He revved the bike, and suddenly Jean got on, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. "You don't want to talk here? Fine," she said into his ear, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Let's go elsewhere."

He scowled at her in the rearview mirror, and asked, "What would happen if you accidentally fell off?"

"I don't know. Have you ever gotten a telekinetic wedgie?" Her smile in the mirror was just slightly evil.

"You've been around teenage boys too long," he grumbled. But hey, it was fair warning.

He drove off, not completely sure where he was heading, just away. It felt good to have Jean lean into him as he drove far too fast and far too recklessly, but she didn't say a word. She didn't telepathically send him anything either - he didn't know if she couldn't, or if she just decided to let him burn off some steam this way. He didn't consider going back to his motel, mainly because he didn't want her to know where he was staying ( although Bob would probably tell her if she didn't know already ). There was a city park, and he diverted towards it - the main access road was theoretically chained off, but teenage partyers had already cut it, so it was no problem to drive through.

He didn't know why he picked here; it was quiet ( except for the distant sounds of the partyers and midnight skateboarders ) and fairly deserted, and he had a feeling any eavesdroppers wouldn't be sober enough to recall what was said tomorrow.

He parked the bike under the lowering branches of a huge horse chestnut tree, just short of an old fashioned wrought iron bench ( which, in a nod to the modern day, was bolted into the ground ). Jean seemed initially reluctant to let him go, but he figured that was because she was so cold and liked his body heat. This would have been a wonderful time for some innuendo, but he just wasn't in the mood for it now.

Wow, what was wrong with him?

He collapsed on one end of the bench, and stared out at the fake "Japanese garden" across the path, and beyond that he could see the fence and the dark monoliths of the skyscrapers on the city street; it seemed like another world.

"This is nice," Jean said, pulling her trenchcoat tightly around her before she sat down, an arm's reach away from him, as if afraid to get too close. He didn't smell fear - anxiety, sure - but not fear.

"All parks in North America look the same," he said dismissively. "The only differences is regional flora, and where they stick the duck pond."

"How many parks have you seen?"

"Too damn many." He watched shadows move across the squares of yellow light in the skyscraper directly across the street, people working late in their cubicle farms, leading sedate, normal, boring lives. He didn't envy them, but  then again didn't know how people could exist in such a fragile state. Bob was right - he wouldn't last five minutes as a normal. "What can I say to you that will make you go home and leave me the fuck alone?"

"Tell me what happened."

He chuckled bitterly, and slumped back against the bench, so he no longer had to hold his own head up anymore, and could look at the sky. The light pollution from the nearby buildings killed all but the brightest stars, and the moon was backlighting a cloud, making it look like a thick wad of grey velvet. "Nothing happened. I just finally got it, that's all."

"Got what?"

He was tempted to say "The clap", but he knew she wouldn't laugh. "That the man I'm searching for is dead. That Logan has been dead for a very long time."

"No you're not."

"Yes, I am. Whoever I was - whoever I used to be - got killed by those people, Jean. They filled my head full of so much shit the old me - the real me - doesn't exist anymore. What exists is the residue of their experiments, and nothing more."

"That's not true. I know you may feel that way - "

"No, Jean, I don't "feel that way"," he snapped, glaring at her. "I know it. I think I've known for a very long time, I just never had a name to put to it."

"A name to what? A feeling?"

He'd swear she sounded just a bit smug, even though she was careful to keep it from her expression. "What did you feel when you looked into my mind?"

That seemed to throw her. She didn't like thinking about that, did she? Gee, he wondered why. "What do you mean?"

"What I said."

She hesitated and looked away, at the sad chrysanthemums in the faux Japanese garden. A breeze kicked up and made them nod their bright orange and yellow heads as if agreeing with him, and she sank deeper into her coat."I don't really know what you're looking for here, Logan. I felt pain, confusion, and a lot of fear."

"Kinda like a dying man, huh?"

She shot him a harsh glance for that, but quickly looked away. After a moment, where the wind brought in a faint peal of laughter from the drunken skateboarders, she said quietly, " I'm going to kill you all."

"What?"

"That's what you were telling yourself, in your mind. You were going to live through this, and you were going to kill them all. It was your mantra, going around in your head; you clung to it like a life preserver."

Maybe that was true - honestly, if he tried to recall his thoughts beyond the pain, they got all muddled. He was probably insane from the pain and the helplessness of it all; he wasn't completely sure he wasn't still insane. "I think I drowned anyways. I just didn't realize it."

"No, Logan, I don't believe that. But I can understand why you might feel that way."

He laughed derisively, looking back up at the sky. It did seem smaller somehow - how weird was that? "Is this where you psychoanalyze me? Is this where you tell me my feelings are "normal" and "healthy"?"

She scoffed faintly. "I'd never tell you they were healthy. But they are common to people who experience what you're experiencing."

"A lot of people get forced surgery?"

She grimaced. "No, or at least I hope not. A lot of torture victims have post traumatic stress disorder."

He stared at her, just to make sure she wasn't kidding. "I don't have a fucking disorder."

She looked at him, a sort of pained sympathy in her eyes that he instantly abhorred. "I know you don't want to hear it, but - "

"You're right, I don't, so shut the fuck up."

"Don't you ever speak to me that way," she hissed, eyes narrowing to angry slits.

He stared at her, and realized two things - he just wanted to hurt everybody. It didn't matter who or what they were, he just wanted to spread the wealth of this pain around. And he then realized it was always a tactical error to piss off a telekinetic. "Sorry," he muttered reluctantly, looking off into the heart of the park. Very briefly, he felt two sets of eyes on them, and knew there were a couple of guys scoping them out for a possible mugging or even more. He hoped they brought it on; it would help to burn off some more steam.

He thought maybe she was giving him the silent treatment ( good ), but after a minute, she said, "Everything's screwed up, isn't it?"

"Wanna be more specific?"

She sighed heavily. "Life. Nothing seems to be right anymore."

"Are you proposin' a murder - suicide pact?"

She glared at him, lips thinning to a grim line. "That isn't funny."

He shrugged - couldn't make everyone happy. "Since when is anything in life right? It's always been a fucking mess."

"It isn't always, Logan. Sometimes it's pretty good. Surely there have been times in your life when you've been happy."

"I wouldn't know."

She elbowed him gently in the arm. "Come on. You can't tell me you don't recall one time in the past fifteen years that you were simply happy."

He thought about that for a moment. "Does sex count?"

She frowned at him, but looked away as it turned into a smile. "You're not going to take this seriously, are you?"

"I'm very serious about sex."

"All men are."

A potential joke about Scott occurred to him, but he never even wanted to think about Cyclops having sex. He couldn't imagine that he'd ever loosened up enough to do such a thing, which he probably thought of as disgusting anyways. He just didn't get guys like him.

Jean suddenly said, as if it was somehow related to the topic, "Do you think Sloane looked that much like me?"

That briefly threw him. What was the connection there?"Not really. I mean, beyond being tall, elegant redheads, I don't think you had that much in common." Especially considering Jean's idea of flirting was lingering stares. If that memory could be trusted, Sloane's idea of flirting was taking off her clothes and asking him if he wanted to go to bed. Big world of difference there.

"Elegant?" She repeated, smiling warmly at him.

He gave her a small smile, the best he could muster under the circumstances. "Even in t - shirts and sneakers. It must be a gift."

It was the right thing to say. She looked very pleased, like a cat who had just gotten into the cream. Even at his lowest he could still schmooze the ladies, and wasn't that a handy talent to have? "Thank you," she said. "But don't think I haven't noticed we've strayed far away from the topic at hand."

"I'd rather talk about sex," he replied, giving her a sly smile.

She smiled back at him, and he knew she was tempted to do the same thing - maybe not limited to talk. "Maybe later." Her expression sobered. "If you won't come back to Westchester with me, can you at least promise me you won't do something stupid?"

"Define stupid."

"Deliberately look for trouble, or try and hurt yourself."

He scoffed, not sure if he should be touched or angry. "I don't look for trouble, it comes for me. And hurt myself - like I can really hurt myself."

"You can. In fact, you once said you get hurt a lot, it just doesn't stick."

"And that's all that matters, doesn't it?"

"No, it's not. Just because you can tolerate a great deal of pain doesn't mean you should."

"I really don't like it, you know - I'm not a sado - masochist."

"I know. So what are you punishing yourself for?"

He scowled at her, almost asking what the hell that was supposed to mean, but he knew, didn't he? Self - flagellation at its most literal, whether it was the simple, ordinary pain of popping his claws, or letting big drunk guys wail on him until he got bored. "I'm a killer," he told her simply, surprised she hadn't figured it out before now. "I was made to hurt people. And I'm very, very good at it. Throw me in front of something that supposedly can't be hurt and I will - given enough time - figure out a way to hurt it. That's why Static tried to hand Reaper over to me."

She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again and resumed staring at the chrysanthemums. What could she say? He wasn't a killer all the time? He wasn't a machine when they both knew damn well he was the closest thing to a cyborg in existence right now? What she didn't know was he now had a name for himself - Weapon X. Not a person - a thing. That felt so much like truth he couldn't believe he hadn't figured that out before. The men who had been watching had left, maybe they had heard him say he was a killer, and that was disappointing. Far be it from him to discourage anyone from taking him on.

After a long minute of silence, she said, "It doesn't matter what you did, or what they made you do. That doesn't define you, and doesn't make you what you are. The Logan I know is not a killer, and not the residue of mind control experiments. The one I know is capable of great acts of compassion as well as great acts of cruelty; he's a person trying to regain his sense of equilibrium. If you were really as bad as you think you were, you couldn't ever be around people."

"I shouldn't be."

"You're wrong. We need you as much as you need us."

He smirked bitterly at the side of her face; she was resolutely not looking at him. "Do you? And why do you think I need you?"

She finally looked at him, meeting his eyes fearlessly. "We do. You're an intelligent man, resourceful, brave - who doesn't need someone like that? And we offer you stability, and an occasional opportunity to kick some ass - are you going to deny that you like that?"

He grinned at her, wondering what she had chose not to say. Should he read something into that? "No. I like you too."

She smiled and glanced down at her shoes. Did her skin flush slightly? "You have your moments," she told him.

Maybe this proved he was feeling reckless, or simply horny; he had no idea. Sometimes they were the same thing. "Why don't we go get a bottle of wine, go back to my room, and make love? Get the sexual tension out of the way."

She looked at him askance, feigning surprise, but she didn't quite manage it. "I'm engaged." That wasn't a no, and light years away from a slap.

"No one ever has to know."

"We'd know."

"You'd be surprised at the amount of secrets I'm keeping."

She finally faced him again, her hazel eyes sparkling with curiosity and mirth. "No, I don't think I would. You're a man of mystery."

"I don't have to be."

Their eyes locked and held, and he was pretty sure he had her this time; oddly enough, he wasn't sure how he felt about that. But she tore her gaze away, lips curving up, and said, in that "let him down gently" tone of voice, "Logan - "

"I'll give you a raincheck," he interrupted, only partially joking. "But it won't be good for long."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said, still smiling. But after a long pause, she suddenly said, "Would it make you come back with me?"

"I don't know."

She nodded, appreciating his honesty if nothing else. She stood up, digging her hands nervously in the pockets of her coat, and she said, "You know, you scare the hell out of me sometimes, but I miss you when you're gone."

"You're probably the only one."

"I doubt it."

"I don't." He levered himself up from the bench, and waited to see what she would do, but as it turned out, she did nothing - she didn't even take a step back. He remembered he owed her a kiss from when Scott  walked in on them in the computer room, and he decided to give it to her.

She resisted for one second in total, and then kissed him in return, wrapping her arms around him as he slipped his arms beneath her coat. She was warmer than he expected, especially when he slid his hands beneath her shirt and up her back. She seemed to shiver, even though he knew his hands weren't cold; maybe it was just the skin on skin contact. The last time they really had any, he had her by the throat, with one of his fists pressed to her head. Neither of them actually enjoyed that.

He wanted to forget, and he knew she was telepathic - not as powerful as Xavier, but she could make him forget. And if he couldn't get her to take it away, at least he could lose himself in her body for a while.

She ran a hand up to the back of his neck as she kissed him hard enough that he could feel his lips attempting to bruise ( it wasn't like they could ); he wondered if Scott really was as passionless and dead as he seemed. Wow - it was amazing Jean hadn't completely lost her mind.

Then again, maybe she had. Suddenly she seemed to change her mind, and moved her hands to his shoulders, pushing him away. He would have been frustrated if it wasn't so predictable. But he didn't resist, because she was a telekinetic, and because part of him had expected her to chicken out. This would certainly make her leave, wouldn't it? She couldn't trust herself around him - or maybe it was just him she couldn't trust. As he pulled away, he let his hands slide over the curve of her hips, just above the waistline of her pants, and he thought it was probably an odd part of a woman to like. But he liked most of the parts, so it didn't really bother him.

She shook her head and brought a hand up to her mouth, as if she was afraid to even speak at this point. She wouldn't meet his eyes. "You don't have to go," he told her, giving her one last chance. He was getting tired of the waiting game with her - they were adults, so what was the problem? If she was all that happy with Scott, she wouldn't give him a second glance.

She glanced at him reluctantly, now taking a step back. She seemed ashamed, and a small flare of anger surged inside his mind as he realized she probably thought she was better than him, ergo too damn good for him. The fact that most people were cut his anger a bit. "This would never work between us," she said, all but confirming his suspicions.

"I know. Does it matter?" Sometimes things were just chemical; they just happened, even if it didn't seem particularly logical. But he knew she was trying to reason this out, and that was a recipe for disaster.

She glanced down at the cement path, and shook her head. "I don't know. I just can't do this, Logan."

"But you want to." He knew she did, as much as he did. He didn't know who she was fooling. No, he did - she was trying to fool herself for some goddamn reason.

She shook her head again, and very reluctantly looked him in the eyes. She seemed almost melancholy about it, instantly regretful of a thing she hadn't quite done yet. "I don't know what I want."

"Do you know what you don't want? 'Cause that's a place to start."

She reached out and hesitated before deciding to touch his arm. A safe area, he supposed. "Come back to us, Logan."

"When I'm ready," he replied, the vaguest answer possible.

But she must have been rattled because she just nodded, and turned down the path.

"I think I'll have to give you a lift back," he pointed out. "It's a long walk."

She paused, and looked around as if waking up from a dream. "Oh. I guess you're right."

"You trust me?" He wondered.

She looked back at him and smiled wanly. "It's not you I don't trust."

Strangely enough, he knew that feeling quite well. But Jean's reasons for mistrusting herself were minor compared to his reasons for distrusting himself  - once you were someone's programmed assassin, could you ever trust anything you felt or thought or did or remembered?

He led the way back to the motorcycle, and wondered if he'd ever trust himself again.

THE  END