Moving On

by Jane Westin

Can Wolverine and Jubilee reconcile their newfound differences and mend their relationship after so much time apart?

2. Homecoming Or, Jubilee Finally Figures I...

Moving On, Part II: Homecoming (Or, Jubilee Finally Figures It Out)

"Jubilee."

"What!" I jump and drop my books. Whirling, I see Chandler. "…oh."

"Nice to see you, too," Chandler says dryly.

"You scared me," I explain apologetically, bending to scoop the books back into my arms. "Why aren't you in class?"

Chandler gives me an odd look. "Eddie cancelled lab today, remember?"

I frown. Obviously he's already told me about the cancellation, but I can't for the life of me remember when. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

"S'okay."

I turn and start down the hill toward my car. He seems to hesitate, then follows me. "Hey, Jube?"

"Yeah?" I say, focusing on the slippery, decaying leaves beneath my feet. Why oh why did I wear these stupid platforms on a day I knew would be dismally wet?

"Jube, hold up." Chandler catches my arm from behind. It knocks me off-balance, and as I flail, my loose-leaf binder slides off of the pile of books and lands with a soggy plop.

"Shit." I shake off Chandler's hand and bend at the waist, mindful of the hem of my skirt as it brushes against the grass. The notebook, unfortunately, hasn't been spared-the back cover drips icy mud onto my shoe as I lift it from the ground.

Irritated, I wave Chandler's apology aside and pat my pockets for a spare Kleenex. To my immense relief, I find one-presumably clean-wadded at the bottom of the skirt's fifth pocket. Unfortunately, it smears the mud rather than wiping it away. I make a face. "Ew."

"Here." Chandler reaches out and takes the binder. "Sorry," he says again.

"No problem," I mutter, resuming the trek to the car. I'm well aware of the paved path that curves around the hill and down to the parking lot, but stupid impatient me opted for the shortcut. Like I couldn't use an extra fifty feet of walking, anyway, what with all the pizza Chandler and I have been consuming in these last few days before final exams.

Once we reach the car, Chandler stops me again. "Jubilee, I really need to talk to you."

I open the trunk, dump my books inside, and turn to him. My irritation at the notebook incident has died down a little, but frankly, now is not the time. "Sweetie," I say, taking his hands in mine and looking up at him pleadingly, "I love you very much, but I have had a long, frustrating day, and I really want to go home and take a shower and a nap and not think about stuff right now, so please, can we talk about this later tonight?"

Chandler's lips tighten momentarily, and annoyance flickers in his eyes, but at last he relents.

"Fine," he says, sighing. "We'll talk tonight."

"Thank you," I breathe, pulling my hands away and kissing him on the cheek. "See you at eight?"

"Fine," Chandler repeats shortly.

I flash him a small smile and swing into the car. Much as I hate to leave him hanging like this, I'm frankly too exhausted to even think about the deep emotional issues I know he's going to broach. I'll talk to him tonight, I reassure myself.

Glancing into the rearview mirror as I drive away, I see that he's still standing in the middle of the parking lot, looking after me.

***

As promised, I knock on the door of Chandler and his roommates' townhouse at eight o'clock. Well, to be perfectly honest, it's closer to eight-twenty, and Chandler enlightens me to this fact in no uncertain terms when he opens the door.

"You're late," he says accusingly.

"Am not," I retort lightly.

"Give her a break, man." Simon walks in, chewing, his hand in a bag of Doritos. "Just 'cause you're compulsively punctual doesn't mean everyone is."

Chandler glares at him. "Butt out, jackass."

"Hey, dude, the eighties called, they want their slang back." Simon opens the refrigerator door. Glass clanks, and he pulls out a longneck. "You want a beer, Jube?"

"Thanks, no." I glance sideways at my boyfriend, who appears to be silently fuming at Simon. Wincing to myself, I reach over and take his hand, offering him a small smile in an attempt to make amends for neglecting him earlier. "We better get going."

 "Later," Simon says over his shoulder as he disappears into the back room. A moment later I hear John Goodman shouting about Vietnam.

"Oh, we're missing another exciting Lebowski night." I turn my smile up a few watts, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, but he just looks at me. Well, if he's going to be like that, I can't help it. Maybe a couple of drinks at the bar will improve his mood. "Ready to go?" I add.

"Yeah." Like I was twenty minutes ago, I can almost hear him say, but he leaves it at that.

He doesn't say anything during the drive to the bar, and once inside, his voice is drowned out by the thump and pulse of deafening house music. It's techno night, and Gotham Citi, with its beaded, glowstick-wielding patrons, has been transformed into a rave club. I know Chandler isn't partial to electronica of any sort-he's more of a rock 'n' roller, although I've seen firsthand his collection of vintage Manilow albums-but he'd expressed virtually no opinion when we'd discussed tonight's activity earlier in the week, so the Friday Night Party had been my choice.

Unfortunately, Chandler's taking the party-pooper act to extremes. After just two hours and countless failed attempts to get him to dance, or at least move away from the bar and over to where some of our friends are gathered, I give up. "Let's go outside," I scream into his ear.

He gives me a brief, searching glance, then nods and slides off of the barstool. I cling to the back of his shirt as he weaves through the gyrating throng to the exit.

The relative quiet outside is a shock to my eardrums, which had adjusted to the blast of music inside the bar. It's also a shock to my overheated skin, as the temperature seems to have dropped at least ten degrees, and I gratefully accept Chandler's hooded sweatshirt. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Chandler's eyes move back and forth over the dark street. The neighborhood isn't wonderful, but it's not particularly dangerous, so I'm not surprised when he suggests that we take a walk.

I nod my acquiescence, and we start down the empty street.

When we first started dating, neither Chandler nor I had any particular qualms about public displays of affection; in fact, I think both of us were somewhat thrilled just to have someone with whom to cuddle between classes. As time went on, however, that puppy-love feeling wore off. We no longer kiss in the courtyard or when bidding each other farewell for the afternoon, and I don't remember the last time I sat in his lap.

Tonight, as we walk, we do not touch.

I'm eyeing a concert flyer stapled to a nearby bus hut when Chandler takes a deep breath and begins. "Jubilee, I think-"

That's as far as he gets, because at that point he stops talking-stops dead in his tracks, for that matter. After the split second it takes for my gaze to whip from his face to the sidewalk in front of us, I see why.

"Well hello there, sparkler," says Lester Dartos.

Of course I recognize the two of them on sight. Wonderful. Some night this is turning out to be.

I'm fairly sure Dartos only recognizes me because of the run-in I had with him two summers ago. Logan and I had been shopping for a birthday present for Rogue when Dartos had, in a demonstration of sheer stupidity, attempted to snag my purse and make a run for it. Naturally I had retaliated-with Logan at my back, of course-and Dartos had ended up in cuffs. Because of his mutation, which enables him to stretch indefinitely, he'd slipped away almost immediately, but the encounter stuck in my mind.

Granted, this also might have something to do with the fact that Dartos is ugly enough to scare cattle. I don't know if it's a part of the stretch-mutation or what, but he is just repulsive. His eyes, which shift constantly as he talks, are so far apart I wonder if he can even see without turning his head. Adding to the overall creepiness are his lips, which are thick and slimy-looking and, at the moment, stretched into an obscene sneer.

"What are you doing here?" are the first words out of my mouth. Stupid, really, because I know what Dartos is doing here-he and his massive sidekick (aptly nicknamed Brick) own a shady little pawn shop two or three blocks to the west. I've known this fact ever since I moved to New Haven; this is, of course, because I had to promise Scott about six hundred times that I wouldn't go looking for trouble with them.

"I think the more pressing question is what are you doing here?" Dartos replies, folding his scrawny arms and turning his head slightly to the side to better eyeball me.

"Jubilee, you know these guys?" 

I hazard a quick glance at Chandler's stunned face. He's goggling at Brick, whose gargantuan silhouette looms ten feet behind Dartos-the backup thug, in case Dartos doesn't get what he wants by talking. "Unfortunately," I reply, stepping slightly in front of him. Dartos doesn't appear to pose much of a threat, but with my training, I'm slightly better equipped to take on Brick.

Dartos plasters an injured expression onto his fishy features. "Oh, you aren't glad to see us," he whines. "And here I thought Xavier was recruiting for his X-Men."

Oh, damn.

See, I knew Dartos's intentions the second I laid eyes on him. As unbelievable as it seems now, he used to be a student at Xavier's. After his expulsion fifteen or so years ago-for 'fraternizing with unsavory characters,' as Scott so tactfully phrased it after the botched mugging-he found himself an oversized, stupid enforcer: an ex-convict named Paulo de Pauli (not kidding!), better known as Brick. He and Brick (who has never, to my knowledge, displayed any power other than excessive largeness) opened the pawn shop shortly after they met; from this base of operations, they traffic substances, cause trouble for the local police, and generally make a nuisance of themselves. The pawn shop, however, came in handy when Dartos decided to exert some revenge on Xavier for his 'unfair' expulsion. I remember Scott chuckling as he told the next part of the story; apparently Dartos and Brick showed up on and off for the next seven or eight years, armed with various large and, he was sure, illegal firearms, to try and seek vengeance. After each miserable defeat, he said, they usually just slunk back to their hole to plot their next attack. However, for the past few years, Dartos has been pestering Xavier through e-mail, claiming repentance for the attacks and begging to be allowed on the team. Xavier, of course, firmly refused, but I have a good idea that Dartos would confront anyone with X-Men connections to get what he wants.

But does he have to go blabbing about it in front of Chandler, for God's sake?

"X-Men?" Chandler echoes disbelievingly, his gaze swinging back to me.

"Can I explain later?" I hiss out of the corner of my mouth. Then, turning my attention back to the goons in front of us, I smile dazzlingly. "Look, guys, it was super nice to see you again, I really hope business is booming, but we don't have any cash and my ATM card broke in half last week, so we're really gonna have to scram, 'kay?" With that, I grab Chandler's arm and begin to haul ass out of there.

"Now just hold on one second," Dartos says, and now there's no whine in his voice, feigned or otherwise.

Even before I see the gun, I know that we are suddenly in very, very bad trouble.

Chandler's muscles tense beneath my clenched fingers. "We don't-"

He breaks off as Dartos gestures at Chandler with the gun. It's a Taurus nine millimeter, edged with gold and probably hot. "Shut up," he instructs Chandler. "I want to talk to her, not you."

With a terrified glance at me, Chandler closes his mouth.

Unless you count the curses I aimed at him after retrieving my purse from his slimy little hands, it's safe to say I've never actually carried a conversation with Lester Dartos. Much of what I know about him was conveyed to me by Scott, and it's likely that a good chunk of said information was watered-down. However, it doesn't take much brainpower to deduce that Dartos, despite his wiseass 'tude, is no genius.

I try, for Chandler's sake, to remain calm. "Dartos," I begin, "dude, what good will it do to shoot us?"

Dartos's eyes roll in their sockets; I can practically see the wheels turning as he desperately tries to figure out what to do next. "Shut up!" he barks, this time at me. Flecks of spittle fly from his fishy lips and land, shining against grime, on his hands. "Just shut up a minute."

Behind him, Brick takes a step forward. "Boss?" he asks, almost tentatively. He's obviously been instructed to keep his mouth shut and let Dartos do the talking. Absurdly, I have to bite back a laugh. How totally typical-the big dumb henchman asking the greasy little mastermind for instructions. If life were a comic book, they'd be the perfect villains.

"I want to talk to Xavier," Dartos says, ignoring Brick and training the gun on me. Apparently he's decided what he wants to say. "I want to be an X-Man."

I snort. I can't help it. The slimeball is so dense, he's almost-but not quite-pitiable.

"Don't laugh at me!" Dartos howls. He waves the Taurus wildly, and I hear, to my horror, the thin metallic click of the gun being cocked.

So does Chandler.

And then, slow motion-Chandler lunging silently toward Dartos, hands outstretched and face distorted by panic, reaching for the gun; Dartos's eyes catching Chandler's movement; Dartos swinging the gun toward Chandler's heart.

My body reacts before my brain even registers the severity of the situation. Two steps forward: one, two. Roundhouse to Dartos's head even as plasma crackles through the air. The dull thwack of Dartos's skull against the dorsum of my foot, hamstrings contracting, a staggering step backwards. The sound of an explosion in Dartos's hands.

"Fuck!" Dartos squeals in outrage and flings the gun to the ground; it lands with a hissing plop and immediately loses its form. He clutches his wrist, staring in disbelief at the charred and blistered skin of his burned hand, seeming not to notice the blood that flows from the place where the buckle of my shoe connected with his head.

"Brick," he grits out, but Brick is already closing the distance between us with huge, thundering steps.

I duck his first swing and see, out of the corner of my eye, Chandler darting back toward the bar. Thank goodness for small blessings, I think, dodging Brick's second attempt and delivering a sharp spear-hand to his solar plexus. He staggers, momentarily winded, and I use the time to hook a foot behind his ankle and shove. Just like that, he goes down, landing hard on his back with a grunt. Like most big guys, it's all brute force, no skill or coordination at all.

I step back from Brick's disconcerted movements on the ground and turn, intending to follow Chandler back to the bar. It is not until I feel cold fingers wrap around my neck that I realize I have completely forgotten about Dartos.

"Bad move," he hisses into my ear, and then he is shoving me toward Brick, and Brick is holding something impossibly large-how did he get up so fast?-and then there is motion, and then there is nothing else.

***

When I open my eyes, I do not know where I am. I know, first and foremost, that there is pain. A lot of it.

"Ohh." I moan and close my eyes again. I don't think my body has ever hurt this badly before.

Then, all at once, I remember-the bar, the lamp-lit street, the hazy figure lumbering toward me-and, most of all-

"Chandler!" Ignoring the pain that accompanies the movement, I sit up and look around wildly. I'm lying on a gurney in what I recognize as an exam room in the Yale-New Haven Medical Center E.R., and I am the room's sole occupant.

I make a valiant effort to swing my legs over the side of the gurney, but as I shift, pain shoots through my left side and radiates up to my head. Bright starbursts of pain explode within my field of vision, and I realize that I'm probably on this stupid bed for a reason. Nauseated, I fall back against the pillow.

I rest like that for a few minutes, feeling my head and left side thrum in harmony. Then I muster my strength, reach behind me, and bang on the wall as hard as I can.

"HEY!" I yell, regretting the activity immediately as the sound of my own voice resonates excruciatingly in my skull. Fortunately, I don't have to repeat my efforts. A moment later, the door swings open, and a nurse comes charging in.

"What's the ruckus?" she demands, and for a moment I'm so thrown by the use of the word 'ruckus' in an actual sentence that I forget why I banged and yelled.

Then it comes back to me. "Where's Chandler?" I demand right back, trying to look as menacing as possible without moving too much. I hope to God he's here and safe. If anything's happened to him, I'll never forgive myself.

The nurse registers my tone, and her lips thin. She's young, probably only a few years older than me, and it's not difficult to imagine her frustration at having to deal with a pissed-off patient at such a late hour. She's probably got a husband and two little kids waiting for her at home. This thought evokes in me a little pang of sympathy.

"Who?" she snaps, and the pang dwindles down to little more than a twinge. My head hurts, dammit, and I want to get my boyfriend and get out of here.

"Chandler Millet," I clarify tightly. "White male, six feet, brown and green-"

Whoa. If looks could kill, as they say…

"He's in the waiting area, filling out your paperwork." The nurse is glaring at me. "I'll send him in."

"You do that." I match her glare until she breaks eye contact and marches out.

Chandler walks in a few minutes later, carrying a stack of papers and looking considerably calmer than my latest enemy. "Jube," he says, unsmiling.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," I reply. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

"I've been working on your paperwork," he says, shuffling the stack in his hands. "Since you're awake, they check you out, and then we can get out of here."

 "Paper schmaper," I say impatiently. "What happened tonight?"

"Oh." Chandler raises his eyes from what appears to be an insurance form. "Well, your buddies from the alleyway cracked two of your ribs and gave you a nice bump on the head, but a couple of the bouncers saw what was going on and scared them off before they could do any more damage."

 "No one else got hurt, then," I say, relieved.

"No one but you." He frowns.

I opt to ignore that little comment. "Were they caught?" I ask, knowing they weren't.

"No," Chandler says. His lips tighten as they always do when he's upset. "I called the police, but by the time they showed up, they'd beat feet."

"What'd Brick hit me with?" I ask, reaching up to gingerly prod the large knot on my throbbing skull. "Feels like he threw me into a wall."

"A beam," Chandler says shortly. "From the bus hut."

This strikes me as inexplicably bizarre. "They took me down with a bus hut," I reiterate, beginning to laugh. Boy, I think, wait until Wolvie hears about this.

My mirth, however, is cut off abruptly when Chandler speaks again.

"Why didn't you tell me you're an X-Man?" he asks quietly.

Rats. I had hoped he'd forgotten about that.

"Well…" I grimace. "I'm not, exactly."

"Jubilee." His tone warns me not to sidestep the question.

"What?" I reply. "I went to the school, okay. I had some training. But I'm not an X-Man-"

"Some training?" He raises his eyebrows, questioning, but I sense the hurt that flows beneath his interrogative demeanor.

I look down at my hands, which are folded together on the sheet. "There was a good chance I would've joined the team if the transfer to Yale didn't go through," I admit softly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks again, after my confession has sunk in. The undercurrent of hurt has risen to the surface. His expression swirls with bewilderment. He feels betrayed.

"I didn't want you to, you know, freak out," I mutter.

"Freak out? Why would I have freaked out? Because you were honest with me?" His voice raises slightly. I hazard a quick glance upward and see that his brow is knitted together with bewilderment.

"I'm sorry," I say plaintively. "I didn't think it was important."

"It's part of you, Jubilee. Of course it's important." He shakes his head. "This is just what I wanted to talk to you about earlier. You never let me in."

I open my mouth to defend myself, but my old friend Nurse Pissy chooses that moment to barge in, followed closely by a young man in a lab coat who looks no older than sixteen. "Jubilation Lee," she says loudly.

Irritated, I look up.

"This is Doctor Ryan. He wants to look you over before you go home." She glances from Chandler to me, raises her eyebrows, and closes the door loudly behind her.

Dr. Ryan—I wonder if that's his first name?—approaches cautiously, as though he's afraid I'll jump him. "H-hello," he says, stuttering a little, his voice cracking.

Oh, super.

"Didn't someone already check me out?" I ask.

"We just want to make sure everything's okay," he replies, sounding as though my question has thrown him off. "Now I want you to look into this light."

The examination is typically redundant and relatively painless, except when Dr. Ryan pokes at the knot on my head with one gloved finger.

"It is quite a bump," he observes, smiling nervously at me.

"Thanks," I snarl, "I hadn't noticed."

By the time he finishes poking and prodding and shining bright lights at me, my headache has grown exponentially worse.

"I'm going to prescribe you some painkillers," he announces with the pompous tone of a rookie. "You're to get it filled as soon as possible. You're free to go," he adds, almost as an afterthought. With one more appraising glance at me, he hands the slip of paper to Chander.

"I'll take you to the pharmacy to get this filled," Chandler says after he's gone. He doesn't look at me. In fact, he speaks to me exactly twice on the way home: once when he hands me the medication after the stop at the pharmacy, and once to acknowledge my thanks for filling the prescription. Other than that, he doesn't say a word until we step into my apartment.

My head and side are throbbing from the beating I've received, but my stomach is upset for an entirely different reason. I'm dreading the conversation I know Chandler and I are about to have.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me," he says again as I close the door behind us.

I sit down on the couch and rub my eyes. "What did you want me to say?" I ask tiredly. "It's bad enough that I had to tell you I'm a mutant."

"It doesn't matter that you're-" Here he breaks off; he's never liked the word 'mutant.' "-different. It wouldn't have mattered that you were an X-Man."

"Almost," I say defensively, and immediately regret the technicality. Irritation flashes across his face, then disappears.

"It didn't make a difference to me when you told me about the fireworks," he continues. His tone is pleading. He wants me to understand. "I cared about you, not your genes. I just wish you would've told me. I mean, jeez, Jube, after all this time-I would've thought you would trust me enough to let me know."

"I do trust you," I protest, but he's not deterred. Like ginger ale from a shaken bottle, the words pour out of him.

"You don't, though. All I ever see of you is the very exterior; you hide everything else. When something makes you sad, do I ever hear about it? No. All I get is happy and mad. You hardly tell me anything about Xavier's. I don't even know the names of your friends there, let alone what your relationships with them are like. Everything you do you keep to yourself." Face flushed, he pauses for breath.

I open my mouth and find I have nothing to say, for hasn't he spoken the truth? But I never thought it was wrong to keep parts of myself to myself. I try to point this out to him, and he shakes his head.

"You keep all of yourself to yourself, and I'm tired of it." He takes a step back from me, and my chest contracts suddenly and violently as I realize that this declaration is not a plea for reparation but a preamble to his departure.

I stand. "Chandler, wait."

He takes another step back. "I gotta go."

"Oh, come on-"

"I gotta go," he repeats, and then he is gone. The door closes behind him with tangible finality.

I am alone in my apartment, and my aloneness is overpowering. So this is how relationships end in the real world: not with screaming fights or melodramatic tears, but with the resounding click of the door closing and absolute, utter silence.

I stand in the middle of the room, too dazed and shocked to cry. Only a few hours ago Chandler and I were headed out for a Friday night at the bar, a perfectly normal college couple. Now he's gone, leaving me with nothing but a bad headache and the dull thrum of my bruised ribs.

Thinking of my ribs reminds me of the painkillers in my hand and I open the bottle, thankful for the distraction--however temporary--from Chandler's abrupt departure. I swallow one and am just about to sink back onto the couch to try and clear my head when the phone rings.

My heart picks up speed. Could Chandler have changed his mind already?

I lift the receiver, hoping desperately that it's him. "'Lo?"

"Jubilee?" Relief seeps through the earpiece.

"Oh. Hi, Professor." I struggle to hide my disappointment.

"I've been attempting to make contact with you all evening." Xavier's voice is noticably worried. "I sensed an intense expenditure of energy some hours ago while using Cerebro. Are you all right?"

An intense expenditure of energy. Honestly, the man could make a train wreck sound academic.

"I'm fine," I say, gingerly brushing the bruise on my head with my fingertips. "I had a minor adventure earlier this evening, but I escaped relatively unscathed."

If Xavier notices the wry word usage, he doesn't comment. "Oh? What happened?"

Though his tone is only mildly curious, I hear the worry creep back into his voice. Xavier has always been a parental figure to all of his students, and I can only imagine the stress he must experience keeping track of each of us. As such, I deliberately keep my tone lighthearted. "No biggie, Chuck. Remember those two guys that live up here, Brick and Dartos?"

"Yes..."

"Well, they tried to kick Chandler and me around, but I took care of it. Like I said, minor damage." Saying Chandler's name makes my stomach knot up, and I swallow hard.

"Are you certain?" Xavier doesn't sound convinced. "You're not injured?"

"I've got a few cuts and bruises, but nothing a few Tylenol and band-aids won't fix," I say, in a tone as breezy as I can muster.

"All right." Xavier pauses, as though about to say something else, but instead says, "Well, I won't keep you any longer. Be well, Jubilee."

"Sure."

"Good-bye."

"'Bye, Chuck." I cradle the phone and retreat to the couch. The ache in my head and side, rather than receding, has been compounded with a vague, confused bleariness that I attribute to the pain medication. Additionally, Chandler's absence has awoken in me a dull feeling of emptiness which I can neither pinpoint nor deal with. Sore and lonely, I turn on the TV, curl into a miserable little ball, and let sleep steal slowly, inevitably, over me.

***

I spend the next few days in a bleak, dispassionate daze. I pick up my pack of cigarettes on three different occasions before I throw it away; smoking reminds me of the boyfriend I've just lost. I call Chandler twice in the first week after he walked out; he doesn't call me back until the following weekend, when he says, briefly, "I don't think it's going to work, Jubilee," and hangs up. Snow falls. Papers are handed in. Final exams come and go without fanfare. Friends bid each other adieu for the winter holidays, and then suddenly I'm in my apartment and school is over and I'm faced with the dim prospect of going home without my boyfriend at my side. Since Thanksgiving, when I'd accompanied him to his home in rural Virginia (I'd ridden a horse bareback for the first time on his parents' farm), we'd planned on spending Christmas and some of winter break at the Mansion before heading to Vermont to do some snowboarding. I had yet to tell anyone back home about our breakup, and when it was brought up in conversation, I used my highly developed skills of evasion to sidestep the question and change the subject. I know Kitty and Rogue will be most disappointed when they find out; they had been especially keen on meeting him. Far from the embarrassment of facing my family without the promised boyfriend, though, is the feeling that part of me has been brutally ripped away. Chandler and I have spent literally all our free time together practically since we met, and I feel oddly halved without him. My friends from class are sympathetic, of course, but I'd distanced myself from them in the past few months in favor of Chandler, and discussing him with them is somewhat awkward.

What I really want, I realize, gazing at the photo of Chandler and I that I have yet to take down, is the comfort of my family.

I want to go home.

A few hours later, after having thrown a few things in a suitcase and given my apartment a quick once-over, I'm on the road to Westchester, mentally reviewing my answers to the questions I know will be asked about Chandler's absence. Once I settle into the drive, however, Chandler drifts from my mind; all I can think about is my return home.

As I pull into the long, winding drive that leads up to the Mansion's grand front door, I can't help but be excited. After all, it's been nearly six months since I've been home, and half the Mansion's occupants were on missions or vacation the last time I swung by.

I pull into the small parking lot in which the smaller, less expensive cars are parked and shut off the engine. I hop out of the car, wrestle my bag out of the back seat, and scurry up to the side door, sliding and stumbling in my hurry to get inside. The winter air seeps through my clothes in about six-tenths of a second, and, after fumbling with my keyring with increasingly frozen fingers, I pound on the door and shout. "HEY!"

From inside, I hear the muffled patter of small feet. A moment later, a small green face presses itself against the embedded door window. "Whozat?" the face demands.

A second, pinker face joins the first, and, upon seeing me, lights up. Artie elbows Leech out of the way and opens the door. He throws his arms around me enthusiastically.

"Hi, buddy," I say affectionately. "Thanks for letting me in, Leech," I add sarcastically. "It's only two degrees out there, practically tropical."

Leech bares his small white teeth in a grin. "No problem," he replies cheerfully. Then he grabs Artie by the arm, pries him away from me, and the two of them take off toward the living room.

Sighing, I heave my bag over my shoulder and head towards my old room. I've made it up the stairs and am halfway down the hall when I hear a shout.

"JUBE!"

Shrieking laughter and thundering footsteps follow Kitty's holler. The next thing I know, she and Rogue are on either side of me, hugging me and demanding an explanation for my early and unannounced arrival.

"When did you get in?" Kitty demands. "We didn't even hear you pull up. Don't you know you're supposed to call before you come?" she adds, shaking a finger in my face. "Where are your manners?"

"And where's this boyfriend of yours?" Rogue chimes in, stepping back to eye me up and down. "You didn't leave him in the car, did you?"

"Guys!" I drop my bag and raise my hands in defense. I'm laughing now and feeling immeasurably better. "Please! I haven't even made it to my room yet!"

"Our room," Rogue reminds me archly, folding her arms. "Don't think you're going to come home and take over again. This time your vast proliferation of stuff stays in your own little corner, hear?"

I shake my head. "Back five minutes and you're already jumping down my throat."

"What are friends for?" Rogue lifts my bag with one hand. "Oof! This is almost too heavy for me. You are planning on going back to college, aren't you?" She takes off down the hall, tossing the bag effortlessly from hand to hand. Kitty and I trail behind her.

"I didn't exactly plan this break," I point out. "I had to bring clothes for every possible situation. And besides, I knew your super-strength would make you a great Sherpa."

"I'm gonna use my super-strength to kick your smart ass." Rogue drops the bag on the bed and turns to face us, hands on her hips. "Well, Jube? Now that we've got ya, what're we gonna do with ya?"

"How about—" I begin.

"No," Kitty and Rogue say in unison.

"We are not going to the mall, Jubilation," Kitty adds severely.

"I was going to say how about we go downstairs so I can say hello to everyone," I say huffily, folding my arms. "You guys give me no credit at all."

"Credit where credit is due," Rogue says, laughing. "Your credibility was ruined long ago."

"Thanks a lot." I step on her toe.

"Ow! See what I mean?" Rogue falls backward onto my bed. She looks pleadingly at Kitty, who shakes her head and smiles.

"Man," she says, sitting down beside Rogue, "Jubilee comes back for a visit and it's third grade all over again."

"I'm not the immature one," I protest, pointing at Rogue.

"Yeah," Rogue adds. "And it's fifth. At least."

"Speaking of elementary school," Kitty begins, then frowns. "Well, actually, it has nothing to do with elementary school. I lied. But weren't you supposed to bring Chandler with you? What happened?"

I drop onto the floor in front of them and blow my hair away from my face. "It's a long story."

"Did y'all break up?" Rogue asks, sympathy beginning to shine from her brown eyes. I know that she, too, recently broke up with one of her many admirers.

I correct myself. "Okay, it's a short story."

"Do you need some affection? A shoulder to cry on? Maybe," Kitty adds, reaching under her bed to pull out a large plastic bag, "a thousand calories' worth of Snickers?"

"Ooh, Snickers!" Rogue's eyes light up. She reaches joyfully for the bag.

Kitty snatches it away. "I was offering them to Jubilee," she scolds. "You had your share last month."

"But Rudy was a really big jackass," Rogue whines. "Come on, Kitty, you can't keep 'em in the room and not share."

"Can too." Kitty sticks her tongue out at Jubilee.

"Share!" Rogue demands, poking Kitty in the arm.

"No!" Kitty drops the bag in my lap. "Here you go, Jube."

"Meanie," Rogue mutters crossly. I can see her slipping into Pout Mode, so I generously offer her the bag.

"I don't need them, anyway," I explain, when Kitty starts to object. "It didn't work out. I'm okay, though. No chocolate therapy this time."

Kitty sighs. "I go to all this trouble, and does anyone appreciate me? No."

"I apprehiate oo," Rogue, chewing happily, interjects. Honestly, I don't know how she eats so much and manages to stay so skinny. Maybe a super-metabolic rate accompanies the super-strength.

Kitty pats her on the head. "I know, dear, just like you appreciate the Swann man and the lady at the grocery store with the hot dog samples."

"Anyway, guys, can we, like, keep the breakup thing between us?" I look from Kitty to the chocolate-smeared Rogue with raised eyebrows. "I know it's on the Mansion gossip-line that I was gonna bring Chandler with me, but let's just say he couldn't make it, 'kay? I don't want everyone fawning over me like—"

"Like we do?" Rogue asks, adding another wrapper to the growing pile beside her.

I roll my eyes. "Exactly."

"Sure," Kitty says. "You're sure you're okay, though?"

"I'm absolutely fine," I reply, and I suddenly realize that it's true. School is out, I'm home, and I'm back in my old room with my two of my best friends in the entire world. I couldn't be happier.

"Well, then." Kitty reaches across Rogue and retrieves the candy bag. "What say we go announce your arrival to the masses."

With Kitty leading the way, we traipse downstairs. A few students are playing video games in the living room; other than that, the main floor is strangely empty.

"Where is everyone?" I ask, peering into the semidark living room to see if I can identify anyone.

Rogue laughs. "Jean and 'Ro rented Signs and Braveheart. I think a lot of people are down in the movie room."

"Ah." I nod knowingly. "A Gibsonfest."

Faint horror-movie music floats down the hall as we approach the movie room, and I can hear unintelligible dialogue. Kitty turns to us, raises a finger to her lips, and jerks her head towards the closed door. Grinning at us wickedly, she disappears through it.

A moment later, there's a collective terrified shriek.

Rogue and I burst out laughing. The door opens, and Kitty, also laughing, stumbles through. "Priceless," she manages to say.

"I'm going to kill you, Pryde!" Jean, sounding simultaneously shaken and furious, lunges at Kitty from the shadows.

"Don't kill her!" I yelp. "She owes me twenty bucks!"

"Jubilee!" Jean drops her hands and turns to me, her mouth half-open with surprise. "Hi!"

"You have to admit, it was kind of funny," I say, hugging Jean back. "How are you?"

"I was great until this little punk scared the living bejesus out of me," Jean replies in a not-so-furious-any-more way, glancing at Kitty. "Come on in and say hi."

"Who's that?" yells a voice from inside. The lights flicker to life, and Mel stops talking. "Did you catch her?"

"I caught someone," Jean replies, pulling me into the room.

"Hey!" exclaims Betsy. "Jube!"

Well, as you can imagine, I spend the next twenty minutes feeling like the most popular person on earth. There are at least ten people in the movie room, and all of them get up to hug me and say hello. Even Monet deigns to smile at me in greeting.

"You ought to say hello to Bobby, if you haven't already," St. John advises me, when the hubbub has died down. "He's been calling you for the past two hours to find out when you and your boyfriend are getting here."

"Where is this boyfriend, anyway?" Scott adds, with his usual well-meaning smile.

I make a regretful tsk sound and sigh. "He couldn't make it this time," I lie, surprising myself with the authenticity of my tone. "Family stuff. He said to say he was sorry, though."

At this, Jean glances at me sharply, but her suspicious expression melts into understanding a split second later. She nods once, thoughtfully, then arranges her features into a lighthearted expression.

"Too bad," Scott says with a grin, oblivious, for once, to the brief psychic exchange between Jean and I. "We were looking forward to meeting him. You know, to see if we approve."

"I hardly think anyone could live up to your standards," Jean teases him.

"We better let you get back to the movie," Kitty interrupts, before the conversation can linger any longer on boyfriends. "Is Bobby in his room?"

"Most likely," St. John replies. "He's been playing Starcraft all freakin' day."

"Well, we'll just be off, then," Kitty says brightly, then pulls me out of the room. Rogue lingers to speak quietly to St. John, and I use the opportunity to ask Kitty about Logan. Truth to be told, I'd wanted to ask her since I arrived at the Mansion, but I didn't dare inquire after his whereabouts in front of Rogue. Even after this long, it's a sore subject between us, and I don't want to arouse any harsh feelings. Still, though, I haven't seen him since before Thanksgiving, and I miss him like crazy.

"Yeah, I wanted to tell you," Kitty replies, once I've asked, "but I didn't want to, you know—"

"I know." I roll my eyes. Oh, drama.

"He's been seeing some chick he met at the Auger Inn a few weeks ago," she says, pursing her lips in disapproval. "She's really nasty. No one likes her, especially the Professor, so he's hardly ever here any more. Oh, and by the way, I do not owe you twenty bucks."

At the words 'seeing some chick'—which, of course, is Kitty's polite way of saying 'screwing some chick'—my stomach began to twist up. By the time Kitty finishes her explanation, it's knotted up so much I've begun to feel sick. After so many years of Logan, I recognize the feeling, of course—it's jealousy, same as any other time he's gone off with some woman. Ever since I'd gotten close to him I've wanted him for myself. I've always resented his booty calls—in some cases, even loathed them—and that, of course, made me resent him, as well. Which, I'm sure, accounted for much of my teenage moodiness.

Of course, I know I have no right to feel this way. I've barely seen him or talked to him for ages, and I was never entirely certain he had any feelings for me beyond fraternal affection anyway.   I should've outgrown this petty jealousy by now. Besides, he didn't even know I was coming back into town, so how could he possibly know to be here?

This thought, for some reason, makes me feel even worse. What if, even if he knew I was going to be here, he didn't bother showing up? What if I didn't even matter that much to him any more?

Before I can wallow any longer in doubt, though, Rogue emerges from the movie room and looks critically at what must be a pained expression on my face. "Hey, what's wrong, Jube?"

"Nothing." I try a smile, even though it nearly kills me.

"Don't worry about Logan, he'll come around," she says breezily.

I'm so startled by her declaration that my stomach un-knots. "Huh?" I say, intelligently.

"Come on," she replies. "It's been years since that fight blew over. Let's get over it."

I gape at her. So does Kitty.

"Don't worry about upsetting me," she continues. "Everyone always worries about upsetting poor Rogue. It drives me crazy. If you want to talk about Logan, for God's sake talk about Logan. It doesn't bother me.

"And like I said," she adds, as an afterthought, "he'll come around. This is just a temporary thing, like always. Once he finds out you're here, he'll be back before you can blink." She grins. "Will you two please close your mouths? You look ridiculous."

I close my mouth. So does Kitty.

Rogue strides ahead of us. "Are you coming?"

Still speechless, I follow her.

And, you guessed it, so does Kitty, who comes to her senses before I do.

"Sorry," she says to Rogue, "but I thought it would be an awkward subject."

"Yeah, doesn't everyone," Rogue sighs. "I swear, nobody believes I'm not still falling all over him. It's been like two years. We're still friends," she clarifies, "and we still talk, but—well, you know. Things change."

"That they do," I mumble, half to myself.

***

It's nearly two in the morning before Kitty, Rogue, and I get back to our room. On our way to Bobby's room, we had run into the Professor, who, of course, knew of my presence the minute I'd arrived. He had asked how I was feeling, which led to a lengthy explanation of my run-in with Dartos and Brick, which led to another explanation of my breakup with Chandler. Bobby wandered over in the middle of the conversation, which meant that I had to go back to the beginning and start over, only this time omitting any mention of my breakup with Chandler. By the time I was finished talking, everyone was exhausted.

"Jube." Rogue's voice, sleepy and peaceful, floats over the whoosh-whoosh of Kitty's white-noise machine and reaches my ears.

"Yeah?"

"It's good to have ya back."

"Yeah, it is." Kitty's voice this time.

I smile up into the darkness. "It's good to be back, guys. I missed you."

"We missed you, too."

"Good night."

"Good night."

"'Night."

***

Tap tap tap.

I open my eyes. What the heck? I think blearily. It's dark in the room, so it can't be morning, so why am I awake? I roll over and look at the clock. Four-thirty.

Tap tap tap.

It registers in my brain that someone's knocking very softly on the door. I rub my eyes and glance at Kitty and Rogue. Neither one of them has moved; they're both sleeping soundly. It would take a tornado to wake them up.

Grumbling to myself, I push the covers aside and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I stumble over my suitcase on the way to the door, stubbing my toe hard. Muffling an expletive with my hand, I limp the rest of the way and pull the door open.

The moment I do, my jaw drops. "Wolvie!"

"Shh!" He glances sharply at Kitty, who mumbles something and rolls over. Grabbing my arm, he hauls me into the hall and closes the door behind me. Then, to my utter amazement, he pulls me into his arms and hugs me hard.

When I pull away, he's smiling. "Couldn't wait till mornin'," he explains.

"Glad you didn't," I reply, smiling back. "Where in hell were ya, Wolvie? You reek to high heaven."

It's true; the thick bar-smell of smoke and beer clings to him, as well as—I note with disgust—the cloying scent of a woman's cheap perfume.

"Outta town," he replies dismissively. "Doesn't matter. I came back quick as I could."

It's four in the morning, I remind myself. He really must have come as soon as was possible. Despite the perfume, I am unbelievably, undeniably happy. "You didn't have to do that," I say, grinning like a maniac.

"Naw," Logan agrees, looking almost bashful. "Wanted t'see ya, though. I oughta let you get back ta sleep," he continues quickly. "Just wanted to tell ya I was here."

"Okay," I say.

"See ya in the mornin', then," he says, cuffing me lightly on the arm.

"Yep." Now that he's here, I don't want to go back to bed. I am wide awake and unable to form a single coherent sentence. I am brainless with joy.

"'Night, Jube." Still smiling, he moves backward a little and gives me a funny little nod.

"'Night, Wolvie," I reply, then escape into my room before I can do anything stupid like kiss him, or something.

***

I awaken the next morning feeling like a million bucks. I've never slept better. I bounce out of bed and am showered and dressed before either of my temporary roommates have even budged. I practically skip downstairs to the kitchen.

I throw an arm around Scott, who is, of course, already dressed and working on the week's grocery list. "Good morning, Cyke," I chirp.

"You're cheerful today," he replies, smiling at me.

"Just glad to be home. Buy some doughnuts, would ya?"

"I'm way ahead of you," Logan says from the doorway. I look up. He's carrying a bag of Krispy Kremes and looking, at least for Logan, cheerful.

I decide that this day is off to a good start.

"Logan! Hello," Scott greets him, looking surprised. "I didn't know you were back."

"Well, I am," Logan replies, then turns to me. "You ready, Jube?"

Scott raises his eyebrows at me, and I, equally clueless, shrug back.

"Sure," I say to Logan, and follow him out to the garage. The roads are too slick for his Harley, so he's opted for the truck—he must have just come in to get me, because it's already running.

"Grab your jacket and let's go," Logan says, climbing into the driver's seat.

My jacket? I think. But my jacket is—

—not upstairs where I left it. Rather, it's hanging on a peg by the motorcycle helmet Logan bought me a couple years ago. Raising my eyebrows, I snag it and slide it over my shoulders.

"Where're we going?" I ask, pulling myself up into the cab of the truck.

Logan, instead of answering, flashes me a grin, throws the truck into gear, and peels out at a speed that takes my breath away.

Once we're on the road (driving at a much more reasonable speed, thankfully), Logan reaches across me and flips the glove compartment open. He retrieves a cigar, sticks it in his mouth, and raises his eyebrows at me. Obligingly, I paf it to life.

Well, if he's going to indulge his vice, I'm going to indulge mine. I reach into the bag of doughnuts and start in on a chocolate frosted. "Thanks," I say, through a mouthful of Krispy Kreme.

"Sure." Logan puffs contentedly on the cigar and settles back in his seat, driving with one hand slung over the top of the wheel.

"How's that boyfriend o' yours?" he asks. His tone is almost exaggeratedly casual.

I wince inwardly. I don't really want to lie to Logan, but at the same time, I don't want him acting all weird. Or worse, hunting Chandler down and flaying him alive. "Fine," I reply evasively, studying my nails.

"He's treatin' you all right?" Logan's hazel eyes slide sideways, assessing my expression.

I affix a bland smile to my lips. "Yep."

From the way he tucks in the corners of his mouth, I can tell he doesn't quite believe what I'm saying. To his credit, though, he doesn't say anything more, just nods and falls quiet.

"What about you?" I blurt, unable to stop myself. "How's your woman?"

Logan, startled, looks directly at me. "What?"

I shift my eyes heavenward, feigning innocence. "Oh, I don't know. I just heard you hooked up with some chick, that's all. I was wondering how that was going. Watch the road."

"I am watching the road." He sounds irritated now.

"Don't get pissed, Wolvie. I was curious, that's all. Heard you weren't around much any more. Wondered if that was a good or a bad thing."

"It's a nothin' thing," Logan replies, sounding slightly less annoyed. "Don't worry about it, Jube."

Okay, whatever. Determined to keep him in a good mood, I change the subject. "Hey, did I tell you I'm moving back in after I graduate?"

"You are?" Genuine surprise in his voice. "Why's that?"

"I got a grant to work with Hank in the lab. I'll be doing some work at the research facility near Westchester, too. For my Masters and Ph.D."

"That's great, Jube." Smiling, Logan reaches over and squeezes my knee. "I'm proud of ya, you know that."

"Thanks, Wolvie." I smile.

For a few minutes we drive in silence. I don't recognize the landscape; I have no idea where we're going. Suddenly Logan announces, "We're here."

He pulls the truck onto what I assume is the shoulder. I can't be sure, though; the road, for the most part, is shrouded in white.

I look around. I don't see anything but trees and mountains—large hills, really—and snow. A lot of snow. "Where's here?" I ask, perplexed.

"North County Trail," Logan replies. He's wearing that cryptic grin again. "I woulda taken you somewhere less commercial, but with all the snow, it ain't safe. Besides, there's a reason for this trail."

He reaches behind my seat and pulls out—ta da!—a pair of gloves. He tosses them onto my lap.

"Wolvie," I say patiently, "if you're planning on hiking in—" I gesture towards my jeans and tennis shoes, then towards Out There—"that, you have got to realize that a pair of gloves isn't going to—"

I abruptly stop talking, because Logan, as I watch, is pulling out winter essentials one after another and dropping them into my lap. Scarf, hat, poofy winter coat, snow pants, thick socks—and lastly, a pair of worn-looking boots that I recognize as Jean's. He hands them to me.

"Suit up," he says cheerfully.

"You are kidding me." I regard the pile of gear in my lap. All of it, with the exception of the boots, looks brand spanking new. Even the socks are still in their cardboard housing. "Tell me you didn't buy all this today."

"I didn't buy all this today," Logan repeats obediently. "Suit up."

With that, he opens the door, traipses back to the bed of the truck, and begins to pull a winter jumpsuit over his clothes.

What on earth is going on here?

Well, I think, since I'm out here, I may as well oblige him.

"Still think you're crazy, though," I mutter, and begin to wrestle with the snow pants.

"I feel like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man," I complain a few minutes later. The coat is so puffy I can't put my arms at my sides. I'm standing in snow up to my knees, I'm wearing a hat with a pom-pom sewn onto the crown, and I'm freezing my butt off. What am I doing out here? I should be in the front yard of the Mansion, having a snowball fight with Bobby. Better yet, I should be curled up in front of the fire with a mug of hot cocoa…with marshmallows. Yeah. Stay-Puft marshmallows. For which I'm the mascot.

"You're fine," Logan replies, not looking at me. He's lacing up his boots. He, for one, looks perfectly comfortable in the arctic weather, even though the jumpsuit he's wearing doesn't seem to be lined and his gloves and hat are of the 'junk found in the back seat' variety. It occurs to me suddenly that he looks like an auto mechanic in Alaska. This strikes me as inordinately funny, and I begin to smile a little. Maybe this isn't so bad. After all, I am with Logan, even though he appears to have gone off his rocker and wants both of us to perish of exposure in the wilderness. Is he worth dying of frostbite?

"Maybe," I say thoughtfully to myself, regarding his butt.

"What?" Logan straightens up, and I look quickly from his posterior to his eyes.

"Nothing." I smile brightly. "I'm set to go, what are we waiting for?"

"Nothin' at all." He smiles back, hoists a backpack over his shoulders, and takes off toward a break in the trees. I follow as best I can, lifting my knees high and trying to walk in his footprints.

"Hey!" I call, as the distance between us begins to widen. "Short legs, here!"

Logan stops and turns. "Sorry," he calls back. He waits at the tree line for me to catch up. By the time I reach him, my face is flushed and my quadriceps are burning. Beneath the coat and jacket, I'm sweating. How could I ever have thought it was cold out here?

When I glance back at the truck, I realize we haven't even gone a hundred yards. Thankfully, though, the snow at the trailhead has been tamped down by other masochistic lunatics. I follow the footprints and cross-country ski tracks with my eyes; there's another break in the foliage about fifty feet down the tree line. Figures that Logan couldn't even start at the beginning of the damn trail. He's taking me tracking in the woods before, sure, but never in the dead of winter. I could die out here, for God's sake! I could end up deer food!

Logan, who has never in his life had to worry about becoming Bambi's kibbles, waits a moment for me to catch my breath. When I've nodded my readiness, he takes off again.

Once we're in the woods, the going is considerably easier. The incline is gentle, a steady uphill with few obstacles or sharp turns, and the trail is marked by the occasional reassuring blue blaze. There are no sounds; the snow, acting as an insulator, absorbs even the squeal of our footsteps on packed powder and the sound of my breath. Despite the feeling of isolation, of smallness, though, the walk is strangely peaceful. The trees, sharp green softened with white, contrast against the bleak winter sky; the snow on the ground is pristinely blank save bare-stemmed brush and the occasional fallen tree. Logan's pace is steady and relaxed, and I find myself falling into a kind of vacant tranquility. After a while, I begin concentrating on the movement of his shoulders as he contends with both the uphill slope and the weight of the rucksack. I wonder vaguely what he has packed in there.

So serene am I that when Logan stops walking, I promptly run into him.

He half-turns, his eyebrow quirked. "'Scuse me."

"Sorry." I take a step back. "You stopped."

The eyebrow inches higher, but he doesn't comment. Instead he asks, "You thirsty?"

I'm startled to realize that I'm absolutely parched. "Extremely."

Logan turns his back to me. "Front pocket."

I unzip the rucksack and pull out a large insulated water bottle. Though my tongue feels like sandpaper, I offer him the bottle first, but he shakes his head.

How can you not be thirsty? I think, popping the water bottle open and pouring about half its contents down my throat.

"Muuuuch better," I say, dragging my snow-covered sleeve across my lips and immediately wishing I hadn't. I drop the bottle back into Logan's pack and zip it up, then look at him expectantly. "Well?"

He points.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what I got. When my eyes fall at last upon the view at which he's pointing, I find myself nearly at a loss for words.

"Wow," I breathe.

We have, without my realizing it, reached the summit of the mountain. The trail opens up into a broad clearing on the other side before descending once more into trees. Just beyond these trees, nestled snugly into the valley between our hill and the next, is a log cabin, trimmed with red and blanketed by snow. Smoke rises from its chimney in a thin, dreamy cloud, then drifts upward to mingle indistinguishably with the sky's grey spectrum. Slender trails carved into the opposite hillside wind down toward the cabin. It is positively picturesque. I wish I had a camera.

"Is that where we're going?" I ask in a hushed voice, feeling inexplicably reverent. I can't imagine going down into that view. It would be like stepping into the perfect, unreachable landscape of a postcard. I don't want to ruin it.

"North County Lodge," Logan replies, then begins the descent to the valley.

It doesn't take nearly as long to reach the bottom of the hill as it did to climb it. After thirty minutes of careful navigation down the slippery incline, we reach the lodge. Up close, it's only a little less attractive, mostly because of the access road and the small, half-full parking lot on the cabin's east side.

Logan must have noticed my expression, because he chuckles a little. "Kinda ruins the effect, doesn't it?" he asks me.

I wrinkle my nose. He's right. The parking lot looks awful. I think the cabin should only be accessible by foot, and I say so out loud.

"Be kinda hard to keep it open, though," Logan points out, indicating the food-delivery truck parked at the service entrance.

"Still ruins the scenery."

"Well," Logan says, surprising me by taking my hand, "let's go see if the food makes up for it."

The North County Lodge, I quickly discover, is one of the coziest, friendliest restaurants I've ever been in. After losing my coat and accoutrements to the warmth, I follow Logan and the hostess to a small window table. Smiling, she hands us brown paper menus and tells us that Hannah will be right with us.

As Logan studies the menu, I let my gaze wander over the interior of the lodge. It's decorated in that rustic style that typically employs farm implements and deceased wildlife as wall decorations and unfinished pine as furniture. In most cases this décor is simply tacky; in some, purely awful. Here in the hills, though, with so much wilderness outside, it works.

And the food is, as is typical in such places, good ol' fashioned country cookin', just like Mama used to make. There are, however, a few surprises: roast rabbit, braised venison, quail.

With some horror, I realize I haven't brought any money at all. We left so quickly I didn't even think about it.

Logan seems to read my thoughts. "You can have whatever ya want," he says gruffly, and my eyeballs nearly fall out of my head. Sure, he's bought before; we both have. He's never taken me out, though…and this is way, way out.

Braised venison then, I decide. It's not the most expensive item on the menu, but it's not the cheapest either, and besides, I've never had it. I flip the menu over to see if dessert is an option and find instead a short history of the North County Lodge.

I learn that it was built in the late 1960s and was originally a retreat for artists and writers (yeah, right, I think, grinning to myself, more like a hippie commune) before being purchased by J. Matthew Campbell in 1975, who converted it into a warming hut for cross-country skiers in the winter. When inclement weather closed the main road to the restaurant and many of the nearby trails in 1984, the cabin became a year-round restaurant that did much of its business in the summer. It's obvious that this is still the case, for Logan and I are among only eight or ten other diners.

My reflection on the economic pros and cons of having a restaurant in the middle of nowhere is interrupted when the waitress, a slender red-haired girl of about sixteen, appears at our table.

"Hi, folks," she says cheerfully. I notice, with some amusement, that she aims her dazzling smile mostly at Logan. "My name's Hannah, and I'll be taking care of you today. Care to hear about our specials?"

Logan acquiesces, and Hannah rattles off a list of four or five items: salmon, grilled chicken, et cetera. That accomplished, she takes our drink order and vanishes as silently as she appeared.

"I think you're her favorite customer of the day," I comment, nodding at the other patrons, most of whom are beer-bellied older men wearing plaid flannel shirts.

Logan snorts. "Nah. She's the manager's daughter; she's gotta be cheerful."

"You come here a lot?" I ask, and wince when I realize that my question sounds like a bad pickup line.

Logan's broad shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. "Sometimes. In the summer mostly. I wander around, sometimes end up here."

Ah. So this must be one of the places to which he goes when he needs to let off steam. I wonder idly if any passing hikers attribute the long claw-marks on trailside trees to bears.

"This all right?" Logan adds, his brow creasing.

Can he possibly think I wouldn't like this outing, with its lovely, scenic hike and idyllic little cabin in the woods?

I smile at him and hope he knows how happy I am at this moment. "It's great," I say simply, and his features relax. He's about to say something more when Hannah trots back over to our table.

"Take your order?" she asks perkily. This time there is some definite eye-batting in Logan's direction. He's either pretending not to notice, or he's blind. I have to fight back laughter.

"Ten bucks says I end up with salmon and your order's dead on," I whisper to Logan after she's gone.

"She's just doin' her job." His eyes are alight with amusement.

I roll my eyes. "If she had her way, she'd be doing something else, that's for sure."

"Jubilation!"

"What!" I raise my hands. "Am I wrong?"

"Ya want me to tell her I'm taken?" He grins at me.

"Nah," I say, jerking my chin upward, very machismo. "I got the problem under control."

He chuckles. "I like that in a woman."

I freeze.

Logan has never said anything like that before…at least, not to me. He's never, ever referred to me as a woman. Girl, sometimes…obnoxious teenager, more than once…kid, countless times. Never woman, though; that title was reserved for Jean, Ororo, Betsy. Never me.

I force a smile to hide my shock. Logan doesn't appear to realize what he's said. I can't think of a damned thing to say in return; no smartass comments are springing to mind, so instead I say, "I'm glad you brought me up here."

"I missed spendin' time with you," he replies, sobering. "I'm sorry I didn't come up to visit ya more."

I shrug. "No biggie."

He continues. "Like I told ya before. I didn't like thinkin' that you didn't need me any more, and plus—" He pauses and glances down at his hands. "Gotta admit, Jube, I don't really care for you havin' a boyfriend."

Pshaw. Like I didn't notice.

"I wasn't plannin' on bein' around while you were home," he adds. "I didn't really want to see ya with some kid who doesn't know how special ya are. Might not treat ya right." 

Logan, Logan, Logan. You have got to stop being so protective.

"I know you've been with him a while, and that you probably love him." Logan is definitely not looking me in the eye now. "But Jube, there are things ya don't know…well, if you ever…" Looking helpless, he trails off.

I sort of feel sorry for him now. He looks positively awkward.

"Wolvie," I say, "I gotta tell you something."

"Yeah?" Logan looks relieved to have an out.

"We broke up." Just like that.

"What?"

"We broke up. We got into a brawl with some punks outside a bar, he found out about the team, we had a fight. He's out of the picture. End of story." I rest my chin on my hand and gaze at him.

Logan, whose expression had previously been lost between relief and uncertainty, scowls. Anger clouds his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demands.

"I told Kitty and Rogue and Bobby. And Chuck called me after I got home from the hospital, so he knew. I didn't want everyone making a fuss."

At the word 'hospital,' I realize I've misspoken. Logan's frown deepens. "You got hurt."

I shake my head and wave a dismissive hand. "Not bad. Anyway, I'm sorry I told you otherwise. I didn't want to make a big deal of it."

His words come out clipped and short. "What happened?"

"What, you mean when we broke up?" I ask, deliberately breezy.

"You know what I mean."

Great. He's freaking out, just like I knew he would. See? This is why I didn't want to tell anyone. I decide, however, to keep this particular thought to myself. "Wolvie, don't get all weird on me, okay?"

"Jube—"

"Logan." I interrupt him. I reach across the table and grab his clenched fist. "I mean it. Chill."

Looking surprised, Logan abruptly relaxes his hand beneath mine. Gradually his brow smoothes out; after a beat, he sits back and takes a steadying breath.

"Thank you." I start to pull away, but before I can, Logan turns his hand palm-up and laces his fingers with mine.

That, of course, distracts me so much that takes a moment to remember what I'm going to say next. Logan doesn't seem to notice.

"Long story short," I say, focusing not on the solid warmth of Logan's grasp but on the story at hand, "Chandler and I met up with those two guys who are always bugging the Prof—you remember Dartos and Brick?"

At this, Logan's fingers tighten around mine, but he manages to maintain some semblance of control.

"Anyway, they tried to start some trouble outside one of the bars near campus. I'd like to say I took 'em down, but—" I grimace. "Well, you know. You win some, you lose some. But I'm okay, and I really doubt I'll have any more problems with them. Really," I add, seeing the expression on Logan's face. I'm actually thankful when Hannah returns to our table, laden with food and, of course, trying desperately to catch Logan's attention.

He still doesn't look happy, and his side of the conversation is halting throughout the rest of the meal. His mood doesn't improve on the hike back; he's quiet and moody until we are home again.

"Ugh," I say, shaking my arms at my sides. Neither Logan nor I chose to remove our outer layer in the car, so of course we're both soaked now. Logan's jumpsuit doesn't look as though it was waterproof, either, judging by the way his water-darkened flannel shirt sticks to his torso.

"We're gonna have to mop," Logan observes, glancing back at our puddle-trail from the garage to the laundry room.

"Yeah, don't I know it." I struggle out of the snow pants and sling them over the drying rack. My sweatshirt is halfway over my head when I feel two powerful hands grab my waist and push me firmly against a washing machine.

"Hey!" I struggle blindly against the sweatshirt and yank it off, then glare at Logan, who's half-kneeling in front of me. "What gives?"

He lifts my T-shirt enough to reveal the large bruise splashed over my ribs. "You're okay, huh?" he growls.

"Wolvie—ow!"

He's prodding gently at the edges of the bruise. It's gotten so it no longer hurts to breathe deeply, but for God's sake I'm not going around inviting people to poke at it. I shove him away and pull the T-shirt back down.

He stands up, scowling mightily.

"It looks worse than it is," I explain helpfully, if a tad lamely.

And he abruptly turns and walks out.

"Well," I say thoughtfully to the dryers, "that went well, I think. Yep, that sure went well."

I shower and change, figuring I'll give Logan some time to cool off before I try to talk to him. Then I walk the familiar route to his room and bang loudly on the door. A moment later it opens.

"Hi," I say brightly, pushing past him and deliberately not noticing his attire, which is, in its entirety, sweat pants.

"Whaddya want, Jube." He doesn't exactly sound pleased to see me.

"Just wanted to hang out, you know, see what you're up to." I flop down into the chair by his bed and smile at him.

Logan grunts and turns back to the laundry he's folding. Who'dathunk such a supposed slob would fold shirts so neatly?

"Wolvie."

He doesn't look up. "What?"

"You gonna pay attention me, or do I have to get out the cattle prod?" I reach forward with my foot and nudge him in the thigh. "S'matter?"

At my question, Logan abruptly stops moving. He straightens, turns deliberately to face me, and folds his arms. "You really gotta ask?"

I pull my foot back. "Yes."

Frowning, he opens his mouth. Before he has a chance to speak, though, the phone rings. I lunge for it and am unpleasantly surprised when he elbows me out of the way and beats me to it.

"Yeah," he grunts into the receiver.

Such a charming way to answer the phone.

He listens, turns his back to me, then says quietly, "No, darlin'. I told you no. Sorry."

I stiffen, my good mood vanishing. Huh. Guess we all know who's on the other end of the conversation.

Bitch.

 Before I can slip out the door, though, the phone clatters back into its cradle. "Hang on," Logan says, reaching out to catch my arm.

"Sorry to interrupt your conversation," I say hotly, pulling away. "Don't worry, I'm going. You can call her back."

What on earth is wrong with me? I'm not even sure I'm intentionally acting like this.

"Now just hang on, Jubilation," Logan says again, more firmly this time. "I want to talk t' you, not her."

I stop moving. "So talk."

"There's no reason to be jealous, Jube."

I bristle. "I'm not jealous."

One of Logan's eyebrows begins to creep toward his hairline.

Feeling my face begin to heat up, I change the subject. "When'd ya meet her?" Start screwing her, a little voice corrects.

"Few weeks ago." He's watching me carefully.

"What's her name?"

"Carol."

Boy, what a rotten name. I don't think I've ever heard a more rotten name. "Is she nice?" I ask, not bothering to control the anger and sarcasm in my voice.

"No," Logan says, surprising me. "Not at all."

And then, infuriatingly, he smiles.

I want to kick him. Stupid smug Logan, just rolling in the fact that maybe, just maybe, I'm the tiniest bit jealous. I want to wring his neck. I really do.

Maybe that's why my next move completely lacks premeditation. My hands, seeming to move of their own accord, plant themselves on either side of his face, and as soon as they do, I yank him down to me and kiss him. Not just a feather-peck either, but hard on the lips.

Then my brain wakes up, registers what's happening, and screams Holy mother of God, what on earth are you doing?

Horrified, I pull back and drop my hands to my sides. Well, I think dimly, mission accomplished. The smug expression is indeed gone from Logan's face; it's been replaced by one of utter shock. He's staring at me with eyes like dinner-plates. It would be funny if it weren't so awful.

I can't get out of there fast enough.

Once the door has slammed behind me, I run pell-mell down the hall to my room and lock myself in our bathroom. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod, my brain's thinking over and over. I slump against the wall. Why, I wonder, did said brain not say anything to me when I was busy doing the stupidest thing of my life? Who authorized that kiss, anyway?

I actually wince when I think kiss. Oh, I thought I'd outgrown what have I done moments. And this is about the biggest what have I done moment I've ever had. I can wave good-bye to my friendship with Logan. He'll never get over this one. Not ever. He's probably going through an entire bottle of Listerine right now.

And how will I ever face the rest of them?

I moan and cover my face with my hands. Well, this cinches it. I can never come out of the bathroom. I'm going to have to live out my life as a bathroom hermit. I'm going to have to subsist entirely on tap water and—I survey the array of stuff on the countertop—Kitty's organic leg wax.

I spend the next few minutes wondering how I can make the bathtub into a bed with only two towels.

When there's a knock on the bathroom door, I let out a yelp of terror and scuttle backwards toward the tub. I didn't lock the bedroom! I think in a panic.

"Jube?"

It's Logan!

How can I make him think I'm not here?

"Jube, darlin','" he says gruffly, knocking again, "don't be embarrassed. Come on out." 

Oh no. No way. Don't be embarrassed? Who does he think he's kidding? Besides, I'm a bathroom hermit now. I can't go back from whence I came.

"Come on, now," Logan adds, "a bathroom's no place to raise a family."

I think about this for a moment. He does have a point. I mean, how would the kids ever learn to read? Soap letters scrawled on the mirror do not a workbook make. Reluctantly, I open the door.

Logan smirks. "Thought you'd agree."

"Damn your logic." I wrap my arms around myself, feeling awkward and foolish.

Logan reaches out and gently pries my hand away from the elbow it's cupping. "Worked, didn't it?"

I consider. "No," I say, after a beat. "I'm horribly embarrassed and I can't ever face you again." I tug at his hand experimentally. He doesn't let go.

"Why not?" His eyebrows arch inquisitively.

"Because—because—" I falter. Why isn't he freaking out? He's being so…reasonable. "You have a girlfriend," I point out lamely.

"Had," he corrects.

"Come again?"

Logan snorts, but doesn't comment on my choice of words. "I started seein' her right after I got back from visiting you," he says instead. "N' when I heard you were back in town, I told her not t' bother calling."

I blink.

Seeing that the message isn't getting through, he tries again. "I know you thought I was being overprotective when I came to see you," he says, "but the thing is, like I told ya, I didn't really care too much for you havin' a boyfriend."

I stare at him blankly, unable to see the connection between Carol the slut and my ex-boyfriend. I still have no idea what he's talking about.

Logan sighs and squeezes my hand. "Thing is, Jube, I didn't want to be with Carol. I never wanted to be with Carol." He pauses. "I gotta admit, I didn't like your boyfriend. Not even his picture. And when I saw that you got hurt while you were with him…" He trails off again, waiting for me to get the message.

Things are slowly beginning to come clear. Something other than overprotective collides with dislikes boyfriend, which in turn runs smack into never wanted to be with Carol.

 "I'm not real good at this," he adds, brushing his roughened thumb against the back of my hand, "and I've been tryin' to figure out a way to say this all day, so I figure I might as well just say it. It's you I want to be with, Jubilee. Has been since before I left for Japan."

Me.

Me?

"I don't—I mean, I think—" I look around wildly, grasping at coherency.

Finally I put my free hand on his arm, look up into his eyes, and say, "Logan, I need to go back into the bathroom and think for about five minutes, okay?"

The corners of his lips begin to curve upward. "All right, but before you go, there's somethin' I gotta tell ya."

Suddenly he's looking straight at me with an expression I've never seen before, and I realize that I can't avert my gaze. His eyes, I notice vaguely, have little rings of gold in them, right around the pupils. "What's that?" I manage.

I suddenly feel his hand on my waist, warm and firm, fingers splayed and drawing me irresistibly closer.

"This," he rumbles, and leans down, and kisses me.

Totally unbelievable, I think, and then I'm kissing him back and am able to think no more.

Somehow my hand finds its way to his face, and this time I have time to enjoy the scruff of his sideburn scratching my palm as I breathe him in. The sound he makes against my mouth as the pad of my thumb brushes his cheekbone—not quite a hum, not quite a growl—makes my legs suddenly stop working. The world sways dizzyingly.

"Jube." Logan pulls away incrementally, and I realize, to my amazement, that the slight tremor I hear in his voice is uncertainty. Holy cow, am I not being obvious enough that I want him to keep up the good work? I can barely stand up, let alone form a coherent thought.

"I didn't quite catch that," I breathe with my eyes still closed. "Tell me again."

A soft exhalation, a low chuckle, and he does.

***