Okay. This is a longer chapter, and to any or all that are getting impatient with things, I have to say . . . I have a very good sketch of the next few chapters, and some crazy stuff is going to be going on very soon (good crazy, I think, and I hope you'll agree ;) ).

So please review. The reason this chapter popped out so quickly was because of the reviews from the last chapter. Seriously, just a single line would help me, just to know if you're liking it or not (though, of course, the longer the better ;) )

Chapter 20: Raw

Then:

They were out of meat. The scrawny rabbit he'd caught earlier before wouldn't have lasted him a five minutes on his own. He was hungry, and the kid hadn't eaten much, but he should have food just in case, for when the kid woke up.

Besides, if he was stuck in that cave any longer Wolverine was going to go crazy.

The kid was still asleep, but restfully now, and Wolverine headed out with the pain in his chest eased, as he had well expected it to. It faded almost to nothing as he ran out into the woods, the few inches of melting snow slipping between his toes and the scents of the mountains filling his senses with a second sight. It was so much easier, out here. Just to let go and forget.

To hunt.

Prey had come along, but had scented his and the kid's smell and had left long ago. Wolverine put his head down and moved outwards, holding the tatters of the remnants of his stolen pants up as he slunk, silent as a puma.

He jumped down a small incline, catching a scent even as he spotted the light prints on the snow. He paused, taking its scent in deeply. The doe had been here not long before—ten minutes at most. He flashed his teeth in a grin and moved after it.

The chase was on.

I can't remember all the times I've died. Not just almost died—but actually died: like bullet-spittin', heart-stopped, gut-ripped-out dead.

Storm freaked like it was something to worry about. Scares lots of people, dyin'. Never been able to figure out why, though. Suppose 'cause they figure it's coming, no matter what they do.

Sometimes I wish I knew that for myself, but I never could. Never can.

Maybe they think it's like losin' someone else. That's bad enough to understand. Worse than just dyin', in my book. Far worse.

It's not always the same, coming back. Sometimes nice as anything, like wakin' up after the most peaceful sleep you can think of. Sometimes hurts like hell—yeah, usually hurts like hell—since dyin' usually ain't a pretty thing, and healin' ain't either.

But the worst is sometimes just not bein' able to remember what happened. Just wakin' up, and . . . nothin'. Maybe some pain, usually lots of blood, maybe some bodies . . . but beyond that, nothin'.

It's happened more than once—and more often than just when I die. More than after waking up in the snow for the first time, more times than just waking up in the forest with nothing but ruin around me.

What's it like not knowing yourself? Not being able to trust yourself, because you don't know who you are—what you are? Not knowin' the devil that's crawling beneath your own skin?

Happens too much. Too often. And there's nothing worse than not knowing, when you wake up—cut to the bone with confusion and damn pain.

It's what always comes to the wicked after they die, like 'Crawler says.

It's Hell.

Now:

Logan awoke slowly from a nightmare—which was unusual even to the echoes of agonizing pain resonating through his bones. But this time they didn't fade with the nightmare. He didn't move—he felt disconnected, distant. The dream was slipping away faster than he could hope to hold on, leaving him cold and with a taste of blood in his mouth.

Wait. Something about some psycho who tried to drink his blood. Ripped him up pretty good too, before he got the bastard for good.

But that hadn't been a dream, had it?

He didn't move, still floating in some odd post-healing bliss mixed with remaining lingering pain. An odd but not altogether unpleasant low sound vibrated in his ears. In fact, it was threatening to put him right back to sleep. But an uncomfortable growl from his stomach reminded him of more important needs than sleep, waking him enough so in his half-conscious state he realized that the sound was someone was humming.

He tried opening his eyes, and on the second attempt succeeded with opening one to see Kylee curled up so close to his bandaged chest that she was practically sitting on him.

"Damn!"

He started sitting up quickly, but then stopped shock-still and fell back with a gasp of pain. He winced as sunlight cut into his eye and he raised a heavily bandaged arm to shade his eyes and swore again.

"Dammit, kid, I've told you a million times not to get near me when I'm sleeping," he snapped.

Kylee ducked her head at the anger in his tone. "But Wolvie's sick. I was sick once, and Ms. Jeannie always said that it was good to be sick every now and 'gin, 'cause then everyone loves you and makes you feel better." She looked at him, then wiped a hand across her soft-furred face as he forced himself up onto his elbows. "'Sides, you weren't asleep. Beast said you were uncon-sceence," she said, sitting down next to him again and settling her front small hands lightly on his bandaged stomach.

The little hairball was so trusting, innocent . . . and he could have killed her, just like that. The inside of his wrists and his knuckles ached with remaining pain from his claws coming out. Had he just almost popped his claws at her? Or was he still healing from . . . whenever it was?

He slumped back again, his whole being seeming to ache, and he wasn't sure what was real or what was the usual leftover pangs from phantom wounds since healed. He settled his head against the pillow which had been placed behind his head (Storm's doing? Hell, what was he thinking? It was more likely Beast.) and peered out at Kylee through a squinted eye. The other one had a heavy weight on it—bandaged, Logan realized. He was starting to feel hot and claustrophobic from the weight of all the bandages.

"How long I been out?" he rumbled. His throat hurt, and he sounded awful. Guess that came with getting your throat cut by a crazy ninja vampire.

"You've been un-con-sceence all day and all night," Kylee near purred, still obviously pleased with herself and her new word. She settled down, resting her chin on her paws and gazing up at him.

"That long?" It looked well into the afternoon outside. That sucker'd really taken it out of him. Literally.

He rose, and fell back again, gasping and clutching his stomach at the sharp pain that cut through his gut.

He couldn't remember a particular wound to his slicing across his ribs and into his stomach, but that wasn't saying much.

"Dr. Hank said you had to sleep," Kylee warned.

"Dr. Hank can—" Logan cut off with a growl. Wait. He remembered . . . something vague. Hank'd brought him back here. Even if Logan hadn't really needed his help in the first place, that meant something. "It doesn't matter what he says."

He rose again—but more slowly this time—causing Kylee to slide off him again where she sat, watching him openly as he swung his legs over the bed and stood. Well, dragged himself to his feet with the liberal help of the bedpost.

His legs were weak, and he felt dizzy—lightheaded, while at the same time his feet felt ready to sink right through the floor. Biting off another curse, he popped his claws and sliced through the bandages.

Probably not the smartest thing to do, but Wolverine wasn't one to care.

He withdrew his claws and wiped away the driblets of blood from the slow-healing wounds before chucking the dark and sticky linens into his already-over-flowing garbage. He limped to the bathroom, feeling feverish but irritated.

A day and a half, almost. He should've been healed hours ago. A day ago. More than that, even.

But seeing himself in the mirror helped finish the mental checklist he had already marked off.

His chest was crisscrossed with pale white scars, and his whole right side was scarred a deep angry red where he'd eaten asphalt. His stomach was mottled with deep bruises from internal wounds not yet healed.

But most prominent were the handmarks—still sharp, burning red and perfectly defined over his healing neck and face.

Oh, and his eye was still missing.

Great.

Logan washed his face before washing off his chest and arms of scum and blood. He drank a couple handfuls of tapwater to try and wash out the taste of copper.

He'd always hated the taste of his own blood.

He stopped to stare at himself for a moment once he was done. Water had settled in the scars riddling his face and a few drops had settled into the empty eye socket, and though his hair was damp it was nonetheless was even wilder than usual. His remaining eye was bloodshot, his face pale.

He didn't even know himself.

But then again, that wasn't a very unusual feeling.

He was pulling on a t-shirt as he limped back into the room.

He hoped his eye would grow back. He'd never actually had it ripped clean out before. Popped, shot, smeared, slashed—sure, but not torn clean out. Not in his memory, anyway.

Kylee leaped down from the bed. "Where're you goin'?" she asked, apparently unphased by his appearance, except for an unusual amount of bossy concern entering into her voice.

"Gotta get something to eat and drink," Logan said. And preferably a lot of the latter. He couldn't remember many other times he'd been ripped up this bad, and most the times he had he'd always been starving after he healed up. His body took care of itself—he wondered if even starvation could kill it—but food did seem to help speed things up.

So he'd head to the kitchen. He'd—

Damn, his head hurt.

He'd head on down there, looking half-dead, and scare the kids to death. Rogue'd probably have a heart-attack.

He sat on the end of the bed, staring at the door. He saw the bloodied handprints on the door frame, and followed the trail of blood to the floor, and to the rug, which was stained black and stank of old blood. No one had even tried to clean it up yet.

How the hell?

He stood again, stepping carefully to the doorway. He pulled it open, sticking his head out and sniffing. It made his eye water; the hallway reeked of disinfectant and bleach. The long rug that had run down the hall was gone.

He'd dragged himself up here?

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, and then his eyes fell on the deep, thin grooves in the wooden floor, and marring the walls. He'd recognize his claw-marks anywhere.

What the hell had happened?

"Kylee!" Logan snapped, pulling his head back inside. His voice still sounded about two octaves lower than usual—more of a growl than a voice, but it would have to do. "What happened when I got here?"

Kylee was still sitting on the bed, watching him. "You should come back to bed, Wolvie."

"Dammit, kid! Was anyone hurt?"

She stared guilelessly at him, then bowed her head and spoke softly. "You were," she said.

Logan swore again, stepping back and closing the door. He sank back onto the bed, ignoring the slicings of pain from the motion. It'd go away.

His head felt like it was packed with cotton.

"Wolvie?"

Kylee had crawled forward to sit by him, and reached out to touch his arm. He pulled away sharply.

He couldn't remember.

God, sometimes he really hated his life.

"How'd I get up here?"

Kylee looked a little confused. "You don't remember?"

"Just answer the question, kid."

"You walked," she said, then frowned, touching his arm again with a feather-light touch. "You were hurt," she repeated softly.

There was no getting anything from the kid. But for some reason he couldn't manage to get angry at her.

He growled softly and stood painfully again, heading for the door. Kylee met him, grabbing a bunch of his shirt in her small hand.

He didn't even waste the time trying to pry her off him, but just limped down the hall, one arm around his stomach.

The reek of cleaner was thick all the way down the hall and down the stairs. He wrinkled his nose, gripping the railing as he headed down into the entryway.

Suddenly Kitty trotted around the corner and nearly ran into him. She gasped and reeled back, dropping the bottle of bleach she had been carrying and the armful of rags. The air reeked of fear, but it immediately decreased as the young mutant phased.

Logan's hand, which had automatically reached out to help her catch her balance, swept through her arm uselessly.

Kitty fell backwards and right through the floor.

Logan stared at the floorboards, and then swore loudly.

"Kitty!"

Damn. Of course she could go through walls and such, but he'd never seen her drop through the damn floor before!

What if she kept falling down and couldn't get herself to stop?

"Logan!" Rogue gasped, coming running from where she had been scrubbing in the sitting room. "Wha's wrong?"

Logan looked up at Rogue, who stopped stand-still. "Pryde," he said, gesturing to the floor.

"Oh," Rogue said. She smiled, though it faltered slightly. "Don' worry. She used to do that all the time, before she learned how to really use her powers. You probably just startled the girl."

"Like hell I did," Logan said, running a hand through his hair. "Kid looked like she'd seen a ghost."

That weak smile again—faltering, wide-eyed. Hell, Rogue looked like she'd seen a ghost too. Kept staring at his face—maybe at his empty eye socket. Maybe at the hand-marks. What the hell had that freak been, anyway?

The smile vanished completely, and pure concern took its place. "Are you all righ', Logan?" Rogue asked, stepping forward. "You should probably still be in bed. Beast said—"

"I'm up and healin'. That's enough to say I don't care what Beast said."

"Logan—" Rogue said, frustration and worry clear in her scent. She shook the rag she held at him, and Logan paused before grabbing her gloved wrist and looking at the blood-and-bleach soaked rag.

"All righ'," he said, his voice rumbling more than usual. He looked at Rogue with a narrowed eye, and her own eyes widened. So he looked and sounded bad enough to even scare Rogue now, did he? Good. He let go of her arm and stepped back. "What the hell happened?" he demanded.

"You don't—?" The question was quickly cut off and Rogue snapped her mouth shut. "Nothin'."

"Dammit, Rogue!" Logan snapped. "The bleach ain't for nothin', this whole place stinks like a morgue, Kitty smells scared to death, and you ain't doin' much better."

"Ah ain't afraid," Rogue said, looking at him boldly. If her gaze hadn't wandered to his missing eye it might have had a chance to convince him.

"Then what're you hidin'?"

"Absolutely nothin'," she replied, folding her arms, her eyes flashing. "Why don't you remember?"

"Damn if I know," Logan said, running a hand through his hair again.

"Well, it's all right. Probably just bloodloss, concussion, or somethin'. Beast'll figure it out. Just . . . how about you go shower, or somethin'?"

So she can finish covering up, or warn the whole place? Not bloody likely.

"I want answers first." And food. Besides, startled people were unbalanced—easier to shake. Easier to get them to talk.

"Fine," Rogue said. "Though none of us know the whole story. Beast found your bike jus' five miles out on a side road, all cut up. Your blood was everywhere, and something else—"

"Yeah, yeah," Logan waved his hand. He remembered that part. Remembered enough, anyway. "After all that."

"You dragged yourself here an' died on the front stairs," she said shortly. She stopped, glaring at him as if he'd done it on purpose.

"Then what?"

Rogue stared. "'Then what?' Jus' like that?"

Logan shrugged. "Well, it's obviously not the end."

"Wolvie," Kylee said, tugging on his pant leg. Logan shushed her, not looking away from Rogue.

"It coulda been," Rogue said sharply. "Beast said he didn't know how you got so far. Twenty percent blood content, Logan. That's all you had when Hank got here."

Logan raised an eyebrow, waiting for her point. It was obviously the wrong reaction, because Rogue turned around, throwing up her hands.

"Ah can't deal with this right now. You were dead, you big lunkhead, and now you come stomping down like everythin's all right—"

"Wol-vie," Kylee insisted. Logan ignored her.

"It is. I'm healin', and if this is all about the cleanup work, then Storm shoulda hired out, or somethin'. . . ."

Rogue had turned on him again, this time her eyes flaring with anger. "You think this all's about a little cleanup? You were dead! And then we all thought you'd die again, and . . . how d'ya think w'all felt, not knowin' if you'd had the cure, or if you'd die for good, or . . . or . . . ." A tear ran down her face, and though it was quickly brushed away, Logan felt frozen in his tracks. "You've never been like that, Logan. You've never been like that."

Crap. He'd been barking up the wrong tree here.

Rogue had turned away again, now hugging herself. Logan didn't move for a second, then stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. "Darlin' . . . ."

She turned suddenly, hugging him tight. Logan stiffened and stifled a gasp and curse, but didn't push her away. "You idiot," she muttered. "You pull somethin' like this again and ah'll make ya wish you were dead."

When she finally let go he nodded gruffly, not willing to admit how much her tight hug had hurt. He folded his arms.

"You go on back t'your room, now," Rogue said, wiping her eyes again.

Logan shook his head, looking away from her. Something bad had happened—something beyond him coming back with a few scratches.

And he thought he knew what it was.

He looked away from her. "Where's Storm?" he asked, his voice soft and even more growly for it.

"Out front," Rogue said. Logan glanced towards the door. Rain was pouring from the sky, and Logan figured she was doing her own kind of cleaning out there. Trying to wash away all the blood. "But Logan—"

Logan didn't want for her to finish. He turned and walked towards the kitchen, Kylee still trailing behind him.

If he ignored her, maybe she'd leave him alone.

Classes must've gotten out already. He could hear the students outside (in the back, where the sky was blue and quite clear), and in the game room a game of pool was in full swing. On a normal day Logan might take some time off to show the kids a few tricks, but this time he didn't even glance inside as he passed by.

He felt stares enough—heard the gasps of surprise and fear, and the whispers. He didn't bother with them, but headed straight into the kitchen, which was all but deserted. Bobby Drake froze in the middle of taking a bite of ice cream (it slid from his spoon back into his bowl, but he didn't even seem to notice), and Warren Worthington straightened in surprise, his wings flaring slightly.

"L-logan," Bobby choked. "Kylee, what—"

Logan didn't even glance at him. He could smell the stink of wariness, even fear, and he hated it.

It confirmed his suspicions.

He needed to get out of here.

He opened the fridge and grabbed a soda and a box of half a cold and grease-stiffened pizza. He began snarfing them down, and Kylee let go of her vice grip, but kept a hand wrapped in his t-shirt like he was a dog prone to wandering.

"Kylee, is everything all right?" Warren asked hesitantly.

Kylee nodded factually. "He missed breakfast, and lunch, and dinner, and breakfast again," she said, as if that explained everything.

The pizza and soda weren't near enough. He turned back to the fridge, finding a bowl of half-eaten pasta and helping himself to it.

He was already feeling physically better. His head was clearing up, and the pain was taking its place where it belonged.

Bobby and Warren didn't move, but stayed still, watching him, though both looked a bit green. Probably had looked at his face.

Kylee stayed right at his side as he emptied the fridge of all immediate edibles—including a full gallon of milk and a raw marinating steak. He only paused to pull the meat out of the reach of Kylee's reaching hand.

"You'll get sick," he snapped.

"You are sick," she bounced back. "Ms. Jeannie said it needs to be cooked."

Logan did not want to think about Jean right now. Another person who had trusted him. But she hadn't been so lucky to walk away.

The food had settled into his stomach, and he didn't feel like eating anymore. He chucked the rest of the raw meat into the sink and slammed the fridge closed.

He smelled him before he turned back around. Good. Just who he was looking for.

"Logan!"

He turned sharply, his lip curling to a snarl. "And what the hell were you thinking?"

Beast stopped dead-still in the doorway. "What is it that you mean?" Beast looked a bit worse for the wear, and as he stood there he took off his glasses and cleaned them slowly on a cloth from his pocket. There was a scratch on the right lens. "I have been looking for you, Logan. You are not well enough to be walking about already."

"I doubt I was that hard to find." Logan reached down, catching Kylee's wrist without even having to try, and pulled her off him. "I'm leavin'."

"What—?"

"I know what happened, Hank. This proves it ain't safe when I'm here."

"On the contrary," Beast replied, always the voice of reason. "This actually went farther towards supporting the safety of the children than any action we have thus far observed. You have always feared loosing your feral side around the children. Now it has happened, and no one was hurt."

"Sheer damn luck."

"Again, I disagree. Those you came across performed admirably, and you were contained as we thought needed. Yet your feral side is not evil or bloodthirsty, Logan. You were simply afraid, hurt, and confused. Striking out was purely defensive."

Logan stared blankly back at him. He thought that maybe Beast'd understood, being part feral. But this was more than just being feral, wasn't it? Something else was wrong with him.

Had Beast ever felt the bloodwrath? The berserker rage, building in his bones and wanting nothing more but to kill, and rip, and shred, and to howl in the terrible, agonizing glory of blood?

"Hank? Did you find him?"

"Just where you thought he would be, Ororo," Beast replied.

Storm ran into the room, looking frazzled and exhausted, but relieved. She smiled and came forward. "I told you he would not stay in bed, Hank." She stopped at Logan's unyielding stare. "What's wrong?"

Logan shook his head and tried to walk past them, but Storm put a hand on his shoulder—right over where Bloodscream had grabbed him. He pushed her back, swearing.

"What the hell's wrong with you people?" Rogue had followed him, and now was watching him in concern. Kitty stood some paces behind her, looking a bit pale, but otherwise composed. If anything, she looked a bit sheepish from her earlier stunt.

"Logan, what—" Storm tried again.

"You let me in the damn house," he turned sharply to confront her. "I coulda killed any of you—all of you. Hell, Beast, when I woke up, this furball was sitting right next to me!"

"She wouldn't leave your side," Rogue said.

"I lost it, and you let her get near me? What the hell were you thinking?"

"She went near feral herself, Logan. And you didn't hurt her at all; indeed, it seemed as if your feral side was determined to protect her—"

"I don't give a damn!" he snarled. Even Kylee backed up, her fur slicked back and her eyes wide.

I killed Jeannie, and you still don't understand.

These fools were as bad as Chuck. Could have been killed by their own just like he did, because he thought she was in control.

He needed to get out of here. Now.

He stepped forward, but Rogue moved with him, standing right in his way. "You try to leave and ah'll touch you," she said plainly. Not the best of threats from the average person, but it was enough here. "We need you, Logan. So you coulda killed one of us—but you didn't. Dozens of mutants and normals died because Professor Xavier was controlled by Stryker. Ah almost killed off enough folks to toss down all the world's governments. It wasn't our fault. You said so yourself."

"It wasn't your fault."

"And this wasn't yours," Rogue declared, drawing her full height. Logan realized that she'd passed him up sometime since he'd met her. "Ah mean it, Logan." Seeing his unyielding look, but shying away from looking directly at his missing eye, she tried again. "You try to leave and you'll be back in bed for a week. Besides, if you really feel that all guilty, you gotta stay on and make it up to us."

The kid really was desperate.

"Really, Mr. Logan," Kitty said softly. "Stay. Please."

"Storm cannot run the institute on her own with none but Kurt," Beast added. "I myself am leaving to Washington as soon as I am able."

They were all crazy. There was no other solution.

He felt a shy hand clutching his pant leg and looked down to see Kylee looking up at him cautiously, her ears back. He heard a faint purr that he could swear almost vibrated from her palm.

God, this kid was the only one who could look him in the face without flinching.

And the Wolverine hadn't fought her. Hadn't tried to hurt her.

Had tried to protect her.

And still wanted to. He could feel it, burrowed deep inside him, wrapped around with anger and fury and hatred—there was that need to protect. She was pack. Even more than Rogue, who was like a sister to him. No, Kylee was more. She understood more than anyone, and she knew.

Hadn't even Beast started out as a normal human being? He and Kylee—they'd always been freaks. Long as both of them could remember.

He grunted. He wanted a cigar, but the standard issue sweats he was wearing didn't even have pockets for him to busy himself checking. He pushed past Rogue, and she actually reached for her glove.

"Quit it," he stopped her, not even slowing his pace. "I go where I wanna go, and you damn well know you couldn't get a finger on me if I didn't want it, even now." She stopped, biting her lip. Logan turned back around. "'m goin' upstairs."

Rogue let out a long breath. "Thank you, Logan," she breathed softly, knowing he'd hear it clearly. He thought he heard a breath of relief from Storm too.

They were all crazy.

The only one with an ounce of sense was Jubilee, who had stood watching the whole thing, her expression set and hard, her hands ready to be raised.

The kid'd always been scared of him, but something had changed from the day before. Fear was gone, and instead there was defensive, fearless anger. She was practically ready to fight him right then and there.

Good.

Ignoring the rising pain, he climbed the stairs, apparently not noticing his small orange shadow that trailed behind him.

TBC . . .