WATERCOLOR

2:26 a.m. Logan was leaving today. It happens this way sometimes. I'd been struggling to get his portrait started for two days now and had been unsuccessful. Every start just didn't have that 'it'- that certain something that made it sparkle. It just wasn't right. None of them had been.

Not even the one that had seemed promising when I'd started it last night. We'd gone to bed late, both of us tired and frustrated. Our lovemaking had been little more than taking out our frustrations on each other. Lasted barely a handful of minutes. More a release that would bring the ease of sleep than anything else.

Only where I'd been dead exhausted an hour ago, I was charged now. Every person who has a creative spirit knows that feeling, that fire when the muse descends... that feeling like if you don't purge yourself through a brush or a pen or out the tips of your fingers into a keyboard that you're going to lose it forever. So elusive. I knew... it had to be now.

"Logan, wake up..." He jerked awake with a small grunt, alert for danger and then sinking back into the pillows in the way men do when they realize they haven't been summoned from sleep's clutches to protect what's theirs.

"Hmph."

"C'mon, Logan..." I nudged him again, stroking his arm softly and pressing an affectionately apologetic kiss to his shoulder. Sleeping with an artist has its drawbacks. "The painting... I can't explain it... but I just know it will work if we do it right now..."

"Fuck. Now?" He felt the bed shift and sighed heavily as I got up. "Jesus."

He rubbed at his bleary eyes and stubbly face as he pushed himself into a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was tired and grumpy, but I knew how badly he wanted this for Mariko... which was probably the only reason he heaved himself from the bed with a minimum of grumbling.

His breath hissed through his teeth when his naked form settled into the wooden chair I'd set up by the easel. "Sufferin' artist, my ass... sufferin' subject is more like it," he growled. He grimaced as he shifted in the hard chair.

Poor Logan. The wood must be uncomfortably cold after the cozy warmth of the bed, but whatever curse he uttered after that was eclipsed by the sulfury hiss of the match I'd just struck. I lit a few candles, only enough to light his frame and my easel. Winding up the heavy fall of my hair, I absently poked a pencil through the knot to hold it in place and keep it out of my way while I worked.

I pulled on a satiny little robe without even thinking about it while I got out the last of the papers I'd stretched. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Logan yawn, stretch and absently scratch at some errant tickle of pubic hair before he adjusted himself and then bent forward a little to grind the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He was tired. Mentally tired. Physically tired. Tired of sitting in that chair for a portrait I couldn't make come through my brush to the paper. God, it was coming now, though... I couldn't get the paints in my palette wet fast enough to keep up with the picture before my eyes and in my head. His head was bowed and his eyes were closed, like he was feeling the weight of the world. Feeling like he'd somehow failed in this endeavor. Like he couldn't open up enough for me to paint what he wanted for Mariko.

So strong and yet so vulnerable, too. The goodness shining out of him, through the cracks in his rough exterior.

I had a sense of the heart of the mountain, even if he'd never showed it to me. And even if I had seen it, I would never put it on display in such a fashion, where just anyone could walk by and see it... but I also knew I had enough of a sense of it now to paint something close to what I saw in my mind's eye.

It wouldn't be perfect, but art is rarely that. It would be damned good, though. That much I knew before I'd even made the first stroke with the brush.

God, the candlelight flickered over him like a lover's touch. Despite the modern lines of the chair, looking at him like this was almost like seeing an old sepia snapshot. The ginger tones of his skin and wild body hair. Darker coffee tones of the hair on his head and between his legs. Deeper chocolate tones in the shadows... Flash of glittering green-gold when his eyes opened as I moved to adjust one of the candles to throw his face and his genitals completely into the shadows.

"Marie-" I knew there were parts of him that he didn't want on display for all the world to see... and I'm not just talking about what hangs between his legs. But he couldn't see what I could see. He felt naked. Exposed. Vulnerable. I saw that... but so much more, too. The need to paint was choking me.

I touched his shoulder softly. "Trust me." He nodded once and met my gaze. "Close your eyes, Logan..."

I flicked on the stereo as I passed and whispered for him to just hold as still as he could for a little while. Just a little while... I didn't even notice when Johnny Cash stopped singing. Nor did I notice the sash of my robe fluttering to the ground or the passing of the time until the watery gray light of dawn began to compete with the candles that had burned low and were now flickering and beginning to sputter.

It was a very sensual experience. The sepia tones cast by the golden glow of the candles. The erotic stroke of the brush against the paper. Our breathing. The soft brush of the satiny robe against my bare skin. The residue of our earlier lovemaking between my thighs. Logan's masculine scent filling my senses. The weight of his eyes on me.

I had long since stopped having to look at him, much like that afternoon I'd gotten lost in the sketch... saw him more in my mind's eye than anything else, now. Saw where this painting needed to go to be great, and I struggled to make that happen. I could feel it welling up inside me, but I just couldn't make it come out. I knew the painting needed something... I just didn't know what.

I took a step back, feeling lightheaded. I often hold my breath when I paint. Even a slow exhale can make a hand tremble when you need it to be perfectly steady. I had a vague memory of Logan telling me to breathe and I wondered now what he'd thought when he first realized I could go more than two minutes without taking a breath. I drew in a deep breath that smelled of Logan and pigment and felt the solid warmth of his big body come up against mine as we both looked at the painting together.

I knew it by heart already and let my gaze swing to him to appraise his reaction to the moment I'd captured. It was almost as good as I'd hoped for... almost. As close as I could come, never having touched the heart of the mountain for myself. A low curse spilled from Logan's lips as he traced the painting with his eyes before the glittering hazel of his gaze moved to my face.

In that moment, I knew why I'd never seen the mountain's heart, why I'd been unable to infuse any of it into the painting. I'd never once looked at it for myself. For us. It had always been about the painting.

This time, it wasn't. I felt the change between us immediately. His hands went to my throat and his fingers teased up and down my bare neck while he made love to my mouth. I felt the silky soft tip of his erection brush against my naked belly. He was hard and weeping. When he lifted his head, his eyes were on fire, but he moved with a deliberate slowness as his fingers traveled up my neck and he slowly pulled the pencil holding up the heavy knot of hair, watching it fall with a masculine satisfaction. He pushed his long blunt fingers into it and spread the silky mass around my shoulders.

"Wanted to do that for a long damned time. Years." A husky admission given up to the night before his mouth came down over mine. He moved, leaving a wet trail across my cheek as he kissed his way to that shivery spot under my ear. His hands slipped inside my robe and he pushed it from my shoulders, watching it fall in a silky flutter to pool at our feet.

He lifted me as if I weighed nothing and then we were on the bed, touching each other all over and groaning into each wet open-mouthed kiss. He whispered to me then; told me how hard watching me had made him. That he'd been watching my breasts move. That he'd gritted his teeth when I'd lost my sash because then he'd been able to see the rest of my body too.

He told me how his body had dripped with want. Put my hand between his legs and let me feel it against my palm, warm and slippery. Asked me if I had any idea that I'd been touching myself lightly now and again as I painted him. How he'd fought to keep from rocking his hips in the chair. And later, how he'd fought to keep from kicking it aside in his haste to get my body under his.

We were free with each other in a way we hadn't been before. Free with our thoughts. Our words. Our responses. It was in that moment I found my way to the heart of the mountain. It was as sensual an experience as painting him had been, yet infused with an unbridled sexuality that left me weak and dizzy, drowning in the sensory experience of the Wolverine in full rut.

An ocean of red granite. And his blood was up.

It was crude and tender. Wild and soft. Demonstrative and selfish and a hundred other contradictory things that all somehow made sense when he put his hands and mouth on my body. And it was a hundred times more intimate than something either of us could have done to the other simply because we did everything together.

He didn't just spread me before his gaze, he told me to spread myself. To touch myself for him. I fed him from my fingers. I fed myself. Scent. Taste. Touch. The sight of his dark head bent between my open thighs. The feel of his fingers inside me and his mouth on my flesh. The sound of his voice telling me not to stop. Telling me to come for him. To give him what he wanted. To hear the sounds that broke from both of us when I gave myself up to him.

Lost in a swirl of sepia fire. Ginger colored light and chocolate shadows throwing him into vivid relief as he crawled up my body and told me to lick his face. I felt the drag of his stubble under my tongue. Felt the slippery remains of my passion. Felt the way his big body shuddered as the carnal sensuality of a lick became the softest kiss. My lips. My neck. My shoulders. My breasts.

He was not afraid to use his teeth. And not afraid to leave a mark. I liked that. Liked the sting of his teeth and the sucking bites that followed. Liked seeing the chain of purple bruises form under his mouth.

"Touch me." It wasn't an order. It was a plea, torn from him as he strained and shook above me, rocking into my touch and making a low whine in the back of his throat as the pleasure became too much to bear. "You're killin' me, darlin'..." A harshly whispered admission against the sweaty skin of my neck as we moved in tandem to get us where we both needed to be.

My eyes fluttered shut as he slipped inside. Slow. Easy. Like we both weren't already dancing at the edge of the flames. I heard a low sound and realized it was me. A throaty purr of pleasure I was unable to hold back as he fit us together and pulled my leg up over his hip. "Logan..." My voice caught.

"Hold me." Such gentle words, spoken from the true heart of the mountain, even as he began to move with strong steady strokes. Erotic sighs and grunts issued from salty lips. Words of encouragement. Sounds when words wouldn't come. Tender passion gave way to raw need, primal and unfettered. "More... fuck me back!" Growled low and dirty as we both lost ground to this wild swell of feeling, suspended somewhere between ecstasy and agony.

He pushed my leg higher. I squeezed him harder. Our bodies shook with the effort of our joining as we moved, locked together in agonizing flight. His fingers slid under my back and curled around my shoulder to pull me into him. His head dropped. He was working hard, pounding into me with a brutal rhythm. Fucking me so hard. Thrusting. Driving. Grunting.

"I'm dying..." So close. I couldn't even breathe. My body was on fire.

"Jesus... Can't hold on..." His thrusts became erratic. "Come with me!"

We flew. Touched the sun. The moon. The stars. Crashed back to Earth in a swirl of colors that have no names. He cursed profanely, still pumping into me as the blackness receded from the edges of my consciousness. He shuddered into me and slowed, his breathing as raspy as mine as he gave one last hitch and collapsed against me in a sweaty heap.

The warmth bloomed deep inside me and I smiled at the slick feel of his come and the way it eased our aching flesh.

"Hold me." His quiet request brought tears to my eyes and I held him close and wrapped him up so tight. I could feel his heart slamming against his ribs, free of its shelter of stone and shared with me in this one vulnerable moment.

The amber light from the last sputtering candles gave way to the golden light of dawn and cast a warm glow over our sweaty bodies. The large palm spread across the small of my back felt like a brand. Our hands touched and our fingers entwined, lacing tight while we recovered, breathing in great gulps of air that tasted of sex and smelled of warm vanilla candles and the musk of spent desire.

He was asleep within minutes, although it was several more minutes beyond that before I felt his grip go slack. He was exhausted and though I was lightheaded with it myself, I was also charged with this energy, part endorphins and part giddy euphoria. I kissed Logan's fingers and gently tugged my hand free of his. He made a sleepy attempt to hold me to him but he belonged to Morpheus now... and I belonged in front of the easel. I knew what to do now.

How does one show the heart of a mountain?

Having touched it now, I knew what I'd seen was far too precious and private to ever be captured, let alone revealed... and yet some unnamed force almost seemed to be guiding my brush, bringing the painting before me to life the same way that first sketch had appeared before Logan's eyes, like sand blown from the cracks to reveal the image laying dormant beneath.

Dawn broke.

The candles sputtered and finally went out. Logan snored softly in a tangle of white bed sheets. The room smelled of sex and smoke and peace. And when I finally stepped from the easel, I still hadn't captured the heart of the mountain... but something of its spirit burned brightly from within the image.

It seemed strange that I could see it so clearly now. Our lovemaking had been for us. All thoughts of the painting had been driven from my mind the moment I felt his touch. No, we hadn't loved so I could finish this. Instead, I'd been inspired to greatness after seeing the depth of his heart. And looking at the painting now, I knew it was great.

In the golden moment we'd just shared, I'd seen so much but I chose to reveal what I'd learned only in his hands, leaving his face as it had been before, still hidden in shadow. Touching that would have revealed too much. No, all I added was detail in his hands. Capable of such brutal violence. Capable of such exquisite tenderness. Logan is a man of contradictions, and though the biggest of those might be inside his heart along with that pebble, the only ones I will ever reveal to anyone are the ones I saw in his hands.

Why his hands? I can't say, really. Maybe it's that I've tasted both their strength and their tenderness. I'd felt the sing of the metal through my chest. And the beauty of him pouring into me as we touched. Maybe it's that I was thinking how much a part of him they are. Maybe it was simply that as I stood there at the easel, I couldn't stop thinking about the way they felt laced with mine... and about how they felt touching me. Soft and strong. Who knows, maybe in that place of nameless colors, Morpheus flirts with the ear of the Muse.

Giddy with exhaustion, I set the alarm and crawled into bed with him. Tender or not, he'd be pissed if he overslept and missed his flight because I'd kept him up most of the night catering to the muse. But hopefully when he sees the painting he'll understand why I did. Just as I hope he understands the changes that were wrought after we loved.

It wasn't the alarm that woke me. It was that sixth sense of someone in the room not sleeping or simply passing through. I woke abruptly to find that Logan had dragged the chair around to the front of the easel and was sitting in it, staring at the painting. He had showered and dressed and his bag was packed and at his feet. His eyes were glittering wetly and I saw so much in them when they finally met mine.

His voice was rough. "You painted after..." It wasn't a question. Of course he'd note the changes. In the wee hours of the morning, I'd finally blown the sand from the cracks and the image that had resulted was startling. He rubbed his face and gestured at the easel. "You really see me... like that?"

Clearly uncomfortable, he swallowed hard when I nodded again. He said nothing. He didn't even curse. I think my vision shocked him a little. To be honest, when I'd stepped back from the easel, what I saw there had shocked me a little too.

But as suddenly as the deeply moving moment had arisen, it was swept away in a sickening rush as my eyes drifted to the clock. "Your flight!" There wasn't even time to shower, barely enough to throw some clothes on and drive him to the airport.

He smiled softly as I sat up and moved to flick the covers back, already trying to remember where I'd tossed my purse and my keys. I was so tired, my brain and body felt thick and sluggish like cold honey. A sex-soaked languor of exhaustion and quiet contentment.

"I called a cab." The simple words took all the wind out of my mental sails. He looked at his watch. "Be here in a few minutes." He gave the painting one last long look and joined me on the bed, smelling of cedarwood shaving soap and warm male. He touched my cheek gently. "Knew you'd be tired." He smiled softly. "And I wanted to remember you like this..." his fingers touched my hair lightly, "...all soft and..." His words trailed off but I knew what he meant. A private goodbye.

He handed me my satiny robe and smiled. "You go on down, okay? I just want a minute... you know." He shrugged and gestured to the painting.

I slipped from the room and let him have his moment. The honk of the cab came a few minutes later. There was no deep passionate kiss at the door. Just a look. A smile. We'd said our goodbyes already. We both knew he'd be back again. This was a beginning, not an ending. He simply squeezed my hand with his. I brought it to my lips, kissed his knuckles gently and then he was gone.

I didn't stay to watch his cab disappear. I dragged myself back upstairs to the bedroom, intent on sleeping the day away, surrounded by sheets that still carried the warm musky scent of our lovemaking, when something drew me up short. He'd left a gift in the center of the mussed bed.

No note. No card. Just a simply wrapped gift. I tore away the plain brown paper and opened the small box. An origami dragonfly fell into my hands, painstakingly folded from iridescent green foil paper. It was exquisite.

What a beautiful gesture.

The mountain had made a gift of a piece of his heart in return for the pieces of my soul I'd given up to put his image on paper. Like chalk, I thought again as I set the precious gift aside and closed my eyes.

Logan was a man to get all over you. A man who would leave his mark on you long after he was gone.

A color I had known that wouldn't be named and couldn't be washed off.

Feedback is love. :)

Author's note: Wow! You guys are amazing. I had such a wonderful response to this story and so many of you shared with me that you had artistic abilities as well. Sketching, painting, oil pastel, charcoal, composers… How cool is that? You're a talented bunch! A lot of you with admittedly no artistic ability enjoyed this one too and several folks shared that it gave them a whole new perspective on art (and its delightful sensuality). Mission accomplished! My Logan muse is quite smug! Grrr, baby!

The feedback over the last several months has been especially beautiful and I wanted to send out a huge thank you for sharing the love. I gladly welcome all kinds of feedback (good/bad/ugly). My writing is far from perfect and there's always room for improvement. :) Flames however, are something else. I get my fair share of those, too. My feelings on the matter are best summed up thusly: Never argue with a pig. You get dirty and the pig likes it. Heh. Dudes. It's fanfic. Chill the hell out. That shit's bad for your Chi.

I have a ton of stuff that I'm currently working on. So. Many. Irons. In. The. Fire. Wowza! Up next:

Fine Art
After being on her own for several years, Marie returns to the mansion. Things get painted. Sparks fly. W/R AU
(5 chapters. Unfinished, but y'all said you wanted to see it anyway!)

Sanctuary
A girl alone on a snowy road needs a ride. She offers up the only thing she has of value to trade: herself. An alternative look at how Rogue's first meeting with the Wolverine might have gone if she'd had to talk her way into his truck instead of hiding in his trailer. W/R AU

Shine Against Me
Logan and Marie and talk about pornography… and then things get crazy.
25+ chapters (and counting!)

Walk the Line
Marie comes back after taking the Cure. "She'd always defend him though, even now – powerless and helpless, and they both knew it. It didn't even need saying. The care of this beautiful man was written in her bones."
9ish chapters (and counting)

And just today some kinda AngstSmutBunny bit me in the car on the way home. Not sure what will come of that…. (My LoganMuse disagrees. He knows exactly how that's gonna end for him….) Smug bastard!

I'm definitely still certifiable!