Logan’s out for blood tonight.

I could tell as soon as he came stomping down the stairs. Since I can’t touch him... yet, I get my illicit kicks by studying him. I’m pretty sure he knows I watch him a lot, but he’s never said anything about it, so I continue to indulge myself in the eye candy that is Logan.

Granted, maybe I understand a lot more about him because I have touched him. He still resides in my head, in some undetermined and unpredictable fashion. The Wolverine in my head whispers hints and secrets when Logan’s behavior comes close to mystifying me. I find it strange the feral part of his nature is sticking with me so much stronger than the more civilized man that is Logan, if indeed Logan and the Wolverine are two distinct personalities dwelling in the same muscle-packed body that’s going out hunting a cage fight tonight.

He’s been twitchy the last few days; out of sorts, but without an obvious reason for his moodiness. And yeah, I’ll grant you it’s tough to describe someone as being both twitchy and too quiet at the same time, but that man can do it.

The clothes and the timing are giving him away. It’s Saturday night and too late for the typical eight-ball, beer-drinking night out. He’s not dressed up, so he’s not going cruising for women. But that man could troll for women even in his old clothes and come up with a full stringer. No, he’s out for blood, for a little semi-sanctioned violence, with the promise of cash and cooch at the end of the night. Not that he’s been hurting for either lately, but the man just seems to need to cut loose and inflict pain sometimes.

Or let people inflict pain on him -- I’ve never really been too clear on that subject. And my Inner Wolverine won’t discuss it.

Anyway, he’s wearing those old, faded, tight-around-the-ass jeans that are ready for the rag bag. There are oil stains on the left knee and a hole in the other knee, and I know one pocket must be in shreds because he occasionally leaves a trail of small change across my bedroom carpeting while passing through. I need to patch that pocket for him. I can patch the knee, too. I can sew.

Dare I measure his inseam? Ah-ha! That’s one plot I can percolate for a few nights’ fantasizing.

The faded blue t-shirt is tight enough to show every ripple of muscle across his shoulders and chest, and the sleeves are rolled up to display thick biceps that will melt women and put fear into men. The corner of the pocket is dangling loose where I tore it. That was a long story, but the damage was truly unintentional. We were wrestling over a corn dog.

I won.

He actually got the corn dog, but he wrestled me when everyone else refused to get within arm’s length of untouchable Rogue. I’ll make all the corn dogs he wants, any time. He’s worth it.

He’s wearing the brown biker boots, the old, beat-up ones that are for dirty jobs only. I know some of the stains are blood, some are motor oil, and one is grass from yesterday when he kicked a soccer ball to some kids and accidentally stubbed his toe in the lawn. They laughed, he snarled, they went quickly away.

“Hey, kid,” he comments as he moves toward the door, “whatcha doin’ tonight?”

“Nothin’,” I reply in a breath, sounding as bored as possible.

He spends several moments just studying me like a bug under a magnifying glass. Then, “Why?”

Sheesh, dude! Either ask me along with you, or don’t stir the pot. I’m untouchable, unbelievably bored, and cranked with hormonal angst. I wuss out and answer, “I lack inspiration, I guess.”

He’s on the verge of asking me to do something with him, I just know it. Movie, dinner, bike ride, cage fight -- I don’t care. Just ask, dammit! Bust me outta here....

There’s the patented smirk, almost a smile, eyes warming, and yes, it’s there -- an actual smile! He’s so handsome when he smiles. He needs to do more of that....

He’s walking toward me, he’s reaching out, and there go the fingers into my hair. I love that, I love him, I love that he’s not afraid to get as close to touching me as we can get.

“You busy tomorrow night?” He’s so damned close to me, I can feel the heat off of him.

“Uh.... I... uh...” That’s me, a stuttering idiot; just answer the damned question! I hate it when I babble, but it just falls uncontrollably out of my mouth, “I have to teach a class at three, should be over by four-thirty, and yeah, yes! I am free after that, all night. Yours for the taking.”

I see something fire in his eyes when I say that, but he doesn’t push it beyond that point.

“Pencil me in - we’ll do something, go somewhere. We’ll decide tomorrow. Okay?”

“More than okay, sugar - it’s a date. Where are you goin’ for a cage fight tonight?”

“How’d you know I was goin’ out for a fight?” He deftly dodged my actual question.

I tap the side of my head knowingly, “I’m a different kind of psychic.” I give him the wise, all-knowing smile.

“You’re a scary little woman sometimes, you know that?”

“Yeah,” I breathe at him, “I kinda like it that way.”

“Me, too,” he whispers back and plants the world’s fastest smooch on my forehead, right between my eyes, tugs my hair, and heads for the door again.

Six AM rolls around, and I’m dragging my carcass out of bed for an early teacher’s meeting before classes start. Through the wall, I hear the shower running in Logan’s room. While I’m brushing my hair and putting on earrings, I hear the bed springs squeak. He’s just coming home as the sun rises.

Not able to resist, I knock lightly on his door as I head downstairs for breakfast, knowing he isn’t asleep yet. He knows it’s me -- he can smell me through the door.

“What’s up, darlin’?” I open the door at his words and he’s sprawled in the bed, apparently naked beneath the sheet that’s up to his waist; sleepy, clean, and apparently relaxed now. Oh, how I just want to crawl in there with him. God damn this mutation of mine!

“You okay, Logan?”

“Aces.”

“Good. Get some sleep, sugar. We’ve got a date tonight, remember?”

“Lookin’ forward to it.”

“See ya tonight,” and I shut the door quietly so he can sleep. As long as I know he’s okay, I can get through another day.

Logan’s out to get laid tonight.

I could tell as soon as he came strutting down the stairs. It should be illegal for anyone to look that good. And he knows it, the handsome bastard. He knows he can work women with his looks alone, and that brawny body. He winked at me, grabbed the keys to his bike off the wall of the garage, and rode away toward town. I know where he goes, his favorite hang-out with live country music and a dance floor on one end, pool tables on the other, and an amazingly well-stocked bar in the middle.

There’s even sawdust strategically scattered on the floor, and empty peanut shells tossed everywhere. Add many women in tight clothes and sporting lots of hair, and you’ve got one very busy roadhouse. I’ve been there with him before. He took me in for lunch one day when we were out for a ride. It was nice just sitting at the bar with him, munching peanuts and drinking beer. He even bought me a shot of brandy to celebrate my twenty-first birthday, while we waited for ribs and spicy fries.

After we had eaten and shot a few games of eight ball, he dropped a handful of quarters in the jukebox and slow-danced with me. That was the first time I realized that Logan could dance. Nothing fancy, just slow, smooth, and close. He’s really very light on his feet for a muscle-packed man with a hundred pounds of metal inside him.

I even helped him pick out those new black jeans last week. I told him he needed some more clothes besides the work jeans and t-shirts, and the mansion’s regulation sweats. He grabbed his wallet and pulled me out the door with him. I couldn’t believe it! I was expecting a trip to the mall, but we ended up at Tractor Supply Company, in the clothing section. Lots of western wear hung from the racks.... lots of denim, chambray, flannel, and plaid, of course.

So I dressed him in cowboy-sexy -- evil, lean black jeans, a pack of new black t-shirts (you can’t hide that body under something loose, seriously now!), and a new black belt with some silver studs on it -- nothing too flashy, but not subtle, either. Black and silver -- that’s his style.

And those damned sexy boots -- he dropped seriously long green on those. Genuine pointy-toed cowboy boots in black tooled leather, with the little silver caps on the toes and around the heels. The only thing that would have been more obviously kinky would have been a shiny silver spur or two, but he’s not that blatant. Maybe he’s into leather and chains, but I’m guessing he just likes the leather, how it looks, feels, smells... I’ve seen him sniffing around leather before, and I admit I like it, too. Leather smells like men. Men smell like leather.

But those damned boots! Tooled leather silver sex!

I’m gonna follow him, I swear. If he’s going dancing in those boots, I want to see it.

I wait thirty minutes while changing into something inconspicuous, then grab the blue minivan that he never pays any attention to (so he’s not quite as likely to spot me) and slowly drive toward the bar. Circle the parking lot, and yep -- there’s Logan’s Harley, parked in the back.

I shouldn’t be doing this; it’s like I’m spying on him. I should just drive right back to the mansion and forget about this crazy idea. I just.... I want to see.... ah, there’s a parking spot in front...

Dammit, I want to see him dancing in those boots!

The place is packed, noisy, and dark – good cover for my reconnaissance mission. Neon beer signs and a few colored lights over a dance floor don’t make for good reading light, but this is a bar and it’s supposed to be dark on weekends.

I slip up onto a stool at the backside of the bar, tucked away in the corner and as out of sight as possible, and order a beer and a brandy. I lay my ID on the bar right away so there’s no fuss over carding me -- I don’t want him to know I’m here if I can help it.

Do I? Would he freak out? Take me home? Ask me to dance again? Ignore me while he picks up another woman?

Could I handle that, if I saw him leaving with some floozy? Or even a nice woman who’s here with the same intention he is, to find a warm bed and a willing body for the night?

Holy hell, there he is! He’s dancing with a red-head, real slow, real close. She whispers something and he half-smiles, sniffs her hair, and pulls her closer as they slowly turn around the dance floor. Thankfully, she doesn’t look like Jean -- she’s short and has lots of fleshy female curves, not the lean, lanky, catwalk physique that was Jean’s. He seems to be over that whole disaster, the flirting, the death, the resurrection, the execution at his own hands, and at her request. God, what an awful time in our lives that was...

The red-head gives a hearty laugh (I think -- she looks like she’s laughing, though I can’t hear her over the band), and the music changes to a fast Texas swing, and damn if he doesn’t twirl her into a Texas two-step! Those boots are new and slick and he’s elegant on the floor, and the women are watching him dance with unmistakable lust in their eyes.

So am I. Eep!

A guy cuts in, and Logan lets him -- he’s not out for a fight tonight. Another woman slides up and Logan is caught up in her arms as they move out of sight behind a pillar. She’s a blonde.

He’s not picky. I wish he had a hard-core taste for brunettes. With white streaks.

And when he reappears on the other side of the pillar, there’s a brunette beneath his other arm and they’re in a boot-scootin’ line dance. The blonde has her hand planted on his belt - any lower and she’d have his ass in her palm. DAMN HER!

I choke back that realization, that I’m feeling possessive, and insanely jealous that he’s using this new wardrobe that I helped him pick out, to pick up other women.

The brunette ends up against him when the music slows again, and he’s looking at her like she’s saying something intense to him -- studying her, but he’s not talking. Then he nods, and they leave the floor, moving toward the bar, across from where I’m sitting.

AUGH!

I duck into the women’s room right behind me. Hey, I’m an X-Woman -- I always have a great back-up plan.

Yeah, sure -- a really great plan, Rogue: hide in the ladies’ room all night. I pee, I wash my hands, I fix my hair, I straighten my perfect yet inconspicuous clothes, and I tap my foot a few dozen times before pushing the door open and returning to my seat. I see Logan’s back disappearing out the door to the parking lot, the brunette in tow.

The spear of pain that rips through me centers right in my middle. Now I know why they call it heartache. That’s where it hurts.

I order another beer and brandy shot, and even when a nice-looking guy my age comes up and offers to buy my round, I politely blow him off. I start on my second beer and brandy when the band comes back from their break and start up another set of stompin’ Saturday night tunes. A concrete cowboy (you can always tell them from the real thing -- the perfect clothes, the lack of suntan, the jewelry...) comes up and starts by putting his hand low on my back, way too close to the hem of my shirt and my bare skin. I shrug him off, tell him to leave me alone. He persists. He’s slurry drunk, and doesn’t want to hear the word ‘no’. I smile cold and tell him to fuck off in a rather loud voice, but he inserts himself on the empty stool beside me, leaning on my shoulder and throwing money onto the bar, ordering us both another round.

I shove him away, gloves safely in place, and start to get up when he grabs my arm and pulls me close. I could handle him easily, but before I even have to land a poke or a punch somewhere, a familiar hand appears on his collar and the fake cowboy literally lifts off his stool and lands on the floor in a heap at the feet of my barstool.

Logan stands there glaring at him, tensed for whatever the drunk decides to do. His fake cowboy buddies gather him up and move away.

“You okay?” Logan asks, still frowning, still watching the men who slink away into the booths in the rear of the place, as far away as possible without actually leaving the building.

“I’m fine, sugar, but thanks. He was being a pain in the ass.”

Logan slides onto the stool, turns toward me, and asks, “What are you doin’ here?” No beating around the bush tonight, I guess.

I gotta think quickly. “It’s your fault -- you gave me a taste for this stuff,” I motion toward the beer and brandy. Not hesitating, I add, “What are you doing here?” I’m so glad I parked at the front of the lot, and can innocently claim that I couldn’t see his bike from the other side of the building.

“Just hob-nobbin’ with the locals,” he says, and orders a beer, settling himself beside me. Curiosity is killing me at this point, so rather than do the smart thing and shut my mouth, I have to know.

“I saw you leave a while ago with a woman, but now you’re back here. What happened?” I know they didn’t have time enough to actually do anything. But I really need to keep my mouth shut now, or my curious goose is cooked.

“Her husband showed up in the parking lot -- put a crimp in her plans, I guess.”

Ah-ha! Now I know.... so I gotta play little-sister and... and.. oh hell, screw the sister routine. “Aren’t you afraid that you won’t score tonight if you’re sitting here beside me? Might keep the women away, if they think we’re together.”

“Aren’t you afraid that I’ll keep the men away, sitting here with you, especially since I just bounced that drunk that was hitting on you?”

Uh-oh, I hadn’t expected that question. Wait a minute - it’s me we’re talking about here... “It’s not like I’m out cruising for a date, sugar, what with the...” I wave my gloved hands discretely beneath the bar, “well, you know.”

“That won’t matter when you find the right one.”

I bite my tongue to keep from saying the right one is sitting beside me at the moment, and go with the logical approach. I speak so softly that I know only Logan could hear me over the music, “There’s no easy way around this mutation of mine. If I try dating a human, I’ve got to ‘fess up before we *don’t* get naked together, and I risk getting dumped on the grounds of he might be a mutant-hating asshole. If he’s not a mutant-hating asshole, I still can’t get naked with him, and I’m betting a lot of guys would find that really off-putting, even mutant guys who don’t have the bias.”

Logan swigs about a quarter of the beer in one long swallow before saying, “Okay, all that’s true, but there’s more to it than that.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Life ain’t just about sex. You reach a certain point, call it maturity if you want, where the simplistic rut mentality is over-ridden by a developing appreciation for the other person as an individual. Then sex becomes icing on the cake. Some cakes don’t need a lot of icing.”

Did those metaphorical, philosophical, totally-supportive words just fall out of Logan’s mouth? I can feel/sense my Inner Wolverine nodding his approval, and okay, that’s just weird. I throw him a bone.

“You should be proud -- you’ve just rendered me speechless, and that’s not easy.”

“You mean you’re not gonna argue with me?” The emoting eyebrow crawls up a hitch.

“I can’t. I don’t have any experience from which to base my position in the debate.”

He takes another long, slow sip before asking, “That mean you’re still a virgin, or just not dating anyone important to you?”

It’s my turn to sip a little liquid courage from the brandy shot before answering, “Both.”

We’ve developed a tradition now, because he’s taking another stabilizing sip before asking, “What do you want from a relationship? Sex? Companionship? Love? Friendship? What?”

I sigh and contemplate from both my glasses before I answer, “I want sex. Companionship is nice, but I don’t crave it -- guess I’m kind of used to being on my own most of the time. Love... well, that comes in lots of different colors and sizes, so it’s negotiable. Friendship I already have with you, and a precious few at the mansion, but mostly you. So, I guess that boils down to friendship that I already have, and sex that I want but can’t get.”

I know something big’s coming because he not only drinks most of the remaining beer, but he swivels his stool to face me and leans in so no one else hears us, staring me straight in the eyes.

That hazel gaze melts me every time.

“I taught you to drink, and fight, and drive. I can teach you to screw.”

Not wanting to go all gushy teenager on him, which I’m not any more, I spent a few moments staring right back into his eyes before replying, “Are we talking detailed narrative here with a technical manual, or the genuine, hands-on, sticky-sheets-in-the-morning, condom-requiring act?”

“If you’ve got that manual, I’d like to read it just for fun, since I don’t really ‘need’ a manual for sex. I’m talking the real thing: you, me, a bed, and a little patience and cooperation.”

“You’re asking me to bed with you.”

“I am.”

“And no freak-outs in the morning, no disappearing acts if I’m a total klutz, no strings, no grudges?”

“I’ll be a perfect gentleman regarding the whole thing.”

Without realizing what I’m saying, I blurt, “Who are you, and what have you done with Logan?”

There’s a sudden hardness in his eyes -- gotta get rid of that; he’s obviously not used to being rejected. His voice goes a little sharper, “Hey, if you’re not interested, just say no.”

“Yes.” It comes out instantly with a dawning smile, and I realize that I am now grown up enough to do this, handle this, and handle him. I can. I will.

More importantly, I am.

He smiles and reaches for my hand, and leads me out of the bar. He mounts his Harley and I follow him back to the mansion, his silver-capped boot heels gleaming in the headlights of the minivan I’m driving. My hands are shaking on the steering wheel, but it’s a good nervousness. Dreams will be fulfilled tonight.

Once the minivan is parked, he’s still astride the Harley, and beckons me over, patting the seat behind him. We spend the next hour gliding through the night air, my arms around his waist, just cruising the back roads. My Inner Wolverine is telling me he’s giving me time to digest the whole situation, think about it, make sure I’m doing what I want.

I know what I want, and who I want, and what to expect in the aftermath. And it’s okay.

It’s well past midnight as we glide onto the main road leading back to the mansion. I lean into the wind and speak softly beside his ear, knowing he’ll hear me over the rush of the night air.

“Thanks for the night ride, sugar, and I’m ready for the next one, too.”

His hand comes down from the throttle as the bike winds down near the driveway, and he pats my thigh just behind his. His head turns a little toward me and I hear him say, “We’re both ready.”

The Wolverine in my head is whispering to me again: this won’t be a one night stand.

Logan’s afraid he won’t survive the mission tonight.

I could tell as soon as he came trotting down the stairs into the Control Room. My jaw still drops every time I see him in the X-Men leathers, all muscles and long, angular bones packed into the black uniform. He’s a fiercely-built man, and the X-gear makes him look even more formidable.

And sexy. Whoever came up with the ‘what is it about a man in uniform?’ saying had never seen Logan in the leathers, or they wouldn’t have bothered asking. Then I shake myself back to awareness; he’s nervous. He’s never nervous. This mission is bad news. It’s got snake-bite written all over it.

That’s why Logan doesn’t want me along, and insisted that I stay at the mansion and handle the communications grid. It sucks, but he’s right. I’m not that bad-ass in a fight unless I go gloves-off, putting everyone at risk. I’m even afraid for myself, if one of ‘them’ gets stuck inside my head. We’re taking down a lab tonight, and I don’t want any of those stone-hearted psychotic bastards running around inside my head any more than the rest of the team does.

So, I’m ‘Radio Girl’ tonight. Logan’s leaning over me where I’m plopped in the swiveling chair which gives me fast access to every bank of equipment splayed around me. My gloveless hands are flicking every switch, testing every channel, squelching and tuning and checking every com-device, marking different channels with masking tape and a Sharpie so I’ll know who’s talking to me at every moment, where they are, and who’s with them.

His hands go into my hair and I calm a little. I hear him whisper, “Turn your skin off,” and I know what’s coming. It takes me all of three seconds and one deep breath now, to switch it off. As soon as he hears my steady exhalation, he grabs the back of the chair and whirls me around, pulls me up and I’m wrapped around him, legs at his hips, arms around his broad shoulders, and his face is buried in my shoulder. His hands are blatantly grabbing my ass and hauling me tighter against his hard body. His leather squeaks against my PVC vest and it sounds like a none-too-delicate fart, making us both break out laughing! Nerves are settling down as we soak each other in before he flies out with the team in the Blackbird.

“I trust you,” I hear the words breathed into my hair, and I think those are the most profound, most loving, most respectful words this man could say to anyone. “I know you’ll take care of all of us. Don’t sweat it, baby.” I wish I had his confidence.

“I’ll do my best,” I whisper as I lean back a little and caress his cheek just above the ‘chops he still sports. I hear other women complain when men grow beards for winter, and I think they’re all crazy. That silky, manly hair is so goddamn masculine, I love it. He’s all man, and he’s all mine. He hasn’t looked at another woman since we started sleeping together. HE asked ME to move in with him, and HE said IT first.

I love you.

It was so simple, and not in the act, so I believed him. Momma always said not to believe one word that came out of a man’s mouth when he was on top of you, or wanted to be, and I believed her. For all her weakness about how my father reacted when I manifested and had to leave, she did have a purse full of pearls of wisdom that she taught me while I grew up. Logan said it first, over beer and hockey and jalapeno nachos. He meant it.

I made him wait a whole hour before I casually slid it into the conversation, too. I love you. I swear it took more courage for me to say it. I figured if those words ever came out of my mouth, targeted at Logan, his ass would be in the saddle and down the road before the ‘you’ part left my lips. He just grinned and said, “I wondered when you’d get around to that.”

The com devices are squawking again and we separate. Storm’s calling the team to the hangar. It’s time to mount up and go clean up Dodge City, which is actually the lab in a small town in Tennessee. Logan hesitates a few seconds, so I know he’s got something important to say, or else he’d be running down the hall by now. His eyes meet mine and he stares deep, long, before he finally takes a breath and steadies his voice, like it’s just any typically casual conversation.

“I left something in our room for you, sort of a present. It’s tucked under the mattress beneath your pillow, out of sight. I didn’t want anyone who might go nosing through the room to spot it easily. Make sure it’s there tonight or whenever you go to bed if we’re gone a long time.”

“What is it?”

“Just some stuff you need to know, that’s all.” He kisses me then, gently, deeply, lovingly. And it comes out of his mouth again, “I love you.”

This time I don’t make him wait. “I love you, too, baby. Come home safe.”

He just smirks and kisses me again, then runs for the door. I feel like I’m going to explode, like my heart will burst through my ribs and thud onto the console. I ache inside. It’s pure emotion, so how does it feel so damned physical?

The lab is a nightmare, I can hear it over the coms. Mutants are dead, some are dismembered, some are infants. Some have been poisoned, some burned, raped, harvested for organs. It’s a slaughterhouse. It’s not military: it’s private. God, we can’t even blame the ‘military scientists’ like Stryker and his thugs. These are organized citizens who won’t tolerate mutants in society.

I’m so glad I don’t have to witness this in person. I’m so sorry Logan does, because I can hear through his com when his claws come out in rage. Sometimes it’s in a fight, because I can hear his growling, then hard breathing and livid swearing. Sometimes I can hear pitiful moans and gasps for release, and he is silent, and that’s when I know he’s killing out of mercy.

One day soon, when this nightmare is behind us, I’m going to insist we go into the mountains for a few weeks, or twenty years, and give him some time to clear this from his soul.

I can hear Pete yelling for Bobby, and Bobby is screaming for Pete to leave him. It’s falling apart around their heads, and Logan is barking words to Storm from his side of the complex, but Storm is pulling the beta team out of the building. That means Logan is alone in there.

Then his com goes silent. I don’t even hear the “NO!” that tears from my throat. I yell his name over and over, but there’s no response. I gotta get Storm back in there.

“Storm! Logan’s down somewhere on the far side of the complex! Get someone to him NOW!”

I should be there. I don’t care if I have to touch a dozen of those bastards and spend the next year in a psych ward getting them under control. I should be there with him. Damn him and his over-protectiveness. I’m his wing man, I should have his back!

Storm’s com throws a burst of static in my ear before I hear her panicked voice yelling to get the survivors in the plane. I hear machine gun fire and explosions beyond any firepower we knew these motherfuckers had. Someone else is in the mix now, but who? Then I hear Storm yelling through the static, “... para... military.... get them in... find your seats... buckled... now!”

They’re already in the ‘Bird? I scream into my microphone, “Where’s Logan?!? Get him in the plane!”

I hear the engines being throttled up hard and then the ear-searing shriek of the ‘Bird lifting off in a hurry, but she doesn’t answer me until they’re leveled off in the air. When she does click the com on, I hear moans and crying in the background before she whispers to me, “There wasn’t time, Rogue.”

I sit numbly in my swivel chair until Pete comes and pulls me out of the Control Room two hours later, promising that they’ll monitor the com-desk constantly until we know something. Kitty sits down and puts the headphones on and Pete walks me up to our bedroom: mine and Logan’s bedroom. Where is he? He’s supposed to be home safe tonight.

“I’m sorry, Rogue, but I have to go back down to help out with the survivors. I’ll send someone up to be with you as soon as possible.”

“No. I don’t want ‘company’. I want Logan back.” and even I am shocked at the deadness in my voice, before I come to life a little and focus on him. “No babysitters, Pete. Anyone comes through that door who isn’t Logan, I’ll drop ‘em where they stand, got it?” I display my bared hands to accentuate the point.

Pete understands, and backs from the room respectfully, pulling the door shut behind him as I sit stiffly on the bed.

Time passes and I sob and curse and blame him and blame myself and blame everyone who ever hated a mutant or wore a white lab coat. I blame Storm for leaving him behind. I blame Logan for separating from the team. I blame Bobby for getting wounded and needing Pete to drag him from the building. I blame Pete for saving Bobby instead of Logan. I blame Stryker for turning Logan in the un-killable killing machine that the X-Men desperately need and the military would want if they knew about him.

I blame God. I blame Xavier.

I start over until I’m exhausted and dehydrated from crying.

Fighting the maelstrom inside my head and heart, I try to lay down when I hear the strange crackle beneath my pillow, and remember that Logan left something hidden in the bed for me. I feel inside the pillow case, then beneath the pillow, beneath the sheet, and finally there it is under the mattress: a manilla envelope, thick with papers stuffed inside, and not sealed with adhesive, just the little bendable clasp. I turn it over and see Logan’s handwriting: do not open for 3 days. But it’s not sealed, so he won’t know if I open it, and he knows that, too. It’s just his sarcastic little joke to close it without actually sealing it, knowing my curiosity will over-ride his weird sense of humor, and the clasp is open before I finish the thought.

Papers. Stacks of papers and more papers, a little book like a bank book, another envelope... what is this stuff?

I start at the top.

It’s a will.

I cry some more, then keep reading. It’s probably not legal, but then very little of our personal affairs are, since most of us live under assumed names, code names and false identities. He owns nothing, really, except the Harley and a truck, both of which his papers insist are mine now.

“No,” I hear someone’s voice whisper, then realize it’s mine. I’m not his heir until he’s dead, and we don’t have a body. He’s un-killable. He’s alive somewhere, so this is all just paperwork he did up on a whim.

There are stapled stacks of paper from some investment firm. I recognize the names from helping handle Xavier’s overflow from his desk sometimes. When I would play secretary-for-a-day, the Professor would teach me about handling money on the sly. He had a network of mutant and mutant-friendly financial people. Anyone with that amount of wealth has to have people to finagle at his instructions. Apparently Logan had some financial finagling going on, too. There’s a lot of stocks and some stuff I don’t understand, and then there’s that little blue bank book in my hands.

Flipping the cover open, I find an old savings account under one of Logan’s assumed names. I know most of them thanks to my Inner Logan. I turn to the last entry. The account was closed out a year ago, but a serial number is hand-written in Logan’s unmistakable hand on the last page.

Someone knocks on the door, and I growl, “GO AWAY!”, then “WAIT!”, and I rush the door, leaving the paperwork scattered over the bed. Jerking the door partway open, I see ‘Ro waiting, but I can tell from her face it isn’t good news.

“Where is he?” It rushes out before I can form any better words.

“We don’t know. Rogue, I’m sorry. There were so many survivors, and a paramilitary force coming that we knew nothing about. It was out of control. We had to go.”

“You had to leave a team member behind? You have the potentially lethal force of a team of well-trained mutants at your disposal, and you ‘had’ to leave him behind?!?” My voice is getting colder and harder, but I cannot check myself.

“We were incredibly outnumbered, and our mission was to rescue. We rescued over a dozen people, even children. We had to remove them before....” She trails off, knowing it’s pointless, and stands in silence.

“Is there any word on his location? Anything at all?” My voice sounds like steel, I’m clamped down so tight.

“Nothing, I’m sorry.”

“Then leave me the fuck alone,” I snarl at her and slam the door shut again. I throw the deadbolt just to make my point.

I grab the little account book and log on to an off-shore system that Xavier told me about a few months before he died. I type in the serial number and wait. Oh shit, it’s passworded, and there’s nothing written in the book. I try ‘wolverine’ and ‘rogue’ and ‘mutant’ and ‘cagefight’ and ‘claws’, and then log out and start over when the system shuts me out for too many false starts. Then I try ‘adamantium’ and ‘stryker’ and ‘blackbird’ and even ‘scooter’, but then I’ve got one more try before the system shuts me out again. On a whim, I try ‘laughlincity’ and I’m in the account!

I go into shock when I see how much is in the account: over a half-million dollars. How did he get that much money? I can fund a search-and-rescue mission of my own if I have to, but where to start? I shut down the system and go back to the bed. There are more papers, titles... and a letter in his writing. I start shaking as I peel open the roughly folded page and start reading.

Marie,
Don’t freak out. If you’re reading this, then something went wrong on the mission. Everything in this envelope is yours now. Do what you want, go where you want, be who you want. You are the only one on this whole fucking planet that means anything to me, so live your life well.
I knew you wouldn’t wait three days.
I love you.
Logan

I fold everything neatly back into the envelope, put it back beneath the mattress, and shake for another hour or two. Then as the sun is rising, I finally fall into a numb sleep, wondering how I’ll ever survive losing him.

Logan’s gone, and I can’t get through the nights.

Hank could tell the sleeping pills hadn’t totally worn off by the way I came slumping down the stairs at noon. I had resisted taking them until I was finally so worn down that I knew I wasn’t any good to anyone, so I relented. Seven hours later, I’d stressed myself awake again, showered, and started my day still dulled and surly.

Three days, and still no sign of Logan. I’d kept my personal cell phone beside me every moment, even taking it in the shower with me, zip-locked in a plastic bag with the ringer cranked up on ‘wake the dead’ volume. I was never without it.

I eat a token something-on-a-plate, check my mail, lean against the window of the library, too fraught to read, and slump my way back to our bedroom without talking to anyone. Every time the phone rings I grab it and look at the screen, and if it isn’t Logan, I let the voice mail get it. I don’t want to actually converse with anyone -- I just listen and wait. No one else has anything important to say, and I won’t waste my time on them.

The hours roll past and I ignore any knocks on our bedroom door. They know I don’t want to mix with anyone, and they leave me alone, though I know that won’t last long. When they finally give up, they’ll make me rejoin society again.

Storm reported the lab to the federal government that very morning following our night raid. They swept the building and found nothing, no one. That was the day before yesterday.

Where is Logan? Did they keep his body? Did the paramilitary force that routed Storm’s team take him? Did he escape, and why hasn’t he called me? Did the feds take him and keep him for their own purposes? That makes me tremble with fear, but at least he’d still be alive and have a chance of escape. He got away from Stryker eventually, so he could get away from anyone else just as likely. These thoughts roll around and around in my head until I’m dizzy and exhausted, and I just want to sleep some more.

I’m drifting, and the phone rings. I reach for the cell and look at the caller ID screen.

Unavailable. Someone who’s either blocked, or a telemarketer, or someone I don’t care about. Unless...

Something tickles the inside of my head and I flip open the phone without saying a word, just listening. I hear someone breathing on the other end, noise like traffic in the background, and then...

“Marie? Kid?”

His name shudders from my lips, “Logan?” and before I start to hopelessly and incoherently sob, I choke it down and almost shout, “Where are you?!?”

“Some burg called Sweetwater, in Tennessee, at an A&W hotdog joint beside a railroad track.”

“What the hell happened to you?” I’m shaking from joy and relief, and my brain is trying to process everything at once, and failing miserably.

“It’s a long story. I’m out of cash and my cell’s dead, so come get me, okay? Get a car and hit the road. Stay somewhere overnight since it’s too far to drive straight through, and pick me up tomorrow.”

Grabbing for a pen and paper off our night stand, I get ready to write. “Tell me where to find you.”

“That’s all I know, darlin’ - Sweetwater, A&W, railroad track. Unless I roll a drunk or steal something to pawn, I got no more cash. I’ve got enough left for a hot dog and I’m starvin’, so just write that down, research it, and get here. I’ll hang out in the area all day tomorrow and find you when you drive down. I’m on the edge of the backwater part of town, like an old industrial area close by, and along the tracks. I borrowed a cell phone from a carhop, but she barely has enough English to take an order, and doesn’t know the address here. Just get here, okay? You’ll find me or I’ll find you.”

“Okay, baby, I’ll hit the road right now. I just need to get some cash and some keys and put some stuff in a bag. What do you need?”

He goes soft-voiced, “Just you, here.”

I start to cry then, and Logan hears me.

“Baby, it’s all right,” I hear him whisper over the phone, “I’m okay. I just wanna come home.” It makes me cry a little harder, then I gasp back the sobs and try to speak coherently again.

“I’m sorry, Logan, I just thought.... you were... you know,” I babble, still fighting the tears and the edge of hysteria.

“I know, you thought I was dead, and then you read the will and freaked out. That’s why I said not to freak out. I’m hard to kill, and you know it.”

I wipe my eyes and sniffle and nod my agreement before getting back to business, “I’ll be on the road within a half hour, so try to stay safe until I get there, okay? If anything goes wrong, meet me at the main Post Office as a secondary point of contact.”

“Good thinkin’, baby. Okay, I’ll see you sometime late tomorrow. I’ll hang around here during business hours, and loiter around the PO overnight, staying out of sight of the cops until you get here.”

“Okay, I’m on it. The cavalry is coming, sugar. I love you.”

“Love you, too, baby. Bring some plastic and some cash, and we’ll eat hot dogs together when you get here. I gotta go. See ya tomorrow, Marie.”

“I’ll be there,” I whisper as the line clicks off, then whisper again, “We’ll be there,” as I pat my belly.

He doesn’t know yet. The pregnancy test is still in the trash can in the bathroom.

It was an accident. A condom broke. We both sluffed it off and decided not to worry about it. It was only once, right?

And I wonder how he’ll handle it as I throw clothes and necessities into a bag and run full tilt downstairs to tell the others that he’s alive!

Logan will be sharing my bed tomorrow night.

Jubilee knew I meant business by the way I ran down the stairs wearing my old, road-worthy clothes I had chosen for the trip to retrieve Logan from Tennessee. She stared and then nodded as I passed her in the hallway, and she cheered, ‘Go get him, chica!” as I beat feet for the garage.

By 4 pm I’m out of New York state and rolling toward Sweetwater, Tennessee. I had always hoped I’d get back to the south again some day, but I never dreamed that it would be a rescue pick-up of Logan after he disappeared during a mission. I spend the night halfway there, in a cheap trucker’s motel where it’s quick-in and quick-out, and the wheel feels so good in my hands as I drive Xavier’s Lincoln Continental in the monster lane, the cruise set about 15 miles per hour over the speed limit. Nobody’s gonna pay attention to a dark, sedate, elegant car like this, so I push the envelope a little, making Sweetwater get closer by the minute.

Google gave me what I needed in the way of street addresses, and I know if I get to Sweetwater before closing time, he’ll be waiting at the A&W by the tracks on the ass-end of town. It’s sundown now and there’s the corporation limit sign, then three lights, left toward the industrial neighborhood, another left and good lord, that’s the worst railroad crossing I’ve EVER seen! I thought the Continental would drag bottom before I got over the god-awful hump that was the crossing. It’s a speed bump on steroids. I crank the wheel over and pull into the A&W and tuck it into a parki.... ah-ha! It really is a drive-in with car hops! How quaint. Now, which one looks like she doesn’t speak English and could have loaned Logan her cell phone.

Bet he had to sweet-talk her to get her cell phone. He still uses his looks to get what he wants from women, even though we’re sexually exclusive now. The handsome bastard...

God, I love him.

I wait a good long time before pushing the order button, visually searching the area for him to appear. Logan said he’d meet me here if I came in during business hours, or at the main Post Office if it was after hours. It’s 2 hours until closing time, and he should be here.

But he isn’t.

I order a dog with everything including cole slaw, eat it, drain my Coke, and send the tray back. Pretending to hunt a bathroom, I get out and walk around the entire building, then circle the lot slowly, and scan the surrounding neighborhood. Nothing. Where the hell is he? When I get on the isolated backside of the parking lot, I call out his name several times, knowing if he’s in the area he’ll hear me.

Nothing. No one. Nowhere. Dammit.

I move the Continental to the edge of the lot and wait. The lights eventually go out, and the car hops leave, and I ask one girl with a lovely Tennessee accent where the main Post Office is. I’m there in 15 minutes, and the lobby is empty.

Where the hell is he?!? A momentary wave of nausea and the shakes hit me again, and I can’t believe he’s lost for the second time this week. Or maybe the hot dog was bad, but it tasted wonderful, so it’s just stress and my ‘condition.’

I wander the Post Office’s parking lot, find no one, go back into the lobby, and almost jump out of my skin when my cell phone rings in the cavernous old marble-lined building.

Another unknown number, but I don’t hesitate this time. “Hello?”

“Marie, where are you?” I hear Logan’s voice over the babble and hum of background noise.

“I’m at the Post Office - where in hell are you?!” I almost yell at him.

“I’m in jail.”

“Shit!”

“No kidding. This is my one phone call, so make sure you don’t walk around and lose the signal until we finish talking, okay?”

“Okay. What happened? What did you do? Where is the cop station?”

“One question at a time, and let’s keep it short.”

“Where’s the cop station? Is that who’s got you?”

“Yeah. I’ll have them give you the address when we’re done. Do you have money and plastic with you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Come pay my fine and get me the hell out of here.” He hesitates a moment before, “Did you bring any clothes with you?”

“Yeah, a change for me, but why do you ask?”

“Any of my stuff?”

“No, you said...”

His sigh interrupts me, “I know what I said. Go somewhere and buy me some clothes, then come to the address they’ll give you and pay me outta jail.”

“Okay, but sugar, what happ... oh, never mind. It’ll be hard to find anything open this late, but I’ll do my best, even if it’s morning before I get there.”

“Yeah, it’s not like I’m goin’ anywhere. Now, talk to the nice officer and get directions here. I’ll be in Holding, makin’ friends with the drunks and hookers.”

“Logan,” I asked before he hands the phone over, and I know he can hear the teasing smile in my voice, “this isn’t your first experience in jail, is it?”

“Bite me, Marie.”

I write down everything on the back of some junk mail I find in the trash cans and start into the darkened city. On the outskirts of town, near the freeway, I find a 24-hour Wal-Mart and buy Logan jeans, socks, t-shirt, a sweatshirt, and then I wonder if he needs shoes. I scold myself for knowing his inseam, chest and waist, but not his shoe size. I guess at it and pick out a pair of black runners, keep all the receipts in case they’re wrong, and head for the police station.

The city jail is a beehive. A local rivalry-fed football game devolved into a riot, and there are high schoolers and teachers and parents and grandparents everywhere. Boys are hanging their heads low, a few are crying. Girls are crying, cussing, trying to explain things to livid parents and laughing siblings. Firemen and paramedics are walking through, sorting out testimonies and paperwork and reports. Cars were overturned, burned, property damaged, minors were drinking: it’s small town chaos on a grand scale. There are lawyers coming in everywhere. I almost laugh.

I go to the desk, get a clerk, get my bags searched, get a handful of paperwork, pay a hefty fine, and the clerk directs me to Holding. I walk down a hall, to a guard, down a flight of stairs to a hallway painted a calming, industrial green, and ahead on the left is a large cell with several men in it. I see Logan slouched against one wall, sitting on the floor, dressed in ill-fitting prisoner’s orange pants and shirt. His head is resting on one arm, which rests on one knee; and before I can say a word, I know he can smell me and he’s leaping to his feet, bee-lining to the wall of bars between us. I step up to him and both our arms snake through the bars to embrace each other.

He takes one deep breath from the area of my neck, jolts back, grabs my shoulders, drills his eyes into mine, and yells loud enough for everyone on the entire floor to hear, “Christ, kid, you’re pregnant!”

I smirk a little and sarcastically add, “So much for breaking the news in private.”

Logan alternates comically between staring dumbfounded at me, hugging me, staring again, and when one of the other prisoners makes a comment about my ample ability to nurse a baby, Logan whirls and snarls and I swear the claws are coming out. I can see the tips just straining against his skin, but he pulls back and then swears a blue streak at the freshly intimidated guy who wilts back into the shadowy background.

Focused back on me again, he stammers, ‘How... when... you? Really? Christ, Marie...” and his hands lace through his mussed hair, a familiar trait that I love. I can pretty much read him like a book now, but this is one thing I can’t predict: how he’ll react to an unplanned pregnancy.

“Yes, sugar, me, us, now. Let’s get you out of here and talk about this later, in private.”

“Yeah,” he breathes at me and visibly calms.

I motion at the guard who’s getting paperwork from the clerk, and while they sort that out, I turn to Logan again and ask, “What did you do to get in here?”

His head drops a little and he smiles that wonderful, bad-boy smile that reeks mischief, then confesses, “Well, it started last night when a cop caught me asleep in the Post Office lobby. He rousted me out, then they started patrolling the joint. Second time they found me walking around in the lobby they tried to shake me down for vagrancy ‘cause I didn’t have any cash or ID, then later it sort of turned into public indecency when I took a piss in the parking lot, and then it was resisting arrest when I... sorta... resisted arrest. Then they ran something through the computer and logged a reported petty theft, and got me on that, too. I stole some clothes. They wanted ‘em back. And then there was the trespassing charge on the freight car and I matched the description they had in the computer system...”

“Okay, I get the picture. You’ve been busy. Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“I did, but I guess there’s a dead spot in cell coverage south of the Ohio River, and I couldn’t get through to you. Had to wait until you got closer. I can’t believe you’re preg...”

“Not here, I said. We’re going to a motel and sort this out ASAP.”

Finally the clerk and the guard had everything they needed, and the guard opened the cell, letting Logan out. We were ushered to a small room where he changed clothes and handed the orange jail suit over to someone, signed out, and we left. The shoes were a good fit.

Outside the building, he stopped again and just started at me silently, then held out his open palm.

“What?”

“Keys.”

“No way. You don’t have a license on you, and I’m not spending the night in jail with you if we get pulled over for ANYTHING! I’m driving until we get back home.”

Unexpectedly, he opens the door for me and then slides into the passenger’s seat with no argument. I guess logic really does have it’s uses. But before I can reach for the seat belt, he’s pulled me into his arms, onto his lap, and he starts kissing me like crazy. When he finally buries his face in my hair and shoulder, and after all this time of worrying about him, thinking he was dead or captured or being dissected in a lab somewhere, I fall apart and sob on him. He rocks me and holds me until I’m cried out and gasping and shaking.

Speaking softly into my hair, he says, “Let’s get a motel room, and some food, and settle in and talk this through.”

“Okay,” I snuffle and wipe my nose on my sleeve. I’m such a graceless mess sometimes.

And I still can’t read him about the potential baby. He hasn’t said a decisive thing about it since he figured it out. Will he want it, not want it, hate it, love it, propose marriage, or leave me over it? ‘Cause right now, I’m not sure where I stand on the subject. I might leave me, too, if I could figure out how.

I have no clue what’s going on inside his head right now, and after the last three days, I know we’re both too exhausted, too mentally and emotionally fried to handle any more, so it’s just got to hang there, like a big, fat, immensely pregnant albatross.

Logan’s face registered his fear as I swam to consciousness with him leaning over me.

He hadn’t known I was having dizzy spells until he turned from unlocking our second-floor motel room door and saw me waver a moment, then tumble backwards down the stairs. The first thing I remember is his face looming over me, and everything below my eyebrows hurting.

“Kid? Talk to me... Marie? Christ, kid, are ya hurt bad? Turn your skin on and take a hit off me.”

“No,” I mutter, not really grasping much except the knowledge that turning my skin on him would hurt him. “Just... wait... ow.” My head starts focusing and I realize I have a trickle of blood running down the side of my face and a banger of a headache. I try to struggle to a sitting position, but he pushes me back down and that is when I notice he’s staring aghast at the lower half of my body.

I’m bleeding.

Down ‘there’.

And everything hurts.

“I’m calling 911 – lay still,” he fusses as he’s fumbling through my purse for the cell phone and muttering obscenities. Then, “Fuck it. Marie, turn your damned skin on and let me fix it!” He’s shaky and near-panicking. That’s a first for me to witness.

“No!” I yell at him with as much intensity as I can muster, which isn’t much but I’m under duress here. “We don’t know what’ll happen.”

“Whadda ya mean? Take my healing. It ain’t rocket science. You need a quick-fix.”

I’m starting to focus now and things are better, except the pain in my head and my back and everything in between. “No, I mean I don’t know how it’ll affect the baby. If my skin acts against it, well... we just don’t know.” I reach in the purse and pull the cell out of the side pouch and hand it to him. “Call.”

Within five minutes there’s an emergency squad and paramedics are hovering around me. They eventually haul me into the nearest ER and the incessant tests and exams start. Logan is half-focused on answering questions and signing papers while he tries to stay as close to me as possible between examinations. I double-check my control over my mutation and start worrying about the paperwork and blood tests and possible DNA samples and my mutation and his temper and everything that could possibly go wrong with two mutant strangers in town showing up in the ER, and him fresh out of the city jail. This is not a place I want either of us to be.

I focus on our safety and security instead of the blood and pain. The next time we have a moment of privacy, I lean over and whisper to Logan at my side, “Get me out of here as soon as possible. I don’t like any of this; the invasion, the data, the medical stuff, just... get me out of here.”

He gives me that look that I know so well when he’s working up a head of steam for a lecture. He’s my lover and team mate now, instead of my teacher, so I don’t have to cooperate, but I’ll hear him out.

“You’ve got two choices: turn your skin on with me, or let them take care of you. Pick one.”

“You’re a real bastard sometimes, ya know?” He doesn’t deserve that, but I’m not in a good place emotionally right now.

“Yeah, darlin’, I am. And this big bastard’s got two priorities right now: you, and my little bastard in your belly. If we’re keeping him... or her... then we gotta be smart.”

It’s the first time he’s verbally acknowledged anything like a confirmation of our accident, let alone referred to the baby as a separate individual, instead of just a condition of mine. I have to ask, “Do you want it?”

“Do you?” he counters quickly, damn him. Before I can even think of a response, the doctor comes in again. He talks, and Logan sits quiet as a stone, and I run hot and cold inside. Diagnosis: no concussion, no broken bones, one sprained wrist, one slight abrasion over my left eyebrow at the hairline, and an early-term miscarriage. No permanent damage, and I should be fine in a month or two, though he recommends I not try for another pregnancy too soon. My body needs to recover.

Do I want to see a counselor? No. Just get me the hell out of here. I refuse everything they offer, including a night’s stay for observation, demand the paperwork to release me, accept a wrist brace for the sprain, and we check me out of the hospital. I’m steady on my feet again, and Logan calls a cab. He keeps an arm around me every moment we’re standing or walking. I know he’s afraid I’ll pass out or fall again, but even though I’m feeling weak, I still feel capable.

The cab deposits us at the motel again and this time we take the elevator up to our second floor room, even though it’s a longer walk. He won’t risk the stairs again. Once I’m sprawled on the bed, he retrieves my bag from the Continental parked below, and finally shuts out the noise of the city behind the locked door. He comes over and lays down beside me, an arm over me and his body tight against my hip and leg. The words seem to erupt from my mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hush.”

“I am... I mean, I don’t know how you felt about the whole thing because you’re so damned hard to read about emotional stuff. But if you wanted it, I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t.” His words still shock me more than the fall down the stairs, even though I suspected that fatherhood wasn’t on his agenda for this century. But he seems to realize there’s more that he needs to say so I’ll understand him. “It’s not that I didn’t want a baby with you. It’s that... that we should have a choice about it.”

“Ohhh,” I breathe, not wanting to interrupt his flow of thoughts and words.

“I know this ain’t the time or place for startin’ a family. If they jumpstart the goddamn registration act again, we’ll have to leave the country. Having a kid would make it harder, on us and the kid. And you’re still damned young, and I’m still a bastard, and... everything still sucks.” He thinks for a while, then, “But maybe, later, when we know we’re stable and safe, if you wanted one...” He plants a big kiss on my forehead then, right below the scuff that had been bleeding before, and adds, “If you wanted a kid under those circumstances, I’d throw myself on the grenade and father it.”

“You are truly a romantic son of a bitch,” I grouse with all the sarcasm I can crank out. “I might as well pay for a sperm donor.” That makes him chuckle for about three seconds, and then he goes serious-faced and rolls over to crouch above me, careful not to press his body weight down anywhere because he’s so heavy. He drills his eyes into mine.

“No man is gonna be breedin’ you but me. You’re mine, I’m yours, and that’s the end of it.”

“Agreed. Feed me.”

“Love to.” He gives me the deepest, most tender kiss I never thought he was capable of, then scoots off to find food. I cry myself out before he gets back, and we spend the next two days sleeping and eating carry-out and watching old movies while my strength comes back. No more dizzies, no more nausea, no more fretting.

And I know in my heart that whatever life throws at us, we can handle it together. I come out of the whole experience with a new-found confidence in the man that is Logan, the love of my life, and maybe someday, father of our children.

God help us all.

Logan was doing fine, but I was bored to tears.

He could tell as he came trotting up the stairs with the latest bags of carry-out for our lunch. I was ready to blow this fire trap yesterday, but he made me promise to lay low for three days before we hit the road back toward home. I was sitting on the bed making paper airplanes out of the pages of the year-old Reader’s Digest he’d swiped from the motel lobby this morning while on a doughnut run. I’d read it cover to cover and was fast running out of patience with television. I needed fresh scenery.

He scanned the paper airplane-covered floor before he gave me the food bags and tossed his shirts on the bedside chair. He liked eating shirtless, and I loved looking at him eating shirtless.

Before biting into my sandwich, I pointed out to him, “You stepped on my Blackbird’s tail, and totaled my A-10 Warthog. That’s practically sacrilege. They’re tank killers.”

The eyebrow went up. “How was I supposed to know it was a Warthog? And how do you know the difference between a Warthog and a ‘Bird?”

I tap the side of my head and chew and swallow before answering, “It’s a Warthog because I drew a 50 millimeter cannon on the nose with a pen. And I know because Eric knows a lot about WWII aircraft. I think it was a hobby of his. Large metallic things draw his attention. He’s fascinated with you, in a way you probably don’t want to know about.” I give a leering wiggle of my eyebrows and stifle a giggle when Logan’s eyes roll. He actually puts his sandwich down as if he’s lost his appetite, but only for a few seconds.

“There are a few things in this world I don’t need to know. That’s one of them.”

“Thought so. Okay, you’ve dodged the bullet too long. I need to know what happened to you when y’all took down that lab. Where did you go? How did you end up in Sweetwater, Tennessee?”

Logan wolfs down the last chunk of sandwich and goes to pull a beer out of the mini fridge. He offers me one, but I wave it off since I’m still taking some pain meds. He settles cross-legged on the foot of the bed and sighs deeply before starting to explain. I chew in silence and let him get it out at his own pace.

“I was searching the sub-basement for cells or survivors when I heard the gunfire above. I ran into a squad of Security who opened fire on me. My com device and my cell phone both got shot in the spray of bullets. I went down and I guess it took long enough for me to snap out of it that they had moved on. I heard the ‘Bird lifting off, and more gunfire from outside the building. I got back to the ground floor level and saw through a window that there was a paramilitary force comin’, and they were firin’ at the ‘Bird as it disappeared in the distance. I hoped that meant they were all out safely, so I got to the other side of the building and cut my way out of a door, then ran for it.”

He swigged down about half the beer, then continued, “I knew I couldn’t walk around in plain sight in the leathers, so I hid in the woods until dark, then started looking for someplace where I could get to clothes or a phone or something. I found clothes hangin’ on a line behind a farmhouse, so I took what I needed: jeans and a shirt. Some rangy old farmer saw me and yelled at me to stop, but I hauled ass back into the woods overnight, buried the leathers and what was left of my com and cell, then lit out on foot at dawn. That reminds me - I need to go back there and retrieve what I buried. Leave nothing behind...” The rest of the beer disappears before he continues.

“I wandered across a railroad track near a bend where they’d slow down for the curve. I listened to the rail for a while, and when I knew there was a train comin’, I hid in the bushes until it got halfway past me, then I jumped on a railing and climbed the boxcar. Sliced my way inside and went to sleep. I woke up hours later when it was slowing down. I jumped out, got spotted, ran for it again, and when I walked down a highway past a corporation limit sign, it was Sweetwater. You know the rest.”

“Wow. That’s quite a story, sugar. You’re practically a modern-day outlaw, riding the rails, stealin’ clothes off a line, and ending up in jail. I love that; bad boys always did appeal to me.” I reach out my hand and pull him toward me. We snuggle down on the bed and he wraps me up in his strong arms as I bury my fingers in that silky chest hair. “I love you, bad or good in the eyes of the law.”

“I love you, babe,” and he kisses me softly. I know we’ll get all the horror and grief and shock of the past month behind us now. The worst of it will take time, but we’re both well on the way back to our normal insane lives. He surprises me when he asks, “Are you sure you don’t want a session with some kind of counselor or shrink or someone?”

“You think I’m a wack job?”

“No, I think you’ve just been through a miscarriage and were handling everything alone when you thought I was missing in action. That’s a lot to deal with on your own.”

I never was one to ignore stuff, just work head-on through it is my policy, so I dive in with, “I didn’t know for sure I was pregnant until the day you called me to come get you. I had two days on the road and then it was over. I don’t think it had really sank in yet. I was focused on you and getting you back safely. Yes, it’s a lot to absorb, but that’s a daily thing for me and the residents in my head. Am I heartless for not being more upset than I am?”

“You’re anything but heartless, darlin’,” he whispers as he rolls me on top of him. I trace my fingertips through his scrambled hair.

“Can I tell you something? I don’t want to upset you, but I think I need to say it.”

“Then say it.”

“I chose a name for a girl, but hadn’t chosen one for a boy yet.” He’s quiet for a long time after that confession. Finally, he speaks.

“Why just a girl? Is that what you wanted?”

“No. Or, well, given a choice, I’d have wanted a girl first. And I’d have named her after my aunt Joan. It’s a good, solid name; not too frilly and feminine, and not...” My voice breaks for a moment, then I ask, “Would you have wanted a boy?”

“Don’t matter. What comes, comes. Does that mean you wanted the baby?”

Argh, he’s treading on dangerous ground here, but he can handle truth better than anyone I know. “Logan, I was totally torn on the subject. I agree with you that it’s the wrong time, and I would much rather plan a family in the future than have that choice taken away from me by circumstance. And yet, when I knew we’d made a baby together, I went all syrupy inside and was just flabbergasted. I think if it had been anyone else’s baby, I’d have completely freaked out and ran to the nearest clinic. But knowing it was yours, well.... that made everything different. “Wanted” it? No. “Welcomed” it? Yeah.”

“Same here. I didn’t want it, but would I have welcomed it? Yeah.”

“Are you sad about losing it?” He needs to say it, too.

“Yeah, in some ways. And relieved in other ways, and sorry you had to go through all that hell alone. We’ll be more careful so no more accidents happen.”

The eleven o’clock news is coming on, and I stretch and yawn as I settle beside him and watch. As the weather ends, I’m already bored again and ready to haul ass out of Tennessee. I inform him, “We’re hitting the road tomorrow, so you’d better get some sleep.”

“Can’t I talk you into one more day of rest here?”

“My relationship with this motel room ended yesterday. I’m reminded of Oscar Wilde’s opinion of the wallpaper in his bedroom before he died: one of us has to go. Tomorrow, I’m outta here, sugar, with you or without you.”

“I’m drivin’.”

“The hell you are, you still don’t have a license.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“I know better. You’re a maniac behind the wheel.”

“You drive like a librarian.”

“We’ll trade off every few hours once we’re north of the Tennessee border.”

He hesitates, then, “Okay.” Yay me, I just negotiated a compromise with Logan!

The next morning, he loads our bags in the car and I walk toward him with a hand extended, palm up, and he grins as he lays the keys in my hand and opens the door for me again. I could get used to this chivalrous side of him.

“You get to drive me home, Miss Daisy.” He kisses me before I settle behind the wheel and belt in securely.

Logan casually slides in the passenger’s side and as I start the engine, I comment, “You really should wear your seat belt.”

“Don’t start that shit again, darlin’. Just drive the god-damned car.”