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One Year Later (1/1, Logan, G)

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  • Sharon
    Well, it s getting late for this old man. I will leave you to your cigars. Good night, Logan. Night, Wheels. He rolls up the garden path toward the
    Message 1 of 1 , Jun 10, 2003
      "Well, it's getting late for this old man. I will leave you to your
      cigars. Good night, Logan."

      "Night, Wheels."

      He rolls up the garden path toward the mansion. I light my cigar. I
      reach behind the bench I'm sitting on and pull out the half-empty
      beer that I'd stashed there when he came down to talk with me.


      Good ol' Wheels.

      It's a term of endearment now, and he knows it of course.

      That bald old man in the chair can be a real pain in the ass, but
      he's earned my respect and trust. Strange as it seems, I often get
      pissed off at him for doing the exact things that have earned him my
      respect – staying calm, making level-headed decisions, sticking with
      his convictions, taking his time… His ways obviously clash with mine.

      Despite our differences, the Professor has been patient with me, has
      listened to my opinions [though often with a slight smile], and has
      made me more than welcome at his school. He understands me pretty
      well I think, even without using his power.

      I would never have thought I could have so much respect for a man who
      is physically old and weak. But Charles has strength and ability far
      beyond his body.

      I would never have thought I could have so much trust for a man who
      could literally poke around inside my head. But Charles has amazing
      control over his power and over his curiosity.

      Yep. Good ol' Wheels.

      It was good to have a little talk with him tonight. We all had a
      hard day today. It was on this day last year that we lost Jean.


      Jean was like the Professor in a lot of ways. Her psychic gift,
      obviously, but there was so much more. Like Charles, her strength
      was mental rather than physical. Like him, she wanted to help,
      wanted to heal, and spent more energy on hope than on hate.

      I'm sorry that I messed with her so much. Couldn't much help myself –
      here was this beautiful young woman, who I couldn't stop looking at
      and who obviously enjoyed looking at me. And with none of the
      nastiness of most of the women who had looked at me over the years of
      cage fighting. Her looks mixed curiosity, kindness, and concern in
      with the usual horniness. She was something else.

      I knew she wanted a good man. A stable man. A safe man who would be
      there for her. Things I sure as hell couldn't give her. I probably
      only kept trying with her because I knew she would turn me down. It
      was mostly a friendly game between us. We would flirt because it was
      fun. Occasionally her eyes would grow serious and then she would
      withdraw from me and be a little sad for a while.

      Given time, Jean would have become even more like Charles. Her power
      [and her control over it] would have grown. Her confidence in
      herself and in what she wanted would have grown. Her convictions
      would have become even stronger, including her devotion to Scott, and
      she would have been less distracted by me.

      Given time, we would have settled down into a great friendship.

      But we weren't given time.


      Jesus christ, friendship… That's something I'd never known. Hadn't
      been offered it. Hadn't thought to want it.

      It was Rogue who introduced me to the concept. She climbed into my
      truck cab that day and it didn't take me too long to realize that
      something was happening that, well, just didn't happen to people like

      And it kept happening. It's still happening. I can go away for
      months, and it's still there between us the second I walk back in the
      door. Even while I'm away, it's there somewhere in the back of my
      mind. An anchor. A link. A feeling that I'm not just me anymore.

      It's a strange connection. The man with the metal skeleton, the
      claws, the fighting instincts, the sarcasm and the occasional blind
      rages… The woman with the big frightened eyes, the untouchable skin,
      the gentle concern, the quick laughter and the sad longing…

      Hah! But don't let us fool you – She's got her strong side … and
      I've got my untouchable side, that's for sure.


      Untouchable? Not any more, I guess. Three people have touched that
      side of me now. I lost Jean, but I've got Charles and Rogue. And I
      don't intend to lose them.

      I used to fight in cages for money. Now I fight for them. For my
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