Dear Logan,
This is the fifth attempt at this letter and I know I'm going to post this one.

There's something I want to ask you, well tell you really seeing as your not here to ask in the flesh. It's about Wolverine, what he is, where he comes from and why he's here.

You see I've been having your nightmares. The bad ones, the ones with the lab and the tank, sorry if my handwriting goes downhill a little but it makes me nervous to even think about it. But I have to tell you this, I know now why you stabbed me that night, if you were dreaming even half of what I've been I could never hate you for reacting the way you did.

I don't want you to feel bad Logan, no-one knew I'd take them from you along with everything else, not even The Professor. Mind you I think it was him who stirred them up in the first place (I was channelling your 'earthy' voiced humour and it was deemed 'inappropriate'). So he went into my head to see if he could stop your influence coming through, thing was he shook something else loose instead.

How do you cope Logan? What do you do when you feel that water all around you and your throat just wants to close up? I walked past the pool and I panicked, I mean had a screaming fit, huge one, everyone now thinks I'm crazy as well as poisonous. I'm not blaming *you* Logan I just need to know how you *cope*, what do you do to stop it from ruining every single day you're awake? Jesus I used to love baths but now even the sight of the bath fills me with fear.

I'm sorry I didn't leave you alone that night Logan, if I'd known....I'd have never....no I would've; I know I would've come to see you no matter what. An now I know *WHY* you were dreaming Logan and I understand why you did what you did.

Reason I'm writing this is to let you know I *understand*, I know why you're doing what your doing. I want you to find them as much for me as yourself, because Logan if it had been me they'd had I'm as sure as the sun rises I'd want them to die as slowly as possible for what they did to me.

I don't blame you for this, for the dreams. There part and parcel of your touch, the one that brought me *life* after I'd nearly given up all hope. You brought me back, you *cared* enough to risk everything for me, put yourself through all that pain to bring me back.

The dreams won't beat me Logan, just like they don't beat you. I just wanted you to know that if someone tells you about them that I don't hate you. If it's the price of living another day then I'll pay it, an you know why? Because now there's someone else who gets it, someone else at the school that understands why you sit with your back to a wall. Why you scan the floor of the room before you sit down, why you hate the scent of mimosa.

Mimosa, it's the scent we smelled when the tech used to come for us, I had an aunt who loved the scent. Now it makes me want to vomit when I even think about it.

I hope your okay Logan, that you're taking care of yourself out there. I've rented a mailbox in town and the number is on the back of here if you want to use it. Do it c.o.d if need be but it'd be nice to hear from you Logan. Even if it's a 'don't write again.'

I don't regret anything Logan, not the dreams, not you saving me up there when you didn't have to, not the train when you found me after everyone else had left me to my own devices. Not coming into your room when you were dreaming and in pain, not creeping into your trailer or shouting a warning to you when that creep was going to stab you.
All I do regret is that I never got to thank you properly, I know words don't mean that much to you but every time you touched me, you did it to help me. And as of yet I've not had the chance to show you any of the care you've shown me. Come home Logan, let me see you again, even if it's only for a day. Let me show you that I'm *okay*.

I know what your doing is important but so is your future Logan, you gave me one, let me help you find a new one. One where nightmares and dreams aren't the only things you have to cling to. I'm not asking for anything but a friend, someone who knows why I no longer like swimming, or why I don't like the colour green anymore. All I'm saying is that there's someone *here* who gets it, wrapped up in a shell that's too young for the things that I've absorbed and understood. If it's the price of this life Logan I'd pay it over and over because I *have* a future now. Let me help you find yours, it's the least I can do for you.
Yours Marie.

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The sun filtered through the window of the diner, smeared with god-knew what under the yellow plastic sheeting that stopped the formica tables from fading into white ghosts. He fingered the letter, going through the yellow pages, her writing evenly spaced, showing her mind. Centered, sure, confident. Outside his truck still had her card tucked up in the sunscreen, he'd read it so often that he knew her words backward.

Yet this one had filled him with fear, knowing that she was suffering his dreams, the nightmares that kept his bed empty night after night. He never risked sleeping with someone, it wasn't worth the risk of dreaming and smelling someone strange next to him. His animal side reacting before he'd had time to clear his head, like he had with Marie.
Even now he could see her face, the soft look she'd had in her eyes, as if she hadn't blamed him at all. And now she knew what the dream had been about, the tank, the men dressed in greens, masked and ready to torture him over and over.

Closing his eyes he let the memories slide away before the food he'd paid for came back up. Just to know that Marie was suffering the same as he did made his spirit ache. That his touch had corrupted her so much, changed her so fundementally that her sleep was no longer free from horror.
Yet her words told him she didn't hate him, didn't blame him, she asked how he coped, how he lived with them day to day. She was willing to survive, to win, to live and he found himself asking for a postcard from a waitress. The few words he scribbled down were enough to keep the nightmares at bay for him, maybe they'd work for her too. Pushing the unstamped card into the truckers mail box he folded her letter back up, resting it close to his heart.

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It was in her box, the small faded thing, battered and screwed up but it was there. $2.50 it had cost her but it was worth every penny, the few words scattered across the back of a postcard meaning the world to her as she read them.
'Leave the window open, sleep with something that smells of 'safety' and eat when you're hungry. L' Tucking the postcard away Marie went back into the world, armed a little better against the terrors in the night.