Bobby Drake sat on the low wall that surrounded the Zen garden. A lot of the psychic types hung around that part of the mansion grounds because of the peace and quiet, which had to do with positive ions in the air or something. Bobby, like a lot of the older students, had discovered it because it was out of the way and offered at least the illusion of privacy when meeting your girl.
My girl, he thought. Right.
Marie stood across from him, a few feet away in space but miles away in her head. She was wearing an unusually revealing outfit, for her: knee sox, pleated skirt, white blouse and long black gloves. Her arms and thighs were bare, and Bobby couldn’t remember ever seeing so much of her, on a school day.
“You’ve changed,” he said at last, breaking the long silence. “You’re not even here any more.”
“Of course I’m here, Bobby. Where would I go?” She shrugged.
“It’s him. This thing you’ve had for Wolverine, I thought it was just a crush. But it’s more than that isn’t it?” He watched her eyes lower under the swoop of white hair that framed her face.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He sighed, and a small puff of frosty breath hung in the warm air for a moment. He had avoided asking, and she had avoided lying. But now, there it was. He knew in his heart it was over. Time to be cold blooded, Bobby.
“Well, good luck with that.” He pushed up off the wall and turned to go.
“Darlin’, wait,” she said suddenly, her gloved fingers closing on his arm. When she got emotional, her Louisiana accent thickened like a roux. “Don’t go away, Bobby. Don’t go an’ leave me. Please.”
“It’s the healing, isn’t it?” he asked coolly. “It lets you touch him, some.”
She blushed. She actually had the gall to blush. He could feel the sharp prickling in his chest where the broken pieces of his heart were.
“You wouldn’t understand, Bobby, what it’s like.”
“No?” He laughed, a hard, cold little snort. “Wanting what you can’t have. Don’t tell me I don’t know what it’s like. You want to touch, to feel. To hold the one you love, and love them and be loved. You want to feel your lover’s skin under your fingers, under your lips.”
He took her forearms in his hands, just below the edge of her long gloves. She gasped a little at the strength of it, the passion. He was so tall and lean and fine, really, when she was close like this. The cool of him brought goose-bumps up on her arms, and the shining of his ice blue eyes brought a rather different reaction to the flesh of her stomach and thighs.
“You want to feel your love, your lover, and share them and own them all at once. You need to touch, to feel the skin and the sweat and their kisses and their breath and their tears on you, or you’ll just die!” He was crushing her against his body now, lifting her face towards his, his eyes burning into hers. Tendrils of steam floated up from his open shirt and the cool denim of his jeans tortured her thighs above her knee sox.
“Oh, Bobby,” she sighed.
He focused, and a layer of ice formed, covering his lips. With a rag-doll shake, he tossed her head to one side exposing her neck, and like a vampire in the old Hammer horror films, he placed his deathly cold kiss upon her throat.
Her hot blood melted the ice, but he kept on, focused, precise, coldly calculating the effort. A constantly-reforming, thin layer of ice kept their skin apart as his kiss traced her throat, cooled the blood in her jugular and sent shivers into her soul. The melting ice trickled down her blouse, cold fire prickling its way into her cleavage. Her nipples sprang into painfully tight buds as the waves of cool and fire washed over her. She grew wet and needful and alive.
She gasped and shuddered wildly, knees going weak, surrendering to the assault and to the moment. “Oh, Logan, yes!”
He let her go and stood back, so suddenly she almost fell. It took her a moment to realize what had happened, what she had said. She looked at his eyes, cold now, the ice-heat dead. Eyes pale like the ash of the fire they had held a moment before.
“Bobby,” she began, aware of how pathetic her apology would sound.
“Save it, Marie.” He never called her that. He made a point of never calling her by her given name, but rather respecting her chosen name instead.
“It’s not what you think. Logan an’ me. It’s not just the sex…” She stopped and went on softly. “It’s not just touching. He’s a friend. Someone I can talk to, about things. I don’t know what to tell you, it went too far. I didn’t ever mean to hurt you Bobby.”
“Well, you never do,” he said. He turned to head inside. The grass, frozen under his feet crunched as he moved. After a step, he turned back.
“Some advice from some who cared,” he called back to her, and she winced at the past tense. “If you’re going to deny what you and Wolverine are doing, you probably want to quit doing that.” He gestured to her right hand.
She looked down, and was shocked to find, still lit, one of Logan’s cigars comfortably held, as if by lifetime habit, in her fingers. It was peaked with a crown of ash, and she could not for the life of her remember when she had lit it.
She looked back, and Bobby was gone. She was cold, colder now than in his arms. The cigar smell reached her nose, and it was all Logan. Strong and spicy and adult, rough and warm. It was a sex smell, an animal smell. A Logan smell.
She took a puff, drawing the smoke deep as if by years of long practice. Then she dropped the cigar, and sat on the low wall. She cried, and when she felt better she cried some more, and all the while she wondered what to do with the hole where her heart had been.
-fin-
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