Breathe. That's all I have to do. Just breathe. Focus on not focusing. Concentrate on not concentrating. Turn my eyes away from the sight in front of me. If I can't see it, it's not there. It never happened.

My hands shake, my arms tensing with the effort of stopping them. I want to hide it. I don't want anyone to see. All these people. All of them lurking around me. They're like shadows, fleeting images I catch when my head turns, brief flashes of color, expression. They're all watching.

I feel sick. Like I've been kicked in the stomach. My chest hurts.

The music around me swims in my head, taunting me, and I stumble. Feeling drunk though I'm sober. I don't want people to notice me, but they part, move out of my way as I stagger through and I wonder how long they've all known.

My boyfriend. With her.

I hate them for their sympathetic glances, their knowing comments. Well it was going to happen sooner or later. Who could blame him? She's dangerous. She can't touch. *Can't touch*. CAN'T FUCKING TOUCH.

And their pity? I *despise* them for it. On this night, of all nights. This was my night. I had worked hard for this. To graduate. To succeed in something. Hell, I'd even organized this ball. Although it's the last thing on my mind now.

He promised me that I was enough. And that's what hurts the most. Not the betrayal. Not the lies. Not the humiliation. But the broken promise. The words that kept me sane when the voices in my head screamed for release. That my skin didn't matter.

With nothing to hold me back, I do the one thing I know. I run.

"Hey kid." *He* catches up with me in the hall. I can't face him. Can't even look at him. I have to swallow the painful lump in my throat as I stare out the door. It's raining outside, soft heavy drips that soak into the summer starved ground, yet inside its warm and the door has been propped open. Tempting me. Inviting me to leave. Just like that. I could walk out. Then I'd never have to face them.

"Did you know?" I ask. My voice sounds weak and I hate it.

Nothing.

He doesn't respond and that's all the answer I need. I feel stupid. Like the only one left out of party, like the only one that didn't get the joke. Or maybe I am the joke. Was he laughing at me with everyone else?

"You runnin'?"

He's not moved any closer. He's keeping his distance I can tell. Like my screw up of a life is contagious. "Would you?" I say to the doorway.

"Probably," he admits, and I can almost see him in my mind. Leaning casually against the wall, arms folded, studying me. Testing the scent on the air. Waiting to see if I'm gonna bolt like a frightened animal.

"But you're not me," he feels the need to add. "You're stronger than that."

Strong? I want to SCREAM at him. I want to shout at him, "NO I'M NOT!" until he finally hears it, until everyone hears it and they lock me away in a dark room with padded walls for comfort and the loss of contact is complete. Give me a reason. Give me an excuse. I'm damaged, the girl with the broken skin.

I close my eyes for a moment. Forget that he's there. Then it's actually surprisingly easy to step over the edge, propel myself out of the doorway, into the earthy dampness of the fresh night air and up the slick gravel drive way.

My heals crunch and dig into the ground, hurting my feet, so I take them off and pad along barefoot. The stones are painful, but I relish it. At least I am capable of feeling something.

I hear him come up behind me, but I don't stop. He grabs my arm. It's bare, but he's wearing gloves. I absently wonder if he ran off to get them, or if he had them on him the whole time. It's these things, the little details, these are the things I can cope with. The way one star slowly blinks in the sky; the soft scent of wet pine; the faint echo of music behind me. I force myself to focus on them, because if I look at the bigger picture, then the cracks that are holding me together will...

He forces me to stop. Gently. Turns me around so that I have to look anywhere but his face. He's wearing an old shirt. It looks soft, darkening from rain. His customary belt buckle is gone. The only concession he made for dressing up smart. His jeans have seen better days too, but they're so familiar that I feel myself braking.

Don't let him be nice to me, please don't let him be nice. I can't handle it if he's nice. I need him to be gruff and arrogant.

But he's not. And I can't help myself.

I feel my chest rise and fall with the effort not to cry, but it escapes me. The air comes into my lungs in great noisy sobs. The tears trickle pathetically down my cheeks, mingling with the rain and cooling quickly, dripping off my chin. I'm so ashamed of them, but he doesn't wipe them away. He just raises my head until I am forced to look at him.

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't do anything. Just waits for who knows how long...seconds...minutes. Days. And I'm shaking and choking until I've nothing left to give. He holds me until I stop. And then, only then, when I have control again, does he speak.

"Some things are best over."

As far as advice goes, that sucks. I want to fling it back in his face and make him hurt like I am hurting.

"Who could blame him," I say bitterly, trying to make him flinch with my words. "He can't touch me. Do you have any idea what that's like? Being trapped by your own skin? Seeing people avoid you? Seeing that fear in their faces every time you reach out? Pretending not to notice when people step away from you? He deserves a normal life. I can't give him that."

I try to look away again, but he makes me face him. "Don't you *dare* think your skin is the reason that little dick is fuckin' around." He almost growls it at me. Like I made him angry. And I think...*good*. I want to make him angry. See how he likes it. Because then it gives me an excuse to be angry back.

"There is nothing wrong with your skin. Marie."

I draw back at the deliberate use of my name. It feels wrong. Awkward. It doesn't feel like it really belongs to me anymore. Like an old picture that's fallen out of its frame, like clothes that no longer fit. It isn't mine.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to see what you are."

"What I AM? What AM I Logan? I'm no one. NOBODY! The girl who CAN'T. BE. TOUCHED!" I haul the words at him. "I can't fight. I can't teach. I am a danger to myself and others around me, and-"

He doesn't let me finish. "Don't say that. Don't you EVER say that." He's gripping my wrist hard. Really hard. It hurts, but he doesn't let go.

"Really," I scoff, trying to goad him. "Who's gonna touch *me*. The pretty girl with the poison skin," I mimic. "Not Bobby certainly. He made that very clear tonight. Scott? The Professor?" I glare at him. "You?"

"It's not about touch."

"Yes it is." I snap back. I want to make him see that there's almost nothing left. That I'm numb. "Everything's about touch. Denying it is like telling a beggar on the street that the world's not all about money. And I want it. I want it so bad. What you all take it for granted. Just to be able to feel."

He stares at me. Fury and something else battling in his dark eyes, and it scares me a little. But I don't back down. I'm shouting and I don't care. "Do you know what I would *give* just to be able to FEEL again?"

I see him flinch, he takes the words like a bullet to the chest and I'm pleased. He steps back a few paces, expression closed, and turns towards the mansion.

Go on, I think. Go. Leave me alone like everyone else. But he doesn't. He stops. I see his shoulders tense, and then he's coming back towards me, and whatever it was he just decided, he's refusing to meet my gaze.

When he reaches me, he turns me, his hand warm on my lower back, roughly propelling me forwards, off the gravel, across the grass, stumbling, shoes still in my hands, to the small boathouse that sits by the lake.

This is his. This is where he goes. The Professor let him have it when he came back from Alkali Lake. Most people avoid it. He hasn't been the most friendly of companions since then. People think Scott handled Jean's death badly, but at least he grieved for her. Logan just shut
himself away.

He swings open the front door, and pushes me through. I haven't been here for a while, like everyone else I've stayed out of his way. He's been... antisocial. I look around. It's just one big room really. Thebathroom is separate, and there's a small kitchen unit, but everything he owns is in this one space. And it's not much. He never was one for collecting things.

The wooden floor is icy cold against my feet and I shiver, the rain making my dress cling heavily around my ankles, but he doesn't notice. He just takes my hand and pulls me to the ancient full length mirror that adorned the wall long before he got here. The paper around it has faded and dried with age, and he wipes away a layer of dust and grime with his hand. Guess he's not one for housework either.

"Look at yourself," he orders, standing behind me and forcing my chin up so there is nothing else I can do. I think about closing my eyes. But that would seem petty. "LOOK."

It's not pretty. My makeup has run, dark circles are smudged under bloodshot eyes. My lips are swollen and puffy from crying. Even my hair, which I spent ages coaxing into a sophisticated wrap, has half fallen out, straggly strands framing my face like dark string.

"What?" I ask him. What does he expect me to see? Is he trying to shock me into gathering myself together?

"You're beautiful the way you are."

I freeze at his words, then I nearly laugh. The sort of desperate laugh you hear when all someone really wants to do is cry and scream. Does he not get it? Does he not get *any* of it? But he's not laughing. He's deadly serious.

He takes off one glove, puts it down on the dresser beside him, and with a thumb wipes away the worst of the smears under my eyes. He doesn't touch long enough for the pull to start. It helps, but only a little. I still look awful.

"You trying to heal me again?" I sniff, wishing my voice wasn't so heavy and throaty from crying. "Y'know, there are some things that your touch can't heal."

But he doesn't answer. He undoes my hair, what's left of it, and lets it fall about my shoulders. It's thick and heavy and feels warm after the chill of the night, and it's almost comforting somehow. The tension that knotted the back of my head eases a little.

He sweeps it back from my shoulder, his shadowed eyes meeting mine in the mirror. There's not much light to see by, the moon smoulders feebly through the open window, a half drowned, half hearted effort. There are security lights in the garden beyond, but here it is shaded. Private. I can just about make out his shuttered expression.

He hovers close behind me. "I want to show you," he says. "Just once." There's a subtle shift in his tone, a new edge, one I've never heard before. For some reason it makes my heart skip in my chest.

I am suddenly aware of the heat radiating from him.

"Show me what?"

"That you can touch." He says it simply. Like it's not a big thing. But then he runs his fingers along my bare collarbone, slowly, so that they slide over the strap of my dress, moving them from my skin only when he starts to feel it draw him in.

"See," he says. "I'm still here. You're still here." He moves his head closer, breathing in the scent of my hair. I find myself hoping that it smells of shampoo, coconut and sweet, but instead I think it must smell of hairspray and cigarettes. It doesn't seem to worry him though.

His hand barely skims my shoulder, before sliding down my side, fingers scrunching the soft velvet of my deep green dress, feeling their way over the contours of my skin through the rich fabric. I don't understand.

"What... what are you doing?"

His hand begins to circle. Slowly. Stirring up all sorts of strange sensations. The other hand, still gloved, reaches up to trace the curve of my hip. Through the mirror his eyes are still locked on mine and his body feels warm at my back.

Then his hand moves lower, to my thigh, and suddenly I realize. It prickles the hairs on my neck in awareness, a tingling sensation that edges all the way down my spine, creeping softly, like his touch. "You're gonna sleep with me? Just to prove a point?"

"If that's what it takes."

"I..."

"Shh," he says, putting his fingers to my lips. Feeling my skin feed on the contact eagerly, like a living beast, before pulling away. He's breathing a little harder this time, but he doesn't stop. "Just once," he says quietly. "You need this."

And I want to fight him. I really do. I want to shout that I'm not some cheap whore he can do what he wants with, but I know that's not why he's doing this. Not really. He's always looked out for me. Protected me. Picked up the pieces when I screwed things up. Which I do regularly. That's all he's doing now. Trying to fix me. The only way he knows how.

Yet I can't tell him to stop.

I can feel his breath warm my ear. He dips his head, his lips briefly brush the skin of my neck, and a tremor rocks through me. His eyes glint at my reaction. A hand reaches up and touches where his mouth had been, then barely close enough to tickle, moves to slide the thin dress strap down my arm.

I watch it fall. Like the last brick tumbling from my wall of self restraint.

This time when his hand slides across my stomach I can't help the way my breath catches, and I know he hears it. I stare in voyeuristic fascination as he moves higher. I can't decide what's more surreal, the feel of his hands on me, or the sight of them. A shudder that has nothing to do with the horrors of before chases through me as his thumb brushes the underside of my breast. It's at that moment I know. This is going to happen.

He chuckles softly at the sound I make when his fingers find my nipple. But it's a predatory chuckle, it sends shivers to my toes, and I don't quite know what to do with myself. This is all too new. His still-gloved hand slides through the slitted side of my dress to cup me under the fabric, the leather warm and alien against my skin. I feel my eyelids drift close, but he growls.

"No. Keep them open."

And what else could I do? I look at him and he's gazing at me intently, drinking me in with his hungry dark eyes, and what I see in there makes my heart race and my blood pound in my veins and I know he can sense it. He can taste the sudden heat in the room, the scent of arousal, and I know he's pleased.

Part of me can't understand why this is happening. I wonder if I've fallen and hit my head, that this is all a strange dream that doesn't quite make sense. But as I sink back against his firm shoulder, the smell of him filling my nose, his skillful fingers are still moving. And he's gentle. In all my thoughts about him, all my daydreams during my stupid crush, I never once dreamt that he'd be gentle.

My teeth catch my bottom lip as his hand sinks lower, and he rumbles his approval. His un-gloved fingers seem pale against the dark of my dress, and I watch in disbelief as they suddenly dip between my legs, without invitation, and rub me through the velvet material. First I'm shocked at this invasion of privacy. My stomach jolts, and a mouthful of air rushes out as my lips part in shock. But he doesn't stop, and then I can't help it. I arch back into him, and he holds me.

I feel naked, even though I'm fully clothed. The dress bunches up between my thighs as his hand moves more firmly, but I no longer care. Sensations are beginning to flood through me, filling my mind like a drug, and I welcome it, sink into it, losing myself to the oblivion it brings. My skin sings to his touch. I can hear my breathing quicken, it's a distant echo; like it belongs to someone else.

His arm is around me, he doesn't stop, just whispers words I can't understand as I feel the heat rush over me and for a moment, a few pure seconds, I'm free.

Drifting.

Complete.

Then when it fades, I'm left with languid warmth, feeling heavy and contented.

I catch him, grinning over my shoulder with a smug look upon his face like he just invented the wheel. My face flames with color as the realization of what just happened hits me. I'm so embarrassed. Mortified. He just saw me come for Chrissake. *Made* me come. And I don't know how to handle that right now. I shouldn't even be here.

I mumble something, I hope it resembles an apology, and I try to leave, but he catches me and pulls me back into the heat of his body. "Not yet," he breathes, and he moves against me. It's slight, almost unintentional, but I can feel...everything.

He turns me to face him and I don't resist, no longer wanting to see myself in the mirror, and he's looking down at me with those unfathomable dark eyes, the flecks of hazel glinting intensely. He looks calm, but his shoulders are rising and falling like he just stepped out of that cage, and his hands shake slightly as he pulls me to him.

He presses against me and I can't stop myself from moving with him. My body demands it, craves the feelings he can bring me. He takes my hands that are still hanging uselessly at my side, and moves one to his chest, letting me hold it there. I can feel the thud of his heart beneath the warm material of his shirt. Fast, and powerful. Safe. My fingers slide lower, almost of their own accord, and he catches them.

"Be sure."

I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But I need this so badly.

I find myself nodding slowly, and that's all the consent he wants. He growls and pushes my palm lower, so that I can feel all of him, and the fire inside me begins to grow again. It makes me feel alive. Right now, right at this moment, I understand his chain of one-night-stands. It's about connection, that physical touch that sparks life when there is only void. It's about losing yourself in someone else. And that's what he's letting me do. It's his way. I understand that now.

He grabs hold of me, lifting me on to the dresser, hands hitching up my dress, crushing the green velvet around my hips, spreading my legs wide enough to accommodate him. The cold, damp denim rubs against my skin and it feels strange and uncomfortable. I don't see where he gets the condom from, but I can't help but stare as he unzips his fly. And then it's all so quick. None of the first-time fumbling I was expecting from Bobby. Instead he pulls me roughly towards him, puts my hands on his shoulders, and then he's there, hot, hard, and different. Invasive. Pressing into me. I can feel him.

It doesn't hurt, not like I thought it would. He's holding himself back, hand sliding into my hair, tilting my head up to look at him, jaw clenching as he begins to thrust. I know my breathing quickens, but so does his. His nostrils flare as snarl crosses his face, not pain, but something close. Pleasure. I can feel his shoulders tense, the muscles bunched and powerful, and my fingers curl into them. With his gloved hand he wraps one leg round his hip, then takes me deeper, and when I cry out, he growls his approval.

I stop thinking. I give myself over to him. Trust him completely. Letting him take me and take me until he brings me back over that shattered edge, to the point where nothing else exists except him...and me.

He breathes hard through his nose and grunts when he comes, his face clenching tightly for a moment, body shuddering with release under my hands, the aftershocks rippling through him, before his eyes close and he relaxes against me.

Then we stay like we are for a moment. He rests his forehead against my hair. I'm still wrapped around him. Neither of us wants to move. Not just yet.

But reality dictates we can't stay like this all night. My legs are sore, muscles screaming in protest and I know I will have to stand up soon. So I begin to unwind myself from him, and he nods, accepting, stepping back to remove the condom and zip himself back up.

He doesn't look at me. Now that it's done, it all feels so unemotional. Detached.

I stand up, straighten my underwear, and let my dress fall back down to my ankles, feeling the newness of the raw ache between my legs. I am unsure of what to say. I feel like I should thank him or something, but I can't. It would cheapen it. So instead I just hover there, awkward.

He's the one that reaches for me. He pulls me towards him and wraps his arms around me, drawing me close. He feels so safe, so warm, and it's strangely personal after what we have just done. When I step back, I hope he can read my thoughts because I can never say it. Never tell him what that meant to me.

And I don't know if he can, but he looks closely at me and drops a single light kiss at the corner of my mouth, lingering only for a moment, before he pulls away.

I know in the morning he'll be gone. This was too big a thing for him. He'll run from it. And I know that this was as he said. Once. But he's given me something. I can touch. I have touched. I can be strong enough to face whatever comes next.

It's been a year since he left, and I can still taste him. Phantom hands still wander my skin at night. They haunt my thoughts whenever the reality around me is lost.

People say that I'm distant. Detached. I know they're worried about me. But they shouldn't be. I've worked hard, persevered. I've made a life for myself out of the train wreck my mutation left behind.

When he came back he was different. Something happened to him, in that year. Something that changed him. Made him bitter. Made him darker than before. He avoided everyone, even me. And that hurt. Even though I knew it shouldn't. Even though I had known what to expect. He'd made no promises.

But why is hope always last to die?

After his return, he spent a long time talking with the Professor in his study. There were evenings when he locked himself away in that boathouse; hours lost disappearing into the woods; nights out at rough bars where the drink was cheap, and the women cheaper.

And then there were the arguments. Not with me, never me, but with others. Tense, silent ones; hard glares and barely controlled emotions. Scott, Ro, Kurt, Pete. He was bristling on the edge of fury, and it made them resent him. He'd returned like a razor blade into our collective attempt at peace, and it was hard for everyone.

But even razors loose their edge after a time. These days, everyone pretends not to notice who he brings back with him. Scott frowns his disapproval, but says nothing. Ro politely refers to each one as his latest 'friend', and makes snarky comments behind his back about the fact that he never keeps them around long enough to offer them breakfast. The Professor is politely indifferent. It's like some horrible alter-reality where nothing quite works as it should.

Some horrible alter-reality in which I don't quite fit.

I've slipped out of sync.

I no longer remember the steps.

Sometimes, if I concentrate hard enough, if I close my eyes and really focus, I can pretend for a while that he never came back. I preferred it that way. My memories were untainted. I had closed that book. Accepted that what he gave me was just once, and for the first time I had been getting on with my life.

Until that bike no one thought to see again growled angrily back up the driveway.

Secretly I'm glad he no longer lives in the mansion. The boathouse is far enough away that I don't have to hear the noises they make when he fucks them hard. Does he do that? Fuck them hard? Or is he gentle. Like he was with me.

I eat my meals late, stay out of his way, and we barely have cause to meet. That's how I get by. Because his presence threatens to ruin my carefully constructed shell, and I don't know how to handle it. I couldn't bare the thought that he regretted what we did. What *he* did. To me.

It's actually weeks before we talk, and even then it's nothing. He gives me a brief smile, functional, and says his customary, "Hey kid," even though I haven't been a kid for years. Even though the last time I was this close to him I was gripping him hard between my legs as he came. The thought of it still brings a blush to my face even as I stand there, stupidly trying to appear calm.

The air between us is awkward; it's heavy and stifling, and when I reply and tell him that it's good he's back, the urge to disappear is so strong it claws at my back. I want to run. Run away like he does so well.

How could he do it? How could he touch me and leave? How could he come back, and then act as if it was nothing? Less than nothing. Not even worthy of note. Not even enough for him to seek me out and ask me how I was doing.

But I smile, like him, functional, and I move on, turning to walk to the library, even though I was heading for the kitchen, just so I don't have to follow him. Petty, I know. But it helps.

And that's how it goes on. The mansion's a big place. You can lose yourself in it, if you try hard enough. And he's an expert at that. So we keep to our broken pattern of avoided conversations, eluded glances, until one day I simply... snap.

I look at him. I've been sitting next to him for the last half an hour in the canteen. Students are fussing with food all around us. It's bustling with activity, but the noise just rings in my ears in a jagged cacophony of voices and clanks of trays and scrapes of knives and it makes my head hurt.

We didn't plan to sit near each other. Scott had beckoned me to join them, I couldn't exactly say no, and then he and Ro had a call to leave. Which left us stranded. I wanted to get up and move to another table, but that would be ridiculous. And obvious. And I don't want him to know how much he is hurting me.

I know he's deliberately trying to appear relaxed, but I'm so aware of him sitting beside me that I can't think straight. I pick at my food, drowning in the scent of his leather, and the words just tumble out. "Why can't we talk anymore? We could always talk."

But he doesn't answer. And that's worse than anything else he could say. He just stares straight ahead. Doesn't say a word, chews on his food resolutely, swallows down the last of his drink, before scraping the chair legs back. He picks up his plate, hands it back to the kitchen, and is gone. Just like that.

All I can do is sit there. I don't cry. I don't move. I don't get up and run after him. I just watch him walk away, putting down my fork as my hand starts to shake, swallowing the lump in my throat that will not go away. And I will not cry. I will not cry. I've worked so hard for this.

Slowly, I get up. I wonder if people are looking at me, but I avoid their glances. My knife and fork go neatly side by side on my plate, my chair tucked smartly out the way, hair smoothed straight. I can control the little things.

It feels like the whole world is watching me. I can feel the heat of their gazes fusing my skin with color. But my chin rises, even as my mouth trembles, and I square my shoulders, walk out and head for my room; where I shut myself in and crawl into my bed, burying my head under the cocooning warmth of the covers.

It's dark when he bursts through my door.

He's drunk. It doesn't take heightened senses to work that one out. And he's a mess. His clothes are torn, his eye's a slowly healing bloody pulp, swollen and half closed. There's blood everywhere. His? I don't know. But when he snarls the split in his lip cracks and he staggers up to me. Like it's an effort.

He yells, slams his fist relentlessly into the night stand, books splitting across the floor, the course scratch of torn pages. I'm hauled out of bed by my shirt, shoved hard against the wall. "WHY?!" He's furious. "YOU WANT TO KNOW GODDAMN *WHY*?! BECAUSE I SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE IT!" His grip tightens painfully. "Because it was SO FUCKIN' *WRONG*!"

My head is pounding, heart racing. I feel sick. I want to tell him to go. Not to destroy what little he gave me. Leave me alone before there is nothing left to leave. But he's far from finished.

"WHAT KIND OF A MAN DOES THAT?"

"Stop," I manage weakly.

"I was supposed to LOOK AFTER you!"

"Please, stop." I can't handle much more of this. I'm being ripped in to pieces in front of him and he can't even tell.

"NOT fuckin' NAIL you!"

"STOP IT!" How can he say that? How can he turn what had been the most intense memory in my life into something sullied and dirty.

He forces me to look at him, hands in my hair, wrenching my head back so that I have no choice. He reeks of stale alcohol and blood and sweat. "I am so sorry Marie," he says, and his voice cracks. "I am *so* fuckin' sorry."

He's sorry? I blink. Breathe. I don't want him to be sorry. I try to hold back the tears. Breathe. My teeth are clenched so tightly together that my jaw aches. Breathe. My hands are trembling. Just Breathe. It's too much, it's all too much. I can't... My eyes close with the pressure, I can't help it. I explode in great big choking gulps. How could he? How could he come back and ruin *everything*. I hate him. I really hate him.

"How can you say that?" I shove him away, pushing so hard he stumbles back. *Good*. Then I hit him, not with my hand, but with my fist. Hard. Again and again. "HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT!" Now it's released, I can't stop. "It meant EVERYTHING." I hit him again, he staggers, but he takes it. "You gave me what I needed. I could even cope with you going away. But then you had to come back and I HATE IT! I HATE that I still want you! I HATE that you don't-"

It happens so quickly that I don't even have time to react. I'm slammed back against the wall, body against mine, hands holding me still and mouth so hot I cannot *think*. I want to wrap myself around him. I want to drown in him. He tastes of bitter smoke and another woman but I'm beyond caring. I want him on me, all over me, inside me, hard and heavy, kissing me like he didn't before. I bite his lip, and he growls, his tongue pushing into my mouth. I can feel my skin drawing him in, can feel the rush of thoughts, the memories, the desire, but I can't stop. I want more, I want to feel him, and I take and I take until he is hanging onto his consciousness by a thread.

When he finally pulls back, he's ragged, his body suddenly heavy as he sinks to his knees.

His eyes are screwed painfully shut; he's fighting for each breath. The wounds on his face are bleeding again, but he refuses to give in. He reaches up an unsteady hand and yanks me down to his level. "I'm...sorry," he struggles, wheezing with the pain. He clutches blindly at the floor beside him for support. "I didn't...Tomorrow I'll go. I...won't come...back. Promise."

Then he slumps to the floor, unconscious.

He's been out cold for two days now.

I tried to stay away at first, thinking that it would be for the best. But there's a weakness in me that can't help creeping back.

I watch over him from a distance and I wonder if he senses me. There are no nightmares down here. Sleep is too heavy, and he looks peaceful. Sometimes I even get close enough to trace the faint frown lines on his forehead. But I never touch him, no, not that. Not even with my gloves on. Not even when his eyelids flicker softly in his sleep, and I long for the contact. Just for a moment, just to remember the rough of his stubble on the backs of my fingers, just enough to fix it in my memory. But it feels like invasion. I don't have the right.

So I just watch.

Everyone wonders what happened. There's been talk. Gossip. But Hank's been good to me. He told everyone Logan got into a fight, and no one was surprised. He didn't mention me, and I'm grateful.

If I'm honest, I'm not sure that I want him to wake up. Does that make me a bad person? I was getting on with my life, coping with it, and then he came back and tangled everything up again. Only this time he's the screw up. Not me. Or maybe he was always the screw up... I don't know.

I make an effort. Construct a half decent front to hide behind. I try to carry on with the everyday things, but I'm torn between so many emotions that I'm a mess. Things set me off. Little things. Events that should be of no consequence. I put my laundry on too high a setting, and shrink my favorite top. My fingers fumble and I drop a mug, then stare at the shattered pieces on the floor until Jubilee comes in with a sad smile, and cleans it up as she makes me a fresh drink. One of the smaller kids comes up to me and gives me a flower he picked from the garden because he said I looked sad, and I take it, and then I go to my room and cry for hours.

I have so many voices running through my head that I'm not sure who I am anymore. All those years, he was my anchor. He kept that little bit of me, that bit that was purely *me*, safe. But now it's gone, and I'm adrift. I'm lost. And I'm longing for the shuttered control I felt before he came back.

I don't know what to make of him anymore. I never thought of him as perfect, far from it, I'm not blind. But he was always there for me, like a barrier, a comfort zone between me and the rest of the world. Even when he wasn't there at all.

But now he's turned the tables. He's switched channels without me noticing; gone on self-destruct; drinking, fighting. Sleeping around. And it's because of me. Because of what he did to me. Because he was so goddamned sorry.

There's a gentle knock at my door. I get up reluctantly to open it. I really don't want to see anyone right now.

It's Hank.

"He's awake."

I keep my expression schooled. Carefully calm. But I feel my pulse quicken. Traitor. "Has he said anything?"

Hank shakes his head. "Not much. He asked after you. If you were ok. Just thought I'd let you know." He gives me a kind smile before he goes. It's meant to be reassurance, but it feels like pity.

I close the door behind him and turn to lean on it. Now I add guilt to my list too, although why I should feel it is beyond me. Perhaps it's because he's the one in the med lab fighting to heal, while I'm here trying to emotionally detach myself from it all. Trying to kill it off, thought by thought, until I'm dead inside. At least that way it won't hurt anymore.

And there's guilt at sifting through his memories too. I feel like a voyeur in my own head, but I can't help it, they rise to me unbidden, as much as I want to keep them buried.

I begin to understand what he's been through. Smothering his desires in alcohol and violence. Burying them deep, burying them well. His mind is a dark place; there are things there that I don't want to know. Things that frighten me.

And I don't understand what he feels for me. It's such tide of emotions, so mixed up, that it hurts my head. Possession, want, lust, warmth, yes warmth is in there, but so is hate, so is pain, so is this bitter self-dejecting sorrow that drives him to destroy.

I could go and see him again, Hank hints at this enough times, but I don't. Not now when he's awake. I wouldn't know what to say. What is there to say to someone that despises himself for wanting you? Who, one moment acts like you've got a restraining order out on him, and the next... I shiver at the memory of his touch. And I know that even when I finally give in to the heaviness of my head and drag myself into bed during those dark hours of the morning, I won't be sleeping.

It's those hours. The early ones. The time between the fat sinking moon and the first dusky hints of dawn. That's when it hurts the most. That's when he haunts my dreams. His memories, my fantasies, bleeding in to one. Mingling, stirring into a maelstrom of images that still grip the edges of my mind when I wake. Flashes of skin on skin. Of raw possession. Of claiming; fierce and dark. Snatches of tangled legs. Sweaty, writhing and salty. Fingers curling into sheets. Aching. Snarling. Hard and tense and deep. Heels pushing, feet sliding, thighs gripping. Body arching. Muscles straining...

It leaves me feeling drained. Hollow.

A few more days drift absently by, without consequence, like I forgot to live them, and he is a man of his word. As soon as he's able, in fact long before he should even be out of the med lab, he has packed his bags and is ready to go. I hear this from Storm of all people. Second hand gossip. Old news. Apparently everyone knew before me. Not that I can blame this on anyone but myself. I haven't exactly been outgoing recently.

And I don't know what to do. Do I run after him? Do I beg him to stay, knowing that every time he looks at me he hates himself just that little bit more? Is that what he feels? Do I try and stop him?

In the end I just sit blankly in the rec room. Not waiting, but listening, I guess. Listening for the sound of his boots. A familiar sound I know so well, one that still makes my pulse pound and my chest wrench.

Maybe it won't come. Maybe he's changed his mind, absolved me of having to make a decision. Maybe he's... But his footfalls echo ominously down the stairs, solid and real, and the heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach begins to makes me feel sick. I head to the door. I don't really know what I'm doing, there's no great plan in my head of what I'm going to say. I just... I have to see him. Almost to convince myself that it's happening. That he really is going.

He turns to me when he catches my scent. He looks strained. Drawn. And my heart crumples.

Dark eyes reach mine and they pierce me, searching for something. But it's an effort to meet them. I feel ashamed when I look away, concentrating instead on the ugly pattern of the rug at my feet. Thick woven strands. Garish clashing colors. I follow it as it repeats, counting the number of times in my head. One. Two. Three. Four.

He moves to come closer and I can't help it, the pain is tangible. I flinch. I know he sees it.

His eyes close. "I didn't mean..." He steps back, keeps the distance that's opened like a chasm between us. "I didn't..."

Five. Six. Seven. It's starting to make my vision swim. It splits into two as I loose focus. No longer even looks like a rug. I try and get my mouth to work. "Logan?" I'm not even sure what it is I'm asking, so quiet that I barely even hear it myself.

"Just ask me, Marie," his voice is hoarse, and I look up. "Just ask... I'll stay."

But I can't. I can't say it. He's lust and fear and darkness all tangled up together and I can't separate them. I don't know how.

He sees me hesitate, and nods, the expression on his face closing as he turns and picks up his duffle.

And I watch him walk out. Out of the door and out of my life.

Do I miss him? I'd be lying if I said I didn't. So call me a liar. Call me anything you want.

I see the others around me, happy. Kurt, content with what he's got, Jubilee, excited by the all little things. Kitty and Bobby so ensconced in each other that they don't notice anyone else around them. And what's strange is that the pain I felt when Bobby betrayed me doesn't even hurt anymore. Not even a dull ache. There's nothing. It was all smoothed away by Logan, whose dark kisses and hard body left a raw and open wound in its place.

I tell myself it was for the best that he's gone. It was rational. Safe. I can reconstruct myself again. It wouldn't have been right anyway, he's so much older than me. He's lived, experienced. He's hurt, forgotten. Hunted, been hunted. He's fought and stabbed and killed without conscience. And sometimes he's more animal than he is man.

What am I to him? A small slip of a girl.

But it's harder to get on with things this time. People gossip. Whispers echo behind closed doors; I still have his senses, I can hear them all, he left me that legacy. Maybe it's a curse. Everything that they say makes bitter sense. Too young, too fragile, too... distant.

The Professor comes to talk to me. He makes a special effort, everyone can see that. He tries to include me in the meetings, wants me to consider becoming one of the X-men. And I smile, and thank him for his offer. I fiddle with my gloves self-consciously as I pretend to consider it. But how can I? I'm a liability, he knows that. And I think that if I touch one more person right now my head would explode.

Still, the first week goes by since the Harley screeched away, and I've survived. I feel like shit. I've bitten the head off of anyone who's come close enough to try and comfort me, but I've survived. Start as you mean to go on, or so they say. So right now I think I'll just set my sights on surviving. It's not so hard once you think about it; a bit like going through the motions of a dance, even if you can't remember why you got up in the first place.

The food tastes like cardboard, I push it listlessly around my plate, but I make it through the evening meals. See, surviving. Simple. And Jubilee's good to me, she doesn't ask what happened. Doesn't press me for details, just sits next to me the whole time and talks about all the unimportant things. The things I can cope with.

And I'm in control when I wash my face and get ready for bed. I manage to draw my curtains without looking out the window to the boathouse. I'm numbly detached, even as I begin to drift off to sleep.

It's only when I wake in the middle of the night, slicked in a cold sweat, head pounding, heart thumping, that I feel sick. And then... Oh God, then I begin to regret. Really, *really* regret.

So he's messed up. So am I. That's why we fit.

And it hurts so much, it hurts so goddamn much.

I can't... I... What did I do...? Palms press tightly against my eyes, trying to block the tears. I want to stop, I want to, but they spill over and I... Oh God I feel like I'm broken. Knees drawn tightly up to my chest, covers pulled around them, but still so cold. I'm desperate to to stay calm. Focus. Reason with myself.

It was for the best. He doesn't want... You hurt him. You make him hurt. It was right... It was...

But it doesn't work. I try and regain a grip on the distant control that somehow disappeared during the night. Try to concentrate. Shut off my emotions. But it doesn't work. And it's getting worse, and I have to fight back the sobs in my throat until I'm struggling not to hyperventilate. Why does nothing goddamn work?

Fingers clamp against my mouth, covering to stop the noise I'm sure can't be coming from me. I don't want to wake Jubilee. I can't cope with that right now.

I need something. Fast. A hit of something. Anything.

Decision made, I get up, desperate. My vision's swimming and I have to lean against the wall for support. I'm unsteady on my feet, so I wrap up well, put my gloves on, just in case anyone else is around. Like I said. I don't want another voice.

I fumble my way through the dark, tripping over the piles of Jubilee's junk all over the floor. The kitchen's not too far away. I can make it without turning on any of the lights.

My hands find the blind and pull it up with a rustling swish, letting in just enough moonlight to bathe the room in a washed-out glow. It's so quiet. The gentle hum of the fridge and the steady tick of the clock hands are all that can touch the edges of my mind.

I have to stand on tiptoe to reach it. The stash of beer hidden at the back of the cupboard. It's not chilled, but I don't care. Logan's touch has given me cravings and it's this or a cigar.

The cap pops off with a hiss, I raise it to my lips. I'm suddenly so incredibly thirsty that-

I freeze. Blink. He's there, just standing in the doorway. Crumpled jacket, battered duffle, shadowed face.

He's looking at me like the world might end.

"I can't do it." His voice cracks over the words. He rubs a hand over his eyes, so tired.

I watch him. Carefully place the beer down on the table. My hands are shaking. Has he noticed?

He steps a little closer. "I tried. Fuck it Marie, I *tried*. But I never even left the goddamned state."

I know I should say something. But I can't.

"I know I'm not perfect. I know I've screwed up, screwed around. I know I'm old enough to be... fuck knows how old I am. But I'm here. Right now. Asking you." He looks at me quietly. "If you'll take me."

My stomach jolts painfully. My eyes close. But he's still there. I can smell him, dark and smoky, fresh like the night.

When I open them again, he looks like he might actually fucking cry. He thinks I'm going to say no. He's sure of it.

The blood pounds in my ears. It's just a leap. That's all it is. Just a push. Just a step over that brink. It's just...

"Ok." The word comes out so small and quiet that I'm not quite sure I even said it. Did I really say it? The room begins to spin and something creeps into his face.

Disbelief.

Then... hope.

"Ok," I say again. This time a little louder, a little more confident. I manage a watery smile, and I nod at him, just in case he didn't get it. "Ok."

And then he's crossing the room, and I'm wrapped in strong arms and he's holding on like he might fall off the edge if he ever let go. He buries his head in my hair and his shoulders are shuddering, but I hold on tightly as a hoarse whisper repeats in my ear. "I'm sorry I fucked up. I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry."

When he pulls back, he stays close, just an arms length away. He's trying to read my face, searching for something. A hand lets go of me and runs uneasily through his messed up hair. He wants to say something else.

"What?"

His jaw clenches. "I just... I need to know Marie. Are you sure? Because I can't... I don't think I..."

He trails off. Slightly hesitant at first, I reach out my gloved fingers so that my hand slides tentatively over his. He watches it carefully as I curl my fingers between his own. Then to prove my point, I stand up on tiptoes and press my lips softly against mouth, feeling that faint brush of stubble against my chin. His skin is cold from the night outside, he hasn't shaved for days. "Yes." I step back and look at him so he knows that I mean it.

And when he pulls me to him and kisses me back, I feel like I've come home. My hands curl into the lapels of his jacket, drawing him closer, and he smells so good, tastes so fucking hot that I barely notice my mutation kick in until I am swamped by his feelings. And then I am so hungry for him, that it's only when I start to feel his weight lean heavily upon me that I realize he's letting me take this too far.

"Careful." I manage to pull back slightly. Unsteady on my own legs. "I can still kill you."

"Yeah," he whispers, eyes darkening, forehead tilting forward to rest on my own. "But what a way to go." His hands shake slightly as he holds me close and I choke on the strangled laugh that escapes, but he soon silences it. His mouth returning and his touch marking me as his. I don't think I was ever anything but his. And I loose myself in him, in the feel of him, letting it envelop me, re-awaken me.

I try to stop him when he steps away slightly. But he's insistent. He's got that look. That uncomfortable one.

"Marie."

I'm not sure I want to hear what he's got to say.

"A year ago I stopped you from runnin'. I shouldn't have. I should-"

I try and interrupt him, but he shakes his head.

"No, let me finish. I had no right. It was your choice and I took it from you. I want to give it back." He takes my head in his hands, gaze lingering on the white streaks I have never managed to get rid of. "Your choice, Marie. You wanna run with me?"

Run. Run away from it all. All the memories, all the pain. And with him. I could. God help me I could. It would be so easy.

But for the first time, in a very long time, I know what I want. And it's not that.

"No." I shake my head. "I want to face them."

And he pulls me close, the corner of his mouth rising in the beginnings of a smile. He breathes in the scent of my hair and kisses me softly. "Then that's what we'll do."