Christmas season was jingling bells and stars a-twinklin’, cheerfulness of the stupidest kind and rushing people full o’ purpose - in a word, a season for the short-tempered to get into all sorts of hassle, which was why he usually got himself a good supply of books ‘n booze and went into a cabin for hibernation.

And if he didn’t get good and far out of reach, it was also a weird, *drawing* feeling late at night, if he was daft enough to go out again, when lights were still on in the houses and candles were burning and you heard the occasional bang of a car door and voices saying good-bye that sometimes had a cheerfulness in them that wasn’t stupid.

Or he’d end up in a dingy bar where all those stranded that had no home to go to, or who didn’t give a damn about the homes they had, and that was worst of all, because “not giving a damn about Christmas” was sour grapes for most of those, even if it wasn’t for him. And they would first turn bitter, and then either maudlin or aggressive, and the one was good only if he felt like a fight, which wasn’t *always* the case, not even for him, and the other was just plain disgusting.

But anyway, what with the deal he had with Xavier and a few odd jobs, he had stuck around too long to get back up North again. Had given a hand in repair work and later, god help him, even in putting up wreaths ‘n stuff. Mistletoe.

Which had this one good thing about it that when you stood under it, you were s’pposed to... Jean was bound to come through at *some* stage, right?

So there he was, loitering in the hall, figuring he’d just sneak out later for a quiet drink somewhere when everyone else would be a-singin’ and a-dancin’ and a-flamin’-whatever it was they were planning, and his own merry Yours Truly wouldn’t be missed.

They were laying the table for dinner later tonight - trust them to make a big affair out of that one. White table-cloth, chandeliers, the clinking of glass and china.

What the hell...?

Smell of cherrywood from the open fireplace, of freshly starched linen napkins. A tiny figure moving round the tables, cloth in hand, wiping each silver spoon before putting it down.

He knew that scene. A shadow descended on his senses, dulling all outside sounds, like it did when some memory assaulted him - only this didn’t come rushing in with the pain they usually did, it just drifted slowly upward throught the dark waters of his mind.

“What?”

The voice startled him that split second, and then he was out of it, noticed the faint scent of nervousness on young Artie, who had come up, silverware in hand - nervous, not scared; good.

Damnit, he WAS losing his edge if he stood there watching the young one without even noticing. And there sure as hell were no brightly lit chandeliers and manorial banquets in HIS past, so he could stop gaping like a washer-woman come into the Big House first time round. But still...

His brow rose. “Glasses for white wine go to the right o’ those fer red wine, kiddo.”

And where the blazes had THAT come from?

********************

Christmas was fun!
Rogue was feeling all sparkling and bouncy. She had woken up with the great feeling of freedom that comes with holidays (and most essays done) and her only care all day had been how to safely cross the hall without putting anyone into the awkward situation of having to avoid her under mistletoe. Kissing her was obviously out of the question, and she had gotten sick and tired of the sympathetic attempts of everyone trying to look as if they had just *now* decided to turn the other way when she came along. (She had always been reasonably good at sports, but she was developing real compassion for all the poor wallflowers that had always been left until the very last when teams had to be picked in sports lessons, back at her old school.)
And Bobby just looking like he might chance it did *so* nothing to make her feel at ease, not really.

So she had hung around on the gallery a bit, waiting for Pete to disappear into the rec room...


... only girls left...

... had hoped nobody would right then emerge from the dining room...

... had made a dash...

Eeep!!! Rogue grinned at the memory as she rummaged through the drawers of the dressing-table.

A firm arm round her shoulders had stopped her quite effectively, and by the time her brain had registered that this had been warm lips - UNPROTECTED warm lips!!! - pressed on hers, he had already been coming away with a mischievous wink, all swaggering confidence.

“Merry Christmas, kiddo.”

Presumptuous bastard! Indignation had quickly replaced the shock, but her attempt to teach him manners had just resulted in her being carried right across the hall like a sack of flour.

“You big jerk! Is that a way to treat a lady?” He had kindly pointed out that slapping his backside was somewhat lacking in the manner-department where lady-like didactic methods were concerned.

Well, at least it had got her safely across a mistletoe-infested hall.

Rogue dragged her brush resolutely through unruly hair and flopped down in front of the huge oval mirror. Now, this was a good catch for once! She and Jubes had hunted for *ages* for new furniture for their little shared room, and she had instantly fallen in love with the ornamented mirror with some drawers under and candle-sticks beside it - made it look like it was ancient, like a hundred years old. Which it couldn’t be, or they would never have been able to afford it, but it had appealed to Jubes as well (who was deep in a phase of Jane Austen-style romance novels not exactly from the top shelf).
So far, Rogue had restrained her roommate from painting it “some brighter colour”, and its dignity was only marginally diminished by the flashing little lights in reindeer form.

Fun.

But crap for make-up.

Rogue stretched across her bed to get two candles from her store, lit them - awww, romance!!! The soft light caught in her two white strands and on the little gold pendant Syrin had given her. She forgot the name of it, but it was two hands clasping a flaming heart, and it meant friendship and trust and all sorts of good things. Wasn’t that *sweet*? Made her feeling all warm and fuzzy inside - it was great to have friends!

Humming, she went back to untying her hair, and rolled her eyes as the door opened practically on the first knock. Yes, indeed, who *would* it be but Logan, who was going a *long* way by knocking at all!

“Sugah, you...”

Hey what? He had been about to say something, but even as she watched, all playfulness evaporated from him into... confusion? Could it be the smell of the candles? But no, that was just plain wax, so...

She had never seen him this still, as if spell-bound, glance straying from her person over mirror, candles, brush, back at... what was he looking at? The pendant? She unconsciously reached up to it, and now his eyes met hers with a look she had not ever seen on him: Open, vulnerable, helplessly searching her face for she didn’t know what.

Oh please God, if only she had any clue at all, she’d give him anything.

His lips moved: “Ro-“, unsure, testing, like one grappling with a dream, or... it suddenly struck her: a memory! She held still, hardly daring to breath. Past time seemed to expand between them, and she wished with all the strength of three lifetimes residing in her heart that she could help him, because for a fleeting moment, he looked young.

So very young.

A door banged shut outside, and the present rushed back into the room. He shook himself a little, blinked - she could practically see his defenses slamming shut. In an instant, he was gone without a comment.

She understood then, for the first time really, that *he* needed *her*, that for some unknown reason, she had unawares wandered past all those high walls of his personal stronghold that better minds than hers had tried to break down, that she might now well be the only living soul that could reach him inside defenses that shut him in as much as they shut everyone else out.

That was a lot to take in a moment, but she didn’t have time to think it over, just knew she must not let him go like that, give him something, anything...

... rushing out and after him, make-uplipstickmatches flying, knocking over the chair in her haste...

“Logan!”

Already down the corridor, but he did turn.

“You coming to the dinner with me tonight?” Hair-raisingly, cringingly stupid, but all she could think of.

And the moment was gone; he was back to his old self, wary and amused in equal measure. Gaze travelling over her until she had ample time to grow self-conscious about her oldest XL T-shirt and half-combed hair and lack of... of Jean-ness about her.

Flicker of a sincere smile cooled her blush.

“At half six.”

Gone.

For a moment, she was weak with emotion, but then a wild joy took over, exhilarating like strong wine. She was his soulmate. Whatever else she could be, time would show, but she would always be part of his life. She had it in her.