Late Night

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Isaac. Trusted manservant and aide to the Lensherr family. He has heard and seen that which few are privy to, and never repeated any of it to outside ears. For almost twenty years, he has been a constant fixture to the household.

He will not make it to his twentieth anniversary in their employ.

His body will be found deposited unceremoniously at the kitchen steps the next morning, savaged as if by an enraged beast of unknown size and origin; the flesh ripped from its skeleton, the limbs almost severed by the sheer fury of the attack. Blood, in amounts that astound, clots atop the expensive marble, impossible to remove.

There are no clues, no prints, no witnesses. There never are.

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When he gets home, there is dinner on the table. Luiza has made sure to make something that keeps well when cold. Something that is still delicious once the heat has faded from it.

She has also made sure that the heat has not faded from something else. There is a blanket covering Marion who has, as usual, fallen asleep waiting for him to come home. She is curled upm her hands beneath the pillow beneath her head.

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He's late home. Always late. If Marion didn't know better, she'd say he slept at the office. The headlights of the old, rusted Studebaker (http://www.seriouswheels.com/1950-1959/1951-Studebaker-Commando-Green-FA.htm) pierce through the gap in the old upholstered curtains, then dim. A rattled thunk of a car door, and then the squeaking of the back door as he enters. He tosses a bag of laundry to the hamper, then shoulders the back door closed once more. He'll fix that, some day. Like he's been meaning to for the last ten years.

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There is a murmur from Marion on the couch. She rustles around a bit, beneath the blanket give to her by Luiza. Her eyes do not open, not yet. The noise of the back door is a familiar one and it does not wake her.

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Logan pauses at the small kitchen table, but as usual, he's got no appetite right now. As he moves into the living room, the small television set is emanating static; programming long since done for the night. He leans in the doorway briefly, watching Marion sleep.

The old sofa creaks under his added weight. A callused hand pushes her hair from her face.

[http://users.livejournal.com/_steelmagnolia_/]

That wakes her faster than anything else could.

The last thing she wants to do is to hurt someone. With her father it is less of a worry than it might be with Luiza. Her eyes focus on his face and the brief spate of fear washes away from her.

"Poppa."

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With a surprising softness for someone as grizzled as him: "Yer gonna get a crick in yer neck if ya sleep like that."

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"It wouldn't be the first time."

There is a small smile, the smile that she seems to hold inside just for him.

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His clothes are clean - relatively - but his familiar scent clings; a hodgepodge of cigar smoke, engine oil, sweat and the lingering whisp of alcohol. "Stayed up too late watchin' th' box again, huh."

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The smile deepens some as she sits up, or starts to push herself toward it. "You know I love my movies." Especially the romances. Even if that isn't actually why she stayed up.

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Anyone even thinking of dating his daughter usually takes one look at him and runs for the hills. They'd be wise to. The less savvy ones usually endure a 'talk' out back before making their excuses and vanishing.

He knows she's been waiting. "Ya'll get square eyes before yer thirty."

It's an exchange they've had night after night.

[http://users.livejournal.com/_steelmagnolia_/]

"That isn't as far off as it was the first time you said it." While some part of her despairs of never finding a gentleman to date her, another part revels in it.

It isn't as if she can touch anyone without harming them. It is better not to think about it. It doesn't stop her from wishing.

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How much of that mutant affliction is his fault? Might as well be entirely, as though his actions alone can be like the gloves she wears, a buffer between her and the world to stop her life from being drained by its horror; or more unbearably, for its horror to become part of her.

Not that she hasn't had the birds and the bees explained. She's in her early twenties, after all - but he wasn't exactly the one who explained it to her. He remembers shoving a few extra dollars at a protesting Luiza and mumbling about "needs the talk," before shambling out into the rain one spring morning when she was eleven.

He reaches into his trenchcoat's pocket, producing a brown paper-wrapped shape. "Talkin' o' which... "

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That was a very strange day. Luiza ended up explaining things well enough, though there will likely, some day, be some sort of confusion about the mechanics of everything. Luiza is many things but she is also distinctly Catholic and there are some interesting things conveyed due to that - sins and what not.

Marion looks at the paper-wrapped shape and then up at him. The confusion on her face is plain.

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Gift-giving isn't another of his many talents, either. He hands it to her. The wrapping is torn and plain, and not entirely well put together, but its contents become clear soon enough.

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The book in the wrapping paper makes her smile.

The Three Musketeers is one of her favorites. It is dashing and daring and full of amazing people with amazing friendships doing amazing things. She's always had to borrow a copy from the library before now.

"Poppa. Thank you." A brief pause, "You didn't have to."

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"It's just part o' my secret plan ta keep ya off th' streets and outta trouble." But it's said with a rough smile.

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A soft blush of color appears on the curve of her cheeks. "I..." She's a caged bird and she knows it and most of the time, she truly does not mind being inside. It is safer being inside than outside.

From time to time she does wish...

"Thank you."

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A soft grunt; his way of acknowledgement. "Did ya eat dinner?"

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"A little. I wasn't very hungry." Though she knows it isn't likely, knows it isn't a high possibility, sometimes when he's gone, she tries to figure out what she would do if he didn't come back. Those times are when the cage is terrifying.

She has no idea what she'd do without him.

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There's a small pause; then he gets up from the sofa and takes her hand to pull her up too. "C'mon. I'll split mine with ya."

He isn't sure what he'd do without her, either. It's not something he's willing to contemplate.

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Marion's gloved hand slips into his and she follows him toward the dinner table. She won't eat much of his food. She never does. It must be worrying how little she does eat but she doesn't seem to suffer for it. She has always been willowy of frame, though.

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The kitchen, like most of the house, is at least twenty, likely more, years out of date in its decor. The housekeeper's efforts are limited by their meagre budget. Somehow, they get by. Logan's sparse time here is, for him, too much of a reminder of the woman he married, long since gone. Essences of what used to be still linger in the bric-a-brac that litters the dusty shelving. Logan sheds his trenchcoat, tossing it over the back of a chair. His hat lands on the table.

They eat in relative but companiable silence. Conversation is another of his weak points.

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Sitting in her chair at the table, Marion has long grown used to the silence. When she was younger she would often fill up the silences with chatter, her hands flitting about like birds in accompanyment to the words falling from her lips. The older she's gotten, the more refined and subdued she has become.

His hat is taken from the table and hung up, as is the trenchcoat when she can manage to grab it from his chair.

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Around a mouthful of mashed potatoes, he breaks the silence. "You were lookin' at job ads this mornin'." It's not an accusation. Just an observation.

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"You don't need me at the office."

Reaching out, she smoothes back his hair some. "I need to be able to... interact with the world. On my own."

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The look he gives her says otherwise. "Not many places here that ain't owned by th' guy who killed yer mother, and th' Lensherrs ain't no better."

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"I know, Poppa." Marion clears her throat softly, "I was thinking... the library needs an assistant..." The way her hands are folded, her gaze directed toward the table surface, the line of shoulders all tell him that she's unhappy. She'd never speak of it to him.

"I won't interview there if you don't want me to."

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He lapses into silence again. Both families have donated signifiant monies to the libraries in the city, and the thought of Marion accepting their dirty money gnaws at his conscience; but he can see in her posture what she won't tell him in words. He knows she's right. The fork in his hand falters on the plate edge as he sets it down, and reaches out to turn her chin to face him again. He's not afraid of her touch, limited though it has to be. Not even after what happened with her as a teenager, when her mutant gene first began expressing itself.

"I'll be takin' ya there and Luiza'll be pickin' ya up, understand?" The subway's no place for her.

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Marion looks up at him, eyes wide.

Silence continues to hold her and the she realizes she should say something in reponse. Nodding quickly, she smiles, "Yes. I understand, Poppa."

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He pulls the hand back, slowly, just as he feels that familiar tingle that heralds her power starting to kick in. "Good girl."

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A soft gasp escapes her as there are impressions of shadows and violence and blood - just the begining of a memory. Marion blinks rapidly, trying to shake off the shivery sensation of her power. Those memories are taken from her by her father's presence in her head, replaced with a warm feeling of protection. While she has an idea of what her father does when he comes home late, she doesn't ask.

The part of him that is always with her subsides, sinking back into the darkness, leaving her feeling isolated. "I'm not leaving you."

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Dark eyes meet hers, holding her keen gaze. Once more, words unspoken linger. Then, the moment is broken as he gets to his feet to deposit his plate in the sink. His back is to her when he replies.

"Ya will." It's an inevitability, like everything else in his life.

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"Poppa..."

Right now, the concept is a terrifying one. Where would she go? What would she do?

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She will. She'll find someone, go someplace better than this. Isn't that what every parent wants for their children? He's made sure she'll be taken care of, even if he ends up at the bottom of the Hudson river.

The cutlery clinks softly in the stainless steel basin. "It's late. Got an early start if yer lookin' ta get that job."

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Her arms wrap around him from behind. Marion isn't a person given to physical displays of affection. She hasn't been, even since before her mutation made itself evident. The fact that she doesn't move, her face pressed against his back, speaks louder than she could in any other fashion.

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It's not a gesture that goes unrecognized. He stills. Then, she'll feel the warmth of his hands, so much larger than her own, as they come to rest upon hers.

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Marion is more than happy to stay there for some time.

She doesn't want to leave but she can't allow herself to be helpless.

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Their exchange will remain with him for the rest of the night; long after she's gone to bed.