She does not love me.

Okay? Get that through your goddamn head, Storm. She doesn't! She doesn't love me. Not a bit or a smidgeon or a drop or a tad. And especially not with 'her whole heart'.

Who the fuck do you think you are, woman? You can't waltz in here like my room is the sky and you're playin' weather goddess again. You can't waltz in here and smile at me all sweet and Storm-knows- all-things like and have me thinking you're gonna bring up the usual subjects – Logan, hide your beer if you must have it on the premises; Logan, don't growl at the little ones; Logan, don't use the Danger Room as an outlet for killing Scott every time you have a spat, someone might see; Logan, my underwear are black today…okay, that last one isn't a usual subject, but *damn*, woman, did you think nobody could look out a window when you're bending over like that in a short skirt to kiss some guy goodbye? Hells. …what was I snarlin' about? Oh. Oh fuckin' yeah. You *can't* make me think I'm safe and it's gonna be the usual subjects and then say, "Logan, Rogue loves you. She loves you with her whole heart."

And, fuckitall, Storm, you can't fuckin' waltz right back out before I recover enough to start yellin' at you!

…FUCK!

Ohhhhhh, I get it now. You've been planning this. You've been planning this since the day I dropped my cigar in your precious li'l pansies, huh? I *said* it was an accident, said I was sorry even! Woman, let it go. This is beyond cigars in pansies, Storm. Far. Far. Beyond.

That's why you've been nice. That's why you've been gentle and shit. That's why you let me have my way so easily, even when Scott was slaverin' for an argument. That's why you talked to me like you understood the way I was and didn't mind and we were friends and you… you…ooooh, you're a connivin' wicked witch, Storm.

All these days of bein' all comfortable and shit. Butterin' me up. Makin' sure Wolverine would be a *lamb* by the time you'd honed your blade for my slaughter. Nice, easy topics. The usual subjects were just lures to make sure I wouldn't notice the fuckin' hook you were about to yank into my mouth until it was too late.

Damn clever, woman. Cruel. EVIL. But clever.

Gotta admit, Storm, never thought you had it in you. You had me really fooled, yup. I never suspected a thing. Never heard your heart beat the wrong rhythm or your scent give off the wrong implication. Never read a bit of body language to tell me you were huntin' ol' Wolvie down and trussin' him up.

Damn. Damn damn

So you've played your game and I'm supposed to take the fall, hook, ball, and sinker. That it? I'm supposed to play the part you've set up for me and accept it as true because I never saw it coming? Uh- uh. No way, girl. You may have won the battle, but I'm pullin' for a war now.

There's some things you *don't* know, Storm, for all that you smile like you do. You *don't* know that I came back two weeks before I ever set foot in the house again. I was here for two weeks, and I was watching, cuz you don't go dancin' on a mine field until you know where the fuckin' mines are to begin with. I watched, yup, and I reestablished all the nooks and crannies of this crazy `household' of yours firmly in my head and my nose and my ears and the tiny hairs on the back of my arms and neck that stand up when somethin' ain't right. I got a firm layout in my head of the relationships between each and every one of you crazy 'hero' brats and I know which preteen kid put the tacks in Cyke's chair two days before I walked through the front door and damn, that kid is one bright bulb, and no, I ain't tellin' which one it was. And if I know that little detail, woman, you can bet your precious pansies I know this.

She doesn't love me.

You *don't* know that she does. You can't smell her or hear her the way I can. You can't *feel* her move from the next floor down in the mansion when she's pacing in that giant kid's room over study sessions. Knowin' her the way I do, you really think I wouldn't know that too if it were true? Shit, Storm. Shit. I *know* her. And I *know* she doesn't love me.

And just because I know her that well, don't think it means nothin' special. I know a lot of kids here that well. I do. Not that I want to…

That's not the fuckin' point. The fuckin' point is that you're a connivin' witch and you ain't gonna get away with this. I ain't gonna do what you think you've got me to do. I ain't gonna get all excited or happy or run off lookin' for her or some dumb mush-crap like that. I ain't gonna bide my time and make some crazy romantic sop gesture. I ain't gonna deny it and then shatter under the pressure eventually and `fess up.

Cuz I am *not* in denial – there's nothin' to be in denial *about* – there is no fuckin' pressure, I ain't a goddamn romantic sop, I don't do mush, and she. Doesn't. Love. Me.

Kid likes me. That's clear as day. Trusts me, sure. But what do you expect when I'm the only one with the balls to hug the poor kid when she's wearin' fewer than four layers of clothing? She can't touch anybody, and ya'll don't try to touch her, and she's a kid for fuck's sake. Kids cling to what's available or `safe' or whatever, and I'm a fuckin' bad ass sonuvabitch who had the balls to be nice guard. `Course she's gonna like me and trust me and smile at me and laugh for me and watch hockey even though she hates the game nine times outta ten.

…doesn't mean a thing.

She doesn't love me, Storm. Get over it. She doesn't.

I ain't fallin' for your tricks, I ain't gonna let you toy with me the way you fuck with the weather. I ain't gonna feel nothin' that ain't real, ain't true, ain't possible.

You want a fuckin' reason, the ultimate fact and proof and rule to why I know this so damn well? I'll tell you. I can tell you *exactly* why you're wrong.

She doesn't love me, Storm.

Because if she loved me, I'd have to admit I love her too.

And Cyke's got fifty bucks says I do. Can't let him win.

…shit, he put you up to this, didn't he?

…she's at my door. Oh shit, oh fuck, oh shit oh fuck shit fuckshitfuck…

There goes my fifty bucks.