There are only twelve students ready to graduate in May; some are older than her, and some are younger, and some of the students exactly her age aren't quite there. A fact of life with a bunch of runaways, to hear Jubilee explain it. At Xavier's School for the Gifted, everyone learns to roll with the punches and make the best of however it all turns out.

And that does seem to be the case. Jubilee certainly doesn't act like she minds an extra year – "I was out of school for a long time," she says matter-of-factly. "And it's not like I have anything better to do right now." – and Marie accepts that at face value.

She's distracted, besides. Every day that crawls by makes her wonder, more and more, if Logan will appear around some corner, or come striding in for dinner like it's nothing out of the ordinary.

She swallows her disappointment when she wakes up on graduation day and there still has been no sign of him, and she forces herself to stop looking for him in every moment leading up to accepting her diploma from the professor. It isn't like he'd told her any specific day.

It isn't like he'd promised to be back for this.

So she isn't quite prepared to see him leaning against a doorframe when she turns to go back to her seat, just standing there and watching her. She freezes for a moment and then a slow smile creeps across her face, a gentle warmth fills her stomach, and Logan tips his head slightly and throws her a quick wink.

She supposes she can be forgiven for not paying much attention to the rest of the informal ceremony. She can hardly be expected to, after all.

---

The awkwardness is something else she isn't prepared for. Logan had left the morning after their talk by the lake, and their goodbye had been brief and formal. And then eight weeks had gone by, and she'd really only needed a single day to start regretting most of what she'd said to him.

Honesty, she figures, isn't always the best policy. Not when you're pouring your heart out to someone who doesn't stick around long enough to gauge his real reaction. She's so filled with doubts and fears by this point that she's contemplating telling him she's changed her mind, that she doesn't want him to train her after all.

But then he makes his way over to her while she's nibbling on a cookie and listening to Bobby and Kitty tease each other, and he looks at her in a way that makes heat rise to her face and her heart thump a little faster. Critical and curious and searching, and then he nods as if satisfied about something or other. "Hey," he says simply.

She forces a bright smile. "Hey, yourself." She has to resist the urge to bite her lip; something about Logan tears through every shred of easy confidence she's managed to gain, threatens to turn her into a stammering, immature mess. It's worse even than it used to be; before, at least, she'd left some things unspoken. "I didn't think you were coming."

"Didn't I say I would?" He raises an eyebrow in challenge, like she's committed the sin of expecting him to break a promise.

"Not exactly, no," she replies. His taken aback expression soothes some of her nerves, makes her smile more easy and genuine.

"Oh." He frowns and shrugs. "Wasn't about to miss it, anyway. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"I, uh – I got you something. But...later, okay?"

She can't help but be curious. She's not quite sure what to expect from Logan in the way of a gift, and something about the uncomfortable set of his shoulders makes it clear that he wasn't quite sure what the hell you get for this kind of occasion. Or any occasion, really. "Okay," she agrees, and in an instant, she figures everything will be okay.

The real trouble with Logan, after all, has always been that he would go away and she would be left trying to make sense of his vague imprint on her and her own concrete memories of him, and it all amounted to a jumbled mess that made her doubt anything she'd ever felt sure of.

But with him back, standing there in front of her and intending to stick around, she feels a settling calm. Everything will be fine, she figures. It always has been before.

He keeps watching her in that odd way, though, until he shakes his head as if to clear it and glances around the room. "Before I forget," he tells her, "you've got a week. Next Monday, we sit down to talk about what I'm gonna expect from you. Got it?"

"Got it," she says with a nod. "One week to run amok and wreak havoc. That's plenty of time."

"Don't get arrested," he says dryly. "Now go. Have some of the fun you've earned. I'll be around."

"Okay." And she starts to turn away, towards her friends, and then suddenly pivots and hugs him tightly. Logan returns her embrace briefly, a quick tightening of his arms around her, and gazes at her warmly when she draws back.

"I'm glad you came," she tells him softly, because maybe there's something to be said for honesty after all.

---

She loses track of him in the bustle of celebratory activity and he doesn't come to dinner, but she figures he'll turn up eventually. And he does; late in the evening there's a knock at the door while she's packing up her belongings to eventually carry down to her new, private room. Jubilee answers it, and she immediately says, "Rogue," and shuffles back to crawl into bed with her book.

Marie looks up from the pile of old schoolwork she's sorting and smiles. "Hey."

"Hey. Busy?"

"Nothing that can't wait," she tells him, perhaps too quickly. "What's up?"

"Come on." He jerks his head, beckoning her, and she quickly shoves her feet into some slippers and joins him in the hall. As they head towards the stairs, he glances back towards her room. "How's she doing?"

"Jubilee? She's fine." She hesitates, then decides to just tell him. "She was real weird about always feeling cold for awhile, and – we all had some problems with sleeping well at night, but it's better. There hasn't been any trouble at all, and that helped more than anything."

Logan acknowledges that with a small noise, and doesn't say anything else. She follows him downstairs, and then to the back of the mansion and into the garage. There, he flips on the lights and she looks around in confusion. "Are we going somewhere? I need shoes and –"

"Not going anywhere. Just come over here, would you?"

And he goes to a corner where a motorcycle sits. It's not one of Scott's; this one is older and dirtier and looks well-used. Broken in, even, in a way that makes it clear that it belongs to someone who rides it often and treats it right. She grins at Logan. "This one suits you better."

"Yeah?" He looks almost proud to hear it, and she nearly giggles. "Well, here. Didn't know what to get you, and I figured you'd need this for your actual present."

Her jaw drops, and she has to move fast to catch the helmet he tosses at her. It's slim and black and shiny, with a visor that flips up, and it's clearly brand-new and high quality. "Are you gonna –" she starts, hardly willing to let herself believe it.

Logan shrugs. "If you're smoking and drinking, you'll be wanting to ride eventually. I'm not gonna to have you bustin' your skull because nobody bothered to show you what the hell you're doing."

She can't hold it in anymore; she laughs and hooks the helmet over one handlebar so that she can throw her arms around him. This time he lets it last, and ruffles her hair as she rests her cheek against his chest. "Thanks," she mumbles, and tries to talk herself into letting go. When she finally manages it, she grins up at him. "Can we go for a ride now?"

He rolls his eyes at her in amusement, but then shakes his head. "It's about to rain. Tomorrow, if you're not busy."

"I'm not." Again, the words spill out too quickly and she flushes. "After lunch?"

"I'll meet you here." He messes up her hair again and turns to go. "That'll give me plenty of time to convince Summers I won't let you get killed."

"Of course you won't." She trails her fingers one last time over the helmet, and leaves it hanging from the bike as she follows Logan out. "You never do."

---

The next week is strange; it feels like she spends all her time with Logan when really it's only a couple of hours a day. He takes her away from the school, to a quiet cemetery with narrow swaths of asphalt curving through it, and he teaches her carefully about balance and throttle and clutch control, and how to brake and how to lean and look into a turn. He hauls her into the garage and shows her how to "keep the damn thing running."

He tells her that if she ever takes a bike out alone before he gives her permission, he'll kill her himself, and she gives him a saucy grin and tells him he's full of it but she promises anyway.

She spends the rest of her time on little things: hanging out with Kitty and Jubilee, and reading out on the lawn, and arranging her things around her new room. Logan makes himself scarce whenever they're not riding or working on the bike, until breakfast on Monday when he sits across from her with a mug of coffee and steals a piece of bacon from her plate. "How much do you weigh?"

She glares at him. "Please tell me you know better than to ask a woman that. *Especially* first thing in the morning."

He glares right back. "Gym in one hour. Wear something comfortable."

"Sleeves and gloves?"

"Probably not necessary today, but bring down a sweatshirt and gloves just in case. I want to figure out how strong you are."

"I can tell you that now," she says with a snort. "Not very."

He just raises an eyebrow at her and snags the last strip of her bacon. "We'll fix that."

By the end of the morning she believes him, and wonders if he's decided to whip her into shape or kill her in the attempt. He puts her through every one of the numerous weight machines in the gym, determining exactly how much she could handle, and tells her he'll work out a rotation schedule that he expects her to follow in the mornings. In the afternoons, he tells her, they'll work together, on balance and movement and strategy. He tells her flatly that he's taking this seriously, and that she'll probably hate him before the end of the week, and not to bother griping about it because he's not going to give a damn.

Finally he tells her it's going to hurt, in more ways than one, and she stares at him and shrugs. "Hurt, I can do," she says simply. "Plenty of practice, you know?"

---

And he wasn't lying, not about any of it. He plans out five days of every week, trusting her to work on her muscle tone alone all morning and dedicating his afternoons to teaching her everything he knows. At first she thinks it's fine, no problem; Logan demonstrates moves and she copies them and it all goes smoothly.

Until two weeks in, when he starts to show her holds and throws. They go through each one slowly, so that she can understand the mechanics, the flow, the physics, and then they go faster with Logan throwing his weight along to compensate for her lack of strength. And late on a Tuesday afternoon, she's sweaty and exhausted and distracted, and as she twists out of his grip and raises her arm to strike at him, she doesn't notice that her sleeve has slipped and exposed her wrist, not until it's too late and his hand has closed over bare skin. Gasping, she jerks away so fast that she loses her balance and hits the mats hard, and stares up at him with wide eyes.

He doesn't seem bothered by it. "It's fine, Marie. Too fast."

"But I – I'll wear longer gloves, I guess."

Shrugging, he helps her to her feet. "If you want. But one slip isn't a big deal. It was bound to happen."

"It shouldn't," she snaps irritably, and sighs at his questioning gaze. She realizes he's probably taking that wrong, as some kind of extreme aversion to drawing him in again, and scrambles for a way to explain. "I don't want to hurt you," she offers softly, staring at the floor. "Or make you sacrifice anything else just because you want to help me."

"Hey," he says, and falls silent until she looks up at him. "How about you let me decide what sacrifices I'm willing to risk."

"But –"

"Quiet. Nothing happened – this time. But you'd better get used to the fact that it might, or we won't get anywhere. If you tie yourself up in knots about it or hold anything back because you're afraid of hurting me...we might as well quit now." He levels a hard gaze on her. "And don't kid yourself, Marie. If you can't work your hardest with *me*, I'll either make sure Xavier keeps you the hell off the team or drag you out of this place myself. You do this my way or you don't do it."

It's odd, she thinks, the way that Logan can confuse her. If anyone else tried such an ultimatum she's sure that she would be angry and defiant, that every ounce of independence and rebellion she ever picked up from he and Magneto – or possessed herself, for that matter – would boil up and make her shoot off her mouth.

But Logan makes her pause, and frown, and consider his words. "Is this because..." she finally says, but breaks off and hesitates before switching tracks. "You know, I only ever figured you meant it for while I was still a kid, and had to stay *somewhere*."

"What are you talking about?"

"About taking care of me." She looks away, because it's the only way to continue. She doesn't want to see it, if there's a flash of relief when she absolves him. "Nobody expects you to keep that promise anymore. *I* don't expect you to."

And because she's not looking she doesn't see the anger set in. "Fuck the stupid promise," he snaps, and she swings her gaze back to him in shock. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Nothing! I'm just saying that you don't have to –"

"Bullshit." There's so much disgust in his voice, written across his face, that she has to make an effort not to flinch away from it, and can't quite contain a slight tremor. "We're done with promises. Forget I ever said anything. That doesn't change a single fucking thing about here and now."

She swallows hard and forces herself not to look away again. He looks frustrated and furious, and like she's letting him down. And she knows she is; she knows, in the back of her mind, that she's being ridiculous and that she should just shut up and accept what he's trying to do for her, but she can't. "Why?"

"Because –" and he grabs her by the shoulders so that she can't escape "—because this isn't some obligation, Marie. I actually give a damn about you and your safety and your skin isn't going to chase me off. Why can't you get that through your head?"

She's horrified to feel tears welling up in her eyes. "My parents loved me," she says, her voice catching. "I know they did. But – they weren't scared of mutants, Logan. They were scared of *me*. They would ease away if I got anywhere near them and they didn't even realize they were doing it. Bobby only touched me the once and he couldn't deal with it, and you've done it twice and I've got so much of you in my head but I don't understand *why* you won't let it matter. Everyone else has. Everyone else *does*."

He stares down at her, and after a long moment lets go of her shoulders. "I heal."

She squeezes her eyes shut, tries to rein in her emotions. "You also hurt," she whispers.

"Yeah," he acknowledges, and taps his knuckles under her jaw, a quick graze of bare skin that makes her blink at him, startled. "But you matter more than that. Okay?"

She gazes at him and remembers opening her eyes on the Statue, remembers having to shove him away because he was holding her so tightly. She remembers that it was the second time, and that he already *knew*, and that he did it anyway. She remembers him pushing hair out of her face by the lake, and never hesitating to have her pressed close behind him on his bike, going out for lessons.

She remembers every reason she's ever had for loving him, and she believes him. "Okay," she says softly, and smiles weakly. "No holding back."

"No being scared?"

"I'll always be scared," she replies. "But I won't let it get in the way."

He nods at her, and she knows that was the right answer. "Good. Now come on; no dinner until you get this right."

---

She keeps her word: through every minute she spends training with him, she doesn't allow her lingering worries to take control. She knows he'll call her on it without hesitation, so she focuses all of her energy on doing everything right, every minute they work together.

She puts less energy into other things. It's unintentional, and she doesn't even realize it, but she looks up one morning after three long months of work to find Logan standing in the door of the gym, watching her do chest presses with a frown on his face. "Hey. Need something?" she hisses, exhaling through a press.

"Yeah, I think I do." He strides in and leans to check what she's lifting. "You can do more than that."

She glares up at him, tired and annoyed and feeling a tickle of sweat sliding down her neck. "This is plenty."

"It's not." He waits until she's finished an extension, then reaches for the pin and adds thirty pounds. "There."

"Would you get out of here?" she snaps. "We're not training right now, Logan."

"You're training every minute of the goddamn day, Marie. You should have worked up to more weight by now – this kind of lazy bullshit is why you still can't throw me even when I'm not resisting."

"You're hardly a fair example. The adamantium –"

"There's nothing fair about fighting for your life. Now press."

She does, gritting her teeth and feeling a dangerous tremor in her muscles after a scant second. "Shit!" she gasps, losing her grip and letting the weights clatter back into place with a horrible clang. "I *can't*, Logan. I'll hurt myself."

He nods, watching her thoughtfully. "That's for damn sure. You've got a month, *Rogue*. You damn well better be a lot stronger by then."

"Or what?" she demands, glaring at him. "What are you going to do?"

She knows she's pushing him, but doesn't expect his reaction. His jaw clenches and he suddenly grabs her by the arms, hauling her away from the machine and shoving her against the wall. When she struggles, he grabs her wrists and holds her arms over her head, pinning her body with his. "I'm not even trying, here, and you can't do a damn thing against me. What do you think is going to happen when you're up against someone who wants you *dead*?"

She flinches, twists futilely against him. His fingers tighten around her wrists and she can feel the bones roll under his grip. "You're hurting me," she gasps.

"Good," he growls. He blocks the knee she tries to bring up hard, kicks her feet apart and wedges himself between her legs. "It's supposed to hurt."

"You're *scaring* me," she tries, and it's the absolute truth. "Not the training, not the team. You, Logan."

It works. Something flickers in his eyes and he loosens his hold, drawing back a few inches but still holding her. "Let me go," she mutters, and he does, and she edges away from him warily. He doesn't move as she gathers her water and towel, and she's almost out the door before he speaks again, his back still turned. "Marie. I...can't let anything happen to you."

She sighs and closes her eyes briefly, feeling, as she still often does, the weight of Jean's death on her shoulders. "I know. I...I'll work harder, Logan. I promise."

She works hard to keep this promise, as well. She pushes herself incessantly, working herself as close to exhaustion as she safely can. As the weeks pass Bobby has to work harder to take her down when they spar, and she gets to a point where she can throw a passively resistant Logan in a practiced roll. The first time she does it she can't help but laugh as she stares at Logan, sprawled on the floor while she's still on her feet. He watches her evenly for a long moment, then cracks a smile. "Good job. You're almost ready for me to fight back."

"Bring it on, tough guy," she taunts, excitement coursing through her trembling and exhausted muscles.

"Soon enough. Get out of here, huh? Go have some fun, and take tomorrow off. We both need some rest."

She laughs again, sucking in a teasing gasp. "The indefatigable Logan needs *rest*? What has the world come to?"

He rolls his eyes, accepting her gloved hand to help him to his feet. "Go, before I decide we should do another few hours. And I mean it about getting some rest. I don't want you down here tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." She gives him a snappy salute and a wink, and leaves him shaking his head ruefully at her cheerily successful attitude.

---

It's all Logan's fault, actually, for going and distracting her in the first place. Or so she tells herself once she can think past the sharp, hot pain and the numbing shock of seeing so much of her own blood. He walks into the kitchen the next day as she's slicing a bagel for lunch, and she looks up to smile and say hello and suddenly the knife has passed across the webbing of her thumb like going through half-chilled butter, and her greeting mutates into a choked scream.

In the space of the few seconds it takes her to focus again -- and start blaming him -- Logan has her arm lifted and a clean towel pressed against the wound. "Christ, Marie," he says wryly. "Didn't I tell you to relax today?"

"Um." She swallows hard against nausea and looks desperately away from her hand, held steadily in Logan's grip. "If I pass out and fall over, will that count?"

"Don't even think about it," he says dryly. He adjusts his hold carefully, supporting her arm in its lifted position. "Can you move your thumb?" She flexes it slowly, wincing at the shot of pain it causes. "Good. I don't think you severed anything."

"mm. Other than my pride, my dignity, my *flesh*..."

Logan snorts. "You're pathetic, you know that? I throw you across rooms day in and day out and you mostly take it with a smile. Then you go and hurt yourself on a day off, of all times, and turn into a big baby."

She whips her head around to glare at him, and has to blink hard at the spots that swim across her vision. "I don't like blood," she snaps. "Oh, god, or needles. I need stitches, don't I?"

"Definitely," he agrees. "Hey, eyes open. You faint, I lose all respect for you."

"Bastard," she mutters, and sways slightly on her feet. "Okay. Stitches. Hank. Downstairs."

"Wait." She glances up, startled, to find Logan looking at her thoughtfully. "I could fix it."

She stiffens and draws her body away, leaving only her hand in his careful grasp. "Logan --"

"Hear me out, would you? I know you feel about -- hurting me, but this is pretty damn inconvenient. You're not going to be able to train at all until this heals. No weights, no combat. And I was planning on starting you in the Danger Room tomorrow."

Her eyes widen, then narrow. "Are you saying that just to get me to agree?"

Logan chuckles at that. "No. Look, you've made a lot of progress, and I'd rather not lose that momentum. But it's up to you."

"That's it? It's up to me, end of story."

"End of story," he agrees. "Your decision. Did I mention you'll probably have an ugly scar?"

She grins at that. "Appealing to both my sense of adventure *and* my vanity; very nice. You definitely get points for that."

His eyebrows twitch in amusement. "Enough points?"

She sighs. "Okay. But we don't make a habit of this. Gushing blood or broken bones, that's it. Got it?"

"Got it." He adjusts his hold on her yet again, positioning her hand so that he can keep the towel pressed in place with only one of his, and then reaches for her other arm. Muttering something about her being a bloody mess, he shoves at her sleeve to expose her wrist. "Okay?"

She nods, and he touches his fingertips to her skin as if he's checking for a pulse.

And nothing happens. She blinks at his fingers and has the odd thought that maybe he hasn't really touched her yet. But she can *feel* him, can feel the light pressure and the warmth of his skin against hers. And yes, there, light friction setting off her nerves as he moves, closes his entire hand around her wrist.

Still nothing. She raises her eyes to meet his, astonished, and then suddenly it happens, and Logan's face twists in a startled grimace. It's always odd, touching someone; a tingle at the point of contact and then a rush that hits her entire body all at once, filling her with foreign energy. She can't take it for more than a few seconds this time. With a gasp, she yanks away from him, and he manages to turn to the side just enough to slump over the countertop.

The towel wrapped around her injured hand falls in a flash of red and white, and she watches in wonder as the flow of blood slows, and then stops. She glances at Logan, with his head bowed and his arms and shoulders tense with the effort of holding himself upright, and she wonders if she should say something but goes to wash her hands instead.

They shake under the warm water, and as she lathers up soap and watches it swirl colorfully down the drain, and as she rubs her skin dry with a clean towel. Then, because Logan still hasn't said anything, she grabs one of the disposable rags used for sanitizing the counters, and kneels to wipe at several dark, glistening droplets on the floor.

"What the hell was that?" Logan finally asks quietly, his voice low and tense.

She stares down, notes how the blood smears into rust-brown streaks on the tile. "I don't know," she finally says shakily. "It -- that's never happened before."

"Yes, it has," he corrects her. "You were dead, though, or close to it."

And she closes her eyes and feels sick again. She hadn't realized; she feels on the verge of tears, a hollow disappointment taking the place of the hope that had sprung up with idiotic speed, and she hadn't even realized he might have reasons, *memories* of his own making him upset. "Nobody ever told me it was that bad."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. Nobody?"

"Nobody. I knew, from you...you were so worried, and I was unconscious, but you never *said*..."

He comes down next to her, touches her arm just above the elbow. "Yeah, well. Not really fun to talk about."

"How long did it take? On the Statue, I mean."

"Too long," he mutters. She glances at him but he's not looking at her; she can only see his profile as he stares at the cabinets. A muscle twitches in his jaw. "I thought...we'd taken too long."

Shock hits her suddenly, and her lips part in wonder. She's only heard that kind of haunted pain in his voice once, and she certainly wasn't the topic of conversation that time. "Logan..." she says softly, her head spinning with memories. Waking up to the press of his cheek to her forehead and his rueful expression as he flicked newly-white strands of hair before leaving. Him squeezing her shoulder for a long, tense moment after that one -- no, that *first* horrible flight, and his insistence that she take every minute of her training seriously. "But you didn't let go," she finally says, and swallows hard after her voice threatens to crack. "I...thank you for not letting go."

The muscle in his jaw moves again, and then he takes a deep breath and meets her gaze at last, looking for all the world as if everything is fine. "Worked out for the best," he says gruffly, and stands before helping her up. "How's the hand?"

"Good as new." She lifts it up, opening and closing her fist a few times. "See?"

"Great. I've, uh, got some stuff to take care of, so..."

She knows he needs to get away, and nods with a slight smile. "Usual time tomorrow, right?"

"Right." He steps away from her, but hesitates before leaving. "Marie..." he starts, and she watches him, waits. "That's probably the only moment of weakness I've never once regretted. Understand?"

She feels her smile grow, and then he rolls his eyes and it grows even more. "Yeah, macho man," she teases, and is rewarded with a quiet laugh. "I understand."

But she doesn't, not really, not quite. When she sleeps that night, she dreams of things in a shifted light. Her memories of being in Magneto's machine have always been scattered and vague; a numb recollection of feeling like she was being ripped apart and turned inside out, and Logan before her, claws out, glowing and enraged like some kind of avenging angel, and then coming to and everything after it.

She's always assumed that she passed out, that her injuries were severe but Logan was just in the knick of time, that in a burst of emotion he'd pulled her into his arms and healed her easily, willingly, heroically.

But now she has to reevaluate; it's all a little less cheap romance novel, a little more gut-wrenching tragedy. Her dream is new but like all the ones of Logan's past, like a thought she'd gathered from him and never known quite how to interpret. She wakes up gasping and lies still for several moments, and then she cries because the overwhelming sense of grief and rage won't allow her to do anything else.

She suddenly understands, like she never quite has before, that his fierce determination to teach her and guide her and keep her safe really isn't all about a promise, and isn't all about Jean.

It's about bringing her back to life once, and not wanting to tempt fate a second time.

It's about *her*, and only her. She doesn't know exactly what to do with that knowledge.

---

They don't talk about any of it. They go back to work and if she catches Logan staring at her occasionally, a contemplative expression on his face, she doesn't say anything about it. She pushes herself harder than ever and sneaks extra time in the gym and Danger Room, because she's never felt quite so accomplished as she does when Logan looks satisfied and tells her she's doing better than he expected.

Months pass, day after day of fighting hard to become something without being entirely sure she understands why. There are times she wants to quit altogether, and only keeps going because she can't bring herself to admit defeat to Logan. Especially after October, when she comes out of the Danger Room with a black eye, a split lip, and at least two cracked ribs, and Logan doesn't give her much of a choice about letting him heal her. It takes well over five seconds for her skin to kick in, and then no time at all to understand the one thing that comes through clearly enough to pin down.

He's proud of her. She never thought something so simple could make her feel so good.

And it's the day before Thanksgiving when he tells her, as they're finishing for the day, that he's already told Xavier she's ready for field work. He doesn't look happy about it, and she blocks the door and stares at him. "You really think I'm ready."

Logan just shrugs. "Sure."

"Oh, that inspires confidence."

"Look, what do you want?" he mutters irritably. "You know damn well what I think of you doing this. But it's your decision and I have no right to hold you back, and you're ready. You've worked hard. Try not to let your reward kill you."

"Logan --"

"And don't think that this gets you out of training," he adds, scowling at her. "There's still plenty of room for improvement."

She smiles slowly. "You gonna be the one to help me improve?"

"Sure as hell not about to trust any of those knuckleheads to do it," he replies, but smirks. "Stop worrying. I'm not going anywhere."

She lets out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding. "Good," she says softly. "After all, you're my favorite knucklehead."

He growls and steps closer to her, crowding into her personal space and looking down at her in a way that makes her think -- makes her hope, just for a second...

"You're in my way," he tells her, and the low pitch of his voice rubs smoothly over her nerves.

She blinks rapidly and steps backwards, almost involuntarily. Logan just grins and shakes his head slightly, and slips by her to go clean up.

She doesn't have much opportunity to mull over what she thinks might have been about to happen. Three days later she's just walking out of dinner when Xavier's voice slips into her mind, and she's headed for the lower levels before she even realizes it. Logan slips into the lift with her just before the doors slide shut, and she can feel him watching her as they descend. "Stop worrying so much," he finally says.

"I don't really have control over that, sorry."

"You're going to have to," he tells her, and then the doors open and he follows her out. "Some worry is good; it'll keep you careful. Too much is a distraction. Rein it in, or you're toast."

She takes a deep breath and drags her teeth nervously across her lower lip. "Okay. Less worrying. I'll do my best."

"Good. Go get changed, then come to Tactical."

Sliding into the uniform this time actually feels like a first, like genuine entitlement instead of playing dress-up -- like the scariest thing she's ever done. She keeps having to clench her hands into fists to keep them from shaking, and it only gets worse as the Professor explains the lead that makes him think they've tracked down Magneto.

She glances at Logan once, when Scott starts talking. She finds him staring at her, something she doesn't recognize in his eyes; when she catches his gaze, he frowns and keeps staring.

By the time Scott wraps up and tells them all to meet in the hangar, she feels like a nervous wreck. Adjusting her gloves, she starts to leave, but Logan stops her. "Rogue. Stay a minute."

She slips out of everyone's way and waits until they're alone and the door is closed to look at him. "I'll be okay," she insists, before he can say anything.

He doesn't respond to that. He just steps closer to her, crowding her against the table. "Marie...I know I'm going to have to, so let me go ahead and apologize."

"Why?" she says warily, her fists once again clenching involuntarily.

"For waiting until such a damned ridiculous time to do this." And he presses even closer and his face comes down and he kisses her hard, takes advantage of her gasp to slide his tongue against hers. His hands squeeze her hips and then push up her back, over her uniform, coming to a rest behind her shoulders and holding her close. She can't help but kiss him back, desperately, reacting on pure instinct until something in her mind screams 'too long, too long' and she wrenches away, breathing hard.

"Um," she says. Her gaze casts about wildly; she can't quite bring herself to meet his eyes. "That – you're right. Ridiculous time."

"Apology accepted?"

"Um...sure." She touches her lips hesitantly, feeling almost as if they won't still be there, as if he could have stolen them away. "We have to go. They're waiting."

"Yeah." His voice is soft and his hands are still on her back, the light pressure sending a comforting heat all the way through leather. "Just listen for a minute. Don't take any stupid risks out there, got it?"

An angry flush rises to her cheeks. "Dammit, Logan, you're the one who said --"

"I know what I said. I'm just reminding you there's incentive to remember it all."

"Incentive?"

"Incentive." And he kisses her again, and this time she counts every second, determined to wring every possible moment out of it. When the connection flares up she pulls away, the number ten and a powerful sense of affection and *want* clouding her mind. "We both get back here safe and sound...then you get the rest."

She gulps. "The rest."

He smirks at her. "If you want it, that is."

She nods furiously before she can think to stop herself, then flushes again for a different reason. "That – that could be nice," she mumbles. "Safe and sound. I can do that."

But later she wonders, briefly, sitting on the jet and watching Logan go over the details of his part of the mission with Scott, if she should be angry, if she's been purchased somehow on sexual credit. Or if it's the other way around, Logan giving himself over to her in exchange for some small degree of prudence. Or – and it's this she can't quite accept – if it's all very genuine, and the realization that she was really going out into the fray was simply what he needed to make an overdue overture.

And as she watches him, and he glances at her with an odd glint in his eyes, she decides she doesn't quite care, not right now. Because she can still taste him, heavy and pleasantly bitter, a combination of mouthwash and cigar smoke that should be disgusting but reminds her of the first few days after Liberty Island when her brain was overwhelmed with so many scattered details about him.

She wants him, she realizes. It shouldn't be a surprise but it is; she wants him far beyond the innocent longing of a girlish crush, beyond anything she was ever naive enough to consider true love. She wants the right to touch him however she pleases, wants him to take the same right for himself, wants him to be the one to help her figure out a safe way to have sex, wants him to look at her like that always, dangerous and longing. She wants him to care enough to convince her to be careful for the times he isn't there to make sure, and knowing that he does makes everything else inconsequential.

She doesn't need love, she thinks, not right now. She just needs whatever she can get, and she can't be anything but happy that there's something more than friendship on offer. She smiles at him, throws him a bold wink, and resolves not to let anything go wrong tonight.

---

Two hours later she's slumped on a dirty floor, distracted by the odd knowledge that she can feel herself bleeding to death. She firmly believes that it will be to death; she's given up, gave up several excruciatingly powerful blows ago, resigned herself to the fact that she screwed up.

She underestimated this woman who is smaller than she is. She broke the one rule she swore to Logan that she would never forget.

She doesn't notice he's come to find her until her neck wrenches sharply and pain stabs through her head, and she realizes she's being held by her hair several feet off the floor at the same moment as the woman snaps, "Stay where you are."

A menacing growl, and Rogue blinks slowly, sweeping her eyes around until they catch sight of Logan, just inside the doorway. "Logan," she mumbles. A brutal shake from the hand holding her hair and she tries to scream but it comes out as a raspy sob.

"Put her down," Logan says coldly, holding perfectly still.

"Don't think so." Sing-song in her ear; she's being gathered in close and held by a vise grip around her waist. Her scalp aches when her hair is released, but it's such a better pain that she gasps in relief. "It's too late, you know – I'd only be giving her back for a burial."

Rogue winces at that, at the truth of it that she can feel in her bones. She looks down at Logan from their position hovering near the ceiling, hoping she can manage enough of an apology with her eyes because she can't think seem to remember how to form words.

What she sees makes her breath catch. Logan is watching her, of course he is, but where she expects wild desperation and barely contained fury, she finds something calmer, something expectant. Logan looks her steadily in the eye, and he gives her the barest glimmer of a smile, and it's somehow enough to make her convince her nerve endings to work again.

She manages to get her hands to come together, and works clumsily at getting a glove off. Logan nods, almost imperceptibly. The sound of leather hitting the floor seems offensively loud, loud enough to break through the pounding rush of blood in her head. And then she thinks she can't do anymore and sags in defeat until Logan says, "Rogue. What happened to safe and sound?"

He's crazy, she thinks. It should be pretty damn clear what happened: safe became a myth the moment her mutation manifested and sound...sound is a distant memory, something whole and happy and so free of pain she could believe she imagined it ever existing at all. But Logan looks so sure, so absolutely sure, and she marvels at the impossibility of managing it even as she moves her hand enough to wrap it firmly around the hand at her waist.

This is not like Logan. This is immediate and powerful, her body flaring open and latching onto the external energy like a leech. The woman gasps, her body going tense behind Rogue, and Rogue can feel her struggling to get loose but she hangs on, staring desperately at Logan, telling herself that she won't let go until it's enough, until she's safe on the ground.

And slowly the struggles weaken, and stop, and she realizes that Logan is frowning and saying something, but he's still so far below her. Not enough, she thinks, and watches in confusion as he strides forward and reaches up to grab her ankle, tug her downwards.

When he does, she falls, and falls hard. The ground meets her without mercy and she lays still, a heavy weight on her back pinning her down until it's suddenly removed, and she rolls over to see Logan with his hand on the woman's throat. The look on his face scares her; the way his eyes shut against some realization she can't quite figure out makes her worry that it wasn't enough, and now they'll both die.

They deserve to, she thinks. They ruined everything.

She blinks at that, tries to figure out where it came from. There's something heavy in her mind, something curling around her brain like a shadow, and she thinks this must be what it feels like to die and she panics. "Logan," she hisses, terrified. "Logan, don't let me die."

"Not a chance," he growls, ripping off one of his gloves. He grips her hand in his and they wait, and they wait, and fear begins to set deep in his eyes. That worries her more than anything else, and she searches desperately for something to make it go away. "Hey." She coughs, feels blood coat the inside of her mouth so thickly that she has to turn her head and spit. "Hey," she tries again. "Will this count as safe and sound?"

Logan's hand curls around hers more tightly. "Absolutely. You make this work, Marie, and we'll define safe and sound however you want."

Tears well up in her eyes. "It's not working, Logan. Why isn't it working?"

"It will," he snaps. He tugs at the fingers of his other glove with his teeth, yanking it off, and he slips that hand around the back of her neck, fingers massaging gently. "It will," he repeats, softer this time. "Come on, Marie, we had a fucking deal."

"I don't think it's gonna –" and then it does, her cells flying open again and pulling Logan in. It feels different this time, feels like nothing she's ever experienced, like her body is having to fight something more powerful than itself to start healing.

Somehow, her body wins. She can feel skin coming back together, can feel bones reknitting, can feel every deep ache inside her torso fading slowly away. There's a point where she just knows, knows that she has enough for the process to finish, and she twists hard to get away from Logan's hands.

He falls in a slumped heap over the body of the woman next to them. And Rogue finally sees her wide, blank eyes, and the shadow in her brain closes around her thoughts, and she starts to scream.

---

Five days, they decide, a week at the most. On Liberty Island Logan had almost died, and three days later she cut herself shaving and it didn't heal. It's impossible to compare, though; Carol wasn't hurt already, but she did die, but her relative size and strength were different...Everyone goes back forth with arguments and logic and suggestions, and meanwhile Marie stays quiet, slowly laying the woman to rest in her mind.

Logan maintains his own silence, watching her constantly. And in the end the consensus is that a week should be enough to show signs of fading. She mostly keeps to herself as she waits it out. Logan shows up to keep her company a few times, and she allows it but always steers their conversations to inconsequential matters.

And after two weeks, she can still fly and Hank can't get a needle through her skin to draw a blood sample. "I think we have to start considering the possibility that this is permanent," Hank says with a sigh, watching her hit the ground and stumble. She hasn't gotten the hang of landings yet, but it doesn't really matter since she can't hurt herself by crashing. "Only time will tell, of course, but it would be an interesting new development to find that absorption to the point of death –"

She flinches and he stops short. "I'm sorry, Rogue."

"No, it's fine," she mutters. "It's only the truth, after all. Want something else interesting to chew on? I can't seem to absorb Logan anymore."

"No?"

"No. I told you how it took over a minute that night? Well, we tried yesterday, to see if that was still the case, and it never happened at all. A good ten minutes, hand in hand, and nothing." She bites her lip softly, remembering how he'd found her by the lake again and, again, wouldn't be driven away by her mood. He'd just taken her hand and rubbed it between his, and she'd known they were both waiting for her skin to kick in. Ten minutes was all she'd been able to stand, before she had to leave or let him see her cry.

"Hm. Rogue…would you be willing to touch me, just for a moment, to see what happens?"

She raises an eyebrow and frowns, but offers her hand, palm up. Hank touches their fingertips together, and they both feel it immediately. "Odd," Hank says, withdrawing his hand. "So your primary mutation is still functioning."

"Just not with Logan. And that was getting weird even before – before Carol. Taking a little longer with every touch."

"Hmm. I'm not sure what could be going on. It does strike me, however, that your mutation is something of an offensive defense weapon, if you understand my meaning. When you come into contact with others, your body automatically acts as a parasite – leeching energy away and, in the case of mutants, borrowing powers so as to put you on equal footing."

"I'm a parasite. Wonderful."

"It's a biological instinct, Rogue, a matter of survival of the fittest. Your body seeks to make you at least as fit as those around you."

"Okay. What's that got to do with Logan?"

"It seems possible that your body came to recognize him and understand that he isn't a threat. Or, that there are specific gains to be had from taking his energy, gains which, frankly, you no longer need. As you're rather impervious to wounds right now, there wouldn't be much point in taking on a healing ability."

"Huh." She thinks on that, then frowns. "Why'd it take so long that night, then, when I was pretty much dying?"

"Cellular confusion, perhaps? Conflict between the introduction of invulnerability and the existing need to heal."

"It did seem like my body had to fight to make use of Logan's power," she says. "If this…if this is permanent, do you think – do you think I'll always be able to touch Logan?"

"I simply don't know." Hank smiles gently. "But I don't see why you can't test the waters a bit, as long as you're careful."

---

She's sitting on her bed, staring at her hands, when Logan shows up. He raps at the doorframe of her room and leans inside. "Hey. You saw Hank today?" She nods slowly. "What's the verdict?"

"Probably permanent," she tells him with a sigh, and when she beckons he comes all the way in and shuts the door behind him.

She fills him in on Hank's theories slowly, hesitantly, and when she's done, he watches her evenly. "What do you think?"

"I think he could be right," she ventures. "I think there could be more going on, too."

"Yeah? Such as?"

She shrugs uncomfortably. "Just…you know. There are other biological instincts, too."

Logan raises an eyebrow at that. "You don't say."

She blushes hotly at the look on his face. "I don't know. But Logan…"

"Yeah?" He seems vastly amused, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

"I kind of screwed up on the actual *spirit* of our deal."

"You did."

She looks him directly in the eye, her boldness increasing with her need to get things out in the open. "But you said it didn't matter."

"You're right, I did say something like that."

"I'm glad you remember," she says tartly. "I assume, then, you remember the rest of the deal?"

"I think I vaguely recall some details." He pushes off the wall. "It was all about incentive, right?"

"Right." She gulps, watching him come closer. "The hint of a reward, really."

"Hm. Sounds familiar. So you…?"

"Want you to forget all about it," she says bluntly. Logan stops short, looming over her and frowning, and she looks up at him warily. She rubs her suddenly damp palms against her thighs and licks her lips. "Logan, this may not be permanent. I may have just one chance to...have certain things."

Logan nods slowly. "Yeah. And --"

"Stop. Hear me out, okay?" The confusion on his face makes her hesitate, but she struggles to continue. "I -- I want to take advantage of the situation, I do. It's a good one. It's one I thought I'd never have. But I've been thinking and...I want other things. More important things."

His eyes narrowing with something that looks like understanding, Logan leans down, presses his palms to the bed on either side of her. "Tell me," he says, his breath warm against her cheek.

She swallows hard and pushes lightly against his shoulders, holding him off, then forces herself to say the words. "I want you to want me," she admits. "*Me*. Not to do right by me, not to make me happy, not to keep me safe...Just me. I -- I want you to love me. And if you can't, or just don't, that's okay, really it is, but I need to know. I told myself it didn't matter -- maybe it didn't, at the time -- but it does now."

He doesn't say anything for a long time. She closes her eyes eventually, bracing herself for whatever devastating truth he's preparing in his mind, and flinches when he finally sighs. "You don't get it," he says quietly, his voice rough. "I shouldn't have expected you to. I didn't either, until I realized you were about to go out there and put your life on the line. But I thought you'd know, after I healed you --"

She frowns and shakes her head, leaning back and opening her eyes to gaze at him curiously. "Carol overwhelmed me," she explains. "Everything about that night, it's just a big mess in my head. Logan, what is it I don't get?"

And he looks more uncomfortable than she's ever seen as he straightens up and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. "I want to do right by you," he mutters. "I want to keep you happy, and I want to keep you safe. I want to touch every inch of you and find out what kind of sounds you'd make. I want to hear you say my name when I...I want *you*. Get it now?"

She becomes suddenly aware that she's trembling. She wants so many things: to let everything he's said play over in her mind, again and again, and to throw herself at him and take anything he's willing to give. But she does the one thing she doesn't want to do; she sits still and digs her fingernails into the blankets and watches him carefully. "Do you love me?" she whispers, and tries not to be afraid of the answer.

Logan hesitates. "If I said I did...I don't think it would mean what you want it to."

She laughs ruefully. "I don't want sunsets and rainbows, Logan, or for you to be anything that you're not. I just want to be under your skin a little. I want to be someone you'd take with you if you left tomorrow." She sighs. "I want -- I want for whatever it means for you, to apply to me."

He doesn't hesitate. "You can...fuck. Marie, you already have all of that. You have for awhile now."

His words hit her hard, and she sags forward slightly in relief. "Okay," she says quietly, almost to herself, and then smiles up at him with tears in her eyes. "What was that about touching every inch of me?"

She isn't sure quite what to expect -- maybe nothing, maybe everything. Logan comes back to her slowly, and when he takes hold of her arms she lets him pull her to her feet. As she stares at his chest, at the dusting of hair peeking out of his shirt, she realizes she's still shaking slightly, and noticing it actually makes it worse. After several seconds of still silence, Logan cups her face in his hands and makes her look up at him. "Stop worrying," he says gently.

She licks her lips nervously. "A little worry keeps you careful."

He smiles at that, briefly, and smoothes his thumbs over her cheekbones. "You don't need to be careful with me."

"But I do with me," she replies with a shrug. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and realize I'm dreaming all of this."

"Want me to pinch you?"

She laughs at his teasing tone, her eyes stinging from the tears that won't quite go away. "I think I'd rather you kiss me, actually. If I'm dreaming I don't want to wake up yet, and if I'm not...well, kissing's a whole lot more pleasant."

"Good point." He breathes it right against her mouth, so close that she can just barely feel the brush of his lips against hers as they form the words. And then he does kiss her, softly, repeatedly, quick contacts that are nowhere near satisfying and frustrate her enough that she finally grabs hold of his shirt and surges forward to take what she wants.

Logan has the gall to laugh at her. She lets go of one fistful of material so that she can punch his chest lightly, then slides her hand around the back of his neck and lifts up onto her toes and licks quickly at his lips.

He stops laughing. A rumble escapes from his throat and his mouth suddenly crushes against hers, rough and demanding, and he wraps his arms around her and pulls her tightly to him. She has a quick moment of panic, a sudden instinctual need to pull away so that he won't get hurt, but she shoves it to the back of her mind and manages to wind her arms around his neck and relax.

And he was apparently serious about touching her everywhere. His hands sweep across her back, over her shirt and then under it, fingers skirting under the waist of her jeans every so often. It's almost overwhelming, the way his touch sets her nerves ablaze, and after a minute she does pull away. "I have this problem," she tells him when he looks at her in confusion, and she smiles in what she hopes is a sexy way. "I'm hoping you can help me with it."

He raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms, and she starts gathering her courage. "You'll have to tell me what it is."

"That -- that felt good. *Really* good. But there's a lot more to me than my back." She takes a deep breath, and then pulls her shirt over her head and drops it on the floor and feels a frisson of triumph when his lips part and his eyes darken. "And nobody's ever been able to show me what else feels good."

Logan exhales hard, and before she knows it she's flat on her back on the bed and his hands are on her, his mouth is on her, his body is pressing in and down and pinning her to the mattress. She doesn't even notice that he's managed to unhook her bra, not until it's off and he's closing his mouth around one nipple and she's arching into that contact with a moan. She sinks her fingers into his hair, trying to hold him there, but eventually he eases off. "Still a lot more of you," he murmurs, and his own fingers play at the button of her jeans.

Her breath catches in her throat. Logan takes advantage of her abrupt stillness to get up and peel her jeans off slowly, taking her underwear along, and something in her wants to hide at the same time as something else revels in how he looks down at her.

Because that odd glint is back, and this time she's not safely encased in leather, in the company of others. This time there's just her, her and her touchable body, and Logan wants her.

He loves her, in his way, and it's all there on his face.

Seized by a sudden desperation, she sits up fast and yanks him forward by his belt buckle, and fumbles to get it undone. "We can explore me later," she mumbles. "I just -- I want you. I want -- dammit!"

Logan's hands cover hers and push them away, and he starts taking care of his own clothes. "You're far too impatient," he says dryly. "We have to work on that."

"Later."

He laughs, rich and warm, and she bites her lip as she catches sight of all of him. She could never have even imagined... She reaches out without thinking, her hand trembling, and Logan holds still as she curls her fingers gingerly around his cock. His skin is hot and soft to the touch and when she squeezes slightly to test the hardness, he sucks in a sharp breath. Lifting her eyes to his face, she slides her hand up once, experimentally, and Logan groans and grabs her wrist, forcing her to stop. "Christ, Marie..." He grits his teeth and his eyes close for a moment, and then he looks down at her. "Lie back."

She gulps and releases him and scoots backward until she can rest her head on a pillow, and waits for him to follow. And he does, but not how she expects; he stops between her feet and presses her knees apart, and he doesn't give her any time to protest before leaning down and dragging his tongue, fast and firm, along her center.

"Logan!" she gasps. He said he wanted to hear his name, she thinks dazedly, and beyond that she doesn't think much at all. He makes quick work of building the knot of pressure that gathers deep in her stomach and makes her hips roll uncontrollably, and just when she thinks she can't take it anymore he shifts into a different, faster pace and for a moment she's afraid she's about to fly apart.

Then he licks his way up her body, and she's still struggling to get her breathing under control as he settles between her thighs and she feels him nudging at her, seeking the right spot. "Tell me when you're ready," he murmurs, right against the corner of her mouth.

She shifts and kisses him hesitantly, intrigued by the way his taste has changed and by the knowledge that the change is *her*, and she slips her arms around him and rocks her hips up slightly. "Now," she says between kisses. "Before I can get freaked out."

And he pushes into her slowly, smoothly. She's always expected it to hurt the first time but it doesn't, not really; there's a slight ache and a sense of adjusting, and then just an odd feeling of being -- of being full, and connected, and alive. Logan pauses once he's inside her, then draws back and pushes in again, a little faster, and he keeps doing that until he's moving with deep, rolling thrusts that send sparks through her entire body.

And she can't stop the tears that spring up in her eyes and slip free as she realizes she's actually living all of the dreams she used to file away under 'impossible'. Logan just kisses the tears away, kisses her with salt on his tongue, murmurs soft words in her ear and slides his hand between them to coax her to release again. She does, crying softly and clinging to him, unsure she'll ever be able to let go.

---

He doesn't seem inclined to let her go, either. Later she lies curled against him, feeling the rise and fall of his breath under her cheek and the idle caress of his hand across her shoulder. "What does it mean?" she eventually asks him sleepily.

"What does what mean?"

"What does love mean, for you? Unless you don't want to tell me."

His hand stills and he takes a long time to answer. "I'm glad I'm the only one who can touch you," he finally tells her. "That's what it means."

She can tell he's waiting for her reaction. She lifts her head enough to catch his eye and watches him curiously. "You think that makes you a jerk."

"That's putting it mildly."

"It doesn't," she says softly, and lowers her head again and closes her eyes. "It makes you honest, and exactly who I want you to be."

**end**