Heal Over

Chapter One





Do not be seen.

Do not be heard.

Harm no one.

Damage nothing.

Just get in, get the files, and get out.




Fairly simple instructions, but after only thirty minutes and one wrong turn inside the facility, Logan found himself incapable of following any of them.

It wasn't supposed to be a real lab. That's why he went in alone, and perhaps things might have turned out differently, if he had known. If he'd had time to steel himself, hadn't been thinking about a good beer and a decent fuck. If the team had come along. But Xavier gave him the blueprints, the car, the orders, and *promised* him that it was not a real Mutant Lab. Just a meeting place, he'd said. A storage facility.

Now, looking at the creature strapped to the table, Logan reminded himself that sometimes even telepaths are mistaken.

The doctors did not see him. Logan stood by the door, shocked, staring, protected by the shadows, their preoccupation and his natural talent to be unseen when necessary.

The chamber was circular, counters and sinks on both sides. Against the walls stood a collection of filing cabinets and tables; some covered with sheets, others whose contents he did not care to name. The floor was tiled, like that of a swimming pool shower room--square tiles with drains every few feet. One had a clump of hair caught in it's grill.

He smelled chemicals, and pain. And blood. So much blood.

Nine people--seven men and two women--bustled around a table in the middle. For a moment The Wolverine was too distracted by their white coats to see what lay on it.

Or perhaps he did not want to.

Pale flesh and a dirty hospital gown. A multitude of tubes snaking out of a thin arm, connected to a few bleeping machines and a hanging bag of clear liquid. Tangled brown hair, streaked with grey and white.

The surgeons held needles, conversing in untroubled tones as if playing golf or watching the playoffs.

"We might be able to avoid the seizure effect of the mephobarbital, if we lower the tramadol level more."

"Yes, but then we won't be able to test more of the other formula for at least two days."

"But if we spark another seizure and it goes into another coma, we'll have to rewrite the report."

"Check her ESR and we'll see. Diane, will you--"

It's unlikely, but things still might have turned out differently until this moment. Logan might have backed out, summoned the team, and cleared the lab out quietly. Maybe. But that did not happen, because at that instant the bod on the table--which Logan had only seen in glimpses between the doctors--moved. Just a little, her head turning an infinitesimal degree to the left. But enough. Enough to seal a piece of destiny for the both of them.

Large, chocolate eyes in a young face. Pain, but little fear in them. They were too exhausted for that emotion. Those eyes found his and did not blink. And something in him fierce and ancient reared up.

Logan barred his teeth, not even attempting to stifle the growl reverberating in his throat like the scariest musical note.

A red-haired doctor, his face boyish and freckled, was the first to turn, the first to see him.

Nine inches of metal, tougher than steel, slid from Logan's fists. They cut through tendons like butter, but that pain was too familiar for his attention. That red-haired doctor--who looked like any ones nephew but wore a swastika for a necklace, was the only one to not scream that night. He didn't have the chance.

Wolverine danced to the pattern of those screams, those pleas. He fed off the sounds, off the smells, off the beautiful knowledge that those coats weren't so white anymore. They tried to get away. He cut through their chests, their throats; broke bone and skin with the same ease. One--male or female, Logan couldn't tell at this point--slit his face with a scalpel. Logan removed their arm, and then their head.

At last, when his shoulders were heaving (a red flood was making it's way down the floor drains, as it had done so many times) and only two heartbeats could be detected in the chamber, Logan stopped. He retracted his claws with a wet *sskllicckt*, and turned to the girl on the table.

She had not moved. Had not made a single sound, but her chest rose and fell in rapid breaths. Like a bird's. The table was metal, flat silver with no sheet. One or two lab mutants had been brought to the school, but Logan had never really seen them. She was so small. So thin. The hospital gown stretched only a few inches down her thighs. She was naked underneath. The girl's flesh was so mutilated that it was easy to imagine that she wasn't human.

Logan came to stand above her, blood on his jeans and his hands and....well, everywhere. She looked up at him with eyes that were glazed, though he hadn't noticed earlier. Shit. Kid was drugged to high heaven. And the part that was semi-aware was half-dead already, and promised no resistance should he choose to stab her as well. He stared, seconds passing like hours, hypnotized by disgust and shock. But time caught up with Logan when the first siren erupted in the air. He flinched, and so did she.

"Alright," he said gruffly, speaking to himself as much as the girl. "It's okay, Kid. Not gonna hurt ya. Whadaya say we get you out of here, huh?"

He began undoing the belt-like clasps on the restraints, tugging the needles from her veins. Quickly, but gently. At least, he told himself that. She made no noise, even when blood swelled up through the holes.

"Alright. Here we go, honey. Easy. Nice an' easy." Logan slipped an arm beneath her shoulders and another under her knees. This restricted his fighting abilities considerably, but he wasn't crazy enough to think the kid could walk.

Jesus. She was so fucking light. A kitten. Logan could feel her bones through his jacket. The girl curled herself toward his chest--more of a reflex than a move for comfort.

He could hear yelling now, boots pounding. And this time, they were definitely headed his way.





Logan carried the girl out into the hall. Concrete and cheap linoleum. He thought he knew where the exit was, not far from here. Left. Left. But he'd gotten lost earlier. He could be wrong. Had the blueprints indicated left or right?

But the footsteps and his own instincts were thundering, so he swore and picked the left.

Logan didn't stop when the first bullet hit him, or the second. A deafening crack and the scent of gunpowder. Blistering pain. But he kept running, long legs propelling him further and further.

"Stop! Freeze!"

But when the fourth pierced through his hip, Logan became concerned. His vision was tinted red, a haze of agony and rage, the latter stronger and less easily ignored. He glanced down at the kid in his arms. Her head bounced alarmingly, cheek slapping his jacket with each step. His adamantium should stop most of the bullets, but....

He stopped quickly, where the corridor split off.

"You're alright. You're alright," he murmured, carefully setting the girl down, where she would be chiefly shielded. "Just...ah...stay there," he told her, needlessly. She lay crumpled in a limp ball, scarcely more conscious than a doll.

Logan straightened with a grunt(the bullet inside his leg shifted; he'd have to dig it out later), turned to face the guards as his claws kissed the open air again.



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An hour later, he was speeding down a back road. It was little more than a forest path, forgotten and certainly unpaved. Tree branches and tall grass whipped against the metal. But this car--small and black and unremarkable only for it's supreme unremarkability--withstood the jolts well. Summers must have added his special touch.

The sound of the helicopter wings had died away only minutes ago. They weren't out of the woods yet, Logan thought humorlessly as he guided the vehicle through the trees. The kid lay in the reclined passenger seat, where he'd hastily strapped her in. She was unconscious, head lolling with the car's vibrations. She was a mess. Her greasy hair draped over her face, and the gown sliding up, showing Logan much more than he wished to see. Logan berated himself for several moments, for not covering her in his jacket. But there'd been no time.

He smelled blood. Her blood.

He needed to get them a safe(which meant far) distance away. They needed to be able to blend in before stopping. Xavier should be called, and he had to get her some help. Perhaps not in that order.


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Logan drove through the town with the cell phone pressed to his ear, eyes scanning the vehicles around him and in the rear view mirror, searching for a tail, for any sign They might be following him.

It was the first time he'd heard Xavier cuss. The old man used nothing particularly creative, sticking to "damn" and it's variations. But it was impressive all the same. Chuck's voice wasn't nearly so cultured now, shouting at Logan from the cell's tiny speaker.

How could he have been so foolish, The Professor asked him. Were his orders not clear enough? He'd jeopardized the entire mission, didn't Logan see? Everything they'd planned for months.

Logan told him about the kid, tried to explain. But Xavier had worked himself into a good fury, and wasn't ready to let it go now. There could have been more, he said. Other mutants, certainly other facilities. One girl was nothing compared to them. Others could have been saved, if Logan hadn't thrown up a red flag, alerting Them. Now, even the files were useless. They were probably evacuating Their bases now.

"You've ruined everything," The Professor told him. Wheels added that under no circumstances was he to return to the mansion. What if Logan led his pursuers to the school? He could place them all in danger. Chuck promised to call him, after "cleaning up this mess."

And then there was nothing. Just the dial tone.

"*Fuck*", Logan swore, hitting the steering wheel. He hated Xavier, hated that self-serving bastard...even as the ever-practical side of him acknowledged the truth in Chuck's words.

Now what?, he asked himself, his gaze settling on the kid. Now what?


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A flea-bag motel and a thirty dollar room, plus another to ensure privacy from the cleaning staff. The guy at the front desk became conveniently blind to Logan's rather gory attire when he slipped the man the bill, and wished him a pleasant evening.

Ground floor, far end of the parking lot. Logan opened the passenger door, leaning inside to unclip the seat belt. Her eyelids fluttered. He picked the girl up, taking care not to knock her head against the metal, wondering again at her weight--or lack thereof.

Anyone looking from their windows would have been treated to an alarming sight: the large, feral man carting the almost-nude, emaciated child into his motel room. This was a rural town, whose inhabitants were inclined to mind their own business (especially for a green-tinted incentive). But this would be a stretch for even the most morally lax of persons.


He layed her on the bed, gently, then returned to the car for the first-aid kit Scott kept in every trunk. Closed the door, turned the three locks to the right. Logan set the white kit next to the bed and exhaled.

"I'm sorry." he mumbled, cutting off the gown with a quick snip of his claw. A moment later he was cussing. It was either that or puke his lunch on carpet or something even more pansy-ish. Like crying.

She could have been an Auschwitz prisoner, like the pictures Ororo kept (for who knows what reason) hung in her classroom. Logan could have snugly fit each of his fingers in the hollow between her ribs. A trigger-happy artist had gone over the girl, painting her skin with red and purple swirling bruises, and too many little lacerations to count.

Logan began at her head, working his way down. He maintained a steady chant of, "Not gonna hurt you. Not gonna hurt you.", though it was likely she couldn't hear him.

Her scalp was dirty, her hair fragile, bloody at the roots from being pulled. A few strands came away in his fingers, though his touch was light. Forehead feverish, but cheeks cold. Eyelids tinged blue. Faint pulse in dip between her collar bone...and markings, on her neck. *X973*. Not a tattoo, but a brand. Logan stroked the intricate scar. It looked old....Needle marks down her arms, blue contusions. A strange bump under her left shoulder, another scar. Her wrists had been chafed bloody by the straps, appearing like terrible bracelets. More bruises on her chest, and sticky gray circles left by the heart monitor and other machines. Logan studied a bloody half-crescent under her left breast for several minutes before recognizing the pattern of human teeth. His claws almost came out. At least one fractured rib; two others that he wasn't certain of and didn't want to press hard enough to check.

The bottoms of her feet were tore up, as if she'd jogged through broken glass. Her legs bore welts and similar restraint abrasions, and were oddly hairless. But little of that effected Logan as much as the blackened red of her thighs, the clotted red between her legs.

Logan shut his eyes. His breath came out in harsh pants, deafening in the otherwise silent room. He pictured his claws slicing the lab employees' jugulars, and regretted being so merciful. The Wolverine wanted to kill. Needed to kill. It didn't even have to be the Doctor's. He could go out, right now, and just pick somebody. He could--

No. Logan forced back the urging voice within him until it was more or less ignorable. He looked at the First Aid kit, ran a quick inventory. Antacid, Ibuprofen, Calamine lotion, Aspirin, antiseptic ointment, scissors, thermometer, tweezers, cotton balls, gauze, hypoallergenic tape, and four types of bandages. Scarcely adequate, but he'd have to make do. Walking the young lab escapee into the hospital wasn't exactly and option. He considered phoning Jean, but didn't think the doctor would pick up. She always liked to be the one to call him.

So Logan went into the tiny bathroom and grabbed two washrags from the chipped metal rack. He ran them under the water--not too hot--and returned to his kneeling position by the mattress. Feeling self-conscious, a giant told to polish a robin's eggshell, Logan brushed the cloth over her skin. Gently, but he still worried the bristles would aggravate the bruises and cuts.

"I'm sorry. It's alright. Gonna be alright," he said, when the cheap material came away scarlet. Jesus Christ. Logan cleaned her, finding lacerations deep between the girl's legs. No idea what to do with those. He put antiseptic on her feet, bandages on the other scrapes. Then Logan took the medical tape, tearing long strips one after the other. Lifting her up in one arm, (and seeing even more wounds on her back), he placed the tape over her ribs. Carefully, carefully. He wrapped them around her chest, from spine to sternum. Only halfway, lest he cut off her breathing.

Her eyes opened. Chocolate irises, inches away. Drowsy and hurting. Looked at him, or maybe through him.

"It's okay. It's okay, kid." He llowered her back onto the pillow.

The girl gave a soft whimper and closed her lids again. Thick, feminine lashes, the only part of her that seemed semi-natural. Logan didn't know her age, but it couldn't have been more than sixteen. Seventeen, if he factored in malnutrition. Plenty of girls that age running around the mansion, happy and unharmed. How long had this kid been in that hellhole? Did she have a family searching for her? What was her mutation? What quirk in her genes drew Their attention?

Logan wasn't prone to fits of empathy. But she was just...just so...so goddamn *small*. Her tiny head made the average-sized pillow, and bed, seem a vast continent. His heart, an organ Logan (and countless others) usually doubted the existence of, clenched.

Logan thought about what Xavier said, one rescue meaningless compared to hundreds of other potential victims. And he thought of those chocolate eyes, from the bed moments ago and from across that operating room. He covered the girl with one of the light bedsheets, then went to wash the blood--from his clothing, and his hands.

Heal Over

Chapter Two








"Come on, honey."


The translucent nozzle of the water bottle touched her chapped, nearly colorless lips, urging. But her mouth stayed closed, and she twisted her head from side to side. Her struggles weren't particularly fierce. The kid was half-awake; an infant had more strength.

Logan placed a thumb on the girl's chin, easing her teeth apart. "There, honey. Down the hatch." His voice was quiet.

It took a moment for her to understand: that water, rather than a medical tube or worse was making it's way down her throat. Even if she couldn't differentiate between it and fouler liquids, her body could. In a few seconds the kid's lips were sealed around the valve, pulling in long-lost nutrients(not skillfully-Logan had to squeeze the plastic to get it flowing). Suckling, like a baby. Worse than a baby: the raw, animal neediness of those whose humanity have been stripped away. Uncontrollable--instinct and muscle memory taking over. He didn't grudge her it. Logan placed a hand under her neck, lifting slightly. Didn't want the kid choking to death.

When he pulled the bottle away, to give her a break, she gave an uncontrolled whimper. Soft, hopeless, more of a wobbly exhale. Her lips trembled, searching, and Logan returned the nozzle. He was shocked to see the girl's hand lift--feeble, hesitating--and settle like a pale moth over the container, over his own fingers. As if she could actually hold it in place. Her eyes opened, just a crescent.

"There," he encouraged. "There you go. Easy. It's alright."


It was nearly empty when that hand fell back to the greasy mattress. And then she was still again, eyes closed. Exhausted with the effort of keeping herself alive.

Logan touched the girl's cheek, once. Then he sighed, stood, and ran a hand through his own untamable hair. He'd spent the majority of a sleepless night alternately staring at her and out at the parking lot, between the window blinds. The last of his cigars lay in the trashcan, nubs and ashes.

As the smoke formed lazy patterns, rising determinately but dissipating before it touched the ceiling, Logan's mind had suggested a dozen plans on what to do now. But those proposals belonged in the garbage, with his tobacco remains.

The sunlight did not shine so much as slink shamefully through the window, embarrassed to be seen in this motel. It highlighted the gray carpet, stiff in one place from someone's gum--and other less innocent stains Logan chose to ignore.

Dust motes floated through the air.

Logan gave the girl's injuries a once-over. There was little he could do, but he made sure the wounds hadn't gotten any worse.

Brown fingers on distressed, plum skin. Light, testing. He would have liked to give her a bath. The kid reeked--more of chemicals than dirt. Her flesh had a texture like starch. But he knew better than to remain here any longer than necessary. Logan chose a maroon, plaid shirt from his bag; the softest flannel he could find. Slid it over too-thin arms, too-thin....everything. She swam in it.

He took the bottom sheet off the bed, wrapping it around her protective and warm. The not-quite meticulous cleaning staff wouldn't miss it for awhile.

Logan toted her out out to the car once again. A few young boys, faces stained with kool-aid and clutching skateboards, stared until their mother screeched for them to get inside. As they climbed into their own van the woman shot Logan a suspicious look. Narrowed eyes, hand on her hips. Light sparkling off the delicate beads in her cornrows. Logan didn't meet her glare. No need to make the situation any more memorable. He settled the girl onto the leather, made the seat almost horizontal. The click of the metal strip going into the seat belt catch and then tires, rolling over the asphalt.



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Green high way signs, white lettering. "50 miles to Here", "200 miles to There". The view out the window shifted back and forth, from pastures to the fast food beacons of small towns. He tended not to stray far from the option of either. Complacency, sticking to one route, was how They got you.

It was all familiar to Logan. He'd been up and down this continent (and a few others) between his own travels and Chuck's various 'missions'.

He'd just never had someone along for the ride. Certainly not the diminished half-corpse that was this child.

As one area code became another, Logan decided to wait. Tread water. Eventually Xavier would deign to call him (and had it not been for her, Logan wouldn't pick up the phone). He was too much a valuable tool in the machine of the X-Men for Chuck's displeasure to hold. The question was whether he could keep the girl alive until then.


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"Here we go."



Logan had placed a towel on the bottom of the tub, softening the surface for her back. Now it was full--warm, but not hot. He eased the kid into the water, slow and careful.

Her eyes were open. Cloudy and fixed on the ceiling, as if seeing herself in a place far from here. Though Logan spoke to her--reassuring, conversational (though god knows that wasn't a technique his voice was used to), she gave no response. No sign she heard him at all.

His right arm was submerged, almost to his shoulder. The dingy wife-beater he wore was already sopping, sticking to his chest. His knees ached from the tile floor. Logan cradled the girl, drawing the soapy cloth over pale limbs. Her neck, her chest. Her arms and the creases of her elbows. Her shrunken stomach, and lower. Not one noise of protest. Not one flicker.

"It's alright, kid. Gonna get you clean, 'kay? That sound good?"

In minutes the water became murky, pink and brown. He had to drain and refill it again. And again. And again.

That starchiness of her skin bothered Logan, and not merely for the smell that kept his nose permanently scrunched. It put him in mind of chemical showers and the other ways humans used to break each other. Ways Logan was too aware of for any of the mansion's residents to be fully comfortable in his company. Even with a dozen baths and bars of soap, Logan had a feeling that scent wouldn't go away. Not for a long time.

He washed her hair with special attentiveness. (Those bizarre white streaks. What the fuck? Drugs? Chemicals? Stress?) He worried the cheap shampoo would irritate her scalp, that any accidental tug would set it bleeding again. He rinsed her with a McDonald's cup.

When he finished, Logan placed her tiny body on the bed, patted her dry with the towels (in his thoroughness, Logan used them all, and had to drip-dry himself). If she caught a cold now she'd die, no question. But he couldn't exactly ring out the girls hair, and wasn't the sort of man who carried a blow dryer (even if he had been, Logan wouldn't risk the hot air on her scalp).

Logan changed her bandages, noting that he'd have to buy more soon. Wrapped the girl in his shirt and the blankets. Her dark hair was thick, even wet, and Logan could imagine her being pretty once.


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And so the days passed. Another nondescript town, a cheap, unexceptional motel. Doing their best to keep them invisible. Logan had enough money to support them-years of bar fights and Xavier's payroll had seen to that.

She slept most of the time, and hardly moved when awake. It would have felt like being alone, if her scent with the air every time Logan drew breath. If the girl weren't always there, right there beside him twenty four hours a day--except when he had to run into a gas station or grocery store, and then he kept an eye on the car from the windows.

The height of their interaction came when Logan fed her. Cautious amounts, though he wished he could give her every scrap of food he could find. Fill in those valleys between her ribs. But that could destroy her malnourished stomach, so Logan bit back his instincts and went slow. Water, then broth, then soup. And if the girl wasn't accustomed to or reassured by his presence, she learned the bottle at her lips meant good things. She reacted the same way every time, desperate. She accepted whatever Logan gave her; drank as if the opportunity would never be offered again.

When he placed her hips on the cool porcelain of the toilet, the girl learned to piss. Logan's hands holding her up, her cheek against his stomach. The scent of urine.

Mixed with blood.



Logan bought whatever medical supplies he could find. Ointments, compresses, vitamins, bandages. But the degree and uncertain nature of the drugs charging through her bloodstream made him hesitant to giver her anything stronger than ibuprofen.



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He called one of the few inhabitants of the school not prone to judgement or self-serving. Ororo's empathy could be felt a thousand miles away. He remembered tangled sheets, her mocha skin sliding over his own, the power in her eyes and the scent of rain blending with lust. It had been two years, a fling to them both, and the weather witch was to this day the closest definition he had of "friend".

She said, "Tell me."

And Logan described the girl. From the lump on her arm to the cheese-grated mess of her feet; the kid's near-catatonia to the blood in her piss. When he'd finished, Logan could almost see the hand Storm pressed over her heart.

He read, from hesitances, the delicate neutrality of her words, that Jean shared The Professor's anger. How shocking. Logan glanced at his pack in the back seat. Grudgingly, he asked if Ororo could mention that he did have the files, if it counted. Three disks in black cases, wrapped in a pair of his jeans. Storm said she would, and promised to track down an old friend of hers, a Dr. McCoy. She said he might be able to help.



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Strange. Had the lab been as Xavier swore, a storage facility, Logan's toughest decision now would be steak or burger, blond or redhead. But he wasn't the type to whine over circumstances past. He knew that shit happened. Randomly, horribly. And the only choice available was surrender or adaptation. And Logan did not regret for one second his actions. He could repeat the night in that hellhole a thousand times without ever, ever choosing to leave the girl behind.

Heal Over

Chapter Three







In the next week, Logan thought he saw an improvement in the girl's condition. But it was one he'd have a hard time explaining to others, and certainly couldn't be measured on one of the charts Scott was so damn fond of.


Rather than sprawl limply when Logan lay her in the car, the girl huddled into herself. Chin tucked down, fingers curled. Shoulders hunched in a vague attempt at defense. He thought that was a sign of increasing awareness.

Her eyes stayed open--half open, really--when Logan was feeding her, bathing her, easing her onto the toilet. Haunted, grey gaze. She'd watch him with a tired stare that didn't meet his own eyes, rarely went higher than his throat.

Logan could give her soup now, soft carrots and bananas. Milk, sometimes, though the kid didn't seem to trust the creamy liquid as much. Smaller sips, her mouth not so eagerly seizing the rim. She'd drink it all, obedient, and not willing to risk what (in her mind) could bethe last drink she'd have for a long time.




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"Football game on tonight, kid. Think we'll find a motel with a T.V. tonight. You excited?"

The girl's eyes were open, fixed somewhat on his elbow. Logan thought she was listening.

"Calm down. Their both pansy teams. I could beat each of them playing by myself."

He spotted the town's bar and shot it a longing, nostalgic glance. Alcohol and women. He could smell them from here, at the stoplight. Fuck, it'd been a long time.

He missed being able to drive fast without fearing he'd hurt or frighten the kid. He missed talking to people other than cashiers. He missed being able to jerk off outside the motel's shower.

The light turned green.

"You hungry, kid? Thought we'd try some scrambled eggs tonight. That sound good to you? Hmm? You like scrambled eggs? And I'll find me a goddamn burger and we'll be all set."

The "Eat n' Park." Cute. Bright red paint. A long, thin motel. Curling lettering on the sign, it's attempt at regality spoiled by the tiny flashing bulbs and....well, everything else about the place. But it had a Bar&Grill attached.

"What about that, Kid? You wanna stop here?"

Logan pulled in, easing over speed bumps for the sake of her ribs.

"Me too."




Logan had her settled in on the covers, warm. He gave the kid some water, brushed his lips over her hair, and promised to be right back.

The restaurant was crowded; the chalkboard at the front said, "Minimum Cooking Time 20 Min". It also said, "Breakfast Not Served After 11AM", but after some Wolverine-tinted persuasion, that rule didn't seem so iron-clad.

He ordered the eggs for the kid, and a hamburger-rare, with every topping imaginable- for himself. Logan walked over to the bar, swung a long leg over the stool. Beer could be found almost anywhere, even Molson occasionally. The harder stuff was....well, harder to find.

"Whiskey," he told the barkeeper--who appeared too young to drink, let alone serve alcohol all night. "Tall glass."

Ah...the sweet burn of that amber liquid. Biting and rough and delicious. He'd killed fifteen minutes and three drinks when She walked in.

Dark hair and tan skin. Tight red shirt, tighter jeans. High heels. She took a seat at the other end of the bar and shot him a shy, but flirty, smile. Logan brought the glass to his lips, studying the woman appreciatively. He made some quick, experienced calculations. Three minutes of mandatory, introductory flirting. Eight minutes to get her outside. Five minutes to her motel room. Twenty minutes inside aforementioned room. Two minutes recovery. One and a half minutes of her pleading with him to stay.

Not counting however longer it'd take to get the food.

She ordered her drink, an appletini, and began playing with a gold flower-shaped necklace between her breasts. Flashed him a grin that became less shy with every passing moment. Logan imagined hand prints on her hips, that necklace rising up and down over sweaty skin. Quick release. It was so goddamn tempting that in Logan's mind he was already halfway across the room toward her.

He thought of the kid, alone for almost an hour. But she'd be alright. She'd be fine. Safe. Wasn't like she could go anywhere.

"Sir? Your meal is ready."

Logan swallowed the rest of the suddenly tasteless whiskey. He stood, grabbed the plastic to-go bag, and headed back to his room.




Logan kept one eye on the T.V. as he poked bits of scrambled eggs between the girl's lips. Texas was winning. By four points.

After dinner, Logan rubbed Carmex peeling lips. She tried to eat the stick, so he used his thumb to spread the balm.

Tan shadows stretching on her face. Under her eyes, her cheekbones, her neck. The walls took on the purplish tint of night, and Logan stretched out beside the girl. Comfortable, careful space between them. He hadn't asked for double beds. Not because they couldn't afford it; it hadn't even crossed Logan's mind. He wanted to be near, in case of...in case of anything.



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Logan squirted a dollop of shampoo on the girl's hair, spread it with his fingers.

"You got a name, Kid? Hmm?"

He could see a flash of brown eyes through her lashes, under her mostly-closed eyelids.

"Wanna tell me your name, baby? Do you have one?"

Logan didn't expect an answer.


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Change is slow. If you're not standing close, you can't watch it happen at all.

The girl was awake more often now. And when she was, her eyes were always, always moving. In a motel room, they darted around, methodically clocking him the door, the TV, the bathroom, the table, him, the TV, the bathroom, the table him, the TV, the bathroom...Serious, as if her life depended on keeping track of everything at once. If Logan made any motion her eyes would break the cycle and lock on him. In the car they went from Logan to out the window, until she dozed off again.

She could hold a piece of bread, a banana, a bottle of water if it wasn't full.

Tenuous scabs had formed on her feet, the crescent under her breast. The scrapes were beginning to reknit themselves. The black bruises were turning purple; the purple bruises were turning green--a sign of healing, though it looked terrible.

Perhaps her urine had a less copper tint.

Sometimes the kid could hold herself up. For only minutes at a time, and the act thoroughly exhausted her. It bothered Logan to see her arms shaking with the effort to support her own weight, so when she was conscious he usually propped her up with a pillow.

The girl watched his lips when he spoke, but shrank into herself (mentally and physically) when he came near. She never touched him intentionally, unless Logan was already touching her.


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"Okay," Logan said, thrusting his arms into the straps of his pack. "You ready to go, Kid?"

He was beginning to wonder if the girl spoke English, or was capable of speaking at all. The only noises he'd heard her make were whimpers. Logan knew Japanese, Spanish, and several German swearwords, but when he tested them out her expression did not change.

But he kept talking to her, naturally, constantly. Logan thought she understand. She responded visibly to some words--'go', 'hungry', 'thirsty', 'bath', and 'sleep.'

Logan hooked his arm under her knees, her shoulder blades, lifting her in one easy, practised motion. He'd bought clothes for the girl (from the children's department) and now she wore a long sleeve blue t-shirt and a pair of cotton sweat pants. The smallest size he could find, but still loose.

Her hand, a half-fist, brushed the bottom of his dogtags.


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The large Welcome sign reading, "You Are Now Entering Sycaway, New York" was decorated in large red ribbons. Logan wondered if today was a holiday.

Ororo had called him a few hours ago. She'd made some calls, but learned her friend, Dr. McCoy, was in Thailand and was not due back for another two months. He was doing research on some mutant-inclined disease. Commissioned by Xavier.

Logan had cussed, used every swearword he knew and invented some new ones on the spot. He wondered if Wheels was trying to kill the kid.

But no. That was crazy.

Chuck wasn't that vindictive.

Still, Logan was tempted to drive straight to The School right now. Barge in, demand that Jean treat the girl. Surely he'd lost Their trail by now?

He found himself drifting closer to Westchester.



They passed a tiny strip mall. A Golden sun and a liqueur store. Both looked good to him. Logan wondered if the girl's body was ready for Chinese food. Eggdrop soup, he thought, and maybe some sweet and sour chicken.

"You hungry, darlin'?"

The girl turned her head toward Logan. A faint twitch-could have been a nod. Logan took it for one.

"Wanna try something new?"

He pulled in between a red pickup and a white Mercedes--decorated with cre' paper for someone's graduation. "Be right back, Kid. Wait here. Okay?" Logan shut the door, locking it. He could feel her gaze on his neck as he crossed the street, but when Logan glanced back the girl's eyes were closed.

A case of Budweiser at the liqueur store. The cashier's apologetic, half-honest pout. They were "plum out of the Molson brand." Logan made his way to the Golden Sun, a Pottery Barn and Paws4Pets away.

The owner was a fat, bald man who grinned ceaselessly and called Logan, "My Fine Friend." He ordered five eggrolls, soup, General Tso's and sweet-and-sour chicken. His back was to the windows, his elbows on the counter. Stomach growling at the M.S.G-packed smells wafting from the kitchen.

The yellow sun-shaped clock by the cash register said "6:27" when Logan was handed the brown sack, filled with the little white cartons of food. He slipped the change into the jar labeled, "Tipping Is Not A City In China", and the owner beamed.

"You come again, My Fine Friend. You come again." Logan heard the touch of a Brooklyn accent in the owners carefully cheerful voice.


The pickup blocked his immediate view of the car, but Logan knew something was wrong. The Golden Sun's door bells jangled behind him, blending with the sound of traffic and a raised voice.

"Yo, Babydoll. Come on, you don't wanna say hi to me-e?"

.........

"That ain't friendly. Come on. Why doncha roll down your window, say hi to me. Roll down your window."

........

"You just being rude. Open your door, I'll show you a good time."

.......

"Open the door, bitch. Open the fucking door."

A tall Latino man, shaved head. Muscled, wiry arms poked out of a t-shirt stained with yellow sweat, but no body fat. Jittery in the way of meth addicts. He was out of his mind. Banging his hand on the car window repeatedly, half amused, half enraged. Screaming and laughing, the stringy muscles in his neck popping out.

Through the tinted windshield, the girl, curled up into a ball.

"Whatsa matter? You stuck-up cunt. Open the goddamn door. You hear me? Op-"

The rest of the man's speech was cut off. His teeth scrapped the back of Logan's fist.

Logan hit him. Once. Twice. Three times. Almost calmly. He didn't black out, didn't forget himself. He took a casual pleasure in seeing the man's head crack against the pickup, and felt not a moments regret when his facial features like red clay rather than flesh.

Afterwords, Logan wiped his face on his shirt sleeve. Collected the fallen beer and food, tossed them into the back seat. He walked quickly to his side of the car, jerked the door open and slid in with a thump.

Her head was ducked down, almost touching the arm rest. Quivering shoulders and a sound--not a whimper, but a distressed hum.

Logan pulled the shaking mass of her against his chest, smelling salty water and fear. The shudders of a skinny body not prepared for terror.

"Hey. Hey," he said. He listened to the near-imperceptible hitches in her throat, the hasty retreat her mind was making into itself. "You're okay," Logan told the top of her head. "You're okay. You're safe. No problem. You're safe. You're safe." He touched the top of her hair, rocked a little, more experienced with dressing a wound than comforting.

"You're safe. You're safe. You're safe."

The girl calmed fairly quickly, not accustomed to the luxury of panic. Logan tilted her pinkened face up, watched eyes try to numb themselves behind shadows. Perhaps he was breathing a little hard himself. "You're alright. You're safe." He brushed her tears away with his thumb, mindful of the cut under her right eye.

"You're safe."

Logan watched the girl's mouth tremble, watched her top teeth tap her lower lip as she shaped the word, 'safe'.

"That's right, baby. That's right."





That night, just beginning to drift away into sleep (In the past month he'd had the least amount of dreams he could ever recall...well, not having), Logan felt a touch against his arm. He opened his eyes, saw the back of the kid's hand pressing against his wrist. Deliberately stretching across the space between them. Not grasping, not caressing. But closer to either she'd ever come. The girl was faking sleep, so Logan closed his eyes again.



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Logan had her walking. Almost walking. His hands guiding her, supporting her. Trying to build up circulation and muscle tissue in legs that hadn't either in a long time. the girl hobbled, swayed back and forth. Shuffled slowly forward in a double pair of socks. But she could make it, almost, to the bathroom and back.

She'd speak, sometimes. One-word whispers, a quick cringe and sudden nervous spike in her scent. More often she'd mouth the words. If Logan asked if she was hungry, she'd echo him "Hungry". Or similar agreements of "bathroom" and "water." So tentative and quiet.

The girl would sneak closer to him every night. Head turned in his direction, then her cheek brushing his arm. And then that arm under her head, in a cradle to his side.



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She said his name.


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Logan's phone rang, a generic bleeping he found preferable to all the other ring tone options.

Chuck's voice. Friendly, as if Logan had been away on a vacation of his choice. Telling Logan he thought it might be safe enough now to return to the mansion.

Asking if he still had the files.

Heal Over

Chapter Four









He'd been telling the girl all day not to be afraid.

They were going to see some friends of his, he said. A big place, with lots more people. She watched his mouth as he spoke and Logan wasn't certain she understood. Still he promised her, over and over, that nobody would harm her. As if repetition had a magical ability that would shield the girl from fear.

It was a few hours drive to Westchester, going by the back roads to avoid traffic. Halfway there, the grey clouds turned black and rain splattered against the windshield, ran down the windows as if racing. Fat, loud drops that turned the car into a drum.

The kid was entranced.

"Water," she told Logan, shocked. It felt like a punch to his stomach. Without his adamantium ribcage.

"Uh-huh," he agreed, flipping on the windshield wipers. "Rain."

'Rain', she mouthed to herself, turning to the window. And stayed like that for the rest of the drive, delicate cheek pressed to the cold glass. Staring.




The rain made the ivy on the school's walls darker, almost black. Tar shaped into leaves. The white gravel of the drive became squishy grey mulch and Logan's boots obtained a fresh coat of mud.

The car's door handle made a wet *cliksh*.

"Come on, Baby."

He urged the girl to turn pulled her hands around his neck, her legs around his waist. He carried her with her weight resting in the crook of his arm, his other hand pressed between her shoulder blades. A hold designed to keep the kid dry as possible, but she didn't seem to care. The girl twisted her palm to catch the rain drops, fascinated. She tilted her head up in a search for the water source.

Rain ran across her cheeks, her forehead, her mouth. And almost reflexively Logan pressed his lips to her exposed throat. He didn't question this act later; it happened to quickly. She was too used to his touches to respond.

Up the drive, through the oak doors. The girl turned her head this way and that, absorbing the new, grand environment. So many things to see and keep track of. Logan felt her muscles tighten.

The entrance hall was a blur of polished wood and decadent paintings (which most visitors oohed and ahhed but Logan found no more stimulating than motel art. It was just fruit, for fuck's sake.). It was crowded, the noise and scent of teenagers penned in by the weather and hustling between classes. They stared curiously--a new facet to add to the Wolverine Legend--but knew better than to whisper amongst themselves yet or meet his gaze for too long.

The girl's breath came in sharp intakes, anxiety rising in her scents as if somebody had spun a dial. A faint whimper, and Logan worried her body would go into shock from the appearance of so many people.

"'Salright Kid. You're okay. You're safe." He glowered at Jubilee, who was gaping with particular zeal.

"Logan!" Ororo appeared as if summoned by magic, gliding out of the library. "The Professor said you were on your way but I expected tomorrow." Her dark eyes went to the girl, her face drawn in gentle concern.

"I wasn't far." he said. "Chuck here?"

Storm shook her head, touched the elbow of the nearest student. "Bobby, go down to Cerebro and tell Professor Xavier that Logan is back and waiting in his office."

"Yes, Ms. Munroe."


Ororo said she had a class soon, but walked Logan to Xavier's greeting center/classroom/office/general place of braggery. He held the girl tightly, marched though the space others cleared for him as he filled her in on the events of the previous weeks. In the spacious office, Logan eased the kid onto her feet.

"Hi there." Ororo gave the kid a kind smile, but kept her distance, a good fifteen feet. Logan's respect for the weather witch multiplied. The girl stared from the shelter of his side before burying her face in his jacket. Storm didn't take it personally.

When she was gone, ("I've got to get back. The students will be absolutely miserable if I'm not here to make them study the Cold War.") he leaned down and kissed the top of the girl's wet head. Waiting was awkward, but Logan didn't sit down. Something animal always called for him to stand when facing Xavier, and shifting up and down made the kid nauseous. He rubbed his hand down her spine and wondered if there'd been any better way to prepare her.


The rubber whirl of the Professor's wheelchair, the hiss of the handicap door opener.

"Good afternoon, Logan." Xavier greeted him with special enthusiasm, though he thought the old man seemed weary, pale as if recently ill. Chuck glanced toward the girl, then away as if she weren't there or he wasn't interested. "I'm pleased to see you arrived safely."

"Are you?" Logan couldn't resist.

Xavier's eyes widened with a surprise he thought neither entirely truthful nor entirely feigned. But his response, whatever it may have been, was interrupted. The door opened again, and in strode the only woman who's greatest talent was not telekinesis, but making an entrance. Jean absorbed all focus as if gifted with the lead role, a spotlight, and a set of stage directions no one else had access to.

Jean gave the girl a long, assessing gaze that went all the way up her thin body. A flicker of distaste, the faintest curl of a lipsticked mouth. And then, her green eyes shifted to Logan, became warm and teasing. There was no doubt the red haired doctor was a beautiful woman. And she was fully, constantly aware of this fact.

Theirs had always been a love-hate relationship...on Logan's side. Who knew what motivated Jean. She would tease him, ignore him, declare her devotion to Scott over and over. And just when Logan was ready to say to hell with it, she'd change. Jean would come to him--to his room, to the garage, to the locker room, to the holding space at rear of the Blackbird. Raking her nails across his skin and letting him know Scott was otherwise engaged. Logan could recall a particularly vivid instance when Jean, during a raid on a FOH base, had pulled him into an empty storage room. They'd fucked there, as the voices of their battling teammates drifted through the Comm.

And for the next month, Jean refused to speak to him.

The game had gone on so long Logan forgot what made him keep playing.

"...sorry you found yourself in circumstances without aid." Xavier was saying. "I'm sure you understand, I was looking toward the safety of the students here. I should have realized that your sympathies would lie with the victim of the moment, rather than the future--not that there's anything wrong with that!" Chuck's forehead crinkled with what could have been amusement. "But it has all worked out, and I'm pleased to see your instincts have delivered this poor child safely here."

"More or less," he told Xavier.

Jean's lip were tight,and if she shared the Professor's sentiment, it didn't show. "She looks terrible," she said, eyeing in the girls wet, tousled hair. "That is what you dressed her in? How could you let her go out in that?"

Logan looked down at the blue sweater and cotton pajama pants he'd found for the girl. He though they looked alright. "I had bigger shit to worry about than fashion," he said defensively, and saying 'fashion' like it was his version of foul language. Something inside him turned hard, and cold. An unplaceable anger without release. Though he didn't notice, the arm he'd wrapped around the girl had tightened, immovable as steel. Jean seemed surprised, perhaps expecting something a little less sharp and a lot more flirty.

"Is she hurt?" asked Jean, her demeanor suddenly soft, matronly.

No fucking shit, Logan thought. "Yeah. I've done what I could, but she's got some drugs in her I don't recognize. Her feet are torn to hell; she's got cuts and rib fractures and a bunch of other stuff you needta check out." Little harsher than he intended, and Jean was surprised into movement.

She crossed the carpeted space, speaking to the girl, who's heartbeat was so rapid(if not strong) that Logan imagined it breaking free of her chest, cutting through their clothing and his skin and continuing to pound inside his own ribcage. She peered out at Jean from the folds of his leather jacket, uncertain and apprehensive.

"Hello, dear," Jean told her, smiling, confident in her own maternal skills. "I'm Mrs. Grey. May I take a look at you?" She was two feet away, stretching out her hand. An emerald bracelet sparkled around it. Probably the latest Scooter-Gift. "It's okay, sweetie. I'm a doctor."

They were possibly the most ill-chosen words Jean Grey could have chosen. Their effect was immediate, and served only to prove that the girl understood English because Logan, although he could not claim the fancy education of the other adults at this school, would never have said the word 'doctor' to the kid.

She jerked as if electrocuted, stepped backwards and Logan's arm shifted from a comfort to a cage, never mind that he loosened it right away. She let out a startled, upset whine. He let her go, and she stumble back.

"What's wrong?" Jean asked, prematurely frustrated, straightening up. "What's the matter with her?"

"Kid," Logan said, placating. He smelled panic. "It's alright." The girl shuddered, flinched away from him. Her wide eyes went from him to Jean to the Professor, incredulous and frightened.

"What did I say? What's wrong with--"

"Child." Xavier said. The girl's eyes locked on to him. Logan was positive Chuck was performing his patent, 'Hey-I'm-A-Mutant-Look-What-I-Can-Do-Welcome-To-The-Land-Of-Oz' routine. He'd had the same knowing expression when he'd used the trick on Logan, and countless mansion recruits since. But after a moment The Professor's face seemed a little surprised, then unsettled. His eyes narrowed-

-and a moment later, the girl was gasping in pain.

Her brown eyes were wide, glistening with tears and Logan saw she'd broken a blood vessel in one of them. Tiny spiderwebs of red stained the white of her left eye. He grabbed the girl again, pulled her to his chest.

"Enough.", he said, picking the girl up.

"What are you doing?" Jean demanded, doing her best to seem bewildered though Logan didn't think her nearly so ignorant. Getting the fuck out of here, he wanted to say. "Taking her to my room. Settle her down."

"Logan, that would be highly inappropriate," Xavier argued. "You can't bring a child to your bedroom. We have rooms for new young students-"

Logan glared at him.

"You're overreacting." Jean said. "She's just having a little panic attack. And if she is hurt, the girl should be examined right away and treated-"

"Well, she's lasted this long. A little more won't hurt. You can wait 'til morning," Logan said, bitter.

"Wait, Logan." The Professor ordered him. Against his will, he paused at the door, though it may not have been The Professor's power that made him do so. "...You have the files?"

Logan shifted the girl, reached into his pocked and withdrew the three black cases. He tossed them in the vague direction of the two telepaths, and it was only Jean's telekinesis that kept the disks from smashing against the floor.




Inside his room (which he'd told the cleaning staff not to enter, but from the biting scent of bleach it was an order they'd chosen to ignore), Logan sat the girl on the edge of his bed. She appeared disoriented and strained, as if she had a migraine. She looked at him, eyes wet and reproachful.

He knelt, bringing himself level with her. He kissed her forehead but the girl flinched, shrank away. Logan sighed. "Sorry, Kid. But you're okay. This is a--hey. Hey, look at me. This is a good place. Nobody's gonna hurt you here. I promise."

Her lips wobbled and Logan tugged her forward. She buried her face against his throat, shivering. "Relax," he told her. "Relax."




Three hours later, Logan had given the kid a bath, himself a shower. He had raided the mansion's fridge and brought back anything he though might please her. It was a ancient, quiet way of showing off, and telling the girl nice things could come from the mansion. He'd also slipped a crushed Tylenol into her water, because the kid really did seem to have a headache. And though it was early in the evening and Logan's body craved movement and a beer, he coaxed the girl into laying down with him. She was still agitated, nervous, and he thought the comfort of routine might calm her down.

He turned the T.V. on, but it was hopeless. Never any decent sports on Tuesdays. So Logan shut it off, wrapped his arms around the cuddling body that lay half-on his chest. Logan listened to the thousand-and-one mansion sounds, so much louder and pedantic compared to a motel, or the road. He couldn't barely hear the rain outside.

She was asleep long before him.

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It was early in the morning and despite a crick in his neck, Logan could almost pretend it had been a restful night.

He looked into the girl's face, thought of what Chuck had said about being inappropriate, bringing a kid into his bedroom. Logan hadn't thought twice about it, couldn't see what was wrong with the situation. They'd done it for weeks, months. The suggestion Logan would hurt her, after all this time, sparked a restless fury and an itch where his claws lay inside his palms. He wasn't overly fond of other people, of sharing personal space, but Logan was inexplicably a creature of habit. He hadn't even considered the possibility of the girl sleeping in a separate room far from him.

He listened as the kid's breathing quickened, touched the pace of waking before evening out again. Her sleep patterns resembled a cat's more than a humans, her body seeking more and more nourishing oblivion. Logan guessed that she'd woken up more than once during the night, found him still asleep and assumed she should be doing the same.

She did not squirm or murmur before waking. The only sign of rousing was the acceleration of her pulse,and then the sudden lift of her lids. Her brown eyes found Logan's, and he stroked her cheek. "Go back to sleep, darl--"

A series of brisk, staccato raps on the door. Loud and harsh, snapping the morning's quiet in two. The girl jumped, twisted in his arms to face the door. Logan tested the air, but didn't have time for profanity. Jean opened the door, marched inside in a flurry of red hair and a dark green dress, low cut and new.

"Good morning!" she bleated, cheerful. Logan sat up straight.

"What the hell are you doing?", he half-shouted, growling reflexively.

Jean stared at the girl deliberately before answering. He could feel her judging the scene, choosing the details she wanted to remember. Their half-dressed state, the tousled bedding, the girl's petrified expression. "It's morning, Logan," she said slowly, as if reminding someone not very bright of something obvious. "Were we not going to do the exam today?"

Logan glanced at the TVs clock. It read 6:18. He gaped at Jean, incredulous. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

She tried to look put-out. "Of course not. It troubles me to know there's an injured child here I have not helped. But I can't wait around all day for you to be in the mood, Logan, for you to bring her down to the med lab. I have classes, other students. I can't just--"

"Okay, okay." Logan ran his fingers through his hair. The girl seemed half-paralyzed, staring at Jean with a choked expression of fear. Son of a bitch. "Does it have to be down there? Wouldn't it be better if it you do it somewhere less-"

"No", said Jean decisively, almost triumphant. "All of my equipment is in the med lab."

"Alright," Logan said. "Alright...I'll...I'll have her down there in a few minutes. Lemme...get her ready."

Goddammit, he thought.

"Do you want help? I can dress her."

"No thanks. Get out."

"I can--"

"Jean. Get out."






The mansion's sense of luxurious warmth was only skin deep. It disappeared the moment you stepped into the elevator, and only became more cold and spiritless the further down you went. Grey, undecorated walls. Silent and chilly. Not unlike the mutant lab, actually. But Chuck's was decidedly more up-to-date, with a thousand gadgets Logan could neither use nor name.

The med bay, spacious and sharp. Hospital beds with white cushions. The girl shaking, struggling in his arms. Terrified since the moment they'd got in the elevator, but especially panicked when Jean appeared with the hospital gown. Logan stripped the sobbing kid, guilty and fighting to be reassuring the whole while. Jean kept protesting-"Logan, this is wrong. I can do it. I can do it."

Logan watched the red haired doctor running her painted fingers over the girl's skin. Pushing, probing. Meticulous. Studying the brand on her neck, curious. She removed the bandages he'd put and placed her own. Checked her pupils, her blood pressure. Drew blood, six vials whose scarlet contents seemed to accuse him from their glass case. The lump on the girl's arm seemed to especially interest her, and after a few minutes Jean said she wanted to do an x-ray.

He held the girl, restraining and soothing, trying to convince her she wasn't back in hell.

There were tests, much more than Logan thought necessary or reasonable. At first the girl cried, frantic, looking to him again and again for help. But she grew silent, motionless. Logan watched pieces of her die, one after another. Like tiny murders. By the time Jean pressed her down on the table, lifting her petite feet into the stirrups, the girl had stopped reacting entirely.

"That's better. Good girl, sweetie," Jean said, not seeing that the girl had locked herself far away inside her mind. Logan stroked her hair and searched lifeless eyes that gazed at him but through him, while Dr. Grey changed rubber gloves and told him to leave, repeatedly. This was private, she said.

Logan barely heard her.

Jean gave up, settle a sheet over the girl's knees like a screen, covering her lower body but not blocking the click of her tongue or the sounds certain instruments made.


And after that exam was over, Jean's voice had lost it's bite. It was quiet, perhaps genuine, when she told Logan to take the girl back upstairs.




Logan held the girl on his lap and bit down on an inscrutable guilt. He rocked her, kissed her forehead. Caressed her back and arms and murmured promises. Time slipped past, unmeasured but feeling like years. Her cheek lay against his collar bone and a single tear traced a path along her cheek.

"Please," the girl whispered, no emotion in the word, hopeless and sweet voice. "Please. Please. No more. No more."

It was the longest string of words she'd ever made. Broken whimpers, and Logan almost preferred the silence.



That night, she had the first nightmare.







Glistening scalpels and doctors who studied her closely, without seeing her.

Voices that said, 'Shut Up' when she cried. Gags in her mouth and rubber.

Strips of her skin peeling away under knives.

A curling piece of metal, orange with heat. Tables, voices. Pain....


Concrete floor, under her back, against her cheek.

Little bowls of dirty liquid thrown and lapped up eagerly when she had the strength.

Hands rattling a wire cage.

A hand between her legs, which became a penis, which became a tube, which became the neck of a bottle, which became the muzzle of a gun, which became a.....

Harsh voices.

Rought cloth. Sometimes white, sometimes the black uniform of the guards.

Flashing lights.

Needles, injected in her veins. So many. They never stopped.

Needles that made her hot, like her skin would bubble off. Drugs that made her feel like she was turning to ice.

Needles that made her loose control of her bowels, made her thrash and brought a blackness that lasted too brief a time.

Needles that made her see things, terrible things: ants emerging from the poors of her skin, waterfalls of blood, a smiling boy in a pretty bedroom that wanted to kiss her, gaping caverns where doctor's eye should be.

Needles that made her hurt everywhere.

Needles that made her scream and scream and scream and scream and---





Logan. Logan was there. Touching her face. Logan. Saying, "Baby, wake up. Baby. Shhh..." She was sick and her heart was pounding too hard. It hurt her chest and made breathing difficult. But it was okay. It was okay, because that's what Logan kept saying, over and over. Logan. Logan. She wasn't There anymore, not right now. Logan. Logan's arms and Logan's body and Logan's rough voice, saying she was okay.

"Honey, shh.. Wake up, kid. You're okay. You're safe."

Safe. Safe. Logan. Logan. Logan. LoganLoganLoganLogan.







"Logan," the girl whimpered. He kissed her cheek.

"It's alright, kid. You're alright. You're safe."

Heal Over:
Chapter Five






Nights with the girl changed after Jean's exam.


Logan found it harder to get the kid asleep. She twisted in his arms every few minutes, craning her neck to look at the door. Watching, waiting for the red-haired doctor to burst through and his assurances failed to comfort her. She didn't seem inclined to sleep with her back to him--a fact Logan refused to think too closely about--so he shifted the girl to his left side. She could see the door with her head on his chest, and wouldn't drive him crazy with constant squirming.


Several warnings occurred to him, every time he spoke with Jean. "Beat the holy fuck out of you" and "send you to your own med lab" were the most respectful. But Jean did not respond well to threats; they only seemed to offer her a challenge and Logan didn't want the girl frightened any more. He told her, calmly and with as much courtesy his vocal chords would allow, to stay the fuck away from his room. Her face flushed and her eyes sharpened, but Jean hadn't tested the command yet.

Even when he could coax the kid into sleep--stroking her hair, her back, her cheek--it lasted no more than a half hour.

She shouted during the worst of the nightmares. It was the loudest sound he'd ever heard from her; a piercing, exquisite note that made Logan frantic and enraged...and guilty, for finding her voice beautiful even in a scream.

But usually her response was a little more muffled. A whimper, the scent of tears, a tighter burrowing into his side. And Logan, drifting around inside a half-doze, would be jerked into awareness. He kissed the salty moisture off her face, slid his hand beneath the covers and under her shirt (or rather, his shirt, which the girl seemed to prefer wearing) and made soothing circles with his palm over her stomach until she relaxed again. And repeated the process, thirty minutes later.

Logan told himself he didn't mind. And he didn't, really. It wasn't like he'd never had an uninterrupted night. His own dreams had stalked Logan every night for as far as his memories stretched. Lately, though (since that first night, sitting in that motel smoking cigar after cigar and staring at the broken body on the mattress) he'd experienced an unprecedented reprieve. And that was fortunate, because his were nightmares that resulted in broken, clawed furniture.

He slept dreamlessly now--or dreamed of foggy, meaningless things forgotten the moment his eyes opened. More than once Logan had looked down at her shuddering body and thought it a horrible trade.





There were some improvements, nothing he could brag about even if he were inclined to do so. The girl could bathe herself, although she panicked if Logan shut the door on her, left her in the tiny room alone. She even came in to check on him occasionally, when he showered. The shower curtain separating them, Logan would explain why Molson was the best brand of beer as she sat on the toilet lid, waiting for him to come out.

So he stood at the sink, shaving (what little he ever did. He could make one razor last months.) while the girl ran a bar of soap over her arms.

Nudity did not bother him and never had--certainly not with a girl he'd seen every inch of already. It was a natural state the animal in him never considered worthy of embarrassment, and the society-imposed shyness had been burned out of the girl. As long as it didn't seem so upset her, Logan refused to worry over it.

Of course, he shared none of this with Jean. The idea might give her an aneurysm.

"The kitchens are making some cobbler-thing for lunch," Logan said. He rinsed off his face, knelt by the tub. (The ceramic tiles were beginning to crack from the frequent pressure of his adamantium-laced knees.) He picked the shampoo bottle off the floor. "You want some?"

The girl nodded. Logan was never sure if her response was from true hunger, or if she thought it bad luck to refuse any meal--as if the opportunity might not present itself again.

He rubbed the shampoo--some sort of fruity cream Ororo assured him was "completely organic"-- into her hair, tickled the back of her neck and wondered if he'd ever know what kind of person she was before that person had been broken into pieces.






Jean was finding every opportunity to corner Logan. In the kitchen, usually, as he dug through the fridge and cabinets. Consequently , he left the girl in his room during these food-gathering expeditions. The doctor felt the need to share the results of each test with him. In graphic detail. And things only got worse when Scott unencrypted the files.


An entire disk, one of the three Logan had copied from the lab's computers. Devoted to the girl, pages, books worth of date. The other two Xavier kept, not sharing the contents with the rest of the team...Or perhaps, just not with Logan.

"If anything, They were meticulous." Jean said, as Logan clenched his jaw and pretended to concentrate on the microwave.

No name. No hint of her family, her place of birth, or where-or when- They had taken her. No evidence of her humanity at all.

But records. A hundred experiments, each detailed with cold, intimate explicitly. Every drug--some not yet approved by the FDA, others banned from the market years ago. Every twist of a scalpel. Every cruel study whose goal was unclear, if present at all. Every bodily response. Ororo said They were America's Nazis.

Jean rattled off lists to him while he spread mustard on a slice of turkey, cheese over chips. Logan bit back nausea and the urge to tell her to shut up, just shut the fuck up. Compelled to learn what They had done because too few people had.

Bone grafts and urological exams, repetitious gathering of kidney tissue.

"There's no mention of anaesthesia or morphine in the records," Jean said, as Logan pored a cup of orange juice.

Spinal taps and phosphorus burns. Dips in icy vats.

"...insulated thermometer, held inside by a expanding metal ring...marked drops in body temperature...", Jean said, as Logan cut an apple into slices.

Rips inside her inner wall, damage to her womb.

"It's all so devastating, so revolting. I find it difficult to read more than a few paragraphs at a time." Jean's eyes and shoulders, sinking just the proper degree of sympathy.

Revolting it may have been, but he did not need his bonus senses to know the rest of her words were a lie. Jean was too much a scientist to not appreciate the precision of the Lab's work.


And Logan returned upstairs, bearing strawberries, a slice of cake, brisket. Smiling, trying to speak naturally. Encouraging the girl to eat up.








......a circle of girls....pigtails and teddy bear pajamas....smiles and plates of pepperoni pizza...blond girl with berets...pass the Parmesan, M---

......cold table....blood draining into a metal grate....

......snow and an empty road.....

......a syringe with yellow liquid.....

.......postcards and somebody screaming....

......a guard's breath and the gold buttons of his uniform....be quiet...just shut the fuck up....



The girl wakes on a jumble of covers and a muscled arm, in a room that smells of sweat and soap and Logan. She's dizzy and frightened, worried she's gonna puke on the soft sheets and Logan seems to know this because his hand is there, on her belly. Caressing and massaging until her stomach stops swirling around. Logan. His mouth on her neck, nuzzling. His face hairy, rough on her skin but comforting in it's reality. Logan's hoarse voice. Tired. "Go 'sleep baby."

And she does.







"It's a chip."

Scott stood in the debriefing room the Xmen used to make themselves feel important. He stared at the bright screen, where six x-rays were pinned up. Logan could see fuzzy dots in the skeletal picture of the girl's arm, but did not understand how Cyke could label them. A laptop sat on the grey table behind them--open, with a convenient screen saver of Jean and Scott from their honeymoon in Ibiza. Jean looked nice. Green bikini. But Logan could have gone without seeing Scooter in a speedo.


"I've heard rumors of these, and saw a prototype last year. But I've never come across a real one."

"What do you mean 'real one'?"

Scott turned from the xray. Somehow, Logan sensed that behind those Scarlet glasses Cyclops's eyes were shining with excitement.

"It suppresses mutations. The government has been toying with them since the sixties. It's....it's so highly developed. Really quite impressive work. See, there's about a hundred metallic fibers, completely microscopic, sewn into the nerves. The body itself is keeping the device charged! It's incredible."

The two men shared a mutual disdain, and after years of nearly coming to blows avoided each other whenever possible. But Scott seemed to forgotten this. He was caught up in the idea of a new toy, eager to share.

"Is it hurting her?"

Logan could see it. See Scott's lips shaping the words-'hurting who?' before catching himself. "No, not from what I can tell. But she may be uncomfortable without her mutation. You'll have to ask...."

"Jean," Logan finished for him, forcing a smirk he didn't quite feel. But watching the excitement drain from One-Eye's face was genuinely entertaining.

Scott grimaced. He was never comfortable with the though of his wife associating with The Wolverine, despite the total trust he professed for Jean he at any opportunity.


"Somebody say my name?"


The redhead sauntered into the debriefing room, clinging to a brown folder and a smile. She kissed Scott's cheek, lingeringly. "Are you done with the board? Jubilee broke her wrist again. And my viewing screen."

She did not wait for a response, but began unlipping the dark x-ray sheets, replacing them with own.

"I told him about the suppressor chip.", Scott said.

"Oh?" Jean glanced over her shoulder at Logan. "Well, we can do it Thursday afternoon. I'm busy until then."

"Do what?", he asked. His brow furrowed.

Her laugh chimed in the air. "Remove it, of course. It shouldn't take more than an hour or two."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Is that really necessary?"

The doctor turned to him, surprised. "Of course it is. Nobody has the right to take away someone's gift."

Logan saw it--Jean's gloved hands, her fingers wrapped around a glistening scalpel. The blood that would well up as she sliced through the girl's skin.

"No."

"Logan--"

"If it ain't hurting her now, it can wait."

"Logan, that's--"

"She's still messed up from the last time you had her in the med lab. I'm not bringing her down here again."

"She was *fine*, Logan. You overreacted. You need to stop coddling her."

His jaw grew sore from clenching. "I said no."

Jean's eyes went cold and Scott suddenly had an important class to get to.

"Logan, you are not this child's legal guardian. You can't make decisions for her."

"Neither are you, and neither can you."

A flush rose in Jean's angular cheeks.There was nothing in the world she hated as much as being contradicted. She took a step forward. Not the wisest of moves, as Logan's supply of patience was steadily dwindling, like a case of beer.

"Look. I understand you may have...bonded...with her, and that you have spent a great deal of time with this girl, and that you have a...possessive instinct. But though the Professor may tolerate your bizarre sleeping arrangements and how you supervise her every move, it Does Not. mean you have control! We have much more experience with rescued children than you and I-I *refuse* to ask your permission to talk...or...touch...or treat her!"

"That all?" Logan asked, softly. He took the flicker of surprise on her face for assent, made his voice almost gentle. "Jean, you are perfectly welcome to try talking, touching, or treating this kid without my permission. Go right ahead."

He smiled at her, stepped close. Leaned forward and whispered in the way of lovers. "But if you do, darlin, I'll cut your fucking throat."

She backtracked, quickly. Frightened and recognizing a degree of her authority had been lost but not noticing that it had been absent for a long time. Perhaps she wished Scott had not left the room.

"Logan," Jean said, appeasing, "I understand. You...you mean well. Sure you see that I do too...What if...what if she had a mutation she relies on? Like your healing? Would you take that away from her?"

The doctor's eyes were wide, imploring. And Logan made an effort to unclench his fists. Jean took this as an encouraging sign. "Don't you want to restore her to the girl she was before the lab?...It doesn't...it doesn't have to be a big deal. We can give her a sedative beforehand, and she'll be put under general anesthesia. She'll sleep through the operation-it's minor. She probably won't remember anything."

Her voice was so beseeching, as if truly invested in the girl's well-being.

Logan could only think, 'Why didn't you do that before?'






A week of Jean's wheedling, cajoling, infinitely manipulative voice following him around the mansion.

A week of staring at the bump on her arm--no larger than a half-inch, but it seemed to triple in size every time he glanced at it.

A week of wondering what the chances were of the girl having a healing ability like his own.

And Logan found himself at the kitchen counter, pressing the edge of a spoon against two white, little pills. He crushed them into a fine powder, as soft as he could get them. Stirred the sedatives into a glass of apple juice, made sure the particles were almost invisible.


He carried it up to his room, ignoring the little red flashes of warning in his mind that demanded he poor the drink out now.

She sat on the bed, arms wrapped around her knees. A Spencer Tracy film was on, but she rarely seemed to pay attention to the TV.

"Here ya go, darlin'." Logan said, handing her the glass and taking a seat beside her.



He'd thought she'd go to sleep.


Hadn't Jean said she'd go to sleep?


She should have gone to sleep.


The girl lay back against the pillows, her breath slow, body loose in forced relaxation. She blinked up at him, eyes lethargic but responsive. Logan ran his fingers through his hair, digging his nails in a little harder than necessary. He sat, jaw clenched, stroking the girl's forehead and willing the eyes that stared at him, accusing and trusting at the same time, to close. Minutes trudged by and his cell rang.

"What's taking you so long?" Jean's voice came without preamble.

"She's awake."

"Did you give her the sedative?"

"Yes."

"So what's the problem?"

"You said she'd sleep through this." He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice but failed.

"And she will, when I give her the anaesthesia. I only offered you the sedative for your benefit, to keep her calm on the way down here. Please don't be so dramatic."

"Dramatic?"

"Just hurry up. I have plans for dinner tonight, and I can't be waiting around all evening for you."

A click, a dial tone, and the crack of plastic as Logan's grip on the phone loosened. He looked down into the girl's puzzled, tired face, gathered her into his arms. "Come on, honey."





Strange. He weighed about three hundred pounds, counting his adamantium skeleton. The girl barely topped one hundred. But Logan felt his legs dragging, almost buckling as he carried her down the grey hall.

Her cheek lay on his shoulder, head twisted and from her Logan could see the scarred inscription on her neck. 973X. Her breath tickled his throat, smelling of apple juice.

Her eyes were foggy, with a low-grade undercurrent of fear she couldn't quite drag to the surface. The faintest sheen of tears under the haze of pills.

Jean said she wouldn't remember anything, Logan reminded himself. Jean said with her powers she'd be restored to the person she was before.

Jean said she would be asleep.


"Go," the girl murmured, sadly.

It was one of the words he used most frequently with her. Go to the bathroom. Go to sleep. Ready to go. Let's go.

She must have thought it held some power.

"Go." Quiet whimper. Smell of salt, growing stronger. Hopelessness.

"Sshh, baby," he said.

The sliding door to the med bay was there, in sight. Logan could hear Jean. The clink of glass and metal, the rustle of fabric. The scent of chemicals.

"Logan." Her lips barely moving, touching his neck.

Son of a bitch.

There was nothing he could do. Logan turned around, headed back to the elevators. He'd tell Jean he had changed his mind.

Perhaps she and Scott could have an early dinner.



In his...or their, Logan supposed...bedroom, the girl fell asleep, curled up on his chest.





A box of pizza sat between them, the smell filling the room like a physical presence. Logan took a pill, telling the girl exactly why golf was not a real sport.

"No physical contact, kid. No speed or strength required--they don't even have to walk! Those pussy carts carry them from hole to hole...Just because you do something hard, it doesn't make you an athlete. Building computers is hard but that doesn't mean Scooter should be sent to the fucking Olympics."


The girl's head was down. She appeared unnaturally focused on a slice of pepperoni. Her lips moved, nearly imperceptibly.

"What's that baby?"

Again, and a noise so subtle it could have been a loud exhale.

"I can't hear you." Considering his mutancy, it was enough of a shock to make draw Logan's attention entirely to the girl.

"....marie..."

The taste of copper. Logan bit his own tongue.

"Marie," she whispered again, uncertainly. Not meeting his gaze and staring at that pizza as if it were the most fascinating thing in the entire world. Soundless tears brimming over her lower lashes. "Marie."

Logan reached for her and the girl flinched--not from his hand but from the memory of others. He pushed the cardboard box aside, slid his arms around her shoulders.

Brushed his lips across her cheek. "Marie."

Heal Over: Chapter Six








Charles hung up the phone, surprised to see the hand that gripped the receiver was shaking. He inhaled deeply.

But it had to be done.

The school's headmaster buried his face in pale hands--hands that had never had to embrace physical labor, hands better accustomed to holding a grading pencil than any weapon. He battled guilt, and the dregs of the phone conversation that rose up to the surface of his thoughts, again and again.

But it had to be done.

Words like 'deal' and 'risk'. 'Debt' and 'collateral damage.'

But it had to be done.

Charles had the other students to think of after all. Right? Surely the protection of a hundred children mattered more than one? Yes. Yes. It was basic mathematics. He'd done the right thing.

It had to be done.

Guilt was a useless emotion. He could push back remorse. His was a powerful mind, after all.




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"Logan?"


The girl turned to him questioningly, holding up the bra.

Logan sighed. He gave a brief, tight smile. Reminded himself of his manhood.

Yesterday Ororo had brought clothing from the second hand closet, two boxes worth for the girl. And Dr. Grey had seen fit to arrange the piles into specific outfits for every day, warning Logan of the potential fashion risk should he mismatch them

He stood in front of her, took the bra from Marie's hands and tugged the edge of her t-shirt. "Take that off.", he ordered.

Admittedly, Logan had forgotten to purchase this particular undergarment. So it was no surprise that the gir--Marie didn't know what to do with it.

Cigar clenched between his teeth, he directed her arms into the silk loops, pushed them up creamy flesh--a healthy tone, starting to fill out. And from there things got a bit tricky. There was no questioning his skill in removing bras; that talent was unmatched. But Logan couldn't remember having ever tried to put one on. He spent five minutes on the tiny clasp, another five trying to shrink the straps to fit her shoulders. It was harder than riding the motorcycle.

"There you go," he said.

She swayed forward, pressed a tiny, sweet kiss to his chest. Logan fought a grin.

"Put your shirt on, Marie."

She did not smile, but her eyes brightened for a moment, as ever when Logan said her name. It was a pleasant sight, and the word tasted good on his lips. But often he found himself still thinking of her in terms of 'kid' or 'girl'. Force of habit.




Logan wasn't sure what kept him from sharing Marie's name with the rest of the team. He came close, especially with Ororo. But some cautioning hitch in his mind stopped his tongue,every time. And it remained a sort of secret; a private treasure, spoken only in their room for the satisfaction of an almost-smile.

Logan said her name as much as possible.



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The air conditioner must have been broken. The room felt muggy, like a Florida swamp. Though all the sheets had been kicked to the bottom of the bed, sweat continued to pool stickily in the creases of their skin.


Marie had woken four times already. Thrashing, whimpering. Clawing her way into an uncomfortable sleep only to be thrown back moments later. Her eyes were open now staring tiredly at the door as she waited for a doctor who hadn't returned but could, any moment.

Logan scratched at his chest, nails running through curling bristles of hair. Even his mind felt overheated-an itchy restlessness he'd usually have solved with a cold whiskey and a fuck for distraction. But as those options weren't entirely present, he'd settle for a beer.

"Hey. Marie?"

Her eyes flicked up to him.

"Gonna run down to the kitchen. You wanna come with me? Get a snack?"

He watched her weigh the risks. Leave their familiar, and relatively safe bedroom or stay in it without him. After a moment, the girl gave a tiny nod. He smiled.

Over the past week Logan had encouraged the girl to come out more--quick trips to the terrace or kitchen (when Jean was otherwise engaged). After all, she couldn't stay cooped up in the room forever...And neither could he, since most of his time was spent with her. But the crowds of students distressed Marie, and she spent most of their trips trembling against his side, barely peeking from the folds of his shirt. Logan couldn't blame her. He hoped it'd be better, with the school quiet and the halls empty.





Ororo welcomed them, dark eyes sparkling over the rim of her cup. "Midnight snack?"

"I thought you were in Virginia." Logan said, meaning 'Good Evening'. He pushed Marie gently, but firmly into the kitchen. She'd balked at the sight of Ororo, and gave a token whimper when he let go of her hand.

"Easy mission. We got back a few hours ago....Jean went to bed," Storm added, reading his mind. Logan nodded his thanks.

He walked to the fridge, ignoring the noise of protest Marie gave. One half of his mind searched for beer with the eye of a hunter tracking deer. The other half monitored the kid standing at the doorway, shaking--wanting to stick close to him, but not wanting to get any nearer to the woman at the counter, a short distance away. Ororo smiled peaceably, did not speak and Logan thought there was no better resident to test Marie with.

"The air conditioner's broken on our floor.", Logan said. He popped the cap off his beer and claimed one of the counter stools. Deliberate casualness, listening to Marie shift her weight from foot to foot behind him.

"No it's not." Storm sipped from her cup- which smelled not of coffee but an overwhelming amount of sugar with perhaps a tablespoon of coffee added as an afterthought.

"It's not?"

"It's the mutant we brought back from Virginia. His power affects humidity levels."

"'Feels alright down here."

"He's sleeping in your wing."

"Not for long."

The girl's resistance broke. She crossed the kitchen floor--socks and a flannel shirt making more noise than she did. Marie wrapped her arms around his waist, snuggling into his back. His arm found its way about her shoulders, and he pulled the girl around to his side. Hugging, proud in a way that couldn't quite be explained.

He kissed the top of her head.
"You want somethin' to eat, baby? A drink?"

Ororo was smiling at them--one of those warm, quietly knowing expressions that made Logan wonder why she didn't have a husband and a dozen children. "Your so kind with her," she said. Then: " You should hear some of the rumors flying around here."

"I've got good hearing, Darlin'."

"They're saying somebody's finally tamed the Wolverine."

Something inside his chest seemed to freeze, like a sudden frost in the middle of April.

"That right?"

Storm registered the hardening of Logan's already-curt, natural demeanor. She changed the subject swiftly, looking at Marie, who was nuzzling his chest like she was trying to burrow a tunnel. "Does she like hot chocolate?"

Logan ran his mind through the catalogue of all the drinks he'd given the girl. "I don't know."

"Well," she said, standing. "She's in luck." Ororo began bustling around the kitchen, pulling ice cream from the fridge, a mug, marshmallows and cocoa mix from the cabinets.

Ororo addressed Marie now--easily, relaxed. "I make the greatest hot chocolate in the world. Kings and Queens would bow down for this stuff."

Logan nudged the girl into looking up. He took a pull on his own beer (half empty now), letting the pleasant bitterness landslide down his throat.

"I put a scoop of vanilla ice cream in the water. It's creamier than milk...We're gonna stick this in the microwave for about a minute, and stirr in two packets of cocoa."

The scent of chocolate warmed the room like a fireplace being lit. Marie watched Storm's gliding movements. Her smell was nervous, but not very frightened. She looked wary when Ororo slid the cup across the counter. He understood her suspicion of suddenly-proffered drinks, but pressed the mug into her hands anyway.

"Don't burn yourself," Storm told her.

After several reluctant moments and Logan's encouragement, Marie brought the rim to her lips. She took a sip. And another. And another.

"Kings and Queens, huh?" Logan asked.

The Weather Witch nodded. "I believe I'll tuck in now. It's been a long day. Goodnight, Logan."

"'Night."

"Goodnight Sweetie."

Marie's eyes followed Ororo to the doorway, mouth almost glued to the mug, where the white-haired woman paused.

"The flowers are blooming, in the garden. Perhaps she'd like to see them?"

"Yeah. I was thinking that."

Storm smiled, continued on her way to the attic apartment she'd claimed for herself. Alone.








Marie loved the drink. She drained every drop (though she'd never been exactly wasteful), and when it was empty there was something sleepy and passive about her--not caused by medicine, this time. He thanked Storm's simple ingenuity. Face framed by white strips of hair and the green pillowcase (which he'd have to get cleaned soon--nightmares and humidity meant frequent laundry trips.), Marie gave Logan a half smile. On her back, not watching the door.

He'd aimed for her forehead, but somehow found her lips. Logan kissed her gently, almost absently. Her mouth tasted of chocolate.

He rolled over, tried to shut his mind off, go to sleep. His thoughts--the ones that wanted to repeat Storm's words over and over again--didn't seem to agree with that plan.

"Somebody's finally tamed The Wolverine.Somebody's finally tamed The Wolverine.Somebody's finally tamed The Wolverine."

The rumors she'd mentioned--one or two of which claimed he was keeping the girl locked up, as a sex slave. Logan's reputation as a crazy badass either took a hit or doubled, depending on which student you asked. (Jubilee was a self-proclaimed expert on the subject.)

"Somebody's finally tamed The Wolverine."

Logan swore, closed his eyes determined.





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The scent of roses and lilies, bleeding hearts and daffodils. A hundred other flowers he appreciated, even if he knew not their name and didn't have enough interest to find out. They overflowed both sides of the brick path--which seemed to have been placed there as an afterthought. Ororo had really outdone herself this year.

He enjoyed the clean scent of the flowers, though his love of nature usually slanted toward it's more practical aspects. But seeing the expression on Marie's face, that opinion was starting to change.

She was enthralled.

Clenching his hand, the fingers of her other stretching out to brush a petal, a leaf. Tiny steps, forcing him to walk slow as well. Staring at insects, a squirrel, a robin. Deep inhales of air not tainted with chemicals. Twisting her head up to make sure he saw everything too. Excited scent. Happy.



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"She's gonna get sick." Ororo chided him, as Logan stirred the chocolate mix into the cup--for the fourth time that day. He had become quite adept at hot chocolate-making.

Apparently it was unreasonable to go through a box of cocoa in one day. But how could he say no to the only drink Marie would ask for by name?


::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::



"Garden," Marie begged, after breakfast every morning. Still not comfortable speaking, only doing so when they were alone. Her eyes and scent told him more than the one-word declarations she gave. Logan didn't mind, but he was happy to hear her voice.

They took many walks out there, in the flowers. A sense of peaceful seclusion enveloped the garden (not doubt Storm's intent when she built it), so that even when they crossed paths with another student--reading on a bench, or picnicking--Marie wasn't often alarmed.

Ororo joined them, sometimes. Her tranquil aura seemed to seep into the kid. Logan hoped so, anyway. She didn't speak around Storm, but she didn't flinch away and there was no fear in her smell.

He could even leave her in the company of the other woman--run inside to get a beer, a snack. He'd return to find the Ororo explaining the effect of sunlight on a certain plant, the girl no less calm for his absence.

And if he felt tense when she was out of his sight, strangely irritable when Marie was with the weather witch instead of him...well, surely those were insignificant emotions. Easily ignored.


::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


Storm gave her a vase. Carnival glass, she called it. Swirls of pink and blue, sparkles. Marie adored it, ran her fingers over the side, the rim constantly.

She placed it on their bedside table and fell asleep admiring it. Proud, incredulous that something so pretty could be hers. And Logan was guilty for having bought her only the essentials, wishing he'd put that expression on her face long ago.


::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::



"You've been here ninety-three days.", Ororo announced to Logan. She handed Marie a pair of gloves and the clippers, allowing the girl to cut a few of her precious flowers for her vase. "Seven more and I'll win the bet."

"Bet?"

"Mmm-hmm," she said, nodding. "I put fifty down on a hundred or more days. Nobody else thought you would stay that long. So I ought to thank you. You've won me about a thousand dollars."

"That many people bet on me?" Logan asked, trying to keep the growl out of his voice.

"Yes. And can you blame us? This is the most time you've ever spent here. It's really impressive." Stormed leaned forward, teasing, conspiratory smile on her lips, white hair swinging over her cheeks. "If you stay a full year, I'll cut you in."

Logan grimaced.

As if he needed to be told that he hadn't left the mansion. As if he needed to be reminded that he hadn't felt the bike tires spinning beneath him in months. Hadn't set foot in a bar, or a cage fight. Hadn't gotten laid in so long he honestly feared for the health of his testicles. Logan's body was always thrumming now--jittery with the energy he'd usually expel by sinking into a woman. Restless, and easily aggravated.

Marie held her roses up for his approval.

"We'll see," he told Ororo.


::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::




"The fuck is it?", Logan grumbled, searching his pockets, the mattress, the dresser drawers for the last of his cigars. It should have been easy to find, what with his senses. But the plastic wrapping and the already smokey atmosphere of the bedroom dulled the cigar's scent.

It had to be here somewhere. At first it had only been a vague desire to light it, but now the tobacco seemed to be the most important thing in the world.

He'd been searching for the past fifteen minutes, and growing angrier with every one. Patting the bed covers, his clothes, growling lowly.

A small part of Logan knew that it didn't really matter, that his frustration wasn't with a missing cigar. A voice in his head said to relax.

The rest of his mind told the voice to shut the fuck up.

"Goddammit." Logan swore.

Well. This was simple. If he lost a cigar, he could just go out and get some more. No reason he had to sit here, cigar-less. No reason he couldn't leave the mansion for a few minutes. Or an hour. Or a couple hours. Or a night. Hell. No reason he couldn't loosen the noose or leash that had been tightening around his neck since Ororo had thanked him for winning her bet.

"Logan?" Marie queried, from the pile of bedsheets as he laced up his boots. "Where?" Her eyes wide, curious.

"Wherever I fucking please.", he snapped at her. He shoved his arms into his jacket refusing to meet those eyes. Logan slammed the door hard enough to hear the rattle of wood, the crinkle of glass.





His anger--such a pleasant, thoughtless feeling--lasted him halfway down the second floor staircase. But his boot hit the step below him, and he froze. Heard again that glass sound. Oh, fuck.

Logan closed his eyes.

Damn, he thought. He gritted his teeth as his frustration vanished, a more sickening emotion welling up in it's place.




Marie sat on the floor, picking up each piece of the broken vase. Delicately, reverently. She lay them in the wastebasket beside her, one by one. She didn't look up when the door opened, nor when he stepped hesitantly inside.

Her head was down, shoulders hunch. Focused on the carnival glass.

Shit. Shit. Fuckiddy shit.

"Aw, Kid," Logan said. "Kid. Marie."

He knelt, and Marie drew her hand away, back to her stomach. Keeping her gaze down, her movements slow as if trying to be invisible. Carefully shying away from him and the suddenly dangerous entity he'd become. Logan saw her blink repeatedly, staring fixedly at a rumpled flower on the carpet.

"Baby," he said, some kind of thickness blocking his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Logan reached out, but the girl recoiled, pressed herself against the mattress behind her.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

He took hold of her chin, forced her head up. She tried jerking away, not wanting to look at him or feel his touch. He tightened his grip.

"Honey, I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

Shards of glass sparkling on the floor between them. Guilty bolts contracting in his chest. All of that restlessness scraped out as if with a knife.

Logan cleaned off Marie's face, ashamed, and wondered what ever made him think he could leave her.






Logan did go out, later that evening.

Found an antique store and spent an hour being tracked by a grey-haired woman who chanted at him, "Can I help you dear?"

He returned with a receipt for sixty dollars and a dark blue flower vase--which Marie admired dutifully before wrapping it in a shirt, and hiding it safely in the bottom dresser drawer.


And she forgave him, though there was always the tiniest shadow of herself--which sometimes Logan had to search her eyes to find--that viewed him differently. Closed a piece of her off in a tiny box in her mind, protected like the vase.

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"Garden," Marie said, already dressed. Socks on, and the tennis shoes she never seemed quite comfortable in, but Jean insisted she wear.

Logan cracked his neck, stretched. He kissed the girl's cheek. "I've gotta take a shower, baby. Meet me down there."

Her eyes widened pleadingly and her lower lip jutted out. "Logan!"

"Don't give me that look, Kid. You're alright. You've done it before and you know where it is."

He hugged her against him lightly, nuzzled the top of her head. "Go. I'll be there in a few minutes, I promise."



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The door to Xavier's office struck the opposite wall, leaving a crater in the plaster that the residents wouldn't repair for many weeks.

The physics students jumped in their seats, startled out of a math-induced coma. They spun around in their chairs to see the large, feral man who stormed in. He was trembling, sweaty, his hair in disarray. His chest heaved up and down and he seemed one second away from murder. His eyes blazed with fury.

Professor Xavier exhaled, slowly.

"Where is she?", Logan snarled.

Heal Over: Chapter Seven








Logan did not know his claws were out until he saw them, reflected in the polished desk and the eyes of the frightened students.


"Professor!" a brunette cried, stumbling out of her chair and through the wall.

There were screams, the clatter of students rising to their feet. They gaped at the man who had stalked their school for years, always with the air that he was a step away from breaking someone's arm. Today he seemed closer to that goal than ever. One or two members of the junior team appeared to be deciding what use their gifts would be against the Wolverine. The rest were measuring the distance between themselves and the door, and pondering the wiser question of what their chances were of getting past those claws unscathed.

Logan didn't even see the them.

His gaze was pinned on Xavier as if with iron nails, and when a student reached out a hesitant, ice-coated hand to block him, Logan shoved him away without ever breaking his stride.

"Leave us," The Professor said firmly, granting the teenagers the permission they needed to be cowards. They fled from the classroom, no doubt to raise the alarm.





"Now, Logan," Xavier began, "This is--"

"Don't you fucking start with me," Logan snarled. He retracted the claws of his left hand, seized the front of the old man's shirt and shook him violently. Back and forth. Back and forth. Chuck's head struck the back of his wheelchair. "You tell me where she is you bastard. Tell me where she is or I'll kill you. I'll kill you right now."

There was an almost unnoticeable tremor in Logan's words, and it was easy to believe him insane.

A flicker in The Professor's eyes, a brush against his thoughts. A smokey presence in his mind that did not belong to The Wolverine.

Logan imagined Xavier's body, hung upside down by his useless legs. Adamantium cutting through muscle and ribcage. Purplish entrails uncoiling, falling to the ground.

It wouldn't be difficult.

Chuck flinched, and the touch on Logan's brain evaporated. A weak shield; it shouldn't have stopped the telepath.

But the tip of a glittering claw tickled the pale skin beneath The Professor's chin, and Xavier blinked wet, miserable eyes. "I had to do it. I had to." he pleaded.
His facade as the pillar of strength, the unshakable calm that propped up the school was gone. And in it's place sat an old man--tired and afraid.

Logan slammed him again against the back of the chair. "Tell me."

And he did.



They knew about the school. Of course They did. Anonymity could only last so long. But They wanted to prevent a war as much as mutants did. A compromise had been reached, just as it had a thousand times in history.

"Don't you understand, Logan? Surely you must understand."

They had agreed, that there should be a safe place for mutants, gathered all in one spot. A shelter. The mansion and it's residents would go unmolested, and in exchange the X-men would turn a blind eye to the occasional mutant that went missing....Whoever they could find with the X-gene, whatever mutant who had the misfortune to stray across their path, belonged to them. Property.

"I kept it under control. I never let it get out of hand, Logan. Didn't I send you to collect those files, the locations of the labs? We always, always had the upper hand. Haven't I always filled this school to the brim? Haven't I kept the students here safe, happy?"

Logan was never supposed to steal the girl from Them. It was his fault, really. She belonged to Them by contract.

"Think of the consequences of breaking our oath to Them. You do not want to spark a war, do you? Think of all the lives."

They wanted her back. If They could come and pick the girl up, everything would go back to the way it was before. None of the others would be touched, They promised.

"You are and intelligent man, Logan. You've always been practical. Surely you understand my choice. Think of the students here. The children. Would you really risk their safety?"

The girl was only one person. A horrible, unfortunate tragedy to be sure. But a necessary one. If you forget about her, the bigger picture was clear as day for your eyes to see.

"I made the right choice. I did. What else was I supposed to do? What else would you have done?"

Logan leaned close and growled. "Protect her."


He almost launched himself back, straightening up before he could lose control of himself. There was a white-hot pulsing behind just behind the bridge of his nose. Logan paced the room, dragging his claws along the walls. He shattered glass and wood. Huge chunks were gouged out of the bookshelf and desk.

It didn't even take the edge off his anger. He wanted to maim.

Xavier sat silently, carefully not moving. But it was too late to avoid The Wolverine's attention. Logan looked at him, through red-rimmed eyes. And when he spoke, his voice was tightly leashed in. It hardly shook at all.

"Okay," he said. "Here's what you're gonna do."






Logan stood outside the metal doors of Cerebro, feeling each second tick away from him, irretrievable. He wondered what was taking the old man so long. He should have gone inside the machine as well.

He was judging how long it would take to slice through those doors when they opened.

In all truthfulness, Logan was no match against The Professor's telepathy. Had Chuck so desired, The Wolverine could be laying in a coma, unable to wipe himself let alone deliver threats. For this reason he sensed Xavier--or just a mere part of him--did not want to fight, longed for the secret and the situation to be taken out of his hands.

He seemed smaller than before, diminished beneath a heavy weight. There were new lines on his temple, and the smell of sadness. Logan could not find a drop of compassion for him.

"They're travelling on the interstate, but I planted a suggestion in their minds. In about thirty minutes, They will decide to switch off to a back road, just outside Greenhaven. The vehicle is a 2001 Lincoln Navigator, black. The license plate number is 303810. You shouldn't have too much trouble finding it."

Logan's nostrils flared. He gave a curt nod.

Chuck said, "I can write down the--"

"No. I'll remember it."

He considered killing the old man then. But though he smelled no deceit, he couldn't be certain this was not a trick. He needed him alive, if he had to come back again.

But...

Logan walked around The Professor, down the long suspended path to the heart of Cerebro. He released his claws, barely hearing the droning protests behind him. Sparks shot out from the metal base--but if Logan could take a bullet, a little electric shock was no problem. He clawed the computer into rubble, cut off the possibility of Xavier tracking them.

And then he went, leaving Charles Xavier breathing, but not out of mercy. He was certain he'd come back someday (perhaps sooner, rather than later) for the old man.





Light glinted of the van's aluminum like tiny spotlights. It was nondescript, like a thousand others, but Logan could never have mistaken it. The license plate read 303810.

The bike shook beneath him, overstressed with the speed he had pushed it to--even with the red propeller Scott had installed.

He thundered behind the Lincoln Navigator, shortening the road between them swiftly, grateful that they were that their surroundings were private, no other cars in sight. He could not bring himself to slow down, even in the interest of a sneak attack.

The vehicle picked up speed, but that made no difference. He contemplated leaping from the motorcycle to the van--it wouldn't be the first time he tried that move--or ramming it. But that might jar Marie inside.

Logan pulled himself level with the Navigator--the windows were tinted black, but he could see shadows moving around behind the glass--then passed it. Fifteen yards ahead, he squeezed the breaks. The air filled with the sound of screeching tires--both his and Theirs.

The smell of scorched rubber. He let the bike thump to it's side on the asphalt. He was already running.

Black doors opened on either side. They looked strangely like wings. Three men in dark clothing, whose facial features Logan would later not remember or care to, sprinted toward him. They clutched long, skeletal-looking machine guns that may as well have contained water for as much as they phased him.

Shots clapping in the air, like a round of applause. Ripping at Logan and into him. He could feel his organs shifting around, absorbing the new additions to the rest of his metallic body.

It only pissed him off.

Wolverine reached the first man, claws still tucked momentarily within their sheaths. He seized his shoulder, and as the machine gun pumped bullets into his stomach, hit him squarely in the jaw. The guy's chin was stricken hard enough to shatter bone. His head fell back, and Logan kept pushing until he heard the spinal cord pop. The body fell to the ground. He kept moving.

Yells, echoing on the country road. First angry, then afraid. Flashes of light. Vests that could withstand bullets but not adamantium.

He cut one of the others in half. Blood spilled across the asphalt like a tin of paint being kicked over.

He grabbed the third's gun, threw it aside. It landed in the tall grass, discharging a few more shots from the impact.

Wolverine's fingers tightened around a neck. He registered that the throat was orange from a fake tan, that the man's eyes were green--but the rest of his face stayed a flashy blur. The Wolverine smashed his head against the van's fender. It crumpled like a paper bag filled with pomegranates.


And when it was over, the atmosphere was so saturated with blood every breath he drew felt damp. Logan stood, panting chokily.

He did not give his body time to stop shaking. Logan stumbled around to the side of the Navigator. Clean, empty front seat. Green thermos in the cup holder, no other adornment. He opened the passenger door. A briefcase, some folders, more weapons. A clear packet with shining syringes. No Marie.

Logan gave an animal's half-whine. He could...he could smell her. He could smell her. Fear and Ororo's organic shampoo. Marie. Marie.

He hurried around the back of the van, cut through the lock. Swung open the doors.

Empty.

But...but....

Dark lines in the grey felt carpet of the trunk, a rectangle. Bonus storage space for beach balls, camping supplies. Logan did not even have the energy it would take to cuss. He grabbed the tiny handle, pulled the lid up.


Brown hair and pale skin, a flashback to the girl on the operating table. Then, her eyes were open.

Limbs folded up into a tight ball, crammed inside the box like a piece of luggage.


Logan eased her out. She was limp. How could she be so weightless and heavy at the same time? He cradled the girl, her feet still dangling into the box. No movement behind her eyelids. Her flesh was cool, but not...not cold. It wasn't.

"Baby," he said. "Marie."

Blood was rushing too loudly in Logan's ears for him to hear her heart beating. But it must have been. It must have been, because wasn't that...wasn't that her breath, tickling his damp cheek?

It was beating. She was just unconscious because...because of the medicine. She was fine. She was fine.

"Hey." Logan said. And his voice shook so much it could have been a laugh. "Kid, look at me. Look at me.You're alright."

He brushed her hair back, turning those white streaks red and sleek with the blood of his hands.

"Wake up, baby. You're safe. It's time to go."

"C'mon, honey."

"Marie."

He thought he'd embraced that part of him people called The Wolverine. But he had never felt more in tune with the animal until now--frenzied. He sniffed her desperately, but could only smell his own panic.

"God fucking dammit," Logan said.

What was wrong with his senses? "Sweetie. Marie. Marie. Marie."

He nuzzled her cheek, her throat. Soft skin. Like silk. "Baby. Marie."

Her eyelashes twitched, fluttered. Sleepy, drugged brown eyes he'd never been happier to see.

Heal Over: Chapter Eight



One Year Later.





Logan stacked the last of the boxes inside the cedar cabinet with it's fellows. Seven cartons of hot chocolate in all. It should last them 'til next month, but perhaps he should have gotten more.


Marie had done well this trip into town. She had smiled shyly at the cashier in the grocery store, had whispered 'fine' when the waitress at the diner asked how they were doing today. Logan was proud of her.

Footfalls on the floor behind him-wooden boards they swept every day but always seemed a little dusty. Marie placed two plastic bags on the table.

"Those the last of 'em?"

She nodded, dug through one of the sacks for a few minutes before surfacing with a long, brown container. Logan grinned. Their priorities were certainly straightened out: cocoa for her, tobacco for him. Marie passed him the cigars, and continued to unpack the groceries.


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The axe struck the piece of wood, cutting in two with one clean, easy stroke. The cabin had a heating system, but it failed more often than it worked. But that was okay; there was a fireplace in both the living room and the bedroom. He actually preferred those to a furnace or a thermostat whose source of heat you couldn't see. There was a deep pleasure in a corporeal fire--in it's scent, in the heat that stretched across the floorboards, in the primitive knowledge that he was keeping his girl warm.

Another log on the chopping block, another swing of the axe. Splinters flew everywhere, across dirt and patchy grass.

They already had a fair supply of firewood, stacked high against the cabin's wall. But Logan busied himself chopping more so he could listen for Marie, out on one of her walks. He could hear the rustle her legs made in the grass, the snap of twigs only a quarter mile into the woods. They'd been at the cabin fro six months, and she hadn't gotten lost yet. She always returned just when Logan's patience was close to snapping, when he was a second from going to retrieve her. Smiling, bearing wild roses, a pretty stone, blackberries. Their cabin was always heavy with the smell of flowers.

Logan wanted to give Marie her freedom. He was proud of her for taking the initiative to explore on her own. But he never went inside when she was out. Never let go of the relentless anxiety that gnawed at him when she was out of his sight, even for a moment. She would never protest if he demanded to go with her, would happily accept his company. But Logan knew some part of her enjoyed being on her own, free, so he rarely asked. He busied himself in the yard--waiting for his name, for a scream. For a hint the girl had run into poison ivy, into another animal or any of the worse threats his mind could conjure.

It hadn't happened yet.


Marie returned more quickly today than usual, flitting through the grass. Yellow t-shirt and blue jeans over tan skin. Her arms wrapped around Logan enthusiastically. She never seemed to mind if his skin was sweaty.

"Let's go fishing." Imploring voice, smiling up at him hopefully.

He smirked. Along with the cabin and a small piece of land, the deed he had signed (under a false name) included a rusty motorboat. It wasn't really fishing she wanted. Marie loved going out on the lake, if only to play with the fishing pole--casting it out and reeling it in every few minutes--and nap while being rocked by the waves. But if they wanted actual perch or bass for dinner, Logan had to catch and clean them when the girl wasn't near. If she was, Marie kicked up a fuss. And every fish was placed gently back in the water, free.

He set the axe down--the firewood could be stacked later.

"Alright. C'mon."


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He thought every day about going back to Westchester. Killing Xavier. Sometimes he fantasized about specific ways to murder him. Decapitation, a bashed in skull, smothering with a pillow. He went so far as to plan where he could keep Marie safely as he did it, how he'd get around the telepaths and all the rest of the school's mutants. It'd have to be well though out, sneaky. But usually his daydreams leaned toward a general desire for revenge, to keep The Professor from harming anyone else.

But the recent news, and the information a few of his contacts slipped him of what was going on down in the states made Logan wonder if action on his part was really necessary.

There had been attacks on mutants all across the country. The Mutant registration Act was up for review again.

Six labs had been raided--some by the Xmen, but most by The Brotherhood and other pro-mutant groups.

The suppressor chip was advertised to go on the market in four months.

Senator Kelly was assassinated--found in his campaign office, strung up and coated with slime.

And now, the radio announced that a bomb had gone off in a Westchester school. One wing burned down, four dead. It was four students, but Logan had a feeling any day now they'd be listing the headmaster's name as a casualty.

It seemed that the war Xavier feared had arrived. But it was okay. It wasn't going to touch them. They were safe, up here in the mountains.

Logan heard the flush of a toilet, the bathroom sink running as Marie finished up in the bathroom. He hurriedly pressed the plastic button on the radio, switched to a random station. When she came out a jingle was blasting from the speakers. Apparently all kittens loved kit'n'kaboodle chow and they should switch brands today.

He never spoke to her about Xavier, or the school. There was no need.


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Logan inhaled deeply, kept the cigar's smoke inside his mouth for a minute before releasing--letting it tickle out, over his lips and into the evening. He sat on the cabin's porch, in a rocking chair bought months ago during a trip into town.

They didn't have a view that would send a realtor or anyone else into fits of ecstasy. The chopping block, the rusty pickup and a sandy trail that could only be called a road if you closed your eyes and imagined it as such. No other decoration. They could barely see the sky, let alone a sunset. Just a strip of pinkened clouds-the rest was blocked off by Canadian trees that stretched into eternity.

He liked it that way.


Marie stepped outside--pink cotton shorts and a tank top. She crawled up in Logan's lap, snuggling in. He pressed the orange tip of the cigar against the armrest until it turned dark. He didn't want to blow smoke in the girl's face. The wood bore many similar scorch marks.

His right arm encircled Marie's waist, his left fell a bit lower-ever so lightly cupping the rounded flesh below her hips.

The hum of cicadas in the air. The lazy creak of the rocking chair. All around him the scent of wood and soil and Marie.

Logan rubbed the girl's arms, not wanting her to catch a chill though the air was warm with summer. His fingers brushed over the raised lump on her arm and he found himself wondering...bit no. He had no idea how to remove the chip even if he were willing to cut into her skin to get it out. He pushed the thought out of his mind.

"Baby, watcha want for dinner?" Logan asked, though he wasn't really hungry. Taking a nap in this chair was incredibly tempting, especially with the girl as such a sweet, warm blanket.

"Hot chocolate."

"What else?"

"Hot chocolate."

"What else, Marie?"

"Hot chocolate with marshmallows."

"Marie."

She sighed against his neck. His lips quirked.

"Chicken," she told him, resigned.


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Logan had a deal with the bar down the mountain. The owner got The Wolverine four nights a week, and a five percent bonus cut of his winnings. The King Of The Cage took enough hits to keep the line of competitors full, and Marie was allowed to stay in the back office during the fights. It was a good deal, and kept them living--if not in the lap of luxury (which Logan never cared for anyway), at least comfortably.


The odor of sweat and blood and excitement. The wire cage rattling from the pressure of the fighters' bodies and the roaring of the crowd. Screams. Flesh on flesh. Music--that of the audience's jeers and a jukebox who's song only Logan's ears could pick up. Tim Mcgraw.

His opponent--the last of the night--had short hair and perhaps fifty scars scattered across his dark skin. He looked like he could juggle five grown men easily, while standing on one leg. Logan gave him ten more minutes out of courtesy and a punch to the jaw that sent the man sprawling into deep dreams.

A slender hand with a four leaf clover tattoo reached through the wire, offering him a shot of something. Tequila, by the smell. Logan plucked it from the fingers, threw it down his throat with a much-practised ease. Nice.

He dropped the glass to the cage's mat. It would be swept up later, along with The Wolverine's challengers.

He crossed the grimy bar floor--feeling a few general pats on his back along with the more frequent glares of those who'd bet against him. The light was dim. Bodies pressed all around but they would thin out soon, with the end of tonight's fights. He'd be taking home two hundred dollars, a pretty fair amount.

"Hey there." A woman stepped into his path. Asian, with high heals and a confident smile. Sweet smell, light perfume. Logan recognized that hand that was held out to stop him--the one who'd bought him the tequila. She stepped close.

"I've been watching you all night."

"Have you?"

"Uh-huh." Small flash of a diamond inside a red mouth. She had a tongue piercing. That was interesting. "You're so...forceful."

That hand reached up daringly. A blue fingernail tapped his chest. "Potent. You that way outside a cage?"

"Yes."

Her studded tongue darted out, licked her lower lip. It wasn't the only part of her that became wet.

"You wanna show me?" the woman purred.

"No." Logan said, stepping politely around her. Perhaps Marie and he would stop at Sonic on the way home. She liked their root beer floats.

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Logan stood, straddling the chair and Marie's legs. He tapped her chin, urging her head back further.

"Little more, baby."

The pipes in their bathroom had burst last week. He'd fixed the toilet, but they had to wash themselves at the kitchen sink until the parts he'd ordered for the shower
came in.

He didn't mind so much.

Logan had placed a towel over the edge of the counter so the back of Marie's neck wouldn't get sore. He did his best but the faucet didn't quite stretch far enough, so he cupped water in his hands to for her hair. He teased the suds through the brown strands, massaged her scalp.

Her face upraised. Pink lips half open and eyes half closed, openly enjoying his ministrations. And perhaps Logan used a bit more shampoo than necessary, to prolong the operation. But no one was measuring.


He was wondering whether a second dollop of conditioner could be excused when he felt her hands. Delicate, small. Slipping beneath the edge of his denim button-down shirt, caressing the rigid muscles found there. Playfully tickling, innocently stroking. The air stuttered in his throat and his stomach clenched. He wondered if Marie knew the effect that kind of gentle touching had on him. He decided yeah, yeah, her hair could use another conditioning. Had to be thorough, after all.


"All done, baby." Tender, subtle aroma of strawberries.

Marie got to her feet but tugged on his arm. She insisted Logan switch places with her, though usually a quick dunk would suffice for his shorter hair. He aquisited, humoring the girl.

Her legs were not strong or long enough to straddle his lap standing so she stood between his knees.

Oh.

Jesus.

He was gonna smell fruity, but a swim in the lake later would fix that, return his sense of manliness. Why the fuck had they not done this before?

Marie leaning in, her stomach to his chest. Her chest dangerously level with his eyes and where were all these new thought in his head coming from? Little furrow between her brows as she concentrated. Wanting to do the job well. Fingertips kneading, stimulating, and Logan had to squeeze his eyes shut tight.

How could something be so relaxing and and the same time so...so....

Why was she taking her hands away?

His eyes flew open.

"All done," Marie declared, mimicking him so adorably he wanted to grab her, crush her body against him. She stepped back.

Logan dropped his hands--which he thought had been balled up but, funnily enough, had been gripping her hips the whole time.

That was odd.


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The cashier was staring a little too hard at Marie. Little prick.

It was a new kid, probably the owner's son. Trying to save up for an ipod or computer or whatever else kids wanted now. He had curly orange hair and skin full to busting with pimples and adolescent hormones. Logan barred his teeth, growled. Considered punching the boy but decided that might be a teeny bit of an overreaction. The cashier became appropriately focused on their groceries again.


Marie wasn't paying them any attention. She'd wandered from Logan's side--just to the end of the counter. Pretty sundress rippling against the back of her knees. She was thin, but healthy. Rather nice-looking, actually, he thought. It was no wondered the boy had stared--not that it excused him.

The girl was staring at the swivel rack of books. Generic novels that cost about five dollars and were worth a lot less. But she was studying them and though Logan could not see her facial expression, he registered the spikes of curiosity in her scent.

He wondered if she could read.

He hadn't really thought about before. It would make sense, if she hadn't been taken by Them too young. The X-gene usually reared up around puberty, so she might. She might. If so, it would give him a better idea of how long her stay in the lab had been--something he could bring out in his mind when he felt like torturing himself.

Marie was always close-mouthed when he brought up anything before the time of when he found her, the lab or what They'd done. He didn't know her age or last name...of course, he didn't know his either. And there was a cruel symmetry in that Logan was ashamed to enjoy. She never responded verbally--always staring at him with wide (sometimes wet) eyes and a haunted expression. As if she couldn't understand what he was saying. Logan figured his interest wasn't worth putting that look on her face--what did he know about therapy? Marie would talk about it when she was ready.

But it couldn't hurt to...

"You want one of those, baby?"

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug without twisting to look at him. Then a moment later, he saw her head nod. Just once, hesitantly.

She made no move to choose a book herself. There was something profoundly...lost...in her stance. She stared at those texts as if trying to seize something too far away from her. A child who'd accidentally let go of a balloon and was desperately trying to grasp the string that's already blown out of reach.

Logan stepped forward, skimmed his eyes down the rack. He reached around Marie's body, took any book that didn't seem to involve self help or vampires or swooning maidens. There weren't many.

He tossed them on the counter. They were possibly the most interesting customers the cashier would have that day...not exactly an awe-inspiring feat, but still.


Marie didn't say a word. Not in the parking lot, and not on the drive home. But every now and then she would turn in her seat, peek through the glass to the bed of the pickup, making sure the bag of books was still there.




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That night she sat in the armchair (which might have been red, once upon a time before age had bled the color out). A collection of poems lay in her lap. The others were stacked on the floor, close by. Marie stroked the cover tentatively, studying it with her palms as much as her eyes. She did not touch it as she had the other items she'd given her, including the vase--which stood on the fireplace mantle, lillies overspilling it's rim. This gift, Marie treated with infinitely more uncertainty.

Logan watched her from the kitchen as he rinsed of the potatoes for dinner, cut them into strips.

She didn't open the book. Not for a long time.


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Logan kissed her.

Not a spectacularly unprecedented event in itself. He did it quite frequently, casually. The girl never flinched, never responded with alarm She seemed to revel in the closeness, accepted them as she did with the rest of his touches, as if they were the most natural thing in the world for him to do. Logan guessed the experience of a man's lips on her's had never been spoiled for her in the lab. That whatever They had done to her, kissing had not been a part of it.

He didn't know whether to feel grateful or relieved.

This time, however, was not simple affection. Not a quick brush of his mouth over hers.

He moulded his lip's over Marie's, moved them slowly, as thoroughly as he washed her hair. Gently, unrushed. Her eyes grew bright as she pressed herself close, revelling in the attention.

The tip of Logan's tongue slid over the girl's lower lip, and that was new. Inside the damp, sweet tissue of her mouth.

Marie's eyes fluttered a little wider. She gave him a look--what are you doing? Not uncomfortable, just mildly curious.

He pulled away--residual moisture on both their mouths. Smiled, brushed a strand of white hair behind her ear. Rolled over to his own pillow. She snuggled, dragged herself half-onto his chest.

Rain fell in sheets outside. The thick oak of the cabin absorbed the sound, turning it into a lulling whisper, easy to doze off to.

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A white cotton shirt. Large, softened with much wear. It reached the waistband of his jeans, but halfway down her thighs when she wore it. Logan's shirts had stopped being his exclusive property long ago. She commandeered them, only switched to the nightgowns he'd bought her when the shirts stopped smelling like him.

It didn't really bother him. His clothes smelling like Marie was rather pleasant, actually.

Logan had his hand under that shirt now as he skimmed his lips over her forehead, her cheek, her lips. His palm ran over her sternum, her belly. Dragged his fingers down Marie's side and she squirmed, giggled. Ticklish.

She arched a little, made a sweet hybrid noise--a cross between a purr and a gasp.

Logan withdrew his hand before his body could take over.

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The logs were almost burned out in the bedroom fireplace. What wood was not ash already or quarter-size embers was moldy-white chunks. Those would fall apart with a simple prod of the iron poker. That was okay. He could relight it later. It wasn't cold in the room yet. He was plenty warm, and making sure the girl was too.


Logan buried his face against her skin. Tender, fleshy mounds. He nuzzled her breasts, her stomach. So smooth. A thick rumble in his throat, a tremor that went down his spine.

She whimpered, wriggled beneath a kind of pleasure she'd never been taught to understand. Logan lavished attention on her breasts, her collar. His lips moved against her skin, an untranslatable language. So smooth. So soft. Marie. He grazed her with the edges of his teeth, but needed only to look at that half-crescent scar to rid himself of his usual urge to bite.

Marie's breath was quick, hitching. When his tongue encircled a pert nipple the girl jerked--first upward, into his mouth, then away. Too much.

Logan stopped at that first sign of real tension. He kissed along the line of her jaw, then her forehead. Stroked her arm soothingly until the girl's heartbeat evened. He waited 'til her face was peaceful, her eyes closed, before getting up. He walked around the bed to the metal bin where they kept the night's logs. He chose a few, settled them inside the fireplace even though his body said he didn't need any more heat. He did not want the girl to catch a chill in the middle of the night.


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The first time he touched her below the waist--in a way that was neither to clean or tend medically--came a week later. And it was decidedly nonclinical.

Logan eased her into this with small steps, never wanting to rush her through something her body and her mind was unprepared for. He always balked at the idea of frightening her.


His hand had been running up and down the inside of her legs for several minutes now. Gently--but with enough pressure to keep her from falling asleep with the strokes. Tickling the underside of her knee, up her thigh, down again. Logan kept his expression open, reassuring.

Her body was relaxed, and Logan's might have seemed that way too, if you weren't paying attention.

She watched his hands, his body, his face, as alertly as he monitored her. Her legs flexed under his palms like a cat being petted. Marie's scent carried a touch of arousal--like something a painter added after the picture was finished. She couldn't recognize that feeling, but Logan wanted to spread it. When her leg's opened--a body's animal, reflexivee request--he let his hand drift up.

He pressed his lips down on hers, then smoothed them over her cheekbones. She gave a little gasp, quick and shallow.

His fingers ran over the flesh between her thighs--not pressing hard, just running over the soft folds. Marie's eyes locked onto his, searching for answers, for comfort, and he gave it to her. Kissing, murmuring. His fingertips slid under the cloth, happily discovered the dampness there. Tender skin, like thick petals.

Marie bucked a little, crushed herself instinctively against his chest. Logan's knuckle pressed testingly to her entrance and a she shuddered. A line of anxiety shot through the mounting arousal in her scent. She trembled--not wanting him to stop, not ready for him to continue.

Logan removed his hand. She made a sound that was simultaneously protesting and relieved at the absence of his touch. He tugged her (his) shirt down, rubbed her stomach over the flannel. It took a long time to settle her down, to still the girl's semi-frantic movements.

"Logan," Marie implored. He wasn't sure what she was asking for..

"Sshhhhh."

He petted, nuzzled the girl until she ceased shivering, and for awhile after that. She nestled into the curve of his arm, his chest. Logan quietly coaxed her into sleep. Never mind the shaking of his own frame.


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Logan pushed into her slowly, centimeters--no, millimeters at a time. Careful, feeling the girl's body stiffen, then yield. Over and over. Beautiful, incomparable heat and a wonderful slickness he had to do his best to not think closely about lest he lose himself. Logan caressed her hair, pushing it out of her face. Comforting, trying to tell her this wasn't bad, this wasn't wrong. That he'd never treat her any differently.

She shook her head, gave a low whine--not scared, but close, and Logan withdrew. He laid himself beside her on the covers calmly. Ignoring the painful clenching of his stomach muscles, how tightly they seemed woven. The flesh below his waist was stiff, agonizing. A thousand needles digging in.

"It's alright, baby. Ssshh. Ssshh....Marie. Yes, that's alright. Go to sleep, sweetie. It's okay."


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Marie looked up at him. Brown eyes worried, but trusting. If not tranquil, at least willing to let him in. Do as he wish, as long as he didn't harm her. Logan kissed her tenderly, assuring. Promising. Eased himself forward, wanting to caress away that expression of endurance, hoping pleasure would take it's place. Wanting to make this better for the girl than himself.

Rigid inner muscles, wet. Stretching.

The Wolverine inside him, slamming against the cage Logan had placed him in.

Pressing deeper, deeper. Sinking. When he could push no further, Logan did not pull out. He forced himself to freeze, let her body get acclimated. Her legs squeezed against his hips.

"There....There, baby. So good...Uhhh..."

Sweat racing across his shoulders, his back. He rubbed his cheek against hers, inhaled her aroma gently.

"Logan. Logan. Logan."

He flexed his hips, rotated them. This elicited a gasp, a pleasing mumble from her and he did it again. Tension pooling in his waist, building from such simple, tiny motions. Marie. She felt so good.

Feminine hands stroking his stomach now. Marie's head lifted and she kissed him, sweetly.

She still tasted like hot chocolate.

The thought undid Logan and he came, emptying himself inside her. Fighting not to pump crazily, holding onto consciousness. A grey haze came over his eyes, like smoke. He groaned, clamped his lips down on hers.


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Marie on his lap, holding her close. Teasing her gently with his body. He pulled her down, thrust upwards gently. His palms everywhere, using every soft trick he'd ever known and discovering a few others.

Her face, twisted up against rising sensation. Fighting against a loss of control, terrified of a fall she sensed coming closer. Bucking, shaking. Burrowing herself against him. So fucking pretty.

"It's okay, baby. Just let go. It's okay. Safe. I'm here, I gotcha. Let go, sweetie. Nothing ever gonna hurt ya. Marie, Marie. It's okay."

He coaxed his girl to the edge, and she toppled over it. Catch me. With a soft cry of his name and something that might of been fear but was lost in waves of other feelings. A rush of moisture and her trembling limbs, all softness.

Logan kissed her eyelids, her cheek, her jaw. Told Marie she'd done so well, that he was so proud of her, that she was the most beautiful creature in the whole world. And something else he'd never said before and would repeat to no one else.

Until they fell asleep.