Lucidity: Renascence
by
Duchess of the Dark


Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Marvel Comics and Fox. I own not, you sue my regrettably pear-shaped English arse not. Elliot Anthony, Helena Draven, her 'remembered' friends, the assorted bar/club denizens, Club Bathoria and Cyber Cyber are mine.

Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.

Author Notes: I gave into temptation and wrote a romance. Sort of. Loved it? Loathed it? Tell me please... Although I'm a 'struggling writer' by trade, I don't do fanfic that often. This takes place around 2010 - 11. Sorry if I screw with the geography of Canada and New York -- it's called artistic license and plain ignorance, okay?!

If you don't understand the English slang, mail me!

Text in Italics indicates thought. Italic text in apostrophes 'italic' indicates telepathic conversation.

Oh, and my Logan is tall, dammit!! Can't be doing with short-arse men. Third of a trilogy, first is 'Prelude: A Canadian Tale', second 'Fugue: X-Men'.

OKAY, OKAY -- I KNOW THAT I HAVEN'T FINISHED 'Fugue: X-Men', BUT THIS JUST CAME TO ME IN A FLASH OF INSPIRATION! BESIDES, YOU CAN ALL GUESS WHAT HAPPENS ANYWAY!

---

Reminding himself he did not get saddle-sore, Logan carefully lowered his aching behind onto a vinyl-covered seat near the window of a moderately good truckstop somewhere in the Northwest Territories. Stripping off his leather gloves, he tossed them onto the plastic table before him and leaned on his elbows. His bike stood outside between two Hogs and a Ducati, the metallic black bodywork dulled by road dust and sun-baked mud from the last rain shower. He had ceased to think of it as Cyclops' motorcycle a good few months ago. Shouldering off his equally dusty leather jacket, he caught sight of the unevenly stitched slash along the arm and allowed himself an inner grin as he remembered how it came to be there.

Got a helluva lot better since then, English, he thought with a touch of pride. Now yer'd probably take my head off, then apologise an' offer ta make tea. What is it with you an' Xavier an' goddamned tea?

Looking up as a waitress wandered over, a chewed pencil poised over her pad, he glanced at the menu and ordered steak, eggs, fries and a large black coffee. Scribbling quickly, the waitress smiled and hurried off, tucking her pencil behind her ear. Watching her hips move beneath the cheap yellow nylon uniform, Wolverine rubbed at his beard and leaned back in the squeaky vinyl seat, nodding his thanks when she returned with a full mug of coffee.

His last cage fight had been a month previously and he was starting to get restless, itching for something to do. Fights were few and far between in the summer months, but if you knew where to look, they could be found. Almost without realising it, he had slipped back into his old way of life and resumed cracking heads for money all over Canada. At first it had been a welcome distraction, using rage to blot out disappointment. Everything he had uncovered at the abandonned Alkali Lake government facility in British Columbia had led to more empty buildings, infuriatingly incomplete pieces of information and dead ends.

Ten months on, he was discontented and more irritable than ever. To his chagrin, his thoughts increasingly turned to 1407 Greymalkin Lane and the people he had left behind. He had thought about them a lot in the last few months, about Helena, Rogue and Jean. Whenever he saw teenagers, particularly dark-haired girls, he had found himself wondering how Marie was progressing at school, if she was happy. Images of Jean Grey had kept him company late at night on the road, but he was finding the longer time wore on, the less he thought about her and the more about Helena. The elegant red-haired doctor was a favourite fantasy that had grown fuzzily indistinct around the edges. In contrast, he could recall with precise clarity how the black-clad Englishwoman smelled, how her eyes turned the colour of a stormy winter sea when she was angry and her nose wrinkled when she laughed.

I miss yer, Hels, he thought. It ain't the same without yer. I ain't a talker, but I sure coulda done with yer ear an' brain at that damned army installation, if only fer yer ta call me a 'stupid bugger' an' tell me ta forget it.

The absence of his dog tags reminding him about whose neck they hung, he drank a scalding mouthful of black coffee. Recalling how she had silently emerged from the garage, upwind so he would not catch her scent, and softly asked why he had not said goodbye, Logan gritted his teeth.

Yer knew why, yer always know why. The geeks, they don't understand, but yer do. Yer've lived the same life as me, yer know why I don't put down roots. Jeannie's so rooted it'd take an earthquake ta shift her. Yer know what it's like. . . I'd never had trouble leavin' anywhere until then.

She had stepped forward and hugged him, hesitantly at first, then more fiercely as he found his arms lifting to wrap around her. People did not hug Wolverine. They wanted to kill, screw or run away from him. He could not remember the last occasion when someone had put their arms around him and simply held him close. He had liked it a lot more than he cared to admit. As she let go, she had dropped a quick kiss on his bearded cheek, a gesture of affection between friends. Before he had time to think about it, he had clasped her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. It was fleeting, no more than a grazing touch of skin, but the memory had remained, returning to him with increasing frequency.

The aroma of freshly grilled meat brought Logan to the present and he looked down to see a steaming plate of thick succulent steak, fried eggs and crisp yellow fries. Picking up his knife and fork, he sawed off a chunk and began to eat.

"Good?" a female voice asked with amusement.

Pencil tapping against her glossy lower lip, the waitress leaned on the multi-coloured glass bubble partition between booths. A bright gold necklace at her throat and a worn plastic name tag proclaimed her name to be Shelley.

"Great," he said shortly, shovelling in some fries.

"Ain't seen yer around here before," she drawled, tucking her pencil in her breast pocket and smoothing her skirt over her thighs. "Yer passin' through?"

Logan nodded, "Somethin' like that."

Looking over to see if her boss was watching, she slipped into the booth opposite him, leaning forward to display an ample amount of liberally perfumed cleavage.

"I get off at eight," she whispered. "If yer want we could go fer a coffee. . . or somethin'."

The clawed mutant regarded her. She was perhaps twenty seven, with a wild mop of curly brown hair and clear blue grey eyes. Pretty in a gum-popping, white trash fashion, she lazily crossed one leg over the other, tempting him. With sudden brutal clarity, he saw her vacuous sexuality and ambitionless life, bogged down in mind-numbing routine that she attempted to relieve by hitting on diner customers. She was the epitome of nearly all the women he had ever encountered in backwoods Canadian bars and truckstops, everything he abruptly realised he no longer wanted anything to do with.

"Get yerself a new hobby," he told her gruffly.

Chin tucking in, the waitress blinked, surprised. Angrily snapping her blueberry gum, she stood and stalked back to the counter, nose held in the air. Pushing his knife and fork together on the plate with a clink, Logan left money for the meal and a tip. If he pushed the bike hard and hitched a lift on a cargo train, he could be back in Westchester County in under three weeks.

* * * * *

Skull-shatteringly loud cyber industrial pounded from the twelve foot speakers, vibrating the concrete floor underfoot. Puncturing the smoke-hazed semi-darkness, spikes of neon green, red and ultraviolet light swept the dance floor in random patterns. Dressed in leather, PVC, neon and UV reactive outfits of varying degrees of decency and outlandishness, clubbers writhed, swayed, drank and took numerous illegal substances.

Leaning against a chain link partition, Helena sipped her vodka and Coke, a drink she found was considered passé by trendy clubbers who preferred energy shakes. Tapping her heel in time with the frenetic bass beat, she perused the crowds on the huge rectangular dance floor. Situated in a converted warehouse, the underground Goth and fetish club was a H.R Giger-esque tangle of perforated steel beams, chain link booths and huge suspended cages in which hired dancers gyrated incessantly. The clientele was mostly human, but it was difficult to tell in the wild flash and blur of spectacular costume, make-up and hair colour.

Club Bathoria had been a surprise discovery while out on a fieldtrip with a gaggle of students upstate New York and had soon become a regular weekend haunt. It reminded her of life before ten years were stolen from her memory, when Saturday night had meant pouring herself into a fantastic outfit and attending the most exclusive clubs from London to Edinburgh to promote her clubwear business, Cyber Cyber. The club scene had altered in ten years, but there was enough familiarity for her to feel comfortable.

Well, she thought wryly, glancing down at her spray-on black rubber pants and gunmetal silver PVC corset. At least I don't look too old to carry it off, and probably never will. And there's the added bonus of all play and no work.

"You sure you're with us, Ray?" a male voice with a trace of Brooklyn asked.

Helena turned and smiled at the tall, slightly-built young man in rubberised black combat pants, a transparent metallic purple mesh T-shirt and UV reactive plastic neck collar who had pushed his way through the throngs to her side. At twenty-six, Elliot Anthony was green-eyed and black-haired, with an open, delicately handsome face and easy gait. A mutant with the ability to turn himself and anything in close proximity invisible, he had joined the teaching staff at Xavier's School For The Gifted six months previously after a hysterical school board had fired him for accidentally making one of his students disappear. The student had thought the experience cool beyond words, but Elliot's employers had not. Unable to find another job with his mutant status revealed, he had written to the Professor and gained a position as music teacher. His long black hair, eclectic taste in music and habit of dressing as oddly as Helena had gained him a loyal fan club amongst the school's teenage girls, most of whom had been raised with images of homogenous all-American jocks.

"Yeah, just about," she called, raising her voice to be heard above the music.

Elliot grinned, displaying the winning, slightly kooky charm that had endeared him to his female students. Recognising somebody with similar tastes, he had set about making a friend of Helena, never once questioning why her musical and literary knowledge was a decade out of date. Saturday nights at Club Bathoria had become a welcome break from teaching and developing their mutant skills.

I like him, the English mutant thought warmly. He's like the friends I had before all this. He's even got the kids calling me 'Ray' now. I think I prefer Raven -- 'Ray' makes me sound like a middle-aged brickie with a beer gut.

Ignoring the part of her that asked her how she knew what she liked or hated if the entirety of her memory was constructed, she drained her glass. Professor Xavier had peered as far into her mind as she had felt comfortable with and gravely announced that although there were signs of extensive tampering, that her life memories before two thousand were probably accurate. The question of her apparent non-mutant status at that time remained unanswered.

"Want another?" Elliot asked, taking her empty glass and handing it to a passing collector.

She nodded and fished in her back pocket for some money, watching a set of identical male twins dressed in nothing but leather shorts lead each other past on fine chains attached to slave collars.

"My round," she said. "But don't feel like you have to keep up -- remember what happened last time you tried to drink me under the table."

He pulled a face, "I had a hangover for three days. Teaching Jubilee and Kitty basic keyboard with a migraine is not my idea of a fun time. . . "

"And I had to carry you out, don't forget," she teased. "Jean was considering pumping your stomach. Didn't Jubilee accidentally paff the keyboard and make it explode?"

Elliot groaned soundlessly and nodded his head, green eyes crinkling in mock despair.

"Yeah. . . thank God you gave me the heads up before Pretty Boy got a chance to lecture about teaching class while suffering the side effects of liquor."

They both laughed, remembering Scott's righteous-leader anger and Jean's valiant attempts to keep a straight face. The Professor had chosen not to comment about Elliot's condition, believing the titantic headache he had suffered to be punishment enough. Storm had merely offered a herbal remedy for a hangover. The music faded as the last track ended and another began, a slow, grinding remix of Nine Inch Nails' 'Closer' that was currently enjoying a clubland renaissance.

"Anyways," he said, not making any attempt to move. "I'll get that drink."

Partially closing her eyes, Helena listened to the music as the seething crowd subsided into pairs or groups of bodies pressed close, undulating in time with the sensual opiate beat. It was a raw, deliciously indecent song to titilate lovers and attract admirers by dancing as provocatively as self-consciousness allowed.

"You wanna dance?" he asked softly, stepping closer to touch a fingertip to a lock of her hair.

He smelled good, of zesty cologne and clean sweat worked up by dancing and the humid heat of the club. She did not need to be a telepath to know along what lines his thinking was running.

He's gorgeous, clever and funny, she told herself. What's stopping you?

"Yeah," she breathed. "Why not?"

Mouth curving in a smile, she slipped her arms around his neck and allowed him to pull her close. Swaying in time to the music, Trent Reznor moaning over the speakers, she immersed herself in the warmth and scent of his body, listening as his heart beat. Lowering his face to the silken juncture of her neck and shoulder, Elliot pressed his lips to her throat, feeling the pulse quicken in response. As they moved against each other, he lifted his dark head, cheek brushing cheek, and sought her mouth. Lips soft against his, flavoured with lingering traces of lipstick and vodka, he felt a swift jolting thrill as her tongue met his. Suddenly, her fingers dug into his shoulders, stronger than he imagined, stopping him.

"What?" he pulled back and looked at her, perplexed.

"I can smell a certain mallrat who's in deep trouble," she said, annoyed, pointing over his shoulder with her chin.

Elliot turned to see Jubilee trying to extricate herself from in between a pair of neon green-haired cyberpunks. The tiny Asian teenager was wearing high heeled boots, a black miniskirt and a purple velvet corset several sizes too big for her. Weaving, elbowing and shoving her way through the undulating crowds, towing Elliot behind her, Helena emerged by the bar just as one of the men roughly chucked Jubilee under the chin.

"Bloody hell," the English mutant gritted. "Why did the bouncers let her in? She looks all of fifteen wearing my corset."

"I'll deal with it," Elliot offered. "Before she paffs someone."

"Okay, but watch it," Helena shrugged.

Striding over on long legs, he nodded a greeting to the punks, who looked at him the way one pack of stray dogs eyes another. Jubilee froze and offered a lame grin, looking just as under-age and out of place as she was.

"How's it going, guys? See you've found some jailbait," he drawled nonchalantly. "She's my neighbour's kid -- I'd best take her home."

The first glared, UV reactive contact lenses and body paint glowing in the wheel and arc of light from the dance floor.

"Fuck off," he snarled, clamping a hand onto the Asian mutant's arm to emphasise his point. "This itty bitty titty's ours."

Shooting Jubilee a warning look telling her not to use her power, Elliot spread his hands disarmingly, attempting to mollify them.

"C'mon, let's not get nasty -- hand her over and I'll take her home."

Watching from a vantage point underneath one of the gigantic metal cages housing an enthusiastically leaping dancer in a PVC catsuit, Helena saw the punk's painted eyes narrow with impending violence. Momentarily considering if she should intervene and ruffle male pride or let the scene play itself out, she grimaced as a fist flashed out and caught Elliot squarely on the jaw. Reeling back, hair flying, he would have fallen if she had not sprinted forward and caught him. Propping him against a handy corrugated metal pillar, whisking a paper napkin from the bar to press to his split lip, she rounded on the punks.

"Jubilation," she said flatly. "It's generally considered good manners to ask before you borrow somebody's clothes."

Squirming uncomfortably, blue almond eyes wide, Jubilee knew she was in up to her neck. Nobody called her by her full name unless she had done something to annoy them. Suddenly grinning, she looked up at the punk who held her by the arm, ignoring the growing pain.

"Boy, you two are gonna get it now!" she crowed. "She'll kick your asses into next week!"

"Oh yeah?" the second scoffed, producing a knuckleduster from his pocket. "Her fag-ass boyfriend didn't manage it."

Feeling her claws pricking the skin from the inside, Helena clenched her fists, dropping her weight back onto her patent leather platform stilettos as she unconsciously adopted a defensive position. As yet, nobody had taken much notice of the small altercation beyond a thoughtful barmaid dressed head to toe in silver lamé who had wrapped some ice in a cloth and handed it to a dazed Elliot.

"Let her go and walk away," the English mutant instructed calmly. "Or it'll be a trip to the E.R."

Laughing disbelievingly, the second punk sneered and swung a knuckledustered fist at her. Easily slipping past his guard, she caught his arm and twisted it up his back until the sinews groaned and he yelped.

"That hurt?" she demanded, pulling harder.

With a strangled expletive, he struggled and she allowed him free. Lashing out, brass knuckleduster glinting, he missed again as she neatly sidestepped. Clipping him smartly on the chin, she drove a fist into his abdomen as his head snapped back, sending the breath grunting from his lungs. Sweeping his legs out with a roundhouse kick as he doubled over, she crouched down over him, bringing her fist up to his face.

"You get up and walk away, shitbag," she hissed so only he could hear. "And you take your mate with you."

Lip already swelling, he probed gingerly at several loose teeth with his tongue, eyes round and terrified as he saw points of metal breaking the surface of the skin between her knuckles. Staring into her coldly burning hazel green eyes, expertly smudged with kohl, silver shadow and glitter, he swallowed, a throbbing pain telling him his jaw was broken. Mutely, he nodded, feeling a sticky trickle of blood run down his chin, leaving tracks in his make-up. Straightening up, she turned to the first punk who held Jubilee, noting that a sizeable crowd had gathered.

"You think you'd last any longer, sunshine?" she enquired with a raised eyebrow, not bothering to turn as she stomped her sharp heel down on the hand of the second as he reached out to try and pull her feet from under her.

Thrusting the petite teen aside so she stumbled on her stiletto heels and turned her ankle, shifting from foot to platform sneakered foot, he bellowed discordantly and ran at her, hands outstretched for her throat. Eyes flashing, Helena drew back her balled fist and punched her weight. A handful of people closest to the action heard a muffled metallic clang and the green-haired punk toppled backwards, unconscious. Looking down as he crumpled to the hard concrete floor at her feet, Jubilee hugged herself and danced up and down.

"Kewl!!" she cried gleefully. "And I didn't even have to paff him. . . Eeewwww! Blood!"

Turning to the crowd with a scowl, Helena threw up her hands in a shooing motion, concerned by the amount of attention the rumpus had attracted.

"Get lost!" she snapped irritably. "Entertainment's over."

As the clubbers began to drift away, disinterested now the unusual spectacle of a woman soundly trouncing two burly cyberpunks had drawn to a close, a trio of doormen belatedly lumbered over to investigate. Finding two men, one unconscious, with various brawl-inflicted injuries, they assumed they were the fight instigators and dragged them away. Padding over, holding his aching jaw, Elliot looked to the English mutant.

"Who taught you to fight?" he asked wonderingly, without a trace of wounded pride.

"Wolverine!" Jubilee sparkled. "Wait until she pops her claws, then it's even better. Slice 'n' dice, dude!!"

Hurriedly clapping a hand over her mouth as Helena glared at her, she dropped her gaze to her feet, tugging at the straps of her borrowed corset.

"Ah," Elliot observed with a tinge of sarcasm. "The often-mentioned but never seen Logan."

Suppressing a sudden resurgence of anger, the Englishwoman reminded herself that he had just been punched in the mouth. Elliot was a gifted musician with an immense knowledge of popular and underground culture, an intelligent, sensitive man, but he was not a trained fighter. He knew of his fellow teachers' double lives as X-Men, helping by teaching mutant children rather than on the frontline. Readily admitting he would be useless in a fight, he promoted Xavier's ethic in other ways, proving himself invaluable when it came to structuring the school curriculum.

Inclining her head, Helena silently regarded Jubilee for long moments. When she was satisfied the teenager had stewed enough, she folded her arms across her chest.

"D'you mind telling me what you're doing here?" she asked sternly. "It's one a.m, you're alone, not to mention the fact under-aged. The Professor will throw a fit if he finds out, and Cyclops. . . "

Panic-stricken, Jubilee's mouth grew into a horrified round hole and she clattered forward on her high heels.

"Ooooooh! Ididn'tmeantocauseanytrouble! IjustwantedtocomewithyouandElliot! Youalwayswearsuchkewlclothesandandand. . . oh shit. . . " she trailed off miserably, her grand foray into the forbidden world of clubbing over.

At sixteen, she was a year Kitty's junior and nearly a year and half younger than Rogue. The older teenagers sometimes went to alcohol-free club nights specifically designed for under twenty-ones, but often complained they were boring. Jubilee being Jubilee, she did not do anything by halves and had taken it into her head to follow her teachers to Club Bathoria, taking advantage of the Professor's absence due to a genetics conference. She looked so disconsolate, scuffing at the floor with the toe of her left boot, that Helena struggled not to laugh.

"Alright, Jubes," she said, casting a sidelong glance at Elliot, who was having similar trouble keeping a straight face. "I won't tell the Professor on one condition."

Raising her head, peering suspiciously from beneath her artfully tousled black fringe, Jubilee looked from one to the other.

"Name it."

"That you promise, and I mean promise, sweetheart -- no crossing your fingers -- not to do it again."

She nodded, delighted, realising she was off the hook. Skipping forward, she flung her arms around the English mutant, hugging her hard.

"Thanks, you're the greatest!" she enthused.

Turning to Elliot, apparently to deliver another bear hug, she stopped short, blushed furiously and coyly muttered she needed to use the ladies' room before dashing away.

'Back here in ten minutes, Jubes, or I'll drag you home by the seat of your pants!' Helena sent after the rapidly departing figure, seeing a small hand wave in acknowledgement as the crowd closed around her.

Shaking her head with feigned long-suffering despair, she squinted at the ugly red swelling on Elliot's lip.

"Looks like you'll have a real war wound by tomorrow," she predicted, tipping his chin with a finger to examine the cut.

"I'll live," he shrugged, folding his hands over hers and pulling her to him.

A hand sliding up her back to cradle the nape of her neck, his other arm settled around her waist as he leaned in.

"I think we were about here when Miss Lee crashed the party," he murmured, nuzzling her neck.

Adrenaline and annoyance killing the mood, her hands came up to his shoulders and she stepped away, leaving him empty-armed, surprised and puzzled.

"I'm sorry, Elliot," she apologised. "Not now."

Exasperated, he frowned and shook his head, green eyes darkening. Taking a step forward, he caught her wrist. She allowed herself to be held, not needing to remind him she could break his arm with minimal effort.

"What is it?" he demanded. "We've been dancing around each other for the last two months. Every time I think I'm getting somewhere, you back off. I know you like me, you don't make any secret of it if you don't like someone. What gives, Ray?"

When she did not answer, expression pensive and distant, he sighed. Nearly always ready with a humorous comment or scathing put-down, popular with the students, he sometimes found her alone, usually outside in the extensive school grounds, lost in thought. He had learned to leave her be, waiting until her dark mood lifted. A Goth couple in black velvet passed behind them, trailing marijuana smoke and murmured conversation.

"What happened to you that's made you so scared of getting close to someone?" he asked, regretting his choice of words as her eyes flashed at the implication she was afraid.

"Nothing's happened to me," she said quietly, so quietly he had to strain to hear. "I'm just independent-minded after trucking around Canada for so long, and the whole business with the Brotherhood of Mutants. . . "

"And you're frightened what you can't remember will hurt people," he finished. "Don't be."

Her chin lifted, eyes suddenly stormy and furious as she yanked her wrist from his grasp. Pushing him back against the metal pillar, hard enough to make him grunt with alarm, she brought up her hand, allowing the merest points of her claws to pop through. Incongruous with her slender fingers and shiny holographic silver varnished nails, the sharp adamantium glistened in the strobing light.

"Don't presume too much, Elliot," she said, pressing him back with her hips. "There's too many seriously dangerous people -- half of whom I can't remember - connected to my past to view everything through rose-tinted glasses."

"Like the sainted Logan," he muttered. "I hear enough about him from Rogue."

Biting back a bark of laughter at the thought of anyone describing Wolverine in such terms, Helena nodded, relenting enough to step back and allow him up. Unable to hide his frustration, Elliot looked her straight in the eyes, knowing she would sense his thoughts and emotions.

"He's not coming back," he said frankly. "It must've been tough to have him as a running buddy for so long, only to have him take off, but you've gotta move on. You've a place with the X-Men now, and people who care about you -- they're not suddenly gonna disappear."

Hand unconsciously rising to her neck where Wolverine's dog tags sometimes hung, the English mutant did not respond. Adjusting to life at Xavier's School For The Gifted had been difficult, getting used to a set schedule of teaching and training. Learning to live with a large group of people who regarded each other as a huge extended family had its own problems after a year when a trailer and the Canadian outback was home. Gradually, the school had become 'home' and the X-Men trusted friends.

"I s'pose I'm scared I'll wake up one day and it'll all be gone," she whispered, too softly for Elliot to hear. "Like before."

He opened his mouth to ask her what she had said, only for Jubilee to come bounding up on her return leg from the ladies' room.

"The queue was huge," she confided. "But I was only nine minutes!"

Smiling for the teenager's benefit, Elliot offered a gentlemanly arm and steered her off in the direction of the cloak room, casting a questioning glance back to see if Helena was following. Absently pushing her way through the throngs, keeping her eye on the crown of Jubilee's head, she inwardly sighed.

Poor Elliot, you're jealous of a man you've never met, convinced he's somehow stopping me from falling at your feet. I'm sorry to disappoint, sweetie, but I'm not pining for the 'sainted' Logan, and I'm not so easily won. Never have been. If Logan were here, he'd laugh his head off and buy you a beer, either that or kick your eminently grabable arse. Probably kick your arse. . . Be careful Elliot -- if you got what you want, you might not be able to handle it.

* * * * *

Rogue was extremely fed-up. Lounging on her stomach on a large comfortable sofa in the rec room, she was attempting to read a book Helena had given her. Perched on the arm of the sofa near her head, Jubilee was happily chattering, gesticulating and popping gum at appropriate points in her narrative. Rogue liked Jubilee; she was bright, cheeky and good fun, but she also did not know when to shut up and leave someone alone. She had been regaled with details of her Club Bathoria jaunt ceaselessly for an entire week. Sighing as the Asian teenager recounted the pivotal moment of the fight between Helena and the cyberpunks for the eighth time in half an hour, she closed her book.

"Jubes, would ya can it? Ya've told me that a dozen times already an' ah can't concentrate on what ah'm readin'."

Jubilee looked deeply offended and blew a huge pink bubble that she duly popped and sucked back in with expert precision.

"Ex-cuuuuu-seee me!" she sniffed, folding her arms "I was only keeping you company seen as Bobby's outside."

Summer was almost over, but the nights were still light enough to allow outdoor activities to continue until at least eight o'clock. Most of the students were playing basketball, but as a contact sport, it was inadvisable for someone whose touch put people into comas. Marie frowned, making a mental note to put Bobby Drake on a guilt trip the next time he wanted her to play foosball.

By the time ah'm finished, he'll be beggin' ta take me ta the mall.

"Uh-oh -- I know that look," Jubilee teased, throwing up her hands in mock horror. "Popsicle boy's gonna wish he were facing the FOH."

Both girls grinned wickedly. Slipping down from the arm of the sofa, Jubilee inclined her head at her friend.

"I'm gonna grab a soda -- want one?"

"Yeah. Just not Kool-Aid, 'kay? Ah've drank enougha that stuff ta bath in this summer."

"'Kay!" Jubilee spun on her heel and pattered out of the rec room, her pink and white sneakers squealing on the varnished wood floor.

Watching her go, trying not to be envious of her minuscule raspberry pink tank top and denim capri pants that exposed a good deal of tanned calf, Rogue opened her book and resumed reading. Savouring the quiet, hearing nothing but the sedate tick of the aged grandfather clock in the hallway and the occasional cheer from the basketball court through the open window, she contentedly crossed her ankles somewhere above her backside. The slap of running sneakers on wood drew her attention as Jubilee flew into the room brandishing two cans of condensation-dripping Coke.

"Rogue!" she squeaked breathlessly, blue eyes wide. "You'll never guess who's just rolled up outside!!"

The Southern girl looked up questioningly, tucking her bleached white streaks behind her ears. Her mouth fell open as somebody filled the doorframe at Jubilee's back. The book falling from her fingers, she leapt up and propelled herself into his arms.

"Logan!" she cried, flinging her arms around him.

"Hey, kid," he greeted laconically, suddenly finding a warm, enthusiastically hugging teenager clinging to him. "Miss me?"

She nodded, face buried in his shoulder, carefully turned so she did not accidentally touch him. It had taken her three months to get the personality traits out of her head after he and Helena had risked their lives to save her. She remembered waking up on top of the Statue of Liberty to find their apparently lifeless forms slumped at her feet, all the wounds they had received reopening and bleeding as she watched. For weeks afterward she had found herself oggling Jean Grey's backside, baiting Scott and hankering after a cigar. Helena had laughed herself sick when she had caught her sitting on the mansion's roof drinking vodka she had filched from the drinks cabinet, coughing as the fierce spirit burned her throat.

Worse was the uncontrollable telepathy and telekinesis she had absorbed from the English mutant. The voices in her head became overwhelming, as did the propensity for anything she looked at to become airborne. The Professor had put a quick halt to matters by constructing a psychic barrier inside her mind that blocked the powers until they dispersed. Embarassingly, the profanities she found herself uttering when annoyed were peculiar mixtures of English dialect and Logan-ish curses. Ten months on, she still sometimes told people to "bugger off" and experienced a craving for Canadian Gold beer.

"The geeks lookin' after yer?" he asked, giving her a gentle squeeze.

"Yeah, ah'm doin' fine," she answered. Her expression flickered darkly for a moment. "Mostly. . . If ya lookin' for the Professor, him an' Jean are away at a conference."

An odd look passed briefly over his face, an amalgamation of relief and disappointment, and he held her at arm's length, looking her over. She had grown an inch in height and filled out nicely in ten months. Looking back at him, she smiled shyly.

The kid's growin' up, he thought, touching a fingertip to her white streaks. She'll be what, nearly eighteen, now? If she's still hangin' with that ice-makin' kid, he's a lucky boy.

"Hels here?" he asked, sniffing the air to check.

Rogue nodded and took a can of Coke from the silently gaping Chinese girl who Logan recalled usually talked non-stop. Opening it with a hiss of gas, she took a slurp before speaking.

"Yeah, she's in the grounds somewhere," she revealed. "Been on the rampage fer chocolate, complainin' that nuthin' in the US tastes as good as Cadburys. An' yer know, she's right -- she got some imported an' let us have a bar or two. . . it's gorgeous."

Logan gave a brief, dry chuckle as the dreamy look reserved for hunks, expensive clothes and exceptionally good confectionary spread across Marie's delicate features. A year of living in close quarters out of the back of a decrepit trailer had taught him more than he wanted to know about the peculiarities of the female hormonal cycle.

"Time ta duck an' cover when she gets like that," he said. "She thrown anythin' recently?"

"Only Mr Summers in self-defense class on Monday," Rogue's friend piped up, suddenly rediscovering her voice. "You're lucky she's here -- she's usually out clubbing with Elliot on a Saturday night."

Wolverine's hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously, causing Jubilee to take a step back, clutching her unopened can to her chest. His entire posture altered with unconscious aggression, jaw tightening, spine stiffening.

"Who's Elliot?" he growled.

"That would be me," a Brooklyn-accented voice said from behind him.

Turning, he saw a tall young man in his mid twenties materialise from thin air like a focusing video still. Taking in his long dark hair, baggy khaki green combat pants and black band T-shirt, Logan was unimpressed, instantly labelling him as a lazy musician-type, which to his mind was on a level par with pretty-boy.

"You must be Logan," Elliot said, extending his hand. "I've heard a lot about you."

When the wild-haired mutant failed to shake his hand, feral dark eyes glittering, he withdrew it with a small shrug of his left shoulder.

"That's some disappearin' act," Logan observed, head cocked. "Must come in handy gettin' yer inta girl's bedrooms."

Uh-oh, Rogue thought, exchanging glances with Jubilee. Logan's bein' Logan an' seein' just how far he can push before Elliot snaps an' gives him an excuse t'kick his ass.

Green eyes cool, Elliot folded his arms across his chest, refusing to be provoked into a verbal argument or fist fight. From what he had gathered from Rogue's hero-worshipping chatter and Helena's occasional references to the barely-concealed animosity between Cyclops and Wolverine, it was his habit to be disagreeable. It seemed like a test of mettle to determine whether he thought a person deserving of his respect, or on a perfunctory level, civility.

"I get into ladies' bedrooms just fine fully visible," Elliot drawled, unruffled.

Logan's chin lifted at the subtext to the casual utterance, shoulders squaring almost imperceptibly beneath his travel-dusty leather jacket.

"That right, bub?" he breathed, eyeing the other man as if contemplating which limb to rip off first. "An' just which lady would yer be talkin' about?"

The two girls waited with bated breath, wondering if they would have to run and get Scott Summers or Storm to intervene.

Not that there'd be much o'Elliot left, Rogue reasoned. He's damn fine lookin', but can't fight ta save his life.

To her immense relief, Elliot decided retreat was the better part of valour and looked to her and Jubilee.

"There's a new game starting out back, girls, I'll see you there."

With that, he turned his back and unconcernedly strolled out of the rec room. Logan watched him go with a small scowl, fighting a sudden urge to run after him, pop his claws and turn him into dog food.

"He ain't gonna be any fun," he growled, rubbing his knuckles. "He doesn't provoke like Blinky. I think I'll hafta beat it outta him."

"No ya won't," Rogue said reprovingly, earning a startled, admiring glance from Jubilee. "Elliot's lovely, an' he's Helena's friend -- what d'ya think she'll do if ya rough him up good?"

He frowned thunderously, appearing to consider the rhetorical question. Unzipping his jacket, he patted some of the road dust from it and cracked his knuckles with a sound like popping ratchet teeth.

"Yeah, I get yer point. I'm gonna go see her. . . where's she keep her stash o'beer?"

"In the fridge, third shelf up," Rogue smiled as he automatically assumed the English mutant kept beer. "Canadian Gold."

Giving her hair another affectionate stroke, the only part of her that could be safely touched, Logan left. After he had gone, Jubilee let out a noisy breath and collapsed onto the sofa, hugging her now warm can of Coke.

"Phew! I dunno about you, but I think there's gonna be fireworks here pretty soon!" she exclaimed, opening her can and taking a sip. "You don't need to be a telepath to see Wolverine is jealous as hell. . . Last time I checked he was hot for Miss Grey, so what gives? Anyway, I know who I'd rather have -- it'd be eligible Elliot, hands down, not the wild man with a razor allergy."

Rogue grinned and set her half-empty can down on the foosball table.

"Yeah, but ya haven't seen Logan there without his shirt on. That'd change mah mind, I tell ya. . . He ain't all claws, growls an' fightin', Jubes."

Jubilee pulled a disgusted, disbelieving face, a shower of blue red sparkles flying from her fingertips to bob in the air like confetti.

"Nah, just mostly. . . and when did you see him without his shirt on?"

* * * * *

Skirting around the basketball court, ignoring the sudden break in the game and rush of whispering, Logan stepped off the all-weather surface and onto the lush expanse of grass. Every student from players to spectators froze, and for once it had nothing to do with Bobby Drake, who warily watched him, the orange basketball in his hands forgotten.

"Well," he said as Kitty sidled up to snatch the ball. "At least Rogue'll be pleased. . . Hey!"

Racing up the court, he groaned as Kitty scored a hoop, putting her team ahead. Mobilized, the other players scattered and the game continued as noisily and competitively as ever. Pausing several yards onto the clipped lawn near a well-used wooden bench, Logan scanned the perimeter of the estate's woods and sniffed the light evening breeze. The sun was beginning to dip on the horizon, the light level dropping as twilight advanced. In amongst the woodland scents he detected the one he was searching for and set off towards it.

As he walked deeper into the woods, the tapestry of voices and scents from the school faded to a background murmur, replaced by rustling leaves and the crunch of twigs underfoot. Stopping, surrounded by the massed green foliage of oak, birch and ash trees, he inhaled again and changed direction. Acute ears detecting the muted tinny buzz of a Walkman, he rounded a patch of thick undergrowth into a small clearing. Sat downwind underneath a large gnarled oak, back against the trunk, eyes closed as she listened to a tiny mini CD player cradled in her right hand, Helena did not notice he was there.

Ambling over with a strange feeling of apprehension, Logan considered tapping her crooked knee, but reasoning it would probably earn him three talons through his stomach, decided not to. She looked good, better than he remembered. Her hair fell in well-kept serpentine curls almost to her waist, but was a deep shining plum rather than her natural dark chestnut brown. Closed, her eyelids were expertly shadowed a similar colour to her hair, long fingernails a metallic purple. Dressed in black as always, she wore a long slim-fitting cotton skirt and spaghetti-strapped vest. The legend 'I'm not A bitch, I'm THE bitch, and Miss Bitch to you' was emblazoned across the front. One leg crossed over the other, her sandal-clad foot tapped in time with the music, toenails varnished the same purple as her fingers.

A heavy, expensive-looking white gold ring he did not remember graced her ring finger and he found himself wondering if Elliot had bought it for her. As he watched, her free hand came up to unconsciously fondle it, fingertips stroking the ruby stone. That his dog tags hung around her neck did nothing to reassure him.

Shoulda come back sooner, he thought furiously, disregarding the inner voice telling him he was already too late.

The click of a depressed button reached his ears and she opened her eyes, pulling out her earphones with a smile playing about her lips.

"You think too loudly," she commented, hazel green eyes dancing.

One hand shoved carelessly into the pocket of his jeans, the other holding two frosty bottles of beer, Logan inclined his head towards the mossy ground at her side.

"This seat taken?" he asked, indicating the spot with a wave of bottles.

"Oh, I dunno," she said with a mock-serious shake of her head. "I was saving it. . . but seeing as it's you."

Dropping down beside her, he popped the beer caps and handed her a foaming bottle. Taking a long swig, she cradled the bottle in her lap, mopping up a dribble of foam on the neck with her index finger and sucking it off.

"It's good to see you, Logan," she said quietly. "I missed you."

"You too, darlin'," he returned softly, reflecting that after more than a decade of nobody caring if he lived or died, two women had expressed the same sentiment within an hour. He liked the feeling. Yer don't know how much.

She smiled and took another mouthful of beer, beginning to peel off the label, a habit that had irritated him no end while they were travelling, but now seemed another indicator he was in the right place.

"Lookin' good, Hels," he said truthfully, reaching over to rub a strand of her hair between his large fingers. "Yer spruce up well."

She chuckled and feigned saucer-eyed shock. "Christ, I think I just received a compliment. . . Had more important things than female vanity to worry about on the road. But with two gorgeous women like Jean and Ororo around, who'd look fabulous in binbags, I felt kinda obliged to make a bit of an effort."

The flippancy vanishing from her expression and tone, she ceased to pick at the label on her beer bottle, shaking her foot to dislodge a trundling ladybird from her toes.

"Did you find anything?"

Feeling a familiar heavy anger grow in his belly, Logan shook his head and drained his bottle, rolling it between his palms.

"Nah. . . bits, nuthin' useful. Brought some stuff back fer Wheels ta pore over, 'cos yer know he's gonna want chapter an' verse."

She regarded him silently, eyes searching his face for long moments until she was satisfied he was not holding anything back. Catching images of deserted grey corridors, destroyed machinery and shredded papers filigreed with mould, she placed a hand on his arm.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I really thought you might find something."

"Nuthin' fer yer ta be sorry for," he growled, folding her hand in his own, rubing his thumb across the back. "Enough about that already -- how've the geeks been treatin' yer? Scooter been givin' yer a hard time?"

Laughing, she shook her head, seeing he was prepared to march back into the school and break Summer's nose, closely followed by every other bone in his designer-dressed body. Slapping him playfully in the chest with her free hand, a trick perhaps only Rogue would otherwise dare to do, she smiled.

"No, Scott's a nice feller. Sometimes I think if he got any more composed his face'd shatter, but apart from that he's fine. He's a good teacher and leader."

Logan snorted disparagingly, "They got yer teachin' an' flyin' around in those goddamn leather outfits full-time now?"

Head tipping mischievously, Helena looked him straight in the face, carefully assuming an expression of butter-wouldn't-melt innocence.

"Yeah, 'fraid so. . . Once upon a time you said I looked good in leather," she said with a ghosted pout.

Recalling when she, Jean and Ororo had stepped out into the underground jet hangar, clothed in the distinctive figure-hugging uniforms, each trimmed with a different colour and the ubiquitous 'X' emblem, he grinned. He had spent several distracting minutes watching three perfectly outlined sets of buttocks and thighs, gleefully noting for future reference that Cyclops had done the same, albeit in a vastly more unobtrusive manner. He had overheard Helena chuckling and murmuring "boys will be boys" to the other women, eliciting answering laughter despite the tense situation.

"Yer do," he affirmed, discovering that at some point in the conversation she had moved a little closer and he had forgotten to let go of her hand. Giving a fruity, thoroughly evil grin, he added, "Good enough ta tie down an' spank." The spark's still there. Two weeks, darlin', an' yer'll be sayin' 'Elliot who?'. . . I've been thinkin' about yer till I'm fit ta explode an' there's no way I'm lettin' some punk-ass kid have yer.

"Careful what you wish for," she warned playfully, snorting with laughter. "You rehearsing your lines for Jean or sommat? She's not here, y'know. At a conference in California with the Prof. You know Jay's serious when she packs that red suit of hers -- and here was me thinking power suits went out in the eighties. Won't be back for a few days yet."

"Yeah, well," he shrugged laconically. "I gotta practise on someone." Smooth, bub, real smooth. She thinks yer still after Red. What did yer expect? That she'd fall inta yer arms like some brainless bar chick? Dream on. . . Yer had yer chance back in Canada an' yer backed off. Yer've gotta work fer what yer want now.

She laughed again and nudged him reprovingly with her elbow. Sitting so close, her skirt covered with clinging scraps of moss, oak leaves and grass, he could feel her warmth and smell her sun-warmed skin. Inclining his head, he looked at his tags around her neck.

"See yer've still got 'em," he observed, daring to touch a fingertip to the ball chain at her throat.

"Yeah," she shrugged carelessly, the last of the sunlight winking from the metal. "Can't lose them if they're round my neck, can I?"

They both fell silent and contemplated their beer bottles, a silence that was slightly awkward to Logan's mind. While travelling about Canada, they had often sat in companionable quiet for hours, not feeling any need to fill the gaps with banal chatter.

She's wearin' 'em, he thought. But it'd be stupid ta presume it's fer the same reasons another girl might. I did ask her ta look after 'em fer me, after all. Dammit, I thought I'd gotten a handle on women by now. Sayin' that, if I've learnt anythin', it's that Hels is a whole different ballgame from most women. Maybe it's 'cos she's English. . .

"You'd best have them back," she said suddenly, hooking a finger through the chain to take them off. "I've had them too long."

"Keep 'em," he said. "That way I've always got a reason ta come back. Besides, they look better on yer."

Her expression altered subtly, though he could not tell if she was pleased or troubled. Wordlesly, she dropped the tags down the front of her vest. Glancing at the spot where they hung, nestled between her breasts, he wondered if it was possible to be jealous of inanimate metal.

Very 'ugg, thump, drag', he thought dryly, recalling the phrase she used to describe lecherous, overtly macho rednecks with Neanderthal social skills who were scant evolutionary steps away from simply bashing an intended mate over the head and dragging her away.

Silent, she was picking the last of the label from the semi-opaque brown bottle, features lost behind a fallen hank of hair. She seemed disquieted, almost preoccupied. Cocking his head, Logan reached over and plucked the bottle from her fingers.

"What's eatin' yer?" he asked bluntly.

"There's something you should know," she began.

Feeling dismay twist wire spines inside his chest, he determinedly quelled it and stared at his beer bottle, wishing it was full.

I don't wanna hear this, he thought disgustedly. I don't wanna hear how yer playin' happy homin' with invisi-boy. . .

"If this is about yer an' that kid from Brooklyn. . . " he rumbled, trying and failing to sound neutral.

"Elliot?" she frowned, confused. "No, it's nothing to do with him. It's these. . . "

She lifted her right leg and brought her foot up to rest across her knee, something metal shining and winking dazzlingly in the sunlight filtering through the patchy canopy of leaves overhead.

"I found these sewn into the hem of my old leather coat. The seam had split and I was repairing it when they just kinda fell out. Why they were there, God only knows."

Logan looked at the ball chain around her slender ankle, looked at the small dog tags attached to it. They were inscribed with a multiple digit number and a single word; Raven. He had noticed them before and assumed they were some sort of fashion accessory. The initial four numbers were identical to those on his tags.

"Small world, huh?" she said with a forced smile, her eyes dark and troubled.

"Guess it is," he agreed, chilled as he realised that the dag tags indicated she had probably been subjected to experiments like those that had coated his skeleton in adamantium.

He recalled Jean and Xavier discussing their respective memory loss when they had first arrived at the school from Canada, but had dismissed it at the time as scientific rubbish. The Professor had commented on the similarities and speculated about manipulation of the X-gene. The dog tags were just one more piece of the puzzle, a piece that linked her to the Canadian military and covert, highly illegal human experimentation programmes.

"The Prof thinks somebody, probably the government, used us as guinea pigs. . . What did they do to us?" she whispered. "And why?"

"Dunno," he shrugged unhappily. "Don't s'pose we'll ever know."

She was quiet, toying with with ball chain, describing the stamped numbers with the sensitive pads of her fingers. Head tipping, Logan regarded her, gathering from her expression that there was something more she had not told him.

"What else ain't yer told me?" he asked. "An' don't deny it, Hels -- yer've got that 'and there's more' face on yer."

She smiled thinnly. "I guess my poker face isn't as good as I'd like. . . After I found the tags, I got Jean to run all my old clothes, the ones I had when I 'awoke', through her gizmos. Well, everything that didn't go the way of the dinosaurs when the trailer blew. We found a microdisc in the sole of my boots. Tiny little thing, no bigger than a penny piece. Naturally, the bugger's encoded to death, but. . . "

"But?" Logan prompted as she broke off and frowned.

"It's special-issue primarily used by the British government. The Prof's got some sort of contact in MI6, but she took one look and got the jitters. There's an ex-student who goes by the name Cypher who's having a crack at it -- his gift is translation, languages, codes, you name it, he can make sense of it. As yet, we've heard nothing. . . we don't know if I was working for MI6, against them, or why I ended up in Canada." She scowled fiercely, then sighed. "How to make a real shitty mess -- take one mutant, add two governments, just a dash of illegal experimentation, grill until memory is wiped, then leave to simmer until it all hits the fan."

Silence descended and she stared off into the trees until Logan felt compelled to break the heavy speechlessness. Wanting to change the topic of conversation, to steer the subject away from past horrors, he touched her arm, briefly sliding the pads of his fingers across the downy skin.

"Yer happy here, Hels?" he asked as she looked up questioningly.

"I won't go back to brawling and hustling around Canada, if that's what you're asking," she said quietly. "I've something good going here -- a career, a cause to fight for. I know you think it's crazy, what the X-Men do, but I don't."

"Damn right it's crazy," he growled. "Chuck worked some real mumbo-jumbo, gettin' yer ta teach class at Mutant High. Whaddaya teach -- bar-brawlin' an' tea-drinkin'?"

She laughed suddenly, the sharp light in her eyes softening, and slapped him in the chest again.

"English lit and computer science, actually. I've picked up a lot of useful stuff somewhere along the way -- so don't get smart, or I'll let off a few cutting, educated remarks that'll do irreversible damage to your ego."

"I'm scared," he deadpanned, earning himself another of her smiles.

Glad he had done something to chase the haunted look from her features, he saw the humour quickly fade from her expression. She twisted around to face him, hair a vivid purple-lit halo in the dying sunlight.

"We're two of a kind, you and I -- in more ways than one. Round pegs in square holes, the ones people look at sidelong and wonder just what makes us different, even amongst other mutants. Batman 'n' Robin've got nothing on us, we work well together, whether it's poker-hustling or kicking arse on top of the Statue of Liberty." She smiled sadly and shook her head. "I owe you a lot, but I'm not leaving. I've a place here. . . and you could too, if you want it."

Wedging his empty bottle in the crevice of a protruding knotted tree root, Logan wondered if he heard a pleading note in her voice or if it was just his imagination. Reaching out, he touched her face, allowing his fingers to trace the contours of her cheek.

"What if that's not all I want?"

* * * * *

Pouring himself a brandy from the cut-crystal decanter in the Professor's study, Elliot took a large swallow, feeling it sear its way down his gullet to mix uneasily with the fury in his belly. Carefully replacing the stopper, he placed the decanter back in the antique cherrywood tantalus. It was gone ten p.m and they had still not returned to the mansion. He knew Helena had travelled around Canada with the surly, taciturn mutant for months on end and was having increasing difficulty believing their relationship had been platonic, despite what she indicated to the contrary. Wolverine's open hostility had reinforced his opinion. Elliot had seen pure murder in the volatile hazel eyes, a silent snarl of "back off -- she's mine".

Now he's back, and he's gonna pick up right where he left off, he thought sourly, staring into the amber depths of his glass. And it looks like she's more than happy to let him, or she'd have come out of the woods hours ago.

"I see you've met Logan -- you've got that look."

Elliot turned to see Scott Summers standing in the open doorway, ruby quartz glasses firmly in place as always. For Cyclops, the glasses were a necessity, not merely a fashion statement. Moving to the desk, he set down a sheaf of marked test papers. Selecting a brandy balloon, he opened the tantalus, slid out the decanter and poured himself a generous measure.

"He's a character alright," Elliot observed acidly.

"He's an asshole," Scott corrected, swirling his drink.

"No argument there. He thinks he can walk back in and pick up with Ray right where he left off, like he didn't just take off and leave her."

Studying the other man from behind his glasses, noting the discontented slump of his shoulders and air of suppressed jealous anger, Summers took a mouthful of brandy. Logan's sudden return had surprised him. Resentful and suspicious of all forms of authority, untamed, answerable to no-one, he hardly fitted the criteria required to live and work at the school. Cyclops had not expected to see Wolverine again, believing he would get himself killed or go straight back to breaking heads in Canada. He had a lurking suspicion that this time he was planning on staying. Seeing Elliot silently fuming, a rare occurrence for a man who could teach Jubilee, Kitty and Rogue all at once without losing his cool, he decided to risk a comment.

"I think you're doing Helena a disservice," he said calmly. "When they first arrived here, Logan chased Jean -- made no secret of it. Now either he and Helena weren't together, or she didn't mind him nosing after my girl, which knowing Raven, is unlikely."

Elliot gave a snort of laughter, despite himself. "She'd have kicked his ass to Canada and back again."

Scott nodded sagely. "Exactly. So now His Assholiness has decided he's gonna play the returning hero and chase her. The question is, are you gonna let him catch her?"

Setting his glass down on the Professor's teak desk, Elliot shook his head, shoulders squaring.

"Good," Cyclops said, clapping the other man on the shoulder. "Just don't get into a fight with him -- and don't let him provoke you."

Frowning, Elliot picked up his glass and turned to face the lead-lit window, staring out into the darkness of the grounds and beyond.

"It's a bit late for that."

* * * * *

Hunched over the innards of a large amplifier, Elliot frowned and selected a pair of pliers to begin stripping down wires. Various components lay scattered across the desk in front of him, some scorched and melted.

Never had these equipment problems in my last job, he thought with mingled amusement and exasperation. But I never taught kids like St John and Jubilee before. They should come with government health warnings.

Picking up a small soldering iron, the Brooklyn-born mutant began patiently piecing back together the electrics of the amplifier. Tearing open a shrink-wrapped part, he removed a damaged lump of charred plastic and tossed it into the scratched metal rubbish bin near his feet.

"Let me guess, Jubilee or St John?" a female voice said.

Elliot turned to see Jean Grey wearing her spectacles and the mysterious quarter-smile she did so well.

"Both, I'm afraid," he answered with a rueful grin, selecting another replacement component for the amplifier.

"We have a repair man to fix those kinds of things," Jean pointed out, setting a sheaf of unmarked test papers on a nearby desk.

Passing by the unoccupied drum kit, she lightly tapped her index finger against one of the cymbals, creating a soft, brass chime.

"Yeah, well, he has enough to do," Elliot shrugged.

"I just saw Helena," the red-haired doctor remarked conversationally. "She subbed for Scott's phys-ed class."

"Uh-oh -- did they survive?" the muffled question came from somewhere inside the amplifier's chipboard casing.

Jean chuckled quietly, recalling a dozen or so completely exhausted students trailing despondently past dragging their kit bags.

"Just about," she smiled, levitating the pliers into his blindly searching hand. "Speaking of Raven, Elliot, we need to talk."

A tousled dark head emerged from inside the amplifier, liberally scattered with scraps of wire. Wiping a smudge of something black and sooty from his cheek, Elliot's vivid green eyes narrowed and his expression became guarded.

"Oh? Is this the part where you tell me to watch out in case Wolverine rips out my lungs and strangles me with them?"

"To put it bluntly -- yes," Jean nodded. "Once Logan makes up his mind about something, there's nothing that'll dissuade him."

Picking several bits of red wire out of his hair, Elliot frowned and set down the pliers on the desk. He folded his arms defensively.

"He didn't get you, though not for lack of trying according to Scott."

To his surprise, the auburn-haired telekinetic coloured somewhat, but quickly regained her composure.

"That's different," she said firmly. "And beside the point. I guess I'm just saying you need to be careful."

"Are you warning me off, Jean?" Elliot asked quietly. "I know it's something of a running joke that I don't dress up in leather and run out there to fight. And I know Ray's got a wild side -- I'd be stupid if I didn't admit that she's damn scary sometimes. . . but I'm not giving up just 'cos Logan shows up and throws his macho in everyone's face."

Jean regarded the young man, sensed his earnestness and determination. Privately, she had a fairly strong inkling who would be the victor, but would not say so aloud. Stepping forward, she lay a hand on Elliot's shoulder as he retrieved his pliers and resumed work.

"I wouldn't expect you to. It's obvious you care for her, but don't get so wrapped up in competing with Logan that you ignore any warning signs. He's dangerous when -- "

Breaking off, she looked around to see Logan standing in the classroom doorway. Favouring her with an almost-smile, he sauntered over the threshold.

"Yer got that one right, Red," he agreed, gaze travelling down to her hips. "I frighten yer?"

Unable to suppress the girlish smile his flirting always provoked in her, Jean raised an eyebrow and met his gaze.

"No."

"Yer want me ta?" he retorted, a devilish twinkle in his hazel eyes.

Jean merely smiled again and picked up her test papers, pushing her spectacles further up her small nose.

"I have papers to grade," she announced, heading for the door.

As she passed, she shot Logan a warning glance, causing him to hold up his hands in mock-surrender, grinning all the while. Listening as the regular click of high heels on varnished wood faded into the busy background hum of the school, he watched with amusement as Elliot determinedly ignored him and turned back to the amplifier.

"Shouldna turn yer back like that, boy," he said at length. "Never know who's sneakin' up behind yer."

Barely pausing in his tinkering with the nest of coloured wires, Elliot fixed another connection, blowing a fine layer of soot from the contacts.

"Unlike you, I don't spend my time making enemies, so I'm not too worried about who sneaks up behind me."

Feeling the skin on the back of his neck prickle as Logan took a step closer, he gritted his teeth as he fought the urge to turn around, vowing he would not allow himself to be intimidated.

"Yer should be," the Canadian growled quietly. "Yer a mutant, an' in case yer ain't noticed, invisi-boy, that makes yer public enemy number one."

"Thought that was your gig?" Elliot set down his pliers and turned around, arms folded across his chest. "You've bugged Scott right out, and now you've decided it's my turn. What is it with you? Jean not playing ball, so you've moved onto Helena?"

"Jealous?" Logan rumbled slyly, realising he had sucessfully provoked the younger man.

"Not as much as you," Elliot stated with a brief, humourless grin. "You've been gone a while, and a lot of things can happen in ten months. You really think you can just walk in and start something? She's not yours to leave and pick up again whenever you feel like."

The humour suddenly vanished from Wolverine's expression and his lips thinned ominously. He cocked his head, aggression surging to the fore.

"That so? I don't see her hangin' off yer arm, bub. I'm tellin' yer now. . . " He bent down, suddenly grabbing the music teacher by the front of his t-shirt and roughly hauling him from his chair. "Stay away from her -- yer nothin' but a never-was muso. Yer not good enough ta lick the shit from her boots. . . Stick ta teachin' the kids piano."

Dropping back into his chair with a grunted exhalation as Wolverine abruptly shoved him back, Elliot scowled. Satisfied he had communicated his message, Logan rolled his shoulder and rubbed meaningfully at his knuckles.

"I think you're forgetting something," Elliot said softly. "The choice is hers. You claim to know her better than me -- what d'you think'll happen if you try to force her to do something she doesn't want to? Are you so sure she'll pick you?"

His question remained unanswered as the distinctive drone of the Professor's wheelchair sounded outside the open door. Within moments, Xavier appeared in the doorframe, immaculate in an exquisitely-cut charcoal grey suit.

"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?" he asked, blue grey eyes moving between them. "If so, kindly dicuss it out of earshot of the students."

Logan's brows dipped low over the bridge of his nose, gaze locked with Elliot's. Seconds ticked by and he looked away with a dismissive shrug.

"Nah, Chuck," he growled, turning his back to walk away. "No problem at all."

* * * * *

Extensile tongue hissing out to slime the plaster wall as his target backflipped out of range, Toad's greenish lips curled in a snarl and he launched himself into the air. Leaping up to meet him, natural strength bolstered by telekinetic impulse, his adversary extruded shining adamantium claws that she plunged into his chest and viciously twisted. With a gargling cry, Toad crashed twitching to the floor, a fist-sized hole in his ribcage, and lay still. Landing neatly on her feet, his killer drew back her spurred fist, only to have her wrist caught by a slim café au lait hand.

"He is quite dead enough," Storm's rich voice admonished, brown eyes concerned as Raven turned on her with a snarl, then backed down. "Cerebro -- end programme."

The Statue of Liberty's lobby shimmered and disappeared, leaving a huge silvery metal expanse checkered with luminous gridmarks. Breathing hard, Helena retracted her claws and dropped down into a squat, scraping a strand of hair from her brow.

"I think you should tell me what has upset you," the weather goddess said firmly. "So far you have fought the entire Brotherhood Of Mutants from Mystique to Sabretooth and killed Toad -- twice. Not to mention the number of times you have knocked me flat."

Helena glowered in a distinctly Logan-like fashion, then sighed and sat back on her heels. Milk white hair tied up, exposing her delicate cheekbones, Ororo sat next to her on the cool metal floor. Both women were dressed in dark grey one-piece lycra training suits with small 'X' emblems on the left breast. After a gruelling two hour session in the Danger Room, Storm was tired, but the English mutant showed little sign of slowing down.

"It's those two idiots," she admitted with a semi-disgusted shake of her head. "They're driving me up the wall with their one-upmanship. Ever since Logan got back, Elliot's been acting all possessive, like I'm somehow his personal property. It was funny at first, but the joke's wearing thin. And as for Logan, he sees himself as Alpha Male and me as part of his pack. I swear, any day now he's gonna cock his leg to mark his territory."

"Oh," Storm said blandly, chosing her next words carefully. "He's jealous, anyone can see that. He sees Elliot as a rival and vice versa."

"That's just it," Helena grumbled. "I'm not used to all this attention, and I feel like a prize toy caught between two spoilt kids. . . and Scott is egging Elliot on just to get back at Logan -- I can sense it every time I look at him. I just hope it doesn't end with Elliot laid up in the infirmary."

Ororo raised an eyebrow and elegantly shifted position so she was sat cross-legged. In the week since Logan's arrival, Cyclops had been polite as always, but almost suspiciously friendly. Jean and the Professor had returned from the genetics conference in California armed with studies and reports to find the school buzzing with the news Wolverine had returned. Xavier had summoned Logan to his office and talked with him at length. Jean speculated that he had offered him a permanent place with the X-Men, but the Professor refused to be drawn on the subject, merely saying that Logan had a place to stay for as long as he wished.

"It is how you feel that matters," she said softly, laying a maternal hand on the English mutant's arm. "You would not be so agitated if you did not care for either of them."

Tightening the laces on her soft-soled trainers, Helena looked momentarily heavenwards as if in search of divine intervention.

"I dunno, 'Ro," she murmured. "I like Elliot, he shares my interests. He's clever and funny, not to mention drop-dead gorgeous, but there's something. . . missing. He's. . . "

"He's not Logan," Storm finished, a smile curving her lips.

"Yeah." She gave a quick, self-mocking quarter smile. "He's not big bad Wolverine who's got a terrible temper and worse attitude, the feller I spent the best part of a year arguing with on the road. We've always had a bit of a, I dunno, chemistry, I suppose. It nearly came to something a little while before the Brotherhood decided to make a big hoo-ha, but with everything that happened we never resolved things one way or another. And now he's suddenly decided it's all systems go, and I'm like a kid in a sweet shop who can't decide between milk chocolate and fruit 'n' nut. God. . . I must be drugged, hormonal or plain mad."

The weather goddess regarded her friend and colleague, hands resting easily on her knees in a relaxed lotus position.

"A lot of women would envy your position," she observed. "Having two men like Logan and Elliot competing for their attention."

"Yeah, s'pose," Helena allowed grudgingly, then assumed an exaggeratedly plaintive expression. "Then why aren't I having fun? Isn't this supposed to be fun? I think I'll have to ask for a thirty day home trial before I make up my mind."

Both women chuckled and got to their feet. Storm stretched out a tight muscle in her calf, then looked to the Englishwoman.

"You will have to chose soon," she warned. "Before either one does something stupid."

"Yeah, I know," Helena sighed. "If it was anyone else, I'd say let them strut and squabble and sort it out between them, but there's a Wolverine in the equation. I don't think Elliot has the slightest idea what happens when he goes off on one. His temper makes me look like Mary Poppins. D'you know sommat, 'Ro, I'm half tempted to bang their heads together and tell them both where to go."

Shaking her head again, musing on the unpredictability of human and homo superior idiosyncrasies, she flexed her arms.

"Fancy one more round with big, hairy and ugly?" she asked, referring to the simulation involving Sabretooth, who was by far the most physically dangerous adversary.

The X-Men suspected he had survived, a suspicion reinforced by a spate of apparent 'animal' related killings upstate New York and New Jersey in the months following his fall from the Statue of Liberty. Mystique was still masquerading as Senator Kelly, but the sudden change in anti-mutant policy meant her political position was tenuous. Recent activity detected by Cerebro indicated that the Brotherhood Of Mutants was still active, despite the fact Magneto remained incarcerated in a plastic bubble unaffected by his powers.

"I think I would rather have a long, hot shower," Ororo said, suppressing a slight shudder.

Sensing a memory flash of Sabretooth smashing her head against a plate glass window, one gargantuan paw locked around her throat, Raven nodded understandingly.

"Okay, no problem. Oh! I nearly forgot -- those plants you ordered arrived today. Marie took them out to the greenhouse for you."

The weather witch beamed, the preoccupied shadow lifting from her features. Her 'children' were a source of great pleasure. Nothing pleased her more than nuturing them from seedlings to fully-grown plants, shrubs and trees. The term Earth Mother was applicable to Ororo Munroe in more ways than one.

"I was wondering when they would arrive," she smiled. "I was expecting them on Wednesday."

"Well, the 'kids' are all present and accounted for, 'Ro," Helena nodded, stretching her spine. "They're just waiting for your magic touch. . . Cerebro -- programme Brotherhood Three."

The faintly iridescent walls fuzzed, the Shi'ar projectors altering the vast expanse of the Danger Room into a litter-strewn inner cityscape complete with sirens wailing in the distance and a broken-down pickup against the nearby kerb.

"So, this's where you ladies work up a sweat."

Both women turned to see Wolverine leaning nonchalantly against the door frame, the shining metal corridor leading away behind him shattering the holographic illusion. Casting a silently supportive glance at Helena, Storm headed for the door, acknowledging Logan with a graceful nod as she glided past. Looking around at the visually perfect simulation, he sniffed the air.

"Doesn't smell right," he observed.

At that moment, Sabretooth lumbered out from an alleyway, black eyes alight with homicidal rage. Logan started and almost popped his claws, then smiled grimly and folded his arms expectantly. Tossing him a sour glance, Helena turned to face her adversary. Avoiding a whistling swipe, she drove a clenched fist into the giant's abdomen, following through by shooting her claws. Knocked off her feet by the retaliation, she rolled to one side as a huge foot stomped down scant milimetres from her skull. Leaping back, she dived into a series of precise backflips, gathering speed until she ploughed the leonine mutant to the concrete. Dropping her full adamantium-increased weight on his chest, pinning his wrists to the floor with her feet, she slashed his throat down to the vertebrae. The pseudo-Sabretooth groaned, showed his great teeth and lay still.

"If that was the real deal, English, yer'd be the one doin' the moanin'," Logan stated flatly, pushing himself away from the door frame to take several steps inside. The door hissed shut, disappearing behind an illusive rough brick wall. "But yer good, don't remember teachin' yer a few of those tricks."

Swinging her leg over the holographic Victor Creed's chest, resisting an urge to check for a heartbeat, she stood and retracted her claws, feeling them click back into place inside her forearms. They had not spoken beyond general pleasantries and chance meetings around the school since their conversation in the woods. Astonished and uncertain, she had walked away from him, skin tingling from his touch. He had had sense enough not to follow her. She had not returned to the mansion for a long time, heading out to sit by the gently lapping lake and think. When she had finally come in, it was past lights-out and she was no closer to resolving the matter.

"You wanna see just how good?" she challenged, deciding she wanted a real flesh and blood opponent. "Or you frightened I'll make you squeal?"

Logan's eyebrows escalated, then he gave an almost-smile and unbuttoned his new denim shirt, tossing it to the floor. Striding to the centre of the illusory road, he nudged aside an empty beer can with his foot, listening as it rolled noisily away.

"I don't beat up as good as Boy Scout," he teased, rolling his shoulders.

"We'll soon see about that, m'lado. Cerebro -- programme Dojo," Helena called, finding her gaze roaming his chest. If you think taking your shirt off'll distract me, Wolvie, you've another thing coming. I know you, I know all your tricks.

The smooth, sprung wooden floor of a dojo materialized beneath their feet, the warehouses and concrete vanishing before plain plaster walls. Shirtless, arms hanging loosely by his sides, he looked ready for a cage fight, save for the absence of viciousness in his eyes.

"Anytime yer feel like, darlin'," he invited, spreading his hands, amused and looking forward to close-quarters rough and tumble.

The last syllable had barely left his lips when a right hook connected with his jaw, adamantium clanging. Containing his surprise, he blocked a flat-handed chop with his forearm and dodged an uppercut, only to fall foul of a well-placed knee to the abdomen. Breaking off, he stepped back and they circled each other, waiting and watching. Rushing at him in a surge of long, powerful limbs, she grabbed onto his shoulders and boosted herself into a flip, the momentum flinging him up and over. Wolverine landed flat on his back on the hard wooden floor as she dropped into a neat crouch, soundless as a cat.

"Dammit, Hels," he grunted breathlessly, seeing her lithe lycra-wrapped legs stalk past. "Thought we were playin'?"

She laughed as he climbed to his feet, but her eyes blazed chartreuse with slow-burning resentful fury.

"That's right, Logan -- playing. You'd like that, wouldn't you? A nice little game of 'fuck with the English girl'."

Frowning, realising she was angry, he found himself adopting a defensive position, unsure if she was of a mind to inflict real damage. She suddenly darted at him, but he was ready and spun her around, pulling her back against his chest to imprison her arms. Head wedged beneath his chin, nostrils filled with the scent of her hair, he tightened his hold as she struggled.

"Why're yer pissed?" he demanded, feeling her spine rigid against his ribcage.

Breaking free with a wordless exclamation, whirling to face him with clenched fists, long ponytail whipping, she quivered with rage. The nature of her psionic gifts meant she had to exercise rigorous mental control, constantly battling the wild side of her psyche to avoid an explosive reaction. Logan knew that like him, if she completely lost her temper, the results would be extremely destructive. He wanted to see what would happen if she lost control, wanted to be the cause of it -- but had very different circumstances in mind.

"Ten months!" she hissed. "Ten bloody months without so much as a word! I didn't know if you were alive or lying torn up in a ditch somewhere, you thoughtless bastard! Then out the blue, you stroll up, drop a bombshell and expect everything to be roses and moonlight. Well, I'm sorry, sunshine, but it doesn't work that way!"

He winced. Uh-oh, she called me 'sunshine'. I haven't got her that mad in a while.

"Look, I'm sorry, darlin', alright? Don't get yer panties in a bunch. I had some thinkin' ta do," he said, stepping forward to touch her shoulder, only for his hand to be slapped away by an unseen force.

"Yeah, and while you were doing that, I was getting on with my life here. We had a near miss in Canada, but you backed off and bumped straight into Jean Grey," she snapped, resisting a temptation to jab a finger at his chest, which would almost certainly lead to lost tempers.

"Funny, I thought you backed off an' bumped into invisi-boy," he retorted harshly, trying to control his rising temper.

Her chin came up and he realised he had touched a nerve. Even throbbing with anger, the bruising impression of her kneecap fading from his stomach muscles, he wanted her, wanted to rip apart whatever had upset her. If it had been Elliot, the solution was simple, he would have cornered him and beaten him to a bloody smear on the linoleum. The uncomfortable fact he was responsible made it less easy to resolve.

"You leave Elliot out of this!" she seethed, eyes molten jade. "I couldn't care less if you chased Jean till the cows come home."

"Yer awful angry fer someone who doesn't care," he snarled, part of him wondering what cows had to do with anything.

With an inarticulate exclamation of fury, she flew at him, filling his sensitive nose with the scent of blood as her claws burst out. Popping his own, he leapt forward to meet the attack head-on, arms opening to deflect her talons, and they both crashed heavily to the floor. Arms thrown out above her head, chest heaving, she glared up at him. Claws locked through hers, buried four inches into the solid metal of the Danger Room floor, the holographic wood flickered fitfully. Knuckle to adamantium-coated knuckle, their claws were rendered useless. He had her pinned down with his hips, legs braced against hers so she could not kick, face inches from hers. An almost tangible gathering of telekinetic power behind her eyes threatened he would shortly find himself plastered against the far wall. Feeling every hot tense curve and muscle through her thin lycra training suit was too much for Wolverine, eroding anger and common sense.

Fuck it, he thought and kissed her.

She made a furious sound, but her fingers gradually uncurled from bunched fists to lace through his. With a sibilant whisper of sharp metal, their claws retracted. Lips parting as the kiss deepened, her hands slid down his forearms, across his biceps, fingers tangling in his hair, and she melted.

So much for playing it cool and weighing my options, she thought ruefully, eyes closing, palms savouring the firm muscle down his bare back as his lips found exactly the right spot at the hollow of her throat. Oooooohhh, damn, if he carries on like this, I'll have to ravish him right here on the Danger Room floor. . .

Inhaling her scent, rubbing his nose against the delicate skin of her collarbone, he lifted his face, hazel eyes dark and shining.

"Had I best scoot before yer nail me ta the wall?" he asked, voice a low rumble.

Pale skin dusted with a light pink flush, breathing slowing down, her brows dipped and she moistened her lower lip.

"Give me a minute to think it over," she replied, pulling his mouth to hers. ". . . no, I think I like you right where you are."

He grinned wickedly and brushed a strand of purple hair from her forehead with his index finger, relieved she no longer seemed angry.

"On top?"

Hands slipping across his back and around to his chest, lingering caressingly, she suddenly flipped him over onto his back and straddled him.

"You were saying?" she demanded archly, a smile bowing her lips.

"I was sayin', I really gotta get yer outta that grey lycra." Grin widening as her right eyebrow quirked, his hands cheekily settled on her hips. "An' inta one of those outfits Marie keeps yammerin' about. . . say Saturday night, around eight?"

He chuckled at the blatant amazement washing over her features, lips parting, eyes rounding, and reached to take her hands. She knew and understood him better than anyone at the school, but he enjoyed the fact he could still surprise her.

"I mean it," he said firmly, humour subsiding. "It won't be a night at the opera, but I'm game if you are."

He waited, bringing her hands to his mouth, kissing the palms and wrists as her fingers curled about his.

"Alright, you infuriating bugger," she murmured eventually. "Saturday night it is."

Smiling mischievously, she leaned down to tease at the wild points of his hair.

"It's just as well it's not the opera."

"Yeah?"

She nodded, getting to her feet and straightening her training suit.

"The Professor's already taken Jean and I once this month -- The Marriage of Figaro."

Logan sat up, incredulous. "Yer went ta the opera with Chuck?!"

Laughing at his expression, Helena nodded, holding out her open hand. Rising into the air like it had been picked up between thumb and forefinger, his denim shirt flapped across the expanse of the Danger Room and settled over her arm. Throwing it to him, she stretched flexibly, sensing his devouring eyes.

"I'm off for a shower," she announced. "Cerebro -- resume programme Brotherhood Three from onset. Have fun. . . "

Logan barely had time to shoulder on his shirt before the sprung wooden floor roughened to coarse concrete and the illusory Creed delivered a resounding blow to his solar plexus. As the automatic door hissed shut behind her, disappearing behind a graffiti-scarred wall, he popped his claws and happily began scrapping.

Not as much as we'll be having on Saturday, darlin'. I knew all that fight money'd come in useful. . .

* * * * *

Striding up the well-trodden stairs two at a time, Elliot stepped back to allow Bobby, St John and Sam past. Seeing an orange-sized revolving fireball hovering over St John's outstretched hand, he stopped.

"Hey, put that out -- the floor's just been waxed, you'll have the whole place up if the fumes ignite."

Obligingly, Bobby pointed his index finger at the globe of fire, turning it into a giant hailstone that proceeded to bounce down the stairs. Shaking his head as the three boys chased after it with whoops and shouted warnings to people down below, Elliot continued on his way.

"He doesn't tell Wolverine not to smoke in the house," a peeved-sounding St John remarked to his friends, thinking their teacher was out of earshot. "He's just pissed 'cos Raven's blown him off."

Freezing, hand resting on the newly-polished bannister, Elliot groaned silently. Gossip seemed to travel faster than light in Xavier's School For The Gifted.

"Yeah, but would you dare tell Mr Snikt he couldn't smoke in the house?" Bobby's voice demanded, a little further down the hall, a loud thump proclaiming his near-capture of the ice ball. "And come to think of it, haven't we got a paper due in for Miss Draven?"

To Elliot's relief, the topic changed to subject papers, bibliographies, word counts and the likelihood of detention if they did not meet the deadline. Stepping onto the landing, he passed numerous doors and rounded a corner past a linen closet, approaching Helena's room. Patting his pocket, feeling the two concert tickets he had bought, he grinned.

She'll love these, he thought triumphantly. She's been wanting to go to a good old-fashioned gig for months. Like to see him top this. . .

Hearing voices as he neared, he paused and summoned his mutant power. His form grew indistinct, outline hazing like thinner poured onto an oil painting, and he disappeared. Carefully moving to the partially open door, he saw Rogue perched on the edge of the double bed, holding a neatly-typed essay.

"Ah've done that paper," she said. "Ya wouldn't believe the amounta readin' ah hadta do."

He heard Helena chuckle affectionately from somewhere in the room. She and Rogue had a relationship more similar to that of sisters than teacher-pupil.

"Broadens the mind, sweetie."

"Tires out mah eyes, more like," Rogue complained.

Standing, she ambled to the dresser and picked up a lipstick, cautiously taking off the top and examining the colour. Perfume was a notable absence amongst the usual female scattering of cosmetics and toiletries. Due to her keen sense of smell, the English mutant disliked all but the lightest of fragrances. Experimentally applying some lipstick, Rogue rubbed her lips together, decided it did not suit her colouring and reached for a tissue to blot it away. Diagonally behind her, out of Elliot's line of sight, a wardrobe door closed.

"Wow," Rogue breathed, turning away from the mirror, her brown eyes wide. "Is that new? Logan'll pop an artery when he sees ya in that. It's gorgeous."

She stepped forward, hidden behind the door. Her image visible in the mirror, she held a shimmering hank of lustrous blood-red material in her gloved hands. Holding it up, turning it this way and that, she cooed appreciatively. From his vantage point, Elliot could see it was a top of some sort.

"Who says that's for Mr Claws 'n' Attitude's benefit?" he heard Helena say, clearly amused.

Rogue folded the top over her arm and gave a weighted look, pattering forward to finger butter-soft black leather trousers.

"C'mon. D'ya think ah'm stupid?" she demanded, gloved hand on her hip indignantly. "Ah know ya've got a secret thang fer each other -- ah do have both ya memories, remember? An' Logan's been struttin' around like a turkey cock since last Sunday. Besides, ah cornered him an' asked him straight if he was plannin' on takin' ya out -- ah even told him the places ya like ta go. Though ah don't think ya'll persuade him ta go ta Club Bathoria, it'll be too much of a shock after Canadian bars."

She stopped and grinned unrepentantly, realising she had just busted herself. There was a silence, then both women began to laugh uproariously.

"Marie, sweetheart, you realise if you were anyone else I'd have to kill you?" Helena laughed.

Rogue giggled loudly in response and brandished the leather pants. "Forget what ah jus' said -- if ya wear these, ya'll have no trouble persuadin' Wolvie ta do anythin'!"

Stepping forward into view, dressed in black pants and a school-issue sweatshirt, Helena took the trousers from her, smiling. Rogue feigned trembling terror, gloved hands upraised, grinning broadly.

"You've a filthy mind, young lady," the Englishwoman reproved lightly.

"Ya shouldn't be lookin'!" Rogue protested, giggling harder.

"You shouldn't be projecting! Now scoot, I've got some serious primping to do."

Elliot felt his heart sink through his chest and drop anchor with a heavy clunk in his stomach. Suppressing a sigh, which he knew she would hear, he rubbed at his unseen brow with invisible hands. Drawing breath to chase Rogue, who showed no signs of leaving, Helena paused.

"Elliot?" she said, nostrils flaring as she caught his scent.

Inwardly wincing, realising he had been caught, he stepped a few paces back and reappeared. Strolling up to the door like he had been walking along the corridor, he stuck his head around the jamb.

"Yeah?"

Looking from one to the other, Rogue hurried past, mumbling something about Bobby and the movies. Stepping to one side to allow her past, he looked to Helena questioningly.

"Going out, Ray?" he asked neutrally, indicating the array of clothes spread on the bed with his chin.

She nodded and gathered up the clothes, opening the wardrobe door with a faint creak to hang them up.

"Yeah. I'm just about to get ready."

Elliot watched her busily placing various garments on padded hangers and folded his arms across his chest.

"With Logan?"

She barely paused, carefully shaking out a crease in a short velvet dress Rogue had snatched up and wistfully asked if she could try on.

"Yes."

"Oh."

Helena closed the wardrobe door with a click and turned to face him, head held askance, hazel green eyes dark.

"You've suddenly gone monosyllabic," she observed. "Is there a problem? You've been acting really odd this past week, even the kids have noticed."

His chin lifted, emerald eyes flashing. "You're the telepath, you work it out."

She sighed at the anger in his voice, realising it was not wholly directed at her. Flicking a glance at the door, she closed it with a telekinetic nudge, shutting out prying ears.

"Please, Elliot, don't make this an issue," she said quietly. "I haven't seen Logan for nearly a year and we've got some catching up to do. We're going out for a few drinks and a chinwag, nothing heavy."

"Don't bullshit me, he's been all over you like dog fleas since he got back!" he snapped, then made an effort to moderate his tone. "Tell me if there's something going on, Ray, I deserve to know where I stand."

She was silent for long moments, expression clouded, a dark indent marring her forehead. Bending to retrieve a dropped sock from the carpet, Wolverine's dog tags slid out from under her sweatshirt to dangle down her front. Elliot stepped forward, hooking a finger through the ball chain.

"I think that's my answer," he murmured bitterly as he let them drop. "The guy's an arrogant prick, you can do better."

"Like you, maybe?" she asked softly. "Who's the arrogant one now?"

"Yeah, me. Why the hell not?" he said firmly, jabbing his thumb at his chest for emphasis. "At least I've been here for you, not running about the backwoods of Canada."

Helena's jaw clenched and her fingers curled at her sides, an early warning that she was close to angry.

"You don't know what you're talking about. You've been here six months, and the worst thing you've faced has been teaching a class full of rowdy teenagers!"

Breaking off, the English mutant dampened down her smouldering temper. Sucking in a lungful of air, she held up her right hand and extruded all three claws, ignoring Elliot's involuntary flinch as they broke the skin. Extending to almost a foot in length, the razor adamantium shone a glacial blue.

"You see these? I absorbed these from Logan, I more or less know how I got them. He doesn't know why he has his. Somebody tied him down, shot him full of Christ knows what and surgically bolted plates of adamantium to his bones," she stated, her voice low and taut. "It hurts like a bastard each time these babies pop. So imagine the agony of having your entire skeleton coated with this shit." Her claws shot back and clicked into place within her forearms, the exit wounds sealing in moments. "They stole his memories, his life. . . that's what he was looking for in Canada -- the Professor found an abandonned base in the Rockies. Don't judge him, Elliot, you don't know him, not like I do. . . you've seen my tags, the ones I found in the hem of my coat? At some point I ended up in the same place as he did, or at least a facility very like it. I don't know what happened to me, I can't remember. So excuse me if I wear his tags -- they're the only thing that links him to his past, and he trusted me with them. I'm not going to throw that back in his face."

He looked away, green eyes shaded by a frown, inwardly kicking himself for unintentionally causing an argument. In that moment, he knew he had hardly any chance of competing with Logan. The ties of loyalty and trust alone were too strong. Early that day, he had wandered yawning into the dinner hall to find her sitting alone unhurriedly eating a bowl of cereal. It was just after seven a.m and hardly anyone was up. Before he had chance to join her, Logan had emerged from behind the counter with a plate of bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes and hash browns. Wordlessly, he had sat down opposite her and begun eating. To a casual observer, there was nothing unusual in the scene, but Elliot had not missed the way he leaned over into her personal space and inhaled her scent before taking a seat. Wolverine had smelled her like a caffiene addict with a freshly-ground cup of finest Colombian, longing to raise it to his lips and taste. Sensing Elliot's presence, she had turned and smiled in greeting, but it was not the same. Meeting his gaze over her head, the Canadian's mouth had curled upwards at the corners in a self-satisfied grin that said "game over, you lose".

"Let's not argue, Ray," he said, holding his hands up pacifyingly. "So I know jack shit, but it doesn't change the fact I don't like the guy, and yeah, I'm not above admitting it's 'cos he's chasing you. I care about you, and I don't wanna see you get hurt."

Her hazel green eyes softened, defensive-aggressive posture easing, and she gave a ghosted smile.

"I'm a big girl, El," she murmured, the familiar shortening of his name causing a deep ache above his heart. "And big girls have to make their own mistakes."

"Yeah," he agreed, then more quietly. "Yeah. . . "

Elliot turned to leave, certain that if Logan had postponed his homecoming another month, maybe more, it might have been an entirely different story. In his pocket, the concert tickets lay untouched. Bought with the best intentions, he knew offering them would only signify desperation. As he reached for the door handle, Helena caught his arm.

"Don't let this spoil things," she said, her expression earnest. "We're still friends, right?"

Swallowing his hurt and wounded pride, Elliot forced a semblance of a sunny smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Yeah," he said, reaching up to flick a wayward curl from her cheek. "For you, Ray, always."

Leaving before she could say anything more, he headed for the garage and the keys to his affectionately-restored nineteen seventies T-Bird, needing to put a large stretch of tarmac between himself and the school. There was an off-licence a few miles down the road, and he was planning on paying a visit.

* * * * *

Remy LeBeau slouched against the deep-stained oak pannels of the foyer, idly smoking a cigarette. Watching the smoke curl upwards in slowly decreasing grey spirals, he turned one of his trademark playing cards over and over in his left hand, repeatedly making it disappear through expert slight-of-hand. At twenty-three, he was a few years older than the rest of the students and was thoroughly enjoying cutting a broad swath through the resident females. He had even succeeded in making Dr Grey blush, something Bobby Drake enviously assured him only Wolverine had previously managed. After two months at Xavier's School For The Gifted, he had decided he liked it and was going to stay. Too old to study, disinclined to teach, Gambit was hankering after a place on the X-Men team. Reflecting that it was a shame the Professor was a heterosexual male immune to his considerable charms, he heard the click of high heels on varnished wood flooring and perked up.

Demonic red on black eyes glowing faintly in the evening gloom, he watched as Helena Draven, or 'Ray' as the majority of her students called her, descended the stairs.

Mon dieu, he thought, taking a drag on his cigarette, dat woman look good enough to eat wit' strawberries an' whip cream. Wonder who she all dressed-up fer?

Unbound, her gleaming hair cascaded to her waist in loose corkscrew curls, the ends bouncing as she walked. Gambit caught a subtle whiff of light perfume as she stepped into the foyer, her eyes made-up smoky, lips slicked a tempting glossy plum against her fair complexion,

She not dressed all in black. . . he noted, gaze roving up. Where she been hidin' those legs?

Almost invariably dressed in combat pants, jeans or long skirts when she taught classes, Remy had not seen her in mufti. Head tipping to one side, a lock of his untidy sandy red hair escaping from behind his ear, he pursed his lips. Long slim legs sheathed to the knee in slinky dagger-heeled boots, she wore a short, unadorned black leather skirt and a shimmering crimson strapless bustier that came to an exaggerated point over each breast. As always, her taste in clothes was distinctive and verging on the eccentric, but Remy wholeheartedly approved. Smoothing down his hair, the Cajun stepped out of the shadows.

"Gambit t'ink he died an' gone ta heaven," he announced, eyes twinkling devilishly. "Who kidnap de teacher an' replace her wit' la belle?"

She turned and favoured him with a tolerantly amused smile. Remy knew she had him figured out, but it did not stop him from trying, especially as he could see she was mildly flattered. Encouraged, he gave his famous heart-stopping grin and took up her hand, placing a lingering kiss across the knuckles.

"Now you all dressed fine, Remy t'ink he take you out ta dinner," he said, executing a small bow.

Helena laughed as he magicked away his cigarette and replaced it with the keys to his red BMW convertible.

"Sorry, Remy, you'll have to find some other gullible heart to steal," she chuckled.

Feigning a deeply-wounded expression, he sighed and dropped his keys back into the pocket of his dark khaki pants, retrieving the cigarette and relighting it with a touch of his fingertip. Gifted with the ability to charge any object with biokinetic energy that exploded on impact, the ex-thief already had almost complete mastery of his mutant power at a relatively young age. A skilled acrobatic fighter, his favoured weapons were a deck of cards that he charged and threw with deadly accuracy.

"Ah, rejected," he mourned with a flourish. "Guess we'll have to keep our dates to de Danger Room, neh, chere?"

Raven nodded mock-solemnly, unable to keep a smile from her lips. Effortlessly, dangerously charming and debonair, the young Cajun was jostling for a place on the Most Fanciable Male plinth with Elliot. Wherever he went, gaggles of girls appeared, simpering and whispering. He had turned his dazzling charm on every woman of eighteen or over, even managing to coax something resembling a giggle from the serene Storm.

"Monday night, seven o'clock sharp -- the Professor wants more aptitude tests."

Gambit gave a peculiarly Gallic little shrug, "If de Professor want me ta kick de ladies' petite derrières, who am I ta argue?"

Helena laughed again, twisting the heavy antique white gold and ruby ring on her right hand that had been a birthday gift from the Professor.

"Don't count your chickens just yet, Romeo, I'm gonna ask Logan to sit in," she warned.

"Ah. . . de guy wit' claws like you an' de nasty temper?"

"The one and only."

Remy looked momentarily crestfallen at the thought of having to share a Danger Room session with Wolverine. He had been enjoying showing off to Raven, Storm and Jean under the watchful eyes of the Professor and Cyclops, albeit he had earned several large bruises and a dislocated shoulder along the way. From what he had heard and seen of the gruff Canadian, it would not be an easy ride.

"Enough about business," he declared. "Which lucky man have de honour of takin' out such a beautiful lady tonight?"

"Me," a voice growled behind him.

Turning, Gambit got the impression if he offered his hand it would be bitten off. There was a certain threatening gleam to Wolverine's hazel eyes that told him he was not pleased by his smooth talking.

"Don't believe dat we been formally introduced, mon ami," he observed calmly.

"Name's Logan, an' I know what yer about, Gumbo -- now get lost."

Amiably spreading his hands, Remy nodded politely to the English mutant and casually sauntered away, flicking his half-finished cigarette into an ashtray mounted in the neck of an antique urn near the main door. The smoking stub exploded in a puff of orange energy and flying sparks. Unimpressed, Logan watched to make sure he had gone. Feeling a warm female arm slip through his, he looked around.

"There's no harm in Remy," Helena murmured. "He's like that with everything vaguely female. The time to worry is when he stops trying to sweet-talk women."

Logan scowled, but was distracted by her fingers running across his cheek and clean chin. Abruptly, he forgot all about Remy LeBeau, the entirety of his attention commanded by the owner of the hand at his cheek.

"You had a shave?" she asked with a soft, disbelieving chuckle, fingering his newly-clipped muttonchops. "And what's this, a new shirt?"

"Yeah," he affirmed as she toyed with the collar of his dark blue shirt. "Was startin' ta look a little wild."

"You are a little wild, Wolvie," she said, plum lips curving. "That's why I like you."

"Just a little?" he grinned with a quiet, almost playful growl. Wolvie? That's a new one. . .

"Maybe this much," she allowed, holding her thumb and index finger a centimetre apart.

He gave one of his rare laughs, sliding his palms down her arms to catch her hands. She smelled wonderful, natural scent set off by a delicate flower-based perfume. Leaning forward to inhale a little deeper, to press his face to the inviting curve of her neck and bare shoulder, he reminded himself he had decided to do things properly and pulled back. He would not paw at her like some kind of animal.

"Yer look gorgeous, Hels," he said, eyes appreciatively travelling from crown to ankles and back again. "I'd definitely remember if I'd seen yer wearin'. . . "

Discovering the right words were not forthcoming, he trailed off and gestured helplessly at her outfit, rubbing his chin with the palm of his hand. She laughed at his expression, the sound caressing his sensitive ears.

"Who needs Remy's flowery drivel?" she smiled. His face is an absolute picture, and a thousand words couldn't say more. . .

Offering his arm in a gentlemanly fashion completely unlike his usual brusqueness, Logan led the way towards the vast, airy garage with a roguish glint in his hazel eyes. Intrigued, Helena could not contain her laughter when he passed the Explorers and battered Volkswagons used by all and sundry and produced the keys to Scott Summer's metallic blue Porsche.

"Cyke'll bust a blood vessel!" she exclaimed, seeing her distorted reflection in the adoringly-polished bodywork.

"Won't he just?" Logan grinned wolfishly, patting the glistening hood of the sports car.

"I'm not even gonna ask how you managed to get those keys," she said with a roll of her eyes.

Peering into the interior of the two-seater, inhaling the scent of leather and motor oil, the two mutants exchanged grins. Opening the door for her, Logan walked around the front and jumped behind the wheel. Sliding into the passenger seat, hearing the soft black leather sigh beneath her weight, Helena fixed her gaze on the garage door control. With a muted clank of machinery, it began to open, allowing in the cool evening air. Turning the key in the ignition, Logan frowned slightly, studying the walnut dashboard.

"Looking for this?" she asked above the tiger purr of the engine, flipping up a hidden facing to reveal a red button.

A slow smile spread across Wolverine's bearded face and he all but rubbed his hands together with undisguised glee. The 'turbo' mechanism on Cyclops' motorcycle nearly doubled its top speed and the prospect of a similar function on the sleek Porsche pleased him no end.

"One Eye let yer drive his precious car?" he asked, an eyebrow quirking in surprise.

"Yep," she nodded, mouth curling in a mischievous grin. "Only the once, mind you."

"Yer used the button, didn't yer?" he said, looping a purple curl of her hair around his index finger, frankly allowing his gaze to roam along the length of her legs.

"Oh, yes," she chuckled. "I think his exact words were 'the speed limit is not a suggested minimum'. . . he threw such a paddy I had to beat it outta him in the Danger Room. I mean, there was only one little scratch on the bodywork."

Logan threw back his head and roared with laughter, something she had not seen him do before, pounding the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. He was still laughing as the Porsche pulled out of the garage and screeched down the drive, churning up great sprays of gravel in its wake. As soon as they were safely out of Greymalkin Lane, he glanced over at Helena, winked and reached to press the red button.

* * * * *

The green-dreadlocked barkeeper watched as the large muttonchop-bearded Canadian bent over the pool table to line up a shot, a cigar stuck between the knuckles of his left hand. He had not seen him before, although his companion, a tall young Englishwoman with a fondness for elaborate footwear, was a fairly regular patron. He recognised her straight away, her accent as different from New York drawl as crystal from plastic. Over three dozen empty shot glasses littered a nearby table. They had been steadily drinking straight whisky since they arrived some four hours earlier and neither one showed any signs of inebriation. The barman thought they were rampant alcoholics or some sort of mutants. Either was fine by him as long as they did not break the furniture or upset the other customers.

He grinned as the Englishwoman set down her drink and naughtily pinched the Canadian's backside as he took his shot, throwing him completely. The cue skittered across the purple felt, scattering red and yellow balls in all directions. Like most of his profession, the barman was a people-watcher and a fair judge of character. He had the feeling if anybody else tried a stunt like that, they would end up wearing the pool cue as a necklace. Growling like an irate bear, the Canadian reared up and grabbed her about the waist, swinging her off her feet and into his arms. Laughing, her long purple hair a swirling cloud behind her, she took hold of his sideburns and tugged them hard, his face ending up pressed to her cleavage.

"Hey, they ain't conveniently placed handles, Hels," he grumbled, looking far from displeased.

"So sue me," she countered, retrieving her glass, slowly licking the whisky film from the rim.

The barman grinned again, seeing how the Canadian's hazel eyes followed the movement, his pupils visibly dilating. Mixing a Black Russian, the barman continued to watch, amused by the palpable, crackling chemistry between the two.

"Boy, does he have it bad for her," he commented to his colleague, a feline-eyed mutant woman with delicately pointed ears and retractable nails who was on the return journey from the till.

"Yeah, but no worse than she has it for him," she observed, drumming her sharp, black-lacquered nails on the faux ebony bar top. "She's gonna eat him up and spit out the pips. I like her bustier. . . wonder if she got it from Hot To Trot?"

Further speculation on clothing and relationships was suspended by the emergence of their boss from the backroom. Hastily, both busied themselves, stepping forward to serve more customers. The bar was crowded, but not overly so, sporting a mixed clientele of normals and mutants. Located in a sidestreet in the bohemian SoHo neighbourhood of Manhattan, it catered for every subcultural clique in New York state. Old film posters, framed stills and obscure album covers decorated the cream plaster walls, contrasting with the black wooden bar and varnished floor. It was a haven for performance artists, poets, rebellious youths, bikers and mutants. Too wonderfully odd for the fashionable set, yet not run-down enough to be considered a dive, it defiantly straddled the divide, a quirky semi-anachronism.

Regarding the disarrayed balls on the pool table, Logan decided against racking them up for another game. With each game, he found he was having increasing difficulty concentrating and he did not mind a bit. They had played four times, interspersing shots with drinks, conversation and shamelessly intense flirting.

"Lost your edge there, bub?" Helena teased, rolling the remaining balls across the vibrant purple felt to the pockets, listening as they clicked against each other in the bowels of the table. "Afraid I'll whop your arse again?"

"So that's what yer've been doin' all night when I bend over the table?" he joked with a fleeting grin.

She shrugged casually. "I can't help it, my hands have a mind of their own. . . after all, it was your idea to play pool."

He chuckled deep in his chest, gaze wandering to her short leather skirt. It had taken a great deal of self-control to merely watch as she draped herself across the table to take her shots, the pink tip of her tongue unconsciously held between her teeth as she squinted with concentration. Quickly losing the battle, he had taken to stepping up behind her and leaning over to help her line up shots. Pressed snugly against her back, hips flush with hers, he covered her slender hands with his large rough ones, chin resting on her bare shoulder as he murmured instructions into her ear. She had listened, leaning back into him and lazily smiling as his lips brushed her skin. They both knew she was a good pool player.

The music thumping from the jukebox faded to something slow and moody by one of the new soft rock revivalist bands. Smoke-shaded eyes sliding towards him as she leaned back on her palms on the edge of the pool table, Helena inclined her head.

"You dance?" she enquired, her voice low and inviting.

"I do tonight," he breathed, depositing his smoking cigar stub in a nearby glass ashtray.

"But if I tell anyone, I'm in trouble, right?" she asked archly, winding herself into his arms.

"A whole world o' trouble," he rumbled, one hand sliding down to her waist to pull her closer. "I got an image ta protect."

Looping her arms around his neck, she laughed quietly, her peach-down cheek against his beard as they swayed in time to the music. Pressed close, he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the slide of muscle and curves beneath. Dipping his head, he inhaled the scent of her hair, her earlobe soft against his lips. Suddenly feeling an intoxication that had nothing to do with the amount of whisky he had drank, he felt a subtle movement of her throat and realised she was purring. Of its own volition, his hand slipped a little lower, thick fingers moulding to the leather-sheathed curve of her buttock.

"Yer smell good," he said, mouth close to her ear, tone hushed and almost smooth. "And if it weren't fer all these people, darlin', I'd be doin' my damnedest ta find out if yer taste as hot as yer look."

Heartbeat accelerating at the passion in his voice and thoughts, her sensitive nose filled with his scent, she pulled back and kissed him long and deep. The breath catching in his throat, Logan felt something tugging in the pocket of his black jeans and caught a glint of metal as the keys to the Porsche emerged, stealthily floating up into her waiting hand.

"Let's go home," she whispered, eyes darkly promising. "Now."

* * * * *

Jean Grey was having difficulty sleeping, an annoyance that afflicted all telepaths from time to time. The amount of sexual tension and rampant male pride in the mansion since Wolverine had swaggered home was enough to give anyone a headache. She had taken a long hot bath complete with lavender and rose oil, both known for their relaxing properties, and then had Scott give her a massage. What followed the massage had led to an extremely satisfied Cyclops dozing off, his ruby-quartz glasses slightly askew. He had not yet discovered his Porsche was missing, something Jean had neglected to tell him. She had seen the metallic blue sports car roaring down the driveway, hearing the distinctive high-pitched whine as the turbo mechanism kicked in some distance outside the school gates. It did not take a genius or a telepath to know who was driving.

I love you, Scott, she thought with amusement. But you've some strange ways of thinking.

The red-haired doctor knew he was relieved Logan had got over his lust, but also secretly vexed as he thought his fiancée was a highly desirable woman and wondered what kind of man could suddenly not want her.

I'm not surprised he came back for Helena. Ignoring the practical reasons, Logan being Logan, just followed his instincts.

Smiling to herself, sitting along in the darkened rec room, her feet propped up on a corpulent red and green beanbag, she sipped a cup of milky hot chocolate. In ten months she had come to know, like and respect Helena Draven and had always half-expected Logan to return because of her. Flattering as his interest in her was, Jean had never thought it was anything other than transitory. His feelings for Helena ran deeper than simple lust. The English mutant balanced her animalistic senses and instincts with a ready intellect and unconventional personality, just as happy making polite conversation with the Professor's academic peers as prowling the club scene of New York. Mostly hidden, they were made starkly apparent in extremes of emotion. Almost always easygoing, the sudden change if she was driven to anger was terrifying. Her classes were remarkably well-behaved as a result. Nobody cared to get in Miss Draven's bad books. Despite her apparent openness, her past was as enigmatic as Wolverine's, her very mutant status a reminder of the mystery. All the Professor's investigations into her life before the year two thousand had drawn resounding blanks. Somebody seemed to have gone to a lot of trouble to erase the usual paper trail of records left by the average person.

Leaning back in the fat-cushioned sofa, Jean mulled over this and other issues, as she was prone to do when sleeplessness struck. It was after three a.m and everyone was safely tucked up in bed. The mansion was blessedly, eerily silent, devoid of running feet, chattering voices and the small everyday disasters caused by unpredictable mutant powers. Jean had been awake since before two and wandered downstairs in her green silk robe and matching slippers, knowing from past experience that tossing and turning seldom eased insomnia. She had heard Elliot stumbling his way past her door sometime after one a.m., trailing vodka fumes and hurt pride. He would probably raid the infirmary's drug cabinet for painkillers and Peptobismol come the morning.

Bad luck, Elliot, she thought, blowing on her steaming hot chocolate. At least you were let down gently, which is better than finding Logan's claws at your throat.

Stretching her legs, she yawned and contemplated returning to bed to curl herself around Scott's sleeping form. Often when she could not sleep, she simply lay and watched her fiance do so, listening to his regular slumbering breaths. Sometimes it did the trick and lulled her busy mind enough to allow her to join him. An interior door slammed, loud in the noiselessness, and Jean jumped, almost spilling her drink. She reached out with her limited telepathy, but did not sense any hostile intentions. Female laughter toned for seduction echoed in the foyer, closely followed by a low, purring growl. Two fleet shadows passed the partially-open rec room door, the smaller of the two carrying what appeared to be a pair of tall high-heeled boots slung over their shoulder.

Quietly getting up from the sofa, placing her cup on the floor, Jean belted her robe and crept to the door to peek out. She was just in time to see Logan non-too gently haul Helena into his arms and begin eagerly, hungrily kissing her. Boots dropping from her hands to clatter unheeded to the polished floor, she responded in kind, wrapping herself around him. Stifling a chuckle when the buttons on Logan's shirt began to pop, seemingly of their own accord, Jean stepped away from the door as his large hand slid up Raven's thigh and under her skirt.

That's certainly creative, she thought dryly, feeling her cheeks redden in the dark as she caught a flash of what Logan was thinking. Thank God there's not many telepaths amongst the students.

Not wanting to live up to a telepath's reputation as a voyeur, she increased her mental shields to keep out the intense projections of aroused lust. Hearing several muted pings as the plastic shirt buttons hit various objects around the foyer, she bit her lip and prayed they would continue elsewhere before she laughed and gave herself away or they caught her scent.

Manoeuvring towards the stairs, stockinged feet skating over the smooth floor, Helena backed into a wood-cladded pillar. Pinned against the cool wood as Logan traced hot tongue kisses down her neck and the upper swell of her breasts, her free hand slipped inside his shirt, exploring, caressing. Fingers stroking lower, playing over the defined muscle, circling his hardening nipple, she dipped below the waistband. He groaned as her fingers found him, a wildly feral sound that increased her excitement and rapidly spiralling need. Allowing carnal pheromones to fill her, eyes closing at the heady deluge of sensations afforded by her augmented mutant senses, she felt him grope for the zip on her bustier.

"Not here," she managed to say, feeling him burning and urgent as she battled the incitement of her animal self. "One of the kids might be up."

"Hels. . . " he said raggedly, hazel eyes ablaze, each breath shuddering.

Shaping the firm contours of his stomach and chest, delighting in how he responded to her touch, she lowered her head. Tracing the pectoral muscle with the moist tip of her tongue, teasing the nipple with the silver stud, she nipped hard enough to make him gasp.

"How fast can you run?" she whispered, popping a single claw to run it slowly down his chest to his navel.

"Fast enough ta catch yer, darlin'," he assured huskily, hearing sharp adamantium meet his belt buckle with a faint clink.

"We'll see," she purred, lips curving as she retracted the claw.

Kissing him fiercely, she turned in a whirl of purple hair and broke into a sprint, taking the stairs three at a time. With a soft growl, his buttonless shirt flapping, Logan lost no time giving chase, following her tantalising scent. When the thunder of feet died away, Jean cautiously emerged from the rec room. Leaning back on the doorframe, she blew out a long, thankful breath. Somewhere upstairs a door slammed, the sound muffled by distance. Feeling something hard beneath the pliant sole of her slipper, she lifted her right foot to see a shirt button and rolled her eyes. Unable to suppress a smile, she pattered across the polished wooden floor and bent to retrieve the discarded boots. Somebody was bound to come looking for them in the morning.

* * * * *

Encroaching through gaps in the curtains, golden rods of sunlight steadily lengthened as morning wore on. Creeping across the carpet and onto the bedcovers, they gradually moved over Logan's sleeping face. Hazel eyes flickering open, his gaze dropped to the tousled curly head resting contentedly on his chest. Pillowed above his heart, lashes a dark feathered crescent against her cheek, she breathed slowly and regularly, fingers curled at his shoulder. For some minutes, he simply lay and listened to her heart beating, marvelling at the satisfaction it gave him. It felt strange to wake with someone lying trustingly in his arms. He could not recall it happening before, which was as he had preferred it, and admitted to himself he had missed something incomparable.

Drowsily comfortable and more relaxed than he could ever remember, hands resting easily at the hollow of her back, he luxuriated in the feeling of her warm flesh against his own. Inhaling her scent, now almost indistinguishably mixed with his, he kissed the crown of her head.

Yer mine now, he thought with a flush of pleasure, watching as she shifted in her sleep. An' knowin' yer've got instincts like mine, darlin', yer've probably got me marked as yer personal boy-toy territory too.

Running a hand up the length of her spine, describing small circles with his fingertips over her shoulder blades, he caressed her face. A tingling knot formed in the pit of his stomach as she sighed and nestled her cheek in his palm, sleepy soft hazel green eyes opening. A lazy smile bowed her lips and she moved up to kiss him.

"Morning," she murmured, stretching against him like a cat.

"Closer ta afternoon now," he corrected, brushing a lock of hair away from her forehead. "Judgin' by the amounta people about."

She began to chuckle, momentarily pressing her face to his shoulder. Feeling an uncharacteristic grin form, Logan raised an eyebrow, caressing her cheek with his thumb.

"What?"

"I've just remembered," she began, unsuccessfully trying to keep a straight face. "I left my boots in the foyer, and I think there's every button off your shirt too."

Laughing with her as she projected a mental image of Cyclops tripping over her boots and falling on his backside, he gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Tired?" she asked mischievously, palm sliding across his chest.

"Didn't do much sleepin', darlin'," he returned dryly.

"Mmmmm," she agreed coyly, the look in her eyes containing such playful sensuousness he felt his heart begin to trip.

Head turning towards the closed door, an eyebrow quirking, she grinned and propped her chin on her folded hands.

"You hear that?" she asked.

"Yup, sounds like we got us some eavesdroppers."

A furor of rapid whispering sounded just outside the stained oak panelled door. Listening with supersensitive ears, Helena made out the voices of Bobby, Sam, St John and Jubilee as they debated whether or not the room was occupied and the likelihood of Logan being in there.

"You knock!" Jubilee urged.

"I ain't knockin'," Sam Guthrie's Kentucky drawl returned.

"Dammit, Cannonball, the public has a right to know!" Jubilee seethed to the sound of the others worriedly shushing her.

"Jeez, you sound like Senator Kelly," St John winced.

"Have mutants been recklessly fornicating behind this very door?" Jubilee intoned, mimicking the pompous, self-righteous tones of the anti-mutant campaigner.

"Forni-wha'?" Sam asked, clearly puzzled.

"Screwing to you, hayseed."

A thunderous frown gathering darkly on his brow, Logan propped himself up on his elbows, hair disarrayed. Rolling out of his arms onto her back, Helena suppressed a smile as he slithered out of bed and stomped towards the door.

"Logan," she hissed, pausing to admire the view before beckoning him back. "Trousers!"

Belatedly remembering he was stark naked, he caught the pants she threw to him and pulled them on. Crossing to the door, he rolled his neck, head tipped to one side as he listened to the whispering and gossiping on the other side.

"Uh, guys," came Bobby's anxious voice, filled with dawning realisation. "Y'know Rogue reminded us they've both got souped-up senses? Well, any of you geniuses thought they might--"

"Hear yer prattlin', kid?" Logan demanded, flinging open the door.

Sudden guilty terror blanching their features at the sight of a half-naked, glaring Wolverine, the four teenagers fell back in a welter of shock. Crystal blue eyes popping, Bobby turned tail and fled in a flurry of snowflakes, closely followed by Sam, who just managed not to energy-propel himself through the nearest wall. Jubilee let out a high-pitched squeal and collided with St John, sending them both tumbling to the floor in a tangle of twitching limbs, billowing flame and dancing multi-coloured light motes. Towering over them, Logan pointed down the corridor.

"Beat it," he ordered. "If I catch yer snoopin' where yer shouldn't again. . . " He balled his right hand to the distinctive sound of 'snikt'.

Audibly gulping, scrambling over each other in an effort to get away, Jubilee and St John stampeded down the corridor like they were being chased by rabid dogs. As soon as they were out of sight, he retracted his claws and grinned evilly, closing the door.

"I think you enjoyed that a bit too much," Helena commented from the bed. Lounging on her stomach with her ankles crossed above her backside, she idly wiggled her toes, her dog tags jingling quietly with the movement.

"It's mutant power," he quoted, sitting on the side of the bed, unable to resist running his hand along her bare back and rump. Leaning down, he placed a kiss on the small of her back and grinned. "I call it 'superbastardness'."

Laughing, she jumped up and stretched, arms held above her head. Transfixed by the play of rich golden sunlight over her creamy skin, Logan found his feet carrying him towards her. Examining a snarled knot in her dishevilled hair, she turned towards the bathroom.

"I need a shower," she announced, unconsciously projecting thoughts of hot water, soapsuds and the likelihood of them both fitting into the shower cabinet. "Coming, Wolvie?"

* * * * *

"So the significance of the Pentangle in Gawain's quest is what. . . Mr Drake?"

Bobby took the chewed tip of his pen out of his mouth and blinked. "Huh?"

The class tittered nervously and all heads swivelled towards the blond teenager. Aware of the sudden scrutinty, realising he had been caught not paying attention, he swallowed and summoned a weak grin.

"I don't think 'huh' covers it, Bobby," Miss Draven said coolly. "You did do the reading, didn't you?"

"Um, yeah!" he assured, nodding furiously.

Raven's hazel green eyes narrowed, which her students knew was not a good sign. Bobby inwardly cringed and searched his memory, cursing himself for only completing half the reading. Although Raven had not said a single word concerning the incident a fortnight previously when he, Sam, St John and Jubilee were caught listening at her bedroom door, he was convinced she was asking them difficult questions in class on purpose. Wolverine's attitude since then had been considerably less forgiving. He growled menacingly whenever he saw the hapless teenagers and Bobby was sure he was not teasing.

"So. . . ?" Raven prodded, perching on the edge of her desk to swing her heavy New Rock boots.

Fortunately for Bobby, the bell rang shrilly in the corridor, declaring the end of the lesson and the school day. The neat rows of students exploded with fervent activity as papers were gathered, pens put away and friends called to across the classroom.

"Okay, that's all for today," Raven called over the noise. "Next lesson we'll be watching 'Excalibur' to get a better feel for Arthurian England. . . I heard that, Jubes -- it may be an 'ancient' film, but it's relevant to what you're learning. . . No, Sam, we can't stage a joust on the basketball court. . . Yeah, it would be fun, but Mr Summers wouldn't appreciate his Phys-Ed lesson being interrupted."

"Saved by the bell, huh, ice-man?" St John muttered as he collected his books together.

Bobby nodded thankfully, keen to get out of the way before the teacher decided to inflict further torture in the form of extra reading. Hurriedly stuffing his pencil case into his bag, he leapt over the desk and away into the chattering throngs.

Watching as a dozen or so lively teenagers squeezed themselves through the door three at a time, Helena smiled and telekinetically righted an overturned chair. She had somewhat enjoyed taking a little harmless revenge on her overly-inquisitive students, as had Logan. He had thoroughly relished scaring them at every turn with his repertoire of growls, snarls and glares. In their terror, none of them noticed the grin that tugged the corners of his mouth each time he caused them to gape, pale and hurry away. Gathering her lesson notes together, she looked up as Elliot sauntered into the room, hands thrust into the pockets of his faded black jeans.

"Hey," he greeted.

"Hey yourself," she returned amiably. "How's tricks?"

He shrugged with forced casualness, expression neutral. "Okay, I guess. None of the kids have blown up any equipment this week, so we're doing well. . . How're you?"

Helena looked him over, lightly brushing the perimeters of his mind. They had not spoken outside of classes for over a week, and what short conversations they had were strained. The Brooklyn-born mutant had stayed out of the way, knowing that his presence would provoke Logan, who was invariably with her outside school hours. Knowing that any confrontation would anger and upset her, he had avoided it, despite how he felt.

"I'm fine," she said softly, discerning the hidden subtext to his words.

Elliot's vivid green eyes dropped and he nodded, running a hand through his long shiny black hair. The school grapevine had kept him informed of happenings, but he knew better than to believe everything he heard. He had seen Logan while out jogging around the lakeshore and learned more than he wanted to through the Canadian mutant's silent grin of triumph. Wolverine did not need to say anything to rub his nose in it, he merely gave his usual challenging stare accompanied by a teeth-showing grin and cantered off.

"Good," he said crisply. "I was just, uh, checking, y'know?"

"Yeah," she murmured. "Thanks, El. You're a better man than most."

"Yeah?" he smiled self-depreciatingly, making it a joke. "Hey, I don't owe you money or anything, do I?" But not better than him, not to you. If he breaks your heart, I'll kill him, fuck those metal claws of his. He can't stab what he can't see.

She laughed, immediately easing the uncomfortable atmosphere between them.

"Cut it out," she chuckled.

They smiled at each other, unresolved issues temporarily set aside. Three nights previously, he had arrived at the rec room for the weekly video club, armed with a giant bag of popcorn and litre bottle of Sprite. Clusters of teenagers lounged on the floor before the large widescreen television, or lolled on beanbags and easy chairs. Searching for a seat, Elliot had spotted Logan slouching on the sofa. He had thought the Canadian mutant was alone until he saw a dark curly head resting comfortably on his shoulder. An arm looped about Helena's shoulders, he had absently stroked her brow with the ball of his thumb as he watched the film, a half-full mug of coffee in his free hand. Elliot had quietly taken a seat near to Gambit, who had thrown him a weighted glance with red black eyes that glowed in the unlit room.

"Some advice, mon ami," Remy had whispered, mindful of both clawed mutant's sharp hearing. "Leave dis one be -- take it from one who knows."

Elliot could not bring himself to dislike her because she had rejected him in favour of another, but each time he saw Logan, he thought of him touching her and his stomach clenched. Stepping forward, he touched her arm.

"If things don't work out between you and him," he said earnestly. "You can always come talk to me."

Before Helena could respond, Elliot caught the whiff of a lit cigar and looked over his shoulder to see Logan standing just inside the doorway, scowling a black line.

"What goes on between her an' me is our business, invisi-boy," he rumbled, his acute hearing having picked up on the conversation while he was still halfway down the corridor. "If it ain't enough we got the damn kids gossipin', we got you stickin' yer nose in."

Abruptly tired of avoiding the inevitable confrontation, Elliot turned to face the clawed mutant, irritation and growing anger brightening the colour of his eyes.

"So it's 'we' now?" he drawled coldly. "How long before you get bored, or scared, and decide to run back to Canada with your safe, solitary 'I'?"

Wolverine's shoulders bunched, compact muscle sheathing adamantium bone, his brows dipping low over the bridge of his nose. Unwilling to back down, Elliot glared back at him, back braced ready to move. It was an unequal match that would end with someone seriously hurt, and that someone would not be Logan.

"Logan, don't," Helena said calmly, seeing a certain baleful light in his hazel eyes. 'Elliot, for Chrissake, don't provoke him -- he's on a hair trigger at the best of times. Jean has enough to do without stitching you back together.'

Hearing her telepathic voice echo loudly in his head, the volume indicative of her concern, the New Yorker set his jaw stubbornly, maintaining eye contact with his competitor. The only fights he had witnessed were in the controlled environment of the Danger Room or glimpses of crime-related violence in the rougher parts of New York. He had no real concept of the damage a trained fighter could do, mutant or otherwise.

"Hels likes yer, an' that's all that's savin' yer from a world o' hurt," Wolverine ground out, controlling his temper with difficulty. "Now get out before I change my mind an' rearrange that pretty face of yours."

'El, please, just go. You've made your point. He's not kidding, believe me.'

Standing tall, Elliot strode towards the door, pausing when he was on the threshold. Turning, his features in profile against the spill of light from the airy corridor, he leaned close to the volatile Canadian's ear.

"You hurt her, bub, and I'll be there to make sure you don't get away with it. You let her slip through your fingers and I'll catch her."

Wincing, Helena barely had time to take a step before Logan let out a razor snarl of fury and lunged. Tempestuous hazel eyes blazing, he snatched the younger man off his feet and slammed him into the wall. Left hand scrunching Elliot's collar, the right snapped up, the outermost claws shooting out to pincer his throat, the central adamantium spike slowly extending until it touched skin. Breathing harsh and fast, feeling a warm trickle down his throat as the sharp metal tip broke the skin, Elliot laughed hollowly.

"What you gonna do, Wolverine?" he demanded, face white. "Prove that you're a grunting animal by taking out your frustration on me?"

He pointed with his chin over Logan's shoulder at Helena, blood beginning to pool at his collarbone. Eyes pained, she looked wordlessly back at him.

"D'you think she'll congratulate you if you slash me to pieces? You think she'll want anything to do with you?"

Feeling her hand on his shoulder, silently urging restraint, Logan ground his teeth, torn between the dictates of his intelligence and the feral instinct to eliminate a rival. Growling darkly under his breath, he retracted his claws, the exit wounds sealing like a pulled zipper. Some of the colour returning to his cheeks, Elliot gathered his dignity and straightened his clothes. He looked to Helena, whose features were pinched with angry sadness.

"Just go, Elliot," she said frostily. 'Before I kick your arse myself, you prat.'

Without another word, he faded from visibility, outline sketched in negative greys before disappearing completely. The quiet sound of his soft-soled sneakers padded away down the corridor, audible only to a careful listener. Sighing, Helena rubbed her forehead distractedly.

"Invisi-boy got some guts, considerin' I could whup his ass with both hands tied behind my back," Logan remarked around his cigar, shooting a glare through the classroom wall. "But he's beggin' ta get some extra holes put in him."

"Shut up and stop acting Alpha Male," Helena growled, scowling at him. "Honestly, you're worse than a pair of kids. I don't want to spend my time worrying that you're gonna slice and dice Elliot every time he says hello."

Logan's eyebrows escalated and he took his cigar out of his mouth. He was not used to anyone ordering him to shut up. Most people did not dare. Reflecting that ten months teaching class at Mutant High and taking orders from Cyclops had not dampened her fire, he cocked his head.

"You pissed at me?"

"I'm pissed at both of you," she stated, folding her arms. "And I'm telling you now -- not asking, telling. You lay a finger on Elliot and I'll kick your tight little arse so hard you'll be wearing your gonads as earrings. And before you get any silly ideas into that thick adamantium skull of yours, I'm gonna tell him exactly the same thing."

Eyebrows rising a little further with astonishment as he realised she meant what she said, he shook his head, wondering if he would ever understand women. Knowing from past experience that if he became angry, it would only start a headache-inducing slanging match, he tried a different tack.

"Yeah, but if yer kick my ass that hard, darlin', just think of all the fun yer'll be deprivin' yerself of," he said with an almost-smile, stepping forward to frame her slim waist with his hands.

"Oh, no you don't," she frowned as he pulled her closer and nuzzled her neck. "You're not getting around me that way. Making puppy dog eyes won't do diddly squat."

"Yeah?" he murmured, nipping her earlobe.

"Yeah," she echoed, cursing herself as she sounded less than convincing.

He chuckled throatily, telling her that her heartbeat and scent had given her away.

"Bastard," she said between kisses, frowning as he made her smile.

"That's me, English," he agreed, tipping her chin to capture her mouth with his.

'Helena, Logan, would you kindly meet me in the War Room as soon as possible.'

Looking up as Professor Xavier's paternal, educated English voice reverberated in their heads, the two mutants exchanged glances. There was no need for a school PA system with the world's most powerful telepath in residence.

'On our way, Professor,' Helena sent. 'What's up?'

Waiting impatiently as a silent conversation took place, Logan rocked on his heels and rubbed at his muttonchop beard, grinding out his cigar in the palm of his hand. Tossing the extinguished stub into the waste paper bin, he watched for several seconds to make sure it did not reignite.

"Spill," he grunted, seeing her expression grow sober.

"It's the disks you brought back from Canada," she said. "Charles has managed to get something from them."

* * * * *

The gleaming space-age doors of the War Room hissed open before the two clawed mutants, revealing the Professor, Cyclops, Storm and Jean gathered around the bank of instrument pannels at the base of the overhead screen. At their entrance, Xavier turned his wheelchair and droned forward, motioning for them to sit down. Logan slung himself into one of the sturdy adjustable chairs with seeming insouciance, but the Professor could sense profound excitement layered with anxiety. Turning his telepathic focus to Helena, who had quietly sat next to Logan, he detected spectral emanations of similar emotions that were almost completely hidden by her mental shields.

"Whatcha got, Chuck?" Wolverine asked curtly, ignoring Cyclops visible bridling at his overly familiar form of address.

Noticing Jean did not give her usual half-suppressed smile at the mild antagonism between the two men, Helena knew that whatever the Professor had discovered was serious. Brisk in her starched labcoat, auburn hair piled on top of her head, Jean nodded to her. Shifting position slightly, Helena waited for the revelation.

"A number of things," Xavier began. "Most of the information on the disks you found at Alkali Lake is incomplete or irreparably damaged, but we've reconstructed some of the contents."

At his gesture, Cyclops leaned forward and pressed a pad on the console, activating the large rectangular viewscreen. Flickering fitfully, a document scrolled up, magnified many times above normal. Most of the text was corrupted, garbled beyond recognition, but the phrase 'Weapon X' was recurring.

"From what we can gather, the Alkali Lake installation was used by the Canadian government in a covert weapons project between nineteen seventy and the early noughties," Scott said, impassive behind his ruby quartz lenses. "It was then abandoned. There's hundred of pages of data on the disks, mostly illegible, but it's clear that the Weapon X project was designed to exploit mutants -- "

"Expecially those with healing factors," Jean broke in, her gaze encompassing both clawed mutants. "Which makes possible surgical augmentation using materials the body would otherwise reject."

Flicking a finger of telekinesis at the console, depressing a button, she pointed as the display crackled and altered to a list of names, each with a hyperlink to a profile and dates. As before, most were unreadable.

"We've counted a dozen different test subjects," she revealed. "Some are marked as category A felons, some as volunteers. Each is referred to by a codename and number, but most of the files are damaged. . . including yours, Logan."

Fists clenched until they were white, adamantium knuckles showing through the skin, Logan stared at his name on the screen, at the multi-digit number he knew was etched onto the back of his dog tags.

"What yer got, Jeannie?" he rasped.

"Not much," she admitted apologetically. "Several dates of military field operations, mostly search and destroy or tracking. There's references to surgical procedures and manipulation of the X-gene, but the files are so badly corrupted it's impossible to make head or tail of them. . . It's possible your memory was wiped as part of the procedures, or an unforseen side-effect."

Silently, Logan regarded the backs of his hands, feeling his claws shift and click as the muscles in his forearms tensed. At his side, Helena watched his reaction with a knot in her stomach, wanting to reach out but knowing at that precise moment he would not welcome comfort.

"Makes sense, I s'pose," he said, voice low, almost inaudible. "I wasn't given these damn claws ta prune hedges."

"That's not all," Scott said grimly, folding his arms. "There's entries under our mutual friend Sabretooth's name."

Wolverine scowled venomously at the mention of Victor Creed, rubbing his knuckles as his claws itched from the inside. He hated the huge feline mutant more than anyone, images of Creed lasciviously tracing a sharp black claw over Helena's cheek as she hung imprisoned by magnetised metal bars inside the Statue of Liberty and Rogue slung unconscious over his shoulder speeding through his mind.

"Hairy fucker," he growled. "Dead hairy fucker if I get my hands on him."

"And Raven's name," Storm said quietly, breaking her medative silence.

"What?" Helena demanded, eyes widening.

The Professor held up his hands, quelling further discussion, and motioned for Cyclops to change the image on the view screen. A grainy, somewhat distorted video still from a security camera filled the screen, casting a pale silver wash over the room.

"This was recorded six years ago," he announced.

The black and white image flickered and danced, momentarily dissolving into crackling static before coalescing into a long corridor containing grill-windowed cells. Six black-clad soldiers raced down the corridor, rifles at their shoulders.

"Special black ops," Logan murmured. Nobody asked him how he knew.

They turned and opened fire at a target outside the camera's scope, streaks of fire leaping from the muzzles of their weapons. Suddenly, the three leading soldiers cried out as their guns flew from their hands, pinwheeling through the air out of reach. Breaking away from their squad, they dived under the camera, only to reappear in frame moments later. Two were dead, slashed open from groin to throat, spilling slippery ropes of intestine, the third missing an arm. As the X-Men watched, he staggered and collapsed, a rapidly spreading pool of black slicking the floor beneath him. The assailant passed into sight, a tall gracile blur dressed in non-restrictive combat fatigues and a skin-tight dark-coloured vest. Curly hair shorter and scraped back into a sleek ponytail, features smeared with camouflage paint, bare arms gloved to the elbow in glistening wetness, Helena was nonetheless clearly recognisable.

Facing the remaining soliders, legs braced apart, her hand came up and their guns twisted out of shape like putty. Dropping the useless weapons, they snatched serrated combat knives from their belts and closed in. Fists lifting, claws sprang from between the knuckles, but they were bone, not adamantium. Lunging, she buried them to the knuckle in the throat of the nearest soldier, ripping them out in a spray of blood. The security footage was silent, but everybody watching could imagine the sickening crunch of cartilage. Flooring the second with a roundhouse, she flew to the nearest cell door, dropped to her knees and placed her palm flat to the lock. The door swung open and a dazed-looking woman with silver streaks in her dark hair staggered out, an inhibitor collar circling her neck.

Prying off the device with her claws, Raven framed the woman's haggard face in her hands, appearing to speak to her. A thin, vacant smile curled her mouth and she held up her hand, fingers splayed like an amaemic lily. The flesh of her palm split lengthways and an adamantium dart attached to a fine cable flew out, punching through the standing soldier's skull like paper. With a flick of her wrist, the mutant woman retrieved the barb, folding her fingers around it as it recoiled back into her forearm. Turning on the remaining soldier, eyes wild and one step away from mania, Raven's clawed hand came up.

"Turn it off," Helena whispered, shaken. "Please."

When Cyclops did not move quickly enough for his liking, Logan gave an inarticulate roar and leapt over the conference table, claws hissing out to smash the console. The image died in a frenzied riot of static and popping circuitry. Snarling, blue flickers of electricty snaking between the adamantium talons, he wrenched them free of the debris.

"Dammit, Logan!" Scott snapped, biting back further comments as Jean's hand came to rest on his arm.

Spearing Summers with a vicious glare, Logan crossed the room to crouch next to Helena, clasping her hands and looking into her face.

"It can be repaired," Xavier responded calmly, blue grey eyes concerned as they moved to rest on the newest member of his team. "Helena, all the data indicates you were there as part of a team freeing captive subjects."

She looked up, shock dulling her eyes, bracketing her mouth with deep lines.

"We've got an answer over the claws thing," she muttered, half to herself. "I had them all along. . . "

Trailing off, she stared at her hands, seeing bone claws impaling highly-trained special ops soldiers. She shuddered and made a concerted effort to compose herself, eyes momentarily falling shut as if to attempt to erase the images burnt into her retinas.

"Logan wouldn't have been part of this Weapon X project then," she said slowly, thinking. "What about Sabretooth? Please, for Chrissake tell me I didn't let that psychopathic wookie-lookalike out."

The Professor shook his bald head, fingers steepled before his nose as he ascertained the extent of her reaction to what she had seen. Ostensibly of a more stable temperament than Logan, despite her similar animal traits, she could be just as unpredictable in her own way.

"No, Sabretooth has had ties with the Brotherhood of Mutants for more than seven years. . . Whatever involvement you had with him, you did not let him out, if in fact he was ever a prisoner."

Helena nodded to signify she understood, gripping Logan's hands with all her strength. Knuckles white, any other man would be wincing with the pain, but he said nothing, silently offering support.

"Not that it's come as any great surprise, but. . . " she paused and cleared her throat. "If I was there trashing the joint, why am I listed under their subjects? They catch me or sommat?"

A flicker of discomfort passed over Xavier's face, quickly replaced by his usual indefatigable calm. He could not help but think of the newest member of his X-Men as the youngest, though she was almost certainly older than the rest of the team. To his eyes, she looked very young and vulnerable, despite he knew she was anything but.

"Yes. Apparently, the raid we just saw was not the first or last. There are fragmented records of security breaches at Alkali Lake and other installations dating from two thousand to two thousand and seven, which is the first entry on your file." Xavier halted and suppressed a faint grimace. "Between then and your 'awakening' in Ontario, we believe you were subject to experiments under Weapon X, although there are no references to surgical procedures. . . " He paused and steepled his fingers before his nose. "Cypher contacted me earlier today with his findings on the microdisc -- it was booby-trapped, so to speak. His initial attempts to decode it triggered a cascade virus that wiped his system and most of the data on the disc. He managed to recover enough information to ascertain that you were working for MI6, though the purpose of freeing the test subjects remains unclear. There are, however, references to genetic enhancements prior to your capture. . . It seems some members of your team were mutants with artificially strengthened or added powers, which could go some way towards explaining your absorption and replication of adamantium. It's possible the scientists at Weapon X captured you to examine these modifications for inclusion in their programme."

Logan grunted disgustedly and visibly shivered. "Bastards used us both as labrats."

"They were trying to break me," Helena said tonelessly, as if she had not heard what Xavier said. "Trying to break into my mind to get to my team. . . and when they couldn't, they wiped me clean like a video tape."

Concerned by the odd tone to her voice, the Professor leaned forward in his wheelchair as Storm poured a glass of water and offered it to her.

"What makes you say that?" he asked softly.

"A dream I've been having," she said, voice so cashmere soft that only Logan did not have to strain to hear. "It didn't make much sense until now. . . I'm tied to a metal table, restraints, inhibitor collar, the whole works. . . There's this feller asking me the same questions again and again. . . 'where are they', 'how many are there', 'where's their next target', but I can't see his face because of a bright light."

She smiled bitterly and took a swallow of water, hand vicing the glass so tightly that it suddenly shattered in her hand. Shards of glass tinkled to the crosshatched metal floor as she raised her hand and watched the cuts shiver and flawlessly heal.

"I'm hooked up to a drip, my eyelids are pegged open and there's some sort of monitor attached to my temples . . . I can see this feller's blue shirt and tie as he walks around the table -- he's got a tazer and he uses it when he doesn't get the answers he wants. If it wasn't for the inhibitor collar, I could psy-blast him, use my TK to strangle him with his own tie or unfasten the restraints. . . But I can't. I'm strapped down, drugged to the eyeballs and halfway to hell."

Jean flinched, grey green eyes crinkled with sympathy and horror as she thought of her friend suffering in such a manner. Wordlessly, Scott looped his arm around her waist, jaw set beneath his red-lensed glasses. Delicate jaw tightening in a rare display of anger, Storm bowed her white head as her eyes flickered mecury.

"Jesus Christ, Hels," Logan said hoarsely, aghast. "Was that what yer were dreamin' when yer woke up fightin' the other night?"

She nodded mutely, hazel green eyes boring into his, demanding that he not pity her. Woken by her hard adamantium elbow landing in his gut, Logan had instinctively popped his claws and ripped three long tears in the bedcovers before realising she was having a nightmare. Before he had chance to try to wake her, she sat bolt upright, gave a low, keening whimper and woke with a convulsive shudder. She had refused to tell him what she had dreamt and he knew better than to try to coax her into talking. He had fallen asleep again and woke some hours later to find a cooling space next to him. Active, noisy nightmares had been Wolverine's bedfellows for as long as he could remember, but hers were new. He could not recall being woken by her during their travels around Canada.

"How long have you been having these nightmares?" the Professor asked.

"About five, six months, something like that," Helena said with a forced shrug. "I don't have them all that often, but they keep getting more detailed."

"Could be a memory block disintegrating," Jean theorised, her scientific head firmly on as she looked to Xavier, intent on beginning an investigation.

"No psy-scans, Jay," Helena warned, recognising the inquisitive expression on the doctor's fine-boned face. "I've gotta deal with this shit in my own mind before I let you or the Prof go spring cleaning. It's not everyday you find out you were a guinea pig for a covert government experiments on mutants, or you've-" She swallowed and her features crumpled. ". . . you've..."

Wrapping an arm protectively around her shoulders, Logan directed a broad-ranging glare around the room. He had not discovered much more than he already suspected about his own past, and as far as he was concerned, the soldiers at Alkali Lake had got exactly what they deserved. His logic and ethics were very much black and white -- if he slashed someone, there was a reason, and they had got what was coming to them. He did not often allow for shades of grey or stop to feel remorse, but he recalled the first time he had killed after his awakening and how he felt afterwards, despite a rootless conviction it was not the first occasion in his unremembered life he had done so. He knew how Helena must be feeling, detecting the tension and distress in her scent.

"No more," he declared. "That's enough fer today. It'll keep. . . C'mon, darlin', I think we both need a few whiskies."

Xavier and his X-Men watched as he shepherded her out of the War Room without a backward glance. Touching the control on the arm of his wheelchair, the Professor trundled forward, hearing the broken glass and scattered remnants of circuitry from the console crunch beneath the wheels.

"Scott," he murmured. "Print out all the relevant data, I think they'll both want to look at it at a later date. . . and it might be prudent to give them breathing space, especially Logan -- we don't want anyone confined to the infirmary."

Cyclops nodded, ruby quartz winking in the overhead light. Despite her tendency to tease him and not always be a team player on missions, he liked Helena and valued her as a colleague and friend. He knew she was deeply affected by what she had learned.

"That's if he stays around after this." If he cuts and runs, I'll help Elliot kill him.

The Professor fixed his gaze on the metal door, mind scouting up through the sublevels and into the mansion. After a few moments, he turned knowingly to his protégé.

"He'll stay."

* * * * *

2 Months Later

Waking with a huge intake of breath, Logan stared into the blue blackness of his small attic room, heart pounding, every feral instinct he possessed on full alert. Sitting up, hearing the bedsprings creak arthritically beneath his weight, he sniffed the air and listened intently. When he did not hear or smell anything untoward, he frowned, unable to shake the feeling there was something wrong. Popping the tip of a claw, he scratched under his chin and clambered out of bed. Glancing at the bedside clock, he saw it was just after two a.m.

Goin' soft, yer canucklehead, he told himself. Yer don't like it when yer wake up an' she's not there.

The Professor had taken Helena and Storm with him to a black-tie charity ball in New York, leaving Jean and Scott to manage the school. Mixing with the rich and influential to promote the school brought in additional revenue as well as pro-mutant sympathy. The invitation had been politely extended to Wolverine with predictable results. He would not dress in a penguin suit and worry about which fork to use for the entrée for anyone. Helena had bitten her lip in an effort not to scream with laughter when Ororo innocently asked if he needed to hire a tuxedo. He had almost changed his mind when he saw Helena in an ankle-length black silk gown and Storm in shimmering silver. Almost, but not quite.

They bat them eyes at some rich old codger, an' he'll whip out his chequebook an' sign his damn life away. Gotta hand it ta yer, Chuck, yer know the effect of a beautiful woman, he had thought, watching as a bow-tied Professor hummed through the foyer with Helena and Storm flanking him.

A quiet, tentative knock at the door made Logan jump. Growling, he padded on sockless feet to answer it. Yanking the door open, causing the hinges to squeal protestingly, he looked out, and then down at three small boys aged about eleven. Black, brown and blond-haired respectively, he recognised them from Helena's classes. Hugh, Ray and Tyler, dressed in blue cotton pajamas, hair rumpled from disturbed sleep, looked silently up at him.

"Yeah?" he rumbled, seeing the boys cluster a little closer together.

"Um, sir, we can't sleep," Ray ventured in a distinctive Cockney accent.

Logan cocked his head, wondering when he had fallen into the category of lullaby-giver. Folding his arms across his bare chest, watching as Tyler began to pick his nose, he shrugged.

"Whaddaya want me ta do, kid? My singin' voice ain't up ta much. Go knock up Scoo-. . . Mr Summers."

Hugh shook his dark head firmly, hair stuck in random cow-licks, apple cheeks bulging as he blew out the long-suffering sigh of children dealing with stupid adults.

"What Ray means is, we were woken up," he explained in his Australian twang, as if to a particularly slow-witted student.

"And?" Wolverine sniffed, leaning on the doorframe.

He did not have much experience with children. Teenagers tended to avoid or emulate him, which had caused a few problems amongst impressionable boys since he had returned to the school. Younger children, especially those under ten, loved him for no reason he could think of. He did not view himself as loveable. Rogue had called him cute on a few occasions, usually when she thought he was out of earshot, despite all his attempts to disprove the notion. Rolling his eyes, Tyler continued to bore up his left nostril with a dedication that was nothing short of amazing.

"Miss Draven woke us up," he stated, pulling out something greenish and squashy with his index finger. "She's having a mundo-nightmare, and Hugh thought we should come and get you, seen as you. . . uh. . . like her so much."

Suddenly paying attention, Logan pushed himself away from the doorjamb as they snickered amongst themselves. Setting off along the corridor at a trot, the three tousle-haired boys trailing after him, he headed for the next corridor along. He did not realise he had an entourage until he stopped outside Helena's room and found them peeking around his elbows.

"Okay, kids, yer've done yer bit. Back ta bed before I tan yer hides," he ordered, hearing loud muttering behind the closed door.

Obediently, Hugh, Ray and Tyler shuffled off to their own room a few doors down. Slipping inside, carefully closing the door behind him, he approached the bed, smelling strong dream-terror. She lay on her back, sprawled diagonally across the double bed, every muscle trembling. Jaw clenched, lips peeled back from her teeth, she moaned and tossed her head.

"No. . . won't. . . . never tell. . . no. . . "

Moving to the side nearest her head, smelling a trace of the hairspray she had used to tame her riotous curls for the ball, Logan leaned over.

"Hels," he said close to her ear, stomach twisting as she whimpered like a trapped fox. "C'mon, darlin', yer keepin' the kids up."

Sighing, she shuddered violently, fingers screwing great handfuls of the sheets, biting her lip until it bled. Catching the coppery scent, Logan winced, even though he knew the small wound would heal in seconds.

Is this what I look like when I have those damn nightmares? he wondered. Thrashin' an' moanin' like I'm dyin'?

Not able to bear watching her endure a re-enactment of past horrors inside her head, he considered his choices and made a decision. Knowing what forcibly waking her would result in, Logan steeled himself and shook her hard. As he dived to one side, her claws missed his abdomen and sank straight through his shoulder as she woke with a cry. Eyes moist and crazed, she stared at him uncomprehendingly for several long seconds.

"Hels," Logan said through gritted teeth and burning pain. "Yer claws."

Exhaling thankfully as she retracted them, feeling the punctures swarm and knit, he crushed her into his arms, where she trembled with nightmare-induced adrenaline. Cradling her head to his shoulder, he murmured wordless comfort into her disarrayed hair as she clung to him.

"Sorry," she mumbled eventually, voice muffled.

"S'alright," he shrugged, feeling her heartbeat begin to slow from a rapid, desperate tattoo. "We're even now -- yer've owed me a skewering."

Smoothing her hair as she sat back, kissing her forehead, he plumped the pillows and made an attempt to straighten the sheets. The nightmare-fear ebbing away to a low, threatening background thrum, Helena kneaded the bridge of her nose.

"Go back to bed," she instructed, expecting him to agree with her. "I think this bugger's gonna be an all-nighter. No use in both of us being kept awake."

Logan shook his head and absently ran a hand through his wild-spiked hair.

"Nope, I think I'll stay," he said. "Kinda gotten used ta havin' yer ta keep me warm."

Turning back the bedcovers, he climbed in next to her, lay down and looked her in the eyes, challenging her to argue. Opening his arms, he bobbed his chin commandingly. Feeling her heart expand in her chest, she nestled into his arms, snuggling down until they were both comfortable.

"No more nightmares tonight," he murmured, fingers lacing through her hair at the nape of her neck. "I'll chase 'em."

Curled around each other like two wolves in a den, they drew comfort and security from physical closeness. Listening to his heart beating beneath her ear, flesh warm and familiar against her cheek, Helena lifted her face in the darkness.

"I love you, Logan," she said softly.

When he did not answer, breathing long and deeply, she realised he was already asleep. Smiling, ignoring the part of her that asked what his reaction would have been had he heard, she kissed his bristly chin and settled down to sleep.

* * * * *

Rogue eyed the mountain of mint choc chip, vanilla and double chocolate fudge ice-cream, wishing she could smell it as well as Helena, who was appreciatively sniffing her tall, goody-filled glass. One of the bonuses of her temporary absorption of Logan and Helena's mutant gifts had been how mouth-watering her favourite foods smelled.

"Tuck in, Marie, before it melts," the English mutant urged, licking a creamy splodge from her spoon.

Grinning, Rogue did exactly that, giving a little sigh of pleasure as the sweet mint melted on her tongue. Only Helena and Logan called her Marie, virtually everyone, including the Professor, called her by her nickname. Watching the teenager enthusiastically devour her ice-cream while trying not to appear as if she was doing so, Helena smiled inwardly, casting an eye over the throngs in the busy Salem Centre café. All flatscans, they were eating various delectable ice-cream creations and drinking freshly-ground coffee or milkshakes. A Hispanic women with a toddler on her hip pointed to the list of treats, asking the child what she wanted. The toddler pointed a chubby finger at the biggest ice-cream and giggled.

Spooning a glorious, partially melted swirl of vanilla and cherry into her mouth, Helena saw Rogue had half finished her ice-cream. Seeing her moping around the school earlier that Saturday morning, missing Bobby, who was visiting his parents, and Jubilee, who had taken Kitty with her to a concert, Helena had taken her shopping. Her mutant power precluding her from many activities other teens took for granted, Rogue often felt isolated, something she denied if asked.

"Ah think ah'm gonna burst like a pumpkin," she declared, happily patting her stomach.

"That makes two of us, sweetie," Helena smiled with a gleeful twitch of her nose. "I don't care what anyone says, a bit of what you fancy does you good."

Rogue burst out laughing, the white streaks in her hair flashing as she shook her head, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin.

"Ah think ya right," she agreed with a sly twinkle in her brown eyes. "Ya've been havin' a good bit o' Logan, an' it ain't done ya any harm. In fact, ah think ya've gone back fer seconds an' thirds wit' a cherry on top!"

Swatting her gloved hand in mock-reproach, Helena tutted disapprovingly.

"Don't you let him hear you talking like that," she warned with a grin. "You're still his little innocent Marie -- and we don't want him thinking Bobby's been corrupting you."

Rogue giggled and placed a hand over her heart with feigned righteous indignation, lips a perfect rosy bud.

"Perish the thought!" she exclaimed, fluttering her eyelashes. "Ah'm a good girl!"

"Yeah, right," Helena scoffed. "I've seen the way you've been looking at a certain young man from New Orleans."

To the English mutant's surprise, Rogue blushed a deep raspberry pink, fawn brown eyes dropping to her lap.

"Ah'm goin' out wit' Bobby," she muttered defensively.

"Yeah," Helena agreed neutrally, then gave a wicked smirk. "But there's nothing wrong in looking."

She nearly added "as long as you don't touch", but stopped herself just in time. The uncomfortable, unspoken fact that Rogue's touch would rob the recipient of their lifeforce, memories and mutant powers hung on the air. Inwardly kicking herself as the teenager's smile faded, all her animation seeming to seep away, Helena searched for ways to repair the damage. Before she had chance to speak, she caught two familiar scents and looked up to see Gambit and Elliot heading their way bearing steaming cappuccinos.

"Voila, chere an' petite cherie," Remy beamed, brandishing two steaming cups. Presenting them, he arranged himself in a vacant chair. "Shopping tires out de feet, nes pas?"

Helena did not miss the way Rogue suddenly sat up a little straighter at the Cajun's approach, her eyes sparkling, or how Gambit subtly stroked her gloved hand with his finger as he gave her a cup. Making a mental note to speak to the charming ex-thief about what was acceptable when it came to Rogue, and what would happen to him if he upset her, she smiled a greeting to Elliot, who nodded and sat down.

"How's it going?" he asked, placing a Tower Records bag on the table.

"Great," she answered. "Me and Marie have done the whole girly shopping thing all day."

"Uh-oh. So that's what caused the trail of destruction and dazed clerks through town?"

Helena nodded and laughed, gaze moving to the numerous bags piled underneath the glass-topped table.

"You get that album you wanted?"

"Yeah, and a few others. Though I'm beginning to despair at Remy's taste in music."

Gambit looked up indignantly, cup poised halfway to his mouth, demon eyes hidden behind a pair of blue-lensed sunglasses.

"Mon ami, Gambit have some taste. It's you dat don't."

Rogue giggled and he went back to talking to her as if she was the only person in the room, venturing to touch her white streaks. Reflecting the Cajun was lucky Logan was not there to see him hitting on Marie, Helena turned back to Elliot. They carried on chatting and drinking coffee until Remy magicked up the keys to his BMW.

"Remy take de ladies shopping so dey no have to carry," he announced, gathering up the bags. "Coming, Marie?"

Flattered, Rogue was already out of her chair, smoothing her hair, giving him her best doe-eyes. Looping her arm through Remy's, they strolled through the crowded café and out onto the bustling street.

"That guy is too charming for his own good," Elliot observed with a small shake of his head. "Rogue doesn't let many people call her Marie."

"Mmmm," Helena agreed. "I think she's fighting being smitten -- it must be the accent. . . I don't think poor Bobby will last much longer if Remy has anything to do with it."

Elliot drained his cup and examined the dregs at the bottom, contemplating going to the counter for a refill. He took one look at the busy Saturday afternoon queue and decided against it.

"It's hard when you're smitten," he said softly.

"El. . . " Helena began, but he cut her off.

"I need to talk to you, Ray," he said firmly. "I think you should be the first to know. . . I'm leaving -- I've taken a job at Emma Frost's Academy in Massachusetts."

Helena put down her cup and blinked, taken aback. She knew his pride was dented and feelings hurt, but had not realised enough for him to seriously consider leaving Xavier's School For The Gifted.

"Oh," she said, then her brow crimped. "This hasn't anything to do with. . . "

"A little," he nodded, then gave a self-mocking grin. "Well, maybe more than a little. I can't stand it, Ray -- the way he looks at you, the way he touches you. It eats me up, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't. I think some space is best for all concerned. . . Anyways, I'll be head of the music and performing arts department. It's a good career move."

She stared at him for so long Elliot felt sure she was scanning his mind, then her gaze dropped and she picked at her nails.

"A good move," she echoed sadly. "How long before you go?"

"End of term, after Thanksgiving. I didn't want to leave the Professor in the lurch, class-wise."

They were both silent, an uncomfortable awkwardness growing between them. Friendship tempered by a certain frission that had nearly developed into something more, they both knew a break was inevitable. Helena looked up, clutching her cup.

"You'll stay in touch?" she asked hopefully.

"I'll write you," he promised. "Real letters, not e-mails."

"Good," she said. "Massachusetts isn't that far away, I can always visit. . . That's if I can stand the White Queen for long enough."

Elliot regarded the English mutant questioningly. He had conducted an interview via video-conferencing with Emma Frost, whom he found icily beautiful and professional to the point of aloofness.

"Yeah? You don't like her?"

"Let's just say Frost by name, frosty by nature." Helena grinned slightly. "If you're not careful, she'll turn you into a square in a suit. Sean Cassidy's a good feller though, Irish by birth, likes his single malt."

Eyebrows lifting, Elliot listened without making any comments, momentarily wishing he had Helena's telepathic gift so he could tell what she was feeling. Her features had fallen into what he thought of as her 'careful' face, polite and neutral without any real indication of what was occuring behind her eyes. When hurt, she reacted in one of two ways; she went to the Danger Room and thrashed, slashed and pounded until she felt better, or bottled it for inward processing and venting at a later date. Elliot surmised she was bottling and felt a guilty twist in his gut.

Logan'll be pleased, he thought bitterly. He's getting rid of me, which is exactly what he wants. Out of sight and out of mind.

Looking under the table for shopping bags she realised were not there, spirited away on the strength of Remy's chivalry, Helena reached for her close-fitting three-quarter leather coat and shouldered it on.

"I think I'll head back home," she announced listlessly, tucking a lock of dark plum hair behind her ear. "I've some grading to do. See you later."

"Hold up a minute and I'll walk you," Elliot offered, grabbing his jacket and purchases.

Assenting, she paused and waited for him to catch up before heading towards the café door. Emerging onto the bustling Salem Centre high street, the two mutants blended seamlessly with the crowd, no different than any other Saturday afternoon shoppers. Teenagers skidded about on micro scooters and skateboards, hanging out on benches in unruly groups, chattering and sharing cigarettes. A grizzled black jazz saxophonist stood on the street corner busking away, his open instrument case scattered with an assortment of winking coins. As they passed by, they both dug in their pockets and tossed in some change, earning a smile and a nod.

Taking a short cut through the City Park, scrunching through a light fall of red gold autumnal leaves, Helena sniffed, catching the moist fecundity of leaf mold and damp grass.

"Any truffles?" Elliot enquired with a fleeting grin, desperate to dispel the air of gloom that had precluded conversation since their departure from the café.

Despite the melancholy heaviness weighing down her mood, Helena found the corners of her mouth tugging upwards. Scuffing her boots through a bright pile of leaves on the level tarmac path, she inhaled more deeply.

"What?" Elliot asked, seeing her smile suddenly fade as she stopped dead, nostrils flaring.

"Shit. . . El -- go," she said, her voice harsh and urgent. "Head back to the main street and phone the mansion. There's gonna be a hell of a mess in the very near future."

The Brooklyn mutant's brow furrowed and he regarded her, puzzled. Chin lifting, head swaying gently from side to side as she sought to confirm what she had smelled, her gaze snapped to him.

"Go!" she ordered, the tone of her voice leaving no room for negotiation.

"What gives?" he asked, recognizing the sudden feral light in her eyes as her animal instincts came into play.

"Big hairy fucker," she hissed, claws popping with a sound like scraping sword blades.

"Sabretooth?" Elliot exclaimed, feeling a chill wind down his spine as the cool autumn sun reflected from the adamantium. The look in her eyes frightened him, it was an oblique version of what he saw in Wolverine's when they happened to cross paths -- pathological hatred. He had only seen Creed in Danger Room simulations, but knew he was on her Most Hated list.

"Don't stand there gawping, get outta here!" she commanded, knowing that if he was still present when the feline mutant decided to attack that he would be a distinct liability and potential hostage. If she could smell him, he could definitely smell her, and he would not pass up an opportunity for payback.

Belatedly deciding to do as he was told, Elliot disapeared and set off for Salem high street, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his cellphone. A teeth-rattling roar that he felt through the ground reached his ears and he turned to see Victor Creed surge from behind a nearby oak, tan leather duster swirling as he brought up a huge black-clawed hand. Frozen in place, he watched as Raven dodged the blow, metal talons painting three dripping gouges across Sabretooth's barrel chest. Elliot heard the breath leave her lungs in a pained grunt as Creed's giant booted foot caught her in the ribs, then the mouth, sending a splash of crimson sparkling into the air. Scant seconds later, she drove her claws through the leonine mutant's chest, only to have him thrust her away before she could open him up like a side of fresh beef.

The solid thump of flesh meeting tarmac jarred Elliot from his daze and he set off at a sprint, deliberately not looking back, a cacophany of growls, roars and snarling battering his ears. Heart pounding, a million thoughts racing through his brain, he forced his fingers to press the infuriatingly tiny buttons on his cellphone, cursing as he misdialled. He was about to key the dial button when he spotted Rogue ambling through the park gates, her step light, a small, secret smile curling her lips. Aware of how useful her unique power could be to the Brotherhood of Mutants, Elliot snapped into visibility directly in her path, making her squeal.

"Jeezus H. Christ, Elliot!" she cried, her accent thickening with shock. "Ya tryin' ta give me a heart attack?"

Grabbing her arm, forgoing the care required, he hauled her towards the gates and the relative safety of the main street, earning himself a startled glance.

"Wha-wha' ya doin'?" she demanded. "Where's Helena?"

"No time," he exclaimed. "Sabretooth -- where's Gambit?"

Peachs and cream complexion paling to a floury white at the mention of Creed, Rogue's gloved hand flew up to cover her mouth, brown eyes wide.

"He's comin', he went ta find you -- ah said ah'd wait here."

A discordant roar of rage and sudden unexpected pain sounded further into park, the sound muted by distance and treetops. Rogue flinched, then realising that Raven was almost certainly the cause of Creed's discomfort and likely to be hurt, pulled herself free of Elliot's grasp.

"Ah gotta help," she declared bravely. "Ah ain't gonna let that big hairy bugger hurt mah friend."

Hearing a tinge of English creeping into her Southern drawl, punctuated by a Logan-ish growl, Elliot realised her absorbed memories where affecting her behaviour and stretched out a hand.

"Rogue, wait! You've not got a healing factor or claws -- "

Ignoring him, she took off at a dead run, white streaks streaming behind her as she gathered speed. Cursing himself for not being quick enough to stop her, Elliot gave chase, undialled cellphone clutched in his hands.

Blood trickling into her eyes, Raven backflipped out of reach and quickly wiped a hand across her brow as the temple-to-temple gash healed. Sabretooth watched her with wary amusement, sunlight showing through the ragged slashes in his leather duster coat.

"Yer stink of the runt," he taunted, voice broken glass and gravel. "Yer lettin' him fuck yer?"

"Jealous, Creed?" she retorted, seeing he was favouring his left leg, a missing bone-deep chunk of flesh hindering his movement. "Mystique not giving it to you?"

He gave a bass laugh that rumbled like approaching thunder, mirror black eyes glittering with malign intent. Blond mane striped with wet redness, some his, some not, he watched his adversary for any sign of weakness.

"Yer come over here, frail, an' I'll give yer somethin' he never could."

His laughter turned to a snarl as his head snapped back with an invisible blow. Wiping the torn corner of his mouth, feeling the flesh knit, he showed his ivory fangs and lunged like a monstrously overgrown panther. Nailed to the tarmac by his greater bulk, nostrils filled with musty leaf mold and feline musk, the English mutant cried out as his claws ribboned her left flank. Creed clamped a massive hand around her wrist, intending to keep at least one set of metal talons out of play. The thin bones grinding, only their adamantium lamination prevented them from breaking.

"Scream fer me," he growled softly.

"Don't you ever get tired of that line, Creed?" Raven gritted. "It's getting boring."

Vision obscured by the tumbled lion-yellow mass of his hair, she stared with horror as she caught sight of Rogue running up behind him, her delicate features set with determination.

"Git ya paws offa her!" the Southern girl shrieked, landing as accurate a blow as ten months of Scott Summers' self-defence classes could produce. "Ya bastard!"

Sabretooth's bushy eyebrows escalated in bemusement as he felt a small gloved fist strike him squarely in the back, having as much effect as a light pat. Taking the opportunity as his attention was diverted, Raven head-butted him, spreading his nose across his yellow-whiskered face in a bloody smear. Temporarily deafened by the clang of adamantium and breaking bone, Creed reared up, roaring, and fell flat on his back at Rogue's feet just as Elliot raced to her side. Horribly fascinated by the sight of smashed cartilage reforming, stringy drools of red black blood and mucus stretching and dripping, she did not move.

Head ringing as if it had been used for cymbals, Raven clambered to her feet, desperately trying to stop the mad whirling carousel the world had suddenly become. Still spreadeagled, Creed's vicious black eyes rolled up to focus on the two mutants that had interrupted his fight. Not the most intelligent of the Brotherhood, he nonetheless knew contact with the female's skin would incapacitate him long enough for Raven to kill him. Past experience had taught him she would not hesitate, despite the fraudulent jumble somebody had made of her memory. A darted glance telling him she was still dazed, he licked his sharp canines, rolled over and was up with black claws outstretched before either could react.

Double vision clearing moments too late, Raven could only watch in open-mouthed horror as Sabretooth's giant paw wrapped around Elliot's neck. Screaming, Rogue ripped off a glove and flung herself at the huge mutant, only to be thrust away with a careless flick of his free hand before she could make skin-to-skin contact. She landed hard on the tarmac several feet away, one leg bunched awkwardly beneath her body. Creed bared his teeth in a savage grin and twisted like he was unscrewing a bottle cap. Vertebrae snapping, green eyes glazing over, Elliot concertinaed bonelessly to the ground, neck jutting at an unnatural angle.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

Sauntering through the park in search of Rogue, hands thrust into the pockets of his black leather trench coat, Remy heard the shriek of furious denial and broke into a sprint, automatically charging a playing card. A new female voice began to scream, growing louder and more hysterical with each passing second. Recognising Rogue's voice, he increased his pace, long lean athlete's muscles speeding him forward. Enhanced spatial awareness allowing him to quickly pinpoint the location of the young Southern mutant, he arrived to see Sabretooth holding her in one paw, a limp, seemingly lifeless Raven in the other, their cheeks mashed together.

Struggling with all her strength, wailing, hot desperate tears spilling from her brown eyes, Rogue strove to break contact. Feeling the English mutant's powers, memories and lifeforce surge through her system, the hot wetness of blood from reopening wounds trickling down her face, she screamed again.

Stoppit, please, stoppit!! Ah'm killin' her, she's dead, ohmahgodshe'sdead!!!!!

Card-clenching hand swinging back, Gambit let fly with the ace of spades, closely followed by the jack of clubs. Whistling through the air with a faint energy-propelled whine, glowing phosphorescent orange, they arced around and struck Sabretooth's back, missing his two prisoners entirely. Creed barely had time to register the impact when they exploded, the amount of charge expertly gauged to wound him without harming the two women. Howling as the tangerine explosion tore the flesh from his spine and shoulders, he dropped them and loped away, his enthusiasm for carnage dented.

Falling to her knees, shaking, crying and frantically trying to stop the sudden influx of thoughts and emotions rampaging around her head, Rogue tremulously reached out her gloved hand to the bleeding form crumpled on the leafy ground. Arms thrown out, adamantium claws unsheathed, Raven's hazel green eyes were wide, unseeing. The grotesque rippling of veins and sinew fading from her skin, she lay in a quickly spreading pool of liquid crimson. Letting out a stricken wail, Rogue clutched her temples, eyes squeezing shut as a cloud of telekinetically-levitated leaves and twigs began to swirl around her, the thoughts of every person within a mile radius clamouring inside her head. Dashing to her side, Remy's demon eyes darted between her and Raven, belatedly seeing Elliot's still form lying a few feet away. Rogue shrieked as without any warning bone claws sprang from between her knuckles, insensible to everyone and everything around her as her brain fought to process the newly acquired powers and personality.

"Merde," Gambit gritted, releasing that Raven was not breathing.

* * * * *

Lounging on a weather-worn bench in the school grounds, feet propped on the arm, Logan contemplated smoking a cigar. Not far away, a basketball match was in full swing as the students took advantage of the fair weather before winter arrived. Sniffing the air, detecting freshly-cut grass and the mulch the gardener had spread on the ornamental flower beds surrounding the mansion, he caught the scents of Hugh, Ray and Tyler.

"Ain't in the mood today, boys," he called, folding up the newspaper he had been reading. "Go pester Cyke."

Guiltily, the trio emerged from behind a neatly-trimmed box hedge. Hugh was clutching a soccer ball, having assured his friends he could persuade Logan to play a kick-around game. Seeing their hopes were deflated, he looked around to see if there was anyone within earshot.

"Mebbe tomorrow," he confided gruffly, throwing up a large hand. "Now scoot."

Visibly perking up, the boys scurried away, throwing the ball between them. Shaking his head, wondering when playing games with children had become something he did, Logan fished in his jacket for a cigar and some matches.

At least it'll stop the damn kids houndin' me, he thought. Though if Boy Scout says one word, I'll kick his teeth down his throat.

Sticking the cigar between his lips, he glanced at his growling midriff and debated how close it was to dinner. Though he would not admit it, he had grown to like the good, generously-portioned meals at the school.

Must be nearly time ta eat, he decided. Where's Hels gotten ta?

Deciding that it was a promising sign she was still out shopping, recalling that the last trip she and Marie had undertaken resulted in an interesting ensemble from a lingerie store, Logan grinned to himself and lit his cigar.

Ugg, thump, drag, he thought with a touch of glee. Ain't I glad I'm a man. . .

Taking a puff, he blew a long plume of grey smoke, considering whether or not to stroll into the mansion and lie in wait for Scott Summers. The game of Drive Scooter Nuts never ceased to entertain him, and smoking in the house was definitely against school rules. Much against his better judgement and inclinations, Logan had recently begun teaching self-defence classes to the older pupils at the Professor's request. Xavier had seen the taciturn Canadian becoming restless, no matter how he had tried to hide it, and taken up Helena's suggestion that something be found for him to do. At first, a class full of teenage girls, including Rogue and her friends, had made him uneasy. All the giggling, twittering and general pert bounciness had thrown him. As the classes progressed, he had relaxed into his new role of part-time teacher better than he expected, although he was still working on not swearing when some of the superhumanly strong pupils forgot themselves and hit him a little too hard.

Damn good job I got a healin' factor with kids like that Monet girl, he reflected, recalling the cracks in the gym walls where his head had struck the brickwork. Can't believe Wheels got me teachin' class. May as well start wearin' red glasses an' callin' myself Blinky. . . then at least I'd get ta see Jeannie naked.

Heart abruptly threatening to tear itself whole through his ribcage, Wolverine jerked upright, the lit cigar flying from between his knuckles. The skin on the back of his neck crawling, hackles bristling, his entire being pulsated with the certain knowledge that something was very badly wrong. Hazel eyes widening, he froze as if listening. With a muted snarl, he leapt from the bench and galloped across the school grounds, tearing through the corridors until he found the Professor serenely reading a first edition copy of Moby Dick in the vault-ceilinged libarary. Xavier looked up and set aside his book, concerned at what he sensed from the Canadian's mind.

"Chuck, there's somethin' wrong. Really wrong -- use that computer o'yours. I gotta find Helena, an' I ain't got time fer the old-fashioned way of doin' it."

* * * * *

Remy was beside himself with worry for the first time in years. During his time as a thief, his nerves had been considered the strongest in the New Orleans Guild. Always ready with his quick blade of a smile and appropriately charming or sarcastic rejoinder, he rarely lost his cool. He had seen more than a few dead bodies, but the right-angled skew of Elliot Anthony's broken neck, the indelible purple black impression of five huge fingers on the windpipe, made his stomach flip-flop. Blinking as a bead of sweat curved around his right eyebrow and dripped from his nose, he continued to execute precise chest compressions on Raven, trying to keep her alive. Breaking off, he tipped back her head, pinched her nose and blew long and deep into her mouth, inflating her lungs.

Noticing her lips were trimmed blue from blood loss, he silently cursed, but continued. The bleeding showed no signs of stopping and Remy was beginning to believe that she would die no matter what he did. Rogue sat huddled in foetal ball at Raven's head, rocking back and forth like a disturbed child, fixedly staring at the foot-long bone claws protruding from between her knuckles.

"S'alright, chere," he reassured, not knowing if she could hear him through the overwhelming mental chatter in her head. "De X-Men be here any minute. Dat de beauty of de cellphone -- neh?"

The Southern girl failed to respond, huge salty tears trickling down her face, eyes fixed on her comatose friend and teacher. Tightening the torn strip of his shirt staunching the worst wound to Raven's abdomen, the material sodden, Gambit looked up at the empty park.

'Where are ya?' he demanded wordlessly, straining to project the thought. 'She gonna die an' Wolverine gonna tear Remy's head off an' stick it up his ass.'

Squinting against the hazy autumnal sun, his light-sensitive eyes watering, he caught sight of reflective metal scant moments before he heard the roar of a motorcycle engine. Lips peeled back over his teeth, hair wind-tossed, Logan hunched down over the handlebars as the bike thundered along the park pathways. Snatching at the brakes, the motorcycle skidded to a halt with a screech of tyres, a ragged curve of burnt rubber coating the tarmac as the back end swung around. Flinging himself from the saddle, ignoring Gambit entirely, he fell to his knees, the bike crashing over behind him.

A soft sound emerged from his throat, almost a whine, and he reached out a large hand, nostrils flaring with the nauseating stink of blood. Hazel eyes darting, flickering from torn throat to lacerated stomach, from exposed trachea to glistening purplish pearls of intestine, he began to shake, broad fingertips lightly coming to rest on Raven's cold, white forehead. Astonished as he saw fear in the Canadian's expression, an emotion he thought him incapable of, Remy ventured to touch his shoulder.

"It gonna be alright, mon ami," the Cajun whispered. "Jean can't be far away, an' de chere is de best doctor for mutants."

At Raven's head, Rogue suddenly began to laugh, a hollow, mirthless sound, her fawn eyes red-rimmed and haunted. Shoulders bunching, unadulterated homicide exploding behind his eyes, Wolverine turned on Gambit, ploughing the startled younger man to the floor.

"LOOK AT HER!!" he roared, voice suffused with pain and hate. "SHE'S DYIN'!!"

"Ain't me y'wanna kill," Remy snapped back, heart pounding at the barely-controlled insanity contorting Wolverine's features. "Sabretooth did this ta her, an' Rogue, oui -- killed Elliot too."

Snarling, panting, a fraction away from uncontrollable berzerk fury, Wolverine battled not to shoot his claws and slash the ex-thief into tiny cubes. Gambit stared back, red black eyes hard behind his blue-lensed sunglasses as he reached into his coat for a playing card.

'LOGAN! Let Remy go!'

Jean Grey's telepathic voice rang in his head, enviably calm and measured, enforcing control a milisecond before he snapped and killed anything within reach. With a spat curse, he threw down the Cajun and scrambled to his lover's side, hands hovering above her, afraid to touch in case he unwittingly inflicted more damage. The remaining X-Men appeared from behind a nearby flower bed, running full tilt. Ascertaining what had occurred with a glance, Jean nodded to Ororo and Scott to attend to the mumbling, crying Rogue. Dropping down beside the Southern girl, Storm wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, murmuring wordless comfort into her ear as Cyclops snapped on a pair of latex gloves and began manipulating her hands in an effort to retract her temporary bone claws. Shooting a glance at Raven, Storm's brow furrowed beneath her shocking white hair and she began praying quietly under her breath.

"Do somethin', Red," Logan begged, desperation written large across his bearded face. "We can't let her die. . . please."

Swallowing her emotions, Jean wrenched open her field medical kit, realising she had never seen him in such a state. The metal-boned man who acted first and thought later, who could face Magneto without a flicker of concern, was utterly terrified. Assessing her patient's condition, drawing on her physician's detachment, she joined Storm in praying they were not too late.

* * * * *

"Dammit! There's another bleeder here." Clenching her teeth with frustration, Jean Grey called a clamp to her hand with a single thought. "Logan, get out of the way."

The formerly pristine silver surfaces of the medbay were awash with red. Entombed deep in the mansion's sublevels, away from the students and public scrutiny, she fought to save Raven's life. The Professor was with Rogue, painstakingly erecting psychic shields that would block the telepathic and telekinetic powers she had absorbed until they dissipated. Eyes squinching as a hot jet of crimson struck her face, Jean expertly sutured the last wound and applied a dressing handed to her by Scott, wondering if she was wasting her time. The internal injuries the English mutant had received would have quickly killed her had she been a normal human. With her healing factor severely impaired, it was impossible to tell if she would recover. The cardiomonitor began to squeal, a continuous high-pitched electronic whine that scraped serrated fingers over raw nerves.

Dragged across the medbay by a telekinetic hook, the defibrillator bumped into the side of the gurney as Jean snatched up the paddles and slathered on electro-conductive gel.

"Wait!" Logan bellowed, elbowing Scott Summers aside. "Her skeleton -- she'll fry!"

"If I don't get her heart beating, she's dead anyway," Jean retorted, ramming the charged paddles down. "Clear!"

Chin tipping back, spine arching, Raven convulsed like a landed eel as the charge ripped through her metal bones. The constant shriek of the cardiomonitor did not falter, faint wisps of smoke emerging from her joints. Ratcheting up the voltage, Jean tried again.

"Clear!"

Flat neon green against black, the heart trace did not move, the momentary spike caused by the electric shock ebbing away within a moments.

"C'mon, Hels, yer can do it, I know yer can," Logan growled, brows knit with anguish.

Grimacing, but refusing to admit defeat, Jean again increased the voltage, flicking a glance at Logan to let go of Helena's hand.

"Clear!"

All eyes fixed on the square black screen, willing the horizontal line to jump into a steady rhythm. Seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Swallowing the heaviness that settled around his heart, Scott took a leader's responsibility and placed a hand on his fiancé's slim, rigid shoulder.

"Maybe we should stop," he said quietly, sadly. "We've done all we can."

"NOOOOOO!!" Hazel eyes incandescent with rage, Wolverine launched himself at Cyclops, claws hissing out to plunge into the medbay floor as they both fell flat.

'STOP IT! Look!!'

Hyper-acute ears detecting a regular, measured beeping, Logan unclenched his fist and surged to the gurney. A thankful breath rushing from his lungs, he bent and lay his ear against Helena's chest, listening to the steady, if somewhat weak beating of her heart.

"I knew yer could do it, English," he croaked hoarsely. 'I knew yer wouldn't leave me.'

Sensing the unconsciously projected thought that showed a vulnerability he would never otherwise display, Jean pressed a gauze square to Scott's bleeding mouth before stepping forward to touch Logan's shoulder.

"It's up to her now," she said softly. "All we can do is wait."

* * * * *

Peering at the round shining 'X' door of the medbay, Remy fervently wished for a cigarette, but contented himself with shuffling his deck of cards.

"How long he been sittin' in there?" he asked Storm, who was leaning on the opposite wall, her liquid cinnamon eyes closed.

Effortlessly graceful in an ivory sweater and chocolate brown pants, Ororo opened her eyes and regarded the young Cajun.

"Nearly forty-eight hours," she replied. "He has not moved or slept. It was all Jean could do to persuade him to drink a glass of water."

Shuddering almost imperceptibly, Gambit kneaded the bridge of his nose, demon eyes momentarily closing. Fanning out the deck, he shuffled and reshuffled until he saw a moue of annoyance purse the African mutant's lips. Slipping the cards back into his pocket, he muttered an apology.

"How's Rogue?" he asked at length. "Petite won't let me near -- keeps snarlin' an' tellin' Remy ta 'bugger off'."

Reading genuine concern in his expression, Ororo's face softened. His customary charm, while not entirely missing, was well below the usual standard, indicative of his feelings.

"She will not let anyone near her, not even the Professor," she revealed. "She blames herself for what happened to Helena and Elliot. . . she is fighting to regain her own personality and thoughts." Storm sighed and shook her head. "It'll take time, Remy, but she will recover. We just have to watch her in case. . . "

"In case wha'?" Gambit prompted.

"In case ah show signs o' 'long-term psychological instability', that right, 'Ro?"

Both mutants turned to see Rogue standing in the centre of the corridor wearing black from head to toe. Pale and drawn, as if she had spent endless hours crying, she looked far younger than eighteen. Only her eyes were different, old before their time with the weight of absorbed memories.

"Yes -- but only because we care," Storm replied gently, seeing a certain animal wildness in the Southern girl's body language.

"Yeah, ah'll be back in the Danger Room kickin' ya ass in no time," she nodded, then stiffened, realising that it was Helena who used the holographic training programmes, not her. Students were not allowed to until they developed sufficient combat skills and control over their powers. "Ah, ah, mean. . . "

"Chere," Remy stepped forward, meaning to touch her arm. "Dis mess no your fault -- Remy make a nice cuppa coffee an' we talk."

"Don't touch me!" Rogue snarled, flinching violently away, her features crumpling. "Don't anybody bloody touch me!"

Trembling, hugging herself in an effort not to pop the bone claws she could still feel within her forearms, she bared her teeth. Seeing three torn slots in each of her gloves, Gambit held up his hands apologetically and backed away.

"S'okay, Marie," he murmured soothingly. "Nobody be touchin'."

"Ah wanna see Helena an' Logan," she stated categorically. "An' ah don't want an audience."

Clamping a hand onto Remy's arm as she saw he was about to point out that Wolverine had not allowed anybody except Jean into the medbay, Storm towed him away down the corridor.

"We will come back later, Rogue," she said. "You just call when you are ready."

Waiting until satisfied they had gone, straining her newly-enhanced ears, Rogue tucked her bleached white streaks behind her ear, took a deep breath and pushed open the medbay doors. The interior lighting was muted, the steady beep and hum of various machines and monitors breaking the silence. A pungent smell of antiseptic reached her nose, her own footsteps painfully loud as she crossed the immaculate floor to the bed. His back to her, shoulders rounded, Logan sat cradling Helena's unresponsive hand to his cheek.

Swallowing a bitter mouthful of guilt, fighting the urge to throw her arms around him and beg forgiveness, she cleared her throat.

"Hey," she forced out.

Slowly, he turned around, two days of unshaved beard shadowing his chin, hazel eyes bleary from lack of sleep. Rogue had never seen him looking so exhausted, so almost beaten, even when she had sneaked in to sit by his side as he lay unconscious after saving her life when Magneto's mutation device had nearly killed her.

"Hey, kid," he rasped.

Heart twisting into a pulsing, hurting ball inside her chest, Marie clenched her fists, battling not to kiss him and smooth his unruly hair as Helena would have done. She thought hard about what she should say, finding the right words simply did not exist. Another compulsion surfaced within her mind; a need to turn and leave, to go to the Danger Room and vent every violent emotion against holograms until she was spent. Hanging her head, she took a single step closer.

"A-ah'm, a-ah'm so sorry, Logan," she whispered falteringly, eyes brimming as she saw a sudden flare of murderous rage in his expression.

Reaching out, he hauled her into his arms, hugging her fiercely, protectively, a grizzled wolf comforting a distraught cub. Sobbing uncontrollably, she clung to him, face pressed into his shirt, hands locked behind his back.

"Not yer fault, darlin'," he growled, settling the teenager into his lap, feeling her tears wet on his shoulder. "Don't yer ever think it's yer fault."

"Ya-y-ya don't hate me?" Rogue hiccuped against his collar, nose filled with the cigars and whisky smell of his shirt.

"I could never hate yer," he reassured softly, tightening his arm around her. "It's that fucker Creed who should be worried -- I'm gonna rip him into pieces so small ants'll carry him off."

Hearing the undiluted hatred in his voice, knowing he meant every word, Rogue wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, reassured by his scent and closeness, even though she knew instincts other than her own were causing her to feel that way. As always, she felt safe when he was around. Raising her head, still sitting on his lap, she looked at Helena. Only the steady, respirator-induced rise and fall of her chest indicated she was alive, skin waxen, lavender hollows beneath her closed eyes. Gloved fingers involuntarily rising to Logan's stubbled cheek, she turned his face towards her.

"Marie," he began, realising it was the personality of his comatose lover motivating her actions.

"She loves ya, ya know," she said, voice a tone above a whisper. "Ah know she does."

He did not respond, but his jaw clenched slightly, gaze dropping. Inclining her head, Rogue felt a small, sad smile curve her lips.

"That scare ya, sugah?"

Logan shook his head, eyes returning to the prone woman hooked up to all manner of life-support machines. His lips twitched self-mockingly.

"Not as much as knowin' I love her back," he admitted, running a fingertip along the line of Raven's jaw.

"Ya told her?" the Southern girl asked softly, heart singing as the Helena within her glowed at the revelation.

Logan shook his head again, a little shamefacedly. "Nope."

Slithering down from his lap, ordering her knees to work sufficiently well to hold her upright, Marie gestured to the bed.

"Now's as good a time as any," she encouraged.

Expression clouding, hazel eyes darkening with pain, he heaved a huge sigh and rubbed at his muttonchops with the heel of his hand.

"She's in a coma, darlin'," he rumbled, gaze flicking to encompass the blinking monitors, the hissing sigh of the respirator. "She can't hear me."

Silently, the Southern girl regarded him, lower lip held thoughtfully between her teeth, small hands curled at her sides.

"Why d'ya think ya knew when she was hurt?" she questioned. Seeing his blank look, she tapped a gloved finger to her temple. "It's the same way Scott knows when Jean's hurtin', an' vice-versa -- ya bonded."

Logan did not respond, staring at Helena with mingled amazement and incredulity before his face cleared. Bending, Rogue framed his whiskery face in her hands.

"Tell her, Wolvie," she said firmly. "She'll hear ya one way or another."

Without another word, she turned and quietly left, closing the medbay doors behind her. Some distance down the corridor, when she was certain Logan would not hear, she stopped and sank back against the wall. Leaning her forehead against the cool metal, she closed her eyes and fought back the tears, wondering if it would ever get any easier. Every inconsequential noise made her recall Victor Creed snapping Elliot's neck like a breadstick. When she tried to sleep, she relived the moment a massive clawed hand picked her up and slapped her face against Raven's, deadly skin stealing her friend's lifeforce as she struggled helplessly. Collecting herself, drawing on the obstinacy that was only half Helena's, she headed for the lift.

Pressing Helena's limp hand to his cheek, Logan dwelled on what Rogue had said and realised that he believed her. Reaching out, he smoothed a lock of hair from the English mutant's cool forehead, wondering just when he had begun to feel so strongly about another.

"Hels -- " His throat constricted and he coughed, cursing himself, and tried again. "Yer can't die on me, darlin' -- I need yer."

Picturing her reaction had she been awake, he found himself caught between a scowl and a smile.

"Laugh if yer want ta. . . 'big, bad Wolverine' who don't need anyone. Truth is, I do." He cleared his throat and leaned down to kiss her still lips. "I love yer, Hels, an' I don't know what I'll do if yer die."

Realising he had half-expected her to wake, he shook his head disgustedly, stroking her fingers.

This ain't no fairy tale, an' I ain't no Prince Charming, he told himself. 'Please, darlin' -- don't leave me.'

Heaving a sigh, he listened to the heart monitor, trying to calm his mind with the regular electronic beep.

'Don't leave me. . . .'

* * * * *

There was something inside her mouth running down into her throat. It tasted like plastic. Instinctively wanting to expel the foreign body, she tried to lift her hand to pull it out, only to find she could not, the appendage flopping weakly. Consciousness ebbing and flowing, she battled not to sink back into roaring oblivion, finding her body disobedient. Somebody caught her fluttering hand in their own, the palm slightly callused. She heard a familiar male voice bellow for someone called Jean. Straining to open her eyes, the world appeared as an indistinct silvery blur as the lids slowly peeled back. A gentle female voice instructed her to blow out hard, which she unquestioningly did, the gag-inducing plastic tube sliding out of her oesophagus.

"Hels? Can yer hear me?"

Gradually, an anxious bearded face came into focus as she blinked, features lined with worry and lack of sleep. Her dry mouth not conducive to speech, she struggled to tongue back some moisture and nodded. Full consciousness returned, accompanied by the knowledge of who she was and the identities of the other people in the cool, antiseptic-smelling room. Dazedly, she peered at the fingers held up before her face, recognizing them as belonging to Jean Grey.

'Three,' she sent. 'Logan. . . ?'

"Here, darlin'."

Everything disappeared beneath a blinding white luminance as a penlight was shone in her eyes to gauage the reaction of her pupils.

"Jeannie, d'yer have ta do that?" Logan sounded immensely relieved and irritated by turns, stress apparent in his scent.

"Almost done," Jean murmured, her stethoscope a cold circle on Helena's chest as she listened to her heart. ". . . there. How d'you feel?"

Slowly, the English mutant looked around, her fingers tightening around Logan's hand. She took in the array of monitors and machines, the brisk sterility of the medbay, and carefully propped herself up on her elbows. Finding herself wobble-limbed, she struggled to sit up, accepting the supportive arm Logan slipped under her. She tried to speak, but only a dry croak emitted from her parched lips. Pouring some water into a plastic beaker, Jean held it to her lips. Gratefully, she gulped down several large mouthfuls.

"Like shit warmed over a lighter flame," she creaked, frowning at the drip shunt taped into the crook of her elbow.

Jean smiled affectionately and slipped the penlight into the pocket of her labcoat, brushing a wayward strand of auburn hair from her forehead.

"Nuthin' a few whiskies won't solve," Logan interjected, leaning in to kiss her nose and cheek.

Helena's milk white brow puckered, lips still pale against her face, lending her a spectral air. For once, her appearance of fragility was not deceptive.

"How long have I been out?" she asked, her voice a little stronger.

"Almost five days, darlin'," Logan answered. "Which considerin' yer got a healin' factor, is a damn long time. Gave us a good scare."

She was silent, frowning deeply as she attempted to process the amount of time she had lain unconscious.

"Do you remember what happened?" Jean asked quietly.

"Not now, Red," Logan growled, seeing Helena's features crease with puzzlement and concentration. "Give her a minute, can't yer?"

'I'm trying to see if her memory is affected,' the red-haired doctor reproached. 'It's best we find out sooner rather than later if there's any permanent brain damage. CAT scans don't penetrate adamantium.'

Abruptly, the English mutant started violently and gave a sharp cry, her mouth a stricken loop. She tried to rise from the bed, fighting a losing battle with the sheets and restraining hands.

"Elliot!" she cried, her voice rising and breaking. "Creed, the bastard, the fucking bastard. . . " Deaddeaddeaddead. . . no. NO! Ishould'vemadesureheleft. . . should've. . . didn't. . .

She trailed off, trembling, what little colour there was in her cheeks draining away, leaving her almost grey. Concerned, Jean stepped forward, mentally running through a list of sedatives, unsure if any of them would work on a mutant with such an advanced healing factor.

"Jesus. . . Marie?" Helena whispered, head bowed, adamantium showing at her knuckles. "Is she. . . ?"

"She's alright," Logan reassured, looping an arm around her shoulders. "Still gotta get rid of what she got from yer, but she ain't hurt. . . not physically."

Silently, she looked to Jean, demanding a more complete assessment of Rogue's health. A wordless telepathic exchange passed between the two women. Seeing his lover's jaw tighten, the muscles across her shoulders steel knots beneath his hand, Logan knew what was to follow.

"I'll kill him," she vowed softly, flatly. "I'll rip his fucking head off and piss down the hole. YOU HEAR THAT, CREED?!!"

Her voice rose to a piercing shriek of fury and grief, spine rigid, the points of her claws popping through the skin, lips skinning back over her teeth. Shooting Jean a glance that told her not to get too close in case she lashed out, Logan took hold of Helena's shoulders.

"He's a dead man walkin'," he agreed. "But not today, darlin' -- yer in no state ta kill anythin'. But next time. . . "

Jean suppressed an involuntary shudder, knowing that coming from the mouths of the two clawed mutants, it was no idle threat. Visibly calming, taking deep, shuddering breaths to control her temper, Helena nodded jerkily. Sensing her presence was superfluous, Jean leaned down and folded her hand over the English mutant's.

"I'll tell the others you're awake," she said. "Do you want anything?"

Helena shook her head, "Thanks, Jean, but no. . . only ask Marie to come down later. I need to talk to her."

Nodding understandingly, the telekinetic mutant headed out of the medbay, mentally alerting the Professor that her patient was awake and talking. Silently projecting his thanks, unsure if she could hear him if she had not initiated a telepathic conversation, Logan turned back to Helena.

"Nearly turned me grey, English," he murmured, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb caressingly. "Fer a while back there, Red thought yer weren't gonna make it."

"I almost didn't make it," she whispered, then coughed, waving away an instantly proffered beaker of water. Her features softened, the animalistic set fading. "C'mere, you."

Taking hold of his shirt front, she pulled Logan in and kissed him. Surprised by the sudden gesture, though she was always tactile, he engulfed her his arms, chin in her hair, glad to have her alive and talking.

"What's that fer?"

"You know what," she said, her arms tightening around him, savouring his warmth through the thin hospital-style gown she wore. "I heard you, what you said when I was out."

She felt him kiss the top of her head and give the smallest of frowns, stroking her back through her tumbled hair with the flat of his hand.

"Yeah," he coughed. "Well don't be tellin' everyone, I've -- "

"An image to protect, I know," she finished warmly. "Love you."

"Love you too, Hels," he returned gruffly, suddenly not caring who knew it.

* * * * *

Snarling, chest heaving as he panted, the muscles in his arms cramped and knotted far beyond pain, Wolverine collapsed onto his back on the Danger Room floor. The air reeked of overheated circuitry, and as he watched, the pine forest simulation flickered, crackled and disappeared like a fevered hallucination.

"Programme error -- reinitialising," the smooth, infuriatingly placid tones of Cerebro echoed throughout the vastness.

Too exhausted to spit a curse, the red berserk mist seeping away from the corners of his vision, he sheathed his claws. Looking at the sticky, half-dried blood coating his knuckles, smelling his own musky sweat, he lay back on the cool metal floor and attempted to regain his equanimity. Elliot's funeral had taken place in his native New York a week earlier, the small chapel filled with shell-shocked relatives, most of whom did not know he was a mutant. Officially, his death had been blamed on a random mugging. Logan had sat on a back pew next to Helena, who did not speak a single word throughout the short service. Rogue had clung to her arm, sobbing quietly throughout, her hiccuping tears becoming more sporadic until she simply sat dry-eyed and trembling.

In his borrowed suit and tie, feeling hypocritical for attending the funeral of a man he had intensely disliked in life, Logan had gazed around the packed crematorium chapel at Elliot's aunts, uncles, cousins and parents. He had looked at Storm, a slight figure in a sombre black suit, at the Professor's grave composure, at Jean holding tight to Scott's arm and Remy sitting uncomfortably next to Rogue. The priest's soft, meaningless words of comfort had faded and the flower-strewn coffin began to roll forward towards the hatch for the long process of cremation. Hearing the almost inaudible plop of falling liquid, he had turned to see Helena silently crying, great salty tears tracking wetly down her cheeks to drip from her chin. All he could do was slip an arm about her and inwardly rage at his inability to stop her feeling thus. He had never seen her cry before and hated how helpless he was to stop it.

Three days after the funeral, he had woken before dawn and pulled on his old, battered leather jacket and jeans. Looking down at Helena's sleeping form, all but obscured beneath the bedcovers, he had bent and kissed her forehead. Pausing only to scrawl a quick note, he had slipped unseen out to the garage and pushed his motorcycle the length of the gravel drive before starting the engine. Returning to the city park in Salem Centre, he had searched until he found the last lingering trace of Victor Creed's scent and began tracking with a vicious, single-minded determination. Four days into the hunt somewhere upstate New York, the trail had gone cold. Nobody had seen or heard anything of the feline mutant, even in the worst dives and biker joints.

It was in one such bar that Logan had found himself, the scent trail too old to follow, the regular customers disinclined or unable to help, despite the fat wad of money he had in his back pocket. He was bitterly, intensely frustrated and spoiling for a fight. Some time after his fifteenth whisky, a large biker with a tattoo of a dragon on his shaved head had decided to oblige. Wolverine had drained his glass, put down his cigar and begun proceedings by breaking a barstool over the other man's back. The resulting fracas cost the bar owner eight thousand dollars to repair the damage to his establishment. The biker had ended up in hospital with a broken arm, kneecap, nose, jaw and multiple rib fractures. Still steaming with frustration, Wolverine had reluctantly returned to the school, fully expecting to receive a smug dressing-down from Cyclops. To his surprise, Summers did not comment, making him grudgingly admit that maybe he was not such a jerk after all. Feeling unable to face Helena, he had gone straight to the Danger Room to work off his rage before he lashed out at somebody who did not deserve it.

The Danger Room doors sighed open, the small movement of air carrying Raven's scent to his nostrils. Wordlessly, she crossed the expanse of the floor and knelt by his side, her hair falling to tickle at his bare chest. Delicate blue scars of grief and weariness marked her eyes, driving a hot blade of pain between Logan's ribs.

"I'm sorry, darlin', I couldn't. . . couldn't find. . . ," he fought for sufficient breath to finish his sentence, only for her to press her finger to his lips.

"It's okay, love," she said, taking in his post animal fury state, smelling his temporarily spent rage and frustration.

Smoothing the sweat-slicked hair from his forehead, green eyes met hazel, both containing a knowing, a certainty.

"There's always next time," she reminded him softly, wiping the coagulating blood from his knuckles. "Creed can't hide from both of us forever. One day we'll pay him back for this shit."

* * * * *

3 Months Later

Bobby Drake shrieked indignantly as Jubilee and Kitty pelted him mercilessly with snowballs, retaliating by firing small, hard pellets of hail from his fingertips. Westchester was covered by a thick, fluffy carpet of snow that transformed Xavier's School For The Gifted into a frosty white Christmas cake. Producing skates of ice from the soles of his boots, Bobby cackled and shot away, gathering speed as he went. His victory was short lived as Jubilee directed a timely shower of paffs in his path, melting his ice skates from under him. Wrapped up warm against the biting cold, Helena stepped out onto the patio steps just as Bobby whipped up a giant snowball and threw it with all his might at Kitty, who grinned and phased. The snowball passed straight through her and splattered all over their teacher.

"Sorry!" Bobby exclaimed. "Raven, I didn't mean to, um. . . oh, crap."

Wiping the snow from her coat, Helena raised one eyebrow as Jubilee and Kitty doubled over with laughter. In the near distance, the air glowed crimson, indicating where Cyclops was melting the snow from the drive.

"Okay, popsicle boy, y'know what this means?" she exclaimed.

Bobby grinned hopefully. "That you're not gonna kick my tush to Long Island and back?"

"Why would I do that?" she chuckled. "When I can do this. . . "

The blond teenager's smile faded as a large section of snow covering the patio rose into the air as she lifted her hand. Backpedalling furiously, his mouth fell open as it loomed overhead.

"Awwwwwwww. Crap!" he groaned as it cascaded down on top of him.

Jubilee and Kitty's hoots of laughter turned to indignant screams as they were similarly treated. A massive snowball fight broke out, attracting students from all over the school. Hearing the furor from the library, Jean ventured outside and soon joined in, using her mutant power to fling sheets of snow. Glancing through the mêlée of shouts, laughter, waving limbs and flying snowballs, Helena spotted Gambit's tall figure as he rounded the corner from the gardens, earnestly talking to Rogue. Bobby also saw them, and to his credit, did not react. Rogue and he had broken up soon after Elliot's funeral, eliciting separate visits to Helena and Scott Summers respectively for advice and a shoulder to cry on.

Watching the debonair Cajun effortlessly woo Rogue, Helena's eyes narrowed and she carefully moulded an extra large snowball. Propelled by a telekinetic burst, it struck Remy squarely about the head, almost knocking him from his feet. Startled, demon eyes wide, he looked around for the culprit and saw Raven's impenitent grin.

"You pick on de wrong homme, chere," he warned, scooping up an armful of snow in preparation to retaliate.

A volley of snowballs answered him, causing Rogue to shriek and cover her face with her arms. Turning about to shield her from the worst of it, taking multiple strikes to his back, he lightly charged the snow and flung it back.

"Score one fer Remy!" he crowed as he hit Helena's midsection, the snow exploding on impact. Breaking off, he anxiously eyed the approaching female horde of Jean, Helena, Jubilee, Kitty, Monet and Paige Guthrie. "Uh, Marie, some help here?"

"Sorry, sugah," the Southern girl drawled, stepping around to join the other women. "Ah'm with mah girls on this one."

Bracing himself for the inevitable onslaught, Gambit had just enough time to wonder what he had done to deserve such punishment before he was pelted from all sides. Some minutes later, he lay prostrate in the snow, apprehensively peering up at the circle of grinning female faces, aching from the number of hits.

Remy ain't gonna take dis, he thought, scraping the snow off his nose. Dis means war!

Without warning, he leapt up, executing a neat handspring that carried him over their heads. Quickly, he gathered up as much snow as he possibly could and began mercilessly dispensing biokinetically charged balls, grinning broadly at the resulting threats and screeching.

Hearing the commotion from the far side of the grounds, Logan came jogging around the corner, stopped short and stared, eyebrows escalating. As he watched, Storm emerged from the mansion, white hair hidden beneath a thick woolly blue hat. Smiling, the weather goddess's eyes shone quicksilver and a minor whirlwind began tearing up the snow, hitting more people in one go than anyone else had managed.

"Logan!"

Hearing his name called, he looked to see Helena waving at him, her coat powdered with snow, cheeks apple red with cold. Ducking as a large charged snowball whizzed past her head, she laughed uproariously and flung one back. Pushing and weaving her way through the near-riot, she tripped over a snowbank produced by Bobby and fell into his arms with a small shriek. Overbalanced by a patch of ice mysteriously appearing beneath their feet, they both toppled over. Whistling nonchalantly, hands thrust into his pockets, Bobby Drake sidled away to rejoin the fun.

Unable to keep the grin off his face at the sight of her sparkle-eyed and thoroughly damp from the snowball fight, Logan dusted the snow from her shoulders. She beamed, pushed her furry deerstalker hat out of her eyes and rubbed her cold nose with a gloved hand.

"Yer alright, darlin'?" he asked.

"Yep," she answered with a smile, then momentarily sobered. "I am now."

Leaping upright, she eyed him critically, her lower lip held thoughtfully between her teeth. Realising what she was thinking, Logan firmly shook his head and got up, leaving a man-sized depression in the fluffy whiteness.

"English, I love yer, but I ain't makin' a snow angel."

"Don't be such a square!"

"Square?" he grumbled, bending to sweep up some snow. "Who d'ya think I am -- Scooter? Now bend over an' show me yer ass, I need a good target."

A snowball splatted him straight in the face, telling him what she thought of the suggestion, closely followed by more from Jean, Rogue and Storm. As he watched, all four women turned and wiggled their backsides mockingly. He growled loudly, earning himself animated scornful laughter and another pelting. Cantering over, hair randomly plastered to his head with partially melted slush, Gambit rubbed his hands together.

"Whadaya say, mon ami? Remy t'ink we teach de ladies a lesson, neh?"

Hefting a fist-sized snowball, Logan gave an almost-smile, seeing Bobby, Sam, St John and various younger students running over as the disorder split into gender-specific sides. Hugh, Tyler and Ray popped up at his side, already armed, shifting from foot to foot excitedly.

"I say no mercy," he rumbled, lifting his arm to let fly.

Watching from a downstairs window, Professor Xavier smiled to himself as instantaneous chaos broke out. Reflectively drinking a mouthful of tea from a fine china cup, he chuckled as he saw Rogue mouth an expletive at Remy and screw a large handful of snow into his face.

"Never have thought I'd see this a few months ago," Cyclops' voice said to his back.

"No," Xavier mused as the younger man stepped to his side. "Certain people would not have dreamt of playing like this. . . speaking of which. . . ?"

Scott Summers grinned, displaying a lighter side to his personality that was rarely allowed to show, ruby quartz visor flashing as he pulled back on his hat and gloves.

"Oh yes -- I'm not gonna miss an opportunity to kick Logan's ass. . . "

* * * * *

Ignoring the voice calling her name, Helena snuggled down a little more, feeling Logan shift closer in his sleep, his arm draped over her middle. Hearing him begin to snore quietly, a low bass buzz, she tugged up the covers with a tendril of telekinesis. Spooned together, skin against skin, warm and indescribably comfortable, they had fallen asleep to the sound of gently crackling flames in the fireplace. The voice did not desist, much to her annoyance, and she sighed and opened her eyes. Carefully moving his heavy adamantium-boned arm so she did not wake him, she wiggled to the edge of the bed and sat up, listening to the inaudible. Moments later, a strong arm snaked about her waist, Logan's stubbled chin appearing over her shoulder as he swept aside her hair and kissed her neck.

"Whassup?" he yawned, pulling her back against him.

"Got a call from the Prof," she said, reaching back to cradle his cheek.

Logan frowned with mild disgust, gaze wandering around the small, cosy log cabin. There was no television, no radio, no phone, just miles of empty countryside and solitude that was a welcome relief from the hectic pace of life at the school. Two plates, two cups and two sets of cutlery lay on the dish drainer, mirrored by two sets of snow-stained boots slung near the door.

"Thought yer left yer cellphone behind?" he grunted, feeling the deliciously warm space where he had lain begin to cool. He contemplated hauling her back down under the covers and smothering her with kisses until she forgot about whatever Xavier had said.

She sighed, "I did, and the pager."

"Then what?" he asked, scowling. "Can't they do without us fer five days? Y'know, Hels, we could always take off fer Canada fer a few weeks, let 'em stew. Niagara's great this time o'year."

Turning around, the thick multi-coloured patchwork quilt and white sheets bunched around her waist, her brow furrowed. Recognising the expression, Logan cocked his head enquiringly, taking up her hands.

"What? Yer look like yer lost a dollar an' found a cent."

Fingers laced through his, her eyes hardened to green agate and he felt the small muscles that guided her claws bunch.

"Magneto's escaped."

Wolverine shrugged and clambered out of bed, scouting about on the smooth plank floor for his pants and green plaid shirt. Picking up her skinny t-shirt, he threw it to her and they both began to dress.

"We'd best get packin', then," he observed laconically. "Looks like we've work ta do."

* * * * *

Well, that's all folks!. . . until next time (cackles maniacally & wanders off into the sunset with a willing Wolvie-Clone).



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