FIC: Never Meant - 1/1 - R [L/R]
- I swear I'm working on Mutant Bride. Might even have the next bit out
later tonight. I just got stuck in the Pit of Despair for a little
while. So here's this to tide you over. <G>
Title: Never Meant
Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
Summary: "He'd never given much thought to what she needed. That was
going to change right now."
Rating: R- language, sexual situations
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, anyone who's already got my stuff. If you
don't and you want, ask.
Feedback: Gimme some sugar. <g>
Notes: Thanks to Dot, Meg, Jen, and Pete. Yes, Logan is a dick. I
<< >> indicates thoughts
She was halfway between waking and sleeping when it happened. The sudden
addition of weight to the bed startled her. She could see his eyes and
teeth gleam in the darkness.
"Shh," he whispered, putting his hands on her shoulders and pressing her
down into the softness of the mattress.
She looked up at him, eyes widening involuntarily when his hands slid
down from her shoulders to cover her breasts. She gasped and arched into
his touch -- it was everything she'd ever dreamt of and yet like nothing
Her legs fell open naturally as he moved to cradle his body between
them. She felt the hot ache throbbing where he rubbed against her. The
friction -- even through the denim and cotton of their clothing --
caused a sudden wetness she knew he could smell.
"Logan," she hissed as his mouth followed his hands, first licking and
then sucking at her nipple through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. She
didn't want him to ever stop, and to make sure he didn't, she hooked one
leg around his thighs and grabbed his ass with both hands, her hips
unconsciously matching his rhythm.
"Yeah, baby, just like that," he murmured, moving his mouth to her other
breast. "So good, baby. So sweet."
She froze. 'Baby' was for the women whose names he didn't know or
couldn't remember. She knew that from his memories, and from his joke
about the number one rule of sex -- never use the wrong name, or you
won't get a second ride.
Her hands came up between them and shoved at his chest. He looked at her
in surprise. "Baby, what's wrong?" he asked, voice husky with desire.
She could smell the whisky on his breath.
"Get out, Logan," she said, too tired for anger, willing herself not to
cry until he left. "Don't come back until you're thinking of me."
He recoiled as if she'd hit him. "Marie--"
"So you do know my name, huh, *baby*?" She emphasized that last word
sarcastically. He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued, "I'm not
her substitute. You can't fuck me just because Jean chose Scott instead
of you." Her voice was perilously close to breaking. "Now, get out and
we'll try to forget this ever happened." He could tell she was serious.
She swallowed convulsively and he saw she was fighting back tears.
He levered himself up off the bed and muttered, "I never meant to hurt
She flinched almost imperceptibly at the endearment. He saw it only
because he knew her better than anyone -- or thought he did.
"No," she replied, "but you did." She sniffed, and it tore at his heart.
He left quietly, stumbling a little. He had done enough damage to their
friendship and knew she'd never forgive him if he stayed and watched her
She avoided him for the next week, and he let her. He had no idea what
to say to her. He knew he was a dick. He'd tried to use her to ease his
pain at Jean's rejection. He'd never made a serious play for the
redheaded doctor until recently. She'd somehow seemed more welcoming to
his advances. He'd known that she and Scott had been fighting -- hell,
everyone in the mansion knew it. He'd thought that after five years of
being held at arm's length, he'd finally get a shot to love her, to make
her love him.
Then Jean had come to his room and told him that she valued him as a
friend, but she loved Scott and always would. And he'd sought out the
nearest source of comfort in which to drown his pain. A couple of
bottles of whisky, and then Marie. It took a lot to get him drunk, and
he never did his best thinking on the rare occasions he did get
hammered, but this was a new low, even for him.
Dammit, how could he even *think* of using her like that? How could he
have thought she'd let him? She was a better person than that -- she was
one of the best people he knew. Not that that was saying much,
considering the people he'd known before settling down in Westchester
five years ago. But even amongst the X-Men and the students, Marie was
different -- better.
She'd been through so much shit, had him and Magneto both in her head,
yet she had managed to maintain a certain sweetness and openness of
character that drew people to her like honey draws bees. He never
stopped to think that it was his presence that allowed her to maintain
it -- that she wasn't like that when he wasn't around. He just didn't
want it to stop, didn't want to watch her close herself off from him
because of his own stupidity.
He finally realized that facing her wouldn't get any easier if he kept
putting it off, so that Friday night -- one week to the day -- he went
to her room.
He knocked lightly and heard her call, "It's open," in a dozy voice. He
walked in, and it finally struck him, after all these years, that she
wasn't out on a date or with her friends, and he didn't know why. He'd
always accepted that she'd be there when he needed her. She always had
been -- even when the others went away to school, she'd stayed and
attended college locally.
He'd never given much thought to what she needed. That was going to
change right now, he told himself. He had a lot of shit to make up for,
six years worth of shit, and it was going to start tonight.
She was lying on the bed on her stomach, reading. She swung her feet
back and forth, and he could see the girl she'd been, the girl he'd
picked up on the side of the road. Then she rolled over and he could no
longer tell himself she was a child.
She wasn't wearing much -- having her own room in the far reaches of the
mansion allowed her to escape from the layers of clothing she wore to
protect the world from her deadly touch. He could see her the outline of
her breasts -- sans bra -- underneath the white camisole she wore, and
her legs stretched endlessly out of the plaid flannel boxers he knew
she'd stolen from him.
Looking at her made his breath catch in his throat. She was beautiful,
and her skin -- miles of it, exposed to his eyes only -- seemed to glow
like porcelain in the warm, yellow light of the room.
And he thought how he'd tried to use her for his own selfish reasons.
How close he'd come to ruining everything that was good in his life. He
was a bastard, and he never wanted to be who he was when he was with
her. With her, he could pretend to be something better -- a knight in
shining armor, intent on chivalry.
"Hey," he said awkwardly, feeling strange for the first time ever at
being in her room.
She licked her lips and said, "Hey." Her eyes assessed him and, in his
guilty state, he felt she found him wanting.
He walked in, but couldn't settle. In the past, he'd always drop down on
the bed and she'd curl up next to him, unselfconsciously, even when she
was barely clothed, knowing he'd be prepared. Now, he paced like a caged
lion and she sat ramrod straight, legs folded under her, eyes tracking
his progress across the small room.
Normally, she couldn't keep still; she'd be the first to break the
silence with chatter about her day, or the book she was reading or
anything. He loved to listen to her talk, the honeyed tones of her
drawl, still evident even after six years in Yankee territory, sliding
over his hypersensitive ears like warm silk. But now, she watched and
waited. He'd taught her the tactic, never thinking she'd use it on him.
He felt himself starting to sweat under her regard.
Finally, he turned and met her eyes.
"I fucked up."
"Boy howdy!" she responded. "You got that right."
Against his will, his mouth quirked in a half-grin. "Gimme a chance,
Marie," he said. "I want to make this better. How can I make this
She looked down and swallowed. Her brow furrowed and he knew she was
weighing all her options. She might have gotten many of his traits, but
some things were all Marie, and that was one of them. He tended to rush
right in without thinking -- hell, wasn't that what had gotten him into
this whole mess in the first place? -- while she was careful, wary,
always feeling things out first. It was why they were such a good team
in the field. They complemented each other. In work and in life.
<<Shit,>> he thought. <<How did I never notice that before?>>
"I don't know, Logan. I really don't." She shifted, bringing her knees
up to her chest and wrapping her bare arms around them. "I'm not like
you." Somehow, she always seemed to know what he was thinking. "I can't
just fuck for fuck's sake." He closed his eyes, trying not to show the
pain her words were causing, even though they were the truth. "I'm
not--" she gave a little grunt, frustrated at her inability to
articulate. "I'm not judging you, Logan. I never have. I *know* you. But
for me, it has to mean something." She rested her chin on her knees for
a moment and gazed at him.
"Touch," she said after the silence stretched a little longer than she
was comfortable with, "it's important to me. It's -- it's never casual.
*Never*. And to do that -- to have sex with you, just as a passing
thing --" she looked away and he could tell she was beginning to tear
<<Fuck.>> There were few things in life the Wolverine was not prepared
to face, and a crying Marie was one of them. It made him feel less than
human to know that he was the cause of these particular tears. Usually,
he was the one comforting her when Remy treated her like shit.
He couldn't take it. He knelt down on the floor in front of her.
"Darlin', please," he said, lifting her chin in his gloved hand. "Don't
She sniffed and dashed away the tears that had begun to fall. "I know
that you love Jean. You always have. I understand. But I thought, I
thought that I was different. I didn't think I was one of your nameless,
faceless women. Someone to fuck when you got the urge, or the pain was
"Baby," he began, and then bit his lip when she recoiled, pulling her
face from his grasp. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Marie. You're
my girl. You have been since I met you. You *are* different. I, I--" he
stumbled over the words. He'd never said them, not even to Jean when
he'd tried to convince her to leave Scott.
He went with, "I should have known better. I know how much it means to
you to be touched." And he did. He knew he was one of the few people
whose hands she didn't shrink from, even now. It had taken the others
years to work their way into her confidence. He'd made it the first day
they'd met. He'd never thought about that before, about the bond between
them before anything had happened to cause it.
"I just want us to be right, Marie." He stood and resumed pacing.
"You're the most important thing in my life." That was something else
he'd never said before, and her gasp of surprise was almost painful to
"I, I don't know what to say to that."
"Then don't say anything. Let me finish." He paused in his pacing, and
she was grateful. It was making her dizzy. "When I found out what those
bastards made me for, when I thought I was no better than a killer -- an
animal -- it was you that made me realize I was a man. That I could be a
good man." He faced her again, this time leaning in and lifting her face
to meet his, so close that he could feel her breath brush his lips.
"There are no words for what you are to me, Marie. None. What we have --
what we are -- is deeper than that." His mouth grazed hers, so lightly
that she wasn't even sure it happened. "I don't want to lose that, and
I'll do whatever I have to, to make it better. Just tell me you don't
She reached out and ran her hand over his hair, where it was safe to
touch him, and then stroked his cheek over his ridiculous muttonchops.
"I don't hate you."
He sighed in relief and settled on the bed next to her. "Thank you," he
whispered, slipping a hand through her hair, wrapping one of her white
locks around his black-clad finger.
"It's not okay," she said softly. "And it's not going to be okay for a
long time. But someday it will be."
"I can live with that," he answered. And he could, because he had to.
Because he couldn't live without her.
"It's so easy to side with Rick. He's brooding, he's sardonic, he's
Humphrey Fucking Bogart, for heaven's sake." Tante Joan on alt.tv.angel
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