Fistful Of Sand, a x-men: the movie fanfic

Title: Fistful Of Sand

Author: The Duchess Of The Dark

Teaser: Set directly after the events of X-Men 2. Helen Draven reflects on Jean Grey-Summers death, Logan's discovery of his troubled past and possibilities for the future.

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Marvel Comics and Fox. I own not, you sue my regrettably pear-shaped English arse not. Helena Draven and other non-canon characters are mine.

Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.

Notes: If you haven't read my other X-Men movie-verse fics, you won't know who Helena Draven is, or the relationships between various characters. Text in italics indicates thought, text in 'quoted italics' indicates telepathic communication or influence. This was partially inspired by a maudlin episode spent listening to Nine Inch Nails, in particular, 'The Fragile';

she shines

in a world full of ugliness

she matters

when everything is meaningless

fragile

she doesn't see her beauty

she tries to get away

sometimes

it's just that nothing seems worth saving

i can't watch her slip away

i won't let you fall apart

she reads the minds of all the people as they pass her by

hoping someone will see

if i could fix myself i'd -

but it's too late for me

i won't let you fall apart

we'll find the perfect place to go where we can run and hide

i'll build a wall and we can keep them on the other side

...but they keep waiting

...and picking...

...and

(it's something i have to do)

i won't let you fall apart (i was there, too)

i won't let you fall apart (before everything else)

i won't let you fall apart (i was like you)

i won't let you fall apart

I think the lyrics are applicable, right down to referencing Raven's telepathic power. Read and enjoy, Feedback always welcome...

The sound of torrential rain woke Helena Draven from a deep, but unfortunately dream-strewn sleep. For long moments she simply listened to it rattle against the lead lit windows of the mansion like gunfire. It seemed the sky was weeping, great sheets of water cascading from a desolate grey void.

Ororo, she thought sadly, watching a long slice of lightning bisect the sky above the tree line. You can't believe she's gone either.

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, the great fist of water that had crushed out Jean Grey's life roaring inside her mind. Shivering beneath the thick quilt, she cast a skein of thought out into the mostly empty school. Not all the students had returned after Stryker's black ops team raid in the small hours. Some where still with worried parents, some in hospital and a few remained missing. The stench of cordite, steel, gunpowder and fear lingered in the marbled corridors.

Breath stalling in her throat, her awareness encountered the raw enormity of grief radiating from Scott Summers several corridors away. He too was awake, despite the fact it was close to four a.m. His agony was perceptible to every telepath in the building, although it rarely showed on his impassive face. A deep, aching pain her healing factor could not erase bloomed in the English mutant's chest. Reaching out a soft, comforting wrap of thought, she influenced his mind towards sleep.

'Knock it on the head for tonight, Scott,' she murmured, soothing words perceptible only by his subconscious. 'Sleep and dream good things.'

Obediently, Cyclops dropped headlong into slumber. Withdrawing her mind, blocking out his grief, Helena bit her lip and concentrated on the fierce, bright stab of physical pain. Staring into the blue blackness of the bedroom, unrelieved by any artificial light, she started violently when a warm male hand settled on her flank.

"Hey, wassup?" thick with sleep, Logan's voice was a quiet rumble.

Palming aside the tangled curls at her neck, he planted a gentle kiss on the nape, strong fingers tracing the curve of her ear. Detecting distress in her scent, his mouth crimped and he slung an arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

"C'mere, darlin'," he whispered. "S'alright."

Her tousled head moved slightly on the white pillow in the negative, spine a long, rigid curve against him.

"No," she countered softly. "It's not alright." It's my fault... I should've been able to do sommat, anything...

Rolling over in his embrace so she faced him, palms resting against his chest, her oval face was spectrally pale in the darkness. Seeing her grey-green eyes glimmer moistly, Logan cupped her face in his large hand.

"Not your fault," he growled vehemently. "Even if Stryker hadn't pumped enough psycho-juice inta your brain ta kill a herd of moose, yer'd been shot in the head with an adamantium-capped bullet as well. No way yer could've stopped Red doin' what she did."

The tears came then, hot, furious and unheeded. Her eyes screwed shut, spiked lashes dark on pale Celtic complexion. Logan knew she hated weeping, saw it as a sign of weakness, of defeat. He had seen her cry only once before, at Elliot Anthony's funeral in a tiny New York chapel. Murmuring wordless comfort, he folded her close, feeling her tears warm and wet against his shoulder.

'Should've been able to do sommat. The prof was outta it, brain scrambled by Stryker's idiot lad. I'm the TP, TK mutant. I could've lifted the fucking blackbird outta the water. ThenJeanwouldn'tbeDEAD!'

Wincing as her mental voice rose in pitch and volume, indicative of her distress, Logan gave her a squeeze. Purple sparks raced behind his eyes as the echoes faded.

"Darlin', yer were lyin' on the floor with the back of yer head hangin' off," he pointed out reasonably. "Yer weren't in any condition ta do jack shit. S'awonder yer were conscious at all."

A low, agonized growl vibrated through his collarbone at that, an inarticulate expression of her frustrated guilt. He felt her hand clench below his right pectoral, hard adamantium knuckles cool through warm flesh.

"I look at Scott," she whispered, voice like skin dragged over barbed wire. "And he's still trying to do the Fearless Leader thing. But I can sense it, like he's screaming inside, all the time." She shook her head. "It's unbearable. It's like he's dying slowly. He's not said one word to me, but I feel responsible. I let the team down."

Rubbing the hollow of her back, sliding his palm under the hem of the cotton pajama top, Logan sighed heavily.

"Yer didn't. I know it, so do all the others. Cyke don't blame yer for what happened. Knows yer won't believe him, so he told me instead."

He kneaded small circles up her spine, feeling the tension in her muscles, willing her to let it go. Long moments trickled by, neither speaking, the only sound quiet breathing and rain against the window panes.

Nuthin' ta do but rebuild now," Logan observed at length. "Get on with things here at Mutant High. Jeanie would've wanted that. Yer know how much she loved the kids. How much you love the kids."

He felt her nod, exhale slowly and slip her arms around him. Ribs creaking as she hugged him fiercely, he rested his chin on the crown of her head. Jagged lightning split the sky in the distance, white hot, searing into the earth.

"We're exposed now, y'know," she said aloud, voice cashmere soft, but clear. "That comfortable anonymity's gone since Stryker went Rambo on us and Charles pulled his little media stunt with the president. Next thing ya know it'll be X-Men opinion polls on CNN and rent-a-fundie posting letter bombs. Some kids won't be coming back, their folks are too frightened sommat will happen to them, or worse we'll do sommat to them. Hugh, Ray and Tyler won't sleep unless the light's left on incase somebody comes to 'get them'. All 'cos of that bastard Stryker. Jean's dead, Scott's like the walking dead and... and... It's all like a fistful of sand, just trickling away between our bleedin' fingers..."

She trailed off, teeth gritted, fury and grief pheromones pouring from her skin. Hearing the bitterness in her voice, something that pre-Stryker had not been there, for all her knowing cynicism, Logan frowned.

"Mebbe not," he disagreed, hardly believing he was uttering the words. "Last time I checked, English, precognition wasn't one of yer gifts. Need ta have a little faith things'll work out."

Helena snorted, a brief, affectionate chuckle, "Jesus, Wolvie, when did you become the Xavier's poster boy?"

Gladdened by her laughter, no matter how short-lived, he grinned and slipped his hand down to her backside.

"About the same time yer dragged my ass home from a bar an' ravished me in the foyer," he rumbled mischievously, twanging the waistband on her pajamas.

He felt her smile then, "Home," she repeated, almost questioningly. "This is home now, for us, I mean. A real home?"

"Yeah, darlin'," he agreed warmly. "Closest thing people like you an' me got. An' like everythin' good, we gotta fight for it. Not that fightin's ever been a problem fer us. More like tryin' not ta fight is the problem, matchin' steak knives an' all. And if there's more assholes like Stryker out there, British, Canadian, whatever, we'll deal with 'em when they come knockin'. Ain't just us now – we got a team and a schoolful of super powered kids."

She did not reply, but Logan felt her tacit agreement. The word 'family' hung between them, neither daring to utter it aloud. Had they not escaped from Stryker's Canadian base, a fate similar to Lady Deathstryke was certain. Perfect assassin soldiers kept biddable by the secretions of a demented mutant's brain stem. With what she called her 'Swiss Army knife of gifts', Helena would be a coveted toy for the greedy, manipulative general. Thinking of Cyclops, of the haunted emptiness in his expression caused by the loss of Jean, Wolverine suppressed a shudder. It could have been him sleeping in an empty bed, a cold space where his lover should have lain. If not for a quirk of the X-gene, the adamantium bullet fired by a panicking soldier would have killed her outright. Chilled, he tightened his arms around her, abruptly feeling she was something fragile to protect with his life.

'I'll take care of you.' The thought, simultaneously projected from both their minds, rolled like distant thunder through their telepathic bond.

They held each other in silence, in the dark, listening as the storm howled outside, wailing for the loss of a comrade.