In glorious optimism-drenched self-denial, I murmur-hummed a semi-recognizable version of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” to myself as I unlocked the door to my apartment. Inside, there was Logan, looking for the all world like he’d just been waiting for me to come home. My outrageously cheerful mood further brightened.
“Hey,” he greeted. He was sprawled out on my living room couch, drink in hand, TV on ESPN. Curious, that his habits were so similar to Scott’s.
“Hey yourself.” I tossed my keys and purse down on the counter by the door, which separated the kitchen area from the open living room. With a satisfied sigh, I slipped out of my low heels and suit jacket. I’d been waiting since this morning to again go gloveless in the carefree company of Logan. Off they went.
My original impulse was to bounce right into the seat beside him and, I don’t know, start petting him or something, but a self-preserving hesitation kept me lingering by the door. I wasn’t so giddy I didn’t recognize the wisdom in treading lightly. The reality of the situation was not pleasant. Before Logan’s abrupt departure, both of us had made the admittedly hasty decision to sleep together. Only I’d stood by it. Logan had said he’d made a mistake.
But was an itty bitty little thing like Logan’s complete lack of cooperation going to keep us from our inevitable future of uninterrupted, life-long bliss? Pfft.
This was a battle of wills. To convince Logan that I was both well-adjusted and well-worth it, I was going to have to out-stubborn the master. No easy challenge, but I was determined. I was going to be poised, confidant, entertaining, and unobtrusive. I was going to be better than who I was; I was going to be everything I thought Logan wanted and nothing he didn’t. I was going to win, all right.
Unaware of my absurd plotting, Logan inquired, “So, how was work?” The question couldn’t have pleased me more. It set the perfect tone. Everyday casual, as if he’d sat on that same couch and asked me that same question a million times before.
“Excellent,” I chirped. “There was cake.” Going around the counter and into the kitchen, I added, “And Scott treated me to a really nice lunch.”
“Oh, yeah?” Unenthused, Logan asked, “When can we expect him?”
“Not until Sunday. He left right after his last appointment. He’s probably back at the School already.” I opened the refrigerator to see if Logan had finished off all my good beer. “The School feels strange now, doesn’t it? All the new buildings and the quad and everything. I guess it had to be done, though.”
“Definitely needed the space,” he responded in a tone of agreement, if not approval.
I spotted a lonely bottle of Molson tucked behind the untouched Corona. Lip twitched up, I noted, “Awfully courteous of you to save me one.”
“Didn’t think you’d miss ’em.” Logan turned his neck and shoulders to fix me with a look. “You got a hell of a lot of alcohol in there, kid.”
I laughed, using a bottle opener to pop off the top. “I haven’t turned into a lush, Logan. It’s for tonight.”
“Right. Bobby and…” – the rest of my friends’ names were waved off – “are coming up. Big plans?”
“The usual,” I shrugged, leaning on the edge of the counter. “We’ll drink a little here, meet a couple of my DC friends at the bars, come back, sleep it off. Oh, and they’ll give me my presents. They’re nice, so I know they won’t hold out on me.”
With one booted toe, Logan nudged the pile of open presents in front of him on the coffee table: an artisan-made blanket from Storm, a comprehensive record of everything Dr. McCoy had ever known or theorized about my mutation, half a dozen novels from the Professor – ever the educator, he was personally seeing to it that I was more than well-read – and a whole bag full of goodies from Kurt. Logan’s present, however, was still hidden away in his black duffel bag, which he lifted to place on the cushion next to him. He toyed with the zipper.
“Tease,” I complained, loving the excuse to pout. Pouting was sexy, right?
“What I got you won’t even be here ’til next week, have some patience,” Logan smirked. Undeniably sexy.
“Ah-ha, a clue. Must be something from Japan.”
He toasted my deductive reasoning skills with his Molson.
Striking a pondering pose, I queried, “If I guessed, would you tell – ”
The words “Mutant Registration Act,” coming from the TV, elicited my sudden and complete attention. Around the Horn wasn’t exactly known for its political commentary.
“…has created a ripple effect that’s stirring up even the sports world. Patriots managing staff under fire this week after benching number three draft pick, running back Steve Rohl, at last Sunday’s opening game, citing injury and poor practice performance. Rohl himself has yet to release a statement, prompting many to wonder if reports of Rohl’s mutant status are really behind New England’s sudden disdain for the former up-and-comer. Politics mudding the waters at Gillette Stadium?” the host inquired of his sportswriter panelists. “Buy or sell? Fusco.”
“I gotta sell this. Allegedly, Rohl’s mutation or ‘power,’ whatever you want to call it, is changing the properties of liquids. Water to Gatorade to chocolate milk – Who cares? Guy’s a walking vending machine, not a threat to anyone’s political agenda. Guy didn’t live up to expectations in training camp, so he didn’t start. End of story.”
“All right, Booker Allen.”
“I’m not only buying it, I’m approving it. It’s about time somebody took a stand on mutant athletes. You get a guy, a mutant, who’s like The Flash out there on that field and where’s fair? PC-types like it or not, the mutant gene is a steroid and the MRA is the best drug test we got for it. The purity of the game is at stake, here. I’m not saying – ” Boyd’s grating voice rose over the exasperated noises of his fellow panelists. “Costa – Costa, can I finish?”
“Say your piece,” the host allowed, making simmer down motions.
“I’m not saying Rohl should be kicked out of the NFL. From what Fusco said, sounds to me like he’d make a phenomenal water boy.”
Costa gave Allen and his one-sided laughter the ten-second mute, taking away one point from his score. “Anything for a joke. Bad form, old man. Webber, you’re up.”
Webber, who’d booed Allen, shook his head. “I’m buying the conspiracy theory, but disagreeing with everything else that came out of Booker’s fool mouth, as usual. The mutant gene is a steroid? Come on. What kind of comparison is that? It occurs naturally in the body; it’s not a foreign element. The Patriots’ owners are giving into pressure from people who use words like ‘purity’ to talk about keeping otherwise faultless athletes like Rohl from doing their jobs. Let him play.”
“Cobbes?”
“Look, I don’t like this any more than Webber does, but I can’t sidestep the issue like Fusco. I have to agree with Allen on this one. I’m buying the response to Rohl as the first sign of no tolerance to mutants in professional sports. What I don’t buy is the idea that New England’s owners are thinking politically. They’re thinking in practical business terms. Athletes are commodities, they’re not sideshow acts. Nobody wants to see one guy running a million circles around everybody else. That would throw off the entire game. Football’s an institution. Nobody wants to see it changed. Unless we can find a way to make sure they’re not using their naturally unfair advantages, mutant athletes are just going to have find themselves another venue.”
Allen cracked, “They can try the X-Games.”
With a low, disgusted growl, Logan flipped channels.
“You won’t get better survey of differing opinions on mutants,” I mused before taking a very long drink.
“Can’t believe that bullshit. Mutant Registration Act. Keeping that from getting passed was supposed to be the goddamned be all and end all, wasn’t it? Bullshit,” he repeated bitterly.
I was glad I could only see the back of his head. No way I could have looked him in the eye just then. The Registration Act had passed because people had died. They’d died because the Jr. X-Men had only partially saved the day. Had Logan, Storm, and Scott been the ones handling the situation…Well, along with the reversal of countless other evils, Logan would have one less thing to bitch about.
As it was, I leaned over the counter and fished my wallet out of my purse. Taking out my MR Card, I went over to stand behind the him, elbows rested on the back of the couch. “It’s just an ID. See?” I handed the card to him so he could take a closer look. “The only thing that matters is making sure the information isn’t misused. That’s what we fight for now. That’s actually why Scott’s at the School. He arranged this really important meeting – The ACLU and the National Council for Mutant Affairs sitting down with Congresswoman Reis-Steeves and Professor Xavier to discuss the MRA and the midterm elections. Could be a huge step for us.”
Logan bent my MR Card slightly between his thumb and forefinger. “Ten steps back, one step forward,” he muttered.
“You’re not suggesting we give up?” It wasn’t really a question. More a challenge.
He glanced up at my resolute expression, and his softened. “’Course not. You’re doing right.” Eyes back on my MR Card, he ran his blunt thumbnail under my name. “‘Rogue M. D’Ancanto.’ M for Marie.”
There was a lot of satisfaction packed into my smile. He’d remembered my old name, the name I’d told him only once, nearly five years ago, for no good reason, except that I’d wanted to sass him. “Yep. I had it legally changed. There’s a common usage clause for mutants, makes it really simple to do. Hardly any paperwork.”
“What was it before?”
“M. for Marie. My full name is Anna Marie, but my momma was Annie and my grandmomma was Anna, so I was Marie.”
He flickered a sidelong look my way. Whatever he might have said was forgotten when he noticed, “‘Class 4?’ The hell does that mean?”
Sarcastically, I drawled, “Means I’m dangerous.”
“So dangerous they got you working for the President? Saving his life?”
Oh, he’d heard about that? I couldn’t help preening, just a little. “Well, that’s not something I do every day.”
“What is it you do every day?”
“Mm, exciting things.” I leaned in closer and lowered my voice conspiratorially. “You know those super secret documents only the highest ups get to see?”
“Yeah?”
“I put those on President McKenna’s desk.”
The glint in his eyes told me he was willing to play along. “Really?”
“Honest to God truth. And during conferences, the big important ones, sometimes I wait outside and play Tetris on my cell phone.”
“Get out.”
“Impressive, I know.”
As I formed the ‘o’ sound with my lips, our faces so close together, I didn’t want to think of any battle of wills. I wanted to think only of kissing Logan without fear, for as long and as hard as I could.
Resisting took extraordinary grit. Timing was essential to my strategy. Tomorrow, I’d kiss him. Then I figured I’d just have to wait a day or two while he hemmed and hawed and moralized before I could ultimately declare myself victorious. There was a la-di-da to do fundraiser for Congresswoman Reis-Steeves next week. By then, I told myself, I was sure he’d be my date –official, forever and ever, practically married.
I should’ve known not to lay a trap for Logan. He’ll spot your trap at fifty paces, and when he’s through disarming it, you’re next.