Title: Away From the Sun
Author: Jordanna Morgan
Authors Email: librarie@...
Archive Rights: Please request the authors consent.
Characters: Scott, Logan.
Setting: Post-X2, canon.
Summary: Beneath different shadows, Scott and Logan share the same darkness.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Marvel and Fox. The song "Away From the
Sun" is by 3 Doors Down.
Notes: Somehow I cant help but associate the music of 3 Doors Down with
Wolverine. This is my second X-fic inspired by one of their songs.
Away From the Sun
Its down to this, Ive got to make this life make sense
Can anyone tell what Ive done
I miss the life, I miss the colors of the world
Can anyone tell where I am
The television skipped from Fox News to "Mister Ed" to the obnoxious Billy
Mays expounding upon the wonders of Oxi-Clean. When Scott Summers finally
reached the History Channel and a documentary about World War II, he tossed
aside the remote control and stared up at the ceiling, flinching
occasionally at the sound of an explosion on the screen.
Jean was gone.
A week after Alkali Lake, her absence was still a constant, crushing weight
on Scotts soul. Every night he woke from fragile repose with the sense of
something missing, and when he realized all over again what that something
was, a chasm of emptiness would open between him and the much-needed refuge
of sleep. Then he would rise and roam the quiet hallways, looking,
behaving, and--truth be told--*feeling* very much like a ghost.
His wanderings inevitably ended in the TV room. He craved noise to crowd
out the silence within himself, but he didnt want to look at the screen.
He didnt want to look at anything, because it reminded him that he was
forever condemned to a crimson world.
Red--the color of Jeans hair, adding salt to the wound each time he opened
She had given him respite from his monochromatic point of view. With her
telepathy, she had often let him see through her eyes, sharing the colors
he would otherwise have long since forgotten. Their connection became so
strong, he had even learned how to catch those glimpses without effort on
her part--sometimes even without her notice. Only through her eyes could he
have discovered that Jubilees favorite jacket was yellow, and that
Professor Xaviers kind eyes were gray.
Yet those colors paled, literally, in contrast to the other vision she had
given him. Her faith in their purpose had been stronger than anyone elses.
Her compassion, her conviction, her courage; all of these had given him the
strength to lead, to fight when the cause seemed hopeless.
Without her, he had no will to fight any longer.
Yet somehow he would have to. The Professor believed in him, and the
children trusted him. He couldnt let them down. He would have to
rediscover himself and his strengths apart from Jean, no matter how much it
and no matter how hard it was to choke out the seeds of bitterness in
Scott leaned forward, reaching up slowly to touch the back of his neck. The
scar caused by Strykers mind-controlling toxin was a devils mark, a
manifestation of deeper scars within his own mind.
He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands, carefully easing his
fingers beneath ruby-quartz glasses to massage his eyelids. In that
darkness, once again, he saw Jeans face
and he wondered whether she could
have found any forgiveness in her own heart, if their places were reversed.
He felt she would have, and he was ashamed that it was so difficult for him.
If he could not forgive, the message of equality and peace which he and
Jean had both taught for so long would be nothing for him but a lie.
Then Stryker would have succeeded in turning him, after all.
Im over this, Im tired of livin in the dark
Can anyone see me down here
The feelings gone, theres nothing left to lift me up
Back into the world I know
Something crashed by the bedside as Logan started awake, claws slashing, a
growl rumbling in his throat. Met only by darkness and the now-familiar
smells of Xaviers School, he sighed heavily and retracted the claws,
bowing his head over his hands as he rubbed the raw ache in his knuckles.
He would have given just about anything to go back to the old nightmares.
In them, he now realized, he never truly had to face his fears. That abyss
of pain and terror which had so often drowned his soul was mere *fait
accompli*. The past had left its indelible mark on him, in the mystery
which once gripped him, in the harsh realities of his nature which
dominated him still
but the memories, all in all, were really nothing more
than cold and sterile facts.
Now he knew what *real* nightmares were like.
Now he saw eyes that gazed inescapably at him, accusing and condemning.
Jeans eyes, lit with an ethereal fire that consumed her as he watched,
helpless. The eyes of the *other*--soulless, silver eyes that changed to a
warm and living brown, weeping adamantium tears as he thrust his claws into
He struggled to understand what those bitter eyes were searching him for,
but found even fewer answers than he had at Alkali Lake.
What had he to fear any longer?
The questions of the past still unresolved? Surely not. He had turned his
back on them, walking away from them just as he had walked away from
Stryker. What he might once have been would never matter to what he could
become. When he realized that at last, he had let go of everything--and for
a brief moment, he had known freedom.
*Are you okay?*
I am now.*
Logan closed his eyes against the dark and muttered a curse, pushing
himself out of bed. Further sleep was out of the question. He could do
nothing now but sate his restlessness, pacing the house like an animal in
the calm before a storm.
So he went in search of someplace where there was light.
Perhaps it was this new life itself that he feared. A life that meant
something; a life that called upon him to be more than he thought he could
be, in many ways. A life worth fighting to keep, and worth giving for the
sake of someone else--a life that had a chance because someone else had
lived, and fought for, and given her own life that way.
They were a rare and precious thing, second chances. Jeans sacrifice had
entrusted Logan with just such a gift
and some part of him was afraid he
would screw it up. That he would be unworthy, not of the new life he had
been given, but of the life that had paid the price to make it possible.
*There are no answers that way, Wolverine.*
It was a grim irony that Strykers last words could echo in Logans
thoughts with such a different meaning. There were indeed no answers in
self-doubt and second-guessing; not for his past, and certainly not for his
future. He could only try to be better, to believe, to repay debts of
kindness instead of vengeance. It might never be easy, but it would be
and perhaps it would fill the hollow place within him that once
felt only anger.
Something of that anger would always remain, but it was no longer his
master--and he could never return to the familiar, comfortable bitterness
of his old life, even if he had wanted to.
The half-lit hallways of the school smelled of fresh paint, sawdust
still, beneath it all, traces of blood. Logan grimaced at the memories of
*that* night, its disjointed fragments relegated to the gray-red nightmare
landscape of his most primal core. When he was provoked, his capacity for
human thought was intermittent at best.
He felt a strange, unpleasant moment of deja-vu when his hearing picked up
canned gunfire noises coming from the TV room. Shaking his head, he moved
down the hall to the doorway and looked in.
Scott was sprawled on the couch in an upright but somewhat corpse-like
pose, his arms slung out to the sides and his head hung over backward at an
uncomfortable angle. His shades were pointed in the general direction of
the flickering black-and-white shadows that danced across the ceiling, but
that didnt mean that his eyes were open, or that he was even paying
attention if they were. He was clearly ignoring the noisy World War II
footage on the television.
Logan wasnt sure he liked the mans choice of entertainment, and he did
not care to dwell on any possible reasons why.
Just as he had concluded that Scott was asleep and was about to move on, a
loud commercial erupted from the screen, and Scott stirred. He leaned over,
coming up with the remote control in a pile of throw pillows that had been
jettisoned from the couch, and turned down the volume a few notches. Then
he dropped the remote and returned to his apparent state of sprawling
"Still too loud for you, Logan?"
The offhanded question almost made Logan flinch, as it was the first
acknowledgment of his presence that Scott had made. He frowned at the other
mans harsh tone. Since Alkali Lake, they had been civil to one another;
they had even worked together fairly well on a few of the rebuilding tasks.
Yet for all the walls they had repaired, they had not yet managed to tear
down the wall which still stood firmly between the two of them.
Logan was unsure that Scott could lead, and Scott was unsure that Logan
could follow. Their respective roles in the crisis at Alkali Lake had not
helped on either count, with Scott becoming a pawn of the enemy, and Logan
striking off on his own purposes when he was needed most. Even the tension
they felt over Jean was not lessened in her absence, in spite of Logans
rather awkward attempt to make his peace on that score--not so much with
Scott himself as with Jeans memory. Regardless of his flaws, he did have
honor enough to accept her choice in the end.
Now, as he looked at Scott sitting alone in the dark, the phrase "charity
begins at home" rattled in Logans mind. *This* was his home now--and if he
was going to live a new and kinder life, it might as well start right there.
So he shrugged his shoulders, hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his
jeans, and sauntered into the shadow-filled room.
Its down to this, Ive got to make this life make sense
And now I cant tell what Ive done
Now again Ive found myself so far down
Away from the sun that shines to light the way for me
With a skeptical eye, Scott watched Logans approach. The Canadian flopped
his powerful frame down on the other end of the couch without so much as a
by-your-leave, folding his arms over his chest. For a long moment he sat
staring at the line of tanks rolling across the TV screen; then the stock
footage suddenly cut to a young soldier firing a rifle from a foxhole.
Logans gaze shifted, the shadow of a grimace passing over his features
and for a moment, he looked more animal than human.
*Have you ever seen real combat, boy?*
The conversation was recalled clearly to Scotts mind, a snapshot of a time
when what was pointless in the scheme of things had seemed important. Logan
had never answered the question, too busy fronting petty challenges--as,
Scott ruefully admitted to himself, he had been as well.
They both had their answer now.
The awkwardness stretched taut, snapping at last when Logan turned to cast
a somewhat contrived glance around the darkened room. "So wheres Jones?"
"Uh." Logan looked back at the television, fidgeting.
As Scott watched him behind the cover of his glasses, he slowly grew more
puzzled than irritated. He could easily guess what had once more awakened
Logan to prowl the house--and he found himself wondering how the nightmares
had been changed by the return to the place where they were forged.
Perhaps nightmares were the one thing they had in common.
"Are the dreams different now?" he asked quietly.
Logans head turned sharply, and he looked at Scott in wary surprise. Then
his expression softened, and he lowered his eyes with a small shrug. "Yeah
Scott said nothing, and waited. Logan was still for a long time; at last he
unfolded his arms, his left hand sliding down to clasp his right, and he
stared down at his fist as he rubbed the place where there were no scars
that should have been.
"I killed the other one. The one like me."
The feelings this confession aroused in Scott were entirely ugly. He had
gathered some understanding of who and what the *other* was--and he knew
her contribution to his own pain. He looked away from Logan, his jaw
tightening as he closed his eyes.
"I wish that didnt make me glad."
He felt the movement of the couch cushions as Logan started, and glanced
back quickly. Logan was staring at him, the hardness in his expression
mingled with something else that was difficult to face, even through a
concealing mask of ruby-quartz lenses.
This time it was Logan who turned away, and spoke in a quiet voice.
"Maybe youre human after all."
It seemed a backhanded compliment at best, but Scott didnt have the energy
to be angry. He stared down at his own folded hands, unconsciously
mirroring Logan, and the two of them sat in silence for a long time. Scott
wanted to say something
but *Im sorry* felt too wrong.
It also felt like a lie.
"It wasnt her fault," Logan said at last, with a small shake of his head.
"You know that."
Scott felt an ominous tingle at the back of his neck--but when he looked at
Logans expression, he wasnt even sure which *her* he meant. Perhaps it
didnt matter. He shrugged and stared at the television; Winston Churchill
now. One of his role models, a great leader in a time of great suffering.
"Yeah," Scott murmured, and leaned forward with an urge to scratch the
phantom itching of the scar, but pride restrained him and he stared down
soberly at his restless, clenching hands.
"Wasnt your fault, either."
A pang ripped through Scotts chest. He closed his eyes, cursing mentally.
"You look like youd feel better if you punched somebody." Logans tone of
voice registered somewhere between factual observation and bleak humor, and
as Scott looked up, he could not prevent a small, bitter smile from curving
"Is that an invitation?"
The snort Logan uttered might have been some species of laughter, but it
failed to reach his solemn eyes. "You wouldnt be the first to take it out
For a moment, Scott believed Logan was referring to the students; a few of
the younger children were afraid of him by association, after the carnage
of Strykers assault on the school. Yet there was something deeper in his
face, a shadow of regrets turned inward, and it resonated with Scott in a
way that he would not have cared to admit to.
"There was nothing you could do for her," he said softly--and now he didnt
know which *her* he meant, either. He only knew that some part of him meant
the words for himself, as well.
His eyes downcast, Logan shrugged, unclasped his hands, and folded his
He could have walked away from the X-Men. Instead he had returned, just in
time to share their pain
and to pay dearly in blood and peace of mind for
a few jagged scraps of half-truth. That twist of fate was the twist of a
knife in the heart of Scotts distrust.
"Why did you come back?" Scott asked quietly.
Logan cocked his head to one side, his eyes distant. It might have been an
effort to put together a more eloquent reply than he had ever given in his
life; but words were not his strong point, and they both knew it. At last
he shrugged and met Scotts hidden gaze.
"It was the right thing."
That was all. No sarcasm, no cynicism; only simple, quiet sincerity, the
final sum of a choice that Logan had made--and Scott had to make all over
again. Sitting there in the dark, he now understood how difficult that
choice really was.
Scott sat back then, and for the first time he could remember, the silence
between them was comfortable.
Now again Ive found myself so far down
Away from the sun that shines into the darkest place
Im so far down, away from the sun that shines to light the way for me
To find my way back into the arms that care about the ones like me
I'm so far down, away from the sun again
© 2004 Jordanna Morgan - send feedback