If I have another one of those dreams, I'm gonna die.

I'm not exactly sure when they started, but - oh, Hell's bells. I can't even...

They started six months ago. Two weeks and three nights after Logan left. I had not been sleeping well, what with my broken heart and all, but that night was different. That night I slept easily, peacefully. Like a child. Dreamlessly.

Until I heard him calling me.

Marie...

I fought my way through the haze of slumber, trying to find him. It wasn't that hard. He was still in my head from the night he'd saved my life, and I was able to sense him...somewhere...

Finally, I found it. A door, seemingly suspended in midair, in nothingness. Other than that, it was nothing spectacular or earth shatteringly surreal - just a cheap wooden door with peeling varnish and the number eight on it in tarnished brass. I placed my hand on the knob and opened it.

He was lying there on a double bed, bare-chested, a white sheet twisted around his lower body. Asleep, brow lightly furrowed. Even scowling, he looked so young, almost... At first I wasn't sure if I should go to him - I still remembered the feel of warm metal claws buried in my chest, the look of horror on his face as he realized what he'd done...

He took away my hesitation by opening his eyes and blinking rapidly. "Marie?"

"It's me, Logan," I answered, stepping closer to the bed. Closer to him. "I'm here."

He smiled suddenly, and I wanted to cry out. He was so damn beautiful...Before I could rethink it, I opened my mouth and told him so.

His eyes darkened, but the smile remained. "Come here, darlin'," he beckoned, pulling back the sheet. I caught a glimpse of a strong leg and a muscular hip before averting my gaze.

"I...I can't, Logan...I'll hurt you."

He laughed gently and propped himself up on one elbow. "No, you won't, Marie."

Glancing nervously away from him afforded me my first real look at the room. It was unfamiliar, completely foreign to me. Then I knew.

I was dreaming.

Of course. Logan was gone, had been for weeks. There was no way I could really be there with him, in that darkened room that smelled faintly of sweat and desire and him.

I was dreaming.

I approached the bed, trembling with fear and something else - something I'd only flirted with in the past. "I won't hurt you," I agreed, the words a vow. "I'll never hurt you again, Logan. I swear."

I went to him. I'll always remember that night, the heat of his skin on mine, the way he made me feel...His touch was at once torturous and soothing, a paradox of sensation that made me cry out, time and time again.

We didn't...have sex. And I do mean that literally. We have never fully consummated our...whatever we have, not even in the sanctuary of sleep. In every dream, he does things to me that I never dared to imagine, but he never lets me, ah, reciprocate. I've tried to, but he won't allow it. He just clasps my roving hands in his, flashes me a sad little smile, and proceeds to make me forget my own name. And, when I'm lying there, shuddering and gasping, clinging to him, he kisses me. Lightly, lovingly...and I wake up.

And it's the most frustrating thing, I tell you. It's just not fair. Even in my dreams, where I can touch him without fear or hesitation, clutch him fiercely to my bare skin, I am powerless. I cannot have what I really want - for my nighttime fantasy to possess me completely.

Oh, for Pete's sake, now I'm blushing.

The Professor has given me some volumes on mental control, and one of them has a chapter about dreams. In it, the author states that dreams are controllable entities. He insists that the first step to steering your own dream path is to realize that you are, indeed, dreaming.

I personally think that's a load of bull. I've been aware of that since the first night, but I still can't influence the, uh, outcome of my dreams. It's almost as if I am not in control. And you know what? I'm starting to think that I'm not.

I began really wondering about a month ago. My dreams of Logan were gaining both in frequency and intensity, until they were claiming nearly every one of my nights. He would make love to me ardently, almost desperately...

It felt real. Too real.

One night, I woke with an image in my head - a tiny brown birthmark. I had dreamt of my hands skimming clumsily along his body, trying frantically to show him, to let him know how much I wanted to be utterly his...and stumbling across the mark. It marred the skin next to his right hipbone, and I remember feeling fascinated and amused at once.

"It looks a little like Florida, Logan."

The next day, I skipped Physics and went down to the infirmary. Jean keeps detailed medical records on everyone at the school, and I do mean detailed. Once, Jubes cut her hand while slicing a tomato, and I sat with her while Jean stitched up the gash. She flipped to a page in Jubilee's file and made a notation. At our questioning stares, she explained that she made it a point to record everything like that, scars and tattoos and the like. We must have still looked confused, because her expression closed down and she glanced away.

That's when it hit me. I guess you never can tell when such a tiny thing will make the difference between identifying someone, and...well, not being able to.

At any rate, I knew that if Logan really had a weird little birthmark like the one I'd seen, then it would be there in his file. And it was - "small, cafe-au-lait birthmark, anterior portion of right hip, 4cm lateral to ilium - irregularly shaped, size approximately 2x5cm."

Even though I'm not scheduled to take Anatomy until next term, I still knew what that rambling description meant. That fact that the words were couched in scientific jargon didn't change their import.

I wasn't just dreaming.

I didn't know what to do, and I couldn't imagine going to the Professor or Jean with something like that. I mean, what in blazes would I say? "Oh yeah, Professor Xavier, I've been having these incredibly erotic dreams about Logan...Any thoughts on that??" No way, uh-uh, not a chance. So I did nothing. I said nothing.

And then, last night, I dreamt again.

Logan was wild, nearly feral in his attentions. "You're mine," he hissed into my ear once, sending shivers of need skating down my spine and out into my limbs. "Mine, Marie. You belong to me." He kept staring into my eyes, muttering forceful words about possession and belonging and forever.

"Yes," I whispered, exulting in his claim of ownership. Then, breathless, I traced one trembling hand along his clenched jaw. "Make me yours, Logan. Take me."

His eyes, still locked on mine, flashed dangerously, and he growled, burying his face in the hollow of my throat. "Not yet, darlin'." His voice was low and shaky, and he pressed his open mouth to my skin, biting lightly. Then he hummed softly as his tongue glided out to lave and soothe the ravaged spot.

I don't mind admitting that I don't really remember much after that. That man is damn talented.

I woke up a little while ago, feeling like I'd run the Boston Marathon in the night. I also overslept, so I wrapped myself in my robe and made a mad dash for the shower.

I still haven't taken one yet, and to hell with my first class.

I've been standing here for some time now, in front of one of the sinks, staring at my reflection in the slightly foggy mirror. I reach out to wipe some of the collected steam from the glass, and my hand is shaking. Not that little trembling you get when you're a little edgy or upset about something. I'm talking serious tremors here.

I should have known that the term "normal" would never apply to me in any way, shape, form, or fashion. And now I have proof. So I guess there's no getting around it now; I have to go to the Professor.

I don't have much of a choice.

Because last night, in my dreams, Logan gave me a hickey. For all I know, the man is a thousand miles away, and he somehow managed to give me a goddamned hickey.

I'll kill him for this.