Logan knew something was wrong two steps in through the front door of the mansion, before he even climbed the stairs to the room he'd shared with Marie for almost two years. He had an itch, right between his shoulder blades, that would not leave him be... and the sight of Yellow and the Kitten huddled together at the curved tip of the banister, worried looks facing the second floor crystallized the sense of danger and he just knew something had happened to Marie.

The two young women jumped at the sound of the growl that somehow slipped free of his lips. They swung towards him as he strode across the entrance hall's smooth marble.

"Rogue needs you," the firecracker spoke softly, not even a hint of her usual combustibility leaking through.

Kitty nodded in agreement and worry, and added, "She got a letter this morning, and hasn't come out since. Won't unlock her door, won't answer her phone." He could see her concern for her friend as her control slipped momentarily and her twisting hands passed through the banister without her notice.

He grunted and began to climb the stairs. His Rogue's only a year older than the two young women behind him, but somehow to him, she had never seemed as young as they. Even though all three of them had less than pleasant memories of their childhoods, what drew him to her like a moth to the flame was the strength that she kept contained within her slight frame, built from her fierce will and stubborn determination and honed by long sessions with the professor.

Battling the others present in her mind, learning to control them, to contain them, to prevent them from taking her body from her, not to mention the myriad memories and life experiences of that diverse group, had aged her far beyond her physical years, and yet... she retained an innocence and naivety about some things that he found endearing and worthy of his protection.

As he reached the top of the stairs and began the long walk to the very end of the corridor, where their room sat overlooking the woods at the back of the mansion, he smelled her. He breathed in deeply, and tasted the salt of her tears and the faintest taint of her blood.

As he reached the room and unlocked the door, he scented both her joy at his return and her sadness at whatever the letter told her, spread out in front of her across the blanket-covered bed.

He crossed the room in an instant and opened his arms to her, glad that his flannel would protect her from any loss of control she might suffer in her grief. He didn't care about her skin, never had and never would, but he knew how devastated she was whenever her iron control slipped and he was determined to prevent any accident that might cause her more grief than she already felt.

She latched onto him, burying her face in the front of his shirt and gave way to the sobs she'd been holding down for hours. He knew that he was the only one she gave this side of herself to. Even with her closest friends she was always the strong one, the rock, never letting her inner turmoil show through. It was a side-effect of her fight for control of her mutation: she never fully relaxed near to another, other than him, too afraid that the slightest carelessness could cause pain or even death. In return, she was the one there for him when his nightmares painted his world in stripes of red and green, blood and the liquid from the tank in which his skeleton was bonded with adamantium. She knew, as did he, that he could and had pierced her with his claws on more than one occasion, and yet she remained by his side, secure in the knowledge that his healing protected her as well.

He gathered her to him and sank down on the bed, ignoring the papers scattering at his movements. She'd tell him the news in her own time, she always did.

He drifted a while, content to hold his mate as her sobs subsided and she just lay against him, snuggled up into his chest, breathing in the scent of him, cigar smoke, cedar, motor oil and pine, taking in the sound of him, his heart beating steadily under her ear, reveling in the feel of him, solid and warm surrounding her and keeping her safe.

Finally, as the light outside the window dimmed away to nothing, she shifted against him and he loosened his hold on her, giving her the space she needed to twist around and gather up the forgotten sheets of paper and dump them onto the night stand.

"Mama's dead," she finally whispered.

He waited, nothing if not patient.

"Papa's been dead... long since, years now. Think Mama said he died during that twister back a few years, the one that tore straight down the middle a'town. Too damn drunk to clear outta his truck when the sirens blew. Never was nuthin but a fool, that man," she paused, staring at her hands knotted into fists in her lap.

"Mama... Mama wanted me home for the funeral, but... well... he ain't never been no daddy to me, why'n the hell should Ah start treatin' him like one jus' cause he up and got hisself killed?" her drawl grew stronger as she spoke, and despite the circumstances, he couldn't help the slight shiver that raced up his spine at the sound.

She didn't seem to notice his momentary distraction, still staring at her fists as if they held all all the secrets of the universe within.

"Ah've to go back," she finally admitted. "Ah'm named in the will and t'house comes t'me, no thanks to Papa."

She leaned back against his shoulder and looked up at him, "D'ya know that he tried ta get me declared dead when Ah was 19?"

He shook his head and held his peace.

"Yup, Mama wrote t'mah aunt, 'member her? The one Ah sent the flowers to that time? She's actually Mama's aunt, Gran's youngest, but twern't many years 'tween those two and Mama always said she was her big sister. Told her not t'have nuthin t'do wi'Papa neither, but Mama was stubborn as a mule those days. Aunt Millie said so, anyway."

"So, Aunt Millie, Ah kept in touch wi'her a bit. None too regular, jus' bits 'n pieces here n' there. She's the one tol' me 'bout Papa trying t'do what he did, and she put a stop to that right quick. Took a heap o' pleasure in it too, provin' Ah wasn't dead, don't doubt that none. No one Ah know beats that lady in the no nonsense department..." she trailed a bit, as if she'd managed to distract herself from her grief for a short while.

"That... that letter's from Aunt Millie's lawyer. 'Parantly Ah gotta go down there t'sign paperwork, do what Ah like wi'the contents o' the house, that stuff, " she looked back down at her hands, which had begun to twist around each other again.

"When do we leave?" he questioned gruffly.

Any qualms he might have had were blasted to pieces by the look of intense relief that crossed her face as she looked up at him.

"You don't mind?" she questioned, and he sensed that she needed the reassurance more than she was actually questioning his intention of going with her.

"Hmmph, I been in my share of southern hick towns, don't matter if yours is less hicksville or more, ain't no way I'm letting you go down there alone. We face those demons together!"

She smiled at him, a bit watery, and not nearly as radiant as her usual , but definitely there, and she leaned up and kissed the tip of his nose.

"Thanks, sugar, having you there will make this bearable."