard some muffled curses, as if he'd moved the phone away from
      his mouth, and then, "Dammit, Marie, I told you that guy was no good
      for you. I'm gonna cut his balls off and feed them to him when I get
      back."

      He was coming back. She had to laugh. "It's okay, Logan. I dumped
      him. I only went out with him because," <you weren't here,> she
      thought, but said, "I was bored. And he's a good kisser." She figured
      maybe if he realized other men wanted her, he'd realize she was an
      adult, desirable as a woman.

      More mumbled cursing, then, "I'm comin' home soon, Marie, and if that
      prick hurts you, I'll kill him. You can tell him I said that."

      She hugged herself in delight. "Yes, sir!"

      "I'll call you soon."

      "You better. I miss you."

      "I miss you, too, kid."

      She hung up the phone, thrilled. In celebration, she broke out the
      blue nail polish and painted both finger- and toenails for the first
      time since he'd gone.

      ***

      Logan stared at the wreckage he'd made of the bank of payphones,
      hoping no one had seen him do it. It was bad enough knowing she was
      reading sexy novels, but to think of her with that dick Gambit,
      trying out stuff that *he'd* been dreaming of doing with her... His
      claws had come out before he was able to stop them, and he'd
      immediately decided to go back, broken heart be damned.

      Remy had been sniffing around her even before he'd left, but a few
      growls and a lecture at claw-point had driven him off. Obviously, it
      was time to give the guy a refresher.

      ***

      // They were in the shower, hot water beating down on them, sunlight
      pouring through the skylight, gilding their bodies and making
      rainbows on the white tile.

      She was pressed against the wall, legs wrapped around his hips as he
      pounded into her. Her nails scraped down his back, and he wished for
      once the scratches wouldn't heal instantly, so he'd have some
      physical evidence of the best damn shower he'd ever taken.

      He had one hand braced against the wall and the other worked its way
      into the white and auburn of her hair as she screamed his name. He
      buried his face in the hollow of her throat, biting hard enough to
      leave marks as she came, pulling him over the edge with her. "Oh,
      God, Marie," he groaned, and kissed her deeply. //

      He woke feeling lost without her at his side, and disturbed that he
      was still dreaming about her. Maybe calling her had been a big
      mistake -- one he was determined not to make again.

      For years, his sleep had been haunted by the nightmares of what had
      been done to him, and sometimes of what he had apparently done to
      others. But he would have welcomed their return with open arms if he
      could only stop dreaming about Marie. He was enjoying the dreams --
      he would have said he was enjoying them way too much, if he talked
      about them at all -- but he was troubled, as well. In fact, the
      pleasure he was getting from them was part of what concerned him so
      much.

      He knew it was wrong. It *had* to be wrong. She was much too young,
      even if she was nineteen. He knew she cared for him, knew she'd had a
      crush on him even (something he'd never really thought about until
      now, and it made him hard whenever he considered it, much to his
      dismay), but he'd always kept his behavior toward her brotherly. He'd
      been in love with Jean, and he hadn't wanted to hurt the kid. He
      figured if he pretended not to know, it would just go away.

      And it had. After a year or so, she was able to be around him without
      any telltale signs of a crush -- her heart rate was normal, and she
      didn't hang on his every word. He had been remarkably patient, for
      him, because he couldn't bear to think of hurting her, and he
      certainly felt unworthy of the hero worship in her eyes. It had never
      occurred to him to think of her as anything other than a little girl,
      even after Bobby and then Remy started hanging around, looking for
      more than friendship.

      Apparently, though, his unconscious mind felt differently.

      He decided he didn't have to rush home. First, he'd take a little
      time to figure out what was going on with these dreams. He didn't
      want
      images of himself making love to Marie to cloud his reunion with her,
      making both of them uncomfortable. And he wasn't calling her again.
      He was starting to look forward to hearing her voice, and that was
      something he was not interested in. He was dependent on no one and
      nothing, not even his sweet Marie.

      His resolve not to call lasted three days. He was in a bar in
      Seattle, doing shots of tequila with a blonde who was old enough to
      be
      Marie's mother but probably still young enough to be his daughter. He
      was trying to drink himself into wanting her when the song came on.
      Patsy Cline's heartbreaking lilt singing "Walking After Midnight." He
      could see Marie's face when he closed his eyes to listen. He got up
      and, tossing some money on the table so the blonde could pay the tab,
      walked out and went to the payphone on the corner.

      It only rang twice before she answered. "Hello?"

      "Did I wake you?"

      "No, I was," she hesitated, and he half-hoped she'd say, "waiting for
      your call." Instead, she said, "studying."

      "Oh. Well. I don't want to interrupt. Chuck would kill me if I
      screwed up your studies."

      "It's not an interruption, Logan, really," she assured him. "I was
      getting headachy and the words were startin' to swim. I needed a
      break. Your timing is perfect."

      "Okay then." He tried to think of something to say to get her talking
      so he could lose himself in the honeyed tone of her voice. He went
      with the obvious. "What are you studying?"

      "Psychology. It's fascinating." And she regaled him with the latest
      theories on everything. He didn't get half of it, but enjoyed the
      excitement in her voice as she told him all about it.

      Finally he said, "Kid, I gotta go. This call is costin' me a fortune."

      "Oh." Her voice grew small. "I'm sorry for talking so much."

      <Shit.> "I didn't mean it like that, Marie. You know I didn't. I like
      listenin' to ya. I miss our nightly talks."

      "Me, too," she said, even though they'd always been about Jean, a
      subject she was not really interested in discussing anymore. Maybe he
      wasn't either. He hadn't mentioned her once this time. "Call collect
      next time. I've been doing odd jobs around the mansion for Scott, and
      he's been paying me. I can afford to spend some money if it means I
      get to talk to you."

      He felt a tightness in his chest at the offer and found it hard to
      speak for a moment. "Nah, kid. I'm making enough money to pay the
      phone bill."

      "You're cage fightin' again, aren't you?" she accused. "You said you
      weren't gonna do that anymore."

      "I'm only doin' it to make enough money to get by, when I can't do
      other stuff," he equivocated.

      "I worry about you, you know. You could get hurt."

      "I heal fast, kid," he said, stating the obvious, touched at her
      concern, and silently berating himself for causing her more worry.
      "Don't worry about me at all. I'm Wolverine, remember? Baddest badass
      ever," he quoted her words back to her. "I'm the one worryin' about
      you.

      She laughed, but there was a slight hitch in it, like she was choked
      up. "That's what friends do, Logan. They worry about each other."

      "That's a deal then, Marie. I'll call you soon."

      "You better. I miss you."

      "I miss you, too." He hung up the phone and wandered the streets of
      Seattle until dawn, avoiding sleep and thinking.

      ***

      // They were outside, under the stars. He was lying on the blanket,
      cradling her in his arms, her hair spread over his chest. Her hands
      roamed over him, languidly at first, and then with greater purpose,
      stroking him until he couldn't speak. She smiled, eyes glinting
      devilishly as she feathered kisses down his body. "You don't have to
      --" he started, realizing what she was doing.

      "I want to," she whispered, and then took him in her mouth. He almost
      died feeling her warm, wet tongue wrapping around him.

      "Marie," he moaned, threading his hands through her hair and pulling
      her head up.

      "What? Was I doin' it wrong?" she asked, bewildered.

      "No, baby, you were doin' good. Too good," he managed. "I just want
      us to be together when we come."

      Her smile returned and she straddled him, using a hand to guide him
      into her. "Like this?" she purred as she moved up and down slowly,
      torturing him by tightening muscles she was just learning to use.
      Soon she was in the same incoherent state he was, and they moved
      together, rushing toward their climax. The world shattered into
      pieces
      behind his closed eyes and she leaned forward, kissing him gently.

      "I love you, Marie," he whispered. //

      He was *not* calling her again, he told himself. Sure, he missed her,
      but talking to her was only feeding his fantasies, which were getting
      more vivid every night. He bought a few porno magazines, trying to
      exorcise her from his system, but that only made his dreams more
      graphic. He gave up that strategy in favor of drinking heavily,
      taking cold showers and sleeping as little as possible.

      He lasted a week and a half without hearing her voice. Then he was in
      a convenience store on the outskirts of Duluth and he caught a whiff
      of vanilla. There was a whole rack of air fresheners at the counter.

      Marie always smelled slightly of vanilla. Even when he'd first met
      her, in the bar in Laughlin City, she'd carried a faint hint of it
      through the fear and smoke and stale beery smell of the place. She
      had probably been wearing it so long it had seeped into the fabric of
      her clothes.

      The girl was bagging his stuff when he said, "You got those prepaid
      phone cards?"

      "Yeah."

      "Gimme a couple of 'em."

      "I'll have to ring that up separately," she said sullenly.

      "Whatever," he replied, pulling the money out of his pocket. He was
      already telling himself not to call her. Maybe he'd call Jean's room,
      give Scott a hard time. The thought left him curiously unmoved. He
      still thought Jean was hot, and he still got a charge out of breaking
      One-Eye's balls, but he didn't feel the overwhelming sadness or anger
      such thoughts used to bring. His five months away had allowed those
      wounds to begin to heal.

      Marie really did know what she was talking about. He'd have to ask
      her how. She'd probably laugh and tell him she'd learned it from
      those
      trashy novels she was so fond of. His mind shied away from thinking
      that she knew it from experience. She hadn't loved him, not really.
      <A crush isn't love,> he told himself, <and she got over it a long
      time ago.>

      No, he wasn't going to ask her anything. He argued with himself for a
      good part of the night. <You're not calling her, dumbass,> he told
      himself. But a little voice in his head taunted him. <What are you
      afraid of? Think maybe she let that bozo into her pants? Maybe he'll
      answer when you call. What'll you do then, tough guy? You're a
      thousand miles away.>

      He looked down at the desk he'd just mangled when his claws popped
      instinctively at the thought of Marie with the Cajun.

      He picked up the phone and dialed before he could have second
      thoughts. It rang and rang and he started to worry. It was 1 am in
      Duluth, which meant it was 2 am in New York. Which meant Marie should
      be snug in her bed, *alone*.

      "Hello," she said breathlessly after an endless seven rings.

      "You okay, Marie?"

      "Never better, sugar. Happy Halloween!"

      "What?"

      "Happy Halloween, silly." She giggled.

      "Marie, are you drunk?" he asked incredulously.

      "Drunk is such a ... strong word, don't you think? Toasted, maybe, or
      tipsy. I like tipsy. What do you think?"

      He laughed. "Tipsy it is. I can't believe Scooter allows you kids to
      drink."

      "I just got home from a Halloween party on campus. I was just about
      to get undressed, that's why it took me so long to answer the phone.
      I
      was washing my makeup off."

      He sucked in a breath at the thought of her undressing, her body
      relaxed in his bed, her hair spread against his pillow. <Get a grip,
      man.> "Was it a costume party?" he asked, proud that his voice
      sounded normal, now imagining her in a French maid's outfit.

      "Uh huh. I'm a cat. Meow." She purred. <Down, boy,> he told himself
      sharply.

      "How'd you manage that?" He sounded a little hoarse.

      "Oh, I wore one of those lycra catsuits Jean and Ororo use to train
      in, and I got little gloves with furry cuffs. The costume shop had
      ears and the most adorable fuzzy tail, so I was good to go. All the
      boys wanted to play with the kitty. Meow." The alcohol exaggerated
      her drawl. He closed his eyes, trying to get his raging hormones
      under
      control. He knew what he'd be dreaming of tonight.

      He thought of things he'd heard on the news, about date rape drugs
      and fraternity parties. "Boys, Marie? You were careful, right? Those
      guys are dangerous."

      She giggled again. "You're always worryin'. Of course there were boys
      at the party, Logan. It was at a frat house. But nobody can touch me,
      remember?" Her voice was suddenly sad. <Oh, no,> he thought. He
      didn't want to start her on a drunken crying jag. "Then again," she
      continued, sounding a little more cheerful, as if she'd thought it
      over, "you don't really need skin-to-skin contact to have a good
      time."

      He made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a growl.
      Whimper at the idea of having "a good time" with Marie, and growl at
      the idea of random frat boys having "a good time" with Marie. She was
      going to be the death of him yet.

      "Don't be such a killjoy, Logan." She had only picked up on the
      growling. "I'm not making a reputation for myself or anything. But
      I'd like to have some fun before I die."

      "Marie, you're nineteen years old. Why you even thinkin' about
      dyin'?" This was one of the strangest conversations he could ever
      remember having.

      "I'm on the team, now, Logan. Well, sort of. I go on rescue missions
      and less dangerous stuff." He was slightly ashamed that his first
      thought was about how fine she'd look in one of those leather
      outfits. Then he thought about how dangerous being on the team could
      be.

      "Be careful, Marie. I'll be home soon--"

      "You're sure takin' your sweet time," she muttered.

      She knew how to make him feel guilty without even trying. He
      continued as if she hadn't spoken, "and I expect you to be in one
      piece when I get there, ya hear?"

      "I hear. I wish you coulda seen my costume, Logan. I won a prize."

      "Me, too, kid." <If only you knew.> "Those boys didn't stand a
      chance, Marie."

      "Damn right," she said smugly. She yawned. "Sorry. So tired. I'm
      gonna shower now, and go to bed."

      He flashed on memories from his dreams and sought refuge in the
      brotherly persona he'd spent so much time erecting. "Put one foot on
      the floor if the bed starts spinning," he said.

      She giggled again. "I kinda like the bed-spins. Reminds me of
      Tilt-a-Whirl from when I was a kid. And I gotta hydrate my ass. I
      remember."

      He laughed and tried not to think about her ass. "Go to bed, Marie.
      I'll talk to you soon."

      "You better. I miss you."

      "I miss you, too."

      ***
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