A.N.: Hey guys! Clodagh back with chapter two, as promised! This one is a little shorter, and the lengths of the chapters will varying, due to when it's best to split a story. I'm glad you guys are enjoying it so far (all three/four of you), I was surprised anyone would have read it so thanks so much for giving it a go!

Please let me know what you think and follow the story so you'll get emails about when the story is updated (should be every Sunday and Wednesday, sometimes they may be up later!), and if you know anyone who'd like the story please feel free to tell them about it!

Have a great day and enjoy!

'Cause I can't make you love me, if you don't

I can't make your heart feel something it won't.

-Bon Iver

CHAPTER TWO

X.x.X

They all avoid you. You hear people passing your door, stopping, almost like they want to enter but can't quite bring themselves too.

Word on the street-or the corridor- is that Miss Pryde is going crazy.

You're not sure they're wrong.

You don't leave the room the whole day. You spend about five minutes in bed, but you've never really been the sort who sat there and did nothing. Instead, you tear open every drawer, exploring every letter, photograph, album, every piece of clothing and bottle of perfume- God, you haven't smelt perfume in so long- and it strikes you along the way that some of the knick knacks and items you recognise. They're yours from before, your past life before war and death and Sentinels. Some skating medals here, some old and embarrassing CD's there, photographs with your childhood friends in Canada and the ones you made here, like Jones and Bobby. More have been added to the collection, with people you recognise-the ones you still feel a tug in your chest about, because you lost them.

You examine the photos carefully, holding them close to your chest. You're staring, and you feel like if you look away, the people in the photographs will disappear, leaving you once more. You're paying attention to one taken of you with your class of that year, your arm around a kid's shoulder and Peter is there too, his massive arm using your head as an armrest, his face the perfect picture of innocence. You can tell by your own expression that you're mid eye roll, but you aren't really annoyed at all. Then heavy footfall arrives outside the door and there's a hesitant knock. You don't bother answering it, but whoever it is nudges open the door, then fully opens it, having obviously decided it was safe to enter. Peter stands before you with a tray of hot food that makes your stomach rumble, and he mumbles 'I thought you might be hungry,' and you're oddly touched by the gesture.

"Thank you," you say finally, and he crosses the room to give you the tray. He's about to back up when he notices the pictures. "Kitty…."

"I've ransacked this entire room, Peter. And the only things I recognise are things from when I was younger. Everything else…" your eyes flit around your surroundings and you shrug, "I'm a stranger in my own home." Peter studies you for a while before making a decision and sitting down on the floor a respectful distance away from you. "I have an idea."

"I'm all ears and open to suggestions," you reply.

"You don't know about this life." It's a statement, flat and prepared to cause the least amount of pain. You answer quickly to spare him.

"No."

"And I don't know about your future," he continues and you shake your head, unsure of where Peter is going with this.

"Right."

"We could fix that," he says and you nod to show you're interested. "Fifty questions. Twenty five each. This game can take as long as it needs to, and we have to be honest. It'll give us a starting point until….until we figure this out."

You bite your lip and look at Peter's honest face. He seems to earnest and helpful, but you know he's really trying to jog your memory. But you aren't dumb. You know you're stuck here for the foreseeable future- it has already been changed. You can't change how everything is here and now- and you can't even bear to think about Bobby. You can't carry on in this future knowing nothing. So you say "okay."

X.x.X

You miss him.

It hurts, not being with Bobby.

You had been partners, in more ways than one. He was your best friend and co-leader and you loved him, you had since you were a teenager and he took you out the night of the Professor's funeral and brought home to you, icing up the fountain and giving you something you so desperately need- hope. Hope that things would get better. Hope that the mansion would still be home. Hope that you wouldn't have to go back to being the weird girl who could phase through walls. At the Institute you had a purpose, and Bobby helped remind you of that. He was considerate, kind, strong, a leader. And in that future- that dreaded, desolate future- he was yours. He was different- war-torn, tired and on edge- but he was still the boy who held your hand when you felt like your world was crumbling down. He was still the anchor keeping you here, keeping you focused. One of you wouldn't have survived without the other in the other future- the one they tell you didn't happen.

But it must have. You feel it. You feel it in your heart and soul, in your bones and thrumming through your blood that it must have happened. Feelings like that don't go away. Friendships like that doesn't go away.

A word on fire doesn't go away. A world at war doesn't go away.

And it hasn't. Not really. Except now instead of in the streets the fire, pain, loss and destruction are all in your head.

The war is in your head.

And the loss- oh the loss is too hard to bear.

X.x.X

"Sorry, I didn't know you were in here- I just- I'll go," Peter is almost out the door when you reply.

"It's okay, I shouldn't be in here anyway. The showers in the mens bathrooms are warmer than the women's. You don't have to leave," your back is to him anyway, and you're enjoying the pounding stream of roasting water too much to be embarrassed. "Just…no peaking," you instruct him and peak over your shoulder, but he's already leaning against the wall, looking the other way. Satisfied, you turn back to your shower. "I just can't seem to get warm," you admit, and realise he isn't laughing. He doesn't think you're you. His version of you. You wonder what's like to be her, and then you realise some days you are her, and in a way you are always her. Then your head hurts and you feel like a lie down would be a great idea.

What would it be like to not have the knowledge of both lives?

You sneak a glance at him again and sigh. "I was joking about no peaking, I'm wearing a bathing suit, Peter. You can come in. Join me, if you want," you tell him easily, adding a laugh to cover the shake in your voice. You can feel his eyes burning holes into your back and you eventually hear the rustle of him taking off clothes and he steps in with you.

There's no harm in pretending this is your life for a while, is there?

You must love him. You must love him somewhere deep inside you, and you have to try and get that.

He reaches past you for the shampoo and with an obviously well practiced gesture starts massaging it into your hair. You feel a tug in your heart at the sweetness of the gesture, and a smile tugs at your lips as he repeats the rinse and repeat in silence. "You're awfully quiet," you say to break the silence after a while. It's almost unbearable being this close and making this progress but not knowing what he's thinking. Peter shrugs.

"Just thinking," he replies casually. "I can still go, if you want. You're practically flinching from me every time I get anyway close."

You snort and roll your eyes, not that he sees. You reach up to check that all the suds are out of your hair while replying. "Please, Peter. Personal space went out the window years ago, we do this sometimes."

He brushes your hair over one shoulder and leans down and brushes him lips against your neck. "Oh really?" he murmurs and you sigh, content.

"Mmhmm. We had to do this all the time to conserve water," you say absently, distracted by the trail of his lips.

It's only when they Peter's entire body stiffens and he straightens up that you realise your mistake.

"Kitty," he says, his voice low and caught. You turn around to face him slowly, eyes wide.

"Peter, I-"

"Don't," he says roughly and drags a hand down his face. "Do you remember?" he asks finally, and with the hot water beating down your back, you want to lie.

You want to say yes, you do remember.

You don't want to hurt him.

But that lie could give him false hope, and you can't destroy Peter like that. You just can't.

"No."

He nods, like that's all he has to hear. Then he's out of the cubicle and you're fumbling with the shower knob and stumbling out after him. "Peter, wait."

Suddenly, he's spinning towards you, furiously towelling himself off and tugging on a shirt and jeans. You numbly notice he kept his boxers on, and that makes it hurt even more.

He says one word to you, and it's filled with fury, anger, hurt and desperation. "Why?" You're not sure if he's asking why you did it or why you don't remember.

You stare at him, cursing your stupid idea. "I need to remember," you admit. "I need to try and remember. It's driving me crazy, I have this-this hole in my head, and it's like I'm grasping at straws," you snap, your voice full of frustration. You shake your head, angry at the tears threatening to well up in your eyes. "I'm sorry I used you, Peter. I am. I just want to remember," you whisper. Peter sighs deeply.

"You can't use me like that, Kitty. You can't do that to me." His back is tense and his voice cracks. He turns back to face you, and a broken man is looking at you. "Every day I hope that it will be you again. You'll remember. You'll- you'll love me. But all I see is a blank expression on your face, no recognition, and I think 'not today.'" He lurches towards you, almost like he wants to do this before he loses courage. Before you know what is happening Peter is right in front of you and cups your neck and jaw gently and kisses you. It's light, and you're not even sure it really happened until he says "Please come back to me, Katya."

Then he is gone, and you're left dripping wet with a million questions, a hole in your head and lips tingling with the memory of a kiss- but not of any others.