Do you ever hesitate?

Do you ever miss that step? Lose that train of thought because suddenly you feel so completely thrown off track? As if the world around you is a smooth and working machine you are entirely separate from? Your mind lurches, disjointed, while reality’s slid two steps to the left and you’re left out of sync. Like a badly dubbed movie.

Do you ever find yourself hovering in the middle of an activity, no matter how intricate, no matter how mundane... and pause? Lose all sense of time? Just for a moment. Do you stand there blinking as you wonder... who am I to be doing this? Pretending that I’m this person.

Have you ever had that?

But then the moment passes, and you move on. You continue your conversation, finish whatever it was you were doing with a shrug or a smile, and you try and think nothing more of it. Because, you tell yourself, what is life without a little self-doubt? All those times you try and hide an emotion rather than offend someone else, all those times you feel like you’ve stepped out of time with a world that spins around you, they’re perfectly normal. Everyone has them.

...Right?

But what if those moments become everything? What if you use them as an excuse? What if you close yourself in and shut so much of yourself down, that there’s nothing left to recognise?

I’m rambling aren’t I? Okay, I’m aware I do this. I’m going to be doing a fair bit of it as well. But at least let me start at the beginning.

I’m twenty four, not old by many people’s standards, but don’t let my age deceive you. I’ve learned my lessons in life early. More than anything else I’ve come to realise that no matter who you are, no matter how strong or secure, how wealthy, how popular... there’s always one thing that can push you over the edge. One event that can tip the balance.

It could be tiny. Paling into insignificance against the dark and bloody backdrop of war and discrimination. It could be nothing. Like the pebble that sets off the avalanche. Like the single grain of sand that sends the others around it tumbling out of control.

Sometimes I think of life like that, like an hourglass. Maybe because the flow of time is so relentless. It trickles continuously throughout our lives, never tangible, but always touching, always leaving behind marks of its passage. Scars, wrinkles, old age. Missing friends. Time digs in its claws and promises only one certainty; that no matter what happens, no matter how you ride out the waves that come crashing in your direction, sink or swim; one day, that sand will run out.

And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

Do I have your attention now?

Now I know how this may seem. You’re thinking I’m morbid and depressed. You’re thinking nut job, bet she just mooches around the mansion... the mansion – yeah that’s a hard life – all day, struggling with the fact that she’s clothed, fed and well looked after. And maybe you’re right. But back then, in the years after the war, I was never unhappy. Well, not to start with anyway. I wouldn’t let myself be unhappy. I was just restless. Frustrated.

I wanted answers. I wanted someone to tell me who I was. What my purpose was. Someone to tell me that there was intention behind the curse of my skin, a reason that the cure didn’t work for me, that I was more than a freak of nature. I wanted it to be more than a just cruel twist of fate.

Original, huh?

Late teenage-angst. Or something.

I was also lonely. I didn’t shut people out. Not on purpose. Not at first. I always had my close friends, but there was so much going on in that time that it felt like no one really saw who I was. They lived with me, ate with me, trained with me, but they just knew me as the sassy southern girl in gloves who was acting quieter than usual.

It wasn’t their fault I guess. I wasn’t exactly outgoing in the first place, not like Jubes or Kitty. I was fidgety and impatient. Stuck inside the mansion; watching others move on with purpose in their lives around me; leaving school, growing up. Like a bug on the wrong side of a window pane, I was drawn to the light outside, but I was afraid to reach for it. Afraid of my skin. Of what it might do to others. Of what they’d think of me. Afraid of myself.

I was careful. Always cautious. Always controlled.

Trapped.

Yeah. There’s a nice neat little word to tie it all up into. Four strong walls of protection and care. And I felt like I was suffocating.

Don’t get me wrong, I was no emotional mess. Far from it. My life had been one crushing disaster after another, and I learnt to cope by separating myself from it. Finding out I was a mutant. Being a teenage runaway. Magneto. Stryker. The fake cure. I got through it all. I moved on. And at the time I felt I was the better person for it. By not letting it affect me, it made me stronger.

It made us all stronger.

After the Phoenix destroyed what little headway we had made at developing mutant/human relations, Storm stepped out of her shell and took over the running of the school. Jubilee began teaching classes. Bobby and Kitty joined the official team. Hank tried to stop by when he could, now that we were left without a resident doctor. Pete took control of combat. Everyone had a purpose.

And Logan?

Well... Logan was different.

Even now, the memory of him at that time twists somewhere inside me.

He stayed for Jean’s funeral, but remained indrawn and elusive, even more so than usual. He shut us out, all of us. The only time I saw him show any emotion at all was when he visited her gravestone in the garden. I could see him from my window. Fists clenching, working to fight back...what? Anger? Fury? Regret? I never knew. I just remember watching him talk softly; choked out words that no one would ever hear.

He left shortly after without so much as a goodbye. I woke up one day to find the bike gone, and that was that.

I pretended that it didn’t matter. I had Bobby, and he should have been enough. I swallowed back any feelings that threatened to rise to the surface and I put on a brave front, told myself that was Logan. It was what he did. He was never mine to mourn anyway. What right did I have to feel anything?

But then Bobby broke up with me and consoled himself in the touchable arms of Kitty, and it stung. The rejection. The ease at which I was replaced.

Now I look back on it, I should have seen it coming. There were a hundred tiny signs, even before that stupid ice-massacre of water lilies by the fountain, but I didn’t want to believe it, not until it stared me in the face. The clothes on the floor, the scrunched up sheets. The mortified look on his face as I caught them lying there, limbs all twisted and moving together in his bed.

I swore then and there that I would never let them see how much it hurt.

That was the turning point.

From then on I refused to think of it. Kitty? Wasn’t worth my time. Boyfriends? Bah. Waste of space. It was then that I started shutting people out on purpose. It was easier that way. Instead I threw myself into my college work, into my training.

When thoughts of my past haunted me, I pushed them away too. I became good at deadening parts of my mind until they were numb and it no longer hurt. Those bitter fond memories of a time when I had family. Of the cool heat of Bobby’s arms; the crushed hope that the thought of a cure had given me. Memories of the Professor. Of Scott and Jean. Useless memories that bought nothing but pain.

Memories like Logan’s inability to notice me.

They all came with such a feeling of hollow emptiness that I pushed them away. I filed them in a box in my head under things I would never have, things that didn’t belong to a person like me, and I shut them out. I refused to dwell; refused to linger.

I told myself those things weren’t important anyway. I would not be one of those people who never got over their stupid childhood crushes or dreams of a different life. I was stronger than that. I told myself it was time to grow up.

...So now you’re thinking, those of you that like to analyse these things; denial. That’s never good. Everything always comes out in the end.

But you know what? Back then, it didn’t matter to me. Denial was an escape; it was the only way I could move on.

I had Logan’s memories, even though they had faded over time, and he was the expert at suppression, so I took a leaf out of his book. I took everything in me that hurt; the loss, the gaping holes marked by death, the betrayal, being left behind, and I buried them well.

Too well.

I swept them under the carpet. I hid them under the bed. I shut them away and locked them in a place I would no longer have to confront of them.

What are you thinking now?

That I was stupid? Yes I was. That I was stubborn? Yeah, that too. I still am.

But I was also determined. I decided there was no longer any room for sorrow in my life, so I replaced it with something else. Drive and ambition. They built inside me. A deep rooted tension that before I knew it, had sapped away at the southern shell of what was once Marie, until one day, I snapped.

A broken vase and an argument with Jubilee. That’s all it was. That’s all it took in the end. My pebble. My grain of sand. The one event that caused me to step over the edge of that brink I had been looking down for a very long time.

I wasn’t angry. I didn’t yell or cuss or scream. I didn’t say anything. I just calmly turned, and went back to my room.

I left the door open as I shoved my stuff into a duffle bag. It was symbolic I suppose, a window of opportunity; for Bobby to apologise for breaking my heart; for Logan to return and offer me that ride he’d promised the night I went for the cure. It was a chance for someone to stop me. A cry for help. Maybe...

But no one came in. So I slung the duffle over my shoulder, and left. Simple as that.

I decided that the sand had run out for Marie. So I turned the timer over.

I became Rogue.

Another day, another job.

I have myself a grungy little motel room, the seventh in three months. I suppose you could say that I’ve been travelling. Heh. In a way.

Certainly not the sort of travelling I planned all those years ago, when my finger trailed across that map in the afternoon sunlight and I was all sweetness and teenage lust to the boy next door.

No, this is different.

This is freedom. This is independence. This is self-reliance. No family to worry about me, no Logan to protect me, no Xavier to overshadow me. This is me and it is mine. I have struggled, I have scrimped and I have saved. I have turned all that weighed me down into something that I can live for. And you know what? I relish every moment of it.

Freedom.

A slow smile spreads across my face as I throw the ratty blankets to the floor. I could stay in bed if I wanted. I could stay there all day and no one would judge. But today I have plans and I’m looking forward to them, so I get up, knowing it’s my choice.

I don’t bother making the bed. I’m leaving anyway.

The shower is scolding hot. A thick, rusty flow of water that dribbles loosely over my skin; pipes clanking as they strain to produce more. The longer I stay in, the more the mirror fogs and the tiles grow slick with the soft touch of steam. The room becomes muggy, the air damp and warm as I draw it into my lungs, but I stay under for as long as possible. Savouring it. Tensing as the hot runs out, challenging myself, waiting for the icy cold sting to take my breath away.

When it does, I shiver, and I stay where I am for as long as I can possibly bear it. Then I shriek and grin, scrambling out, teeth chattering as I laugh like a child, wrapping myself in the warmest towel I can find.

I know it’s a stupid game, but you know what? I don’t care. No one is here to see me, so what does it matter? I enjoy it. I relish pushing the boundaries of my skin.

Ever since the cure wore off, it’s become more sensitive than ever. Now even the faintest little touch can send my thoughts spiralling in all directions at once. It’s an experience, let me tell you. One I’m not afraid of anymore.

My skin; my hindrance. It no longer holds me back.

It’s become my greatest asset.

My weapon.

A pair of loose black jeans, a baggy white t-shirt; they are nothing beautiful to envisage, but they suit my new lifestyle just fine. I brush my teeth, scrape my still damp hair into a pony tail, loving the small preparations for the day. It’s these little things that somehow make me feel alive.

Then my duffle bag, the same bag I’ve had since I first left home, is slung over my shoulder, and just like that I walk out the door.

Another day, another job.

The morning is blindingly bright. I have to blink a few times to let my eyes adjust, and as I walk I let the warmth of the sun bathe my face. It casts hard shadows on the summer baked concrete, filling my nose with the sweaty bustling scent of the city, but I don’t mind. Today I’m leaving. Moving on.

The thought fills me with a sense of immediate satisfaction.

It’s a short walk to the coffee shop where I’m to meet my contact. When I get there it’s no surprise to find that she’s late. She always is. C'est la vie. I don’t let it bother me. I simply kick my duffle under the nearest table and sink back into a spongy booth, ordering a coffee while I watch the world pass me by outside the window.

People flow past in an endless stream. Like a river of well tailored ants, all scurrying somewhere at once. Stepping quickly, places to be, no time to waste. Tall people, short people, smart people, rich people, poor people. Always in a rush. Business men and formidable women. Hassled mothers dragging children late for school. All heading somewhere. All caught up in the rat-race of city life.

I watch them through my window, the sounds of their shoes and cars and chatter dulled by the thick glass between us, and I sit back to enjoy my coffee. Content in the knowledge that while they are out there, I am in here.

Yeah, it would be fair to say I like my life.

The soft sound of a chime and the door swings open. A tall blond walks in, lips curling in a sardonic smile as she spies me and slides in opposite. My contact.

No, more than that.

She’s become a friend.

We are very similar, her and I, even if we do not look it on the surface.

She slides a slip of paper over to me. "Everything arranged?"

Oh yeah, it’s arranged. I take a quick look, memorising the code scrawled across it in her familiar blue inked style, before screwing it up and aiming it towards the bin. I miss, and the waitress gives me a disapproving frown before disappearing behind someone else’s order.

My contact just laughs. "Nice aim."

"Why, thank you sugar," I slant back, lacing my voice with all the illusions of Southern charm. "Shall we go?"

"Car’s out back." She says it with an inclination of her head.

Good. Nice and close. That’ll make things a whole lot simpler.

Duffle in hand, I step back into the hubbub of outside and instantly three things happen. A man gets out of a cab across the street and leers at my contact. I ignore it as she leers back, nothing to do with me, but he’s in the way, and a bike swerves out into the traffic to avoid him, a car screeching in sympathy as it fights not to run him over.

A young mother stares and gets so caught up in the moment that I nearly trip over her speeding stroller, dodging smoothly out the way with a sway of my hips, just in time. The baby’s fast asleep, oblivious in the way only the young can be, but while the mother mumbles a hassled apology, the child attached to her hand stares at me with open interest.

"Mama mama! That lady’s got really strange hair."

At that the mother flushes bright red. "Sorry," she manages again, before towing the child away.

I just smile. Children have a way of stating the issues that everyone else tiptoes around, and I like that. The moment becomes a bright spark in my day.

Beside me my contact mirrors my expression. I suppose if you think about it logically, it could be a wedge between us. But I was never one for logic, and it isn’t. And I’m glad.

"Fashion statement," I say to her with a twist of my lips.

"You know I’ve always loved it," she replies.

Then we make our way to the car without the need for further words.

It’s a car in the loosest sense of the word. We don’t want to look flashy. It’s pretty much held together by all the rust, but we worked hard to get it and it’ll serve its purpose. We’ve made sure of that.

First thing’s first, I make sure the holdall is safely stored. I can still hear the bustle of the main street from here, but it’s a dark enough ally to be at threat from the underground thieving rings that operate in the area, so I’m careful, tucking it safely out of sight.

Then there’s a moment before I close the trunk. I hesitate, just briefly, change my mind and yank the zip of my holdall back open, pulling my good luck charm free and stashing it in my back pocket.

"You never know," I say, slamming the lid down with a reassuring thunk.

"You never do." She’s leaning against the wall, waiting for me. "You ready?"

"Hell yeah." I’m more than ready. I’ve been waiting for this. Planning, building up to it for the last three weeks. "And y’know what?" I flash her a grin. "This time I think I’m due a little... revenge."

I slide off one of my gloves.

Then I touch her.

It’s only for a moment, a brush of skin against skin, and she’s warm, thinking about ice-cream and a man with long blonde hair. It’s not much, but it’s enough to knock the breath out of her. It’s enough to cause her to lean against the wall for support. Enough to unbalance her disguise for a moment, so that her eyes glow with a flash of yellow.

And it’s enough to give me a hit of her powers.

"Today," I announce with an air of the dramatic, "I am going to be.... St John Allerdyce."

Oh yeah. Revenge.

I close my eyes, feeling that satisfying slip of moulding into new shapes, like sliding into new skin-tight clothes. Sinking into liquid. My arms feel heavier, more bulky, chest is deeper, my head is lighter... less hair, I realise with a sly smile. My jeans feel tighter, but they were loose before. I was expecting this. They are not uncomfortable.

When I hear her voice, it’s through strange ears. "Interesting choice," she says, and I know she’s pleased.

"You think it’ll work?"

"People only see what they want to see. Of course it’ll work."

Yeah, we have a lot in common her and I. And in this messed up world we found each other. Both failures of the cure. United by the discrimination against us. Tied by our hatred of Magneto; mine through trauma, hers through rejection.

When I open my eyes, she’s gone, and a balding middle aged security guard stands in front of me instead. He gives me a seedy grin, flashing yellowed nicotine stained teeth. "Let’s go."

I love how she does that. Right down to the last detail.

A few steps and we round the corner. A few more and we are walking through thick revolving doors, into the clerical quietness of the city bank. I smile idly at the cameras as they fix their stare upon me. Then I walk up to the nearest teller.

"Good morning, sir," he says, distractedly. "How can I help you?"

In more ways than you could ever imagine, I think, looking at his bored face. Then I pull my good luck charm from my pocket and point it at his head.

"At the risk of sounding clichéd sugar," I say. "This? Is a stick up. Put your hands where I can see them."

The tyres squeal as the car fights to slide around a corner. I’ve never driven so fast and it’s exhilarating, hands gripping the wheel, the drug-like edge of adrenalin still pumping through my veins like wildfire. Heh, which is appropriate seeing as the effects of the stolen mutation haven’t worn off yet.

Beside me Mystique is once again her trademark blue, her eyes glinting deviously, lips curled as her sleek fingers count through our spoils.

I know we did well this time. We could retire on this and live happily in the lap of luxury if we wanted. I smile at the image of the two of us sprawled out on a yacht somewhere out in the vast blueness, being waited on hand, foot and finger by a couple of hot guys. Yeah, I can see how that would have its benefits. But it would be a very sedate life, and where would be the fun in that?

The siren reminds me the cops are still chasing us. I catch the edge of a blue flashing light in my mirror, but I’m in control. I’m buzzing on the excitement and I’m not in the least bit worried. We have a plan.

"There," Mystique yells, pointing to a bland suburban bungalow. It looks worn, lived in. But it’s not. We checked it out. Occupants moved to New England a while back.

I swerve the car into the driveway of the next door house with the screech of burning rubber; we’re out before you can blink. I grab my stuff, she grabs the money, then it’s a race across the lawn. Door’s unlocked; we left it that way. Rush in, stash our bags under floor; pull the rug over the loose floorboards. We’re so prepared it all takes less than a minute to achieve.

By the time the wailing sirens catch up with us, we’ve already hidden the evidence. By the time they break down the door of the neighbour’s house, I’ve already stolen another hit of her mutation. And by the time they come knocking on our door, barging in, all slick black uniforms and nervous tension, we’re a quaint little old couple. Mystique is making a cup of tea. She offers one to the nearest SWAT member and I’m on such a high I have to force myself to stifle a giggle.

It doesn’t take them long to search the house. Open doors, check the basement. They don’t find anything. And as they leave they are all profuse apologies at disturbing us.

I almost feel sorry for them. They’re just regular people, making a living, trying to do the right thing.

Almost.

I can’t quite bring myself to get there. I suppose that makes me a bad person, but I can’t quite bring myself to feel guilty about that either. Guilt is another emotion long dead and buried. Marie was awash in it. Rogue doesn’t feel it.

And I don’t miss it.

Mystique breaks into my thoughts by holding out her dainty china tea cup towards me. "Cheers," she says sinking back into the blue and flashing me that wicked smile.

"Cheers," I return, clinking my own cup against hers.

It’s just all so easy.

---

"Jubes?" We’re on our way again and I have a phone call to make. One which I’m sure part of me should be dreading, but after the chase I’m strangely complacent about the whole thing.

"Rogue?!" She sounds completely shocked. Not that I can blame her. I walked out without saying goodbye, then after months of silence I phone out of the blue? Yeah, I’d be shocked too.

"Where are you? Are you alright? What-" she takes a deep breath and I can picture her perfectly, raking yellow painted nails through her hair. "What happened? Why did you leave?"

"I’m fine," I say. "More than fine. I’m great."

"But you just left! We were worried sick!"

They were? I’m flattered, but I’m unaffected. Call me cold, call me what you like, but I severed that tie. I never asked anyone to worry about me. It was high time I worried for myself.

"Listen Jubes. I don’t have long to talk, my cell phone’s running out of battery."

Mystique flashes me a sly smile at that lie.

"What do you mean? You can’t just phone and then disappear again! You have to-"

"I need you to do me a favour," I interrupt. "The orphanage, the one Xavier set up for mutants on the west coast. I need their details."

"You need..." That throws her. "Why? What on earth for?"

"I’m working now," I say, as if it’s obvious. Of course I don’t go into specifics, but then what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. "I’d like to make a donation."

That seems to puzzle her a little. Whatever she was expecting, I doubt it was that. She probably expected me to be a poor little runaway again, barely scraping enough together to eat. Ha.

"Um..." I can hear her rustling around with some papers. "It’s...uh... hang on."

"Jubes?"

"Just... wait a...moment...uh..."

She’s taking a long time to answer. Too long.

"Never mind," I say. "That’s my battery beeping. Gotta go. See ya."

"But-"

And that’s all she manages before I flip the phone shut.

"Well, that didn’t go to plan." Mystique gives me one of those disconcerting stares, she doesn’t blink.

I just shrug. I’m used to them by now. "Doesn’t matter. There are other ways to get that information. Think she was trying to put a trace on the call."

To be honest I’m not really worried. Poor Jubes. She wouldn’t know how to set up a trace if it bit her in the ass.

I push the thought away in the section of my mind saved for ‘problems to be dealt with later when I can be bothered’, kick back my feet and watch the cars speed by out of the clean glass.

We’ve a got a truck now, the rusty decoy car abandoned where we left it and no doubt crawling with cops. Our new baby, it purrs as it powers down the freeway. Fiery red, the colour of Mystique’s hair, and glossy with new paint. It’s an absolute monster on the road, but it barely made a dent in our new found fortune. And it’s best feature? I can slide back my seat and kick my feet up on the dashboard.

I’ve always wanted to be able to do that.

The orphanage thing is an annoyance, but not a hindrance. When we started this, Mystique and I, it was under the condition that we give something back to mutant kind. We target the organisations that take the most from us, those that fund the so called ‘government projects’. And while we keep a fair bit for ourselves, we always make sure we’re not the only one’s that benefit.

Kinda like a modern day Robin Hood. Heh. The Rogue with the hood. I always knew that cape was good for something.

"So where next?" I ask, delving around in the glove compartment for some food. I don’t really care, so long as it’s somewhere new. We’ll do as we’ve always done. Split up for a few days. I’ll scout around the area and Mystique will launder the money. Her best bet is usually the casinos; there are those that still don’t bother to check too carefully. Lose enough not to look obvious, cash in your chips at the end of the night and viola. Of course, after a while people start to get suspicious, but then being a shape shifter can be so useful at times.

"Pennsylvania?"

I pretend to think it over for a moment. "Y’know, I’ve always wanted to go to Philadelphia. I could cope with that. Anything else there of interest?"

"Mount Davis? The Liberty Bell?"

"Let me rephrase that. Anything of interest...to us?"

At that Mystique’s half smile turns serious. Her fingers curl over the leather of the steering wheel and I know she means business. "One federal storage facility. Home to a bunch of government officials, the origins of Stryker’s strike force... and a whole lotta cash."

"Interesting," I say. Already my mind is spinning. That would be a hit indeed. So far we’ve only done banks and small businesses. This would be kick in the government’s collective teeth. Nice. "Do you know if it’s-"

I don’t get any further. My cell starts to ring. I look at the number and curse. "Dammit, Jubes managed to trace the line after all."

I flick open the cover and put on my thickest southern drawl. "Hey sugar. Battery must be-"

"Where the fuck are you?"

Jesus. I nearly drop the phone in fright. That’s not Jubes.

It’s Logan.

He came back.

Shit.

Logan?

My heart is racing. Pounding so fast I can hear the blood rush through my ears. It feels like I’m suddenly freefalling and I don’t know how to stop.

For a moment I clutch at my cell, completely lost. I’m instantly drawn back into my memories. The sounds and jeers of a cage fight. That bitter musk of stale beer and sweat. The icy coldness of his trailer and the way every slippery bump we went over juddered right through me. You don’t know or you don’t care? Out of all the people in that bar, he was the one I was drawn too. I thought that he would be the one to understand me.

To this day I still don’t know why.

"You there?"

Even after all these months his voice still prickles the hairs on the back of my neck. I close my eyes. Take an unsteady breath.

"Marie?"

Oh.

I hate that he uses that name.

It jolts me out of my shock and flicks my barriers right back up. No one gets to use that name any more. A cold clarity seeps through me and gives me a moment to get control again. All the feelings that rushed at me at the sound of his voice, all the emotions, I push them away. Lock them tightly up.

You grew up, I remind myself. Moved on.

So prove it.

I slouch back down in my seat, cross one leg over the other, and when I speak, I’m all southern charm. Pure Rogue. Heh. I feel quite proud of myself really.

"Logan." I flick the hair out of my eyes and ignore the startled look Mystique gives me. She wasn’t expecting him either.

"Why the HELL did you leave?"

Oh he’s not happy. He’s not even bothering to hide it.

"Felt like a road trip," I slant back.

"Road trip?" I almost hear a growl. "You get your ass right back here NOW, y’hear me!"

I roll my eyes. Yeah I hear him. Even Mystique can hear him, he’s yelling so loud. "You sound like my father. No, wait, it’s worse than that. You sound like Scott."

Yeah, that gets him. I’m shooting way below the belt, but so what? He was the one that upped and left. Heh. Well the first time anyway. What did he expect? For me to wait around the mansion forever, eternally invisible? Always looking out of the window like some sort of lovesick teenager? Yeah, well as fun as that was, I’ve had my fill of unrequited love and being ditched for this lifetime.

"Look, come home." This time his voice is a little more forced, like he’s trying to rein it in. "It ain’t safe out there."

So now he’s trying to reason with me. Interesting.

"Logan, I would have thought you of all people would understand."

"Understand what?"

"The need to escape. A chance to get the hell out and live. I’m not coming home. I’m happy as I am."

"Marie," I hear the note of warning in his voice.

"Sorry, gotta go."

"Kid, listen. The Professor-"

But I don’t hear any more. I snap my cell shut and give it a cursory glance before tossing it out the window. "Bye-bye old life," I tell the passing blur of trees.

I ignore the twist in my stomach, telling myself that it’s not hurt I feel. Or regret.

Not really.

Then just to be on the safe side, I slip my emotions into that practiced shutdown anyway, until all that’s left of the fluttering excitement is a small pang of sadness. Which I stamp on. Hard.

Yeah, so what if I’m stubborn and cold hearted. Better than being miserable.

---

It’s a long journey, but we take it in turns to drive and we manage to keep going throughout the night. By the time the first hints of dawn are beginning to reach out in shreds across the whitewashed sky, we start noticing signs of civilisation again. It’s still so quiet though. There are hardly any other cars on the road, and the constant hum of the asphalt, the repetitive flash of the street lamps as they throb by, they begin to lull me into a comatose state of half sleep.

Which is not good, because I’m driving.

"Mystique?" She wriggles in her seat a bit, usually sleek red hair spilling all over her face. She pretends to still be asleep, but she radiates this alert tenseness and I know it’s a front. She’s never one to be caught off guard. "I know you’re awake. I can see you smirking."

"Figures." A yellow eye opens a crack. It’s almost feral, like a cat. "Are we there already?"

"No, but my eyes are bugging out. Mind if we stop for a while?"

A yawn and a casual wave of a blue scaled hand. "Whatever. Pick somewhere nice this time, okay?"

Sure. I can cope with that. Actually I kinda like the idea of staying somewhere a little more... upmarket. When I’m scouting out a hit, it usually pays to downplay – hence the skanky motels, despite our lavish budget. Still, one night of pampering and luxury... I sigh happily. It’ll be a hardship, but I’ll cope.

Decision made, I renew my efforts to keep my eyelids propped open. Ugh. It’s not easy. Maybe after this hit we should invest in a private jet. God knows we can afford it. The truck’s nice and all, but it’s certainly not the quickest way to get around.

By the time we reach the city, the roads pick up somewhat; early risers already heading for work. I watch them pass us by with a strange kind of tired blandness. While I don’t envy their nine till five lives, I do envy their night of sleep. I’m ready to crash and burn.

Hopefully not in the literal sense. Whole lotta mess that would be.

Yup.

God, I’m tired.

I know the hotel I want to stay in as soon as I’m dazzled by the lights of it. It’s this giant glass angled monstrosity, all style and no taste, as my momma would say. It mirrors itself in the giant fountains out front, and manages to look garish, lavish, and expensive all at the same time.

Perfect.

I pull over.

"You think they’ll have a couple of rooms?" I yawn as we haul out the last of our stuff and the valet pulls away in our shiny red truck. I know he’ll look after it. Mystique currently looks like Cindy Crawford and she flirted with him like hell.

"Maybe not for us," she says, sinking back from the view of their security cameras. She’s in the shade, but I can sense the change in her. When she steps back into the early daylight, the fresh morning sun rucking up under the slightly saggy skin of her jaw and her thin pressed lips, I see her plan. Her eyes blink at me through thick glasses. "But I’m sure they’d find room for Senator Kelly."

Did I mention how useful it is travelling with a shape shifter? Yeah. You get the picture.

She plays it up once we enter the foyer. I step back into her shadow, let her steal the scene, and she’s all smooth talk and business. The staff practically leap over themselves to find us adjoining rooms. "One for the Senator, one for his assistant," I hear them babble over the phone. "And be quick about it! Don’t want to keep the Senator waiting."

No, of course not.

Our baggage disappears in the elevator with the porter. We’ve yet to launder the hard cash and I wonder if the poor man in his snug burgundy waistcoat with its faux gold stitching realises how close he is to several million dollars.

Heh. Hopefully not.

Our suites are sprawled out across the top floor. Penthouse, I realise. Very nice. It’s amazing what flashing a little authority can do. I swipe my key card and as I close the door behind me, a slow smile spreads across my face. Tired or not, this is going to be fun.

A giant circular bed announces itself as the central feature, swathes of citrus colours bold and modern against a wash of tan. Anywhere else it would seem out of place, but here...? Oh wow...one whole side of the room is thick glass and the view is fantastic. An endless stretch of dawn, a rippling sea of distant city lights, blinking from far below.

I could get used to this.

First things first, I raid the mini bar. I don’t like to admit I still have some of Logan’s cravings, they come under the ‘if I don’t think about them, they’re not really there’ category, but it’s the whiskey I go for first, taking a handful of the mini bottles to accompany me in my giant, window view bath.

Ditching my clothes in a heap, I turn on the polished taps, enveloping the room in a sudden cloud of steam. I glance at myself in the mirror as the water flows, not wanting to be vain, but secretly quite pleased with the way my body’s been toned and honed to sleekness over the last few months. I know I’m looking good. Right now I feel like I could take over the world.

I stifle another yawn. Okay. Maybe not right now...

I don’t bother drawing the blinds as I sink in to the liquid warmth. If anyone has the lens power to watch me up here, high above the city, then they deserve the chance to perve. Besides, there’s something to be said about bathing with only a sheet of glass between you, a vast drop, and a huge expanse of city. It’s strangely liberating.

An hour later, and the sun has fully risen. Although it’s not yet eight a.m., I’m clean and warm and I’m munching my way through the complimentary chocolates, more than a little drunk.

So what? Like I said before. My life, my choice.

When the Senator pushes open our adjoining door, I grin and toss him a bottle. The bath has revived me somewhat and I wanna have some fun before I fall asleep.

...Not that sort of fun I hasten to add. I’m not that twisted.

The Senator just raises a greying eyebrow towards his hairline and manages to look haughty. He mimes a headline. "Mutant Found Dead in Hotel Room. Mini-Bar Suspected."

"Death by mini-bar? That’s the plan sugar. You in?"

The laugh that bubbles out of him is pure Mystique. For a moment the sound is really disturbing, until she prowls over, letting the vision of the Senator melt away into her rippling blue. Then she knocks back the drink in one go, sinking down on the bed beside me, simultaneously reaching for another bottle with her toes.

I envy her suppleness.

I suppose if anyone had told me a year ago that I would be lying side by side with Mystique, joking about our day, I would have laughed.

No, that’s not quite right, I didn’t laugh, not in those days. I would have probably gone rigid, bit out some sassy remark and slunk away to my room to work furiously on an assignment, wishing I had the courage to run away again.

But y’know what? We have a good thing going, an agreement, and it’s developed into friendship. It’s amazing what wars can do. They unite people. People like Mystique and me. Once enemies, we suddenly found ourselves on the same side, no longer part of the X-men, but not the Brotherhood either. Just us. And despite the initial trepidation I felt, it works.

Especially when we drink.

"So," I slur slightly. "Truth or dare?"

"Kid’s game."

I suppose she has a point. "Fair enough. You got any better ideas."

She swipes another drink. "Nope." Then she pauses for a moment. "Truth."

Hmmm. I have to think about this one for a while. I want it to be good. "Did you and Magneto ever... y’know...?"

"Have sex?" Her hand passes me another miniature bottle as she pretends to consider. "No."

"Oh."

"You’re surprised?" It’s not really a question. "I prefer my men more... feral."

Suddenly one of her memories comes flashing back; a man with long blonde hair. Something clicks into place. "Sabretooth?"

To my surprise she flinches slightly and I almost regret saying it. A year ago I would have thought her incapable of emotions like that, but now...? Now a flinch can be read a hundred different ways. She must have really cared for him. She rarely lets people in to see what she is feeling.

The moment doesn’t last long however. She rolls over, fingers curling around another drink that she gulps down, before licking her lips and flipping the focus of the game back onto me. "I don’t regret. Your turn. Truth or dare?"

I hesitate. "Truth?"

"You... and Wolverine..."

My pulse suddenly hammers through my ears.

"...what went on there?"

I take a moment, focus my vision on the miss-match of the neo-seventies light fittings.

The Wolverine. Logan.

Okay, so that one’s revenge. I can’t say that I blame her either, I was digging a little deep. I sigh as I roll onto my front, trying to hide the expression on my face with out looking like I’m...well...hiding the expression on my face. I don’t want to think about him. I don’t want to think about any of my old life. She knows that.

"So...?" She prompts.

"Nothing." I almost snap. Then I take a deep breath and tell myself to stop being so stupid. "Nothing, really. He was always too hooked on Jean Grey to notice."

She just gives me one of those disconcerting looks.

"What?" I accuse eventually, well aware of how grouchy I sound.

Her lips twist into a smirk. "You’re sure about that?"

"Stop it."

"There were times he looked pretty hooked on you."

Oh that’s not fair. That completely screws my concentration and makes my head spin until I settle it with another drink.

"I’m sure I remember-"

"Just let it go," I interrupt, then I’m forced to add a, "Please," at her smug expression.

To be fair to her, she doesn’t say anymore. She knows when she’s pushed me far enough. She doesn’t go into details about the ‘times’ either, because that would mean acknowledging Alkali Lake or the Statue of Liberty , but we both know what she meant. And yeah, we’ve talked about them, we couldn’t possibly work together without going through that, but some things are best left to lie.

I sigh into her sudden silence, wishing I’d never started the stupid game.

Eventually I shrug. "It was never more than big brother protector stuff," I say quietly, as if that explains everything. But even as the words leave my mouth, the memory of the way he looked at me that night, the night I left to get the cure, suddenly rises in my mind and it fills me with a sinking sense of... something.

That intense look in his eyes. So serious. So...

I push the thought quickly away in favour of another mouthful of drink. Whatever it was, it’s another thing best left alone.

Besides, it was only big brother stuff. What was it he had said? ‘I’m not your father, kid. I’m your friend.’

Just a friend.

Jean was the one he ran after.

And like hell am I gonna sit here and mope about it! I raise my bottle to hers. "Your turn."

She stretches like a cat. "Truth."

"You ever had sex as a man?" Well, come on, it’s gotta be asked. And I have to admit, it’s the one thing I was always curious about. I mean, what would you do with her powers? A given chance to know how the other side works. Would you?

She flashes me her white teeth, and laughs. "Oh yes. And it’s an experience let me tell you. Totally different... ball game."

I snigger, and she hands me another drink. I’m gonna feel rough as hell by the evening, but right now I don’t care. I’ve got the whole day ahead of me, and I don’t care how it happens, I plan to have some fun.

Ugh.

It’s bright, it’s as painful as needles stabbing my eyes, and dark glasses do absolutely nothing to help. The whole thing is a stupid myth. Unfortunately. I don’t even have that glamorous could-be-a-movie-star thing going on, I just look like shit. I know. I had the unpleasant experience of seeing my smudged, hair-every-which-way reflection in the expensive mirror before we left this morning.

Was yesterday worth it? Who knows. Probably.

The bits of it I remember.

I think I’ve cured myself of a craving for whiskey anyway. I never want to see the God forsaken stuff again. Christ, just remembering the smell of it makes my vision swim and my stomach clench in sympathy. I feel so rough.

After an alcohol orientated night’s sleep, we spent the morning driving the rest of our journey in a hangover induced silence. But now that we’re finally here, now that it’s time to part ways, I don’t think I’ve got the stomach to step out the air-con’d comfort of the truck.

Literally.

I think I’m gonna hurl.

I force myself to swallow as I grab my duffle bag, flinching as the thunk of the slamming door rips through my head like a blunt axe. Ouch. The after shock sways the sidewalk around me until my palms feel clammy and cold despite the midday heat. Did I mention I feel rough?

Oh God, I think I’m gonna... I’m gonna... No. Nope, I’m hanging in there. Kinda.

My throat burns. I gulp a deep breath.

Jesus, what a mess!

I don’t look back as I walk away; she wouldn’t expect me to. I don’t think I could handle the turning around thing anyway. It takes all my concentration just to remain upright.

The first thing I do, when my feet are steady enough to take more than a few steps, is find myself a motel. That’s actually quite easy, thank God, there are loads of them. The one I settle for isn’t too bad either. The room smells clean and the plumped up towels are fresh and eye-stingingly white. Usually a good sign... I think. Or at least I try to think. My brain is currently on alcohol poisoning strike. I think it may be starting a union with my liver. Maybe they’ll sue for better working environment rights.

Or not.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m completely sane.

Heh. Who cares. Maybe I can blame my random thoughts on someone else. Magneto. Yup. He’s definitely getting the credit for that last one.

I stash my stuff and force down some icy tap water before I drag myself under the shower. I stay there until the world slides into focus; forehead resting against the cool wall tiles, lukewarm spray trickling over me until I slowly begin to feel a little more human again. Or maybe I should say a little more mutant. Magneto again. Whatever. The urge to throw up my breakfast is no longer top of my list, so I consider that an achievement.

Once out, I scrape around for clean clothes. I let my hair stay loose for a change, feeling the damp weight fan out behind me as I slouch back on the bed and wonder what to do for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, that’s when we’ll sort out surveillance. We’ve already got our meeting place arranged, although the memory of it swings in dizzy circles through my head and makes me want to forget my own name. Yeah, tomorrow is business. Today is only about one thing. Settling in.

That and laundry.

Hell yeah, the life of crime is all glamour let me tell you.

Decision made, I haul my hung-over ass off the bed and risk the daylight long enough to find myself a Laundromat.

The door opens to the scent of washing power and clean clothes. It usually relaxes me, but today the whirlpooling hum of the machines just makes me giddy. I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth as my stomach churns along with them, haphazardly bundling in my clothes, leaving as quickly as possible, staggering outside and taking great deep breaths, eyes darting around like a lunatic until I spy an internet café to hang around instead.

This proves to be the best idea I’ve had all day.

By some selective searching, I find the details of the orphanage. It’s not a big place, nothing like the school. It’s quiet and contained; protected, I think would be the right word to use. The details of the children that reside there are conveniently glossed over citing child protection laws, but I know it’s the right place. The Professor’s gentle style is marked all over it.

A few clicks later and I’m able to leave them an anonymous donation of a couple of hundred thousand dollars.

I feel very pleased with myself. I know, technically, it’s not my money, but I’ve just put it to a far better use and the thought leaves me content ... in what I admit is a deliciously powerful kind of way. So what if I’ve taken a hefty cut? I’ve done a good thing. Really.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

I must be quite convincing as well, because I find myself very willing to believe it. Heh! Especially after I remind myself that I don’t do self-doubt anymore.

One thing does nag me though, even though I don’t like to admit it. Something Logan said. He mentioned the Professor.

Okay, I know I cut him off before he was able to tell me whatever it was he had to say, but there’s part of me that’s convinced he was gonna use it as a moral hinge. ‘The Professor would be ashamed of you kid’ is the one that strikes me the most.

I try not to think about it too much. I don’t like to think what the Professor would have said about all this. His opinion was one of the few that actually mattered to me. It still feels wrong that he’s gone.

Disjointed.

I frown over the word.

Like a giant piece of the puzzle is now missing.

He always seemed so in control, so indestructible. For some reason there was a part of me that thought he was always going to be there... which was stupid. No one lives forever. He died as easily as the rest of us can. In fact, he died when he should have put up a fight. He let himself be killed! He died pathetically! And I hate that! How could he do it? How could he leave us when we needed him the most! What gave him the right?

And more than the completely unjustified resentment I’m trying not to feel, I hate the little voice inside that whispers, ‘you weren’t there either, were you.’

I shut it away. So what if I wasn’t? I had to grab my chance at the cure while I could! I shouldn’t feel guilty!

I shouldn’t!

Yeah... right...

Ugh.

For a moment I just swirl my mouse curser idly over the screen, lost in thought. Then I realise what I’m doing and sit up suddenly, glancing around... as if it must be clear to everyone what I’m thinking, like ‘has guilty conscience’ is tattooed across my face or something. But all the other users remain unaffected. They don’t even notice me.

Eew, except that pervy guy in the corner who keeps trying to leer at me over the top of his monitor. His hand’s firmly ensconced in his pocket... and I really don’t want to know what he’s doing. Gross.

I deliberately look the other way. Try and shoehorn my thoughts back on track. Oh but he’s still... oh that really is freaking me out! I don’t want to see that!

I give him a glare. He responds with a smile which makes me feel all kinds of creeped out and dirty. Bastard. I drag my monitor over so I’m completely facing the other way. So what if he gets to stare at my ass. At least I can pretend he doesn’t exist. And pretending’s something I’m rather good at these days.

What was I thinking about again? Oh yeah. Justification. Right.

Oh hell, it doesn’t matter what the Professor would think anyway. He’s not here; therefore the decision’s mine. The orphanage needs money, I need a shot at a life. And as for means justifying anything, I think, in this case, it does.

And I’m tempted to add a ‘so there.’

So... there.

Ha.

But for all my empowered thoughts, it’s not like any of them actually make me feel any better, and goddamit I hate that too! I want to feel good about myself! I don’t want any of this sorry assed mooching crap.

Right, that’s it. Apparently I think too much in places like these, I’m leaving.

I check my emails before I log out. It takes ages and my patience is officially wearing thin. Two hundred and sixty three little envelopes of spam, seventeen from Jubilee, a couple from Pete, God there’s even several from Ororo. They really must have been worried.

Again I shrug the thought off my shoulders, try not to think about it. Then just to make myself feel a little better, I forward a couple of the ‘fifty great ways to enlarge your penis’ emails to Bobby.

Heh.

I don’t feel guilty about what I’m doing, living out here, forging a... different... kind of life for myself. Really I don’t. I’m just hung over and creeped out, that’s all. After a good night’s sleep, I’ll be much better.

---

The following day I’m sat at the diner, and guess what? She’s late. Big surprise. Good job I don’t care. I just use the time to tuck in to some food. I didn’t eat much yesterday, so today I’m starving and there’s nothing dignified about the way I stuff down my burger. God but that tastes good. Unhealthy, yes, and it’s still so hot that it deadens my tongue and scolds the roof of my mouth, but damn, right now it feels like I’ve never eaten anything better.

When she comes in, it’s as a sleek haired brunette, the disguise so effective that even I don’t recognise her at first. It’s only when she slides in opposite me, folds her legs in that seductive way and gives me that sly twitch of a smile that I realise. Barely suppressed smug tension radiates off her like beauty. She smells of bar smoke and alcohol, so I’m guessing she had a busy night. Personally I don’t know how she does it; I went back to my motel and crashed. Big time. Dammit, I really need to work on my life of glamour and sin. So far it’s rather lacking.

"Something on your mind?"

Huh? Her casual comment jolts me and I shake my head. "No... No it’s nothing."

"Well, wherever you were... I found some interesting information last night." She licks her lips, flirts with the guy sitting opposite us.

I ignore the way he practically drools over his cheap menu. "Are you gonna share?" I say around another mouthful of food.

"You want the good news first? The bad? Or the other bad?"

What a choice. "Surprise me."

"Well, the bad news is that the facility is currently in possession of a little over one point six billion dollars... but unfortunately manages all it’s money off site."

That’s some pretty hefty information. I’m not sure I even want to know how she found that out. Or who she had to sleep with.

"The other bad news is that it uses a public bank."

"What’s the good news?"

"A rather large deposit is due to be made, in cash, two days time."

"In a public bank?" Somehow I’m finding that hard to believe.

"Something to do with building public trust by keeping tax payer’s money in the public eye."

Yeah right. That’s the lamest reason I’ve heard of. These places always have motives... although that doesn’t necessarily mean we can’t take advantage of them. "Nearby?"

Her smile widens. "Not far."

"So am I to take it that we have a slightly different target now?"

"Well," she almost pouts, "we wouldn’t want to hit the facility and leave all the money. Where would be the fun in that?"

...She does have a point. "You have a plan?"

She steals a mouthful of my food and uses it to flirt even more seductively with the guy opposite. Believe me, you’ve never seen anyone eat fries quite the way she does.

"The usual," she says, lips curling. "You scout out the bank, take a good look around, and I’ll...check out the staff." Her eyebrows flick up towards her hair line and I know exactly what she’s thinking. She enjoys that part of the job; it’s some kind of power trip. That’s why my role is usually limited to surveillance. She knows how to get her information, and whilst I have some of her memories, I have none of her skills. Heh, unfortunately. Besides, I’d be rubbish at the whole seduction part...y’know... with the whole sucking out the life-force, probable coma and eventual death...thing.

I’m not really anyone’s idea of a good evening out.

"Sound okay to you?"

Ahh to hell with it, I’m good at surveillance anyway. And I’m not going down the route of feeling sorry for myself again. Instead I let my smile widen into a full southern grin and I slam a couple of ratty looking bills on the table. "It sounds, sugar, like a damn fine way to spend an afternoon." Because the more I think about it, the more it really does. Cool.

Already my mind is racing with ideas. Another bank. A larger one this time. We’ll have to get floor plans because no matter how nice I am when I arrive there, I doubt taking a look around the back rooms will be an option. Hmmm.

I’m still thinking about it as we leave. I don’t really pay attention when she stops me outside. I don’t notice until she pulls the sleeve of my glove down and grips my arm with her bare hand.

I’m not expecting it, and when the power hits me suddenly it’s far stronger than usual. It flashes through me, exhilarating, almost painful; like freefalling; like diving into water so fast your nose hurts. It takes me a moment to realise that she’s the cause of the pain and pull away.

I fight for a minute to clear my head. Mystique looks worse off; she staggers slightly, a blueish tint showing through her skin.

"Are you okay?"

She holds up a hand to stave off any further concern. "I’m fine. You shouldn’t go as yourself."

As if that explains everything! There are risks that we just shouldn’t take! We’re on a public street. I could’ve killed her, or at least knocked her unconscious, and what the hell would I have done then? It would have been a...

I stop myself.

Shit. I sound like one of the freakin’ X-men again.

I press my hands against my eyes for a moment, just to try and get my thoughts under control. But when I look up, she’s gone, already disappearing into the crowd.

Dammit, dammit DAMMIT! Why is my first instinct always to play it safe? I don’t want to be that person any more! And I wish she hadn’t done that. I know it’s useful when we’re actually hitting the place, but checking it out? Okay, okay, I can see her point. She doesn’t want either of us associated with this at all. Especially this time. This is much bigger than anything we’ve done before. But it feels wrong stealing mutation from her so easily.

Although... it has given me food for thought.

I lean back against the wall while I attempt to gather my wits again. It’s never really hurt like that before. It took me by surprise and my skin flipped into full defence mode. It was so strong. Much stronger than when I’ve chosen to touch people in the past. Could that...?

For a moment I don’t dare to breathe, or even blink; I don’t do anything that might make the thought that’s suddenly tipping over the edge of my mind go away, because even though I’m crawling towards it, I almost can’t bring myself to believe it. Because... could it mean that I have an element of...control?

Is that even possible?

Suddenly I’m smiling. A kind of startled disbelief washing over me. The idea fills me with such a giddy excitement that I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I want to dance in the street. I want to scream. I want to flop back on the hard concrete and be at peace with the world. I want to go back after Mystique, just to share it with someone. Then I have a strange longing to phone Jubes. She’d understand. She’d be delighted squeals all round. I remember the day we found out about the cure. She was one of the only people who supported me through the whole thing, she never judged. She knew how important it was to me.

But I can’t phone her. I no longer have my cell. And I know I’d never use it if I did.

That time is in the past. I’m different now.

So I take a deep breath, rein in the sudden bombardment of feelings until once again they’re under control. I’m so used to it by now that it’s almost too easy. Then I melt backwards into the damp shadow of an ally.

Being so covert makes me feel like Superman or something and I find myself smirking at the thought of ripping off my clothes to reveal the spandex underneath. Yeah right. Instead I feel the ripple of change flow over my skin, moulding it until I look like the waitress in the diner we just left. She was about my size so the clothes will fit. And she was smart. Short dark bob. Plain face.

The sort that won’t stand out.

Time to be professional.

It’s a short cab ride to the bank, and once I’m there I wave a girly goodbye to the driver before stepping inside. The building is one of those giant affairs; everything’s larger than life. Sculpted pillars, soaring glass widows, echoing stone steps, you know the type. It’s glorious to look at, completely impractical, and it makes my job a lot easier. Because everything is open plan.

"Can I help you miss?"

Two cameras by the door. A third in the ceiling, and a fourth mounted on the fifth pillar on the right. I give the man my best ditzy smile. "Uh, hey there, I was hoping to open an account here?"

"Ah!" His eyes light up and I can see he’s preparing his sales pitch. "Certainly ma’am."

So I’m ma’am now I’m a potential customer hey? Suddenly I’m far more important and I-

Oops. That was close.

I swerve neatly out of the way of the condescending hand that’s homing in to rest on the bare skin of my arm. Dammit, I knew I should have worn the full length gloves today.

He looks a little put out that I jerked away from him so quickly, but I give him a shy shrug, as if I’m just bashful, and it hasn’t seemed to have caused too much damage. Within moments his glassy sales-pitch face is back.

"Please, come and sit down." He indicates towards a very comfy looking leather seat in front of a four-legged granite monstrosity, which I can only assume is his desk. As I sit, I lean down to put my bag on the floor. It gives me a chance to check out the underside. Yep. There it is. Panic button, next to a concealed motion detector. My guess is they all have them. Okay, so that’s something to be careful about.

"What sort of account was it you were looking for?"

"Just a regular savings account," I smile sweetly, taking down a mental note of all the potential exits.

"Well we have one of the best interest rates in the state. You’ve made a good choice coming here." He pushes a handful of brightly coloured pamphlets towards me, each proclaiming fantastic investment opportunities.

I pretend to study them for a moment. Make a few interested sounds. When I look up, I deliberately catch his eye. Mystique would be proud. "I was also thinking about getting myself a safety deposit box. But I’ve heard such awful stories." I use my best airhead voice and everything. "Will my belongings be safe here?" I try to resist the urge to bat my eyelids. I think that would be taking it a tad too far.

"Oh of course, of course." He coughs and shuffles a few papers around. Okay, so he doesn’t like talking about security issues. Still, it doesn’t hurt to push a little once in a while.

"They’re kept in a secure vault on these premises?"

"Yes, yes they are."

"And I...uh... assume you have...what d’you call it... round the clock security?"

"Yes. The whole system is alarmed. We have the same level of security staff night and day, and you will be the only person to have the key and the code to the box. Your belongings will be perfectly safe." He pushes another shiny booklet of paper my way. Christ, they really do have pamphlets for everything.

I pretend to let this satisfy me. "Thank you. You’ve been so much help." I slip the wad of leaflets into my bag. In bulk they’re actually quite heavy. How many trees does this bank kill on a daily basis? "I’ll read over these and I’ll be in touch."

His face falls when he realises I’m not actually going to open an account this very second, but he remains polite. "Certainly. We’ll look forward to hearing from you."

Ha. I bet you will. And your tree murdering friends.

---

I catch a cab back to my motel, mind buzzing, already racing with the anticipation that always comes before a hit. It’s that combination of right and wrong... ha, okay... it’s that combination of wrong and... revenge, a blend of danger and adventure. I know I shouldn’t enjoy it so much. I never thought I’d be that sort of person, but I love the adrenalin rush it brings. It throbs through my veins like a drug and I could drown in it and die happy. It makes me feel alive.

Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with Mystique. Maybe I’m some sort of weird adrenalin junky. Maybe I should’ve just taken up bungee jumping or skydiving or something instead of a life of crime.

...Nah! This has so many more benefits. And a better retirement plan.

My pace picks up as my shoes clank up the metallic steps to my room, thoughts running over what I’ve learnt. We’ll have to disable the security system, else the cops will be on us before we can breathe. Will cutting the power disable the motion detectors? Or are they on a back up system with the rest of the security? The cameras, hmmm, they’re probably set up on a different circuit, but that’s never something we worry about, we have the best disguise a person could wish for. And fully staffed round the clock? Well, that doesn’t give us any advantages night or day. Still it’s worth thinking about.

I wonder if Mystique can get floorplans?

I close the door behind me with an air of satisfaction. It’s only when I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror that I realise I still look like the waitress from the diner.

It hits me with a bit of a shock, a cold prickle of awareness that tingles down my spine, and for a few moments I stand there stupidly staring at myself.

I don’t usually feel comfortable enough in the shapes of other people. Of course, it doesn’t help that I refuse to go around naked like Mystique – I have to shift in my clothes, and y’know, different sizes can be awkward. But still, this is the first time I’ve... forgotten.

I don’t like that thought.

The fact that it’s becoming so easy strikes me as a warning sign that maybe I’m taking a little too much of her mutation into me. Maybe I should take a break after this. Let my body get back to normal. I’m certainly due a vacation. After all, this is hard work...

Okay, so I smirk at that thought, but then the raised eyebrow that comes with it is so much Logan, even on a stranger’s face, that for a moment everything else is wiped from my mind.

Logan.

I haven’t thought about him since getting drunk.

Okay, so maybe that’s not quite true. I thought about him this morning while I was getting up. And I thought about him on my way to the bank. Wondered what he was doing. And on my way back. And now.

God. I can’t even lie to myself. How crap is that.

I look again at the stranger’s face in the mirror, and an idea starts to form.

I wonder. Should I...?

It’s not something I’ve ever done. With the exception of John, I’ve never changed into anyone I know. It’s much easier that way.

...But then I have to admit I am curious. Almost just to see if I can.

I look nervously at the door. I have to double check it’s shut before I can bring myself to try this, though I don’t know why. It feels like I’m about to commit the biggest invasion of privacy or something.

I suppose I am, actually.

So I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.

Dammit, but now I’ve thought about it, I can’t resist!

I slowly take of my clothes. I can’t do this with them on, there’s no way he’s gonna fit into my jeans - okay so that’s a weird image. The thought makes me giggle nervously, and it comes out sounding all high pitched and squeaky. Man, what am I doing? This is so wrong.

And yet...

I wrap a large towel cloak-like around me to keep me warm. Then I close my eyes.

It’s so easy to change. I feel the ripple of it wash over me and I’m instantly stronger, taller, heavier. With different teeth... why is that always the first thing I notice? I reach up a hand to the side of my face, and even though I know I’ve been successful, my fingers are still surprised to find the roughness of stubble and mutton chops. It feels so strange, then as I slide my hand up to the spikes of hair, so twistingly familiar, like I’m suddenly in a movie I’ve watched hundreds of times.

I risk opening my eyes a crack. His eyes.

Fuck.

God, I hate the way my heart rate speeds up. I’m not really looking at him in the mirror. I’m looking at me. But it’s so him that I can almost imagine the mirror is a window and he’s there looking back at me.

I breathe, and I see his shoulders rise and fall, the jutting outline of his collarbone shadowed by well toned muscle. I frown, and he glares darkly back at me, his eyebrows drawing together in all grim seriousness, making me giggle nervously. Heh. Okay that looks weird. God I’d almost forgotten how sexy he was.

Out of the blue I remember that time in the mansion hall way, during happier days, when he dropped his tags into my palm. I remember the way he looked at me as that chain curled around my fingers. The intensity of that gaze. I still had hope then.

Stupid teenage crush hope.

Idiot.

I roll my eyes at my own forlornness and pout dejectedly, but the expression looks so out of place on Logan’s face that it makes me laugh. Then the transformation in the man in the mirror is remarkable. I’d forgotten what he looked like when he laughed. He so rarely had in the last few years.

There we go. The niggling guilt I felt at not being a better friend brings back his dark and brooding expression. Something I am far more used to. Still, he is damn sexy. I wonder if it would be wrong to...

Maybe. Probably.

Yeah.

...Definitely...

But still... just a peek...

I release my cape-like clutch on the towel, slowly letting it fall lower, scrunching the material into a loose knot to hold it in front of my stomach. His stomach. Oh wow. Even in the washed out motel bathroom light, I’m in awe. God the man is delicious. Honed to a chiselled perfection to the point where, seriously, it’s a crime that he ever wears clothes. I can’t help myself. I watch in the mirror as one of his hands runs over the packed muscles of his forearm, up over the roughness of his chest, fingers raking through the dark hair that arrows down to... beneath the towel.

Is it wrong that this is totally turning me on?

I let the other hand follow the path of the first and I flinch slightly as it grazes my...his... stomach. That tickles. I never expected Logan to be ticklish, and I-

Oh.

Well, whether it’s wrong or not that it’s turning me on, it’s certainly turning the me-Logan on, and that... from a girl’s perspective... is weird.

Really weird.

O-kaaay...

I’m well aware that I should probably stop now, but the more I think about it, the harder I get, and for the first time in my life I actually feel sorry for men. Oh my God! This thing is totally out of my control!

I want to stop now. I really do.

I do!

...But I don’t. And I can’t. And I won’t. Blood is rushing lower and my head is foggy with lust, gripped with ideas I shouldn’t be having and a building sense of... something. Anticipation.

And I’m far too curious.

I swallow, and I see Logan’s adam’s apple bob up and down. Then without looking at what I’m doing, concentrating on Logan’s face in front of me, I slowly reach down my hand and... and...

My eyes nearly bug out my head. Jesus that feels good! In front of me the Logan in the mirror breathes out through his nose, as his lips clench and his eyes grow heavy with desire.

God that look alone nearly brings me over the edge. I move my hand again, gripping smoothly, slowly, watching the way he tilts his neck, the way his mouth opens slightly in pleasure. Fuck, it’s like-

*Knock knock knock*

Shit! The banging on my door startles me so much that I stumble and fall back into my own shape.

*KNOCK KNOCK*

"Okay, I’m coming, I’m coming," I yell as I scrabble for my clothes, hating the irony of the words, as that was in fact precisely what I was not doing. "Hang on a second."

The knocking turns into a thumping. Jesus, what is it with room service these days...?

"Alright, alright." I shrug my t-shirt back over my head and race across the room to the door. "What?" I snap, pulling it open, and I...

Oh fuck.

I back away, but my uninvited guest pushes his way in.

"Do you have any idea," he growls, "how long it’s taken to find you kid?"

Fuck.

I don’t mean to be rude and swear. My momma would be ashamed. But seriously. Fuck.

My heart thuds somewhere deep within my chest, my entire body prickling with a sensation that lifts all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. He’s here, looking at me.

Fuck, he’s here? He came all the way out here? To where I am? To where I was-

Fuck.

I bite my lip, blush furiously, then look away. Hoping that physics have radically altered enough in the last few minutes to allow the earth to swallow me whole. This feels like one of those horrible surreal moments. You know, like the dream when you’re wondering around, chatting to people, when you suddenly realise you’re naked?

I hate that dream.

And right now I don’t have a clue what to say. Not only is Logan bristling like a caged animal in my motel room... which feels weird enough all by itself, believe me; but sooner or later the question of what the hell took me so long to open the door is gonna come up. And that’s one thing I do not want to have to explain...

...Yeah, Logan, it was nothing. I was just pretending to be you and I got carried away and began to jerk myself off. Christ. Even I think that’s weird.

Let’s just not go there.

God, but the atmosphere is tense. What’s he doing here anyway? Does he think I’m in danger? I mean, you don’t just go chasing after people without a reason... do you?

I try and suppress the sudden fluttering in my stomach that thought brings. Dammit. I don’t want to start thinking like I’m sixteen again, it gets me nowhere. Keep a cool head Rogue.

...Still...

Nervous tension tickles over my skin as I watch him take in my surroundings. I study his reactions, see him making a hundred judgements from the cast of his eyes alone. Noticing the half unpacked duffle. Run down motel. Dodgy end of town. Yeah... no matter what I want to believe, it doesn’t take a genius to work out what he’s thinking. Runaway kid. Mess. An obligation he’s gonna have to sort out so he can tell himself he’s done something worthwhile.

Yay. So nice to be so highly regarded.

You know, one of these days it would be nice if someone came hunting me down because they were driven crazy with lust and desire for me. Not just for a misplaced sense of over protectiveness.

I sneak a glance up at him, looking for hidden traces, just in case... but nope. No desire. No lust. Just a frown. More of a scowl really.

Well screw him. This time I’m actually doing alright for myself without his help thank you very much. Ha!

...Kinda.

God it’s really hard to feel smug, when your body can’t understand if it’s agitated or turned on. His very presence alone is enough to threaten my carefully controlled exorcism of painful emotions, and I resent that! I’d much rather be in numb denial than that stupid, giddy, painful confusion I used to feel when he was around.

His heat, it radiates off him and I feel my nostrils flair unconsciously at the familiar scent he brings. Damn nostrils. Traitors! It’s such a slight movement, but he notices it alright, I see his eyes flicker. Nothing escapes his attention.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Nothing at all.

Nada. Zilch.

...Okay, so that’s weird.

And awkward.

Seriously. Why isn’t he saying anything? He was the one that burst in here! Now he’s just leaning back against the cheap wooden table, folding his arms as he looks at me. In that judging, feral, direct way.

You could slice through the tension with a hot knife.

Or a hot claw. Heh.

"So what you doin’ here kid?"

Ah, so he does speak. There’s disappointment in his tone and it reaffirms everything I thought about him being here for an obligation. And I take it all back about the silence thing. Silence is good. Silence is no questions asked.

"Marie?"

Oh.

Why did he have to say that? I swallow, suddenly feeling like I’m choking on barbed wire, all closed in and claustrophobic. I hate that name.

"It’s Rogue," I return, letting my accent run deliberately strong. "And I’m fine."

That gets me a raised eyebrow. "That’s not what I asked."

Well it’s the only answer he’s gonna get. He may look like freakin’ sex on legs, but he is a whole lot of things that I do not want to deal with right now. Argh! And I hate that he’s managed to make me angry as well! Damn him!

I eye up the door. It wouldn’t be running away. More like self preservation. If something’s aggravating you, you get away from the cause of the aggravation.

...Right?

I try to walk past him to get to my bag, but he stops me with a hand to my arm, eyes briefly travelling over my dishevelled appearance to judge me accordingly. I can feel my cheeks colour under the heat of them, painfully aware that he must sense the lingering traces of desire.

"What you doin’ here?" he says again.

"I should be the one asking you that question."

"So ask."

"What if I don’t care?" That comes out a little more bitter than I expected.

He doesn’t react though; instead his gaze falls to the messy bed and the heap of towel on the floor beside it. He tries a different line of questioning. "Were you alone?"

Nothing. There’s nothing there to indicate any emotion at all. No jealousy, no desire. Just ‘I-said-I’d-look-out-for-you-kid’ concern.

I hate that.

I’m so tired of seeing it in his eyes. So. Frickin’. Tired. It wakes something inside of me, a ribbon of defiance, my god-awful stubbornness rearing its ugly head. "Alone?" I pout. "Well I am now." I indicate towards the bathroom with a jerk of my head. "Back window. You scared him. He thought you were my boyfriend returning."

Ha!

Oh...interesting... Something fleeting crosses his expression.

He doesn’t like that, I realise. Doesn’t like the casualness with which I just tumbled a couple of lovers into our conversation. Is he jealous? Probably not. But the thought narks at him all the same.

Score for Rogue.

"So?" I add, when he says nothing more. "You come here just to discuss my sex life?" ...My imaginary sex life, yes, but he doesn’t need to know that.

"Marie-"

That fucking name again. "It’s not how I pay my way or anything," I add off hand, as if it means nothing. "Or at least, not anymore."

At that he does something really weird. Unfortunately I don’t recognise it for what it is until it’s too late. He pushes himself away from the table until he’s right in front of me, invading my personal space, breathing in the air around me until the tension humming off him is almost contagious. Then he steps back.

"Strange that I can only smell one scent then." His voice stays level. "Yours."

Um...Shit!

...I forgot about that.

I try my hardest not to be totally mortified. He knows I was...I was... God I can’t even bring myself to think it now, just in case it prints the words across my face or something. Was. Getting. Herself. Off.

Oh that’s so embarrassing.

I force myself to stay calm. I will not blush again, I will not! I try to make my face stay its normal colour though sheer will power alone. Think about something else. Quick!

...Like what the fuck he’s doing barging in here in the first place? He has no right!

Yeah, that’s better. Anger I can control. Anger I can harness. This is my life now, and I distinctly remember telling him to leave me alone. I don’t want his goddamn brotherly affection. Not when he’s there one moment and gone the next. Not while he works his way through a steady stream of blondes, brunettes and redheads. It hurts too fucking much.

"Go away, Logan."

"No."

I give him my best attempt at a scathing look. "So what? You just gonna stand there all day?"

If I’m hoping for a reaction, well, it doesn’t get me one. All that happens is that his lips press together to form a tight line. "I think," he says, deliberately controlled, "that you’ve got some explainin’ to do."

"In what way?"

"Well for a start you can explain why the hell you took off!"

Okay, now that one? Pisses me off. He’s allowed to take off and I’m not? "What right have you to care? You weren’t there!"

"It doesn’t matter where I was. I get this call from ‘Ro, then another from Jubilee sayin’ you’d gone missing. They thought you were with me."

Jubilee phoned Logan? God, she must have been desperate. He makes her so nervous that I swear she’d pee her pants if he so much as growled in her direction.

...Ugh, and that thought sends a wave of guilt washing through me. Great.

I hate that. I hate guilt. It’s always overshadowed everything. Guilt at being what I was, guilt that my skin was a danger. Guilt that I failed my parents by becoming a freak. Dammit, I promised myself I wouldn’t feel guilty anymore. "So what?" The words snap out of me. "They don’t own me. I can do what I like."

"They don’t own you? Kid, they care about you. They were your friends! D’you have any idea what you put them through?"

Oh there is no way I’m gonna take a lecture on the morals of up and leaving from the master of it himself. How the fuck did he find me anyway? The cell was the only device I owned that could be tracked. "Look, spare me the lecture, okay? Why are you here? Have they sent you to come and get me? Am I a mission now?"

"Come to take you home. Where it’s safe."

Yeah. That just gets him a look.

"You’re livin’ in a motel room."

I glare at him. "It suited you fine for long enough."

"That’s different."

"Ha!" He doesn’t look too impressed that I actually laugh at that. "Yeah. Right. You say it often enough maybe even you will start believing it."

"Marie." It’s a warning.

"My name," I say once again through clenched teeth, "is Rogue."

And that’s it. I have officially had enough. I don’t need this. It’s surfacing all sorts of emotions that I really don’t want to think about, and if he’s just here to lecture me? Then I don’t want to listen. Simple as that.

I try to push past him.

Again that hand shoots out to my shoulder and stops me. Hard. "It ain’t that easy, kid." The words roll out in a growl. "Didn’t come all the way down here just to have you walk out on me."

But this time I don’t back off. "And what? You think you can stop me?"

It’s not the response he was expecting.

His eyes narrow and I instantly sense him reassessing the situation. His guard goes up, something which rarely happened around me, and he tries to read me, tries to gauge the depth of what I really mean.

If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in the last couple of months though, it’s how to manipulate disguises. I keep my expression schooled. A sassy mask.

He doesn’t like it.

"Why are you doing this?" This time his words carefully measured, as if he’s talking to a stranger. "Thought you were happy back at the Mansion."

"You don’t notice much do you?"

"I wasn’t around much."

"I know!"

He watches me, face impossible to read. "Was that a problem?"

I scowl. "No. Why would it be?" I stoop down to start picking up all my stuff off the floor, hoping he doesn’t see it for the distraction it is.

"Then why are you out here? What d’you want?"

"What I want is to be left alone."

"Is it because of that boy? Drake?"

Bobby? Ha! That almost makes me laugh out loud. Almost.

A little part of it rings too close for comfort. The betrayal, the way everyone else seemed to accept them as a couple so easily. Yeah. Screw them.

He’s still looking at me. Waiting for an answer.

"What?" I snap.

"Kid, when you run away, you run away from somethin’."

"Well, you oughta know." I turn and start shoving my stuff in the duffle. I can’t stay here anymore, not with him knowing where I am. It could put the whole job in jeopardy.

"Somethin’ made you hurt."

"No something did not make me hurt. I’m fine."

"Was it the cure?"

That just earns him a look.

"Was it me?"

Oh for fucks sake. I do not want to have this conversation now. Just go away.

"Marie?"

Argh! "Not everything," I hiss, "is about you." My voice slides along that cold edge of anger. "The only person that this is about, is me. Not you. Not Bobby. Not anyone else at that FUCKING mansion. Just me. My choice."

Why does nobody get that?

Shoving the last of my stuff into the duffle, I ignore the little voice that tells me that it’s probably because it isn’t true, and I turn my glare up to meet him. "I don’t have a life there anymore. Let me go."

"Kid..." there’s a frown, and it deepens as I try and shoulder past him again. But like before, he resists it with no visible effort. "Wait-"

I snarl. "No." I’m not waiting any longer. I angrily shoot out a hand, still un-gloved, and I grip the first bit of skin that it comes in contact with. His forearm. And I hold on.

My skin. The weapon.

He’s so shocked that he doesn’t even try to react. There’s no fight; my power doesn’t give him the chance. I want this, and it responds to me, taking instant hold. I feel the heady rush of stolen life, the blur of his thoughts and the confusion they bring. With others it’s different, but with him, it’s like a drug. It’s energy, it’s feral darkness.

He just stares at me in disbelief, eyes straining, face contorting, struggling to breathe as his knees crumple and give way and he slithers down the wall, desperately trying to grasp something for support.

Well, what did he expect? Some weeping little kid begging him to take her back? Begging for a ride in his trailer? Yeah, well, I’ve been there, done that. Bought a whole freakin’ t-shirt factory. Look where it got me.

I’m no longer that kid, I don’t need him, and I don’t look back as I walk out the door.

---

The next day I’m the one’s that’s late. Mystique’s already sat looking bored in the diner. I can tell it’s her by the sultry way she’s twirling a fork round her fingers. She treats it like a weapon. Total give away.

"So..." she sounds irritated. "You get held up in traffic or something?"

"Oh don’t you start," I huff as I slump into my seat.

Last night was so much fun. I spent most of the evening trailing around in the rain trying to find another motel, which was easier said than done because apparently there is now some sort of big time medical conference going on this weekend. It also didn’t help that I growled at the first place to turn me away, and tried to pop claws I didn’t have at the second. The Wolverine needs some serious anger management classes or something.

In the end, the little hole of a room I found was about the size of a shoebox, and grimy to boot. Fun.

Then to make things worse, I had to stay in all night, flicking between lame re-runs and news channels, trying not to resent the slimy condescension of Senator Edson and his on-going arguments over the goddamn Mutant Registration Act, instead of going out to explore like I usually enjoy so much. Because I know Logan. And I know he won’t give up that easily. Especially since I dropped him. That’ll piss him off.

I look up and notice that Mystique has stopped her fork twirling, and is watching me in that disconcerting way of hers. "You want to talk about it?"

"No." End of conversation.

Instead I tell her about the bank. The security, the panic buttons. The lot. If I’m businesslike and professional and I concentrate on that, then I don’t have to think about him. Right?

Yeah. I wish that worked.

"Night and day shift?"

"Both heavy," I reply. "But night would be better. Less risk of civilian casualties." Something I avoid at all costs. I may be a Rogue, but I’m no killer. Between Logan and Eric I’ve memories of enough war and useless death to last two lifetimes.

"You sound like you’ve got it all sorted. Want me to deal with the security system?" Her eyes flash in anticipation.

Do I? I don’t know. Usually I like to do these things myself, but today I’m feeling so out of sorts, that to hell with it. "Yeah. Sure."

I don’t really care.

And I hate that.

Where’s my buzz? Where’s my anticipation? Yesterday it was so strong! I’m usually as high as a kite on the idea by now, but today all I can think about is the look of shock in Logan’s eyes as he crumpled to the floor.

What? I didn’t kill him. The man heals. It’s not like I caused any permanent damage or anything. And I haven’t peeked at his memories. Well... except for one about killing Jean, and that was enough to put me off the rest.

I sigh angrily to myself, and Mystique stops whatever it was she was in the middle of saying and sits back in her chair to give me her unimpressed look. "Right, that’s it."

For a moment I think we’re about to have an argument, but then a slow spreading smile starts forming across her glossy magazine features and she points her fork in my direction. "You need a night out. Tomorrow, we work. Tonight? We play."

I shake my head. "Nah, I don’t think..." I automatically begin, but then I stop myself. Think for a moment. Usually I avoid her nights out; she has untapped resources of stamina and could drink Colossus under the table. But you know what? This time she’s right. I do need something. A chance to let my hair down and get rid of some of this tension that seems to have appeared out of nowhere. An excuse to bury some more memories.

Yeah, why not?

Skimpy skirt? Check. Barely there green top? Check. Protective anti-instant-death-to-general-public bodysuit? Check. Fuck-me-boots? Hell yeah!

I am so ready for this. Of course, the quarter bottle of vodka I’ve already knocked back has helped some, but y’know. Details. I am Rogue. I am confident. I can do anything I want. I can rule the freaking world! Woohoo!

...Although I can’t find my other boot. Dammit. Rule of world put on hold momentarily until boot is found.

Hmmm... where would it be hiding...? If I was a fuck-me-boot, where would I-

Ah-ha!

Under the bed, the sneaky bastard. Okay first hurdle defeated. Where was I...

Oh yeah, self appreciation. Damn right. I don’t look half bad either tonight, even if I do say so myself. Which I do. Yep.

...Probably should not have had that last glass...

I pick up my bag and walk the entire step it takes to get from my bathroom to the door. Then as an afterthought I pick up my pièce de résistance, a bottle of cheap perfume I ‘obtained’ from the One Stop across the street. It stinks. And that’s the point.

No Marie scent tonight.

My heals clink on the rusty steps as I teeter my way down to the car park. It’s already dark, the street lights splashing across the sidewalk in warm puddles; the air is fresh and the night alive with potential. This, I decide, is going to be fun.

A chisel-faced man steps out of the shadows to give me a leer and a wolf-whistle. For a moment I just smirk, enjoying the attention, but when I turn I laugh out loud.

The man sidles up to me, to all intents and purposes oblivious to my giggles, his fashionably scruffy blonde hair flopping over his face. "Well ain’t you just a pretty young thing," he says, mouth curling up at the corner.

"Cut it out Mystique." I snigger back. "You coming as my date tonight?"

At that his eyes flash wickedly, but then he steps back a pace. "You should be so lucky. I happen to know that the bank manager is out on the town tonight."

"Oh really?"

"And he is so far out the closet he’s practically in the next room." She...he smirks a bit at that, and I notice for the first time quite how tight his shirt is underneath his jacket.

"You’re incorrigible."

"I know."

"Poor man’s not gonna know what’s hit him."

"Sure he is."

"I don’t want to know!"

At that she just chuckles and holds out a sport jacket clad arm. "Well are you coming or not?"

I laugh again. "This I have to see."

---

It’s not what I was expecting, although, in hindsight, it should have been. Out of the closet bank managers don’t frequent down and dirty dives. It’s a wine bar. Colourful, subtle low lights, plush décor, the gentle undertones of music... Oooh, but it does have a dance floor. Okay, I’m sold... Although in my skimpy skirt and tight top I’m feeling a bit Pretty Woman on Rodeo Drive right now. A drink, I think, is needed.

"So...?" I bat my eyelids at Mystique for the benefit of the people around us.

"Ted," she informs me in a deep rolling voice.

I snort out loud. Ladylike. Nice. "So Ted... You gonna buy me a drink?"

"You gonna behave?"

"Nope."

"Then whatcha having?"

Ten minutes later armed and dangerous with a double rum and coke, I sidle my way into a booth and watch the neat and pretty try to dance. It’s quite fun, let me tell you. Those that are sober are far too worried about loosing their air of ‘glamour’ to do much more than clink their cosmopolitans against the next glass and shuffle their feet. And those that are plastered, well, they’re a law unto themselves. And then some.

I plan to join their ranks later. Heh.

‘Ted’ slides in next to me. He gulps down his rather unmanly cocktail in one go and then eyes his beer distastefully. "I hate this stuff," he grumbles, knocking back a glug.

"Then why are you bothering? You look like a walking wet dream. The guy would probably go for you if you if you were slurping down banana milkshake...oh..." The realisation of what I’ve just said hits me. Talk about your faux pas. I burst out laughing in a spray of coke, which makes the whole thing even funnier.

Even Mystique... Ted... whatever...who is trying to look put out, is failing. But with that pouty little scowl and those muscled arms crossed like that, he’s looking more sexy camp than ever.

It takes me ages to calm down. Finishing my drink and working my way onto a second, then a third doesn’t help much either. Well, I’ve got to do something. Mystique’s decided to go over and introduce herself to our target. Currently she’s giving him eyes over the bottle of beer she’s drinking, and believe me, when she drinks it, it’s more sexual innuendo than consumption of liquid. Seriously. If that bottle could defy physics, it would have definitely got harder.

Ewww that’s actually kind of a gross thought.

I roll my eyes at their mating ritual display...thing, and I leave them to it.

By the time I’m on to my fourth drink, I start to have the sneaking suspicion that I might just be a really good dancer. Only one way to find out...

I shimmy my ass on to the dance floor. I am not one of the uptight socialites. I am a goddess. I sway, I move to the...oops. I giggle as I trip over my own feet. Might be just a tinsey bit drunk. Just a little. An incy wincy- oh look. Here comes a friendly guy to help me out.

"Hey there," he breathes in my ear. His voices swims around my head a bit. It takes me a while to figure out what he said. But it’s a nice voice, I decide. Southern-y-ish. That should so be a word.

"Southernyish," I tell him, poking his shoulder for effect. Either the room is moving from side to side or he’s swaying. I’m not sure which. "Write it down ‘cause I jus’ invented a goddamn word woohoo!"

That earns me some sort of smirk. "So, you wanna dance?"

"I am dancing." Did the man not recognise moving art when he saw it?

"You wanna dance with me."

Oh.

Do I? I’m not sure. He has a nice voice. Pretty ice blue eyes. They’re like the colour of the sea on a really cold day. Like the tint of pale spring sky...ooh that’s pretty. I should have been a poet. A drunk poet. Is there no end to my talent? I can dance. I can... poet...ize... things...

"Is that a yes?"

"Is that a...huh?" What was the question again? I’m confused.

Whatever it was though, it doesn’t seem to matter because I’m swept up against a slightly sweaty body and suddenly I have four pairs of legs not two. No. That’s not right. I never had two pairs, I meant... oh fuck.

And I mean fuck.

The sobering up quick type.

Damn.

There, half shadowed in the corner, is Logan. Complete with scowl, frown, cigar and whiskey. A Logan box set. He’d be worth a fortune on ebay... I snigger. Okay, maybe I’m not sobering up as quick as I thought.

Dammit why is he glaring at me! I have every right to be here. I have every right to be pissed off my face! I have every right to grope the man who is currently slithering his hands all over my...eww.

I shake my head. "Go away. Stop with the... the...slithering."

"You not playing hard to get now are you sweetheart?" He’s teasing, but there’s an edgy tone to his voice. One that I don’t like. So I push him away.

Nothing happens except I stumble back a bit. And suddenly smooth-talking man is a lot higher.

I frown.

That’s strange, because a moment ago he was definitely taller than... oh. I’m on the floor. Okay, so that’s quite funny.

I start giggling to myself, but then strong arms grasp me and haul me back upright. "Up. Now." And that’s not so funny.

"I don’t want to get up." I’m having fun dammit! See me laughing? Floor? Fun?

But the strong arms don’t seem to care; they insist on dragging me off the dance floor.

"Ow," I moan. "That hurts! Stop it. That’s just...mean..." The word dies on my lips with a squeak because suddenly a whole lotta Logan is slamming me into a booth and I’m pinned against the wall on the far side.

Okay, part of me is aware that normally this would be great fantasy material, but something tells me he’s not here for hot sex. Call it a hunch. He looks really scary. Like oh-fuck-he’s-gonna-impale-me scary. With the claws, I mean. Not the... the...

Okay, so that makes me giggle again.

Oooooh I don’t think he liked that reaction because his lips curl back in a snarl and I think I really might be three seconds away from an adamantium penetration.

...Fuckit! Stop laughing stop laughing stop laughing!

He looks at me. Hard. "You finished?"

I think I manage to squeak something. Don’t think it actually qualifies as a word though.

He shakes me. "Get a fucking grip."

On what? Ahhhahahahahaaaaaa! Oh my God I am not going to survive this. I am going to die laughing impaled on his weapons of mass-seduction. God, but it’ll be a good way to- "OW!" What the fuck? "That HURT!"

He cut me! He actually fucking cut me!

The claw recedes back into his skin as a hot voice growls in my ear. "You know what kid? I don’t care. Now we’re even. And if you don’t start behavin’, it’s gonna hurt a whole lot more."

I blink. Try to understand what he just said to me. But... ouch! And my brain’s not quite working as it should. I can’t believe he actually...? Maybe I should try and calm him down or something. Yeah. Let’s not let this get out of hand. See? Rational thinking. And there I was thinking I was drunk..."Shh," I try and tell him in my exaggerated way. "You’re shouting."

"Oh believe me, Rogue," he hisses. "I’m not."

He said Rogue.

My brain plays around with that thought for a moment, Rogue, Rogue, Rogue... trying to decide how it feels about it. But he’s so close that it’s hard to concentrate. I can almost taste the whiskey. I’ve never seen him like this, never seen him so... so... seething. He has my blood on his hands. His eyes are dark. Almost black.

And he’s furious.

Fuck, it’s sexy.

"I come out here," he breathes hard through his nose and I watch in fascination as the sinew in his arm tightens with anger. "I come to find you," his voice is barely restrained. "An’ you try and kill me?"

It’s such a strong, manly arm. It’s ...I tried to what? Huh?

Oh...is that what he’s upset about? I roll my eyes as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "I didn’t try and kill you."

"You ever," and I’m hauled up by my shirt now, "and I mean EVER try a stunt like that again, so help me kid I don’t care who you are or what promises I made. I’ll slice that pretty skin o’ yours from navel to fuckin’ nose. GOTTIT?"

Ookaay.

I think it’s safe to say that I pissed him off.

Although it’s hard to tell what’s annoying him most, that I tried to drop his ass, or that I succeeded.

Heh. Probably not a good time to ask.

I manage to plaster an innocent expression on my face, partially aware that I should probably be more worried about the situation than I am. But the warm swimming drunken feeling tells me to shhhh. Everything is peachy and fine. Yep. "Cross my heart, hope to die... Or not. Heh." I snigger at my own joke. Probably not the best move. "Are we done now?"

He doesn’t answer, maybe he’s too angry, he looks angry. Why is he angry still? I apologised didn’t I? Some people just don’t appreciate honest gest... gesticu...ges...tures oh fuckit.

I shrug as if I don’t care, and decide to risk life and limb climbing out over the table. It’s not an easy task to navigate, ‘specially in fuckmeboots. And I have a sneaking feeling that my skirt rides up, but, ahh – to hell with it. To hell with ‘em all! To hell with the whole fucking world! Yeah! You heard me!

So what if I’m drunk off my ass? Now I’m pissed off. And I’m ready for war.

"Hey you," I snatch out a hand and reel in smooth-talking-guy, who almost chokes on his Martini olive in shock. I shove his drink down on the counter and murmur... possibly slur...in what I’m pretty damn sure is a sultry way. "Let’s have that dance sugar."

Man, he looks like he hit the jackpot. I drag him back on to the dance floor, ignoring the slitheringness of hands. Grinding my hips pure dirty dancing style, I sneak a glance at Logan. Ha. Let him see me now!

But there’s just an empty seat. He’s gone.

Something hollow settles in my belly. It’s not disappointment I feel. Really. I’m glad that he’s gone. It’s what I wanted.

Yeah...

Ugh, but the dancing’s not so much fun anymore. The spinning lights make my head hurt. My arm stings and I’m thirsty, the throbbing music pulsing around me in waves. Suddenly I’m so hot that I have to be outside.

I extract myself from the sweaty arms, signal a goodbye to ‘Ted’, who’s currently running his hand down the Armani clad torso of a man who looks like he was born in a suit, and I head for the exit.

Best fucking idea I had all evening.

The air outside is deliciously fresh. It cools my skin and my throat, and my vision starts to fade into soft focus again. Much better.

Now, let’s see if I can find my way back to the motel...

Of course it would be simpler if I could remember the name of the damn place, but in my drunken haze it escapes me and the stupid cabbie refuses to take me to ‘that place, with rooms, by the road.’ The bastard.

So I start walking. It’s okay. I have a good sense of direction. I always know where I am. I’m not one of those girly girls with no sense of perspective. Or orientation. I’m good at finding my... oh fuck it.

Either I’m lost, or the roads aren’t where they should be.

I have a strong suspicion it must be the latter. The realisation makes me giggle, even though I know it shouldn’t. Maybe I’m sick or something.

"This is a very serious situation," I try and tell myself. I use my most disapproving voice and everything. Trouble is, it doesn’t make it any better. Maybe I should wait until daylight. Yeah. That sounds like a sensible idea. Things always look different in the dark. And that looks like a real comfy wall there.

I sink down against it, feeling the blissful coolness of bricks against my back, and I close my eyes. Just for a moment. Not really resting. Just thinking.

Honest.

Oh God I am dead. I am dead and this is hell.

Somewhere near me the ear-splitting sound of curtains being swished open saws into my head, and blinking into the blinding light that ensues I amend my previous thought. This is worse than hell. Far worse.

...Where am I?

I swallow lumpily, my tongue feeling furry and thick in my mouth. God, that’s disgusting. And... Christ what is that?! A giant shadow looms over me, two horns curling up from its head. Son of a... maybe I AM dead! The freaking Devil is... is... oh. Shit!

Worse. It’s far worse.

It’s Logan.

I cringe inwardly. This is not good. Well, at least, that’s what my brain is telling me. The rest of me is torn between hoping that if I huddle by the pillow and make myself as small as possible it will somehow make things better, and fizzing in nerve tingling recognition of him being so damn close again. God, but he is close. And annoyed. Lips pressed tight. Radiating tension.

I try and ignore the way my stomach flutters. Karma freakin’ owes me for this one.

"Drink." Water is shoved unceremoniously into my hand so violently that most of it sloshes over the covers. I would refuse it, but right now I don’t think I could counter the gripping reflex, let alone form the words. I gulp down a few mouthfuls, try not to look too pathetic. Especially after last night...

Oh... man. Last night.

Nothing like a disgusting hangover to sharpen hindsight. Ouch.

Fuzzy snatches of images flash back to me. Drunken swaying, hissed out words, blood on my arm... he cut me! The realisation dawns again and I look down as if expecting it to be half severed.

There’s nothing but the tiniest scratch.

I look at him suspiciously, but his only reaction is to reach down from where he’s lurking over me and snatch the glass from my hand before I spill the rest. It happens almost too quickly for me to process it. Or maybe my brain’s just too slow. It fights to catch up and I blink blearily. "’M I still alive?"

"Apparently."

I wince a little at the tone. Then I take a deep breath, which turns out to be a really bad idea as the extra oxygen makes my vision swim. Yuck. Right now I wish more than anything that I’d been born with Kitty’s powers. Hell, I’ll settle for stealing them. At least that way I could just sink into the covers, through his bed and into the oblivion of the floor below.

His bed.

Not exactly how it played out in my teenage fantasies.

Ugh.

I wait for a wave of nausea to pass then slowly let my eyes re-focus on the room. Everything drifts; gaze wondering over edges of furniture, towel hung over the back of a chair, worn patches in the carpet. I make a half-hearted attempt to take control of the situation, try hard to pinpoint which part of my forehead is responsible for the vicious stabbing pain that seems to have taken up residence there, but my brain doesn’t want to bend to my thoughts today. All it wants to do is think about Logan. Which is just not fair.

Every single nerve I have seems to be fine-tuned to his presence. They’re going la la laaa we’re next to Logan and we know exactly what he looks like under that shirt. Stupid nerves. He must be able to sense it too. Stupid senses. It doesn’t help that the covers wrapped around me smell deliciously like him either, making my head spin even further.

Stupid pheromones.

I’ve gotta get out of here before I do something stupid.

...Okay... more stupid. Because this is obviously not me at my... Actually what is this?

Seriously? Why am I here? After what I did to him? I yelled, fought, used my power, I mocked him... and yet he still helped me out?

Fuck. Why?

I feel horribly guilty all of a sudden and I hate that. It makes me irritated. "I thought I told you to leave me alone."

He just gives me a look. I’m pretty sure it could wither small children.

"What?" I glare back.

"You’re a mess," he states bluntly, "and you stink."

Ouch. There’s no need to be nasty about it.

"Well you have vomit on your shirt," I point out snarkily.

"It’s yours," he snaps back.

Ah.

I really hope none of the memories of last night return to me right now.

Maybe I’m just dreaming the whole thing anyway. I mean, seriously, how likely is it that I’m actually here in Logan’s bed? Ha! Yeah, right... Hallucination is by far the most likely explanation. It’s an elaborate ruse created by sick imagination. I just need to tell myself to wake up. Concentrate really hard, maybe click my heels together...there’s no place like home.

He gives me a look. The kind you’d give a crazy person on the street before crossing hastily over to the other side. I have a suspicious feeling the last part of my random chat with myself may have been out loud.

Oops.

Maybe I’m still drunk.

Maybe I’m a figment of his imagination. Ha. Then that would make him the nut case.

Or not.

Oh God I feel sick again. And figments of imagination don’t feel sick. I hate hangovers. I hate life. I hate wanting to run my hands all over his body. I hate that I can’t. I hate that I’m here. I hate... everything and everyone even the cutest fluffiest kittens. Hate them all. Yuck. And I hate feeling sick.

He must see my pallor go from pale to grey-green, because he disappears for a moment, only to return with another glass of water, which is once again thrust in my hand. The look on his shadowed face makes it’s official. He’s mad, and I’m screwed.

Unfortunately not in the good hot and sweaty way.

"Here." One of his shirts, a clean one, is shoved in front of me. "Take this, go clean up."

I...what? My self-pity party suddenly dissolves and I stare blankly at the material in my hand...Why is he giving me a shirt? Am I naked or something? My pulse races. Oh my God. Did I take my clothes off and do something hideously embarrassing like fail to seduce him? Is that why he’s still mad? Is something wrong with my bodysuit? Did I-

"Your excuse for a top is filthy."

Oh.

I sneak a peak under the covers. Still fully dressed. And he’s right, I don’t want to know what’s all over me, but it I think at least half of it must be vodka based. Oh this is rough. I am never going to drink again. Ever.

I wait for him to leave, but it’s a small room and without him stepping outside he’s not going anywhere. So under his disapproving gaze I sway woozily to my feet, which are hot and sore from all the dancing, my humiliation complete as I trip over his boots on the way to his bathroom.

Why the fuck is there no shower in here?

"Closet, kid. Bathroom’s that way."

Right.

This just keeps on getting better.

---

Once under the pummelling jet of hot water, which is far nicer than the one in my crap excuse for a motel room, I start to feel a little more coherent. Which, after my mind jumps to about six different conclusions at once, all of them humiliating, I decide is not necessarily a good thing.

What I’d really like to do, other than curl up and die in a dark room somewhere, is to sneak out the window. But unless I’m planning on crawling down the fire exit and walking home in my disgusting clothes looking like a hooker, or in nothing but his shirt, which although huge, is loose enough to blow around everywhere and reveal far too much...therefore also looking like a hooker, then I guess I’m stuck here until he deems otherwise. And staying here... in his room... it’s not a good thing.

Really.

There are all sorts of reasons... and... stuff. Because I’m not the impressionable girl I once was.... well, most of the time anyway. Because I’ve come to realise that actually I really don’t know him that well at all. Because he’s mad. And I’m mad too. Because he’s not part of my life anymore.

So. Not good. Nope.

I let the water wash the filth out of my hair and I resolve not to think about him any further. Which is pointless, because the more I try not to think of him, the more I think of him.

Always, it was always quiet whispers amongst the staff, amongst the adults; awww look, Rogue’s a bit taken with Logan. Let her have her crush. It’s harmless. She can’t touch anyone anyway. He knows she’s a child. Always the same. Their sympathy. Their knowing looks. And I hate the fact that somehow this is all rising to the surface again. I thought I’d got through this!

Dammit! Why, of all people, did it have to be him? Coming out here all heroic and ‘I’m doin’ you a favour kid’. Why couldn’t they have sent Storm... or Dr McCoy or someone who doesn’t look like sex in jeans. Why him? Why Logan?

Why does he still affect me so much? I hate that.

...No, that’s not true. Unfortunately.

I hate that I don’t affect him back.

Ugh.

I hate that I’m admitting this to myself as well. Honesty sucks. I much prefer denial.

I stay in the shower far longer than is necessary, yeah call me a coward, whatever. Prolonging the inevitable and all that shit. By the time actually I get out the room is swamped in thick clouds of steam, condensation dripping in little rivers down the walls. I wipe a layer off the mirror, wincing at the squeak it makes. The sight it reveals is not pretty. Dark smudges bruise my eyes and my pasty skin is colourless in comparison. Even my lips are pale and devoid of life. I look about as hung over as I deserve.

I don’t know if I can do this. A hand goes shakily through my stringy wet hair. This whole dealing with Logan thing, it wasn’t an eventuality I countered for in my bid to escape life at the Mansion. I need distance. I need the chance to be cold. Calculating. And I don’t get any of these things when I’m around him. He screws everything up.

I suck in a deep breath. Maybe I just need a moment, just to think rationally.

Maybe I need some sort of plan.

Right...

Deciding I need a plan, however, is not very helpful in actually thinking up one. My brain is refusing to talk to me after last night, and between me and the boys upstairs, even Magneto, we come up with... absolutely nothing. Great. Spend your life silencing the voices, and when you want them? Nada.

Again. Karma. You bitch.

I’m going to have to go out there. I’m going to have to form coherent sentences and think up...reasons...and excuses and shit. I’m going to have to pretend I don’t care, and I don’t want to do this. I’ve already faced him twice – isn’t that enough? Can’t I just curl up and wait for the world to go away?

"You comin’ out any time today?"

Apparently not. Well, screw you world.

Feeling tetchy and more than a little sorry for myself, I grab a towel and scrub at my skin until it’s almost red. Then I pick up Logan’s shirt. Big mistake. It’s clean but as I slide it over my head, the familiar smell of him envelops me like a warm hug. In a plunge of sensation it suddenly reminds me of all the times he touched me. Just little gestures, a brush of a hand, a hug, when no one else would. My annoyance is crushed. A sharp spike of emotion twists inside my chest and all of a sudden there’s lump in my throat so big it hurts.

I clench my jaw, tell myself it’s the hangover.

Yeah. Right...

Oh fuck this. I’m not going to mope over... over nothing! There was nothing between us. There is nothing. And there won’t be anything. That's just the way it is. The part of me that was Marie, the part that wants to weep and sob and snivel, well she can fuck off! I don’t want to cry. Not here anyway.

Besides, what good’ll come of it? Nothing. I go in the bathroom a drunken mess and come out an emotional one? Yeah, that would really convince him I’m doing alright for myself.

I tug the shirt down so that it covers my knees and look at myself in the mirror. I stare for so long that my features begin to blur into each other and my face is no more than a big smudge. Then I take a deep breath and venture out of the bathroom.

Way to make an entrance. There’s some trash on TV and his jaw clenches as he senses me, but he doesn’t look up. Even though I walk past. Even though I’m in nothing but his shirt.

Some things never change.

I curl up in one of the chairs as I wait for him to say something, I don’t know what. Declare his purpose, demand I go back to school or... whatever. But he just continues watching the screen.

God, there’s not even anything on! It’s some crappy black and white re-run.

I cough.

Yep. Still watching.

Fine.

"Logan?" Okay, so that sounded tetchier than I had planned. I resist the urge to get up and wave my hand in front of his face, check his vital signs. "You bring me to your lair," I gesture sarcastically to the room around me, "and now you’re just going to ignore me?"

That at least gets me a cursory glance. "I’ve nothin’ to say to you kid."

I try to answer back, but he holds up a hand to shut me up. "Leave it. I don’t wanna know."

"But-"

"Leave it."

And that’s it. No recriminations, no anger, no... no... nothing. Just a big fat blank wall of blankness.

Ouch.

"So that’s it? I can go?"

"I’m not your keeper. Do what you want."

I frown. That wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. So what? He just fixed me up, and now I’m free to go? No more ties? No more guilt? "You’re not gonna try and convince me to go back to the Mansion again?"

At least that results in movement. He turns his head to look at me, then gets up out of his seat, walks towards me in a way that’s most definitely feral. I shrink back slightly. What’s he going to do...?

Oh. Apparently nothing. He walks past, into the bathroom.

A moment later he comes back out with the scrunched up mess of my clothes in one hand. "Would it make any difference if I did?"

"...No."

"Then there would be no point, would there." The clothes are shoved into my hands.

"So what’s this? Take your clothes, get out and have a nice life?"

"Your choice, kid."

Fine.

You know what? That was my choice. Good. I’m pleased.

I am.

And fuck it that it NOT disappointment I’m feeling.

I head back into the bathroom, forcing myself to ignore the coldness in his voice. It's easy to pretend when you're as well practised as I am. Or at least it should be. Dammit, how can he be so irritating? So fucking stubborn? I sulkily shake out my top, planning to put my disgusting clothes back on and get the hell out, but... ugh... even in my desperate state I can’t bring myself to do it. They’re vile and it makes my stomach swim just thinking about them.

I swallow my pride. Go back over out over to where he’s sitting in front of the TV again. "Can I borrow a belt or something?"

He just raises an eyebrow.

"I can’t go out like..." I gesture to myself. "Not unless I want to be arrested anyway."

He shrugs. "Not my problem."

My temper itches at his tone, but I force myself to stay calm. "Please," I say through my teeth.

"Like I said, not my problem."

"Oh come on!" I fling out the pile of my clothes from the night before. "These are a mess!"

He gives me a look. Then in one movement he’s out of his seat, everything is snatched from my hand and thrown unceremoniously into the trash.

"Hey," I cry, but it’s too late. He sparks a match and drops it in, the whole lot going up in crispy flames.

"What did you do that for, they could’ve been washed!"

"So what? I’m supposed to care? You’re out here fuckin’ up your life and I’m supposed to give a damn about what you wear?"

"Well it would be a start!"

"What the HELL do you think I’m here for, huh? Vacation?"

Oh there is no way he's going down that path with me. No. Fucking. Way. How dare he! The 'let's pretend I care more about you than I do' path, where glances are shared, emotions caught... mainly mine... then he goes off and fucks the next thing on two legs. I've been there before and I'm damn well NOT going there again! "How about obligation, huh? Guilt? Boredom? I don’t know. They’re the usual reasons. Pick one." I throw his own words back in his face. "I don’t care!"

His expression hardens to stone. He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me a moment longer, face unreadable, then turns back to the stupid re-run and starts watching again.

Argh! I hate arguing with someone who won’t argue back!

Fine.

No... it's not fine. I'm still damn well stuck here.

I take a deep breath. Try a different track. Force my voice to stay level. "Y’know, I am sorry for the other day. I didn’t plan on hurting you."

I wait for a response. But... nothing.

"You just... you surprised me."
I swear I just saw a tumbleweed.

Oh come on! Give me something to work with. Talk to me! I’m apologising here! Making the effort!

Besides, I do regret hurting him. A little bit.

Okay I admit, part of me is still smug that it was so easy. He only ever lets his guard down with a few people and up until then I was one of them. I very much doubt I still am.

I try not to frown as I realise actually that feels kind of rotten.

"And I’m sorry for last night," I add, when he still doesn’t respond. If I’m going to grovel, I might as well do it properly.

"Thought you were leavin’, not making conversation."

Argh! How is he so frustrating! That gets him a glare as I spy my boots over by the door and stomp over to pull them on angrily. "I’m still here because I’m still half naked!"

"You’re covering up more than you did last night."

"How nice of you to notice." I look around the room for anything to tie the stupid shirt down. Curtain cord, wire, anything.

He watches me. Eyes narrowing as I start ripping out the draws from the dresser. Does no one keep anything like that in motel rooms anymore? Is the risk of hanging that great?

"What?" I snap to his cold expression.

He comes over, yanks my hand away from his duffle before I go routing through that as well. "What do you want?"

"All I want from you," I hiss, "is this." I fling out a hand towards his belt. I don’t mean to grab it, just point, but he’s not taking any chances. His hand comes up in an instant. Quick and hard. It grabs mine round the wrist, slams it back against the wall so that my knuckles crunch, and belatedly I realise he’s wearing gloves.

Dark eyes bore into mine. "Don’t test me kid. You have no idea."

You know what? Neither does he. That hurt!

My free hand shoots upwards, aiming for skin. I know I’m not quick enough to get to his face or arms, so I aim for his shirt, slamming my palm against the warm material, fingers snaking between the buttons before he can stop them, hovering millimetres away from his skin.

For a moment I think I’ve got him. His grip on my wrist loosens slightly and I begin to feel almost smug. But the instant I start to relax, he moves. Jaw tightening, reacting so fast that I don’t even see the movement. Just a slick scrape of metal against bone and the warm impression of claws against my stomach.

Fuck.

Okay. So now we’re even.

I don’t take my eyes off him; he glares right back. A threat? Probably. He reminds me of his namesake, tense and ready to move in for the kill.

...And he feels so warm and solid through the thin material.

I did not just think that. I did not just start perving while I... man, but it’s distracting.

Threat or not, for a moment my brain can picture nothing but the thought of what he looks like naked. Which is wonderful, but no use to me at all. Damn my freaking hormones! I force myself to shove the image aside.

Focus. I can do this.

His eyes narrow, and the voice that rumbles over me is edged with anger. "What game are you tryin’ to play here?"

I can see him breathe, feel the tension in the muscles under my hand, see his shoulders rise and fall. I can smell the faint tang of cigars. He’s changed his clothes I notice with a mixture of relief and embarrassment. Both emotions I push away, I’ll deal with them later, right now escape is more important. Preferably without being maimed first... although... if you’re gonna go... what a way to go.

Dammit! Concentrate!

I keep my voice light. Well I try to. I hope he’s not listening carefully enough to notice the tremble. "If you have any spare clothes that aren't huge," I let my hand fall just that little bit lower, sliding it around the buttons so that there’s always a part of me only a fraction away from touching his skin, "that could solve all this."

He stiffens and the grip on my wrist tightens. For a moment I think that’s it, game over. But he makes no effort to stop the other hand, so without giving myself time to think about what I’m actually doing, I let it slide lower.

He’s watching me. Guarded. Waiting.

"A smaller jacket?"

And lower.

His nostrils flair as he breathes in the scent of me and for some reason that tiny movement makes my stomach flip. But I don’t stop. I can do this. I can.

My fingertips brush the buckle of his belt. I’m so close. "Do you have anything, other than your shirt, that would fit me?"

At first... no answer. Then he breathes out slowly through his nose. His jaw clenches. "No," he says, eventually.

No? ‘No’ to stop what I’m doing? Or ‘no’ he doesn’t have anything that will fit? Give me specifics here damn you!

But he’s not trying to stop me. His hand’s still tightly gripped round my wrist, granted, but his eyes have dropped to his belt. They’re dark, and they’re watching.

Waiting.

Oh God.

What the fuck am I doing?

Seriously? What part of my brain ever convinced me this was a good idea? My hand is two inches above his freaking crotch!

Is he afraid of me? That’s unlikely. Not with the edge of his claws pressed up against my belly. Is he letting me do this? What does he think this is? Does he know I’m going for his belt? Does he think I’m trying to...to...?

No, he would never... would he?

But he’s...

Something unfurls in the pit of my stomach. A combination of fear and exhilaration. I’m not sure what to do now. I’m so shocked! This wasn’t a part of the plan. Although it was a kinda spur of the moment thing and I’m no longer sure what the plan was. Dammit, why does nothing go the way it should? And why am I so nervous. It’s a freaking belt. That’s all it is. A piece of ugly battered leather.

I just have to forget it’s currently wrapped around his hips.

His toned, strong, warm, denim clad hips. That for some reason he’s letting me touch.

I swallow. This time my innocent nervousness is not feigned, it’s real. Even as I’m doing it I can’t believe I’m really doing it. And I certainly can’t believe he’s letting me do it.

I look down at my hand, swallow the butterflies in my stomach, hook my fingers into the end of his belt and... tug it free.

That seems to jolt him out of wherever he’s been. His voice is thick when he speaks. "Marie. I said no."

Oh.

Right.

Okay, so it was a ‘stop what you are doing’ no. Of course it was. What the hell else would it be?

A well of emotion rises up and threatens to crush me. Disappointment. It’s fucking disappointment of all things.

He batters my hand away, drops the other and steps back. Then in one angry movement he’s pulled the belt from around his hips and shoved it at me. "Take it. And get out."

I don’t wait to be told twice. Before he can stop me, I’ve wrapped it around my waist and I’m out the door. Running fucking fast.

Man, I can rob a bank but I cannot handle my alcohol. That sucks. Twelve hours later and I’m still feeling rough.

After walking home in next to nothing...yeah, that was an experience I’ve no desire to repeat, let me tell you. Do you have any idea how many perverts there are in this goddamed city? Too fucking many.

Anyway, after finally finding my way back to my motel, I spent the morning preparing. Went over the original building plans that Mystique managed to ‘obtain’. Planned what I was going to wear, who I was going to wear, went over the schematics, and tried really hard not to think about what happened with Logan.

And failed. Miserably.

It’s all I’ve been able to think about all day.

His cold manner, his dismissal... his dark eyes watching my hand trail downwards. The way he looked at me.

God.

I mean, why the hell didn’t he stop me...until...? Come on, the belt was half off by then! What was he doing? Trying to prove I didn’t affect him? It’s not like he’s ever been interested, he’s made that perfectly clear. Kitty overheard them, Jean and Logan, back in the day when we were still friends.‘Well you can tell her my heart belongs to someone else.’

He’s never thought of me in that way.

...Has he?

Suddenly I’m not so sure. In fact I’m not sure about anything any more. Maybe I should have gone back with him. Should I even be here? Should we be doing this? We’re about to hit one of the government’s most valuable resources and I’m filled with self-doubt.

Which is not good.

"You still with me?" Mystique clicks the well manicured fingers of the blond she’s currently wearing in front of my face, and I look up, belatedly.

"Yeah, sorry."

"You don’t sound convinced."

Yeah well, I’m not. I wonder if it would be wise to tell her what’s happened. It’s affecting my judgement big time, no matter how much I want to deny it. It only seems fair that she should know. My concentration being off could put both of us in danger.

"Rogue?"

Or maybe not. "It...it’s nothing," I lie. Badly.

She just gives me a look.

"Oh alright." I roll my eyes tetchily. "I just ran into Logan the other day, okay?" I deliberately leave out the part about last night. Don’t want her getting the wrong idea. Or the right idea. Whatever.

Her face remains expressionless. A perfect mask. "And?"

"And nothing. Really. He wanted me to go back to Westchester with him. I said no."

"Do you regret it?"

"No!" That came out too quickly, we both know it.

She just raises an eyebrow speculatively. "You know, I saw you with him at the bar last night."

She had? And she’d said nothing?

"So did you two... is that what this is about?"

Did we... oh. Is she suggesting...? To my utter horror I actually feel my face flood with colour. I’m embarrassed that she suggested it, and I’m even more embarrassed that the answer is no. I try to look like I don’t care. "Of course not."

"Really? Well you should. ‘Bout time you got some, honey."

Okay, blush officially deepened. That wasn't fair. I give her my best withering look and change the subject. "How was your bank manager anyway?"

She has none of my inhibitions. "He was..." a flash of a grin, "...inventive."

"On second thoughts, forget I asked. I don’t want to know."

"Sure you do." She takes a sip of her coffee, then begins methodically massacring a napkin, shredding it into tiny little pieces. "You’re dying to know what it’s like. Sex."

"What makes you think that I don’t already know?"

"You have angry virgin written all over you."

Ouch. "I do not," I say weakly, but even I don’t believe it. "I took the cure remember? It’s not like I’ve never..."

"Oh really?" She picks up another napkin and her smile becomes a smirk. "Who?"

I cringe slightly at the memory. "...Bobby."

She raises an eyebrow as if she doesn’t believe me.

"Only once," I admit. "Right after I took the cure."

He was still far too nervous of my skin; the whole thing was practically fully clothed. Meticulously planned, it was over in about three uncomfortable, grinding minutes in which all I could think about was how much it hurt, and the weird way his face scrunched up. Not exactly the romantic sweeping off my feet I had dreamt of. We never tried it again.

"Wow. Must have been good. Memorable."

I give her sarcasm a scathing look. "It’s not like I can touch anyone these days anyway. It would be like extreme sex, a high risk sport."

"Stop making excuses."

"I’m not making excuses!" But I am. And she’s right.

Damn.

That’s the first time I’ve blamed anything on my skin in months. The realisation hits me like a cold slap to the face. How can I go from confident, independent woman, back to fragile young girl all because of one stupid meeting? I resent that!

Not that resenting it helps either.

Ugh.

"I don’t need sex anyway." It comes out more of a grumble than I had hoped. "I’ve coped well enough without so far. I’ll just retire with my millions, invest in a vibrator factory and become a nun."

"Ha!" She actually snorts. "There are so many things wrong with that image," she laughs, then holds her well manicured hands up in mock defeat. "Well whatever does it for you honey. Besides, I wasn’t suggesting you sleep around."

"Uh-huh?"

"Just that I saw the way he was looking at you, on that dance floor."

He...what?

My ears thud and my breath catches in my throat. Why does that make my heart race, damn it? As far as I was aware, he wasn’t looking at me like anything. Apart from the angry glare. Although to be fair, I don’t think I was aware of much...

Oh.

Maybe she didn’t mean Logan. Maybe she meant the creepy letch I danced with...? "Who?"

"You know who. Mr feral-in-poured-on-leather."

"He was wearing jeans!"

"I know, but the leather is so much more... so. I like to pretend."

"Well pretend all you like, he wasn’t looking at me like anything. He never has." Except for this morning. When my hand slid towards his belt. God, right now I feel like my stomach is going to drop through my toes. This can’t be normal.

"Mm-hmm..."

"It’s always been Jean," I snap back. "You know that. I know that. Half the damn mutants on the East coast know that. I came to terms with it years ago."

"Yeah. Sounds like it."

"He said he loved her. He loved her."

But she still doesn’t give up. "Honey, where on earth is it written that a man can only love one woman?"

---

By the time Mystique and I make our way though the pseudo city-dark, I’m no better. My mind’s been churning over the awkward situation all day, and it’s starting to make me feel... ugh... oh I don’t know. Stuff. Things. Blah. Words I don’t want to give names to.

As far as the job goes, we’ve got everything meticulously planned. The truck is parked out in the suburbs, our bags stashed in there, all good to go. A car rented under the name of a girl I hated at school waits for us outside the café opposite, where I parked it this afternoon. The keys fit snugly in my pocket. They’re our escape and I keep them close.

Mystique has already re-wired the bank’s alarm system. Heh. That bit of preparation was actually quite clever. We didn’t want to touch the bank in advance in case someone got scent of what we had planned. But the city library? Now that was easy to access. Two public buildings, both wired up to the police department. It was so simple to switch them. Well, simple if you are a shape shifter, know what you’re doing and can get access to the right systems anyway... Okay, maybe not so simple, but you get the point. Now if we set anything off at the bank, the library will be crawling with cops. One of our better ideas I like to think.

It still doesn’t take my mind of Logan though. None of it.

Even worse is the niggling thought that giving all this up and going back with him would be so appealing. Seriously. Why? Why would I even think that? Nothing would change. I’d go back to being the girl trapped in the mansion, and he’d disappear off his bike again.

And now I’m having an argument with myself. About imaginary scenarios.

That’s never a good sign.

Ugh. I need some serious 'me' time to get my head sorted out. Well, as sorted as it can get. Ever since my mutation decided to rent out the available space in my brain, it’s always been a little chaotic; like some sort of mind-fuck time-share. Brings a whole new meaning to the term multiple personality disorder. Believe me.

Damn it, why am I even still thinking about this? I made a decision three months ago. I decided that enough was enough. Well, I’m renewing that decision ‘cause right now a life of money and luxury, with a side order of danger, sounds much more appealing than a God dammed school and a growling guardian who’s never there.

Ha. I feel better already.

I do.

Really.

It’s – oh fuck we’re here.

"You ready?"

Her voice jolts me out of my stupor. No. This time I’m not ready. I’m not ready by far. But I’ll be dammed if I let that stop me. I worked goddammed hard for this!

...relatively speaking.

Technically other people worked hard for this, I’m just stealing it.

For the first time, I begin to feel a little bad about that. Which is not good. Fine time to grow back a conscience.

"Rogue?"

"Yeah, yeah. I’m here." Fighting to clear my thoughts, I clench one of my gloves between my teeth and pull it off to free a hand.

In response she just holds out a bare arm.

This time when I touch her I force myself to remember that time outside the diner, and I concentrate. It’s not easy to control, far from it. It makes me giddy, my teeth clench, and the rush that’s there at first is as powerful as ever. But I fight it. Push back at it. Slow it down until it steadies. Until it’s a muddy stream, instead of a raging river.

Heh, and it works! It’s far from perfect, but it actually makes a noticeable difference!

It’s funny, all those times I tried to turn off my mutation, I was always trying to ‘stop’ it. Always trying to find a switch. It never occurred to me to try and slow it down. Not even that time outside Bobby’s parent’s house when I touched John. Only in hindsight do I now realise that even though I held on for much longer, he was okay because I was in some sort of control.

Shame it was in hindsight. Should have knocked the bastard off his feet.

I pull away and glance up at Mystique. She’s breathing a little harder than usual, but is otherwise unaffected.

"Interesting," she says. "You’re getting better at that."

I try not to look too smug.

Next on the agenda is choosing an image. Tonight I feel like I need a bit of style, so I go for a sleek blond. Call it pampering. Legs up to my armpits and bee-stung lips.

What? Sometimes a girl needs to dress it up a little.

Beside me, Mystique glances up and flexes her shoulders, licks her lips once, and then she’s scaling the wall like some sort of agile spider, gripping on to handholds that are barely there, until she’s high enough to cut the power cables.

And then from then on in, it’s all slick movement.

I don’t know what I was so worried about. From the moment Mystique taps the key code into the door, my mind clicks smoothly on to mission mode. It’s like clockwork. Routine. A calm coolness seeps over me and I’m in control.

I can do this.

I scrape back my fake blonde hair, tuck my remaining glove into the back pocket of my jeans, and as I pull out my gun there ain’t no one out there in that whole wide world who can stop me. Bring it on.

The clerical smell of carpet and cash hits me as we simultaneously swing the doors inwards. Then it’s like the steps of a familiar dance. Fast, strong strides inside. Two guards to the left, noted. The mechanical click as I flick my safety off. Four clean shots; four cameras out of action. Easy.

Mystique goes to work on the motion detectors; I work on instinct. The two guards, they come at me; one looking nervous, the other smirking, as if how can a young girl like me be a threat?

But I’m just full of surprises, sugar.

The smug guard eyes my chest. I give him a come hither grin while my elbow rams back into the other’s solar plexus. Hard.

Suddenly the smirk seems a little less certain. It freezes on his face as he watches his colleague sink to the floor and I use the opportunity to introduce him to my fist, feeling a nasal crunch as it meets his face. Before he has time to think I drive my other into his stomach, knowing I’m on top of my game as he retches in shock. Then a muscle-bunched spin, a high aimed kick, and he’s down.

See? Easy.

I’m technical. Detached.

I stoop briefly down, and two swift touches drop both men into a bleak unconsciousness.

Mystique, who apparently watched the whole thing with some sort of amusement, gives me a slight smirk. "Nice."

I’m in total control. Really I am.

...Aren’t I?

I waiver and it throws me, my vision fuzzing for a moment. Freshly stolen thoughts slip from my controlled grip and seep like ink into my memory, scribbling over my own. Sudden tiredness. A craving for cigarettes. Dammit, and I inherit their sense of unease. Not fair. Stupid mutation.

I try and fight it back. Tell myself it's not real, and it’s not doubt I’m feeling. I won’t let it be doubt.

But whatever it is, it’s close.

Ugh.

I narrow my thoughts to focus on the image of the plans inside my head, rather than lingering on the room around me, but it’s suddenly much harder. The place looks different at night. The hollowness creeps into my consciousness; hard and sterile, almost sinister. During the day the giant stone pillars looked proud and elegant, now they just resemble some sort of mausoleum. Constant security lights wash it in a synthesised neon glow and it’s... I don’t know. It’s not what I expected.

Is that them too? Or is that me?

I don’t know the answer, and I try to ignore the sense of unease this gives me.

"Rogue!"

Oh. Yeah... standing around is not a good idea. I remind my feet how they work and hurry to catch up.

Another code pad gives us access to the stairwell. It’s a fairly short descent to the basement level, far more sensible than risking the elevators. No use walking into an enclosed space with lockable doors if you can avoid it... right?

Suddenly I'm not so sure.

A lone moth butts against the flair of the emergency light. It smells like stale concrete, cold and damp and I try to suppress a shiver, pretending to ignore the way our footsteps echo uncomfortably loud. I tell myself it’s fine, I’m fine, even the damn moth is fine. But for a brief moment I’m so intensely aware of all the earth and masonry that now rests above us, that the feeling almost crawls its way down my back.

What if...?

Hand gripping the metal railing, I glance nervously up at the ceiling, as if expecting to see it crack and splinter in a shower of dust and debris.

But it’s unchanging, of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?

I force my feet to move again.

The sick feeling in my stomach doesn’t quite go though.

"What’s with you?" Mystique hisses in my ear.

That’s a very good question. I shake my head, as if trying to wake myself from a trance. What is with me? That’s twice now I’ve gone all freaked out. Is it an emotion I absorbed? I hope it’s not one of the other mutations I’ve stolen over the years coming back to haunt me.

"It’s nothing."

Just my instinct. Screaming at me to get the hell out.

Why do I have such a bad feeling about this?

"Well snap out of it!"

The tone jolts me back to my senses. For a moment I’m resentful for it, but she’s right. I need to concentrate. I try and smother the emotions like I always do, and I let her lead as we carefully approach the steel doors to the lower level. They’re imposing but no match for Mystique. Her iris scan is approved in seconds. Voice recognition...approved. Fingerprint scan...approved.

Simple.

With a hiss of sound they slide smoothly open.

My entire body buzzes with nervous tension. I wish I could just-

"Wait," Mystique clamps a hand to my shoulder. For a moment her skin flickers blue, her scales shifting, unfurling as she adopts a new image. Suddenly the person standing before me is the bank manager, his hand going up to adjust his smart collar.

People only see what they want to see.

I have to admit I see the logic in her plan, even if I do feel uncomfortable changing mid-job. We agreed we’d never do that. Don’t want to give them any excuse to think we’re mutants.

I try not to feel uneasy about that as well.

Christ, what is wrong with me? I try a little mental shake up. Sort yourself out! And concentrate on the job at hand.

Not the fact that you really shouldn’t be here.

Or thinking about the strange heaviness Logan’s belt.

...Which is currently shoved under the bed in your motel room.

"Rogue!"

Oh yeah. Right.

I focus on her mutation for a moment; choose the image of the teller who tried to sell me an account. Someone who, when with his manager, doesn’t look completely out of place down here in jeans, which...ouch... are far too tight now. Not fair. But I can still move. I hope.

Mystique gives me a brief look of reassurance, more to assure herself I'm not falling apart than to comfort me, and steps through. What else can I do but follow?

It opens out into a barren hallway of grey repeating panels where the air tastes like cardboard, recycled and thin. The architect upstairs obviously didn't get the same free rein down here; utilitarian would be an understatement. I try and ignore it. The monotone hum of the strip light overhead tickles my ears and it’s faintly annoying. But it's not important, so I try to ignore that too. Along with the fact that there’s no place to hide down here.

I don’t like that thought.

Dammit. Concentrate.

We round a sharp corner, nodding formally at night guard as we pass. At the end is another scan, another keypad, another code. Another door...open. So easy.

...Maybe it’s too easy.

Okay, I don’t like that thought either.

But seriously, we’re just walking through. Surely there should be something? Shouldn’t there? It’s never been this straightforward before...

No. I’m being paranoid. We’re just good, that’s all. We planned well; prepared far too carefully.

The safe guard sits up in his seat as we approach. "Sir?" His brow furrows as he looks into the face of his manager, he fumbles around on his desk to glance over his time sheet with an air of confusion. "I wasn’t expecting you."

"Really?" Mystique feigns the manager’s disinterest as she approaches. Then without warning, she palms his face, using the edge of his desk as a vault to swing herself over and wrap her legs around his neck. "That’s ‘cause we’re screwing you over honey," she whispers into his ear as he slips into unconsciousness.

Again, so easy.

Wasn’t it?

God, the poor man looked so surprised I almost feel bad for him. And that’s not right. We’re not here to be nice to them for chrissake! Besides, he’ll wake up with what? A slight bruise? Dented pride? He’ll be fine!

"Last door, then we are outta here." Mystique flexes her shoulders under her tailored jacket. Her fingers hover over the key pad and... wait. She freezes. Just for a moment.

Coolness trickles down my spine. "What?"

"Shhh." A slim finger goes instantly to her mouth. Her pupils slide out of focus as she tilts her head, listens.

I frown as I try and call on the memory of Logan’s enhanced senses. Is it one of the-

Shit!

I can hear voices. Lots of voices.

"Get out," she hisses.

I... what? My heart instantly begins to pound.

She ignores my confusion and her eyes grow wide and yellow. "The only way out is the way we came in. Move!"

Oh fuck.

I turn quick, hands trembling as my feet take me fast as they can manage without breaking into a run. Oh fuck oh fuck. I try not catch the eye of the stairwell guard. Try to look casual. Just let me pass, I think, just let me-

"I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you to stop right there."

Fuck.

I try and keep my voice steady. "Just going to see," I swallow awkwardly, "what the...uh...commotion is up there." My throat is so dry.

"No. Perhaps you didn’t hear me. You need to stop right-"

He never gets to finish. His head thunks backwards with the force of the bullet that rips through his skull, his glassy eyed stare of shock fixed upon me as he slides down the wall in a dribbling trail of blood.

For a moment I can’t calculate what happened. The silence rings so loudly in my ears that it’s almost deafening and it... it’s... I can’t breathe, oh God I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? What just... What did... God I can’t...

"I said run! Are you crazy?"

Are these my thoughts? Are they mine? My fear? I don’t know. But she killed him. She just killed him? Without even...? She just... Fuck. I think I’m going to pass out. This is not like Logan. This man isn’t going to heal and push the bullet out. That’s it. He’s gone. Dead. Ended.

"Run!"

She propels me into action, pushing me forward until my stumbling feet are forced to find their own way. My legs carry me up the stairs, pounding hard, thigh muscles burning, and I’m panting and sweating and breathing and living and what the FUCK just happened?

I can hear her following close behind. Fast. The soft tap of leather shoes turning into the slap of bare feet, and I know without looking that she’s shifted back into her natural form. She never does that, not anymore.

"Move it! You’ll get us both killed!"

Maybe we deserve it.

We reach the upper door and she hesitates. Takes stock of the situation. There are so many of them! How are there so many? The place is swarming, black uniforms, shiny boots. They got here so quick. How did they get here so quick without-

A few thoughts reach through the blind fog of panic and sink home. The coincidence of the large deposit. The easiness in which we entered.

It was a set up.

The whole thing. One big trap.

"Shit," I hear her curse. "You are gonna have to get your stuff sorted girl. I can’t do this on my own. Where’s your gun?"

My gun? My eyes widen as I look stupidly down at the smooth blackness of the handle protruding from the pocket in my jeans, wishing it had never been invented. Wishing I had never picked it up. Wishing I had never left the mansion. This is not what I... I... look down at my hands and realise belatedly that that blonde I’d chosen is long gone and I must look like me again. When did that happen? Why did... I don’t know. I can’t remember. Can’t think. Can’t concentrate. Can’t-

"Rogue?"

I’m still staring, my hands are trembling as I reach for the handle, but I can’t get a good grip. It fumbles and slides around in my fingers.

Her eyes flare at me. "Useless!" She snatches it out of my hands, cocks it, and shoves it back at me. Then with hers in hand she rams the keycode home and storms into the room beyond.

Oh God.

Three shots ring out. Hers. A cry of alarm follows. Theirs. Another shot.

Someone’s.

Shit. Shit! I’ve got to do something.

Get a fucking grip.

I try and remember what it feels like to be Rogue. Tell myself it’s okay to be fucking scared, and that if I want to live? Then I can’t stay here.

I glance round the corner, trying to prepare myself. There’s blood, but she’s not dead. It’s not hers. She is a whirl of movement among them. She’s shimmer of blue sinew and grace; twisting and turning, writhing and shooting and snarling seductively at anything to get in her way. But it’s not enough, not nearly enough. There are too many of them.

God, I feel sick.

I take two deep breaths, hold the third like I’m about to dive underwater, then sink down against the wall, crouching low to the floor as my gun finally finds its use. One shot, two. I try not to think about what I’m hitting. Then I’m up and somehow in the middle of it all, into a furious blur of fists and weapons. Eyes desperately trying to catch every movement. Narrowing on a target. Seeing it go down. All the while thinking I’m still alive. Still alive.

The first blow that gets me has me spitting up blood, the second cracks a rib, but I give back all I can get. Pain refocuses me and I use every skill, every dirty trick I’ve learned or stolen. Knuckles cracking, skin feeding on whatever it can reach, thighs burning, teeth clenching. Sweat’s dripping off me, hair sticking to my face as I twist and struggle, but I fight on.

Two of them come at me and I hiss, take the first at a run, reaching for any spot of bare skin on the other. A moment to shake off the memories, and I’m onto the next. And the next. And the next. And the-

DAMN. Fuck but that hurt!

The next man to come at me gets a mouthful of bloody spit before my knee meets his groin. Then I screech round to take on the next, and-

Hesitate.

...Oh shit. They really have got guns.

"Look out!" I yell so hard I nearly choke, but Mystique’s already out of the way, the bullet pounding hard into one of the pillars only inches behind her, showering out a spatter of dust and shards of stone. Christ we’ve got to get out of here.

My head snaps round and I take in our position. Fighting back to back, we’re not far from the door. We can make it. We’re so close that I can see the reflection from the street lights glancing off the glass. We’ll laugh about this tomorrow. Sure we will.

I grapple with another. He reaches for me, catches me sharply with his fist and for a moment I can’t move. But then he brushes the skin on my arm, and I’ve got my mutation on so strong he goes down with a sound.

Still alive.

Just a few more steps, that’s all. I can make this. Mystique’s already outside, she crashed through the door, and I’m almost there. I shake off the hand that closes around my ankle. Kick at it. One more step. So close. I’m almost...

Wait.

I come to a shuddering standstill, almost oblivious to the noise and fury behind me.

Again, there’s that feeling. That something’s not right. Something’s not as...

I frown and tilt my head to look at the gentle pattern of red that’s flecked across the shattered door in front of me. So pretty. Like stained glass. Like the opening petals of a flower, which slide out of focus as the ground rises up to meet me.

I blink. Confused. Pulse thickening through my ears. I can see Mystique across the street. She’s looking at me. "Come on," she mouths, "Come on!" And I want to, but...

Oh God. Pain begins to seer through me, so hot that it burns. The hand that’s clutched at my side no longer has the strength to hold on and my eyes slide over the slippery redness that’s sinking into the cracks between my knuckles and dribbling off the ends of my fingers.

Not happening.

"Rogue!"

This is not happening!

I stagger to my feet, try and take a step, but my legs are heavy. Hard to control.

"Come on!"

I can hear the sharpness of her voice. It rings through my head. Echoes of sounds behind me. I blink again, but I can’t focus. Everything’s swimming, a smearing sea of colours and dark shapes. They’re all the same.

"Come on!"

My side screams. A hand grabs my shoulder. Fingers dig in. Pull me backwards, downwards. Try to fight them, but hands are feeble and they won’t work. Why won’t they work? Legs slide about uselessly. Head cracks down and pain is swallowed by fear. Oh God I don’t want this. I don’t want it. Face against the cool hardness of the floor, eyes blinking, and it’s all I can do to keep breathing.

A street lamp flickers through the broken glass. Throat’s so tight. So heavy. Not like this, I think. I don’t want this. Clenching my teeth. This can’t be right. I just need to keep breathing. That’s all. Keep breathing. I want to be at home. I want to be twelve and in the sunshine of my back yard. Not here. Not in the darkness. I want warmth. This is not supposed to happen... and I won’t...I won’t give up. Not without a fight.

Just breathe.

Just keep...breathing... just... keep...

Chapter 11 – Some things should be left to Steve McQueen

"Stay with me kid."

Sharp slices of noise surround me. They fade in and out. Words without meaning, echoing uselessly around the hollow of my mind. Where... what...? I can hear shouting but I don’t understand it. And there’s the sharp ring of metal grinding against stone, the rusty thick smell of blood.

Logan?

I try to get my mind to work, but it’s sludgy and dark and won’t do what I want. Thoughts bend away from me when I try and focus on them, broken and... and...

Where am I?

My eyes open a crack, I try to focus. Fuck, but I hurt. The sort of hurt that stabs right down from under your fingernails, all the way to the very tips of your toes and makes you want to scream with the fury of it. I swallow, try to control it before I pass out, but I can taste bile in my throat and I’m not entirely sure I can control anything.

"Kid?"

Huh? Bleary. Everything is splotchy and dark. I try to concentrate. Try to focus on the voice. The cold roughness of a stone wall at my back helps to ground me. There’s a clammy breeze on my face; it’s sweaty and nauseating but it lets me know I’m outside. I think. I hope. Oh God I don’t know. Everything waivers and slides away from me again, ears ringing as the cold stone soaks through my skin. I’m freezing.

But I’m still alive.

So I try again. Concentrate.

One hand fumbles loosely for the floor as the other goes to my side. It feels numb, but the dark stain across my shirt is no longer spreading. He managed to touch me, I realise fuzzily. He must have done. Though not for long. Just enough to stem the bleeding. Maybe... I cough messily as my thoughts spiral again. Fuck. That hurts even more. No more coughing.

As awareness creeps back to me, the slick sound of claws grows horribly clear. Ripping through clothes and flesh, screeching off stone. There’s grunting. Swearing. Yelling. My ears stop throbbing and gradually I draw direction from the sound.

There. To the left of me.

Fighting.

Oh my God, we’re still outside the bank.

Logan? I want to call out, but I can’t. I want to do something to stop him. To fix this. No I don’t. I want to run away. I want to hide. Just stop. Please just stop.

But I can’t make a sound, and nobody notices me. Not now.

He doesn’t give them the chance to.

Six are left, but he’s a snarling fury, lamplight shining darkly on the strips of blood that streak his skin and mingle with the sweat on his ripped shirt. He roars as he drives those claws into flesh. I see his face contort as they shoot him, trying to take him down but he keeps on coming... he just keeps on coming. And he’s here. How is he here? How can he just...?

Oh God... I think I’m going... to do...something really... useful... like... pass out.

I take a deep giddy breath. Press my clammy palms against my forehead and try and stop the world from swimming. But everything’s moving. He’s moving. A feral darkness in their midst. And they’re moving. And the ground beneath me is moving as the world tilts and the dusty street is swamped in a slick redness. Someone screams nearby; I can hear an answering wail. A shiver of recognition. Police sirens, there are police sirens in the distance. We need to... fuck it’s hard to think. We need to... to...

There’s a blur of clothes and a muffled thump as a man is thrown at the wall beside me. Logan is upon him in an instant. Claws hidden, bloody fingers grabbing his chin, forcing his lulling face upwards. A rough growl. "Who you workin’ for?"

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. Not really. This is not like the Danger Room. There are no casual cigars here, no snarky remarks. Here he’s a killing machine, pure bred and lethal. This is the weapon they made of him. This is the Wolverine.

And no joke, it is terrifying.

He sniffs the other man’s scent, then backhands him across the face. Hard. "I said, who THE FUCK do you work for?"

I watch dazed, as the stranger tries bleakly to focus, but it’s a loosing battle and he soon gives up. He manages a bloody smile instead.

"Last chance," Logan warns putting his fist between the man’s eyes.

The man coughs. "Fuck you," he wheezes.

Not the right thing to say.

Shit.

With a flash of adamantium claws slick straight through his frontal lobe like knives sliding through warm butter. He snarls as the weight of the man slumps forward upon him. Shoves him to the side.

I think I’m going to be sick.

"Get up kid."

Actually, I know I’m going to be sick.

Instinct takes over and I flinch, backing away in a sudden panic. But he growls at my reaction and I instantly know it was the wrong thing to do. Don’t run from the beast. But what can you do if you can’t run? Shit, I can’t think straight. He saved me. It’s Logan. I know him... don’t I?

"Get up," he says again. The words are bitten off. It’s a command.

I swallow, stumbling for time. "I don’t think I can."

This doesn’t even get a reaction. "Get. Up."

Fear strikes through me at his tone and I fumble my way to my feet, the muscles in my side taught and raw and screaming in protest. It nearly makes me pass out again.

"You have a car?"

"Yes," I choke out. Then I look across the street, the blurry flashes of wavering streetlamps swinging together until they’re in focus again. "No." Where has it gone?

"Fuck." I hear him snarl. Then without further warning, he hefts me up into his arms and his strong legs are running.

My fingers curl into his damp shirt and it’s all I can do to hold on.

---

Consciousness, when it returns, is like a sludgy trickle. A pin prick of thought, stubborn and slow. It takes me a while to realise I’m cupped in the softness of a car seat, surrounded by smells of clean leather and open air. Scott’s car, I realise with a jolt of sadness. And I’ve got blood all over it. My skin and clothes stick painfully to the upholstery and it’s all such a mess. Scott would be so unhappy if he was around to see it.

For some reason that upsets me more than anything else, the thought of Scott disapproving. He’d be so disappointed in me, it makes me want to cry.

I stare fixedly out the window. Clench my teeth.

I don’t want to cry.

I watch the blur of blackness. Try to distinguish tree from building from empty night. From the fuzzy blanket that still muffles my mind. From anything.

I really don’t want to cry.

But my pulse is throbbing and my side is burning, blood seeping sluggishly into my top again, and my head is spinning, and I can’t quite comprehend how I got from where I was yesterday, to here.

We take a corner far too fast and my seatbelt digs in. With a fumbling hand I try and loosen it slightly... he strapped me in? What does that mean? You know, you should wear your seatbelt. My memory plays tricks on me, but it’s dark outside, not bright and cold with snow. I’m not sixteen and he’s not a stranger.

I risk a glance sideways, completely unprepared for the emotion that squeezes at my throat. He’s driving, totally focused on the road, freshly healed knuckles gripped white around the expensive steering wheel. Like the rest of him they’re smeared with blood.

Because of me.

I made him like that.

I’ve never seen him that way before. He was unstoppable out there. There was no graceful beauty to his fighting; it was functional, what was needed. It was a messy, gritty slaughter. All those guards, all those...men.

Dead.

That’s such a horrible short little word. They were all just piled up together. Lifeless lumps of torn clothes and flesh. All that movement and calculating energy, gone. Cut off. Halted. Because of me.

It makes me feel numb.

Numbness is good, I tell myself. Numbness is better than feeling horror or guilt over what happened. That would be a lot harder. But numb is cold. Numb isn’t real. Numb feels like I’ve stepped outside my own skin and I’m looking down on my minefield of a life with a detached curiosity.

Part of me wants to break. Wants to give in and snap. Screech. Scratch my face and rip at my hair. You’re a bad person. You’re a mess. Give it up. This is what happens when you try and become someone else. You don’t deserve life.

Another part wants to remain stubborn and aloof like I have been for the past few months. That part wants to fight for it, to say ‘to hell with it all, they were trying to kill you! Have some freaking backbone and stand up for yourself!’

But I was the one there when I shouldn’t have been. I should have just left well alone. They were just doing their job. Weren’t they?

Oh God. What does that make me?

Numb.

It makes me numb.

I try not to think about them, but images flash back every time I close my eyes, scoured onto the backs of my eyelids. Stolen memories rise to the surface. One of the guards, Michael, his name was Michael, he’d just booked a weekend to take his girl away. Another had a three year old kid waiting for him at home. One guy still lived with his parents and felt guilty for watching porn. Working extra shifts. Hated the fucking job. Needed the money. All people. All individuals.

My thoughts slip and suddenly I wonder if they got away, or if they were part of the pile Logan left for dead outside the bank.

Fuck, I feel sick.

What did we do? How did it all go so wrong? We’ve robbed, we’ve stolen, but no one’s ever been killed before. Not like this. We planned too carefully, planned so that no one got hurt. She promised. Mystique. She promised me no one would need to get hurt. We’d just take back what was ours. That’s all we wanted to do!

Shit, I’m so stupid. I’m so fucking stupid.

Maybe they’re right to fear us, to lock us away and ‘cure’ us. Maybe we are monsters.

Beside me Logan swears, bringing me back to the present as he wrenches the car around another corner. He has a slow healing cut across his face and he looks exhausted, so much so that I want to reach out to him. But in my head the slump of a man’s body against the wall, Logan’s claws retracting from his skull, plays again and again, and instead I begin to shake.

"Logan?" I croak. Is that my voice?

I struggle to sit upright, but his hand reaches over and pushes me firmly back down into the seat.

"Don’t move," he warns. "Haven’t been able to heal you properly yet. Right now I need to drive."

There’s no emotion there, nothing of the man who would look out for me. Just hard fact.

He doesn’t even look at me.

I try to swallow and it hurts like hell, a few stubborn tears trickling out from the corners of my eyes. The more I think about it, the worse it gets. I got shot. I got fucking shot! What the hell was I doing? When on earth did I begin to think I was invincible? If Logan hadn’t come along when he did...

I screw my eyes shut; hide the inky blur of landscape that’s speeding past. "I wanted..." I manage, "...I didn’t-"

"Save it, kid." He almost bites out the words, not angry, but...something else. Cold.

But then he seems to soften slightly, and I hear him sigh as he takes one hand off the wheel to scrub at his face. "Now’s just not the time, okay?"

Now’s not the...? Oh God, that must mean...

He’s driving really fast and my brain finally puts two and two together. We’re still being chased? "Are they...?"

"Yes."

Shit. They must be close. My stomach turns, but I'm too exhausted for anything else.

"Where’s..." I cough and it hurts. "Where is-?"

"The blue wench?" I see his jaw work.

"I didn’t... don’t worry," I try and fumble out a sentence, but it doesn’t help. I can see his knuckles tighten.

"I don’t know," he says eventually. "She took off not long after I got there."

I expect to feel shock, but it doesn’t come. Neither does hate. Or fear. There’s nothing there. Just the numbness, layering over me like a thick blank emptiness, leaving me hollow and void.

I remember her calling. Splinters of blood and the echoing sound of my name. I remember her fierceness to fight. But she didn’t come back to help. Instead she ran. Saved herself. It was Logan who refused to leave me there to-

"Dammit!"

Jesus! My stomach spins and cramps as the car lurches out of control. What's happening? I see Logan grab the wheel, fight it, yell with the effort, but it’s not enough, it’s not enough! Oh God! My hand automatically fumbles for my seatbelt; eyes wide; heart suddenly racing; blood pounding; metal screaming; road spinning and twisting the world as a sudden lurch of surging weightlessness hits me.

Then the moment’s shrieking silence is replaced by a sickening crunch.

I try to hold on. It’s all I can do. The buckling of metal; the folding crack of bones and the crushing screech that follows as the car scrapes along the ground with continued momentum. It grates through my mind. It feels like it goes on forever, panic fisting in my gut, holding my body rigid until we finally... eventually... come to a... stop.

Then there’s a dull silence.

I try to remember how to breathe.

Fuck, it hurts. My chest feels...tight...crushed. My legs...feel... nothing. Oh God. I swallow. Cough. There’s a dull thumping in my ears. Around me the car is scrunched up like shreds of paper. I’m on my back, I realise. Up against the passenger window. My thoughts are in fragments. Like the glass. Things slide into focus. Broken. Bent. Crippled. Logan’s almost directly above me. He’s pinned by the wheel... it’s buckling under his weight.

"Logan?" It barely comes out more than a rasping whisper. I can taste blood. It wheezes and bubbles in my throat as I try to draw in air, the stench of burnt rubber suffocating me. "Logan?"

But he’s unconscious. And the whole car is beginning to creak and shift.

"Logan?" Please wake up. Please. I don’t think I’m going to survive this.

I lick my lips. They’re so dry. "Logan?" I’m trying not to sob, but I can’t even get that right. Please. Wake up. I can’t move, and the steering wheel...it’s getting worse, collapsing under the strain. I can see it happening. Hear the faint ticking of the cooling engine. Smell the tang of oil, the saltiness of blood. His. Mine. I can’t stop it. Please wake up!

A sudden shriek of twisting metal and for a moment he just hangs there, lifeless, supported by the remnants of his seatbelt. But it’s half severed by shards of glass from the windshield, and I can see it fraying under the strain.

"Logan!" I try one more time, but it makes no difference. A sickening crack, and the whole thing finally gives.

He lands heavily on me. I brace myself for pain, but... but it doesn’t hurt. Why doesn’t it...? He’s crushing me but I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything...wait. Yes I can. Oh God, it’s because I’m taking his mutation. I can’t! I’ll kill him!

I clench my eyes, grit my teeth. I won’t kill him, I won’t. I won’t do it. I won’t. Goddamit! Make it STOP! Slow it down!

I try to focus, but it hurts so goddamed much. Especially when I can’t...I can’t... Oh God but I need to slow it down. It’s all I can think about. And I can think about it. I can. I can muffle it. I can drown it. I can suffocate it. Force it. Slow it down. Slow. It. Down.

Until there’s nothing left.

Nothing at all.

And a thick blackness engulfs me.

Where am I?

The first sense to come back to me is sound. It’s steady. A low mechanical hum and a soft repetitive beep. The gentle murmur of voices.

For now it’s enough.

The second time I wake, I notice the light. It’s bright, glaring, even through my eyelids. But I feel no desire to open them, not just yet. Instead I just let the drifting sense of nothingness take me back to where it’s safe.

The third time I notice the pain. It wakes me, a dull throbbing behind my eyes, a sharp punching in my neck, a strange numbness everywhere else. My throat feels dry and raspy. I try to swallow, but instead I choke. There’s something there, something in the way. I try not to panic, but I feel like I’m suffocating and my head spins with fear. What is this? I can’t stop it! What’s happening? Where am-

"Easy there." A firm hand holds my head back against the bed. "Steady."

My eyes feel gritty and unused as I open them, the familiar blurry smudge of Dr McCoy drifting fuzzily into focus. Why is he here?

"...to stay calm..."

I realise he’s speaking, but it’s too late and my mind can’t quite match the movement of his mouth with his voice. It rings in my ears as I try to cling to it.

"You have trauma to... with a tube in your throat..."

Can’t concentrate. Words slip in and out of my head. Want to focus, but everything’s sludgy and... and... lilting... strange...

"...help you breathe..."

Head throbs. Vision worsens. Blackness creeping in from the corners of my eyes.

"...give you a sedative..."

Disjointed smudges of colour. Blue. Hank? I can’t...

"... need to rest..."

Then there’s nothing but a dreamless plain of darkness.

---

It’s morning. I don’t know how I can tell, but I’m sure of it. Even though I know I’m enclosed within four windowless walls.

...Where am I?

My thoughts slowly drift back into my grasp. I try and concentrate on them. First: that I can breathe if I don’t try and fight the tube in my throat. Okay, I can cope with that. If I don’t think about it too much or freak out.

Second: My head hurts. Like hell.

Groggily I let my eyes wonder around the room. To my surprise Logan’s over by the door, looking haggard and drawn in his scruffy jeans and shirt, hunched in an uncomfortable looking metal chair. He stands out in stark contrast to the stainless steel of the walls.

What’s he doing here? I don’t...

Then I blink as I remember he was hurt. But he seems whole now? Doesn’t he? I don’t think I’d have coped if he’d... he’d...

I can’t even bring myself to think it.

Is he really here? ...Maybe I’m still dreaming.

I close my eyes for a moment, testing the world, daring it to defy me and take him away. But when I open them again he’s still there, very much a presence. Part of me feels settled by the fact that he’s too scruffy for me to be imagining him.

I hope.

Too tired to do anything other than just stay quiet, I'm content to watch him for a while. He’s awake, but he hardly moves. A hand occasionally going messily to his hair, a sure sign of how stressed he must be, his eyes remaining focused on a fixed point upon the floor. He looks older somehow. Even though it should not be possible. Maybe it’s just tiredness. He must have had a lot of healing to do.

I push that thought away, not ready to think about what happened. Not just yet. Instead, forgetting about the tube, I try and speak.

Nothing really comes out, just a choking raspy sound that even I can hardly hear. He can though. His eyes snap up, and he stares at me for a moment, sits up straighter in his chair. Then in a second he’s over at my side. "Turn your skin on."

Turn my...? What? I don’t understand. It is on. It’s always on.

I frown, confused.

"Whatever you did, undo it." He looks grim.

A memory comes flashing back. The car. Shattered glass and not wanting to hurt him. Smothering it until it listened. Until it stopped.

...Did it really work? Has it really gone? Can it be controlled? Just like that?

Surely I’d know. Surely I’d be able to feel something?

"Marie." He’s looking even worse now, those two furrows between his eyes deepening until they look permanent. "Turn it on," he says again.

And that’s when I look down and realise that my hand is gripped in his. He’s rubbing my fingers. Skin to skin. And nothing’s happening.

It really did work!

For a moment the only emotion I feel is pure joy. I finally learnt how to turn it off! After everything I put my body through, after the pain and rejection of the cure, I finally learnt how to tame it! How to use it, like other’s use their mutations. How to stop it using me.

I smile up at him, wanting to share this moment. This is amazing! It’s...

But he’s not smiling back.

"Kid." His other hand goes to my forehead, sweeps the swish of pale hair back out of my eyes. "Listen to me," he begins.

And that’s when I realise.

The hand against my forehead is warm; it’s his and it’s comforting. The hand that’s rubbing my fingers is... is... nothing. It’s not warm, it’s not cold, it’s not heavy. It’s nothing. I can’t feel anything.

I see him squeeze my fingers, and I try to squeeze back, but...

Nothing.

Oh God.

I try not to panic, but suddenly I can feel the blood pounding as it drives through my ears. And I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.

"Hank!" I hear him yell.

This isn’t real!

"Hank, get in here!"

There’s so much noise. Everywhere. More faces swim in front of my own. Logan’s pushed out of the way. Dr McCoy’s face. A stranger’s. Everything’s a rush. A blur. A panic.

Then as suddenly as they started, things begin to slow again. Life unwinds around me. The noise softens. I feel soothed... sleepy.

"Rogue?" Dr McCoy’s voice drifts gently over to me. "I’ve given you a sedative, but I want you to listen carefully to me, I know you can still hear me. You were in an accident. It damaged your spine. You cannot..."

I want to concentrate on his voice. Really I do. But it’s suddenly so hard. It fades in and out. Snatches of words. Swelling. Shattered. Unstable. Partial paralysis.

Words I don’t want to think about.

They float away from me, and it’s so much easier not to fight them. So I let them go. I can see his mouth move, but the words are silent. Everything is silent. Everything except the thudding in my ears.

Then the stranger’s face appears before mine. It seems so familiar somehow that I wonder absently where we’ve met before.

"Rogue."

I see him mouth my name. It’s a kind face. Older, pale, as if it’s not often seen the sun, but peaceful.

"Rogue," his mouth moves again. Such a familiar face.

"Can you hear me?"

Such a... This time his lips don’t move. The voice comes directly to my mind and it soothes like a warm balm. I know that voice. I’d know that voice anywhere.

It makes me want to cry.

"Can you understand me," he says again, directly into my thoughts, and this time I do cry. Around me things are manic. Dr McCoy is injecting me, yelling something, doors are slamming, Logan is gripping my arm. But the only thing I can feel is the coolness of the tears as they trickle down my cheeks.

The stranger’s face looks kindly down upon me. "Let me help you," he says in that voice of his. The Professor’s voice. "Close your eyes. Trust me. I will be there."

And suddenly I can’t keep them open. I don’t know whether I’ve been given more sedative, or if it’s just my body responding to his words, but once again that void of blackness pulls me inwards.

Only this time, I’m not alone.

---

He’s there, sat in his wheelchair, just like he used to be, sunlight pouring in through the windows of his study in dusty streams, casting long shadows as they glance off the smooth angles of his desk. It even smells right. Clean and warm, like leather bound books and wood polish.

He smiles at me, that thoughtful, warm smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "You’re safe now," he says.

And it’s so easy to believe him.

"Where are we?"

"In your head." He gestures to the study around him. "You’ve created this."

As soon as he says those words, his face flickers, just for a moment. It blinks into the face of the stranger, then back to the Professor again, as if nothing ever happened.

"I don’t understand."

He reaches out and takes one of my hands within his own. "Here, you can feel," he says, and he’s right. His hand feels warm and smooth. "Here you picture me as you remember me best."

I look at the wheelchair, confused.

"I am still that man," he continues gently. "Though I look a little different."

"I don’t understand," I say again, feeling faintly stupid that it’s all I can come up with. None of this makes sense. He was dead. Logan and Storm saw it happen. We buried him!

He gives me that kind smile again. "Before I died, I transferred my conscious over to another body. An empty vessel. A man who never had the chance of life as you or I did. I made a choice."

"But I thought..." I trail off, trying not to cry again. It’s all too much. First the accident, then this?

"It’s alright, Rogue," he says, his hand tightening around mine, squeezing it gently. "But right now I need you to listen carefully to what I have to say. I don’t know how long we have."

...Until what?

Suddenly I’m not sure I want to know. Could this be real? Is it a dream?

I slip away from his grip over to the window. Outside the sun bathes the gardens into a lush green, but they’re still. They remain empty and without detail. There’s no one here but us.

"What do you want me to do?"

He gets up from his chair and stands behind me. He’s taller than me, I realise, and the feeling is so strange. Like I’ve switched on the wrong channel by mistake. Like it’s happening to someone else.

"I need you to let me into your mind."

I frown. "You’re already-"

"Your unconscious mind," he adds softly. "Let me tell you a little known story. When Jean Grey came to me as a young girl, her mind was already a dangerous place. She allowed me to work with her, to erect mental barriers to prevent her mutation from taking control. However, when she returned to us after Alkali Lake, those barriers were no longer in place. She left before I could help her, the Phoenix already burning through her veins. Without those walls, she was no longer Jean Grey."

"What does that have to do with me?" I ask cautiously. Is he saying I’m a danger? Am I going to die? Like she did?

"You have built your own barriers," he says simply. "You have walled your mutation in so well, so completely, that you no longer know how to access it."

"You want to knock them down again?"

"No," he smiles softly. "I want to build you a channel."

"A channel?"

"A gateway. Something that gives you control. Your mutation will be out of reach, unless you call on it."

For a moment I just look at him, lost for words. "You could do that?"

"Just trust me. Close your eyes."

I feel his hands press lightly against my temples, and I do as he says.

Suddenly without warning, the room disappears. There’s a fleeting sense of falling. A blanket of blackness. And nothing.

Then... light.

Dr McCoy’s face, busy, hands furiously working on me. He’s holding paddles I realise. Shouting. He’s shouting.

Logan’s there. Drawn, worried, angry all of them. He’s yelling, cursing, swearing at the Professor.

The Professor.

He’s my sea of calm in all this chaos. He’s my serenity.

He gives me that smile. "Now," he says, and suddenly I realise he’s given me the knowledge to understand what he means.

I open the gate.

The first rush is almost overwhelming. So intense that...God it hurts... It hurts! I can feel it! Never before has pain been so welcoming. Beside me Logan’s face contorts and I try to let go, but he won’t let me. He grips hard. Holds on. "Take it," he says through his teeth. "Take it!"

And he doesn’t let go until I see the skin crack open on his face and he collapses.

I wake up with a curious sense of familiarity. Like a dream I’ve already had.

I’m in my own bed. Or rather, what used to be my bed before I went away. It’s so surreal. Everything is pretty much as I left it. My pictures still hang on the wall, my oldest sweater is thrown over the back of a chair; its frayed sleeves frozen in time like some modern still-life. There’s even a pile of my homework notes still littering my desk. I’m surrounded by things I didn’t pack, things I forgot about. It’s almost as if I had never left.

Almost.

The echoes haunt this place like screams. It feels far from comfortable.

I stretch before I consciously know what I’m doing, easing out the ache in my-

Oh.

The sudden realisation that I can feel the way my toes have scrunched up the sheets washes over me like an icy bucket of water. It wipes every other thought from my mind and I sit up, throwing back the covers to stare at them stupidly.

My feet.

They look normal.

Logan.

Oh God. The thought crashes into me and I almost throw myself out of the bed, scrambling to escape the tangle of covers that wrap themselves around me in my haste, hot waves of sick panic washing over me. I wasn’t in control, I needed it. What if I took too much?

I don’t even bother with clothes. I’m in some sort of old t-shirt that reaches down to my knees and that’s enough. Isn't it? Eyes wild, I fumble my way out into the confines of the hallway, still dizzy, the floor a shock of cold against my feet. Logan's room is not far away and for a moment I don’t care that I’m back at the mansion, or who’ll see me. I have to know. I have to know I didn’t really hurt him. That he healed okay. I wasn't in control. Oh God let him be okay.

My heart hammers painfully as I push open the door... but his room is empty. Barren. The bed is neatly made.

The medlab, he must still be in the medlab.

They haven’t changed the elevator codes, I realise. The thought swims fleetingly around my head before it’s gone. Swallowed by fear. And I know I’m beginning to panic. Big time panic. And I keep trying to tell myself that if I know I’m panicking I must be sane and in control, because sane people don’t rationalise panic like this? ...Right? But I can’t stop it, my pulse thuds thickly through my ears and I know he’s rooted at the cause of it, but I can’t understand why it’s so bad.

Maybe I know something subconsciously. Maybe some sick part of me is all too aware.

The thought wrenches at my stomach and dances black dots in front of my eyes. Fuck I feel ill. The room starting to spin with a twisted giddiness that threatens to throw me off my feet. But I don't give in. I have to know. I have to. Even though it takes me an age to get down to the lower levels, and...

Oh God, the medlab’s empty too.

What happened? Where is he? Why is there no one here? My hands go to my temples as I try to focus, fingers sweaty and shakily running through my hair. You're panicking. Just stop panicking. But there’s nothing. Just stark clean angles and a sterile room. No sign of life at all. And I can't-

"Rogue?" Doctor McCoy’s hand falls gently upon my shoulder and it gives me such a shock that my legs nearly give way.

He frowns down at me with a look that’s almost paternal. "What are you doing all the way down here?"

"I was... I couldn’t... couldn’t... I... where’s Logan? What did I do?" It all comes out as a panicked jumble of words. My knees are trembling and it’s as much as I can do to keep standing.

But the doctor’s face smooths slightly and he adjusts his glasses to give me a faint smile. "It’s alright," he says. "You took far longer to heal than he did. You’ve been unconscious for days... although when you first started to show signs of waking, we moved you to your own room. The Professor thought it would be better for you to wake up in familiar surroundings."

His words drift over me. They’re not making much sense. "But I... but he’s okay? ...Logan?"

This time the smile is genuine. "Yes. Yes, he is fine. I believe he is in the kitchen, helping himself to some lunch."

He is?

I try and take the information in. Process it. But after everything I’ve been through, the idea seems too... normal. I can’t trust myself to believe it.

And I don’t think I can stand much longer. My legs are about ready to give.

"Steady there." Dr McCoy’s hand tightens and he helps support my weight. "You should still be in bed."

A cold sweat washes over me. Maybe he’s right. In fact I know he’s right. But the thought of going back to sleep without... "I just need to see him. Just to... just...I mean..."

"It’s alright," he says. "Take your time."

"I’m...okay." I manage.

"All the same, you should still be resting... I know, I know." He speaks over me as I try and interrupt. "Let me at least help you upstairs so that you can see him for yourself. On one condition, mind you. That you promise me you’ll go back to bed after?"

Fighting the stem of dizziness, I give him a shaky nod. I can cope with that.

He walks with me and I’m grateful for his calm presence. He shields me from the strange glances others give as we pass. They’re not cruel glances, just... I don’t know. Suspicious, I suppose. Curious. I catch snatches of nervous smiles; flickers of recognition. Uncertain. Unsure. As if they don’t know what to make of me.

I can’t say I blame them. I don’t know what to make of me either. Look at me, I disappear for months and when I come back I’m a fumbling mess. Not exactly the success story I hoped for.

"Here you go." The doctor jolts me from my thoughts and gestures to the kitchen with a nudge of an over-large blue hand. Then he elicits a second promise from me to go back to bed, before excusing himself to his lab, leaving me alone. Staring at the door.

Right.

My heart begins to race and suddenly, on top of everything else, I begin to feel very nervous. What if Logan doesn’t want to see me? What if he's angry? What if he doesn't care? That would be worse. And we haven’t exactly parted on good terms recently.

I wipe my hands anxiously on the t-shirt, belatedly regretting my decision to burst out of my room before getting properly dressed. I suddenly crave clothes like armour, something between me and the rest of the world.

God, I’m actually beginning to feel sick. See? This is why I didn’t want to come back here. I can’t control things here. Why do I feel sick? It’s just a stupid kitchen, for chrissake! Not the fiery pits of hell. All I have to do is go in there... make sure he’s okay, and move on with my life. I mean, so what? He’s having lunch... I’m sure he has lunch all the time... which is a stupid thing to think. Of course he does.

...Why can’t I do this?

I close my eyes, search for something inside me that resembles the ribbon of steel that was there before. But the only thing I find there is the knowledge that if I don’t do this now, I don’t think I will ever be able do it. So I prepare myself for the worst, push open the door.

He’s... not there.

Something floods through me. I can’t decide if it’s disappointment, or relief. Whatever it is, I feel like I can breathe again. The only person inside is Ororo. She looks up from the sandwich she’s making, and if she’s surprised to see me, then she doesn’t show it. Instead she puts down her knife and smiles. "Hello Rogue. I didn't expect to see you up so soon." Her soft voice lilts with the hint of an accent. "How are you feeling?"

I... um... what?

Something dawns on me, slow, because I’m struggling to think in non-linear paths and my brain’s not really responding to me on many levels right now... but... why are they all being so nice? What is this? I should be an outcast. Shouldn't I?

"I... ache...a little," I fumble slightly for the words. "But I’m okay...I think."

Am I?

Whatever I am, it’s probably much better that I deserve to be.

As that thought strikes me, I begin to feel even more uncomfortable, if at all possible. Ororo continues to look at me calmly, but I suddenly feel like I’m treading on eggshells or something. Waiting for her to explode in a rage of crashing thunder and typhoons. I mean, now that I’m no longer at death’s door, shouldn’t she be telling me how disappointed she is? Shouldn’t she be calmly disapproving, whilst quietly arranging my dismissal from the mansion? After what I did? Who I was with?

Instead she just turns back to her food with a warm, "I’m glad," then adds over her shoulder, "Are you hungry?"

Hungry? My mind jumps again, and the thought of food makes my stomach turn. I shake my head. "I was just... have you seen Logan?"

"Oh." A slight expression crosses her face. Barely there before it’s gone, too quick to recognise. "He took his lunch out into gardens. Down by the lake I think." She gives me that warm smile again. Then she gestures to my clothes... or rather, my lack of them. "Do you have anything to change into?"

For some reason the question totally throws me. I haven’t checked. Did I leave anything save that old sweater behind? I don’t know. It didn’t seem important at the time.

I simply shrug.

In response she reaches into her pocket and hands me a set of keys. "Use the smallest one, it’s for the locker in the changing room. You’ll find fresh clothes in there."

The supplies for those who come in with nothing, I realise.

With an edge of shock, it suddenly dawns on me that she must have no idea what I’ve been doing for the last few months. She doesn’t know.

God.

Okay, so that makes me feel guilty. Like I’m an impostor or something.

I reach out stiffly to take the keys, managing a quiet thanks before getting the hell out of the kitchen as fast as I can, trying to make sense of this new information.

Why on earth doesn’t she know? Surely Logan would have...? I mean why would he not say anything? I don’t understand. He must’ve known what I was up to. Who I was with. So...just...why?

As I force my feet to take me back down to the lower levels, worry sinks to the bottom of my stomach and only serves to make me feel much, much worse. On top of everything else, every room I pass brings back the ghosts of memories I’d really rather forget. Not because they are horrible, in fact, because they are quite the opposite. Warm. Friendly.

I pass the rec room, and see visions of us playing foosball in the slant of evening sun, the slight tingle and buzz of teenage hormones that knowing Bobby was at my side used to bring. I step inside the elevator; that plunge downwards, remembering the focusing of nervous tension before training. The easy banter between the team... I miss that, I realise. I didn’t think I would, but...

Dammit! I don’t want to miss it! All I want to do is to check Logan’s okay, and get out. Preferably in that order... but seriously, things keep going like this, I’m starting to think a nice safe phone call to check he’s okay when I’m a few hundred miles away is looking more and more welcome. I can’t stay here. It’s closing in on me. Making me think. Walls everywhere echo with memories and I don’t want them. Because if I let them in, if they crack through my shell...

Oh God, there’s the medlab again.

The sterile smell stings my nose and I move quickly past. Those memories are all too fresh and I fight to push them aside. Instead I move on, past the Danger Room... that one brings back a frisson of feelings. It was a place to vent my frustrations; a place where I could prove myself to my peers. A place where I could say ‘so what? I took the cure. I’m still as good as you.’

Not that the cure... oh. I’m here.

I blink into the light as it flickers on at my presence, wondering why I have no recollection of walking those last few steps.

The changing rooms are exactly as I remember them. Warm, softly lit; the salty undertones of sweat and hard work masked by the subtle fragrance of warm wood and the oils that burn in the sauna. It’s like stepping back in time; nothing’s changed. Well, why would it? It’s not as if the world stopped turning when I decided to run away. The X-men are still the X-men, with or without me.

For some reason that thought makes me feel very small.

The rows of lockers stand the same as they ever have; the uniforms hanging nearby, a slick row of sculpted black, ready to go. There are a few more than before and that realisation brings with it almost a twinge of jealousy. Jubilee now has a permanent name plaque, along with Shadowcat and Iceman, Colossus too. And there’s another, one I don’t recognise...Gambit. Then there are the older ones; Wolverine, Storm, and... my heart wrenches.

Cyclops.

Jean.

Empty pegs.

That’s all that remain. Empty pegs and memories.

That giant wall of emotion I’ve been trying to ignore turns into a ball of hollow loss and swells inside me until it’s so big it hurts. I know it’s cowardly, but I turn away. I can’t look. I can’t. Because right now I know that if I stop to think about them; the gaping holes they left behind, that something inside me will crumble and I really will break down once and for all.

I clench my jaw, my teeth ache from the pressure, but I walk past and unlock the storage closet, manage to take out some training sweats and head back up to the safety of my room as fast as I can without running. Logan or no Logan, I can’t stay here. I don’t want to have to face this every day.

It doesn’t take me long to shower. The pummel of hot water on my skin awakens in me enough energy to get me through the next few hours. Showers are useful like that. I don’t feel good though, I don’t feel alive... not like before. Which is ironic really, because after everything I’ve been through I should feel that more than anything.

I root through my cupboards to find the crappy underwear I left behind...at least it’s clean... then I pull on the sweats and a spare pair of gloves, and I-

Stop.

Look at them stupidly for a moment.

I don’t need them, do I? Not anymore. Not unless I want them.

It’s such a strange feeling. Like vertigo.

I take a deep breath, pull them off one finger at a time, and leave them on the chair. I try not to think too much as I turn my back to them. I just need to go. Need to clear my head and get outside before I can give myself time to come up with a good enough excuse not to. I ignore the way the door slams behind me, feet pounding down the main staircase, echoing across the hall, crunching on the gravel of the driveway. I need to find a cab. Or ‘borrow’ a car. Maybe I can get a lift? I wonder if my stuff’s still at that crappy motel in... in...

My thoughts trail off into blankness. I can't help it. I freeze where I stand. My gaze snagging on the outline of his tall frame as he walks casually towards me. Jacket slung over one shoulder.

He looks me over, casts a brief frown as he squints into the sun, bright at my back. "So. You’re up."

It’s cool and breezy, but suddenly I feel like I’m in an oven. My body does everything I don’t want it to. Skin prickles with colour. Heart going like a jackhammer, I know he can sense it. My eyes, looking for an escape, fix on the drop of condensation that’s sliding its way down the bottle of Molsons dangling in his hand. The smooth worn-in look of his jeans. The dark hairs on his arms. The sinew of his wrists.

Anything but his face.

"You tryin’ to ignore me kid?"

No.

...Well...yes.

I just don’t know what to say. Not now. He doesn’t sound pissed off, not like he usually does. I’d half thought he wouldn’t even speak to me. Instead he sounds... comfortable. This is his territory now. His home.

My mouth dries up, and man I feel dizzy. Maybe Dr McCoy was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have got up so fast.

I force myself to look up.

For a moment I feel almost naked under his gaze. I wonder if he’s going to say something damning and to the point, something along the lines of ‘what the fuck were you playing at?’ It almost looks as if he’s going there as well, and I tense, waiting for it, but then something makes him change his mind and instead he just frowns and leads me towards a bench. "Sit," he says.

My knees lock and I stare at the seat as if it might grow teeth and eat me any second. Tension coils tight within my stomach. I don’t know what to do. How do I act around him now? What do I say? He saved my life again, even though we argued, even after everything I did. He killed for me.

...I don’t understand this. Any of it. He’s angry at me when I expect him to be okay. When I expect anger, he’s nice. And he’s around except for every time I need him to be. It’s too confusing. I should have waited until dark before I tried to leave. I should have never got caught. I should have been more damn careful!

Not that 'should have's' help.

Ugh.

He sits down, even when I don’t, making me feel even more uncomfortable. I watch the way he hitches his jeans up, the way he kicks out his long legs in front of him. Lingering on the long legs part. Dammit. Stop it! That doesn't help!

I just wish I knew what he was thinking, that's all. He was always so unreadable, even back when we still talked. He was my protector. My mentor. I mean, on top of everything else, he was my teacher for chrissakes!

...Yet a week ago I tried to strip him of his belt. And he let me.

What the hell do I say?!

"So, you just gonna stand there?"

Maybe.

Right now it seems the lesser of two evils.

Or maybe not.

God I feel dizzy again.

His eyes study me for a moment longer. "Sit down kid," he says. "Before you fall down."

He moves along enough to make room for me and a tug on the back of my sweatshirt makes the decision for me. Knees buckling and landing with an uncoordinated thump. Really not my most graceful moment.

Okay... so now what?

I’m sitting. He’s sitting. We’re both...just... sitting. The smooth wood is warm and solid against my back. It should be comforting, but it’s not. Instead it feels awkward and hard and unyielding.

Does he hate me? Is he angry at me?

I would be, if I was him.

Does he know I was trying to get out?

"You runnin’ again?"

I stiffen. That would be a yes, then. "I...just..." The answer freezes on my tongue. I don’t want to confirm it. It feels wrong. Especially after what he went through just to bring me back here.

But then saying no would just be a bare faced lie, and I can’t do that to him either.

I try and change the subject. Yeah, call me a wimp. I really don’t care.

"Why didn’t you... I mean," I swallow so awkwardly that I almost choke. Nice. "You haven’t told anyone have you? ...What I was doing?" It’s not really a question, more like a garbled observation.

For a long while he says nothing and I begin to regret asking. But then he takes another mouthful of beer, turns his head to look at me. "What makes you think I haven’t?"

That throws me even more. They know?

But then why are they helping me? I ignored them! I shunned them! I used my powers for personal gain. I broke the goddamned law! Surely that goes against the X-men freaking code of ethics or whatever?

Logan just takes another swig, calm, even though my reaction must be obvious. Then leaning back, face warming in the sun, he sighs. The sound makes me aware of every part of his body next to me.

"Thank the Professor. He believes that everyone deserves a second chance."

I watch him absently rub the skin of his knuckles and some sort of understanding creeps over me. I’m alert enough to know that he’s not just talking about me. I know he’s done things... things he’s not proud of. Things he hates. But it’s the things he doesn’t remember. Those are the ones that give him nightmares.

I know. Before I could control the voices, I had them too.

"It’s your choice whether you want to take it..." he studies the beer bottle before looking directly at me, "or not." Then he chooses that moment to get to his feet. "Look," he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I’m going away again. Tonight."

Oh.

I try to fight the way it feels like lead has suddenly lined my stomach. Always. Always the same reaction. Will it ever change? "For a... long time?"

He gives a curt nod. "A month or so." He glances back at the mansion and I wonder again what he’s thinking. Then his question hits me sideways out of the blue.

"Are you gonna be here when I get back?"

..."Are you gonna be here when I get back?"

---

Days take longer to stumble by when you’re constantly watching the long shadows of each hour pass. One of the universal truths. Unfortunately. Anyone who says that time is constant is a liar.

I feel the sigh sink its weight through me as I glance out the window, trying to look on the positive side like the Professor has been encouraging me in our weekly meetings. Yeah. I get psyche council now. Only it’s not called that. They’re just ‘chats’ to see how I’m settling back in.

...Yeah. I’m still here.

At least it’s a nice day outside. Fresh. See? That’s positive, isn’t it? Not too hot. Not too cold. The early morning sunshine slanting across the gardens, spinning the grass woven cobwebs into a glittering carpet that stretches out from the warm stone walls to the dark line of trees. It's a beautiful view, one that people would pay to capture in a photograph.

I wish I didn’t have to see it.

I don’t hate it, I just... I don’t know. I'm the wrong shape, now more than ever. The mansion's crowded and I don’t do crowds. It’s busy and I long for silence and anonymity. It’s full of bustle and life and lessons and children, and the only thing I’m thankful for is that it’s so ridiculously big. Because at least I can hide.

Wimp.

Maybe I just don't like seeing people.

Ugh. Okay, that's not really true. More like I don't like people seeing me when I’m vulnerable.

I should have never made that promise to Logan.

Anyone can see I don’t belong here anymore.

The first few days, they were the worst. The long hours it took for me to fight off the metallic ache and shivers that lingered from Logan’s quick healing. Then there was a week or so until I managed enough self-control to suppress the random thoughts of others in my mind, until they were no more than a shadowy echo and I no longer jumped at shadows.

Heh. A week or so. All things considered, that's pretty damn fast.

Maybe it’s too fast.

...I try not to think about that.

Yeah... I know what you’re doing, all you analysers; thinking it’s self-denial, a lie. Nobody gets over traumatic events that quickly. But – hell, lie or not, at least it gets me through the day. If I concentrate on all the insignificant things, washing my hair, getting dressed, finding my way from A to B... everything else just seems to fade into the background. Funny that. The human psyche is a wonderful thing, so easily manipulated. Or the mutant psyche. Whatever.

God, now I sound like Eric.

You know what the worst thing is? Apart from those initial few days, I sleep like a baby. Every night. At least Logan had the decency to have horrific nightmares about his morbid past. Me? Apparently I’m unaffected.

I can’t decided if that makes me detached, screwed up ...or a monster.

I catch sight of my face in the mirror before I leave, and for a moment I wonder how it’s possible to look the same when I feel so different. Same dark hair with its blunt streaks of white. Same soft brown eyes that hide so many secrets. Same gap in my teeth... I’ve always been self-conscious about that. Same expression cast when I frown, the same eyebrow arch. Same wide mouth that used to smile a hell of a lot more. It’s the same face that’s stared back at me all my life, from my childhood home, to the numerous hotel mirrors over the last few months. But somehow it doesn’t feel right anymore.

Not that I let myself think too hard about that either. Or at least, I try not to. I go for distraction instead. I have a job here now. Not on the team, that’s an unspoken condition of my stay... for the time being at least. Instead I help the Professor. Deal with paperwork, press releases, phone calls.

Yeah, it’s about as exciting as it sounds.

For a while I thought that if I could just get used to it, if I could accept it for the gift it was, I’d be able to stay here and be happy. I was being given a new chance; an opportunity to prove that I was worth something and deserved my place on this lump of earth. I thought if I tried hard enough I could be what they wanted me to be.

But it still itches. Always there in the back of my mind. This desire to get away. The urge to break one of the perfectly expensive antique vases, just because I can. The impulse to tread on someone's toes. Hard.

I'm such a bad person.

I doesn’t help that everywhere I go, I’m surrounded by people. Those that are concerned for my health; Ororo, the Professor, Dr McCoy when he’s around, the list goes on. Then there are those who don’t trust me; Kitty and Bobby, even Jubilee. There are even those who are simply curious. The hushed whispers of, ‘she was the one that took the cure.’ The echoes of, ‘when it failed she went crazy.’

Is that what they think? That I went crazy?

The messed up runaway girl with white scars in her hair. A freak amongst the freaks.

Maybe I did go nuts. Maybe the whole stupid thing was an act of belated teenage rebellious madness... but it didn’t feel like it at the time. When I was out there I was... oh God, I don’t want to say ‘free’ again, because that’s not what I mean. I was without burden, I was living without that horrible constant worry of what other people thought.

Here I’m surrounded by it.

They all watch me. Waiting. Who knows what for...? Even when I’m on my own I’m never alone. Not truly. There’s always that feeling of being enclosed. Crowded in and observed.

I know they think they’re doing it for my own good. They're probably right as well; it’s not like anything useful has ever come of me running away. Stranded in Alaska, captured by Magneto, the wreck of the cure. All things in my life I would rather not think about.

And now this.

This, I can’t stop thinking about.

Do I regret what I did? Yes... mostly.

...Maybe...

I don’t know.

Now the shock’s worn off... I hate what happened, but I long for it in the same breath. How is that possible? To be one person torn in so many different directions all at once?

Others are kind in their over-protective advice; ‘It’s the other personalities conflicting, those you've absorbed,’... ‘It’s just a phase.’ The inner Logan in me likes to tell me it’s because I touched Mystique too many times. This is what happens when you take in a part of someone who shifts skins and personality with the tide. But honestly? I think that it’s just me. I’ve shut myself down and changed who I am so many times that I no longer remember what it’s like to be just...well me.

Or maybe they’re right. Maybe it is the voices. Heh. If in doubt, blame the voices. That should become my crazy psycho mantra.

Woo-freakin-hoo.

But waking up here everyday? In the same room? Surrounded by the same things? Warm, safe, protected... I value it, I can appreciate it, but I miss the freedom. I miss the adventure. I miss getting out of bed and not knowing what the day will bring. I miss my own choices. My space.

I miss...

No. I don’t miss Mystique. She left me. She would have let me die there. I don’t miss her.

...It was just nice to have a friend who didn’t expect any more of me than I wanted to give. One who wanted to live life the way I did. Yeah. That was nice.

Which only makes the whole crappy thing even more bitter. I hope I never see her again.

Ugh. Why do I feel like a stray bird caught in a pretty cage? What possessed me to promise Logan I’d stay? Seriously? It wasn’t like either of us was overcome with emotion at the time. He looked like he’d rather be a hundred miles away, and I was a trembling mess. Surely that’s grounds for dismissal if ever I heard it?

Yeah. Sometimes I even believe myself when I say that.

No matter how I try convincing myself though, breaking that promise would be giving in somehow. And while I’ve broken my fair share of promises recently, this one feels... well... I don’t know. I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. Again. I want to make up for some of the shit that I put him through. Even if he doesn’t ever see me as anything more than a stray he has to look out for. I want to show him that I can do something if I put my mind to it. That I’m not such a screw up. That there’s still a part of me worth saving.

If I think about it that way, it’s not so hard. It becomes a challenge, and each day I get through brings me closer to my target. And while I’m not entirely sure what my goal is, I know his return is rooted at the heart of it.

Running shoes on, I head outside. The Danger Room’s pretty much restricted to training these days and since I’m no longer part of the team, well, that rules me out. Instead I go jogging, my feet taking me around the grounds, trying to relieve some of the tension that inevitably builds up through each long, drawn out day. I use it to drown out the things that get to me the most; the clattering noise of the cafeteria, the elbowing bustle of the hallways after classes, the loud jostling over the TV. Jogging has become my escape. It’s the only time I feel like I’m really on my own.

I head deep into the woods using Logan’s memories to guide me, and in the dappled darkness there is only the repetitive pounding of my feet, the burn in my thighs, and the whispering rustle of leaves. Out here I can push myself, I can choose how far and how fast. There’s no one around me to treat me as if I might break like shattered glass and cut them. Out here I can remember what it feels like to be outside of this prison that is anything but...

...Oh...Christ...Okay, I nearly snorted with laughter at that one. That’s an all time self depreciating low, even for me. Anyone got a melodic violin? I think I need some sorrowful backing music.

I also think I may not be getting over all this quite as well as I’m trying my damned hardest to prove.

Which terrifies me.

Do they notice? Maybe they do. Maybe that’s why the only person who doesn’t treat me with that carefully constructed shell of politeness, is Remy. Or maybe that’s because he doesn’t know me well enough. Heh, although that’s not exactly from lack of trying. Jubilee told me in a moment of almost friendship that he’s like that with everyone. Outgoing and flirty. She said he’d go home with a mop if it showed interest.

If I’m honest, I don’t really know how to handle his attention. I’m flattered, really I am, but I... I can’t. It feels awkward. Uncomfortable. Like I’m betraying something. Which is stupid because I’m betraying no one. There is nothing to betray. It’s not as if Logan’s out there practising celibacy and arguing with himself over whether he wants to admit he misses me at all. Nope. That pleasure is saved for me alone.

Yeah. On top of everything else, I’ve tried not to think about Logan most of all.

Consequently, he’s all I can think of.

Which sucks.

Because somewhere, twisted up in all my tangles of thoughts and emotions is a tiny thread of hope, and no matter how hard I try to deny it, it’s always attached to him.

And it’s stupid. I know it’s stupid.

Stupid to think that way. Stupid to get my hopes up again, with nothing to fall back on. Stupid to stay when then only thing that awaits me here is a lifetime of jogging through the trees trying to forget who I am. Or what I am. Or... whatever.

Besides, I’ve noticed something over the last few weeks. He does call to touch base, quite frequently actually. And he talks to Storm. Always her.

That flicker of a look she gave me in the kitchen when I asked where he was. When I think of him it haunts me, and it makes me wonder...

The two of them. Are they...?

They must have spent a lot of time together whilst I was away. After the war, when we thought the Professor was dead, they were both thrown in to the responsibilities of the school. ‘Ro especially, but Logan? When he could’ve stayed away he kept coming back. Reining himself in, taming the Wolverine, doing what he could to help her out, even if he never stayed for long. They fought together, they worked together... is it so unrealistic to imagine?

It’s another thing I think about as I run. Trying to tell myself that it’s not the cause of the doubt that gnaws at me, or the heavy feeling that shadows. Instead I push myself to the brink in the hope that I’ll be too exhausted to want to do anything but get through the day when I get back.

Maybe I can outrun my desire to be anyone but me.

Maybe.

I’m sitting in the library when I finally hear it; that unmistakable rough growl of a bike. The way my heart jolts in my chest is almost painful. I feel my pulse race. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

...Is he really back?

Suddenly I feel the urge to run away. Or hide. Or look busy. Or... or flirt with Remy, or do any goddamn thing that does not involve looking eager to see him. Which is crazy! And sensible. But crazy. And that doesn’t make any sense.

I don’t want to get up, in case it isn’t him. I don’t want to look in case he’s still angry at me. I don’t want to stay here in case it is him. And most of all I don’t want to want this so bad! Dammit! What happened to the good old days of cold denial?! Have I’ve grown that weak over the last month?

Besides. He’ll come and find me... right? He was the one that asked me to stay. There must have been a reason for it. He’ll want to see me. So it’s better all around if I just wait here.

Right.

...Just... wait.... here. On my chair.

In the library.

Looking at the rows and rows and rows of book spines. Yep.

Waiting.

Argghh! Where is he?

I’m sitting stiff backed and awkward, my eyes sliding off the page, words blurring into indistinct lines as my ears try and reach for any tiny sound that might mean he’s really here.

He is here... isn’t he?

I wait. Muscles tense, all senses alert.

Maybe I imagined it. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. When I was seventeen, I looked for him in every person that entered through that stupid front door.

Ugh, this is not fun.

How is it that even the sound of his bike has me on the edge of my seat? Maybe it was the pizza delivery boy? Freaking Fed-ex? ...Do they even use bikes? Why don’t I know that? You’d think I’d know. And what the hell am I rambling on about? My mind is officially a mess! Even by my standards.

Eventually I can’t sit still any longer; my brain is scrambled and my legs are itching with the need to move. So I slide my book back on the shelf, possibly upside-down, and quietly make my way out to the staircase in the main lobby, intending to slip back to my room to grab my running shoes, the only sure-fire way I know to take my mind off things.

I barely put a foot on the first creaking step when the front door swings heavily open and I freeze, standing stupidly where I stopped.

One hand goes to nervously play with my hair, the other clenched in a white knuckle death grip on the banister like it’s some sort of life line. I stare forcefully at my feet, trying to fight the draw of my eyes, but the sound of his duffle hitting the floor jerks my gaze towards him, and I can't help it.

My stomach lurches. He’s so real. Scruffy, ripped jeans and dirty boots, hair all mussed up from the road. God, I almost feel sick! Why is this affecting me so badly? Is his arrival the only thing I’ve been waiting for the last month? Has he even noticed me? Is he feeling any of this? Is he-

"Hey Logan!" Storm comes in and interrupts my thoughts, and my eyes instantly flick up.

He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at her.

"Good to have you back." The warmth in her voice slides around the room and rings in my ears.

"Hey," I hear him say back, his gruff voice so achingly familiar. He steps close enough for her arms go round him in a sweeping hug and the smile they share is one of... of... God I don’t want to know what it is. Black spots dance in front of my eyes, my throat knotting as my hand falls to my side like a dead weight.

The movement is enough to attract his attention. He looks up, as if seeing me there for the first time, and he gives me a slight nod of acknowledgement before following Storm in the direction of the Professor’s study. Then he’s gone.

I just stand there like an idiot. For ages.

My feet seem to forget that they actually have a purpose, and my hand clenches, or rather it would clench... I wish it would, but instead it just seems to tremble. I can’t believe he’d just...

...just...

I look down the now empty corridor and something wakes inside of me.

That’s it?

That’s IT?

She gets everything, while I fight a losing battle every day to stay here and stay sane and make it through a jumble of touch and non-touch and whispering remarks, and all I get is a slight nod? A fucking NOD?

What the FUCK am I even doing here?

My mind is such a fury of emotions that I can’t understand what I feel. Oh but cheated is at the top of my list. Hell yeah. Jealousy is there too, and hurt, though I want to shriek and stamp on that one until it's trampled and dead. I don’t want to be goddamn jealous! I want to scream at the unfairness of it all!

That’s it. I’m going. Fuck them and their X-men. Fuck Mystique and all her big plans. Fuck ME for being so stupid and naive and gullible again. And most of all, FUCK HIM!

I’m not staying here another goddamn minute.

I storm up the stairs to my room, feeling my power flair to life in response to my anger. I ignore it. So what if anyone brushes up against me. Teach them to keep their fucking distance.

I grab a jacket and head outside to call a cab. I don’t care who sees me. And I don’t care anymore about any fucking promise. A promise is only a promise if it means something, and right now it means jack.

Woofuckinghoo. Look at me. The unnoticed one again.

The worst thing of all is how much it hurts. I resent that. I had all these things I’d planned to say, all these small ideas. I wanted to tell him that I’d changed. That I regretted what I did. That I could be Marie again, because at least Marie meant something to him.

Yeah right.

Why on earth would he want to hear that? I’m just another kid. Another stray. A clingy rescue job that just doesn't seem to get that he doesn't feel-

... I hesitate...

A thought strikes me and change direction, crunching quickly across the gravel.

His bike. It’s parked in the garage.

Something crosses my face. It’s not a smirk, it’s too hurt for that, but it’s a damn good effort at one. Maybe it’s a snarl. Who gives a fuck.

I go over to it, run my hands over the smooth body work. It’s blackened with an oily grease from his journey and it smells of the road, still warm. There are no keys, but that's no hindrance. I may not have picked up Mystique's skill with men, but there were a few useful things I learnt in my time away from the mansion.

As I hunker down beside it, I start to feel a little better, fingers pulling at the wires. Nothing like a little criminal activity to pep up a crappy day. Ha. It’s all so easy as well. Within minutes, I’m astride the hunk of purring metal as it growls to life beneath me. I can barely wait for the garage door to be open before I power it out into the night beyond.

I tell myself that I love the way the gravel sprays up when I turn too fast, yeah, that’s why I’m doing this. I love the way the wind stings my eyes too, tracing patterns of wetness across my face, because, you know what? If I believe that, I can pretend that they’re not tears. My skin vibrates with the power, the force that whips my hair away from my face. It’s gonna look a right mess by the time I get to wherever the hell it is I decide I’m going, but right now? I don’t give a fuck. And I tell myself that I love that too.

I hunker low as I lean round the bends in the road. The bike is about five times to big for me and I feel like a child driving daddy’s car when he’s not looking. Ha! The connotations of that make me laugh until the tears that are now streaming from my eyes almost blind me and I giggle hysterically to myself the whole way to the nearest bar. Which seems as good a place to stop as any. Because... yeah. What the hell else am I going to do? Where am I going to go?

I hesitate a moment after cutting the engine. Sniff as I wipe my face on the back of my sleeve. Then I mentally slap myself out of the funk that’s making me feel about two foot tall and tell myself to get a fucking life. Denial. See?

Let know one say I'm not good at it.

I leave the bike out front and adjust my top so that I’m showing more than enough cleavage to guarantee me entrance. Yeah I’m legal...just, but I don’t have any ID on me and I’m well aware that I look younger than my years. My luck’s in however; the bouncer just gives me a seedy leer as I pass, his glance following my ass as I wind my way to the bar. I swing my leg over a stool in a way that’s guaranteed to get the attention of half the men in here, and point to the empty space on the bar in front of me. "Vodka and coke," I tell the barman, "and make it a double."

Did that sound cool? I hope it sounded cool.

I ignore the way the barman's gaze lingers a little too long on my chest, because so what? At least I get served first because of it. And it reminds me that I’m not invisible. Which is always nice.

Confirmation that I actually exist.

Yay.

I hand over the money with a clank of loose change, and order a second. Tell myself this is fun.

After a while though, the darkness creeps up on me. It’s fairly busy, tinted lights flash over couples writhing on a smoky dance floor, all of whom I pointedly ignore because how DARE there be freakin’ happiness and couple-ness in the world when I feel like such shit. Instead I try and pretend that I like the stupid music, letting the irritating beat thud in my ears as I drink another... and another.

Maybe if I drink enough I can pretend I’m someone else.

Yeah. There’s an original thought for you.

Some guy buys me a round of tequila. The Eric in my head escapes his cage and tauntingly tells me I should turn him down... who’d want a little wretch like me... but I ignore him. Besides, the guy’s not that bad looking. Okay his nose is a little wonky, but he seems to have an endless supply of money and that helps to make him a lot more attractive.

So what? I’m shallow.

Or at least I’m trying to be.

Ugh but it’s not that easy. Every time he leans in closer I find myself instinctively shifting further away. Maybe I need another drink.

I managed to extract myself from his crawling hands and disappear to another corner where I slug back another shot. God, that tastes disgusting. Why am I doing this again?

Oh yeah. The nod.

Nothing I appreciate more than a dramatic gesture of affection. No, really.

But what did I expect? Bells and a freaking fanfare? Ugh, I am so stup-

"This seat taken?"

I glance up into the carefully preened face that belongs to the voice. Shrewd eyes are watching me and foppish brown hair is oiled sideways in a style I thought went out of fashion in the thirties. Christ yeah; this seat is so definitely taken.

"Sorry," I slur...badly. "Yeah. It’s... like... y’know. My boyfriend's jus’ gone to the restroom, so he’ll be back soon." I jerk my head in the rough direction of the men’s, hoping he’ll take the hint.

But no.

"I’ve been watching you for a while sweetheart. If he’s in there, he’s been there a very long time."

Busted.

"Yeah whatever. He’s a wrestler."

"Sure he is. You gonna let me sit?"

Is he deaf? Am I deaf? Did I hear that right? Of all the arrogant, jumped up... Fine. Lie number three. "You wouldn’t want me. I’m pregnant," I hurl at him.

"You’re drinking like a fish."

Like fish even drink... do they? Ugh. Now my head is starting to hurt. "I’m a lesbian."

"Now you’re just turning me on..."

Is he for real? "I’m a nun."

"A pregnant, lesbian, nun? Right... Y’know. If you weren’t interested, you could have just said ‘thank you, but I’m not interested.’"

I give him a glare for being such a smart ass. "Thank you," I mimic, "but I’m just not interested."

"Fine. Enjoy your night."

Ugh. When did being hit on stop being fun? What a jerkoff.

I stare down in to the bottom of my glass, hoping to find some sort of answer, or revelation, or something... yeah right. Even some more drink would do. God, my head’s gonna hurt worse than hell in the-

A sound next to me catches my attention and my eyes snap up. "Look I said fuck OFF! I have Herpes!"

Or not.

Um. Shit?

Weird oily haired man is gone. Grouchy Logan man is very much present.

Did I say Herpes?

I hate. My mouth.

I wish it wasn't embarrassment that washes over me, but it is. I wait for the telling off, the shame, the inevitable ending of the world...

...But... nope.

Nothing.

Which is something which is becoming all to frequent these days. Am I that bad at reading a situation?

Logan just rolls his shoulders in his jacket. He casts an eye slowly over the dingy contents of the small bar, before raising an eyebrow subtly in my direction. The master of small talk. Ha.

I glare at him. Childishly.

Eventually, he does give in and speaks. "I’ve been told the Professor is expectin’ your help this evenin’."

I roll my eyes. Who cares? "Go away..."

In response he folds his arms, leans back frustratingly casually against the bar, as if it was his idea to come here, which...oooh really pisses me off! What’s he doing here anyway? This is MY self-pity party!

"Why you?" I throw at him. "Why does it always have to be YOU coming to find me? To drag me in like some sorta freaking stray dog when it suits you, or the Professor, or the X-men, or whatever. Why not Kurt... or... or Pete? Huh?!"

"Actually," the eyebrow raises further if that’s at all possible, "I came for my bike."

He... what?

Well fuck him!

"Fine. Take it. It’s out front."

He throws me a look. "You comin’ back? Or you jus’ gonna sit there an’ drown in alcohol?"

"Let me see.... hmmm..." I pretend to think about it for a moment. "It’s a tough choice," I begin sarcastically, but he doesn’t wait to hear me out. He just turns as if he can’t be bothered, and disappears towards the door.

Fine.

I turn back to the bar, try to-

A hand grabs my arm and yanks. It drags me roughly through the crowds of people, not caring about how many feet I trip over or how many tables my knees bump into on the way, until I’m suddenly outside in the fresh air. I blink, reactions slow and confused, the music from inside sounding hollow and tinny in my head.

He’s already heaving the bike into the back of the truck.

"Get in." he doesn’t even look at me as he says it.

"No!" I put back, I even manage to sound indignant. Which is quite impressive, seeing as right now I don’t think I could pronounce it.

But he’s all business. The bike's secured, back of the truck's secured, and then he comes round to look at me. Furrows of a frown appearing beneath his weird hair style that shouldn’t suit him as well as it does. Dammit. Lips pressed together. Huff of a sigh from his nose. Judging. "You’re drunk." It’s disapproving, of all things. God I hate that.

"I don’t care."

"You’re a mess. I thought you were doin’ better than this."

Haven’t we been here before? I roll my eyes. "I said I. DON’T. CARE. Do I look like I care? Does it look like it matters to me? Do I CARE? NO! I DON’T. FUCKING. GIVE. A. DAMN."

Gettit?!

I clench my teeth. Revel in the fact that he actually looks slightly shocked.

He just looks at me coldly. "You finished?"

Am I finished? You know what? No I’m fucking well not! "Look!" I yell at him, oblivious to the now thankfully fairly empty parking lot around me. "I stayed. I STAYED! I’m still here! But it makes no FREAKING difference at all!"

"Kid-" His hand reaches out, as if attempting to calm me. But fuck that.

"Kid. Always kid. I’m so stupid. I’m so, so, fucking stupid" Am I crying? I can’t even begin to tell. "You asked, and like before, like every other stupid time, I WAITED for you to come back. But you didn’t notice. You NEVER notice. What did I get? A nod? A FUCKING NOD? Well FUCK you Logan."

"Y’need to calm down." He tries to grab a hold of me, but I bat him angrily away.

"I don’t WANT to calm down! I don’t CARE anymore. I don’t even care about hiding it. Because what does it matter? You know, don’t you? I HATE that it was always Jean. And I HATE the fact that ‘Ro replaced her. And I HATE-

"Is that what you think?" This time he does grab my hands, hard, knuckles gripping tightly around my wrists to stop me from hitting him. His face is suddenly in front of mine, and for some reason it’s furious. "Do you have ANY idea?"

I try to look away from him, but he wrenches my chin back up.

"What do you want me to say?" he hisses. "Huh? That I didn’t love Jean? You want me to lie?"

Oh God. His eyes bore into me and I instantly begin to regret my outburst. My stomach twists and cold clarity begins to seep belatedly through my veins. This time I know I’ve crossed the line. Like seriously crossed.

He snarls. "You want me to be glad she’s dead?"

No!

"You want me to be thankful I had to kill her?"

No! I don’t want that. I don’t I don’t I don’t... I’m not a monster.... Am I?

"You want me to say I didn’t sleep with ‘Ro? Because it’ll make you feel goddamned better?"

This time his words really do crash around me and my head swims with the giddiness of it all. Oh God he really did. They really-

"You have NO FUCKIN’ IDEA!" he yells. "You think I was oblivious to your feelings? You think I never saw you?"

Please... just stop. Just... stop.

"You think I never looked at you that way too? HUH?"

His grip tightens so hard it’s almost painful.

"Do you have ANY idea what it feels like to wake up and realise you have feelings for a sixteen year old freakin’ KID? How THE FUCK do you think that made me feel?"

He shakes me so hard, that all I can seem to do is cry pathetically. I try and wipe my eyes, but he won’t let go to let me.

"I was supposed to be your teacher... your friend. Supposed to look out for you. You were the first chance I got in a long time to NOT screw somethin’ up. But I seem to have managed it all the same."

"But you were never there." My voice sounds so small.

"And why THE HELL do you think that was? Huh?"

For a moment I just stare at him, while his words swim around my mind. But then the fight seems to drain out of him, and he shakes his head as he drops my hands and steps backwards.

"Forget it," he says. "You were right. It’s better that you leave." He swings open the door and gets in. "I’ll send Kurt back for you."

And with that, he revs the engine to life, and he pulls away in a screech of tires.

I wake up where I passed out. In an alley. A good fifteen miles away from the bar.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Really... don’t bother. It’s not worth the effort it takes. Look at me; I’m useless, I screw up everything. Plans to apologise. Plans to make things the way they used to be. To pretend like I was sixteen again, that I was the same Marie that got into his truck and gave him those covert sassy glances. The Marie that worked hard to fit in. The Marie he liked.

Or rather, the Marie he hated himself for liking.

Yeah. That’s a nice notch to add on to my belt of lack-of-self-belief.

I want to shove the thoughts away, but they hurts so much. Like a fist has scrunched up what was left inside my chest and ripped it out for all to see, leaving me nothing but a hollow empty shell. That he knew. That all that time, he stayed away because of me. What was it? Fear he might do something he shouldn’t? Was it repulsion? Concern for his slowly improving reputation?

Whatever it was, it was my fault. I should never have gotten into his truck.

Yeah, I screw up everything.

Sniffing, I scrape the lank hair back out of my face. I wish I hadn’t drunk anything last night. Maybe if I hadn’t drank, then we wouldn’t have argued. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so horribly spoiled and bratty. Maybe I wouldn’t have made him fling out his confession that he ever thought of me as more than a kid as if it was a dirty filthy thing he shouldn’t admit to.

Maybe I wouldn’t have run away again.

Maybe.

Did he send Kurt after me like he promised? Who knows. Did he turn around and come back for me? Wait for me like he did that morning in the snow when I first hitched a ride? I don’t know. I couldn’t stick around long enough to find out.

In case he didn’t.

In case he really left me there. For good.

Better to always wonder, than to know for sure he’d gone forever... right? Safer. Much safer.

Stupid, drunken logic.

I didn’t even wait to see his tail-lights disappear. I just picked myself up and ran like the pathetic kid he keeps calling me. God knows how I got out the stupid parking lot, but I did. I wandered, found a subway station, wandered some more, and somehow ended up here.

Wherever the fuck here is.

Think I must have passed out at some point as well. My legs have gone to sleep and my eyelids feel gritty and raw. They sting as I blink into the guttering streetlamp light, waiting as the blackness around me struggles to fade into miserable dawn. It doesn’t manage much more than a watery grey. Even the sun won’t rise this morning. And the rain, when it begins, is a metallic splatter that rings wetly off the trashcans, pooling into puddles around where I’m sat, and soaking slowly into the seat of my jeans.

I fumble my way to my feet, wincing as I notice my palms are scraped and caught with tiny bits of gravel that look like nothing and sting like hell. Why is it always the little cuts that hurt the worst? Ugh. I don’t even remember how it happened, and I can’t decide whether it’s a good sign, or a bad. Maybe it’s not a sign at all. Maybe it’s irrelevant. Like me. Broken and healed and so fucked up in the head that sometimes I don’t know where I begin and everything else ends.

For the first time in my life, I really don’t know what to do.

I could go back to the Mansion. They’d help me, wouldn’t they? I could take back every rotten thing I said. I could catch a cab and tell Logan I’m sorry until he listens. Tell him I’m not a kid anymore. I could.

But I know I won’t. I can’t. Because I can’t bear the thought that he hates himself over me.

Better that I’d never gone back. Better that I stay away. For good.

I pull my jacket even tighter around my shoulders, and my dark mood carries me through the drizzle. It keeps others out of my way as the first early risers begin to splash by in their long coats and their sleek cars. Fucking stuck-up part of the city. All those people lining up under the neon lights to get their coffee; the biggest decision they're having to make is whether to go for a skinny latte or a cappuccino. Whereas me? Right now, I wouldn’t even begin to know where to start. A choice like that could take me hours.

Which, I guess, makes no freaking difference, because the one thing I have at my disposal at the moment is time. Yay me.

I hesitate as I walk past an ancient phone-booth. Stop. Stare at it stupidly for an age until people are frowning, muttering to themselves as they are forced to change their course of direction to navigate round me, trying to ignore me as I stand like a lump, like a rock stubbornly resisting their tide.

In that moment I wish so much that I could call him. It would be so easy. I wouldn’t have to see him, I’d be miles away. Just to say I’m sorry. Just to hear his voice. To hear him tell me he’d look out for me again. I’d just have to pick up the receiver and dial the buttons. Simple.

...Right?

And yet, I can’t. Instead, I just stare at it until the scrawled graffiti merges into indistinct lines and I feel so hollowed out that I think it might be suffocating me.

"Y’know," a female voice comes from over my shoulder and I instinctively stiffen, "I’m not an expert on phone-booths, but don’t think that one’s going anywhere honey. You’ve successfully stared it into submission."

I close my eyes. Something else withers inside of me. In my surreal state of hung-over brokenness, the familiar tone echoes uselessly between my ears and I can hardly be bothered to even acknowledge it. What difference would it make anyway? Not like I could screw things up any worse than I already have.

I simply turn away, begin walking.

She's not one to give up easily. "You found your way out eventually then?" she says.

I keep moving. Do my best to ignore her as she follows like a shadow behind.

"You’ve got nothing to say to me?"

Ugh.

Yeah, I had stuff to say. So what? I had many things prepared for this moment... not that I expected it ever to arrive. Carefully constructed arguments. Exclamations of disgust. Betrayal.

Whatever.

Now they just seem obsolete. No longer worth the effort.

"Hmmm?" she presses.

"Just leave me alone."

The shadow snorts softly, lips curling into the edge of a smile. "Wallowing in self pity, aren’t you?"

So what? Right now I can’t even begin to care.

"Y’know," she continues smoothly, "I’ve been waiting for you."

At that I do stop. My feet pause, the rain soaking up through my soggy shoes and I look up, not bothering to hide the deadness that lies behind my eyes. "For what. What could you possibly want with me now? You left me to die."

"But you didn’t."

"Yeah... well... It’s not like it’s made much difference." I start to walk again.

"Now, now..." a blue hand snakes out to take my wrist, yanks me round to face her in the darkness of side street. She tilts her head to the side as the other hand goes to my hair, brushing the tangled mess soothingly out of my face. "That’s no way to think."

"Don’t touch me!" It comes out harder than I expected, almost like a hiss. "What do you want anyway? You got the money. You got away. You got your thrills. What more can I possibly give you?"

"Maybe I’m here because I was worried about you, hmm? Did you ever think of that?"

I don’t even bother to answer. I just glare at her.

She rolls her eyes. "Cheerful, aren’t you." The comment is followed by an impatient sigh. "Look, you and I, we made a good team."

"No we didn’t. I made a good clone."

"Well it worked didn’t it? We had fun!"

Yeah... right up until the shooting and the dying part. "What do you want?" I repeat testily.

"I came to see how you were."

I don’t even bother to acknowledge that.

"Thought you might need a friend," she purrs.

Do I really look that stupid? Maybe I do. Who knows. But I don’t have the stomach for this. "Either tell me the truth, or leave me alone."

Her only response to my outburst is to raise her eyebrows.

"Fine." I snap. "I’ll be going then."

"Wait." She grabs my shoulder before I can move away. Then she pulls an impatient face, like she’s having to placate a small child. "Look. I need a second, okay?"

Right. Of course. Now we come down to it. "You want my help on a job?" I don’t know why I’m even surprised. Should have seen it coming a mile off.

"Would you be interested if I did?" A slow spreading smile begins to grow across her lips as she thinks she’s winning me over. "It’s well paid."

"No."

I’m not frickin’ suicidal. Yet.

I turn my face away from the rain. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to be here. In fact, I’d just like to hide until the entire world crumbles and falls away and my jumbled up thoughts un-knot themselves into something I can start to comprehend.

Although actually I’m not so sure I want to comprehend them right now.

You want me to be glad she’s dead?

My memory plays tricks on me, re-running the whole horrible argument in stops and starts like a broken record. No. God, no, I never wanted that... I saw the way he used to look at her, the hope in his eyes. My heart breaks for him again and again as the memory of what he had to do haunts me. The way his claws felt sliding into her soft skin. The dead prickling of realisation that sunk through him as she grew heavy and limp. The smell of death and blood. It made him sick. It makes me sick.

I choke on the tears that are rising, the lump in my throat so sharp it hurts. No, I never wanted that.

"Don't be so weak." Her voice is hard. "Snap out of it."

I don’t want to snap out of it. I don’t deserve to. How could he think that? How could he think that about me? No wonder he hates himself over me.

You want me to say I didn’t sleep with ‘Ro? Because it’ll make you feel goddamned better?

Oh, God, that one hurts even more. All I wanted was for him to tell me it was a lie. That it was nothing, just my imagination playing tricks on me. But they did. They really did, didn’t they? They kissed and touched and... and it hurts, worse than Jean ever did, because at least Jean was a familiar pain. Jean was always there.

This is different. Every time I think of it, I feel raw. It slices through me; stinging like a betrayal, when I have no right to feel betrayed. It makes me want to hate her; cool, calm ‘Ro. It makes me want to lash out and hurt them both until they can feel what I’m feeling. How come she gets him? After everything. Why her? Why was it fucking HER?! And I don’t quite know how to control all the emotions that are rolling though me, I’m so miserable that I want to curl up and never move again, I’m so angry that I want to hurt things. I want to shout and sob and yell until my throat’s hoarse and as broken as the rest of me. But I can’t even seem to do that right. All I do is cry. Big fat useless tears that soak my face and dribble into my rain drenched top.

Because no matter what I do, or what I say, there’s no one to notice it but... her.

After a while, I manage some semblance of pulling myself together. I sniff and wipe my nose on my shirt sleeve, not pretty, I know, but it’s not as if there’s anyone round to impress. When I finally look up, Mystique’s leaning against the wall where we stopped, arms folded across her chest, her shock of red hair glinting with the wet as the streetlamps flicker out one by one into the grey.

Mystique's eyes flash with impatience. "You done now?"

I don’t think I even know what ‘done’ is anymore.

"You know, snivelling about it all isn’t going to help."

I give her a look.

"What?" she defends. "You think you’re the only person in the world to be screwed over? It happens all the time sweetheart. Especially where men are concerned."

I flinch.

She notices. "Get a grip, and get on with it."

"Get on with what?" I don’t bother to hide the misery in my voice. "What am I supposed to do now? Where am I supposed to go?"

She gives me a look. "You always have somewhere to go. You in or not?"

I feel sick.

I want to say no. I want to run away and be someone else. To have never existed in the first place. To hear the sound of his bike and the gruffness of his voice asking me to come home. Like he did before. Like he did all those times I didn’t want him to.

But no sound comes, and it’s just me... and her. Measuring each other in the drear blandness of the early morning light.

Is this who I’m supposed to be? Is this it?

A numb dullness sinks through me.

"Well?" She tilts her head. Waits.

...What else can I do?

I manage a nod. Hating myself even more.

Another day, another job. Isn’t that what I used to say?

It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it anymore.

I get up. I function. I eat, sleep, wash, travel, manage to drag myself out of the motel beds in the mornings, remind myself to breathe in and out, and even make a passable attempt at conversation. On occasions. Rare occasions.

Okay, so I’m not exactly good company. So what? It's not as if I’m here for my cutting wit and sharp retorts anyway.

The job’s lined up. Mystique’s done all the planning this time. She assures me it’s all calculated down to the last detail. Location, back-up, exit strategy, back-up exit strategy, you name it – she planned for it. No nasty soldier-shaped surprises this time.

We’re going for lab. It’s a first for us, and a little more uncomfortable... well for me anyway. I have stolen memories to deal with; personalities at the edge of my mind that shrink back at the mere thought... but apparently it’s not that sort of lab. They just test blood samples. DNA. Mystique even showed me proof.

If I didn’t know better I would think she’s attempting to be nice to me.

Heh.

If I didn’t know better.

If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s not to be so stupidly gullible.

It’s not the purpose of the place that interests us anyway. We’re aiming for some samples of the cure and a couple of mutant registration databases that could prove very expensive in the right hands. Or the wrong hands. Whatever.

Yeah... I know it’s not very imaginative, but it pays the bills.

Days slip by, rainy and wet, barely worth going outside for, but outside I have to go. I check out the area like I always do. Scout around. Get a feel for it. Walk until the drizzle soaks through my clothes and the ends of my jeans are heavy with greasy city sludge. I sip on scolding hot coffee in the diner across the street, watching the dribble of people drift past on their daily trudge for existence. They look about as excited by life as I am.

From the outside the target looks unremarkable. A tall, grey stone building, square and faceless, with black little windows that peer out grubbily on to dank side streets. It looks more like a dirty tenement than a hi-tech government lab, which makes me think that Mystique really did do her research on this one.

Whatever kind of place it is, the lab shifts are long. They only change every two days, so they must have sleeping quarters. Analysts and doctors come and go even less frequently. Security twice a day. The whole thing's like clockwork.

I learn their faces. Watch their patterns of movement and wonder who the hell they are. What events conspired in their life to make them take this job? In this scraggy concrete hell where people like me are tagged and studied. Does it bother them? Do they know what the data they produce is used for? My mind’s full of useless questions like that. Questions that won’t help me. Questions I can ponder for days. Which is fine, I guess, because the one thing I have at my disposal at the moment is time. I’m my own person again.

Yay me.

Isn’t it crappy how you can want something right up until you’ve got it. Then you realise that it wasn’t quite what you wanted at all. I wanted my freedom back, heh, well I’ve certainly got that. Ain't nobody gonna be swooping down to show me the error of my ways this time.

I wish I knew why that crushes me quite so much.

Is it so hard? To figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with the time given? To know who you’re supposed to be? What happened to pre-destiny? And fate? And all the useful tools people use to give excuse to the direction their lives are taking. Why can’t someone just tell me who I am, put me in a neat little box, and be done with it?

...Okay... probably because I’d kick my way out of it screaming.

Ugh. But it’s exhausting. All this uncertainty and fleeting changes of mind. I want this... no, I want this. Maybe this. Or that. Or anything. Or whatever. Fuck knows. I’m tired of being a permanent drifter, okay? I’m. Tired. I just wish I knew, just for once, where I was supposed to fit in. Even if I didn’t want to fit there.

I push my cold coffee to the side and pay my bill, hunching my shoulders against the slanting rain before venturing outside again.

I wish I could stop thinking so hard as well. The whole thing makes my head hurt.

On my way back to the motel I find myself hovering before another phone-booth. It seems to happen a lot these days. Like it’s a connection with him I can’t quite sever. It’s one I can’t quite bring myself to use either, for all that I seem to know the location of every phone-booth this side of the city. Besides, what would I say? ‘You’re the one person in my entire screwed up life I care about enough to beat myself up over it? Please tell me I mean something to you too?’

I sigh as I walk on past. Head back to my motel room, where I listlessly dry my hair, then stretch out on my bed to stare at the cracks in the ceiling.

---

We time our entrance with the Tuesday evening lab shift change. Getting in is not a problem, it never has been. Mystique’s currently one of their top analysts, a clinical but slightly hassled looking Deborah Coats ... God knows what she did with the real Deborah. To be honest it’s not something I ask her. I don’t think I want to know the answer.

I’m her assistant. I try to look busy. Keep out the way and make no eye contact. What is it that Mystique likes to say? People only see what they want to see. So I try and make myself bland. Uninteresting. It's not exactly hard, which I suppose is a good thing. I’d be nervous if I didn’t feel quite so dead inside.

As we walk up to the building, I'm detached. The air is cold on my face but I don't really feel it, I just let it numb me as I mentally prepare myself. I flex my fingers, take a calm, controlled breath and... frown.

The scent of cigars hangs lightly in the air.

My next step waivers, a rush of memories flooding out everything else. My eyes instantly seek out the shadows around me. Then when that fails, the windows, the alleyways too. But nothing. There's nothing. Just me, Mystique and the quietness of the littered street.

Oh. And the balding guy leaning out the fire exit of the building opposite. Smoking.

Stupid.

I swallow. Really stupid. And yet suddenly I am nervous. My brain beginning to rush through a series of potential outcomes, none of them pleasant. Fuck. I'm scared! When did that happen? Why? It's so unexpected. The first emotion I feel for days other than self-pity, and it's this? God, if I didn't suddenly feel sick, I'd hate myself a little bit more for being so pathetic.

I try to clear my head, to refocus, but the pain of what happened last time I tried a stunt like this slices to the front of my mind. It grapples with my self-control and reminds me what real fear tastes like.

Mystique's voice, when it comes, makes me jump. "You going to hold up on me?"

Shit.

I take a moment, clench my fists, and give her the glare I wish I could direct at myself. "I'm fine."

"Good."

This isn't like last time. It isn't.

We push through the dirty revolving door and the first thing that hits me is the smell. Christ, they must really want to keep this place under wraps. It stinks of piss and stale dankness. The only thing that belies the image of damp rot is the micro-camera that focuses in on us from its graffitied corner, and even then the only reason I notice it is because I’ve seen the security plans. At the far end a neon light flickers in death throws over door. Beneath it a grizzled homeless man loiters on the bench, smoking a roll up like it’s his last, wrapped in filthy overcoat like some pseudo-regency throwback.

We show him our ID. He nods us through a side door on the left.

The inner hallways are well lit and cleaner, but the smell still hangs around. It sticks in my throat and I wonder how the hell anyone could actually bring themselves to work here. Not that there are exactly many people around. The reception desk arches away from the wall, all glass fronted and smart looking, but completely devoid of human life. Don’t suppose they get many visitors anyway. And it’s not the sort of place you’d employ a temp. In fact the whole floor seems to be empty.

I didn’t expect that. I expected... I don’t know. Open plan? Yeah, right. I’m obviously more than a little naive. They must all be in the labs on other levels. The only person in our line of sight is an armed guard who waits far too casually against the elevator shaft. Not a person to be crossed, I note.

Mystique sees it, too. Her shoulders stiffen, barely perceptibly, but there all the same.

As we approach his eyes flick down at our ID. "Sub-level six?"

Sub-level what?

That edge of fear is suddenly back. For a moment my heart races and my palms prickle with sweat. I don’t remember a level six? Was there one? What is this? Is it a trap?

But Mystique is unfazed. "Sub-level four," she replies without blinking. "We need access to labs seven and five as well."

Oh.

I force myself to remain calm. Outwardly at least. Of course there is no sub-level six. It was a test.

Stupid.

God, I’m not ready for this. Not after last time.

The guard studies us for a moment, then nods. Handing over a keycard, he presses the call button for the elevator and I try not to breathe a sigh of relief as I step inside.

The steel box slides and clunks us down to the underground levels, which open up like a maze of passageways. I follow, I don’t lead. We stick to the map that’s memorised in Mystique’s head, left, then right, then right again, through the door at the end. Lab five. There are no markings but I know were in the right place. The access alarms would have been triggered otherwise.

The door closes behind us with a soft click and the hum of a naked light bulb rings in my ears, the sudden brightness making me blink. Papers plaster the walls. Records. Disks. Data. It’s currently vacant of human life, but it’s certainly not unused. This must be their main record storage.

Mystique gives me a nod, indicates with one long, slim finger, that she’s moving on to lab seven, then disappears back out into the hallway. Leaving me alone.

I eye the strange looking lab equipment in the corner suspiciously. The restraints on the gurney are making me edgy. No matter how hard I use my powers of denial, they don’t quite fit into the picture of ‘not that sort of lab’. In fact they look very much like...

No.

I pull myself out of that thought before it goes any further. Now would not be a good time to freak out. Denial is good. Denial is very good.

The walls shake as a subway train rattles past nearby and for some reason that comforts me. Normal people, going about normal lives, not too far away. It reminds me I just have to get through this. That’s all. It’s a task like any other. It’s what I do now. Right?

Data recon.

I boot up the slightly tired looking PC and try not to think of everything I left behind.

As I work the passwords flow from my fingertips. Like Deborah, I don’t want to know where Mystique got them from. They’re just tools, I tell myself. Data’s easy to manipulate. You don’t need to fight it or beat information out of it. You don’t need to psychoanalyse it. You just need to access it, copy it and in this case-

...Oh, hello. What have we here?

Files flick up in front of me. Names, places, births, deaths. Blood types, ancestry. Locations. And they’re all faces I recognise. Not from the Mansion, no. But from the TV, from the news, from books, magazines. Influential people. Senators, leaders, magistrates, officials. Non-mutants... but with...

Christ.

They’re engineering us?

A thin sliver of dread trickles down my spine. No wonder people want this information so bad. I copy the last of the files over to my pen drive, remove the memory chip and hide it in the inside pocket of my jacket. You can never be too careful.

By the time Mystique returns, I’m more than ready to go. I follow her without hesitation. The thought of the military, or the government, or whoever the fuck really controls this lab, engineering mutations in people, specific mutations...weapons... it makes me very uneasy. The whole thing is far too much like Mag-

"Hold it."

The voice echoes loudly down the otherwise empty corridor and I freeze. Blood suddenly hammering through my ears.

It's another guard, and he gives us a suspicious once over. "Where are you going? You’re not supposed to be on shift till Thursday."

"I got called in early." Beside me Mystique’s calm. "Rick’s off sick."

In answer the man pulls a gun. No delays, no opportunities for escape. Nothing. He just flashes a tight smile. "Rick left three months ago. Hands up where I can see them."

Fuck.

My eyes narrow on the small piece of black metal as I try not to react. But it’s all too sudden, and my mind's spinning, I feel sick. Lights dancing in my field of vision as the walls lurch and sway and a rush of fear claws through me. Not again, it’s all I can think. Not again.

I hear Mystique’s weapon fire, I don’t see it. By that time I’m already half way down the corridor, even before I hear her command to run. Fuck. I nearly trip over my own feet as I scramble round a corner. Ahead of me it’s long and straight and there’s nowhere to go or hide even though I push at the doors lining the way, dammit one of them has to give! Fuck fuck fuck!

"In here!" A blue hand grabs my elbow and drags me through a different door. Mystique’s changed again. I know that’s not a good sign, but it all happened so quickly that my mind can’t quite keep up. As the door closes behind us I hold myself so still, silently listening, I don’t even breathe, ears straining for the sounds of others following until every nerve in my body screams.

But outside it remains quiet. There are no footsteps, not yet.

I try and take a moment to calm myself down. It doesn't help though, I don’t feel relieved, I feel drained. Faint. The adrenaline that’s pumping through me has made my knees so weak I can barely stand. Shit, I shouldn’t have come here. I should have kept away from her.

Mystique catches her breath and looks around. "We can’t stay here." In control as always. "We need to get back up to the higher levels." She rolls her shoulders, stretches her neck as she tilts it to one side. "We’ve got what we need anyway. You going to stay sane on me?"

Her words hardly register. My eyes finally begin to focus on the room around me...

"Rogue?"

Oh, God. This is not right. It’s not right.

"Rogue!"

Sterile refrigerators line the walls. Row after row. Their contents cut open, dissected. Frozen in their final state. Bodies. People. Faces. Men and women. Experiments.

This isn’t a lab. It’s an extermination camp.

"Listen to me." A hand yanks my face around. Yellow eyes glare forcefully into my own. "You are not going to lose it down here. You stay with me, and we get out. Okay?"

Okay?! No, it’s not fucking okay! There are so many of them! How can they be killed and ripped open and put on display as if they were nothing more than text books? These were people! They lived. They breathed. They had hopes and dreams and the same fucking rights as every other person on this planet.

"They have weapons, you get that?" Her voice is low, fast. "Dangerous weapons. They have cure guns, I’ve seen them. We need to get out."

Out? Who are these people? Who could do this? For a moment I just stare at her blankly, my mind still trying to comprehend the mess around it. It’s not real, it can’t be real, it’s like some horrible waking nightmare.

Then a noise clatters past the door and it jolts right through me down to the bone. I shake my head. I don’t think I can. Out? I don’t... I can’t do this. I sink down against the wall behind me, hands cold and weightless, legs shaking, collapsing like they’ve got no strength left. What is this place? Why did I come here?

"What are you doing? Get up!"

But I can’t. I can’t. Not again. I wrap my hands around my knees. Try to remember how to breathe, fight the tightening in my chest, stop my mind from closing down on itself completely. I don’t want to see these things. How can people do this? What kind of sick country do we live in?

"We need to get out!"

I rip my eyes away from the preserved carnage long enough to stare at her. She’s tense and angry, gaze always darting to the door, but she’s still so confident, so smug. So... This is her fault. It’s her fault I’m here.

"Come on!"

My mouth goes dry, tongue thick and heavy. "You said it was nothing more than a lab."

She rolls her eyes. "Grow up. Nothing’s nice. Nothing’s pretty. If you don’t want to end up like that," she slings her head in the direction of the nearest cool tank, "then I suggest you follow me."

It’s a command. Snapped out in impatience.

But I can’t do this anymore.

I shake my head, too fast, and the room spins. Part of me is aware that I’m panicking, big time, stomach threatening to heave, but I can’t do a damn thing about it. My hands are trembling. I grip at the worn denim of my jeans until my knuckles whiten and the creases bite into my palm, but I don't move. I can’t. Not now. Not with her. "You lied. I don’t... I can’t... I don’t trust you. You’ll... " Use me as a distraction. Sell me for your escape. Make me do this all over again next time. This is not me. It’s not me!

"Rogue..." This time my name’s a warning.

"I don’t trust you."

"Do you have a choice?"

"Leave me alone!"

"Now is not the time to-"

"LEAVE ME ALONE! You brought me to this place. You lied." The words hiss out of me. "Sterile chambers, you said. Microscopes. Blood samples. Not this. Nothing like this. This is barbaric."

"You need to-"

"NO! I don’t know what the fuck I need to do, but I do know that there is NO WAY IN HELL I’m going anywhere with YOU!"

She steps back a pace. A look of shock finally registering in the blue glow of her skin.

It doesn’t last long. Her lips soon press tighter together, expression clouding over with distaste. "Fine." She bites out the word like it’s a bitter taste in her mouth. "Suit yourself." The door swings slowly shut on its hinges behind her. Her bare feet leaving no sound of footsteps to echo down the hall.

Then I’m alone.

My pulse thuds heavily through my ears. God I feel sick.

The room hums around me and I try not to look at the bodies on display. My eyes won’t focus on them anyway, they slide away from me, and the overbearing stink of formaldehyde is making me dizzy. Somewhere a leaky faucet drips, and the light flickers as a trapped moth buzzes against the hot bulb.

Oh, God, I really do feel sick. My throat burns. I can taste it.

I shouldn’t have come here. I should have followed my instinct... Fuck it. ‘Should haves’ won’t help me now! I need to concentrate, need to survive. Not feel sorry for myself.

I take a deep gulping breath. Focus my thoughts.

Okay. Think, Rogue, think. You can do this. You know the floor plans as well as Mystique. There are fire stairs on the left-hand side of the building. If you can make it there...

A noise shatters out in the corridor scattering my thoughts and I jump so hard that I hit my head on the wall behind me, eyes swimming with the pain that lances through my skull.

Shouting. Oh God. Loud and close. Voices, male and female. Arguing. The dull, thick sound of bullets hitting the wall. Guns. I try to think but my mind won’t work fast enough. It scrabbles away from coherent thought, panic pounding through instead. They’re coming closer, so close, I can hear them...

I grope my way backwards until I’m hunched in a corner, as far away from the cool-tanks as I can manage, but it’s not going to be enough to hide me if they-

The door swings open, and I stifle a scream. Oh, fuck. FUCK.

Please don’t see me. Please. Just go away. Please.

The form silhouetted in the doorway casts its eyes over the room, and I know it notices me. Its shoulders stiffen, and as it comes closer I’m thinking this is it. This time it’s really it.

Then it speaks. And my mind goes completely blank.

"Out. Now."

The hand that reaches out is familiar, strong, and I blink.

This time I don’t understand. I really don’t.

Logan?

This is wrong. What is he doing here? There’s no way he could’ve known... is there? I suddenly feel like my world has slipped off the edge and I don’t know how to control it anymore. Was it Cerebro? The Professor? What does it mean? It’s off-track. It feels... Unless he knew what we were planning. Unless he really does...unless he... he must feel something, right? To do something like this? Right?

But there’s no time. No time to think. There are voices outside and they’re getting closer. Fuck.

"C’mon. All you have to do it take my hand."

Shit. He looks so familiar. So safe. So real. Breathing hard. Shoulders rising and falling like he’s fought his way through. Sweat on his X-men issue leathers. Is the team here? I don’t hear anyone else. Did he track me? Keep tabs on me? Did he know? Why would he do that... unless...

"C’mon."

I hesitate. Reach out. But then a noise clatters loudly out in the hallway and distracts him. He holds his hand up for silence and tilts his head to the side, listening. Quietly, the door still open, he steps back to have a look.

My heart lurches. "What?"

He shakes his head. "Nothin’ kid."

An ebb of relief floods through me. He called me kid. Familiar. "You sure?"

"It was just a-" his sentence ends in a choked gasp.

"What? What is it?" My words stumble out in a fumbled whisper. "What?"

He doesn’t answer. Fingers sliding against the doorframe as he looks down at himself, almost confused. A dribble of darkness trickling down from his chest.

No! NO! "Logan!"

I try and reach him, but I’m not quick enough. Hands reach through the doorway. They grab at him and I can’t stop them, he won’t let me. He pushes me away so that they don’t see me, and they pull him out. Out into the corridor where I can’t see him anymore. They take him. Steal him. Drag him down while he’s weak. I hear his body hitting the floor with a muffled thud and it happens so quick I don’t have time to process it. To do anything. My ears are ringing and I don’t have time. There’s no time!

Then I flinch, frozen in disbelief as I hear another shot. Followed by the unmistakeable hiss of a cure gun.

A heart beat thuds in my ears and pulses sluggishly through my body. Slow and heavy. The sharpness of each breath I take, dulled by it.

Numb.

I blink back the guttering neon lights. Eyes glazing over the flickering shadows as my mind struggles to grip reality; sounds and screams in my head like distant cries that threaten to rip me apart.

Logan?

He’s...he’s...

Fragments of voices reach me. "Is it dead?" A sigh. "Christ what a mess. Take it with the others. No use to us now. Burn it."

I can’t... I ...

What did they do?

Not him.

My fingers twitch.

Not him. Not here.

Not like that.

The voices carry on regardless; sliding under the door to reach me, slick like oil between shreds of thoughts. "Where’s Mason? Damn it. This one was on a capture order as well. Not supposed to finish it."

The words slice through me. Ringing cold in my ears.

"Wasn’t my fault."

"Do you think they care whose fault it was?"

I care.

I fucking care.

I clench my jaw. Refusing to let it tremble. Refusing to let the tears leak out of my eyes. Not him. Knees locking as I slide my shoulders slowly back up the wall, neck scraping on the lab-coat hooks that hang there. I don’t flinch. The pain wakes me. Not him. Upwards until I’m standing. Blankly noticing the cold sweat that trickles down my back. Hair a cloying mesh that sticks to my face. Eyes flickering like the lights as they try to focus on something. Wall. Floor. Broken mirror. Anything. Anything but him. And I breathe, and my heartbeats, and I do everything in my power not to think.

Not him.

My mind struggles with realisation. The thud of a body over and over again in my head. Hand fumbles loosely along the wall. Eyes finally fixing on the door. The one they took him through. The one they that swung shut as they... as they... they...

Oh, God.

It didn’t happen, it didn’t happen. It didn’t. It couldn’t have done. Not like that. Not to him. Not so easily. He wouldn’t let it. He wouldn't FUCKING LET IT!

I choke, struggling desperately to remain upright. Somewhere in the distance a door slams and it jolts right through me. And then I’m trembling, shivering so hard that I feel like I could shatter at any moment, coldness rushing through my head as something roars to life inside me, clawing its way free. Not fear, but something else. Something I can’t control.

Fury.

Cold, hard rage.

It eats everything. It burns through me.

Fumbling hands find the smooth wood of a handle. Leaden as they heft it in front of my face. Re-grip. Test out the balance. Heavy lidded eyes blink, focus.

Smell of warm metal and ashes. Incinerator axe.

Weapon.

I fight to breathe. Fight to slow it down. To slow everything down until the pounding in my ears becomes an occasional thud. To grip the handle. Press my fingers down against the rough and bitten edge until it runs slick with blood and the sting clears my head. To draw in one long deep gasp of air...

Then I stop. Straighten my shoulders.

I hate them.

I. Hate.

They took everything from me.

I’m gonna fucking take it back.

---

Three long strides get me across the room. One hell of a kick slams the door open on its hinges. One fucking massive swing and ....ooops... poor evil fucked up neat little scientist. I’m armed and you’re not. Did my axe hurt the spine in your back?

The man twitches in surprise as his breath gargles out of him in a bloody foam, dribbling down his chin as he crumples to the floor. He tries to mouth out his last words to me, but I don’t care. There is nothing left in this world for me to care about. Instead I slam the blunt head down again, then I wipe off the blood that’s spattered across my face and I hate them. I hate every last fucking one of them.

I follow the corridors. Sounds jar my ears, but I ignore them. Raw lights blind my eyes, but I don’t blink. I walk with purpose, though I have none. I walk with direction, though I have none of that either. All I have is my fury, and I am gonna ride it until there’s nothing left, or I’m dead. Whatever comes first.

Whitecoats.

I hiss.

They come at me, then one loses an arm and the others scatter. Maybe they think losing an arm is contagious. Could be, y’know. Muscles tense and bunched, I swing again and again, ignoring the chaos. Re-focus. Keep walking. Echoes of training sessions coming in to play. Body remembering techniques and moves. Eyes dilating with new knowledge. The stench of death. The spasms of the dying. Slickness of blood. The handle gripped by white knuckles is slippery with a smearing darkness, but I don’t stop. Not until the hallways grow older. Less sterile. Barred with gates and locks.

Cells.

They keep people here?

My mind flickers back to the room I was hiding in. Rows of preserved bodies. Slices of flesh. So this is where they keep their live test subjects...

Mistake. Big mistake.

Because now I have direction.

I push through the first gate and my boots clatter on the metal walkway. Those that get in my way don’t stay there very long, and when I reach the first of the cages, my axe sparks as it bites through the rusty lock and bar.

The mutant inside looks sickly and pale, huddled in a corner. Part of me, the distant part looking down on all of this with a strange sense of detachment wants to tell them not to worry. The whitecoats won’t be poking around her any more. The whitecoats won’t be poking around anyone anymore.

But it’s not the whitecoats she’s afraid of, is it?

It’s me.

My axe swings again and steel bends with a shriek. I lean my hand casually against the gap I’ve created, sliding it up and down the broken bar. "You want out, sugar?"

The snivelling mess in the corner nods. Barely.

"Well, come here then."

I wait until she’s close enough, ‘till she’s half way between the bars, then I pounce, reaching out with a bare hand, stealing power, stealing energy. Not enough to harm her, no, I’m not like them. But enough to damn well harm them.

I let go quickly. She struggles to breathe for a moment, glacier blue eyes widening in shock. But she’s still standing.

"Payment," I tell her. My voice flat. "You okay?"

She nods briefly, clutching the remnants of her cage for support.

I can already feel the new energy running through me. "Night vision?"

Again. She nods.

"Excellent."

My next axe strike kills the lights.

Next one is much easier. The lock’s so old, it’s almost broken. It’s not exactly functional anyway. The occupant of the cell is well and truly chained against the far wall. It snarls. Blunt red hair a tangled mess down its muscled back.

I heft the axe up onto one shoulder. "Yeah, growl all you like, big boy. The only way you’re getting out of those? Is through me."

I reach out and touch. Suck in the life-force until stolen power swims giddily around my mind. Heightened senses. Increased strength. Filthy temper. I roar as I slam my axe down through the chain binding him, smirk as he charges off to hunt down his captors.

Go. Get them.

Next is a telepath. He knows what I want before I even get there and holds a hand outside the cage for payment. A bargain. I take as much of him in as I can manage, before setting him after the others.

After that the prisoners all blur into one. Water-breather, earth-mover, shield, teleporter, pyro, shifter, conductor. They’re all the same. They’re all ragged lumps of people that scrabble away in fear and awe. That scream when I steal from them. That hobble away as fast as their pathetic legs can carry them when I let them go. Before they get mixed up in the next wave of whitecoats and guards. Before I turn them to dust.

Axe bites into sinew and bone, and I leave it behind. I don’t need it any more. Instead I use my hands. They bend, they break. They burn. And no matter what they throw at me they can’t fucking stop me. Ha! No one can fucking stop me!

"Ya HEAR THAT!" I snarl, flicking my stolen shields up. "You can’t fucking STOP ME!"

I don’t even need to fight them with my hands anymore. I fight with my mind. Bodies crumpling soundlessly. Walls collapse. Blood and dust breathe the thick air and they run. Those that are left. They all fucking run.

"Cowards!" I yell at their backs. But it’s not them that interests me. Instead, I move on to the next cage, sliding the lock with my mind. It opens with an oiled clunk, and the girl inside’s ready.

"You the last?" I say, as I grip her hand.

She winces, struggles with it. "No," she manages through her teeth. "One more. At the end."

I cut short by way of thanks. "Good. Follow the others." I don’t wait to see if she does as I say.

Cages are empty this end. If she hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have bothered looking this far, but I read her mind, she was telling the truth.

I listen for signs of life. Instincts ruling. Picking up scent. Yes, one more. I can smell it from here. Faint heartbeat too. Weak. Pathetic.

My eyes slide off the thick metal bars of the final cage. I blink and the lock's crushed like paper. The door flung open. "Come on." I don’t bother being nice. No time.

But the pile of rags huddled in the corner doesn’t move. I would think it dead if my senses didn’t know better.

"I know you’re still alive. You want out? This is your one chance. Not coming back for you, sugar." I glance over my shoulder as I say it. Eyes seeking out the exit, judging my next move, planning ahead.

It’s only when they fall back to the pathetic heap in front of me that I falter.

The head lifts up to look at me. Only he can’t see. His eyes are stitched shut.

For a moment my energy falters, and I feel like all the breath’s been kicked out of me.

"Scott?"

Some sort of sludgy clarity begins to trickle slowly through my mind. Awareness of my surroundings creeps back. Choking darkness. Cells. Lab.

Scott.

Oh, God. Scott?

I have to do something.

He flinches as I step forward and it cuts through me. Like all the others, he backs away, but...shit... there’s movement in the corner of my eye and I don’t have time for that. Or time for explanations. Just action. Only this time there’s less control. This time there’s an edge of panic seeping in; finger’s fumbling as I break his chains, bend back the shackles around his ankles with a screech of rusted metal. Strong but scared. I help him to his feet. His head lolls like a broken toy, so I sling his arm around my shoulder as I try and get him to walk, but his feet drag. He’s so weak. Shit.

For a moment I’m at a total loss of what to do. I’ve got Scott. How have I got Scott? I’m completely thrown. Like waking up from a nightmare only to find you’ve sleepwalked into the middle of it. That you are it. That the stench of burning flesh that dries out the back of your throat and the urge to gag that gets stronger with each passing breath, is down to you.

What am I doing here?

I need to get out. Have to get him out.

Noise clatters around me and I flinch. People. There are other people here, I remember now. Need to get past them. And it’s okay, I keep telling myself that. It’s okay. I’m strong, I can do this.

But while my powers can protect me, they can’t protect him.

His fingers try and grip the material of my jacket, I can hear the struggle it takes for him just to keep breathing. Shit. He’s going to get hurt.

I’m gonna need backup.

I think. Concentrate. Search through the stolen abilities until I find a ‘path. Then I use the skill to holler out a call to the Professor as loud as I can manage. Focusing until it feels like the thoughts I’m projecting are drilling back through the base of my eyes. Fuck, it hurts. But I don’t stop. I give him everything. Places. Names. Data. Maps. Every emotion that filters through my mind. Anything that might help. And I hope like hell he’s listening.

Then I concentrate on getting us both the hell out.

Metal surfaces are covered with soot and debris. One step, two steps, and I drag him. The sound of the way his feet catch on the floor ringing out, attracting attention, but I don’t care. I’m not letting him go. One step, two, drag. Glimpses of the red haired feral melting into the shadows. Stalking me? Helping me? I don’t know. S’pose I’ll only know when he tries to rip me apart. Or not. One step, two. Keeping Scott with me. Holding on.

It takes an age to get back to the labs, for all that the lower halls are deserted. The redhead? Signs of a struggle are everywhere. Broken doors. Scratches down walls. Blood. Bodies. Maybe it was me.

I try not to look at them. Try not to think about it. God, but my head is starting hurt.

I waver for a moment, struggle under our combined wait as my concentration saps my extra strength. The urge to slip into a dead sleep is so strong, but I fight it. I grit my teeth and I give it everything I’ve got; drag him forwards. All I have to do now is get us out. Small targets. Just reach that doorway, just get as far as the broken light, just get past that lab, pushing myself, always pushing, not letting myself stop, because if I do... I’m not gonna... I’m not... just as far as the stairwell. I can see it. That’s where I need to be. Just that far. One step, two...drag.

My fingers find the cold smooth handle of the emergency exit door, but it’s locked. The throbbing in my head intensifies as I lean Scott up against a wall, the muscles in my shoulder screaming as I use it to support him there while I attempt to open it. Lights flicker in my eyes; so hard to concentrate. It’s not working. Stuck. Shit. "Can you stand?"

He gives a rough nod. It’s hardly convincing, but it’s good enough and although he staggers, he stays where he is, lips pressed thin with the effort.

I take a deep breath, give the door an almighty kick and it buckles inwards. "You gonna cope with the stairs?"

Another nod. Barely perceptible. Then, almost so faint I can’t hear it, "Rogue?"

I freeze, a painful thud in my chest.

It’s a question.

One that I don’t know how to answer.

He tries again. "You sound so much like..."

"Yeah... well...I think I was, once."

I move to hoist his arm over my shoulder again to begin the half-walk, half-carry up the stairs, but he stops me.

"Thank you." His jaw works as he struggles with the words. It comes out as more of a croak than anything else, but it’s said with such honesty that I think that if his eyes weren’t scarred shut, there would be tears running down his hollowed out cheeks.

I turn away from it, even though he can’t see me. It’s too much to deal with. Too much emotion. Not now. I can’t cope with that now.

I just need to get out.

The stairwell takes an age. One painful step at a time, but I’m not letting him go. Not if my life depended on it. Concentrating on the task in hand even as the thoughts of others, those that I stole, whisper at the edges of my mind.

It works at first, but as we climb higher, the whispering soon becomes a sickening hum, the hum a rabble. Thick smoke clogs the upper levels and makes my eyes water as I drag us both onwards, exhaustion beginning to drain me and I’m not sure how much longer I can take. Each conscious action becomes an effort. I try and struggle against the press of voices that fight over the scraps of my mind, but it grows harder and harder to push them back. The memories. All of their memories, they grow in strength, in power. I take a step and my name’s Lucy. No it’s not, it’s Sam. I’m a shapeshifter, I read minds. I have a son. I miss my sister. No, that’s not right, I don’t have a sister. Oh God, it hurts, my head is killing me. It feels like it’s about to explode.

Pristine walls are charred with black. Fire eats through everything, the jutting arc of the reception desk, melted and puckered beyond recognition. As we near the exit more people arrive, but I fight them too. Fury that’s no longer mine roaring through me. Screaming, shrieking, attacking them with anything I can lay my hands on. Stolen sparks burn from me, each thrust of my hand shooting slithers of ice like tiny needles into the faces of those who attack. They have cure guns, but I plate up my skin. Invulnerable. Trying to protect the man who I’m half holding up, half dragging.

Then I’m outside, breathing in great gulps of cold air, screaming myself hoarse as people try to attack us. Throwing them away. Brushing them aside as if they were insects. I use everything I’ve got and I no longer care if it uses me up because I will. Not. Fucking. Give. IN.

A guard goes for my right shoulder. FUCK HIM. He’s dust before he gets within two steps. His companion slowly blinking in glassy-eyed shock at the hulking splinter of ice that cuts into his fleshy stomach. I hit the third with my open palm, feeling the bones in his face shatter, but he comes back for more, the stupid bastard.

"Bitch," he snarls, going for the man I’m protecting. But fuck that. He’s not getting anywhere near.

I hiss at him through my sweaty hair. Vision narrowing. Powers humming, roaring through me. Until he’s nothing. Until the darkness of the night itself bleeds with the fire spilling out of the blackened windows and everything around me is nothing.

Until it’s just me, and the man leaning against my back. Scott.

Fuck.

I swallow. Choke on it. "Scott?" Gasp for air. Hold on to him tight. Keep him safe.

Somewhere behind me, the roar of jet burns my ears, but I don’t let it distract me. Not until hands find me. Kind hands. Familiar hands. Familiar voices. "Rogue? We’re here now. Let him go, Rogue. He’s safe."

Storm’s voice. Calm. Strong. "Let him go."

I don’t think I can.

"Do you remember who you are?"

I’m no one. I’m everyone I’ve ever touched.

"Can you hear me? Rogue?"

Rogue... Rogue... always a Rogue. The word swims around my head. It collides with other names, names which are also mine... other people I am. A shifter’s mutation spasms through me, and I change into the image of someone else, before I flicker back to...

"Rogue. You need to stay with me. Remember who you are."

Who?

What. The fuck. Is who?

I struggle to stay upright. Fight the dizzy pull of the landscape swaying around me.

Who am I?

There was something... something I –

"Scott." I clench out the word as pain lances through my head again. "They’ve got Scott."

"No, they haven’t. You got him out, remember?

I did? Fuck, but my head hurts. Red hot daggers of pain stab through my eyes, and I feel like I’m stretched everywhere at once. The night slides out of focus. I need to hold...

"Rogue?"

I blink. Sounds and sights and memories not my own sliding round my head in the bloody mess I created. I did this. I did all of this.

"Rogue, what happened."

My fault. My fault.

"Rogue?"

They took him.

The pain hits me anew, surging like an open wound.

"Logan," I croak.

Storm looks puzzled. "You want him to stay here with you?"

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know yet, oh God, how can she not know? "They-"

"It’s okay," she interrupts. "Logan!" she calls.

Don’t make me explain it. Please. I can’t. Not now.

"Logan!"

A figure steps out of shadows, sweaty, bloody with the fighting, and I-

Oh, God, this is too horrible.

I feel sick. My stomach clenches and I’m crying. I know I’m crying. My ears ringing as my mind struggles to comprehend what it’s seeing. This isn’t fair. I blink. Fingers shaking as they fumble for support around me. This isn’t fair. Make it stop! Make it STOP!

But the hallucination’s still there. White faced and livid, dark brows drawn tight with deep cut lines of concern.

"You’re not real," I croak. Then that’s the last I remember before the ground slaps up to meet me.

"Easy there." A firm hand holds my head back against the bed. "Steady." It’s an unfamiliar voice.

My eyes feel sore and unused as I open them. A strange face hovers over me, drifting fuzzily into focus. White lab coat, reddish brown hair. My memory jerks and stumbles to conclusions in fits and starts. Lab coat brings fear, pulsing adrenalin. But there’s a kind smile. Warm hands. Jean. It looks so much like Jean. And after everything else, it makes my whole world swim with a sickening disorientation. What’s happening to me?

"Take it slow."

No. Not Jean. The accent. It’s strange, but it registers somewhere within my mind. It brings with it a long buried memory of one of the Professor’s lessons. A name. MacTaggart. That’s it. Moira MacTaggart

The thought gives me some clarity, something to focus on.

I try to sit up, but the action jolts a rush of voices and emotions that are not my own. Memories come surging back, flooding my mind with details, names, images, places I didn’t grow up, lovers I never met, pain I never felt and oh fuck it hurts. My head feels like it’s about to split open, right down the middle like a broken shell, and all I can do is sit there, palms pressed tightly against my eyes, smudging over the tears that are escaping down my face. Fuck. FUCK! OW!

"Hang in there. I’m going to give you something to help."

But it HURTS! Her words just wash away. They don’t even scratch the surface. I try and focus on the things around me, but it doesn’t help. I just see shapes. Lumpy outline of a strange bed. Clean smell, like fresh air and newly washed sheets. It overpowers me, makes me sick. Choking. It stings my nose and makes my eyes throb, the late afternoon light casting sickeningly long shadows that lurch across the walls. Voices crowding my head. Pressure. All clamouring to be heard at once. Toes feel itchy. All of me feels itchy. God the pressure. I kick at the sheets binding me. They stick to my skin as it grows sticky and damp and all I can think is, please, make it stop. Make them stop. Make it stop!

"It’s not a suppressant," comes the voice again. "In your case I think that would do more damage than good. It’s just a hefty painkiller and a sedative."

A needle pricks my skin, but I hardly feel it.

"Give it a moment..."

I swallow in the absence of the ability to form any words. I’m being ripped in every direction at once and it’s all I can do to remain conscious.

"Deep breath..."

Sharp daggers stab thoughts through my mind. Hundreds of them.

"Come on. Deep breath."

Ears ringing. Fingernails digging into palms.

Come on, I can do this.

Breathe. Just breathe.

I try and still my heaving shoulders; ignore the rawness in my chest. Deep, deep breath. The oxygen flows into my lungs like a soothing balm, the drug finally sinking through me. Just breathing.

Just breathing.

"Okay? Better?"

The owner of the voice leans over me, checking me over. Pulls up my eyelids, looks inside my mouth. Efficient, but gentle. I try and focus on her, but my eyes slide away from any fixed form, preferring to reside in the realms of the blurry where it takes far less effort. I manage a feeble nod, the pain receding slightly as the drug does its stuff, but the voices still throb in my ears like a constant furious hum, one memory clinging to me with such force. I don’t even know if it’s mine... but...

"I thought I saw him," I begin to babble uselessly. "I thought..."

Images come flooding back. Watery darkness. Smoke pouring out of blackened windows. Storm calling out. Eyes. Furious eyes.

"Logan?" It comes out as a croak.

"He’s fine."

They’re the last words I hear before I fall into a deep sleep, and I’m not sure I understand them, but they’re enough.

---

It’s the following morning when I next wake. Or at least I think it is. The way the light dances across the walls is fresh. There’s an open window; gauzy drapes drift in soft breeze, brushing against a picture that’s a splash of colour on the wall...watercolour cornfields...

...Where am I?

Still fuzzy with sleep, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and instantly regret the speed of the action; one hand going to press tightly against my forehead, as if pressure could help the stabbing pain that explodes there.

It doesn’t. It just makes me dizzy.

But I'm determined.

Yeah. I’m still that.

...I think.

Actually, I’m not sure what I am.

Ow.

As I push myself to my feet, far more gently this time, I realise that there’s not a scratch on me. Well, besides the cramp in my muscles and the thumping headache. Which I don’t think is going anywhere soon.

There’s a robe hanging on the door and I pull it on, pad my way downstairs, trying to figure out where I am. It’s a narrow staircase, leading into a small hallway. Definitely not the Mansion. Bright little windows, painted a faded, peeling blue, stand out against the fresh whiteness of the walls. My nose tickles with the slight smell of dust and cobwebs.

Well, wherever I am, I appear to be the only one here. It’s not big, although it does look familiar somehow. There’s a neat little kitchen, a living room, bright and airy, a couple of well worn armchairs slouching comfortably in the corner by an old fashioned hearth. Out back there is a small porch, with a smooth wooden jetty that reaches out into...the...

The lake house. I’m at the lake house.

A memory slides back into place. Visiting here one summer. Just briefly. I dropped off a letter to a friend of the Professor’s. The place seemed smaller than it does now. Now it seems... comfortable.

I roll the word around my head for a bit. Weigh it up. Keep it fiercely apart from all the other things I’m trying not to think about. Working out where I am? I can cope with that. But that’s it.

Comfortable.

Yeah. I’m okay with comfortable.

Comfortable is quiet. Comfortable is alone. Comfortable is not having to think about anything else.

Besides, apart from that one visit, this place is empty of memories for me. It’s a blank canvas, and I like that.

I push open the back door, taking a deep breath of freshwater air as I gingerly lower myself down on to the warm wooden steps, hands pressed tightly against my temples, trying to ease the relentless onslaught that continues without let up. I lose track of how long I sit there, just coping with existing. The lake reaches out as far as the dark smudge of the trees on either side, ribbons of light glancing off the rippling surface, and it’s gorgeous, but I’m such a contrast to the peaceful stillness that all I can do is try not to crack under the strain.

I try my usual technique to calm the pressing clamour of voices; concentrating on the smaller things; the fraying sleeve of my robe, the chipped nail polish on my toes.

It doesn’t work particularly well. Not this time. There’s too many of them. They’re a furious tide of thoughts and emotions; I want to be angry, happy, vengeful, sad all at once, and I can’t. My body can’t keep up. Instead I’m just drained.

It doesn’t stop me from trying though. I’m still stubborn. At least, I think that’s me.

Maybe it’s just someone I’ve absorbed?

I wonder briefly if it’s more wrong that I don’t know, or that I don’t care.

At some point during the sun’s watery journey across the grey expanse of sky, a noise registers. I ignore it at first, hoping it will go away and leave me to suffer in peace; human, animal, whatever, I don't think I can cope with it right now. But the noise doesn’t go. It changes into the soft click of a door and footsteps follow, quiet, but loud enough for me to hear. Intentional? I don’t know, but I do know I’m no longer alone.

I’m exhausted. I’m not even curious. If it’s someone come to hurt me, then I hope they just get it over with quickly. If it’s someone come to help... well... likewise. I can’t quite bring myself to move. I just look blandly across the lake at the sound of the screen door opening behind me, and I wish like hell I was fourteen years old again. Back when I lived at home. Back before mutations, when things were simple.

Then I hear the sound of his voice; rough and tense, and it hurts so much I wonder if I’m ever going to be whole again.

"You’re a goddamn idiot, you know that?"

My eyes close of their own accord, and the next breath that comes is long and shaky. I don’t turn around, I can't, because despite everything my mind looms with one thought over all others. What if it’s not really him? What if he’s not real?

I don’t want to look.

Whatever the doctor said, I know what I saw back there in the lab. Part of me is terrified that he’s nothing but another presence in my mind.

But then he steps closer, and his familiar smell envelops me. Like leather and soap and something that’s purely him. It prickles down my spine and I can’t help it, even though I clench my jaw to fight the swell of emotion, I start to cry.

Even my mind couldn’t fake that.

"You nearly got yourself killed." His voice is clipped. Harsh.

My head throbs with an influx of crushing opinions... weak... pathetic... all mocking the big, fat tears that soak into the collar of my robe. I don’t want to wipe them away in case he can tell I’m crying, so instead they cool quickly into the thick material, making it damp and itchy. Stupid. Probably no use anyway. He’ll know. Even the lake won’t mask the salty scent. My hands tremble pathetically as I wrap them around me.

"What the hell were you thinkin’?"

God, I don’t know. I don’t know. My fingers go shakily to my face. Cold and clammy. Press against my forehead. I wish I did know. I wish I understood myself better. Hindsight is a horrible thing.

"You ignorin’ me now?"

No. Never that.

I want to apologise for being such a mess up. For getting everything so wrong. For the hollow feeling of empty loss that always pervades me when he’s around. But I can’t even do that right, the words won’t come and I just sit there, looking out across the blank expanse of water.

The silence hangs like a lumpy weight between us, the rabble of noise in my head intensifying with the added tension. For a long while he doesn’t say any more. Doesn’t do anything. Just stands in the doorway, waiting for me to do God knows what. Make sense? Manage coherent thought?

I’m not sure I’m capable of either right now.

But then I hear him turn to go, and I know that if I don’t say something now, I might never again get the chance.

"I saw..." I try and twist my tongue into speaking, but it’s unwieldy, it doesn’t want to be used. "I... you... you got shot." Choked out words that hurt when I force my mouth to say them.

I wait for a response, shoulders hunched. But there’s... nothing.

Emptiness.

I wonder if he’s gone, silently, without me noticing. Wonder if he’s too angry to speak. Wonder if this is going to be like every other time recently where we ended up arguing. We always end up arguing, and I don’t want that. I can’t cope with that right now. I just want... I...

God, I want what I always want. And it hurts so much that even the pain in my head is dulled by it. I want him. Not a guardian, not a teacher. Just him.

Then I hear him draw in a long breath, and in that moment I’m so thankful he hasn’t just turned and walked away that relief adds another thick layer to the emotions that are threatening to drown me. The ones that I have buried so well for so long.

"Been shot before," he says eventually. "Don’t make much difference."

"But they had the cure. I saw it. I know what...they... they..." I trail off, and whatever he says next, I don’t hear it. I don’t hear anything but the blood that rushes giddily through my ears.

How could I be so blind?

People only see what they want to see.

A wash of realisation sinks down to my toes.Mystique?

Oh, God.

A dozen things slide into place. The convenience of his arrival at the lab. The similar things he said. She said.

I try and take a moment. Try and gather my thoughts and understand the mountain of what this makes me feel. But it doesn’t help. The chaos of my mind can’t quite grasp the edges of what it’s trying to comprehend. "You weren’t there, were you?"

Nothing.

"You weren’t there. Not until I called the Professor."

I still don’t look at him.

"I thought it was you. But it was her. She tried to..." My words cut off with this horrible strangled sobbing sound and I can’t stop. I don’t want him to see this, but don’t know quite how to control it. Oh, God, she tried to save me? And it wasn’t him. It wasn’t him. And I can’t decide which is making me cry more.

Through the mess of my tears there’s a tired sigh, then the wood of the porch creaks and instead of hovering in the doorway, he’s sitting beside me, long legs stretching out in front of him. He doesn’t try and comfort me though, not like he used to; there’s no protective arm heavy around my shoulder, just space. But he stays, staring out across the lake as he lets me choke out the hot tears that wrack through me.

"I’m sorry," I mumble at last, drawing in a deep breath to try and regain some vague illusion of control. It comes out all shuddery and pathetic. "You were right. I am a mess." I wipe my eyes roughly on the sleeve of the robe and sniff loudly, then instantly wish I was more sophisticated. Mystique would never have cried messily like that. Or Jean. I’m not one of those people who look pretty when I cry either. I go all blotchy and red and snotty.

"So what happened?" His voice is still grim.

I don’t... I... I stare down his feet, not knowing where or even how to begin. Frightened whatever I say will make this worse. Although how can it be? My eyes hunt for distraction. He ties his bootlaces in strong knots, I realise, fixing on that tiny detail and clinging to it. Tough. Practical.

"Marie?"

Oh, God, don’t use that name. I’m not worthy of that name. Not anymore. "I’m sorry," I begin to babble. "I’m so sorry. You’ve a right to be angry."

"I’m not angry," he snaps back, the tone of his voice a complete contradiction to his words. "You just..." He scrubs his face with a hand. "You scared the shit outta me back there. I thought you were hurt."

"I didn’t mean-"

"You sure about that? ‘Cause you seem to be doin’ it a lot lately."

That one sinks home. I bite my lip, scrunching up the sleeves of the robe in my fists.

"What were you thinkin’?"

"I just... I..."

"You got yourself right back into that whole damn mess!"

"I didn’t know what else to do."

"An’ what the hell is that supposed to mean?" He almost snarls it.

Feeling utterly miserable, I turn my head away. "I make people uncomfortable." It’s not even angry, not anymore. Just sad. "I always have. Even you. You stayed away because of me."

"That’s not what I-"

"Yes, it was." I sniff again, puffy and drained. "Maybe in a different way to everyone else, but it was."

He doesn't say anything and my heart sinks a little further.

"I was tired of it," I say quietly. "People always tip-toeing around me. Besides, you made it pretty clear you wanted me to leave."

"You think I wanted you to leave? How was me asking you to stay a sign that I wanted you to leave!"

"You weren’t exactly overjoyed to find me still here."

Tension bristles off him. "And that’s it? You’re blaming me?"

"...No."

"Then what? What the hell goes on in that head of yours?"

I don’t know what to say to that. Even I don’t know. It’s too raw, too complicated, and after everything else, it’s too much.

"What?" He snaps to my wall of silence. "You think I’ve got answers? You think I know what to do?" His fists clench. "I don’t have the first clue what to say to you right now."

"What do you mean?"

"What the hell do you think I mean?!"

"I don't..." Normally it would come out in a big explosion of words, but I don't have the strength for it. Instead it's feeble and tired. "I don’t know... I never know." I cover my face with my hands.

How the hell am I supposed to know? I don’t understand any of it. I have voices in my head that mock me, and if I had the energy I'd hate them for the taunts and the sick pain they lance through my skull. And everything he says just confuses me more. Every conversation we have, it never makes sense. He’s so stubborn and un-readable.

"Said I’d look out for you," he says eventually. "I can’t do that if you’re actively tryin’ to destroy yourself."

I swallow awkwardly. "You shouldn’t bother. You should just leave me to rot like I deserve."

"I know."

"Then why don’t you?" It comes out sounding dead.

He’s quiet for a very long time. So long that the faint ripple of the lake, the soft rustling of the leaves, they become deafening.

I begin to regret asking. "I shouldn’t have... never mind."

"Because I can’t walk away."

I blink. Wonder if I heard him right. "I don’t understand."

He sounds faintly tetchy. "Neither do I."

Then he refuses to say anything else and we both just sit there. Stubborn and tired, his tension, my awkwardness, bristling between us.

But he doesn’t go.

I wish I knew what that meant too.

The sun comes out from behind its veil of cloud and I blink at the sudden dazzling brightness of the lake. "Did you just come here to yell at me?"

"I’m not yellin’."

"But you are mad at me."

"It’s allowed," he says, without compromise. "You gonna tell me what happened?"

I don’t know if I can. I draw my knees up to my chest. Curl my hands around them. My head throbs and in my mind’s eye images of the lab flash back to me. The metallic smell of the elevator, the tap of Mystique’s heels as she walked ahead of me down those fluorescent strip-lit corridors. The synthetic swish of her stolen lab coat. The stench of formaldehyde. Fighting. Gunshots. The spreading stain of blood.

"I... I thought you were dead. I got... upset."

"Upset?" He sounds so shocked by the word that I actually snort some kind of snotty, tearful laugh. Okay, so that might have been a bit of an understatement.

"Remind me not to get in the way next time you feel 'upset'. You tore that place down from the inside out."

"I’m sorry," I fumble again, but this time he cuts in.

"No." His voice is firm. "You don’t get to be sorry for that. Not tearing the place down. You saved a lot of people. Did a good thing."

Good thing?

How the fuck was it a good thing?

His words make me feel suddenly claustrophobic. Like I’m a liar. No amount of saving people makes up for those I hurt. In the end of the day I’m no better than them. "No, I didn’t."

"They were bad people, kid."

"Yes, but they were people."

"You saw what they did there."

"You don’t have their memories."

But he doesn’t let me get away with that. "Look at me."

I don’t want to. I’m afraid of what I might see and I don’t want to deal with this anymore. I want to close my eyes like a child. I want to curl up into a ball.

"Look at me."

I stare stubbornly at his bootlaces.

Then he comes round to crouch in front of me, reaches out with a hand and nudges my chin upwards so I don’t have any choice in the matter. The touch is so unexpected that I freeze, and for a moment even the other voices fall silent.

"Listen, 'cause I'm only gonna tell you this once. It’s only ever the survivors, the fighters, that live long enough to feel guilt." He doesn’t blink and his voice is gruff. "It’s normal to feel like shit. Don’t lose yourself over this. Okay?"

He’s so close, so intense, I’m like a deer trapped in headlights. I hardly hear his words. I’m suddenly very aware of every part of him, from the faded warmth of his jacket, to the two furrows of a frown creasing his forehead as he studies me. I know I’m staring but I can’t help it, even though he’s stopped speaking.

Even though he’s staring back.

For a brief moment his gaze darkens and something I see there catches my breath. But then he looks away and gets to his feet, and the spell is broken.

"I have to go," he says, running a hand almost awkwardly through his hair, and I think everything that I must be feeling must be plainly written across my face, because he adds, "Not away again, just back to the Mansion. Got lessons to teach this afternoon."

Oh.

I feel faintly stupid for forgetting something like that. Yes, of course he does. The world doesn’t stop when I stop. This is his life here now. He has responsibilities.

And ‘Ro.

My chest tightens.

"When we brought you back this time, the doc wanted you at the Mansion again so she could keep a close eye on you. She’s worried about you," he adds, when he immediately notices the tension that rises through me, "that’s all. No one’s making you do anythin’ you don’t want, okay?"

I hesitate, then give him a nod. But my heart’s still hammering and I’m sure he must be able to hear it.

"The Professor, he said that last time that didn’t work out so well. So I’m to tell you that you can stay here as long as you want. The lake house is yours to use."

"Mine?" the word comes out with such quiet disbelief.

"But if you ever need anythin’," he jerks his head in the direction of the Mansion. I can’t see it. It’s beyond all the trees, a mile or so away. "You know where we are."

My head hurts.

Eyeballs of pain stab directly into my frontal lobe, thoughts continuously twitching and babbling on about the different lives I now have trapped inside my busy skull. My brain feels like the highway at rush hour. Which is always nice. Ouch.

So I do what I’ve done every day this week... and most of last week. I stay by myself. I sit quiet. I breathe in and out. And I try my goddamn hardest to remember who I am.

Little things. It’s the little things that allow me to claw progress off them. I start making a list, pin it to the fridge. I like strawberries with peanut butter, that’s me, it’s no one else. I love the feel of the sun on my skin; it’s one of the things I missed the most when I had to cover up. Anchovies make me gag. I hate to swim, even though I can’t remember the last time I went. I’m ticklish behind my knees. I like crappy old movies. When I was six I had a dog called Meg. She died a few years later in a traffic accident, but the memory is mine, and no matter how sad it is, I treasure it.

Each day I try and add something new. Something that’s purely me. And each day it gets a little better.

I don’t sleep well though, not this time. This time the nightmares that reach me are real events that happened to the others; the things they saw, things that were done to them. Knives, injections, experiments. The beatings and hunger. Every night I re-live it.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve woken up covered in cold sweat, throat raw and constricted from yelling with blind panic.

I don’t have many visitors either. I think they’ve all been told to keep away. Doctor MacTaggart looks in on me once a day, but that’s about it, although I’m not sure how long she’ll be around for. Hank’s been busier than usual with all the politics surrounding the Registration Act, so the Professor called in a favour and asked her to stick around for a while. It's her job to monitor me. Like a child.

Or a wild beast.

I haven't quite decided which, yet.

Other than her once a day visit though, Doctor MacTaggart leaves me to my own devices and I appreciate that. It gives me time to work some things out. Lick my wounds.

When I can cope with it, I get on with the little things, the menial jobs. I dust. Tidy. Sweep the porch. Make a passable attempt at cooking food. I burn most of it, but what the hell. It’s a start, right? That’s what I tell myself anyway as I pick my fork through another dried out disaster. I even do some washing. There was a pile of spare clothes left for me when I woke up that first day, but none of them fit well. So on one otherwise unoccupied Tuesday afternoon I decide to set about cleaning up the stuff I had on when we... when I...

My mind trails off, sliding down its usual slippery path of denial, but this time I don’t let it.

When I destroyed the lab. When I took lives. Saved lives. I look at myself in the mirror as I think it; make sure it sinks home.

And you know what? It doesn’t finish me. I’m still here. I’m still coping. And I didn’t run away from myself.

I take a deep breath and wonder if it’s okay to feel proud of that?

My hands scoop up the pile of messy clothes. The top’s long gone, there’s no saving that, but the pants are probably okay... if I can get the sooty scorch marks out. And the jacket... My fingers catch on something hard in the pocket, and I frown. Unzip it to look a little closer.

The memory chip from my pen drive?

My thoughts flicker back to that tired old PC in the lab. The data. The names. It’s all here.

God.

For a moment my head spins and I fight the urge to throw it straight in the trash. I’m repulsed, I don’t want it. But... shit. A lot of people died for what’s on that stick.

Mystique died.

The thought wrenches at me, far more than I expected. Sadness laced with guilt. My eagerness to always assume the worst of her. That she tried to save me, even after I screamed at her to go away. Who knows why she did it, why she came back that time, and not the other?

I guess it’s something I’ll never know, and I’m not sure how okay I am with that. It wasn’t friendship, not in the traditional sense... but then, what about me is in the traditional sense?

God knows.

When I was growing up, I used to think that the transition between childhood and adulthood was a simple thing. Children learn, and adults know all the answers. They know what they’re doing.

Wish I knew what I was doing.

I look at the memory chip in my hand, still frowning, trying to think of an excuse to destroy it. But nothing is forthcoming and I know deep down that I have to take it to the Professor. It’s the right thing to do.

And for once I want to be right.

---

Although I don’t like to admit it, it actually takes me most of the afternoon to work up the courage to venture outside my front door. By the time I finally manage it, it’s colder than I expected, which is not good because my jacket is still drying over the back of a kitchen chair. I fight off a shiver. It would be so tempting to use that as an excuse...

Besides... what would the Professor do with a list of names? Thing’s probably worthless...

No.

I stop myself before that train of thought goes any further. Heh. I do it so forcefully as well that it actually peps me up a little bit, and I go with the motion it brings, letting it propel me forwards before I change my mind and...

....Ohhhh but changing my mind seems good right now. And easy. As well as-

Rogue?

Ah.

Or not.

I forgot the Professor could do that.

I’ll be in my study, should you wish to find me.

Which, roughly translated, means there ain't no backing out now. I wonder how long he’s been watching me. Waiting for me to step outside...

Uh-uh. Don’t go there.

Don't freak out about the 'path.

Also... try not to be too concerned that you're talking to yourself. At least you found the right personality. See? There's a positive side to every-

Rogue?

Oh. Right.

I steel myself, jaw clenching as I head firmly towards the Mansion in an act of pure will power. If I'm honest, I'm unsure of what I’m more afraid; meeting people, having people meet me, having to explain things to the Professor, or adding the noise and clamour of the school to that already going on in my head. Which thumps painfully at the mere thought.

Ugh. I swear, if this headache ever goes? I’m never going to touch another person again. Ever. Touch is highly overrated.

Then as if in penance for thinking that, I’m suddenly struck with a memory of years ago. Logan hooking my newly gained strands of white hair behind my ear, hovering in the doorway and the flurry of emotions that spiralled through my stomach as I told him I didn’t want him to go.

Yeah. Okay. Most touch is highly overrated.

My stomach still tingles at the memory.

The late afternoon lessons are well in progress by the time I get there, so the hallways are blissfully empty of chattering voices and the thud of teenage feet. In fact I don’t see a single person on the entire journey through the high-ceilinged corridors to the Professor’s room. Something of which I’m sure is his doing. It’s never usually that quiet.

I reach up a hand to knock on the door.

"It’s open," calls the Professor’s voice. My hand still hovering an inch away from the wood.

I forgot he could do that too. But I will not let it freak me out. Nope.

I take a deep breath, step inside...

...Then wonder what on earth it was I was worrying about. The air of calm that always resides in his study flows over me in soothing waves. My eyes are drawn to the window, washed pale with the promise of evening rain, a lamp in the corner glinting off the glass fronted cabinets and providing the warm circle of light that wraps the room in comfort. The Professor looks up from his desk and gives me a smile.

"Why don’t you sit?" he says kindly. "Then you can tell me why you’re here."

And he's so patient, so focused on me and ready to listen, that after the first few halting words it’s easy. I sit where he suggests and sentences flood my mind. Maybe he helps, I don’t know, but memory after memory flows out of me. Images, thoughts, feelings. I begin right back when I first left the Mansion and don’t stop until I’m handing over the memory chip, sliding it across the surface of his desk until it sits in front of him.

He studies it for a minute. A tiny little piece of circuitry, no bigger than the nail on my little finger. It looks so innocuous. Inconsequential.

Information. The most powerful weapon.

He takes it carefully in his hand, before placing it in one of the drawers at his side, locking it firmly with a twist of a brass key. He gives me a nod. "Thank you."

I shake my head. "I don’t want to be tha-"

But he cuts me off. "This information is enough to give us leverage. Maybe even enough leverage to prevent them putting the Mutant Registration Act in force. I mean it when I give my thanks Rogue, I do not give them lightly."

I don’t quite know what to say to that.

I’m embarrassed, but... slightly pleased. Yeah. That’s the strange emotion that’s eluding me. Underneath it all, I have a faint element of satisfaction.

I manage a quiet, "okay," and I get to my feet before the new feeling leaves me. I’m halfway out the door before a thought strikes me, and I suddenly feel so incredibly guilty for not thinking it before. "Scott?"

The Professor looks back up from his thoughts.

"Um... how is he?"

"He’s improving, somewhat."

I frown. That doesn’t sound as good as I had hoped. "Somewhat?"

"These things take time," he reassures me. "He’s... would you like to see him?"

I...

Yes, actually. I would. I really would.

I nod.

"I’ll take you there myself."

He gets up from his desk and takes a couple of long strides over to the door. As always it takes me by surprise and I wonder faintly if I’ll ever get used to that.

"You’re not the only one," he adds, with a slight smile.

...I forgot he could do that, too. Damn.

As I follow him, I try really hard not to think of anything incriminating. Or rude. Or involving Logan naked. Which instantly brings a whole heap of erotic images to the forefront of my mind, the very least of which is me, looking at the Logan-me, in the mirror. Doing... stuff.

Shit, the Professor doesn’t know about that, does he? Oh God, please don’t let him be reading this right now.

My face flushes an attractive red, so I stare very attentively at my feet as we head to the East Wing, counting the steps I take instead, hoping like hell that all he can hear in my mind is forty one, forty two, forty three...

He leaves me outside of Scott’s door, with a passing mention that he has to go and teach the last afternoon lesson. Which really I think is a nice way of saying ‘I’ll go, so you can stop worrying about what you’re thinking.’

Which he would only be saying if he knew what I was thinking.

...Wouldn’t he?

Ugh. The added thought only makes my sore head hurt even more. My eyes water in painful sympathy. Ouch.

I try and take my mind off the complexity... and hopelessness... of trying to second guess a ‘path, and knock gently on the door I’m standing like an idiot in front of.

There’s no answer.

Still, the Professor said Scott would want to see me... right? So I push it inwards.

Inside the curtains are drawn, casting the room in sweeping shadows. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust. A bed sits against the wall, portable monitoring equipment all hooked up beside it. The only movement is the outline of a man, pushing himself into a sitting position. I can just about make out the bandages wrapped tightly around his eyes.

A strange mixture of sympathy, anger and protectiveness washes over me.

"Hello?" His voice cracks when he speaks, but it’s stronger than when I first found him. He’s stronger. That’s a good thing, right?

So what was the ‘somewhat’ about?

"If you’re just here to pity me, or stare, then the door’s that way. I suggest you use it."

Ah. That would probably be it.

"Hey," I say carefully, pretending to ignore his grouchy comment. As I grow used to the lack of light I see him hesitate, notice the way he listens to my footsteps as I tread quietly forwards.

I look at the chair beside his bed, wondering if I should sit. Or is that too intrusive? I mean, I did kind of invite myself in and everything. And now I’m here I’m suddenly remembering that this is... well...Scott. Team-leader Scott. As in Mr Summers. And he and I were never close. Not in that way. He was always up there doing good and saving the world with Jean and ‘Ro, while I was still struggling to come to terms with the Math homework he gave me. Big difference.

...But then... experiences like the one we went through do bring people closer together. Don’t they?

...Or is that just what people say to help you get over these things. Maybe it’s just me, him, and a bunch of nasty memories we have in common.

"So, whoever you are, are you just going to stand there?"

"Maybe. I don’t want to intrude if you want to be left alone."

He’s quiet for a moment. Then, "Rogue?"

I hesitate. Although I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because it’s my last chance to pretend I’m someone else. "...Yeah."

"What are you doing here?"

"I had a meeting with the Professor. Thought I’d come and say hi... if that’s okay?"

He doesn’t answer and I’m not sure how to read that. But then he swallows and reaches fumbling for the glass of water beside the bed, and I watch him in some kind of sick fascination I feel instantly guilty for. As he takes a long sip, I notice how gaunt the hollows of his cheeks are.

"I owe you my thanks," he says eventually, trying to slide the glass back on the table beside him. He misses, and it clatters to the floor, a sudden patch of wetness spreading quickly across the carpet. "Damn it!"

The frustration in his voice wrenches and I stoop to help, but he senses the movement.

"Don’t. Just leave it."

I straighten back upright. "Okay," I say. "But on the condition you don’t go thanking me anymore. I’ve already had enough thanks to last me for the day. I’m not sure I know what to do with all this grateful feeling."

He huffs an annoyed sigh. "Stop being so melodramatic."

"I’m being melodramatic?"

He’s silent. Stubbornly so.

"It doesn’t help," I say eventually.

"What doesn’t?"

"Wallowing. I should know. I’m an expert at it."

"I’ll be sure to bear that in mind"

I ignore the sarcasm in his voice. "So, how are you doing?"

"Wonderful," he lies, leaning back against the headboard. "It’s like an extended vacation. You?"

"Peachy. I have a killer headache and the personalities of half the population, but I haven’t gone crazy in over two weeks. I’m practically sane."

I think I win some points there because his lips twitch in what could almost be the ghost of a smile. Although he tries to hide it. "Are you going to sit down?"

"Do you want me too?"

He shrugs.

"Well in that case, yeah. I think I might."

It’s a crappy wicker chair and it creaks loudly as I sink into the cushions, but I think he likes that. The sounds tell him what his eyes can’t. Hell, even my eyes can hardly see in here, the darkness is so thick and stuffy. "Why don’t you let me open the curtains, let some light in?"

He looks suspicious. "Did Moira send you in here?"

"...No."

"Well I’m fine with it the way it is," he snaps.

O-kaaaay. I make a mental note to steer clear of the curtain issue.

Then I hear him sigh. "I’m sorry. That was rude of me."

"It’s fine."

"No, it’s not. I owe you my life. The least I can do is make an effort to be polite."

A huffed laugh escapes me. "I’ve never really cared much for politeness. And doctors aren’t that bad." My mind flickers back to how Dr McCoy tried his best to look after me last time. "It gets better."

"You’re speaking from experience?"

"I’ve been busy this last year or so." Remembering Logan’s comments, I add, "Steadily trying to destroy myself I think."

At that Scott stays broodingly quiet, but it’s not an awkward silence, not like it is between Logan and me. Neither of us is expecting anything from the other and that’s... nice. Yeah. That’s what it is. It’s refreshing.

"So," he says eventually. "What happened to you then?"

"Short story? Car accident."

"Long story."

"I did some stupid things. Robbed a bank. Got shot. Logan, he... well he got me out, but he crashed the car."

"You robbed a bank?"

"They were handling mutant blood money. Besides," I make a half hearted effort to defend myself, "it wasn’t just me. Mystique was there too."

"You robbed a bank?"

This is more like the Scott I knew. "Several. Look, if you’re gonna get hung up on the details, I think I’d better go..."

"Wait." He reaches out, grabs my wrist. "Stay. Please?"

I frown. "You sure?"

"No, but I’m not sure of much at the moment."

God, I know how that feels. I want to tell him that too, but he looks like he's struggling with something, so I stay quiet. Wait.

Scott takes his time, searching for the right words. When he does speak, his voice is quiet and rough. "Everyone’s fussing around me, expecting me to be overjoyed that I’m... that I'm out of..." He swallows awkwardly. "They don’t quite understand... " He trails off, and in his other hand I notice he's holding his visor. It looks old and unused, and it sends a strange pang of sadness through me. "They picked me up from Alkali Lake." I can see the tension that whitens his knuckles. "I was in there for four years. I can’t just switch that off. You’re the first person to talk to me as if I’m not... broken."

His thoughts echo mine of a month ago with such clarity, that it sends a shiver down my spine. My head throbs and my only defence is to try and brush it off with humour. "That’s ‘cause I’m just as messed up."

Again, that twist of his lips appears. "Sucks to be us, then."

"Your eyes..." I begin tentatively, but he cuts me off.

"I’m blind." He says it firmly. Matter of fact. The lack of emotion behind it is startling, only... I know that blandness. I know it all too well.

"Dr McCoy-"

"Has said there is nothing that even he can do."

I’m not sure what to say to that. But I realise his fingers are still on my wrist from where he grabbed it, so I slide my hand round into his and give it a gentle squeeze. Then we just sit there for a while. Each lost in our own thoughts.

"So Logan saved you?" he says eventually, although I’m not sure why he chose that topic to focus on.

When I answer, it’s lightly. At least, I hope it is. "Yeah. He was just... in the neighbourhood."

"Of course."

I look at him for a moment. Try to establish what he’s thinking.

"You know," he says, oblivious of my study. "He talks about you."

My heart rate instantly speeds up. He does?

"I can feel your pulse rushing."

"That’s not fair."

"Why are you so ashamed of it?"

"I'm not." It comes out sounding sulky. "Besides, there's nothing there for me to be ashamed of. All we do is argue. And anyway, he's got 'Ro."

"Really? What makes you think that?"

The question hangs poised in the air, but it never gets answered. With a brief but warm "good evening," Moira MacTaggart lets herself in, and I’m asked, politely, if I would mind leaving.

Just as I’m halfway out the door however, I hear, "You know, I may be hiding away in this dark room, but I know half of what’s going on round here. 'Ro’s been dating Hank on and off for over a year now."

Time is a slippery thing. When you want it to go fast, it drags. When you’re rushed, it flies by far too quickly. And when you’re hiding away in a lake house hoping you don’t have to confront anyone or deal with issues and... stuff... It trickles along so slowly it practically stops all together.

It’s been three days since I visited Scott. Three days is a long time to think. That’s seventy two hours. Four thousand, three hundred and twenty minutes. See? It’s so frickin long I’ve had time to calculate the math.

Why am I still here? I have headaches, yeah, but they’re controllable. Kinda. I have funds in the bank... even though I probably shouldn’t have. There are entirely different countries out there I could visit. I could go to Paris. To England. Anywhere.

So why don’t I? What’s different about this time?

I tuck my bare feet underneath me in one of the faded armchairs, sinking deep into the cushions shaped with years of use, and look at the room around me. The flicker of sunset on the lake reflects through the window and casts watery ripples across the whitewashed walls. A small pile of books sits comfortably at my feet. Books that I have actually finished for once. The key to the front door lives on the narrow table out in the hall, and it’s for my use only. The quietness. The stillness.

I like it here.

"‘Ro’s been dating Hank on and off for over a year now."

My eyes drift closed as I sigh to myself. Every time I remember Scott’s voice, something sinks through me. I can’t quite decide if it’s fear, elation, or some twisted combination of the two. The sensible part of me keeps saying ‘so what? Doesn’t make any difference at all...’ and I try to listen to it. After all, look what happened last time I tried to talk about my feelings. Big mess. Big mistake. I mean, I know I’m working on all this anti-denial stuff, but some things are best not thought about too much. My feelings for Logan. Everyone said it was just a crush. So it’s just a crush. I’ll get over it.

Yeah.

Maybe if I say it often enough I’ll start to believe it.

Then I remember the heat in his eyes as he leant close, to tell me in his gruff way that it’s normal for things to suck, and every nerve in my body tingles.

I don’t understand life.

I mean, I want to get past this so bad. Why isn’t that enough?

A knock at the door jolts me out of my thoughts, and I frown as I get to my feet. Moira has already been today. I’m not expecting anyone else... am I? Padding my way over I open it inwards, peering into the crack of bright afternoon light it reveals.

Ororo gives me a slight smile. "Can I come in?"

Oh.

I bristle slightly, suddenly very protective of my new-found solitude. Why her, of all people? I resent that! ...Although I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. She’s been nothing but nice to me, even when I didn’t deserve it.

You want me to say I didn’t sleep with ‘Ro? Because it’ll make you feel goddamned better?

"Rogue?"

I hesitate, then reluctantly step aside to let her in.

Her scent brushes past me, and I feel her presence like a live wire. It puts me on edge. Ugh, I wish I could just get it over with and really hate her. That would make things a whole lot easier.

But even though the gnaw of jealousy makes my mutation itch with anticipation, I won’t set it free. I refuse to become that person again. Besides, over the last few weeks some annoying part of me has grown a conscious and won’t let me. It’s the stupid part that rationalises everything. The part that I love and resent all at the same time, because it’s what makes me... well... me. Unfortunately.

Doesn't mean we have to be friends though.

She doesn’t choose one of the deep armchairs by the hearth, or the steps of the decking out back; instead she heads towards the kitchen, leans against the counter as if she’s not planning on staying too long. Which is fine by me, whatever this is about.

... Um. What is this about? We've never exactly been close.

I hover awkwardly, wondering if I should sit down at the table, or if I should invite her to sit, maybe offer her a drink... although that would look like I want her to stay... which I don’t... but I don't want to look like I don't, so I'm over compensating and... what the hell am I doing? Why are pointless little things like this suddenly so important to me? And how can I suddenly feel so awkward in the same place I felt so comfortable in only moments ago? I hate that!

"I hope you don’t mind me stopping by," she says, looking around at the semi-organised clutter. Even when I’m tidy, I’m not...tidy.

"It looks nice, this place. You’ve done it good." Her voice is warm, despite the lack of emotion expressed on her face. She’s always been like that. Calm. Controlled. Smartly dressed. Neat hair falling quietly over her shoulders and spilling onto her colourful top, every strand in perfect order. She’s totally serene and comfortable with her surroundings; a total contradiction to the riptides of emotions and personalities that constantly batter and fray the frazzled edges of my mind.

I wish I knew how she does it.

"This is awkward for you, isn’t it?"

Am I that transparent?

"It’s okay," she gives me that kind look again. "I understand."

No, she doesn’t. How could she possibly?

"I’ve been talking with Scott."

Ah.

Okay, maybe she does. Suddenly I feel a whole lot more awkward. "What do you want?" It comes out sounding suspicious, and probably confirms everything she’s thinking about me.

"Do you mind if I ask you something personal?" She looks at me directly. "The night you left, the second time... you and Logan had a fight, didn’t you?"

It’s not so much of a question, more of a statement; one that I want to deny. So what if we did? I don’t want her to know! But I’m terrible at hiding my reactions these days; just thinking about that night brings a whole heap of emotions to the surface, and I’m pretty sure her answer shows clearly on my face.

"Scott didn’t tell you that," I mumble.

"He mentioned... something else to me, you’re right. But I remember that night. When Logan heard you had taken his bike, he was furious. But he was far worse when he came back without you."

So...what? What’s that supposed to mean?

She tucks a loose strand of hair unconsciously behind her ear and the gesture spawns all sorts of completely irrational thoughts. Did Logan do that to her? Play with her hair? Is he the sort to play with hair?

I swallow and push the images away. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you should talk to him."

"We talk."

"No you don’t. Not properly."

"About what?" I snap back, my temper finally beginning to rise.

She takes a deep breath. "You know," she says quietly, "this isn’t easy for me either. I don’t like to talk about my personal life."

I fold my arms. Then unfold them when I realise it looks defensive. "Then why are you?"

"Because it needs to be said. Logan and I, we... well it was a long time ago. After Alkali Lake."

Oh.

To my extreme embarrassment, I actually feel colour begin to prickle up through my cheeks. I’m not sure I want to hear this.

"It was about comfort, I suppose. Nothing else. Not for him anyway." She gives me a small smile. It’s sad, I realise. Resigned. "We haven’t let it come between our friendship. Don’t let it come between yours."

Don’t let it come between what? There’s nothing there for it to come between. That's the problem!

And for some reason my legs seemed to have turned to jelly. Maybe it’s the intimacy of the conversation, I don’t know, but I'm no longer sure what to do. What you say to something like that? I feel so awkward and out of place, it's like I’m watching the whole scene play out from very far away.

"Rogue?"

My ears ring and I just want her to go away. I don’t want to have this talk. Not now. It’s not fair to play with my stupid, gullible emotions like that. To give me hope. I hate hope! Hope’s bought me nothing but disappointment.

"Talk to him."

"I don’t think I-"

"Please?" She smoothes her hands down the front of her jeans, and I notice for the first time that they’re as unsteady as mine. "He’s a man. An intensely private one at that. Men are terrible at admitting these things at the best of times, but him? He’s far more stubborn that most."

"But why are you-"

"Because I’m not blind," she says, and she takes a deep breath, as if the worst of it is over. "Promise me you’ll think on it at least?"

---

Think on it?

It’s well over three hours later, the sun’s set and dusk is creeping in, and I’m still stood in the kitchen where she left me. Still thinking on it.

I watch the shadows creep up the walls until they are no longer shadows, they’re just darkness and my eyes strain to make out the fuzzy shapes of the room around me. I listen until the sounds of the day merge into the muffled quietness of night, nothing but the hum of the fridge and the gentle rustling whisper of the trees. Still thinking.

Then without warning, I propel myself away from the wall, grab my jacket in one hand, key in the other, and let myself out into the night.

I walk really fast towards the Mansion. Mainly because I know that if I slow down, I’ll stop completely and never go through with this.

I try and think sensibly about everything 'Ro said... and fail. I try and tell myself that it won’t make a blind bit of difference anyway. After all, me knowing new information doesn’t change Logan, does it? He knew it all along... although like ‘Ro said, he is stubborn... and I’m not even sure I’m making sense... God why am I doing this? Even if he does think about me in that way, he’s never acted on it. It just makes him fee guilty. Or worse. So why would now be any different?

But I’m still walking, and my mind is racing and my heart is hammering and even as I’m doing it, I can’t quite bring myself to comprehend that I’m actually...

Christ, I actually feel faint.

The quietness of the Mansion twists my stomach into knots. Most people are probably in the rec room, I realise. Or eating. Or out. Maybe Logan’s out. Maybe this is pointless. Maybe it’ll be... no. I’m gonna do this. Whatever this is.

I head towards his room.

My resolve lasts all of about twenty seconds before it crumbles and I hesitate, then stop altogether. I start to convince myself that actually talking to him in the morning... or in fact, not talking to him at all, and hiding away for the rest of my life is a far more likeable option.

I turn around; head to the kitchen instead, thinking maybe I should pretend I came here for a drink... that’ll work... right? People will believe me? Not that I’m planning on talking to...well... people. Feeling every inch the coward that I am, I wonder if I should just run back outside instead where it’s... it’s...

I stumble to a halt again.

I almost, almost change my mind, and in a moment of rash bravado head back towards his room... but... well... no.

Kitchen it is. Hoping no one’s watching me and my weird stuttering little hallway stop-start dance.

Besides, it’s much better this way anyway. At least now if I do decide to go and talk to him, whatever the hell ‘talk’ means these days, then it’ll not be on an empty stomach. See? Rational thinking. That’s what’s behind this. There’s no fear involved at-

I stop completely dead outside the kitchen doorway, so suddenly that it must look like I’ve crashed into an invisible wall.

Through the faint slice of light that escapes from the kitchen I can see the balcony door ajar, and the scent of a familiar brand of cigar carries to me on the faint breeze.

Every fine hair on the back of my neck stands up.

It has to be him.

Shit. Shit! Most of me wants to use the moment to bolt back to the lake house and hide there until I’m starving and forced to eat the carpet. But while my apparently none-too-stable brain tells me that’s a fantastic idea, the rest of me seems to have other thoughts and I’m already peering past the open balcony door, trying to see...

A kick of emotion rocks through me. It's him alright. I’d recognise the set of his shoulders anywhere. That ugly shirt. Those tight jeans...

Okay. Now I’ve peeked, I can go, right? Because I’m still unnoticed...

...Or not.

His shoulder’s tense.

My pulse hammers through my head and I feel almost dizzy.

He doesn’t turn around though. Doesn't say anything. Just stays right where he is. Damn it! He’s not helping! And I can’t just go now, he’ll know I perved at him, then ran... which is far, far worse. Now I’ll have to say something. At least this way I can pretend I came here with a purpose. Which was... well...

Oh God. I’m not grown up enough for these kinds of conversations. Not with him.

My heart judders erratically in my chest and I wonder if there’s a chance I’m actually going into cardiac arrest. Because right now, that would be such a convenient escape route...

Argh! Why am I feeling so completely on edge?! And it’s just me as well. He’s appears to fine, damn him! He’s not a trembling mess. He still hasn’t moved! Not even an inch. And I know he must sense my fumbling panic, but he shows no outward effects. He just continues looking out over the grounds into the oncoming night, elbows leaning casually on the smooth railings, his shirt shadowed and creased in the falling darkness.

Damn him and his... his gruff... ignoring me... manliness...

I scrunch the sleeves of my sweater up in my fists, and take three long, deep breaths, but far from calming me down, they just send more oxygen to my brain and everything goes into giddy overdrive.

I can’t do this.

I turn, walk away really fast, almost blind to the other people wandering the school corridors. The voices in my head are repeating stupid. Stupid! And they’re right, I know they are, but right now I don’t even care where I’m going, as long as it’s away. Shit. What a screw up.

I head over to the East Wing without thinking. Realise belatedly that I’m now trapped and if I want to get out, I’ll have to go back the way I came, past the kitchen. Fuck. I’m not making this any better! I have four or five seconds of complete blind panic, then make an instantly bad decision, and let myself into Scott’s room.

There’s a lamp in the corner casting out a circle of soft light, but other than that the room’s reassuringly dark. I close the door behind me, lean back against the cool wood, my heart rate finally beginning to return to normal.

That was so embarrassing.

"Did it cross your mind I might be asleep?" The slightly grouchy voice doesn’t come from the bed. Rather, the chair beside it.

I cringe slightly. "Sorry. Actually, I was kinda hoping that you were."

He huffs out a bark of surprise, and I belatedly realise that I must sound like some sort of stalker or total pervert. "I didn’t mean," I add hastily, "I didn’t come here to... fuck," I curse, then realise that went wrong again. "I mean... shit. I mean...Oh for God’s sake will you just shoot me now and put me out my misery?" Can I get nothing right?

He’s laughing at me. The bastard is laughing.

"Truth?"

I sigh. "Hiding. Like a complete coward."

"It’s good to know I still have some uses," he tries for sarcastic, but he’s still smirking a little. "Are you going at least tell me who from? Liven up my very dull evening? Is Hank back and looking for lab volunteers again?"

"I’m not really... I mean I..." I trail off as I become increasingly aware of footsteps. Long striding footsteps. Getting louder. "Oh shit! He followed me?" I make a dive for the closet.

"He? It’s Logan isn’t it. You know, if he’s tracked you into here, he’s going to know you’re in the closet. He’s the best hunter I’ve worked with."

"Shut up and give me some moral support here. Just... lie to him or something. Tell him I jumped out the window." I whisper loudly, wading my way through various shirts and pants. Christ, these are all very neatly pressed. I guess some things never change. I pull the door quietly shut on its hinges until thin crack of light disappears and I’m enveloped in a stuffy darkness.

There’s a soft creak as the door handle to Scott’s room turns.

"You still awake Cyke?"

I hear a huffed out sigh. "No."

"Y’know. It’d do you some good to get out of here. Get outside."

"Stop trying to play the nice guy. I liked you better when I didn’t have to like you."

"Look, I ain’t gonna disturb you. Wallow in self-pity as much as you like. Just tell Rogue to come find me when she’s finished hidin' amongst your underwear, okay?"

Damn.

I flinch as the door shuts behind him. Then I count to at least a hundred before I’m sure he’s far enough away. Well, I try to. I only make it to seventy eight before Scott coughs very unsubtly.

"Unless you’ve fallen asleep in there, now would be a really good time to come out."

Ugh.

I do as he says. It's not graceful.

Right now I really miss the old Scott. The Fearless Leader. Mainly because he’d have been far too uptight for this conversation to go the way I have a horrible feeling it’s going to go.

"So..." he says, almost too congenially. "You... Logan...?"

"We’re not."

"I can see that. Even without my eyes. What I’m interested in, is why you keep running away like a frightened kitten every time someone so much as mentions his name."

"I’m not a frightened kitten," I grumble, giving him a scowl for good measure. "I just... he’s... like... It’s complicated. Okay?"

"Do you like him?"

"As a friend? Of course I-"

"Do you like him?"

I stare at him for a moment. Then I nod. Cowards way out, I know. Pick the path of communication he can’t-

"Are you nodding?"

Fuck it. Life hates me today. I take a deep breath. "...Yeah."

"Do you like him enough to do something about it?"

For some reason I go all hot and cold. "Like what?"

"Oh, I don’t know... You could maybe, and I’m just throwing this out here, talk to him?"

"I tried. Why do you think I’m here?"

"In my closet? Wow. It obviously went well."

"Well, I didn’t actually get around to the saying anything part."

"Why not?"

"Because he might actually hear me!"

"And what would be wrong with that? What have you got to lose?"

"I..." A long list of words comes to mind. Pride. Self-respect. Reputation. The will to live. But they’re all things I screwed over a long time ago. I’m just plain scared. "Because he’ll say no. Then he’ll leave again."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because it’s what he always does!"

Scott almost throws his hands up in exasperation. "For someone with perfectly good eyes, you don’t see much, do you?"

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"He’s a moody bastard to everyone else in this place, except you. He swears too much, fights too much, smokes too much, except around you.You’re the one that keeps him human. You’re the one he wants to save time and again."

"He said he stayed away from here because of the way he felt about me." I grind my teeth. Almost hiss it out. "He yelled it at me."

"You were a kid. It probably scared him shitless. He did the right thing."

"I’m not a kid anymore!"

"Well you’re still acting like one!"

I glare at him. I don’t even care he can’t see it. "Coming from you? That’s rich," I bite back. "At least I’m not afraid to leave my room."

"At least I’m in a room. You’re behind the walls in your mind. Lot smaller."

I open my mouth to yell something back... then realise I have nothing to say. I hate that! I huff angrily; screw him if he’s gonna be all... all.... argh! I don’t have to stay here and listen to this!

Yeah. And I slam the door satisfyingly loud behind me as well.

Ugh.

That’s two lectures I’ve had in one day. First Storm, then Scott. What is it about me at the moment that makes people feel the need to offer me advice? I don’t want it! I’m quite happy coping with existing, and dealing with the fucked up hours between waking and sleeping in my own time, without anyone else sticking their oar in. I don’t want that pressure. I don’t want them to assume things about me. I don’t want them to tell me what I should do.

And damn it, I don’t want them to be right about it all.

Two days later and I’m sitting out on the back porch, trying my hardest to concentrate on the book in my hand, pants rolled up to my knees and my toes dipping in the freezing cold water. Which is probably not a good idea, they’re actually beginning to turn slightly blue. Still, I never said that I was sensible, did I?

Whatever.

Two days, and I’m still hiding. My mind's full of maybe’s and what if’s, and wondering what would happen if I did talk to him. Because if ‘Ro and Scott seem to think it would make a difference... then... well... surely they can’t both be wrong? Right? They know about this stuff... don’t they?

But I know Logan. Or, more specifically, I know me and Logan. And we don’t talk. Not like that. Not anymore.

Why is that?

Is it me? Is it my fault? Am I resentful because he keeps himself at a distance? Probably. But he’s just as bad! He snaps right back at me, so what’s his excuse? Or rather, he used to. And dammit, why has he been so goddamned nice to me since I got back this time? Because at least I understand the snapping. I like him, he doesn’t feel like he should like me back. I snap. He snaps. Normal. So, what? What’s with this uneasy truce between us? Is that what it is?

Ugh, it's all so goddamned confusing.

Moira comes and goes. She tells me off for freezing my feet in the water for so long. Says in that Scottish accent of hers that she’ll not be around to fix me up much longer, so I’d better not go absorbing half the government again anytime soon. Ha. Yeah, thanks. Love a doctor with a sense of humour.

She leaves me some fresh food though and I pick at my lunch, then push it to one side, shove my chair angrily against the wall and storm around needing to do... something. Argh! Anything! But there’s nothing but books and the lake and nature surrounding me, and none of it helps. None of it has any answers.

I flop back on my bed with a frustrated sigh.

I could ask him outright. If there’s nothing going on between us, why do you look at me the way you do? Why do you get close? Why do you always find me, and risk everything to scrape me out of the messes I get into?

But I can’t. I won’t. Because he’ll shrug, thick skinned as always, and stubbornly tell me it means nothing.

...Won’t he?

Before I was sure, but now...?

Ugh. I hate that element of doubt... that... hope. That faint fizzle that warms my stomach and tells me lies. Because I know whatever I say to him it’s going to hurt again.

So why do I want to tell him so badly? Why can’t I just move on? Am I a glutton for punishment? What?

I screw my eyes up angrily, not sure how to handle all the emotions surging through me. I want to deaden them like before, but there’s no chance of that working these days. It takes all my willpower not to listen to the voices in my head and forget I’m not one of them. Fuck all chance of getting a handle on my feelings as well.

Glaring at myself in the mirror, trying to ignore the dark smudges under my eyes, I tug my running shoes on instead.

I head outside into the muggy afternoon; push myself too far, too fast, until my skin is slick and my muscles burn; my throat thick and raw with the effort. Only when each step is an ordeal and I can no longer feel anything but the jarring thud of my feet and the screeching pain of my lungs, do I finally let myself slow down and head for home.

The journey back’s a dizzy blur, legs light and head spinning. By the time I get there I’m exhausted, but it makes no difference because – and something inside me still has the power to lurch painfully – Logan’s there. Sitting on my doorstep. Sleeves rolled up his forearms, legs stretched out in front like he owns the fucking place.

After two days, I want to give up.

I just... Now? I’m supposed to do this now?

He looks up, squints into the setting sun at my back. "Thought I’d come and find out why you’ve been avoidin' me."

I can’t manage anything more intellectually complicated than resting my hands on my knees and fighting to breathe. Seriously, God? Fate? Karma? Whatever, whoever you are, you really dislike me, don’t you? Why now? Of all times?

He gets up when it becomes apparent I won’t be going anywhere any time soon. "You should keep movin’, stop your muscles from seizing up."

Yeah, thanks for the helpful advice. Got any on how not to screw up your life? Or how to talk to the man you lust after when he treats you like a kid sister? I start walking around anyway, only because I know he’s right. Damn him. My legs are stiffening already. "What do you want?"

He raises an eyebrow at the shortness of my tone, but lets it slide. "You gonna tell me what that was all about the other day?"

"What what was all about?"

"You tryin’ to be smart, kid?"

Yes. "...No."

"You suddenly developed a taste for Cyke’s clothes?"

I run my hands down my calves, trying to loosen the increasing tightness. "...No."

"Then what?" This time his voice is gruff. "Did I upset you again? Are you sick? What?"

"Why does it bother you so much?"

"Because I don’t like it when you run away from me."

My hands stumble to a halt and I stare blankly at him. If all the breath wasn’t already knocked out of me, that would have done it. What am I supposed to say to that? It definitely comes under the mixed signals category.

...Right?

He looks faintly annoyed. "...Well?"

Oh, fuck it. My brain fumbles around for...something... anything. "I thought you would... well... I thought you were still gonna be mad at me." That’s believable... isn't it? "I thought ... especially after..."

"I am."

Really? Okay, that’s not improving my confidence. "Then... why are you over here being... nice?"

"Darlin’ this ain't me being nice, this is me being concerned. It happens. Occasionally."

He says it with such an air of glaring casualness that I’m thrown completely off balance. Concerned. Ha. That’s the same as ever though. Good ol’ Wolverine, gruff as they come, but always looking out for the stray.

...Although...did he did just call me darlin’?

Um. That’s new.

I try really, really hard not to hyperventilate.

"Look," he says, matter of fact. "You got two choices. Either out with it, whatever’s causing you to run scuttlin’ away and hide in Cyke’s closet, or you continue playin’ whatever game it is you think you’re winning at."

"Oh, believe me," I huff out some kind of strangled laugh. "I’m not winning at anything."

Yeah... he doesn’t find that funny..

Oh God, this is like now or never time, isn't it.

Fuck.

"I just..." My palms are sweating. I actually feel faint. "I... you...’Ro said we should...y’know...talk... And Scott. Not you, me and Scott. But Scott also said, so I was gonna, but then I didn’t, and now you’re here and I... should, I think, but I... can’t..."

I don’t think that even began to make sense.

"Talk about what?"

He understood? My stomach plummets down to somewhere beneath my feet. The tightness in my chest intensifies.

I am not ready for this, no matter what the others said.

...Am I?

I take a gulping breath. Tell myself it’s simple. Just form words, and no shouting, arguing, draining, injuring, accusations or homicide of any kind. Just a talk. Tell him you’re confused. That’s all. Easy.

I close my eyes for a second. Gather my courage and...

...I don’t need to say a thing.

He can read everything I’m thinking on my face, plain as day. I can see it in his expression.

"About you an’ me?"

My heart judders to a stop. I manage a nod.

A faint breeze rustles its way through the leaves.

For a moment Logan does nothing but watch me, his gaze fixed like a mask over a myriad of thoughts. Then his jaw tightens, and the darkness that saturates his eyes is enough to send heat chasing all the way down my spine. I see his chest rise and fall, a tiny part of me reaching out to him with all I’ve got thinking... maybe... maybe this time...

But almost as soon as it appears, it’s gone. Flickering like a fading flame. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then that’s gone too, and I see it happening; the way his face closes up; the shutters that go down. They always fucking go down.

He steps back a pace, puts some distance between us. He looks behind him for a solution that isn’t there.

"Logan?"

"No."

I blink. Swallow.

I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach. "I'm...sorry. I didn't... I mean-"

"No. Not gonna happen."

"I just-"

"Don't." The word is so cold and hard it cuts right through me.

For a moment I just stand there in shock. Is the idea so repulsive that he won't even talk about it? Oh God, I must be such a joke to him. Humiliation floods through me, heating my cheeks, and the fact that he's still there, watching every reaction spill out of me only makes it ten times worse.

I look away, struggling to hold myself together, the muscles tightening in my face as I force them to stay frozen. I try and find distraction, anywhere but his eyes, anything that’s not him; my focus blurring over spiky grass, mottled walls, mossy trees. My teeth clenching and my jaw aching as I give up with pretending and stare blankly at my stupid front door because I will not cry in front of him again. Not like this.

He really doesn’t want me.

I don’t see him leave. Instead I walk blindly into the kitchen, the almost rational part of my brain trying to separate emotion from reason, telling me that I really should pick up my jacket from the hall floor, that I probably need water after my run. But I don’t make it as far as the fridge. Instead I falter, sinking to the cold flagstones, the emptiness in me hurting more than anything else that’s happened in the last few months.

Because he finally gave me an answer. And it was the wrong one.

---

It’s over an hour later when I hear the front door open again.

Some abstract part of me wonders about locking it, and why I never actually do that. Maybe it’s ‘Ro, maybe she found out. Or Moira checking up on me. Maybe it’s the government come to take me away to a rusty lab and a padded cell. Hell, they can have me. God knows I probably deserve it.

But there’s no greeting. No explanation. None of the usual things. Only a silent presence and a hollow ache that grows in my belly.

I know without question that it’s him.

It would be, wouldn’t it?

I sniff and wipe my eyes before he can see me, hiding behind the damp hair that sticks to my face. I don’t know what this is. Pity? Explanations? Whatever. I just want it to be over.

He comes as far as the kitchen doorway. I can’t see him from where I’m sitting, but I hear him; the tread of his boots, the faint brush of his shirt against a wall as he leans there.

He’s quiet for a very long time.

Then eventually, softly, "So talk."

Something inside me just crumples. About what? What more can there be left to say?

My hands are trembling, so I grip them together. I try and keep my voice light, but it comes out sounding croaky and thick. "It’s not important."

"Yeah, it is."

What’s that supposed to mean? What am I supposed to do with that?

I hear the breath he slowly exhales. "You want to know if there’s a future for me an’ you. Together."

He says it so carefully that my heart lurches painfully.

"I don’t know, kid. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do... or say... or..." His voice is rough and gravelly in the darkness. "I don’t know how to fix this."

I wish he wouldn’t say anything. I wish he wouldn’t try, because he always does, and it never helps. It just makes it so much harder.

He stays where he is. "I don’t wanna hurt you."

So that’s what this is. Guilt.

"I'm not the guy you date. I’m the fuck-up. I’ve given this teacher thing a good shot, but you know what I am."

You know what? I thought I did, but I don't. I really don't.

"And my track record in these things, it ain't good. Everyone I’ve cared about... they’re dead." His voice cracks slightly. "All of 'em. Except you. And sometimes the things you make me..." he trails off with a frustrated sigh.

I wait for him to finish, but he never does. Instead the silence between us grows thick and heavy, and I can't bring myself to break it.

"What do you want me to say?" He says after a while, sounding, of all things, tired. "You're seethin' angry one minute, runnin' away the next. And I am not your god-damn hero, or bodyguard, or anythin' else anyone seems to think. I’m just some fucked up guy they poured metal into and one day you’re gonna wake up and realise that. You've seen the things I’ve done."

The image of him outside that bank flickers through my mind. Soaked with sweat and blood. Claws through the skull of the man next to me.

That scared me. He knows it.

"Most of the time I don’t think you can handle that." He says it bluntly. "It's better I stay the hell away and put distance between us. How it should be." He's quiet for a moment, then I hear him mutter a reluctant curse under his breath. "I’ve been walking round the damn woods for the last hour, trying to tell myself that’s how it should be."

It takes a few seconds for that last bit to sink in. He didn't go back to the Mansion?

I try not to make anything of it, but my breath catches. I know he hears it. And on top of everything else, something begins to unfurl inside of me. A creeping nervousness that makes all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

There’s usually a blanketing kind of security in darkness, but right now I can't find it. Instead the dullness brings all my other senses to life. The annoying breeze rattle of the screen door, the leafy scent of outdoors he brings in with him. It makes my head spin.

Why didn't he go back?

He finally comes into the room, a dark shadow that leans against the counter and watches me. Still and quiet, like the hunter he is. I'm intensely aware of all the tension radiating off him, feeling it mirrored in my own stomach. I know he's waiting for me to say something, but I don't dare move, let alone speak.

I’m no longer sure what this is. It doesn’t feel like guilt. Not anymore.

Eventually, he's shakes his head slightly. "I don't have the answers, kid." A hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "You want me to be honest? You're so young, and sometimes I don't think you get that. But then you’re miserable. And you got that filthy temper o’yours. And I’m... fuck knows what I am. You confuse things."

I do? My skin prickles slowly, all over.

"An' every time I look at you... I think..." He doesn't take his eyes off me. "I just..."

Just... what?

"What if I didn’t say no?"

My pulse thuds so loudly, it’s almost deafening.

He reaches forward and holds out a hand to help me to my feet, but I shake it away, standing slowly, on my own terms. Back still firmly against the wall.

My jaw feels like it's wired shut.

"Y’know," he says, when I still say nothing, "there are a hundred different reasons I can think of that we shouldn’t even be havin’ this conversation."

My ears ring.

"You gonna say anythin'?"

I don’t even know how to put what I’m thinking into words. It’s such a confusion of fear and tangled hope that it knots me up inside.

But he’s still waiting, and my hands feel heavy and clammy at my side, and I... I just... "...Are we having this conversation?"

His eyes are on me. Intense. "Yeah. I think we are."

Something within my chest clenches so fiercely, it’s almost painful.

Is this real?

Thoughts come at me, thick and fast, muddled from the bombardment of emotions to hit me this afternoon. Am I awake? Is this a trick? I feel like I'm teetering over the edge of a vast cliff, and I can't quite bring myself to step back.

Or over.

"So... what... " I swallow, the words tangling round themselves. "What does that mean?"

"I don’t know."

The way he says it sends a wave of fear chasing through my veins. Or is it something else? I can’t tell any more. Whatever it is, he’s still looking at me and I realise he’s waiting for a reaction. A response of some kind? Was there a question? My eyes dart round the darkened room for an answer. Stupid. It doesn’t help. Instead I notice the sandwich I’d made earlier, but shoved aside and my stomach chooses the worst possible moment to growl loudly.

It brings me down to reality with a bump. I suddenly remember my grim, sweaty state and the fact that I really can’t smell too good right now, let alone look okay.

He frowns slightly. "You hungry?"

No, I’m mortified!

"You need go get some food?"

I blink. "As in...out somewhere?"

He raises an eyebrow and gazes pointedly round my devoid-of-everything-but-a-stale-sandwich kitchen.

I see his point. Then my stomach growls again.

"That a yes?"

I study him for a moment. Then I give him a cautious dip of my head. "It’s a... an okay."

"Okay," he repeats back, and when he exhales, he sounds relieved, although what he’s got to be nervous about, I don’t know. I’m the one always screwing everything up round here.

"Give me half an hour. I’ll be back with the bike."

...Okay, now I’m not hungry, I’m terrified.

He gives me a nod and heads quickly back outside, leaving me to sink back down to the floor in a wobbly, gloopy excuse for a Rogue.

Have you ever had one of those moments, when what’s happening just hits you like a bolt out of the blue and you wonder if you’re imagining it? Because there is no actual way on this whole green Earth that it could possibly be real? When you just stand there. Stupified. Completely bereft of things to do while every part of you tingles and hums with untold fear and excitement until you don’t know whether you’re going to soar, faint, babble uselessly, or just remain stuck, frozen in time that way, forever?

This would be one of those moments.

Logan’s taking me out.

The most massive, lip biting, embarrassed grin crawls across my face. We had a talk, or rather, he talked, and now he’s-

...Oh fuck, I have nothing to wear.

Um. Um. Ok, random panic. Thoughts going everywhere at once and none of them making much sense. Do I get changed? Um. Yes. I’m still in my sweaty running clothes. Not that I have much to change into, another pair of jeans that aren’t mine...dammit I really need to go shopping at some point. Do I go for something smarter? That would look like I’m making an effort. Right?

...Is that good or bad?

Maybe I should just stay as I am. Need a shower though. Should I bother washing my hair? Or have I subliminally mastered that tousled just got out of bed look?

I fumble my way to the hallway mirror and flick on the light.

Christ, no. Look in no way mastered. Fix. FIX!

I run upstairs. Slam on the hot water, bang my knees against the side of the old fashioned tub as I try and move too fast for my brain to keep up. The shampoo gets in my eyes as I drag my hands through my wet hair. Wash my face. Clamber out again. Adrenalin pumping. Look in the mirror. Stupid eyes with their stupid crying puffiness. I’m not sad anymore! You can go down now! Look normal again.

Damn. At least it’ll be dark outside.

I root around for a nicer top to change into, my decision made, after all, this is a... a...

...What is this exactly?

I stop, mid panicked fumble, top hanging loosely from my fingers.

Food is not necessarily being asked out. Food is food. Especially to guys. Especially to Logan.

Maybe he was just being practical.

You see? This is the stuff I’m no good at. This is the stuff I don’t understand. I’m not a game player... but then neither is he... is he? Well he never was around me, but with others? Memories of his past flings rear their ugly heads... shit, he can be a real bastard when he wants to, but I already know that, and that’s what he said himself, although it doesn’t make this whole thing any clearer to me... Oh fuck it, maybe I need a second opinion.

I think about this for a moment, then drop the top, flop down on the bed and reach for the phone on the bedside table. Before I have time to think about what I’m doing and realise that it’s probably a stupid idea, I thumb in the extension for Scott’s room.

It rings quite a few times. Oops. Maybe he’s asleep. Okay, now I feel guilty, which is just another emotion to add to the layer that’s mixed up in my-

"Hello?"

Yes!

...I try and ignore the fact he sounds groggy and annoyed. "Scott? I need your assistance. As a man."

There’s silence on the end of the line and it gives me the time to think about how that came across. More innuendo than cry for help. Not quite as I intended. "I mean, I need your opinion. A guy’s opinion."

He sighs. "Rogue?"

I wince slightly at his tone. "...Yeah."

"Go on then. Out with it. Maybe it’ll explain why ...ohhhh, you had a talk with Logan didn’t you."

Damn it. I’m actually kinda put out that he guessed. "Maybe..." It doesn’t sound as enigmatic as I hoped.

"That explains why you sound like you’re bouncing off the walls. I take it things went well?"

Ummmm... "Well, not exactly, no... at least not at first... but now we’re going out for food."

"And...?"

"And nothing! I just... you’re a guy, you know...guy stuff... does going out for food count as a...date? Ha!" I laugh nervously. "I mean... I...I...um..." What do I mean? Why does the word ‘date’ sound so wrong when referring to Logan? I mean, what else can I call it? A rendezvous? Ha! That’s even worse. Shit, Scott’s saying something. Listen girl! Stop panicking! "What was that?" Why does my voice sound all shrill? That’s not normal!

"I said are you talking about food with Logan?"

"You see my problem?"

"No." I can hear his exasperated sigh. "What does it matter?"

Ugh. That’s a typical guy answer. "Because I’m terrified it isn’t, and I’m even more terrified that it is!"

"Well, it won’t make a lot of difference then..." I can almost sense him rolling his eyes. "Look. Did he say anything to you to suggest it might be?"

I frown as I think. Lots of emotion. Intense glances. But... no. Not really. "We agreed we were having a conversation about it?" I try. "I mean... about us. I mean... me and him. You know, as a – well, as in... together. Maybe."

"The stuff of epic romance. No, really..."

"Oh, you’re no help at all!"

"Just... take things as they come."

Okay. I can’t help myself. The adrenaline that’s coursing through me is on overload and I giggle. It comes out all panicked, high-pitched and squeaky.

"...Not like that. Look. Calm down. Stop working yourself up and go find yourself a... strong drink or something."

"There’s nothing like that here."

"Under the loose floorboard, the one that creaks, third from the window in the hall."

"A secret stash?" Okay, that’s kinda cool.

"Left over from my under-age days when we used to hide it from the Professor."

"Neolithic or Jurassic?"

"I’m not much older than you!"

"And you tried to hide this from a 'path?"

"Go! Drink!"

I’m still grinning to myself as I hang up the phone, settling for my trusty jeans and a t-shirt. The stash is right where he said it would be as well. Four dark bottles, a little dusty, but still good. I make a mental note to bring him one tomorrow, medication or no, he deserves it.

I then spend five minutes of my precious getting-ready time in the kitchen hunting for a bottle opener, only to find out when I finally unearth one, that the bottle’s a screw top. Idiot. Less haste, more speed, as my father would have said. Oh God, I wonder what he would think of Logan. Heh! He’d be terrified. ‘Marie,’ he’d say. Then he’d give his thoughtful frown. I practise it in the mirror as I pass. ‘I really don’t think it’s appropriate or responsible to date an older man with an anger management problem and six indestructible knives in his hands.’

Or at least that’s what he would say, if he was still speaking to me.

Meh.

I shrug the thought off and I swig a mouthful straight from the bottle, wondering if it’s normal for emotions to rollercoaster like this.

Then I freeze like a rabbit in headlights at the sound of a knock at the door.

Already? That was quick! My heart thuds and suddenly my palms go all clammy.

He doesn’t bother waiting for me to answer it... I never do. The door just swings open to reveal him waiting there in his trade-mark jeans and worn leather jacket. He frowns as his eyes narrow on the bottle in my hand.

Shit. Caught.

"Um... Dutch courage?" I try, hopefully. Okay, I know it’s alcohol, and my experiences with alcohol haven't exactly been good recently, but at least I’m not a teary eyed mess this time. Or a homicidal maniac. That’s an improvement. Right?

He reaches for the bottle. For a moment I think he’s going to chew me out over it big time, but then he raises an eyebrow as he hands it back to me. "Look’s French to me, kid."

Okay... what?

Seriously.

...Did Logan just make a joke?

I have a feeling I’m staring at him in open-mouthed shock. It can’t be attractive.

He gives me a twist of a smirk, obviously enjoying having the upper hand, and then he heads back towards his bike. He fires it up with a growling roar. "So, you comin’?"

Am I still breathing?

---

Okay, so I think I might have just found my new favourite hobby. Astride Logan’s bike, arms wrapped tightly around him, face pressed into the warm leather of his jacket as the world races by me in a blur. My hair whips back in a streak of white from my face, my stomach a nervous tangle of knots that have nothing whatsoever to do with the speed we’re travelling.

I don’t ask where we’re going. To be honest, part of me is enthralled by the idea of it being a surprise...the other part is just too scared. Wimp. Don’t want to ask him in case I’m making it up. Can’t trust what’s going on in my head these days. We’re heading into the city though, I can tell that much, real or not. The dark skyline of tall shadows grows on the horizon, until we’re over the bridge into Manhattan, heading off the main roads into a square maze of side streets, where we park up outside a tiny restaurant, barely noticeable apart from the golden glint of Japanese symbols over the door.

I get off first; my legs slightly shaky as my feet touch ground again. I wonder if he can sense that.

Heh. Probably.

"I never had you down as the Japanese type," I tell him, trying to sound casual to cover my nervousness. I watch him pocket the keys and follow the broadness of his back inside.

"Used to live there," he says over his shoulder.

Oh. Right.

...That explains some of the memories I inherited. And why I suddenly developed the skill for chopsticks.

From the contrast of the rusty side street, it’s like stepping inside a lagoon of calm. It smells delicious, and it’s all concentric circles and screen walls, creating small secluded areas where groups of people chat and eat around stubby candlelit tables. Giant vases of twisted willow cast spidery shadows up the wall. It’s minimal, exclusive, and very stylish. And expensive. I catch a glance at a menu and nearly choke. No prices. Very expensive. Not the kind of place I expected Logan to bring to me. Where’s the grungy roadside diners? The burger bars? Christ, I’m still in my skanky jeans as well! He should have warned me!

I’m still wondering what we’re doing here, when the owner comes over and greets Logan with a formal bow, then a warm smile and the clasped hand of an old friend. "Too long," he says by way of an introduction. "It’s been far too long."

"Been away a lot." Logan’s voice sounds gruff in comparison. He indicates to me with a nod of his head. "This is Marie. Marie, this is Katsuro."

Okay, so he knows the owner. Again, that makes things make more sense.

I think.

Actually, I’m not sure what it means. Generally I’m just very confused right now.

Katsuro smiles kindly at me, and I roll the guy's name around in my head, trying to replicate the way Logan pronounced it. The weird rolling 'r'. He did it so well that it sounded strange coming from him. He must've lived in Japan for quite a while.

It's also kinda sexy. I wonder if he's fluent?

Man, I am so out of my depth.

We’re led over to a quiet corner, left to our own devices. My knees bang into Logan’s as I slide along the bench on my side of the table, and I blush furiously. "Sorry," I mumble, staring very pointedly at the decorative carvings adorning the table top.

"What for?"

Christ, I don’t know.

I risk a glance upwards, and my skin tingles all over when I realise he’s looking at me. Which is stupid really, I mean, why wouldn’t he be looking at me? I’m sitting opposite him. He’d have to be staring at the table top to be looking somewhere else. Like I am. God, I’m crap at this. It’s far too grown up for me.

"What’s up?"

"Nothing." It comes out too quickly. Kind of squeakily as well. Not exactly good for convincing.

"You want to go somewhere else?"

I shake my head. "Nope. No."

"You’re scared."

"Nope." Again, far too quickly.

He just gives me a look. "I can smell it."

Damn it! Could he not just pretend he had normal senses for a few hours? "I’m nervous. Different to being scared, okay?" If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was enjoying this.

"You want somethin’ to drink?"

That at least brings a smile to my face. Not at the thought of alcohol, I’ve not gone down the desperate dependency road yet, but that he’s making an effort to be nice. I nod, and he gets up to go over to the bar.

Suddenly faced with an empty table, it gives me a moment of space. Some time to think about all this. Whatever this is. God, here of all places? I swear the guy in the booth over there is on TV. This is a rich people hide-out. Although any sort of hide-out is good for a mutant I guess...

Still, it’s not what I expected at-

A laugh from the bar area distracts me, and I look up to see a tall blonde flirting openly with Logan. That’s so unfair! Not only that’s she’s doing it, that she’s doing it so well!

I shoot daggers at her with my eyes. Not that anyone notices, well, apart from the rugged looking guy in the hat she supposed to be here with. He gives me a curve of a half smile and a shrug as if to say, ah well, win some lose some, raising his drink in my direction before turning back to the bar.

Damn it. I don’t know how he can be so complacent about these things.

When Logan finally makes his way back to the table, drinks in hand, he takes one look at my scowling expression and raises an eyebrow. "What?"

I can’t help it; my eyes flick over to her. His follow.

"You’re jealous?"

I don’t answer, but my silence tells him all he needs to know. He slides back in to our booth. Pushes the beer in my direction. "Good."

Good? Good? What kind of answer is good? That’s not fair!

Our food, when it arrives, is an array of neat little packages on shiny black square dishes. To be honest I have no idea what half of it is. Apparently this is not the sort of place where you waste time ordering stuff, it’s just suddenly in front of you. Or again, maybe that’s just because Logan knows the owner. Or maybe he ordered it at the bar. Maybe that’s what they were laughing about. Is ordering food funny these days?

... The thought begins to dawn on me that maybe I’m analysing this a little too much.

I give the rows of pretty-coloured apparently edible things a suspicious stare and aim my chopsticks towards something sushi...ish, sniffing it cautiously. It ain't no fried chicken, collard greens, and cornbread, that's for sure. I give it a cautious taste...

Hmm. Okay. Weird... but not bad.

I nibble another very tiny mouthful, then realise Logan’s quietly laughing at me. "I’ve never lived there like you," I defend. "This is all new." Hell, I’ve never even left the country. I’m just overflowing with the wealth of travel experience. Not.

He picks up his chopsticks, and the ease at which he uses them puts me to shame. I find that I'm staring in fascination at his hands. They're such strong hands. Such long fingers. Yum.

I watch as he dips something pinkish in a tiny dish of dark liquid. "Try it with the soy sauce," he says. "Like this."

Oh. Okay.

I risk another tiny bite. Hope that whatever I'm eating wasn't alive five minutes ago.

Yeah, okay. It's nicer with the sauce. I'll give him that.

Logan's next mouthful goes in the mysterious little blob of green stuff.

"What's that?"

"Wasabi. It's strong."

My nose wrinkles. I think I might just give that one a miss. "So, how do you know the owner?" I ask, trying to change the subject.

"His father was a friend of mine."

I glance over at the white haired man standing at the bar, greeting a new guest. Really? He looks twice Logan’s age. "What, back when you were in Japan?"

He nods. "You should go there one day."

"Maybe I will." Who knows. This is nice though. We used to talk like this when I first came to the Mansion and he was the only person I trusted. He'd let me talk to him about the unimportant things and I miss that, I realise with a pang of sadness. Much more than I would let myself believe.

He seems different from those days now though, despite what he said about being dangerous. He is that, I don’t ever doubt it, but he’s more... settled.

Is that because he can remember more? Japan’s new. He’s never talked about living anywhere else before.

"What?" he says, looking at me quizzically.

"Nothing..."

"I can see you thinking."

I shrug. "I was just... how come you can remember it anyway? Japan? I thought your past was a big blank?" I wonder if it’s pushing a bit too far, but the worst he does is raise an eyebrow.

...Is that a good eyebrow, or a bad eyebrow?

Argh! When will I stop over analysing things?

He takes a swallow of his beer. "When I went away, not long after I pulled you out that damn bank, I found out a few things."

"Oh." I’m not really sure what to say to that. I cringe at the bank reference as well, the memory of pain rolling into acute embarrassment.

Logan doesn’t volunteer any further information and I’m sure as hell not going to pry into details, not right now anyway, so instead I try and stick to the vague and non-committal. "Was it... useful?"

"Haven’t decided yet."

Okay. Both treading the edges. Careful conversation. I can cope with careful.

I hope.

...Although, it does make a couple of events click into place. When he left and asked me to stay... was that why he was so keen to see the Professor when he got back that ti-?

"I’m over a hundred and twenty years old."

Jesus! I choke on my rice ball, spraying bits of it over the table in the most unattractive fashion ever. "You’re what?"

He looks at me warily. "Is that a problem?"

Fuck!

I mean... Fuck!

No wonder he was freaked out about me being young. My father wasn’t even born when he was growing up. Hell, my grandfather wasn’t born. I’m not even sure if my great grandfather was more than a child. Christ! I shake my head, trying to convince myself as much as him that it’s fine, gulping down a mouthful of beer to try and stop the convulsions in my throat. "No. I just... I... really?"

He nods.

"...Really?"

He folds his arms. Leans back against the bench, trying to look put out, but he’s failing. Probably because I’m still in complete shock and I must look totally ridiculous.

I manage a croaky, "Wow."

"What?"

"You just... you look really good for your age... that’s all." The last bit comes out as a nervous laugh. More at myself than anything. Apparently I’m never going to be one of those people who takes things in their stride.

All the things he must have seen. All the things he must have done! I shake my head. It’s actually really hard to take in. I mean, I knew his regeneration affected his age... but this? No wonder he hates getting attached to people.

I fish around inside my brain for something sensible to say. I’m not sure how well it works. "Are you um...glad?"

"About being old?"

Oops. It did come out like that, didn’t it. "That you can remember. I know how important it was to you."

He chews on a mouthful of food before he answers. "I can’t remember everything. Just pieces. Places, experiences, faces...I guess... but yeah. At least this way I know I have..."

"Roots?"

He nods. "Yeah. Something like that. An origin."

I hadn’t thought about it that way before. Being Southern is so much a part of who I am, I can’t imagine not having that. He must have felt so anchorless. No wonder he’s a drifter. "So, where did you grow up then?"

"Northern Alberta."

"In Canada?"

He continues eating, but gives me a nod. It’s slightly tense though, so I’m pretty sure he’s not up for me delving much further into his childhood. Obviously not all happy memories.

"How ‘bout you?" he says, turning the focus away from him. "You miss the South?"

I shrug. "Sometimes. Although to be honest, it feels like so long ago that I lived there, that I don’t belong there any-"

"Excuse me?"

I frown up at the owner, who’s now hovering over us with a nervous expression twitching across his face. "I thought you might want to know. We’ve just had a call from Senator Edson’s staff. He’s demanded a table here at nine."

Edson? As is the force-behind-the-Mutant-Registration-act Edson?

Logan reassures him. "Don’t worry, we won’t go messin’ up your place here."

The poor man shuffles nervously. "I don’t like asking you to go, but I can’t refuse him. He’d end me."

"It’s okay. Really. We’re good to go anyway." He looks over at me, "Right, kid?"

Oh, so I’m 'kid' again. I frown. That’s probably not a good sign.

Still, I can’t exactly say no, can I?

...Well, heh, I can, and a few months ago I probably would have. But I know Logan’s not one to avoid a confrontation. If he’s leaving to spare this guy some hassle, then I know he’s probably got his reasons. "Yeah, I’m done."

The guilty relief that crosses Katsuro’s face is almost palpable. I begin to feel sorry for him. "Food was good," I add. I’m such a sucker for guilt these days.

Outside, the evening air washes over me, refreshingly cool after the warmth of the restaurant. We both look at the bike for a moment and I try and work out what Logan’s thinking? Is he wondering whether it’s time to head home? Does he want to go somewhere else inst-

Oh. Apparently not. He swings his leg over the seat.

"Sorry that was so short," he says gruffly, as I climb on behind him.

"Doesn’t matter. I’m stuffed anyway."

"You’re a bad liar," I hear him say as he guns the engine into life. It sounds like he’s smirking as he says it though. "Hardly touched a thing."

"Meh." I shrug. I hope it’s nonchalant. Although it’s so sudden I think it probably looks more like I have hiccups. Dammit, he’s too close and I can’t concentrate.

The whole ride home my mind is spinning. When we finally pull up outside the lake house, my fingers are numb, and the night is cold and clear. Logan kills the bike engine and turns around to look at me. For a dizzying moment he’s so close that I let myself think maybe... just maybe this is a real date...

But... no...

Nothing.

He just gives me the ghost of a smile. "We okay?"

I climb off, disappointment sinking through me. So, that’s what this was. "Yeah." I manage a smile in return. "Okay. I had a nice evening. Thanks."

I’m at the door before I realise he’s followed me up the pathway.

I frown at him. "You coming in?"

His lips twist in a half smirk and he shakes his head. "No..."

Meh. Fine. "You making sure I get back home okay?" I say, looking pointedly at the very short, very safe pathway we just walked up.

His smirk begins to break into a grin. Is he laughing at me and my paranoia? "No..."

"Then what-"

My heart lurches as he steps closer. One of his hands moves to the white streak in my hair, watching me the whole while, sliding his fingers slowly through it. "You sure you want this?"

My stomach flips and I look downwards, away from the intensity of his eyes, trying to think of the words I need. But it’s suddenly impossible to concentrate, especially when his hand trails down from my hair, blood rushing through my ears as the backs of his fingers graze the side of my face, under my jaw, pressing it upwards until my gaze is drawn higher and I’m suddenly aware of how much taller he is than me. Then there’s a breathless moment when my stomach does about a dozen flip-flops as I begin to comprehend what he's going to ...ohfuck.

His mouth is on mine, hot and dark and suddenly my whole body is liquid with lust. Heat surges through me, through him. I feel his hand sliding round my hip, tightening, pressing me closer, up against him, warm and solid, deepening, that scratch of stubble against my chin, the kick that rocks right down to my toes at the giddy shock of the first touch of his tongue against mine, and I’m lost. Dizzying, drowning in it, head over heels, fingers curling into denim, into the warmth of him, melting away from the coldness of the night because I’m so fucking lost.

Even when he slows it down, when his lips move more gently, moving away, then returning again, I’m reeling with it. He breathes out through his nose, I can feel it against my cheek as he tilts his head to find my tongue again, and desire curls through me as every sensible thought I’ve ever had floods directly south.

When he finally pulls away, I bury my head in his open jacket, not ready to face him. Not just yet. My lips are still damp from his and I can hear his heart thudding through the soft material of his shirt. I think he’s breathing as heavily as I am.

Wow.

"You okay?" His voice is husky. So close.

I’m not sure I know how to begin forming words, let alone come up with an answer. I nod against his chest. "Mmf"

He huffs out some kind of laugh. "What's Mmf?"

"I’ll let you know just as soon as I remember how to stand upright," I mumble giddily, trying to cling on to the warm heat of his body, which is already disappearing as he steps back to look at me.

He runs a thumb softly over my lips. "I’m gonna go," he says reluctantly. "Before I think that going is not such a good idea."

Fuck that. I already think that.

"But I’ll see you tomorrow."

Uncertainly creeps through me again. "You sure?"

He gives me a faint smile. "Yeah. I am."

It’s early, it’s eye-wateringly bright, and the whole world around me glistens with vibrant morning freshness. My window’s wide open. Rainy scents of leaves and damp earth chase their way in on the gentle breeze and I don’t care that it’s only just gone six a.m. I am Awake. With a capital A.

I got out of bed ages ago. Been peering out the window for the last hour, wrapped in my duvet, waiting for dawn to spread across the water, watching nature wake itself and stretch out to the scribbled out trees on the horizon. And generally grinning like an idiot. Yeah. Lots of that. Heh. And I’m never a morning person.

He kissed me.

Logan.

Like a proper, knock your socks off, down and dirty, aint-no-mistaking-it-for-platonic-I’ll-look-out-for-you-kid, spine tingling, full on, fuck-yeah kiss.

The massive smile spreads across my face anew, a heady jolt kicking hard through my stomach, warming every nerve, tingling behind my knees and curling right down to the very tips of my toes. I can still remember what he tastes like. For some reason I always thought it would be something feral and raw, but he tastes warm and male and so very real. God, did it really happen?

My chin still burns with the prickly scratch of his stubble, answering my own question. I rub it with a hand as I grin again, feeling utterly stupid and utterly wonderful all at once.

Eventually I make the decision to have a shower and wash my hair, which I then scrape back into a ponytail because it feels practical. And today I am going to achieve something.

...Okay, I’m not sure what... but still...

I start by tiding the lake house. See? Practical. Scrubbing it, dusting it, bottom to top. Even my piles of books go back on the shelves. I’m pleased about that. When that’s done, I cook. Worse than ever, because I can’t concentrate on a damn thing. But I don’t care. Ha! Not in the slightest. Then I spend the rest of the morning trying to fill my day with stuff; reading, sketching, anything. But I’m awful at it all because my mind is one big buzzing, jumbling, jittery nervous after-glow over last night.

Is he like this too? I wonder what he’s thinking of right now. Probably lessons. That would make sense. He’s probably teaching. Or maybe he’s in the Danger Room, training. Oh yeah. That’s an image I could stand to picture a little more often. Is he thinking of me? Is he glad? Did it mean anything? Does he regret it? Was it an accident? Will it happen again? Did I make the whole thing up in my head?

Man, I need to find a way to switch off my brain. My own thoughts are almost as haphazard as the random voices I’ve been slowly shutting off. And there’s a comment that makes me sound perfectly sane...

I manage to eat some lunch. Moira bought me doughnuts. I think I love her! Then I go out back and sweep the porch and steps, because isn’t that what people do when they’re cleaning? And I don’t care how mundane it is. Hell, I could be filing a truck load of paperwork right now and still be happy.

Is he still teaching? I lean inside, glance at the clock on the wall. Hmmm... probably. Damn it! How is it only early-afternoon? Who slowed down time again?

I should probably play it cool right now. I should do sensible things, like not nervously eating the entire contents of my fridge. I should be aloof and sexy. Yeah. So what if I got six foot of Logan pressed against me last night... I’m cool with that...

Ha! Yeah right.

Ohmygodwoohoo!

I sit down, but can’t stay still. So I get up and...push stuff aimlessly around. Straighten up the chairs around the table. Move the toaster to the other side of the kitchen, it looks so much better there. Move the contents of one drawer into- oh fuck it, I really need to get out of the house.

The mall. I can go to the mall. See? Again, practical. I really need some new clothes anyway, Mystique would be appalled if she could see the scruffy hand-me-downs I’ve been wearing for the past few weeks. She’d fold her arms and give me that I-can’t-believe-I’m-being-seen-with-you-in-that look.

The thought makes me smile, even though it brings with it an unexpected pang of sadness. I miss that, I realise. Even though it was mixed up and fucked up.

...Kinda like me I suppose.

That probably explains a lot.

I give myself a rueful smile in the hall mirror as I pass, just to remind me that I understand, even if no one else does. I also don’t let myself think too hard about how ridiculous that sounds. Instead, I head for action, digging out the house phone from wherever I tidied it to...in the dresser with my clothes...don’t ask... thumbing in the number for a cab. The sooner I get on with things the better.

Then I head outside, hesitating for a moment as I shut the door behind me, a blush crawling up through my skin, followed by an embarrassed, tingly, lip biting grin. The memory of what it feels like to be pressed right up against that door is way too fresh in my memory right now. It’s causing all my sensible thoughts to melt together in a flood of desire that completely ruins my concentration. I must stand there like a mannequin for ages. Staring at the flaky paint.

...What was I doing out here again...?

Oh, yeah. Shopping. Damn, I’m gonna miss my cab.

The mall is fairly quiet, thank God. I manage to get round without the uncontrollable urge to kill people or run away screaming, which is always a plus. Even my usual headache is barely there; it's just a shadow in the back of my mind that can't compete with every other emotion rushing through me. I shop until I'm bored, and I head back leaden with heavy bags and a self-satisfied glow because I finally have some nice underwear again. And some tops that actually fit.

Then back at the school, I get half way home to the lake house before I hesitate, spin on the spot without really thinking about what I'm doing, and head up to the Mansion instead.

...I need to thank Scott for last night.

Yep. That would be my sole purpose for walking towards the Mansion right now. Just Scott. After all, it would be rude not to go see him. Especially after I woke him up yesterday.

... And if I should happen to accidentally walk past Logan’s classroom...well...these things, they can’t be helped.

Nervous tension knots itself around my stomach and makes my brain even fizzier than usual. Mystique would be giving me a knowing smirk right now. The kind that says she knew she was right all along.

Damn, she’d be smug. Heh.

...Will Logan want to see me so soon? ...Not that I’m going to see him of course, I’m visiting Scott. But still... Is he thinking these things too? Thinking of me? Does he go all gloopy when he looks at a door?

Heh. Probably not. That would be very unmanly. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen Logan do anything unmanly.

... Maybe he’s just so gruff and male he makes things look manly. Maybe that’s why.

I try to picture him crocheting. Ha! ...Nah – in the image in my head, he’s in his bomber jacket, with a beer at his side and a cigar hanging from his lips as he fiddles with the needle...hook...things. Still manages to make it look manly. Kinda.

Um.

I really hope there aren’t any ‘paths listening to this right now.

Just in case, I try to clear my thoughts, blinking as I step out of the shade of the trees and back into the driveway sunlight, the Mansion sprawlingly steadfast, rising out of the ground in front of me.

Once I’m inside, accidentally walking past Logan’s classroom is a lot harder in practice that it first seemed. Mainly because it takes me ages to find it. What? He’s not often been around when I have. I’m supposed to know these things? In the end I have to ask a child with green pointy ears for direction. So much for subtlety.

Then I feel faintly stupid for doing so, because what am I going to do while he teaches? Sit and watch? Peer through the door and breathe heavily like a stalker? The latter reveals him pacing up and down in front of the board, yelling out some detail to a roomful of probably terrified kids.

I forgot how scary he could be when he wanted to.

That instantly brings back a whole heap of memories and suddenly I’m fifteen again, stepping between the desks. Bobby carving an ice rose. Kitty and Jubilee whispering when they thought Miss Munro wasn’t looking. John’s stupid practical jokes. Peter’s sketches. I remember them all. Along with how wonderful and awkward I felt when Logan took over the occasional lesson. He was rougher back then. Not so sure of himself with a bunch of kids. Scott used to tell him off for swearing and for taking his shirt off in combat.

Yeah, I never learnt much when that happened. None of us did.

Through the glass I see him slam down a text book on the desk of the nearest child, who jolts awake with a startled yelp. I huff out quiet laughter as I remember the exact same thing happening to me, and Logan must hear me or something, because he glances upward and catches my eye, his lips twisting in an expression that grows into a half-smile when he sees the colour that floods my face.

My mind flips a few dozen cartwheels. Oh, I made out with a teacher last night. That so completely gets me hot.

"Stay quiet," he says to the row of kids in front of him. "Read. I don’t want to hear a sound." Then he’s coming towards me, closing the door between us and them, and the look he gives me increases all my nervousness tenfold. It’s the same look he gave me last night. The same look he gave me on the back porch after he told me it was normal for things to suck. In that motel room of his when my hand was on his belt. The intense one. The predator one. The one that makes this whole thing real.

I could eat that look. Especially now I know what can come after it.

"So," he says.

"Yep." It comes out as more of a squeak than a word.

"You’re over here."

"I am."

"And you're not runnin' away."

"Nope."

Okay, so not the most intellectual conversation in the history of next-day meet ups, but this is a steep learning curve for me! Besides, now I’m this close to him again, I really don’t know what to say. The ability to hold a conversation appears to have eloped with the rest of my brain. I keep waiting for him to dismiss it. To tell me the whole thing was a mistake. A lapse of judgement. To see him back away again. But he doesn’t, and the realisation sends my ears ringing, something warm unfurling in the pit of my stomach.

It really happened. And it’s okay.

"I’ve...uh...come to see Scott," I tell him.

"Scott?"

I nod. "Yep." I’m getting the hang of this.

He raises an eyebrow. "Any reason you’re lurkin’ outside my class then?"

Ah.

Ummmm... "Would you believe me if I said I got lost?"

He huffs a quiet laugh to himself, and the sound turns all my thoughts to blackstrap molasses. He looks so good when he laughs. I mean, he looks good when he’s brooding and mean, but he’s... heh...okay he also looks good when he’s sweaty and fighting... and when he’s angry... when he’s relaxed, oh whatever, you get the point, right?

"What?" he asks, and I realise I’m probably still grinning like an idiot.

"Nothing." Yeah. Still grinning.

"You gonna be ... hang on a moment." A frown crosses his face and distracts him. He opens the door, leans inside. "I SAID QUIET!"

Fuck. That even made me jump! Dammit, and now he’s regarding me with that amused, slightly smug look. Like he enjoyed scaring me. The kind of look that on anyone else would just look cruel, but he still manages to make it look sexy. And feral. Oh yum.

"Listen," he says, when I still don’t manage to form words. "I need to get back in there. But...stay around? I’ll come find you in a couple of hours."

Really? My heart thuds. I’m suddenly nervous again. "To...uh...do what?"

Um. What a stupid, stupid question. See? These are the things that aren’t covered in sex-ed at school. The things that really should be. Not that I’m thinking about sex. Well, I wasn’t, but now I am! My momma would be so ashamed. She’d tell me to pray like a good girl and ask for forgiveness from the images of hot, sweaty, growly...oh wow.

If it’s possible, I’m sure his eyebrow just arched further. He backs through the door back into the classroom. "I’m sure we’ll think of somethin’."

Oh, yeah. I am going straight to Hell.

---

Five minutes later and I’m still staring at the door that closed behind him. I think I must have a thing for doors today... Scott. I was here to see Scott!

I head off quickly down the corridor, only to realise that I’m walking in the complete wrong direction. Oops. I then turn around so fast that I nearly walk smack into Kurt, who bamfs away from me with an embarrassed ‘entschuldigen’ and hurries off with a slightly worried look in his eye. By the time I reach Scott’s room, I realise I’ve left my bags in the hallway somewhere, I totally forgot the bottle of his alcohol stash I was planning on bringing him, and I officially give up at keeping myself together. But try as I might, today I just don’t care. Nothing can destroy by happy buzz.

... Besides, bottle or no bottle, the thought’s still there. Right?

Kinda.

Ahhh, I’ll bring it tomorrow.

Scott doesn’t bother looking up as I let myself in, but I know he knows it’s me. He has this bored look he’s perfected purely for my visits. He’s getting rather good at it as well. There’s also some colour in his cheeks this afternoon, which makes my day even better. He’s starting to look almost healthy again.

"You come to feel sorry for me again? Or have you just found someone else to hide from?"

"I came to say thanks, for last night."

He makes a small sound in his throat. It’s hard to tell if he’s mocking me or laughing. Probably both. "It went well then?"

I don’t answer. I just grin.

"What are you doing? Are you grinning?"

Yeah. Big time. Heh. I deftly change the subject. "That’s beside the point. I’ve come here today to do to you what Mystique did for me."

"Turn me into a clone and encourage me to break the law?"

Fair point. "Okay, what she should have done for me. I’m gonna kick your skinny ass back into shape." I wrench back the curtains as I say that, blinking in the sudden dusty streams of light. Ouch. Bright.

"Oh, God," he groans. "Please don’t tell me you’ve turned over a new leaf. I liked the messed up moody Rogue."

"She’s going nowhere. I’ve decided I’m going to live with her. And you? Are going to get on with life."

"And how exactly to you plan on that?"

"Haven’t quite got that part figured out yet. But I’m pretty sure that daylight and fresh air are always a good place to start." I slide up the window. It smells like pine trees and rain, and it’s totally delicious. Man, I really am in a good mood!

"Is this what you did after you were injured?"

"Nope. I wallowed in self pity, then got very drunk and shouted lots."

"I like the sound of that much better."

"Well, tough. I’m being responsible now. And you’re on too many meds to drink," I add, hoping that disguises my guilt at forgetting to bring the wine. "Where the hell’s your chair gone."

"Ah. Yeah, that..."

"That...what?"

"I threw it at Logan this morning."

"You... why?"

He turns his face to the window. "Because he tried to do what you just did."

He did? For some reason that makes me go all warm and glowy. But I’m not ready to let on that I’m such a sap, so I try and hide it behind a smart comment. "Well in that case I’m glad you’ve got nothing to throw back at me. Told you I’m messed up. Never know what’ll push me back over the edge. Now where am I supposed to sit." I fold my arms to make my point, knowing full well he can’t see it, but what the hell. Principles and all that.

He sighs, then shuffles himself over to one side of the bed. "Pull up a pillow," he offers.

I... okay, so that’s a little... weird. Him being Scott and all. It’s still hard to reconcile the new grouchy leave-me-alone-I’m-trying-to-heal-here Scott with the stuck up but dependable Scott I used to know.

"Don’t worry," he says dryly, scratching at the several days worth of stubble on his chin and yawning. "If you’re worried you won’t be able to resist my rugged charm, I should probably tell you now that I really don’t have the stamina."

He chuckles to himself as I snort in shock.

"Y’know," I sit down, shuffling around a bit, trying to disguise the awkwardness, "I don’t remember you ever being so...well...laid back," I gesture, just in case it helps. Stupid. "...before."

"You only knew me as a teacher. Not a friend. I had an image of responsibility to project."

"Ha!" Okay, so that makes me snort with laughter.

"You think that's funny?" He tries to sound serious, but his voice gives him away.

"So, am I your friend?"

"No, you’re just the person who comes in here to annoy me and tell me I’m making a crap effort at recovering."

"That counts."

"...Yeah. I know." He gives me what almost passes as a rueful smile. "So, you thinking of staying around here for a while this time then?"

For the first time, a stifling mask of panic doesn’t suffocate me at that question. It’s not entirely comfortable, but it’s do-able. And I kinda like that. Which, all in all, is a nice feeling, I decide. I stretch my legs out on the bed beside him. "Yeah. I am."

"You sound happy."

"Scary isn’t it. I’m not entirely sure what to do with myself."

"All this from one night out with Logan?"

"That’s the scary part. I reckon it means I’m not entirely stable in my emotions right now."

"Please don’t tell me you put a lot of thought into working that out."

"Okay, yeah. That’s an understatement. But I’m working on it. And you should too."

"What? You think I should sleep with Logan too?"

Ohhh, there’s an image I wasn’t expecting.

...Um. Okay. Is it wrong that that’s kinda hot? I’m blaming that one on Magneto.

"Why have you gone quiet. Are you picturing that?"

"...Uh...nope?"

"Please don’t!"

"Well, you’re the one that put the image in my head!"

"I was joking."

"Uh-huh?"

"Oh, you have some problems."

I can’t help it. I begin to laugh. A real belly laugh that has tears leaking from my eyes and my cheek bones aching.

I don’t even realise the evening’s settled in until a knock at the door distracts me from my retelling of the Wolverine/belt incident, which yeah, Scott found far too funny... "tell me the bit when you vomited all over his shirt again..." ... you get what I mean. Only when Dr MacTaggart pokes her head around the door to do her daily check-up, do I blink and realise how dark it’s become.

"I’d better go," I say, standing up and wriggling the life back into my toes. "Leave you to it." I stretch, feeling my shoulders pop in to place. "I have places to be."

"...X-men to grope."

Oh, God.

The memory of that kiss rushes through me again.

I swear, I’ve blushed so many times in the last few days, it’s a wonder I haven’t turned permanently pink.

Okay. I'm actually slightly bored.

I wandered the mansion hallways for a while, not wanting to admit to anyone I was waiting for Logan. I'm not sure why. Too precious a secret to share, maybe. I want to hug it close and keep it mine for a little while longer. Then I went back to his classroom, but he wasn’t there. Danger room? No sign. His room? Empty. In fact it didn't even look like anyone stayed there anymore. Which, okay, normally would set me off on a path of worrying and second guessing motives... but not today. Today nothing can destroy my happy buzz.

Maybe he's just become unnaturally neat and tidy. See? Perfectly logical, if slightly unlikely, explanation.

I stare out the library window and watch the colours fade into the oncoming night, counting the warm patches of gold where the light spills out from the latticed glass and onto the spiky green darkness of the lawn. I even try to reading a book. Yep. Doesn’t work. Can’t concentrate. In the end I head to the small staff kitchen, which proves to be the worst idea I've had all day.

Mainly because Bobby’s in there.

He's just sat casually at the counter with a sandwich and soda, laughing at something someone’s said. I can’t see who, the fridge door is in the-

It swings shut.

Behind it is Kitty. The smile quickly fading from her face.

...Okay, so this is awkward.

"Um, hi..." Kitty casts a nervous glance at Bobby, who's face seems to have frozen in an expression of faint shock.

I give them both my best attempt at a fake smile. "Hi," I say back, trying not to make eye contact. Or do anything that might encourage conversation.

...I wonder if Kitty would notice me stealing enough of her powers to sink though the floor?

"So, um..." Bobby's begins hesitantly, watching me like I might freak out, or just generally explode all over him. "I didn't realise you were visiting. How are... things? I heard you were... well... you know..."

Yeah, he never was one for tact.

"Crazy?" I suggest pleasantly.

He swallows uncomfortably.

I think about that one for a moment. There are about a dozen answers I could give, but in the end I settle for the simplest. Bobby’s the last person with whom I’d want to talk my problems through. "I’m fine."

Besides, when I look at him I keep remembering our awkward attempt at sex, and the lip-twitching expression that screwed up his face when he came. Believe me when I say it’s the last thing I want to think about right now, the memory makes me cringe, yet my brain insists on replaying it every time he takes another mouthful. Ew.

I throw a quick glance in the direction of the doorway, wonder if I can leave subtlety without the conversation going any further...

"You over here to see the Professor?"

Apparently not. Ugh.

"I'm not re-" I begin, but luckily distraction materialises directly in front of me.

"Guten abend," Kurt says with a pointy tooth grin, reaching into the cupboard for a glass.

To be perfectly honest, I'm still at the 'blinking in confusion' and 'trying to focus on the person who wasn't there a second' ago stage, but I manage a polite smile. "Hi."

Where's Storm? This is turning into a reunion.

"Logan is on his way to find you," Kurt tells me, offhand, just before he bamfs over to the fridge.

"Logan?" echoes Bobby.

Excellent. I didn't believe this situation could get any more awkward, but apparently I was wrong.

I try and force myself not to react through sheer willpower alone. It doesn't work. After last night just the mention of his name floods heat into my cheeks. It's about as subtle as a neon sign flashing 'yeah okay, we made out and it was hot' across my forehead. Even for someone as un-perceptive as Bobby is, it's all the answer he needs.

For the second time that evening, he looks mildly shocked. "I didn't realise that you two were..."

"Were what?" This time it's Logan's voice that interrupts from the door way. It's gruff and tired after a day's work, and just the sound of it sends liquid warmth all the way through me.

Yum.

It has the opposite effect on Bobby, however, who shrinks down in his seat, as if making himself smaller will help. "You know..." he tries a few hand gestures...

An eyebrow is raised. "Do I?"

Bobby looks at Kitty for moral support. "As in... together?"

Logan's expression remains unreadable. "What gave you that idea?"

Ha! I mean... um. Okay... what?

The warm feeling stops. My relief at Logan's arrival is really kinda dampened. Not that I expected him to shout it from the roof top or anything, but y'know, some recognition might be nice. I didn't make up yesterday... did I?

I try and convey my confusion along with the general 'what the fuck-ness' I'm feeling into a single look, and I aim it Logan's way.

He ignores it completely and heads straight to the fridge. In a few moments, oblivious to Bobby's gaze darting between the two of us as if he's trying to work out the answer to a complicated puzzle, Logan's piled some food on a couple of plates, grabbed two beers in the other hand, and is already heading back out the door.

He glances back at me over his shoulder. "You comin'?"

No!

...Well, yes. But reluctantly, and only because I'm bereft of any better choices. What was all that about?!

I follow, trying hard not to read too much in to anything, it's never done me much good before, and also to look where I'm going and not concentrate purely on quite how good his long legs look in those scruffy tight jeans.

I fail at both.

He looks hot, and what the hell just happened?

Okay, maybe he just didn't want Bobby to know. That's fair enough... isn't it? I didn't want Bobby to know either.

Right?

Man, I suck at this! I need to find some way of touching a 'path. Absorb me some mind stealing powers. Give myself a chance at having actual social skills.

It's only after several minutes of walking... yes, the Mansion is really that big, that I begin to wonder where on earth we're going. We've already traipsed up one flight of stairs, then there was another. Along the hallway past my old room, round a few corners, through a doorway, past a room I swear I've never seen before in my life, and up another set of stairs at the end. My legs are actually beginning to ache!

"We're eating in the attic?" I say, desperate to break the silence even though I don't think he's in a mood with me, and trying not to sound like I'm annoyed at him. Which I am.

"Not quite," he says over his shoulder.

"Then where are... oh crap!" I clap the palm of my hand against my forehead. My shopping! "My bags, I..." Where the hell did I leave them?

He pauses enough in his stride to look round at me. "The ones full of underwear left outside my classroom?"

Shit!

"Uhhh....nope?" I try, wincing slightly. "Not those ones." I shake my head. "Other bags. Sensible bags. Full of... practical...important type...things."

...Yeah. Not working.

He just raises an eyebrow. "They’re stashed out the way behind my classroom door. You wanna go get them now?"

I shake my head. "No, It’s okay. I can get them...later..."

The corner of his mouth quirks a little at the last word. Despite my best efforts, it tramples all over my annoyance and sends a spark of heat all the way down to my toes, my brain rushing through all the possible scenarios of what could happen between now and then.

Plus, that was an almost-smile. That's good, isn't it? We must be okay.

Yup.

Oh, I am so confused right now!

At the top of the stairs, I follow him along another hallway. Dark this time, there are no windows here, just thick roof beams. The hall ends bluntly as well, two heavy looking doors opening off to either side. He hands me the beers and opens up the one on the right, holding it as I... Oh... Wow.

A couple of things begin to dawn on me. First, that I really have been away for the Mansion for a long time. Second, that the reason his room downstairs always seemed too tidy to be lived in, was because it was no longer lived in. And third? This is most definitely his room. And I'm in it.

I'm also not horribly hung over, covered in vomit or trying to steal items of his clothing either. Definite improvement.

I kinda like it as far as rooms go as well. It’s... him. Clean, but with an organised clutter to it. Little things, like the boots kicked off in the corner next to a stack of files, his jacket slung over a chair, or the papers on his desk held down by an empty beer bottle, they are strangely unexpected... I don’t know why... but they’re so completely him.

I like that.

He's looking at me. As if he's waiting for my reaction.

...I like that too. Even if it does make me feel very self-conscious.

I tuck a strand of hair nervously behind my ear, concentrate on my feet. "So, um... when did the Professor get the attic renovated?"

"He didn't," he says, as he toes the door shut, completely oblivious to the fact that the finality off the gesture sends a shiver of emotion down my spine. "Did it myself, before we knew he was still alive."

"You did all this?" Remembering the clutter of boxes and broken junk that was here before, I look round at the smooth, light walls and the airy wooden framed skylights, and I can't help but be impressed. Is there anything that he can't do? The furniture is basic, but well made and functional, the only decoration is a slightly threadbare rug which warms the wooden floorboards – he must have stolen that from a room downstairs. There's a large flat-screen TV on the far wall, and, swallowing up an entire corner by itself, is a gigantic, slightly ruffled looking bed.

I try really hard not to focus purely on that last point.

"I...uh... didn't know you were good at the DIY stuff." In fact, I'm beginning to realise there's a lot I don't know.

He hands me a plate of food. "Gave me an excuse to get away from all the kids for a while. No one comes up here 'cept me and the Cajun. His is the room across the hall," he indicates with a nod of his head.

Right. Okay.

Oh my God I'm in Logan's room. With Logan.

I really don't think I'm going to get used to that any time soon!

I look around for something to sit on, but he goes for the chair before I can, so I'm left sitting cross-legged, slightly uncomfortably, on the side of his bed.

Was that deliberate?

If it was, he pretends not to notice. He turns on the giant TV instead, flicking through the channels until he finds a hockey game. Normally I’m a hockey fan, his fault – one of the things I picked up when I first absorbed some of his powers – but right now I can’t concentrate on a damn thing. It could be a test screen for all I care. I try and eat as well, but that's not really working either. I damn near stab myself in the face twice with the fork. I’m not safe when my mind’s confused with mixed-up signals and addled with hopeful-lust.

Minutes pass, and someone on-screen scores. I couldn't even tell you which team. My stomach is tense from anticipation. I’m painfully aware of every movement that he makes. Hell, I’m painfully aware of every move I make, every mouthful that I eat. Is he going to kiss me again? Is he going to do more than that? Or nothing at all? Why did he deny everything to Bobby? Am I chewing too loud? Did my knife scrape against the plate? Am I supposed to be doing something? Did I – Ow! Damn! They shouldn’t give forks to people like me.

Eventually he frowns at me. "What’s up?" he says.

Dammit, how is he so perceptive? I hate enhanced senses. "Why?"

"You smell nervous again. Good, but nervous."

Good? I smell good? Okay... so hate’s a strong word. I don’t hate enhanced senses... just... you know... Christ I'm a complete jittery mess. "I'm fine."

"Told you before darlin’, you’re a bad liar."

Oh, the 'darlin' bit screws with my concentration even more, especially the rough way it rolls off his tongue. Totally not fair. "I just... you're not saying much and I thought that maybe before... maybe you regret-"

"No."

His bluntness catches me off guard. It leaves a warm tingly feeling in its wake.

He frowns. "You're surprised by that?"

I play with my food a bit. Push it around my plate. "It's not that, it's more... I can’t make you out." God this is awkward. I wish I hadn’t said anything now. "Earlier you were fine, but then in the kitchen you said there was nothing going on. Is there nothing?"

He looks at me a long time, and I wonder if I’ve pissed him off. "I don’t do big declarations. You know that."

That's not really an answer.

"I just... Why did you change your mind? I mean... yesterday, you kept saying that it wasn't gonna happen, yet we're still here. And last night..." I trail off, embarrassed, thinking about the way his hands felt as his fingers curled into my hips.

"Yeah, I didn't plan on doin' that."

The acknowledgement strikes me like a barb.

He narrows his eyes at me. "What? You don't like it when I'm honest?"

"No, but-"

"Doesn't mean I didn't want to. Doesn't mean I don't want to again. And it doesn't mean I haven't been thinkin' about it. A lot."

"Then what does it mean?"

He sighs. "It means I’m wary of the thoughts you put in my head. The things you make me want do. What, you want me to fill in a checklist or somethin’? I don’t know. Been a long time since I did anything other than just fuckin’ a woman, believe me."

Oh.

I nearly choke. Mortified at his crudeness. Completely floored by the surge of lust that kicks through me at the same time.

I look away, getting to my feet to hide my reaction, the smooth effect totally ruined as I put my plate on his dresser then jump a mile when I realise he’s suddenly behind me.

"If you want it easy, I'm not the guy you're lookin' for. I told you that last night."

"Don't say that."

"Say what?"

"That you're not who I'm looking for." For some reason, hearing him say it really scares me, like he could take everything away again. This already feels like a dream as it is. I don't want it to turn into a nightmare.

"Then you're gonna have to trust me darlin'."

I feel his fingers lightly brush my side, run over the curve of my hip, then down further than they should probably go.

"I'm trying." I say back, but it's as far as I get because his hands slide around my front, pulling me back, fitting me close up against him as he breathes in the scent of my hair.

His voice is suddenly hot in my ear. "Okay. What if I told you I’ve been thinkin’ about you all day."

Yeah... my stomach officially turns to mush.

I can feel the ticklish scratch of his stubble against my neck, hear him breathe as his teeth nip the edge of my ear, and I know right then and there that I am in way over my head. Fuck, but it feels good.

"Been remembering you in that bar. Dancin’ with that almost see-through top on."

The way he says it makes my skin burn. All the words dissolve from my brain, and all I can manage is a fumbled, "I didn't think... think you... noticed."

"Oh, I noticed. Also noticed that complete dick you were dancing with."

God, I forgot about him. "Jealous?" I try and whisper, attempting to mirror his question of last night, but my voice is hoarse and it comes out cracked and husky.

He just growls softly, the sound prickling all the way down to the base of my spine, as the hand that’s holding me up against him slides slowly upwards, thumb barely brushing the underside of my breast through my t-shirt before it slides down again, sending white hot desire flooding through me.

"No more sleazy bar guys, okay?"

"Is that...that a..." God it’s hard to speak when he’s distracting me like that. "That a... rule?"

His other hand’s resting on my hip, the material of my top slowly bunching around his fingers as he moves it up, and his knuckles slide under to brush over the warmth of my skin. Every part of me wakens with the touch.

"Yeah," he breathes. "It’s a... fuckin’ hell, now?"

Um. What?

My shoulders are suddenly cold. He’s no longer behind me, hand already disappeared from under my top. He’s backing away? Why is he backing away? I turn around, stare at him confused, muddled with arousal.

He holds up a hand to stop me speaking, and shakes his head for a moment. Listening. Then he sighs. Almost angry. "Fine," he says to no one in particular...well it’s certainly not to me anyway.

"Yeah. I’m comin’. It better be fuckin’ important though."

Okay, now I’m really confused. And horny. And that’s just not fair! "What is it?"

He leans forward and presses his forehead against mine, one hand going to my hair to brush it out of my face. "Sorry kid."

Sorry? Sorry about what? His voice echoes around my head, and I realise that... kid, he called me kid again.

Joy.

"Chuck," he says, "up here." He taps a finger to his temple. "We’ve got a mission."

A mission? For a moment I’m completely disorientated. From adult to child in mere seconds, and now he’s going? The part of me that felt so dizzy and elated only moments ago now wants to crawl under a rock and die somewhere.

...Actually, that’s not strictly true. It wants to find the rock, maul it a bit first, swear at it, insult its mother, kick it a few times, and then crawl under it and die. Trust the Professor to have impeccable timing. Seriously. Why can’t something ever go my-

Oh Christ...

His lips press against mine, warm and hungry and still unfamiliar, and full of the promise of everything that had just been about to happen. His hands tangle in my hair, and the noise he makes in the back of his throat pushes me to the edge of my control. When he pulls away I feel like I’m free-falling downwards, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

There’s no smile in his eyes when he looks at me, just heat and darkness.

God I want him.

"Wolverine, you coming homme" Remy’s voice is punctuated by a knock at the door, which jolts me back down to earth with a thud. Logan too apparently. He steps back and the darkness is gone, only the annoyance at being interrupted remains.

"Yeah," he yells back. Reluctantly. "Shit," he mumbles under his breath, adjusting his jeans slightly. "Fuckin’ suit’s gonna be more torture than usual."

Okay, so that makes me blush. Again. I step back and straighten my clothes. Give him a shrug, try to show him that it’s okay, I understand. Even if I seriously dislike it.

"See you when I get back?" he suggests softly.

We both know he’ll probably return bloody and exhausted, needing space and time to heal and ready to sleep for a week. He always does. But I nod anyway, and he accepts it.

When he opens the door, Remy’s look of smugness at dragging the Wolverine out of his lair, is quickly replaced with shock at seeing me in his room. I can hear their voices echoing down the corridor.

"You’re leaving da cherie for a mission?"

"Shut up bub. Else I’ll skewer you along with the damn Professor."

I glance though the thick glass of the window, over at the lake. It’s late morning and the muggy skies have grown heavy and dark with the greying promise of rain. The weather is always more fickle when Storm’s not around.

They’re not back from the mission yet, but I’m not worried. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Which is stupid really. Why lie to yourself when you know you are lying? I used to worry about all of them before I was old enough to join the team. Before I shut the part of me that worried down. Now it’s back with a vengeance.

I'm goddamn sexually frustrated too. Yeah, that helps.

Ugh.

I huff a sigh to myself, snuggling deeper into the armchair and watching the way my breath steams up the window, before scrubbing it clean with my fist. Maybe I need to get myself a job of some kind. Something useful. Or at least something to keep my mind occupied and away from this horrible sense of foreboding.

Rogue?

The Professor’s voice catches me off guard, as it always does, and I wonder if it was like that for Logan last night. Only a non-‘path can truly appreciate how much you jump when another sentient voice suddenly appears in your brain.

I’d like to see you in my study. I have a matter I need to discuss.

Oh. I frown slightly at his serious tone. Does he know what happened last night? Does he disapprove? Or... confusion is soon swamped by growing worry... does he know something else? Has something gone wrong with the mission? Is everyone alright? I’m out of my chair and fumbling with my shoes at the door in an instant.

The incessant drizzle dampens my clothes on my way over to the Mansion, but I hardly notice it. The school’s eerily quiet without the teaching staff. Kids probably in their rooms or camped out in front of the television or something.

I pad my way quickly through the corridors, let myself into the Professor’s study, the smooth click of his door handle ringing loud in my ears. It's a room that usually brings a familiar sense of comfort, but today when he looks up at me from his desk, it's not there. In fact, the reaching hints of unease I’ve been pushing to the back of my mind begin to deepen.

What is this?

I give him a nervous smile, but he doesn’t smile back. He still looks kind, like he always does, but sad.

Suddenly I feel like lead’s lining my stomach. "What is it? What’s wrong?"

"Please," he says, indicating to the door.

That alone makes me go all hot and cold. I close it behind me, feeling almost sick as I take a seat. Is Logan hurt? Did something happen? The words babble uselessly out of me. "Is everyone okay? The team? They’re-"

"They’re fine," he cuts in, still calm. "Ororo checked in half an hour ago. They’re on their way back."

"But they’re all alright?"

"Their report indicated Jubilee has a sprained wrist, Logan has destroyed half his uniform again, but there’s nothing to worry about."

There isn’t? I try breathing a sigh of relief, but it doesn’t quite feel right. And the heaviness only gets worse when the Professor slides the file he had been looking at across the desk towards me.

I look at it suspiciously. The plastic cover is smooth and shiny. New. "What is it?"

"Open it."

I don’t think I want to, not if this is what’s making him sad. "Can’t you just tell me?"

"It’s better if you see for yourself."

Now I really don’t want to.

My hands tremble; they slide over the cover as it slips and flaps open, and my heart thuds in my chest. I know it. I know what I’m going to see inside, it’s like a horrible aching that grows within me, but I don’t want to believe it. Not yet. Clinging on to the hope that I’m wrong for as long as possible...

But I’m not.

My picture stares back at me. Grainy, fiercer than I usually look, but definitely me.

I can feel the colour draining from my face.

Guilt, embarrassment, fear; they wash over me in churning waves, my palms growing clammy and cold. Words swimming before my eyes as I try to read the text. Warrant. Arrest. Dangerous. Places and names. Times and dates. So real.

It’s suddenly so hard to focus.

"I received it today," the Professor tells me quietly. His voice rings in my ears. "It appears they know you’re here."

They know?

This was coming. This was always coming. Of course they know.

I try and stay in control of my thoughts. Fight not to let them overwhelm me. It’s okay, I tell myself. I can fix this. I just need to think rationally for a moment. The Professor, he can fix it too. That’s what we do, we fight for the things we want.

Oh God, I don’t want to lose what I’ve found. Not now. Not when I’ve only just found it.

Tendrils of panic begin to seep into my mind. It’s hard to reason with words printed in black and white government lettering and the more I think about it, the worse I feel. My grip on the voices in my subconscious starts to loosen; my head throbbing and their thoughts come thick and fast. Capture, payback, retribution, they taunt. Justice. Nothing is without consequence.

Nothing.

It was coming. It was always coming.

Two weeks ago I wouldn’t have even cared. But...now?

My hands wring against each other. I don’t want this. I don't. I'll never hurt anyone again. I just want my second chance back. Please.

I try to push the file as far away as possible, but although my hand moves, I can’t seem to let it go and it sticks to my fingers, all smooth surfaces and sharp edges and far too real.

"Rogue?"

I swallow. When I find my voice it sounds hollow, distant. Far too matter-of-fact to be coming from someone like me. "If they know I’m here, then I’m putting the school in danger."

They could be raided again. Shut down.

Because of me. Because of what I did.

The Professor doesn’t try to lie. "That may be true, yes, however we do not know that for sure." He slides something else across the desk to me, and places it on top of the open file.

I glance down. The memory chip? "I don’t understand."

"There’s enough information in that chip for me to make all that," he gestures elegantly towards the file, "disappear."

Something courses through me, but it’s not hope. It's too cold. It’s waking up to the realisation that this is really happening. "I thought you said you could use it as a device to fight the Registration Act. You said leverage."

"I had hoped, yes. But it’s your information. It’s your choice."

My choice? How is that a choice? "You want me to choose between clearing my name and preventing the MRA?"

"It’s still a choice." He leans forward. "I would very much like you to stay. There could be a career for you teaching at the school. A place on the team."

A life here.

I could stay in the lake house, where I’ve felt at home for the first time in years. I could spend time with... we could... oh God, but for how long? How long before the MRA reaches inside the school walls? How long before it tears all this down?

"It’s your decision," the Professor adds softly. "I will not think the less of you which ever direction you choose. You went through a lot to get that."

Yeah. I did.

I rub my face with my hands.

A lot of people went through a lot for that tiny piece of junk. That’s why it has to be worth something.

I shake my head. Catch a flash of my white hair out of the corner of my eye. Scarred. "No." My next breath is shaky. "Keep it. Use it the way you planned."

"Rogue-"

"It’s fine," I say quickly. But it’s not fine. It’s so far from fine that my mind is spinning and I’m wondering how I was the person I was this morning. "I’ll go. It’s better that way."

"It’s not necessarily-"

"Something good has to come from the mess I made. Besides, I’ve never belonged here anyway," I swallow back the lump in my throat. "We both know that."

"That’s not true."

Yeah. I know. But it’s easy to say. Easy to blame it on that.

He sits back in his chair, gives a long sigh. "You’re not going to let me fight it?"

"This is me fighting."

"But you-"

"I’m a survivor, aren’t I? I’ll get through this. Just like everything else. I always do....somehow..." But I can hardly say it, and this time I’m so far from believing it. I hope against hope that he’s not going to push it any further. I don’t think I could cope with that. Just accept it. Please.

"Where will you go?"

I press my hands against my forehead a moment, try and keep a reign on my control. Then I sit up and close the file, pushing it back towards him like it’s something final. I manage a faint smile, trying my hardest not to crack. "Wherever."

---

Walking back through the Mansion, I try and make myself invisible, shielded by a curtain of hair, passing feet, noises, chatter until... outside. Fresh air and grass underfoot. I don’t let myself think of anything but moving forwards because putting one foot in front of the other is what’s going to get me through this. Another dawn, another day, right? Familiar cycles. Slipping back into old patterns. Keys to a truck in my hand, the Professor’s one insistence. The oily concrete tang of the garage, the worn grip of the wheel beneath my bare fingers, the rumbling hum of the engine, the dizzy drive back to the lake house, windows wound down even though it’s raining. The mulch of wet leaves hanging heavily in the air like the omen of winter to come.

I feel light and faint as I move through the lake house, clearing it of my presence. I put the food I was going to eat for my dinner back in the cupboard. I take my list of things that are me off the fridge, crumple it in my fist before dropping it into the trash. I don't want people to see it. I can't bear the thought of them knowing I was vulnerable. Then I try not to think about that, or anything else, as I grab the rest of my stuff, forcing my mind to stay stark and blank.

I don’t even have a duffel anymore. I just have the bags from my shopping trip yesterday. How far away that seems now, like a flicker of another lifetime.

I stuff everything carelessly inside them, not letting myself feel bitter at the sight of them all lined up and pretty by the door, because they are a waste to me now. Not letting myself feel bitter about anything. Not letting myself feel.

Another dawn, another day. Another start. Another end. Another... I waiver. Of all things, torn by the sight of the book I was reading. It's sitting on the arm of the chair, page folded over, waiting for me to come back to it, and I choke back a sob. It nearly sends me over the edge, shattering that careful shell of self-control.

Nearly.

I take a deep gulping breath, turn around and leave it where it lies. I don't look back.

The damp air sticks to my tongue and catches in my throat as I drive. I wind up the windows, trying to shut it out, but it permeates everything and makes me shiver with cold.

I probably deserve it.

It seemed like a good idea to avoid the main driveway, so it's an uncomfortably slow and bumpy journey to the gates, along a muddy track that scrapes under the low hanging branches of the trees and sinks into uneven ruts that send bone jarring jolts through the suspension. It's far from the most pleasant drive I've ever experienced, and to top it off, half a mile down I realise I'm...

Oh.

I'm still clutching the Lake House keys in my fist.

My head swims in a moment of realisation, but then I almost surprise myself by how calm I feel about the whole thing. Distant almost. There's no slamming of feet on the breaks, no dramatic skidding to a halt or hairpin turns; instead I drift slowly to a stand still, disorientated, yes, and transfixed by the little indents in my skin where the keys have been caught between my palm and the steering wheel, but calm all the same.

I meant to leave them behind. I don't want to take them with me.

Why on earth...?

For a moment I consider driving on and simply mailing them back to the Professor, but... no, for some reason that makes me feel guilty. Like they might think I'm stealing them. Then there's the urge to hurl them out the window, but I don't give that one a second thought, I couldn't throw away all their hospitality like that. Christ, and I really don't want to turn around and take them back, but what else is there? Every other option I consider nags at me; the idea of keeping keys the worst of the lot. More than anything else, I need to make a clean break.

So...

Right. Fine.

Feeling strangely numb, I turn the truck around.

It's only been minutes, but the Lake House doesn't feel the same. I already feel like a stranger there and I don't like it. It makes me hurry to get the whole thing over with. I jog to the front door, turn the slippery handle with cold hands. My feet make wet footprints in the hall as I leave the keys on the table beneath the mirror, and I find myself hoping that no one will mind that I'm leaving it unlocked. Feeling guilty about that too.

Outside, the rain is getting heavier, becoming a relentless torrent that saturates everything and suffocates the sky in a moody darkness. I guess it's kind of fitting. It’s only a short distance back to the truck, but my clothes are instantly soaked as I make a run for it, the mud splattering and squelching up around the bottoms of my jeans, hands fumbling for the door as I-

I freeze where I am. All the breath rushing out of me like a fist has crunched into my stomach.

Glaring back at me in the side mirror's reflection, is Logan.

He's here. He actually...

My pulse begins to race; my thoughts finally starting to fray and un-weave around the edges. Joy. Fear. Cold panic. Oh God, he's here? Does he know what I'm doing? He must. It's obvious to anyone.

For the longest moment Logan does nothing at all. He just stands there. Watching. Oblivious to the rain.

When he eventually speaks, he chooses his words carefully. "So you gonna tell me what this is?"

My head spins and I actually feel dizzy.

Maybe in some parallel universe he's waiting for me to turn around and tell him it's not what it seems. Maybe there's a version of me out there that doesn't want to suddenly laugh until I cry so hard I choke on it. Maybe. But it's not me. I just stare at the mirror, eyes falling to the black paintwork on the truck when I can no longer meet his gaze, hands gripping the door until my knuckles turn bone-white with the effort.

I don't answer him. I can't.

I hear him walk up behind me until he's at my shoulder, cold water trickling in rivulets off my nose and chin as I try and blink it out of my eyes. I want to be cold like a stone, but a dull ache begins to spread outwards from my chest, rising to a lump that digs in to my throat.

"What's goin' on?"

I try and hold myself together.

"Marie?" He sounds tired. And irritated, like there's a part of him that thinks this is fixable, that it's nothing more than an annoyance.

I stay as I am. Still. Tense. Shoulders hunched.

"You just gonna stand there?"

Oh God I can't do this.

"Look at me."

I want to. I want to so bad it hurts. I want to wrap myself in the warm strength of his arms until everything else goes away.

"Look. At. Me." That one’s almost a growl.

Slowly, I turn, still gripping the truck behind me like it’s some sort of life line. My eyes fix rigidly to the floor, dragging upwards, over his rain soaked jeans and his worn red shirt, splattered dark and wet where it peeks through his open jacket.

My heart clenches at the stony expression on his face.

"Talk."

I don't think I can.

My mouth works, but no sound comes out. I could tell him the truth. Could tell him it’s not my choice, but then what? It’s still my fault. Would he let me go? Would he chase me again? Would he give up the home he's finally found for me?

I don’t want to be the person that makes him do that.

"Marie?"

Oh God, the lump in my throat wants to choke me. My shoulders ache as they try to hold back the tears that are finally forcing their way through, but it's not helping. Nothing is helping. Because he’s here. This time he came back in time to stop me.

Only this time I think I’m beyond stopping.

I take a deep breath.

When his hand reaches out to tilt my chin up towards him, I flinch away.

His expression freezes.

The rain thunders past my ears. It feels like the whole world stops. Like it slides away from my grip. I watch his reaction. The realisation that etches itself across his face. The shock that slips over his skin.

He looks at me in disbelief. "You're serious?"

I don't answer. I don't need to.

He lets out a sharp breath of air, and the emotion that flickers in his eyes is so unexpected that it rips through me like it's a tangible thing. Because of all things, it's hurt.

For the first time I realise how much he hides. How much really does want... how much he... Oh God...

He backs off, his face darkening. "I get back from a shit-hole of a mission, I’m fuckin’ exhausted, but Chuck corners me an’ tells me to get on out here to find you, and you’re what? You’re leaving?"

They know you’re here. Warrant. Arrest. Dangerous.

"I’m sorry." I force myself to speak. The words are stiff and misshapen on my tongue. "I just... I changed my mind. You were right, we should've never..."

He shakes his head. Stubborn. "That’s a lie."

"It’s not," I try, but I’m crying so hard that I can hardly see, and I can’t remember when I started, and I can’t find a way to stop, so the tears just keep on rolling down my cheeks until I can't tell them from the rain. "It’s what...I...I want. It’s...it’s..." I can’t do this. I can’t. Not with him so close. I needed him to stay away.

"You’re a bad liar," he hisses.

"I know." I choke on it, the heel of my hand roughly smudging over the tears that won’t stop. "I know, and I’m sorry."

"Not good enough."

"I know that too." I bite my lip to try and stop it from twisting into a broken sob.

"But you’re still going." It’s not a question. It’s a statement.

I nod.

His voice goes cold. "Fine." He steps back. "You want to go? Then go."

"Logan-"

"Don’t Logan me." His fingers clench reflexively. "You don’t get to do that any more."

"Please..."

"Please what? WHAT?"

Please don’t make this harder than it already is. Please let me go. Oh God, but fight it. Please stop me.

I try and reach out to him, but he pushes my hand angrily away.

"Logan..."

"No."

"I just-"

"NO!" He yells it, teeth bared, fists working as he fights not to release his claws. His eyes close, lips press thin, as he tries to get a handle on it. When he opens them again, he looks at me once, then walks away.

I can’t watch him, but I can’t... Not like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

"Wait," I chase after him, slippery hands reaching out to grasp his arm, but he shrugs me off. Keeps on walking.

Fuck it, so I try again. And again. Until he snaps and spins around then drives me backwards, claws ripping out of his fists with the slick sound of metal, my feet slipping and sliding in the mud as he comes towards me, fury and rage and heat slamming into me.

"You wanna go, then FUCKING GO!"

Oh God. "Please, I-"

"Is this a GAME? Because I'm FUCKING tired of it! What was it? You finally get what you wanted, and you find it ain't what you wanted at all? HUH? Was it revenge? SEX?"

My shoulders hits something solid and I can’t back away any further. Fingers fumble along behind me, try to get my bearings. Wall. By the door. I can't seem to remember how to breathe.

"WAS THAT IT?" He snarls the words out, face tightening into a grimace, claws grinding into the thick stone either side of my head as he pins me there. His eyes burn down at me, body pressing me up against the rough mortar at my back and he’s so close that I can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

Then his mouth is on mine, and it’s furious. Lips bruising, teeth marking, and it’s so raw and hungry that it burns right through me. Not claiming or kissing, but marking. Ruining.

But then he slows, and with a muffled groan I feel him shift against me, the desire racing through him like he can’t stop it. His body goes from pinning me down, to warm and impatient. Hands fumbling as I realise his claws have gone. Frantic movement as he pushes me backwards; my shoulders scraping against the rough stone; feet stumbling until we’re out of the rain and through the doorway, up against the wall in the hall, hard and fast; his mouth holding mine, teeth and lips and tongue and wet heat, and God it feels good

I’m struggling to breathe but I don’t care. My hair is soggy and damp as his fingers snag through it, gripping it in a fist at the base of my neck, mouth trailing over my face, down my throat; hungry and out of control. A hand clamps my thigh, wrapping it around his hip, pulling me hard against him until I can feel... oh God...

A wave of heat rocks through me and he knows it. He lifts me up, pressing against me until the pressure on my jeans almost hurts, and it's all so fast but I want so much more.

Fingers, cold from the rain, shove my top upwards, his hands running over the skin beneath. White hot desire races through every part of me he touches. His body moving hard, grinding against me, the urgency building until I'm burning and out of control and I'm writhing against him, eyes slipping out of focus as... Christ... I think I'm gonna... I'm actually gonna....

Oh... fuck...

A headlong burning rush hits me, fast, delirious with sensation. My head is thrown back against the wall, hands gripping his jacket, eyes lost in the furious darkness of his, even as surprise registers there, every part of me arching towards him, pressing myself against him again and again, the sounds coming from my lips not sounds I thought I could make.

I ride it out until I'm beyond everything. Until all that’s left is dizzy breathing and liquid warmth.

The sound of the rain.

The wet smell of the woods.

...The slow seeping clarity of what just happened.

Um.

Oh. My God.

...Shit!

Logan doesn’t say anything. He no longer moves, even though he's so tense I can see the veins standing out on the side of his neck. He just breathes. I see his shoulders rise and fall. Just breathes and watches me.

My face flairs hot with colour.

I'm suddenly very aware of the awkwardness of our positions. I'm wrapped round him like a... like... oh Christ... and I'm painfully aware of the fact that I just came, loudly, without him even touching me... and even more painfully aware, that he hasn't. In fact I'm extremely focussed on that last point when the strain on my legs begins to ache and I slowly slide my feet back to the floor, hearing his breath catch as I move against the very obvious bulge in his jeans.

Oh...

His nostrils flair and he doesn't blink. For a moment he looks like he's struggling to reign himself in. I see it in the lines of his face, the set of his jaw. But when he reaches out a thumb and rubs it over my sore lips, it's gentle. "I hurt you."

My embarrassment fades and I frown slightly. He thinks that?

I shake my head. "No."

But it’s not enough. "You’ve got..." his hand falls down to my shoulder, where I’m pretty sure he can see the mark of his teeth.

"It’s okay."

"How the fuck is it o-"

I don’t let him finish. This time I reach up towards him, nearly standing on my tiptoes, my hands sliding through his thick hair, pulling his face downwards until my lips can taste his again, wishing more than anything else that our mutations were the other way around so I could pour into him every emotion I’m feeling.

When I finally pull away, he still doesn't move. Just stands there, so close that I can feel every breath brush across my hair.

"Don’t go." He says it so quietly, that it almost breaks my heart.

"The Government have my name." My fingers are still gripped around his jacket, nails digging into the worn leather. "They know where I am, they know what I did. I’m scared they’ll use the school to get me."

"That the truth?"

I lean forward and bury my face against him. "I wish it wasn't."

I hear him sigh, like he’s trying to control some emotion but not quite managing it. His arm comes up behind me, crushes me to him in a tight hug, his head resting on top of mine as he presses his lips to my hair. "You're trembling," he says eventually.

The wind from outside brushes over my damp clothes and I shiver. "I'm cold."

He reaches out and shuts the door.

I look at him as if to protest, but he shakes his head. "Tomorrow."

And he leads me upstairs instead.

If someone had told me a few years ago that this would be happening to me, I wouldn't have believed them. Yes, my thoughts would have wondered to places that made me blush, and yes I would have probably chewed my lip and smiled a sappy smile, but it would have been the smile of a giddy daydream, not reality.

I guess if someone had told me a few months ago this would be happening? I would have laughed right in their face.

A few weeks? Probably just cried.

But now?

Oh man.

With a quiet click, Logan closes my bedroom door behind us. The sound makes my heart jump into my throat.

All the tiny details seem to spring to life around me. The rain splatters loudly down on the leafy branches of the closest tree... I forgot to shut the window. There's a tiny spider crawling up the sleeve of my robe, slung over the chair where I left it. The pillow on the bed is patterned with tiny flowers, very feminine, not at all Logan. It makes me cringe and I have to fight the irrational urge to hide it.

I mean, what's he going to do? Turn around and say 'well, I was up for a damn hot night darlin', but now I've seen your taste in soft furnishin's...?'

Yeah right!

Man, what is wrong with my brain? It's not that big a deal. It's just sex. Lovin'. Fucking. Humping. Making the beast with two backs. I've done it before. People do it all the time. Yep.

...Just not with Logan.

Or, actually, that's not strictly true. People tend to have sex with Logan quite a lot. Or rather, he tends to have sex with a lot of people... although... not so much recently. But that doesn't mean he doesn't have one hell of a history. He's about three lifetimes more experienced than I am!

Oh God. I did not need that realisation right now.

I'm so nervous all of a sudden, that my embarrassment at coming so very quickly downstairs is paling into insignificance.

...Or rather, it was until I just thought about it again. Suddenly my mind is back there, hard up against that wall, and the paling into insignificance thing is not working as well as I'd hoped. He's gonna think I'm desperate or something! ...Which, okay, I am. But I don't need to advertise the fact!

Oh Christ I'm going to make a mess of this.

Um... Is it really happening?

I turn around and glance up at him through my lashes. The light that filters in through the rain soaked window is soft and shadowy, but his expression is clear. It's dark and intense and very much focused on me.

Fuck.

The realisation sends a wave of heat spreading through my stomach.

I realise I'm staring and I all but blush. "Sorry," I mumble faintly, looking down at my feet instead.

"Don't be."

My stomach flips at the tone of his voice. My heart thudding almost painfully in my chest when his boots appear in my field of vision. I feel him run two fingers through my hair, snagging at the streaks of white in an echo of years before. Hovering in a door way in the late afternoon light. I don't want you to go.

He tilts my head back up towards him, leans in closer, his mouth only a breath away from mine. The faint brush of his stubble is almost tickling my skin, so close that he's... he's...

Hesitating?

Goddammit! What on earth...?

It takes me a few moments to register the tinny sounding noise that's annoying my ears. Even longer to realise it's the stupid phone of all things.

I mutter a few choice swear words under my breath.

Ideally, what I'd like to happen would be for Logan to scowl, tell me not to answer the damn thing, and throw me onto the bed.

He doesn't. He just frowns. Backs off a pace.

Stupid real life.

I fumble around in the dresser, yes it's still there, and yes, Logan gives me a slightly strange look as I hit a few random keys. To be honest I'm hoping I'll accidentally hang up on whoever it is.

Instead I just end up putting them on speaker phone.

"So, you're still there then?" Scott's disgruntled voice slings itself around the room, loud and clear. Unfortunately.

I panic and jab at a few more keys.

"Were you even going to say goodbye?"

Shit. There must be a silence button round here somewhere!

"Are you ignoring me?"

Shit. Shit. Shit! "No..." I manage, feebly.

"Well it sounds like you are. Who am I gonna have to be miserable with, if you're leaving?!"

Gaa! This is all going so wrong! "Is that your...uh... way of..." I'm still frantically trying random buttons, "...saying you'd...uh...miss me?"

"No." He sounds far too sulky for it to be true though. "I just don't want to be the only crazy person left around here. Besides, what the hell happened? One moment you were all 'ya need ta heal Scott and Ah'm so happy Ah'm stickin' around."

Oh that's a terrible attempt at my accent.

"And the next you and Logan are all 'oh I couldn't possibly blah blah blah', then groping the hell out of each other, and now you're running away?"

Dammit! How the HELL do you work this thing?!

"What happened? Did you sleep with him?"

Oh, the bitter irony...

"Was it that bad?"

Logan raises an eyebrow.

"Or did you just-"

Finally! My finger hits the right button, the phone stops shouting out loud, and there are a few blissful moments of peace before I risk putting it against my ear.

I wince slightly. More at the expression on Logan's face, than anything else. He looks like he can't decide whether he's more amused or pissed off.

"Sorry Scott." I mumble, reluctantly.

Scott huffs an angry sigh. "Good. Well, that's a start."

"I didn't realise you'd be that upset." Actually, I was so wrapped up in my own misery, I didn't think about anyone else at all. The realisation makes me feel awful.

"I'm not upset," he says grouchily.

"I would have phoned you." I tell him. And it's the truth. I really would have.

Eventually.

"Just that this really isn't a good time right now," I add, trying not to give away the specifics.

"It's... Oh. Why not?" I expect him to sound even more disgruntled, but instead his curiosity is piqued. With a sinking feeling I realise that's probably far worse.

"I'm...uhh... busy."

"Doing what? I thought you were leaving?"

I roll my eyes in apology to Logan. "Y'know, you really need to get out of that room of yours," I tell Scott. "My life is not your own personal TV show. It's just bad timing."

"In what way?"

Does he ever stop asking questions?

"In... well... I..." my attention is completely lost as Logan does the unthinkably unfair and leans in close again. His sideburns scratch at my cheek as his teeth pull lightly on my ear lobe. I let out something resembling a girly yelp.

"Hang up," Logan whispers. The suggestiveness in his tone slides its way down to my very toes.

"Did you just squeak?"

Oh God, I forgot about Scott.

"What the hell is going on?" The phone continues to bark at me. "What are you doing?"

"I... uh...told you," I manage vaguely. God it's hard to concentrate. "I'm... busy."

"How busy?"

At that, Logan reaches round and grabs the phone right from my fingers. "Very," he says gruffly, before hanging up and shoving it back on the dresser. He smirks slightly at my open mouthed expression.

I forgot how sensitive his hearing was.

Also? That was really kinda hot.

Heh.

Still... I glance at the phone, feeling grateful and guilty all at the same time. "Do you think Scott'll be alright?"

"Yes." Blunt. To the point.

"It's just that he's not really... I mean..." I begin weakly, but Logan's mouth is already back beneath my ear again. "He's not in a... a good..." God did he just use his tongue? "...A good..." Oh fuck it, Scott'll be fine.

Logan nuzzles into the curve of my neck. "You're shivering," he says softly, and his arms tug me closer, move me into his body heat.

He rubs his palms slowly up and down my arms to warm them, but I’m soaked through and it doesn’t make any difference. Then as his hands drop to my waist, they catch a hold of the hem of my top and pull it upwards, the wet material rolling off my arms as it tries to cling to my skin, catching my hair as he pulls it over my head.

I suddenly feel like he's taken away my armour. My breath hitches in my throat. I know he hears it.

He moves in closer. I think he's going to kiss me again, so I nudge clumsily forward but to my dismay he's too quick, and he manages to keep the minuscule distance between us.

"What?" I ask fuzzily, trying not to sound hurt. Did I do something wrong?

"You done this before?"

Oh.

That.

...Damn.

There is no reason on earth I should be embarrassed by the answer to that question, other than the fact that it brings the image of Bobby's scrunched up sex face to my head... ew... but despite there being no reason? I am.

Logan frowns.

"...Uh... kind of." I tell him, before he takes my reluctance to share the wrong way. I really hope he doesn't ask for details.

"Kind of?"

I shrug. Trying not to look like I'm mortified talking about it.

"You goin' all quiet on me again?"

"No... I just..." A horrible thought occurs to me. "This isn't one of those 'you can't talk about it, then we ain't going there' moments, is it?"

"Believe me darlin'," he growls, pulling me flush against the tightness in his jeans, "we're goin' there. You don't get all the fun."

Oh.

A surge of desire floods through me. I have a feeling my eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

"Jus' wanna make sure I ain't gonna hurt you, that's all." He runs his thumb softly along my collarbone as he says it, totally screwing with my concentration.

"You... won't, I mean, I'm...not..." I begin, but his touch is moving downwards, and speaking no longer seems important. Or possible. He traces over the lacy material of my bra, leaving a tingling trail of awareness in his wake. His fingers splay out as they sink lower, warm and possessive. Part of me is aware that this is nothing like downstairs. This is slow. A lifetime of memories in one night. The other part is so giddy and high on sensation, that it doesn't know up from down. God, I want this.

He inhales me like a drug, hands moving over the curve of my hips, into the small of my back. I've never been so grateful for the chance to touch as I am right this moment.

"Kick your shoes off," he whispers in my ear, wiping all other thoughts from my mind. I'm not sure when he undid them, but his hands are slowly working inside the sodden denim of my jeans, pushing them down, fighting the way they stick to my thighs, until they’re a cold heap around my ankles.

When he does finally kisses me, it’s restrained; I know he’s holding himself back. As my touch finds its way under his jacket, however, and as I taste his tongue in my mouth, that control begins to fray.

He steps back. Shrugs off his outer layer of clothes, watching me the whole while. Then he unbuttons enough of his shirt to be able to pull it over his head. My fingers reach out to him, running over the soft material of his wife-beater. He moves closer so my hands can slide beneath it, tugging it upwards, discarding it on the floor with his shirt. And then I'm in his arms. And he's warm and solid and breathing as hard as I am, and as his mouth finds mine I'm lost in the hunger of it.

I fumble at his belt, and he groans, moving against me, reaching down and jerking at the buttons of his fly, shedding his jeans. My bra is gone, and his hands are there instead... fuck that feels good. And my panties - they're slid much more roughly off me than my other clothes were. Then he's pushing me backwards until my legs hit the bed, and he's suddenly on top of me, hard and hot and naked.

The muscles of his back are bunched and strong, I feel them move as I run my hand down to the tight curve of his ass; words torn from him, half curse, half moan, lost as they're muffled into my mouth.

Then he shifts, and I can feel him there already. So fast. No longer pressing against me, but pressing into me and... oh... fuck...

Sensation convulses through me in thick waves at the shock of him. He growls, a tremor shuddering through him likes it's too intense, moving against me, in me. God it is intense. I wrap my legs tighter around him, and he groans then thrusts again, suddenly hard and primal. White heat racing from his mouth to mine.

My thoughts become fractured and lost in the moment. Lost in the sinew and strength of his arm at the side of my head, the smell of warm metal sweating through his skin. A thumb dips into my mouth, down over a nipple, hand smoothing over my stomach, crooking my knee around him, gripping my thigh, all the while breathing. A mesh of movement and sensation; hips pressing into mine, hard and strong and heavy, and god I'm lost in it.

Fighting at that leash of control, his jaw clenching as a hand slides to the small of my back, arching me up towards him... changing the angle so…fuck that feels good. My heals digging into the soft mattress, muscles in my thighs burning. The way the breath hisses from him when my nails scrape along his shoulder. Bodies so close, fiercely gripping to each other. Louder. Clutching. The sweat that trickles down between us. Slippery slide of skin over skin. The guttural sounds that come from him as he gets more and more frantic. The things I tell him. The things I want. Lust and heat coursing through my veins as he moves harder and faster, until I can't control it any more and I'm shuddering, fingers digging into his skin, toes curling into the sheets as wave after wave rocks through me.

It sends him over the edge. He grips me so hard it hurts as he comes with a strangled yell, his face buried in my neck. I can feel his body throb with every convulsion that's wrung from him, feel the way his muscles tremble, the power that's in them.

Until he's spent. Until he's heaving for breath and exhausted.

Until he moves his weight off me, and rolls to the side, tugging me up against him, sated and soaked in emotions.

Until my eyelids drift heavily with warmth and contentment. Exhaustion

And I sleep better than I have done in weeks.

---

When my eyes blink slowly open into the fresh light that permeates the room, I know it’s morning.

I also know, without a doubt, that the bed next to me is cold.

I don’t move, not just yet. I don't let the emptiness hurt me. Instead I cling on to that fuzzy state of almost sleep; half dreaming, dipping in and out of memories. I bury my nose in the pillow. The sheets still smell of him and I can almost imagine he’s here next to me.

I remember sometime in the night, it was still dark and I wriggled, hot and restless, unused to sharing a bed with someone. He woke up and blinked at me, bleary eyed. You okay? His voice was tousled like his hair.

Then there had been languid caresses. Soothing. Sleepy. Whispered confessions. And the slow burning heat of bodies moving into one another again.

But no promises.

I close my eyes for a moment longer, breathe in the scent of him that's still all around me, and I tell myself all the sensible things I know I need to hear. That I was always going to have to leave in the morning anyway. That it's probably less messy that he's not here for some sobbing goodbye. That one night is better than a lifetime of not knowing.

I don't believe any of them.

I swing my legs out of bed. The floor is a cold shock against my feet, but I ignore it, only half realising the rain has finally stopped, sunlight pouring through the window in shifting patterns dappled by the trees.

I step over my discarded clothes on the way to the bathroom.

His are all gone. Of course they are.

The taps creak, and the water's hot and heavy as it pours over me, pummelling down on my back and shoulders, driving away the stickiness and the aches that remain from last night. Muscles I haven't really used before, protest in the new light of day. They're like the sheets, scented and marked with him. Like me.

I wash through my hair, and towel myself off, almost in a daze. Dig around for some of the hand-me-down clothes I had planned to leave behind... mine are all packed or still damp from yesterday. I gather up my remaining things, and head, soft footed, downstairs.

There’s a note. Pinned to the front door.

Give me an hour, it says. And I can’t help it. After everything else, I sink down against the coolness of the wall, and I cry so hard I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

---

By the time I finally make it outside, he's already there, sleeves rolled up his forearms, jacket shoved to one side as he straps his bike into the back of the truck. The sight twists something so pure and sharp in my chest, that for a moment I can hardly breathe. Too painful to be joy, yet every part of me is giddy with it.

I watch him work, too afraid to say anything in case it breaks the spell. He doesn't venture anything either, just looks up at me occasionally, the hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

When he's done, he casually slings his duffel in the back seat, then comes over to where I'm standing and wipes the last smudges of the tears from my face with the back of his thumb.

"You slept in," he says. Nothing more than that.

And I think we might just be okay.

What was it I said to you at the beginning of this story? Do you ever wonder who you are? Have you ever felt like a fake in your own skin?

God that seems like years ago now.

All the self-doubt. All the sass I used to hide it. I understand it more now. Oh, I'm still just as bad, don't get me wrong. There ain't no 'and they rode off into the sunset together and they all lived perfectly sensible lives happily ever after' cure-all ending. Heh. To be honest, if that was the case, I think I would get bored.

It's been months, and I still fall apart occasionally. I still act stupid when I'm drunk. I still get grouchy when I don't get my own way. But then... well... Logan gets grouchy too. Especially in the mornings. And he's not a big talker, although I more than make up for that.

I guess what I'm saying is that neither of us is perfect. But he picks me up when I need it the most, and I try and do the same for him.

Maybe, between us, we can just about scrape together a whole person again.

...Or maybe I should just stop over analysing everything to shit, take each day as it comes, and say screw you world. Like anybody else out there is normal.

I should definitely stop talking to myself. That would probably help.

“You asleep?”

Logan's voice startles me out of my mind-ambling stupor. I shake my head. Uhh, fuzzy. Hate that. “Not yet,” I yawn massively. “Although only just. Why? You want me to drive for a while?”

He gives me a half-amused look. I'm becoming pretty damn good at interpreting those looks these days, even if I do say so myself. This time, the raised eyebrow is clearly saying 'you serious? Hell no.'

“I'm not that bad.” I grumble in my defence.

The half-amused look widens into a full on smirk.

“I missed the tree didn't I?” I still swear the thing came out of nowhere! It was over a week ago as well and I was least a foot away from hitting it. Whatever. Self-righteous smug bastard. He's lucky he looks so hot when he does that.

I make a good effort at pouting, but it fails pretty much before it's off the ground. Instead I find I can't help the smile that crawls across my face. I don't mind it being there either, because his good humour is infectious. In the end I give up, slouch back in my seat, wriggling my bare feet up on the dashboard like I love, and watching the trees race by the window of our truck in a dark green blur.

It’s been just over eight months since we left the Mansion. Eight months since the morning Logan left me to sleep in. Since he went to wake up Scott and told him it was time he hauled his ass out of bed. That there was a school that needed runnin'.

Eight months. Yeah. Take note of that date. There’s an age-old life-lesson in there somewhere. One involving protection and thinking before you... well... grope in the rain.

We’ve been living in Canada. Got ourselves a scraggy looking piece of land by a lake with a cabin that’s big enough for the two of us, and far enough away from all civilisation that neither of us have to worry too much about lying low. Not that it makes all that much difference. Out there, no one really gives a damn about what the Government wants anyway.

Still, we decided it's safer not to take risks. Even after a file and two highly-classified hard drives arrived on our doorstep one day, along with the lingering smell of jet fuel, and a note from Scott saying he knew a guy who could teleport and a girl who could walk through walls.

Logan went very quiet, that day. Even though the weather was god-damn awful, he went off on his own for a few hours. Worried the hell out of me. When he came back he burned the lot. It was one of the only times I've seen him really angry since we left.

Anyway, I'm not naive enough to believe that the Government only had three copies of my file, but... well... it's a start.

Eight months.

Christ, you should have seen his face when he first found out. He went white.

Eight months can go by very quickly though. It feels strange to be heading back so soon.

We agreed with the Professor that it’s okay for us to visit the Mansion again for this. This is scary and new. For both of us. And dammit, I am not brazening this one out. I want doctors and a fuck lot of drugs around.

We stop for gas outside of Albany and Logan leans in to nuzzle my ear before heading into the station. “You want anything?”

God yeah. I’m constantly hungry at the moment. “Hmmmm... Fried bologna on rye with mayo and lettuce?”

“They ain't gonna have that here, darlin;”

Ugh. “Chicken salad sandwich then.”

He nods.

“...Oh, and a Coke?”

Eyebrow. “Anythin’ else?”

I shake my almost empty packet at him hopefully. “More Goobers?”

A smart looking business woman gives me a disapproving look as I waggle my bare feet in her direction, comfortably eating the last few chocolates off my giant belly.

And is this a clichéd ending? Who knows. We're far from perfect. We still argue. I still screw up. Regularly in fact. I still get freaked out by all the large insects in the woods... they're huge goddamit... and I worry about all the wrong things. I still talk to the voices in my head.

Is it an ending at all? Because really, it’s nothing more than a moment. It’ll pass into memory like everything else, and the world, your world will go on regardless.

But...meh... that’s being far too philosophical about the whole thing.

Personally, I'd much rather just sit here eating chocolates and feel all loved-up.

God, I need to pee again. How long before we get there?