Chapter Text
They stopped for gas, just before four. Logan was getting used to driving with Marie. They certainly had very different ways of travelling. He typically ate once or twice a day, huge meals to sustain him until the next one. He was coming to understand that Marie intended to graze her way across the country. She always had a drink — a coffee or a Slurpee or a bottle of water and she was rarely without some kind of snack. Pretzels, usually, but she wasn't picky. He'd seen M&M's, cashews, and popcorn also come and go and they'd only been on the road a day.
He finished pumping the gas and pulled around to wait. She was inside, grabbing God knows what. Logan leaned against the door of the truck. Waiting on his woman. He hadn't done that in so long and he was surprised to find he enjoyed it. There was a quiet contentment there he'd forgotten. A warmth in being a part of something larger than himself.
She emerged a few minutes later twirling a bag on her finger, her eyes searching the lot before coming to rest on him, standing by the truck, waiting for her. Her whole face lit up when she saw him. Joy shined out of her, warm and transcendent.
He opened her door for her and she tossed in the bag, turning in the small, charged space between the open door and his big body. Her arms slid around him and she pushed her hands into his back pockets playfully, fitting their hips together and tilting her face up to kiss his strong jaw.
He froze, his body completely rigid under her hands for a few moments before he recovered but by then it was much too late. She sprang away from him like he was on fire; looking down, looking away, as realization struck her hard. He'd been the one to initiate every single touch they'd shared since he'd turned up at her door. He hadn't welcomed her uninvited touch. Not at all. It cut her deeply though she could tell his reaction had surprised them both. It didn't make it hurt any less.
"Sorry," she mumbled. "I should have asked..." She frowned. That wasn't right either. That didn't feel right.
Logan watched the light go out of her eyes. Her smile faded. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure why he'd reacted that way and he didn't know how to fix it now that he had. He could see his unconscious rejection had wounded her deeply, perhaps moreso because it had been instinctive rather than deliberate. An innate response born of his strong sense of self-preservation. He reached for her and she pulled away, scrambling up into the truck to avoid his hands. Magneto's gift reached for the door. He barely got his fingers clear. It slammed hard.
Shit.
He checked her door anyway and walked around to the driver's side. Her eyes were closed. By the time he'd climbed in, closed the door and started the truck, her eyes were open again.
"Sorry, kid."
He wasn't sure what he expected, her tears? Her anger? For her to rip the scab the rest of the way off so they could deal with the infection underneath? He was wholly unprepared for what he got instead.
Looking back at him from the other side of the truck was the face she'd given him for the last decade. The mask. The distant smile that didn't touch her flat eyes.
Anger, hot and raw roared through him. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" she replied neutrally.
"That. That fuckin' mask. I hate it. I hate us not bein' real with each other. You said you wanted to be a straight shooter with me again. So shoot."
It slipped, just for a moment and he saw the pain underneath before she drew her armor back around herself. "I—"
"All of me and all of you. That's our deal. There's no goin' back now."
"Logan—"
"No more bullshit. You wanna hit me, then hit me. You wanna yell, do it. You wanna cry on my shoulder? I'm right here. You wanna kick and bite and scratch? I'm ready to bleed. Anythin' but that goddamn wall you hide behind. I'll tear it down brick by fuckin' brick if I have to. You know I will."
She sighed and this time when she looked at him, he could see the anguish, cold and bright. "I know I hurt you. I know it's not going to get better overnight. I know there are some things you probably won't ever be able to forgive," she winced as she said it but she kept going, "I own those, okay? I know I have a lot to make up for, Logan. But I have completely humbled myself for you and you know how hard that is for people like us."
He knew. He'd done it too, for her. Put aside his pain to bring her back from the edge. He knew the steep cost of that all too well. "Mmph."
Her eyes met his. Her voice was still soft but there was real steel underneath. "I'm willing to try, but that— that hurt. A lot. If you need time, then tell me you need time. That I can understand. That I can deal with. I'm not afraid of hard work or of hurting, but I don't want to be your punching bag. That's only going to end badly for both of us."
"I don't want that either."
Her hand went to her neck. "I want this, Logan. But you can't make a promise like that to me and then rip it away just to watch me bleed."
"A promise?"
She touched the bite he'd given her last night.
"A promise." She didn't back away from that truth. She made him face it, too. "We both know that's what it was."
His jaw clenched. She was right. He had given her that. Given her something she relied on to build from and then he'd pulled it out from under her. The resulting fall had knocked the wind out of her, a painful blow that stretched their fragile new trust dangerously thin.
She had every right to be pissed. He'd claimed her with teeth and breath and pain and the promise of hope as surely as if he'd given her the words.
"You're right," he said quietly.
The trees sped along, a blur of green and white. They both withdrew.
The sky was beginning to turn pink as the sun began to creep lower when Logan finally spoke. "I'm sorry. That was real shitty. If it matters, I didn't do it on purpose. I wasn't tryin' to hurt ya. I don't know why it happened."
"Maybe you should work on figuring that out." The words were soft rather than snippy. "I'm bruised some and a little shaky, but I'm here if you want to talk, okay?"
He nodded curtly. He didn't feel like talking. "Later. Not now." He didn't want to and he wasn't ready. Not at all. "But thanks."
"Sure."
"You wanna eat? We could stop." She hadn't touched her snacks.
"Not really. I wouldn't mind stopping early though."
His eyes jumped to hers.
"Not— not for that. I don't want that right now. Not like this. Sorry. I can't bare myself like that to you and not know if or when I'll be rejected. I'm sorry but I can't. Touch is too big a deal for me."
"I get it."
"Do you?" She wasn't sure.
"I do. And I do want you. It was never about that."
"You want me on your terms. In a way that feels safe for you. Something with defined limits."
"Hmph." He couldn't disagree.
"I can't stay within the lines with you, Logan. I'm a mess. I'm real and I'm hurting and my feelings are big and deep and totally out of control. I don't mind being in that place with you, but I can't be there alone and when I put my hands on you and you freeze up like you're waiting to take a punch, it makes me feel like we're on opposite sides, not working the same problem, you know?"
"I get it, okay? Christ. You don't hafta hammer it home so goddamn hard." She was right and it made him feel defensive, mostly because he wasn't sure why it had happened. He didn't want to hurt her still, did he? He honestly didn't think so, but it still didn't explain why he'd frozen up with her in an unguarded moment.
He felt her pull back as much as saw it. She was practically plastered against the passenger door. The emotional distance was further still.
Fucking perfect.
"Sorry," she mumbled looking as miserable as he felt. "Maybe it's best if we just cut off early tonight. Take a break for a while. I could use a walk."
"Yeah. Maybe that'd help. Get out of this truck for a while. Stretch our legs."
"I meant a walk by myself." He felt like she'd slapped him. "This is a lot heavy stuff happening really fast. We're both used to being alone. Maybe a little space would help. I just would really like to take a walk. Clear my head a little."
He was not at all on board with that plan. No way. He hadn't even been comfortable with the idea of her waiting alone outside the restroom.
"You comin' back?" His voice was tight.
She actually flinched.
He could tell his question had heaped one hurt upon another.
"Yes. I'm not like that. I wouldn't do that. If I was going to leave, I'd tell you to your face."
"So we could duke it out?" He was only half kidding.
They were circling around some sort of physical catharsis. If it wasn't sex, it was going to be a fight. He wondered which side would win out first. That was a point spread no bookie would ever make money on.
"So you'd have the truth. So you'd have answers. You don't need more unanswered questions hanging over your head. Your life has had enough of those." Her arms didn't unfold, but she turned to him slightly. "I'm not leaving. You made me a promise last night and I'm holding you to it. You made me another in the diner. I want those things you promised me when we're both ready. But I'm pretty hurt right now and I think you must be too if that's your default response to my touch. You piss me the hell off, you know? We're caught in this cycle of hurting each other and pulling back, but I still respect you. I wouldn't just take off. I'm not like that."
"Anymore," he added quietly.
He'd been chasing her for years. She could understand how he'd might feel a little raw about that.
"Anymore." She owned it. He was not wrong.
~ooOoo~
She was gone minutes after they checked in. She took her wallet and knife but left her pack. That was something, at least. Though he knew she'd be able to replace any of what she'd left behind easily enough.
He'd wanted to touch her before she left but she was skittish and wanted no part of him physically. He understood why, but it still left him feeling bitter and resentful.
She told him not to wait up and she didn't look back. That bothered him too.
He ate dinner alone, cheap fast food burgers and a bottle of Jack from the liquor store on the corner. Neither the Flames-Blackhawks game nor the long, hot shower he took did anything to relax him. Finishing the bottle helped marginally. She'd left before 5PM. He watched 9PM come and go. Time seemed to crawl. Midnight came and went and there was nothing to do but think and brood. He saw the clock flash 2AM before he finally fell into a restless sleep.
When he woke at 4AM, he knew she was back before he even opened his eyes. He could smell her, smoke and booze and the pungent stink of a crowded bar clung to her hair and clothes. The salt of tears was in there too. She'd been crying. Under it all she still smelled good, like fresh snow and the intoxicatingly heady scent of a woman ripe for a man's seed; fertile and lush. Peaking. The resulting blood rush was more an annoyance than a pleasure, a function of biology rather than desire.
She was sleeping on the small couch, her head pillowed on her jacket and her knees drawn up. Her hair spilled loosely under her cheek, a satin river pouring to the floor. Why hadn't she joined him in the bed? Because she was afraid of being rejected? Because she just didn't want to? Because she was perfectly within her right to have some lingering issues with trying to rouse him from an unfitful sleep given their history with that particular subject?
It bothered him that she'd managed to come in and get settled without waking him. A mouse fart in the forest woke him. The pressure of fingers on a doorknob and the rasp of bare feet on carpet in the room next door woke him. Even silence could wake him if his brain was expecting the distracting hum of background noise.
Nobody had gotten this close to him while he was asleep except for that night he'd put his claws through her chest. What did it mean that her nearness didn't rouse those protective instincts? Did some part of him recognize her as safe? As his? As a part of him and therefore not a threat? And if that was the case, why did he tense at her touch when he was fully conscious and capable of defending himself, and blissfully continue to sleep when he was much more vulnerable? It made no sense.
Careful not to wake her, he covered her with his flannel shirt and jacket. He couldn't bring himself to cover her with the comforter from the bed. Even though he'd chosen a nice hotel, it smelled vile; a stale petri dish of male DNA. It lay in a rumpled heap in the corner.
Ripping the sheets and pillows from the bed, he made a nest on the floor by the small couch and stretched out. It wasn't as good as next to her with her body wrapped around his, but on the floor beside her was better than across the room in a cold, empty bed.
The wood floor was hard and uncomfortable and so was he, but he'd survived worse. Tucking a single silky curl of her hair around his finger, he closed his eyes and surrendered at last. A silent, shuddering sigh left his body as sleep finally took him.
She was here.
She was safe.
He could rest.
Up next: The Couch. Pillow talk without the pillow. It took a decade, but they finally talk about that night.