Disclaimer: Still not mine.

BLACKDEW'S STRATEGY PLANNER:

Goal: Get more reviews.

Steps to Success:

#1: Put off studying for finals as long as possible (Warning: may have possible negative effects)

#2: Write (Warning: may cause eventual carpal tunnel and vision damage)

#3: Write some more (May result in sleep deprivation)

#4: Post more often to see if I can lure a couple more reviewers out of the woodwork

#5: Write more (See above for possible negative side effects)

#6: Repeat steps 2-5 as needed (Consult health insurance planner if necessary)

#7: Beg

/commences begging/

Chapter 14: Two's Company

Then:

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

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

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

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

"Dat water good ta drink, Wolverine?"

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

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

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

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

Men were strange.

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

A fire?

Wolverine lifted his nose, testing the air.

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

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

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

"Wolverine?" Remy called hesitantly.

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

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

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

"You."

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

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

SNIKT!

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

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

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

What was it? What did they mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You wanna come over here, Wolvie? It's a whole lot warmer."

Wolverine didn't move.

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Here's some more," the kid held out a bigger piece towards him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memory?

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

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

"Oh my God! Oh my God!"

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

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

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

"Guess so . . . "

He was a mindless, murdering animal.

No! He wasn't! He wasn't!

Oh, God, he wanted to kill them.

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

oh∙god∙oh∙god∙oh∙god . . .

"Wolverine?"

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

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

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

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

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

SNIKT!

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

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

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

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

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

"What your name?"

He knew that one. "Wolverine," he answered gruffly.

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

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

He looked down at his still-extended claws.

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

And if he had, why couldn't he remember?

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

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

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

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

Now:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Think of the devil.

"You're leaving, Logan?"

"What's it look like?"

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

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

"Can I help you with somethin', darlin'?"

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

But did that make it bad to enjoy the view?

He wasn't hurting anyone, after all.

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

"You'll be back?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what about Angel?"

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

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

"It'd love to see those kind of lessons more often, Logan."

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

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

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

Storm took her own step back, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Logan."

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

He turned to the door, not looking at her.

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

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

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

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

He didn't like it one bit.

"It wouldn't work, Storm."

"What are you talking about?"

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

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

Damn, she smelled wonderful.

He didn't like it one bit.

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

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

The end. End of story.

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

Best stop a thing like that before it got started.

TBC . . .

If you're reading it and liking it, please review! (In fact, even if you don't like it, I wouldn't mind even a flame around now-it's cold enough outside!)