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FIC: A Change To Color 7/7 : NC-17: Rogue, multiple pairings

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  • Jenn
    7/7 For two weeks, I kept to myself. And everyone blamed the Remy situation and to this day I have no idea if Logan ever found out the specifics--nor have I
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 2, 2001

      For two weeks, I kept to myself. And everyone blamed the Remy situation
      and to this day I have no idea if Logan ever found out the specifics--nor
      have I asked him, though I suspect that if he had, I would definitely know
      about it and so would the rest of the school. I was in the library or the
      Danger Room or curled up somewhere, surrounded by trees and water and air,
      trying to sort through my own head, trying to believe what I saw in Jean's
      eyes and hating myself for wanting so desperately for it to be true.

      God, Logan would hurt. If it was true.

      When he left, I thought the world ended.

      It seemed funny to think like that. Funny, because time had brought a
      measure of acceptance--or so I told myself, strictly reminding myself of
      what would happen the day, the minute, the *second*, he and Jean ended.
      And I thought that it was fading, that rush of pain that still hit when I
      saw them together, when I thought about them together (which I still did
      more than was really healthy). But no amount of acceptance prepares you to
      wake up and have Scott's voice tell you Logan was gone and asking if you
      were okay.

      She'd done it. That was the only explanation.

      "Are he and Jean--did they--?" I half sat up, and Scott pushed me back
      down, absently brushing my hair out of my eyes. The lines around his mouth
      were tight, teeth clenched behind a tightly closed mouth. He hurt for her,
      even now, despite everything. Like I hurt for Logan.

      "I don't think so."

      I stared up at him for a minute, my mind blank. Wondering what had
      happened to make him run--from *Jean* of all people--how she must feel,
      what it could mean.

      The possibilities were dizzying.

      "Scott, do you believe in destiny?" It popped out of my mouth without
      checking in at my head, but it sounded right.

      Sitting on the edge of his bed in the blue pajamas I had really learned to
      like, strained, tired, angry, he considered the question, like Scott always
      does, and gave me the answer I didn't expect, not from him. Though maybe I
      should have.


      I thought about that. Thought about how it felt when he touched me and
      thought about how much I wanted Logan and knew Scott wanted Jean. Thought
      about the look on Jean's face in my room and which color meant I was doing
      the right thing, that meant that I wasn't doing this for every reason but
      the right one.

      "Why don't you go talk to her?" It was a whisper.

      He jerked around and looked at me and I saw his hands clench. Before he
      could say anything, I reached out, covering his fingers with mine, trying
      to remember what he'd told me about black and white and how everything had
      all these different colors that meant something. That meant a lot.

      I wasn't doing it for the wrong reasons. I wasn't.

      And I told myself that even after he left, staring at the ceiling because I
      knew I'd just signed the death certificate for Logan and Jean's
      relationship and I hated myself that I'd done what I wanted at the
      beginning and still wanted even now.

      Even if I was doing it for the right reasons.

      When I went to my room the next morning, the tags were on my desk. I
      picked them up and stared at them for a long time and shut my eyes and
      decided that if I didn't believe in destiny, I had to believe in the

      I had to.

      * * * * *


      It was sudden, the way he appeared out of nowhere, just behind me. And
      characteristically Logan, by the way. I squeaked something, almost falling
      over a bush in shock, and I thought he smiled but couldn't be sure.

      Hell, if someone had asked me what color the trees were, I couldn't have
      told them. Logan. He was here.

      He extended a hand and pulled me to my feet but didn't let me go and that
      look was back. That look that was utterly unfamiliar, though I was
      beginning to think it shouldn't be, that I'd seen it before, though for the
      life of me I couldn't figure out from where.

      "I thought you left." My voice was faint. Shock. Perfectly

      He shrugged, falling into step beside me as we walked and I took in the tre
      es and the grass and tried to figure out why the hell he was here.

      He still had my hand, though.

      "Have you talked to Jean?" That was the only thing I could think of to
      say. I don't know what made me say it; we'd never discussed it--him and
      Jean--not once in the past months.

      "Not yet."

      His world was still perfect. More or less. And I suddenly felt like a
      murderer talking to the victim's husband before he knew she was dead. My
      stomach turned over and I wished, suddenly and desperately and selfishly,
      that I could send him up and away and hide until he was gone, so I wouldn't
      have to see what I'd helped to start. Because--because if it wasn't over
      now, it would be soon.

      "Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" I asked suddenly, staring at the
      ground. He didn't answer for a minute and I came to a stop, forcing him to
      do the same unless he wanted to drag me--which was perfectly possible, but
      I figured he wouldn't.

      "Can we talk?"

      I looked up at him, tracing the lines of his face, wondering how he'd look
      at me when he found out--wondered if he'd even be here. Taking in the
      scent of him. That made me pause, because this was something new.
      Suppressed excitement, nervousness--*Logan* nervous?--and he was
      practically vibrating with--with what? What the hell was up with him?

      "We *are* talking."

      "Somewhere a little more private."

      Considering that the woods were about as private as you could get, a few
      sharp words flew to my tongue, but I checked them back and sighed. The
      idea of the mansion--and what was waiting for him there--God, no. Keep the
      conversation going. Keep it up if he wanted to do it in the Danger Room.

      "Jubes and Kitty are gone for the weekend. We can go to my room. That
      private enough?"

      Apparently, it was, and he followed me back up. And it was so different to
      feel his eyes on me the entire time and I kept wondering if there were
      leaves in my hair or something. When we walked in my room, Logan shut the
      door behind us and locked it, startling me a little. Then just stood there
      when I sat down on my bed and waited for him to Discuss Something.

      Hell if I knew what.

      "I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye. I had--something to do."

      He was apologizing. Shit. I began to play with the edge of my
      gloves--wondering if I should tell him what I did, maybe explain about why
      I did it, maybe tell him what I'd learned about colors and how I was sorry
      and how much I wanted him to be happy, even if it had to be with Jean, with
      someone who would never love him like I did, who'd never understand him.

      "Marie, look at me."

      I lifted my head and that look was back on his face and something kept
      trying to click in my head but wouldn't settle enough to do it.

      "You still want to go to Anchorage?"

      It was a throw out of left field--I don't know my baseball metaphors well,
      I'm a hockey girl--okay, a puck to the head, maybe. I blinked, trying to
      come to grips with a question that really--had he actually said that?


      And he sat on the edge of the bed beside me and looked so uncomfortable
      that I wondered what the hell was wrong and if he'd accidentally contracted
      some sort of mutant flu. Then he stood up again, pacing to the edge of the
      room, finally dropping his jacket on a chair and I watched him with wide

      "The way you wanted. Niagara Falls, Toronto, Calgary. Anywhere you want
      to go."

      I blinked.

      "You want to--you want to take me to Canada?"

      Did he leave because of him and Jean--had she--? No--no, somehow I didn't
      get the impression Logan was doing some sort of weird rebound--that's not
      how he operates at all, anyway. Which begged the question--what the fuck
      was going on? I knew I probably could figure this out if I had a few
      months to think it over, but Logan was right here and I had to give an
      answer and--

      --and *what*?

      "Wherever you want to go. Now, if you want to." He was waiting for me to
      do something--God knew what, but it was important, and I should be able to
      figure this out, damn it.

      And I looked at him, looked for something--something that would bring sense
      or order or something I could define and understand. And Logan, who lived
      inside my head, Logan, who I knew better than anyone on earth, Logan--this
      wasn't anyone I knew. Not at all.

      "But what about--" I cut myself off, wondering what Jean would say,
      what--"Logan, I don't--"

      "I love you."

      Oh God.

      I forgot my gloves, Jean, colors, the speech I had been desperately trying
      to put together in my head, the way I was going to ask him to forgive me
      for screwing up his life. I forgot that I was sitting in my room and I
      forgot that I told destiny to fuck itself.

      I remembered that I should probably breathe at some point.

      That said, he crossed his arms and waited for me to say something in
      response. Maybe he let out a breath of relief he'd managed it, I wouldn't
      be surprised. His eyes were on me like he was stripping me to the skin and
      that was--oh God, that was good.

      After a few minutes of gaping, I looked up at him, trying to find words
      that would be mature and wise and show my deep appreciation of his candor
      and be equally able to eloquently express my feelings. They didn't come.

      I think my mouth was open, though. The whole time.

      Luckily, Logan took my silence as some sort of good thing, because he
      launched into a sudden torrent of explanations--so uncharacteristic that he
      must have spent his entire week away composing them. He sat down beside me
      finally and took my hands. I realized that I was shaking and my mouth was
      dry and I couldn't catch my breath and everything--everything was just--

      "I fucked up. Okay? I get that. And I'm sorry, Marie. If I could, I'd
      start over completely." He traced my face with his fingers and I leaned
      into the touch instinctively, still not quite believing. I wanted it too
      badly. Poor Logan. He was trying so hard to get it out and he looked at
      me and I recognized that look finally, running it through my mind to match
      with my memories and--and *God*.

      It was real. He loved me.

      I felt tears in my eyes--I don't want to know when I became such a whiney
      little female and that would right stop now I kept telling myself, and he
      brushed them away with gloved hands and kissed me. Without my scarf,
      bruising my lip, so I got the images from his mind before he pulled back,
      images that meant everything, that told me more than he would ever be able
      to say. He untied my scarf, lowering it over my face, brushing his
      fingertips down my throat, through my hair. Slow, long, warm, a kiss that
      took my breath, heated my body, and I forgot my name, forgot where I was,
      forgot that there was anything else in the world except him.

      Our fingers entwined above my head, laying me back on my bed, his mouth
      inches from mine, while he made me promises that no one had ever made me
      before, that I know he never made to anyone else. Told me things that no
      one had ever said, ever thought about me.

      And finally, he ran out of words and smiled down at me and kissed me
      again--and it was as if I'd waited my entire life for it. When he growled
      something and ran his fingers through my hair and I couldn't help the
      laughter that bubbled up in me, the sheer exultation. And he growled again
      and shook his head at me when I couldn't stop, sliding his whole weight on
      top of me, running his teeth over my jaw, biting me through the scarf just
      below the ear, making me whimper against his shirt.

      "I love you," I whispered, watching the look on his face when I said it,
      addicted to it instantly, promising myself I'd make him look at me like
      that every day. Promised him things I'd never wanted to promise anyone but
      him, sliding my arms around him and letting him lift me into his lap and
      his hands sliding down my back, pulling up my shirt to trace bare skin with
      gloved fingers. Rocked against him to hear him growl against my hair.

      "God, Marie, baby," a whisper in my ear, the brush of teeth across my neck,
      my entire body tensing when he touched me, when he unbuttoned my shirt and
      looked at me until I blushed, when he laughed at me and told me I was
      beautiful and wonderful and about a thousand other things that I never
      would have expected him to ever say. To me. Tracing my skin, that fine
      scarf the only barrier.

      --and it was everything I ever wanted.

      * * * * *


      He glanced up from Xavier's desk, and there was something about him that
      I'd never seen before, something that brought me to a halt, brought a slow
      grin to my face. Something edged on carefully suppressed energy, maybe
      even excitement.

      This time I understood, and I grinned to myself--they really were so much

      "He was already here." And a quirked smile, a glance down at the desk
      before he stood up and passed me to close the door. We looked at each
      other for a minute, and it wasn't awkward. And it should have been.
      "Canada, huh?"

      I nodded slowly, wondering why this moment wasn't awkward or uncomfortable
      or even a little sad. Because it was none of those things.

      So we were both getting what we wanted.

      "Thanks, Scott. For everything."

      And he smiled then, a smile that made me think of Jean and how he smiled a
      long time ago, unedged in pain.

      "Have fun," he said softly, and hugged me and I took in the scent of him
      for a minute, closing my eyes, shifting him in my head again.

      "I'll miss you." And I would, and I grinned up at him and stepped away,
      watching him lean back against the desk.

      "You believe in destiny, Rogue?" he tossed as I walked to the door.

      "No." Though a part of me did, in a way. And I tilted my head at him,
      turning the door knob. "But I do believe in colors."

      * * * * *

      "You believe in destiny, Logan?"

      He dropped our bags in the trunk, looked up at me as if I lost my mind.
      Slammed it shut, crossed to where I was leaning against the passenger side

      "Not really." Sliding his hands down my hips, he pulled me up against him
      and I breathed him in--enjoying the feel of him against me, enjoying the
      utterly simple and really insignificant moment I was living, content for a
      minute just to stand still and let the world figure out everything for

      So we were running--not exactly uncharacteristic in either one of us. Not
      exactly healthy either--we were leaving the entire mess behind us for
      someone else to clean up, though I'd bet Scott was the one that got the car
      gassed and pushed the keys into Logan's hand with all kinds of good wishes.
      From the slightly amused look that Logan gave the keys in his hand when he
      got down here--well, I had my suspicions.

      "You have a reason for askin'?"

      I smiled, closing my eyes, and slid my arms around him--maybe one day I'd
      explain about everything I'd learned, everything about colors and being
      adult and compromising. Opening my eyes, I could see Jean in the distance,
      and her eyes met mine over a distance of fifty feet that could have been
      fifty miles, because Logan never saw her at all.

      Colors only get you so far.

      "Not really," I told him, looking up, seeing that smile that was for me and
      me alone. "Let's go."

      The End


      --When I watch that scene I do not think "Oh, he's such a good father
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