Author’s Notes: I’m rather brand new in the X-Men world and outside of movie knowledge, I have none. But ever since I saw the first movie in theaters waaay back when, I thought that Wolverine and Rogue were better than just about anything in the rest of the movie. Years passed, I was heavily entrenched in other fandoms and whatnot, but this kept nagging at me. I did a google search and was floored to find mass groups of people who agreed with my initial assessment. So … yeah, here I am. Obviously, this is the first time I’ve written anything in this fandom, so all kinds of feedback are massively appreciated. And yes, these are very long author’s notes. I tend to ramble. And I blame this completely on those people who sent plot bunnies after my ass. Not that this is based off of any of th
em, but it came from att empting to run from the plot bunnies. *shudders* Evil creatures.
Author’s Notes 2 (Otherwise known as the reasoning behind this odd little ditty): In my mind, right now the major obstacle in the Logan/Marie relationship is the way
insists on seeing Marie. So there needs to be a definitive moment where he can start to switch, something that pushed him from seeing her as a kid into a young, together woman. Granted, this is a ridiculous take on that potential moment. But it’s what came to me late at night when cuddling with my cat. It’s peculiar and odd and doesn’t really talk about anything directly, and there’s probably too much mention of fungus. But oh well. Oh, and it’s unbetaed, because I don’t know anyone in this fandom and thus, require a beta if I am ever to write anything in it again. Volunteers are welcome. Logan
“Even the most insurmountable of problems can be solved with ice cream.”
Sixty-two days after Jean
Grey had died and
Sixty-two days was about
sixty days longer than he had ever stayed in one place before, and it was
beginning to wear on him in stupid little ways. There were too many people, too
many expectations, and not enough readily available beer. Scooter was still a
disaster, gaunt and scattered and pale, and that bothered
He had taken to wandering around the mansion during the hours of night that most people slept the deepest because it was only then that there was any semblance of peace to the place. But the bottoms of his feet still itched, literally, and he had the ever-increasing suspicion that it wasn’t just the case of athlete’s foot he had picked up from one of the communal bathrooms. It was the physical manifestation of what his instincts were screaming at him—namely, to run.
And on the sixty-third day around two in the morning when all the world should have been asleep, he found Marie sitting in the kitchen making sundaes.
He was sure he had been
silent as he padded through the hallways, even managing to mute the sound of
his bare skin slapping against the wood and tile floors. Still, the kid didn’t
even flinch as he appeared in the doorway, casting a shadow across the dimly
lit kitchen counter. “Hey
“Marie. What are you doing up?”
“Waitin’ for you,” she drawled as though it should have been obvious. Which it probably should have been, as he realized that she had not one but two sundae bowls out. “Grab two spoons, would ya?”
He did as she asked automatically before he realized something. “Kid, I don’t really like ice cream that much.”
She shot him a stern look.
As she began to put away the ice cream, the whipped cream, and whatever other sugary concoctions she had dug out of the fridge, he didn’t really see the harm in listening to her. So he plopped down at the kitchen table, the scrape of the wooden chair leg against the tile floor almost jarring in the silence.
She followed him a minute later, bringing with her two of the biggest sundaes he had ever seen outside of commercials and dessert menu photographs. Logan couldn’t do anything more than eye the mountain of white and brown fluff as she situated herself across from him, grabbing a spoon and coming pretty close to digging in before suddenly dropping the utensil with a clatter and a squeal, shooting out of the chair so abruptly that it made him jump.
“I almost forgot!” she said by way of explanation, digging a small red jar out of the fridge and bringing it over to the table, fishing out two maraschino cherries by the stems and placing one on each sundae, looking content with the image they now presented. “Perfect.”
Again she slid into her chair and this time when she picked up her spoon, she dug right in with a happy little hum in the back of her throat, eyeing him as she swallowed. “Go on then,” she encouraged him.
Still, he couldn’t help
but feel like there were strings attached to this ice cream. That it was a ploy
or something, a device used to get him to do something ridiculous and prissy,
like talk or something. But he
wouldn’t, and he would tell her so. He would take her ice cream and eat it
obediently, but that’s where
“This won’t work,” he informed her around a mouthful of vanilla and chocolate sauce.
“What won’t work, sugar?” Marie asked without pretense.
“This … this … ice cream ploy to get me to … I don’t know. I just know it won’t work.”
She smiled a little smile,
one he didn’t see often enough. “Sometimes ice cream is just ice cream,
He frowned. She didn’t smell like she was lying, and he was pretty sure that Marie would never lie to him anyway. She never had before. But that would mean that the ice cream was just … “Oh,” he said.
She just shook her head and continued to devour her late night treat, sometimes stopping to make sure he was eating it and just to smile at him, but mostly just content to enjoy her dessert despite his less than perfectly pleasant company. Which, strangely, frustrated him.
“My feet itch,” he said abruptly after another spoonful, this time mostly of nuts.
She didn’t even really look up. “Did you get some of that foot cream from the Infirmary?”
“Sure, I—hey! How did you…?”
She flashed him a perfect grin. “Bobby’s got it too, along with most of the guys on the third floor. Be glad you got moved to a room with a private bathroom.”
He was. “Bobby …. speaking of, what would Popsicle Boy think of you hanging around, eating ice cream like this?”
She glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “You mean what would Bobby think of me sitting here eating ice cream with you?” She shrugged after a moment. “He wouldn’t really care much, but he’d probably try to get all worked up about it anyway.”
“Why do you say that?”
She quirked a smile. “Because he just wouldn’t, really. Bobby’s….”
All sorts of interesting
adjectives ran through
That stopped him dead in his tracks. “What?!”
She nodded, going back to her sundae to capture a river of hot fudge on her spoon, seemingly unbothered by this revelation. “You heard me. One of the fun little tidbits I picked up from a foray into the world of the touchable.”
“But…but…so what are you, his cover story?” Strangely, the idea of someone using Marie like that enraged him.
“Oh, no, it’s not like that. He doesn’t know he’s gay, I don’t think. He’ll accept it eventually. Until then, I can be his friend and stick by him.”
“…Why not just tell him?”
She shrugged, scraping the last bit of melted sugar from the bottom of her glass. “I suppose I don’t see much use in forcing him to face something he ain’t ready to deal with yet. Would do more harm than good.”
He ate some more ice cream because he really didn’t know what to say to that. “It doesn’t bother you, though? To be in a…relationship like that?”
She shrugged. “Him wanting to date the untouchable girl was sort of a tip-off, Logan,” she said easily, but he could smell a trace of sadness under the bravado.
“You shouldn’t think of yourself like that, kid,” he said seriously. As far as he was concerned, Marie was the best there was, and anyone would be lucky to be with her, touching or no.
She just shrugged and ate her cherry while he finished off his dessert in the mostly comfortable silence. “Before…the foot thing. That wasn’t what I meant.”
She swallowed the candied fruit and started playing with the red stem. “I know.”
He waited for her to say
more, to cond
He huffed a breath out in frustration. “Well, what do you think?” At some point in the last half hour, the answer to that question had become incredibly important.
She shrugged. “So your feet itch. What ya gonna do about it?”
He blinked. “I…nothing, I suppose.”
She nodded, reaching to her mouth and pulling out the cherry stem that was now tied into a perfect knot. “So, what’s the problem?”
He just stared at the st
She grinned. “You learn all sorts of fun things in high school, sugar.”
His brain just stopped functioning. Completely. “I….”
She reached over and patted his hand with an ice satin glove. “You’re gonna be fine, Logan. Now go get some sleep.”
Still frazzled, he once again didn’t see any reason not to do as she said. So up he went, straight through the silent halls and into bed.
When he woke up the next
morning, his feet had stopped itching…but he had a craving for ice cream. As
far as probl