The pillows are soft and deep. You watch as he sinks into the comforter and stretches. The faint smell of shampoo and conditioner on the pillowcases and soap and lotion wafting up from the sheets was more than enough to make him get all hot and bothered.

You know that while you were tracing the line from Mississippi to Alaska that all he thought about was the smell of your skin. Baby powder and roses and that dark, delicious scent that makes you a girl. Late bloomer you may have been, but he could tell you were worth the wait.

Your body is what drew his attention at first, but it was the faintly fragrant cloud radiating from your pores that sealed the deal for him. Damn, he just might be content to lie next to you and breathe the sweet, dusky scent of your neck and shoulders forever.

Lips. Incredibly soft, gloss that smells like raspberries, color of strawberry wine. Taste of…

He had 2.6 seconds before It grabbed him. It knew what you wanted. It knew you wouldn't stop, if you had your way. With your mother downstairs playing the piano and your father just a holler away.

You laugh and run a hand gently along the hollow where he lay convulsing.

"My first kiss," you whisper.

"Mine, too."

You can still hear your screams, echoes woven into the carpet and the drapes that come back when you let your mind remember.

But now it's just you and him. Alone in this room where it all began.

"Do you hate me?" you ask.

He takes your right hand, pulls off the white cotton glove and places it against his cheek.

"No."

He pulls you close and rests his forehead against yours. He is warm to the touch.

"Not anymore."

You smile at him. Your hand slips to the back of his neck and you rise on your tiptoes to kiss his forehead.

"You are so beautiful."

So is he. He will always be seventeen here. So much potential. So much time to dream.

"I have to go," you whisper to him.

You pull away and put the glove back on. He leans back against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. He gives you that smile. The one that caught your eye that first time in chemistry class.

"Come up and see me some time. I miss you."

"I'll try," you promise as you turn to go.

"Hey."

You turn around.

"It was worth it. Best damn kiss I ever had."

He gently closes the door and sets you free.

---

Down the stairs, through the hallway, out the door, through the laundry room – straight shot to the garage. The hood of your father's 1977 Camaro is up and there's someone working on it who's not Daddy.

Of course, you should have guessed.

"Hand me that socket wrench, willya?"

He's wearing jeans that are older than you are and boots that come pretty close. His white T-shirt is stained with grease and oiled dust and Lord knows what else. Damn fine view.

"Have a seat, darlin'," he says, gesturing blindly. You climb up onto the stool next to the tools.

"How's she running?" you inquire.

He grunts, swears and emerges from under the hood. He reeks of sweat. You shiver even though it's not cold in here.

"Fine." He looks you up and down. "Take off a layer, kid. It's a fuckin' sauna outside, in case you haven't noticed."

You blush. Off comes the smoky chiffon scarf, the black cardigan and the gloves.

He picks up his Molson, looks you over again as he takes a long pull.

"That's better. You were crossin' the line between glowin' and sweatin'. New piercin'?"

You look down and notice the tight black camisole has ridden up out of your jeans, exposing–among other things– your belly button ring with its diamond stud set in stainless steel that sparkles in the late afternoon sunlight.

"Nice," he comments, and takes another long swallow. And another leisurely look.

"Are you ogling me?" you ask, and the blush gets hotter.

"Ain't doin' nothing you weren't when you first walked in." He grins, leans back against the car and finishes his beer.

"You have eyes in the back of your head?" you shoot back.

Oh yes, that would be your scalp on fire now.

"No." He taps the tip of his nose. "Just a keen sense of smell."

He walks up to you, sets the empty bottle down carefully next to the tools he's laid out. You remain absolutely still.

"You never run away from me," he says, looming over you. "Why?"

You swallow, albeit with difficulty. You position your elbows on the edge of the table, letting your wrists hang loosely. "Maybe…I'm just not that kind of girl."

He grins, leans in closer. You can smell the hops on his breath and the salt on his skin.

"Doesn't it make you the least bit jumpy, darlin'? The thoughts I've had about you?"

His pinky finger slips through the ring and he gives it a slight tug. Your hips pitch forward and the insides of your jean-clad thighs meet the outside of his.

"No," you reply. Your tone is breathy and an octave lower than usual. His eyes go dark and hot. Jubilee doesn't call it the "sex phone operator" voice for nothing.

His breath wafts over the your collarbone, just above your right breast. The very spot where he pierced your skin, penetrated your muscles, became intimately acquainted with your bones.

You shiver again. He notices.

"I can't believe you could trust me after that," he says as your back archs into the heat of his breath.

"I can't believe you would touch me after that," you reply.

"Damn, darlin'," he whispers. "I wanted to do a lot more than just touch you…before and after."

"I know."

He pulls back, puts some space between the two of you. He's distant and in control.

"You were jailbait then, baby. Ain't no fuckin' way I was gonna steal what was left of your innocence."

You get off the stool and begin putting on your defenses with speed and efficiency borne of much practice and necessity. It infuriates you now just as much as it did then to admit to yourself that he's right.

You did need some time to grow up.

But you will have the final word on this matter.

"Well, I'm not seventeen anymore," you say to him and your tone is sharper than you know. "And I think we both know why you ran away from me."

He may play the Big Bad Wolf, but Little Red has just very effectively scared him into a cold sweat.

"I would have, you know. Willingly. You wouldn't have stood a chance."

"You were a child," he insists. "It was wrong."

"Fine time to grow a conscience," you shoot back without pity.

"I know." He hangs his head. "But I couldn't have lived with myself afterwards."

You begin to walk away, but you stop for a moment and look over your shoulder. Even now, after all these years, he still feels guilty.

"Not like this," you tell yourself.

You run to him and he catches you in his arms, holding you tight against him.

"Babydoll," he sighs as he rubs your back and kisses your hair. "If I could take it all back, you know I would."

"But I wouldn't," you counter, and his hold on you tightens. "You kept your promise."

This is your favorite place to be, but it is also the most frustrating. Trapped forever between child and woman in his eyes, there will never be any resolution to your hunger with this rendition of him.

"I will always be here to protect you," he swears.

It's time to go. You both know it. You ease away from each other.

"I'll come back," you assure him.

"You know where to find me."

---

Into the house, past the first door. You pause before opening the second.

"Good evening, my dear. Won't you have a seat?"

It's cold in here. You know in the back of your mind that it's the middle of July, but it feels like the ass-end of January in this room.

"Lovely decorating scheme," you comment.

The table, chairs and hutch are all made of steel and the table is decorated with glass plates and stemware – Martha Stewart and the Ikea designers were having an orgy and they decided to invite Louis Kahn.

"Isn't it?" he agrees cheerfully. He gestures to the place setting at the foot of the table. "Come now, I've been expecting you."

You pull out the chair and sit. You look at him down the long expanse of polished metal. Off come the gloves.

"I'm sorry about the beverage, but you aren't old enough to partake just yet. I'm sure you'll understand."

"Of course," you answer, eyeing the glass of thick red liquid to your right.

Your plate displays a thick cut of meat, medium-rare by the looks of the juice that has seeped out of it. There are vegetables and a dinner roll with butter as well.

"Napkin first, young lady," he chides as you pick up your fork.

You slide the white linen from under the fork and spread it on your lap.

"And now, a toast." He raises his glass. "To life."

"La chaim," you reply tonelessly and raise your glass. You do not drink.

He is positively gleeful as he digs into the piece of warm animal protein before him.

"Filet mignon?" you ask, picking up your knife.

"Oh, it's not beef," he says after clearing his palate with a sip of his drink. "Just a lesser life-form we mutants may dine upon now and then."

Sweet Jesus Lord.

You put down your utensils.

He takes another bite and chews with relish. He swallows again and dabs his lips with the napkin.

"Not exactly like chicken now is it? More like pork, if you ask me. But then again, I've only experienced that taste and texture from your memories, my dear. Never touched the stuff myself – just not kosher. You understand."

You bolt from the table to the door. You can feel the acid lapping against the back of your tongue. Damn it! The knob is too smooth and your palms are too slippery.

"Come now, don't tell me that you don't understand the delicious irony of it all, dear girl."

"What are you talking about?" you demand, turning to face him.

He smiles and you feel as if a thousand insects were marching up and down your spine singing "Tomorrow Belongs to Me".

"You must embrace the nature of your gift if you are to master it."

His eyes are silvery blue and you feel your skin crawl under his electric gaze.

"You are a predator denying her instincts." He has another slice. "You do realize that it is entirely natural for you to feed upon them."

"You're a monster!"

"And so are you," he says soothingly. "We are all monsters here. Even that young man up in your bedroom."

"But he's not a mutant, he's normal—"

"Do you never wonder where he got those teeth from? My, my, you are quite slow when it comes to these things, aren't you?"

You sag to the floor, your hand still gripping the doorknob.

"Your gift was originally meant to be empathy, sparked by touch and strengthened in time. But those teenaged hormones kicked in and he got quite a shock when he went in for the kill."

Try as you might, you just can't seem to take a full breath.

"And ever since you have synthesized him, you find that instead of emotions coming to you, the lifeforce and all that implies, crosses over the connection and collects here. Why, we've almost run out of room. I expect we'll soon have to build an addition, what with your appetite and all."

"Why?" you manage to choke out, "Why you? Why did you have to be the one to tell me?"

His eyes were not unkind.

"I've eaten shoe leather to stay alive. Rats. Worms. Yes, even the unspeakable, when it was all that stood between me and death. There is no shame in having the will to live. You must accept that there is a part of you that needs to feed every now and then."

"No!" You have to get out of here before he has your sanity for dessert. "Never!"

"You say that now, but who knows when the hunger shall take you?"

You scramble to your feet, clawing at the doorknob.

"You cannot escape me, little one. I am you and you are me. We are part of each other."

"You lie!" you scream at him. "I am nothing like you!"

His gaze is almost tender. He places his left arm on the table, undoes the ornate steel cufflink and pulls the sleeve up to expose the faded indigo markings on the inner flesh of his forearm. "Do you know how it feels to have yourself, your identity, everything you are, reduced to a series of numerical ink stains?"

He recites the digits without looking at them. Of course, he had memorized them ages ago.

"The showers had no water. The ovens cooked no bread. And the doctors cured no illnesses." He refastens his sleeve. "But somehow I managed to survive. Someday, you may find some use for my wisdom. Food for thought, you might say."

You fling open the door, and search for the way out.

"`To thine own self be true'," he calls after you before you slam the door shut.

---

The kitchen is cool and inviting, just like you remembered.

He's standing at the sink, washing dishes.

He's just like you remember, too – tall, beautifully formed, with eyes the color of blue ice and a smile that could melt snow.

"Hey, pretty girl," he greets you warmly. "Wanna dry?"

You take up the dishtowel and begin with the plates.

Blessed silence.

You finish the last of the silverware and remember that you've forgotten your gloves in the dining room.

"It's all right," he says. "Come here."

He pulls you into a hug, and the skin of your forehead connects with the underside of his jaw. Nothing happens. You let yourself melt against him.

"Hey, what's wrong? You're shaking."

"Nothing," you say. "Just hold me."

He does.

"Damn," he says against your hair. "I wish things were different."

He's everything you always thought you wanted. But then again, you're not everything you always thought you'd be.

"I know," you reply. His shirt smells like laundry detergent and dryer sheets. "So do I."

"Thanks for coming to see me. Get's lonely here without you."

You smile. "I'm trying to give you time to get used to it."

"At least I got the kitchen," he replies.

"I thought you might like it."

He lets you go and opens the refrigerator door.

"Here. You look like you need this."

You look at the bottle and laugh. "Root beer?"

He grins. "I know, it's my favorite, not yours. But we're out of Dr. Pepper."

"Thanks," you say. You try to twist off the cap, but the metal ridges cut into the soft, sheltered flesh of your palm. "Ouch!"

"Here, let me," he says, using the newly dried can opener to open it.

"Such a gentleman."

"It's the least I can do."

One long swallow later and you're ready to face the last room.

"Don't worry," he says. "He's in a good mood today."

---

The last room on the first floor is the living room. You open the door.

"I can understand why you stashed me in here," he says. "Nice atmosphere, plenty of sunlight, and the little touches that make me feel at home.

The phonograph is playing a violin concerto and there's a vase of freshly cut bluebells on the mantel. He's crouching by the fireplace, one hand using a poker to stoke up the dying embers, the other absentmindedly conducting the music.

"I'm sorry," you say to him. "There was no other way."

"I know." He pokes the fire a little more and it surges to life. He stands up and turns to face you.

His face has always struck you as very much an expression of his power. It is mobile, fluid, expressionless and fierce all at the same time. It can shift in less than a moment and there is never a warning of when it will happen.

He comes to stand beside you and points to the picture of you as a toddler in your kiddie pool.

"That one's my favorite," he comments as he puts an arm around your shoulders.

"Why?" you ask.

"You're topless," he answers casually.

He looks at you, his eyes sparkling as they dare you to keep a straight face.

You can't help but giggle. "You are such a horndog!"

"Hey," he says expansively, "takes one to know one."

You roll your eyes. "Right."

He turns to look you in the eye. "Yeah. That is right."

You shake off his arm. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He crosses to the couch and sits down, spreading his arms across the back. Flick-click, flick-click, flick-click goes the Zippo lighter in his left hand.

"It means, Miss Thang, that you've gotten yourself into a bit of a quandary."

You sink onto the chaise lounge.

"There's really no place left to go, is there?"

"What? You're making no sense," you say, hugging your upper arms.

He leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees. "You really want me to spell it out for you?"

You arch an eyebrow in response.

"Look outside."

You stand up and go to the window. There, blooming in all its pink glory on the lawn, is a cherry tree. You cannot see anything else because twilight is descending and the mist has swallowed up everything else.

"Sakura," you whisper softly.

"Japanese for `cherry blossom', and the flower traditionally associated with death." He has gotten up from the couch and is standing behind you now.

"Why are you showing me this?"

He slides his arms around your torso. "First thing I saw before I entered. Do you remember it?"

"No."

You look again and see a shape emerge from the shadows.

She's wearing a long dark skirt and a white tank top with the shelf bra that supports the soft swell of her breasts. Her long dark hair sways in the humid heat of high noon, untouched by the silver you now wear proudly.

"Do you remember her?"

She's is you. Before you became that amalgamation of personalities that was distinct and separate from anything resembling Marie D'Ancanto.

"Yes."

She stumbles and falls under the tree. A shower of petals fall on her, dusting her body with pink.

"She's been out there a long time," he observes neutrally.

"Why do you care?" you ask as you break free from his arms.

"She's the only family I've ever known," he says softly, putting his hand against the glass. "When I wanted to deep fry every one of those cops into crispy critters, she stopped me."

"That was me," you say. "It was me who stopped you."

"You started it, but it was her who pulled back before you killed me."

He turns to look at you, raises a hand and pushes your white wings from your face.

You look out the window again. "She's the weakest part of me."

He hung his head, shook it. "You don't get it, do you? She's the one David wanted to kiss, the one Logan would die to protect—"

"—the one Eric knew was weak enough for him to use—"

"—the one Bobby fell for like a ton of fuckin' bricks. The one I wanted to be worthy of being with someday."

"I…I never knew."

"Yes, you did." He smiles and looks down. "But I confess, I never confirmed."

"She's too young to deal with this," you say. "She's nothing but a damsel in distress. I don't want her in here."

"You can't do much about it," he says. "The more you resist the more she persists."

"When did you get so deep?" you ask, half joking.

He shrugs. "We talk. I can even open a window sometimes when you're asleep."

"I'm afraid to let her in," you admit softly.

"She's scared shitless of you, too. Do you know what it's like to be the only girl in this place?"

He touches the Zippo's lush flame to the white pillar candle in the bay window.

"My mother used to light one to help me find my way home when I was little," he says softly.

You watch as he sits down in the easy chair and turns his gaze out the window. You open the door and leave him behind you.

---

There are five locks and you open each slowly and deliberately as the grandfather clock in the hall tick-tocks in the silence.

The front door is solid and heavy and stuck in it's frame. There's a storm's coming in, and it has swollen it shut. You push against it and then pull. It springs free from the jamb and you stagger backwards with the force of your exertions.

Under the cherry tree is the faint outline of where she lay, bare of petals.

Where is she? Where did she go?

You run onto the porch, down the steps and look around.

There, an open window to the basement, right under the bay window of the family room.

You can see his face, spectral and golden above the flame of the candle. His smile is peaceful.

In through the front door, throwing all the locks, racing to the stairs and down, down, all the way down into the darkness.

---

"Marie!"

Where is she?

"Marie?"

Your eyes adjust to the dim light as you walk into the shadows. Beams of murky starlight penetrate the gloom, framing the figure huddled against the wall.

"Marie…"

You stop where you are.

She is holding her hands against her heart and her cheeks are streaked with the mineral residue of her tears. Her hair is still auburn all the way through, a long shimmering curtain of molasses and dark honey that spills from the white hood of her nightgown.

And there is blood on her lips and gown, dark rivulets connecting her mouth with her jaw and dried stains around the slits where the claws pierced her. You can see scorch marks on the hem where she burned and the ice is melting into water and slipping between her fingers to drip onto her lap. She is clutching a shard of twisted metal, holding it to her breast as if to shield herself from you.

All this time, you thought it was you, Rogue, who was holding together this motley group of personalities. You fancied yourself the evolved collective consciousness, while she was nothing but the physical shell it inhabited. You claimed that you were the complex code of David, Logan, Eric, Bobby, and John and she was nothing but the carapace.

Not so. Not at all.

It is this fragile little girl who unites all of you. Young, inexperienced and still very much an adolescent, she is both mother and mentor to all of the Others who have merged with her.

Who might she have been if not for that terrible nameless void that howls to be filled with energy and life, holding her separate and certainly not equal to anyone? Would she have made the trip to Alaska? Would she have gone on to college? Would she have gotten married to David and stayed in that Mississippi backwater town for the rest of her life?

She is the ultimate paradox: a separate and distinct consciousness as well as yourself, the synthesized psyche, always fighting for her identity and always searching for herself.

Her eyes are blank as you take her in your arms and hold her close.

Crackle of energy, dilation of the veins and arteries, and it is just like the first time: swift, merciless and insatiable.

Another bloody handprint on your soul, but this time it is your own.