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Rating: PG. 

Tag:  Do muses mourn when writers leave their world?

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My fingers tremble, unable to finish the last keystroke. I'm staring at the monitor, heart quickening, knowing this is "the end." No writer expects it, and no writer wants it to happen. But sometimes, we just know, and it saddens us. We know, you see. We know when it's time to move on.

*Poof*

"Sure ya wanna do this, darlin'?"

I smile a little. Those little muse things were supposed to happen to a select few, those totally immersed in the history and the legends from day one—or those who had steeped themselves in sub-reality. As I nibble my thumbnail, I begin to understand their Razor's Edge. This was a special occasion. He had to show up, at least, to say goodbye.

 "I have to," I sigh. "It's time. I love you two—you've both been great for me. But you know I couldn't have done this indefinitely."

He nods, understanding, and a small plume of smoke fills the corner of my room. I know it's imaginary, from my thoughts and dreams, but I can almost smell it. Almost taste it. It hurts to breathe it in. For a moment, I wonder if I'm breaking his heart.

"How's 'Ro taking it?" I ask softly.

He grunts, just like I expect him to, and sinks deeper into my couch. It can't be comfortable for him—I got it for less than $200 at a cheap furniture store. But he's not complaining. I'm just wondering how it can support his weight. Dear God, am I going mad? He's not really here, but it feels like he is…

"She doesn't like it," he says. "Ain't enough of you folks pairin' us together as it is. Because of that damn movie it's always me an' Rogue—" he makes a sour face. "Sorry. Marie. Or me an' Jubes. Or Kitty, if they go back far enough. Dammit, they're just kids. Who the hell d'they think I am?"

My lip quirks a little. "Everyone has a different interpretation of you, and it comes out in their work. You're just my interpretation of the character. Personally, I see you and 'Ro as perfect for each other. I think you complement each other, but others don't."

"Well, well, well," he growls. "Look who's playin' little Miss Psychologist. Make you feel any better to come out with that crap?"

"No," I admit.

He knows me too well. I can't lie to him, and it's not because of enhanced senses or healing factor. It's because he's been listening to my subconscious prattle on for too long, and he's tired of it. He's going to fight me on this one, and he's not a man who likes to lose. I smirk. I don't like to lose either.  

"At least I got a few people thinking about the possibility."

He shrugs and looks at me with those dark, careful eyes. Some say his eyes are hazel—not me. Hazel eyes don't glitter in the dark like chipped obsidian. Hazel eyes aren't killer's eyes. They aren't eyes that tell you to run for the hills. Not like these eyes.

"You think it's enough? They'll probably forget in a few months, and I know you got a few stories left in ya. You ain't finished half of 'em. You know how you hate to leave things half-finished. It'll eat'cha up inside."

"No joke," I mutter. We share a small chuckle. "But I'll survive. You know as well as I do that I have to do this. And there's others out there who'll write about the two of you—"

"Exclusively? Yeah, right." He grinds his cigar out on my carpet. Even though it's imaginary, I glare at him. "I'll clean it up," he growls. "Got yer attention though, didn't it?"

"You've always had my attention," I whisper. "You and Ororo both."

He smiles, carefully hiding his grin around his cigar. "I think we could've gone the distance. A few times I think Chris could've written it, if he'd had the guts. Or even that Hamas fellah. Now I mostly get Morrison's karate chick leftovers."

"C'mon, admit it, you like 'em, too."

He snorts. "I'm just lookin' over the menu. You wrote me different. Wrote a different side of me."

"I suppose I did." I glance at him. "Any regrets?"

"Nope. Just wish you'd keep on goin'."

"I know. I can't."

He's about to open his mouth to argue, when another figure materializes next to him. Her sound is almost silent, not quite like the *poof* sound of normal muses. It's the sound of rustling silk—the sound of someone whose rare appearances command attentions beyond the norm. I'm a little afraid. I didn't want to talk to her.

"Hello, child."

I almost smile. "I can't be your child. I'm older than you."

"True. But I will always call you 'child,' yes?"

"It's probably because you remind me of my mother."

"And of yourself," she adds. "But only when you pen me as 'ordinary,' correct?"

I wince. She's worse than Logan. She knows me a little better than he does, and her barbs are particularly painful. "Sometimes, but I think you're a strange amalgamation of the two of us."

She raises her chin defiantly. "Perhaps I'm neither of you. Perhaps I've grown beyond such affectations."

"Perhaps."

She glances at Logan and they share an intimate moment without saying any words. It amazes me how they balance one another—what was it, one said? Yin and yang? More like Beauty and the Beast, or that saying about how opposites attract. They are suited for each other, and it shouldn't surprise me. It's the way I wrote them.

"I will miss this man," Ororo suddenly sighs, running a finger down Logan's cheek. Her alto voice reminds me of her skin tone: Deep, smooth, and rich. Chocolaty. Logan's rough hands reach up and still her hands. He lightly kisses them.

But suddenly her piercing blue eyes stare right through me, and for a moment I wonder if I can stand her at full strength. "Why?"

"Pax can do it. And Libby. And Maj—"

"I know they can. Why are you abandoning us?"

I stare at the carpet. "You know why."

Her mouth curls in a small smile. "You fear voicing the real truth?"

"No one needs to know, and it's not up to you to tell them."

Logan's eyes snap up at my harsher tone, giving me a small glance of his darker nature. He doesn't growl out loud, though. "Don't blame 'Ro 'cause yer chicken shit."

I rub my forehead. "All right, fine. I'm a coward. But I'm still not opening my mouth. And no matter how hard you two argue with me, you know it's not going to happen. I've still got some power in that department."

Logan's lips curl ferally, but he's looking at Ororo like starving man staring at a three-course dinner. "There's the writer we all know and love, 'Ro. Think this is really her last story 'bout us?"

Ororo smiles at him. "It's her choice. She's right, of course. There are others who have paired us together, though not as many as I'd prefer." She raises her eyebrow delicately but doesn't look at me. A trace of humor crosses her lips. "We could always work on Halle and Hugh. I hear they both would like to do some more 'exploring' with their character's love lives."

Logan laughed out loud, showing off his large canines. "Woman, I like how you think. Ol' Bryan won't know what hit 'im."

They lean into each other for a delicate kiss, and their forms begin to fade from my view. A brief, quiet "goodbye" echoes in my head in stereophonic sound, and they are saying my real name. I didn't realize they knew it. They really did root around my subconscious, I think, grinning.

As soon as my grin appears, though, it fades. I've done it. I've finished. And now? Well. Now it's someone else's turn.

I reach over my laptop and turn it off with a small, sad, sigh. Goodbye, Logan. Goodbye, 'Ro. Happy Trails.

--R.G.