Title: Child Of The Snows Chapter 11.
Author: Andrea The Mad
E-Mail: andreaslaymaker@hotmail.co.uk - good, bad and ugly welcome. But if you hate it, at least try and be polite.
Disclaimer: Only Smoke belongs to me, a fact she is unlikely to let me forget. Everyone else belongs to Marvel - please don't sue me, I'm skint.
Archive Rights: DDFH - where else? But if you want it, just ask.
Rating: R for general unpleasantness. If you're squeamish, you probably haven't got this far anyway.
Summary: Hank to the rescue.
Chapter 11
Desperate Measures
Marie didn't know how she was doing it, but Smoke just kept holding on, keeping her promise to Logan. She assumed it was the tattered remnants of the healing factor; not helping her get any better, but not letting her get any worse - or die.
"Oh my stars and garters! Whatever do you have there? I trust this is - "
To the surprise of Dr Henry Mc Coy - physician and resident genius of this parish - Logan spun swiftly round and stilled his approach with an upraised hand and a sharp hiss. Puzzled, he stopped, and was about to speak again when Logan added another 'shush!' gesture and turned back to the suffering mutant bleeding on the ground before him.
"Smoke? Darlin', the doctor's here. You remember our deal, dontcha?"
*If he is afraid of me, or I am afraid of him, you will let me go*
"Yup."
*You promise, you will let me go?*
Logan thought back uncomfortably to the two previous times she had asked that question. His gut feeling was to answer in the same way; but he had promised, and the Wolverine was a man of his word, if nothing else. He motioned for Hank to come forward slowly.
"Oh my…oh my…you're the one called Smoke, aren't you?" murmured Hank gently, reaching out a huge, clawed hand to touch her head where it rested in Marie's lap. One grey eye regarded him solemnly. To his surprise, he felt a gentle, feather light touch to the edges of his mind; a moment later he felt the tone of touch change from wariness to amusement. Hank looked across at Logan and raised an eyebrow; Logan was looking down at Smoke, who had transferred the intense grey gaze from examining the big, blue furred doctor to regarding her pack leader.
"No fear, right?" he said, with the ghost of a smile.
*No. And I…I am not afraid of him. How strange…perhaps it is the eyes…..*
"So I win?"
*Always.*
Now that we have established that you are going to allow me to care for you and treat your considerable injuries with all the skill I possess, we just have to get you back to the medlab and all the associated highly technical gubbins ensconced therein."
*'Lab'?* The amusement had flickered instantly to anxiety.
"Oh, don't you worry your furry head about it. We have just finished a little addition to the place; a room - designed for our resident master of mayhem, a certain Wolverine of your acquaintance - so that he may feel less threatened by the medical procedures we are forced to retreat to using to patch him up after a particularly drastic session of rough and tumble - " while he was rambling on in his deep, soothing dark brown voice, his hands were nimbly moving over Smoke's ruined body to gauge the extent of her injuries, respiration and heart rate, breaks and burns, tears and rips.
*A room that doesn't look like a lab, yes?*
"Really?" asked Logan, sitting up in surprise.
"You see straight to the heart of my somewhat wordy meanderings, lady Smoke. And yes, Logan, it was supposed to be a gift from our esteemed founder and mentor - "
"'Logan's fix up room', we were going to call it" smiled Marie, through her tears. Logan just hugged her even closer to him, and kissed the top of her head.
"But since your injuries are such that we cannot wait for stretchers and other such manual handling aids and equipment, it appears I will have to carry you there. Although - " he paused, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes speculatively as he regarded the steaming gash in her flank "- it appears we will have to take measures to keep your…well, to put it bluntly, your insides…inside." He shuffled lower, to be able to meet Smoke's one good eye with his own two. "I can give you something to help with the pain, but I cannot deny the facts - this is going to hurt. Like, as your friend there is prone to saying, a son of a bitch."
*It's just pain. Get on with it.*
"Alright then." He nodded firmly, swivelling to his kit to fill a syringe from a vial of morphine. He administered it into the muscle of a hindleg - what was left of it - and turned to the two people watching over their dying friend.
"Marie? Hold on to that head as though your very existence depended upon it, because hers surely does. If you feel you might faint - "
"Ah won't."
"Good girl." He touched her shoulder gently. "You must be brave now, and firm." He turned to Logan. "You must help me, then. When I ask you to lift - "
"Where's Jeannie? Doesn't she normally help you with this sort of thing?" Hank looked away, clearly embarrassed.
"She stated that she was not…a veterinarian…and that she had her husband and…and team members to treat…" He did not say that she had also berated him for not staying with her to treat them, instead of tearing off into the woods to treat - as she put it - a dying stray dog.
"Oh."
"So" all business again "When I say 'lift', lift the hindquarters with one hand, and gently raise the ribcage with the other so that I can get the dressing secured until we reach the medical facility." Noting the look Logan shot Smoke, and the sick expression on his face, Hank added gently, "Yes, it will hurt. No, I am not sure it will work. Yes, it is the only way. I need you to trust me on this, my friend. Are you ready?"
Nods from his two helpers.
"Smoke?"
*Do it.*
"On three, then. One…two…threelift!"
Smoke wailed miserably as her body was lifted in Logan's strong hands and held for Hank to quickly move her insides back within the gaping tear in her body, hold them with the dressing and swiftly secure them with the bandage from the small kit he had brought with him.
"No…no, sweetheart…hold on," came the sound of Marie begging her friend to lie still. She had to grip the scorched and ragged ruff tightly in her fists to prevent the wolf from thrashing her head around in an instinctive reaction to this new, intense agony. All she was getting from her now were jumbled images of pain, fire, confusion and battle - some from now, some from before.
And suddenly, blackness.
"Smoke!" Yelled Marie, shaking the head sharply to get a response.
"Do not worry yourself" rumbled Hank, as he scooped the animal form into his arms and cradled her against his chest, "she is just unconscious, but life is still very much present. We must hurry now, before that vital spark is extinguished." So saying, he began to stride away from them, back towards the mansion.
Logan and Rogue scrambled to their feet to follow the good doctor, who addressed them again as they drew level with him.
"I would very much appreciate it if you two could accompany me until I have at least had the chance to begin to stabilise our new friends condition. I fear my esteemed colleague doctor Grey -"
"Bitch" supplied Marie, in an undertone.
"- quite. She does not appear to welcome the thought that the mutant who did some considerable damage to her ever loving husband will be sharing the same facility, albeit different parts of it. I could really do with some assistance to stave off criticism and debate whilst I try to work."
Logan worked his way through the sentence and grunted agreement.
"You want us to run interference for ya, right?"
"It would be immeasurably helpful, yes."
Marie touched Smoke's face where it hung over Hank's muscular, blue furred arm. Against all the odds, breath could be heard whistling in and out of her throat.
"She is gonna be alright though, isn't she?"
The doctor didn't answer for a moment, and Rogue's heart sank. Logan gave her hand a squeeze.
"I can give you no assurances, Marie, save the undeniable fact that I will, as ever, work to the best of my considerable ability to preserve the life of this individual. But - and I shall give you no untruths - her injuries are grievous indeed, and even with a healing factor, stalled as it is, the prognosis is grave. We must," he finished, picking up the pace, "be swift, or there will be no chance at all."
So saying, they rushed onward toward the mansion, and the waiting medlab.