A/N: This story is a gift for my frequent beta, and good friend, SinJazz aka Dream_Dancer who loves her some Logan and many, many Moons ago specifically requested something between Logan and a normal woman.

Back in the 1996 a prose anthology book called 'The Ultimate X-Men' was published. This story takes one of the stories from that anthology (specifically 'Gift of the Silver Fox' and retells it from the point of view of a character original to that story. As such it is only right that I give proper mention of Ashley McConnell who wrote the original story and whose work I borrowed from liberally, to the point of repeating outright passages from.

This isn't really set in any particular version of X-Men. I sort of leant a little bit more towards the comic books because that's what I know and love the best, but I tried to generalise it enough so that it could theoretically anyone with a cursory knowledge of X-Men might be able to follow along.

This is my first ever attempt at X-Men fanfiction (I usually do Sailor Moon and have dabbled in Spider-Man too) so let me know how it turned out.

I must also express the most profound of thanks to LillieBell for betaing this beast (and my Wolverine fic from last year too) which has been a WIP for a looooooooong time, lol.

Frigid winds howled beyond the window. Within the toasty log cabin however, Gayle sighed in exasperation. Sipping a warm mug of cocoa, her gaze slowly scanned across her Springtime home.

It was a neat single room. At either end of the room was a well worn stone fireplace, a dozen blocks of firewood piled neatly nearby it. Alongside the fireplace was a hearth to warm the room whereas the fireplace was more for cooking. Both were well complimented by an oven and stove vented into the chimney at one end of the cabin. By contrast there was no refrigerator; such a contraption was hardly necessary given the climate and the late December season.

Adjacent to the fireplace, and set between two timber beams (one older than the other), was a rope-sprung Queen sized bed piled deep with furs. Similar furs hung, ranging from black to brown to silver, upon the wall and served as rugs on the floor.

Up against the far wall, opposite the window, was a clothes chest and cabinets, the pair placed so close to one another they almost seemed to be connected. Composed of the same carved timberwood were four log stools surrounding a humble round table, a pair of trapping devices laying upon it.

There was also a kind-of-sink along with a stack of buckets and a bathing tub big enough to sit in, the water stored in several containers that sat beneath an entire wall's worth of shelves. Upon the shelves were a whole cavalcade of supplies, sacks of flour, beans, jars, cans and one shelf devoted to books. The other wall featured a scant few photographs that hung above a shelf where two identical decorated mugs stood. The mugs were dusty and unused, much like the guitar that hung from a peg on the door side wall.

Accompanying the guitar was a gun and an assortment of jackets, coats and parkas, a few of which were far too big for Gayle. The same was true of a set of unused snowshoes that lay beneath the pegs, next to another pair that were well worn.

The cabin was illuminated by a combination of a humble ceiling light, oil lamps and several candles. The window Gayle sat by was composed of single glazed glass and oiled paper, obscuring her view. Although, between the snowstorm and the sun having set long ago, that hardly made much difference.

All in all, the place was quintessentially cosy, at least to Gayle anyway.

Her eyes zeroed in on the bed, then began to drift over to the pegs by the door before she sharply looked away.

Yes. Cosy. And yet, tonight the cabin seemed rather large…and lonely…

Gayle couldn't help herself. She looked up at the wall of photos. Although they were illuminated by the golden glow of the lamps and candles, she could easily distinguish the central picture, and the square-jawed young man with a slightly wild auburn beard at its centre. Hanging on his arm was a wide-eyed woman with curly, medium length, dirty blonde hair. The young woman had the faintest laugh lines around her eyes. Gayle smiled sadly at the photographic woman, knowing full well how the bearded man would make those lines deepen over the consequent years. Of course, initially David hadn't made her laugh. On the contrary, she'd been mildly terrified of him. Though, that had had far less to do with him than it had her father.

Though he had meant well, her father had been on the overprotective side when it came to his precious little girl. He'd been wary about letting her own a dog or go on camping trips, and on the subject of boyfriends it was always a war.

It had been a little after high school when she'd met David, the local hunter who liked to drive a little too fast, stay out a little too late and lingered a little too long when she'd been working the counter at the supply store back then. Even before she'd learned those cursory facts about him, Gayle could hardly help but detect something was different about David. He had carried himself with confidence but nevertheless discomfort around the town, and especially within the supply store. That 'energy' surrounding David, along with his broad shoulders, slightly unkempt beard and low growl to his voice, made his infrequent visits to the store nevertheless memorable; for Gayle if no one else.

Given her upbringing, she had often wondered why she'd said yes when he'd asked her to lunch one cold afternoon. She was no psychologist, but over the years the best she could figure was he'd been a classic case of the forbidden fruit being the most tempting; or maybe it had been the conundrum of this wild looking man mentioning he played guitar as a hobby. A simple drink with the guy during her lunch hour had felt like breaking the rules, like she was living dangerously.

That was certainly how her father had seen it months later when she'd bought David home. The poor guy had practically had a heart attack on the spot. As if dating the guy wasn't bad enough, eventually he was taking her with him on camping trips where he serenaded her with guitar solos and gave her a crash course on the instrument. Eventually, that led to hunting trips where he similarly educated her on the wilderness itself. In both cases it turned out Gayle was a fast learner.

David wasn't stupid and didn't take risks. But for Gayle he, and the world he came from, had been wild ; and thereby enticing. Soon enough she grew to embrace the life David lived as if she had grown up with it herself.

Her. David. The snowy vista. They were entwined together…Inseparable…

Averting her sight from the cabin, she instead looked out the window, a tiny patch of oiled paper providing a 'porthole' from which Gayle could gaze out. Of course, it was pitch black. But, as the candles diminished over the hours, and her eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, she began to see shapes in the night. The outhouse in the distance. The pen and kennels where the guard dogs were sleeping. And the hypnotic dance of icy flakes in the air.

David had always loved it when it was snowing. So had she…until she'd found him lying in the cold, clutching his heart. He'd gone out to pick up an order he had placed with the jewellers. It was a silver necklace apparently. Gayle wasn't entirely sure because she'd never been able to bring herself to collect it. The thought of it hurt too much, just as the idea of giving up the cabin, their cabin, was too much to bear.

And so, she had lingered here, almost all year, every year…alone…

The first three years had been rough on her. The last two were somewhat easier. That'd mostly been thanks to…

As she became lost in the icy dance outside, Gayle's mind drifted back exactly two years ago. Drifted back to the day she had met… Wolverine …And the promise she'd made to him…

Rifle in hand, Gayle closed the cabin door behind her and trudged out the door. Her pack of guard dogs barked merrily in greeting as she passed them. She was decked out in leather pants and tunic, complete with a parka lined with tan and chocolate brown wolverine fur; nevertheless, she shivered as she neared the seventh trap she had laid.

As much as she had grown into the life of a hunter, she had never learned to like this part of the job; and hoped she never would. She was even more disheartened upon spotting the argent furred fox she had ensnared. But, it had been a bad season so she was going to have to take what she could get.

Reluctantly, Gayle laid down her gun, disabled the trap so she could hold the critter a loft, and prepared her hunting knife.

"No!"

Shocked, Gayle dropped the critter and spun around, her snowshoes threatening her sense of balance. As she righted herself and snatched up her rifle, Gayle was partially annoyed and partially relieved to hear the animal scurry off.

"What the hell d'you think you're doin'?" Gayle angrily shouted at the man uphill from her.

"She wasn't worth it," said the stranger, "An' I been followin' her-"

"What are you, some kind of nature freak?" Gayle removed her hood and ice goggles to get a better look at the jerk that had cost her her catch.

Like Gayle, he looked to be in his mid-thirties, well built, a little stocky, with dark hair that curved up on either side, almost like wolf ears, and small mutton chops flanking his cheeks. Dimly, Gayle noted that, whilst the stranger had a parka, he was nevertheless underdressed for the snowy weather.

Gayle blinked and swiftly composed herself, raising her rifle half an inch. "Look, buddy, this is my trap line. You're trespassing."

The stranger raised his open palmed hands. "Hey, no argument. I guess I just got caught by s'prise. Didn't think anybody'd bother to trap a fox in Spring. 'Sides, she's gonna litter soon."

Gayle flushed with embarrassment. "Yeah, well. It's been a bad season." She picked up the trap and began to examine it. "Barely even had this one. She'd have pulled out of it if I'd been half an hour later. Probably didn't even break her leg. I hate these damned things anyway…" Removing her backpack, Gayle placed the trap inside and looked up at the stranger. "What're you doing out here, anyway? I haven't seen another human being for eight months."

"Wanderin'," he replied.

Gayle stared at the stranger pensively. This man seemed…odd. There was a peculiar ease about him that she thought wouldn't be there if they were somewhere else. Somewhere with more people and less open space. At the same time, she recognised (all too well) that there was a weariness to the stranger. The weight of a life with a lot of living behind it; perhaps…too much? And, between his sharp eyes, his odd attire and the way he carried himself amidst the frigid surroundings, she also picked up an unmistakable…wildness too; just like…David's.

For a split second she felt rather strange. It took her a moment to realise the sensation had been a small, but insistent flush. The foreignness of the sensation made her feel the weight of the last several years more acutely than ever before.

The stranger gave her a quick, courteous nod before turning around and heading off, the crunching of his footfall snapping Gayle back to the present.

"I got some preserves, back at my cabin," Gayle called after him. "Storm's coming, too." A part of her questioned what she was doing. "You might want to get in out of it." Another, lonelier, and much more instinctual , part of her (a part that suddenly felt nineteen again) reaffirmed her commitment to this course of action.

The stranger stopped mid-stride. "Peach?" he asked after a few moments of silence, a soft unintentional growl to his tone.

"Strawberry," Gayle replied.

"Even better."

Gayle grinned. "Let's go, then."

Less than two hours later, Gayle was leading Logan towards the entrance of her cabin where her team of dogs were staked out. Before they entered, Gayle pointed out the lost-man line to the outhouse and made a small show of controlling the dogs, mostly so this wild stranger wouldn't get any 'funny ideas'.

Once inside, Gayle dumped her pack and traps before shucking off her parka and leather layers, though she set the rifle aside with far more care and respect. Gayle didn't bother looking Logan's way or ensuring he saw her hang the gun up where it'd be handy. Walking a fine line as she was, Gayle was no fool and presumed, between the gun and the dogs, this stranger wouldn't be one either.

"My name's Gayle," she said after the stranger had removed and hung up his own parka. As she said it, Gayle extended her hand out awkwardly. It really had been a long time since she'd had company over; and those broad shoulders and obvious biceps weren't helping matters.

"Logan." He took her hand, shook, and let go just as quickly. "Gotta thank you. Sounds like a bad one out there tonight."

As the wind howled against the door and window, Gayle smiled and moved to stoke the fire beneath a brewing pot. "Last big storm of the season, I hope," she said, moving a greying lock of hair out her face. She could feel Logan's eyes upon her. She decided she rather liked it.

"Ice ought to break on that stream anytime now," Logan said knowingly. When Gayle turned back around, he indicated towards his pack upon the floor. "I didn't come empty handed–got some caribou, just dried, if you'd like some."

Gayle was taken aback. So, this Logan was a bit of a gentleman; even better, she decided. However, something was amiss that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Her eyes surreptitiously scanned up and down Logan until, with a raised eyebrow, she figured it out. "Caribou? How'd you lose your gun?"

"Oh, things happen."

Gayle wasn't sure what to do with that. On the one hand, this guy being unarmed, possibly having been so careless as to lose his gun, should have been the absolute final confirmation that he was no threat to her. On the other hand, he didn't seem the careless type. And, perhaps it was just that she'd been alone too long, but she thought she could detect a fib beneath his casual response. That intrigued her.

Nevertheless, Gayle felt it'd be rude to push the matter (and potentially scare off the first guest she'd had in years) so she dropped it. As if in silent gratitude, Logan pulled the meat out of his pack. "More'n enough here for two."

Gayle took the food and laid it out on the table. "It looks good," Gayle prayed Logan could read the intent in her voice; it'd been far too long since she'd attempted to flirt; not that she'd had an overwhelming amount of experience in the first place.

"It was a healthy cow. I got lucky."

Was he playing back with her? If he was, should she take offence at that 'healthy cow' line? Or was she reading too much into his words? God, she really was ridiculously out of practice.

Gayle played it safe, simply nodding and putting the meat into the pot bubbling on the fire. After that she took a seat and began removing her boots. Using her chin she indicated to another chair. "Rest your hands and face. I'll set up a bed for you on the floor tonight, if you don't mind an air mattress." Between Logan's vagueness and hard to read response moments ago, Gayle had decided to not rush into anything. She was intrigued by him, but was also aware she might not like whatever she found out about him. So, for the time being at least, it was best to lay down the rules nice and clear. To that end she tempered her own expectations, although frankly, it'd be really nice just to have someone to talk to for a change.

"Don't mind at all," replied Logan, "I'm grateful," he said with a chuckle.

As subtle as she could, Gayle watched Logan strip down to jeans, socks and a red flannel shirt (Gayle inevitably spotting that the third button had come undone) that did a poor job of hiding his toned muscles that clearly weren't the product of a gym. That became all too apparent when he rolled up the sleeves on his thick forearms.

She wasn't quite sure if Logan caught her peeking, but Gayle nevertheless began making a fuss about dinner and setting the table. The movement helped to distract her from the potential embarrassment and provided an excuse for her suddenly hot cheeks. She was almost like a human pinball, bouncing in a triangle between the cabinet, the table and the stove, moving to the 'beat' laid down by the bubbling stew, the 'music' intermingled with treble trills of the rattling of the crockery and cutlery. And, as she scurried back and forth, her embarrassment gave way to a kind of excited frenzy. Maybe it was just for tonight, but nevertheless, for the first time in years she had company!

Ironically, her frenzy had completely distracted her from her guest altogether. As a result she nearly dropped a bowl when Logan spoke up, protesting that she was doing too much. His words served to slow her down, but Gayle spotted the look in his eye, the almost predatory hunger, like a wolf tracking its prey. It prompted her to happily keep piling ladle after ladle of stew onto Logan's plate, giggling at his concerns that he was eating into her supplies, and reassuring him that she had enough to last her until the thaw. Sure, she might need to go leaner until then (barring the season miraculously picking up) but it seemed a fair trade off for the company.

"Not usual to see a woman on her own up here," Logan said a little later whilst Gayle was cleaning up.

Gayle was a tad annoyed with herself for being taken aback by the question. Why wouldn't Logan, or any stranger for that matter, inquire about that?

"I suppose it isn't," she replied, impressed at the evenness of her own response, "We emigrated from Alaska ten years ago. My husband and I built this place. He died three years ago. Heart attack."

"Sorry to hear it."

The sound of Logan's low voice made Gayle reverberate with guilt for a moment. She took a deep breath, all hints of laughter from moments ago gone. Finally, she let out the breath, and smiled serenely. "David was a good man. I buried him here; I couldn't leave and go back to the cities. This is our place. I go down to Gensitka every year to sell furs and buy supplies, and the bush pilots stop by every once in a while to check on me. This year has been bad for that, though. I can talk to them on the radio if I need to."

The bush pilots? Why had she brought them up? To keep Logan in line of course. Just in case the dogs, the gun and the mattress hadn't been clear enough…right?

"So I'm not really alone."

The five little words had betrayed her. But she no longer cared. And, to her pleasure, Logan, picked up on the underlying request in her voice. Much more than her food or cabin, she had shared something with him; he responded in kind.

"I'm Canadian," he finally said, "Been knockin' around the world awhile." Gayle could tell. "But I miss the wild. Things get too complicated, I come back, roam around getting the kinks out."

"What kind of complicated?" Gayle asked in a deliberately casual voice, not entirely satisfied, and starting to get a little bit worried.

Logan simply smiled. "I'm not on anybody's wanted list, if that's what you're wondering. I'm retired military."

That certainly explained a lot. But…not entirely everything…

Over an hour later, Gayle set up the air mattress and furs for Logan whilst the man in question dressed for a trip to the outhouse. Gayle noted curiously that Logan seemed oddly reluctant to put his parka and boots back on, like it was a waste of his time. That was strange considering the far greater hassle he'd have if he went out without them.

When he closed the door behind him, Gayle began to ruminate on everything she'd learned about Logan.

It wasn't much, and she suspected far less than she might have learned from most people in the same span of time together.

Apart from being ex-military, he had divulged over cards that he had a place to stay up in Westchester, had lived and worked in Japan and even Madripoor (wherever that was). He had no kids, though Gayle suspected that came with the silent qualifier of 'that I know of'. However, he had said he was a father of sorts, vaguely talking about how in his line of work in Westchester he'd taken in a rogue cat or two. Gayle knew a few people who looked upon their pets as children, but Logan hardly seemed the type. Not because he was too heartless to care for an animal. On the contrary, Logan struck her as too at home in the wilderness to ever consider keeping an animal domesticated. She was abruptly reminded of his attitude toward the silver fox from earlier.

That thought in turn made her recall the caribou meat he'd provided. He'd said it was a healthy cow and the meat had tasted fresh enough.

"Oh, things happen…"

He must have lost his rifle not too long after bringing the beast down but…he seemed so unconcerned about being unarmed.

As she finished setting up Logan's mattress she caught sight of his pack. She shot a look at the cabin door. Logan had been gone for less than half a minute. He wouldn't be back until another five elapsed at least.

She bit her bottom lip…then let her curiosity get the better of her. As carefully and subtly as she could she nosed through the pack. When she was finished and put everything back she was more confused than she had been before.

There was…nothing? No handgun. No hunting knives. No weapons to speak of, not even any ammunition. Even if he had lost his rifle (which she now seriously doubted), unless Logan was simultaneously an expert at false bravado and the world's worst soldier, no way he'd be caught without any weapon or hunting tool at all. Not in this environment.

By the time Logan had returned, Gayle had managed to compose herself and not give anything away, but she lingered in the outhouse trying to puzzle out what was going on. Unsurprising, she failed and returned to the cabin, resolving to emulate Logan and give nothing away. For now.

"Jubilee…"

The word, moaned into the almost black void of the cabin, stirred Gayle from her sleep.

She looked over to Logan's air mattress, which lay more than six feet away from her own bed. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness she could see him tossing and turning in the bed.

Why would he be mentioning a royal celebration? Unless…could it be the name of a wo–

Logan tossed and turned again, and let out a loud grunt. No. Not a grunt. An animalistic growl! And then, by the last dying embers of the fire, she saw them!

A triplet of foot-long blades erupting from between each of Logan's knuckles, glinting with the light of the dwindling orange flames!

Gayle's breath caught. She couldn't move. She was so stunned she wasn't even sure if she was scared . Slowly, very, very slowly, Logan settled down. As he stilled, the blades retracted and his hand fell limp against the thick firs.

Immediately Gayle's eyes zeroed in on Logan's hand, trying to spot the blood she was sure must be soaking into the floor. But there was no blood. There was no wound to speak of. Had she not seen it for herself a mere second ago, Gayle might have believed the metal claws had been a figment of her imagination.

Seconds stretched into minutes which soon became the better part of an hour and all the while Gayle pretended to go back to sleep, as if she was playing possum. Tentatively, she shifted her head on her pillow and began raising her eyelids, as if any sudden movement might startle Logan.

By the time her vision had adjusted to the darkness again Logan had vanished! Her heart skipped a beat as she took in the empty mattress and sheets. It did not restart until she looked a little higher and spotted Logan by the window; he must've moved as silently as a ghost.

His posture was hunched and he was leaning his forehead against the window. Even in the darkness, even with his back turned to her, there was no mistaking the pain, the haunted regret consuming him. Or perhaps, Gayle simply saw what she wanted to see in Logan.

And what she saw right now was not unlike the poor critters she had ensnared in those damn traps of hers.

Slowly, Gayle got up and crossed the cabin floor, ensuring that Logan heard her as she approached, and well before she got within arm's length of him.

"Logan?" she said softly. "You were dreaming-nightmares-can I help?"

He shook his head. "No. Nothin' can help."

"I can help," she whispered. "I can." Logan shook his head again. "Then maybe you can help me."

The words passed her lips before she could even think to question them. But then, of course, what was there to question really. It had been a risk inviting Logan back to the cabin to stay, let alone sharing her food with him. It was a risk not unlike the one she had taken so long ago, that afternoon in the supply store. It had been the prospect of danger that had piqued her curiosity and enticed her in the first place. That gamble that had paid off for her and given her the best years of her life. It had been the risk that had taught her that danger was the price we paid for living, for truly living. Even if it was just for this one night, this one moment, she was ready to live again.

Her lips moved over to his broad shoulder.

"It's awful cold, Logan. Warm me." It was the least he could do to return her hospitality.

"I can't." Gayle could tell Logan's breath had caught. He was lying. "I don't know you," he forced out, "You don't know me."

Gayle acknowledged the truth of his words. She thought about the vague half-truths he'd spoken to her. She thought about the claws and unwounded hands. And then she had a wonderful, glorious, epiphany.

"It's better that way."

She moved between Logan and the window.

"I'm not looking for anything but comfort. Sounds like you could use a little comforting, too." Gayle leaned forward and very lightly kissed Logan's lips.

He didn't kiss her back. But nor did Logan, this wild, muscled military man who could kill her all too easily, push her away.

Pulling back slightly, Gayle gazed into Logan's eyes, which seemed to glimmer despite the darkness; not unlike a wolf. She saw in those eyes some of the pain ebb away, replaced by something similar to what she had spied before dinner. It was a trace of hunger .

Rusty as she was, Gayle took that as encouragement enough and slid her left hand down his face and neck whilst her right travelled further south, fingers sliding under the band of his jeans to feel the smooth skin beneath. He flexed at her touch, and she gasped despite herself at the soft yet firm muscles shifting under her hand.

Back up north, her left hand finished unbuttoning the red flannel shirt, Gayle placed her palm against Logan's chest as she looked into his dark, impossibly old eyes, the flickering hunger having built up within them. He, in turn, gazed into hers. She saw him searching …for tears perhaps. Or fear. But he would find neither. He would find nothing but certainty. She knew what she wanted. From his searching, she knew what he wanted too. Just as she knew this wasn't to last…

"...That little silver fox I found you with? Could you let her and her cubs be. I kinda like to think she's alright out there…"

That was the last thing Logan had said to her during that wonderful weekend; or it was the last thing she remembered anyway.

She'd never met Logan again after that. She'd not asked him to get in contact, nor had she expected him to either. They had both known what they'd been getting into and she was at peace with that.

And yet, in the five years since then, despite having no real reason to do so, despite making her own life just that little bit harder, Gayle had kept her promise. On the rare occasions any little fox got caught in one of her traps she made a point of freeing it, of even helping it, just in case it was one of the cubs of that vixen that had bought her and Logan together.

Nevertheless, she made enough to get by, often making the trip down to Gensitka to sell her furs and buy supplies. Her supply store of choice was relatively tiny, reminiscent of the one she had worked at in her younger days, which was perhaps why she preferred it over the larger stores in town. Being small it was rarely all that busy. The clerk manning the front counter could be found reading that day's issue of the Daily Globe, the Bugle or whatever other news rag took their fancy. Unsurprisingly, whenever the papers weren't covering the exploits of the Avengers, Arachno-Lad (or whatever his name was) and the Fab Five, they were hotly debating the 'mutant problem'.

Gayle always thought it'd be more accurate to say the mutant problems since the papers seemed to report no end of them.

An island where mutants were essentially slaves.

A virus that targeted mutants specifically.

An asteroid haven for mutants armed with nuclear weapons.

The U.S. government ordering the mass production of mutant-hunting robots.

Not that Gayle herself took any issue with mutants. They could live their lives however they pleased as far as she was concerned; so long as they extended her the same courtesy.

Nevertheless, three months ago, whilst waiting for the clerk to fetch her supplies, she browsed the front page story out of boredom. And right there, in bold blue and yellow, sitting atop a decapitated head of a Sentinel, was a squatting, well-built man with metal claws protruding from his knuckles.

Wolverine .

That is what the article called him.

As Gayle took another sip of cocoa, she considered if the name really suited the man she'd met. In some ways it did, but he had hardly seemed elusive or violent like his namesake. Then again, she'd only known him a couple of days. Perhaps he really was a violent killer, a man to be mistrusted and avoided. Someone you shouldn't keep company with; let alone share your bed. Whatever he was, Gayle wished on long, dark, lonely nights like this, that she might see him again. If only to ask him, to find out for sure if she'd completely misread the man; or the X-Man , she should say.

She wondered, if she had known more about him, if he wasn't who she'd thought he was, would she have invited him to stay with her? Would she have fed and broken bread with him? Would she have kept the promise she made to him the day he left?

The dogs suddenly started barking. And, through the tiny gap in the oiled window paper, Gayle suddenly saw a glimmer of light against the snowy darkness. She gripped her cocoa a little tighter, not caring that it was starting to burn her fingertips. Placing the mug down, Gayle rapidly put on some of her outside gear and fetched her gun from the pegs.

Her nostrils flaring, Gayle flung open the door and pointed both barrels at…nothing. Aside from the dogs, there was nothing except snow and silence. Nothing, except for the palm sized package laying upon her doorstep. Bringing it inside and laying it on the table, she removed the wrapping to reveal a grey blue box, on top of which was a short, simple note of paper.

Thank you for keeping your promise, darlin'.

-X

Somewhat tentatively, Gayel opened the box and gazed inside. Tucked snuggly within the interior, almost as if it was nesting, was a silver, fox-shaped necklace.

Gayle stared at the necklace until she could practically see her own reflection within it. Then, putting the chain over her head, she fetched David's guitar from the pegs, blew the dust off of it, tuned it, and began to play a tune.

As the cabin filled with music, she looked out the window again. Her laugh lines creased as she smiled out at the icy darkness and said:

"No. Thank you , Logan."

A/N: Happy birthday SinJazz!

So my friend SinJazz has shall we say a soft spot for Wolverine and many many moons ago spoke about how she wanted to see a story where Logan is in a romance with a totally normal woman, not a superhero of any kind. Whilst those do exist in the comics and adapted media I remembered a certain short story from a 1990s X-Men anthology and thought this gave me adequate room to play around with.

I have done my best to retain everything that happened in the original story, just insert new scenes and approach things from a different angle.

Hope you (and SinJazz most of all) enjoyed it!

Also, just to let you know I am involved in a discord called 'Moonlight Legends' which is dedicated to sharing all sorts of Sailor Moon fanworks, including other fanfics. If you would like to join so you can share your own work, get help with your current projects or just connect to other fan creators shoot me a PM and I'll send you an invite. All are welcome!