Ben Canaan Compound, Israel, 1955

After his first year in Israel, Charles had learned a number of things, from the very trivial to the very important.

The very trivial: How to dress. He now wore olive or khaki pants and loose white shirts instead of the stuffy suits he'd arrived with, and had even learned to wear shorts from time to time without feeling as though he belonged back in prep school. How to improve his side kick. Football matches of students, scientists and soldiers in the compound's lot, a grassy area between the two residential wings, had honed his skills. To judge by the number of times Hazim's team won, Charles suspected Hazim also had improved his abilities, mutant and otherwise.

In the middle: How to judge everyone's temperaments and get along accordingly. Marcellina's temper was as generous as her spirit, and her moods fluctuated wildly, with little warning. Hazim was quiet and intense, powerfully unhappy to be working with the Israeli military but too desperate to be rid of his mutation to consider leaving. Dr. Avidan was usually gentle and good-humored, unless and until you interrupted one of her experiments, in which case it was best to run. How he dealt with being a man on his own, rather than a boy in his mother's house. After a lifetime spent avoiding strangers and new contact, it was a surprise and a relief to know that he could get along well with others, better than with his family.

The very important: How to better control his power. Charles was, thus far, better at filtering his telepathy -- blocking it, even, if he chose -- than at enhancing what he was capable of feeling. He reasoned that he had to learn to achieve mental silence before he could ever hope to listen carefully to just one mind. How Ben-David meant for this institution to run. The mutant studies were meant, first and foremost, to create a defense for Israel. All well and good, Charles supposed, but increasingly he felt as though the five mutants there were no more significant in Ben-David's mind than guinea pigs in a lab. There was no malice, but it had been many months since anybody but Dr. Avidan had offered to take them to Tel Aviv, or even as far as Beir Sheva.

What he had not learned: The first thing about understanding Erik Lensherr.

At the moment, however, his friend was easy enough to read: Erik's curiosity was even brighter than his smile. "Ready, then?"

Charles nodded. He was still uneasy -- the basement of the compound was as close as they could come to privacy, and nobody had found their equipment yet -- but he remained fearful of being discovered. Nothing for it, though; they had to try. Carefully he sat back so that his head rested between the two tanks of solution. Erik said, "And -- go."

He heard Erik flipping the switch that sent electrical current coursing through the tanks. And in a flash he could see --

Hazim in the kitchen, pouring himself some water.

Ben-David walking toward a door, papers in his hand.

Marcellina in her bathtub, scrubbing herself vigorously. (Charles blushed.)

Albinka at the top of the stairs, peering down at them, thinking herself unseen.

And Dr. Avidan -- at a distance away, driving back from Beir Sheva. Maybe half a mile away! The wind was blowing through her curly hair. And there were other shapes, too -- less distinct and unknown to him, but definitely human.

Charles sat bolt upright. He knew he was grinning insanely; the expression was mirrored on Erik's face. "Well? Did it work?"

"Perfectly," Charles said. "Erik, I could even see Dr. Avidan."

"But she's not in the compound." When Charles nodded, he felt a thrill of anticipation sweep through Erik. "That's amazing."

"There's more." Charles ran through his memory to be absolutely certain before he spoke, then said, "The mutants -- we looked different than the humans. I can't say how, exactly. But different. I'd have known Hazim was a mutant even if I'd never been told."

Erik's face went pale. "Do you realize what we've got here?"

"A way to find others like us," Charles said. "We'll need more range, though. Right now, we'd have to hope that other mutants happened to take a stroll through our section of the Negev Desert -- OR hide at the top of the stairs."

Albinka giggled, poking her head around the corner so they could see her. Charles smiled back; at that moment, he felt a jolt of something unpleasant run through Erik. He wheeled around, afraid something had gone wrong with the generator -- but Erik was still sitting right there, smiling as smoothly as before. "We can experiment with different amounts of current," Erik said, as though his thoughts had not turned from the machine. "Different fluctuations, perhaps."

Charles forcibly kept himself from prying into Erik's mind. It was easy enough to concentrate on the machine instead. "Not much fun for you, then. Having to joggle the switch every which way."

"No, not much fun for me." Erik could sound so dry, when he chose. "But we could rig up some sort of mechanism."

"Maybe Dr. Avidan could get her hands on one of those electronic brains," Charles said. "Like the ones IBM built for the U.S. government. Do you think we could figure out how to --" What was the word? "How to program one to try different combinations?"

Erik did not trouble to hide his dismay at that. "You know she'll tell Ben-David, if we ask her." Charles made no reply. They'd never discussed their growing mutual distrust of Ben-David, but they hadn't had to. Dr. Avidan's genuine concern for their well-being was clear, but Ben-David's lack of that same concern wasn't clear to her; her willingness to report to Ben-David was the only way in which they did not trust her.

For almost a year, they'd all lived together, the mutants undergoing tests and refining their abilities. Marcellina and Hazim, who still hoped for normalcy, didn't practice nearly enough. But Erik could do astonishing things now -- pick locks, shift gears in the jeep. Precision, they'd all learned, was far more elusive than simple force. Albinka could direct her voice with more accuracy. By modifying the pitch and tone of her screams, she was becoming able to choose what to turn into stone: a single pane of glass in a large window, or once, to Erik's great annoyance, just one of the shoes in his closet. And by now Charles understood that all that kept him outside the minds of others was his own control. Some of his limits would remain forever a mystery -- there were tricks of the mind that Charles refused to practice.

If Ben-David really understood that, what would he do? Charles wasn't at all sure he knew.

"They'll know about the experiments eventually," Charles told Erik. "But I won't tell for now. You won't either, will you, Albinka?"

"Shriek," she corrected him, taking the steps down two at a time. She had a tremendous fondness for the nickname Charles had unwittingly given her. "I won't tell."

"That's my girl," Charles said. Again she smiled; again, a strange, unsettling rush of feeling from Erik. Disconcerted, Charles said, "Don't suppose you'd get us some Kels from the refrigerator?"

"It's early for beer," she said, crossing her arms. But Albinka -- Shriek -- did not look so much forbidding or motherly as she did like a little girl playing house, scolding her dolls for some make-believe infraction. Although she was 17 years old, Shriek was still short and slight, almost entirely without womanly curves; also, something in her mind had never aged into adulthood. The others worried about her. Charles sensed that this was her best protection against memories she couldn't bear, and accepted it.

But they were Erik's memories too. How did Erik bear them? Charles still didn't know.

For his part, Erik was shaking his head at Shriek. "This is for a celebration," he said. "Celebrations are different."

"Okay," she said, and she bounded back up the steps, her long, ash-brown hair swinging behind her.

"So, our new toy here," Erik said, a touch too heartily, as though he thought he would have to force Charles to pay attention. "How far do you think it could go? Do you think you could find a mutant -- ten miles away? A hundred miles away?"

"No saying," Charles said, running his finger along the side of one of the tanks. The bluish liquid within rippled with the vibration from his touch. "We'll have to test different settings with the equipment. And I -- perhaps I can learn better how to use the extra ability it gives me. If I enhance my own skills, I guess there's no telling what this might do."

"Maybe you could use it to talk to people, as well," Erik said. "You've come close to getting through to me. I've felt it."

"If it boosted that, too? That would be outstanding." Charles grinned at Erik; he felt his friend relax. There had been an odd tension between them lately. He was determined not to question it -- Erik frequently went through spells of melancholy or temper that he was best left to work out on his own -- but it piqued his curiosity. A year ago, when he had come to Israel, Charles would have known the cause quickly enough. Back then, he hadn't had the control to shield against other people's thoughts. Now he could and did most of the time; it seemed more polite. But at moments like this, he regretted his own resolution.

"Maybe you could talk to people thousands of miles away," Erik said. He was daydreaming aloud, and Charles knew it. "Maybe you could talk to the dead."

"Good Lord. Let's hope not. I'd never get any quiet."

Erik laughed.

"We hold the keys to the underworld," Erik intoned. "You and me -- and Shriek. The three-headed beast guarding the door." Charles laughed at his mock solemnity, and so was surprised to hear Erik actually being serious as he continued: "Shriek's fond of you, you know."

"Of course I know," Charles said. "What of it?"

Erik shrugged, deliberately casual. "I suppose I was wondering if you were ever going to do anything about it."

"Oh. You mean FOND of me. You've got that all wrong."

"Have I?" Erik wasn't being sarcastic; he knew by now to trust Charles' perceptions. "But the way she follows you around --"

"I make her feel safe," Charles said. Erik did not make Shriek feel safe; often he frightened her, without any apparent cause. Long ago, Charles had chalked that up to the memories they shared, and had pried no further into the matter. "God knows why, but I do. Shriek's not -- Erik, you know she doesn't feel things the way an adult would. That goes for love, too."

"I should think you'd be a bit more curious." Erik was oddly persistent. "The only girl within 100 kilometers, unless you count Marcellina and Dr. Avidan, and they've got 15 years on us."

"Have you turned into my mother? I'm not exactly in a rush to get married."

Erik's eyebrow arched, an elegant black slash against his aristocratic face. "Who was talking about marriage?"

Charles frowned. Only at that moment did he realize that he'd never much imagined dating girls; his image of the future was cloudy except for the idea of a houseful of children. He hadn't given much thought to his love life besides thinking that he'd first have to find a mother for them. Never had he imagined being with a woman before standing beside her at an altar.

They were quiet for a while as they carefully disassembled the machine, unpacking it and preparing to stash it back in the closet they'd claimed for their own. As they began draining the solution into a few old milk bottles, Erik said quietly, "So, you'd know, then."

"Know what?"

"If Shriek were, ah, interested in you."

"If I chose to know," Charles said. "I don't push inside your minds if I don't have to. We couldn't live together, if I did."

"Of course," Erik said distantly, winding up some cable without touching it.

For some reason, Charles realized, his heart was beating especially fast.

Charlottenburg Palace, Berlin, Germany, 2006

Two weeks in, and Bobby was pretty sure he'd made the biggest mistake of his life.

It wasn't that he'd misunderstood the Brotherhood. They didn't share a set of ideals, unless "mutants should crush humanity" counted as an ideal. They didn't like each other much; there were a few partnerships, but Bobby didn't think any of them counted as friends. (Except, he'd admit, for Magneto and Mystique, though he wasn't at all sure that "friends" was the right word for that relationship.) They all followed Magneto's orders, and instantly, but for reasons that, as far as Bobby could tell, were as different as their powers. Some of them idolized Magneto, almost worshipped him. Others hated him, but hated humanity more. Some of them were too scared to do anything else. Pyro just seemed to think it was pretty damn cool.

But one and all, when Bobby or one of the other X-Men -- well, ex-X-Men -- tried to talk to them about going against Magneto, they refused to think about it.

Bobby had been subtle, at first. Careful. Just asking them if they were ever unhappy. What the downside was. What names they called the boss. He made it a joke, the way he once tried to get in with coworkers on the first day of his summer job at Baskin-Robbins.

A lizard-looking girl named Chameleon flushed a deeper olive than the brocade wallpaper: "I'm lucky to be here. Lucky. Have you heard what they do to mutants in America? Compared to that, what's the downside to being here?"

The silvery-blue fighter named Spiral regarded him with amused contempt. "Let me get this straight," she said, taking a drag on her cigarette with one hand while cracking the knuckles of two others, twirling her dark hair between the fingers of yet another. "You've been here for two weeks and you're already bitching?"

Avalanche didn't even answer. Neither Bobby nor any of the others dared ask Mystique.

And so, two weeks into his big plan to change the course of the war by subverting Magneto's forces from within, Bobby realized he still hadn't done anything smarter than getting the X-Men's jets crushed.

He lay on his bed in his new room: Magneto had split up the former X-Men as much as possible, and only Bobby was staying at the main headquarters, the palace itself. Sometimes he just had to stare at it -- 20 foot ceilings, tapestries on the wall, this enormous carved wooden bed with a velvet canopy. Sure, the bed was only just long enough for his feet not to hang off the end, but still -- it was amazing.

As he traced along the carvings on the headboard (a stag, in relief, ran from hunters who stretched into the distance), Bobby heard footsteps in the doorway. He didn't have to look up. "I was wondering when you'd finally drop by," Bobby said.

Pyro laughed. "Were you? I didn't think you were in such a big hurry to see me." Bobby kept running his fingers along the stag's carved horns; he didn't know why he didn't want to turn around, but he didn't. He could hear Pyro flicking his lighter, smell the faint tang of butane in the air. "I know what you're up to. What you were up to, anyway."

Bobby wanted to respond in anger, but almost to his own surprise, he felt a smile spreading across his face. "You're KIDDING. I think you're the last one to catch on. No, wait, there might be some Bedouin in the Sahara who still doesn't know."

"And they say I'm not subtle." The bed shifted with Pyro's weight, and Bobby did look over then to see his old friend stretching across the foot, as comfortable and at-home as a blanket. Pyro seemed to expect Bobby to object or to run, but Bobby didn't. At this point, he just wanted to talk to somebody -- and he'd forgotten how much he used to enjoy talking to Pyro. "Listen, don't worry about it. Nobody cares why you came here. Every single member of the Brotherhood came here for different reasons. The point is, we all stay here for the same reason."

"And what reason is that?"

Pyro smiled, lazy and catlike. "We get what we need here. Power."

"Power," Bobby said, the word ashen in his mouth. "What's the point of having power for its own sake? I liked the way I lived better back before I had any powers. I mean, power."

"Freudian slip," Pyro said. "See, I didn't cut all of Dr. Grey's psych classes. I know enough to know what you mean. You still don't like being a mutant, do you, Bobby?"

"I like it fine," Bobby said. "It's what I am. I don't have a choice, and I don't need one."

Pyro said, "If you start singing 'It's Not Easy Being Green,' I WILL fry you." Bobby started to laugh, cackling so that it almost sounded crazy. When Pyro started laughing too, Bobby had to laugh harder. Oh, God, how long had it been? Since he'd laughed like this, so that tears welled up in his eyes, so that his stomach muscles hurt. Pyro managed to say, "I'm serious. You gotta stop trying to accept what you are. You have to start LOVING it. And I'm gonna show you how."

"How are you going to do that?" Bobby said, still gasping with laughter. He didn't care what Pyro said in response. For the moment, he wanted to stop worrying, stop tearing himself up for all his mistakes. He just wanted to listen to Pyro again. Be his friend again. Maybe that was the only place to start.

Pyro grinned. "Trust me."

Caliburn Falls, British Columbia, Canada

Rogue ate her steak hungrily; she was far too famished to worry about the fact that it was venison instead of beef, or to have even the faintest memories of "Bambi."

Logan's cabin -- well, he wasn't neat at the best of times, and this wasn't the best of times. Anything that could be used as an ashtray had been, and he hadn't emptied them in a while. No TV, no DVD, no video games. A number of books lay about, though, and to her abashed surprise, they looked like tough going: Japanese philosophy, mostly, with some military histories thrown in. Rogue understood that Logan was smarter than most people (Cyclops in particular) thought, but she was still taken aback by the hard evidence. Apparently canned beer was winning out over bottled beer by a ratio of about two to one, based on the many empties on windowsills and the beat-up side table. She'd deal with the nightmare of the bathtub tomorrow. When she'd changed out of her own grubby clothes and put on oversized sweatpants and a T-shirt that smelled comfortingly masculine, she had opportunity to see that the bedroom at least was clean. Then again, to judge by the ratty yellow blanket and lumpy pillow on the sofa, that was probably just because Logan never used the bedroom.

She looked up from her meal and saw Logan in the corner of the cabin that functioned as a kitchen. His coat and flannel shirt were discarded; now he was wearing a gray T-shirt that outlined his broad chest and shoulders. He gave her that half-smile of his, wry but warm, the one she'd daydreamed about when she was younger. For a moment, Rogue felt her uncertainties rise up anew; they'd been neck-high already, and now she felt as though they would drag her under, and she'd drown.

Then Geir flashed within her again -- young and lonely and desperate, forever denied -- and she steeled herself.

Best to just say it flat-out: "I couldn't go back."

"You couldn't stand looking at it anymore either, huh?"

"Wasn't that." Rogue got up from the card table and deck chair that served as Logan's dining set and sat cross-legged on the sofa. As she'd hoped, Logan came and sat beside her. "I mean, I knew we'd lost. I'd known for a really long time. Bobby didn't think I understood that, but I did. I just wanted to be with everyone as long as I could."

They were quiet for a moment. Logan said heavily, "Rogue -- you know why I left."

"Yeah, I know," she said, then plunged ahead. "It was Geir, the mutant I absorbed and killed -- he's what keeps me from going back."

"Why? You think you might side with Magneto too?"

Rogue shuddered. "God, no. Geir was terrified of Magneto. Not just because he's, you know, a card-carrying psychopath. Because he had power." She remembered Geir's mother, a pale white hand striking him so hard that the pain lanced through his whole body, through all those years of time, into Rogue herself. She could see the front room of the house in Oslo -- the heavy walnut grandfather clock, the beige sofas, the abstract painting on the wall. As a little boy, Geir liked to count the triangles in the painting. "When Magneto got Scandinavia and swept for mutants, he found Geir. Geir went with him because he couldn't imagine anything being worse than home. Honestly, I'm not sure he had a choice. And he was so scared of Magneto, always. He was right to be. In the end, following Magneto's orders killed him."

"So what you're saying is, after you soaked up Geir, you were afraid of the people who had power over you."

Rogue nodded. Professor X. Storm. Cyclops. The thought of their faces made her stomach clench with fear, even now. She wondered if she would feel that way forever. Geir's powers, she knew, couldn't last but another few days. Maybe only another few hours. His terror, she thought, would live forever.

They were quiet for another moment. Then Logan asked, "So, how does this work again? You having his powers and not yours?"

"One of Geir's powers was the ability to project his other abilities onto anyone he touched. He did that to me. I think the combination of him projecting and me absorbing made it a LOT stronger than usual."

"The projecting or the absorbing?"

"Both. Normally the effects of having touched somebody would have worn off completely by now. But they've only started to settle. I still have Geir's powers instead of mine. I have my own personality back, more or less, but the rest is just -- hanging on."

"Right." Logan was staring at her, frankly appraising. Rogue knew he was simply looking for change in her, but all the same, his gaze made her flush with warmth. "So you can project these powers now?"

"I don't know," she answered. "I haven't tried. I think right now I'm absorbing and projecting both -- like, maybe, the two powers cancel each other out. Anyway, I've touched people a couple of times. Didn't bother them or me."

Disappointingly, Logan showed no particular reaction to this. "What else can you do?"

"I can fly."

"Damn." Logan grinned. "Is that how you got here?"

"No. Oh, no. I don't have any idea how long any of this is going to last. I couldn't just fly over the Atlantic, not knowing."

"Good point."

"So I boarded a plane with fake ID. Used it to get a train ticket out here." He didn't ask where she got the ID, just nodded. At the moment, Rogue felt more like the teenager she'd been in Loughlin City four years ago than she did like herself. "I'm stronger than I was before. I have a little telekinesis. Not like Jea -- I mean, not much. But that's all."

He didn't react to her slip. "Absolutely all?"

Rogue considered this for a minute. "I can speak Norwegian."

"That's gonna come in real handy." Logan smiled again, then finished his own beer and sank back into the sofa. "So why'd you come here?"

"You don't sound very happy to see me." Even to her, the words fell flat and accusing.

"Hey. You know I missed you, right? More than anybody else." The matter-of-fact way he said it warmed her, made her more bold. He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "But like you said, coldest, least hospitable place on earth. I know I ain't the only friend you've got in the world who's not with Xavier, and I figure most of your other friends make better company."

"I needed to talk to you," she said. "Everything that mattered to me -- I lost it all. You're the only other person I know who had that happen to him. And you keep going."

Logan looked at the ceiling. "If this counts as keeping going."

"It counts," she said. "I wanted to see how to start over."

"You could learn from somebody better. Trust me on this, kid."

The "kid" lashed her, but Rogue kept on. She'd crossed the ocean and half a continent -- no point in chickening out now. "More than that --"

"Yeah?"

Thank God he'd only turned on one lamp, so the light was already kind of low. Thank God he was looking at her like that, gentle and questioning, like she could say anything to him. Thank God she'd gotten here in time.

"Rogue?" Logan's voice was quieter. "You okay?"

She gathered up her courage, quickly leaned forward and kissed him.

Their lips touched for only a few moments; Rogue wasn't used to kissing any longer than that. When Logan didn't immediately react, she kissed him again -- a little slower this time, a little firmer. His whiskers brushed against her cheek, and the scent of him was so close, so rich. She took his hands, and oh, God, it felt so good just to hold his hands.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Logan said, pulling back from her slightly. He looked startled; she decided she couldn't blame him.

"I don't know how long this is going to last," she said in a rush. "Logan, this is the only time in years I've been able to touch somebody else, and it might be the last time ever. I just -- I don't want to waste the chance." Rogue squeezed his hands more tightly, felt the hard resistance of metal beneath his flesh. "You and me, when we met -- I guess you thought I was just a kid, and maybe I was, but you know how I used to feel about you. I mean, I wore your dog tags around my neck for three months; guess that kinda tipped you off. And we still -- you and me -- we mean a lot to each other, don't we?"

"I -- yeah."

"So I wanted it to be you."

Logan's eyes were wide. "You came here to -"

"That's not why I came here. But -- as long as I am here -- well --" Thank God the talking's over, she thought, and she breathed out a deep sigh of relief.

But as Rogue looked at Logan's face, she saw neither understanding nor desire. He was closed off, his eyes dull, his lips pressed in a thin line. "Marie, this time last month, you were in love with Bobby Drake."

Instantly, tears were stinging her eyes. "If Bobby'd stuck around, I wouldn't have come to you," she said, knowing it was true. But somehow it was hard to imagine; despite all the fevered daydreaming she'd done in the past, all the fantasies in which she and Bobby could touch, Rogue couldn't call the images to mind anymore. Come to think of it, it had been a long time since she'd indulged that in particular dream. "Turns out he had other plans."

"I got that. All I'm saying is, you're upset, and you're not exactly yourself."

"And you think I don't know what I want." Rogue pushed away from him and walked across the room. Newspaper crumpled under her feet. "You just expect me to sit around and waste my one chance."

Logan retorted, "You just expect me to perform on demand."

Rogue winced and glared over her shoulder. "Excuse me for asking you to do something so horrible."

"Marie -- that's not what I --"

"Skip it," she said tightly. "I figured I might be embarrassed tonight. But I didn't think I'd be humiliated." Before he could say anything else, Rogue hurried into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her with her mind. At least the telekinesis was good for something.

For a few minutes, Logan just sat there, feeling like he'd been hit by a Mack truck.

(July 2, 1991 -- he had basis for comparison. Yeah, this was what it felt like.)

With a groan, he leaned forward and put his head in his hands, trying to wrap his mind around everything he'd heard that night, everything he'd done. In some ways, it still didn't seem real that Rogue could even be here, much less that she could be in his bedroom, from the sound of it crying, and least of all that she could have just asked him to make love.

He could still feel the warmth of her hands on his. Imagine, touching Rogue's hands. It had been a long time since he'd touched anyone else, as his body was now reminding him; if just brushing lips with Rogue twice was enough to throw him, after a year's isolation, what must that have been like for Rogue? He'd thought of her loneliness often enough, seen the way she looked enviously at couples who held hands. And here she was with a chance to touch and be touched, at least for now.

I should have done it, Logan thought. I ought to have gone to bed with her. I ought to go to her right now.

But something in him still resisted.

It wasn't that he thought of Rogue as a kid, even though she had been just a girl when he first found her. He'd noticed every change in her during the years they worked together: her increased confidence, her darkening temper, her greater insight into the others, especially him. And, yeah, he'd noticed as her face and figure changed, too. Skin-tight, black leather uniforms don't hide much.

He'd also noticed the way she gazed up at him and paid attention to him -- asking his opinion about anything and everything, showing off her outfits, sometimes bringing him a beer at the end of a long evening. He hadn't exactly encouraged it, but he knew full well he hadn't discouraged it either. Truth was, he'd done the same sometimes -- taking her off for rides in the car or on the motorcycle, letting her watch her corny old movies on TV even when the game was on, blowing off steam to her whenever Xavier or Scott was giving him shit. It had been easy. Nice, even. Logan figured that any man who believed he was immune to being admired was just lying to himself. But he'd never once considered taking advantage of that admiration; he'd never looked on Bobby Drake as a rival, but a relief. Insurance that things wouldn't get too complicated, that she wouldn't get her feelings hurt. Rogue been someone he could talk to and look out for, no more -- but definitely no less.

So, they weren't crazy in love. It was still more than he'd felt for most women he'd slept with. Rogue was beautiful, even sensual. She'd come to him when she could've had anybody for the asking. Even now, he could feel the warmth of her touch on his body, and it had been a damn long time since he'd been with a woman, and so why the hell wasn't he breaking down her door right now?

Because I never thought I could touch her, Logan realized. That's why I could get close to her, let her get close to me. Because I didn't ever have to worry about getting too close.

For one night, you fucking coward. You can take that girl's puppy love to prop up your ego, but you can't give her one night?

Logan found himself recalling the one time he'd kissed Jean. She was real to him again, in that instant: red hair, high cheekbones, that proud, piercing gaze. Then he forced the images away. Wasn't like he could betray the memory of a woman who had never been his to begin with. And if her ghost was all that was standing between him and Rogue, then he was just going to have to let it go. For one night.

Logan took a deep breath, got up and went to the bedroom door.

He rapped once. No response. He tried it again, then opened the door without waiting for an answer. Rogue was sitting up in bed; the lights were out, but thanks to his sharp vision, he could still see her just fine. Her hair was down around her face, thick and dark, and she was still wearing his T-shirt, though his sweatpants were crumpled on the floor.

She sniffled once, then said, "What?"

"I'm a jackass."

That got him a small laugh. "Well, yeah. That's not exactly news, you know."

"I know." He sat down carefully on the foot of the bed. Rogue scooted a few inches farther away from him, hugging her arms around herself.

"Don't," she said.

"If you've changed your mind, I'll go." He realized that he'd be more disappointed than relieved. A lot more. Something about the way she looked right now -- dark eyes, darker hair, the ivory of her skin soft in the dim light --

She brushed her hair back from her face. "It's just -- Logan, if you're only here because you feel sorry for me, then you should leave. I don't want you here because you're trying to make something up to me."

"I don't feel sorry for you," he said. Which wasn't exactly true, but it wasn't why he was in there, either. "But you're lonely. And, well -- you're not the only one."

Rogue still seemed doubtful; after the ass he'd been, Logan couldn't exactly blame her. For a few moments, they sat there in silence, not speaking, not moving.

Maybe it's better if she says no, he thought. Nothing hurts worse than knowing exactly what you can't have. But he couldn't stop looking at her -- the long lines of her bare legs, her slim hands, her full lower lip. Rogue was studying him, too. Considering. Deciding.

Finally she said, "It has to be what you want." He could read her fear plainly; she wasn't frightened of going to bed with him, but his rejection still stung. She didn't believe that he genuinely wanted her. Logan was realizing for the first time that he did.

"You want to know I want?" How was he going to get through to her? What words would reassure her, tell her that tonight was different? Logan hoped she could see his eyes as he leaned in a little closer and whispered, "I want you to touch me."

She breathed in sharply. For a moment they remained there, motionless, and Logan waited for her to kiss him. Instead, she hesitantly held out her hands until her fingertips cradled his face. Rogue's skin was so soft -- all those years of wearing gloves, he figured.

Slowly, she brushed her fingers up to his cheekbones, tracing them with the faintest touch. She smoothed her palms across his forehead, ran her thumb along the bridge of his nose, then down over his lips. Logan kissed her fingertip and saw her shiver, but she kept on, moving her hands down to his throat. As she paused to feel his pulse at the jugular, he was amazed to see her eyes glowing, her lips turning up slightly in a smile.

Of course, Logan thought. It's been so long since she was able to touch anyone, in any way. She wants to feel everything she can. He knew she must feel how hard and fast his heartbeat was going; this slow exploration was having the same effect on him as it apparently was on her. He could feel himself getting hot, getting hard. Even so, he forced himself to keep breathing slowly, to remain still and let her keep taking the lead.

Rogue ran her hands down his chest, pressing against his collarbone, his heart. His stomach muscles tightened in anticipation of her touch, but instead she brushed out across his shoulders, squeezing his biceps, dipping her fingers into the crook of his arm. Finally she took his hands in her own. When she lifted them, Logan expected her to guide him to where she wanted to be touched, and he was open to suggestions.

Then she lifted them to her face and kissed him across the knuckles, right where his claws came out. The place that she, and only she, knew hurt like hell.

He made a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh, took her face in his hands and kissed her.

Went better this time. Rogue started to pull away after a few moments -- habit, he figured -- but Logan brought her closer, pushed his tongue between her lips. She responded uncertainly at first -- damn, she hadn't even done this before -- but then more surely, moving the way he moved, thrusting her tongue slowly into his mouth, then pulling back slightly to trace the corners of his lips.

Rogue's voice was shaky as she whispered into his mouth, "Am I a good kisser?"

"Uh-huh." He kissed her again, harder this time. "Fast learner."

As he'd hoped, that made her smile. "We'll have to see about that," she said, tilting her head so that a few strands of white hair fell across her face. From the wicked gleam in her eyes, Logan knew she realized just how sexy she looked when she did that.

They kissed again, and Logan felt her hands tugging at the band of his T-shirt. He forced himself to let go of her and held his hands up so that she could tug the shirt up and off. Once again he followed her lead, lifting her shirt and tossing it aside. For the first time, he saw her body -- full breasts, slim waist, curved hips covered only with pale-blue underwear. Rogue's cheeks flushed with warmth (had Bobby ever seen her like this? No way to ask, no way to know), but he didn't intend for her to spend one more second of this night feeling embarrassed. Logan pulled her against him, ready to kiss her past the point of caring about anything else.

But she gasped in delight even before he could touch her lips. "Oh," she sighed. "Oh, that feels good."

"Tell me what I'm doing right," Logan said, "so I can do it some more."

"Just this." She moved sinuously against him, brushing her breasts, her belly, against him. Her soft hands pressed against his back, bringing him closer. "Skin against skin."

Damn, he thought. Not being able to touch anybody in so long has turned every inch of this girl into an erogenous zone.

"It gets better than this," Logan murmured, kissing his way down her throat as he lowered her back onto the bed. And he set out to prove it.

He'd never been with a woman so nakedly responsive, so turned-on by every kiss, every touch. When he kissed his way from her ankle to her thigh, Rogue cried out without shame. When he took her breasts in his hands, her nipple in his mouth, she arched up toward him, using her body to beg him for more. He found himself testing every inch of her -- the small of her back. Her knees. Her ears. No matter where he kissed or licked or bit, the sensation was new to her, and she seemed to revel in every moment of it.

She wanted to touch him, too -- she wanted to give him the same kind of pleasure she was getting, which Logan wasn't sure was even possible. But she had amazing hands, so strong and so soft -- he had to fight for control as she ran her nails along his back, cupped his ass, stroked his cock. He kept looking at her full lips and wondering what she could really do when she set her mind to it. But he wasn't going to rush her; maybe they only had one night, but they had all night. When he finally stripped off her underwear and slid his fingers between her legs, he expected her to lose it completely. And God, she was so wet for him already, but he forced himself to keep going slow, to brush his fingers up, push in gently, start massaging her just so --

But as he looked into her face, watching for a sign that he ought to go faster or slower or harder or whatever, instead he saw her biting her lip. Rogue didn't look as much turned-on as she did uncomfortable. "Hey," he whispered. "We going too fast here?" He pulled his hand back to her thigh.

"No, no," Rogue said quickly. Her dark hair was fanned out around her on the pillow, those few white streaks brighter than ever. "I don't want you to stop. But -- well --"

"What?" Logan smiled a little. "We're kinda past the point of bein' shy, you know."

In a rush, she blurted out, "It's just -- I can do THAT myself."

Logan couldn't help laughing, but he hugged her close as he did it. "Got it," he said, kissing the curve of her neck and relishing her shiver. "I think I can come up with something you haven't had before."

"Promise?" she said, breathless.

"Yeah."

He kissed his way down her breastbone, dipped his tongue into her navel, then pushed her thighs wider apart as he knelt at the foot of the bed. Rogue tensed, her muscles taut beneath his hands, then sighed and slowly relaxed, giving him permission. Logan bowed his head between her legs and slipped his tongue inside her. God, she tasted good -- heat and salt and something else that just belonged to her.

Rogue gasped, and she arched her hips just so, offering herself to him. He slid upwards, finding the right place, swirling his tongue around her, working with the heartbeat he could feel drumming against his palms, against his lips. As she began rocking in tempo, he moved with her, going a little faster, a little faster again.

One hand clutched his shoulder; the other wound in his hair, not guiding him, but feeling the way he moved. Logan pressed his tongue against her harder, breathed in the warm, wet musk of her as he felt her get closer --

She cried out, her fingernails cutting into his shoulder as she came. Logan kept it up until the last tremors seemed to be fading from her; then he kissed his way back up her belly to lie alongside her. Rogue's arms slid around him, as though she couldn't get him near enough. He knew how she felt.

"I imagined what that would feel like," she murmured against his chest. "So many times. I never even got close."

Logan kissed her hair, wound the white strands through his fingers. "We can do that again, if you want. We can do that all night."

Her eyes were bright and eager when she turned her face up to his, and he thought she'd ask for exactly that -- at least for a while. They kissed, and her hands kept moving all over his body -- tracing his stomach muscles, stroking his thighs, tangling in the hair on his chest. As soon as their mouths parted, she whispered, "I want you inside me."

They kissed again, then again. Her mouth was open, her body pliant against his, and Logan didn't think he could wait any longer.

He rolled her onto her back and gently pushed her knees up. Rogue's eyes were wide, but she spread her thighs willingly. Logan said, "This might --"

"Hurt. I know. I don't care." Rogue put her hands on either side of his face again, just the way she had when they first began to touch. "Do you know how long I've waited to feel this? All of this? Even the hurting. I want all of it, Logan."

Logan took a deep breath, lowered himself onto her and, with one sharp thrust, pushed inside.

Oh, God --

Rogue cried out; he could hear the pain in her voice, and for a moment, his arousal and his resolve faltered. But then she gasped in another breath, and slowly, slowly relaxed.

Every cell in Logan's body was telling him to thrust, hard, right now, but he forced himself to be still, every muscle tense with the effort. "You okay?" he said.

"Yeah," she said shakily. "Just -- just give me a second."

Sweat was beading up all over his skin, and his cock was thick and hard inside her, and she was locked around him, just right -- but she needed a second, so Logan kept himself still. He squeezed his eyes shut, let his forehead fall against her shoulder. "You feel so good."

He said it without thinking -- he couldn't do anything even close to "thinking" right then -- but it affected Rogue. She hugged him closer, moved so that he slid deeper into her, bringing his control right to the brink. "I do?"

Logan looked down at her; her cheeks and eyes were flushed with more than sensual excitement. He recognized pride and realized that, for a girl who'd spent her entire sexual life cut off from bodily contact, knowing her own desirability was maybe the most important thing of all. "God, yeah."

"Tell me," she whispered. "Tell me how it feels."

She wanted him to think of words at a time like this? But she shifted beneath him, just a little, and the movement made him dizzy with wanting her. "Hot. It's -- hotter than burning, but it feels -- so good. Like you don't want to stop burning."

"Hot." Rogue's hands brushed along the length of their bodies, feeling how his body fit between her open legs.

"And you're so tight -- all around me. You're holding on to me as tight as you can."

Rogue smiled. "I am." Her voice was breathy, as though she could barely manage to speak. "I'm holding you inside me."

Damn if this talking wasn't turning him on. "I can feel how wet you are, so it's slick inside, and when I move --" He pushed into her just a little bit, and saw with a rush of heat that she let her head fall back in delight. "-- then it's just -- smooth, easy -- like --"

Logan began to thrust, taking it slowly at first. Every sensation seemed to be getting stronger by the moment: her thighs against his sides, her hands on his back, the warmth of her all around him. He looked into her eyes and held her gaze as he pushed inside her.

Rogue moved with him, finding the rhythm, taking him in even deeper than before. Logan swore beneath his breath, struggled for control. Her eyes blazed with something that was both arousal and victory. Logan realized -- she wanted to see him lose control. To see that she had the power to do that to him. She whispered, "Do you want to know how you feel?"

Still moving. Still thrusting. Going at one deliberate pace, no faster, no slower. "Tell me."

"It burns, but it doesn't hurt anymore. Good burning." She was open beneath him, open and wet where he was inside her, where they were burning in each other's heat. "And -- it's like my body's stretching out around you. So we fit together just right. Just like this." Rogue began swiveling her hips in the slightest spiral -- just a little change, purely by instinct, but it drove out Logan's last shred of self-control.

He gave up trying to go slow. Logan moved faster, and faster, taking her as hard as she could bear, so hard, and when he felt his release start to boil inside him, he didn't slow down. He came in one hard jolt, an electric pulse that blacked out light, drowned out noise in the rush of his own pulse. Rogue clutched him to her, wrapping her arms and legs around him, as though she couldn't get him close enough.

When he could speak again, he said, "You okay?"

Rogue nodded. Her hands were shaky as she cradled his face and kissed him again. "Like I told you. Some ways, I'm better than ever."

Logan was usually the type to roll over and go to sleep after. But that night he embraced her tightly, tangled her legs up with his own, so that she could feel every inch of him on her skin, all night long.