Thou Art Not Conquer’d

The cell at the end of the corridor was usually empty.

The facility was, nominally, for juvenile corrections. There was, however, a high-security wing. That much was public knowledge, but what was not so widely known was what was contained underneath the security wing, a place that gave “security” a new definition. What went on there was beyond words like ‘secret’ and ‘secure’. It was simply nonexistent, and what went on there stayed hidden.

So no one officially knew how many inmates passed through its doors. It could have been dozens, or hundreds—no one was ever called upon to account for them.

Still, the last cell was generally empty. The guard whose province it was preferred it that way. Anonymity and lack of notice, as far as he was concerned, were both a plus.

Some of the inmates of the secret wing could be, and were, retrained or rehabilitated. By the time any of them even arrived at the facility there was no hope of a cure for them, but there were sometimes—options.

Others ended up on this corridor. And eventually a very few ended up in the last cell.

By the time they got there, all of them had become used to the routines of their imprisonment. They knew what was expected of them, what the consequences were if they didn’t fulfill them. It was a constant source of surprise to those who ran the facility that so many of them seemed to disregard those consequences. There had been hope at one point that the guard could turn more of them, reduce the losses, but he never did. What he did do, in their final hours on the wing, was to maintain calm. How he did it they never quite knew—he didn’t do it by threats or by violence, the means they best understood—but there were no disturbances on the floor once he was in charge.

Other guards had their idiosyncrasies. These inmates weren’t loath to exploit them—they knew which to cower away from and which could be bribed. Not with money—none of them had that, or they wouldn’t have been there in the first place. But there were other things that could be exchanged for better treatment, extra food, protection.

If they got to the end of the corridor, though, none of that mattered. Most of them had never seen the last guard before, but they quickly became aware that he wasn’t to be reached in that way—in any way—and that he was the only one that guarded them.

They didn’t realize—they couldn’t—how complete his watch really was. He slept infrequently when there was a prisoner in his cell, and there was a closed-circuit feed into the small room with a cot where he did snatch an hour’s rest from tine to time. No matter what, the second he opened his eyes, his charge would be before them.

He recognized the irony of his work. He was a hunter by nature, but these prisoners weren’t prey. They’d already been captured and caged by others long before they ever got to him. He supposed he used his natural skills in other ways, sensing their thoughts and reactions, gauging what was needed to maintain control. Tracking their psychological journey instead of their physical one.

Today a new prisoner had been transferred onto his watch. He walked slowly down the corridor, ignoring the inhabitants of the cells to either side of him. They weren’t his business. The new transfer rose at his approach and stood quietly beside her bunk.

She looked young, but then they all were, in this place. She stood still and silent as he walked the last few feet and stood at the door of the cell. He gave her a moment to look him over before he gestured for her to approach. She did, taking measured steps forward until she could go no further and only the bars separated them. She kept her head down and her hands behind her back, though he knew she wasn’t restrained. He didn’t allow that, except in the rare cases where he had to do it himself.

“You know why you’re here?” She didn’t raise her head, but after a moment she nodded briefly. “Tell me.”

“Termination,” she whispered.

“Look at me.” It took her a minute, but she finally lifted her head and he was favorably impressed to see that her eyes were clear and dry.

He wondered, sometimes, what they saw when they looked at him. Some of them barely glanced up, even when ordered to do so. He imagined that he blended in with a hundred other guards, none of whom they’d particularly want to remember. Maybe larger than most, no more or less frightening, except that most of them knew what he was there to do.

As she did. But this one didn’t look away, and he noted the fact with a certain satisfaction. He saw her eyes flicker to the nametag sewn to his uniform shirt. He approved of that, as well. It was always better to have more information about the enemy.

“Just so we’re clear. You’ll probably be held here a day or two. Your time here can be easy or hard. If you stay calm, you don’t need sedation and I won’t waste it on you. No one’s going to mess with you here. You don’t fight me, you don’t argue with me, then you don’t get restrained. And you eat what you’re given. Do you understand me?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Yes, sergeant.”

“All right. What do I call you?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly at that. “You have my record.”

“I don’t read records.” But again he was impressed, and a little surprised. “Tell me what I call you.”

“R-G-E thirty-eight.”

He shook his head. “What do the others call you?”

For the first time her demeanor faltered, and he could see past her defenses to what she was holding back. But he didn’t relent, he simply stood and waited for her to answer.

“Rogue,” she said at last.

He nodded curtly. He’d already known the answer, but he wanted to hear it from her. “That’ll do.” He didn’t introduce himself; he’d already seen she could read for herself. “You need any medical care?”

She gave him a startled look. “Why? What’s that matter?”

“I don’t answer questions. I ask them.” He crossed his arms. “If you don’t, go sit back down.”

The girl—Rogue—looked down. Slowly, she brought her arms out from behind her back, and he saw that both forearms were bandaged from her wrists almost to her elbows. Blood seeped through the gauze. He scowled.

They’re supposed to be healthy when they send them here. The irony of which did not, of course, escape him either. “What is that?”

“They took a final set of skin samples.” Her hands were trembling and he knew that was why she’d been hiding them. It also infuriated him beyond measure, that they’d strip the skin from her arms before sending her to him, but he didn’t let his expression betray that.

“All right. Go sit down. I’ll bring fresh bandages.” He watched as she silently obeyed his command, then turned and left.

She was still sitting in the same place when he returned, but she rose to her feet again as soon as she saw him and stood still until he beckoned her back to the bars.

“Here.” He knelt and pushed a plastic container through the small slot at the bottom of the cell, but she didn’t move. “Take it.”

She knelt down herself and gingerly took the container, seeming surprised at its contents. He gestured toward the small sink that stood against one wall.

“There’s an anti-bacterial. Soak off the old bandages and clean the wounds. If you need help—“

“You can’t touch my skin,” she said quickly. “It’s my mutation.”

“Yeah?” He was curious in spite of himself, which was unusual. “What’s it do?”

She was moving to the sink. “You have my—“

“Told you I don’t read records.” It was the truth, actually. He didn’t care to know more than he needed to know. “Also seem to remember telling you not to argue with me.”

He saw her swallow. “I absorb energy. Life-force, they say.” She set the plastic container down on the edge of the sink and began painfully unwrapping the bandage on her left wrist. “If they’re mutants, I get their mutations too. For a while.”

“Interesting.” He watched as she finished undoing the bandage; she winced as it pulled away from the bloody wound. They’d simply stripped away the whole layer of skin; it must have been extraordinarily painful, but she poured the disinfectant over the wound with no more than a slight grimace and let the excess drip into the sink. “There’s ointment in there too. Put it on—the bandages won’t stick as much next time.”

She turned her head just a bit and gave him that narrow look again, and he could almost hear her question: Why does that matter? But she didn’t speak, simply followed his direction, then took out a fresh roll of gauze and began wrapping it around her wrist. She got the wound covered and tucked the end of the gauze under, by her elbow. She had a little more trouble with the other arm; she must have been right-handed, but eventually she managed it.

“Put the old bandages in the container and bring it back here,” he directed. She did, sliding the container back through the bars. He knelt to retrieve it, then stood and held a hand out through the bars. “Here.” She shrank back. “Take them. It’s just for the pain.” Two tablets lay on his outstretched palm.

“I can’t—“

“You arguing?”

“They took my gloves,” she snapped back, and then looked horrified. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, but—“

“Hold out your hand.” Reluctantly, she did, and he dropped the tablets into her cupped palm without touching her. “Take those with some water and try to get some sleep. Lights out in thirty minutes.” He turned and started to leave.

“Thank you.” He didn’t pause at the quiet words, and he didn’t wait to see if she did take the pills. Her lookout if she didn’t.

He spent the night, as was his custom, with one eye on the monitor in his room. She didn’t move from her bunk, not once, until the lights clicked back on in the morning.

Rogue was sitting up on the end of the bunk again when he brought her morning meal, and she rose to her feet in her habitual way at his approach. He knelt to slide the tray through the bars and then stood and held something out. “Here.”

She came forward less hesitantly today, and took the black gloves he held out to her. “Where—“

“No questions. Eat your food.” It was the same as the guards were served, for the simple reason that he’d just appropriated an extra breakfast tray. It was one thing he did that was counter to the regulations, but as far as he was concerned, the least these people were owed was a couple of decent meals, and so far no one had ever called him on it. She ducked her head and quickly knelt to retrieve the tray.

She had finished and was sitting back down when he returned for the tray, which was waiting on the floor for him. She’d put on the gloves and as he’d thought, the stretchy material fit over the bandages on her arms. He held up a hand to indicate that she didn’t have to stand up as he picked up the tray, but when he stood up she was standing a few steps away in the middle of her cell.

“You need something?”

She shook her head. “I was just wondering—if you would tell me when it’s going to be.”

“When the orders come through.”

She shook her head again. “I know that. I just mean, when they do, will you tell me?”

“I’ll tell you when you need to know.” Rebuffed, she stepped back and dropped her eyes, and he should have left it at that. “Rogue.” She still didn’t look back up. “No sense in worrying about stuff before it happens.”

“But it’s going to happen. No one ever comes back from here.” Now she did look up. “I want to know.” Both her voice and her eyes were determined. “I won’t need sedation, and I won’t fight—I just want to know.” She took a step back toward him. “Please, Sergeant Wolfe. Can’t I at least have that?”

The use of the name she’d read gave him more of a shock than he cared to admit. Against his will, he was struck by her quiet strength. She must be absolutely terrified, he knew she was in pain, but she kept herself completely under control. And she was right—she deserved the chance to prepare herself. “I’ll tell you. The night before, all right? It’ll happen in the morning.”

Rogue’s face didn’t change, but he sensed her heart rate increase. After a second she nodded. “Thank you.” Her determination and resolve were gutwrenching to see.

“Rogue—“ There wasn’t really anything he could say. “Don’t thank me.”

The girl’s mouth twitched just a bit, and then she nodded her acceptance of his words.

There were two meals a day, and he stayed away until it was time to bring her the next one. He brought fresh gauze and ointment as well. She stood up again as he approached, but this time her eyes were fixed on him, and he shook his head once before he slid the try and medical supplies through the bars. This kind of communication, though not against the regulations of the facility, was decidedly against his own personal rules, and that bothered him. Others had begged, pleaded, sobbed—he didn’t know why her request had been different.

Hell, some other guards openly taunted the prisoners with their future, or lack of it. He’d never done that. But he’d also never acceded to a prisoner’s request for information. He didn’t get involved.

Ever.

Rogue relaxed a hairsbreadth at the gesture and came forward to pick up the tray and supplies. He turned to go.

“What does the ‘L’ stand for?” He turned back sharply. She was standing by the bars, holding the tray, her face schooled into neutrality. “On your nametag.”

Involuntarily he glanced down. “Don’t ask questions,” he said roughly.

“Why not?” And that, too, was a question. “I mean, what’s the difference if I know? The next one won’t know.”

Oh, she was good. “Be quiet. Just eat your dinner and shut up.” This. This was what happened when you gave them an inch. Rogue stared at him in silence for a moment, looking completely unafraid, and then turned to go back to the bunk.

He threw himself into a chair that stood across the hallway and watched as she ate. Generally they ate nothing unless forced, but she seemed to have decided not to defy him on that front, at least. When she finished, she got up to return the tray to the floor by the bars and he got up to take it.

She had moved to the sink and was unwrapping the gauze from one wrist. He hesitated. “You want more pills for that?”

“What’s your name?” She didn’t look up.

“I asked you a question.” He was losing in this encounter somehow, and he really wasn’t sure how that had come about.

“I asked you one first.” She still didn’t look up. “And I know, don’t ask questions. But I figure you can’t do anything worse to me than—“

“My name’s Logan.” He turned and left without waiting to see her response. In his room, he saw that she finished with the bandages before lying down on her bunk, but tonight she was restless. She didn’t seem to sleep much, if at all, and several times she got up and took a slow walk around the cell.

She looked tired when he brought her food in the morning, but she rose and stood quietly as usual as he slid the tray into the cell. He didn’t move away as she came forward to pick it up.

She was pretty. He didn’t generally let himself notice things like that, because what was the point? She was just a pretty young kid who’d made the fatal mistake of being born a mutant, and in another day or so he’d never see her again, so there was none. But he took a minute and looked at her anyway.

Her long dark hair was pulled back into an untidy ponytail, and she was too thin under the prison-issue garments she wore, but she moved with a certain grace. It made him wonder if she’d taken dance classes or something once, before—

“Did you want me to do something else?” Her quiet voice brought him back to the here and now.

“No. Go on. Eat.” He turned away, but he was aware that she didn’t move until he’d disappeared back into his room, where he could watch her safely on the monitor. If he stayed near her cell, where she could speak to him again, it would only get worse.

The orders came through that afternoon.

It felt like a relief, frankly. Until she knew. Rogue was standing beside her bunk as usual, and though he’d hoped to delay telling her until after she’d eaten, though he tried not to catch her eye as he slid the tray into the cell, he couldn’t help glancing at her after he’d set it down.

She was white as a sheet. As he watched, she brought one gloved hand to her mouth.

“Oh, God…” It was barely a whisper, but he heard it, and cursed inwardly. If he ever again forgot his own goddamn rules—

“Rogue. Come here. Right now.” He made his voice stern and commanding, and blindly she moved forward until her hands rested on the bars that separated them. He knew she was seconds from screaming, and this was what he never let happen. “You said you wanted to know. Pull yourself together. Now.” She nodded, but he didn’t think she’d really heard him. “Do I need to sedate you?”

“No!” That snapped her back. “No. No drugs. I’ll be quiet, I promise.” But she was shaking, and he knew she wasn’t really under control. Logan reached through the bars and took hold of her shoulders. He shook her, just once, but hard. She gasped.

“One chance. You pick up that tray and eat your food, and calm down, or I go get a needle. You got it?” He made it sound as mean as he could, and she managed another nod, but her eyes came up to his, and this time he looked away first. He let her go. “Okay. Go eat.”

Somehow she did. He sat on the chair across the hallway—he knew he couldn’t leave for the relative comfort and distance of his own room, not now. He just watched as she mechanically forced down her meal. But tonight she didn’t return the tray after she’d finished; she just sat there. Finally he stood up and gestured. “Bring me the tray.”

She rose and carried it back to him obediently. But when he knelt to slide the tray across the floor, she closed one gloved hand over his wrist. “Logan—“

“Let go of me.” He shook her off.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Please—could I just have a piece of paper and a pen?”

He stood up so quickly he almost sent everything left on the tray tumbling to the floor. “What the hell for?” It wasn’t like she was going to get a letter out, she must know that.

“I just want to write something. Please. It’s such a little thing.” Brown eyes. She had brown eyes, and they were huge and sorrowful now.

“It won’t leave here,” he warned.

“I know. Please? I’m not going to be able to sleep much—I’ll stay quiet, but…it would give me something to do.”

Logan hesitated. Nothing in the rules said she couldn’t, and if it kept her calm... “All right. But it’ll have to be destroyed in the morning.”

“All right.” She agreed readily. He took the tray and left, returning a few minutes later with a single sheet of paper and a pen. She took them eagerly as he passed them through the bars. “You need anything else? You can have a sleeping pill if you want it.” He made the last offer with reluctance.

“No.” Her answer was immediate. “Will you just tell me something? What’s going to happen? Just so I know. I won’t—it’s just easier if I know.” She waited, and when he didn’t answer, she suggested softly, “It’s through that door, right?”

“Yeah.” He glanced at the door in question. “It would be better if—“

“Please. I just want to know what to expect.”

There was another long pause. “I come get you. You’ll—I’ll put handcuffs and ankle shackles on, and there’s a blindfold. It’s through the door, maybe forty or fifty feet to the room. There’s a table. You lie on that, I strap you down, then the doctor comes.”

Her eyes looked a little glassy, but she nodded her understanding. “And then—is it gas?”

“Injection,” he replied briefly.

“Will it hurt?”

Logan felt his lips tighten involuntarily at that. “Just the needle. You won’t feel anything else. You’ll just—go to sleep.” He set his teeth against anything else she might say.

“Thank you—“ She cut herself off. “I mean, I’m glad you told me.” She turned then and started to go back to her accustomed spot at the end of the bunk.

“Rogue—“ Instantly he wished he hadn’t said anything, because she looked back, and he didn’t want to see those eyes any more. “I’ll be there.”

Incredibly, she smiled. “The whole time?”

“Yeah. I stay till it’s over.” He didn’t want to go into what he’d have to do after that.

“That’ll help.” The sad smile trembled on her lips, then faded. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

She turned and went back to her bunk, and he left.

Logan didn’t sleep. He rarely did, the night before a termination. He checked the preparations and rechecked them, ate his own meal, kept busy. When he looked at the monitor, she was curled up on her bunk and not moving, so she must have finished whatever it was she wanted to write.

He didn’t look up as he approached the cell in the morning, but he knew without looking that she’d risen to her feet and was standing in her usual spot. He pulled the keys from his belt and opened the door, stepped in and closed and locked it behind him. Finally he looked at her. She was pale and her lips were set firmly to keep them from trembling.

“It’s time.” He beckoned and she took the two or three steps across the floor to stand in front of him. “Turn around.”

“Wait.” She held something out to him; it was the sheet of paper, folded up now, and the pen. “This is for you.”

He took the pen. “Just tear it up. I told you, it has to be destroyed.“

“No, I mean—it’s to you. There’s no one else to read it, so—“

His stomach clenched. “No.”

“Please. I don’t want you to read it now, anyway. Not till—after.” He still didn’t take the paper. “Look, I won’t even know if you—can you just take it?” Her voice was shaking. “Do whatever you want with it.”

He took the single sheet, folded it over again and shoved both it and the pen into his back pocket. “Now turn around.” This time she obeyed him.

He had the restraints that were required with him, and he slid the waist chain around her and reached for her hands.

“I put the rest of the gauze on, so my wrists are padded a little,” she said, and her voice had raised in pitch. “So it won’t hurt.”

“That’s good.” He closed the bracelets as gently as he could, then knelt to shackle her feet. When he stood up, she swayed a little and he caught her shoulders. “Easy there.”

“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I just never really believed—“

“I know. It’s all right.” He held her in the almost-embrace for a second. “You don’t have to have the blindfold if you don’t want.”

He was relieved when she shook her head. “I don’t want to see.” Carefully he placed the padded cloth over her eyes and tied it behind her head. He could feel her muscles trembling as she tried to force herself to remain still.

“All right. Once we leave the cell, you can’t talk, or I’ll have to gag you. You understand?” She nodded, but when he put one arm around her to guide her towards the door, she made a terrified sound in her throat and pressed back against him. He could feel her heart fluttering in her chest, could sense her fight for control. He closed his arms around her and took her hands firmly. “Hey. Don’t do this, Rogue. Don’t make me knock you out. You can do this.” He didn’t want to see that impressive pride and self-possession break, not now. He felt her lean back into the warmth of his body and take a deep breath.

“Marie,” she said. “My name’s Marie.”

He really didn’t want to know that, but it was what he needed to get her moving, he knew that, and he used it ruthlessly. “Marie. Can you do this by yourself, or not?”

“I can do it.” She forced herself to take a step, then another. He held her still while he opened the door of the cell, then guided her through and relocked it behind them.

True to her word, she didn’t made a sound as he opened the other door. He kept an arm around her waist as he led her down that hallway and into the examination room, and though he felt her tense as that door opened and the wash of antiseptic air hissed out, she didn’t hesitate or resist as he brought her to the table.

**********************************************************************

Marie was grateful for the blindfold. She could have simply kept her eyes shut, but tears were leaking from the corners of her eyes despite her best efforts to hold them back, and the cloth that covered them was soaking them up. She didn’t want them to see her cry.

The guard’s hands—Logan, she wanted to remember that—were warm and gentle as he guided her down onto the table. They were like the hands of a lover she’d never know, and the incongruity of it struck her anew as he did what he’d told her he’d do, strapped down her shoulders and legs before removing her handcuffs and buckling leather restraints around her wrists, holding her hands down at her sides. He was careful with her injured forearms, and when he finished with the second cuff, she felt his fingers close over her own gloved ones for just a second.

She was ridiculously grateful for even that tiny bit of human contact. She squeezed her eyes shut against a fresh onslaught of tears.

She could picture him in her mind, the dark hair and the hooded eyes, the powerful form, but she felt like she’d never really seen him. He stood on the periphery of her memory as he’d stood outside the bars of her cell, somehow separate, shadowy.

The door opened behind them and she barely stifled a gasp. Another man’s voice spoke. “Is the subject ready?”

“Yes, sir.” Logan’s hand left hers and his voice was changed—clipped, colorless.

“Very good.” Marie felt Logan move to the head of the table, and she forced herself to remain still as other hands, rougher, in rubber gloves, pushed down the top of one glove and something cold and wet was swabbed against the inside of her elbow.

But he’s still here. She wished he could hold her hand again. It would be over in a second, and she just had to not think about it, she just had to think about anything else—

But when she felt the prick of the needle, although she managed not to cry out, she couldn’t help her head turning towards the pain, towards the sting and the slight burn as whatever-it-was pushed into her veins. Within seconds she began to feel dizzy; her limbs felt heavy and numb. Then it was hard to breathe, and she tried to sit up, to take the weight off her chest, but the strap held her down—

Then she felt his hands on her shoulders, warm and strong, holding her. Not holding her down—the straps did that—just holding on and letting their strength flow into her.

I can do it. It was almost over, she knew. Her lungs tried hard to expand, but it didn’t feel like there was anyplace for them to go. She felt like she was falling, and behind the blindfold there were stars.

The last thing she was aware of was how cold she felt, and how warm Logan’s hands still were against her.

Then—nothing.

***********************************************************************

“it’s quite amazing, the touch you have with these subjects.” The doctor had lifted the stethoscope from the carefully prepared tray and set the bell against the girl’s chest. “They used to be hysterical, unless they were sedated—such a waste of medication.” He listened carefully for a minute, shifted the bell and listened again. “It’s much more congenial with you in charge.”

Logan had stepped back from the table and was waiting quietly for the doctor to finish his examination and make his pronouncement, and whatever his thoughts, they didn’t show on his face.

“Time of death, 8:13.” The doctor dropped the stethoscope carelessly onto the table next to the pale, still figure. Everything that had touched her would be destroyed, so it didn’t matter, but Logan very nearly reached across the table to remove the thing from where it had fallen across her arm. He resisted the impulse. “You can finish up. And sergeant, if you ever think about changing careers, think about psychology. You’ve got the knack.” He signed off on the termination order and started to drop the clipboard onto the girl’s chest.

Logan caught it. “I’ll need that, sir.”

The doctor laughed. “You guys are all too squeamish about bodies. Just use gloves.” He glanced down at the table one last time. “Especially with this one,” he advised, and left.

Logan set the clipboard down and made several checks on the last page. Moving quickly, he brought over a portable gurney that stood in the corner; a heavy-duty black body bag lay on it in readiness. Efficiently he released the straps he’d fastened just minutes ago, undid the waist chain and the ankle shackles. Despite the doctor’s suggestion, he didn’t don gloves before lifting the slight form and transferring it to the other table. The girl’s head lolled freely like a broken doll’s as he lifted her; he shifted his arm to support her neck and her head fell back onto his shoulder as he carried her. He put her down gently, supporting her head to the last and placing her still-gloved hands across her stomach before he zipped the bag closed.

There was one corridor yet to go. This one led to the outdoors, or at least to a garage, where a slightly battered van was already waiting. Its back doors were open, and as Logan rolled the gurney out, its driver rose from the back, where he’d been playing solitaire on the floor of the vehicle.

“Just one today?”

“Yeah, just the one.” The man made as if to give him a hand with the gurney, but Logan waved him off. “Hang on. I forgot to tag her. Get the van warmed up—I’ll put her in.” The driver shrugged and scooped up his battered deck of cards before sloping off around the vehicle.

Swiftly, Logan pulled down the zipper of the bag one last time. He still held the clipboard in one hand; there was a small packet stapled to the paperwork. When he tore it open, a set of dogtags on a short chain fell out.

He was supposed to put it around her ankle, but he didn’t want to. Instead, he reached for her hand. He lifted it, and he felt the gauze that circled her wrist under the glove, and he set it back down. It was idiotic, but the bandage was reminding him of how he’d had to handcuff her over that raw flesh, and he didn’t want to do that either.

Suddenly he reached toward his collar and yanked it open, pulling something out from under his t-shirt. He hefted both sets of dogtags, his own and the ones he’d taken from the packet, as if comparing their weights, and then pulled the chain over his head. He started to slide his set of tags off the chain, then changed his mind. He took off only one, then added one of the pair from the clipboard. The other two, along with the short chain, he slid into a pocket. Then he reclosed the clasp, carefully lifted her head and settled the chain around her neck, tucking the mismatched tags into the neck of the prison-issue shirt. He tugged the blindfold free—it was no longer needed, after all—and looked down at the pale face that seemed even whiter against the stark black background.

She looked like she was just asleep. She had cried, a little—he could see the marks of the tears on her cheeks, and it made him angry. He wiped them away as gently as he could and placed her head back down.

“You finished back there? I’ve got to get going.” The voice from the driver’s seat startled him.

“I’ll let you know.” Uptight asshole. Not that anyone wanted to be in this place longer than they had to.

Or at all. He didn’t want to zip the bag closed, but he knew he had to. Logan brushed the hair back from her face first and rested his hand against her cheek; her dark lashes made a sharp contrast with the white flesh. Her skin was petal-soft under his fingers.

He kept his hand where it was as he rolled the gurney forward and got it into the van on its collapsible legs. Inside that van was probably the one place in the facility that wasn’t on camera, and on an impulse he leaned over her, pressed his lips against her forehead. She felt cool to his touch.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he said quietly. Then he closed the bag over her and vaulted out of the van as quickly as he could, slamming the doors hard. “All right. Go.” He had to make an effort in calling to the driver or his voice might have wavered; as it was, he felt slightly giddy and sick as he watched the van roll out of the garage. For the thousandth time, it seemed, he read the words on the side of that battered pseudo-hearse: Sentinel Exterminators.

It was a front, of course. The government couldn’t be seen disposing of bodies. A week from now the same driver would be back and he’d take receipt of a carton of ashes marked with her name.

He shook his head to clear it, willing his mind back under control.

“Gettin’ too old for this bullshit,” he muttered to himself, and reached into his back pocket for the pack of cigarettes he had there. It wasn’t until then that he remembered the letter she’d written.

Goddamn it. He’d meant to tuck it into the bag with her, maybe in her glove so it wouldn’t be seen. Instead, he had it.

And he wasn’t going to read it. No way in hell.

All These Woes Shall Serve

1407 Graymalkin Lane, town of Salem Center, Westchester County
The Library. Midnight.

It is now five months after the Leslie Treaty on Human-Mutant Relations was signed in Washington D.C.

****************************************

The library at the School felt unused.

There weren’t any classes held any more. Logan wondered if that meant it wasn’t a school, either. Did the place keep its identity even when it wasn’t being used for the same purpose?

Logan reached for the whiskey bottle he’d set down beside him, and rubbed a hand over his face wearily. He’d been back here, as close to a home as any place he’d ever known, for six months.

Six months wasn’t long enough to forget everything he’d seen.

He stared out the window at the stars glittering over the wintry grounds. Remembering.

Six months ago…

***************************************

Verona Juvenile Facility. Somewhere in Pennsylvania.

The old van rattled to a halt in the underground garage, and the driver swung himself out of the cab, adjusting his glasses. Then he stopped short.

Instead of the lone guard and a silent gurney or two, there were two figures standing in the exit bay. The guard had something in his arms, and he hadn’t even waited for the van to come to a complete halt before he’d seized the handle of the rear door and swung it open. He gestured to the girl who stood beside him, similarly burdened. “Go on. Get in. Now.”

“What the hell—“ The driver reached for the guard’s arm, only to be knocked backwards by an angry gesture as the other man shook him off. He stumbled, fell, and his glasses skittered across the floor of the garage. “Goddamnit!” Blindly, he fumbled along the dirty floor. “Fuck!”

“Come on.” The guard slung a bag that had been sitting on the floor in after the passengers and slammed the doors on them. “We’re leaving.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? I can’t—“ The man found the glasses; one earpiece was broken off. “Damn it to hell—I can’t drive like this.”

“I’m driving. Get in.” The uniformed man climbed into the driver’s seat. “Get in. You can bitch at me later.”

The original driver hesitated, then ran to the passenger side. The other man hit the gas before he’d even managed to get the door shut; he almost lost his glasses again as the van screeched away and out of the garage. He reached for his seatbelt and managed to get it fastened without losing the eyewear again. He glanced over at the new driver; the man’s jaw was set and he pressed harder on the gas pedal as they reached the gravel road that led away from the facility. “You mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

There was no answer, but a second later he ducked automatically as an explosion shook the whole area, and another a moment later. The van swerved with each concussion from the blasts, but the driver kept it on the road. Then they were coming to the gates.

“Oh, no.” That was all he had time for before the van simply crashed through the chain-link fence, not slowing for an instant. It skidded as they turned hard onto the road, and then they were speeding up again and driving away from the compound.

Logan glanced back; no one seemed to be in pursuit. Presumably the explosions had been the distraction he’d counted on. Then he looked over at the passenger seat. The man who sat there was holding his glasses in place as if his life depended on it, and staring straight forward at the road in front of him as if he were able to alter the course of the van by the power of his mind alone.

Not so far-fetched, really, but not this particular guy. Logan’s mouth twisted in a wry grimace of amusement. “Doin’ all right there, Scooter?”

“Just. Watch. The road,” the younger man gritted out. “You might have given me some warning.”

“No time.” Logan swerved suddenly onto a side road and the other man clutched at the dashboard reflexively. “Take it easy. I haven’t wrecked anything yet.”

“Not for trying.” Scott Summers took a deep breath and tried again to adjust his broken glasses. “You know, that was a goddamn stupid thing to—I could’ve lost control.”

“And done what? Wrecked the place?”

Summers glared, but there wasn’t really any reply he could muster to that. When he finally spoke a few minutes later, he’d gotten his anger under control. He was good at that. “So you mind telling me what brought this on?”

“Yeah. I mind.” There wasn’t any single answer to that, not really. It was just that he had reached the end of his ability to hold back. He wasn’t going to be part of ‘minimizing the damage’ for one more minute. Not this time. Not ever again.

“Fine. You didn’t have to stay in there, you know.” It was the note of real concern that Logan heard that bothered him more than anything else.

“Yeah. I did.”

And that was all that was said. A few hours later they were pulling up in front of a large, run-down stone building. It had once been a showplace, that much was clear, but now its once-beautiful façade was faded and crumbling. As Logan brought the van to a halt, a woman appeared in the doorway of the building and came, slightly hesitantly, toward the vehicle.

The tall, white-haired woman continued down the steps as the battered van pulled up in front of the building. Her finely-arched eyebrows rose as two men, not one, emerged from the front seat. She moved to the rear of the van as the larger of the two came from the driver’s side to join her. The other man hurried up the steps and into the building.

“Logan? Why are you here? Is everything all right?”

Logan’s eyes were dark with anger. “Not really.” He yanked open the rear doors and gestured. “Look at this.” Inside the van there were three people: an Asian girl in her teens, and two others. Logan gestured. “Four and six years old. Fuckin’ doctor wasn’t even gonna blink.”

Ororo’s hand went to her mouth. “Dear goddess.” Logan climbed into the back of the van, lifted one tiny body from the teenage girl’s arms and handed it out; she took the little boy in her arms and brushed the pale-blonde curls back from his face. “They can’t possibly have manifested yet, can they?”

“They’re children of known mutants. Seems like they were stepping things up, not taking any chances.” Logan got back out, carrying a little girl who looked slightly older than the boy. “Brother and sister. We need to find their parents.” He nodded towards the silent teenager. “Her name’s Jubilation Lee. She doesn’t have any parents.”

“Jubilation. What a lovely name.” Even in the midst of chaos, Ororo Munore would still be regal and gracious. She put an arm around the young girl, who seemed dazed by everything she’d seen, and started back up the stairs. “They weren’t at the same facility?” She spoke quietly to Logan as he moved past her, cradling the other small form against his shoulder.

“There ain’t a facility any more.” Logan snarled the sentence. “The parents’ll probably get to one of the safe houses eventually, so find out.”

“Of course.”

They were nearly at the door when it opened and Summers reappeared, adjusting a fresh pair of ruby-quartz glasses, along with another figure. Ororo almost ran into Logan as he came to a sudden halt.

The woman who’d emerged from the building came forward to meet them. “Hello, Logan. I heard you coming.”

“Never could put anything past you,” he answered.

Jean Grey reached for the little girl Logan held and smiled when she sighed and snuggled her face into Logan’s neck. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you inside.” She took the sleepy dark-haired child from his arms and she whimpered a protest. “It’s all right, honey.” Jean reached up to kiss Logan’s cheek. “Welcome home, Logan. I’m sure there’s a lot you have to tell us, but get some rest first.”

“Yeah. Good to see you too, Jeannie.” He answered mechanically. She smiled again, but slightly more tentatively. She adjusted the child’s head on her shoulder.

“What’s her name?”

“Carolyn,” he answered. “And Michael.” Logan nodded at the little boy as Ororo moved past.

“Aren’t you coming in?”

Logan stepped back. “Not right now.”

“Okay. Well…I’ll see you later.” Jean paused as if there was something else she wanted to say, but she seemed to change her mind as Scott put a hand on her shoulder. They headed inside.

It was suddenly silent in the chilly about-to be-autumn night air. Logan went back to the van, its shabby doors still standing wide, and pulled out an old military-issue duffel bag. He’d torn off the uniform shirt after they’d cleared the perimeter; now he sat on the edge of the van’s floor and roughly yanked off the lace-up boots he still wore, throwing them ferociously one after other into the darkened interior behind him. He stood long enough to empty the pockets of the uniform pants before stripping them off; everything that had come from the facility followed the boots into the van, as did the pants themselves. He fished a pair of jeans and an old pair of cowboy boots from the bag and dressed rapidly. The last thing he did before slinging the bag over one shoulder and slamming the doors of the van closed was to yank the chain from his neck and throw the rigged tag with the fake name after everything else. The technology they’d stolen had kept his mutation hidden for more than two years.

Now he was finished with it. He was through hiding who and what he was.

He stalked off across the grounds, pulling a jacket on as he went. The once-pristine gardens were run to seed, the grass and shrubs growing wild, and he liked it better that way than he had when everything had looked manicured and serene. All he wanted to do was get to the woods, away from the thousands of questions he knew he was going to face in the morning.

He damn well wanted a drink, but that was going to have to wait until he could stand company.

He slowed his pace as he lost himself in the shadows of the trees. His hand went to his jacket pocket a couple of times, but he waited until he reached a quiet clearing and had slung the duffel bag to the ground at his feet before he finally slid his hand inside.

Logan leaned back against the trunk of an old oak and finally let his mind run over the images of the last days. He’d known things were coming to a head, and it was just a matter of time. Still, the end had come in a rush. It had never been intended for him to stay undercover as long as he had, anyway. He still didn’t know how he’d handled it for as long as he had; mostly by just not thinking about it, he figured.

He suspected that was probably going to come back to haunt him.

Slowly he drew a much-creased envelope from his pocket and turned it over in his hands. For the hundredth time, or maybe the thousandth, he considered opening the envelope he’d sealed some months before. There was enough light filtering among the trees; he could see to read.

After a moment’s consideration, he refolded it and put it away, pulling out a pack of cigarettes instead. Not Cubans, but better than nothing. He had an old Zippo; it took a couple of tries to get a light.

Summers was probably inside giving his version of events to his wife and Ororo. Logan didn’t much care. He had no goddamn clue what had been going on out here anyway, and whatever stories Scooter had been spinning from previous runs might as well have their big finish. The last couple of years had been a hard cold dose of reality for the Boy Scout, but he hadn’t really understood what he’d seen tonight.

Logan didn’t really feel like getting into it, either.

All he knew was that two and a half years of control and anger had snapped, and between that seething rage and his intimate knowledge of the facility, the result had been a foregone conclusion. He’d opened the doors of the cells, shorted the alarm systems, handed out survival packs and sent groups of kids off in as many different directions as he could. It didn’t matter, anyway. The bastards were going to be way too busy picking through the remains of their baby Auschwitz to worry about chasing any of them down for a few weeks at least, and long before that the kids would be collected and safe. He’d made sure they all got out. The Lee girl had been a new arrival and she’d just seemed too shell-shocked to be sent out on her own. So he’d kept her with him, along with the two young ones.

And the doctor, the one he’d watched coolly poisoning a few hundred innocent children, well, he’d left him strapped down on that same goddamn table. Right where he’d thought he’d been exterminating the “mutant problem.”

There would have been a good deal of satisfaction in dispatching the man himself, but Logan had reluctantly decided that leaving him to die in his own lab was more fitting. Also, it would take longer.

Logan threw down the stub of the cigarette and ground it out with the heel of his boot. He pushed away from the tree and wandered further into the woods, not really caring where he went. It was just good to be outside again, good to be away from constant bright fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells. He walked slowly, his head down, and it wasn’t until the brighening moonlight told him he was reaching the edge of the wooded area that he looked up. Then he froze.

White stones. Glittering. Acres of them. For an instant his eyes were dazzled enough that he didn’t really take in what he was seeing. But there were hundreds, all white marble, nearly identical.

Logan took a step into the cemetery and stared down at the first of the stones at his feet, automatically noting the dates. Too close together. The name on it read Katherine Pryde. The math wasn’t hard. She’d been almost eighteen.

He didn’t remember the name. He wondered if he’d have remembered the face.

Logan walked along the rows as methodically as if he were back in the corridors of the containment facility. It took a while, and after the first few rows he didn’t really read the names any more; he glanced just long enough to to know whether it was or wasn’t the name he was looking for. He’d had no idea they’d done all this while he’d been gone; all of these names hadn’t passed through his facility. But there had been other places. Far too many of them.

Christ, he should have trashed the place ages ago and gone somewhere else. Done something more. Done something to end all this sooner. There hadn’t been any useful information to be gathered in a year; he didn’t know why he’d let himself be convinced to stay. Maybe, somewhere else, he could have made more of a difference.

The stone he was looking for was in the fifteenth row. He stood over it for a long time before he dropped his duffel bag to the ground and knelt to run his fingers over the cold carved stone. It bore a simple cross, a name, and two dates.

He hadn’t been lying when he said he didn’t read the files, so it was news to him that her birthday had been in April. The other date, he knew.

Marie D’Ancanto. April 22, 1988 – March 26, 2006.

They never let them get to eighteen.

*********************************************

The Library. Three A.M.

Logan hadn’t locked the door of the library behind him, though normally he would have, out of the basic premise that it never hurt to take precautions. He seemed to be the only one who ever used this place anyway, even if he wasn’t exactly using it for its designated purpose. His mouth twisted wryly as he refilled his shot glass; the bottle he’d brought with him was half empty.

Was a library still a library if no one read the books?

And what was the purpose of a killer after a war was over?

His job was finished.

He took his shot and stared forward. The only light in the room was the lamp that stood on the end table beside the bottle, and he could still see the stars outside the window. They looked very cold and far away.

He couldn’t see the graveyard from here; it was discreetly placed behind a copse of trees. But this window would face it, if not for the intervening greenery.

Since the war there had been an increase in activity everywhere around the School, and the cemetery was no exception. People came there often, and there were flowers left on some of the graves now. Some of the graves were simply disappearing. A few of them were being disinterred as relatives reclaimed their formerly lost or disowned dead; Logan thought very little of them.

Waiting until after someone was dead to show your respect seemed like a waste of time to him. Pretty damn useless, in fact. Like everything else about the war.

He’d visited the cemetery yesterday. For the last time.

************************************************************************

The Cemetery. Westchester, N.Y.

There were always too many damn people there these days.

Young people, students returning to the school, searching through the names. Older people, sometimes couples, sitting on the newly-installed marble benches, holding each other for whatever comfort they could find. And sometimes men, who should have been wearing dark suits but who were instead discreetly attired in too-neat khakis and polo shirts. Logan didn’t know why they bothered. A uniform was a uniform.

He supposed Xavier knew what he was doing. The old man was smart; he was undoubtedly getting back more information than he was giving away. It didn’t mean Logan had to like it.

It was February now. Six months since the night he’d torched the facility, five months since the first of the treaties had been signed, four months since the government, frightened by the wave of unseated candidates, had dissolved the Department of Mutant Affairs and appointed a committee to “look into abuses of the system”. Logan had long since lost any sense of irony he might have possessed over those kinds of euphemisms.

It was February, and it was an icy grey day, and he hadn’t thought anyone would be there, especially not so early in the morning. But as the students came trickling back from wherever they’d been sent to hide, they always made the pilgrimage. Logan had heard the van arriving from the train station late the night before.

The cemetery was almost unbearably depressing in the faint morning light, with a light rain falling. The recently-opened graves dotting the ground looked like wounds in the earth. Near the periphery, there were two figures beside one of the graves whose ground was undisturbed. One was kneeling, head bowed; the other, shrouded in a long coat with the hood up, stood a discreet step behind the mourner.

Logan didn’t move from where he was standing, just beyond the trees, but after a moment the hooded figure turned.

Yeah. Should have left already.

Too late now. He watched as the cloaked figure leaned over the kneeling one, saying something he couldn’t hear, and started forward reluctantly as the young man rose to his feet and made an obvious effort to get his emotions under control. He wiped his hand
over his eyes before he reached out to take his companion’s hand.

Logan continued to walk toward them; there didn’t seem to be any good way to get out of it. And what did he expect? He honestly wasn’t sure. As he approached, the second figure pushed back her hood and he could see her face for the first time.

“Logan.” It was just one word, but it answered a thousand questions and made his heart sink.

It would have been so much easier if she’d been angry with him.

“Hey, kid.” He saw the joy in her eyes flicker, but she didn’t falter for more than an instant.

“I heard about what you did. At the facility. I thought it was wonderful. We all did. A lot of the kids wound up in Philadelphia, where Bobby and me were. This is Bobby,” she finished in a rush. “Bobby, this is Logan.”

“I’ve heard about you, sir.” The young man stepped forward and held out a hand; Logan took it automatically and found himself meeting the boy’s eyes. He had a firm grip. Raised to be polite. Knows how to introduce himself. “I wasn’t in a camp, but I spent the last year working at the safe house. That was how I met Rogue. And a lot of the other kids from…that place.”

“Verona,” Logan said, and there was a sudden silence. Bobby let go of his hand.

“Yes, well…anyway, we had more than fifty of your survivors. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“My ‘survivors’?” Logan repeated. Rogue dropped Bobby’s hand and stepped forward.

“I was number three hundred seventeen,” she said, and her voice had lost a little of that breathless drive to get the words out at all costs. Her right hand, encased in a black leather glove, scrabbled for a moment at her neck and then held something out, something that fit into her palm neatly but hung from a chain. “I got my number from Etch yesterday when I got here.”

Against his will, and certainly his better judgment, he looked down. The two small metal rectangles lay on that smooth black background, exactly the way they’d looked the day he’d—

No. Not quite the same. His own tag lay underneath the shinier, newer one, and it gave him a strange shock to realize she still wore it, but hers no longer showed the serial number Verona had given her. Instead, there was just that three-digit number, each numeral somehow distinct and artistic. He could see the figures and letters stamped on his own as well, and they looked crude in comparison.

Rogue’s eyes were on him with that same honest gaze that had induced the idiotic gesture in the first place. “Didn’t you know? We all have them.” She came a little closer, and Logan saw Bobby give her an odd look. “The two kids you brought with you were three hundred eighty-two and eighty-three. And Jubilee took three hundred eighty-four. She wanted the last number.”

It was insane. There were four hundred kids out there wearing these things like badges of honor? They should be doing whatever they could to forget every second of what they’d been through, not starting some kind of fucking alumni organization.

Rogue’s brow knit a little. She glanced down at her hand. “You’ve seen them, right? Etch—his real name’s Evan, I think—he can alter metal, and he makes them all. He was one of the first, number twelve.” She gave him a shy smile. “I didn’t let him mess with yours, of course, but he said he couldn’t do anything with it anyway. He said it was some really unusual metal.”

“Adamantium.” The word came out more clipped than he’d intended and Rogue looked even more worried.

“Did you want it back? I can—“

“No. Keep it.” Rogue let the chain and tags fall from her hand; Bobby stepped up and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Rogue, I’m going to go back to the house, all right?” Logan had to admire the kid. There was clearly nothing he wanted to do less, but he was trying to give her some space. There was really nothing Logan wanted less than to be left alone with her, though, so he adressed the young man.

“Friend of yours?” He indicated the gravesite with a jerk of his head.

Bobby’s expression hardened slightly. “No, sir. My brother.”

Logan nodded. “Sorry.”

“Yeah.” The young man swallowed hard. “He wasn’t one of us. He…went to work for the other side. We’re not sure what happened. Either they figured he wasn’t any more use to them, or they might have found out about me. Either way…” He trailed off. Rogue reached out and took his hand.

“Bobby just found out a month or so ago,” she said. “But we couldn’t leave any sooner.” She bit her lip and gave Logan a pleading look. “We should finish here, so—will you be around later?”

Logan took a step back. “Didn’t mean to intrude.” He ignored the way she was trying so hard to catch his eyes and stayed focused on her little friend. “Sorry the kid got caught up in all that. Lot of people got hurt.” He glanced the grave. “At least you know where he is.”

Bobby’s eyes were moist. “Thank you, sir.” Logan nodded curtly and turned away. He’d only gotten a few strides away before he heard the footsteps running after him, and felt her hand on his arm.

“Logan, wait.” He stopped, but he didn’t turn around; he made her come around to face him. “Please—I really want to talk to you, it’s just…” She swallowed hard.

She wasn’t meeting his eyes any more, which was one small mercy. “Go on. Go back to your friend,” he said, and even though he knew he should make it abrupt, he couldn’t help softening his tone. “I’m glad you made it through okay.”

“Can I see you later?”

He should just say no. He knew if her boyfriend hadn’t been watching, she’d have thrown herself into his arms the second she’d seen him. Good thing the kid was there, then. “I have something of yours,” he told her. “That letter you wrote.” Her eyes flew up in shock and he added quickly, “Don’t worry. I didn’t read it.”

She looked totally taken aback, and then she glanced over his shoulder at her waiting boyfriend. “That’s not—look, we can’t talk now, I know. But later, okay?”

Logan reached up and took the gloved hand that still rested on his arm, and squeezed it lightly before letting go. “Go on. Come to the library tomorrow morning, early, okay?” She seemed about to say something else, and he shook his head. “Go on.”

Rogue bit her lip and looked down, and then she gave him a quick, tight smile before she nodded and walked back up the slight incline toward the grave.

Logan turned for a moment when he’d reached the woods. Bobby was again kneeling beside his brother’s resting place, and as Logan watched, he put his hand to the damp earth. Suddenly the sodden ground changed, seemed to shimmer and reflect the muted sunlight, and when Bobby stood up, Logan realized that the grave now shone with crystals of ice.

Bobby put a hand to his eyes, and Logan saw Rogue reach up to put her arms around his shoulders.

That’s good. As he walked back through the woods, he felt as close to being at peace as he had since all the bullshit had begun. If there was some kind of answer to be had out of the whole goddamn mess, this was as good as any. At least he knew she was all right.

He was glad he’d stayed one more day.

*************************************
The Library. Five A.M.

Six months.

That was long enough.

Logan tossed back the last shot and leaned his head back against the smooth leather of the armchair. His fist closed over the shot glass and the muscles tensed in his arm.

Then he raised his head, and set the small glass down gently on the table beside the empty bottle. Reaching down, he picked up his knapsack from the floor beside his chair. His jacket lay across the chair next to him; he slid into it and shouldered the pack as he walked across the library, towards the window. No one would have guessed the amount of alcohol he’d consumed; really, no one would have known he’d even had a drink.

The library was on the first floor. Dawn was just beginning to break; the morning air was chilly. Logan opened one of the long windows and stepped outside. He paused for just a moment to zip his jacket, but he didn’t look back.

Two and a half years away, and six months back. It was long enough. Logan didn’t close the window before he walked away.

On the table beside the armchair, a drop of whiskey oozed its way down the side of the abandoned shot glass and onto the battered envelope beneath it.

In Our Times to Come

Laughlin City, Alberta, Canada.
Six years have passed.

******************************************************************

No matter how long it takes, some things come back to haunt you. No matter how far you go, no matter what you do, eventually what goes around comes around. Basic rule of life.

I don’t play by the rules. I tried to, once, and I’m still not sure that was the right decision. But I also don’t look back. What I did once, in another life—that’s over. What matters is here and now. Not looking back.

You can’t go back.

***************************************

Six years.

Two countries.

Over thirty-five hundred miles, all told. I figured it out.

And it was all going to end right here, in the filthiest dive bar I’d ever seen in my life. This journey had taken me from a small town in Mississippi to a concentration camp in Pennsylvania to a stately mansion in Westchester. It was kind of fittingly anti-climactic that it should all finish in another small town, but I’d really never planned on it being a truck stop in Alberta.

Somehow, that figured.

It hadn’t been all that easy to find this place. In some ways I hadn’t even been sure I’d wanted to. There were a lot of good arguments against it, really. I’d heard them all, over the years. You don’t really know him. If he wanted to have anything to do with us, he wouldn’t have left. You’re looking for answers you aren’t going to get. You’re making things up in your head.

Yeah, yeah.

You know who finally made me make up my mind? Scott Summers. Which was kind of funny. The popular wisdom had always been that he and Logan had hated each other, had only forged an uneasy truce in order to make it through the war. That he’d been glad when Logan disappeared. Some people even thought he’d told Logan to leave.

He hadn’t. I still thought all that, though, when Scott started to ask me about my plans for a road trip. I thought he was going to try and talk me out of it. He wasn’t.

Scott just wanted to let me know where to look. And now here I was.

************************************

God fucking damn it.

Not tonight.

Not now, for chrissakes. Focus. Just forget it. There’s nothing you can do about it now.

Just fight.

************************************

I knew he knew I was there.

I could tell, just from the way he didn’t look comfortable in that cage, where I figured he must feel as much at home as anywhere on earth. I knew he was aware of me, even in that crowd of shouting, drunken men, even in the middle of all that violence. I sat in my corner of the bar and watched as he fought one of them after another, watched as he drank and smoked as if that could help him forget.

The longer I stayed, and the longer I watched, the more I knew I’d been right. He wanted to forget, and he wanted me gone so he could keep on pretending he had. I couldn’t see much of the cage from the end of the bar, and I didn’t think I wanted to—the heavy, wet smack of flesh on flesh was more than enough for me. I stared down into my beer and felt a wave of pity go through me as I listened to the blows.

Poor baby.

I smiled—it was such an incongruous thought to attach to that scene—and when I looked up the big bartender was standing in front of me.

“You ready for another, chère?” With that form of address I suddenly realized where his accent was from, and I nodded. He put down the glass he was polishing and reached for my glass; I picked it up and tossed off the last of it before handing it back to him. He knocked the tap forward and let the amber liquid flow down the side of the glass, building up a nice head before he set the glass back in front of me with a fresh coaster under it. And that was incongruous too, his care in setting down that coaster when it was such a knockaround filthy place, and I smiled again.

“You got a real pretty smile, chère.” Barkeep picked up his dishcloth again and went back to work. “”You not from ‘round here, eh?”

“You either, sounds like.” I raised my glass in a toast of sorts.

“No indeed. Not used to this cold, I’ll tell you that. One of these days I’ll be back off home to the Bayou. Pretty soon, I think. Only came up after the big flood, you know, got to make some money ‘fore I go back home. Not much else to stick around for up here.” He leaned forward a little, putting two big, beefy hands on the bar in front of me. “Not for you either, I don’ think.”

I looked back at him calmly. “Not plannin’ on stickin’ around long, sugar.” He met my gaze for a long moment before he stood back up.

“Good. Good.” He reached for the dishrag. “You think he gon’ come with you?”

I almost choked on my beer. “Who?”

And he laughed, a big, rolling sound. “Come on, chère. Who else in here you think a pretty lady like you be comin’ for?” He turned as someone pounded on the bar demanding a refill. “”Back in a minute, sweetheart.”

************************************

Better. Watch the uppercut, don’t get backed up against the bars. Keep watching for the opening.

Fuckin’ hell, someone’s going to pay for this.

Might as well be this asshole. For a start.

************************************

A cheer went up and I knew another round was over. I didn’t wait for the bartender. I shoved my glass to one side, hoisted myself over the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. I poured, left the bottle on the bar and after a second’s thought I shrugged out of my jacket before starting toward the cage.

Somehow the crowd parted for me. I don’t know if it was just that I was so unexpected to them, or if there was still some half-forgotten sense of chivalry amongst them. But it wasn’t as hard as I’d thought to reach the center of the room, and when I got there Logan was standing there in the cage, head down, his back to me.

As if that was going to help. I reached towards the bars and tapped one glass against them. “Hey. Congratulations to the winner.”

He didn’t turn around. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“You gonna turn around and have a drink with me, or do I have to do both these shots myself?” He still didn’t turn around. “Funny kinda déjà vu here, don’t you think?”

Logan did turn then, and he looked pissed as hell. “Get out. Now.”

“Except now I’m on this side of the bars.” Deliberately I tossed back my shot, then started to lift the other. And suddenly his hand shot out from between the bars and caught my arm. “Thirsty all of a sudden?” The whiskey had slopped over the rim of the glass and I could feel it, cold and wet, soaking through the fingers of my glove. Logan was glaring at me, but I think he was already realizing that looking at me at all was a tactical error. As long as he could hold onto that nice safe rage he could keep control of the situation, believe I could be terrified by a little gratuitous snarling and then everything would go back to the way it was. He really couldn’t believe I wasn’t scared of him.

But I wasn’t.

He didn’t quite know what to do with that. Finally he reached up with his other hand, grabbed the glass and drank off what was left in it. “There. Now get outta here.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Still a snarl, but the edge was missing.

“You’re holding onto my arm pretty hard, for a start.” He let go of me then like I was burning his fingers. But I still didn’t move away. He’d pulled me up against the bars when he’d reached for the shot glass and I kind of liked it there. I held onto the bars, and saw him swallow again, even though the whiskey was gone. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Logan. Not till we can talk. Tonight, or tomorrow, or whenever. Up to you. ‘Cause I figure the one difference between that cage and this one is you can walk out of yours any time you want.” I let go of my own shot glass, let it shatter on the concrete floor, and turned and went back to the bar. I slid back onto my barstool and forced myself to stare straight down into my beer. I saw a flash of something white in front of me and I realized the bartender was wiping down the hatchmarked wood in front of me.

“Pretty cool, you played that,” the Delta-tinged voice said. “No, don’t look up, chère. He’s watchin’.” The large hand removed my glass and set a new one, freshly filled, down its place. “Beginnin’ to think you just might walk outta here with him after all.” And he left.

********************************************

Jesus fucking christ.

What kind of game she thinks she’s playin’—this is going to stop. Right here, right now. Except there isn’t really a hell of a lot I can do about it right this second, other than shoot Toby a pretty dirty look across the bar. Sonofabitch won’t catch my eye, but he’ll watch out for her. Chivalrous bastard, no one messes with women in his place. I know that.

God damn it.

Just fight.

Or that’s what I keep telling myself. It’s a fucking miracle I don’t get laid out flat. This isn’t the Gentleman’s Boxing League, and any given night some piece of shit manages to get into the cage with brass knuckles or a sharpened belt or even a knife, especially after I’ve won a few rounds and the refs are getting worried about the odds. Most nights that just adds a little extra spice, but goddamnit, if all hell breaks loose in here tonight—

Focus. Breathe. And fight dirty.

********************************************

It was quieter later on. The bar had started to clear out and the fights had ended; I was still sitting in the same place, but it had gotten chilly with the door opening and closing and I’d put my jacket back on. The bartender was restocking, getting ready to close up, when I finally heard booted footsteps behind me. An old knapsack was flung down on the bar and someone sat down beside me and gestured to be served.

“Beer. Make it fast, Toby.” That hooded gaze moved over to me, just briefly. “I won’t be here long.”

He’d changed, or at least put on a shirt and his jacket, and as I watched out of the corner of one eye he fished around in his pocket and came up with a cigar, which he stuck between his teeth and then started searching his pockets again, obviously looking for a light.

Time to act. I’m not crazy about cigar smoke.

I swiveled my stool around and leaned my head on my hand. “So. Ready to talk?”

He stopped the searching-for-matches act. “Yeah. So you listen. I’m gonna drink my beer, and then either you haul your ass out of here or I’ll—“

“You’ll what? I’m a big girl now, Logan. You don’t get to tell me what to do any more.” I sat up and let my jacket slide down my shoulders. “Besides, I like it here.”

“Put your shirt on.”

“The hell I will.” I’d picked a pretty low-cut top, and I knew damn well he’d seen what I was still wearing around my neck. “Gets me free beers every time.”

“You—“ He still couldn’t find a match or a lighter, and he slammed the cigar down on the bar. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing here?” I deliberately emphasized my drawl. “I came to talk to you. Since you didn’t seem to want to stay in the same place as me long enough to have a simple conversation.”

“What do you think I have to say to you?” Logan hunched forward over his beer, and I almost felt sorry for him. I also could barely stand it, being that close to him and not touching him. I brought one hand up and put it on his arm. It was a near thing, whether he shook me off. Instead, he hunched over further, anything to keep from looking at me. “You got some stupid idea in your head about me, get over it. You don’t know me.”

“No?” I ran my hand up his arm. “I know more than you think.”

He did shake me off then. “Like hell. I’m not a nice guy, Marie.”

Marie. I closed my eyes for a second when he said that; it had been so long since I’d heard anyone call me that. I had to swallow hard before I could answer. “You—I know better, Logan. I know. I’m the one person you can’t lie to.” I brought my hands down to my lap, twisting them together. All right. No touching. I could wait.

He sucked down about half the beer before he answered. And it was icy when he did. “Why? You think you’re special? Four hundred kids, Marie. No difference.”

*********************************************

She was still sitting there when I finished. And you know, I knew she would be.

She didn’t look up as I walked across and threw my stuff down on the bar next to her. She didn’t look up when I sat down, and she didn’t look up when I ordered a drink. So I didn’t look either.

The rest of the night I’d been planning several slow ways for whoever put her on my trail to suffer before they died, and I had a pretty good idea who that had been. That could wait, though. The objective right now was just to get rid of her, and that meant obliterating any vestige of the guy she obviously wanted to see, the guy who’d given her the memento I’d already seen around her neck. That meant showing her the man who’d walked her into an execution chamber, in case she’d managed to block out that little detail.

So I ignored the way she was trying to get me to look at her, I snarled at everything she said and I paid no attention whatsoever to the fact that she obviously wanted me to touch her. Tactical error. When I wouldn’t do any of those things, she touched me, just put a hand out to rest on my arm, and I shook her off and told her she was nothing special.

That, I shouldn’t have said. Not because it was mean—hell, that was the idea. Because it was bullshit. It was so obviously not true that she was going to call me on it.

Which, being the bright kid I always knew she was, she did.

*********************************************

I blinked back tears. “How many of them did you give your dogtag to?” God, I wished—“You touched me.”

“Don’t get fuckin’ dramatic on me.”

“I mean that absolutely literally, Logan. I know you put your hands on me.” I leaned forward. “When was it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell.” I finally got the gloves off. “Look at me.” He didn’t move. “I said look at me.” I thrust my arms out at him. “Explain this, if you didn’t touch me.”

He turned his head, but he wouldn’t really look. “I don’t want to see that.”

“Look.” And at last he did, staring down at my arms, clearly bracing himself against what he expected. And then he didn’t move. I gave it a good thirty seconds before I spoke again. “I remember everything, Logan. I remember you bringing me into that room and I remember you strapping me down on that table, and I remember how the needle felt going into my arm.”

“Shut up.”

“I don’t remember you touching me, but I know you did. You see why?” I turned my arms over. “I woke up in that safe house with every mark on me healed and your voice in my head. You made me tell you what my mutation was. You knew. You want to explain that, if you didn’t touch me? I didn’t understand, until Jean figured it out.” It was the slightest thing, but he flinched at that, and I reached out and got my hands on him somewhere—anywhere. “Tell me when. Please. I’ve been wanting to ask you for seven years now. If I never see you again after tonight, I want to know that.” And then the breath was knocked out of me, because suddenly he had me pushed back against the wall, trapping me between his arms. And he leaned in, so I could almost feel the roughness of his beard against my face.

“I want you out of here,” he told me. “You understand?” I didn’t move—didn’t breathe, waiting for the answer. Even then, Logan hesitated before he went on. “I had to put the ID tag on you, after. That’s all.”

Oh, god. He’s such a bad liar. But I didn’t move. I could feel how badly he wanted to tell me more, and as long as I didn’t interrupt—

“I didn’t think about it. I never thought it was gonna fix that. I just—you looked like you were sleeping, and I couldn’t tell you, they had three telepaths on the staff, they would have known if you didn’t think—“ And Logan, roughened barroom brawler, soldier, warrior, had to break off so I wouldn’t hear his voice crack. “Two years I’d been in there, no one got to me like you did. I wished you could know that.”

I reached up and took hold of his collar to make sure he couldn’t move away. “I knew.” Then I kissed him.

I felt him brace himself for just a second, almost pull back. I still didn’t know what had happened to him when he touched me then, but it couldn’t have been that bad, not if he didn’t know—and then I felt the change as soon as he realized.

I don’t do that any more. Not unless I want to.

******************************************

Problem was, she surprised me. Damned if I know how, either. Doesn’t usually happen twice.

It’s not like she’d ever been exactly predictable. Truth is, that’s probably what made me notice her in the first place. She just didn’t act like any of the other kids I’d seen in that place.

That place. It used to piss me off, the way people would avoid the names of the camps like it was some kind of magic spell, like naming them would make something bad happen. I used to figure I’d seen the worst, calling it by its name seemed like the least of it. Seemed like the worst kind of denial.

It took a while. Eventually I figured it out. The problem isn’t with the word. The problem is that when anyone who wasn’t there hears you say it, they think they know exactly what you mean. Who you are. What it’s about.

And they don’t. So eventually, you just stop talking about it. Or if you have to, you talk about “that place.”

Goddamnit, I was not going to be philosophical about this. I don’t do that. I deal with reality. I understood what the reality was the second I knew she was there. She had some kind of romantic idea about me and it was my job to break her of it once and for all. Only then she showed me her arms.

I’d watched her, painfully pulling those bandages away from the open wounds. Those weren’t little scratches—those were serious cuts. Those fuckers treated her like disposable goods, ripped off her skin to run some useless experiment because she wasn’t going to need it any more. Because she was going to be dead.

She would have been. I just happened to be there and got in the way. But when she showed me her arms, when she peeled off those gloves and there was nothing—no scars, no roughened marks, just smooth white skin from her wrists to her elbows—I realized it wasn’t Verona that had taught me about that particular brand of denial.

It was enough of a shock that I forgot the main objective for a minute. Or something.

****************************************************

I don’t know what I thought he’d do, what I thought it would be like. I was ready for him to be rough, and I wouldn’t have minded, as long as—but it wasn’t like that. He brought one hand up and cupped the back of my head, and his mouth opened over mine, nudging my lips apart, and I thought I might melt right off my bar stool.

I couldn’t help running my tongue over my lips when he finally raised his head, just to taste him a second longer. But he didn’t move away.

“Pretty neat trick.” He brushed his hand down my cheek. “Finally got a handle on it, huh?”

“Sorta.” I would have explained, I really would, but that was all I could manage right then.

“Good for you.” His hand brushed over my face. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“So take me somewhere else.” Then—damn it. He remembered where he was, who I was, all the things he’d let himself forget for that one moment. His expression changed, closed down like a mask coming over his face. I tightened my hand on his arm, trying to keep him there, but it didn’t work.

“I’m not taking you anywhere. You’re going back home where you belong.” He jerked back, took a gulp of his beer and grabbed his bag. “Come on.”

I didn’t move. “No.”

“Don’t fuckin’ argue with me, Marie.” I seemed to be making the anger thing easier for him.

“I said no. I’m not leaving. And if you take me out of here and shove me on a bus, I’ll be back. I’m not through here.”

“Yeah. You are.” He grabbed my arm and hauled me off my barstool. I barely managed to adjust my jacket before we were out the door. “You got a car, or what?”

“Logan—“

“You go back to Xavier’s, and you find yourself someone else to play games with. Got it?” He was steadily dragging me forward, no matter how hard I tried to pull away. “Right now.” The cold air was making me shiver, and my boots were slipping in the snow, and Logan was leaving again, right before my eyes. All I could think was that I had make him listen, right that second.

******************************************

Yeah, it was a shock.

I really had forgotten that part, how I’d touched her. It wasn’t like I’d thought about it one way or the other. Yeah, she’d told me what her mutation was, and I knew what mine was. I just never made the connection. Mine’s just not something I talk about. It’s there and it’s kept me alive a hundred times when I should’ve been dead too. But that’s it. It’s no use to anyone except me, and frankly there are times when I think I’d be better off without it. I don’t even think about it, unless someone is pulling a knife on me.

But there it was, right in front of me. The healing factor finally had an up side. I shouldn’t have said what I did, but—I couldn’t let her keep thinking I’d done it on purpose. It wasn’t like that. If I’d thought about it—hell, if I’d been thinking at all that day I wouldn’t have done any of it. It was just that she’d been so brave, and then she looked so peaceful lying there, and it got to me.

God damn it. This hero worship bullshit had to stop. I’d still let a criminal of a doctor pump poison into her, and every single time I did that I would wonder whether this time I hadn’t calculated the dose of McCoy’s neuralyzer right, whether this time was going to be the time someone didn’t wake up. That stuff wasn’t exactly sugar water. That time, I wanted to be the one with her when she came out of it, the one to explain it to her. I wasn’t. Someone else always did that.

And now there she was telling me she’d always known more than I ever would have told her anyway. Jesus fuckin’ christ.

It was enough of a surprise that I said more than I’d meant to. But I snapped out of it when she asked me to take her somewhere else. Somewhere else was exactly where she belonged, and all I wanted to do was to get rid of her before it got to me again. So I hauled her out of there like I should have done in the first place, her fighting me every step of the way, and then the second she got outside she started talking again, fast, like she had some kind of prepared speech or something.

It didn’t make any sense for a minute. Then I realized what the speech was from.

******************************************

“ I want you to know I’m not angry with you. I want you to know I believe you’d help me if you could.” I jerked my arm away and stumbled back, almost against the wall. “I know you’ve seen this a hundred times before, but this is the only time for me, so I’m going to believe I see things clearly.”

He was still turned away from me, but now he turned back, halfway, though he didn’t look at me. “What?”

“No one knows where I am and no one cares, except you. I think you do care. So I’m only asking this. Remember me sometimes, when things are better.” I took a step toward him. “Remember me somewhere else, and I’ll be there.” I stopped. “I don’t—that’s all I remember.” I turned over my jacket and took that old envelope, creased and worn, out of the pocket. “You can read the rest for yourself.”

I held the envelope out and he recoiled from it like it was a snake. He shook his head. “I don’t want it.”

“I wrote it to you. I wanted you to read it.” Goddamnit, I’d sworn I wouldn’t cry, because I knew how much he’d hate that, but I couldn’t help the tears starting up again. “I wanted you to remember me. And you did, didn’t you?” I swiped my cheek with the back of my hand angrily. “Don’t you lie to me, Logan. You remembered me.”

He was staring at me. Not the envelope. That had to be a good thing, right? Then he took a step closer to me.

“I never lied to you.”

All I could think about, all I could see, was his eyes boring into mine. “I know,” I managed. Then I took a breath. “Please don’t start.”

For a second or two I wasn’t sure if he was going to walk away and leave me there or slap me. Then his mouth twisted in a way I wasn’t familiar with at all, and it took me a few seconds to recognize it as an expression of amusement.

“Christ.” His hand came up, hesitated, then brushed lightly across my face. “Don’t start with the tears.”

I managed a smile. “Okay.”

“What do you really think you’re doing here?” It was hard to think of a good answer, with his hand there, brushing away the moisture on my cheeks. “Come to save me from myself?” The amusement was still there, but there was grimmer edge to it. Still, it was an opening.

“You need savin’? ‘Cause I owe you one.”

Logan laughed. He laughed outright at that, and then he reached out and pulled me against his chest. As good as it had felt when he kissed me, back in the bar, this felt better, somehow. He wrapped his arms around me and rubbed my shoulders. “You cold?”

I shook my head as best I could. Hell no, I’m not cold. Not any more. I didn’t care if we stood there all night long. But Logan held me for another minute or so and then let go.

“Come on.”

“Where?” I felt him reach down and take my hand.

“Come on,” he repeated, and I just nodded and let him take the lead.

It was around back. I have no idea what I expected. It sure as hell wasn’t a wreck of a camper hitched behind an old pickup truck. There was even a trailer behind the whole thing with, if I wasn’t mistaken, a motorcyle under a tarp. I shivered a little as we walked across the parking lot. Maybe he’d take me for a ride. Later.

Logan reached the camper and opened the door. He let go of my hand to step inside and I heard a match strike; an oil lamp flickered to life and I looked inside.

Oh, my god.

Logan raised an eyebrow at me. “Rather get back on the road?”

“No!” I climbed in, hastily. “It’s nice. Cozy.” It was, actually, once I got past all the dirty dishes and laundry. It was kind of cute and retro, really.

Also, Logan was in it. Which made up for a lot.

He shut the door behind me and shoved a mess of stuff off a small counter. Then he reached out, put his hands around my waist and hoisted me up onto it. He held me there, and he leaned forward to brush his lips against my neck.

It was heaven.

“So what’d you want to talk to me about?”

Smartass. As if I could remember. I reached up and slid my arms around his neck, just in case he tried to go anywhere. “Oh…lots of things, really.” His lips found mine and it was a few minutes before I could say anything else. “Promise me you won’t make me leave.”

Logan’s mouth tightened a little, and I felt nervous again, but finally he just shook his head. “You’d just show up again in the next town, wouldn’t you?” He tried for another wry grin, and didn’t quite make it.

“Logan—“ I kissed him again, holding on as tightly as I could. “I mean it.”

His eyes were serious. “What do you want me to say?” His hands were still at my waist, holding me still. “This is what I am, darlin’. This is what I do. I can’t change that.”

“I know that. I mean, I don’t want you to—just tell me you want me to stay.” He didn’t answer for a long time. Too long. Finally he shook his head, and I tightened my arms even more around his neck. His went around my waist and he pulled me into an embrace. It should have felt good, but I was scared. I just wasn’t sure if it was his way of saying goodbye.

“I don’t want you to go,” he muttered against my ear. “But you should.” He relaxed his hold. “You should go back home.” He brought one hand up and smoothed back my hair. “You should go.”

I was still fighting tears, and they spilled over when I couldn’t keep from laughing. Because by the third time he’d repeated that, I knew. Logan looked at me like I’d gone completely insane, and I sniffled and giggled some more. “You want me to stay,” I teased. “You want me to.”

“Christ.” He was trying to keep lookng stern, but for once in his life he wasn’t completely succeeding. “You’re a piece of work.”

“You do. I know you do.” In a way, I couldn’t believe it had been this easy. “Please just tell me.”

It wasn’t easy—for him. It took him a minute. But finally he ducked his head back against my neck. I held him close and just waited.

“Stay.” It was so quiet I almost couldn’t hear it.

“Yeah.” I could feel his beard against my cheek, and I remembered how strange it had been the first time I’d seen it, that one awful day in the cemetery. Now I couldn’t imagine him without it.

Logan raised his head at last to give me another long kiss, and then he reached up to take my arms from his neck. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Come on.” He lifted me off the counter and opened the door. I shivered.

“Where’re we going?”

“Up front.” Logan tugged me forward and out of the camper.

“What? Why?” He couldn’t want to—

“Because that’s where the damn steering wheel is.” Logan opened the passenger door of the truck. “Get in.”

“Logan, it’s fine. I don’t care if—“

“Quiet.” He put a hand over my mouth. “First, I want a shower, and I want something to eat. Second, that bunk back there isn’t too comfortable. Third, it gets damned cold out here at night.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You drive here?”

I shook my head, since that was all I could do.

“So no luggage?” He dropped his hand away.

“I left it at the bus station.” He raised an eyebrow. “In a locker! What do you think, I wanted to bring it here?”

“S’all right.” He nodded to the open door. “You’re not gonna be needing any clothes for the next few days anyway.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but I really couldn’t think of anything to say. I could feel my cheeks burning, though. Logan half-smiled and then slid his hands into my hair, making me look up at him.

“Hey.” He kissed my forehead. “I’m kidding. I’ll take you to get your stuff, and then we’ll go somewhere else.” I felt his thumb brush across my cheek. “There’s no rush. No matter what you think, you don’t really know me.” He shook his head when I started to speak. “Just..let’s take this slow, okay? I don’t really know what I’m doin’ here.”

I nodded. That sounded good. Logan studied my face for a long moment.

“Come on. Get in.” I let him help me into the truck and he closed the door after me, then walked around to get into the driver’s seat. He was fishing in his pocket for the keys when I saw the big bartender at the front door of the bar, apparently locking up for the night. He turned just as Logan started up the truck, and I saw him see me through the window. He gave me a big smile and raised the hat he had on as we pulled away.

“What’s his name?" I turned back to Logan.

“Who?”

“Your friend. The bartender?”

“Toby.” Logan was concentrating on getting the whole caravan out onto the road.

“I like him.” I sat back with a happy sigh as we got out onto the main road. Logan gave a noncommital grunt. “I like you,” I added, and that got me a quick smile. I studied his face as he drove through the light snow toward the bus station. Toward a place to stay. Toward the future.

“Forget what I looked like?” he asked gruffly, and I reached out and put my hand on his arm.

“No. Never.”

He glanced over once more, and reached over to put a hand over mine. He didn’t say anything else, and I guess I always knew that would be how it would be. But it was okay.

We had all the time in the world.