It's rare moments like these that seem to keep me going on in life. Moments like these that reaffirm my commitment to the world, life, my friends, and most of all, her.

I don't think she knows I do this, sitting up in our bed after everyone else is asleep, the nightstand's little light on with the pretense of reading until I fall asleep. But here I am, leaning against the headboard, the book I was reading a bit ago sitting aside in favour of pondering, and letting the mind wander in that all to fatal way towards dreams, fantasies and hopes beyond grasp.

I don't have a lot of those; well, not too many anyways, and certainly none that I talk about with others. It seems unfitting of a leader to dream beyond the mission at hand, or think about something else than the concerns of others. The leader is the rock, the steady rope everyone grasps for when they fall off the cliff, the one solid thing that's always reliable, hell or high water.

And I guess it's mostly true.

I was well trained. Taught from the start, I understood I was different, taking the hard knocks of life and learning from them, never letting myself give up. I can't. I won't. I don't think I know how to.

Which is why I sit here, late at night, not thinking about the class work I'll be assigning the new generation of mutant children or the mission I might have to go on, but the idle things, the things I come to forget sometimes in the rush of adrenaline or burden of paperwork.

And how she lives with that surprises me.

It's really sad sometimes. If I had the chance, I would worship at her feet. I mean, I come to this place, submit myself to something-- to a man that seemed to know me better than I did-- I wasn't sure of at first, meet her and everything changes.

And I wonder how the hell she sleeps soundly at night. Way too many times we come back to the mansion with bruises and cuts, injuries and emotional scars that rival the physical pain... and we keep going on by choice.

It makes sense, and yet seems so insane. Story of my life.

But she sleeps. I stay up and ponder what the next day will hold, sometimes cradling her in my arms, sometimes laying on my side facing away from her, absently studying the wall, considering whether or not I should lock myself in a sunless room for a few days so I can see the rest of the world like everyone else. Like her.

God I love her. Every breath. Every step. Sure, we argue, but that only makes it worse for me, because that's when I realise I would be crushed if I ever lost her. I don't expect her to be some fairy tale princess who's endlessly devoted and sheep-like, and neither does she want a Prince obey-me Charming-- that would piss her off-- but we're stuck in a loop. I hate it when she hurts, and Ororo has more than once threatened to hit me if I go too far in protecting her.

And she does the same. Being a doctor-- and a telepath-- sets her up that way. Heh, the last time I got hurt she almost threw me off a mission in case I would set aside my safety for everyone else.

I guess that's what makes us good for each other. And god, her body is like a drug. The feel of her silky red hair, the smell of her skin, the sounds she makes when I pleasure her, the taste of her sweat. It's all so intoxicating, I can understand why she gets looks from the other men.

If they only knew.

And what's sad, when I think about it, is that I find Logan's actions amusing. Sure, jealousy and distaste burn through me when he does it, or when I catch that elusive smile of hers that means she likes the attention, but at the end of the day I can shrug it off.

Mostly.

I'm still male after all. Fuzzball and Laserbrain may be words coined by some rich genius in San Rafael, California, but they sure fit Logan and me... minus the fact that Chewey and Han don't come to blows over leadership or women.

Or whatever bug crawled up either of our asses and inspired us to brawling.

So it's late, and I'm still thinking. She's been asleep for a few hours; I think she's dreaming, the way she stirs occasionally, her hand clenching around invisible objects... and I'm currently pondering over the last time I changed the oil on my bike.

Dammit.

I suppose I could wake her up and answer the urge tickling at my brain and loins. It only really takes one thought, one brief remembrance of what I've savoured a hundred times before, and the physiological betrays the psychological.

And the sun doesn't rise for a few hours. I guess the line in question is: "why not?"

So I sigh to myself and let the little grin take my mouth. I can be such a teenager sometimes, but she never seems to object. So, sliding over, running a hand along her cheek, I watch her stir, her hair splaying out further on the pillow, and swallow.

Like I said, a drug.

By the time my fingertips touch her lips, her eyes open a little, the haze of sleep still clouding soft green irises. One of her hands slip out from underneath the covers and she smiles, hooking fingers at my neck and pulling me down on top of her, the covers shifting in our wake.

And the kiss alone, honeyed and meaningful, is enough to tell me that I won't be going to sleep soon.

I love rare moments like these.