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."
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Surprise!! Happy...>checks calender, is disappointed
Chapter End Notes:
Hi! Nice to see you down here again. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I'll get to working on the next one...oh, and I apologize for the amount of summarizing in this chapter. It would have taken a *lot* longer if I had written out everything I mentioned. (Hope that makes sense. I had to walk to the library to use a computer and my time is almost up.) Thank you!!