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

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

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

But no, I'm not a sadist. Not at all.

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

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

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

Chapter 38: Re-Education through Labor

Then:

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

"Again? Re-my—"

"None a dat, cheri. Pay up."

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

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

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

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

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

"Fine. Last one, though, okay?"

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

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

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

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

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

"'Ey, Wolvie." He waved it, trying to coax him over.

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

He lifted his hand and flipped him off.

Heather choked on the Oreo she'd just taken a bite of. "Wolverine!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

She frowned, turning to the boy. "You don't tease."

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

Now what's that supposed to mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What does that mean?" Heather asked.

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

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

"Well, you're supposed to start at the beginning, you know."

"Did."

"Hm?"

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

That probably one of the longest responses she's gotten from him yet. She scanned the article. "Mono o aware," she read, tripping slightly over the unfamiliar words. "Seeing with the eyes of the heart." Wolverine frowned.

Encouraged by his attention, she tried for more. "I have to admit, I wouldn't cut you out as a reader."

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

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

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

"It's Wednesday. April 14, 1985."

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

Thinking . . . what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who would put another man through that?

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

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

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

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

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

Heather looked up sharply as the door clicked shut.

"Wolverine?"

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

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

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

"He take off?" Gambit asked. He hadn't risen from the table.

"I couldn't see him," Heather said, pulling the hat over her head.

"You not gonna find him 'nless he want t'be found," Remy said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'m fine," he said, his voice as soft as ever. He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Heather."

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

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

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

"What is it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ulgh.

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

Goodness, she just hoped his appetite slowed down eventually, or maybe they would have to worry about foodstuff.

But Wolverine's frown had turned uncomfortable—guessing what she was thinking, she wondered?

"Aren't you cold?" Heather asked, unable to keep from asking.

Again the strange look. He shrugged.

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

"Jus' needed . . . ." he trailed off, uncertain with how to finish.

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

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

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

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

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

"What don't you remember?"

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

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

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

"Dammit," he growled.

"It's okay," Heather said.

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

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

"Why?" he wondered out loud.

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

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

". . . never mind."

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

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

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

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

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

Not that cold at all.

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

It'd been colder before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stepped in and he followed closer on her heels.

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

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

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

Why do you care?

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

But he did care.

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

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

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

Lavender.

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

Heather smelled like lavender.

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

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

Stupid bastard.

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

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

He looked away, frustrated.

Flowers. Fishing. It was stupid, all stupid.

Wasn't right. Couldn't remember.

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

Damn.

He traced his steps, stepping onto the welcome mat.

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

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

He couldn't remember.

Couldn't remember anything, damn it.

Where had he left them?

He clenched his fists.

Couldn't remember.

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

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

Had he left the boots by the river, after he'd found the kid sleeping there?

He moved to the couch and sat down, rubbing his head. Boots. Didn't matter. He didn't need them, not like the kid needed them.

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

. . . .

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

Maybe the soldiers had found them.

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

What would they care about a pair of boots?

Idiot.

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

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

"Wolverine? What's wrong?"

He looked up at her. He shrugged.

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

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

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

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

"C'nt r'member," Wolverine mumbled.

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

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

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

"What is it?" she asked.

'S all wrong.

"'s nuthin'."

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

Then there was Heather.

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

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

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

And I didn't get it. There was no reason—none—for her to help me. If she'd've been smarter she would have left me bleedin' out in the snow.

Heather Hudson was the one to finally show me what it meant to be human.

TBC . . .