In the previous chapter, Logan suffers a gun shot wound to the chest while rescuing two small boys. Sue is working to gain his trust so that she can try to ease his symptoms and pain. We join them in the med lab as she examines him.

CHAPTER TEN

Snatching my hand, his grip threatens bruising on my wrist. "What the hell ya doin'?"

If I could morph into a Gorgon I would. "Let me go this instant and I'll explain."

Smart man, he hears, sees and heeds even if he looks meaner than a junk yard dog.

We stare each other down for a few seconds before he mutters, "Sorry."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "It's called chest percussion-"

Cutting me off, his tone is snide, "Really?"

I've had it with your jerk-off attitude. "Logan, would you like to learn how I handle unmanageable patients?"

It's another stare-down, before he cracks the slightest crooked smirk, "Play bongos on their chest, obviously."

Oh, ha ha. I bite my lip to keep from grinning. Feeling as though the emotional rubber band isn't stretched quite so tightly, I quip, "No, but it sounds like something to try. Seriously though, I'm trying to hear what's going on inside your lungs."

"Ain't that what the wha'chacallit, stethoscope does?"

"Yes, within limits."

"What about just takin' a picture, like ya promised?"

"That's going to happen. I'm just trying to decide whether I want a full chest series. Believe me or not, I am trying to keep this as simple as possible."

He nods and I continue flicking my middle finger down a vertical line on his chest.

"So what do ya do?"

"Huh? Lean forward." I repeat the percussion technique on his back.

"Handle rotten patients?"

"Oh, well, I find the biggest bore needle I can, load it up with an oil-based sedative and stab the recalcitrant in his gluteus maximus."

He mutters, "Ouch."

Finished with percussion I suggest, "Settle back.

"We done?"

"Picture time and I want to do a full series, okay?"

"What the fuck's a full series?"

"X-rays and a CT scan."

"What's a see-tee scan?"

"Same thing as Doctor Gray did a while back."

"Oh yeah, that body scan." He sighs and drags his hand through his hair. "Whatever."

I hunt through a cabinet, "Here you go," then present him with a short, flimsy cotton gown.

"Forget that."

"Logan, it's going to be hard enough getting a readable scan with the metal on your bones. I don't want to deal with jean rivets, too."

"Okay. Boxers 'r naked. You pick."

Oy! Don't tempt me, Mister Studly. I close my eyes and shake my head. "Do your boxers have any metal snaps?"

I don't believe it! He unzips his jeans and actually checks his underwear.

"Well, look-ee here, doc." He points to the buttons on the fly of his undershorts, "Looks like metal to me."

He's being an ass on purpose.

Okay, it's killing me not to gawk, let alone react or comment. The guy is clearly packing a howitzer in his shorts. But, dog-gone it, there's such a thing as professional ethics.

Tracking my eyes anywhere but on his crotch and offering the gown once more, I suggest, "It's kinda chilly in radiology and, oh, by the way, that fiberglass table is mighty cold on the backside."

Please, please don't call my bluff.

"Call me a little slow sometimes but you're scanning my chest, right?"

"Yes."

"So, what's metal snaps below my waist hav'ta do with scanning above my waist?"

Well, knock me over with a feather! "Not a darn thing. You're absolutely correct."

xXx

"Fuck off! I said pictures and that's it! Nobody's stickin' a needle in my hide. Never again."

Might not be able to suck air but a jolt of pure adrenalin gets the job done. I'm off the bed and on my way out of the med lab.

From her reaction, I know Sue doesn't like what she sees on my x-rays. Hell, I don't have to see them to know I won't like it either. Fucking scan she tried was a total bust. My healing factor knocked out the dye soon as it hit my blood stream. Probably could've told her that would happen.

Did it stop there? Oh, hell no.

"Logan, please consider it."

"Sure, stick a tube in me. That'll help. Know what happened the last time somebody stuck a tube in me?"

I'd don't give her a chance to answer. "I died."

"What?"

"Go ask Reyes. She can give ya all the gory details."

"Oh, that. If your chart is correct, you suffered an adverse reaction from a transfusion."

"Adverse reaction? My fuckin' heart stopped!"

"A needle thoracentesis isn't the same thing. I'll be taking blood out-"

"Shut up!" Sliding into full feral battle mode, I barely control myself from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her like a rag doll.

The sour stink of her fear reins me back. Gesturing retreat, I drop my hands to my sides but the venom in my voice remains. "I don't give a flyin' fuck what it is. I ain't havin' it."

The fear's still there even as her eyes go hard, her voice cold and exact, "You have man-handled me for the last time. Therefore, I release you from my care."

It's my turn for a deer in the headlights expression. Never figured she'd roll over this quick. Maybe she hasn't because she's glaring at me with her arms crossed and she stinks of big time pissed off. Yeah, well me too, doc. "Good. I'm outta here."

She snorts as I slam the elevator button hard enough to crack the plastic.

I glare at her over my shoulder, "You got somethin' else to say?" as I step into the elevator.

Just like that, she flips one eighty with her attitude and I have to lean toward her to hear, "Do you want me to call you when Deshaun wakes up?"

Bulls' eye! Clean shot to my soft spot for kids. "Uh, yeah."

She nods and turns on her heel. Just before she ducks into the kids' room, I call out, "Hey, if something gets really bad, I'll call for help. Okay?"

I see her shoulders lift and sag. Slowly, she turns to face me. "I'm sorry," she says but her expression is anything but. "You're released. You'll have to call another provider."

And then she's gone.

What the fuck?

I smack the button on the inside of the elevator and bust that one.

Bitch.

Fine!

Don't need ya.

Takes me all of a minute and a half to make it to my quarters. The animal's back in the cage but I'm still cussing as I fall face first across the bed.

Damn fucking fool. You had no business roughing her up.

Damn do-gooder docs. Leave me the fuck alone.

Released, eh? Probably means I'll be looking for another fuck buddy too.

Rolling onto my back, I heave a deep breath. Big mistake. Feels like a barbed lance in my chest, even worse than the normal burn of my healing factor. Sitting up, I curl into myself and take short sips of air.

Stretching out flat on my back is out. Feels like an elephant sitting on my chest.

Maybe I ought to . . .

Nah.

I scrunch up a pair of sad and abused pillows to form a wedge and prop myself on them. Yeah, better but not great. Now, instead of an elephant, it only feels like a hippo.

Is this hunk of lead in my lung fragmented? Whatever the deal is, it isn't coming out the easy way.

Okay, maybe I was a little hasty turning down the oxygen.

Damn, I'm cold. Burying myself in the comforter does sweet fuck all for the raging fever. Too stubborn or stupid to back down, I throw an arm over my eyes and fall into that black hole of my healing factor.

xXx

I slump into a chair beside the charting station complaining, "Definitely not one of my finer moments," to Cecelia Reyes and Electra Marquez.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Cecelia counsels. "You locked horns with Wolverine and won."

"More like quit."

"You handled it just right," adds Electra. "Trust me, when I thought he was going to grab you I was about thirty seconds away from coming out there and zapping him. I've never seen him turn on one of us like that."

Cecelia gushes, "Ooh ladies! Lucky you missed last years' drama. Take his chart alerts seriously."

"For the record, he didn't touch me. But yep Ceece, you're right. That's what I get for blurring the line between professional and personal."

Cecelia stares at me like I've lost my marbles while Electra tuts, "That's no excuse, for Logan, that is."

What's done is done. I wave them both off. "Question is, how do I fix it?"

"You don't," is their unanimous reply.

"But no one will fault you if you consult Charles," suggests Electra.

Huh? I pose the question with my expression.

"Telepath," Electra reminds me.

I twist my mouth, chewing on my inner cheek, internally debating the value of such a gross violation of Logan's privacy. "Kind of under handed, not to mention flagrant HIPAA violation, don't you think?"

Cecelia explains, "No. It's a fair use of available," she makes quotations marks with her fingers, "technology. Think of Charles as an organic monitoring system."

"And Logan's no dummy. If he's so adamant, he'll block him," adds Electra.

"He can do that?"

"Si, to a point. But if Charles really sets his mind to it, no pun intended, no one on the planet, even Logan, stands a chance."

"Hmm. Nice to know. I think."

Cecelia says, "Don't mean to pry but what's with personal side of the equation?"

I'm quick to answer, "As of this moment, not a gosh-darn thing," and think to myself, because it's hard to ignore that he's a stick of dynamite that will explode in my face on both a personal and professional level

"You know what?" I press my fingers together to crack my knuckles. "Logan is a big boy. He refused care and left my clinic A.M.A. I informed him his choice left me no option but release him to another provider. Let the consequences fall where they may."

My decision seems to rate a consensus. With that decision made, we three tend to saving little Deshaun's arm, by no means a certainty yet.

xXx

Around six a.m. I cave in and check on Logan. Deshaun emerging from anesthesia and asking for food gave me an excuse.

He doesn't answer his cell but honestly I don't know if he even has it turned on or charged and his land line goes straight to voice mail. Great! I get to disturb Electra to ask where Logan's room is.

Right second floor hallway, fourth door on the left, I stand here like an idiot. Yes, I'm worried that he hasn't answered his phone but I'm also moderately chicken to knock. And then there's the whole issue with my pride.

Gently, I tap the rhythm shave and a haircut.

I hear rustling on the other side of the door, then a gravely sounding, "Wha'cha want?"

"Um, it's me. Doctor Sue."

"I know."

You do? Oh yeah, you probably do.

"I promised to let you know when Deshaun woke up." I can't resist adding, "How are you doing?"

I hear more movement, dry, hacking coughing and a string of groaning curses.

"Not so good," I answer for him just as the door cracks open.

"Not dead yet," he quips and pushes the door wide open.

"So I see." I don't accept his gesture to enter.

He does look okay and I don't just mean this naked from the waist up, broad shouldered, perfect specimen of masculinity. His color's back to normal. Vanished is any trace of the chest wound. But, slightly hunched forward, guarding his chest says he's still in significant pain.

"How's the kid doin'?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?" No need to verbalize my ulterior motive. Namely, better assessment of your condition.

I notice a stifled gasp as he bends down to retrieve a shirt from the floor. While he's dressing I can't help also noticing how Spartan his living space is.

From what I can see just standing at the door, his taste seems to lean toward a modern Asian influence – I think. In front of a window is a knee high rectangular table. Centered on the floor in front the table is a dark green cushion. On top of the table is a container of skinny paintbrushes and is that a bottle of ink? Is that calligraphy stuff? He does calligraphy!

"Hey, about earlier tonight, ya know I didn't mean nuthin'."

Thinking hate to see you when you mean something, I say nothing.

He's got quite an impressive collection of swords and knives mounted above the mantle and on the wall at the head of his platform bed. From the gleaming blades, he takes good care of them. Another notable is a large bookcase packed to bursting and twin stacks of books on either side of a tattered lounger chair on the other side of the fireplace.

Finishing up the last button on his flannel shirt, he expounds, "It's just that when I'm in threatening situation or when I'm in pain I get a little crazy."

A little crazy? Ooh, let me tell you a thing or two. Holding back, I shake my head. "Now isn't the time for this discussion."

He shrugs. "Can I at least say I'm sorry?"

"Yes you may."

Perhaps expecting I'd back down, he snorts and walks past me. Proceeding in single file to the med lab, the conversation stays confined to Deshaun's condition.

xXx

It doesn't take a trained professional to notice the exertion of visiting with Deshaun takes a toll on Logan. Grabbing his attention, "Hey there," as he shuffles toward the elevator I give him another chance. "You're not completely healed are you?"

He raises his hands to the ceiling but there's no oomph in his voice. "You don't quit do ya? I'm fine."

Liar.

Dammit. The stick didn't work last time. Let's try a carrot. "What if I told you that I think I can speed up your recovery with something as simple as a chair, a table and a pillow?"

High pressure oxygen, too but I'll let that slide for the moment.

From arms crossed over his chest and the single arched eyebrow, I can't decide whether he's curious or thinks I'm full of b.s.

"Right," he drawls skeptically.

He thinks I'm full of b.s.

"Chair, table, pillow, eh?" He raises three fingers illustrating each point. "If I try this kooky thing o'yers, will ya shut up and go away."

"Absolutely." I cross my fingers behind my back.

He tries to release a sigh but a fit of coughing doubles him over. Flushed bluish in the face, he wheezes, "Lead on."

xxx

"Thought you said a chair?" he complains as I pat the bed for him to sit.

"I didn't take account for your height. Trust me, okay."

Shaking his head, he settles on the edge of the mattress.

"Aw, what the fuck?" he whines when I squeeze his finger between the pulse oximeter clips.

"Just wanna see how you're actually progressing from a few hours ago."

He grumbles, "I'm fine."

Gesturing, I ask, "Lift up your shirt, please."

"Only if you lift up yours."

I feel fire gather in my cheeks and how I wish I had a mutation to roast him with it. "I'm trying very hard to convince myself that you have a quirky sense of humor. But in case you haven't noticed, I'm not laughing."

He casts his eyes to the floor. "Over the top, eh?"

"No, more like down the sewer." Done with this string of conversation I keep quiet, simply listening through the stethoscope.

"Nice. Sounds better," I report.

"Could've told ya that."

"Uh huh. Though without pictures, I can't prove or disprove."

"Yeah well, I had a collapsed lung before and it takes a frikin' long while, even for me, to get over."

"C'mon, scoot yourself squarely." I set a tray table in front of him. "What I'm going to have you do absolutely can't hurt and I'm hopeful it's going give your healing factor a boost."

Next, I grab the pillow from the head of the bed and place it on top of the table. All the while, he wears an amused smirk.

"Lean forward, just like earlier when I played bongos on your back."

"Fuck. Not that again."

I retrieve a tank and oxygen mask from the cabinet. "Nope. Put this on, please and cinch the straps tightly."

I stop dead in my tracks as his eyes narrow and he snarls, "Go ta hell."

"It's only high pressure oxygen."

"Maybe so, but ya ain't strapping that mask on my face."

"May I ask why not?"

"Ya just ain't." He's got that fight or flight look about him, the same I saw at the restaurant when the waiter startled us both dropping a tray.

"If we don't cinch it tight and you simply hold it yourself, would that work?"

Staring past me, he takes a long moment to finally nod.

I hand over the mask, "Hold it tightly over your nose and mouth. Try breathing as normally as you can. If it starts to feel uncomfortable, give yourself a break."

He coughs as the oxygen flows. "Stinks," he complains. "Makes me wanna barf."

Has to be psychosomatic but just in case, I stick a basin lined with a towel on the bed next to him. "Take a break if you feel nauseated."

He shakes his head and guts it out, moving the mask aside a few times to cough. Resisting the potential counter-productive urge to hover, I get busy elsewhere, though not too far elsewhere.

Reading his chart does no justice compared to observing how quickly his healing factor responds. I'm amazed that it's only minutes before his pulse ox level rises to his normal baseline. Gone are the grunts, wheezes and retractions with every breath.

"I'm going to leave you alone for a few minutes. Time for me to check on Deshaun."

He mumbles, "How much longer I gotta do this?" from under the mask.

"Well, how do you feel? Is the chest pain gone? Do you feel like you're breathing normally?"

"Think so." Dropping the mask, he breathes unaided. "Yeah."

I study the monitors. "Vitals are good. Hang around 'til I get back. I'll take a listen and then probably boot you out of here."

For the first time in half a day he cracks a half grin. "Okay."

Just as I exit I hear, "Thanks, Sue."

xXx

Half an hour later I return to find Logan flat on his back, dead asleep. He doesn't move a muscle as I slip the pulse oximeter over a fingertip. The thing shows normal readings, so I take it away. Carefully, I warm my stethoscope and take a brief listen. Fantastic, all clear sounding. And he's still out cold. This must be that healing coma mentioned in his chart.

I start to pull the blanket over him then have a brainstorm. I dim the lights and make a quick trip to his room.

Two minutes later, I tuck him in with the blanket from his bed. My theory is his own scent will offset the scents of the med lab at least a little bit, I hope.

Feeling like things are under control for the first time in hours, I stretch and yawn. "I'm fried to a crispy critter," I say to myself. Oh my gosh! It's half past six in the morning. And I thought keeping clinic at a private school would get me out of some of those all-nighters.

Well, no point in going home now. I'll just have to round on Deshaun in a few hours. Since Charles is keeping a telepathic tether on the child, at least I can grab a little sleep here. Taking the elevator that deposits me directly to my clinic, I draw all the draperies and lock the door. Gathering up a few pillows and a blanket from the exam rooms, I snuggle into the sofa in the waiting area.

The next thing I know, a beam of sunlight from between the drapery zaps me in the eye and I bury my face in a pillow. It's the demanding knock at the door that rouses me as effectively as a drill sergeant might on the first day of basic training.

Here we go again.

XXX

A/N Traffic on all of my stories is down drastically. I'm certain the time between posting has an effect. But for those of you reading my chapters it would be very much appreciated if you'd comment. Is what I'm writing boring? There's no way I'm that good that no one has something to point out. C'mon people, without feedback the temptation to suspend this story may get the better of me.

Disclaimer time again: Marvel-make that Disney, owns the X-Men. I'm not posting this for financial gain.