"Jean?.. Is that you?"

"Yes."

"But… how!"

"I don't know."

She did know. The shortest moment when she had been blinded, lost, crushed, not knowing what she was, where she was, what was happening, why it was happening to her – that moment had passed and stayed there, in the past. Passed away. Passed by. She knew how. She knew why. And she knew who she was. She knew it much better now than she had before.

He stared at her, frozen in awe, his mouth opened a little. He looked a good deal silly. This is my man. The man I love… The thought didn't stir anything in her. Not the guilt, anyway. There was no guilt. There could be none.

Guilt was for common people.

She knew what feelings were. She felt. Hunger. And he was standing there, looking small, stunned, staring at her – she could almost see those big wide eyes behind the ruby lenses – and he smelled of power. Not really strong, much weaker than hers… but it would do for a start.

Guilt was for common people… and she was hungry.

"Take off the glasses, Scott."

--------------------------

She remembered what guilt was like. Back then, when she had been almost human, she had been taught to blame herself for all the things that would happen when she did what she wanted. And she did blame… and she did fear. "You mustn't do this again, Jean! Or else…" Or else what? She'd never once been told. She had to guess. Something would happen to her. Something really bad. Maybe Mom and Dad just wouldn't love her anymore. Maybe, if she turned out too dangerous, they'd have to put her to sleep. That's what their neighbors had done to Sandy, their little cocker spaniel, when the thing went mad. Sandy, not bigger than your average sofa cushion, couldn't even maim anyone too badly, but they had killed him. She could do so much more harm. Would they kill her, too?

No, she would tell herself, locked up in her room, curled into a ball in an old armchair. They won't kill me. They love me. They hug me, kiss me, comfort me. They don't even punish me too hard. They… give me presents. She would look at the dollhouse that stood at the wall and tell herself that no-one would give a dollhouse like that to a girl he was going to put to sleep. Such a wonderful little dollhouse, two-storied, with tiny, exquisitely decorated rooms. In the dollhouse, there lived three dolls. Mom, Dad and Daughter. She would look at them and think, No, no, I mustn't. I mustn't. Or else…

Or else – how many dolls would there be left in the dollhouse?

But mustn't wasn't a strong enough argument against want.

And again she was sitting in the old armchair behind the locked door of her room, and looking at the dollhouse and listening to the voices. The voices were down there, in the hall. Too far to hear… but it wasn't her ears that she was listening with.

She listened the way only she could listen.

She heard much more than she would have if she had gone to spy behind the doors downstairs.

"We have to do something. We just have to! It can't go on like this!" (sick insane crazy thing my god why me why does it have to happen to me)

"Honey, calm down. We mustn't scare her. Patience. That's what we need now, just a little patience." (so tired oh lord so goddamn tired sick and tired of you both hate you both go to hell you both)

"Patience? Patience! We've been patient for too long! What is she going to grow up into? What!" (sick psycho mad bitch my daughter)

"Oh, be reasonable, honey. What can we do, anyway? And it's not like it's so easy for her, either…" (you are just afraid of her you just fear her that's all and don't fucking yell at me)

"Look here. I love her, too. She's my little girl. But…"

Sick.

Insane.

Psycho.

Mad bitch.

Mad.

She was sitting there, looking at the dollhouse, and something was wrong with her dollhouse, because it was trembling. Such a fine tremble that sent vibrations through the walls, a small, light dollhouse making the walls shudder. Down there in the hall, they must have felt it, too, but they weren't likely to pay attention.

They were used to it.

The chimney on the dollhouse roof exploded into zillions of dust specks. Disappeared. A wild splash of guilt swept over her – My dollhouse! I ruined my dollhouse! – and disappeared, too.

Sick.

"I'm not sick," she said aloud. "I'm just doing what I want. Why shouldn't I be doing it?"

The dollhouse, shaking, shimmering, was slowly losing its roof… its first floor ceiling… its walls… They dissipated. That's how it would look to anyone else. But she knew – the house was burning. Burning under her stare, under her blazing glare seething with hatred. Burning without fire – coldly, silently… and that made it even scarier.

It was turning to ashes.

"I mustn't," she spat through her teeth. The ground floor ceiling blew up into a cloud of plastic crumbs, the crumbs blackened, dissolved into the air, hanging over the dollhouse like a shadowy curtain. So dangerously close to the three small figures standing in the only remaining room by the small window with cellophane panes…

"I mustn't. Or else… or else nothing will happen."

Thin walls with sculptured pillars, with miniature banisters, with a silver-painted drainpipe running along the butt-end. All blowing up.

"Burn, dollhouse," she whispered. "Burn."

And then there was only floor left, covered with a skillfully embroidered carpet the size of her handkerchief, there was a sofa… there were the dolls. It looked weird. It looked off. Too much uncovered, too much exposed…

Defenseless.

Mom, Dad and Daughter.

Her glare lost the murderous edge for a moment.

How many dolls will there be left in the dollhouse?

Silence, absolute and unperturbed. A silent, motionless room. Sunlight, pouring in through the window.

Dull grey specks dancing in the rays.

Bitch.

"I don't care," she hissed. "It's not me."

And Mom, Dad and daughter went ashes, went dust, and a shudder ran through the whole house, from the roof to the foundation.

A shudder that remained unnoticed.

Burn, dollhouse, burn.

--------------------------

He'd been taught that as well. The guilt. Taught that if he opened his eyes the world would end. He had learned it well. She had to take off his glasses herself, but his eyes behind them were shut, screwed tight. She realized what the reason was and barely held back her laughter. He was afraid to hurt her.

To kill her.

Fool. No-one could kill the Phoenix.

"Open your eyes."

He shook his head, violently, desperately. She put her palm over his hand.

"It's okay. Trust me."

His power was leaving him, leaking away, giving her palm a sweet little tingle, filling her with blissful anticipation, and he still wasn't aware of anything.

"Open your eyes."

And he obeyed to her. His eyelids slowly, as if against his own will – or was it really against his will? – went up.

She watched the fire lit up in his eyes at once… funny, it really could kill… she watched it lit up, and weaken, and die away.

A thing to gossip about in the girls' bedrooms in Xavier's mansion when the night is still young: what color are Mr. Summers's eyes?

Blue.

Who cares.

And then she was kissing him, such a wild, greedy kiss…

And finding someone else's smell on him.

Someone else's presence, a trace of someone else's power.

Someone's.

Not unfamiliar.

She knew the one it belonged to.

She remembered him.

She wanted him.

But finding him here?..

Devouring Scott, consuming everything he was, she reached out for thoughts and memories, well-guarded and hidden behind a wall of shame.

Oh! there was a lot to find.

… Sounds. Scents. Sensations.

Heavy breathing, rustling, bed springs screeching. Tobacco, beer and sweat – stuffy, heady heat.

Pain.

Pleasure.

"Ohhh…"

There's a rhythm – and there's no rhythm. Can a rhythm be un-rhythmic? Contradictions – that's what he is. Greed, impatience, vehemence – that's what he is. Control in every movement, persistence of a crouching predator, deadly precision of the killing leap – that's what he is. That's the way he fights. That's the way he loves. That's the way he fucks.

An animal.

Wolverine.

"Ahh, Logan… Oh God…."

Pain is good. Pain is all you deserve. Pain is all you need. Pleasure is an unwelcome guest here. But you don't really mind. Let it be. It's okay.

It doesn't really matter.

He breaks off in the middle of his (un-rhythmic) rhythm, stops, hanging over you – you can feel him, a lump of heat and power, shielding a section of darkness from your closed eyes. A lover? An enemy?

"Goddamn it, kid. Goddamn it."

"More," you beg, and your lips, they are swollen, parched, bitten through in a dozen of spots, and it always happens, but no-one is going to give you weird looks. You've been biting your lips for a long time now. Too long.

There's a good reason.

A slap. Ringing. Stinging. Not really painful, but offensive, and you shove him away, possessed by sudden fury, and almost manage to wiggle out from under him. Almost.

"That's better. Now stop this."

"Only you," you spit through clenched teeth, "only you, of all cocky, half-witted motherfuckers, can be so choosy even when you're fucking me, for Chrissake!"

"Shut up. And stop this."

"What're you on about?" you mutter awkwardly.

"You can keep punishing yourself all you want, if you're such an idiot. But you're not going to make me punish you. Don't even dream of it. So stop this."

"Like you care," you hiss. The situation is so bizarre, it's getting under your skin. Bickering with him is normal. A routine, everyday thing to do. One of those little things that keep you sane. One of those details keeping it real for you. But to argue with him here and now? In the dead of the night? In his bed? In your birthday suit? With your boxers dangling around your ankle?

And with your eyes shut tight.

As absurd as it can get.

His answer is also absurd.

"I do care. And if it doesn't suit you… well, then I will stop this."

"No," you reply hastily – too hastily – and grab his shoulders with a death grip.

No.

Because when he leaves, the cold comes. The cold is worse than pain, worse than pleasure. With those two, you can live. With the cold, you can't.

You don't live when it comes. You survive.

"No. Don't. Come on here. What do you want?"

He snorts. His palm on your shoulder; it crawls down, stroking your side, reaches your hip. The touch is strangely tender, and it startles you. His palm is smooth – it also feels strange, but you got used to it. Yet another contradiction. He looks like a guy who'd have tons of scars and calluses. Like a guy who'd be nothing but scars and calluses, rather... But his skin can't scar. And it can't get callused either. He once said he wouldn't mind having a couple of scars. For a memory. Maybe, he was joking.

He fondles your buttocks his hand worms in between your thighs, and you part them obediently.

"What do I want? I only want you to be able to sit down on that ass tomorrow, kid. That's all. Relax."

And you relax, and he doesn't talk anymore – which is wonderful – and he pushes into you again, and at first it hurts anyway, but not for long, not nearly long enough. He knows what he's doing, oh yeah, he's had a shitload of time to master his skills – all kinds of skills. And pain gives way to pleasure, surrenders to pleasure, flees from pleasure, and you shut yourself up, biting onto your own fist, and you scream, you scream, you scream – not making a sound, but he knows, because he's inside you, and the scream is inside you, and so he knows everything and feels everything.

And, maybe, when the shame for not having the pain there anymore burns out, for a moment – a shortest, brightest moment – you couldn't care less if it's right or wrong…

He tried to push her away.

In vain, of course, but still – he did. Was it because he finally got afraid? Because he realized he was dying?

Or had she just touched something much too private, much too sensitive to the touch?

She didn't care.

Her man. The man she loved. The man who had tried to burn out the very memory of her, replace it with yet another man.

Another man who should have been hers just as well.

Let him panic. Let him squirm. She felt his power fill her up, feed her hunger, run through her veins. She felt her eyes light up with his fire.

Burn, dollhouse, burn.

-----------------------------------

And when she woke up – when she came to – when she opened her eyes, he was standing there, over her. That other one. Just standing there and staring, so much like Scott – and still so much unlike him. And even though his stare was full of the same timid happiness, the same fearful hope – it was different. For she couldn't think when she felt that stare on her. She didn't want to think. There were no thoughts. There was only lust – overwhelming, almost painful.

Good.

"Jean?"

"Logan."

Weird eyes, wild eyes. The eyes that made her heart race up to an uncountable number of beats per minute. The eyes that made her feel hot. There was nothing frisky in those eyes. There was joy, there was concern. A little bit of alert. Not a bit of desire. Nothing like lust.

But she could see behind the eyes. She could see so much deeper. Find so much more.

He couldn't want her, not now, not after all that happened, not here, not on the medicine table. It was too improper, even for him, a fervent hater of any kind of rules… But he did want her.

She gave him a smile, taking the sensors off her chest – deliberately, slowly, one by one, letting her fingers trail over her skin. Watching his eyes dart to those fingers, watching him look away with an almost visible effort. People couldn't control their desires, she had already understood that. Had learned it long ago. They could control their actions. At times they could chase away some thoughts that they considered rubbish or dangerous. But they could do nothing about desires, about their deepest feelings, about those dark things that dwelled there, on the edge between their conscious and their subconscious. Even the best of them couldn't. Her parents never thought they meant her any harm. They would never say they didn't love her. They would never, not even in their thoughts, call her a sick mad bitch, but! But there, behind the thoughts, there was a hidden truth. Who was it that had told her long ago that it didn't matter? That what mattered was the ability to subdue those desires, not to let them break out on the surface? That the very realization that subduing them was necessary was what distinguished thinking beings from animals? Someone. Someone who had tried to subdue her.

Nonsense. People couldn't control their desires; and she didn't need to. It would be ridiculous. It would be against her nature. After all, if she weren't meant to do it… how come she could?

And so now she was kissing him, too, and of course he didn't mind, and even if he had – it wouldn't really change anything.

This time she went searching for it herself. It didn't take her long to find it – this one never cared to hide the good memories. Much deeper in his mind there was a locked door, too. It wasn't shame that locked it, wasn't guilt. It was locked away by hundreds of locks and blocks so that even he couldn't reach it. His past. Where he came from. Who he really was. What he really was. She could go through all those blocks with one punch, but she didn't bother.

It wasn't what interested her.

Not now. Right now she was interested in something completely different.

Something really… interesting.

… You are watching him.

You like watching him.

At times you think it's unfair in a way. Because he can't see you. Never. Not once in all this time. The first time he came to you, you told him to take his glasses off. He obeyed – and has done it himself, without reminders, ever since. Such a working routine. To come to your bedroom. To take off his shirt. To take off his pants. To take off his boxers. To sit down on the edge of the bed and pull off his socks. And then, invariably the last number on the list, to take off his glasses and put them down on the bedside cabinet.

At times you catch him mid-show. Undress him yourself. He doesn't protest, even if you are so eager you rip out the zipper of his jeans. He doesn't wince if you lose all patience and pop out the claws and slice his shirt right off him (he buttons up too thoroughly, he still does…). But he always takes off his glasses himself. Every time.

He doesn't see you.

And you see him. And it really must be unfair. Because you could get by on other senses. Say, touch. Just this one sense could drive you right out of your mind, because…

"Yeah, bub. Like this. Damn, that's good…"

Good. He is good, damn good, and you don't need your eyes to see it.

But fair or not, you love watching him. Right now, you're watching him, too. Watching his shoulders. His palm on your stomach. His auburn hair – you run your fingers through it, grasping fistfuls of soft strands. His head is moving under your hand, bobbing up and down, and when it's up, you can see his (ever shut) eyes, his eyelashes, girlishly long – and his lips closed around your…

"Scott," you whisper.

He freezes for a moment. He didn't expect to hear his name. Not even when he had every right to expect it. Not from you. He's not here for you to call him by the name. You are you, right? You are supposed to make fun of him. To tease him. To piss him off. Then he feels like everything is okay.

And who cares if that's not what you want.

Thankfully, there are still things you both want.

"Yeah. Do it. That's perfect…"

His palm snakes down your stomach. He knows you, or his hands do, he's had your body all mapped out (in Braille), and he knows what to do to make you arch like this in a second, to make you growl like this, to make your hands ball into fists in his hair… so that later, after a nameless, thoughtless moment, he will inch away from you silently, curl into a fetal position next to you, laying his head down on the sheets, never opening his eyes, trying to catch his breath and gasping for air.

I should go easier on him, you reproach yourself again. Easier. Or one of these days he's just going to choke.

A really fucked-up kind of death – leaving this sinful world with someone else's dick down your throat. An idiotic kind of death. Nightmarishly hilarious. You don't want him to die like that.

In fact, you don't want him to die at all.

That's the point.

You keep watching him for a while. Then you grab him by the shoulder – rudely. You're being rude on purpose. Gentleness will scare him away. Will make him run a mile. You grab him by the shoulder and pull him closer. He crawls up to you, but this time he puts a hand on your chest, pushing you away. Keeping his distance. Yeah, now it's okay to do so. You smirk and wipe the corner of his mouth with your hand. He flinches.

"Well?" he wonders quietly. "What else?"

"Like you don't know."

Uncharted regenerative ability. Yeah, baby. Yeah. Well, it isn't really anybody's fault that he's such an inspiring sight.

"Now I know why you are such a brain-dead dork," he grumbles. "With that constant hard-on, your brain hardly ever gets any blood at all."

"You're going to complain?"

He bites his lip and shakes his head. Of course he isn't.

You know what he is going to do. Now. And later. Later, first thing, he will feel for his glasses on the bedside cabinet. Will get his sight back. Will pick up his clothes. Will get dressed – slowly and carefully. Will leave in silence. You will be watching him again, but he won't say a word to you. Won't give you a single look.

It doesn't matter.

He will come back tomorrow.

He always comes back…

He tore away from her!

She couldn't believe it. Was he that strong? Tore away from her, pushed away from her, backed away from the table.

"What's going on, Jean?"

"It's okay," she replied, impatient, sitting up. She felt like howling from the pain of unfulfilled desire, like scratching the smooth surface of the table with her nails, like thrashing on it. She felt like calling him. Calling him like a woman should call her man. Not with the help of words, no. But he, right now, needed words. "It's okay. Come back here. Come on."

He slowly shook his head. And reached into the pocket of his shirt.

Seeing the thing he held in his hand gave her a startle.

Ruby glasses.

"Jean, where's Scott?" he asked, deceitfully calm, and this time the look in his eyes made her shiver. They changed, those eyes of his. They were bright with alert.

Almost as if he were watching a stranger.

Where's Scott?

And then she remembered, and a wave of horror hit her like a tsunami, and suddenly tables, chairs and cabinets were all rocking, the glass of monitors and test tubes giving off a panicky ringing jingle.

Scott.

What have you done? What have you done, you…

SICK MAD BITCH!

Remembered his eyes, so unprotected with his glasses off, remembered the liquid fire running through her veins.

Why? What for? Scott… God, he loved me!

I loved him!

Jean… you hurt him.

You killed him, Jean. You can't fix it.

Was it her voice? Or was it someone else? The voice telling her that ruthless, murderous truth…

"Jean! Jean, calm down! Look at me, Jean!"

I can't.

I can't look at you.

I'm sick.

I'm mad.

I must be put to sleep.

"Kill me," she forced out, choking on tears. "Kill me before I kill somebody else!"

For a second his stare froze. He understood everything. At once. He must have been expecting it. And for a moment, his eyes sparkled with such fury that she trembled in fear. Was that for her? Was that fury all he felt for her? Did he hate her so much?..

But no, it couldn't be that, because he was already shaking his head, refusing to grant her wish.

He had subdued the animal in him.

"No, Jean, no… Professor… he said you might have changed…. But it can be fixed. Can be fixed…" His eyes were full of concern again, almost loving. The intensity faded away.

She wasn't listening.

Professor.

That's who. That's the one talking in her head.

You can't fix it. It can be fixed.

Old liar.

And this one here was no better.

Fix? Fix her? An old man who rummaged through her head like through his dirty linen?

This beast who hated her?

What ever made them think they had the right to judge her!

"There's nothing to be fixed."

Alert was back in his eyes in a flash, but it was too late. She had caught him off guard.

"Jean!"

Don't you dare say that name. You thought I was dead? You fucked my husband?

She threw him across the room, into the wall. Threw him, without thinking, with a snarl, wanting to kill. He hit his back on the hard metal, crashed to the floor, went limp… but he was alive. She sensed the life in him. Sensed his power working, securing that spark of life, rebuilding it. Sensed it renew itself… grow stronger…

So fast.

She stopped for a second, mesmerized by the sensation. How unusual! Rage dissipated, driven out by curiosity. Finish him? she thought almost lazily. Burn him?

No.

Maybe later… some other time…

Some other place.

She got off the table. Everything around was so common. So familiar.

So hateful.

He made me believe it was my home. Only it's not.

It's just a house.

A dollhouse.

Her power took the door off the hinges, took it off with the hinges, with a good portion of the wall. She walked through the self-made entrance. She was leaving. Going by the corridors she had walked a thousand times. Through the corridors she had never walked. Never – with such an easy, untroubled, new stride.

There was nothing for her to fear.

No-one for her to fear.

No-one she would fear for.

She was real. And other than her, there was no-one. Only dolls. Strange, mindless dolls.

She was going home.

Burn, dollhouse, burn.

And let the ashes scatter.