*
Lounging on a weather-worn bench in the school grounds, feet propped on the arm, Logan contemplated smoking a cigar. Not far away, a basketball match was in full swing as the students took advantage of the fair weather before winter arrived. Sniffing the air, detecting freshly-cut grass and the mulch the gardener had spread on the ornamental flower beds surrounding the mansion, he caught the scents of Hugh, Ray and Tyler.
"Ain't in the mood today, boys," he called, folding up the newspaper he had been reading. "Go pester Cyke."
Guiltily, the trio emerged from behind a neatly-trimmed box hedge. Hugh was clutching a soccer ball, having assured his friends he could persuade Logan to play a kick-around game. Seeing their hopes were deflated, he looked around to see if there was anyone within earshot.
"Mebbe tomorrow," he confided gruffly, throwing up a large hand. "Now scoot."
Visibly perking up, the boys scurried away, throwing the ball between them. Shaking his head, wondering when playing games with children had become something he did, Logan fished in his jacket for a cigar and some matches.
At least it'll stop the damn kids houndin' me, he thought. Though if Boy Scout says one word, I'll kick his teeth down his throat.
Sticking the cigar between his lips, he glanced at his growling midriff and debated how close it was to dinner. Though he would not admit it, he had grown to like the good, generously-portioned meals at the school.
Must be nearly time ta eat, he decided. Where's Hels gotten ta?
Deciding that it was a promising sign she was still out shopping, recalling that the last trip she and Marie had undertaken resulted in an interesting ensemble from a lingerie store, Logan grinned to himself and lit his cigar.
Ugg, thump, drag, he thought with a touch of glee. Ain't I glad I'm a man…
Taking a puff, he blew a long plume of grey smoke, considering whether or not to stroll into the mansion and lie in wait for Scott Summers. The game of Drive Scooter Nuts never ceased to entertain him, and smoking in the house was definitely against school rules. Much against his better judgement and inclinations, Logan had recently begun teaching self-defence classes to the older pupils at the Professor's request. Xavier had seen the taciturn Canadian becoming restless, no matter how he had tried to hide it, and taken up Helena's suggestion that something be found for him to do. At first, a class full of teenage girls, including Rogue and her friends, had made him uneasy. All the giggling, twittering and general pert bounciness had thrown him. As the classes progressed, he had relaxed into his new role of part-time teacher better than he expected, although he was still working on not swearing when some of the superhumanly strong pupils forgot themselves and hit him a little too hard.
Damn good job I got a healin' factor with kids like that Monet girl, he reflected, recalling the cracks in the gym walls where his head had struck the brickwork. Can't believe Wheels got me teachin' class. May as well start wearin' red glasses an' callin' myself Blinky…then at least I'd get ta see Jeannie naked.
Heart abruptly threatening to tear itself whole through his ribcage, Wolverine jerked upright, the lit cigar flying from between his knuckles. The skin on the back of his neck crawling, hackles bristling, his entire being pulsated with the certain knowledge that something was very badly wrong. Hazel eyes widening, he froze as if listening. With a muted snarl, he leapt from the bench and galloped across the school grounds, tearing through the corridors until he found the Professor serenely reading a first edition copy of Moby Dick in the vault-ceilinged libarary. Xavier looked up and set aside his book, concerned at what he sensed from the Canadian's mind.
"Chuck, there's somethin' wrong. Really wrong – use that computer o'yours. I gotta find Helena, an' I ain't got time fer the old-fashioned way of doin' it."
*
Remy was beside himself with worry for the first time in years. During his time as a thief, his nerves had been considered the strongest in the New Orleans Guild. Always ready with his quick blade of a smile and appropriately charming or sarcastic rejoinder, he rarely lost his cool. He had seen more than a few dead bodies, but the right-angled skew of Elliot Anthony's broken neck, the indelible purple black impression of five huge fingers on the windpipe, made his stomach flip-flop. Blinking as a bead of sweat curved around his right eyebrow and dripped from his nose, he continued to execute precise chest compressions on Raven, trying to keep her alive. Breaking off, he tipped back her head, pinched her nose and blew long and deep into her mouth, inflating her lungs.
Noticing her lips were trimmed blue from blood loss, he silently cursed, but continued. The bleeding showed no signs of stopping and Remy was beginning to believe that she would die no matter what he did. Rogue sat huddled in foetal ball at Raven's head, rocking back and forth like a disturbed child, fixedly staring at the foot-long bone claws protruding from between her knuckles.
"S'alright, chere," he reassured, not knowing if she could hear him through the overwhelming mental chatter in her head. "De X-Men be here any minute. Dat de beauty of de cellphone – neh?"
The Southern girl failed to respond, huge salty tears trickling down her face, eyes fixed on her comatose friend and teacher. Tightening the torn strip of his shirt staunching the worst wound to Raven's abdomen, the material sodden, Gambit looked up at the empty park.
'Where are you?' he demanded wordlessly, straining to project the thought. 'She gonna die an' Wolverine gonna tear Remy's head off an' stick it up his ass.'
Squinting against the hazy autumnal sun, his light-sensitive eyes watering, he caught sight of reflective metal scant moments before he heard the roar of a motorcycle engine. Lips peeled back over his teeth, hair wind-tossed, Logan hunched down over the handlebars as the bike thundered along the park pathways. Snatching at the brakes, the motorcycle skidded to a halt with a screech of tyres, a ragged curve of burnt rubber coating the tarmac as the back end swung around. Flinging himself from the saddle, ignoring Gambit entirely, he fell to his knees, the bike crashing over behind him.
A soft sound emerged from his throat, almost a whine, and he reached out a large hand, nostrils flaring with the nauseating stink of blood. Hazel eyes darting, flickering from torn throat to lacerated stomach, from exposed trachea to glistening purplish pearls of intestine, he began to shake, broad fingertips lightly coming to rest on Raven's cold, white forehead. Astonished as he saw fear in the Canadian's expression, an emotion he thought him incapable of, Remy ventured to touch his shoulder.
"It gonna be alright, mon ami," the Cajun whispered. "Jean can't be far away, an' de chere is de best doctor for mutants."
At Raven's head, Rogue suddenly began to laugh, a hollow, mirthless sound, her fawn eyes red-rimmed and haunted. Shoulders bunching, unadulterated homicide exploding behind his eyes, Wolverine turned on Gambit, ploughing the startled younger man to the floor.
"LOOK AT HER!!" he roared, voice suffused with pain and hate. "SHE'S DYIN'!!"
"Ain't me y'wanna kill," Remy snapped back, heart pounding at the barely-controlled insanity contorting Wolverine's features. "Sabretooth did this ta her, an' Rogue, oui – killed Elliot too."
Snarling, panting, a fraction away from uncontrollable berzerk fury, Wolverine battled not to shoot his claws and slash the ex-thief into tiny cubes. Gambit stared back, red black eyes hard behind his blue-lensed sunglasses as he reached into his coat for a playing card.
'LOGAN! Let Remy go!'
Jean Grey's telepathic voice rang in his head, enviably calm and measured, enforcing control a milisecond before he snapped and killed anything within reach. With a spat curse, he threw down the Cajun and scrambled to his lover's side, hands hovering above her, afraid to touch in case he unwittingly inflicted more damage. The remaining X-Men appeared from behind a nearby flower bed, running full tilt. Ascertaining what had occurred with a glance, Jean nodded to Ororo and Scott to attend to the mumbling, crying Rogue. Dropping down beside the Southern girl, Storm wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, murmuring wordless comfort into her ear as Cyclops snapped on a pair of latex gloves and began manipulating her hands in an effort to retract her temporary bone claws. Shooting a glance at Raven, Storm's brow furrowed beneath her shocking white hair and she began praying quietly under her breath.
"Do somethin', Red," Logan begged, desperation written large across his bearded face. "We can't let her die… please."
Swallowing her emotions, Jean wrenched open her field medical kit, realising she had never seen him in such a state. The metal-boned man who acted first and thought later, who could face Magneto without a flicker of concern, was utterly terrified. Assessing her patient's condition, drawing on her physician's detachment, she joined Storm in praying they were not too late.
*
"Dammit! There's another bleeder here." Clenching her teeth with frustration, Jean Grey called a clamp to her hand with a single thought. "Logan, get out of the way."
The formerly pristine silver surfaces of the medbay were awash with red. Entombed deep in the mansion's sublevels, away from the students and public scrutiny, she fought to save Raven's life. The Professor was with Rogue, painstakingly erecting psychic shields that would block the telepathic and telekinetic powers she had absorbed until they dissipated. Eyes squinching as a hot jet of crimson struck her face, Jean expertly sutured the last wound and applied a dressing handed to her by Scott, wondering if she was wasting her time. The internal injuries the English mutant had received would have quickly killed her had she been a normal human. With her healing factor severely impaired, it was impossible to tell if she would recover. The cardiomonitor began to squeal, a continuous high-pitched electronic whine that scraped serrated fingers over raw nerves.
Dragged across the medbay by a telekinetic hook, the defibrillator bumped into the side of the gurney as Jean snatched up the paddles and slathered on electro-conductive gel.
"Wait!" Logan bellowed, elbowing Scott Summers aside. "Her skeleton – she'll fry!"
"If I don't get her heart beating, she's dead anyway," Jean retorted, ramming the charged paddles down. "Clear!"
Chin tipping back, spine arching, Raven convulsed like a landed eel as the charge ripped through her metal bones. The constant shriek of the cardiomonitor did not falter, faint wisps of smoke emerging from her joints. Ratcheting up the voltage, Jean tried again.
"Clear!"
Flat neon green against black, the heart trace did not move, the momentary spike caused by the electric shock ebbing away within a moments.
"C'mon, Hels, yer can do it, I know yer can," Logan growled, brows knit with anguish.
Grimacing, but refusing to admit defeat, Jean again increased the voltage, flicking a glance at Logan to let go of Helena's hand.
"Clear!"
All eyes fixed on the square black screen, willing the horizontal line to jump into a steady rhythm. Seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Swallowing the heaviness that settled around his heart, Scott took a leader's responsibility and placed a hand on his fiancé's slim, rigid shoulder.
"Maybe we should stop," he said quietly, sadly. "We've done all we can."
"NOOOOOO!!" Hazel eyes incandescent with rage, Wolverine launched himself at Cyclops, claws hissing out to plunge into the medbay floor as they both fell flat.
'STOP IT! Look!!'
Hyper-acute ears detecting a regular, measured beeping, Logan unclenched his fist and surged to the gurney. A thankful breath rushing from his lungs, he bent and lay his ear against Helena's chest, listening to the steady, if somewhat weak beating of her heart.
"I knew yer could do it, English," he croaked hoarsely. 'I knew yer wouldn't leave me.'
Sensing the unconsciously projected thought that showed a vulnerability he would never otherwise display, Jean pressed a gauze square to Scott's bleeding mouth before stepping forward to touch Logan's shoulder.
"It's up to her now," she said softly. "All we can do is wait."
*
Peering at the round shining 'X' door of the medbay, Remy fervently wished for a cigarette, but contented himself with shuffling his deck of cards.
"How long he been sittin' in there?" he asked Storm, who was leaning on the opposite wall, her liquid cinnamon eyes closed.
Effortlessly graceful in an ivory sweater and chocolate brown pants, Ororo opened her eyes and regarded the young Cajun.
"Nearly forty eight hours," she replied. "He has not moved or slept. It was all Jean could do to persuade him to drink a glass of water."
Shuddering almost imperceptibly, Gambit kneaded the bridge of his nose, demon eyes momentarily closing. Fanning out the deck, he shuffled and reshuffled until he saw a moue of annoyance purse the African mutant's lips. Slipping the cards back into his pocket, he muttered an apology.
"How's Rogue?" he asked at length. "Petite won't let me near – keeps snarlin' an' tellin' Remy ta 'bugger off'."
Reading genuine concern in his expression, Ororo's face softened. His customary charm, while not entirely missing, was well below the usual standard, indicative of his feelings.
"She will not let anyone near her, not even the Professor," she revealed. "She blames herself for what happened to Helena and Elliot… she is fighting to regain her own personality and thoughts." Storm sighed and shook her head. "It'll take time, Remy, but she will recover. We just have to watch her in case…"
"In case wha'?" Gambit prompted.
"In case ah show signs o' 'long-term psychological instability', that right, 'Ro?"
Both mutants turned to see Rogue standing in the centre of the corridor wearing black from head to toe. Pale and drawn, as if she had spent endless hours crying, she looked far younger than eighteen. Only her eyes were different, old before their time with the weight of absorbed memories.
"Yes – but only because we care," Storm replied gently, seeing a certain animal wildness in the Southern girl's body language.
"Yeah, ah'll be back in the Danger Room kickin' ya ass in no time," she nodded, then stiffened, realising that it was Helena who used the holographic training programmes, not her. Students were not allowed to until they reached eighteen or developed sufficient control over their powers. "Ah, ah, mean…"
"Chere," Remy stepped forward, meaning to touch her arm. "Dis mess no your fault – Remy make a nice cuppa coffee an' we talk."
"Don't touch me!" Rogue snarled, flinching violently away, her features crumpling. "Don't anybody bloody touch me!"
Trembling, hugging herself in an effort not to pop the bone claws she could still feel within her forearms, she bared her teeth. Seeing three torn slots in each of her gloves, Gambit held up his hands apologetically and backed away.
"S'okay, Marie," he murmured soothingly. "Nobody be touchin'."
"Ah wanna see Helena an' Logan," she stated categorically. "An' ah don't want an audience."
Clamping a hand onto Remy's arm as she saw he was about to point out that Wolverine had not allowed anybody except Jean into the medbay, Storm towed him away down the corridor.
"We will come back later, Rogue," she said. "You just call when you are ready."
Waiting until satisfied they had gone, straining her newly-enhanced ears, Rogue tucked her bleached white streaks behind her ear, took a deep breath and pushed open the medbay doors. The interior lighting was muted, the steady beep and hum of various machines and monitors breaking the silence. A pungent smell of antiseptic reached her nose, her own footsteps painfully loud as she crossed the immaculate floor to the bed. His back to her, shoulders rounded, Logan sat cradling Helena's unresponsive hand to his cheek.
Swallowing a bitter mouthful of guilt, fighting the urge to throw her arms around him and beg forgiveness, she cleared her throat.
"Hey," she forced out.
Slowly, he turned around, two days of unshaved beard shadowing his chin, hazel eyes bleary from lack of sleep. Rogue had never seen him looking so exhausted, so almost beaten, even when she had sneaked in to sit by his side as he lay unconscious after saving her life when Magneto's mutation device had nearly killed her.
"Hey, kid," he rasped.
Heart twisting into a pulsing, hurting ball inside her chest, Marie clenched her fists, battling not to kiss him and smooth his unruly hair as Helena would have done. She thought hard about what she should say, finding the right words simply did not exist. Another compulsion surfaced within her mind; a need to turn and leave, to go to the Danger Room and vent every violent emotion against holograms until she was spent. Hanging her head, she took a single step closer.
"A-ah'm, a-ah'm so sorry, Logan," she whispered falteringly, eyes brimming as she saw a sudden flare of murderous rage in his expression.
Reaching out, he hauled her into his arms, hugging her fiercely, protectively, a grizzled wolf comforting a distraught cub. Sobbing uncontrollably, she clung to him, face pressed into his shirt, hands locked behind his back.
"Not yer fault, darlin'," he growled, settling the teenager into his lap, feeling her tears wet on his shoulder. "Don't yer ever think it's yer fault."
"Ya-y-ya don't hate me?" Rogue hiccuped against his collar, nose filled with the cigars and whisky smell of his shirt.
"I could never hate yer," he reassured softly, tightening his arm around her. "It's that fucker Creed who should be worried – I'm gonna rip him into pieces so small ants'll carry him off."
Hearing the undiluted hatred in his voice, knowing he meant every word, Rogue wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, reassured by his scent and closeness, even though she knew instincts other than her own were causing her to feel that way. As always, she felt safe when he was around. Raising her head, still sitting on his lap, she looked at Helena. Only the steady, respirator-induced rise and fall of her chest indicated she was alive, skin waxen, lavender hollows beneath her closed eyes. Gloved fingers involuntarily rising to Logan's stubbled cheek, she turned his face towards her.
"Marie," he began, realising it was the personality of his comatose lover motivating her actions.
"She loves ya, ya know," she said, voice a tone above a whisper. "Ah know she does."
He did not respond, but his jaw clenched slightly, gaze dropping. Inclining her head, Rogue felt a small, sad smile curve her lips.
"That scare ya, sugah?"
Logan shook his head, eyes returning to the prone woman hooked up to all manner of life-support machines. His lips twitched self-mockingly.
"Not as much as knowin' I love her back," he admitted, running a fingertip along the line of Raven's jaw.
"Ya told her?" the Southern girl asked softly, heart singing as the Helena within her glowed at the revelation.
Logan shook his head again, a little shamefacedly. "Nope."
Slithering down from his lap, ordering her knees to work sufficiently well to hold her upright, Marie gestured to the bed.
"Now's as good a time as any," she encouraged.
Expression clouding, hazel eyes darkening with pain, he heaved a huge sigh and rubbed at his muttonchops with the heel of his hand.
"She's in a coma, darlin'," he rumbled, gaze flicking to encompass the blinking monitors, the hissing sigh of the respirator. "She can't hear me."
Silently, the Southern girl regarded him, lower lip held thoughtfully between her teeth, small hands curled at her sides.
"Why d'ya think ya knew when she was hurt?" she questioned. Seeing his blank look, she tapped a gloved finger to her temple. "It's the same way Scott knows when Jean's hurtin', an' vice-versa – ya bonded."
Logan did not respond, staring at Helena with mingled amazement and incredulity before his face cleared. Bending, Rogue framed his whiskery face in her hands.
"Tell her, Wolvie," she said firmly. "She'll hear ya one way or another."
Without another word, she turned and quietly left, closing the medbay doors behind her. Some distance down the corridor, when she was certain Logan would not hear, she stopped and sank back against the wall. Leaning her forehead against the cool metal, she closed her eyes and fought back the tears, wondering if it would ever get any easier. Every inconsequential noise made her recall Victor Creed snapping Elliot's neck like a breadstick. When she tried to sleep, she relived the moment a massive clawed hand picked her up and slapped her face against Raven's, deadly skin stealing her friend's lifeforce as she struggled helplessly. Collecting herself, drawing on the obstinacy that was only half Helena's, she headed for the lift.
Pressing Helena's limp hand to his cheek, Logan dwelled on what Rogue had said and realised that he believed her. Reaching out, he smoothed a lock of hair from the English mutant's cool forehead, wondering just when he had begun to feel so strongly about another.
"Hels – " His throat constricted and he coughed, cursing himself, and tried again. "Yer can't die on me, darlin' – I need yer."
Picturing her reaction had she been awake, he found himself caught between a scowl and a smile.
"Laugh if yer want ta… 'big, bad Wolverine' who don't need anyone. Truth is, I do." He cleared his throat and leaned down to kiss her still lips. "I love yer, Hels, an' I don't know what I'll do if yer die."
Realising he had half-expected her to wake, he shook his head disgustedly, stroking her fingers.
This ain't no fairy tale, an' I ain't no Prince Charming, he told himself. 'Please, darlin' – don't leave me.'
Heaving a sigh, he listened to the heart monitor, trying to calm his mind with the regular electronic beep.
'Don't leave me….'
*
There was something inside her mouth running down into her throat. It tasted like plastic. Instinctively wanting to expel the foreign body, she tried to lift her hand to pull it out, only to find she could not, the appendage flopping weakly. Consciousness ebbing and flowing, she battled not to sink back into roaring oblivion, finding her body disobedient. Somebody caught her fluttering hand in their own, the palm slightly callused. She heard a familiar male voice bellow for someone called Jean. Straining to open her eyes, the world appeared as an indistinct silvery blur as the lids slowly peeled back. A gentle female voice instructed her to blow out hard, which she unquestioningly did, the gag-inducing plastic tube sliding out of her oesophagus.
"Hels? Can yer hear me?"
Gradually, an anxious bearded face came into focus as she blinked, features lined with worry and lack of sleep. Her dry mouth not conducive to speech, she struggled to tongue back some moisture and nodded. Full consciousness returned, accompanied by the knowledge of who she was and the identities of the other people in the cool, antiseptic-smelling room. Dazedly, she peered at the fingers held up before her face, recognizing them as belonging to Jean Grey.
'Three,' she sent. 'Logan…?'
"Here, darlin'."
Everything disappeared beneath a blinding white luminance as a penlight was shone in her eyes to gauage the reaction of her pupils.
"Jeannie, d'yer have ta do that?" Logan sounded immensely relieved and irritated by turns, stress apparent in his scent.
"Almost done," Jean murmured, her stethoscope a cold circle on Helena's chest as she listened to her heart. "… there. How d'you feel?"
Slowly, the English mutant looked around, her fingers tightening around Logan's hand. She took in the array of monitors and machines, the brisk sterility of the medbay, and carefully propped herself up on her elbows. Finding herself wobble-limbed, she struggled to sit up, accepting the supportive arm Logan slipped under her. She tried to speak, but only a dry croak emitted from her parched lips. Pouring some water into a plastic beaker, Jean held it to her lips. Gratefully, she gulped down several large mouthfuls.
"Like shit warmed over a lighter flame," she creaked, frowning at the drip shunt taped into the crook of her elbow.
Jean smiled affectionately and slipped the penlight into the pocket of her labcoat, brushing a wayward strand of auburn hair from her forehead.
"Nuthin' a few whiskies won't solve," Logan interjected, leaning in to kiss her nose and cheek.
Helena's milk white brow puckered, lips still pale against her face, lending her a spectral air. For once, her appearance of fragility was not deceptive.
"How long have I been out?" she asked, her voice a little stronger.
"Almost five days, darlin'," Logan answered. "Which considerin' yer got a healin' factor, is a damn long time. Gave us a good scare."
She was silent, frowning deeply as she attempted to process the amount of time she had lain unconscious.
"Do you remember what happened?" Jean asked quietly.
"Not now, Red," Logan growled, seeing Helena's features crease with puzzlement and concentration. "Give her a minute, can't yer?"
'I'm trying to see if her memory is affected,' the red-haired doctor reproached. 'It's best we find out sooner rather than later if there's any permanent brain damage. CAT scans don't penetrate adamantium.'
Abruptly, the English mutant started violently and gave a sharp cry, her mouth a stricken loop. She tried to rise from the bed, fighting a losing battle with the sheets and restraining hands.
"Elliot!" she cried, her voice rising and breaking. "Creed, the bastard, the fucking bastard…" Deaddeaddeaddead…no. NO! Ishould'vemadesureheleft…should've… didn't…
She trailed off, trembling, what little colour there was in her cheeks draining away, leaving her almost grey. Concerned, Jean stepped forward, mentally running through a list of sedatives, unsure if any of them would work on a mutant with such an advanced healing factor.
"Jesus… Marie?" Helena whispered, head bowed, adamantium showing at her knuckles. "Is she…?"
"She's alright," Logan reassured, looping an arm around her shoulders. "Still gotta get rid of what she got from yer, but she ain't hurt… not physically."
Silently, she looked to Jean, demanding a more complete assessment of Rogue's health. A wordless telepathic exchange passed between the two women. Seeing his lover's jaw tighten, the muscles across her shoulders steel knots beneath his hand, Logan knew what was to follow.
"I'll kill him," she vowed softly, flatly. "I'll rip his fucking head off and piss down the hole. YOU HEAR THAT, CREED?!!"
Her voice rose to a piercing shriek of fury and grief, spine rigid, the points of her claws popping through the skin, lips skinning back over her teeth. Shooting Jean a glance that told her not to get too close in case she lashed out, Logan took hold of Helena's shoulders.
"He's a dead man walkin'," he agreed. "But not today, darlin' – yer in no state ta kill anythin'. But next time…"
Jean suppressed an involuntary shudder, knowing that coming from the mouths of the two clawed mutants, it was no idle threat. Visibly calming, taking deep, shuddering breaths to control her temper, Helena nodded jerkily. Sensing her presence was superfluous, Jean leaned down and folded her hand over the English mutant's.
"I'll tell the others you're awake," she said. "Do you want anything?"
Helena shook her head, "Thanks, Jean, but no… only ask Marie to come down later. I need to talk to her."
Nodding understandingly, the telekinetic mutant headed out of the medbay, mentally alerting the Professor that her patient was awake and talking. Silently projecting his thanks, unsure if she could hear him if she had not initiated a telepathic conversation, Logan turned back to Helena.
"Nearly turned me grey, English," he murmured, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb caressingly. "Fer a while back there, Red thought yer weren't gonna make it."
"I almost didn't make it," she whispered, then coughed, waving away an instantly proffered beaker of water. Her features softened, the animalistic set fading. "C'mere, you."
Taking hold of his shirt front, she pulled Logan in and kissed him. Surprised by the sudden gesture, though she was always tactile, he engulfed her his arms, chin in her hair, glad to have her alive and talking.
"What's that fer?"
"You know what," she said, her arms tightening around him, savouring his warmth through the thin hospital-style gown she wore. "I heard you, what you said when I was out."
She felt him kiss the top of her head and give the smallest of frowns, stroking her back through her tumbled hair with the flat of his hand.
"Yeah," he coughed. "Well don't be tellin' everyone, I've – "
"An image to protect, I know," she finished warmly. "Love you."
"Love you too, Hels," he returned gruffly, suddenly not caring who knew it.
*
Snarling, chest heaving as he panted, the muscles in his arms cramped and knotted far beyond pain, Wolverine collapsed onto his back on the Danger Room floor. The air reeked of overheated circuitry, and as he watched, the pine forest simulation flickered, crackled and disappeared like a fevered hallucination.
"Programme error – reinitialising," the smooth, infuriatingly placid tones of Cerebro echoed throughout the vastness.
Too exhausted to spit a curse, the red berserk mist seeping away from the corners of his vision, he sheathed his claws. Looking at the sticky, half-dried blood coating his knuckles, smelling his own musky sweat, he lay back on the cool metal floor and attempted to regain his equanimity. Elliot's funeral had taken place in his native New York a week earlier, the small chapel filled with shell-shocked relatives, most of whom did not know he was a mutant. Officially, his death had been blamed on a random mugging. Logan had sat on a back pew next to Helena, who did not speak a single word throughout the short service. Rogue had clung to her arm, sobbing quietly throughout, her hiccuping tears becoming more sporadic until she simply sat dry-eyed and trembling.
In his borrowed suit and tie, feeling hypocritical for attending the funeral of a man he had intensely disliked in life, Logan had gazed around the packed crematorium chapel at Elliot's aunts, uncles, cousins and parents. He had looked at Storm, a slight figure in a sombre black suit, at the Professor's grave composure, at Jean holding tight to Scott's arm and Remy sitting uncomfortably next to Rogue. The priest's soft, meaningless words of comfort had faded and the flower-strewn coffin began to roll forward towards the hatch for the long process of cremation. Hearing the almost inaudible plop of falling liquid, he had turned to see Helena silently crying, great salty tears tracking wetly down her cheeks to drip from her chin. All he could do was slip an arm about her and inwardly rage at his inability to stop her feeling thus. He had never seen her cry before and hated how helpless he was to stop it.
Three days after the funeral, he had woken before dawn and pulled on his old, battered leather jacket and jeans. Looking down at Helena's sleeping form, all but obscured beneath the bedcovers, he had bent and kissed her forehead. Pausing only to scrawl a quick note, he had slipped unseen out to the garage and pushed his motorcycle the length of the gravel drive before starting the engine. Returning to the city park in Salem Centre, he had searched until he found the last lingering trace of Victor Creed's scent and began tracking with a vicious, single-minded determination. Four days into the hunt somewhere upstate New York, the trail had gone cold. Nobody had seen or heard anything of the feline mutant, even in the worst dives and biker joints.
It was in one such bar that Logan had found himself, the scent trail too old to follow, the regular customers disinclined or unable to help, despite the fat wad of money he had in his back pocket. He was bitterly, intensely frustrated and spoiling for a fight. Some time after his fifteenth whisky, a large biker with a tattoo of a dragon on his shaved head had decided to oblige. Wolverine had drained his glass, put down his cigar and begun proceedings by breaking a barstool over the other man's back. The resulting fracas cost the bar owner eight thousand dollars to repair the damage to his establishment. The biker had ended up in hospital with a broken arm, kneecap, nose, jaw and multiple rib fractures. Still steaming with frustration, Wolverine had reluctantly returned to the school, fully expecting to receive a smug dressing-down from Cyclops. To his surprise, Summers did not comment, making him grudgingly admit that maybe he was not such a jerk after all. Feeling unable to face Helena, he had gone straight to the Danger Room to work off his rage before he lashed out at somebody who did not deserve it.
The Danger Room doors sighed open, the small movement of air carrying Raven's scent to his nostrils. Wordlessly, she crossed the expanse of the floor and knelt by his side, her hair falling to tickle at his bare chest. Delicate scars of grief and weariness marked her eyes, driving a hot blade of pain between Logan's ribs.
"I'm sorry, darlin', I couldn't… couldn't find…," he fought for sufficient breath to finish his sentence, only for her to press her finger to his lips.
"It's okay, love," she said, taking in his post animal fury state, smelling his temporarily spent rage and frustration.
Smoothing the sweat-slicked hair from his forehead, green eyes met hazel, both containing a knowing, a certainty.
"There's always next time," she reminded him softly, wiping the coagulating blood from his knuckles. "Creed can't hide from both of us forever. One day we'll pay him back for this shit."
*
3 Months Later
Bobby Drake shrieked indignantly as Jubilee and Kitty pelted him mercilessly with snowballs, retaliating by firing small, hard pellets of hail from his fingertips. Westchester was covered by a thick, fluffy carpet of snow that transformed Xavier's School For The Gifted into a frosty white Christmas cake. Producing skates of ice from the soles of his boots, Bobby cackled and shot away, gathering speed as he went. His victory was short lived as Jubilee directed a timely shower of paffs in his path, melting his ice skates from under him. Wrapped up warm against the biting cold, Helena stepped out onto the patio steps just as Bobby whipped up a giant snowball and threw it with all his might at Kitty, who grinned and phased. The snowball passed straight through her and splattered all over their teacher.
"Sorry!" Bobby exclaimed. "Raven, I didn't mean to, um… oh, crap."
Wiping the snow from her coat, Helena raised one eyebrow as Jubilee and Kitty doubled over with laughter. In the near distance, the air glowed crimson, indicating where Cyclops was melting the snow from the drive.
"Okay, popsicle boy, y'know what this means?" she exclaimed.
Bobby grinned hopefully. "That you're not gonna kick my tush to Long Island and back?"
"Why would I do that?" she chuckled. "When I can do this…"
The blond teenager's smile faded as a large section of snow covering the patio rose into the air as she lifted her hand. Backpedalling furiously, his mouth fell open as it loomed overhead.
"Awwwwwwww. Crap!" he groaned as it cascaded down on top of him.
Jubilee and Kitty's hoots of laughter turned to indignant screams as they were similarly treated. A massive snowball fight broke out, attracting students from all over the school. Hearing the furore from the library, Jean ventured outside and soon joined in, using her mutant power to fling sheets of snow. Glancing through the mêlée of shouts, laughter, waving limbs and flying snowballs, Helena spotted Gambit's tall figure as he rounded the corner from the gardens, earnestly talking to Rogue. Bobby also saw them, and to his credit, did not react. Rogue and he had broken up soon after Elliot's funeral, eliciting separate visits to Helena and Scott Summers respectively for advice and a shoulder to cry on.
Watching the debonair Cajun effortlessly woo Rogue, Helena's eyes narrowed and she carefully moulded an extra large snowball. Propelled by a telekinetic burst, it struck Remy squarely about the head, almost knocking him from his feet. Startled, demon eyes wide, he looked around for the culprit and saw Raven's impenitent grin.
"You pick on de wrong homme, chere," he warned, scooping up an armful of snow in preparation to retaliate.
A volley of snowballs answered him, causing Rogue to shriek and cover her face with her arms. Turning about to shield her from the worst of it, taking multiple strikes to his back, he lightly charged the snow and flung it back.
"Score one fer Remy!" he crowed as he hit Helena's midsection, the snow exploding on impact. Breaking off, he anxiously eyed the approaching female horde of Jean, Helena, Jubilee, Kitty, Monet and Paige Guthrie. "Uh, Marie, some help here?"
"Sorry, sugah," the Southern girl drawled, stepping around to join the other women. "Ah'm with mah girls on this one."
Bracing himself for the inevitable onslaught, Gambit had just enough time to wonder what he had done to deserve such punishment before he was pelted from all sides. Some minutes later, he lay prostrate in the snow, apprehensively peering up at the circle of grinning female faces, aching from the number of hits.
Remy ain't gonna take dis, he thought, scraping the snow off his nose. Dis means war!
Without warning, he leapt up, executing a neat handspring that carried him over their heads. Quickly, he gathered up as much snow as he possibly could and began mercilessly dispensing biokinetically charged balls, grinning broadly at the resulting threats and screeching.
Hearing the commotion from the far side of the grounds, Logan came jogging around the corner, stopped short and stared, eyebrows escalating. As he watched, Storm emerged from the mansion, white hair hidden beneath a thick woolly blue hat. Smiling, the weather goddess's eyes shone quicksilver and a minor whirlwind began tearing up the snow, hitting more people in one go than anyone else had managed.
"Logan!"
Hearing his name called, he looked to see Helena waving at him, her coat powdered with snow, cheeks apple red with cold. Ducking as a large charged snowball whizzed past her head, she laughed uproariously and flung one back. Pushing and weaving her way through the near-riot, she tripped over a snowbank produced by Bobby and fell into his arms with a small shriek. Overbalanced by a patch of ice mysteriously appearing beneath their feet, they both toppled over. Whistling nonchalantly, hands thrust into his pockets, Bobby Drake sidled away to rejoin the fun.
Unable to keep the grin off his face at the sight of her sparkle-eyed and thoroughly damp from the snowball fight, Logan dusted the snow from her shoulders. She beamed, pushed her furry deerstalker hat out of her eyes and rubbed her cold nose with a gloved hand.
"Yer alright, darlin'?" he asked.
"Yep," she answered with a smile, then momentarily sobered. "I am now."
Leaping upright, she eyed him critically, her lower lip held thoughtfully between her teeth. Realising what she was thinking, Logan firmly shook his head and got up, leaving a man-sized depression in the fluffy whiteness.
"English, I love yer, but I ain't makin' a snow angel."
"Don't be such a square!"
"Square?" he grumbled, bending to sweep up some snow. "Who d'ya think I am – Scooter? Now bend over an' show me yer ass, I need a good target."
A snowball splatted him straight in the face, telling him what she thought of the suggestion, closely followed by more from Jean, Rogue and Storm. As he watched, all four women turned and wiggled their backsides mockingly. He growled loudly, earning himself animated scornful laughter and another pelting. Cantering over, hair randomly plastered to his head with partially melted slush, Gambit rubbed his hands together.
"Whadaya say, mon ami? Remy t'ink we teach de ladies a lesson, neh?"
Hefting a fist-sized snowball, Logan gave an almost-smile, seeing Bobby, Sam, St John and various younger students running over as the disorder split into gender-specific sides. Hugh, Tyler and Ray popped up at his side, already armed, shifting from foot to foot excitedly.
"I say no mercy," he rumbled, lifting his arm to let fly.
Watching from a downstairs window, Professor Xavier smiled to himself as instantaneous chaos broke out. Reflectively drinking a mouthful of tea from a fine china cup, he chuckled as he saw Rogue mouth an expletive at Remy and screw a large handful of snow into his face.
"Never have thought I'd see this a few months ago," Cyclops' voice said to his back.
"No," Xavier mused as the younger man stepped to his side. "Certain people would not have dreamt of playing like this… speaking of which…?"
Scott Summers grinned, displaying a lighter side to his personality that was rarely allowed to show, ruby quartz visor flashing as he pulled back on his hat and gloves.
"Oh yes – I'm not gonna miss an opportunity to kick Logan's ass…"
*
Ignoring the voice calling her name, Helena snuggled down a little more, feeling Logan shift closer in his sleep, his arm draped over her middle. Hearing him begin to snore quietly, a low bass buzz, she tugged up the covers with a tendril of telekinesis. Spooned together, skin against skin, warm and indescribably comfortable, they had fallen asleep to the sound of gently crackling flames in the fireplace. The voice did not desist, much to her annoyance, and she sighed and opened her eyes. Carefully moving his heavy adamantium-boned arm so she did not wake him, she wiggled to the edge of the bed and sat up, listening to the inaudible. Moments later, a strong arm snaked about her waist, Logan's stubbled chin appearing over her shoulder as he swept aside her hair and kissed her neck.
"Whassup?" he yawned, pulling her back against him.
"Got a call from the Prof," she said, reaching back to cradle his cheek.
Logan frowned with mild disgust, gaze wandering around the small, cosy log cabin. There was no television, no radio, no phone, just miles of empty countryside and solitude that was a welcome relief from the hectic pace of life at the school. Two plates, two cups and two sets of cutlery lay on the dish drainer, mirrored by two sets of snow-stained boots slung near the door.
"Thought yer left yer cellphone behind?" he grunted, feeling the deliciously warm space where he had lain begin to cool. He contemplated hauling her back down under the covers and smothering her with kisses until she forgot about whatever Xavier had said.
She sighed, "I did, and the pager."
"Then what?" he asked, scowling. "Can't they do without us fer five days? Y'know, Hels, we could always take off fer Canada fer a few weeks, let 'em stew. Niagara's great this time o'year."
Turning around, the thick multi-coloured patchwork quilt and white sheets bunched around her waist, her brow furrowed. Recognising the expression, Logan cocked his head enquiringly, taking up her hands.
"What? Yer look like yer lost a dollar an' found a cent."
Fingers laced through his, her eyes hardened to green agate and he felt the small muscles that guided her claws bunch.
"Magneto's escaped."
Wolverine shrugged and clambered out of bed, scouting about on the smooth plank floor for his pants and green plaid shirt. Picking up her skinny t-shirt, he threw it to her and they both began to dress.
"We'd best get packin', then," he observed laconically. "Looks like we've work ta do."
*
* Well, that's all folks!… until next time (cackles maniacally & wanders off into the sunset with a willing Wolvie-Clone).