Rogue...no, Marie, or Casey, as she called herself now, hummed softly with the radio as she wiped down the plastic covered table tops at the burgers and fries chain she slaved for nowadays. Her fluffy fifties style skirt and bobby socks were spattered with mayo and mustard, her patent leather Mary Janes scuffed and worn. She made a mental note to take some rubbing alcohol to the scuffs, she couldn’t afford a new pair of shoes at the moment.

“Casey,” Julio, her boss, called from the kitchen where he and his wife Lisa busily scrubbed and cleaned the grill and emptied the fry vats. “These dishes won’t do themselves, you know.”

“Coming!” she called, picking up her broom and dustpan on the way in and dumping its contents into the trash she would take out once the dishes were done. She shuffled into the kitchen, pulling her OSHA certified yellow rubber gloves on over her arms. Three, pale identical scars that decorated her left arm and chipped, red nails tipped both disappeared into the smelly coverings. She frowned slightly at the scars, one gloved thumb rubbing her skin through poly-plastic.

Shaking her head, she dashed away painful memories and turned to the more comforting, tangible job of washing dishes. Reaching for the steel wool brillo pad box, she grabbed the first one and set to scrubbing the red plastic baskets, a chili pot, and then, leaving the most loathsome for last, cleaning out a slaw vat. Finished, she sat the dishes to dry on their respective racks, baskets down low, pots up top, silverware in the special bucket with slots for each individual item.

Seeing Julio and Lisa counting money at the register, she automatically groaned. She could never clock out when the boss-man stuck around late after work. Silently cursing her more lenient manager Carl for skivving off to go to an Aerosmith concert, she reached for a box of kids meal foldables and set about restocking the under-the-bar storage, then piling them on the shelf above the ice cream container.

“Casey?” Lisa’s soft voice rang melodiously as she reached for the garbage bag.

“Rah...right here,” she replied, southern twang barely slipping through her rehearsed midwestern, neutral accent.

“Julio and I are heading out, lock up and lights out will you?” Lisa commanded, smiling.

“Sure thing.” Leaving her yellow gloves on and grabbing the trash, Marie propped the back door to the store open with a wooden wedge, then high tailed it towards the dipsy dumpster. Chunking the smelly load inside, she slammed it shut, barely feeling Erik’s mental twitch at the close proximity to such a large hunk of metal.

Something, probably the Wolverine inside, tweaked her senses as she approached the store again. She sniffed instinctively, but the feral inside had faded over the past five years to the point that his enhanced senses were non-existent. Marie crept to the open door and slipped inside, quietly. Despite the fact that her skin was useless now, after the cure, she pulled her gloves off and dropped them in the bucket of bleach.

A soft cry of pain and fear reached her ears as she peered around the door. A streak of platinum blond hair fell into her face from her hair-sprayed ponytail. Julio lay unconscious on the white and black tiled floor, blood pouring from a stab wound to the left part of his chest. A masked thug rifled through the money bag on the counter, his partner had pushed Lisa into the nearest booth and had pulled her poodle-skirt up around her hips. Silent tears streamed down Lisa’s face as his gloved hand reached towards her panties.

Noting that the thugs were apparently only armed with knives, Marie swept into action. With her broom pole in hand, she vaulted the countertops and smacked the metal handle into the back of the thug’s head who was holding Lisa. Her bare hand closed around his jacket lapel, and she jerked him out of the booth and body-slammed him backwards onto the linoleum. Grimly, her Mary-Jane heel slammed into his nose, and she purred in sick satisfaction when blood gurgled up, out of his mouth and onto her freshly mopped floors.

A flash of movement in her peripheral vision made her turn, quickly. Marie reached, clumsily due to lack of practice, down to the broken thug on the floor, grabbed his knife, and with the precision of a super soldier flung it across the restaurant towards the moving thug. It slammed right into his throat. He turned, staggered, and she was startled as the sharp report of a gun shot echoed in the diner. Agonizing pain spread through her abdomen as the gun she had not known the thug held dropped to the ground with him. Blood spread quickly across her work polo shirt.

“Shit...oh Christ.” she moaned, trying to continue moving. Her cover was blown now anyways. Lisa wept silently over her husband’s body as Marie grasped the nearest dishrag and pressed it into the wound on her stomach. She wordlessly pulled the phone off the hook and dialed 9-1-1, Lisa’s screaming would be enough to get the local authorities coming, and fast.

Marie hobbled from the diner and into her battered, early nineties, seen its better days Buick. Blood soaked her hands as she cranked the car and gripped the steering wheel. She pulled in to the nearest mini-mart and grabbed a bottle of liquor off the shelf. Unstoppering it, she poured it on the wound in the store, a startled attendant babbling incoherently into the phone. Her next item of business was to acquire hair dye and bottled water.

With both in tow she floored the car another three or four miles, pulled off the road, and dyed her hair velvet black. The ten minute hair color wasted precious time, but saved her from unnecessary questions later. She ripped the plates off of her car, swapping them for plates from two states over, the magnets easily clipping onto the back. A rock smashed her taillights and cracked her windshield to alter the appearance of the car.

Climbing in again, Marie continued driving down the country road, occasionally switching lanes as her vision blurred in and out of focus. Her hands shook and her vision was poor. Throbbing pain shot from her stomach to her head, making it difficult to stay focused on driving. Suddenly, everything faded into black, and the only noise Marie could make out was the sound of her car’s engine revving, then a crash.

More pain came then.

Marie’s eyes fluttered open, a muted, fuzzy sounding, steady beep the only noise she could pick out from her hazy surroundings.  A sterile, white industrial tile ceiling soared over her, its characteristic, darker gray pock marks swimming as her eyes tried to focus.  In her head, her companions babbled incoherently, Wolverine growling, Erik rambling about mutant experimentation, and Bobby…well who knows what that dickweed was talking about, surfing or some shit.
 
Turning her head gently, Marie realized her movement was restricted by a neck brace. She gulped gingerly, and the brace rubbed against what must have been seat belt burn on her throat and chin.  A slight moan of pain escaped her lips, which were chapped and dry.  Her tongue felt like sandpaper.  She almost choked on the intubated piece of plastic that kept her airway open and clear.  Trying not to panic, she lifted her hands towards the mouthpiece, wincing as an IV needle pulled sharply in her hand.  Suddenly, soft, firm fingers held her arms in place, preventing her from moving.
 
“It’s alright hon, let me help you with that.” An unfamiliar woman chirped.  Still unable to turn her head, Rogue stared at the ceiling as chubby fingers plucked at the tube. “Now, your throat is going to feel very sore.” she cautioned, “Relax and let the tube slide out, you may feel like coughing.”
 
Marie breathed in deeply and forced her squeamishness down as she tried not to picture the tube sliding up her esophagus as the experienced woman quickly removed the tube.  Marie’s head pounded as she coughed.  Her throat throbbed agonizingly with each one, doubling her pain.
 
“I’m so glad you’re awake!” the cheery voice hummed. Her identity was revealed as a plump, older woman popped into Marie’s limited vision.  Her too red lipstick, blue eye shadow, and excessive rouge pinned her as an eighties-child, and the funky, yellow triangles dangling from her ears clashed horribly with the pink-and-white candy-striper apron she wore over her aqua scrubs. “I’m Sandy, your nurse, been taking care of you for a week now darling!”
 
“A week?”  Marie manage to whisper, abused vocal chords aching.
 
“Well, after that accident, it’s a surprise you’re even alive!  For heaven’s sake, you’ve been in a medical coma the entire time baby girl.  No ID, no information, no money…and no one looking for you either!  Do you have a name sweetie?” Sandy prattled.  Much to Marie’s chagrin, a chart and goofy pen with a koosh ball dangled in her face as Sandy jotted down notes.
 
“My name is Jane.”  Marie mumbled, “Jane Smith.”
 
“Well that’s not original!”  Sandy chortled, “Your momma must have been an unimaginative one.”
 
“Family name.”  Marie mumbled, grumpily. She would kill for a cup of water right about now.
 
“Now sugar, we’re going to have to change your bandages.” Sandy said. “Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing…” she mumbled, sadness suddenly slipping into her chipper bedside manner.
 
“Is something bad…bad wrong with me?”  Marie whispered, eyes shutting tightly as Sandy’s soft hands changed the dressing on her gunshot wound.  She had to get out of this hospital, at least to avoid Sandy asking more questions.
 
“The doctor’s gonna have to talk to you about that, sweetie.” Sandy said, a small smile on her face. “I’ll go get him, okay? If you need anything, just press this little red button.” A remote was plopped into her hand, and Marie closed her eyes, stomach rolling in dread.
 
What was wrong?  She mentally took stock of the aches and pain. Most of her body just felt numb, probably due to excessive pain killers. She tilted her neck as far forward as it would go and noted the feet shaped lumps under the covers, meaning her limbs must be intact. Sighing in relief, she smacked her lips loudly, trying to stimulate saliva production. Hadn’t anyone in this hospital ever heard of dry mouth as a side effect of certain drugs?

Footsteps clipped down the quiet corridor. The darkness coming through the tiny window across the room interspersed with the twinkling of distant street lights meant that it must be quite late. The door to her private room creaked open, and the musky smell of a man’s cologne washed over her as the squeak of sensible tennis shoes signaled the entrance of her nurse.

“Miss Smith,” the nurse beamed, “This is Dr. McDowell.”

“Hello.” Marie managed to choke out.

“Well, Miss...Smith, if you could look at me please,” the man began abruptly, a pocket flash light suddenly beaming in her eyes as his finger whipped back and forth in front of her. She complied, eagerly willing the test to be over.

“Everything in your brain, despite the severity of your injuries, is neurologically sound, Ms. Smith.” Dr. McDowell said, flipping through her charts. Walking to the opposite side of the room, he turned on an x-ray viewing machine and stuck several views up at an angle that she could see.

“Miss Smith, what you see here is your spine.” Dr. McDowell murmured, fingers tracing along the x-ray. “Now, the bullet wound you inexplicably received nicked a vein contributing to a major artery, and the subsequent blood loss caused you to wreck your car. The wreck, however,” he said, pointing to two of the vertebrae in her lower back, “did this to your spine.”

Marie’s stomach churned at the picture before her. Three of her vertebrae had been smashed into each other. Even with her limited medical training, she knew this wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

“Miss Smith,” the doctor said, “I’m afraid that the pressure put on your spinal cord from this compression fracture has paralyzed you from the waist down.”

Marie could hardly breathe then. Her vision swam, her mouth felt like the Sahara desert. Her fingers clenched the sheets, desperately, and she squeezed her eyelids shut to try and prevent the angry tears from falling onto the warm hospital blanket. Frustrated beyond belief, Marie finally managed to find her voice.

Shakily, she whispered, “Could I use the phone please?”

----------------------------------------

Logan’s heart almost jumped out of his chest when his cell phone rang, loudly and angrily from across the small lake house. Storm had converted the picturesque cabin into a bachelor pad for the feral mutant following the events of Alcatraz Island. It had a large screened in porch with a swinging hammocks, a fully equipped mini-kitchen and wine fridge, as well as a sweet loft in which a massive, king sized, good enough for the Emperor of Japan futon had been placed in between built in shelves that held Logan’s small collection of books, memorabilia, and personal possessions.
Naked, he stumbled down the stairs. The groggy mutant knocked into the thin table that held the keys to his bike and the only photograph in the entire house. The picture frame fell as the table shook, glass shattering on the floor.

“Fuck!” Logan growled, picking up the frame, careful not to spread the glass that crunched beneath his bare feet. One thumb brushed over the glass that split the face of a smiling white-and-brunette haired girl in two, her pale yellow and green dress and soft slippers spread out across the hammock just outside.

Scowling, Logan placed the frame gently on the counter and kicked the table for good measure. His keys jumped off, landing on his toes.

“Double fuck!” he hissed, fingers fumbling for the phone sitting on its charger next to the refrigerator. He flipped it open, disregarding the front screen that told him who was calling.

“Hello?” he groused, angry and grumpy from being awoken at 1:15, three hours before his normal, 4AM workout time.

“Logan?” a soft, velvety voice whispered.

He gulped audibly, anger draining from him. God, what had it been, five years, six years now? No trace, the trail gone cold? And now, here she was, on the phone with him?

“M...Marie?” he squeaked, then toughened up as he heard a soft sob on the other end of the line. Panicking slightly, he ran a hand through his messy hair. “Marie, darlin,’ what’s wrong?” he murmured. He had to keep her talking, or she would disappear, just like the last time.

“Can you come get me, please?” was all she supplied in response.

“Go ahead.” he supplied, gruffly, trying to keep the angry emotions from welling up as they expanded in his chest. God, he was just now remembering why he was so pissed with her. Who wouldn’t be, walking out, disappearing like that? He fumbled for a pen, even though he knew his memory was capable of retaining anything, absolutely anything she passed on to him.

“Corey-Dane Memorial Hospital in Verity, Maine.”

Dammit. She was injured.

“I’ll take the bike and be there as soon as possible.” he huffed, squeezing the paper tightly in his fist.

“No bike, you’re gonna need a van.” Marie responded, and he could almost feel her heart breaking over the phone. Something was horribly wrong, he could feel it in his bones.

“Alright, I’ll take the van darling and be there as soon as I possibly can.” he replied. The phone line went dead.

One adamantium laced fist slammed down onto the metal stove top, leaving a massive dent in one of the burners. “Sonufabitch.” he growled, nervousness plaguing his stomach.

Something was wrong. She wouldn’t have called otherwise.

Glancing down at the thin, silver wedding band on his left hand, Logan set his face determinedly. Even if his wife didn’t want to see him, and had only called reluctantly, he sure as hell wanted to see her.

The roaring growl of Logan’s motorcycle startled Storm from where she lounged on the rec room couch between two blue furred mutants, Kurt’s long, twitching tail sliding up and down her tan legs, Hank’s claws massaging her scalp, brilliant strands of platinum hair entwined around his fingers. It was rare for the feral mutant and teacher to return to the mansion after dinner time, and particularly rare for him to bother her late at night.

Shaking herself free of the deliciously warm mutant hug-fest, she straightened her silk robe and tugged her short nightie further down her thighs. Her male companions growled discontentedly when she moved. Kurt was mostly asleep, and Hank, well, she knew what Hank wanted.

Winking suggestively, she stepped through the doorway in the corner of the room leading to a hidden staircase, providing access to the garage, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

Downstairs, she found Logan standing in ragged blue jeans, bare chest visibly under a hastily buttoned shirt. Frowning, she noted the askew way the shirt fell as buttons had found themselves in the wrong buttonholes. His boots, of which he had several of the same pair in different colors, were mismatching. His hair was not even coifed into its normal spiky, aggressive hairdo, it was mussed, disheveled, and a five o’clock shadow was clearly visible on his normal well maintained chin.

“Logan?” she asked, concern evident in her voice.

Logan jumped violently, then jerked his head in her direction. His eyes were wide and red rimmed. He sniffled, hand coming up to wipe a stream of liquid that trickled down his grizzled cheek.

“Sorry ‘Ro,” he mumbled hoarsely, almost too quiet to be heard.

“What’s happened?” she asked, crazy scenarios running through her head. There had already been enough grief in the Wolverine’s life the past ten years. She wasn’t sure what else the man could take before his adamantium skeleton would be the only part of him left unbroken.

“Marie called.” he whispered, right hand worrying the worn silver ring that he refused to remove from his left hand. He stood next to an older model Odyssey minivan, keys sitting on the floor next to a leather strapped, green duffel bag. “She’s in the hospital... hurt bad by the sound of it. I’m going to get her.”

“Logan!” Storm snarled, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea! Think of what she’s done to you! Doesn’t she deserve a little pain?”

“Ororo,” Logan hissed, the sound of her name accompanied by the spit shooting from between clenched teeth and lips, “I am nothing anymore...I have...I have to make things right between us, or I’ll just continue a hollow, meaningless, existence inside this, this CAGE of normalcy!” hands gesturing at his surroundings.

“What happened was nothing you can control, Logan!” Storm protested, sputtering, “Things shouldn’t have worked out that way, what happened to Charlie wasn’t anything you could stop!”

“Leave Charlie the hell out of this!” Logan howled, horrible, raw pain evident in his voice. His muscles and veins stood out as he clenched his fists so tightly that blood trickled from the indentations of fingernails on palms. “Just leave him alone.” he whispered, voice weary, tired, hurting. “I’m going to get Marie, Storm. Do me a favor, wouldya?”

Storm knew she had pushed too far, Logan never referred to her as Storm...just ‘Ro, but acquiesced to his request nonetheless. “What can I do, Logan?”

“Could you clean up the lake house? I haven’t been...keeping up with things.”

“Sure, Logan, sure.” Storm whispered, she turned to leave, and caught a glimpse of Logan lifting a dusty car seat from inside the car. He placed it lovingly on the countertop covering the red, metal built in shelves that ran the length of the institute’s large garage. The worst part was the tears that streamed down Logan’s cheeks as he leaned down, clenching the plastic sides of the carrier desperately, sobbing quietly, heart breaking.

The garage door opened and shut ten minutes later. Storm still hadn’t made it all the way back up the stairs. Instead, she curled into a ball on the second landing, biting her fist in overwhelming grief, crying her eyes out. She barely felt Hank lift her and carry her upstairs and tuck her into bed.

Some wounds couldn’t be healed by time. They could only be overcome.

----------

Logan flipped the radio off, irritatedly, as he hit the winding back country roads that would eventually merge with the interstate. His annoying-as-hell GPS kept humming its “recalculating, recalculating,” nonsense in a British, far too-Chuck-like accent. Marie had insisted they install the GPS after they had purchased the van a few months following their marriage.

They, of course, being Logan, who had surprised his bride with the silver, tricked out, DVD player enhanced vehicle (plus plenty of secretly installed defensive capabilities) for their very first Christmas as a family.

A family.

Eyes still stinging, Logan rubbed them fiercely with the back of one palm. He would pull over and sleep through most of rush hour traffic once he hit the interstate, but there was still a good three or four hours worth of driving before then. His mind wandered, finally fixating on Marie.

It had always been Marie, you know?

His infatuation for Jean had only been a cover-up for his unwarranted, lustful feelings towards his younger protege. Jean, well, yes, Jean had been a beautiful woman. He had cared for her, but only as a friend. His constant antagonistic behavior towards Scott, fueled by his incorrigible flirting with Jean, had been both amusing and distracting.

He’d needed a lot of distracting, a lot of traveling, a lot of everything to stay away from Marie, who gravitated around him, towards him, as if he were a sun, and she, a planet. That still hadn’t stopped him from allowing her to snuggle with him in front of the fireplace in the teacher’s lounge, hadn’t stopped him from sneaking into her room at night to watch her sleep.

So, yeah, he’d been a bit of a stalker, but Marie had also followed him, entranced by him, and called to him like a moth to flame. More than once he’d caught her peeping around the edge of a pillar in the main hall as he returned from a night out on the town, a floozy on his arm, there only to drive the scent of Marie, the lust for Marie, the desire and love for Marie out of his system for a few more hours, a few more days...hell, a few more years.

If Marie hadn’t been dating that Jack-Frost-jerk-off the day she turned eighteen, Logan knew he would have climbed up a mountain to be the one to lay her bare, to introduce her to the love shared by man and woman. But Logan had waited.

Waited too long.

Marie, like everyone else, had been firmly convinced that Logan desired Jean, only Jean. And after Alcatraz, after his claws had sunk, knuckle deep into the belly-flesh of the woman he called friend, Logan sank deep into despair. The Lake House was his lair, its comforts spartan. Marie was gone, left to take the cure, staying in a dorm at NYU and raising hell like any freshman.

And Logan was alone.

He had counted the days until winter break, longing to see her. But why come home to stay when you could commute from school? Marie wouldn’t come, Logan firmly believed. Marie had new friends, probably lovers...

He had been left behind.

A lot of trees had fallen unexpectedly near the mansion during those nights. A lot of danger room sims had been run until he lay bleeding, exhausted, and utterly spent on the floor. At least he could feel pain.

And then one night, that cold, clear winter break, a light rap on the door of Logan’s refuge, that little, snug bungalow by the lake, changed everything.

He knew that Marie had come to him out of pity. Out of belief that he was letting himself waste away because of Jean. He should have waited...shouldn’t have taken advantage of what a young, sexually inexperienced woman was offering.

But god damn...he hadn’t been strong enough.

He devoured Marie like a banquet, like a starving man. Holding on to her desperately, he kissed her senseless, trying to convey what she could no longer zap out of his head into his emotions, into his actions. His lips dragged across her chin, to her neck, marking her as his own.

Marie was delightfully sensitive, every caress of his calloused fingertips arousing and cajoling her into bliss. He peeled her snow boots off, then the warm woolen jumper and turtle neck. His lips suckled her nipples, nibbling and teasing them into taught peaks straining in the cool air of his bedroom. And oh God...his lips, his tongue, when they delved into her core for the first time it almost rocketed him to orgasm as Marie begged for release.

And when her lips...Marie’s lips, closed around his cock, alternating between sucking, her tongue lapping lazily at him, he roared her name, spurting streams of his seed in her laving mouth. So overcome by lust, he hadn’t even taken a whiff of anything other than her arousal as he slid his bare cock into her, inch by inch.

His rough fingers pressed into her smooth thighs, clenched tightly to her buttocks as her long creamy legs trailed upwards, squeezing into his hip bones. Marie’s muscles clenched him tightly with every thrust, and god, her hair was strewn across his pillows in the moonlight, her scent overwhelmed him, and every time he sank into her Logan felt like his heart was going to rupture from joy.

His mouth was everywhere, nibbling, biting, and caressing Marie’s lips and breasts, his fingers delved between her legs to stroke her into a blinding climax. Her fingers scored down his chest, and he arched back, soundlessly gasping, eyes rolling back into his head as his seed had poured into her womb.

Logan had wondered then if she felt it...the connection, the draw, the absolute intoxication he had with her.

But the morning after, she was gone, and that connection roared into a blazing inferno of fury.

Back to NYU.

Gone.

Two and a half months later Marie came back to the mansion for spring break. He had stalked her once more, following the object of his obsession. She had spoken to Hank privately the moment she had arrived, which worried him.

Was she sick?
The second day of spring break she had left the breakfast room abruptly, hand over her mouth. Logan had instinctively followed her to the teacher’s lounge rest room and banged on the door.

“Marie, let me in dammit!” he had growled, concern and worry evident in his voice as she lost her breakfast in the toilet.

“Go the hell away, Logan!” Marie hissed. He heard the lid to the toilet lifting again -- more retching.

“If you don’t open the goddamn door I’m going to break it down!” the distinctive, uncontrollable urge to rip something into tiny pieces accompanied the ‘snikt’ of his claws sliding out.

“Watch your language!” Marie yelped, and he heard her scrambling for the door.

She opened it, just a crack, her brown eyes staring at him. They were fearful eyes.

“What are you afraid of?” Logan asked, claws sheathing themselves as he pried the door open, stepped inside, and locked it behind him. Her anxiety and fear rolled off of her in waves, mingling with the delicious smell that was distinctly...

Wait.

“What the hell?” Logan whispered, nose sniffing audibly. He dropped to his knees and grasped Marie’s hips, firmly thrusting her back against the pedestal sink. Pushing her knees apart and shoving her skirt up around her hips, Logan sank his nose into her sex, inhaling deeply.

Marie let out something between a gasp and a moan, her fingers entwining in his hair and gripping tightly. Her arousal rolled off of her, but there was something a little, off. Using his teeth, Logan tugged the edge of her thong panties away from her core, and his tongue had tasted what his nose could not identify.

“Holy fucking shit...” Logan snarled, “You’re pregnant.”

Jealousy overwhelmed him momentarily. His fingers had dragged scratches down her thighs. Marie was his, dammit, his, and some other fucker had planted his seed in her womb. The feral side of him wanted to scream.

The wicked side of him wanted to punish.

And Logan had punished. He hadn’t allowed Marie to move, not that she would have. He growled harshly, then ripped her underwear off with his teeth.

“Logan...” Marie had yelped as his teeth closed none to gently on her sensitive bud, as his fingers had fucked her, denying her the pleasure of his cock.

“Tell me who, Marie...so I can kill his ass.”

“I can’t!” Marie whispered, writhing against his mouth.

“Dammit, Marie,” Logan hissed, humming against her, making her squirm on the edge of orgasm, “WHO?!”r32;
“You, Logan.”

Cold terror had washed over him for one second, only to be replaced by mind blowing male pride. He had only been pulled back from the edge of gloating by the tears that streamed down Marie’s cheeks, puddling on the countertop as he stood between her legs.

“Marie, honey, what’s wrong?” Logan asked, hands cupping her face.

“You don’t want me,” Marie sobbed, “You’ve never wanted me, but oh god I wanted you.”

“Marie, baby,” Logan had gulped. His Adam’s apple seemed like it was stuck in his throat. “I’ve only ever wanted you.”

The mile markers flew by as the clock on the van dashboard lazily snuck towards 3AM. Each mile brought him physically closer to Marie, and mentally brought him closer to agonizing heartbreak.

Logan, old fashioned as he was, had bought an antique ring for Marie from an estate sale. It had belonged to a couple that had been married for sixty-five years before they had died in their sleep, together.

He smiled as he remembered her face. She’d been wearing the yellow dress from the photo in his house. God she had looked so beautiful, her hair wavy and curling, her face flush with the glow of pregnancy. She had managed to persuade her professors to let her continue her classes at NYU online, and the weeks following that first day of March had involved the most intense love-making Logan had ever been privileged to be a part of.

And God, what a privilege.

Marie stood on the porch, drinking a cup of herbal tea in the waning sunlight. Crickets and cicadas chirruped in the woods, and the waves of the lake lapped against the pebble strewn shoreline. The baby’s nursery, constructed out of the small office area Logan had allowed himself in the lake house, had been painted a brilliant yellow and pastel green with clouds and dragons earlier in the afternoon. Now, a bassinet and a changing table made out of white bead board, constructed by Logan himself, adorned the quiet corner.

Marie found a rocking chair in a refurbished furniture store, and was currently trying out its comfort suitability as compared to the hammock. Logan leaned, content to watch her, against the door frame.

“Baby,” he murmured, desire thick in his voice.

She turned to look at him, her smile so brilliant it took his breath away. “It’s a perfect fit, sugar. I love the cushion too!” she winked at him in a sultry fashion, and he growled in response.

He stalked out onto the porch and settled himself between her legs. Her fingers crawled along his scalp and he groaned in delight, his toes curling pleasurably.

“You, know, Marie,” Logan purred, his hands working away the kinks in her bare feet, “There’s only one thing in this world that could make me happier right now.”r32;
“And that is?” Marie prodded, teasing his ear with her fingernail.

He turned, lifted himself from his sitting position and knelt on one knee, pulling the worn velvet box out of his jacket pocket and opening it, the ring shining, no a glimmering symbol of his promise to cherish her.

“Marie, let me make you an honest woman.”

Their wedding had been a quiet summer affair. Jubilee had been Marie’s maid of honor, Kitty had been her other bridesmaid. Marie’s dress looked like something out of fairy princess land, and its empire waisted cut cleverly hid her baby bump in swathes of white tulle.

She had cried as they exchanged their vows, he had kissed her sweetly, gently...everything after that streamed into a whirlwind of activity. Their honeymoon cruise to Alaska had only resulted in one nasty incident involving the claws. Who knew Mystique like to moonlight as a cabaret singer on cruise ships?

The last trimester of Marie’s pregnancy resulted in some of the most awesome sex Logan had ever experienced in his over one hundred years of existence. Even though he couldn’t remember sex from before twenty years ago, he was sure absolutely nothing could compare to Marie. And then, as the first leaves began to fall in September, Xavier James Logan arrived.

“Push, Marie, you’re almost there.” Hank encouraged.

Logan tried not to be physically sick from nervousness as Marie clenched his hand. If his bones hadn’t been adamantium, he was sure something would have cracked under the strain. Marie breathed heavily, attempting to practice her lamaze lessons. Logan wiped her forehead with a cool cloth, laying a kiss there as she strained.

“The baby is crowning! Logan, look!” Hank had exclaimed excitedly.

Logan’s heart had leapt into his chest at the first glimpse of his son, dark brown hair matted to his tiny head.

“One more push, baby.” Logan cheered, kissing Marie’s hand, “Our baby is almost here!”

“Oh, God, Logan!” Marie had ground out between clenched teeth, and had pushed.

The sound of a baby crying had never been more beautiful.

“I love you, Marie.” Logan whispered.

Charlie, as little Xavier soon came to be called, was the most unusual baby Hank had ever observed medically. Unlike his super powered, alpha class mutant parents, Charlie possessed only a recessive mutant gene. It was unlikely, Logan recalled, that the boy would ever possess any mutant powers.

Logan had only wondered who the hell cared. Every morning he made love to the woman of his dreams, held his son, and cherished the life he was rebuilding from the ashes of Alcatraz island.

“Come on, you can do it!” Marie cheered, holding her hands out to Charlie as Logan lifted tiny hands, each clasped on to an adamantium finger, helping his son toddle towards his mother.

Finally, Logan withdrew his fingers gently. Charlie toddled one step, two steps, and then three steps into his mother’s waiting arms. “Hooray!” Marie squealed, dancing Charlie around the room. The baby boy laughed, clapping his hands.

“Come to papa, big guy!” Logan crowed, lifting the exultant one year old over his head. Baby laughter filled the lake house. Logan was already drawing up plans to have it extended, Charlie would need his own room should another happy accident occur.

As Logan merged onto the interstate, disregarding his original plans to pull over and rest, his mind wandered again. When Charlie was three years old, Marie took him to the local park to play. Logan’s heart beat accelerated at the memory. Charlie had fallen down while getting off the toddler sized slide.

He had bumped his shin. Marie thought nothing of it.

Until three weeks later, the bruise hadn’t healed.

“Marie, Logan,” Hank murmured, as he stepped out of the room where Charlie lay sleeping on a sterile hospital bed with his favorite stuffed giraffe, “Charlie has leukemia.”

Logan’s heart felt like it was breaking into a thousand, tiny, infinitesimal pieces. Marie had sobbed for hours, unable to pull herself away from Logan’s embrace. She didn’t want Charlie to see her so upset.

He wouldn’t understand.

The season had turned to summer as Charlie approached his fourth birthday. Now, doctor’s appointments replaced play time at the park or with Daddy. Luckily, the mansion had the best, state of the art medical facilities available.

But nothing seemed to help Charlie. His hair fell out, and Logan shaved his head every day, despite rapid regrowth, to match. The two compadres played Mario Kart, ate pizza, and played Chutes and Ladders with Marie, who smiled through her sadness at her boys, one big, the other, little.

Mommy kissed away the boo-boos, the incisions, and the hurts. But Mommy couldn’t kiss away the cancer.

Charlie died in August during a bone marrow transplant.

Logan and Marie buried their son, buried their happiness, two weeks before his fourth birthday. Logan had already bought him a battery powered motorcycle. The gifts sat, gathering dust in the corner of Charlie’s room, waiting on Charlie’s “big-boy bed,” for someone to open and love them.

But that someone would never come.

Logan ground his teeth together in grief, forcing himself to pull off the road and into the nearest rest stop. The van needed gas. He couldn’t see where he was driving anymore. Heartbreaking, soul wrenching sobs tore from his gut. Dry heaves accompanied them.

It was all he could do to not remember Charlie’s face, angelic, pale as they closed his casket at the earth swallowed him. Why did it have to be him? He who healed from anything, would have given every ounce of healing power he had to Charlie.

But he couldn’t.

Helplessness overwhelmed him, and locking the doors, Logan cut the engine. He was too bereaved to drive any farther without rest. Even his dreams haunted him.

Marie sat, naked on the side of the bed, a sheet pooled around her trim waist. She was only 22. Far too young to be dealing with the loss of her only child. Logan stared at the ceiling, biting his lip. Marie was crying again.

Logan wanted to roar at the sky in defiance, to cleave the earth in two pieces. Hank told him that Marie would need time to heal. Marie, his Marie, was gone. Locked up and hiding from him. She wouldn’t speak to him. Some part of her, he knew, resented him for being unable to pass his miraculous healing ability onto their child.

The other part of her hated herself for thinking that even suppressed by the cure, her mutation might have absorbed any chance of Charlie’s survival, might have absorbed his mutation in the womb.

“Marie,” Logan whispered, “I don’t want to lose you.”

She turned, her face profiled in the moonlight, hair caressing her back, trailing down towards her buttocks. He could see the rivulets tears had left on her cheeks.

“Oh God, Logan.” Marie wailed, and she had collapsed, crawling into his arms where her heartbreaking sobs were swallowed in his desperate kisses. His strong arms gripped her tightly, fingertips caressed the skin he now knew so well. And he had claimed her again in a violent, passionate, sorrowful lovemaking that left him unable to move, and Marie exhausted of all her grief and fury beside him.

The next morning, she had disappeared. The only thing she left was a note.

Logan,

Sugar, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I’ve been ripped in two pieces, and no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to fix me. Please don’t try to find me.

Love always,
Marie

Logan shook himself awake and wiped dried tears and snot from his face. God he was such a pansy. You’d think the mighty Wolverine, the seen it all, done it all Wolverine who had slaughtered thousands in battle after battle, who would rip an opponent limb from limb to protect what was his own, would have been able to get over heartbreak, especially five years after the death of his son and the loss of his wife.

But some wounds couldn’t be healed by time.

The miles faded away until Logan reached the hospital where Marie was staying. He parked the van, then walked to the front desk. Emotions warred inside him. The Wolverine wanted to punish their mate for leaving. They could have provided another cub for her to love...

Logan, on the other hand, wanted to kiss her senseless. Wanted to prove to her that she was still welcome. She was only twenty-seven now, they could still have a long, full life together. He stopped by the gift shop and picked up a bouquet of roses and a Snickers. Marie loved Snickers.

The nurse at the front desk had told him where Marie was, what room she was in, what floor she was on. His heart pounded so hard in his chest that he felt like he was going to explode. The ding of the elevator as it approached the tenth floor was ominous and foreboding. The doors opened, Logan stepped out and followed the signs until Room 1087 loomed in his vision.

His hand reached for the doorknob. The Wolverine growled.

Logan pushed him back, reached out, and opened the door.

Sometimes, wounds needed to be overcome.

“Marie?”

One hoarse whisper.

That was all it took.

Marie’s senses were on high alert, her eyes straining to glance beyond the restraint of the neck collar towards the open doorway. Her fingers twitched, clenching the nurse call button. It didn’t matter if her less than acute senses had stopped working long ago; Logan’s essence, his scent, wafted across the room towards her in an inescapable tidal wave of emotion and longing.

She bit her lip, which suddenly quivered uncontrollably. God she hadn’t cried. She hadn’t let herself cry in five years, and now, everything was breaking all over again. The nomadic, wandering lifestyle she had constructed for herself after leaving the mansion had suited her. She had avoided anywhere that children congregated for three years, working out of dives and bars far seedier than anything she had ever bothered with, even Laughlin City.

Just thinking of Laughlin caused her heart to beat uncomfortably fast. That was the reason she had left work as a bartender. Any stage, every cage...there was always someone there who reminded her of Logan. Thinking of Logan had hurt. Thinking of Charlie… oh God that had hurt so much more.

She knew Logan was distraught when their son died, but she was so broken, so lost, that she had never been able to realize he had hurt just as much, if not more than her. Charlie had been an extension of her soul, her life, her breath. Why couldn’t he have been a mutant? Why did something as simple as leukemia, something that his father’s immune system would incinerate without effort, how could that claim her precious baby?

Even now it caused a lump to rise in her throat. She bit her lip harder, it bled. She knew Logan would be able to smell it from across the room, even underneath the overwhelming scent of antiseptic and cleaner.

“Can I come in?” Logan whispered.

Marie nodded her head slightly. She heard his boots clump along the tiled, sterile floor. Saw his hands, still tan, still calloused, reach for the guard rails on her bed. Her eyes strained to look at him, even though she didn’t want him to see her crying.

She wanted to be strong again.

Wanted to be Rogue again.

Wanted to close herself up, wall herself back behind her mutation until there was nothing left, only a void that would suck anything in that tried to hurt her. Tried to make her hurt more. But that had never been what Logan wanted.
He had wanted to heal her. To fix her.

And look at her now.

Permanently broken. Literally in two pieces that no longer cooperated or fit together correctly. Did that mean she was in four pieces? A heart broken in two and a body broken in two… would she never be whole again? And he would never want her now… and it was all too much. Charlie, the accident, the loss. And suddenly she knew that unless something grounded her, she would just blow away like chaff in the wind, forever.

“Brought you some flowers, baby.” Logan whispered.

Marie looked at the roses. Marie looked at Logan’s left hand, where the wedding band she had slid onto his finger so many years ago still sat. And God, she couldn’t help herself. She reached out, pale, shaking hand reaching for those firm, strong fingers. She wrapped her hand in his, curled her fingers around his, because even though she had been denying it, blaming him, blaming herself for the past five years, she desperately needed Logan.

And her tears poured out, streaming down her cheeks, dampening her hospital gown. Logan’s forehead pressed into hers, his nose ghosting against her cheeks. His breath whuffed gently in her hair. The flowers sat, forgotten on the rolling serving tray next to her bed. Quietly, Logan inhaled her scent, while her hands fisted tightly in his customary flannel shirt, still buttoned askew.

A knock on the door interrupted their reverie, and Marie refused to let go of Logan’s shirt sleeve as he turned to face Dr. McDowell and Sally.

“Miss Smith?” Dr. McDowell asked, obviously wary of the tan, sloppily dressed man now hovering protectively by her bedside.

“Who the hell is that?” Logan growled, eyes narrowing sharply.

Marie almost groaned. The territorial side of the Wolverine would greatly protest at her using an alias. To him, it was like a direct rejection of his name… a rejection of his claim.

Damn doctor.

“My name is Marie Logan, Dr. McDowell. I was a little, out of sorts yesterday.” Marie supplied, feeling Logan tense.

“Miss Logan,” the doctor began, only to be interrupted by Logan.

“That’s Mrs. Logan to you bub.”

Glancing at the ring on Logan’s finger, Sally clapped her hands together excitedly. “Ooooh, I knew it! Running away from a passionate love affair.”

If Marie’s head hadn’t been in a brace she would have slammed it into the hard mattress behind her. Maybe then she wouldn’t be sitting, wallowing in her own misery as Logan stared down the medical professionals assisting her.

“A..are you Mrs. Logan’s husband?” Dr. McDowell stammered, pen clicking nervously on the charts in his hand.

“Yes.” Logan growled, fumbling in his back pocket for his wallet, a worn out, duck taped together contraption made out of disintegrating leather. Marie recognized it as a Christmas gift she had given him when she was seventeen. He flipped open, and underneath a picture of her laughing, dark haired baby, was a wallet sized bride-and-groom picture taken by Jubilee at their wedding.

The lump in her throat came back with a vengeance.

“Is that your son? He’s beautiful.” Sally asked, unintentionally poking the most tender place in Marie’s still healing soul.

Tears silently trickled down Marie’s face, causing Logan to snarl like a wounded animal. Dr. McDowell jumped, silencing Sally with a vicious, cutting look, then returned Logan’s dilapidated wallet.

“Yes,” Logan whispered, running a thumb over the snapshot, “he was a great kid.”

Shaking his head, he turned back to the doctor. “So what’s the problem, doctor?”

“You may want to sit down, Mr. Logan.” Dr. McDowell began, gesturing towards the uncomfortable chair sitting next to Marie’s bedside. The doctor plopped down onto a rolling stool and gingerly slid closer to Logan. “Your wife was in a bad accident,” he said, gesturing towards Marie’s x-rays. Sally flipped on the monitor, allowing Logan to assess the damage.

Marie felt, rather than saw, adamantium fingers bend the hand rail on her bed. Closing her eyes, she tried to stamp down every emotion threatening to explode from her chest as the doctor and Logan discussed her options, only catching snatches of the conversation through her inner emotional turmoil.

“Unless the swelling goes down, surgery is out of the question,” Dr. McDowell murmured, gesturing towards the x-rays in a hushed tone.

“Can’t I get a second opinion?” Logan asked. Marie could have cut the tension in the room with a knife.

“Certainly, Marie is stable enough to be moved. When would you like to have her discharged?” Sally interjected.

God, didn’t she get any say in this? But it was so hard to make any decisions right now. She just wanted to lay back and rely on Logan. She didn’t want to be Jane Smith, or Casey, or Violet… she wanted to be Marie. She wanted to be Marie again.

“I want her out of here in an hour.” Logan growled, “We have a doctor at the institute who may be able to assist on a consultation.”

“Very well, Mr. Logan, I’ll have the next shift draw up your paperwork.”

Fading footsteps slowly drew Marie from her practically catatonic state. Logan’s hazel eyes gazed into her own. She felt like he was piercing her soul. His hand reached out, gently, to caress the side of her cheek, cupping it tenderly.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Logan whispered. His fingers went to the clips that held her neck brace on. “They said I could take this off if you felt like it.”

Marie nodded, refusing to meet his gaze. She didn’t want to see pity…or even worse, hatred reflected there.

“Won’t you look at me?” Logan asked. Marie glanced up quickly, eyes till watering, threatening to spill over.

“You shouldn’t be apologizing.” Marie said, slowly turning her head to the side, stretching it after its long confinement. “I did this to myself, maybe I even deserve it, you know?”

“Why the hell,” Logan snarled, “Would you deserve this?!”

“It’s my lot in life Logan,” Marie gasped, choking on that lump in her throat again, “I can never keep anything I want. I couldn’t keep you, I couldn’t keep Charlie, I couldn’t handle my mutation, and now I can’t even move my fucking legs.”

Marie watched as Logan’s hands clenched into fists. He was so angry he was shaking. He slid one hand down his unkempt face, the other running through his hair exasperatedly. He stopped at the end of her bed, facing her dead on.

“What do I have to do to get it into your head, huh?!” he shouted, slamming his fists on either side of her now paralyzed lower limbs. “I fucking love you, Marie. I love you, what the hell else do you want me to say? Losing Charlie, Marie, that broke us, I know that now.”
Marie hid her face behind her hands, trying to hide the tears streaming down her face. “Logan, I…I can’t…”

“Can’t what?!” he hissed, voice angry, fingers gently stroking her numb legs. “Can’t handle the fact that after our son died you didn’t want anything to fucking do with me Marie? Well now, I’m all you’ve got.”

She sobbed harder. “Things shouldn’t be like this,” she cried, “not like this.”

“You think I don’t know that, Marie? Our boy should be in the fourth grade. He should be learning to divide, write cursive, play sports, and he can’t.” Logan growled, “You think that doesn’t tear me up inside Marie? That you’re the only one still hurting, still nursing a gaping wound that won’t fucking heal?!”

“I don’t want to be like this…” Marie cried.

“Then FIX it Marie. Would Charlie want us to be like this? So split up, so messed up, so damn far up shit creek that we can’t do something about it?” Logan knelt to the ground then, his hands clenching her feet gingerly, head buried in his arms.

His shoulders shook, and Marie pushed herself up into a sitting position, reaching as far as her IV would let her without pain to gently touch the side of Logan’s cheek. “No, Logan…Charlie wouldn’t want this.”

Logan looked up, eyes watering uncontrollably. He had bared his soul. Could she not return the favor?

“I want to try, Logan.” Marie whispered, heart pounding, “I can’t do it on my own anymore.”

And then Logan moved so quickly that she barely saw it. Suddenly he was millimeters above her face, his breath warm on her cheeks. He folded down the guard rail on her bed, leaning on it gingerly. One arm slid up behind her ear, the other tangled in her dyed ebony hair, thumb brushing delicately against her cheek.

“Oh, Jesus, I’ve needed you for so long.” He managed to choke out, voice dry and nervous.

“Well, I’m here now,” Marie whispered, her un-entangled hand sliding up Logan’s arm to rest on his bicep.

“I know,” he whispered, and Marie felt her stomach flip over as his lips brushed against her own, gently, tenderly, lovingly. “Say you’ll come home with me, Marie, I need to hear you say it.”

Every whispered syllable teased her hyper-sensitive lips, his breath tickling her nose.
“Yes.” Marie whispered, “I need to come home.”

“Thank you, God.” Logan growled.

And then Marie did something completely unexpected. She leaned up, nibbling on Logan’s lower lip. She tugged it, gently, with her teeth. And as he swept his tongue inside of her mouth, fingers trembling as he caressed her face, something inside of Logan slowly began to slide back in its proper place, to knit back together.

She had begun to heal him.

Now he had to heal her.

Unbreak her heart.

Marie hummed gently as she rolled Xavier’s repurposed wheelchair across the worn, lived on timbers of the lake house. Logan and Storm had refurbished it not long after she had been released from the med-bay yesterday, allowing her more mobility. Sunlight beamed merrily through dusty curtains in the living room, furniture long out of use now bleached by constant exposure. Her fingers trailed along the linen slipcover, fingering a bright fucshia stain.

Charlie had spilled his kool-aid there when he was two. She smiled, remembering the frantic “Uh oh,” that had alerted her to the boo-boo. She was pretty sure her son had picked that up from Logan, who had taken to using, “Uh oh,” with emphasis instead of “Holy shit,” once he had realized that Charlie emulated almost everything that he did.

Which, to his mother’s chagrin, had included cursing. Watching toddler lips form the words “fuck” and “you” to Storm, babysitting him on date night, had been an appallingly hilarious experience. Logan had almost peed himself, of that she was quite certain.

For the past week, Logan had been unbearably attentive. She knew he had probably taken advantage of her respite in the medical ward to attempt to conceal some of the things that he thought would damage their tentative truce. His favorite picture of her, in her yellow sundress was in a new frame. Charlie’s room had been repurposed as a den. Her rocking chair had a new cushion, and a small love seat replaced the big boy bed her darling son had once been so proud of. She wasn’t sure where all of Charlie’s pictures had disappeared to, but could still faintly see the growth marks Logan had nicked into the woods with his claws as Charlie had grown.

Their first night together in the Lake House, they ate dinner silently, her favorite Italian dish. Afterwards, Logan had plucked her from the chair and into his arms on the worn sofa. She lay comfortably between his legs, and he had softly sniffed her hair, winding long ebony strands around his fingers. His lips placed gentle kisses along her neck as he plaited her long, black hair.

“You feeling alright, darlin?” Logan asked, lips whispering along the skin at the edge of her ear.

She shuddered gently, nodding. He felt good. It felt good to be in his arms, wrapped up and warm. Marie snuggled deeper into his embrace, suddenly overwhelmed. It was too much at once.

Too much good.

Logan intertwined his fingers with hers. The warm metal of his wedding band, the band he had never taken off, mocked her. Her finger was bare, her diamond hidden under the floor boards upstairs. She felt dirty, ashamed. Unlike Logan, she had been unable to cope with the implications of the promises they had made in the marriage altar and the marriage bed.

She had run. Logan had held on.

Marie didn’t know exactly when she started crying, or exactly why she was crying; catharsis is never easily explained. Logan, to his credit, said nothing. Just held her. A tangible anchor, tying her down, keeping her safe.

He lifted her in his arms once more, walked up the stairs to their bedroom. Gently, Logan laid her on the bed, shaking fingers fumbling clumsily as he tugged her sweatpants down and unbuttoned her top. He gently positioned her legs so that she was in her favorite position to sleep. She blinked at him through silent tears as he stripped down to nothing, then slid into bed behind her, pulling her close.

“Love you, darlin,” Logan whispered.

“Love you,” Marie choked, clenching the hands that wrapped tightly around her desperately.

“Baby, I know we can fix this,” Logan growled, voice gravelly as he stroked one hand along her hip bone, “Just, give it some time, please.”

Marie half-grinned through her tears, “Don’t worry, Logan. I don’t think I’m going anywhere.”

“This time you’re not getting the chance,” he growled, teeth nibbling along her the soft curve of her neck.

She stiffened, suddenly, breath catching in her throat, somewhere in between the massive lump she couldn’t swallow and her mouth. “Logan,” she gasped, his fingers sliding underneath her pale pink tank top to stroke her flat stomach, “What am I to you?”

This time, Logan froze, fingers still absent-mindedly tracing patterns on her skin, “You’re everything, Marie.”

Feeling unbelievably guilty, and to Logan’s distress, Marie sobbed herself to sleep, safely ensconced in her husband’s arms.

Today, after being spoilt with toast, cheese grits, and smoked sausage in bed, dressed, and situated with an ergonomic back brace in her wheelchair, Logan left to teach his classes at the mansion, and Marie took it upon herself to clean up the Lake House. It was obvious someone, probably Kurt, had been asked to straighten up when Logan left. However, men, more often that not, cleaned at a much poorer standard than any woman held herself to. That explained the strange arrangement of knick-knacks, the half-cleaned, streaked sunroom windows, and the spare bedding, sitting atop the washer, smelling soured due to being wet for too long.

Unconsciously going into “mom” mode, she began dragging the pile to the sunroom to air out. With a little difficulty, Marie managed to rev her mechanical chair across the door jam between the kitchen and porch. There, comforters, sheets, as well as pillow cases and their occupants, found temporary homes sprawled across the hammock, wicker, and other various sundry pieces of outdoor furniture. Rolling herself around, she propped open the sunroom windows, letting warm, sunny air rush in. She breathed deeply. She could almost imagine Charlie laughing in the backyard if she tried hard enough... Shaking her head, she turned, and with effort, the wheelchair was forced back inside, bumping into the credenza behind the sofa.

The credenza slid back, the red edge of a padded binder peeping out from underneath. Gold writing emblazoned the side, spelling out Charlie’s name in childish letters. Leaning down as far as she could, Marie managed to scoot the binder out from under the credenza. Puzzled, Marie pulled it into her lap, then moved towards the streaky windows, and opened it.

The first page held an eight by ten glossy photograph of Charlie, clumsily taped in with childish fingers on to striped background paper. His soft brown hair fell every-which-a-way. Blue crayon spelled his name below, the ‘R’ turned around backwards. Her fingertips traced the contours of his face, lip trembling as she realized that the binder was full.

Of pictures.

She turned the page, clumsy hand writing spelling ‘Mommy & Daddy’ over a five by seven picture of Marie and Logan dancing. Marie was wearing Logan’s favorite yellow dress, her fingers twined with his. Her chocolate waves fell, curling around her bare shoulder blades. Logan wore a plain blue t-shirt and jeans. A leather patch from an X-men uniform had been pasted in the bottom corner. She rubbed the worn, burnt edged leather, and turned the page.

Logan and Marie, cooking for the mansion’s annual Fourth of July celebration. Infant Charlie sat on Logan’s shoulders, kicking his feet amicably, a toothless, gummy grin, cupcake icing all over his face. On the same page, Charlie at the beach for the first time, shoving fistfuls of sand in his mouth, another of him naked, chasing seagulls, Logan trying to catch him, arms outstretched.

Then it was Charlie’s first Christmas, his beaming face patting a scoot-along motorcycle, Marie steadying him as she pushed him across the hardwood floors. Charlie paddling in the lake, Logan, too heavy to swim, sitting with him in the shallows. Logan strumming on a six string guitar while Charlie slammed pots and pans onto the kitchen floor.

Marie, sleeping with Charlie in her arms, his little head covered in a paisley bandana. Logan, making silly faces at the doctors as Charlie laughed and clapped his hands. The whole family sledding down the hill next to the Blackbird’s launch pad after a New York blizzard, then making a snow-Magneto. Marie and Logan, out of focus, kissing next to a roaring fire.

Charlie had taken that picture. His little thumb was just visible in the edge of the photograph.

The tape was less childishly done now, as well as the captions, and Marie could see Logan’s rugged touch on the photo album. In the next photo, Charlie sat on Logan’s lap, rinkside at a hockey game, face enthralled as Logan roared his approval at whatever was happening on the ice. The picture below it was of Marie, sitting on a picnic blanket, a tired Charlie stretched out in her lap pointing at clouds.

The pictures of Charlie covered in tubes, wires, and machines were the worst. Marie’s face looked back at her, haggard, strong, impossibly brave. Logan’s eyes were impossibly heartbroken. The next-to-last picture was of one rugged, calloused hand holding one tiny, tiny hand. The very last was taken before Charlie’s final operation. They all wore white cotton t-shirts and blue jeans, sitting underneath a massive shade tree on the lake house lawn. They were all tan. They’d just returned from Disney World.

They looked so happy. Charlie had scribbled a childish message and a heart beneath the picture.

Underneath, a much finer, more experienced hand had written, “My Family.”

“Logan,” Marie whispered, tears welling up once more. Gently, she placed the red photo album on top of the credenza, then rolled her chair towards the staircase. Once there, she dragged herself out by her arms and onto the highest step she could reach, pulling her body, useless legs trailing behind, up banister spindle by spindle. The jerking motion knocked the chair sideways, leaving it helter-skelter at the bottom step. Exhausted by the time she reached the top, she managed to tug on one bed frame leg, sliding underneath. Her fingers found the board she was looking for. Popping it up, she scrabbled around desperately until her fingers closed around something cold and hard.

Lifting it, she buffed it on her cardigan, then pulled herself back out from under the bed to lay on the massive flokati rug covering the hard woods. The diamond engagement band, fused with a white-gold wedding ring twinkled merrily in the sunlight. Sighing in relief, Marie lifted up her left hand and slid it on her ring finger.

It was a little loose. She’d lost weight since she had last worn it.

Laying her hand underneath her head, Marie decide to lay bonelessly on the floor. She was so tired, and her arms and back ached from the effort it took to pull herself up the stairs. Tears drying on her cheeks, her eyes fluttered shut, and she slept, cheek planted firmly into the soft fabric of the lush rug.

------

Logan sighed wearily as he trudged out of the mansion, dodging mutated rug rats left and right as he meandered down the pebbled pathway that led towards the Lake House. Seven periods a day of physical education and self-defense, especially when one was training the next, junior level of X-men, was downright grueling. He hoped Marie had fared well by herself all day.

The thought made him break into a jog, his combat boots crunching the ground beneath him with each step. He paused underneath the large shade tree on the Lake House lawn. A simple, ivory marker lay there, flowers blooming across the top. Walking towards the marker, Logan leaned against the tree, sliding his back down the bark until his butt, and boots came to rest above the marker.

Beloved son, Xavier James Logan

Brushing away dust and dirt that had blown atop the marble, Logan placed his hand on the stone, warm in the afternoon sun. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, a slight smile on his face, “I got your Momma to come home. Not without a helluva lot of trying.”

He shut his eyes, enjoying the wind that gusted against his cheeks like a playful child, “Yeah, yeah, I know bub,” he huffed, “She’s a stubborn one, but I’m going to keep my promise to you, you hear?”

One finger patted the grave solemnly, “I promised you I’d take care of your Mom, Charlie, since you wouldn’t be here to take care of her anymore, and I intend to hold true to my word.”

The wind blew strongly again, this time bringing a smile to Logan’s face. “Yeah, I’ll go check up on her.”

Patting the grave again, Logan stood up, wiped a single tear drop from the corner of his eye and turned towards the Lake House again. Approaching the back door, Logan saw all of the spare linens strewn about, willy nilly, air drying in the sunlight. Apparently, Marie hadn’t approved of Storm’s cleaning services.

Running a hand through his hair and sniffing his armpits, Logan decided that he was clean enough to greet the lady of the house. He leapt up on the top step, ignoring the bottom two, and removed his boots, letting them fall in a pile on the faded, hand-painted welcome mat. Stalking towards the open inside door, he glanced around the open great room for Marie, only to find her chair empty, tipped over at the foot of the stairs.

Panic shot through him like lightning, and a guttural growl tore from his throat. Inhaling deeply, Logan darted towards the chair. If she had fallen, she’d be right there.

She wasn’t.

“Marie?” Logan snarled, absolutely furious at himself for leaving her alone now, “Marie?” A whiff of her pungent scent trickled down from the loft, and Logan charged up the stairs, skidding around the landing to find Marie sleeping, peacefully on the floor, right hand tucked underneath her cheek, left hand, diamond ring glinting in the sunlight, lying beside her face.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Logan’s heart almost stopped at the sight of her wearing the wedding band he had given her so long ago. Instantaneously, feelings of possession and desire shot through him, quelled by the sight of the black brace attempting to alleviate pressure from her compressed disks.

Leaning down, he touched her face gently, lips inches away from hers.

“Marie?” he whispered, his mouth ghosting kisses across her forehead, nose, and cheeks, “Wake up.”

Marie’s eyelashes fluttered gently against his cheeks. “Logan,” she mumbled, arms stretching above her, legs still, “I had the strangest dream.”

“What was it about?” Logan asked, one hand beneath her knees, the other behind her back as he lifted her onto the bed.

“You and Charlie,” she said, a warm smile spreading across her face. He settled in next to her, head propped up on one elbow. “You were sitting under our tree with him, he was happy, he wasn’t...hurting anymore.”

“That sounds nice,” Logan said, a lump forming in his throat.

“It was, oh he was beautiful,” she whispered, “just like he always was.”

“Did he say anything?” he queried, one hand stroking the side of her cheek, rug marks had been pressed into it by the carpet.

“He said,” Marie began, eyebrows furrowing, eyelids drooping sleepily, “thank you...for keeping your promise. What promise did you make Charlie...Logan?”

“That I would take care of you,” Logan squeaked, hoarsely, “forever.”

Marie’s brown eyes stared into his own, wide awake. “I guess I’m a horrible mother, then, running away like that.”

“Marie,” Logan growled, grasping her chin tightly, but gently, in his fist, “You are a wonderful mother, and even though...” he paused then, searching for the right words, “even though you ran, I understood it was something you had to do, something you were dealing with on your own. And God, I could’ve, I would’ve, Marie I would have climbed to the moon for you, you and Charlie.”

“I was horrible to you,” Marie hissed, anger directed inwards, “I left you, and you hurting like that. All I could think, was that I was somebody’s mama,” Marie gasped, choking back tears, “But now I’m nobody’s mama.”

Logan leaned forward, cupping her cheek in his hand, breath brushing against her eyelids. He gently grasped her shoulders, settling her into the pillows beneath him, then straddling her on all fours, careful to avoid her waist. Trapping her torso between his powerful forearms, Logan leaned down, lips crashing into Marie’s, desperately seeking to siphon off some of the grief, rage, and helplessness that she was trying to sort through.

His tongue tangled with hers, her hands sliding up his back to find fistfuls of his dark, unruly hair. He laved along the edge of her neck, suckling at the junction of her collar bone, teeth sending shivers down her arms and the uninjured portion of her spine.

“Logan,” she groaned, absolutely breathless, lips moving frantically against his neck, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Marie,” he growled, fingertips gently plying along the contours of her chest, “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. You’re here now, with me, and that’s all that matters.”

“I needed you the whole time, the whole time I was gone,” her hands ran down his chest, towards the waist band of his pants.

Logan, despite the almost overwhelming excitement that shot through him at her action, grabbed her hand, tying up her fingers with his own. “No, Marie,” he managed to grind out, “Not now.”

“Do you not want me, now that I’m...like this?” Marie asked, face turned away refusing to meet his gaze.

“Goddammit, Marie, I want you. I’d want you if you had four eyes and three tits for Chrissakes.” Logan practically snarled, “But you’re still recovering, I’m still recovering...I want this, but I want it to be right.”

He captured her lips with his own again, gently coaxing her to open up. He poured his passion into the kiss, his love, his adoration, his overwhelming need for not just her body, but her soul. Pulling away, he brushed her hair back from her face, his touch was gentle and loving.

“Now,” he purred, fingers massaging Marie’s arms until they felt like jello along with her insides, “What do you think about taking a bath?”

Wrinkling her nose, Marie lifted one eyebrow comically, “You do kinda stink.”

“Oh really?” Logan snarked, his mouth half-smiling. Lifting her up, he pulled the cardigan and lightweight jersey dress he had helped her put on that morning up, up, and off to puddle in a corner. Unfastening the spinal cord brace and leaving her sprawled, naked on the bed, Logan stood up to pull his black tank top off, shucking out of his shorts.

He leaned down, his skin sliding deliciously against the parts of her that were still fully aware of him, and led her into the bathroom. Marie was lucky enough that she was truly only paralyzed from below the waist and down. She still had possession of her faculties. Logan settled her on the toilet and turned away to start the bath. Embarrassed, Marie took care of business and flushed hurriedly, managing to clumsily clean herself before Logan turned around again.

The two-person garden tub Storm had installed for Logan when the Lake House was first renovated was fabulously deep. A small scoop of bath salts, the same tub Marie had left here five years ago, untouched, made the smell of lavender and jasmine permeate the room. Logan picked her up again, then stepped into the tub, growling a little at the heat. He set Marie down, feet first, her toes touching the water limply.

“Pull me up, pull me up!” Marie clamored, wishing desperately she could move her legs, “The water is too hot!”

Lifting her as requested, Logan reached to turn on the cold water, then froze halfway.

“The water is too hot?” He asked, staring at her.

“Yes, it’s too hot, is there a problem with that, mister?” Marie teased.

“Marie, your toes touched the water. Not any of the rest of you,” he hissed, hope swelling in his chest.

“I can feel it?” Marie asked, wonder in her voice, “I can feel it?! Logan, put my feet in the water again.”

Logan dipped her gently once more, and her toes radiated painful signals straight up her legs and to her spine. “I can feel it.” Marie gasped, in shock, “The pressure, the pressure must be going down in my spine!”

“Baby?” Logan gasped, and she turned to see him staring at her, eyes open in shock, “I don’t think that’s exactly it.” Blue veins riddle his skin, and suddenly, his persona slammed into her like a floodgate, her mutation kicking on like two teams of draft mules as she uncontrollably drained him.

She felt, rather than heard the pop as Logan’s healing slammed her spinal cord back into alignment, and she scrambled away from him, desperate to stop touching him as he convulsed, seizing on the tiled bathroom floor.
“Logan!” Marie shrieked, leaping up in shock. It was like Meridian all over again. David, collapsing, writhing from a drain gone too far. She reached for his arm, then jerked back as if she were burned, running as fast as she could towards the phone in the kitchen.

Pressing the speed dial, Marie felt tears streaming down her cheeks in silent waves as the mocking ring echoed in her ears. “Pick up, pick up, please, for the love of God!” she wailed.

“Xavier’s School for the Gifted, this is Headmaster Monroe.” Storm’s pleasant dulcet tones recited.

“Storm!” Marie yelped, “Storm, come quick, it’s Logan!”

“And what exactly is wrong with Logan?” Storm snarled, silent, distant frustration with Marie at abandoning Logan for so long spilling over spitefully.

“My mutation, it’s back.” Marie sobbed.

“Holy shit.” Storm growled. “We’ll be right there.”

Marie gnawed on a well-worn nail, chipped polish from a forced pampering session with a visiting dynamic duo (Jubilee and Kitty) peeling back and falling to the cold, tile floor beneath her feet. The raw, red fingertip, contrasted by the pale pink nail polish, oozed a thin crescent of blood that drip, drip, dripped down the side of her hand to land on her faded blue jeans.

She stared at the blood. Silently cursing as the nail’s cuticle reformed, sealed itself, and the nail grew to an appropriately modest length before deciding it was pleased and ceasing its outward expansion.

“Fuck,” Marie snarled, sitting on her hands, feet kicking in frustration as her eyes glanced towards the prone figure of her husband, ventilator strapped on to his face, IV’s steadily dripping into swollen injection sites. Marie’s gift had almost drained Logan completely.

Just the thought made her mouth run dry with fear.

And, while Logan may have been comatose for the past ten, long, agonizing days, the Wolverine in her head was not.

He was snarly, upset, and generally, completely, bamboozled with her. The beast inside of the man, that indefatigable, unstoppable force that Logan miraculously managed to control by a hairsbreadth, didn’t understand her anymore. Of course, the Wolverine knew that Logan didn’t quite understand females, no male truly did, but he was quite certain the feral, virulent male that all women wanted couldn’t be better epitomized by a specimen such as himself.

Yet his mate now spurned him.

Thought him to be abhorrent.

Once, she had responded to his advances, preened as he flattered and stroked, cajoled and coaxed her into willful submission, into the admission that she would be his and only his. The Wolverine hadn’t been angry that the cub had taken so much of her attention away. They, he and his mate, were happy. The man, Logan, was happy. He had been content to prowl in the shadows of Logan’s psyche, always vigilant, constantly on alert, the alpha male protecting what he rightfully saw and claimed as his.

But how does a beast protect against something uncontrollable?

Marie trembled at the base, raw emotions overwhelming her as the Wolverine skittered angrily around the corners of her mind, his rage like an open wound, pulsing, lifeblood leaking across hallowed halls, untempered by Logan’s psyche, as he had been all those times they had touched, skin-to-skin, before she had taken the cure.

The Wolverine could not fight this, cancer. He spat the word into her head, like poison from a wound.

Cancer.

Fucking hell.

Adamantium claws could not cut out what a keen nose could smell. The cub’s body, rotting away from inside. The man, Logan, could not accept it. He was desperate to save the cub, the cub was the only thing, the only thing keeping the female with them. He, Charlie, was the glue that forged the bond, a mistake that had blossomed into something unexpected, beautiful, and yet, fragile.

A memory flashed through her mind.

The Wolverine, returning from a mission, that animal lurking inside her husband. His blood-stained fingertips stroking the cheek of their balding, dying cub. A good sire would end, should end the suffering of a wounded cub...

Marie clasped her hands over her mouth, eyes tightly shut. She could hear the steady, slow beep of Logan’s heart monitor like white noise behind a horror movie streaming through her head. It was the only thing tangibly tying her to the present - her mind was elsewhere.

His claws shot out, unbelievably quick, to hover inches above the cub’s face. It would be quick, painless, effortless.

No more suffering that he couldn’t stop, or control.

Chaos. His whole life had been chaos. No memories, cruelty beyond comparison. He deserved to be able to control what happened now.

Didn’t he?

Keen night vision glanced down into the bed.

The cub’s tiny chest rose and fell, exhaling the soft sweet-as-honey smell of the female, Marie, and the man, Logan.

He should do it. He would end the cub’s suffering.

But a light came on at the top of the stairs, and soft feet padded, thumping step-by-step, towards him. He sheathed his claws, turning to greet his mate. She was outlined by a halo of light, standing in the doorway, a ragged blanket wrapped around an old, white t-shirt that reeked of him.

He growled appreciatively, but the tiny hands that could do such marvelous things clenched a ragged tissue, and further inspection revealed a reddened, raw nose and weeping eyes.

“Logan?” she asked, gently, and he felt the man stirring from the safe place he often disappeared to when things became too harsh to bear.

He knew then, he couldn’t kill the cub.

God she loved it so. It made her happy.

He had to make her happy.

Fingertips stroked the cub’s soft mane in passing, and he stalked towards her, scooped her up into his arms and dragged her upstairs to their den.

What could make her happy?

Maybe...another cub?

Marie railed against the memory, her eyes shedding uncontrollable tears. She sank into the cushioned chair and pillow Hank had moved from the rec room to the medical bay, unable to follow the continued primal onslaught from her husband’s doppleganger, which had degenerated into pictures, shattered images of her beside Charlie’s deathbed, wailing as the little cub breathed his last, Logan holding her, silent tears streaming down his cheeks as the glue melted away like sidewalk chalk during a hard rain. Fear crept through the Wolverine, almost like the same cancer that had stolen the cub, the child.

That last frantic lovemaking session blipped through her mind like a streaming video message, the Wolverine crashing through her own fractured memories of a sorrowfully passionate, desperate Logan. Love making became carnal rutting, the beast, breathing, growling, begging, “Let me take care of you, let me provide for you, let me help you.”

Marie’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Let me love you,” he growled.

Someone was shaking her.

Marie opened her eyes to see Storm’s frightened face. White gloves were on her long-sleeved t-shirt’s shoulders, Kurt and Hank peered at her, hiding behind Ororo. She had fallen from the chair and had been fumbling on the floor as if seizing.

“Rogue, are you alright?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice, so different from the disdain and hatred that had lingered there before. The sight of Rogue, a piteous heap on the bathroom floor next to a blue-in-the-face Logan had been shocking.

She had been begging him not to die.

That she loved him.

That she was sorry.

And Storm felt like a horrible witch.

“What time is it?” Marie whispered, glancing toward Logan’s bed. He was still asleep.

“Nine o’clock at night, little one,” Hank said, turning to fiddle with the instruments on Logan’s panels, “His heart rate has increased, has your healing power diminished? I believe it may be an indicator of when our sleeping beauty might awaken.”

Marie glanced at her fingernails, perfectly manicured, rolled up her sleeve and dragged one across the flesh of her lower arm. An angry welt puffed up.

And stayed angry.

“Fabulous!” Hank said, nodding to Ororo and Kurt, who disappeared as quickly as they came. He adjusted the ventillator, then pulled it completely away from Logan’s face. His chest rose and fell on its own, breathing steady and slow. His eyes flickered back and forth - perhaps he was dreaming?

“Rogue, I believe we can move Logan back to the Lake House now. With what he, and you, on occasion have told me about his past experiences with labs, I believe it would be more appropriate for him to awaken in the company of familiar surroundings,” Hank postulated.

“Of course,” Marie said, turning to leave. “I’ll go get the bed ready.”

“Wait, Rogue,” Hank called, one blue claw motioning for her to step closer. He held something silver in his hand, “Take this.”

“What is it?” she asked, pulling the silver bangle around her left wrist, her skin tingled suddenly, then the feeling disappeared.

“It’s a power inhibitor, it actively suppresses your mutant genes with no ill side affects.”

“You mean, I can still touch if I wear this?” she whispered, awe struck.

“Yes,” his big, furry hand taking her gloved one in his own, “When the light is green, your powers are null and void,” he continued, clasping the delicate metal band around her wrist. Touching a pale gray sensor on the side, the bracelet beeped five seconds before the light changed from green to blaring red, “This however, means that your powers are ‘on’ so to speak.”

Rogue nodded, toying with the bracelet and reaching to hit the sensor once more.

Hank stopped her.

“Rogue,” he whispered, “I would suggest you leave your powers on, at least for now.”

“Why?” she asked, puzzled, stepping away from him to gently palm Logan’s sleeping face through her leather-gloved hands.

“Oftentimes, when Logan has been severely injured,” Hank explained, “It is not the man who wakes up first, but the beast.”

“The Wolverine?” Marie pondered.

“Yes,” Hank replied, “And I warn you, he may be very unpredictable. As a feral mutant myself, I speak from experience.”

A shiver ran up Marie’s spine as the shadow Wolverine prowling the corners of her mind chuckled unexpectedly, “I think I can handle it, bub,” she snarked. Hands snapped up over her mouth, eyes wide.

“I see you have a bit of an animal inside of you now,” Hank smiled thinly. “Shall we call Piotr about moving Logan from the lab to the Lake House?”

“Sure thing,” Marie stammered, slightly shaken.

A few hours later, Logan was wrapped up warmly in their loft. Marie cupped a warm mug of coffee in her hands, inhaling the aroma. She was wrapped in a soft, chenile afghan, carefully tucked into Logan’s favorite sitting chair in the corner of the room. The blanket’s fringed edges trailed over fuzzy-socked feet, pale legs tucked into soffe shorts and a frayed-edged t-shirt over an old, motheaten sports bra she’d unearthed from a box in the closet.

Most of her clothes had been where she’d left them, in her top two dresser drawers. Things that had stopped smelling of her faster, such as the rarely worn, aged bra, had been tossed in the closet, the Wolverine had explained. Vague images of Logan brokenly clutching her faded track team hoodie from Mississippi, huddled beneath his flannel sheets as the animal inside him raged for release trickled through her mind slowly.

The Wolverine was fading - at least from her.

She warily glanced towards the figure on the bed, tossing and turning. She had ignored Hank’s warning - the bracelet on her wrist twinkled its neon-green light in patterns across the dusk-darkened floors. The pain of adamantium claws slicing clean through her sternum and internal organs held her back from climbing into the bed as she once had, to hold him tightly against her bosom.

They weren’t as familiar with each other anymore.

Oh, we could be, the Wolverine growled, faintly, I’m still very familiar with every...single...inch...of you.

She flushed wildly at the mental picture that careened through her head. Logan, shirt off, glistening in the sun as he fought with piecing together a tree-house fort for Charlie. His back muscles flexed and rippled from hips to shoulder blades.

She moaned despite herself, one hand uncontrollably sliding beneath the blanket to touch her most sensitive areas, guided by phantom hands that most certainly did remember what they were doing.

Even then, she didn’t need the Wolverine’s vivid memory to help her remember this day.

”You know, sugar,” Marie called, smiling from her perch on the screened porch swing “we don’t even know if it’s a boy yet!”

“You’re telling me that if you were a little kid, boy or girl, you wouldn’t wanna play in this thing?” he said, turning to face her. One hand was propped leisurely on his hip, the other held a sledgehammer, casually dangling towards the ground.

“I’dve loved to play in that fort,” Marie quipped back, “with you, sugar,” she added, quietly. The paper fan she’d made herself out of a Sunday morning church bulletin fanning faster in the humid late-afternoon summer heat.

“You said you wanna come play with me now?” he drawled slowly, the hammer now leaning against the oak tree as he walked towards her.

“Oh I’m not coming outside, it’s too hot,” Marie teased, swinging leisurely, cursing his over-sensitive ears as she flushed.

Logan’s gloves dropped to the ground. In ten steps, he crossed the side yard and jerked the screen door open. It slammed closed. Marie stood up and stretched, walking back towards the glass door leading inside. She brushed gently against the rough denim of his blue jeans and shivered delightfully.

“You coming on to me, darlin’?” Logan drawled from the doorway.

“I dunno, you coming inside?” Marie purred, one finger fiddling with the top button on her blouse.

“Inside of you,” he growled, darting forward to pin her back against the nearest hard surface, in this case the kitchen table. Sweaty hands pushed her skirt up around her hips, her legs slid up around his waist, fingers fumbling shakily with the buttons of his jeans.

“Oh, Logan,” Marie panted, his member throbbing at her moist entrance. Her hands grasped his biceps, fingernails dragging across broad shoulders. His breath huffed heavily against her neck, hips rocking back to...

But it wasn’t just a memory breathing on her skin.

Marie’s eyes shot open, a tiny scream slipping from between her lips. Her husband hovered over her in the chair, naked, his nose whuffing gently where her ear and neck came together. His hands grasped the arms of the chair tightly, his legs rested on the floor kneeling.

“Logan,” she gasped, her hands, suddenly shaking, reaching up to grasp his face.

“Hello, Marie.” Logan’s voice was heavier, raspier than normal.

His eyes met hers.

Cold eyes, calculating eyes.

“Wolverine,” she gasped, heart rate sky high and through the roof.

“You don’t smell like me, anymore,” he snarled, jerking his face away from her hands to pinch the skin of her shoulder in his teeth possessively. Pure arousal overwhelmed her senses, the smell of the two of them mixing together.

“I think we should fix that,” Marie whispered, and the Wolverine chuckled in dark approval.

“Oh, I agree,” he purred, his tongue now laving slowly along her collar bone, one claw slipping out a centimeter to slice her t-shirt and sports bra away from her skin.

Abruptly, he lifted her in his arms, dropping her on the bed stomach down. She yelped in surprise as he sliced her shorts off, then lifted her onto her knees. His nose and tongue licked and sniffed a line from the nape of her neck to the apex of her thighs, where the Wolverine paused to inhale deeply, rough hands grasping her rump and kneading it like dough.

He growled when she jumped, hips bucking wildly as his tongue wiggled in between her slick folds. She pressed back against him in abandon, hair strewn wildly about the pillows as her hands gripped them tightly, as if to anchor her down before she exploded into a thousand pieces.

“What do you want, Marie?” he growled, teeth tugging at her, nibbling and teasing until she was whipped into a frenzy of wanting and desire.

“I want us,” Marie choked out, and he slowed down, tense and trembling to press himself against her, erection sliding between her legs, listening, “And I don’t just want it,” she stammered, “I need it.”

“You need me?” the Wolverine scoffed, his cock slowly pressing against her teasingly, “If you needed me so much, why’d you leave?” he spat, somewhat maliciously as he ground against her, creating a torturously slow friction.

“I didn’t know how much I needed you then,” Marie managed to gasp as lightning bolts rocketed around behind her tightly closed eyelids, “but God, Logan, I need you now.”

In one smooth motion, Marie slid back against him, impaling herself on his thick length. He snarled in pleasure, one hand finding her hips and digging in tightly while the other slid beneath her stomach to massage her throbbing core.

It seemed like an eternity before they both collapsed, breathless, as wave after wave of mind blowing pleasure sent shock waves through their nervous systems. Tears slid down Marie’s cheeks as she was pulled into strong arms and spooned tightly against Wolverine’s firm chest.

“I need you,” he grunted into her ear, her long slim legs tangling with his own, fingers wiping tear stains from her cheeks “but not just now, I’m talking forever and always, Marie.”

“I’d like that,” she said, a soft smile on her face as her eyes began to flutter shut.

“Oh, you don’t have a choice in the matter,” Wolverine said, nibbling her neck once more, “You’re mine.”

“I love you too, sugar.”

Logan tried not to fidget with his tie, but the damn thing was just too tight around his neck.

He’d never quite understood the allure of dressing up, I mean, even getting married the first time didn’t seem as overwhelming. Perhaps it was the plaster his three piece suit to his skin, hair frizzy and out of control humidity of the deep South that made this entire fiasco seem like it was from the ninth circle of hell.

It was the middle of July.

And he was standing in a rose garden in Mississippi.

In a white, sweaty, three piece suit.

And because it would be rude to mess up the beautiful weather Ororo had fandangled for this shindig, he couldn’t even ask the weather witch for a slight breeze. Can’t muss the ladies’ hair.

A slight hum from the string quartet sweating underneath a live oak made him gulp. There, down a grassy path strewn with white flower petals, stood his Marie.

Her hair was piled into a mass of chocolate curls, little white posies and baby’s breath woven throughout the up-do, her platinum strands hanging about her face. The pale yellow, Greecian-inspired gown she wore had one shoulder, the other was bare. The empire waist barely concealed the swell of her stomach, the gown blossoming and swirling around her. Bare feet, toes polished in rose, peeped from beneath the hem.

He held his breath, the small crowd sitting around white tables seemed to hold theirs as well. Suddenly, Marie was within his reach, and one calloused palm reached out to caress her rounding belly. Romantic sighs came from Kitty and Jubilee, who stood off to the side in yellow dresses as well.

“Vell, shall ve begin?” Nightcrawler asked, and Logan and Marie turned to face their blue, furry companion, who stood in the center of a flowering arbor, Bible in hand, “Ve don’t have all day.”

Marie grinned, eyes shining, and handed Logan her left hand, “Yes.”

“Vell, let’s renew some vows, shall ve?”


Lay your arms around me
Like the falling rain
Let the feeling drown me
And life begins again


Marie hummed, stroking her belly as she stared at the new nursery. She had finally been allowed inside once Logan had made absolutely sure that every paint fume had been shooed outside into the awaiting atmosphere. Even then, he had propped open the massive picture window. She folded baby clothes on her massive tummy next to a fresh, crisply painted, white changing table. It stood across from a crib, both covered in soft baby bolsters and coverlets. The pale yellow walls were cut in half by a chair rail, and beneath the railing, white bead board had been installed, a vibrant contrast to the dark wood floors. Atop the floors, a soft rag rug had been spread, and a rocking chair sat in the opposite corner.

It was beautiful.

Every time she peeked at the clothing accumulated inside the tiny drawers, she couldn’t help but grin. The sight of pink, yellow, and lavendar booties and onesies made her excited inside. She even had a secret stash of hairbows in the very back of the top drawer. The sound of a bird singing in the massive oak tree directly outside made her lean out the open window.

Logan had planned a massive extension to the Lake House, which had just been completed about two weeks ago. This part, Marie had to admit, was her favorite. Just outside the window, a completely enclosed inner courtyard with a wraparound deck had been constructed.

In the center, stood a massive, worn oak tree.

Beneath the tree lay a simple stone marker.

“Don’t worry, Momma’s here,” Marie whispered as the baby inside her kicked against the pressure of her hand, “And big brother is too.”

“Everything alright, Marie?” Logan’s gruff voice interjected. She hastily wiped away the stray tear that slid down her cheek as she turned towards him.

“Yeah, everything’s okay,” she said.

Logan’s hand caught her cheek, thumb sliding against the skin as he drew his lips down to her forehead, “Telling little Emma about her wonderful big brother?”

“Something like that,” she said, “I’m so glad you thought of the porch, it’s absolutely perfect.”

“Well, figured Emma would need somebody looking after her when I’m not around,” Logan grinned, “Charlie’s just the one for the job.”

“You act like I’m incapable,” Marie said, pinching his arm slightly.

“No,” Logan replied, “I just know that we both needed that boy, desperately, he tore us apart, he put us back together, he, he forged more than just this ring,” Logan paused, running a finger around the gold band on Marie’s left hand, “He forged a permanent connection between us.”

“Love,” Marie said, blushing furiously. Logan smirked, fingertips lifting her chin and forcing her to look into his eyes.

“Now, Marie, if Charlie could take such good care of us, then why not give him a chance to take care of his sister too?” he laughed, “After all, what are big brothers for?”

Marie smiled, then moved his free hand to her tummy so he could feel Emma kick, “As soon as she’s born, I want to tell her all about him. How wonderful he was, how precious he was, how beautiful.”

“You mean, is, darlin,” Logan said, taking her hand and leading her out the door to the deck. The stepped down into the mossy grass around the marker, “He isn’t gone, he’s still here.” Logan lifted a hand and patted his heart firmly, the other hand pressed gently to Marie’s breast, “We will always be a family.”

“Always.”


And I will never be afraid
Now I know you’re somewhere
You’re everywhere to me
The warming of the sun upon
The earth beneath my feet
And when the rain falls down
You tell a story
And I will hear you
Always near you
By the boab tree

Oh you are somewhere
You’re everywhere to me
You’re the colour in the sky
And you’re the earth beneath my feet
And when the rain falls down
You tell a story
And I will hear you
Always near you
By the boab tree