Disclaimer: I actually bought rights to Marvel today...oh, wait, no...I would have to have money to do that and I have no job...I couldn't buy the rights to a stick of gum... Oh well, enjoy anyway!

"Good morning, Delia. How are you today?" the Professor asked me as I walked to the staff table for breakfast.

"I'm doing well sir, thank you," I said, sitting at the opposite end of the table as Scott. I was still mad from our fight the night before and didn't want to sit near him.

"Delia, I was gonna' go to the mall later, do you wanna' go with me?" Rogue asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but as I did so, someone else began to answer for me. "She can't. She's goin' with me to the hockey game." It was Logan.

"What?" Scott asked, looking up at him with a mixture of confusion and distaste.

"I'm goin' to the hockey game and she's goin' with me," he said, sitting down beside me. "Right?" he asked with a smirk and a wink.

I let out a happy, yet guilty, sigh and smiled. "Yeah, my first hockey game."

"Absolutely not," Scott protested.

"I don't think you get much of a say in it, Scooter."

Rogue stared at the conversation unfolding in front of her. With the exception of Jean and the Professor, she was the only person sitting at the table who hadn't been there when Scott and I had started our argument. And Jean and Xavier both knew about it, whether from being told or just reading our minds, perhaps a bit of both. So I saw her watch the tension build between Logan, Scott and me with utter confusion. Scott and I hadn't been the best of relatives, but we had certainly gotten along well enough and what was happening was completely uncharacteristic of us both. Or so it seemed.

"So you're not goin' shoppin' with me?" she asked.

"Not today, perhaps another time. Thank you, though."

"Delia, can I speak with you in the kitchen for a minute?" Scott asked, standing.

"Sure," I said, following him as he stood. "Excuse us everyone, we'll be back in a moment."

The two of us walked out of the dining hall, down the main hall and into the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" he asked, a furious whisper.

"I'm following you into the kitchen," I whispered back, matching his tone.

"That's not what I'm talking about. I told you to stay away from him and now the two of you are going to a hockey game? That doesn't seem like you're staying away to me."

"Well maybe I just decided to make my own decisions; I am an adult you know?"

"I don't care if you were fifty; he is a bad influence."

"Why are we whispering?"

"I don't know," he said, his voice returning to its normal volume.

"Seriously Uncle Scott, I don't see what's so wrong with him."

"Well that's because you don't know him as well as I do."

"Maybe not, but I know me and I know that I'm not that easily influenced. If I was, I think I'd be a crack whore like mother."

"Hey," he warned.

"Sorry, very friendly drug addict." I rolled my eyes.

"Don't talk about your mother that way."

"She's my mother."

"And she's my sister."

"But she hates you, why can't you just hate her back?"

"I could ask you the same question, Delia, what would your answer be?"

I paused for a moment. "I hate those stupid glasses. I want to look in your eyes when we're talking."

"You didn't answer the question," he said quietly.

"Neither did you," I said just as quiet. We both stared silently at each other for a few minutes. "I'm going to leave soon, whenever I can get all of my stuff together and can get a way home."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't leave because of me. This is the first time you haven't had to take care of Katie in seventeen years and you should be relaxing and enjoying it, not worrying about what I tell you."

"So you want to tell me what to do, for me to disregard it, reprimand me for it and then just ignore it when you do?"

He let out a sigh. "No, you're right, you're an adult and if you want to hang around with Logan, then I guess you get to decide."

"I'm not going to take up drinking, or smoking, or swearing. I promise."

"It's not just that, he's seen a lot more than you. He used to be a cage fighter."

"So? Have you completely forgotten what my daddy did? I'm not some innocent little girl. I haven't been for a long time."

"You're supposed to me, though. You're my niece; I'm supposed to take care of you."

"And I appreciate you trying." I looked down and let out a sigh. "You're all I have left, Scott, I don't want to argue and fight with you."

"Arguing just shows that you care."

I looked back up at him with a smile. "And how does that figure?"

"If I didn't care about you, then I wouldn't waste my time arguing with you." He smiled.

"I'm sorry about what I said last night."

"What did you say?"

"I said screw you and that you didn't have the right to judge mother."

"You should be sorry; you really never should say 'screw you', it doesn't sound right coming from you." I laughed. "Apology accepted. And I'm sorry too; I was tired last night. I just want to protect you and make sure that you're okay. You're all I've got left, too."

"So I get to go to the hockey game with Logan and you won't have a major heart attack?"

"Not a major one," he said with a smile. "Just be careful with him, okay? I don't want the two of you to start a relationship and have him completely break your heart."

"A relationship? One; we've just met, and two; the man's attractive but I don't want a relationship with him. I don't want one with anyone right now, I'm too young."

"Yes you are, just keep that in mind."

I smiled. "I will, I promise."

He walked over to me and gave me a hug. "I love you sweetheart."

"I love you too, Uncle Scott."

"Alright, let's get back to breakfast."

"Good idea."

Together we left the kitchen and went back to the dining hall to eat.

And that was it; we never had that discussion again.

"What's with the Wicked Witch get up?" Scott asked me after lunch.

"I'm wearing it to the hockey game. What's wrong with it?"

"You just look like a movie character."

I gave him a sideways glace from where I was putting away the chocolate milk into the refrigerator. "At what point in our entire history of knowing each other would you ever think it odd for me to dress like a movie character? I lived in a Rainbow Brite costume for the good part of my life as a five year old."

He looked over my outfit and shook his head.

I was wearing a black, tulle, knee length skirt, black tights, and black knee high boots with a bright green sweater. My hair was pulled into a ponytail with a black headband on top. My ode to the Wicked Witch of the West: the most misunderstood character in movie history.

"You're right, how silly of me." He laughed. "When are you guys leaving?"

"Half and hour, I think?"

"Okay, well, I have to get back to work. You two have fun and be careful, all right? Don't heckle the players too badly, okay?"

"Will you bail me out of jail if I get into a fight?" I asked with a smile.

"Absolutely not. I do believe that you keep reminding me that you're an adult, so I think you'll just have to find your own way out."

"And I thought that Nana raised a gentleman. Boy was I poorly informed." I smiled. "And anyway, hasn't any of Xavier's manners rubbed off on you? Now he's a gentleman."

"Okay, so when you get sent to jail you can just call Uncle Charlie instead."

"That may have meant to be a joke, but you know that if I asked him, he would."

"You think I don't know that? The man took me in when I was thirteen and taught me almost everything I know. He did the same with Jean and Ororo. I owe him more that I have and I know that he wouldn't think twice about helping you if you needed it."

"Well, why do you think I'm here? He didn't hesitate to offer me a room when I called him and told him about my situation."

"He's a pretty good guy, I guess," he said with a smile, his dimples showing.

"Perhaps you did pick up a few things from him, then."

"You look like a ballerina goin' to a funeral," Logan said, walking into the kitchen. He was wearing pretty much the same outfit as he had been the day before, only a different colored button up shirt, with it actually buttoned, a blue jean jacket and a leather jacket over it all. He was an awfully attractive man, I thought. "That ain't what you're wearin' to the game, is it?"

"Well I was. Why, what's wrong with it?"

He quirked an eyebrow at me. "I thought I just said what was wrong with it?"

"Just be glad she's not dressed as a cartoon character today," Scott said as he was leaving the kitchen.

"She's not?" he asked, looking me over once again.

"Fine, I'll change," I said.

I left the kitchen and Logan followed me. We quietly walked up the stairs, down the hallway and to my room. I opened the door and he followed me inside. I took a pair of blue jeans from my closet and went into my bathroom to change. When I was done, I took the ponytail holder out of my hair and left my headband on the sink. I had been a bit over dressed, I suppose.

I exited the bathroom and pulled on my rain boots. I took a scarf from my closet, tied it around my neck, and then pulled on my long, black, wool coat.

"Better?" I asked.

Logan turned from where he had been looking at my nightstand.

"Yeah." He picked up a photo. "Who's this?" he asked, showing it to me.

I walked closer to him so that I could see it better, even though I already knew which picture it was. "That's my mother and me when I was little. She threw me an 'Almost Five' birthday party. I think it was just her and me, but she made a huge cake and bought me a present. They were these bright red, sparkly shoes that she had to look everywhere for. I was obsessed with 'The Wizard of Oz' and dressed up like Dorothy everyday and watched the movie. I wore them until the fell apart. She was fun before she got real bad." He looked at me and then back at the photo. "You don't want to hear about that, though. Let's go to the game."

We both left my room and I shut the door as I walked out. "So, do you know how the game works?" he asked, giving me a sideways glance.

"Sort of. I know that there are two teams and they're each trying to get the puck into the others nets without the goalie stopping them. That and it's men whacking each other with sticks and pretty much just beating each other."

"Sounds about right," he said with a small smile.

The game was fun. I screamed my head off and Logan got into a fight with some middle aged, bald guy and we were told to leave at the end. He then took me to get something to eat not too far away from the school.

"So, kid, you and Summers make up?" he asked as we were eating.

"Yeah, pretty much. Why?"

"Just wonderin' if you're gonna' need me to help you piss him off anymore?"

I let out a small laugh. "It wouldn't hurt to keep you around. You know, just in case."

He nodded his head slowly. "You get anything from him? I mean, aside from the holes in your cheeks?"

"They're called dimples, thank you very much, and if you're talking about genetics, then yes; I'm a bit more like him on the inside."

He stared at me quietly for a moment. "Like how?"

"My bones don't break." He gave me the eyebrow. "I don't bend like a pretzel or anything, if that's what you're thinking; they just don't break. It's not the coolest or most useful thing in the world, but we don't get to pick and choose, do we? Otherwise there would be a lot less of us, wouldn't there?"

"If you could choose, you would choose to be normal?"

"Yeah, wouldn't you?"

"No."

"Everyone hates us and you would choose to stay the same?"

"People hate me for worse reasons than that, doesn't make me wanna' 'em."

I nodded my head. "Mother always said that people were born to live a certain way, that we're given a life which we can't change and that if we try to, we'll be punished for it."

"Why?"

"Because she said that our lives and personalities are written in the stars and that they're wiser than us and if we try to take matters into our own hands, they'll remind us that they're in charge. She believes that we have no say in anything, that we have to follow how our lives are meant to be."

He stared at me intensely for a moment. "And what do you think?"

I paused for a minute, thinking. What did I believe? How did I feel? What were my opinions on my mother's life philosophy? People had asked me what I thought before; about my mother, my family, other various things, but there was something different about the way he asked me what I thought. He meant it. He wasn't asking a question just to fill time in a conversation, because he was someone who wasn't scared of silence; he was comfortable in it, he was used to it. He had spent years of his life by himself and silence came not only as a given, but was also welcomed. No, when he asked a question, it wasn't just mindless chatter; it meant something. That question as that moment was nothing particularly special, but his tone, the way he had asked it, it reached in and grabbed hold of my soul. What did I think? What did I think?

"I think that's just what she uses as an excuse for what she does. I think she hides behind her belief to justify actions that destroyed my childhood and ruined my adult life. I think in order for her to not feel guilty, she blames everything she does on it."

That's what I thought and no one, until him, had ever cared to ask and actually listen. I didn't know if he cared at the time, but he asked, and I know he listened. They look he gave me as he acknowledged my opinions and what I thought meant a lot and always stayed with me.

I had been at Xavier's school for a month and a half when Valentine's Day rolled around. Most people would assume that it would be my favorite holiday. However, I hated that day. What is so special about a day where everyone's meant to be romantic? If my boyfriend…okay, if I had a boyfriend, and he was going to proclaim his love to me, I wouldn't want it to be on the same day that everyone else was doing it. That's a bit cheap if you ask me. It was just a stupid holiday made up to make money.

Yes, I hated Valentine's Day.

"Good morning Delia," Jean said to me as I passed by her in the hall.

"Don't see what's so good about it," I grumbled, rushing down the stairs. I was late for breakfast and wanted to eat before they had everything cleared away.

I was late because I had spent time debating whether to be festive and wear pink or red or be a fuddy-duddy and wear black. After too much time trying on my clothes and looking at them in the mirror, I decided to ditch both color scheme ideas and went with blue instead. A blue T-shirt, blue jeans, my monkey house slippers and my old, gray, worn out sweater. I looked sad and probably a mess, so I braided my hair into pigtails in hopes of looking a little brighter. I then tied them off with blue ribbons. I was sure that no one gave my wardrobe as much thought as I did and wouldn't care if I came to breakfast in a burlap sack. But I enjoyed my outfits; they amused me, if no one else.

"You're late for breakfast," Scott said as I sat down in front of him.

"So are you, by the looks of it," I said, noting him as he spread mayonnaise onto a piece of raison bread toast. I shook my head in disgust. "I can't believe you still actually eat that stuff."

He looked up at me. "This coming from the girl who eats pickles on her peanut butter sandwiches?"

"It's good. That," I said, pointing to the bread, "is just wrong and gross."

We both ate quietly as the rest of the staff finished their breakfasts and left to start their days activities.

"Do you have any plans for this evening?" Uncle Scott asked.

"I'm going to stay in, eat a pint of ice-cream and attempt to find a good movie that doesn't involve anything romantic. How about you and Jean?"

"We're going out to eat and then to see some show she wants to see in New York City."

"What type of show?"

"Some ballet." I laughed. "Don't' laugh. When you get married, you'll understand doing things that you don't always want to do so that you can make the other person happy."

"Yeah, see, that's what I don't get about love; I don't think that I could sit through two hours of something I don't like, just to make someone happy."

"One day you will and then you'll have to eat your words." He smiled.

"And I'm just looking so forward to that," I said sarcastically.

"Well, I've got to hurry and get to class or I'll be late. Have a good day."

"Yeah, you too," I said as he stood.

He left and I suddenly realized that I was the only person left in the pink, red and heart decorated room. It was almost enough to make me lose the breakfast I had just finished eating.

Valentine's Day was evil. I was sure of it.

I spent most of the day holed up inside my room. I attempted to take my mind of it anyway possible, but every time I turned on the TV or the radio, there was some sappy, romantic movie or song played. A little after six o'clock that afternoon, I decided that the only person who probably hated that day as much as I did was Logan. And so for that reason, I decided to make him a Valentine's Day card.

After a month of knowing Logan, we had become friends. I had thought perhaps somewhat reluctantly on his part to begin with, but the Friday after we met, he came knocking on my door, asking me to go get a milkshake with him. We had every Friday after it as well.

I would have spent more time with Uncle Scott, but he was always so busy and since Logan and I neither one worked, we had a lot of time to spend together. He was fun to talk to, when we talked, because despite how different we looked, we were actually a bit alike. Okay, so not that much alike, our humor was about the same, but we got a long, to the surprise of nearly everyone in the school. And much to the dismay of Scott.

I took the sketchpad from the bottom drawer of my nightstand as well as some colored pencils, glitter pens and a pair of scissors. To begin with, I drew a Harley Davidson, a Fat Boy like my father used to ride, but it just looked kind of silly, so I threw it away. I then tried to draw an actual wolverine, but I wasn't really sure what they looked like and so it turned out looking like a coyote on crack. I threw it away as well. After an hour and a half of trying to come up with a cute and witty design, I decided to just sell out and draw a heart. It took me twenty minutes to sketch and color the card for him. It wasn't the best drawing I had ever done, it was actually pretty simple, but it wasn't too shabby. It was a pink, sparkly heart with a lace outline drawn around it. I then wrote a short poem inside and was done with it.

It was nearly eight o'clock when I got through and I assumed that everyone who was going out had already left and that it would be fairly safe for me to go downstairs without having to witness a mush fest of love. I grabbed the box of chocolates from my dresser and the card that I had just finished and made my way downstairs. It didn't take me long to find Logan, he was in the den watching TV.

"Hello Logan. Decided to stay in tonight instead of going out and picking up lonely, desperate woman in bars?"

"Yeah," he said, watching me as I plopped down into the seat next to him. "What about you? Couldn't find a date?"

I grunted. "Didn't want one. I hate this holiday, it's stupid."

He cocked an eyebrow at me. "Really?" he asked skeptically.

"Yes, it's just a stupid holiday made up because there was nothing going on in February. I don't understand why they should devote a day to a guy who was thought to be a pedophile and then one day decided to declare his love to an adult woman. Then he got himself beheaded and the whole situation just doesn't seem like cause for celebration to me."

"He was a pedophile?" he asked, his eyebrow still raised in skepticism.

"I think so. I heard that somewhere once…" I sighed. "Anyway, the card is for you and the chocolate is for me," I said, handing him the folded paper. "But I'll share if you want."

He opened the card and read it. He then looked at me with a blinking stare. "What the heck is maple surple?"

"It's the only thing that rhymes with purple."

"But why does it have to rhyme with purple?"

"Because 'Roses are red, violets are blue' doesn't make sense as violets are actually purple. So, 'Roses are red, violets are purple, you're as sweet as maple surple' rhymes and makes sense."

"No it doesn't 'cause 'surple' ain't a real world."

"Well sorry furry-face, but that's what you get."

He stuck it into the pocket of his blue jeans. "Thanks kid. Gimme' one of those chocolates."

I opened the box and sat it down on the couch in the space between us. "What are you watching?"

"Boxing. The match is about to start."

"Who's fighting?"

"Don't know."

"Don't care?"

"It's the only thing on that ain't all that romantic crap."

We were both quiet for a while as they introduced the boxers (I had never heard of either one), and they began the first round.

"My daddy wanted me to be a boxer," I said.

I saw him look at me from the corner of my eye. "You don't look like one."

"I'm not."

"Why did he want you to be one?"

"Because that's what he was, he fought for a living."

He looked back to the screen. "What happened to him?"

He had asked me that question the night we met and when I had avoided it, he didn't ask me again. Maybe I just wanted to talk to someone about it; it had been so long since I had even been able to bring it up. Maybe it caught me off guard and I just told him before I could stop myself. Or maybe, odd as it was, I was finally beginning to trust someone enough to tell them. Whatever the reason, I found myself telling him about my father.

"He died during a match. The guy he was fighting against had already killed a guy a few months before, but he had enough money to get out of it. Daddy was fighting him because no one else would and so they were going to pay him well for it. They had made it to the fifth round, daddy was wearing him down, they were both just so tired, but they kept going. The other guy realized he couldn't beat him going the way that he was, so he cheated. Daddy's manager pulled his chair out for him to sit on and the guy pushed him. He fell on the stool, broke his back, and damaged his brain stem. His brain stem swelled and filled with blood. He went into a coma and after a week, he eventually died. I used to know everything there was to know about boxing, but after he died, mother got rid of everything that had to do with him and I wasn't allowed to watch it again. I've forgotten nearly everything about it… I've even forgotten what he looked like. Isn't it funny how that happens? I spent eight years of my life with him and now I barely remember him," I said. I shook my head. "I remember how he smelled. That he wore a maroon polo shirt all the time. He bought me my first sketchpad when I was six and I remember him hanging my picture that I had drawn of our dog up on the refrigerator. He was so proud of it. This was his old sweater, he wore it whenever he was at home and right after he died, I would wrap myself up in it and cry myself to sleep." I sighed. "How do we forget people like that? When they're so important to us?"

"I don't know."

I turned my head from where I had my eyes trained on a spot on the wall. He was looking at me, his eyes locked with mine the moment I turned them towards his. He stared at me, not saying anything, he didn't have to; I understood what he was thinking. There were important people in his life that he had long forgotten, too. And he, like me, had only fracture memories of them, to not comfort, but to haunt you. To tease and taunt you because you can't remember them even though you know it's somewhere in your mind. And when you see someone, some stranger walking past you on the street, you have a fleeting memory that that's how they looked. When you smell something in the air that reminds you of how they smelled. Little things that set you off but can never bring the whole thing together. It's like a slow form of torture.

As if he felt that I was reading his mind by staring so deeply into his eyes, Logan looked away. He picked up the remote and turned the TV channel.

"Why are you turning it?" I asked.

"I didn't think you would wanna' watch it after that."

"Don't. I want to watch it. Like I said; mother wouldn't let me watch them after daddy died. It haven't seen a match in seventeen years. Spare me the Valentine's Day much and let me watch it with you."

He looked back over at me, the seriousness still in his eyes. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm positive," I said, popping a piece of chocolate into my mouth. I let out a sigh and curled up onto the couch. I felt so much better just talking about it, getting it off my chest and knowing that I had someone to talk with, if I needed to.

I looked at Logan and remembered something my mother had told me only once, when I was much younger. We were both getting ready to go to my father's funeral. I hadn't thought about it in ages, but as I sat there quietly, just watching the match and him, I remembered it. She told me that when we're born, we're linked to someone, somewhere else. She said that part of our life's journey is to find and recognize who they are. They don't have to be romantic figures in our lives, or specific gender, or age. They can be our lover, friend, teacher, mentor, student, whatever, but the souls are perfect matches of one another. It's why we're attracted to other people for what seems like no reason. There's something we feel but can't see or describe. Mother told me that losing daddy wasn't like a piece of her had died, it really had. A part of her was missing because the two of them were meant from the time they were born.

I didn't know if she was right, she had been so few times in my life, but she had always believed so strongly in what she thought. I had to wonder if there might have been a hint of truth to what she had told me so many years before, because as I sat there by Logan, I felt that if I could ever imagine that my soul had a match, his would be it.