A series by November

Chapter 21: Uninvited

On Christmas morning, after the presents were opened, Jubilee materialized at Rogue and Maggie’s door, straight from her parents’ place, with more presents and questions.

"Girl, I heard there was a whole lotta interesting stuff going on last night."

Rogue groaned and poured Jubilee a cup of coffee. "What did you hear?"

"I heard that you looked gorgeous, that Wolverine couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, and that you danced with everyone but him."

"Your informant is grossly mistaken, Jubilee. I did dance with him."

"And?"

"And... he told me I was beautiful. And... nothing. I told him I had to go."

"Did you?"

"Yes, the U2 Christmas song came on."

"Oh god." Jubilee knew the significance of that song.

"I had to get out of there. Jubie, how many Christmases have I pined for him to that stupid song?"

"Um, like five?"

"So that came on and I was like- I have to go. And I bolted."

"Very Wolverinish of you."

The spoon in Marie‘s hand stopped stirring. "Oh, now fuck you Jubilee, that’s just harsh."

"It’s true."

"Fuck you. It was either stay there and become a puddle of tears on the dance floor, or bolt. Me trying to not make an ass out of myself is not the same as being incommunicado for five years."

"True. My bad. My point, though, is that you’re refusing to deal with the situation."

"No I’m not. I’m just dealing with it in my own time. He comes waltzing back in here right after Kitty died and I’m sorry but I just don’t have the energy for his shit right now. I told him we’d pick it up later, but not now!"

"Is it that you can’t deal with it now, or that you wanna make him suffer a little?"

"Jesus Christ, Jubilee. Whose side are you on?"

Marie told herself that it wasn’t true, but during the long days and nights of winter break she turned this thought over in her head. Yes, she did want him to suffer a little. But that wasn’t all of it. She didn’t know how to trust him.

On New Year’s Eve she threw a party. Rakim and Leah and Art and Sherry were there, Jubilee was there, John and Bobby and Carter and Scott and Jean were all there. There was barely room to walk in Rogue’s apartment. Techno music pumped everywhere.

Logan had heard that Rogue was having a party. As much as parties made him anxious he’d hoped she would invite him. He’d nearly managed to forget what day it was and when he went to his studio he succeeded. Unfortunately the winter light was short so after painting in the waning light for a few hours he ventured back to the mansion.

The college streets were nearly deserted but he passed two college students carrying a keg of beer home.

He remembered a wrench that Scott needed and went in through the garage, up to the fifth floor. It was a lame excuse for walking down her hallway. He heard party noises from within. His mouth tightened into a frown. There was, of course, no answer at Scott and Jean’s door. He pushed the wrench under the door and walked the stairs to his floor two at a time.

Inside, he stripped naked and closed the curtains. He turned on his TV, but the 18 channels of Times Square footage made him feel even more lonely so he turned it off. He put in a blues CD and went into the shower.

After, he lay on his bed naked and stared at the ceiling. It was only nine forty-eight. He felt like the biggest loser on the planet.

It was on days like this the lab memories came back quickest, what little there were. They had increased in the last few years, growing from flashes to snatches of dialogue above him, twenty kinds of pain distinct in his memory, faces of certain ones that made him want to kill.

He wondered if it was always going to be that way for him. Some things had gotten better in the years he had gone, some were worse. In winter the depression settled most heavily. His thoughts again turned to suicide and how to achieve it. How he was cursed, how it would be so much easier for any other man.

He knew he wouldn’t do it though. He’d made it through some hellish times. Made a few friends, Johnny and Hank and in his own way Charles. And the painting. That was a world that was opening up to him.

And Marie. Always, since he’d come back, his thoughts returned to her. What did he feel for her? It was nothing like what he could remember feeling for anyone. Jean, perhaps, had come closest.

He decided that he felt a million things for her. Pride at how the girl had grown into a woman. Guilt, so damn much guilt and self-loathing, so intense that it didn’t seem it would ever end, that it would suck him down in its vortex. The desire to protect her, and damn, what a joke that was. He wanted it nonetheless.

He wanted her. He wanted to hold her close and feel her heart beating against his own. He wanted to thread his fingers through that silky hair, the brown and the white. He wanted to make love to her. He remembered fucking but he didn’t remember making love to anyone before and the thought excited him in a way that had little to do with sex.

He knew that she wanted him once. Sometimes from the look in her eye he thought she wanted him now. Was it even possible for her to respect him, let alone want him?

He had seen her once with the kid, after she’d fallen and hurt her leg. She had picked Maggie up and held her, hands threading through her hair, whispering soothing things to her, comforting her.

He wanted that most of all.

Upstairs, they raised their glasses to a new year.