Logan stepped into Marie's room and closed the door behind him. He waited, knowing she would feel him, and watched as she stirred, rolling over onto her side before opening her eyes slightly to look at him.

"'S late, Log'n."

Logan's left hand was fisted in his jacket pocket. He took a long draw off his cigar before reaching up with his free hand and taking it from his mouth. He narrowed his eyes at her.

Marie sat up on an elbow, yawning noisily. "Logan?"

He lifted the cigar to his mouth again and shoved his hand into his pocket. He leaned back against her bedroom door, grinding his teeth around the cigar.

It was unusual really, he thought, how intensely it had affected him, watching her fly into danger. Funny thing was he had been a lot less concerned when she hadn't been invincible.

Marie sat up completely and frowned at him. Logan could smell her unease. With understated grace, she rose from her bed and crossed the room to stand in front of him, a bare hand reaching out to touch his sleeve.

"Logan, are you all right, sugar?"

Logan cracked his neck and pressed himself back against the door. He kept his teeth clenched, struggling to keep his anger repressed.

"Logan?"

He growled at her, causing her to jump. His hands snapped out. Marie tried to jump back, but he had her by the arms before she could get out of his reach.

Alarm, but no fear, filled her scent. "Logan?"

He let her go. Slowly, deliberately, he took his cigar from his mouth and put it out on the palm of his hand.

"Logan!"

Now there was fear. Logan breathed it in and let it calm his rage, tucking his hands and cigar back in his pockets.

"You say somethin' other than my name?"

She frowned at him, but didn't answer.

"Come on, kid. You're old enough to go charging in where ever you feel you oughta, but you have a one word vocabulary?" He snorted.

The frown deepened, and the fear faded from her scent. Marie folded her arms across her body, bare hands clutching the long sleeves of her night shirt.

"Shit, kid, you gonna lose that word too?"

Marie scowled, anger beginning to filter into her scent. "What's your problem, Logan?"

Logan snorted again, stepping away from her door and moving around her room restlessly, hands out of their pockets again. "No problem, kid."

Her eyes were sharp on him.

"Don't lie to me, *old man*."

Logan bared his teeth at her. His hands were back in his pockets, fists convulsing slightly, knuckles itching. He couldn't remember being this angry without going into a berserker rage.

And she still amused him.

It was wrong, to be this angry, to be this amused, to want -- to want what he used to want with Jean.

Why the fuck had he let that change?

Marie bared her teeth back at him. He'd found she could never really look dangerous. Not until you looked into her eyes and saw that, sometimes, there was no light in them, only dark, violent depths.

"You ever hear the saying, respect your elders?"

"You ever add the years up in my head?"

Logan snorted and looked away. "And that gives you the right to do whatever you want?"

"I do what needs to be done, Logan!"

"You do what you want to do," he returned sharply.

Marie snarled at him. "And you're the one to tell me not to? You take off at the drop of a hat, Logan. You do whatever you want no matter who you run over on the way!"

His claws came out an inch before he could stop them. It felt good, giving his anger a cold edge. He took his hands from his pockets, watching with pleasure as her eyes followed the dim flash of the metal of his claws.

"You're the one that picked me, kid," he ground out. Her eyes snapped back up to meet his. Logan took a step forward, and Marie took one backwards. She was getting it now, he saw, what she'd really done when she'd crawled into his trailer and put herself in his care. She'd put a claim on his life, and he had to answer that, had to take it off or make one in return.

She wasn't something he was willing to give up, but that would have been easier. She saw it, was realizing in a matter of seconds what he had known for five fucking years. And damn if her scent wasn't giving her away.

She didn't back up when he stepped forward again. It wasn't anger any more, not in his scent and not in hers. It wasn't submission either, but it was admitting, accepting, a tacit agreement of ownership and care.

His claws slid back in. She reached out and took his gloved hand.