Author's Note/Disclaimer: I do not own X-men, blah, blah, blah. Look, it's not a one-shot! Now, go and read.

Isobars and Ions

Chapter One: How far

A cloud drifted across the sky. His face illuminated only by the glowing end of his cigar, Logan stood watching the sky. No moon tonight—none that he could see, anyway. He exhaled, blowing smoke out the open window. Times like this he missed the road, missed the simplicity of his life before he'd gotten tangled up in this business of good and evil. Times like this—nights when he couldn't sleep, when four walls seemed like more of a cage than a room and he had to fling the windows open wide to the freezing air to get a breath—he missed not caring; not having anyone or anything to miss.

A rasp of paper on hardwood floor. Logan turned and padded over to the door, picking up the sheet torn off of someone's yellow legal pad. Can't sleep. Meet me in the kitchen? No signature, not that one was needed. Logan stubbed out his cigar in an already-overflowing ashtray.

After all his brooding, the kitchen seemed inappropriately well-lit, but Logan forgave any emotional jarring at might have caused when Jean turned to smile tiredly at him. "I couldn't sleep." She leaned back against the counter, gripping a ceramic mug in both hands. "Tea?"

Dammit Jean, I'm never going to get you drunk, am I? "Sure. Thanks." He sipped, trying not to grimace—he hated chamomile—and propped himself against the kitchen table. "I never figured you for an insomniac."

Jean raised an eyebrow. "I never figured you for an expert on my sleeping habits." She shrugged. "It was just too quiet, and I was..."

"Lonely?" Now she looked down, and her cheeks colored in what would have in a less formidable woman been called a blush. She turned away, making a pretense of adding honey to her tea.

Logan set him mug on the table with the softest of "clink"s and walked gently towards her. She tensed when her kneaded her shoulders, then relaxed, leaning into the massage. He waited until her muscles were loose under his hands before speaking. "More nightmares?"

She stiffened. "Jeannie. Talk to me." She shrugged but didn't move away.

"It's always the same dream." She arched her back when he dug his thumbs into the muscle below her shoulderblades. "And I can never remember it—it seems important, and there's something about doors..." she shook her head. "I've been having it every night for a week and...and I don't like to go back to sleep. After."

A week. It had been a week—well, eight days—since Scott had been sent away on some mystery mission. Another one of the Professor's little secrets. Logan smiled and rested his hands on her shoulders, hesitating. "Y'know, if you just want comfort or conversation, the whole 'meet me in the kitchen' thing seems kinda elaborate," He leaned forward and kissed her neck, drinking in the smell and taste and feel of her, "when you know my door's always open," he breathed into her ear.

Jean turned to face him, resting a hand against his face. His stubble scraped lightly against her palm. "You know it's not that simple."

"Why not?" He leaned forward until only a few inches separated them. "Why can't it be that simple?"

Jean pulled away, shaking her head. She opened her mouth, about to speak, then closed it. She left the kitchen and its bright cheery lights at what would have in a less formidable woman been called a run.

Logan slumped against the table, taking a gulp of his already-cooling tea. Chamomile: He hated chamomile. "Fuck.."

So close no matter how far

Couldn't be much more from the heart

"Fuck," Scott Summers remarked conversationally to the world at large when he glanced at the gas gauge. Running on empty—was that the title of some country song? He thought it might be—in the middle of one of those empty stretches of mid-western highway. He'd meant to refill the tank when he reached Iowa, but something must have distracted him. What, he wondered, swinging his sunglass-covered vision across the empty highway, surrounded on all sides by boring, flat, brown grass, could that possibly have been?

A sign up ahead—Scott leaned forward, straining his vision. Please, please, let me be lucky just this once...there it was. Gas, food, motels—for the moment he was as content as a man who hadn't showered in forty-eight hours or eaten in eight could be. Next time, he promised himself, I'm taking the jet.

Author's note: More of a plot will follow...I swear...Okay, the random transition thing? That was part of the lyrics to Metallica's "Nothing else matters", from which the chapter title was derived. And my Logan/Jean one shot was titled "nothing else matters". Oh, I'm soo clever.

Oh, shut up. Go review.