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xp_logsThe pressure of recent events and the damage control gets to Marie, compounded by thinking about her past 'perfect' life, and she escapes to the greenhouse to regroup. Logan comes hunting for her and catches her in the process of negotiating with one of her personal demons. Backdated to Thursday night.
Warning: possible triggers for cutting/self-injury.
The smell of the greenhouse always reminded Marie of Storm. She had come up here once or twice to find her teacher and friend and the memory of the white-haired woman bending over her flowers lingered in Marie's mind still. "I wish you were here," she said into the emptiness. The plants were still green for the most part and Marie had no doubt that Mr Marko had made his way up here more than once. Someone other than herself had been through here to take away what had failed to thrive and tighten any dripping taps. She took the small pruning shears and wandered among the neglected growth, removing spindly, overgrown tendrils and dead leaves as she went. The task of gardening was familiar but it failed to soothe when every question that came to mind had no ear to fall on.
The Fencing Hall didn't seem all that inviting anymore, so Logan left and headed up to Marie's room. Maybe she'd met Manuel before and could provide some kind of explanation. Unfortunately, rather than finding Marie, he found a note on her door.
Marie took off her gloves and put them in her pocket before they got too grubby. She wished she'd taken the time to be up here more. Maybe she wouldn't feel quite so lost now but she'd been busy being young and Storm had always intimidated her a little, being so elegant and strong and self-sufficient. Something about her had always made Marie feel like she had a smudge on her nose.
"Jean did that too," she murmured to herself, plucking dead leaves from a faltering rose bush. -Always the little girl,- she thought. -The little sister in her ponytails trying to keep up. I never wanted to interfere. They didn't owe me anything.- And yet, the thought occurred to her now, maybe it had been mostly cowardice on her part. -I didn't want them to tell me I was too young to be their friend. And now I wish they were here because I feel too young for all of this.- The irony of it made her twitch and she slid the forefinger of her left hand down onto a thorn. She watched the blood bead wistfully, feeling the tug of an old habit.
'In the greenhouse.'
Logan shrugged and headed for the stairs again. The attic was nice. Quiet and calm and rarely had more than one or two people in it. He pushed the greenhouse door open and let it fall closed behind him, the smell of blood rushing to his head.
Marie put her finger in her mouth and with the other hand very carefully, deliberately, closed and locked the sharp, curved blades of the shears. They were stained green with plant juices and she would wipe them off when she put them away. Just not right now.
"Marie?" Logan called out, a thread of nervousness in his voice. He walked through the aisles of plants, heading for the smell of blood and power and /Marie/.
"Here." Disappointment warred with relief and Marie took a look at her finger. Just a nick. It probably wouldn't even scab over, just close as though it had never been. Her eyes fell to her wrist, to the unmarked skin there. There had been a whorl there before, centered over her pulse. Cutting the spiral had taken a long time. She tried to shake off the thoughts and lifted her eyes to see Logan making his way toward her.
"Y'okay?" Logan's tone wavered between curious and worried. He knelt beside her, looking for the wound he'd smelled.
"Fine." Marie held up her finger. "It's not the cursed roses, or I'd be asleep by now." Laughter threatened to bubble up but she knew it would have the edge of her need in it so she locked it behind a smile.
His eyes narrowed at the edge to her tone, but he smiled. "I'd kiss y'wake, don't worry." He took her hand in his, leather gloves protecting her from sucking him in, and examined the finger closely before pressing a kiss to it.
"I know." Her eyes were wide as she watched him, realizing that he could feel the minute tremors of her hand, that he had smelled her blood from across the room and that she couldn't hide from him if she couldn't fight what was tugging at her but he'd never know she was fighting it unless she spoke. She'd promised him she would.
"I think I'm a little in trouble," she said softly, keeping her eyes on him. No secrets. With her other hand she reached out unerringly and picked up the shears, holding them out to him handles first. "Do you mind putting those away for me?"
Logan's eyes widened as he realised the problem and he immediately took the shears from her and stood to put them in their proper place. Once they were taken care of, he came back to her side. "What can I do?" he asked simply.
Marie threw the trimmings she had collected in the compost and dusted off her hands while Logan put the shears away. "I don't know. I was... it's just everything that's happened and then I was thinking about home and..." She hugged herself and bit her lip as loathing washed over her so hard that she had to force her feet to stay on the floor. "I don't know," she said helplessly.
He tugged on her hair. "Tell me?" Everything that's happened, she'd said. He wasn't sure how much of everything was the problem and he needed to know before he could think of how to help. If he /could/ help.
"I just feel caught," she said quietly. "Like I don't belong anywhere. I'm not one of the students and I'm still hardly old enough to be on staff, I'm not qualified for anything and yet I'm lending books and advice to Pete and Jake and trying to keep Angelo from imploding, or worse, exploding, and getting Ali to watch Artie for me because he's been panicky in art class and Pete thinks it might be good if I kept an eye on Yana and Piotr wants to come to me for things instead of Scott or Charles and I was the one reassuring Moira about things the other day and..." She gestured around at the empty greenhouse helplessly, fighting tears. "I don't know what I'm doing but I'm faking it as fast as I can."
Logan filed away the information for later, then opened his arms, hoping she'd step in for a hug. "Stop tryin' so hard, hon. Y'don't hafta be anythin' more than /you/."
"I don't want to feel better," she said in a small voice. Her nails dug into her arms through the fabric of her shirt, soothing her a little, holding her back from him.
His arms dropped and he looked a little lost. "Whadya want, then?" he asked quietly.
"What's probably not good for me," she conceded quietly, eyes on the floor between them.
He nodded slowly. "I only asked that y'talk t'me first," he reminded. He'd never demanded that she not cut at all. He had no place asking her not to do something just because it wasn't good for her. "An' see if it helped. 's it helpin'?"
"I don't know." Marie ran her hands through her hair, frustrated. "Maybe it is. I won't know until it surfaces again. Right now I still want to peel my own skin off. I can /feel/ it." She met his eyes honestly. "I can feel the memory of last time and it's like being thirsty and having water just out of my reach."
Realisation hit Logan like a punch in the gut. He'd felt that way. He felt that way, in the background noise of his mind, all the time. But not about hurting himself. About killing. "Oh."
"It's there, somewhere all the time," she continued. She pulled her sleeves back and studied the pale inner surface of her arms. "I can feel it running just under my skin like a whisper and sometimes it gets so loud, it needs to be let out." She wasn't paying any attention to him now, lost in the sensations that plagued her. "Sometimes /they/ get loud too. Something in me says that if I cut deep enough, it'll all bleed out and I'll be clean again. And in the meantime, the pain keeps me in my own head. Sometimes I'm afraid they'll lock me out and I won't be able to be me anymore."
In so many ways, she sounded like he would, if he'd ever talk about what it felt like to kill. Or what it felt like to die. Maybe they were more similar than he'd thought. The idea made his stomach roll as he wondered if he'd done this to her. "'sat the only way you can separate y'self from th'...from us, in there?"
"Sometimes. It's hard... when I hate myself and I want to disappear, it's hard to hold on." Marie ran lilac-tinted nails down the inside of one wrist; even the light touch brought red lines up quickly on the thin, sheltered skin. "It helps. It focusses. It feels clean. It reminds me of how strong I am, that I'm here because I want to be. It feels like a pardon, when it hurts, like I could be forgiven because I'm that sorry for what I am. It's not just the cut, though, that's important." She closed her hands tightly to keep the temptation of her nails out of sight. "It's everything, it's the ritual, all the way to the fading scar."
The idea that she felt she /had/ to be sorry for what she was grated on him, made him feel raw and open. He didn't like that she hated herself, didn't like that she needed to punish herself to feel better. "Storm said, once, that Kurt's gotta scar for ev'ry sin."
Marie nodded, smiling a little. "I can respect that. I get it. I never said I was okay, you know?" She looked up at him through the wisps of white bangs veiling her eyes. "Just that I manage. It's not just that it hurts. It's not just that it scars. It's also that... that's /all/ I do. I can go to the edge and look over and see that I still love myself enough to say, 'No. I'm just going to make it pretty.' and then I come back."
Logan reached out, looking at her for permission to take her wrist in his hand. The leather of his gloves brushed against her skin.
Marie offered up the arm he was reaching for without hesitation.
He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and stared at her arm. Slowly, his free hand came up and he traced barely-remembered patterns on her skin with his fingertip. "They were beautiful," he admitted and slowly raised his eyes to hers. "But your skin's always beautiful."
Marie nodded, touching where he traced with her own finger. "We have kind of a love-hate relationship, it and I," she said pensively. "It's hard. It's hard not to, Logan. It hurts not to."
He nodded slowly. Every time he fought and didn't kill, it hurt. Not killing Betsy when he'd been so close, when it would have been so easy, had /burned/ in him for hours. "Whatever you need," he promised again, a slightly haunted look in his eyes. "If y'need me to be there so y'don't do it, I will be. If y'need me t'go so y'/can/ do it, jus' say."
"And if I ask you to stay?" Her words were little more than an exhalation.
"Then I'll be here," he answered without hesitation. "For as long as y'want me."
Marie reached out with her free hand to touch his cheek. "You... " She shook her head, at a loss for words. "Thank you." She stood on her toes and brushed a kiss across his mouth. "For everything."
He closed his eyes for the kiss and when he opened them again, he tugged on a lock of her hair. "Whatever y'need. I promised and I meant it." He dipped his head to kiss her cheek and whispered in her ear, "I love you. 's not changin'."
[title and tag from e.e. cummings' I have seen her...]
I have seen her a stealthily frail
flower walking with its fellows in the death
of light,against whose enormous curve of flesh
exactly cubes of tiny fragrance try;
i have watched certain petals rapidly wish
in the corners of her youth;whom,fiercely shy
and gently brutal,the prettiest wrath
of blossoms dishevelling made a pale
fracas upon the accurate moon....
Across the important gardens her body
will come toward me with its hurting sexual smell
of lilies....beyond night's silken immense swoon
the moon is like a floating silver hell
a song of adolescent ivory.
~e.e. cummings
Warning: possible triggers for cutting/self-injury.
The smell of the greenhouse always reminded Marie of Storm. She had come up here once or twice to find her teacher and friend and the memory of the white-haired woman bending over her flowers lingered in Marie's mind still. "I wish you were here," she said into the emptiness. The plants were still green for the most part and Marie had no doubt that Mr Marko had made his way up here more than once. Someone other than herself had been through here to take away what had failed to thrive and tighten any dripping taps. She took the small pruning shears and wandered among the neglected growth, removing spindly, overgrown tendrils and dead leaves as she went. The task of gardening was familiar but it failed to soothe when every question that came to mind had no ear to fall on.
The Fencing Hall didn't seem all that inviting anymore, so Logan left and headed up to Marie's room. Maybe she'd met Manuel before and could provide some kind of explanation. Unfortunately, rather than finding Marie, he found a note on her door.
Marie took off her gloves and put them in her pocket before they got too grubby. She wished she'd taken the time to be up here more. Maybe she wouldn't feel quite so lost now but she'd been busy being young and Storm had always intimidated her a little, being so elegant and strong and self-sufficient. Something about her had always made Marie feel like she had a smudge on her nose.
"Jean did that too," she murmured to herself, plucking dead leaves from a faltering rose bush. -Always the little girl,- she thought. -The little sister in her ponytails trying to keep up. I never wanted to interfere. They didn't owe me anything.- And yet, the thought occurred to her now, maybe it had been mostly cowardice on her part. -I didn't want them to tell me I was too young to be their friend. And now I wish they were here because I feel too young for all of this.- The irony of it made her twitch and she slid the forefinger of her left hand down onto a thorn. She watched the blood bead wistfully, feeling the tug of an old habit.
'In the greenhouse.'
Logan shrugged and headed for the stairs again. The attic was nice. Quiet and calm and rarely had more than one or two people in it. He pushed the greenhouse door open and let it fall closed behind him, the smell of blood rushing to his head.
Marie put her finger in her mouth and with the other hand very carefully, deliberately, closed and locked the sharp, curved blades of the shears. They were stained green with plant juices and she would wipe them off when she put them away. Just not right now.
"Marie?" Logan called out, a thread of nervousness in his voice. He walked through the aisles of plants, heading for the smell of blood and power and /Marie/.
"Here." Disappointment warred with relief and Marie took a look at her finger. Just a nick. It probably wouldn't even scab over, just close as though it had never been. Her eyes fell to her wrist, to the unmarked skin there. There had been a whorl there before, centered over her pulse. Cutting the spiral had taken a long time. She tried to shake off the thoughts and lifted her eyes to see Logan making his way toward her.
"Y'okay?" Logan's tone wavered between curious and worried. He knelt beside her, looking for the wound he'd smelled.
"Fine." Marie held up her finger. "It's not the cursed roses, or I'd be asleep by now." Laughter threatened to bubble up but she knew it would have the edge of her need in it so she locked it behind a smile.
His eyes narrowed at the edge to her tone, but he smiled. "I'd kiss y'wake, don't worry." He took her hand in his, leather gloves protecting her from sucking him in, and examined the finger closely before pressing a kiss to it.
"I know." Her eyes were wide as she watched him, realizing that he could feel the minute tremors of her hand, that he had smelled her blood from across the room and that she couldn't hide from him if she couldn't fight what was tugging at her but he'd never know she was fighting it unless she spoke. She'd promised him she would.
"I think I'm a little in trouble," she said softly, keeping her eyes on him. No secrets. With her other hand she reached out unerringly and picked up the shears, holding them out to him handles first. "Do you mind putting those away for me?"
Logan's eyes widened as he realised the problem and he immediately took the shears from her and stood to put them in their proper place. Once they were taken care of, he came back to her side. "What can I do?" he asked simply.
Marie threw the trimmings she had collected in the compost and dusted off her hands while Logan put the shears away. "I don't know. I was... it's just everything that's happened and then I was thinking about home and..." She hugged herself and bit her lip as loathing washed over her so hard that she had to force her feet to stay on the floor. "I don't know," she said helplessly.
He tugged on her hair. "Tell me?" Everything that's happened, she'd said. He wasn't sure how much of everything was the problem and he needed to know before he could think of how to help. If he /could/ help.
"I just feel caught," she said quietly. "Like I don't belong anywhere. I'm not one of the students and I'm still hardly old enough to be on staff, I'm not qualified for anything and yet I'm lending books and advice to Pete and Jake and trying to keep Angelo from imploding, or worse, exploding, and getting Ali to watch Artie for me because he's been panicky in art class and Pete thinks it might be good if I kept an eye on Yana and Piotr wants to come to me for things instead of Scott or Charles and I was the one reassuring Moira about things the other day and..." She gestured around at the empty greenhouse helplessly, fighting tears. "I don't know what I'm doing but I'm faking it as fast as I can."
Logan filed away the information for later, then opened his arms, hoping she'd step in for a hug. "Stop tryin' so hard, hon. Y'don't hafta be anythin' more than /you/."
"I don't want to feel better," she said in a small voice. Her nails dug into her arms through the fabric of her shirt, soothing her a little, holding her back from him.
His arms dropped and he looked a little lost. "Whadya want, then?" he asked quietly.
"What's probably not good for me," she conceded quietly, eyes on the floor between them.
He nodded slowly. "I only asked that y'talk t'me first," he reminded. He'd never demanded that she not cut at all. He had no place asking her not to do something just because it wasn't good for her. "An' see if it helped. 's it helpin'?"
"I don't know." Marie ran her hands through her hair, frustrated. "Maybe it is. I won't know until it surfaces again. Right now I still want to peel my own skin off. I can /feel/ it." She met his eyes honestly. "I can feel the memory of last time and it's like being thirsty and having water just out of my reach."
Realisation hit Logan like a punch in the gut. He'd felt that way. He felt that way, in the background noise of his mind, all the time. But not about hurting himself. About killing. "Oh."
"It's there, somewhere all the time," she continued. She pulled her sleeves back and studied the pale inner surface of her arms. "I can feel it running just under my skin like a whisper and sometimes it gets so loud, it needs to be let out." She wasn't paying any attention to him now, lost in the sensations that plagued her. "Sometimes /they/ get loud too. Something in me says that if I cut deep enough, it'll all bleed out and I'll be clean again. And in the meantime, the pain keeps me in my own head. Sometimes I'm afraid they'll lock me out and I won't be able to be me anymore."
In so many ways, she sounded like he would, if he'd ever talk about what it felt like to kill. Or what it felt like to die. Maybe they were more similar than he'd thought. The idea made his stomach roll as he wondered if he'd done this to her. "'sat the only way you can separate y'self from th'...from us, in there?"
"Sometimes. It's hard... when I hate myself and I want to disappear, it's hard to hold on." Marie ran lilac-tinted nails down the inside of one wrist; even the light touch brought red lines up quickly on the thin, sheltered skin. "It helps. It focusses. It feels clean. It reminds me of how strong I am, that I'm here because I want to be. It feels like a pardon, when it hurts, like I could be forgiven because I'm that sorry for what I am. It's not just the cut, though, that's important." She closed her hands tightly to keep the temptation of her nails out of sight. "It's everything, it's the ritual, all the way to the fading scar."
The idea that she felt she /had/ to be sorry for what she was grated on him, made him feel raw and open. He didn't like that she hated herself, didn't like that she needed to punish herself to feel better. "Storm said, once, that Kurt's gotta scar for ev'ry sin."
Marie nodded, smiling a little. "I can respect that. I get it. I never said I was okay, you know?" She looked up at him through the wisps of white bangs veiling her eyes. "Just that I manage. It's not just that it hurts. It's not just that it scars. It's also that... that's /all/ I do. I can go to the edge and look over and see that I still love myself enough to say, 'No. I'm just going to make it pretty.' and then I come back."
Logan reached out, looking at her for permission to take her wrist in his hand. The leather of his gloves brushed against her skin.
Marie offered up the arm he was reaching for without hesitation.
He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and stared at her arm. Slowly, his free hand came up and he traced barely-remembered patterns on her skin with his fingertip. "They were beautiful," he admitted and slowly raised his eyes to hers. "But your skin's always beautiful."
Marie nodded, touching where he traced with her own finger. "We have kind of a love-hate relationship, it and I," she said pensively. "It's hard. It's hard not to, Logan. It hurts not to."
He nodded slowly. Every time he fought and didn't kill, it hurt. Not killing Betsy when he'd been so close, when it would have been so easy, had /burned/ in him for hours. "Whatever you need," he promised again, a slightly haunted look in his eyes. "If y'need me to be there so y'don't do it, I will be. If y'need me t'go so y'/can/ do it, jus' say."
"And if I ask you to stay?" Her words were little more than an exhalation.
"Then I'll be here," he answered without hesitation. "For as long as y'want me."
Marie reached out with her free hand to touch his cheek. "You... " She shook her head, at a loss for words. "Thank you." She stood on her toes and brushed a kiss across his mouth. "For everything."
He closed his eyes for the kiss and when he opened them again, he tugged on a lock of her hair. "Whatever y'need. I promised and I meant it." He dipped his head to kiss her cheek and whispered in her ear, "I love you. 's not changin'."
[title and tag from e.e. cummings' I have seen her...]
I have seen her a stealthily frail
flower walking with its fellows in the death
of light,against whose enormous curve of flesh
exactly cubes of tiny fragrance try;
i have watched certain petals rapidly wish
in the corners of her youth;whom,fiercely shy
and gently brutal,the prettiest wrath
of blossoms dishevelling made a pale
fracas upon the accurate moon....
Across the important gardens her body
will come toward me with its hurting sexual smell
of lilies....beyond night's silken immense swoon
the moon is like a floating silver hell
a song of adolescent ivory.
~e.e. cummings
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