by Cúthalion
It had been raining for three days. Walking along the paths outside the mansion felt like some weird steeplechase; if you didn't dodge the deep puddles carefully, the water sloshed into your boots, drenching your socks. Storm's last outdoor roses were shedding their petals on the lawn; they'd made it through the first, thin layer of snow on the first frosty night, but they wouldn't survive the next.
Same as me.
Which didn't mean that I'd freeze to death any time soon. Of course not. I simply couldn't sleep. And after more than two weeks of tossing and turning in my bed in the college dorm, my legs were as heavy as lead, and my hands so clumsy that Bobby hurried protectively towards the coffee maker as soon as I came down to the kitchen the next Saturday morning. Two broken pots were enough, he said.
It all began the night the package came. After carrying the wristband around with me for a couple of very uncomfortable days, I kept it in the drawer of my nightstand now. I knew that it wouldn't burn a hole in my pocket, but it felt that way, that's for sure.
Why I didn't wear it? I wish I could say that I had no clue, but that would've been a lie. Late at night, with my eyes burning, my mind painfully clear and ringing with a multitude of misgivings, I knew.
I knew.
The deep peace I'd felt when I opened Logan's package was gone without a trace. During those long, sleepless hours I cursed my own shakiness, but I couldn't help it. Beside that wristband, there was so frighteningly little to make me believe in a miracle I never expected to happen. Not to me, anyway. One kiss, one evening in the kitchen and my hand in his while I told him the ancient story of a fooled giant... and the scrap of paper with Logan's words on it, the one I'd found at the bottom of the package. Send it back if you don't want it. But if you do, I'll bring the third apple on Thanksgiving. They belong together.
Still, one should think that it was enough. There were very few people I cared for as much as I cared for him, and I knew that he cared, too, and I should have known that it was enough, for heaven's sake.
I remembered quite vividly how it was to have him in my head, after that accident in his bedroom, and – much more intensely – after the statue. I could easily cope with the sudden craving of beer and cigars – even make fun of it - and my friends forgave me for practically snarling at anyone who passed me by or stood in my way. There were things I found much more difficult to handle. Certain images, the feeling of naked skin under hands that were and weren't mine, and a fierce, unrelenting hunger that took away my breath while roaring through my mind like dazzling fire... and made me blush to the roots of my hair when I caught some very detailed memories of how exactly it was sated.
But those details should at least have helped me to understand one thing: the fact that Logan sent me the wristband had to mean something, much more than just some passing interest. It looked like a promise... as strong and binding as the one he gave me years ago, on the train. Come on, I'll take care of you.
And yet, this was something else. This was more... wasn't it?
One kiss.
More than a year now since I'd taken the cure, and I could still count the number of “real” kisses I got with only one hand. There was the kiss I got from Bobby when I came back and touched him with my bare fingers, and maybe half a dozen afterwards – each of them as chaste and gentle as the first one. We didn't kiss anymore these days... of course not. It was Bobby who'd read my heart when I didn't dare to do so, and his generosity would have put me to shame --- only that I registered the way he looked at Kitty when he thought I was not watching. One day they'd be incredibly cute together, and with my full-hearted blessing.
One kiss.
The kiss I gave Logan, that morning back in August... the one that counted, the one that put my world upside down. That kiss opened a door that had been closed, locked and sealed for the better part of four years. It led from friendship to love, and now I was afraid to step over the threshold, because I was scared out of my wits that I might misread the signs.
God, I was such a terrible wuss.
Three weeks to Thanksgiving. Three weeks until I'd know if the door was actually open... and if Logan was waiting on the other side.
After nearly twenty days of sleeplessness I'd reached the absolute limit of what I was able to bear. My professors were beginning to wonder about my general disinterest and my glassy stares, and I was incredibly lucky that none of them had put any exams or essays on the schedule. I could take several roads now. I could plunder the poison chest of the Med Lab the very next weekend and use some of the little pills in there to shoot myself into the world of dreams night after night; but I really didn't feel comfortable with taking drugs. I could go and finally blow some steam off by telling Jubes about my dilemma – she'd be delighted, no doubt. But that would have meant that I had to tell her about the kiss, too... and I hadn't told anyone, not even Bobby. She would keep my secret, even though it was the juiciest piece of gossip she'd come across for months. She was a real friend and I knew I could trust her... and still I was unable to speak about it.
Or - the last option - I could write Logan a letter.
I'd tried. God knew I'd tried; I still had the number of the POB in Alberta, and the wastepaper bin beside my desk was filled with a heap of failed and shredded attempts. One of these days I'd have to carry the bin into the woods and make a bonfire before anyone discovered my secret struggle. What on earth did you write someone in a letter like this? Tell me if the wristband means what I think it means. Tell me I'm not mistaken, and that you'll come home not only as my best friend. Tell me I'm no idiot. Tell me that you... that you...
See? I couldn't even write it down.
Returning home to the mansion didn't really help. I didn't sleep any better in my own bed than I did in the dorm, and during the second Saturday night without any rest I decided to sneak down into the kitchen. This time it was cocoa, but I'd already tried every single homespun remedy against insomnia I could think of. Half a dozen of Storm's herbal teas, stolen from the cupboard, Indian chai, hot milk with honey, hot milk with brandy, even a hot toddy. The latter had left me half drunk, miserable... and still awake.
I walked through the empty hallways, my hands around the warm mug, and suddenly found myself in front of a door that had been mostly closed for years. Storm didn't use Xavier's study, even though she'd been Headmistress of the institute practically since he died. She had her own office, and perhaps it was still too much for her to take over what was his.
I opened the door – it wasn't locked – and was greeted by the familiar aroma of leather chairs and books. No smell of dust or mold; the room was always well-aired and scrupulously clean, as if some miracle might bring its resident back some day.
His wheelchair had been moved behind the desk. For a few days after his funeral, it had stood in the middle of the room, and a strong image sprang into my mind; me, sitting on the floor in front of it, the packed duffle between my knees. I had just watched Bobby and Kitty on the frozen fountain, and I was deadly determined to go. I would leave and take the cure, damn the consequences... and still I spent half an hour in the silent study, my head against the armrest of the wheelchair, talking to the man who was no longer there, telling him that I had reached the end of my rope. It was like asking for his blessing, and somehow I felt that he gave it to me, that he understood.
The Click! of the light switch was very loud in the silence, and gentle brightness spread from the green glass shade over the polished mahogany desktop. There were a few silver frames with photographs; one showing Xavier, still on two healthy legs, and another man beside him, his hair dark and untouched by the frost of age, but his eyes incredibly old and stripped of all illusions. Erik Lensherr.
There was another one, Scott and Jean, side by side in the sunlight of a bright spring day. With a shock I realized that there were literally standing on top of their graves... but here they were still alive, young and confident and obviously very much in love with each other. They looked so beautiful.
“I'm sorry...” I whispered, without really knowing what I was apologizing for, and to whom. Or perhaps I did know... maybe it was Scott who deserved my apology. He'd always had a smile for me, even when the rest of the students regarded me with an uneasy mixture of fascination and fear. And yet there had been times when I thought that he was weak, if Jean's thoughts were so easily able to stray away from the safe haven of his love. Jean... who had coaxed me out of my dreadful nightmares more than once after the night in the machine. Yes, I should most certainly apologize to Jean, whom I'd hated in spite of everything, determined to condemn her, regardless of the facts.
The facts were here before me, in this photo, in the faces of the handsome young man and the lovely young woman with the dark, kind eyes. Phoenix had never been Jean's fault, no more than the curse of my deadly skin had been mine. It was nothing but our birthmark, and in her case it had cost her everything... the man she loved, killed by her own hands, her sanity, her mentor, and in the end her life. Being angry at her because she'd been attracted to Logan... only now, in this silent room, I finally realized how childish my sullen jealousy had been, how small and ridiculous in the light of their loss. All that was left of Jean and Scott were the tombstones outside on the lawn... while I was still alive, free to find a new purpose, free to hope.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered again. “I miss you both.” I carefully placed the frame back on the desk, took my mug and gulped down the rest of the lukewarm cocoa. Opposite to the desk, there was a huge leather sofa, with a folded tartan plaid hanging over the back. I sat down, touching the wool; it felt soft and pleasantly warm under my palm. When I pulled, the plaid came down, wrapping around my shoulders like the embrace of a friend.
I closed my eyes.
Being here in this sanctuary, I could almost imagine that Xavier was still alive, smiling at me from the other side of the desk, offering his support, accepting my tangled thoughts and sorting them out in his analytic, brilliant mind. I could believe that he was still present, promising me that there would always be the chance for a happy ending, and telling me the story of the giant who carried the earth on his back...
“Good night, Professor,” I murmured, sliding down from my sitting position and curling up on the sofa like an exhausted child. Surrounded by the soothing smells of the study, I felt my limbs relax, and with them my anxious heart. And then – finally – I slept.
The second week was over, the third passed by, the fourth one began and on Wednesday I came home for Thanksgiving. The whole mansion was filled with the rich aroma of pumpkin tarts and cinnamon rolls. Kitty had been swinging the scepter in the kitchen for days, up to the elbows in walnut cheese cake, glazed ham and green bean casseroles. And now, on the home stretch, less than twenty-four hours before the great meal for more than forty people was to begin, I found myself dragged along by Jubes to Westchester, for a last, urgent purchase of canned cranberry.
The shelves in the local Walmart were grazed, but we found a small grocery store where the owner, a nice, talkative old lady, still had half a dozen cans in her storeroom. After fifteen minutes of shameless blarney, Jubes advanced to an honorary granddaughter and we left the shop in triumph.
Getting home to the mansion turned out to be a challenge; snow had fallen most of the day. The interstate was clear, but the smaller roads were rimmed by high walls of frozen white, the asphalt coated by a thin layer of ice, and I was thankful for the four-wheel drive of the battered but still sturdy jeep we were using. Jubes steered it with casual confidence; I leaned back in the worn seat, trying very hard not to think about Logan's ability to get here on that damned bike.
“You may worship me,” Jubes remarked gleefully. “I have saved Thanksgiving dinner, haven't I?”
“You haven't.” I grinned at her. “Kitty's made enough fresh cranberry chutney to feed an army; sending us for canned supplies was nothing but panic. Though I must admit that you did a pretty good job with that old lady; you could sell sand to a camel any time.”
“And you could talk a lot more than you've done for weeks,” she quipped, shooting me a critical glance from beyond her long eyelashes. “You haven't been yourself since... the end of October, I think. First you walk through the mansion like some robot, ignoring me completely, and don't you think I didn't catch those impressive, dark circles around your eyes! How much sleep did you get every night – one hour? Two?”
“Two hours,” I murmured. “With lots of luck.”
Jubes dodged a snowbank in the middle of the road and made the jeep lurch back on track with astonishing ease.
“And then,” she continued, “you were suddenly as busy as a bee, playing the girl scout for every soul in need – and still avoiding me like the plague. Every time I try to pin you down, you are with Bobby, with Kitty, with Storm... did I really see you scrubbing the pots in the kitchen this afternoon?”
“Just doing Kitty a favor.” I sighed. “And she was very pleased.”
“Aha.” Jubes' eyebrows vanished beyond her hairline. “Speaking of Kitty... may I ask what's going on between you and Iceman? He sneaks around her like the cat around a dish of cream, and you don't seem to bother at all! Is there some 'Love never but friendship forever'-thing going on between the two of you that I have no clue of?”
“So you noticed him sneaking?” I nodded at her in approval. “I thought so... it's obvious enough, isn't it?”
“Stop that, before I slam this fucking rustbucket into the next tree!”
It was an impressive explosion, even for Jubes who was all sparks and flames anyway. I stared at her, my mouth open. She stared back fiercely, then looked ahead again and suddenly pulled the emergency brake while at the same time stomping on the pedal. The engine of the jeep gave a mortified roar and then died down completely while the car slid gently towards the side of the road, right into the next snowdrift.
There was a long moment of stunned silence. I sat there, my fingers digging into the upholstery of my seat, willing my heart to calm down. When I was able to speak again, my voice was surprisingly even.
“Lost your marbles, Jubilee Lee?”
She gave a long, heavy breath through her nose; her hands were still closed around the wheel, the knuckles stark white.
“I haven't,” she finally said, her tone as quiet as mine. “Have you? I always thought we were friends, and that you trust me. And then you hide from me for weeks... hell, there have been days when you stared right through me as if I were some ghost!” She swallowed. “Can't you imagine that I was worried? To tell the truth, I still am.”
“I'm sorry,” I said softly. “I'm really sorry, Jubes.”
Our eyes met; without thinking I reached out, and my fingers closed around her hand. She chewed her lip, then blinked and visibly came to a decision.
“May I ask you something?” she said. “Does all this hassle have anything to do with the wristband you're hiding in your drawer? The one with the charm missing?”
“And what,” I gave back, my voice dangerously low, “do you know about the contents of my drawer? In my room, that we haven't been sharing anymore for two years now?”
I had the rare experience to see the incorrigible Jubilee Lee blush with real shame.
“I...” She cleared her throat. “I was looking for the lipstick you borrowed from me a few weeks ago. At first. I swear I didn't want to snoop... but there was that velvet bag, and I couldn't ask because you didn't talk to me anymore, and I... well, I couldn't help, I simply had to find out.” A long, painful pause. “I guess it's my turn to say I'm sorry now.”
“No, Jubes.” I shook my head. “We're even.”
It got more and more impossible to peer through the windshield; snow was falling again, and the flakes settled on the glass like a tightly woven veil. I looked back at Jubes and managed a tiny grin.
“Give me until the end of this weekend. After that, you may storm my room with a bottle of tequila, and I will tell you whatever you want... every single detail. And I should warn you; I may well bawl my eyes out.”
“That bad?” She gave my hand a little squeeze. God, I'd really missed her.
“I don't know – yet,” I said honestly. “Ask me again Sunday, okay? – And now: do me a favor and get the jeep out of here. I really want to go back to the mansion now, and besides, Kitty will panic even more if she doesn’t get her cranberry sauce.”
“No problem.” Jubes smiled, the usual spark slowly returning into her pretty almond eyes. “Piece of cake.”
She proved her abilities immediately by starting the engine and going into reverse. A well-dosed tap of her yellow-booted foot on the throttle made the jeep obey as meekly as a lamb. The thick tires rolled backwards, moving us and our vehicle smoothly back on the way home. Only three more miles to go, and I steeled myself for a merciless barrage of questions. But Jubes held her tongue, eyes ahead on the road, and never before I had been so thankful for an unexpected blessing.
It was already very late when we reached the mansion. The iron gate slid aside when the Jeep approached and closed again behind us, showering the cleared driveway with fresh snow. Two minutes later Jubes stopped in front of the entrance.
“Go inside and bring Kitty the cans while I park the jeep,” she said. “And if she asks you to peel yet another ton of sweet potatoes, just turn and run.”
“Okay.” I opened the front passenger door, and the icy air met my face, making me gasp; within the last hour, the temperature had dropped drastically, and it was much colder than I'd thought it would be. I turned around and took the bag Jubes handed me.
“Oh, and Rogue?”
“Hm?”
“I hope he doesn't take the bike to come back. If he flips over in this blasted weather, he might end up freezing his adamantium bones off in some roadside ditch, and then I'll have to find and kill him.”
I stared at her, heartbeat hard and fast in my throat. “How – ”
“There was a note in the velvet bag, and you've scribbled the number of the POB on the backside, Sweetie. When I come with my tequila bottle on Sunday, you really have to tell me about that whole 'apple business'.”
The door slammed shut, the engine stuttered back to life and the jeep rolled down towards the garage. I stood there, surrounded by a white cloud of my own breath. An absolute knack of finding out the truth, as sharp and unerring as the heightened senses of the man I was waiting for to return home.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and at the same time I suddenly realized that I was laughing. It was my first real laugh for weeks, and it felt simply great. It took me a while to calm down, and when I carried the bag into the house, I was still chuckling.
Thanksgiving dawned under heavy, dark clouds. I'd set the alarm for nine and woke up to the melancholic voice of Shania Twain, singing about the “woman in me, needing the man in you”.
Very true.
I did my best to wake up through the news, stretching between the warm blankets, and felt the corners of my mouth curl to a smile when the anchor said something about “Ambassador McCoy, returning from Washington, to celebrate Thanksgiving with good friends near Westchester, New York”. Hank would be here this evening, and I was very much looking forward to seeing him.
The weather forecast was everything but promising. The temperature had dropped far below zero; the voice of the weather girl said something about the coldest winter in two decades, and meteorologists were expecting at least fifteen more inches of snow. “If you already are where you want to be, enjoy your turkey and be thankful,” she sing-songed cheerfully, “and if you're not, stay at home and celebrate with the microwave.”
I hauled myself out of bed, took a very long, very hot shower and slipped into jeans, socks and a warm flannel shirt. My Wolverine outfit, I thought, taming my hair into a firm ponytail. I'd tart myself up later, before dinner; until then, Kitty would need every extra hand she could get.
The day went by in a flurry, filled with frantic last minute cooking, last cleaning duties and decorating the huge dining room. Being up to my elbows in work did wonders for my frayed nerves. I couldn't worry about Logan's whereabouts while keeping half a dozen younger students from smashing the fine china. I couldn't panic about broken bikes and broken adamantium bones when I had to concentrate on fixing a long tear in Kitty's favorite dress while she was stuffing two giant turkeys and getting them into the ovens.
After that, I helped half a dozen excited girls into their finest dresses without ruining any hairdo – before Jubes decided that enough was enough. She dragged me up to my room, checked my choice of clothing with a critical eye and finally allowed me to put on a simple black velvet skirt, black suede boots and a soft, copper brown pullover with a generous turtle neck collar and trumpet sleeves. I waited patiently until she vanished for half an hour to spruce up herself, then I applied a tiny dose of rouge, mascara and lipstick and took the wristband out of the drawer. It was some awkward fumbling to close the clasps all on my own, but in the end I managed it and blessed the loose sleeves for their capacity to hide something beneath. Jubes came back and spent the next half an hour working wonders with my hair.
Then the dinner began; it was everything a Thanksgiving meal should be, complete with tons of delicious food and happy people around the long tables. We had a beaming Kitty (who – again with the priceless help of Jubes – looked very pretty and not the least exhausted, despite her cooking marathon), a smiling Storm (who had for once decided to relax), and a cheerful Pjotr with an astonishing repertory of Russian folk songs, brought forth by four glasses of red wine. There were also dozens of hungry kids, and Hank, who very quickly became the center of the feast and everybody's favorite uncle.
I made regular detours into the entrance hall, loaded with empty platters and used glasses for the dishwasher in the kitchen. But the huge oak door remained closed; there was no late guest, and around eleven we began to empty the tables and to haul those kids into their beds who'd fallen asleep in front of their grazed plates. I had the exclusive pleasure to watch Ambassador McCoy carrying two twelve-year-old rascals to their bedrooms at the same time; they'd blissfully passed out after stuffing themselves with a fifth helping from the enormous ice cream bomb. When he came down again, I bid him good night and was rewarded with a – very fatherly – kiss on my cheek. Midnight was nearly over when I came through the entrance hall for the last time and decided for a last, short look outside.
I pulled the front door closed behind me, keeping warmth and light within the walls. A deep intake of breath made me cough; the air was dry and icy, and the sky had cleared up, showing a myriad of glittering stars on a canopy of sheer, black velvet. The deep snow gave the night an illusory brightness; I could look right down to the gate. The tires of Hank's Mercedes had painted two dark, parallel lines into the fresh hoarfrost on the driveway, and the night was very still. Biting coldness crept slowly under the thick pullover, piercing the tank top underneath and covering my arms with goose bumps.
“Logan,” I murmured. “Where are you?”
He hadn't made it for Thanksgiving. And I could only hope that all I could blame for that was the coldest winter in two decades.
At 1.00 a.m. I finally shooed Kitty out if the kitchen and right into the arms of Bobby - who made quite a show of playing the knight in white armor and escorting our exhausted Martha Stewart to her bedroom.
“Pretty couple,” Jubes stated behind me, her face split by a huge yawn. “Someone should play a schmaltzy violin solo for them.”
She had just piled an astonishing number of Tupperware boxes into the bigger fridge and was now spooning the remnants of the green bean casserole into a clean bowl.
“Hold your tongue, Jubilee Lee.” I sat down at the table, chin sinking down on my folded arms. “You're a cynical bitch.”
“Am not.” She covered the bowl with Saran Wrap. “But they're so incredibly sweet together they make my teeth hurt.”
“You know what? Go to bed.”
“Brilliant idea.” Jubes took off the apron and tossed it unceremoniously into the corner. “Am I wrong or did you wait for a certain someone this evening?”
“I've been waiting for weeks now, and today was no exception.” I rubbed my eyes. “And given the weather, I should probably be thankful that he didn't try to come.”
“Right.” Suddenly she leaned over me and dropped a kiss on the crown of my head. “But still – too bad that he didn't get to see you in this outfit. You look absolutely smashing. Night, Sweetie.”
“Night, Jubes.”
I heard her soft, fast steps fade in the hallway and had to fight the growing wish to just fall asleep where I was. Finally I managed to get up from the chair. I shuffled out of the kitchen, switching off the lights behind me and slowly walking up the stairs towards my own room. All I wanted to do now was to collapse on my bed and hope for a new day.
I opened the door. It was dark inside, and when I'd left hours ago, the room had smelled of my shampoo and my perfume, a mixture of roses and vanilla. Now, however...
Leather and tobacco and wood and fern.
Suddenly I was wide awake.
All the angels in heaven...
“Marie.”
I froze on the spot, one hand still on the latch. The voice was unmistakable, warm, low, a bit raspy, as if he'd been silent for too long.
My body took over where my mind didn't dare. I felt myself turn around as if drawn by a strong magnet. And then I saw his tall silhouette step out of the shadows, a shimmer of eyes in the darkness, a brief, white gleam of teeth. His hands, sliding around my waist, pulling me towards the living barrier that was him.
“Marie.”
His breath warm on my cheek. Close. So close. Fingers, strong and purposeful, leaving my midriff and finding my face. A caressing thumb, following my cheekbone, my ear shell, my jawline.
“Marie?”
I had no voice to tell him the words I'd whispered in my mind night after night. They were lost anyway, leaving nothing behind but a breathless void, yawning beneath my feet and threatening to swallow me neck and crop. With a feeling dangerously close to panic I forced myself to move; I raised my hands to his shoulders and dug my fingers into smooth, cool leather.
“Marie? Darlin', are you okay?”
“I'm... I was...” My brow sank against his chest, and I could feel my body shake from head to toe. I was breathing in long, deep gulps, inhaling his scent greedily, like a drowning woman coming up for air. He was here. “I was afraid you wouldn't come.”
His laughter was a soft rumble, vibrating through my skin. “You read my note, didn't you?”
“Yes.” I swallowed. “Yes, I did. But...”
“You didn't believe it.” His hands returned to my waist, lifting me effortlessly until I lost the ground beneath my feet. I gave a tiny sound of surprise; my body was swung around and set down on the edge of the bed. He leaned over, kneeling on the floor in front of me, and the small lamp on the nightstand lit up and showed me his face. It looked pale and tired, but his eyes were calm, green-golden hazel with the hint of a smile. “Why?”
There was no reproach, no disappointment; it was a simple question.
“I did believe it,” I murmured. “It was just... don't laugh at me, but there were times when I thought the whole thing had been nothing but a dream. I couldn't sleep for weeks, and I even tried to write you a letter and ask... ask you if...”
“If it was true?”
“Yeah. Whatever it was. Whatever it... is.”
He didn't answer immediately, but took my hand instead, a simple gesture that felt like balm on my nerves. I stared down at our entwined fingers, glad for the contact. After a long, strangely peaceful moment of silence, his free hand vanished inside his leather jacket and reappeared again, and he held it out to me. A small, golden apple was shimmering in his palm.
“Does that help?”
Wordlessly I lifted my arm, letting the loose trumpet sleeve fall back so that he could see the wristband. He closed the tiny snap hook around the empty ring, and together we watched the three little charms dangle side by side.
“Looks good.” The smile in his voice was gone, replaced by something I had no name for. Or perhaps I had, if I only found the courage... but in this moment I didn't feel courageous, only terribly insecure and slightly dizzy.
“You didn't take the bike, did you?”
It was certainly the sappiest thing I could come up with in that moment, and one of his eyebrows twitched upwards; but then his face relaxed, and he laughed softly.
“No, of course not. I took my new truck.”
“You have a new truck?”
“Ten years old, and it drinks gas like a fish, but it's damn reliable, and much better than freezing my balls off on the way down here.”
The giggle came out before I could stop it. Now both eyebrows shot towards his hairline, but I was lost anyway. I thought of the trip home from Westchester yesterday and giggled even more.
“You know, Jubes said... she said...”
He gave me the disbelieving look reserved for men confronted with women who have obviously gone nuts.
“What did Jubes say?”
“She...” I could hardly breathe; my sides were beginning to hurt. “She said you might break your adamantium bones if you flip over with the bike, and... and …”
Our eyes met, and I managed to stifle the next fit somehow.
“She said if you'd freeze in a roadside ditch, she'd have to come and kill you.” I swallowed nervously, slowly getting serious again. “Look, I... I didn't tell her. She just saw that I was completely beside myself for weeks, and she wanted me to talk about it, and I didn't... I mean, I couldn't... she simply added the facts and found out about the rest all on her own, okay?”
“I should have come earlier. I'm sorry.” The hazel eyes had darkened to a deep amber.
“No, you shouldn't. It was me who started the whole... thing... with that kiss, remember? I've been wondering all the time if I... if I pushed too much.”
“I'll tell you something,” he said, his voice a little brusque. “I found a jeweler who sold me the chain and made the apples for me. That was six weeks ago. I spent the next two days making the wristband, and finally sent you the package five weeks ago. Since then I've been waiting.”
“For what?”
He turned his head away, face strangely blank. Like once before, I drew strength from his silence. “Logan... for what?”
“For you to send it back.”
My breath came out in a loud hiss, and for the first time I realized that I'd been holding it.
“Logan, look at me.”
I reached out and ran my fingertips through his hair. He leaned into my touch, with the instinctive grace of a great, lissome cat.
“I would've never sent it back. Never.” I spoke with as much emphasis as I could muster. “Do you understand me? Never.”
His hands came up, closing around my face. He stared at me with silent intensity, pulling me towards him until we sat brow to brow.
“Listen, kid... Marie.” His voice was very soft. “I have no idea where this thing between us has come from, and if it will last. All I know is that it's there... perhaps it has always been there, from the very beginning, only I didn't dare to face it, idiot that I am. And whatever it is, it was strong enough to make me drive more than 2600 miles in the last two days.”
I didn't answer. My hands were shaking, and I laid them against his chest, finding the flannel shirt beneath the leather jacket. It was so easy to close the last, tiny distance between us. When my mouth touched his, he gave a low, hoarse sound - half surprise, half relief – and then his lips welcomed me and his hands held me, drawing me into his warmth.
That moment I finally understood something very elementary about Logan – he was able to give himself without any doubt or restraint. He had done so before, of course, and especially when it came to my well-being, but what happened here had a completely different quality. It was both at the same time, submission and capture, and this time I didn't shy away from the gleaming spark. This time, I launched into the fire and went up in flames.
Within a few stupefying minutes I didn't sit on the edge of the bed anymore, and he didn't kneel before it any longer. He lay on his back, sprawled on the carpet and I was practically straddling him, thighs on both sides of his hips, fingers digging into his shoulders once again. It must have hurt him, but he didn't complain. His lips had left my mouth, exploring my neck and my bare collarbone; the pullover was miraculously gone, a soft heap of wool in the corner beside the nightstand, and his hands had already found the skin under my cotton tank top, drawing a slow heated trace along my spine. And oh how my own hands hungered to mimic his journey, to travel over the wide plain of delicious nakedness under that familiar flannel shirt...! My inexperience had no chance whatsoever against such an enormous, newfound hunger, against the stunned jubilation at the fact that I could finally touch without any fabric for protection, without fear or lethal danger. All I had to do was to unbutton that shirt to feel him... to feel him and taste him and breathe him in and...
“Marie.”
I could barely understand him through the white noise in my ears. He was breathing hard, like after a fast run uphill, and his eyes were glittering obsidian. I sat up, gloriously aware of the sweet friction where the juncture of my legs touched his abdomen. The hairdo Jubes had been put so much work in was long gone. Soft, tousled streaks grazed his hands around my upper arms, and my face was glowing.
“Marie.”
“...what?”
“You...” I watched the jerky movement of his Adam's apple with utter fascination. “Is this your... first time?”
“You really need to ask?”
For heaven's sake, was this my voice? So hoarse, so breathless, so... needy?
He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, then took a deep, labored breath. “This... this was not how I planned it.”
It was decidedly the last thing I wanted to do, but I climbed carefully down from his body nonetheless. My knees were wobbly, and I flopped down beside him with a frustrated sigh, landing cross-legged on the carpet. Despite the craving that still made me smolder from within, I couldn't help beginning to see the funny side of the whole matter. I even managed a small grin. “You had a plan?”
“Damned if I know.” He ran one hand over his face, grinning back wryly. “But if there was one, it certainly didn't involve sneaking into your room, giving you the golden apple and taking you on the floor.”
“Aha.” I cast him a side glance. “You realize that my bed is less than three inches away?”
“God, yes.” He actually chuckled. “Hard to miss.”
“So... what keeps you from...”
“Taking you on the bed instead of the floor?”
“Exactly. Thank you very much.” Now it was my turn to chuckle.
“Marie.” Suddenly he looked a bit sheepish. “Thing is that I wanted to do... this... as it should be done. Take my time. Maybe even find a place that's not right in the middle of a school full of nosy kids and even nosier teachers... if you really wanted me to... you know what I mean.” He combed all ten fingers through his hair; I was clearly not the only one frustrated here.
“Logan.” I reached out and touched his knee. “You know that I want you to... hell, it should be obvious now what I want, shouldn't it? And I don't need a bed of roses. I'd feel completely comfortable with this one.”
He took my hand and gently kissed the knuckles. I felt my body relax and our eyes met with a hesitant smile.
It was then when I heard a loud, distinct growl. And it was not the growl of the Wolverine in arousal.
I glared at him, my eyes narrowing.
“When was the last time you had anything to eat, mister?”
His mouth twitched. “Hm. - This morning?”
“You mean to tell me you didn't get anything into your stomach for more than sixteen hours?”
“You could say that.” He grinned at me, a strange glint in his eyes. “Come to think of it, I wouldn't say no to a big turkey sandwich.”
“Lucky bastard.” I snatched my hand away, torn between exasperation and amusement. “There are two fridges down in the kitchen, practically bursting at the seams with leftovers and at least one untouched sweet potato pie. And a six pack of beer.” I gave him a benevolent smile. “Hidden behind the last pumpkin cheese cake.”
“Beer?”
Of course.
“Yes, Baby. Six cold bottles of Beck's, and I had to keep them away from Hank. He loves that stuff almost as much as you do.”
He rose in a fluent movement. “Okay. I'll take a shower and find a fresh shirt, and then I'll be down in the kitchen. You think you can stand waiting for me until I'm back?”
“I've been waiting for the last six weeks, you big jerk. I think I can stand just a little while longer.”
He pulled me up from the carpet, and we stood hand in hand.
“I could come down into the kitchen with you, though,” I offered. “Make you a turkey sandwich if you want. Cut you a slice of cheese cake.”
“And keep me company for a beer or two?”
“Sounds good.”
He turned away from me, looking back over his shoulder. “Twenty minutes?” He opened the door.
“I'll be there. Oh, and - Logan?”
“Yes?”
“When I have fed you, could we perhaps discuss the matter of... erh... beds and rooms once again?”
I bit my lip, feeling rather smug.
“It happens that I know where to find the keys of the guest houses. The first one is occupied by Hank right now, but there's the second one, down by the little lake, behind the grove. Do you think that's far enough away from school?”
Light flashed in his eyes, bright and golden. “Interesting idea, darlin'.” He leaned in and gave me a quick, hard kiss, intense enough to make my knees turn to jelly all over again. “Give me enough to eat and a few hours of sleep, and we'll find out.”
With that he grinned at me, walked out of my room and strode down the corridor. I followed him with my eyes until he vanished around a corner, then gently closed the door behind him and slid down against the varnished wood until I sat on the floor again.
Twenty minutes.
I closed my eyes, filled to the brim with a joy so deep and piercing that it was almost painful. I had long abandoned the Sunday School faith of my childhood, and I didn't know if the next few words that crossed my mind were a prayer or not, but I humbly hoped they'd reach the right address anyway.
Thank you for sending him back to me. Thank you that this was no mistake. Thank you that he wants me, and that he's here.
Thank you.
FINIS