Wolvie Fanfiction: The Meaning of Pain

I'm gonna hafta read this all over again to catch back up. :p It's been so long I'm lost.
 
sniktsnakt said:
Heheh. The sad thing about that is that I kinda had to do the same thing. Sorry it's been so long. :csad::cwink::yay:
Click to expand...
S'okay. I got a vacation week coming up next week. I'll have plenty of time for it then. :D
 
Why wouldn't he? I would think it would be a useful activity for anyone with memory problems. :p
 
Enjoy.

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Chapter 36: Sometimes You Tell the Day by the Bottle that You Drink

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Grass.

It was thick—bent but not worn by the passing of feet. An ant crawled slowly up one of the long green blades, waving its antennae at the air lazily.

He breathed in deep, closing his eyes and feeling . . . .

. . . .

. . . .

He breathed back out. The air was cool, light, pure—clean. The faintest floral scent colored its edge, mixing with the damp scent of grass.

He breathed again; the darkness behind his lids was quiet and calm.

Still.

Light footsteps—barely audible, even to him—stopped on the grass before him. Still, he didn’t stir until the soft words were spoken.

“Let us fight.”

He opened his eyes and rose to his feet easily—lighter than he could remember being, lighter than air—lifting a long blade before him. It was comfortable in his hand—fitting with a known grip like he was born to it. The man before him bowed at the waist, and Logan mirrored his action before raising his blade.

He didn’t wait for his sparring mate to move. He cut in, feinting low and swinging high. The sensei didn’t even block his blade, but twisted to the side, effortlessly dodging the blow.

“Come, Logan-san. Focus!”

Logan cut in again, coiled to spring, and struck. This time the sensei deflected his blade with a flitting movement, and faster than Logan could react struck across, slapping him with a stinging blow across the back.

“Again!”

Logan gritted his teeth, biting off the instinctive rage that had arisen with his adrenaline.

Focus.

He set his footing, loosening his muscles—his senses alive in the cool air.

His blade twisted forward.

He caught the blade, spinning and bringing it around.

WHACK!

Another stinging blow rang against his shins and he snarled, striking out wildly. The sensei danced out of range—balanced, calm.

“Again!”

There was no need for the call—Wolverine was already moving. Six strikes cracking through the air like lightning, just as swift and impossible to follow. Blows reined on his shoulders, his back, and one clipped his cheek, striking hard enough to bruise, but not to draw blood.

The sensei was in control.

Again.

Sweat dripped into Logan’s eyes, but the sensei was moving too quickly. He fell into defensive stance, barely managing to bring up his blade fast enough to block a strike to his gut.

“Concentrate!”

Again!

“RRRRARGH!”

His practice katana sang in his hand, and he struck in faster than thought. Snarling, he attacked wildly, the power of his swings knocking the sensei off balance in his fury.

Side cut, spin. The sensei struck down, but Wolverine was aware—every centimeter of his skin aware as he drove in.

Burning. Festering rage boiling upwards and outwards, turning his vision red.

He struck down, shattering the sensei’s katana. He lashed out, grabbing his throat and slamming him into the ground, and bringing his sword to his throat.

He was panting, wild rage roaring through his veins.

It took him a couple seconds to get his hand to loosen on his throat, to find the words to speak around his growling breath.

“Yield,” he growled softly.

Cold, unmoved eyes looked back at him, fearless above the blade. He nodded, and Logan let out a breath, rising. His limbs were trembling—the world felt vibrant and wild around him, and he took a careful breath, wiping sweat from his eyes.

The sensei rose easily, as if he had laid himself down on the ground to rest for a moment, rather than slammed down with a force strong enough to leave already-forming dark bruises around his throat. A wild blow had caught the side of his face, and a thin trickle of blood dripped down his cheek. He didn’t seem to notice, but looked at Logan, his dark eyes deep and piercing.

“What have you learned, Logan-san? To fight? To kill? To win?” He shook his head. “You came to me because you wanted to learn control. Is that what you have shown yourself here?”

“Sensei—” But the master raised a hand, and Logan cut off sharply, shame deep in his heart.

“Ask yourself, Logan, who won this battle. The man, or the animal?”

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Now:

Logan jerked awake to find himself in the dark. The song of a lone cricket braving the chill of late fall chirped weakly across the yard, and a cold breeze drifted over his bare arms. His skin felt stretched over his metal bones—stiff with unseen dried blood. He hadn’t bothered changing since that morning, and the quick rinse of his face and arms in his sink had only gotten rid of the most obvious streaks from his encounters with the Scarlet Witch.

He sat up, rubbing off the gravel that had imprinted into his cheek while he dozed, and stretched, pulling out the aches from sleeping on the stone stairs. His breath was white in the darkness.

His bones ached. Body still healing, even if he was healed by all appearances. The last memory of lingering pangs would take a couple weeks to completely go away. But that didn’t matter. They wouldn’t slow him down.

He rubbed his eyes—they felt dry and itchy—and felt next to his side to find the cordless phone he’d been using when exhausted sleep had taken him.

He stood, opening the back door and padding bare-foot into the kitchen. He slid the phone he’d been using to follow up on various contacts for sign of Storm onto the table and glanced at the clock on the wall (He never had gotten around to replacing his wristwatch after Bloodscream had shattered it. Good thing, too; it wouldn’t have lasted past yesterday’s fall.)

2:13.

He’d only been asleep for two hours, he’d guess. He hadn’t really been keeping an eye on the time, after all.

Logan-san . . . .

He shivered, then swore softly and moved forward, pushing his hair from his face.

Ninja dreams. He’d had plenty since his run-in with Bloodscream—they were becoming almost as usual as the adamantium. But they were dark dreams—bloody, wild. He’d given up replacing his sheets, and the floor and walls bore more than one permanent scar from his claws. No sense—only blood, screams, confusion. Drowning. Waking up with nothing but bile, blood, and terror in his mind.

But what the bad place was this?

No nightmare: not the normal kind. There wasn’t the fear, the panic.

What was it he had felt?

The details were already fading into the night, but the feelings remained.

The rage.

Animal.

Familiar as anything. He could still feel it, simmering in his chest, waiting.

He shook his head.

There had been something, before the rage. Something else. Something strange.

He frowned out the window into the cold, still darkness, trying to find a word that could describe it even as the last tendrils of its memory were slipping away from him.

The word came to him, catching his throat.

Peace, he thought.

But even as he recognized it, it was gone, leaving only emptiness and a lingering burning in his blood that made him want to kill something.

Had he imagined it in the first place?

Heh. Peace.

He shook his head, feeling foolish.

Ninjas? Swords? It was stupid—all of it.

Maybe that was it—just a normal dream, for once in his life. Not everything had to mean something, dammit.

He wiped sweat from his forehead and headed to the elevator and the hidden hallways below.

It was against the rules to use the Danger Room alone, but bad place—what were rules for but for breaking? And he’d broken this one too many times to count.

What was it going to do to him, after all? Kill him?

Sometimes, after waking up from his dreams, there was nothing left to do but fight. And since there was nothing solid to fight in the early hours of the morning, the Danger Room had to do.

He strode down the empty halls, the constant metallic light harsh after waking up in the chill of late fall.

He sighed, rolling his shoulders as he reached for the control panel, but then stopped as he saw the red light lit beside it.

IN USE.

What the bad place?

Logan frowned at the letters. There weren’t many students who could get past the security, and those who could weren’t stupid enough to try the Danger Room out on their own—let alone in the middle of the night.

Nightcrawler was even less likely to pull such a thing, even after a day like yesterday, and Beast was still in the infirmary—incapacitated for the near future.

Logan pulled his hand away and turned to the control room.

The sound of battle reached his ears as he palmed open the door, and he frowned upwards at the screen.

Rogue.

Against the rules, no matter how many times Logan had done it. How the bad place had she gotten past the safeguards?

He held back his initial temptation to stalk in there and smack her down for her stupidity, and instead stopped and watched. Let the Danger Room do some of the smacking for him. Sweet and fitting justice, indeed.

It was a familiar battleground—the floor already scattered with burning cars and sprawled rubble. Two sentinels moved in, surrounding Rogue as she ducked and weaved, bolting for cover as lasers zapped down around her.

She tripped, moving automatically into a roll, but the shot that nipped at her heels was too close. Logan reached for the panel, ready to end the scenario, when two missiles took aim and blasted right towards Rogue.

She pushed off the ground, darting into the air in a blur. The missiles blasted the earth behind her, sending rubble flying, and she bolted towards the nearest sentinel.

Fists extended, jaw clenched, she charged in a blur head-first right into the sentinel’s gut . . . and bounced off, slamming twenty feet back onto the ground and leaving a crater in the scorched earth.

Rogue! Dammit, if she hurt herself . . . .

How the bad place had she turned off the safety settings?

Logan slammed his fist into the control panel, cutting off the simulation—at least, he had meant to. A light on the console flashed red . . . and nothing happened.

What the bad place was that supposed to mean?

Freakin’ computer . . . .

“Now that ain’t nice!” Logan’s eyes shot back to the screen as Rogue pulled herself out of the crater and blurred forward again, drawing back her arm. The second hit split the metal in the sizable dent left from her first strike, and she gripped it, tearing back the armor like it was construction paper. She ripped the arm off, throwing the whole mass at a neighboring sentinel, which raised its laser and blasted the debris . . . right back into its injured partner. She bolted in, laying three heavy blows on the sentinel’s head before slamming right between its eyes feet-first. She ripped at the cables, and seconds later it stopped flailing and slumped over. Rogue lifted out easily and into the air, leaving it to fall to the ground with an earth-shaking thud as she hovered above the smoke and dust.
Rogue spun around in the air, zooming about with two loops before touching down. “End program,” she ordered, and the battleground dissolved around her. She wiped sweat from her face with the sleeve of her arm.

Logan met her in the hall as she came out of the room, and she did a double take when she saw him standing there, his arms folded.

“Well, who tied your panties in a knot? I thought you went commando, old boy.”

“What the bad place were you thinking?” Logan demanded. He could let her have some space, but he wasn’t about to let her go and kill herself either. “You tryin’ ta get yourself killed?”

“Ah’m fine, Logan. Invincible, remember?” she said, her voice holding only a shadow of bitterness at the reminder.

But the shadows were falling oddly on her face. Logan took a step forward. He brushed her hair aside, careful not to touch her skin to see the thin line of blood glistening on her hairline.

“Like bad place. You’re bleeding.” Got a nice bruise right over her eye, too.

“It’s nothing. Got blindsided. Ah’m not quite used to these powers.”

Logan pulled back his hand, frowning. “Not as invincible as ya thought, eh?”

Rogue shrugged. “Can hold my ground as well as you can, Logan.” She grabbed a towel from one of the cabinets in the walls and wiped the blood away before chucking the towel into a cleaning basket. “Wanna get a drink with me?”

“You kiddin’?”

“I couldn’t sleep. Apparently, neither could you.” She paused, glancing sideways at him. “Don’t give me that look. I’m 21, you know. Plenty old enough t’go on out and drink.”

That she was. It surprised him, though he wasn’t sure why. It seemed like just yesterday that he’d woken up in the infirmary, Jean at his side . . . .
Now she was dead. They all were: dead or missing—and somehow he was left in charge of this circus.

How was it that time flew by, and he felt like he was just standing in one place?

“You comin’, or does a girl gotta go alone?” Rogue prompted.

Logan looked up at her, ubiquitous frown in place. It wasn’t as good as a fight, but beer might work just as well tonight.

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Rogue didn’t bother changing despite the dust and scuffs on her clothes; a small tear showed skin on her shoulder, but somehow she’d managed to face the Danger Room still wearing four-inch heeled boots.

Why the bad place not? It’s not like she need to be able to run, flying around like that.

They stepped into the garage and Logan grabbed the keys to the mustang, but Rogue gave him a look, heading for his bike and hopping right on like she’d been born to it.

“Nice ride.”

“Yeah,” Logan replied, putting the keys back and grabbing a helmet. He tossed it to her, and Rogue caught it, immediately tossing it back.

“Invulnerable, remember?”

“Not invulnerable enough, kid.”

“Close enough,” she said, getting off the bike again. “Come on. At least this way if you run into some crazy vampire on the road, you’ll have someone watching your back.”

Logan pulled the bike keys from his pocket, looking at her. “Heh,” he said after a while, stepping forward. He swung onto the bike, feeling it drop its usual inches from his weight, and Rogue hopped on behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Logan kicked the bike on, letting it roar before pushing forward onto the driveway. The garage closed behind them, and soon they were out the gates and roaring down the road.

Rogue ducking her head next to his. “Let her go, Logan!” she called, exhilarated at the speed.

Logan grinned, rocketing up the speed. Rogue’s grip tightened slightly, but she laughed. They blurred away into the darkness.

They pulled up to Duke’s, a small bar off the road that almost looked like it would have fit in up in the Canadian Rockies and Rogue hopped off, hair wind-wild, eyes bright. She pushed her hair from her face as Logan came up next to her. She looked down at him and smiled, and Logan wondered when she’d passed him up in height. Her high heels put her a good half a head above him.

They walked in, and Logan felt the itch of eyes as the bar’s patrons turned to watch Rogue. He bristled, glaring down those who looked in his direction, but most didn’t even glance at him as Rogue sauntered to the bar and sat down. The bartender was there in a second. “Two beers, hon,” she said, her southern drawl giving her words a slightly musical lilt. “An’ keep ‘em coming.” She glanced back at Logan. He felt suddenly very warm.

What the bad place? This was Rogue. Kid sister Rogue.

21-year-old, hot-as-bad place, cocky, southern belle Rogue.

He shook his head, doing his best to mentally kick himself.

He slumped down next to her, glowering at any bastards who were still looking in their direction. After a good minute, he gave up and turned to his drink.

He guzzled half of it, and when he lowered his glass Rogue was wiping her mouth. Her glass was empty.

Well, bad place.

“Not half bad,” Rogue commented as the bartender poured her another. “Most places like this have piss-poor beer.”

“Been here. Beer passed good enough ta come back.”

“Doesn’t mean anything. You always did like bad beer.” She lifted her second glass, gulping it down.

“Slow down,” Logan said, putting a hand on her arm. “You’re going to knock yourself out at this rate.”

Rogue lowered her beer, amused at his protectiveness. “Are you kidding, short-stuff? I want to get drunk. Slobbering, knock-me-over-the-head drunk.” At his expression, she smirked. “Yeah, I know you’re jealous. Suck it up.” She nodded at his own beer, and he glared, lifting it and downing it in one long swig. He pushed it towards the bartender, and Rogue chuckled. “That’s my man.”

Logan caught his second beer, and Rogue lowered her second empty glass. The bartender filled it back up with a glance at both of them, but they ignored it.

“So what’s up with you?” Rogue said. He could smell the alcohol on her breath. “You’ve been off all day.”

“You haven’t been around.”

“Ah’ve been around enough, an’ the whole trip to the Danger Room in the middle of the night kinda gave it all away. Somethin’s off.”

Logan frowned at her. “Are you kiddin’? With everythin’ goin’ on today, and yer wondering’ why I’m not my usual cheery self?”

“Storm, Beast, an’ me on top of it,” Rogue counted off. “But ah know you, Logan. There’s somethin’ else. You’ve been twitching—keep starin’ off into space like you’re hundreds ‘a miles away.” She stopped to drink. “So that’s not so usual, but there’s somethin’. Been itchin’ at you for a while now. Not just today. Days. Weeks maybe.”

Logan debated for a second, frowning at the condensation forming on his glass as he ran his thumb idly over it. But the first beer’d been enough to do something; he figured what the bad place. Rogue was as good a person to talk to as anyone. He shrugged. “Been havin’ dreams—flashes. They’re gettin’ worse. Gettin’ dropped on my head off the Avenger’s tower didn’t help.”

Rogue sobered—frowning without a hint of drunkiness in her seriousness. Kid held her beer like a pro. “Wanda has been known to be impulsive. You’re lucky she didn’t do worse.” She frowned at him. “Stryker?” she asked, her voice lowering. She didn’t remember the details of the dreams, but she had had a couple herself before Logan had faded from her mind those years ago; the memories of the pain, terror, helplessness would never leave her, even if the specifics vanished to time.

Logan shrugged. “Yeah—he still comes around.”

Rogue leaned forward. “What else?”

Logan grimaced, then looked at her with a humorless grin.

“Ninjas,” he said dryly.

“Like this Bloodscream creep?”

“Yeah, at first. But then there’s more.” He swore. “Some old guy, teachin’ me ta fight with swords, d’ya believe it?”

Rogue actually chuckled. “Yeah, well—I don’t know how much of it was true, but there were plenty’a rumors about you. Said you were trained samurai, or something crazy like that—could fight with any weapon ever created. I never asked, but I was never given any reason to doubt it.”
Logan stilled; he’d almost forgotten Rogue wasn’t her normal self—or at least he hadn’t expected her to just pop out and say it like that.

“When was this?” he said, his voice low.

Rogue blinked, but quickly raised her drink to hide her confusion.

“Rogue,” Logan said, his voice a near-growl as he lowered it further. “What do you know?”

His glass was tight in his grip—he had to consciously loosen his fingers, afraid that he might shatter it. Rogue looked down.

“Ah—I can’t remember it clearly. These memories—they’re all mixed up, you know? Like they’re not connected right in my brain. Just keep popping up at random times.”

“Heh,” Logan said, surprising himself with the short chuckle. “Yeah. I got that, kid.”

“Yeah, you would, huh?” she said, putting down her own glass. She took a deep breath, readying to speak, then deflated. “I don’t know where to start.”

“How ‘bout the beginning—the simple version.” He could pry for details later.

Rogue nodded. She took another long swig and wiped her lips before beginning grimly.

“Carol met you back in ‘63. You were a hard-core soldier, she fresh into the field, and you took her under your wing.”

Almost fifty years ago. Danvers had looked 30 at best. Yeah, well—he was one to talk.

Well that confirmed it. Maybe he was immortal.

He took a long drink, trying to wash the sick feeling in his gut.

“Did she . . . . know my name?” Logan asked, his mouth dry despite the plenty of drink.

Rogue gave him an odd look, like she wasn’t sure what he was asking. “Well, yeah. Logan.”

“That’s not a full name.”

“Guess you’re right. But that’s what everyone called you. Mostly, anyway. Had more identities than anyone I ever met.” Logan tried to hide his disappointment at that, pushing it down. What had he expected? A name, address, and a list of surviving relatives? He should know by now that life just didn’t unfold that neatly.

“We worked some capers together,” Rogue continued, “but I didn’t see you for a couple years again until I ran into you in ‘Nam in ‘69. It was a mess over there from beginning to end. We worked some jobs together—wasn’t anyone else out there safer to be around out in those jungles—but you split. Guess you were heading some black ops, and that’s the last time ah saw you. Later I heard your whole platoon had been bombed to bad place, and you’d gone MIA, but later they moved you up to deserting, and put a price on your head enough to drown a normal man.”

Rogue stopped to drink, and Logan took the opportunity to drain the rest of his glass and start on another. The effects didn’t last more than a few seconds, dammit.

“Where’d I go?” he asked at last.

Rogue shrugged. “I didn’t bother to look. You did that all the time—disappearing, and showing up years later in Russia, Brazil, or wherever the bad place somethin’ caught your attention. You weren’t found unless you wanted to be.”

Logan let out a frustrated breath. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t been quite so good.

But that wasn’t right, was it? Because one of those times, someone had found them. Someone who screwed him over so bad that he was still trying to put the pieces together.

So what had happened? Had he flown the coop? The mission gone to bad place, men beneath him dead—he just decided he’d had enough and taken off?

Cowardly, that’s what that was. If something like that happened to him now, he’d leave a bloodbath behind—a dozen dead for each of his fallen men.

Or had he been taken out by the bombing too? Had Stryker just swooped down and picked him up while his insides were still crawling back together?

He thought more clues would help clear up what had happened to him—help him put the pieces together. But at the same time, his last traces of hope of him having once been normal—living a normal life, sometime in his past—were quickly vanishing.

“Dammit,” he breathed.

Rogue looked at him and sighed. “At least it’s something, Wolvie.”

“Every time I get another piece of the puzzle I realize the whole thing’s bigger than I could’a thought.” He thought he’d be relieved to find out more—to find out that the dreams, for once, were just that—dreams.

Fear, pain. Hate.

Who won? The man, or the animal?

He swallowed roughly.

Wars, death, blood. Killing. ‘Course it would be the only thing that he’d been able to do, all these years.

Stryker had been right.

He glared down at his hands, resting on the countertop. Rogue’s gaze was becoming pitying, and he felt it.

He cleared his throat. “Capers, eh?” he asked, forcing relative lightness into his gruff tone. Still sounded grim as bad place. “What’d we do, then?”

“What did we not do?” Rogue returned wryly. “KGB, Russian Mafia . . . .”

“Sounds like fun.”

“World’s a fun place.”

“Could’a fooled me.”

Rogue smirked, and despite himself Logan’s own face mirrored a ghost of the same. It felt surreal.

Tense as he was, strangely his caution had taken to the wind; he hadn’t felt this comfortable around somebody in years. Rogue sounded older, cynical, sarcastic in a way that her youthful innocence hardly had allowed, even after absorbing him.

He’d never felt closer to the kid.

He looked back at her from his drink. She was watching her with those old eyes again—and she looked sad.

“You’ve always been a good man, Logan,” she said softly, serious again.

“I doubt that, kid.”

“And you always have,” she said with a slight quirk of a smile, but it was sad. “That doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Haven’t changed a bit, have I?”

Her smile shook slightly—so slight that most wouldn’t have noticed it—before turning unreadable. “You’re still a good man, Logan,” she said.
Logan grunted softly at her not-so-subtle question dodge.

A spike of anger from Rogue’s scent, quickly stifled. Yeah, lady was good.

“You know,” she said, leaning forward with a mischievous smile. “There’s plenty I can still tell you. Like how you used to have the Black Widow on your speed-dial. And that was back when she was still working against us.”

“Black Widow?” Logan asked.

Again the unreadable expression, before she recovered, leaning back casually. “Sometime-super-villain extraordinaire-turned-good, more or less. A complicated one—I’ve worked with her as many times as against. Was on the Avengers team a few years ago, but took off. Probably working for SHIELD. Fury’s always had an eye on her.” She smiled to herself. “If you want one thing to prove how you haven’t changed, Logan, it’s how you still have a soft spot for girls in distress,” she continued. “I only met her once back then—we were on a caper in Russia. She almost wasted me, but then ended up putting up her gun and giving you a hug instead when you showed up. Called you ‘little uncle.’”

Logan grimaced, rubbing his head. “How the bad place do all these people live so long?”

Rogue actually laughed. “I’ve been asking that myself these past years. Far as I can tell, Fury has hardly aged since World War II, Miss Marvel’s powers helped me out, and you’ve got your mutant thing going on. bad place if I know what’s up with Natasha.”

They fell silent, turning to their drinks, but with less hurry as at first. Logan frowned.

“You knew I was a mutant before?” he wondered.

Rogue hesitated, putting down her glass. “Yes,” she said. “But you didn’t admit it. It was just kinda hard to cover up, with us running through machine gun fire. You took more bullets for me than I could count. We just never talked about it; you avoided the subject like a plague.”

“Guess mutants weren’t a public thing back then.”

“Yeah, but with the whole bullet-spitting thing, it was a hard thing to hide,” Rogue said, then hesitated again. She looked him in the eye. “You weren’t scared of many things, Logan,” she said. “But if I had to say you were scared of anything, it was probably that.”

Logan stared at her. “Bullets?” She had to be kidding.

She shook her head. “The mutant situation,” she said. “Being careful was important in our line of work, but you were—I don’t know. Paranoid. Half the black ops I knew thought you were bigoted against mutants—hated them, even.” She paused. “What if Stryker—or whoever he was with—was after you even back then, and you knew it?” she wondered. “Certainly would explain some’a that paranoia.”

Logan frowned into the dregs of his beer, their conversation bringing up more questions than answers to churn through his head.

But what else was new?

TBC . . . .
 
Quiet month over here, eh? Well, I can understand if you're busy.

I’m almost done with the semester, and boy--can I tell you how that makes my day just plain jolly. Big papers coming up these next couple of weeks, though (including a 50 page senior project that I should have been working on instead of writing this, but oh well), so wish me luck. ;)

The next chapter should come up sooner than the normal month--expect 2 weeks from today or so, since the 11th is the last day of student teaching and all this mess, so I'm planning on having a writing spree right afterward. (!!!)

Enjoy the chapter, short as it is. Happy (late) Thanksgiving!

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Chapter 37: Teacher’s Pet

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Stayed up drinkin’ until the sky was beginning to turn grey with the morning. Don’t need ta tell you it was kinda weird, talking to a kid about stuff that she shouldn’t have a clue about.

She doesn’t know who I was, either. Not really. Just another soldier, even if I was her friend. Had my own business, and always had my secrets.

Says she was like a daughter ta me—trusted me with her life. But she still didn’t even know who the bad place I was, and I could see it in her eye: she has her secrets too. Carol did, that is.

Was the best at what I did, then. Had enough contacts both high and low to make Fury nervous, on his way up to the top. Yeah. Turns out I knew him then, too, though Carol doesn’t know the details. War buddies, or something.

I always figured he knew more than he was sayin’, damn him.

Said it was rumored I’d fought in World War II, too. Maybe even before that. But she said she’d asked, and I never gave her a straight answer. Gave me a weird look, though, when I asked her if she used to know who the bad place Bloodscream was. She’d never heard of him before.

Well, of course Rogue had. Carol Danvers hadn’t, or whatever the bad place.
Dammit, this is getting too big.

Before, I just wanted to find out who I was before Stryker nabbed me. Now there’s no telling where to start. Vietnam? The World Wars? Before?

Does it even matter anymore?

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Now:

Beast was actually sitting up when Logan went down to check on him, carefully lifting a spoon of creamed cereal from a bowl cradled on his heavily-bandaged stomach. Logan stopped stand-still as he stepped into the medlab, frowning.

The normally barren room was as close to cluttered as he had ever seen it; handwritten cards—from some hand-scrawled note from one of the younger kids to a professional-looking illustration by Peter Rasputin—sat on the medicine tray next to the bed and were carefully set up on the counter along the wall. Someone had even brought in a vase of flowers—either store-bought or gathered from Ororo’s greenhouse, though he wondered if anyone dared step in there with her MIA.

But despite the fact that Logan’d made sure there was a set line of shifts to stay with Beast in case there was trouble, Hank was alone, and looking as content as a half-mummy could.

“Looks comfy,” Logan said, eyeing the pillows propped around him that no doubt were making his half-sitting position possible.

Beast had seen his encompassing glance, and gave a smile crooked from both wryness and bandages strapped across the swollen right side of his face. “I’m not sure who they were intended to cheer—myself, or their bearers,” he said, his voice soft and hoarse, but still somehow sounding as articulated as ever.

“Scared, are they?” Logan asked.

“An optimistic leader you are not, Wolverine.”

Logan gave a soft snort of amusement, coming forward. “You look like crap. That doctor you called turn you down?”

“Cynthia Reyes will be here when she can. I told her not to rush herself.”

Logan grunted. Figured Beast knew what he needed, after all. Wolverine wasn’t going to be the one to force medical care on him, out of everyone.

“Storm?” Beast queried.

Logan shook his head. “Nothin’. SHIELD’s on the lookout, and called a couple dozen guys I know who know too much for their own good. Not a sign.”

Beast looked down. “If there is anyone who can take care of themselves here, it is Ororo,” he murmured.

Logan had figured about the same thing, but it still didn’t help him feel better. He felt crazy, with nothing to do but wait, hoping for a phone call.

He’d never been a patient man.

“Where’s Sparky?” Logan asked, after taking a second to remember who was supposed to be with Beast at this time of the morning.

“Jubilee?” Hank clarified, but his answer was interrupted with a multiple coughs. He leaned forward, holding an arm over his chest, and when he sat back again he looked pale. “I . . . told her to get ready for class. I’ll be fine alone until Cynthia gets here, I assure you.”

“Whatever you say,” Logan said, not sounding convinced. “You sure you ain’t good enough to teach a history class?”

“I wish I were,” Hank replied. “By your eau de bar, it’s clear you’ve been busy. Drinking?”

He smelled the beer with a broken nose? Logan must’ve underestimate Beast’s sense of smell. Either that or he must really reek of it.

Logan shrugged, fishing a cigar out of his pocket and sticking it unlit in his mouth. “Don’t worry. Won’t make a difference one way or another. Wish it did, though,” he added.

“Of course,” Beast murmured, picking up his bowl with two unsteady hands and carefully moving it onto the bedside table as he sank deeper into the pillows.

“You need anything, you give us a ring,” Logan said. It wasn’t like he was the mothering type in any way, shape, or form—but he didn’t want Beast knocking on death’s door while he was stuck in the high school version of bad place. With luck, he’d call in the middle of class and give him a good excuse to slip out.

“Of course, of course,” Beast murmured. Logan turned to leave, and Hank added a soft, but too-cheery considering the situation: “Good luck, Wolverine.”

Logan didn’t reply; he bet he was going to need it.

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

Logan was seated behind the teacher’s desk in the classroom, leaning back in the chair with his feet up on the paper-scattered desk before him as he surveyed the class.

The window behind him was open, letting in the chill damp of a fall storm as the smoke from his cigar defused in the cold. He yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth.

Little sleep and a lot of healing to do wore even on him, ‘specially with the beer on top of it slowing him down, even if it was hardly noticeable.

How the bad place’d he let ‘Crawler convince him to teach?

Oh, yeah—there wasn’t anyone else to do it, and with nothing popping up on Cerebro’s automatic alert system to call him away, he didn’t even have an excuse to bow out.

So here he was. About to teach a class—a real class, and not just physical training.

One or two students came in early, stopping stand-still at the sight of him behind the desk before blinking and moving in. The rest came in en masse, and Logan half-suspected that somehow the news that he was teaching had gotten and they’d grouped outside before entering. Safety in numbers, he supposed. Glad they’d learned something from his defense lessons, no matter how elementary.

There was more than one dubious glance towards him as the students took their seats, and the kids who hadn’t brought jackets shivered in the chill of the room.

The whispers that had braved the silence cut off as Logan stood, walked to the window to toss his cigar into the rain, and closed the window. He went back to the desk, picking up a folder and leafing through it briefly before snorting softly and dropping it back on the desk. He sat down on the edge, frowning at the class.

“Cold War,” he said without raising his voice, yet his words were clearly audible in the closed atmosphere of the room. “Tell me what you know about it.”

Dead silence met his question, and the number of dubious expressions were growing, along with those whose expressions had already glazed over.

He lifted a beer bottle from the desk, popping a claw to carve off the top before taking a long swig. He tossed the cap, bouncing it off the wall and into the can without looking.

“Anyone?” he asked, heavy on the sarcasm.

Pixie’s pink head bobbed in the back as she bent over a piece of paper, scribbling furiously.

“What about you, Barbie Doll?”

Pixie didn’t react at first, but at a hissed whisper from Husk (What was her real name again? Paige? Had some funky weird power that she could strip off her skin and become whatever other matter underneath. Strange to hear about, yeah, but stranger to see.), she looked up, her eyes humorously wide.

“Uh . . . what?”

“Cold War, kid. Storm’s notes say you’re wrappin’ up a unit, and I wanna see what you’ve learned.” He tapped his fingers on the desktop. “Why don’t you start by tellin’ us all what caused t’whole thing?”

“Okay,” Pixie said, puffing out her cheeks in a breath of air as her gossamer wings twitched nervously. “Well, the Reds and . . . after World War II, Russia and the United States got in this competition thing between . . . democracy—capitalism—and communism,” she said, stumbling over her words.

Logan grunted, taking a drink of his beer. “Anythin’ wrong with that?” he asked, pointing his finger at her. She shrank back, a faint shiver of dust rising from her wings.

Better not agitate her too much. Kid had some hallucinogenic dust in those wings, and if she got nervous enough to let that out . . . well, that’d be the end of class.

Not a bad idea.

Still, Logan took a rare bit of pity on her and nodded to a blond, vain, plasma-blasting mutant whom he made regular practice to smack down during training sessions to try and teach her some humility. Still working on that.

“Boom Boom.” He still couldn’t spit that code name without cringing. Seriously, ‘Boom Boom’?

She smirked, showing off perfect teeth, and Logan had to stop himself from taking a deep drink of beer to try and block out the scent of rising hormones as all the boys in the class turned and looked at her.

“How about the delivery?” she said with a smirk. Logan raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

Girl drama was worse than testosterone contests around here, and infinitely less amusing to watch.

Logan stared at her, then stood from the corner of the desk and stepped towards her. The kid’s grin faltered, her eyes widening as he came over her.

He poured a couple drops of beer onto her desk. She made a face, leaning back as it began trickling down the slight slant towards her. Logan turned away, and she tore off a sheet of paper from her pink notebook and dabbed at the dribble, soaking the edge brown.

“Wrong. Anyone else wanna try?”

Silence. Logan waited.

Julio Richter raised his hand hesitantly. “She wasn’t wrong, really. Just—guess she said it was Russia. It was the USSR,” he finished lamely.

“Fair ‘nuff. Economics the only reason, then?”

Jubilee shifted from where she was practically hiding in the back corner. The motion was hardly noticeable, but Logan zoned in on her. “Got somethin’ t’add, Lee?”

She looked unusually grim, chewing her gum slowly, and for a second he thought she was just going to shake her head and stay silent.

“It was, like, an arms race,” she said slowly, her chin low as she looked at him. “Mutually assured destruction. It totally freaked everyone out.”

Jubilee’s expression was unreadable, and her scent was mixed in with two dozen other kids reeking of everything from too-strong perfume to not showering the night before (nice).

“Got it in one,” Logan said, putting his beer down. “Now who gives a damn?”

Silence. Blank stares from the few still looking up, most looking down in hopes that they wouldn’t get called on. Was there even a right answer?

“Who gives a damn?” Logan repeated, standing from the desk and folding his arms. “Berlin Wall fell when most’a you kids were still in diapers.” No—scratch that. Dammit, how did time fly so fast? “Nah, before you bunch were even born. Why d’we even care about this sh—crap?”

A small ripple of silent chuckles at that. The restlessness was settled by a quick glare. Silence fell again.

“’Cause that’s, like, totally what’s happening right now.”

Sparks again. By the sideways glances she received, he guessed that she wasn’t usually the class brainiac and he wasn’t the only one that hadn’t expected her to speak up.

“Wanna explain?”

“Mutually assured destruction,” Jubilee said, brushing her hair out of her eyes and tucking her bangs behind her pink ear-ringed ears. “Both sides trying to get the best . . . weapon.” Her eyes flickered towards him, but then back down. Logan’s eyebrow twitched the slightest bit, but he said nothing. “Nobody wanting to strike first, ‘cause then they’d hit back, and then everyone would be totally wasted.”

“Just like Genosha, and Magneto,” Hisako, a Japanese kid, spoke up as she got it. “Ever since Magneto’s got his power back and settled over in Genosha, you can see it all over the news. Everyone is freaked out.”

“Yeah. Sounds like all the governments want to hit him first, take him out while they can,” Beak, a thin-feathered half-bird mutant spoke up. Good kid, if ugly as bad place to look at, and useless in a fight. “But they don’t have a clue how many mutants he’s got there, and Magneto alone makes the idea of sending sentinels and normal weapons pointless. Even if none got through, Magneto’d have his reason to go to war like he’s always wanted to.”

“Not to mention that most governments have their own superhero teams. They’d stop any counterattack just as fast,” another kid added. “They’d just keep fighting, and it’d be enough of a mess that nobody would win.”

“I don’t know,” Boom Boom spoke up, her snide way of talking forgotten as she looked over. “Magneto couldn’t stop everything if they came at him at once.”

“Yeah, but even killing Magneto—some people would just see that as supporting his whole argument. He’s got enough mutants behind him to take over all of America, if he wanted.”

“Love t’see him try!” Hellion spoke up, punching a clenched fist into his palm. “We’d play his game.”

“Heh. You wouldn’t get close enough to try, kid,” Logan murmured, but was half run-over by a call across the room.

“But if they decided to bomb all of Genosha, what would keep them from trying to get rid of us, too? It’s not like he’s done anything over there.”

“Not done anything? Are you crazy? He’s proved he’s dangerous, and we’ve never done anything to show we’re a danger. We help people.”

“But who’s to say Magneto won’t strike first? He’s tried before, and that was just with a bunch of nobodies. Now he’s gathering an army, and that’s what everyone’s scared of—if he hits first, it might be too late to hit back.”

Logan sat back, taking a long drink as the room took off.

Who said there wasn’t anything to be learned it a good argument?

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

Actually had to cut the kids off. Like most kids, ya get ‘em talking and it’s hard t’get them to shut up.

Went all over the map. Turns out we’ve got some computer freaks. Turns out plenty’a them’ve . . . what do they call it? They surf the internet or whatever the bad place, and turns out there’re all sorts of rumors bouncing around out there.

U.S. sneakin’ spies into Genosha, tryin’ ta keep an eye on him, or brainwashing mutants to do their dirty-work, from infiltration to attempted assassination. Maybe got Mystique back in Magneto’s hand, doin’ his work—or not, and he’s just figured a way to take over and intercept all intelligence in the world. President got his own mutant bodyguards, or they’ve figured it’s not safe to let any mutant see him, just in case. Some true, maybe, and some false, and the kids realized it when their sources started getting undermined and contradicted. Realize there ain’t really anything we do know. Can’t know if the government gonna go nuclear on our asses ‘cause they decide we’re too much of a threat, what with Ms. Marvel being down, or are smart enough to stay away ‘cause they know I’ll hunt them to bad place if they decide to try.

Fear. Might be the thing that’s been causin’ all the infightin’ since the beginning of time, but after all this mess it’s the only thing that keeps everyone from tearin’ out each others’ throats.

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


TBC . . . .
 
Ha! I said it would be two weeks, and here I am at two weeks, posting just like I said I would.

So you readers out there, a review would be a nice reward, no? ;)

Anyway, sorry that I’m a bit giddy; I had my last day of student teaching yesterday, and am pretty much all wrapped up for this semester, just as I’m seeing all my friends begin to frantically study for finals next week. My lack of stress compared to their rising stress is something that is just a little bit buoying.

But no, I’m not a sadist. Not at all.

To business, then. Thanks you all for your reviews! I think I tried to responds to most of them this time, so check your inboxes and junk mail if you didn’t get one. Thanks so much for those reviews: they made the last couple weeks of student teaching go a little bit faster, and for that I am most grateful.

So onto this chapter. Again, a bit slow on the action part of things, but I can tell you that this was a jolly fun chapter to write, even if it was a bit more difficult than some. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Now, if you would excuse me, I’m going to go start chipping away at chapter 39 . . . .

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Chapter 38: Re-Education through Labor

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Then:

“I call.” Gambit laid out his cards, and Heather groaned, throwing her own down on the table.

“Again? Re-my—”

“None a dat, cheri. Pay up.”

Heather reluctantly slid the plate of Oreos across the table. Gambit took his winnings, carefully placing them on one of his growing stacks of cookies, then began gathering the cards together.

“Oh, no. Not again. After living off nothing but meat for days? I’m not going to let your come and get sick off junk food.”

“Ah, you jus’ afraid a losin’, dat’s all,” Remy said, glancing over at her and flashing her a crooked smile. His red and black eyes flashed, but she didn’t even blink. He shuffled the cards, his fingers adept and familiar on the deck. “’Sides, you ever hear a savin’ ‘em for later?” Remy arched the cards, flicking them sharply from hand to hand before glancing over his shoulder.

“It might be more fun if you let me win every once in a while,” Heather said, half-teasing the young boy across from her.

“Aw, you not half bad youself,” Gambit said, nodding towards the two Oreos at her elbow. “If you din’t keep eatin’ dem soon’s you got dem, you’d have a good bit a’yo’ own.” He winked at her, and Heather smiled back, charmed by the boy.

“Fine. Last one, though, okay?”

“Truce den. Jus’ one more,” the kid said. He turned his head. “Wolvie? You play dis round, petit?”

Wolverine glanced over his shoulder at them. He arched his eyebrow, looking doubtfully between them, then at the cards. Gambit picked the top one and held it up between his fingers, and Wolverine’s eyes narrowed.

“I tol’ you, it just a card. A card game. Remy bet you play a mean hand wit’ dat nose a’ yours.”

Wolverine just turned away, continuing his way around the room. He stopped at a line of books along a shelf, sniffing with curiosity before pulling one out and inspecting it suspiciously.

Remy looked up at Heather, then took one of his cookies and held it out.

“’Ey, Wolvie.” He waved it, trying to coax him over.

Wolverine glanced over, then stopped, staring at the cookie. He frowned, his eyes moving to Gambit as he straightened, tilting his head as his brow furrowed.

He lifted his hand and flipped him off.

Heather choked on the Oreo she’d just taken a bite of. “Wolverine!”

Wolverine looked at her, wary at the tone of her voice.

Gambit snickered, putting a hand over his mouth, and Heather turned to glare at him.

“Okay, you two, that’s enough,” Heather said. She stood, putting her hands on her hips and facing Wolverine. “I won’t have any of that here.”

He looked confused now, and Heather stopped, a sudden thought occurring to her.

Did he even realize what he’d done was wrong?

Well, he’d known to do it in the first place, hadn’t he?

She frowned, turning to the boy. “You don’t tease.”

Remy took a bite of a cookie, looking thoughtful for his young age. “Jus’ a couple days ago an’ I wouldn’t’a been,” he mumbled.

Now what’s that supposed to mean?

Wolverine was apparently ignoring them again. He’d put the book back and grabbed a magazine instead, and had slid onto the floor to sit, turning the magazine over in his hands. As Heather watched, he opened it, turning through the pages with extra care until coming to a stop. He held the book close to his face, then put it on the floor, bending over it so his nose was inches away from the pages.

Half-feral, but somehow he reminded her more of an inquisitive toddler.

Somehow sensing her gaze, he glanced over at her and frowned. Heather looked away as Remy finished dealing the cards.

The game ended as predicted—with Remy bringing home another victory. He gathered up his winnings and put them aside, and Heather glanced out the window. At least the rain was finally letting up.

Remy was shooting puzzled looks towards Wolverine as well, and Heather leaned close to him. “He can read?”

Gambit shrugged. “Dunno. Wouldn’ be surprised, though,” he added, almost to himself as he glanced over again. “What he readin’?”

Heather shrugged, standing from the table. She approached Wolverine slowly, but he looked up, his usual frown in place.

“Hey,” Heather said, kneeling next to him. “What do you have there?”

Wolverine shrugged, and Heather leaned over. “National Geographic?” Well, what else would she expect to be at a cabin in the middle of the Canadian Rockies?

“Mono o aware,” Wolverine said softly, apropos of nothing. It flowed from his tongue easily as he lifted his eyes, looking into the air at nothing.

“What does that mean?” Heather asked.

Wolverine shook his head, then shrugged, his hair hanging around his face as he looked back down. He was in the middle of an article on something Oriental—Japanese, it looked like. There was a picture of a tree obscured by thick, warped glass. A haiku was penned beneath it in elegant script.

A courtyard window
This tree stands, remembering
The old Tomoe.

“Well, you’re supposed to start at the beginning, you know.”

“Did.”

“Hm?”

“Did,” Wolverine murmured, his words a bit rough, barely above a whisper. “Last night.”

That probably one of the longest responses she’s gotten from him yet. She scanned the article. “Mono o aware,” she read, tripping slightly over the unfamiliar words. “Seeing with the eyes of the heart.” Wolverine frowned.
Encouraged by his attention, she tried for more. “I have to admit, I wouldn’t cut you out as a reader.”

A pause. She wondered if he had even heard her as his eyes scanned the page, or if he had decided to ignore her again. “’m not.” He paused, sitting up from reading. A hand moved to his chest, then to his neck—again, not finding what he was looking for.

He paused, then glanced up at her, uncertainty breaking through his usual frown. He looked down—thinking through his words before he spoke them. “What . . . what day is it?” he asked, looking up at her.

Huh. This was something. He’d shown plenty of curiosity so far—sniffing around and inspecting everything in the cabin with grim scientific exactness, and sat through Heather explaining some of her pictures of the photo album he’d found, but had hardly been open in actually asking any questions he might have had.

“It’s Wednesday. April 14, 1985.”

Wolverine grunted softly, looking down again, his shoulders hunched around him.

Thinking . . . what?

Heather wasn’t an expert on amnesia, even if she was a doctor. But even she could tell that this wasn’t a normal case of brain damage. He seemed perfectly lucid and intelligent, if a bit slow at times, but seemed to have lost all memory of what it was like before, and was left with nothing but animal instinct—from his mutation? Forgotten everything, except the things that were creeping through the cracks. It seemed almost pick and choose—with him adapting constantly as random facts or understanding came front in his mind.

She looked at him. He’d trimmed his hair and chops back, making him look a little less like a wild man, and the last residual scarring from getting shot in the face was long gone.

Was that it? Was his contradicting knowledge and obliviousness due to his healing factor at work? Could it work with memories, reconstructing and connecting memories which had been lost—separated from consciousness?

How would it be, to know things and never remember how he learned them? To know how to read, to speak, and to have floating memories of ideas and objects, but having no context for that knowledge? To have his memories filled of being hunted by whoever had attacked him and Remy in the woods?

How long had he been out there, running wild in the woods? Months?
Years? Decades? With his healing factor, would the time even show? She’d dealt with a mutant with a healing factor before, but it was nothing beside Wolverine’s.

He had metal-coated bones. Well, that’s what she assumed had happened. But how could anyone survive that?

Who would put another man through that?

Who could have? The cost for some secret operation like this had to be massive.

What she would give for some of her lab equipment. The questions were driving her crazy, and she wanted to get cracking on the ones that might have answers to find.

She didn’t know what Wolverine’s thoughts concluded with, but he closed the magazine with a final frowning glance at her and stood, leaving it there on the floor as he pushed his hair from his eyes and moved towards the door.

Heather had been watching him, content to let him wander through the cabin. He didn’t seem to mean any harm, and it was interesting to see him stop, picking up a wooden carved figure of a bear from a shelf, or sort curiously through the food cabinet, pausing to sniff and frown at each curiosity he found. It made her wonder what he was thinking.

So she didn’t realize that he had moved to the door until he’d already pulled it open and stepped outside, closing it firmly behind him.

Heather looked up sharply as the door clicked shut.

“Wolverine?”

She stood up sharply, stepping quickly to the door and throwing it open. She expected to catch him on the porch, maybe standing in the rain-soaked mud at the foot of the stairs, but he was gone. Vanished in the gloom of the storm-dampened wood.

“Wolverine!” she called, scanning through the gloom and mist.

Silence answered—just the soft drip-drip of precipitation not quite heavy enough to call a shower. She shivered, pulling her head back inside and grabbing her coat and hat from beside the door.

“He take off?” Gambit asked. He hadn’t risen from the table.

“I couldn’t see him,” Heather said, pulling the hat over her head.

“You not gonna find him ‘nless he want t’be found,” Remy said.

She supposed he knew best, but once Wolverine was out there . . . . What if he just started walking and decided it was too much trouble to come back . . . or simply forgot? She wasn’t sure how his amnesia worked, but she couldn’t just let him wander off alone. Even if James hadn’t told her to keep him there . . . She hated the thought of having him out there, wandering on his own once again.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “If he comes back before me, just . . . try to keep him here, okay?”


Bundled up as Heather was, the cold barely touched her at first—just nipping lightly at her nose and leaking down the neck of her coat and giving her a slight shiver. But she folded her arms in front of her, walking forward on the small path.

She was sure the path wasn’t man-made. James had said on their way there that the only way in or out was hiking, and even if his manager rented it out to the employees regularly, the weather hadn’t allowed anyone out this far in months. Yet it was still well-tread: the new spring grass was well-worn and beat down by the passing of feet.

“Wolverine?” she called again—but not as loud as before. It felt silly, calling for him where he could be anywhere by now, and the damp forest seemed to swallow her voice whole.

Despite herself, she felt tears beginning to burn at the corner of her eyes.

“Dammit, James,” she spoke to the air. This was supposed to be their time—a vacation from everything: work, people, family. And now here she was, stuck alone in the middle of nowhere with two strangers—a boy that was almost so good at dodging questions that he made her forget she had asked them in the first place, and a lost man that she wasn’t sure how to help no matter how much she wanted to.

Except maybe now she’d lost him, maybe for good.

She sniffed, rubbing her eyes. No point in crying about it. Just head back to the cabin; maybe Wolverine had already returned, and was staring at the fire like he had for hours after she had built it up that morning.

She pushed a strand of damp hair from her eyes and turned around—only to run almost-full on into the short man standing right behind her.

“Ah!” Heather cried in surprise, jerking backwards. Wolverine was startled by her shout, and he blinked.

He took a wary step backwards, looking around the woods as if to find the source of the sudden spike in fear, then rise of anger.

“Wolverine!” Heather said, voice still sharp. “Where have you been? You can’t just . . . take off like that without a word, you know. You almost gave me a heart attack!”

His wariness turned from confusion into something else—and he gave her a strange look as if she were the crazy one.

“’m fine,” he said, his voice as soft as ever. He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Heather.”

It was funny to hear him say her name. Funny to hear him talk at all.

He seemed to feel the same way; he grimaced as he said it, looking away from her quickly and staring out into the woods. His hair was damp, his bare feet wet, and his breath white in the air, but he wasn’t even shivering. In fact, he didn’t even seem to notice it as he took a step forward, his feet uncringing at the rough earth beneath them.

He kept staring, his eyes flickering over the trees, and Heather hovered there, unsure what to do. He looked so much more in his element here—at ease—and suddenly she felt the one out of place.

“What is it?”

He glanced back at her, lifting an eyebrow. Looking back to the woods, he bent down, fluid as a panther, and straightened with a rock in his hand. He hefted it for a moment, and then drew back his arm and let it fly. It flew straight and true, disappearing into a tangle of brush with a thud and a squeal. A rabbit bounded out, jumping a good two feet in the air before it bolted forward, zig-zagging a blur through the grass and out of sight.

Wolverine watched it go, no sign of his thoughts on his still face.

At last Wolverine looked away from where the rabbit had disappeared and looked at her. It was a careful look: a curious one. She was the stranger in the woods, and he knew it.

Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, Heather looked away from him, stepping forward on the path. “What are you doing out here?” she asked, shivering. Just looking at him, standing there dressed as he was, only made her feel colder. “It’s warmer inside, and . . . .” She paused, something occurring to her, even as it churned her stomach a bit. “. . . if you’re hungry again, you could just ask.” She couldn’t imagine how he was, but maybe perpetual hunger was part of his mutant package.

He looked down at that, frowning, and Heather was surprised to realize that she’d hit at least part of it right on the button. He’d been hunting.
She very pointedly did not let herself think too much in detail about what he’d been looking to eat, and how.

Hunt with his bare hands—those claws—and gulp eat the red meat raw.

Ulgh.

She shook her head, even more pointedly banishing that train of thought.

Goodness, she just hoped his appetite slowed down eventually, or maybe they would have to worry about foodstuff.
 
But Wolverine’s frown had turned uncomfortable—guessing what she was thinking, she wondered?

“Aren’t you cold?” Heather asked, unable to keep from asking.

Again the strange look. He shrugged.

Was that it? Could he not feel the cold? It would explain how he’d lasted in the Rockies in the middle of the winter.

“Jus’ needed . . . .” he trailed off, uncertain with how to finish.

The silence grew long, and Heather tilted her head. “Some air?” she said, trying to help him.

He looked up at her, his frown deepening. “Jus’ needed some air,” he said, half affirming, half trying out the words. He moved towards a moss-wet rock, sitting down on it with his knees to his chest and his feet curled beneath him. He ran a hand through his damp hair, glancing between her and the forest, as if trying to make a decision. Cold as she was, Heather made herself wait, and tried to keep her knees from shaking.

He seemed to come to it, and sighed. “I know . . . . I know how it goes here,” he said, the words gruff and clearly grudging of the halting manner in which he spoke them. “But I . . . .” He trailed off, looking out into the mist-green woods, the trees whose bases were still spotted with muddied, melting snow. His hands spread unconsciously over his knees, closing into loose fists as his thumbs ran lightly over his knuckles. “I don’ know,” was all he seemed able to finish with. “I don’ . . . don’t . . . remember.”

The words were clear, but despite any the lack of even a hint plaintiveness in his voice, they seemed to strike the deep chord of the matter. He knew something was wrong, and that consciousness of his situation only seemed to make his situation more pitiable.

But even knowing as little as she did, Heather could see that Wolverine was not the kind of man to take pity well.

“What don’t you remember?”

He looked down at his fists, frowning at them being clenched. He opened them, looking at his palms for a long moment.

“Family,” he surprised her as he fumbled over the first word. “Cars. Men. Human. Had . . . had to remember. Didn’t then. At first. At first . . . —dunno. Dunno why—” He looked up, his jaw clenching in some agitation as his fists closed again. “There . . . . Before . . . . I—I don’t . . . .”

His agitation was chasing the words away; he couldn’t think of the right ones to say, and it clearly frustrated him. Heather stepped forward, reaching out and touching his arm. He inhaled sharply and almost pulled away, but instead shut his eyes and breathed out a long breath; his hands unclenched.

“Dammit,” he growled.

“It’s okay,” Heather said.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and lifted an eyebrow at her. There was a pause as he let the flood of words in his head pass, and settled on a phrase. “Sure’s bad place’s not,” he said, voice soft once again.

She didn’t know what to say to that. She pulled her gloved hand down, but he was watching her oddly.

“Why?” he wondered out loud.

The one word made her look up again. “Why what?”

He looked away, then back at her, frowning deeper. He grunted softly, then stopped for the words he was looking for.

“. . . never mind.”

She wanted to press the point—whatever it was, it was clear it was bothering him—but he had stood from his place, pulling away from her and looking out into the trees again.

“Mono o aware,” he murmured, soft enough that the still air seemed to swallow his voice. Heather could barely make out the words. “Too much. There’s too much.” He sighed, looking back at her. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get you back.”

Heather smelled a bit surprised—at least, that’s what Wolverine was able to pick up from underneath her layers of clothes. Must be warm, he thought, but then frowned as he realized that the woman was still shivering—her cheeks flushed with cold.

He walked just ahead of her, but glanced back, his frown deepening before looking forward again.

Of course he was a bit cold, too. His toes were cold, with the ends burning with the strange almost-numbness as his body refused to let the cold seep too deep. His legs were cold beneath the thin fabric of the pants Heather had given him, and only more so where the damp had soaked up to his knees. But it wasn’t that cold.

Not that cold at all.

He gave a slight shiver, but then shook his head—shaking it off.

It’d been colder before.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel eager to do just as Heather had suggested: go sit next to the fire in the cabin, and let the heat seep down to his bones.

He listened to Heather’s footsteps behind her. She walked loud; louder than even the kid had, at first.

But that was it, wasn’t it? She didn’t have to walk quietly. She wasn’t hunting, wasn’t hiding. Wasn’t running.

He glanced over, looking up towards the cloud-hidden tops of the snow-crested peaks of the mountains. The clouds still clung thick to their heights, but they were thinning in the distance; he thought he may even see a spot of blue sky in the distance.

That morning Heather had said the rain stopping was good—it would help James hurry back. He wasn’t sure what that meant, and wasn’t sure if he liked it, but Heather said it hopefully. It was something good?

As for Wolverine—he’d never liked the rain, but it hadn’t gotten in his way. Still—Heather said it was a good thing. He hadn’t seen her so cheerful before the rain had begun to stop.

He liked that, he realized. He didn’t know why, but when she smiled . . . it was good.

He padded silently up the stairs of the cabin, skipping one that he had noticed made a loud creak when he had walked down them as he left. He paused by the door, waiting for Heather to open it. She looked at him as she came close and put her hand on the doorknob; he could smell some faint flowery scent in her hair, and wished he could put a name to it.

Not roses. Not daisies. Not lilac. Nothing he could remember, despite it smelling familiar. He’d smelled it before, but damn him if he could remember when.

She stepped in and he followed closer on her heels.

His stomach growled loudly, and Heather’s lips quirked upwards in—amusement?—as she looked back at him.

“I’ll go get you a snack. Just hold on a second, okay?” she said, kicking off her boots and hanging her coat up by the door.

Wolverine listened to her move to the kitchen, heard the kid ask if she’d found him and call some sort of welcome towards him. He ignored it, inhaling deep of the lingering scent of flowers as he stepped into the front room.

Why do you care?

Why would he care? It was flowers; something told him that he shouldn’t be able to care less.

But he did care.

He sniffed, scratching his head and grimacing at the thick smell of humans in the cabin.

Lily? Poppy? Pale, colored, vibrant. He could almost smell them; but for others he couldn’t remember the smell at all. They jumbled together like a blur of color.

Jasmine? No. Jasmine smelled . . . lighter. More delicate, white. Or was it red? It felt like it was red, but he couldn’t remember.

Lavender.

The answer came to him and he lifted his head, immediately confident that he’d figured it out. That he’d remembered.

Heather smelled like lavender.

But as soon as the small victory settled on his shoulders he felt how stupid it was, though he couldn’t say why, exactly. It just wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

Wolverine shouldn’t be excited because he remembered the name of a flower.

Stupid bastard.

His eyes narrowed, and he stared around at the pictures on the wall as his feet carried him forward slowly. A lake, a group of people standing by a river with long poles. Doing what?

Fishing. They were fishing. He remembered it, somehow—he knew what it was. Different from fishing with his hands and claws and hunger like a knife in the gut.

He looked away, frustrated.

Flowers. Fishing. It was stupid, all stupid.

Wasn’t right. Couldn’t remember.

He huffed softly at that, then stopped, blinking down at his mud-filthy feet. He frowned, twisting his head to look behind him and the trailing mud from the door.

Damn.

He traced his steps, stepping onto the welcome mat.

Not like he cared, but when he realized he was trailing mud on the floor he stopped and wiped his feet on the welcome mat, frowning at the boots Heather had left there. The leather was stained dark by the moisture of the new spring grass, and small clots of mud clinging to the bottoms. His gaze dropped further to his own feet again and his frown deepened.

What had happened to his boots, anyway? He’d had them . . . in the cave? Had he been wearing them when he was fighting the soldiers, and had them blown right off his feet? Did he lose them later? Or had he lost them before that?

He couldn’t remember.

Couldn’t remember anything, damn it.

Where had he left them?

He clenched his fists.

Couldn’t remember.

He couldn’t remember from before. He barely remembered waking up in the snow, so long ago. Or had it only been days? Time stretched—time meant nothing.

How long had he been out there? Heather had asked, but now the question bothered him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Had he left the boots by the river, after he’d found the kid sleeping there?
He moved to the couch and sat down, rubbing his head. Boots. Didn’t matter. He didn’t need them, not like the kid needed them.

And who cared if he’d left them behind in the cave or had them burned off, or lost in the river, or simply forgotten them somewhere on the forest floor?

. . . .

Were they just sitting out there, forgotten? Grass growing up around them, burying them forever? Or had a wild animal dragged them away—chewed the rough leather down to nothing?

Maybe the soldiers had found them.

For some reason that thought chilled him—more than it should have. He clenched his fists.

What would they care about a pair of boots?

Idiot.

“Okay,” Heather said, stepping from the kitchen, a bag in her hand. Wolverine looked up sharply. “I’ve got some beef jerky. Here.” She held the package towards him, and he took it, the touch of the plastic strange against his fingers.

He looked at it briefly, but then set it aside; he wasn’t hungry anymore. He just felt empty. Wrung out. Like hunger, but something else entirely.

“Wolverine? What’s wrong?”

He looked up at her. He shrugged.

“Are you sure?” she asked, coming to sit down next to him. She put a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, almost choked on his own air before he froze, refusing to let himself pull away.

She kept doing that; kept touching him. Saw her touch the kid a couple times too. Just little things—brushing by him, a hand on the shoulder. Kid didn’t seem to mind.

Really, he didn’t mind either. It was good. He liked the feel of her touch, after the initial shock of suppressed panic.

He let out a soft, long breath, refusing the shudder that was working its way up his spine.

“C’nt r’member,” Wolverine mumbled.

“You said that,” Heather said, uncertain. He’d been more frustrated before—this sudden downturn in his mood left her at a loss of what to do—again. Heather waited for more, but when none came she prompted, “What is it?” He didn’t answer, and she prompted, “Wolverine?” She felt stupid calling anyone that—let alone a grown man—but it was what he answered to.

Wolverine just shrugged again. “’s stupid,” he muttered. He leaned back, slumping into the couch and rubbing his eyes.

He could feel Heather’s eyes on him, watching his hands, his movements. For some reason he didn’t mind this time. He was sorry that she’d pulled her hand away when he leaned back.

“What is it?” she asked.

‘S all wrong.

“’s nuthin’.”

He couldn’t say what; he couldn’t say how. Too much to say. She couldn’t understand; he didn’t even understand.

“Wolverine, you can talk to me. I want to be your friend. I want to help, but I can’t if you don’t let me. I don’t know how.”

Friend. A new word, and an interesting one. It made his brain buzz, made the empty space in his chest echo. Both good and bad.

“’s it,” Wolverine said, cracking an eye open to watch her. She smelled nice, no matter that she smelled like a human. He could ignore that part, if he tried hard enough. Ignore the stink of people everywhere. Ignore his own scent of humanity, even. He cracked a bleak, dim shadow of a smile. “I dunno either.”

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

Why?

That was the question I had wanted to ask her, but I couldn’t figure how to word it. The question that I never really got the courage enough to ask her once I knew how to.

Had spent all my memories running. Every human I’d run into since wakin’ up in the cold had left me thinkin’ they were animals: selfish. Been shot at more times than I could count, and not only by the clowns huntin’ me.

I’d been caught in their traps, punched in their cage fights, stabbed and blown apart and torn all the way down to my bones.

I’d seen the kid was different, but he needed me. Figured he could’a turned on me if he thought it’d get him anything out of it.

Then there was Heather.

She took me in, gave me clothes, food, shelter. Didn’t even have to ask. Even when I could still smell it on her: she was scared of me.

Defenseless, afraid . . . but for some reason she didn’t let that get in her way.

She followed me out in the cold. Tried talkin’ when it probably was like talkin’ to a half-animal, back then.

And I didn’t get it. There was no reason—none—for her to help me. If she’d’ve been smarter she would have left me bleedin’ out in the snow.
Heather Hudson was the one to finally show me what it meant to be human.

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

TBC . . .
 
Wow. Sorry guys; I hadn't realized it had been so long since I've updated. I even had this chapter practically finished a couple weeks ago. Sorry for the long wait! New semesters and all that.

It's also a factor that I'm currently taking a creative writing class from Brandon Sanderson (!!!), and so I've been putting a fair bit of time into original writings this semester so far. Nonetheless, I think I'm finally getting into the flow of things and will be able to split my writing time between that and this. So even though it's been a long break since the last chapter, expect the next one within the next two weeks. Maybe exactly two weeks. Eh . . . sometime around then.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! It's good to hear from you!

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Chapter 39: Ace

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

Now:

Logan gathered up the scattered papers on the desk, stacking them in an almost-neat pile on the desk before fishing out a cigar and sitting back in the chair. He lit up, taking a deep breath and letting the reek of too many teenagers in too small of a space get buried in the scent of the smoke.

He stood, throwing open the door. A hundred scents wafted together—an ever-threatening, never-delivering headache looming just waiting for his healing factor to leave a space for it to strike.

But a scent caught his attention, and he turned around, eying the stranger in the entryway.

It was a black woman, with her hair pulled back in dozens of tiny braids, and the white lab coat marked her as a doctor as much as the scent of disinfectant that made Logan’s nose itch from meters away. Probably never would become comfortable around that smell.

“Oh,” she said, lowering her hand from where she had been reaching for the door. “Hello.”

“’Bout time you got here. You must be the doc. Reyes?”

She blinked, then smiled. “Yes. Cecilia Reyes.”

“How’s Beast?”

“He’ll live,” she said. Logan grunted, tapping the ash from his cigar into a nearby potted plant. “Henry said you fixed him up. You did a good job, considering.”

Logan ignored the unspoken question. “How long until he’s back on his feet?”

“A little rushed, aren’t you?” Dr. Reyes said. “He’s lucky to be alive.”

“Didn’t answer my question.”

She took his rudeness in stride, completely unphased by him. “Knowing Hank? A week—though he’ll have to take it easy much longer than that. If I hear he’s not taking care of himself, I may drag him off to the hospital, no matter the consequences.”

Logan looked at her sideways, and she looked at him back. Too closely, Logan thought—like she was prepping him for a thorough checkup, or something. Made him twitchy.

She took a small step forward. “So. You must be Logan.”

Logan folded his arms. “What if I am?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . . nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“From Chuck?”

“To name one, yes. You’re . . . not what I expected.”

Logan snorted softly. What do you say to something like that?

“You not one’a the X-Men?”

“Charles tried to bring me in more than once, but I wasn’t meant for the life,” Reyes admitted. “I’ve always wanted to be a doctor, and I’m not letting the fact that I’m a mutant change that. Still, I’ve helped out now and again. Xavier even set me up to work with some of the students, especially after what went down with Stryker and Alkali Lake.”

Her frankness startled Logan. Nobody talked about that, and nobody actually said that name in front of Logan, even after all these months. “What?”

“The children,” Reyes said, giving him that look again. “It was traumatic for all of them, but most were too young or weak-powered for Stryker to care about. But more happened there than them just sitting in a pen waiting for you to come save them, Wolverine. You should know that better than anyone.”

The hair rose on the back of Logan’s neck. “What d’you mean?” he demanded. He took a stiff step forward. “You know somethin’, lady?”

“Calm down,” Reyes said, a bit irritated but not intimidated in the least. Made Logan wonder what her mutant power was, for her to smell so sure of herself. Well, he could wait her out. “You are a bit tense, aren’t you?” Logan’s eyes narrowed at that. “It’s not my place to tell you.”

She reached for the doorknob. “Tell Ororo to call me when she gets back, all right?”

Logan nodded, not bothering to tell her that Ororo might not be back at all. Let someone who knew her better break the news.

She closed the door behind her.

Not connected to the X-Men his foot. That woman knew far too much to be an outsider. Knew more than he was comfortable with.

Wondered what her powers were.

He turned, glancing upwards as Jubilee stepped down the stairs, Kitty at her side. He smelled Jubilee’s usual wariness, but she didn’t look away when he glanced at her.

“Logan, you seen Rogue?” Kitty asked, worrying her lip. “She . . . she didn’t come home last night.”

“She was good enough last time I saw her. Took off after breakfast and—” Logan began, then stopped. He tilted his head, listening as he looked down the hall. Kitty listened as well, but couldn’t hear anything except for some other students’ voices from the game room down the hall. “Yeah,” Logan finished. “Good as y’could expect.”

He headed down the hall, heading towards the professor’s office, and met the elevator from the downstairs opening. Rogue stepped out. “Still no sign of Storm, but I got somethin’ else.” She walked right past him, and Logan had to turn around and lengthen his steps to keep up with her stride as she pulled a black coat on and headed back down the hall.

“Somethin’ else?” Logan repeated.

“Sounds like a friend a’yours,” Rogue said, stopping her steps to pull on her gloves. He hadn’t realized she’d had them off. “Ah just got a lead in the Big Apple. Cops’ve found thirteen bodies the last month alone—and get this: all drained out like husk ‘n not a drop ‘a blood left.” She saw his face and gave a crooked smile. “Sounds like a vampire t’me.”

“Bloodscream?” Logan clarified. “There’s no way that creep crawled back together.”

“And you’re one t’talk. One way or another, figure’d it sounded like a job. How ‘bout it?”

“Bloodscream?” Jubilee repeated. She and Kitty had come up the hall while they talked. “I thought he was dead.” Her eyes darted to Logan and away.
“Either him or someone like him. Best way t’tell is t’get a’look at the bodies.”

Kitty made a face, but Jubilee looked up again, looking determined for her youth. She stepped forward. “We’re coming.”

“Like bad place,” Logan said. Jubilee looked at him, and he caught her gaze. For once she actually held it, her dark eyes narrowing.

“So you’re going to run off and come back half-dead and full-on crazy? Good freaking idea.”

“Jubilee!” Kitty said, aghast.

“Settle down, y’all,” Rogue interrupted, stepping forward. “We’re just heading out on some old fashioned reconnaissance.” She glanced at Logan. “You’re gonna have to change though, old man.”

Logan glanced down at himself; he was wearing his ubiquitous t-shirt and plaid over-shirt. There was a spot of beer that had left a stain, and he smelled enough of alcohol he figured even those without enhanced senses must’ve been able to pick it up rather easily. He frowned, then looked over at Jubilee. “’Sides, taking two of you half-pints along won’t do anythin’ to help our cover.”

“He says to the girl that can walk through walls,” Kitty said dryly.

“People were walkin’ through walls long before mutants made the front page, hon,” Rogue said. “Hairy over there was a regular James Bond—suit an’ all. Could charm the whiskers off a cat, if he put his mind to it.”

Kitty snorted a laugh at that, and Jubilee made a sound of disbelief. Logan gave Rogue a disgruntled look, but she paid it no mind.

“Let’s get goin’. We don’t want the trail growin’ too cold now, do we?”

---------------------------------------------------------
 
Rogue cruised down the crowded streets of New York City, her unbound hair flowing out behind her carelessly. Logan sat in shotgun, looking out at the masses they passed.

“I just can’t get over it,” Rogue said.

“What?”

“You,” she said. Logan glanced up at her. “To think of you teaching school stuff to a bunch of teenagers. And normal teenagers, too—not mini-soldiers.”

“Kids fight good enough.”

“Yeah, but they’re not soldiers, and you know it.”

Logan just grunted at that, frowning.

“I think the funniest thing is that I can see it. You’ve always been like that: taking new recruits under your wing, showing them the ropes. In so many ways you haven’t changed at all. But a school?” She chuckled. “Nobody could have called that.”

“Couldn’t’a called it myself, just a couple years ago,” Logan said. “Can’t figure how I got in this mess as it is. I ain’t a leader, Rogue. This ain’t the first rodeo I’ve been to—people’ve tried stickin’ me up front before. Didn’t work.”

Rogue didn’t respond at first, frowning. Memories of wars passed over her head, of Logan, dressed in black, darting like a shadow himself in the darkness during a mission. Memories of him stopping his truck and giving her a lift from the bitter cold of a Canadian winter, and of talking to him in easy conversation at the mansion.

She could think of things that he could be referring to, but nothing from the last twenty years.

“What do you mean?”

Logan just shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

Rogue maneuvered through the traffic and pulled the Mustang into a small space with ease, pulling the parking break up and hopping out without opening the door. She looked back at Logan, but he wasn’t looking at her; she knew from experience that the subject was closed for him. He was ready for business.

She pushed open the smudged glass doors, waiting only a moment for Logan to hop out of the car and catch up with her before sliding in. No—sauntering was more like it. The coroner at the desk looked up, his rodent-like eyes magnified behind his glasses as he caught sight of her. He straightened, a hand immediately going to smooth his hair as another straightened his crooked tie. Rogue slowed a hair, a wry smile growing on her lips.

“Hey, sugah. Wonderin’ if you could help a gal out.”

Whatever she was doing, it did one thing—the man didn’t even waste a glance on Logan as he stepped inside, keeping in the background.

Rogue came up to his desk, sitting down on the corner and sliding her hand across the wood as she leaned back. “Gotta flat tire, and my uncle here doesn’t know the flat end of a butter knife from a car jack. Wanna lend a hand?”

“Y-yes!” the enthusiasm was almost too much; as it was, Logan was more than a little tempted to smack the guy.

He stood from his desk, and Rogue rose easily, taking one step towards him.

“Thanks, hon.” Her hand brushed against his arm, and suddenly the man stiffened with a soft gasp. He collapsed bonelessly as Rogue pulled back, catching him by his jacket and easing him back into his chair. “You’re a doll.”

Logan felt like he’d swallowed his tongue.

“What the bad place was that?” he demanded, striding forward to catch her arm.

She spun around, knocking his hand away as she pulled back on her glove. “Cool it, small fry. Ya got it, ya flaunt it.” She strode past him.

“And what if you’d pulled another Ms. Marvel act?” Logan snapped, coming forward to check his pulse. Slow, but steady—guy would live, just with a bad place of a headache.

“Not likely. Guy was a normal; chances are yesterday our powers just crashed and overloaded the both of us. ‘Sides, ah had t’try it sometime. C’mon. The bodies are in the back.” Rogue typed in the password into the padlock with experienced fingers and the lock clicked open; she didn’t wait to push on through. “His buddy ran out for a coffee break; we need t’rabbit before then.”

She stepped into the pristine back room, and Logan stopped, his ire dissipating as his nose took in the thick stench of dead bodies, antiseptics, and dried blood. Rogue had already moved to the nearest desk, pulling out a clipboard and paging through the papers there. Logan moved to the metal shelves, his nose twitching as he took hold of one of the handles and pulled it open.

The body slid out on the flat slate, feet first. He didn’t bother with the paperwork or the toe tag; he lifted the white sheet back from the man’s face and pulled back with an involuntary grimace.

“What do you have there, hairy?” Rogue stepped forward, but paused, making a face at the sight. For a second the experience and confidence gave way to disgust as she greened slightly. “Ugh. Now that ain’t normal.”

To call the body shriveled would have been an understatement; guy looked like someone’d begun to mummify him and only gotten half way through the job. His eyes were sunken, his teeth bared in a dried-out grimace, and his skin hung around his bones like a loose sack.

“Robert Kripke. 23-years-old,” Rogue said, checking the chart. “Cause of death unknown. Found yesterday ago. Healthy as a mountain goat; he was out running and just didn’t come back.”

Logan pulled the sheet back farther, grimacing as he caught sight of the handmarks on the corpse’s throat—fiery red against the grey ashenness of the dried-out skin.

He wasn’t surprised; he’d smelled the bastard vamp’s scent as soon as he’d pulled out the body.

“Son of a ***** drained him down to nothing,” he said.

Rogue didn’t need clarification. “Says he was found not three blocks from here. You up for some tracking?”

Logan glanced up at her through his hair as he covered the body again and slid the drawer shut. It didn’t do anything to help the smell.

“How many more like him?” he asked, glancing around the room.

“Thirteen.”

Logan nodded. Half of him was still protesting the idea of Bloodscream being alive, but the other half had moved far beyond that. Assessing.
13 bodies in a month, and who knew how many homeless bums that would never be found. Guy’d be strong. Stronger that even before, perhaps.

How’d he know that?

Did it matter?

Building his strength. He’s coming after you again.

But it wasn’t fear that he felt: it was irritation. Bastard just wouldn’t get the hint, would he? He’d dice him up, and he’d always come back. Always—more bodies, more police investigations, ending with Bloodscream crawling away in pieces, or Wolverine escaping into the water, into the air. Falling, swimming, running. Waking up to find the bastard gone, feeling blood rushing in his veins as he fought to heal. Neither of them would ever win; neither of them ever could.

“You okay, Wolvie?”

Logan twitched, looking up at her sharply. “Yeah. Jus’ thinkin’.

It didn’t help that the bastard was a coward on top of it. Wouldn’t just come out and fight. He lurked. Waited. Struck in the quiet of the night, stepping out of the shadows, out of the jungles, out of the snowdrifts. Obsessed and insane.

Too many of those in his life.

Really? Like who?

He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly.

Too many always hunting him, never catching him. Never winning, never losing. Caught in some eternal struggle so old that they didn’t even remember why they were fighting anymore. Just for hate and pain and blood.

Blood like flowers, like pure winter melting, like earth and air and water—all bleeding. The smell choked its way down his throat.

He opened his eyes abruptly. Rogue was watching him.

How long had he been standing there, silent?

Logan stepped to the door. “What the bad place we waitin’ for, then?” He felt strange. Unbalanced, sick—like if he leaned forward too much he might just tip right over the edge, and he wasn’t sure what he’d find on the other side.

Ignore it.

Probably just still healing. Scarlet Witch, fall from a building, and then a night of beer with only a couple of hours of sleep—all within 24 hours. Enough to strain even his healing factor.

He walked past Rogue, pushing open the door and distancing himself from the stink of death and chemicals.

The stench still clung to his clothes, his skin, his very bones—enough that he was almost grateful for the smog-and-dirt stink of the street as they walked past the unconscious coroner and out of the morgue.

They left the car behind. Three blocks was a short walk, and the mustang was far too recognizable. If they needed to rabbit they didn’t want anyone tracking them. Stupid; shouldn’t have taken it in the first place. Had to keep a low profile—keep their heads down, get in, get it done, get out. Be back with a clean report and the mission completed.

No overt government involvement, no more civilian casualties. Just get the job done.

He was still two store-fronts down from the alley when he smelled it. He didn’t have to ask Rogue; they’d found their spot.

He turned into the alleyway and stopped, letting his nose adjust to the scent of piss and layered filth that had been pounded into the walls and asphalt by decades of passing hobos.

He stepped forward slowly, dismissing the layers of graffiti as he eyed the place from top to bottom. The reek of body fluids made his eyes water—and above it all the stark stench of fear and blood.

He crouched down, zeroing in on a small spattering of dried blood that had fallen on the remains of some unidentifiable mat of grime.

“Got him?”

“Couldn’t miss him,” he said, glancing up. Rogue stepped forward, high-heeled feet sure despite the uneven terrain. Logan straightened. “It’s him. ‘Bout a day old—right time frame. Just can’t believe he crawled back out of that. He was scraps—probably not a bone left whole.”

Rogue nodded grimly, and Logan had a passing thought that Carol may have seen the result of his berserker rage before, sometime long in the past—and through her, Rogue. He scowled, walking back onto the sidewalk. He glanced down the street, ears perking up at the sound of sirens.

“What do you think?” Rogue asked, looking in the same direction.

“Worth looking into,” he said, glancing back in the direction of the mustang.

Rogue gave a soft laugh, stepping off the ground and into the air. Behind them a boy on a bike crashed into a garbage can, knocking it over with a clatter. She hovered, weightless. “How ‘bout a lift?” she asked, smirking.

“Very funny.” She probably couldn’t even get off the ground, carrying his extra weight and metal.

“I’m serious.”

Huh. Maybe she was. Ms. Marvel’s punches sure had felt a lot stronger than they should have been without a little extra power boost.

Logan rubbed his jaw, raising en eyebrow. “So much for keepin’ a low profile, eh?”

“Don’t see the harm. Carol flew around all the time without a hassle.”

“Danvers didn’t have the Avengers on her ash.”

“The only one still about would be Tony, and he hasn’t a chance of taking us both alone.” She looked up as another police car sped past, sirens blaring. “C’mon, big boy. We’re missing all the fun.” She flew down, catching him beneath his arms and lifting him right off the ground.

Logan managed not to yelp and pop his claws as she suddenly shot up into the air. A second later they were above the rooftops, speeding north. He reached up, holding his hat on his head as the wind threatened to pull it right off.

“Put on a little weight, haven’t you?” Rogue commented.

He ignored that. Easier than figuring out an answer, or trying to figure who in Rogue’s head was saying it. “Sure looks like trouble,” he called over the wind, as he refused to dwell on the oddity of his position and his feet swinging over the empty expanse as they rose to meet New York’s high-risers. The murmur of the city faded, and his fingers grew cold in the air as the cars below began to grow small with the height.

“Keep low,” Logan ordered sharply, looking up at her as they sped over block after block. Her face was up, her hair streaming back as she flew, completely unstrained despite his added weight. “You don’t know how long Ms. Marvel’s powers’re sticking around.”

“They aren’t going anywhere yet,” Rogue said. She dove down, and Logan tensed without thinking as his stomach flipped before she slowed her descent.

“That’s does it,” he strained. “Put me down.”

“Didn’t take you for someone scared of heights,” Rogue said, rounding the mirrored structure of a skyscraper.

He wasn’t. He could remember flying—but not like this. Falling. Jumping out of airplanes and throwing out his arms. It was dark; the ground wouldn’t see them coming. Even if they did, what could they do? He twisted, spinning in the air, doing a flip in nothingness and grinning a bit despite himself. Across the way another of the team caught his eye, and fingers like claws dug into his shoulder as hot breath growled in his ear—somehow still audible despite the roaring of the wind.

“Get yer head in the game, runt.”

Logan gritted his teeth against a sudden rise of bile in this throat as a lance of pain like a bullet shot through his head. He gasped, biting off a groan.

That voice—hot, reeking like decaying meat. He knew it, he knew it. Made his claws burn within his wrists, made fury rage in his chest, made his eyes turn red with it.

No.

That wasn’t right. Sure, he’d done his number of drops, but never with a team. Not at night, dressed in black.

God, he was going to be sick.

“Logan?” Rogue sounded like this wasn’t the first time she’d called his name.

“Yeah, what?” he snapped, bringing his hand down from his forehead. He had half expected it to come away red with blood.

“You just went stiff, Wolvie—you not going to sick up down there, are you?” her tone was light, but Rogue didn’t bother trying to hide the underlying concern.

“I’m fine,” Logan lied, the words cut short as he focused on bringing his claws back into his forearms from where they’d slid into his fists, marking dark bruises to quickly heal over and leave nothing but a dull ache

TBC . . . .
 
Ha! Told you it would be two weeks. Go me!


I think I had a little too much fun on this chapter. Just go with me on this, okay? ;)


Thanks for the reviews!


I hope you enjoy!

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

Chapter 40: Team-Up

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

Now:


Logan looked down from Rogue, refusing to think beyond what was right before him.

He needed to get his head in the game.


He’d smelled the smoke, and beneath them people were scattering—deserting their cars as they fled down the street away from the ruckus. Smoke was billowing out of a toppled semi.


“What the bad place?”


Rogue’s grip tightened as she swooped downwards. “Looks like a job for the Avengers. Do you see anyone?”


He figured she wasn’t looking for the Joneses. He looked to the skies. “You mean Stark?” he squinted, ignoring the lingering pain behind his eyes.


“I mean the Hulk, hairy. You know? Green, bad attitude? The bad guy?”


Looked up at her sharply, but she was serious. He looked down. “Doesn’t look like the Hulk’s handiwork to me,” he muttered. Not big enough of a mess.


Rogue gave him a look at that, but didn’t ask. “Couldn’t be your guy?”


Bloodscream? “No chance. Not his M.O.” The pain intensified behind his eyes, but he gritted his teeth, focusing on the smoke burning his nose and the chaos below.

CRASH!


“What the flaming bad place—?”


Something—no, somebody—came shooting through the fourth story of a brick building on the other side of the street, and a second later something metal followed, ripping through the wall as if it were made of cardboard.


Logan’s fists clenched, but the thought of Magneto vanished as soon as he saw the body attached to the tentacles. No—the arms were attached to a guy’s body—like four extra, tentacle-like arms, sprouting out of his back like a weed.


Looked like he had found their bad guy.


Wolverine bore his teeth, glad to have a target as the pain in his head faded behind his own rushing blood.


Just what he needed.


“Fastball,” he said, not sparing a second to wonder if Rogue could do it. Octopus-guy had already leaped down the building, sending bricks and chunks of wall falling as people fled. He grabbed a car as he reached ground level, throwing it across the street.


Rogue lifted him, pulling back her arm before shooting him forward with enough force to put Colossus to shame as Logan felt his lungs drop down to his feet. He strained to pull up his arms, his eyes blurring as the wind caught him.

SNIKT!


Metal arms whipped around, and even as Wolverine descended down at a blinding speed, one of them lashed out.


Metal on metal echoed up the sides of the skyscrapers as Wolverine was caught full-sided by the metal arm and deflected into a parked car. He broke through the roof, smashing the front seats and bending the wheel right down to the floor.


Octopus-guy staggered back from the force despite the deflection, whipping around as Rogue darted down. An arm snatched at her, sharp, clawed ends grasping, but she dodged aside, twisting to grab hold of it.


“Keep your hands to yourself, ugly,” Rogue said, jerking back and taking him with her as she twisted, ripping him through the air and letting him go as the other arms grabbed at her. He tumbled through the air, arms flailing until he slammed through a window across the street in a tangle of limbs. “Ain’t no way to treat a lady.”


“Hey, thanks for the help, but watch out, will ya? You almost squashed me with Doc Ock, and trust me—that’s not the way I want to go, ya know?”


Rogue darted to the side as something swung past her, but stopped as she recognized the red-and-blue blur.


“Spider-Man?”


The webslinger spared enough time to give her a thumbs-up before he slung down, vanishing into the now-gaping hole of the store front.


Logan lifted his head, blinking away bright lights as he yanked his foot out of the hole he’d kicked through the floor of the car in his landing. He snarled, pulling his way out and staggering clear of the ruined car and jumping down to the asphalt. He wavered on his feet, looking up, his claws popped.


Something green was shooting from the sky downwards, right towards Rogue.


“Ace, your six!” he roared.


Rogue whipped around just as the Vulture slammed into her, then twisted, carrying her up and out of sight.


Logan swore, but there wasn’t anything he could do to help her up there. He whipped around and bolted across the street with hardly a pause to yank the twisted piece of metal that was jutting out of his thigh and toss it onto the street.


Spider-Man swung across the street, landing on a telephone pole as Doc Ock lifted a car across the street and hurled it at him. He leaped down, crouching beside an abandoned car in the middle of the street. Wolverine ran low join him, peering over the car.


“This clown got any powers, or are the arms it?”


Spider-Man did a double take, though the slant of his head made it so it could be either at the sight of the blood or his hair. “Whoa. I thought you were down and out, treasure troll—”


“I heal fast. Powers, kid!” Doc Ock was speeding towards them, his metal arms gleaming.


“Nah. Just an ego to give Mr. Fantastic a run for his money. You?”


Doc Ock smashed over the car, flattening the top and descending down. Wolverine twisted, barely avoiding impalement as an arm slashed past his leg, shattering the asphalt beside him.

SNIKT!


Metal sparked against metal; whatever those arms were made of, it wasn’t just stainless steel.


But it wasn’t adamantium either.


He struck. Metal screamed and Doc Ock pulled back with his arms flailing, leaving behind the clawed end still buried in the asphalt, cleanly severed from the arm.


“Impossible!” Doc Ock shrieked, striking out at Spider-Man as he caught one of his tentacles and swung around it like a blue-furred circus performer that Logan knew.


“That’s what I thought too,” Spider-Man said, flipping a tentacle and landing on the storefront on the side of the street. His mask was slightly torn; Logan could see blood trickling down from a bruised cut from the side of his forehead as he looked down, getting a clear look at his claws. “Holy crap! Wolverine? From the X-Men? Ohmygosh, I am such a fan.” He leaped upwards, catching an arm and swinging around it and up and around another, twisting in mid-air to avoid being skewered. He kicked off, landing on the wall on a brief break of his acrobatics. “Did that sound too gay for you? I mean, I’m a fan of the Avengers, and I’m a fan of the X-Men. Like, you guys inspire me. Not a groupie, though. I ran into a bunch of those last week—rare in this city for me, I gotta tell you—and they were craaaazy.”


Logan ducked sharply as Doc Ock shot a car by his head. It rolled, shedding sparks along the street. “How many walls has he hit you through, kid?”


Another laugh, though a bit shaky. Logan could smell blood; blasé as this goof-ball pretended to be, he’d taken some hard hits and was tough enough to keep running.


“Kid? Hold on one second, gramps.”


Spider-Man caught two of the flailing arms with his webs, whipping in feet-first and slamming into Doc Ock’s gut. There was a loud crack and he screamed, his real arms whipping around his ribs.


Spider-Man swung out, barely avoiding the wild-swinging tentacles. “Oh man,” he said, looking back. “I told you I didn’t want to hurt you, Doc. I’m a nice guy, really. Just give up and we can make this easy on the both of us.”


“RRRRrrrahhhh!” Spider-Man leaped over a backhand from a tentacle, but a second whipped around catching his leg and swinging him into the wall.

CRACK!


At the same time, Doc Ock twisted, and a flying arm caught Logan sharp in the gut. He skidded across the street, bouncing— skin tearing until he slammed against another car and stopped dead.


“Argh!” Logan gasped, tearing himself from the second car in two minutes. His skin burned—road-rash not deep enough to kill the nerve endings, and just deep enough to make it feel like his skin was fire.


Enough with the small talk; if four-eyes was playing easy when he started, he was dead serious now.


So was Wolverine.


Wolverine straightened and sprinted forward, even as his skin crawled back over him. Doc Ock had turned, and was taunting Spider-Man . . . but Wolverine didn’t hear the words—just a growing roar of blood and rage.


A metal hand swung towards him, dodging his claws and aiming for him. Logan ripped forward, letting the claw slam into his gut as he tore down—severing it from the arm.


He ripped the severed limb from his side—it hadn’t plunged fully through, and he could already feel his innards crawling back together as he lunged forward again, one hand around his gut to keep it all in.


“Oh, God!” Spider-Man gasped, ceasing his attack briefly to stare at him. “I think I’m going to be sick.”


Another arm shot down, and Logan jerked to the side to avoid being impaled again. The arm caught him around the chest, squeezing his arms down and useless. The arms squeezed; he figured if he hadn’t had an unbreakable ribcage he’d have pureed lungs at this point.


Spider-Man hadn’t stopped swinging, but he hadn’t stopped babbling either. “You just . . . you just cut through his arms, just like that. Do you know how many ties I’ve tried to do that? Seriously. I’ve tried saws, big machinery, the works—”


“Less talk,” Wolverine snapped, a bit breathless from the pressure despite his metal ribs.


“Oh, yeah,” Spider-man said, snapping out a web to Doc Ock’s glasses and whipping them off his face. “Been waiting for that opening the last hour.” He shot in, webbing Doc Ock’s face. “Classic webbing-to-the-face win, and . . . .” A handless metal arm struck from the side, catching Spider-Man and sending him careening through the air.


Wolverine snarled, tearing skin from his arm as he yanked it free and cut down. The arm whipped back, dodging his claws, but he landed in a roll, coming up with a sweeping kick around Doc Ock’s real feet. He landed on his ash, and Wolverine twisted, bringing his claws down to end it for good.


“NO!”


Spider-Man leaped down faster than thought, catching his arm. Wolverine couldn’t move his fist if he wanted to.


He snarled, whipping back with his other arm, and Spider-Man leaped back, letting go to avoid getting skewered, and Wolverine went in to finish the job. He retracted his claws at the last moment, clubbing fatty over the head. He slumped, unconscious, but the arms struck in, conscious despite their master’s unconsciousness.

Crap.


Wolverine lashed out, shredding another arm down to a 3-foot stump, and another whipped in, electricity sparking from its slashed end as Wolverine ducked back, blocking it with a forearm before flipping backwards. The arms flailed after him, blind and sparking.


Webbing poured down, growing thick and binding the metal to the concrete. Disarmed of the sharp claws, they were bound fast.


“That should hold him until SHIELD shows up.” Spider-Man swung down, and rubbing his shoulder gingerly as he turned on him, shaking an accusatory finger. “You tried to stab me!”


Logan spared him a glare. “If I had tried you wouldn’t be walking right now, kid.” He rubbed his knuckles. At least the road-rashes were almost gone, though his jacket would need to be replaced. Again. He pulled off the tattered remains and tossed them onto the road.


“It’s Spider-Man,” the costumed hero said, sounding more than a little petulant. Logan grunted, but breathed in, inhaling the scent of blood.


“You gonna hold up? We got a doctor we can call in that knows how to keep her mouth shut.”


“You’re one to ask,” Spider-Man replied, eying the bloodied tear that had been ripped right through his previously white t-shirt. “Thanks but no thanks. Just a little R and R right now would do wonders,” he finished, but not without a tired sigh as he sat gingerly on top of a toppled car’s side, one leg hanging over the side. “‘Sides, the Fantastic Four usually patch me up if I need it.”


“How old are you, kid?”


Spider-Man’s head tilted as the question took him off guard. “Hey, you see me asking any personal questions?” Beat. “Okay, I have to know. How do you get your hair to stick like that? I mean, beneath this mask I have permanent hat-hair, you know?” Another beat. “Or is that what happened to you?”


Logan growled. Spider-Man stepped back, raising his hands, but Logan just reached down to pick up one of the severed ends of the clawed arms.


“What’re you doing with that?” Spider-man wondered, scratching a small patch of brown hair that was sticking out of the side of his torn mask.


“Souvenir.” Logan looked up as Rogue flew down, her arm firmly holding the neck of a weakly struggling man in a headlock. His abnormally large nose looked freshly broken and one eye was already swollen shut, and his mechanical wings were so battered they were hardly recognizable. Rogue looked as unbothered as if she had just walked down the stairs for breakfast. “You okay, ace?”


“Spiffy.”


Spider-man looked up at the sound of approaching helicopters, and as sirens marked approaching cops.


“And now they show.” Spider-Man looked over at Logan. “Look, buddy. I know better than everyone not to trust the what the news say, but I really hope that you didn’t really have anything to do with taking the Avengers off the street. The Silly Six popped up as soon as the news hit the tube.”


“The who?”


“Call themselves the Sinister—Insidious? Sinister? Whatever—Six. A bunch of my best fans that like to gang up and line up for a beating. You know—the usuals. Doc Ock and Vulture were the last. Just . . . take it easy out there, okay? There’s enough bad guys in the world for us to deal with without fighting each other.”


“Yeah, whatever.”


Spider-Man swung off, and Rogue watched him go.


“I like him,” she said. Logan didn’t answer, and she continued, “We offered him a spot on the Avengers not long back, but he prefers to work alone.”


Logan grunted. The job had a sweet enough package: fame, popularity, and probably a good salary too. Whole lot better than most superheroes had it.


Said a lot about the kid that he’d turned down the offer.

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

Stuck around to help some injured get some help. Police showed up lookin’ for Webs, and Rogue and I were overlooked, even a bit battered as we looked. Another reason not to bother with the stupid uniforms. They shoot the whole idea of “discreet” to bad place.

We kept workin’ until it looked like the cops had everythin’ under control, then took off. Not literally, though. Walked back to the alley and followed Bloodscream’s track until it got lost in the stink of the city and people. We went to the car and drove back to the mansion, with no more of a lead on our original mission than before.

Funny to run into Spider-Man. Sure, ya hear about superheroes, but I’ve never bothered keepin’ up on the news. Never figured to run into the guy.

Never thought he’d be so young. Could be a student here, if he wanted. Wonder if the prof ever asked him to join. Wonder why Cerebro doesn’t show him on the scans. Normal humans don’t take hits like he was takin’ and just get up and walk away.

Pryde’s not happy at bein’ left behind, though. When we got back she couldn’t seem to figure if she wanted to wring us for every detail of meeting the Spider-kid or if she didn’t ever want to talk to us again. Apparently she’s a fan.

‘Bout the same age by the smell of him, too.

I wonder if . . . Heh.

Nah, forget it.

TBC . . .
 
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Wow! This is great.

I love the fact that Spider-man came in. I'm a fan of Wolverine but an even bigger fan of Spidey!
 
Holy smokes! Someone responded on here!

Used to get a couple people, but it's been so long that I hardly have even checked.

Anyway--thanks, spidervsgoblin! Not everyone has been happy with Spidey's little cameo, so it's glad to hear it went well with you--especially since you would know if I completely messed up with the writing of his character.

Anyway, next chapter should be coming up sometime during the next week. Just have to wrap it up and do a bit of editing. Sorry it's been so slow as of late. :)

Again, thanks for speaking up. It made my day!
 
Here's the next chapter. This last month or so has been killer when it comes to trying to find time to write. Maybe it's the time of year. More likely it's just my original fiction writing class I'm taking right now with Sanderson; my focus has been there rather than here as of late. I'm patting myself on the back for getting this chapter done :).

I used the fact that today is officially my birthday as of eight minutes ago as an added incentive to get myself and and going to get this chapter posted.

I hope you enjoy. I'd love to hear from you guys.

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

Chapter 41: I Felt a Funeral in My Brain

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

Now:

Logan had dozed off to sleep—slumped in the one-man couch in the corner of his room.

His chin was low against his chest, his arms flopped haphazardly—one leg swung over the arm of the chair. But despite his lounging position, the distress of his dreams was beginning to become apparent.

Sweat beaded his brow as his eyes shifted beneath eyelids. His jaw tightened beneath thick chops—his teeth grinding together. His breathing grew ragged.

He shifted, his hands curling into fists as his breathing quickened.

Suddenly his eyes shot open and he was moving—a blur as he jerked forward and flew off the couch. He whirled around, putting his back to the wall and raising one hand as his eyes darted around the room, a hand automatically seeking the gun that was always tucked in the back of his belt . . . .

Two seconds after awaking and he had the room assessed—two easy exits from the windows. Lamp, towel, beer bottles on the floor could be used as weapons—either for him or the enemy.

He went still—listening for the sound that had awoken him. There'd been something . . . . There'd been something . . . .

He stood there, stiff and silent—eyes dark and wild, teeth bared, panting his breath as sweat dripped down his face as he waited . . . .

His gasping slowed—his eyes blinked, and slowly recognition dawned.

He pulled away from the wall, straightening and dropping the beer bottle he hadn't realized he'd grabbed after failing to find a gun in his belt. It hit the carpetless floor with a sound too loud for the still night and rolled under the bed, falling still.

Logan didn't move—it barely seemed that he was even breathing.

He stood stand-still for in the darkness, silent, unmoving. Far away beyond the windows of the mansion a lonely winter crow called out before falling silent in the chill that foretold the coming winter months.

And in the darkness, Logan laughed.

"Heh."

It was a cold laugh—soft and humorless, and swallowed up by the darkness as quickly as it had come, leaving only the bitterness.

He fell back onto the bed, grabbing a half-empty beer from the nightstand and tipping it down his throat. The liquid slid down, and he tossed the empty bottle away, sitting up.

He couldn't even remember this dream. Couldn't even remember it when he came to himself, flattened against the wall. Couldn't even remember what he'd been thinking.

Heart still pounding with adrenaline, though. Felt cornered, somehow. Cornered with nowhere to run.

The feeling had left him sweating. He was prepped to kill—prepped to fight his way out, and anyone that got in his way wouldn't last long enough to do more than scream.

He lifted a hand, wiping sweat from his face.

Was he even awake now? Was he dreaming?

Was it all just that—dreaming? One never-ending nightmare, tying together day after day after day after day . . . .

. . . . There was something he needed to do—something he needed to finish. But the bastards could wait—he'd be back in time for them to send him out again. He'd be rested and ready to do what he did best . . . .

Keep low. Keep low, don't trust anyone. Not them, not the team, not anyone.

What the bad place was the point of it all?

So tired . . . tired of running . . . . Sick 'n tired. . . .

Faces. Cracked and black and bleeding. Smiling, laughing, crying. Lying on the floor, on the road, beneath his feet. He could smell their fear, their pain—the death. Filling trenches, filling his nose, filling his head, pulling him down.

Had he killed them all?

Men. Women. Children, even. Dead eyes watching him, waiting for him to join them, bleeding tears. Waiting to catch him with skin-less fingers, digging, tearing, ripping . . . .

They'd wait forever, just out of sight—just out of memory. Haunting, invisible, faceless.

Black hair against red. White flowers scattered on the floor, cast in black shadow of the night. Blood. He could smell the blood, and it made him scream. Screaming, never to stop, but without sound as he was swallowed up, drowning in bitter green despair that bled down his throat, filling his lungs, his chest . . . .

Logan sat up abruptly with a choked breath, cutting off his own thoughts as they began to spiral into chaos. Sweat had beaded on his face again, and he leaned forward, clutching his hair as he shut his eyes against the darkness of the room that was so familiar, but suddenly so strange.

He was losing it.

Finally, truly—he was snapping.

He kept his eyes closed, consciously breathing deeply of the scent of the room—his scent. Breathing in his blood and dirt and bile and fear. Breathing in the scent of the dead—he could still smell Jean where she had walked, not many months before. He could even still catch a trace of Summers, though he couldn't remember the last time he'd stepped his foot in there. More ghosts—still lingering despite their bodies being long gone.

Then, the living.

Beast. Kurt. Storm—airy and earth-rich.

Various kids—most brief and fading after the rare visit into his room. The Icicle's and Angel's, months apart—probably from pranks or a dare which Logan hadn't bothered figuring the details.

Kitty, her scent ethereal as she could become. Rogue, filled with her energy and trust and southern stubbornness. Jubilee, from the time Kitty had dragged her along with her once; the kid's scent hovered near the door, uncertain, but stubbornly defiant beneath that. Kylee's—clear above the scent of beer and cigars, open and fearless as a person could be.

Logan's eyes opened, and he lifted his head, staring out into the darkness, suddenly wondering.

Where the bad place was Kylee?

Dammit, what was he thinking? It was two o'clock in the morning, for crying out loud. Kid was probably asleep.

But the furball hardly liked to sleep in her room even when Ororo was sleeping across the hall.

Ororo. Storm'd been the one to watch after the kid—make sure she ate, bathed, all that mess. All the other kids were old enough to take care of themselves more or less, but Kylee . . . .

Logan was off the bed before the thought was finished. He crossed the room, opening the door silently and slipping down the hall, cursing himself mentally.

Stupid. She'd probably just fallen asleep in her own bed, or maybe in one of her hiding places.

She'd run off before.

And who'd been watching out for her? She'd been sulking at dinner the night before, and she'd stayed quiet during breakfast—Logan had hardly noticed her. Logan'd missed lunch and eaten leftovers for dinner, after most everyone had already cleared out.

She could have run off hours ago and nobody would have even noticed.
He pushed open her door, but before his eyes adjusted to the darkness he knew she wasn't there. Her scent was hours old.

Same with Ororo's room. Darkened, the moonlight from the large windows glimmering off the leaves of the potted plants hanging from the ceiling, sitting along the floor. The room was neat, clean, the bed made without a single wrinkle—but the air smelled like earth and life, though the plants smelled a bit on the dry side without their mistress to water them.

Storm was gone, and there was no sign of Kylee.

Logan swore, hitting the doorframe as he turned around.

There was no point in waking the team; Logan would track her down easy enough.

He headed down the stairs, ignoring the chill of the coming winter in the stones beneath his bare feet.

He should have seen this coming. Kid hadn't been pouting about something petty like he'd immediately assumed. Storm was like a mother to her; she'd just lost another parent—again.

And he hadn't even thought about it, dammit.

Normally Rogue might have helped her out; she was like a big sister to the kid. But with everything going on the past couple days Rogue'd been busy with her own problems.

Didn't know if anyone had thought twice about the kid all day.

He stalked the main floor, parsing the scents of students, and catching a whiff wherever Kylee had been. Her scent was all over the place—particularly in her favorite sunny seat in the front sitting room. Catching a fresher scent, he headed into the back porch, frowning down at the night before slipping forward, a shadow himself in the darkness.

A cat meowed in the darkness and Logan twitched, glancing in its direction before dismissing it. He stepped onto the lawn, then straightened from his tracking, looking towards the barn.

He slid the door open quietly, murmuring to calm the horses that nickered nervously at his entrance. He stood there, inhaling the scent of dust and straw and hay before padding up the narrow staircase that led to the loft.

He didn't see her at first. The loft was piled high with bales and straw, and was all but pitch-black.

But he could smell her, and that was enough.

He crawled forward on hands and knees quietly, the straw rustling as he pushed it aside.

There was a quiet shifting beneath his hand—the tickle of soft fur and whiskers as luminescent green eyes cracked open in the darkness.

"W-wolvie?" she asked drowsily. "Wha's wrong?"

"Shh. Nothin'. Just takin' you inside." He eased her into his arms carefully.

"Mmm," she yawned, turning to snuggle against his t-shirt against the chill of the night. A hand curled in his shirt.

Her face was against his chest; his heart pounding just this side of her face.

Safe. She hadn't gotten far.

Shouldn't have worried. Kid was smart enough to stay close.

Even if she had run off that one time.

He shook his head at the thought, looking out over the lawn. The cold made the air clean and sharp, but he paused.

Was that rustling in the bushes? Was that the sound of footsteps, the click of magazines sliding into guns? He could almost smell it, almost hear it, almost see them—blending like shadowy wraiths in the past and into the present.

Was that a soft growl in the night—the animal, always stalking him? Waiting for him to let his guard down, always waiting

He shifted Kylee in his arms slightly, readying himself, even as he realized the sounds were empty, the thoughts from the past—the fear, the suspicion unfounded.

This time.

Was he shivering? He almost felt like he should be shivering—but he wasn't. It wasn't cold enough. Not cold enough to keep a new bead of sweat from dripping down his hairline and into his eyes.

Something wet dripped onto his arm and he looked down; Kylee's eyes were open, and clear tear-marks marked their way down her face. Her eyes didn't waver he met them.

"Stormy's dead," she said, her voice uncharacteristically expressionless.

Logan wasn't prepared for her to say it flat out, but the words served to bring him back, though from where he couldn't say. He didn't respond at first, but took a deep breath, lifting an arm to wipe his forehead. Kylee took the opportunity to continue, her voice small. "Everyone goes away."

Logan looked at her; he wasn't one to lie to a kid, but he sure as bad place didn't know how to talk to her about this.

Especially not right now.

"Storm ain't dead," he snapped, but then stopped when Kylee flinched. He breathed in through his teeth, willing the straining string in his chest to relax just a hair; it felt like it was ready to snap. "We just gotta find her, kid."

"They said Mr. Scott weren't dead either," Kylee said softly. "Never found him, just disappeared. Same with th'professor. Just gone. Everyone leaves." She blinked, new tears dripping down her face. "You leaving too, Wolvie?"

"Don't think ya gotta worry about that. Figure I'll never kick it." But his words instantly brought back the faces—dead, pale, withered with years.

If he'd been around as long as Rogue made it sound, who knew how much more time he had? Wasn't like he'd aged a day the last 15 years.

He'd already seen so many dead, even in his recent memory. Too many violent deaths, too much blood. Too much pain and fear and running.

But that wouldn't be the worst, would it? It'd be the days, the years. Watching the kids grow up. Watching them age. Watching Rogue's hair grow white all the way through, and Kylee become bent with age as he stood there, watching all of them as they turned into dust. Watching—unmoving, unchanging.

How many times had he seen it happen already? Would he ever remember?

Did he even want to?

"Wolvie?"

Logan inhaled sharply, snapping out of the stupor that had stopped him in his tracks just inside the kitchen door.

He cleared his throat, adjusting her in his arms as he moved forward again. "'S nuthin'," he said shortly.

He padded into the house and up the stairs, silent on the new carpet following the length of the hall—passing by three deep gashes in the dark wood on the wall that no one had gotten to patching up yet.

From the attack on the mansion, or after Bloodscream? Logan couldn't remember.

His bare feet crossed shadows and streams of moonlight from the broad windows, passing Jean and Scott's room, the door closed as usual: the room unclaimed. No one had ever gotten around to clearing it out.

Logan stepped over a stream of faint blue light from Storm's room; he hadn't closed it all the way when he'd looked there for Kylee. He could still smell her, but already fading.

He nudged Kylee's door open with his foot, stepping over a tangled blanket on the floor and careful not to step on the crayons fallen next to a spread of colorful pictures. He pushed aside a stuffed animal with his foot to have space to step next to her bed. He set her down, pulling the covers up over her arms; the winter chill was evident even in here.

Big mansions were plenty drafty, no matter how fancy they looked.

"Wolvie—" Kylee began, reaching out to catch his arm as he began to pull back.

"Jus' go t'sleep, kid."

"Wha' 'bout Stormy?"

Logan frowned, standing in shadow as he straightened up. "Ain't any kinda bad place that can keep me from findin' her."

The kid nodded, pulling her arm back under the covers. Trust colored her sleepy eyes as she finally settled back into the blankets. Logan took a step to the door, but her voice spoke up again. "Don' go."

Logan pushed a collection of toys from the couch in the corner of the room and eased himself into them; his bones felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. "Ain't goin' anywhere, kid."

He sat there, staring into the darkness as the kid's luminescent eyes slid shut and she drifted back to sleep.

It was only about fifteen minutes later when Wolverine shut Kylee's door behind him silently. He padded down the hall, his feet quiet on the thick carpet.

He walked past the entryway, glancing down the stairs, and paused. A shadow flickered across the moonlight streaming in from the windows—a glimpse of a yellow coat.

Jubilee Lee. What was she doing up?

'More happened there than them just sitting in a pen waiting for you to come save them, Wolverine. You should know that better than anyone.'

Reyes' words came back to him, loud and clear, and Logan felt a chill pass over him at the memory of Alkalai Lake.

What had they done to the kid?

He could smell her, sitting down there—unmoving. Probably holding her breath, afraid that he would catch her up and about.

Afraid.

What had they done? Sure, he'd smelled the soldiers on all the kids, but none of them had been hurt beyond a few scrapes and bruises. As far as he figured, none of them had been touched besides chucking them in that hole.

So what, then?

She was scared of him, more than anything since they'd escaped.

What had Styker told her? Shown her?

What did she know?

He turned, lighting up a cigar. The familiar scent and action helped him ease up a hair as he grounded himself even more firmly in the now. He felt her eyes on his back, watching him. He moved on, letting her continue her late-night vigil, and him continue his.

-----------------
 
Restless or not, Logan couldn't deny how tired he was. He ended up back in his room and fell back onto his bed, not bothering with the covers as he stared at the shadowed ceiling above him. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, and he frowned.

Headaches? Really? He couldn't remember the last time he had this kind of lingering headache. Nah—maybe he could. That one time he'd been lobbed out of an airplane at full altitude. Had a headache for a good week, that time.

But falling out the window on the 20th floor was nothing compared to that.

Somethin' ain't right.

He'd been tracking down his past for years now. Tried meditation—all that chi crap, introspection: the whole nine yards. Hadn't mattered. The best he'd been able to get was a memory of the room, of that tank, and of fire eating over his bones until he didn't want to remember any more.

Dreams, though. Dreams had been more . . . helpful, if you can call them that. He'd wake up sometimes with feelings, faces—almost enough to be memory. Woke up and grabbed at them, trying to hold onto them before they slipped away with sleep. It'd never worked, though. The harder he'd tried, the more it'd slip through his fingers like water.

But something was changing.

It was inside him, growing. Had been for some time, but it was getting too much to ignore. Like shattered glass, shifting and cutting every time he moved. Like broken shadows, whispering in the back of his mind.

Muttering of fear and hate and rage. Gibbering like madness, only to quiet when he turned his attention to it.

It was there, and he felt like if he just looked a little closer, listened a little more carefully, he would remember.

A cold wind pushed against the window, and the mansion creaked distantly, settling in its deep foundations. Logan looked up sharply, listening intently, his heart thudding.

He looked down at his palms, then closed them into fists as he shut his eyes and turned towards the darkness.

When he'd woken up . . . he'd been standing, heart thudding, ready for a fight. Not afraid, though. Calculating. Impatient. On edge, tense—ready to pop his claws and shred anything in sight.

Had felt the same way when he'd been out with Rogue. Undercover work wasn't something he'd gotten fluent with over the last few years, but stepping into that role when they'd been tracking down Bloodscream had felt like second nature. Had wiped the place of their fingerprints without a second thought, no matter that it wasn't likely that they'd be dusting the place down. It'd been natural, practiced. Whether she'd noticed it or not, Rogue'd fallen into the same pattern.

He really had known this Carol Danvers character, hadn't he? And in some way, a part of him still recognized that.

He tried to picture her face behind his eyelids—Carol, not Rogue. He saw her through a haze of blood and pain as she pulled him out of his face-plant to the concrete, slamming him onto his back as she pulled back a fist, her blonde hair falling around her face.

"I don't like people sneaking up on my teammates, hairy!"

But then she'd seen his face. Shock had passed over her own—eyes widening. Her fist sinking—surprise making her guard drop for that one vital second as Rogue dove at her, catching her face with her bare hands. Shock turned to pain, and then she was gone.

Logan shook his head, going back to her face as she recognized him. Shock, but along with that, something else. She'd been glad to see him. If Rogue hadn't touched her, her next move probably would have been to haul him back onto his feet and grab him in a hug, pounding him on his back.

He could see her face—concerned, lecturing him to sit down, to let himself heal, even though he'd never seen those expressions on that stranger's face that he somehow knew so well.

Could see her, sitting across from him in some candlelit hut. Could hear the crickets, feel the humidity on his skin as he watched her disassemble her guns, cleaning each part with practiced, fluid movements.

Vietnam? No—this was before that. Rogue had said that he had had his own platoon in 'Nam. Bombed to bad place.

Faces danced across the back of his eyelids—warping, bending in shadows, floating just out of sight, out of memory . . . .

"CAPTAIN!"

"Get down!" Logan snarled, grabbing the soldier in front of him and pulling him down as the planes passed overhead once again. Machine gun fire sprayed around them, cutting into the dirt, the brush, the trees. Shattered wood sprayed through the air, cutting any exposed skin. They covered their heads, knowing full well that it wouldn't do any good if they took a direct hit. Logan hissed, reaching down and digging one of the three bullets he'd bit out of his thigh while the private beside him looked up at the sky.

The shooting passed—the plane roaring up to turn around for another pass. Logan grabbed the soldier's collar, pulling him to his feet as he hollered at his other men to get to their feet, to keep moving.

Some of them didn't get back up. He didn't have time to check to see who it was.

Had to save his other boys. Get some of them out of there alive, get back to base.

Logan pushed past two soldiers, taking the lead. They ran low, half-bent.
He had to turn more than once as he caught the whiff of a mine beneath the ground—he pointed at it as he passed, passing the word along to his men.

The roar grew louder.

Roaring, roaring. The young soldier next to him was coughing—choking on his own lungs as he screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and over all of it was the roaring, the screaming as the world exploded around them, burning them to white nothing but pain pain pain pain as he tried to pull himself together, to fight, but he couldn't move. Fire ate through his pores and dug into his wrists like claws, ripping open his veins as if to bleed him to death. He writhed, falling to the ground, but he was cold. Cold as fire ate at him, slicing through his spin, paralyzing him as the cold seeped into his fingers, into his gut, freezing him stiff . . . .

"Staff, those braces can only keep the incisions open for so long, you know."

"Yes, doctor. The flesh is actually forming around the clamps, here. Amazing."

"Then work faster, man."

"Yes, sir."

"Computer indicates leakage of semen and marrow into the intracellular fluids."

"You heard the computer, boys. We're losing goop here. Keep those holes plugged."

Something was moving inside his wrist—like claws, picking away at his flesh, prying it away from his bones.

"Give me a right stem . . . short fiber."

Agony arced down his arms, and he screamed in agony as it drilled into his wrist. He strained to pull away, but he couldn't. Couldn't even twitch a finger.

"Ughhhh . . . ."

"Good God! He's coming around!"

"Don't get jumpy, professor. We have to keep him floating so we can trace the relay flux in his nervous system."

"Do you mean . . . he's conscious?"

Logan choked, but all that came from his throat was a weak gasp of air. Unfeeling eyes looked at him and shrugged.

"Yeah—partly. Add two pheno-B, staff."

"Yes, doctor."

"So he can feel what we're doing to him?"

"Most of it, yeah. Poor geezer's in a lotta pain."

"Pain is a principal of life, Doctor Cornelius."

"Yeah, sure."

"Not that I subscribe entirely to the dictum."

Pain spazzed down his side, into his skull, cutting through his brain. He screamed, pounding on the inside of his skull as he managed to turn his head to the side, his bare skin sticking with sweat to the cold metal table. "Uhhh uhh."

"Four phenol-B, staff. And keep him from shaking, willya?"

"Yes, sir."

"Readings, Hines."

"Sensory cortex monitor is overloaded, sir. There are no readings."

. . . .

Logan woke huddled on the floor at the foot of his bed in fetal position—his knees to his chest and his fingers digging into his hair. A gasped sob broke through his teeth and he bit it off, choking on a whimper as he rolled over onto his knees. He rested his forehead against the bare, cold floor, panting as he clutched his head.

Oh, God. Oh, God, no.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget as tears washed down his face.

Forget himself, naked and helpless as they picked him apart.

He raised his head slightly, eyes wild as he grabbed at his right forearm—right where his claws were encased in his arms.

THEY DID THIS.

Memory of pain shot down his spine and he clenched his fists, grabbing his head again.

Professor.

Doctor Cornelius.

He could almost still smell them.

People. People with names, faces, drinking coffee and joking as they watched him, picked at him, owned him.

The feelings that encompassed him—buffeting him in its wild currents—were beyond words, beyond description—just a soulless, wild void that screamed, swallowing him, tearing into him . . . .

Rage twisted his gut, choking him. Red ate at the edges of his vision as his fingers dug into his skull, as something horrible clawed inside him, demanding to be let out.

No—the students. The kids. Couldn't . . .

He struggled to his feet, forcing his claws back into his forearms from where they had crept into his knuckles. He slammed the door open, staggering down the hallway. His footsteps were less than silent as he half-ran down the hall, down the stairs, slamming a fist against the elevator panel. He staggered inside, falling against the wall as he slid to the floor, grabbing his head.

Think. Think. Thinkthinkthink.

Too much. Wasn't going to make it.

The doors opened with a ding, and he bolted forward, his bare feet cold on the floor. The metallic lights strangled his sanity, and he pushed into the Danger Room, slamming his fist against the control panel and locking it tight just as the darkness claimed him.

TBC . . .
 
I LIIIIIIVE!

Not that it looks like I was much missed, by the activity in this thread. But I'm updating on my more active sites and thought I might as well update on SSH at the same time.

Sorry for the long hiatus, fellas. You might have to back up a few chapters to remember what's going on. New town, new job--lots of change for me this summer, and being a first-year teacher starting this fall means it's not getting any less busy. Still, life is good. I certainly haven't forgotten about this story. I'll try not to leave you hanging for so long again!
1.png


Hopefully I didn't lose my touch.

Enjoy! As always, I'd love to hear from you!

 I heard a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.
 The eyes beside had wrung them dry,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.
 I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable,-and then
There interposed a fly,
 With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see.

 --Emily Dickenson
-------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 42: I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died

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

Now:
A fly buzzed by Wolverine’s ear and he twitched, shaking his head slightly without lifting his cheek from the ground. The fly was insistent, though, and he swatted at it with a hand blindly before opening his eyes with a soft growl.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .

SMACK!

Logan lifted his hand from the squashed fly and raised his head with a soft groan, but then cut off abruptly as his eyes widened.
Not two feet from where he lay was the unmistakable head of a tyrannosaurus rex.
He jerked onto his knees—wheeling slightly as blood rushed from his head—not believing his eyes as he saw the clearing was covered with dead dinosaur after dead dinosaur.
Tendrils of rage brushed over his mind, sending a chill of madness over the fog of his thoughts as something far, far away laughed in the darkness.
He’d done it. Finally, completely, utterly snapped.
He was in some kind of jungle—hot and muggy, and only worse because of the blood.
It covered everything—painted the slashed trees scarlet, splattered across the dirt—even thick on Logan’s sleeping sweats.
But it was the blood that clicked the memories into place.
Logan gasped, choking slightly as he remembered. He leaned forward, using his hands to keep from keeling forward.
The nightmares. The loss of control. Staggering to the Danger Room.
Some kids must’ve decided to have some fun and create some kind of Jurassic Park simulation, and he’d gone and killed off the whole guest list. If the ugly lizards hadn’t been extinct already, they sure were now. From the look of it, Wolverine had even clawed out of the dead rex’s gut. Its innards were strung out over the ground, and Logan was sticky with goop and blood.
But that was it—blood didn’t smell right in the Danger Room. Not the fake blood, anyway. Sure, there was copper, a hint of bitterness—but the complexity wasn’t there. No faces to the blood, no messages hidden within the seeped scarlet.
Still stank like bad place, though.
He could smell his own, too—real above the created. Not gallons, but enough that he could still feel the burning of already-invisible wounds.

Rogue’d disabled the safety settings the day before. Must’ve forgotten to turn them back on.

The thought was swept away, though, by a wave of rage and sickness as images screamed into his head. Before he could fight it, he leaned forward, throwing up and mixing real bile with the fake blood around him.
He pulled back, spitting to try and get rid of the vile aftertaste. He coughed, gagging, but managed not to make a repeat of the mess as he focused on breathing through his mouth.
He stood with a muttered curse, wiping his forehead. He felt clammy and cold despite the heat.
Was this what it felt like to be sick?
“End program,” he rasped, and the dinosaurs faded into nothing. He moved unsteadily towards the door, a hand pressed against his head.
--------------------------------------------------

“Woooolver-ine!” Jubilee called, standing in the entryway and raising her voice so it echoed down the wooden halls and up to the upper story.

“Jubes, what’s wrong?” Paige wondered, coming in through the front door and closing it behind her.

“Nothing. It is wrong to just want to talk to one of your ‘professors’?” Jubilee scoffed at that idea. “Hey, Wolverine!”

“Well, it’s Saturday. He’s probably sleeping off last night’s bar run.”

“Hel-lo?” Jubilee said, staring at the blond mutant as if she were playing stupid on purpose. “Wolverine? Healing factor? I think that applies to alcohol, genius.”

Paige rolled her eyes, but Jubilee ignored her, blowing a gum bubble as she stomped up the stairs. Paige followed her, openly curious. Jubilee ignored her.

She threw open the double doors blocking off the teacher’s wing to see Wolverine sitting on the floor just outside his door—his shoulders hunched, a half-empty bottle in his hand, and one hand pressed against the side of his head, mussing his hair which was still-damp from a recent shower. He didn’t lift his head, but just breathed out a lungful of smoke that floated up to hang over his head like a storm cloud. Paige stopped, wary at the sight.

“Healing factor my foot. If he doesn’t have a hangover, I don’t know what one looks like,” she hissed under her breath.

Jubilee ignored her, stepping forward boldly. She had no doubt that the man was intentionally ignoring them; he had to have heard Paige’s whisper clear as anything. She stopped a good ten meters away—well out of his lunging distance from a sitting position, she was sure, and spoke up.

“How can you stand that? I thought you had enhanced senses, or something,” Jubilee said boldly. Paige stared at her as if she’d gone half-crazy and excused herself to a safer distance (down the stairs with a hesitant, "I'll catch you later").

Logan glanced up with a bloodshot, squinted glare: his face as pale as she had ever seen it. He tilted his head back against the wall, breathing out a long draw in a stream towards her. Jubilee made a face, recoiling back from the cloud of smoke.

“Hey, watch it! Ever heard of secondhand smoke?”

He stood—not wanting to look up to her from his sitting position, no doubt. His movements were slow, though—heavy as he really was. He swayed on his feet slightly—his eyes shadowed behind his hair. “Teacher’s wing—hardly anyone left t’kill,” Logan said, his voice rough enough to border on a growl. “What dy’a want, kid?”

Jubilee swallowed, but she wasn’t about to let her courage leave her now. “I need a ride,” she announced boldly.

He squinted up at her again. “Ask ‘Crawler.”

“He’s busy in the office. You know, trying to keep this school running? It’s not like this place pays for itself.”

Logan didn’t react to her tone—not even another glare. He covered his eyes as if to block out the flat light of the hallway. “Rogue? Colossus? Drake?”

“Catching up with her college work she’s missed the last couple days, AWOL, AWOL,” Jubilee listed, counting each off on her fingers. “And not that you care, but I think Peter’s off with Kitty. Bobby could be anywhere, but it’s not like I’d trust him to drive anyway. And I would have bugged Beast if not for the fact that he’s stuck in the medical wing. You do realize that I would have checked all these before coming to you, right?”

Logan glanced at her, his bloodshot eyes making him look even more fierce than usual. “Yeah, whatever,” he said. He grimaced, his hand going briefly to his forehead before dropping to his side. He moved towards her, but Jubilee forewent her reaction to flatten herself against the wall and stood her ground, folding her arms. He moved around her anyway, but knocked against her shoulder as he passed.

Jubilee rubbed her shoulder where he’d bumped up against her—felt like running into a brick wall—but didn’t give up so easily.

“So?” she pressed, following him down the hall. Wolverine didn’t answer. “So, you giving me a ride?”

“Get real, kid.”

Jubilee gritted her teeth, her eyes narrowing in irritation. “Listen, mister. It’s not like I’m all, like, bubbles and giggles to go with you either, but I promised Storm, okay?” Wolverine stopped dead in his tracks, staring ahead intensely, even though there was nothing at the end of the hall but a big picture of some lake—hardly worth any such attention. “Are you drunk?” Jubilee wondered out loud, starting to question her own reasoning from just a minute before.

Logan didn’t answer, but moved forward again. Jubilee trailed him at a safe distance, but at the bottom of the stairs he turned and frowned at her. “What’re you playin’ at, Lee?”

Jubilee scowled. “I just need a ride.”

“Yeah? Where’s the fire?” Beat. “I ain’t wastin’ my time taking you shoppin’, kid.”

“I’m not a complete idiot, Wolverine.” Even if he did think she was—she could see it in his eyes whenever he looked at her.

“Where’re you needing to go?”

Jubilee’s mouth closed at that, but Logan looked back at her steadily. She sighed long-sufferingly. “Okay, fine,” she said grudgingly. “I need to go to see Dr. Reyes.”

Logan pulled his cigar from his mouth, suddenly sober and alert. He breathed in, and Jubilee glared at him. “Why?” he said.

“Uh, well—”

“Doc was just here yesterday,” he interrupted. “Why’d you not catch her then?”

“Because I was in class,” she said as if he were particularly dense.

“What’s your deal with her?” he pressed.

Jubilee hunched in her coat. “None of your business,” she snapped. “You taking me or do I have to walk?”

Logan turned and growled—no words formed from the sound, and he grabbed his coat from where it had been flung over the banister at the foot of the stairs. He headed towards the garage without a word.

“Okay, then,” Jubilee said, and followed him out.

---------------------------------
 
They drove in silence the entire way.

Logan was almost grateful for the distraction. Didn’t like the kid, but wondering about what the bad place was going on with her helped keep him focused. He didn’t feel like he was going to fall apart like last night, but there was no knowing.

Didn’t know what was going on, but he couldn’t afford to lose it now. Not with Storm missing, Rogue like she was, the team leaderless again. He had to hold it together.

Doctor’s visit. From the sound of it, this wasn’t the first one, either. Kid refused to say another word about it, and she didn’t smell sick. Not even a sniffle.

No odd scent, besides her usual aura of sugar, which was punctuated even more strongly by the gum she was blowing bubbles with as she looked out the window. She hadn’t looked at him once since they’d gotten in the car.

Reyes had said she’d visited with some students after Alkali Lake. This had to be more of the same, even months after the fact.

Logan inhaled again. No lingering traces of blood or pain—no antiseptics, not even a hint of Tylenol in her sweat. She’d been showing up to training sessions for weeks, and even if she’d avoided him, he couldn’t remember her acting hurt in any way.

And it wasn’t like Storm would’ve let her, if something was wrong.

“Would you stop that? It sounds like you’ve got a cold, but I know you can’t get sick, so just quit it, okay?” Jubilee said, with all of her 13-year-old indignation.

Still afraid. Despite her growing attitude and resentfulness rather than her earlier cowering, the fear was still there—just hidden. Controlled. Turned into anger and defiance.

“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

“What’s wrong, Wolvie? You worried about me?” she mocked.

Logan bared a canine at her, and her expression faltered, but she covered it up by turning to look out the window. She swallowed, rubbing her palms on her pants.

Logan gritted his teeth, swallowing the rage that had unaccountably risen at her mocking tone. He pulled the car to a sharp stop outside the hospital, not even bothering putting it into neutral.

“When d’ya need to be picked up?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jubilee grumbled, grabbing her shoulder bag and kicking open the door.

“Watch it,” Logan snapped.

She rolled her eyes, climbing out and slamming the door behind her.

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

Jubilee pushed into the office and plopped down in the worn couch in the corner. She slumped down, throwing her head back and pulling her pink sunglasses down over her eyes.

“Well, I did it. So we done here or what?”

Cecilia Reyes looked up from the file she’d been perusing and closed it. “Well hello to you too, Jubilee. And yes, I’m fine. How nice of you to ask.” She glanced up at the clock. “You’re early.”

“Thought it would take more time to convince him.” She said, sitting forward and pushing up her glasses to sit on the top of her head. “Took like two minutes. He was out of it today, or something. Either way, I asked him and he took me.”

“Did you talk?”

Jubilee snorted, popping a bubble she’d blown. “That wasn’t part of the deal.

“Listen, I know what you saw was difficult—”

Jubilee cut her off with a laugh. “We’ve covered this, already. I mean, I know he’s part of the team and I’ve gotta deal with that—cool. But you can’t ask me to ignore that.”

“I think it’s impressive he’s come so far.”

“You only think he’s come so far. I tried to tell Ororo this weeks ago, after the whole Bloodscream thing. Something happened. Something’s happening. I don’t know what, but something’s different, and it’s just getting worse.”

“We’ve talked about Wolverine, Jubilee. This is about you.”

“I know, whatever,” Jubilee said, losing energy and flopping back against the couch. “See, I’m cool. I’m not scared of him, not mad at him—yeah, he’s a victim, whatever.”

“You’re very convincing.”

Jubilee pulled her sunglasses back down over her eyes.

“Nobody made Mr. Summers go through all this mess,” she grumbled.

“Scott didn’t have troubles sitting at the same table as Logan,” Reyes said, her tone softening slightly.

Jubilee grinned despite herself. “You should have come over more often.”

“And he wasn’t in the mistaken belief that he was barely more than a trained killing machine.”

Jubilee quickly sobered at that. “It’s not like he didn’t worry. Besides, he didn’t see . . . that.” Cecilia couldn’t see the shadows that fell over Jubilee’s eyes because of her glasses, but she knew they were there.

“Listen, we done?” Jubilee asked after a pause. “Storm’s deal said today was the last appointment. You wanted me to cope. I’m coping. It was never about actually liking him.”

Cecilia sighed. “I think he’s an interesting case, for sure. You don’t think he would consider . . . ?”

Jubilee laughed outright at that. “Therapy? Or, sorry—‘just talking.’ Are you kidding? It was weird enough when he started writing in that journal of his.”

Cecilia perked up at that. “He has a journal?”

Jubilee nodded, snapping her gum in her mouth. “I know, right? Started it some months ago. Nobody has even been able to get a peek.” She wasn’t about to mention the pool of money that was going towards whatever suicidal student could get a hold of it. It wouldn’t even be that hard—Kylee had let it slip that he kept it under his mattress, of all obvious places. It was just that nobody had worked up the courage (stupidity) to stroll in and grab it.

“What do you think is in it?”

Jubilee thought for a moment—an unusual thing for the usually chatty girl—then shrugged. “Memories or something? I dunno.” Would make sense. She wondered how he had so much to write about, though—last time she had glimpsed it the thick book had been more than half full.

But that was probably the safest answer to give the doctor that would keep her from being overanalyzed again. Jubilee had thought of lots of possibilities.

She could see him profiling the kids—keeping notes to make sure he kept them under his thumb . . . but then again, why would he need notes when a certain glare could make most of the kids pee their pants? He could knock half of them off in his sleep if he wanted.

Maybe he was spying for the Canadian government. Or even the American government, for all she knew.

Writing a book, even—1001 Ways to Kill a Man. Or a mutant. He’d probably already signed off on the first one years ago.

Maybe he really was just writing down memories, though of what Jubilee couldn’t imagine. Everyone knew he’d just been a drifter since . . . whenever.

Maybe he’s just afraid of forgetting again.

Afraid. Hard to picture the Wolverine being afraid of anything.

“Huh,” Cecilia said, sitting back. Jubilee smirked at her, sure that the doctor had been safely distracted, and probably wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it for a good long while.

But the question remained: What would Wolverine write in his journal?

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

Jubilee stepped out of the hospital and hit the street, heading for the bus stop a half a block down, but then stopped as she sighted the blue mustang parked at the library across the street with the familiar license plate number.

Now what would Wolverine be doing at the library?

Well, he’d offered her a ride home, so what the heck? Might as well save the bus route fee—there was no knowing what kind of allowance they’d be getting with Storm gone. If Wolverine was in charge, probably nothing.

She ran to reach the crosswalk while the crossing signal made its last flash, and jogged up the stairs to push into the dusty quiet.

Jubilee wrinkled her nose at the smell, wondering vaguely how it smelled to Wolverine’s nose. She didn’t like him, but she had to admit—his mutation had to seriously suck sometimes.

She walked past a mom who was trying to shush her three kids and past the hushed noise of the checkout desk, keeping her eyes open.

He wasn’t in the non-fiction section, or the fiction (A weird thought, but you never knew). She even did a cursory scan over the children’s section, though that thought made her smirk a bit.

No luck.

Had she missed him? Not likely: Wolverine would stand out like a sore thumb in this sort of place.

Even thinking of the short, hairy mutant standing among these normal people was weird. Weird to think him at a library. Totally weird to think him reading.

More irritated at his lack of appearance than she probably should have been, she stopped, frowning around.

And saw the computers.

No way. But . . . hey, why not?

She scanned over the rows, and caught sight of his leather jacket first, and the fact that the two booths on each side of him were noticeably vacant.

No point in trying to sneak up. Not safe, anyway. Jubilee strolled up, set on plopping down in the empty chair beside him, but caught a glance of the screen and stopped stand-still—frozen at the sight.

Wolverine glanced back, eyes narrowing at the sight of her. He flipped over to another tab and turned.

“And what the bad place’re you doin’ here?” he snapped, pleasant as ever.

But Jubilee didn’t flinch—didn’t even look at him at first. She had to pull her eyes down to focus on him, and though she opened her mouth for an expected retort—nothing came out.

She swallowed. Wolverine’s expression was growing darker—but she couldn’t ignore what she’d just seen.

“Who was that?”

“Who was who?” Logan demanded.

Jubilee folded her arms. “On the screen. The newspaper article.”

Cornelius: Saint or Murderer?the scan of the newspaper had read. But it had been the face of the man beneath the heading that had drawn her eye.

“None of yer business.” But Wolverine hesitated, his face hard as steel as his eyes narrowed to mere slits. “What’s yer problem, Lee?”

Jubilee peeled her eyes from the screen, making herself look at the feral mutant’s eyes before her.

Was it just her, or did they look even more dangerous than usual—a little more wild?

She pulled in a conscious breath, trying to hide her reaction as he watched at her, no doubt wondering why she'd frozen stone-cold.

Because, she thought, I saw you kill him.

TBC . . . .
(And soon, I promise!)

Reviews?
 
Hi! <empty echoes reply>

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Chapter 43: Alpha Male

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Days passed at the cabin. Probably like four or somethin'. Started tryin' ta pay attention to that sort of thing, but I lost track a couple times. Took a nap in the middle of the day and woke up not knowing if I'd slept a day or an hour. Wasn't used to keeping time; wasn't used to it mattering.

Heather said it mattered, though. Said with the weather clearin' up James would be back sooner—and sooner was better. I hardly remembered Mac; hardly remembered attacking him, even if it was just days before. Head hadn't been on straight. Didn't really know what it meant that he had left, or that he was coming back.

Days were like dreaming. Too much to think of, too much to try and figure out. Felt like the more I tried to remember the more everything kept slippin' between the cracks—an' the more I really started realizin' what those gaps in my memory meant. Like lookin' down and realizin' that someone had cut off your legs and popped out yer eyes and jus' walked off, leavin' nothin' but bloodied stumps and blindness . . . and somehow you'd missed the whole damn thing. Just flounderin', tryin' ta figure out where you were, what the bad place had happened, and what the bad place you were gonna do now.

Heather was the only thing that kept me from runnin' off again. It was a close call, more than once. One night I went off, sure I wasn't goin' back. Got myself a nice hare and settled down ta sleep, but the meat settled funny. Still tasted the same as always, but it sat cold in my stomach, an' all I could think of was Heather, standin' in the middle of the forest alone an' lookin' for me like she did the first time I ran off.

Curiosity, it must've been. Part'a my mind'd been woken up, and it wasn't going back to sleep, no matter how much I wanted it to sometimes.

'Cause as much as I liked bein' there—warm, fed, even talkin'—more than ever I realized how wrong I really was. How I wasn't gonna fit in, even tryin' t'be the best I could be.

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

Then:

Heather packed away a photo album carefully in its waterproofed wrapping and placed it in her pack. She settled on the top the last of the clothing she'd taken with her to the cabin and zipped the whole thing shut.

"Remy? Could you hand me the wool socks on the chair?"

Gambit did so, tossing her the socks and continuing watching her as she packed the large backpack.

"How much dat carry?" he wondered.

Heather looked up at him from her knees and smiled. "Forty pounds, with the bag and everything. Gotta carry everything you need up and back."

There was a heavy thud, and they both looked up.

Wolverine had pulled out a can of beans from the tower of foodstuff in the kitchen, and now was sniffing it warily. He pulled back with a frown.

"You have to open it," Heather called over at him, glancing up. "If you're hungry, I can get the can opener—"

SNIKT!

A single claw sliced clean through the metal, taking the top third of the can right off; beans spilled over the sides of the remaining can. Wolverine scrambled to catch the dripping liquid with his hands, but half of it ended up on the floor anyway.

Gambit chuckled. "Nice goin', canucklehead. If it's full, you gotta chop closer t'de top so it doesn't spill out all over da place."

Wolverine looked up from licking his fingers, glowering.

"Remy, lay off Wolverine," Heather chided, standing from the floor and pulling out a towel from the drawer as she came towards Logan to help him. He stepped back—a single claw still popped as he held his hands before him.

"Heh. Wolvie, you fired."

Wolverine's eyes narrowed.

"Here," Heather said ignoring the young Cajun as she took the can from Wolverine's hand and set it on the counter. She took his hands, helping him wipe the most of it from where it had fallen over his forearm. Wolverine hadn't moved, warily watching her, his hands gone still.

"Thanks," he said in his soft, now familiar rumble. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Heather assured him, but then paused as the light caught sight of the single claw stuck out from the back of his hand, right between his metacarpals.

Heather hadn't seen one so close, or even with him holding still. She couldn't help but pause, tilting her head slightly as she looked at the length. It was gleaming—flawless, like it'd been molten right into the shape. No scratches, no marks, save for a small stream of sauce and a single bean that was sliding down its edge. Her eyes followed its length, seeing the small beads of blood that had swelled around the blade where they had broken his skin before he had healed. No nicks or dulling around the blade's edge—even after slicing through the can as if it were butter, and who knows what other abuse he had taken over the time he had run wild in the wood.

Wolverine pulled back, looking disgruntled at her close observation, but Heather raised her hand.

"Wait, wait," she said softly. He hesitated, and she gently rested her palm on top of his wrist. He let her turn his hand slightly. Light reflected off the blade, dancing on her face.

It was beautiful, flawless—so carefully carved that it was almost a work of art.

Yet at the same time, it was hard—the edge unforgiving and mechanical—almost as if whoever had shaped it had wanted it to look as inhuman and cold as possible.

SNAKT!

The blade vanished so sharply that she started slightly, and Wolverine pulled away from her, not catching her eye. He wiped off his hands and bent down, grabbing a wad of paper towels to wipe up the beans that had fallen onto the floor.

Heather bit her lip, pulling back her hand.

"Sorry," she said, though she wasn't sure what she was apologizing for.
Wolverine shrugged his broad shoulders roughly. "Doesn't matter." He finished wiping up the mess and stuffing the wad of towels in the trash bag next to the sink.

Heather hovered, watching him.

"What were you doin' way out here anyway?" Remy asked, breaking the silence. "Don't seem like da outdoors kinda person t'me."

Heather turned back to him, picking up a pair of mittens with a last glance back at Wolverine as he pulled a spoon from the drawer, taking it carefully in hand before getting down to business with the remaining beans. "It's our second anniversary," she said, unable to keep a bit of melancholy from her voice. "We're strapped for cash right now—we were going to just stick close to home. But then Mac's supervisor offered to let us come to the cabin—all stocked and everything; it was an opportunity we couldn't pass up."

"Anniversary and you stuck out here wit' us? Dat sucks," Remy opined.

Heather couldn't help but smile at that. "Oh, it's not half so bad." She tossed Wolverine a lightweight backpack and slid some packages of food towards him. "Crackers, and enough beef jerky to make a normal man sick. Pack it up and keep save it for the ride, okay?"

Wolverine picked up the backpack and eyed it uncertainly until Heather reached over and showed him how the zipper worked. He zipped the tab back and forth a couple times before opening it and packing away the packages of jerky and a box of Wheat Thins with an almost absurd care. But then he stopped, glanced at her, and before she could react he'd ripped open one of the bags of jerky and stuffed a large piece in his mouth.

"Wolverine!" Heather protested.

Remy chuckled. "Chere, you know da way to a man's heart."

Wolverine swallowed the large chunk with some difficult and smiled wolfishly at her.

The sight of it made Heather's heart clench. So far all she'd seen on his face was varying levels of alarm, confusion, disgruntlement, and wary observation. The smile only lasted a fraction of a second before it vanished, but it left her feeling like she'd been sucker-punched. For just that second, she swore she had seen the man he might have once been.

And after only such a short time, and him having come so far from the feral state they'd found him . . . it was nothing short of miraculous.

Wolverine picked up his spoon, returning his attention to the remaining beans in the can.

Who are you? she wondered, but then amended in her mind: Who were you?
 
"Well, the more you eat now the less you have later—" Heather began, but then interrupted herself as Wolverine's expression changed again—his grin vanishing behind sudden, deadly seriousness. "What is it?"

Wolverine had looked away from her, growing stiff as a board, his spoon still in hand. He lowered the spoon slowly, setting it in the empty can without a sound, and straightened, his eyes fixed and narrow on the wall. Heather was sure he wasn't staring at the framed embroidered 'Deer Camp' hanging there.

"What d'ya hear, petit?" Gambit said, standing as well.

"Wolverine?"

The man started, looking sharply from the wall to her. The light flashed off his eyes in an odd way—like a wolf in the light of a flashlight—and for a moment he looked more wild than he had in days. His eyes were cold, his face hard, his fists clenched.

He bared his teeth. The feralness in his eyes scared her, and it took him an extra second to find his tongue. "Them." Even that word sounded barely human.

Gambit paled a shade. "L'infer. De soldier's?"

"What? You mean—" But Wolverine was already moving. An iron fist grabbed Heather's arm, and he dragged her away from the counter. He grabbed her coat from where it hang, shoving it into her arms. He threw open the door and pointed south.

"Run," he said. "Keep low, run far. Don't look back." He turned sharply to glare at Gambit, taking a deep breath. "Kid."

"I stay with you, Wolvie?" Remy said bravely. But his face was pale, his eyes wide, and he looked younger than his young age. He had pulled his cards from his pocket and was flipping them between his hands. His hands were shaking; he missed a couple cards and they fell to the floor. He hastened to pick them up.

"No," Wolverine shook his head quickly. He pushed them both out the door and followed, looking north. "Go!"

Gambit nodded in understanding. "I'll take care of her," he promised. He swallowed, smiling weakly. "Kick der butts, Wolvie." Wolverine bared his teeth, but Gambit had already turned to Heather and moved out the door. "C'mon, chere. Let's go."

Remy had caught her arm, and Heather ran, stumbling slightly as they moved off the path. "Remy, wait—" she gasped, breathless from the sudden rush. "How does he know?"

"Prob'ly heard a hel'copter," Remy said, ducking beneath a branch. Heather stopped stand-still, and Gambit looked back at her. "C'mon, we—"

"Oh . . . crap," Heather said, whipping around. She started running back to the cabin.

"Whoa, whoa—where're you goin'?" Gambit protested, catching at her arm. "Dere's nothin' you can do. Ain't pretty, but Wolvie can take care'a himself."

Heather pulled away, harried. "Remy, James was planning on coming back in a helicopter."

"Mon dieu," Remy breathed. Heather didn't bother chiding him for his language.

"Wolverine!" Heather shouted, running back towards the cabin. "Wolverine!"

They hadn't gotten far, so the sound of the helicopter was just reaching their ears as they ran towards the porch. Wolverine was standing in the clearing before the cabin, staring up at the sky. His teeth were bared, his fists clenched, and his claws gleamed coldly in the light of the sun. He whipped towards them, as they ran forward, eyes wide, but as he saw they were unhurt his expression darkened.

"No," he growled, his eyes dark as his claws withdrew into his knuckles.

"Wolverine—"

He caught her arm, grabbing the kid and pulling him down beside the porch as the helicopter cleared the trees. A heavy hand weighed Remy's head down as Wolverine covered them. They could feel him trembling—with tension or fear?—as he hunched over them. He lifted his head, his eye narrowing as the copter began to lower. He growled softly, beginning to rise.

He'd take them out as soon as they set ground.

Heather grabbed his arm. He pulled out of her grip roughly, not even glancing at her as he peered out over the patio, hunching like a cat ready to bolt out and pounce.

Heather swore. "Wolverine, listen to me. Those aren't bad men. That's James. I told you he'd be coming, and—God, listen to me! Remy, he's not understanding, is he?" Wolverine hadn't even glanced at her.

"Wolvie, dese are friends, petite. Da good guys. Here, mon ami. Why else dey be landin'? Dose men after you, dey not so stupid ta get down where you can get dem. Dey jus—dunno, bomb da whole house, or light da woods on fire, or somet'in'—"

"Not helpful, Remy," Heather interrupted.

"Non?" Gambit asked, glancing at her. "Look at him, chere." Wolverine had ducked back down, and though he was still watching the arrivals closely, his fists clenched, he had relaxed a hair. He looked wary now—a hint of humanity creeping back into his eyes. "Wolvie's a smart one. He know somethin' not right. He know good as Remy dat dey would do jus' dat. Burn da whole forest down. Whoever after him not da most stealthy kind a'people."

The helicopter had landed, and two men climbed out, dark clothed and military type.

Wolverine had pulled back, crouched uncertainly, but he stiffened at the sight of the men.

Uniformed. One was packing at least one gun. Walked like he knew how to fight.

"It's all right," Heather said, but not without a hint of relief to her voice as she stood. Gambit glanced at Wolverine, who had glanced at Heather before looking back at the men, his expression still dangerous, but considering. He must've been able to smell the previous doubt in her scent. "I told you it was them. James!"

One of them turned at the sound of her voice. "Heather? What are you doing over there?" he asked, pulling off a helmet and moving forward. Heather ran towards him, and he caught her in a hug, swinging her around.

Wolverine had been watching attentively, but at that he gave a low growl.

Remy gave him an odd look. "Jealous, mon ami?" he asked. He gave a low chuckle. "Didn't think about dat."

Wolverine didn't even glance at him, hunching forward again. He leaned a hand against the porch, peering over. Heather and James were talking, but too softly for Remy to hear as he knelt next to Wolverine, his dark eyes mirroring him. Wolverine's eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring as if trying to catch a scent of the man from a distance as he tilted his head slightly.

Remy glanced at him. "You eavesdropping? You know, dat not very polite, 's dey say." Right under Remy's nose, the tips of three gleaming blades slid from under Wolverine skin, but didn't come all the way out. The tips stayed there, barely visible from the knuckle, but ready. Remy pulled back a bit warily. "Ulgh," he said. "Dat jus' look gross, petit," he said, staring at the shape of the metal claws which was visible beneath his skin between his metacarpals. He looked back up, and there was a moment of silence. "He not gonna hurt her, Wolvie," he said softly.

James turned at gestured to the other uniformed man, who nodded and climbed back into the copter, shutting the door.

"Remy, Wolverine! Come on out."

"Well, dat da go-ahead," Remy said, looking at him. "We gonna go?"

Wolverine didn't move at first, but then seemed to make his mind about something and stood suddenly. He hardly seemed to glance in Heather's direction as he climbed onto the porch, but Remy could almost feel him assessing the new stares—challenging them by his boldness, but ready to move if they made a move for their guns. The fact that they didn't right away didn't make him relax in the slightest. He stood there, head down slightly, his hair falling loosely over his eyes as he peered out at them. His hands hung loose at his side, but Remy couldn't tell if he still had his claws already half-popped.

Remy stood up and glanced at Wolverine, then moved around to stand at the bottom of the steps. Wolverine's shadow fell on him, and he flipped through his cards absently.

"Now dis—is dis some instinct ya got, Wolvie, or you just paranoid?" Remy said under his breath. He glanced at the mutant behind him. "Hm. You could jus' take dese people out—you nervous 'cause dey people, aren't ya? Not 'cause dey got a big 'copter." He paused as Heather and James finished speaking and started towards them. Remy continued, lowering his voice further. "Ah. So here you are. Make them come ta you. Good trick. Give you da higher ground from da get-go, dat it?"

Gambit glanced back again, and Wolverine looked down at him. He frowned slightly, but then went back to watching Heather. "Dis ain't the animal world, cher. Make Heather real mad if you gon try killin' dis guy."

Wolverine snorted softly, but didn't look at him as the newly arrived man approached.

"So you're Wolverine?" James said, stopping at the bottom step. He put one hand in his pocket—the other was covered in a thick blue cast from fingers to his wrist—and looked up, smiling. "I'm glad to see you're doing so much better. When we first brought you here Heather and I assumed the worst. I'm James Macdonald Hudson, Heather's husband."

"Everyone calls him Mac," Heather said, coming to his side and putting her arm around his waist. Wolverine watched the motion with careful eyes.

"Let's get your bags," Mac said, climbing the stairs to the porch. Remy followed behind. Wolverine stepped backwards as they passed. The door closed behind them—leaving him on the porch alone. He cast one last dark glare at the grounded helicopter before pulling open the door and following them inside.

"Well, if we head now we can be back among civilization in a couple hours," the man was saying to the kid as Wolverine came in and stood with his back against the wall. "We can get you home, Mr. LeBeau. No doubt your parents are worried."

Remy shrugged noncommittally, frowning. "What about Wolverine?"

"What Wolverine does," Mac said, glancing at the feral man, "is his own decision."

Wolverine didn't move.

Remy folded his arms, in his youthful slightness looking almost ridiculous in his seriousness. "You can't jus' take him and drop him off somewhere, homme. Wolverine need some help, but da right kind. Someone after him, an dey aren't nice people."

"C'n talk for myself, kid," Wolverine muttered, bristling slightly. The man—James—looked at him out of the corner of his eye, then glanced at Heather, who just smiled. Wolverine's frown deepened, and he glared openly at him. James raised his eyebrows, but looked away. Wolverine relaxed a hair.

"But Remy does have a point," Heather said, oblivious to two men's visual exchange. "Which is why James and I —" She paused as Wolverine's eyes narrowed to slits again. "We were just thinking that you could stay with us. Remy's right—you seem healthy in both mind and body, Wolverine. You just can't remember what you're supposed to do with the things you know. You're already doing better, and we can help."

Wolverine frowned.

"I promise you, Wolvie—we'll do everything we can to find out what happened."

He looked at her—though what he was looking for, exactly, Heather couldn't say. Finally he nodded. "Fine."

Mac put his hands together. "Great. Let's grab these bags—we can get you things when we get to Vancouver, Wolverine—and head to the copter—"

"No."

James stopped, surprised at being interrupted. "What?"

"No," Wolverine repeated. "No helicopter."

"Wolverine, we have to go over the mountains. It took James and me three days to hike in, and helicopter can get us back in hours," Heather explained.

"No."

Heather glanced at Gambit out of habit. "No, he understand fine," Remy assured them.

"Why not, then?" Heather asked Wolverine.

Wolverine glanced at James.

Remy looked at Wolverine, to Mac, to Heather, and paused. He smirked. "Heh. He not afraid of the 'copter, mes ames. Not like a little fall hurt him. He don't want Heather gettin' in, does he?" Gambit spoke up, dark eyes amused.

"You know, it would probably help him talk more if you didn't translate for him all the time," James said, then paused. "How do you do that, anyway?"

"Ain't so hard once you get ta know him," Remy said, waving his hand slightly as he reached down to pick up his coat from where it was slung over the couch arm and pulled it on.

"Well," Heather said, picking up her loaded bag with a soft grunt. "I am not going to get hurt, Wolverine. And I'm going in the helicopter one way or another. If you boys want to walk, that's fine." She glanced at Wolverine, who still hadn't moved, and nodded at his bag where it still sat on the counter. "Don't forget your snacks. So, you coming?"

Heather turned for the door, not waiting. Wolverine looked up at James, then stalked forward, snatching the backpack off the counter, and after a couple awkward tries figured out how to pull on the backpack. He shrugged, then headed out the door.

"Tank you," Remy breathed as he followed him out. "Remy did not want ta walk 'cross Canada again."

Wolverine hesitated on the porch as they passed him, his thumbs looped in the backpack straps as he stood straight and looked into the woods—the wind from the helicopter whipping his wild hair and the too-long pajama pants that dragged slightly in the dirt.

Heather stopped, glancing back at him, and he stepped down the stairs, padding with his bare feet across the muddied ground towards the helicopter.

Mac was already waiting at the copter, watching him.

Heather ducked down from the blades, but James noticed Wolverine didn't even glance at the rotating blades.

He'd been around helicopters before.

With one last glare at the two soldiers back with them, and the pilot, and one last glance back at the woods, Wolverine climbed aboard.

TBC . . .
 
Busy week again, so I’m just dropping this chapter off in a hit and run. It is a bit longer than last chapter, so hopefully it’s a bit more satisfying in that respect. :)


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Chapter 44: Catch Me When I’m Lying

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Now:

I saw you kill him.

Jubilee’s mouth snapped shut and she glared at Logan, trying to ignore the black-and-white picture of a dead man that had been burned from the screen onto the insides of her eyelids. “Nothing. It’s not my business what you’re doing looking up some stupid old newspapers. Geez.” She swallowed, trying to wet her suddenly ash-dry mouth.

Because as easily as she pretended it was to brush it off what she’d seen, it froze her solid inside.

She didn’t know if they had ever told her the man’s name—Cornelius, the paper said— but his bearded, neighborly face had brought it all back: the blood, the screams, the gunshots and the snarling. He’d pleaded, hadn’t he? He was one of the doctors that had hid himself away—barricaded the door . . . and he’d cut right through the walls to get at him. She could still hear his screams, his gasps—the sound of knives cutting through flesh and the wet smacking as pieces hit the cold asphalt as his voice strangled into nothing.

And she could see his eyes—hardly visible through the mass of blood and hair and the poor quality of the old tape. But they were beyond savagery, beyond anything she could put her finger on.

Madness.

She licked her lips. Those eyes—still wild—were watching her. Waiting her out.

Could he smell lies?

She wouldn’t put it past him.

Her fingers buzzed, waiting for him to call her on it.

She wasn’t sure exactly what sort of reaction she was expecting, but she was expecting something . . . Wolverine-ish. But his expression had turned to stone. He swiveled his chair around to close the windows on the computer and log off. (She caught glimpses of headlines as they closed: Cornelius Flees U.S., “Mercy Killer” Quack Evades FBI, Malpractice Suits on the Rise, and one or two more shots of the doctor.) Wolverine waited until the login screen had reappeared before standing, taking his coat from where he’d slung it over the back of his chair, and walked past her.

“Follow,” he said—his voice short but strangely neutral, like a robot had zapped down from space and swapped places with him.

Jubilee waited only a second before trailing after him. She realized she was shaking and folded her arms, clenching her fists to get it to stop.

He didn’t look back at her, but made a beeline out of the library—past the fussing children and stressed mothers—down the stairs, and didn’t slow until he reached the car and wrenched the door open. He climbed in, but Jubilee hesitated at the passenger’s door, sweat making her palms slick.

She could take the bus home. Of course, that would only put off the inevitable: if Wolverine wanted her to talk, he’d track her down. Or she could take the bus somewhere else entirely. She’d lived on the streets for a few months on her own before the professor had found her; she’d be just fine on her own again. What could he do?

Well, duh.

He could track her down anyway. Like trying to run away would work when it came to dealing with the Wolverine.

Jubilee had reached into her pocket to cover up her delay, and now pulled out a package of gum. She pulled out two new pieces, unwrapping them and popping them in her mouth before she opened the car door and climbed in nonchalantly as possible. Never mind that Wolverine could smell her sweat just fine.

What else could he smell? Fear? Jubilee could almost feel his eyes on her before he turned the ignition and backed the car out of the parking space. She chomped down on her gum, accidentally catching her lip. The taste of blood mixed with sugar in her mouth, and she scowled.

Could he smell that? Smell her blood? Smell her anger and fear and uncertainty and what she’d had for breakfast and that she had freakin’ cramps and that she had a crush on Warren even though he was waaay out of her league and being around him made her feel like an idiot.

It was so invasive it made her sick.

She slumped in the seat, glaring over at him.

Wolverine was glaring straight out the front window, his jaw tight beneath his sideburns. He was driving fast, but not as reckless as he usually did—distracted. She hoped he wasn’t so stupid as to get them in an accident.

Tense second ticked into minutes and they counted by. Jubilee wanted to take off her coat—she was sweating beneath it all, but she already felt too exposed, so she just kept her arms crossed, stiff as a board. Wolverine’s hands shifted on the steering wheel, his fingers uncurling and then tightening around the grip. His knuckles were white—but a weird white: almost grey. The metal beneath his skin? The thought didn’t do anything to settle her rolling stomach.

“What did he show you?” he asked at length.

Jubilee tore her eyes away from staring at his knuckles. (Were the claws just waiting beneath the surface, barely held back from emerging?)

“Who?”

“Don’t play dumb, Lee.” The words were low—practically growled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You knew that yahoo—Cornelius,” Logan said. “You recognized him. The man who . . . who . . . .” He trailed off, breathing in deeply. “He was with Styker.”

Jubilee’s eyes shot towards him before skittering away again. “You remember?”

Logan looked at her sharply. “No, I don’t—” The hirsute man suddenly cut off with a sharp groan. One hand shot to his head, and the wheel jolted sideways.

Horns blared and Jubilee screamed, her hand shooting over to grab the wheel. They careened back out of the suicide lane (which had never seemed so well-named), and Wolverine grabbed the wheel again, but Jubilee didn’t let go.

“What’s wrong with you!?” Jubilee screamed.

“I’ve got it,” he snapped, squinting at her with a bloodshot gaze as he pressed a palm against the side of his head like he was trying to keep his brains from leaking out his ear.

“Yeah, right!” Jubilee said, bordering on hysterical, but she let go of the wheel and fumbled for her seatbelt with shaking hands. She managed to buckle it in on her third try and gave it a tug to make sure it was secure. “What are you, crazy? Pull over!”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, like, totally, you’re fine!” Jubilee said. “Like, you’re just going to pass out on the steering wheel and kill me but not yourself because you’re Wolverine and when did a car accident do anything to you—so yeah! Of course you’re fine!” But at least the man was driving sane now, and didn’t seem about to keel over again, though he looked pale.

Wolverine’s hands were tight on the wheel, his shoulder’s hunched as he stared through the window as if holding himself back from popping his claws and ripping into anything that came within arm’s reach of him.

“What was that?” she insisted, giving her seatbelt one more tug.

He uncurled one hand from the wheel, fishing in his pocket for a cigar. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? You almost fainted,” Jubilee raved, running her hand through her short black hair and making it stand on end. Her glasses slipped against her fingers, and she fumbled to catch them and push them back up.

“I didn’t faint,” Logan snapped.

“What then?” Jubilee demanded, turning towards him sharply, but suddenly she went still. “Oh my gosh,” she breathed, face suddenly ashen. “You are remembering. You’re . . . breaking down. Flashbacks, right? And you’re looking up stuff you shouldn’t remember.”

“Shouldn’t?” Wolverine repeated, his voice rising like a dog’s heckles. “Breaking down? What the bad place do you know, kid?”

Jubilee pulled back sharply at his tone, feeling sick. “It’s none of your business.”

“It’s not my business?” Logan repeated, ire rising. “Whose business d’ya think it is, ya crazy skirt?”

“Well, what the heck do you want me to tell you?” she said, voice rising with his. “That you’re a killer? That you’re a psycho animal? That you’re a hairy, ugly jerk? Check the mirror!”

“Cute, kid. Real cute. That make you feel better?” Logan snarled “The doctor’s name might have been nice to know.” Jubilee sat back violently, her jaw working furiously with her large wad of gum. Logan took a deep breath, trying to clear the senseless flash of pain and darkness ripping into his chest; the feeling still burned just behind his eyes. Yelling at the stupid kid wasn’t going to help a bit. “What were you doin’ with Reyes, anyway?” he asked. “You sick?”

“Why do you care all of the sudden?” Jubilee said sharply, having taken the small break to further stroke the flames instead of calm them. “Just because you need me, that’s all. Then what, Wolverine—you going to kill me too?”

He growled—a sharp almost-snarl before he could catch himself. “That’s enough.”

“Besides, you think I was just down there with those guys keeping notes? I was trying to stay alive. Do you know what they do to mutants down there?”

Logan barked a sharp, humorless laugh. “Do I know, kid? Do I know? Can you tell me what it’s like to have your skin flayed from your bones?”

Jubilee’s eyes widened, as she realized what she'd said and her face drained of all remaining blood. She looked a shade green, but her stare didn’t waver.

“I’m not talking about this,” she said, sounding partially strangled. “I’m not.” She was pulled against the door, almost as if trying to sink right through it like Kitty could. Her breath was coming fast—Logan figured she was on the verge of completely losing it, and the stink of her panic it wasn’t helping him either. He slid his claws partially out of his forearms as he pulled onto Graymalkin Lane, the pain making his head clear, but it sharpened his anger until it echoed down his skeleton like a thousand hungry wolves.

He retracted his claws back sharply, pulling into the driveway. He felt hot and cold—sweat beaded on his forehead, but he felt like his chest was filled with ice. Everything was too loud, too bright—too harsh. It grated on his mind like knives on metal.

Jubilee was watching him; she may not have been in his head, but she saw enough. “You’re really losing it,” she said. “You’ve been pretending all along, but you’re finally, really losing it.”

Jubilee grabbed the door handle, but he reached out as if to catch her arm. “Kid—”

Jubilee recoiled back like he’d reached out to strike her. “Don’t touch me,” she breathed, her voice low. “Don’t you ever touch me.” She threw open the door and stalked into the house.

Logan sat back, turning off the car and watching as Jubilee stormed into the house and slammed the front door behind her. Her lingering scent of defiant terror stank up the car—smelled like a cat cornered by a Rottweiler. Desperate.

The dull roaring in his ears receded again, but he still rose out of the car carefully, keeping one hand on the hood, and keeping his eyes open.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could feel the shifting glass—hear the muttering voices. It was growing louder, sharper—even when he was awake.

The kid knew stuff. She’d recognized the doctor, and it had terrified her. Back to square one—months ago, when she couldn’t even glance at him without smelling like vinegary terror.

He shook his head, pulling the car into the garage and shutting the doors behind him. He climbed out of the car and stalked into the mansion, rubbing his head against a lingering phantom ache.

You’re losing it.

The kid was right. He’d lost it before—he’d almost lost it just the night before.

But he couldn't lose it now. Not with Storm still missing, Rogue's condition still up in the air.

Don’t touch me. Don’t you ever touch me.

There was something more than hate and fear there. It was loathing. Disgust.

Grimacing, Logan reached for the doorknob and pushed it open. He ripped off his coat and threw it in the corner, stalking up the stairs near the garage to his room.

Down the hall. Smelling his months-old blood, smeared with the scent of comings and goings and bitter cleanser—

Pain suddenly lanced through his head and Logan staggered, throwing a hand out to the wall next to his room to catch himself. Deep, unpatched claw marks marred the wood next to his hand.

Bloodscream. Standing in the street with a bearded goliath behind him, laughing. An Asian woman hung from one of his hands, her face pale—the full moon had more color. He dropped her, her silk dress sinking around her like blood as she fell to the street, and Logan tried to get up, but his legs were broken--shards of agony as the pieces crawled back together after he'd been tossed across the street . . . .

Logan jerked back, still staring at the claw marks as he smelled the blood of the past and the stink of Bloodscream over it all.

That woman . . . . He’d known her face, somehow. The scent of her blood burned him, but it was long in the past—lost and forgotten, until now.

He clenched his fist against the wall.

Had he failed her too?

His legs still felt broken, splintered. He'd forgotten what that felt like--shattered into a million pieces and crawling back together . . .

He shook his head, gritting his teeth. He had enough problems without throwing more into the mix, and the memory was already fading. He breathed in deep, focusing on the dust and smell of kids.

And then froze, the hair on the back of his neck rising.

Because not all of what he smelled was from the past. It was fresh and hot, with a strange edge of something that smelled like raw energy and fear.

He turned with a snarl, launching forward from stillness.

He sprinted down the hall to the entryway and grabbed the railing, vaulting down to the ground floor. He twisted in the air and landed on his feet, falling into a crouch and immediately releasing his claws as he rose up.

Bloodscream’s ash-pale face whipped around—a raptor catching sight of his prey. He let go of the student Wolverine had identified with the first whiff of blood, without even having to see the bright yellow coat.

Jubilee slumped to the floor—pale, too drained to do more than gasp a soft whimper.

Rage washed away any lingering disbelief at the bloodsucker’s survival—washed away any thought. It was one thing for this bastard to attack him on a road, alone—it was quite another for him to come here.

It didn’t matter what it took, didn’t matter if it was possible or not. He just knew he was going to kill this bastard.

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

Then:

Heather rested a hand on Wolverine’s arm as they took a seat. He flinched almost imperceptibly—something Heather had realized was usual for him. “It’s all right,” she said.

“Damn loud, dat’s what,” Remy said, speaking loud enough to be heard over the noise or the rotor. He glanced at Wolverine in commiseration.

They lifted off. Remy leaned over to peer out the window at the ground as it dropped away, but Wolverine didn’t move—didn’t even glance towards the window as they ascended. He glared at the soldier in front of him, unblinking.

The cabin dropped away into nothing, the trees blurred together at the height, and peaks and whirls of clouds rose around them in their own valleys and mountains of the sky. Remy glanced at Wolverine often at first, but when Wolverine didn’t move for a good ten minutes he grew bored and just looked out the window, leaning against the helicopter’s side. His eyes drooped, and within minutes he was out like a light.

“He was tired,” Heather noted—more to try and draw Wolverine’s attention from the soldiers than anything else. Wolverine didn’t look away from the man across from him, but just grunted softly. “You could, you know, take a nap too. Might make the trip go faster.” Wolverine still didn’t move. “Of course not.”

The copter pushed forward, course set as it made its way through the mountains. Sweat beaded on the young soldier’s upper lip, and he swallowed nervously. Minutes ticked away, tense as a string ready to break. Wolverine didn’t move a muscle.

“Hey, Wolverine, come on up here,” Mac called from the cockpit.

Wolverine’s eyes narrowed, and he glared at the soldier twice as fierce. The man’s eyes widened and he put up his hands innocently. Heather rolled her eyes. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

Wolverine glanced at her, considered, and finally nodded slowly, undoing the straps easily and rising. Turbulence made the ‘copter drop slightly, but his steps were steady as he walked up to the cockpit.

“Hey,” James called, lifting his helmet and nodding to the copilot seat. “Have a seat.” Wolverine did, ignoring the restraints and watching James. “Thought I’d talk to you. Heather says you’re a good guy.”

Wolverine didn’t answer; his eyes ran over the instruments.

“You want to try?” James asked. Wolverine looked at him sharply, lifting an eyebrow.

“Flying?” he clarified.

James smiled at the response. “Sure. Anyone can do it. And I’ll be right here on the controls if you need help. “

Wolverine sat down, not bothering with the headset as he took in the displays before him. Slowly, he eased his hands onto the controls.

Fifteen minutes later, Mac was leaned back, picking at the cast around his wrist idly—his memento from his first run-in with the man beside him.

“—and so somehow Heather pulls enough strings to get me out of jail and the charges dropped,” James said, leaning back before putting his hands behind his head. “That woman’s a spitfire. Don’t let her mild-mannered exterior fool you into thinking you can push her over.”

Wolverine snorted. “Tried,” he said roughly. “Didn’t work. Got me fetchin’ potatoes from the cellar instead.”

“Sounds like Heather,” James nodded, then continued. “But now I’ve got in with the government.” He leaned forward eagerly. “Have you—no, you wouldn’t have heard about the Avengers. Here, then—America put together this team of superheroes. Some mutants, some gifted—whatever. Just to help them if any special problems pop up, and—”

“Oh my God—James!”

James sat up, startled as Heather poked her head into the front. She was staring at Wolverine, who glanced at her before flipping a couple switches and then looking back.

“What?” James asked, expression innocent. Wolverine’s eyes immediately narrowed, glancing between the two of them. “Problem with the flight?”

“You . . . .” Heather trailed off, still watching Wolverine flying the helicopter, but then she shook her head. “You’re not already talking about that team of yours, are you?”

“Why not?” James asked. Heather raised her eyebrows at him. “Still, I hadn’t got to that punch line yet.” He looked at Wolverine. “So, what do you say?”

Wolverine just looked at him, his expression unreadable.

“No,” Heather said. “James, he’s not ready for that. Maybe later, but when he knows what he’s getting himself into.”

“Saving people’s lives?” James asked. “You’re already well into that already, aren’t you, Wolverine?” he said with a smile. “You’ve taken care of Remy, and from what I hear you didn’t even know who he was. So why did you pick up the kid?”

Wolverine shrugged. “Must’ve had a good reason,” he said. It was weird. He could remember what had happened vaguely, as if in a dream. It wasn’t too long ago at all, was it? A couple weeks, at most, but it felt like another lifetime. Couldn’t remember why he’d kept him around either. Didn’t make sense, but he wouldn’t have changed how things had turned out.

After all, the kid was alive, and the kid’d helped him out a little too. That made them square, and everyone better off for it.

Wolverine shifted slightly. It smelled too close in here. He wished he could open a window, but that wouldn’t work at their altitude. Too cold. Not enough air.

“See? Heroes don’t have reasons. You just do things because they’re right,” James said. He took off his headset and stood. “Keep your eye on the chart, will you, Wolverine? I’m going to take a break.”

Wolverine nodded, checking their position. James looked at Heather, lifting his eyebrows at her disbelieving look as he left Wolverine alone on the controls.

Once they were in the back Heather spoke softly, her voice run over by the rotor.

“Are you insane?” she said. “He can’t fly! At the beginning of this week he didn’t even know how use his own silverware.”

“But that’s it, see?” James said. “He can fly. I hardly had to explain a thing. Just told him it was easy and everyone knew how to do it, and he just stepped up to it like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

“You’re playing with him.”

“Come on. He’s the happiest he’s been in days, and you know it,” James said with a smile. Heather’s own frown faltered, twitching into a smile. James took her hand. “You said he seemed to know a lot, but didn’t know how to access it or what to do about it. He seems to want to be normal, but he knows more than he ever remembers learning, and isn’t comfortable with that. So I told him that something was normal for him to know, and suddenly he’s comfortable with that. He’s in control—something that might be hard to make him feel once we get to Vancouver.”

“But how did you even know he could fly?”

“Just a guess,” James shrugged. At her expression, he grinned, then explained, “He didn’t duck down when he walked under the propellers. Usually that comes from people who are pilots, or at least familiar with these birds. Hardly something you’d expect from the Tarzan of the Canadian jungles.”

Heather smiled softly. “He’s a good man, James. He looks tough, but I think he’s a softie underneath, and he’s coming more to himself every day. He’s a good man.”

“From what Remy told us, he does have his dark side.” His expression shadowed as he looked down at the cast on his hand. “I’m sorry I left you alone with him. I had no idea he’d wake up—”

“That doesn’t matter,” Heather waved away. “He’s been hunted, James, and even he doesn’t know how long. How can you expect anything but that he’d fight back?” she said, then paused. “We can’t let them find him, James. We have to help him.”

“They’ll find him,” James said grimly. Heather looked at him, and he continued. “If they can track him through thousands of miles of nothing, they’ll find him as soon as he shows his face. But we can protect him, Heather. I’ll make sure of it.”

“You and your team?”

“Me and my team.”

Heather smiled, pulling into a hug. “Promise me you won’t pressure him into anything.”

“I promise,” James said. “I want to help too, Heather. But honestly, a team like this would be the perfect place for him to fit in.”

Heather leaned forward, kissing him. “I love you,” she said. She turned towards Wolverine, catching her husband’s hand briefly as she passed.

Wolverine glanced up at her—that watchful frown of his on his face, and Heather wondered how much he had heard over the roaring rotor. A normal man couldn’t have heard anything, and she hadn’t given it a thought until now.

“Hey,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the noise. “How are you doing?”

He shrugged.

Heather covered a frown at that. He and James had been . . . well, if chatting was too light of a word (she couldn’t really picture Wolverine chatting with anyone), it was still as close to casual conversation she’d even heard him get involved with. She’d been hoping for more of a response.

“Okay, then,” Heather exhaled. “Well, I was just going to tell you . . . we’re going to be landing at the base. That means people—lots of people—guns, more helicopters and stuff like this. It’s where James and I work, but they’re on our side, so they’re not going to hurt you.”

Wolverine’s expression had turned unreadable—his eyes fixed in front of him.

“We can land someplace else if you like—”

“The base is fine,” he said shortly.

Heather blinked at his tone. Anger? She’d spent enough time with him to know how his first reaction to fear or uncertainty was to hide behind his aggression, but she thought she’d gotten past that.

“Are you sure? Because—”

He turned to her sharply, the helicopter jerking off-balance. Heather grabbed onto the wall with a yelp, but Wolverine quickly adjusted, stabilizing the chopper with ease

“Wolverine—”

“I’ve got it,” he said. But he still didn’t look at her.

James came back up. “Whoa. Everything all right up here?”

Wolverine glanced at him, frowning slightly. Heather recognized the expression—he was remembering something: rolling it over in his mind like a sugar-starved child considering some new candy. “Air pressure,” he said slowly. “Just caught some low pressure.”

“Well, looks like you handled it all right,” James said, glancing at the panels before him. He looked at Heather. “Better go buckle up, hon.” Heather nodded, but glanced back at the men as she left.

Wolverine rummaged at his side, then held out a plastic bag to James. “Jerky?” he asked.

“Thanks,” James said, grabbing a couple pieces and sitting back. Wolverine pulled the bag back, grabbing a piece for himself and sticking a large wad in his mouth. “How’s it going?”

“M,” Wolverine grunted around the jerky.

They sat in silence—both looking out the window at the mountains around them.

Heather made her way back to her seat, frowning to herself.

“Every’ting alrigh’ up there?” Gambit asked, voice groggy from sleep as she buckled up.“Just fine,” Heather replied, turning her eyes to the window as she watched the clouds float past.

But she couldn’t stop wondering when Wolverine had remembered how to lie.

TBC . . . .
 
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