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FIC: The Language of Goodbye: 1/1: L/R

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  • victoria_p@att.net
    Title: The Language of Goodbye Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@att.net] Summary: This is how it happens. You meet a girl in a bar, and your entire life is
    Message 1 of 1 , Jun 28, 2002
      Title: The Language of Goodbye
      Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
      Summary: This is how it happens. You meet a girl in a
      bar, and your entire life is turned upside down.
      Rating: PG-13
      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.
      Feedback: Feed the monkey!
      Notes: Thanks to Jen, Pete/Melissa, Dot, and Meg. Also,
      thanks to everyone who made suggestions on the draft in
      my diary.

      That sound you hear is me eating crow, because I loathe
      2nd person POV, and yet, here I am writing it. The story
      demanded it, and who am I to argue?


      The Language of Goodbye

      This is how it happens.

      You meet a girl in a bar.


      You *see* a girl in a bar. You don't meet her until
      afterward, unless her saving your life can be counted as
      an introduction. Well, she didn't really save your life,
      but she didn't know that at the time. You figure you can
      be generous, even if it's only in your own head.

      Anyhow, you're not Emily Post, but you think that might
      count as an introduction, but maybe not.

      You see her and you know she's looking at you, and
      that's no surprise. Women have been looking at you for
      as long as you can remember, and generally, they only
      want one thing.

      And you're only too happy to give it to them in a blur
      of hair and scent and slick, wet heat, bruising hands
      and raking nails. It's the closest thing to heaven you
      can bring yourself to believe in, and it's over before
      you can savor it.

      But this one is too young. Young and scared and fragile.
      You shake yourself mentally, because you can't look at
      her that way, and you can't be who you are with her

      So when the asshole steps to you, you don't gut him,
      because somehow, what she thinks about you matters. The
      fact that she tried to help you, when no one tries to
      help you -- when you don't even need the help -- means
      you have to live up to her expectations.

      And she may be a young and dirty runaway, but she has,
      in those few seconds, shown you more humanity than
      you've experienced at the hands of others in a long

      So you walk out and resolve to remember her big, liquid
      eyes, full of concern for you, some random mutant she's
      never met. You resolve to be a better man. For the time
      it takes to walk to the trailer, anyway.

      Then you remember, as if you could ever forget, what
      those fucking doctors did to you, and the thought of
      being a good man crumbles in the face of what you know
      you are.

      But she won't leave you alone. You repay her by saving
      her -- once, twice, three times in the end, though the
      last two are simply you fixing up your own mistakes.
      It's not like you've come to care.

      No, because caring means being hurt, and you don't get
      hurt, you put the hurt on others. That's who -- what --
      you are, and every time you try to forget *that*, life
      kicks you in the balls with a reminder.

      You leave her -- the first goodbye.

      She doesn't want you to go -- she even says as much. You
      can kid yourself that you don't care, you can flirt with
      the redhead, but you know that this girl is more than a
      random fuck in a backwoods bar, so you make a silent
      promise to come back. You give her the only thing that
      matters; you give her your past as she gives you your

      But you haven't figured it out. Not at this point. All
      that comes later.

      You wonder for the next six months how this slip of a
      girl wrangled two promises out of you in as many days,
      when you hadn't made one in almost fifteen years.

      You find yourself heading back to her, unconsciously
      drawn east by some invisible star only you can see.

      So it goes for the first few years. You've got all the
      time in the world. You're not growing old, and she's
      becoming a woman, a beautiful, caring woman who will
      always remain for you, at some deep level, the girl who
      cared enough about a stranger to save his life.

      Because now you can look back on it and see so clearly
      how she is there at every crossroads, every turning
      point in your life. Each decision you made after she
      sneaked into your trailer (and into your heart, though
      you wouldn't put it quite that way, even if it does
      sound like the country songs you spend so much time
      listening to) has been affected by her presence and each
      decision from now on will be affected by her absence.

      You come and go, each time leaving a bit more of
      yourself in her small, gloved hands, bits and pieces
      that make you who you are. At first, just the dog tag,
      the symbol of your stolen past. But then it's a bit of
      advice about not telegraphing her punches. Next, a
      shared joke, a love of beer bad movies, Hank Williams,
      and the smell of the grass after the rain. And finally,
      your heart.

      Though you can't quite bring yourself to believe it, let
      alone say it.

      A time comes when you can't imagine who you'd be without
      her -- the man in the bar, lost and lonely, full of hurt
      and willing to share only that with other people.

      You've got all the time in the world, and you forget
      that she doesn't, that she'll grow old and die before
      you turn around twice, it seems, except that, in the
      business you're in, growing old is seldom in the game

      You watch over her, heal her when she needs it.

      One day you even manage to work up enough of that famed
      courage to tell her out loud, in words, how you feel.

      She smiles and the world stops for a moment; your heart
      beats in time with the soft whisper of her breath as she
      says, "Yes." And "I love you."

      You touch her gently and you learn all the lessons of
      her body; she teaches you about yours. You never knew it
      was possible to feel both joy and dread, and each day is
      a mixture of both because each day you live with the
      fear that she will somehow realize that you are that man
      in that bar, lost and lonely and full of hurt. Unworthy
      of her love.

      But she doesn't. She still sees something more, and you
      love her for that in addition to everything else. You
      love her so much you feel like there's no room for
      anyone or anything else, and yet there always is.

      Once she opens the door, you suddenly find yourself up
      to your neck in people to care about, and you find they
      have a way of sneaking in, much as she did, and caring

      And amidst all that caring, you forget the most
      important thing, the one lesson life has taught you
      again and again.

      You are nothing, and no one -- nameless and rootless and
      not worthy of all the good things she's given you, so of
      course, they must be taken away.

      Home and freedom, safety and peace are the first to go.
      You knew better than to trust those government fuckers,
      but she bought into the dream, and you wanted to believe
      in something, so you believed in her. You still do, even
      as you watched the flames engulf the place you'd been
      thinking of as home for the past few years.

      You'd forgotten that you have no home, but they reminded
      you by taking away even the illusion that you'd built.

      A life on the run is nothing new for you, but you wanted
      better for her. She seems happy just to be with you, but
      you can see the lines of care etching themselves into
      her skin, even as you touch her at night, while she's
      sleeping, trying to heal the woes that go beyond the
      merely physical.

      But the physical is your realm, your comfort zone, and
      you know it better than most. You keep her with you for
      a long time, longer than even you expected, when you
      come right down to it. X-Men aren't known for dying of
      old age, and you have the silent hope that this time
      you'll buck the odds. But you never say it. You try not
      to even think it, to bring her to Fate's attention.
      Because Fate is a bitch with an axe to grind, and while
      you're used to her taking it out on you, you don't want
      Marie to bear that burden in addition to everything

      You know she's not the type to run from a little trouble
      (or a lot of trouble, if you're honest about it, and a
      liar is the one thing you've never been), but part of
      you is always waiting for that other shoe to drop, for
      her to realize that there must be something, some*one*
      better for her out there.

      But she doesn't leave you.

      No. Not yet.

      Friends fall, some in battle, some from illness, and
      still she stays.

      Until now.

      You let your guard down, started to believe you'd get
      away with it, until you heard the screams.

      It's all a haze of red, one memory you don't want, yet
      can't seem to shake. Blood and fire and the odd color of
      the night sky reflecting the flames. Her dark hair is
      fanned out on the snow blanketing the ground, the way it
      covers your pillow at night.

      You can smell them on the air, the ones who have done
      this to her, but healing her is more important. You slip
      and slide in snow and blood, enraged almost beyond

      She's too weak even to take your hand as you clutch her
      to you, and you finally hear the other shoe drop.

      It is her turn to leave, and your turn to say, "I don't
      want you to go."

      But you know it makes no difference, because you can't
      save her, can't force her to stay.

      She smiles, and it's never lost its affect on you. The
      world still stops, and your heart still beats in time
      with her ragged breathing.

      "I love you," she says, and you kiss her, trying to
      force the healing into her, but she's so weak, has lost
      so much blood, that all she gets is your fear and
      desperation. Her tears fall like rain, even as she
      smiles and you strip off her gloves and kiss her hands
      tenderly, safely.

      Even in this bleakest of moments, you feel a thrill of
      joy at touching her, finally, without pain.

      "I love you," you say, "don't leave me."

      She strokes your face with a bare hand, and you can tell
      from her heavy-lidded gaze and the rasp of her breath
      that she'll be gone in a moment.

      You pour into her every bit of love you can summon,
      every thought of how she's made you the man you are
      today. She gasps, and even in death she's the most
      beautiful thing you've ever seen. The snow clings to her
      lashes and melts on her lips as you kiss her for the
      last time.

      This is the last goodbye.

      Her time has run out, and you've got nothing but time.
      You get the irony, but don't find it funny.

      You've spent the past ten years learning the language of

      But in these final, fleeting moments, you speak the
      language of goodbye.

      You speak of her to strangers in bars, on cold, lonely
      nights spent hunched over a bottle of scotch.

      This is how it happens, you say. You meet a girl in a
      bar, and your entire life is turned upside down.

      In the telling, you can almost feel her touch. You
      remember all she taught you, all you've learned, and you
      wouldn't change a moment, but for the end, the one thing
      you wish you'd left unlearned.

      You can never forget the language of goodbye.





      The Muse's Fool:
      read my diary: http://musesfool.diaryland.com
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