She was up with the dawn; mixed emotions make for unsettling bed partners. Though she tried to turn softly to see Sabretooth's face as he slept, her movement woke him and she encountered his sleepy, waking gaze. He looked benign in this relaxed state, a normal man dusting away the cobwebs of sleep. "Good morning," she whispered.

His lips twitched. "Good morning."

She cupped his cheek and felt her stomach quiver as she watched his eyelids flutter at her touch. "I have to get up," she said. He frowned and pulled her closer in response. "No, really," she urged. "I need to wash up and get back. We have a meeting today about…" and here she stumbled, "about…the murders I spoke of." Her voice trailed off. He hadn't committed them, but discussing the matter with him seemed wrong.

He held her gaze steadily. "You believe me, don't you? That I didn't do it?"

She surprised herself by answering "yes" right away, and even more, she was surprised that she meant it. He pulled her lips to his, melting her once again. But rallying all her willpower, she pulled back, chuckling to herself at how hard it was, how she wanted to stick to him like a magnet. "No, no. I have to go."

He grumbled irritably and held her tight. "One more time, Sweets." His use of the endearment he had christened the night before, here in the morning light, made her heart skip. "One more and then I'll let you go." He kissed her again. "Maybe."

She did finally extricate herself from his arms. It might have been an hour later and involve promises of pleasures to come, but she was eventually triumphant. And though he followed her into the bathroom to watch with a combination of lust and resentment as she washed the evidence of him away, he didn't touch her.

When he offered her the towel and she refused it, he didn't even flinch.

The clothes he had purchased were in plastic packages, a checked flannel shirt and boxers. She handled the plastic like contaminated material, pinching with the tips of her fingers and ripping it open quickly. The over-sized flannel nearly covered the boxers but she didn't complain. At least she was covered. He had touched her boots but she decided she wouldn't worry; she'd leave them outside the mansion. The socks she abandoned.

Taking stock of herself and feeling everything was in order - at least as well as could be expected - she exhaled a deep breath. "Victor, will you get the door for me?" she asked as sweetly as she could.

He obliged but before letting her through he asked, "When will I see you again?" His face was as impassive as his delivery, showing no more emotion than a question about the weather. Nevertheless, it woke her to the fact that they hadn't discussed the future. What will it be? Another weekend before we realize the absurdity of our actions?

"Well," she started, "I might be able to meet you next weekend." His eyes flashed subtly. "But it depends on the investigation. If Professor Xavier sends me out of town, I suppose I won't be able to." Her chest tightened briefly as the thought passed through her that perhaps there would not even be another weekend. Maybe this obstacle, this sign of their incompatibility would give him pause. After all, what would they do? Call each other on the phone? Send each other text messages? The complication of it all weighed on her suddenly, heavily.

He looked away as if trying to decide something. "Ororo," he said after a minute of silence passed between them, one in which she regretted the detached manner in which she was departing. She wished she could kiss him, touch him up to the very moment of lift off, but she just couldn't, not if she wanted to keep their secret safe. "I'm going to tell you something. It's how to get a message to me if you can't meet me." His demeanor was intense but in a different way from before, cold, calculating, cautious. "I'm trusting you not to tell anyone." He gave her a sharp look. "And to be smart about this."

Ororo nodded solemnly and he told her, a number to an electronic message service – she could also contact it through email. The communications were converted somehow to another form. There were a lot of layers and he wouldn't describe them, but he did explain how she could retrieve a message using a 20 digit password.

"I'm never going to remember that," she complained with teasing pout.

His face was unresponsive and his words were curt. "Remember it."

She bristled at his tone and asked, a tinge of sarcasm coloring her voice, "Is this how your 'clients' get a hold of you?"

He ignored the question but added a brusque addendum. "Keep the communication to a minimum." She hardened slightly – Calm, Ororo. Don't fight now - and when he stepped back from the doorway, she passed through in silence. She didn't want to leave like a petulant child, but if that's the way he wanted it, she wasn't going to beg him for a good-bye.

Lifting herself off the porch, trying to keep a bad taste from settling in her mouth, she heard him speak. "It feels like a stray thought." Turning but not lowering herself, she raised a curious eyebrow. "When a telepath wants to get into your head. It feels like you're having a stray thought about the thing they're looking for."

A flicker passed over his face. Does he want to say something else? Does he want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss him? She had to fight the urge not to drop back into his arms. "So, I can't have a stray thought about you?" she asked smiling gently.

"No. Think of something else." The flicker was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Or someone?" she taunted. She didn't know why she goaded him just then, except that she wanted the fire back. His eyes narrowed but he didn't take the bait.

"Train yourself," he said, and walked back inside.