The familiar, smooth burn of whiskey passing over Logan's tongue, and sliding down his throat into a liquid filled oblivion, does nothing to stabilize his agitated nerves. But the motion, the action of lifting the carved glass to his lips and tossing back the amber fluid, gives his hands something to do. Gives him something to focus on, something tangible.

Something a little more productive than searching another false lead, and a little less destructive than gutting the nearest available target.

Course, he's not sure that's a good thing.

He's gone out of his way to find a hole-in-the-wall bar that he never took Marie to; one where there aren't any raised eyebrows at his solitary arrival, or any well-intentioned questions that lead to his hand at someone's throat, and the metallic stench of blood filling his nostrils.

Only took him three tries to figure that out. Somehow, without him having meant to, he'd managed to work Marie into every crevice of his life, and the absence of her from them has left a gaping chasm.

He had to drive more than an hour outside of Westchester, into the middle of bum-fuck Nowhere, New York, to find a place with no memory of her. To find a place with patrons and workers just sour enough to not give a shit when he bites the tip off a cigar, and strikes a match. Anti-smoking laws be damned.

As he takes the first, deep pull of smoke - cedar and spice wrapping around him in a halo he swallows down deep - he allows his eyes to wander around the dive he's ended up in. Takes note of the nicotine stained walls, and the mismatched tables and chairs scattered throughout. Men in varying stages of alcohol poisoning sprawled in the corners. On the far wall he spies a dart board that looks like it might have survived a nuclear attack at some point; near it is a pool table with the felt peeling up at the edges - the perfect place for getting unsuspecting fools to part with their cash willingly - and he thinks: Marie'd love it here.

He can practically hear her voice, can feel her breath ghosting by his ear. So, Sugah, how ya wanna play this tonight? Hapless girl who doesn't know a cue from a golf club, or tipsy college co-ed who can't walk straight, let alone shoot?

He closes his eyes, and takes in another lungful of cigar. Tries to block out the memory of a laugh, sweet and thick as molasses, and the feel of petal-soft cotton brushing against his arm. A carefree wink and a nudge.

He's not even half-way successful.

He's drawn out from his errant thoughts by a whiff of rosemary laced with the bitter aftertaste of isopropyl - all wrapped up in leather and cashmere - as someone makes their way to his end of the bar, looking about as out of place as a stripper at the Oscars.

"Whadya doin' here, Jeannie? Shouldn't you be babysittin'?"

"Scott and the Professor are on their way back - I think Storm can handle everything just fine until they arrive. She'd even managed to cajole the junior team into hosting a B-movie night for the students before I left. I think they were planning to watch Mars Attacks!, though there were a few campaigning for Attack of the 50 Foot Woman."

He makes a sound halfway between a grunt and a grumble, and gestures to the barkeep for a refill. Snorting with derision when Jeannie orders a diet coke.

"You came all the way out here, and you're drinkin' soda?"

"I'm driving, Logan. And not all of us have a mutation that keeps us from getting drunk. Though, I see you aren't past trying."

"Yeah, well..." He drops his cigar into an ashtray that has magically appeared before him, and lifts his newly full glass in a toast of thanks to the barkeep, before throwing the contents to the back of his throat. "Figure I'm bound to get lucky one o' these days."

There is a heavy sigh to his right, and the quiet sound of a sip being taken. A minute passes, and then two, while he is still contemplating his now empty cup, so that when she speaks he's caught off guard. "Logan, I understand what you're going through-"

He slams the glass tumbler down with enough force to make the liquid in Jean's drink spill over the edges. Flexes his fingers around the glass, an unpleasant itch burning between his knuckles. "No. You don't."

"All right. Fine. Maybe I don't, not exactly. But I can imagine." She turns soft eyes on him. A look that doesn't so much demand his attention, as politely requests. And for a moment he lets himself calm enough to give her a chance. Feels the pull on his tendons ease. "I can imagine what I would be going through...if it were Scott." She shakes her head, reaching up to smooth back hair that is still perfectly in place.

"I don't like to imagine it, Logan."

He wants to deny the comparison, wants to say something about Scott being fully trained, whereas Marie...but the idea that Jean sees him and Marie as any sort of reflection of her and Scott is too jarring to comprehend. So instead what comes out is: "No. Suppose you wouldn't."

The corner of her lip pulls up, a near smile that makes the cut of her cheekbones stand out all the more in the dim lighting of the bar. Reminds Logan of how his heart would race when someone else would give him that same look. Someone with stripes in their hair, and mischievous brown eyes.

It's closing in on three months since she's been gone. Just five days shy of the close of the longest quarter of a year in his remembered life. And if anything, the ache he feels at knowing he can't see her - speak with her - whenever he wants, is only growing in strength.

The silence lolls between them while he sucks on his cigar, and she continues to sip at her drink; and he thinks that maybe she gets that he doesn't want to talk. Thinks that maybe, despite evidence to the contrary, she knows him well enough to pick up on that.

Then again, maybe not.

"You aren't the only one that cares about her, Logan. You should - you need to know that."

A low-pitched rumble starts at the back of his throat, and it takes more willpower than he likes to keep from lashing out at her. Physically, verbally. Anyway he can.

"And if you wanted to talk, I just want you to know that you can. To any of us. To me."

"I don't need you're psychiatric bullshit, Jeannie. And I ain't about to talk about my feeling's, if that's what you're after. Just need everyone to get off their asses and do somethin-"

Her pupils go wide, black discs taking over the irises, and it stops him mid-stream. Her hand grips his wrist, sharp nails digging into his skin, through the cuff of his shirt. Raising little welts through the fabric that quickly smooth away, leaving behind perfect, unmarred flesh. "Logan - something's wrong. We have to get to the mansion. Now."

The saying 'like a bat outta hell' doesn't even begin to describe how fast he moves, barely pausing long enough for Jeannie to catch up to him in the parking lot.

~~~+~~~

It's impossible to sleep with a dozen people rattling around unhappily inside your skull. Doesn't stop Rogue from trying. Doesn't stop her from pulling limbs, shaky like a newborn colt, up to her chin and tucking her head into the crevice they create. Back to the far wall, and seated on the shelf that acts as her bed.

She spends all day laying down in the labs, she doesn't want to spend her nights the same way.

Of course, day and night are really interchangeable. She has no concept of time. Seconds tick on into minutes, into hours, into days. And she can't keep track. Can't do much of anything while she waits to be taken to her next 'treatment' except try and organize her thoughts; sift through her internal companions, and grasp at the minuscule tidbits of herself she finds dancing in the fray.

A busted lip she gets when she is eight, and her and her best friend Carrie think that sledding down the stairs is a decent substitute for the snow they've never seen.

Stuck in Milwaukee, shivering, the cold seeping in through the cracks in her lips, and through the fabric of her cloak, as she tries to fade into the shadows. Stomach on empty. Eyes peeled open, and looking for someone - anyone - trustworthy enough to give her a ride.

The burst of dry, smoky flavor that explodes on her tongue after the first bite of jerky in Logan's camper. Pure pleasure.

The swell of happiness that fills her stomach like a balloon whenever she hears the rev of a motorcycle engine coming up the drive.

The tang of tequila, and the hot press of bodies in a too-crowded bar; grasping a sweaty palm, and spinning out on the dance floor...

No. No. That one isn't hers.

It's just so hard to keep it all straight. To pinpoint the places where she stops and they begin. And it's getting to the point that she's not even sure it matters. Not sure that it'll be possible for much longer to pull out the threads that make up only her from the rest of the tangled mess.

She's not sure she'd survive it if she did.

And she has just enough awareness of her self, all amongst the tumultuous personalities tumbling around her mind, to know that survival is key. To know that, no matter what they've done to her. She still wants to live.

Of course, so do they. And seeing as how their continued survival is now tied, irrevocably, to hers she guesses there's no real difference.

The lot of them start to argue this point inside her skull. Carol's the loudest, of course. Insisting that they want Rogue to survive for herself, not the rest of 'em. But Mortimer, poor, easily damaged, Mortimer - who was such a broken version of the Toad she'd met so long ago at Lady Liberty that he was barely recognizable when she absorbed him - cries out loudly that he wants to live, damn it, and he's more than willing to do it through her, if that is his only option.

Which, as always, brings out Logan. And where Logan goes, so goes Erik - the two having formed the most twisted of alliances inside her head when everyone else started piling in like it was some warped version of a clown car.

A description that is more apt than she is comfortable with.

And so they argue. And argue. And argue. Until the hammering at her forehead is matched by the pounding at the top of her spine, and she thinks that her skin might crack from all the pressure they are exerting inside of her. "Stop it. Please. Stop it."

But they don't. Not at first. And so she grabs at her head, pulling, tugging, yanking at the hair - her voice growing in volume with each repeated plea. "Stop it stop it stop it, STOP IT!"

And just like that, the roar becomes a murmur punctuated by the assurances of one Wolverine that everyone 'will damn well shut the hell up, or you'll all be missin' a spine.'

She's just settling back again, head tucked to her knees, when her ears perk up. This time focused on the sound of the speaker mounted to the wall. A crackling noise filters through, before it's replaced with the always cool, always even, tones of her captor.

The one with the perfect teeth.

"Ms. D'Ancanto - how are you feeling this evening?"

She raises her head, slow as to keep the perpetual sensation of imbalance that she feels in this place from digging its nails in, and stares into the blinking red light above the camera. "You keep askin' that, but we both know you don't really care."

"On the contrary. I am very interested in hearing your response."

"Why?"

"We have invested a great deal of time, research, and energy into your acquisition and subsequent training, Ms. D'Ancanto, it behooves us to take an interest in your well being."

She snorts, a dry-nasally sound - too dehydrated to do much else - and swipes her tongue across her lips. "Then maybe y'all oughta consider lettin' me outta here, 'cause I can tell you that my being is far from well."

He laughs. The asshole actually laughs at her, and for a moment a vision of swiping his head clean from his body with a pair of claws that shouldn't be hers, is all she can see. A purring in her skull echoing at least one personality's agreement.

"Now, you see? It is that sort of spirit that gives us so much hope for your future with our organization, Ms. D'Ancanto. Speaking of which, I have some wonderful news. We are expecting a new set of recruits this evening. Some of which I believe you are acquainted with already."

The purring turns to a growl, and this time Rogue gives it a voice. "What have you done?"

"Me? Oh, absolutely nothing, Ms. D'Ancanto. Absolutely nothing. Now, may I suggest you get some rest? You have a long night ahead of you."

The growling turns to nausea, and the urge to vomit the meager contents of her stomach is too strong to ignore.

~~~+~~~

Logan covers the distance between the bar and the mansion in under thirty minutes; Jean's arms snaked around him like a constrictor as he rides that magic button on Scott's bike the entire way.

The way her breath hitches in his ear as they come up on the final mile to the school lets him know that whatever the hell is going down, they're too late.

The sound of retreating helicopters overhead is another clue.

When they do arrive, the front drive, and entryway, look like they've been beaten down by a tornado, which probably isn't far from the truth. Lights are ablaze in every room, and several of the front windows have been blown out. Scorch marks decorate the front hall. And Logan notes the almost overpowering absence of heartbeats as he launches inside. A couple of quick whiffs confirm what his other senses are telling him. The sensation of vertigo at the realization is strong.

With only a few exceptions, the residents of the mansion are gone.

He follows his nose through the hallway, Jean at his heels, and heads into the Professor's office; spying the old man, Scooter, and Storm - along with a wounded man, dressed in black military garb, who happens to be strapped to a chair. The stink of fear pouring off of him in waves.

Logan's lungs are heaving, his claws scrapping at his jeans with each breath. Rage building up inside of him, waiting to be set free, but there is no visible outlet aside from the man in the chair. So he thinks that'll have to do.

This place is more of a home than Logan has ever known, even in the absence of Marie, and the thought of anyone busting in, and hurting what's his, makes his blood curdle. He stalks up to the bound man, raising his claws to rest at the pulsating artery pumping away at his throat. Moving so close as to be nose-to-nose. "Who the fuck are you?"

It's Storm's normally dulcet tone, edged with more than a fraction of anger, that answers, "A member of a military organization known as Weapon Plus."

The animalistic growl that pulls from Logan at the familiar name reverberates loudly around the room, the Wolverine pissed beyond measure. And he can't stop his free hand from rearing back, preparing to skewer the man, any more than he can stop himself from salivating at the thought of spilling the bastard's blood.

But Chuck has other ideas, and Logan feels his whole body lock up - as tight as it ever did when Magneto was tossing him around like a garbage can - leaving him frozen, mid-swing.

"Logan. Please calm down. I can assure you that we are attempting to resolve the situation as best we can at this time. No more violence is necessary."

"That pacifist bullshit is what got all your students nabbed, Chuck."

"Only three students, along with Mr. Allerdyce, were taken. The rest are in a secure location, with Ms. Pryde and Mr. Rasputin. The are all fine, I assure you."

"And the Icepick and the Firecracker?"

"Assessing the damages to the grounds, and building. Now, Logan. If I release control of your motor functions back to you, do I have your word that you will not do anything rash?"

He only manages to growl once more, but that seems to be all the promise Chuck needs to let him go. With a snarl, Logan pushes away from the bound man, claws still desperate to rip through something, but trying to stay on his best behavior. Like a damn dog.

"Mr. Stewart here was just telling us about the organization that employs him."

"Yeah? That info happen to include where the bastard's buds took the kids? 'Cause if not, I don't see why the hell we're still talkin' and he's still breathin'."

The man in question sucks in a sharp breath, the rich tang of anxiety - of fear - floods the sweat seeping out of his pores. Wolverine laps it up with more than a little satisfaction.

"I told you everything! Everything I know! They never told us where the final drop point was."

Stewart's eyes dart from Logan, to Xavier, and over past Scott, before resting on Logan once more. Looking like a freaked out rabbit. The myriad of scents oozing out of him making it impossible for Logan to get a bead on just how truthful he's being. "I doubt that, Bub."

"It's the truth, I swear! I already told them that! My unit was only meant for extraction. They were to be transferred out of our possession at our landing zone. I - I don't know where they take them from there."

"Awfully talkative little shit, aren't ya? You done this a lot?"

The man swallows, his Adam's apple bopping up and down, but doesn't offer up anything else. From the edge of his vision, Logan sees Storm pick up some kind of weapon from the desk. Closer inspection shows it to be a modified dart gun. "He had this on him. It's outfitted with carbantium."

There's no thought. No premeditation. Logan just moves, his anger, his frustration, finally spilling over, and demanding release. He sheaths the claws of one hand, and throws an uppercut into the man's chin, knocking his head back against the chair with a satisfying thunk. A moist scream rents the air when his metal-laced fist makes impact. Blood spurts out, smacking Logan in the face, across the nose, and cheeks.

"Logan!"

The adrenaline is pumping fast through his veins when he turns on them with a snarl. Looks of shock, anger, and disappointment directed at him. "WHAT!?"

A hand drops to his shoulder, trying to tug him back, but really just succeeds in pissing him off. He turns, eying the hand, and the owner. "Come on, Logan. Back off a little, okay?"

"You wanna move that hand, Scooter?" The staring match that ensues is short-lived, with the Boy Scout giving up and lifting both his hands up in a warding gesture as he takes a step back.

"Logan, please. There is no need for such actions."

"Seriously? These gotta be the bastards that pumped me full of that shit before, Chuck. No way in hell two shadowy government agencies have the same tech. Which means they came here prepared to deal with me. And I think we both know that the chances of anyone else having Rogue are slim to none."

"Be that as it may, Logan. Violence won't solve anything."

"Haveta disagree with ya there. My experience it, solves plenty."

"Even so, believe me when I say that if he was aware of the location of the facility, he wouldn't be able to hide it from me."

"You're sure? There ain't nothin' he's keeping locked away? Nothing about-" At Chuck's sharply raised hand, he cuts himself off. Watching as Xavier's eyes go distant, while the asshole's go wide. Brain scanning at it's finest.

After a moment, Xavier breaks the connection - the man slumping back against his bonds once he is released - and turns back to Logan. Certainty in his words. "No, there isn't. He doesn't know where the children are, and he doesn't know where Rogue is either. I'm sorry."

Logan can hear the cool tones of the Professor, but he's barely able to process it. His mind a maelstrom of frustrated thoughts. He registers Scott being ordered to assemble all the data he can on the location Stewart provided. Can hear Scooter agreeing, and Storm moving off. Their intended plans finally sinking in, and leaving him confused.

"What the hell good is checkin' out the landing zone gonna do? Just stick your head in that mental-cap of yours, Chuck, and do some digging." He doesn't get why they haven't already. It'd be the first thing he'd do, if it were an option - after slicing and dicing every asshole that got left behind, of course. Unless it ain't just Marie that Xavier can't locate, thanks to her mutation. "You can get a read on the Firebug, can't ya?"

"When he regains consciousness, Logan, yes, I can. But, for now, all four of them have been given a sedative, so that is not an option. We need to examine all other avenues while they are still open to us."

Logan's whole body is vibrating with the want to move, but he has to acknowledge the logic behind what Xavier says.

Doesn't mean he has to like it though.

"And, Logan...there is no guarantee that they will take Mr. Allerdyce, or the other children, to the same location as Rogue. You need to be prepared for that."

Oh, he is - he just doesn't think he needs to be. Not when his gut is telling him that wherever the kids have been taken, Marie'll be there too. "Whatever, Chuck. We'll see."

~~~+~~~

After - Day 20

"How are you feeling today, Rogue?"

Rogue's eye twitches at the familiar question. Hating it more and more every time she is subjected to it. "Fine, Charles. Just fine."

Behind her, she can hear the scrap of boots against the tile floor. Back and forth, up and down, as Logan paces the length of the room. Can feel the agitation, and the frustration, emanating from him. Feels it calling to her soul.

He won't leave her alone. Won't let her out of his sight anymore. And where once she would have appreciated the gesture, right now, it just feels like being choked.

She wants - craves - room to breath. Room to think. Her mind's occupants demand her attention, and she can't give them their due - can't space them out appropriately, and settle their disputes - when there are always people hovering over her.

But they don't seem to get that. And since the near total silence she has maintained since her return has done little to garner her the results she wants, so she guesses it's time to try another angle.

"Do you have any idea how deafening silence can be, Charles? Any idea at all? Everyone - everyday - there's always constant...talking. The brain, the brain never shuts up. Always goin', always chatting away with itself. And you get, you get so you depend on it. That white noise. Maybe you get it better than most, Charles. Your brain never shuts off, not really. Not even when you sleep." It's not a question, but he takes it as such.

"No, Rogue. It doesn't. Not really. I can tune everyone else out better when I'm sleep, but it's not the same thing."

"Then you see - you see what I mean. Can ya imagine? Can ya imagine if all it was in there," she gestures to her temple, one finger poking and digging at it, "suddenly, was empty space? Was just miles upon endless miles of wide-open, nothin'?

"That's what they did. That's what I was left with. A whole lot of nothin'." She swallows, thickly, around the caustic taste of the words. Forges on.

"I know that file ya got on me didn't mention...didn't mention what they did to turn it off." Logan's constant prowl stops, his boots coming to a squeaky halt, and the Professor's kind eyes widen marginally. The tiniest of clues that he is intrigued. "There was a boy. A pale, doe-eyed boy. I don't know his name. They - they never told me. But I couldn't...I couldn't absorb him. They tried, over and over again. But it never worked."

"What do you mean, Rogue?"

"It never worked because whenever he got within five feet o' me, my mutations would shut off. All of 'em. And the voices...the voices would just...disappear." There is a resounding whimper in her skull, voiced by all of her companions in sync.

"And it hurt, Charles. It hurt so much. Like a limb was being torn off." Logan moves, one step, then two, until he is standing directly behind her. Pine and leather and smoke filling up her senses, until she feels dizzy.

The want to pull him closer - to feel the comforting embrace that he can provide, and bathe herself in him to the exclusion of all else - battles violently with her urge to push him away. He, more than anyone else, shackles her thoughts - however unintentionally - and she can't afford that right now.

"Anyway, they...they used him. Used him to make some sort of...serum, I guess." She shrugs, unsure how to explain. "After I absorbed Timmy, and John, I sort of...snapped. I couldn't function anymore. I was burstin' the lights, and flarin' up everythin' that sparked. Musta set my clothes on fire at least a half-dozen times.

"They told me...told me they could pick and chose which parts of my mutation were active. They wanted to erase the personalities they made me absorb, make me sane. But I think..." She trails off, the memory one she doesn't want to delve into. "I think they also wanted to erase me. I mean, why wouldn't they? Could make the perfect solider that way. Just an empty shell, they could load up how the liked." She snorts in tandem with the sound of both the internal and external Logan's grinding their teeth. His knuckles popping a second letter.

"Guess they got their dosages screwed up, 'cause the results weren't what they were expecting. They shut out the voices, and my mutation, and just left..me. Only...hollowed out. I wasn't exactly super-solider material after that. I don't wanna think about what they may have done if y'all hadn't found us when you did."

That soft, concerned, almost fatherly look is back in Charles' eyes, and she hates that it is coated in pity. "There wasn't any record of this boy in any of the files we extracted, Rogue."

A large hand comes to rest on the back of the sofa, Logan's exposed skin just inches from her face. She suppresses her instinctual shudder, manages to keep from flinching, but just barely. "He wasn't in any of the cells, either, Darlin'."

She turns her head up, pulling her shoulders back enough so that she can meet Logan's heavy gaze. "They must have erased the files, then. Took him with 'em, or transferred him to another facility, or somethin'." She shakes her head, turning back around, not liking the cottony feeling of confusion filling her up. She knows she didn't imagine him, the boy with the kind eyes. "'Cause he was there, I swear it."

Charles gives her a long, assessing look, his hands steepled in front of him like a prayer. "It's certainly worth looking into, thank you for the information, Rogue."

A fly, buzzing against a window pane calls her attention, so she doesn't exchange the societally-dictated pleasantries. What it's doing in the mansion, she has no idea. She can't be sure of the month - no one has kept her up to date with that sort of thing, and it's not like she's been allowed out at all - but she knows it's out of season. Still, the tiny creature beats itself against the glass, ignorant of the chilly death awaiting it on the other side.

An urge, deep and hungry in her stomach, builds up; and in the blink of an eye, she feels her tongue, lengthen, and curl - snapping it out of her mouth to catch the thing in her sticky grasp. Swallowing it down with a gulp, and an off-putting sense of contentment. A flare of shame that doesn't belong to her, flushes up her spine, Mortimer's voice telling her he is sorry.

She doesn't even realize that she's closed her eyes until she drags them open again, and sees Charles' shocked gaze. Logan's breathing has hitched behind her, and she knows that he is just as surprised by her actions as the Professor.

She can't imagine she'll ever have a better time to break away from them than this. "May I be excused now, Charles? I'd like to have some time on my own." She twirls a finger by her head."Got some stuff to sort out."

He nods his acquiescence, glancing at the window where the fly was, before returning to look upon her with a concerned smile. She stands, and moves towards the door, pausing for a moment to turn back to them, and deliver one last bit of news.

"It's better now, Charles. Better now that they're back. The voices, personalities. Whatever you wanna call 'em. The noise is better than the silence."

She doesn't wait for a response, just pulls the door open, and strides on through, tensing when she hears Logan start to follow.

But Charles, if nothing else, is excellent at reading people. At least she assumes that's his reason for calling Logan back, and allowing her to slip out, unhindered and unaccompanied.

She just needs time to think.

~~~+~~~

Logan gives her the rest of the day, and well into the night to ease back into herself. Gives her the time, and space, that everyone seems to think she needs.

The amount of worry that has been fueling his systems over the past few weeks is beginning to eat at him. He doesn't care if she's touchable, or not. Doesn't care if there is one voice inside her head, or twenty. Not as long as she's safe, and happy. He just wants to help her, anyway he can. And his lack of ability to do anything but simply be there makes him feel useless, and now they are telling him to not even do that. To let her alone, so she can figure it out herself.

Well fuck that. If that's what Marie wants – what she needs – she's just gonna have to come out and say it, because he isn't gonna stay gone otherwise.

He waits to go off in search of her until after the rest of the mansion has toddled off to bed, and finds her room is still empty. He huffs in deep, locate a trail that ends outside, in Storm's gardens. Finds Marie dressed in a sheer gown, and little else, despite the chill of winter in the air.

She's an apparition. A pale, translucent ghost. Skin and barely-there clothing as colorless as the breath escaping her mouth in little crystal puffs of air, lit up by the moon. She is a marble statue against the evergreen backdrop of the gardens. Living art.

She's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"It's cold."

Emotionless, empty. The words are a statement of fact, nothing more. That sweet, southern drawl he adores, muted. Its absence cinches a noose painfully around his heart.

"It's December, Darlin'." He takes a slow, measured step towards her. Then another. Closing the gap. Slips the jacket from his frame, heated by his own pounding blood, slides it onto her shoulders. Leaves his hands there. His palms itching to follow the leather down along her arms; to wrap it around her, and tug her body close.

One bare, thin-boned hand - nails grown in past the tips now - reaches up, grasps the lapel. Tugs it to meet the other, holding it closed around her neck. She sighs.

"I missed my birthday."

"I know." Standing behind her, his eyes travel down the slope of her nose, the swell of her lips, parted on an inhale. Past the upturned tick of her chin. Watches her, as she stares out into the night.

"We were supposed to go out." Her neck tilts, angles her head towards him, but her eyes stay focused off, towards the sky. "You were gonna get me drunk."

It's on the tip of his tongue to offer. To tell her to throw some damn clothes on, and meet him in the garage. To make a night of it. It's only midnight after all.

But she isn't ready, and he isn't an idiot.

"Later, Darlin'. Don't need a birthday to do that. Any ol' day will do." Her body, so close that with every breath he inhales the sweet, heady scent of her, presses back against his. A long, shuttering breath passing out of her as she relaxes. Without his direction, his hands fall to her sides, by her hips. Not grasping, but not letting go either.

"I have all these memories, different ways that people celebrated their twenty-first. Some better than others. I want one of my own."

He presses a light kiss to the top of her head, lingering for a moment, before allowing his cheek to rest against her scalp. Knows that it isn't just birthdays that she's talking about. That she's coming to grips with being so many people, and still just Marie, all at the same time. Though he can't voice it any better than she can, just wants to cling to her for however long they have. "You will. Just give it time."

She twists her head around, so that she is looking up at him over her shoulder, the air between their faces heated by her breath. "You promise?"

"I promise, Marie."

She smiles, soft and slow, "thank you" and lifts up on her toes. Closing the distance between them, and brushing her mouth against his, once, before pulling back. It's fleeting, but still that minty taste he hasn't allowed himself to dwell on for the last three months overwhelms his senses. "Thank you."

He presses his forehead to hers, feeling the soft silk of her hair like a caress against his skin. "Anytime, Darlin'. Anytime."

~TBC