CHAPTER SEVEN

A/N: It's confirmed. I have no brain in my head. I'm reposting this chapter with a bit of expansion. The basics haven't changed but I hope the added detail adds more interest to it.

His battered and beloved Harley Davidson whizzes past me on the gravel driveway leading to Xavier's mansion. Pebbles crunch and spray as we screech to simultaneous halts. Surprise! The big dork isn't wearing a helmet.

He circles and pulls up beside me, "Whatcha doin'?"

"Where are you going?" I ask just as his question registers in my brain.

We laugh, stepping on each other answering. "You first," I say.

"Nowhere special."

"Oh, great. I have a break in my schedule this evening so I thought I might make good on that dinner offer I made the other day."

"Best deal I've had all day."

"Park your baby," I say, referring to his motorcycle.

By the lopsided grin, I can tell he's tickled as I surrender the driver side of my Jaguar and dangle my keys. "Would you like to drive?"

Gallant rascal, he escorts me to the passenger side.

"Hey, Doc," Scott Summers rounds the portico, his neck scarf, whipping in the chilly wind. "I just sent you . . ." His easy expression vanishes, no doubt spotting Logan. "An e-mail. There's a quick staff meeting tomorrow. Eight a.m."

"Thanks. I'll try to adjust my rounds so I can be there."

A guarded smile returns, probably appreciating my cooperation, though I can't miss another abrupt transformation speaking to Logan, "I stuck a note on your door since you can't be bothered with e-mail."

"Scooter, I've been here how many months, now? I kinda got the fuckin' Friday morning staff meeting burned in right here." He points to the side of his head.

"Yeah? Well, it's the eight a.m., sharp, part you seem to miss."

Logan snarks, "Not everybody's definition of sharp is fifteen minutes early," and waves him off as he closes the Jaguar's passenger door.

"I'm not a big fan of staff meetings, either," I commiserate as we tool down the driveway.

"Aw hell, I don't give a shit 'bout 'em. They serve a purpose most o'the time. Just don't bother me with nit-noid details. Like what brand o'toilet paper for the staff crapper."

Fawning, I declare, "Oh, but don't ya know toilet paper is of utmost importance."

His laugh is rich and warm, "Then you're elected to head up the personal sanitation committee."

Clasping my hands and raising them over my head saying, "Alas, my highest aspiration in life is now achieved," earns another genuine chuckle.

Geeze Louise! His smile could light up half the county.

"So, where's this place?"

"One Twenty One?"

"If that's where the food is, yeah. I'm hungry, lady."

Titicus to Peach Lake Road, north bound. Know where the Salem Golf Club is?"

"Yes'm, I do."

A few minutes up the road, I dig my phone out of my purse. "Good evening, Marco. This is Doctor Harris . . . I'm about fifteen minutes away. Is my favorite table open anytime soon? . . . Thanks . . . You're a gem, good sir."

xxx

Two hours later, stuffed to the gills, we're sipping after dinner drinks, chatting and relaxing to a local jazz quartet. It took Logan about half the time to seem settled. Probably out of his comfort zone in a restaurant like this and in light of our serious conversation the other night, I'm sure he senses I'm sizing him up. But, I think it goes both ways.

He's such a puzzle and it's making me crazy. One minute he's jagged and crude, the next he seems charming and erudite. I've witnessed him nurture a child, then later commit vicious homicide against a holographic enemy.

Diplomatically posing a question earns me a shrug at first followed by a crafty smirk. "What ya see is what ya get."

"Baloney."

"Look, playing rude, crude and dumb keeps the bastards guessin'. It's a ruse. A disguise. And it's been keenly instrumental to my survival for the almost two decades, probably longer."

"See, there you go. You're like . . . like Jekyll and Hyde"

"Good one." Leaning closer, his voice a shade louder than the music, is difficult to hear without strict attention and a bit of lip reading. "Remember what I told ya about my bones?"

I nod.

"And told ya my head got messed with, too?"

"Right."

"Well, Charles' pet theory and it makes some sense to me, is whoever I was before that happened is still in here."

"Okay. This is related to amnesia?"

He nods just as the last notes flow from a saxophone and the quartet announces a break.

The lights come up and Logan's eyes dart around the room, settling for seconds at a time on each group of diners. Adjacent conversations invade our bubble of space.

"Not half bad, eh?"

I shake my head, not a clue what he's talking about.

"And you're right on the money when ya said the grub's to die for."

"Um, how did we go from pet theories to…..?" Oh duh, Susan. He doesn't want to be overheard. "I told you you'd love it."

Squeeeeeeee. He's rubbing his finger over the lip of the crystal brandy snifter.

The noise breaks me out with goose bumps on top of goose bumps. I beg, "Please don't do that."

"What?"

"Rim the glass. I can't stand it."

He exhales and the candle centered on the table flickers, "Sorry." Stretching out his long legs so that they just glance by the bottom of my pants, he rocks back on his chair. Flashing a naughty grin, he flexes his fist, "Betcha'd just love metal on a chalkboard."

I snipe, "About as much as my annual visit to the gynecologist. I'm off to the ladies room. Try to behave."

The rise of his eyebrows says he didn't expect my retort. Inflated ego dominating, he salutes me with his drink, "Always do, darlin'."

Thinking he is so full of shit, I join a short queue of women with the same goal in mind.

I'm just settled again in my chair when from across the room a tray of drinks crashes to the floor. Logan's reaction alarms me. Lightning fast, he's on his feet, scanning the room, nostrils flaring, he looks like he about to attack, all before the sound of tinkling glass ceases.

A provocatively dressed young woman at a nearby table develops a case of giggles and Logan sneers. She huffs, "Whatever," and commences an animated conversation with her metrosexual looking date.

What is that? Logan's growling?

Seconds hang like long minutes. A few dinner patrons glance nervously in our direction. Logan squares his shoulders, utters, "Fuckin' ay," and eases back into his chair.

Uh huh. There's a classic post traumatic stress reaction if I've ever seen one.

Bad timing, our waiting make an appearance. "Apologies for the disturbance. May I offer a refill for the gentleman?"

"Hey bub," Logan's voice retains an unnatural depth and grit. "If I want somethin', I'll tell ya."

Taken aback and probably insulted, the waiter replies, "Very good, sir," and immediately focuses on me. "Ma'am?"

Embarrassed, for a moment I debate kicking Logan's shin. Instead, I cut Logan a critical squint then smile effusively at the waiter, "I'm well. Thank you."

"Just leave the bottle," Logan relents, the edge off his tone.

"As you wish." Setting the bottle down, the waiter beats a hasty exit.

"Do we need to leave?" I offer.

"Music's fine. Company's enticing and the liquor's smooth. Up to you darlin'. I'm good."

"Okay." I don't mask the doubt in my voice and note another classic sign of deep emotional issues. Namely, the abrupt shift from hypervigilence to insouciency.

As the quartet begins another set and the dance floor fills, Logan draws me back into his confidence. "After I escaped . . ."

"Escaped?"

"From the sons o'bitches that fucked me over."

"Right. The ones responsible for your amnesia?"

I must seem skeptical because he turns defensive explaining, "Try to understand. I was screwed up. Just an animal tryin' to survive. I spent a long time . . . um . . . recovering."

He sounds gritty and deep, "I'm serious!" as I shake my head, unable to imagine him or anyone in such a condition.

"I'm sorry. I'm trying to understand. Please don't stop."

He takes a breath to speak but halts until a couple passes by our table.

"What they did to me made me crazy, I mean bugfuck nuts, sent my feral nature into overdrive. A rabid pit bull's safer, more predictable 'n I was. . . am." He speaks softly but it's rapid fire and passionate.

"How did you . . ." I'm grappling for the right words, "Come back to yourself?"

"For months I hid out from humans. Hunted, killed, sometimes stole to eat. Slept in the open or a cave if I was lucky."

Hands wrapped around the crystal snifter, he's still tense and I'm concerned he'll crush it. Something tells me, though, a comforting touch isn't a good idea.

"Over time, I guess, I came to realize existing like that kinda sucked. In the territory I ranged were some vacation cabins . . ."

Doggone it! A slightly inebriated loudmouth at a nearby table breaks Logan's stream of conversation. Clenching his jaw exposes perfectly aligned bottom teeth. He pivots in his seat and keeping it local, his voice bleeds sarcasm, "Hey bub, nobody gives a flyin' fuck about your pecker or your surgery."

Obviously beyond mortified, the poor mans face is red as boiled ham. His table mate, his wife I suppose, appears as if she can't decide who to pop in the mouth: Her husband or my date.

For a moment it's touch and go, evil eyes a-plenty. I do see where Logan's coming from though I had no problem filtering mister prostate surgery out. But, he's not sitting directly behind me, either. Crap sakes, escalation is not what we need and choosing sides - not going there. Luckily, calm soon prevails as the man signs off his tab, grabs his wife by the elbow and beats a hasty exit.

"Hope he ain't drivin'," Logan quips and I nod affirmative.

"Where was I?"

I suggest, "Vacation cabins."

"Yeah. It was off-season, so nobody was home. I broke into a couple, helped myself to whatever they had."

His expression becomes distant. Draining then setting his glass on the table, he's a man in deep, perhaps conflicted thought. Exhaling slowly, he leans in, elbows on the table and eyes roving between me and his empty glass.

"Long story short: This couple owned the cabin I squatted in at the time. Took me by surprise. How does a wild animal react when it feels cornered?"

I shake my head

"It attacks."

"It does? You did?"

He nods, "And Mac did what he had to do."

I think I know what's next, "Go on."

I can't stop from wincing as Logan explains, "He shot me. Point fuckin' blank in the chest. Should've been the end. Anybody else would've."

"Healing factor, right?"

"And adamantium armor.

Anyway, I lived, Mac and Heather ended up friends o'mine and everyone lived happily ever after."

From the bitterness in his voice, a fairy tale it wasn't. He doesn't elaborate and I don't pry.

The fire in his eyes diminishes. "Back to your question. What the hell was it?"

"Mmm, your seemingly split personality."

"Wish I knew. The easy answer is I've been living a rough life, with rough folks. Talkin' like a professor doesn't cut it lumberjackin', pumping crude, cage fighting, jobs like that."

"Good point."

"But, sometimes I get flashes. Myself in places, doing things that don't fit the mold or make sense."

"Like what?"

He shakes his head, picks at the seam of the napkin piled beside his glass and continues, "There're things I know, skills I possess and I don't have a clue how I know it."

He's back to hand gestures, "Get this: I speak half a dozen languages fluently. How? When the hell did I learn 'em? Don't remember living in those places. I know military weaponry. How to handle 'em. Again, how? Why? Other things. You get the picture?"

"I sure do see the merit in Charles' hypothesis."

"Yeah and he's been working with me, helping me to remember."

"Not as successfully as you'd like, huh?"

"About fifty-fifty. But it's no easy thing for either of us."

"Why? Is it painful?"

Angling his head for emphasis, there's a load of impatient frustration in his voice, "We talked about this the other night. Figuring out what's real or implanted is like trying to put scrambled eggs back in their shell, yolks and whites intact. And yeah, it's painful. Dangerous, too."

"How so?"

"Headaches, for one. Doesn't last long for me but I've known the professor to get laid low for a day after one of our sessions. Triggers nightmares, too. Bad enough and the claws come out. Ain't pretty when that happens."

Leaning on my elbows, it's my turn to gaze past him, digesting the conversation. My feelings are in such a muddle. Is he, is all he says for real? Gifted, powerful mutant or not, it all seems incredible. Okay then, but isn't it time to deal with it or forget it and move on? And yet, I have pity for him, an almost maternal compulsion to make it, him better, make the bad things go away. Doubtful he'd appreciate such sentiments. I can only do what I can do.

"Paging Doctor Sue," he murmurs.

"Huh? Oh, sorry." I trail my finger through and then lick the strawberry glaze remains of my cheescake. "I was just thinking about your blood work. Wondering what's to be discovered when the profile comes back."

He shrugs, "Prob'ly another dead end."

"Such a pessimist."

"Realist."

"If you say so.

He seems beyond bleak as he closes his eyes and droops his head murmuring, "And sometimes the debt of finding out can never be paid."

There's a story behind his lament but I don't ask. He gives no further opening, staring past me, fingertips drumming on the table top to the beat of the music.

Going quiet, a little bit fatigued by the heavy conversation, I drift with a mellow Count Basie tune. This was supposed to be a fun evening.

Almost like he's reading my mind, he leans back, drains his glass and chuckles, "Dunno what it is but every time I'm around you I get a massive case o'diarrhea of the mouth"

It takes everything I have not to choke and expel wine out my nose. "Oh god! That's revolting," I say from behind my napkin.

"How come you're laughing?" he deadpans.

Between barely stifled giggles a coughing, I say, "A wholly inappropriate visual image." Clearing my throat, I point subtly to the half empty bottle on the table, "Maybe that has something to do with the verbal runs."

"Not on this," he chuckles, and pours another two fingers of twenty year old cognac."Enough about me, darlin'. Tell me what's made you into the woman you are."

I don't know why but I blush and stammer, "Uh, well . . . there's certainly nothing all that dramatic or special about me. I'm half cowgirl, half army brat."

"Yeah?" he chuckles. "How's that work?"

"Born in Misawa, Japan, travelled all over during vacations but mostly reared in a house in the 'burbs of Dallas and the Four Sisters Ranch northwest of Fort Worth."

"Nice."

"Attended Ursaline Academy then Texas A&M and got my medical degree from Baylor."

"Sounds like ya weren't exactly hurtin' growin' up?"

"Oil and gas wells pay the bills. Still does. Ranching's secondary but lucrative enough."

"Got brothers 'r sisters?"

I shake my head, "My brother passed away over ten years ago, just a few months after my mom."

"Whoa. Sorry."

I smile my gratitude for his sympathy. "And my father's gone, too," I finish a bit more crisply than I should because those issues are too fresh and endlessly complicated. Logan doesn't need to hear that my deceased father was an opportunistic, controlling, intolerant, philandering, ruthless, son of a gun. Not yet, anyway.

"It's not that I'm cast adrift without any family," I say more gently. "I've got my boys. Plus, aunts and uncles and cousins out the kazoo on my mothers' side. And my dad has a kooky, colorful brother who visits when the wind blows his sailboat this way."

Once started, I really do blab up a storm so I keep watching for him to get that glazed, will she ever shut up look. But, he seems to hang on every word, genuinely smiling and spurring me on with more questions. And oh, when he smiles, his eyes shine. I could just swoon.

"How'd ya end up in New York?"

"I did my residency at the Maria Fareri Children's Hospital right here in Valhalla. That's where I met my first husband. He was one of my professors. After residency, I joined a practice and've been here ever since."

Our waiter makes his rounds, cautiously offering refills and coffee. Logan eyes me but I say, "No thanks."

He instructs the waiter, "Coffee and the check," and it sure sounds like he's chilled out quite a bit.

"Hey! This is my treat. Remember?" I complain.

"True but…" his eyes land on the empty bottle of Grand Marnier® and then flit to our waiter, attending another table. "No harm in me picking up the tip."

Check delivered, Logan takes brief gander. I spy his adam's apple bob with a slight raising on his eyebrows.

Yep dude, this place isn't a roadside café.

Treating me to a wink and cute, crooked grin, he stuffs a trio of twenties into the bill folder and slides it across the table.

Awesome. If I thought tonight had turned into that impassable speed bump, Logan has put it back in gear and eased us over. He's a keeper.

Maybe.

xxx

Restless.

And bored.

That's me tonight.

Can't concentrate on a book. Channel surfed the tube 'til I got a cramp in my thumb. Thought about hitting one o'my favorite watering holes. Got as far as straddling my bike in the driveway before the urge evaporated like my breath in the cold night air. Cheap beer, darts and random dames can't complete with earlier this evening.

Replaying that lingering, teasing goodnight kiss, initiated by her this time, only serves to kick the heat up a couple notches. She feels it, too and tonight for the first time, I didn't get a whiff of fear - just the musky, sweet scent of her wanting.

Whipping out my seldom used cell phone, I punch the auto-select without thinking. The sound of a drowsy, "Doctor Harris," shocks me back to reality.

Dumb shit, it's almost midnight. "Hey, it's me."

I can tell she's stifling a yawn as she asks, "Is something wrong?"

"No. Just called to . . ." Hear your voice. . . "Make sure ya got home safe."

"Safe, sound and in one piece," she laughs softly. "Thank you."

"Good."

I barely stop myself from asking what she's doing but give myself the start of a hard-on imagining her writhing underneath me as I bury myself inside her curvaceous body.

Not looking to say something that might spook her, I sign off with, "It's late. I'll, uh, let ya go. See ya t'morrow."

"Okay. B'bye, Logan."

"'Night, darlin'."

Making my way up the back staircase for my quarters and a hot shower, I hear the hum of an elevator. A second later the door hisses open.

"Good evening, Logan." After hours casual, in a dark turtleneck and tan trousers, it's Charles' making his usual post-Cerebro session rounds.

Ever since Stryker's goons tore up the place, we've all got our particular insomniac routines. Yeah, there's designated personnel on twenty-four hour watch. Pain in the ass every four nights but a necessary evil.

Charles' eyes scan me like beams from an x-ray machine, "I trust your evening was enjoyable?"

"Not bad." Do you always hafta do that?

She's a lovely, talented woman, echoes inside my mind. Teasing, he answers, "On the contrary. You do project at times," and shoots a conspiratorial wink my way.

Still worked up by thoughts of Sue, for a second I wonder if he's talking about my upper or lower brain projections. "Yeah, I guess I do and yeah, she's is."

Your decorum is intact. "I'm at loose ends myself this evening. Care to join me in a game of Chess?"

Telepathy versus hyper-keen senses, Charles is a damn worthy opponent, though I'd rather stump the chump over poker. I surrender, "Sure," and track beside his hover chair to the game room.

xxx

Mmmm.

Oohhh.

I reach down, tangle my fingers in his hair and nudge him millimeters higher. His tongue is warm velvet.

Oooohhh yes.

He's exactly where I need him. My pelvis rocks against his mouth.

Faster. Faster.

Ooooh.

Like that.

Mmmm.

I sit straight up in my bed. Gasping, my heart thunders almost painfully in my ears. The cats, previously curled at my feet, spaz and head for the hills. Hills being under the dresser.

Veiled in a fine sheen of perspiration, I shiver and wrap the covers tightly to myself. My breasts and uterus ache, protesting an aborted orgasm. Or is it a harbinger of my period? Both, probably.

Trudging to the bathroom to pee does nothing to clear my addled brain and congested innards. How long has it been since I had a dream this real? My normal is a vague impression of a dream lover. Not this time.

And I've got clinic over there today! And he senses feelings? Oh, forget it. In six hours time I'll have forgotten all about it.

Snuggling under flannel and down, "Tchk, tchk, tchk," I summons Cleo and Trixie. Kneading the blankets at my feet, they sound like motorboats as they settle into their customary roosts.

The clock says thirty minutes has passed and I'm still wide awake. I groan, yawn and clutch the spare pillow to my body. I'm not forgetting one single detail. My imagination's in overdrive vividly recalling the muscled contours of his body that I've witnessed firsthand in the holographic whatchamacallit room and felt thanks to a trio of memorable kisses. There's an X-rated movie playing all sorts of continuations and return favors in the back of my mind.

Maybe I should call in sick tomorrow morning.

Another half hour goes by and I'm not any closer to sleep. If anything, I'm more in need of scratching an itch. Dammit. Damn you, Logan. Ya've gotten under my skin.

Shoving the cats off the bed, I surrender to the urge. Pleasuring myself, I finally drift into a restless half-snooze.

xxx

Summers settles on the lat machine diagonal to the bench press I'm abusing myself with. Looks like he sucked a lemon this morning as he starts with, "Did I seriously see what I thought I saw last night?"

"'Mornin' to you too, Sunbeam. Dunno. What'd ya see?"

"You hitting on the new doc."

I grunt though it ain't from the effort of pumping iron.

High on spreading his own brand of righteous, he plows ahead, "She's been here what? Not even two weeks."

Just to leave him hang, I take my time adding more weights. "Three weeks," I grunt between reps, "two days."

"Geeze! You are hitting on her."

The yahoo never will learn when it's time to quit. "Not that it's any o'your fuckin' business but . . . it's none o'your fuckin' business."

"Right. As long as your effing business doesn't screw up Team cohesiveness."

Obnoxious prick knows he's pushing my buttons and I'm tempted to drop this weight on his head. But, kick in the chest painful as his point is, it's valid.

"Goddammit, Scott!" My voice cracks, "Let it rest." After all this time, my anguish is almost as raw as day one.

He means Jessica and how he and I damn near killed each other over her. She'd been manipulated, altered, to get to me. Once she wised up, she couldn't handle it. Blamed me. Said I should've sensed it. Said my lovin' her amounted to rape! She dumped me for Summers. And to twist the knife in worse, aborted our baby.

"You're right, Logan."

Holy shit! I damn near lose my grip on the weight. Did I hear right? Yep. Regret overpowers sweat.

There's no malice in me saying, "Forget it." It ain't a proud chapter for him or me and I'm still amazed Charles didn't jettison both of us clean outta New York State over the whole mess.

I hoist the weight onto the rack, grab for a towel and mop my face. "And, um, just for the record, what ya saw last night was Sue thanking me for helping out with Ty's broken arm."

I don't wait around for his comeback but on my way out of the gym, I can't resist poking his pride. "Fifteen 'til eight, bub. Don't be late." For the staff meeting's what I'm talking about.

The bird he flips is friendly – sort of.

xxx

Don't it figure? The one time I'm motivated to be on time, my motivator ain't. To rub salt in it, today's Valentine's Day or more concisely, tonight is – I'm going to puke – the annual Valentine's Dance. The resident brats' been making a huge to-do about it for a week already. Decorations to make my eyes bleed and saccharine sentiments enough to put even me in a diabetic coma. Nobody thought it funny when I scribbled devil horns and a Fu Manchu mustache on a cardboard Cupid hanging in the main entry hall. Thank the fates my only job is helping Vic set up the sound system. He's the dumb shit, volunteering as deejay. I'll probably hang around for a while – just to make sure the system's balanced and dish out a little grief. After that, I'm out.

Gonna stir up a bit of trouble and fun. There's a fight club in the heart of District X, Mutieville as a not so few call it. According to Charles, it's s'posed to be off limits. But, the throw-downs are barely legal, the lounge lizards are easy and booze is cheap and strong enough for me to get a buzz on. It's worth the grief I might suffer. B'sides, it ain't likely a joint catering to bunch of degenerate misfits'll pay heed to an inane, over-commercialized excuse for a holiday.

Sue shows up forty minutes into the briefing breathless and all apologies, "So sorry. I'm on call and there was a baby boom overnight," as she slides into a seat beside Electra.

Damn! That's three seats too far away. I catch her eye and she turns the same shade as the ruby, heart shape stone on the necklace nestled between cleavage that I wouldn't mind suffocating in. A second later, her scent, a weird mix of titillation, embarrassment and frustration, tickles my senses.

Okay, she ain't a mind reader. Is she? What gives?

There's squat on the bad-guy radar, nothing unusual happening training or academic-wise. Short and to the point, I say my piece then spend the remainder of the meeting shielding my lascivious thoughts with feral background junk and trying not to come off like some voyeuristic jerk-off every time my eyes track across the table to her.

Afterwards, I swing by my office and discover stupid Cupid's paid a visit. The delectable aroma of dark chocolate doesn't quite cover the scent of Rogue and company, sweaty gym socks and worse. Enough of me still lingers in the kids' head so she knows what I do or don't go for. American-made, sickening sweet, chocked with wax and chemicals chocolate is a don't.

Sure enough, wrapped in a shiny, bright red heart shaped box are a dozen, probably pricey, truffles. Closer olfactory inspection tells me the goodies are filled with liqueurs. Oh yeah! I bite into a big, fat, almost black orb from the box's center. Bitter-sweet melds with black raspberry. Nice. Very nice, but it's gonna be a long wait if the little minx's are expecting return favors. Not even a break on grades.

There's a card taped to a lumpy package wrapped in blue paper. Unfolded, it reads: Logan, we know this is kind of personal….

Uh oh.

… but when Jubes saw the sad condition of your laundry a while back, we sort of took pity on you.

Da'hell?

Marie says it's the right size and even though it was really hard not to, we didn't get anything dorky. Love, Jubilation and Kitty.

Squeezing and scrunching the soft, malleable package, I'm genuinely petrified to open it. It ain't hard to guess the contents. It's the definition of anything dorky. Peeling a corner of the paper aside reveals white. Splitting the seam, I laugh, relieved to see a six pack of plain ol' sleeveless undershirts – so called wife beaters. Beneath is another six pack, this time dark blue, green, grey and black boxer briefs.

I laugh again, warmed and grateful not to be subjected to Pac Man, Smiley Faces or worse. I suppose a gift of underwear from a student to a teacher might, in the normal world, be frowned on. What the hell? Nothing's normal about Xavier's School or the kids and that's all right by me.

Eh, maybe I'll try remembering Valentine's next year.

xxx

Grabbing a cup o'coffee and a chunk of Mrs. Burns' buttery, cinnamon coffee cake between classes, right behind me I catch her scent and hear, "Miho." Electra's got that lilt in her voice, the lilt that tells me she's got something on her mind that I probably don't wanna hear.

"I didn't see any pretty flowers on a certain doctor's desk today."

I shrug and stuff a hunk of cake in my face. A shower of crumbs looks like dandruff against my dark green t-shirt.

"Ay, yi, yi! What are you doing? You have the perfect opportunity and you do nothing."

She lapses into Spanish reading me the riot act and I'm tempted to clamp a hand over her mouth. But, her rant is whispered so I cross my arms over my chest and let her have her way with me.

"You done?" I ask as she inhales. Or is she reloading?

Hands on her hips, she nods, "Si."

"If you were anybody else you wouldn't be standing right now, ya know? You're a good lady, a friend and I know you got my back, but I'm askin' ya, leave it alone. Please."

She starts to say something but I shush her with my finger to her lips. "You were right-on in the garage yesterday. There's stuff going on. . . but . . . it's complicated. You playin' matchmaker ain't gonna help."

Her smile is gentle and her scent says she understands. "Okay... I know you're not the materialistic sort . . . but if you let today go by and do absolutely nothing . . . you might regret it."

Offering, "I'll think about it," I grab what's left of the coffee and scoot past. I'm out of time for debate before my weapons class is due to start.

xxx

Working like a crazy woman, I'm trying to wrap up for the afternoon. Xavier's clinic and on-call is adding up to one of those days. I haven't had five minutes break to pee.

I hear a soft, low, "Hey!" It's Logan, sauntering through the door.

"Hey, yourself." I glance up, appreciative he didn't startle the tee-tee out of me, but don't pause tapping at my computer keyboard.

He looks serious with thick, dark eyebrows set in a straight line, mouth matching, as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the door frame, "Ya alone?"

Concentrating on my notes, my answer is vague, "Mmm hmm."

"Where were ya lunch time today?"

"Right here."

"Right. I mean, Why didn't . . . I didn't see ya in the dining room."

I shrug, "Couldn't catch a break so I grabbed a bite at my desk."

"Hmmpf."

My flesh tingles and I just know he's staring at me.

"That all?" he presses.

"Huh?" What else does he expect? "What do you mean, is that all?"

"Not sure but I got weird vibes from ya this mornin'. Something wrong?"

Feeling heat rise in my face compels me to turn away. I really should've called in sick.

"See. There ya go."

Frick frack! What do I say? He'll know if I lie. "Nothing's wrong. Just chalk it up to something that I'm not quite ready to share."

Squinting, an inverted V forms between his eyes as he studies me. I feel aggravated that I can only guess what's going on in that mind of his.

A lopsided grin bisects his face. "Fair enough. Just wanna be sure we're okay."

"I'm okay."

Abruptly, his expression dulls. He nods, exhales deeply and his posture sags as he backs up toward the exit.

It doesn't take super-senses to realize I've just cut him down more than I intended.

I say, "Logan," just as he turns to leave. "It's a little too soon for we . . . but . . . I promise if I hit a serious speed bump getting there, after me, you'll be the next one to know."

The smile, slightly restrained, is back, "I can live with that."

"I'm glad. Now I'm crazy busy so can we catch up later?"

"Anything ya say, darlin'. Can I help?"

"Yes you can."

His expression tells me he wasn't expecting a yes.

"Tyler was supposed to stop by for a re-check. Would you mind rounding him up for me?"

"My little broken arm buddy?"

"That's the one."

"Back in a couple," he says on his way out the door.

Ten minutes later, they're back. I ask Tyler to wait while I finish my work. Though the door between the waiting area and my desk is closed, I see him through the glass. I'm surprised Logan's still hanging around. Curious, I switch on the waiting area receiver and eavesdrop on the conversation. What I hear makes me smile.

"Hey coach, guess what?"

"Ain't got a clue, kid."

"Miz Munroe says ain't isn't a word and it's bad grammar."

He scolds, "'Scuze me," and I see Ty flinch.

Chuckling, Logan forms and points a pistol with his hand, "That's why she's teachin' that stuff." Poking himself in the chest, he concludes with, "And I'm not. This better? Haven't got a clue."

Ty's nod seems almost obedient but I swear the gleam in his eyes is anything but. "When I use my powers, I can't make the broken part of my arm go invisible. It's too weird."

"Lemme see," Logan encourages.

With the exception of his broken arm, Ty fades into what looks like heat waves reflecting off a blacktop road in summer.

"Whoa! You're not kiddin'. Ask Doctor Sue 'bout that. Get visible again before you get us both in trouble."

Solid once more, he fidgets and fools around with magazines and games on the coffee table. "Hey Coach?" He displays a marking pen, "Will you sign my cast? Everybody else has 'cept you and Doctor Sue."

Logan's kinda cute making a to-do obliging the boy. Considering the amount of time it's taking, I think he's doing more than just adding his autograph.

Ty confirms it exuberantly exclaiming, "Cool! Wish I had real claws like you, Wolverine."

"No ya don't, kid." I can't see Logan's face, but bunching of shoulder and back muscles and his tone is a clue he's not happy with Ty's brand of admiration.

"H - how come?" Ty recoils.

Logan squeezes the boy's shoulder. The edge off his voice, he explains, "Ya think your busted arm hurts? Try worse every time the claws come out. Don't ya dare wish for somethin' I wouldn't wish on most o'my enemies."

Ty's jaw drops. He slinks away and curls up on a chair. Logan drops to the floor, sitting cross-legged with the coffee table forming a barrier between them. After a moment, Logan grabs the checker board and sets up the pieces.

"Red 'r black?"

"I'm color blind, coach. I can't tell the difference."

"Tough break. How 'bout this?" Logan holds up a pack of Skip Bo cards.

Ty's grin is devious, "Prepare to get creamed."

This is too cute. I slow my task, not wanting to interrupt a potential bonding moment between teacher and a needy, lonely little boy.

Logan mentioned how he's uncomfortable, unskilled at relating kids but I think he's too hard on himself. Admittedly, I've seen few examples but from what I have, I'm impressed.

"Dr. Sue is a really nice lady," Ty chatters between discarding and drawing cards. "I like her a lot. I wish she was my Mom or something. Do you like her, Coach?"

Logan grins and ruffs the boys' hair. "Yeah, she's a nice lady."

"I wasn't sure I was going to like her better than Doctor Gray."

"How's that?" Logan asks, his smile fading.

"'Cuz Doctor Gray was a really tough science teacher. She flunked one of my projects. Doctor Sue's only my doctor. She can't flunk me."

Logan's smile returns as does a soft laugh.

Escaping time forces me to break in on the game, "Okay, Mister Tyler, Room two, if you please." I flash an appreciative smile at Logan, "Thanks."

A few minutes later, exam and x-ray complete, Tyler scoots to join his friends. I'm surprised Logan's stretched across the couch thumbing through a magazine.

He grins and asks, "All done?"

"I wish. What's up now?"

"Wanna go somewhere for dinner?"

"Thanks so much but for me it's fast food on the way to the hospital."

"What for?"

"I've got patients to check on."

"How 'bout when you're through?"

"I've been on call since midnight so when I'm through I'm going home to crash." Aw. Poor guy looks like I just crashed him. "Tomorrow evening, maybe?"

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, "Ya sure don't make it easy, do ya darlin'. I got the watch t'morrow night."

I throw on my coat and turn off the lights, "Not on purpose, I promise. At least we've got the hockey game I promised next week."

"Yeah. Well, next week ain't Valentine's Day."

"Aw! That's sweet of you." Ushering him out of my office, I stand on tiptoes and peck a kiss on his cheek. "Honestly, February fourteenth is sort of bittersweet for me. I usually like to spend it working or alone."

"Okay. Ya gonna tell me why?"

My eyes peer straight ahead as we double time it along the brick walkway, "The date marks the birth of my daughter, Melissa and then three years later, her death."

Stopping dead in his tracks, he snags me by the elbow. Regarding me with an expression that both tugs at and soothes my heart, he murmurs, "Hooo. That's harsh. Sorry."

The gravel crunching under his boots grates on my nervesas he walks me to my car in silence. I don't need super senses to know he's uncomfortable, at loss for words. For now, that's the way it has to be because I'm not ready to share Melissa's memory with him. But, I'm grateful he's not trying to fill this unpleasant moment with empty platitudes.

Leaning against my car, I hear and feel no pressure as he suggests, "If ya feel like it, how 'bout Sunday?"

"It'll have to be lunch. I've got plans for supper."

"Can't talk ya into changin' 'em?"

"That would be rude."

"Damn it, woman!" He stretches his arms to the sky, "Ya need three weeks' notice 'r somethin'?"

If it weren't for the honest exasperation plastered all over him, I'd probably suggest he take a long walk off of a short pier.

"Oh, c'mon." I wiggle my index finger, "It's not that bad. You can't talk me into changing my plans but you can talk me into including you in them."

Thumbs hooked in his front pockets, he looks surprised as I explain, "From what I understand, it's an open potluck thing, so would you join me for supper at the Marquez's?"

A shrewd smile slides across his mouth and he laughs, "Nope. You're comin' with me Sunday night whether ya like it or not."

"Like heck."

"Nah, ah, ah." He chucks my chin, "I ain't lettin' ya turn down the best Tex-Mex chow this side o'the border."

I'm about to give him a severe tongue lashing when I notice he's pointing toward the Marquez's house.

"Huh!" I punch him on the arm. "Oh, you poop!" We both dissolve into stitches. "Pick me up at six."

"Count on me," he says. Then, with the sweetest and unexpected gesture, he kisses my palm and gently folds my fingers over. "That's for later." Leaning in, he lifts my chin, "This is for right now," and brushes his lips against mine.

XXX