*
Skirting around the basketball court, ignoring the sudden break in the game and rush of whispering, Logan stepped off the all-weather surface and onto the lush expanse of grass. Every student from players to spectators froze, and for once it had nothing to do with Bobby Drake, who warily watched him, the orange basketball in his hands forgotten.
"Well," he said as Kitty sidled up to snatch the ball. "At least Rogue'll be pleased… Hey!"
Racing up the court, he groaned as Kitty scored a hoop, putting her team ahead. Mobilised, the other players scattered and the game continued as noisily and competitively as ever. Pausing several yards onto the clipped lawn near a well-used wooden bench, Logan scanned the perimeter of the estate's woods and sniffed the light evening breeze. The sun was beginning to dip on the horizon, the light level dropping as twilight advanced. In amongst the woodland scents he detected the one he was searching for and set off towards it.
As he walked deeper into the woods, the tapestry of voices and scents from the school faded to a background murmur, replaced by rustling leaves and the crunch of twigs underfoot. Stopping, surrounded by the massed green foliage of oak, birch and ash trees, he inhaled again and changed direction. Acute ears detecting the muted tinny buzz of a Walkman, he rounded a patch of thick undergrowth into a small clearing. Sat downwind underneath a large gnarled oak, back against the trunk, eyes closed as she listened to a tiny mini CD player cradled in her right hand, Helena did not notice he was there.
Ambling over with a strange feeling of apprehension, Logan considered tapping her crooked knee, but reasoning it would probably earn him three talons through his stomach, decided not to. She looked good, better than he remembered. Her hair fell in well-kept serpentine curls almost to her waist, but was a deep shining plum rather than her natural dark chestnut brown. Closed, her eyelids were expertly shadowed a similar colour to her hair, long fingernails a metallic purple. Dressed in black as always, she wore a long slim-fitting cotton skirt and spaghetti-strapped vest. The legend 'I'm not A bitch, I'm THE bitch, and Miss Bitch to you' was emblazoned across the front. One leg crossed over the other, her sandal-clad foot tapped in time with the music, toenails varnished the same purple as her fingers.
A heavy, expensive-looking white gold ring he did not remember graced her ring finger and he found himself wondering if Elliot had bought it for her. As he watched, her free hand came up to unconsciously fondle it, fingertips stroking the ruby stone. That his dog tags hung around her neck did nothing to reassure him.
Shoulda come back sooner, he thought furiously, disregarding the inner voice telling him he was already too late.
The click of a depressed button reached his ears and she opened her eyes, pulling out her earphones with a smile playing about her lips.
"You think too loudly," she commented, hazel green eyes dancing.
One hand shoved carelessly into the pocket of his jeans, the other holding two frosty bottles of beer, Logan inclined his head towards the mossy ground at her side.
"This seat taken?" he asked, indicating the spot with a wave of bottles.
"Oh, I dunno," she said with a mock-serious shake of her head. "I was saving it… but seen as it's you."
Dropping down beside her, he popped the beer caps and handed her a foaming bottle. Taking a long swig, she cradled the bottle in her lap, mopping up a dribble of foam on the neck with her index finger and sucking it off.
"It's good to see you, Logan," she said quietly. "I missed you."
"You too, darlin'," he returned softly, reflecting that after more than a decade of nobody caring if he lived or died, two women had expressed the same sentiment within an hour. He liked the feeling. Yer don't know how much.
She smiled and took another mouthful of beer, beginning to peel off the label, a habit that had irritated him no end while they were travelling, but now seemed another indicator he was in the right place.
"Lookin' good, Hels," he said truthfully, reaching over to rub a strand of her hair between his large fingers. "Yer spruce up well."
She chuckled and feigned saucer-eyed shock. "Christ, I think I just received a compliment… Had more important things than female vanity to worry about on the road. But with two gorgeous women like Jean and Ororo around, who'd look fabulous in binbags, I felt kinda obliged to make a bit of an effort."
The flippancy vanishing from her expression and tone, she ceased to pick at the label on her beer bottle, shaking her foot to dislodge a trundling ladybird from her toes.
"Did you find anything?"
Feeling a familiar heavy anger grow in his belly, Logan shook his head and drained his bottle, rolling it between his palms.
"Nah… bits, nuthin' useful. Brought some stuff back fer Wheels ta pore over, 'cos yer know he's gonna want chapter an' verse."
She regarded him silently, eyes searching his face for long moments until she was satisfied he was not holding anything back. Catching images of deserted grey corridors, destroyed machinery and shredded papers filigreed with mould, she placed a hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I really thought you might find something."
"Nuthin' fer yer ta be sorry for," he growled, folding her hand in his own, rubing his thumb across the back. "Enough about that already – how've the geeks been treatin' yer? Scooter been givin' yer a hard time?"
Laughing, she shook her head, seeing he was prepared to march back into the school and break Summer's nose, closely followed by every other bone in his designer-dressed body. Slapping him playfully in the chest with her free hand, a trick perhaps only Rogue would otherwise dare to do, she smiled.
"No, Scott's a nice feller. Sometimes I think if he got any more composed his face'd shatter, but apart from that he's fine. He's a good teacher and leader."
Logan snorted disparagingly, "They got yer teachin' an' flyin' around in those goddamn leather outfits fulltime now?"
Head tipping mischievously, Helena looked him straight in the face, carefully assuming an expression of butter-wouldn't-melt innocence.
"Yeah, 'fraid so… Once upon a time you said I looked good in leather," she said with a ghosted pout.
Recalling when she, Jean and Ororo had stepped out into the underground jet hangar, clothed in the distinctive figure-hugging uniforms, each trimmed with a different colour and the ubiquitous 'X' emblem, he grinned. He had spent several distracting minutes watching three perfectly outlined sets of buttocks and thighs, gleefully noting for future reference that Cyclops had done the same, albeit in a vastly more unobtrusive manner. He had overheard Helena chuckling and murmuring "boys will be boys" to the other women, eliciting answering laughter despite the tense situation.
"Yer do," he affirmed, discovering that at some point in the conversation she had moved a little closer and he had forgotten to let go of her hand. Giving a fruity, thoroughly evil grin, he added, "Good enough ta tie down an' spank." The spark's still there. Two weeks, darlin', an' yer'll be sayin' 'Elliot who?'… I've been thinkin' about yer till I'm fit ta explode an' there's no way I'm lettin' some punk-ass kid have yer.
"Careful what you wish for," she warned playfully, snorting with laughter. "You rehearsing your lines for Jean or sommat? She's not here, y'know. At a conference in California with the Prof. You know Jay's serious when she packs that red suit of hers – and here was me thinking power suits went out in the eighties. Won't be back for a few days yet."
"Yeah, well," he shrugged laconically. "I gotta practise on someone." Smooth, bub, real smooth. She thinks yer still after Red. What did yer expect? That she'd fall inta yer arms like some brainless bar chick? Dream on… Yer had yer chance back in Canada an' yer backed off. Yer've gotta work fer what yer want now.
She laughed again and nudged him reprovingly with her elbow. Sitting so close, her skirt covered with clinging scraps of moss, oak leaves and grass, he could feel her warmth and smell her sun-warmed skin. Inclining his head, he looked at his tags around her neck.
"See yer've still got 'em," he observed, daring to touch a fingertip to the ball chain at her throat.
"Yeah," she shrugged carelessly, the last of the sunlight winking from the metal. "Can't lose them if they're round my neck, can I?"
They both fell silent and contemplated their beer bottles, a silence that was slightly awkward to Logan's mind. While travelling about Canada, they had often sat in companionable quiet for hours, not feeling any need to fill the gaps with banal chatter.
She's wearin' 'em, he thought. But it'd be stupid ta presume it's fer the same reasons another girl might. I did ask her ta look after 'em fer me, after all. Dammit, I thought I'd gotten a handle on women by now. Sayin' that, if I've learnt anythin', it's that Hels is a whole different ballgame from most women. Maybe it's 'cos she's English…
"You'd best have them back," she said suddenly, hooking a finger through the chain to take them off. "I've had them too long."
"Keep 'em," he said. "That way I've always got a reason ta come back. Besides, they look better on yer."
Her expression altered subtly, though he could not tell if she was pleased or troubled. Wordlesly, she dropped the tags down the front of her vest. Glancing at the spot where they hung, nestled between her breasts, he wondered if it was possible to be jealous of inanimate metal.
Very 'ugg, thump, drag', he thought dryly, recalling the phrase she used to describe lecherous, overtly macho rednecks with Neanderthal social skills who were scant evolutionary steps away from simply bashing an intended mate over the head and dragging her away.
Silent, she was picking the last of the label from the semi-opaque brown bottle, features lost behind a fallen hank of hair. She seemed disquieted, almost preoccupied. Cocking his head, Logan reached over and plucked the bottle from her fingers.
"What's eatin' yer?" he asked bluntly.
"There's something you should know," she began.
Feeling dismay twist wire spines inside his chest, he determinedly quelled it and stared at his beer bottle, wishing it was full.
I don't wanna hear this, he thought disgustedly. I don't wanna hear how yer playin' happy homin' with invisi-boy…
"If this is about yer an' that kid from Brooklyn…" he rumbled, trying and failing to sound neutral.
"Elliot?" she frowned, confused. "No, it's nothing to do with him. It's these…"
She lifted her right leg and brought her foot up to rest across her knee, something metal shining and winking dazzlingly in the sunlight filtering through the patchy canopy of leaves overhead.
"I found these sewn into the hem of my old leather coat. The seam had split and I was repairing it when they just kinda fell out. Why they were there, God only knows."
Logan looked at the ball chain around her slender ankle, looked at the small dog tags attached to it. They were inscribed with a multiple digit number and a single word; Raven. He had noticed them before and assumed they were some sort of fashion accessory. The initial four numbers were identical to those on his tags.
"Small world, huh?" she said with a forced smile, her eyes dark and troubled.
"Guess it is," he agreed, chilled as he realised that the dag tags indicated she had probably been subjected to experiments like those that had coated his skeleton in adamantium.
He recalled Jean and Xavier discussing their respective memory loss when they had first arrived at the school from Canada, but had dismissed it at the time as scientific rubbish. The Professor had commented on the similarities and speculated about manipulation of the X-gene. The dog tags were just one more piece of the puzzle, a piece that linked her to the Canadian military and covert, highly illegal human experimentation programmes.
"The Prof thinks somebody, probably the government, used us as guinea pigs… What did they do to us?" she whispered. "And why?"
"Dunno," he shrugged unhappily. "Don't s'pose we'll ever know."
She was quiet, toying with with ball chain, describing the stamped numbers with the sensitive pads of her fingers. Head tipping, Logan regarded her, gathering from her expression that there was something more she had not told him.
"What else ain't yer told me?" he asked. "An' don't deny it, Hels – yer've got that 'and there's more' face on yer."
She smiled thinnly. "I guess my poker face isn't as good as I'd like… After I found the tags, I got Jean to run all my old clothes, the ones I had when I 'awoke', through her gizmos. Well, everything that didn't go the way of the dinosaurs when the trailer blew. We found a microdisc in the sole of my boots. Tiny little thing, no bigger than a penny piece. Naturally, the bugger's encoded to death, but…"
"But?" Logan prompted as she broke off and frowned.
"It's special-issue primarily used by the British government. The Prof's got some sort of contact in MI6, but she took one look and got the jitters. There's an ex-student who goes by the name Cypher who's having a crack at it – his gift is translation, languages, codes, you name it, he can make sense of it. As yet, we've heard nothing… we don't know if I was working for MI6, against them, or why I ended up in Canada." She scowled fiercely, then sighed. "How to make a real shitty mess – take one mutant, add two governments, just a dash of illegal experimentation, grill until memory is wiped, then leave to simmer until it all hits the fan."
Silence descended and she stared off into the trees until Logan felt compelled to break the heavy speechlessness. Wanting to change the topic of conversation, to steer the subject away from past horrors, he touched her arm, briefly sliding the pads of his fingers across the downy skin.
"Yer happy here, Hels?" he asked as she looked up questioningly.
"I won't go back to brawling and hustling around Canada, if that's what you're asking," she said quietly. "I've something good going here – a career, a cause to fight for. I know you think it's crazy, what the X-Men do, but I don't."
"Damn right it's crazy," he growled. "Chuck worked some real mumbo-jumbo, gettin' yer ta teach class at Mutant High. Whaddaya teach – bar-brawlin' an' tea-drinkin'?"
She laughed suddenly, the sharp light in her eyes softening, and slapped him in the chest again.
"English lit and computer science, actually. I've picked up a lot of useful stuff somewhere along the way – so don't get smart, or I'll let off a few cutting, educated remarks that'll do irreversible damage to your ego."
"I'm scared," he deadpanned, earning himself another of her smiles.
Glad he had done something to chase the haunted look from her features, he saw the humour quickly fade from her expression. She twisted around to face him, hair a vivid purple-lit halo in the dying sunlight.
"We're two of a kind, you and I – in more ways than one. Round pegs in square holes, the ones people look at sidelong and wonder just what makes us different, even amongst other mutants. Batman 'n' Robin've got nothing on us, we work well together, whether it's poker-hustling or kicking arse on top of the Statue of Liberty." She smiled sadly and shook her head. "I owe you a lot, but I'm not leaving. I've a place here… and you could too, if you want it."
Wedging his empty bottle in the crevice of a protruding knotted tree root, Logan wondered if he heard a pleading note in her voice or if it was just his imagination. Reaching out, he touched her face, allowing his fingers to trace the contours of her cheek.
"What if that's not all I want?"
*
Pouring himself a brandy from the cut-crystal decanter in the Professor's study, Elliot took a large swallow, feeling it sear its way down his gullet to mix uneasily with the fury in his belly. Carefully replacing the stopper, he placed the decanter back in the antique cherrywood tantalus. It was gone ten p.m and they had still not returned to the mansion. He knew Helena had travelled around Canada with the surly, taciturn mutant for months on end and was having increasing difficulty believing their relationship had been platonic, despite what she indicated to the contrary. Wolverine's open hostility had reinforced his opinion. Elliot had seen pure murder in the volatile hazel eyes, a silent snarl of "back off – she's mine".
Now he's back, and he's gonna pick up right where he left off, he thought sourly, staring into the amber depths of his glass. And it looks like she's more than happy to let him, or she'd have come out of the woods hours ago.
"I see you've met Logan – you've got that look."
Elliot turned to see Scott Summers standing in the open doorway, ruby quartz glasses firmly in place as always. For Cyclops, the glasses were a necessity, not merely a fashion statement. Moving to the desk, he set down a sheaf of marked test papers. Selecting a brandy balloon, he opened the tantalus, slid out the decanter and poured himself a generous measure.
"He's a character alright," Elliot observed acidly.
"He's an asshole," Scott corrected, swirling his drink.
"No argument there. He thinks he can walk back in and pick up with Ray right where he left off, like he didn't just take off and leave her."
Studying the other man from behind his glasses, noting the discontented slump of his shoulders and air of suppressed jealous anger, Summers took a mouthful of brandy. Logan's sudden return had surprised him. Resentful and suspicious of all forms of authority, untamed, answerable to no-one, he hardly fitted the criteria required to live and work at the school. Cyclops had not expected to see Wolverine again, believing he would get himself killed or go straight back to breaking heads in Canada. He had a lurking suspicion that this time he was planning on staying. Seeing Elliot silently fuming, a rare occurrence for a man who could teach Jubilee, Kitty and Rogue all at once without losing his cool, he decided to risk a comment.
"I think you're doing Helena a disservice," he said calmly. "When they first arrived here, Logan chased Jean – made no secret of it. Now either he and Helena weren't together, or she didn't mind him nosing after my girl, which knowing Raven, is unlikely."
Elliot gave a snort of laughter, despite himself. "She'd have kicked his ass to Canada and back again."
Scott nodded sagely. "Exactly. So now His Assholiness has decided he's gonna play the returning hero and chase her. The question is, are you gonna let him catch her?"
Setting his glass down on the Professor's teak desk, Elliot shook his head, shoulders squaring.
"Good," Cyclops said, clapping the other man on the shoulder. "Just don't get into a fight with him – and don't let him provoke you."
Frowning, Elliot picked up his glass and turned to face the lead-lit window, staring out into the darkness of the grounds and beyond.
"It's a bit late for that."
*
Hunched over the innards of a large amplifier, Elliot frowned and selected a pair of pliers to begin stripping down wires. Various components lay scattered across the desk in front of him, some scorched and melted.
Never had these equipment problems in my last job, he thought with mingled amusement and exasperation. But I never taught kids like St John and Jubilee before. They should come with government health warnings.
Picking up a small soldering iron, the Brooklyn-born mutant began patiently piecing back together the electrics of the amplifier. Tearing open a shrink-wrapped part, he removed a damaged lump of charred plastic and tossed it into the scratched metal rubbish bin near his feet.
"Let me guess, Jubilee or St John?" a female voice said.
Elliot turned to see Jean Grey wearing her spectacles and the mysterious quarter-smile she did so well.
"Both, I'm afraid," he answered with a rueful grin, selecting another replacement component for the amplifier.
"We have a repair man to fix those kinds of things," Jean pointed out, setting a sheaf of unmarked test papers on a nearby desk.
Passing by the unoccupied drum kit, she lightly tapped her index finger against one of the cymbals, creating a soft, brass chime.
"Yeah, well, he has enough to do," Elliot shrugged.
"I just saw Helena," the red-haired doctor remarked conversationally. "She subbed for Scott's self-defense class."
"Uh-oh – did they survive?" the muffled question came from somewhere inside the amplifier's chipboard casing.
Jean chuckled quietly, recalling a dozen or so completely exhausted students trailing despondently past dragging their kit bags.
"Just about," she smiled, levitating the pliers into his blindly searching hand. "Speaking of Raven, Elliot, we need to talk."
A tousled dark head emerged from inside the amplifier, liberally scattered with scraps of wire. Wiping a smudge of something black and sooty from his cheek, Elliot's vivid green eyes narrowed and his expression became guarded.
"Oh? Is this the part where you tell me to watch out in case Wolverine rips out my lungs and strangles me with them?"
"To put it bluntly – yes," Jean nodded. "Once Logan makes up his mind about something, there's nothing that'll dissuade him."
Picking several bits of red wire out of his hair, Elliot frowned and set down the pliers on the desk. He folded his arms defensively.
"He didn't get you, though not for lack of trying according to Scott."
To his surprise, the auburn-haired telekinetic coloured somewhat, but quickly regained her composure.
"That's different," she said firmly. "And beside the point. I guess I'm just saying you need to be careful."
"Are you warning me off, Jean?" Elliot asked quietly. "I know it's something of a running joke that I don't dress up in leather and run out there to fight. And I know Ray's got a wild side – I'd be stupid if I didn't admit that she's damn scary sometimes… but I'm not giving up just 'cos Logan shows up and throws his macho in everyone's face."
Jean regarded the young man, sensed his earnestness and determination. Privately, she had a fairly strong inkling who would be the victor, but would not say so aloud. Stepping forward, she lay a hand on Elliot's shoulder as he retrieved his pliers and resumed work.
"I wouldn't expect you to. It's obvious you care for her, but don't get so wrapped up in competing with Logan that you ignore any warning signs. He's dangerous if – "
Breaking off, she looked around to see Logan standing in the classroom doorway. Favouring her with an almost-smile, he sauntered over the threshold.
"Yer got that one right, Red," he agreed, gaze travelling down to her hips. "I frighten yer?"
Unable to suppress the girlish smile his flirting always provoked in her, Jean raised an eyebrow and met his gaze.
"No."
"Yer want me ta?" he retorted, a devilish twinkle in his hazel eyes.
Jean merely smiled again and picked up her test papers, pushing her spectacles further up her small nose.
"I have papers to grade," she announced, heading for the door.
As she passed, she shot Logan a warning glance, causing him to hold up his hands in mock-surrender, grinning all the while. Listening as the regular click of high heels on varnished wood faded into the busy background hum of the school, he watched with amusement as Elliot determinedly ignored him and turned back to the amplifier.
"Shouldna turn yer back like that, boy," he said at length. "Never know who's sneakin' up behind yer."
Barely pausing in his tinkering with the nest of coloured wires, Elliot fixed another connection, blowing a fine layer of soot from the contacts.
"Unlike you, I don't spend my time making enemies, so I'm not too worried about who sneaks up behind me."
Feeling the skin on the back of his neck prickle as Logan took a step closer, he gritted his teeth as he fought the urge to turn around, vowing he would not allow himself to be intimidated.
"Yer should be," the Canadian growled quietly. "Yer a mutant, an' in case yer ain't noticed, invisi-boy, that makes yer public enemy number one."
"Thought that was your gig?" Elliot set down his pliers and turned around, arms folded across his chest. "You've bugged Scott right out, and now you've decided it's my turn. What is it with you? Jean not playing ball, so you've moved onto Helena?"
"Jealous?" Logan rumbled slyly, realising he had provoked the younger man.
"Not as much as you," Elliot stated with a brief, humourless grin. "You've been gone a while, and a lot of things can happen in ten months. You really think you can just walk in and start something? She's not yours to leave and pick up again whenever you feel like."
The humour suddenly vanished from Wolverine's expression and his lips thinned ominously. He cocked his head, aggression surging to the fore.
"That so? I don't see her hangin' off yer arm, bub. I'm tellin' yer now…" He bent down, suddenly grabbing the music teacher by the front of his t-shirt and roughly hauling him from his chair. "Stay away from her – yer nothin' but a never-was muso. Stick ta teachin' the kids piano."
Dropping back into his chair with a grunted exhalation as Wolverine abruptly shoved him back, Elliot scowled. Satisfied he had communicated his message, Logan rolled his shoulder and rubbed meaningfully at his knuckles.
"I think you're forgetting something," Elliot said softly. "The choice is hers. You claim to know her better than me – what d'you think'll happen if you try to force her to do something she doesn't want to? Are you so sure she'll pick you?"
His question remained unanswered as the distinctive drone of the Professor's wheelchair sounded outside the open door. Within moments, Xavier appeared in the doorframe, immaculate in an exquisitely-cut charcoal grey suit.
"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?" he asked, blue grey eyes moving between them. "If so, kindly dicuss it out of earshot of the students."
Logan's brows dipped low over the bridge of his nose, gaze locked with Elliot's. Seconds ticked by and he looked away with a dismissive shrug.
"Nah, Chuck," he growled, turning his back to walk away. "No problem at all."
*
Extensile tongue hissing out to slime the plaster wall as his target backflipped out of range, Toad's greenish lips curled in a snarl and he launched himself into the air. Leaping up to meet him, natural strength bolstered by telekinetic impulse, his adversary extruded shining adamantium claws that she plunged into his chest and viciously twisted. With a gargling cry, Toad crashed twitching to the floor, a fist-sized hole in his ribcage, and lay still. Landing neatly on her feet, his killer drew back her spurred fist, only to have her wrist caught by a slim café au lait hand.
"He is quite dead enough," Storm's rich voice admonished, brown eyes concerned as Raven turned on her with a snarl, then backed down. "Cerebro – end programme."
The Statue of Liberty's lobby shimmered and disappeared, leaving a huge silvery metal expanse checkered with luminous gridmarks. Breathing hard, Helena retracted her claws and dropped down into a squat, scraping a strand of hair from her brow.
"I think you should tell me what has upset you," the weather goddess said firmly. "So far you have fought the entire Brotherhood Of Mutants from Mystique to Sabretooth and killed Toad – twice. Not to mention the number of times you have knocked me flat."
Helena glowered in a distinctly Logan-like fashion, then sighed and sat back on her heels. Milk white hair tied up, exposing her delicate cheekbones, Ororo sat next to her on the cool metal floor. Both women were dressed in dark grey one-piece lycra training suits with small 'X' emblems on the left breast. After a gruelling two hour session in the Danger Room, Storm was tired, but the English mutant showed little sign of slowing down.
"It's those two idiots," she admitted with a semi-disgusted shake of her head. "They're driving me up the wall with their one-upmanship. Ever since Logan got back, Elliot's been acting all possessive, like I'm somehow his personal property. It was funny at first, but the joke's wearing thin. And as for Logan, he sees himself as Alpha Male and me as part of his pack. I swear, any day now he's gonna cock his leg to mark his territory."
"Oh," Storm said blandly, chosing her next words carefully. "He's jealous, anyone can see that. He sees Elliot as a rival and vice versa."
"That's just it," Helena grumbled. "I'm not used to all this attention, and I feel like a prize toy caught between two spoilt kids… and Scott is egging Elliot on just to get back at Logan – I can sense it every time I look at him. I just hope it doesn't end with Elliot laid up in the infirmary."
Ororo raised an eyebrow and elegantly shifted position so she was sat cross-legged. In the week since Logan's arrival, Cyclops had been polite as always, but almost suspiciously friendly. Jean and the Professor had returned from the genetics conference in California armed with studies and reports to find the school buzzing with the news Wolverine had returned. Xavier had summoned Logan to his office and talked with him at length. Jean speculated that he had offered him a permanent place with the X-Men, but the Professor refused to be drawn on the subject, merely saying that Logan had a place to stay for as long as he wished.
"It is how you feel that matters," she said softly, laying a maternal hand on the English mutant's arm. "You would not be so agitated if you did not care for either of them."
Tightening the laces on her soft-soled trainers, Helena looked momentarily heavenwards as if in search of divine intervention.
"I dunno, 'Ro," she murmured. "I like Elliot, he shares my interests. He's clever and funny, not to mention drop-dead gorgeous, but there's something… missing. He's…"
"He's not Logan," Storm finished, a smile curving her lips.
"Yeah." She gave a quick, self-mocking quarter smile. "He's not big bad Wolverine who's got a terrible temper and worse attitude, the feller I spent the best part of a year arguing with on the road. We've always had a bit of a, I dunno, chemistry, I suppose. It nearly came to something a little while before the Brotherhood decided to make a big hoo-ha, but with everything that happened we never resolved things one way or another. And now he's suddenly decided it's all systems go, and I'm like a kid in a sweet shop who can't decide between milk chocolate and fruit 'n' nut. God… I must be drugged, hormonal or plain mad."
The weather goddess regarded her friend and colleague, hands resting easily on her knees in a relaxed lotus position.
"A lot of women would envy your position," she observed. "Having two men like Logan and Elliot competing for their attention."
"Yeah, s'pose," Helena allowed grudgingly, then assumed an exaggeratedly plaintive expression. "Then why aren't I having fun? Isn't this supposed to be fun? I think I'll have to ask for a thirty day home trial before I make up my mind."
Both women chuckled and got to their feet. Storm stretched out a tight muscle in her calf, then looked to the Englishwoman.
"You will have to chose soon," she warned. "Before either one does something stupid."
"Yeah, I know," Helena sighed. "If it was anyone else, I'd say let them strut and squabble and sort it out between them, but there's a Wolverine in the equation. I don't think Elliot has the slightest idea what happens when he goes off on one. His temper makes me look like Mary Poppins. D'you know sommat, 'Ro, I'm half tempted to bang their heads together and tell them both where to go."
Shaking her head again, musing on the unpredictability of human and homo superior idiosyncrasies, she flexed her arms.
"Fancy one more round with big, hairy and ugly?" she asked, referring to the simulation involving Sabretooth, who was by far the most physically dangerous adversary.
The X-Men suspected he had survived, a suspicion reinforced by a spate of apparent 'animal' related killings upstate New York and New Jersey in the months following his fall from the Statue of Liberty. Mystique was still masquerading as Senator Kelly, but the sudden change in anti-mutant policy meant her political position was tenuous. Recent activity detected by Cerebro indicated that the Brotherhood Of Mutants was still active, despite the fact Magneto remained incarcerated in a plastic bubble unaffected by his powers.
"I think I would rather have a long, hot shower," Ororo said, suppressing a slight shudder.
Sensing a memory flash of Sabretooth smashing her head against a plate glass window, one gargantuan paw locked around her throat, Raven nodded understandingly.
"Okay, no problem. Oh! I nearly forgot – those plants you ordered arrived today. Marie took them out to the greenhouse for you."
The weather witch beamed, the preoccupied shadow lifting from her features. Her 'children' were a source of great pleasure. Nothing pleased her more than nuturing them from seedlings to fully-grown plants, shrubs and trees. The term Earth Mother was applicable to Ororo Munroe in more ways than one.
"I was wondering when they would arrive," she smiled. "I was expecting them on Wednesday."
"Well, the 'kids' are all present and accounted for, 'Ro," Helena nodded, stretching her spine. "They're just waiting for your magic touch… Cerebro – programme Brotherhood Three."
The faintly iridescent walls fuzzed, the Shi'ar projectors altering the vast expanse of the Danger Room into a litter-strewn inner cityscape complete with sirens wailing in the distance and a broken-down pickup against the nearby kerb.
"So, this's where you ladies work up a sweat."
Both women turned to see Wolverine leaning nonchalantly against the door frame, the shining metal corridor leading away behind him shattering the holographic illusion. Casting a silently supportive glance at Helena, Storm headed for the door, acknowledging Logan with a graceful nod as she glided past. Looking around at the visually perfect simulation, he sniffed the air.
"Doesn't smell right," he observed.
At that moment, Sabretooth lumbered out from an alleyway, black eyes alight with homicidal rage. Logan started and almost popped his claws, then smiled grimly and folded his arms expectantly. Tossing him a sour glance, Helena turned to face her adversary. Avoiding a whistling swipe, she drove a clenched fist into the giant's abdomen, following through by shooting her claws. Knocked off her feet by the retaliation, she rolled to one side as a huge foot stomped down scant milimetres from her skull. Leaping back, she dived into a series of precise backflips, gathering speed until she ploughed the leonine mutant to the concrete. Dropping her full adamantium-increased weight on his chest, pinning his wrists to the floor with her feet, she slashed his throat down to the vertebrae. The pseudo-Sabretooth groaned, showed his great teeth and lay still.
"If that was the real deal, English, yer'd be the one doin' the moanin'," Logan stated flatly, pushing himself away from the door frame to take several steps inside. The door hissed shut, disappearing behind an illusive rough brick wall. "But yer good, don't remember teachin' yer a few of those tricks."
Swinging her leg over the holographic Victor Creed's chest, resisting an urge to check for a heartbeat, she stood and retracted her claws, feeling them click back into place inside her forearms. They had not spoken beyond general pleasantries and chance meetings around the school since their conversation in the woods. Astonished and uncertain, she had walked away from him, skin tingling from his touch. He had had sense enough not to follow her. She had not returned to the mansion for a long time, heading out to sit by the gently lapping lake and think. When she had finally come in, it was past lights-out and she was no closer to resolving the matter.
"You wanna see just how good?" she challenged, deciding she wanted a real flesh and blood opponent. "Or you frightened I'll make you squeal?"
Logan's eyebrows escalated, then he gave an almost-smile and unbuttoned his new denim shirt, tossing it to the floor. Striding to the centre of the illusory road, he nudged aside an empty beer can with his foot, listening as it rolled noisily away.
"I don't beat up as good as Boy Scout," he teased, rolling his shoulders.
"We'll soon see about that, m'lado. Cerebro – programme Dojo," Helena called, finding her gaze roaming his chest. If you think taking your shirt off'll distract me, Wolvie, you've another thing coming. I know you, I know all your tricks.
The smooth, sprung wooden floor of a dojo materialized beneath their feet, the warehouses and concrete vanishing before plain plaster walls. Shirtless, arms hanging loosely by his sides, he looked ready for a cage fight, save for the absence of viciousness in his eyes.
"Anytime yer feel like, darlin'," he invited, spreading his hands, amused and looking forward to close-quarters rough and tumble.
The last syllable had barely left his lips when a right hook connected with his jaw, adamantium clanging. Containing his surprise, he blocked a flat-handed chop with his forearm and dodged an uppercut, only to fall foul of a well-placed knee to the abdomen. Breaking off, he stepped back and they circled each other, waiting and watching. Rushing at him in a surge of long, powerful limbs, she grabbed onto his shoulders and boosted herself into a flip, the momentum flinging him up and over. Wolverine landed flat on his back on the hard wooden floor as she dropped into a neat crouch, soundless as a cat.
"Dammit, Hels," he grunted breathlessly, seeing her lithe lycra-wrapped legs stalk past. "Thought we were playin'?"
She laughed as he climbed to his feet, but her eyes blazed chartreuse with slow-burning resentful fury.
"That's right, Logan – playing. You'd like that, wouldn't you? A nice little game of 'fuck with the English girl'."
Frowning, realising she was angry, he found himself adopting a defensive position, unsure if she was of a mind to inflict real damage. She suddenly darted at him, but he was ready and spun her around, pulling her back against his chest to imprison her arms. Head wedged beneath his chin, nostrils filled with the scent of her hair, he tightened his hold as she struggled.
"Why're yer pissed?" he demanded, feeling her spine rigid against his ribcage.
Breaking free with a wordless exclamation, whirling to face him with clenched fists, long ponytail whipping, she quivered with rage. The nature of her psionic gifts meant she had to exercise rigorous mental control, constantly battling the wild side of her psyche to avoid an explosive reaction. Logan knew that like him, if she completely lost her temper, the results would be extremely destructive. He wanted to see what would happen if she lost control, wanted to be the cause of it – but had very different circumstances in mind.
"Ten months!" she hissed. "Ten bloody months without so much as a word! I didn't know if you were alive or lying torn up in a ditch somewhere, you thoughtless bastard! Then out the blue, you stroll up, drop a bombshell and expect everything to be roses and moonlight. Well, I'm sorry, sunshine, but it doesn't work that way!"
He winced. Uh-oh, she called me 'sunshine'. I haven't got her that mad in a while.
"Look, I'm sorry, darlin', alright? Don't get yer panties in a bunch. I had some thinkin' ta do," he said, stepping forward to touch her shoulder, only for his hand to be slapped away by an unseen force.
"Yeah, and while you were doing that, I was getting on with my life here. We had a near miss in Canada, but you backed off and bumped straight into Jean Grey," she snapped, resisting a temptation to jab a finger at his chest, which would almost certainly lead to lost tempers.
"Funny, I thought you backed off an' bumped into invisi-boy," he retorted harshly, trying to control his rising temper.
Her chin came up and he realised he had touched a nerve. Even throbbing with anger, the bruising impression of her kneecap fading from his stomach muscles, he wanted her, wanted to rip apart whatever had upset her. If it had been Elliot, the solution was simple, he would have cornered him and beaten him to a bloody smear on the linoleum. The uncomfortable fact he was responsible made it less easy to resolve.
"You leave Elliot out of this!" she seethed, eyes molten jade. "I couldn't care less if you chased Jean till the cows come home."
"Yer awful angry fer someone who doesn't care," he snarled, part of him wondering what cows had to do with anything.
With an inarticulate exclamation of fury, she flew at him, filling his sensitive nose with the scent of blood as her claws burst out. Popping his own, he leapt forward to meet the attack head-on, arms opening to deflect her talons, and they both crashed heavily to the floor. Arms thrown out above her head, chest heaving, she glared up at him. Claws locked through hers, buried four inches into the solid metal of the Danger Room floor, the holographic wood flickered fitfully. Knuckle to adamantium-coated knuckle, their claws were rendered useless. He had her pinned down with his hips, legs braced against hers so she could not kick, face inches from hers. An almost tangible gathering of telekinetic power behind her eyes threatened he would shortly find himself plastered against the far wall. Feeling every hot tense curve and muscle through her thin lycra training suit was too much for Wolverine, eroding anger and common sense.
Fuck it, he thought and kissed her.
She made a furious sound, but her fingers gradually uncurled from bunched fists to lace through his. With a sibilant whisper of sharp metal, their claws retracted. Lips parting as the kiss deepened, her hands slid down his forearms, across his biceps, fingers tangling in his hair, and she melted.
So much for playing it cool and weighing my options, she thought ruefully, eyes closing, palms savouring the firm muscle down his bare back as his lips found exactly the right spot at the hollow of her throat. Oooooohhh, damn, if he carries on like this, I'll have to ravish him right here on the Danger Room floor…
Inhaling her scent, rubbing his nose against the delicate skin of her collarbone, he lifted his face, hazel eyes dark and shining.
"Had I best scoot before yer nail me ta the wall?" he asked, voice a low rumble.
Pale skin dusted with a light pink flush, breathing slowing down, her brows dipped and she moistened her lower lip.
"Give me a minute to think it over," she replied, pulling his mouth to hers. "… no, I think I like you right where you are."
He grinned wickedly and brushed a strand of purple hair from her forehead with his index finger, relieved she no longer seemed angry.
"On top?"
Hands slipping across his back and around to his chest, lingering caressingly, she suddenly flipped him over onto his back and straddled him.
"You were saying?" she demanded archly, a smile bowing her lips.
"I was sayin', I really gotta get yer outta that grey lycra." Grin widening as her right eyebrow quirked, his hands cheekily settled on her hips. "An' inta one of those outfits Marie keeps yammerin' about… say Saturday night, around eight?"
He chuckled at the blatant amazement washing over her features, lips parting, eyes rounding, and reached to take her hands. She knew and understood him better than anyone at the school, but he enjoyed the fact he could still surprise her.
"I mean it," he said firmly, humour subsiding. "It won't be a night at the opera, but I'm game if you are."
He waited, bringing her hands to his mouth, kissing the palms and wrists as her fingers curled about his.
"Alright, you infuriating bugger," she murmured eventually. "Saturday night it is."
Smiling mischievously, she leaned down to tease at the wild points of his hair.
"It's just as well it's not the opera."
"Yeah?"
She nodded, getting to her feet and straightening her training suit.
"The Professor's already taken Jean and I once this month – The Marriage of Figaro."
Logan sat up, incredulous. "Yer went ta the opera with Chuck?!"
Laughing at his expression, Helena nodded, holding out her open hand. Rising into the air like it had been picked up between thumb and forefinger, his denim shirt flapped across the expanse of the Danger Room and settled over her arm. Throwing it to him, she stretched flexibly, sensing his devouring eyes.
"I'm off for a shower," she announced. "Cerebro – resume programme Brotherhood Three from onset. Have fun…"
Logan barely had time to shoulder on his shirt before the sprung wooden floor roughened to coarse concrete and the illusory Creed delivered a resounding blow to his solar plexus. As the automatic door hissed shut behind her, disappearing behind a graffiti-scarred wall, he popped his claws and happily began scrapping.
Not as much as we'll be having on Saturday, darlin'. I knew all that fight money'd come in useful…
*