Title : sayyadina
Author : darkstar
Email: clone347@...
Feedback: adored and craved
Archive: Anywhere that will take me in, only please let me know
           who's doing the taking so I can properly demonstrate
           gratitude.
Codes: L/R relationship, angst, character death,
Rating : PG-13
Disclaimers: If Logan belong to me, do you actually think I'd be
sitting here alone at my keyboard on a Friday night.
I don't think so.

Summary : Be careful when you ask for the truth. You might just get it.

Note:  /......./ = personal thoughts
         (.........) = thoughts of other characters


- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Sayyadina (2/2)

darkstar
- - - - - - - - - - - - -


At first, stepping into the room is like stepping into a vacuum.
     I feel nothing from the man on the bed.

Not a jolt, a whisper, not even a flicker of life. The machines
beside the bed register normal breathing and pulse, but his mind is
dead.

     (Extend yourself, Sayyadina. Push deeper.)

No, it is not death. It is something worse, a milky white haze of
drugs and confusion smothering his consciousness. My eyes fly to
his arms. Metal cuffs bind the wrists to the bed; two thin tubes
pump clear fluid into the veins. They are choking him with their
cursed medications...I feel it now, within me as well. A deep,
terrifying coldness starts to spread through the back of my mind,
numbing the thoughts....I can't breathe...can't...

Charles!!!

     (Push through it, Alia. Push!)

The mist dissipates, suddenly, I am standing barefoot in fire.
Smoldering fear, white-hot anger, ashen grief. Coals under the
skin. Goddess, don't they know what they are doing to him?
Their restraints. Their needles. Their drugs. I see the past memories,
oh, dear Goddess. No.

Then it all is simply gone. Charles has activated our shields.

I lean back against the wall; my mouth cotton dry, my fingers quivering
in exhaustion and anger. How dare they hurt my father in such
fashion...how dare they. My Feyd will kill the doctor for this, he will
use the Voice and--

     (Revenge clouds the mind. Focus on the mission. You only have a
     short amount of time to open his mind and find the memories.)

But I can't fight through all that mist and pain and chaos...

     (You will not have to. I will bridge your minds; you will enter
     his consciousness as a friend, wrapped in a memory of comfort
     and safety. He will come to you.)

I walk over to the bed and for the first time look my father in the face.
He is too young to be so old. There are no wrinkles, no scars,
not even a hint of gray in the beard stubble across his cheeks.

This is disconcerting. I expected age, some deference to the passage
of time. Yet he is no different from the day he first met my mother.
He will be no different when my daughters have daughters.

But yes, he is old. Ancient even. Even in this forced sleep, there is
that restlessness: twitching of the eyelids, spasm of the muscles. He
searches for someone. My mother.

     (Hurry, Alia. We are losing time. The others will be back soon.)

Losing time. Tell me, has anyone ever saved time?
Locked it up somewhere for safekeeping? Where would I put it?
A jar, perhaps. Around the dogtags?

I sit down beside the bed and pull off the glove on my right hand.
Gloves and scarves are a habit I picked up from Marie, although
I can control my skin far better than she ever did. For me it is
an intended eccentricity, a subtle mystery that fits well the
persona of the Sayyadina. But the girl behind the healer simply
likes the security they give me; the sense of basic protection.
Like invisible hands rest over mine at all times.

My bare fingers trace a path down his arms (the muscles hard, the
steel bones rigid; women desired him and I know why) over the
hatred restraints. Down to his hand. Palm to palm.

One deep breath.

     /I am ready./

Flying, no falling, into a light. A blinding storm of white fragmented
with explosions of color and patches of sound. Then it all solidifies.

A cabin, surrounded by miles of pine forest and snowdrifts. A
curl of blue smoke against a gray sky; impression of safety, warmth,
love, but also of aching. A girl-woman stands on the porch,
beautiful in the strange way that inspires abstract art. Her hands are
gloved; a thick, multi-colored scarf is wrapped around her neck.
Protection against the cold, but not only the cold. Two long white
streaks in her dark hair, an awareness about her that makes her eyes
almost as weary as mine.

My mother.

When I open my eyes, I am inside her, looking at the memory
through her eyes. This is the shape Charles has given me; he knows
Logan can never refuse her.
But if that is true, where is he?

Wait, I see him now. Coming out of the shadows of the trees, a
dusting of snow on his shoulders, in his hair. He moves slowly,
cautiously, and from the way he cocks his head into the wind, he
is smelling for something.

Me. Or her. Fine.... *us*.

He catches our scent and his head whips in our direction. Utter
shock blanches his face, a pinched disbelief but also a joy. He
begins to run; before I can blink twice he is climbing the steps of
the porch. Staring us full in the face (an oddly disquieting burn,
those eyes) and asking us if we are real.

"Logan."

He falls on his knees before us, arms clutching our waist, head
buried against our stomach. A jumble of words.

"I knew you'd come back, baby. Knew you wouldn't leave me
forever, they couldn't take you that long, I knew and baby I'm
never gonna leave never gonna, God I love you, darlin' missed you
so much so much..."

A flash of guilt.
He says this to her, not me. I have no right to steal his memory of
her for my own use. But I have to know what happened between
them and she is the only one he will tell.

"I'm dead." I (not Marie) tell him, pulling back to look him in the
face.

He looks as if we gutted him.
"I know, baby. I'm so sorry."
"Why didn't you save me?"
He flinches, grabs our hand and pulls it to his face. "I tried, God,
I tried, but you wouldn't let me. You wouldn't let me stop any
of it and then it was too late and--"
"Prove it"
"Baby?"
"Prove you did all you could. Take me inside the memories and
let me watch."

He kisses our palm through the glove.
"Whatever you need, darlin'. I'll show you whatever you need."

Now I can see why she fell in love with him.
Why she never told me of him; it was killing her, you see. The
knowledge that she had to leave him behind.

But enough of my story.

I wish to hear his.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part Two: Logan

He stands outside the door, grocery bags in hand. Catching her scent.
     Burnt flesh, fresh blood, cigarette smoke.

It will be a day for razor blades and whiskey.

There are other scents, variations on a common theme. The hallway
stinks of old beer, old urine, old pot. Everything aged, rotted, even
the air: dead, decaying from too long without sun. (No one opens
windows in this kind of place.) Even the colors: avocado green
carpet, yellow stains on the walls, a vomit-orange bedspread.

He steps into the room, brings his eyes up to study the woman.
Appraise the recent damages.


His first thoughts are always the same-- young, too young, although
this has been a lie for sometime. The little paradoxes confuse
him-- for example, the clothes she is wearing. A white cotton
tank top, molded to the contour of the ribs; she has yet to show
evidence of the child supposedly ripening underneath the skin. Jeans,
dark blue, too baggy. She's still trying to hide something
even though there's no point. Bare feet, the toenails painted dark
green. Matching the fingernails perfectly-- it's a concern at that age.

Young, too young.

The rest of the picture contradicts this--

She hovers in the air above the bed, stretched out in a lazy
reclining position amid a thin gray cloud of smoke. A half-finished
cigarette held defiantly between two fingers. Desperation in the eyes;
he knows why even without looking at her arms. He tries to avoid
this as long as possible; it turns his stomach every time.

There will be burns: small, circular, from the cigarette, no doubt; if
she used the lighter they would be long and thin. There will be
blood: delicate lines of crimson breaking through the surface of her
skin. No particular pattern, today, although she has been known to
carve her initials. Or worse, his. An identification, she says.
In case I forget who we are.

He's stopped hiding the razor blades; she finds them anyway. She's
learning to manipulate the telepath in her.

He drops the groceries by the door. His voice is weary; it reveals
that this is routine.

     "Thought we talked about this, darlin."
     "What?"
     "You wanna cut something, you wanna burn something, you
     come to me."

He shrugs off his jacket, jerks his shirtsleeve up to his elbow.

     "Right here. C'mon."

     "We tried that in Philly, sugah. Didn't work, remember?"

Hiss of smoke through the lips, thin and curved like a bird's claw.

     "There has to be another way."
     "Nope. I gotta keep 'em under control. They get impatient when
      it's their turn for me. This reminds 'em that I'm still in control
      until the last minute. We still have--"

She twists her head back to see the clock.

     "Fifteen minutes."
     "You don't have to do this, baby. You can refuse."
     "And go insane? You know the deal. I've told you. Charles
      promised to help keep them out of Alia and they promised to
      behave in my mind if I share control. Every other week. That's
      the way it breaks down, like it or not."

He does not accept defeat so easily; merely changes tactics. Shrugs
his jacket off, eyes her cigarette.

     "That really the best thing to be doin' right now? With the kid
       in ya and all?"
     "Sure it is. Charles tells me she's got your healing. I could shoot
       us full of crack and hard whiskey and she'd just laugh and keep
       on coming."
     "You talk like she's a tumor."
     "According to some medical textbooks, she is."
     "You believe everything you read, now?"
     "Nope."

A pause, then a knife-edged grin. Sharp and fierce and gleaming
like steel.

     "Don't worry, sugah. She likes it when I smoke. Says it makes
      Charles mad."
     "What if this hurts her? Having that bald freak in her head?"
     "Not like I had a choice, was it?"

She delivers the words with the graceful devastation of a whiplash;
they make no sound at all until they cut into his face. He flinches.
She sees it, softens.

     "He says she's fine."
     "Do you believe him?"
     "Yes."

More silence; it seems to be the vogue between them. He fishes
a cigar out of his coat pocket with the intensity of a man who is
trying to avoid a question. But, he can't find matches and this puts
quick end to the charade.

     "Whose turn is it?"
     "Jean."

Her grin widens, sharpens. He notices know that the lips are smeared
with deep purple. A color like a stain. Borderline tacky; Jean will
hate it. This is probably the point.

     "You seem to like her best."
     "You know I don't want her, baby. I want you."
     "You've got ten minutes--"

Her face twists, suddenly, her body contorts as if she is
stabbed from behind. A knife thrust in the spine. Her arms shake;
loose objects on the floor begin to vibrate and lift slowly off the
ground. A change in the voice-- it is thicker, dripping from the lips.

     "Come and get some, lover, I know you want a real woman
       instead of your little girl whore--"

Marie screams.

     "Get back, you SLUT! I have ten left! Ten freakin'
      minutes and GET BACK OR I SWEAR--"

Actions speak louder than words.

She presses the glowing end of the cigarette against her neck,
underneath the collarbone. Once. Twice. Third time's the charm--
the chairs and grocery bags drop back to the carpet; her body
falls back to the bed.

He's there before she can hit the mattress. Thin leather gloves on his
hands; he couldn't have put them on that fast so it must mean he
wears them all the time, now. Arms around her, holding her still.
Another paradox-- the roughness of his voice measured against the
gentleness of the embrace. Hands on either side of her face,
running through her hair, a gesture of love but also of desperation.

They are running out of time.

     "I'd  kill them, baby. Every single one of the freaks, I'd kill
them if they weren't already dead."
     "Go ahead, sugah."

She pulls his hand to her chest, directly over her heart. His knuckles
flat against the breastbone. Her eyes burning through the slits of her
eyelids.

     "Do it. Pop the claws. Make it quick."

He jerks his hand away.

     "Not as long as you're still in there. Not as long as the kid--"
     "What kind of life do you think they've got planned for her?
      What kind of life do you think I'm going to have?"
     "We'll find a way, Marie. We will."

Now he's pulling her back against his chest, leaning back on the
bed. Arms sliding down to her waist, protection or possession or
both.

     "It isn't going to work."

A crack in the defenses; her voice edges tears.

     "Yes. Yes it is."
     "I'm fading, baby, in case you haven't noticed. Every day they
take more pieces. I can't even remember my favorite color. I've
tried all morning but I can't and they won't tell me--"
     "Red."
     "Red?"
     "Yeah, darlin. Smooth, thick, red, like the color of wine at some
fancy restaurant."

Her hands move to cover his.

     "Thanks."
     "It doesn't matter, you know."
     "What doesn't?"
     "The color. You look good in everything."

She almost smiles.
t's that almost that breaks him, every time.

     "One day it'll all be gone. I'll wake up and I'm not even going
to remember what you said to me the first time we met."
     "I said I wouldn't hurt you."
     "I believed it."
     "If I could've stopped them I would have done anything--"
     "I know. I never doubted it."

He kisses the crown of her head; her face is softer now, less metal
and more like wax or snow. Melting on the edges, from heat. In
stray moments like this, she retains the look of the girl he fell in
love with. Pliable, innocent, pretty enough without forcing it into
stark beauty.

That's how he thinks of her now-- stark, beautiful. The two words
go together, despite appearances. Think of it as the forging of
metal into a sword. Everything unnecessary is beaten away, cut off,
until only a gleaming core remains. That is what she is now. Burnt
down, hardened on the edges. The beauty is increased but it's
impossible to look at it directly. There's a shining, like radiation.
She'll burn your retinas.

She speaks.

     "You still love me?"
     "Don't know how not to."

She will know he's telling the truth just by the tone; simple and fierce.
As is the tightening of his arms around her.

     "Then promise me something."
     "What?"
     "Promise me that after the kid comes, whenever I disappear
      completely, you'll finish off the rest of them for me."

Horror in his eyes; she tried to phrase it delicately but he sees through
the facade.

     "No, baby, I can't--"
     "Promise. Me."

She's twisted in his arms, now, her eyes are dead level with his.
Hands on either side of his face, touching him through the sideburns.
A blessing or a threat, from this angle it's hard to tell which. Although
it can't be a threat-- there is no need. He is looking in her eyes, he
is seeing the pain, he is powerless.

He pushes her back onto the bed in a kiss-- bare mouth to her bare
mouth-- tears sliding down the side of his face where she can't see.

     "I promise."

That is all he has time to say; he falls to the bed, limp. Dead weight,
they would say, as if they were hauling a body from the sea. And
in a way, he has drowned, only not in water.
But this is acceptable.

It is a basic understanding that he is not expected to stand around
and watch her disappear. He is allowed to retreat, or at least to
be wounded in battle, while she is forced into the necessity of
surrender. Without negotiation or terms.

No mercy will be given, but then neither is it required.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

I have recounted this memory in length because it is the nexus.
     Everything hinges on it; rising or falling.
     More falling than rising.

Everything after can be relegated to abbreviation, simply for sake
of the time. More cigarette burns and razor blades, but no scars.
He will not allow it to go that far, which is understandable. He
is the type to think he is doing something to protect, even if it is
futile. Especially if it is futile. Her deterioration continues, subtle
yet profound. Her descent into oblivion is many things but gaudy
is not one of them. She has more dignity than that, even though
there are two suicide attempts. And, towards the end, a last minute
panic involving a bathtub of boiling water and a pint of gin. She'd
read the trashy magazines, heard it was a way to kill things
growing inside. She wants to save me from Charles; too bad
he had already made me too strong for such devices.

I am born anyway.
Scrawny, red, not crying, but they knew before hand I was
not to be normal. They accept it; what other choice?

Three weeks later, she asks him to make good on his promise. Things
are much worse now; she can't hold on any more. She remembers
very little, soon it will be nothing at all. She asks him to kill her. He
refuses. He's strong, but not that strong.

So she ties me on her back, shoves a wad of money into her bra,
and leaves him.

Of course, he tries to follow. This is when the Others take over.
They tell him that if he tries to interfere, they will block all of his
memory from her mind and from the mind of his child. If he lets
her go, they will leave her with enough memory to know she loved
him once. They will tell me who he is.

     (Lies, all of it. She remembered just enough to drive her insane
      and I was told nothing at all other than a name. Logan. My
      father. They said it like they were describing an unfortunate
      disease I once contracted but was now cured from.)

The rest is literally history; he does not have to be close to her
to hear the rumors. She is Leader of the Resistance, mother of
the Sayyadina, the child who heals. Four years pass. She
disappears, but of course he knows how to find her. It's an instinct.

He is the "unidentified soldier" who finds the body.

Of course, no one felt the need to tell me he got there minutes
too late to heal her. That he would not leave, that he broke, that
he went insane. After all, I was the grieving loved one. What good
would it do to let me know that a maniac had cried over my
mother's corpse?

Charles suspected, but of course he kept silence.

I am young but one day I will be strong enough to be a threat.
He anticipated, took precautions. As usual.


I did not understand, at first, why she left when she knew it would
kill both of them. Or, rather, finish killing them. They had been
dying for some time, if not in the physical sense of the word.
Then I stumbled on one last memory, or rather a fragment.


He found a scrap of paper, tucked in a drawer with her personal
effects-- a half-smoked pack of cigarettes, melted lipstick, cracked
nail polish bottles. (Toward the end everything fell into a disarray,
this is even evident in the handwriting. Jagged, scrawled, as if in
blood.)

Westchester, no.Charles,no.No.No. Scott, Jean, Ororo. Please.No.
Philadelphia. Burning. Keep Back.
No. Miami, no, no, no.Jean, no.Logan.Please.Help.
Nashville.Pain.Baby growing into what?.Ororo,nonono.
Dallas.No,Scott,please. Burning. Razors. No use.
Tijuana. Last stand. Boiling water, gin, forgive us now and in the
hour of our deaths.
Logan luvs Marie.
Seattle. Baby.
Marie.
Drowned.

This is why my father could not be with her in the end; this is why
she could not allow him to watch, or even to understand. For her,
he belonged in another world. An alternate dimension of time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

To my face, I am called Alia.
     Among the others, I am known as Alia of the Knife.

This has not been my story, not all of it, but the ending must be
mine. As is the choice. Continue with the life planned for me--
the glory, the agony, the sainthood or martyrdom, depending on
which way the coin flips. Or, rebel. Revolt, unravel the work of
the people who destroyed my parents. Feyd and I could disappear,
into Mexico, or further south, stopping at last in a village that stinks
of goat droppings and corn whiskey, where no one asked questions.
He could work in the fields to bring money and I could bear him
sons, strong ones...

But this will not happen.
There really is no choice.

I was born to live this life just as my parents were born to
love. I can give them nothing except one last gift. The
gift of forgetting.

     /I want to take it from him, Charles./

     (Take what?)

     /All of it. The pain, the grief. The memories. I want to erase
      them. He will wake up and he will not know she existed.
      Never know she is gone./

     (Do you want to bring him back that much?)

     /Yes./

Charles must not argue; doesn't he feel the burning in my chest?
The tears in my eyes? He must understand that this is not for me,
or not only for me. The man on the bed before me cannot live
with the memory of my mother. And I want him to live.

Forgive me, Marie, but I love him too.

     (I will help you on one condition. You will no longer fight
      against your destiny. You will accept your future as a leader and
      you will carry out my dream.)

     /Consider it done. I will become your myth. The Sayyadina, the
       Friend of God, although we both know that God is nowhere
       in this picture, at least not where we are concerned. I will win
       your dream before I see fourteen years. And in return you
       will erase everything that happened after he met Marie./

I will tell the doctors that the records are to be burned. They will
tell him that he was found wounded on the battlefield, without
memory, and brought here for care. He will believe them.
Kindness and cruelty were never far apart in our line of work.

     (I will need control.)

     /Then take it and get on with things, old man./

The tingling comes, the paralysis, and I withdraw into a corner of
my mind to watch Charles work. Truly, the skill of a master. I am
yet in awe. It is over and done in a matter of minutes.

Or perhaps, not over. Not done, completely. I linger, within
my father's mind (now dark, blank, empty). It strikes me now that
I am truly no longer a child. A child must have a father and a mother
and I have neither.

But wait.
I cannot condemn him to this darkness. This hollow space. Not
without some hope, a shred, a glimmer of light. I cannot let him
remember but I do not have the heart to let him totally forget.

An idea springs to mind.

     (No, Alia. It is too dangerous.)

     /I will be careful. He will never know. This is my deal, remember.
     You do what I want./

A sigh.

     (Very well.)

And I conjure the picture into our mind and he inserts it into Logan's.
One final scene. A brushstroke, a coda.

An absolution, the only one either of us will ever receive.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Part Three: Alia

In his memory, I am invisible.
     I do not exist, I was never created.

In this world I cannot have flesh and bone. I am merely allowed
eyes, one brief glimpse of my handiwork.

The sign above the bar says Laughlin City, although I am compelled
to laugh. This place wouldn't even qualify for a small town. But
it's warm and the beer's good and the fighting is the best this side
of the border, and that's what brings the customers back for more.

Tonight's attraction, a handsome, brutal fighter by the name of
Wolverine. Likes his cigars Cuban, his women blonde, his tequila
straight. Everyone is willing to pay good money to see him go
down hard; something in the eyes irks them. A mocking defiance
but also an irony. As if he sees their entire lives in a glance, and sums
it up as something he'd never want to live.

He wins, of course. Special talents, believe me, I'd know. Like
daughter, like father. He drags it out just long enough for it to be
fair, but this only makes them hate him more. They don't like the
notion they're being toyed with.

I find it cute.

He collects their money at the bar, a wad of bills shoved into a
hidden jacket of the coat. Orders up a whiskey, although without
the usual blonde. Tonight he's not in the mood. He's feeling pensive,
which is unusual. He's asking himself what he would do if he fell
in love instead of lust, for once.

The dusty jukebox in the corner adds to the mood.

     (I wanna dance with you....I see a world where people
      live and die with grace....the karmic ocean dried up and left no
      trace.)

He snorts, swallows another shot in one gulp. No one lives and
dies with grace, and whatever karma is he doesn't much
care for anything to do with it.

He zips up the coat, heads for the door. Only he's caught, mid-step.
An unexpected collision of eyes, unexpected because they are so
unlike any eyes he would imagine in this place. Soft, brown, innocent.

They belong to a girl sitting in the far corner, by the jukebox,
wrapped up in a coat and scarf and gloves. She's not beautiful yet,
but she will be. He can see it in the lines of her face.

She smiles.
It catches him off guard; he returns it without thinking, even while
he is wondering what she wants. His money, his whiskey, his
pants? All three?

No, she's not like this.

She looks like the kind of girl who would smile just to see it land
on someone else's face. He remembers his question of love, and
then imagines that if he was going to risk it, it would only be for
someone like her.

Someone who threw random smile across crowded rooms.

The jukebox winds down its song, slow, soft.
He hasn't yet found the ability to break her gaze.

     (I wanna dance with you.....I see a sky full of the stars that
      change our minds and lead us back to a world we would not
      face...we would not face...we would not face....)

The music disappears, cut off into the next request, a heavy
guitar number that grates on his nerves.

By this time, she has turned away, or he has turned away, or both
of them at once. It's dark in the room, it's hard to tell.

He fishes his cigar out of his pocket, strikes the match on his jeans,
walks out the door.

There is the passing notion that he has seen her somewhere before, that
he remembers her from something insubstantial like a dream or
a past life, if he believed in that sort of thing. Which he doesn't.


But I make sure he knows her name is Marie.



- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - -

The End!
Plot Bunnies, be gone!!!!

If this dark and twisted little fic struck your fancy, the Muse and I
would be delighted to hear. Also, any suggestions or critiques are
welcome. We're always looking to improve.
You can find us at clone347@...

Thank you so much for reading.

darkstar






[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Title: Don't Hold Me
Time Frame: Set durin' the movie.
Author: Spyre
Rating: G
Disclaimers: I disclaim if I ever claimed which I never did.
Archiving: I don't care as long as I know where.
Feedback: I don't expect any.
Summary: I don't know yet. Haven't written it.
Thanks: Boredom and obsession

----

Marie walked into the med lab. Its cold, sleek features went unnoticed as she
kept that steady gaze on his unmoving form, resting like a corpse on the
steel gurney. She approached his side, brown eyes taking in every detail. He
was shirtless, bandaged, hooked up to machines. The pulsation of the heart
monitor laced her ears and her own heart with trepidation. She'd put him
here. Lips parted in an attempt to breathe again. The professor was well, so
why couldn't Logan wake up? Why had he done this to himself... and for her no
less? She tore her eyes from the sight, looking around the room, warm tears
crept into her eyes and everything went blurry at the bottom of her vision.
She blinked back, feeling that sweeping confusion and worry slither through
her efforts of retaining some sense of control. She couldn't keep away,
looking back to him... She laid a gloved hand to the side of his arm on the
metal surface, not daring or allowing herself to touch him even though it was
safe. Safe? She could have choked out a laugh if she made the effort, but it
snagged in her throat and she felt what control she had left waver, swaying
in its feeble stand. She raised her forearm to her eyes, hiding them, feeling
the salt water of her tears seep through the soft fabric, tears she wouldn't
let herself cry. She'd cried too many times in her life. She lowered her arm.
But wasn't Logan worth it? Logan was worth it... but she wasn't. It would be
self pity if she gave in... but she did... "Why did you do it?"... her voice
shivered in its quiet tones, disappearing into the sterile, unforgiving
expanse of the room. Tears trained down her cheeks, dropped silently until
one hit the metal... a plunk. The sound made her knees weak and her stomach
turn. And her hand went to his face impulsively as she leaned in, she
couldn't stop herself... Moving covered fingertips over the side of his face,
"I'm not worth it," she whispered... Stepping over just enough to rest her
cheek on the mass of hair near his brow...

"Marie," a voice came ragged in her ear as if back from the dead. She jumped
back, nearly falling. Her glistening eyes were wide, her mouth working to say
something -- though what the hell could she say? Had she even heard it? He
just laid there, like he had all along -- still, unmoving... the heart
monitor beeping regularly as it always had. She covered her mouth with her
hand as if in a dream, feeling sick, feeling things she didn't want to feel,
especially the fact that Logan was still in her head... and especially the
strange sensation that she might be going insane. She fled the room, her
pulse pounding through her body as she swallowed the sobs and half-wobbled,
half-ran down the corridor. Why did he do it? She wasn't worth it.
Beep... beep... beep... beep... And -all- was as it had been before she'd
come.

"Marie," a whisper... and the blackness swept over him with its ebbing tide,
washing him away from images of a girl he could barely hold on to...

Title: Swashbuckling
Series:  This goes in the From the Beginning Series, which is the current
name for the series that includes Another Turning Point and Page 42.  I'm
still looking for a good name for this series, cuz I can't seem to think up
a good one. <g>
Author: Beth
Email: eshanley@...
Rating: NC-17 for sex.  The smut muse has returneth.
Summary:  Halloween.  Costumes.  Logan. Pirate.  Marie.
Princess.  Sex.  Nuff Said.
Codes: W/R
Disclaimers: Don't own em, making no money, I'm just doin' it for the love
baby, I'm just doin' it for the love.
Author's notes:  For the usual suspects and their plot bunnies.  For
Rachel, who asked if there were more stories.  Jenn for the beta. 9-)
Feedback: Yes, please. 8-)


~x~X~x~



It wasn't the way she scrunched up her nose or pursed her lips as if she
was about to cry.  It wasn't how her eyes got this sheen that hinted at
tears.  It wasn't even how she started to twist her hair around a finger,
chewing on the ends, that was his downfall.

Nope.

It was two little words.

"But, Daddy…"

Those two little words turned him into jello as quick as you could say 'I
used to be a real man'.  Of course, he still growled.  He even threatened,
although he threatened Scott, not her.

But when Carrie pleaded, Logan generally caved.

It was a sad day for clawed, feral, ass-kicking men.

There was little he wouldn't do, and apparently, the list no longer
included wandering about the neighborhood, watching his child demand candy
from virtual strangers.

Tonight he would take his four-year-old daughter Trick or Treating.

The first thing he noticed when he came up from the classroom levels of the
mansion was that there were clothes laid out for him on the bed.  That
wasn't unusual.  On most formal occasions Marie would put out exactly what
he was to wear.  While he was capable of dressing himself, the one occasion
in which a plaid shirt had replaced the white one was never to be lived
down.  Logan still wasn't quite sure of the problem; after all, it hadn't
been a flannel plaid shirt.

The outfit on the bed was all black, so at least it wasn't something too
weird.  Upon closer inspection, Logan noticed there was a leather sash, a
plastic sword, and dear god… an eyepatch.

"Oh, good, you're back.  We need to get moving if you're going to take
Carrie out before the party."

"I thought we weren't going?"

"Logan, we have to at least make some kind of appearance.  We go, we drink,
we eat little pieces of meat and cheese off toothpicks, we leave."

He growled, but the expression of tempered amusement on her face left him
nothing to do but to end the growl on a sigh and head for the showers.

Twenty minutes later, he had just finished dressing in his costume when
Marie came back from Carrie's room.  She was still wearing jeans and a
sweatshirt, but she was now decorated with streaks of pink make-up on her
face and neck.

"Marie, don't you think these pants are a little tight?"

She turned from the bureau, where she was rooting around in her jewelry box
and looked at him thoughtfully, taking in the open black shirt, the close
fitting black pants.  "I don't think so, sugar.  The guy at the costume
store told me that it was your size."  She moved over to where he stood in
front of the mirror and took the eyepatch from him, helping him to get it
in position, then flipped it up so he could see.  "You look great."

"I feel like an idiot."

"Pirates are fierce and manly, not idiotic."

"I'm Canadian.  We don't have pirates."

She giggled and went back to rooting around, finally finding a piece of
tacky plastic jewelry.  She headed back to Carrie's room, talking over her
shoulder.  "Carrie should be ready in a few minutes, sugar.  Why don't you
call over and see if Scott and Charlie are ready to go?"

Logan headed to the phone, more than ready to get this night over with as
soon as possible.


~x~X~x~

"Daddy! Daddy!  I got another popcorn ball!"

"That's great, baby.  Why don't we put it back in your bucket, and you can
eat it when we get home?"

Carrie gave him a look that definitely belied the Angel Princess costume
she was wearing.  He began to get the feeling this was what Marie was
talking about when the words 'like father like daughter' came up.  But she
put the popcorn ball back in the almost overflowing bucket.  Charlie was
behind her, dressed in a Dracula outfit that looked amazingly like the one
his father was wearing, clutching his own popcorn ball tightly.  As Carrie
took his hand and Charlie took his father's, Logan sniggered softly.  He
had been ribbing Scooter for the last hour or so about the matching
costumes.  That had been his only real entertainment; snacks provided by
the people who liked to give the adults escorts a sympathy bribe of candy.

Scott looked up and gave him a look that was clearly understandable,
despite the ruby quartz shades he wore.

As they walked back to the car, Logan was certain, in the two hours they
had been at this, they had hit every house in Salem Center.  Sliding behind
the steering wheel, Logan left Scott to make sure everyone was belted in
and started the car.  Pulling away, he smiled quickly at the sight of his
daughter's wings, dancing around in the rearview mirror.

Returning to the Mansion, the first stop was the medlab, where the candy
was quickly run through the X-Ray machine while Charlie and Carrie squirmed
impatiently. After that, the Summers and the Logans parted ways.  Returning
to their suite, Logan heard Marie in the bathroom.  He watched in amusement
as Carrie dumped out her bucket of treats in the center of the family room
floor.  Stepping carefully to avoid the various sweets, Logan crossed to
the little fridge in the corner, grabbing a bottle of beer.

"You can have two things tonight, Carrie."

"But Daddy…"

The idea of years of dental appointments was enough for Logan to stand his
ground on this one.

"Two, Carrie."

Moving the candy around, she looked at it, choosing an item, then putting
it back.  Finally, she took one of the popcorn balls, then after careful
consideration, one of the little candy bars.  Armed with her choices, she
climbed onto the sofa next to Logan.  She handed him the items and he
opened them, dusting the popcorn off his pants when half of the popcorn
ball collapsed.  Turning on the TV, he and Carrie watched the hockey game,
Logan drinking his beer as Carrie quickly devoured the sweets.

"Well, what do you think?"  Marie's voice floated over them, and father and
daughter turned to look.

"Mommy!  You're a princess too," exclaimed Carrie.

Logan had to agree.  Her long hair was curled up in ringlets, a tiara
resting on her head.  The style of the dress was most likely 18th century,
long and silky, the bodice cut low, her breasts pressed upwards and
outwards by whatever it was she wore beneath the dress.

"Thank you, sweetie.  You ready for bed?"

"No," their daughter protested, but her eyelids were already looking heavy,
even beneath the pink and white and chocolate covering.  Luckily, she
hadn't had enough sugar to get truly wired.

"Come on, let's wash this off, okay, sugar?"

Carrie nodded agreeably, something she tended to do for her mother, and
Marie picked her up, resting Carrie on a hip.  "I'll just be a few
minutes," she whispered.

"Can't wait," Logan replied, the eyeful of cleavage he was privy to not
completely making up for having to go to one of Xavier's parties.  Marie
winked at him, and he watched as his two princesses disappeared into
Carrie's room.

~x~X~x~

An hour later, bored out of his mind, Logan was wondering if Magneto might
be available for a rematch.  He took another sip of his whiskey, catching
Marie's eye as she turned from where she was talking to a one of the
endless people with money that Xavier usually invited to these
things.  Marie excused herself and headed in his direction.

"You look like you're about to explode, sugar," she said, her eyes twinkling.

"I'm bored," he said, an eyebrow raising above the eyepatch.

"You could mingle, you know.  Talk to people."

He stared at her.  "I'd be more bored. Might even be tempted to impale
someone," he replied, waiving his plastic pirate sword half-heartedly at her

She gave him an amused look, sliding her arm through his.  "Come on, Mr.
Canadian Pirate, let's go."

He looked down at the long silky gloves she wore.  Looking up at her face,
he noticed her eyebrow was quirked, and that look he knew held promise was
in her eyes.  Things were looking up.

The quiet of the elevator was a relief after the constant noise of the
ballroom.  As Logan pressed the button for the residence floor, he felt
silk covered hands slid up his back, as Marie's satin covered body pressed
against him.

Her hands traced his shoulders, down his arms, wrapping herself around him,
finally letting her hands fall to where the already tight pants were
getting tighter by the second.  Logan stepped back, then again, until he
knew she was pressed against the rear wall of the elevator.  Turning in her
arms, he was face to face with her in a split second, his lips lowering to
hers.  His hands slid around until he could pull her closer, deepening the
kiss as he did.  Her mouth was warm and tasted like the champagne punch she
had been drinking all night.

The elevator pinged insistently, waiting for them to exit.  Marie pushed
him backward, not breaking the kiss, and he moved.  They were halfway down
the hall before they broke for breath.  Logan pressed against her, and
Marie looked down, grinning up at him as she saw his erection straining
against the pirate pants.  Turning back down the hall, she grabbed his
hand, pulling him along behind her.

Entering their room, Marie walked in front of Logan, stopping inside the
family room.  Emily, their babysitter, on the sofa doing her homework for
Ororo's history class.

Emily gave them a smile.  "She's still asleep, Miss Rogue, Mr Logan.  She
woke up once for some water, but she's been quiet since."

"Thanks, Emily," Marie said, not moving from her position in front of
Logan. Grabbing her books, Emily left the room, heading back to the student
wing.  That was one nice thing about living in a house full of teenagers,
Logan thought.  There was always a babysitter around.

When the door closed behind Emily, Marie turned around.  Smiling at him,
she ran her fingers through his hair as he pulled her close.  Logan growled
as he once again lost himself in the taste and feel of his wife, letting
the passion grow.

Marie was ready for him, pressing her body against his.  A silk-coverered
hand moving between them to rub against him.  A murmuring from the
direction of Carrie's room made its way into Logan's consciousness, and he
raised his head, looking in the direction of Carrie's room.  Turning to
look in that direction, Marie let him go with a whimper, heading to
Carrie's room.  Logan waited in the family room in an uncomfortable state
of arousal, tossing eyepatch and sword on the desk, relieved when Marie
returned in a few seconds.

"Just talking in her sleep.  I tucked her in again, and she didn't wake."

He nodded and followed her into their room, shutting the door tightly when
they were inside.  He turned around to see her looking at him.  He raised
an eyebrow.

"You look very piratey.  Even if you did take off the eyepatch," she giggled.

"You look… quite ravishable, Madame Marie," he replied, stalking toward her.

She giggled harder, then tried to make a straight face.  "Are you planning
to ravish me, oh fierce pirate of Canada?"

"I was thinking about it, but I'm not going to if you keep up with the
Canada cracks," he told her, walking over to the bed and sitting down.

She snorted, putting on a serious expression.  She walked over and stood in
front of him, looking down at him.  Her silk covered fingers slid into his
hair, then down to lift up his chin.  Her lips hovered above his. "Then I
guess I'll have to ravish you, my pirate," she whispered.  And her lips
moved onto his, sealing her promise.

She pushed him back onto the bed as her tongue traced his lips, then slid
to war with his.  Logan shuddered at the feel of body-warmed silk tracing
patterns into the skin of his chest through the deep V of the open black
silk shirt.    Slipping free of his mouth, Marie kissed down his neck to
his chest.  She kissed and licked until she finally slid off the bed, her
eyes level with his erection.  Logan bolted upright as he felt her kiss him
through the fabric, then felt her warm breath on him as she teased him
through the fabric.

Marie smiled tightly up at him, passion making her needy and
determined.  She started to undo the buttons of the fly, and Logan was
thankful that two years of undoing button flies with gloves on had given
his wife this skill.  When the fly was open, she grinned at him.

"Worried about a pantyline, were we?"  she asked, not waiting for an
answer, her tongue tracing him.

When she took him in her mouth, Logan growled.   Her tongue slid over him,
her teeth gently nipped.  Silk-encased fingers lifted him, caressing up and
down the warm skin of the shaft as her tongue swirled around the head.  He
was hard and ready and needy, and he could feel the warmth in her, hear how
her blood was pounding.

Sliding a hand into her hair, knocking the tiara askew, not that either
noticed, Logan pulled her from him, carefully, but firmly.  Her full lips
made a moue of disappointment, but when Logan pulled her upright, then fell
to his knees on the floor in front of her, she moaned in anticipation.

Logan flipped up what seemed like a thousand skirts, his hands finally
encountering her legs, bare of hose.  Looking up in the dark under her
skirts, he could tell there were no panties in his way.  A growling chuckle
started deep in his throat as her scent surrounded him in the tent created
by her skirts.

One hand went around to hold her steady, cupping the soft weight of her
rear as the other hand caressed the backs of her knees, sliding up and down
the soft skin of her thighs.  He heard her moan, and moved closer, letting
a finger slide between the sable curls between her legs.

Marie cried out as Logan did things that she couldn't see, could only feel,
the knot inside her grew as his finger, then two, slid along the outer
lips.  Her knees weakened as he slid one finger deeper, curling around to
hit her g-spot.

Logan knew she couldn't stand much longer, so he lifted her, moving until
she fell back onto the bed, never moving from beneath her skirts.  Once he
no longer had to support her, he used both hands to open her, his tongue
finally finding and tormenting her clitoris, licking softly, then sucking
gently.

Feeling her tense, Logan stopped, needing to be with her.  He fought his
way free of the skirts, moving to stand over her.  Bending, he watched her
as he unbuttoned a few of the pearl buttons at the bodice of her dress, her
breasts falling out, the cut of the dress still pressing them up.  Her
nipples were tight and hard as he lowered his lips, letting one hand stray
back down under the skirts as he laved and nipped.

Marie was ready to throw him down on the bed when he stepped back.  They
were both panting hard, and Marie took a quick gasp of air as her drying
nipples felt the air and she saw Logan's expression of need, his penis dark
and engorged.

She opened her arms, and he looked at her, then looked down at himself.

"Let's do this the piratey way," he said, his voice rough with
passion.  Extending a hand to her, he pulled her up, watching in regret as
her skirts fell again.  He stacked a few pillows at the end of the bed,
then moved to stand behind her.  Marie leaned over, resting her arms
against the pillows, a shiver running through her as Logan lifted her
skirts from behind.

One large hand caressed her as it moved around her hips to cup her, tilt
her.  Logan was close, and a second later and a deep thrust, and she was
pulling him closer.  They both sighed in relief.

The time for slow was long since over, and Logan began to thrust, sliding
inside her, the muscles under that soft and wet skin pulling him deeper,
tightening around him.  The bed shook as he pushed forward, then slid back,
his fingers seeking and finding the knot of nerves inside her.

Marie gasped at the first stroke of his fingers, and when his fingers slid
on her in cadence with the rhythm of his thrusts, she pushed backwards,
drawing him tighter, closer.  Their movements became more and more erratic,
until Logan felt her pull him deeper, her muscles all around him, grasping
him until he came, her name low and rough, the only thing he could remember
that mattered in his world.

~x~X~x~

He woke when she moved, mainly because he was lying on top of her, and she
was rubbing her rear against him.  He was still inside her, so he noticed
right away when she was able to move again.  Flipping himself over, he
broke the intimate connection unwillingly, smiling when she slid over him,
resting her knees on either side of his hips.

He returned her kiss, following her back up as she tried to break the
connection.  Finally, he broke off, arousal already singing in his veins;
the steady pounding of blood as it relocated from one head to another.

Marie looked down at her dress and sighed, "Well, this one's ruined…"

Logan blinked, then smiled.

"The Lady and the pirate.  You planned this," he accused, amused by the
outraged expression on her face, completely at odds with the desire that
danced in her eyes.

"Well, I assumed that a Canadian pirate would be more gentlemanly…" she
began, cut off when Logan reached up, a claw sliding out.  Staring into her
eyes, he slid the blade between her breasts, then down, keeping it a
hairsbreadth from her skin, but cutting the elaborate dress from her.

Marie quivered but didn't dare move, not until he was done, and the claw
slid back beneath his skin.  A moan came unbidden as he slid the dress from
her like a coat, sitting up so the hairs of his chest, quite accessible
through the open shirt, tormented her sensitized breasts.  His lips were at
her throat, then down, returning to suckle, then sliding upward again,
returning taste and drink from her lips.

Her hands scrabbled at the shirt, pulling it out of the pants, ripping
it.  Her fingers, still covered in silk, fumbled at the leather
sash.  Finally getting the buckle open, and she threw it over her head, not
caring where it landed.  Standing, she kicked off her shoes, then pulled
his boots off.

It was a good thing she still had the gloves on when she started on the
pants, Logan figured, because her nails could have done some damage if she
hadn't.
When he was nude, and she was dressed only in the gloves, she climbed back
onto the bed, straddling him again.  Their hands were busy on each other,
playing with sensitive nerves and skin.  Logan kissed his way down her
cheeks, then licked her neck, biting gently, then kissing to make it better.

Marie was being carried away as he tasted her skin, rubbing herself against
him, making sure her breasts stroked his skin.  Her hand slid between them
and she fondled him, reaching below to trace the soft skin that covered his
balls, moving to the underside of this cock, never letting him be
untouched.  When he thrust against her hand, she pressed her body down on
his, wedging them tighter, feeling a shudder move through him.

Pulling her hand free, Marie moved her leg, wincing at the stiffness,
wrapping it around his hips, then repeating the procedure on the other
side, until she was curled around him.  Their eyes met as he lifted her,
and slowly and gently, as lips met, he lowered her onto him.  They both
sighed as he slid inside, as Marie shifted to take him deeper.

Her hands were twisted around his back, his hands were holding her rear,
and they started to move, undulating, striving.  Marie pulled the gloves
from her arms, throwing them to the side, not wanting anything between
them, skin to skin, from head to toe.  They were wrapped around and in each
other, whispering words of love and lust and need softly into each other's
ears.

This time, when the explosion came, it was that rare time when they were
perfectly attuned, when they went over the summit together, muscles
clenching and straining, slick and warm, powerful bodies united in a
powerful act of mating.

The aftershocks slid through them like lightening, leaving them quivering
and convulsing as they came down from the high.  Logan moved until he was
on his back, Marie atop him, bodies still connected, nerves still
humming.  Marie whispered teasing words in his ear, telling him he'd make a
wonderful pirate, even in swashbuckling places like Alberta.  Logan swatted
her on the rear, snorting since he refused to laugh.

Not long after that, Marie stole out to the family room, returning with a
handful of Carrie's miniature candy bars.  They ate the sweets while still
teasing each other, feeding each other bits of chocolate.

Finally, they fell asleep, pulling the covers around them, nestling deep in
the warmth of their bed.

~x~X~x~

Logan always knew when someone was watching him when he woke up.  This
morning was no different.  He looked over Marie's naked shoulder to see
Carrie standing at the side of the bed, a look of disapproval in her hazel
eyes.   Well, eye actually, for her left eye was covered by the
eyepatch.   She was wearing her wings and had Marie's tiara resting on her
dark hair.  Logan idly wondered when and where it had fallen off.

She held up the candy wrappers that they had let fall to the floor the
night before.

"You were only supposed to eat two, Daddy."



Elisabeth A Shanley
<eshanley@...>

http://www.wolverineandrogue.com/thecodex

To all the archivists out there, on International Archivists Day... hmm... is
there some strange underlying coincidence as to why it's on the Day of the Dead?
<g>

Seriously, you guys work hard and it's *most* appreciated.

Thanks for all the work you do to keep the fandom going.

victoria

~*~

CJ: "You want to make out with me right now."
Toby: "When don't I?"
_The West Wing_

~*~

The Muse's Fool: http://www.unfitforsociety.net/musesfool


Make a difference, help support the relief efforts in the U.S.
http://clubs.lycos.com/live/events/september11.asp

>
>Title: Nature Trail to Hell!  1/2
>
>Author: Autumn
>
>E-mail: eddievedderismylife@...
>
>Rating: PG-EVIL
>
>Summary: Logan, Marie and the X-Men face the most terrifying thing
>known to man, (aside from Barbara Walters, and Martha Stewart, and
>Regis Philban and the peeps of course).
>
>Archive Rights: Mutual Admiration, WRFA, XMMFFC, etc.
>
>Thanks to Karen for the suggestions and assurance that this isn't
>completely stupid.
>
>Disclaimer:  I do not own the characters,  or the line I borrowed
>from Monty Python.
>
>Author's Notes: This is partially based on a true story. I am quite
>opposed to the highly homophobic organization the "Boy Scouts of
>America." It's insulting that the last word in their title is
>America, which is meant to stand for tolerance and freedom. The BS
>(and don't you just love the irony of that abbreviation?) are very
>homophobic and intolerant of any religion that falls out of the
>Christian domain. I don't feel guilty at all for making them out to
>be idiots.
>
>----------------------------------------------------------------------
>
>
> `Twas a quiet day in Westchester. The bees were buzzing. The
>grass was growing; the kids were toking other kinds of grass. The
>Wolverine and the Rogue were fu- well doing things that aren't really
>printable in a family-friendly story and are still illegal in
>Montana.
>Anyway, the idealyc atmosphere was interrupted when professor fluffy-
>ballerina-man (formerly known as Charles Xavier, but he'd changed his
>name due to going loopy with old age) called his X-men to action.
> "X-Men, I calleth the to action!" He screamed through his
>mind, creating migraine headaches in all of his employees.
>Slowly but surely the X-men stumbled into the giant pink tutu that
>had until recently been a conference room. Scott, Jean, Logan, Marie,
>Remy and Storm all rolled their eyes at the old codger who was
>dressed in a pink leotard and hot pink tutu. He looked like the Pink
>Panther had mated with a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
> " You know Ch-" Jean started.
> "It's Fluffy Ballerina Man damnit! Is that so hard to
>understand?" The irritated bald man shouted.
> "Okay, I just feel a little bit silly calling you that sir"
>Jean finished.
> "Well, I feel weird calling you "Jean" but I do it anyway. I
>expect you to do the same for me." The pink one commanded.
> "What the hell's the problem?" A certain Canadian gruffly
>inquired.
> "X-Men, I need you to go save some people from a horrible,
>bad thing."
> "But, Magneto's in prison, Mystique's in a traveling circus
>and Sabertooth had a lobotomy and writes children's stories now. Who
>else is there to defeat?" Rogue asked.
> "The BSA you silly, willy, nilly head!" Fluffy-ballerina man
>exclaimed.
> "The who?" A confused Scott continued.
> "The Boy Scouts of America."
> "Can't we just let Magneto out of his gerbil cage and go
>catch him again instead?" Storm desperately asked.
> "To answer that, I shall use American Sign Language" the FBM
>dramatically stated.
> He crooked his fingers into an 'n' and then an 'o'.  Logan
>leaned over and whispered in Rogue's ear, "I'll show him some sign
>language."
> "Now, be gone with you! And bring me back some of those
>cookies."
> "Um, monsure, the petite flilles do those, not the boys" Remy
>interjected.
> "GO!" The agitated man yelled at the sextet.
> Not wanting to deal with his pinkness anymore, they left the
>sickeningly cheery room and headed to the blackbird, which was now
>also a bright shade of pink, as were the formerly black uniforms.
>Rogue had repainted her uniform a lovely shade of green. Logan of
>course had spray painted his a far more manly color- brown.
> "Heh, Scooter looks like the spokesman for the gay straight
>alliance!" Logan said in regards to the pink clad leader.
>   "Better than looking like a giant walking turd." Then again,
>you look like that all the time no matter what you wear Logan." Scott
>shot back.
> Logan flipped him the middle claw and stalked past Scott to
>board the plane. As he reached Scott, he slapped him upside the head.
> "Logan!" Jean reprimanded.
> "What? My hand slipped." Logan said with mock innocence or
>Logan said, feigning innocence.
> The rest of the team boarded the plane and took their
>respective seats. Scott and Storm took the piglet and co-piglet
>seats. Remy and Jean sat behind them, and on the floor in the back of
>the plane sat Logan with Rogue in his lap. Ever since the plane had
>had an interior redecoration of pink leather, the pair refused to sit
>in their assigned seats. They claimed the color gave them nightmares.
>
>
>Earlier that day in Montana....
>
>
>
> The Snow bank Jamboree was well under way. Boy scouts from
>Idaho, Washington, Montana, and Oregon had traveled to western
>Montana to participate in the premiere event of the scouting year.
>Camping in the woods in the dead of winter in freezing conditions. Oh
>joy.  The boys and their troup leaders were gathering together at the
>huge fire pit that had been dug earlier in the day when a powerful
>and feared figure loomed over them- THE SCOUTMASTER!!!! He was known
>through out the land and regarded as the most important and awe-
>inspiring man in the completely hetero organization.
> The aforementioned manly, man (but not too manly) strode to
>the makeshift stage and picked up the microphone. He tilted his head
>just so and began to speak. "Scouts, leaders, board members. There is
>an evil here among us. Someone out there has been spreading this" he
>said as he held up a copy of the book 'Why can't Billy and Timmy be
>Good Friends?'
> "As I'm sure you all know, this is listed as a code 33A in
>the Scouting handbook. You know what that all means." He continued
>bravely.
>
>"No, sir I don't." A little boy in the back shouted out.
>
> "Well son, it means that this here book obviously points to
>faggotry, fairyism, and general gayness. Its one of the homosexual
>tools they use to recruit weak-willed young men." The Scoutmaster
>finished.
> Just them a lone tree swayed in the forest, and the snap of a
>stick was heard. It was followed by a terrifying scream. The brave
>Scoutmaster stood still and commanded the local troup leader to
>investigate. About thirty-seconds later he returned, his face pale
>and his knees shaking.
> "Well Johnson, what is it?" The authorative one spake.
> "It's Newell sir, he's uh dead. His badge was ripped off and
>his neck was broken." Johnson replied.
> "Who the hell would kill a troup leader! It's unimaginable
>and evil. Must have been one of those right-wing fruitcakes." The
>wise one concluded.
> "Johnson we're going to get to the bottom of this. We have to
>show these scouts that no fudgepacker is going to kill one of our
>righteous and get away with it!" The Scoutmaster again stated.
>
>
>
>In the Pink/Blackbird.....
>
>
> "Who the hell cares if some stupid ass troup leader bit it?"
>Logan growled angered at the stupid mission they were embarking on.
> "Logan, who cares what we're doing as long as we get away
>from Professor Tuti-fruity!" Jean exclaimed.
> "Yes, his obsession with the color pink is muy-annoying no?"
>Remy interjected.
> "Will someone please think of the children!"  Storm suddenly
>shouted, "They are in great peril!"
> "How perilous is the peril?"  Scott nervously asked.
> "I don't know, you're the team leader, you tell me" the
>Goddess stated.
> "Oh, right, let me look that up in my handbook."  Scott said
>as he whipped out his copy of the Eagle Scout Handy-Dandy
>Everything's Cool Handbook.
> The rest of the team just stared at him.   Rogue gave him an
>incredulous look and fixed him with a deadly stare.  " Scott, you
>know how I feel about boy scouts.  I am going to give you three
>seconds to jump out of this plane, and then I am going to throw you
>out."
> Scott didn't need to be told twice.  He grabbed his pink
>parachute, strapped it on and jumped out of the plane.   Logan looked
>at Rogue with a mixture of lust, happiness and yeah lust.  He jumped
>her and they quickly got down to doing the dirty deed, again.
> Jean simply looked back and rolled her eyes at the
>pair.  "That's what, the third time they've done that on a mission?
>They need to get their priorities sorted out."
> Storm just nodded at the comment as she expertly brought the
>Pinkbird down onto the snowy field in Montana.  The team untapped
>themselves from their seats and waited a little less than patiently
>for Logan and Rogue to er-finish their pre-battle warm-up and dress
>in their altered uniforms.  The team stepped out of the plane and
>found themselves surrounded by miniature soldiers in tan shirts and
>red kerchiefs.
> "Oh shit" Logan said as the scouts advanced on the five X-
>Men.  It was then that they spotted a pink spot in the sea of beige.
> "Great Scott!" The five X-Men shouted together as their
>formerly fearless leader stepped forward from the
>Scouts.....................
>
>
>To be Continued.....
>


_________________________________________________________________
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Title:  Something Fishy (1/1)
Author:  Jyorraku
E-mail: jyorraku@...
Rated:  PG-13 for some swear words.
Archive:  WRFA, XMMFC, Spacedout Creations: http://judy.jteers.net,
people that already have my stuff, others please notify.
Genre:  W/R, Silly fic
Teaser:  Someone besides Logan bails on Rogue.
Feedback:  Yummy in the tummy.
Notes:  Random (read REALLY random) silliness.  It's bad, I know, but
what the heck.  Got this idea from something said by my high school
friend.  Two goldfish crackers if you can spot the quote!  It's
probably the best thing he's said so far.  HAHAHA!  There's also a
little something from the Obsidian Butterfly.  I find the strangest
things funny. . . I really do.  Many thanks to Laura and Jess, you
know why. ^_^
Disclaimer:  Concept and characters not mine.  Sad, but true.



Something Fishy
by Jyorraku

"Logan!  You're back!" Rogue ran toward the man that was still
unpacking his things onto his new bed and hugged him as tightly as
she could.

"Whoa!  Hey kid.  Miss me, huh?"

She grinned and answered rather offhandedly, "Yeah."  Then her face
turned up to his and she asked softly, "Did you miss me?"

Logan looked away, a move he thought most strategically sound at the
moment, and reached for something heavily wrapped in paper.  "I got
something for you."  Whatever Rogue's reaction was to Logan's
evasiveness, it was gone when Logan turned to give her the heavy
package.  If she was going to dwell on all the things that sucked in
her life, she's going to get wrinkles.  Now she concentrated at the
subject at hand and wondered what he got her.  Her hands tore
excitedly across the paper and she felt cool glass under her fingers.

"It's. . . a bowl."  Indeed it was.  A glass bowl.  A plain round
glass bowl.

Logan watched with amusement as Rogue tried to keep her puzzlement
and, yes, disappointment from manifesting on her face.  Try as she
might, her smile turned stiff and she kept her eyes away from his as
she tried to think of an appropriate response.  Not TOO happy. . .
after all it is just. . . a bowl.  But of course HAPPY. . .

Logan decided it was time to give her a break and said as he held up
a small plastic water filled bag, "It's for these little fellas."

Rogue gasped in delight as Logan dropped the bag in her upheld
hands.  Two little goldfishes swam happily in the center of her palms.

Logan was suddenly embarrassed.  To think he's been carrying around
goldfishes for the past week.  That's 7 days, 168 hours, 10,080
minutes, 604,800 seconds.  Long enough to have commas in the
numbers.  Commas!  Goldfishes!  He stuffed his fists into his jean
pockets and pretended to be really interested in the windowpanes when
Rogue looked up to say thank you.  "Uhh, glad you like them, ahh, I
mean, I could have gotten you a cat or dog or something, but they're
always sniffing around with their noses and they might accidentally
touch you--"

Rogue's smile faded and her bottom lip started to tremble.

Logan's head jerked around in time to stop the first inkling of tears
in her eyes.  Oh shit.  He had to bring that up.  The lethal skin.
How she can't touch anything that isn't already covered by something
dead.  Don't say anything more, Logan told himself.  Just shut the
fuck up.  Don't try to make it better, cause you won't.  You'll just
make it worse.  Just SHUT UP!

How unfortunate that despite all his superior senses, he still had
trouble controlling his mouth.

"--I mean they have noses and feet and ears that aren't furry, and
you might--they might--"  Jesus Christ, shut up, Logan, shut up right
now.

Her shoulders began to shake.

Shit!  "You're not going to cry are you?!"  He leaned over her,
cursing himself over and over for being so insensitive.  That was
when he heard the giggle.  A thin raspy giggle, and before he knew
it, Rogue leaped and hugged him.  Not as tight as the first hug, but
it made him breathless nonetheless.

"They're perfect," she said, her raw teary voice coming from
somewhere behind his ear.  She turned, careful that her scarf was
between them and replied directly into his ear, "Thank you so much."

She let him go and gave him a smile so wide that her eyes squinted.
Best not to see him in this embarrassingly emotional state anyway,
she thought.  So she did the next best thing.  She turned and ran.

* * * * * * * *

The three occupants of the girl's dorm room stared at the new
additions to their family.  The fish swam cheerfully in their new
home, oblivious to the three pairs of inquisitive eyes.

"They are so symbolic.  He's a sly one, that Logan," Kitty concluded.

Jubilee frowned, confused, and asked quite eloquently, "Huh?"

With an exasperated sigh, Kitty explained, "It's like the fish and
you are in a world of untouchiness, but there's two fish in there!"
Kitty paused, looking for an inkling of understanding from her
roommates.

Blank faces looked back.

"He's saying 'This one is you, the other one is me, because I'm
always going to be there for you no matter what.'  You're two peas in
a pod, fishes in a bowl!"

Jubilee and Rogue stared at their roommate.  Finally Rogue
replied, "I just thought they were cute."

Kitty's face fell.  "Oh fine.  And I thought only guys were dense."
She stuck out her tongue and ran off elsewhere to lick her wounds.

Rogue turned away to place the bowl right on her bedside table.  She
felt in inexplicable grin growing on her face as she recalled Kitty's
words.  Must.  Hide.  From.  Jubes.  Or she will never hear the end
of it.  Ever.

"Dude, I can see you smiling in the mirror, ya know."

Damn it!

Jubilee cackled, "You're not going to name one Rogue and the other
one Logan, are ya?  Cause that's a little too obvious--OW!"  Ugh, so
it begins.  Jubes was lucky that the only thing she could find to hit
her with was her pillow.

"No, this one is Peeka, and this one is Boo."  Rogue made a face at
her.  So there!

"Oh, is that what you're calling yourselves these days, quite fitting
actually--OW!"

* * * * * *

The fishbowl sat beside her bed.  Rogue was diligently taking care of
them.  She especially liked it when she tapped in the fish food and
the two fishes bobbed up to the surface to eat.  Sounds bizarre but
she thought that was the cutest thing she ever saw.  She didn't know
if fish could be happy, but she would like to think that they were.
Especially since Logan gave them to her. Symbolic or otherwise.

Every night Rogue fell asleep watching them swim, amazed at how
carefree they are in their own world and how happiness can be the
simplest of things.

* * * * * *

Rogue watched as Logan came downstairs with his duffel bag.
Apparently, during his sessions with the Professor, they found
another clue into Logan's past.  He was going after it.  Again.

Logan stopped in front of her.

"Take care of those fish, huh?"  Logan felt his tongue trip.  He
wasn't use to word games.  He was use to saying whatever the hell he
wanted.  Only it didn't feel right to be so goddamn obvious that he
cared about her.  Of course this means he actually cared about them
damn fish instead of her.  Shit, his head hurt.

But that's okay.

If fish okay, then Rogue okay.

Rogue's going to have to stay okay if she wants to take care of the
fish.  Of course.  It all makes perfect sense now.

"I will."

Rogue smiled so brilliantly Logan thought it was brighter in here
than it was outside.  He found himself dazed and not liking it one
bit.

"Gotta go, see you later."  Then he ran.

Rogue waved and said to no one in particular, "Later."

Yet she wondered every time he left, if there was going to be a later.

* * * * *

He should have never given her the fish.

The moment he stepped into the mansion after his trip up north, the
fire hydrant girl cornered him.  Good thing his sight isn't as
sensitive as his smell, or he'd sure be blinded by all that yellow.

"Dude, it's great that you want to be symbolic and all.  I mean, I
personally prefer to go straight for the make out session in times
like these, but that's just me.  I think other girls dig the
symbolism stuff.  But could you have at least picked a cooperative
fish?"

The girl rattled on but he stopped listening at the word 'symbolic'.

'Just keep walking, Logan, maybe she won't notice you're gone,' he
thought to himself.  Wishful thinking, the girls kept up with him
like a bad cold.

"Dude, good luck."  Jubilee disappeared so suddenly Logan had to
pinch himself to make sure it was real.  What was she running like a
bat out of hell for?

"Logan?"

"Hey kid!" He found it hard to keep the enthusiasm out of his voice.
She was the one he wanted to see first in coming back.  Every time he
returned, he found something else about her that left him wanting to
stay.

But this time, he first noticed that her eyes were slightly red and
her pink mouth was down turned.

"What's wrong?"

"Boo, one of the fish you gave me, died."

"Damn vendor told me they'd live a couple of years--"

"Kitty said it was kind of like fish suicide the way he jumped out of
his bowl. . . "

Logan blinked.  "What?"

Tears started to congregate in her eyes as she stumbled through her
sentences.

Oh shit.

"And--and--and--Jubes said Boo probably decided it was better to jump
out rather than stare at my face the whole time while he's trying to
sleep. . . "

Snikt!  This little piggy's gonna rip that stinkin' mallrat a new
nostril.

"And--and--and--then she freaked out when I started to cry, and--and--
and she said she was kidding--but--but--but maybe he was unhappy with
the way I was taking care of him so he jumped out of his bowl."
Rogue twisted her hands together and stared despairingly at her feet.

Damn it!  Damn it to fishy hell!  Damn it and its fishy ways!

"Hey, kid, don't kick yourself over that ungrateful son of a--is this
the way you welcome me back?  Com'on show me some of that southern
hospitality and smile for me," he said as he quickly chucked at her
chin.

Rogue smiled a begrudging smile.

It was a start.  Now all he has to do is to make her forget all about
that damn fish.  Give her something to really smile about.  Nice job
if you can get it.

* * * * *

A week after seeing a genuine Rogue smile, Logan sprang for the lone
fish, Peeka's, future significant other.

"Rogue."

Rogue turned around and found herself face to face with a fish tank.
A fish stared back from the large and heavy looking apparatus.

If a fish could be badass, this one was it.  It swam like a shark.
Zipping up and down just for the hell of it.

"Look, it's got a cover keeping the fish inside," Logan demonstrated,
fingers pointing and eyes searching for awe in her face.  Rogue
smirked and wondered if Logan had ever done infomercials.

"This one ain't going anywhere," he growled.

Rogue grinned and asked softly, "Do you really think so?"

Logan returned the grin and gently replied, "I don't think he can
ever find a better place to call home."

Rogue wondered what Kitty would think of that.

"Com'on, I'll carry this to your room."

* * * * *

The three of them propped their face up on the bookshelf to stare at
the new fish swimming circles around the old one in the new fish tank.

"I think they like each other," Kitty said, and then winked at Rogue.

Rogue looked at her and commented, "Kitty, your eye is twitching."

Kitty sighed.  Why did she even bother?

"Wolvie sure went out of his way to get this fine looking sucker.
Whatcha gonna call it?" Jubilee asked.

Rogue beamed at Jubilee.  The hell with it, this symbolism stuff
makes all their heads hurt.  "I'm going to call this one Wolvie."

"Peeka-Wolvie, huh, peeping Wolverine" Jubilee snickered and
leered, "God Rogue, I didn't know you were such a pervert--OW!"


End

Title:  White (1/1)
Author:  Jyorraku
E-mail: jyorraku@...
Rated:  PG-13 for some slightly disturbing stuff.
Archive:  XMMFC, WRFA, Spacedout Creations: http://judy.jteers.net,
people that already have my stuff, others please notify.
Genre:  Rogue, X-Men, ficlette.
Teaser:  Streaks of white, another interpretation.
Feedback:  Writing is just writing, but feedback is better.
Notes:  Magneto makes such a great villian.  And yes, as I recall,
there is a tradition of that sort in some Asian countries (uh, yeah,
you'll have to read to find out what I'm talking about). Many thanks
to Laura and Jess, you know why. ^_^
Disclaimer:  Concept and character not mine.  Yes, that's right.  Not
mine, gotta problem with that?


White
by Jyorraku


"I kinda like them."

That's what I said when they asked me.  When Logan touched them in
askance.

It's not true.

The strands of hair that frame my face are stark white.  It's not a
retro thing.  It's not a rebellious thing.  It's a mourning thing.

Once back in high school, a friend of mine once wore a small stitched
white flower in her hair.  People took it as a fashion statement,
however strange.  But Xin did not make fashion statements, she was as
clueless about fashion and clothes as anyone could be in this day and
age.  The only reason her socks matched was because her mother
bundled them in pairs.

"What is it?" I asked her.

Xin turned her tired eyes at me.  She always seemed so tired these
days.  We hadn't talked that much during the summer, her mother had
cancer.

"My mother's dead.  The white," she gestured to the flower, speaking
in monotone, "Is a mourning thing."  Her voice was hollow, vacant.

For a moment I did not know what to say.  What do you say?  Nothing
will ever take that pain away.  So I did the only thing that I knew
to do.  I hugged her, hoping that my warmth will chase some of the
cold away.  She started to shake and shudder.  My shoulder grew wet
with tears, but she never made a noise.  In silence, with the white
flower against her black hair, she mourned for her mother.

I wear white in my hair for a man.  His name is Erik Lehnsherr.
White for the child that died amongst the stench of evil and the
ashes of the innocent.  For the man that could no see love, for he
was already blinded by despair.  He escaped death, he did not come
back emptyhanded.

I screamed that day.  The day Erik gave me his powers.  His
memories.  I screamed not because the machine hurt me.  That was
nothing compared to what he gave me.  I was stunned when he seeped
into me, foreign and unsettling.  I was able to separate myself from
him, tucking him into a corner.  But the machine yanked and spread
him out across my mind, like ink soaking through paper until I was
him and he was me.  What he experienced in his entire life, I
experienced in seconds.  It wasn't even long enough for me form a
tear, but just enough to feel the ghost sensations in my skin.  The
pain was painted across a new canvas, me, and was at once fresh
again.   Horror was only when I realized the screams that were coming
out of my mouth weren't mine, but his and those whose screams he
keeps hearing at night.

Professor Xavier helped me to push Erik back into the corner.  But I
learned I could not forget.  His memories in me were no longer new,
but old like faded photographs.  Yet I knew, they were always new in
his mind.  They were the last moments of his life as he knew it,
carved into the gray matter of his mind, like the last instructions
of the dead.  It was all he had now.  He was permanently reliving
hell.

But all that's permanent is death.

And thus his flesh walks the earth though Erik Lehnsherr is no longer
there.

So in silence, with white tresses in my hair, I mourn for Erik.


End.

Title:  Wolverine's Wrath (1/1)
Author:  Jyorraku
E-mail: jyorraku@...
Rated:  PG-13 for some swear words.
Archive:  XMMFC, WRFA, Spacedout Creations: http://judy.jteers.net,
people that already have my stuff, others please notify.
Genre:  Implied W/R, Fluff
Teaser:  Rogue gets Logan.
Feedback:  I'm afraid to ask for it.
Notes:  This is the sequel to "Professor's Permission" and "Rogue's
Recruits".  I highly suggest you read them before reading this one
(and that's not just shameless self-promotion talking). In terms of
the previous two stories, this is rather anti-climatic, but oh well.
I hate to leave anything unfinished.  Hope it's not too bad.  Many
thanks to Laura and Jess, you know why. ^_^
Disclaimer:  Concept and characters not mine.  Maybe if I asked
nicely?



Wolverine's Wrath
by Jyorraku


"Logan?!"

Bobby fidgeted, "The one with the claws?"

"No, the mailman."  I swear if I were to roll my eyes ONE more time,
they're going to be permanently detached.

"Oh.  Well, I heard he keeps stealing the free shampoo samples,
yeah," Bobby agreed vehemently, so relieved that our target's not the
Wolverine that his head's bobbing up and down like a buoy out at
sea, "it's about time we taught him a lesson."

Headache, headache!

"No!  You ice for brains!" Jubilee said as she whacked Bobby over the
head.  Then she turned to me and asked curiously, "It's NOT the
mailman, right?"  That's Jubilee for you, when in doubt, smack first,
ask later.  I noticed how St. John had kept his mouth shut the entire
time and moved a couple inches away from Bobby.  Smart guy, he
doesn't want be guilty by association.

"Of course it's NOT the mailman.  It's THE Logan.  You know?  Mr. I-
Like-To-Work-Out-Without-My-Shirt-On?!"

"Ohhhh," sang the junior x-men chorus, although more in admiration
than in realization.  Yes, Logan, never the shy one has given
everyone within a ten-mile radius the opportunity of viewing his
buffness.   We've all seen Logan's magnificent biceps and six-pack
and all those other muscular parts that I don't have the names for
yet.  I've had the personal experience of being very closely
surrounded by them and let me tell you if it weren't for the fact
that I was sucking the life out of him, I would have swooned at being
in contact with those leather clad muscles.

"Oh damn," Bobby muttered.  The guys exchanged a gaze that all but
said, 'So much for trying to last through puberty.'

Jubes snapped her gum, "Thank God, I was gonna say, pick my brains
for the mailman?  That's kinda asking Professor X to guess what we
had for breakfast.  What a waste of talent..."

The guys stared at each other.  Then they stared harder at Jubes.  It
was as if they were trying to decide who was deadlier, Jubes or
Logan.  That might be something actually worth finding out.  My bet's
on Jubes, though.  I mean the physical damage Logan can inflict will
probably take months to heal, but the mental trauma caused by Jube's
antics will last you a whole lifetime.  Just look at St. John.  I bet
he's still has nightmares in all shades of yellow.

"Hey guys, like what you see?  There's more where I came from," Jubes
sang sweetly as her fingers started to sparkle.

"Ha ha, Logan, he's a dead man," Bobby said.

"For sure," St. John muttered, "Better him than me."

* * * * *

"Ready positions!  Roll call!  Come in, Hot Stuff," I called into the
walky-talky.

St. John's groan came through, "I wish you wouldn't call me that."  I
bet that's Jubes laughing in the background.  It was her idea.  In
fact she was the one who made up all the code names.

"Come in, Snowflake, come in."

Bobby sighed and replied, "In position."

"Come in, Scaredy Cat, come in."

"I am not!" Came the indignant protest.

"Last but not least, come in, Mistress Lee."

"You forgot the other parts! It's Mistress Lee, Defender of Good From
Evil, Soon to Be X-Women Superhero, Champion of Good Fashion Sense,
Keeper of the Mall!"

"Of course, my bad," I replied blandly.

"Mad Hatter seems more like it," muttered a barely there male voice.
St. John.  Somehow I don't think he meant for that to transmit.

I can imagine Jube's eyes narrowing right now.

"Who said that?!  Was it you Hot Stuff?!"

"No!" St. John yelled out so loudly I had to hold the walky-talky
away from my gentle eardrums.

"Well off with your head!"  Then came the sound of pitter-pattering
feet.

I sighed.  So much for being a well-organized unit.  "Mistress Lee,
Defender of Good From Evil, Soon to Be X-Women Superhero, Champion of
Good Fashion Sense, Keeper of the Mall, would you please hold your
position!  You can chop Hot Stuff's head off LATER."

"Rogue!" St. John protested, whimpering.

"That's team leader Brain to you.  Can't help you, Hot Stuff, hell
hath no fury like Mistress Lee scorned."  I hope he has some real
estate property on the moon because sooner or later Jubes is going to
track him down and it ain't going to be pretty.

"Target acquired!  Heading towards infirmary!" Bobby suddenly yelled
from his hand held walky-talky.

Right on time.  I'll bet anything that Jean's in there mulling over
her research. . . all by herself.  Logan thinks he's got it all
figured out.  HA!

"Commencing Operation Declaw, initiate Plan Big Butt!" I yelled.

You see, Logan's ever so proud of his toned body.  Including that
tight butt of his.  He has no shame.  Why else would he parade around
semi-naked?  Trust me, with Storm controlling the weather with a roll
of her eyes, it never get THAT hot.  Weather wise anyway, I'm sure
body temperatures tend to rise whenever he's around.  Heh heh, Plan
Big Butt should take him down a claw or two.

"Scaredy Cat, Mistress Lee, are you both in position?"

"We are now, Leader Brain!"

"Target approaching corner," Bobby reported, "Within hearing range in
three, two, one!"

Jubes and Kitty's planned conversation came in loud and clear.

"Oh my god, did you see Logan this morning?  Dude, Kitty, he was
wearing these sweats and like it was like he has the biggest sagging
butt I've ever seen!" Jubes exclaimed, in horror, in awe, in devilish
delight, I'm sure.

"Really?" Kitty squeaked.

"Totally, it was so gross.  Big sagging butt.  No wonder he wears
those tight jeans when he's going out, it's to hold up his saggy
butt!"

"Ohhh."

"Target moving off course!  Destination unknown," Bobby hissed over
the signal and then added sadly, "We're all going to hell for this,
aren't we?"

Jubilee suddenly giggled and called out rather loudly, "Have you seen
MR. SUMMERS' butt?  Now those. . . those are fine.  I bet you can
bounce quarters off them."

Didn't I say she was perfect?  That wasn't even in the script.

Kitty giggled.  Come to think of it, Scott does have a nice ass.  I
giggled.

"Correction, target RUNNING off course.  Destination unknown."

Oh where oh where could he be going?  Seconds passed as I wait in
gleeful anticipation.

"Target acquired at entrance of gym," St. John called in.

Booyah grandma!

Dear Santa Claus, I've been a really really bad girl. . .

* * * * *

Logan was never one for details.  He's sort of an 'in your face'
kinda guy.  He kind of assumes that everything he has to face off
with will be Sabretooth-ish, big, dumb, and lacking in subtlety.  Can
you tell he hasn't been with us that long?

"Target exiting gym!" St. John reported.

"Wah!" Kitty yelped.

Good thing Kitty's the one in Logan's room.  She can phase out in a
jiffy.

"Scaredy Cat, are you finished?"

There was a silence, then came Kitty's huffing and puffing.  "Okay,
okay, I'm out.  It's done!"

"All right.  Plan Pretty in Purple is underway."

Did I mention that Logan hates the color purple?  It's a minor quirk
of his, but he's rather adamant about it.  He thinks it's like a
wussy blue.  Actually he thinks it's wussy period.  Only girls like
purple.  Big macho wolverines do not like purple.

"Target entering room.  I think I can hear the shower!" Bobby said.

Kitty phased in right next to me.  She tossed a purple container back
to me like it was a hot potato.  Then she went to hug her physics
book, seeking comfort from it after her dangerous mission.  One of
these days I need to get her a stuffed animal because that just looks
really weird.

"ARRRRRGHHHHHHHHHH!" Came the sound of a very very angry man.

"Oh Leader Brain!  That's your cue," Jubilee giggled.

I trotted toward Logan's room, quite eager to see the fruits of my
labor.

Logan burst out of his room.  He was, much to my evil delight, purple
all over and looking like an anorexic Barney.  Guess he didn't notice
the extra permanent purple dye in his shampoo and such before it was
too late.  See, that's what you get for not paying attention to
details.

He was in such a rage that that he almost ran over me.

"Logan, what happened to you?!" I asked, feigning innocence on my
face and worry in my voice.  I even placed a concerned hand over his
bare oh so muscular chest.  The things I do for the sake of the
mission.  Tsk tsk.

"Did you see anyone here just a couple seconds ago?" Logan asked,
grinding his purple teeth.  Logan doesn't suspect me at all.
Figures.  Heh, heh, he still treats me like I'm just his little
harmless sister.  The Professor was right on.  But Logan looks like
he's about to tear up to the place to find the culprit.  His face, if
possible, turned even a deeper shade of purple.  Professor probably
wouldn't like to see his home and school ripped apart by a berserk
Wolverine.  See, here's where the sacrificial lambs come in.

"I saw Bobby and St. John a couple seconds ago, running that way," I
pointed.  He can't really do anything to them except scare their
pants off and warn them about their impending doom should this ever
happen again.  One of the things about being a designated good guy,
you can't beat people up until they beat you up first.  With Bobby
and St. John, trust me, it ain't going to happen.

He growled and stalked off to catch his prey, like the purple people
eater that he is.

I trailed him around the mansion, wishing I had a camera for this
Kodak moment.

Then Storm came walking by us.  Her eyes widened at the sight of the
purple Wolverine.

"I don't think that's your color, Logan," she said, her mouth
twitching with barely contained laughter.

He growled something about pesky kids.

Professor Xavier wheeled up behind Storm.  Coincidence?  I don't
think so.

"Logan.  Are you allergic to something?"

"Okay, how many more of you are going to show up to see me looking
like a prune?"  I guess he thought the Professor showing up right
after Storm was a little too suspicious.

I tossed the Professor a knowing look.

'Interesting execution,' he said in my mind, chuckling softly.

I grinned, and fondly thought back, 'I learned from the best.'

"It's quite all right Logan, most of the students went home for the
weekend," Charles told him, then said pointedly at me, "And Scott
took Jean for a trip.  Scott said he's not sure when they're coming
back."

"Awwww.  That's so cute," I said, clapping happily.  Then I blink.
Oh my god!  It worked!  I got Scott and Jean back together, happy
again!  WOOHOO!  Oh thank you, thank you, it was my pleasure.

I wanted to dance, I want to shout, I wanted to. . . grunt?  I turned
to the disgruntled man next to me.  He was displeased for sure.

Stupid man, didn't he know it was hopeless from the beginning?  I
sure did.

"Com'on Logan, maybe we can find some makeup cleanser to get out the
purple," I said soothingly.

Logan shuddered.

"Makeup cleanser?"

I bet he's wondering how he sunk so low.

Shhhh.  It'll be our secret.

* * * * *

"Com'on, St. John, you can do it," St. John thought to himself as he
approached Logan's room.  He'd been able to hide out for a while when
he heard the purple Wolverine was looking for him, citing revenge.

But he couldn't hide forever.  He had to be a man.  Then he would no
longer need to have Bobby stand guard by the bathroom door while he
showered, or cringe at the sight of Jubilation Lee.  Yes, he would be
a MAN.  No more sneaking around.  No more revenge or getting back the
girls.  No more being petty about stuff like that.

That is, after this.  He really needed to score one for the guys.
Jubilee will probably kick his ass but he was ready to be a martyr
just this once.

Logan opened the door and immediately hunched over like he was ready
to attack.  "I've been looking for you, you little punk!"

It was all the punk's fault.  After Rogue helped him peel off a layer
of his face he had to go to the store to buy more of the makeup
cleanser stuff.  The woman there told him they didn't sell cleansers
in gallon size so he ended up buying all the cleanser they had.  Then
she had the nerve to ask him if he wanted to try some of their new
blush.  Shit, can't a grown man buy some makeup cleanser without
being a cross-dresser?!

St. John swallowed hard to get up the nerve to speak.

"Logan, I need to talk to you.  Man to man?"

"Yeah, maybe after I rip another hole in your face," he growled.

That's it, St. John has had enough of people picking on him!

"Listen, do you think Bobby or I could have been the mastermind of
all of this?  Getting you away from Jean, making you do all those
butt crunches, turning you purple?  HELLO?!"  Man, Rogue was right,
he is slow.

Logan eyes narrowed into tiny slits.

In his mind, he remembered seeing a tiny devious smile out of the
corner of his eye.  Then the smile matched to the face.  A face so
pure and innocent he would never have suspected.  A face that was
probably laughing its head off right this moment.

"ROOOOOGGGGGGGGGUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!"


END.

Title:  Code Name: Gemini (2/?)
Author: Tanya Miller
Series:  Gemini (which can be found at my site http://go.to/tanie)
Rating: Strong R to maybe NC-17 later for violence
Summary: Rogue and Sarah go on a mission
Feedback:  Love it....Please send some.  Would love to hear what you
think of it.
Disclaimer: Not mine....never will be mine.....Except Sarah
Distribution: My site X-Men Fan Fiction Keepers (http://go.to/tanie) and
list archives.

~*~

"Marie.  Are you ready?"  Sarah asked quietly.

"Yeah.  Let's go."

Moving quickly, Rouge passed her hand over the key lock, using traces of
Magneto's power to unlock it.  As the two girls past through the door
and into the hall that was monitored by video cameras, they morphed into
two men they had noticed leave.

Walking down the hall, the twins and Jared, made their way to the next
obstical.

"Key tag please."  the guard at the door asked without looking up.

"That's why we came back.  Forgot them in the office." Rogue answered.

Looking up, the guard smiled.  "Bob.  How many times has that been?"

Sarah relaxed.  "More then he can count probably."

Buzzing them through, the guard teased.  "Don't forget them or I am not
letting you out."

Smiling, the trio made their way down the hall.  Seeing a door marked
Director of Research, the two girls stopped.

"Stay here and keep an eye out."  Rogue ordered.

"But..."

"No."  Sarah interrupted.  "Keep your face clean.  They don't need to
know about you.  And if something goes wrong....Run.  Head to Xavier's
School for the Gifted and tell them that Rogue and Sarah are in
trouble."  Following Rogue through the door, Sarah quitely shut it.

Jared could hear voices float out through the closed door.

"Who do you think you are barging in here?  How did you get in here?"

Sarah's voice could be heard answering, "Name's Gemini.  We have a
message for you."

Rogue's voice filled with rage finished "From the man you tortured.  You
gave him metal claws.  We're here to say thanks."

The man's screams could be heard clearly.  Jared was suddenly glad they
had insisted that he stay out here.

~*~

"Logan, calm down.  What makes you so sure that they are in trouble?"
Storm asked, only to be interrupted when Scott and Jean came running in.

"My car's been stolen."  Scott announced.

"Wonder where Rogue and Sarah learned that trick." Storm said quietly.

"They took my car?"  Scott asked, his voice revealing his surprise.

"Logan seems to think that Sarah and Rogue have gone on a secret
mission.  I am starting to agree."  The Professor quietly stated.  "I am
going to try and use Cerebro to locate them.  The rest of you prepare
for a recovery mission."

As everyone left, Xavier's voice called out.  "Logan.  One moment
please."  Waiting till they were alone, Xavier spoke. "Do you have any
idea what this mission of theirs is about?"

"No.  And I have a feeling that I am not going to like the answer when I
found out."  Logan growled.

"Come with me to Cerebro."

They made their way down in silence.  The Professor entered Cerebro
while Logan waited for answers.

~*~

"Damn."  Jared cursed, seeing guards heading their way.  Knocking on the
door loudly, he said.  "We got company."

Sarah opened the door.  "Ok.  I'm going to attack you so they think that
you are just another victim.  When I let go...run.  And don't forget
what we told you."

Grabbing his shirt, Sarah pushed him against the wall.  Feeling a guard
grab her from behind, she let go and turned.  Placing a hand on his
chest, she focused her energy and threw him against the other guards,
knocking some down.

Rogue stepped through the doorway and Jared got a glimpse inside bfore
she closed it.  The man was crumpled over his desk, his mouth open as
though he was screaming.

Guards grabbed him and pulled him behind them.  They didn't realize that
he was on the twins side.  Fighting the instinct to stay and help them,
he turned and ran.  He had promised that he would get help if they were
in trouble.  Running outside he ran for their car.  He had to get to
Xavier's.

~*~

TBC

X-Men Fan Fiction Keepers = http://go.to/tanie
Here On Earth = http://run.to/heronearth
Stakes And Fangs = http://welcome.to/stakesandfangs

I know this has nothing to do with W/R but I am so damn proud of myself
I had to share.  I just completed my first original story.  I started it
about 2 years ago and after writing daily for 3 months came down with a
serious case of the block.  ARGH!!  Anyway.  Was just sitting here at
work when it came to me how to finish the story.  Two paragraphs later I
was done.  DONE!  So I thought that I would share with you guys.  I
would love some feedback on it.  Warning you now that there is little
dialog it is mostly narrative.  And there was no spell check so there
are mistakes.   If you are interested in reading it the site is
http://www.geocities.com/misssarah_22 and it is Katryn's Story.  I am
working on Sarah's Story too now.  (when the block is cured the block is
CURED!) The story is a vampire story so I am warning you now. But the
one person that has read it told me that she didn't like vampire stories
but she liked this one.  But then again she's my best friend so she
could be biased.  Hence my asking for some of you to check it out and
let me know what you think. And sign the guest book if you do go there,
please.

Tanya

	 X-Men Fan Fiction Keepers = http://go.to/tanie
	 Here On Earth = http://run.to/heronearth
	 Stakes And Fangs = http://welcome.to/stakesandfangs


   ----------



[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Title:  Fled

Series:  Through the Years

Author:  Autumn

E-mail: eddievedderismylife@...

Rating: R

Archive Rights:  DDFH, WRFA, Mutual Admiration, XMMFFC, others please ask.

Author's Notes:  Follows "Origins from Hell," and "Lowdown and Almost Out."

Thank you to Jonas and Karen who have been a tremendous help. And to
everyone who has given me the chance to write this grim little tale without
being upset at the dark angle the plot has taken.

--------------------------------------------------------------------


Logan woke to the unfamiliar feel of Marie curled up to him. In sleep he had
shifted himself so he was laying half on top of her with his arms curled
around her protectively. His head was on her chest and he spent a few
moments listening to the beating of her heart.

He didn't understand why she hadn't yet left him. All he was was a broken
man with memories of a terrifying childhood from over 100 years ago. It
didn't add up. She was young and wonderful, she didn't deserve to be tied
down by him and his baggage. He resolved to let her go just as soon as they
got out of here.

Marie stirred beneath him and Logan realized he should start at least
physically trying to let her go. He loosened his grip on her and she
unconsciously responded by trying to draw him closer to her. Logan gave up
the fight and chastised himself for lacking the strength to push her away.

A knock on the door jarred Logan from his thoughts and he turned towards the
noise. "Yeah?" he asked softly, trying not to wake Marie.

"There's a phone out here on the table. I figured you might want to call
that professor of yours. There's food on the table for you and your girl,"
Victor stated.

"Uh, thanks," Logan replied awkwardly.

"Yeah, there's a number on there to reach me when you're ready to start
again."

Logan grunted in reply and turned his attention back to Marie. She woke and
noticed the sad, haunted look in his eyes had increased by ten fold since
this all began.
"Hey, how are you doing?" Marie asked while she began rubbing his shoulder.
"I dunno."

Logan got up and retrieved the tray Vic had so kindly left outside. He
handed the phone to Marie who called the mansion and Logan started fixing
the bagels with cream cheese. He would have liked a more manly condiment
like Tabasco, but he was too hungry to complain at this point.

Marie wound up her conversation just as Logan finished with the food.
"So?" he asked.
"Well, the professor almost had a heart attack when he heard who we were
with, but I assured him everything was all right. I made him promise not to
tell the X-Men who we were with. Scott'd have the Blackbird out on our trail
in no time." The southern girl grinned.

Logan nodded stiffly and settled back onto the bed. He made no effort to
move towards Marie like he normally did whenever she was nearby. She frowned
and slid over by him.
"Don't." Was all he said before jumping up.
"Don't what?" she asked, clearly puzzled.
"Don't get close to me Marie. You'll just get hurt."
Marie sighed. She had expected Logan to try and push her away. He'd insist
it was for her own good. When this was over, and he still tried to do the
same thing, she'd have to crack him over the head with a bat and beat it
into his metal-laced skull that she was with him for the long haul. For now
she'd just humor him.
"Come on Logan, Victor's probably waiting in the lab." Was all she said
before leaving the room.
Without a word, Logan followed her into the lab, toward his past. Victor had
finished setting up the hospital bed and gestured for him to get on it.
Logan did, and prepared for the slight sting of the needle that Victor slid
into his arm. Ten seconds later, Logan was unconscious and Victor sat down
at the table across from Marie.

"How's he doing Rogue?"

She sighed, "He's trying to push me away from him. Damn stubborn Canadian,"
A thoughtful look crossed her face, "or I guess he's a damn stubborn
Englishman. Just doesn't have the same ring to it."

Victor chuckled silently and laid his hand on top of Marie's in a comforting
gesture. "You ready to hear more memories yet?" he gently inquired.

She shook her head positively and Victor began. " Logan, was pretty fuckin'
pissed off at the assholes that ran the Institute. So Logan, being Logan
decided to do something about it................



February 1896
Children's Institute
London, England




Nicolas had spent the last few months learning how to use his claws. He'd
discovered that intense anger unleashed the deadly weapons that he now
possessed. Adapting to them was, however, a bit of a challenge. The
nine-inch blades were more than a little cumbersome and Nicolas had nicked
himself more times than he cared to count. His remarkable healing ability
apparently took care of that. Time after time, the boy's wounds would
righten themselves and his skin would smooth over the area as if nothing had
been there at all.
Victor was not as lucky. The child endured frequent beatings and rapes far
more frequently than Nicolas. The guards seemed to get some sick pleasure
out of beating the youngest and smallest of their charges. It pissed Nicolas
off to a point that he had been planning an escape for Victor and himself as
soon as possible. Logan had become quite adept at using shadows and corners
to conceal his whereabouts as he followed the guards on their excursions.
Occasionally the guards would wake everyone in the dormitory up and take one
or two boys out of the room. They would then force the remaining children to
watch the killing of innocence that was such an aphrodisiac to the hellish
staff.
One such night, as the men entered the room and took the kids out into the
hall, Nicolas hid behind the doorway, waiting for the right moment to grab
the guard who took Victor. Sure enough, the man dragged the sobbing boy out
of the room and was about to enter the hallway. Nicolas whirled to the back
of the guard and grabbed him by the back of the neck. Startled, the guard
released Victor, and Nicolas slammed him into the wall.
"Tell your friend to let go of that kid." The boy commanded.
"Or you'll do what?" The guy sneered.
*Snikt* "I'm not going to tell you again, asshole."
"Craig, let 'em go," the guard stammered.
"Victor, get your things, we're leaving." Nicolas told the boy in a soft
tone before turning back to the man he held captive.
"Where's Donaldson?" he barked out.
"He-he's not here tonight, he's off."
"Where does he live?" the young man questioned.
"1013 Broad Street. Why?"
"That's none of you're fucking business. Vic and I are leaving. Try to stop
us, and I swear I will kill you." he hissed in a defiant tone.
Nicolas released the guard and grabbed the stuffed knapsack he'd left near
the bathroom in the hallway and loped off to find Victor.



Later that night.......

"Nicolas, where are we going to go?" Victor asked.
"To take care of business, Vic. We're going to take care of business."
Nicolas stated darkly.
The pair made their way down the empty streets of London until they'd made
it to the lower east end. Once there the two slipped into a darkened alley
on Broad Street......


To Be Continued




******************************************************************


"The Sweeter the sin, the bitter the taste, in my mouth."-U2


" I see a girl of the night with a baby in her hand
Under an old streetlight next to a garbage can
Now she put her kid away and she's gonna get ahead
She hates her life and what she's done with it
That's one more kid that'll never go to school
Never get to fall in love, never get to be cool"
-Rockin' in the Free World, Neil Young












_________________________________________________________________
Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp

This ain't mine. I'm posting it for my friend Feral.
Some of you might recall her fic "Polish, Poles, and
Poodles"? Well, this isn't anything like it ;) Some of
her best writing, but decidedly dark and only
sometimes happy, so... uh... good. Read. Yeah.

Author: Feral Tendencies
Title: The Avenue
Series: none
Summary: Kody gets some advice from a mysterious
stranger.
Distribution: Anywhere as long as I get credit.
Disclaimer: The X-Men stuff belongs to Marvel and Fox
and probably other people. The song "Kody" is Matchbox
Twenty's and copyright their record label.
'Ship: non-specific
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Spoilers: Probably the movie... but honestly, I'd hope
you've seen it by now...
Feedback: Please!  Email off-list at
feral_tendencies@...
Setting: Movieverse. You'll have to figure out the
rest for yourself ;)
Notes: This fic is weird. Really, really weird. But I
like it. So there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~*~
Kody sat down on the avenue
He tapped his feet to the humming of the highway
He watched the light shine down on the broken glass,
and thought
I don't got no reasons, yet
There it is and there it was
It was clear to all of us
We kept this hat of broken dreams
And we pulled them out, when we needed them around

So please hand me the bottle, I think I'm lonely now
And please give me direction, I think the hurt set in
And I don't feel nothing
~*~

"Hey."

I nearly jump through myself. I didn't hear anyone
come up. Then all of a sudden this voice out of the
dark. I look up. Can't see him very well, but I can
tell he's pretty big. "H-hey. Look, I don't have any
money, okay?"

He laughs. "I don't need your money, junior," he says,
stepping forward into the streetlight.

Definitely a big guy. Looks about forty-ish. And
really hairy. Yuck. "Then why are you here, old man?
This is a kids' hangout."

The old guy shakes his head, sticks a hand in his
pocket and leans against the crumbling ruins of the
nearby building. "Kids' hangout... you sure it ain't
more along the lines of a place to get away? Place for
people with problems they can't face?"

I roll my eyes. "What are you? A freelance guidance
counselor?"

"Maybe," he says, his face expressionless. "You look
like you got a lot on your mind."

"Maybe," I say, throwing his words back in his face. I
sit down on a large marble block, fallen from a nearby
pillar. "But I digress. Fuck off."

The old guy shrugs. "Just tryin' to be friendly, kid,"
he says, kicking a large chunk of rock, scattering
pieces of glass and clouds of dust. "You could show a
little human kindness."

Stained glass. I glance at the crumbled remains behind
me. Considering the marble that came with it, I'm
guessing this place used to be expensive. Looking back
at the stranger, I shrug. "Whatever," I grumble under
my breath.

He nods. "That'll work. You got a name, kid?"

"Kody," I reply, then jerk my chin in his direction.
"You?"

He thinks a moment. Who the hell has to think about
their name? Finally, he shakes his head. "Not
important," he says quietly. "Had more names than I
can remember. 'Sides, a person's name's only important
if they affect your life, right? Ain't gonna remember
'em otherwise, right?"

Well, that's damn weird. I shrug. "Yeah, sure.
Whatever," I mutter. "So, why the hell are you here?
You got problems you don't wanna face?"

"Loads," he says, nodding. "Don't wanna face 'em. But
I do. Just not tonight. I wanna hear about your
problems."

Just fucking weird. But he doesn't seem to be going
away. And he doesn't seem dangerous... for the moment.
"My life sucks."

He laughs quietly. "That's pretty general. So does
mine. So we got somethin' in common. Care to
elaborate?"

I shrug, trying to look apathetic, but feeling more
along the lines of self-conscious. "Well, I'd complain
about my dead-end job or my bitchy girlfriend, but I'm
not that lucky. No job... girl left me awhile back. I
was lucky enough to finish high school... not that the
diploma's done me much good." I fall silent, looking
up at him.

He's thinking hard, looking at the ground. After a
moment, he nods and looks up. "I see."

I fold my arms across my chest and watch him
expectantly. He's not getting away with that.

He smirks a little, looking almost like he's got an
idea of some sort. "Which one do you miss more?"

I arch an eyebrow at that. This isn't multiple fucking
choice. I need a job. And who the hell doesn't miss
someone they love? I think a moment, reach one
conclusion: humor him. "The girl, I guess."

He nods. His head's gonna bob off his shoulders any
minute now. He must think he's some sort of fucking
sage. "I know that pain, kid."

"Oh, really?" Good. A chance to get the subject off
me. Not that my life's not a thrilling, crazy, wild
ride. That someone forgot to plug in. "What was she
like?"

He gets a wistful sparkle in his eyes at the question.
Please, god, let's not start the waterworks.
Fortunately, he doesn't start sobbing. "Beautiful
eyes... long, gorgeous hair. Great figure... Always a
little unsure o' herself, but she learned to cover
that up pretty quick."

"What happened?"

He hesitates. Couldn't have been that bad, could it?
"We... grew apart. She matured. I didn't. End of
story."

I nod. I know *that* story. "Yeah, same here."

He grins at that, looking smug, like he's got a
secret. "I'll bet." He pulls a flask out of his shirt,
takes a swig. "What about that job? What happened with
that?"

"Before we get into that... why don't you give me a
little incentive?" I ask, pointing at the silver
flask.

He holds it out without hesitation. "Sure. Just be
careful... it's pretty rough."

"I've done harder stuff than this, old man." I take
the flask, toss back a sip and grunt. He's right.
Stuff's two steps short of turpentine. I hand the
flask back to him with a wince. "What the hell is
that?"

He grins again. Damn, he's got a creepy smile. "Home
brew. Everclear. You were saying?"

Well, he's got focus. "I was gonna go to college. Get
a degree in hardware engineering... or something like
that. Went fine the first year. Then my parents bit
the dust."

"Shame," he says, putting the flask away.

"I don't miss them much. Couple of rich folks. Didn't
have much time for me. Too busy traveling, doing
business. Died in a plane crash. Left me with a nurse
most of the time."

"I see. What happened to you?"

"I was left with the nurse as a parent. She was nice
enough. Didn't get a shred of the inheritance. All
went to my brother. He was the one who supported the
family business... Some sort of chemical firm. I never
really paid much attention. Didn't care. I was all
into the tech stuff, and my parents hated that. Said I
wasn't upholding tradition or some shit like that." I
shrug. "Anyway, I was left with the poor nurse. So I
started working to support us. She didn't really have
any other skills and couldn't find a job, or I
would've just left her on her own. I didn't wanna be a
burden. So I dropped college, started working at a
construction site. Made pretty good money. Then there
was that recession. The nurse found herself a job
shortly after I got fired. I left, figuring I'd find
something else, maybe start going to school again. No
such luck. Worked here and there for awhile, but I
haven't had any decent work in about three months." I
leave it at that. There. Soul bared and whatnot.
Happy, you freakish old geezer?

He pushes away from the wall slowly, looking at the
ground, all thoughtful again. "I can understand where
you're comin' from, junior," he says, walking towards
me. "Never easy bein' hungry. 'Specially when you
can't get out of it." He stops a few feet away, looks
me in the eye. "You come here often?"

"Lately? Yeah."

"Good," he says, then turns and starts walking away.

Good? What the *fuck* does he mean by that? "Hey,
wait."

"Later, kid," he says, disappearing into the dark.
"You just keep comin' to your little hidey-hole, got
it?"

"Yeah," I mutter quietly to myself, feeling confused.

~*~
There's a squeak hinge down on the back gate
It lets us know if he comes around
I don't sleep that good anyway
If you've never heard that silence, it's a God awful
sound

So please hand me the bottle, I think I'm lonely now
And please give me direction, I think the hurt set in
And I don't feel nothing
I don't feel nothing, no I don't feel nothing
There's nothing to feel good about here
~*~

The squeaking of the gate wakes me up this morning.
No, wait. Not morning. It's dark out. I haven't been
asleep long. I immediately spring to my feet,
expecting the cops or the landowner come to kick me
off the property. I look around. No one. Deathly
quiet. Can't even hear any traffic on the nearby
highway. So it *is* early morning, then. The eerie
silence is almost palpable. "Hello? Anybody there?"

"Relax, kid. Just me." The visitor of two weeks ago
steps out of the shadows.

I blink. He actually came back? Didn't expect that.
"You again?"

"Nice to see you, too, kid."

"What time is it? I was trying to sleep," I complain,
rubbing my eyes.

"I know." He gets a little closer, narrows his eyes at
me. "I knew ya had troubles, kid, but I didn't know
you were homeless."

"I wasn't... At least, not until two days ago. Ran out
of rent money."

He nods, looks at the pile of blankets I was sleeping
on, then looks at me and frowns. I run a hand through
my hair, feeling self-conscious for no apparent
reason. "You still up for a college education?" he
asks.

I narrow my eyes at him. What the hell kind of game is
this? "What?" I ask sharply, my voice cracking.

He doesn't even skip a beat at the hostile tone in my
voice. "I got some spare cash layin' around. I need
somethin' to do with it. Think I could find someone
that needs a student loan?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "What's the catch?"

He grins. "Cynical, ain't ya?"

"You would be, too."

"I am."

"What. Is. The. Catch?"

He nods. "Smart kid. The catch is, you start it, you
finish it. Or I kick your ass. You need more money,
you ask me for it. Long as you're bustin' your ass to
get a diploma, you'll keep getting money," he says,
pulling a debit card out of his jacket. "Interested?"

I think a moment, looking at him, the card, the
building, the broken glass.

Him. The card. Is this for real? Is that really the
only catch? What if it's some sort of trick? What if
he's a psychopath?

The building. Broken glass. What if I end up here the
rest of my life? Things can't get worse, can they?

I finally look at the stranger again. Slowly, I reach
out to take the debit card, expecting him to yank it
away, tear it apart, tell me he was just fucking with
me. He doesn't. I get the card in my hand.

The old man smiles. "Good. There's enough cash on
there to get you a house, some books, food, and a
semester's tuition." He reaches into his pocket, pulls
out a piece of paper and gives it to me. "There's my
information if you need to contact me."

My mouth is dry. I hardly know what to say. I don't
even know who the hell this guy is. Finally, I manage
to work up some words. "Why... why me?"

He looks at me, and he looks about ready to cry.
"Let's just say... I owe someone related to ya." He
turns and starts walking off. "Good luck, kid."

"Wait, I-"

"Don't worry about it, kid. This is your time."

I frown, not entirely sure of the meaning of those
words. I put the card and the paper in my shirt
pocket, then sit down on my marble block, content to
wait for the sun to come up. A few seconds later, it
occurs to me I don't even know the old man's name.
Quickly, I pull the paper from my shirt, unfolding it
and reading the nearly illegible scrawl:

Logan
254-1314

I frown. The name sounds familiar. My train of thought
is interrupted, though, when I catch a glint of metal
out of the corner of my eye, the lights from the
highway having caught it just right. Standing, I
slowly walk to the glinting metal, more out of boredom
than actual curiosity.

Kneeling, I pick the piece of metal up. It's been
broken and it's rusted as hell, but I can still make
out two words: Xavier's School. I put the metal back
down, looking back at the expensive ruins, wondering
what kind of school it might have been. After a
moment, I pick the sign fragment back up, put it in my
backpack. I then go back to sitting. Waiting. Waiting
for daylight to come and herald my second chance...

...or some such cheesy shit.

~*~
Now I don't much get down out to the avenue
I could drive, but it takes so much to get there
I don't get off on all the broken glass, the Cadillac
scene
Well
I've seen a lot of good things die
And I'm in an over emotional way

So please hand me the bottle, I think I'm lonely now
And please give me direction, I think the hurt set in
And I don't feel nothing
~*~

Logan pulled a cigar out of his pocket, glancing over
his shoulder at the ruined school as he walked,
thinking about what Kody would do. He had a feeling
the kid would do what he'd been told. As he lit the
cigar, his mind drifted to the past, to Xavier and the
school.

Charles was long dead, his dream with him. Mostly,
anyway. A few people still had hope. Not many, though.
Mutants were still in pretty much the same position as
they had been when Logan had met Xavier, all those
years ago. Logan shook his head, reflecting on how all
that work had ended in a stalemate. //I guess it beats
the hell out of things gettin' worse. Guess I could've
taken up where Scott left off...// He shook his head
again, this time dismissively. //I ain't built for
that. And I can't lead somethin' I don't believe in.//

Glancing back at the school one more time, Logan made
two promises to himself. First, that he'd never go
back to the ruined school without good reason. //No
point in dwellin' on the past. Just makes it hurt
more.//

Second, he promised himself that he'd make sure Kody
got where he was going. After all, it was the least
that a Great-Great-Great-Grandfather could do.

THE END

Remember, she gets the feedback: feral_tendencies@...

=====
----======*======----
Daydream Believer [about me] ~ http://go.to/believer

"We've always been ready for female superheroes because women want to be them
and men want to do them." -Famke Janssen

__________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Find a job, post your resume.
http://careers.yahoo.com

Title: All There Is

Author: Rocket J (rocketjnycb@...)

Movieverse - Jean's POV

Summary:   Do you wait all your life for your great love to come along and
then when you find them settle into a boring routine with no romance, no
passion?

Rating: PG-13 (mostly for the vague reference to a Scott orgasm ;-))

Disclaimer: Marvel and 20th Century Fox own 'em.  I don't even have enough
money to give the dentist so don't bother to sue...

Archive: List archives, of course.  If you want it you just gotta ask!

Feedback: Fugu me, man!  I'm at rocketjnycb@...

Dedication: To everyone who was discussing exploring established
relationships a few weeks back.  Sorry but the brain sieve can't remember
EXACTLY who it all was!

Author's Notes:  Big thanks to Khylea for the beta (sorry girl, couldn't
wait for a second round ;-))!  This is sooooo not me.  I don't do Jean. I
don't do POV. I don't do angst, and yet, here it is.  Be gentle!

***

Jean sighed tiredly.  She'd been staring at her computer screen trying to
read an article on the Johns-Hopkins web site for the last half hour.  In
the past ten minutes she'd read the same paragraph ten times without
understanding a word.

She sighed again and turned to stare out the window of the bedroom she
shared with Scott.  It was mid-autumn and the leaves had just peaked in
their colors.  Jean tried to find some enjoyment in the beauty but it seemed
she couldn't find pleasure in much of anything these days.

For the past month she'd been walking around with a crushing weight on her
chest.  Depression; she knew it.  After consulting with the Professor, Hank
had prescribed her an anti-depressant which she dutifully took every day.
They suspected it was just a case of Seasonal Affective Disorder but she
knew it was more than that.

As the time wore on the only thing the medication did was make her able to
function, it didn't relieve the horrible ache in her soul.  It didn't make
her start caring whether she lived or died.

A tear slid down her cheek but she quickly brushed it away.  No matter how
bad she felt she almost never let herself cry about it.  No matter how
confused or disillusioned she was with her life she tried not to show it
outwardly.

She smiled for Scott and dutifully flirted with Logan; all the things
everyone had come to expect from her.  But there you had the crux of her
problem, Scott and Logan.

She loved Scott with all her heart and soul.  It was the only thing she
could point to in her life that gave her any joy at the moment.  She loved
cuddling up next to him on the couch reading a book while he watched the
news or one of those documentaries he was always so excited about.  Waking
up next to him was the best part of the morning.

They'd been together a long time.  They finished each others' sentences.
They loved each other deeply and their relationship was comfortable.  But
the passion they'd shared when they'd first been together was all but gone.

Scott was always so focused on being Fearless Leader, on always being in
control, it never occurred to him to do the sweet little spontaneous things
he'd done when they were first going together.

She remembered once, when they were first seeing each other, just mentioning
she wasn't feeling quite the thing and hoped she wasn't coming down with a
cold.   By that afternoon there were flowers and a Get Well card on her desk
in the lab.

These days there was zero spontaneous affection between them that she didn't
initiate.  Little hugs, love pats, kisses, they all originated from her.
She basically had to stand on her head to get sex and when they did make
love it was quick and perfunctory and Scott never came...

A huge part of the terrible ennui was the feeling of 'is this all there is?'
Do you wait all your life, she wondered, for your great love to come along
and then when you find them settle into a boring routine with no romance, no
passion?  Even her passion for her job and for the 'dream' was non-existent.

Which was where Logan came in.  It was no secret to anyone that he found her
desirable.  He flirted with her shamelessly and she'd be lying to herself if
she pretended she didn't like the attention, especially given the lack of
overt interest from Scott.

Logan was everything Scott wasn't.  Wild, spontaneous, dangerous.  She
couldn't help but be attracted to him.

She hated her life at the moment but didn't know how to change it and the
idea of Logan, even more than the man himself, was almost fatally
attractive.  How tempting a solution it seemed and she fantasized about
leaving Scott for Logan probably more than was healthy.

But she would never do anything about it.  She'd flirt with Logan and enjoy
his attention but both of them knew it was just a bond of friendship between
them and nothing would ever happen.  Scott was the man she loved and that
was that.

But the ache in her soul still wouldn't stop echoing...is this all there is?







***************************************************************
"He's all we've got!"

"Where's the man could ease a heart, like a satin gown?" -Dorothy Parker


Joanne NYC, USA

I did say I had mail problems :P

--
Lifelong member of PETS:
People for the Ethical Treatment of Scott [Summers]
--------------------
"If Logan & Rogue were supposed to be sibling-like,
  then Hugh and Anna didn't get the friggin' memo..."
--------------------
"There are moments in life when I wish there was an undo button."




[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Stupid email stupid email!  (frazzled Nacey)
---------------------------------------------
Hi guys!

Recently, I have had tosh@... as my reply-to address.
Don't ask me *why*, because this address doesn't exist!  I don't
have that address at all!  <:)

So, if you've sent me mail over the past week or so, could you
kindly forward it to tosh@... which is my always
always address?  Pwease?  I'd love to know if anyone had sent me
emails!  I love email!  *bats eyelashes*

Hugs,
Nacey.

--
Lifelong member of PETS:
People for the Ethical Treatment of Scott [Summers]
--------------------
"If Logan & Rogue were supposed to be sibling-like,
  then Hugh and Anna didn't get the friggin' memo..."
--------------------
"There are moments in life when I wish there was an undo button."

Causa Anima is coming soon.  There's someone out there that
knows*all* about the conspiracies in the story!  They're going to
tell you little things, bit by bit.  Following the trail will
help you find your way to the story.  The first person to find
their way through the clues not only gets to read the story
early, but receives a free Cheeto Buddy account.

This was going to be a big secret happening, but with the current
war, I didn't want to scare you all.

Till next time,
Napalm "Firebrand" Nacey,
The secret operative.
--
Lifelong member of PETS:
People for the Ethical Treatment of Scott [Summers]
--------------------
"If Logan & Rogue were supposed to be sibling-like,
  then Hugh and Anna didn't get the friggin' memo..."
--------------------
"There are moments in life when I wish there was an undo button."

>
>Title:  Loginc and Reasoning
>
>Series: Untitled as of now
>
>Author:  Autumn
>
>E-mail: eddievedderismylife@...
>
>Summary:  A darker look at Rogue's thougths post-SOL.
>
>Dedication: For Caroline and Laeto who wanted more DarkRogue stories.
>
>
>
>
>   The cautious glances, the hateful stares and nervousness exist only
>when I am around.  Caution for my skin is deadly.  Hate for the part
>of my psyche that belongs to a long established enemy.  Nervousness
>for the larger piece of the unpredictable man/beast living in my head.
>          They resent me, and I hate them for it.  They treat me as if
>I am a parasite and each of them a potential host.  Erik was right.
>There in no land of tolerance.  Especially not here, in this mansion
>where equality and acceptance are stressed.  The people here are both
>equitable and accepting, but not tolerant.  Never confuse the three,
>it is a deadly error.
>      Equality can get you hurt, when you discover it is nothing but
>an illusion.  Acceptance can get you killed when you accept the fact
>that you have deadly adversaries, you may as well put a down payment
>on a casket.  Tolerance, will allow you to use both devices you your
>advantage, it allows you to fully understand your opponent and
>measure their ability.  You accept the fact that they are not your
>equals, and a good fighter will exploit that.
>      Charles does not understand this and over the years he has gone
>from being naive to being a fool.  And I cannot stay her any longer.
>Being around his ideals is sickening.  Seeing the X-Men and the
>resident children emulate that believe brings forth the rage I
>inherited from Erik and Logan.
>      Logan believes the X-Men's "attack only if provoked" mentality
>will get me killed one day.  I have to say, I second that opining.
>Erik feels Charles is wasting his time on a Utopian idea that will
>never be more than that, an idea.
>      Both men are right in their own ways.  Were you to ask me, my
>views are fairly similar.  The X-Men can get you killed, my own
>experience can attest to that. I can state with confidence that had
>it not been for Logan, I would be dead.  Scott wouldn't have gone up
>there, nor Jean, nor Storm.  Excuse me if I hold that against them.
>      The point is not that the X-Men are cowardly, it's the fact that
>they fight for all the wrong reasons that pisses me off.  Sacrificing
>one, to save everybody and all that.  Maybe I'm selfish but I can't
>agree with their ideals.  How do you ever know for sure that the one
>life you let slip away wasn't the most important one?  How can you
>say that saving more people is the higher objective?  How do you
>justify what is in fact associated murder?
>      Logically and statistically you have a much better chance at
>saving one person, than in saving hundreds or thousands.  It's not
>cowardly to aim for the logical answer.  Better than overestimating
>your own power and abilities and in the end loosing everything,
>including the one life you could have saved.
>      Erik, may be a little extreme in his ideals, but at least he's a
>realist.  I understand him better than even Charles does.  His
>memories are now equal to mine.  I have accepted the fact that he
>tried to kill me.  But most importantly, we can tolerate each other.
>That's something the X-Men and I will never have.
>
>
>"Logan, this is Charles Xavier.  Rogue has vanished."
>
>Pause.
>
>"I fear she has gone to Erik's."
>
>To be Continued...........
>
>
>


_________________________________________________________________
Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp

Title: Reinvention
Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
Summary: One last stop for Logan and Rogue before they leave New York
behind
Series: Off the Corner #7
Rating: PG-13 – language
Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this piece of
fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
Archive: Lists, Muse's Fool; if you've already got my stuff, sure. If
not, please ask. I'll say yes.
Feedback: All kinds always welcome and more appreciated than you know.
Notes: Thanks to Jen, Pete, Dot, and Meg, as well as Laura and Colleen,
who were brave enough to answer the beta challenge. <g>. Also, to F.
Scott Fitzgerald and Stephen Erickson. Ideas stolen wholesale from "The
Great Gatsby" and "The Sea Came in at Midnight," respectively.
Dedication: For Gables, since she asked one night on AIM what would
happen when Logan met Chyna, though I wasn't planning this at all.

~*~

Reinvention

Logan pulled the Maxima into a parking spot on St. Nicholas.

"There's a 'No Parking' sign--" Rogue began, but his sly grin stopped
her. He pulled a small Policemen's Benevolent Association shield out of
his pocket and stuck it in the windshield. She'd been in New York long
enough to know it meant he could park almost anywhere with impunity.
"Oh."

"Yeah."

"You don't have to come with me," she said.

"I know, but I don't want to take any chances that that prick Nellie is
looking for you."

She smiled. "I think you put the fear of God into him, Logan." He didn't
answer, just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to
his side as they walked west toward Audubon Avenue.

He didn't like the looks of the neighborhood, but she seemed comfortable
among the large old apartment buildings, the smell of frying plantains
wafting out of slightly open windows. It was a warm day for the middle
of January, in the high fifties, and people were taking advantage,
sitting on stoops as the late afternoon sun slanted off the high-rises
to the south.

Marie pulled him toward one of the buildings lining 171st Street and he
climbed the steps warily behind her.

Pressing the bell, she said, "Chyna, it's Rogue."

The door buzzed, and she led him up four flights of stairs, to a door
that had been left ajar.

He took in the apartment -- small work-in kitchen, fairly large living
room space, a short corridor with a door on each side and a bathroom at
the end. Hardwood floors and high ceilings. Prewar, nice, but given the
neighborhood, affordable to two or three girls in Rogue's line of work.
Former line of work.

A small blonde girl with skinny legs and obviously artificial breasts
was piling CDs into a bag. She smelled of roses and sex, the corruption
of her world staining her in ways she'd never be able to wash off. Logan
was thankful he was taking Marie away from it before she was irrevocably
tainted, as well.

The blonde looked up at their entrance, and Logan recognized the flare
of interest and contempt in her eyes.

"You're not supposed to bring the johns here, Rogue," she said, though
all of them had broken that rule more than once.

"He's not a john, Chyna," Rogue answered sharply. "He's Logan."

Chyna continued as though she hadn't spoken. She laid a small, perfectly
manicured hand on the zipped duffel on the couch.

"This bag is all clothes and shoes. I figured, Nellie ain't gonna miss
'em, and they don't fit me or Nerissa. The CDs and books you wanted are
all in here," she patted the bag she'd just finished packing, "as well
as your walkman.” Next, she indicated a large, square object, "This is
that damn ugly poster you insisted on buying and framing. I don’t know
why you’re bothering, though. You're just gonna be right back here when
*Logan* ditches you for some other pretty young thing next month." Her
sneer when she said his name was worthy of the man himself.

"That's not going to happen, Chyna," Rogue asserted, but Logan could
smell her nervousness. It was making him edgy. He didn't say anything,
just hefted the two bags and walked out, pausing in the stairwell to
listen to how the conversation turned now that they believed he was out
of earshot.

"So what's his deal?"

There was a long pause, and he could tell Marie was trying to think of
an answer that wouldn't give anything away and still be the truth. He
wouldn't admit it if asked, but he was holding his breath while she
chose her words.

"He's going to take care of me." He exhaled in relief. That was the
bare-bones truth, though he wanted to do so much more than that for her.

Chyna snorted. "So, what? Your cut's going to be twenty percent instead
of ten? Be serious, Rogue. You're just trading one pimp for another, and
don't think otherwise."

"He's *not* a pimp, okay? He's not a john. He's not just 'some guy.'
He's Logan, and he's helping me."

"He's helping you and you're fucking him for it. How is he not a pimp?"

"It's not like that!"

He didn't want to hear anymore, because he knew, on some level, that
Chyna was right. Despite all Rogue’s reassurances, and everything they'd
said to each other in the car, he couldn't shake the thought that, in
the end, he would only wind up hurting her.

When he came back into the apartment, Chyna was alone in the living
room.

He felt a moment of panic. Marie hadn't passed him on the stairs, but
there was always the fire escape.

"She's in the bathroom," Chyna told him. He wondered if his expression
had slipped -- that would be twice in one day he'd let his emotions
show, and in his line of work, he couldn't afford to even *have*
feelings, let alone wear them on his sleeve. He found grim amusement in
the thought, but was snapped back to the situation at hand when Chyna
said, her voice honeyed with insinuation, "You think Rogue is good? I
taught her everything she knows. I could make you twice the money she
would. And I'm not scarred or gimpy."

"Neither is she," he said, still more amused than angry at her false
assumptions. "And I'm not a pimp." He told himself forcefully that he
wasn't.

"Right. You're just taking in a poor, lost soul like Rogue to help her
out." Her sarcasm was palpable.

He had an urge to tell her it wasn't like that -- that he really and
truly l-- even in his mind he shied away from the "L" word. He cared,
more than he ever had about anything, about Marie. But that wasn't
something he was going to share with this chippy.

He shrugged. He'd never felt the need to explain himself, and he wasn't
going to start now. He heard the toilet flush and the door open.

"Chyna," Rogue warned, walking over to stand between them.

"What? I'm supposed to believe that some whacked-out mutie john is
playing Richard Gere to your Julia Roberts? He's gonna make his hooker
into a society lady? Please."

"Not exactly," Rogue said. She glanced at Logan and he could see his own
amusement in the situation reflected in those deep brown eyes.

"Then what the hell does he want with you?" She truly seemed puzzled,
and Logan wanted out of there before she convinced Rogue that he really
was no better than a pimp. After the argument in the car, he was still a
little anxious about her ditching him before they'd even been on the
road a day.

"I just want her," he said. "That's all you need to know."

"For what? Maid service? Baby sitter? Dog-walker? Some sort of voodoo
spell? I don't think she'll work as a virgin sacrifice."

"None of your goddamn business."

"And you don't want anything in return?" Chyna challenged.

"Nothing she doesn't want to give me."

"Hello! Standing right here," Rogue interrupted, waving a gloved hand,
as they continued to argue about her.

Logan and Chyna ignored her, facing off in some sort of odd pissing
contest.

"That's the biggest piece of bullshit I've ever heard!" The words burst
from Chyna's cupid's bow lips, dripping with contempt and disbelief.
"Everybody wants *something*, chief. That's how the world works.

"And don't try to feed me some crap about how you just want her to be
happy and that's enough for you, 'cause we both know it's not true."

"You don't know jack or shit," Marie snarled before he had a chance to
say anything. She pushed her hair back and turned her face to Chyna.
"Look," she commanded. "He healed me."

Chyna looked a little less disgusted and a little more scared at seeing
smooth, flawless skin where the day before there had been a series of
long, angry scars.

Logan smelled the fear as her eyes darted between them, trying to work
out what exactly they had going on.

"Okay, if you're into some freaky cult shit, then I can't help you," she
said finally.

They ignored her. Logan picked up the poster and carried it out the
door.

"Goodbye, Chyna White," Rogue said as she followed him.

"And good riddance," Logan muttered, secretly relieved. He liked New
York, but he'd never been so happy to see the back of it as he would be
today.

They were halfway down the stairs when Chyna leaned over the banister
and called out, "Rogue, hon, just don't drink the Kool-Aid!"

Logan caught Rogue’s eye, and she burst into gales of laughter. She had
to sit down on the steps because her knees were weak from laughing so
hard. Logan laughed with her, and was amazed at how good it felt. He
couldn't remember ever laughing so hard, or being in such perfect
harmony with another person, before.

Rogue pulled herself up off the step after a few minutes, and avoided
his gaze, her lips still twitching. He knew if their eyes met, she'd
lose it again, and while he loved listening to her laughter, he wanted
to get back on the road. This little side trip had already cost them an
hour and it was going to be full dark soon. He wanted to get at least
four or five hours of driving done before they stopped for the night,
and they hadn't even eaten dinner yet.

When they reached the car, he put the poster on the floor in the back
seat, then opened the door for her. He'd never had much use for
manners -- not when he wasn't playing a part on a job -- but Marie
seemed to bring them out in him instinctively. She leaned over and
unlocked his door as he walked around, which, for some reason, made him
want to preen.

He slid in behind the wheel and started the car. Checking the rearview
mirror, he finally got a look at the poster he'd just lugged down four
flights of stairs and one long city block.

Eyes and lips on a dark blue sky -- a face above a spray of color, one
green tear trickling down. He felt a jolt of recognition.

Lips quirked in a half-grin, he quoted, "'Gatsby believed in the green
light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It
eluded us then, but that's no matter -- tomorrow we will run faster,
stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning--

"'So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into
the past.'"

He glanced over at Marie, who wore the smile that never failed to make
his chest ache.

Taking that most American of stories as both guide and caution, they
headed out into the night, intent on reinventing themselves together.

End

~*~

victoria

--

Leo: "We're eliminating genocide. What are *you* doing?"
Sam: "I'm eliminating the penny. I'll come back later."
The West Wing

--

The Muse's Fool - http://www.unfitforsociety.net/musesfool
Unfit for Society - http://www.unfitforsociety.net

TITLE: Don't Wake the Baby
AUTHOR: Mara Greengrass
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: fishfolk@.... Feedback is better than
chocolate.
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Yes, just let me know.
CATEGORY: Gen, humor
RATINGS/WARNINGS: G
SUMMARY: See X-Men. See X-Men babysit.
DISCLAIMER: The X-Men and the X-Men movieverse belong to Marvel and
Twentieth-Century Fox and other entities with expensive lawyers. I am
making no profit from this story.
NOTES: This is a sequel to "She's Having a Baby...Maybe." It feels a
bit anti-climactic, since everyone else seems to have addressed these
themes recently, but since it's done, I might as well send it off.
Thanks to Eiluned for the reassurance :)
DEDICATION: This story is for the babies (or former babies) in my
life: Oz, Rachel, Anna, Noa, Hannah, and Jake. No matter how old they
get, I'll always remember them as small, warm, and screaming their
heads off.

**Telepathy**

*************************

It was a warm, late-summer night at the Xavier school. The students
were snug in their beds, or at least someone's bed, and Scott Summers
had finally gotten his three-month-old daughter Rachel to sleep. He
was curled up, warm and snug next to his wife.

The moon was glowing, the crickets were chirping, all was right with
the world. So, naturally...

"Waaaah!"

Scott rolled over and nudged Jean. "Honey?"

"Waaaaah!"

"Jean, honey?" Scott's eyes were covered with his night mask, so he
couldn't see her, but she didn't seem to be moving. He heard her
groan. "Jean? I'm all for sharing the joys of parenting, but I've only
had a few hours sleep. Jean?"

Another groan and an unintelligible mutter were his only response. His
darling daughter let out another wail and Scott sighed. Keeping his
eyes closed, he took off his mask and put on his glasses.

He pulled off the covers and opened his eyes to find his daughter
floating by. She was about three feet off the ground, followed by a
diaper, a pacifier, and her favorite stuffed bunny. Rachel smiled and
waved at her daddy as she went by.

In his years with Professor Xavier, Scott had seen many strange
things, quite a few improbable things, and at least three things he'd
thought impossible. But none of that prepared him for this moment.
"Jean?"

Without opening her eyes, Jean held out her arms and Rachel floated
into them, followed by the bunny. The pacifier and diaper settled on
the nightstand.

"Urk," Scott said as Jean lifted her nightgown and began to nurse
their daughter. The baby settled down happily and Jean finally opened
her eyes.
"Urk," Scott said again, a little more firmly this time.

"What's wrong?" Jean asked.

Scott lowered himself back on the bed and closed his eyes again.
"Nothing, dear."

*********************************

Really, having a baby was wonderful, Scott thought. Most of the time.
When, say, he wasn't short on sleep or covered in spit-up.

He looked blearily at himself in the bathroom mirror, wiping away the
steam from his shower. "Well, I've finally found the bright side of my
red glasses. Nobody can see the bags under my eyes." He heard Jean
laugh in the bedroom and a corresponding giggle from Rachel, and felt
a smile form on his face. Okay, there were compensations.

"Scott?" Jean asked.

"Hmmm?"

"Did the Professor give a dress code for this afternoon's event?"

"This aft...oh, Parent's Day. Not exactly. I think his exact words
were 'Send Jean to make sure Miss Braddock's skirt covers her knees.'"

There was a smothered laugh from the bedroom and two faces peeked
around the doorway. "He didn't!" Jean said.

"He did. And I couldn't bring myself to ask if he was joking. I think
he's worried about how the event will go, and the effect of rising
anti-mutant sentiment on the few parents who actually stay in touch
with their kids. Especially after the incident with Sarah's parents."

Jean bounced Rachel up and down a bit. "I'm more worried about the
effects of Parents Day on the other kids." She frowned, hugging her
baby tighter. "Rogue's been more than usually upset."

Scott reached out and pulled his wife and daughter into a tight hug,
trying to imagine what could cause a parent to throw their child out
on the streets.

Rachel reacted to the sudden change in mood with a whimper and Jean
pulled away. "That's enough of that, you finish getting ready. We
still have morning classes to teach."

********************************

One calculus, one algebra, and one statistics class later, Scott was
hurrying down the hall to check on the progress of the caterer when he
passed Jean's classroom. He couldn't help stopping to look through the
glass.

Jean was leaning against her desk and drawing a picture in the air
with her hands. By the notes on the blackboard they seemed to have
reached the respiratory system. Rachel was asleep in a bassinet, which
rocked back and forth with a suitable application of telekinesis. It
was, the Professor said gravely, good practice for Jean.

Scott smiled and Jean sent warm thoughts down their link. Then he
continued on his way.

*********************************

An hour later, the dining room looked like it had been attached by a
pack of rabid interior designers. Designers obsessed with balloons and
who had obviously just learned how to make banners with a color
printer. Scott winced as he estimated the number of ink cartridges
he'd be replacing, but the whole effect was oddly endearing.

He paused in the doorway to survey the scene. The Professor was
smiling genially at a mousy-looking woman and her weedy husband. Hard
to believe they were the parents of the tough Angelo.

Warren was off in the corner with a new buddy, a financial type, and
they were happily discussing some recent merger. Scott shrugged. As
long as the parents were happy, Warren could dance the macarena.

Some of the students were valiantly mingling, like Paige and Sam, who
were introducing their mother around. At least *she* looked happy to
be there.

Speaking of being there, where had his wife and child gotten to? The
Professor raised an eyebrow, obviously wondering the same thing. Scott
shook his head.

**I'll find her,** the Professor said into his mind, **if you take
this pair off my hands.**

**Deal,** Scott said, as he walked over to be introduced.

**Jean?** the Professor called.

**On my way, sir. Rachel is not pleased at being awakened and moved.**

**Perhaps you should leave her with someone so she can go back to
sleep. Bringing her here will only mean more stimulation. Why don't
you check if Hank is in his office?**

********************************

Jean hurried to Hank's office in the lower levels as fast as she
could, considering the height of her heels. Rachel squirmed in her
arms and made little sounds of annoyance.

The door was fairly difficult to open while holding a squirming baby
and a diaper bag, but Jean had recently become an expert.

Hank looked up from his computer screen at the sound of the door.
"Dear lady, I thought that you and your delightful progeny were due to
charm your way through the parents?"

Rachel stopped squirming at the sound of his voice and smiled at her
Uncle Hank. He held out his arms and she happily snuggled up to her
very own living teddy bear.

"I am," Jean said, "but Rachel was getting restless. Can you watch her
for a while? I'm sure she'll go right back to sleep."

Hank paused, thinking of his unfinished work, but he was unable to
resist Jean's pleading look. She could use some time off from watching
her daughter now and then. "I'm certain that Rachel and I can find
diversion enough for a few hours."

Jean thanked him profusely, kissed her daughter, and clicked her way
out of the lab.

Rachel curled up in Hank's lap, and he kept the two of them
entertained for a little while with various gadgets off his desk. The
ones that rattled or chirped kept her happy for a while, but when Hank
tried to put her down on her blanket on the floor, she got cranky.

"Dear child, it is imperative that I accomplish at least some of my
tasks today. Perhaps you could occupy yourself for just a short
while?"

Rachel started to cry, and Hank sighed. He picked her and her things
up and set off to find another vic...er, volunteer. He was not ready
to be a parent.

*************************************************

Meanwhile, back at Parent's Day...Scott and Jean were being gracious.
Very gracious. They did it well, actually, but it was tiring.

**I can't believe I already miss Rachel,** Jean said to Scott.

**I know what you mean, but she needs to get used to spending some
time with other people,** Scott said, smiling at Bobby's mother as she
described something cute he'd done as a baby. **So, how is Rachel
doing, anyway? You can't tell me you haven't checked up on her at
least once.**

Jean chuckled mentally. **You got me. She's doing fine, she was
sending happy giggly thoughts a few minutes ago. I'm sure she'll fall
asleep soon.**

*************************************************

The snacks were set out on the rec room table, the television was set
to the Cartoon Network, and Jubilee had hidden the remote. She was
firmly ensconced and determined to enjoy her afternoon off from
classes when Hank and Rachel loomed over the back of the couch.

"Hey, Hankster, whatcha doing?" Jubilee asked. "Aren't all you teacher
types supposed to be wowing the 'rents?"

"The Professor allows me to skip certain of these yearly events. He
knows that I am not entirely comfortable in public."

Jubilee changed the subject hurriedly, realizing she'd been remarkably
tactless, even for her. She was fond of the big furry guy after all.
"So the price was watching the kid?"

"No, Jean asked me. Her presence is absolutely necessary, as she is
our best known faculty member, and Scott is the Professor's right
hand. In any case, while I am very fond of Rachel, she is inhibiting
my work." Hank tried to look at Jubilee as pitifully as Jean had
looked at him. "I know you two get along quite well."

Jubilee groaned and Rachel burbled at her. "It's my day off!" Hank
just looked even more pitiful.

"Oh hell, Blue, gimme the baby." Jubilee jumped off the couch and took
Rachel. "Hey, I can introduce her to some cartoons. I guess she's too
young for Cheetos."

Hank looked uncertain. "I'm not sure Scott and Jean..."

"Do you want me to take the baby or not?" Rachel started to cry, Hank
handed her over and took off.

Jubilee looked down at the wailing baby and sighed.

*********************************

It took Jubilee an hour to get tired of babysitting. This might very
well have been a world record for her notoriously short attention
span, but the final straw was when she finally broke down and changed
a nasty diaper.

"Okay, kid, you're cute and all," she said as Rachel giggled happily
at the on-screen antics of the Animaniacs, "but I don't think I'm
quite ready for parenthood. I'm not done being irresponsible yet. I
wonder who else got out of going to Parent's Day?"

*********************************

"Come here, no need to be afraid of a baby," Jubilee said.

"I'm not afraid," Logan said, stepping closer and leaning to peer at
the small thing in her arms. She responded immediately by grabbing his
sideburns and yanking. Logan jumped back and automatically popped his
claws on one hand.

"Hey!" Jubilee said, "She's just a baby!" Rachel looked confused at
all the fuss.

Logan stayed a few prudent steps away. "She's a Summers, she's
predisposed to not like me. Just put her on the blanket. And remember,
you owe me for this."

Jubilee said, "The event will be over in a few hours. Can you
survive?"

Logan growled and she scampered away.

Logan stood his ground and eyed Rachel, who looked up at him from her
red and black blanket. "Well, it's just you and me, kid."

She gurgled and waved her hands. Logan frowned. She gurgled a little
louder, seemingly perplexed by the lack of the usual reaction.

Logan crossed his arms. "I signed on for the superhero business, not
for babysitting. I thought you were going to go to sleep, anyway."

Rachel's lip quivered. Logan's frown deepened. "What?" Then she
started to cry. "Oh hell, what do I do now?"

Rachel's cries turned to wracking sobs. Logan looked around, but since
no help seemed imminent, he picked her up, resting her gently against
him like he'd seen everyone else do. She leaned against his shoulder
and immediately stopped crying.

She was tiny, he realized, but her body seemed to generate warmth all
out of proportion to her size. He stroked her head lightly as she
gurgled happily at him. One tiny hand clutched at his sleeve and the
other grabbed at the soft black hair on his chest.

"Oof," Logan said as she pulled, "that's quite the grip you've got
there." He detached her hand from the chest hair and looked down at
her.

Rachel Summers mustered all her considerable talents at charming
grown-ups and smiled at Logan, and as he held her, his frown smoothed
out and he found himself grinning down at the baby. "Whadda ya know,
maybe this babysitting thing isn't so hard."

He sat in a chair with Rachel in his lap and she tugged at his
t-shirt, his hair and his arms. "I've got an idea," he said, "let's go
take a walk in the woods, and see what's out there." Rachel laughed.
"I guess that's a yes."

So, he wrapped her up in her blanket and took her to the woods on the
edge of the school property. There he put his woods skills to a use he
had not heretofore considered.

Rachel was fascinated by everything she saw, cooing at the birds,
giggling at the textures of the leaves, and staring in awe at a deer
he stalked for her. Logan was impressed that she seemed to understand
when to keep quiet and when she could make noise.

After they had been wandering for a while, Rachel started to get
sleepy, and
Logan settled down under a tree. He relaxed as the small warm bundle
made tiny snoring noises onto his shoulder.

"Aww, isn't that cute? The big bad Wolverine caught with a baby!"

The voice of Sabretooth was unwelcome at the best of times, but this
was just too much. "Don't wake the baby," Logan growled. Watching his
enemy through narrowed eyes, he placed the sleeping Rachel on the
ground beside him and jumped up.

Without another word, they launched themselves at each other.

The combat was fierce, and the two seemed evenly matched until
Sabretooth let out a roar. Then, there was a sudden flurry too fast
for the untrained eye to follow. When the dust settled, Logan could be
seen sitting astride the prone Sabretooth, pounding his head against a
rock.

"I SAID" Thunk "DON'T" Thunk "WAKE" Thunk "THE BABY!" Thunk.

********************************

When Scott and Jean came looking for their daughter, they were mildly
surprised to find Logan and Rachel sitting on the front porch. Since
Rachel was happily drinking a bottle, they weren't worried, just
surprised and pleased.

Logan looked up as they approached. "Hey."

"You and Rachel have been getting acquainted?" Jean asked.

"Yup."

"Well, I hope you had a good time," Scott said tentatively.

"Yup, she's a good kid." Logan stood and stretched as Jean picked up
her daughter. "Oh, you might want to grab Chuck and go check out the
lab."

"Is something wrong?" Scott looked worried now.

"Nah, you just need to figure out what to do with Sabretooth, since
Rachel and I dropped him off." Logan looked like he was trying not to
laugh at them. "G'night, Rachel. We'll continue your lessons when
you're a little older."

Title: Slight Return
Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
Summary: "Not gonna kill the fatted calf for this thief, homme?"
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this piece of
fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
Archive: Lists, Muse's Fool
Feedback: Nourrissez-moi
Notes: Thanks to Jen, Pete, Dot, and Meg. And to Laura and the
calliopeia chicks.

Okay, so I have trouble with Remy, right? So one of the ways I deal with
that is trying to write from his POV. I don't know how successful I am,
especially with his tangled past and inserting him into movieverse, but
this idea came to me and I went with it. As I may have mentioned, I'm
not doing the accent, though I tried with the speech patterns.

Soundtrack: "Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)" by SRV [hence the title] and
"Born on the Bayou" by CCR. Seriously - on the radio - not my own picks.
Call it serendipity, baby!

***

Slight Return

He stares at the gates, trying to decide how he'll make his entrance.

He could easily sneak up to the roof and slip into her room unnoticed by
the others, so their reunion -- whichever way it went -- would be a
secret. He'd helped install the security systems, after all; he'd made
sure there were one or two blind spots that only he knew about. Nothing
that would put anyone in danger, you understand, just enough of an
opening to let a Master Thief slip in and out without trouble.

He'd left on a wave of anger and recrimination, the past he'd tried so
hard to escape catching up to him and endangering his future.

But that's done now. He's paid his debt to the Guild, handed Bella off
to someone who actually loves her. And now he's back to claim what is
rightfully his.

If she'll have him.

The front door, he thinks. Go in guns blazing, and if you get shot down,
do it in style. He adjusts his sunglasses. Even though it's dusk, he
wears them, and only partly because bright light hurts his eyes.

The gates swing open smoothly and he saunters up the drive, looking for
all the world as if he owns the place instead of having been gone a
year, a cloud hanging over his name.

The door opens and Scott is there, arms folded sternly across his chest.

"Some things never change, eh?" he says by way of greeting, knowing he
can't charm Scott; the man is highly resistant to beguilement.

"Remy," is all Scott gives him in return, blocking the entrance.

Remy sighs theatrically. "Not gonna kill the fatted calf for this thief,
homme?"

He can see Scott is trying not to smile. He doesn't even have to use his
charm; he knows Scott isn't angry, that he understands a man has to take
responsibility for his past before he can build a future. And Scott's
not one to hold a grudge, which is one of the things Remy likes about
him.

No, it's not Scott or Jean or the Professor he's worried about. He needs
to beg forgiveness of his goddess. He hopes she's in a good mood.

"Welcome home," Scott finally says, giving into the joy of his return.
The two men had become as close as brothers over the past few years,
much to the surprise of everyone who knew them. Scott wishes Remy would
give up thieving and settle down like a good little X-Man, and Remy
wishes Scott would put his skills to less than legal uses on occasion,
but they've developed an enduring friendship based on their differences,
and neither *really* wants the other to change.

They embrace briefly, and because he knows Scott will be honest, he
asks, "She gonna be happy to see me?"

Scott claps him on the back and laughs. "Who can say?" They share a
moment of male bonding, contemplating the mystery that is woman, before
entering the house.

Remy scans the living room, but she's not there. He nods to the kids he
knows, smiles at Drake and Allerdyce, who are playing foosball with
Jubilee and a pretty, dark-haired girl he doesn't recognize. He barely
has time to note the white streaks in her hair before he's engulfed in
Jean's embrace.

"Everything's straightened out?" she asks, pulling back to look him
over, and holding his hands. "You look good."

"Oui, Jean. Remy fulfilled his obligations."

"She's missed you," Jean replies in a voice meant for his ears only.
"She'll deny it, but she does."

His grin is tinged with sadness that she'd had to miss him at all.
"Where is she?"

"In her room."

"Merci." He drops his bag on the floor next to the couch and heads up
the stairs.

To look at him, you'd never guess his heart races and his stomach
flutters in a mιlange of anxiety and anticipation.

He reaches her attic sanctuary and knocks lightly at the door.

"It's open," she calls, and he smirks, thinking, They haven't told her.

He enters to see her standing in the midst of her garden, her beauty
putting the flowers to shame.

"Ma coeur," he breathes, finally removing the glasses so he can see her
clearly.

She starts, her usual grace absent as she whirls at the sound of his
voice, but she schools herself quickly. Her face is impassive as she
says, "Remy."

"Stormy."  There's a lump in his throat and he finds it difficult to
speak for a moment.

"I have asked you not to call me that." Her voice could freeze fire.

"Still angry?" he asks, sidling closer.

"No. To be angry would mean that I actually care what you do."

"Liar," he teases. So close now, he can smell the jasmine in her hair.

"What do you want of me?" she asks, and her eyes flash, belying her
earlier words. "I let you go, Remy. Do not think you can charm your way
back into my life and then leave me again."

"Never, mon amour. Remy never leave you again." He slips to his knees
and grasps her hand. He presses fervent kisses to her fingers. Perhaps
he's overdoing it, but love and fear are warring in him, and he needs
this contact with her to reassure himself he's really there and she's
not running from him. Yet.

"Empty promises," she sniffs.

"No. I--" he bites his lip and her expression softens at this sign of
insecurity.

"Get up, Remy."

He shakes his head. "God," he spits out, all trace of his accent gone.
"I missed you, 'Roro. I understand you're angry, but there are things I
had to do -- blood oaths and blood debts that needed to be settled..."
He's already revealed more than he should have, even if no one from the
Thieves' Guild ever finds out. "I could have gone back to my old life
easily enough. I'd have missed this place, being an X-Man, but I'd have
gotten over it. But you -- I learned I can't live without you. I exist;
I breathe and speak and walk, but I'm not *living* unless I'm with you."

She pulls her hand from his grasp and presses it to her lips, turning
away. "Why do you say these things to me?" she asks, and he can hear the
tears in her voice.

He rises, finally, and wraps his arms around her. She lets him. "Because
I love you, Ororo. Only you."

"Your wife?"

"Ex-wife. Settled on another, who actually loves her as much as she
loves him. You're the one for me, Stormy. Let me prove it to you."

She lets the silence stretch, holding his heart in her hands as he
buries his face in her hair, trying to memorize its scent and texture,
the way it slides like the finest silk against his skin.

"Yes," she whispers, turning back to face him, her face wet with tears.
His eyes are not exactly dry as he presses his lips to hers, mouth open,
hot and hungry for her after so long a time apart.

They stumble to the bed, limbs entangled, and he knows he can never
leave her again. He's pledged his soul in worship of the weather
goddess, and it's a fealty he's happy to pay.

Later, they go down to see their friends, and dinner is laid out, a
feast to welcome the prodigal son on his return.

~fin~

victoria

--

Leo: "We're eliminating genocide. What are *you* doing?"
Sam: "I'm eliminating the penny. I'll come back later."
The West Wing

--

The Muse's Fool - http://www.unfitforsociety.net/musesfool
Unfit for Society - http://www.unfitforsociety.net

OOPs, one line should have been deleted and wasn't.

Please ignore the bit about Scott being difficult to charm. I was
supposed to delete it.

victoria
boy, is my face red...

--

Leo: "We're eliminating genocide. What are *you* doing?"
Sam: "I'm eliminating the penny. I'll come back later."
The West Wing

--

The Muse's Fool - http://www.unfitforsociety.net/musesfool
Unfit for Society - http://www.unfitforsociety.net

A Halloween Tail
Rating: R
Category: L/R, foof
Disclaimer:  Not mine.  I do, however, own a very nice Bic pen.  Though, in all
honesty, I stole that from the Hilton.
Summary:  Halloween foof for Jenn cause she rocks.  And Hell, if it weren't for
her, my lazy ass wouldn't be writing*g*
AN:  Okay, this is my response to Jenn’s Halloween foof challenge.  I know,
it’s a little late.  Oh well.

Part One of Three

Logan frowned, eyes glancing up over the top of his crinkled newspaper, as Marie
throw coy and flirtatious smiles over her shoulder at the little Popsicle.  The
fuckin' kid barely glanced Marie's way with the other girls’ prancing around
with their tits pushed up to their eyeballs and their long legs rubbing together
like a cat in heat.  Marie’s covered arms and swathed in layers didn’t make
for teenage fantasies.  Her soft smile not covered in vixen red didn’t grab
the attention of the boys.  But, thought Logan, those girls didn't have what
Marie possessed.  That quality, that willingness to die for her...those
overly-made-up Barbie dolls couldn't touch her.

"Why don't you tell her?"  Jean's voice, soft and warm in his ear, startled
Logan.  Smiling good-naturedly at him, she slid into the vacant seat at his
side.

"Tell her what?"  Logan grumbled, his eyes still on Marie.

"Okay, Logan, we'll play the game your way." Patting Logan on the knee, she
stretched her arms and stood up.  Her gaze wandered to the smiling girl.  "It's
all about the eyes."

"Wha'?"

Jean couldn't help but laugh at his confused and lost expression.  Her hand fell
lovingly to his face, the rough mutton chops tickling her palm.  "Her eyes,
Logan.  It's how she looks at him.  But it's not how she looks at *you*."

Logan didn't even have a chance to mull over Jean's words.  His full attention
was concentrated on the small frown lines that marred Marie's otherwise perfect
face.

Marie frowned as she watched Jean's hand linger on Logan's face.  It hurt her to
see the smile on Logan’s face, not because of any petty jealousies, but
because she didn't want to stand idly by and allow him to get his heart broken. 
She knew full well the feeling of your heart trying to jump out of your chest to
avoid the pain of heartbreak.

"Rogue?"

"Huh?  I'm sorry, Jubes.  What did you say?"  Marie smiled, embarrassed to be
caught so spaced out in front of her friends.

"Did you wanna play?"  Jubilee gestured to the foosball table.  Bobby smiled and
nodded encouragingly at her as well.

"Um, actually-"  Marie's excuse to go see Logan was interrupted by the familiar
gentle whirring sound of Prof. Xavier's wheelchair.  The entire room sat up in
recognition.  The professor smiled benignly at his students and faculty. 
Flanked by Storm and Scott on either side, he raised his hands in a grand
gesture.

Logan rolled his eyes at Prof. Xavier's overly dramatic gesture.  Everything the
man said had to be a production.

"Children."  The professor nodded to the gathering crowd around the room.  "As I
am sure you are well aware, Halloween is this next week."

An excited buzz filled the room.

"We know that last year's Halloween bash, due to unfortunate circumstances, was
cancelled."  Scott smiled sympathetically at Marie then.  "Which is why, this
year, we're not only having the annual Halloween fair.  We're going to follow it
with a costume dance."

Squeals of excitement erupted from the excitable teenagers.  Jubilee and Kitty
grasped hands and jumped up and down, their eyes already filled with ideas for
costumes.

"Oh my God! I have the best costume idea for this year."

"I think we should worry, man."  Bobby shared a mock-frightened look with St.
John.

"No!  It's perfect."

"All right, Jubilee, spill.  What's this 'perfect' idea?"

"Kit-kat, you'll love it.  Buffy!"

"Buffy?"  The boys shared a concerned look at what Jubilee planned on doing with
them.

"Kitty can be Buffy and St. John can be Spike."

"Oooh," Kitty nodded in agreement.  "Cause Buffy and Spike so have the major
mojo going on."

"Annnnd, I'll be Cordelia and Bobby can be Angel!"  The two girls squealed
loudly again, giggling as Logan growled in their direction.

"Hey, what about Rogue?"  Bobby looked down at his friend.  But her mind was
already a million miles and a year away.

~*~
  One Year Earlier, Halloween night

"Hey, Logan.  I was just on my way to the fair."

"Get back in your room!"  he shouted at Marie and ran towards her.  Pushing her
back into the room, he slammed the wooden door shut, locking it behind him.

"Logan?  What's going on?"  Marie's chin quivered in fear and nerves. "You're
scaring me."

He turned sharply to her.  His eyes were wild and his nostrils flared, sniffing
out the scents in the room.  His voice was deep and gravelly, "Sabretooth
escaped."

She sank to bed, grateful it was there as her legs gave out.

"Hey."  Logan crossed the room quickly, sinking to his knees in front of her. 
"Hey, Marie," he grasped her face in his gloved hands.  "I am not gonna let
anything happen to you."

"Promise?"

"Yeah."  Logan swallowed thickly.  "Yeah, I promise."

"It's not like he can get me here, right?"

"I need you to listen to me kid,"  Marie nodded earnestly at his tone.  "I need
you to stay here.  In your room, I mean."

"Where are you gonna be?" she said, her panic rising in her voice at the thought
of Logan leaving her to go after Sabretooth.

"Right outside your window, Marie.  I won't let him get to you."

~*~

Cracking his knuckles and rolling his stiff shoulders, Logan paced the grounds
of the mansion for the hundredth time that night.  Scott and Storm had left in
the Blackbird to patrol the airspace around Westchester, while the professor
tried, in vain, to find Sabretooth on Cerebro.  It seemed, however, that he
dropped off the radar entirely.  Logan had hoped he stayed that way.

Tensing suddenly, Logan's body readied for action as he felt the air shift. 
Someone was coming.

"Logan?"

"Damn it, kid," he snarled at her.  "I thought I told you to stay in your room."

"Logan, you've been out here for hours.  It's cold and wet.  You need something
hot to drink."

"I ain't cold.  Now get back inside."  He grabbed hold of her elbow to steer her
towards the back porch of the mansion.

"No."  She shook off his hand.  "Come on, Logan.  Scott and Storm are in the
plane.  The professor is in Cerebro.  Jean is keeping tabs on me too."

"I don't care!  I don't want you out here."  They stood face to face, arms
crossed equally stubbornly.

"Logan."  Her voice, soft and seductive to his ears now, lowered.  "Just drink
the damn coffee I brought ya, all right?"

"Coffee, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You gonna sit with me?"

The smile that lit her face warmed Logan without the coffee.  Marie lay the
thermos and mugs on the nearby bench, carefully pouring the steaming hot coffee.
Black, of course, the only way that Logan took it.  She pulled several sugar
packets and powdered cream from her pockets to doctor her coffee to make it
remotely palatable for herself.

"Marie?"

"Hmm?" She nodded distractedly, setting the thermos on the ground to clear a
space for Logan next to her on the bench.

"What the hell are you wearing kid?"

Giggling, Marie covered her red face with her gloved hand.  "It's Halloween."

"Wait...is that my shirt?"  He tried not to let her know just how much he liked
the idea of her in his shirt.  Or even better, out of his shirt.  Out of her
pants would be good for him, too.

"Don't you recognize me?"  She twirled for him, her lips twitching from her
barely concealed laughter.  "Oh, wait!  I almost forgot the best part."

Digging around her bag, Marie pulled out a pretzel rod triumphantly.  Chomping
at the end, she glowered at him playfully.  Taking in his flannel shirt, her
jeans, the boots, (and was that a big foil belt buckle that he saw?), and the
pretzel rod-

"I'm you!"

  "Cute."  He smirked at her, no longer thinking about escaped mutants and
impending doom.  He was just happy to sit next to Marie on a bench outside in
the cold drinking-"Ugh, kid, you make this coffee?"

"Why?  No good?"  She peered into her own mug.  "I made it with four scoops. 
Too much?"

Coughing, Logan tried not to gag on the hideous drink.  "Did you, uh, remember
the filter?"

"Filter?"

"Why don't we just forget about the coffee."  Logan set the mug down,
concentrating on Marie.

"Oh," her shoulders slumped noticeably.  "I guess I should head inside then."

Standing, she smoothed her jeans down nervously, hands tugging at the cuffs of
the shirt as Marie began to notice the cold.

Logan noticed the cold on her, but in a slightly different manner.

"You're missing something to your costume there."

"What?"  Marie peered down at herself, trying to figure it out.

Logan lifted the tags from around his neck.  The night he came a few months ago,
Marie had appeared at his door, tags in her tight fist.  He didn't know how to
tell her that he didn't come back for the tags.  He came back for Marie.

"Try these."  Hanging the tags around her neck, his hands lingered in her hair. 
She leaned her head back into his touch.  "Perfect."

The low, sensuous tone of his voice sent a shockwave down low in Marie's core. 
"Thank you."

Pulling his hand back,  Logan cleared his throat and nudged Marie playfully with
his elbow.  "So you gonna keep me company?"

"Okay."  She blushed as Logan draped one arm protectively around her shoulders. 
The late hour and the worry of Sabretooth, caught up to her, Marie's eyes
drifted close as her head drooped to his shoulder.  Logan remained still, not
wanting to wake her.  He leaned back and allowed himself to enjoy her embrace
during the stressful night.  The night air had that crisp quality common to the
New England autumn.

Logan smiled, a rarity except where Marie was concerned, and pressed a kiss to
her hair.  Not wanting Marie to get sick from the cold, he decided to bring her
back inside.  He could watch over her from inside her warm room.  Bending
carefully, so as not to wake her, he placed one arm under her knees.  Standing
slowly, Logan cradled Marie to his chest.  Her face instinctively burrowed
closer to his warmth and the steady, soothing heartbeat

Tensing briefly, Logan sniffed the air.  Turning his head towards the driveway,
he nodded to the man in the shadows.

"Hey, Logan."  Scott nodded his greeting, whispering so as not to wake the
sleeping girl, and feeling slightly embarrassed at seeing such an intimate
display between Logan and Rogue.  He had watched the careful mating dance of the
Wolverine and the Rogue for a year and a half.  He hoped that Logan would be
half as happy as he was with Jean.  And he hoped that Rogue was just as happy
was he was with Jean.

"You find him?" was Logan’s only gruff only.

"Professor Xavier finally tracked him.  He's in Siberia."  Scott held open the
door for Logan.  "Guess he doesn't mind the cold."

"Thanks, for uh..."  Logan fumbled with his gratitude to Scott.

"We all care for Rogue."

"Yeah, thanks, you know, for doing that."

"Good night, Logan."  Scott smiled and shook his head ruefully.  This
conversation was probably as close to friendship as the two came.  Respect as
teammates had been earned long ago.  Friendship however…remained elusive.

Logan carried her up the stairs and pushed open the door to her room with his
hip.  Lowering her to the bed carefully, Logan slid his arm out from her
shoulders gently, not wanting to jar her any.

"G'night, Logan."  Marie mumbled sleepily, turning her face into the pillow.

"G'night, Marie.”

Logan picked up the book he kept in her room and sat down in her chair.  He’d
wait with her until morning just to be safe.  Or at least that’s the reason he
told himself.

~*~

Present Day

β€œHey, Logan.”  Marie fell into pace next to him as he turned down the
hallway away from the Danger Room.  He grunted his usual greeting after a
grueling practice session.  Tugging nervously on her gloves, Marie bit her lip
and glanced repeatedly at him.  His muscles were tense and glistening with his
sweat.  Maria wondered what it would be like to trail her tongue up the line of
his stomach, his sweat tasted sweet in her dreams.

Logan noticed as Marie kept glancing over at him, her eyes darting around like
minnows.  Exasperated, Logan stopped his brisk pace and faced her.  β€œWhat?”

β€œWhat what?”   Marie tried for the wide-eyed innocent look that Logan usual
fell for.  That look got her out of late curfews, speeding tickets, and pissed
Wolverines.

Logan groaned inwardly at the way her lower lip pouted.  He had entire fantasies
built around that lip.  He also had entire fantasies about fucking that pout off
of her face.  Her lips curling into a scream of ecstasy as he sank himself deep
inside of her.  These days most of his fantasies revolved around fucking Marie. 
It was those fantasies, thoughts, dreams about watching her smile, hearing her
laugh, and being the cause of both that disturbed Logan of recent.

β€œLogan?”

β€œWha’?”  He closed his eyes, shutting out her inquisitive eyes.  Covering
his eyes with one hand, Logan faked a yawn.

β€œOh, you’re probably tired.”  Marie gestured absently behind her with her
thumb.  β€œI’ll just go.”

β€œWhat’s going on, Rogue?”

She smiled softly at the sound of her β€˜name’.  Logan never called her Marie
outside of one of their rooms.  That care that he took to guard her one secret
created an intimacy between them.  She reveled in that.  That special-ness she
felt at his thoughtful gesture.  He never said her name in anger.  Never yelled
it.  Never growled.  β€˜Marie’ fell softly from his lips in a tone that sent
shivers down her spine.  The kind of tone that raised the hairs on the back of
her neck, wishing she could hear her name from his lips as his arms pulled her
in tightly to his warm body.

Watching her blush, Logan wished briefly for Professor Xavier’s β€˜gift’,
combined with Logan’s own ethics of course.

β€œWill you be my cover?”  Frozen now with a look of complete confusion, Marie
couldn’t help but giggle at Logan.  β€œYou know, for the Halloween dance
thing.  This way I won’t have to fight off all the boys that want to dance
with me.”

The wide smile on her face never reached her eyes.  That’s how Logan knew he
wouldn’t be a cover for the horny teenagers.  He’d be her rationalization
for them not wanting to dance with her.  A job that Logan happily took on. 
Hell, it was a job that he regularly did.  Marie just hadn’t been aware of it.
Grinning to himself, Logan remembered the look on that Bobby kid’s face as he
woke up to find the Wolverine stalking him in the shadows.  Sure, Jean scolded
him for it.  But damn it, it had been worth the smell of fear alone.

β€œSo you’ll do it?”  Marie grinned excited at the smile on Logan’s face. 
She shocked him by throwing her arms around him in a tight hug.  β€œThank you so
much, Logan!  This really means a lot to me.  Oh!  And I have the perfect
costume idea for you.”

β€œCostume?”

Costume, a word that strikes fear in the hearts of all bad-asses around the
world, especially when paired with a doe-eyed excited kid.

β€œI….I really appreciate this.”

Damn it, Logan cursed to himself.  How could he turn her down now when she was
looking at him all….gooey-eyed.  She had clearly been spending too much time
with Scooter.

β€œWhat’s this perfect idea of yours?”

β€œWell, I know how much you like Stephen King-β€œ

β€œIf I wanted to go as a dork in glasses, I could just be Scott.”

Glaring at him, Marie crossed her arms.  β€œJust for that, you’re going to
have to wait and find out.  I’ll give you a hint though.  It’s not Stephen
King, it’s from one of his books, well, movies actually.”

Logan nodded thoughtfully.  Marie could practically see the approval in his
head.  They had watched β€˜The Shining’ last week.  Or rather, Logan watched
it as Marie spent the movie huddled into his chest not looking.  The next week,
Logan kept clawing her door and yelling, β€œHeeeeeeeeeere’s Johnny!”, until
Scott told him that if he ripped open one more door that Logan would be assigned
the next four weekends as curfew monitor.  God, he hated doing that job.  If he
had to catch Jubilee sucking face with one more little mutie pimple face, he’d
claw his own eyes out.

β€œSo, you’ve got my…costume”, Logan nearly choked on the word, β€œall
worked out.”  Marie nodded excitedly.  Logan’s sudden feral grin suddenly
worried her.

β€œLogan?”

β€œI can’t wait to see you in your costume.”

β€œYeah, well, I know it’ll hard to beat last years.  But I’ll try.”

Her loved her impish grin.

β€œDon’t worry.  You’ll look great in what I have in mind.”

β€œMind?”  Her mouth fell open, frozen in shock.

β€œYeah, kid, you’ll look great in the costume I pick out for you.”

End part one





"I'm just saying, if you were in an accident, I wouldn't stop for a beer." Josh


"That was to calm you down." Michael



"There's no sex in the champagne room. None." Chris Rock



"Ain't nobody dope as we are." OutkastGet more from the Web.  FREE MSN Explorer
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Disclaimer in Part 1



Where we last left the X-Men:

	 In a snow covered field in Montana the X-Men stared in open-mouthed silence
as a pack of wild boy-scouts, and one pink clad Scott advanced on them.



“Scott, I thought you were on the side of truth and justice and equality!” a
distraught Jean Grey cried.

	 “Well babe I am, but I’m also all for ending the spread of HIV, and AIDS
that are ruining out great nation!  We must end the faggotry that runs
rampant in America!” the pink wonder proclaimed.

	 “ Okay, but that still doesn’t explain why you’re with the lynch mob
Scooter” Logan argued.

	 “ I cannot associate myself with you when I know for a fact that one of you
is a flagrant fairy!” Scott shot out.

	 “Oh really, mousier?  Who is it?” Remy asked with genuine curiosity.

	 “Logan.” Scott stated, rather proudly.

	 Before Logan could pop his claws and gut Scooter, Rogue came to his
defense.  “Oh honey, I can assure you Logan is SOOOOO not gay!”

	 “Okay, then its Remy.” The rather unastute leader surmised.

	 “Remy is not gay at all, unless I’m a man” Ororo coolly stated.

	 “Well its not Jean, duh!”  Scott snorted, clearly miffed that none of the
others was owning up to their obvious secret life-style.

	 “Um actually Scott, I’m bi-sexual” the redhead confessed.

	 “No, no, no!  You’re my girlfriend damnit!  You have to be on the straight
and narrow path just like my boyscouts and me!  Who have you been seeing
Jean?” a distraught Scott inquired.

	 Suddenly the Scoutmaster shifted into the familiar sight of scaly-blue
Mystique.  She strode over to Jean and engaged in a lip-lock with the
redheaded X-Man.  The stunned troops were confused.  Their all-powerful
Scoutmaster was a woman? Impossible!  No woman could organize a manly event
like the jamboree!

	 The two lovebirds eventually drew away, but remained staring lovingly into
the other’s eyes.  Finally Logan spoke up with the question on everyone’s
mind.

	 “What the fuck are we here for?”

	 “Oh, um some troop guy was killed or something right?  And we have to
apprehend the culprit, because Montana cops are too stupid to figure this
one out.”  Rogue replied.

	 “Oh, well actually we know who killed the troop leader.  It was Sabertooth”
Mystique spoke up.

	 “What the hell for?” Ororo erupted.

	 “Well, Jean and I needed a way to bring all the important people in our
lives together, so we could show you all that we love each other very much.”
   Mystique informed the group.

	 “Oh, and you needed to kill a boy-scout leader to bring us all together so
we could preach against intolerance and teach assistance?” Rogue asked.

	 “No, we just don’t like boy-scouts.  Victor, let’r rip!” Jean shouted.

	 The huge beastman lunged forward and began digging his claws into
boy-scouts, swinging left and right.  The troups screamed and ran for their
lives, knocking other boys to the ground and generally ignoring all the
manners and rules of scouting that they had ever learned.
	 Meanwhile, a stunned group of X-Men stood by and watched the carnage.

	 “Shouldn’t we help?” Remy questioned.

	 “No, they deserve it after years of intolerance and oppression of others”
Rogue stated.
	 The others turned to look at her.  “Sorry, Erik slips out every now and
then.”

	 By this time, the ultra-fast Sabertooth had pretty much taken care of the
boy-scouts and the X-Men turned to leave when they heard Scott scream.

	 “Should we take Scotter with us?”

	 “No.  He made his choice; he’s one of them.  Besides Mystique can always
play Scott if fluffy ballerina man asks questions.” Jean rationalized.

	 The rest of the team simply shrugged and boarded the plane.  Jean
telepathically let the man in charge know the mission was completed.

	 “X-Men, I have a mission for you!” the loon screamed into their minds.

	 “I need you to infiltrate Target, I have run out of Depends!”

	 “But, sir you do not wear Depends” Storm informed him.

	 “Well, I do now!” the fluffy one cackled.

	 The X-Men simply groaned and set a course towards Target, to pick up some
dippers and some Trails End Popcorn.



The End!







******************************************************************


"The Sweeter the sin, the bitter the taste, in my mouth."-U2


" I see a girl of the night with a baby in her hand
Under an old streetlight next to a garbage can
Now she put her kid away and she's gonna get ahead
She hates her life and what she's done with it
That's one more kid that'll never go to school
Never get to fall in love, never get to be cool"
-Rockin' in the Free World, Neil Young


"In this life, there are nothing but posibilities."-Empire Records

Lucas: Waren, look what you took.  Rap, metal, rap, metal, Whitney Houston?
Waren: Its for my girlfriend.
Lucas: Sure it is.  A guy like you needs to diminsh his criminal impulses,
not magnify them!
- Empire Records





_________________________________________________________________
Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp

(Disclaimer in previous parts.  Some adult themes.
Sequel to 'The Godless Among Them' and 'Slavery,
Deliverance, and Faith'.)

The Land of Blood and Honey
(Part Two)

By Dyce


"I'm not hungry,"  Jonny insisted, leaning back
against the trunk of a tree.  "You go eat."

Kyle eyed him with concern.  "You've hardly been
eating anything the last few days," he said, squatting
easily beside his friend.  "How can you not be hungry?
  We're doing enough exercise to burn off a small cow."
  He'd more or less gotten into the habit of talking
again... at least to Jonny, who always listened to
him.  He didn't talk so much to the others, except
Annie and Clarice, who were just too little and cute
to resist.

"I'm just not hungry,"  Jonny shrugged.  He gave Kyle
one of those innocent looks, big brown eyes wide.  "I
just... don't seem to need it.  I'm fine, really."

"Uh-huh," Kyle said sceptically.  Sure, Jonny hadn't
been getting tired much lately... in fact, he'd
outraced Kyle a few times, and that was hard to do.
But Kyle had trouble believing in mysterious energy
sources that didn't require food.

He gave his friend a worried look.  Jonny had been
acting a little... odd, lately.  Odder than usual.
He'd always been a bit quiet and stiff-upper-lip-ish,
as befitted his British heritage, but now he was
getting positively vague.  They all knew he was a
telepath, but he didn't seem to be able to pick up
more than fuzzy impressions from the others, maybe a
word or two at most.  Before they'd left, Xavier had
told them it was because Jonny's powers hadn't
developed yet.  Could developing powers make Jonny go
weird?  Kyle didn't know.  But he knew it was his job
to take care of the little guy.  "Are you sure you
don't wanna eat something? A cookie?"

"Maybe later."  Jonny pulled his knees up under his
chin.  "I'm just gonna sit here and watch the stars
come out."

"Okay..." Kyle said reluctantly.  He didn't want to
leave, but he was hungry enough to eat his own shoes,
and if he didn't show up for dinner, the other three
with healing factors tended to polish off any food in
sight. Especially Annie, who was still growing. "But
I'm coming back after."

"Right.  Go eat,"  Jonny agreed absently, his eyes on
the darkening sky.

* * *

Creed growled softly, clawing restlessly at the
phonebook again.  He was down in the tiny townlet
again, in the middle of the night, this time.  The
little phonebox's light was out... he'd taken care of
that first thing... and he gazed out at the dim
landscape.

*ring*...

*ring*...

The phone was picked up between the fourth and fifth
rings, although nobody made a sound on the other end.
Creed grunted.  Back to business as usual.  "It's me,"
he growled, giving the words a little roar at the end.
  Nobody else could even make that noise, except
Mystique, and she wasn't very good.  They'd know it
was him.

"Well, well... the prodigal housepet."  Oh, hell, it
was Toad. He hated Toad.  "Calling to change your
mind?  Rejoin the crusade?"

"No," Creed growled.  "Calling to make sure my message
was understood."

"Of course," Toad giggled, and Creed could almost see
him making that stupid face.  "You were worried that
we might interpret 'No. Fuck off', as a joyful cry of
support."

Then he made a weird squeaking noise, there was a
thump, and Magneto's rich voice filled the phonebox,
even through the tinniness of a trans-Atlantic line.
"Sabretooth.  Dare I hope that you have chosen to
return to the fold?"

"No," Sabretooth growled unhappily.  He'd liked
working for Magneto.  Sure, he'd been treated like a
dumb flunky, but he'd fitted in.  That had been a new
and precious feeling.  "Thing's've changed since you
got put away."

"Nothing has changed," Magneto said, his voice getting
a little sharper.  "Not the world, and not our duty to
our brothers and sisters.  Have you become soft,
Sabretooth?  Don't tell me that you are choosing to
side with Charles!"

"No," Creed growled again.  He was NOT siding with
Xavier.  He was just using him to get what he wanted.
"I ain't on anyone's side anymore, Magneto.  I got...
stuff to take care of."

The sharpness instantly faded into sympathy.  "Of
course, my friend, if it is a personal matter... but
perhaps I could assist you?  Surely, whatever this
difficulty is, it would be better handled by all of
us, together?"

Creed closed his eyes, resting his forehead against
the cold glass of the booth.  He wanted to agree.  He
wanted to tell Magneto everything and let him take
care of it, like he was so good at doing.  "I can't,"
he said softly, knowing that there was a little
whimper in the growl and hating it.  But he was
defying the pride leader and it was hard, even though
he knew he had to.  "This is something I gotta take
care of."

"Very well," Magneto agreed slowly.  "I regret that
you don't consider it possible to confide in me,
Sabretooth, but I will not interfere.  Please do
remain in contact, however."

"If I can," Sabretooth agreed reluctantly, and he
hadn't meant to promise that much, but this was all so
hard...  "I gotta go."  He hung up quickly, before
temptation became too much.

It was... frightening.  He'd had a pride and a pride
leader - before he'd even known that was what he
needed - and now he'd defied the alpha male and he was
out all on his own.  Which he'd always been, but that
had been before he knew it was possible to be
otherwise.

No.  He shook his head, slipping out of the too-small
booth and starting his walk back up the mountain.  He
wasn't alone.  It was just that HE was pride leader
now.  With an annoying but necessary lieutenant -
Logan - and a couple of little, soft cubs who needed
him to protect them.  After what Magneto had done to
Rogue... and the memory of those frantic screams still
haunted Creed... he couldn't be trusted with the
others. Especially Annie, with so much potential
power.

He growled softly, realizing that he'd found the right
trigger.  Magneto would hurt Creed's cubs if he found
them.  In his primarily instinct-driven mind, he
watched Magneto flipped neatly from the 'pride leader'
slot into the 'marauding male' slot.  That was better.
  The part of his mind that he tended to ignore - what
he thought of as the human part, full of aimless
thoughts and unnecessary complications - was rather
amused at how easily Magneto had gone from being
someone Creed almost trusted, to being a potential
enemy.  He was starting to get a handle on his own
instincts for the first time, and everything was
falling into place more and more easily. He was a
feline, like a lion.  Male lions protected their cubs,
and kept other males away... unless they were
easily-whipped subordinate males like Logan.  It was
all so amazingly simple and comfortable.

Smiling a little, he jogged easily up the road towards
the cabin.

* * *

"You're sure," Magneto said uneasily, tapping his
fingers on his desk.

"Very sure."  Helixx agreed, their voices as always so
perfectly matched that it sounded as if only one
person was speaking.  "Sabretooth visited the
headquarters of the X-Men regularly while you were...
away."

Magneto chewed on his lip thoughtfully.  Charles was
just about soft-hearted and trusting enough to give
Sabretooth a 'second chance'... but surely then he'd
have stayed at the school, not come and gone.  "What
did he do there?"

Helixx blinked their wide blue eyes in exact unison,
scrolling back through their memories.  "He took a
young girl away with him, then brought her back, at
the beginning and end of each weekend," they reported.
  "After several events of this nature, he brought back
two girls, not one. After one more weekend, he began
taking both girls with him.  The first resembles him
physically. The second does not.  Nine weeks ago, he
was observed removing both girls from the school, in
company with the man called Wolverine.  Between them,
they removed six adolescents, and took them away
together."  They frowned slightly.  "Where they went,
we do not know.  They left our range."

"You should have..."  Magneto trailed off and sighed.
"Of course, you could not follow them.  I had ordered
you to watch the school, not Sabretooth."

"Yes," Helixx agreed in vacant unison.  "We observed
the school most closely."

Magneto sighed.  Helixx were telepathically
undetectable psi-spys, and thus were an invaluable
resource, but only if you knew what orders to give
them.  They were identical twins... male, he thought,
although it wasn't really possible to tell, given the
perfect androgyny of the pair.  For all he knew, they
might be female, hermaphroditic, or genderless.  It
didn't matter, since the two of them cared for nothing
but each other, and the Cause.  They would obey any
order he gave them, but that was all they could do,
and they wouldn't follow up on what they observed
unless they'd been told to.  He was amazed that they'd
had enough initiative to come to him and tell him of
Sabretooth's apparent treachery. "Thank you, Helixx,
that will be all.  You may go finish generating your
report."

"Yes, Magneto," they agreed, smiling in unison, and
they walked away, arms wrapped lovingly around each
other.  Magneto suspected that much of their loyalty
to him was derived from his acceptance of the
inviolable bond between them.

Damn.  This was an unfortunate complication.  It
dovetailed with Sabretooth's sudden, totally
uncharacteristic insistence on dealing with whatever
it was on his own.  Where he'd gotten either of the
little girls was anyone's guess, but...  Using Rogue
to power his machine might have been a greater error
than he'd realized.  Sabretooth wouldn't be keeping
the children from him if he didn't think he had to,
and if either of them were truly powerful...

Damn.

* * *

Logan sighed, picking up the discarded gun.  "Marie-"

"I don't want to!" she insisted, stamping her little
foot.

"I know, kid, but you have to," he said as gently as
he could.  "You might need to know one day."

Marie did that little hurt pouty look at him that made
his knees go all mushy.  "I don't like guns," she said
softly.

He squashed the urge to tell her she didn't have to,
that everything would be fine.  "I know, but you gotta
learn how to use one anyway.  Just in case."  He
tousled her hair carefully.  It was one of the 'safe'
ways to touch her, and it was good for her not to feel
like such a pariah.  At least the other kids didn't
treat her like one... Kyle, Annie and Clarice could
easily have passed for not even knowing about it,
Jonny didn't touch ANYONE except Kyle and sometimes
Annie, and Geordi didn't touch anyone much either but
that was because he was trying to cultivate a
reputation as a complete asshole.

Even Sabretooth was casually ignoring the touch-issue.
  Only the day before yesterday he'd responded to
Marie's complaints about having to wade through cold
water (on the edge of a small lake, for a training
exercise), by picking her up by the back of the shirt
and the seat of the pants and throwing her out towards
the middle.  Which Logan hadn't been entirely happy
about, mind you, but Creed certainly hadn't been
flinching wimpishly while he was swinging Marie back
to get some momentum.

Anyway, she'd swum back to shore fine.

"Why do I have to know how to shoot a gun?"  Marie
complained, taking the weapon again.

"Because someday you're gonna need to know," he
repeated patiently.  "Trust me, Marie, you ARE gonna
need to know. I know these things."

"I guess," she muttered, a little rebelliously, but
she went back to her target practice.  She was getting
better.

They all were.  Clarice was, surprisingly, a naturally
good shot.  Geordi had the same slightly odd spatial
perceptions that Logan himself did, but he was doing
okay.  So were the others.

He had to stop going all mushy inside every time Marie
looked pathetic, though.  She was too good at it, and
he was pretty sure it put that goofy 'my cub is
cuuuuute' look on his face that Sabretooth got every
time Annie bagged a bunny and came running to show
him.

Reminded of Annie, he wandered over to her.  She
should have been doing better than she was.  She could
load the gun fine, take it apart and reassemble it,
the works.  He'd been impressed by how good she was at
everything... right up to actually firing the gun.
Which she could do, she just wasn't a very good shot,
unless she had at least two or three minutes to line
everything up.

"Stupid eyeballs," she muttered, glaring at the holes
peppered all over the home-painted silhouette.  Only
two had hit anywhere immediately fatal, although quite
a lot of them would have caused a long, lingering
death.

"Most people blame the gun," Logan grinned.  It was
nice to know there was something the kid stank at.
She regularly kicked his butt in unarmed combat,
although he was sure that was only because SHE didn't
have all that adamantium weighing her down.

"It's not the gun, the gun works fine," Annie
grumbled, scrubbing at her eyes with her knuckles.
"I'm just having trouble aiming my eyes."

Logan raised an eyebrow.  He and Creed had... at
least, he thought they had... an identical problem
with their eyes, in that they didn't see close up and
stationary very well with eyes that were designed for
far away, moving prey.  But the target was far enough
away from Annie that she should be able to focus on it
fine.  "Why?  Because it's two-dimensional and staying
still, not three-dimensional and moving?"

"Partly."  Annie's yellow eyes narrowed, her pupils
shrinking and dilating as she squinted at the target.
They changed shape a bit, too.  "I just... see a lot.
More than most people."

Logan raised the eyebrow again.  "Look, kid, I know
you have good eyes, so do me and your dad, but it's
not that different-"

"Can you see mass?"  Annie inquired, still squinting
at the target.  "Like, seeing something, and knowing
exactly what it's made of and how much of it there
is?"

"Uh..." He blinked slowly.  "No..."

"Do your eyeballs have a zoom function?" she inquired
sweetly, still eyeing the target.

"No, but-"

"Mine do."  She fired the gun, and Logan jumped a
little.  Annie gave the hole in the silhouette's
forehead a satisfied look.  "It takes me a while to
focus properly on where the bullet's going to be after
I fire.  I should probably stick to hand-to-hand and
blade weapons."  She handed him the gun and wandered
off towards the arena where Kyle and Jonny were
hacking awkwardly at each other with dulled practice
swords.

Logan blinked.

Annie's turns of phrase were sometimes strange.  He
wasn't sure if she'd meant that it took her a while to
focus on the target in order to fire the bullet, or
whether she'd said she could see where the bullet was
going to hit *before* she fired it.

* * *

"Poit," Clarice said, picking up her training 'sword'
- which was currently a weighted stick - and dragging
herself along the path back to the house. She should
have remembered how far away it was before letting
Annie talk her into one last round.  "What are we
going to do tonight, Brain?"

"The same thing we do every night, Pinky,"  Annie said
with equal solemnity.  "Help make dinner.  I hope
there's meat."

Clarice gave her surrogate big sister her best
eyeroll.  "There's always meat," she pointed out.  "We
live with Sabretooth and Wolverine.  Wishing for meat
is like wishing for oxygen."

"True."  Annie skipped a bit, but only a bit.  Even
she was getting tired under all the heavy training.
"Then I hope there's dessert."

Clarice brightened a little.  "There's pudding," she
remembered.  "I saw it in the icebox this morning."

"Pudding!" Annie crowed.  "I love pudding!"  Small
white wings appeared between her shoulders for a
moment, then got sucked back in again.

Clarice giggled, recognizing the reference to Kero
from the Cardcaptors cartoon.  Cartoons.  She missed
cartoons.  "Are we going to stay here for long, you
think?" she wondered aloud.

"I dunno.  We might go back to America eventually."
Annie mooched along, poking at the ground with her
toes.  "Or Madripoor, maybe."  Sabretooth had unbent
enough to tell a few rather bloody stories about the
pirate city, and some of the cunning assassinations
he'd performed there.  "Madripoor'd be fun."

"Maybe." Madripoor sounded kind of scary to Clarice.
Living without cartoons wasn't THAT bad.

Annie stopped mid-mooch, lifting her head and sniffing
the air.  "People," she breathed, eyes narrowing.  "A
lot of them.  With horses and dogs."

Clarice frowned.  "Do they have hunting here?  At
night?" she asked a little nervously.

Annie shook her head.  "It's not a hunt.  It might be
gypsies.  Dad says there's still some around,
especially back here in the mountains."  She started
walking again, faster this time, head turning from
side to side as she listened and sniffed.  "I better
tell him.  He'll want to check them out if they're
this close to the den."

Clarice picked up her tired feet and hurried to keep
up.  She was tired, but the woods were getting dark
and if there were strangers around...  "Will he chase
them away?"

"Only if they get too close."  Annie took Clarice's
hand comfortingly.  "It'll be okay.  Daddy and
Wolverine can chase away ANYTHING."  She frowned,
sniffing the breeze again.  "Something about them
smells... bad.  Wrong." She sniffed again.  "Scared.
They're scared of something.  And it's not us."

(end part two)





__________________________________________________
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Disclaimer: Bite me.
Title: Choices and Consequences
Author: Sorcierι (hack_heaven@...)
Rating: R (violence, sex, drinking, murder, slightly disturbing
subjects - the usual)
Series: None
Pairing: Rogue/Sabretooth (yes, you read that right), Logan/Rogue,
Jean/Logan, (Scott/Jean)
Archive rights: The usual suspects - anyone else, just ask.
Summary: Sometimes, revenge and comfort go hand in hand.

To Nadja, because at least *she* won't want my head on a stake after
reading this.

A/N 1: You don't have to forgive me, Lord. I know exactly what I'm
doing *g*

A/N 2: Flames will be publicly mocked. Consider yourself warned.

* * *

Choices and Consequences

* * *

It took twenty-six days from the moment he stepped through the door
after his four-month trip to Canada. It took twenty-six days before
all the UST between Logan and Jean became RST. It was 'resolved' in
the forest, one sunny afternoon.

Ironically, Scott was the one who discovered them.

He had been shocked - so had Rogue. In retrospect, they shouldn't
have been. The attraction between Jean and Logan was obvious, and
this...this had only been a matter of time.

It still hurt, though. It hurt Scott, it hurt Rogue, and it probably
hurt Jean and Logan to see the other two so wounded. Four days later,
things finally reached their breaking point.

Scott and Jean had an argument that could be heard all over the
mansion. It ended when Scott slammed the door open and told Jean that
if Logan was what she wanted, then fine by him. He then told her that
since she knew where the door was, she might as well use it.

Logan tried to talk to Rogue, tried to tell her that while he knew
she cared deeply about him, things between them would never have
worked out. She calmly replied that if he didn't leave her alone, she
would touch him again - and this time, she wouldn't let go.

That evening, Logan and Jean left for Alaska, to 'discover the
secrets of their relationship' as Jean put it. Neither Scott nor
Rogue cared enough to say goodbye to them. They just watched from
their rooms as the lovers drove away.

While Scott seemed calm and determined to move on, Rogue knew that
the seemingly lack of anger and rage was only a facade. In reality,
he had only scratched the surface of those emotions. And since Rogue
wasn't exactly up to any 'how-dare-they?!' - rants, she decided to do
the first thing she could think of - dig up her fake ID card and go
drinking.

And to Hell with the consequences.

* * *

Several hours later, Rogue found herself at some small, local bar. It
was dark, filled with smoke and most of the customers looked like the
kind that had their photos hanging in the post-office.

The bartender didn't ask any question, though, and that was good
enough for Rogue. He just took one quick look at her ID card,
pretended that he didn't know it was a fake and handed her the beer
she ordered.

Rogue liked that.

What she didn't like, were all the guys who tried to put the moves on
her. She'd had more than her share of sweaty, gruff badasses recently
and the last thing she wanted was another one who could break her
heart.

Using every known - and several unknown - curses, she let them know
that she wasn't looking for any company, damnit, and if they wanted a
quick fuck they could say hello to miss Five Fingered Lover instead.

The other bar patrons got the hint and left her alone with her beers.
It was probably a good thing, Rogue decided. She was hurt and
seriously pissed off and she had the feeling that if anyone had
bothered her, all the self-defense lessons with Scott would have
proved useful.

Rogue ordered another beer and continued her mental Logan-bashing.
With a little luck, she would be able to sit there all night, and
return to the mansion sometime in the morning. A mansion without
Logan.

Ugh.

Life sucked.

* * *

More than a few beers later, things looked better. Not much, but
better nonetheless. Nobody had dared to bother her again, and she had
enough money with her to get roaring drunk. A small brawl between
some bikers had proved a nice distraction, and judging from the
increasing amount of customers, it looked like there was more
entertainment on its way.

All in all, things didn't look too bad...until Murphy's Law decided
to equal the score.

Rogue was just about done with another beer, when she felt someone
stop close to her.

"If it isn't the runt's little brat," someone growled.

Rogue spun around. The growl belonged to a very large and very feral
mutant who looked way too familiar. Unlike last time she'd seen him,
he was now dressed in normal clothes in order to blend in with the
humans, but not even the jeans and the new haircut could hide the
intimidating air around him.

"Oh, damn," Rogue muttered, then continued a little louder, "Go
*away*, Creed! Leave me the fuck alone!"

It was the alcohol, she later decided. It was the only explanation
why she would talk that way to a person who could kill her without
breaking a sweat. The alcohol, and maybe the fact that her heart had
already caused her more pain than anything Sabretooth could ever do.

Creed's eyes narrowed angrily and for a moment, Rogue was certain
that he was going to kill her. Oddly, that didn't worry her.

Then he actually grinned - sure, it looked more than a little
threatening with all those sharp teeth, but it was a grin nonetheless.

"Yer drunk, aren't ya?" he commented, and Rogue could have sworn he
was enjoying this.

"No shit, Sherlock," she retorted and looked at her beer again.

Creed looked at the bottle and snorted.

"If ya wanted t' get real drunk, ya should have picked somethin'
stronger than that."

Rogue didn't dignify that with an answer.

Creed smirked and quickly surveyed the room.

"Does the runt know that 'is little pet's out alone this late?"

Rogue glared at him, then emptied the beer.

"No. Why should he give a fuck anyway?" she asked, adding a half-
growl of her own - a habit she'd picked up from Logan.

Logan. Ugh.

Rogue muttered something less-than-flattering about the Wolverine,
then ordered another beer. The bartender sent Creed a slightly
frightened look as he handed Rogue a bottle, then hurried away from
them.
Rogue snorted and took a drink.
Sabretooth just watched her with a slightly snide expression.

"Problems at the little mutie paradise?"

Rogue sent him her best 'get the fuck away or I'll kick your ass'-
glare. Creed just seemed to find that awfully funny, judging by the
low rumble that made its way through the background noise.

It sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, and that just added to
Rogue's fury.

"What're ya doin' here, anyway?" she snapped.

"Lookin' for a quick fuck."

Rogue snorted and glared at her beer, having found that at least the
bottles didn't laugh at her.

"Why? Ain't the blue bitch enough? Or didya just come lookin' for a
threesome?

Sabretooth arched an eyebrow. Maybe. Rogue wasn't sure. She hadn't
exactly inherited Logan's near-immunity to alcohol, and both the beer
and the heavy, smoke-filled air was starting to get to her.

"That an offer, girl?"

Rogue sent her bottle another evil glare.

"Sit down an' gimme a beer or shut the fuck up," she snapped.

Creed seemed to consider his options, then leaned across the bar and
grabbed the bartender.

"A beer for the girl - now!" he growled.

The bartender paled and nodded frantically.

"A-a-any particular kind?" he stuttered.

Creed looked at Rogue.

She shrugged.

"Anything but Canadian."

The bartender nodded again, and Creed released him. The man took
several, frightened steps back and, after a threatening glare from
Creed, grabbed a beer and placed it in front of Rogue.

"Thanks," she said.

Creed shrugged.

"Yer pissed at the X-freaks, I'm pissed at Mystie, we might as well
be pissed together."

The small (and rapidly shrinking) part of her brain that was still
fairly reasonably, made her aware that this whole situation was more
than a little surreal and that she should just get out of there as
fast as she could.

Rogue looked at the beer, then at Sabretooth, then back at the beer.

Oh, well.

* * *

"...'An then that hairy *slut* left with the redheaded bitch! That
*asshole*!!" Rogue finished and took a big drink of her beer.

Creed shook his head with mock sadness.

"Runt was never too smart. Leave with the dickhead's wife when
there's a teenager who wants to fuck 'is brains out...idiot."

"I do NOT want to fuck 'is brains out!" Rogue objected.

Creed glared at her over his glass of whiskey, and Rogue sighed.

"'Kay...I do. Did. 'Fore this. I don't wanna fuck 'im anymore. No
way!"

"Smart girl," Creed noted and emptied his glass. The bartender
quickly filled it again.

"Are ya flirtin' with me?" Rogue asked suspiciously.

Creed looked at her.

"So what? Get a problem with that?"

Rogue opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind, then closed
it again as she remembered something:

Wolverine hated Sabretooth, hated him with every adamantium-laced
bone in his body. And how'd that old saying go? The enemy of my
enemy...

Rogue looked at the man in front of her. Feral, ruthless,
dangerous...he was perfect. She ran a finger across his chest and
smiled seductively.

"Let's find a motel-room...sugah."

* * *

The following morning, Rogue woke up with the mother of all hangovers.

Her first though was 'ouch!', followed by 'damn!'. Things went pretty
much downhill from there.

It took several long, painful minutes before she was able to open her
eyes without adding to the headache...and then she wished she could
just close them right up again.

At the end of the bed was a small, rather old sofa. In it sat
Sabretooth.

Oh, fuck...

Rogue groaned as the previous evening came crashing down on her. Not
only had she lost Logan to Jean, she'd also gotten roaring drunk and
has sex with Sabretooth...and not only sex. She had lost her
virginity to Sabretooth. To one of the sworn enemies of the X-Men.

Oh, fuck!

Sabretooth raised an eyebrow.

"Ya look like hell," he noted.

"Shut up," Rogue grumbled. Creed had let her live so far, hadn't he?
If he wanted her dead, he'd just have killed her right away, wouldn't
he?

She sighed.

Creed just watched her.

Her first reaction was to get out of there. That...*man*...was one of
the worst enemies of the X-Men. He was a cold-blooded killer - he'd
nearly killed both her and Logan in Canada. He was an animal, a
predator...and he was Logan's worst enemy.

And suddenly things looked a lot different.

Logan had left her. He'd left her for *Jean*. Jean fucking Grey of
all people! Those two had hurt not only her, but also Scott who'd
grown to be one of Rogue's closest friends. Logan had broken her
heart and destroyed their special bond. He deserved to be hurt, too,
damnit!

And Creed could give her the revenge she craved.

If Logan returned and found that she was with Sabretooth, his arch-
nemesis...the thought was *very* appealing.

On one hand Creed was dangerous, ruthless and animalistic. He was an
enemy of the X-Men and he'd tried to kill her. On the other hand, he
hated Logan and could help her get even.

In all honesty, the choice wasn't that hard.

Rogue grinned slightly and ignored the flash of pain that followed.

"Let's do this again."

Creed raised an eyebrow.

"Yer not gonna call yer beloved Xavier t' bail ya out?" he asked,
slightly surprised.

Rogue shook her head.

"No. The way I see it, this is a good deal for the both of us - I get
even with Logan, an' you get laid on a regular basis without havin'
to spend money on some slut in a bar," Rogue explained, rather proud
that she could actually form a long, coherent sentence despite the
hangover.

Creed looked at her and considered it for a few moments. Then he
grinned.

"Yer a sneaky little one, aren't ya?"

Rogue just grinned impishly. Creed considered it for a few more
moments, then nodded.

"Sure. Why the hell not? Ya've got a deal, girl."

* * *

* * *

Two months later, they had settled into a comfortable routine - they
would meet once or twice a week, in a bar in the more unpleasant
parts of town. Then they would either go drinking, or head straight
to a motel, depending on their mood.

This suited Rogue just fine. Great sex, revenge and an opportunity to
get away from the mansion - the perfect cure for a broken heart.

There was only one thing she occasionally missed - touch. At first,
she'd missed love, too, but Logan's departure had showed her that
love would one lead to pain. She'd loved Logan, loved everything
about him. The fact that he'd chosen Jean...it hurt. It hurt, and
she'd felt more than enough pain as it was.

That old saying about 'better to have loved and lost, than never to
have loved at all' - bullshit. Rogue had quickly decided that whoever
thought up that saying had obviously never been betrayed by the one
they loved.

With love out of the picture, there was only one thing she longed
for - touch. To touch someone skin-to-skin, without fear and pain.

After her mutation had manifested, only Logan had dared to touch her.
With him gone, things didn't look too good.

All that changed, however, one night when Rogue waited for Creed to
show up. For once, she'd decided to stay outside the bar - the
tension inside left no doubt that it was only a matter of time before
a serious fight broke out. And while Rogue might like to live life
dangerously, she wasn't stupid.

She was leaning comfortable against a wall when she heard the
familiar sound of Creed's bike. She walked toward the entrance of the
bar, but hadn't gotten more than a few feet before Creed sped past
her and brought the bike to a sudden halt in a nearby alley.

Rogue frowned and headed towards him.

Even before she reached him, she knew that something was wrong. His
body was tense as a wire, and he acted more like an animal than a
man.

She slowly approached him and was greeted with a low growl. Rogue's
eyes widened.

"Yer hands..." she whispered.

Creed got off the bike, his hands leaving blood-red marks on the
metal.

Rogue took a small step back.

"What happened?"

"Trouble."

"Who...who was it?" Rogue asked, her gaze never leaving the blood-
covered claws.

"A human," was the growled reply as Creed stepped closer.

"Why?" Rogue demanded.

"Was a member of the FOH. Tried to kill a mutie. I broke his neck."

Rogue took another step back. Every instinct told her to run, run
like hell, but she couldn't. She watched with morbid fascination as
Creed stepped closer.

"Yer curious, aren't ya?" he said. It wasn't a question, but more
like a statement.

"No!" she denied.

Creed took a step closer and trapped her between himself and the wall.

"Liar," he growled and leaned closer. "I can smell it on ya. Ya
wonder what it feels like...to kill someone. Ya wonder how it feels
to see 'em take their last breath. To feel their blood on yer hands"

He reached out and caressed her chin with a claw, leaving a red
streak behind. Rogue didn't dare to move. This wasn't the man she was
used to. This was the ruthless beast that had nearly killed Logan on
the Statue of Liberty. She closed her eyes and fought to stay calm.

"I can show ya, girl," he growled.

Rogue didn't answer. She wasn't sure she could have formed a coherent
reply, even if she'd tried. Creed leaned even closer, and Rogue could
feel his hot breath on her neck.

"Let me show ya," he muttered.

He didn't wait for her reply, just bit down in her neck. Rogue gasped
and opened her eyes. The bite wasn't serious, but deep enough to draw
blood. She had only fractions of a second to comprehend what had just
happened, before a river of memories flooded her mind.

Instinctively, she tried to push him away, but he was too strong.

She gasped again, this time not from pain, but from surprise. She
could feel Creed pour into her, until she knew his every thought,
every desire, until she *became* him. She saw his memories of the
murder he'd just committed, and suddenly *she* was the one who lashed
out at the man, buried her claws in his warm flash and broke his neck
as easily as had it been a straw. She felt, felt it in every cell in
her body, as the last drop of life left her victim, felt the rush of
adrenaline as the man fell lifeless to the ground.

Creed pulled away, hardly more than a little weakened from the
transfer.

Rogue looked at him, and in that moment she felt more alive than she
ever had before. When she absorbed Logan, she had been near death
both times, so the enhanced senses had been pushed in the background
while the healing factor did its work. Now, she found herself
assaulted by a myriad of smells and sounds. Even the sudden feeling
of invincibility, of immortality - it was nothing compared to her
newly enhanced senses. She heard her own heartbeat, heard his, like
the sounds of a deep drum. The stench from the alley tore in her
nostrils - it reeked of garbage and urine, combined with a disgusting
smell of vomit and alcohol.
She tried to ignore it, and found that she could even smell the blood
on Creed's hands - a metallic, strangely sweet smell. As she looked
around her, she saw every little fragment of dust, every crack in the
wall, every rat in the impenetrable darkness where the alley ended.

A particular loud yell from the bar made her whimper and cover her
ears.

"Ignore it. Ya'll get used to it," Creed said.

Rogue frowned and discovered that he was right. Both scents and sound
had already gotten a lot easier to handle. She waited for a few
minutes to get used to it all before she focused on Creed.

"Are ya...okay?" she asked, still dazed. "When Logan touched me,
he...fell unconscious."

"That's 'cause of the metal in the runt's skeleton. It slows down 'is
healing factor."

Rogue frowned and reached up to touch the bitemark...but found none.
The healing factor had already taken care of it, along with the
bruises from various Danger Room sessions.

She looked questioningly at Creed.

"Ya wanted touch, girl. I can give it to ya...if ya want it."

She shouldn't. Every personality in her head, every thought in her
mind - they all screamed at her to get away. This man was dangerous -
he had just killed a human in cold blood. If he grew tired of her, he
could kill her just as easily.

But this was touch. And every cell in her body yearned for that,
yearned to be touched by someone, anyone. Besides...what did she have
to lose?

She kissed him.

"Thank you," she whispered.

* * *

It was two days later when Rogue discovered the first noticeably
effects of Creed's touch.

The enhanced senses were still there, although they were nowhere as
good as Creed's. She still had his memories and could feel him in her
head, stronger than Logan or Erik. But up until then, there had been
no visible changes.

The Fates wanted otherwise, though.

Rogue had taken a shower and was about to put on some nail polish
when she noticed something.

Her nails were different. They looked a lot longer than the day
before.

She put down the nail polish and moved closer to the light.

It wasn't her imagination. The nails were longer, and where they
began, there was a thin stripe across the nail. She looked more
closely. The stripe was dark brown and seemed thicker than the rest
of the nail.

Rogue frowned. The color seemed oddly familiar.

Very dark brown, like...claws.

Oh God...she was developing claws.

* * *

Two weeks later, it was impossible to see that she once had long,
beautiful nails. The rapid growth had continued and now the nails had
turned into one-inch claws.

Like Creed's, they couldn't be retracted and for the first time,
Rogue was glad that she was forced to wear gloves. Now, though, she
opted for leather gloves instead of those made of satin and silk - it
had to be a thick material to cover her new 'assets'.

While the claws were far from beautiful, the more rational part of
Rogue's mind made her aware that they might prove useful. They were a
muddy, dark brown with a rough surface, but the tips were razor-sharp
and much harder than her nails had been.

They were strangely...graceful...in a violent way, she decided.

Whereas Wolverine's claws were meant to cause maximum destruction,
these claws were better suited for one-on-one fighting. Small, sharp -
  they could cause a lot of pain if one knew how to use them.

And with Sabretooth's memories...these claws suddenly showed a whole
lot of potential.

* * *

It was near the three months anniversary of Logan and Jean's
departure when Scott finally noticed that something had changed.

It was during a Danger Room session, in the middle of a mock battle
between Scott and her, when one of her nails - claws - tore a hole in
her right glove. She tried to hide it, but it was too late.

Scott saw the claw and grabbed her before she could get away.

"Scott! Let go!" Rogue snapped. "What the fuck are ya doin'?"

"Show me your hand."

"Wha-? I just tore a hole in my glove, that's all, damnit!" she
objected and tried to get loose.

"Rogue. Now!" he ordered, this time in the voice that had earned him
the nickname 'Fearless Leader'. It was a voice she'd only heard him
use once before - in battle.

Rogue froze instantly.

"Well?" Scott asked.

Reluctantly, Rogue showed him her right hand. On the tip of the index
finger, the glove had split in the seam and revealed a dark brown
claw. In a swift move, Scott pulled the glove of her hand. He sent
her a grave look, and unable to meet his eyes, she looked away.

He shook his head.

"I think we need to talk."

* * *

Scott had barely closed the door to his office, before his 'calm
leader' mask evaporated and he allowed his feelings to show.

"Who?" he demanded.

Rogue flinched, but didn't answer.

"This has something to do with all of your mysterious trips into
town, hasn't it?"

Rogue nodded, and Scott sighed.

"Rogue, I was willing to let you keep your little secret because I
know you hurt just as much as I do and that this is just your way of
dealing with it. But now I want the truth. Who caused this?" he asked
and motioned towards her claws.

Rogue took a deep breath to calm herself before she answered.

"Sabretooth," she finally admitted.

"What?!"

"It was Sabretooth," Rogue repeated, this time a bit more defiantly.

"*Sabretooth*?" Scott repeated, incredulously. "God, Rogue, what are
you thinking?! He's with the Brotherhood! He's dangerous!"

  "So am I, Summers. Yer point bein'?" Rogue retorted.

"Do you even know the consequences of what you're doing, Rogue? What
if Magneto escaped? What if we have to fight the Brotherhood again?
Can you honestly tell me that you would be able to fight Creed if it
came to that?"

Rogue glared at him.

"Yes. This hasn't changed anything, Scott. Victor an' me, we're still
on different sides. He wouldn't have it any other way, an' neither
would I."

Scott sighed.

"Rogue...how can I even be sure that we still have your loyalty? How
can I be sure you won't suddenly change sides in the middle of a
battle?"

Rogue shook her head slowly.

"I can't give ya any proof, Scott. I can only ask ya to trust me. An'
if ya can't...then make the professor read my mind or somethin'. I
have nothing to hide."

"Rogue..."

Rogue sighed.

"Trust me, Scott. This thing between Victor and me...it isn't about
loyalty, it's about revenge. Trust me. Please."

Scott didn't answer, and Rogue knew that she'd hit a sore spot. As
much as Scott hated to admit it, he wanted revenge, too. Revenge for
the heartache and the ruthless betrayal by the woman he once loved.

From the 'fearless leader' point of view, he shouldn't even be having
this conversation. Rogue was sleeping with the enemy - quite
literally. The enemy that once tried to kill all of them.

On the other hand, this was the perfect chance to get even with Logan
and Jean. Through Rogue's revenge, he would get even, too. Just the
thought of Logan returning to find 'his' Rogue involved with
Sabretooth...the idea was very attractive. And not even Cyclops could
control all of his emotions.

Finally, the need for revenge won the battle.

"Just...promise me you'll be careful, okay? I don't want to lose you
as well."

There was a flicker of surprise in Rogue's eyes, then she nodded.

"I will. I can kill 'im with a touch, remember? Weird as it
sounds...I think he actually kinda respects me for that."

Scott sighed.

"For everybody's sake...I hope you're right."

* * *

After that, things seemed to settle down. Rogue continued her affair
with Sabretooth, this time under Scott's watchful eye - like a
protective older brother, he had made her promise to tell him
whenever she met with Creed.

The other residents at the mansion eventually stopped with the
pitying looks, much to the relief of both Rogue and Scott, who had
hated every moment of the whole 'poor them - they just lost the loves
of their lives' - thing that had been going on among the others.

With Jean out of the picture, Scott slowly grew closer to Storm and
found himself spending more and more time with her. He became more
outgoing and slowly learned to open his heart again.

All in all, things looked better than they had in a long time.

And then, two months after Scott found out about Creed, the earth
shook again.

Logan and Jean returned - separately.

According to Jean, they had turned out to be too different, and they
had decided to return to New York. She wholly intended to win Scott
back, and Logan...she didn't know what he planned to do.

Rogue just nodded and wished her the best of luck, and made a mental
note to warn Scott.

That night, Logan came to her room to talk.

He told her that he regretted what had happened, that he hadn't
thought about the consequences and that he had been a fool not to see
what had been right under his nose. He told her that Scott had told
him about Creed, that he hoped that the 'bastard' hadn't hurt her and
that he hoped she would ditch Creed now that he, Logan, was back. He
explained that he wanted to be with her now and that he regretted
everything his mistake that put her through.

"I'm sorry," he finally said.

Rogue knew he spoke the truth. She could smell the regret on him, the
sorrow. His body told of things he could - would - never express with
words - desperation, hope...confidence? She hid a frown. She took
another sniff, and realized that he firmly believe that they could
just get together now and everything would be as before.

She looked down at her black leather gloves, which she knew concealed
ten hard, brown, claw-like nails. She remembered the five months that
had passed. The anger, the feeling of betrayal, the pity from others.
She remembered how heartbroken Scott had been. She remembered the
need for revenge. She remembered her first night with Victor, their
first touch, their time together.

Finally she looked at Logan again and knew beyond a doubt what choice
she'd have to make.

Revenge...or forgiveness. A relationship based on sex and revenge, a
relationship that had ever so slowly developed into something that
could lead to friendship...or a relationship based on love. But it
was a loved based on mistakes and forgiveness. And she wasn't sure if
she could forgive anymore.

"I'm sorry, Marie," Logan repeated, his voice barely more than a
whisper.

He looked at her and in his eyes, she saw that he took her silence as
a sign of forgiveness. In that moment, five long months came crashing
down on her and she knew her answer.

"I'm not."

* * *
End
* * *

Join the Madness!
Sorcierι's Madhouse - www.wolverineandrogue.com/sorciere

Hi,

I know that alot of people are having trouble finding or downloading the songs
from the Buffy musical epi.  Alot of the sites that had them were shut down due
to restrictions from the site provider.  Anyway.  I managed to get most.
(getting the rest right now) so rather then get other sites in trouble I thought
that I would offer my services.  If anyone would like the MP3s msg me on AIM
screen name is vampirekatryn.  I now return you to your regularly scheduled
programing. *G*

Tanya


[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]

Title:  All That You Can't Leave Behind

Series: Through the Years

Author: Autumn

E-mail:  eddievedderismylife@...

Rating: R, violence, adult content

Author's Notes:  It has been speculated that after the murder of Mary Kelly,
the Ripper was at the end of his emotional rope.  Something snapped inside
him and he no longer functioned as a capable and cognizant individual.  One
of the top three suspects in the case was placed in an insane asylum between
December of 1888 to the late winter of 1886, the man was later re-released
onto the streets in his state, and was never heard from again.

In February of 1896, the body of a man nearly matching the description of
the asylum patient was found in a river.  He was never officially identified
as the same man, but evidence points toward that conclusion.

Another note, is that the mentally insane generally fell victim to
experimentation by deranged psychologists (or alienists as they were more
commonly referred to at the time) and doctors.  In an effort to relieve the
insanity in their patients, lobotomized were performed.  A small hole was
knocked into the forehead and temples of the patient, or a single hole was
drilled into the top of the head.  Needles to say, it did nothing but
deteriorate the patient's mental condition.


Also, the title comes from a U2 album of the same name.

Thanks to Karen and Jonas for all their help, though this draft is a lot
different than the one they saw.  So it if's terrible, the blame rests
squarely on my shoulders.

====================================================================


February 1886,
Broadstreet, London

The duo made their way up the narrow street until they reached the building
bearing a rusted 1013 address sign.  Nicolas unsheathed his claws and
quietly slid the door from its hinges.  The boys entered the flat and were
immediately assaulted by the pungent odor of vomit and dried urine.
             The moonlight shining through the cracked window provided just
enough light to illuminate the claustrophobic room.  The sparse furniture
was limited to only a tattered chair, a table and, a narrow bed.  The table
had a black satchel on it, a black nightstick that the boys recognized from
the Institute, and a half-eaten bowl of stew.   Victor strode toward the
table as Nicolas crept towards the bed.
Nicolas, claws outstretched advanced on the sleeping figure and plunged a
single claw into Donaldson's shoulder. He drug it upward, effectively
severing the ligaments and tendons.  Donaldson woke with a start and howled
in pain when he moved the left side of his body.
     "Who're you?" he demanded.
      "Take a good look asshole.  It's the last face your sorry ass is ever
gonna see," Nicolas said and spat in the man's face,
Donaldson snapped to full attention as he recognized the young man before
him.
      Victor's scuffling drew Donaldson's attention and his eyes grew wide at
the sight of his youngest victim.  Nicolas' claws drew him back to his
surroundings and he shook in fear, too terrified to move as five other
lethal-looking claws shot from the youth's hands.
Nicolas slid the six claws quickly down Donaldson's naked chest, tearing the
flesh and drawing blood.  The man screamed in pain and was rewarded with a
punch in the mouth from Nicolas' now closed fist.  He grabbed Donaldson's
head roughly and slid all but one claw back into his arm.  He brought the
razor-sharp claw up, prepared to slit the man's throat; the blade close
enough to draw a thin line of blood, and suddenly stopped.  He couldn't do
it; he wasn't a cold-blooded killer.      Frustrated with himself, Nicolas
punched Donaldson one final time and muttered, "You're not worth it." before
stalking out into the street.
       Nicolas' ears picked up a sickening 'thud', then a moan, and he
panicked when he realized Victor wasn't with him.  Just as he turned around,
he saw the boy exit the flat with a satchel tucked under his arm and the
nightstick clutched tightly in his hand.
Breaking the tension between them, Nicolas gently took the satchel, and
after pulling the contents out, he turned to the boy.  "So Vic, do you want
to stay in this God-forsaken country or go to America?"
     "America," came the barely audible reply.
Nicolas swung his arm around the boy's shoulders and steered him toward the
only place in town that they could get a cheap bed at this late hour-
Miller's Court.


     Reaching their destination, the boys discovered that much had changed in
the lower east side.  Miller's Court had long since been abandoned and was
simply a pile of rubble, save for the last room on the lower level.  The
door had long been torn off, and all that remained of the window was a piece
of a dirty rag.
Victor started forward toward the tiny room as if in a trance.  Nicolas came
up behind him and the younger boy turned and spoke.   "This is where my mum
was killed.  By my own father," he said with such heartbreaking sadness that
Nicolas moved toward him and pulled the now sobbing boy into a tight hug.
      As they sank to the ground, Victor's statement kept playing in his
head.  If what he'd said was true, then the two boys were brothers.  If that
was the case, then going by the fact that his father had been a ruthless
murderer, and his brother a child murderer, Nicolas' chances of getting
through life without blood on his hands appeared to be slim.
     An hour later, Nicolas had pulled a sleeping Victor into the small
building.  with his keen sense of sight, Nicolas could see the faded
bloodstains that had splashed the wall behind the bed.  The sight made his
stomach churn and he was more than anxious to leave.  However, Victor needed
his rest and this was the only place available to stay at the moment.
Nicolas knew it was risky to still be in the same city as Donaldson's body,
but he doubted that the inspectors would trace the crime back to a ten year
old boy.
    The child began to toss and turn in his sleep and mumble words that
sounded like pleas for mercy.  The dream shifted directions and Victor's
face grew tight with what appeared to be anger and hatred.  He shook
violently and eventually woke himself with a blood curdeling scream.  He
collapsed against Nicolas' chest and began sobbing hysterically.  Nicolas
eased the child closer to himself and began rubbing his back in soothing
gestures.
    "I couldn't stop him Nicolas, I couldn't stop myself." Victor spoke aloud
in an anguished voice.
    "Shush Vic. I know.  It's over now, just sleep.  Just sleep now.  It'll
be alright." Nicolas attempted to reassure the child.
    It seemed to work and Victor slipped back into unconsciousness all the
while holding onto Nicolas with a death grip.

    Nicolas kept watch all through the night and as the day broke he noticed
a slumped, beaten down figure stumble across the lane.  Ever wary of the
fact the person might present a threat to Victor, Nicolas slowly pulled the
boy back from the doorway and slipped toward the shadowed figure.  Creeping
quietly near the figure, Nicolas took the time to carefully study the man
lying on the ground.
    His dark brown hair was laced with silver, and Logan realized it was
eerily similar to his own.  The man's head held three strange holes in the
forehead and each of the temples's.  The lips were open, and spittle ran out
the sides of his mouth.  Finally, Nicolas locked gazes with the man, and was
startled to see the glazed hazel eyes gazing back at him.  A block of ice
settled in his stomach as Nicolas realized who he was staring at- William
Adams.
    The cruel irony of the situation hit him fully and Nicolas turned and
wretched until the meager content of his stomach had been emptied onto the
ground.  The man lying near him groaned and rolled face-down into a nearby
puddle.  Nicolas was at war with himself on weather to pull the thing from
certain death.  Justice beat out morality and Nicolas ran back into the
building where Nicolas was located.



     Three hours later the two boys were on a ship heading to America.  It
was their unwritten future.  England represented the past, and everything
else you can't leave behind.


Victor's Lab
Present Day


   Marie and Victor sat in silence, watching Logan's face twitch with the
memories he had recently been reunited with.  Marie felt a closeness growing
between herself and Victor.  She'd already shed countless tears for the
things Victor had faced in his early life.
    He'd told her everything he knew about his and Logan's shadowed past, and
Marie in addition learned of Logan's point of view and take on the
situation.  Neither story was a tale that even the Grimm's' brothers would
touch with a ten foot pole.
    As Logan stirred, Marie walked over to him and began gently stroking his
arm.  His eyes flooded open and a look of unimaginable anguish crossed his
beautiful features.  Too weak to even move, Logan silently begged for Marie
to come closer to him.
    She climbed into the bed behind him, and pulled him up until he was
cradled in her lap.  She silently rocked him back and forth as the damn
broke and Logan began to weep.  Sobs racked his large frame, and he turned
around to cling to Marie in the same manner Victor had held on to him all
those years ago.
    Marie held him and spoke words of acceptance, empathy and comfort to the
broken man as he continued to purge himself of guilt that nobody should ever
carry.  Marie's litany reached his ears and for the first time in days, a
glimmer of hope shown itself in Logan's otherwise dark life.  He could only
hope Marie's hope would sustain him through this journey into his hellish
past.













_________________________________________________________________
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TRAUMAS II
Minisinoo

Summary:  What do you say when words won't fix it? (Jean POV), c.
5650 words

Warnings:  Not sure, really.  But it's certainly not a happy topic.

Notes:  Scott got his pov piece; Jean's turn.  I'm being uncreative
in my titles, but this is really the second half of Shana's story.
:-) Thanks to Vic for reminding me what time it was <g>, as well as
to all the NYC info.  I couldn't have written this little chapter
without her.  Decided to go with the car, Vic. :-) The stories about
Grady are from my own experience, and the tale of the GSW is true.
I've never been in St. Mary's; descriptions of the ER is based on the
ERs I have been in.  I never did get the medi-babble I wanted, but I
got impatient; this has been "in process" too long.

-------------

Rush hour.  New York City.

I think I'd rather have an enema than suffer rush hour in a car.  At
least Scott was sparing me the driving part, but I still had to sit
through it.  Stop, start, stop, start.  Scott swearing under his
breath at the State of New York for "letting fucking idiots behind
the steering wheel."

"You're going to get an ulcer before you're forty," I tell him.

He whispers something obscene under his breath in reply.  Admittedly,
I haven't known him long, and I've never before driven anywhere with
him (I don't think the Blackbird counts), but somehow, I doubt it's
the traffic.  His knuckles are white on the wheel.

"We could have taken the subway," I say.

"I'm not walking you back to the subway after dark in that
neighborhood."

I don't reply.  We take FDR down to the Brooklyn Bridge and cross the
dark water, waves below lapping white in an autumn wind, to
Brooklyn-Queens, and one exit south to Atlantic Avenue.

"Lock the doors," Scott says as we exit the BQE.

Even taxi drivers don't like to go down Atlantic.

It gets worse, the further we go.  Burned out and boarded-up
storefronts here and there, and the kind of dirty poverty that bears
one down, even to see it.  We pass a shopping mall with an Old Navy
and a K-Mart.  People are on the street in the twilight of coming
evening, a sea of brown skin.  I feel like a privileged ghost
haunting where I don't belong.  Pedestrians notice the car.  It
stands out in the neighborhood.  Silver jag.  White boy, you're on
the wrong side of town.

We take Atlantic to Rochester Avenue and make a right, then go four
blocks to St. Mark's and make a left.  Buffalo Avenue is a block down
and we can see the parking garage.  It's packed.  They usually are
and I sigh.  Finally, Scott finds a spot four floors up.  As he's
pulling into it, I undo my seatbelt to reach over into the back where
I'd flung my white lab coat earlier with my name stitched on the
left, along with a few medical 'accessories.'  Before we'd left
Warren's, I'd made Scott wait while I ran upstairs after these.  If
I've learned nothing else about hospitals, it's that doctors and
chaplains can get in anywhere they want as long as they act like they
know what they're about.  I hadn't taken time to change anything
other than the flannel shirt for a blue silk blouse, and grab the
coat.  Now, I slid out of the car and into medical white, twisting my
hair up into a clip even as I was headed for the stairs, Scott on my
heels.  He got to it first and held the door for me, gave me a fast
once over.  Even with the glasses, I can tell the direction of his
gaze.  "That was quick, Dr. Grey.  I'm officially impressed."

"Three minutes from first beep to the ER on a trauma call.  You learn
how to be quick," and I was past him down the stairs,
running-not-quite-running.  He kept up without trouble, out the
bottom door and down the sidewalks past the hospital visitors and the
locals.  Here on hospital grounds, at least, we were back in a racial
rainbow and I felt less out of place.  "Reminds me of Grady," I
mutter.

"Grady?"

"Grady Medical Center in Atlanta.  Same kind of neighborhood, same
kind of clientele.  The advantage of working in a place like that is
you see it all."

It was a walk to reach the ER doors and the covered drive for
ambulances.  "What were you doing in Atlanta?" he asked.

"Residency."

"You didn't do that here in New York?  I thought you went to
Columbia."

"That doesn't mean I did my residency there.  I worked at the CDC,
and did an ER residency at Grady.  Oh –- CDC . . . Center for Disease
Control."  I glanced at him sidewise.  "AIDS research."

"You?"

"That surprise you?"

I know that I've handed him a difficult question.  Either way he
answers, he risks putting his foot in his mouth and he knows it, so
he doesn't reply.  I elaborate for him.  "I spent my life sheltered
and privileged, Scott.  I didn't like it.  I wanted to do something,
make a difference.  I didn't become a doctor to make money, whatever
my mother thought.  So I chose to work on AIDS research.  And I did a
residency in Grady because . . . ."  I trailed off.  I'd meant to
say, 'because I wanted to see how the other half lived,' but that
sounded patronizing and arrogant.  Instead, I finished with, "I
learned a lot – and not just about medicine."

He's glancing around himself at the people.  He's not from my social
class, maybe, but he's still solidly upper middle and it shows in
everything from the clothes he chooses to his haircut to his educated
cursing in the car.  "I can imagine."

We're almost to the doors and I grin over at him.  The sun is lost
behind the red brick towers and everything is in shadow.  "First day
in the ER, they wheeled in a guy with a GSW -– gun shot wound -– to
the chest.  Barely got him in the doors when a second guy came
running in after, pulled a gun and finished the job.  Right there in
the ER lobby."  Scott's jaw drops.  "Needless to say, there was blood
everywhere and we were all ducking for cover."

"And you stayed after that?"

"I stayed because of that, Scott.  It woke me up.  I loved it there.
I met some amazing people – just amazing.  Only a handful had skin my
color."

And the doors are in front of us with their big "Emergency" in red on
the glass, wooshing apart to admit us both.  People clog the hall, a
mostly-brown sea of pain, boredom, fear, or confusion.  I slam up
every shield the professor taught me to make and hope it'll suffice
as I weave between, looking for a tall blond head that would stand
out above the rest.

But it's Logan who I see first, and who sees us.  He cuts right
through and grabs both my arms.  "What the hell are you doing here,
Jeannie?"  And he glares over my shoulder at Scott.  "You dickhead –
don't you have any better sense than to bring her to a freakin'
hospital?"  What he doesn't say, but we all know, is that a hospital
was where my telepathy had first manifested –- catastrophically.

Yet before Scott can do more than open his mouth, I grab Logan by the
chin and jerk his head back to face me.  "Listen, mister.  This is
what I do for a living.  Did for a living.  Scott isn't 'letting' me
come anywhere.  My choice.  I appreciate the thought, but I can
decide for myself.  We clear?  Now where's Warren and what happened?"
  I let him go.  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Scott grinning.

Logan blinks but actually backs down, tells me instead about the
explosion at the warehouse.  I can *feel* Scott getting madder by the
minute till he's like a white tower of indignant rage behind me.
Reaching back without even thinking about it, I get hold of his hand
and squeeze.  He squeezes back, and relaxes a little.

"So the upshot of it," Logan finishes, "is that Wing-Boy is pacing
around in front of the doors with some chaplain whose trying to keep
him from barging in there, and the girl's family is on the way.  And
we don't know a damn thing because we're not family."

I nod once, shortly, and glance back at Scott, let his hand go.
"Take care of Warren."  He nods and is already half gone even before
the words are out of my mouth..  "You, too," I say to Logan.  "I'll
see what I can find out."

Straightening my jacket and hanging my stethoscope around my neck (a
prop to prove my right to wear the white), I make sure the
embroidered "Dr. Grey" is clearly visible on the left side of my
jacket and clip an old ID badge from my previous job -– backwards –-
low on a pocket, then push my way through towards the big double
doors that separate the ER from the waiting rooms.  Warren is
standing there, protesting, as Scott tries to lead him off to a
chair.  I kiss Warren on the cheek.  "Go with Scott," I say, then
take a breath before pushing the doors open.

"Please God," I whisper to a deity in whom I've never believed.  "Let
my shields hold."

Inside isn't much quieter than the hall beyond, but it's a controlled
chaos.  Trauma A is directly in front of me past the nurses station
on the right, and I can hear them calling back and forth.  Sidling up
to the door, I listen to shop-talk.  They're transfusing and trying
to get her fluid up –- stabilize her enough to take her to surgery.
The most serious damage is a nicked aorta that's tearing further from
blood pressure.

*Damn.*

Suddenly there's someone tugging on my sleeve and it makes me jump.
I turn around, into an olfactory assault of fetid breath and unwashed
man.  Ugh.  Involuntarily, I scrunch up my nose and pull back.  This
always was the hardest thing for me to deal with when treating
indigents:  the smell.  I knew they had few places to wash but it
still got to me.  "Hey, hey, hey, hey," this one says, repetitively.
He's not old, maybe mid-thirties.  A certain wide-eyed delicate look
under a ragged Yankees cap alerts me that he's not playing with a
full deck.  Ever since mental institutions had to release patients
onto the streets, they've shown up in the ER rooms of big cities.
Police get calls about them and have no where else to bring them.
"Hey, hey, hey," he keeps saying, tugging at me.  I can't hear a damn
thing in the trauma room, and try to brush him off -- gently.

Just then a big guy, a nurse, comes over to get hold of the man's
elbow and lead him away.  "Come with me, Ed.  Your room is over
here."  Ed must be a regular.  And with the distraction gone, I can
finally hear the conversation –- and wish I hadn't.  It doesn't sound
good, not good at all.  Candy's blood pressure is bottoming out and
I'm amazed she hasn't coded already.  Circling the drain and going
down fast.

I take two steps back.  I need to get out of here.  It's unlikely
that Candace Southern will leave ER any way other than shrouded and
toe-tagged, and I'd best go prepare Warren.  And Scott.  She may not
be dead yet, and surprises can always happen, but given what I just
heard, a little judicious pre-preparation is in order.

When I exit ER back into the hall beyond, I don't see Scott, Logan,
or Warren, and I glance around helplessly until a middle aged man,
short and slender, touches my arm.  "Dr. Grey?"  He has kind eyes.

"Yes, I'm Jean Grey."

"Scott Summers asked me to look for you."  He smiles and offers a
hand.  "I'm John McKip, one of the hospital chaplains."  I shake the
hand.  He isn't wearing a collar, which means he's probably
protestant clergy.  My experience with chaplains and social workers
at Grady was a mixed bag.  The student chaplains (like student
doctors) were sometimes more trouble than they were worth, but the
clinical supervisors had been saints.  If I hadn't been so scared the
night my telepathy had manifested, I might have called Rev. Bennet to
come minister to *me*, for a change.  She'd had skin like old leather
under snow-white hair, yellowed dentures, and a quirky sense of
humor, but a heart as big as an Olympic swimming pool.  I'd never met
a wiser woman.

Now, Rev. McKip says, "I took Warren to a family room, along with
Candy's mother, who just arrived.  I was going to see what I could
learn."

I shake my head.  "It's not good.  Her aorta was nicked and she's
bleeding out faster than they can transfuse her."  He nods, able to
guess the rest.  It was just a matter of time, and probably not too
much time, either.  "Where are the others?"

"Follow me."  And he leads me down a short hall between two ER
waiting rooms, past triage to a closed door that he opens in order to
usher me in.  The ER family room, for crisis cases.  And how many of
these have I seen?  But always on the other side:  to give news, not
wait to hear it.

An elegant, older woman looks up.  When she sees me, she pops to her
feet and runs over to clutch at my arm.  I wince as much as the
strength of her grip as at the need to block out her overwhelming
fear.  "Doctor, how is she?" she asks.

Scott has followed, right on her heels -– as if he knows.  And maybe
he does, maybe he can feel the anxiety that I've been suppressing, my
fear that I can't maintain my shields.  He pulls the woman away and
says, softly, "Jean's a friend of Warren's and mine, Mrs. Southern.
She came along at our request.  She's not the doctor caring for
Candy."

"Oh."  The woman's face falls and she wanders back to sit down on the
couch, shoulders bent with the weight of a grief that I've seen too
much of in hospital work.  The utter shock of sudden trauma.
Warren's in no better shape.  Scott's just suppressing it; he's
appointed himself to be the strong one.  Now, he studies my face as
the chaplain goes to sit next to Mrs. Southern and hold her hand.
Light spills yellow from lamps on end tables –- none of the
nerve-irritating glare of overhead flourescents.  Warren is alone at
the little table in one corner, his body bent over his knees, his
head in his hands.  There is a box of institutional tissues on the
tabletop in front of him, and cup of coffee.  Logan, who I'd almost
not noticed, stands off in a corner, arms crossed, as if he is needed
to hold up the wall.  The chaplain quietly asks Mrs. Southern if
there is anyone else to notify.

"Well?" Scott whispers to me.

I wasn't sure I could do it, I wasn't sure I had the skill yet, but I
laid a hand on his arm and REACHED, mentally. *It's just a matter of
time, I'm afraid.  The aorta was nicked.  She's bleeding too fast and
her blood pressure is bottoming out.  We can hope -– but it sounded
bad.*

He looks away and his jaw works a moment, but he nods sharply.  He
doesn't move his arm from beneath my hand, and I'm not sure why I
chose to bespeak him instead of whispering.  But I'd needed it, I'd
needed to feel the solidity of his mind, like bedrock.  My eyes flash
across the room to Logan, who is watching the two of us rather than
Warren, the chaplain, or the mother.  I shake my head faintly and
know he understands what I'm telling him.  His chin goes up and he
shifts his weight as if accepting a burden.

At that moment, the door bursts open and a middle-aged man enters,
all command, all anger.  It radiates out of him.  "What happened to
my daughter?  Why was Candy at Warren's warehouse in the first damn
place?  And what idiot ambulance driver brought her *here* to this
hell-hole?"

*Oh, just great*, I pick up from Scott's mind, but I don't need the
commentary to recognize the type.  This is a man used to getting his
way.

"As soon as she's out of ER," her father continues, "I want her
transferred to a better hospital –- one in a part of the city I'm not
afraid to drive through in daylight!"

"Bigot," Scott mutters, but loud enough to be sure he is overheard.
Irritated with his attitude, I squeeze his forearm.  He wasn't very
happy to drive down here earlier, either.

And luckily, the man ignores him to focus on me in medical white.
"You're the doctor?"  He doesn't give me a chance to decline before
launching in.  "Be sure to have all her medical records in order; our
family physician is taking over direction of her care as soon as he
can arrive."

Warren stands up, and even without the wingspan behind him, he's
impressive.  This is a side of him I haven't seen –- the authority
and prestige of old money.  "Darren, Jean's not Candy's doctor.
She's just a friend.  As for why Candy was brought here -– it was the
closest hospital with a class A trauma center.  Would you really want
them to waste time –- at rush hour -– getting her to a hospital
uptown?  Or did you want them to save her life?"

Her father's jaw works and I hold my breath.  My eyes slide to Scott.
*And what happens if they don't save her life?*  They're not likely
to.  It has nothing to do with skill, but a matter of timing and
chance.  Yet the anger in this man worries me.  It's the spoiled kind
that seeks to lay blame, not the white anger of rage on behalf of
others, like Scott's earlier.

*We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Jean,* he sends back.
Almost without thinking, I slide my palm down from his arm into his
own hand and he squeezes, reassuringly.  He's not afraid of Candy's
father.  Then again, I don't think Scott Summers is afraid of much,
unless it's losing control of himself. *I'm sure this wouldn't be the
first time the doctors here have had to deal with an unreasonable
family member,* he adds.

I almost laugh at that. *I'm sure it's not, too.*

As if on cue, Chaplain McKip has come over to introduce himself and
lead the man over to join his wife -– or ex-wife, I'm not sure which.
  He responds to the man's pain, not his anger.  "I know it's
frightening to be out of control when it's your child, and you can't
do anything but wait."  He doesn't add, But the doctors are doing all
they can.  It's not about what the doctors can do.  It's about fear.
And frustration.

Warren is watching, his jaw working.  His eyes are red from tears and
he looks as helpless as Candy's father.  I leave Scott to go to him,
put an arm around him and sit him back down, kneel on the floor
beside the chair.  Scott has approached, too.  I half-expect jealousy
from him, but don't find any.  This moment goes beyond anything so
trivial as sexual rivalry.

Warren is clinging to my hands; his grip is very strong and his skin
is cold from shock.  "She was down there because I asked her to go.
It was supposed to be me there this afternoon, Jeannie.  It should
have been me."

"You didn't know," Scott tells him, pulling around a second chair to
Warren's other side.  "You couldn't know.  It was chance, Warren.
Goddamn chance."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" Warren snarls, head
half-turned towards Scott.

"I'm not trying to make you feel better.  I'm trying to keep you from
kicking yourself for something over which you had no control."

"Yeah.  Like you're such an expert?"

"I am."  The tone of his voice is full of a self-depreciating humor.
"I'm an expert in doing exactly what you're doing.  I recognize the
signs, old friend."  He nudges Warren.  "Do as I say, don't do as I
do.  And leave the blame on the right shoulders.  Which aren't
yours."

"God, Scott -– if Candy dies . . . . " And he breaks down again.

With a glance at me, Scott puts an arm about Warren's shoulders,
pulling him out of my grip to hug him hard with all the strength he
can manage.  Gentleness isn't always what's needed, and sometimes
pain needs to be beaten out.  "We'll find the asshole who set that
bomb," Scott says softly, so the others in the room can't hear.  "I
*promise* you."  Held up by Scott's strength, Warren sobs.  I feel a
presence at my back and glance around to find Logan.

He kneels down.  "How you holding up?"  I know he's not asking about
my physical condition.

"I'm all right."  Then I added, "Thank you," because I'd been unduly
sharp.  He just nods and pats my shoulder, then fades again into the
background.  Yet I feel better, reminded of his presence.  Like
Scott, Logan is fundamentally grounded.

And now . . . it's just the wait.  I don't think it will be a long
one, but that's the whole nature of waiting –- one doesn't know.  The
chaplain has disappeared to bring Candy's parents some coffee.
Someone else arrives, an aunt, I think, but related to which parent
I'm not sure.  The room has polarized into The Family and The
Boyfriend.  Darren Southern glares over at Warren from time to time,
but Warren's so shaky and dazed, he doesn't notice.  Scott does.  We
trade a look. *He could be trouble,* Scott sends.

*I know.  But you said something earlier about crossing bridges . . .
.*

He grins, short and brief.  And it's only then that I realize we've
just spoken to each other without touching.  I've never been able to
do that with anyone but the professor.  I wonder if it's because
Scott has latent telepathic talent, or because he's spent years with
the professor . . . or if there's some other reason –- that natural
connection we felt from the outset.  I'm reminded again of the
strange telepathic cry of a few evenings ago that I'd dismissed as a
figment of my imagination. *JEAN.*  A cry of pain.  *Had* it been
imagination?  And what was it about Scott Summers that drew me?  On
the face of it, we were so very different -– in backgrounds, in
interests.  Why was he so comfortable?  Why did I understand him so
well?  It made no logical sense, and that bugged the hell out of the
scientist in me.

Abruptly, the door opens.  All of us jump (except maybe Logan).  It's
another doctor, also a woman, the main attending whose voice I'd
heard earlier in the trauma room.  She's not a great deal older than
me -– late thirties maybe –- and not tall.  She's also black, or
black-Hispanic mix.  Three strikes against her right there, with this
family:  young, female and a minority.

And I know just from looking at her face what news she's bringing.

*Candy's dead, isn't she?*, Scott sends.

I just nod, and without even thinking, rise to go stand beside my
occupational sister.  Solidarity in potential crisis.  What she has
to say is never easy news to bring.

Candy's parents have both approached, while the chaplain stands
behind, the aunt off to one side.  They know the truth, too –- they
can feel it:  a weight of palpable gloom that leeches all warmth from
the very air.  Sound falls dull, heavy, and it's hard to breathe.
"You're Mr. and Mrs. Southern?" the doctor asks.

"Yes," the mother says, face beginning to crumple like an old rag,
damp and used.

The doctor glances down and I feel her grief and anger.  We're
charged with saving lives, and when we lose that battle . . . it's
personal.  I know the name of every patient I've lost.  Every one.  I
felt the pang of each, even if it wasn't in my head like the last.  I
still felt it in my gut and my heart and in the burn behind my eyes.
Instinctively, I reach out now with my mind –- no more than a brush,
a quick offer of strength to the other doctor.

And to the parents?

They need it, too.  I recall how the chaplain spoke to her father:
responding to the fear, not the anger.  And I think on what old Rev.
Bennet might have done.  So I reach out to them, as well.  I send
them . . . something.  A breath of calm, a touch of shared sorrow.
Not to influence.  Simply to be with them.

Scott has come to stand at my back.  I think he knows what I'm doing.
  I think he might even approve.

"I'm sorry," the doctor is saying.  "Her aorta was nicked in the
accident, and on an artery like that, her own blood pressure tore it
worse.  We tried to transfuse, keep her fluid level up so we could
seal it off.  But in the end, it just wasn't possible."  A pause,
then she says again, "I'm so sorry."

The mother has put both hands over her mouth, and her body twists a
little to curl in on itself.  She sinks down as her eyes squeeze
shut.  Close it out, close it out.  The father, Darren Southern,
looks as if he's taken a direct hit to the chest, right through the
heart.  Whatever else I may think about these two, they've lost their
daughter.  Parents shouldn't have to bury their children.

The aunt is sitting next to the mother on the floor, rocking her, and
the chaplain has hold of the father, steering him back to a chair.
The man moves like a zombie.  The doctor follows; she'll explain
further, though I doubt either parent is in any shape to hear and
understand.  But grief demands information, as if by knowing more,
the awful truth can somehow be denied, or changed.  Scott has left me
to return to Warren.  Of the three closest to Candy, I think Warren
was the most prepared.  He'd seen them bring her out.  It was more
real for him.

I debate.  Where should I go?  My previous training and experience
would have me join my fellow physician, fall back into the security
of privileged knowledge -– raise it like a shield in front of me.
Life hurts less when you live amputated at the neck.

But I look across at Logan, and his eyes meet mine.  His great
strength lies not in his intellect, or in that amazing body with its
regenerative capabilities.  It's in the heart.  In the compassion he
can still feel for others –- including one terrified, lost woman –-
despite everything that's been done to him.  And I know that I want
to learn that strength.  But I must risk, to do it.  I must risk
getting hurt.  I must risk feeling the pain of those I love.  It
would be easier to join the ones I don't know, where I can hide in
professional distance.

But I don't.  I turn and join the ones I do know.  This is my place.
And these are my people.  They need me.

                                  *****

Continued directly in Traumas II, 2/2 . . . .

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CONTINUED DIRECTLY FROM "Traumas II" 1/2:
----------


"Will Warren be okay?" I ask Scott.  "I'm not sure he should be alone
tonight."

Scott looks dead beat.  Here, away from the others and with the
crisis past, the bad news is finally hitting him –- the enormity of
it all.  We're standing out in the ER hallway beyond the family room.
  He has a Styrofoam cup of coffee, but it's stone cold.  "God knows,"
he says.  "He says he wants to be alone.  I'm not going to argue with
him.  He's a big boy."  He glances off to where Logan is talking to
Warren, along with an oriental woman who I've never seen before.  She
arrived about ten minutes ago and has been shooting me odd looks ever
since.  Betsy Braddock, Logan had named her.  Not a very oriental
name.  When she wasn't looking at me, or oogling Warren, she was
sizing up Scott like he might be the main course for dinner.

That annoys me, and I think, *Hands off, bitch.  He's mine.*

Oh, how very primal of me.

Scott belongs to himself, and the only woman who might reasonably lay
claim to him is Miss Southern Molasses.

I sigh.  I can't even be nice tonight in my thoughts about her, can
I?  When did I become so catty, over a man?  I'd laugh if I had the
energy.  Or if the situation itself weren't so grim.

"Logan and his . . . friend . . . are going to take Warren home,"
Scott says.  "Warren told me to get out of here."  He looks at me.
"We need to find out who did this, Jean."

"Yes, we do.  But not tonight."

He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Candy
Southern's father explodes out of the family room and breasts up to
Warren.  The man was calm for a while, and I'd thought -– probably
foolishly –- that any threat from him was past, faced as he was with
the reality of loss.  But he'd simply been in shock.  Now, he tries
to accost Warren in the ER hallway.  "They just told me that Candy
was injured in a *bomb blast*, not a fire!  It's your goddamn fault
she was in that building, you mutie freak!"  He's yelling, and
everyone in the vicinity is watching with morbid curiosity.

Scott moves almost before I can register what's happened.  So does
Logan.  Logan has Warren from behind by both arms, to keep him from
fighting back, and Scott has placed himself square in front of Darren
Southern.  They're about the same height.  "Warren isn't responsible
for the bomb," Scott says.

The chaplain has come running, and hospital security is moving
closer, too.  "He sent her down there!" the father yells.  "He sent
her down there because he was too much of a coward to go himself!  He
knew what was going to happen!"

"No, I didn't!" Warren yelled back.  "She offered to go!"

"It's your fault, freak!"

"You think I wouldn't have traded places with her, you jackass?"

"That's enough!" Scott shouts with surprising authority.  It might
not stop Wall Street or board rooms, but it's the voice that leads
the X-Men.  It gets attention.  "There will be a police
investigation," he goes on, more quietly.  "The ones responsible will
be found."  And I remember what he promised Warren earlier.  He's not
just talking about the police, I know.  Cyclops has a score to settle
on behalf of his best friend.

But it's going to take more than Scott's native authority to diffuse
the situation.  There's a point past which grief will push a person,
and Candy Southern's father has hit it.  His face is almost purple
with rage.  Scott needs me.  I *reach*.  Touch.  Calm.  It's not a
lot.  But it's enough.

Darren Southern backs down.  Frustration is written all over his
features, but the violence is gone and he lets the chaplain lead him
away, back towards the family room.  Back to make the awful but
necessary mundane arrangements of death.  Organ donor?  Funeral home?
  Etcetera.

"Thanks," I hear Warren tell Scott.  Scott just nods, and moves away
– back to me.

And softly, he says, "Thanks to you, too."

He knew.  He felt what I did.  "You don't think it was wrong?"  I'd
never before tried to use my telepathy that way.  I'm unsure if it's
morally right.

"It prevented a needless confrontation," he says.  "You calmed him
down.  I felt it.  You made him able to hear what I'd said."

I smile.  "We make a good team, Mr. Summers."

"We do, Dr. Grey."

And I watch the last of his energy flag abruptly.  "I'm so fucking
tired," he says, and rubs at his forehead.  It must be near eleven,
by this point.  We've been here for hours.

"You want me to drive back?"

"Back *where*?"

And oh, that's the crux, isn't it?  We look at each other.  "It's
over with Marie," he says.  "Really over."

"You're sure?"

"Very."

We stare a minute more.  "I have a bag packed; it's in the car," he
says, then he winces.  "My, that was tactful."

I feel my lips curve up.  "You're tired.  I'm tired.  How about we
agree not to worry about tact.  You packed a bag for what?"

He's grinning -– that damn charming grin.  And he knows exactly what
it will get him.  "I packed a bag for the weekend.  I'd planned . . .
well, I'd thought . . . .   Oh, shit!"  He laughs and rubs his head
again, then glances at me.  "You want to go up to the cabin with me?
Just for tonight and tomorrow, and maybe the next night?  Sort this
out?"

I'm too in tune with him.  I can feel his uncertainty, how he's
risked himself.  He's as nervous as a school boy asking for his first
date and I respond to that nervousness, give him a smile and a touch
on the arm.  All night, it's been one long series of touches between
us.  "I'd like that, I think," I tell him.  "But we'll need to go
back by Warren's and pick up my things."  I look over to where Logan,
Betsy and Warren are sorting out details.  "Think we can beat them
there?"

He straightens, and I can feel a renewed energy flow into him.
Reaching into his pocket, he palms his keys.  "You know what they
call me, don't you?"  And he ushers me towards the ER exit.

"No, what?"

"The Getaway Kid."

I laugh.  At all of it.  I laugh at death, that it can't steal hope.
I laugh at fear, that it can't steal steadfastness.  And I laugh at
grief, because love will always survive.

I survived, too.  I'd walked back into an ER room tonight, and my
sanity had survived.  Maybe *Doctor* Jean Grey wasn't down for the
count, after all.

-------------------

Okay, so what IS Rogue up to?  What are Betsy, Logan and Warren up
to?  And what does Xavier think, now that his telepathic protege has
flown on her little wings? :-)  And oh my, Scott and Jean . . . alone
in a cabin for the weekend -- IS that half of Jubilee's bet secured?

That enough plot bunnies released into the wild? ;>

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