TITLE: Rubble

AUTHOR: BlackDiamond

RATING: Heavy R with NC-17 aspects. Mature subject matter.

'SHIP: Scott/Jean/Logan

SERIES: Goes along with 'Trash' and 'Make Me Bad'. Guess who's POV
this is? *cheeky grin*

SUMMARY: What happens to the balance when one of them breaks?

WARNING: This isn't quite as bad as the last ones (though they
weren't as bad as I made them out to be, better safe than sorry), but
it's still not apporpriate for some readers. You are Warned, hence
the warning.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I read 'The November Dawn' by Bish of the Clone this
morning and it was one of the most amazing stories I've ever read.
Beautifully written and just great in every single way. I must thank
her so much for gettin' me off my fat ass to edit and post this.

This is also a sorta different style than the others, a different
tone that's closer to my original fiction than my fanfic.

FEEDBACK: Keeps me alive and kicking, or writing as the case may be.

ARCHIVING: Take it if you want it. The more the merrier. *G*

DISCLAIMER: Any resemblance to any already existing characters is
(probably) not accidental, but you can't sue me 'til I sell the movie
rights, so kiss my ass!! {a beat} Okay, okay, I'm just joking. They
all belong to Stan 'The Man' Lee, Marvel, Fox, the actors who played
them, blah blah blah . . .

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

Rubble

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

Standing in the rubble

of the perfection that never was

You realize you can't break the glass

but the rock always does

~Emily Hill

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

Something's wrong.

Frighteningly, dangerously, deliriously wrong.

The way you're getting naked, quick, like glass shattering. Like
you're shattering and expect me to pick up your pieces.

A month ago I would have died to protect you from anything, from
everything. A week ago I would have died to protect you from me and
my desperation. A day ago I would have died to save you from your own
self-destruction.

Now I just want to die, or at least die trying.

I'll pick up your pieces, but what makes either of us think I could
fix you? Put you back together in the right order, make you stronger
than before it all fell apart?

And you're pressing your whole naked body against mine, projecting
your eroding sould into my mind. We're chipping each other away chunk
by bleeding chunk, and yet our love, as misguided and painful and
sickening as it may be, is holding us together tighter than Krazy
Glue and book pages.

On the outside of the the bond we still exist wrapped perfectly
around each other.

It's the core that's rotting away and leaving me behind.

Is it hurting you as much as it hurts me? Can you hear the wordless
choir, so gently, so quietly mourning the death of us? The voices are
haunting and the song so familiar it aches.

You're fingers are now gracelessly ripping off my cloths. If I get
rough, ignore the descolored blossoms of doubt on your body, would
you still say my name?

Would you look into my eyes, as well as anyone ever can, look into
my screaming mind one last time before we both crash and burn in the
bonfire we've built?

The blaze had gotten too big for any of us to handle. Even if,
somehow, you do put it out (and it will have to be you, because I'm
not trying), will I be able to forgive you for starting it in the
first place?

The flames are threatening to consume all invilved now. And no
matter how scorched, how burnt I get before it overcomes the
firewall, you will always be mine, bound to me like no other.

He may have marked your body, branded you with bruises and bites
that bleed, I have possesiong of your soul.

Just as yo have always held mine.

I can't bring myself to think his name, to say his name, afraid the
quicksilver sound will drown me.

The choir has started again, recognizing the need to provide sound
for the tenderly cold attempt at love making which is taking place.

Despite the actions of our bodies, we're both so cold.

And with the suddeness of a banshee wail feeling floods my senses
and the numbness of acceptance disappears.

You havee betrayed me int he worst way, and I hate you for that. But
mostly I have myself for stil loving you.

Channelling that anger through my body and into yours seems to help
us both. Like you have been waiting for my reaction to your hot, hard
fucks with him.

And here it is.

Is it everything you hoped it would be? Am I angry enough for you?
Am I punishing enough for you, for your messed up idea that you
should be punished? Is this making the guilt that eats us both alive
all the worse?

As quickly as the anger arrives it burns itself out, returning me to
my uncaring state. And you fade away.

I'm looking at you but not really seeing you. Touching you but not
really feeling you. I think you're offended when I move off of you,
pull out of you. Or at least hurt, just a little. I don't think I can
get more alone that I am right now.

Do you feel hollow?

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~

You try to touch me, reaching out slowly only to pull away at the
last moment as if burned. Am I the falme to your moth?

I never used to be forbidden. I never used to be untouchable to you.

You'll fuck me on the floor of our room but you won't comfort me
when the enormity of what you've done to us sinks in.

'Scott', you say, you're voice hitching and flowing all at the same
time.

I can't stand the fact that that one statement, that one word, makes
me want to turn around and wrap you in my arms and make all the pain
go away.

But I can't, and I won't.

'Don't', I say.

I can feel you shudder though I can't see you.

Do you finally understand what you've accomplished with this? What
near-death couldn't do, what kidnappings and seperations and missions
couldn't do, what snikkers and amused looks couldn't do, you have
done with one word.

I stand, grabbing my jeans from where you threw them, ignoring the
subtle hint of your shampoo that still clings to my t-shirt, and walk
out the door while pulling it over my head.

You're sobs as I leave almost stop me. Almost.

~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~x~