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A/N: Ahh, what can I say...I was depressed when I wrote this.

Very quick Lo/Ro/Rem triangle.

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No More Second Chances

A week after the funeral Logan picked his way carefully down the hillside, hoping the crunched wildflowers beneath his boot heel would evoke her scent in his mind. He'd already started missing it, and craved it like a drug. Maybe that was why he'd been coming down to this dead place at dawn for four days...to capture her. He would march down the hill like a good soldier, sit in the bench a half-mile from her grave, and think. Sometimes cry. No one else needed to see him cry, though. They didn't need to know. Logan paused to light a cigar, enjoying how his cigar's flavor merged with the wildflower scent.

Before he'd taken his second puff, another figure plopped on his "thinking bench." His jaw hardened. Ain't life a bitch. 'Course he'd show up now. The boy's posture was stooped and broken--a far cry from his usual mischievous and cocksure air--and his stubbled, grim jaw trembled slightly from unreleased tension. Worse, the care he usually took with himself and his hair was shockingly absent. Disrespectful, even. As if the neatly tailored dark suit mocked the dead man wearing it.

Logan watched the younger man twirl a small bouquet of flowers in his hands. Loose pedals floated to the ground, surrounding his loafers in a small puddle. It wasn't quite six in the morning, but Remy's presence shouldn't have been a surprise. He always showed up when people least expected him to.

Remy glanced over his shoulder and saw Logan glaring down at him. He glanced at his feet as Logan began the slow trek down. "Wolverine," he grunted. His throat sounded rusty from too many waltzes with booze and cigarettes. Remy put the flowers on the bench and pulled out a silver flask from his jacket pocket. "You gonna ream me a new one, or what?"

Logan sat down heavily beside him while Remy put the flowers on the ground. His eyes flitted across the graveyard, taking in the groves of trees and wild flower gardens. He wondered what she would've thought of this place. If only...He cut off his words, not daring to travel the road in his mind, and frowned slightly.

"You're doin' fine on yer own."  He mimicked Remy's posture and placed his elbows on his knees. He resisted the temptation to release his claws. "You look like hell, Gumbo."

Remy laughed. It sounded like a sharp, bitter bark. "An' you look like a 100-year-ol' man. So? We both look like shit." He drank deeply from the flask but still offered some to Logan, who took it gratefully. He leaned back leadenly and whispered into the wind. "Never t'ought she'd be de first."

"None of us did." Logan winced and handed Remy back the flask. "But she wouldn't be happy seein' ya drownin' in self-pity."

"Ain't pity, homme. It's Jack Daniels." He snorted at his joke, but Logan wasn't laughing. He bristled slightly. "Well, she ain't here t' condemn me now, henh?"

"No. She ain't." Logan paused awhile and watched the gentle breeze caress the branches. Unconsciously, he wished that her touch moved the breezes, and it was her touch caressing the wind. Caressing him. He waited until Remy drained the flask, and watched as the Cajun flung it as far as he could. Remy's balance was off, but he smirked as the flask hit a tree with a loud pop.

"Dere. No more drinkin'."

Hallelujah. Feel better?"

Remy's smirk faded. "Not really." He got up unsteadily and leaned against the bench, using it to keep his balance. Using it to keep from staring at that grave. "I ain't been sober fo' five days, an' I ain't been more miserable."

"I know--smells like ya bathed in JD. Yer bender better not be the reason you missed her funeral."

He slowly shook his head and Logan thought he saw a shiver in his spine. "That's not it. I jus'...I...well, hell."

Logan swallowed. "That if you didn't go, she wouldn't really be dead."

Remy turned away and the breeze caught a lock of his hair. "Yeah."

"Fair enough. 'Ro would've called you a coward, though."

Remy's eyes burned. "I ain't a coward, Logan."

"Didn't say you were." Logan leaned back on the bench. If he'd only taken the time to say what he really felt, what he wanted. If only he'd made the move... "I'm just sayin' that 'Ro would've called you one."

His jaw worked dangerously. "Stormy'd understand. She always did."

"I ain't sayin' she wouldn't understand, either. She just...well, you know 'Ro. She knew how to paint poetic pictures t'make ya feel like shit."

Remy snorted and started giggling. "Dat she did. Gawd. Good'un, homme. Dat's Stormy. Dat's her all over."

Remy wouldn't stop laughing and the muscles in Logan's jaw knotted fiercely. "It ain't that funny. Ya better sober up real soon, Gumbo, 'cause yer startin' ta tick me off."

"Mebee so," Remy said, sighing. He bit back another giggle and plopped back into the bench. "But den, I'd be clear-headed, an' it's too damn early fo' dat." He shook his head and scooped some dirt from the ground. It glowed red slightly before returning to dust. After a long examination, Remy scraped the dirt from his hands and blew it into the wind. "Shit, Logan. Explain it t'me. I wanna understand dis. It didn't have t'be dis way. Tell me, why, henh? Why, even when we got de fucks dat killed her, dat it still feels so hollow." He let out a string of expletives before softly tapping his chest. "I miss 'er too much. So much I can't t'ink or breathe. My padnat. My padnat! It ain't fuckin' fair."

"Yeah."

"Wish I hadn't thrown my flask out. It's too early t' be dis serious."

"You don't need it."

Remy's face hardened into a cold smirk. "You'd be doin' de same t'ing, homme, if you could. You know I'm right. You'd be drownin' yo' sorrows 'til you couldn't see straight. You'd be countin' all dem missed opportunities, dose stolen moments, dose times she laughed out loud..." He swallowed and turned away. "Healin' factor's gotta be a bitch, sometime."

Logan kept silent--not because he was mad, but because he agreed with him. Her kisses haunted him. He always wanted 'Ro to make the first move, because he smelled her desire beneath that imperious mask. But she wasn't about to make the first move, because she respected him too much...and she was too much of a damned traditionalist to do it herself. So they played the game with each other. They tangoed around the idea, bantered with witty words and innuendo, pretended that the little openings they gave each other was just an example of the others' "kindness." Sometimes he sniffed after Jean to see if it'd spark something in 'Ro. Instead, it just made her mad. 'Ro hated games.

Remy was staring at him. "When did it hit y'homme?"

"What the hell're you talkin' about?" Logan lit another cigar and watched an early morning gardener trim some of the larger bushes. "You ain't makin' any damn sense, boozehound."

Remy stared at him with a drunken man's clarity. "Dat you love 'er, Logan."

"We were friends," he growled. "Best friends. Same as you and her."

"I see." Remy plucked a cigarette from the other side of his pocket and lit it with the tip of his finger. "She dead now, homme, an' I'm on de high side of drunk--mebee I won't even 'member what you'll say. C'mon. Fess up."

"You ain't drunk enough fer me t'make that kinda confession."

Remy smirked and turned from Logan's bitter glare. "You already did, homme."

They were silent for a while longer, not daring to say another word in case more of the truth tumbled from their lips.

"Damn," Remy finally sighed, "We both screwed."

"Yeah? So?" Logan snuffed his cigar and stood. He stared at his feet. "What else is new?"

"How Rogue gonna feel when I tell 'er I'm in love wit' a dead goddess?"

"Nothin'." He helped Remy rise, and the Cajun swayed a little too much. His last taste had been the one drink too many. Or maybe the whole truth of it all finally hit him. "You ain't gonna tell 'er."

"You won't tell 'er?"

"Nope."

He nodded and his hair fell into his eyes. He grabbed his flowers and began an uneven swagger down the hill, with Logan following quietly behind. "Can y'deal wit' de truth, Logan?" The Cajun said it softly, but Logan picked up every word. "Can y'live with the trut', dat y'didn't do a damn thing, even when y'had the chance? Dat it's too late, an' y'screwed it up so bad? Dat dere's no more second chances?"

Logan shut his eyes tight, and felt his eyes get hot. He could live with it. He lived with it everyday. But not today. Today he finally understood how much he really lost.

--Fin--