I see the way they look at each other. Heated glances. Slight smiles. He waits for her outside of class, casually leaning up against that wall until all the students have left and she emerges; hair mussed up from an afternoon’s teaching, slightly flushed, but happy to see him. Even if she pretends not to admit it.

I notice the way they act around each other. It's like a dance; each treading carefully thought out steps; circling close to one another, around one another; looks darted from underneath lidded eyes. They know their game. They both play it well.

I hear the way they move together. At night. When Scott’s away. The echo of her soft footsteps treading down the hallway to his room. The muffled sounds; the sort that carry through walls. The repetitive thump of the headboard.

As I lie still in bed, I can picture it perfectly, what he’s doing to her. His memories rise unbidden to the surface and haunt me. Visions of dark heat, of the addiction of her, the tight grip of legs wrapped around him and the lust and control. Of desire. The images flood my mind, and I hate them. I hate them and I want them to go away, yet I crave them like a drug. They are the closest I will ever get to knowing what it’s like.

I want to hate her. Hell, I want to hate them both, but she’s been nice to me ever since I got here. She’s always kind. She’s helped me out in class, taken an interest in my education. And he treats me well too. Looks out for me. Even though he doesn’t see me as any more than a kid.

Would it be different if he had absorbed my memories instead of the other way around? Would he know that when Bobby makes his fumbled attempts to kiss me I’m thinking of him?

Would it make a difference?

When Scott’s home things change. Gone is the playful atmosphere. The days are tense. Brittle. Sometimes I wonder if Scott knows. I think he must do, he just doesn’t choose to believe it. He likes to lay the blame at Logan’s door; likes to think Jean’s an innocent.

Sometimes I think he may be right. I saw the way she tried to turn Logan down, the initial advances she pushed away. I still had hope then; stupid teenage girlish hope, that one day he might see me as more than just a rescue kid.

But his eyes always found her; and eventually she stopped telling him no.

I’ve seen him deliberately try to rub Scott the wrong way too. Seen him go out of his way to snark remarks and jostle shoulders, so I know there must be more between them than just sex. He cares for her. And it hurts him.

With the tension, comes the inevitable arguments. Often she’s there to calm them, but her guilty conscience makes it a feeble effort. And when she sides with Scott, when they go back to their shared room, then I hear Logan. Angry. Hear the frustrated slam of furniture. The sharp clank of beer bottles. The loud shout of commentators from the small TV he has on a shelf in his room.

Those are the times I go to him. The times he needs a friend.

He’s always there for me if I’m in trouble, or upset. He doesn’t give me love, doesn’t give me those heated glanced reserved only for Jean, but he does give me his comfort, albeit gruff and unpractised. That part of him, at least, is mine.

So when he needs comfort in return, I’m there. Because it’s the only thing he lets me give back.

I knock on the door and nudge it slightly ajar.

“Hey.”

He’s slouched in his customary white T-shirt and jeans, but when he looks up, his shadowed face darker than usual. He tries his best to hide it… like we don’t know what’s going on, but his frown eases a little when he sees it’s me. He puts down his beer and mutes the TV. “Hey kid. What you still doin’ up?”

I give him a shrug, a half smile. “Couldn’t sleep. Heard you were still awake.” I’m still hovering at the doorway. I don’t go in his room unless invited. Not since that first time.

“You comin’ in? Or you just gonna stand there?”

That counts. He scoots along on the bed a bit, makes room for me. I settle myself beside him, kicking off my shoes and curling my legs up underneath me, always making sure that there’s enough distance between us. I don’t want to touch him. I don’t want any more of his thoughts, especially not tonight.

They’d all be of her.

For a long moment we just sit there, and I let the atmosphere wash over me. I can smell the lingering cigar smoke and I know he’ll be having another lecture from ‘Ro in the morning. His boots are kicked off in the corner; several bottles litter the floor and three long claw marks gouge the wall at eye level beside the door. They’re new.

I turn my eyes away before he sees me looking, almost embarrassed. Which is stupid. But whatever storm was in here earlier, it has passed and in its wake a resigned calmness remains.

For a long while we both watch the moving pictures, not really caring about the lack of sound. The TV’s just a distraction anyway.

“So,” he says eventually, breaking the silence before taking another swig. “What you been up to today?”

I give him a shrug. “Nothing much. I had lunch with Jubilee. Finished an assignment.”

“Last one?” he asks.

“One more to go.”

“That’s a-”

From down the hall we both hear a noise from Jean and Scott’s room. We both pretend not to notice it. It’s nothing much. It could be any number of things; a draw slamming; a closet door being shut. But at the sound of voices, he visibly stiffens and the tension in the room thickens.

I hate that he reacts to her in this way. I wish it didn’t hurt as much as it did. I want him to notice me. To carry on with what he was saying. To not be thinking of her.

But he is thinking of her, and the conversation trails off, as it always does. He says nothing more, just stares blankly ahead as we go back to the safety of watching the soundless pictures.

And I’m comfort. But nothing more.

I probably shouldn’t even be here anyway. Technically Logan’s a teacher, and I’m still a student. Not that anything untoward is going on, but still… people might get the wrong idea.

Bobby, for example.

I wish I could bring myself to care about that a bit more. Everyone else seems perfectly happy with the situation. Oh isn’t it nice that poor untouchable Rogue has found herself a boyfriend. See? At Xavier’s, even the freakiest of freaks can have a shot at normal.

People send indulgent smiles of ‘young love’ our way. The staff let us get away with more than they should. Probably because they know we can’t sleep together anyway. Not without a doctor on call anyway. They’re all happy for me. Even Logan. He’d probably jump for joy if I settled down with someone for good. It’d make him feel like he’s achieved another notch on his belt of obligation to me.

“So how’s things with you and whatshisface. Iceman?”

Speak of the devil. I sigh. It’s a casual comment. There’s nothing behind it. No bitterness. No longing. No hidden meaning. Just idle chat between friends. And I don’t hate it. I’ve come to understand it. But it always makes me long for more.

“Fine,” I give him another slight smile. And when I use the opportunity to steal his beer and take a swig for myself, his only reaction is to raise an eyebrow, and reach over for another.

“Are you staying in this evening then?”

He shrugs. “Might as well.”

We both know he’s hoping they argue. They often do. And that will give him an excuse. A window of opportunity.

I don’t even know what I’m hoping for.

“So, you gettin’ on ok these days?”

“Yeah.” I take another swig. It’s bitter and slightly warm and I pull a face, wishing I’d never picked it up. “A few more months and I’ll have finished school.”

I’m actually quite proud of that. The idea fills me with a warm glow. I thought my chance for education had been up once I turned runaway, but it’s surprising how things change. It’s been hard work, but like I said before, Jean’s helped me. And I’m doing well.

“Good.” He gives me an almost curt nod. “That’s important. Can get yourself a decent job. Find your place in the world.”

I look at him.

Even though I try not to show it, the way he says it bristles me slightly. It’s the sort of thing my father would have said, and it just serves to remind me again that that’s how he looks upon me. As a kid.

Does he think that I need to have these things told to me? Does he think I don’t already know? Does he think that’s what I want from him?

The quiet mood evaporates and even though I try to hide my emotions, I’m annoyed. It sparks a small flame of rebellion within me. It drives me to say what I’ve been hiding for weeks.

“Actually the Professor and I have already talked about that.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I’ve been offered a place on the team.”

Suddenly the dark look is back. “I don’t think that’s-”

“I can look after myself.”

“You’re just a-”

“How’s Jean?” I interrupt. It’s deliberate. He gets to treat me like a kid. He gets to screw Jean, insult Scott and be completely unaware of my feelings, but he does not get to have an opinion on what I choose to do with my life. Those are my choices to make.

He looks at me for a moment, but I don’t turn away. For once I look defiantly back; making sure he knows I’ve drawn a line for him not to cross. But instead of fighting it like I almost wish he would, his face closes up again and he reaches for the remote. “Ask Summers,” is his only comment, before he flicks the volume back on again.

And just like that, the little window between us is closed.

We just both sit there quietly, not really watching the game, my thoughts a turmoil over him and my future. His thoughts far away from his room, in the arms of another.

The next day he’s gone.

---

Sometimes my mutation hums. Some days it itches with power like it craves to be used. For me to snatch out a hand and feed it until the heat is gone and the urge is sated.

But I don’t. I never do. I stem the desire. I dampen it down and banish it to the far reaches of my mind. I breathe and I focus and I concentrate and I force myself to keep the outer show of calm, even when the voices in my head are screaming.

It’s that, ultimately, that begins the subtle shift in power. The one that leads me down that path of control. No technological advances. No suppressors. No drugs. Nothing to do with the therapy sessions with the Professor. Just the natural evolution of my body.

It’s almost fitting. Or ironic. I can’t quite decide which.

We don’t see Logan for months. It’s no great surprise I suppose. He keeps in touch with the Professor, and I think Jean must have had a phone call from him once, because one evening I caught her coming out of her room, eyes red and puffy from crying. Even then she looked beautiful.

I wanted to ask her what had happened. I was frantic to know. What did he say? Was he okay? Was he coming back? But she was so desperate to hide her emotions that I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. She looked fragile. So unsure. And I was afraid that if I said it out loud I would break her.

I never thought I would end up being the strong one.

After a while things settled down in the mansion again. The ripples that Logan’s presence created faded; they smoothed out and lessons continued as normal.

As prejudice outside grew, new children began to appear in the dorms. No one needed to ask where they came from. We all heard the jet go up at night.

Bobby and I became more serious, on his part anyway, and I let him. I let him test the boundaries of my mutation, seeing how long, how far. Could we touch? A brush of a hand. Could we kiss? An awkward press of his cool mouth against mine, both more nervous about my skin than the act itself. But it worked. I could control it.

I couldn’t control him, however. As his confidence with my skin grew, so did his need to push for more. And far from making me want to explore my new found semi-freedom, his pressure, his always present love, it made me feel trapped. It suffocated me.

I began to avoid him. Weak, I know. I should have confronted him and explained my feelings. Or rather, my lack of them. He was one of the good guys, he would have understood. Instead I took the cheap way out. I pushed him away. I found excuses not to meet up, and I ignored him and hurt him until I found him in the arms of Kitty instead. I caught them. At the end of the corridor. I almost felt sorry for her. He pushed her aside so fast when he ran after me trying to explain. But I didn’t mind, didn't even really care. I just felt… relief.

I’m sure that must make me a bad person.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t ashamed of my actions. But the twist of my life that meant I could touch, took away my barriers, took away my safety net. Pushing Bobby away brought a little of that back.

Stupid isn’t it. I fight for touch, and when I get it, I decide I don’t want it after all. Even I don’t understand me.

As the days grew shorter, other things around the mansion began to change as well. I began helping out in a few lessons, training intensified, couples paired off. At first I missed Logan’s solitary presence, but as Scott and Jean’s relationship slowly solidified again, I began to be almost grateful. At least that way we could all pretend things were normal.

Today, I sit in the garden. Despite the long shadows, it’s sunny enough to sit outside without my cloak. I can feel the warmth of light on my face; the patches of shade from the tree above a cooler contrast. It’s peaceful, above all things, and it’s times like these that let me think.

I don’t need my eyes open to notice what’s going on around me. I still have Logan’s senses… to some extent anyway. I can hear the younger children playing, arguing the way they shouldn’t be, the shriek of their voices ringing out on the basketball court. I can hear the sound of Doctor McCoy’s car as it crunches up the drive. If I listen carefully, I can make out the rustling sound the breeze makes through the different kind of trees, taste the scent of rain on the air.

I can hear Jubes and Pete whispering softly. Muffled giggles. Heated kisses. And I’m not jealous, I just wonder why I never felt that. Why I never wanted it. Not with David, not with Bobby.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I was always untouchable. Maybe I was never meant to be touched.

---

He doesn’t stay away forever. Seasons turn, leaves grow from green to golden red, and changes happen; inside the mansion and out. Time moves on. Irreversible. Unstoppable. The Earth swinging in its looped cycle around the sun with little thought for the population crawling across its back.

I wake up one morning and it’s cold, crisply fresh. My fingers feel icy as I scrape my hair back into a pony tail and I pull on several layers before padding my way down to the kitchen in my thick socks. Outside its early, cobwebs of dew still sparkle on the grass and for a moment I pause, just to peer out the window, palms pressed against the glass like I did when I was a child. In that moment I can understand the peace Ororo finds in nature. Only in something that can be so destructive, so violent, can there be such beauty and stillness.

‘You an early riser these days, kid?’

And I don’t need to turn to check, I don’t need to ask. I just know it’s him. That voice. That smoky scent.

A soft smile spreads across my face. ‘Hey Logan,’ I tell the window. He moves behind me so that a flash of his reflection catches my eye, and I watch it for a moment, the view outside suddenly sliding out of focus. Call me foolish, but I want to remember this moment. I want to savour it and store it for later. To keep the bubble of happiness it gives me.

He’s home.

“You grown eyes in the back of your head while I was away?”

My smile widens. ‘Just enjoying the morning,’ I answer back.

When I do finally turn he’s just sat there, like he never left, hunched over his breakfast, spoon in hand, that smirk on his face as if he knows damn well that inside there’s a part of me that’s leaping up and down and shrieking for joy. But he looks happy to see me. And for that I can forgive him anything.

“Hungry?” he says, pushing the box of cereal my way.

I look at the packet, and I give him an arched eyebrow. I never imagined him for the Cheerio type.

”What?” he laughs in mock defence.

“You just make a strange picture, that’s all.”

“Who says I do?” He chomps down another mouthful. “I’ve had one bowl, and I’m branded as a pansy for life…”

Contrary to popular belief, he’s a bad liar. I nod towards the almost empty carton of milk.

“Okay, two. But no tellin’ anyone.” He pauses, spoon mid-way to mouth. “Especially yer yella friend. I’d never live it down”

I laugh, and he gives me that wolfish grin, the one that makes my pulse race and my head spin. But I learned how to hide that years ago. Even from him.

“So, are you back for a while?” I say, as I help myself, plunking a bowl down next to his as I rummage around in the drawer for a spoon.

He shrugs. “You know I ain't a stickin’ around sort of person, Marie.”

Yeah. I know. But sometimes it’s nice to pretend. Just for a while. “A lot’s happened since you’ve been gone.”

“I heard you graduated,” he says, taking another mouthful.

Did he? I hadn’t expected that.

“Chuck told me,” he said, in answer to my unspoken question. “Also heard you were trainin’ well for the team. Spoke to Cyke, he said he’s pleased with your progress.”

I’m not quite sure what gives me the sudden warm glow. Was it that he had asked about me? Or that Scott had praised my hard work? And it is hard work. More than once I’ve come out of the danger room with a good few heavy bruises. But I love the knowledge that I’m learning and improving. I even knocked Scott off his feet last week, and the thought still makes me smile. I wonder if that’s what they talked about when they spoke about my training…?

Realisation dawns on me. If he had spoken to Scott that must mean he knew about…“Did Scott tell you… that he and Jean…” I don’t quite know how to phrase it. I know whatever comes out of my mouth next will destroy this rare light-hearted moment between us.

“About him and Jeanie bein’ engaged? Yeah, he told me.” A brief hint of darkness crosses his face before he’s able to hide it, and I can’t help it; I hurt for him.

Silence falls heavily around us. I know I should say something, it’s my turn, but the words won’t come.

When he looks at me he hesitates. He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead he picks up his bowl and slides it into the sink. “See ya around kid,” he says, heading for the hallway.

“Logan?”

He turns, leaning against the doorway for a moment. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re back.”

And after that things just fall into their normal screwed up routine.

A cold October day dawns and I wake with the feeling of lead lining my stomach. My first mission.

Yesterday the Professor called us all in for a meeting. I had proven myself well in training, he had said. It was time I participated in field work, although he made it clear I would always have the choice to opt out. I think he wanted to break me in gently.

It’s a routine pick-up, nothing massive. The information reached us yesterday; a time, a place, a drop-off. They’re selling us as test subjects now, can you believe? They don’t trust us, they fear us, then they alienate themselves by driving this wedge between us.

Humans and mutants. Two sides of the same coin.

We're stuck in the middle of some sort of domesticated paperwork based war. A frustrating war for some; points are argued over sharp cornered tables in stark business rooms, and lives are decided by computers and slips of paper. There is no fighting. Not on the surface anyway.

Today is not on the surface.

Bleary eyed, I wash, dress, systematically go through my morning routine. I don’t want to admit how scared I am because if I do, I know they won’t let me go. And that would be worse.

I skip breakfast, make my way through the mansion corridors, staring blankly at the walls until I find myself in the hanger. Scott’s already there when I arrive, checking the controls on the blackbird. He gives me a reassuring smile and a firm, “You’ll do fine.” His confidence is reassuring and I start to feel a little better.

Until Logan joins us.

“Kid, maybe you should sit this one out.”

No hello, no it’ll be fine, just a blunt statement. It kicks me in the stomach.

I frown, but before I can answer Scott jumps in. ‘It’s a routine pick-up Logan, she’ll ace it.”

“She’s too young. It ain't pretty out there.”

“Well, she can’t stay inside the walls of the mansion forever.”

“There are other things she can do to help. Safer things.”

“She’s a good member of the team!”

She’s a kid!”

They keep at it. Ground out words, hissed insults and hard stares until I’m not even relevant any more. I could disappear, neither would notice. The argument’s not really about me anyway. I’m just a convenient excuse.

“Stop it.”

“…Rogue…”

“Stop it!”

“But I-”

“She said stop.”

I look up, almost in surprise. That was Jean. Her calm voice filtering over each of us. She comes directly over to me. “Are you okay?” she asks.

I give her a somewhat shaky nod.

“Do you think you are ready for this.”

Another nod, because what else can I do? If I turn back now, I’ll prove Logan right, and I’ll forever be a kid that needs protecting. Besides, if Scott thinks I’m ready...

“Are you sure?” She studies me carefully.

My skin prickles as I feel everyone’s gaze upon me. “Yes.”

“Good. I am too,” she says, with a warm smile. Then she squeezes my gloved hand briefly before taking the co-pilot seat and no more is said about the matter.

The others arrive shortly after. Storm, Kurt, Pete. Each new presence fills me with a little more confidence. There are enough of us. On our own we are still vulnerable, but together we are strong. That’s what makes us X-men. I know they’ll look out for me.

A flick of a few switches and the basketball court overhead lurches open like some bad Thunderbirds movie. I would laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, except it’s a sight I’ve seen many times before, from the outside mind you. It’s never really been a laughing matter. Each time I wonder if they’re all going to come home.

This time I wonder about me.

What if I'm the first to fall? What if I let them down? What if I'm remembered as the kid who didn't survive her first mission? Even though I put on a brave Southern front, manage a smile at Pete, a drawl to Kurt, inside I’m trembling. I hate this.

By the time we get there I’m feeling like hell. The jet is all well and fine, so long as you don’t get air sick. And the speed Scott banks at, well, let’s just say that my head is spinning and every breath I manage to draw in is a breath in which I’m grateful I didn't eat breakfast. I don’t want to mess up my new suit. Which is already chafing. These things weren’t built for comfort.

We land on the outskirts and it’s a hike to the warehouse. That’s another thing they don’t tell you in the debriefing or the post mission stories of triumphs. The waiting. The travelling. The boredom that comes with the inevitable sick anticipation of knowing what you are heading towards.

But time passes, and we do get there. Eventually.

That’s the last point that things go to plan, however.

They have a parameter guard. We weren’t expecting that. Storm gives us a little cover. Kurt and Logan sneak off, knife gripped in the hand of the former, claws exposed in the latter.

Then it begins.

It’s not how I imagined. There’s no glory in this. No honour. I take my first life that day, and far from leaving me victorious, it leaves me feeling hollow. I didn’t want to touch him. Couldn’t bear the thought of having his dying memories sucked into my mind to haunt there forever, so I used whatever I had closest to hand. A blunt stone to the temple. Yes I know the places to hit. I know the techniques. I was taught well.

No one tells you how many times you have to hit though. How a skull can crumple and shatter like the shell of an egg. These details are conveniently glossed over. They don't tell you of the blood that pools out like a spreading stain on the dusty concrete, either. Or how he would twitch. How his fingers would grasp reflexively at nothing before his panic-shot eyes glassed over.

No. You are just informed that it will work. Just a regular sentence told with a capital letter and a period. Tidied into a neat little package in Scott’s defence class. ‘Look for resources around you; a blunt object to the temple can save your life.’

And save my life it did.

It doesn’t make me feel any better.

I’m a killer now.

---

Once we make our way towards their inner defences, I try hard not to think about the lump of body I left lying outside. After him, the next one’s not so hard. Hiding in the shadow of a door, a swift kick, a dodge, then a hard fist cracking into the back of his neck. Down.

That makes two.

Then we’re inside, taking cover behind giant steal beams that hold up the corrugated roof, looking into a room stacked with large wooden packing boxes. At the far end six men guard a door.

They have guns, and they don’t waste any time in opening fire.

It’s not like the stories when the hero seems to dodge every bullet. No. Scott takes one to the leg in a splatter of blood straight away. Logan takes two to the chest. I hear the impact with a sickening thunk, and Jean’s scream echoes around my head.

For a moment, I stop and think. And my only thought is, was that for Scott or for Logan? Then it’s a case of carefully controlling my thoughts so that I don't think.

Easier that way.

I get through the fight by detaching myself. Scott’s on the floor, but his hand is at his visor and suddenly the surge of red cuts three of the men at the legs. The stink of charred flesh fills the air.

Logan’s already back on his feet; Pete’s advancing, unhindered by the bullets that bounce of his hardened mutation. Storm’s eyes are glowing a rolling white as lighting lashes across the ceiling. And I fight on. Hand and fist, feet and elbows, anything I can lay my hands on. Pete lends me some of his strength. It’s not pretty. It’s not like training. I find a crow-bar and use that. Feel the crunch as it shatters a spine. Three. I push the body away. Move on to the next.

For a moment my gaze catches on Logan.

His chest is heaving, claws slicing. His black leather is slickened in a dribbling waste of sweat and blood, and he’s exhausted. But it’s not me his gaze falls to time and time again. It’s her. She’s not holding up well, bending under the strain.

“Jean?”

Scott’s voice makes her look up, and she misses her shot. She gains a knock to the head instead and both Scott and Logan rush to her side.

The next time I hit with my crow bar, it’s a little harder. And then I do it again. And Again. Even though he’s already fallen.

By the time I look up through the sweaty tangled mess of my hair, it’s all over.

No one cleans up the mess afterwards. No one can be bothered. Kurt helps Jean and Scott back to the blackbird. Logan watches from beneath Wolverine’s hard gaze, while the rest of us try to open the door they were guarding.

After a few futile tries, Pete shoulders us out of the way and rips it off its hinges as if it were no more than cardboard. Behind, huddled in a corner in pink and blue kitten pyjama’s stained with blood and grime, is the reason we are here.

Storm’s the one she goes to. Unlike her name, at this moment she embodies calm. Quietness shimmers around her, and reaching out a hand, she persuades the girl to get to her feet.

She has one slipper on. Just the one. And as she edges towards us she refuses to leave it behind.

---

The journey back is exhausting. Jean refuses to be treated like an invalid, instead she immediately sees to the girl and Scott’s leg. Storm and Kurt fly us home. Pete stares blankly out the window. Logan pretends to be asleep.

Me, I just try not to think about what has just happened.

The mansion, when we finally get there, is relief. It is a haven, more so than I’ve ever thought it before.

Calls were made ahead. I heard the echo of the radio; beds to be readied, the med lab prepared. When I descend those steps into the hanger, my knees tired and weak, I force myself to remain stubborn and expressionless. I don’t give in to the exhaustion. And I tell myself that I won’t cry. I won’t. I will control it through gritted teeth and will power alone.

Because if I start, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.

I swallow down the fist of emotion in my throat and force myself to keep walking, just following a straight line to the med lab, where Jean insists on checking us all out. Standard routine she calls it. She won’t let us disappear to our respective rooms without it.

My leathers creak as I sit on the cold metal of the medbay bed. Waiting. She asks me a list of questions. Any scrapes? Wounds? A chance of infection and a blood test will have to be done. Any strains? Any localised trauma?

I shake my head to the blur of words that seem to flow over me. I ache. I’m sore. But I’m healthy.

She frowns as she writes everything down on her clipboard. The Logan in me is watching the small strand of hair that falls over her face. She keeps trying to brush it away, tuck it behind her ear, but it always falls back.

“Why do you do it?” The words are out of me before I think them through.

She frowns. “What?”

I look away, wishing I hadn’t said anything.

“Rogue?”

“Never mind.”

I hear her sigh. It sounds almost sad. “You mean Scott and Logan don’t you.”

I wonder if she read my mind. Or whether it's just that obvious.

She puts the clipboard down, and one hand goes to her temple, as if the thought aches her. “I don’t know,” she says eventually.

She doesn't know?

I hate her for that. Inside I am screaming. At least make it real, make it worth it! All this misery and mess the two of you have tangled us all up in.

She sits down next to me, and I stiffen. I can’t help it.

“I never meant for any of it to happen,” she says eventually. “I love Scott. I know… I know you don’t want to believe that right now.”

She’s wrong. I want to believe that more than anything.

“And Logan?”

“I should have never…” she trails off. “You know, when I was growing up, I used to read those trashy romance novels. Hundreds of them. I used to hide them in my science books so that no one would know. It took me a long time to realise that they’re nothing like real life. Love is... awkward. Sometimes… sometimes I wish more than anything that Logan had never come here. That things were simple again.”

“But he did,” I say, as I hop off the med lab bed and walk to the door. “And they’re not.”

---

I don’t go back to my room. For some reason I can’t face it. My room is my haven, it’s untainted, and right now I feel like I’d dirty it. I use the showers in the changing rooms instead, peel off the tightness of my uniform and step into the sudsy warmth where I can let the water pummel and clean me until I feel ready to face the world again.

I pick up one of the spare pairs of sweats and dress myself without thought. Right now I really don’t care what I look like.

That done, I wonder the corridors in a bid to simply keep going. I'm scared of the thoughts that stillness might bring. I head for the rec room, but happy chatter spills out through the door into the corridor and I change my mind. It feels wrong, I don’t belong there tonight. The echoing laughter excludes me.

Instead, without really thinking about what I’m doing, I go to Logan's room. Jean’s tending Scott, and the part of me that isn’t struck numb wants to steal what I can from the time with him while I have it. Like a thief.

Maybe that's what I am.

“It’s open,” he calls when I knock on the door. There’s a cold breeze in his room and it takes me a moment to realise that he’s out on the balcony. I can see his silhouette against the night. The red glow of his cigar flares as he takes in a mouthful of smoke before looking over his shoulder at me.

“Borrow my jacket kid,” he says. “It’s cold out here.”

It’s reassuringly heavy as I slip my arms into the sleeves. It’s far too big, but it’s warm and thick and smells deliciously like him.

He’s leaning on the railings, but he shuffles over to make room for me.

“You okay?” His cigar smoke curls around me, gives me the cravings I thought I’d lost when his healing faded. But I don’t answer. I’m not sure I can even bring myself to speak.

“It wasn’t a nice one, for your first.”

They’re never nice. But he knows that. He’s just trying to make me feel better.

“You need a drink?”

Drink. Ha. Logan’s answer to everything. I shake my head. I don’t know what I need, but I’m pretty sure that won’t help. Not tonight.

He looks away for a moment. “Y’know, no one would blame you if you didn’t want go on the next one.”

That rubs my stubborn streak. “I’m not quitting, Logan.” It’s quiet, but I say it. And when he turns to look at me, I expect a lecture. But instead I think he’s secretly proud.

“Fair enough.” Then he’s silent for a while. “It gettin’ to you?”

“No.” It’s an obvious lie, but he doesn't question it. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here. He probably needs his solitude as much as I need his company.

I turn to go, but a warm hand finds its way on to my shoulder and stops me.

“Come with me,” he says. “Let me show you something.”

He leads me towards the quiet side of the mansion where the lights are already switched off for the night. Strips of moonlight spill in through corridor windows, but no one disturbs the peace around here. No one but us.

In one of the smaller rooms, she sleeps, the little girl. She’s been bathed and wrapped in fresh layers of warm clothes, and someone’s teddy is clutched in her hand.

Logan opens the door soundlessly. I can see the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The quite rhythm of her breathing. And it fills me with peace.

“We did good kid,” he says softly in my ear. “You did good.”

And I know what he’s been trying to tell me. It’s never nice. But it’s always worth it.

After the first mission, I throw myself into my training. I decide to take a different track and ignore the tensions running rife through the mansion in the hope that they will go away. But they don’t. The longer Logan stays. The worse they get.

Since Scott and Jean got engaged I know she’s not sleeping with Logan any more, although I can’t quite bring myself to a place where I can give Jean credit for that. Even though I know Logan flirts like hell. Especially when Scott’s around.

There will be a sidelong glance, a touch that lingers a little too long. And the next day Logan will be sent on a solo mission that takes him far away from the Mansion.

A week later and the game will begin anew. A casual comment. Some idle gossip. And suddenly Scott feels the need to throw a belated engagement party. We can all see what he’s doing. He just wants to rub Logan’s nose in it. Stake his claim.

To be honest I don’t even blame him.

It’s late now, and the celebrations have been going most of the night, but I’ve reached my limit of enforced happiness. With a slight wave to Jubilee, I step outside, instantly relishing the freshness of the night air on my face and the muffling of the music as the door shuts behind me.

I sigh to myself. Better. This is better.

Logan of course, although invited, didn’t show. There were speeches, congratulations, but he remained conspicuous only by his absence.

I find him by the lake with a six pack and a cigar for company. He’s on his back, just staring blankly upwards. There’s already several empty bottles beside him. Big ones. The sort that hold strong liquor.

He says nothing as I approach, but he must know I’m here. He will have heard me long before I even saw him, yet he remains stubbornly quiet.

I’m the one forced to break the silence.

“So are you star gazing? Or are you just drunk?”

To my relief that brings a ghost of a smile to his face. He doesn’t look up at me, just pats the empty ground beside him in invitation. “Haven’t decided yet, kid.”

I’m not sure what sort of an answer that is, but I go and sit by him anyway. It really is a pretty night. The sky is completely clear, a vast pool of black speckled with flecks of brilliant light.

“You want a beer?”

Not really, but at least it will give me something to do with my hands. I shrug. “Okay.”

He sits up to pass me one, and our bare fingers brush for a second. I’ve been practising, my control’s been getting better, and I’m not wearing gloves tonight.

As my fingers close round the bottle, his gaze lingers just a little too long.

“How’s that comin’?” he asks.

“My control? Not bad.” I smooth my thumb over the thick glass and revel at the feel of it without the barrier of cloth. “The Professor’s been helping me concentrate. I’ve increased my time from a few moments, to almost an hour.” Words can’t describe how proud I am at that. It’s not easy. In fact it’s a constant uphill struggle. But it is improving.

Slowly.

“I’m pleased for you.” And I know he genuinely is. He knows how much I want this. A chance to be normal.

I take a long swig of my beer to hide what could almost be a smile. Then he brings the conversation back round to her.

“How’s the party?” he asks. There’s an edge to his voice.

I try not to let my disappointment show. “You know,” I shrug, forcing my voice to remain light. “Same old. Speeches, dancing, more speeches.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It’s not that bad. Just a little overcrowded, that’s all.” I felt like I was suffocating in there. All those people, all dancing, having fun, pressed in against each other. I had to get out. “I needed some fresh air and open space.”

A hint of a smile touches the corners of his mouth. “You sound like me when you say stuff like that.”

I take another swig of my beer and don’t point out the obvious. “It’s a nice night,” I say in my defence. “It’s calm out here, there’s nothing but the sound of the trees… and the lake sloshing over the stones…”

“And the dull thump of the music from inside.”

“That too.” I smirk, and he huffs out something that's almost a laugh.

But all too soon it fades. And then he’s looking at me so strangely. “Why’d you come here Marie? Really? Why do you bother with me?”

Something crushes within me, the moment suddenly gone. I don’t want to answer that, I don’t even know how to. So I stand up. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

“No.” I think the word comes out more forcefully than he expected. So he adds, “Stay. I’ve had a hell of a day. Could use the company.”

His hand reaches out for mine and holds it firmly, pulling me back down. It’s strong and warm, and all the while a silent battle is raging inside my head. I mustn’t show him how I feel. I mustn’t give myself away. And on top of that I have to fight for control, to stop my skin from sucking him in.

I can’t hold it off for long. I can’t concentrate and I’m forced to pull away. It happens a little more sharply than I intended, and a brief frown crosses his face, before I’m compelled to explain with a quiet, ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

He gives me a nod, and doesn’t push the matter.

We talk then, about the safe things. Fight tactics. Missions. Meetings. Training. He drinks more and more. More than I’ve ever seen him drink, but when the night grows too cold he still insists on walking me back to the Mansion. Which is stupid really. No one can get in to the grounds here, and even if they could, I’m perfectly able to defend myself.

When we get to my door however, he hesitates. Usually he just gives me a rough hug or drops a chaste kiss on my cheek and leaves. But tonight he hovers close. Leaning closer, until my back is pressed against the wood in an effort to keep that distance I need.

A hand reaches out to brush a strand of hair back from my face, and those two furrows appear, lining his forehead. “What goes on in that head of yours?” he says, almost with an element of curiosity. His voice is soft, but remains perfectly level. There’s no sign of the drink lacing it. “You’re so quiet. So closed off to everyone. Even me.”

The hand reaches for my cheek and I flinch back slightly, a reflex from the days when my skin could kill.

“Rogue?”

Oh.

I hate it when he uses that name. Even when he says it softly, like he does.

I stare down at my feet.

“Look at me.”

My shoulders rise and fall, and I turn my head to the side, but I do not meet his gaze. Not until he reaches a thumb under my chin and tilts it up, so I am forced. My thought’s laid bare to those hazel eyes.

I want to hide it from him. I want to so badly, but my chin trembles and I know I’m not able to. Not this time.

A strange look crosses his face. “I see,” he says. And for the first time, I know that he knows.

He sees me.

Hot colour flairs up in my cheeks and I try and push him away. “Please, just go.”

But he’s being stubborn, refusing to do as I ask, so I decide to make the first move instead. My fingers fumble for the door handle behind me and I twist it open.

For a moment I think I’ve got away with it, but he sees the movement and catches my shoulder before I can escape into my room. Then he steps closer, invading my space, his jeans almost brushing against mine.

He drops that brotherly kiss on my cheek, before he turns to go.

My fingers are shaking, but I manage to close the door behind me before I sink back against the wall, the silent tears of frustration running in blotchy streams down my face as I slide down to the floor and bury my head in my hands.

---

Logan disappeared again. No one was surprised.

He took off. Presumably because he couldn’t handle Scott and Jean and their togetherness. Even I can’t handle them right now. I’m feeling sore and bitter and God damn it everyone else should be too.

Up until last week, until that night by the lake, I could tell myself that there was nothing between Logan and I because he didn’t know how I felt. Because I was so good at keeping it a secret. Ha. What a big fat lie that turned out to be.

He knows. And he still took off. And all that he left was one small note, weighted down with a mug on my desk.

Didn’t want to make things awkward for you.

Heh. Yeah thanks Logan. Didn’t want to have to make me feel bad for wanting him when he could give nothing in return. So considerate.

I threw the note away and stormed out of my room. Then five minutes later, I came back and pulled it out of the trash, just in case. There was still some stupid feeble residue of hope.

It’s still hidden in my draw between a book and a postcard of the town I grew up in.

I wish it didn’t hurt as much as it does.

---

Life determinedly trips on by, but I can’t concentrate on anything. My training slacks off, I still work hard, but my heart’s not in it. Scott snaps at me for missing obvious threats. I can’t focus, and that worries me. I don’t want to become a liability. I’m already enough of a danger as it is with my skin.

And that’s another thing. Maybe it’s because I’m not practising every day with Bobby, maybe it’s because the hope that kept me going gazed moon-eyed at Jean, then ran back off to Canada, who knows, but my control's not as strong. It’s fading.

Sometimes I can get a grip on it, I can go for nearly an hour, act like I'm normal. But others… it wrenches out of my grasp. I hurt Jubilee the other day. Badly. We were only working out together, she knocked me for six and held out a hand to pull me to my feet. My mutation kicked in before I had time to even register it.

She went down so fast I was terrified. She didn’t have time to react, her face was just frozen in shock and she crumpled without a sound. She had to spend the night in the med bay and she’s still unsteady on her feet. She keeps telling me it wasn’t my fault, but she’s not Logan, she doesn’t heal from these things, and I feel sick about what I could have done to her.

It’s this that fuels my decision to get away for a while.

I seek out the Professor. Ask for some time off. It’s not like I’ve had any other vacation time, and I think he, more than anyone else, is aware of what’s going on in my head.

Heh. He’s probably even more aware than I am.

I borrow the beat up old truck that stands out like an eyesore next to the metallic sleekness of the classic car collection in the garage. Scott’s only too pleased to let me have it, he practically forces the keys upon me. It’s only when I go to explore my new acquisition that I discover it has Logan’s touch all over it. Another one of his projects. Just like me. No wonder Scott wanted to get rid of it.

I head down south, back towards the place where I grew up. It’s a long journey by road, but I don’t mind. I like the solitude. It gives me time to think. I enjoy the strange break from routine. I sleep when I want, eat when I want, and I don’t have to worry about accidentally touching someone when my power’s turned on.

I can tell, now, when I'm alone. Tell if it's on or off. It's subtle. Just an edge of a feeling. But its enough for me to notice.

Enough for me to practice with.

All by myself I increase my time to two hours. Then three. Then an entire morning. Yesterday I even touched a complete stranger. The guy behind the counter at a cheap diner. He brushed my hand when passing me my change, completely unaware of what a big step this was for me.

I take the journey to my home state slow, stop off at lots of places along the way. I tell myself that it’s because I’m savouring it, but I think if I’m honest it’s more to do with being nervous of what I’ll find when I get there. Each familiar landmark jolts a memory.

I had only planned to go as far as the outskirts. Stay for a while, enjoy the Southern food. But now I’m here and I’m so close, I can’t quite resist the draw of going home.

I find myself driving the old streets of my home town without really planning to be there. When I stop at a light, I take the opportunity to look around. I remember walking down this stretch of the sidewalk so many times. Some of the shops have changed, but others are still exactly as they were, almost frozen in time. The sign on the laundromat is still broken. Groups of students still hang around outside the school, smoking and laughing as they lounge over the steps out front.

I wonder what my old friends are doing now. Would they even recognise me? Did they know why I left?

Butterflies flutter nervously in my stomach as the lights change and I drive on. I head down my street to pull up outside my old house. My heart aches to see it. So familiar. So many things exactly the same. This is where I grew up. The tree over there, I fell out of that when I was five. The gate dad always used to yell at me for swinging on. The scent of early blossoms that smell so much like home that it almost makes me want to cry.

I never thought I’d come back here.

My hand finds the handle of the truck and I wonder if I’ve got the courage to get out and knock on the front door. What would happen if I did? Would they be happy to see me?

But then the car that pulls up in the drive is unfamiliar, and the people that step out unknown to me. A mother helps her daughter out of the back seat. A father shields his eyes from the sun as he looks across the road at my battered car and wonders who I am, and my heart sinks.

They’ve gone.

---

Several days later and I'm in an average motel room. It has an average sized bed, an average roll up blind, and average coloured carpet. Grey-ish. With a faded blue squares. A less than average TV sits on a dresser. An cheap bottle of water stands behind two average sized glasses. It's the same as every other motel room I've stayed in for the past month.

Maybe it's time to go home.

I don't move though. Don't get up from my place on the bed.

It's strange. I know I can move. I know I could make that decision. In fact, I know that I even want to.

I just... don't.

Maybe I'm just average, too.

Eventually I fall asleep. I dream of my childhood and swinging around in circles on that rope swing beneath the tree in the yard. I sleep heavily, well into the following morning. It's as if I haven't truly slept in years.

The loud ring of my cell phone jolts me awake. It takes me a few moments to realise it's not the alarm. I fumble around on the average dresser beside me, find the offending object and briefly consider simply switching it off. But that's not who I am.

I sit up, rub a hand over my face before answering. “Hello?”

“Rogue.”

“Scott?” My heart immediately speeds up. He's not the last person I'd expect to hear from, but he's hardly the first. Something must be wrong. “What is it?”

He gets straight to the point. Calm. Controlled. As always. “We’ve got another pick up,” he says. “We could really use your help on this one.”

---

Turns out that I'm the closest. The rest of the team can't be here for several hours and they need someone to go in and scout out the situation.

Of course I said yes. How could I not?

My first solo mission.

I get there by following Scott's detailed directions. He took the time to go through them with me properly. Preparation, he said. It was important.

The Logan in me wanted to go rushing right in and tear something up. Strange how that part always seems to rise to the front in situations like this.

It's not a long drive. Half an hour, at most. To a backwater place that's almost hidden by the trees surrounding it.

When I do get there, I realise it's a disaster. Literally.

It was a safe house for mutants, at least, that's what Scott was told. There's not much left of it now, though. A fire has eaten away at most of the roof, leaving a smoking dark hole in its stead. The walls are clean and upright in some places, with curtains still attached and waving lightly in the wind, while in other places they're little more than piles of rubble.

I hear someone wailing. It smells like charred wood and death.

I reach for my cell. Thumb in the number blindly, listen to it ring without taking my eyes of the carnage sprawled in front of me. How many people lived here? It's huge, almost the size of the school.

“Rogue.” Scott’s voice is authoritative, reassuring. It feels close, like he's stood behind me, coaching me in class, not down the other end of the phone. “We're on our way. ETA three hours. Can you give us an update?”

I don't know what to say to that. It looks like the place has been bombed to hell. How could anyone have survived that?

“Rouge?”

“It's a mess,” I say quietly.

Scott doesn't judge the tremor in my voice. “You can wait for us,” he says. “No one expects you to-”

“No,” I say back, and I’m surprised by how much I mean it. Suddenly the chance to be able to do something, something that doesn’t involve Logan, that doesn’t involve any of them fills me with more sense of purpose than I have felt in months. “I can handle it.” And I flip my cell shut before I have time to change my mind.

I know Scott will send in backup when he gets here. I know the emergency services won't be called. Not for a place like this. I’m not stupid. But I have three hours in which to make a difference. Or at least, a start.

The first body I find is just that. A body. Nothing much left of the person it used to be. I try not to gag as I move on past. Pick my way through the rubble.

The next body is just the same. And the next. The fourth was only a child. There's not much left of the right side of his face, but his dark hair is still glossy and well kept. Like he was made to wash it just this morning.

I turn away. I'm too horrified to even cry.

The fifth body is not even recognisable. This time I am sick. I crouch, doubled over, leaning on the remains of an armchair. It still has half of its patterned quilt draped over the back, and I clutch at it as I wretch. I can't help myself. I get up afterwards, though. I don't let it stop me. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and carry on.

The deeper I go into the shell of the house, the more dangerous the way becomes. My training comes into play; assessing the situation; recognising the instability of the floor. The stairs look likely to collapse at any time. The crying that I heard earlier is getting louder though, so I don't stop. I head in further. There has got to be at least one person I can save. There has to.

I need there to be.

Because if I can't do this, then I can't do anything.

I head up the broken staircase even though I know it's not safe. I'm not reckless, far from it. In fact, my legs are shaking as they carry me upwards. I'm terrified. But I don't turn back. I walk carefully along a broken corridor. Most of the wall is missing, but at the end one door remains.

When I open that, I find what I'm looking for. Two of them. Huddled together in a black sooty mess. Neither can be any more than fourteen.

I take my time, ask them to trust me. I try and be like Ororo; calm amid the chaos. It's not easy, I tell them. Trusting someone after what they've been through. But if they let me help, then I can show them the way out.

I tell them to shut their eyes as I lead them. They let me guide them. Hands clasped on to my hands. No gloves. Just trust and terror all mixed up.

When they're outside and sitting on the ruined front drive, I head back in. Determined.

By the time Scott and the rest of the team arrives, I'm as covered in grime and soot as the survivors. And there are seven of them. Seven people who's lives I have helped save today. And I'm not sure how to handle that. Or what to make of it.

The only thing I know for sure is that I'm exhausted. As soon as I sit down, I simply fall asleep.

I blink as I wake. Drowsy and disorientated, it takes me a moment to realise it was the feel of the jet lurching to a halt that pulled me from sleep.

I'm home.

A thick kind of weariness settles over me. As the hatch opens, I get assailed by the smell of the engine fuel choking the air. Hands help me upright and guide me down the steps, each one clanking under my boots. I don't pay much attention to where we're going. I just keep moving, do as I'm told, flinching from the glare of each underground light we pass. Then we're at the medbay. Just a precaution, they tell me. Jean's voice is kind. Scott's is proud. I did well. He keeps telling me that.

Logan's voice is there, too. He must have come back again, I realise belatedly. No one told me. Maybe he asked them not to. Didn't want to make things awkward. I don't really hear what he says. I don't hear anything. The three of them are just a general hum of noise that fades into nonsensical tones as my eyelids grow heavier. I just want to sleep. I just want to leave the three of them to it and disappear from existence.

Is that so much to ask?

I don't even notice the uncomfortable hardness of the medbay bed. I just curl up on the sterile white sheets, smearing them with dirt and grime, and I fall right back to sleep again.

---

It's evening again before I wake up properly. I've slept through a full night and the following day. I don't think I've ever slept that much before.

When I sit up my vision swims. My head's all fuzzy; filled with that thick, blanketing fog that only comes after a really deep night's sleep. I ache all over as well, which doesn't help. Especially my hands. They're cut to shreds from digging through rubble.

And I stink.

God, as I notice it, the smell becomes overpowering. A burnt stench that stings my nose and makes my eyes water.

I look at the nightshirt that Jean must have left for me at the end of the bed. As soon as I can get to my feet, the shower is the first place I head to. I scour everything away until I at least look like Marie again, even if I don't feel like her.

Never nice, but always worth it.

The bright lights in the underground complex flick on one by one as I walk through the otherwise deserted corridor. When I reach the teaching levels, I notice that night has already taken over. The classrooms are empty. The cafeteria and the rec room too. It must be later than I thought.

I hesitate, lost for a moment.

Part of me wants to head up to Logan's room like I always used to do. Just for the company, I tell myself. Just for the comfort. But things are different now that he knows, so I can't. It would seem... wrong. Pathetic.

I don't want to be pathetic tonight.

Instead I pull on a coat and step outside, walk barefoot around the gardens for a bit. I breathe in the cold night air until it clears my head and I can think in straight lines again.

I did a good thing. I know this. Given the opportunity, I would do exactly the same again without hesitation. I know this too. It's just... I still see it all when I close my eyes. I can still hear them. Yesterday I was up to my elbows in blood and death, and I coped. Today I feel like I'm supposed to slip back into some sort of normal again, and I can't even remember what normal is. Surely normal should be easier?

Never nice...

I take a deep breath, and take the cowards way out. I keep walking and try really hard to think of something else instead.

---

When I finally head up to my room, it's long past midnight. I'm more awake than I was, but I'm restless and uncomfortable in my own skin. I consider watching TV or reading a book, but the thought of doing something so mundane makes me feel trapped. I could unpack my clothes from the holdall that someone thought to bring from the back seat of my truck, but the idea just frustrates me. I could find my gloves. Put them back on. Anything to give me some sense of control. Because I feel like I'm teetering on an edge, and I can't quite decide whether I'm going to run away or scream and throw myself off.

I can't even decide which edge I'm teetering on.

I stare at my door for a long moment. It doesn't provide any answers.

Irrationally, I hate it for that.

With a sigh I step inside. Turn on the light. But when I blink at the sudden brightness it brings, I … hesitate. Freeze where I'm stood.

Because Logan's there, sat in my chair. Waiting for me.

Something inside me just crumples, and I start to cry.

It's no great scene from a romance novel. Logan isn't over in an instant, sweeping me off my feet. He doesn't say all the right things to ensure we live happily ever after. Instead there's this horribly awkward moment when he just looks at me, obviously unsure of how not to make this worse. The Wolverine; perplexed by what to do with the sobbing girl standing in her own doorway. It would be funny if it wasn't so damn tragic.

But then he does get to his feet. He does come over. “Shh kid,” he says. Gruff, but comforting. And when I don't stop crying, he does wrap his strong arms around me, drawing me in, doing everything he shouldn't. He feels so safe. So warm and solid, that when I bury my face in his shirt, the familiar smell of him overwhelms me.

He pulls us both back down to the chair, slowly stretching out his legs to get comfortable. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to. I thought I'd lost this, and the realisation that I haven't makes me cry even harder.

He holds me close, one hand around my waist, the other stroking my hair. “It's okay,” he says, softly. “It's okay.”

And whether it is or not, I no longer care. I can breathe him in. In this moment that's all that matters. I'm half delirious with fatigue and shock, and he is my anchor and I don't want to let him go. I don't ever want to let him go.

I don't know how long we just sit there. Him, and me, and comfort. But when my fingers find his collar, he lets me pull him closer. When my wet cheek moves to press against his, he doesn’t resist. “It's okay,” he says, again. Breathing the words past my ear.

And when I move again, when he's so close that I can't even focus on him, I just close my eyes, lean my head a little to the right, so that we're not so much cheek to cheek as...

He tenses slightly, but he doesn't pull back. And as I press my lips against his, he lets me do that too. Arms still comforting as he lets me kiss him. Hands still warm against my back. His chest moving against mine and the steady thud of his heartbeat.

Eventually I come to my senses and pull away. Look down. Almost ashamed. “Sorry,” I mumble. I can see his lips are damp, wet from my mouth, and I feel the urge to wipe them off. To try and make amends. Mortified, I attempt to get up, but he’s holding me still, though he won’t look at me.

“Logan,” I try, but he stops me, the tips of his fingers pressing against my lips. Then that gaze meets mine, he draws me closer, and the coolness left behind when he takes those fingers away is replaced by the warmth of his breath, then the heat of his mouth.

It’s gentle. Warm. Searching. He tastes like the whiskey he must have drank earlier that night. I feel his hands run up and down my sides. No longer so soothing, but... exploring. And when he picks me up, wrapping my legs around him as he carries me to my bed, I forget about every bit of sense I've ever had drummed into me, and I let him.

The bed creaks and his body feels strangely heavy against mine. I feel him kick off his boots, hear the thud they make as they hit the floor. I'm not really sure what I should be doing, but it doesn't seem to matter. His mouth is hot against my shoulder as he slides the thin straps of my nightdress down. His fingers brush my hair out of my face, hesitating on the strands of white, before reaching for the buttons of his own shirt, pulling it over his head, never once moving far away from me. And when he lies back down he's all heat and skin and warmth.

His hands send tremors through me. The nightdress is slid lower and lower, until I close my eyes and feel the silky material slide over my toes. Then he's working his way back up my body, slowly, and my muscles are liquid and it's so hard to think.

My hand grips the sheets when his tongue first touches my skin. The sound that escapes me is more of a plea than a word, and his eyes darken in response. I reach towards his face, feel the rough stubble along his jawline until he stops to look at me. A slight flick of his head and he captures my fingers with his teeth, drawing them into his mouth, tongue sliding up and down each one in a gesture that’s so erotic my stomach clenches.

I begin to feel him move against me, through his jeans. I can feel the solidness of him. Slow and sensual.

Oh God.

When he releases my fingers, he takes them in his hand and slides them down the muscled hardness of his chest, down so that the tips of my fingers just disappear below the waist of his jeans. This time when he moves against me, I can feel the tip of him. Hot. Damp. His hands reach between us for his buckle, and as he unhitches it I can smell the scent of sex, the salty musky smell that grows as I help him slide the jeans off.

He leans over me and presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. Then the other. Each time getting higher, until I arch up against him with a sound that's unintelligible on my lips. All the while my pulse is thudding through my ears; my mind is racing, and I keep thinking, we're going to do this. We're really going to do this. Until I can't think at all, and fingers are tugging at the sides of my panties, pulling the scrap of material downwards, and then suddenly he’s there again. Moving up my body; hips easing my legs apart, his face is above mine, and I can feel... oh...

He kisses me and there is the taste of me on his lips. Then his hips shift and he’s pressing against me. Pressing into me. Slowly. His jaw clenching as he fights to control it. And it... hurts. I knew it would... but... it stings, and it doesn’t stop. Not until I can feel him deep within me.

It’s so strange, not at all how I imagined it to be. It’s so…real, and it’s…

I need a moment. I need some time to get used to the feel of this, but he mistakes my sharp gasp for something else. Instead his mouth goes to nuzzle my neck as he flexes his hips against me and it hurts again. He finds my collar bone, then my ear. I can feel him moving; each push, his fingers tangling with mine above my head, catching on my hair as I grit my teeth. With every movement I can hear his breathing grow heavier; I can see his face, only inches above my own. I can feel the sweat form on his skin, both of our bodies damp with it.

“M’rie,” he pauses. Looks down at me, when he realises how still I’ve become.

I can’t meet his eye.

“Marie?” His voice is husky, but firmer this time. “You want me to stop?”

I can’t even bring myself to answer him. God this is a mess. I’m a mess. What am I even doing? I shake my head. “No.” That would be worse because we'd always have this awkward, unfinished thing between us. But I just want it to be over.

He props himself up on his elbows and he frowns down upon me as he brushes my damp hair carefully out of my face. “Does it hurt?”

I clench my lips together and manage a shaky nod.

I feel him shift above me, and for a moment I think he’s going to get up. My hands instinctively try to pull him back down. “Don’t, please.”

Don’t make it worse than it already is.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. He just pulls us both upright, so that he’s kneeling and I’m pressed warmly against him.

Then he leans close and moves his mouth over mine, doing nothing but kissing me. He’s gentle and considerate, none of the things I'd expect him to be, and despite everything, it starts to warm that fire in my belly again.

When he feels me begin to kiss back, his hands begin a steady slide down from my shoulders to my legs, his hands hooking under my knees to wrap them around his hips. When he moves against me I begin to tense, but he whispers a murmur in my ear. “Relax.” It’s followed by a guttural break of his voice as he moves again, and the sound sends sensation tingling back through me.

His hips grind into mine again, his eyes closing, that same sound. It’s that, the noises he makes, the way his breathing starts to go tense and choppy, that's what wakes the twist of desire. I start to forget the hurt, I just focus on the feel of him.

And when I begin to arch towards him, move with him, he groans, and moves harder.

The hand that’s not clenched on to mine slides behind my back, then lower, pushing me up against him in just the right spot, so that my feet are sliding on the damp of his back, toes curling into the scrunched up sheets, my body arching into his, harder and harder as I feel the pressure grow and grow until it has no where to go, except... oh God...

I feel him with me as I come. Hear the frenzied sounds on his lips, his face buried in my neck as he’s desperately reaching, pulsing into me, gripping me so tightly that I know there’ll be bruises in the morning.

The return to reality is slow. It’s a long while before either of us moves.

Eventually cramp starts to tingle through my legs, and I know I’m going to have to untangle myself from him. He catches my face before I can, though. Makes me look at him. “Okay?” He looks tired, but concern is etched there.

I give him a slightly shaky smile. “Yeah.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Good.” Then he twists us both around and pulls the covers over us. And despite it all, I sleep.

---

When I wake up, he’s gone.

I don’t even notice it straight away, but the knowledge slowly creeps in with the light of morning. A sense of coldness instead of the heavy warmth that had been there throughout the night. A dawning realisation that prickles over my skin.

For a moment it hurts so much that I can hardly breathe. I’m wrapped in my covers, the scent of him lingers on everything around me, there's still a dent in my pillow where his head lay, but he’s not there.

He really has gone.

What did I expect? That I'd be different?

I screw up my eyes. Draw in a shaky breath. It takes me a moment to get myself under control, but I do manage it. A feat of pure willpower alone.

I get up, walk over to my dresser and open my draws, like I'm a perfectly normal functioning individual who is doing nothing but getting dressed. Not someone who's feels ashamed of what they did. Not someone who feels like everything inside of them is not so much shattering, as slowly being crushed.

He just got up and left.

I pick out some clothes. Pull them on. Reach under my bed for my trainers. I tie the laces in tight knots. I scrape my hair back into a neat ponytail. It feels controlled. Then I'm heading for the door, and I'm looking at my feet, and-

The door swings open.

He’s standing there. Balancing a tray in one hand, I can smell coffee, toast. He’s dressed, but all mussed up from sleep, and it looks like he did it in a hurry; he’s barefoot in his jeans and his shirt is one button out, so the tail end of one side hangs below his belt.

It makes me want to cry.

A look crosses his face when he sees my state of dress. “You leavin’?” he says softly. “You had a pretty rough day yesterday. I was gonna wake you up with breakfast.”

And I don’t know what to say to that. Because he is here. And the breakfast gesture is so unlike him that it makes my soul ache with longing. But this is not right. What I'm feeling is not right. None of this is right.

I have to take a few moments. Get myself under control. I can feel my jaw tremble, so I bite my lip. Flex my fingers in to fists.

“I thought you’d gone,” I say carefully, and I see the way this makes him stiffen.

He puts the tray down on the dresser before turning back to me. “You really think I’d do that?” He steps close, a thumb tilts my chin up towards him. “After…?” He can’t quite bring himself to say it.

I don’t need to answer, the look on my face says it all.

“I’m a bastard, Marie, but I’m not that much of a bastard.” He leans towards me, as if to kiss me again. But I move away.

“What?” he says, confusion clouding his vision. “I thought it was what you wanted.”

And that little declaration makes my mind up for me.

It's funny, isn't it, how sometimes moments of complete clarity come at you when you least expect them. When your head is pounding with other emotions, and you want to be anywhere but where you actually are.

Because I finally have the chance for everything I ever wanted.

And it's not enough.

Last night, he let me use him. Comfort. That's what it is between us. The fact that he came back? The breakfast? This is all about me, isn't it? Fixing me up again. Helping me out. But not actually...

When I look into his eyes, I see someone that cares. I see my best friend. Someone who will look out for me and put my life before his own. But all of that is overshadowed by a love that controls him. And that's not for me. It was never for me.

“Marie?”

I take a deep breath. It's shuddery, not very assertive. And I wish I was assertive right now. “It’s not about what I want,” I say, slowly. My voice sounds a little distant. Like it's someone else speaking.

“Okay,” he says. Reasonable. He doesn't even try to argue. I almost wish he would. That way at least I'd know there was enough emotion in this conversation to make him feel something.

“So what is it about?” He folds his arms.

“You already know.”

“Pretend I don't.”

“Don't play with me, please.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You're the one kicking me out in the mornin'. You even gonna tell me why?” He sounds grouchy, and he has no right. No fucking right.

“What do you think, Logan? I'm not blind. I'm not stupid. Or...” my hand goes to wipe my eyes and I can't believe I'm fucking crying. “Maybe I am stupid. I just wish...”

“What?”

“That things were different.”

He's careful now, when he speaks. Like he's considering his words. “In... what way?”

“Just... different.” A world where I did not wish I had red hair and long legs just to attract his attention.

“That ain't really-”

“You love her, don't you.”

To that he says nothing. His mouth flattens into a tense line. He looks away.

It's all the answer I need.

I back away.

“Marie,” he says, reaching forwards, but I shake my head and keep my distance.

“One of us might as well be happy. Let me make you happy.”

Oh that really doesn't help. “You think you settling for me could make me happy?

“I'm not settling. I just-”

“Stop it. Just... just stop it.”

No more. Please.

No more.

I leave him in my room. Walk right out the door. And I don't look back.

---

I leave him the same ripped up note. Shove it under a beer bottle on his desk. Next to an earring that was probably Jean's.

Didn't want to make things awkward for you.

I have finally made some decisions.

I no longer want to be the obligation, or the one that watches from a distance. I don't want to be the one he feels he should be with just because she wants it so damn much. I don't want to have him in my bed only to wonder who he's thinking of. Or if he's faithful.

I don't want to be broken by this my whole life.

I don't want to let it define me.

I am more than this.

So I leave. For good, this time.

Time heals everything, right? Isn't that what people say?

It's been over two years since I left the Mansion. That should be plenty of time. Sometimes two years can stretch thin and seem to last forever. Others it can be gone within the blink of an eye. My two years were definitely the former, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

The sun goes in behind a cloud and I’m grateful for the long black cardigan I wrap around me. My house is small, but comfortable. It's not too far from the sea, and when I'm lying still at night, I can just about hear the rhythmic sound of the waves as they crawl up over the sands and shush back down again.

I got a letter. Almost a year and a half ago, now. From Scott. I'm not sure why he felt the need to write. Maybe he just had to share what he was feeling with someone who would understand. Jean called off the engagement. No one was surprised. Not really. Not even Scott.

She moved in with Logan a week later. She was expecting his child.

I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel about that at first. Angry? Hurt? I stared at the letter, at Scott's neat handwriting, for hours. Just trying understand my emotions.

The strange thing was that mostly I was just relieved. The thing I had been dreading for years had finally happened. In a funny way, now that it was tangible, I could deal with it far better than I ever could before. There would be no more false hope. No more wishing for something to be more than it was.

Maybe the whole thing was just a part of growing up. Isn't that what people call it when your heart breaks and you simply have to put one foot in front of the other to get through the day? When you wonder how something that's not actually physical can hurt so much? Until one day you realise that carrying on, in itself, helps. And people get over this sort of thing everyday. Other people, yes. Not you. But if other people can, surely you can try?

Or something like that.

As for what I did? Where I went? I took some time to think. I visited New Orleans. Then decided that wasn't far enough. Thailand. New Zealand. Took a flight to Peru. Climbed Machu Picchu.

Then I called the Professor with the beginnings of an idea.

A safe house, far smaller than the Mansion. With the Professor's funds and contacts, I built it. Now I help with mutant rehabilitation. Those that were test subjects, the young ones, I help them prepare for the real world again. I help them rebuild their life, and through that, I rebuild mine. It's given me purpose. Focus. Direction. All those things I was missing.

And out of all the people I lived and worked with at the Mansion, it was Scott who kept in touch.

He came to help me set the project up, initially. Visiting every couple of weeks or so. He was a calm head, good at organising the details. He told me that was why the Professor had sent him. We both knew it wasn't true, but I understood what he was going through well enough to pretend to believe him. He just wanted to get away from the Mansion as much as I did. No one could blame him.

Those were strange days, to start with. Neither of us very talkative. Vast amounts of work to achieve together. The awkwardness of having the man who had been, for all intents and purposes, my teacher, coming to stay so that he did not fall apart, yes that was very strange. Both of us concentrating so hard on not thinking about the obvious link between us.

But months passed, the safe house grew up around us, and I got used to it. Got used to him. Began to feel proud of what we could achieve. And somewhere along the line I no longer felt awkward. I smiled at the occasional joke he'd tell. Started to enjoy his phone calls. Started to look forward to his visits.

Last week, while doing something as mundane as fixing a blown bulb, he asked if he could visit more often. Maybe even... stay.

I've been thinking about it all day.

I think I might say yes.