Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters
The Not So Distant Future
(Tuesday, October 13, 2:03 AM, to be exact.)


Logan snorted. “You look like a mime.”

Marie glanced down over her black thermals, her white gloves and socks. They probably complemented her now-pink cheeks nicely. She mumbled, voice slurred and scratchy, “Too cold f’ra nightgown, an’ all m’black gloves are in th’dirty clothes bin. These’re the first clean ones I could find.”

He grunted, disappearing deep into the fridge again. He must've hidden something behind the milk cartons. "Halloween's comin' up," he said, peering over her one more time. "Paint on some whiskers, you can be Mickey Mouse."

She rubbed her eyes, made a sleepy sound in the back of her throat, flipped him off with an innocent smile. “You gon’ stand there an’ make funna me all night, or you gon’ let me by so as I can git t’the cupboard?”

His hand emerged from the back of the fridge, three longnecks caught neatly between his fingers.

Marie raised her eyebrows. “Y’thirsty?”

He shrugged. “Eight bottles a day, right, kid?”

“I’m purty sure that’s glasses, mister. Of water. Now gimme one.” Logan pried the top off a beer and tried to pass it to her. She wrinkled her nose. “No, a glass.”

He sighed, making a show of getting into the cupboard and fetching her one.

“Thanks eeeeevvvver so,” she drawled at his long-suffering expression, reaching to take the glass from his hand.

He held it tight, letting her tug a few times. A slow smile spread over his face, then a chuckle as she grew more and more frustrated.

“Give it!” she snapped. “What’s s’durn funny?”

Logan finally relinquished the glass, bringing his now free hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Nothin’,” he said simply. “You’re just cute when you’re mad.” He let his hand trail down until the ends of her long dark hair slipped from his fingers. Then he took a seat at the counter, settling the beers in front of him. “And you talk like a hick when you’re sleepy.” He downed the first one in a few loud gulps.

Marie took the opportunity to look him over while his back was turned. He wore his usual wifebeater and jeans, though his hair was mussed up and he was barefoot and beltless.

So he either sleeps in jeans, in the boxers that may or may not be underneath those jeans, or naked, Marie thought, proud of her deductive skills. She was leaning towards naked. Or maybe he wore tighty whities. Captain America tighty whities. Like Bobby. She felt a smile tug her lips at the mental image, but pushed it away quickly in case he turned around.

Marie dropped some ice chips into her cup then filled it from the pitcher of tea in the fridge. She took the barstool next to him.

Being this close to Logan always made her feel a little bit nervous, and a lot warm inside. It was a bit stronger version of that thing she used to feel with Bobby, that thing he and Kitty now felt with each other. They had gone out of state for school after junior college, and now that she didn’t have to look at them together every day, it didn’t hurt so much. She could be happy for them. Maybe she hadn’t moved on just yet, but she was getting there.

Logan seemed to be ‘getting there,’ too. He didn’t visit Jean’s grave as often as he did the first couple years. Now it was just whenever the flowers wilted, he’d replace them with fresh ones he either bought or picked somewhere. He never talked about it, and Marie didn’t pry. She had a feeling it was something meant to be just between Logan and Jean. That didn’t hurt so much anymore, either.

Again, that may have been because she didn’t have to see them together every day.

Not that she was glad Jean was gone.

Was she?

It wasn’t really worth thinking about. The fact was, Jean and Scott were passed on, the Professor was back, if unrecognizable, and the permanent cure she had been promised was fading a little more with each passing day. How she felt about those facts didn’t make much difference. It was simply the way things were. Best to just accept life for what it was, and only try to change the things she really could change. That was what being an X-man was all about, she had come to realize.

Marie took a sip of her tea, so sweet she could almost feel the enamel dissolving off her teeth. Yum. Logan seemed content to let the silence stretch a little bit longer. It didn’t feel awkward so long as they were both occupied with drinking.

She snuck a peek at his profile, and there was only a little tension in his forehead. The lines around his mouth had softened some, and that perpetual twitch in his jaw had relaxed. Downright peaceful, compared to his usual expression. That made her inexplicably proud, like his relaxation was some special honor he bestowed just on her. She wanted to follow his lead, to share that easy relaxation whenever she spent time with him. She tried hard. And sometimes she succeeded.

Well, sort of. Except when their knees bumped, or he breathed on her skin, or he played with her hair like it was the most innocent gesture in the world. But if he ever heard her heart speed up, or smelled the salt of sweat on her palms, he didn’t show it.

Marie was thankful for that, to be honest, because Logan wasn’t like Bobby.

Bobby had been cute, a little bit scrawny, and just as inexperienced as she was. Bobby was safe. They skittered around each other, took turns working up the courage to make the next move. Passed notes with words they were too scared—too immature, really—to say out loud. They discovered things together: how good it could feel to whisper secrets in each other’s ears, to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend, to be two in a world full of ones.

And later, they discovered much more. Like how it made them sweat and shiver and gasp when they moved against each other in bed, even through layers of clothes. A little fumbling, a little embarrassment, but a lot more eagerness and desire. Tentative kisses, testing just how long they could go before they had to pull apart.

And even on those rare times when Bobby pushed too far, or his touch got clumsy and rough, she didn’t mind, because those were the times she was most reassured that he really wanted her. She figured it wouldn't make sense to anybody else. People would think she was crazy for wanting that. But it made her feel paradoxically secure, knowing he couldn’t control himself sometimes, any more than she could control her treacherous skin.

Yes, Bobby was safe.

She had a feeling things wouldn’t be that way with Logan. For all that he promised to protect her, Logan did not make her feel safe or secure. She was a little bit afraid of him. Sometimes a lot afraid of him. And if she really thought about it, she figured maybe she was scared not of Logan, but of her own inexperience.

She was afraid she would do something wrong, something stupid. He was a grown man, and she had no clue how to go about satisfying him, sexually or otherwise. Even if the hopeful side of her did think he was attracted to her. Even if that attraction was mutual.

Even if he had begun in recent months to call her cute and play with her hair. Even if he kissed her on the lips once. A long, wet, sliding kiss, his tongue tracing firmly over her lips, distracting her from the pain after she suffered a Colles’ fracture from a fall in the Danger Room. He acted like it was no big deal, just rubbed her forearm afterwards and asked, “Is it all better?” Of course it was. So were a week’s worth of paper cuts, bruises, sore muscles, and a toothache that had been nagging her. She had called later that afternoon and cancelled her dentist appointment. And they had never brought up the kiss again.

It was really pretty nice of him to let her pretend, keep her innocence intact. He seemed to know that she wasn’t ready to face all those scary grown-up feelings.

Of course, she had turned twenty-two yesterday, and there was probably a point where ‘letting her keep her innocence’ turned into ‘enabling an unhealthy immaturity.’ But she had never been big on all that psychology mumbo jumbo. ‘Specially that creepy Freud fella. What a perv.

“Wanna practice?” Logan said abruptly, making her slosh her drink.

She wiped her lips with her sleeve and glanced over at him, but his expression was still that relaxed, unreadable mask. “Oh. Um. Now?”

He shrugged. “May as well. We’re both here, and I got a beer and a half left. Let’s see if ya can make it ‘til I finish.”

Marie peeled off one of her gloves and rested her hand palm up on the counter. Trying to copy his relaxed vibe, she slouched a little on the barstool and spoke around a yawn, “’Kay. But I’m kin’a tired. Might not do s’good. Y’sure ya wanna risk it?”

He just laid his hand on hers, downing another gulp of beer. “I’ll heal,” he said dryly.

True. That was why she practiced controlling her mutation with him most of the time. That, and she already had enough of him in her head that he didn’t stir things up too bad when she took an accidental hit of him. He pretty much stayed quiet and kept his memories hidden from her anyways.

Not that she had tried to peek at those memories. Much.

Marie loved and hated the way Logan’s hand felt on hers. Loved the contrast, big on small, dark on light, strong on gentle. Hated the calmness, the stillness of him. He seemed so unaffected. At least when Bobby held her hand, his palm broke into an ice-cold sweat, and when she rubbed her thumb in circles, he would tremble.

But Marie had never worked up the courage to rub her thumb in circles on Logan’s hand. She was too scared that she would do it and nothing would happen. She’d be so embarrassed if he didn’t respond, didn’t hitch his breath or get a little bit warmer or something. If he just sat there, calm as ever, breaking her heart into little pieces. The thought of it made her nervous, made her chest feel tight, made her afraid of him.

So it was better to just not go there.

Marie focused on dulling the pull of her skin, dampening her body’s desire to consume anything it came in contact with. That was the thing she hated about her mutation. Take, take, take. It felt selfish. She wished she had a mutation that was more suited to helping than hurting. Like if she could give away her own life force with a touch, rather than just steal others’. Oh well. Best to just accept life for what it was. Focus on changing the things she could change. It was a hard lesson to learn, but if she drilled it into herself enough times, it would have to stick someday.

Her palm was damp under his. How long would it be until he noticed that? What if he already had? What was he thinking right now? Did he know how nervous she was? Did he think it was pathetic that she was so affected by one little touch? Why wasn’t his hand sweaty and hot like hers?

What was wrong with her?

Logan plunked his beer on the counter, tightening his grip on her hand. “Nothin’. Absolutely nothin’, sweetheart.”

Huh? Marie tried to tug her hand away, but his grip was strong. Great. Another little tug of war, like with the glass. What did he think, she was a little kid or something? She refused to play this time, letting their still joined hands drop back to the countertop. “Sorry,” she said. “I musta zoned out. What were ya talkin’ about?”

“I was sayin’ how there’s nothin’ wrong with you.” And then he was turning in his barstool to face her. Their knees bumped.

Marie gulped. How did he know . . . ? His eyes were narrow, mouth set in a deep frown. She was beginning to feel very scared now. She forgot her earlier decision, and once more began tugging against his grip. “Logan, it’s not funny, let go!” She scrambled off the barstool, trying to run, but her socks didn’t get much traction on the tile floor, and his other hand was coming out to grab her now.

Logan got an arm around her squirming body, crushing her to him. He squeezed his thighs around hers, bracing his feet on the floor to keep the barstool from sliding. “Shh. Hey,” he said, trying to catch her eyes. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared of me. God, Marie, don’t act like this . . .”

Marie felt numb. Numb, but tingly at the same time, and her heart was going much too fast, and she couldn’t make her throat open to pull in enough air. It was more than scary. It was totally overwhelming. She squirmed harder in his grip, his absurdly heavy frame just enough to keep the barstool—and her—in place.

“Shhh,” he said again. “Just stop. We’re gonna sit down and talk about this like real live grownups. Think ya can handle that?”

“No,” she blurted honestly, sockfeet still slipping over the tiles.

What was going on here? How in God’s name did he know what she was thinking? Could it be? Was she really doing what she’d always dreamt of, making her mutation work in the opposite direction?

“Yeah,” he said. “Least that’s what it feels like to me. What do you think? Can’t ya tell?”

She wasn’t sure. It didn’t hurt. She wasn’t growing weak, losing consciousness like the others always did. But that strange contradictory feeling, numbness and tingling, it was still there. Are you really getting my thoughts?

“Uh huh.”

Oh no. No no no. This was all becoming too intense, too real. Marie’s eyes brightened with tears. “How much?” she said thickly, already growing congested. Her throat hurt, and if it closed up anymore, she didn’t think she’d be able to breathe at all. “H’much d’ya know?” she choked out, feeling like the world was pushing in, compressing her.

“Enough . . .” he paused, mulling over his words. He tried a half-smile. “Enough to know you’re nuts.”

She let out a bark of laughter, which caused a fresh wave of tears. A sniffle, a barely choked back sob. She hated that he could make her laugh at a time like this, that he had that much power over her. It felt like he could bend her, warp her emotions into whatever he wanted.

He had all the power, and she had none. It felt like she was falling, or shrinking, or somehow getting lower and smaller than him. He was so much bigger and smarter and better than her.

She wasn’t pretty or sophisticated like Jean. She’d never be able to satisfy him, and she wished she didn’t even want to. Wished she could go and fall for another scrawny boy like Bobby, somebody safe who didn’t make her feel so small, so inadequate.

And worst of all, he could hear every single one of those pathetic thoughts. She tried once more to reclaim her bare hand, and finally, he let it go. “There,” she said, smearing the tears across her cheeks with the back of her hand, trying to keep her bottom lip from trembling. “Y’happy now? Hear all ya wanted?”

He cupped her face in his hand, closed his eyes. “Turn on your skin,” he said. “Make it work the other way.”

Marie turned her head, tried to pull away, but his thighs tightened around her with an almost bruising force, one arm still locked around her back. “No,” she said when his fingers tightened insistently over her cheekbone.

“Goddamnit, Marie, just do it!” he didn’t raise his voice much, not enough to wake anyone, but enough to make her flinch.

Her skin came on. Defense mechanism. He did that on purpose! His memories were loud for once, tearing across her neurons before she could shove them away. Bastard.

Bastard. Don’t do it. Don’t picture her face.

He was in a dark motel room, the cheap bedding scratchy against his skin. He couldn’t sleep, started touching himself before he really even knew what he was doing.

He was in a strange mood after recovering a body from a backroad ditch. Got on his laptop as soon as he finished with the police, searched Xavier’s carefully maintained mutant database. Changed the victim’s status from ‘Missing’ to ‘Deceased’, uploaded the crime scene photos, and wrote his report.

Daryl McGee a.k.a. Verdigris . . . Beta-level mutation resulting in unusual skin color . . . Last seen leaving his place of employment at . . . indicates he was dragged behind a vehicle for a distance of at least two miles . . . signs of blunt trauma consistent with blows from a tire iron . . . multiple brand wounds, symbols matching local FoH gang . . .

His usual fantasies just weren’t doing it, weren’t erasing the brand marks from the insides of his eyelids, the burnt flesh smell from his nostrils. He didn’t want it rough this time, not from behind or up against a wall. Didn’t want to use or be used.

He didn’t even want the carefully practiced passion, the skillful art and science, the perfect physicality that he always imagined would be sex with Jean.

He wanted something deeper, not perfect but completely real, for the first time in a long time. Comfort. Love. Wanted soft dark heat, to bond himself with someone sweet and good and pure. God, you’re sick. It’s wrong. She’s seventeen. She’s . . . unghhhh, Marie. So tight. Too tight. I’ll be gentle. I can make you feel good, baby. I can be good for you. Nice and slow. You like that, don’t you?

It was the first time he let himself get off to the thought of her. It wasn’t the last.

It was an unspectacular summer day. Logan walked out to the garden to pick fresh lilies for Jean’s grave. But Marie was there, sitting on the soft ground in front of the flowerbed. She hadn’t straightened her hair like usual. It tumbled in messy waves over her shoulders and back, but somehow that seemed to fit with the simple white sundress she wore, the sandals she had carelessly kicked off to the side.

He approached silently and saw that she was drawing pictures in the dirt with her finger. Happy faces, sad faces, stars and hearts.

It seemed such a girlish thing to do, so young, so innocent. His burgeoning perception of her as an adult was shattered. He felt vaguely sick for the way he had thought of her last night, and many other nights. But he told himself it wasn’t hurting anyone, as long as he didn’t act on it. His life was such a mess. Didn’t he deserve that release, those few seconds of peace, alone in the middle of the night?

Even if he didn’t deserve it, what did it matter? Jean had read his thoughts, had told him quite bluntly: he wasn’t the good guy. He might pretend, might try his damn hardest, but at the end of the day, putting flowers in front of her headstone didn’t make him a better man. He wasn’t good enough to resist temptation.

And now, eyes scouring the hem of Marie’s dress, begging it to ride up her toned thighs a little further, he knew it was only a matter of time before he did act on his desire for her.

He turned, walked away before he could make a mistake, but he was so distracted his foot landed on a twig. He felt her eyes on his back. “Oh,” she said. “Hey, where ya goin’? Don’t let me run you off.” He was on a knife’s edge, frozen between the opposing desires to turn or to just keep walking. “Logan?”

He turned. Couldn’t resist. “You’re gonna get that pretty dress all dirty if you’re not careful.” That came out with way more meanings than he intended. Or maybe he did intend them all. Maybe some part of him that wasn’t a complete bastard wanted to warn her.

But she didn’t get the warning in his tone, seemed to take his words at face value. She sighed. “Oh, I know. But I don’t mind. Won’t be able to wear it much longer anyway. I got Storm today, brushed ‘er in the hall by accident. Think I hurt her a little bit. S’gettin’ stronger.”

And that was just the opening he needed to give into temptation. “Yeah, about that . . . if you’re still serious about learning control, you could practice on me. Practice touching me.” Bastard bastard bastard.

She blushed, and he loved and hated that look. Loved the sweet pink stain on her cheeks, the way it brought out the pinkness of her mouth. Hated that the thought of touching him made her embarrassed. Like she knew. Knew exactly how he thought of her in the dark of night, messy hair and swollen lips, writhing under him, making sounds that were burned into his memory from the times he heard them slip out under Icedick’s door.

But even the ever-present twinge of jealousy at the edge of his awareness couldn’t ruin his fantasy: Marie accepting him inside her, telling him that all the others had been wrong, that he was good.

Marie was scared of him. He could smell it every time he got too close. He had been worried that touching her would be too hard, that once he started he wouldn’t be able to stop, but the smell of her fear was enough to dampen any desire. He just felt hollow when her skin met his—and a little bit sick with himself.

Fear. This wasn’t what he wanted, wasn't the acceptance, the bond, sweet, good, pure. This was wrong.

And yet he couldn’t stay away. Kept hoping, every time he folded her hand in his or ran his fingers through her hair, that this time would be different. That she would finally stop feeling scared. If he could just prove himself to her, earn her acceptance. Show her that he could be relaxed and calm, and make her understand that his touch was undemanding, then maybe . . . just maybe, that awful fear smell would go away.

What had he done, to make her think that he would hurt her? Why was she so frightened of him? He had asked her many times (hating the desperation in his voice) exactly what she knew about him. But she always insisted that his thoughts and memories were shielded from her, that she couldn’t see them. He couldn’t smell a lie on her.

But somehow, she had to know what his intentions were. She knew what he really wanted from her. And she was scared of him.

Sick sonofabitch he was, he still couldn’t stop yearning for her. So when she met him in the kitchen at two in the morning, looking so cute and sleep-mussed in her ridiculous pajamas, like a little girl in a woman’s body, he couldn’t help provoking her. Bringing color to her cheeks, drawing out that twang in her voice, playing with her sleep-tangled hair.

He knew how to make her feel anything, how to make her mad, make her laugh or cry or grin from ear to ear. He had learned her over the years, piece by piece, atom by atom. He knew what to do, to make her respond however he wanted. Knew how to do everything . . . except make her enjoy his touch.

And that hurt. But maybe he was a glutton for pain, because before he knew it, the words had slipped from his lips: “Wanna practice?”

And then her hand was under his, and she was scared and uncomfortable, fidgeting on the barstool. Her body responded a little bit, every hint of arousal followed by an even more powerful spike of fear.

So, she didn’t like how her body responded to him, didn’t want to want him. And wasn’t that even worse? He couldn’t make her feel good, no matter what. Even if her body accepted him, she never would.

He was just about to chug down the rest of his beer, end this torture, when he felt something. Numb, but tingling. And then something foreign slipping inside of him, little impulses traveling up the nerves in his hand, his arm, straight to his spine and through his brain.

I’ll never be good enough. He thinks I’m pathetic. Why isn’t his palm hot and sweating like mine? What’s wrong with me?

A million thoughts swirled around in his brain, complicated, twisted up words and images and feelings. Th—that’s why she was afraid? Really? No one who saw her calm, innocent face would ever expect those roiling thoughts going on just under the surface, the depth of hurt and insecurity hidden behind deep, dark brown eyes. Marie was pretty and well-liked, loved by the kids and respected by the senior staff. How could she not see any of that?

How could she even think he wouldn’t want her because she was too sweet and innocent? That was why he wanted her. He couldn’t let this go on any longer. They were both hurting themselves for no good reason. One thought reverberated through his mind again, an agonized question: What’s wrong with me?

“Nothin’. Absolutely nothin’, sweetheart.”

Marie’s mind roiled, paradigms shifting to accommodate Logan’s foreign thoughts. Most confusing were the memories they shared, ones that she could now look at through his perspective and hers at the same time.

The differences were shocking. How could they have misunderstood each other so much? What did that mean? Were they all wrong for each other? Or was it like the opposites attract thing? Or was it something totally different, more real than all the clichés and secondhand knowledge she had about love and relationships? Ugh, this was why she hated psychology.

She felt limp, exhausted. She didn’t struggle anymore, though Logan’s grip on her had loosened quite a bit.

He hadn’t held on to her for very long, but he was breathing heavily, sweat moist on his brow. His pulse beat hard at his neck.

She drank him in, same handsome face, same hazel eyes and wild hair and compact, powerful body. The whole world had just changed, and yet everything was the same.

Marie looked down at his last beer, her tea, condensation dripping to leave a pair of rings on the countertop.

So . . . what were they supposed to do now? Was she supposed to . . . be with him? Everything was changing, shifting, and the dust showed no signs of settling. She was so close to him she couldn’t tell where his desires ended and hers began. And still she had no clue what to do or say. She didn’t know what he needed, or what she needed. She still felt numb. Maybe it was shock.

Marie was disappointed to find that her fear of Logan not wanting her was rapidly being replaced by a whole new anxiety: He did want her.

The things he felt were so intense—it was all more complicated than she’d ever realized. And now he was inside her head, making her own thoughts more complicated, and she didn’t know if she was ready to be this grown up just yet.

This wasn’t just attraction. He wanted her inside and out, wanted to make himself a part of her, and her a part of him. It was so intimate, and she was having it forced on her in a flash, a bucket of ice water dumped on her head rather than the slow awakening she’d always imagined. She squirmed in her skin as his thoughts, memories, fantasies continued to settle themselves inside her, enhancing her own fantasies, making her stomach twist with desire.

She had never experienced, never even imagined, something as good as this vision he had for them: Us. Me and Marie. Acceptance and good and sweet and pure. Not perfect, but so real.

She remembered things her Gran told her as a girl, the way love ought to be. Finding her soulmate and saving herself until marriage. The dangers of holding hands. It starts with one touch, seems so innocent, but before you know it, you’ve got in over your head and there’s no turnin’ back . . . She was beginning to think Gran may have been onto something.

Marie took a heavy breath, sinuses still stuffy from crying. She started to take a step back, but Logan’s grip tightened instantly. He said nothing, just staring, breathing hard, scaring the hell out of her all over again. She fumbled her words, “I’m—I guess w’need some time, t-to think about all of . . .” she trailed off with an indistinct gesture.

He shook his head, eyes locked with hers. “Uh uh. I’m not lettin’ you walk off and overanalyze this.”

“Logan . . .”

He huffed, equal parts amusement and awe. “Don’t you get how lucky we are? How many people will ever get the chance to see each other the way we have? That was divine fuckin’ revelation, what you just did.” He searched her eyes, the seriousness of his gaze contrasted by lips that turned up almost playfully. His eyebrow rose. “N’ I think I know just how to pay my respects.”

He finally released her from between his legs, standing up and gripping her waist. All of a sudden her feet were leaving the ground, she was up on the counter, and he was between her legs. “Logan!” she squeaked, slapping her palms, one bare, one gloved, onto his shoulders. She pushed, doing nothing to budge him. She did succeed in scooting herself across the laminate until the backs of her knees hit the counter’s edge. She pressed those knees together demurely, eyes darting to the hallway. Her voice sounded twangy even to her own ears: “Oh my gawd, innybody could walk by!”

His smile widened. “You’re black and white and red all over.” He leaned in, all excitement, and an actual happiness she’d rarely seen in him. That boyish, eager look, hair standing on end, eyes shining—it was infectious. Intoxicating. Suddenly, he didn’t seem big and scary and suffocating at all. She felt his presence settle more deeply inside her, outside her, all around. So solid, so strong. So completely real.

He closed his hands over her knees, inching them apart again. A little choked sound came out of her. Her head felt fuzzy, something warm and sharp and sweet spreading all through her lower belly, faster than it ever had before. She tightened her grip on his shoulders, hissed with her last remaining bit of dignity, “Logan, there's kids in this place!”

He rolled his eyes. “The closest thing I see—or smell—to a kid in this place, is the woman sitting right there in those ridiculous pajamas.” He managed to get a leg between hers, then shamelessly gripped her ass, sliding her forward until her whole upper body met his. His torso and chest were warm, solid, and pressed to her.

Every. Last. Inch.

Hmm . . . well . . . that was . . . she couldn’t really form any coherent thoughts about that. Her mouth seemed to have taken on a mind of its own, however, voicing its approval with a whispered, “Oh!”

“Nnnghh,” he breathed, fingers kneading into her flesh. She lost all sense of her surroundings until he growled into her hair, “Yeah, like that.”

Like what? Oh. Well, she’d be damned if her ungloved hand hadn’t slid up to his scalp, fingers raking through his hair, short nails scratching lightly, making him groan. When did that happen? He nuzzled further into her hair and inhaled deepy, the movement pressing her chest more firmly into his, and she lost her train of thought.

His hands tightened a little more on her backside, his hips pushing her thighs further apart, until the juncture of those thighs met the bulge in his jeans and he ground into her and, “Oh!” There it was again. She had to stop this. Stop it before it went too far. She shook her head. “Logan,” she said, her voice husky and foreign, “we can’t do this here.”

“Here? That your only complaint?” He moved his hands to her thighs, pulled back a few inches to meet her eyes. His fingers gripped her insistently, but his voice was as gentle as she’d ever heard it: “Then come to my bed.”

Marie pulled one of his hands from her thigh, held it in both of hers. She felt fear settle in the pit of her stomach, but this time she pushed through it, just like watching a scary movie, or forcing herself to turn a blind corner in a Danger Room sim--why should this be any different? It seemed so simple now. There was fear, but she wouldn't let it control her anymore.

She pressed her thumb into the center of his palm, drew it around in a slow circle.

He trembled.

Marie felt her eyes prick with tears. She looked down over herself, missing a glove, the waistband of her thermals twisted, one sock slipping halfway off her foot.

She laughed. Not perfect, but perfectly herself. And he wanted it. She brought her chin up, met his eyes like a real live grown up. His jaw twitched. He looked nervous, waiting for her answer.

Marie inched forward, heart hammering, palms sweating, stomach twisting into knots. Kept inching until her lips brushed across his. She whispered into his mouth, "Yes."

This is happening.

She put one foot in front of the other, willing herself not to do anything stupid like trip over her own socks. No sooner had the thought taken hold than she stumbled a little bit, caught herself, blushed furiously.

He snorted.

All in all, the walk to Logan’s room was the bravest—not to mention most awkward, terrifying, downright exhilarating—thing Marie had ever done.

Suddenly, he took her hand in his, the warmth of the contact intense in the dark, chilly hallway. The silence strained as they shot each other glances, reading, calculating, searching. Marie squeezed. He squeezed back, gave her a half-smile, continued with his slightly rushed pace. She had never seen him like this. The air around him was positively snapping with nervous energy as he opened his door and tugged her into the room with him. He gave her hand an almost painful squeeze before dropping it and turning to shut the door.

If Marie didn’t know better, she’d say Logan was stalling as he twisted the knob and pushed the door silently into its frame before releasing it, then set the deadbolts with two heavy clicks and the chain lock with a slow metallic slide. He must have installed the extra locks himself.

Probably shortly after he woke up from a nightmare to find a fifteen-year-old girl impaled on his claws.

His hands lingered on the locks, his back to her, the sound of their breathing harsh in the dim, quiet room.

Perhaps it was that sound that did it. Or maybe it was his wild pointy hair, or the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting fluidly under his worn grey wifebeater. Perhaps it was just her own mind finally catching up to itself after the roller coaster ride she’d put it through. Whatever it was, it hit her: this was real.

This was actually Logan. Not a knight in leather armor for her to worship from a distance. Just a man, up close and real. Full of flaws and insecurities and a never-ending need to prove himself, much like her. Just a man, who sometimes made poor choices, but had a much stronger sense of honor than he gave himself credit for. Just a man, lonely.

A good man. She wanted him, she did, and it would be worth all of the fear and awkwardness it took to get there. She blew out her cheeks, looking up briefly for courage, or perhaps just inspiration. None was sent down to her. As ever, she was a little bit scared of him and a lot in love with him and really, really attracted to him. And she knew that, as ever, this was going to be awkward, because she couldn’t help but make everything awkward, it seemed.

This wasn’t anything like the first time Bobby asked her into his room, all feigned innocence and thin pretense, and it certainly wasn’t like the hazy dream of hers where Logan growled and ripped off her clothes and made her moan his name. This wasn’t what she had fantasized about or hoped for.

It was so much more.

Finally, Logan drew an especially shaky breath, gave up the guise of fiddling with the locks, and turned. The tension rose a few notches, the mood of the room taking a decidedly anxious shift.

So. This was it. Fate. Kismet. Coincidence. For whatever reason, she and Logan had both woken up on the thirteenth of October at two in the morning, stumbled their way to the kitchen for drinks, and, not for the first time in their lives, changed each other forever with a simple touch.

Now here they were. Facing each other at arm’s length. In Logan’s room.

Arm’s length. And he wasn’t doing anything to rectify that.

This was the part in her fantasies where he went crazy with lust and started ripping off her clothes. And she just . . . kind of . . . laid there and enjoyed the ride. Some small part of her was still holding out hope that everything would suddenly turn dreamlike, that he would approach her slowly, all bulging muscles and hungry molten eyes.

He didn’t.

Her gaze darted around, the muscles in her shoulders and neck growing tighter by the second. Dark, but definitely his room. Ceiling, floor, four walls and all. Thin stripe of light shining through the barely cracked bathroom door. Unmade bed against the adjacent wall.

Ho hum.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Was it just her, or was a lot of time passing? Moments were just ticking right by, and he was doing nothing, repeat nothing.

Marie wondered if she was supposed to make a move, say something, or wait for him . . . uhh, maybe there was a secret handshake? A password she could speak to get this show on the road? Why didn’t health class cover these kinds of things? Should she do some stretches to warm up? What exactly did “come to my bed” mean, anyhow?

All she knew was that it sounded fucking hot the way he said it, like a promise to show her the best time of her life, those words setting a hundred butterflies loose in her stomach. She would have said yes to pretty much anything he requested right then, if he would just keep creating that hot melty feeling inside her body.

But now that she was here . . . what had she agreed to, exactly? She could really use his guidance right about now. Should she, like, get into the bed or something?

Time just kept ticking. Wa-was he having second thoughts? Her stomach fluttered in a whole different way. She felt like she was going to be sick.

Ohmygawd, Logan, say something, do something, PLEASE.

He just stood . . . and his mouth opened and closed a couple of times, floundering for words.

Oh, no way. Really? An odd giddiness rose up inside her. He was scared, choking up just as bad as her—

The air system kicked on loudly, and he jumped. Marie giggled.

Logan snapped out of it and glared at her, eyebrow inching up. “Somethin’ funny?”

Marie’s mouth opened to respond, aiming for the wittiest, most eloquent reply a person could possibly make in this situation. But somewhere between her brain and her vocal cords, some wires must have got crossed, because what came out in a trembling rush was, “Y’look more nervous than a sore-tail cat in a room fulla rockin’ chairs.”

Oh. My. Gawd. Shoot me.

His eyes crinkled. He stepped in close, looking down at her with all the fondness—the love—that she would have found hard to believe had she not absorbed it from his own mind. He swallowed audibly, shook his head in amusement. His voice sounded especially deep, this close: “Guess I am.” Then he wove both of his big, hot, damp, trembling hands into her hair.

The gentle push of his fingers tilted her head, and he expertly angled his mouth over hers. The warm press of his lips slowly reawakened the heat in her belly. Her skin seemed to be cooperating, so she pressed back, then darted her tongue out, tasting the sweetness of her tea mixed with the crisp, slightly bitter taste of his Canadian lager. A perfect contrast. Yum.

At her tentative lick, he groaned, long and deep, rumbles vibrating through her like the purr of the motorcycle she sometimes rode with him. Oh, that was nice. Lots of tingling, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. He pulled her deeper into the kiss, and she heard a sweet keen of approval, thanking her body for knowing how to make that sound without any conscious help.

“Mmm, feels nice, doesn’t it, baby?” he whispered into her mouth, making her whole stomach clench with arousal. Her body seemed to get a few degrees hotter. Oh yeah, feels more than nice—this was worth all the fear it took to get here. He pulled back a little, the brush of his lips now feather-light and teasing. “Your lips taste sweet,” he mumbled, removing one hand from her hair. She nearly whimpered a protest—until the hand dropped to rub circles on her lower belly. Oh God. She melted. His confidence seemed to grow as she made little noises of approval, gripped his sides to steady herself, and continued responding eagerly to his kiss.

Then she was doing more than just responding. Marie caught his lower lip between hers, suckled, and felt her heart do something giddy at the hitch in his breath. She had the overwhelming desire to make him feel good, show him how much she cared, show him she was trying to do this right. She wove her fingers through his hair like before, scratched his scalp, got the happy groan she wanted.

Yes. More of that. Please him. Make him happy.

She domineered the kiss, licking and nipping anxiously at his lips, needing his approval, and relishing the way he responded to her. She never thought she would be like this towards a man, but every surprised, pleased, and hungry sound he made was music to her ears. It was a heady drug, his pleasure. The knowledge that she caused it. Her hand meandered to the button of his jeans, but he gripped her wrist, moving her up to the safer territory of his chest. She was grateful for that. He wouldn’t let her do anything foolish. This was safe, finally safe with him.

So Marie ignored him when he tried to draw her lower lip between his, pulled free of him and then dove in again, went right back to her eager teasing. Please him. Make him crazy.

Logan growled. His hand tightened in her hair and he stepped into her, backing her up until her legs hit the bed. His tongue took advantage of the distraction, slipping out for a taste. When she tried stubbornly to steal control of the kiss again, he pulled her hair in warning, drove his thick denim-clad thigh between her legs, and rubbed, his erection pressing hot and hard into her hip.

Oh. She whimpered, leaning all her weight into him when her legs went weak. He rubbed again. Oh fuck yes. Her hands roamed all over his upper body, looking for something to latch onto, to anchor herself. He went back to nibbling and worrying her lip, and she didn’t have the presence of mind to do anything but enjoy it. The whole world was spinning, gravity pulling her in strange directions. It was as if she’d gotten drunk on the taste of lager in his mouth.

Logan pulled her hair a little harder, one hand slipping under her pajama top to stroke firmly up her stomach. Up, up, up—until his fingers reached the underside of her breast. He tensed for a long moment. So long that Marie moved her hands in his hair, then down his neck, mewling her displeasure as she gripped at his shoulders and chest insistently, half-consciously showing him what she wanted.

His leg stilled and his fingers teased over her ribs, refusing to go any higher. He muttered into her mouth, “Relax, baby, we got plenty of t—“

She squirmed against him, whimpering, trying to get his touch where she wanted it, and finally resorted to breaking their kiss. “Please,” was all she could manage before the sudden rub of his thigh sent another jolt of pleasure through her, and his lips caught hers once more, muffling her gasps and whimpers in the moist heat of his mouth.

She wasn’t sure whether he misunderstood what she wanted or needed to calm himself down or was just getting her back for controlling the kiss, but his hand abandoned her chest and moved around to her back. Marie gave up, her own hands settling back into their comfy spot in his hair as he kept up the delicious movements of his thigh, his big hand tracing warm paths up and down the expanse of her back. Mostly down. His palm settled on the small of her back, and she broke the kiss again, this time by accident, with a sharp gasp.

“Aha, thought you’d like that,” he said with a chuckle, pulling back to watch her reaction as he continued rubbing the heel of his palm into that spot, in time with the rough slide of his leg.

Her eyes clenched shut and she twitched, gripping his thigh convulsively, and just like that she was on the brink of ecstasy.

“Oh,” he sounded surprised but excited. “You like that a lot.”

Her throat had seized, her voice the barest whisper: “Oh—oh God, yessss . . .”

He took away the pressure of his hand, and her eyes opened just in time to see his eyebrow flying up to his hairline. “God? God? Uh, no. He ain’t the one stickin’ this,” he gripped her hips and ground her against his thigh, “between those pretty little legs. So why don’t you try that again?”

She laughed in exasperation, in desperation, her hands clenched tightly at his scalp. Her entire body was tight as a bowstring. So close. She’d do anything to make him put his hand back in that spot. Too far gone to be self-conscious, she locked her eyes with his. “Logan, please,” she begged, loving the way it made his hips jerk into her.

He did a poor job of sounding unimpressed as he ground against her one more time. “You can—aghhh—do better.”

No, no , no that delicious tension was starting to slip away. She planted little open-mouthed kisses all over and around his mouth. Her voice hardly seemed her own, a strange mix of begging and demanding: “Damnit Logan, put your hand back, please. So close, I need—”

“You need me. Aw, fuck yeah. That’s more like it, baby,” he growled, reclaiming her lips and touching her again in that spot that made something quiver all the way up and down her spine—goddamn, but it was good. How had she and Bobby missed this? She quickly pushed away the thought of Bobby, not wanting to let him enter her mind right now, even if it was only to contrast how much better this felt with Logan.

It was easy to push the past aside now. Logan, so good. His kisses, the things he said, how his body radiated heat into hers. She could feel his urgency growing with her own, with that heat, and his kiss began to change . . . . hard and wet and sliding and wow.

Marie gripped the front of his shirt and hung on for dear life, the feelings in her all sweeping up towards that crescendo again. She was absolutely content to let him control the kiss now, opening under him when the tip of his tongue demanded entrance.

She might have wished that hand he fisted in her hair would pay some attention to her aching breasts, but she couldn’t summon the will to complain. She was lost, the friction building as she dared to move a little, back and forth against his thigh. She sobbed his name—Oh! His hips bucked into her again, the force of it lifting her off the ground for a second. Oh, he liked that. She tried to file away everything that he liked, start building up her own personal “How to Please Logan in Bed” manual, but it was a little hard to concentrate with the bolts of pure ecstasy shooting up and down her body.

He traced an intricate maze over the roof of her mouth, moaned into her, and smiled against her lips when he managed to pull a shameless moan from her in response. She was absolutely gone, drunk on him.

He mumbled words into her mouth between kisses, his voice growing thready and strained: “Yes, baby. So close. Do it. Come for me.” Something about the tone of his voice, eager yet so in control . . . Do it. Come for me. She climbed her way to a precipice, and the sudden aggressive thrust of Logan’s tongue into her mouth, more demanding, more needy than ever before, shoved her right over the edge.

It felt like she was falling—no, she really was falling, landing on the soft bed, springs creaking and Logan’s thigh had become Logan’s fingers, somehow under her waistband and rubbing bare skin. So intimate, wet and hot and pressing a little harder and rougher than she wanted on her extra-sensitized flesh—it was perfectly imperfect, just what she craved, his eagerness for her. She convulsed under him again, eyes screwed shut. Her back arched up and she fisted her hands in the sheets. Soft, wordless, helpless sounds spilled out of her as her body twitched and shuddered.

“Look at me. Say my name.” His voice was a distracted mumble, more gentle reminder than command. Teaching her what he liked, what he needed. One finger plunged into her, giving her still desperately twitching muscles something to grip.

She gasped at the penetration. Oh, fuck, that was good. She couldn’t force her eyes to open, but she complied with his second request, managed to sob his name a couple of times before she slipped back into oblivion, “Logan, Logan, oh I love the way you, nnnnghhh.”

Another finger joined the first, stretching her, impossibly drawing out her climax, working her through the last of the aftershocks better than she could have worked herself. She came down slowly under his touch.

Sated. Utterly boneless.

Wow. Man was a genius.

“You are fuckin’ beautiful, Marie,” he said, kissing her eyelids. Her heart melted. Oh yeah. Definitely a genius. Certifiable Einstein, having figured out a way to be so strong and yet so tender, to say a thing like that and make her believe it, even in the state she was in. She made a note to herself to brush her hair and be wearing something, anything, sexier than thermal pajamas the next time she wound up in his bedroom.

Next time. The thought made her heart do that slightly giddy thing again.

Marie realized his fingers were still inside her when they suddenly moved again, shifting until she tensed, then yelped at the hint of pain. He hushed her with a brief kiss, started to pull his fingers out, but then surged forward and pressed one more time as if he just couldn’t resist. He swallowed her second yelp eagerly and finally pulled his fingers out.

Ow, that wasn’t very nice. She was about to ask him for an explanation, but lost focus when he sat up, laving his tongue all over his hand and in between his fingers, in a way that made her feel a little grossed out but even more turned on. He licked his lips and beamed at her. “Mmmm. Good girl. Oh, fuck yes. I had hoped . . . didn’t know if you and that little prick Bobby—grrrrrghhh . . . but no, of course not. You wouldn’t. You waited for me. Grrrrrghhh. Gonna make you all mine.” A really strange inflection slipped into his voice, especially on that last word. He pulled her into a crushing embrace and buried his face in her hair, breathing deeply in a way that gave Marie the impression he was smelling her.

Oh. Well okay, Marie thought, kind of turned on in spite of herself. She got her arms around him, returning the hug even though it twisted her body awkwardly. There was something about that possessiveness . . . mine . . . that made her stomach start doing strange jittery things again. She had wondered about it a little before, figured Logan’s feral mutation would have some influence on his—now their—sex life. She just expected it to stay . . . a little less talky and more growly, she supposed. She wondered how to respond, what she should say.

She hadn’t exactly waited for him in particular, but hey, it had worked out that way, and he really, really seemed to like that idea, if the change in his breathing and the little breathy growls slipping out were any indication. Fate. Luck. Kismet. Whatever. She wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, would much rather have him excited about her inexperience than disappointed that she didn’t know all kinds of . . . special tricks and . . . ways to bend and . . . things.

Not that she didn’t read Cosmo. But she figured reading about something and actually doing it were two very different things. She couldn’t even figure out how to assemble a bookshelf from the instructions.

And those instructions had pictures.

“Say you’re mine,” he mumbled into her hair.

Oh. Well, that was about as clear as instructions could get. “Okay. I’m—I’m yours,” Marie replied, and then realized the words were true. This time it was more like a thousand butterflies let loose inside her.

He nuzzled into her, squeezing her tight. Very tight. And then her hair was pulled away and he was kissing her neck. She sighed happily. The soft, hot, open-mouthed kisses mixed with the scratch of his whiskers and she figured she’d be raw tomorrow, but it felt too good to make him stop. And then kissing became nipping, and her whole body started getting hot again. All of a sudden he seemed to find a spot he really liked—his teeth closed over her particularly hard, and he worried that same spot of flesh for a good minute, sucking.

An odd grunt, half-pain, half-pleasure, came up in her throat. It seemed to set him off, because a tremble went through his whole body, and then he was pulling her more fully against him and rubbing his hardness into her through their clothes. Marie accepted him, hugged him and didn’t try to get away from his too-tight arms around her back, even if it was a little tough to breathe. She let his hips buck up into her heat, let him growl and snarl into her skin, sometimes wordless, sometimes her name, profanities and deities and a few words she’d never heard before. He still seemed unable to trust that she wasn’t going anywhere, because he kept one crushing arm around her back while he fumbled between them. He got his fly open one-handed, and then there was only one layer of cloth between them, and it was hot and hard and friction and, “Unnnghhhh . . . so good, Logan. You’re so good . . .”

That seemed to set him off even more, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck and convulsed against her, grunting something like “M’rie,” spasms rocking his body, squeezing her to him so tightly she thought she might break. She could feel his and her warm, sticky wetness mixed on the crotch of her thermals, and interestingly enough, she didn’t dislike them quite so much anymore. She had a feeling Logan didn’t, either, as he came down from his climax, rocking into her, still twitching a little spastically.

She got her hand free and patted it over his sweat-dampened temple, the only place she could reach with his face still buried in the crook of her neck. This was so different from the nights she fumbled around with Bobby, but a little the same, too, and she was glad. Glad that even grown men had insecurities and nervousness and then a frantic eagerness that was difficult for them to control. Or maybe not all grown men. But Logan. And that was all that really mattered to her.

Finally, he drew a few deep, shaky breaths, and laved the flat of his tongue over the mark he had made. She hissed.

He eased his grip, rubbing his hands up and down her back. He whispered in her ear, “You . . . you’re okay, right?”

She laughed softly. “A little more than okay,” she reassured him.

He planted another kiss to that tender spot on her neck. “I didn’t hurt you? Got . . . carried away. M'sorry, baby. Might leave a mark.”

She just laughed again, hugging him tighter. “Might? You knew good and well that would leave a mark, mister.” Jeesh, what did he think, she was an idiot? She'd gotten a few hickeys, even after Bobby. But she figured maybe she shouldn’t tell that to Logan.

He simply shrugged, not bothering to deny her accusation. A moment of silence stretched, and Marie wasn’t sure if it was awkward or not. It was Logan who broke it, “Oh. Here, let’s get those off.” He pulled back, got a hand in her waistband, and tugged at her pajama bottoms.

Marie suddenly felt nervous. “Oh—I don’t—um, have anything on under . . .”

He stilled his hand. “S’Okay. I’m not pushin’, sweetheart. Here, you slip under the sheets and take’em off, okay?”

Marie was still somewhat nervous, even though she knew that was silly. She’d practically had sex with Logan, just now. But it was . . . well . . . it was different, without clothes on. Still, the rapidly cooling sticky patch was not something she wanted against her sensitive skin. She scooted up the bed, surprised to feel herself a little choked up at the simple way Logan helped her straighten the sheets and tug them into place.

She wanted to thank him, for being so sweet like that, for making her feel so good, for saving her life and for not leaving her on the roadside when she was a half-starved little runaway. But she didn’t think she’d be able to say those things without bursting into tears, and there had been enough tears, no more tonight. So she just tugged off the damp, sticky thermals along with her socks, dropped them to the floor beside his bed, and pulled the covers up a little more. She turned on her side and propped herself up on one elbow, looking over at Logan who was still sitting near the edge of the bed, turned from her in an attempt to discreetly tuck himself in and do up his fly.

Marie realized there had been no boxers, and certainly no Captain America tighty whities underneath. She had to ask. “Do—do you sleep in bluejeans, Logan?”

He flashed her a grin, answered frankly, “Usually I just sleep in sheets.” But he kept his jeans and shirt on as he crawled up the bed, laying himself out on top of the sheets beside her. The mattress dipped so much under his weight that Marie rolled onto his chest. She certainly didn’t mind, though. And he didn’t seem to either, especially when she dared to tug down the fabric of his wifebeater and press her lips to his bare skin. His heavy arms fell over her back and he let out a sigh that sounded content to Marie.

She figured she could fall asleep like this, wrapped in the sheet. She tucked her ungloved hand under the pillow behind his head, let the gloved one settle onto his chest above the neckline of his shirt. She sprawled over him, listening to his steady breathing, growing warm and drowsy. And then it was easy, muffling her voice in his warm skin, feeling safe and sleepy enough to say most of what she wanted to say: “That was good, Logan. I liked . . . how you touched, and kissed, and . . . things you said . . . I liked it.”

He rose up a little, kissed the top of her head before settling back into the pillows. “I noticed.” His fingers brushed the small of her back again, and he chuckled conceitedly at the shudder that went through her. “How good?”

It took a minute for the question to register in her sleepy thoughts. Hmm. Uh, on a scale of one to ten? How was she supposed to answer that? She burrowed a little deeper into his chest. “Ummm . . . really good?”

He seemed content with that answer. “Good. You just tell me what you want, Marie, and I’ll do it.” His hands started roaming over her back. “Wanna make you happy.”

He settled her body more fully over his, and she nuzzled into his chest, loving the fact that she could hug him, hold him, be with him like this now . . . she was sure there were a dozen new insecurities and fears that would creep in with the morning light, but for now it was just really, really good. “I’m happy,” she said. She paused for a moment, working up her courage. “Wanna . . . make you happy, too.”

Marie didn’t know if he had heard the hint of nervousness in her voice, how much she needed to hear his words, but he answered her question perfectly in his sated, drowsy rumble: “Already have, Marie. I’m happy.”