Striding up the well-trodden stairs two at a time, Elliot stepped back to allow Bobby, St John and Sam past. Seeing an orange-sized revolving fireball hovering over St John's outstretched hand, he stopped.
"Hey, put that out – the floor's just been waxed, you'll have the whole place up if the fumes ignite."
Obligingly, Bobby pointed his index finger at the globe of fire, turning it into a giant hailstone that proceeded to bounce down the stairs. Shaking his head as the three boys chased after it with whoops and shouted warnings to people down below, Elliot continued on his way.
"He doesn't tell Wolverine not to smoke in the house," a peeved-sounding St John remarked to his friends, thinking their teacher was out of earshot. "He's just pissed 'cos Raven's blown him off."
Freezing, hand resting on the newly-polished bannister, Elliot groaned silently. Gossip seemed to travel faster than light in Xavier's School For The Gifted.
"Yeah, but would you dare tell Mr Snikt he couldn't smoke in the house?" Bobby's voice demanded, a little further down the hall, a loud thump proclaiming his near-capture of the ice ball. "And come to think of it, haven't we got a paper due in for Miss Draven?"
To Elliot's relief, the topic changed to subject papers, bibliographies, word counts and the likelihood of detention if they did not meet the deadline. Stepping onto the landing, he passed numerous doors and rounded a corner past a linen closet, approaching Helena's room. Patting his pocket, feeling the two concert tickets he had bought, he grinned.
She'll love these, he thought triumphantly. She's been wanting to go to a good old-fashioned gig for months. Like to see him top this…
Hearing voices as he neared, he paused and summoned his mutant power. His form grew indistinct, outline hazing like thinner poured onto an oil painting, and he disappeared. Carefully moving to the partially open door, he saw Rogue perched on the edge of the double bed, holding a neatly-typed essay.
"Ah've done that paper," she said. "Ya wouldn't believe the amounta readin' ah hadta do."
He heard Helena chuckle affectionately from somewhere in the room. She and Rogue had a relationship more similar to that of sisters than teacher-pupil.
"Broadens the mind, sweetie."
"Tires out mah eyes, more like," Rogue complained.
Standing, she ambled to the dresser and picked up a lipstick, cautiously taking off the top and examining the colour. Perfume was a notable absence amongst the usual female scattering of cosmetics and toiletries. Due to her keen sense of smell, the English mutant disliked all but the lightest of fragrances. Experimentally applying some lipstick, Rogue rubbed her lips together, decided it did not suit her colouring and reached for a tissue to blot it away. Diagonally behind her, out of Elliot's line of sight, a wardrobe door closed.
"Wow," Rogue breathed, turning away from the mirror, her brown eyes wide. "Is that new? Logan'll pop an artery when he sees ya in that. It's gorgeous."
She stepped forward, hidden behind the door. Her image visible in the mirror, she held a shimmering hank of lustrous blood-red material in her gloved hands. Holding it up, turning it this way and that, she cooed appreciatively. From his vantage point, Elliot could see it was a top of some sort.
"Who says that's for Mr Claws 'n' Attitude's benefit?" he heard Helena say, clearly amused.
Rogue folded the top over her arm and gave a weighted look, pattering forward to finger butter-soft black leather trousers.
"C'mon. D'ya think ah'm stupid?" she demanded, gloved hand on her hip indignantly. "Ah know ya've got a secret thang fer each other – ah do have both ya memories, remember? An' Logan's been struttin' around like a turkey cock since last Sunday. Besides, ah cornered him an' asked him straight if he was plannin' on takin' ya out – ah even told him the places ya like ta go. Though ah don't think ya'll persuade him ta go ta Club Bathoria, it'll be too much of a shock after Canadian bars."
She stopped and grinned unrepentantly, realising she had just busted herself. There was a silence, then both women began to laugh uproariously.
"Marie, sweetheart, you realise if you were anyone else I'd have to kill you?" Helena laughed.
Rogue giggled loudly in response and brandished the leather pants. "Forget what ah jus' said – if ya wear these, ya'll have no trouble persuadin' Wolvie ta do anythin'!"
Stepping forward into view, dressed in black pants and a school-issue sweatshirt, Helena took the trousers from her, smiling. Rogue feigned trembling terror, gloved hands upraised, grinning broadly.
"You've a filthy mind, young lady," the Englishwoman reproved lightly.
"Ya shouldn't be lookin'!" Rogue protested, giggling harder.
"You shouldn't be projecting! Now scoot, I've got some serious primping to do."
Elliot felt his heart sink through his chest and drop anchor with a heavy clunk in his stomach. Suppressing a sigh, which he knew she would hear, he rubbed at his unseen brow with invisible hands. Drawing breath to chase Rogue, who showed no signs of leaving, Helena paused.
"Elliot?" she said, nostrils flaring as she caught his scent.
Inwardly wincing, realising he had been caught, he stepped a few paces back and reappeared. Strolling up to the door like he had been walking along the corridor, he stuck his head around the jamb.
"Yeah?"
Looking from one to the other, Rogue hurried past, mumbling something about Bobby and the movies. Stepping to one side to allow her past, he looked to Helena questioningly.
"Going out, Ray?" he asked neutrally, indicating the array of clothes spread on the bed with his chin.
She nodded and gathered up the clothes, opening the wardrobe door with a faint creak to hang them up.
"Yeah. I'm just about to get ready."
Elliot watched her busily placing various garments on padded hangers and folded his arms across his chest.
"With Logan?"
She barely paused, carefully shaking out a crease in a short velvet dress Rogue had snatched up and wistfully asked if she could try on.
"Yes."
"Oh."
Helena closed the wardrobe door with a click and turned to face him, head held askance, hazel green eyes dark.
"You've suddenly gone monosyllabic," she observed. "Is there a problem? You've been acting really odd this past week, even the kids have noticed."
His chin lifted, emerald eyes flashing. "You're the telepath, you work it out."
She sighed at the anger in his voice, realising it was not wholly directed at her. Flicking a glance at the door, she closed it with a telekinetic nudge, shutting out prying ears.
"Please, Elliot, don't make this an issue," she said quietly. "I haven't seen Logan for nearly a year and we've got some catching up to do. We're going out for a few drinks and a chinwag, nothing heavy."
"Don't bullshit me, he's been all over you like dog fleas since he got back!" he snapped, then made an effort to moderate his tone. "Tell me if there's something going on, Ray, I deserve to know where I stand."
She was silent for long moments, expression clouded, a dark indent marring her forehead. Bending to retrieve a dropped sock from the carpet, Wolverine's dog tags slid out from under her sweatshirt to dangle down her front. Elliot stepped forward, hooking a finger through the ball chain.
"I think that's my answer," he murmured bitterly as he let them drop. "The guy's an arrogant prick, you can do better."
"Like you, maybe?" she asked softly. "Who's the arrogant one now?"
"Yeah, me. Why the hell not?" he said firmly, jabbing his thumb at his chest for emphasis. "At least I've been here for you, not running about the backwoods of Canada."
Helena's jaw clenched and her fingers curled at her sides, an early warning that she was close to angry.
"You don't know what you're talking about. You've been here six months, and the worst thing you've faced has been teaching a class full of rowdy teenagers!"
Breaking off, the English mutant dampened down her smouldering temper. Sucking in a lungful of air, she held up her right hand and extruded all three claws, ignoring Elliot's involuntary flinch as they broke the skin. Extending to almost a foot in length, the razor adamantium shone a glacial blue.
"You see these? I absorbed these from Logan, I more or less know how I got them. He doesn't know why he has his. Somebody tied him down, shot him full of Christ knows what and surgically bolted plates of adamantium to his bones," she stated, her voice low and taut. "It hurts like a bastard each time these babies pop. So imagine the agony of having your entire skeleton coated with this shit." Her claws shot back and clicked into place within her forearms, the exit wounds sealing in moments. "They stole his memories, his life… that's what he was looking for in Canada – the Professor found an abandonned base in the Rockies. Don't judge him, Elliot, you don't know him, not like I do… you've seen my tags, the ones I found in the hem of my coat? At some point I ended up in the same place as he did, or at least a facility very like it. I don't know what happened to me, I can't remember. So excuse me if I wear his tags – they're the only thing that links him to his past, and he trusted me with them. I'm not going to throw that back in his face."
He looked away, green eyes shaded by a frown, inwardly kicking himself for unintentionally causing an argument. In that moment, he knew he had hardly any chance of competing with Logan. The ties of loyalty and trust alone were too strong. Early that day, he had wandered yawning into the dinner hall to find her sitting alone unhurriedly eating a bowl of cereal. It was just after seven a.m and hardly anyone was up. Before he had chance to join her, Logan had emerged from behind the counter with a plate of bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes and hash browns. Wordlessly, he had sat down opposite her and begun eating. To a casual observer, there was nothing unusual in the scene, but Elliot had not missed the way he leaned over into her personal space and inhaled her scent before taking a seat. Wolverine had smelled her like a caffiene addict with a freshly-ground cup of finest Colombian, longing to raise it to his lips and taste. Sensing Elliot's presence, she had turned and smiled in greeting, but it was not the same. Meeting his gaze over her head, the Canadian's mouth had curled upwards at the corners in a self-satisfied grin that said "game over, you lose".
"Let's not argue, Ray," he said, holding his hands up pacifyingly. "So I know jack shit, but it doesn't change the fact I don't like the guy, and yeah, I'm not above admitting it's 'cos he's chasing you. I care about you, and I don't wanna see you get hurt."
Her hazel green eyes softened, defensive-aggressive posture easing, and she gave a ghosted smile.
"I'm a big girl, El," she murmured, the familiar shortening of his name causing a deep ache above his heart. "And big girls have to make their own mistakes."
"Yeah," he agreed, then more quietly. "Yeah…"
Elliot turned to leave, certain that if Logan had postponed his homecoming another month, maybe more, it might have been an entirely different story. In his pocket, the concert tickets lay untouched. Bought with the best intentions, he knew offering them would only signify desperation. As he reached for the door handle, Helena caught his arm.
"Don't let this spoil things," she said, her expression earnest. "We're still friends, right?"
Swallowing his hurt and wounded pride, Elliot forced a semblance of a sunny smile that did not reach his eyes.
"Yeah," he said, reaching up to flick a wayward curl from her cheek. "For you, Ray, always."
Leaving before she could say anything more, he headed for the garage and the keys to his affectionately-restored nineteen seventies T-Bird, needing to put a large stretch of tarmac between himself and the school. There was an off-licence a few miles down the road, and he was planning on paying a visit.
*
Remy LeBeau slouched against the deep-stained oak panels of the foyer, idly smoking a cigarette. Watching the smoke curl upwards in slowly decreasing grey spirals, he turned one of his trademark playing cards over and over in his left hand, repeatedly making it disappear through expert slight-of-hand. Rakishly handsome, equipped with flawless Southern manners, he was thoroughly enjoying cutting a broad swath through the resident females. He had even succeeded in making Dr. Grey blush, something Bobby Drake enviously assured him only Wolverine had previously managed. A floating member of the X-Men, he had not visited the mansion for almost five years, attending to other pressing matters in New Orleans. To decades too old to study, disinclined to teach, Gambit was hankering after a permanent place on the X-Men team. Reflecting that it was a shame the Professor was a heterosexual male immune to his considerable charms, he heard the click of high heels on varnished wood flooring and perked up.
Demonic red on black eyes glowing faintly in the evening gloom, he watched as Helena Draven, or 'Ray' as the majority of her students called her, descended the stairs.
Mon dieu, he thought, taking a drag on his cigarette, dat woman look good enough to eat wit' strawberries an' whip cream. Wonder who she all dressed-up fer?
Unbound, her gleaming hair cascaded to her waist in loose corkscrew curls, the ends bouncing as she walked. Gambit caught a subtle whiff of light perfume as she stepped into the foyer, her eyes made-up smoky, lips slicked a tempting glossy plum against her fair complexion,
She not dressed all in black… he noted, gaze roving up. Where she been hidin' those legs?
Almost invariably dressed in combat pants, jeans or long skirts when she taught classes, Remy had not seen her in mufti. Head tipping to one side, a lock of his untidy sandy red hair escaping from behind his ear, he pursed his lips. Long slim legs sheathed to the knee in slinky dagger-heeled boots that increased her height to around six foot, she wore a short, unadorned black leather skirt and a deep shimmering crimson strapless bustier. As always, her taste in clothes was distinctive and verging on the eccentric, but Remy wholeheartedly approved. Smoothing down his hair, the Cajun stepped out of the shadows.
"Gambit t'ink he died an' gone ta heaven," he announced, eyes twinkling devilishly. "Who kidnap de teacher an' replace her wit' la belle?"
She turned and favoured him with a tolerantly amused smile. Remy knew she had him figured out, but it did not stop him from trying, especially as he could see she was mildly flattered. Encouraged, he gave his famous heart-stopping grin and took up her hand, placing a lingering kiss across the knuckles.
"Now you all dressed fine, Remy t'ink he take you out ta dinner," he said, executing a small bow.
Helena laughed as he magicked away his cigarette and replaced it with the keys to his red BMW convertible.
"Sorry, Remy, you'll have to find some other gullible heart to steal," she chuckled.
Feigning a deeply-wounded expression, he sighed and dropped his keys back into the pocket of his dark khaki pants, retrieving the cigarette and relighting it with a touch of his fingertip. Gifted with the ability to charge any object with biokinetic energy that exploded on impact, the ex-thief already had almost complete mastery of his mutant power. A skilled acrobatic fighter, his favoured weapons were a deck of cards that he charged and threw with deadly accuracy.
"Ah, rejected," he mourned with a flourish. "Guess we'll have to keep our dates to de Danger Room, neh, chere?"
Raven nodded mock-solemnly, unable to keep a smile from her lips. Effortlessly, dangerously charming and debonair, the Cajun was jostling for a place on the Most Fanciable Male plinth with Elliot. Wherever he went, gaggles of girls appeared, simpering and whispering. He had turned his dazzling charm on every woman of eighteen or over, even managing to coax something resembling a giggle from the serene Storm. She suspected there may be history there and had decided to reserve questions for the next time her and Ororo shared a bottle from Xavier's wine cellar.
"Monday night, seven o'clock sharp – the Professor wants more aptitude tests."
Gambit gave a peculiarly Gallic little shrug, "If de Professor want me ta kick de ladies' petite derrières, who am I ta argue?"
Helena laughed again, twisting the heavy antique white gold and ruby ring on her right hand that had been a birthday gift from the Professor.
"Don't count your chickens just yet, Romeo, I'm gonna ask Logan to sit in," she warned.
Remy made the peculiarly French sound used to express everything from annoyance to boredom. "Ah, de Wolverine. Bin a long time since I laid eyes on that homme."
He looked momentarily crestfallen at the thought of having to share a Danger Room session with Wolverine. He had been enjoying showing off to Raven, Storm and Jean under the watchful eyes of the Professor and Cyclops, albeit he had earned several large bruises and a dislocated shoulder along the way. From what he recalled of the gruff Canadian, it would not be an easy ride.
"Yeah, Scott mentioned you know him. How long's it been?" Helena asked curiously.
Taking a drag from his cigarette, Gambit lifted a shoulder. "'Bout fifteen years. Whatever happened ta him, he don' 'member anythin' but me fishin' him offa Three Mile Island."
Looking intensely thoughtful, Helena eyed him. "That was you? No wonder he looked spooked when the Professor said you were dropping in. How old are you, Remy? I'd have you placed at twenty eight-ish."
Patting his lean-muscled chest with mock pride, demon eyes flashing, he grinned. "Pushin' forty two, chere. Guess de mutant biokinetic thang be better than any surgeon's knife."
Her slim, surprisingly strong fingers were suddenly at his wrist. "You and I need a chat some point soon."
Patting her hand, cigarette dangling from his lower lip, he nodded. "Can't promise Remy be much help. All I did was drop de man outta a plane without a parachute when he ask me. Well, when he drag ma ass outta N'arlins poker joint an' we danced some. But he don' 'spect he 'member that. Bad business all round. Was young an' stupid back then. Now I'm jus' ol' and stupid."
Her fingers tightened, enough to make his mouth turn down at the sudden discomfort. "You let me take a peek at those memories?"
Gambit shook his head decisively. "Nah, don' let nobody poke around in there. Ya can ask all de questions ya like, hell, I'll buy a bottle o' Jim Beam, but no telepath shit."
Opening her mouth to argue, the English mutant saw a tiny muscle in his left temple begin to twitch, a tell as blatant as a nose-scratch. She nodded once, wordlessly, and he visibly relaxed.
"Enough about business," he declared. "Which lucky man have de honour of takin' out such a beautiful lady tonight?"
"Me," a voice growled behind him.
Turning, Gambit got the impression if he offered his hand it would be bitten off. There was a threatening gleam to Wolverine's hazel eyes that told him he was not pleased by his smooth talking.
"Bin a long time since I seen yo' face, mon ami," he observed calmly.
"Got that one right, Gumbo," Logan rumbled defensively. "Yer still here, why, 'zackly?"
Amiably spreading his hands, Remy nodded politely to the English mutant and casually sauntered away, flicking his half-finished cigarette into an ashtray mounted in the neck of an antique urn near the main door. The smoking stub exploded in a puff of orange energy and flying sparks. Unimpressed, Logan watched to make sure he had gone. Feeling a warm female arm slip through his, he looked around.
"There's no harm in Remy," Helena murmured, deciding to leave any conversation about Three Mile Island. "He's like that with everything vaguely female. The time to worry is when he stops trying to sweet-talk women."
Logan scowled, but was distracted by her fingers running across his cheek and clean chin. Abruptly, he forgot all about Remy LeBeau, the entirety of his attention commanded by the owner of the hand at his cheek.
"You had a shave?" she asked with a soft, disbelieving chuckle, fingering his newly-clipped muttonchops. "And what's this, a new shirt?"
"Yeah," he affirmed as she toyed with the collar of his dark blue shirt. "Was startin' ta look a little wild."
"You are a little wild, Wolvie," she said, plum lips curving. "That's why I like you."
"Just a little?" he grinned with a quiet, almost playful growl. Wolvie? That's a new one…
"Maybe this much," she allowed, holding her thumb and index finger a centimetre apart.
He gave one of his rare laughs, sliding his palms down her arms to catch her hands. She smelled wonderful, natural scent set off by a delicate flower-based perfume. Leaning forward to inhale a little deeper, to press his face to the inviting curve of her neck and bare shoulder, he reminded himself he had decided to do things properly and pulled back. He would not paw at her like some kind of animal.
"Yer look gorgeous, Hels," he said, eyes appreciatively travelling from crown to ankles and back again. "I'd definitely remember if I'd seen yer wearin'…"
Discovering the right words were not forthcoming, he trailed off and gestured helplessly at her outfit, rubbing his chin with the palm of his hand. She laughed at his expression, the sound caressing his sensitive ears.
"Who needs Remy's flowery drivel?" she smiled. His face is an absolute picture, and a thousand words couldn't say more…
Offering his arm in a gentlemanly fashion completely unlike his usual brusqueness, Logan led the way towards the vast, airy garage with a roguish glint in his hazel eyes. Intrigued, Helena could not contain her laughter when he passed the Explorers and battered Volkswagons used by all and sundry and produced the keys to Scott Summer's metallic blue Porsche.
"Cyke'll bust a blood vessel!" she exclaimed, seeing her distorted reflection in the adoringly-polished bodywork.
"Won't he just?" Logan grinned wolfishly, patting the glistening hood of the sports car.
"I'm not even gonna ask how you managed to get those keys," she said with a roll of her eyes.
Peering into the interior of the two-seater, inhaling the scent of leather and motor oil, the two mutants exchanged grins. Opening the door for her, Logan walked around the front and jumped behind the wheel. Sliding into the passenger seat, hearing the soft black leather sigh beneath her weight, Helena fixed her gaze on the garage door control. With a muted clank of machinery, it began to open, allowing in the cool evening air. Turning the key in the ignition, Logan frowned slightly, studying the walnut dashboard.
"Looking for this?" she asked above the tiger purr of the engine, flipping up a hidden facing to reveal a red button.
A slow smile spread across Wolverine's bearded face and he all but rubbed his hands together with undisguised glee. The 'turbo' mechanism on Cyclops' motorcycle nearly doubled its top speed and the prospect of a similar function on the sleek Porsche pleased him no end.
"One Eye let yer drive his precious car?" he asked, an eyebrow quirking in surprise.
"Yep," she nodded, mouth curling in a mischievous grin. "Only the once, mind you."
"Yer used the button, didn't yer?" he said, looping a purple curl of her hair around his index finger, frankly allowing his gaze to roam along the length of her legs.
"Oh, yes," she chuckled. "I think his exact words were 'the speed limit is not a suggested minimum'… he threw such a paddy I had to beat it outta him in the Danger Room. I mean, there was only one little scratch on the bodywork."
Logan threw back his head and roared with laughter, something she had not seen him do before, pounding the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. He was still laughing as the Porsche pulled out of the garage and screeched down the drive, churning up great sprays of gravel in its wake. As soon as they were safely out of Greymalkin Lane, he glanced over at Helena, winked and reached to press the red button.
*
The green-dreadlocked barkeeper watched as the large muttonchop-bearded Canadian bent over the pool table to line up a shot, a cigar stuck between the knuckles of his left hand. He had not seen him before, although his companion, a tall young Englishwoman with a fondness for elaborate footwear, was a fairly regular patron. He recognised her straight away, her accent as different from New York drawl as crystal from plastic. Over three dozen empty shot glasses littered a nearby table. They had been steadily drinking straight whisky since they arrived some four hours earlier and neither one showed any signs of inebriation. The barman thought they were rampant alcoholics or some sort of mutants. Either was fine by him as long as they did not break the furniture or upset the other customers.
He grinned as the Englishwoman set down her drink and naughtily pinched the Canadian's backside as he took his shot, throwing him completely. The cue skittered across the purple felt, scattering red and yellow balls in all directions. Like most of his profession, the barman was a people-watcher and a fair judge of character. He had the feeling if anybody else tried a stunt like that, they would end up wearing the pool cue as a necklace. Growling like an irate bear, the Canadian reared up and grabbed her about the waist, swinging her off her feet and into his arms. Laughing, her long purple hair a swirling cloud behind her, she took hold of his sideburns and tugged them hard, his face ending up pressed to her cleavage.
"Hey, they ain't conveniently placed handles, Hels," he grumbled, looking far from displeased.
"So sue me," she countered, retrieving her glass, slowly licking the whisky film from the rim.
The barman grinned again, seeing how the Canadian's hazel eyes followed the movement, his pupils visibly dilating. Mixing a Black Russian, the barman continued to watch, amused by the palpable, crackling chemistry between the two.
"Boy, does he have it bad for her," he commented to his colleague, a feline-eyed mutant woman with delicately pointed ears and retractable nails who was on the return journey from the till.
"Yeah, but no worse than she has it for him," she observed, drumming her sharp, black-lacquered nails on the faux ebony bar top. "She's gonna eat him up and spit out the pips. I like her bustier… wonder if she got it from Hot To Trot?"
Further speculation on clothing and relationships was suspended by the emergence of their boss from the backroom. Hastily, both busied themselves, stepping forward to serve more customers. The bar was crowded, but not overly so, sporting a mixed clientele of normals and mutants. Located in a sidestreet in the bohemian SoHo neighbourhood of Manhattan, it catered for every subcultural clique in New York state. Old film posters, framed stills and obscure album covers decorated the cream plaster walls, contrasting with the black wooden bar and varnished floor. It was a haven for performance artists, poets, rebellious youths, bikers and mutants. Too wonderfully odd for the fashionable set, yet not run-down enough to be considered a dive, it defiantly straddled the divide, a quirky semi-anachronism.
Regarding the disarrayed balls on the pool table, Logan decided against racking them up for another game. With each game, he found he was having increasing difficulty concentrating and he did not mind a bit. They had played four times, interspersing shots with drinks, conversation and shamelessly intense flirting.
"Lost your edge there, bub?" Helena teased, rolling the remaining balls across the vibrant purple felt to the pockets, listening as they clicked against each other in the bowels of the table. "Afraid I'll whop your arse again?"
"So that's what yer've been doin' all night when I bend over the table?" he joked with a fleeting grin.
She shrugged casually. "I can't help it, my hands have a mind of their own… after all, it was your idea to play pool."
He chuckled deep in his chest, gaze wandering to her short leather skirt. It had taken a great deal of self-control to merely watch as she draped herself across the table to take her shots, the pink tip of her tongue unconsciously held between her teeth as she squinted with concentration. Quickly losing the battle, he had taken to stepping up behind her and leaning over to help her line up shots. Pressed snugly against her back, hips flush with hers, he covered her slender hands with his large rough ones, chin resting on her bare shoulder as he murmured instructions into her ear. She had listened, leaning back into him and lazily smiling as his lips brushed her skin. They both knew she was a good pool player.
The music thumping from the jukebox faded to something slow and moody by one of the new soft rock revivalist bands. Smoke-shaded eyes sliding towards him as she leaned back on her palms on the edge of the pool table, Helena inclined her head.
"You dance?" she enquired, her voice low and inviting.
"I do tonight," he breathed, depositing his smoking cigar stub in a nearby glass ashtray.
"But if I tell anyone, I'm in trouble, right?" she asked archly, winding herself into his arms.
"A whole world o' trouble," he rumbled, one hand sliding down to her waist to pull her closer. "I got an image ta protect."
Looping her arms around his neck, she laughed quietly, her peach-down cheek against his beard as they swayed in time to the music. Pressed close, he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the slide of muscle and curves beneath. Dipping his head, he inhaled the scent of her hair, her earlobe soft against his lips. Suddenly feeling an intoxication that had nothing to do with the amount of whisky he had drank, he felt a subtle movement of her throat and realised she was purring. Of its own volition, his hand slipped a little lower, thick fingers moulding to the leather-sheathed curve of her buttock.
"Yer smell good," he said, mouth close to her ear, tone hushed and almost smooth. "And if it weren't fer all these people, darlin', I'd be doin' my damnedest ta find out if yer taste as hot as yer look."
Heartbeat accelerating at the passion in his voice and thoughts, her sensitive nose filled with his scent, she pulled back and kissed him long and deep. The breath catching in his throat, Logan felt something tugging in the pocket of his black jeans and caught a glint of metal as the keys to the Porsche emerged, stealthily floating up into her waiting hand.
"Let's go home," she whispered, eyes darkly promising. "Now."
*
Jean Grey was having difficulty sleeping, an annoyance that afflicted all telepaths from time to time. The amount of sexual tension and rampant male pride in the mansion since Wolverine had swaggered home was enough to give anyone a headache. She had taken a long hot bath complete with lavender and rose oil, both known for their relaxing properties, and then had Scott give her a massage. What followed the massage had led to an extremely satisfied Cyclops dozing off, his ruby-quartz glasses slightly askew. He had not yet discovered his Porsche was missing, something Jean had neglected to tell him. She had seen the metallic blue sports car roaring down the driveway, hearing the distinctive high-pitched whine as the turbo mechanism kicked in some distance outside the school gates. It did not take a genius or a telepath to know who was driving.
I love you, Scott, she thought with amusement. But you've some strange ways of thinking.
The red-haired doctor knew he was relieved Logan had got over his lust, but also secretly vexed as he thought his fiancée was a highly desirable woman and wondered what kind of man could suddenly not want her.
I'm not surprised he came back for Helena. Ignoring the practical reasons, Logan being Logan, just followed his instincts.
Smiling to herself, sitting along in the darkened rec room, her feet propped up on a corpulent red and green beanbag, she sipped a cup of milky hot chocolate. In ten months she had come to know, like and respect Helena Draven and had always half-expected Logan to return because of her. Flattering as his interest in her was, Jean had never thought it was anything other than transitory. His feelings for Helena ran deeper than simple lust. The English mutant balanced her animalistic senses and instincts with a ready intellect and unconventional personality, just as happy making polite conversation with the Professor's academic peers as prowling the club scene of New York. Mostly hidden, they were made starkly apparent in extremes of emotion. Almost always easygoing, the sudden change if she was driven to anger was terrifying. Her classes were remarkably well-behaved as a result. Nobody cared to get in Miss Draven's bad books. Despite her apparent openness, her past was as enigmatic as Wolverine's, her very mutant status a reminder of the mystery. All the Professor's investigations into her life before the year two thousand had drawn resounding blanks. Somebody seemed to have gone to a lot of trouble to erase the usual paper trail of records left by the average person.
Leaning back in the fat-cushioned sofa, Jean mulled over this and other issues, as she was prone to do when sleeplessness struck. It was gone three a.m and everyone was safely tucked up in bed. The mansion was blessedly, eerily silent, devoid of running feet, chattering voices and the small everyday disasters caused by unpredictable mutant powers. Jean had been awake since before two and wandered downstairs in her green silk robe and matching slippers, knowing from past experience that tossing and turning seldom eased insomnia. She had heard Elliot stumbling his way past her door sometime after one a.m., trailing vodka fumes and hurt pride. He would probably raid the infirmary's drug cabinet for painkillers and Peptobismol come the morning.
Bad luck, Elliot, she thought, blowing on her steaming hot chocolate. At least you were let down gently, which is better than finding Logan's claws at your throat.
Stretching her legs, she yawned and contemplated returning to bed to curl herself around Scott's sleeping form. Often when she could not sleep, she simply lay and watched her fiance do so, listening to his regular slumbering breaths. Sometimes it did the trick and lulled her busy mind enough to allow her to join him. An interior door slammed, loud in the noiselessness, and Jean jumped, almost spilling her drink. She reached out with her limited telepathy, but did not sense any hostile intentions. Female laughter toned for seduction echoed in the foyer, closely followed by a low, purring growl. Two fleet shadows passed the partially-open rec room door, the smaller of the two carrying what appeared to be a pair of tall high-heeled boots slung over their shoulder.
Quietly getting up from the sofa, placing her cup on the floor, Jean belted her robe and crept to the door to peek out. She was just in time to see Logan non-too gently haul Helena into his arms and begin eagerly, hungrily kissing her. Boots dropping from her hands to clatter unheeded to the polished floor, she responded in kind, wrapping herself around him. Stifling a chuckle when the buttons on Logan's shirt began to pop, seemingly of their own accord, Jean stepped away from the door as his large hand slid up Raven's thigh and under her skirt.
That's certainly creative, she thought dryly, feeling her cheeks redden in the dark as she caught a flash of what Logan was thinking. Thank God there's not many telepaths amongst the students.
Not wanting to live up to a telepath's reputation as a voyeur, she increased her mental shields to keep out the intense projections of aroused lust. Hearing several muted pings as the plastic shirt buttons hit various objects around the foyer, she bit her lip and prayed they would continue elsewhere before she laughed and gave herself away or they caught her scent.
Manoeuvring towards the stairs, stockinged feet skating over the smooth floor, Helena backed into a wood-cladded pillar. Pinned against the cool wood as Logan traced hot tongue kisses down her neck and the upper swell of her breasts, her free hand slipped inside his shirt, exploring, caressing. Fingers stroking lower, playing over the defined muscle, circling his hardening nipple, she dipped below the waistband. He groaned as her fingers found him, a wildly feral sound that increased her excitement and rapidly spiralling need. Allowing carnal pheromones to fill her, eyes closing at the heady deluge of sensations afforded by her augmented mutant senses, she felt him grope for the zip on her bustier.
"Not here," she managed to say, feeling him burning and urgent as she battled the incitement of her animal self. "One of the kids might be up."
"Hels…" he said raggedly, hazel eyes ablaze, each breath shuddering.
Shaping the firm contours of his stomach and chest, delighting in how he responded to her touch, she lowered her head. Tracing the pectoral muscle with the moist tip of her tongue, teasing the nipple with the silver stud, she nipped hard enough to make him gasp.
"How fast can you run?" she whispered, popping a single claw to run it slowly down his chest to his navel.
"Fast enough ta catch yer, darlin'," he assured huskily, hearing sharp adamantium meet his belt buckle with a faint clink.
"We'll see," she purred, lips curving as she retracted the claw.
Kissing him fiercely, she turned in a whirl of purple hair and broke into a sprint, taking the stairs three at a time. With a soft growl, his buttonless shirt flapping, Logan lost no time giving chase, following her tantalising scent. When the thunder of feet died away, Jean cautiously emerged from the rec room. Leaning back on the doorframe, she blew out a long, thankful breath. Somewhere upstairs a door slammed, the sound muffled by distance. Feeling something hard beneath the pliant sole of her slipper, she lifted her right foot to see a shirt button and rolled her eyes. Unable to suppress a smile, she pattered across the polished wooden floor and bent to retrieve the discarded boots. Somebody was bound to come looking for them in the morning.
*
Encroaching through gaps in the curtains, golden rods of sunlight steadily lengthened as morning wore on. Creeping across the carpet and onto the bedcovers, they gradually moved over Logan's sleeping face. Hazel eyes flickering open, his gaze dropped to the tousled curly head resting contentedly on his chest. Pillowed above his heart, lashes a dark feathered crescent against her cheek, she breathed slowly and regularly, fingers curled at his shoulder. For some minutes, he simply lay and listened to her heart beating, marvelling at the satisfaction it gave him. It felt strange to wake with someone lying trustingly in his arms. He could not recall it happening before, which was as he had preferred it, and admitted to himself he had missed something incomparable.
Drowsily comfortable and more relaxed than he could ever remember, hands resting easily at the hollow of her back, he luxuriated in the feeling of her warm flesh against his own. Inhaling her scent, now almost indistinguishably mixed with his, he kissed the crown of her head.
Yer mine now, he thought with a flush of pleasure, watching as she shifted in her sleep. An' knowin' yer've got instincts like mine, darlin', yer've probably got me marked as yer personal boy-toy territory too.
Running a hand up the length of her spine, describing small circles with his fingertips over her shoulder blades, he caressed her face. A tingling knot formed in the pit of his stomach as she sighed and nestled her cheek in his palm, sleepy soft hazel green eyes opening. A lazy smile bowed her lips and she moved up to kiss him.
"Morning," she murmured, stretching against him like a cat.
"Closer ta afternoon now," he corrected, brushing a lock of hair away from her forehead. "Judgin' by the amounta people about."
She began to chuckle, momentarily pressing her face to his shoulder. Feeling an uncharacteristic grin form, Logan raised an eyebrow, caressing her cheek with his thumb.
"What?"
"I've just remembered," she began, unsuccessfully trying to keep a straight face. "I left my boots in the foyer, and I think there's every button off your shirt too."
Laughing with her as she projected a mental image of Cyclops tripping over her boots and falling on his backside, he gave a jaw-cracking yawn.
"Tired?" she asked mischievously, palm sliding across his chest.
"Didn't do much sleepin', darlin'," he returned dryly.
"Mmmmm," she agreed coyly, the look in her eyes containing such playful sensuousness he felt his heart begin to trip.
Head turning towards the closed door, an eyebrow quirking, she grinned and propped her chin on her folded hands.
"You hear that?" she asked.
"Yup, sounds like we got us some eavesdroppers."
A furore of rapid whispering sounded just outside the stained oak panelled door. Listening with supersensitive ears, Helena made out the voices of Bobby, Sam, St John and Jubilee as they debated whether or not the room was occupied and the likelihood of Logan being in there.
"You knock!" Jubilee urged.
"I ain't knockin'," Sam Guthrie's Kentucky drawl returned.
"Dammit, Cannonball, the public has a right to know!" Jubilee seethed to the sound of the others worriedly shushing her.
"Jeez, you sound like Senator Kelly," St John winced.
"Have mutants been recklessly fornicating behind this very door?" Jubilee intoned, mimicking the pompous, self-righteous tones of the anti-mutant campaigner.
"Forni-wha'?" Sam asked, clearly puzzled.
"Screwing to you, hayseed."
A thunderous frown gathering darkly on his brow, Logan propped himself up on his elbows, hair disarrayed. Rolling out of his arms onto her back, Helena suppressed a smile as he slithered out of bed and stomped towards the door.
"Logan," she hissed, pausing to admire the view before beckoning him back. "Trousers!"
Belatedly remembering he was stark naked, he caught the pants she threw to him and pulled them on. Crossing to the door, he rolled his neck, head tipped to one side as he listened to the whispering and gossiping on the other side.
"Uh, guys," came Bobby's anxious voice, filled with dawning realisation. "Y'know Rogue reminded us they've both got souped-up senses? Well, any of you geniuses thought they might--"
"Hear yer prattlin', kid?" Logan demanded, flinging open the door.
Sudden guilty terror blanching their features at the sight of a half-naked, glaring Wolverine, the four teenagers fell back in a welter of shock. Crystal blue eyes popping, Bobby turned tail and fled in a flurry of snowflakes, closely followed by Sam, who just managed not to energy-propel himself through the nearest wall. Jubilee let out a high-pitched squeal and collided with St John, sending them both tumbling to the floor in a tangle of twitching limbs, billowing flame and dancing multi-coloured light motes. Towering over them, Logan pointed down the corridor.
"Beat it," he ordered. "If I catch yer snoopin' where yer shouldn't again…" He balled his right hand to the distinctive sound of 'snikt'.
Audibly gulping, scrambling over each other in an effort to get away, Jubilee and St John stampeded down the corridor like they were being chased by rabid dogs. As soon as they were out of sight, he retracted his claws and grinned evilly, closing the door.
"I think you enjoyed that a bit too much," Helena commented from the bed. Lounging on her stomach with her ankles crossed above her backside, she idly wiggled her toes, her dog tags jingling quietly with the movement.
"It's mutant power," he quoted, sitting on the side of the bed, unable to resist running his hand along her bare back and rump. Leaning down, he placed a kiss on the small of her back and grinned. "I call it 'superbastardness'."
Laughing, she jumped up and stretched, arms held above her head. Transfixed by the play of rich golden sunlight over her creamy skin, Logan found his feet carrying him towards her. Examining a snarled knot in her dishevilled hair, she turned towards the bathroom.
"I need a shower," she announced, unconsciously projecting thoughts of hot water, soapsuds and the likelihood of them both fitting into the shower cabinet. "Coming, Wolvie?"
*
"So the significance of the Pentangle in Gawain's quest is what… Mr Drake?"
Bobby took the chewed tip of his pen out of his mouth and blinked. "Huh?"
The class tittered nervously and all heads swivelled towards the blond teenager. Aware of the sudden scrutinty, realising he had been caught not paying attention, he swallowed and summoned a weak grin.
"I don't think 'huh' covers it, Bobby," Miss Draven said coolly. "You did do the reading, didn't you?"
"Um, yeah!" he assured, nodding furiously.
Raven's hazel green eyes narrowed, which her students knew was not a good sign. Bobby inwardly cringed and searched his memory, cursing himself for only completing half the reading. Although Raven had not said a single word concerning the incident a fortnight previously when he, Sam, St John and Jubilee were caught listening at her bedroom door, he was convinced she was asking them difficult questions in class on purpose. Wolverine's attitude since then had been considerably less forgiving. He growled menacingly whenever he saw the hapless teenagers and Bobby was sure he was not teasing.
"So…?" Raven prodded, perching on the edge of her desk to swing her heavy New Rock boots.
Fortunately for Bobby, the bell rang shrilly in the corridor, declaring the end of the lesson and the school day. The neat rows of students exploded with fervent activity as papers were gathered, pens put away and friends called to across the classroom.
"Okay, that's all for today," Raven called over the noise. "Next lesson we'll be watching 'Excalibur' to get a better feel for Arthurian England… I heard that, Jubes – it may be an 'ancient' film, but it's relevant to what you're learning… No, Sam, we can't stage a joust on the basketball court… Yeah, it would be fun, but Mr Summers wouldn't appreciate his Phys-Ed lesson being interrupted."
"Saved by the bell, huh, ice-man?" St John muttered as he collected his books together.
Bobby nodded thankfully, keen to get out of the way before the teacher decided to inflict further torture in the form of extra reading. Hurriedly stuffing his pencil case into his bag, he leapt over the desk and away into the chattering throngs.
Watching as a dozen or so lively teenagers squeezed themselves through the door three at a time, Helena smiled and telekinetically righted an overturned chair. She had somewhat enjoyed taking a little harmless revenge on her overly-inquisitive students, as had Logan. He had thoroughly relished scaring them at every turn with his repertoire of growls, snarls and glares. In their terror, none of them noticed the grin that tugged the corners of his mouth each time he caused them to gape, pale and hurry away. Gathering her lesson notes together, she looked up as Elliot sauntered into the room, hands thrust into the pockets of his faded black jeans.
"Hey," he greeted.
"Hey yourself," she returned amiably. "How's tricks?"
He shrugged with forced casualness, expression neutral. "Okay, I guess. None of the kids have blown up any equipment this week, so we're doing well… How're you?"
Helena looked him over, lightly brushing the perimeters of his mind. They had not spoken outside of classes for over a week, and what short conversations they had were strained. The Brooklyn-born mutant had stayed out of the way, knowing that his presence would provoke Logan, who was invariably with her outside school hours. Knowing that any confrontation would anger and upset her, he had avoided it, despite how he felt.
"I'm fine," she said softly, discerning the hidden subtext to his words.
Elliot's vivid green eyes dropped and he nodded, running a hand through his long shiny black hair. The school grapevine had kept him informed of happenings, but he knew better than to believe everything he heard. He had seen Logan while out jogging around the lakeshore and learned more than he wanted to through the Canadian mutant's silent grin of triumph. Wolverine did not need to say anything to rub his nose in it, he merely gave his usual challenging stare accompanied by a teeth-showing grin and cantered off.
"Good," he said crisply. "I was just, uh, checking, y'know?"
"Yeah," she murmured. "Thanks, El. You're a better man than most."
"Yeah?" he smiled self-depreciatingly, making it a joke. "Hey, I don't owe you money or anything, do I?" But not better than him, not to you. If he breaks your heart, I'll kill him, fuck those metal claws of his. He can't stab what he can't see.
She laughed, immediately easing the uncomfortable atmosphere between them.
"Cut it out," she chuckled.
They smiled at each other, unresolved issues temporarily set aside. Three nights previously, he had arrived at the rec room for the weekly video club, armed with a giant bag of popcorn and litre bottle of Sprite. Clusters of teenagers lounged on the floor before the large widescreen television, or lolled on beanbags and easy chairs. Searching for a seat, Elliot had spotted Logan slouching on the sofa. He had thought the Canadian mutant was alone until he saw a dark curly head resting comfortably on his shoulder. An arm looped about Helena's shoulders, he had absently stroked her brow with the ball of his thumb as he watched the film, a half-full mug of coffee in his free hand. Elliot had quietly taken a seat near to Gambit, who had thrown him a weighted glance with red black eyes that glowed in the unlit room.
"Some advice, mon ami," Remy had whispered, mindful of both clawed mutant's sharp hearing. "Leave dis one be – take it from one who knows."
Elliot could not bring himself to dislike her because she had rejected him in favour of another, but each time he saw Logan, he thought of him touching her and his stomach clenched. Stepping forward, he touched her arm.
"If things don't work out between you and him," he said earnestly. "You can always come talk to me."
Before Helena could respond, Elliot caught the whiff of a lit cigar and looked over his shoulder to see Logan standing just inside the doorway, scowling a black line.
"What goes on between her an' me is our business, invisi-boy," he rumbled, his acute hearing having picked up on the conversation while he was still halfway down the corridor. "If it ain't enough we got the damn kids gossipin', we got you stickin' yer nose in."
Abruptly tired of avoiding the inevitable confrontation, Elliot turned to face the clawed mutant, irritation and growing anger brightening the colour of his eyes.
"So it's 'we' now?" he drawled coldly. "How long before you get bored, or scared, and decide to run back to Canada with your safe, solitary 'I'?"
Wolverine's shoulders bunched, compact muscle sheathing adamantium bone, his brows dipping low over the bridge of his nose. Unwilling to back down, Elliot glared back at him, back braced ready to move. It was an unequal match that would end with someone seriously hurt, and that someone would not be Logan.
"Logan, don't," Helena said calmly, seeing a certain baleful light in his hazel eyes. 'Elliot, for Chrissake, don't provoke him – he's on a hair trigger at the best of times. Jean has enough to do without stitching you back together.'
Hearing her telepathic voice echo loudly in his head, the volume indicative of her concern, the New Yorker set his jaw stubbornly, maintaining eye contact with his competitor. The only fights he had witnessed were in the controlled environment of the Danger Room or glimpses of crime-related violence in the rougher parts of New York. He had no real concept of the damage a trained fighter could do, mutant or otherwise.
"Hels likes yer, an' that's all that's savin' yer from a world o' hurt," Wolverine ground out, controlling his temper with difficulty. "Now get out before I change my mind an' rearrange that pretty face of yours."
'El, please, just go. You've made your point. He's not kidding, believe me.'
Standing tall, Elliot strode towards the door, pausing when he was on the threshold. Turning, his features in profile against the spill of light from the airy corridor, he leaned close to the volatile Canadian's ear.
"You hurt her, bub, and I'll be there to make sure you don't get away with it. You let her slip through your fingers and I'll catch her."
Wincing, Helena barely had time to take a step before Logan let out a razor snarl of fury and lunged. Tempestuous hazel eyes blazing, he snatched the younger man off his feet and slammed him into the wall. Left hand scrunching Elliot's collar, the right snapped up, the outermost claws shooting out to pincer his throat, the central adamantium spike slowly extending until it touched skin. Breathing harsh and fast, feeling a warm trickle down his throat as the sharp metal tip broke the skin, Elliot laughed hollowly.
"What you gonna do, Wolverine?" he demanded, face white. "Prove that you're a grunting animal by taking out your frustration on me?"
He pointed with his chin over Logan's shoulder at Helena, blood beginning to pool at his collarbone. Eyes pained, she looked wordlessly back at him.
"D'you think she'll congratulate you if you slash me to pieces? You think she'll want anything to do with you?"
Feeling her hand on his shoulder, silently urging restraint, Logan ground his teeth, torn between the dictates of his intelligence and the feral instinct to eliminate a rival. Growling darkly under his breath, he retracted his claws, the exit wounds sealing like a pulled zipper. Some of the colour returning to his cheeks, Elliot gathered his dignity and straightened his clothes. He looked to Helena, whose features were pinched with angry sadness.
"Just go, Elliot," she said frostily. 'Before I kick your arse myself, you prat.'
Without another word, he faded from visibility, outline sketched in negative greys before disappearing completely. The quiet sound of his soft-soled sneakers padded away down the corridor, audible only to a careful listener. Sighing, Helena rubbed her forehead distractedly.
"Invisi-boy got some guts, considerin' I could whup his ass with both hands tied behind my back," Logan remarked around his cigar, shooting a glare through the classroom wall. "But he's beggin' ta get some extra holes put in him."
"Shut up and stop acting Alpha Male," Helena growled, scowling at him. "Honestly, you're worse than a pair of kids. I don't want to spend my time worrying that you're gonna slice and dice Elliot every time he says hello."
Logan's eyebrows escalated and he took his cigar out of his mouth. He was not used to anyone ordering him to shut up. Most people did not dare. Reflecting that ten months teaching class at Mutant High and taking orders from Cyclops had not dampened her fire, he cocked his head.
"You pissed at me?"
"I'm pissed at both of you," she stated, folding her arms. "And I'm telling you now – not asking, telling. You lay a finger on Elliot and I'll kick your tight little arse so hard you'll be wearing your gonads as earrings. And before you get any silly ideas into that thick adamantium skull of yours, I'm gonna tell him exactly the same thing."
Eyebrows rising a little further with astonishment as he realised she meant what she said, he shook his head, wondering if he would ever understand women. Knowing from past experience that if he became angry, it would only start a headache-inducing slanging match, he tried a different tack.
"Yeah, but if yer kick my ass that hard, darlin', just think of all the fun yer'll be deprivin' yerself of," he said with an almost-smile, stepping forward to frame her slim waist with his hands.
"Oh, no you don't," she frowned as he pulled her closer and nuzzled her neck. "You're not getting around me that way. Making puppy dog eyes won't do diddly squat."
"Yeah?" he murmured, nipping her earlobe.
"Yeah," she echoed, cursing herself as she sounded less than convincing.
He chuckled throatily, telling her that her heartbeat and scent had given her away.
"Bastard," she said between kisses, frowning as he made her smile.
"That's me, English," he agreed, tipping her chin to capture her mouth with his.
'Helena, Logan, would you kindly meet me in the War Room as soon as possible.'
Looking up as Professor Xavier's paternal, educated English voice reverberated in their heads, the two mutants exchanged glances. There was no need for a school PA system with the world's most powerful telepath in residence.
'On our way, Professor,' Helena sent. 'What's up?'
Waiting impatiently as a silent conversation took place, Logan rocked on his heels and rubbed at his muttonchop beard, grinding out his cigar in the palm of his hand. Tossing the extinguished stub into the waste paper bin, he watched for several seconds to make sure it did not reignite.
"Spill," he grunted, seeing her expression grow sober.
"It's the disks you brought back from Canada," she said. "Charles has managed to get something from them."