The night guard on duty is already out of the little control booth when I pull up to the front gates of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. He starts walking over while I cut the engine.

"How's it goin'?" he asks, handing me a clipboard and a pen when I've got the bike balanced beneath me.

I scribble down my information on the log-in sheet. Name: Logan ? Time In: 2352 Reason For Visit: I live here sometimes.

"It's nearly midnight," I tell him, handing him back the clipboard and pocketing the pen. "And I've been on the road since noon."

He winces in sympathy, not even bothering to check what I wrote. He used to have a fit-and-a-half when he read over my entries, saying that I was filling them out in a 'flippant' manner and that might just be grounds enough to turn me away. So naturally I 'flipped' him a single claw -- guess which one -- and things have been much more pleasant between us the last year or so.

He steps back inside the booth, picking up a phone that links him to the campus security office. The cameras at the top of the gates move just the sightest bit toward me, and the guard gets a confirmation on my identity. Of course, I was being monitored as soon as I got within two miles of the place, so the check doesn't take all that long.

Sometimes I don't bother doing it this way, the 'right' way. I get over the fence without being noticed by any of the hundred hidden surveillance cameras on the grounds, into the school and my room without tripping a single alarm. It takes some effort and more than a little time, but the look on Cyke's face when I show up at breakfast pretty much makes up for it. And then the next time I come back, the security's a bit tougher to get past.

But it's late and I'm fuckin' wiped out. And that greasy cheeseburger I had for lunch was a hell of a long time ago.

The guard, Bill I think his name is, pushes a big green button and holds it down while the gates slowly open. He waves me through and I drive the three miles up to the front of the mansion, parking the bike near the front doors. Either Cyke'll move it in the morning or it can sit there -- I don't feel like going through the hassle of waking someone up this late so that I can park it inside.

Though the thought of draggin' that boy out of Jeannie's bed at this time of night just to let me park his own bike in the garage -- well. Not sayin' the idea don't have its merits, but I'm too tired and half-afraid of havin' my brain fried by a pissed-off telekinetic telepath to even consider trying it.

The front door's unlocked when I try it, and as soon as it's closed there's an electronic beep so high and soft most dogs would have trouble hearing it. There's a lamp on a side table giving off a soft glow, but I don't really need it to get around. I start heading down the second of three corridors, listening as nine interlocking deadbolts across all four sides of the door slide home with a series of 'clicks' behind me.

It's nearly midnight on a school night, but there's still a buzz of noise. Televisions left on or still being watched. Several kids whispering into their cell phones, and I think at least two are actually talking to each other. Faint, furious typing and mouses -- computer mice? Fuck if I know -- clicking away. According to policy spelled out to me by Cyke, Jeannie, Storm and Xavier himself, none of this should be going after eleven p.m. Heh. At the end of the hall, I turn right and head down the so-called Adult Wing.

Unlike the majority of adults that live and work here, I wasn't assigned one of the permanent-resident suites. Those are more like apartments, with living rooms and kitchens and multiple closets, things I don't recall ever having a real use for.

I've got one of the four single rooms at the end of the wing, nothing more than a fairly large bedroom with a desk on one side and a smallish entertainment center set up against the other. There's a small refrigerator by the desk and one big closet for everything from towels to clothes to whatever junk I've picked up along the way. A bathroom with a deep tub and hot water that never seems to run out.

I've even put a few pictures on the wall. Strange, huh? Shocked the shit out of me, too, and I was the one puttin' the nails in the wall.

When I get to my room, I pause with my hand on the doorknob, a familiar smell tickling my nose. Opening the door, it hits me like wave, washing over me -- the scent of Marie.

She's not in here, I can tell that before I even hit the light switch because for one thing, the kid snores like nothing I've ever heard before. Maybe she came in to do her homework or something and stayed for awhile, which God knows I don't blame her for. If I had to live with two other people, no matter how much I liked them I'd want to spend time somewhere else, and hell, I told her she could.

The room's a bit messy, pretty much the way I left it. Sketchbooks and papers still scattered over the desk, a few books on the nightstand along with a bottle of booze or two. Ashtrays left out. The bed's unmade, which does surprise me a little, since the cleaning staff here usually goes ahead and does that when they bring in fresh towels and vacuum.

Oh well. They probably figured they'd have time to get to it before I got back or something.

The mattress sinks beneath my weight, creaking, and I'm about to unlace a boot when I feel a knot of material under my leg. Lifting a thigh, I reach under it and pull a wadded ball of silken material free from the sheets and, God, I don't even have to shake it open to know what it is.

I've suspected it for awhile, but she's in my room with me often enough to explain away her lingering scent -- we watch hockey games in several hour stretches when I'm home. She does some reading for school in here while I watch tv or sketch her or whatever.

It doesn't take long to find the other glove. It's tucked beneath my pillow, not balled up like the other but inside out, stripped from her arm. Now I know, without the slightest doubt, why my room smells so strongly of her.

Marie slept in my bed last night.

A weird feeling settles in the pit of my stomach, growing hot and moving lower. She slept in my bed, probably not for the first time, and of course, yes, that *is* the scent of her shampoo on my pillow, why didn't I recognize it before? The myriad smells that make up Marie's unique scent permeate the the blankets and sheets, the mattress and pillows, the entire bed.

I know what her sweat smells like from training closely with her, day after day. I know what her tears smell like from letting her cry on my shoulder. I know what her feet smell like when she peels her socks off at the end of the day. I know those smells and many more, and here they all are, concentrated in my bed.

I can all but see her sleeping here, stretched out on her stomach with a book in her gloved hand, long legs tangled in the sheets. Her long hair -- warm chestnut, platinum white, like silk to the touch -- spilling over the pillows. It's nearing the end of May and the nights here are growing warmer, and I bet she started sweating when the air stopped moving, got hot and stripped her gloves off.

The scene shifts before I can stop myself from going there.

She's still in my bed, naked now, but she ain't sleeping and she ain't alone. I'm in bed with her, making her sweat beneath me, sliding a hand down over her side, the curve of her ass and her long lean thigh. Catching her behind the knee and pulling her leg up a little higher on my hip, sinking that much deeper inside her while her gloved fingers rake down my back.

It's me that strips off her gloves, tugging them down her arms, off her hands, off her very fingertips. Letting the scraps of material get lost in the sheets and blankets around us. Pulling out of her incredible heat just far enough to thrust back in, deep and hard, her body arching under mine, nails digging into my shoulders with a sting they didn't have before.

Her mouth against my throat while I move inside her, while we move together, gasping, biting sharply, sucking gently, licking my skin with the flat of her tongue. Telling me she loves me, over and over.

I can feel her breasts press against me, full and round, the perfect size and shape, nipples hard against my chest. Her body slick with sweat, arms and legs wrapping tight around me, and I work a hand between us to touch her, to stroke her, to make her burn even hotter for me.

She bucks wildly beneath me, beneath my hand, wet, so tight, *mine*, her voice crying out my name as she comes, wide brown eyes staring up into mine. My voice answering her, "Marie. Marie."

Fuck.

It's a minute or two before I come back to myself, and sweat's just pouring off me. I need some air.

I can't get the window open fast enough, breathing in deeply as soon as I do. I get my jeans refastened, standing there at the window and staring out over the moonlit grounds while my heart slows back to normal.

It's not the first time I've thought of Marie like that. Most of the time, though, one or both of us is covered, or there's some sort of sheet of flimsy material between us to protect my life and her mind. Sometimes when I dream of her, she's stripped bare, wrapped around me, skin no danger at all.

Either way. Whether she has her skin under control or not, most aspects are the same. The . . . end result certainly is.

She's usually around twenty or so, when I think of her and me, sometimes twenty-five. Old enough to have outgrown the crush and understand what she wants as a woman.

She always tells me she loves me. That never changes.

It's important. In a way I never thought it ever would be. It's part of the reason I leave often and stay away for weeks, months at a time. I want to give her time to grow out of the crush, move beyond it.

Then there's this whole issue with Jeannie. You see, thing is, there are pretty much only two women on earth I fantasize over. And I only think of Marie like that when I'm not busy dreamin' about Jeannie.

Because Marie is only nineteen, had her birthday a few months ago. She's still a few years away from being anywhere near ready, as far as I can figure.

But as I stand here, beginning to catch my breath, a thought occurs to me.

What if she left those gloves for me to find?

What would that mean?

I need to take a shower.

---

A few hours later and I've washed the road grime off, changed clothes, watched some television. Too wired to sleep.

When I decide I might as well put my things away, since I'm awake and all, I realize I left my backpack with the bike. So after managing to get back outside, get my bag, and get back inside -- what with security, I put my boots back on in case I ended up climbing the wall -- I head in the opposite direction of my room, making a pit stop in the kitchen.

It's been a hell of a long time since lunch.

The kitchen is impressively well-stocked. It's not even the main kitchen, either, the one where they cook the majority of the meals with industrial equipment meant for serving large groups of people. This is just one of three 'auxiliary' kitchens, one per wing.

I grab a plate and pull a few bags of deli lunchmeat out of the fridge, along with some butter, mayo, mustard, and a jar of pickles. Right before the door closes I spot a bag of sliced smoked cheddar, and pull that out as well.

I bring everything over to the small dinner table tucked away in the corner, and head back long enough to grab something to drink, the loaf of bread and a butter knife.

Footsteps approach quickly, quietly, right as I'm taking the last bite of my third honey ham, smoked cheddar and turkey breast sandwich. I'm about to get up and see who it might be, runnin' around at a quarter to four, but in walks Marie.

And from the looks of it, she's on a mission, heading straight for the fridge like a horse with blinders on. She's barefoot, wearing a faded blue, cotton v-necked nightgown that reached to mid-thigh. She's thrown a fuzzy, ankle-length pink bathrobe on over it, whether for warmth or what, I don't know. Her hair's a snarled, tangled mass hanging down her back and there are more than a few red crease lines on her face and throat from her pillow. The kid looks like a walking wreck. And yes, those are my tags around her neck, disappearing beneath the shirt to rest between her braless breasts.

I've missed her even more than I thought I did.

I watch, remaining silent, as she pulls the milk carton out and slowly pours a tall glass of milk, eyes darting toward the door every few seconds. As soon as that's done, she's back in the fridge, bent over, pushing things aside and digging around for something.

When she wiggles back out (which is a sight that's gonna stay with me awhile), she's got a can of beer in her hot little hands, staring at it like a winning state lottery ticket. Which surprises me, because I've heard her say more than once that beer disgusts her.

But here she is, hopping up on the counter facing away from me, popping the tab. She takes such a big drink you'd think she was dyin' of thirst, throwing her head back and drinking until she has to stop to breathe.

A shudder wracks through her body and it's then I realize that she does hate beer. But one of the guests in her head, namely me, probably has her cravin' things she don't need or want.

Before she has the chance to take another drink, I speak up. "When did you start drinkin', kid?"

She jerks at the sound of my voice, turning around on the counter to stare at me with wide, startled eyes while I pull a pair of worn leather gloves out of my pocket and tug them on. She glances over the sandwich stuff on the table, evidence I've been here awhile, and then she's back to staring at me like I'll disappear at any moment.

"Logan?"

I'd tease her about her lack of observation skills, and talent for stating the obvious, but I've been where she's at many a time. When you want a beer, you go get a beer, and you ignore everything that doesn't help you get it any faster.

She stares at me a little longer, smile growing, and then she's hopping down off the counter and I'm up and walking toward her. I take the beer from her, barely giving her bare hands a second glance before we're hugging. She keeps her exposed skin away from mine easily enough, hands flat in the middle of my back, her face against my shoulder as she presses close.

After a moment or two, she pulls back far enough to look up at me, hands drifting down toward my lower back. "How was your trip?"

I don't like calling them 'trips', though I guess that's what they are. Trips away from home. Hmmph.

"Okay." Unless I really have anything new to talk about, I usually leave it at that. No leads to my past. Two new mutant kids sent to the school. Did a bit of smuggling. The trip went 'okay'. But Marie being Marie, she'll press for more information, so I add, "Damned cold, though."

I take her by the arm and lead her to the table, watching as she takes some bread and spreads a little butter on it. For a minute or two I think I might want a fourth sandwich, but I figure I've had enough for the night. And I've still got that weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, thinking about the gloves she left in my bed, and what they could possibly mean.

"So you gonna tell me what's going on now, or do I guess?" I wonder if she even knows what I'm talking about, if she knows I've already found the gloves.

"Nothing. Everything's been pretty quiet," she answers with a shrug, a strange _expression flickering over her face for a brief second.

"And you?" I ask, hoping she'll tell me about what's been going on in her life lately. I don't know what I'm hoping she'll say.

She gives another little shrug, sinking her teeth into the slice of bread. "Just training, " she answers, chewing.

She's a Sophomore in college, and she's only been training for the team for close to three years now, but there aren't many here who can take my girl down in a fight. Sometimes even Storm has trouble getting her pinned. I like that she's training hard; makes me feel a bit better about leaving her alone here for the most part.

I reach for the beer I set on the table, taking a swig while she watches, mouth dropped open in outraged indignation.

"You're too young," I say, all but daring her to tell me otherwise. And then I take another drink, because it's getting her riled up.

Her mouth quirks and I wish she'd spit it out, but it looks like she's not going to. An arched eyebrow is all the answer I get.

She leans back in her chair, dark eyes on me, twisting a lock of hair around her finger over and over. It's not hard to figure out what she's thinking. Whenever I bring up anything about her age, she always looks at me as if she's just remembering that I'm more than likely as old if not older than Xavier.

I wonder if that ever bothers her, or if she even cares. I've never asked and she's never exactly volunteered.

"Make you a deal," I finally say. "Stop with the sneaking the drinks and on your twenty-first birthday, I'll take you out. In town. You can drink until you throw up and I'll even be nice and bring you home.

She loves the idea, easy to see, and even though it's a year and a half away, I know she'll hold me to it.

"What if you're not here?" Which has happened before, on her eighteenth, even though I made it up to her as soon as I got home. From my 'trip'.

"For you, Marie -- I'll be here." It's as good as a promise. Something about what I said annoys her, probably me calling her Marie instead of Rogue, like everyone else here does. But she smiles, tilts her head and acts like she's deciding whether or not to take me up on my offer.

Finally, with a gleam in her eye, she agrees. "Okay," she says, smiling.

The day I leave again, she's going to be down here at four in the morning, ass deep in the fridge digging out the last can of beer. I know it.

She's about done with her slice of bread and butter.

"Finished?"

She tosses her bread crust down on my plate and for a second I wonder whether or not we should put everything away. But the housekeeping's morning shift starts in about fifteen minutes, so I'm not too worried about it.

After standing and pushing her chair in, she reaches into her robe's pocket and pulls out a crumpled pair of gloves. My heart sinks a little at the sight, because it's obvious she didn't leave the other pair of gloves in my bed as a sign or anything like that. She left them because she's actually been going to sleep wearing gloves, as if she could hurt anyone in her sleep. Especially alone in my room.

"Don't bother," I tell her, and with a bewildered _expression on her face, she stuffs them back into her pocket. I grab my duffel bag in one hand, taking her hand with the other, my leather-coated fingers twining with her bare ones, and I lead her through the dark halls toward my bedroom. Though I'd venture to guess she knows damn well and good how to get there on her own in the middle of the night. Her fingers squeeze mine a time or two on the way, even if she did look at our hands as if I were treating her like a child.

Once inside my room she lets go of my hand after a lingering moment, and flops down on the bed, looking a bit panicked.

I have a good idea of what's got her frazzled. If she forgot her gloves, she may very well have forgotten when the last time she slept here was. And if anyone has a good idea of what my senses are like, it's Marie.

I drop the duffle bag on the floor, opening it and digging through it while she watches. I toss out dirty clothes, shoes, some papers, until I find what I'm looking for. A small bag, wrinkled and a bit smashed, and I toss it in her lap.

She stares down at it, clearly unimpressed.

"What is it?"

Her nose wrinkles up just a bit as she pokes the bag, and yeah, it's not the best-looking thing on the face of the earth, but it's inside that counts. She can't look past the dirt and bit of blood on the outside of the present.

I crouch in front of her, waiting. "Open it."

She eyes me for a moment then does so, gasping as soon as she sees what's inside.

"Where'd you find these?" she asks, her voice soft and breathy. She picks the gloves up, smoothing her bare fingers over the leather. I watch as she tries one on, breathing a silent sigh of relief when they fit like -- well, when they fit like a glove.

"A leatherworker in Brazil."

I'd drawn her arm from memory, the bend of her elbow, the shape of her wrist, the size of each finger, and I'd had them custom made from the thinnest leather in the shop. Which coincidentally turned out to be the most expensive leather in the shop, but money don't really matter to me, especially when it comes to Marie.

"These are great," she says, as I watch she flexes her fingers inside the glove, slipping on the other. She stretches her fingers and runs them up her legs, from her slender ankles up over her calves and knees, over the material covering her thighs. For a split second I wonder what those long, strong legs would actually feel like wrapped around my waist, but I push the thought out of my head when I realizes she's watching me watch her.

I stand up again, turning toward the dresser, opening the top drawer. I usually keep a stash of cigars in here, but I guess I need to get some more tomorrow because it looks like more than a few are gone. Hmmm.

"So how're you and Bobby?" I ask, and for the life of me, I don't know why. I don't want to hear about Marie and her little boyfriend. Except that I have the feeling that things aren't going so hot. The last few times I've come home, she wasn't wearing the tags, but now she is.

I had mixed feelings when I first realized that she and the ice guy had a thing going. On the one hand, I was glad to discover that her crush on me wasn't stopping her from looking around at the guys her own age. Having a boyfriend was something she should experience, and hard as I tried, I couldn't find anything wrong with the boy.

On the other hand, I'd realized at some point in the last six months or so that Marie was going to be it for me. The one. And that if she and Bobby got serious and stayed that way, there might not be anything I could do once she did grow old enough for a relationship with me.

After that I never spoke to her about her relationship again. If she had a problem, she knew she could ask me, but otherwise, it wasn't any of my business.

"Past history." There's a dead quality to her voice that makes me wonder what happened. What exactly the ice pick said to her, or did to her, to make her sound like that when speaking of their relationship. Or former relationship, I guess.

I sit beside her on the bed in easy silence as she looks over my clothes with a critical eye. And then she looks a little speculative, like she's hoping I'll forget she's there and start getting undressed to sleep. Not likely.

After a few quiet moments, she yawns, and then looks as if she wants to shoot herself. I can't help but grin a little. She's cute when she's sleepy and irritated.

"Bedtime," I tell her, which only makes her bite back a string of curses. I grab up her hand in her new, thin leather glove, hauling her to her feet, and I pull her along to her own bedroom in one of the other wings.

The kid actually skips for a minute, mockingly I think, so I let go of her hand since we're near her door anyway. And she looks up at me, nearly swaying on her feet, and I can't help but brush my fingers over her cheek, thumb caressing over the high bone.

I turn back towards my own room then, and when I get there, it's nearly five a.m. Beside the clock are her old pair of gloves, the ones she left here, the ones I thought meant something. Picking them up, I fold them together and walk over to the closet, pulling my keys from my pocket and crouching down.

There's a box I keep in here, locked, and it takes me a minute to find the right key. When I get it opened, I look at the pictures inside, along with some other mementos. I add the folded gloves, tucking them into the corner of the box, and lock it. I stow the box away against the back of the closet, a knot of disappointment forming in my chest.

I strip down for the second time tonight, thinking over the past several hours. I wish she'd left the gloves on purpose, but if I'm honest, I know she isn't ready, or even close. But I also hate the fact that she feels the need to wear them in here when she's all alone, when all she does is sleep.

Utterly exhausted, I drop naked into a bed that smells like Marie. And I pull the sheets and blankets around me.