Title: The Waiting Game
Author: Anonymiss83/Renee
E-mail: Anonymiss83@y...

Series: Runs concurrently to "Not All On the Sunny Side".
Archive: WRFA, otherwise, ask and I'll say yes.
Rating: R
Category: L/R, L/wait-and-see, angst.
Author's Notes: Moving's got me down still. This is the result. I
apologize, really. Necessito Prozac!
Disclaimer: I own none of this. In fact, I own nothing in general, so
suing would only be entertaining for me. 'N Stuff.
Feedback: I need feedback like some people need nicotine. Is there a
way to wean myself off it? In the meantime, be nice and feed my
pathetic addiction. Wanna sequel? Lemme know.
Summary: Logan waits, with a little help. But a substitute is never
as good as the original.

She chucked a few kernels of popcorn at him playfully in the darkened theater, smiling at his low growl. A few entreaties could be heard behind them, requesting that he please shut up, as he hunched lower in the seat. He'd rather be out at a bar, or, more specifically, a bar fight. But Marie had mentioned to him that she'd like to see this movie, so here they were.

It was a trade-off, he supposed. Marie was getting a break from her homework, while he was busily avoiding reality. He loved-needed-to spend time with her, especially lately. She'd been busy. Then again, so had he.

Though 'busy' wasn't what he called it, what it really was. He'd thought about it a few times, when he still could rationalize that end of it. Turns out it happened ever two, maybe three weeks. Just once half a month, twice a month. Only when the cravings, that burning, roiling need, got too strong to handle.

The fighting had worked at first, he reflected as the theater darkened. He'd go out, pick a fight, and come back to the mansion in a slightly better mood. After awhile, it left something to be desired. Then it was women. Always brunette, always gloved. He didn't like for them to have brown eyes, though. It was just his boundary, the one he couldn't force himself to cross. He'd see HER in eyes like that, eyes like her own. Innocently concerned, asking what he was doing, just in the back of his mind. And then she'd come upon him.

It was intentional, he knew. She couldn't have just happened onto him in that dingy bar, made her proposition, and known what he'd wanted. She'd done her research, made some intelligent guesses, and gone from there. Both profitted from the setup in the end. Every two weeks, while he was waiting.

He'd always known what he was doing. He never could lie well to himself. But rationalizing got easier for him, he'd thanked the God he wasn't sure he believed in for that. It made the waiting possible.

But he wasn't wanting to think of all that just now, with her sitting a scant few inches from him. Seemed...sacriligious somehow. No, no, don't think. Not just now. Self loathing would come later, afterward. It always did. He just wanted to wait for now.

* * *

"What did ya think?" she asked playfully when they were walking back to the truck.

"'S okay," he replied noncommittally, knowing she'd see right though it. He wasn't disappointed. Not that she ever could instill that in him.

"You hated it, sugar. What's that you always tell me? Don't lie, it doesn't smell right on you."

He circled his arm about her waist. It was a small thing, a friendly gesture. He was still waiting. "Didn't mind, darlin'. Ain't seen ya around too much."

"Yeah, sorry. It's just that with graduation comin' up in another month, and Scott all over us with trainin', I haven't had much time. I'll be free again on Monday." She leaned closer, squeezing him back.

"Cyke's given ya trouble?" He relished her body's warmth, the scent that enveloped him. He breathed in, fixating on it.

"Not really. Well--just, um, pushin' us a little. He needs us combat-ready ASAP."

"Fuck 'im. Ya don't hafta do it at all. I know with that crazy bitch's-"

"Yeah, I know. But I--this is something I want. It means something. Carol's powers help, alot, but I'd be doin' this either way." She laughed, nudged him playfully. "But we all know we've got you to look out for us young'uns."

He grunted. He didn't want to see the others die, but he'd be looking out for her. At the expense of his own life, if necessary. He could do that now. For the other things, he had to wait.

* * *

He mused on how long he could do this, walking her to her door, seeing her off to sleep. How long his patience would hold out until he just begged to be allowed to come in with her. Oh, her room, he'd been in there before, often, but he was waiting for the time when it wouldn't end with a sweet hug and friendly kiss on his sideburns.

"G'night, sugar," she said softly, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him where it was safe. He squeezed back, and if he held on a moment too long, or lightly caressed her back, she didn't say anything. He needed those small things, almost meaningless to most people. Little touches, but so God-awful necessary. Sometimes he wondered if she knew.

"'Night, darlin'."

She closed the door and was gone.

* * *

It was tonight, it had to be. His patience and control were so shattered he was amazed that he managed to keep himself from just stumbling to her room and pleading for something, anything. She probably wouldn't have been able to understand him, anyway. He was close to becoming incoherent. Fuck, almost past three weeks. He thought he could go longer.

He'd picked up the phone and dialed, chain-smoking, trying to ignore how his hands shook. She'd answered, heard his voice, and suggested the usual. He was grateful she always suggested it first. It took some of the weight off his shoulders.

He slipped out in the early morning hours, distractedly watching the sun peak over the horizon.

* * *

She climbed out of the hotel bed and stretched while he watched the lithe muscles that weren't hers. He put on his jeans, leaving the zipper and button open. It was routine now. Meet, fuck, no talking, pay her, leave. The cycle would begin again. For now, anyway, he'd gotten his fix. Another two months. He could do it.

Except this time it varied just a little from the routine. She spoke.

"Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"

"Don't fuckin' use your voice if you still look like her," he snapped. He puffed on his cigar, trying to ignore the smells of sweat, sex, and someone who wasn't Marie. Wasn't easy.

She sighed and shifted to her scaly, blue form. "Better?"

"No."

"You'd rather it were in your own bed, with her."

"We've been through this. So shut the hell up."

"You should just tell her. Keep it a secret from the rest of the mansion if you have to. You're falling apart."

"This won't be goin' on for too much longer. What the fuck do you care?"

"I don't. Consider it the Surgeon General's warning. You know what I care about."

He leaned over for his wallet, keeping his senses attuned to her. He may be fucking her, but he sure as hell didn't trust her. It was instinctual anyway, the constant distrust. He only let the guarded exterior down with Marie. "There." He tossed the sizable bills onto the rumpled bedspread. "Take it and get out."

"Another two weeks?"

"I'll call ya when I need ya."

"I have other...pursuits, you know. I might not be available."

Aside from the Brotherhood, she was a mercenary of sorts, he knew. She went where the money was. Which was how they'd ended up in this cycle. She provided a badly needed service. Supply and demand. "I'll deal."

"Think you can? It's almost sad. The mighty Wolverine brought to his knees by someone who not only doesn't know, but is still a child."

"And I pay you ta fuck me. You got lotsa room ta talk."

"Pedophilia and prostitution may exist on the same planes, but one is above another, morally. Though I suppose she is an exception. She has...how many people in her head now?"

"Get the fuck out."

Mystique shrugged and did as he asked.

Two more months. Wasn't so bad. He could do it. He just had to wait.

-End-