Kai and the rest are mine. (KayleeThreats™ removed to avoid clogging the beginning. They'll be put in with the Story Threats on the IBAs at http://thundercrack.interspeed.net/main.htm. Suffice it to say, don't borrow any of my characters without permission.)

Comments to KayleeSama@aol.com. I'm still catching up on the first round of comments on this story, but I'd love to hear what y'all think even if I can't get back to you right away.

***

I made myself wait by the ravine until I was healed enough to properly be on my way. It was dawn by then, the daylight making the whole scene less frightening and more gruesome. I surveyed the bodies, counting them slowly, barely able to believe how many there were. Twenty-three women. Twenty-three dead women, and the oldest was years gone. We had to be a good ways from any major roads if no one had noticed the stench. Maybe the would-be hunter had a place somewhere out here that he worked from.

His name was Jason Keller, according to the driver's license I found in the wallet in his back pocket. Forty-two years old, 5'10", 190 pounds. Brown and brown, Caucasian, and he was required to have a left outside mirror on any vehicle he drove.

He could've been anybody. Anybody at all.

The shotgun had two more rounds in it. I dumped the ammo and pocketed it, then wiped the weapon clean of prints with Keller's shirt and arranged it in his hands beneath what was left of his chin. I'd fired from close enough to pass off the fiction that this was a suicide, just in case. I've had enough practice at covering murders that it'd been automatic to do so. Didn't make me feel too good about myself, but in this case... The broken bones in his right wrist would naturally argue against the gunshot wound being self-inflicted and the angle of the shot wasn't quite right... but I figured that whenever the law found this place the investigating officer would be quick to ignore those facts, at least on paper. Detectives who're assigned to these cases are human. Sometimes they understand vigilante justice, even if they can't sanction it.

That brother of his might know where this place was. Maybe they had some system of reporting in that would spark his worries when he didn't hear from Jason this morning. With my senses back, my body mostly healed, I figured I could handle whatever flak he might be able to bring to the party.

But still I wasn't sticking around to find out. I shut out the stench of the bodies as I donned my much the worse for wear T-shirt, ignoring the smell as well as I could, and backtracked, following Keller's scent and mine. He'd circled me a lot. Here and there I found sheets, flags made of clothing and sticks, strange little creations of cans and metal that hung from trees and were probably meant to add disorienting flashes of light to the confusion he created for his victims. He'd definitely been at this long enough to become quite adept.

By late morning I'd found the scene of the wreck about three miles from the ravine, complete with fire-retardant foam that someone had been kind enough to come along and spray to protect the woods. Since the car -- and it was quite nicely totaled -- was still there and unlabeled by any law enforcement tags, I had to assume it was the brother, Raymond, whose scent I was picking up all around the thing.

The bitter thing for me was to find that the first time I'd stopped, trying to get my bearings, I'd actually been no more than fifty yards from the road. Probably crawled off before Raymond arrived, though the timeframe was too narrow for me to tell by scent for certain. Somehow Raymond must've notified Jason that I was out there somewhere. If he knew anything about tracking -- his motion through the woods had implied that he did -- then he'd've found me without much effort at all. Then following, subtle herding, that damned voice sounding as if it came from different directions every moment...

I poked around the wreck for a bit. The lever to open the trunk was still working, wonder of wonders, and everything in it was safe, having been farthest from the source of the fire. I pulled out my duffel and checked its contents, surprised to find that Raymond, if that's who it was, hadn't even bothered to go through anything. He's probably not the brains of the family.

I had clothes, money, identification, even a gun... good. Nothing of mine left behind in the car, and the second I got to a phone I'd see about handling the wreck so that I wasn't linked to it. The cab itself was such a charred mess that there wasn't a chance of a fingerprint being lifted. I was careful now, too, to make sure I didn't mess that up. Watched my step, walked on the balls of my feet to alter tracks, planned on ridding myself of these shoes once I was away from here.

I shouldered the duffel and went back to pick up Jason's trail again, then followed it back farther. Another half-mile placed me at a thin trickle of a stream, so I dropped the bag, stripped, and bathed as well as I could to get rid of the blood. I tried to tell myself I was at ease, unconcerned about any possible complications like Raymond finding me. Back to health, mind and body fully functioning, I could take just about anything.

I had to admit the lie when the sudden flight of an unidentified bird had me lurching from the stream and for the handgun in my duffel.

Changed into fresh clothes that smelled like smoke, I was even able to laugh -- albeit bitterly -- about it a bit as I followed Jason's journey back to his point of origin, a neat little brick house set so far off the beaten track that most people probably couldn't find it after visiting. I half-hoped that Raymond would be there to let me finish settling up these scores quickly, but I wasn't so fortunate.

I searched the house quickly, touching absolutely nothing, taking mental notes of just what evidence police would find if they searched the place before someone cleared it. A trip into his basement netted me a box of his trophies of choice -- locks of hair, all dark brownish colors, braided neatly and laid out in a row. It gave me a whole new flush of hot fury to realize that there were many more than twenty-three braids in there. I poked through them carefully and counted.

When I was done counting I wished I'd made Keller really suffer before he died.

Not much else of use there, and I couldn't risk calling the car rental agency from this number, so I left. Followed his driveway out, sticking to the woods beside it in case anyone did show up, then couldn't resist an overwhelming surge of relief as the driveway met up with a highway that I was familiar with. Still I stuck to the trees for a bit to play it safe.

Finally, by late afternoon, I reached the end of the woods. Never thought I'd be so glad to see a Texaco in my life. I took a moment to compose myself, tugged my too-short ponytail into order, and adopted a tired sway to my walk as I headed inside to buy a drink.

In a place like that, off the beaten track, sympathetic truckers are happy to give a hitcher of the female persuasion a ride. I hadn't been sitting there for twenty minutes before the first semi pulled in to gas up for the Interstate, and the heavyset gent with the thick Southern accent asked if I needed a ride before I'd even opened my mouth. Ten minutes later I was perched on the seat in the huge cab, duffel in my lap, quieting my nerves irritably as they insisted on complaining at the proximity of this stranger.

I wasn't about to allow myself to get squirrelly about everyone because I'd had a bad night. No way. But damn was it hard to find that ready confidence that my particular skills would keep me safe. It'd been another of those 'mortality checks,' and I was still shaking with aftershocks.

I gave a generic story that could've come from any B-movie. I was a child of the sixties at heart, wanting to see the world before I was tied down to the mundanity of a nine-to-five job. With the little hints I dropped, the kind of language I used, he could hardly draw any other conclusion but that I was a spoiled upper-middle-class adult-kid who was looking for a little adventure. Despite that he was polite enough, and finally he and I parted company after traveling north for about thirty miles. That, I figured, was enough heading in the wrong direction to throw off detection.

I called the rental agency from there with acid in my voice and high-hat accusation in my words. "The air bag," I told them coldly, "didn't open. I could've been killed."

They protested that only the manufacturer could really bear the blame for that.

"You are accountable for the condition of the safety measures on cars you rent out, and I'm sure my lawyer will see it the same way."

After that, of course, I was on the phone with a manager. I kept the indignant anger, emphasizing repeatedly the risk to life and limb and playing down the fact that I had crashed the car. He took the hook readily, grabbing onto the line and sinker for company. Their agency couldn't handle an expensive law suit -- which was, of course, exactly what I was promising him -- and would I please be interested in some sort of... reparation... unofficially?

I agreed to ten thousand dollars that I didn't really want. More would've made it too complicated for the lies they'd fill their records with, less would've made me seem too suspicious. They asked for the location of the wreck. I gave it, suggesting that they hurry if they wanted to keep their little error out of the eyes of the law. By the time we hung up I had no doubts whatsoever that Kate Smith would be entirely purged from their records before the day was done and the totaled Camry would've found its way to a scrap heap. If they were clever they'd manage to stiff me outta the ten grand, too, though I doubted they'd be gutsy enough to try it. Not that I cared much either way at the moment.

I caught another ride heading south. Quieter driver who made a great show of hiding his wedding ring. After we were on the road I told that one that I was really an investigative reporter who was studying what it's really like to hitchhike in New York. He remembered very quickly that he was a respectable married man and spent the rest of the trip telling me all about the time he was driving through New Mexico and saw, as Sainted Mary was his witness, spinning lights in the sky. They had to've been alien, he pointed out, because he was pretty sure his wristwatch had lost a minute or two of time in there. I promised him I'd look into it.

Who knew? Maybe I even would.

Finally I was dropped off in Salem Center. Once there I walked to Harry's Hideaway, nodding a brief greeting to the proprietor as I made my way to the payphone back by the restrooms. Harry knows I'm with Xavier's bunch but that's as far as our acquaintance goes. I don't visit the Hideaway much.

I was through with hitching rides and didn't wanna wait for a cab, so I dialed and waited. Two rings, then Jean. "Xavier's School."

"It's Kai. Hey."

"Hey. We expected you back last night. Did you stay over?"

I hadn't decided how I was gonna play this, so I merely grunted noncommittally. "I'm at Harry's and I need a ride."

"I thought you rented a car."

She can be as detail-oriented as Scott sometimes. "I don't have one. Is someone free to come get me?"

"How did you get there if you didn't have a car?"

I closed my eyes and repeated the word 'patience' over and over in my head a few times. Her questions made sense and wouldn't be getting to me this much normally. No reason to take things out on her. "I hitched, Jean. And I'm really tired, and it's already dark out, and I don't feel like waiting for someone to head that way to gimme another ride."

"All right," she said, acknowledging the edge of irritation in my voice with her cessation of questioning. "We'll be there in twenty minutes."

I spent the twenty minutes drinking. Harder stuff than usual, though it did little more good than beer. Harry was pretty remarkable in that he didn't evidence any surprise at my stamina for frequent shots of hard liquor, but I guess his acceptance of differences like that is part of what makes his place such a welcome haven for the team. Whether or not this was expected behavior on his part I figured he deserved a huge tip, which he accepted without so much as a flicker of surprise, as if fifty percent were a normal ratio.

Scott and Jean came in the Hideaway together at just past twenty-one minutes, glancing around the moderately busy room and affording me a minute or two of watching them before they noticed me by the bar. Harry's reception for those two was warmer, almost familial, and Scott actually treated the man to a rare smile. 'Not many things you can count on,' Logan had told me once, grudgingly, 'but Harry's is on that list. That place holds a lotta memories for us.'

Jean tends to let Scott do the talking when he's in leader-mode. He was at least polite enough to wait 'til we were in the car before he started asking about Apple Bend. I filled him in almost absently while I wrestled with what I was gonna say about Keller, if anything. Smartest play would probably be an anonymous tip to the police to let the bodies be found, but what about Raymond? He might skate free, and that I wasn't about to allow. I'd like to say it was Sensei who imprinted it into my skull, but in all honesty I probably have give Darius whatever credit might be deserved for teaching me that if you can do something, and you don't, then you've committed as great a crime as the person who gets away because of your inaction.

That was a lot of dead women to carry on my shoulders, and those shoulders were already occupied.

I was sitting in the front seat at Jean's insistence, my duffel in the trunk, and I couldn't magically vanish when Scott turned the questioning to areas a little closer to my center of concern. Fair bet that he and Jean were chatting telepathically, and she might even be giving him whatever impressions she was getting from my mind. As guarded as I felt right then that probably wasn't much, but anything might be enough to cue her in that all was not right.

"So what motel did you stay at last night?" Scott asked casually after the informal debriefing was supposedly over. "If I remember there's a good Days Inn just south of the Bend. There?"

It was none of his business. Or was it? I hadn't been willing to give up much about what happened with Creed. That had touched... too close to the core. To this day I was pretty sure that some of my teammates believed I was hiding some complicity in Vic's escape, and I continued to be willing to allow that belief if it'd just give me the space to cope with everything myself. Scott had been among those most frustrated by my reticence. This time I had been shaken, but not... bent... like I was before. I didn't need that wall of confusion around me this time.

Fuck it. Real frustration and irritated anger surged up, just like that, to swim around in my chest. My life had never been simple. I'd always found it easier to keep things to me and my problems, with everyone and everything else kept at a comfortable distance. There'd been exceptions, sure, but it was a rare day when I committed myself to a lifestyle that constrained me in any way, shape or form. And here I was, an X-Man, fighting the good fight alongside the angels, yada yada yada, and goddamnit, I was sick and tired of trying to be 'acceptable'! Yes, I wanted this opportunity to make up for too much to name, but I wasn't gonna stay somewhere where I was condemned for putting a rabid thing like Keller out of everyone's misery. So yes, fuck it. I was gonna see how this played out.

Some of my anger was probably coming through in my voice. "Don't try to trip me up, Scott. You wanna know what happened last night, ask me."

He didn't miss a beat or even bother glancing my way. "What happened last night, Kai?"

I stared straight ahead and watched him out of my peripheral vision, wishing I could keep Jean in my sights, too. "I found out the Apple Bend killer was copycatting someone a little closer to home."

He stiffened, just a little. Barely noticeable. "Meaning?"

Was I really...? Yes. I was upset enough to jump right in. "He tried to kill me."

I could hear Jean shifting very slightly on the seat in the back. "Are you all right?"

That... was not the first question I was expecting. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Sure?"

I turned my head enough to give her an irritated look, which she merely raised an eyebrow to. I couldn't quite manage the acidic response I was going for then. I really hadn't expected that question.

So, "I'm fine, Jean," I said more quietly as I turned back to face front. It wasn't fair for someone to throw honest concern in to unsettle my anger.

Scott waited a moment as if to allow me to regather composure. Only a moment, though. "Where's this man now?"

"In a ravine with twenty-three dead women." Silence. The heavy kind. I turned my eyes out my passenger-side window instead, not wanting to see their reactions this time. "And a partridge in a pear tree," I sung softly into the quietude.

Eventually Scott asked me to clarify. I assumed he was talking about the dead women, so I did. I told him how Raymond would force them off the road. I could imagine that he'd done the initial chase into the woods, spooking them in some way or another until they left the dubious safety of their cars and made an attempt to lose him in the trees. Then Jason, probably alerted by a phone call or some prearranged signal, came out with his little toys and his practiced skills, driving them like lonely strays back to the herd. Shepherd to a dead flock.

I told them what would've happened then, hearing and hating the flat, emotionless cant my voice took on as a safety net. Scott and Jean have seen some ugly things in their lives, though. Somehow I thought they might be able to understand, just a bit. Even so, a glance showed me that Jean had paled a good bit and Scott's jaw was steel-hard.

We were pulling up to the garage by the time I finished, and that was with Scott driving slowly. He parked the modern Buick in its place. Turned off the engine and brought the keys to his lap, eyes front, saying nothing.

Jean unbuckled her seatbelt and twisted into a more comfortable position. "This man, Keller... he did this to you?" The hesitance behind her words was exactly the sorta thing that'd made me lock down the truth about what happened with Vic. The thought of pity...

"No," I said tersely, and this time I looked at her directly. "I stopped him." If only I'd been able to say that before. "Permanently."

Scott-- "You killed him." Quietly.

"Yes."

We'd had this talk once before, Scott and I. "Was there any other option?"

"Maybe," I said noncommittally. "But even if there'd been a Federal Marshal right there waiting to take him I'd've done the same thing."

His fingers tightened in a fist around the keys and he turned the full force of that hidden glare on me. "Don't you understand--"

That hint of a raised voice was all I needed at that point. "I understand that the bastard sadistically killed somewhere in the range of thirty-six women!" I trembled, remembering the braids. The loving care with which they were packed. "Someone that far gone doesn't stop, Scott... he's lost in it. I looked over those bodies. Going back they were spaced far, like he did this months apart. Years, even. But the more recent stuff was all over the place. The last girl hadn't even been dead a month. You wanna think about a man who tortured and killed twelve women a year sitting comfy in a fucking cell somewhere? Or hell, in a psych-ward... we like to put them in psych-wards, don't we? Because they must be 'sick,' the poor things, and it's our duty to help them." I was trembling all over now, trying to ignore the conflict between what I was saying and what I'd done. I thought there was a fucking chance with Victor, I swear I did...

"He could've identified them," Scott said tightly, furiously. "All those dead girls. He could've been analyzed, studied, to see why he did it and to learn how to stop people like him. He--"

I was shaking my head, and at that I wrenched open my door and stepped out. "Pop the trunk."

He got out, too. "Would you listen to me?"

"Pop the goddamn trunk."

Jean stepped out, came around, too close. "Kai, if you'll just--"

I hit her.

I didn't know I was gonna hit her. It surprised me as much as anyone. One minute I was struggling to find balance in a sea of raw anger and the next I was lashing out, just like that, with a respectable jab to her face and... I hit her. It caught her off guard or else it never would've connected, and certainly wouldn't have knocked her sprawling to the ground, leaving her bringing a hand to her jaw and staring at me out of wide, stunned eyes.

My eyes were probably much the same. "Oh fuck, Jean, I'm sorry..."

Scott was there by her side, not crouching to tend to her as I half expected. His gaze was for me alone. "You're on probation as of now," he said flatly, fury conveyed by the utter lack of inflection in his voice. "You're out of control, Kai. I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that it's because of what you went through last night, but if you give me one more reason to think you're a threat..."

"What?" I demanded automatically, coming to bristling defensiveness. "You'll lock me up?"

"Listen to yourself, Kai!" He jerked his chin at Jean, who was slowly standing with a very odd, very hard to read look on her face. "Look at what you're doing!"

I was finding it very hard to look at anything right that second. Carefully, withholding the slam I wanted, I reached out to rest my hand on the trunk. "Pop the trunk so I can get my bag."

Scott was ready to say something else -- something hard, from the looks of his curled upper lip -- but Jean put a hand on his arm. Just that, green eyes lingering on me. "Let her get her bag, Scott," she said in a voice lacking any trace of warmth. "Nothing's going to get settled here."

He swore. Scott, who doesn't swear when faced with the deadliest enemies. And he turned to the car with an abrupt motion, jamming the key into the lock, opening the trunk ungently. I reached past him and snatched my duffel with my own share of anger, but now that anger was all tangled up and twisted with self-disgust, too. Damnit, Kai, you don't do that. Was I now resorting to violence to handle personal disputes? I hate people who do that. Somebody gave me a taste of the losing end of it once after I tried to press my point with fists. Then another the next time, and another again... until eventually it sank into my head that Damnit, Kai, you don't do that.

Scott slammed the trunk, quiet now, and looked ready to say something more. Then... didn't. Just like that. Just turned without a word and walked away as if I was no longer of any importance.

Leaving me with Jean. Who stepped very close, as though daring me to strike at her again. Her face was cold. "First off... if you ever hit me again, for any reason, I promise you that I'll make you wish you'd never been born."

I put every ounce of fury into my glare that I could manage, which is saying a lot. "Don't threaten me, Jean."

She leaned closer, expression suddenly reminiscent of that barren not-smile I'd seen on Cable's face a few times. "That wasn't a threat," she murmured. "You know what that was."

Sure I did. Her 'subtle' reminder that she could kick my ass with a thought. But when I'm angry I don't really process these things... "Your self-congratulatory ego-stroking of the day?"

"You are not turning this around." A faint stirring across my skin, making my hair damn near stand on end. Telekinesis, gathered around her like a comfortable cloak. "I would think that a person with your training would recognize when she's near snapping."

"Don't chastise me, Jean. I'm a little old for it."

"Scott was right about why you should have left Keller alive. Even if you want to abandon the issue of ethics you've still got the point that identifying the bodies is going to be very difficult if they're in as bad of shape as you say. Don't those women's families have a right to know what happened to their daughters or sisters or wives? Keller could have helped."

I dropped my duffel with a hard 'thump' and crossed arms over my chest, careful not to link them too tightly and slow how quickly I could block, if need be. Habit ingrained over years is not something you go breaking when you're on the defensive. "And then what? I testify in court to get him put away? Wake up, Jean. You know 'Kate Smith' is an alias. It's a damned good one, but I dunno if it'll stand up to a nosy defense attorney's poking around. And that's what happens when you're a key witness in a first degree murder trial for a man who's killed as many women as Ted goddamn Bundy."

Some of her aggressiveness had faded behind a growing look of... horror? "You... Are you telling me that you killed a man because it was expedient?"

I couldn't deny that expedience was a part of it. "No." Couldn't deny it to myself, anyway. I can deny that the Earth is round to anyone else if I want to. "Keep your judgments to yourself. You weren't there."

She shook her head, stepping back, that intrusive telekinetic itch fading. "I'm not saying that a man like that should live. Believe me, I'm not saying that. But you didn't think, Kai."

My hand snapped out to gesture sharply. She actually flinched and looked ready to counter if it happened to go at her, and a pang of guilt surprised me by tap-tapping at my chest. "I was thinking about not dying, Jean. I was thinking about--"

"You don't die!" she almost yelled, and for the briefest moment, for just a heartbeat, I thought I heard envy in her voice. "You heal, Kai."

Surely I imagined that. Surely.

It rattled me, that thought, as if I weren't already rattled enough by the whole topic. I grabbed for my bag savagely and shrugged it into a comfortable spot as I turned to go, too unsettled to try handling this right then. All sorts of wonderfully bitter words were springing to mind -- things I could say to try to demolish her arguments, make her see that being able to heal isn't as great a gift as it would seem. Make her realize that symbiont or no, I wasn't invulnerable, not by a long shot.

But of course I wouldn't say that. Not to her. I don't trot out my weaknesses for others to see without a damned good reason.

I slammed into a wall. An invisible wall. "We're not through," Jean told me, very levelly. "You think you can just tell us you've killed someone and expect that to be the end of it?"

"I heard that."

"Are we reduced to mental name-calling now?"

"If that wasn't backed with so much venom I'd almost think it was funny."

"Let me go, Jean."

"This isn't a minor issue."

"It's a moot point. He's dead."

"We need information. Where he is, for one." She was probably talking to Scott telepathically.

"I'll tip off the cops. It's not a team matter."

"You're part of this team, therefore it is a team matter."

That was such vintage Scott that I had to turn with a laugh. "Channeling your hubby now? Nice."

Her eyes flashed. "Anyone ever told you you're funny? Because if they did they lied."

"Look, you sanctimonious--"

I jumped. Jean didn't. She's had a long time to get used to the sound of Xavier's voice in the brain.

I spoke aloud, more than a bit unnerved by the sudden intrusion. "I'll get there in my own damned time, Charles, and don't think you can--"

::Now,:: he said again, simply.

Charles can be a very persuasive man.

***

It was after ten by the time I was finished talking to Charles. I walked out of his study with a heavy cloud of unidentified apprehension hanging over my head, unsettled to the core.

Charles had agreed with me.

It made sense, of course. He was no more eager to see the team's secret endangered than I was to have myself in the spotlight. But... I was finding that having Charles on my side of the fence didn't comfort me. Not in the least.

I still carried my duffel, which hadn't left my side since my arrival. Hadn't really thought about why I wanted to keep it with me. Hadn't thought about the false reassurance of the pistol tucked comfortably inside of it.

Until Charles pointed it out, face not hinting at the slightest emotion. Reminding me that if he wanted to know something, he knew it. There's no keeping secrets from Charles when he thinks he has reason to know.

I wondered if anyone else on the team thought that way. I wondered if anyone was really aware of just how much he did see. I wondered if the training I'd gotten from some of Darius' pet head-snakes was enough to keep the important secrets safe, should he decide to go looking.

Mostly I wondered where all the friendly faces were.

Ororo and Remy had gone to a dinner together, or so I'd been told. They did that every now and then, keeping their friendship comfortable and warm. I went with them once. Fine restaurant, big reception for some rich muckety-muck who'd just made a donation to an arts fund. 'Ro and Remy spent the whole night discussing assorted methods for ripping the place off. My sole contribution was to offer to take out the guards, which they both seemed to see as the height of incivility. After that I let them have their thieves' dinners wholly to themselves. I was perceptive enough to realize when I was being a third wheel, even with two people I considered friends.

Rogue and Drake -- neither precisely 'friends' of mine -- were somewhere on the grounds. So was Guthrie, who's a sweet kid. Way too sweet for me to feel like seeing right then. Last thing I wanted was a dose of down-home wisdom. Hank was sleeping, and I wouldn't disturb his all too infrequent rest for anything short of imminent danger. Betsy and Warren were in SoHo... not that I'd ever seek either one of them out for a heart-to-heart. Jean and Scott were outta the picture for casual company, Bish is about as friendly as a falling log, and if I never talked privately to Charles again it'd be too soon.

Logan wasn't here. Charles had implied that he'd gone to the apartment to see if I'd left a message explaining my lateness. Sorry, Logan. Didn't think that far ahead. I wasn't too sure I wanted to see him tonight, anyway. Still rattled, no matter how I tried to cover it, and he'd sense it in a heartbeat.

Then what? He'd hardly be solicitous. That's not in his nature. Logan's method of showing concern is to go out and pummel the cause of it. He told me once, in one of those rare moments of emotional honesty, that he never knew what I wanted from him when I was feeling... less strong than usual. Beneath those words was tacit acknowledgment that I had a right to want something from him, which realization didn't go far in smoothing the conversation, I'll say that.

Finally I told him I didn't know. Sometimes I wanted space. Sometimes I wanted a fight. Sometimes I wanted an ear, or arms, or a roll in the sheets. And I countered by asking what he wanted, and he proved that he didn't know much more about this relationship crap than I did by donning an all too male leer and saying he could think of a few dozen things, and had I been staying limber?

Tonight I had less idea of what I might want than usual, even, so it was probably just as well that Logan was out. Missing a night of sleep to be hunted through the woods by a psychopath gave me a ready excuse to turn in, at least, and Xavier's intervention meant that I could sneak off to bed without being likely to run across anyone. Bish would walk the grounds from two AM 'til dawn, so he'd be catching a few hours of sleep now to be all perky and bright for his rounds.

So I found my way to the room Logan and I shared -- I've never quite been able to think of it as 'my room' or 'his room' or 'our room' -- and had a long, steaming hot shower. Very long. So long, in fact, that my fingers were pitted and wrinkled by the time I finally turned off the water, blessing the mansion's superior water-heating system that permitted such long and indulgent showers. My stomach complained tiredly to remind me that it'd only had token service today. I told it irritably that morning was close enough that it could just wait. Then I finished towel-drying my shorter hair, making a mental note to have someone cut it evenly tomorrow, and crawled my way into a giant T-shirt and then bed.

I didn't even feel my head hitting the pillow.

***

A soft noise--

--and then the ground moved--

--and just as I was getting ready to call another challenge, to dare the bastard to face me--

--I realized that I was being jolted out of a nightmare by Logan's presence, and I needed to do some serious relaxing before I really did snap.

The mattress creaked, very softly, as he settled into bed. I'd curled up on my left side during sleep so my back was to him. He wouldn't believe for a second that I was still asleep, but he'd pretend to out of his own brand of courtesy.

I stared at the dresser against the wall and listened to his breathing. Level, soft, drawn deep into his chest and diaphragm, expelled in a warm rush. The weight distribution and the way sound traveled told me that he was on his side looking at me.

I rolled over, head on the pillow beside his, and looked right back. "Hi."

"Hi." His gaze drifted across my face, then down to the hank of injured ponytail spread over my shoulder and across my neck. "Rough night."

"Yeah," I agreed, letting fingers raise to touch burnt ends. "Still long enough for a braid, though." I shifted a little closer, liking the body heat and the familiar earthy tang of tobacco. "So who called you?"

"Jeannie."

"Figures."

"Yeah." He was still dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, boots kicked off. Still smelled like the night air and the bike, too, beneath the smoke-smell. "How ya doin'?"

"You want half-empty or half-full?"

"Empty."

"Then I've been better."

"Full."

"Been worse."

"Wanna tell me about it?"

My eyes closed for a moment. They were so fond of being shut that I considered letting them stay that way, but eventually I remembered that falling asleep while talking to someone was considered rude, so I opened them. "Maybe later. Not tonight."

He sat up and pulled off his shirt, then unbuttoned the jeans and shifted them off, too. Both articles of clothing found their way to the floor beside the laundry basket -- closer than he usually bothers to get, actually. Then he slid back in under the sheets, wonderfully warm, and I yawned a bit as I moved to curl up against him. His arm opened to encompass me. I turned over and let a hand reach across his chest to encircle him, too.

"Night," he said after a bit, when I was barely conscious enough to hear.

I slurred something in response and fell over the edge into sleep.

***

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