Wolvie Fanfiction: The Meaning of Pain

Logan didn’t say anything, but just waited, the top half of his face hiding in shadows and the smoke of his cigar drifting lazily upwards in the moonlight.

Kitty paused, then slowly lowered herself onto the seat beneath the window. She looked out across the ground, her breath leaving a slight mist on the chilled glass. She looked down at her hands on her lap.

“I . . . I don’t know if I can do this, Logan.”

Logan waited for more, but the silence stretched. The kid had more to say, but didn’t know how to say it.

“This is about the mission, ain’t it?”

It wasn’t really a question. Kitty’d been quiet since their last mission, when they’d arrived to save a mutant who’d just manifested his powers and accidentally almost burned his apartment complex to the ground. In the end no one was seriously hurt (besides Logan, but he shrugged it off. It didn’t matter anyway, and the kid he’d sniffed out hiding in the smoldering closet was safe). Still, once everyone was out and Storm was doing her best to quell the raging inferno, things had got out of hand.

Logan took a deep breath of smoke.

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Logan put the boy down, who took one last terrified look at him and darted away. Logan stood slowly, uncurling from the bowed position he’d taken as he jumped out the two-story window to protect the kid from the glass and flames. He skin cracked on his back, burnt yet damp with blood and puss out from the burns and gashes from the glass, and frowned down at the tatters of his jacket, and the charred wife beater underneath.

Damn. Was this the third leather suit in a month? What the hell was up with these uniforms, anyway? One-Eye was gone along with his anal insistence on black leather, and it was a hell of a lot cheaper to replace jeans and a t-shirt than a full leather suit.

“Wolvie?” Kitty asked, staring at him. By the look on her face, he must’ve looked pretty bad, but he shot her a wolfish grin, that probably looked close to feral in his current state.

“Good goin’ back there,” he said. He voice was dry and rough. He cleared his throat and turned to spit out a mouthful of blood and thick saliva, and wiped his arm across his mouth. “You did good.” The young, maybe 12-year-old mutant kid at her side made this mission a success, no matter the collateral damage. His parents stood close by, hovering and nervous just in front of the crowd.

The crowd was restless. Not unusual, considering most their homes and everything inside just got scorched to nothing. They were lucky no one was killed. But then, I guess most people ain’t that willin’ to just accept the lucky and forget tryin’ to pin the blame. Just against human nature, I guess.

So they started shouting, the whole lot. Callin’ us freaks, blamin’ us for everything from the fire to the rising price of celery at the local grocer, tellin’ us to go back to hell, that we were all filthy animals deserving to be put down, blah, blah, blah. But then it turns out some smartass in pajamas had decided his gun was among his greatest valuables, so he grabbed it on his way out of his over-priced apartment.. I saw it out of the corner of my eye—aimin’ at Kitty, or maybe the kid. Maybe hopin’ to get both at once. Hardly had a chance to react, but at least it was enough.

“PRYDE! PHASE!”

His shout came simultaneous to the gunshot. Kitty grabbed the kid and flickered slightly, and Wolverine dove, pushing Bobby out of the way.

Three consecutive bullets hit him full in the chest, knocking him backwards as one chipped against a metal-sheathed rib and exploded into his still smoke-healing lungs. He hit the ground hard, his own blood immediately flooding his mouth and making him choke. He rose up nonetheless, bent almost feral as he put a hand to his leaking chest.

SNIKT!

“Logan!” Kitty’s voice was terrified. What—hadn’t she ever seen him bite the bullet before?

Well, actually . . . probably not.

Dammit—that hurt. It’d been a good year since he’d taken a bullet to the gut like that. He must be getting soft.

He didn’t say anything—didn’t have the words to spare, with his lungs cut up like next week’s Thanksgiving turkey. He just stepped forward, shredding the man’s gun and giving him a blow to his jaw to send him into next week, remembering at the last minute to retract his claws. The man went down like a bag of potatoes.

Logan straightened slowly, one hand still over his chest. He could feel the bullets working their way out, and it wasn’t a feeling that he’d categorize as “nice.”

And that was about it. I healed up, we got the kid out with his parents, blah, blah, blah. All the details are part of Storm’s job.

But Kitty’s been quiet ever since. Dunno if it was the bullet or what that freaked her out, but she looked just about ready to sick up right after that. They’re just kids, after all.

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Logan looked at Kitty, and waited.

“I . . . that man . . . the one that shot you . . . .”

“What about him?”

“That was his son you saved. I . . . I heard him talking, when you were in the building, and when you came out . . . and he shot you.”

Logan let out a long breath of smoke. He’d seen too much—lived too much, he supposed—to really be surprised. He grunted.

“What of it?”

Kitty stared at him. “You saved his son. We saved probably that whole city block and everyone on it, and he s-shot you. And if you hadn’t warned me . . . . I mean, I’m just a kid, and he was trying to kill me. Just because I’m a mutant, and he’s not.”

“So he’s an ungrateful bastard,” Logan shrugged. Kitty’s eyes dropped. Damn. Why him? He didn’t know how to deal with these kids.

“Look, kid. If you want someone to cheer you up and tell you the world’s all sunshine n’ daisies, you’re talkin’ to the wrong guy. The fact is most’ve the world’s opinion of mutants right now is about on par with rats and rabid dogs.” The kid still didn’t meet his eyes, so Logan spoke again. “You’re . . . what? Sixteen?”

“Almost fifteen.”

Oh. Even younger than he thought. Damn—she was too young for all of this. All the kids were.

“Fifteen, then. Kid, you go out and face things that’d make Mr. Trigger-Happy mess his pants and run cryin’ like a baby. You’re one of the best out there, too—you got good instinct, and a good head, and you’re not one to run from a fight. But if you need to take a break from the field for a couple years, I don’t think anyone would think any less of ya. You should be worrying about . . . school, boys . . . . ” Even seventeen would be too young for a kid like her to have to face the underbelly of the world.

She looked down. “My . . . my grandpa’s parents were in Poland during World War II, Logan. All his brothers, sisters, cousins . . . they all died. Just because they were different. If I can do something . . . I can’t let it come to that.”

And that was why he liked this kid.

“Then what’s the problem?” She didn’t answer, but glanced up at him. “Spit it out, kid. I can smell you’ve got something to say.”

Kitty looked up. “What if next time the person who gets shot doesn’t heal, Logan?” she asked softly.

Damn. It had to be that.

Logan took the cigar from his mouth. “I dunno.” They were just kids. Kids acting as soldiers. Working with One-Eye, Storm, Beast . . . hell, even . . . even Jeannie . . . that was different. They knew what they were facing, and if something happened . . . when something happened, well, it happened. “I guess we just gotta hope that doesn’t happen.”

But it did happen. It’d happened to the professor, Jean, Cyke . . . The kids had felt safe, protected by them, but if they could die just like that . . . what was stopping them from being offed just as easily?

It was always the survivors that suffered the most, wasn’t it? He knew it in his bones—somewhere deep, somewhere that wouldn’t let him forget.

He’d killed Jeannie. It wasn’t openly spoken of, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t known. He knew some of the kids wondered if he would kill them, if they lost control too.

He didn’t want to think about that, because deep down he knew the answer: he’d do what needed to be done.

Damn him a hundred times over.

Was that why Xavier’d kept him around at all? To put down the ones that he couldn’t control?

Did he already know about the Phoenix? Had he planned that whole thing to happen from the beginning?

For all his talk of a better world—that Logan was a man, and could be a good man at that—

Had Xavier just been using him too?

Probably.

Frankly, he’d always thought Xavier’s excuses for having him around were weak at best.

Sometimes he really hated himself.

“I ain’t gonna tell you the right way, ‘cause the world ain’t like that. Charlie had a dream, and I aim to try and keep it. You go home if you want, go to college, find a cure for cancer or aids and save millions of lives more. We each fight in our own way.” He stood. “You think on it. Now go get some sleep.”

Kitty stood as well. “Thanks, Logan.”

Logan grunted, turning his back to her and heading down the stairs. He heard Kitty stand and move towards her room. “Good luck, kid.”

TBC . . . .
 
Nice chapter, loved the Gambit parts best. :D Seriously, if you don't have this up at www.fanfiction.net you should. :up:
 
Thanks, squeekness!

Here you go, everybody.

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Chapter 12: Wild

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If I’d been alone I probably would’ve traveled all night. As it was, we only went a couple hours before Cajun was making enough noise to wake the dead, and looked about ready to fall over dead himself from exhaustion. So we settled down—the kid looked at me like I was crazy when I stopped in the middle of the forest and said we could sleep there. Wouldn’t stop grumbling about how he might not have had a prince’s life so far, but he’d never had to sleep like a badger before. He shut up real quick when I growled at him, though.

I guess I was tired enough from healin’ and all that I went righ’ to sleep, no matter that I didn’t like sleepin’ around a man—even a helpless whelp like that one. Kid—that’s right, called himself Gambit. Don’t really remember the other name. Something girlish, though. French-like. Anyway—figure he must’ve been a mutant, now that I look back. Anyway, kid wouldn’t take his eyes off me, though, and was still awake when I turned to sleep. When I woke up just a little later—and the kid was still sitting back against a tree, his head slumped ‘gainst his chest and he was out—too tired to keep his vigil the whole night, no matter how scared he was of me.

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Wolverine jerked awake, his heart thumping like gunfire. He leaped to his feet, his nostrils flaring as his eyes darted through the darkness of the night. A sound caught his ear and he turned around sharply, claws shooting from his fists.

It was the kid, sound asleep and shivering enough that the chattering of his teeth was audible.

Wolverine retracted his claws and rubbed his face, feeling the odd stretch of dried blood on his skin.

He hated sleep. He hated the men in his dreams.

He shook his head and stretched, glad to feel that the soreness and pain had all faded away during his short nap. He shook himself like a large dog, itching at dried blood on his bare skin beneath the tattered shirt he wore.

The night air was cold against his sweat-slicked skin, but he pulled off the shirt and was about to chuck it aside, but stopped. He glanced at Gambit, then walked over and put the thick camper’s shirt over him.

He was just a kid, after all.

The wolverine paused, standing from his crouch and sniffing the air, his eyes turned up towards the stars.

The kid’d have to get used to the cold though. The air was heavy and wetter than usual. There was a cold front coming on.

They’d head south, then. It was warmer there, even if there were more men. They’d find a good forest in the low grounds with good hunting, where there weren’t any men.

Scratching the back of his neck again, Wolverine lay back down on the chilled earth again and stared at the kid, his eyes glinting in the darkness.

Sleep was far, far away from his mind. But as far as Wolverine was concerned, that was all right with him.

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Logan crossed the lawn, puffing on his cigar as he headed towards the sort of small forest that bordered the trimmed and cultured field around Xavier’s school.

He stepped beneath the shadows of the trees, slowing his step. He dropped the cigar and ground it under his heel, not needing the taste of the smoke to block out the overly-loud scents of people. Sometimes he wondered how they walked around so oblivious to the stink they stirred up.

He paused briefly, putting his hands in his jacket pockets as he parsed the scents of the cool night.

His nose twitched with the smells of the wood as he continued forward—deer, rabbit, mouse and birds. A shift in the air brought the scent of a cat who’d prowled past about an hour earlier, and the remains of a mouse who hadn’t noticed the hunter until it was too late.

He could let his senses free out here without such a risk of backfire that could leave him reeling. The human world was too loud, bright, and reeking. Too complicated.

He needed to get away again. It’d been a couple months now, but things were too busy, what with only him, Kurt, and Storm, and Lilah the four-armed cook manning the students.

They needed more staff.

Logan paused, catching a fresher scent and turning. He ducked down, drawing his hands from his pockets and ducking down, his step silent despite its weight.

Time to hunt.

His movement was liquid in the shadows—slipping silently forward, with an almost lazy pace that was neither fast nor slow—like a predator following an injured prey, confident of success.

There was no hurry in the hunt—to limit to time, no deadline. There was a freedom in the hunt that most men just couldn’t understand.

It was so easy to forget, when it was like this. To just let his mind loose, to set it free. To let his senses overwhelm logical thought—to let the shift of a leaf, or the placement of an imprint on the earth fill his mind. He was no danger to anyone, out here, and there was no past, no future, no present to worry about. There was just the hunt, and the joy of it.

Freedom.

The animal in him rejoiced, urging him to step quicker, to move faster—to run with abandon, and keep running—forgetting everything but the beauty of this shadow-darkened world—the beauty of this moon-bathed wilderness—the glory of the wild heart that beat against his metal ribcage. He wanted to howl, but it would frighten the prey. Yet he howled in his heart.

The woods were his domain.

He didn’t have to see the deer to know he was drawing close—the scent was growing stronger. He heard it second—the slight shift of the first falling leaves as its dainty step crossed through the moon-streamed air. He saw it last—a doe, its head bobbing with its graceful, unhurried steps. There was more beauty in that one creature than anything man had ever made. Logan slowed his steps, crouching down and slipping slowly forward, silent as shadows. The deer ducked its head to nibble on some lichen, and Logan stilled, reaching out his hand to touch its silky coat—

. . . just to touch it . . . to try and catch that moment of wild glory. To brush against that ultimate freedom.

The deer’s head shot up, its ears alert. It caught sight of him, one hand outstretched towards it, and bounded away in alarm, vanishing into the night.

Logan didn’t move for a second, still crouched in the shadows. Finally, slowly, he let out a breath of air, pulling the animal back down, letting the man take control again. He scowled over his shoulder, growling softly.

“You really had to scare it off, didn’t ya?”

There was a shift in the breeze—a change of pressure in the air that made the animal in him wary, and Ororo drifted down from above the trees. Her feet touched lightly on the ground, as graceful as the doe that had vanished like a dream.

“Do I want to know what you are doing running around like a savage at this time in the morning?”

“No,” Logan snapped, unsurprised by her appearance. He’d smelled her some time back, and wondered if she’d let him be or not.

Apparently not.

“There’s food in the kitchen, Wolverine, if you’re hungry.”

“That’s my business,” Logan replied, stung and covering it with anger. “Gotta problem with that?” He turned away from her, his eyes glowing like a wolf’s as he gazed after the deer. The animal stirred inside him, longing to hunt. He pushed it down, glancing back at her, noticing for the first time that she was and dressed in a loose tank top and shorts. Fit her a damned lot better than her usual respectable stuff she wore, too. Could’ve given the Boy Scout a run for his money, sometimes. He realized she was barefoot too. “What’re you doin’ out here, anyway?”

Storm laughed softly, not meeting his eyes. “Just walking.”

“It’s a bit late for a walk. You got somethin’ you ain’t owning up to?”

She hugged herself, looking up at the stars. She looked oddly natural out here, Logan realized. She always seemed too uptight in the school—tense. He’d come to connect the scent of frustration and agitation with her natural scent. Out here she smelled . . . relaxed. At ease. Belonging.

Storm didn’t answer at first, just standing there, her face turned upwards. “Do you know what I was, before I joined the X-Men?” Storm asked, almost absently, her hair almost glowing with the white of the stars.

Logan sat down, pulling off a boot and dumping out a couple rocks that had wedged themselves inside. “Do you know how long I’ve been tracking that deer?” he returned.

Storm looked at him, her eyes narrowing. “Why must you do that?”

“What?”

“You know what, Wolverine.”

Logan fished into his pocket for another cigar. “Guess it’s part of my lovin’ nature, darlin’.”

Ororo let out a long, breath, the frustration back in her scent. Good. Maybe she’d leave him alone now.

But then the frustration tapered off, dissipating into the night air. She sat down as well, a fair few feet away from him—not exactly endangering his personal space, but getting close to it.
 
“I didn’t mean to frighten the deer, Logan.”

He snorted. “Right.”

“Contrary to your beliefs, Logan, I think I may understand you better than you think.”

A soft chuckle answered that. “Keep tellin’ yerself that.” Even if she was more at home in the woods . . . that didn’t mean anything. Storm was a class apart from him. She could never really understand. No one could, but especially a high-class broad like her.

Storm sighed, leaning back so her hair brushed her shoulders as she looked up to the stars. “I lived most my life in Egypt, before I came here. I knew little of wars, technology . . . the hate of bigots. My village . . . they thought I was a goddess,” she continued softly.

Logan wanted to give another uncaring retort to that, but he held it back this time, putting a fresh cigar in his mouth instead and saying nothing.

A goddess. Yeah. That’s just about right.

“I was free. No responsibilities, except for my people. I brought them rain to water the desert earth. All was so simple, then. I would fly on the wind, bathe in the rain . . . there was no fear of needless death or harm. Life was . . . is . . . precious. That’s a part of me, and I can’t let that go.” She glanced at him. “But there’s that freedom, Wolverine, that always calling. Just to let loose—to let go. But I . . . I don’t know what would happen if I did.”

Logan glanced at her. He’d figured more than once that Storm was closely connected to the Earth—to the land, the air, the water. He’d seen the wind grow furious with the rise of her anger, or seen the rain when she’d been off on her own.

She did belong here, in the wild. With the wild. Perhaps even more than him.

What was more uncontrollable than the beast that constantly rose up inside of him, fighting for control?

After all, what was more uncontrollable, more wild, more terrifying and glorious in its ferocity and beauty than lightning, rain, wind, cold?

And she controlled it all.

Maybe she was right. Maybe, somehow, they were more alike than he had realized. Perhaps that controlled cover she upheld was nothing more than a strong façade, covering the wild ecstasy underneath.

Something in her eyes told him that she could understand that.

But she couldn’t understand the rest—the rage, the fury, the bloodlust . . . the beast inside.

“I am sorry for bothering you,” Storm said, standing slowly, gracefully. She hesitated, looking at him, sitting in the shadows. His eyes reflected oddly—like an animal in the night, and she wondered if he knew.

She doubted that he would like to hear that.

“I wasn’t going to kill her, ‘Ro,” Logan said softly.

Storm stopped, a shock of emotions darting across her face. Logan felt his own heart give a jerk, immediately drawing up a darkness in his mind.

No, I wasn’t talking about Jeannie, he thought, even as Storm seemed to realize it herself. She looked away.

“I know, Logan,” she said. “I know. I’m sorry I interrupted.”

Logan snikt out a single claw, plunging it straight down into the earth until the dirt came up to his knuckle. Just like he’d done to Jean. Just like he’d tried to do to himself, so many times, before, and as he’d wanted to do again and again since. The earth didn’t bleed, but he could almost feel the blood anyway. He retracted it, pulling his boot back on and standing.

“Are you . . . coming back to the mansion?”

“No,” Logan said gruffly around his cigar. He wanted to be alone, dammit. Alone, where he couldn’t hurt anyone. Alone, where there was no one to stare at him, where there were no watching eyes that never let him be.

That was how he’d always been. That was how it was meant to be.

But Ororo was still waiting.

“I . . . the reason I followed you tonight, Logan, is to thank you.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“I just wanted to thank you for being there for the children. I know we have our differences, but your presence here has helped . . . more than I can say.”

Logan resisted the surge of self-disgust and loathing. What? He didn’t deserve thanks, of all things.

“After what I did, there’s nothin’ else I could do,” he muttered.

“The children appreciate it, as well.”

Logan snorted. “Those that aren’t damned well terrified of me, that is. And for good reason.”

Storm looked at him. “There is so much we all wish that we could change,” she said. “Logan, Jean—”

“Don’t say it.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“And I don’t give a damn, either,” Logan said, readying to go. He felt sick. He didn’t want to talk about this. How could he talk about this? He’d killed Jean. Murdered her, no matter the reasons. Slipped his claws between her ribs—one had glanced off bone, before tearing right through to the heart. He’d felt it all—felt the life’s blood slowing—smelled her pouring out onto his hands, all over him. Felt her heartbeat die.

Felt her die.

God, why?

God had nothing to do with it, that was what. That’s what he’d said to Kurt, right after he’d come back to the mansion. The Elf’d tried to talk to him about it—sayin’ that it wasn’t his fault, that he did what he had to do, that God would give him the forgiveness he lacked for himself, blah, blah, blah. It had all just served made Logan angry.

If there was a God, how could he allow this to happen? How could he allow any of this to happen?

If there was a God, Logan would have died long ago—either struck down by justice, or mercy.

Or was it something else? Did both Heaven and Hell hate him so much that it just kept spitting him back out?

Was this life his purgatory?

If it was, he had a hell of a way to go. As it was, he was just falling further down.

He couldn’t think about his—not here, not now. Maybe somewhere far, far away, where he could howl and rage and lose himself . . . and he would, if it weren’t for the fact that he was afraid that once he let go he’d never find himself again.

But would that be so terrible?

“Wolverine,” Storm said sharply, and he looked back at her. “You let the children talk to you. Why do you not let us?”

“The kids ain’t tryin’ to psychoanalyze every damn word I say.”

“And Kurt?”

“The Elf’s learned better than preach at me,” Logan replied. “And he holds his beer a good deal better than anyone else around here. For the kids . . . they ain’t tryin’ to get me to talk, either. They just need someone to listen. Damn me if I know why they come to me.”

“What if I need someone to listen?”

Logan stared at her with a frown.

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“I left everything to come to the Xavier’s. All I have left is here . . . but everything has changed. Jean was like a sister to me. Charles—the father I never knew, and Scott and Hank were my brothers. Now they’re all gone—dead, except Hank. Now there’s just you, and it appears that your rebellious nature to fight against authority has turned from Scott . . . to me.”

God, why was she talking? Didn’t she realize how much better she could do than him? Didn’t she see that he was nothing—less than nothing?

Why didn’t she just go away—leave him alone? Why couldn’t she see there was nothing she needed to know, nothing here to like?

If she really knew him, she’d never have let him stay all this while.

And most startling of all—why did he smell that scent on her—the scent of rising trust? God, it made him sick. Not that he wasn’t attracted to her—she was a broad, after all, and some of the things she wore—leather suit included—left very little to the imagination. He’d jump her in a heartbeat and move on without an inch of regret. The animal wanted to do it now—to take her here, to claim her his. To tell her whatever she needed to hear, just so she would take him, and if that didn’t work, to take her anyway. To feel her body against his—to let it all go.

Didn’t that, out of everything, prove what an animal he was? All she wanted was someone to listen—someone so she wasn’t alone. She’d come to him for a small favor that people gave to each other—to care, just as a friend. And all he could think about was how beautiful the moon on her skin looked, and how her lips were parted—just ready to be pressed against his.

He’d felt it before. He couldn’t count the women he’d had sex with—didn’t even remember their names or faces. Just used them, and moved on. Sure, they’d used him too—but that didn’t make what he did any better.

Storm was better than that. She was in a different world. She—a goddess. Him—an animal. Why couldn’t she understand that it wasn’t safe for her to get close to him, in any way at all?

He disgusted himself.

Logan took his cigar from his mouth, tapping the ash off the end. “Stop,” he said coldly. “I ain’t listenin’. Go and find someone else’s shoulder to cry on. There’s a world full of people who’re better for the job.” He turned, leaving for good this time.

“But no one else here.” Storm’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to say this, Logan, though I know you won’t like to hear it. But for all of our disagreements, I admire you—as a teammate, and even as a friend. And I want you to know that a good many people at that school look up to you—as an example, as a strength, even as a father. So even if you insist on continuing on tearing yourself down, and pushing people away, there are still people who think the world of you out there. But until you realize that you are more than an animal, then no matter what you do, for yourself you will always be exactly what they made you to be.”

She was blind. They all were, and all had been. Xavier had told him he was no animal—Jeannie had treated him like a man—Storm even went so far to try and convince him he was a decent sort of man.

They were all too good for him. All he was doing was using them—using them to try and hope some of that goodness would wear off on him.

It would never happen—it was a path doomed to certain failure—but at least he’d try.

He had to.

He kept walking, leaving the weather-goddess behind, and ignoring the sharp pain in his chest.

It would go away. It always did.

Logan didn’t make any sound as he disappeared beyond Ororo’s vision, and she stood there for a minute, drawing her arms around herself. At last she sighed, then took to the skies, leaving him and the rest of the world behind.

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Wolverine woke up early, still tired, but that was normal. The dreams never let him sleep long anyway, and it was better to be tired than have to face them.

The sky had turned grey over the night—the clouds drifted low, so close that they almost seemed to sit right above the trees. The air had a bite to it—the slight breeze came in from the north. The air smelled green-blue—like long rain that could easily turn to snow.

He didn’t like it—if the cold times came back again, he wasn’t sure how he’d get enough food for the kid—but it happened. He’d survive. He always did.

What was that far-off voice in his mind, telling him that that wasn’t always good? That always surviving was a dark thing—something to endure, like cold snow during a cloudless night so bitter it stole the breath from his lungs. It hurt, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He shook himself, again scratching at the remaining blood on his back. Even if the rain was cold, it would be good to wash that off.

Whatever that darkness had been—it was gone now. It didn’t matter. He needed to hunt—to get them both food, and travel south and maybe look for a cave. It’d be good—warmer, if the cold time was already coming back.

The kid was still asleep. He’d fallen over during the night, and now was lying half-curled on the ground, the flannel shirt tucked around his hands and next to his chin. His mouth hung open slightly.

Wolverine went over slowly. He paused, crouching so as to appear less threatening, and then reached out and pushed the kid’s shoulder.

The kid’s brow furrowed. He muttered something incomprehensible, rolling onto his back, but then went still again.

Wolverine frowned. Were all kids this inept? A predator could have killed him a hundred times over before he even stirred.

An odd protectiveness settled on him. The kid couldn’t take care of himself, so he was responsible for him.

He was Wolverine.

The best at what I do.

He pushed the kid’s shoulder again—harder this time. The kid groaned, then opened his eyes, focusing blurrily on Wolverine’s face.

Suddenly he bolted upright, jumping to his feet so quickly that even Wolverine was slightly startled.

Good. Maybe there was hope for him, after all.

“It wasn’t a dream,” Remy lamented, putting a hand to his head as he reeled back. He realized one hand was clenched around the bloodstained-flannel shirt and dropped it suddenly, like he’d realized he was holding a dead and rotting animal. “Agh! Ah, oh, you give dat to . . . to Gambit last night? You very kind, Wolvie. Very, very kind.” He was wiping his hands on the outside of his coat, and finally stopped with a shudder. “Too kind.” He shivered, hunching a bit in his coat and wrapping his arms around himself.

Wolverine kept a fair distance away, then just nodded, standing slowly and pulling the sagging pants he wore a little higher. He gestured for the kid to follow, and started forward.

TBC. . .
 
Yet another great chapter. Bravo! :D
 
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Chapter 13: Fresh Meat

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I think I gave the kid a heart attack. Don’t really blame him. I don’t know many who would wake peaceful-like to my mug first thing in the mornin’—‘specially like I was then. Probably looked half-animal, half-corpse at the time. Probably smelled about as good, too.

But when he calmed down and I got him moving he just wouldn’t stop complainin’ and whinin’ and askin’ stupid questions.

‘Where’re we goin’, cher? When’re we eatin’, mon ami? Who are you, homme? Where’d you come from? But why ain’t we eatin’ breakfast, petit?’ The whole time with that damn Cajun talkin’ of his.

Finally I remembered the words to get him to be quiet. I told him to shut up, and he did. For a while, at least.

Kids.

-------------------------------------------------------------

“When we gonna eat, mon ami? I tink my stomach just met my backbone.”

Wolverine grimaced.

“Wolverine . . . .”

“Shut up,” he said again. It didn’t work as well the second time.

“I don’t get you, cher,” Gambit said. “We runnin’ through woods like animals. Where your car? Food?”—he gave Wolverine’s bare and still-bloodstained chest a sideways look, and his voice lowered to a mutter. “Clothes?”

The kid was damn loud, yammering on like that, not to mention he made as much noise as a lamed deer as he walked.

He was chasing away all the prey, and likely calling all the predators for miles.

Wolverine turned sharply—so quickly that the kid (who was just shorter than he was) almost ran into him, and near lost his balance trying to avoid touching the feral man.

Wolverine growled softly, baring his teeth. The kid stared back at him, his face twisting into an odd expression as if he really didn’t know what to make of him.

“You tryin’ to tell me something, Canuck?”

Yes. He was. Damn kid needed to shut up, to step lighter, and walk faster.

If all men were like this, men were stupid. How did any of them survive this long at all?

“You Bigfoot or something? Indian, maybe? Don’t speak English? Parlez-vous le français?”

Wolverine frowned. That was different, but still a bit familiar. The words came up through memory.

Did he speak French?

Yes.

But what was French? What did “French” even mean?

He felt a cold shiver, though he didn’t know why. The day was warm enough despite the edge to the air, even after he’d taken off his shoes and thrown them over his shoulder along with the remains of his tattered shirt (he hadn’t wanted to leave it behind, despite its stink and state).

“You gonna speak at all? Or you some wild thing from da wood? You gonna take me out to your cave and chop me into piece with dose claws a yours?”

No, but he was getting really tempted just to leave the kid. Wolverine might not be too hungry—he had eaten just the night before, after all, and he was used to going for some time without food—but if he didn’t learn quick they were both going to starve to death.

He turned and started walking again. After a moment the feet so unfamiliar with the wild land sounded after him, and he stopped again, casting a dirty look over his shoulder.

“Stop,” he rumbled.

The words were like a spell. The kid stopped dead-still. Wolverine turned to look at him critically, and the boy stared back with wariness in his eyes.

He pointed at the ground. “Sit,” he ordered, no-nonsense.

The kid obeyed slowly, actually sitting on a half-rotting log a half-a-step back, his hand slipping into the inside of his coat—feeling for those odd papers that had blown up the night before. He’d done it a couple times—a nervous habit, Wolverine figured, like a mountain cat bristling in defense when feeling threatened.

So the kid was scared of him.

Why should he care?

He didn’t care. It was good the kid was scared of him.

Of course it was good.

He snorted, and without warning reached down, grabbed the kid’s right boot, and pulled it off with a sharp movement that actually dragged him right off of his seat and onto the ground with a curse.

“Dammit, homme fou, you give dat back,” the kid said, standing with all of his youthful anger. “Look, Remy’s sick ‘n tired o’dis. I need t’go back ta Nawlins, and I don’t have da time to play ‘round wit’ you.” He drew a card. “Drop da boot, Wolverine.”

Wolverine bared his teeth. He didn’t want to hurt the kid, but he was threatening him, and he didn’t like that. He dropped the boot, and in one fluid motion launched himself at the kid. To his credit, Gambit was able to block an arm, but Wolverine’s sudden full weight bearing down on him brought him crashing to the ground like a tidal wave to a castle of toothpicks on the sand. The card flipped from his hand, cleanly sliced in two, and burst in a near-harmless blast on the damp ground behind him.

Wolverine caught Remy’s wrists, pinning the kid, who now reeked of—what? Indignation? Oh, yeah, and some fear. But surely he wasn’t worried about his pride at a time like this.

“Nice Wolvie. Dat’s a good wild man. Jus’ let ol’ Gambit go and he’ll be real nice.” Wolverine bore his teeth and snarled in his face, and the kid’s dark eyes widened further as his face paled to an almost inhuman color. He swallowed. “Please don’t eat me, petite.”

Wolverine snorted, his dark eyes narrowed. The kid should know not to fight him—especially now.

He let him up, but not before taking a firm hold of the kid’s other boot and pulling it off his foot. Remy put up amazingly little struggle, but instead just scrambled away.

“You gonna pull a man’s foot clean off,” he said. “But fine—you want da boot—to chew on, or whatever—you have da boot.”

Wolverine walked over to his own boots he’d stolen and the other one of the kid’s he’d dropped. He sniffed at the one in his hand, then snorted at the stink, recoiling.

“Don’ look at me. You da one who drag us all over Canada.” Gambit had pulled himself to his feet and now stood gingerly on the pine-needle padded ground. “Come on, cher, I can’t go walkin’ through da woods like you. Most people aren’t like you, Wolvie.”

“Shut up,” Wolverine grunted at last, tossing the second boot over his shoulder to join the other with a thud. “Now. Walk.”

Gambit hesitated, then obediently put one foot forward, grimacing, then walked towards him on his toes, wincing at each step. Wolverine growled, suddenly moving forward.

He crouched down, grabbing one of the kid’s feet and lifting it so roughly that Remy had to grab the closet tree to keep from getting tripped right off his feet. The Wolverine jabbed his foot.

“Step here, and move,” he said. He let him go, then stood, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him soundly. “Loose.”

He stood beside Gambit, looking at him like he was a particularly slow student, and took a slow step forward, taking his time to put his foot down and shift his weight as not to make a sound. He lifted an eyebrow pointedly.

Gambit was watching him with an expression torn between disbelief and dubiousness. “What you dryin’ ta say, wil’ man?” he asked, folding his arms.

Wolverine glared at him, then looked away, growling softly under his breath.

“What was dat?” Remy asked.

Wolverine gave him one last piercing and annoyed glare, then stopped to slip the two pairs of boots under his arm and started walking forward. Gambit didn’t move at first, then sighed and started forward after him. Stiffly at first, then lower to the ground, more confident as his skill so of slinking invisible through the streets of New Orleans began to adapt to this strange land.

He gave the wild man’s back an odd look.

He could have sworn he heard him say “Marchez comme un tank Nazi.” But that couldn’t be right. He must’ve been hearing things.

Dieu buen, he was going crazy.

------------------------------------------

It was Saturday. Logan usually took the quieter mornings to catch up on sleep, but this time he was up and out still well before dawn despite the late night. Sure, there were always the dreams that bothered him, but this time it was something else.

He went running, pushing himself harder and farther than he usually did, and when he got back to the mansion most everyone was still sound asleep. The halls were still quiet, save for an early winter robin singing, its song distant even for him, until it faded with his distance into the mansion. Sunlight was just turning the shadowed wall-panels and polished wooden floor to red-gold. He refused to let it remind him of Jean.

She was in Chuck’s old office. She’d taken over it, more or less, though in truth she’d hardly moved a thing out of place all these months. Logan sympathized, even while he frowned at the fruitless gesture. The professor was dead, after all, without even any remains but a handful of dust. But then, he hadn’t tried to suggest to Ororo that they clean out Jean’s stuff either, even with new students’ arrivals, since the school went public.

He opened the door silently—if there was anything he loved about living in such a high-quality place rather than his habitual dive, it was that doors opened without a sound—and just watched her for a second, bent over some papers with the morning sun brushing her hair.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him loud enough for her to hear. She looked up sharply, startled, and only more so when she saw who it was.

“Good morning, Logan.”

It wasn’t said bitterly or sarcastically, and neither could he smell such a thing—or was she just real good at hiding it? Probably the latter.

“Mornin’,” Logan said. “What are you doin’ up?”

“I might ask the same of you.”

Logan grunted, trying to look uncaring and casual as he stood there, still barefoot and wearing only the sweats and loose t-shirt he’d slept in the night before, both sweatstained now from his workout.

Storm gestured at the papers in front of her. “Actually, I could use your help, if you’re not busy.” Logan stepped forward to see, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m trying to hire some new faculty. I’m sure you’ve noticed the need.”

“It’s about time,” Logan said, grabbing one closed files that sat on the edge and opening it. “All mutants?”

“The applications were voluntary, Logan.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He glanced down at the three other folders on the desk. “Heh. I guess they ain’t linin’ up for a spot, then.”

Ororo sighed. “Most mutants prefer not to be known. When the professor was here we could seek them out—but I guess we just do what we can.”

Logan paged through the application, pausing at the picture. It was a woman with green hair (What the hell?). She was young, with sharp eyes and lips pulled into a slight frown.

Name: Lorna Dane. Codename: Polaris.

Not a bad looking broad, even if the hair was a bit strange. Surely it wasn’t natural.

Of course, Logan’d been asked that of his own hair before. Maybe it was some strange side-effect of her mutation.

Weird.

His eyebrows lifted. “Power of magnetism?” he read. He looked at Storm. “Do you blame me if I vote down for this one?” He hated how powerless he’d felt in Magneto’s hands—like a puppet on strings.

Helpless. God, he hated that feeling.

Storm sighed. “That’s the problem. There’s enough fears against mutants without adding to that the power of magnetism. It doesn’t help that Magneto has even claimed to be Lorna’s father.” Logan gave a low whistle.

“That’s strike two and three, ‘s far as I’m concerned,” he said, sitting on the edge of the desk. It creaked under his weight, but he figured it was strong enough to hold. If not, he was sure Ororo could afford a new desk, with everything she’d been left with.

“The X-Men came across Lorna some time ago, but after Magneto began his business . . . well, she took off with Alex to some dig . . . somewhere.” She waved her hand vaguely. “Actually, Alex sent in an application with her.”

“Alex?”

Storm looked at him. “Scott’s younger brother. His codename is Havok—he controls powerful plasma blasts, but has had some trouble controlling them in the past.”

“One-Eye has a brother?” Logan hadn’t known. Of course, he hadn’t really asked either. Nor cared, at that. “Great. Just what we need.”

“Alex and Scott were very much their own people,” Storm said. “Their parents were killed when they were very young, and I think Alex grew to resent the parent-role that Scott tried to fill.”

“Don’t blame him,” Logan muttered under his breath, dropping Dane’s folder on the desk. “So, no to Boy Scout the second, no to Magneta. Who’s left?”

Storm looked ready to protest his easy dismissal, but then just shook her head and continued. “That’s the problem, Logan. The only other two are women that I’d probably fight to the end before I let them step across our threshold.”

Logan looked at her, one eyebrow cocked in interest. “Really? Let’s see ‘em.” He snatched the folders and opened the first.

Name: Lady Tessa. No second name? All right, whatever. He, of all people, could deal with that. Codename: Sage. Not very specific, was she? Of course, it was better than ‘Havok.’ Yeah, he sure wanted a guy with that codename around a bunch of kids.

Powers: Superhuman mental processing including perfect memory and data analysis.

What the hell? Now that just sounded like a dictionary excerpt. But her picture wasn’t too bad—a dark-haired chick, dressed in—of all things—a black corset, showing off her wares like a cheap ****e.

Was she serious? She looked like a bad porn star, and sounded worse.

Still, what was up with all these broads? Did mutant powers automatically make them hot as hell and twice as sexy? Not to mention that black leather . . .

Still, that didn’t ring a bell in the “good for children” category.
 
“Huh.” He dropped it back on the desk and picked up the next. The picture included caught his eye immediately. The picture was flawless—from the slightly tilted blue eyes to the perfect-shaped chin and nose. Her face was smooth—young, and framed in perfectly-styled blond hair—but her eyes were experienced, the set of her chin calculating. The description of powers was short and to the point: Class four telepath.

Emma Frost, eh? The ‘White Queen’? But what was the deal with corset theme—even if this one was white? Didn’t they realize how little that sort of thing left to the imagination?

He took his time, pretending to scan the page while he enjoyed the view for a few seconds longer.

“My guess is that one of them entered as a joke, and the other entered just for spite,” Storm said with a tired smile, leaning her chin on her elbow and looking at them.

“Am I missin’ some more history here?” Logan asked. It sure seemed there was a lot of it.

“I’ll keep it short in saying that Miss Frost and the Lady Tessa were both in the inner circle of the Hellfire Club.”

“Sounds cozy.”

“They’re a group of wealthy and powerful mutants manipulating the world in order to gain greater power and riches.”

“Where do you sign up?”

“Very funny, Logan.”

“Who said I was joking?” he replied, looking back down at the file. “So, what’s the deal?”

“A few years ago, just after the professor started accepting a larger group into the school, we had some . . . problems.”

Logan’s eyebrow lifted. “Problems?”

“It was one of our first missions as X-Men. We were inexperienced.”

“In other words, they beat you five ways to hell and back,” he said knowingly. Storm glared at him, but didn’t deny it.

“Emma Frost and an illusionist of theirs were able to convince Jean she was on their side. It was . . . the first time we ever had to deal with the Phoenix. Suffice it to say that the X-Men were very nearly put an end to before we hardly had begun.”

Logan started, looking up to stare at her. “What the hell’re you on about?” he demanded. “The first time?”

“They set Jean’s powers free—made them go wild, somehow. I don’t know the details, but . . . the professor said he’d put it well under control. Jean . . . Jean agreed to his caging it in her mind.”

Logan jerked to his feet, too agitated to remain sitting. He ran a hand through his hair, seemingly forgetting the folder in his hand. “And I’ve never heard of this why?”

“Even if you were a ‘social butterfly,’ Wolverine, it would take more than a few hours to catch you up with everything the X-Men faced before you joined up. And it wasn’t like you’ve been in a mood to hear anything about Jean, either.”

Logan ignored that, looking back down at the folder. He was silent for a minute, pretending to read the page, but now not even really seeing the picture of the hot blond.

“So how’d you beat her?” he asked neutrally. They hadn’t had to kill Jeannie before. God, had there been a chance that he hadn’t had to kill her? Could he have saved her, somehow . . . ?

“It was Scott,” Storm admitted softly. “The Phoenix couldn’t kill him. They had a . . . a bond, Logan. Jean used to say she followed it back from the darkness back into her true self.”

Logan didn’t answer at first. He couldn’t look at Storm, and for nowhere else to look his eyes went back down to the picture of the White Queen in his hand.

“It’s too damn bad it didn’t work the second time.”

So this lady’d suckered Jean, huh? That made her powerful, at least. And dangerous, certainly. What was she playing at? They didn’t really think them desperate (or stupid) enough to actually seriously consider them.

“So what sort of game are they playing, pretending to want to come here?”

“Since then, both of them went separate ways from the Inner Circle, from what I hear,” Storm said. “Apparently they’ve both had a whole and complete change of heart. Frost even tried opening a mutant academy of her own in Massachusetts, but something happened. I just heard there was a bomb, or something. One of the students died, and it all fell apart. She writes in her application how her new life’s goal is to help young mutants in a world increasingly hostile towards them.”

Logan grunted. “Well, we know who Xavier would choose if he were here. He always did like the hopeless cases.”

“The professor had hope enough for all of us,” Storm replied, looking down at the folders.

Logan closed Emma Frost’s folder and dropped it on the desk. “Well, darlin’, I can’t help you.”

“I think you’re too hasty in your judgment, Logan. I trust Alex and Lorna. I was actually just about to give them a call and ask them when they could get here.”

“See? It’s not like you need me anyway.” He stood, arching backwards as he stretched. His back popped with a vaguely metallic sound, and he shook himself slightly, like a dog rising from the rug, as he turned to go.

“Logan?” He paused, looking back at her with his usual glare. “Thank you for listening.”

Logan grunted, dismissing her thanks, and left, closing the door behind him. Ororo looked at the closed door for a few seconds longer, then chuckled softly, shaking her head as she reached for the phone.

--------------------------------

It took him some time, but lookin’ back I gotta say that kid was a natural. Sure, I figured he was still as helpless as a squirrel kit with its eyes still closed, but he wasn’t half bad. Wonder what happened to him.

He cursed up a storm, though. Did good enough, like I said, but Canada ain’t no walk in the park, and hardly barefoot weather for the average kid. Damn, if ‘Ro ever found out how I treated that kid I’d be kicked out once ‘n for all. The bastard animal that I am just didn’t know any better, I guess.

Still, by ‘round noon I realized his feet were startin’ to bleed, and they weren’t healing up properly, and he was startin’ to shiver again too. We took a quick rest and I gave him back his boots. He kept gettin’ better at the walkin’ thing, too, so I let him keep them. Too little, too late, maybe. I dunno, but the poor kid just didn’t take to the cold very well, and takin’ his boots didn’t help at all, I can tell you that.

----------------------------------

The kid’s footsteps were considerably softer, even taking into account his slight limp. Was something wrong with him? Wolverine hadn’t noticed anything terribly bad before he put his boots back on—just a little bleeding, but still . . .

There was a blur from the bushes, and before Gambit could register what it was Wolverine had leaped forward, slamming into the deer at full-force.

His claws slit through its jugular at the same time as the other set ripped through its chest, shredding its heart and killing it almost instantly. Blood fountained from the wounds, splattering on the Wolverine’s face and chest. Some splattered on Gambits boots before he could jump back to a safe distance.

Wolverine turned from his prey to the kid. The taste of his meal was already in his mouth—it was best hot, with the rush of the hunt. He wiped his bloodstained forearm across his chops, smearing the redness there.

“Mon dieu,” Gambit swore. He turned away suddenly, bending over his knees and gagging into the bushes. Wolverine wrinkled his nose at the bitter scent as the kid ejected whatever it was in his stomach.

Was the kid sick? Poisoned? Wolverine hadn’t seen him eat anything.

He moved forward, slowly, reaching out a hand towards the kid.

Gambit recoiled sharply from his blood-stained fingers, staggering to dodge his reach. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, looking green.

“I—‘m all right,” he said faintly. “I—I’m stuck in da middle a nowhere wit a wild man, but I’m all right. Gambit gonna be okay.”

Wolverine looked down at his hands, turning them over to see the blood flecked up his arms. He felt something in his gut—was he feeling sick too? He glanced back at his kill, but no—he hadn’t tasted poison, and this was fresh meat. The meat was good. But suddenly he wasn’t all that hungry anymore, and something—maybe that—made him mad.

The kid was still staring at him—his strange eyes seeming even darker in his pale face. And for some reason—the growing knot in his stomach, the itch of the kid’s eyes on him—it made him angry. Furious. He wished the deer was still alive, so he could kill it all over again.

With a soft snarl, he turned, snikting his claws and ripping a large piece off the flank with ease. He tossed it to the kid. It landed at his feet with a sickening thud, and Wolverine went back to his meal.

“You poor devil,” Gambit said, drawing his arms around himself.

Wolverine ripped into his meal, ignoring the damn kid. He needed to stay strong—to eat food while he could—and it was just pain. He didn’t know where it was coming from, but it would go away. It always did.

God, if the kid didn’t stop staring, he was going to kill him.

He finished, turning to the kid, who was still standing there, one hand over his stomach as he stared down at the fresh cut still sitting in the dirt after his feet.

What the hell was he waiting for?

“D—d’you know where dere’s a river, homme? Gambit need a drink.”

Were all kids this needy?

Wolverine bared his teeth briefly, and the kid took a quick step back, but then the wild man turned and stepped in another direction. The kid didn’t follow immediately, but paused to pick up the meat before following.

“Ugh,” the kid muttered. “I get back ta N’awlins, and I never gonna eat meat again.”

TBC . . .
 
Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you have a happy holiday!
 
LOL, loved the Gambit parts again as usual. :D Poor Remy, getting a crash course in survival camp. :p Great chapter.
 
Just read the thing in one go, just wanted to say I loved it so far. Keep it up! :D
 
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Chapter 14: Two’s Company

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The river wasn’t far off the trail, which was good. Wolverine was feeling the urge to get farther away from mankind—he’d smelled some of them earlier on that day, and even if the scent was old and fading, he didn’t like it. It brought back memories he was trying to forget.

They were still too close to the place with the beer, and after the trouble they’d had, the men could try to come after them. To hunt them.

But it was almost night, anyway. The kid was beginning to shiver again, and he looked about ready to fall over if they didn’t stop and rest soon.

Wolverine snorted softly, then walked to the water and knelt down to drink.

“Dat water good ta drink, Wolverine?”

Wolverine looked up from his long drink—his muttonchops dripping—and looked at him as if he were particularly dense.

“Yeah, I guess dat’s a stupid question ta ask you.” He still didn’t move from the few steps behind him. The distance probably made him feel safer, though Wolverine knew that was stupid. He could cross that distance in the time it took the kid to blink, if he wanted to.

He began washing the drying blood off his arms and face, his hearing still towards the kid as he finally took a hesitant step forward. The kid knelt down a few steps upstream, put the meat that he’d been carrying beside him, then began washing his hands. Wolverine watched curiously as he washed with an absurd caution, scrubbing at his hands like they were diseased. The kid then waited for a couple minutes before dipping his cupped hands into the water, and drinking from his hands, though most of the water slipped right between his fingers.

Wolverine grunted in amusement, shaking water droplets from his hair.

Men were strange.

The kid then went on to wash his meat—which Wolverine could understand, and he thought it might be a good idea in the future, if he didn’t mind letting the meat get cold. The dirt mixed in with the blood just didn’t taste too good, after all. The kid stood, holding the slickly dripping cut in a hand and looking at him uncertainly. “Well, you don’t mind Gambit doing the cooking? All right if he start da fire right here for da night?”

A fire?

Wolverine lifted his nose, testing the air.

The low clouds would hide the smoke from anyone who might be watching. They would be safe. He was tired and had a stomach full of food, but he could take care of any predators—unlike the kid—if they came lurking.

He nodded to the kid’s question, continuing to wash the blood from his skin.

The kid moved around, looking for dry wood and twigs and placed them carefully on the ground. He took the meat and washed it at the river before looking over at Wolverine, who had stripped and was now walking around in the shallow water, his wild hair dripping as he waded waist-deep, apparently looking for fish.

“Wolverine?” Remy called hesitantly.

Wolverine’s head jerked up in a motion much more familiar to animals than men as he looked to him.

“Can’t cook a thing dis size,” the kid explained. “Mind cutting it with . . . dose claws of yours?”

Wolverine paused, looking up at him with no little annoyance. He spoke one word, then went back to his business.

“You.”

Gambit laughed weakly. “Dat a funny joke, Wolverine. But like most people, I don’t got big o’ knives hiding in my knuckles.”

Wolverine looked up at him, frowned, then rose right out of the water. Gambit took an involuntary step back as the wild man came to him, then held his ground.

SNIKT!

Flawless blades jutted from Wolverine’s fist. He sliced quickly and neatly—the claws cutting through the tough meat as if it were soft butter before handing it back to the kid, who was staring at his claws

Wolverine followed his gaze, looking at the freshly-rebloodied blades. He turned them over, watching the evening light catch the edge.

His eyes narrowed, and the cold water dripping down his legs suddenly felt like ice. Dread built up in his mind, ready to ambush him, like the images in his sleep.

What was it? What did they mean?

The kid was staring at them too. “Dose aren’t natural, are dey, Wolvie?” he asked, his voice soft. He looked up at him. “Someone did that to you, didn’t they? You weren’t always like dis.”

Wolverine’s frown back was confused, not understanding. He retracted his claws and glared at the kid, who looked away quickly. Wolverine grunted and turned away from him, still frowning.

He sat in the shadows of the forest, his legs crossed and drawn up close against his chest for warmth. He was a fair distance away as he watched the kid make his fire—a safe distance away if there was an explosion like there had been before.

But no—he didn’t use a card at all. Instead, he pulled some plastic thing out of his coat and flicked it, and yellow flames licked at the kindling he’d gathered. It took some time, but at last the kid had the meat over the fire, dripping its greases onto the red-hot wood.

Finally, the kid took the crisp meat from the fire, letting it cool before ripping into it like a ravenous wolf.

It was a while before he slowed down, taking time to chew before he swallowed, which Wolverine was grateful for. He didn’t want the kid choking to death.

Suddenly the kid went still, casting a nervous look in his direction. He drew his coat around him, his breath showing in the air.

“You wanna come over here, Wolvie? It’s a whole lot warmer.”

Wolverine didn’t move.

“I . . . I tink this tastes better too, homme, if you want some.”

Silence.

The kid bit his lip, pushing his hair out of his eyes with greasy fingers. He hesitated, then tore a piece of steaming meat off of his meal and carefully tossed it onto the other side of the fire.

Wolverine watched it—watched the steam rising. His fingers and toes were a bit numb—the torn and blood-stiff pants he’d pulled on after wading were slightly damp and cold. And he was a little hungry, still. Maybe.

Slowly he unfolded himself from his position, rising cautiously. He moved forward, his nose twitching at the scent of the cooked meat, and slowly lifted the piece from the dirt.

He brushed it off, the warmth pleasant against his fingers, and then stuffed it all in his mouth.

It was cooled just enough not to burn his mouth. He chewed it carefully, then swallowed. The meat settled nicely in his stomach.

Ah. So that was how they did it at the place with the beer. It didn’t taste quite as good, and it was a bit overdone, but that was all right.

“Here’s some more,” the kid held out a bigger piece towards him.

Wolverine came forward slowly, taking the meat from the kid and eating it. He sat down there, enjoying the warmth of the fire.

It was good. Even though the fire was dangerous—he knew men could possible see it, and follow the light out to find them—he knew it was good. And for this one night, at least, it was worth the danger.

They sat in silence for some long minutes. The wind was picking up a little, and the kid added more wood to the fire and edged closer.

The fire’s warmth grew, and Wolverine shifted slightly away, so that the warmth was a brush of temptation rather than a compassing feeling against the chill of the night. He stared at the flames, mesmerized by the flickering light.

It was good. But something told him it could hurt—burn. Kill.

There was a vague thought, almost a—what? Dream?

Memory?

Rising up with bloodlust terrible pain, terror, confusion, and a rage of flames—popping his claws, and then smelling the gas. It swept over him like a wave, blistering his skin, boiling his blood, turning his agony-curled fingers to crisp bones, blackened and burning . . . oh, God, the pain.

He wanted to kill them. He wanted to rip them, to tear them, to stop it . . . to stop it all, but he couldn’t move. His senses were overwhelmed with the stench of his own burning flesh—and then just pain. His limbs were shriveling, pulled down by a terrible, unnatural weight. He couldn’t move—helpless. Helpless, with pain burning away his eyes, his brain . . . God . . . What had they done with him?

“Oh my God! Oh my God!”

“Necessary action, doctor. You saw what happened. He was about to attack again.”

“Yes . . . but . . . I mean, can’t we treat him better than this? He’s still human in some way, isn’t he?”

“In some way . . . But your earlier description was more apt, perhaps. A mindless, murdering animal, I believe you said.”

“Guess so . . . “

He was a mindless, murdering animal.

No! He wasn’t! He wasn’t!

Oh, God, he wanted to kill them.

He∙wanted∙to∙go∙back∙and∙rip∙them∙open∙and∙kill∙and∙kill∙and∙kill∙them∙all∙over∙again∙they’d∙hurt∙him∙they’d∙killed∙him∙oh∙god∙he’d∙KILL∙them∙what∙had∙they∙done∙to∙him∙what∙was∙he∙what∙was∙he∙WHO∙WAS∙HE?! ∙he∙was∙a∙MAN∙a∙MAN!∙he∙was . . . he∙was . . .

oh∙god∙oh∙god∙oh∙god . . .

“Wolverine?”

The Wolverine started with a gasp, jerking his eyes up, and away from where he was staring at his hands. He looked around the forest, the screaming voice in his head disappearing like a dream. He realized he was panting, and the wind chilled fresh sweat dripping down his face. His head felt like someone had struck a nail through the base of his skull

He clenched his fists with a growl. The kid watched him, his strange red eyes flickering like embers in the shadows as he watched him.

“You okay? Y-you looked out of it for a second, dere.” Wolverine turned his face away. Gambit hesitated, and asked, almost to himself as he pulled his coat more around him. “What you thinkin’ about?”

There was silence for a long moment. The pain of the waking-dream was fading, leaving behind an empty, terrible void.

He wanted to howl. To rage. The animal wanted blood.

SNIKT!

The kid jumped, sliding backwards automatically, but the Wolverine just stared at the claws of the hand he’d popped, turning shining, flawless blades over and seeing the flames reflect off them. He glanced back at the kid, and then looked back down, retracting them again.

SNAKT. SNIKT. SNAKT. SNIKT. SNAKT. SNIKT. SNAKT.

Blood dripped from the cuts as blades cut through them again and again, breaking the skin. It ran between his fingers, and dripped down, leaving a new bloodstain on his torn and filthy pant leg.

“Somethin’ happened to you, didn’t it?” Gambit whispered softly. “You not half the animal you act, are you, homme? Someone hurt you. Someone hurt you . . . real bad.”

SNIKT. Wolverine paused, looking at him, and wiped the liquid off his face. It was clear sweat, of course, but he’d almost expected it to be scarlet red.

“What your name?”

He knew that one. “Wolverine,” he answered gruffly.

“Wolverine—that’s an animal, you know that? You—you a man.” Wolverine snorted—he knew that he was a man, after all. He’d figured that out on his own, damn him. “You even a freak like me, but dose claws—dey metal. You . . . you weren’t born wit dose, were you? You weren’t always like dis.” Remy’s eyes darted to the dogtags glinting on his chest, but his eyes scurried away. He huddled deeper into his coat. “What happened to you, homme?”

What happened to him? He was born. He woke up, in the snow, he was . . .

He looked down at his still-extended claws.

Had he been something—someone—before this? Had he been a man, before he’d been an animal?

And if he had, why couldn’t he remember?
 
------------------------------------------------

It’s funny. I didn’t really think that I was all that different from everyone else. Sure, the kid called us ‘freaks,’ but that didn’t really mean anything to me. I just figured everyone kept their claws hidden—I did most the time anyway. It got me thinkin’—somethin’ I didn’t do too much back then. Still dunno if I do. And Storm just loves to do that—track me down in the middle of the night and try to get me to think. It takes some getting used to.

But y’know, thing’s’ve been getting’ a bit better around here. Ororo’s stopped yankin’ my chain so much, and y’know, she ain’t half so bad as she lets on. I figure she respected ol’ Cyke a little too much, and it’s wearin’ on her. She’s gotta figure out how to run this place her own way, or she’s gonna fall apart.

I told her that last night, when I ran into her again in the woods (like I said, she’s been doin’ that more often now, but I guess nothin’ bad’s come of it so far)—thought she might blow up on me (that woman’s as defending as a tiger to her kits when it comes to Charlie and Summers)—but she surprised me. Actually thanked me.

Hell, who’m I kiddin’? I gotta stop this before I do somethin’ that’ll bring this whole place down on all of our heads.

------------------------------------------------

It was late, even for a Saturday. Good time of day—probably the best. The kids were finally in bed, except for a few who Logan didn’t really give a damn if they stayed up all night. Rogue was old enough, and so were a number of the students. Even if Ororo insisted a curfew be kept, if Kitty was running up and down through floors after hours, it wasn’t like he was going to rat her out.

‘Sides, curfew was good. Kylee, the little furball, got downright *****y if she got to bed too late, and a late Saturday night was enough to keep everyone awake. She was asleep right now, tucked into Logan’s bed—again. Figures. Just when he had started getting used to sleeping in a good bed, he ended up getting kicked out and onto the floor again.

Of course, that was his idea, not Kylee’s. He didn’t want to wake up after a nightmare and . . .

God, he hardly dared sleep in the same room with her at all. No wonder he was so tired. Even with the couple hours of sleep he got in the forest last night after Storm’d taken off, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept for more than a couple hours together . . . .

He shook himself, shrugging on his jacket as he stepped down the stairs and down the hall towards the door. With luck Storm would already be in bed, so he wouldn’t have to have another one of those damn talks about being a damn good example to the kids.

Just as he thought that, though, he stepped into the entryway and caught her scent.

Think of the devil.

“You’re leaving, Logan?”

“What’s it look like?”

Storm stepped out of the adjacent hallway, her odd blue eyes watching him. She was dressed in her robe, her feet bare, and she smelled like earth and green things. She’d probably just come in from her greenhouse.

She’d spent a lot of time there, since she’d taken over the school. He wondered if she was getting even worse hours of sleep than he was.

“Can I help you with somethin’, darlin’?”


Ororo took another step forward, her robe shifting around her, and Logan felt his eyes being drawn down to her neckline—but no, damn him. This was Storm, not some cheap ****e at a bar.

But did that make it bad to enjoy the view?

He wasn’t hurting anyone, after all.

She folded her arms, not helping him in the slightest. His eyes slid down again.

“You’ll be back?” she asked.

Logan looked towards the door. “Course. I promised the kids an extra exercise tomorrow, ‘cause they were so overeager today.”

“Oh yes,” Storm said with a smile. “I heard about that. Bobby sure has loosened up a lot, hasn’t he?”

“I liked him better when he was a Scott-wannabe,” Logan grunted.

Right in the middle of the two-mile run Logan’d ordered the kids on for yapping away like overactive pups, the Popsicle’d froze up a hundred-plus snowballs and started a full on, flaming snowball fight. He’d thrown a bunch at Angel, who’d scooped up an armful and taken to the air, but with his city-boy aim (even if it was improving, Logan admitted grudgingly) he’d accidentally pummeled Jubilee, which brought the girls full on into the growing fight. Colossus was dragged in by Kitty’s encouragement, and inevitably half the school was involved before all the snow’d melted into a mess of mud and scorched earth (powers had been called free game after Kitty had gone intangible right before getting whitewashed by Rogue, who’d switched sides in the middle of the fight).

“If I recall correctly, though, you seemed to be having as much fun as the rest of them,” Ororo commented.

“Learning opportunity,” Logan grunted. “Damn if I was about to let Iceman get away with it without a taste of his own medicine.”

“And what about Angel?”

“He hit me first.” Again with the bad aiming. “‘Sides, there was stuff enough to be learned out there. Never seen so much back-stabbing in my life. Prepare ‘em for the real world.” Even Rogue’d turned on him in the end. He hadn’t planned on throwing her in the pool, but she’d good as asked for it.

Storm laughed—a damn good sound, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

“It’d love to see those kind of lessons more often, Logan.”

“Yeah, Blobbo and Fireboy really love snowball fights, let me tell you,” he replied dryly. “Next time I see Magneto we’ll talk about an arms truce.”

Storm smiled. He pulled out a cigar and turned a bit away as he lit up, getting it going good and well and just waiting for Ororo to tell him to put it out. But instead—unexpectedly, she put a light hand on his arm.

He felt a shock right through his skeleton, the animal in him snarling alarm. He jerked back, putting an automatic step between them. His stance was instinctively defensive, his fists clenching without thought.

Storm took her own step back, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Logan.”

Logan wanted to growl—not at her, but at him. At himself, the screwed-up, wild bastard that he was. Couldn’t even handle a surprise touch from a woman—even one he might even trust a bit—without setting his heart a pounding like Juggernaut on a treadmill. “Don’t be,” he said, unclenching his fists and stuffing the lighter in his hand into his pocket. He’d burned his palm when he’d clenched it in his fist, but even as he recognized the pain it had healed up and was gone.

He turned to the door, not looking at her.

“Be careful out there, Logan,” Storm said, and while her voice still held a slight apologetic tone, it was also slightly playful—teasing.

This wasn’t the normal lecture. It was too nice, too easy to walk out the door into the night, like she knew he’d be coming back. She had trust that’d he’d be back, that she could expect him back, that she could expect him to be there.

He didn’t like it one bit. He put his hand on the doorknob, but then stopped.

He glanced over at the weather goddess, her hair alight in the dim glow of the hall light behind him.

He didn’t like it one bit.

“I ain’t worth it, Storm.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talkin’ about. I can smell it, ‘Ro, and I’ll tell you what. You need to get out—to get out of here some of the time and see good people. Locked up here with nobody but the Celibate Blue Priest and me, I don’t blame you for not thinkin’ right. You—me—there’s nothin’ there, got it?”

“Smell?” Ororo repeated, looking a bit taken aback. That’s right, smell. He could smell that she was growing more attracted to him—flirting with him, dammit!

God, she smelled wonderful.

He didn’t like it one bit.

But then Ororo’s eyes darkened, and she frowned at him. “What do you mean, you aren’t worth it?”

Logan bristled. “You don’t know me, and dammit, I don’t think you want to know me—‘cause you can’t understand it. So keep the hell to yourself, got it?”

The end. End of story.

Logan threw open the door and stepped out before closing the door firmly between them, cutting the conversation short and finishing it once and for all.

Best stop a thing like that before it got started.

TBC . . .
 
Another great chapter! :D You are still consistantly good and very entertaining. Can't wait for the next one!
 
Enjoy.

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Chapter 15: One’s Better

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What Logan loved about his adopted Harley was the same thing he loved about running out in the woods at night. You get on a deserted road with no lights, you hit the gas for all its worth—and that’s freedom. The wind snagged at his jacket as he ducked down, decreasing the wind flow, and he let himself soar.

It reminded him of flying. Of course, he’d never flown—not outside like this, with the wind sweeping the air from his face, but it was almost familiar.

Damn that he couldn’t say why. For all he knew, that familiar feeling—like a shadow, or a ghost of a memory walking across his mind—could mean anything, or nothing at all.

Maybe he had a Harley before. Maybe he had a jeep. Or maybe he had a penchant for sky diving—any of those would work. But none of them rang a bell.

He pushed the throttle on higher, listening to the machine roar underneath him like a wild animal set free.

Forgetting, ignoring, leaving things behind in the darkness.

How many times had he done this very thing? The irony of his life was that no matter how much he tried to remember, it always seemed he just built up more things he wanted to forget.

But he never could. Drinks wouldn’t do it, drugs wouldn’t do it, broads wouldn’t do it.

Only the wild. Only freedom. Only the purring, wild lure of the animal inside of him.

Dammit, the only way to forget would be to lose himself, maybe for good.

And after fighting all this time to become a man, he couldn’t let go of that.

Even when it would be so much easier—so much simpler, just to let it all go, and run free.

The illusion of it—running in the woods, or roaring on his bike—it was the closest he could let himself get to the edge.

So he flew—riding the wind, riding the edge of glorious wild freedom—and even the beast rejoiced in it.

In the darkness, he barely saw the blur of the swinging blade before it hit him. He jerked the bike to the side instinctively, but it was too little too late. Metal tore through metal; the tires screeched as the bike twisted sideways, and then Logan was airborne.

****!

He hit the road, with enough forward momentum to make him skip off the rough asphalt like a stone off the surface of a lake. The first hit he landed on his head, smashing his nose into fragments and near knocking him out as half the skin was torn off of his scalp, which he was actually grateful for, because it made the rest of it harder to remember. He flew into the air, flipping clean over before landing on his back and rolling, tearing off his shirt and the layers of flesh beneath like a meat cleaver.

He must’ve blacked out for a second, because when he came back to himself the world had stopped turning (despite the fact that he still somehow felt like it was), and he felt like he’d been turned into ground beef. His arms burned like a million ants were burrowing under his skin—nah, not ants. Maybe acid. Yeah, he could remember acid, and that was as close to this as he could figure.

Someone had done this. Someone with—

—a sword?

He heard it—or maybe felt it, since one of his ears was probably lying shredded about twenty yards back by what was left of his bike. But instinct screamed at him, and with what strength he could muster he rolled away, just as a sword slashed just where his neck had been, burying the tip of the blade in the road.

Logan staggered to his feet, shaking his head at some blood dripping into one of his eyes. He couldn’t feel the other one—there was just a flame of agony from the whole side of his face—it was probably half on the road along with his missing ear. The blade was coming again—but no—there were two—and somehow he managed to catch both of them between the claws on each hand. The guy was fast, though—he spun away, leaping to a safe distance.

Logan spun backwards himself, giving himself room to catch his breath and gauge his opponent. His attacker was swathed in black—

Damn, was he serious?

If it weren’t for the fact that his blood felt like it was boiling in his veins—on his torn skin, tearing through him with a howling fury—he would have laughed out loud.

Only he had enough bad luck to get attacked by a psycho-ninja on a back road in the middle of New York.

“Hello again, meat,” the man rasped. His voice sounded like metal on metal, and made Logan’s newly-growing hair stand on end. Damn, even that hurt. “After all this time, I’d wondered where you’d been hiding.” The veil over his face shifted, and Logan had the absurd feeling that the son-of-a-***** was smiling. “I’m very glad you’re not dead.”

Logan took the opportunity to try and brush away some of the blood from his eye again—he needed to be able to see. White agony threatened to make him pass out again—but no. The rage was beginning to raise, to sweep the pain away. It was just pain, after all. He’d heal. He’d forget.

“All right,” he growled, his own blood in his mouth as he felt his nose beginning to reshape itself, and the healing of his skin fire as bad as the injury itself. The animal wanted to kill him right now, and ask questions later, but he needed time to let his healing factor do its work. The world was spinning—or was that his head?—and the ragged remains of his pants were clinging to his legs—literally soaked with scarlet. “I don’t know who you are, but you just earned yourself a one-way ticket to hell.” He held his claws before him. “Got any last words, pal? I’m dyin’ ta have you spill yer guts.”

The man raised his sword and shorter knife in front of him. “So it is true about your memories. Almost a pity—yet it seems you haven’t changed at all.” He reached up, pulling the veil down, so Logan saw a blurred, too-pale face in the shadows of his cowl. The man smiled—no. He bore his teeth like an animal, and Logan returned it, blood dripping between his teeth. “You still talk too much.”

“Who are you, and how the hell d’ya know me?” Logan demanded. His nose healed enough that he finally got a whiff of the man before him, though it was tainted with the stink of his own blood. Whatever it was, he wasn’t human. Not a normal one, anyway, and not any kind of mutant he’d ever come across. The guy stank worse than Sabretooth—and that was saying something. “What the hell are you?”

The man-creature—whatever the hell it was—raised its sword, and Logan tensed. “Yes, get me talking, and let yourself heal. Always a good plan, isn’t it, immortal one?”

He lunged. The bastard was fast—inhumanly fast, and Logan was barely able to catch the sword before it sliced right into his throat. The second blade sliced through his already-hamburgered leg, and he staggered, twisting backwards and striking out at the same time. His claws caught black fabric, and the psycho flipped out of the way, standing before him.

“I ain’t immortal,” Logan snarled, wanting to rush him, wanting to charge at him and claw away until he was lost in red and gore and blood. But he couldn’t. The bastard was too fast, he was too injured—light-headed. He need time to heal, time to think.

His attacker spun, landing smoothly and facing them. “That’s what you told me decades ago, but you haven’t changed. Not since Madripoor . . . No—Not since France.”

France? What did this guy know? What was he talking about? It didn’t matter that this foul-smelling clown was trying to kill him—he knew who he had been, and Logan was going to take opportunity of that. If only to slow him down and allow himself more time to heal. “What the hell was I doin’ in France, let alone with a bastard like you?”

He wanted to lose himself in the animal raging up inside him—it’d make the pain go away, but he couldn’t let himself let his go. He’d worked so hard to rein the animal in; if he let it out now he’d have to start all over again.

The pale man lunged again, and Logan ducked, bringing his claws up and pivoting—somehow deflecting both blades harmlessly away and managing to strike back. He felt something more solid catch on his blades, smelled the stink of the creature increase as he sliced through flesh, but didn’t follow up. He spun backwards, putting distance between them and cursing under his breath as he felt the world tilt again, and his good eye’s vision grow paler.

Take your time. Think. You are a man, not an animal. Fight like one.

It was another one of those phantom voices. He wished he had time to wonder where this one was from.

The ninja-guy landed perfectly, his long pale hair coming free of the hood. He wasn’t unbalanced or winded, and Logan couldn’t see where he had felt his claws catch him.

“I am known as Bloodscream,” the creature replied, eerily composed, uncannily posed to strike—like a giant rattler surrounding a rat. “And I need your blood, Ancient One. Only by the blood of an immortal will you be freed.”

Blood? What the hell was this madman on? Didn’t he realize Halloween wasn’t for another month?

He could feel his muscles stitching back together, and his vision in one eye was almost back to normal. He was done playing around.

“You want my blood, Gramps?” he said, his voice low, his patience and control slipping. “Come get it.” But this time, he didn’t wait for his opponent to strike. He leaped forward, feinting before cutting down and striking low. Bloodscream twisted away, so Logan adjusted and cut upwards, slicing off two of the guy’s fingers and sending his sword skittering across the blood-splattered road. Black, foul-smelling sludge spouted from his stumps of pale fingers.

“Rargh!” Bloodscream snarled, but instead of retreating to regroup and attack he cut back in, leaping over him and striking at his back. Logan spun, catching the sword’s blade before it could reach him, but feeling a sudden searing of heat on his shoulder as something brushed against him. He snarled, punching back with his claws, and his opponent was forced to duck and roll to keep from getting his head lopped clean off. Logan followed, slicing after him, ready to end this.

Bloodscream moved faster than Logan could react, leaping to his feet and striking back.

Logan didn’t have time to dodge, but instead kept his momentum forward, going for keeps. He cut deep into the creature’s ribs, but something ripped into his shoulder, digging into him—like fire eating right into his veins—

Cripes! The bastard’d had actually bitten him!?

He could almost feel the life leaving him—feel the blood rushing out, and his healing factor struggling in vain to replace it. There was a thrill of incredulity mixed with brief panic, then pain, and rage.

Rage.

Something snapped within him, and it flickered in his eyes—something red, and wild, and Logan was gone.

“Aarrrrrrgh!” He swiped for the vampire’s (?) throat, but he pulled back just in time—inhumanly fast. Wolverine snarled, leaping after him, but the creature evaded him, so he only caught cloth as he reeled, feeling drained and weak, but shaking it off.

That didn’t matter to the Wolverine. Nothing did.

Bloodscream smiled, his teeth red with Logan’s blood. “So sweet—so much power runs through your veins! I have not felt so alive since our last meeting, wild one!” He held his sword with one hand and held out the other—now stained red with Logan’s blood. His fingers had grown back.

Damn. The bugger healed even faster than he did.

Oh, well. More fun killing him then, the low-life scumbag.

Wolverine struck out, rolling, striking. Black, thick blood flew through the air, but another deep cut across Logan’s ribs poured red. He roared—ripping down and across his enemy, tasting his bitter, foul blood on his tongue, slicing right through his sword. The vampire dropped the useless handle, grabbing onto the side of his neck with both of his hands—driving him to the ground.

Wolverine snarled, digging his claws into Bloodscream’s chest and trying to flip him over, to get the upper hand—but he was weakening. His hearing roared like bad static—he was growing faint. And was that Bloodscream—laughing?

No!

He wasn’t going to die like this! Not like an animal!

He pulled his claws out of the bastard’s chest, and Bloodscream let go of his neck, grabbing one of his wrists to keep him from striking, but Logan jerked his knee upwards.

To hell with honorable fighting. This fight had started dirty, and it was going to end dirty.

Bloodscream gasped a choked scream—good. He wasn’t sure what this clown was, but he was man enough for an adamantium knee to the family jewels to be felt for a couple generations down the line.

He didn’t hesitate, but with the last surge of strength wrenched one arm free and struck, cutting the creature’s gasps short.

Bloodsport’s head went flying from his shoulders, rolling into a ditch by the road. The body slumped forward, leaking some reeking dark fluid onto Logan’s gash-riddled chest. He groaned, pushing the already-cold corpse off him.

“Ugh.” Logan staggered to his feet, bleeding from so many different cuts that he wasn’t sure which one he should put his hand over. Finally he put his hand over his side, where he could see a long of a silver rib sticking through. “Damn.” He took a step forward, almost falling on his face. Damn, he must look like a drunk. He sure as hell sounded like one. He felt something running down his chest and brought a hand up to his neck, where Bloodscream had grabbed him. The skin was raw—burned, and dripping blood like a broken faucet. He jerked his hand away, gritting his teeth. “Gotta—gotta heal, dammit.”

He was wavering—dammit, he wasn’t going to let himself pass out on the road. The son-of-a-***** was dead, he just needed to rest for a second, then get back—get back . . .

Where was his bike?

He turned, almost falling over as the world reeled dangerously around him.

It sat just a few feet away, the first tire near torn right in half, and the engine shredded into a mess of metal.

The damn vampire’d killed his bike.

He hoped Storm’d kept the insurance up-to-date.

His knees hit the concrete, his legs too weak to hold his full weight.

It was times like this that he really felt all that metal weighing him down.

How much extra was it, anyway? A hundred pounds? More . . . ?
 
He shut his good eye for a second, resting his torn palms on the asphalt as he grit his teeth against the agony of his insides stitching themselves back together.

Dammit. It felt like the bastard’d taken out his liver. Maybe his kidneys, too—and that was a lung he was hearing, wasn’t it? Slipped right through his ribcage and sliced it open like Thanksgiving turkey. No wonder he felt like he was swimming—drowning. He was drowning in his own blood. Never really liked swimming all that much, anyway . . . . Bad memories and all . . . .

‘Sides, all that metal’d probably just drag him right down to—down . . . .

He spat out a mouthful of blood, trying to keep his breathing steady—trying to keep from blacking out. He’d heal. He already was healing, even if it had to be slower, now. Damn healing factor was taxed to hell already.

Just close his good eye for a second, try not to listen—or feel—his body crawl back together, like needles stitching through his arms, his face, his gut—like knives, cutting him open.

The skin closed up over his ribs, agony ripping over as waves as nerves healed themselves, muscles reconnected, and skin stretched. He must’ve looked like a backwards cadaver.

His ear twisted into shape, his hearing returning just as he heard a footstep fall behind him, and a hand of fire slap onto the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin and driving him to the ground with inhuman strength, grinding his still-healing skin into the dirt and holding him there, trapped.

“RRRRRRRAAAAAAWWGGG—!!!!” His roar was cut off as Bloodscream’s hand ripped across his throat, cutting deep. Blood bubbled over his tongue, but not as much as there should be—he’d lost too much already . . . his healing factor was giving out . . . .

“You’ll never learn, Patch!” a dry, blood-flecked voice rasped in his ear. “That doesn’t work for me. I can’t be killed—not by any weapon forged by a man. And that is all you are—all you ever have been.”

Logan gasped wetly against the asphalt. He was shriveling from the inside out—bleeding out. His vision was going oddly pale, not dark . . .

Well, Storm, darlin’—here’s the problem solved for both of us.

------------------------------------------

The kid was strangely quiet, though the Wolverine didn’t complain and certainly didn’t feel a desire to. Remy just sat there, cross-legged and still, until finally he lay down on the dirt next to the shrinking fire and fell asleep—dead tired from the long day’s walk. Wolverine flopped down on his side across the fire, enjoying the last of the dying warmth of the flames, and watching the cold, white breath of the kid in the growing chill of the night air.

It took him a long time to fall into a restless sleep.

. . . .

He was cold, lying naked, with snakes writhing around him, biting him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t feel anything but a faint, drifting helplessness. His lungs were heavy—dragged down and saturated, pulling down his heart and sinking into the sludge of his guts as he lay there.

Someone was talking to him—calling him . . . .

Drifting . . . sinking . . . .

No! He couldn’t . . . . lose it . . . he couldn’t . . . . Lose . . .

He swam, and his claws shot from his knuckles. He stared at the metal blades, shocked to stillness as his own blood tainted the green water around him, and he screamed.

Fire! There was fire, eating at his lungs, ripping at his bones, cutting him open and freezing him.

He was naked—exposed, drawn up and peered at and picked at like some lab rat—stared at, poked at. Pain was no stranger—it never had been, but there was something worse about this—something terrible and horrifying at the helplessness, at how they systematically stripped away his sanity, his humanity, his being. He screamed in agony, howling, and over it all was their dry tones, talking him towards his death and he bled out his own soul.

. . . .

“Wolvie! Wolverine! Wake up!”

The Wolverine snapped awake, jerking upright with a choked-off scream. His claws shot from his fist he grabbed his head, gasping at the fire of pain between his temples.

Oh, God. Oh, God. There was that voice again—screaming—no, crying now. Empty-sounding—hopeless, like a lost soul. Rage pounded in its wake, sweeping the terror away. WHAT HAVE THEY DONE TO ME?!

He rose to his feet suddenly, pacing to the edge of the woods—away from the kid. He could hear Gambit’s heart beating quickly in his chest, could smell his breath and blood—and it made him angry.

He wanted blood.

“RRRAAAWRRGGG!” he snarled, lashing out at the tree in front of him. It was over a full foot thick, but his claws cut through it effortlessly, sending it crashing to the forest floor with a terrible ripping sound as if the forest’s soul was being torn out.

Still not satisfied, he slashed at the next tree, hacking at it in a vicious fury, wanting to hurt something, wanting to kill something—wanting to do something to get rid of the terror and pain in his choking his throat.

When he came to himself he was sitting slumped in on the forest floor, surrounded by slashed and fallen trees, with crushed and shattered branches fallen around him. The ground bore marks of his claws, and even a large stone had three long gashes along its length. The fire’s ashes had been scattered—he couldn’t remember what had happened, but now they lay smouldering on the river bank under the faint mist of freezing rain that he hadn’t noticed until now.

He was cold—ice cold, and his rage was not sated by his mindless destruction.

He lifted his head slowly, the dog tags rattling coldly against his chest, and he felt a colder chill come over him.

Where was the kid?

He looked around, then rose slowly, feeling dread rise in his throat.

He couldn’t remember what happened—just . . . red. They were hurting him, and he’d . . . he’d . . .

He looked down at his hands, his damp hair falling over his eyes.

No.

He moved forward, sniffing in the dead, cold air.

“Kid?” he called roughly. His voice was hoarse—broken, and it tasted like blood. “Kid!”

He stepped forward, right into something still warm and steaming in the cold air. He stepped back sharply, his breath catching as he noticed the red splattered around him, the skin and bones scattered—

—No. No! He had to think—

It was a squirrel. It didn’t even smell like a human, and he should have noticed that—would have noticed it right off, if his lungs hadn’t seized up on him like that.

Damn. He didn’t realize a squirrel had so much blood in it. His hands looked painted in the damn stuff.

He shook himself, gritting his teeth. “Kid!”

Still no answer.

He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands as he gave a low groan, then wiped his nose and sniffed the air.

He could smell the kid, even if it was mixed and confused after his destruction. Damn it, he’d blacked out like this before, but it wasn’t like it mattered. He loved the wild freedom of lashing out—of letting go. But if he had hurt the kid . . . .

He caught a faint trail and started after it, hunched and silent as he moved through the shadows of the still-lingering night. Dawn was not far off, but it was going to be a cold day, especially with the ice-cold rain.

Course, that was good. The rain wiped away their scent and tracks—and men didn’t like rain. They’d rather stay in their shelters than come out and hunt. All’s the better for him.

The kid stank of fear, but not terror like a cornered deer that was injured and had no chance against the full pack of wolves. Rather, he smelled . . . focused. And something else . . . ?

He slowed, hearing a shift in the undergrowth. He ducked down onto his hands and balls of his feet, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the dark grey clouds above.

There it was—a soft sniffle, loud and clear in his ears, and almost silent shifting of the kid in his hiding place. Wolverine slunk forward until he could see the kid curled up in the slightest overhang of a rock, his coat pulled around him like a safeguard.

He hadn’t noticed him yet.

Wolverine felt an easing of the pressure in his chest.

The kid was safe.

Why should he care? Honestly, he shouldn’t. He didn’t.

After all, why would he care?

He hesitated, listening to the kid’s chattering teeth and shivers. He had half a mind just to move on—leave the kid behind. Might be better for the both of them.

He wavered, uncertain, but was surprised when the kid spoke first.

“W-wolverine? Is dat you?”

Wolverine frowned. He was sure he hadn’t made a sound, and he was downwind of the kid—even though he’d realized during the day that maybe the kid couldn’t smell as well as he could, just like he didn’t have his claws. So how’d the kid know he was here?

Maybe it was just a lucky guess.

He didn’t move, still torn with the decision whether to leave and go off on his own.

That’s how he’d always been after all. It was easier that way.

These last couple days with the kid felt longer than the rest of his existence—the damn kid made him think damn too much. It was simpler without him.

He swallowed, licking the cold rain from his lips.

“Kid?”

The shivering stopped for a second—froze, like the white breath in the air. He saw a faint gleam of red, and realized it was the kid’s eyes—looking at him?

“Y-you back, Canuck?”

Back? He hadn’t gone anywhere.

But that wasn’t what the kid meant, did he?

He crept forward, keeping himself small and unthreatening. The kid didn’t move, but stared at him, huddled in his coat. Finally Wolverine stopped, coming to sit a few feet away. Two glowing eyes watched each other in the night, the rain singing throughout the forest the only sound besides their white breath.

“Yeah, you b-b-back,” Gambit said, almost a sigh around his chattering teeth. He shifted, shivering as he drew his sopping coat tighter around himself. “Poor devil. Dat some d-d-ream you had. What was it ‘bout?”

Wolverine shifted a little closer, frowning at the kid. He was wet—cold, and smelled like misery itself. He didn’t look too good either—exhausted, really.

He retreated slowly, then stood, looking around the rain-grey forest warily.

“W-wolverine?”

Wolverine held out a hand. “Stay,” he murmured roughly, hoping the kid would listen. Without another word he bolted into the woods and disappeared.


TBC . . .
 
Wow, Bloodscream. There's a name I haven't heard in ages. :p Kewl. :D
 
------------------------------------------

Chapter 16: Walking Dead Man

------------------------------------------

Asphalt dug into the side of Wolverine’s face, but it was a distant pain, like a needle driving into a cold-numbed hand—and he felt himself begin to float, disconnected from himself as Bloodscream curled his abnormally long fingers around his neck, digging deeper into his throat and cutting off his choking breath. He couldn’t pull away, but only was pushed harder against the ground—ripping afresh his still-raw face wounds.

He was paralyzed—weak. Helpless, and suffocating again. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. No—he’d felt it often enough, being in the control of someone else.

It made him remember. And remembering made him hate.

He’d sworn it—never again. Never again would he be helpless.

Never again.

He snapped. Inhuman rage slammed back into Bloodscream’s face, crushing his nose, smashing it back into his skull. Wolverine punched back, ripping his head from his shoulders again, but this time not stopping. He struck again, and again, and again . . . . Blood flying around him, Bloodscream flailing, then falling still, but his blood still flying about, ripping—hacking . . .

Wolverine grinned ferally, snarling with beautiful glee of rage as his opponent scattered over the road, strings and splots of black flesh around him.

Pain meant nothing to the beast—only the fight. Only the rage, the destruction. And he reveled it in.

He stopped, standing in the center the now unrecognizable remains of the creature who’d dare challenge him—the Wolverine—and howled with abandon, his own blood mixing with black as it dressed him from head to foot.

Logan came to himself slowly, dripping and reeking. He vaguely remembered dying—yeah, he had been dying, but then the animal in him’d come out and saved him—again.

It’d happened too many times for him to count. It was what made him the best at what he was.

And, dammit, sometimes he hated himself for it.

He looked down, feeling vaguely nauseated at the sight of the completely ripped-up corpse as the world spun around him—though it wasn’t at the gore. Maybe the smell, or . . . something. It was hardly even recognizable as a human body, except for maybe that one hand that lay by his right boot. His other foot was bare—must’ve lost his boot when he ate asphalt . . . or maybe later . . . . he couldn’t—remember.

He staggered away from the gore, limping heavily.

He felt washed out—empty. The adrenaline had left him as quickly as it had come, and now he felt like a husk—

—half-corpse himself . . .

A vampire? Dammit. Damn the bastard to hell.

He’d cut the sucker’s head clean off—and the bastard’d healed. Damn, even he didn’t think he could do that, even if it were possible for somebody to cut off his head.

He glanced back at the mess, and shook his head.

Heal from that, he thought; his throat was still regrowing, so speech was out of the question. Staggering, he collapsed next to the bike, watching the pieces of dripping gore just to make sure this freak wouldn’t.

If he did, Logan wasn’t sure what he’d do. He didn’t know if he could kill the bastard again.

But the pieces didn’t move, not even by the time Logan’s throat had grown back well enough for him to breathe again, and the tendons on the back of his leg were strong enough for him to stand. Still stiff as hell, but good enough.

Dammit.

The clown’d done something to him—sucked his blood right near dry.

He should’ve been healed by now . . . .

. . . a hell of a lot more healed than this, anyway.

His right eye was still burning, and black as night. He brought up a questing hand and flinched—yep, it was missing, just like he’d thought. God, he’d hate to see himself in the mirror right now.

He stood slowly, lifting the bike and using it as a crutch as he pushed it off the road to hide it in the bushes. He’d come back for it later.

With one last glance back at the hacked-up creature from his past, Logan limped forward, baring his teeth at the night. Damn him if he was going to let something like this knock him out, even for a minute.

Damn, if this was what sort of things crawled out of his past, maybe it was best if it all stayed buried.

--------------------------------------------

He came back for the kid a bit later. It was almost dawn—he could smell of the distant sun heating the low clouds—and almost feel the slightest lightening of the grey clouds. The misting rain had turned into a dusting of snow, and which was now falling easily and coated the world in a powdering of white. The kid’d fallen into a light sleep—so light that he woke up with a start as soon as Wolverine came close. He was shivering, his soaked hair clinging to his face and making him look half his already puppish age.

Wolverine gestured at him to come.

Gambit didn’t move, but just sat there, shivering. His lips were faintly blue.

Was that normal? Or was it some “freak” thing? After all, the kid had red and black eyes.

“Kid,” he said roughly, then gestured again. The kid shivered, pulling his coat around him with hands stiff from the cold.

“I—Remy don’t feel so well, petit.” Wolverine glared at him, still waiting for him to get up. “Listen—I don’ know how you live out here. It freezin’, an’ maybe ‘cause you fix yourself up so fast help you keep goin’—but Gambit . . . .” He had to stop to cough thickly, shivering against the cold. “. . . . He gon’ get himself sick, maybe pneumonia or somethin’. Nawlins’ been called a jungle, but I wasn’t made for this, homme. Listen—can you . . . get me to a phone?” He stopped, swearing under his breath. “Dammit, Canuck—you prob’ly don’ even know what a phone is. They screwed wit your head too bad. An’ now I lost out here, an’ maybe I’m gonna die. Not by da assassins, but from a lidle ol’ cold.”

Wolverine frowned. The kid wasn’t making any sense. He stank of exhaustion, and smelled wrong.

. . . Sick?

Why in the world was the kid sick?

He’d thrown up the day before—did it have something to do with that?

He didn’t know, but he had a bad feeling about the thick sound of the kid’s voice and breath, like it was growing difficult for him to draw each breath.

Wolverine moved forward, grabbing the kid by the arm and dragging him to his feet. The kid protested weakly, and wasn’t as helpful as he could’ve been in getting to his feet. But finally he stared, watching Wolverine with tired eyes as his shivering increased from the faint wind his meager shelter had hidden him from. Wolverine pulled him along, not letting go of his arm.

“I d-don’ got no ch-choice but to trust you, do I, m-mon ami?” the kid asked weakly, stumbling along behind him. “Don’ got no choice at all.”

Wolverine didn’t even look back at him.

The kid lagged something terrible, though, and after a while the Wolverine gave up snarling at him to hurry up and just picked the kid up and threw him over his shoulder. Sure, the fact that he was almost as tall as he was made carrying him somewhat awkward, but at least he wasn’t heavy.

It was the fact that the kid hardly muttered a complaint that worried him.

It took him twenty minutes to reach the cave he’d found in the rocks. He’d had to move farther upwards, and the air was colder, but it was shelter. A river ran close by, and some twenty meters from the cave had cut into the mountain to make a fair-sized cliff to the white waters below.

It offered a good view of the surrounding woods, a nice spot not far from the game trail, and even though the cave stank of a big mountain lion and faded memories of cubs raised and gone. The musty scent was old and dusty—she hadn’t been there in some time.

Maybe the winter’d been too much for the old girl.

Logan ducked inside and put the kid on the ground—trying with no awkwardness to, perhaps, be some form of gentle, but the kid’s head flopped back slightly against the dirt nonetheless.

Still, he didn’t stir.

Wolverine leaned close to him, sniffing close to his face. The kid’s breathing was thick and hoarse, and his breath white as snow in the air. He glanced towards the shadowed entrance, where a few scattered snowflakes were landing on the dry leaves and rubbish that had found its way into the cave over the years.

He sat back on his haunches, the wind stirring the long hair around his face, and stared at the kid.

He was dying.

What? Why? Frustration made him growl softly, and he stood abruptly, knocking his head on a jutting stone from the cave ceiling. The rock cracked and he snarled, whipping around with a snarl as he popped his claws, but then stopped, his fists sinking as he stared numbly as the now-fractured rock rained down some dust and fragments of stone.

You’re an animal. A killer. You always have been.

He retracted his claws, still growling softly, and already forgetting the pain as it vanished. His eyes fell on the kid, who had curled up on his side, pale as the snow.

Do something!

He grabbed his head, snarling at the phantom voice.

What could he do? What was even wrong with him?

Damn you.

Why should he even care what happened to the kid? Why did it even matter?

Damn you, you bastard animal! Do something!

He clenched his fists, his arms rippling as he tensed, ready to fight.

But there was nothing to fight this time, was there?

He bore his teeth, shutting his eyes against the growing pain in his chest—like water trying to drown him. He covered his ears, trying to shut it all out.

What was this? Why was there pain?

Helpless.

Like the dreams. There was nothing to fight there, only pain. Only hollowness, and pain right there, in his chest—and his eyes, and his throat. Pain worse than the blood. Pain worse than hunger, than guns, than cold.

He wanted to pop his claws and bury them right in his own chest—rip his own heart out and watch it die. Watch the pain die.

But why? He didn’t want to die . . . . Survival of the fittest . . . .

But why didn’t he?

Why did any of this matter? The pain would heal. It always went away.

You stupid animal. Do something, or you’re killing him too.

An animal . . . .

Killer . . . .

No . . . .

He clenched his jaw and opened his eyes, his eyes wide and black in the darkness of the cave.

He didn’t understand.

But damn him if he was going to let this kid die on his watch.

-------------------------------------------

Logan was able to open the front gate before his legs gave out once and for all. Granted, he’d fallen more than once already, but this time the effort to stand was just too much, so why should he take the trouble?

Something was wrong. He wasn’t healing right—not at all. Blood gurgled in his throat at each painful breath—loud in his ears—too loud, blocking out all other sound.

His whole body burned hot—but not with healing. He knew that feeling, but this felt different. Like fever, like fire—but not cleansing.

He probably could figure out what was going on, but it wasn’t worth the effort. Thought was too much—he’d left that behind with his bike.

He just needed to get home.

He dragged himself along, leaving a trail of scarlet, though not enough. Even with his wounds unhealed, he was running out of blood to leak.

Could he heal without any blood left? Maybe the ol’ bastard vampire’d taken it all.

Guess he would find out.

Scrape, scrape, scrape. The sound of his ruined flesh dragging along the rough roadwas grating, but the pain was distant—far away. Far away beyond the sluggish beating of his own heart and his labored breathing—or he growling?

Probably both.

It wasn’t like it mattered. He’d heal, even from this . . . eventually.

There was the door. Not to far away, just a few more steps. Damn, were those stairs always that steep?

He collapsed at the bottom of them, hardly feeling the agony as rough cement ground into his face as he tried to catch his breath—

—just for a minute—

He couldn’t let Storm see him like this . . . .

She’d probably give herself . . .

—a damn heart-attack.

Just rest . . . .

. . . . for a second.

Heal, dammit!

The blackness of his right eye seemed to be growing, if anything.

But it was soft . . . warm . . . .

. . . sleep . . . .

That’d . . . work.

He’d just shut his good eye, just for a second . . . .

His vision swam too much to mean anything right now anyway . . .

Let his healing factor take care of the rest . . . .

It always . . . .

. . . . did . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

.
 
.

.

.

“—OGAN!”

Logan jerked awake as Ororo’s scream shot into his skull and bounced around like a ricocheting bullet.

One of her hands was on his chest—funny, ‘cause he couldn’t remember it getting there—but damn it hurt. A cold hand touched his brow—it was blessedly cool and soft, though it stung, and he flinched away. Why did she have to scream so loud? She’d almost given him a heart attack, there—his heart felt like it’d been given a kick-start. “Thank the goddess! Kurt! KURT! KURT! Get Hank on the phone! We need him here now!”

Logan growled softly, hoping they’d take the hint to be quiet and go away.

“What is the matter, mein—oh, mein gott! Logan! Is he alive?”

“Shud ‘e he’ up,” Logan muttered, cracking open his eyes—or one eye. Dammit, he’d fallen asleep. But it couldn’t have been for long, since he still felt so damned miserable. “Can’ yeh see . . . man’s tryin’ ta sleep?”

God, was that really his voice? He sounded like a life-time drunk with a smoking problem.

That is, one without a healing power.

He swallowed. His tongue was blood-crusted and swollen—his breath reeked of blood.

“Don’t move, Logan. Kurt’s calling Hank. We’ll get you inside.”

“Dammit, ‘Ro. ’m—all right.” That sounded a little better.

Not like he felt like moving much right then anyway, but just because she was getting all upset he knew it’d be best for both of them if he got his ass off the ground right then.

He began to sit up. The world reeled, but he managed to prop himself up on an elbow and lift his head enough to look Ororo in the eye.

Still couldn’t see out of his right one, though.

She was paler than he’d’ve thought possible, her eyes wide in horror, from what he could tell—she was floating back and forth, like in a mist. ‘Course, he didn’t see why she might’ve called down the clouds, so he must’ve been seeing things. She looked like she wanted to push him back down, but her eyes scanned his shoulder, his chest—there wasn’t an uninjured spot for her to touch.

“’m all righ’. Just . . . catching my breath—”

Storm didn’t seem to be listening to him. She pulled off her robe, and if his vision was a bit better he’d’ve probably enjoyed the sight of Ororo in her thin, small nightgown a bit more. It was good enough, even blurred right now as it was. He smiled faintly as she put it over him.

Maybe he was dying after all . . . .

“You died, Logan. Your heart—”

“I was sleepin’,” Logan repeated, feeling short of breath and hating himself for it. He swallowed again, focusing on speaking one word at a time. “Look, sometimes . . . sometimes my body jus’ does that—shuts itself down while my healing factor does its job. I’ll be fine.” He began sitting up—slowly, but stubbornly not making another sound. He was surprised when Ororo broke the rules, grabbing his raw shoulder where Bloodscream had bit him and pushing him down.

His vision flashed white and he gasped, his claws shooting from his hands reflexively, but Ororo didn’t flinch. “I had to jump-start your heart, Logan,” she said, sounding suddenly furious.

“It woulda healed up anyway,” he mumbled, gritting his teeth and pushing her hand away from his shoulder in the same swipe that he withdrew his claws, sending fresh rivelets pouring from his knuckles. “Not get the hell offa me.”

It was one of the hardest things he could ever remember doing, but fortunately everything felt a bit faint and distant right now. ‘Sides, the pain was nothing, and the weakness . . . it would pass, too. He stood up, supporting himself against the wall and trying not to pant too hard, dammit. But he could hear something—damn, that wasn’t the hole in his lung, was it? His mouth tasted just plain foul, but luckily even that seemed a bit dull right now. He turned, spitting blood into the bushes by the door.

Storm immediately caught his arm. He flinched, but she didn’t let go. Logan was damn glad of it, though he wouldn’t say so, because turning like that almost made him fall right down on his face—and right now he figured that if he went down again he wouldn’t be able to get up again for the next . . . say, millennia. “Goddess, Logan, your face.”

“You’re—gonna . . . hurt a man’s pride with talk . . . like that, d-darlin’,” he said, holding the handrail to try and not put as much of his weight on Ororo. Dammit, why was his hand shaking? “‘Sides, you should see the other guy.” He grimaced. “Or not.” He stopped to spit out the blood again that was filling his mouth as he spoke. “He’s an even uglier dead son-of-a-***** than he was when he was alive.” Or whatever passed for alive among the undead, if the clown was telling the truth.

And for some strange reason he wasn’t exactly disinclined to believe him.

Damn. What sort of freakish life had he lived, if vampires blabbing about immortals seemed like a reasonable thing?

He wasn’t immortal, was he? Jean’d said his age was impossible to determine, but immortal . . . .

That made him feel sick—even beneath the crawling agony of his flesh.

But he was beginning to stitch up—right?

Either that or he was getting worse. He’d heard that people stop feeling after they go far enough along, but he wasn’t about to tell Storm that.

If he was so far gone that his healing factor wasn’t going to do the trick, it wasn’t like anything else would save him. So why should she worry?

He felt blood running down his leg, and the world was beginning to spin a bit more crazily that it had been for the last . . . forever—so he decided he’d get inside.

“Shut up, you stubborn bastard,” Storm said, putting an arm around his waist and supporting him. She pushed open the door with one hand, then put it around him as well to support his weight.

Logan hadn’t let go of the railing. “I can damn well—”

“Walk?” Storm finished for him. “Fine. Humor me.”

She smelled furious. Hell, he didn’t think he’d ever smelled her so furious, so he decided it would be wiser to just let her have her way. He didn’t feel much like arguing anyway.

“Come on, Logan. Let go.”

Oh. He was still holding onto the railing. He looked over, then unpeeled his blood-sticky hands, and almost keeled over. Storm kept him upright, and they limped forward.

He almost face-planted it when his foot got caught on the top step—hell, his feet were dragging like something awful—and then they were in the hall. The place was painfully bright, but he couldn’t seem to raise his hand to block it.

Damn. His room was on the far side of the mansion, wasn’t it?

Damn his tendencies for isolation at times like this—

But wait—Storm had already turned them into the living room, and somehow he ended up lying down on the sofa there.

Ah. Now that felt a whole damn lot better.

And it’d gotten a bit darker too—

Oh. His eye’s’d closed sometime during the trip. Either that or he’d lost his vision completely.

He’d figure that out later.

Maybe.

It wasn’t like it mattered, anyway.

“Hold on, Logan—”

“Ya. Danke, Dr. McCoy. Yes, yes, and please do hurry—”

. . . . Doctor?

“Is that Hank?” Storm asked Nightcrawler.

Doctor.

He felt a chill—shaking him right out of his lovely shocked-system.

“Ya.”

Storm snagged the phone from Nightcrawler.

“Hank? Hank, it’s Ororo. I need you here as fast as you can—”

Logan sat up and snagged the phone from her hand, grabbing onto the back of the couch to keep from keeling over as blood rushed from his head. “Hank? It’s Logan,” he said. He figured it sounded good enough, though he couldn’t really tell. “Don’t bother ‘bout comin’ down. ‘Ro’s just goin’ into a little shock, that’s all—”

“I amin shock?” Storm repeated, trying to be overheard. “He is bleeding out all over the floor, Henry! He’s not—”

“Logan? You don’t sound well—”

“Had a bit of an accident. But you know—I’ll heal up.”

“But Kurt—”

“They ain’t used to what I can do. Gimme a day and I’ll be good as new.”

“DON”T LISTEN TO HIM, HANK—!”

Logan covered the mouthpiece and gave her a one-eyed glare. “D’ya mind, darlin’? I’m trying’ ta talk here.” He uncovered the mouthpiece. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine. Yeah, I’ll make sure she’s okay. All right. Yeah. G’bye, Hank.”

He hung up, immediately slumping back against the couch, which creaked under his weight.

“Can . . . someone . . . gimme a beer?”

“Give that phone back, Logan—”

Logan popped a single claw and stuck it through the phone, then flung it carelessly across the room as he covered his good eye with his arm. “Blue says tah . . . have you lie down an’ have some water, darlin’.’”

He stood then, grabbing on to the couch to help him along. “I’m goin’ to my room. And if anyone comes in b’fore I come out, I’ll kill ‘em.”

“Mein freunde—”

“Can it, priest. I walked all the way here, I can get up the . . . damn stairs,” he growled.

“Logan—”

He growled and flipped them off without turning around, which may have been a bad idea, seeing that he almost lost his balance on the first step and had to grab the railing with both hands so he didn’t fall backwards.

He was going to get to his room—alone—if it killed him.


TBC . . . .
 
squeekness said:
Wow, Bloodscream. There's a name I haven't heard in ages. :p Kewl. :D
Click to expand...

I know. I'm having a lot of fun "researching" for this story, I can tell you that. Wasting soooo much time. :p

But that's why we do it, right? ;)
 
I enjoy writing, it's a labor of love. I don't do a ton of research when I go along, but I do have some C listers that I use. I am rather fond of Wild Child and so I have him along for the ride as well. It's nice to see folks use different people and not the same ones all the time. :) Great chapter and don't rush on my account. I'd rather wait for something that you're happy with than have you put up something in hurry just because I am reading it. I'm not going anywhere. ;)
 
---------------------------------------------

Chapter 17: Bloodblind

---------------------------------------------

Logan’s labored breathing faded up the stairway, his unusually heavy steps sounding far too heavy for any man—but, of course, his skeleton was covered with metal, wasn’t it? Storm had never thought about how that must feel; the man always seemed quick enough on his feet, and she now wondered how he could walk around with hardly a sound at all. She knew she’d been startled by his silent presence before.

No wonder why he always looked in top condition. Just getting out of bed and walking down to breakfast was the equivalent to a full-body workout.

Had that—both his metal skeleton and his physical shape—saved his life today?

Goddess, the man had died, and just minutes later he was insisting that he was just fine.

The sound of his soft growls moved away, and Ororo turned and grabbed the phone next to the couch, dialing a number with shaking hands. The phone was answered immediately.

“Hello?” Beast answered courteously, albeit a bit warily.

“Hank, this is Ororo—”

“Ah, yes. Is Logan there?”

Storm glanced towards the stairway, where blood had left a dark, dripping trail in Logan’s wake.

“No. He . . . he’s going upstairs.”

“Most wonderful. I am currently in transit to the airport. Would you be so kind so as to fill me in with what has happened with our dearest Wolverine?”

“I do not know, Henry. There is no sign of the motorcycle—he looks like he might have . . . dragged himself here.”

“What are his injuries?”

No answer.

“Storm?”

Storm swallowed, tasting bile. “Goddess, Hank. He is missing half his face, but . . . I can not tell the full extent of his wounds. I—I do not think he is healing, whatever he says.”

“Very well,” Beast said, a bit grim but otherwise still as unflappable as ever. “Until I arrive, then, try to keep him calm. If he’s rational, get him to drink something. His blood content is probably quite low. And—”

He stopped suddenly—as if something had occurred to him.

“Hank?”

“Pardon me. A thought just occurred to me. Be certain to make sure that if Logan is not in his normal mind . . . it would be the best to observe caution. In any case, I would suggest to keep him away from the children.”

Ororo went still. “You think he’s dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” Beast said. “But I think it’s better to be safe, don’t you agree?”

As if on cue, at his words a scream shook the mansion—and it didn’t sound like Syren, either.

--------------------

Rogue, Jubilee, and Kitty had talked themselves to silence in the darkness. Logan probably wouldn’t believe her if she told him about it, though, Rogue thought. In fact, it probably would be hard for anyone who knew the trio to believe such a thing even possible.

Rogue was sprawled on one of the beds in the room, and Kitty and Jubilee were flopped on the other, with Jubilee’s legs propped up on the wall and her head falling off the bed, chewing gum and blowing bubbles absently, though with her eyes half-closed.

How did the girl still have any teeth, with all the cavities she must get?

It was two-thirty in the morning, but it was Saturday, and none of the girls wanted to waste their free evening by getting to sleep too early. It was at midnight that, instead of heading off to bed like Storm expected, Rogue had followed the two younger girls into their shared room to chat. It didn’t matter that they were both more than two years younger than her—especially in Kitty’s case. Kitty was as much of an X-Man as Rogue was, if not more. After all, Rogue had been depowered during the fight against Phoenix and Magneto, and had only been able to really join up in the training again months later after her powers returned. She’d only been on a handful of missions, and Kitty—despite her quiet and small appearance—was as experienced as any of them. Apparently she’d been one of the first students at the school, and had jumped right into the training along with a butt load of college classes.

At thirteen. Was the girl insane?

It would have made Rogue bitter towards her if Kitty took even the slightest pride in it. But Kitty was just Kitty, and she didn’t care the least bit that she was smart enough to put Beast into thoughtful silence (now that was a shocker). It wasn’t her fault that she was quick and just plain brilliant, and Rogue wasn’t about to complain after she realized Kitty could help her with her Elementary Chemistry class (Why in the world did they make college courses with “Elementary” in the class name? Were they trying to beat down her ego?). She’d probably have flunked the class a hundred times over again already without Kitty’s help, and the semester was only half over.

“Well, at least you’re still friends,” Kitty said, apparently apropos of nothing.

It took Rogue a few seconds to pull herself out of the half-wakeful ennui and translate Jubilee’s words into her mind, and another second to remember what she was talking about. That conversation had trailed off about ten minutes earlier.

Rogue made a vague sound of what could probably pass as agreement, not even opening her eyes. “Yeah, ah guess you’re righ’,” she mumbled, her southern accent even sharper than usual in her relaxed state. “Ah don’t really blame him. After all, how could we ever really be more than just friends?” That was probably the most she’d ever be to anyone. She opened her eyes, glancing at the duo across the room.

There was silence. “That sucks,” Jubilee opined.

“You’ll figure something out,” Kitty said drowsily, turning onto her side and putting her arm under her head as a rough pillow. “Something’ll work out.”

They fell silent again. They’d already thrashed this out at an earlier hour, with Jubilee and Kitty trying to convince Rogue that her relationship with Bobby wasn’t beyond saving. But it felt like the candle’d gone out at both ends, and when Bobby’d brought it up, they’d decided to make it a clean break.

Well, at least they’d be able to part as friends. And it wasn’t too awkward, really. Mostly.

Jubilee popped another bubble. The room was comfortably silent, except for her chewing, and the deepening of Kitty’s breathing as she drifted closer to sleep. Rogue felt herself beginning to drift, and figured it was time to head to her own room.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to find enough energy to drag herself to her own bed, when she noticed Jubilee had stopped chewing her gum.

She took a deep breath, opening her eyes and looking over at Kitty and Jubilee’s silhouettes across the dark room. Jubilee was silent—holding her breath—but she turned over and sat up, looking towards the door.

“Whaizzt, Ju’?” Kitty mumbled.

Jubilee’s silhouette turned to look at Rogue. “Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“Sh!”

They were silent. The whole mansion was silent—and the comfortable silence suddenly felt vaguely menacing. None of them had forgotten the attack on the mansion, months ago as it was—least of all Jubilee.

After all, she’d been caught by those monsters—the same ones that had done that to Logan. Jubilee didn’t like to talk about it, and Rogue couldn’t really blame her.

Rogue sat up, trying to wake up as she rubbed her eyes.

“Ah don’t—”

“There!”

Kitty sat up now—she’d heard it too. It was soft—almost unheard, but recognizable enough. She looked towards the window, peeking through the blinds. “There aren’t any clouds,” she said.

But they’d all heard it that time—the sharp crack of lightning.

“Storm,” Rogue said, standing.

Kitty and Jubilee immediately stood up behind her. Rogue hesitated, looking at their pajama-clad forms in the shadows. But they were just as experienced as her, if not more.

“All righ’,” Rogue said. “We’ll stay together. If . . . if anything happens, Kitty, you phase and wake the others. Jubilee can use her fireworks to raise the alarm, and ah’ll try to hold them off.”

The girls nodded. They’d worked together enough in the Danger Room that they already knew what to do in this situation.

Rogue opened the door and slipped into the shadowed hall. They moved forward, listening for helicopters, for the sound of heavy feet that didn’t belong.

Was Logan here? If he was, everything was going to be all right. He took care of them before, and he could do it again.

There was no more lightning, but the mansion seemed even quieter than before. They crept towards the stairs by the front door. They could see the faint glow of the entry-hall’s light reflecting down the hall, but all the students’ doors were closed. There didn’t seem to be anything the matter.

Voices filtered upwards with the light, and they stopped, listening. Rogue relaxed slightly. It didn’t sound like they were trying to keep quiet, exactly, but even though she couldn’t hear what they were saying she recognized Storm’s voice, along with Nightcrawler’s obvious accent.

Kitty stood up straighter as she visibly relaxed. Her hair was tussled and her pajamas wrinkled, but she looked fully awake anyway, though now she looked amused rather than alarmed. “Logan probably was just smoking in the kitchen again.”

Rogue smirked, remembering clearly that incident. “Ah think we would have heard Logan instead the lightning, though, if that happened.”

Even Jubilee cracked a slight smirk at that. “Sounded like a cat with its tail on fire.”

“Shh!” Kitty said, despite struggling with some soft snickers herself.

“Ah can go down and figure out what’s goin’ on. Ya’all just stay here,” Rogue said, stepping forward.

“I don’t think so. Remember? We stay together, like we practiced,” Jubilee insisted, growing serious again.

Kitty nodded. “That’s right. Even if we’re not under attack, something might be going on. Come on.” She took the lead, phasing right through Rogue, who stumbled back with a slight gasp before turning to follow.

“Don’t do that, Kitty.”

“Sorry,” the younger girl said, hardly sounding sorry at all. Her footsteps were silent on the carpet, and still careful as they moved forward slowly. Better safe than sorry, after all.
 
They stopped again as the light of the entry-hall grew lighter, and they finally made out the words of their professors from down the hall, although it was still a bit muddled.

““I’m . . . my r’m. If anyone . . . I c— . . . kill ‘em.”

Rogue let out a breath of relief. “That’s Logan.”

“Mein freunde—”

“Can it . . . . walked . . . way h’re . . . can . . . d’mn stairs,” Logan’s word sounded half-growled, and it was even harder to make out since he seemed to be out of breath. Had he been running? Fighting?

“What—?” Kitty began in a hushed whisper.

“Sh!” Rogue could hear Logan laboring up the stairs—the wood creaking under his weighted footsteps. She could hear Storm’s voice downstairs.

Jubilee’s eyes narrowed and she tensed, frowning. She took a step backwards. “Guys . . . .”

“Logan’ll tell us what’s goin’ on,” Rogue said, making to move forward, but stopped short when Jubilee grabbed her shoulder. Rogue looked back sharply. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Something’s wrong,” Jubilee said, her voice even softer, but urgent. “Let’s . . . let’s go back to our room.”

Rogue rolled her eyes. “Jubes, it’s Logan. I know you’re scared half-to-death by him, but—”

“I am not—!”

Kitty gasped. “Oh God, L-logan!”

He had staggered around the corner, and now stood in plain view, though he was barely a hunched silhouette with the dim light behind him. He was leaning heavily against the wall, his face hidden in shadow and by his drooping hair, and as they watched he stumbled and fell to his knees with a soft cry that was more an agonized snarl than something expected from a human being. He wavered his knees, threatening to face-plant into the floor.

Jubilee’s grip on Rogue’s arm had turned to stone, but there was nothing stopping Kitty from running forward to catch him before he fell.

Wolverine moved faster than Rogue thought possible, silver flashing out, though the sound of his claws unsheathing was covered by his snarl and Kitty’s scream as the claws flashing up and across—right through her heart and across her throat. Kitty fell backwards, clutching her chest.

Jubilee jumped forward, her hands raised, and with a shriek balls of light and energy leaped from her fingers, shooting like bottle-rockets right into Logan’s face.

He staggered back, blinded, but didn’t hesitate to lung again—or at least intend to. He fell short, cutting through Kitty’s body again, but then staggered, his legs collapsing under himself like warm jell-o. He fell to the floor, not immediately rising.

Kitty gave a dry sob and scrambled backwards frantically. Rogue helped her up, and Kitty held onto her, shaking in near-panic and her face as white as a ghost in the newly-returned shadows. She clutched the front of her pajamas, which had been sliced cleanly across her chest.

If she had phased just one second later . . . .

“Oh God.” Jubilee said, seeing that for herself. They looked back to see Wolverine slowly rising onto his hands and knees—but slowly—and Rogue saw something dark dripping from his face. The stench of burned flesh made her stomach flop.

Jubilee stepped forward, raising her hand to spark him again, but Rogue grabbed her, pulling her away.

“Don’t! He doesn’t know what he’s doing!”

“He almost killed her!” Jubilee spat, her eyes wide in fear and fury. She twisted out of Rogue’s grip, her face contorted in hatred. “Look at him, Rogue! That animal wants nothing but to kill all of us!” She shoved Rogue away, raising her hand as Wolverine finally got onto his hands and lifted his face slowly towards them.

Rogue reached over blindly, flipping on the light. For a millisecond time seemed to freeze.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. Kitty gagged and looked away quickly, and Rogue tasted bile, but she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away.

Blood coated Wolverine’s face from crown to chin, and trickled from his mouth as he bore blood-stained teeth. His forehead was marred black from Jubilee, and dull smoke drifted from his visage. His one eye glared at them wildly, pain-glazed and fevered, and Rogue thought she could see silver under the streaks of gore on his face and beneath his tattered shirt. His claws were still out, but he seemed unconscious to the fact as he backed up slowly, leaving a bloodied smear where his hand touched the wall.

Jubilee’s hands had sunk slightly at the sight, but she raised them again, her jaw tight.

Rogue grabbed her arm again. “Jubilee—”

“Let me go!” Jubilee spat, and Rogue was surprised to see the naked hatred in the light. Sparks shot from her fingers, but didn’t get far. Wolverine snarled softly, backing up further against the wall like a cornered cat, his one eye glinting dangerously.

Tired steps padded out almost silently behind them, but the girls didn’t notice until the culprit absently reached up and curled a small, paw-like hand into Rogue’s pajama-pants’ leg, peering around her.

Rogue looked down sharply to see Kylee standing there in her little pink pajamas, holding a stuffed bear, but the expected sleepiness was absent as she stared past them, her short fur going flat as her eyes widened.

“W-wolvie?” she asked, her chin trembling, and her hand sinking from Rogue’s pant-leg. Her bear slipped from her other hand unnoticed.

“Kylee, go back to your room,” Jubilee snapped, still holding up a hand towards the panting man. Rogue let go of Jubilee’s arm and made a grab for her, but the young mutant evaded her easily, darting between their legs and coming to stand in front of them.

Jubilee stepped forward, pale as she reached for the girl, but Logan snarled, and Kylee shrunk away from her.

“Wolvie?”

BAMF!

Storm and Nightcrawler appeared in a puff of dark, foul smoke, and Wolverine turned sharply, still on all fours. He snarled, but now backed up, his claws leaving marks in the wood floor as he did so. Smoke rose from his face, as Storm could smell the stink of newly burnt flesh.

“Kylee, back away, slowly,” Storm said, tensing into a fighting stance. “Jubilee, Rogue, Kitty, what happened?”

“He totally stabbed Kitty!” Jubilee said shrilly, not lowering her shaking hand. “If she hadn’t phased. . . .”

“I—I’m all right . . . .” Kitty started shakily, holding her torn nightgown with both hands.

“Kylee, come here!”

“No!” Kylee cried. “What did you do to Wolvie?” She moved towards him.

“Kylee—!”

Storm reached for the small girl, but suddenly the child hissed and struck out with a small hand, clawing at Ororo’s arm and pulling on all fours in front of Logan, like an odd miniature with the ridiculous idea of protecting him. She bore her teeth and growled as Storm jerked her arm back. She clapped her hand over her arm, and winced at the four claw-marks marring her skin.

“Little one,” Kurt began, his voice an odd calmness against the sudden tension of the hallway. “Come away. Logan is not himself.”

She flattened herself against the floor, hunkering backwards toward the feral man behind her. Wolverine growled softly, trying to stand again, and she turned, edging closer, her ears flat and her eyes wide on him.

Wolverine’s feral eyes landed on her and he growled from the darkness of his blood-stained being. Kylee shrunk smaller—but not in fear. The growling slowed, and over it all—they heard it—the sound of soft purring.

Kylee straightened slowly, touching one of the Wolverine’s torn and bloodstained arms with a touch light as a feather. He growled softly, but didn’t move as Kylee wrapped her arms around him in a protective embrace.

“Kylee—” Rogue whispered softly, fearfully, as if afraid to break some spell.

“Kylee, get over here now!” Jubilee hissed, her voice low in almost petrified horror.

“No,” Kylee said, her green eyes narrow as slits, and her teeth baring as she spoke. “You hurt Wolvie. You’re just afraid, but all he is is hurt. All he is is scared.”

“We know,” Storm said, trying for calm. “A bad person hurt him, Kylee, and you need to come to bed so we can help him get better.”

“No.”

“Kylee.”

“No!” the girl repeated loudly, making Wolverine bristle with a growl of his own. Kylee ducked her head, her chin and nose disappearing behind his wild, blood-soaked hair. “Just go away. Jus’ leave us alone.”

Wolverine leaned forward, his hands on the floor to keep him from toppling over, though he hardly seemed to be avoiding that as it were. He glanced blurrily at them, like an old, tired wolf surveying injured rabbits. He dismissed them, and slowly began to rise, clutching the wall and leaving a blood-stained smear where he touched. Kylee let go of him—still keeping close as he dragged himself to his feet and limped forward, his head bowed as he half-dragged himself to his room.

Nightcrawler put a hand lightly on Storm’s arm as she made a move forward.

“Let them go,” he said softly.

“Kurt—”

“He will not hurt her.”

Ororo looked helplessly at him as they watched the Wolverine and his small companion limp forward slowly. They followed behind, at a safe but still helpless distance, watching their slow journey to Logan’s room.

Wolverine finally staggered inside, still growling softly beneath his breath: nearly but not quite drowning out Kylee’s continued purring.

He collapsed almost bonelessly (if not for the fact that his weight thudding to the floor shook the bland pictures on his wall) on the carpet, apparently too weak to even get onto his bed. Kylee glanced back at them briefly before curling up beside him, not sleeping but keeping vigil. Her green eyes glowed in the shadows of the room as she watched them.

“How can you know he won’t hurt her!?” Jubilee demanded, her voice frantic. “We have to get her out of there. He’s . . . he’s an animal!”

“He is not an animal,” Ororo said, turning a fiery glare at her, but any further retort was cut off when Kitty suddenly turned around, falling to her knees as she emptied her stomach, heaving. Rogue wiped tears from her eyes and immediately went to her side, careful to avoid skin contact as she held Kitty’s shaking shoulders. Jubilee stepped back, staring with a shocking grim-faced hatred at Logan’s dark lump of a silhouette as if expecting him to strike out at any moment.

Storm would be lying if she didn’t admit that she was afraid of that very thing herself.

“What happened?” Rogue demanded, her voice cold despite being thick with tears as she looked up at Ororo. “Who did this to him?”

Ororo didn’t have an answer.

She just hoped Hank would get here soon.


TBC . . .
 
Poor Logan. :( I think Kaylee is adorable though.:heart: :D
 
Shorter chapter, but hopefully still good enough.

Thanks for your encouragement, squeekness! :yay:

--------------------------

Chapter 18: Feral

--------------------------

Fire.

Food.

Water.

Not much, but it was something.

Hopefully enough.

Wolverine crouched in the cave, holding the rough bowl that he’d carved out of a tree quite easily with the help of his claws. Never mind that he had to make three attempts, since he kept on accidentally cutting too deeply and right through the middle, and he near chopped his own finger off on the second (if that were even possible, he had wondered absently at the time). It was filled with melting snow—the cleanest he could find, after the kid’d already drained plenty of bowls-full between his half-wakeful mutterings.

But he was quiet now. That was good, right?

He’d hardly said a thing the night before, after they settled in the cave. With the dawn he’d headed out, and followed his gut to get what he needed. He just hoped it was enough.

The kid’d been restless all day—not asleep, but caught in-between, like in a dream. With how he sweated and whimpered, Wolverine wondered what he dreamed about.

Did he dream about knives, and pain, and blood? Maybe everyone did.

He didn’t want the kid to, though, and he tried to wake him up from them. It worked once or twice, but after a while the kid just stayed asleep—or just mumbled to himself, and Wolverine couldn’t figure if he was awake or still sleeping.

Wolverine frowned, then put down the bowl carefully so it wouldn’t spill on the uneven floor, and added another log to the fire. Again, wood wasn’t something he had a problem finding, or cutting it down so he could use it.

Making the fire had been a little tougher, but just a bit of sniffing had uncovered the kid’s lighter, and Wolverine’d been surprised when he got it to work the first time without a problem, though he couldn’t say how he knew what to do.

He looked back to the kid, then reached over and pulled the tear of the old, tattered plaid shirt he had once worn. He brushed his fingers over the kid’s brow, frowning at the heat there.

Still too hot. He just knew it was . . . somehow.

Damn it.

He took the cloth, wringing out the warmed water before filling it with new, melting snow and placing it carefully over the kid’s fevered brow. He hesitated, then adjusted the coat and the remains of the tattered flannel shirt as well.

He stared at the kid, watching the firelight flicker across his pale, sweat-slicked face, despite the fact that he was shivering up a storm. The light had long since faded from the outside, but the sky had cleared, and soon a frozen dawn would begin to whiten the mountains. They would get no more snow for a while, but the night was cold without the clouds. Too cold.

Wolverine grimaced, grabbing some of the cooled-but-cooked meat from where he had set it. He ripped a piece of it off for himself, swallowing it after hardly chewing it.

The kid was getting better, wasn’t he?

Damn.

He threw the bones at the side of the cave, where they flopped to the earth with an unsatisfactory flup onto the bed of leaves.

He was tired. Sick and tired, but not to sleep. His chest still hurt, and his hands were cold, and he didn’t know why.

Was he getting sick too?

He stirred the fire, checked the kid to make sure he was covered again, then crawled over and curled up next to him, still staring into the fire.

If he fell asleep, would the kid be dead the next day? Would he be dead like the wolves, like the deer, like the rabbits, like the men? Would the kid freeze, like the wolves—his flesh going stiff, his blood turning to ice?

Wolverine shook his head, doing his best to banish the thoughts.

But between death and his normal nightmares, he didn’t think he’d be getting much sleep that night.

---------------------

The mansion was quiet—too quiet. Of course, Rogue realized the thought was ridiculous. After all, it was nearing 3 o’clock in the morning. No doubt the mansion was almost always this quiet this time of night. She just wasn’t around to hear it.

Or awake, anyway. Same thing.

She let out a breath, letting her chin drop to her chest as she closed her eyes. The hall lights were full-on, but Logan’s room gaped darkly like some unwelcoming cave. She could hear his rough breathing, but all she could see was his and Kylee’s dark shadows; the green glow of Kylee’s eyes had disappeared a good half an hour ago.

She heard quiet footsteps and opened her eyes as Beast hunkered down next to her, Storm standing at his side. Colossus stood behind them in his pajama pants, looking relatively awake as he rubbed his eyes. Rogue did her best not to stare. After all, she’d known Peter for a long enough time. They were like siblings. Still, no harm in looking.

“How is he?” Hank asked, his uncanny blue eyes fixed towards the darkness.

Rogue shrugged, glancing at Jubilee, who sat next to her, rubbing her palms absently like she was itching to spark someone. She looked exhausted.

“Kitty?”

The brown-haired girl stuck her head out from where she had been lurking in the wall, saw them, and the rest of her body followed. She held the front of her torn gown closed. “Still asleep,” she said, her voice soft and her eyes not quite meeting theirs. “Or unconscious. I—I can’t tell.”

“How bad is the bleeding?”

Kitty swallowed, hugging herself. “I don’t know. I think it’s slowed. It’s so dark, though . . . .”

Henry McCoy nodded, standing. He took off his glasses and stuck them in his coat, then stepped towards the room. He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. He frowned. “You ladies can go to bed now.”

“What are you going to do?” Rogue asked.

“From what I gather from that room, I think I have to stand with Ororo’s initial prediction. His breathing suggests heavy internal bleeding, and it smells of fresh blood. Logan is not healing.”

Rogue stood. “What happened to him?”

“We’ll do our best to find out.”

“You’re moving him,” Jubilee said. She stood, looking at Hank with dark eyes. Her short black hair was even more ruffled than usual, contrasting sharply against the unusual paleness of her face. “Why?”

“We can help him in the lab. And even with his state of calm at the moment, I do not want to risk Kylee any further by his proximity. Logan would never intentionally hurt her, but waking up . . . even if he is himself he may react automatically—reflexively.” He glanced at Rogue, but no one needed the reminder of what had happened.

“I want to help,” Rogue said boldly.

“It’s dangerous.”

“Logan would do the same for us, no matter what,” Rogue argued. Then added softly, “He already has. Even if we went crazy, he’d stick by us.”

Jubilee looked like she wanted to say something, but held her tongue.

“A touch from you now could kill him. If he even has any of his healing factor left—” Beast said

“God,” Rogue gasped, growing a shade paler. “Someone gave him the cure.”

“Serves him right,” Jubilee put in.

“Jubilee, think what you’re saying,” Kitty spoke up, her voice soft and still shaky, but sure. “Did you . . . see him? If he got the cure, he . . . he’ll die.”

Jubilee didn’t reply to that.

Hank looked to Kitty. “Which is why we must move quickly to help him. Now, if you are willing to help, I think I may just have an idea.”
 
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