"It was a beautiful service," Scott said as he unknotted his tie and dropped it on the floor.

Jean nodded, sniffling. She followed after him and absently picked up the clothes he left behind as he stripped on his way to the bathroom.

They'd just returned from the funeral for Joyce Parrish, the woman who'd been the cook at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters since they themselves had been students. Fair but kind, Mrs. Parrish had ruled the kitchen with an iron fist, chasing away students who used telekinesis to steal blueberry tarts one day, and making those same students hot cocoa with marshmallows as they poured out their romantic woes to her the next.

Scott came out of the bathroom to see Jean standing in the middle of the bedroom, red-eyed and still sniffling, his clothes gripped tightly in her hand.

"C'mere," he said, pulling her into his arms and burying his face in her hair as she cried against his chest.

Joyce's death hadn't been unexpected or sudden. She'd been ill with ovarian cancer for quite a while. Part of Jean's sorrow was that she couldn't heal the older woman and had to watch the treatment that was supposed to make her better, make her weak and wan.

"I'm a doctor, Scott. I'm supposed to heal people," Jean whispered, trying to burrow into her husband's body. "But she, she just shriveled up and died, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it."

"You can't save everybody, Jean." He walked them over to the bed and sat down, pulling her into his lap. He stroked her back gently, raining kisses on her hair.

"Make love to me, Scott," she said after a long silence. "Let's make a baby."

"Jean, I--"

"No, Scott. We've discussed it and I know I said I wasn't ready, but, but--"

He knew what it was that moved her -- he felt the same urge. Seeing the coffin in the ground had stirred something primal in him. He felt the need to fight back against death and darkness. "'Do not go gentle into that good night,'" he quoted as he laid her back and pressed kisses to her neck and jaw. "'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'"

"Oh, my sweet Scott," she said with a watery chuckle, "giving me poetry during sex."

He grinned boyishly, amazed as always at the human capacity to laugh even during times of sorrow. "I aim to please, my lady," he responded as he unbuttoned her blouse and cupped her breasts through the lace of her bra.

"Well, I hope your aim is true." A pause, then, "Allison is a lovely name, don't you think?"

"And Elvis if it's a boy?" he asked, following her train of thought even without the psychic bond that linked them closer than most couples ever get. He managed to get her bra off without too much difficulty, and began pressing kisses to her flushed skin, enjoying the way her nipples pebbled against his palms.

"Declan, I think," she gasped, and arched into his touch. Her hands reached down pushed his boxers down his slim hips so she could take his erect penis into her hands.

"Mmm," he murmured as she stroked him. "That's good." She smiled. She knew his body as well as her own, and the feel and taste of him never failed to get her excited, even when she was too tired, angry or sad to want him. They no longer needed words to communicate, in bed or out.

And now, some biological imperative had kicked in. She recognized it for what it was. She'd laughed off the idea of a biological clock, but suddenly the emptiness of her womb made her chest hurt, and she wished desperately to feel a life growing beneath her heart. She'd gone off the pill a few months ago, when they'd revisited the idea of having children, but they'd been using condoms since she still hadn't been convinced she was ready.

Now she was.

As if reading her mind -- which was entirely possible, since the link was most open during intimate moments, Scott asked, "Do you really want to do this?"

She smiled. "Have sex?"

"Have a baby."

She closed her eyes and let all her love and desire for him flood the link. He gasped at the intensity of her feelings.

"God, Jean," he breathed, feeling his cock grow almost painfully hard. "I love you so much." He pushed her skirt up and in one smooth motion, divested her of her panties and hose.

"I love you, too," she whispered. "And I want to have your baby."

He moved over her then, too focused on the idea of creating a living, breathing testament of their love to care about her skirt or his pants.

He entered her slowly, filling her warm wetness and closing his eyes at the joy of being inside her without a condom between them. He pulled her legs over his shoulders, going as deep as he could, stroking her slowly at first, and then faster and harder as she urged him on. The angle allowed his pelvic bone to repeatedly stimulate her clit, and she came hard, muscles rippling around him, pulling him so far into her that he couldn't tell where he ended and she began, both physically and mentally. She cried out wordlessly, her mind linked with his, full of bright, swirling colors as all the tension and grief of the day left her body.

Scott felt the orgasm begin at the base of his spine and radiate throughout his body as he drove into his wife and spilled himself inside her. "Oh, God," he cried hoarsely, and it was partly a prayer that this day's loving would have fruitful results.

He rolled onto his side and pulled her with him, leaving their bodies joined for as long as possible. They lay together for a while afterwards, too tired and content to move any further.

"A baby," he whispered finally.

"A baby," she confirmed. "Our baby." And she kissed him tenderly on the lips. "I love you, Scott Summers."

"I love you, Jean Summers."

---

Meanwhile, down in the kitchen, Logan pulled another beer out of the refrigerator. He meandered out to the glider on the front porch, thinking.

Joyce had been a good woman. She made a mean steak and mashed potatoes, and could always be counted on to keep beer in the fridge for him.

He sighed. One of the disadvantages of living such a long life was that you lost a lot of friends along the way.

"You're awful pensive tonight, sugar."

He looked up and smiled. "Yeah. How are you?"

She shrugged and sat down on the swing next to him. "I'm all right. Mrs. Parrish -- she's better off now, isn't she? I mean, she was in a lot of pain these past few weeks..." her voice trailed off, thinking of the once vibrant, robust woman who'd been reduced to a ninety-pound shell of herself.

Logan sensed her sorrow and slid an arm around her shoulders. He was unsure of what else he could do. Their relationship was so new -- hell, the whole *concept* of being in a relationship was new to him -- and he didn't want to screw this up.

He knew she was hurting and he wanted to pull her inside of him, surround and comfort her until the pain went away.

She must have felt the same way, because she crawled into his lap and whispered, "Hold me."

So he did.

He breathed in her warm, slightly spicy scent, and once again realized how lucky he'd been to catch on to her feelings for him before she gave up, moved on, and it was too late.

He snorted in disbelief at his own obliviousness and she raised her head from his shoulder, a question in her bottomless chocolate eyes.

"Penny for your thoughts."

He shrugged one shoulder. He still had trouble articulating his thoughts and feelings with her. "Ain't worth it," he said. "Just thinking about what a dumbass I was for almost losing you."

She smiled at that; it transformed her tear-stained face into a vision of luminous beauty.

He felt his chest and groin tighten simultaneously, still amazed that love and lust could coincide so perfectly in this woman. He suddenly knew with a certainty what he could do to comfort her.

The only way to fight death is to live and love, he thought, surprised at his own astuteness. He was most comfortable expressing his love for her through their physical relationship. He hadn't yet found the words to tell her everything he felt, still stumbling over his "I love yous" when outside their bedroom.

She sensed his change in mood. She was feeling it too, he thought, as he picked her up, one arm under her knees, the other under her shoulders. She clasped her hands around his neck and smiled again, this time the brightness of her visage tempered with the odd combination of sadness and desire.

He carried her up the stairs and pushed the door to their suite open with his hip, still cradling her against his chest.

He laid her down on the bed as though she were a frail and precious treasure, his hands already stroking the length of her body, begging her silently for permission to proceed.

She let her head fall back against the pillows, drawing him down over her. They rarely had sex with him on top -- he wanted her to have as much control as possible, even though allowing her such dominance was foreign to his nature -- but today she needed him to take charge, to cover her with his strong, warm body and make her forget her grief in ecstasy. He knew that instinctively, even if he was still unsure in other areas of their union.

He untied the scarf around her neck and floated it softly across her face before feathering kisses along her brow. She closed her eyes and he dropped light kisses on her eyes, her nose and her cheeks before nibbling at one corner of her mouth.

He tried out the words before taking her mouth in a deep kiss. "Love you, Marie."

They never failed to bring that brilliant smile to her face. "Love you, too," she murmured against his lips and then he was kissing her through the sheer white scarf, eagerly sliding his tongue against hers in imitation of the rhythm he'd soon be initiating below. He'd gotten so used to the feel of the silk between them that he didn't even notice it anymore.

She unbuttoned his shirt while they kissed, grunting a little in frustration at the t-shirt that blocked her access to his bare chest. He broke the kiss and asked, "How are we doing this?"

They'd been taking turns on remaining clothed. He didn't want her to feel that he was afraid, that she had to stay covered all the time, but he also didn't want her to feel like a hooker, stripping for him while he stayed dressed. He figured at some point, they'd work it out and be so in tune that it wouldn't even be a question, but for now it was best to ask. He never wanted her to be uncomfortable or tentative, so he let her take the lead, and always asked before he tried anything new.

"You," she said without hesitation. "I need to feel you."

Her words, her very confidence in him, were a turn-on. He growled with desire as he pulled the t-shirt over his head, allowing her to touch his chest. She ran her gloved hands over the sharply defined muscles, tickling his ribs and reveling in the feel of his body against hers. Following the trail of hair to the waistband of his jeans, she quickly had the buttons undone and pushed them down. He finished the process by kicking them off with his feet, never once removing his lips from her body.

She took his hard, heavy length in her hand and stroked eagerly, knowing how much he enjoyed the friction her leather gloves created against the sensitive skin of his cock.

He growled his approval at her actions and continued kissing her through the scarf, devouring her jaw and neck with hot, openmouthed kisses. When he reached her breasts, he unbuttoned her blouse just enough to expose them to his hands and eyes and mouth; then he undid the front hook of the bra and covered her with the scarf. He bit the lower curve of one breast just hard enough to bring blood to the surface, then laved the bruise with his tongue. She was his, and he left his mark on her in more ways than one.

She gasped as he squeezed her breasts together and took both nipples in his mouth at once, his talented tongue licking and sucking through the silk, sending jolts of pleasure through her body, straight to her groin.

She quickly grew impatient -- he would spend hours on her breasts if she let him, and she had other things in mind tonight. She grabbed the points of his hair and pulled his head up.

"I need you inside me, now," she demanded thrusting her hips against his bare crotch and rubbing his erection forcefully.

"Mrrorw... Marie," he purred, unsheathing a bare inch of adamantium and cutting her skirt right off before opening a small slit in the crotch of her tights. He retracted the claw and lovingly ran his fingers over her wet folds, the material of her tights protecting him.

With his fingers distracting her, Rogue fumbled in the night table drawer for a condom, before pulling one out triumphantly. "Aha!"

Logan looked up from his rapt contemplation of her nether regions. "Aha?" he asked, smirking.

"Rubber," she said, her corresponding grin turning to a pout as she noticed he'd stopped what he was doing with his fingers. "Why'd you stop?"

He was staring at her, his eyes dark with passion and love. "Sorry," he muttered, feeling his ears burn a little.

"Don't let it happen again," she said trying to be stern and failing. She giggled. "Logan! You're blushing!"

"I just -- I want it to be good for you, baby," he answered, swooping down and capturing her lips with his as his hand guided hers to his cock and helped her roll the condom on. When they were done, he murmured, "Ready?" against her lips.

She responded by drawing her knees up and wrapping her legs around his waist, brushing the head of his erection with her wet sex.

He slid into her and stilled, waiting for her to adjust. They'd only been doing this for a few weeks, and it was still new. "I need you to move now," she finally said, squirming and tightening her muscles around him, loving the growl that elicited.

His fingers tangled with hers as he moved, pulling all the way out and then plunging in until his full length was sheathed in her tight passage.

He spoke to her while his hips pistoned into hers -- a steady stream of encouragement that she probably couldn't decipher, if her heart was thundering as loudly as his was. He was close to release, but kept himself in check, bringing their joined hands between their bodies so he could stroke her clit and make her come first.

She gasped, "Logan!" and made soft grunting sounds in the back of her throat as her body convulsed around him, drawing him into climax with her.

He let out a growl that rumbled up from the pit of his stomach as the most intense orgasm he'd ever experienced rocked through him, reminding him that he was alive. And Marie was alive, panting and shuddering in his arms.

"God, Logan," she murmured as she floated down from her climax.

"I got you, baby. I'm right here," he replied, leaning on his elbows so she didn't have to take his full weight on her. He brushed his lips against the silk of her hair, inhaling her scent now commingled with his, and felt himself get hard again.

"I do love your healing factor, sugar," she purred as she reached over to the night table for another condom. "Almost as much as I love you."

He laughed delightedly. His shy little Marie was developing into quite a tigress in the sack, to his surprise, and he marveled once again at how perfectly they fit together.

"So you think you're gonna keep me?" he teased.

"Yeah," she answered, reaching down to remove the old condom and put on the new one. "I've gotten used to having you around. Plus, you're good at killing roaches."

He laughed again, his earlier sorrow eased by their closeness. "I love you, Marie."

"I love you, too, Logan." And she used a hand to guide him back into her body. "Now, get moving."

"Yes, ma'am." He'd always been good at taking orders worth following.

And for the rest of the night, he concentrated on making love to the woman in his arms, affirming life in the face of death.

End