He left me a lot of things. Reflexes I never had before and still don't quite know what to do with. Jacked up senses--oh, not at his level, but trust me, I notice when someone comes in the room and I can identify anyone at ten feet from smell alone. Nightmares where I get to enjoy the privilege of being a government-funded human guinea pig--Jean still wonders why I hate her lab so much. A few peculiarities like a taste for bourbon, an unhealthy interest in cigars, and more than a small obsession with red meat. Small things, that in the scheme of things don't mean much.

He also left me with a crush from hell and a sex drive that tops the charts. Goody gumdrops, as they say in elementary school. Those are the things that matter in the scheme of things. Ended up mattering, anyway.

I'm not sure what I expected when he came home each time--maybe notice that I'm not seventeen and not his long-lost daughter--maybe notice some certain physical changes that I made every effort to assure would be visible. Really visible. Maybe--maybe notice me. Marie.

And three years is three years--so I figured, at twenty, I'd just either have to give up or take matters into my own hands--after all, this is Logan and he does have a thing for aggressive chicks, so hell, why not try? So I counted the days on the calendar in my room and hoped for the best.

Then it all just fell apart. I mean--literally. Right in fucking front of me.

---

If you ever wanna know what split them up--I honestly don't know. And if I had even a touch of telepathy--trust me, ethics would not have gotten in the way. But it happened and the whole school knew it and I went from hoping Logan would come home soon to hoping to God he didn't come home yet--give 'em time to cool down and do whatever it is Destined Couples do when they gotta follow the True Path or whatever crap you believe in, because admitting that they might not get back together wasn't something I was prepared to handle. They were Scott and Jean and I'd be damned if they'd screw this up for me.

Then Logan came home. Too damned soon.

I got to watch from thirty feet away. Thirty feet, thirty miles, didn't make a fucking bit of difference because they never saw me. Jean walked out, didn't even bother to say a damned thing, just slid up to him while he was still sitting on the motorcycle, doubtless taking in how good she looked all in red and trying to figure out why the hell she was comin' out when that'd always been my job. She looked up at him, kind of smiled--then slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him and whatever questions he was coming up with were gone for good---this was Jean and a fantasy come true.

Me in the yard, Scott in the mansion, and both of us standing there watching this fucking melodrama unfold right before our eyes and neither of us having the balls to do a damned thing about it.

Scott saw me come in--run in--and he didn't stop me or anything, but came up to my room after a discreet interval and knocked--pure Scott, courtesy when the sky fell. I ignored him for a bit then reconsidered the situation and let him in. He took a careful seat on my desk chair and asked if I wanted to talk about it.

"You're kidding, right?"

He had to be kidding.

Head slightly tilted--Scott is the past master of absolute, perfect control. Having that mutation of his helps, of course--but it's all that discipline that goes into being the Fearless Leader--and you kind of forget he isn't even thirty yet and has held that particular title for a hell of a long time. You kind of forget that because he's so fucking Leaderish all the time in public--whatever Jean sees in private is different.

Whatever she saw in private, that is. Shit, shit, shit.

"You looked upset."

"And you aren't?"

Maybe a slight shudder, but as I said, he's been doing this longer than I have. He let himself sit back a little, watching me throw things around in a holy fit, generally acting like the kid I claim I'm not. When I wore myself down, I just collapsed on the bed and considered what kind of trouble I'd get in if I put Jean in a two week coma.

Because maybe then I'd be her.

"We're talking about you, Rogue." He crossed his arms and suddenly I wanted to grab him and shake him and ask him where the hell he got off pretending this is just my problem, why the hell he could take it so coolly when I felt like I was falling apart.

"Maybe." I wanted to hurt him, see pain in him that reflected what was in me--screw control. "Tell me how great it feels to know Jean is fucking the daylights out of Logan down the hall, Cyke." I paused deliberately, then added, "and I can hear them, if I listen." I could. But the talking and the Breaking of Fragile Things were drowning it out pretty nicely.

The muscles in his jaw went completely stiff and I knew I could've slipped a knife in his back and hurt him less--but I really didn't care much because this was all his fault. Why the hell had he and Jean broken up anyway? Why the fuck did they have to do it when I was finally ready? Why the hell now?

I almost thought he was going to get up and leave. But this was Scott--never routed.

"I don't think about it--though thanks for the visual. I needed that today." So cool, like we were talking about something else completely, two different people altogether. Then a soft sigh, which meant that he forgave me for being a bitch, and I didn't want forgiveness. I wanted him to fix this and when he stood up, I did too.

"I'm sorry," I told him. I meant, get your ass down there, haul her out of his bed, and tell her you can't live without her or whatever sentimental bullshit works on her, because the scheme of things just went straight to hell and we have to fix it right quick.

I'd be damned if destiny was going to screw me over now.

"It's okay." He sort of smiled and then turned for the door and it hit me just about the second he got it open--and I slammed it shut with one hand beside his shoulder.

"No--Scott--I'm sorry." His back was to me and I leaned my head against him--just like always. And I wanted him to turn around and I wanted him to give me a hug and say everything would be fine and then walk off with that authoritative stride that hadn't been seen in awhile around the Mansion.

"Rogue. It's okay. I understand." Still quiet. But he let me pull him over to the bed, where I sat him down, and we looked at each other thinking the same basic thing--what the hell do we do now?

"Come on," he said finally, and grabbed my jacket off the chair. In the quiet, I heard what could be Jean--and from the jerk of his shoulders, Scott heard it too. "Let's go into the city--I'll get you some pizza or something."

---

The worst part wasn't that day or even that night--despite the fact that my improved hearing required keeping the stereo on all night, otherwise I could have given a blow-by-blow description of the sex life of Logan and Jean. It was every day after. Because it's one thing to get a kick in the gut that hurts like hell but then fades. It's quite another to get a regular, softer, yet no less implacable kick every few minutes every single day. You don't get used to it, either. And for some reason, I thought I would.

And I thought Scott might.

And neither of us did.

If I hadn't been involved in this little farce, I probably would've been damned amused by the sheer level of civility going on around the mansion--because under the best of circumstances, Scott and Logan weren't exactly friendly, and now they almost tiptoed around each other. No biting commentary thrown in each other's direction like rocks, no little jabs, but instead a quite frightening courtesy that was worse than any of the explosions we'd all been witness to over the years. Sort of on the order of seeing a tree grow upside down--it wasn't natural.

And there was Jean, who I learned not to just envy or be jealous of, but actively hate with that special intensity I'd saved for Magneto. Staring at her during the meetings I couldn't avoid, I'd plot in my head how to get them apart with maximum damage to Her Grace.

Soo grown-up. I should be proud of my maturity.

Remy got his chance, finally, and after one night I lay awake in his bed staring at him sleep and actually took some time to consider the fact that I'd just prostituted myself. Very thoroughly. All I cost were some sweet words and a pretty gold chain and two mediocre orgasms.

I'm cheap as hell. And that's something to admire.

Scott met me at an early breakfast the next day. I'd taken to the six thirty variety around the time that I noticed Logan didn't do early mornings--probably the delights of early morning fucking keeping him too occupied. Scott sat down beside me and ate a sensible bowl of oatmeal with a glass of milk and I picked over my pancakes.

We ate in silence for a few minutes.

"You okay?"

"Nope." I looked at my pancakes, now resembling the scene of a massacre, syrup pooling in shapes that resembled weapons I knew how to use. Damn, I was becoming a psychologist's dream. "You?"

He smiled a little before taking a drink of his milk.

"Are you finished yet?" Nicely avoiding the question. He was good at that. The pancakes were scrapped and I wasn't hungry.

"Yeah."

He finished his oatmeal, neatly wiped his mouth with one of the starched napkins that the mansion has in rather disturbing abundance, then stood up, picking up his tray.

"Let's go. I've got some things to do in town."

We pretended it was all about me--but he needed to be away worse than I did, and in the car, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, I could try really hard and think of someone besides myself. Because maybe losing something you didn't get a chance to try was one thing--but losing something that was already yours was another thing altogether.

"Scott?"

He glanced at me briefly.

"Why don't you just beat the shit out of him and be done with it?" Ignoring for a minute that Logan outweighed Scott by at least a few hundred pounds and was unparalleled in a purely physical fight.

Scott sighed.

"Rogue--"

"I'm serious. Maybe it would help."

Silence.

"Only one of us would walk away, Rogue." A little smile that wasn't really amusement--hell, I don't know what it was. "If I played fair--he'd win. If I didn't--he'd have about five seconds tops."

"You'd play fair." I couldn't imagine Scott doing otherwise. And another twist to the lips before he hit his blinker--well ahead of the rapidly approaching stop sign.

"You're sure of that?"

And when I turned to look at him, that smile still lingered and I didn't ask again.

---

Ororo noticed. Of course she did--nothing, and I repeat this, nothing, gets past her. Even very possibly the reason for this whole nasty situation.

But she didn't gossip--she just unexpectedly sat with me at lunch on the lawn one afternoon when I couldn't face the dining room and seeing them together, even over a plate of mashed potatoes and roasted chicken. My masochistic tendencies just weren't that strong.

"I don't need a babysitter," I told her. Chewed my sandwich with determination, proving to her just how fine I was with the entirety of my life to date. Even the Remy part. I saw her eyes on the necklace--I figured if I was going to be a pet, I might as well wear a collar. Sold property and all that.

She nodded serenely and took a chip from the bag with infinite grace, and I wondered what the hell I'd done to deserve being regarded so compassionately.

"Have you talked to him?"

Talked to him? What a unique idea. I hadn't thought of that--of course, the fact he was in the process of drooling over the fucking Love of His Life or whatever the hell she was to him had possibly lowered my enthusiasm somewhat. My ability to cope is just that--cope and barely. I wasn't so certain of my ability to cope while hearing how fabulous his life was now.

I just don't hate myself that much.

"No." Not really--two ten second chats do not conversation make, even if it was Logan we were talking about.

"He's noticing."

How Ororo would get that information was pretty much beyond me, since, on a marginal basis, I was aware that they weren't exactly the definition of close. In hindsight, I remember seeing him look at me before I'd take one of my desperate forays out of sight, before I'd have to see him and Jean looking all fatuous--Logan fatuous, damn it---deep in the thrall of Romantic Love.

Fuck, this wasn't something I wanted to think about, certainly not over potato chips and fruit chunks.

"In between making Jean scream a few times a day?" I shot out and her eyebrows rose slowly. I bit another piece off the ham-and-cheese and decided to keep my mouth shut.

"Rogue--" she began, with the care of a soldier walking through a minefield.

"We talked a couple of days ago." I got a chip and used it as a missile at a nearby tree. Burn, sucker. Unfortunately, chips weren't atomics and that tree wasn't Jean. Damn Remy for that accidental brush, anyway.

Damn.

"I know." Of course she knew--she's Ororo. "But perhaps--"

"He's happy."

A long, gentle look of infinite and undying compassion and a part of me wanted to bury my head in her lap and just cry about this entire mess. I hadn't yet--sitting at my window holding those tags or indulging myself in Remy's bed, those were my healthy ways of getting through this.

He was happy--happier than he'd ever been in his damned life, and the version swimming around in my head that peeked out from time to time knew this and liked to remind me every once in awhile.

"Did it have to be him?" I heard myself whisper, to my utter and complete horror. I stared hard at my sandwich crust--when the hell did I become a whiney female anyway? "She can have anything and everything she wants. Hell, she does. But--but she has to have him too, doesn't she?" I look up and my eyes are blurring and this wasn't happening. I fumbled for my book and begin to rise when soft fingers cover my wrist.

"It's not that simple."

"Tell me how it's not that simple!" I jerked away, began throwing everything into my bag, sort of ignoring the possibility of smashed sandwiches and fruit that really wasn't meant to be abused like that. "What can't she have? Anything? She has Scott and she has Logan and she's beautiful and perfect and a wondrous telekinetic and Xavier's favorite little student and we all turn on the fucking axle of what Jean wants." Blinking hard, slamming the bottle of water down, hearing something shatter into tiny pieces that later I'd try and put together on the floor of my room. "You want me to sit around and understand her? You fucking understand her--you're her best friend. I don't have to. I get to be bitter all on my own and hate her, so don't fucking sit here and tell me how she's suffered in the past or how this and that explain it, because nothing does. Nothing can justify her."

Ororo's smile was gentle.

"It's never easy being a mutant, Rogue. Even for Jean."

"Fuck that, Ororo," I answered, dropping my book on top of the pile and pulling the drawstrings closed. "I don't care how fucking difficult it is to be her. She doesn't love him, she doesn't even fucking understand him."

"I know."

I lifted my head then, the bag handle going slack in my hand. Everything I believed fell around me in little slivers of broken dreams--because believing and knowing and confirming are three very different things.

"What?"

Delicately, Ororo rose and lifted the edge of the blanket and I moved numbly onto the grass while she neatly folded it up, tucking it under one arm.

"You're right." Her voice was thoughtful. "I don't think she does."

"But he loves her." My fingers shook on the strap and I dropped the bag to the grass at my feet. Something in my head began to pulse, blurring my sight. "He loves her."

"Yes."

Silence. And she watched me, tucking a strand of white hair behind her ear that the wind had picked up, waiting for me to get something resembling coherent thought.

"She-she's--she's using him? For what? That fucking little--"

"I'm not sure." Silence. And she regarded me calmly, perhaps even with that special trace of Ororo irony. "That's a pretty chain, Rogue."

My hand jumped to my neck and I flushed. Funny, how she can deliver a lecture in a compliment.

Slowly, we turned to walk back to the mansion.

---

A very correct triple-tap at the door of my room.

"Rogue."

I closed my book and placed the essay in a folder before I turned to the door.

"Come in."

Scott always asks. Sometimes annoying, sometimes not, it's him and I even began to think I understood him.

Sometimes.

He shut the door behind him with impeccable courtesy and took a seat on Jubilee's desk chair. He's always so neat--hair perfectly cut, clothes in perfect order like he just stepped out of the proverbial bandbox. He could pose for a Fearless Leader doll--that's the air he emanates. You instantly trust and respect what you see before you.

I also took a moment to notice he was wearing boots. Riding boots, recently polished to a dull shine.

"Did you go riding?"

He grinned--a comfortable grin--and I noted that he had his gloves on, well worn--and his glasses were more securely fastened than normal.

"I'm about to. I didn't see you at downstairs and thought you'd like to go with me."

I remembered, suddenly, that it was Tuesday, when he usually goes. I knew he hadn't gone riding on Tuesday in a long time. As I sat there and did some reflection, I realized he always used to go with Jean.

So I can replace her. We're not a healthy bunch at the Mansion. But on some sick level, it appealed to me and I nodded, pushing from the desk to go to my closet.

"Give me five minutes."

---

Scott helped me mount Bender (I didn't name the horse), then followed me on Trickster (still not my idea). Nervously, I adjusted my gloves and tried not to remember the Riding Incident that left me with a broken leg a year or so ago.

I'd grown. And this horse was famous for its sheer boringness. I appreciated that.

"Scott?"

He turned a little in the saddle, letting me catch up.

"You okay?" His eyes followed my slightly weaving form as I adjusted to horseback after a year of studious avoidance. Ah, he remembered too. I appreciated that even more.

"Fine, thanks." I adjusted my seat again and absently ran my fingers through my hair before getting my death grip back on the pommel. "You haven't ridden in awhile."

"No, I haven't." No explanation. None needed. Relaxing, I let Bender break into a comfortable trot and blanked my mind out, enjoying the feel of the breeze and the steady, even, comfortable lope of Bender under me.

"Rogue, she's not what you think."

Blanked it would not be. I slowed Bender and half turned in the saddle to look at him.

"You're going to defend her too?" I couldn't even find it in myself to be surprised.

Scott didn't answer for a moment, readjusting a strap on the horse's shoulder, then checking his glasses to make certain they were secure.

"No." Quiet, and he took hold of the reins again, pressing Trickster to catch up with me.

I waited. Maybe that was all he would have said, if I hadn't brought Bender to a screeching halt--almost knocking myself out against his neck in the process. And Scott, being Scott, stopped as well, giving me a curious look.

"Go ahead." I set my feet in the stirrups and waited.

"Go ahead what?"

I shifted uncomfortably.

"Tell me I should understand or something. Tell me how I should just accept it. Defend her. Go right ahead. You fucking know you want to, Scott, so go right ahead."

How any human on earth manages the calm Scott does is beyond me.

"No. I'm not." He shifted and his horse took off in a comfortable trot and I heeled Bender before I could think better of it and followed.

"You can't do that."

"Do what?"

I struggled to put it into words, and he shook his head slowly, bringing Trickster back to a walk.

"You want to see things in black and white, Rogue. It's not that easy--trust me, I've learned the hard way that blank categorizations like that are comfortable, but extremely inaccurate."

"Don't you hate him?"

Scott looked genuinely surprised by my question.

"It doesn't matter."

"Then what the hell does matter?"

It was so sudden, so completely unexpected, that I gawked a little when Scott dismounted, leading the horse to a tree and sensibly leaving enough length for Trickster to roam. I didn't have any better ideas, so I followed him down, and he steadied me as I touched my feet on the grass. Then he tied my horse and took me by the arm, gently leading--not pulling, leading--me into a walk.

"Why'd you ask me out here?" I asked softly. "Replace Jean?"

"No, though I can see why you would think so." He glanced back at the mansion, then at the trees surrounding us. I wondered what he was searching for. "Jean moved out of our room---I should have done it, but I wasn't really--thinking clearly when it happened. I'm two doors down from Logan." He stopped and I thought I saw him bite his lip, but his voice was casual. "I wanted to get out for a little while."

The image of Scott calmly dressing while listening to the crap going on in Logan's room was enough to shut me up for a few seconds. It hurt, almost as much as seeing them together hurt me. And I was surprised.

"I'm sorry." And I meant it. Scott shrugged slightly. His hands were clasped neatly behind him and I took in the image of him in his plain shirt and jeans, the carefully polished boots, the gloves that were worn and faded from use. "It's just--sometimes I forget that--"

"That I'm a man as well, not just the guy that made you rewrite your English essays three times before you turned them in?" I could see the slight smile turn his lips. "Yeah. I sometimes forget that too."

It was suddenly disconcerting to be walking with him--because he wasn't the Leader or my teacher or--well, anyone I was vaguely familiar with anymore. Just a man, walking with me on the estate. And maybe he felt the difference too, because he turned to look at me again.

"I know you're angry. It's not easy to sit back and watch someone you love make a mistake."

I started, looking up at him.

"Scott--"

"But it's not something you can do anything about, either."

"Talk to them." Yell at them. Plan dirty tricks. Whatever worked. I wasn't picky.

"And tell them what?" He shook his head slightly. "That I love her? She knows that, he knows that. It's not a secret."

No secret at all, really. Which made it all so damned unforgivable. And what would he say, exactly, that hadn't been said in the privacy of their bedroom the day she moved out? That hadn't been looked or thought or yelled during those nights that seemed like a dream, nights before I knew that this was more than a squabble with a good happy ending. That stumped me too--after all, I hadn't found the words either. Even if Logan had been around to hear them.

"It's--" I stopped, realizing where this was going. That if I continued, I wouldn't ever be able to look at Scott and sit him in the category of Leader and Annoyance. He was letting me see someone else completely. "It's getting cold."

I wasn't ready for that yet.

He didn't answer and we walked back to the horses.

---

"Marie--"

"I'm busy, Logan."

I fingered my chain, saw his eyes fix on that a little and wished I'd taken it off. But I hadn't---maybe I wouldn't have even if I'd expected to see him, but I can't be sure of that. Hell, I couldn't be sure of anything anymore.

"We haven't talked since I've gotten back." He shifted slightly and I took in the view of him--a little thinner than I remembered, even more restless if that was possible--or was he nervous?

Nah.

"Yeah." I'd been avoiding him--but not exactly. I'd been avoiding with the half-hope he'd find me. Or at least make the attempt. Of course, he had better things to do, if the look on Jean's face in the morning was anything to go by.

I was beginning to resent Scott's ability to compartmentalize his life so well and avoid black and white.

"Let's go for a ride."

Something in me twisted--it was an old treat, candy offered to the little kid that followed him around with worshipful eyes. Take me for a ride, show me how to hold the handlebars, look infinitely amused by my uncertainty. He'd taught me everything he knew, directly or indirectly.

Remy was a testament to just how well I learned my lessons. It was enough to make me wince.

"I'm busy." I twitched my gloves back into place--not that they'd moved much more than a millimeter since I put them on--and looked around, hoping desperately for someone to show up and give me an excuse to leave. "I have to meet someone for lunch." Remy, usually.

I couldn't go with Logan now. I wanted it too badly.

"Marie--." He took a step toward me and I wanted to pull away--there was the smell of Logan, of Jean, of--oh shit.

Go fuck your girlfriend, I wanted to tell him, yell at him, suddenly hating him for coming here still smelling like her. And I didn't want to go, didn't want to be anywhere near him. "Look, maybe another time--"

"Fuck it, Marie! You've been fucking avoiding me for long enough!" A tightening of all the muscles in his jaw that denoted his own private way of cooling down. A pause, then finally, voice low, "Okay, I'm sorry, Marie. I know I've been distracted--but--"

"Now it's suddenly convenient? Sorry--Wolverine--I don't live for your convenience." I turned on my heel, skirt swishing with possible dramatic effect that I probably would have appreciated more if I hadn't been so angry.

A hand caught my elbow and swung me around--and I should have sort of been prepared for that, but you see, having my interesting condition means that when you storm off, people are sort of wary to try and touch you to drag you back. Up to and including Remy. But not Logan. He wasn't scared of me--hell, I have no idea if he's scared of anything. But my skin? Pshaw. He's survived it twice and Logan is the ultimate risk-taker.

"I'm sorry." His voice was lower and he kept that grip on my arm. "Look--" Again, a pause, and if I'd been able to pity anyone except myself, I would have acknowledged how hard this was for him. "You're my family, okay? More than anyone else in this goddamn place. I've missed you."

I swallowed in a dry throat and tried to keep my expression neutral. Everything in me acknowledged what he said was true--and in a way, it felt good. Felt really good, and it felt like hell, because that's what I was to him--not a potential lover or a woman, but family, little sister, surrogate daughter, niece.

Stale bread. Not what I wanted. But something.

"Logan, I have to--"

"Please, Marie. I just want to talk. Anywhere you want to go."

And I know that what I was seeing was right on the edge of pleading--hell and damn, with everything in me melting at the look on his face, the clean sincerity--the fact that he was taking time out of his busy sex life to find me and argue with me and practically beg--damn, damn, damn.

"All right." So I'm a weak female--I'd live with it. I needed to change, and pulled away from his hand. "I'll meet you down here."

---

"So how're classes?"

Logan made small talk and I tried not to notice that light scent around him--I could recognize Jean anywhere, and there were days almost forgotten that the scent would arouse me and I'd hated the feeling--but I'd give almost anything to have that again, even arousal over the sick envy and jealousy.

It was awkward where it'd never been awkward before--between us. Uncomfortable as we began our search for old footing under new circumstances.

"Okay." I picked at my jacket and felt him pace me as we left the bike against a tree--apparently, I'm a bigger fan of nature than I ever believed possible; I seem to be spending the majority of my time with trees.

That's something he gave me.

"Is anything wrong?"

Okay, admittedly, that shocked me out of silence and self-pity, because I do love him, but I also know him. Logan just isn't perceptive under normal circumstances. And having Jean had lowered the quotient even further--hell, he probably wouldn't have noticed the mansion being attacked by Magneto in a pink tutu at the beginning. And maybe it was a sign that the intense early heat was diminishing and maybe he was getting bored or--

--I'm perfectly willing to admit right now that denial is my specialty.

"Everything's fine." I kicked a stone and wondered if I told him the truth, would it change anything. Well, yes, it would. And so I wouldn't. I had my pride.

He taught me that too.

"You're quiet." He kicked something in his way--rock, small animal, who knew.

I used to chatter to him about everything. That's true. About Bobby, about Remy, about school, about my frustration with my inability to control my powers, about how great it was to graduate, about the fucking grass if I couldn't think of anything else--anything to keep his company, anything that would qualify as conversation.

Anything at all. But I ran out of words this time and he hadn't been around to hear them anyway.

"Are you and Remy okay?"

No, not really. At least, not on my side, but it was dandy on his, and if he noticed that I shut my eyes and I didn't say anything when I came because something in me knew I'd say the wrong name--well, he wasn't talking about it. Maybe getting laid and laid thoroughly on a daily basis was enough.

Maybe you and I could compare our lovers. You tell me how Jean screams and I'll tell you how Remy begs in French and I get distracted trying to figure out exactly what it is he wants me to do.

"Fine."

He mused on that. He didn't believe me, but as I said, Logan isn't the type to start some sort of Deep Conversation.

"Are you happy?"

Dear God, the entire earth must have shifted, because Logan just isn't this type of guy. He's a normal guy--feelings aren't discussion topics. Feelings are a murky place you avoid whenever possible and when you get stuck in the swamp of them, you try to figure how to get the hell out, not the whys and wherefores.

This is Logan channeling Scott. Rather disturbing, truth be told. I liked black and white--putting in colors just messed up the mix.

"Yeah." And I tried--with some success--to channel some enthusiasm into my voice, make it bright and happy and utterly not-caring about him or Jean or what they were doing behind his closed door so loudly until two in the damned morning every night.

He stopped me, another surprise, and his fingers on my shoulder turned me and I winced without meaning to--and he pulled back and maybe there was hurt in his eyes, I didn't know.

I didn't care either. I didn't fucking care.

Somewhere, I found something to talk about, and I started rambling--to this day, I have no idea what I said or how he responded or even if he did--but time passed and I could still smell Jean on him and it screwed with my head worse than anything else. And finally, I could look at my watch and act surprised it was time for dinner and he took me back and if he noticed that I bolted off the bike on the pretext of extreme starvation, he didn't say anything--or maybe I just didn't give him the chance.

I didn't know. I didn't fucking care either. So screw it.

---

I knocked on Scott's door at ten that night.

He might have been asleep--but I doubted it. I could hear them in my room--and why the hell hadn't Jean's voice gone out yet? He opened the door, a little surprised to see me, but merely stepped back politely to let me storm in. I took in the white shirt and pajama bottoms--plaid, navy blue, drawstring.

It was the first time I saw him out of his normal clothes and it threw me for a loop and my black-and-white world had a new color and Scott officially moved into a nebulous set of categories that included man.

"Hey." It was weak but the best I could do.

He nodded and I noticed that his radio was on, playing something depressing and country-sounding--never knew he had a thing for country music. The blonde hair was still neatly combed and I glanced at the desk and saw the essays spread out and then at his hands, which still held a red pen, and the smear of ink on his forefinger.

Oddly--and I just realized it as I was standing there--I'd never been in this room before. A quick glance confirmed the almost painful neatness--all Scott, no laundry on the floor, the rug parallel to the wall, dustbunnies beware.

And though I'd never been here before, I could feel the absence of Jean like an ache. How he could stand to be in here I had no idea.

"You busy?" It occurred to me--rather belatedly, admittedly--that maybe he wouldn't want my company. But he shook his head and took the pen back to the desk and pulled out a chair. I glanced around the room, taking in the hospital-cornered bed and wondered when the last time he slept in it was.

"Are you okay, Rogue?"

Screw hospital corners. I sat down on the bed--but I did feel a little guilty disturbing the carefully tucked comforter and could almost swear that the sheet beneath actually bounced me a little it was so tight.

"Can't sleep." And I couldn't face Remy's room tonight, even if it was a floor away from the sounds coming from Logan's. Prostituting myself was an art form and maybe I didn't feel that artistic tonight.

"Me either." A hint of a smile, but God, he looked tired. And that's not something the light of day would ever see, I knew. Without meaning to, I reached out, touching his arm. I almost expected him to jerk away, but he didn't, only nodded a little before covering my hand with his. "I'm sorry, Rogue."

He had nothing to be sorry for. I did. I was the bitch fucking Remy so I could live my own fantasy life. Scott sat in his room and did things that were productive and worthwhile and useful.

"You wanna talk about it, Scott?"

That brought a smile this time, a little sad, but more real than anything I'd seen in so long, even on my own face, that it made me smile back.

"That's my line."

"I know--but I thought maybe--" Maybe I could be what you are to me. He'd already shifted in my perceptions--and I got the feeling, though silly and unlikely and maybe even egotistical, that he wanted to talk to me.

We were in the same boat, after all.

"Maybe I needed it?" he finished with a slightly self-deprecating turn of his mouth. "I really must look bad." He laughed softly and I didn't move my hand. His skin was warm through the gloves I'd pulled on before coming in here.

"No--just tired. I didn't know you liked country music."

Then he laughed and it was real and there was no bitterness at all.

"It's relaxing. I used to take Jean dancing--before we were together. Gave her a sense of normalcy she didn't get anywhere else."

Maybe my face showed my surprise, because his head tilted.

"I can talk about her." Funny, how I couldn't talk about Logan yet. "She's not a strong telepath, but she didn't have any shields at the beginning and crowds were hell for her. When she learned to tune out the background noise, I took her to this little bar and taught her to dance. She'd never done it before--isn't that odd? She didn't like being in crowds, so she didn't go anywhere she'd learn how to dance. And being touched scared her." He smiled a little at my surprise, growing thoughtful, lost in a memory. "Touch emphasizes her power. Before she had shields, she'd pick up things from anyone who came in contact with her, with or without clothes barring it. When I taught her to dance, I had to be so careful to keep calm and not broadcast what I was feeling. I didn't want to scare her." A pause. "I wanted her to trust me."

I tried to dismiss the image of an eighteen year old Jean being scared of touch.

"She likes this music." His voice was a little wistful and despite myself, I sighed. So I wasn't the only one torturing myself. That was actually comforting.

I listened to the song for a few minutes. I'd only danced once, and never to this kind of music. Another song came on and Scott saw me glance at the radio.

"You've never done it either, have you?"

Yeah, you'd think growing up in the south, I would have. But that hadn't been trendy at school, and like all teens throughout the ages, I'd been a slave to fashion.

"Get up."

I snatched my hand back.

"Scott--"

"Be productive. Learn something new." And he picked up my hand from my lap and gently pulled me to my feet, walking with me to the center of the room. And he was tall--I knew that, but suddenly, when you're only inches away and not a foot or so, it was definitely noticeable.

He put me into position, like a moveable doll, and placed a hand around my waist. He ignored the way I stiffened, even now, at the contact. "It's a four count. Just follow me--trust me, it's easier than it looks. Look at me--don't look at your feet or you'll confuse yourself. Okay. Ready?"

No, I was most definitely not, shooting a panicked look at him, but Scott was already pressing me to move and--

And that's how I learned to dance.

I stepped on his foot once and he spun me too hard so I collided with the desk and at some point we both started laughing and couldn't stop. Then he moved a little closer and we turned together and I stumbled against the door and he caught himself from falling against me with a hand on the door beside my head.

And maybe Scott's world got a new color too. I'm not sure. Mine did, staring up at him, aware of how close he was and the feel of his hand on my waist, warm through my cotton nightgown.

But sometimes, you can deny that if you try. I had. So did he. He stepped back and he was the Fearless Leader again in pajama bottoms and I smiled and said good-night and went to my room.

Found Logan's tags in my dresser and poured them into my hand like water and stared at them and still refused to cry while my stereo continued to play in the background.

---

It would have made everything easier if I'd just remade my world into black and white and tried to stop seeing Scott's damned colors. If I could hate Jean cleanly instead of seeing her at eighteen being afraid to dance because she didn't want the emotions of others filling her. Not wanting touch.

It's hard to see someone else as yourself. Harder to hate it.

Logan unexpectedly asked me to lunch when I forgot to avoid him and we took a picnic into the Great Outdoors and I mused on the fact that I was getting to know the woods way too well.

We chatted about something and I didn't smell Jean on him, which made my conversation a hell of a lot better.

"Did you like your last trip? What did you do?"

It could have been last year, sitting with him and asking about his life outside the mansion, the life I wasn't going to get to have. He could. I couldn't. Possibly not ever. Logan leaned on an elbow and told me.

"Fought." A wolfish grin and I laughed. "Nothing interesting. Just moving."

I finished off my sandwich and wiped my fingers on the blanket, reaching for the thermos I'd absconded with from the kitchen.

"You know why Ororo's so pissed?"

Wow. Just like him, though--throw it out like a bomb and wait for the reaction. Studied indifference, like it didn't mean a damned thing, but since he hadn't asked why half the school was avoiding him, I knew it had b othered him. A lot. And I reviewed what I knew to date and just smiled a little. Ororo was Jean's friend first, but that maybe didn't mean she couldn't go in the Marie-category of friends too. And I laughed to myself that I was blurring the lines again.

My world would never be black and white again.

"I'll talk to her."

He bristled, which I should have expected.

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me, darlin'."

I remembered the first time he called me that, how the chill had gone down my back and I wanted to hear him say it again. And my smile faded when I remembered seeing him in Jean's lab earlier that day and heard him call her Jeanie and saw her smile.

"I'll tell her that too, sugar." He looked startled suddenly and I wondered why. I checked my watch and realized it was my turn to feed the horses and I was late. "I gotta go, Logan. I'll see ya later, okay?"

"Yeah." He was still ruminating something--maybe Jean's latest lingerie, who knew--and I started packing up. He helped, which was unusual, but the brush of his hands against my gloves still sent a tingle through me and I disliked myself for that.

For some reason, I thought of what Ororo had said to me days before, about Jean, about Logan--and something caught my tongue.

"Do you ever think about the future, Logan?"

It was on the edge of my mind, twisting into inevitable color, the thing I didn't want to think about.

Logan would hurt. He'd hurt a lot. I stared into the friendly hazel eyes and tried to catch my breath. Hell, I wasn't sure how I'd feel when it happened. Happy? Ecstatic? That didn't sound right in my head, like it should.

"Not really." That steady gaze was still fixed on me, but I couldn't concentrate on it, on anything but the painful swirl of understanding coming to life inside of me.

He loved her. Not just sex or attraction or even some sort of twisted need that would burn itself out given time. I had him in my head, all of him, all those complex and endlessly frustrating feelings, but it was genuine and the real thing and--and he'd hurt.

And if what I wanted--them apart--if I got my wish--God--

"Have you?" he asked, and his complete attention on my face startled me--but not enough to dispel the thoughts that were all so new. All yellows and sick greens edged with grey.

Colors.

"I have," I whispered, staring at him. Taking in the face, the lean body, the general good humor that she brought out in him. Began to talk again--about the future, I guess, I'm not sure, I just needed the words. I pushed everything back in the bag and got to my feet, a little unsteady.

She made him happy. And I was the one who wanted it all shattered, so I could have him myself. What the hell was I, to want to see him lose her, lose this feeling, lose that happiness when he'd had so little in his life?

"I'll see you later." Logan got to his feet, looking startled, maybe even worried, but I couldn't handle that now, not with this too.

I didn't like colors. I hated colors.

When I got to my room, I dug out the tags and stared at them in my hand for a minute, shaking.

I left them on Jean's desk. She'd find them in the morning. Hell, maybe she'd even know what they meant.

---

Scott didn't look surprised when I ambushed him that night. Green pajama bottoms, clean white t-shirt that looked vaguely starched, without a crease. Stood up when I came in and slammed the door behind me, pacing to the center of the room, pinning him with a glare.

The radio was on country music again. Masochism at its finest.

"Fuck you, Cyke. I hate you almost as much as I hate them."

He regarded me calmly for a minute, then motioned me to sit. I stood, childish, defiant, angry as all hell.

"Rogue--"

"I didn't want that! Why the hell couldn't you leave it the way it was? I didn't want to--" I didn't want to know Jean wasn't evil, I didn't want to know that Logan would be hurt, I didn't want to look at Scott and see a person who could hurt as deeply as I could, even if he could hide it better.

Black and white didn't hurt this much.

And he understood. Without me even needing to say the words.

I didn't want to sit down on his bed and cry but I did. I cried on his perfectly made bed and he sat down beside me and slid his arms around me and held me, while I tried to gain some measure of control.

"Now you know why I won't say anything." A whisper and he stroked my hair back, lifted my head to look in my eyes. "Everything we do has consequences, Rogue. For someone else, not just ourselves.

"I don't like colors." I was a kid being comforted by the only stable adult in my life. For the first time, I understood him. Understood where all that control and that quiet strength came from--he didn't have a choice.

"That's the difference between being a kid and being an adult. You don't have the luxury of screaming about the unfairness when you can see why it's unfair no matter what you do. And when you can see consequences and realize you can't make it any better if you jump in."

"She'll hurt him." If she leaves, when she leaves, when she walks out as easily as she walked in, having found whatever the hell she was looking for. And she was eighteen and scared to be touched and Scott was trying to teach her to dance and not let her feel what he felt, so she'd have one person she wasn't afraid of, one person she could trust.

How can you hate that? How do you even try?

"And he'll hurt her, if he leaves. I don't hate him, Rogue. I understand him--and it's easier to hate what you don't understand."

We preach that, we mutants. It bites you in the ass, though, when you gotta apply it to your life and not to pretty theories at large conventions. All that fucking understanding and looking past the obvious and the crap we say and really believe in our hearts until the very second we have to put it into practice. I shifted to look at him--really look this time, to see the perfect, painful understanding on his face that what we both wanted would rip apart the people we loved.

We stared at each other--and I felt my fingers untie my scarf, shaking it out a little, and he took it from my hands, looking down at it. A moment that it seemed enough to believe we could let go--just believe we could, whether or not we actually would.

"In color," I said softly, and he understood. Lifted it up over my face, leaned to kiss me, and--

--it was as natural as anything else--more natural than Remy or Bobby had ever been, no awkwardness, no uncertainty.

It was so gentle--just pressure from the warm lips on the other side of the material. Then a little more, and fingers laced through my hair and tilted my head a little and his tongue brushed over my mouth, opening it softly, easily sliding over my lip. A slow, gentle taste, silky smooth and I forgot all about the fabric and the difference that I couldn't even remember anymore when I began to kiss him back.

It wasn't anything more than that--this delicious, long, slow kiss that took my breath and my thinking, and I wasn't worrying about him touching me or if he'd dislike the feel of leather on his skin when I touched him. His hands left my hair, going to my lap, taking my fingers in his. Lifting them so I touched his face--and I did, tracing the lines of his cheeks, his hair, thinking about all the power behind his glasses and not even caring. Sliding my arms over his shoulders and sliding against him and he pressed me back on his bed and the feel of his body was--

--it was so right.

He lifted his head, looking down at me and I stared up, fingers tracing the line of his glasses against his head. Raising himself on an elbow, and I knew I'd just blurred my lines again and he was a new color for me now, no matter what. Then smiled, a different smile, and it was completely for me and I'd made him smile like that--I meant something to him. Then leaned down, tasting me again--kissed me until we both could barely even think and he shook his head when I awkwardly thought I should leave and I went to sleep beside him with while the radio played in the background.

---

Logan met me for lunch--not exactly by invitation, but when my heart thumped, I figured this would work just as well. We raided the fridge and settled at the kitchen table with cold chicken, a loaf of bread, and some butter. I pulled on my gloves--habit, more than anything--before I started hunting for edibles.

Neither of us were fond of vegetables. So those were sadly lacking.

And we chatted. It was odd, how simple it was, like nothing had changed, so different from the last two times. He asked me about my day and actually seemed interested to know that my classes were going well, though--though every once in awhile I'd catch a glance from him, and I couldn't read it at all.

"I'd like to learn to drive that damned bike," I told him, maybe a little plaintively, because he chuckled.

"Do you even have a license yet?"

Details, details.

"Not yet." I put down the chicken leg (now bone) and we both went for the last piece of bread. I got it first and probably looked as smug as I felt. He growled at me and started laughing when I growled back--I can growl and damn well.

"I'll take you out tomorrow afternoon, if you want to learn," he said finally, pushing the plate back. "If you can manage not to wreck the damn thing."

"I'm not the one that went through his windshield like a bullet, sugar," I answered, leaning back in my chair and bracing a leg on the edge of the table, cradling the beer he let me grab from the back of the fridge. One of his. "Before you start castin' aspersions on my driving, check your own."

"Fuck you, darlin'."

"Hate the truth, doncha?" I didn't know where all this good humor was coming from--and I leaned closer to take another piece of chicken and something crossed his face and he caught my hand. And even when he pulled it, I didn't really get what was wrong--

--and it took a second to recognize I'd grabbed the gloves I'd worn yesterday. Last night.

He smelled Scott on them. A lot of Scott.

I schooled my face to confusion, my heart beating so hard I could hear it echo in my ears. "What's wrong?"

The real question was actually--why the hell do you care?

Logan didn't answer for a minute, then dropped my hand like it burned and I grabbed the chicken, lacking anything better to do. And for some reason, I couldn't read the expression on his face.

"How're you and Remy?"

The jump in subject was startling and I tried to get my mind back in place but--but--

"Fine, I guess."

I wasn't sure. I should have talked to him. Maybe considered going by and telling him goodbye, see ya, but this isn't working, and God, I'm sorry I fucked you and did it for all the wrong reasons. I'm sorry you loved me and I used that when I was looking for a way to escape my own life.

Maybe drop off another necklace and get as free as I could.

"Logan?"

It was her scent, her voice, and my body went completely still when she came up behind me.

"Hey, Jeanie."

It shocked me, how much it could hurt, even without hate. Maybe because of it. Maybe because there wasn't anyone to blame now. No one I could turn on and scream it was all their fault.

Nothing except a pile of what-might-have-beens surrounding me in a nasty haze of colors I was tired of seeing.

It's strange, but until that point I'd managed to avoid seeing them together--really, er--together. As a couple. Oh, I had the glimpses, and those were enough--but I hadn't seen this. Not the way the brown eyes warmed, not the way Jean moved toward him, not even registering I was there. And--and it wasn't like he jumped up and kissed her or anything overt happened--she just brushed her hand across his shoulder and his entire focus shifted to her, completely and absolutely and--and now I understood how the moon felt when the sun came out.

Like I wasn't there at all.

At first, I didn't even think they noticed me leave. But as I opened the door, I caught Logan's eyes on me again, before Jean stepped between us.

---

I found Scott alone in the conference room. It was suddenly awkward and I stayed at the door as he cleaned up the papers and switched off devices and generally did normal-Scott things that would have fooled me a long time ago into believing that was all there was to him.

So I didn't say anything at first, just watched him move. The neat precision, the calm arrangements--shelving this, considering where that item would go, putting it all in place. Any day at the Mansion, nothing changed except everything.

One day, I wanted to ask him why. What happened in their room that nasty night that screwed up everything for us. Hell, I wanted to ask her that too, get a glimpse of her eyes when they looked into Logan's and see if they were like his.

I took in his appearance, neat as always--an uncreased black turtleneck and khaki pants. Perfectly clean shoes, probably immaculate white socks. I watched him place both hands on the conference room table and lower his head for a minute, taking a breath, and I remembered his cool voice when he delivered the weekly update to all of us here this morning.

I remembered Jean reaching over to touch Logan's hand and the way his long fingers clenched behind his back, where only I could see it.

"Scott."

He didn't stiffen in surprise or even turn around, so maybe he knew I was there after all. The long fingers didn't move and I found myself looking at him, the slim body and the strong line of his jaw. And I found myself unwinding my scarf, running it between gloved fingers, slowly walking to stand beside him.

"Hey." His voice was low and I reached out and touched his cheek, wishing I could feel his skin. "You need anything, Rogue?"

"Not really. Are you okay?"

"Just tired." He smiled and it was so forced it hurt me to see it. Hurt me to think about it.

"Come on." I caught his hand and pulled it and he looked up, surprised. "It's late, you know. Tired is usually an indication that it's time for bed. So go."

A smile curved his mouth--a small one, but it was there, and he followed me out of the room. We took the stairs--which in retrospect probably wasn't the best idea, since the elevator let out on the other side of Logan's room, not requiring us to cross in front of the door.

And if we'd walked by three seconds later, we both could have probably dismissed it as imagination or even pretended we didn't hear. But I chose the stairs, Scott stole my scarf and made a run for it, and we both heard it when we skidded past Logan's door.

"God, Logan."

Through several walls, somehow it dims. It's a little more abstract, and it may sound odd, but you stop hearing it after awhile. But this wasn't dismissible or ignorable and Scott went completely and utterly tense beside me and stared at the door. It was the first time I forgot how hurt I was to see that hurt burned into him.

Everything he had never let me see before, I saw in that second, an instant before it was gone. Everything that as Leader he couldn't afford to ever act on, that he could never say, and I realized that no matter how much color I saw, he saw more. He saw every possible complication and ever possible problem and in the space of a second he turned away as Scott and walked to his room and gave me a nod before he shut the door.

I stood in the hall, scarf forgotten in my hand, but there weren't any more sounds, like we were only meant to hear that one and no more.

Like destiny or something.

Well, fuck destiny. It'd screwed with me long enough.

---

Maybe he expected me, I don't know. Two hours later, in my favorite flannel pajamas, gloved hands, standing at his door like any waif on the street and he was in red tonight and let me in and closed the door behind me. I took my place on the obsessively neat bed and waited for him to sit and we looked at each other.

"What if it isn't always in color, Scott?" I asked him, and he looked at me and he wasn't even surprised.

"Rogue--."

I unwound my scarf from my pocket and put it on the bed.

"Black and white for one night," I told him, trying to keep the shaking out of my voice. Trying to keep my hands still, slow the beating of my heart. Hoping I wasn't wrong, feeling the sweat break out on my palms, feeling sick and scared and higher than I can ever remember.

He didn't move, didn't even breathe I think.

"Rogue--"

"Just say yes or no. One or the other. Don't complicate it. Don't rationalize it."

It was a long moment before he stood up and walked to the door and everything twisted in me, but all he did was stop and ask me to turn on the lamp. With shaking fingers, I did, and he flipped the light off and sat down beside me.

"You need gloves."

He smiled then, something in his face that had nothing to do with Jean or Logan, something I had put there that blocked it, at least for a little while. At least for now. Still looking at me, he stood up, walking to the dresser, finding what he wanted by touch, as anyone could expect of Scott, so organized. Pulled the soft gloves on he'd used when he was training me years ago, still watching me while I played with the scarf and tried to breathe through the sheer shock of what I was doing and why I was doing it.

When he sat down, I lifted the scarf and he took my face in his hands and kissed me--no different from the night before, just as gentle, just as sweet, just as addictive. Followed the line of bones on my face, the curve of my ear, down my neck to my shoulder. Found the edge of the nylon bodysuit I wore and then--then he laughed and looked at me with this wonderful smile that took my breath away completely.

"You're prepared."

"I learned from the best."

He kissed me again, sliding his hands over my shoulders, shifting closer, his tongue tracing the interior of my mouth slowly, patiently, as if he was tasting something sweet. Looked at me again, before dropping his fingers to the front of my pajama jacket and unbuttoning it, watching my face to make sure it was okay. Always careful, always Scott right down to the tips of the fingers that traced my skin over the nylon, slipping it off my shoulders and looking at me.

Then dropped the scarf and kissed me, hard, and I shut my eyes in shock and almost pulled away, but he was already moving back--and in my head there was nothing of Jean or Logan or anything else--but just me. How much he wanted me, how I tasted and smelled--things that made my breath catch.

"So you know for sure," he said softly when I looked at him again, eyes wide. "Nothing else."

Then he kissed me again, fine silk between us, and I raised my hands to touch him--finally. Feel the lines of muscle in the slim body, the strength I'd relied on more often than I hadn't, slipping my hands down to the hem of his shirt and pulling it up. He let me, moving back when he had to, then taking my face between his hands to kiss me again, press me back onto the bed, the comforter soft against my back, and cool before my skin warmed it.

Easily, he sat up, letting me slide the pajamas down off my hips with shaking hands, raising himself on one elbow beside me when I turned on my side to face him, kissing me again and I forgot all about the fabric that had to cover me to protect him, forgot everything else in the damned world when he drew his fingertips down my chest, traced my stomach, then skipped back up to cup my breast, so lightly, so gently.

Then he leaned down and silky blonde hair brushed my chin when he licked the tip of one nipple. I shuddered and slid on my back and he followed, one hand catching mine and our fingers lacing together, his arm supporting him when he nipped me lightly, sending something hot through my body that was as different from Remy and Bobby as--well, as night from day. Slipping to the other breast, taking his time between them, feeling his breath shorten against me before he traced down onto my stomach and too near my bare legs.

"Scott."

He flashed up a grin so brilliant the words died in my throat. I had never made anyone look at me like that before.

"Don't worry."

I stared up at the ceiling when he positioned my legs, and I felt the silky brush of his hair against the bare skin of my thighs. Then--then everything just changed when he parted me through the thin nylon and I felt the brush of his tongue.

"Scott," I whispered on a gasp. Desperately, I locked my legs in place, trying to breathe through the sudden heat that strengthened with every brush of his tongue through the thin cloth, every slide, and I fought to be careful, felt his gloved hands on my thighs, and arched into him. To everything he made me feel and the sparks of light that danced in front of my eyes. "God, Scott, please, yes, please--" I know I said more, probably a lot more, but that's the only things that made any sense. And I felt him slip back up my body and I ground against him when he found my mouth through the scarf, fingers digging into his back, swallowed his groan and--God, I was doing this. I was making him whisper my name like that. Run his fingers through my hair and kiss me again as if he'd never do anything else. As if he never wanted to do anything else, not ever. And--

And I laughed when he kissed me and it was so good--it was everything this was supposed to be, that it had never been before, not in reality, not in borrowed memory. No guilt or anger and nothing in it edged with bitter regret. I stared up at him when he traced my face with the tips of his fingers.

"Do you have--"

"In the drawer."

Always prepared.

I pushed him on his back and laughed when I looked down at him and he slid his hands over my hips and thighs. Smiled up at me, slightly flushed, very aroused when I rocked into him again, watching his breath catch and the tightening of his shoulders beneath my hands.

I twisted to open the drawer, felt him sit up and his mouth fastened on my breast and I gasped and he laughed again and grinned up at me when I dropped the condom on the bed.

"You're good at this," I told him, bracing myself on my arms and staring down.

"I'm very flexible."

"Even better."

It was a simple matter to unlace the top of his pajamas, red plaid that I might end up with a fetish for, finding the opening in the shorts and carefully sliding the condom on. Feeling his eyes on me when I did it, letting him roll me on my back and I moved my legs and stared up at him, wetting my lips when his smile faded and the look on his face changed before he moved into me in one hard thrust that took my breath.

"Scott."

And he smiled a little, but pulled the scarf between us to kiss me again, rocked out of me only to slide in again, making me bite his tongue through the silk, hearing another groan out of him and gripping his back, moving up against him with every thrust.

And everything suddenly became the grip of my fingers on his back, the only anchor I had, and the feel of his lips on mine and the heat that was burning all the way through me. The smell of his arousal and my own, the way he braced an elbow by my face and lifted his head to look in my eyes and I knew I was so close--and he was taking me there.

"Come on, Rogue, please, let me--" It was a staccato rush against my cheek, another long thrust that jerked my body, shot tiny stars in front of my eyes.

"Scott, please, I'm--don't stop, God, please--" Please don't stop. Nothing had prepared me for this.

"God, Rogue, yes, good, come on, look at me, Rogue, please--"

I stared up into the smooth glass, feeling the knots in my body twist so tight I was shaking with it and I knew--it was so close--

"Yes, Scott, please,--yes, that's it, I can--I can--"

"I'm here, Rogue, come on, I'll--Rogue--" And he cupped my face to look at me, stare in my eyes when I began to shake and I know I screamed something when it happened, the heat running all the way through me to my toes, and I couldn't see anything at all and I bit his shoulder through the scarf, feeling the break of skin and his groan and suddenly he shouted something--I couldn't understand it--and he lay still on top of me and I stroked his hair while the sparks still danced in front of my eyes.

"God," he whispered into my hair. I turned my head, carefully, and he met my eyes. He licked his lips, pulled my scarf over to kiss me again, rolling on his side and taking me with him, holding me close. "Rogue--"

No one had ever said my name like that. He breathed out sharply, and I felt his body relax against mine.

"Go to sleep," I whispered. A smile turned his lips.

"I'm not that rude. Move over and I'll pull down the covers."

I giggled and did so and he pulled the red pajamas pants back on--hell, I was going to get a fetish now--and we slid under the blankets. And as my eyes closed sleepily, he turned me over and curled around my back, one arm around my waist, the other above my head, his breath warm on my hair.

And I laced my fingers through his against my stomach and fell asleep too.

---

Logan was sitting outside with a cigar. Not unusual in itself. Sitting alone--again, not something that should surprise me. Logan isn't social. Logan, in fact, lurks in that nebulous space between anti-social and absolute isolationistic.

On a good day.

What tipped me off that Something Had Happened was the way he looked at me when I came into range. A long look, studying me, face unnaturally blank, and I took that in for a second before venturing a word.

"Hey, Logan." And if my voice was as casual as I wanted it to be, it must have been a miracle.

His expression didn't change. If anything, it intensified as his eyes went down my body and it was strange, that it felt like he was touching me when he did it. Like he was looking for something on me.

"Rogue."

He never called me that. I took in the scent and my body tensed at what I was picking up from him from seven feet away. I stood still for a second, staring at him, trying to think what possibly could have pissed him off. Because he was pissed. Not angry, not mad, not annoyed--he was hitting Magneto-level intensity just in the way his body moved, a body I knew almost as well as my own.

Hell, in some ways, better.

"You weren't at breakfast," he commented rather mildly--deceptively mild, in fact. Little alarms went off in my head. Breakfast--yeah, that was because I snuck down much earlier and Scott and I had some interesting experiments with fruit this morning. But that was neither here nor there.

Or anywhere. Or anything I should be thinking about right now. Logan knew me probably better than anyone else.

"I went early." I felt like I was walking on a minefield. Logan has that effect on people.

"I was down at six. You weren't there."

Why the hell was he up at six?

"I stopped by your room to see if you were up--"

Oh fucking hell--

"And you weren't there."

Silence. He let me stand there like an idiot, grasping for some sort of explanation as far from the truth as I could manage and still get away with it. Which wasn't much, because while Logan may not be perceptive, he's as far from an idiot as anyone I've ever met when he gets his full attention on something. And I had his full attention and I'd give away the lie with every word I stammered.

"I was--" I was what? Hunting? Playing chess downstairs? Practicing my backhand on the tennis court? Riding? Showering? It'd never occurred to me--hindsight is a nasty thing--that I'd ever have to account for my whereabouts. When the hell did he start getting so interested in what I did, anyway?

"Remy was looking for you too."

There was a picture I didn't need--Logan and Remy looking around the Mansion while I was in the one place neither of them would suspect. I took a breath. Let it out slowly. Carefully. One of the colors I'd avoided last night.

"You checking up on me now, Logan?" Take the ball to the other court. God knew, I sure as hell didn't have much choice in the matter. Dark eyes narrowed dangerously and I suddenly wondered if it showed on my face. I'd showered, and I thanked God for that, utter and complete gratitude because I didn't want to know what he would say if he smelled Scott on me.

He dropped the cigar, grinding it into the dirt with some relish. From the way he looked at it, he could have well been visualizing my head.

Why the fuck this morning, of all mornings, why the hell--Rogue. Rogue--and it hit me, with all the subtlety of a freight train, and why the hell didn't I even consider it--

He'd heard. Oh God, he'd heard. Logan, with that wonderful sensitive hearing of his that made me want to just sit down and close my eyes and hope this would all go away.

"It's none of your business."

It was disconcerting when he winced and I covered my mouth with my hand and shut my eyes. It wasn't black and white anymore. And it--

"Logan--"

"You're right. It's none of my fucking business."

Damn, damn, damn.

"When did you start caring about my social life?" I shot back, suddenly unwilling to let him leave like that--why the hell was he so upset, anyway? He knew I was dating Remy, knew perfectly well I wasn't exactly being chaste.

God, I felt like I'd cheated on Logan, not Remy.

He turned, walking by me toward the trees, and less than three feet away, he stopped, not looking at me.

"You still smell like him."

There was nothing I could say to that. Nothing I could even think, and before I could manage to piece together something comprehensible, he was out of range.

Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Unbreathing, I watched that painfully familiar stride that expressed what he would never say verbally. Hell, better than anyone could express verbally. And I stood on the porch, hands shaking, trying to breathe through what I'd done.

If Logan had heard--

--this day could only get worse, I knew it.

I walked in quickly, knowing where I'd find Scott, and heard their voices before I even got near enough to see them.

"You don't have the right to ask about my personal life, Jean. Nor to question me on who."

Calm and unruffled as ever. He could have been discussing the menu for next week. I checked myself at the door, taking a breath, unwilling to trust myself around a telepath--I knew the vague mechanics of shielding, but I'd never practiced it and I didn't think this situation would be the time to turn theory into practice.

"Scott--"

And it was in her voice, whether he realized it or not. Like Logan's, like some kind of fucking betrayal--like they had the damned right to feel betrayed. Like Scott and I hadn't been screwed over three ways from Sunday.

But Logan hadn't told Jean yet. Not all of it. Because Jean still lacked my name. And my mind filed that away for future leisure reference and came back to the situation at hand.

"I'm busy, Jean. I have a class." I heard him shuffle some papers and ducked back into the hall, looking for somewhere to hide.

"We need to talk."

And it was strange, that even as desperately searching for hiding as I was, I could feel the tension. Even smell it, in a vague sort of way that Logan probably would have been able to identify if he'd been here.

"Another time, Jean. I'll see you later."

I heard his footsteps in the hall, but not hers. Waited around the corner, checking to see him go in the elevator and ducking back out of sight. Listened for Jean, who still didn't come out.

And suddenly wondered, really in retrospect, why the hell I was so worried about it.

---

I left Remy's necklace on his desk and it was over, as simple as that.

No, shit, it wasn't simple--I wanted it to be though, which shows that my education hadn't extended far enough to remove the rest of the monochrome. It was a nightmare that I hated to remember. It was looking into his eyes and acknowledging a lie that'd I'd never spoken.

It was playing the proxy of Jean with Remy standing in as Logan, and there was another color in my life called shame, and when I saw Jean sitting with Ororo at lunch, I knew I didn't hate her anymore, even if I wanted to.

I finally got to be her. It wasn't what it was cracked up to be.

"Don't look like that."

Scott sat down across from me, and maybe it should have annoyed me he seemed to be eating with the same appetite as always. I checked what he chose--salad and apple pie and that sensible glass of milk, possibly for its calcium value--then glanced at the steak on my plate that had been addictive on sight yet I'd barely touched since sitting down. I pushed some green beans across to sit in artistic parallel with the mashed potatoes and considered telling him that there was something about the world that was very wrong when you were in love with someone and couldn't hate their lover.

"Don't look like what?" I frowned at him, putting down my fork before I began to use it to stab the meat again.

"Like you deserve a scarlet letter. Stand up on the tables and announce it if it will make you feel better." He took a neat bite of salad but I caught his smile and couldn't help returning it.

"It's been awhile since lit class, Scott."

"For you. I have to read the book every year. I can quote it."

"You have quoted it. In normal conversation."

Another quick grin. I noticed the fact his back was to Jean and Ororo--and I noted Jean's eyes were on him.

"What happened with Jean this morning?" He looked up and damn him if he looked completely unsurprised by my question.

"Just curiosity." Back to his lunch.

"That's not what it sounded like to me."

Both eyebrows jumped but he took another forkful of salad and how the hell did he eat at a time like this, anyway?

"She's very--"

"Logan asked me." I thought about that, about what he actually hadn't asked. "Sort of. In his Logan way."

Now I had his interest, and I couldn't figure out why. Thoughtfully, he finished the mouthful and glanced down at the croutons. I looked at them too, but they just didn't seem unusual enough to really warrant that much interest. Stale bread. Call it whatever you want, it's stale bread in a square shape. With seasoning.

"What did you tell him?" There was something unusual in his voice, not quite curiosity, not quite interest--not quite hope. Not quite anything I could identify easily and I gave up trying.

And why the hell was I worried about that, anyway? I picked up my fork and poked the steak.

"It's already dead, Rogue." He sounded amused. "Well?"

"Nothing." I swallowed, staring down at the steak like it was an enemy about to pounce. "He--he guessed. Are you going to tell Jean?" I was playing defensive today.

He shook his head.

"No." No explanation necessary, thank you. I poked my steak and finally picked up my knife.

"Remy came by my office a few minutes ago."

There comes a time in your life where you have to face the surreality of your existence. This was one of those times. When your ex goes to talk to the guy you just slept with while you've been obsessing over the guy you're in love with.

And the knife fell and I looked up, saw Scott's eyes fixed on me, concerned. Only a few shreds of lettuce and carrots were left on his plate, alongside the lone crouton I'd been looking at. I looked at it again and it was still stale bread, but it was better than facing that cool regard.

"You want to talk about it?"

Talk about it? I didn't even want to think about it anymore. Another mess of colors I was leaving to fate to clean up for me.

"Is that why you're here?" I asked shortly, got my knife, and cut off a piece of meat. Speared it on my fork with Loganish intensity, chewed rebelliously. I was hungry. That was it.

"No. It's lunch." He placed the salad plate back on the tray and took the pie. Looked at it, then sighed. "Rogue, don't be so defensive. I'm not trying to pry."

I looked at him in disbelief.

"Since when?"

His head came up sharply and he stared at me for a moment--and he laughed, and it jerked more than a few heads around to stare at Scott laughing at me.

Including Jean's.

"I deserved that." He utilized his napkin and dropped it on the plate, tacitly agreeing to leave the subject of Remy and my former relationship alone. "Actually, I came in here to see if you wanted to go into town this afternoon. I've got some errands to run and I thought you'd like to go shopping."

Actually, that wasn't a bad idea at all and I cut another piece of meat in a less aggressive frame of mind.

"All right."

---

Logan met me for lunch the next day and it was like nothing had happened.

He just caught me before I even got a real chance to go for food and asked if I wanted to eat in town. And it was probably shock that made me say yes--oh hell, lying to myself is an art I haven't quite mastered. If he was willing to forget the entirety of the day before, I was nakedly desperate to do the same thing. So nakedly that I wondered if he could even guess the reason why.

As I said, particularly perceptive he is not. But nor is he stupid.

We had hamburgers and Logan did something as unLoganish as anything I'd ever witnessed. He began to talk. Without questions, prodding, Marie-type nagging. Told me about some of his activities while he was away. Told me about Canada and how he'd visited Calgary this last time and told me about how high the snow had been on the roads and trying to get the bike through it.

"I wish I could have seen it." My voice sounded wistful even to me. Imagining the high snow, the cold, the unsettled lengths of it that must have felt like they went on forever. I took another bite and played idly with the fries remaining on my plate.

When I glanced at him, there was a look of startling intensity that I couldn't identify before it was gone and he shook himself.

"You've seen snow."

"Not like that." I remembered a childhood dream--what, three, four years ago? God, it seemed like a long time since Cody and tracing that map with my fingers. "New York, Niagara Falls, Toronto, Calgary, Anchorage." It was a murmur, more to myself than anything. It'd been my litany a long time ago--hitching rides between places, drawn steadily north like a magnet dragged me, following the route that I'd planned before I knew what I was.

Logan was quiet for a moment, looking inscrutable and I wondered if he was thinking of Jean.

"Why Canada? I've been there, darlin', and there ain't that much to see."

I rested my chin on my hand, abandoning the hamburger's remains to consider the question.

"Because it was an adventure, I suppose."

"No." A pause. "What you were doing in Laughlin."

Shit. I blinked, stammering out something, reaching for my drink, unnerved that I didn't have an answer--even more unnerved that he'd asked the question. His hand caught mine inches from my soda, and I set my teeth at the rush it still gave me when he touched me--every time. Nothing had diminished it.

"I don't know." And I didn't. But he didn't let go, as I almost expected, didn't draw away in confusion or try to evade the sticky slope of emotional mud--hell, he started this one.

"Familiar?" It was soft and I didn't expect it, didn't know what to say. "Something normal. Something that made sense, that linked you to who you were."

To that little girl in that room, tracing a map and a different life completely. A girl who didn't have to wear gloves and scarves and long for touch, the thing she wanted most now that she couldn't have it.

"Yeah," I whispered.

And he was looking at me again and I thought--God, I thought I could finally understand what was behind his eyes if I just had enough time--and then he let go and it was gone, shattered, and I pulled my hand back quickly. Grabbed my cup and took a cooling drink while he started putting all the leftovers on the tray beside us.

---

Remy hung around me like a bad odor and Scott--well, Scott was Scott, and he didn't wince when he saw Jean and Logan together anymore. And if I hadn't known him, if he hadn't changed so much in my mind, I never would have saw the signs of stress around his mouth and the way his smile never seemed quite as natural as it once had been.

If no one else would ever guess what it cost him every day, I did. And I knew better than to ever let him see I knew.

That night, we took a pillow and two blankets outside--and what was it with me and the Great Outdoors, anyway?--and he made love to me under the moon.

"So you ever going to tell me exactly what drew you to Jean?"

I think we were pretty damn healthy, actually. These were Adult Discussion Topics. We just happened to be mostly naked and post-orgasmic when we discussed.

"You mean you're not going to accuse me of falling for her looks?" Scott lifted himself on his elbow to look at me and I blew a breath out in disbelief.

"I know you better than that."

"Hmm. Well, actually, it was a lot of things--her calm, for one." He gave me a rueful smile. "I wasn't always--as stable as I am now."

I got the oddest images of Scott in black leather on a Harley, something from 'Rebel Without a Cause'. Then shook my head quickly. The unlikelihood was astounding.

"You're kidding."

"Well, despite popular belief that I was artificially grown, not raised, I had a relatively normal childhood."

"Until the change."

"That's a very diplomatic way of putting it, Rogue. I'm impressed." He shook his head. "Anyway, when I got here, Jean was here too." He slid onto his back, staring up at the sky. "I don't know--it was everything about her, I guess. Not one thing or even all, because she annoyed me too." A twitching of his lips. "We fought a lot."

I tried to imagine that. And while the leather and motorcycle were amusing but unlikely, Scott fighting with Jean was something I couldn't even comprehend. Absently, I traced the line of his arm with one finger, thinking.

"So?"

I started a little.

"So?"

He smirked--he does a very passable smirk--and caught my hand.

"Tell me about Logan."

Oh damn. Well, I walked right into that one.

"I don't know." I'd never actually sat down and quantified my emotions--that's not something I do. When you're carrying around extra memories, examining your emotional reactions is secondary to controlling them. And the three men who inhabited my head hadn't exactly been the most in-touch-with-their-feelings people I'd ever run across. "Because he cared, I guess. No one had in a long time."

By the look on Scott's face, that wasn't going to cut it. I rolled on my side, tucking my arm under my head, and prepared to take a trip through my own brain.

"When we met--I guess you know about that, right?" Scott nodded and I blew out a breath, half-wishing I could just retell that and let him make something out of it. "He didn't leave."

I reconsidered the statement under Scott's curious gaze. As if he was really interested. As if it was important to know.

"It was--I felt safe." The utter disbelief was written on Scott's face so clearly I hit his shoulder. "Don't look like that. I didn't even know him and I felt completely safe. And--that wasn't natural for him, what he did for me. Not then--maybe even not now. But he did it. And there's the whole saving my life bit, which I guess would lead to a definite rush of feeling."

"That's gratitude, not love."

I snorted softly, caught a piece of my hair to twist nervously.

"Isn't it? It's--it's just him." What the hell was it? Two years ago Scott had made us all write essays on love sonnets and I'd worked on mine for days, trying to define something that no one had successfully defined in history, wondered why the hell he thought a class of mutants could manage what a few thousand centuries of human civilization had not. "The way he can smile when he wants to, the way he tries so hard to break out of what he's been all these years." Thinking of all the things that annoyed me about him--his temper, his lack of patience, his intense, almost pathological need for control, his arrogance--and he was among the most arrogant people I've ever met. That perfect surety he carried like a cloak--I looked at Scott for a minute. "Just everything. Even the things I don't like."

I couldn't explain it any better than that--because he was the first person to voluntarily touch me, because he talked to me, because I knew him like I would never know anyone else--because he'd given me something that no one else ever could, ever thought about, ever wanted to.

Acceptance. Perfect, unasking acceptance, of who I was, of what I was, of everything I'd ever be. Because with him, it was always enough that I was Marie.

Scott nodded slowly, maybe understanding the things I didn't say, that didn't translate into words. Maybe not.

"I can see why you two don't get along," I tossed out, just to see him jerk a little.

"Besides the obvious?" There was an edge in his voice. I simply grinned.

"You're a lot alike.

I had his full attention and Scott sat straight up. I also had genuinely shocked him, and that was fun as all hell. And I laughed at the expression on Scott's face.

"That's not true."

Sometimes Scott doesn't see colors either.

"Arrogant, strong, confident, demanding, not easily cowed, not easily impressed, reserved--do I need a categorical list?" I couldn't stop my smile--Scott was torn between looking offended to looking just--well, like someone had taken a hammer to his skull. I'd guess behind the glasses there would be that deer in headlights expression.

What was really getting to him was he really couldn't deny any of the similarities--once they were sitting in front of him. But he was trying.

"He's rude. He's violent. He's--"

"Logan. The product of a different kind of life." I considered the man in front of me, coming to an interesting conclusion. Best keep that to myself. "I'm not saying you're twins, Scott, so cool down. I'm just wondering if most of your problems stem from the fact that you are so much alike. You just channel your--characteristics--differently, that's all."

He laid back down and looked at me.

"And this is supposed to help me sleep?"

Before he could finish the sentence, I moved, slipping down on top of him and pinning his hands to the blanket. Heard his breath catch.

"Who said anything about sleep?"

---

Ororo was in her office.

I'd been putting it off, not knowing what to say to her, since the last time we talked--not sure if she could read on my face what I'd been doing and considering how she felt about Jean and Logan--

--well, I didn't want to face her disapproval. I'm quite a coward, truth be told.

"Why aren't you talking to Logan?"

Serenely, she finished typing up whatever the hell she was typing and turned around to look at me. Still calm, still serene. Smiling gently.

"Perhaps we should have lunch." In a single graceful movement, she rose from her chair, saving her work, and dipped her hand into a drawer to pick up her keys.

Because I didn't have any better ideas, I followed her out.

It wasn't until we were comfortably seated in the car going down the road toward town that Ororo spoke again.

"I think they have made a bad decision."

She wasn't the only one.

"It's their decision, Ororo." I sounded so wise--I wish I believed like I preached. Ororo touched the signal to make a left turn and looked at me as we paused at the stop sign.

"Yes, it is. That doesn't mean I have to approve of it."

I thought about that--that must hurt Jean a lot. She and Ororo were very close.

"Why not talk to Jean?"

Was I actually sitting here asking someone else to break them up? I bit my lip. Damned colors. Ororo gave me a sidelong look that I forced myself to ignore.

"He's happy." And I shut my mouth tight, tried again to get it out and mean it. "If they're happy--" Well then, if they were happy, fuck me and Scott and how we felt and what we went through watching them and wondering if maybe this would be the day we'd snap. "Well, that's all there is to it."

Her glance at me said more than words.

"You no longer have feelings for Logan?"

I winced and I knew she saw it.

"I love him." Softly. Staring straight ahead, not looking at her. "And--and if I love him, I gotta think of him, right? So yeah, I'd dance on the damned roof if he and Jean split up--but not if it's gonna rip him apart for me to get that wish." With no guarantee he'd ever come to me anyway--damn, that was a selfish thought. I shut my eyes briefly. Tried not to imagine what would happen when it did happen. If it did happen.

"You and Remy have parted?"

Changed subject. Ororo and Scott have a lot in common.

"Yes." No explanation, just like Scott.

"Rogue--" A pause, and I felt her eyes on me, studying intensely, and when I glanced over, I saw what she had yet to say reflected in her eyes. What she knew, what Scott and I were doing, how damned dangerous it was, screwing up an already bad situation. The stuff we were ignoring like there was no tomorrow to worry about.

"What?" I waited--wondering what she'd tell me, wondering if she disapproved, God, wondering if perhaps she'd tell Jean--not necessarily a bad thing. But she did none of those things. After a moment, her head turned and she watched the road again and I knew the subject had been closed. For now.

For Ororo, she was practically chatty during lunch and I almost forgot--almost being the operative word--that Ororo was rarely that simple until we in the driveway of the mansion and I saw Logan and Jean standing in the lawn.

"Damn." I didn't need this today and my cheer evaporated instantly. Ororo must have seen it, because she slowed the car. They didn't even notice us.

"Jean's upset." That was the first thing I noticed, and really, it shouldn't have suddenly elevated my mood. Fuck it, I'm human. Trouble in that little paradise was something that even colors couldn't make me dampen the sudden burst of sheer pleasure, and I didn't like myself any better for it.

"She's been--displeased--with the amount of time Logan spends with you." There was something carefully neutral in her voice that made me turn my head, wondering, and not for the first time, what was going on in her head. Ororo was a mystery, no question. I gave her a disbelieving look. I wouldn't think that, consider that, even try to examine it for all the interesting nuances that could be dragged out of a simple sentence. Those sort of thoughts led places I just couldn't stand to go anymore.

"Wait," Ororo whispered, turning the car into the garage when I began to get out prior to a full stop, so many kinds of against safety, but hey, I'm a poster-child for risk, so go figure. "Rogue--" she stopped short, staring at me again with that intense dark gaze, as if she was looking for something. "Watch what you do, child."

And that was all I got out of her. When I got in range, Jean was already gone--interesting--and Logan turned once he caught my scent. He didn't look particularly upset, smiling when he saw me, nothing shadowing his expression.

A smile just for me and I warmed to it.

"Where've you been?" He came up beside me, an arm over my shoulders--as per standard operating procedure--and I turned my head a little to see Ororo walk inside--maybe following Jean, maybe not.

"Oh--Ororo wanted to grab some lunch. Sorry." I considered, looking up at him with my brightest smile, trying to dismiss what Ororo had told me. "Wanna go for a ride, sugar?"

---

My relationship with Remy ended privately about a month before it ended publicly. And if you ask me the reason, I can't tell you--it wasn't that I tried to hide it was over. It just never occurred to me--I'd been distracted--and I'm not too good at facing things that I don't want to.

Everything else in my life seemed to be doing some really strange things, so it hadn't exactly taken top priority.

Logan met me for lunch on a daily basis, and something was up with him and I couldn't figure out what the hell it was. And it wasn't his behavior exactly--it was the way he watched me. And sometimes I'd wonder if he could get the scent of Scott off my skin or something, and I'd squirm and he'd jerk his gaze away, frowning, then return to normal, or close to it. And Jean looked less and less happy and I noticed that her eyes weren't just on Logan anymore--they were on Scott.

And sometimes, they were on me. And that confused me most of all.

Scott, who damn him could have calmly gone on teaching mutants and being a good administrator even if the world suddenly erupted into fire around him. Probably look at it calmly and then coolly tell us to get in a line and walk to the nearest shelter. Not run, because then we might trip, and no shoving and no pushing.

But the thing with Remy--well, it took backseat. Because I thought I'd been clear and relatively calm and--well, I left the necklace and I said the right things, or the clearest things in the right way. But he didn't get it--or at least, that's what I finally pried out of Scott that afternoon, just after Remy came in the kitchen to announce I was cheating on him. Loudly.

Ororo, Bobby, and Jubilee were the only witnesses. Only Bobby looked surprised. Jubes, as my roommate, was not. Later, Scott told me my face was the perfect color for a scarlet A. The wit of the man.

Luckily, the gods who watch over idiot mutant girls were kind and Logan and Jean were off doing something--and for the first time, I was utterly grateful for that fact, even if it hurt to think it. I remember leaving the kitchen, running into Scott and knocking him against the wall, and I remember crying.

My own little mess came back to haunt me. Everything in Remy's eyes, all that betrayal and anger and hurt that stuck straight down into the bone--that could be Logan. God.

I remember being put to bed and told to stay there, Scott running a calming hand across my hair before walking out. And I remember being so glad that he was going to handle it so I wouldn't have to face the looks of my two best friends, the questions, or worse yet, the sudden comprehension that probably one look at my face would bring.

"So it's you."

I woke up instantly to the sound of her voice, cool and utterly expressionless in the silent room. Pure Jean Grey all over again. In pure hindsight, it took a suspiciously long time for Jean to figure it out, and that, I think, is significant. For a lot of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that Logan still hadn't told her and to this day I have no idea why.

I think it was denial, on both their parts. Pure and simple.

I looked up from bed, saw from behind swollen eyes Jean sitting at Jubilee's desk. Beautiful, utterly composed, watching me from behind unreadable eyes, years of experience and control coming off her in waves, things I'd never have. And it took a moment to process, because nothing showed on her face and I felt the brush of her mind and all those theoretical lessons didn't work when you'd never used them--or even had the good sense to start using them before your mind had been touched. Lying was not an option. Or even close to an option. Even in the same city as an option. She watched me, probably saw the run of emotion across my face.

I didn't bother to answer, which was enough answer in itself.

"Why?"

It's funny, how your mind works--because that was the question I'd never really asked myself. The question with one obvious answer.

"Why do you care?"

Jean didn't answer and I hated the look on her face--I hated it because I remembered it on mine, what you had to feel like to have it, the way it twisted you inside. That she was beautiful and perfect and I couldn't hate her for it because she was as hurt as I was--maybe more. In ways I couldn't be--in ways that were foreign because I'd never had anyone to lose, I'd only had a dream that broke.

"I don't know."

Something in me--in that selfish part, in the part that wasn't quite as grown-up, quite as mature, quite as sensitive to color--something there twisted. Something that lifted its head in interest. Filed this memory away for future analysis.

No, no, no. I wouldn't think like that.

"Rogue--" she stopped, and her voice--God, it hurt to hear it. "Was it revenge?"

Revenge? For Scott, for me, for screwing around with the status quo and making life so damned complex, in a way it'd never been before?

"No."

She relaxed a little, but only a little, and I tried to read her face, tried to reach through the control she was still able to keep, find out what drew her here, besides knowing what was going on with me and Scott, besides perhaps some ex-fiancée angst over seeing the man you once loved with someone else--

Why'd you do it, Jean? I wanted to ask her, yell it at her, get up and just scream why she wanted it this way, when it didn't have to be. The part of me that was still too young and didn't understand anything except black and white. The part that wanted to believe so badly that one day, Logan would see me and want me the way I wanted him.

She stood up, and suddenly--and it was so unexpected it froze me in place--I wanted to run up to her, like I'd been able to before all this, tell her how many ways my life was screwed up. About the nightmare with Remy downstairs and the anger I felt that he'd done that and the guilt that I'd used him as a substitute and a way to take the pettiest of retaliations on a man who didn't want me--

But before I could do anything, say anything, she was gone, and I knew I saw her eyes were wet before the door closed.

When Scott sat on my bed an hour later and tried to understand why I was crying, I couldn't tell him, because I didn't know myself.

---

For two weeks, I kept to myself. And everyone blamed the Remy situation and to this day I have no idea if Logan ever found out the specifics--nor have I asked him, though I suspect that if he had, I would definitely know about it and so would the rest of the school. I was in the library or the Danger Room or curled up somewhere, surrounded by trees and water and air, trying to sort through my own head, trying to believe what I saw in Jean's eyes and hating myself for wanting so desperately for it to be true.

God, Logan would hurt. If it was true.

When he left, I thought the world ended.

It seemed funny to think like that. Funny, because time had brought a measure of acceptance--or so I told myself, strictly reminding myself of what would happen the day, the minute, the second, he and Jean ended. And I thought that it was fading, that rush of pain that still hit when I saw them together, when I thought about them together (which I still did more than was really healthy). But no amount of acceptance prepares you to wake up and have Scott's voice tell you Logan was gone and asking if you were okay.

She'd done it. That was the only explanation.

"Are he and Jean--did they--?" I half sat up, and Scott pushed me back down, absently brushing my hair out of my eyes. The lines around his mouth were tight, teeth clenched behind a tightly closed mouth. He hurt for her, even now, despite everything. Like I hurt for Logan.

"I don't think so."

I stared up at him for a minute, my mind blank. Wondering what had happened to make him run--from Jean of all people--how she must feel, what it could mean.

The possibilities were dizzying.

"Scott, do you believe in destiny?" It popped out of my mouth without checking in at my head, but it sounded right.

Sitting on the edge of his bed in the blue pajamas I had really learned to like, strained, tired, angry, he considered the question, like Scott always does, and gave me the answer I didn't expect, not from him. Though maybe I should have.

"Sometimes."

I thought about that. Thought about how it felt when he touched me and thought about how much I wanted Logan and knew Scott wanted Jean. Thought about the look on Jean's face in my room and which color meant I was doing the right thing, that meant that I wasn't doing this for every reason but the right one.

"Why don't you go talk to her?" It was a whisper.

He jerked around and looked at me and I saw his hands clench. Before he could say anything, I reached out, covering his fingers with mine, trying to remember what he'd told me about black and white and how everything had all these different colors that meant something. That meant a lot.

I wasn't doing it for the wrong reasons. I wasn't.

And I told myself that even after he left, staring at the ceiling because I knew I'd just signed the death certificate for Logan and Jean's relationship and I hated myself that I'd done what I wanted at the beginning and still wanted even now.

Even if I was doing it for the right reasons.

When I went to my room the next morning, the tags were on my desk. I picked them up and stared at them for a long time and shut my eyes and decided that if I didn't believe in destiny, I had to believe in the colors.

I had to.

---

"Marie."

It was sudden, the way he appeared out of nowhere, just behind me. And characteristically Logan, by the way. I squeaked something, almost falling over a bush in shock, and I thought he smiled but couldn't be sure.

Hell, if someone had asked me what color the trees were, I couldn't have told them. Logan. He was here.

He extended a hand and pulled me to my feet but didn't let me go and that look was back. That look that was utterly unfamiliar, though I was beginning to think it shouldn't be, that I'd seen it before, though for the life of me I couldn't figure out from where.

"I thought you left." My voice was faint. Shock. Perfectly understandable.

He shrugged, falling into step beside me as we walked and I took in the tre es and the grass and tried to figure out why the hell he was here.

He still had my hand, though.

"Have you talked to Jean?" That was the only thing I could think of to say. I don't know what made me say it; we'd never discussed it--him and Jean--not once in the past months.

"Not yet."

His world was still perfect. More or less. And I suddenly felt like a murderer talking to the victim's husband before he knew she was dead. My stomach turned over and I wished, suddenly and desperately and selfishly, that I could send him up and away and hide until he was gone, so I wouldn't have to see what I'd helped to start. Because--because if it wasn't over now, it would be soon.

"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" I asked suddenly, staring at the ground. He didn't answer for a minute and I came to a stop, forcing him to do the same unless he wanted to drag me--which was perfectly possible, but I figured he wouldn't.

"Can we talk?"

I looked up at him, tracing the lines of his face, wondering how he'd look at me when he found out--wondered if he'd even be here. Taking in the scent of him. That made me pause, because this was something new. Suppressed excitement, nervousness--Logan nervous?--and he was practically vibrating with--with what? What the hell was up with him?

"We are talking."

"Somewhere a little more private."

Considering that the woods were about as private as you could get, a few sharp words flew to my tongue, but I checked them back and sighed. The idea of the mansion--and what was waiting for him there--God, no. Keep the conversation going. Keep it up if he wanted to do it in the Danger Room. Anything.

"Jubes and Kitty are gone for the weekend. We can go to my room. That private enough?"

Apparently, it was, and he followed me back up. And it was so different to feel his eyes on me the entire time and I kept wondering if there were leaves in my hair or something. When we walked in my room, Logan shut the door behind us and locked it, startling me a little. Then just stood there when I sat down on my bed and waited for him to Discuss Something.

Hell if I knew what.

"I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye. I had--something to do."

He was apologizing. Shit. I began to play with the edge of my gloves--wondering if I should tell him what I did, maybe explain about why I did it, maybe tell him what I'd learned about colors and how I was sorry and how much I wanted him to be happy, even if it had to be with Jean, with someone who would never love him like I did, who'd never understand him.

"Marie, look at me."

I lifted my head and that look was back on his face and something kept trying to click in my head but wouldn't settle enough to do it.

"You still want to go to Anchorage?"

It was a throw out of left field--I don't know my baseball metaphors well, I'm a hockey girl--okay, a puck to the head, maybe. I blinked, trying to come to grips with a question that really--had he actually said that?

"Anchorage?"

And he sat on the edge of the bed beside me and looked so uncomfortable that I wondered what the hell was wrong and if he'd accidentally contracted some sort of mutant flu. Then he stood up again, pacing to the edge of the room, finally dropping his jacket on a chair and I watched him with wide eyes.

"The way you wanted. Niagara Falls, Toronto, Calgary. Anywhere you want to go."

I blinked.

"You want to--you want to take me to Canada?"

Did he leave because of him and Jean--had she--? No--no, somehow I didn't get the impression Logan was doing some sort of weird rebound--that's not how he operates at all, anyway. Which begged the question--what the fuck was going on? I knew I probably could figure this out if I had a few months to think it over, but Logan was right here and I had to give an answer and--

--and what?

"Wherever you want to go. Now, if you want to." He was waiting for me to do something--God knew what, but it was important, and I should be able to figure this out, damn it.

And I looked at him, looked for something--something that would bring sense or order or something I could define and understand. And Logan, who lived inside my head, Logan, who I knew better than anyone on earth, Logan--this wasn't anyone I knew. Not at all.

"But what about--" I cut myself off, wondering what Jean would say, what--"Logan, I don't--"

"I love you."

Oh God.

I forgot my gloves, Jean, colors, the speech I had been desperately trying to put together in my head, the way I was going to ask him to forgive me for screwing up his life. I forgot that I was sitting in my room and I forgot that I told destiny to fuck itself.

I remembered that I should probably breathe at some point.

That said, he crossed his arms and waited for me to say something in response. Maybe he let out a breath of relief he'd managed it, I wouldn't be surprised. His eyes were on me like he was stripping me to the skin and that was--oh God, that was good.

After a few minutes of gaping, I looked up at him, trying to find words that would be mature and wise and show my deep appreciation of his candor and be equally able to eloquently express my feelings. They didn't come.

I think my mouth was open, though. The whole time.

Luckily, Logan took my silence as some sort of good thing, because he launched into a sudden torrent of explanations--so uncharacteristic that he must have spent his entire week away composing them. He sat down beside me finally and took my hands. I realized that I was shaking and my mouth was dry and I couldn't catch my breath and everything--everything was just--

"I fucked up. Okay? I get that. And I'm sorry, Marie. If I could, I'd start over completely." He traced my face with his fingers and I leaned into the touch instinctively, still not quite believing. I wanted it too badly. Poor Logan. He was trying so hard to get it out and he looked at me and I recognized that look finally, running it through my mind to match with my memories and--and God.

It was real. He loved me.

I felt tears in my eyes--I don't want to know when I became such a whiney little female and that would right stop now I kept telling myself, and he brushed them away with gloved hands and kissed me. Without my scarf, bruising my lip, so I got the images from his mind before he pulled back, images that meant everything, that told me more than he would ever be able to say. He untied my scarf, lowering it over my face, brushing his fingertips down my throat, through my hair. Slow, long, warm, a kiss that took my breath, heated my body, and I forgot my name, forgot where I was, forgot that there was anything else in the world except him.

Our fingers entwined above my head, laying me back on my bed, his mouth inches from mine, while he made me promises that no one had ever made me before, that I know he never made to anyone else. Told me things that no one had ever said, ever thought about me.

And finally, he ran out of words and smiled down at me and kissed me again--and it was as if I'd waited my entire life for it. When he growled something and ran his fingers through my hair and I couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up in me, the sheer exultation. And he growled again and shook his head at me when I couldn't stop, sliding his whole weight on top of me, running his teeth over my jaw, biting me through the scarf just below the ear, making me whimper against his shirt.

"I love you," I whispered, watching the look on his face when I said it, addicted to it instantly, promising myself I'd make him look at me like that every day. Promised him things I'd never wanted to promise anyone but him, sliding my arms around him and letting him lift me into his lap and his hands sliding down my back, pulling up my shirt to trace bare skin with gloved fingers. Rocked against him to hear him growl against my hair.

"God, Marie, baby," a whisper in my ear, the brush of teeth across my neck, my entire body tensing when he touched me, when he unbuttoned my shirt and looked at me until I blushed, when he laughed at me and told me I was beautiful and wonderful and about a thousand other things that I never would have expected him to ever say. To me. Tracing my skin, that fine scarf the only barrier.

--and it was everything I ever wanted.

---

"Scott."

He glanced up from Xavier's desk, and there was something about him that I'd never seen before, something that brought me to a halt, brought a slow grin to my face. Something edged on carefully suppressed energy, maybe even excitement.

This time I understood, and I grinned to myself--they really were so much alike.

"He was already here." And a quirked smile, a glance down at the desk before he stood up and passed me to close the door. We looked at each other for a minute, and it wasn't awkward. And it should have been. "Canada, huh?"

I nodded slowly, wondering why this moment wasn't awkward or uncomfortable or even a little sad. Because it was none of those things.

So we were both getting what we wanted.

"Thanks, Scott. For everything."

And he smiled then, a smile that made me think of Jean and how he smiled a long time ago, unedged in pain.

"Have fun," he said softly, and hugged me and I took in the scent of him for a minute, closing my eyes, shifting him in my head again.

"I'll miss you." And I would, and I grinned up at him and stepped away, watching him lean back against the desk.

"You believe in destiny, Rogue?" he tossed as I walked to the door.

"No." Though a part of me did, in a way. And I tilted my head at him, turning the door knob. "But I do believe in colors."

---

"You believe in destiny, Logan?"

He dropped our bags in the trunk, looked up at me as if I lost my mind. Slammed it shut, crossed to where I was leaning against the passenger side door.

"Not really." Sliding his hands down my hips, he pulled me up against him and I breathed him in--enjoying the feel of him against me, enjoying the utterly simple and really insignificant moment I was living, content for a minute just to stand still and let the world figure out everything for itself.

So we were running--not exactly uncharacteristic in either one of us. Not exactly healthy either--we were leaving the entire mess behind us for someone else to clean up, though I'd bet Scott was the one that got the car gassed and pushed the keys into Logan's hand with all kinds of good wishes. From the slightly amused look that Logan gave the keys in his hand when he got down here--well, I had my suspicions.

"You have a reason for askin'?"

I smiled, closing my eyes, and slid my arms around him--maybe one day I'd explain about everything I'd learned, everything about colors and being adult and compromising. Opening my eyes, I could see Jean in the distance, and her eyes met mine over a distance of fifty feet that could have been fifty miles, because Logan never saw her at all.

Colors only get you so far.

"Not really," I told him, looking up, seeing that smile that was for me and me alone. "Let's go."