Title: Feeling Cavalier
Author: Crystal Claire (lbarnett@...
Series: Unspoken RR #34
Rating: R for language
Summary: Logan and Hank have it out.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Please don't sue me.
Notes: Not completely happy with this, but hope you enjoy it. Thank you Vic for a wonderful set-up.
*Sweet Jesus on a fucking stick.* Logan half-ran, half-skidded down the ravine in the new white running shoes. He splashed through the shallow creek and climbed his way up the other side of the ravine and into the woods. He fucked up. *Royally*.
Last night Rogue found his sketchbook where he had left if for her. As he saw her enter the boathouse, he made his way to the lake and waited. He waited until she was ready.
God she was beautiful as she stepped onto the dock, the moonlight kissing her skin just like he imagined it would. Just like he wanted to. He called out to her and thought he heard her heart skip a beat. In less than a heartbeat, she accepted his invitation.
Giggling she flipped her hair back and it slapped the surface. She was grinning from ear-to-ear. And he offered her his hand like it was the most natural thing to do.
Except it wasn't.
Logan pounded noisily through the woods, the hunter's moon peaking through the treetops guiding him. He pushed himself until his limbs were heavy and his lungs burned. When he almost tripped, he slowed to a walk, his thoughts returning to his conversation with the big guy they called Hank.
He awoke in the Med Lab, a little disoriented and bone-tired. After Moira had assured him that Marie was fine and resting in her room, she left him in care of Hank.
There was an uncomfortably long silence as Hank removed the monitoring devices attached to his skin. Hank was brooding and as tightly wound as Jack-in-the-box ready to pop.
"Hank, right?" Logan propped himself up on his elbows. "I was thinking of asking Chuck for a preferred customer discount. What do you think he'll say?" Apparently, that was the wrong thing to ask. He smelled the Hank's anger flare up like napalm dropped in the middle of a jungle.
"You find this humorous?" Hank asked, arms folded across his chest, looking furious and dumbfounded all in one stroke. "You *expired*."
"Expired?" Logan chuckled. "What, like a carton of milk?"
"No, as in flatlined, passed on, checked out, bought the farm," Hank answered harshly.
"I'll be damned. That's a first." Logan averted his eyes. He noticed the clothes piled neatly in the chair next to his bed and grabbed them.
"How can you be so cavalier?"
"Who's being cavalier?" Logan pulled on his jeans and slipped on the shirt. "I'm fine. You're getting your undies in a bunch over nothing."
Hank slammed a cabinet door closed. He turned to face Logan. "You may have emerged unscathed, but what about Marie? Marie will not come out of this selfish little escapade of yours undamaged."
Logan's face darkened at Hank's words. "Let me make myself perfectly clear, Hank," he said pressing a finger into Hank's chest, the heat of his anger matching Hank's. "I'm fine. You didn't bring me back from the dead. It was never that close. Do we understand each other?"
Hank shook his head in disbelief, removing Logan's finger. "You *are* obtuse." He took a deep breath. "I heard Marie's screams. You were *dead* when I pulled you from the bottom of the lake."
Logan's anger evaporated. There was nothing left to say except, "It wasn't her fault."
"That I know." Hank turned his back, signally Logan's dismissal.
Logan went directly to Marie's room. Through the door, he could smell her tears. *Shit*. There were three kinds of tears. Tears of empathy, of sadness and of grief. Only tears of grief had a scent. They were bitter like ammonia and stung the eyes.
He knocked softly on the door. The only reply was a soft sob. He scanned the hall. He didn't want to do this here, with a door between them. He tried the door. It was locked. "Darlin', let me in. We need to talk."
Nothing. "I'm fine. Open the door and see for yourself, " he coaxed. He heard muffled crying now and imagined the covers pulled over her head.
"Dammit Marie, this wasn't ---" your fault, Logan was about to finish when he picked up another scent in the hall. The Popsicle kid was lingering around the corner. "Drake, get lost now or I'll be giving you a trim, and I don't mean your hair." From behind the door, he heard a small grunt that might have been a laugh, and he found that far more satisfying than the sound of Bobby Drake's feet flying down the stairs.
"We'll talk later, okay?" When he still didn't get a response, he retreated to his room and spent most of the day there. He didn't want to be drawn into another conversation like the one he had with Hank, especially with Cyclops. That confrontation was inevitable, but the longer he could postpone it the better for everyone. He half-expected Summers to come pounding on his door, but it was Ororo who stopped by his room. She brought him his sketchbook, asked him how he was feeling and politely left him, and never voiced the "I told you so."
The kids on the other hand were another matter. They shuffled past his room, slowing or sometimes even stopping briefly in front of his door. They were hungry for information, which meant Marie still hadn't come out of her room or she wasn't talking about last night. But after another surreal conversation with the Jubilee kid, he decided he had enough, changed into his sweats and headed for the woods.
So here he was in pacing in the woods, thinking he probably lost her, that she would go running back to safe Scott. He wouldn't blame her because maybe Hank was right. Maybe it was an act of selfishness on his part. God knows he wanted her, but that wasn't it completely. No. Wrapped up in that was some sort of deep seeded need to save Marie like some errant knight in shining white armor. And it was addicting. So when her beautiful laugh turned into a strangled cry of horror, the only thing he could do was hold onto her tighter.
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