No Secret at All:

A Change to Color

by: jenn

Dedication: This story is a testament to how I can be manipulated and how I can learn to like it. I can say this honestly--if Sare hadn't been in a constant state of enthusiastic encouragement (also known as blackmail), it never would have gotten past the intro of four pages. So darling, this is for you. To Sam, Jennifer Hallmark, and Magdeleine, who did a lot of hacking, hand-holding, and general fussing so I'd do this right.

* * * * *

He left me a lot of things. Reflexes I never had before and still don't quite know what to do with. Jacked up senses--oh, not at his level, but trust me, I notice when someone comes in the room and I can identify anyone at ten feet from smell alone. Nightmares where I get to enjoy the privilege of being a government-funded human guinea pig--Jean still wonders why I hate her lab so much. A few peculiarities like a taste for bourbon, an unhealthy interest in cigars, and more than a small obsession with red meat. Small things, that in the scheme of things don't mean much.

He also left me with a crush from hell and a sex drive that tops the charts. Goody gumdrops, as they say in elementary school. Those are the things that matter in the scheme of things. Ended up mattering, anyway.

I'm not sure what I expected when he came home each time--maybe notice that I'm not seventeen and not his long-lost daughter--maybe notice some certain physical changes that I made every effort to assure would be visible. Really visible. Maybe--maybe notice me. Marie.

And three years is three years--so I figured, at twenty, I'd just either have to give up or take matters into my own hands--after all, this is Logan and he does have a thing for aggressive chicks, so hell, why not try? So I counted the days on the calendar in my room and hoped for the best.

Then it all just fell apart. I mean--literally. Right in fucking front of me.

* * * * *

If you ever wanna know what split them up--I honestly don't know. And if I had even a touch of telepathy--trust me, ethics would not have gotten in the way. But it happened and the whole school knew it and I went from hoping Logan would come home soon to hoping to God he didn't come home yet--give 'em time to cool down and do whatever it is Destined Couples do when they gotta follow the True Path or whatever crap you believe in, because admitting that they might *not* get back together wasn't something I was prepared to handle. They were Scott and Jean and I'd be damned if they'd screw this up for me.

Then Logan came home. Too damned soon.

I got to watch from thirty feet away. Thirty feet, thirty miles, didn't make a fucking bit of difference because they never saw me. Jean walked out, didn't even bother to say a damned thing, just slid up to him while he was still sitting on the motorcycle, doubtless taking in how good she looked all in red and trying to figure out why the hell she was comin' out when that'd always been my job. She looked up at him, kind of smiled--then slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him and whatever questions he was coming up with were gone for good---this was Jean and a fantasy come true.

Me in the yard, Scott in the mansion, and both of us standing there watching this fucking melodrama unfold right before our eyes and neither of us having the balls to do a damned thing about it.

Scott saw me come in--run in--and he didn't stop me or anything, but came up to my room after a discreet interval and knocked--pure Scott, courtesy when the sky fell. I ignored him for a bit then reconsidered the situation and let him in. He took a careful seat on my desk chair and asked if I wanted to talk about it.

"You're kidding, right?"

He had to be kidding.

Head slightly tilted--Scott is the past master of absolute, perfect control. Having that mutation of his helps, of course--but it's all that discipline that goes into being the Fearless Leader--and you kind of forget he isn't even thirty yet and has held that particular title for a hell of a long time. You kind of forget that because he's so fucking Leaderish all the time in public--whatever Jean sees in private is different.

Whatever she *saw* in private, that is. Shit, shit, shit.

"You looked upset."

"And you aren't?"

Maybe a slight shudder, but as I said, he's been doing this longer than I have. He let himself sit back a little, watching me throw things around in a holy fit, generally acting like the kid I claim I'm not. When I wore myself down, I just collapsed on the bed and considered what kind of trouble I'd get in if I put Jean in a two week coma.

Because maybe then I'd be her.

"We're talking about you, Rogue." He crossed his arms and suddenly I wanted to grab him and shake him and ask him where the hell he got off pretending this is just my problem, why the hell he could take it so coolly when I felt like I was falling apart.

"Maybe." I wanted to hurt him, see pain in him that reflected what was in me--screw control. "Tell me how great it feels to know Jean is fucking the daylights out of Logan down the hall, Cyke." I paused deliberately, then added, "and I can hear them, if I listen."

I could. But the talking and the Breaking of Fragile Things were drowning it out pretty nicely.

The muscles in his jaw went completely stiff and I knew I could've slipped a knife in his back and hurt him less--but I really didn't care much because this was all his fault. Why the hell had he and Jean broken up anyway? Why the fuck did they have to do it when I was finally ready? Why the hell now?

I almost thought he was going to get up and leave. But this was Scott--never routed.

"I don't think about it--though thanks for the visual. I needed that today." So cool, like we were talking about something else completely, two different people altogether. Then a soft sigh, which meant that he forgave me for being a bitch, and I didn't want forgiveness. I wanted him to fix this and when he stood up, I did too.

"I'm sorry," I told him. I meant, get your ass down there, haul her out of his bed, and tell her you can't live without her or whatever sentimental bullshit works on her, because the scheme of things just went straight to hell and we have to fix it right quick.

I'd be damned if destiny was going to screw me over now.

"It's okay." He sort of smiled and then turned for the door and it hit me just about the second he got it open--and I slammed it shut with one hand beside his shoulder.

"No--Scott--I'm sorry." His back was to me and I leaned my head against him--just like always. And I wanted him to turn around and I wanted him to give me a hug and say everything would be fine and then walk off with that authoritative stride that hadn't been seen in awhile around the Mansion.

"Rogue. It's okay. I understand." Still quiet. But he let me pull him over to the bed, where I sat him down, and we looked at each other thinking the same basic thing--what the hell do we do now?

"Come on," he said finally, and grabbed my jacket off the chair. In the quiet, I heard what could be Jean--and from the jerk of his shoulders, Scott heard it too. "Let's go into the city--I'll get you some pizza or something."

* * * * *

The worst part wasn't that day or even that night--despite the fact that my improved hearing required keeping the stereo on all night, otherwise I could have given a blow-by-blow description of the sex life of Logan and Jean. It was every day after. Because it's one thing to get a kick in the gut that hurts like hell but then fades. It's quite another to get a regular, softer, yet no less implacable kick every few minutes every single day. You don't get used to it, either. And for some reason, I thought I would.

And I thought Scott might.

And neither of us did.

If I hadn't been involved in this little farce, I probably would've been damned amused by the sheer level of civility going on around the mansion--because under the best of circumstances, Scott and Logan weren't exactly friendly, and now they almost tiptoed around each other. No biting commentary thrown in each other's direction like rocks, no little jabs, but instead a quite frightening courtesy that was worse than any of the explosions we'd all been witness to over the years. Sort of on the order of seeing a tree grow upside down--it wasn't *natural*.

And there was Jean, who I learned not to just envy or be jealous of, but actively hate with that special intensity I'd saved for Magneto. Staring at her during the meetings I couldn't avoid, I'd plot in my head how to get them apart with maximum damage to Her Grace.

*Soo* grown-up. I should be proud of my maturity.

Remy got his chance, finally, and after one night I lay awake in his bed staring at him sleep and actually took some time to consider the fact that I'd just prostituted myself. Very thoroughly. All I cost were some sweet words and a pretty gold chain and two mediocre orgasms.

I'm cheap as hell. And that's something to admire.

Scott met me at an early breakfast the next day. I'd taken to the six thirty variety around the time that I noticed Logan didn't do early mornings--probably the delights of early morning fucking keeping him too occupied. Scott sat down beside me and ate a sensible bowl of oatmeal with a glass of milk and I picked over my pancakes.

We ate in silence for a few minutes.

"You okay?"

"Nope." I looked at my pancakes, now resembling the scene of a massacre, syrup pooling in shapes that resembled weapons I knew how to use. Damn, I was becoming a psychologist's dream. "You?"

He smiled a little before taking a drink of his milk.

"Are you finished yet?" Nicely avoiding the question. He was good at that. The pancakes were scrapped and I wasn't hungry.

"Yeah."

He finished his oatmeal, neatly wiped his mouth with one of the starched napkins that the mansion has in rather disturbing abundance, then stood up, picking up his tray.

"Let's go. I've got some things to do in town."

We pretended it was all about me--but he needed to be away worse than I did, and in the car, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, I could try really hard and think of someone besides myself. Because maybe losing something you didn't get a chance to try was one thing--but losing something that was already yours was another thing altogether.

"Scott?"

He glanced at me briefly.

"Why don't you just beat the shit out of him and be done with it?" Ignoring for a minute that Logan outweighed Scott by at least a few hundred pounds and was unparalleled in a purely physical fight.

Scott sighed.

"Rogue--"

"I'm serious. Maybe it would help."

Silence.

"Only one of us would walk away, Rogue." A little smile that wasn't really amusement--hell, I don't know what it was. "If I played fair--he'd win. If I didn't--he'd have about five seconds tops."

"You'd play fair." I couldn't imagine Scott doing otherwise. And another twist to the lips before he hit his blinker--well ahead of the rapidly approaching stop sign.

"You're sure of that?"

And when I turned to look at him, that smile still lingered and I didn't ask again.

* * * * *

Ororo noticed. Of course she did--nothing, and I repeat this, nothing, gets past her. Even very possibly the reason for this whole nasty situation.

But she didn't gossip--she just unexpectedly sat with me at lunch on the lawn one afternoon when I couldn't face the dining room and seeing them together, even over a plate of mashed potatoes and roasted chicken. My masochistic tendencies just weren't that strong.

"I don't need a babysitter," I told her. Chewed my sandwich with determination, proving to her just how fine I was with the entirety of my life to date. Even the Remy part. I saw her eyes on the necklace--I figured if I was going to be a pet, I might as well wear a collar. Sold property and all that.

She nodded serenely and took a chip from the bag with infinite grace, and I wondered what the hell I'd done to deserve being regarded so compassionately.

"Have you talked to him?"

Talked to him? What a unique idea. I hadn't thought of that--of course, the fact he was in the process of drooling over the fucking Love of His Life or whatever the hell she was to him had possibly lowered my enthusiasm somewhat. My ability to cope is just that--cope and barely. I wasn't so certain of my ability to cope while hearing how fabulous his life was now.

I just don't hate myself that much.

"No." Not really--two ten second chats do not conversation make, even if it was Logan we were talking about.

"He's noticing."

How Ororo would get that information was pretty much beyond me, since, on a marginal basis, I was aware that they weren't exactly the definition of close. In hindsight, I remember seeing him look at me before I'd take one of my desperate forays out of sight, before I'd have to see him and Jean looking all fatuous--Logan fatuous, damn it---deep in the thrall of Romantic Love.

Fuck, this wasn't something I wanted to think about, certainly not over potato chips and fruit chunks.

"In between making Jean scream a few times a day?" I shot out and her eyebrows rose slowly. I bit another piece off the ham-and-cheese and decided to keep my mouth shut.

"Rogue--" she began, with the care of a soldier walking through a minefield.

"We talked a couple of days ago." I got a chip and used it as a missile at a nearby tree. Burn, sucker. Unfortunately, chips weren't atomics and that tree wasn't Jean. Damn Remy for that accidental brush, anyway.

Damn.

"I know." Of course she knew--she's Ororo. "But perhaps--"

"He's happy."

A long, gentle look of infinite and undying compassion and a part of me wanted to bury my head in her lap and just cry about this entire mess. I hadn't yet--sitting at my window holding those tags or indulging myself in Remy's bed, those were my healthy ways of getting through this.

He was happy--happier than he'd ever been in his damned life, and the version swimming around in my head that peeked out from time to time knew this and liked to remind me every once in awhile.

"Did it have to be him?" I heard myself whisper, to my utter and complete horror. I stared hard at my sandwich crust--when the hell did I become a whiney female anyway? "She can have anything and everything she wants. Hell, she does. But--but she has to have him too, doesn't she?" I look up and my eyes are blurring and this wasn't happening. I fumbled for my book and begin to rise when soft fingers cover my wrist.

"It's not that simple."

"Tell me how it's not that simple!" I jerked away, began throwing everything into my bag, sort of ignoring the possibility of smashed sandwiches and fruit that really wasn't meant to be abused like that. "What can't she have? Anything? She has Scott and she has Logan and she's beautiful and perfect and a wondrous telekinetic and Xavier's favorite little student and we all turn on the fucking axle of what Jean wants." Blinking hard, slamming the bottle of water down, hearing something shatter into tiny pieces that later I'd try and put together on the floor of my room. "You want me to sit around and understand her? You fucking understand her--you're her best friend. I don't have to. I get to be bitter all on my own and hate her, so don't fucking sit here and tell me how she's suffered in the past or how this and that explain it, because nothing does. Nothing can justify her."

Ororo's smile was gentle.

"It's never easy being a mutant, Rogue. Even for Jean."

"Fuck that, Ororo," I answered, dropping my book on top of the pile and pulling the drawstrings closed. "I don't care how fucking difficult it is to be her. She doesn't love him, she doesn't even fucking understand him."

"I know."

I lifted my head then, the bag handle going slack in my hand. Everything I believed fell around me in little slivers of broken dreams--because believing and knowing and confirming are three very different things.

"What?"

Delicately, Ororo rose and lifted the edge of the blanket and I moved numbly onto the grass while she neatly folded it up, tucking it under one arm.

"You're right." Her voice was thoughtful. "I don't think she does."

"But he loves her." My fingers shook on the strap and I dropped the bag to the grass at my feet. Something in my head began to pulse, blurring my sight. "He loves her."

"Yes."

Silence. And she watched me, tucking a strand of white hair behind her ear that the wind had picked up, waiting for me to get something resembling coherent thought.

"She-she's--she's using him? For what? That fucking little--"

"I'm not sure." Silence. And she regarded me calmly, perhaps even with that special trace of Ororo irony. "That's a pretty chain, Rogue."

My hand jumped to my neck and I flushed. Funny, how she can deliver a lecture in a compliment.

Slowly, we turned to walk back to the mansion.

* * * * *

A very correct triple-tap at the door of my room.

"Rogue."

I closed my book and placed the essay in a folder before I turned to the door.

"Come in."

Scott always asks. Sometimes annoying, sometimes not, it's him and I even began to think I understood him.

Sometimes.

He shut the door behind him with impeccable courtesy and took a seat on Jubilee's desk chair. He's always so neat--hair perfectly cut, clothes in perfect order like he just stepped out of the proverbial bandbox. He could pose for a Fearless Leader doll--that's the air he emanates. You instantly trust and respect what you see before you.

I also took a moment to notice he was wearing boots. Riding boots, recently polished to a dull shine.

"Did you go riding?"

He grinned--a comfortable grin--and I noted that he had his gloves on, well worn--and his glasses were more securely fastened than normal.

"I'm about to. I didn't see you at downstairs and thought you'd like to go with me."

I remembered, suddenly, that it was Tuesday, when he usually goes. I knew he hadn't gone riding on Tuesday in a long time. As I sat there and did some reflection, I realized he always used to go with Jean.

So I can replace her. We're not a healthy bunch at the Mansion. But on some sick level, it appealed to me and I nodded, pushing from the desk to go to my closet.

"Give me five minutes."

* * * * *

Scott helped me mount Bender (I didn't name the horse), then followed me on Trickster (still not my idea). Nervously, I adjusted my gloves and tried *not* to remember the Riding Incident that left me with a broken leg a year or so ago.

I'd grown. And this horse was famous for its sheer boringness. I appreciated that.

"Scott?"

He turned a little in the saddle, letting me catch up.

"You okay?" His eyes followed my slightly weaving form as I adjusted to horseback after a year of studious avoidance. Ah, he remembered too. I appreciated that even more.

"Fine, thanks." I adjusted my seat again and absently ran my fingers through my hair before getting my death grip back on the pommel. "You haven't ridden in awhile."

"No, I haven't." No explanation. None needed. Relaxing, I let Bender break into a comfortable trot and blanked my mind out, enjoying the feel of the breeze and the steady, even, comfortable lope of Bender under me.

"Rogue, she's not what you think."

Blanked it would not be. I slowed Bender and half turned in the saddle to look at him.

"You're going to defend her too?" I couldn't even find it in myself to be surprised.

Scott didn't answer for a moment, readjusting a strap on the horse's shoulder, then checking his glasses to make certain they were secure.

"No." Quiet, and he took hold of the reins again, pressing Trickster to catch up with me.

I waited. Maybe that was all he would have said, if I hadn't brought Bender to a screeching halt--almost knocking myself out against his neck in the process. And Scott, being Scott, stopped as well, giving me a curious look.

"Go ahead." I set my feet in the stirrups and waited.

"Go ahead what?"

I shifted uncomfortably.

"Tell me I should understand or something. Tell me how I should just accept it. Defend her. Go right ahead. You fucking know you want to, Scott, so go right ahead."

How any human on earth manages the calm Scott does is beyond me.

"No. I'm not." He shifted and his horse took off in a comfortable trot and I heeled Bender before I could think better of it and followed.

"You can't do that."

"Do what?"

I struggled to put it into words, and he shook his head slowly, bringing Trickster back to a walk.

"You want to see things in black and white, Rogue. It's not that easy--trust me, I've learned the hard way that blank categorizations like that are comfortable, but extremely inaccurate."

"Don't you hate him?"

Scott looked genuinely surprised by my question.

"It doesn't matter."

"Then what the hell *does* matter?"

It was so sudden, so completely unexpected, that I gawked a little when Scott dismounted, leading the horse to a tree and sensibly leaving enough length for Trickster to roam. I didn't have any better ideas, so I followed him down, and he steadied me as I touched my feet on the grass. Then he tied my horse and took me by the arm, gently leading--not pulling, leading--me into a walk.

"Why'd you ask me out here?" I asked softly. "Replace Jean?"

"No, though I can see why you would think so." He glanced back at the mansion, then at the trees surrounding us. I wondered what he was searching for. "Jean moved out of our room---I should have done it, but I wasn't really--thinking clearly when it happened. I'm two doors down from Logan." He stopped and I thought I saw him bite his lip, but his voice was casual. "I wanted to get out for a little while."

The image of Scott calmly dressing while listening to the crap going on in Logan's room was enough to shut me up for a few seconds. It hurt, almost as much as seeing them together hurt me. And I was surprised.

"I'm sorry." And I meant it. Scott shrugged slightly. His hands were clasped neatly behind him and I took in the image of him in his plain shirt and jeans, the carefully polished boots, the gloves that were worn and faded from use. "It's just--sometimes I forget that--"

"That I'm a man as well, not just the guy that made you rewrite your English essays three times before you turned them in?" I could see the slight smile turn his lips. "Yeah. I sometimes forget that too."

It was suddenly disconcerting to be walking with him--because he wasn't the Leader or my teacher or--well, anyone I was vaguely familiar with anymore. Just a man, walking with me on the estate. And maybe he felt the difference too, because he turned to look at me again.

"I know you're angry. It's not easy to sit back and watch someone you love make a mistake."

I started, looking up at him.

"Scott--"

"But it's not something you can do anything about, either."

"Talk to them." Yell at them. Plan dirty tricks. Whatever worked. I wasn't picky.

"And tell them what?" He shook his head slightly. "That I love her? She knows that, he knows that. It's not a secret."

No secret at all, really. Which made it all so damned unforgivable. And what would he say, exactly, that hadn't been said in the privacy of their bedroom the day she moved out? That hadn't been looked or thought or yelled during those nights that seemed like a dream, nights before I knew that this was more than a squabble with a good happy ending. That stumped me too--after all, I hadn't found the words either. Even if Logan had been around to hear them.

"It's--" I stopped, realizing where this was going. That if I continued, I wouldn't ever be able to look at Scott and sit him in the category of Leader and Annoyance. He was letting me see someone else completely. "It's getting cold."

I wasn't ready for that yet.

He didn't answer and we walked back to the horses.

* * * * *

"Marie--"

"I'm busy, Logan."

I fingered my chain, saw his eyes fix on that a little and wished I'd taken it off. But I hadn't---maybe I wouldn't have even if I'd expected to see him, but I can't be sure of that. Hell, I couldn't be sure of anything anymore.

"We haven't talked since I've gotten back." He shifted slightly and I took in the view of him--a little thinner than I remembered, even more restless if that was possible--or was he nervous?

Nah.

"Yeah." I'd been avoiding him--but not exactly. I'd been avoiding with the half-hope he'd find me. Or at least make the attempt. Of course, he had better things to do, if the look on Jean's face in the morning was anything to go by.

I was beginning to resent Scott's ability to compartmentalize his life so well and avoid black and white.

"Let's go for a ride."

Something in me twisted--it was an old treat, candy offered to the little kid that followed him around with worshipful eyes. Take me for a ride, show me how to hold the handlebars, look infinitely amused by my uncertainty. He'd taught me everything he knew, directly or indirectly.

Remy was a testament to just how well I learned my lessons. It was enough to make me wince.

"I'm busy." I twitched my gloves back into place--not that they'd moved much more than a millimeter since I put them on--and looked around, hoping desperately for someone to show up and give me an excuse to leave. "I have to meet someone for lunch." Remy, usually.

I couldn't go with Logan now. I wanted it too badly.

"Marie--." He took a step toward me and I wanted to pull away--there was the smell of Logan, of Jean, of--oh shit.

Go fuck your girlfriend, I wanted to tell him, yell at him, suddenly hating him for coming here still smelling like her. And I didn't want to go, didn't want to be anywhere near him. "Look, maybe another time--"

"Fuck it, Marie! You've been fucking avoiding me for long enough!" A tightening of all the muscles in his jaw that denoted his own private way of cooling down. A pause, then finally, voice low, "Okay, I'm sorry, Marie. I know I've been distracted--but--"

"Now it's suddenly convenient? Sorry--*Wolverine*--I don't live for your convenience." I turned on my heel, skirt swishing with possible dramatic effect that I probably would have appreciated more if I hadn't been so angry.

A hand caught my elbow and swung me around--and I should have sort of been prepared for that, but you see, having my interesting condition means that when you storm off, people are sort of wary to try and touch you to drag you back. Up to and including Remy. But not Logan. He wasn't scared of me--hell, I have no idea if he's scared of anything. But my skin? Pshaw. He's survived it twice and Logan is the ultimate risk-taker.

"I'm sorry." His voice was lower and he kept that grip on my arm. "Look--" Again, a pause, and if I'd been able to pity anyone except myself, I would have acknowledged how hard this was for him. "You're my family, okay? More than anyone else in this goddamn place. I've missed you."

I swallowed in a dry throat and tried to keep my expression neutral. Everything in me acknowledged what he said was true--and in a way, it felt good. Felt really good, and it felt like hell, because that's what I was to him--not a potential lover or a woman, but family, little sister, surrogate daughter, niece.

Stale bread. Not what I wanted. But something.

"Logan, I have to--"

"Please, Marie. I just want to talk. Anywhere you want to go."

And I know that what I was seeing was right on the edge of pleading--hell and damn, with everything in me melting at the look on his face, the clean sincerity--the fact that he was taking time out of his busy sex life to find me and argue with me and practically beg--damn, damn, damn.

"All right." So I'm a weak female--I'd live with it. I needed to change, and pulled away from his hand. "I'll meet you down here."

* * * * *

"So how're classes?"

Logan made small talk and I tried not to notice that light scent around him--I could recognize Jean anywhere, and there were days almost forgotten that the scent would arouse me and I'd hated the feeling--but I'd give almost anything to have that again, even arousal over the sick envy and jealousy.

It was awkward where it'd never been awkward before--between us. Uncomfortable as we began our search for old footing under new circumstances.

"Okay." I picked at my jacket and felt him pace me as we left the bike against a tree--apparently, I'm a bigger fan of nature than I ever believed possible; I seem to be spending the majority of my time with trees.

That's something he gave me.

"Is anything wrong?"

Okay, admittedly, that shocked me out of silence and self-pity, because I do love him, but I also know him. Logan just isn't perceptive under normal circumstances. And having Jean had lowered the quotient even further--hell, he probably wouldn't have noticed the mansion being attacked by Magneto in a pink tutu at the beginning. And maybe it was a sign that the intense early heat was diminishing and maybe he was getting bored or--

--I'm perfectly willing to admit right now that denial is my specialty.

"Everything's fine." I kicked a stone and wondered if I told him the truth, would it change anything. Well, yes, it would. And so I wouldn't. I had my pride.

He taught me that too.

"You're quiet." He kicked something in his way--rock, small animal, who knew.

I used to chatter to him about everything. That's true. About Bobby, about Remy, about school, about my frustration with my inability to control my powers, about how great it was to graduate, about the fucking grass if I couldn't think of anything else--anything to keep his company, anything that would qualify as conversation.

Anything at all. But I ran out of words this time and he hadn't been around to hear them anyway.

"Are you and Remy okay?"

No, not really. At least, not on my side, but it was dandy on his, and if he noticed that I shut my eyes and I didn't say anything when I came because something in me knew I'd say the wrong name--well, he wasn't talking about it. Maybe getting laid and laid thoroughly on a daily basis was enough.

Maybe you and I could compare our lovers. You tell me how Jean screams and I'll tell you how Remy begs in French and I get distracted trying to figure out exactly what it is he wants me to do.

"Fine."

He mused on that. He didn't believe me, but as I said, Logan isn't the type to start some sort of Deep Conversation.

"Are you happy?"

Dear God, the entire earth must have shifted, because Logan just *isn't* this type of guy. He's a normal guy--feelings aren't discussion topics. Feelings are a murky place you avoid whenever possible and when you get stuck in the swamp of them, you try to figure how to get the hell out, not the whys and wherefores.

This is Logan channeling Scott. Rather disturbing, truth be told. I liked black and white--putting in colors just messed up the mix.

"Yeah." And I tried--with some success--to channel some enthusiasm into my voice, make it bright and happy and utterly not-caring about him or Jean or what they were doing behind his closed door so loudly until two in the damned morning every night.

He stopped me, another surprise, and his fingers on my shoulder turned me and I winced without meaning to--and he pulled back and maybe there was hurt in his eyes, I didn't know.

I didn't care either. I didn't fucking care.

Somewhere, I found something to talk about, and I started rambling--to this day, I have no idea what I said or how he responded or even if he did--but time passed and I could still smell Jean on him and it screwed with my head worse than anything else. And finally, I could look at my watch and act surprised it was time for dinner and he took me back and if he noticed that I bolted off the bike on the pretext of extreme starvation, he didn't say anything--or maybe I just didn't give him the chance.

I didn't know. I didn't fucking care either. So screw it.