Special AN: I initially posted this fic on the WRFA, but I felt it really needed to be edited, and cut up into separate chapters, even though some of the chapters end up being very short. So, that's what I've done. It's all written, so it should all be up at the same time.

If you read this on WRFA, feel free to read it again if you'd like – I didn't change the story so much as amend some of the realizations and approaches, dialogue and such. I would say that substantial stuff has been amended, but the main story is the same, so reading it again may bore you.

A/N: This fic is a direct response to the Golgotha story arc in the X-Men (Second Series) comic books, specifically, events occurring in issue number 169. As I've said before, I have not read the comic books, and only stumbled upon the fact that these events happened, and was totally enthralled by them. I found a scan of the page in question, and I've used rather detailed summaries of issue 169 and some of the following issues for context. I do not follow specifically what happens in the issues following 169, but deviate from it. I also pretty much ignore everything else that went on in those issues.

If you have not heard about what happened in issue 169, it might behoove you to google it and find out. You could figure out what happened by reading this fic, but it might be confusing from the get-go if you aren't aware of it.


These Violent Delights
By Emania

"These violent delights have violent ends / and in their triumph die, like fire and powder,/ which, as they kiss, consume…"
- William Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet (Act II, sc. vi)

He found her out on the portico, lounging on the steps, legs stretched out before her and leaning back on her elbows, staring out into the moonlit lawn, a sweating glass of lemonade within easy distance of her gloved right hand. Her unruly auburn locks were picked up in a sloppy bun low on the back of her head and the t-shirt she was wearing under the long sleeved cardigan was riding up a little exposing an inch or so of smooth skin.

She glanced at him as he sat down on the steps a few spaces away from her, but she didn't speak and neither did he. For a few moments, the only sounds were the crickets in the lush vegetation surrounding the house, the ice tinkling as it slowly melted in her glass, and the striking of a match as he lit a cigar.

"Funny how just a few days can change the way we look at everything, isn't it?" she said, her voice soft – probably too soft for anyone but the Wolverine to hear her.

"Hn," he responded, aromatic smoke rising into the air above him. "The Cajun was particularly violent with his class today," he said, apparently changing the subject.

Marie huffed and shook her head. "Need I remind you about some of the things you thought were fun to put your students through in the Danger Room, Logan?" she asked, ready to accept his comment as just another of his snide remarks against Remy.

"Just wondering if he's using his sessions as a way to take out his frustrations," Logan said, rather than take the bait.

Marie sighed a little, but didn't immediately respond. She knew Logan well enough to know exactly why he was bringing this up.

"Wonderin'," Logan continued, pausing to puff on his cigar. "If you're ok."

"I'm fine," Marie replied immediately, sitting up enough to take a drink from her glass, absently wiping at the condensation.

"Hn," he replied, and she knew what he meant by that, too.

She'd had no intention of discussing this with him, unsure even of how she would broach the subject, but he'd brought it up, and she couldn't…

"I love him," she said, negating the decisive timbre of her voice by the slight shaking of her head.

He didn't look at her, for a while, he didn't even move. Then he leaned forward a little and flicked the ash off the end of his cigar. But he didn't bring it back to his lips.

She saw it all out of the corner of her eye, and the strange thing to her was how easily she recognized it all, each movement, even the way he held his jaw. She didn't have to be looking directly at him to know the look on his face would be carefully blank, but his eyes would show his annoyance. Because he was annoyed.

"I understand that he meant what he said," she spoke again, because she knew he wouldn't. "In my head, I get it," she paused and glanced at him. "I do," she insisted, but she wasn't completely sure whether she was trying to convince him or herself. And for a few moments, she was silent as she contemplated that. "But I can't help that I still love him," she said finally and her voice was only a little beaten. "I can't help but think that if it were true, if he really did mean everything he said, why would he still be trying with me? Why would he-?" she cut off and leaned back until her back was on the concrete and her eyes on the stars. In this position, she couldn't see him at all. She could still smell him. She sighed.

Eventually, after so much time had passed that she thought he never would, he spoke. "You love people with the part of you that don't care about right or wrong," he said, and his voice was gruff and gravelly and she couldn't read it at all. "It don't care about pride and it never checks in with your brain."

Still looking up at the sky full of stars, she spotted Orion and his dog. She remembered her grandmamma telling her she should never count the stars 'cause she'd get warts. "What do I do, Logan?" she asked after a while, her voice low.

He made a sound, something between a scoff and a grunt. "I'm not the person to ask that."

She exhaled. "Maybe he's just trying because he doesn't want to hurt me," she mused, her voice low enough if it were anyone else, she was sure they wouldn't have heard her. Logan didn't comment except for release a puff of smoke into the atmosphere. She scoffed a little as another possibility entered her consideration. "Maybe he just doesn't want to be the kind of guy'd leave someone because they can't be physical?" she pondered, still not looking at him. She sat up again, turning to look at him. "Logan?" she prodded.

He glanced at her, but looked away before she could read the expression in his eyes. "I'm not the person to ask that, either."

She was mad suddenly, and she wasn't exactly sure why. "Why not?" she asked, her tone crackling at the edges like live wire. "Don't you care at all about what happens?" He leveled his gaze on hers and for a moment, she almost faltered. "Why do I have to make the decisions?"

His expression remained perfectly neutral and his voice was even when he asked, "Are you saying you want me to take the decision out of your hands, Marie?"

She still felt it, though. The danger around the edges of his control. And she was so tempted. So very tempted. It scared her more than anything had in a very long time. She became frozen, staring into his eyes like a mouse looking at a snake, only she knew he'd never hurt her. Even then.

As if in response to her recognition, he stood in one fluid movement. "If you love him, go to him," he said, grinding the cigar on his boot heel. "Why am I even in the equation?"

And before she could answer, he was gone and she was left to watch his retreating figure with only the whiff of his cigar dissipating quickly in the breeze.


End Note re Title/quote: I realize this is the quote used in Westworld. I always have a tough time finding appropriate names for my stories and quotes to use, and it's just a thing for me that I HAVE to use one, so after spending several hours looking for the perfect quote, I narrowed it down to a few, including this one, and had pretty much decided on this one when I realized why the quote seemed familiar...I hope no one thought that I was trying to make a reference to Westworld by using it – I really wasn't. If anyone wants to suggest alternate titles/quotes to me, feel free. I always welcome them.