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FIC: Turning Toward Home (1/1) (L/R) PG-13

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  • Victoria P.
    Title: Turning Toward Home Author: Victoria P. (vicpusateri@worldnet.att.net) Disclaimer: The characters are owned by Marvel and/or Fox. I do not own them, nor
    Message 1 of 1 , Sep 6, 2000
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      Title: Turning Toward Home
      Author: Victoria P. (vicpusateri@...)
      Disclaimer: The characters are owned by Marvel and/or Fox. I do not
      own them, nor do I make any profit from using them.
      Rating: PG–13 – there's an almost naughty situation
      Summary: Logan decides to go back to New York. Prequel to "Enough
      for Now"
      Archive: List archive; Kielle's site if she wants it. Anyone
      else, just ask first – I'm sure I'd say yes. If I've said
      yes already, have at it.
      Feedback: Yes, please.
      Notes: Thanks again to Dot, Jen, Meg and Pete


      Turning Toward Home

      1. The Decision

      He'd been away from Xavier's Academy for close to two years.
      He had rescued the kid, Marie – thinking of her, his lips quirked
      unconsciously into a grin – then left her in the competent hands
      of Professor Charles Xavier and his merry band of X-Men and run as far
      and as fast as possible from the first place he'd felt at home in
      years.

      He hadn't called, hadn't written. He'd left the kid his
      dogtags and a promise to come back for them. Then he'd lit out of
      there, frightened – yeah, tough guy, you're frightened, he
      thought – by a slip of a girl with two white locks of hair
      framing her
      face, and skin that could kill with a simple touch.

      It wasn't her mutation that scared him. Hell, a man with a metal
      skeleton and nine-inch retractable claws was in no position to fear
      or judge anyone else's eccentricities. No, it was his reaction to
      her soft brown eyes and sweet voice that scared him to death.
      They'd bonded, and he was left with the impression, deep in his
      unbreakable bones, that she was his. But she was a kid – there
      was the
      trouble. When Jean had told him Marie was taken with him, he'd
      brushed it aside. She was a kid, he'd saved her life, she'd
      get over it. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, he thought, some day
      I'll believe it.

      But then he'd recall their conversation on the train. He was in
      her head, she said, after she'd touched him. And because of the
      damn fool chivalrous feelings she'd awakened, he promised to take
      care
      of her. While there wasn't too much he was sure of about himself
      or
      his past, he was absolutely sure he was a man of his word.

      So when she looked at him and told him she didn't want him to
      leave, he handed over his dogtags – his prize possession, a link
      to his lost past – and promised he'd come back for them. He
      realized now that he'd promised he would come back for her. And
      then
      he proceeded to disappear from her life.

      But lately, her face had appeared in his dreams. He'd dreaded
      sleep for a long time. The nightmares of what had been done to him
      were a harsh and constant companion, but since he'd touched her
      the second time (I've touched her twice and lived, he thought,
      oddly
      proud. No one else can say that.) their severity had lessened. He was
      able to occasionally get a decent night's sleep. He didn't
      question it, just accepted whatever small mercies the universe gave.

      Until he started dreaming about her. And not fatherly-type dreams,
      either. So he wondered, two years after leaving her, if *he* would
      get over it. After what happened last night, he didn't think so.

      He'd been sitting at the bar, minding his own business, when the
      woman walked in. She wasn't anything spectacular to look at, but
      she was willing. He could tell she was checking him out. Women did.
      He wasn't conceited, he just knew he'd never had to work hard
      to get a woman he really wanted, and that confidence seemed to
      attract them even more.

      She made the first move. She sat down next to him, even though there
      was a row of empty seats along the bar. Her shoulder brushed his as
      she removed her coat. "My hands are so cold," she said
      softly. "I thought we were done with snow this spring." He
      shrugged, not particularly interested until he noticed she hadn't
      removed her gloves.

      They weren't typical woolly winter mittens. They were suede and
      they hugged her arms to a point just below her elbows. He found them
      curiously arousing. He made some inane comment about the weather. It
      really didn't matter. The deal was sealed. She chattered on about
      meaningless things for a couple of hours – how her boyfriend was
      a trucker who'd brought her to this godforsaken, frozen country
      and then left her for another woman, and she was going home to
      Burbank as soon as she had the money. He nodded and made sympathetic
      noises at the right time, but mostly he focused on what she would
      look like in nothing but the gloves.

      Finally, the conversation petered out. He paid their tab and
      said, "I've got a room at the Motel 6." She followed him
      there. He barely got the door open and then there was the soft, wet
      heat of her mouth on his. She shed her coat quickly, but he stopped
      her from taking the gloves off. "Leave them on," he said
      hoarsely, trailing kisses down her neck as he unbuttoned her blouse.

      She removed his shirt, running her hands over his shoulders and
      chest. The suede felt good, a little rough, against his skin. Her
      mouth soon followed, dropping kisses along his stomach. She dropped
      to her knees and unzipped his pants. He threaded his hands through
      her hair and whispered, "Marie."

      Things cooled off pretty quickly. She stomped out of the room, half-
      dressed, muttering, "My name is RuthAnn."

      He sat with his head cradled in his hands, jeans still undone,
      thinking. While part of him was disgusted that he'd been having
      those kinds of thoughts about the kid, another part acknowledged that
      yeah, he'd been having those kinds of thoughts about her for a
      while. And now it was time to do something about it.

      It was then, in a run down motel in Saskatchewan, that he decided to
      go back to New York, back to Marie, and see if he couldn't settle
      this thing, whatever it was, once and for all.

      2. The Return

      He arrived at the school at about 3 am. The gates slid open smoothly
      for him. He parked the trailer he'd managed to pick up along the
      way. He loved Cyke's bike, but sometimes a man needs a little more
      space. As he approached, the door opened and there was Jean Grey. She
      was still dressed, wearing her customary red, of course, so he
      figured they were expecting him.

      "Hi, Jean," he said, as if he had been away for a weekend
      instead of a couple of years. "Still got a room for me?"

      She smiled at him. "Welcome back," she said, embracing him.
      "You'll always have a room here."

      He inhaled her scent and enjoyed the feel of her body against him,
      but she drew back quickly. He noticed the ring on her left hand.
      "So he finally had the balls to ask, eh?" he said roughly,
      thinking, damn, but also, good. He preferred to have the rules laid
      out, and the ring told him exactly where he stood. She
      laughed. "Congratulations," he grumbled, and she laughed
      again. "How's Marie?"

      The abrupt change in subject obviously startled her. Good, he
      thought, she's not rooting around in my head.

      She recovered quickly. "Rogue is fine. She's doing well in
      all her classes, and she even has a boyfriend." His whole body
      tensed at that, and he felt a sudden urge to extend his claws.

      "A boyfriend?" he growled.

      Jean nodded. "It's very cute. Of course, she never gave up
      hope that you'd come back, even after the rest of us did."

      "She's not old enough to have a boyfriend," he said,
      trying to get his feelings under control. "I'm surprised
      ol' One-Eye allows it."

      Jean looked askance at him. "She's seventeen, Logan.
      She'll be going to college next year."

      Seventeen. He growled again. He knew what seventeen-year-old boys
      wanted from girls. This time the claws were out before he even
      thought to stop them. He grimaced. Jean raised an eyebrow, but made
      no comment. He retracted the claws and, after she'd led him to
      his room, thanked her for the hospitality.

      "Oh, Professor Xavier knew you were on the way, so it was no
      trouble making sure the room was made up," she said.
      "Breakfast starts at seven. Will we see you there?"

      He shrugged. Being surrounded by noisy teenagers first thing in the
      morning was not his idea of a good time. He hated teenagers, which
      only made his situation more ironic. Jean wished him good night and
      left.

      She's seventeen, he thought, and she has a boyfriend. Both were
      unexpected developments, though he supposed he'd known,
      objectively, that she wouldn't stay fifteen forever. But he
      hadn't imagined she'd find a boyfriend, though she was a
      beautiful
      girl. He decided he would check the boy out, make sure he was keeping
      his hands to himself and that he treated Marie respectfully. If he
      didn't, the kid would get a quick and pointed lesson on how to
      treat a lady. Then he would head out on the road again, obligation
      fulfilled.

      Telling himself he was satisfied with that, he went to bed.
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