"And I get no answers / And I don't get no change / It's raining in Baltimore, baby, / And everything else is the same"

---

"Logan? Logan, if you're there, pick up. Please?" Rogue stood in the phone booth, waiting, but there was nothing but silence on the other end of the line. "Look, I'm -- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left like that, I know. I--" she fumbled for the words. "I can't do this without you, okay? I miss you so much. I'll try again later, when I settle in for the night. I guess it's only seven in the morning there. I keep forgetting the three-hour time change. I hope you weren't out all night. Love you. Bye."

She stepped out of the phone booth, sighing. She'd really screwed up this time. She hadn't expected him to get so angry. But he had. So had she. Usually, he'd be the one to up and leave, but she hadn't given him the chance this time. She'd bolted out of there while he was probably still on his first opponent in the cage.

Three weeks. It seemed like a lifetime. She didn't want to go back to Westchester until she'd straightened it out with him -- or at least figured out if he was willing to take her back. She didn't want to see the pitying looks on all the faces, hear Jean's "I told you so's" and Scott's sighs of disappointment.

They'd all told her not to go with him. Told her he'd get tired of her quickly; "It'd take a very special man to deal with your... circumstances, Rogue. A very patient man. And that's one thing Logan isn't," Jean had said when she'd gone to the older woman for advice. "You're too young and he's too wild," she'd continued. "You'll only end up getting hurt."

But she hadn't listened. She'd been too excited, too overcome with the idea that Logan had actually come back for her after a two-year absence punctuated by short phone calls and even shorter letters. So, she'd gone when he asked her. She'd gone with no expectations, no worries, no questions. She'd have followed him anywhere.

The first few months had been a dream. He took her up to Alaska. They camped in Denali, under the stars, listening to the wolves howl. He hadn't made any romantic overtures, and she told herself that was okay. She loved him whole-heartedly, even if he could never see her as more than "little Marie."

Then they went to a little cabin he owned north of Stewart, in British Columbia. He loved the Canadian Rockies. They were home to him.

And he'd been so patient -- he'd told her the first night that he cared about her and he would wait for her to be ready before they, as he put it, "got all physical and shit."

Okay, it wasn't the most romantic declaration ever, but she'd gotten teary and told him how much she loved him, and things had been good. Great, even. She'd convinced him that she was ready, and led him into the bedroom. They'd made love that night with a tenderness that still made her heart ache when she thought of it.

But as the months passed, she could sense his restlessness. He wasn't the type to stay in one place for long. She'd told him she wouldn't mind traveling, but he said he was okay with the way things were. She couldn't help but feel he was giving her the brush-off when he said it.

He began cage-fighting again. He knew she hated it, but he insisted on being the breadwinner. She knew he enjoyed it -- this test of his strength and resilience -- an organized outlet for violence.

She went with him every night, making sure he was okay. She hoped he liked that she did it, liked that he had someone to ask how he felt, someone to pretend to bandage the wounds that healed in seconds. But she never got the impression that he did.

She started to wonder if he saw her as a bother, if his feelings for her -- which she'd once been convinced ran as deeply as hers did for him -- had changed. What if, once he'd gotten her into bed, he no longer cared? What if he'd gotten tired of the scarves and the sheets and the precautions that he always needed to take for them to have sex?

And then it had happened. She had been feeling sorry for herself. She wanted to blame PMS, but she was just feeling bitchy. She'd told him to go by himself -- she didn't feel like watching his macho bullshit.

Fifteen minutes after he left, she felt terrible. It had taken her twenty minutes more to swallow her pride and go after him, so he'd had enough time to make himself comfortable at the Rusty Nail by the time she arrived.

Comfortable with the redheaded fight groupie in the corner booth. Their heads were close together and she eyed him like he was a Derby-winning stallion and she was a mare just coming into heat.

Rogue stood in the doorway, rooted to the spot. She watched Logan scribble something on a napkin and the redhead tucked it into her cleavage. Then she put her hands on his cheeks and pulled his face down for a kiss.

It was then that Rogue remembered how to move. On shaking legs she ran back to the SUV. She was crying so hard she almost drove off the road.

When he came home, several hours later, she couldn't pick up the redhead's scent, but it didn't matter. She knew what she'd seen. And she let him know about it in no uncertain terms.

Fifteen phone calls in the past two weeks. She supposed it was only slightly less desperate than twenty-one calls over the three weeks she'd been gone, but she'd been too mad and too hurt that first week to think straight, let alone entertain the idea of actually speaking to him again.

She laughed bitterly, feeling a chill that wasn't present in the warm, humid air of the Roanoke summer. If she hadn't bought that damned answering machine, she and Logan would have no relationship left at all. But she'd made him put in a phone line, and when he asked who she planned on calling, she'd just giggled and said something about phone sex. That had led to a marathon session of lovemaking, and God, what she wouldn't give to turn the clock back twenty-two days. To just before the fight, even.

But she couldn't. All she could do was continue her affair with his voicemail, begging him to forgive her.

---

"These train conversations are passing me by / And I don't have nothing to say / You get what you pay for / But I just had no intention of living this way"

---

Logan stared at the red light blinking on the machine. He'd been out searching, three long weeks without a trace of Marie. She'd hitched a ride out of his life, and taken his heart with her.

When he'd finally gone back to Westchester to convince her to go to Alaska with him, he'd been so amazed, so thankful that she'd agreed to go, even against the advice of all her friends and mentors.

He'd taken it slow, not wanting to rush her and risk losing her because he couldn't keep his pants zipped. And it had been worth the wait. He loved to watch her sleep in his arms. He'd never admit it to anyone, not even to her -- and there, he thought is my problem -- but he was head over heels in love with her. It was amazing how much Marie had changed his life. Had made him want to change his life. All he wanted now was to take care of her, keep her safe, and make his home in the circle of her arms.

He'd worried, every night, that she'd leave him. That she'd realize he was no good -- that this wasn't the kind of life she was meant for. It made him withdraw sometimes, and he knew she needed to connect with him, but he couldn't always give her that. As their time together went on, he retreated more often, afraid that if he let her know how much he needed her, how very dependent on her he really was, she'd freak and bug out.

And she had, though not for those reasons.

He hit "play" on the machine as he popped open a beer, waiting for his healing factor to kick in and get rid of the sandy, sleepless feeling in his eyes. He already knew it would do nothing to ease the ache in his chest.

The robotic voice said, "You have fifteen messages."

Marie's voice in the silence startled him. "Logan? It's me. I'm in Edmonton. I'm so sorry. I'll call you later." Beep. "Logan? Are you there? It's me. I love you and I'm sorry. I-- I was wrong. I should have trusted you. I'll try again tomorrow." Beep. "Hi Logan. It's me again. I'm in Regina. Damn this is a big country. I love you and I hope you don't hate me." Beep.

"I don't hate you, kid," he murmured, feeling the unfamiliar sting of tears behind his closed eyelids.

He listened to the messages as she traveled across the continent, trying to reach him, apologizing for something that wasn't her fault. When he got to the one from earlier that day, he cursed. She was somewhere on the East Coast.

He wondered if she'd gone back to the mansion; he didn't want to call and prove them right. He knew they'd all been waiting for him to do something stupid -- to drive her away -- and he had. And the worst part was, he'd known he was doing it. It was as if his brain had separated from his mouth, and he was watching the scene from afar.

When he got home that night from the Rusty Nail, he'd been so proud of himself. The redhead had been hot, sure, but he wasn't interested in nailing her. She was a mutant -- he'd smelled it on her the moment she'd approached him. She'd been beaten badly and was looking for help. He'd told her a little about Xavier's and given her the number of one of Chuck's contacts, who could get her a lift to Westchester. And then she'd kissed him. She'd offered to do more, but all he could think of was his girl, angry and in pain, waiting at home for him.

He took her to the bus station and waited until midnight for the bus to Mackenzie, where another of Xavier's contacts agreed to pick her up. When they got up to leave, Jay, the bartender, had given him the heads up. Marie had been in, and she'd seen him in the corner with the redhead. Logan hoped Marie would understand that he felt an obligation to see the woman safely off. He thought about Marie being in that situation and thanked God he'd decided to give her a ride when he had.

After seeing the redhead off, he sped home on the bike to find Marie seething.

"How long has it been going on?" she yelled when he walked in.

"And hello to you, too," he'd answered, thinking he could talk her around. The coffee pot went smashing into the wall behind him.

"How was she, Logan? Did she make you think of Jean when you fucked her?" she screamed.

"I didn't fuck her, Marie. But thanks for askin'," he snapped, anger suddenly flooding him. She didn't trust him. Eight fucking months they'd been together, and she didn't trust him. She was probably right not to. After all, who the hell was he? A loser with no past and no future beyond the twenty-year-old girl around whom he was building his life. "And thanks for givin' me the benefit of the doubt."

"Maybe you didn't fuck her yet, but it sure looked like you were heading in that direction from where I stood," Marie yelled. "How many others have there been, huh? How many touchable women have you fucked since you brought me here, Logan? How long were you planning on keeping me around? Did you get your kicks telling your groupies about me? Huh? The sweet kid who'd follow you anywhere? Did you?" She was so angry she was sobbing.

He got very still, and under normal circumstances, she'd have recognized that she'd pushed him too far, but the situation was two counties over from normal and moving at the speed of sound.

His voice was soft, level, dangerous. "I didn't fuck her, Marie. And if you don't believe me, maybe you should take a good long look in the mirror, and ask why you even bother to stay. You obviously don't trust me, even though I've never been unfaithful." He'd turned and walked out.

When he got back the next morning, she was gone. She'd taken nothing but a backpack with a few clothes, and a toothbrush. No note, no sign of where she was heading.

He went after her. He had to. She had an eight-hour lead, and he had no idea which way she'd gone. He'd gambled and headed north and west toward Alaska, hoping their time there hadn't dulled its allure for her.

And three weeks later, he'd come back to the cabin, his search fruitless -- the answers to his questions waiting on the answering machine she'd convinced him to buy. Even now, she managed to save his sanity.

He finished off the beer and emptied out the duffel he'd carried on his trip north. He refilled it with some clean clothes and headed out, remembering this time to take the cell phone Scott had given him when he and Marie left the mansion. "Just in case," Scooter had said, and they'd laughed at him. He found himself muttering thanks to Ol' One-Eye as he slid the tiny phone into his pocket.

The trip to the airport in Vancouver took a few hours, since he hated flying and didn't want to change planes if he didn't have to. It was bad enough he had to walk through that damned metal detector and tell them he had metal implanted all over his body. He even had a doctor's note, signed by Jeannie, to deflect questions.

He bought a ticket on the first direct flight east -- Baltimore -- figuring as long as he was on the same side of the continent, the distance at the end would be shorter. He'd never been one to sit around and wait when he could be moving.

He spent the flight trying to decide what he was going to say when he caught up with her.

---

"There's things I remember and things I forget / I miss you / I guess that I should / Three thousand five hundred miles away / But what would you change if you could?"

---

She called again that night from her hotel room, praying he'd answer. "I'm here in Manassas. I was thinking of taking a tour of the battlefield, 'cause I know you'd love that, but without you here, telling me all about how the Second Battle was the height of the Confederacy, I don't really want to. I love you, and I hope you're safe. Good night, Logan."

The next day, she continued her journey north. Hitchhiking wasn't the best way to travel, she thought, but it was damn sure the cheapest. She'd managed to spend only a small portion of the three hundred dollars she'd taken with her when she left the cabin, and she was proud she made it across the continent in such an efficient fashion. He'd be proud of her. If he were still talking to her.

She exited the car at Baltimore's Inner Harbor, smiling gratefully at the young mother who'd picked her up that morning. If she planned it right, she would have enough money to take Amtrak up to New York, and then she could hop on Metro North to Salem Center. She spent the afternoon exploring the city. She'd made her way over to Fell's Point and stopped in a bar on Thames Street to have dinner and a beer before heading to Penn Station to catch the train.

She wanted to try one more time to get in touch with Logan. She felt the first soft drops of rain hit her skin and was thankful she'd be sleeping in her old bed in Westchester in a few hours.

Logan, meanwhile, rented a car and drove aimlessly around the city, waiting for Marie to call. After a particularly timely advertisement by the local telephone company, he dialed up BC-Tel. Call forwarding was an amazing thing, and he wasn't going to miss out on Marie's next call.

Rogue went to the phone on the street outside the bar. It was too noisy to call from inside. She huddled, trying to keep herself out of the rain, and listened to the odd, tinny ring that international long distance calls always seemed to have, even in this modern technological age.

One, two, three rings. She sighed, not looking forward to yet another one-sided conversation with the answering machine.

"Marie!"

"Oh, God, Logan." She began crying, not feeling the tears run down her cheeks as they mixed with the rain. "I'm so sorry. You were right. I should have trusted you. I just -- I love you so much, and I'm so afraid that, one day, you'll realize I'm just a freak who can't be touched and--"

"Stop that, Marie. I was wrong. I should have explained. She was--"

"I don't care. I don't care who she was or what you did with her. Just tell me you don't hate me. When you didn't pick up the phone, all I could think was that you hated me," she said breathlessly.

"I don't hate you, kid. I could never hate you. I know I'm an asshole. I never said it before, but I, I love you, Marie." The words poured out, tumbling over each other as he tried to express how he felt. "Waking up without you next to me was the worst feeling I ever had," he continued. "I went north looking for you, but you disappeared. That's why I didn't pick up the phone. I wasn't there."

"But you're there now. I'm coming home. I'll--"

"Where are you, Marie?"

She leaned out from the minimal shelter of the phone and said, "I'm in Baltimore. I'm standing in front of a bar called 'The Horse You Rode In On.' What's so funny?" She drank in the sound of his laughter -- it was so rare, and even more precious now because she'd thought she'd never hear it again.

"You're on a payphone?"

"Yeah."

"Does it have a number? Do you think it'll work?"

"Who knows? You gonna call me back? It's four one oh, six six five, three seven two seven. You got that?" she asked, sniffing.

He repeated it back to her and then said, "I love you. Hang up and wait for me to call you back." And he broke the connection.

She stood in the rain, waiting for the phone to ring. A couple of minutes -- which felt like several hours to Rogue -- later, it did. "Logan?"

"Yeah. Kid, just, just talk to me. Tell me what you've been up to." He needed to keep her talking. He needed to hear her voice, to believe he'd found her and he wasn't going to let her stop talking until he could see her in person.

She rambled on about her adventures -- her luck in finding a family who was going from Vancouver to Minneapolis, and how they'd let her stay with them. He laughed at the exploits and drinking prowess of the lady trucker named Darlene, who took her down to Nashville.

She was telling him about Manassas -- "I thought of you, Logan. I swear. All those Civil War books you like to read -- this was like a living, breathing version of 'em." -- when he caught sight of her. He double-parked the car, uncaring that the Baltimore PD headquarters was down the block, and hopped out, staying in the shadow of the phone bank, not even feeling the soft, summer rain.

She was so wrapped up in what she was saying that it took a few minutes for her to notice there was someone waiting for the phone. "I gotta go, Logan. There's a line for the phone," she said. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he replied softly.

She turned to smile at the man who'd been waiting patiently for her to finish her call.

"Oh, God! Logan!"

She flung herself into his arms. He caught her and spun her around, hugging her tightly. Neither seemed to care about the rain or the spectacle they were making or the crowd that gathered to watch their reunion.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated over and over, pressing her face into his chest, where he was protected from her deadly skin.

"No, baby, it was my fault. If I'd told you how I felt--" He snagged the scarf that hung around her neck and pressed his lips to hers through it. He tasted the rain and her vanilla perfume, but mostly he tasted Marie, and it was good.

After incoherently murmuring to each other in between kisses for a few minutes, Logan suddenly became aware that all eyes were on them when there was a large round of applause.

They broke apart sheepishly, but he kept an arm wrapped around her waist. Her chestnut and platinum hair hung wet and lank around her face, and she'd never looked more beautiful to him than she did at that moment. She smiled up at the sky, and said, "I need a raincoat."

For some reason, he found that hilarious, and he put her in the car, laughing. "I think it's too late for that, darlin'," he rumbled, pressing kisses to her gloved hands.

After another session of kissing, this time deeper than those they'd share on the street, he asked, "Where to?"

"As long as I'm with you, Logan, I don't care."

He kissed her one more time, "For luck," he explained, and they headed toward I-95. They were going home.

End