She knows what her touch is like. Oh, she knows. Ma and Pa made her plenty aware of that. She looks in the mirror and sees the white-streaked freak that she is/was/will always be, and if there's one thing she's learned, it's this:
There's no fighting destiny.
--
When she first sees him, she knows that he is the shape of salvation.
--
He saves her.
He saves her then, he saves her now, and she can't even touch his hand.
--
So she watches him as he sleeps. And counts the number of ways she will miss him.
--
Do you remember Logan?
Do you remember?
--
She can't remember what it feels like, to touch another human being.
--
She slips the thinnest of gloves on her arms. No more vinyl, no more leather. No more hiding. For once, this is gauze-like, sheer, thin and almost like lace.
Now she pretends that this is her second skin. Her only tenuous, tactile connection to the rest of the world. Cut off, denied, stunted and shunned, all she has is a shadow of what it's like to touch.
--
'Logan,' she whispers, knowing better now, than to interrupt his vicious nightmares.
He's awake in an instant.
'Marie?'
'I'm going. I - I don't think I can stay.'
'Why?'
She smiles sadly. No answers. Not for him, not for her.
'Something's missing. Need to go find it.'
'Need help?'
'Nah.'
'Going solo?'
She smiles. 'You could say that.'
She hesitates, then cups his grizzled cheek in her gloved hand. He leans into her touch.
Sighing at the contact, she closes her eyes.
'Don't take too long,' he growls softly, 'otherwise I'll track you down and drag you back home.'
She smiles.
THE END
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