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. ;)

As always, thanks for the reviews. You guys are the greatest! I hope my writing keeps up to your expectations and you continue to enjoy this story from this little imagination of mine.

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, and happy (late) Thanksgiving!

Chapter 37: Teacher's Pet

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 hell 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 hell Bloodscream was. She'd never heard of him before.

Well, of course Rogue had. Carol Danvers hadn't, or whatever the hell.

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?

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 hell. 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 hell'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 'nough. 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 hell 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 hell, 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 hell 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 . . . .