See part one for disclaimer.
***
IV
*
The sound of the door to his apartment unlocking was the first thing that told him she had arrived. He was worried - for a moment - that he was losing his edge because his sense of smell hadn't alerted him first.
He knew why.
It had, of course. It had noticed her first. He hadn't paid attention. For some reason the smell wasn't as tangible as the sound which probably should have worried him even more; smell had always been his primary sense.
Logan would like to have said that he'd stayed exactly where he was on the bed for the entire two days it took her to get there. Unfortunately, basic natural habits had forced him to get up, but those were the only times he moved. To the bathroom and back, and that was all.
She was here now. That was what was supposed to be important. Inhaling her scent he sighed, trying to let it lift him as it always had. Fragrant, feminine, beautiful.
But he was lying amongst the gloves. Logan could almost - almost - see her lying there. The one who had started all this. Those dark gloves there…that was her hair. The pale one in the middle - her streak of white.
{Why didn't you do it, Logan?}
"Holy shit."
Logan had never heard Jean swear before. Had never imagined her swearing. Had never even known if she were capable. It didn't surprise him. It was in line with his current situation where absolutely anything could happen.
From his position on the bed, he craned his neck to look at her. She was standing in the doorway, not looking the slightest bit different to the last time he saw her. Except for the clothes. The ones she wore now were her trademark red.
His memory tried to tell him something. He ignored it. If it was some part of his past he didn't want to deal with it right now.
"Jeanie," Logan greeted.
Dr Jean Grey had stopped complaining about the nickname after the second time he used it, going as far as to admit it was 'nice'. Apparently no one had a nickname for her, not even Scott.
She was still taking in the state of the room, the walls, the bed, before her gaze finally settled on him. "Hi," She responded, voice strong but concerned.
"What did you tell him?"
Rolling her eyes and seeming to regain her confidence, she moved into the room and sat on the edge of the bed. "You know Logan, my husband doesn't own me. I simply told him I had a friend who needed my help."
True enough. But…
Really, what was so strange about collecting gloves? Some people collected trading cards, salt and pepper shakers, autographs…
"How long?"
Staring at the ceiling, he remembered the first time. The sense of bliss as he stuffed both pairs into his pockets. "Two months, I guess." He knew the date. He even knew the time. He still had the receipt.
"Do you want to stop?"
He shook his head. Why should he want to stop? It was just a hobby. Something to pass the time. Nothing to worry about.
"Yes," He said.
Carefully - so very, very carefully - she reached out and held his hand. Softly, delicately, she coaxed him out of the bedroom.
The next time he went back in, the gloves were gone.
*
V
*
Cold turkey was not his idea of a good time. Hot steak; now that was a terrific idea. Hot steak, iced beer, and a single cigar. That was often the perfect end to a less-than-perfect day.
Cold turkey just didn't come close. He wasn't sure how healthy it was either, to suddenly be deprived of something he enjoyed so much.
She told him it was right. She told him it was the only way. There was no way he could ever live whatever fantasy his mind was concocting.
He was starting to hate her.
Besides, was it really a fantasy if you simply dreamt it? Simply dreamt her - the one with the dark hair and the white streak - next to him in a car, talking. Just talking. What was wrong with that?
{Why didn't you do it, Logan?}
He wanted to stop asking himself that question. He didn't even know what it meant anymore.
*
Becky came back, although not for long. In it's entirety her return probably lasted for about three minutes. One look at the bags under his eyes, the woman in red next to his bed as he lay there indulging in his current favourite hobby of staring at the ceiling, and his distinct lack of clothing had her shouting again about missed second chances, and a new crack appearing in the already creaking apartment door.
Jean clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "You always did have a way with the women, Logan." Immediately she looked apologetic, as if she had said something awful. "I'll get you another drink, and then I'm taking you out for your daily walk."
Taking his mug she left the room and Logan thumped his head against the wall. A daily walk? Shit, this was like being in a nursing home. His hands itched to do something.
One pair. That was all. He just wanted one. Just something.
Really, what was so strange about collecting gloves? Okay, so he had never been a collector. Never kept mementos of visits to anywhere.
The only thing he'd ever kept were his dog tags, and he'd given them to someone else what felt like years again now.
{What about the scarf, Logan?}
No. If he took the scarf out, if he held it Jean would come back and find it. She'd take it away. Even if it meant he could never look at it again, he wouldn't let her take it away. Everything else, everything else. Just this something.
The smell of fresh fruit juice entered the room ten seconds before she did. He sat up fully, took the glass from her, and swallowed the contents in one gulp.
Raising a disapproving eyebrow, she folded her arms across her chest. "Get dressed. I'll be waiting outside."
Naturally, the moment the door closed behind her - despite his intentions, despite his earlier thoughts - he pulled up the floorboard under the bed and took out the scarf.
Sitting on the wooden floor, wearing just his underpants, he lifted the scarf to his nose and inhaled.
And just stayed there.
Just stayed there.
{Why are you doing this, Logan? Do you want her to catch you?}
It reminded him of something.
{Those dark gloves there…that was her hair. The pale one in the middle - her streak of white.}
"Logan?"
There she was. There she was. Just as he knew she would be. He didn't move.
"Is that…?" She continued.
"Yes." His voice was muffled against the scarf; he didn't care.
And the most incredible thing happened. Lowering herself down next to him, she didn't take the scarf from him. She let him keep it.
{Since when did anyone 'let' you do anything? Since when did you stop doing whatever the hell you wanted to?}
Since the second time he had left the school.
Since the last time he had seen Jeanie.
Since she had been wearing clothes in a darker colour.
Really, what was so strange about collecting gloves? Some people collected trading cards, salt and pepper shakers, autographs…thoughts.
"I know it's hard," Jean whispered and his hand closed reflexively on the scarf. Harder. Tighter. His knuckles turned white. His claws nearly came out and ripped through the material.
{Why didn't you do it, Logan?}
"But Rogue's been dead for over three months now."
***
TBC
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