The rest of the year, he could manage. He could be gruff and surly and distant, and no one noticed. But Christmas – Christmas was difficult.

Everyone at the mansion exchanged gifts. Two years ago, if anyone had’a told Logan he’d be buying gifts for an assortment of teachers, teenagers and children, he would have roared in their face. But here he was, in Scott’s room, going over a friggin shopping list.

This year, he was buying for Stormy, the Popsicle, several young girls who were terrified of him, and Kevin, who he actually knew due to their mutual late-night-tv habit. He was pretty sure Kevin would get a laugh out of Mr Potato or whatever it was called, and Storm was a safe bet for a book, but as for the others … it was worse than buying for Marie.

She wasn’t on his assigned list, but he always bought for Marie.

Logan felt his jaw clench at the thought, and resented the fact such a little thing could make him so tense. Uptight, he thought, shooting a glare at Scooter – perhaps it was friggen catching. How hard could a present for a 17 year old be?

Visions of lingerie and tight, tight leather pants began to dance in his head, tormenting him until his body began to stir. He stared hard at Scooter’s list of suggestions until the urge passed. Then the words “vanilla body cream” caught his eye. He had wondered at the array of scents the giggle squad wore – chemical-doused strawberry, radioactive lime, some sort of mutated grapefruit – but Marie was the only one who wore vanilla. And it was a pure, natural scent that had more to do with the long pods she loved to cook with than anything else. Still, Logan scribbled a “W” next to the item, and reserved it. No one should smell like vanilla except Marie.

His train of thought made it essential he get the task over with and get someplace more private. He’d learned the hard way that marking the first ten items on the list wasn’t considered sufficient thought, so he scrawled his W randomly in nine other locations and turned his back to leave.

“Merry Christmas, Logan,” the Professor offered as he left the room. He tried to return the cheery smile, but his mind had long since fled into dangerous territory, so a waved salute would have to do. If there was one thing to be thankful for in his twisted past, it was his scrambled synapses. They made reading his mind impossible, something for which Logan was profoundly thankful.

Sometimes he wondered if the world was playing a friggin’ practical joke on him. Him: older than the hills, mentally scarred and physically uncontrollable, mean, unsociable son-of-a-bitch. Her: giving, loving, trusting, compassionate and friendly. “You forget ‘jailbait’ and ‘illegal’” his conscience added. Logan told his conscience to shut the fuck up, and that he had never once forgotton. Hence his problem.

*

Most days, he could ignore the girl, and what she did to him. Workouts were hard, admittedly, but he was her combat teacher for Chrissake – it was his job to keep a close eye on her technique. And correct her physically. He made damn sure that Marie got no more attention than any other teenager in his class, and just because she was the only one he ENJOYED correcting … they didn’t know that. And sparring after hours didn’t count, anyways. Wasn’t his fault Marie was the only one with guts enough to take him on, outta class.

Most days, he was able to stonewall her when she brushed up against him, and those moments after a takedown when she liked to breathe naughty suggestions straight into his ear. After the first few times, when his body reacted from sheer surprise, he even told her off. Told her no kid had any business knowing about that sorta’ stuff. “It’d work better if ya weren’t touching her at the time, bub,” his conscience snorted. “And ya think Marie don’t know when you’re taking a fall?”

He growled halfheartedly at the allegation, but didn’t pursue it. OK – combat was hard, too. But Christmas was MUCH harder.

He had the gift stash to prove it.

First Christmas, they’d just arrived in the mansion, and after all that shit with Magneto and his goons, he’d had to take off for a bit. It was late December when he returned, his bag heavy with a brand new set of women’s motorcycle leathers .

He’d seen them hanging in the admin area of the garage he’d been forced to visit in Vancouver. He should have been thinking about the shudder that had developed whenever he pushed the bike above 60, but one look and he couldn’t think of anything other than her, and them, and her in them. He’d put in an order on the spot; never once asking himself exactly how he knew what size she was.

Wasn’t until he got back on Christmas Eve, and seen her parading around in the skintight leathers, he realised that it wasn’t quite … right. She looked 21, not 15, and the invitation was pretty damn clear, too. He’d taken her out riding a few times, ignoring the press of black leather and warm girl on his back, before announcing he had to head back up north. And it wasn’t safe for her to be on a motorcycle with anyone but him, so maybe they should put the leathers away until he got back.

He’d been surprised how well she’d taken it really – no one likes an Indian giver – but the tears in her eyes when she caught him at the door told the real story. It wasn’t the leathers she would miss. So he’d wrapped her hand around the tags, and told her he would be back, and prayed she hadn’t been playing kisschasy with a psi that day.

The next Christmas he never even made it back. He’d sent her a cheesy card, with a CD from some band she’d told him she liked. Weren’t as if she would’a been able to wear those scraps of silk he found in the fancy department store, anyway. That deep green colour had reminded him of that big coat she had on when they met, but the way those soft little shorts would’a left her legs bare … he woulda’ heard Scooter sniffing “not appropriate” from the other side of the continent.

Course, when he did come back, it was to spend half a night with her running around in that skimpy black thing … The irony would'a made him laugh, if he hadn't been busy choking. Her legs might have been covered, but dragging his eyes offa the top half of her got harder and harder. He’d never been more thankful to see a house in his life, even if he’d had to watch Popsicle disappear upstairs with her in an attempt to find clothes for the girl. He’d wanted to gut the boy for even looking at her, but hey – he was a kid. So was she. And getting the life sucked outta him might actually stop the boy from trying anything.

Sometimes Logan hated his healing factor. If he tried something, the only thing that could stop him would be his conscience. Or Marie. And he wondered if either of them would even bother to try.

So, vanilla body cream for Christmas this year. That set of silk sheets he’d bought had been a crazy idea, anyway. She didn’t even have a double bed.

His conscience was strangely quiet on that front.

*

Logan stomped through the corridors, glaring at anyone who even thought about getting in his way. Inside his own room, the aggression dropped away, one more mask he could discard in the safety of his own room. He slumped in the armchair by the window and refused to look at the wide expanse of his bed.

“I want you, and I’m hating it,” he whispered to the dark corners of his room. “I want to be your friend, or mentor or something. Not some dirty old man who just can’t wait for you to grow up a bit.”

He waited for the walls to scream at the confession, and let out a long breath when nothing happened. Livin’ in this place could screw with your mind sometimes. Wouldn’t surprise him if the walls actually DID have ears.

They didn’t, of course. Nothing so crude was required in a house full of the psi-enabled. Not to mention the aurally gifted. But it was neither of those things that would spell his downfall.

It was the girl about to knock on his door, whose perfectly ordinary ears still managed to pick up the tortured groan. Whose pulse hammered and skin tingled at the very thought of it.

Who decided she deserved something very, very special for Christmas.

ends