"maybe it's a part of me you took it to a place i hoped it would never go, and maybe that fucked me up much more than you'll ever know"

Two nights. For two nights he crept to the room on the upper level, knocking quietly on the door and slipping into her room, offering himself to her as the only friend she could accept.

Where the first night was wordless, the emotions like tides on a shore, the second night was all about talking. They discussed themselves, their lives, the Incident, the world. Nothing was sacred and no secret was spared. His less than stellar life in Canada was a set of tales, some of which he swore he would never tell anyone; her life was a journey of growth and pain, the agony easing with retrospective examination of it.

And both were surprised at the depth of the other. The beast with the metal claws had a heart and mind, and the lady doctor had wounds and scars.

But perfection was never a goal for either of them in the first place.

The third night was different. They never turned the lights on, and when she answered the door that time in the loose fitting nightgown that ended at her thighs, he knew things would probably change between them.

He was right.

She was comfortable with him, even smiling when he made a wry comment or distracted her with something pleasant. She could now sit on the edge of her bed with him, no longer flinching at his touches when he accidentally--or intentionally-- brushed across her arm or leg, his gaze no longer bringing the guilt tainted thoughts to her mind.

And he was comfortable with it. He made no bones about hiding his attraction to the white hair streaked Rogue, his uncensored desires to savour the girl's untouchable skin dominating those conversations, and she didn't stop him. She understood, and from a more perceptive point of view, she could see how deep the feelings for the girl ran in him.

Sexually, he was frustrated, emotionally, he craved something far more than he was currently receiving, mentally, he still fought himself over adoring a teenager.

It was not such an unfamiliar set of sentiments.

A hand across the cheek, a supportive pat on the leg, an accidental touch of arms or legs. It seemed rampant, the contact between them, and by the time they were both making remarks about their virginity and how they had both lost it, his hand was settled firmly on a satin encased thigh.

"I've never been so lonely in my life, Logan. I don't know whether to run and try to start over, or stay here and fight for what I had."

"Runnin' is always an option, but it don't always get ya someplace."

Cynicism was strange from her. "You would know."

"Yep."

"Logan--"

"Hush, Jeannie. I don't want to talk anymore."

For a woman experienced in many things-- medicine, sex, men, life, being hated and loved, fear, pain and all the other trials of existence, they stood in silence before the moment before her. Step now and cross a line. Step now and break the last threads of a bond once carefully nurtured.

The bond that lay shattered at her feet.

The sigh caught on her lips, that last breath of resistance for a very long time trapped in her mouth for what seemed like an eternity. It was odd; it burned through her like smoke, searing her lungs and ripping into her throat. Like a fire. Like an angry predator.

Like the last shreds of her humanity wrought asunder.

"Jeannie?"

Her hand fell to his mouth without a sound, and it shocked him. She had never touched his face in all those previous nights, and the caress of her fingers was enough to make the heat rise in his blood. It was so delicate, like a feather, he lost grip of who was next to him.

Until she kissed him.

Curiosity was always one of her vices, and it fit her as a doctor, her mutant gifts only enhancing that set of urges. Her lips explored his, seeking some of the warmth she had come to miss, searching for feelings that she could wrap around and take into herself.

And given that he was feeling nearly as lost in the romance department, the swirl of emotion that was his feelings for Rogue a plague to his judgment, he returned her exploring touch. His hand landed at her neck, savouring the feel of her skin against his. This was the forbidden fruit he could never have before. The apparently willing victim of his natural urges that had been curbed for a girl with deadly skin.

By the time he could feel her heart beating in her chest, the thin gown hiding nothing of her feminine curves, he had pinned her to the bed, her back pressed into the wrinkled sheets.

And she would not fight him. He half expected her to protest. To escape and call on some archaic promise to someone besides him. To run.

But she didn't. Instead she drew him against her form, sliding the shirt over his shoulders and head, her soundless breath making him shiver.

Her touch. An experienced touch with the edge of newness.

All for him.

Reality stripped away from him as instinct took over. It always did, like some werewolf borne of lust, removing his control and higher thinking, the muscles in his body tightening as he loomed over the woman he never thought he could have, her hands wandering over him with wanton need and unabashed gentleness. Her legs were cradling his now, trying to draw him closer, and he grunted, steeling himself. He could not lose it now. He would not.

Despite his urges to do all this to the girl with the white shock, nothing would match the attentions of someone who knew what to expect. This moment was his, as was the feminine body beneath him, and the more he thought about it, the tighter his pants felt, his eyes squeezing shut when he descended down to take her mouth possessively.

The little gasp she gave when his teeth grazed along her neck took everything else away from his mind. He couldn't think if he wanted to, and as he sat back to free the jeans from his lower half, peeling them off and casting them aside hastily, he heard the feral growl in his throat.

She was his sweet need and there was nothing stopping him. She didn't fight when his fingers slipped under the thin shift of fabric, exposing her skin in the dim light of the room, nor when he pulled the cotton of her underwear off her hips, his thumbs falling across the rise of her pelvic girdle. Yanking the gown free of her hair, the red locks pillowing around her head on the sheets, he took a mere moment to take in the sight of her body before sliding himself against her, pressing her into the mattress and beyond the fine line in the sand.