Title: Lucidity: Renascence
Author: The Duchess Of The Dark
Teaser: (post movie) Logan returns to Westchester county after 10 months searching for answers in Canada and finds his feelings towards certain members of the X-Men team have changed. However, he discovers things aren't all plain sailing.

Rating: NC-17 for language, violence, character death and sex.

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Marvel Comics and Fox. I own not, you sue my regrettably pear-shaped English arse not. Elliot Anthony, Helena Draven, her 'remembered' friends, the assorted bar/club denizens, Club Bathoria and Cyber Cyber are mine.

Genre: Action/adventure and romance; Logan/Helena. Alternative post-movie scenario.

Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.
Notes: I gave into temptation and wrote a romance. Sort of. Loved it? Loathed it? Tell me please... Although I'm a 'struggling writer' by trade, I don't do fanfic that often.This takes place around 2010 - 11. Sorry if I screw with the geography of Canada and New York – it's called artistic license and plain ignorance, okay?! If you don't understand the English slang, mail me.  Text in Italics indicates thought. Italic text in apostrophes 'italic' indicates telepathic conversation. Oh, and my Logan is tall, dammit!! Can't be doing with short-arse men. Third of a trilogy, first is 'Prelude: A Canadian Tale', second 'Fugue: X-Men'.

*

Reminding himself he did not get saddle-sore, Logan carefully lowered his aching behind onto a vinyl-covered seat near the window of a moderately good truckstop somewhere in the Northwest Territories. Stripping off his leather gloves, he tossed them onto the plastic table before him and leaned on his elbows. His bike stood outside between two Hogs and a Ducati, the metallic black bodywork dulled by road dust and sun-baked mud from the last rain shower. He had ceased to think of it as Cyclops' motorcycle a good few months ago. Shouldering off his equally dusty leather jacket, he caught sight of the unevenly stitched slash along the arm and allowed himself an inner grin as he remembered how it came to be there.

                Got a helluva lot better since then, English, he thought with a touch of pride. Now yer'd probably take my head off, then apologise an' offer ta make tea. What is it with you an' Xavier an' goddamned tea?

                Looking up as a waitress wandered over, a chewed pencil poised over her pad, he glanced at the menu and ordered steak, eggs, fries and a large black coffee. Scribbling quickly, the waitress smiled and hurried off, tucking her pencil behind her ear. Watching her hips move beneath the cheap yellow nylon uniform, Wolverine rubbed at his beard and leaned back in the squeaky vinyl seat, nodding his thanks when she returned with a full mug of coffee.

His last cage fight had been a month previously and he was starting to get restless, itching for something to do. Fights were few and far between in the summer months, but if you knew where to look, they could be found. Almost without realising it, he had slipped back into his old way of life and resumed cracking heads for money all over Canada. At first it had been a welcome distraction, using rage to blot out disappointment. Everything he had uncovered at the abandonned Alkali Lake government facility in British Columbia had led to more empty buildings, infuriatingly incomplete pieces of information and dead ends.

Ten months on, he was discontented and more irritable than ever. To his chagrin, his thoughts increasingly turned to 1407 Greymalkin Lane and the people he had left behind. He had thought about them a lot in the last few months, about Helena, Rogue and Jean. Whenever he saw teenagers, particularly dark-haired girls, he had found himself wondering how Marie was progressing at school, if she was happy. Images of Jean Grey had kept him company late at night on the road, but he was finding the longer time wore on, the less he thought about her and the more about Helena. The elegant red-haired doctor was a favourite fantasy that had grown fuzzily indistinct around the edges. In contrast, he could recall with precise clarity how the black-clad Englishwoman smelled, how her eyes turned the colour of a stormy winter sea when she was angry and her nose wrinkled when she laughed.

I miss yer, Hels, he thought. It ain't the same without yer. I ain't a talker, but I sure coulda done with yer ear an' brain at that damned army installation, if only fer yer ta call me a 'stupid bugger' an' tell me ta forget it.

The absence of his dog tags reminding him about whose neck they hung, he drank a scalding mouthful of black coffee. Recalling how she had silently emerged from the garage, upwind so he would not catch her scent, and softly asked why he had not said goodbye, Logan gritted his teeth.

Yer knew why, yer always know why. The geeks, they don't understand, but yer do. Yer've lived the same life as me, yer know why I don't put down roots. Jeannie's so rooted it'd take an earthquake ta shift her. Yer know what it's like… I'd never had trouble leavin' anywhere until then.

She had stepped forward and hugged him, hesitantly at first, then more fiercely as he found his arms lifting to wrap around her. People did not hug Wolverine. They wanted to kill, screw or run away from him. He could not remember the last occasion when someone had put their arms around him and simply held him close. He had liked it a lot more than he cared to admit. As she let go, she had dropped a quick kiss on his bearded cheek, a gesture of affection between friends. Before he had time to think about it, he had clasped her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. It was fleeting, no more than a grazing touch of skin, but the memory had remained, returning to him with increasing frequency.

The aroma of freshly grilled meat brought Logan to the present and he looked down to see a steaming plate of thick succulent steak, fried eggs and crisp yellow fries. Picking up his knife and fork, he sawed off a chunk and began to eat.

"Good?" a female voice asked with amusement.

Pencil tapping against her glossy lower lip, the waitress leaned on the multi-coloured glass bubble partition between booths. A bright gold necklace at her throat and a worn plastic name tag proclaimed her name to be Shelley.

"Great," he said shortly, shovelling in some fries.

"Ain't seen yer around here before," she drawled, tucking her pencil in her breast pocket and smoothing her skirt over her thighs. "Yer passin' through?"

Logan nodded, "Somethin' like that."

Looking over to see if her boss was watching, she slipped into the booth opposite him, leaning forward to display an ample amount of liberally perfumed cleavage.

"I get off at eight," she whispered. "If yer want we could go fer a coffee… or somethin'."

The clawed mutant regarded her. She was perhaps twenty seven, with a wild mop of curly brown hair and clear blue grey eyes. Pretty in a gum-popping, white trash fashion, she lazily crossed one leg over the other, tempting him. With sudden brutal clarity, he saw her vacuous sexuality and ambitionless life, bogged down in mind-numbing routine that she attempted to relieve by hitting on diner customers. She was the epitome of nearly all the women he had ever encountered in backwoods Canadian bars and truckstops, everything he abruptly realised he no longer wanted anything to do with.

"Get yerself a new hobby," he told her gruffly.

Chin tucking in, the waitress blinked, surprised. Angrily snapping her blueberry gum, she stood and stalked back to the counter, nose held in the air. Pushing his knife and fork together on the plate with a clink, Logan left money for the meal and a tip. If he pushed the bike hard and hitched a lift on a cargo train, he could be back in Westchester County in under three weeks.

*

Skull-shatteringly loud cyber industrial pounded from the twelve foot speakers, vibrating the concrete floor underfoot. Puncturing the smoke-hazed semi-darkness, spikes of neon green, red and ultraviolet light swept the dance floor in random patterns. Dressed in leather, PVC, neon and UV reactive outfits of varying degrees of decency and outlandishness, clubbers writhed, swayed, drank and took numerous illegal substances.

                Leaning against a chain link partition, Helena sipped her vodka and Coke, a drink she found was considered passé by trendy clubbers who preferred energy shakes. Tapping her heel in time with the frenetic bass beat, she perused the crowds on the huge rectangular dance floor. Situated in a converted warehouse, the underground Goth and fetish club was a H.R Giger-esque tangle of perforated steel beams, chain link booths and huge suspended cages in which hired dancers gyrated incessantly. The clientele was mostly human, but it was difficult to tell in the wild flash and blur of spectacular costume, make-up and hair colour.

                Club Bathoria had been a surprise discovery while out on a fieldtrip with a gaggle of students upstate New York and had soon become a regular weekend haunt. It reminded her of life before ten years were stolen from her memory, when Saturday night had meant pouring herself into a fantastic outfit and attending the most exclusive clubs from London to Edinburgh to promote her clubwear business, Cyber Cyber. The club scene had altered in ten years, but there was enough familiarity for her to feel comfortable.

                Well, she thought wryly, glancing down at her spray-on black rubber pants and gunmetal silver PVC corset. At least I don't look too old to carry it off, and probably never will. And there's the added bonus of all play and no work.

"You sure you're with us, Ray?" a male voice with a trace of Brooklyn asked.

                Helena turned and smiled at the tall, slightly-built young man in rubberised black combat pants, a transparent metallic purple mesh T-shirt and UV reactive plastic neck collar who had pushed his way through the throngs to her side. At twenty-six, Elliot Anthony was green-eyed and black-haired, with an open, delicately handsome face and easy gait. A mutant with the ability to turn himself and anything in close proximity invisible, he had joined the teaching staff at Xavier's School For The Gifted six months previously after a hysterical school board had fired him for accidentally making one of his students disappear. The student had thought the experience cool beyond words, but Elliot's employers had not. Unable to find another job with his mutant status revealed, he had written to the Professor and gained a position as music teacher. His long black hair, eclectic taste in music and habit of dressing as oddly as Helena had gained him a loyal fan club amongst the school's teenage girls, most of whom had been raised with images of homogenous all-American jocks.

                "Yeah, just about," she called, raising her voice to be heard above the music.

                Elliot grinned, displaying the winning, slightly kooky charm that had endeared him to his female students. Recognising somebody with similar tastes, he had set about making a friend of Helena, never once questioning why her musical and literary knowledge was a decade out of date. Saturday nights at Club Bathoria had become a welcome break from teaching and developing their mutant skills.

                I like him, the English mutant thought warmly. He's like  the friends I had before all this. He's even got the kids calling me 'Ray' now. I think I prefer Raven – 'Ray' makes me sound like a middle-aged brickie with a beer gut.

                Ignoring the part of her that asked her how she knew what she liked or hated if the entirety of her memory was constructed, she drained her glass. Professor Xavier had peered as far into her mind as she had felt comfortable with and gravely announced that although there were signs of extensive tampering, that her life memories before two thousand were probably accurate. The question of her apparent non-mutant status at that time remained unanswered.

                "Want another?" Elliot asked, taking her empty glass and handing it to a passing collector.

                She nodded and fished in her back pocket for some money, watching a set of identical male twins dressed in nothing but leather shorts lead each other past on fine chains attached to slave collars.

                "My round," she said. "But don't feel like you have to keep up – remember what happened last time you tried to drink me under the table."

                He pulled a face, "I had a hangover for three days. Teaching Jubilee and Kitty basic keyboard with a migraine is not my idea of a fun time…"

                "And I had to carry you out, don't forget," she teased. "Jean was considering pumping your stomach. Didn't Jubilee accidentally paff the keyboard and make it explode?"

                Elliot groaned soundlessly and nodded his head, green eyes crinkling in mock despair.

                "Yeah…  thank God you gave me the heads up before Pretty Boy got a chance to lecture about teaching class while suffering the side effects of liquor."

                They both laughed, remembering Scott's righteous-leader anger and Jean's valiant attempts to keep a straight face. The Professor had chosen not to comment about Elliot's condition, believing the titantic headache he had suffered to be punishment enough. Storm had merely offered a herbal remedy for a hangover. The music faded as the last track ended and another began, a slow, grinding remix of Nine Inch Nails' 'Closer' that was currently enjoying a clubland renaissance.

                "Anyways," he said, not making any attempt to move. "I'll get that drink."

                Partially closing her eyes, Helena listened to the music as the seething crowd subsided into pairs or groups of bodies pressed close, undulating in time with the sensual opiate beat. It was a raw, deliciously indecent song to titilate lovers and attract admirers by dancing as provocatively as self-consciousness allowed.

                "You wanna dance?" he asked softly, stepping closer to touch a fingertip to a lock of her hair.

                He smelled good, of zesty cologne and clean sweat worked up by dancing and the humid heat of the club. She did not need to be a telepath to know along what lines his thinking was running.

                He's gorgeous, clever and funny, she told herself. What's stopping you?

                "Yeah," she breathed. "Why not?"

                Mouth curving in a smile, she slipped her arms around his neck and allowed him to pull her close. Swaying in time to the music, Trent Reznor moaning over the speakers, she immersed herself in the warmth and scent of his body, listening as his heart beat. Lowering his face to the silken juncture of her neck and shoulder, Elliot pressed his lips to her throat, feeling the pulse quicken in response. As they moved against each other, he lifted his dark head, cheek brushing cheek, and sought her mouth. Lips soft against his, flavoured with lingering traces of lipstick and vodka, he felt a swift jolting thrill as her tongue met his. Suddenly, her fingers dug into his shoulders, stronger than he imagined, stopping him.

                "What?" he pulled back and looked at her, perplexed.

                "I can smell a certain mallrat who's in deep trouble," she said, annoyed, pointing over his shoulder with her chin.

                Elliot turned to see Jubilee trying to extricate herself from in between a pair of neon green-haired cyberpunks. The tiny Asian teenager was wearing high heeled boots, a black miniskirt and a purple velvet corset several sizes too big for her. Weaving, elbowing and shoving her way through the undulating crowds, towing Elliot behind her, Helena emerged by the bar just as one of the men roughly chucked Jubilee under the chin.

                "Bloody hell," the English mutant gritted. "Why did the bouncers let her in? She looks all of fifteen wearing my corset."

                "I'll deal with it," Elliot offered. "Before she paffs someone."

                "Okay, but watch it," Helena shrugged.

                Striding over on long legs, he nodded a greeting to the punks, who looked at him the way one pack of stray dogs eyes another. Jubilee froze and offered a lame grin, looking just as under-age and out of place as she was.

                "How's it going, guys? See you've found some jailbait," he drawled nonchalantly. "She's my neighbour's kid – I'd best take her home."

                The first glared, UV reactive contact lenses and body paint glowing in the wheel and arc of light from the dance floor.

                "Fuck off," he snarled, clamping a hand onto the Asian mutant's arm to emphasise his point. "This itty bitty titty's ours."

                Shooting Jubilee a warning look telling her not to use her power, Elliot spread his hands disarmingly, attempting to mollify them.

                "C'mon, let's not get nasty – hand her over and I'll take her home."

                Watching from a vantage point underneath one of the gigantic metal cages housing an enthusiastically leaping dancer in a PVC catsuit, Helena saw the punk's painted eyes narrow with impending violence. Momentarily considering if she should intervene and ruffle male pride or let the scene play itself out, she grimaced as a fist flashed out and caught Elliot squarely on the jaw. Reeling back, hair flying, he would have fallen if she had not sprinted forward and caught him. Propping him against a handy corrugated metal pillar, whisking a paper napkin from the bar to press to his split lip, she rounded on the punks.

                "Jubilation," she said flatly. "It's generally considered good manners to ask before you borrow somebody's clothes."

                Squirming uncomfortably, blue almond eyes wide, Jubilee knew she was in up to her neck. Nobody called her by her full name unless she had done something to annoy them. Suddenly grinning, she looked up at the punk who held her by the arm, ignoring the growing pain.

                "Boy, you two are gonna get it now!" she crowed. "She'll kick your asses into next week!"

                "Oh yeah?" the second scoffed, producing a knuckleduster from his pocket. "Her fag-ass boyfriend didn't manage it."

                Feeling her claws pricking the skin from the inside, Helena clenched her fists, dropping her weight back onto her patent leather platform stilettos as she unconsciously adopted a defensive position. As yet, nobody had taken much notice of the small altercation beyond a thoughtful barmaid dressed head to toe in silver lamé who had wrapped some ice in a cloth and handed it to a dazed Elliot.

                "Let her go and walk away," the English mutant instructed calmly. "Or it'll be a trip to the E.R."

                Laughing disbelievingly, the second punk sneered and swung a knuckledustered fist at her. Easily slipping past his guard, she caught his arm and twisted it up his back until the sinews groaned and he yelped.

                "That hurt?" she demanded, pulling harder.

                With a strangled expletive, he struggled and she allowed him free. Lashing out, brass knuckleduster glinting, he missed again as she neatly sidestepped. Clipping him smartly on the chin, she drove a fist into his abdomen as his head snapped back, sending the breath grunting from his lungs. Sweeping his legs out with a roundhouse kick as he doubled over, she crouched down over him, bringing her fist up to his face.

                "You get up and walk away, shitbag," she hissed so only he could hear. "And you take your mate with you."

                Lip already swelling, he probed gingerly at several loose teeth with his tongue, eyes round and terrified as he saw points of metal breaking the surface of the skin between her knuckles. Staring into her coldly burning hazel green eyes, expertly smudged with kohl, silver shadow and glitter, he swallowed, a throbbing pain telling him his jaw was broken. Mutely, he nodded, feeling a sticky trickle of blood run down his chin, leaving tracks in his make-up. Straightening up, she turned to the first punk who held Jubilee, noting that a sizeable crowd had gathered.

                "You think you'd last any longer, sunshine?" she enquired with a raised eyebrow, not bothering to turn as she stomped her sharp heel down on the hand of the second as he reached out to try and pull her feet from under her.

                Thrusting the petite teen aside so she stumbled on her stiletto heels and turned her ankle, shifting from foot to platform sneakered foot, he bellowed discordantly and ran at her, hands outstretched for her throat. Eyes flashing, Helena drew back her balled fist and punched her weight. A handful of people closest to the action heard a muffled metallic clang and the green-haired punk toppled backwards, unconscious. Looking down as he crumpled to the hard concrete floor at her feet, Jubilee hugged herself and danced up and down.

                "Kewl!!" she cried gleefully. "And I didn't even have to paff him… Eeewwww! Blood!"

                Turning to the crowd with a scowl, Helena threw up her hands in a shooing motion, concerned by the amount of attention the rumpus had attracted.

                "Get lost!" she snapped irritably. "Entertainment's over."

                As the clubbers began to drift away, disinterested now the unusual spectacle of a woman soundly trouncing two burly cyberpunks had drawn to a close, a trio of doormen belatedly lumbered over to investigate. Finding two men, one unconscious, with various brawl-inflicted injuries, they assumed they were the fight instigators and dragged them away. Padding over, holding his aching jaw, Elliot looked to the English mutant.

                "Who taught you to fight?" he asked wonderingly, without a trace of wounded pride.

                "Wolverine!" Jubilee sparkled. "Wait until she pops her claws, then it's even better. Slice 'n' dice, dude!!"

                Hurriedly clapping a hand over her mouth as Helena glared at her, she dropped her gaze to her feet, tugging at the straps of her borrowed corset.

                "Ah," Elliot observed with a tinge of sarcasm. "The often-mentioned but never seen Logan."

                Suppressing a sudden resurgence of anger, the Englishwoman reminded herself that he had just been punched in the mouth. Elliot was a gifted musician with an immense knowledge of popular and underground culture, an intelligent, sensitive man, but he was not a trained fighter. He knew of his fellow teachers' double lives as X-Men, helping by teaching mutant children rather than on the frontline. Readily admitting he would be useless in a fight, he promoted Xavier's ethic in other ways, proving himself invaluable when it came to structuring the school curriculum.

                Inclining her head, Helena silently regarded Jubilee for long moments. When she was satisfied the teenager had stewed enough, she folded her arms across her chest.

                "D'you mind telling me what you're doing here?" she asked sternly. "It's one a.m, you're alone, not to mention the fact under-aged. The Professor will throw a fit if he finds out, and Cyclops…"

                Panic-stricken, Jubilee's mouth grew into a horrified round hole and she clattered forward on her high heels.

                "Ooooooh! Ididn'tmeantocauseanytrouble!IjustwantedtocomewithyouandElliot! Youalwayswearsuchkewlclothesandandand… oh shit…" she trailed off miserably, her grand foray into the forbidden world of clubbing over.

                At sixteen, she was a year Kitty's junior and nearly a year and half younger than Rogue. The older teenagers sometimes went to alcohol-free club nights specifically designed for under twenty-ones, but often complained they were boring. Jubilee being Jubilee, she did not do anything by halves and had taken it into her head to follow her teachers to Club Bathoria, taking advantage of the Professor's absence due to a genetics conference. She looked so disconsolate, scuffing at the floor with the toe of her left boot, that Helena struggled not to laugh.

                "Alright, Jubes," she said, casting a sidelong glance at Elliot, who was having similar trouble keeping a straight face. "I won't tell the Professor on one condition."

                Raising her head, peering suspiciously from beneath her straight black fringe, Jubilee looked from one to the other.

                "Name it."

                "That you promise, and I mean promise, sweetheart – no crossing your fingers – not to do it again."

                She nodded, delighted, realising she was off the hook. Skipping forward, she flung her arms around the English mutant, hugging her hard.

                "Thanks, you're the greatest!" she enthused.

                Turning to Elliot, apparently to deliver another bear hug, she stopped short, blushed furiously and coyly muttered she needed to use the ladies' room before dashing away.

                'Back here in ten minutes, Jubes, or I'll drag you home by the seat of your pants!' Helena sent after the rapidly departing figure, seeing a small hand wave in acknowledgement as the crowd closed around her.

                Shaking her head with feigned long-suffering despair, she squinted at the ugly red swelling on Elliot's lip.

                "Looks like you'll have a real war wound by tomorrow," she predicted, tipping his chin with a finger to examine the cut.

                "I'll live," he shrugged, folding his hands over hers and pulling her to him.

                A hand sliding up her back to cradle the nape of her neck, his other arm settled around her waist as he leaned in.

                "I think we were about here when Miss Lee crashed the party," he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

                Adrenaline and annoyance killing the mood, her hands came up to his shoulders and she stepped away, leaving him empty-armed, surprised and puzzled.

                "I'm sorry, Elliot," she apologised. "Not now."

                Exasperated, he frowned and shook his head, green eyes darkening. Taking a step forward, he caught her wrist. She allowed herself to be held, not needing to remind him she could break his arm with minimal effort.

                "What is it?" he demanded. "We've been dancing around each other for the last two months. Every time I think I'm getting somewhere, you back off. I know you like me, you don't make any secret of it if you don't like someone. What gives, Ray?"

                When she did not answer, expression pensive and distant, he sighed. Nearly always ready with a humorous comment or scathing put-down, popular with the students, he sometimes found her alone, usually outside in the extensive school grounds, lost in thought. He had learned to leave her be, waiting until her dark mood lifted. A Goth couple in black velvet passed behind them, trailing marijuana smoke and murmured conversation.

                "What happened to you that's made you so scared of getting close to someone?" he asked, regretting his choice of words as her eyes flashed at the implication she was afraid.

                "Nothing's happened to me," she said quietly, so quietly he had to strain to hear. "I'm just independent-minded after trucking around Canada for so long, and the whole business with the Brotherhood of Mutants…"

                "And you're frightened what you can't remember will hurt people," he finished. "Don't be."

                Her chin lifted, eyes suddenly stormy and furious as she yanked her wrist from his grasp. Pushing him back against the metal pillar, hard enough to make him grunt with alarm, she brought up her hand, allowing the merest points of her claws to pop through. Incongruous with her slender fingers and shiny holographic silver varnished nails, the sharp adamantium glistened in the strobing light.

                "Don't presume too much, Elliot," she said, pressing him back with her hips. "There's too many seriously dangerous people – half of whom I can't remember - connected to my past to view everything through rose-tinted glasses."

                "Like the sainted Logan," he muttered. "I hear enough about him from Rogue."

                Biting back a bark of laughter at the thought of anyone describing Wolverine in such terms, Helena nodded, relenting enough to step back and allow him up. Unable to hide his frustration, Elliot looked her straight in the eyes, knowing she would sense his thoughts and emotions.

                "He's not coming back," he said frankly. "It must've been tough to have him as a running buddy for so long, only to have him take off, but you've gotta move on. You've a place with the X-Men now, and people who care about you – they're not suddenly gonna disappear."
                Hand unconsciously rising to her neck where Wolverine's dog tags sometimes hung, the English mutant did not respond. Adjusting to life at Xavier's School For The Gifted had been difficult, getting used to a set schedule of teaching and training. Learning to live with a large group of people who regarded each other as a huge extended family had its own problems after a year when a trailer and the Canadian outback was home. Gradually, the school had become 'home' and the X-Men trusted friends.

                "I s'pose I'm scared I'll wake up one day and it'll all be gone," she whispered, too softly for Elliot to hear. "Like before."

                He opened his mouth to ask her what she had said, only for Jubilee to come bounding up on her return leg from the ladies' room.

                "The queue was huge," she confided. "But I was only nine minutes!"

                Smiling for the teenager's benefit, Elliot offered a gentlemanly arm and steered her off in the direction of the cloak room, casting a questioning glance back to see if Helena was following. Absently pushing her way through the throngs, keeping her eye on the crown of Jubilee's head, she inwardly sighed.

                Poor Elliot, you're jealous of a man you've never met, convinced he's somehow stopping me from falling at your feet. I'm sorry to disappoint, sweetie, but I'm not pining for the 'sainted' Logan, and I'm not so easily won. Never have been. If Logan were here, he'd laugh his head off and buy you a beer, either that or kick your eminently grabable arse. Probably kick your arse… Be careful Elliot – if you got what you want, you might not be able to handle it.

*

Rogue was extremely fed-up. Lounging on her stomach on a large comfortable sofa in the rec room, she was attempting to read a book Helena had given her. Perched on the arm of the sofa near her head, Jubilee was happily chattering, gesticulating and popping gum at appropriate points in her narrative. Rogue liked Jubilee, she was bright, cheeky and good fun, but she also did not know when to shut up and leave someone alone. She had been regaled with details of her Club Bathoria jaunt ceaselessly for an entire week. Sighing as the Asian teenager recounted the pivotal moment of the fight between Helena and the cyberpunks for the eighth time in half an hour, she closed her book.

"Jubes, would ya can it? Ya've told me that a dozen times already an' ah can't concentrate on what ah'm readin'."

Jubilee looked deeply offended and blew a huge pink bubble that she duly popped and sucked back in with expert precision.

"Ex-cuuuuu-seee me!" she sniffed, folding her arms "I was only keeping you company seen as Bobby's outside."

Summer was almost over, but the nights were still light enough to allow outdoor activities to continue until at least eight o'clock. Most of the students were playing basketball, but as a contact sport, it was inadvisable for someone whose touch put people into comas. Marie frowned, making a mental note to put Bobby Drake on a guilt trip the next time he wanted her to play foosball.

By the time ah'm finished, he'll be beggin' ta take me ta the mall.

"Uh-oh – I know that look," Jubilee teased, throwing up her hands in mock horror. "Popsicle boy's gonna wish he were facing the FOH."

Both girls grinned wickedly. Slipping down from the arm of the sofa, Jubilee inclined her head at her friend.

"I'm gonna grab a soda – want one?"

"Yeah. Just not Kool-Aid, 'kay? Ah've drank enougha that stuff ta bath in this summer."

"'Kay!" Jubilee spun on her heel and pattered out of the rec room, her pink and white sneakers squealing on the varnished wood floor.

Watching her go, trying not to be envious of her minuscule raspberry pink tank top and denim capri pants that exposed a good deal of tanned calf, Rogue opened her book and resumed reading. Savouring the quiet, hearing nothing but the sedate tick of the aged grandfather clock in the hallway and the occasional cheer from the basketball court through the open window, she contentedly crossed her ankles somewhere above her backside. The slap of running sneakers on wood drew her attention as Jubilee flew into the room brandishing two cans of condensation-dripping Coke.

"Rogue!" she squeaked breathlessly, blue eyes wide. "You'll never guess who's just rolled up outside!!"

The Southern girl looked up questioningly, tucking her bleached white streaks behind her ears. Her mouth fell open as somebody filled the doorframe at Jubilee's back. The book falling from her fingers, she leapt up and propelled herself into his arms.

"Logan!" she cried, flinging her arms around him.

"Hey, kid," he greeted laconically, suddenly finding a warm, enthusiastically hugging teenager clinging to him. "Miss me?"

She nodded, face buried in his shoulder, carefully turned so she did not accidentally touch him. It had taken her three months to get the personality traits out of her head after he and Helena had risked their lives to save her. She remembered waking up on top of the Statue of Liberty to find their apparently lifeless forms slumped at her feet, all the wounds they had received reopening and bleeding as she watched. For weeks afterward she had found herself oggling Jean Grey's backside, baiting Scott and hankering after a cigar. Helena had laughed herself sick when she had caught her sitting on the mansion's roof drinking vodka she had filched from the drinks cabinet, coughing as the fierce spirit burned her throat.

Worse was the uncontrollable telepathy and telekinesis she had absorbed from the English mutant. The voices in her head became overwhelming, as did the propensity for anything she looked at to become airborne. The Professor had put a quick halt to matters by constructing a psychic barrier inside her mind that blocked the powers until they dispersed. Embarassingly, the profanities she found herself uttering when annoyed were peculiar mixtures of English dialect and Logan-ish curses. Ten months on, she still sometimes told people to "bugger off" and experienced a craving for Canadian Gold beer.

"The geeks lookin' after yer?" he asked, giving her a gentle squeeze.

"Yeah, ah'm doin' fine," she answered. Her expression flickered darkly for a moment. "Mostly… If ya lookin' for the Professor, him an' Jean are away at a conference."

An odd look passed briefly over his face, an amalgamation of relief and disappointment, and he held her at arm's length, looking her over. She had grown an inch in height and filled out nicely in ten months. Looking back at him, she smiled shyly.

The kid's growin' up, he thought, touching a fingertip to her white streaks. She'll be what, nearly eighteen, now? If she's still hangin' with that ice-makin' kid, he's a lucky boy.

"Hels here?" he asked, sniffing the air to check.

Rogue nodded and took a can of Coke from the silently gaping Chinese girl who Logan recalled usually talked non-stop. Opening it with a hiss of gas, she took a slurp before speaking.

"Yeah, she's in the grounds somewhere," she revealed. "Been on the rampage fer chocolate, complainin' that nuthin' in the US tastes as good as Cadburys. An' yer know, she's right – she got some imported an' let us have a bar or two… it's gorgeous."

Logan gave a brief, dry chuckle as the dreamy look reserved for hunks, expensive clothes and exceptionally good confectionary spread across Marie's delicate features. A year of living in close quarters out of the back of a decrepit trailer had taught him more than he wanted to know about the peculiarities of the female hormonal cycle.

"Time ta duck an' cover when she gets like that," he said. "She thrown anythin' recently?"

"Only Mr Summers in self-defense class on Monday," Rogue's friend piped up, suddenly rediscovering her voice. "You're lucky she's here – she's usually out clubbing with Elliot on a Saturday night."

Wolverine's hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously, causing Jubilee to take a step back, clutching her unopened can to her chest. His entire posture altered with unconscious aggression, jaw tightening, spine stiffening.

"Who's Elliot?" he growled.

"That would be me," a Brooklyn-accented voice said from behind him.

Turning, he saw a tall young man in his mid twenties materialise from thin air like a focussing video still. Taking in his long dark hair, baggy khaki green combat pants and black band T-shirt, Logan was unimpressed, instantly labelling him as a lazy musician-type, which to his mind was on a level par with pretty-boy.

"You must be Logan," Elliot said, extending his hand. "I've heard a lot about you."

When the wild-haired mutant failed to shake his hand, feral dark eyes glittering, he withdrew it with a small shrug of his left shoulder.

"That's some disappearin' act," Logan observed, head cocked. "Must come in handy gettin' yer inta girl's bedrooms."

Uh-oh, Rogue thought, exchanging glances with Jubilee. Logan's bein' Logan an' seein' just how far he can push before Elliot snaps an' gives him an excuse t'kick his ass.

Green eyes cool, Elliot folded his arms across his chest, refusing to be provoked into a verbal argument or fist fight. From what he had gathered from Rogue's hero-worshipping chatter and Helena's occasional references to the barely-concealed animosity between Cyclops and Wolverine, it was his habit to be disagreeable. It seemed like a test of mettle to determine whether he thought a person deserving of his respect, or on a perfunctory level, civility.

"I get into ladies' bedrooms just fine fully visible," Elliot drawled, unruffled.

Logan's chin lifted at the subtext to the casual utterance, shoulders squaring almost imperceptibly beneath his travel-dusty leather jacket.

"That right, bub?" he breathed, eyeing the other man as if contemplating which limb to rip off first. "An' just which lady would yer be talkin' about?"

The two girls waited with bated breath, wondering if they would have to run and get Scott Summers or Storm to intervene.

Not that there'd be much o'Elliot left, Rogue reasoned. He's damn fine lookin', but can't fight ta save his life.

To her immense relief, Elliot decided retreat was the better part of valour and looked to her and Jubilee.

"There's a new game starting out back, girls, I'll see you there."

With that, he turned his back and unconcernedly strolled out of the rec room. Logan watched him go with a small scowl, fighting a sudden urge to run after him, pop his claws and turn him into dog food.

"He ain't gonna be any fun," he growled, rubbing his knuckles. "He doesn't provoke like Blinky. I think I'll hafta beat it outta him."

"No ya won't," Rogue said reprovingly, earning a startled, admiring glance from Jubilee. "Elliot's lovely, an' he's Helena's friend – what d'ya think she'll do if ya rough him up good?"

He frowned thunderously, appearing to consider the rhetorical question. Unzipping his jacket, he patted some of the road dust from it and cracked his knuckles with a sound like popping ratchet teeth.

"Yeah, I get yer point. I'm gonna go see her… where's she keep her stash o'beer?"

"In the fridge, third shelf up," Rogue smiled as he automatically assumed the English mutant kept beer. "Canadian Gold."

Giving her hair another affectionate stroke, the only part of her that could be safely touched, Logan left. After he had gone, Jubilee let out a noisy breath and collapsed onto the sofa, hugging her now warm can of Coke.

"Phew! I dunno about you, but I think there's gonna be fireworks here pretty soon!" she exclaimed, opening her can and taking a sip. "You don't need to be a telepath to see Wolverine is jealous as hell… Last time I checked he was hot for Miss Grey, so what gives? Anyway, I know who I'd rather have – it'd be eligible Elliot, hands down, not the wild man with a razor allergy."

Rogue grinned and set her half-empty can down on the foosball table.

"Yeah, but ya haven't seen Logan there without his shirt on. That'd change mah mind, I tell ya… He ain't all claws, growls an' fightin', Jubes."

Jubilee pulled a disgusted, disbelieving face, a shower of blue red sparkles flying from her fingertips to bob in the air like confetti.

"Nah, just mostly… and when did you see him without his shirt on?"

*