“Let’s move out!”

The voice crackled loudly over the communication piece that was clipped, yet dangling from the leather uniform collar of the man who was carrying her. Her world was jumbled, upside down and dancing along beneath her as she was carried over the shoulder of her rescuer. He’d lifted her from her cell as if she weighed nothing – which was almost true after three and a half months of imprisonment – and brought her into the nearly fluorescent hallway that ran the length of the compound.

One wrong turn and they would’ve been lost in the maze of turns and fortified doors, but his feet held true to their path, never faltering – not even once – giving her the impression that he’d had the floor plans memorized from the start. The night air was cool against her bare legs and the smell of pine hit her strongly as the shock began to set in.

It had all happened so fast – the shouts and screams she’d heard clearly through the gap at the bottom of the door, the concussive explosions that resonated through her tiny room. And how here she was, balanced precariously on the shoulder of the stranger who’d come to her rescue.

“Wolverine – location!”

“Twenty yards out – western perimeter,” the man panted into the speaker.

“Anything? Wolverine?”

“No.”

He shifted her higher and she felt his pace and direction change. They were going uphill. He slipped and she clutched at his belt to keep from going face-first into the damp ground.

“Sorry,” he grunted as he scrambled to find a foothold in the mud.

He grabbed her tighter and they broke through a clearing. She felt heat on her legs and twisted to see the source. It was large and black, whatever it was – and they were climbing into it.

She heard the clank of metal and saw a lighted running board disappear beneath the man’s – Wolverine’s – boots. She watched the doors begin to close, but lost sight of them as they rounded a corner of what was looking more and more like some space-age plane. Her world tilted sharply as she was slid down from her perch and planted safely on the ground. Her long shirt had ridden up in the process and he worked furiously to cover her as she shifted her weight on the cold floor.

“Sorry,” he mumbled a second time, still straightening her shirt, then smoothing her hair gently. “You okay?”

He held her eyes several beats longer than necessary and seemed to be searching for something, but all she could do was nod dumbly. Their gaze was broken when the ground shifted beneath them and she gripped Wolverine’s shoulders for stability.

“Hold on,” he ordered gruffly as he reached behind her to pull a jump seat from the wall, confirming her suspicions that they were, indeed, on a plane. He strapped her in quickly, staggering as he crossed the cabin for his own seat. He punched a red button on the wall when he was belted in and she felt the plane swing wildly as it took off.

She looked around the small cabin half in fear, half in amazement. She had no idea what was going on, but she instinctively knew that if she was leaving that…place, then it was a good thing, no matter who she was leaving with. There were bottles and cotton and towels in cubicles along the walls with netting holding them in place. It looked as if tables folded down along with a few more of the seats and a red, plastic biohazard box was bolted to the wall. She felt another shift as the plane leveled out and immediately looked back to Wolverine. His eyes were still clenched shut, his skin was pale, ashen, and he was sweating as he clenched his armrests tightly.

She hadn’t had the chance before, but now she took a good look at him. His hair was wild, dark, and though she was small herself, he felt enormous when he’d been carrying her. His uniform – black leather with gold trimming – was snug across his shoulders, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. There were holes in various places and he had blood trickling from his ear, but as best she could tell, the injuries weren’t affecting him.

Before she could look any further, a metal door slid open and a younger, blonde man stepped through. “Rogue?” he asked, a grin on his face as he stared pointedly in her direction.

She looked to Wolverine, confused, but he was shooting daggers in the new man’s direction. “What’s happening? Who are you people?”

Who is Rogue?

***

A few of her questions were answered when they landed and an older gentleman in a wheelchair greeted her and two others who’d been rescued. The people who’d saved her were called the X-Men and they, like her, were mutants. Evidently they went around doing that sort of thing a lot. And the older man was loaded, if his house and all of his gadgets told her anything.

She’d been placed near the back of the sprawling property in the guesthouse, close the flower gardens a lady with white hair – Ororo – was constantly tending to. From what little she’d seen of the grounds, it held more gardens, fountains and lawns than she could ever find uses for. There were tennis courts and basketball courts and swimming pools. There were walking trails and ornate birdbaths. The sights were enough to nearly overwhelm her stunted senses. There were apparently children, too – young mutants, who attended a school that was held in the house, but most of them were gone for summer break.

The one thing she didn’t see, however, was Wolverine. He’d disappeared as soon as they touched down and she hadn’t seen him since. That had been two days ago. The only people she had seen from that night had been the blond one – Bobby – and Ororo, who’d been flying the plane. She’d also met Scott, who’d been in the front, tending to the other two. He had been leading the mission that night and generally seemed to be in charge of things. Then she’d met Dr. Jean Grey, who’d been at the mansion, but had tended to her when she arrived, dressing old wounds and making sure she was fit enough to be staying by herself.

Aside from Professor Xavier, she’d also met a large, blue man, named Dr. McCoy – or Hank, as he insisted. There were a host of other people who’d been lost in the flurry of her mind, but the Professor assured her that it would all eventually make sense. He had gone out of his way to make sure she was comfortable and answer as many questions as he could. She didn’t, however, want to answer many of his questions.

He’d asked her about what they’d wanted with her at the facility – her life-sucking powers, she assumed, from all of the tests they had done with her skin. He asked her how long she’d been there – almost four months, if it was March, as she thought it had been, when they brought her there. He asked if she’d be able to identify any of the people who’d held her – some, possibly, but she’d often been blindfolded. She could remember voices, though.

The questions that were difficult were the ones that had to do with anything happening before the last few months. She simply couldn’t remember. Her mind was blank. She couldn’t even tell the Professor how old she was. It hadn’t mattered when she’d been in captivity – a past would’ve only served to remind her of what she’d lost. As far as she knew, the only life she’d ever had was confined to those cinder block walls.

But now, surrounded by different walls, walls that held the promise of a future, she wanted to know. The Professor pledged to do as much as he could to help her, and for that she was grateful, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that was continuing to grow within her. Everyone around her seemed to know something that she didn’t.

What that something was, she had no idea. She tried to tell herself that she was being paranoid, that she didn’t know how to act outside of confinement. Her mind was a black void where memory should be – maybe she was jealous of those around her who had a past and had been able to hold onto it.

But the thought lingered.

***

She was walking to the main house for an afternoon talk with the Professor when she’d gotten her first clue. She had to pass the garage on her trek from the guesthouse and the door was open, so she hadn’t technically been eavesdropping. The shouts were too loud to ignore.

“I wanna know what’s wrong with her! I wanna know what they did to her!”

It was Wolverine.

“Logan, you know I can’t – ”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s against ethics – if Rogue wants to tell you, then – ”

“Ethics, my ass.”

She heard a loud clang against the concrete and jumped, making a small startled noise.

The garage was suddenly silent and, fearing she’d be caught, she took off around the back of the house. She stopped running when she reached the tennis courts and panted to catch her breath, only just realizing that she’d been afraid. They were talking about her, she was sure of it. Wolverine and Dr. Grey – they knew her somehow. She wasn’t being paranoid – these people knew something about her life. And she was determined to find out what.

***

Her sessions with the Professor became tightlipped after that; she tried to pump him for information, but he wasn’t giving her anything – it was almost as if he knew.

She sat in her room for long hours, fingering the bracelets that still adorned her wrists. They’d tried to take them off of her, but she’d been adamant that they stay. She had no way to control her mutation otherwise and there was an empty sense of terror that filled her at the thought.

She tried talking with Ororo, but the woman always seemed to answer her questions with more questions. And she couldn’t seem to get angry with the woman either – she had such a peace about her that it bled over, was contagious. Dr. McCoy was always locked away in his laboratory and Scott, along with Wolverine, was nowhere to be found.

The breakthrough she’d been wishing for came a week later as she was on her way to another of the increasingly useless sessions with the Professor. She stopped just outside his door, hand raised to knock, when she heard a familiar growl come from the other side.

“Can’t ya just…get rid of it all?”

Wolverine - Logan - again.

“Logan, you know I’d never do that.”

And the Professor.

“Damnit, Chuck – if she starts to remember that shit, what they did to her…”

She lowered her hand, inching closer to the door as a frown began to form. They were talking about her.

“If we’re the ones who tell her, we can control the environment in which the memories resurface.”

“But I don’t want her to remember! She doesn’t need that in her head. It’s bad enough that I can’t quit seein’ it.”

She jumped slightly at the harshness of his tone, but remembered to keep quiet this time.

“Even if that means she never remembers you? Your relationship?”

Relationship?

“I don’t care. If she remembers me, she’ll remember…she’ll remember it all. This way, she can be happy now.”

“She was happy with you, Logan.”

Logan…the name was sounding familiar. It had a way of rolling off of her tongue…

“That was before.”

“It’s not our place to decide. You, of all people, can appreciate that.”

She couldn’t take it anymore – the curiosity and the anger at obviously being kept in the dark about her own life were too much to hold back. She knocked loudly and, without waiting for an answer, burst through the double doors. “Decide what?” she demanded. “Decide if I can have my memory back? I wanna know what the hell is going on.”

She glanced around the room, expecting to have two faces staring back at her, but instead there was only one. She was about to ask when she spotted the speaker on the Professor’s expansive desk. It was silent now.

In fact, so was the Professor. His eyes were closed and it looked as if he hadn’t noticed she’d even entered the room.

“Excuse me?”

“Rogue, I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, eyes opening and focusing on her.

She felt her hackles rise at that. “Who in the hell is Rogue?”

“You.”

She grabbed for the bookshelf near her left hand and somewhere in her swirling mind, she heard boots stomping down the hall, coming closer. Her suspicions confirmed, she felt as if she were floating in that moment, losing herself in the wisps of memory that assaulted her mind.

“Rogue, please – sit down,” the Professor urged as he powered his chair around the desk.

“Marie?”

She turned too quickly and, already lightheaded, lost her balance. Luckily, Wolverine had just stepped into the office and grabbed her before she could fall.

“Marie? What the hell’s wrong with her? What’d you do to ‘er?”

“Marie?”

“D’you do this on purpose, Chuck?” Wolverine accused, ignoring the confusion emanating from the form in his arms. “Don’t try an’ tell me you didn’t know she was comin’ down the hall.”

“May I remind you, Logan, that you are the one who chooses not to use telepathic conversation,” the Professor argued sternly, his eyes hard before gentling at the corner. “She’s all right– bring her to a seat.”

He did as he was told, squatting next to the high-backed chair for the barest of moments before rushing to a water carafe near the back wall. “Here, darlin’, drink this.”

She took the glass numbly, drinking on autopilot and ignoring the flurry of names surrounding her. She tried to assemble the fragments of thoughts in her mind and came up with nothing other than the fact that somehow the name Rogue felt right.

“What – ” She coughed on the water and forced herself to sit up straighter. “What did you mean by my name being Rogue?”

“Chuck,” Logan warmed.

She saw his grip tighten on the arm of the chair, but looked back to the Professor. “Tell me,” she ordered.

Wolverine suddenly appeared in front of her and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his intense stare. “Listen to me, darlin’ – it’s nothin’ good,” he explained, his voice borderline frantic. “Please, believe me – you don’t wanna know it.”

“It’s my life – of course I wanna know it!” She was surprised to find herself shouting at him, but the thought of having the empty space of her mind filled with something other than questions was too much for her. And he was standing in her way.

“Rogue, listen to me.”

It was the Professor again and Wolverine reluctantly stepped away.

“Are you remembering anything right now?”

She shook her head. “No. Not-not really. It’s just…feelings.”

Wolverine closed his eyes and turned away from her, sitting somewhere to the side, somewhere out of her line of vision. She didn’t care, though – it was the Professor that was going to give her answers, she was sure of it.

“How do you know me?” she asked quietly. “Do you know everything about me?”

The Professor gave her a sad smile and looked away, reaching into his desk and pulling out a manila folder with a name in bold type at the top – Rogue. He slid the file across the table and nodded her toward it.

She took it, her hands feeling rubbery and her insides in knots as she opened the file. Inside was a black and white photo of a woman staring back at her. It was her. She was her. Her eyes scanned through all of the information on the top page beneath the photo –

Name: Marie ****
Team Name: Rogue
Birth Date: 2/19/88
Birth Place: Meridian, MS
Date of Admission: 4/16/2004

The page also held her blood type, allergies, parents’ names and a summary of her grades at Xavier’s School for the Gifted. There was a copy of a sociology diploma from Westchester College. The rest of the file held mission notes, reports from something called The Danger Room, and transcripts of interviews she’d given.

Her hands were shaking. She was one of the X-Men? How could that be? How could she not remember that?

“Is this it? This is all – my life?”

“It’s as much as you would share with us of your past when you first joined us.”

She looked up at the Professor with more questions in her eyes, but without with words to voice them all.

“A mission went wrong,” he began, his voice deep and serious. “You were taken by the people we eventually recovered you from. Logan was also taken.”

Rogue turned her head, trying to catch sight of Wolverine, but his head was down, his eyes on the carpet, if they were open at all.

“You were held with him for approximately eight months before we were able to track you down. During the extraction, there were a number of unexpected complications and we were unable to get the two of you. Only Logan was rescued.”

Rogue thought she heard a deep intake of breath from behind her, but she faced forward, urging the Professor to continue.

“The people who were holding you, they were using your mutation to complete missions for them and exploiting your relationship with Logan to keep the both of you in line. They also used his mutation to provide healing for you if you were injured. We only know for sure what happened those first eight months because of Logan’s fragmented accounts. We tracked your location about one month ago and the rest, well…you already know.”

Her head was swimming so she latched onto the one thing she could float with. “What kind of missions? What was I doing?”

The Professor straightened in his chair, his hands folded on the flat surface before him. “Your mutation can absorb the life force of another being, yes, but it can also absorb, for a short time, the mutation of another mutant. With those kinds of powers, you were an invaluable weapon for them.”

“Who is ‘them’?”

“The government,” came a growl.

She turned then, seeing Wolverine’s eyes shining with something deeper than hatred.

“We have reason to believe that a coalition of governments has formed to…research –”

“Torture.”

The Professor cast his eyes to Wolverine, his face inscrutable for the barest of moments before softening. “Yes.” He cleared his throat and Rogue thought she saw his knuckles turn white, but he lifted his gaze back to her. “They’re looking into the mutant phenomenon as we…become more prominent throughout the world.”

Rogue couldn’t help but bristle at the choice of words the Professor was deliberately using. “So that’s what they were doing when they cut me? ‘Looking into’ the mutant phenomenon?”

Unable – or unwilling – to hold her gaze, the Professor looked down at his desk and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

She swallowed, feeling guilty, as if she’d somehow placed blame for what ‘they’ had done on the Professor’s shoulders when he deserved none of it. Instead of dwelling on it, she tackled another question that had spurred in her mind. “You said they used Lo-Wolverine to…to keep me in line? That I had a relationship with him? Why can’t…why would they take that memory? I don’t remember him now, so…” Her voice trailed off when she heard a soft exclamation coming from Wolverine’s direction. She turned briefly, catching the open misery he was no longer trying to hide.

The Professor seemed particularly troubled by his reactions, but before he could say anything, Wolverine cut him off.

“It’s my fault.”

The Professor started to protest. “Logan, you –”

“You were gettin’ sick, darlin’. I couldn’t…the people they made you take in, they…their personalities, they started to take over and I couldn’t…I’m sorry, I couldn’t help you sort ‘em out.” He couldn’t hold her eyes, so he looked down before repeating softly, “It’s my fault.”

She didn’t know what to think, or to feel, but she knew instinctively to reach out to him. Despite their purpose, she was thankful for the metal bracelets on her wrists that held her mutation at bay. She didn’t have gloves and he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, but their contact still sparked when her palm settled on his warm forearm.

He looked up at her with haunted eyes and she quietly whispered, “It’s okay.”

She hadn’t meant for it to upset him, but it was too much, obviously. He stood abruptly, swaying to the left before righting himself. Then his legs gave out and he fell.

***

“But I don’t understand – you said that he heals. How can he be sick? What’s wrong with him?”

The three of them were standing in the hallway, she, Scott and Dr. Grey, discussing the sleeping figure on the other side of the door.

“He’ll be all right – he just needs to rest,” Dr. Grey said patiently, barely hiding the worry in her tone.

Seeing that her explanation wasn’t going to be enough, Scott cleared his throat and began to explain. “It’s been…difficult for him. These last few months – well, year…it’s worn him down. After we were able to rescue him, he put everything into trying to find you. He didn’t give himself time to heal.”

“From what?” Rogue asked, staring at her own reflection in the ruby lenses of Scott’s glasses.

Upon Scott’s hesitation, Dr. Grey stepped in and the worry that colored the conversation heightened. “Before – many years ago – Logan was captured and held by the same people. They performed experiments on him and grafted an indestructible metal called adamantium to his skeleton. Before they could continue their research, he managed to escape. Once they had him again, they wanted to resume their work. He didn’t…he didn’t fare well.”

“But he’ll…he’ll be okay, right?” she asked, her nerves beginning to pop and fray amidst the revelations of the last three hours.

“He’ll be fine,” Scott assured her. “The most important thing to him is that you’re safe now. He just needs some time to work through everything.”

“As I imagine you do as well,” Dr. Grey added gently. “How are you taking it all?”

Rogue took a deep breath and shook her head. “To be honest, I…I haven’t even had time to think about anything. They were in the middle of explaining it all to me when he – when…Logan went down.”

“Do you have anything else you’d like us to answer?”

This time the question came from Scott and Rogue imagined if she could see his eyes they’d be as intense as the set to his jaw when he’d asked. “No. No, not…not right now. I feel like I need to start processing all of this before I can add anything else.”

“Okay.”

“Let us know if you need anything,” Dr. Grey added. “I realize it might…it might be awkward, but we’re your friends. If there’s anything we can do to help you, we want to.”

Rogue nodded, feeling the heat work its way up her neck, to her face and finally her eyes. “Thank you, Dr. Grey,” she said, knowing they were being as honest in their offer as she was in her reply. “Can-would it…be okay if I…went in to sit with him? Just for a little while?”

The other two exchanged a glance that went on for several moments before Dr. Grey turned to face Rogue and give her a tight smile. “Be careful. He’s…his sleep has been irregular and…he can be dangerous when he wakes up.”

Rogue felt her heart skip at that. Dangerous? They were supposed to have been lovers – why would he be a danger to her? “What do you mean?”

“If he has a nightmare, don’t try to wake him up – just move to the other side of the room.”

“Or better yet,” Scott amended, “get out of the room.” He hesitated before adding, “Logan has claws – they’re metal, like the rest of his bones. They’re very sharp and…just…be careful, all right?”

Rogue nodded numbly, looking at the solid oak door with a slight sense of trepidation. But there was something else that was pulling her inside, something she hadn’t yet identified but was too strong to ignore. She gave the pair the truest smile she could muster and reached for the knob.

***

She felt the room tilt when she entered – the way it happened when she went into some place she shouldn’t be, that she didn’t have permission or wasn’t allowed. It was dark, the curtains drawn and the desk lamp dimmed to its lowest setting. The room was bare but for a bed, a dresser, a desk with a chair and an armchair in the corner, by the window. The window was cracked open, letting in a breeze and some fresh air into the small room.

Logan was sleeping comfortably in the center of the bed, the white sheets gleaming against his ruddy skin. They were pulled up to his waist and she watched his chest rise and fall with his breath.

She reached for the chair by the window, pulling it next to the bed as quietly as she could. The light from the desk lamp wasn’t enough, but she didn’t dare turn it up any higher. Disturbing him in this moment of peace was something, for some reason, she couldn’t bear the thought of doing.

The minutes passed as she watched him silently, counting the number of breaths he was taking and noting every twitch of his cheek or furrow of his brows. He was handsome, she wouldn’t deny it, but…his presence was intimidating. The way he seemed to take up a room, the way, no matter how strongly she’d been focusing on the Professor, she couldn’t forget that he was there. It was almost like she could feel him, no matter how far apart they were.

Had she been in love with him? Everyone seemed to think so. She must have been a private person before, from what she’d gleaned. If she’d been comfortable enough to share that emotion, that feeling for him with the others then…it must’ve been true. Right?

She didn’t know. She didn’t know – there was so much she didn’t know. The back of her mind roared that she shouldn’t be so trusting, but she couldn’t escape the feeling of peace, of being at ease that she felt in this place, around these people. This had been her home and Dr. Grey - Jean - was right: they were her friends. She knew that in the midst of all the darkness.

Her instincts had been honed to a precision point while at the lab. She learned to read moods by the set of men’s shoulders, to judge how tightly she was being gripped, to study tones of voice to predict what her days would be like. She had found she liked the angry days the best. The ones when the guards or the doctors were her actual oppressors were somehow easier to bear than when they decided to speak nicely to her or show her an act of kindness. The hate mingled with confusion and she couldn’t be sure of her footing.

But here…the confusion was still present, but not at a frenetic pace. She’d been given answers – they didn’t make any sense – but she felt safe enough in this place to not worry about how soon they would. She could breathe here, and breathe deeply, without the fear of what unexpected thing was to come next.

She didn’t know when she fell asleep. In mid-thought and exhausted, she’d slumped slightly to the left, her cheek resting gently against the padded upholstery of the wing backed chair.

And then suddenly she was awake, confused as to where she was, but brought back by the heavy panting coming from several feet away. The room was still dark, but she could make out the deep creases between Logan’s brows, the way his mouth was twisted into a grimace. Her first instinct was to reach out to him, to wake him – then Scott and Jean’s cautionary words came to mind. She stood up and went to the opposite wall, turning the lights on as she called out to him.

“Logan? Logan, wake up.”

She repeated herself several times, but nothing seemed to be working. She looked around the room for something to reach out to him with, but there was nothing. Inside the chest of drawers she found a few t-shirts and underwear and she threw a balled up pair of boxer briefs and tossed them in his general direction. The first one missed, but the second one hit him square in the face causing him to shoot up, claws released and growl present.

She gave him a few seconds to collect his bearings before saying his name once more. His head whipped around, his eyes settling on hers for a mere second before going straight to his claws. He retracted them with a sickening snikt of metal on metal and looked back at her.

“God, di-did I…are you –”

“I’m fine,” she assured quickly, holding her hands in front to give him a good look at her.

That seemed to calm him and he looked down, hands draped limply across his thighs and breath still coming in ragged bursts. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Scarin’ ya.”

She brushed off the apology as she made her way back to the armchair. “It’s okay. They – Scott and Jean – they told me that you…had trouble sleeping sometimes. That’s how I knew to get on the other side of the room.” She smiled easily when she said it, hoping to put his obvious tension at ease.

He lifted a brow with a slight air of frustration and asked, “Then what were ya doin’ in here? It’s dangerous.”

For a moment, she was unsure of what to say. Maybe she’d read the situation wrong and he wouldn’t appreciate her presence. How could she have been so foolish? Of course he wouldn’t want her there – she couldn’t even remember him. She was just a reminder of everything that he’d lost. She started to rise from her seat as her cheeks flushed with shame. She couldn’t find anywhere to put her eyes. “I-I’m sorry. I should’ve…I thought that maybe you’d…I’ll go.”

“Wait. Just…wait,” he asked, exasperated. He sighed and rubbed his hands across his still-damp face. “I’m sorry, sometimes I…I have a tendency to say things in a…less-than-diplomatic fashion,” he explained wryly. “Would ya sit?”

She nodded, slowly returning to her seat and suddenly very aware that she was alone in the bedroom of the man who claimed to be her former-lover. Maybe she hadn’t thought things through so well – what would he think? “I-I uh…I didn’t want you to wake up in here all alone, but if you…it’s okay if you want me to go now. I won’t be upset. I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“If you…if it’s hard for you to-to be around me.”

He looked down and shook his head, smiling sadly before returning her gaze. “It is – hard, I mean. But…darlin’, I’d rather you be here, where I can see you, than to be…” His voice faltered before he stopped, took a deep breath and regained some composure. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

She smiled shyly at that, sensing the sincerity of his words in his tone, his countenance. Whether she remembered it or not, she knew that she was loved by him – probably still loved.

“I just wish that…I looked so hard, but it didn’t do any good. I wish I’d been able to find you sooner. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

“But it wasn’t your fault. I’m sure you tried,” she assured, her certainty coming from some unknown source that convinced her he was a man of his word. “And it doesn’t matter now,” she continued, “because the important thing is that you found me.”

He looked at her like he wanted to believe her, but couldn’t let himself accept her words. He held her stare for a moment, then looked back down at the sheets, his hands absently fingering the cotton briefs that had landed between his legs. He lifted up the pair on his index finger, glancing at her quizzically.

“I…umm,” she faltered, slightly embarrassed. She should’ve chosen the t-shirts. “It was the only thing I had handy. To wake you up, I mean.”

He gave her a small smile as he tossed the underwear over his shoulder. “Well, you’re still resourceful, that’s for sure.”

***

After that day, she found herself spending more time with everyone. She even moved from the far guesthouse into the guest wing of the mansion, hoping the once-familiar environment would become so again. Now that she was living amidst her former friends, she could even understand why they’d been somewhat avoiding her before. Every place held a memory of her for them. They shared freely, sometimes to her delight, sometimes to her dismay, their past experiences with her. No matter what the memory or who was doing the telling, it was painfully clear just how much she – the old Rogue – had meant to all of them.

It was overwhelming, trying to remember that person, how to be that person. Sometimes they picked up on her discomfort, would change the subject abruptly or stumble over an explanation of how badly they missed her but that it was okay, she was still a part of their family – even if she never remembered. It was nice of them, she thought, to welcome her there, a virtual stranger to them and to herself.

The only person it wasn’t like that with, however, was Logan. In fact, he was almost the opposite – tight-lipped and monosyllabic, unwilling to share nearly anything of their past life together. She thought it might have something to do with him not wanting her to feel obligated to him, to feel as though she had to jump back into his arms and make things the way that they were before. It worked – she didn’t feel the slightest thing for him other than some deep swells of anger on his behalf, for his loss.

But something about that didn’t feel right. Whether anything between them was ever the same again, she felt as though she at least needed him for a friend – that he needed someone as a friend. Some of the others like Bobby and Jubilee assured her that he was his same old self, that skulking around the mansion and avoiding social situations was completely normal for him. No matter how true it may have been, there had to be something more to the Wolverine, she decided. She couldn’t imagine herself having fallen in love with someone who only spoke in grunts and head tilts.

So she decided to do something about it. Despite all of her misgivings – and all of his obvious discomfort – she hung around. Even if they weren’t talking, if he was working on his bike and she was scribbling away in her journal she felt compelled to write in, she stayed. For some reason she’d yet to identify, she wanted – no, needed – him to feel comfortable around her, the new her. Maybe it wasn’t exactly what he needed, but she couldn’t stop herself, had to do this one thing for her, the person that she knew.

It seemed like ages with no change. He held the same stiff set to his shoulders, muttered the same few-word answers to her rare questions. And then one day, it happened.

It started simply enough: an innocuous question about what her favorite ice cream was followed by a sigh and him tossing his 5/8” wrench into the toolbox. He spun on his heels, still squatting, and faced her. He started to say something, but stopped himself. After a few faltering seconds, he asked hesitantly, “Do you, uh…we could…go an’ get some. If you want?”

He was going to immediately retract the offer, she could tell, so she cut him off before he started. “I’d love to.”

They took his bike into town and she felt comfortable enough to wrap her arms around his waist, telling herself it was safety, nothing to do with wanting to revel in the proximity of another person, any person. The drive felt familiar, wispy in a way that many things often did, but she couldn’t quite grasp the memory. She wondered if it would always be like that.

The town was small – quaint, she decided, with its brick sidewalk and wrought iron lampposts. They stopped before a storefront with large windows, white trim and a green door. “Ye Olde Ice Cream Shoppe” was painted in gold, flourishing letter on the glass.

He held the door for her and a bell rang upon their entry. The shop was empty save for the girl behind the counter and a grandmother with her grandchild who were gathering up their trash and on their way out. There was nothing about the interior that was familiar but something about the smell drew her in.

“Have we been here before?” she asked tentatively.

Logan shook his head. “No, not to this one. But we did frequent this sort of establishment,” he added with an almost-smile.

They stepped up to the counter and the girl at the register gave them a friendly introduction to the day’s specials.

“Anything sound good, darlin’?”

She blushed at that, enjoying the way his term of endearment made her feel. He hadn’t called her that since that day. “I have no idea,” she answered honestly as her eyes scanned the chalkboard full of hand-written flavors.

“Can I?”

“Go right ahead.”

He ordered the sampler – twenty-four scoops holding every flavor the store had open that day. When the girl brought the heaping platter to the table, Rogue’s eyes grew wide at the magnitude of what lay before them. She took the proffered spoon, her hand hovering over the melting mounds, unsure of where to start. She eyed Logan who was going straight for the mint chocolate chip.

“That your favorite?” she asked, finally settling on the rocky road.

He only nodded, his mouth full and a bit of chocolate on his lip.

She couldn’t stop herself from letting out an “mmm” when she closed her mouth around the spoon.

And then she was off, in search of her favorite flavor in the midst of two dozen possibilities. They made conversation between bites, with her only slowing down enough to keep the brain freeze from taking over. She made sure they talked about the future, not the past, in hopes that he could maybe learn to, at the very least, like this new version of the woman who used to be his.

“Without my skin, I’m pretty much useless to the X-Men.”

“Don’t matter.”

“It does to me. If I don’t have my mutation, then what good can I be?”

“You’re fine, just the way you are.”

She found the sincerity in his tone sweet, but couldn’t settle for his logic. “I know, but…I still need to do something, I need to contribute. I can’t just live off the Professor’s charity forever.”

“It’s been five-and-a-half weeks – that’s hardly forever. Besides, Scooter wouldn’t clear you to train at this point anyway.”

She huffed out a sigh, knowing he had a point, but unable to accept the reality of her situation. The truth was, she was slightly scared. She didn’t know how to fight and apparently she’d been pretty kick-ass before. If she couldn’t offer up those skills, then what else was she good at?

“So what is your…yours?” she asked, twirling her spoon to coat it in the pink and brown mush.

“My mutation?”

“Yeah.”

He set his spoon down and leaned back from the table, barely stifling a grunt of satisfaction. “Well, it’s not ice cream eating.”

She grinned, happy with herself for putting him a place where he felt comfortably enough to do this with her. “Was that a joke?”

“Maybe.”

“Humor suits you. But seriously – Scott told me that you healed from pretty much anything. Do you have any other gifts, as the Professor would call them?”

“Got enhanced senses – can see and smell, hear really well,” he explained with a shrug.

“I bet that comes in handy in a fight.”

He paused before answering and settled on a simple, “Yep.”

Sensing that she may have hit a potentially sore spot, she looked down at the ice cream and down another spoonful. “Would you teach me?” she asked once she’d swallowed.

“What?”

“To fight.”

“Darlin’, just –”

“Not to – not to be on the team,” she backpedaled, “but just…for safety purposes. I…I wanna know how to take care of myself.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he explained gently. “I promise I’ll take care of you.”

She believed him. She knew he meant what he was saying, but it wasn’t good enough. “So maybe I wanna know in case I have to save you,” she argued, half-joking and satisfied she’d get another maybe-smile out of him.

But her jab backfired and his face immediately darkened. He started to say something, but again, stopped himself, his verbal filter and mood securely back in place.

This time she could think of nothing to say in return. She finished off the ice cream in silence and Logan took the tray to the counter. When they went outside, the sun was on its way down.

Logan pulled his keys from his pocket, but made no move to board the bike. He paced a little bit, walking in a tight oval over the uneven bricks.

It made her nervous, like she was watching some sort of caged animal retrace its steps, trying to find a chink in its confines to exploit. She watched him again try to say something, but steal his words back into his mouth, hiding them from her.

“So…I couldn’t exactly decide on a favorite,” she finally blurted, uneasy with the tension that seemed to loom in the air. Maybe that would get a conversation started again.

Whatever it did, it was the right thing to say. He looked up at that, eyebrows lifted in surprise, like he suddenly remembered the reason they’d come.

“It was there – wasn’t it?”

He nodded.

“So which one was it? I couldn’t pick.”

He smiled. “That’s ‘cause you like ‘em all.”

“What?”

“They’re all your favorite.”

“That’s not fair – that’s cheating,” she argued as she moved toward the bike. For some reason, she didn’t like the idea of riding at night.

Logan took her cue and straddled the seat, lifting the bike so she could slide on behind him. “You’re the one that could never pick,” he shrugged.

“You mean, I really don’t have a favorite ice cream?”

“I didn’t say that.” He walked the bike backwards and into the narrow one-way street. The engine roared to life. “I said that all of them were your favorite. Still are, I’m guessing.”

“Hmm.”

“I ain’t complainin’. Made my life easy,” he said over his shoulder.

“How’s that?” She gripped his waist again and her world felt right.

“I’d pissed you off and I could just go and get any quart from the gas station that was available.”

***

She woke up in the middle of a dream that a door had taught itself to knock. And then she realized she wasn’t dreaming, that something was actually knocking. Bleary-eyed, she glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It read 5:15.

The door was still knocking.

“Hold on,” she mumbled, stumbling from bed to put her robe and slippers on. She yanked the door open, half-angry at being woken, half-scared that something bad had happened.

She closed her eyes immediately at the harsh light that filled the mansion hallway, but between her squinting, she made out Logan’s silhouette.

“Logan?”

“Get dressed.”

“For what?”

“Runnin’. You said you wanted me to teach you to fight – be downstairs in fifteen minutes or I’m leavin’ without ya.”

She made it with fourteen seconds to spare. He took her on a light jog around the compound before they stopped and stretched their warm muscles. It was for her benefit more than his, but she appreciated the break. She hadn’t been mentally prepared for exercise that morning, something she found she needed.

After the stretch, he took them into the woods and the twists and dips in the trails kept her focused on something other than the fact she was running. She tried to ignore the stitch in her side, but it throbbed insistently, begging for the slightest reprieve. She was about to ask to stop, just for a minute, when they emerged from the other side of the woods and the mansion loomed in sight.

“Push it.”

“Huh?” she panted.

“Push it these last few hundred yards. Push through it.”

She did as he said, trying her best to work through the daggers that were assaulting her lungs and hamstrings. He beat her by three hundred feet easily, but she considered it a victory that she even finished at all.

She bent to catch her breath but her world was flipped and she landed hard on her ass. She looked up, angry and confused. “What the –”

He was throwing a punch that she instinctively blocked, rolling to the side and pushing herself to her feet. She was about to question his sanity again, but he was still swinging, his punches slow and deliberate, but with no lack of strength behind them. She used that to her advantage, pulling him forward or ducking the blows and letting gravity and his momentum take care of the rest.

After several rounds of light sparring, she began to throw her own punches and kicks, to take things to the offensive.

“Keep your weight on that foot,” he’d instruct if she stumbled. Or if she made a move against him that backfired, “push me that way to set up your next hit – always be thinkin’ two moves ahead. S’like chess.”

“Did I used to play chess?”

“No.”

The sun was well into the morning sky when they stopped by mutual accord. They caught their breath on a concrete stump marking the entrance to one of the maze gardens.

“C’mere,” he said suddenly, not giving her nearly enough time to rest, “I wanna show ya somethin’.”

And then he was standing, heading back to the mansion. Rogue pushed herself up, muscles already becoming stiff from the inactivity and only a hot shower would offer any respite from the coming pain.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked when they reached the teachers wing,

He looked over his shoulder and beckoned her to follow, but said nothing. The hall was long, twice as long as the corridor she lived in, but when they reached the end, Logan stopped in front of a closed door. He reached into his sweatpants and pulled out the drawstring. There was a set of keys tied to it. He selected the antique brass key that was in the middle and shoved it into the lock, pushing the door open with his left hand.

Rogue peeked inside, unsure if she should enter and wondering why her heart was pounding so heavily. “What is it?” she asked, taking in the plastic-covered furniture and breathing in the musty smell.

“Our old room.”

She looked at him, surprised that he’d shown it to her. Truth be told, she often wondered where she had lived before – if she had been in her own room or with Logan, but didn’t feel right asking anyone. Hesitantly, she stepped inside, again feeling the angle of the floor tilt when she crossed the threshold.

The first room was a sitting area – a couch and two chairs with a coffee table took up the right side and a desk with a chair and small bookshelf took up the left, the side with the window. She eyed the desk and the notebook that lay quietly on top, a pen nearby. There was a bottle of water that was half-finished and a package of hard candy that still held a few pieces. A stack of university flash books was lined up neatly on the corner. The bookshelf held The Art of War, a copy of Tolstoy and a few Dickens classics, but it was mostly textbooks – hers, obviously, if the titles had anything to do with her degree.

She picked up the leather-bound book on top, blowing the dust from the cover. She flipped it open to find that it was a photo album. She wanted to look through the pictures, but after the first few had to put it down. Nothing seemed familiar.

She wandered through the first room and peeked into the bathroom on her way. The light still worked and revealed a sparse, white-tiled room with soap still in the dish and a hairbrush lying on the empty counter. There were two toothbrushes – one gray, one green – in the holder. There was a sticky note on the mirror and she squinted to read it. Buy toothpaste.

She turned the light off and closed the door. The next room was obviously the bedroom and she felt as if her heart was going to beat through her sternum and land on the floor in front of her. Her hand lingered over the knob, unsure and afraid.

Why was she even here? Why had he brought her and what had he wanted to accomplish? Did he think that this would make her remember? That he could have his old Rogue back finally?

She turned away, everything suddenly too much. Logan was still standing in the doorway, watching her every move no doubt, but making no advances toward her. “Why did you bring me here?” she asked, hoping to keep the edge out of her voice.

His nervous smile disappeared and gestured hesitantly to the desk, to the papers and the books nearby. “I thought that…you said you didn’t know what you could do. This – this s’what you were doin’…before.”

He faltered as he moved toward the desk, wiping the grimace from his face but failing to look like he hadn’t had to force himself inside the room. He flipped through some of the notebooks and held the university catalogues out imploringly. “Here,” he offered. “You were applyin’ to these places.”

He pulled open the center drawer and shuffled a few folders around inside before extracting two envelopes. “These already accepted you. You wanted to get your Masters in poli-sci.”

Stepping forward to take the proffered items, she looked more closely at the flipbooks with pictures of smiling students on the covers. This was what she – the old her – had wanted?

“You were gonna do a correspondence thing. You didn’t wanna move – you were teachin’ the kids here an’…you wanted to stay here because of that.”

She reached for the plastic sheet with her free hand and moved it to the side, taking a seat on the overstuffed couch. The support was welcome and she leaned back into the cushion, continuing to take in the details of the room.

“Sorry…‘bout all this.”

She looked up at that, having nearly forgotten that Logan was in the room. But he was still standing there, looking like he wanted to bolt as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t. I shoulda…maybe I shoulda just brought everything to you. I didn’t have to bring you all the way in here.”

“Would it be all right if I…stayed? Just for a little while? To look around?”

“Yeah,” he said hurriedly, almost relieved. “Whatever you wanna do, darlin’.”

He handed her the key and stepped back awkwardly, reaching for pockets that didn’t exist on the jogging pants. “So, I’m gonna…” he trailed off, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

Rogue nodded absently and watched him slip from the room, easily heard the heavy ‘thunk’ of his stride, even in tennis shoes. She half-expected some sort of miracle to occur when he closed the door, some influx of ever memory she’d ever lost, had ever hoped to forget. When that didn’t happen, she was left sitting on a dusty sofa with a stack of Master’s advertisements.

After leafing through the first few pages and seeing nothing that even sparked her interest, she set the pamphlets aside and went back to the photo album, studiously avoiding the closed door against the far wall.

The album was nearly full – most of the 4x6s holding candid shots of her and her friends at parties, lounging around the mansion, her holding her diploma. Whether right next to her or in the background, Logan was in nearly all of them, seeming to never leave her unguarded. There was a gap, a few pages of empty slots, then another section of the album began. These shots held no people, they were of nature – rocks and waterfalls and close-ups of moss-covered trees.

She knew little about photography, but even her amateur eye could tell that these were very good photographs. She was halfway to marveling at her apparent knack for the lens when she opened to a page with shots of her surrounded by the same nature-laden scenery. There were portraits of her sitting on a far rock, close-ups of her smiling, her bare feet floating in a stream.

She smiled. Logan must’ve taken them.

Her earlier distrust of him was now gone. She couldn’t imagine him bringing her here for any reason other than what he’d told her, but…could she really blame him if he had been trying to stir her memory? She glanced at one of the headshots – her eyes were down, but her smile was radiant.

She’d been happy with him. She’d been in love.

How could he not want that back?

She closed the album and set it back on the shelf, finding herself tracing her bare fingertips over the dusty surface. A glance to her left confirmed the bedroom door was still there and, finding it slightly silly to be afraid of a room, she slowly made her way toward it. The knob was cold beneath her touch, but opened easily.

The room itself was much smaller than she’d imagined it being. The furniture in there was also covered, but she could see through the plastic that the chest of drawers and armoire were stained with the same deep lacquer as the desk and coffee table and shelves. The comforter was a soft green and white and the floor was bare hardwood except for white rugs on either side of the bed.

On the dresser, beneath the plastic, she found another brush, several hair clips and an old-style jewelry box. There were necklaces hanging from a turnstile and several tiny drawers with sets of earrings and brooches inside. She noticed the lack of rings and attributed it to probably wearing gloves all the time. A peek into one of the dresser drawers confirmed her suspicion and she found several very elegant pairs of opera gloves made of silk and satin. There were a few other pairs that obviously received more use.

There were folded t-shirts and pants half-filling the rest of the drawers. It was obvious some had been taken and moved to her new room. The other half of the drawers had held Logan’s things if the musty smell and emptiness were anything to judge by.

In the armoire she found several long and stylish dresses more suitable for galas or balls, possibly like the fund-raiser the Professor was holding this weekend at the mansion. There was a lone tuxedo that she pulled from a garment bag, smiling when she imagined its tailored fit covering Logan’s shoulders.

She put the things back in their places, letting her fingers brush over the fine cloths before closing the doors gently. It wasn’t until she was leaving that she realized the room had stayed level. There was no tilt, no whirlwind in her head – she was balanced, she belonged there.

***

“Thought I might find you in here.”

He didn’t turn from his tools, but she knew he’d heard her. Probably knew she was coming before she even opened the door if she’d understood his mutation correctly. She sat on the stool next to the workbench, ankles crossed and confession on her lips.

“I was angry.”

His head tilted slightly and she heard him exhale a breath through his nostrils. After a long pause, he spoke, tired, “I shouldn’ta – I was pushin’ ya too hard and I –”

“No,” she argued, shaking her head gently, “you had every right to do what you did. I’m not…angry. Now. I’m not angry anymore. At first I was and then…it was like I could understand where you were coming from.”

“I meant what I said – you don’t have to try to be…her.”

“I know. I believe you.” She bit her lower lip, wondering whether she should let her apology stand along, but then she was talking, holding nothing of her thoughts back. “I know I’m not the same person as I was before and I’m not sure that I can make her come back.”

“That’s okay – it’s –”

“I know. I know,” she interrupted, “but I want to try to make a life here. I want to make this my home again. And,” she paused, gathering her courage before she lifted her eyes, “I want you to be a part of that.”

Logan was shaking his head before she finished. “Darlin’, you don’t hafta worry. You have a home here, these people are your friends and…”

“So you…you don’t want me back?”

“I’m not – no, I’m not…that’s not what I meant.” He stood and ran his fingers angrily through his hair before letting his hands clap against his thighs. “It’s just that, I don’t want ya to think this is your fault – ‘cause it’s not. It’s my fault. And if I could apologize ev’ry day for the rest of my life I couldn’t tell ya how sorry I am.”

“But it’s not your fault, Logan.”

He turned angrily at that, signaling the end of the conversation by the set of his shoulders.

But Rogue wasn’t having it. She grabbed his arm and spun him around with no small measure of force.

“Look, I know I don’t remember what happened before, but I feel like I know you well enough now to make a sound judgment on your character.” She ignored the dark flash in his eyes when he faced her and pushed onward. “You’re a good man. You loved me and I know you did everything you could to save me. I feel that. It’s deep. There’s not one part of me that blames you and if I could have anything, it would be that you could forgive yourself.”

He stood, motionless, as the depth of her words registered. His face softened, but a question remained in his eyes.

Hoping she was reading it right, she nodded her head slowly, taking a small step forward, closing the space between them. She could feel the fold in his buttoned flannel shirt and the solid presence of his belt buckle pressing gently into her stomach.

Before she could react, his mouth covered hers and she felt the heat of his tongue as it delved into her mouth. His hands were on either side of her face, holding her to him as he kissed her. She reached for him with her own hands, pulling his body flush with hers as he became more passionate, urgent. Even in the silence, she barely registered the harsh sounds of want that escaped her throat.

He wound one hand into her hair, the other slipping down gently, following the soft curve of her ass. She ground her hips against his, reveling in the warmth blossoming low in her stomach. He must’ve sensed the change because he stopped kissing her, tearing his mouth from hers with a pained look on his face.

“We can’t – we have to stop,” he panted, pulling away from her, but not far. He met her eyes briefly before watching her hand reach out to his as the space between them diminished.

“No,” she smiled, shaking her head gently before planting a soft kiss on his lips. “We don’t.”

***

“Whaddya think?”

She stood in the doorway, backlit by the light in the bathroom, hunter green negligee hugging her curves in all the right ways.

Logan looked up from the paper he was sketching on at her desk, pencil dropping from his fingers. He was silent, unmoving, for several long moments before a smile slowly crept across his face.

She watched him carefully as he stood, inching his way toward her, cautiously, unsure. She grinned as she dropped her heel from its place against the frame and covered the few feet that lay before her. “Ya like it?” she whispered against his mouth.

She couldn’t be sure if he said yes, or even nodded because his lips were on hers and she was asking him without words to give her what they’d been waiting for. He became bolder, the uncertainty disappearing from his movements. His hands were rough on her hips, dragging heavy up and down her sides, squeezing where they found flesh, rubbing when they grazed bone. Twelve days of stolen kisses and reluctance as they tore away from one another in a mutual understanding that no, the time wasn’t right.

Now, however, was a different story. They were ready, both of them, and no vestiges of the past or broken promises of an uncertain future could keep them away from one another.

***

They had a week of bliss – skin on skin, legs tangled with one another’s, faces buried in the other’s neck – before the nightmare hit. In retrospect, she supposed she’s grateful for it, for the fact that she gets to hold onto those memories in every vivid detail.

She saw his eyes, wide with fear and unable to pull away from her. Glancing down, she saw why – and when the recognition struck, she felt a jolt of pain.

And then she felt nothing.

***

She struggled against the visions that assaulted her mind. She felt like she was flying, being thrown through the air before hitting something hard. The wind was knocked out of her and she was face down, inhaling gasoline and dirt. There were shouts and gunshots and she couldn’t move her arms or her feet or even turn her head. The whole world was heavy and sitting on top of her shoulders. But there was a woman, familiar in the way that she moved, her long hair silhouetted in the moonlight as she fought.

She threw another punch then she fell.

And then she, too, was falling, into a pit of blackness with flashes of fear – no…terror, and pain, so much pain. A glimpse of a metal box and then she was suddenly inside, panicking at being unable to move, the hot slickness of the damp surface against her cheek and then a cut and mangled hand reaching through a slit near her shoulder. She welcomed it, somehow knowing its touch would end the pain.

The room spun and suddenly she was out of the box, her arms and legs chained and she was watching…her? She was watching herself leave the room and at the same time she was fighting against it – shouting, kicking, jaws snapping at air.

Then she was in water – it filled her nostrils and lungs and her ears popped with the pressure. Her screams were muffled with the fluid and her eyes were burning and she was sinking, sinking. She hit the bottom and stood up, no longer submerged, but over the shoulder of a blue beast – Hank. She felt her stomach heave at being upside down and a sense of dread was building until she couldn’t take it anymore.

She screamed.

“Marie? Darlin’?”

Her eyes shot open and immediately went to the face that was hovering above her.

Logan.

“Wake up – it’s a dream. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

She pushed herself higher into the bed, planting her back firmly against the headboard. “Wha…what happened?” she fumbled, fighting her way through the thick cotton enveloping her brain.

And then suddenly she remembered. She ripped she sheets back and lifted her shirt, examining the pale, unmarred flesh she found there. She looked back to Logan with confusion but before he could explain, it clicked.

“I touched you. You-you healed me.”

“I hurt you,” he said quietly. “I’m the reason you needed healin’.”

They looked up simultaneously as the door to the room swung open and Hank came bouldering through. “Ah, Rogue – I-I’m sorry. I heard you and…”

“S’okay, Hank,” Logan supplied, sitting back in his chair but leaving his hand resting atop Rogue’s sheet-covered thigh.

A moment of awkward silence passed before Hank cleared his throat. “Then, I’ll just…take my leave and give both of you a few moments.”

They both watched him slip back through the doorway and the medlab was once again silent.

Logan was the first to speak, but when he did his voice was hoarse. “You okay?” he asked before clearing his throat. “Any pain?”

Marie shook her head, frown forming on her face as she spoke in a rush. “No, but Logan, how did you…” The realization was obvious as it dawned on her. She brought her hands up slowly, taking in the naked flesh of her wrists.

“I cut ‘em off,” he bit out.

“Logan, you –”

“I couldn’t wait,” he said quietly, dipping his head in aggravation. “You woulda died.”

“B-but now…” She trailed off as the tears sprung to her eyes, clogging her vision with a watery blur. She didn’t know why, but the frustration was heavy – like a weight she could no longer carry. It came from deep within her, from someplace unknown until that point.

She hadn’t know – remembered – what it was like to live without touch. The silver bands that had wrapped around her wrists had made it possible for her to hold Logan as he healed, to be held as she shook with fear.

And now that ability was gone and with it any possibility that she could ever feel his skin on hers again.

But this was familiar. She’d known this before.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and she lifted her head.

“I went after you,” she said slowly, verbalizing the fragmented memories from the dream as they knit themselves together in her mind. “They got you and I went after you.”

Logan said nothing, only looked at her through hooded eyelids, something akin to doubt began to creep across his features.

“You were…angry.”

“Because they had you,” he spat out, his voice low and menacing.

But she knew instinctively it had nothing to do with her – only his guilt, his anger at himself for it having happened.

“You shoulda left me. You woulda found me somehow, but no - you went after me and you got caught and they – ” He stopped short, his voice breaking as emotion washed over him.

“I remember,” she breathed, the memories flooding back, threatening to overwhelm her as she spoke the words. “I remember - before, it’s all there now. We-we used to go on hikes. Your backpack was red. We went fishing and you stuck your hand under a rock and pulled out a huge catfish. Scott’s allergic to peanuts and Jean’s favorite author is Langston Hughes. Oh my God, Logan, I remember.”

Logan was sitting up in his seat, heart racing as further revelations of the truth spilled from her lips. He squeezed her thigh, mouth clamped shut as his eyes began to burn.

“It’s all back – it’s all coming back. I-I can’t believe it. If you hadn’t –”

He shook his head, effectively cutting her off. “I’m so sorry. I –”

“No,” she said, returning the favor and shushing him by hovering her fingers above his lips. Her eyes softened at the corners and she brought her hand to the side of his face, letting her palm linger, then rest on his thick sideburns. “Don’t be sorry anymore. Never. I have you now – and you have me.”

He leaned in quickly, planting a gentle kiss on her lips, deepening it for the five, six, seven seconds it took for her skin to begin reacting to his touch. “It’s enough,” he panted. “It’s always been enough.”

She smiled. “Then it will be again.”