Of course it would happen like this, I think, swiping the key card through the reader. The lock doesn't buzz clear, though, and the little light winks red at me. I flip the card over and try it again, swearing under my breath. The people down the hall look at me strangely, so I swallow the next batch of profanity, flip the card again, and it finally glows green. I give the couple waiting for the elevator what I hope passes for a smile, and go in, locking the door behind me. I debate using the chain, but there's not really a point; he'll kick the damn thing open if he has to. Since the whole reason I'm here is to be as unobtrusive as possible, that's probably not the brightest move.

I turn slowly, studying the room. It's nice enough, I suppose. Big bed, a view of the golf course under a blanket of snow, Queen Anne-style furniture. There's just no escape, I think grimly as I head into the bathroom with my things. The bathroom is enormous, far bigger than my tiny one at the Institute. Any other time, I'd be delirious at the prospect - now, I'm just panicked. I toss my bag on the floor and start the water. There's a shower, too, but I don't trust my legs to hold me through what's to come.

The tub fills quickly, steaming hot, and I dump a container of bubble bath in, trying to keep my hands busy. I expected it to smell sickly and overpowering, a cheap perfume, but it turns out to be a light rosemary, easy on the sinuses. I unzip my boots and strip off the leather pants and black sweater, the silk camisole that has gotten me into this mess to begin with. Bra and underwear too, and I study myself in the mirror for a minute, wasting time I don't have.

I haven't gotten any taller since I came to Xavier's, but six years of training and fighting and saving the world have taken care of any baby fat I once possessed, any softness. Six years, and all that training, and my instinct is still flight over fight -- and into a bathroom, no less. It's laughable, really. I study my skin for a moment -- pale and smooth, always covered, always protected. I'll have fabulous skin when I'm eighty, I've always told myself. If I live that long. I rummage in the outside pocket of my bag, find a hair clip, and pin it up out of the way.

I snag my toiletry kit out of the bag and set it down on the wide ledge of the tub, then slide into the steaming water. The bubbles feel lacy on my skin, and the water gradually penetrates the cold that has taken over me. There's not much to do now but wait. I listen to the bubbles popping, stare at the droplets on the dark green tile. It's not going to be quiet for much longer, I know, and I close my eyes, trying to savor the last few minutes of calm before the sky falls.

Of course it never plays out in real life like it does in your head. When the door opens, I expect it to slam. I expect curses and shouts and a full-on attack. Instead, I hear the door shut again carefully and the deliberate click of the deadbolt, the clinking of the security chain, which, given the present circumstances seems pretty redundant. Then it strikes me that I'm looking at this from the wrong angle. Nobody's being locked out. I'm being locked in. It certainly puts a new spin on things, and suddenly I'm thinking I would have preferred open confrontation to this. I sink lower in the water.

---

I don't want to make a scene. That's the imperative here; the girl I'm supposed to recruit clearly isn't coming in to work tonight, and so I just want to leave without drawing undue attention to myself. She's not in any danger - it won't hurt to wait until tomorrow to give her the "Join Xavier's" speech. So when the drunken townie approaches, asking for a dance, I figure the easiest way out is just to get it over with.

Of course, I didn't figure on Logan's big brother instinct kicking in quite so fast, either. A menacing glance from the barstool when Townie approaches the table, sure. Even when he rubs at the skin between his knuckles as we step onto the dance floor, I think it's under control.

But when the dance ends, and Townie doesn't back off, I've got a variety of choices - I can use my mutation to drop him where he stands, I can take him out with combat skills six years in the making, or I can ease my way out of it like any normal girl.

It's a little depressing that I'm more skilled at the first two options than that last one.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Logan frown and turn just a little, so that it looks like he's watching hockey on the corner TV. Really, he's watching me.

Townie follows me back to the scarred wooden booth. "Don't even know your name," he says, moving in closer. I can smell the beer and peanuts on his breath, and I turn my head slightly, just in time to see Logan get up and make his way towards us. Shit. He's still got a bottle in his hand, because things would have to get pretty ugly for him to give up a beer, but this is quickly sliding into ugly territory.

"Doesn't seem right, not knowing what to call you," Townie persists, taking another step towards me.

"Marie," I answer quickly, a last-ditch attempt to end this fast and head off disaster. "Thanks for the dance," I mumble just as Logan approaches, a scowl etched on his stony face.

And the next part is like watching a glass tumble to the floor.

Logan steps in. "My turn," he growls, with an undercurrent of 'Don't fuck with me'.

Townie reaches for me, slurring, "Pretty name."

I jerk away, my sweater slipping off my shoulder, nothing underneath it but the sky-blue camisole.

Townie's hand clamps on my upper arm, bare fingers on pale skin.

Nothing happens.

The beats stretch out with Patsy crooning in the background, and Logan stares at Townie's hand wrapped around my arm. I stare at the floor and concentrate on remembering how to breathe. Townie stares at Logan, and I'm guessing, his own mortality, because when Logan cocks his head to the side and raises one eyebrow, Townie drops his hand.

"Sure, man," he says. "Whatever." And he backs away so fast I'm surprised he doesn't leave skid marks.

Logan stares at me for a minute longer, and then he is steering back towards the dance floor. I'm caught. There's nothing I can say, and he doesn't say anything either. He just slides the hand at my waist up under the camisole, and his fingertips press against my bare back, each so hot I think they're leaving burns. Logan's hands are smooth, even though for some reason I expect calluses. I should know better, having witnessed his mutation too many times to count. His thumb moves in a slow arc on my back, and I try not to shudder at how incredibly good it feels. He's testing me, I know, and I don't know what earns the passing grade in this situation, but it's pretty safe to say I'm failing anyway.

He yanks me closer. "Somethin' you forgot to mention?" he asks, and despite the acid in his voice, the feeling of his breath at my ear makes me break out in goosebumps. I try to shake free of him, but it's not easy -- he's bigger, and stronger, and also laced with adamantium. In the end, all my wriggling only has me pressed closer against him -- something I've often dreamed about, but usually under much more pleasurable circumstances.

"Can we just go?" I say in a low voice. The bar is noisy, but Logan will hear me just fine.

"Fifteen minutes," he growls, and drops his hands. I stumble for a second before grabbing my purse and heading for the door as quickly as I can go without breaking into a run. He'll wait fifteen minutes, he means, to see if anyone follows me out. And, of course, to make us look like strangers.

---

The doorknob jiggles, and then there's a pounding. "Open up."

"I'm in the tub," I say, trying to smooth out the panic in my voice. I splash a little for emphasis. See, Logan might be pissed off -- there's no might about it, actually, and he's miles beyond just pissed, but he won't come in here if I'm naked. There are lines Logan won't cross with me, and noticing that I have girl parts is one. Talking about Jean is the other, of course. I've tried doing the crossing for him, trust me, but to no avail.

"Open the goddamn door, Marie." I can hear his temper fraying. "I want to talk to you."

"No."

After a brief silence, there's the thunk of his boots against the wall as he tugs them off, the rustling sound of his multiple coats being thrown on a chair. I hear him snag a couple of beers from his supply in the Honda, bottles clinking together, and then just when I think I've gotten a reprieve while he knocks one back, I hear the peculiar singing sound of his claws through the deadbolt of the bathroom door. He looms in the doorway, arms crossed, bottles clenched in one hand.

"Well?" he growls.

"Well what?" I snap. "I'm naked here, Logan."

He glances at the mounds of bubbles in the bathtub, and for a moment, the corner of his mouth turns up. It's not a smile, not nearly so benign -- if I didn't know Logan better, I would say it was nearly predatory -- but before I can put a proper name to it, it is replaced by the fury I saw at the bar. "I don't care. How long, Marie?"

"I care," I say, trying to arrange the bubbles as unobtrusively as possible.

"How long?"

I bite my lip and push back a lock of hair that has already escaped the hasty knot. "Ten months." I concentrate on my knees, suddenly fascinated by bike-riding scars I got in another lifetime.

"Jesus fuck, Marie!" he roars, slamming the door so hard it bounces back out of the frame. "Ten…" he trails off, doing the math, figuring out how many times he's been home in that window. It's three, by the way, and I see that knowledge cross his face, see him swallow it down like bile and chase it with a healthy portion of the first beer. He slams the bottle down on the counter, and it takes an effort not to jump at the noise. "What the fuck is that about? Ten goddamn months?"

"I'm sorry," I say, sliding a little further under the water. "I didn't know how to tell you."

"You speak English," he snaps. "How fucking hard could it be?"

Harder than diamonds. Harder than the adamantium in his bones. Harder than heartbreak, really, the very thing I was trying to avoid when I held this back, clutched to my chest like a child with a treasure. It's never been a secret that I wanted Logan - at 16, I was too naïve to realize how clearly it showed on my face every time he roared up the drive, and now, six years later, I'm just a lousy liar. Bobby knew, and hoped it would change, and when it didn't, he was sweet enough not to hate me for it. Remy knew, and didn't care, because he had secrets of his own to worry about.

I can't make an excuse now, not with Logan's eyes, cold and dark, holding mine. And I can't tell him the truth, because I'm not that strong. "I'm sorry," I say again. "Is it really that big of a deal?"

His eyes narrow and he walks toward me, slow and deliberate. It's not menacing, but it is unnerving. I can feel my pulse kicking up, and I suspect Logan senses it too. I reflexively grab the side of the tub, trying to steady myself. Logan crouches down and runs one finger along my arm, feather-light, and I jerk back, tears filling my eyes.

He rocks back on his heels and studies me as if I'm some particularly novel sort of engine. "Looks like it is," he says coolly.

I freeze, mortified.

"The professor knows," he says, more statement than question.

I nod and brush at my eyes.

"Who else? The Cajun?"

I shake my head. "It was after he left." After you left, too, I think, but don't say. For most of the time that Remy and I had been together, Logan had been scarce around the Institute. And after Remy's past had sashayed across the grounds of the mansion, come to claim him, Logan's visits became shorter and more infrequent. He would appear in the kitchen one morning, spend a couple of days pointing out all the flaws in Scott's training methods, go on a mission or two, and then, just when I was used to him again, he would disappear. There was always a note, of course, scrawled on whatever piece of paper was handy on my desk. Back later. Stay out of trouble. L. I had kept every single note, but it didn't matter how long I looked at them, how many times - the words never transformed into the ones I wanted.

"Who?" he demands.

I close my eyes for a moment, reluctant to say it.

"Who else? Christ, kid! Do I have to repeat every damn question I ask you? Who the hell else knows? The whole goddamn mansion?" He stands and begins to prowl the room.

I shake my head minutely. "Just Scott," I whisper, watching him.

You'd have to know Logan pretty well to see it, but he flinches, breaks his stride for only a moment. Since I know Logan better than anyone at the mansion, even without the man's ghost in my head, I know that's the Logan-equivalent of a full-body blow. You have to understand - Scott and Logan don't hate each other, though they like people to think they do. Since Alkali Lake, and everything that followed with the Phoenix, they've developed a kind of grudging respect. But even so, to tell Scott instead of Logan - that's almost a worse betrayal than not telling Logan at all.

I'm not supposed to know about the conversation Jean and Logan had at the camp, when we were preparing to go into Alkali Lake, but I do. Eavesdropping, my mama always said, was a nasty habit; she was right. The good guy sticks around, Jean said, and I could see from my hiding place in the trees how desperately Logan wanted to be that guy. But in the end, Jean chose Scott, and from where Logan's standing now, I did, too.

"Scooter knew," he says incredulously. "He knew?" Something about the way he says it catches at the edge of my mind, but all I can think of right now is how to repair all the damage I've done.

"He's team leader," I say, and I can't keep the pleading note from my voice. "He needed to know."

"So did I."

The words slip out before I can think to stop them. "Why? It's not like it's gonna change your mind, now is it?" I can taste the bitterness of the words, sharp and ashen on my tongue. I've just told Logan my last secret, albeit indirectly, and now I want nothing more than to crawl away and die. The fact that I can control my skin, and the fact that Scott knew before Logan, were bound to come out at some point. But the third secret, the one I had intended to keep until my dying day, is that I am a coward.

I know that Logan doesn't want me. I've known it since I saw how he looked at me, and how he looked at Jean, the first time he returned to the mansion. I got easy warmth and an affectionate hug. Jean got crackling tension and innuendo and looks so blistering that it's a wonder their clothes didn't burn off right there in the foyer. There have been many, many reasons since then. But the one I've always clung to, the most fundamental excuse for why Logan doesn't want me, is the impossibility of a relationship with my poisonous skin between us. Lying bought me a little more time to tell myself it was my mutation keeping him from declaring his love. But time is up now, apparently, and this is the core of it all: Logan doesn't want me the way I want him, and I have been a coward, running from that truth.

He shakes his head, but I can't tell if it's resignation, or disgust, or just a flat-out no. Draining the beer and tossing the empty into the wastebasket, his mouth does that odd quirk again. "Doesn't change a goddamn thing."

He stares at me again for a long time, his expression unreadable. I can feel a flush spread over my skin, a liquid pull in my stomach, more ominous than butterflies. Logan doesn't look at me like this. He looks at other women like this, but not me. Not Marie. Marie gets pats on the head and glances that slide to nearby objects, awkward silences and hasty retreats.

Logan breathes in, preparing to speak, and I know what happens next: the talk I've been trying to avoid for ten months, where he gently, but firmly, puts me back in my place. I know it's coming, but I still try to put it off. Like I said: coward.

"Are we done yet?" I ask. I may be about to drown in that look, in its intensity, but that's just unseemly. A girl needs her pride, and I grab a can of shaving gel from the toiletry kit, feigning nonchalance. "Go away, Logan."

He shakes his head, this time a definite no. "We're not done."

I nearly drop the razor. There is something simultaneously rough and intimate in his voice, and I don't know which part to focus on. Logan, however, seems to be focusing on my breasts, which makes sense when I realize how quickly the bubbles are dissipating.

Nudging the hot-water handle with my toe, I sink a little lower in the water, waiting for the new crop of froth to obscure my body from further view. "Suit yourself," I shoot back, raising one leg above the water and lathering it.

"I will." His tone is insolent, and when I glance at him, he doesn't look away.

Carefully, with more attention than I've given this since I was thirteen, I draw the razor along the line of my calf. "Whatever." Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching me, can see his jaw tighten. He's annoyed, and nothing more, I remind myself.

"How'd you do it?" he asks after a while, eyes never leaving the razor as it moves over my thigh.

With an effort, I shrug, as if this is typical small-talk. Switching legs, I reply, "Lots of things. Meditation, visualization. Practice." That's putting it mildly, of course, but I'm not up for a conversation about the particulars right now.

"That must've been a kick. Scottie-boy volunteer?"

"Mmn-hmn." I turn the water off and concentrate on shaving my knee.

"What a Boy Scout," he mutters, and takes another drink.

"He was sweet to do it," I say sharply.

"Sweet? You got a crush on the fearless leader now, darlin'?" His voice is mocking, but the sneer on his face slips just a little, as if he's uncertain of something.

My voice is harsher than I intend. "Sure, Logan. I thought I'd extend my excellent track record with the men who love Jean Grey. That seemed like the sensible thing to do." And there goes any shred of dignity I had hoped to maintain tonight.

The sneer vanishes completely now, and Logan's face is grave. "I wasn't in love with Jeannie."

"Whatever." I wave a hand dismissively. "It's not my business anyway, right? I'm just saying that I don't have a thing for Scott. That's it."

"That's not it. You think this is all about Jean?"

"This," I say, "isn't anything at all." And I'm going to keep telling myself that until I believe it.

"Really?" He cocks his head to one side and smiles almost pleasantly. "Why'd you cry before?"

The razor in my hand slips, nicking me. "Dammit!"

In an instant, he's moved to the side of the tub, bare fingers wrapped around my ankle. "You okay?" He inspects the cut carefully. "Does it hurt?"

"Stings a little," I choke out. I can't even feel it now, actually. All I can feel now is his hand on my shin, gently rubbing. "It's nothing, Logan. It's fine."

He presses the tip of his finger against the bleeding and watches me again. There's an intensity, a sharpness in his eyes that suddenly makes me feel like prey. Having seen Logan hunt before, my earlier nervousness returns full-force.

"Let me," he says, tugging the razor from my hand.

"I think I can shave my own legs," I point out irritably.

He slides his hand up my calf, fingers warm and strong. "Not doing great so far," he says, the barest hint of laughter in his voice. "Let me," he says again. "Or don't you trust me?"

"Logan…" Of course I trust him with my life. He's saved it more times than I've deserved, certainly. I have trusted him since the bar in Laughlin City, since I stowed away in the back of the truck. But what he's asking now, I can't do. I can't treat Logan touching me as casual, and I can't be this close to him only to be shut down again. It will break me in two. "Don't."

"Why did you cry, Marie?" He does me the courtesy of concentrating on my leg, so I don't have to see his face when I answer. The razor glides over my shin, and it makes sense - a man with knives in his hands is pretty much guaranteed to give a good shave.


"I was surprised," I say weakly.

"You saw it coming," he counters. He sets the razor aside and starts to rinse me off, cupping water in his hands and sluicing it over my leg. The rivulets of water trickle back along my thigh. Logan traces the path idly, and I tense up. He stops, but his hand stays just above my knee.

"I just..." I close my eyes, can feel the tears pricking behind the lids. "I'm not used to it," I say.

"You should get used to it. Damn shame to waste all that practice."

"Don't," I say again, voice cracking. "Just stop it, Logan. You've made your point."

"What point is that?" he says curiously.

"I should have trusted you. I should have told you."

"Why didn't you? Truth this time, Marie."

I open my eyes, steel myself. I can't lie. I can't run. It's done, now, and there is nothing left for me to do but to come clean. "When we realized it might be possible, that I could actually get it under control," I begin, "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to track you down wherever you were, and tell you. I thought you'd be proud. I thought it might make a difference, you know?"

"You thought I'd change my mind."

I nod, unable to look away from his bare hand on my bare leg. "Do you remember the first time you came home after Remy left?"

"Yeah." He blinks, remembering. "You had it under control? Even then?"

"I was close. I was going to say something, but you kept avoiding me." Logan's visits to the mansion always followed a particular pattern - he unpacked while I sat on the bed and grilled him about his travels, and he grilled me about what I had been up to, and then he raided the fridge, ran a few sims in the Danger Room. After he had beaten the crap out of Scott's latest training program, he'd stick his head in my room and we'd watch a movie, share a beer.

That visit, though, he was uneasy and quiet as he put away his things, going even more silent when I mentioned offhandedly that Remy was gone. He never popped into my room, and when I wandered over to the room he used for his ever-more-infrequent visits, he just grunted that he was exhausted and he'd find me later. Which he didn't.

After three days of Logan telling me he was too tired, or too busy, or too whatever, I took matters into my own hands and tracked him. He would have been proud, really. I learned it from him. There was also the little matter of Kitty hacking the phone in Scott's office so that I could eavesdrop. By the time Kitty had reconfigured the phone server to let me listen in, I only got the tail end of the conversation. But it was enough.

"Leaving won't solve anything, Wolverine. You should just tell her."

"She's not ready to hear it."

"And you're the judge of what Rogue is ready to hear? You really think you know her that well?"

"Better than you," Logan growled. "She's still hurting over Gambit. Always knew he was trouble."

"She's dealt pretty well with it, actually. You should talk to her. You'd be surprised."

"I don't want to talk to her, Scooter." His voice sounded weary all of a sudden. "Not now. She needs time."

"Right. Rogue needs time." Scott's voice dripped with sarcasm. "What she needs is for you to treat her like the adult that she is."

I could hear Logan's boots drop to the floor as he stood up. "That's what I'm doing. I've got a communicator. Don't call me unless it's an emergency."

"Eavesdropping's a nasty habit," he grumbles when I finish my confession.

My mouth twists into something I hope looks like a smile. "So I've heard."

"Yeah, well, you didn't hear the whole conversation."

"Logan, you said you didn't want to talk to me. Not a lotta room for misunderstanding."

He scrubs a hand over his face. "Do you know what he wanted me to tell you?"

I feel nauseous, but I say it anyway. "To give it up. To quit thinkin' about…this." I wave a hand back and forth between us.

He takes my hand and studies it, traces the lines of my palm. "That wasn't it."

"What, then?"

He doesn't reply, but he brushes his fingertips along my arm again. This time, I will myself to stay still. "Tell me why you lied."

"I didn't lie," I say quickly. "I just didn't tell you."

"Marie."

"What would you have said, Logan?" I round on him, sending wavelets splashing through the tub. As an afterthought, I cross my arms over my breasts. " 'Hey, Logan, I can touch! Wanna do somethin' about it?' 'No thanks, kid.' Excuse me for not wanting to hear that again."

"You skin doesn't matter to me," he says quietly. "Your skin was never the problem."

Of course it wasn't. I was.

I've been waiting for him to say it, but it hurts more than I had anticipated. It feels like he's kicked me in the stomach, and I fight the urge to curl up into a ball. "Get out," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut again. "Just go."

"Marie. Look at me."

I start to shake, can't seem to stop it. "No. Get out."

I feel his hands curve along my face. He brushes back a loose strand, traces his fingertips along my cheekbone. "Look at me."

I try to pull away, but he doesn't budge, and his thumb rubs gently over my lips. It feels slick from the water, and pride be damned, I don't want him to stop. He does stop, though, and just as I'm about to whimper like the lovesick puppy I've proven myself to be, his mouth comes down on mine, and one hand slips to the back of my neck, pulling me toward him.

His mouth is so gentle. I never expected that. I never expected any of this, least of all the warmth of his lips and the silkiness of them on mine. I reach out blindly and grab a fistful of his shirt as he deepens the kiss, coaxing my mouth open and letting me taste him. He tastes like beer and tobacco and something else - something exquisitely Logan, and I think that I might crave that taste for the rest of my life. I make a noise, somewhere in the back of my throat, and he nips my lower lip, breaking the kiss.

He makes a noise of irritation. "Will you open your goddamn eyes?"

I do, reluctantly. He studies me for a minute, and I can tell he's weighing his words. "Your skin," he says slowly, emphasizing each word, "was never the problem."

"What, then?"

"I've wanted you for a long time, Marie."

I blink. He wants me? When the hell did that happen? And how does that constitute a problem? "I've wanted you longer," I say unsteadily.

"Yeah." He shrugs. "You were a kid. I may not be the good guy, Marie, but I don't take advantage of skinny kids I find on the side of the road."

I want to argue any number of points in that statement - he is the good guy, in my book, and I wasn't that skinny, and eight months on the road stripped me of any youth I might have had long before I stumbled across that bar in Laughlin City, and he did not find me on the side of the road - I stowed away, thank you very much, which I like to think shows a certain degree of spine - but I don't argue any of them, because I would very much like to hear more about the part where Logan wants me.

He drifts a finger over my collarbone, and I nearly gasp. "You were a kid," he repeats firmly, like he knows I want to argue it, "and then, you were busy with your boyfriend, and I wasn't gonna interfere."

I blush a little, but I manage to keep my mouth shut. Now his finger is traveling over the curve of my breast, and I do gasp, just a teeny bit.

"After Jeannie and the Phoenix…" he trails off for a minute. "You didn't need me. And watching you with the Cajun was harder than I thought, and I didn't know why.

"I was doing a job for Xavier when I came back, bringing in some hard drives I recovered from a lab. He wanted Kitty to take a look at them. I didn't want to come back, Marie. I wanted you, and I was working on how to put that away."

"Why would you-"

He cuts me off. "You were happy. I wasn't going to fuck with that. Once I saw you, though…" He shrugs again, goes back to toying with my hair. "It was harder than I thought."

"But Remy was gone. I told you that!" I don't understand. He wasn't coming home because he didn't want to see me with another guy, and once the other guy was out of the picture, his reaction was to take off again?

"I just wanted to give you a little time. I wanted to figure out how to say it."

I think back to that day, listening to him tell Scott he didn't want to talk to me, the look of abject pity on Kitty and Jubilee's faces, the cold that had started in my stomach and spread to my fingertips and hasn't left since. And suddenly, that cold is gone, and instead, anger is coursing through me like a brushfire. "You speak English, Logan," I snipe, mimicking his earlier words. "How fucking hard could it be?"

The anger flares across his face, and then he reins it in and nods tiredly. "I'm telling you now."

"So we're even."

He snorts. "Not even close. I was going to tell you," he says. "You were just gonna lie until, when, exactly? Were you ever gonna tell me? Or were you planning on avoiding me forever?"

"Seemed like a good plan at the time," I mutter.

---

I toss my suitcase in the back of the Honda. The professor and Storm have taken the jet to Scotland, to visit a colleague, and so my choices of transportation on this mission are pretty much limited to ground - I'll pass on the train station, thank you very much, and taking a commercial flight leaves too many paper trails, even with Kitty covering tracks. Besides - a reprieve from the mansion's close quarters would be nice right about now.

Logan came home two hours ago, roaring up the lane and heading straight for Scott's office. He hasn't come out since, that I can tell, and I haven't gone looking for him. Jubes and I are scheduled to leave in fifteen minutes, and I have threatened her with all the bodily harm I can inflict if she's late.

"Chill out, chica," she said, patting my arm. "Worse comes to worst, I'll create a distraction and you peel out." She waggled her fingers at me and went to finish packing.

Two days easy driving, two days tops in Iowa, two days back. And if six days isn't long enough for Logan to get gone, Kitty'll call, and we'll take the scenic route back. I slide behind the wheel and put in a Gillian Welch CD. Jubes'll complain, but she who drives the car chooses the music. She'll get her turn somewhere in Ohio, is my guess. I lean my head back and close my eyes, trying to ignore the way my nerves are dancing.

The hatchback opens and something gets tossed in with a thud. "Thank God," I say. "Can we get out of here?"

My door opens. "Sure thing, baby. But I'm driving."

I sit up so fast my knee bangs against the steering column. "Logan!"

"Hey, darlin'." He smiles and jerks a thumb. "I'm driving."

"Jubes and I have a mission," I say. "She'll be down in a minute." And, I think, she'd better be ready to create that distraction, Scott's spotless garage be damned. Nothing has been right between Logan and me since I overheard his conversation with Scott. I'm nervous and awkward around him, and he won't meet my eyes, though I can feel him watching me.

"Nah. Change of plans."

I narrow my eyes at him. "What do you mean?"

"Fearless leader thought that I should go instead."

"He did not." Scott wouldn't do that to me.

Logan shrugs. "He did. That a problem?" There's a note of challenge in his voice - can I put aside whatever has gone wrong with us and still do my job?

Six years ago, no. Today? You bet your ass I can. "Not at all."

"Good," he says, draping an arm along the door. "Don't know what the hell he was thinking, anyway, sending the two of you out by yourselves."

"He was probably thinking we're adults," I bristle. "I don't know what the hell he's thinking now. I don't need a babysitter, Logan."

He studies me, an odd smile ghosting his face. "Believe me," he says. "I know." Then he reaches into the car and tugs at my jacket sleeve. "Out, kid."

I snatch my arm back and snap my seatbelt on. "Bite me."

He grins widely, but his eyes are shadowed when he says, "Don't say things you don't mean, Marie." Still, he walks around the car and gets in without further protest. I'll take it as a victory.

---

Logan chuckles, and I glare at him. "Walked in the door, told Scott I was tired of waiting."

"Waiting for?"

"For you. For the right time. Told him I wanted time alone with you, and he said that was up to you."

I am staring at him open-mouthed like a fish. "He knew? That you…" I trail off, unable to say the words.

He nods. "He let me take Jubilee's place. He said he figured we had a lot to say to each other."

"He knew." I remember Logan saying that earlier, in the same bewildered tone. "But he didn't tell you about my skin."

Logan looks rueful. "Guess that was the part you had to say to me."

I huff out a breath, realization hitting me like the proverbial ton of bricks. "The reservations. He did it on purpose."

"Probably thought he was being smart."

"I'm gonna kill him."

---

As soon as it's clear that our target isn't going to show, I head to the bathroom and call the Institute, the direct line to the ops room. Kitty's on duty, which is handy.

"She's not here," I say. "We're gonna be another night. Can you book us something?"

"Sure." I hear Kitty's fingers flying over the keys. "Everything's packed, Rogue. It looks like there's some sort of pork chop festival in town and everything's booked."

"A pork chop festival? Are you kidding me?"

"Unfortunately, no. Let me see what I can do, though." A moment later, she sighs. "Well, that's just terrible."

"What?"

"It seems that the Eagle Springs Resort has lost Mr. and Mrs. Gustafson's reservations."

I try not to snicker. "That is too bad."

"Technology's a bitch," Kitty says cheerfully. "So, you're set. I'm texting the reservation info now."

"Great. Thanks, Kit." Then I realize we've only solved part of the problem. "Got something for Logan?"

"Um…hold on."

I cock my head to the side to get a better view of the graffiti scratched into the wall and wait.

A moment later, Scott comes on the line. "Sorry, Rogue. You're going to have to share."

"That's not funny," I say sharply.

"It's not a joke," he replies. "It's not a big place, Rogue. They might lose one reservation, but two? It looks suspicious."

"Scott, please. I can't. He can stay somewhere else."

He sighs. "It'll be fine," he says, voice lowering. "You should have a little faith in him. "In yourself."

I bristle at the gentle reproach in his voice. "Sorry, sugar. I'm fresh out."

"You two need to talk."

"Scott, I've been stuck in a car with the man for two days, no thanks to you. We've had plenty of time to talk. Now, are you gonna get me another room, or not?"

He's silent for a minute. "No. Talk to him. Get it sorted out."

"There's nothing to sort out!"

He sighs again, and he sounds almost regretful. "Good luck on the mission, Rogue. Call us when you've made contact." Then the connection is broken, and I stand in the parking lot, gaping at the glowing green display of the phone.

---

"He set me up," Outrage, strangely, is slow in surfacing.

"Set us up," Logan corrects me, and kisses me so tenderly I think my heart will burst. "Worked out okay, didn't it?" He flashes me a cocky grin and trails his hand up my thigh.

I close my eyes briefly, still taking it all in. "You were really going to tell me?"

His hand moves along my thigh, and suddenly it's hard to breathe. "I was tired of waiting," he says, sliding his hand between my legs. "I want you, Marie. I want this. Don't you?"

I'm sure there are words to answer Logan's question, but I don't know what they are. I slip a little lower in the water and his fingers press harder against me. I can't stop myself from pressing back.

"You have to ask?"

He laughs and pulls his hand away. "Logan," I can barely keep from whining.

"Stand up." He gets to his feet and holds out a hand. "C'mon."

I hesitate, and his face gentles. He reaches down and takes my hands in his, pulling me up to meet him. All at once, I feel shy - no one, not even Remy, has seen me like this, and I know Logan's seen scores of women. Suddenly, the difference in our experience is intimidating.

"You're beautiful, baby," he says, as if he can sense my trepidation. His eyes rove over me, and I swear I can feel his gaze sweeping along my body. No one's ever looked at me like this, and it's terrifying and exhilarating and erotic all at the same time. I stand dripping on the bathmat as his hands follow his eyes, slicking the bubbles away.

I'm still nervous, even though my skin feels as though it sparkles wherever he touches me. "Can I have a towel?"

"No." Something in his eyes is changing right in front of me, the wonderment eclipsed by something more feral, and he shucks off his shirt. It's rude to stare, I know, but technically, he started it, and so I watch the play of his muscles working under his skin. Before I can think of a wisecrack, something to lighten the air, which is humid and heavy after my scalding bath, he yanks me to him and kisses me.

He was gentle before, but this time there's nothing kind in the way his mouth has closed on mine, desperate and hungry. I twine my arms around his neck, thread my fingers through his hair. It is all lips and tongues and teeth, and I am flush against him, my naked body against his bare chest and heavy jeans. The contrast is startling, but not bad. I don't think anything could be bad, right now. His hands trail over my back, sliding over my hips and pulling me closer.

"Please," I manage to whisper. I'm not sure what I'm asking for, but instantly, his grip loosens. He's worried he's rushing me, I know, but it's actually the opposite. I take advantage of the extra room to fumble with his belt buckle, which is ice cold and biting into my skin.

He puts one hand over mine, stopping me. "No."

"Why?" I nearly stomp my feet. "You said you wanted this!"

"Slower," he growls, backing me up against the wall. His palm brushes over my breast, and then he ducks his head, flickers his tongue over the nipple. I think my knees might give out, and he presses me harder against the wall.

"Take this thing off," I gasp, reaching for the belt buckle. I can feel the length of his erection through the denim, and I rub my hand over his jeans, triumphant when he groans against me. He tugs the whole belt off, dropping it on the tile floor with a clatter and then I am reaching for his jeans, yanking open the button fly.

"Jesus, Marie," he breathes, and I can't help but smile at the relief in his voice. I push at the denim. I like the feel of the material against my skin, mind you, and I'm totally fine with the way Logan's hips are grinding against mine, pushing me higher against the wall. But I'm greedy now, and I want Logan naked.

Logan. Naked. I would laugh, but he's kissing me again, tangling his fingers in my hair and pulling my head back. He bites my neck, just above the pulse.

"You're gonna leave a mark," I manage, and he grins.

"Good." And then, oh God, then, his hand slides lower and lower, his mouth still nipping its way along the line of my shoulder while he slips his hand between my legs, nudges them apart, slides one finger inside of me.

I arch towards him. "God, Logan! God!"

He's still grinning, damn him, and his finger is moving inside me, and I close my eyes, trembling. "You like it?"

I think I make a noise that means yes, but I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything except the heat flashing through my body and the wetness between my legs, the sudden tingling that is building within me. He slides another finger into me, and my eyes fly open. He's watching me with an intensity that I never imagined possible. "Don't fight it, darlin'. Just let it happen."

I shake my head. It's too much, too good, too sweet and sharp and hot, and then Logan does something I can't describe, and I close my eyes, and everything goes brilliant as I cry out.

I'm shaking and weak-kneed, and Logan wraps his arms around my waist. "You okay?"

I nod wordlessly against his chest, and he rests his cheek on the top of my head. 'Okay' is not the word I would use, but I'm not sure the word I would use even exists. "Doesn't seem right, though," I murmer, breathing in the scent of his skin.

He pulls back and frowns. "What?" He looks vaguely offended that I might have any kind of complaint about what just happened.

"You didn't…" I trail off, embarrassed, and gesture towards his unbuttoned jeans. "You know."

He chuckles and lets his hands drift further down my body. "Who said we were done?"

"Oh." Emboldened, I stand on tiptoe and catch his lower lip between my teeth, then kiss him again, fast and hard. "Well," I say, stepping back and matching his grin. "What are you waiting for, then?"

"Just you, Marie," he says, and starts walking me backwards towards the bedroom. "Just you."

The End