Author's Notes: Somewhere along the lines of watching the films and reading the comics, I've gotten it into my head that doing veritably anything with Logan eventually leads to something knock-down, drag-out in the physical, ass-kicking sense. This said, I made an attempt to sort of capitalize on it within the plot, using it as a catalyst of sorts to keep things moving. Hopefully it worked. Tune in next time for the arrival at Mutant High! Reviews are much appreciated and I'd love any feedback, cheers!

Disclaimer: ZOMG I AM LIKE, THE BROKE!1 I OWN NOTHING LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLZ!111

"This town don't feel mine,
I'm fast to get away…
Far."
-Deftones, 'Be Quiet And Drive'

Chapter 4- 'A Wolf At The Door'

We climb into the truck and one glance from him silences me. It's one of those really pure, almost desperate "I don't want to talk about this right now, I'll tell you when I'm ready" looks that people so rarely give, and thus I squash my questions, biding my time with a bit of soft song and more gazing out the window. Puns abounding, I finish Iggy Pop's 'The Passenger' right as we pull off the highway and into the parking lot of a small, modest looking hotel. It's after midnight and I can feel my eyelids weighing heavily down upon me, seeming like Atlas' burden for all their trouble. I rub at them irritably, grabbing my backpack and hopping out as we go to secure a room for the night.

I'm watching Logan twirl the key around one finger idly as we walk down the building until we come to room number seventeen. Recalling my previous predicament with the lack of clean laundry I speak. "Hey Logan, do you mind if I go ask the clerk if there are any washing machines around here? I'm all out of clothes and we didn't have time to stop at a Laundromat today."

He considers it for a moment before nodding his consent. "Knock on the door when you're done." Turning the key in the lock, he flicks the lights on, stepping inside and closing the door. With a shrug, and a bit of happiness at the idea of fresh clothing, I walk back to the night attendant's office with my query. I'm still quite tender from the other day, so I take my time strolling over, backpack dangling from a shoulder, the right one, as it hurts the least.

Walking back to the front desk I smile politely. "Pardon me sir; is there a washer and dryer on location?"

The night attendant, reading a worn copy of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue looks up at me a moment and blinks, taking almost a full minute to process what I've said. I stand there, eyebrow raised, awaiting a response. "Uh, yeah, it's in the room round the back. Go back outside and take the first left, the door should be open."

Thanking him quietly, I exit and do as he says, finding the door open and the light on. Opening up the lone washing machine, I take the laundry inside and dump it in unceremoniously, not caring in the least at this point if I mix my darks with my lights, so long as they're clean and inoffensive in their scent. There's a detergent dispenser on the far side of the room and I pick up a plastic cup discarded nearby, searching my pockets for a quarter to put in so that I might acquire it's coveted cleaning powers. Finding the piece of change, I put it into the slot and twist, watching as the powder falls into my cup for a moment before it ceases and I plod back over to my machine. I take a whiff of the stuff and cough, the strong scent of laundry detergent slapping me in the face before I tip the cup over and dump it into the washer, turning it on and picking the "cold, large load" setting. Realizing that I'm going to be at this for quite some time, I pick up my CD player from within the depths of my backpack, grinning as I note the guilty pleasure of a mix CD within. In no time at all my wash is halfway done and I'm dancing about as much as is physically able in my condition, though no less idiotically, singing along to the song blocking all other rational sensibilities from my mind.

"Give me envy, Give me malice, give your attention
Give me envy, Give me malice, baby, give me a break!
When I say "Shotgun", you say "Wedding"
"Shotgun", "Wedding", "Shotgun", "Wedding"!"

Noting the figure at the door, leaning against the frame with eyebrow quirked, I stop abruptly, ripping the headphones off and grasping for some semblance of dignity. Knowing there was none to be found after having been caught so utterly, I wince, taking the plunge. "Need to use the washer?"

Logan shakes his head, moving into the room and sitting on a lone plastic chair. "No, just coming out for a bit of fresh air." He pauses a moment, letting the awkwardness saturate the room before speaking again. "You choreograph all that yourself?"

I glare at him despite the blush creeping up my cheeks, noting the faint smirk on his face. "If I'd known I were to have an audience perhaps I might have worn my tiara as well. It's rude to sneak up on people, you know. I might have been in a state of undress or something equally as compromising."

He lets out a short bark of laughter. "Kid, there's not much more compromising that you could have done after those dance moves."

Scowling, I take my CD player and return it to my backpack. "If I'd been made aware you were going to be showing up anytime soon, trust me, I would have saved it for a more private occasion. Dancing like that usually takes place in one's undergarments in front of a mirror, knowing most of the people my age. Besides, I'm a bit classier than that, I'll have you know. I do ballroom."

There was a faint bit of surprise in his eyes, an appraising amusement. "Tango and all that stuff?"

I nod, hearing the buzz of the washer and transferring the load into the dryer in armfuls. "I've been taking lessons since I was about thirteen. My parents got so sick of seeing my trying to prance around to Disney movies as a child that they finally allowed me to go." I pause, glancing up at him to where he now stands on my right; it's then that the pang of unease settles into my gut and I look up at him. He's tense, sniffing the air in the silence, the whir of the dryer being the only notable sound for a few moments save the soft inhales and exhales. "There's something wrong, isn't there?" I ask in a low voice, fearing the answer.

"Wait here," he orders, slipping back outside and out of view, his footfalls making not a sound. Quickly I stop the dryer, throwing my damp clothing into my backpack and zipping it up, listening intently. My ears are met with silence, which only sets to put my nerves on edge. Then I hear it, the screeching halt of tires on asphalt and what sounds like a group of drunken, rowdy men.

It's a lynch mob.

Throwing my backpack on, I tear off towards the front office, only to find it conveniently empty of its former occupant. "Hello? Sir?" Not a sound, though I can hear hell being raised in the small parking lot behind me. Rushing to the desk, I do the first thing that any semi-responsible individual in my circumstance would; I dial 911. It takes me less than a second to realize that not only are we in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, but that the law in places like this probably shares the views of the drunken, weapon-wielding lunatics outside when it comes to people like Logan and I. Cursing, I slam the phone back into its cradle and grab the fire extinguisher by the desk, booking it outside. I have to scoop my jaw off the floor when I see a nearby car on fire and three large, burly men already lying on the pavement. They look like discarded GI Joe action figures. And there in the middle of it all, in all his fierce, animalistic glory, is Logan, my amazing Knight in Denim Armor. There's six more guys railing on him still, and the biased stance irks me in a way that few things do. So, despite my injured state, I act with the rational of a thirteen year old with tortes, hurling the fire extinguisher as hard as I can towards them. It lands in the windshield of a rather familiar-looking pick-up truck and, for a moment, all eyes rest on me.

Its right about then that I come to realize, rather belatedly, I might add, that I'm a complete fucking idiot.

Jim Bob with the keys starts calling me all sorts of nasty things and suddenly he and a friend are charging at me like I'm swinging a red table cloth. So I do the next thing I can think of; I turn around and run as fast as my legs can carry me. Unfortunately, though, my legs aren't the smartest of limbs, and I'm cursing my sudden and illustrious bout of stupidity as I find myself in the laundry room once again. Because really, where else do you go when you want to get away from two hulking hillbillies hellbent on beating the shit out of you? They don't seem to fear the ultra clean scent wafting out of the room, because soon enough the two men are moving through the doorway and I'm trying hard not to do lines of detergent off the dryer to rid my senses of the smell of them.

"You got any idea how much I'm gonna have to pay to fix up mah truck on the count of y'all and your mutie friend?" he rages, nearing closer. He and his buddy know they have me cornered, so they're taking their time with it, their dim-witted, bloodthirsty minds soaking in the satisfaction of my supposedly helpless situation.

What they don't know is that I can feel all the water piping through this place, that I can feel it moving with more certainty than I can the blood flowing in my own veins. At this point it's just a waiting game. "If you weren't an asshole with a small penis complex, we wouldn't be having this discussion to begin with, would we?"

Jim Bob spits a wad of tobacco out and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. "Bitch, you're barking up the wrong tree. You'll be lucky to make it out of here tonight with a broken arm and some loose teeth after Zeke here has his way with you."

Shooting a look over at Zeke I curl my lip. Zeke looks like the sort of person who regularly has his way with a herd of sheep and I'll be damned if that man lays one finger on me, adding to the ménage of handprints, bruises and broken bones I've already acquired. "Please, you filth couldn't so much as breath on me if you wanted to. Now back off."

"I'm gettin' a li'l antsy man, you wanna let me have a go at her? She'll apologize to ya real nice like after I smack her a few times." There's less than ten feet between us and the bastard is play-swatting at my face with a big, meaty hand. Recalling the incident back at the ally, the utter rage at being so completely helpless within a situation, I feel something in me snap and the washing machine explodes, water shooting everywhere. Confused and hurt, the two men start shouting, trying to rouse themselves from where they lie against the wall, but the spray intensifies and refocuses, pinning them like insects to the plaster and the faded '60's wallpaper motif.

"Want to try and smack me around now, assholes?" I yell, holding my arm out towards the water flow and clenching my fist. The liquid engulfs their bodies, leaving only their heads bobbing stupidly above water, the currents around them too binding to allow any movement. "Want to make me pay for your idiocy in the parking lot of some stupid bar? With my body, no less? My underage mutant body?" There's a deep, dark sort of satisfaction I achieve, watching their terror as I punctuate that last sentence with a slow rising of the water level. Aw, well will you look at that; the good ol' boys are sitting in the corner whimpering like babies. I'm almost on the verge of laughter when I hear someone else in the doorway.

"Mills? Are you all right?"

"Logan?" My concentration breaks and the water falls to the floor. I'm stunned for a moment, eyes looking him over.

He snaps me out of my haze. "Come on, kid, we don't wanna be here when the police arrive." He snarls down at the two sodden men cowering on the floor. I walk by them without incident and we go out to the parking lot.

I take in the scene and curse. "Holy shit, Logan, it looks like the fucking apocalypse hit out here!" There's two more vehicles on fire and a six person total body count. I'm not sure if they're alive or not, but I'd bet money on the fact that those bearing the tell-tale claw marks are going to wish they'd never woken up that morning. Assuming, of course, that they ever do wake up again. I'm so busy taking everything in as we go to Logan's truck that I barely have time to register the sound of someone cocking a loaded shotgun behind us. Logan, of course, amazing piece of genetics that he is, does, and I feel him grab fistfuls of my jacket, tossing me through the air while I shriek my confusion.

The shot goes off and I land, skidding to a halt on the other side of an old Honda Civic. Shaken, I raise myself and see the night clerk, standing a few feet away from the office, gun in hand. A cold, sick feeling wraps itself around my insides when I realize that Logan hasn't charged forward yet to make him into a human shishcobob. Ignoring the stabbing, aching pains in my chest I shamble over to his prone form, sprawled haphazardly across the ground. Kneeling, I have to struggle to keep the bile down my throat when I see the ugly wound on his stomach. "Logan? Logan, please wake up. Oh god, Logan?"

He's breathing, which is more than anyone without a mutant healing ability could say if they were in such a state, but it's low and shallow. My ears perk up as I hear the distinct sound of the shotgun being reloaded slowly, the owner of the weapon all too happy to take his time, apparently, with what appeared to be his final victim of the evening. Trembling with rage and exertion from the previous display of my powers, I stand. "You fucking monster," is the last thing he hears before the world's only desert tidal wave comes crashing down on him from above.

Walking shakily over to his sopping body, I pick up the shotgun, hurling it through the office window, unsure as to his state after taking such a blow. Strangely enough, it's that final thing that triggers the hotel's alarm system and I yell with frustration, hobbling my way back to Logan as fast as I'm able. His wounds have yet to seal themselves, prompting a great deal of scared psycho-babbling on my end as I try to drag him back toward his truck. "Come on you fucking pansy! You've got healing powers, what good are they if they don't fucking kick in on time!" I don't know if it's from sheer exhaustion at this point or the fact that I'm just too goddamn weak to finish the job, but I fall to my knees, unable to move him any further.

"Come on Logan, please wake up. I'm sorry for being difficult, I'm sorry for being a total pain in the ass. I'll be decent this time around, I swear. Please, please wake up," I'm patting his cheeks, trying to rouse him from his state to no avail. A choked sob rises up and out of me, tears streaming down my face at the hopelessness of my situation, grief for my fallen protector over-riding the rage of my vengeance and retribution against his attacker. I'm such a stupid, scared kid. "Please Logan? I need you, please don't leave me, I can't get to that stupid school without you. You're the only other person like me, please wake up!"

I cover my face with my hands, the hollow feeling of defeat setting in. For all he'd done for me, for his selflessness, he didn't deserve this, and there was nothing I could do to help him in the end. Sick with myself I look down at the injury on his stomach only to stare in wonder as the thing begins to close itself up, muscle and skin reknitting themselves as the offending bits of metal are discarded, falling onto the pavement below us. It's the most fascinating, magnificent thing I've ever seen and soon enough the final piece of skin closes over, leaving him unblemished, though drenched in his own blood. Awed, I carefully trace a hand over him, amazed beyond all comprehension. When he finally shoots up, breathing heavily and looking around wildly, I flinch, scooting backward a bit. "Logan?"

He calms, standing and looking down at his ruined clothes with a grimace. "We need to get out of here. The nearest police station is a half an hour away, but they'll be here soon." I pull myself to my feet unsteadily. At this point, I'm really not sure how much more of this I can take and Logan seems to notice. Brow furrowed, he looks me over. "You get him, Mills?"

Not "kid", "Mills", an amount of familiarity betraying the cool. I incline my head. "Yeah, I got him."

He nods his approval and I feel pride swell within me. Putting one of my arms over his shoulder and helping me walk back to the truck he acknowledges my state. "Sorry I scared you."

I bite back a sarcastic remark, understanding that any denial at this point is utterly futile. For all I know he actually heard my little tirade and that's enough to buy my sincerity. "It's all right. I mean, I knew you were going to heal and everything, but it just seemed to be taking so long and- fucking Christ, I've never seen something that bad, I've never seem so much blood in my life. Usually when that happens people die, and the thought of being out here all alone, of them finding me like this-"A chill runs up my spine and I banish my thoughts with a firm shake of my head. "Sorry, I'm rambling."

"It'll take more than a couple of truckers to get me outta commission, kid." He opens the passenger's side door of his truck and helps me up into it, shutting it when I've gotten myself situated. Climbing back into the driver's side he wastes no time in getting us the hell out of there and off the main highway, taking us on winding, sloping back roads that jostle me about uncomfortably. Not that it's really possible to ever be completely contented when one's ribs are broken but honestly, the potholes in this thing couldn't possibly have been repaired since the '70's, if even then.

"Are we stopping again tonight?" I ask drowsily, not really wanting to fall asleep in the car again due to nerves yet slowly losing ground to the weariness washing over my body.

He shakes his head, puffing away at a cigar. "Not tonight, it's too risky. We want to be a good long way off from that motel before we buckle down anywhere for the night."

I frown at him, concerned. "When are you going to sleep then? You look like shit, you need some rest."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, kid," he says, giving me a look. When he sees my actual worry he sighs. "I'll pull off for a few hours before dawn and sleep a bit, change out of my clothes. Happy?"

I snort, unbuckling my seatbelt and laying myself gently down on my side with a slight hiss of pain, curling up on the seat next to him. "I'd rather you actually ate a decent meal and then had a good night's rest, but I'll take what I can get." Sensing rather than seeing the raised eyebrow I add, "What? Someone has to worry about your scruffy ass."

He seems amused by this despite the tonality of what we've just left behind. "'Scruffy'? What is it with you and my hair, Mills? You have some sort of grudge against facial hair?"

"Facial hair? Please, I've seen cats with less whiskers on their face. That's a fucking forest, is what it is. Mutton chops and all that. Any more of it I'd start calling you Chewie." All right, so the dorky Star Wars reference was a bit stupid, but noting the last two hours I'd like to think my offence toward my usual witticisms can be pardoned for the time being.

He shakes his head wryly and for a moment I'm amazed at the complete and utter trust I've developed in a person I've known for less than forty-eight hours. If someone had told me this were possible a week ago I would have laughed in their face and told them where to stick their stupid motivational speeches. And yet here I am, curled up in the passenger's seat of some P.O.S., beat-up crap basket on four wheels with Logan of all people. And even in spite of what happened earlier at the motel, I feel the safest I've ever been. Humming quietly to myself, "Greensleeves" if one were really that interested, I start to nod off, absently noting the fingers that reach down to brush the hair off my face before the bumps in the road lull me into slumber.

Lyrics (unfortunately) belong to Panic! At The Disco's 'Time to Dance'. Hooray for guilty pleasures.