The humid heat of the South is just like she remembered. It smoothes over her skin like a lover's kiss.

Every night, she fixes herself some crappy dinner out of a box or a can, then settles at the rickety kitchen table with her books. Her apartment is small, part of an old house not far from a swamp. Her upstairs neighbor is a kindly old man, more concerned with his hothouse flowers in what passes for their shared backyard than with her. She prefers it that way.

It's peaceful out here at night. She leaves the front door open, letting the faint breeze meander in through the screen, bringing the strange chattering of the cicadas with it. She thought she'd forgotten what summer sounds like in the South, but her first night here, she'd lain awake, smiling up at the ceiling through her tears. Because it sounded like home.

She is comfortable here, mostly, but even though she's been gone nearly six months with no word from him, she still stiffens whenever she hears a motorcycle.

Tonight is no exception. Halfway through her psych chapter on Dissociative Identity Disorder -- and she's kind of relieved to be able to rule that out as a side effect of her "gift" -- a motorcycle's loud, rumbling engine drones closer.

Behavioral theorists focus on the fact that everyone is capable of behaving in very different ways depending on the circumstances (for example, boisterous in a bar, quiet and respectful in a church) and that, in rare cases--

The words blur, slide out of focus, because the bike just turned up her street, and it can't possibly be him, but... maybe it is. She holds her breath, sitting upright, on full alert. Wheels crunch onto the gravel driveway out front, the engine cuts off, and her breathing is strangely loud in the sudden quiet.

Marie pushes herself up onto unsteady legs. The screen door swings open with its familiar groan of protest and she's on the porch.

Logan.

She stops short, staring at him as he swings his leg off the motorcycle. He looks the same as always -- boots, jeans, that stupid belt buckle, and, in deference to the overwhelming heat, a black t-shirt instead of four or five layers of flannel and denim.

Logan. Logan is here.

She never really thought he'd show up, but there he is, the lines of his body so familiar that something inside of her aches. She wants to throw herself into his arms, she wants to punch him hard enough to break her knuckles, she wants to run screaming away, into the swamp.

Before she can decide which impulse to indulge, he's walking toward her, those beautiful eyes trained on her face. The only thing she can think right now is that she's wearing a crummy old tank top that says "SPY" on it, and Logan's standing in front of her for the first time in six months. A bead of sweat slides down her spine, and she shudders.

"Hey," Logan says, wariness roughening his voice.

Hey? He breaks her heart and lets her run away and six months later his best opening line is Hey!?

Definitely she wants to punch him most.

Marie feels her expression harden and wills herself to sound cold. To sound unaffected by his presence. Because it's too little and it's too goddamned late. "You're a long way from home," she says.

Shrugging, Logan answers, "Don't know that I'd call New York home."

Marie bites back a snide remark about clichés and Jean and home being where the heart is. "What brings you to New Orleans?"

Logan stops at the edge of the porch, two steps down from her, his attention focused completely on her. "What do you think?" he asks, his voice so warm, so familiar that Marie wants to close her eyes and wrap herself up in his words.

But she's also angry and she wants to hurt him like he hurt her. She knows it's not possible, since you can't really break the heart of someone who doesn't love you in the first place, but she wants it anyway. She tells herself to stay strong, to stay disdainful, but she hears herself saying, "Well, c'mon, then."

If she didn't know better, she'd think the look on his face was relief. His boots clatter on the wooden stairs and then he's right behind her. She pulls open the screen door, feeling inexplicably cold despite the heat. The door slides from her grasp and she looks back at him in surprise. He's holding it for her, the gesture oddly charming.

She tears her gaze from him and moves inside.

"Nice," Logan murmurs, standing there on the cracked linoleum floor of her tiny kitchen. She can't help but laugh. "What?" he asks, but she can't read the look on his face.

"You came from Xavier's and you think this is nice?" Marie scoffs.. She likes it, of course, despite its flaws. Sometimes she thinks she likes it because of its flaws. Because it is so very much not the Mansion she'd run from. She thinks that's why she chose the South. She thinks that's why she chose Tulane.

Down South, nothing reminds her of him, and her gloves almost seem quaint.

"I didn't come from Xavier's," Logan answers. He's watching her too closely, too intently, like he's looking for some kind of sign.

And then she understands. He's a man of his word, and no matter what else he's done, he's never broken a promise. She lets herself relax, just a little. Overprotective Logan she can deal with; she'll just... not let herself remember what his hands feel like on her body. After all, she's been practicing that defensive maneuver for six months.

"You thirsty?" she queries brightly. Her mama would be so proud to see her bustling around the kitchen to find food and drink for her guest. Damn Southern hospitality. She doesn't want him to feel welcome in her home, not really, but she can't seem to stop herself.

When she yanks open the refrigerator door, she flushes at the five longneck bottles of Molson Golden staring up at her. "Beer?" she offers, keeping her heated face in the cloud of cool air emanating from the fridge. It doesn't seem to be helping with her blush.

"Sure," Logan answers.

She plunks two bottles onto the countertop, her hands slipping a little along the condensation. Her hands are bare, one of the advantages of living alone, and she trails one finger down the cool glass before popping the tops off. "Here," she says, handing him one.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it, sugar," she says, just to see if he'll react. Before, she only ever used that endearment in bed. She's incorporated it into her everyday speech now, like a sore tooth that she can't stop poking, thinking that if she worries it enough, the pain will dull. No luck so far.

Logan's curious gaze doesn't waver. He takes a swig of beer, wipes his wrist across his sweaty brow, and gestures at her with the bottle. "Do I get a tour?"

Marie quirks an eyebrow at him. "Kitchen," she says, in her "Duh" tone of voice. She walks to the archway that separates it from the other room. "Living room-slash-bedroom," she continues, watching him.

He stares back at her before turning his attention to the small room. There are two mismatched easy chairs, clean fabric in ugly patterns, which is how she could afford them. A small TV with actual rabbit ears -- it had taken her quite a while to figure out how the hell to use them -- and a small boom box sits on a hope chest. And then there's the futon, which serves as her bed.

Logan's gaze lingers over her rumpled sheets. It's disconcerting, so she shifts her weight and points at a door on the far wall. "Bathroom's through there," she says, then gestures at the ceiling. "And Earl's up there."

"Earl?" Logan repeats, his expression unreadable.

"Neighbor," she explains, moving away from him. The heat from his body is too familiar for comfort, and she puts the kitchen table between them. "Not very nosy, but I'm sure he'd call 911 if I was being attacked by an axe murderer." Logan's expression shifts to something like shock, but she drops into her chair and keeps talking. "So I'm safe, I'm doing well in college, and you can stop worrying about me."

Logan tilts his head, just a little. "Excuse me?"

"I'm fine," Marie says. "You've made sure of it. Your Heroic Protector status is still intact."

He's starting to look angry, those expressive eyebrows lowering as he watches her. "You think I'm here to--" Logan shakes his head, slamming the beer bottle so hard onto the rickety table that for a second she thinks it might collapse. All that happens is the foam overflows the bottle and spills down the side. He doesn't seem to notice. "That's not why I'm here."

What the hell? Marie feels the first flutter of panic, because he's not acting like he's supposed to. He's not pretending things are as they had been before she'd fallen into bed with him. She doesn't know why he's here, and her fingers curl tightly around the edges of her Psych book. She feels a ridiculous urge to hold it in front of her like a shield, but she doesn't think anything can protect her heart from Logan.

She makes herself remember how it ended, and her smile is bitter when she asks, "What, did Jeannie kick you out of bed? Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not as easy as I used to be."

He flinches. Hard. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" she asks. "It's true."

"No, it's not." She opens her mouth to retort, but Logan's moving closer, leaning across the table to pry the book from her hands. Movements quick and efficient, he stacks her schoolwork in a messy pile near the edge of the table, then drops into the seat across from her. There's nothing between them, nothing to hide behind.

She has the sudden urge to run again, but this is her house, dammit, and if anyone should be fleeing, it should be him.

But he just reaches for his bottle, giving an annoyed hiss when he notices the puddle of condensation and spilled beer. He takes a healthy swig, and when he puts the bottle down, his fingers remain clenched around the neck.

Marie squints at him. He almost looks... nervous.

Her panic kicks up a notch, but she tries to remember what they were talking about. Oh, right. Her inability to give him up. Former inability, she reminds herself.

"Every day for eight months I told myself to end things with you," Marie tells him, long-repressed anger making her voice shake. "And then you'd look at me like *that* and it didn't matter how you felt about me." She grins, just to see him wince. "Or how you didn't feel about me."

She wants to hate him for it, but that very first night, he'd taken her back to his room and whispered, "You know this doesn't mean anything, right?" She'd been drunk enough to say yes, to tell herself it didn't have to mean anything to her, either.

When she woke up the next morning, she'd known she was wrong. Then Logan had flashed that heated look her way and she'd realized that even though it would end badly, she wasn't strong enough to walk away from him.

"I was an asshole," Logan declares, the words coming out like secrets torn from him against his will. "I should never have said that stuff to you.."

"No, it's good that you did," she counters with false cheer. "No one can say I wasn't warned. I knew if Jean ever crooked her finger at you, you'd go running. Because you know this," she says, mimicking the breathless tone he'd used that night, "doesn't mean anything, right?"

She expected that she'd feel a rush of triumph if she ever managed to make him look so devastated, if she ever made him have to drop his gaze. All she feels is that same hollow ache.

"Right," she answers her own question.

"Marie," Logan says, and it startles her enough to keep her quiet.. Because he'd only ever called her that in bed. "I was stupid and I was an asshole." He lifts his chin, those beautiful hazel eyes of his burning her with their intensity. "I'm sorry that I hurt you."

She knows him well enough to know he's deadly serious. But she doesn't know him well enough to figure out his motives, and she hates the uncertainty his words have caused. Why now? Why drive all the way to Louisiana to apologize?

"Okay," she says, because she's not sure she accepts his apology, but she's oddly proud of him for giving it. He's such a good man; this would be so much easier if she could just hate him.

"It's not okay," Logan tells her, and she can see the guilt in those hazel eyes. "I can't stand thinking about how I treated you."

"Logan, stop it. You don't owe me anything," she says. "You never made me any promises." She hates that there are tears in her eyes when she says it. Because that's the worst part -- he never said he loved her; she just let herself believe in fairy tales and romantic comedies. She'd told herself that he may not *say* it aloud, but he showed her that he loved her by his actions.

Then she'd found Scott, drunk and ranting almost incoherently on the back balcony, and she'd wondered what Logan was trying to tell her by fucking Jean.

"Marie," he says now, and his voice is rough. Uneven.

God damn him for making her remember. For making her relive this hell.

"If you feel some burning desire to make amends," she says cruelly, "maybe you should apologize to Scott for fucking his wife." She knows the whole story now, knows that Jean had left Scott before going to Logan. It doesn't make it any easier.

"I already did," Logan answers, and he sounds so awful that she has to look at him. His eyes are haunted. "I apologized to Jean, too."

Hearing Jean's name from his lips still hurts, months later.

"I was scared," Logan says.

The words are so unexpected that they take a moment to register. Logan? Was scared?

"Of what?" she asks without thinking.

Logan holds her gaze, even though she can tell it's costing him a lot. "Of you."

"Of me?" she repeats, and she knows he's not afraid of her skin. She knows it, but she doesn't believe it, because her gaze drops to her bare hands. She feels naked, sliding her hands off the tabletop, dropping them into her lap in a nervous, sweaty tangle.

"Not of you," Logan corrects himself, sounding frustrated. "That's not what I meant."

She can't ask the question. She can't even look at him.

"Marie," he says, and it's a command. She meets his gaze and he reaches out, his bare fingers sliding into her hair, cradling the curve of her skull. "Not of you," he repeats, his tone urgent.

"If not my -- my skin," she begins, "then--"

"Of how I felt," Logan interrupts. "About--" He takes a shuddering breath. "About you."

And she's standing, suddenly, her chair skidding across the linoleum as she backs away. Because she's never been afraid of him until now. "No," she says, her voice low and unsteady.

Wide-eyed, he watches her, hands lifted toward her in a plea. "Marie--"

"No." Louder now. Angrier. She's shaking. "How dare you? You love Jean," she tells him, speaking as if he were a small boy with comprehension problems. "You love her, and she left Scott for you. I'm sorry it didn't work out," she says, and she wants to be sorry, "but you can't come here and expect me to--"

"I don't expect anything," he says, almost too softly.

Marie blinks. "What?"

"You're wrong," he explains with a quiet certainty, "about most of it, and that's my fault. That's why I'm here. But I don't expect anything from you."

It occurs to her, finally, to wonder if this is a trick, if he is Mystique in the middle of some mindfuck. Because she's known Logan for a few years, she's had him in her head and in her bed, and this quiet penitence is nothing she would've expected.

Arms crossed tightly across her chest, she glares at him. "Tell me something only you'd know," she orders.

Logan raises that damnable eyebrow. "I gave you beef jerky," he answers after a moment. "I had it in my glove compartment, and you gulped it down like it was candy."

It's nearly a joke and she nearly smiles. "Okay," she says, because she's told the story of how they met, but the important elements have never included the beef jerky.

"It's me," Logan tells her. "You can touch me if you need to know for sure."

And have his memories of sex with Jean Grey? No, thanks.

"Why are you here?" she asks instead.

"To apologize," Logan answers immediately. He fidgets a little, turning his beer bottle in small circles on the table. Then he sighs and pins her with his gaze. "To tell you I love you."

Marie is certain that someone just sucked all the oxygen out of her kitchen, because her lungs will not inflate. "You--" She can't say it, can't let herself think it.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, Marie," Logan starts, the words rushing forth like water over a dam. "I don't remember this, if I ever even felt it before. I don't know anything about love. I had a certain kind of life, certain kinds of relationships." She winces and his gaze slides away from her, almost as if he's ashamed. "That's all I knew," he continues, "Before you. But then there was you and me, and whenever I thought about you, about... losing you, it made me panic. It made me scared."

She watches him in disbelief. He can't mean it. "You love Jean," she says again, because she's sure of it. She knows it because she has him in her head.

He places one palm flat against the tabletop and slides it toward her. An offering. "No," he tells her. "I don't."

"But--"

"She's gorgeous," Logan says, "and she's smart and I'd never met anyone like her in real life, anyone..." he shrugs, "classy." It hurts so much to hear, because Jean is all of the things that Marie is not, all of the things that Logan wants. "It was infatuation, maybe, but it wasn't love."

"I felt it," she shoots back. "I felt what you feel for her."

He brushes off her words with a shrug. "She's not... " He pauses, his jaw clenched tight. "She's not enough for me. Never would be."

It hurts more than it should. But if the perfect Jean Grey isn't enough, what hope does Marie have? "Logan, you need to stop this."

"I can't," Logan answers. "I need to explain."

"You're making it worse," she yells, the words echoing through her tiny kitchen.

Logan looks stricken, sitting stiff and unmoving in the sudden silence. "Do you want me to go?"

Yes. No. Maybe.

"I loved you," she hears herself saying instead. "So much, Logan, but I accepted that we're not..." she waves a hand around in the air, "meant to be or whatever. I can't--" She won't cry, not over him. Especially not in front of him. She presses her lips together and shakes her head.

"I don't believe in fate," Logan says slowly. "Because that would mean I was meant to be this." He pops a single claw, staring at it in disgusted fascination. It slides slowly back beneath his skin. "I believe in choices, and I chose wrong."

Her eyes drift closed and she wants to scream, because she can feel the tears on her cheeks and she's anguished and furious at the same time. What he claims... She doesn't know if it's better or worse than what she's been living with for six months. Knowing you're second best is bad enough, but she's learning to deal with it. But knowing you could've had something beautiful if the person you loved hadn't chosen what was easy? She's not sure she'll ever be able to live with that.

"Logan," she says, but it comes out on a sob.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and she can hear his chair scrape back as he stands, hear each step he takes towards her. The familiar weight of his hand on her shoulder breaks her, and she's crying in earnest. "Can I--?" he chokes, his warm palm pressing gently against her shoulder blade to urge her closer.

She's already moving, pressing herself against his comforting bulk. His arms come around her, clutching her to him, and she melts into him. It feels so good to be held like this, even with her heart splintered into jagged pieces in her chest.

It is a cliché, but sometimes they're clichés for a reason, and Logan has felt like home to Marie since she climbed into the cab of his truck. She's needed this kind of comfort for six months, and she lets herself cry until she can't breathe.

And there's a small, angry part of her that's secretly glad that seeing her cry hurts him, too.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into her hair. "I'm sorry."

She can feel it in the desperation of his grip and she can hear it in his unsteady voice.

"I know," she manages finally, pulling away, swiping at her eyes. They stare at each other for a long moment, closer than they've been in months. Marie has to look away. "I'll be right back."

She locks the bathroom door behind her and stares at herself in the mirror. Her nose is bright red and her eyes are swollen. Any trace of makeup she'd been wearing had disappeared during her minor psychotic break, leaving her skin blotchy and disgusting.

Meanwhile, Logan's out there in her kitchen looking tortured, claiming to love her.

"This is ridiculous," she tells her image, who seems to agree. She's still angry and shocked and, deep down in some traitorous, childish part of her, hopeful. Because maybe Logan's telling the truth, and she knows she wouldn't feel this conflicted if she didn't still love him.

She flips on the faucet, cold water that's really lukewarm in this heat, and splashes her face. It feels heavenly, carrying away tears and perspiration. She doesn't bother with a towel, wiping droplets from the line of her jaw with her fingers.

Logan's standing where she left him, hands fisted at his sides, body rigid. His expression, however, is unreadable. She envies him that ability, wishes she'd picked up that trick somewhere along the way. He told her once that everything she thinks shows on her face; she hadn't let herself wonder at the time how he could possibly pretend not to know she loved him.

He moves slowly, as if sudden movements might scare her off, and lifts her beer from the table to offer to her. She almost smiles as she accepts the cool bottle and tilts it to her lips. Liquid courage. And she'll need it, because if this is going to be their night for hard truths, she's got some things to say, too.

Marie points at his chair. "Sit."

Warily, he complies, and now he's the one reaching for the alcohol.

She watches him so, so carefully as she takes her seat. She never imagined she'd be saying these things to him; she's not even sure how to begin. She breathes past the tight knot in her chest. "I lied before," she starts.

He is in suspended animation, one hand still clenched around the empty beer bottle on the table.

"I said I loved you," she explains, "but it's not something that's past tense."

Logan lets out an explosive breath. "Okay," he says after a moment. He's still breathing a little unevenly.

This is the hard part. Because it's going to hurt them both. For six months, this has been his fault. But this next part is hers alone.

"I don't know if I can forgive you."

Logan blinks rapidly, and if he weren't Logan, she'd think he was fighting tears. But she's only ever seen him cry once, over Jean.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

She swallows. "This whole thing is as much my fault as it is yours--"

"No, it's not," he protests.

"I let myself expect..." She's stuck, unable to come up with the right word; she shrugs and says, "things from you that I had no right to expect."

"Fidelity," Logan chokes. "I should've given you that."

God, it hurts. The whole conversation is like acid in an open wound.

"You never said you would," she answers, wishing like hell that her voice didn't sound so... weak. "And I never asked you for it."

He lifts the beer bottle, then notices that it's empty and plunks it back down. Scrubbing one hand over his face, he gives her a destroyed look. "You shouldn't have had to ask."

She can't keep doing this. She can't keep sitting five feet from Logan discussing the myriad ways they'd fucked up their relationship.

With a sigh, Marie gives up. "We were both wrong, and I have no right to feel like this, but..." She can't look at him when she says it. "I feel betrayed."

He bows his head. "I know."

"Of all the people in the world, Logan, you had to do it with her." The words are angry, but her tone is resigned. "I probably could forgive you anything else, but you did exactly what I always feared you'd do."

When Logan lifts his head enough to meet her gaze, and she's stunned to see that he is crying. There's an actual tear sliding down his cheek.

She's too shocked to speak.

"I fulfilled your lowest expectations," he says, his voice hoarse.. "I've never disappointed anyone before. I never had anyone to disappoint. I didn't know," he says simply. "I didn't know anything could feel this bad."

He's the one in need of comfort now. He looks the way she feels. He looks... broken. She wonders if love can possibly be worth it when it can hurt so badly.

Marie slides her palm across the table, laying it beside his since she can't touch him. They stay like that for a long while, unable to look at each other, unable to move away.

Finally, Logan lifts his hand, sliding his fingers across her knuckles. She inhales sharply, but he's too quick to be hurt by her deadly skin.

"I should go." He taps the haphazard stack of books. "You have homework."

As if she could possibly concentrate on Dissociative Identity Disorder now. But she just nods and says, "Okay."

He rises and stands there, looking uncomfortable. Reaching into his jeans pocket, he produces a scrap of paper. She can see it's his bold scrawl, but she can't read it.

"Here," Logan says, placing it on the table. "Just--" He shrugs. "In case you need me."

She stares at the paper. Carondolet Street. It says-- "Logan?"

"I'm not trying to pressure you," he says. "You don't have to -- Only if you want --" He breaks off with a frustrated growl. "If you need me. That's it."

She's still bewildered. "But -- you're staying here?"

"I got an apartment," he answers. "Just a little place."

An apartment. He rented an apartment. "In New Orleans?" she asks, just to be sure.

Logan gives her a steady look. "Nowhere else I'd rather be."

The ache in her chest eases, just a little. He's staying. She tries not to let herself think about what that might mean. She can't put much stock in him, not yet. She doesn't trust him anymore. So she reaches out, pulling the paper toward her. "I've got finals in a couple weeks," she says.

He nods and his voice is even when he says, "Okay." Still, she sees something that looks like disappointment in his eyes.

"I'll be busy for a while," she says.

"Yeah," Logan agrees.

Her bare fingers caress the paper, feeling the slight indentations of his pen strokes. "But maybe after I'm done..." She makes herself stand, makes herself look him in the eye. "Maybe after that, we can talk some."

"I'd like that," he says. Then Logan smiles at her, really smiles, and that awful knot of tension she's been carrying for months... eases, just a little.

"I don't know," Marie rushes to caution him. "I don't mean--"

"I know," he assures her. "I know. Just... anything is fine."

He sounds hopeful. But she's still not sure. She's not sure if they can get back what they've already lost. She misses him, and talking to him definitely helped, but she's still hurting. So she just nods and says, "Okay."

Logan steps closer, a hesitant look on his face. "Can I...?" He opens his arms.

It's hard to swallow the lump in her throat, but she keeps it in control and steps forward. Her eyes fall shut as she slides her arms around his rib cage and inhales. Cigars and leather and the outdoors. He smells the same as he did on a hundred different nights in her bed, and she wishes, futilely, that they'd come to their senses before breaking each other's hearts.

Reality, she decides, sucks.

With one last squeeze, she reluctantly pulls back and looks up at him. He hooks a thumb towards the door. "I'm gonna go."

She nods and follows him, holding the squeaky screen door as he walks across the porch and down the two steps. Half of her wants to call him back, to tumble into bed with him and forget the last six months. But it's not that simple, so instead she watches him walk away.

When he reaches the bike, he hesitates, staring up at her. She tilts her head, asking the question without asking.

"It always meant something, Marie," he says.

Before she can reply, he climbs on the motorcycle and fires up the engine. His image blurs as he turns the bike, the wheels crunching across her gravel driveway. As he roars away, she realizes she's crying again.

Marie retreats inside, letting the screen door slam shut behind her before wiping her cheeks. She glances around this familiar little kitchen, feeling a little bit better than she did before.

Because before tonight, she thought her relationship with Logan was unsalvageable. But now... Well, maybe there's hope.

Marie lifts the small piece of paper off of the tabletop and moves to the refrigerator. She selects a magnet -- the Canadian flag she picked up during her flight from Logan six months earlier -- and attaches his address to her refrigerator.

THE END