So your conscience finally hit you
And you’re feeling guilty
And you’re wishing I was there
So you wanna say you’re sorry
Well, please forgive me if I’m too gone to care
You can take back your goodbyes
Wipe off those sad eyes
‘Cause I’ve got some tears of my own

Weather man says it’s gonna rain tonight
The kind of storm where the basement floods and you lose the lights
Should have thought of that before
‘Cause I’m not your blue sky anymore

So you heard the pitter-patter of a lost heart beating
And learned what it was for
So you made a list of shoulders that you’d be needing
Well mine aren’t yours anymore
Come on show me your temper
Be the man I remember
So I won’t forget what you’ve done

Weather man says it’s gonna rain tonight
The kind of storm where the basement floods and you lose the lights
Should have thought of that before
‘Cause I’m not your blue sky anymore

Don’t wanna be that blue sky
I’m not your blue sky anymore







Overlap: Chapter One






I had a son who died.


I still have the ultrasound-the only picture we go the chance to take. I keep in the drawer of our bedside table, but it spends most of it's time in my hands. I can see him any time I want...which is most of the time. Jubilee once said I was going to wear it out with my constant looking and touching. A joke in poor taste, I thought. But I don't take the black sheet out when she's around anymore. It is proof my child existed, though He was a baby who never drew breath, never opened his eyes to look at me, never sucked from my breasts.

Jean says He wasn't a person. I don't understand, though she's certainly explained it to me often enough. She sits me down and repeats it, like I'm an idiot who needs to be told over and over. She says an infant must take a breath outside the womb to be called a baby. Mine was just a fetus, she says. Not a He, an It. I still don't understand. I spend most of my days trying to work out this reasoning, like it's an equation harder than trigonometry. I usually end up just staring at the wall.

I heard His heartbeat. I carried Him. I fed Him. I felt him kick inside me, shift beneath my skin. I don't understand. I don't understand.

Logan and I never settled on a name. Would He have been a Mark? A Tyler? Jesse? Chris? Logan mentioned 'James' a few times, and we considered putting that as a middle name. I've always been partial to 'Leon'. Would we have called him by his full name when we were angry? When we were proud? Would his friends have given him nicknames at school? In sports?

He was supposed to have a name. He was supposed to breath. He was supposed to cry in the middle of the night and take his first steps and watch Saturday morning cartoons. Curl up in our laps. Get his first crush. Swear He hates us when we take away his video games.

There's a hole in me for all the things He was supposed to do. And it hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

Logan blames me. He's always staring. I keep my head lowered so I don't have to meet that gaze. Even when his words are kind I can feel the accusation in them. He thinks I lost control, that my disgusting mutation drained the life out of our child. He thinks it's my fault. He thinks I made Him into something Jean would forever refer to as an It. Hank says that's unlikely, that we will never know what caused the miscarriage....Isn't that a strange phrase? The very sound of it implies you did something wrong...But it's what Logan thinks. He doesn't even have to say the words out loud.

But he is nothing if not stubborn. The Wolverine wouldn't want to give up the match even if he knew there was no way he could win. So he stays.

He stays with me even though every cell in his body longs to run.

And his touch makes me sick now because I know--I know--it's driven by a sense of duty. Sometimes I feel angry enough to slap him. Other times, I'm just too tired. I don't want to see him leave. I don't want him around. I wonder how long Logan will stay in the cage before quitting the fight.

He hasn't, yet.

I hate Logan for that.

I love Logan for that.


&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&




Their son died.

He doesn't know what to say to Marie.

There must be some words he can use to make things right. Some action he can take to make things the way things were before. Before world beneath their shoes disappeared.

Logan doesn't understand. Everything had been....perfect. He had never inhaled such happiness before. It was like seeing the Canadian Rockies for the first time. Wonder and awe every day. Logan doesn't understand....but perhaps he should have learned. When had he ever kept something so good? He'd started to be one of those people. One of the people who had real lives and futures.

And it was just one day. One fucking moment that took away that chance.

Logan sees her when he shuts his eyes, how she'd looked, how she smelled when it happened. Marie had been climbing down the staircase, stoically bearing her weight and another's and why hadn't he offered her his arm? Or had he tried, and she waved it away? One hand on the banister, the other over that beautiful hump he'd put in her stomach. They'd been heading toward the movies, or dinner, or some other destination he could not recall and didn't care to.

He did remember the second when that smile slipped off her lips. How her expression became puzzled, then tight with sudden pain. Her gasp. Her fingers lifting off the banister; arms going around her stomach, clutching. Tilting over in a cramp. The sudden red blooms on her jeans, terrible flowers. Spreading.

Her knees had buckled, as if wishing to kneel before an alter he couldn't see. Marie had cried his name, and Logan had caught her before she could crack her head, tumble down the stairs.

Logan remembers scooping her up--heavy with his child. Screaming for help. For Jean, for Hank, for anybody.

And it didn't matter how loud he screamed, how fast they moved.

Too late.


Marie blames him. She never looks him in the eye, and even when she does he can feel the betrayal in them. Why didn't he watch over her better? Why did they continue to have sex? Why didn't he sense something was going wrong that day inside her? She berates Logan with her silence.

At night Marie lays on the far side of the bed, a hundred mile chasm between them. She curls into herself and stairs at the wallpaper. When he attempts to cuddle, she pushes him away. Tells him she's too hot for him to be near--she's tired, she has a headache, she's just not in the mood. Snaps at him when he tries to hold a conversation.

He misses her.




~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~





The bug taps against the window, reeling back before attacking it again. The buzzing isn't audible, but I can hear the clicking against the glass and it's driving me crazy. I hope there are no cracks anywhere in the sill it can get in through. Jubilee calls them mosquito eaters, says they're harmless. I just call them creepy.


I hate insects. They're one of the reasons I always wanted to live in Alaska. They're just so...so...blluuu-uuggcchh. I can barely tolerate butterflies, even. You should have seen me on the trip to the Monarch exhibit last month. I kept twitching, brushing my arms and back though none of them touched me. I could feel them. Bobby and Jubilee thought it was hilarious....I mean, butterflies are okay if they are in a picture, or several feet away. It's just when they are close enough to touch, when I can see their legs and feelers and--

I shudder. The mosquito eater or whatever it's called relents, decided to go harass someone else. I make sure it flies away, isn't trying to trick me into letting down my guard. Can't see it anymore. Good. I can keep reading my book without getting bit.

I love this spot. The Professor offers every member of the junior team a room of their own, and this window seat totally makes up for the fact he gave me the smallest one. It's got the perfect amount of light, the softest cushions. With a soda and a packet of vanilla wafers, I could stay here for hours.

And fully intend to.

It's Sunday, after all. No team practices and all my friends are all at church or in bed. There's nothing in the world that could coax me away from the brilliance of Audrey Niffenegger.

Except...

No. Nevermind.

It doesn't matter if that sound has been imprinted in my head for eight months. Thousands of engines make that noise. Thousands of people ride motorcycles.

It doesn't mean anything.

Okay, so it's coming down this street. That doesn't mean....Alright, so that orange cloud of dust indicates the rider is coming up the drive and passing through...passing through the...gates....Why am I craning my neck? I should go back to reading. This chapter isn't going to finish itself. Heck, it's probably just that LeBeau guy. Remy.

Suddenly this window isn't so perfect. I'm at entirely the wrong angle. I see a figure, male and tall. My palm is pressed against the glass--I can't remember putting it there. Why is my heart beating so fast? It must be that Mountain Dew. All that sugar in my blood. I see dark hair--brown? Spiked?

Remy doesn't wear a jacket like that.

The engine shuts off and he's walking around to the front doors. He's to my right, and far below me. He is about to reach the arch, pass out of my sight completely when he pauses. Turns his head, looks up. And I don't know if it's coincidence or if he smelled me (through glass and brick?). But Logan's gaze fixes on me, like there was no where else his eyes could possibly go.

He grins.

That seat may as well have been a catapult. My book falls to the ground--I'll have to smooth out the pages and apologize to it later. I'm flying: across my room, out into the corridor. My feet slap the wooden floor and the rugs. It's a good think they've been sanded and varnished so smooth; I've never heard of anyone catching a splinter here. I'm only wearing a pair of thin socks (with pictures of little ducks on them. They're my favorites.)

"Not 'sposed to run in the halls!" a little girl screeches at me. Down the stairs, taking them three at the time. He's back. He's back. He's back.

Logan's back.

My only defense is that I was running too fast for my common sense to catch up. It seemed the most reasonable action in the whole world when I saw him there--all muscle and flannel and cocky smirks. I leap, throw my arms around his neck.

Logan appears surprised, but he catches me all the same. I'd probably have fallen on my ass otherwise, and wouldn't that be a great welcome?

He crushes me so tightly against his chest all the air goes out of my lungs. That's okay. There are worse things to be squeezed against. Soft shirt and concrete-hard body. Cigar smoke and road dust and Logan. Logan's here.


His arms loosen and I stumble back. "Logan," I protest. There was absolutely no reason to let me go so soon. Oxygen smoxygen. Nobody has held me like that...ever.

"You miss me kid?"

"Not really," I reply, eyeing his arms and calculating what might result in another one of those hugs.

Logan laughs--a quick sound as rare as a unicorn but much manlier. It's enough to make me look up again, though I have not abandoned hug-quest.

His expression is as close to cheerful I've ever seen it. And so...so warm.

"How are you doing?"

That's just one of those questions people throw around. A prelude to serious conversation, or a polite filler when no other conversation can be thought of. Nobody has ever asked me as if they care about the answer. But then again, Logan never says more than necessary. If he asks, he wants to know.

"I'm okay." I swear at myself for giving such a pedestrian, social-reflex answer. "How are you?", I add to make up for it. His lips twitch.

Logan looks good. A little tired, windblown. He's larger-than-life, makes everything behind him fade into the background. The mansion's foyer--which has always impressed me, though I've been here almost a year--is dull with The Wolverine standing in it. He's just as I remember. Handsome, hair unusual but fitting. I want to touch the spikes.

He's studying me with as much focus as I am him, like a book he'll have to take a test over later. I'm a little self-conscious about that pimple on my right cheek. His eyes drift lower, down my neck. They turn dark and I wonder what kind of book this man is reading. Why is Logan staring at my---

"What's that?"

Oh. Never mind. I reach up to touch the silver 'X' pendant I had clipped next to his tags. "This? The Professor gave it to us when we graduated and signed up for the Xmen."

It's funny how his jaw can get so tight like that, so quickly. I'm suddenly reminded of the tougher-than-steel metal under that skin, so deceptively normal looking.

"You joined the team?" His voice is harder than that adamantium. Logan raises his eyebrow at me.

"Just the junior group." Scott says I'll be in training for another six months before I can actually accompany them on missions. I can't wait.

Logan doesn't seem assured by this distinction. He's looking at me rather coldly, as if disgusted. A complete one-eighty from a few moments ago. Like I'm nothing.

I can't...I don't...I don't even know the words to describe how that expression makes me feel. And then he bares his teeth at me.

"Didn't take you for the hero-type, Kid." He seems offended by the very idea.

"I'm not. I just like kicking ass."

Like you. Remember?

His face softens, but I think it's from sheer force of will. Logan doesn't respond to me, just stares until I squirm. A few students descend the stairs in search of breakfast and I can't even say good morning back to them. That would require looking away, thinking of something other than Logan and how this intense examination makes me feel. If I break his concentration, who knows when anyone will look at me like that again?

I know. I know it doesn't mean anything. I know it's just Logan, just one of his natural skills, like hunting. He can convince anyone that they are important, that they are the only person that matters as long as he is watching.

I've seen him look at Jean that way.

The light from the chandelier glints off his face. The green in Logan's eyes absorbs it, like a forest pine tree touched by the morning light. Nothing escapes those eyes. Reading me completely, even the fine print. They widen; his nostrils flex and I feel like I'm telling him secrets I didn't even know I had.

My hands fidget at my stomach, a worried reflex. His eyes dart to them. My fingers lock together. I think about my nails, painted such an obnoxious yellow. Jubilee insisted on doing them, and friendship dictates I wait at least two days before taking it off. I hope Logan doesn't--

"You're not wearing gloves."

A statement as much as a question and how could I forgotten to mention such a huge thing?

I smile with a delight that hasn't lessened despite the number of weeks that have passed. My skin is not deadly anymore. I can touch. I can touch. I can touch.


&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&



The speedometer reads '14721'. He can't wait to see One-Eye's face.

Logan took care of the bike, of course. He's no amateur. No dents, and hardly any scratches. But perhaps he ignored one or two--or twenty--shortcuts on the way to and from Alkali Lake, more than strictly necessary. The thought of pissing off Scooter is one of the few things that pulled him through after the disappointment at the military compound.

And The Kid, too. Logan's been thinking about the girl he'd met in Laughlin city more than he expected....rather frequently, actually. Almost every day, but he won't confess to any time length shorter than that.

He presses the metal bar down with the tip of his boot until the bike stands on it's own. It's in the same spot he'd stolen it from, and that's no coincidence.

Cobbled stone and a school whose architects must be living well now-steak and lobster every night. Logan takes a deep breath, tasting chalk and grass and children. Sunlight makes the soil beneath his shoes warm, will keep the motorcycle hot even with the engine shut off. A crane fly buzzes around his ear and Logan swats it absently away. He hooks his thumb around the strap of his rucksack, moves toward the doors.

It's mid-morning and (among many other things) Loan can hear a multitude of lungs, pipes swishing, cell phones and alarm clocks going off. A T.V. delivering the speech of a cartoon, another an Evangelist (he knows which one he prefers).

Logan strides up the walk, around flower pots and little cherub statues. He can sense eyes on him, and wonders if it's Xavier's telepathy. Can't the old man just use a video camera? He hears a gasp, the click of fingernails hitting glass and no, no it's not Chuck at all.

She's watching him from the window, four floors up. Hair with that bolt of white through it. Huge, delighted eyes. Body pressed so hard he can see each button on her shirt--even with the glare of the sun on the panes.

He'd only really known Marie a day or two, but her's was a face he could never forget. She beams at him, and Logan feels his lips stretch as well, as if of their own volition.

She vanishes in a blink, as if she'd never been there at all. Logan lets his feet carry him to the doors--which are propped up in appreciation of the fortunate weather.


He listens to the clatter of footsteps--the noise of a hundred people but the force of only one. He's barely made it inside when The Kid appears on the landing, racing down. Her fingertips barely graze the railing and Logan worries she will trip. Marie is panting and he does not notice the way her breasts bounce with the movement. He doesn't. Not at all. Even if they are perky and full and make the nicest sound when they rub the cotton of her blouse.

She shouts his name joyfully.

Logan would have been dazed at the magnitude of her excitement, if he'd had the time to process it. He (literally) cannot recall anyone reacting to his presence in such a way. Certainly, barkeepers all along the fight circuit look forward to the business The Wolverine will bring. And an even greater number of women in towns across of the Northern Hemisphere are always thrilled by Logan's arrival--changing their sheets and panties in the hopes he will warm them. But the look of pleasure, of welcome on The Kid's face is so unprecedented Logan wants to turn around, see who she's really staring at. It's borderline ridiculous.

But he only has time for a bolt of shock before Marie is flying at him. She would have been a blur of flesh and wavy hair without his senses. As it is, Logan's mind registers every eyelash, the exact tone of her blushing cheeks, the moisture on her lower lip.

Her arms sling themselves around his neck; her body strikes his. Logan catches her reflexively. She's squeezing him, and he he has to ignore the instinct to call it an attack and respond as such. It's not.

It's a...it's a hug. One of those social conventions normal people do not include him in, lest he pop his claws. Unless it is followed by a bend over the nearest bed/table/tree stump, you just don't hug The Wolverine.

Logan doesn't want to hurt The Kid's feelings, though, so he returns the embrace the best he can. Her hair tickles his face; her breasts and thighs are smashed against him and hey--hey, this is easy. He's pretty good at this.

Marie...Marie smells nice. Like ink and honeysuckle and warm bread. Scents he'd never thought to combine but they are oddly...

His body suggests, 'Tree stump?' and Logan releases her, lest she notice his perverted instincts.

"Logan!," Marie greets him sweetly, eyes shining.

"You miss me, Kid?" He can't get over it. Nobody's looked at him like that...ever. It makes Logan want to grab her again.

Her skin is flushed all the way down her throat, past the collar of her shirt and he's rather intrigued as to how far it goes. Marie's gaze falls, perhaps embarrassed by her unrestrained display.

"Not really," she says to his elbows, trying to salvage a measure of dignity. It's such an obvious lie Logan has to laugh (when was the last time he did that?). Her eyes snap back up to his face and every fleck in the irises speaks of youth, of life. It's like she is glowing from within. Not hopeless or desperate as they'd been in that Alberta bar. Logan is happy he left The Kid here. This school must really been the place for her.

But he's even happier he came back.

He can't be certain, though, of her well-being. Not based on only a few minutes and a smile. Logan promised to look out for Marie, after all. He isn't one to shirk the few promises he's ever committed himself to. He has to know. He has to be sure.

"How are you?"

"I'm okay. How are you?"

It's that flash of surprise before she answers that sparks his worry. Is she trying to deflect focus on to him? 'Okay' is not a satisfactory response. 'Okay' could mean anything. It could be 'pretty good' or 'barely tolerable'. Which one does Marie mean? Which? Is something wrong that his senses can't pick up?

Physically, The Kid seems well. Healthy flesh tone, strong lungs. Curvy, and Logan likes that (in a woman, his mind finishes without his permission). He measures the pulsing in her neck. Even, if a little fast. Good. His eyes follow a familiar chain down to where it ends, her cleavage. His tags twinkle in the soft valley between her breasts. Logan's own heartbeat quickens at the sight of those fleshy mountain; at the 'Wolverine' branded on the metal strip ("Property of" may as well have been etched in beside the name); at the...at the silver 'X'...hooked onto the chain as well. What the--

"What's that?", he demands. That spot--that chain is his. He doesn't share.

Marie makes a little noise, touches the 'X' almost sheepishly. "This? The Professor gave it to us when we graduated and signed up for the Xmen."

"You joined the team?" So that's what was wrong. He really didn't come back fast enough. They've corrupted her.

"Just the training group," she says.

As if that makes a difference. As if the geeks won't be shoving her into that suit, pushing her off to face Sabertooth before the leather is even broken in. Shit. Logan thought The Kid had more sense.

"Didn't take you for the hero-type, Kid."

"I'm not. I just like kicking ass." Her chin lifts defiantly, proud of herself. But Marie's voice is less confident than her words and something in them requests his approval. He's can't give it to her, but he works to smother his irritation. It's none of his business anyway, he tells himself.

Yes it is, he thinks a moment later. Logan promised to look after her. Hell, she's just...she's just misguided. He's here now. He can protect her.

A blond boy and three younger teens (all wearing pajama pants featuring some sort of beaming sponge) stumble down the oak steps. They rub their eyes and debate the relative merits of Spiderman and Ironman.

"I'm telling you. It doesn't matter whether Peter Parker doesn't have to recharge. Without anything for him to climb on, he's dead. Ironman would blast a hole through his head like that...Hey, Rogue," the boy says to Marie. She doesn't even turn around, just gives a noncommittal, "Hhm-mmm" and continues to stare at Logan.

He wonders vaguely what they must look like, facing off in the sun-filled entrance way. How long can they stay like this before the real geeks start to swarm in? He doesn't want to part from The Kid just yet, though a shower would be nice. Can he get the same room as last time?

Where does Marie sleep?

She's not talking and he's afraid to open his mouth lest he yell at her for joining the Xmen. He wonders why The Kid is gaping at him. Does she expect him to do a trick? Make a funny face? Say something profound and earth-moving? She must be crazy to think The Wolverine would do any of those things...but with...with that glow in Marie eye's, maybe he could try--no. Definitely not. What's wrong with him?

What is she comparing him with--to look at him like he could stave off the Apocalypse if he had the slightest inclination. How have they been treating her here?

Logan studies Marie as if he could see past those brown eyes into her thoughts. As if he could see everything she has in the months he's spent on the paved (and not so paved) roads of Canada. How can he start fulfilling his promise?

She shifts her weight from foot to foot and Oh Jesus that's an...interesting...addition to her scent. She fiddles with the lowest button on her shirt. Logan finds himself staring at her hands. Is she going to undo the button? No,. Her fingers weave together, grip loosely. Marie has slender wrists, the undersides milky white. He wants to touch them, see if they're as soft as he--

Hey. Logan is tracking the thin blue lines below her palms when something clicks in his mind, something he hadn't registered earlier. Marie's hands, her flesh up to where her purple sleeves end, are bare. Very bare. As in non-gloved.

It's not like it makes him uncomfortable--he's got the healing fact. But Logan remembers The Kid being pretty obsessive about keeping herself covered. Was she in that much of a hurry to see him? Is she doing it for self-defense? Why would Marie seek that sort of protection?

"You're not wearing gloves," he informs her. Logan wants to solve the mystery quickly, hopes the answer won't make him want to kill somebody. He just got here, after all.

She seems a little stunned, and then her face breaks into a grin that makes the previous ones seem like frowns. He relaxes, because whatever the reason is, it can't be too bad. He never wants that smile to go away.

"I can touch now," Marie says, with a look of pride. "Ororo showed me some techniques. Meditation and stuff. She works with alot of the students. We've been doing them together every day, and I...found control. I don't even know how to explain it."

"That's fantastic, Kid." He grins at her to show he means it, but his arms don't seem to think that is sufficient. They pull Marie against him in a way Logan pretends translates to 'Congrajulations'.

Overlap: Chapter Two-Part One





"Please, Baby," Logan whispers into my ear. So quiet, so needing. You'd almost think he's sincere. If I had his senses, I'd be able to....No. Never mind. I don't need them. Nice act, Logan.

His hands, slipping over the covers, over my stomach and I can almost feel him wishing his child were in there. His hot breath on my neck and I have to get away. I have to get away now, before I start to believe the lies he's whispering.

"Please."

I push his arms down, slide through the gap. I feel the clench of his muscles, his reluctant release. Have to get away. Have to. I head to our bathroom--my only escape option, undressed as I am. The closet doesn't count.

I can still hear him, murmuring behind me. Hurt.



Hot water, pounding on my chest--my shoulders--my face. Stinging, concentrated rain. I twist the knob to the right, as far as it will go. Hotter. I deserve this pain. It's my own kind of penance.

I'm not even Catholic.

Soap. Foamy. It looks like my skin is sizzling. The bath gel says "Moonlight Path". The bottle is purple, with a fake-exotic nozzle, likemost of the stuff Jubilee uses. It's not mine, or at least not bought by me. I've used unscented since I moved in with Logan. I try to picture him in Bath and Body Works, but am unable.

I can't smell the soap; my nose is too stuffy.

Scrub. Rinse.

Scrub. Rinse.

Maybe I should turn the water down.

Scrub. Rinse.

I'm using too much.

Who cares?

I'm tired.

I want to go to bed.

Can't.

Therapy with Jean today.

When did Logan buy this?

The shower burns.

The bathroom door doesn't slam, but the curtain is pulled back hard enough to screech on the metal pole. Steam has filled the room, like wet smoke, but I can still see his face. It's got splotches of red--not from heat, like mine. At least not the same type of heat. He's angry. Furious.

Good.

He grabs my arms, half throwing himself at me. Logan's chest is bare, but he's wearing sweatpants. Water is spraying everywhere, soaking through the towel I always lay protectively on the floor.

He fills my vision, huge and quivering and undeniably male and I can feel my detachment starting to slip. I'm terrified--of myself, if not of him. I focus on the space above his head, on the wooden frame of a picture I can barely see. Kitty got it for us, and I can't even remember what it looks like right now.

"Goddamnit," Logan snarls at me, brimming with rage. I wonder if he's gonna hit me, flinch back reflexively at the thought. I don't know where it came from--he's never hurt me. Never. Soap gets in my eyes and it stings. Can't wipe it away because he's not letting me move. My arms will have bruises later.

I open my mouth, but no words form. Was I going to tell him stop? Get away? I love you? I don't have the time to think or make a sound because his lips are there, crushing. Our teeth crack together, and I taste copper. Is this a kiss?

It hurts.

God. God. Logan.

It doesn't.

Logan.

The hot water is more painful than this.

Logan.

His lips gentle suddenly, like shifting gears. They move slow, over my mouth, sink into it. A caress with his tongue.

Logan.

It feels good.

Logan.

I've missed him.

Logan.

He puts a leg into the tub. The grey cotton turns black.

Logan.

He's all around me, his hand on my hips now. Massaging, drifting up and that feels....that feels nice.

"Baby," he purrs.

Logan.

My back against the tiles. It's slippery.

Logan.

His tongue on my neck.

Logan.

"I want you," he mumbles into my throat. Suckling. Kissing.

I want--

He turns off the water.

"Baby....Marie..." Throaty rumble.

Liar.

"Stop," I tell him. I push against his wet torso, then shove. He doesn't move, not for the longest time (adamantium skeleton, remember) but perhaps it's only a few seconds.

"Stop. Stop."

"Marie?"

"Let go of me."

"Please, honey. I...I just want--"

"Stop it. Get away from me."

"Baby, don't--"

"Don't touch me!"

He steps back and I have to be careful now, not to look at him. I can't.

He's silent now, doesn't say a word, doesn't try to stop me. Can't look at him. Don't look at him.

I climb out of the shower. Grab a towel, wrap it around me. I care more about covering myself than getting dry, though that's stupid. He's seen everything already. He just shouldn't have to look at me.

I put on the first clothes my hands touch in the drawer.

I'm shaking.

What time is it?

9:30.

My appointment with Jean is at ten.

It's cold in here.

Can't stop sniffling.

Jean's always early.

That's okay, I didn't want breakfast anyway.

I'm never hungry anymore.

Our door makes the softest of clicks when it shuts.

I leave Logan still standing in the bathroom.

______________________________________________________________________




"How are you today?" Jean asks.

There's a paperweight on her desk, shaped like an elephant. It's pretty.

"Rogue?"

I hate that question.

"Fine," I tell her.

She sits behind her desk, one leg crossed delicately. Her hair is curly and shining, and must have taken a long time to fix. Mine is just frizzy from the shower.

Logan.

I watch her lips move, not really paying attention. She's the one who demands I come talk to her, since Dr. McCoy took over as the mansion's resident doctor down in the lab. She's been having some trouble herself.

"You've been coming here for almost two months, Rogue. How much progress do you feel we've made?"

I don't know, I think.

"I don't know."

She's only done a year in psychiatric studies. Jubilee says she's not a real counselor, just says she is. She's using me for practice.

That's not the answer Jean wants. She frowns at me--thoughtfully, of course.
'
She talks more than I do--rambling on for twenty minute stretches. I think this is her therapy, too. Scott's been gone for five months now. On a mission, they say. Helping set up the mutant school on the East Coast but everybody knows he left her.

I know, I know. That's rude.

How long 'til Logan leaves me?

We'll be honest about it. We won't say he's going on a mission.

We won't.

"Have you been eating, Rogue?"

"Yes."

"You're still losing weight."

"I'm eating."

"And your insomnia? Are you still having trouble sleeping?"

I wonder if Logan's looking at the ultrasound. I can always tell when he does, because it's in a different position in the drawer. He never takes it out when I'm there, as if he thinks I'll get jealous.

"Rogue?"

"Yes."

Why are you so surprised, Jean? It's only been two days.

"Is there anything you'd like to talk to me about, Rogue?"

No.

"I don't know."

I don't want to be here.

"Would you....like to discuss your relationship with The Wolverine?"

No.

"You mentioned last time that things have become tense lately. Is that still true?"

I can't tell her about this morning.

"Yes."

She places her elbows on the desktop. "And?" she prompts.

"He hates me."

The words spill out like they'd been waiting behind my teeth.

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true, sweetie. Don't think like that. I'm sure...I'm sure he cares for you a little. Remember what we talked about the other day?"

Yes.

"It's just...men like him weren't built for commitment. He'd probably would have left even if you carried the fetus full term. It's just, with all the pressure he's been under these past months...Do you need a tissue, Rogue?"

I'm so tired.

Logan.

"I'm tired."

"Oh. Let's finish the session, alright?"

"Fine."

"As I was saying, it's not just you. It's not just you, it's him. And these circumstances. It's very common for a miscarriage to hurt a relationship."

My chest hurts.

"It's no one's fault," she's saying. "And you can't let it destroy you like this. You're so young."

It's strange, how much she can read. I only spoke three words.

"Sometimes, when things get really bad you just have to let go. Move on with your life. Do you understand me?"

The paperweight has blue sparkles floating inside.

"Rogue?"

She says my name a lot.

"I heard you," I say.

I don't understand.

"Have you considered leaving him?" Jean is leaning toward me, across the desk. Her eyes are so intent. Can't look away. "I know you love him, sweetie. You know this sense of obligation he feels toward you could make him stay for far longer than any real affection--but do you really want that? Why prolong this?"

Logan.

"You should let him go, Rogue. You know you're hurting him like this, so why not stop?...Please, take as many tissues as you need. I understand."

I wipe my eyes, blow my nose. I can't believe that whimpering sound is coming from me.

Jean pushes back from the desk, her chair rolling on the carpet. "I think that's enough for today." She stands up. "Why don't you go rest?"

She reminds me of my Saturday appointment. She'll track me down if I don't go. It's a half week away, but my days blur together. I'll wake up tomorrow and it will already be time for me to sit in this office and study that paperweight again.

I'm lying.

My days drag on. They're endless.




_______________________________________________________________________________



I should eat.

It's eight 'oclock, and my stomach is growling. I wouldn't pay much attention to it--deciding and cooking and chewing just seems to take too much effort these days. But until tonight Logan's been here, with bowls and plates of my favorites, coaxing and pleading me into every bite. I know I said I can't stand him being around, I'm just...used to it.

But he's not here now. I haven't spoken to Logan since this morning. He hasn't left the mansion; he's just been in the Danger Room all day.

I checked.

Several times.

I feel myself sigh, and I lay my book down. I need to get used to doing things myself.

__________________________


I don't eat that night. I don't even make it to the fridge.

There are kids up, watching some Jim Carey movie in the T.V. room. They're throwing popcorn at each other. A few yell a hello at me, but most are too preoccupied.

I hear their voices from down the corridor--the sounds, if not the words. And I feel the same way you get after a bad fever: clammy, nauseous. My head hurts but my feet keep moving.

Hank says our subconscious records every thought, every smell, every noise we've ever experienced. If we didn't have it, we'd lose our minds from detail overload. Mine must have had an error in it's code or something, because that night is there every time I close my eyes. It won't leave. I see it. I see them.

Her hair is spread across that new table everyone had pitched in to buy. The pepper shaker had tipped over and the air conditioner makes waves in the black-and-grey sand.

The half-empty bottle on the counter, condensation pooling on the blue marble.

Her legs, spread wide. That dress pushed up far enough to show the scar on her hip.

The dampness of Logan's clothing. The sound his shoes make on the linoleum. His fingers shaking, redoing his belt.

The look on his face when he saw me there. Perhaps in other languages there exist words to describe it, but there are none in English.
Horrified is as close as it gets, and I wonder how it's possible he didn't sense my approach.

I guess he was busy.

Jean is oddly quiet. She sits up without even looking at me, adjusting her clothing.

Logan's lips move soundlessly. Eyes dark and wet and stricken.

"Baby, this...Baby...I didn't...Jesus, Kid. I didn't...I..."

I turn away.



&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&



He stares at the shape Marie's figure makes beneath the covers, tracing it with his eyes. That middle part rises shallowly--she never sleeps deeply anymore, unless she takes one of the pills Hank gave her and Marie rarely does. She hates them. But comfortably or not, she is asleep now. And maybe he can...maybe he can...


Logan shifts himself over the mattress. Gingerly, lest she awake and be angry. He presses the length of his body to hers--lightly, so lightly. Aligning himself to her form. He can feel the heat of her form through the sheets.

He misses her. God, he misses her. Logan craves to be near Marie, inside her again. Let her heartbeat set their tempo. But he'd settle for a kiss, a touch, a look--just one--that says she doesn't hate him. Yeah. Yeah, he'd happily take...any of those.

She doesn't resist his embrace, and Logan shuts his eyes, pretending. His cheek resting on her hair, which smells like everything else in this room-sadness. His arms itch to surround her, bind her to his chest.

He kisses the back of Marie's head-can't help himself. She makes a soft noise, stirs. She goes tense against him. Logan can't see her eyes, but knows they are open and probably upset. He draws in a deep, slow breath. He draws in a deep, slow breath. He wants her. Needs her, so fucking badly.

Logan considers it a miracle when Marie's doesn't pull away immediately, even leans back a little. His heart gives an especially painful throb, jump starting into a foolishly hopeful rhythm.

"Baby, please," he says softly. Logan dares to let his palm graze the quilt that covers his girl until his arm encircles her ribcage. Feels so good.

The quickening of her own heart rate and he just wants to hold her. He just wants to hold her. Please, please, let her let him hold her.

"Please."

Marie squirms, and Logan wants to grip her harder, force her to stay with him. He could, of course, He's The Wolverine. Nobody can get past him unless he permits it.

She shrugs him off like a jacket no longer wanted, scrambling into the bathroom without once looking back.

"Marie, don't--"

The door closes, and expanse of white cutting her off from sight. He feels a blinding pain somewhere behind his eyes. In a few moments, he hears the sound of running pipes and her nightgown hitting the floor.

Logan sits up, drags a hand through his hair. His body is sore, aching with jilted desire. It feels like he's spent the night sprinting through a burning building (it's not a metaphor, he's done it before). He listens to Marie in the shower, feeling rejection turn to frustration. Anger has always been the best substitute for grief and Logan eagerly embraces it. Why? Why is she doing this?

And it doesn't matter that he knows the answer to this question. His body doesn't understand, and neither does The Wolverine, who only sees a mate not fulfilling her pact. He views the world in terms of physical, and what's happened is incomprehensible. He can't cope with a hurt equal to Marie's, if not expressed the same way. Added to a natural urge to speak through his body, so starved now. He felt less alone on the fight circuit, before meeting her.

A few minutes more--steam has begun to appear beneath the bathroom door--and Logan has spent the last reserves of his patience. He's pissed. He wants to grab Marie, shake her (his mind stops just short of the word 'slap'). Logan imagined gripping her throat in his teeth, fucking her until any and all control belongs to him again.

It's an incredibly tempting idea. Logan slides over the messy sheets (tangled from his kicking inside a nightmare--not, obviously, the more enjoyable activity). He can feel blood humming in his arteries, fire that makes his hands tremble and his lips pull back over his gums. Static crackling. He bumps into the side table, where she keeps the picture of their almost-son.

He wants to throw himself at the wood, but it's only a few feet away and he hasn't built up quite the dramatic force required. The door isn't locked--not that it would matters if it were.

The bathroom reeks of that soap Logan had bought her the other day. A friend of hers suggested it would make a nice gift. He'd spent an unreasonable time in the store, trying to figure out how the makers knew what moonlight smelled like.

He sees Marie's fleshy silhouette. The shower curtain is a filmy barrier. He rips it aside.

Marie's face shows vague startlement, but her eyes keep the detached lethargy he so despises. Open lips and pinkened caramel skin. Hair black with water. Streams running over, between, her breasts, down her navel.

Logan feels himself take hold of her arms like a vice. He wants inside that skin, so deep she can never push him out. He wants to coat her scent with his own. The shower is burning and Logan enjoys it. The pain fits well with the furious thunder inside his chest. Marie's gaze touches his, studies Logan before silently sliding past. She stares at the wall behind him as if the man who loves her isn't there, or doesn't matter.

He swears. Screaming at her would be a waste of breathe. He slams his mouth down on hers. He thinks of bruises, of Marie feeling him long after the touch has ended. Wet, swollen tissue. He kisses her hard, pries her lips apart and takes, takes as much as he wants. His torso pressed against her, hair scouring softer flesh.

Marie moans, a stifled, "Mmmmmh."

Her right hand settles on his elbow, her other arm around him. Pulling Logan closer, or at least not resisting.

Logan thinks about hitching up Marie's leg, pinning her to the wall.

She blinks, lashes fluttering up and down. Her eyes cary a sheen of tears and want and Marie, his Marie.

Logan makes an effort to lighten the pressure of his mouth. His lips move soothingly over her raw ones. Gentling, apologizing. Rages seeps away with the remembrance that he can't harm her.

She kisses back.


He steps into the tub (Logan considers carrying her to the bed, or perhaps lowering her to the bathroom floor. But this option requires less movement on his part). He touches her like he hasn't been able to in months and she responds--Jesus, she's responding.

"Baby," he says. He's excited as a little kid (with a much larger sex drive). Logan presses her back and he's ready, too ready and this isn't going to last long but that's okay, that's okay he'll make it good for her he will he will he will....

Marie makes the best sound in the world when Logan kisses her neck, saying hello to her old favorite spot. She arches up and he nuzzles the skin, bites and sucks. "I want you," He tells her. He's thinking--Marie Marie Marie Marie.

Logan turns off the water-- because it really is too warm and that's surprising since Marie hates high temperatures; he can't even get her into hot tubs--and slides a thumb under the waistband of his sweats. "Baby," he says. "Marie."

"Stop."

Huh?

Logan wants so badly to have misheard her.

She's pushing frantically at his chest, struggling in the tiny space. He thinks she's frightened, that he's going too fast. Logan brushes the hair from her face, squeezes her hips--to calm her and ensure she doesn't slip in the water.

"Stop. Stop," she cries out, twisting.

He's confused, stung (and still utterly, desperately aroused). Pressing pleading kisses to her skin, rubbing his nose on her cheeks. "Marie?" Don't do this. Don't do this. Don't do this. Please don't stop.

"Let go of me."

He begs until she screams not to touch her. It hits him hard, worse than a kick in the nuts because that word, that ability--Touch-- is everything to Marie. A valuable cog is missing and his whole universe is collapsing. Logan releases Marie, stumbles back. She almost trips in her hurry to get away, but he doesn't reach out. Marie snags a towel, keeping her back to him in cruel shyness.

And once again he looks at the girl refusing to look at him, watches her walk away. He's frozen in place, listening to dresser drawers opening and their bedroom door shutting.

He stands there for a long time.




______________________________________________________________________



Word spreads quickly through the student body. The Wolverine has commandeered the Danger Room, growling and threatening anyone who challenges his take over. The few stupid enough to try leave in tears (even the boys). Eventually Xavier makes it official--though by then there is no need--announcing that Professor Logan is engaged in a rigorous training and all students fond of their limbs are advised to work elsewhere.

Logan doesn't pay much attention to the intercom, or the big fuss they make later. It's all exaggeration. He grabbed that kid by the shirt collar, no the throat; he pushed Drake into the hall, he didn't toss him. And Logan only popped his claws once or twice. Just for show.


He spends all day running through simulations--dismembering Sabertooth, Mystique, and various robots repeatedly. When he's killed them in every way he can think of (and that's saying something), Logan sits in the control booth, attempting to hack into Scott's account. Summer's was a prick, and a pansy to abandon his wife like that, but his training programs are beyond criticism. Even by The Wolverine's standards.

He could have left a password behind, though. Fuck. Logan pounds on the keyboard a few minutes until his frustration with technology outweighs his desire to fight ComputerMagneto. Instead he sits, watching old recordings of training sessions with Marie. It's at this point that Bobby Drake opens the door and Logan pushes/throws him back outside.

Iceman doesn't tell anyone about The Wolverine crying.


He growls his way into the gym. The reports that he trashed all the exercise equipment are false. He only poked a few holes in the punching bag. That's all. That bill Chuck sent him is ridiculous.

Logan doesn't rest, doesn't drink or eat. He throws himself into whatever semi-challenge presents itself; into the flurry of movement and sweat and pain that lasts a few seconds or less. He's trying to trick his body into believing these are actual fights, get his blood racing. Maybe then he can summon up some real interest in being anywhere Marie isn't.


_____________




He showers in the locker room reserved for the Xmen, though he's always disliked it there. It's not the smell of other bodies, or the fact that even the bathrooms down here have sliding metal doors that gets to Logan. It's, strangely, the new bar of soap the cleaning staff places in every stall, every morning. Such a small thing to piss him off. He supposes they throw out the 'old' ones, no matter their state of use. Chuck's thinking his team were too good to use the same bar twice. Marie used to laugh at him for complaining so much about it.

Logan's not thinking about soap or snobbery right now, though. Just Marie. It's getting late in the evening, and he's kept one eye on the clock--wondering if she's eaten, knowing she probably hasn't. Marie has lost so much weight. Hank talks about depression, and imbalance of hormones after the miscarriage. He says it's common. Lately it's a struggle to get her to finish a slice of pizza.

The obstinate half of him is replaying this morning, and every similar situation from the past few months. It says he's her lover, not her babysitter; he doesn't deserve this; it's not his responsibility. It says fuck this shit.

He wonders if she'll prefer a turkey or chicken sandwich.


____________


Jean's leaning against the fridge like she knew Logan would come down her, has been waiting for him. But she moves aside when he reaches to get a beer, and deli meat.

She gave up asking him to "go into counselling" but always seems to be hovering around, just waiting for him to sprout a uterus and ask to talk about his feelings.

He doesn't know what to think of Marie in therapy. She always seems especially miserable after the appointments.

"Hows it going, Logan?"

Jean gives him that sad, sympathetic smile, the one the faculty puts on every time Logan walks in the room. He's grown to expect that smile, and hate it. The ones Jean gives are different, though. They're so full of knowing and pity and he wonders what Marie says to her.

Logan jerks his head in the redhead's direction, a nod of acknowledgement, a grunt to say 'fine'. He pops the cap off his beer, arranges sandwich ingredients on the table.

"Did you have a pleasant work out?"

"Mmmh." Maybe he'll make himself something too. He's hungry.

"Is that for Rogue?"

"Mmmh." White bread or wheat?

Jean sighs, plays with a diamond necklace laying in her cleavage. She lays one hand over his, on the counter top.

"Logan, I think we should talk." She looks at him solemnly, lower lip protruding a bit.

"What is it?"

She lets her gaze fall. "It's about Rogue. You and Rogue, actually."

His stomach jerks a little, and he stares at her. Jean waits for him to respond but when Logan doesn't she continues, slowly, choosing each word with the greatest of care. "Logan, I haven't wished to say anything that would violate Patient Confidentiality, but some thing have come to my attention and I feel my silence isn't doing any good."

The food lays untouched on the marble. Logan sets his beer down.

"I'm aware..." Jean bites down on that lower lip, brow furrowed. "I'm aware of the tension in your relationship. I believe it's having a harmful effect on Rogue. The stress isn't healthy, not for either of you."

Refrigerator humming gently in agreement.

"All this waiting around, maintaining the status quo, is not good. It's hurting you, and it's destroying her....I think it's torturing Rogue. Haven't you noticed? She can't move on, stuck like this. She's afraid of hurting you, but her...her grief is starting to out weigh that."

Something strange in Jean's scent, but Logan can't focus long enough to give it a name. "She say that?" His jaw is clenched tight.

Jean nods empathetically, probably thinking of Scott. "I know it's not my place, but perhaps it's time you considered a separation."

Jesus. Did he just flinch? Did The Wolverine just flinch?

"I know you love her, Logan." Her voice is soft, a hypnotic whisper. "You want to do what's best for Rogue. And....and I believe, I truly believe it would help you as well. When was the last time you thought about yourself? Your needs?"

Her hand slides up his arm. Logan swallows.

"It's been a long time since you had any...physical comfort, hasn't it? You're not like others. You need touch, not words. It's not natural for you to go without."

She steps close, leaning into his chest. Murmuring in his ear. It's hard to think. He feels a light presence in his brain but can't even concentrate on that. His mind is scrambled and he wants....he wants....he just wants. Logan is consumed with lust, a longing for someone else. Later he'll guess that those weren't just his emotions. But right now his vision is blurry and he's only aware of the body--warm, and female, pressed to his.

"I understand," Jean whispers. And then he's kissing her. Deeply, frantically. Squeezing his eyes shut, feeling her...her. She throws her arms around his neck, tugging him in. Logan grabs her hips, grinding the bulge in his hips to her curves.

Somehow they're moving, spinning. Bumping into a flat, wooden something and she's touching him, rubbing. She seizes his belt, slips the zipper down in well-practiced motions. She's biting him, dragging her nails over his shoulders. Logan pinches her breasts and the woman in his arms is arching back, laying down. "Yessss...." she says.

The sound her thighs make against the denim of his jeans, opening, sliding up. Wet smell. Soft hair.

"Logan. Yes."

Logan opens his eyes. And something is wrong. This is wrong. Wrong. That hair is supposed to be brown, not red. Those eyes are supposed to be hazel and he's supposed to be with Marie. He wants Marie.

Logan halts, pulls back.

"C'mon," Jean urges. Theres a vile taste in his throat. They've knocked over the pepper shaker; seasoning are going up his nose but that's not what's making his eyes water.

"I'm sorry, Jeannie," he tells her gently. "I can't." He pulls his pants zipper back up, fits the end of his belt back in the loop. He wants to go upstairs and find Marie. Feel Marie.


His body, of course, recognizes her arrival long before his fog-filled brain does. A quiet gasp, and a scent he'd welcome any time but this. An electric current jolts down his spine and it's the closest The Wolverine has ever come to feeling really, truly sick.

Marie stands in the doorway, wearing an old baseball t-shirt she used to call "lucky" and a pair of holey jeans. He'll always remember that look on her face. A thousand times more hurt than the night he'd stabbed her. Shocked without shock, like he had surpassed her worst expectations of him.

Logan glances at Jean, sitting up slowly on the table, the most sullen of expressions on her face.

"Baby, this...." Part of him thinks they will just laugh this off. He didn't actually do anything with Jean, after all. Nothing happened. It didn't. The rest of him is aware, had registered the moment Mare came within range, that something indefinite has been lost. "Baby..." He tries anyway, stumbling desperately over his words. "I didn't..."

The way she's looking at him..."Jesus, Kid. I...I didn't..."

Marie gives him the most imperceptible shake of her head, backing away. Turning, walking. And then running.

He follows her.

Behind them, Jean buries her face in her palms.

"So The Wolverine's back?"

"Yep."

"Really?"

"Really really."

"You're shitting me."

"I shit you not."

"Like, OMG."

"I know."


Jubilee is on my bed, bright yellow sandals kicked to the floor. I'm trying not to think of her feet on my pillow and how I'll have to change the case as soon as she leaves. It's just gross. She blows a bubble with her gum, a piece she's been working on for two weeks, Jubilee informs me. I congratulate her.

I'm cleaning my room--or pretending to, shifting the piles of clutter from one corner to the other--and trying to decide if it's too early to see Logan again. But of course it is. I've only been upstairs a half hour or so, and he's probably busy. Talking to Professor Xavier and Jean and getting settled in and taking a shower and....and....how much longer should I wait?

Jubes isn't fooled. I think she's enjoying this reversal of our positions, with me the hyper one for a change. I can't sit down for more than a few seconds before bouncing up again. I wish she'd leave, so I can do my happy dance. She's grinning from ear to ear and I can't blame her. Especially after all the hours she's spent describing (in full, technicolor, disgustingly graphic detail) the progression of her relationship with John.

Not that Logan and I are in a relationship. I didn't mean to imply that at all. That's just...that's just ridiculous. He's only a friend, and even 'friend' is a stretch because he's just arrived and neither of us think in those terms about each other, especially not him. And if you add up all the conversations we've actually had, they'd fit on a post-it note with room to spare. And I barely know him and Logan barely knows me--even if he saved my life and a piece of him exists inside my head...And he's The Wolverine, for Christ sakes, and he's probably been with a bunch of women I don't begin to compare to, and he would never look my way. And I'm too young and impressionable and he's just some guy who let me ride in his trailer. And he's just a friend--did I already say that? And he'll think I'm stupid. How does he put up with me? And I just need to chill out calm down shut up right now.

"So you guys gonna hang out or somethin'?"

"Dunno," I say, and shrug as I tie the ends of my trash bag together.


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


It's Logan who comes to find me. His knocks are quick, hard, like he's using the side of his fists rather than the knuckles. I jump off my bed, thinking maybe, just maybe there's a mission. I know what you're thinking: that I'm still in training pants; why the hell would they need me? But you never know. Sometimes Scott does these 'practice emergencies', picking the most random times. They're never really surprises, 'cuz he's always winking and grinning at the other teachers the night before, or that morning. You just have to look out for that. But I haven't seen Scott today, so I don't know.

Logan stands with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, frowning at me. He's changed shirts, and jeans, but I wonder at the presence of that jacket. Is he cold? Is he leaving again? So soon?

I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but Logan has always felt like....I dunno....a wall. He's just there, looming up. It's hard to believe that anything could be behind him, or anything that matters. He's so sturdy and magnetic I never know if I'm really leaning toward him or if that's just in my head. Either way, I am always afraid I'm going to bump into his chest and look like a damn fool.

"Hey....Logan."

"You weren't downstairs," he declares, matter-of-factly.

Was I supposed to be?

"Was I supposed to be?"

Logan gives a little hrrmph. "For lunch," he explains, as if this is too obvious and a waste of his voice. "All the other kids went down there to eat. Why didn't you?"

"Oh." I glance back at the digital clock beside my bed. It's only a little past noon. "I don't know."

That answer doesn't seem to satisfy him. But maybe somebody else pissed Logan off. He looks me up and down, hard set to his jaw.

"You sick, Kid?"

"No," I say, surprised. Do I look sick? "I guess I was reading. I didn't notice the time."

He's gonna think I'm a nerd.

There are creases in his forehead.

"So you're gonna go now, right? You're gonna go eat?"

I think about saying yes, if only to quiet his bizarre jitteriness. And then I consider the crowds of students, swarming over a well-stocked fridge that will soon be empty of anything decent. John and the other boys messing around, telling Chuck Norris and dead baby jokes. The end to my peaceful Sunday.

But if Logan's going to be there....

"Yeah. I'll-"

"We could go somewhere," he blurts. "To eat. You know, outside the mansion." The way he says it, I almost expect Logan to shuffle his feet, look away. But he doesn't. He stares right at me.

People use that phrase, 'I could hardly believe my ears' alot, but cliche or no, there you have it. A sense of giddiness sweeps through me, and my grin is too big, but who cares?

"Okay."

"Okay," he agrees.

"Okay," I chirp again. Logan raises an eyebrow at me.

I turn, to fetch my purse and oh--oh, lord. Logan's following me in. He's coming in my room. He's coming in my bedroom. Oh my god. Oh my god--shit, why didn't I clean better? There's my big teddy bear, right in the middle of my bed next to The Time Traveller's Wife. Fluffy periwinkle bedsheets, a Disney soundtrack sitting on top of my CD player and god, isn't that cringeworthy? I check that my wallet is in my bag, fit the strap over my shoulder. Logan's eyes are making a circuit around my room--stopping every few feet, making judgements. He smirks at me. "Ready?"

"Yes," I say, wincing at the sight of three plastic eggs behind him--silly putty.

With my luck we'll end up at McDonald's, and he'll make me get a Happy Meal.

....Actually, chicken nuggets don't sound too bad. I could go for that.


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


I can tell he wants to take the bike, but Scott must have whisked it away the second it's captor was out of sight. I heard Jean yelling at her husband awhile back, telling him to stop complaining; it was just a motorcycle. He sulked for weeks.

Logan sniffs around the garage for a few minutes, checking out the different vehicles before picking a sleek silver one (I can't tell a Mercedes from a....other car...brand...thingy). He grins.

"We'll take this one."

It's Scott's.




The doors aren't locked. Who would steal a teacher's car? A teacher who can cut you in half with one piercing stare--literally. But considering Logan's history, perhaps that wasn't the wisest of decisions on Cyclops' part.

The seats are black leather, spotless and smooth. It still has that New Car smell, though he's had it for a long time now. Either Scott is extraordinarily careful with his possessions, or he just doesn't leave an imprint.

Logan's body settles heavily into the driver's side. He's too big, struggles with the little lever. He has to push the seat back all the way to fit his legs inside comfortably. I think he looks more natural in a dirty pickup, not something that would the yearly wage of most families. And I mean that in a good way. A very good way.

He tilts his head, eyes the ignition and then me. Shit. He doesn't have the keys. Shit shit shit. We'll have to go back inside and --OH, no. Never mind. A claw on Logan's left hand shoots out, making a hissing sound as it does. The blade shines, even in this dim garage light--or maybe because of it.

It's longer than I remember. Sharper.

Logan slides it into the keys slot, twists, and the engine hums to life. Scott's gonna be so mad. Hope he doesn't yell at me.

It's strange, to have intimate knowledge of how that claw feels inside my chest. Even stranger to look at something and be able to say, 'that almost killed me'.

I gulp. Can't help it.

Logan's eyes flicker toward me, and his face goes pale, just for a second.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"No--it was--doesn't bother--nothing." I'm not sure what I want to say, so all that comes out in a jumbled ball. I look down into my lap, embarrassed. I hear the blade retract, and then we're pulling out, driving.

I had a dream, a few weeks ago. Logan's blood made the claws rust inside him and he died from the poison. I woke up screaming, bawled into my pillow for an hour.

Jubilee said, "Doesn't he heal from, like, anything? Don't be retarded."

She didn't understand.


::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

We drive through Westchester. I graduated months ago, am free to leave whenever i like (though perhaps not in a stolen vehicle), but unexpected time outside the mansion still seems to pass slower, with more meaning. Illicit air tastes sweeter.

And being with Logan makes it all the more thrilling.

Every now and then we point to a restaurant, pretend to debate it and shake our heads. I don't like spicy foods; he's sick of diners. But we're not in a hurry. Logan seems more at ease, behind the wheel of a car. I ask about his travels, about Canada and everywhere else he's been. His answers are short, vague, but not in a 'shut-up' way. If anything, he seems to enjoy the questions-smiling warmly at me every now and then.

He tells me about a barkeeper with OCD, who wanted to mop the ring after every mach. One opponent slipped and was out cold before Logan could even throw a punch. He describes waitresses who slapped their bosses, chased after customers who failed to tip.

And then he talks about what it's like to drive through mountains in a blizzard, to stand in the woods knowing you're completely alone, to see an Alaskan river turn to ice in minutes,

I'm biting my lip to keep myself from drooling. But apparently doing that while staring at someone gives the wrong impression. Whoops. Logan's eyes dart back and forth from me to the road, lingering on me longer than the former. He swallows, clears his throat.

"How 'bout there?"

"Huh?"

I want to hear more about the river.

"There." He jerks his head to a building on the right. A steakhouse.

"Looks good."

Tell me more about Alaska.

He turns in. It's crowded, but not packed. Logan finds a parking space next to a minivan, who's owner had pasted a truly huge 'Obama-Mama' sticker on the side.

This is a nicer place than I'm used to, and I'm glad I brought my purse instead of sticking with the money in my back pocket.

He gets the door for me.

The hostess takes one look at Logan, and seats us immediately, leaving some high school seniors standing at the door, glaring. We get a booth in the corner--comfortable burnished wood, softened from so many customers. It smells great in here, like smoke and foods you'll never find on a Weight Watchers list. My stomach growls noticeably.

Logan doesn't wait to order, which pleases our waitress to no end. Except for the train, I've never seen him in a public, normal setting. Almost every girl in the room is looking his way (much to the irritation of their dates), their gaze taking in and then discarding me as a kid sister, or something close. I wonder if this magnetism is part of his muta--no, no, it's just Logan.

"A man who knows what he wants. I like it." The waitress, a woman not too much older than me, smiles at him, bats her eyes. She's got curly blond hair and breasts twice my size. I feel like I should take her notepad and apron, head into the kitchens while she takes my place. Stupid bimbo. Stupid blond bimbo. Stupid blond pretty bimbo, with earrings I saw at the mall but couldn't afford.

He gives her a slight, appreciative nod and tells me to take as long as I want. A menu is dropped in front of me.

"Do you know what you want to drink, hun?"

"Sprite," I mumble.

"Alright-y. I'll be back in a minute, you guys." There's no venom in the grin she shoots at me, and I decide she's just an equal-opportunity flirter.


I'm not sure if I've ever had a day quite like that one. I don't get to ask Logan more about Alaska; I don't even have much time to eat. He fixes his gaze on me--steady, serious--and begins firing questions, one after the other. About my health, about the school, my plans. It's an interrogation. A dank room with rats and a single light bulb would make a more appropriate setting. I'm ashamed that there isn't much to say. Nothing he'd find interesting, considering all the places he's been and everything he's seen.

I tell him about Jubilee, how she's my best friend but acts like she's a permanent sixth grader; how I scraped through Calculus with a D+ and The Professor adjusted my grades. I'm not sure how that leads to a discussion of my place on the X-Team, but soon Logan is cutting into his steak like it's personally offended him.

I don't know why he's so unhappy. I love being on the team, training, knowing that I can help others by pushing myself. I've never had a purpose in life before.

Logan tells me to be careful committing myself, that I may see things differently down the road. If he had said, 'when you grow up', I would have walked out of here right then.

"I'm not a child, Logan."

He grimaces, slices at the meat until the knife screeches on the plate below. I wonder why he dislikes the Xmen. They saved my life. His life. What could be wrong with people trying to fight hatred? Especially if those people can follow through with their promises. And what's the matter with me wanting to be a part of that?

Logan just clenches his jaw.




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I'm not sure what makes him change his mind--though Jubilee has any number of theories. She swears money changed hands, that The Wolverine is richer than god now. But she doesn't know Logan at all. But whatever the reason, in only a couple days he has settled into a teacher's half-suite and the position of Co-Trainer...and The Professor has his name printed on a team locker.

Scott's pissed, like a dog poked one too many times with a stick. Of course, he doesn't speak to the junior team about it. Why would he? We're only the people he's supposedly going to work with for years to come. In group practices, he plays the diplomat--graciously sharing strategies, class time, and work space. when Logan gets too rough, or too visceral in his battle descriptions, or uses more than five cuss words in a sentence, Scott will clear his throat, gently chide him. He never screams, though that vein twitching in his temple says he'd like to.


I wake up every day with one thought: 'Logan's Here.' My heart pounds and I'm grinning a dumb smile before I even open my eyes because today, just like the day before, I get to see him. It's an amazing feeling, to want to be with someone--and you do.

He's on one of the top floors, just below Storm, and if he's awake we have breakfast together. Logan growls, says it's disgusting how early I get up (seven o'clock isn't bad, is it?), and swears he's going to start feeding me sedatives. But he's never really angry, when I knock on his door. A wife beater shirt and thin sweatpants, or sometimes just a pair of boxers, and an expanse of muscles and hair I'd wake up at five o'clock to see. It makes me quake, and I have to dig my fingernails deep into my palms. He'll scratch his chest, smirk, and promise to be out in a minute or two. And he always is....Breakfast turns into lunch, which turns into dinner--with maybe a walk, or a card game, or a drive around town in between.


It's only those training sessions that bother me. It's impossible for me to throw myself into the workout like before--I'm always acutely, desperately aware of him. My mind is screaming: "Logan's here, Logan's here, Logan's here", when it should be saying "Right hook, duck." The former never fails to fill me with an inappropriate joy, but his presence makes me fumble simple attacks, miss opportunities to block, take hits that should have been easy to avoid.

I'm ashamed, knowing Logan is watching, judging. It feels like his eyes are always on me, there every time I look up. But I know that's impossible; I'm just being conceited. I'm doing just as poorly as Logan expected. The worst part is, he doesn't yell at me like he does the other students--in fact, for The Wolverine, his reprimands are positively gentle. But behind every soft correction, I hear 'pathetic', 'weak', 'not fit'. I guess Logan thinks I'm too hopeless to really work with.



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I've got The Boy In Striped Pajamas in my lap, and despite the clenching in my chest and the stinging behind my eyes, I can't stop turning the pages. My heart is breaking as I reach the back cover, as with only the best, most beautiful of novels.

I am sitting in the...well, you can't really call it a backyard...back acre of the mansion, using my jacket as a blanket. (The grass has been cut short by the diligent gardeners, and I have only ants and a few flies to worry about.) The sun warms my hair and the back of my neck quite pleasantly. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, hug the book to my chest and contemplate starting it again.

"Kid?"

My muscles spasm; I jump. I hadn't heard a sound. Yet another embarrassment. Xmen are supposed to be alert to their surroundings, 100% of the time. I failed.

But then again, nobody can prepare for Logan.

"Hi."

He's wearing a brown shirt, a pair of jeans with dirt at the cuffs and a surly frown. "Why are you crying?"

Oh, boy. I feel myself blush. "I'm not," I say, scrubbing at my eyes.

"Yeah. You are."

"I mean, I'm not really. I was just...reading something sad."

"Just reading," Logan echoes. Skepticism written in every letter. He looks tense, upset.

"Yeah."

"You sure there ain't nothing else you wanna tell me, Kid?"

"No." I clear my throat. "It's just a...um...really good book. They make me...um...cry sometimes."

"That right?"

"Mm-hmm." God. He thinks I'm crazy.

He scans the field behind me, squinting. Then back to me, and it's strange how only a few moments with him, just a few moments that wouldn't matter if they were spent with anyone else, can set me so off kilter. I wonder why his opinion matters so much to me.

"So whatcha doin' down here?"

"I told you. Reading."

"The book that's making you cry," he confirms. If he weren't, well....Logan, I'd say he looks vulnerable for a few seconds, almost hurt. "You didn't come by this morning."

Oh, Lord. Kitty said if I was any clingier the school was going to stage an intervention. She said The Wolverine would be crawling out his window to get away if I couldn't tone it down.

I laugh, like it's nothing. "Just thought I'd give you the morning off. Didn't want to bug you."

Logan makes a little partial-growl in the back of his throat. "You know you don't hafta worry 'bout that, Kid," he says, annoyed. He glares and I don't know what to say. After a minute or so he offers me a hand--warm and large and noticeably calloused. "Goin' for a walk. You wanna hold this for me?"*

Oh my god. That's just so...so...so...I'm grinning. "Yeah," I whisper shyly.

I take his hand and he lifts me up, just like that. He's so strong, it's crazy. I pick up my jacket, shake the dirt out, tuck it and The Boy In Striped Pajamas into the crook of my elbow--using one hand, because his won't let me go.

I've seen more of the area around the school in the two weeks since his arrival than in all the time that came before. I had never walked so deep into the woods--because of insects, of course, and I'm never sure where The Professor's property ends. If you cross that line where I grew up, you'll be crapping bullets the next day. But Logan says I'm wrong, that this all belongs to Xavier. It goes on for miles. It's hard to comprehend.


We don't go by the feet-worn paths made by the other students. He doesn't give them a second glance. He guides me through non-trails, just gaps between the trees. But I never about getting lost with him.

Squishy leaves under our shoes. Scraggly bushes and trees with bark like scabs, and thick maples. Logan's hand. The smell of cigars. Logan. His voice, alerting me to animal tracks I can't see, but pretend to. His thumb sometimes randomly moving, making gentle circles over the back of my palm.

It's nice.

He asks about the book I'm carrying, and I describe it the best I can, fumblingly. That question is always hard, and it usually ends with me chopping up the story. But these woods smell good and so does he, and when a grasshopper brushes at my knee, I hardly jump at all.

I could stay out here all day.

Maybe we will.


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My feet patter on the rubber pads of the treadmill. I can't look down, because the spinning treads make me queasy. Scott put in one of those holographic walls--the kind where you can pretend you're running through a meadow or a desert or Narnia--but I don't turn it on, because it gives Logan a headache. He thinks the treadmill is a pansy machine unless it's switched on the highest speed. But he only says that because the one time he stepped on, it cracked under his weight.

I've got something better than a simulation to watch. Logan's across the room, doing sit-ups on the grey mat. I stare happily at his muscles contracting and releasing--glad we're alone, and glad he isn't facing me because I'd have to look away. I get to see his back, all sleek and wired and Logan-y.

It's a good day for exercise.

He moves forcefully, with animalistic purpose even when he's not going anywhere. Usually there would be four to five girls down here for the show, playing with the hand weights and giggling. But Jean organized a trip to the mall for those students with money and, as I said, we're alone.

I focus on regulating my breathing, and trying not to get so distracted I slip and fall. Logan slows, stops. I hope he does push-ups now. They're my favorite.

No. He's getting to his feet. He glances my way, quirks his lips in a faint smirk. I watch him cross over to the bench press (adjusted for the residents with super-strength). Logan loads as many dumbbells on the bar as Colossus, arranges his body on the seat beneath. I wait for him to call me over--the other day he scolded me for a half hour straight for not using a spotter--but he's silent.

Hypocrite, I snort.

Then I picture it. His grip, not tight enough. Or maybe a muscle spasm. Or the weights not attached evenly. Whatever scenario, that bar slips, comes down on his neck. I can almost hear the sound it would make. His thrashing body. The choking.

And I know. I know he's strong; I know he can heal; I know he doesn't need me. But once that image is in my head, I just can't pry it out.

"Logan?"

"Yeah?"

He twists his head to look at me.

"You want me to spot you?"

Both eyebrows shoot up, and his lips twitch uncontrollably. "Sure, Honey," he manages, as if something about my offer is amusing.

I spin the dial on the treadmill until it clicks off. Step down. My legs feel funny. I've been running a long time.

I stand behind Logan, my knees touching the black cushion he's laying on, hands beneath the bar. I'm not even pulling (not doing anything, really) yet I can feel the dumbbell's mass, radiating out with cold enormity. I can't imagine lifting it myself.

Logan doesn't seem to have much--or any--trouble with it, though. His arms pump up and down, almost effortlessly. I've got the best angle in the whole world. His body stretches out in front of me--three hundred pounds of Wolverine. I'm having thoughts my mama would never approve of. She'd probably slap me, command I turn my mind to the topics of a lady and call her church friends for guidance. Those thoughts have been coming more and more lately, usually when I'm laying in bed or with Logan...which means pretty much around the clock. My ability to control them is decreasing inversely.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I've never reacted this way to any of the boys here. Not Bobby or John or Piotr. I can't explain the tickle in my stomach, my thighs, or why I can't stop noticing the things I definitely shouldn't be noticing...Like how his hair looks, falling out of his face, or how his eyes are locked onto me-dark as coal and burning twice as much. How sweat pools a little in the dip of Logan's breastbone, and that line of hair that runs down to his waistband is black from moisture, matted down. And beneath that--

Logan grunts, and his hips flex. Buck. Arch.

Several things happen in that split second it takes for my eyes to return to his face. A blur, too quick to register completely. The bar dropping into it's notches with a bang, shaking the machine. His body twisting. The grown when he stood up. His eyes.

And he's moving so fast. So fast. I'm stumbling and he's backing me up, into the wall. At first I think he's mad-what did I do? What did I do? Logan's right hand strikes the panel behind me, stays there. I'm pinned in. Surrounded by him. But no, no. There's a light in his expression that doesn't fit anger--it's close to happy, but I can't give it a name.

He leans in so close, sniffing at my hair and I can't help but breathe Logan in too. I'm trapped and his mouth is smiling, just a little bit, so warmly-so warm I'm-I'm unravelling. My brain isn't working and neither is my throat I can't speak can't breath gotta-gotta check those team records is he always this big what's happening what's he doing and I laugh a little, smile because I'm nervous or scared or something and Logan's fingers are sliding through my hair, gripping tight, too tight, pulling my head backwards ohmygod his eyes are so bright his stomach against my stomach what's going on is this a joke is he messing with me ohmygod Logan Logan is he gonna kiss me holy shit ohmygod his lips he's gonna kiss me Logan's gonna kiss me ohmygodohmygodohmygod shut up brain, just shut up relax stop thinking shut up ohymygod he's gonna--

Mmf.

~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~






Logan hunts down Scott before Xavier. He doesn't have far to go--all the teachers work on the first floor, just off the entrance hall. The Prick is in his office, and so is his red haired wife. Jean has her arms crossed over her chest and Scott's fingers are red with the ink of a grading pen he gripped too tight. Residue of sharp words hang in the air; an imbecile without his mutation would be able to sense the argument that had just taken place. Scott's lips tighten even further when he spots The Wolverine in the doorway, but Logan steps in anyway.

Jean twirls, beams at him. "Well, hello Stranger!"

She takes the few steps that separate them, winds her arms around his neck with more grace but less enthusiasm than Marie. She aligns her figure to his, squeezes a little tighter than necessary. "Long time no see. We've all missed you."

Over Jean's shoulder, he sees Summer's face go pale with anger. He can almost hear One-Eye's asshole pucker, so he returns her taunting embrace. "Missed you too, Jeannie," he purrs.

He doesn't like being used to screw with other people, but that look on Scooter's face outweighs his irritation. The doctor steps back, pleased with the jealousy she evoked in the room, but not completely satisfied. She never is.

"Sweetie, don't you wanna tell Logan hello?"

"Yeah, Cycke. Dontcha wanna welcome me home?" Jesus. Did he just call this place 'home'? It's okay, it was just a joke. It's okay.

"Where's my bike?" Scott demands. Jean tuts.

"In a ditch."

Damn that man's stupid mutation. Logan would have liked to see Cyclops's eyes bug out. "You're fucking kidding me."

"Yeah, I am. It's outside."


Jean shakes her head disapprovingly. She tells her husband to watch his language.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Summers asks her, coolly. He wonders what happened to the adoring couple they'd been before he left. Her back goes stiff, her tone icy.

"I don't know, Scott. I thought I might just--"

"I need to talk to you about Rogue," Logan interrupts, no longer entertained by the preliminaries.

Jean freezes. "Rogue? What about her?"

"Not with you. Him."

"Oh," she says. "Well then. Maybe I do have somewhere to be."

She moves around Logan, high heels clicking out of the office.

"See ya, Jeannie."

She doesn't reply.



He thought Scooter would take the opportunity to fuck with him, dangle what he wanted over his head before pulling it away. But he doesn't. Scott seems tired, deflated. Logan smells no delight in his refusal.

He tells him that the team is Rogue's choice, that she signed up the moment she turned eighteen. Nobody's forcing the girl; she doesn't even use her mutation. He says she's proud of herself--and she should be, because Rogue is a great fighter, lots of potential--and the happiest she's been since Logan left.

"I can't take her off the team, Logan, and I won't."

And something about the hardness in Scooter's face, the weary finality, the nonresponse to any creative threats, makes Logan think he actually means it.

"Fuck you," he says, respectfully, and leaves without popping his claws as he had intended.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::



Chuck welcomes him back like the prodigal son--shrugging off the Alkali Lake affair with an apologetic, 'win-some-lose-some' expression. Logan doesn't have the time to get angry, though on the road to Westchester he thought a great deal about what he'd say to the old man. Now that he's actually here, though--watching Xavier smile and nod with that assured, knowing ease--he can't find the words.

He keeps thinking of Marie, how her fingers clutched the back of his shirt.

Chuck gives him directions to a spare bedroom, to the laundry chamber. He encourages Logan to rest, settle in before they work out his employment.

"What employment?"

"On the teaching staff." Chuck waves off his growls. "Don't fret; we'll hammer out the details later. I apologize, but I have a meeting scheduled with some investors and they are a very impatient group. We'll talk again soon."



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He unpacks in a room with walls the color of spoiled eggplant. It doesn't take long, because all he owns fits inside one backpack (which is starting to get holes in the bottom; he needs to buy another). Logan examines everything-- the closet, the dresser, the TV, the bedside table. He takes a piss in the small bathroom, does all the things necessary to make a foreign, impersonal environment his own.

Logan doesn't know how long he's going to stay, but has a sneaking suspicion that it won't be one or two days...and that doesn't alarm him half as much as it should. He thinks it will be nice to eat food not soaked in dubious grease, sleep on unstained sheets, and spend some time fulfilling his promise to The Kid.

Speaking of which....No. No. It's too soon. Not even an hour has passed since he last saw her. Marie's probably busy--surfing the net or painting her nails or watching American Idol. Whatever girls do. He's not really up to speed on their habits when they don't relate to sex.

Logan reclines back on the bed (there are four pillows: the bottom two are firm, the top fluffier than marshmallows for their user's mix-and-match pleasure), and entertains himself. Three times. Even that gets a little boring, and the minutes on the clock are ticking by so slowly.

Maybe Marie is downstairs, playing Foosball like that day he left. If so, there was no reason Logan couldn't go down. Hang out. See her. After all, how can he look out for The Kid up here in his bedroom?

So he changes jeans, strips to his bottom shirt (when you travel light, wearing layers is just a sensible method of carrying clothes). Logan throws his jacket back on (because you never know when you'll have to run, and this thing has been with him for as long as he can remember) and heads out.

No Marie in the pack of students around the Foosball table, or in the library, or the kitchen. He returns to the rec room, takes a seat on a couch that should logically be covered in juice stains, but is spotless from weekly dry cleaning.

She's probably in her room. But she'll be down soon. It's nearly lunchtime, and teenagers eat constantly-right? Logan's not sure why seeing The Kid again is so important, or what's stopping him from going to find her room, if he wants to so badly.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe that's a lie.

Maybe some flag goes up in his head, declaring that you only track down a woman in her bedroom for one reason. But obviously his brain is stuck in Wolverine mode, because were he to go up there it would be for strictly platonic purposes.

A girl with a neck brace sits beside him, takes the remote and turns the channel to some squeaky chick flick. Apparently this sets off a subsonic pulse to all the uteruses on the first floor, because in minutes the couch is swarmed. They're giggling, staring at him, and Logan's stomach turns from the fumes--acne cream and badly mixed perfume. He shoves himself up, flees to the kitchen: equally crowded but less feminine.

This is annoying. How can anyone stand to be around so many people, all the time? It's driving him crazy. And where is Marie? Why isn't she down here, hanging out with all the others? Is she shutting herself off? Is something wrong?

Piles of Frito's and sandwich meat on the counter. Students tearing into the meal like it's going to be their last. Has Marie eaten today? Is she hungry? Is she healthy?

Logan waits, paces. His mind turns in obsessive circles, building up a restless, primitive concern he can't defeat with logic. The blue numbers on the microwave's clock change from '11:59' to '12:00', and it's official: Marie isn't here. Marie isn't here. He has to go get her. If she's upset, he'll find out who hurt her. If she's anorexic, he'll shove a burger down her throat. Simple and foolproof.


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Her door is covered with pictures--not movie stars or male models, like those of her neighbors, but art: Thomas Kinkade and Josephine Wall most prominent--so thick he can't see the wood underneath. Logan raps his fist against an iridescent swan. He hears bed springs, quick feet on the carpet. The knob twists, pulls back.

Marie's chin is a little pink, like she's been leaning it on her hand. He smells excitement, surprise, and pleasure. In that order.

"Hey, Logan," she says, with a slight hitch in her voice. But she doesn't seem sad, just a little breathless.

A door clicks open, a few doors down, and a mousy head peeps out, then back in. Whispers about The Wolverine and Rogue, a call to come "check this out".

"You weren't downstairs," he says, to explain his presence and inquire the reason behind it.

"Was I supposed to be?" Marie asks. Not belligerent, merely curious.

"For lunch. All the other kids went down there to eat. Why didn't you?"

"Oh." Marie appears taken aback. She looks away, perhaps searching for an answer, or a lie that will satisfy him. "I don't know," she says.

Gotta do better than that, Darlin'. He wonders if something is wrong with his nose. It's not registering any distress in her scent, and that discrepancy is driving Logan mad.

"You sick, Kid?"

What diseases wouldn't his senses pick up?

Marie blinks, shakes her head. "No. I guess I was reading. Didn't notice the time." Her words trail of, and she flushes.

Yeah. His mutation is fucked up today. He smells truth, with a touch of embarrassment. Again Logan's mind blares the word 'anorexia'. He knew a woman in Oregon who'd go days without eating--chewing on the ends of Q-Tips when the hunger got too strong (he slept with the nutbag's roommate, not her). As stated before, Marie looks healthy to him, not too thin. But you never knew. Maybe he came back just in time.

"So you're gonna go now, right?" he asks her, the taste of urgency thick in his mouth. "You're gonna go now?"

She bites her lip, seems to argue with herself. She takes too long. Logan pictures himself dragging Marie downstairs, sitting her down in the kitchen an forcing her to eat--forkful by forkful, if necessary. Then he sees the groups of students, how humiliated she would be.

"Yeah," she says, "I'll--"

"We could go somewhere to eat. You know, outside the mansion," he suggests, thinking it would go easier in a setting where nobody knows them.

Her eyes light up, glitter with delight. She beams. "Okay!"

He's relieved. "Okay."

"Okay," she says again.

He wonders if they'll do this all day. Blood flows to her cheeks, painting them a pleasant shade of scarlet. She turns and heads into her room, nudging her door open a bit more as she does so. He accepts the unspoken invitation, steps in a few feet after her. He hears Marie's heart pump a nervous rhythm.

The bedroom is small, with a bathroom on the right that makes his enormous by comparison. It's...cozy, Logan thinks, and finds his lips twitching. The bed takes up most of the space and--Jesus, no. That's not a good thought at all. Stacks of books everywhere, one laying open on the bed beside a stuffed bear. Maybe she was being honest. Sketch books, some origami swans on the dresser. Needle and thread on top of a torn pair of jeans. The concentrated scent of Marie. He inhales deeply.

She flutters around, uncertainly picking up her purse. Logan hopes she won't want to change clothes. He couldn't take it.

There's a bra--silver, with white lace--poking out from underneath her bed. Does she see it?

"Ready?" he inquires. And she must notice the bra, because she's turning even redder.

"Yes."

Marie slams the door behind them with a little more than the required force.


:::::::::::::::::::::::::::




Two regular-sized houses could fit in the garage. Sparkling chrome, glossy paint. No model older than a year or two. No spare parts laying around, no oil drips. Do they make the shop class scrub the floors, or the cleaning staff? The anal-ness of it makes Logan's skin crawl.

Behind a metal wall with two locks but no doorknob, he picks up the aroma of the bike's distinctive oil and himself, after so many months of riding it. If Scott were here, he'd ruffle his hair. Little tyke. It's almost sweet, One-Eye thinking he could hide something from The Wolverine. To drive that pint home, Logan finds the best of the Scooter-scented vehicles, a Porsche with black trim.

"We'll take this one," he tells Marie. That smile on her face--the one when she's trying to hold in a laugh--might be his favorite.

The car reeks of cologne and hairspray. He's surprised that she's breathing it in so casually; it's almost choking him. Logan breaks the metal bar under the seat, to teach Scott that real men need leg room.

He considers teaching her how to hot wire a car (a usefull skill they probably leave out of the lessons here), but decides to save time. He can show her later.

A quick pain of muscles ripping, a single talented strip of adamantium. Slide it into the ignition, turn, and there we go.

Marie makes a noise. It's slight, but the fragrance that accompanies it makes Logan's eyes snap to her. She's staring at the claw with a nauseous expression...and a little bit of fear. Fuck. He remembers the scent of her blood--never got it out of his head--the shock, the night he'd woken and discovered what it felt like to stab a seventeen year old, innocent girl in the chest.

"Sorry," Logan tells her, knowing that nothing ever gets erased, even accidents.

She stutters some words of acquittal, but they don't make him feel any better. It's okay, though. It is. He'll make that night up to her.





They drive for a long time, from one end of Westchester to the other. Neither of them are in a particular hurry. Logan answers all of her questions, even the most random of ones. He scrapes his mind for stories to tell, though there aren't many--certainly few that would interest her, and even fewer that do not contain karma sutra and an inordinate amount of vodka. He'd gladly drive to Texas if Marie would keep looking at him that way: fascinated, eating up every word, hungry for more. And fuck, if that ain't the wrong metaphor to use. It's putting pictures in his head that absolutely never be painted there.

Biting her lip, so enthralled, so eager...Stop it. Stop thinking about that.

"How bout there?"

"Huh?" Sweet voice, taken off guard.

"There." Logan nods to the first restaurant he sees. It could be a Hooters or a Chuckie Cheese; his brain isn't functioning well enough to read the sign. He just needs to stop--get them out of this confined space, to somewhere the air doesn't taste so much like her.

"Looks good," she says, a little grudgingly.

When they stop, he has the brief, crazy urge to run around and open Marie's door before she does. But that's ridiculous: he's never done that for any woman with working limbs of her own. And it's too late, anyway. By the time the thought passes through Logan's brain, Marie's already outside the car.

He does get the door of the restaurant for her--holds it wide and steps back. And that cute little 'thank you' smile she gives him might change his mind about chivalry.

A perky waitress guides them to a table in the back. It's a steakhouse of the nicer variety--cloth napkins instead and lit candles. the scent of meat drifting from the kitchen puts Logan in the mood to hunt.

"Steak. Rare." he tells the woman. She plays with the ends of hair dyed just that morning, from the smell. "And a beer."

"A man who knows what he wants. I like it."

Marie frowns jealously, and he feels guilty for not waiting--isn't this supposed to be about feeding her? "Take as long as you want, Kid." he says apologetically. The waitress lays a menu on the table and excuses herself.

She's playing with the edge of the leather-rimmed sheet. Logan watches her, prepares for a struggle but doesn't get it. She studies the bulleted items calmly, and when the waitress returns Marie orders brisket with a side of okra.


He's had drinks, sometimes a pizza with people on the fight circuit--out of boredom, if it was a guy, a prelude if it was a woman. But this has to be the first casual, full meal he's ever shared with someone he planned to see again the next day.

He likes it.

With no distractions or pressure from anything but the waitress, returning to fill their glasses, he thinks its the best time to ask some questions of his own. She tells him what it's like to live with the people who grade your tests; get a scraped knee bandaged in a lab that would make Batman envious. Marie seems comfortable, and Logan soaks up the details of her life, storing what makes she enjoys or doesn't in his mind for future reference.

She says she's grateful The Professor changed her math score so she could graduate. It doesn't surprise him--what wouldn't Xavier do for a potential Xmen?

He tries to stay quiet and listen impartially when Marie talks about the team--just a nonjudgmental friend. But that's difficult. She's so young. She doesn't know how she wants to spend her life. She's just running down the first, closest path that looks good. But that's okay. It is. He'll be here when Marie is ready to quit. He can...he can stay until then. For her. Yeah.


The rest of the meal passes harmoniously, until the check is brought to their table. Marie pulls an indigo wallet out of her purse, starts counting out money for her side of the meal. Logan snaps at her to put it away, annoyed that she would assume he'd make her pay. What kind of man does she think he is?



:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::



Logan tells Xavier he'll work with the junior team: no more, no less. He's no interested in the gym class or any of the other students--just Rogue, and the kids in her group by default. But Scott still throws a hissy fit, wailing about the need for consistency, Logan's lack of propriety and gentle tact.

Scooter doesn't remember that territory disputes go out the window the moment the alpha dog shows up.

Chuck plays peacemaker, using sissy words like 'Co-Trainer' and 'face of unity', resulting in him forced to stand with Summers for three hours a day, trying to teach people who still watch cartoons to kill. Scott's idea of training is closer to pillow fighting, and he becomes unreasonably shrill when Logan tries to introduce a little blood.

But he didn't lie about Marie. She is good. Not the best, but head and shoulders above the other mini-mutants. Almost against Logan's will, he's proud of her. She doesn't lose her head in the midst of confrontation, doesn't back down when she gets hit. Marie knows how to identify an opponents weakness; she can have them on the floor in minutes. She's talented. Any win is taken in stride, but a loss will have her obsessing for hours.

He's concerned about that insecurity, that hesitancy. She gets nervous sometimes, starts thinking too much. You can see it in her eyes, the twist of her body. She'll be doing well, moving naturally, skillfully. Then there's a hitch--a moment when she stops trusting her instincts, and she fumbles. Whoever Marie is fighting at the moment jumps at the opportunity, so much so that Logan wants to step in himself. His knuckles itch every time she's hurt. She shakes it off, but glances back at him with such guilt his voice box closes up. He can't bring himself to shout when all his strength is keeping him from idiotic moves, like hugging her.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


Marie wakes him up at an ungodly hour every morning. Chipper smile, wide eyes so innocent when she asks if he was asleep. He'd claw anyone else who tried it, but can't find the necessary anger with her.

That happy look when he opens the door, as if pleasantly surprised every time to find him there again.

That way Marie's eyes go up and down his chest, fingers twitching at her side, as if wanting to reach out and touch.

That special scent he shouldn't enjoy and definitely shouldn't encourage, but does. Sometimes Logan strips down before opening the door, just to see the expression on her face.

He can't start his day anymore without those things. They're vital, like food and beer and a shower after a long day spent around too many scents. He lays in bed, staring at the ceiling at six thirty in the morning, waiting to hear the swish of her skirt, the perky knocks on his door.




:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


Today, the sounds don't come and neither does Marie. At first he's furious, when he finds her safe on the back lawn. A book in her hands, no trace of injury or threatening presence. It had been a bad night for him, a wake-up-screaming night, and he lay in bed for hours on a salty pillow, wanting to see her, waiting for their ritual. And then he'd ran around the mansion, frantic, with thoughts of lax security and uncaught members of The Brotherhood. Convinced if Marie didn't come see him, she couldn't't.

Re-evaluating that belief now, those tears are the only thing that stops him from yelling. He wants to scoop Marie up like a worried parent at the mall. Kiss her cheeks and hug/shake her into not frightening him again.

"Kid?"

She jerks, startled like a deer by gunshot. She twists around, seeming both pleased and humiliated to see him. "Hi", she greets him, sheepishly.

"Why are you crying?" What'swrongwhat'swrongwhat'swrong--

"I'm not."

Bullshit.

"Yeah, you are."

Marie squirms, awkwardly stammers a few lines about the book she's reading. He struggles to understand how paper and ink could upset her, decides females are just a weird breed. The bigger question is: why would she choose a story that makes her cry, over a man who never would? Logan tries not to feel insulted as he puzzles it out.

Summers pissed him off last Tuesday, said he'd get bored in a few weeks when the novelty of hanging out with Rogue wore off.

But maybe it's the other way around.

Maybe Marie's tired of him.

Logan grits his teeth, asks her to go for a walk with him.

Her hand is soft, like butter without the moisture.

He hangs on tight.


::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


He performs sit-ups on the chilly gym floor. Up down, up down. Marie's behind him, jogging on the treadmill. Logan likes how they can do this--just be together. No one else around, no pressure to act a certain way, and no mandatory conversation. It's the closest he gets to meditation.

Her panting breath and the sound her thighs make rubbing together serves for excellent background music. Logan knows she's staring at him, inhales the evidence of her gaze. It makes him forget everything Chuck said about impressionable girls and safe barriers. Lately it's all Logan can do not to kiss Marie silly every time he catches that scent, or her lips get all trembly when she looks his way...not that he's looking for a relationship or a tumble with The Kid. But sometimes it's hard for him to remember why those are bad ideas.

He gets bored with the sit-ups. They're too easy; his mind is wandering with a dangerous freedom.

Logan pushes himself up off the mat--so thin it's worthless; he doesn't know why Scott lays them there or why he uses them--and goes to the bench press. It's the only piece of gym equipment he actually likes. Half the dumbbells are weighted specially, twice what normal people could bear. With all of those loaded, this exercise is almost a challenge.

He looks back once at Marie before laying down. A little pink triangle snakes out of her mouth, runs across her lower lip. Jesus.

But the twang of apprehension reaches him, just as his fingers are encircling the bar.

"Logan?"

"Yeah?"

"You want me to spot you?"

Aww. That's-that's cute. Logan fights hard not to laugh, because her face is so serious. Does she really think she could lift the weights, even if it were possible for him to drop them? Poor kid.

"Sure, Darlin'," He humours her so she won't feel bad.

Marie nods, turns off her machine and comes toward him. He can see a strip of skin peeking out from under her shirt. And Logan has to look away now because all amusement has left him and he's back to his "Shouldn't" thoughts.

She's above him, face upside down from this perspective. So close.

Logan can't feel the dumbbells, rising and falling in his grip. They are weightless, hardly there at all because he's got the perfect view of the underside of Marie's breast. He can almost see a nipple, through the filmy t-shirt she wears when running. The slender curve of her neck, the hair slipping out of a scrunchy she always puts in but can never keep for long. Lips that look even fuller, lashes even thicker from this angle. And Marie's eyes are going down his body in the same way.

He smells toothpaste and pancake syrup, sweat and that baby powder she rubs on after deodorant. Honeysuckle and cotton and ink. Marie scents. Curiosity and arousal and--oh Jesus. Jesus.

Are you kidding me, Logan thinks, before any cognitive ability shuts down. Are you fucking kidding me?

She's ovulating.

Something clicks inside him, like a button being pressed. A huge, red button similar to the nuclear one featured on the president's desk. Everything sharpens to predator-clarity. The iron bar settles into it's braces, though by pure coincidence because he abandoned the weights without a second thought.

Marie's gasping, and he can see each individual taste bud in her mouth. She's walking--no, tripping backwards. A little fear, a lot more surprise. Logan stalks her, charged by a mindless heat. His body urges her into a corner, blocks an escape route to the right. Marie's skin is pale and soft and beautiful. He has to feel it, has to taste it. She's so pretty. Beautiful. And she's excited now, really excited. He can smell it. All the air his lungs can hold don't seem enough.

Marie stares up at him, eyes sparkling. She doesn't speak. Her heart is beating so fast, fluttering.She blushes, giggles nervously. The sound shoots straight to his groin. He's hard, so hard, and burning. Squishing her against the wall, grinding but it's not enough. It's not enough. Fuck barriers.

Brown strands on a flushed cheek. Logan brushes it away before burying his fingers in her hair. Palm molded around her skull, little dips and bumps. He wants to feel everything, all of her.

She doesn't know what to do so he draws her head back, angling it. Logan kisses her hard, deep. She makes a little noise and he slides his tongue over her teeth until she opens to him. Tastes so good. So sweet. Not as gentle as he'd like, but she's not complaining.

Arching, slender body. Plastering herself against him. He's petting, tickling, squeezing, and the animal is screaming for him to drop the preliminaries. He pulls his mouth away so she can inhale quickly, before swooping down again. Young body, supple. Tender and firm at the same time. Wet fragrance filling his nostrils. The Wolverine is telling him to take her now, right now. Right here. And Logan's is in complete agreement.

So he stops.

Overlap: Chapter Three







My chest aches. It hurts bad. Really bad. Something's cracking inside me, and with every step I feel pieces of my heart jar loose, hit the carpet.


I'm walking--no, running. Or maybe just walking fast? I'm not sure. Can't think. My vision is blurry, and the patterned rug seems to zoom by. I'm so dizzy.


I haven't felt quite like this since....

My world is rocking, spinning. The back of my hand brushes the wall and I keep it there, trailing it along as I go. It is a connection to solid reality, but a thin one. I'm reaching through smokey pain and this reminder of the dependable things in the world only makes me think of how walls can collapse.

I didn't know it would feel this way.

It hurts.

Why didn't I expect this?

God, it hurts.

And of course Logan is there, right behind me. I barely made it down the hall before he caught up. Fingers sliding over my arms, but halfheartedly, not much strength to them. They pull at me weakly. He is speaking, beseeching, but I can barely hear him. There's a ringing in my ears.

"Get away from me," I choke out. Then again, "Get away from me." My mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

I want to get away, but there's nowhere I can go that he couldn't, or wouldn't, follow. I think of the the sanctuary of our bedroom--but that's too far and besides, it's Logan's bedroom as well.

"Get away from me!," I shriek.

"No," he says decisively.

I don't want to hear his voice.

Let me go deaf.

Please.

His grip becomes firm, but not hard. Logan spins me around like I'm a doll.

Don't cry.

Don't cry.

Don't look at him.

Don't cry.

Be deaf.


I don't hear his pleas, and I don't hear his explanations. I don't hear the way Logan's voice cracks, or the animal keening in the back of his throat. When John appears, stretching out a hand and asking if I'm okay, I don't hear Logan's murderous threat (an empty show, I tell myself).

He tugs me into a room behind him, closes the door for privacy. Black walnut shelves and different colored paper bricks. The library.

At first I watch his lip move, then keep my eyes open until I see only a Logan-shaped smudge. It's better that way.

He begs me to speak, and then to listen. I do neither. I draw the mist in my head around me, a numbing cloak that's only slightly less painful than his words.

The blurr gestures with his hands, reaches out (I take a step back), scratches a chin that's desperate to see a razor. I think, I'll let him say whatever he feels obliged to, and then be on my way....To do what? I don't know. Scream into a pillow, maybe. Yeah. That sounds good. I can't see too far ahead; I don't know what's going to happen. I just can't...I can't....

One word pierces through, like a knife or a cannon ball. Her name. My lips part and a black bile rises up from the wound, spills out into the air like poison. That's the only way I can describe the things I shouted. I don't know when or how the words appeared, because I had never had them before. I swear at Logan, use every cuss word I've ever heard.

He freezes, gapes at me with what for him passes for meekness.

Every terrible, monstrous thing I can imagine comes out with all the force my sore throat can muster. I call him a worthless beast, who ruined my life and killed my child.

He doesn't blink.

Just stands there, quietly and calmly absorbing it. Intent expression, perhaps waiting for me to finish.

I want--I need-- him to hurt as much as me.

I tell him he's a stupid animal, that I should have known the concept of keeping it inside his pants was too complicated for him to understand.

Deadened hazel eyes and a motionless body. That's not the Logan I know. The Logan--hell, The Wolverine I know would be in the red zone. Would have grabbed me. Slapped. Bitten. And I really must be a masochist, because I want that reaction. I want him to get pissed. Do anything that says he cares enough to be get mad.

But Logan doesn't.

And I'm angrier. How dare he? How does Logan dare to look at me like that. Like--like he's the one who's hurting? How can he make me feel guilty, doubt my convictions like a blind idiot? How the fuck can he refuse me that proof of what a bastard he is?

"You son of a bitch," I sob. "You're disgusting. I-I hate you!"

Breaking. Shattering.

It hurts.

So difficult to get the words out.

"You know what, Logan? You can go ahead and fuck everyone in this place. I don't-I don't c-care. Just go ahead, 'cuz you're sure as hell never d-doing it w-with me again. I've b-b-been waiting for this. I don't w-want to t-t-touch you. I don't wanna see you. If you-you care at all you'd l-leave and never fucking come back. You prick. Monster. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!"

Logan steps forward, and I think finally. I'm eye level with the cigars tucked into his shirt pocket. I expect hands--maybe his fist. But instead I receive his lips--a soft, chaste kiss on a cheek soaked by tears.

"Okay," Logan tells me, very gently.


&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&


"Marie," he calls. Then (because they are not alone), in a louder voice, "Rogue!"

She doesn't wait up for him, and honestly Logan didn't expect her to. Halfway down the hall from the kitchen, Marie's footsteps slow. She hangs onto the wall, her gate as unsteady as a drunk's. He reaches her in seconds.


Her pain burns like ammonia in his nostrils. She seems so frail. Logan reaches out with hands that feel their true age right now--heavy, almost arthritic. He wants to pull Marie back into his arms, nuzzling and holding her until that smell goes away. And until recently, that might have worked.

"Wait." Her shoulders slip free of his grip. She walks toward the staircase without acknowledging him, swaying on her feet.

"Baby, it ain't what it looked like. I-I didn't do anything. I didn't."

Liar, his own mind shrieks. As if it's laying out evidence for his torture, he feels himself kissing Jean, touching her. But that...that was all. It was just a slip up, a moment of weakness. Right? He'd never hurt Marie.

"Just-just stop for a minute. Listen. Lemme-lemme tell you what happened.

Marie gives a choking sob. "Get away from me. Get away from me. Get away from me!," she chants miserably, each repetition louder.

"No," Logan tells her, as perhaps he should have many times before.

He seizes her elbow, places his other hand on her waist and determinedly turns her around. She fights, then goes passive-aggressively still. A standing corpse, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Please, sweetheart," Logan whispers, broken. "I love you. I love you so fucking much."

She blinks, focuses somewhere in the region of his kneecap.

"It didn't mean anything. I swear. I want you. Only you. Always."

The carpet, the walls all around them become a meaningless and unimportant swirl of purples and browns, while her face stays the only thing clear in his vision.

He doesn't know what to say to her, no clue how to start. But correcting this mess is the most vital task in his world, more so than breathing.

"We can talk. It'll be okay. I can-I can fix this."

"Rogue?"

One of the students--that scrawny prick in love with fire--slinks out of the rec room. Narrow eyes, sneering mouth. The sort of concern on his face only hormone-ridden teens can pull off. "Is everything alright here?"

The boy looks from Marie to Logan exaggeratedly, as if he'd just stumbled onto the set of a lifetime movie. When she doesn't respond, the little bastard has the nerve to reach for his--for his girl. Logan growls loudly, a fierce warning.

"Son, get your ass out of my way or I'll chew your fucking throat out."

It's not a flimsy threat. Six claws are ready to leave their casings. And the seriousness in The Wolverine's tone prompts the boy's decision to practice chivalry elsewhere. He excuses himself, back pedals swiftly.

Whatever movie had been playing in the entertainment room is ending. Soon there will be too many eyes and ears lit on them, eager for a new show. Their conversation will be repeated for weeks to come. There's not enough time to get to their room. He glances around the entrance hall, then pulls Marie into the library. The walls inside are insulated for it's reader's solitude. Honestly, Logan doesn't give a rat's ass what the kids say about them. But she has always valued privacy. He doesn't want to embarrass Marie.

As soon as the door clicks shut, she's backing away from him. She hits a small table, and the vase upon it wobbles. Face pale, eyes water, darting everywhere.

"Darlin', look at me." What other endearments can he use?

She's shivering, wrapping her arms around her chest. Sniffling. God, he wants to hold her.

"Please look at me."

Why is she so damn quiet? Why can't she just talk to him, like she used to? Or at least let him know how to make things right. "Marie, say something, sweetie. Come on."

She fixes him with a silent, unwavering glare. Okay. This is his job.

Logan opens his mouth, addresses the hair he's spent so much time stroking--the neck so sensitive to teeth--the eyes that had looked at him so frequently with laughter. He's not a man used to staking his emotions on another's, to asking or explaining. But he tries.

Marie's expression stays cold, far away from this room and him.

"I'm sorry. So sorry baby. Just try to understand, okay?"

Logan listens to the patter of her heart and wonders how many times he'd lain his head on her chest and luxuriated in the sound.

"I was down there in the kitchen an' I was so worried about ya'. An' she was there, sayin' all this shit. I just lost control for a second. Jean--"

Without warning, her face changes. It's livid. Marie's lips draw back.

Logan can't count the number ot times he wanted--and tried--to end his life. Days on road whose scenery never changes, nights when a woman's arms did nothing to minimize his loneliness. He had probably tested every method of suicide that existed--helped, sometimes, by others. Knives, guns, drugs, cliff falls, even bombs. It didn't matter. In a few hours (perhaps a half-day, if he'd been really creative) Logan would find himself conscious again. Staring into a grimy mirror at a face that would never age, never find release in that sleep as others would. It was one of the few things he had envied normal people. His reply, if anyone were to offer him whatever he desired in the world, had only changed slightly over the years. He'd ask for Marie, and then the liberty to die.

Tonight she took away the first, and gave him the latter.

She screams at him--not in the worst of his panic attacks had he considered she thought those things. Marie calls him a worthless beast, a stupid animal, confirms his suspicions about the miscarriage. Uses swearwords Logan had no idea she even knew. (Marie wasn't particularly sensitive, but she saved her fucks and shits for stubbed toes and bad hair days).

A low vein of indignation runs through him, demands he defend himself by any means necessary. Not everything is his fault, after all. Make her love him.

But that urge is silenced by a voice that says he deserves all of it, keeps him frozen in place because his pain is so much preferable to her's.


"I don't want to touch you. I don't wanna see you. If you care at all you'd leave and never fucking come back. You prick. Monster. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!"

And he knows there's a limit to how much hurt he can smell on Marie. And that he'd do anything, absolutely anything in the world she asked.

Logan permits himself one last taste of her skin. He kisses Marie's cheek softly--an apology and goodbye.

"Okay," he assents, and feels himself quietly die.


~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~



"Kid. Marie. We gotta--we gotta stop. I can't do this."

Whaa-?

What?

What?!

Logan's stepping back, leaving me a quivering, overheated bundle of nerves. A quivering, overheated bundle nerves who thinks stopping is a very, very bad idea. Very bad.

My legs are not prepared/strong enough for the sudden absence of his chest (which had been propping me up). I feel my knees turn to sand, start to buckle but his hand shoots out, steadies me. It returns just as quickly--and platonically--to his side.

Which brings me to the only question in this universe that matters right now:

Why?

Why?

What did I do wrong?

At least that fear draws my thoughts--if only slightly--away from the heat on my skin, the moisture between my legs. I mean, I know I'm not exactly...practiced...at this...but I thought...I thought is was going pretty...pretty good.

Maybe not for him?

I blink back tears of disappointment while Logan stares at me, breathing labored. I must look repulsive: lips swollen, hair all tangled, quaking like a wet loser.

With a kind voice, he murmurs, "Not here." The rough back of his index finger trails over my cheek, down my neck. It leaves a burning trail. Unintentional, I'm sure. I tremble more; my mouth opens and his hand retreats. Again. Jesus--I'm such an embarrassment.


"Just not here, sweetie. I'll--I'll see you later...Soon, okay?"

Logan seems expectant, antsy. Wait. Does he--does he actually think I'm capable of talking? I can't remember where my vocal chords are, let alone how to use them.

My addled little not must satisfy him. Like I've cut some sort of reigns, he dashes away. And I'm cold and aching down low, left to seek an explanation from the gym equipment.

As you can tell, the machines are pretty unhelpful.

_______________________________________________________



'Soon' turns out to mean the next afternoon. Not exactly a lifetime, but I'm a high-strung mess every second of those twenty-three hours. I bite my nails to the absolute quick, brush my teeth for five minutes before remembering to use paste, sit entirely too long between the turn of each page because I can't read them. Each printed word seems to have been reformed, and now spells out 'Logan'.

I'm so sure everyone can tell what we did just from looking at me. Not just that I'm abnormally twitchy, but they know. I worry: did Scott check the video tapes?

Logan's no where to be found--the previous day, or this morning. But I don't search hard. After Jubes asks me for the seventieth time, "Guhrl, what's up whichoo?" (always the same words, same inflection) I banish myself to my room. I don't want Logan to see me this way.

Last night, I stayed awake past one o'clock, running my hands over my stomach, pressing my fingers against my lips and feeling him. When I finally nodded off, I dreamed Logan-dreams.


We run into each other on the stairs, when I'm on my way to the kitchen for some strawberries. He asks if I want to go somewhere for dinner tonight.

That look in his eyes....

Later, analyzing it in my room, Jubilee squeals loud enough that Ororo comes running to our room She knocks on the door and demands to know who's being burned at the stake.

_________________________________________________________


I put on my best dress. White, with black lines like quill ink running across it. (Faux) Chinese silk, off-the-shoulder. I spend an hour trying to match my hair to the magazine photo, before mentally slapping myself across the face. Girl, could you be any more obvious? With a touch of self-pity (I never get to wear that dress), I change. A sea green top with sequin butterflies that go up the side, and my pair of dark jeans. As rain comes down outside, rattling my windows, I twist and turn in front of my bathroom mirror.

I hope he thinks it's casual.

I suck on a bar of white chocolate, and then a peppermint. In case Logan feels like kissing me again.

_______________________________________________________


"I'm sorry, guys."

Ororo stands in the front hall, arms crossed over her chest, blocking the door. Her face is uncharacteristically tight, concerned.
"You cannot borrow one of the cars tonight. The roads are just too bad."

"Really?" Logan asks. Thunder cracks outside.

Ororo looks to him. "Uh-huh. The weather channel just issued a tornado alert for Westchester. The first in years. We should be safe here, but you can never be too careful."

"No, you can't," he agrees, and lets out a long exhale through his nose. He starts to turn to me; I'm readying myself for a 'sorry, kid' and a night not half as fun as I thought it would be.

But Storm makes a 'hold-on' gesture. Her voice carries that peaceful generosity all her students--including me--love. "Oh! Kurt and I had Chinese delivered. But he always gets much more than we could possibly eat ourselves. Would you care for the rest?"

Logan raises an eyebrow at me. 'Up to you' he says wordlessly.

"That's really, really nice of you," I jump at the possibility to still spend time with him. I'm smiling with relief,

______________________________________________________


He makes me wait outside his room for a few minutes, holding the box whose thin cardboard seems determined to give me a third-degree burns. But the food smells incredible--eggrolls and General Tso's and Singapore house noodles. My favorite. But they are not what I can't stop thinking about.

I hear muffled sounds--thumps, a few disconcerting bangs, low curses. Is he hiding a body?

The door swings open, and Logan gives me an uncomfortable grin. He's looking unusually flustered. Takes the warm box from my arms, and calls gruffly over his shoulder to me, almost as an afterthought. "Well. C'mon then."

I have to take a steadying breath.

____________



We lay a couple towels on the bed (freshly made, by the looks of it) to serve as placemats for the food. Logan passes me the remote, invites me to watch "anything I want, as long as it ain't for pansies." By that I assume he means something with blood and guts. I guess I pick rightly, because he doesn't complain. But I couldn't tell you what the movie was, who was in it, or that it was anything more than a swirl of pixels on a screen, while something much more enthralling was sitting beside me. On his bed.

He's wearing a flannel shirt, a darker red and cleaner than his others. It looks so soft I have to monitor my hands in case they reach out to feel him--I mean, it.

My whole left side is electrified, reacting every time he moves--or simply inhales. I wonder if I can get a sun burn from the heat his body is emitting...but Logan's sitting at least six inches away, so that has to be my imagination.


I think I'm going crazy. My heart is beating so hard it makes my chest sore. I can't look at him, can't look anywhere else without desperately wondering what he's doing. Does he expect me to act natural? Did he already forget what happened yesterday? Is that normal for him? Was he just playing around? What if I don't act the right way, and he doesn't want to hang out with me any more? Is he just doing this to be nice?

Logan handed me an open beer when we sat down. The condensation is forming a wet circle in the bedsheets. I've never really...drank...before. I'm just barely nineteen, but something tells me it wouldn't be a smart idea to bring that up just now. I keep it propped nonchalantly in my lap, until a piece of chicken burns my tongue. I take a sip, end up coughing and spluttering everywhere.

It's disgusting! Biting and sizzly...It tastes like orange rinds and wood chips blended into liquid. Uugghh.

I'm entertaining thoughts of a global conspiracy, in which half the world has been lying to the rest to trick them into tying this junk. A huge joke, because how can anyone enjoy this stuff? And Logan's laughing at me. He's laughing at me. If the sound weren't so wonderful, I'd be furious.

"I'll get you a soda," he says, chuckling warmly. "And a fork," he adds, because the fight between me and the chopsticks had been turning ugly.

Logan pats me on the back with one hand, plucks the bottle out of my lap with the other. I don't get a chance to apologize, because all of a sudden we're doing it again. He's kissing me. He's kissing me. He's kissing me. And things are short circuiting, and I don't care one bit about the beer.

Later we'll deal with the spilt drinks, the Chinese food we kicked to the floor. Not now.

Now, he's on top of me, all around me. Pressing me back. Down. Heavy and firm and there. Touching. Twisting. Kissing places I didn't know you could kiss. Asking me if I'm okay, if this is okay, is this--

I can only force out a word at a time. My vocabulary shrinks to a prayer, an assent, and his name.

It's so--

It's so--

Okay.

I don't have time to be scared or anxious. He doesn't give me the chance. But my stomach does jerk nervously when he sits up, pulls something from his back pocket. A square piece of foil. He rips it open with his teeth, removes a...ohmygod. Logan strokes my belly reassuringly.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod....


The waistband of my jeans is pulled slowly down my hips, my legs, off my feet. I'm laying sideways across the bed, aware of every thread and a thin strip of wood beneath me. Overwhelmed, a little frantic.

Ohmygod--is this--is he gonna--

He doesn't undress, merely undoes the zipper and pushes things down a bit. I can see his--

Ohmygodohmygod--

And then Logan's between my--between me.


All the books--and Jubilee--said it hurts a bit, the first time.

They don't say how much.

I feel like I'm being impaled, which...well, I guess I kind of am. Haha. It's just, nobody told me it would feel like that. There's so much of him. An unyielding, scorching strip of iron.

Ow. Ow. Ohmygod, ow.

I'm gasping like a fish, making sounds in my throat that prove what a little, childish idiot I am. Logan kisses my cheek,
croons soothing nonsense into my ear, and I don't immediate understand that his lower half is being just as gentle. He's patient, so steady and kind. I can't comprehend how my body can take another inch, a centimeter. It feels already stretched too far. But he doesn't seem concerned. I guess he knows how this works

Am--am I bleeding?

And he moves so, so slowly. Confident. In control. At ease, like he's puzzling out a car's engine or contemplating football strategies.

The pain recedes, drifts back like the tide, surprising me only every once in awhile with a little wave. I find myself fascinated with the tiny cracks in his skin, the way his shoulder tastes like salt, how his eyes can look angry and happy at the same time.

There's something...I don't know...something going on inside me...muscles rubbing against each other in the right way....A twinge, and then another...and another...and another...closer and closer together. They send responding flickers all through my body. Tickling, electrocuting.

He's so...he's so...what's the word?...deep...in me, I can't remember what it was like to shift and not feel him throb a reply. And every time Logan withdrawals, the loss is enough to make me breathless. Not that I can breath anyway.

It doesn't hurt anymore. At least, not in a way I can separate from everything else and label it as such.

I feel his scruffy chin, like sandpaper. His mouth and nose are burrowing into the area behind my ear. Grunting, snarling...and then softly whispering my name.

I'm digging my fingers into his shoulder blades. My nails must pinch, if not cut, but I just can't loosen them. Those twinges have taken me over, making me arch and kick even though I don't want to fight. Somewhere in my mind, an itty-bitty corner not concerned with my exploding nerve endings, I notice that this is making Logan extraordinarily pleased.




Afterwards, he pulls me off the covers (which I decide are the softest, most beautiful covers in the whole world. In fact, this whole room is perfect. Just perfect.) and onto his chest. Everything is sticky, from the food and..and other...stuff...

I feel...great. So comfortable. So happy. Sleepy, but I don't want to close my eyes yet. God. I never ever want to move again. Getting out of this bed is incomprehensible.

Logan's chest is warm and damp. Just big enough for me to curl up on, much better than that mattress, my legs tangled in his.
He stripped of his clothes, and my shirt. I won't be able to get those General-Tso's-stains out, but I don't care.


I feel like I've been opened up. All sorts of things are spilling out of me--what Jubilee said, the dreams I had, how much I missed him while he was away. I'm high. And Logan listens intently, nodding when I ask if it was the same for him. Gazing up at the ceiling and lightly stroking the back of my neck.


I talk about the twinges how he felt inside me, how the chopsticks had been pinned under my shoulder and I might have gotten a splinter if my blouse hadn't cushioned me.

"Mmmmmh," I hear him rumble. Something's moving under me, and--

Oh.

Again?

Already?


He growls, makes me swap positions with him.




&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&



Their lips make the faintest of suctioning noises when they part. Logan tries to put an apologetic expression on his face, and space between their bodies. She's gulping, panting, and looking at him like he just ripped the head off her favorite Barbie.

So pretty. Beautifully debauched, with her hair all mussed and her chest shuddering. Hands pressed against the wall to keep herself upright. Ggrrrrrrrrr......

"Kid." Probably not the best choice of nicknames right now. "Marie. We gotta--we gotta stop. I can't do this."

The words are torture, but if he doesn't speak them, they'll soon be doing something very unhygienic on the gym floor.

Those shudders are about to undo him

Marie looks like she's about to topple over, so he quickly grabs her shoulder, helps her find balance. Now she's wounded, close to tears. Her bruised lips (the dark scarlet color he's never been more fond of) wobble. And Logan sighs, scrambles to make amends because that is more painful that the stiffness of his groin.

"Not here," he promises Marie, and touches her softly. Just once. "Just not here, sweetie. I'll see you later. Soon, okay?"

She gives an uncertain, shaky nod. She appears dazed, crestfallen. It kills Logan to leave without making sure she's alright, but he does. He walks (limps) out of the gym, hoping she will understand and that the water in his shower will be cold enough.

_________________________________________________________


After a restless night, in which The Wolverine waged a brutal assault on him, furious that he would leave a female unclaimed and unsatisfied, and many attempts to settle himself down (resulting in a necessary change of sheets but no pleasure) he goes to find Marie.

Logan stalks the halls and staircase patiently, not desiring a repeat of his first night here. This time going to her bedroom is absolutely out of the question. He'd crumple like a badly-made card castle in an environment with so many Marie-scents.

It takes forever. She's been hiding in her room again (he certainly didn't expect her to come wake him this morning)...Logan refuses to entertain the idea that she is afraid of him--at least, not visibly.

He's on the first floor landing, and when she finally appears, Marie is with her friend Jubilee. That irritating loudmouth who drives him up a wall in practice. He'd known Brooklyn hookers who were less shrill.

"Hey." She smells nervous, appears close to leaping out of her skin if he so much as blows hard on her. (Jesus. Wrong image. Wrong image.)

"Hi," she greets shyly.

"You wanna go get dinner later?", he asks bluntly, gruff and manly as he can manage, trying to ignore the way Jubilee is waggling her plucked eyebrows.

Marie's not a woman he can fuck and drop. He knows that instinctively--it's embedded in his DNA, the knowledge swimming through his bloodstream. He's got only two choices: leave, or do things right. As inexperienced as Logan is with the second, frightening option, he figures he'll give it a try.

"Yeah. Sure." That delighted, bashful scent, the way she bites her lip, makes the sissy situation bearable.




Halfway across the front hall, and no where near out of his earshot, he hears Jubilee.

"Dude! He stares at you like you're a kitten he's about to, like, devour."

"He doesn't eat kittens!"

"Totally not the point."




Ororo stops Logan on the way to his room, asks why he's grinning. He can't answerr her.


____________________________________________________



"I'm sorry, guys. You cannot borrow one of the cars tonight. The roads are just too bad."

"Really.". Ororo is a horrible liar, one of the worst he's ever heard, smelt, or seen.

"Uh-huh." The touch of amusement in her scent, coupled with her overly sweet voice says she knows she isn't fooling anyone. "The weather channel just issued a tornado alert for Westchester. The first in years. We should be safe here, but you can never be too careful."

"No, you can't." He says mockingly. Should he go ahead and point out the flaws in her story--the ability of the X-Vehicles to tolerate more than foul weather, the fact that a snap of Storm's fingers could bring the sun out--or wait until her motives are clear? He wonders what game the woman is trying to play.He can't sense any maliciousness in the obvious attempt to keep them in the mansion.

Marie smells upset, like she's actually buying into it.

"Oh!" Ororo says, with fake dawning realization. "You know, Kurt and I had Chinese delivered. But he always gets way more than we could possibly eat ourselves. Would you two care for the rest?"


"That's really, really nice of you," Marie says, so eager that Logan doesn't ask Storm why a vegetarian and a Catholic who always insists on preparing his own meals would order Chinese food. He also doesn't bring up the curious fact that everything she gives them is still warm, that it must have arrived moments before the rain.

But the next time he sees Ororo, he thanks her.


_________________




Logan asks Marie to wait a few seconds in the hall, goes into his bedroom and jumps into a whirlwind of hasty cleaning. Clothes, beer bottles, empty cigar boxes, and one or two pornos he picked up on a whim go flying into the dresser. He slams the drawers shut, kicks some miscellaneous items under the bed and tucks in the sheets tight enough to pass army inspection (even if nothing else in the room would.) He imagines her changing her mind, running away, and the absurd thought makes him almost trip over himself in his haste to let her in.


______________


They're watching Diehard and eating on his bed, an intimacy he normally wouldn't allow, because that eggroll-fragrance will stick around for months....But then again, so will her's.


She's nervous, twitchy, and Logan's not much better. How long will he have to pretend to be a gentleman? A week? Two? Right now getting through an hour, a minute of trying to act like he isn't burning from the inside out with the need to touch her, feels impossible. He wants to be that beer bottle between her legs, that drop of moisture sliding down the glass, turning her jeans a darker shade.

That shirt--green and soft and begging to be on the floor--makes her skin glow incandescent.

Logan knows Marie wants him. That's not something anyone can hide from him. But does she understand what that means? What happens when this girl realizes being with him entails alot more than holding hands and walks in the wood?


He'll obsess about those first moments later. But despite his best guesses, he can never figure out how it happened. He remembers Marie choking on the beer, being amused at the look on her face and angry with himself for not bringing something else for her.

And then he's tasting Molson and peppermint inside her mouth.

From that first little moan she gives, Logan is lost. There's absolutely no question of him stopping. It's physically impossible.

Her body is supple and responsive, makes him feel like a train careening off a mountain. Logan can't ready her as much as he'd like, can't do more than stroke her stomach when she flinches. His member is threatening to burst the seams of the denim, and once free it surges forward, like a grey hound going for a walk with it's weaker owner.

Logan does his best to move slow, but later he'll berate himself for not approaching her first time with more tenderness. That smell of iron will keep him awake at night, along with every gasp, every whimper. He'll tell himself that he should have waited, should have made certain she was sure.

But at the moment, those worries are obliterated by the force of his own arousal, and the taste in the air when she comes. It sends him over the edge; he pumps brutally, relentlessly, and empties himself inside her.


Later, when Marie is sweaty and limp and sated (just how he likes 'em), Logan tugs her on top of him.She's cute, half-purring. Babbling on and on, and he nods--says "Mmm-hmm" when it feels appropriate, but he's drifting in his own personal afterglow.

He doesn't pay much attention until Marie begins to talk about the sex they'd just had. Adorable, excited "Remembers" and "Did yous". She doesn't seem to know what it does to him. What she liked, what she didn't. When she describes her orgasm, Logan becomes impossibly hard. He goes from satisfied to starving in a half-second.


Logan rolls them over to wordlessly define the term 'even better'.

The heart asks pleasure first
And then, excuse from pain-
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;

And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.

-Emily Dickinson

Overlap: Chapter Four






I'm shivering violently. Tremors that started in my hands radiate up to my teeth and then down to my ankles. What little air that makes it into my lungs tastes frigid, like ice, like that road in Alberta, like that moment I thought Logan was going to leave me to die. Only it's worse now, because this time he is. He is.

I'm plummeting off a cliff, and maybe it's the air whooshing by that has me freezing in a usually well-heated library.

I stare at the door Logan walked through and shut behind him. Willing it to open by the force of my gaze. It has to work. It has to open. But it doesn't.

Thick rugs, walls that are meant to absorb footfalls but turn out to mask sobs just as well. Gotta thank the architect. High bookshelves I had always thought symbolized intrigue and tranquility. How many times have I come in here? For quiet, for a new book, for a fantasy. How many times did I sit in that corner chair, reading out loud because Hand said infants can hear, even inside the womb? How many times have I perused the Children's Section, planning for-for-

But those shelves are just dead wood, like the books they hold. Cold and indifferent pillars on a jailhouse. They're nothing.

That door matters; that door is everything.

Logan's going to open it.

He's going to come back.

He's going to come back.

The door stays closed.

And the minutes drop away from the clock, relentless and agonizing, and I fall a few more yards off that cliff.

And my muscles shake. Uncontrollable.

And my blood turns to sludge, then to cement. I fall faster. Those rocks are going to hurt. They already do.

And my eyes burn and my lips quiver and I'm swallowing around the blockage in my throat. Hyperventilating.

And that door stays closed.

And I don't think it's gonna open.

And this is really happening.

And he's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving.

He's gone, says a quiet voice in my head.

No. No. No.

I wrench my legs forward, my body clumsy, heavy. These limbs can't belong to me. It's hard to get my fingers around the knob, even harder to twist it.

Logan.

Logan.

Please.

My fault.

The entrance hall has never seemed to large. People stare, flutter around, with high-pitched coos of , 'What's wrong?' I ignore them.

I'll-I'll stop Logan. I'll apologize for everything I said. I'll beg. I'll say-I'll say he can sleep with Jean, if he-if he really needs to. It's okay. It's okay. He can do whatever he wants. As long as he stays. As long as I can look at him. And hear his voice. And maybe-maybe hold his hand.

I turn for our room, but a sound beats against my eardrum, reverberates through the air to the pit of my stomach. It's just an engine, and doesn't seem to trouble anyone else, if they hear it at all. But to me it's loud as thunder, and signifies everything. I brush off the students, my old friends, and teeter towards the front door. Why does it feel like I'm trying to push through water, with the currents against me? Maybe I hit the ocean instead of the rocks.

"Is she having a panic attack?"

"Nervous breakdown."

"Should we take her to the med lab?"

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?"

"Where are you going?"

The air is still outside, and heavy. It's cold, the kind of chill that comes after a humid day, just minutes before the rain leaves the clouds. Soon water will slicken the cobblestone, bounce off the gravel as if angry with the concept of gravity.

The tires make a harsh crackling over the drive. He's already pulling out of the gates--not the motorcycle he arrived on, but the black pickup Xavier's payroll furnished. A used model (though he could certainly afford better), chosen because Logan said it'd be healthy for the garage to meet a little rust. And the windows aren't tinted, like the others. I can see the hard set to his shoulders, the head of brown hair that doesn't twist, doesn't glance back. Not once.

I yell for him, but it comes out as a croak. Logan should have been able to hear me anyway.

But he doesn't.

And the pickup screeches at the jerky turn.

And he doesn't stop, just like he didn't open the library door.

And the gates swing shut.

And the rocks cut my feet. I'm not wearing shoes.

And I'm screaming for real now, but he can't hear me. Or doesn't want to.

And I'm crying.

And I'm alone.

And I scream. And scream. And scream. And scream.

Logan.

Logan.

Logan.

"Stop it," Jubilee's fingers, digging into my elbows. I don't know how long she's been there. She doesn't say anything else, for which I will always be grateful.

I want to keep screaming.

My airways are thick with the kind of pain that clogs when you cut it off suddenly. I feel like lights are shutting down in me, one after the other. The occasional tear wells over, trickles down my cheek to join the rest on my shirt collar. But most of them stay, a cold sheen over my eyes that turn everything into a smear.

Jubilee pulls me back into the school, and I go without protest. I'm meek, pliable as a doll. You could shove me into a furnace and I wouldn't even squeak. Of course, fire wouldn't hurt half as much as this.

Logan.

"Jesus. What's the matter with her?"

"She's lost it."

"Leave her alone." .

Of all the faces turned my way, her's is the only one that's clear to me.

Jean is poised at the foot of the staircase. She gives me a low, unreadable stare from red-rimmed eyes. Looks down at her dress, which she smooths, and then back up. Jean's body is a little slumped, or at least not straight with that airy self-confidence. I neither know or care if it's an act.

I approach her using muscles that work like an engine about to break--by habit alone. If thinking were required to walk, I wouldn't have made it off the driveway.

"Rogue," Jean greets soberly. Her voice quavers, just a bit. "I know how you must feel. You may be angry, inclined to place some measure of blame on me. However, you will soon realize whatever I have done was for your benefit. He would have left soon any--"

It's strange, that a telepath couldn't see the blow coming. Of course, I didn't know I was going to to hit her either, so maybe that's why.

I also didn't know my skin would be turned on.

As my knuckles connect with the fine bones of her cheek, Jean's face exhibits shock, and then agony, which deepens with the suction of a mutation long suppressed. Veins bulge out of creamy skin; her jaw clicks into a locked position. And then she's falling.
Her slender, high-healed legs fold under her at an unnatural and certainly painful angle. The back of her skull clips the bottom step and then Jean is still.

There are shouts, many voices. I feel nothing, not even the humming half-excitement-half-terror that used to come with touching someone. I go upstairs and no one stops me--perhaps too busy attending to Jean, or too afraid of my very much exposed skin.

My feet seem to weigh a ton each. So tired. I can feel dregs of Jean's power pulsating in my chest; they'll disappear before I can learn to use them. It was a brief touch, so I didn't get much. Just those dregs--maybe enough to make a paperclip twitch, and a loose clutter of her memories struggling for an available slot in my overcrowded brain. She thinks about Scott. Alot. Arguments, weeks without speaking to each other, a pregnancy scare. He left days after she got her period. And she thinks about me. And Logan. I feel her anger. Her longing.

As I reach the door to the room I shared so long with someone else, I see Jean kiss Logan. I see her legs winding around his hips, and how he grabbed at her. Despair, like a physical laceration, cuts through my marrow. I shudder, push Her deep down into my mind, into a box like Magneto.

Grey, miserable room. Half-open drawers, empty of Logan's clothes and Logan.

A resounding, booming silence that says--once someone was here, but now they're gone.

I quietly close the door, take the last few steps to the bed. Noiselessly let my body drop, curl up on the sheets. I can't imagine ever moving again.

There's a great ripping inside me, like all my organs and nerves are separating, draining out. I thought I'd known what empty meant.

Tears reemerge--or maybe I was wrong, and I'd been crying the whole time. They run sideways, over the bridge of my nose to the covers.

I'm quiet, except for a few whimpers.


&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&




An animal roars, from deep inside him. The Wolverine is throwing himself against the metal bars of his subconscious cage, sending vibrations up Logan's throat. Not fury: anguish. He wants to howl.

Instead, he presses his lips tightly together, shoves his tongue against the roof of his mouth to stifle even a growl.

Her eyes are wide and dark and wet, and every nanosecond spent looking into them makes turning away more inconceivable. And if it's inconceivable, isn't it impossible? He has to stay. He has to stay.

'You don't matter', Logan tells himself. Only, always, Marie.

For her, Logan thinks, and pulls his gaze away. For her, he thinks, and twist his body. For her, he thinks, and walks step by step to the door. Pain. So much of Logan's self had been stitched into Marie; he expects to peer down and find his chest bloody. Strips of his soul--if he has one--ripped, clinging to his girl. For her. For her. For her.

She stands stock-still, crying quietly, and Logan fight not to jump at the opportunity, because there's an emotion inexplicably lacking in her scent. Relief. He wants to think some part of Marie wants him. But all he can smell is grief. Logan can see now that how selfish he has been, blind to how he's been hurting her.

He's sure that the relief will come later. After he's gone. She'll heal, move one.

It's quite literally the only the only thing that keeping him glued together.

Out of deference, Logan shuts the library door. Marie doesn't like others to see her cry. He hopes that Jubilee will come and comfort her. Yellow is an idiot, but at least she can keep the vultures away.

(For her. For her. For her. For her.)

It would be easier to walk out the door right now, ('Easier being, of course, a relative term. Hit by a car instead of a train), while he still has some measure of nerve. But everything he owns is upstairs. Clothes he could, and had, live without. But without money and his car keys, returning would be too much a temptation.

And perhaps he imagines the library door opening. Marie running out and throwing her arms around him. Saying she believes him, forgives him, loves him.

The door stays closed.

Maybe--maybe in a minute or two...

It's hard to think that she is only two inches of wood and a strip of Persian carpet away, when so much else is between them.

(For her. For her. For her.)


Logan hurries to the stairs, around a couple popcorn-bearing girls who don't seem fazed by his disheveled state. They've seen it too often. He spots Jean at the far end of the kitchen. The redhead raises her arm, mouthes the word 'wait', but Logan doesn't give her a second glance.

He rushes up to their bedroom--just hers now, he supposes with a sharp flinch. Gathers his stuff into a dusty pack that had been pushed, over time, into the back of the wardrobe. Shirts, pants, belt, wallet. The sight of her toothbrush alone in the little green mug almost breaks him.

Their unmade bed, the indent of Marie's head still in the pillow and he remembers trying to hold her. Books and pictures and playing cards, all things she'd held in those lily-soft hands. The ultrasound in the bedside table. There was only one copy, and it was unquestionably hers.

Logan wants to cram all of those items into his pack, take as much of Marie with him as he could. He restricts himself to a couple of her blouses--none of her favorites, nothing she might miss. Just a few pieces of her scent he can indulge his torture affinity with.

Logan?, a telepathic voice speaks hesitantly, and he slams down all the shields in his head. He doesn't have the energy right now for Chuck.

Back down a staircase he'd descended more times than any other. Little contractions in his chest when he sees that library door still closed, hears her heart beating and little gasping breathes from behind it. He swallows, ignores the burn that begs, 'One more try.'

Jean is waiting for him, as she always seems to be. Lines in her forehead he hadn't noticed before, a hopeful expression that's somehow vulgar. She lays her hand on the banister, but in his mind she's touching his arm again. Logan is too preoccupied with his own self-loathing to blame the doctor, but her desperate green eyes still spark a dangerous revulsion.

"Please, Logan. May I have a word with you?"

"No."

"It would just take a moment."

"No."

He hears her sniffle back a sob, from behind him. Smells frustration and heartbreak. But maybe that's just him.





(For her. For her. For her.)

An ornamental string of Chinese symbols--love, peace, prosperity--last year's Christmas gift from Marie, hang from the rearview mirror. They sway and jingle with the movement of the pickup. There's a chiwawa bobblehead on the dashboard that she put there as a joke, a shoelace in the cup holder that the once broke--neither of which Logan ever got around to throwing away. She's imprinted on every part of his life.

His hands shake, and he misses the ignition slot the first few tries. Then Logan grits his teeth, clamps an iron grip about his body and thoughts. Squishes any and all emotion far, far down. An old trick. His spine straightens; his muscles tense; his shoulders harden. Anyone looking would see the fine-tuned killing machine who had stalked the Canadian Wilderness for years...before meeting Marie.

You are The Wolverine, Logan tells himself. You are in control. Dignified.

He ignores the animal part of his conscious. It's whimpering.

Rolling, purple and ebony clouds are expanding from the North. He'll be driving right into them, but it feels more like the blue sky above him is retreating--sucked back toward the mansion and Marie. Logan fixes his gaze on the strip of the driveway just a few feet ahead of the pickup--no further.

When he passes through the gates, Logan is so focused on the breaks that he nearly forgets to turn. He jerks the wheel fiercely--although driving into the trees feels like a beautiful idea. He grips the cracked, rubbery leather tightly, flails for that control, and drives toward the thunderstorm.

(For her. For her. For her. For her. For her.For her. For her. For her. For her. For her.For her. For her. For her. For her. For her.)




~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~




There is an ache between my legs, like a curling iron burn after it's been smothered in cold cream. And each time I move--even slightly--it pinches. And I have the feeling it's only a precursor, will grow steadily more painful throughout the day.

I couldn't care less.

Every time I feel that stinging, I'm reminded of how it came to be and that's--that's a very nice thought.

We are a strange pile of limbs. My cheek rests on his shoulder, and the arm of that shoulder stretches down my back, cradling. Our legs are tangled, wrapped over and around each other. His are bent a little, just enough to not crush my thighs. I'm straddling him from the side and it shouldn't be comfortable, but it is.



I'm not sure how long we've been asleep. A long time, I think. But the light coming through the window is the creamy brand of early morning. I'm still tired, but awakening quickly by the sight of his fingers splayed out on his stomach, mine right beside them. That's the kind of image that sends a jolt of adrenaline right through your bloodstream. I can see where that line of hair leads now, nothing obstructing my view. The strands become darker, curlier, and wrap around the base of a fleshy strip who's base is stained red. I recognize my blood with the most quiet of shocks, blinking rapidly. He's half....ummm....half up.

As I watch, the muscle stiffens, rises like it's being inflated with a balloon pump. I blush so hard it feels like a match was stricken and held to my cheeks. Oh. My. God.

What we've done should have rid me of any and all self-consciousness. I mean, if you've had something in you, you should be able to look at it. Right? But despite this logic, I find myself embarrassed, mortified. I shouldn't...I shouldn't look at...at that. That's his. That's private.

Slut, condemns the voice of my mother--the memory of her, at least. Cheap whore.

I shove the words back to their corner, but squeeze my eyes shut anyway.

In the next half-instant, Logan's fingers are off his chest and in my hair. I didn't know he was awake. He runs the digits through the strands, gently separating the tangles. It feels good. So good.

"Mornin', Baby."

Have I mentioned how much I love that endearment? So soft and warm it seems to caress my ear. And when Logan speaks--even quietly--his throat rumbles, sends vibrations all through his chest. It tickles.

I open my eyes, straighten my neck to see his face. Our foreheads brush against each other. I'm close enough to count the pores on his cheeks, should I choose to do so.

I'm not really sure what the Morning-After protocol is. Nobody ever sat me down and layed out what was expected of me. But Logan's eyes don't say, 'I'm done, you're done--get out.' He appears comfortable, at peace. "Good morning."

"You sleep okay?", he queries. I've never heard such tenderness in his, or anyone's, voice before.

I'm aware of how his right hand brushes the base of my spine and a little further down, a spot I've never pictured anyone holding. How I'm pasted to his side, my ribs fitting into the grooves of his. How that dark, wet part my body touches his hip bone and makes some muscle in me tingle, contract.

"Ye--"

Suddenly, Logan smiles, broadly. He plucks a piece of General Tso's from my hair, holds it up in front of me.

"Oh!", I gasp. Will I ever be able to stop blushing around him? I laugh a little, helplessly, and his nose rubs my cheek, nuzzling affectionately. It's gross, but more evidence of Sex With Logan is never an unpleasant thing.

"Do you think--can I use your shower?" I ask hesitantly.

He pulls back.

"Of course." He seems surprised.

I maneuver myself into an awkwardly upright position. My limbs feel like they've never been used before. Fresh off the factory line. Too weak for complicated things like standing. I'd like to flop back down and curl up with him, but I don't want 'grimy' to be the first adjective to come to Logan's mind when he thinks of me.

Everything smells like soy sauce. I won't be able to eat an eggroll the same way again.

I tense a little, involuntarily. The bathroom is on the left side of the room, several feet away. I'm naked. Really naked. Really really naked. And I know what you're thinking: I've been naked all this time and it shouldn't be a news flash now. And it's not. It's just...it's a little different when you're so close, no one is in full view.

My clothes lay on the floor, but my pants are on his side of the mattress. Besides, how stupid would it be to get dressed, just to go to the bathroom?...I think about wrapping the comforter around me, like in the movies, but it's dirty and Logan might think I'm immature. He's just laying there, with his head propped up on the pillow. Eyeing me boldly, completely unabashed about the state either of us are in. Little tolerant smirk that says something about me is hilarious.

Aw, screw it.

I swing my legs around. My feet want to recoil from the chill of the floor. Up. Make my way around the bed frame. I try not to clench, or suck in my stomach but I don't quite succeed. Try to pretend that Logan isn't staring, that I don't look like a mess. I fight the urge to cover what parts I can with my hands.

Downside-up boxes and noodles squished into the carpet at the foot of the bed. I tiptoe through the mess.


His bathroom is larger than mine, though that's not saying much. Warm, creamy marble. Mahogany. An 'X' engraved into the sink's metal. Dirty sock by the toilet. Empty whiskey bottle on the counter where you'd usually find mouthwash. Towels bunched together, a few falling off the rod. Little puddles on the floor. Half-used soap bar, generic shampoo--neither scented.

You'd never mistake this for a girl's bathroom.

I'm leaning over the rim, pull up the little bar over the spout. Adjust the shower nozzle, and I hear the mattress creak.

And then he's behind me.

I straighten, spin slowly. Gulp.

Logan's shoulders are loose today, at ease. The lines around his eyes aren't scrunched together in coping or strategy. He's so much calmer than me, and that's good. It lets me know how I should act.

I try to keep my eyes above the waist.

He scratches his neck, raises an eyebrow at me as if to say, 'Go on'.

I blink. Does he...does he...does he want to get in the...in the shower with me?....Uhmmmm.....Ummm....How would that....I've never.....How....


"You want me to wait 'til you finish?" Logan asks, kindly.

Yes? No? I don't know. How many times has he showered with other people? I mean, how do you clean...those places with someone watching?

"No. Uh...I mean, if you--if you want." I try to smile, but my mouth only twitches, spastically.

He grins, reaches around me to twist the shower handles. Water spritzes out, over my back. Though it's warm, my skin reacts to the sudden tickle. Logan edges me back, over and into the tub. The ache flares when I lift my leg, and a little more fluid trickles out to join the dried stain on my thighs.

He follows me in. There's not much room in here--three feet length wise, at best. And I think I need to mention again how large Logan is. Everywhere I turn there's his arm, or his chest, or his--

"How do you feel?" Logan murmurs.

Hot spray hitting my hair, slickening it down. Little streams running into the drain. His eyes.

"I'm okay."

His lips turn up again. Before I can think, the back of his hand rubs, taps between my legs. I jump.

"I meant here."

I flush, look away.

"Oh. It, um, hurts. A bit."

I wish I was cooler. I wish I could bring back that limp casualness from last night.

"Sorry about that," Logan says seriously, and picks up a blue washrag hanging over the side of the tub.

I haven't been washed by someone else since I was a baby--by my mother, in our kitchen sink. And this...this is certainly a far cry from that.

Logan presses the cloth against my skin, gently pulls it up and down. I feel so small, so secure. I measure each lungful of air against the rise and fall of his shoulders. I let my muscles loosen; my cheek falls and comes to land beneath his collar bone.

I'm right under the nozzle, but he's hardly getting clean at all. I feel guilty about that for a moment, before Logan kisses my brow and urges me to tilt my head back.

I used to hate this part, ever since I was a child at the hair salon. I'd choke, uncomfortable with my exposed throat and someone else's opinion of the right angle. I don't think twice about it, with him.

I keep my eyes closed as he works a soapy lather into my hair. It's still hard to breathe, arched like this. I learn that his body feels even firmer when wet, rigid like cobblestone.

I can feel that part of him, stiff against my leg. The flesh there is silky, not what I'd expect and probably not that way anywhere else on him. I forget the pain, recall that second time we did it when the twinges were so powerful I screamed and shook for a half hour afterwards.

I find myself balancing on one leg, trying to hook the other around his waist. Wanting that again. But Logan groans, pushes my leg down a bit and touches me instead. Separates the little folds of flesh. Inserts--inserts his fingers--I'm not sure how many--just barely inside. Tugging and pressing. Jamming his thumb against a spot right above and circling it.

I jerk, bang my head against the wall. Can't form words. Can't understand how he's doing what he's doing, how he knows how to manipulate my body into reactions I never planned to make. I can't speak. My head is thrown back; water trickles into my open mouth and I swallow convulsively.


I've always imagined that who you were was determined by the words you hear in your mind, that first-person narrator of your conscious that translates your emotions and prompts your actions. I thought my Self was in my brain, and that my body was just a well-designed carriage that allows me to move around.

I was wrong.

Everything--everything that is me is in my limbs, my cartilage and tissue and skin and pounding blood. More specifically, the place Logan is touching. Stroking. Pulling. And I'm reasonably certain that if he takes his hand away, I'll die. It's that simple. I'm convinced that nothing in me was really awake, that every idea I ever nursed was just nonsense to keep me occupied until that moment when absolutely no thought is possible.

I'm grabbing his arms as tight as I can, but if Logan wasn't holding me close, holding me up, I'd have collapsed long ago. The shower knobs are poking into my back; Water is stinging in my eyes. Tears of exertion and soap spring out. I can't see Logan's face, but he's growling.

I'm just beginning to come down, my tendons starting to unbuckle from their exquisite clench. I slump forward, my brain like cotton-candy. Like electricity, the current of pleasure left me dizzy and weak.

Logan kisses my shoulder. "Good girl," he says, and his voice sounds pained. I don't understand, until his knee slides up, nudges mine apart again.

It's not slow or particularly tender. He doesn't speak at all this time, and I would mistake these blunt thrusts for savage, angry, if it weren't for the way his hand cradles my skull.

It isn't long before those twinges set off in my stomach again. I finish with a choked yell, he with a barely-audible grunt.

White spots of light.

Stars-no fireworks.

Am I breathing?

A tickling bonelessness all through my thighs.

Soft kisses.

Lifting my head, even twitching my index finger would require too much strength and concentration. I can't understand how he's capable of keeping himself, let alone me, standing. How he's able to switch off the shower and pick me up.

Cold air.

A towel.

More cold air.

And then Logan's admantium-strengthened legs beneath me.
I doze on his lap, while his hand resumes it's earlier position in my hair.



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He'd done alot of things with women in bed, but sleeping wasn't one of them. No matter how exhaustive the activities had been, Logan always made sure he was awake enough to leave or escort the woman to the door (paying her, if necessary). Open eyes might mean the difference between a one-night-stand or a bloody end for his bed mate, and he had only to remember that to keep himself conscious.

So how is it that he broke that long-held custom with the one girl he had already clawed, the one girl he feared harming most of all?

In the second that Logan transferred from Asleep to Awake, he felt no surprise to find Marie beside him. No flicker of that slumber-induced amnesia. He knew she was there: her scent, the weight of her body was not something The Wolverine could be unaware of. The only shock Logan experienced was at not having pieces of her fear congesting his airways. When he realizes that the next few moment won't involve adamantium and a perforated lung, Logan closes his eyes and draws a shuddery breath of relief. Euphoria.


She's pressed securely against him. Marie's skin is moist and he's desperately grateful for her mutation's inactivity. The pillowy tips of her fingers trace absent, reflexive circles on his stomach. Logan wonders when she first stirred, bites back a little disappointment. He'd imagined kissing her awake.

Her head is down and he stresses over that stringent embarrassed scent and it's cause. He's not equipped to deal with a young girl having second thoughts.

Logan reaches up, caresses Marie's hair lightly. His instinct's answer to the necessity of comfort. he delves his fingers into the locks, pulls at the tousled knots. Grooming.

"Mornin', Baby," Logan says, making his voice slow and nonthreatening. Testing. Already preparing for the worst and wanting to quash any last-minute regrets before embarrassed becomes anxious and anxious becomes afraid.

Marie lifts her head.

He feels tiny muscles in his body shift her way, tugged as if by magnets. It won't be long 'til the rest of him follows. Her eyes probe his face, searching. And that uncertainty, faint as it may be, keeps Logan still.

"Good morning," she whispers. His morning hard-on twitches in response to the low register, and he hopes it won't alarm her.

"You sleep okay?"

Her irises darken without warning, and arousal joins the fragrance of blood and Singapore noodles. She bucks slightly, rubbling, and he nearly whimpers. She's going to kill him.

Marie starts to say 'yes', but the sound dies off when he pulls the piece of Chinese food from her hair. They must have rolled in it, and ain't that an the perfect image to have in his head when he's trying not to roll over and fuck her silly.

Logan makes himself grin at her. It would be good if Marie relaxed, learned now that she doesn't have to take everything in bed seriously.

"Oh!" she cries out, and chokes out a little giggle. That circle her mouth forms could make a man cry. He wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her.

Logan pulls his leash tight, reminds himself of the delicacy the next few minutes require. Breathe in. Breathe out. Stay still.

"Do you think--can I use your shower?", Marie stammers, flushes. Looks at Logan as if expecting him to physically kick her off the mattress and out the door. He tries not to bristle at the insult. How could she know what he's done with other women?

"Of course," he tells her quietly.

Logan watches Marie sit up, notes how her shoulders hunch and head twist this way and that. Her fidgeting might be comic if he weren't so concerned...and if that crescent-shaped curve of her left breast wasn't distracting him. He makes sure his tongue stays in his mouth, and the smile stays on his lips. A little shyness is okay, natural for a virgin (not that he's an expert in that class), as long as she doesn't get worked up enough to bolt.

He doesn't think The Wolverine would let her.


He had a half-formed resolve to lay in bed and wait for Marie to get cleaned up, calmed down. But that plan snaps like a twig--a termite infested twig. She's bashful and inelegant and completely unaware of how she's twisting his insides. Logan is torn between saying, 'aw', and pinning her to the wall.

Marie treads around the bed and into the bathroom, her gait just a little too quick. She doesn't look at him, keeps her hips angled slightly away...giving him the perfect view of some well-place dimples that he wants desperately to bite. Marie's muscles are tight and Logan thinks about making her stand in front of him spread-legged until that blush reaches her ankles or she realizes how desirable she is.

Maybe later, he tells the part of him that's nodding enthusiastically to this idea and eagerly suggesting others.

Slow, Logan tells himself, not entirely sure of the word's definition. You have to take things slow with this one. Careful. Slow. Slow. Slow.

But he half-leaps out off the bed the moment she's out of view.



Marie's eyes grow cartoonishly large when he steps into the small room behind her. It's priceless, and oh he's going to corrupt every bone in her body. Logan isn't sure whether he's more guilty or excited at the prospect. He's laughing inside, but trying to keep a straight face lest she be offended.

Her toes are curled and her spine is bent shyly and Logan thinks, Slow. He'll give her privacy if Marie thinks she needs it. He can manage that.

Marie's needs and those of his body are locked in a tug-of-war match. Each time one of them wins the title of Top Priority, the feeling slips back to Unimportant before it can be fulfilled.

"You want me to wait 'til you finish?"

It's interesting, that bloom of surprised curiosity in her scent, laced with a strip of lust. And his priorities shift again.

"No. Uh...I mean, if you--if you want."

Several flustered moments and a staring contest (which Marie looses) pass, and she reveals no intention of moving. Logan decides to help her along. Steps forward and leans, grabs the false crystal knob. Streams of water jumping out. Her nipples tickling his chest.

He could write a book, A Thousand and One Things To Do With Women, all less tame that taking a shower...Many of which are banned in forty-four states, and under debate in the remaining six. But that Bambi-shocked expression is precious, and he isn't bored. He could get addicted to that look.

Marie wriggles, as if trying to find the perfect groove in the tub, the perfect place to stand. Logan grabs her shoulders, pulls her just under the water, facing him. There's pain on her face, and he remembers the place in her that's especially new to this.

"How do you feel?"

She blinks, sweetly. Stares at him. "I'm okay."

"I meant here."

"Oh...It, um, hurts. A bit."

"Sorry about that," Logan tells her, and means it. He wants her to look at him. Wants to make that nervousness disappear. He does his best.

A rag and deft fingers. Water sluicing off crusted blood and semen.Some carefully-chosen pressure points; gentle, skilled massaging until she's comfortable, malleable in his arms. An animal tending to his female. He's breathing through his nose, and moving by instinct. Hands running over her shoulders, her scalp with shampoo that seemed to appear from nowhere.

Her well-being and his want stop their fight for dominance, merge together into a warm throbbing deep inside him. Logan stares at the soft white petals of her eyelids, and everything slows down.

There's a noiseless, steady pulse that directs his movements, like the bass rhythm in an orchestra. It continues to feel that way, slow, even when he places his fingers in that little crevice. Even when she undulates and gasps. Even when he replaces fingers with his shaft, and the rest of him flies--untethered and frantic and static shakes every cell in his body.


The Wolverine lurches free, desperate to cover as much ground as possible before Logan locks him away again. And That pulse still beats, an unfaltering: Marie. Marie. Marie. Marie. Marie. Marie. Marie. Marie.Marie.

Overlap: Chapter Five




Days slip by, weeks. I'm not sure how many, nor would I care if you told me the number. I live in a cold mist that leaves my mind--what little that remains--numb, my skin clammy and my eyes wet.

He's not here.

I eat, go to the bathroom, when I remember to, when I absolutely must. Jubilee used to drop off 'Care Packages'--crackers and peanut butter and fruit roll ups--until Hank made her stop. He said that if I don't take care of myself, we'll have to talk about medication. So I try. I really, really try. To remember food, to brush my hair, to not make so much noise that somebody comes to check on me.

Sometimes I forget.

And he's not here.

I store up all my lucidity for those thirty minutes or so when I must convince others to let the sharp objects in my room remain there. As long as I make that long walk to the kitchen at least once a day, I'm mostly left alone, to my own devises. And without Logan, that isn't much.

I spend most of the time when I'm not pretending I'm still human curled up in a ball. Staring at the wall or my knees or nothing at all, and you'd be surprised how easily that is to do. I'm not always certain of the details of last week, or yesterday, but that doesn't bother me. I know it can't have been to different from today. Occasionally I get out that ultrasound, touch the upper corner, the shape Hank had labelled as an arm. But I can't see my son anymore. Just blue and black squiggles.

I stand--sometimes sit, if my knees won't hold me--in the shower and forget what I'm supposed to be doing. An hour, two hours. That bar of soap gets heavier and heavier until it falls out of my hand. The water goes from warm to tepid to cold to absolutely freezing, but it's all the same to me. I barely feel the spray. My eyes are glazed and my lips are parted and I'm someplace else.

And I think about happy things, the really beautiful things in life that are so bright they have no choice in the end but to burn in on themselves. Until there's nothing left but char to show that once upon a time, something had been good.


In old films, they'd show you the spinning hand of a clock, the flipping of calender pages. I have no such measurement to offer.

I know that it is colder outside. The mansion's heater clicks on every half hour or so.

I know The Professor fell, lost control of his wheelchair outside. Jubilee keeps chanting the words "old age" and nodding wisely. She says there was hardly any snow or ice on the ground at all, but the gardeners were ordered to spread salt on every inch of cobblestone. Everyone's coats smell like the sea.

I know that Jean has recovered from my touch; I can hear her yelling at the students, the cleaning staff, about wet shoe prints and mud.

I know that she and Xavier and all the other residents have begun to lose interest in me. Jubilee's, even Ororo's, lectures on "moving on" sound forced these days, obligatory, and I think they long to follow their own advice. Their visits will shrink, become increasingly infrequent until they won't even be capable of meeting my gaze when I'm downstairs. It's fine. I'm glad for them.

Constant sadness is boring. I think I learned that lesson better than any other here.

I know that my body's schedule is wrong. Sometimes I get to the kitchen right before lunch, other times so late that even the night owls have gone to bed.

I know that my eyes are closed more than they are open. And I'm absolutely positive every time I awake that this time Logan will be here. He's just in the bathroom, outside in the hall, on his way with breakfast. But inevitably I'll start blinking. And it will occur to me how rarely Logan left my side when I was asleep. And if he's here, why am I clinging to his flannel shirt--the one I'd pulled from the dirty laundry on the day I hunted down absolutely every scrap he left behind. A cigar stub, a receipt for oil and another for Valentine's Day chocolates, beer caps, a wrench, and the cell phone issued to the Xmen.

This shirt is my prize. I'd been hysterical when I pulled it out of our hamper. Held it to my nose and rocked back and forth and wept frantically. Deep, ratcheting sobs that leave splinters in your throat because they are hungry more for air than tears. They tug at the lining of your lungs, your stomach, until you can't decide if you're more exhausted or dizzy. The first time I experienced those sobs, with that shirt, I stayed on the bathroom floor until I drifted off to sleep. And I thought, I wouldn't wish this on anybody. Not on anybody. Not even Jean, because a small, quiet place inside me says she's already done it; she already knows.


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Logan made a mistake with her shirts.

He shouldn't have taken the ones Marie wouldn't miss. He should have brought her favorites, the ones that she wears most frequently. The ones that care the most skin oils, the most sweat, the most Marie.

He pretends she's there in the blouses long after her fragrance starts to fade out, hunts ghost scents in his own belongings, in the lining of the pickup. Her body's signature dims first, them Marie's shampoo, then the detergent she favored.

And when no vestige of Westchester is left, when the shirts are nothing but fabric--spoiled by Canadian air and too much handling--Logan's sanity goes with it.

After leaving Xavier's, he had driven without pause for anything but gas, trying to snap the elastic band that threatened to send him flying back to Marie with every spin of his tires. Logan crossed the continent, and it wasn't far enough. He buried himself in Canada, tried to get back to what he did best and found he was no longer good at it.

Conscious or otherwise, there is never a moment when Logan isn't thinking of Marie. Not a minute when The Wolverine doesn't have his teeth sunk in, isn't biting at his mind. Not a single fucking second when the animal lets Logan forget how he broke the most important, most iron clad of Nature's laws.

You don't abandon your mate.

Ever.

He did.


Cage fights hold no interest for him. They're just a convenient supply of physical pain, a way for him to keep moving down the road. He gives challengers more time to knock him around before striking back, even allowing a few to win. Logan enjoys the well-placed kick, the jab to his stomach, the brass knuckles snuck in to the ring. All things he deserves (though not enough, never enough) but can't do to himself. He becomes tired, forgets why defending himself could ever be a good idea.

A bar, a fight, a man grown overconfident by The Wolverine's lack of response. His taunts, the screaming jeers of the crowd, a knee that crash-lands dangerously close to his testicles. Logan wonders if Marie has been eating enough. Did Marie buy a new winter jacket? It's getting cold out, and last year her coat was getting thin.

"Stupid pussy. Just give it up now. Made a real big mistake gettin' in this cage, bitch."

Logan pictures her life slowly moving forward, healing. And then he sees the inevitable. Boys. Bobby and Pyro and all the other nameless threats that had always been there, waiting for a chance with his girl. Men jumping to fill the space he'd left.

It takes eleven men to pull Logan off of his opponent. He'd battered in the man's skull.



And he wonders when he became the kind of man whose hands never stop shaking. The kind of man prostitutes fear--or perhaps pity--enough to turn down.

And in his dreams, Marie is screaming. And he never reaches her before the sound cuts off.

And the barkeepers start refusing to place his name on the fight list. The owners tell him, "We let in drinkers, but not drunks." And Logan wants to scream at them, Don't you know I'm The Wolverine? I don't get drunk.

And he thinks about people, and how easily they break. How Marie and he tore each other to shreds with the best of intentions.


~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~




"What are you doing?"

I can't remember falling asleep (though, honestly--who can?); I thought I was just resting. My body feels like it's tied down with those sandbags that control theatre curtains. Keeping my eyes open is an act defiant of gravity. I'm curled up like a cat in Logan's chair, my head on pillow supposedly placed there by him. It's soft and cool and I'd trade it in a heartbeat for his brick-hard arm--the absence of which must have woken me up.

Logan is stripping the covers off the bed, one at a time, until I can see the purple flower pattern woven into the bare mattress. There are red splotches, damp looking. I guess those are from me.

He barely glances at me. "Gonna take these down to the laundry room. Get some fresh sheets and cleaning shit for the floor."

I blink, inexplicably confused at what sounds like daily life. I slowly conclude that our night is officially over, try to work out what that means for me. We were both supposed to be at Team Practice today, but it's probably over by now. I wouldn't go anyway. I'm too sleepy. And sore. And spending the day analyzing what happened fits more smoothly into my schedule.

I've got the towel he dried me with draped over my waist. I pull it up, press it to my chest. It doesn't cover much.

Get ready for that gentle let down speech, my practical--though not particularly kind--side warns me. Save your fantasies for later. Don't embarrass yourself. Don't act like a girl. Just appreciate what you have of him, while you have it.

And I do. I do.

I reach down, snag my blouse. Where did my bra get to?

"What are you doing?" Logan demands, lifting his head and frowning.

I flush. Guess he thinks it'd be wrong to put these on again, especially with that soy sauce stain. Though I'm reasonably certain Logan has reworn clothes a time or two. What other choice do I have?

"I didn't bring anything else," I explain.

He nods toward the dresser. "You can borrow one of my shirts."

"But I can't walk all the way to my bedroom in just that. It's two floors down."

"Why do you need to go to your room?"

"Because that's where I live. Oddly enough."

Logan sets the heap of covers down, crosses over to the chair.

He places one hand on the armrest, bends down. I lean back reflexively, not intimidated--okay, yes intimidated.

"I meant," Logan speaks quietly, "why do you have to go at all?"

His eyes burn with an intensity that suits a very different question much better. I draw in a shuddering breath, feel a balmy relief smooth over me. "I-I g-guess I d-don't," I stutter.

The ups and downs of my emotions are more like a jackhammer than a roller coaster. They're starting to wear me out. Logan trails his knuckle over my stomach, and I relax.





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It all happened so fast...God, what am I describing? A bank robbery? It's more as if I was pushed off a hill. Rolling, tumbling, faster and faster. Stop? How could I? Why would I?

I'm not going to say that there are no opportunities to think about what we're doing. There are. There are plenty. But I lock those voices of practicality and doubt and my mother out of my mental conferences.

Those first few days--about three or four, I think, but perhaps as many as five--I never step a foot outside Logan's door.

In that time, I don't think his hands ever left me for more than thirty-minute intervals. I forget when 'dressed' meant anything other than his shirt.

Not that I'm dressed very often.

I've never been touched so much, so constantly. It had taken me so long to gain control over my skin--not that my parents were much inclined toward cuddles and kisses. And ever since that long-sought breakthrough I've been excited, thrilled, with every handshake, every brush of shoulders. You'll find me drunk with happiness hours after a hug.

But this...

This...

This is no handshake.



These days swallow my wildest dreams, overflow every pore that had been starving for touch. And sometimes, somehow, make me hungry again. I let waves of pleasure carry me through hour after hour, as Logan turns my body into mercury, tame lave. His to play with.

He's like the activities director on a cruise ship. He's always, you know...ready. I don't think he even sleeps. But if Logan does, then it's long after I've passed out, and he's up, ready to go, long before my eyes open.

I suggest once or twice, that we have to go outside. That I have training. That The Professor is going to me mad at me for missing so many sessions. Logan looks t me, says "Yeah". Then he'll kiss whichever body part is nearest to him--my neck, my stomach, my ankle. And in a few minutes I'll have no idea who Xavier is.

I begin to suspect he does this on purpose.

Every few hours Logan gets this look on his face, and he will yank on a pair of sweatpants. He tells--no, orders me to stay where I am and hurries out of the room. It doesn't usually bother me, because when he leaves I rarely find myself in a moving frame of mind.

Logan returns so fast I imagine he jogged the whole way. With food--which for some reasons he calls "provisions"--or lotion, condoms or aspirin. Once he made me sit in the tub with warm oils for two whole hours. He knelt by the rim and played with my hair, or teased me with the washcloth, but nothing more. And I couldn't complain, because when I got out I could move without that stiffness, open my legs without wincing.

He's so...so...focused. When we eat, Logan half-glares at me. He sits still, barely taking a bite, and watches me until my plate is empty. As if I'd try to toss something in the trash if he's not careful. Sometimes I expect him to scoop even the last traces of ketchup up and tell me to open my mouth. But when I set my fork down he'll calmly move the plate to the nightstand. And for the next few hours, food will be the last thing I'll think about.

Every now and then Logan starts certain things that would give all the preachers in Mississippi to coronaries, stuff Sex Ed teachers wouldn't be able to wrap their minds around. I don't like saying no to him, but whenever the blushing in my cheeks is hot enough for me to choke out that timid, "I don't want", Logan hardly blinks. It's like he has too many things in his plans to worry about one of them. I can see him mentally scratch whatever it was off, move onto the next number on a list I'm convinced is infinite.

And perhaps that happens more than every now and then.


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The air in the hall tastes funny. Stringent. In fact, everything outside of Logan's bedroom seems wrong. Too clean. I've stepped onstage but I've already been behind the curtain and this background looks nothing but fake.

Logan tells me to go to my room, start getting my things together. He says he has to talk with The Professor, that he'll come find me later.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


When I reach the Girl's Hall, heads peek out of rooms and pop back in like some enlarged version of whack-a-mole. I hear whispers, scrambling thumps, and several "she's" and "Rogue's". I'm sure it's my paranoia--a side effect of prolonged Logan exposure. But perhaps not, because I've barely opened my door before Jubilee and Kitty are there, prepared to maul me like bears craving honey if I don't supply them with details.

By room fairly rocks with the decibels of their squeals, and they bounce as if the floor is a carpetted trampoline. But I have to be careful, because I know their delight is not purely for triumph. They are acting as reporters, soaking up my words to deliver to the rest of the mansion. That glorious "first-hand-account". This is too much an ancient reality of school life for me to feel betrayed, or irritated, though sometimes I yearn for that mythical trust between friends. And it doesn't matter how vague my descriptions are; by the end of the day everyone will swear that we had a sex fest of epic proportions. Which it was, but that's not my point.

But aside from Kitty and Jubes, and a handful of students bold enough to ask me outright-- "Hey, what did you guys do?", nobody else comes to talk to me. More specifically, none of my old teachers come to question/yell at me. I think Logan must have asked them not to.

I pack my belongings into a duffel bag and two large boxes. Half-hazard, leaving the least desired items scattered around the room. Logan said he wasn't sure if we were staying or going, but to be ready all the same. I'm not worried. My heart's pattering and the carpets tickling my feet through my socks, and no matter where I sleep tonight I know Logan is going to be there. And that makes it fine. Wonderful. Perfect.

I'm cramming the last of my favorite books into the second box--contemplating the sacrifice of a few Stephen Kings for The Thirteenth Tale. Logan knocks--just a few taps with his knuckles, because the door isn't closed all the way.

He says Xavier is giving us a bigger room, the same size as Jean and Scott's. It's not much larger, but it's in a more private wing and doesn't smell like a fast food restaurant. He grins at me, touches my hair. And picks up a box.



:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::



Do you know what it is like to get exactly what you were to frightened to admit you wanted? Please trust me when I say that I hope you do. I really, really hope you do. How do you take something so strong and fantastic and pack it into a format so ordinary as daily life? It's like having access to the best paints, the colors that can make eyes well up without their owners knowing why. A brush who's hairs are so trim and absorbent that the object itself seems to have it's own private ambition for a masterpiece. And then using them on a paint-by-number.


Logan never puts the toilet seat down. He leaves blobs of toothpaste in the sink, his clothes all over the floor. He never makes the bed and I'm always cleaning up ashes from his cigars. He growls when Bobby comes within a fifty-foot radius and nobody wants to be my partner in combat training because if I get a bruise Logan's claws come out.

But he kisses me every morning and whispers that it's okay to go back to sleep, if I want to. He brushes my hair when I get out of the shower, but promises me that it looks good tangled. He holds my hand in front of everyone and lets me take up most of the dresser drawers. If I even hint that I'd like a snack Logan will run to the kitchen and if I don't know what I want he'll bring back plates and plates for me to choose from. Without me asking--and I never would--or Logan saying a word, or bathroom cabinet is filled every month with cotex, feminine wipes, baby powder and Tylenol.

He calls me gorgeous and stares like he means it. He holds me and we go for walks or dinner out or a movie or just stay in bed all day. And I'm in a state above ecstasy right up to the day I hold that stick in my hand and watch that little blue plus sign appear.


::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::



Logan is in Texas, with Scott and Ororo. They're looking into the recent sighting of a blue woman and the more recent disappearance of several known mutants. He calls me every evening. It's been eight nights since he left, six days past the square on my calender where I put that little red dot. And I think about Xavier's lake and the reeds and little twigs floating around us. The tickling laps of the water and how tightly my heels dug into the backs of his thighs.

I go back to Jubilee for a second, a third, a fourth test--which she readily gives on the condition that I never ask why she has them. I stare as the crosses show up, one after the other. Chew my lip and then my nails. And all the while, without any intention to do so on my part, my fingers trace slow and constant circles over my stomach.


::::::::::::::::::


He says that Scott is being a douche and that they haven't found a single blue trace leading them to Mystique. He says he has a headache and, in a gruff, faltering voice that doesn't handle the less-manly emotions well, that he misses me.

I don't speak much, and his warm, throaty voice dies off because I'm usually the one who keeps the conversation going.

I pick at my nightgown, roll the hem up and down compulsively and listen to him breath.

"You tired, Baby?"

I inhale slowly, shakily. Try to imagine I'm talking to someone who matters less. Stare at my pale legs, touch my stomach.

"No." I mumble. I gulp, swallow back nerves and everything I've ever read, seen, or heard about men and their fear of the P-word. I try to imagine something other than me beneath my fingertips. It's strange, how an image can grow, how you can want something so instantly and thoughtlessly.

I address the air in front of me, not the phone's speaker, about the plus sign. And I imagine Logan's hands and his eyes and wonder what would happen if they went away.

I tell him about the many tests I took and there's a deep, gaping pause. And then, it doesn't matter how many states separate us, I can see his smile as if he were sitting right in front of me.

"On my way home, Darlin'."




&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&



The animal took over.

Logan has never before been able to say those words without some form of violence following.

He hadn't even been aware of that primal thrum that should have retreated--or at least not put up much of a fight--after he found release, after he carried Marie out of the shower. But it remains: not an angry pounding in his blood stream, nor a harsh surge that shoves aside any inclination towards humanity. Instead, Logan is overthrown by instincts that languish, give him a false sense of control as they spread insidiously throughout his limbs.

The Wolverine leaves him his tongue, so that the words coming out are soft assurances, words, rather than growls and coarse "turn around's"

And for once, it isn't a bad thing. For once, letting the animal guide him in his dealings with Marie is the right, the perfect thing to do.

Not that Logan has any other choice. The Wolverine's goal is clear--to keep him from fucking things up.





He keeps her in his bedroom until he's certain Marie knows who she belongs to (a concern that takes precedence over everything except her health and others knowing). He makes sure she eats plenty and regularly, that her muscles do not get sore enough to prevent touching. He struts his talents, lets the female know that he can keep her satisfied.

Logan feels no surprise, no bemusement at this unprecedented length of time spent with one girl, too preoccupied with more frantic emotions, borderline panic--because it's not enough.

An hour spent licking the skin at her throat, two hours in the curve of her knee. Six days of listening to Marie whimper, gasp, purr his name.

It's a blink.

He needs more, more. It's not enough. It's not fucking enough.

And the terrifying, incredible, beautiful thing is--Logan doesn't think it ever will be.



Those few minutes downstairs (too far away for comfort) are spent gathering supplies to keep her body strong and fending off verbal assaults from the mansion residents. They wish to interrogate, accuse him. Rally their pitchforks and torches and place Logan on a suitable country road to chase him. Or form a rescue committee, storm his bedroom to see if their Rogue is ductaped to his bed or decomposing under the bathroom sink.

But it's fairly easy to brush them off, not least because their affronted squawks hold no interest for him. Logan's responses consist of grunts, repeated "She's not a child.", "None of your business.", and "Fuck off." He bares his teeth, lets just enough insanity and Wolverine show to make them rethink bothering her, and turns back to the microwave and Marie's dinner.




Logan could have remained cloistered away with her for a month, two months. Hell, forever seems an appealing number. But the smell in the bedroom is starting to get to him, and even his lust-ridden mind knows that it wouldn't be right, wouldn't be healthy, for Marie. The animal permits this train of thought, so it must grudgingly agree.


::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::



He expects Chuck, of all the school's adults, to blow a gasket over his--(Logan's mind stutters over the unfamiliar word "relationship")--with Marie. Not least because it's The Professor's carpet and furniture they're staining, his old student Logan is diddling.

Logan expects it--has already calculated the costs of a used trailer and which part of Canada Marie would most enjoy--but that is not what he receives.

Xavier blinks, listens quietly during Logan's speech (which is brief--"Me n' Rogue are together. You wanna give us a fresh room?"). Wheels plays with an unopened letter on his desk, his thumbs rubbing the corners, preoccupied. Logan notes the looseness of skin over The Professor's knuckles, the thick indigo veins beginning to show through and, faint on the underside of his wrist, a liver spot.

A silence throbs in the office, and he has enough time to read 'Attorney At Law' in fine print on the letter. He thinks Xavier might not have heard him, when the old man smiles, nods.

"Well, allow me to offer my congratulations. I am so pleased for you both. I hope you will treat that young lady with the respect she deserves."

"Thanks. I will."

"Now, I am reasonably sure we have one or two couple suites available that might suffice, though I hope you are not expecting a personalized apartment. My resources are not infinite."

"Close enough."


::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::



She's bent over a cardboard box, hammering a thick, red-bound
text into a gap too thin to fit it. Logan is impressed with how quickly she packed--no arguments or alarm at the short notice. A duffel bag and a couple of boxes, the kind that holiday turkeys are delivered to the mansion's Cook in. More than Logan himself would take, but a light enough load for a woman.

Marie's bent over, her ass so unconsciously displayed that Logan wants nothing more than to unzip and cover her body with his own.

But at his quick knock, her body twists. And that smile is so reflexive, so euphoric, that sex is the last thing on his mind (alright, not the last. But further down the list.). Logan just wants to look at her.

"Hey," Marie chirps, beaming.

"Hey, Baby."




::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


The first time Logan tells Marie, tells anybody, that he loves her, is not in a moment of any particular significance. It's not before or after sex (or not directly). He is neither whispering in her ear or looking down into her eyes, or intending to profess anything at all when it slips out.

She's standing at the bathroom sink. Cotton t-shirt and a white silk skirt. Mixing sugar and vegetable oil and honey together in a bowl and going on and on about how crazy it was for girls to buy body scrubs when--

Logan's not listening. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the indents in the back of her knee, at the jagged ends of her hair. Marie snaps a lid shut, puts her concoction away in the cabinet. He watches her lick a drop of honey off her thumb.

"--skin feels so great and soft afterward. And it doesn't have all those random chemicals they throw in to make the bottle look fancy."

Logan opens his mouth to say, 'Come here.' How could those syllables stretch and melt into--

"I love you."

How?

It's an accident, a blip in his brain, a betrayal of his tongue.

Logan doesn't need to see her face, reflected in the mirror. He doesn't need to see her teeth biting her lip in a smile, that little half-restrained bounce. The wild drumming of Marie's heart tell him enough.

"I love you too," she whispers with her head down, in a voice nowhere near the nonchalance she's aiming for.

Logan grins, thinking it wouldn't be so terrible if his tongue slipped up again.


::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::




Marie won't let him stay in the shower when she shaves her legs. She swears up and down that she won't use his razors, but he'll find the space between the blades clogged later. She complains when Logan doesn't use an ashtray, or put his shirts in the hamper, but her book are everywhere. He can't put his foot down without stepping on one. She begs him to rent pansy chick flicks, but falls asleep halfway through.

And he's not alone. Any time of the day or night he can reach over, feel Marie. See her. Smell her on his skin. Hear her heartbeat. So is it hard, this change of everything he's ever known? No. Easiest thing in the world. He's grateful for every second with her.



:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


"Somebody's gonna see."

"No they won't."

"They will."

"They won't."

"They will!"

"Baby, it's supper time. Everybody's inside that kitchen, stuffing their faces."

"What if somebody goes for a walk?"

"I'll hear 'em."

"What if they see me first?"

"I'll kill 'em."

"What if--"

"Marie, get in the fucking water. You wanted to go skinny dipping."

"I was joking."

"Marie."


She squats and tugs off her clothes reluctantly, looking over her shoulder every few minutes. A bizarre striptease, particularly from Logan's point of view three feet below, already in the water.

He's hard as hell.

Inch by inch Marie scoots over the edge, dropping only at the last minute. She complains about bugs, the cold, their lack of swimwear and what everyone will say if they catch her naked--until he touches her.

They don't swim.

The poles that support the dock are so softened by moss and moisture that the fear of splinters is groundless, laughable. Which is fortunate--because Logan doesn't want Marie's back to get scratched.

Little ripples touch the underside of her breast, cling for a moment and pull away. But they don't rise much higher. Logan holds her up, presses her against the support beams.

Mud. Arousal. Salt. Grass. Her hair. A leaf. Her mouth. Water. Water. Her legs. Warm. Wet. Marie.

Three squares of adamantium are visible between his knuckles and the squishy wood. Pain that's doesn't take much effort to ignore. Logan weighs three hundred pounds, Marie about one-thirty, and if he tried to keep them above water and fuck at the same time they'd drown.

Moist skin. Shoulders going up, down, up. Her eyes closed. Legs twined around him like the thickest of rope. Grunts yanked from his passageway, one by one, like buckets from a well. Shoving himself harder. Marie's lips moving with senseless noises of pleasure. His teeth scraping over her jaw, down the slope of her neck. Little yells, a barely restrained roar, tears of exertion.

Flesh within pulling, siezing, drawing every drop of fire he releases deep inside and holding it there.

Panting, frantic licking. Trying to stay a still as possible. Marie's head lolling. Soft "Mmm's". Growls. A thin reed clinging to her arm. Ripples. Pink skin above her breasts. Crickets singing somewhere. A dragonfly. Still. Be still.

"I love you."

And then a loud beeping. That piece of metal Scott had given him weeks ago and which he had left in his jacket's pocket. At the moment Logan can't think of anything he could have done more stupidly. Above him, with the rest of his discarded clothes. A steady, monotonous ring only slightly better than a alarm clock. Marie doesn't seem to hear, and Logan burries his face in her shoulder, mentally cursing any and all technology.

It stops for a few gloriously silent moments--he thrusts upward, enjoying that sweet clamping of her inner walls--and then begins again.

Marie stirs this time. "Whahizzat?" she mumbles sleepily, her hands weakly gripping him. "'Zatchurr phone?"

"No," Logan tells her, and whoever's calling. He sucks her collar until she gasps. Maybe they could do it on the bank. In the grass. Yeah. With Marie on top, so she won't complain about ants and sand and shit. Yeah. Yeah.


Excuse me, says the last voice in the world Logan wants to hear. I offer my most sincere apologies for disturbing you. I must ask you to join the team in the debriefing room.

'Piss off, you hairless wrinkled fuck', Logan thinks at Xavier, not willing to make concessions to courtesy in his own mind. 'Before I cripple you further.'

I cannot, I'm afraid.,Chuck responds evenly, with none of the fear that should naturally accompany an interruption of Logan and sex. There is a serious situation that I believe requires your presence. One that, as of now, may involve Mystique.



::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


Logan can hear Scott next door, shower pipes and thumping and a male voice that should never be permitted to reach that pitch. It's giving him a sharp headache--though truthfully, he's had one since he kissed Marie goodbye in the hangar of the Blackbird.

He wonders how Scooter can be so cheerful, away from his wife, and concludes (as he has so often) that One-Eye isn't a real man. Scott volunteered for the mission, though Xavier had wanted those team members who could blend in in rural Texas. He had insisted on taking Jean's place in the chosen group, and the red head had looked at her husband not with concern, or surprise, but with fury.

It doesn't take long for Logan's curiosity to fade--about the time that Scott stops singing the latest and greatest of Britney Spears. His thoughts slide back, as they so easily do, to his girl.

It's been eight days, and a very tiny part of him is clinically fascinated by the intensity of his Marie-withdrawal.

Logan clicks a nail against the cell phone's window. He leans back against the headboard, flips up the top and begins pressing numbers. It's embarrassing, how many times a day (an hour) he's considered calling Marie. Yesterday they interviewed the diner owners who'd spotted the blue bitch. Logan had to ask Ororo to keep the phone away from him, lest he stop every ten minutes to check if Marie's cold was going away.

One ring. Two rings. Three--

"Hey, Logan."

"Hey, Darlin'. What you up to?"

Nothing, she says. Nothing at all. And from there her responses contain the same vague simplicity usually attached to his. Logan doesn't notice at first, revelling in the sound of her voice. He offers a few general complaints about being away from her, and she says--"That's too bad" and "Miss you two." But there's a distraction in her voice, a pitch that takes on that same nervousness she shows when he introduces a new position in bed.

"You feeling alright?"

"Mm-hmm."

"That cold medicine working?"

"Yep."

"Not nauseous anymore?"

"Yeah."

"You sleeping okay?"

"Yeah."

Logan's brow draws tightly together. He listens to her breath, tries to ignore Scott as he takes up "Baby Bye-Bye-Bye". His chest rises and falls, synchronized with the puff of static from the receiver.

"You tired, Baby?"

"No."

He wishes he could see her.

"Logan, there's something I need to....there's something I need to tell you."

Isn't it odd, how a person can be blinking and looking around when their heart has stopped? Must be his mutation.

"Yeah?" Logan hopes that it doesn't come out a strangled as it feels.

Too many inhales pass before the cell-noise takes the shape of words.

"I was supposed to get my...uh...period about a week ago, and I....well, I didn't. So...um...I took this test thing....And I checked it a bunch of times. And I think I'm, you know...maybe pregnant?"

Logan sits, blinking. Five times. Six. Seven. Eight. And her stutters walk slowly along the path from his ears to his brain.

He sees her--filled with him, plump with him. Something growing that will make Marie his forever.

Holy shit. Holyfuckingshit.

Logan's heart jump starts back on, works double time to catch up with the lost moments. His lips pull taut in a grin wider that he's ever given before, but he doesn't notice.

Whooping, bouncing up and down is how those lacking testicles (as ever, Scott) celebrate, so Logan balls up his fist and strikes the mattress a few times with hetero-acceptable glee.

"On my way home, Darlin'," he tells her.

I love you. I love you. I love you.



:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::





She stretches, and her ankle slides down his leg. "We can have a baby shower. People get all kinds of stuff from those things. A crib, toys, maybe a stroller."

"Okay."

She's so pretty.

Logan tugs the bedsheets up to her breasts, slides himself underneath.

"We have a hospital beneath us. Isn't that great. You don't have to worry about driving across town, with me screaming and about to pop in the backseat."

"That is great."

The Wolverine wants to deliver the kid himself.

He picks up a lock of her hair, tickles her nose.

"What are we gonna do when the baby gets too big for this room?"

"Move out, I guess."

"Where?" Marie looks at him with wide, serene eyes. There's a little smile dancing around her lips, like a pleasant secret she hasn't shared. These days it never goes away.

"Wherever you want," Logan says. He smiles back at her. His hand slips down to her stomach.

"Mmmmmm." Marie purrs. And Logan thinks, I'm gonna ask her to marry me. After the baby is born. So she won't hafta plan two things at once.

She closes her eyes, but continues on with the questions she's asked him every day for three weeks now. "What if he gets my skin?"

"Won't matter. You learned to switch it off; he'd learn to switch it off."

"But what if he puts someone in a coma before that?"

"Baby, what did Hank tell you? Mutations are passed through the dad's genes. Our kid will probably have my healing. And he'll be big-," Logan kisses her, "-and strong-," he kisses her again, "-and he won't be hurt by anything."

"But what if-"

"Don't worry. Everything's gonna be alright."

"You promise?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I promise."


~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~




I open my eyes to pitch darkness and the pealing of a bell. It's in my head, I think to myself, and this revelation of my insanity comes with no surprise...nor any emotion at all. My eyes are swollen from tears, my stomach is empty, and a migraine keeps my head feeling like a broken egg held together with scotch tape. But these pains are too mundane, with me so constantly I can't remember life without them. I press my mouth to Logan's shirt and try to pull sleep back over me, like a quilt.

But the jangling doesn't quieten, not seeming to understand my lack of interest. For some reason it's hard to ignore, drills right through the haze and me. And when the ghost of an idea trickles through the layers of my brain I sit up, scramble out of the covers with atrophied limbs unaccustomed to any movement not thought out in advance.

On the floor by the dresser lays a cellphone, plugged into a charger and a socket whose edges are trimmed in gold paint. I haven't touched it for months.

It's screen is lit up.

It's vibrating.

It's making the bell-sounds.

It's ringing.

It could still be in my head, but if so it is the most welcome of hallucinations. It could be a wrong number, a telemarketer (though mine is unlisted), and if that is the case I will be making a noose quite soon.

I stagger across the floor, my arm flailing for that piece of plastic. Pick it up, press the "yes" button to accept the call. I'm shaking.

Say 'hello', but my throat is closing up and to me it sounds like--"Hell?"

A voice nobody in the world can mistake.

"Marie. Marie. Baby. Marie?"

Oh my god. Oh my god. My knees jerk--they won't support me for long. A feeling so electric it's pure pain, jolting through my muscles and my tired heart.

Oh god. God. God. God. God. Logan.

I open my mouth and crippling euphoria turns to horror, because no sound emerges. None at all. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't speak. My tongue, my throat, my lungs are frozen.

"Marie? Please. Please. Baby, please."

And Logan's voice grows softer and softer, until it dies entirely.



&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&



A phone booth in Churchill with broken glass and the overwhelming fragrance of cat piss. Stains in the corner. Mold. Shit. Logan puts his hand on one of the panes absently, and presses. The spider who'd started it is invisible, but the web of cracks grow.

The machine is so grimy and old that Logan thinks the animals have it right, this box functions best as a litter box. But that's okay. He can pretend it works. He can make Marie say whatever he wants her to.

He lifts up the handset (a brown and yellow spider crawls out of one of the cracks), slides a few grimy quarters into the slot. Punches nine of the twelve buttons, their numbers worn down bast visibility.

Logan's eyesight has dimmed; to him, his hands are starting to look their age. He holds the receiver up to his ear, feels the tickle of real spiderwebs.

Soft, weary dial tone. Ringing. He doesn't count them, he's content to stand here. Logan's eyes slip close. His breathing is labored. Even The Wolverine is tired of fighting.

(...Marie....Marie...Marie...Marie...)

He lets the rings continue beyond any sensible time, just trying to find that old thread connecting him to Westchester. If he were imagining this, Marie would have answered immediately. If he were imagining this, Marie would--

"Hello?"

Something inside him whines, nuzzles the sound of her voice. Tiny lakes form in the corners of his eyes, create rivers.

"Marie. Marie." It's a carress. "Baby. Marie?"

He hopes she'll forgive this intrusion on her new life. He just--he just wants to listen to her. Just--just for a moment. That's good. That's good enough.

"Maire?" Nothing on the other end. Only static--that of wires and a long distance call, not of her breathing into the speaker. "Please," he begs. "Please. Please. Baby, please."

Nothing.

Nothing.

Silence.

Logan whimpers. Slowly and tiredly raises the phone away from his ear. Maybe he'll curl up somewhere. Maybe he'll just sit in here for awhile.

The handset slips into it's hooks, just barely kisses the switchook that would kill the connection.

And he hears it--her--a warbly, hoarse voice. Strained and broken. "Hey, Logan." A whisper.

That oh-so-familiar greating, and so much more.


~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~





I had a son who died.