[Think I'm goin' for a walk now.
I feel a little unsteady.
I don't want no one to follow me,
'cept maybe you.]

Logan's unmistakable, pointy-haired profile casts its distinctive shadow across the porch as he walks past the window of the brightly-lit rec room. He has been drinking tonight (par for the course lately), and his stride is slightly impaired –- his feet land heavily in their boots, and his shoulders sway unevenly. Not quite the graceful predator that we know he can be.

At the top of the stairs, Logan turns back toward the window. He takes a cigar from the pocket of his flannel shirt, lights it with a match struck on a nearby planter box. Puff, puff. Two steps back toward the window. Puff. Scowl. Turns his back on the window to glare out into the darkness of the gardens.

[I could make you happy, you know
if you weren't already.
I could do a lot of things –
And I do.]

Laughter rings out from the rec room, and Logan cocks his head. His nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. He almost staggers as he steps away from the window again. Walks to the porch railing. Grasps it with both hands. The cigar glows softly, clutched between the knuckles of his right hand – knuckles that are white as he grips the railing.

~ Damn. ~

More laughter, then "Bobby!" called out in a voice filled with feigned shock.

~ Bastard. ~

Logan blocks out the happy sounds from the window behind him. Thinks instead of Rogue as he knew her at other times.

He remembers her turning to him on a train. Emptiness in her eyes. Loneliness and hopelessness like a veil across her face – a veil that lifted slightly at the touch of his arm across her shoulders. His fingers on her arm.

He remembers her limp in his arms. Unconscious, nearly dead. Her life literally in his hands. He brought her back from the gates of hell, and was foolish enough to feel in his soul that she would somehow then belong to him.

~ Idiot. ~

He remembers her shaking with anger and frustration shortly after Jean's sacrificial death. Standing in the darkness outside the mansion, body humming with energy. Energy produced from the memory of her impotent rage when Magneto chained her into his painful machine.

Energy produced from hatred.

The Wolverine recognized that energy, from his own drawn-out relationship with rage and with hatred.

And when Logan reached for her, she responded. She unleashed her pain on him that night. First with her fists. But before long with her teeth biting into his leather-clad shoulder and her body rubbing against him in desperate need. Need that he could not actually fulfill. But he had tried.

That night, and every time she has needed him before and since, he gave her what he could. Brought her back from despair, loneliness, death. Not all the way back -- he can never bring her all the way back. He can only take her as far as he himself can go. From complete darkness into the dimness that is his life.

Someone else has to take her the rest of the way. Into the light, where Logan can't follow.

[Tell you the truth, I prefer the worst of you.
Too bad you had to have a better half.
She's not really my type,
but I think you two are forever.
And I hate to say it, but you're perfect together.]

Logan lets go of the railing, walks back to look in the rec hall window. Sees the glow on Rogue's face as she talks with her friends. The bounce in her step as she moves around the foosball table. The sparkle in her eyes when Bobby pulls at her hair.

Puff. Growl.

Bobby can entertain her like Logan can't. In the good times, the safe times, when her energy is positive and she wants to dance --Bobby is there for her. But Logan knows (and we know) that when she falls back into the abyss, when her life betrays her again and the smiles are ripped from her face -- it won't be Bobby who follows her into the night to save her.

[So fuck you
and your untouchable face.
Fuck you
for existing in the first place.
And who am I
that I should be vying for your touch?
Who am I?
Bet you can't even tell me that much.]

~ Who am I? I'm just the guy who saves your fucking life, kid. Every time. ~

With a grunt, Logan turns and stomps down the steps into the night. The orange ember of his cigar fades into the blackness.