Prelude: A Canadian Tale
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. Helena Draven, her 'remembered' friends and the assorted bar/club denizens are mine.

Notes: Loved it? Loathed it? Tell me please... Although I'm a 'struggling writer' by trade, this is my first fanfic.This assumes the events in "X-Men" take place around 2010. Sorry if I screw with the geography of Canada, it wasn't my strongest subject in school! 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.

---

"I'll have a beer," the cage-fighter growled, slapping a crumpled note and a selection of coins onto the scratched, discoloured bar top.

The barmaid obliged, selecting a relatively clean glass and filling it with cold amber beer. She slid it across the counter, palming the money into her free hand.

"There you go," she said, turning towards the till with the knowledge a tip was unlikely.

The fighter chugged at his beer, an eyebrow quirking as the barmaid spoke. She was English, which was a rarity in the Canadian backwoods. He wondered what she was doing so far out from the major cities. She certainly did not look like a camera-wielding tourist. Hearing his name roared by the stinking, sweating, flannel-shirted crowd, he tossed back the last of his drink and stalked towards the chain-link cage and his waiting opponent, a huge bull-necked man with navy tattoos on his forearms. The barmaid watched him stride away and peel off his shirt, army dog tags winking at his chest.

"C'mon, honey, no dawdlin'," the other barmaid, a middle-aged bottle-blonde with virulent pink lipstick, drawled as she sashayed past. "Or Jim'll cut yer pay, and yer wouldn't want that on yer last night, now."

Frowning, knowing that the older woman disliked her simply because her accent was a novelty and drew more tips from the customers, the English girl stepped forward and plastered a friendly smile across her face.

"What'll it be, fellers?" she asked a group of four rednecks in battered baseball caps and varying colours of flannel shirt. She wondered if there was some kind of secret Canadian society that required all its male members to wear flannel shirts tucked into their jeans and woman ludicrously short denim skirts.

"Four beers, and one fer yerself, little lady," the leading redneck said, openly ogling.

Smiling until she thought her face would crack, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the stench of workday sweat, she pulled the pints and selected a vodka for herself. Seeing the redneck's lecherous smirk tip a little at the price of her drink, she allowed herself an inner sneer and settled back against the bar as the first of the fights began.

"This Wolverine is dead meat," the leading redneck commented. "Jack'll crack his head in minutes."

"I dunno s'much," someone countered from across the bar. "He fought up at Red Pete's a few months back - knocked out six guys one after the other. Made himself a good few bucks, too. . . the guy's a freakin' animal."

The crowd roared and hissed as tattooed Jack careered into the side of the cage with a resounding thump, a red imprint of the links crosshatching his bare back. He responded by driving a shovel-sized fist into his opponent's stomach. Wolverine grunted, body jumping with the force of the blow, but did not fall over. Jamming his elbow into Jack's solar plexus, he followed through with an uppercut to the chin. A spray of blood flew wetly into the air, closely followed by a white fragment of tooth. The screams of encouragement from the crowd grew louder, more vociferous - the more blood the better.

Watching intently as tattooed Jack was laid out unconscious with three more blows, two of his disgruntled friends ripping open the cage door to drag his limp, bruised and bloody form away, the English barmaid leaned over to the four rednecks.

"I'll put twenty dollars on Wolverine winning the next two fights," she said, drawing the money from the back pocket of her heavy black combat-style trousers.

The lead redneck scowled, thick eyebrows dipping over an uneven nose. He had just lost forty dollars on tattooed Jack.

"Alright," he sniffed, taking the money and offering it to one of his cronies who was running a betting pool. "But don't hope ta see it again."

The barmaid grinned and wiped a stray spill of beer on her towel, heavy silver rings glinting on her slim fingers.

"I think I'll see it and a whole lot more," she predicted confidently.

"What would yer like ta see, babe?" one of the other rednecks leered, grabbing his crotch.

She ignored him, much to the amusement of his friends, head held slightly askance as she watched the next fight begin. After a few punches were laid, a handful of kicks received, she realised that Wolverine was allowing himself to be struck, drawing out the fight so more bets could be placed. He was expertly working the crowd and his opponents.

Smart arse bastard, she thought, wincing slightly as he took a punch to the jaw. What a way to earn cash.

Shaking his hand, the knuckles bloody and raw, the new fighter who had replaced Jack roared with pain. Wolverine grinned ferally, like he knew something the other man did not, dark hair stuck in two sweaty points either side of his head. The new fighter's jackbooted foot came up and buried itself squarely into his crotch. Every man in the room hissed sympathetically as he doubled over, hands automatically wafering between his thighs.

Ouch, the English barmaid thought, taking a swallow of vodka. I don't care how much of a hard man you are, that's got to hurt. A lot.

Wolverine's head snapped up, blue eyes suddenly molten with undisguised rage, mouth twisting into a ferocious snarl. He launched himself at the other fighter, all jangling dog tags, muscle and fury as his fist flashed out and connected with a jawbone. The barmaid thought she head a faint clank of metal as his knuckles struck the other fighter's jaw, but it was drowned out by the distinctive crack of breaking bone. The seed of suspicion burgeoned in her mind and she stepped to the rack of spirit bottles to fill a glass with whisky as the cage door groaned open to allow the unconscious fighter to be hauled out.

Nipping out from behind the bar, she wove her way through the mass of flannel shirts, groping hands and inebriation until she reached the cage. The metallic stink of spilt blood and musky sweat assailed her nose as she stepped up and placed the glass on the small hatch next to an unlit cigar stub. Growling softly under his breath, Wolverine padded forward, snatched up the glass, drained it in a single gulp and lit his cigar. Exhaling a cloud of grey smoke, he leaned on his open palm against the chain link, looking very like a caged wild animal.

Producing the bottle, the barmaid refilled his glass and replaced it on the hatch. Once again he drained it without comment or acknowledgement. She took the opportunity to study him, noting that despite the knocks he had taken, he was not bruised, cut or otherwise visibly injured. He had a lean, compact musculature, but whereas most cage-fighter's strength was in their arms, he was powerfully muscled all over. The more she looked, the more her suspicions were reinforced.

I wonder. . . she thought, discreetly sniffing the air. He's had the shit beaten out of him, but there's not a mark on him, and he's drank enough to refloat the Titanic without getting drunk. He could well be. . . but what'd I say? 'Hey, I'm a mutant too, let's be best pals!' No, I'm going to finish up here tonight and move on, no need to rock the boat.

"If yer after a tip, darlin', don't sit down with a lightbulb in yer pocket," the cigar-roughened growl broke in on her thoughts.

She looked up, realising she was being spoken to, and found Wolverine's hard, volatile blue eyes trained on her. They softened the merest fraction as she backed off a pace. She held up the sloshing whisky bottle.

"You want me to leave it?" she asked quietly, almost sadly, not bothering to summon her usual smile.

He nodded and scratched idly at his mutton chop beard, momentarily wondering what her angle was, what kind of scheme she was concocting. She had held his gaze a second too long, something he would have interpreted as a challenge from a man. Her backing away had less to do with real unease than a ploy to seem unthreatening. Most of the woman in the places he frequented were after money or tried their best to get into his pants after seeing him fight. Sometimes they were after both. Sometimes they got both, or neither, depending on his prevailing mood. Wordlessly, the English girl dumped the bottle on the hatch and left, returning to the bar to serve more jeering, leering rednecks. Mildly surprised, Wolverine refilled his glass and puffed on his cigar, waiting for the next idiot to step up and get his arse kicked.

Watching with vague interest as she was hassled by the four fat, unwashed drunks who were running the betting pool, he knew she would be lucky to make it out unmolested. Her accent made her a target for the average curious, lecherous redneck who had never set foot outside the province. The heightened aggression and testosterone a fight night provoked made it even more likely she would need to kick a few groins and slap a few faces. The thought made him angrier than he already was. For Wolverine, anger was an almost permanent state. It had kept him alive for the past fifteen years.

I don't care, he reminded himself. Why the hell should I? I can't go cryin' over every barmaid who gets her ass groped.

The cage door clanged shut like a bank vault behind him, an eye-watering mixture of cheap cologne and alcohol assaulting his sensitive nose. Time to go to work. He was the best at what he did, and what he did was not pretty or nice. Concentrating on the fight ahead, he turned around, shoulders bunching, and fists at the ready. Lips skinning back over his teeth, he drew back and pistoned forward, not caring that his opponent would be unconscious in seconds. He would draw out the next few fights just long enough to be entertaining and earn him more money. Just to give it the appearance of fairness.

* * * * *

Stuffing the chunky wad of bills deep into the pocket of his jeans, Wolverine trudged out of the bar, a cigar butt clamped between his teeth. He had earned close to a thousand dollars - not a bad night's pay by any standards. There had been the usual discontented mutterings from those who had lost money, but so far nobody had been stupid enough to confront him. Not that he cared much if they did. Rolling his neck, he popped a few joints and stretched. He was not exhausted, just tired enough so he was looking forward to returning to his battered trailer to get some sleep. It was mid summer and the night air was sweet with the greenery of the surrounding pine forest, despite the petrol fumes from the numerous pickups and motorbikes parked outside the ramshackle bar. Reaching his trailer, he delved in his pocket for the keys, planning to drive a few miles down the road and pull in a suitable distance away from habitation.

"You filthy shit! You talk to your mother with that mouth? You owe me - a bet's a bet."

Wolverine stopped, the keys dangling from his fingers, poised before the lock. He turned and sniffed the air, catching the scent of three or more unwashed male bodies and one clean, angry female. Shrugging, he stuck the key in the trailer door and turned it.

"You get your hands off me, now!!"

The female voice was distinctive amongst Canadian drawl, even though it was almost drowned out by raucous male laughter and taunts. It was English. Against his better judgement, Wolverine looked around, sharp ears pinpointing the location of the voices. They were at the back of the bar where the empty barrels were stored and the staff left the building. Telling himself it was non of his damn business, he opened the trailer door.

"Don't you bloody dare! Ooomph-"

Hearing the exclamation of pain, Wolverine sighed and slammed the door, spinning on one heel to head around the back of the bar. He was never very good at minding his own business. As he rounded the corner, stepping around a pile of lumber, two things happened. The leading redneck cried out as his feet left the floor, leaving him suspended four feet above the ground like he was swinging from an invisible coathook. One of his cronies grabbed the English barmaid by the arms, twisting them behind her back so she yelped and her head tipped back, features contorted with pain and indignant fury. She noticed Wolverine and her mouth twisted, a fading scarlet handprint on her cheek. Her attention diverted, the dangling redneck plummeted to the ground, landing in a sprawled tangle of limbs.

Mouths agape, staring disbelievingly, the others rounded on her, men-mountains of beer gut and check flannel with hairy fists. The one holding her prisoner wrenched on her arms.

"Fuckin' mutie bitch!" he snarled. "Look whatcha did ta Bob!"

Biting back a cry of pain, she glared defiantly at them, standing on tiptoe to avoid her arms breaking. A bag holding her few possessions lay at her feet and as she glanced at it, the remaining two rednecks began kicking it about like it was a football. The striking of a match caught the men's attention and they looked around. Bearded face illuminated by the momentary wavering glow of flame captured in his cupped hand, Wolverine shook out the match and blew a long plume of smoke.

"Hey, bub," he said flatly. "I think yer'd better give the lady her money an' let her go."

"What's it ta you?" one demanded. "Yer a mutie-lover or somethin'?"

Blue eyes sparking dangerously, Wolverine stepped forward, shoulders bunching beneath his faded denim shirt.

"One chance an' one chance only," he breathed harshly. "Let. Her. Go."

The rednecks laughed, believing three against one were good odds. Two produced flick knives, opening them with audible pops of the hinged blades. They advanced, stepping over the incoherently mumbling Bob, who was just hauling himself from the floor after regaining his breath. Wolverine frowned thunderously, wondering why they had to go and spoil a perfectly good brawl by bringing knives into play. He dropped his cigar and ground it underfoot.

"Bad idea," he snarled as the first lunged at him with a curse.

Allowing him to charge, he grabbed him by the collar and used his momentum to fling him headfirst into the wall, ignoring the brief pain as the flick knife caught his shoulder. The small cut had healed before the first redneck groaned and crumpled to the ground unconscious. Disorientated, Bob clumsily swung a chubby fist, instantly receiving an accurate blow to the temple that sent him crashing after his drinking-buddy. Rounding on the remaining man, Wolverine grinned and brought up his clenched fists. With a loud 'snikt', foot-long metal claws sprang from between the knuckles. Stopping short, the knife-brandishing redneck swallowed hard, adam's apple working convulsively, and hurriedly backed off. Pausing only to fold away the flick knife, he stumbled away as fast as his fat gut and drunken state would allow, leaving his friends behind.

Wolverine turned back, eyes sliding left to right, claws poised before him, and saw the last redneck was still holding onto the barmaid, but now had a large hunting knife pressed to her trachea. His blue eyes turned flinty as he inwardly cursed, realising there was just enough cruel prejudice in the other man's eyes to lead him to cut her throat.

"If I see blood, I'll gut yer," he promised, seeing the young mutant woman's eyes dart.

The redneck laughed, a high-pitched, nervous sound, and eyed the six adamantium claws as if contemplating exactly how much damage they could do.

"Don't get too cocky," he warned. "Mick'll be back in a minute wit' Jim an' the lads - he keeps a shotgun behind the bar. Ain't much yer claws can do against that, yer mutie freak."

Something in the clawed mutant's eyes, an insane savage rage bubbling just behind the cold blue irises, undermined the redneck's confidence and he swallowed, pressing the hunting blade closer to the barmaid's throat. She took a long, shallow breath, her eyes glazing. Suddenly, the blade began to move away from her throat. With a startled cry, the redneck fought to keep it still as his arm straightened and began to inexorably move towards his own throat. Letting her go, he clamped his free hand onto his arm, struggling with all his strength. Moving away, gaze fixed on the knife, jaw set with concentration, she gave a thin smile as the point touched the soft spot beneath the chin.

"I oughta make you cut your own throat, you bigoted turd," she said softly, a slight tremor to her voice betraying her emotions.

Stepping forward before something happened that would cause the local police to set up a manhunt, Wolverine retracted his claws and delivered a crushing blow to the jaw that laid the redneck out cold, scooping up the hunting knife.

"Yer coulda done that all along an' saved me the trouble," he grunted, examining the knife. It was high quality and worth keeping, so he tucked it into his belt.

"You wanna try it on all four at once?" she snapped, then looked sheepish and admitted, "I'm not that good."

Looking around, she sniffed the air and bent to retrieve her bag, making a quiet sound of disgusted annoyance as something broken tinkled inside. Tucking a strand of her long dark hair behind her ear, she scuffed at the ground with the toe of her heavy, metal-heeled boots.

"We'd best do one," she advised, her accent soft with sharp edges. "Jim does keep a shotgun."

We? Wolverine thought quizzically. Back up there a minute, what's this 'we'?

Shrugging nonchalantly, he began to stroll back towards the front of the building and his waiting trailer, not looking back at her. Picking up her pace, she fell in step and lay a slender hand on his arm.

"Thanks for saving my arse," she said with sincerity, her pronunciation peculiarly English, shunning the colloquial American 'ass'.

He shrugged again. "I don't make a habit of it. I like ta get paid when I fight."

They walked in silence for a few yards, only the bronchial rumble of motorbikes and backfiring pickups breaking the quiet. Feeling the sidelong glances she was darting at him, Wolverine chose to ignore them.

If she thinks she's gettin' a ride outta here, she's mistaken, he thought fiercely. I done my knight in shinin' armour bit for this year.

"I was right about you," she said suddenly. Seeing his questioning glance, she added, "you being a mutant, I mean. Nobody normal could fight like that and not have a single bruise, that and the way you smell. . . I'm surprised you didn't rumble me as a mutant." She coloured slightly as he glared at her. "I saw you sniffing the air and drew my own conclusions, sorry."

Disgruntled, Wolverine dug in his pocket for the keys to the trailer and swore when he realised it was already open. He suspected she had senses as keen as his own. Nobody made a habit of sniffing the air they way she had and he did without being able to differentiate between odours. Yanking open the door, ignoring the protesting squeal of hinges, he jumped in and slammed it with deliberate finality.

"Look, I know you've done your 'knight in shining armour' bit," she said firmly, her choice of phrase a coincidence to Wolverine's mind. "But can you give me a lift, at least to the next town?"

Thrusting the key into the ignition, hearing the engine cough reluctantly to life, he set his jaw and looked at the winding road leading away from the bar. In ten minutes he could be on the open road, away from anti-mutant prejudice and an English girl who had got him involved in something which meant he could not return to that particular bar for a long time.

"No," he said laconically, fishing around in the glove compartment for a fresh stogie.

She frowned, darkening her hazel green eyes, and hefted her bag onto her shoulder. In the near distance, angry shouting proclaimed the arrival of Jim and his shotgun.

"If you leave me here, they'll probably beat the living shit out of me - or worse. I'm tired, I'm hungry and those fat greasy bastards never did pay up the money they owed me."

Wolverine stuck the cigar between his teeth and lifted a shoulder in a minimal shrug, resting his elbow out the open window.

"Not my problem, darlin'," he said, striking a match.

Her face momentarily fell, then hardened, eyes blazing, lips pressed together until they were white. Chin lifting, spine rigid, she glared venomously at him.

"If they kill me, sunshine, I'll bloody come back and haunt you 'till your dying day," she hissed, turning furiously on one heel to stalk away.

Chuckling despite himself, Wolverine shook his head. "Yer'll be hauntin' me a long time." Sunshine?!

Watching her stump up the dusty dirt track towards the road, her bag slung over her shoulder, dark head bowed in defeat, he struck the dashboard with the heel of his hand as his conscience pricked him for the first time in years. She would not stand a chance if a gang of tanked-up rednecks chased her down in their trucks.

"Shit," he muttered. I'm gettin' soft, pickin' up strays.

Touching the accelerator, he pulled up alongside her and jerked his chin towards the passenger side.

"Get in," he ordered gruffly.

A brilliant, grateful smile lit her face and she sprinted around the front of the trailer, throwing her bag in before scrambling onto the seat next to him. The moment the door closed, he stomped on the pedal and steamed up the track, aware that at any minute a pickup full of vengeful shotgun-toting men could appear in the rear-view mirror. Settling herself more comfortably in the worn seat, she glanced over at him, her gaze curious and scrutinising.

"So, what name d'you go by? I can't call you 'Wolverine', even if that's what it says on your dog tags. You ex-army?"

Great, he thought, grumpily tucking away his tags. She's a talker. Why can't she be the shy, quiet type?

"Sorta," he admitted, eyes fixed on the road ahead, swerving a little as a deer galloped across in front. "I'm Logan."

She was silent for some moments, generating the unsettling impression she was studying him from the inside out. Delving in the recesses of her bag, she extracted a rather mangled packet of chocolate brownies. Ripping the cellophane wrapper she offered him one. When he refused, she shrugged and began eating.

"I'm Helena, Helena Draven," she mumbled around mouthfuls of rich cake.

Breaking off a chunk of brownie, she popped it into her mouth, her gaze dropping to his large hands. Logan felt her watching and scowled, but did not say anything.

"Does it hurt?" she asked finally. "When you pop your claws? Even with a healing factor, it must hurt like nobody's business."

Looking at his hands, at the unmarked flesh between the knuckles and the cold metal claws he knew nestled between the veins, tendons and adamantium-coated bones of his forearms, Logan sucked on his cigar. She was observant, he would give her that much.

"Yeah," he said shortly. "Every damn time."

She did not speak, but her lips formed a soundless 'oh'. Rummaging in her bag once more, she produced a dented hip flask and unscrewed the cap. Raising it to her lips, she took a long swallow and offered it to him.

"It's not whisky," she said regretfully.

Accepting the flask, he drank a generous measure of the cheap vodka, feeling it scald his throat. Handing it back, he eyed her critically, taking in her smooth-skinned youth and glossy hair. She could be a mature eighteen or a young twenty-five.

"How old are you, darlin'?" he asked.

She laughed, but the humour did not reach her eyes. Taking another swallow of vodka, cradling the hip flask in her silver-ringed fingers, she grimaced as it burnt its way down.

"Old enough to know better," she said cryptically, smiling. Abruptly, her expression clouded and her gaze fell to her feet. "That's just it, I'm not sure how old I am. I could be twenty-four, thirty-four, anything for all I know."

Logan glanced at her, puzzled, the night forest zipping past as a green black blur. A young rabbit darted out into the road, saw the trailer and hopped back into the undergrowth, white cotton tail bobbing.

"Whaddaya mean?"

Slipping the hip flask back into her bag, she sighed, hazel green eyes momentarily closing as if with the memory of something unpleasant.

"I mean I've a huge gap in my memory, just like you."

As soon as she had spoken, her mouth snapped shut and she grimaced, knowing she had said something she should not have known. Tyres squealing like kicked puppies, the trailer skidded to a shuddering halt as Logan stamped on the brake.

"How d'yer know that?" he snarled, rounding on her.

"Whoa! Hang on!" she exclaimed, hands fluttering up. "I'm TK, TP - telekinetic and telepathic. I sorta skimmed your mind, it's automatic when I meet people. . . I'm sorry."

Fuming at the intrusion, Logan scowled, toed the accelerator and the trailer began moving once more. Relieved he had not decided to dump her at the roadside then and there, Helena stopped holding her breath.

"Stay outta my head, English," he warned roughly. "Yer may find somethin' yer don't like."

Nodding quickly, she fixed her gaze on the road ahead, hands folded in her lap, knees pressed close together. When she did not continue telling her tale, Logan turned to look her over. She was the first mutant he had come across in almost three years who had not tried to kill, con or otherwise piss him off. Mutants tended to keep a low profile to avoid anti-mutant racism. He estimated she was five foot eight or nine to his six three and a little underweight, judging by the way her pants hung loosely from her hips. Living rough obviously did not suit her. She wore black from head to toe; black combat pants, clunky boots and a cap-sleeved skinny T-shirt. Silver glinted at her ears and as she yawned, her tongue. The hot summer sun had streaked her brown hair with reddish highlights and darkened her fair skin to light gold. She did not strike him as a fighter, it was not in her bearing or mannerisms, but she had a quiet strength of mind.

"What's this memory gap thing?"

Helena turned to look at him, hazel green eyes unreadable. She knew it would only be a matter of time before he asked her. His curiosity was too great to allow his pride to stop him. Faced with the blue weight of his gaze, she retrieved her vodka before speaking.

"Four months ago, I 'woke up' in the middle of Ontario with no clue of the time or place." She paused and stared into her hip flask. "I didn't know where the hell I was until I saw a newspaper on the pavement. . . Before that, my last memory is ten years ago - year two kay. I remember everything before that."

Logan frowned, remembering his own 'awakening', how he had found himself in a cockroach-infested motel room with only the knowledge of his name, the clothes he wore and an old black and white picture of himself and an anonymous woman.

"If yer remember 'everythin'' before, why dontcha know how old yer are?"

She took a nip from the flask, then apologetically offered it to him, running her fingers through her hair.

"It's so strange," she whispered, eyes opaque, looking back in time. "In two-thousand I was twenty-four, I was coming home from work one night and the next thing I knew I was here, in broad daylight, wearing the same clothes, looking exactly the same as I did then. But that's not the freakiest part. . . "

She trailed off and physically jumped when Logan prompted, "What?"

"I wasn't a mutant. . . mutancy shows itself at puberty, sometimes earlier, but I'd always been 'normal'." She laughed humourlessly "So I don't know how to explain it, unless somebody has been messing with my memory, and everything is a lie. Strong telepaths can do that, y'know - pull apart your mind like so much candy floss and spin it back together any way they feel like. . . All I know is on the day I 'woke up', I looked at something I was gonna pick up and it floated right into my hand, and I could hear what some feller over the street was thinking about his ex-wife. Not only that, I could smell the tight get's aftershave. I've a lot more control over my abilities than I should have, if I've only had them four months, which, let's face it, is unlikely. Most TP or TK mutants have a shitload of trouble learning to control themselves, it takes years of effort."

Logan's eyebrows escalated towards his hairline as he tried not to let his astonishment show. She was not lying, he could tell by her scent and heart beat. Subtle pheromonal changes and increases in heart rate were good indicators to the veracity of someone's words. Mouth turning down, he eased up on the accelerator.

"Yer seem ta know a lot about mutants fer a former non-mutie," he observed, deciding he did want a chocolate brownie after all.

She allowed him to filch a brownie, unsurprised by his acceptance of her story. She knew he could tell if she was lying by the way she smelled, a useful talent she had recently discovered for herself. Poking around other people's minds to see if they were lying had its drawbacks.

"Yeah, I had a friend who was a mutant, a doctor, he did a lot of research. Or at least I think I did. . . I've given up analysing what's what, if I think about it too much, I drive myself around the bend." She smiled slightly, remembering. "He could run like the clappers, we once clocked him at over eighty miles an hour, sommat to do with his muscle structure. And he had the most amazing golden eyes, but he had to cover them with contact lenses." Her face became tight, angry and sad, lower lip held between her teeth. "Then one night he'd been out drinking and he lost a lens. . . , well, let's just say a group of mutie-hating dickheads beat him half to death, broke his legs. He never did manage to get to eighty again."

She went extremely quiet and still, seeming to shrink back in the patched seat, withdrawing into herself. Logan wondered why she had not gone to the authorities for help instead of living rough, but knew the answer as soon as the thought ocurred. Mutants and authority were not a good combination, due to the inherantly prejudicial system. Glancing at the dashboard clock, he saw it was close to three a.m and sleep was long overdue. He jerked his chin towards the back of the trailer.

"Next town's a way away," he stated. "Go in the back an' get some shut-eye."

Helena looked in the back and just managed to stop herself from doing a double take.

Well, she thought wryly, taking in the mud and disarray. I've slept in worse. . . I think.

Misinterpreting the narrowing of her eyes, Logan frowned, watching as she clambered over the seat into the back.

"Relax, darlin'," he drawled. "I don't bite."

"Liar," she murmured, throwing her bag into a free corner. "I've seen you fight, don't forget."

Scowling, unsure if she was teasing, he turned back to the road, shifting his grip on the steering wheel. It felt strange having someone in his trailer, no matter how briefly. It was his personal, jealously guarded territory and he disliked having to share it.

So why've yer let her stay? he asked himself. Yer gettin' soft in yer old age, bub. First mutie girl who comes along an' yer listening ta her sob story an' offerin' her a bed fer the night - your bed. Nah, she's out at the next town. . .

* * * * *

2 Months Later

Striding over to the bar, Helena dug in her pocket for some money and ordered two whiskies. She found the longer she spent in Logan's company, the more whisky and Canadian Gold beer she was drinking. Her alcohol tolerance had jumped dramatically in two months, though she was unsure whether this was due to extensive practice or a further quirk of her mutant genes. The doughy-faced barmaid with a frizzy banana yellow perm and ubiquitous denim skirt sullenly poured the drinks and snatched the money. Quelling her instant dislike of the woman, the English girl reached out and lightly brushed her mind. Eyes momentarily squeezing shut, she withdrew with a slight intake of breath. The barmaid was nursing her mother through terminal lung cancer caused by forty years smoking twenty Marlboros a day.

Leaving a large tip, her head full of tubes, catheters, morphine and pain, she shuffled and elbowed her way through the flannel-crowded bar to the card game in the corner. Seven men, including Logan, sat hunched around a circular rough wooden table playing draw poker. Leaning over his shoulder, she placed a brimming glass at his elbow. Settling on a totter-legged stool a few feet behind him, outside of the attention of the other players, she feigned disinterest. Filtering out the smoke haze, beer fumes and scent of pine needles trodden in on boot soles, she focussed on the other players' minds.

'Ace of clubs, jack of hearts, three of spades, ace of diamonds and six of spades.'

Logan listened as her voice echoed inside his head, methodically listing all the other players' hands. He had a good poker face, but it did not matter how good if there was a telepath around. When she had first offered to help after seeing him lose a hundred dollars, he had been sceptical, but soon found it a relatively easy way to make money.

"It's better than having seven different coloured kinds of crap beaten outta you," she had said earnestly.

Wolverine resisted the urge to tell her he liked to fight, but knew she knew it anyway. Another thing he had learned was you could not lie to a telepath, much less to a telepath with a sense of smell as keen as his own. Tossing back his whisky, lips curling in a fierce grin, he spread his cards out.

"Five of a kind," he announced triumphantly.

The other players groaned and disgustedly slapped their cards on the table, gripping slowly warming Buds in their fists. Grinding out the butt of his cigar in one of several heavy glass ashtrays, Logan leaned forward and swept in the pile of money, counting it into hundred dollar lots.

"Goddamn lucky sonofabitch," a scrawny, chicken-necked man muttered under his breath, delving in his shirt pocket for his lighter.

Listening to similar discontented complaints and swearing, Logan inclined his head without turning around, hair in two perfect wild licks. Slipping down from her stool, Helena perched on the chair next to him, setting her empty glass down on the table.

"Well?"

"Eight hundred," he said satisfiedly.

She arched one dark brow. "Not bad."

Dividing the notes in two, he handed her a crumpled green bundle, tucking the rest into his breast pocket. She accepted it without comment, sliding it into the pocket of her black jeans.

"Ain't yer gonna count it, Hels?"

"I trust you, mostly," she replied, one corner of her mouth quirking. "Besides, I'll beat the shit outta you if you've diddled me."

He scowled ferociously, brows dipping over his nose. Grinning, she hopped up and made her way to the ladies' room, distinctive in black amongst the denim and red and blue flannel. Idly, he watched the movement of her hips as she walked away, noticing she had put on weight and no longer looked half-starved. It had become something of a running joke for her to threaten him since he had reluctantly begun to teach her how to fight.

"I gotta learn how to do that," she had commented after a brief scuffle involving a redneck, a broken bottle and wandering hands. "I don't want to rely on you to bail me out every time some idiot takes against me."

Against his better judgement, Wolverine had begun impromptu lessons the next day. To his utmost surprise, he found she was a phenomenally quick learner, despite her protestations she had never so much as raised a hand to anyone before. She was getting faster, stronger and more confident with each passing week. Her posture would instantaneously alter, snapping from round-shouldered nonchalance to combat readiness, flowing seamlessly from kata to kata. He doubted she had never fought before, but did not say so. A lot could happen in ten years of amnesia. He sometimes wondered if he had not intervened when she confronted the betting pool rednecks if her fight-or-flight instinct would have saved her, allowing her to access forgotten training. Secretly, he had almost begun to enjoy the lessons, answering her questions and demonstrating techniques with a growing enthusiasm. The way he fought was not stylish or elegant, it was brutal and effective, all about the quickest way of incapacitating your opponent.

She's good, far too good fer two months worth o'lessons, he grudgingly admitted to himself, ignoring the snide inner voice demanding to know why he had not kicked her out at the first town like he had resolved to. With that TK, TP shit she's go goin', got one dangerous girlie.

Emerging from the ladies' room, Helena zipped her jeans, feeling the plump wad of money inside her pocket. Pausing, she looked down at the grime-nailed hand resting on her hip and then up at its owner.

"Move it or lose it, pal," she said, fierce hazel green eyes meeting the watery blue of the scraggy man who had lost money to Wolverine playing poker.

"Or what, honey?" he snorted, work-callused fingers tapping the pocket her money was in. "Yer've an awful lotta money there, an' I don't think yer'll be needin' it."

She gave a humourless smile, clicking the silver stud in her tongue dismissively. Seeing Logan half rise from his chair, fists already clenching in preparation to pound the man insensible, she shook her head in the negative. Shrugging, he sat down and lit a fresh cigar, but did not turn his back.

"Oh, I think I will," she disagreed. "Y'see, there's this dinky little pink dress I've seen in Macy's. . . "

Before he could utter so much as a squawk of surprise, the gaunt poker player found his cheek mashed to the rough plaster wall, arm twisted up his back. Groaning, he cursed as she pressed her knee into the small of his back.

"Try that again, and I'll break it," she promised. "Followed by both kneecaps, you get me?"

Nodding as best as he was able, features stretched rigid with pain, he gasped as she released him and serenely strolled away. Rubbing his sore wrist, seeing the purple beginnings of bruises, the redneck momentarily considered giving chase. Looking up, he accidentally met the direct blue glare of the man who had beaten him at poker and quickly thought better. Furtively peering around to see if any of his drinking-buddies had witnessed the incident, he slunk away to by the battered pool table.

Inwardly grinning as she saw the redneck sneak away like a chastised toddler, Helena spotted Logan, who had moved to a stool at the bar, the scuffed toe of his boot hooked under the rung. She knew he was brooding. It was in his hunched shoulders and frown, the way he repeatedly turned a beer mat over in his thick fingers. She had become well versed in his peculiar language of frowns, scowls and glares.

Why does he let me tag along? she thought. He's not shown any real inclination to get into my knickers. . . and he certainly doesn't need me to help him scrape together enough to live on. He's cagey, easily provoked, sarcastic, downright rude and. . . lonely, plain bloody lonely. You poor bugger, Logan, how long have you been so alone?

Crossing the dusty bare plank floor, she leaned on her forearms on the bar next to him, nodding to the barmaid to line up two more shooters. If you drank enough rotgut, you began to get a disturbing taste for it.

"Hey, want some company?" she asked softly.

"S'pose," he growled. "Only if I ain't payin' fer it."

"Arsehole," she sniffed, without rancour.

Giving one of his brief almost-smiles that indicated genuine amusement rather than preceding a clenched fist or popped claws, he rubbed at his beard. Grinning in return, she picked up her shooter and drained it without a flicker.

"Gettin' good," he commented dryly. "Soon yer'll be up ta my standard."

"Doubt it," she disagreed. "I'd be pickled in my own juices."

Thumping her glass down on the bar, she suddenly hissed and snatched her hand up, a small shard of broken glass glinting in the flickering overhead light.

"Shit!" she exclaimed vehemently, bringing her fingers up.

"Y'alright?"

"Yeah, just cut myself," she grumbled, then blinked as she rubbed the tender area, finding it uninjured. "Or not. . . hmph, I was sure that'd broke the skin."

Eyebrows lifting with puzzlement, she pushed her back into the bar, nose wrinkling slightly as she caught sight of someone across the room. Rolling her eyes with disdain, resting her left boot heel on the battered brass foot rail around the bar, she turned to Logan.

"Christ, here she comes, your one-woman fan club, Miss Tits 'n' Arse. I'm sure you could lose your head down that cleavage."

A petite brunette in a tiny buckskin skirt and low-cut white top that exposed a considerable outcrop of hoicked-up bosom wiggled her way across the bar on shiny cowboy boots. The English mutant watched her like she was a small, particularly gaudy bug, noting Logan's sudden interest. His head tipped to one side, gaze pinned on the two mountains of flesh straining against white material.

"If you're gonna screw her brains out, sunshine, find somewhere else to do it," she announced acidly. "That's assuming you can find her brains. I'm going to get some sleep." White trash slapper. If you could see inside her head, you wouldn't be so keen. Huh, but knowing you, you probably would. . . you randy get.

He dragged his attention away long enough to scowl, "Who's trailer is it, darlin'?"

"Who helped you win at poker, nowty?" she retorted. "Is it too much to ask for an uninterupted night's kip?"

Logan glared at her, only to find she blazed right back at him, uncowed, then headed for the door. Jumping down from his barstool, he had taken two steps after her before halting, jaw squaring.

"Hey! Don't yer walk away from me!" he snarled. "Yer don't like the way I do things, English, yer can haul that cute ass o'yours outta my goddamn trailer."

"Fuck you," she tossed over her shoulder, not looking back.

"In yer dreams," he shot back, causing her to flip up two fingers at him.

Before he could snap a reply, soft manicured hands snaked over his chest and shoulders, commanding his attention.

"Hey there, cowboy," Miss Tits And Arse cooed, thrusting forward her remarkable chest.

'They're implants.'

Ignoring the departing telepathic comment, Logan gave his best 'come hither' grin and slid his hands around the brunette's waist. He did not know her name, and probably never would. It did not really matter to him and mattered less to her. He never stayed around long enough to care. Inhaling to catch her scent, the characteristic iron tang of blood tickled his nostrils. Looking down, he caught sight of a shard of glass on the scarred wooden bar top. Picking it up between thumb and forefinger, he frowned at the single drop of redness staining its edge. It smelled like Helena.

* * * * *

Agonised moaning woke her from a deep, strangely dreamless sleep. Rolling onto her side on the rickety camp bed, Helena sighed and opened her eyes, staring into the cool blue blackness of the trailer's interior.

Great, she thought with annoyance. He's having one of his nightmares.

Logan had returned to the trailer some time after midnight, reeking of the brunette's cheap chemically perfume and lipstick. Roused from her doze by the sound of the door creaking, she had pretended to be asleep, listening as plopped down onto his mattress and noisily kicked off his boots.

"Yer were right, Hels," he had muttered disappointedly, thinking she was asleep. "They were implants."

She had stuffed the edge of her sleeping bag into her mouth in an effort not to burst out laughing, reminding herself she was still angry with him. Not long after, his deep, regular breathing had told her he had drifted off to sleep. Sitting up, she stretched the kink out of her back, grimacing as another series of low, tortured groans rose from the periodically twitching form on the mattress next to her. Tightening her mental shields to keep out the fractured images of restraints, immersion tanks, bone-boring needles and sinister reflective goggles on faceless men in labcoats, she unzipped the sleeping bag and swung her sweatpant-clad legs over the side of the campbed, feeling guilty for being annoyed.

What did they do to you? You can't remember, but it makes you moan in your sleep. . .

"Logan," she said aloud, leaning over. "Wake up, c'mon."

Jaw clenching, chin tipping back, he hissed between his teeth, sweat beading his forehead. At his sides, his hands balled into bloodless fists, ready to attack his phantom persecutors. Sliding off the campbed, unable to watch him suffer, Helena knelt on the metal floor.

"C'mon," she urged. "You're making enough noise to wake the dead."

Knowing it probably was not a good idea to shake him physically, but out of options other than to enter his dreaming mind, which he would not thank her for, she grasped his shoulders and shook him firmly. With a primitive snarl, he snapped upright, clenched fist flying forward. There was a hard metallic click as his claws shot through the skin.

Wrenched from the depths of nightmare with a jolt, Logan opened his eyes and found he was sitting bolt upright. Dazedly, he stared along the rigid length of his arm, wondering why it felt heavy. Eyes widening with shock, he discovered his claws buried knuckle-deep in Helena's chest, the razor points protruding obscenely through the back of the threadbare baggy T-shirt she wore.

"Oh, God, no, no, no!" he groaned, horrified.

Frantically retracting his claws, he fought the unaccustomed urge to panic as he belatedly realised they had been plugging the holes in her lungs. Ghastly choking, gulping sounds emerged from her feebly working mouth as they filled with blood, her eyes bulging with disbelief. Motionless in the darkness, mannequin stiff, fingers splayed out before her as if in entreaty, she slowly pitched forward. Hurriedly catching her, Wolverine turned her over onto her back, helpless. The nearest hospital was more than fifty miles away and she would not make it that far.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he gabbled, seeing she was rapidly paling from asphyxiation and blood loss. "Oh, God, no, please, don't die."

Desperately, her hands fastened onto his arms and she levered herself up so their faces were level. Her mouth opened as if she was about to speak, stained violent cherry with coughed blood, and she collapsed, flopping bonelessly over his arm. The breath whistled out of her lungs in a tremulous gasp and she was still. Seconds ticked by and Logan did not move, supporting her limp weight, nostrils filled with the scent of blood and acrid cigarette smoke clinging to her hair. A tingling, pulling sensation began in his arm, nerve endings dancing with frenetic inner heat. It grew and spread, moving up and across his chest. Thinking it was pins and needles, he placed a hand on her upper back and gently transferred her weight to his other arm.

"I'm so sorry, Hels," he whispered raggedly. "Yer didn't deserve ta go this way."

Catching sight of the three holes in the front of her T-shirt, he shuddered, then stared with amazed disbelief. Beneath the material, the flesh was unmarked, whole, with no sign of the oozing punctures caused by his claws. Before he could adequately process what he was seeing, her fingers curled and she sucked in a huge quantity of air. Hazel green eyes bursting open, she stiffened and exhaled mightily. Mouth falling open, Logan recalled the shard of glass stained with her blood in the bar. She had not thought she had cut herself because it had healed before she looked at it.

"You stabbed me, you son of a bitch," she croaked faintly.

"Yer alive, ain't yer?" he shrugged, but his eyes were pained.

Realising she was lying across his lap, Helena struggled to sit up, eyes squeezing shut with momentary roaring dizziness. Clutching her head, she swore, feeling his hands warm through her T-shirt as he steadied her.

"Healing factor, must be," she observed, nose crinkling as she tried to clear the taste of blood from her mouth. She grimaced. "There's easier ways to find out about it."

Looking as close to distraught as she thought possible for him, Logan's brow furrowed and he wrapped his blanket around her shoulders.

"Look, I shoulda warned yer about my nightmares. Shoulda told yer not ta try ta wake me," he said hoarsely. "But I wasn't plannin' on yer stayin' so long, English."

She shook her head and held up a hand to stop him. The next town had merged into the next and numerous others, despite his frequent grumblings about throwing her out. One day he had simply stopped telling her he would drop her at the next town, an unspoken need for company of his own kind overriding his territorial instincts.

"It's my fault," she countered, hand involuntarily rising to rub her chest where his claws had skewered her. "I know you have nightmares. I mean, let's face it, you can hardly not notice, but you're a little touchy, so I didn't mention them. Let's not dwell on it, it's done now. . . Look on the bright side - I know it won't kill me if you do it again."

His eyes darkened at the thought, fists unconsciously flexing. The two mutants sat in the dim trailer interior, looking at each other, pondering the similarities of their physical abilities. Silencing her inner mind, which was hysterically bleating that she had just been stabbed through the chest by three adamantium talons, Helena forced herself to think about it rationally.

"It explains why I still look the same as I did in two thousand," she murmured after a long period of quiet. "And I bet you haven't aged in years either, you lucky bugger."

Logan looked up at her, his blue eyes abruptly old and haunted. A man moulded by survival instinct and whatever nameless awful things that happened to him in a past he could not recall, he was tough, often callous, but not without conscience or morality. What he had just done bothered him intensely. The possibility it could happen again bothered him more.

"Not a damn day in fifteen years," he admitted.

"No wrinkles for us," she said, stiffling a giggle that threatened to become helpless edgy laughter. Christ, get a grip. Don't start laughing, none of this is funny.

She heard him draw a long breath and scratch at his mutton chop beard, his shoulders a tense line in the darkness. Her limbs were tingling, skin prickling like it had been stroked with barbed wire feathers. She rubbed at her arms, wondering if it was an after-effect of her healing factor.

"Maybe I should drop yer at the next town," he said heavily. "Outta harm's way." Away from me, so I can't hurt yer again. It was a mistake lettin' yer stay so long, lettin' myself get used to havin' somebody around. Someone like me is better off alone.

"That's bullshit, and you know it!" she snapped, sensing his thoughts. "Don't you bloody well jump ship on me."

She broke off and frowned as her hands began to burn, licks of itching, jangling pain travelling up her arms. Logan noticed her discomfort, saw the way she was rubbing at her hands.

"Pins 'n' needles?" he asked, thinking of the fading tingling in his own limbs.

"Yeah," she said, brows dipping. "Only they're getting wor-"

With a piercing yelp of agony, she doubled up like a snapped spring, falling onto her side on the trailer floor. Alarmed, he scrambled over, kicking the campbed out of the way in his haste. Fingers hooked, eyes screwed shut, she shook and convulsed uncontrollably. A raised tracery of pulsing veins and tendons rippled along her limbs, spider webbing her face as she moaned through clenched teeth.

God, there's somethin' inside her! he thought, seeing silvery metallic ribbons stream through her flesh below the skin.

Attempting to hold her still, he thrust his hands beneath her head as her back arched to an impossible degree and she screamed until he thought her lungs would burst. Scrabbling against the hard plate metal floor, her fingers sought purchase. Throwing him off, she curled up in a defensive foetal position, her hands coming up to her face. Watching three mercury lines travelling rapidly down her forearms, Logan cried out with sudden instinctive realisation and snatched her hands away a millisecond before metal claws sprang from between each knuckle with an unmistakable 'snikt'.

A thin trickle of blood ran from each of the exit points, drying to nothing as the wounds sealed around the sharp metal. For long moments the only sound was thundering hearts and her panting as she fought to regain her breath. Easing his grip on her wrists, seeing the purple bruises he left fade away, Wolverine helped her sit up.

"W-where t-the fucking hell did they come from?" she demanded breathlessly, terrified and astonished, staring at the talons like they belonged to somebody else.

Gingerly holding her hands up before her face like a child covered in finger paint, she turned them slowly, lower lip caught between her teeth. Carefully, she touched the back of her left hand, feeling where the metal disappeared beneath the skin.

"Jesus Christ," she whispered disbelievingly, transfixed by the cold lethal blades. "I can't have these all along. . . could I?"

"I. . . " Logan cleared his throat before continuing. "I think yer may've absorbed them from me."

Seeing her incredulous stare, he explained about the strange tugging pins and needles sensation he had experienced and the running lines of metal visible through her skin.

"Felt like someone pullin' somethin' outta me," he clarified.

Huddling inside the blanket he had wrapped around her like it was armour, still holding her claws out, she looked all the more unnerved.

"How. . . why?"

"Don't ask me, yer the one with a doctor fer a friend."

She swallowed and made a visible effort to compose herself, "Are yours. . . ?"

Holding up his clenched fist, Logan extruded a single claw. It slid from the flesh to its full length, shining icily in the tepid moonlight filtering through the grimy trailer windows.

"Still all there," he confirmed, somewhat strained.

"Must've. . . must've duplicated them somehow," she said slowly, thinking. "It's possible. Kristian - that's the doctor - said that some mutants can absorb things, powers, memories, shit like that. Sometimes at will, sometimes in isolated incidents."

She fell silent, looking painfully young and lost to Logan's eyes, though her apparent youth was almost certainly deceptive. Reaching across, he struck lightly at her claws with his own, causing them to emit a clear, almost musical chime.

"They're adamantium alright," he grunted, retracting the claw into his fist. "Wouldn't be surprised if yer whole damn skeleton ain't coated in it."

When she failed to respond, staring fixedly at the deadly sharp metal, he touched her arm.

"Hey, don't freak out on me, English, okay?. . . An' while yer at it, put 'em away."

Clearly not knowing how to sheath her claws, she squinted at them for a few seconds, concentrating on the muscles in her arms. Jumping with fright when they finally shot back with an audible click, she cradled her hands in her lap, head bowed. Logan watched her with a growing sense of unease, feeling unaccountably trapped.

This is too close fer comfort, he thought. Healin' factor, souped-up senses an' now those damn claws. . . She ain't a killer like me, she ain't got the instinct. I gotta do somethin' about this. . .

Sensing his thoughts, Helena raised her head, eyes shadowed by wings of dark hair, and held his gaze.

"Don't you bail out on me," she whispered, her voice reed-thin but foreceful. "Don't you dare run. You've spent fifteen years running, Logan, and it's gotta stop somewhere. You help me deal with this shit, and then you can run as far as you bloody like."

She did not plead or beg, but the unspoken "please" hung on the air. Battling an instinctive urge to throw her out and flee, to get rid of something as threatening as a potential tie, he did not answer. Her lip curled, head tipping to one side.

"Afraid?" she asked, the utterance almost a sneer. "Is big bad Wolverine actually scared?"

"I'm scared of nuthin'," he growled, straightening, eyes flashing.

Logan could not remember being needed, could not recall anyone not only asking for, but expecting, his help. Conflict raged inside his head, his need for protective solitude and complete self-reliance warring against a new need. Very few people inspired the deeply buried protective side of his nature. He realised he had grown to like having her around, grown used to her quick wit and watching face in the crowd as he pummelled rednecks in cage fights. He had come to expect her to be there when he played cards, casually, cleverly insulting him in ways nobody else could get away with. He had even grown accustomed to the vehement squabbles when they disagreed.

Hell, I just stabbed yer like a rabbit an' yer didn't freak. Yer can even drink like me an' not collapse. Things'd be a lot less interestin' without yer around. . . Listen ta me. . . God, what've yer done ta me, Hels?

Hardly able to believe he had decided to stay, Logan nodded, not admitting defeat, merely allowing a truce.

"Okay, you win."

* * * * *

3 Months Later

Tugging his Yankees baseball cap straight, the short, singularly unattractive young Canadian grinned with guileless enthusiasm and repeated his offer.

"That sounds great," Helena called above the din, sounding extremely disinterested. "But there's just one tiny problem. . . "

"An' what would that be?"

The English mutant nodded to the barman for a refill and twisted about on her tall, split-cushioned stool. She pointed to the makeshift fighting ring constructed from lengths of rough, untreated timber supporting sheets of thick wire mesh.

"You see that feller pounding the floor with your mate's head?"

Brown eyes narrowing, the young man peered through the jostling, howling crowd at Wolverine, who tossed aside his vanquished opponent and snarled gutturally at the spectators. Stalking the length of the ring, dog tags bouncing at his chest, he waited for another fool sufficiently bolstered by alcohol-induced machismo. The Canadian scratched beneath his cap and nodded, perplexed.

"Yup. I see him."

"Well, he's the problem. He kinda gets upset and pulls people's arms off. . . if you see what I mean."

Handing over money for her drink, Helena took a long swallow of vodka and waited for him to change cognitive gears. He was just drunk enough to bypass his natural intelligence and have difficulty taking no for an answer.

"Awwwwww. He's busy - what he don't know won't hurt him. C'mon, I know how ta show a lady a good time."

Reflecting that it may take more than the spectre of a disgruntled apparent boyfriend to dissuade him, she sighed inwardly, torn between amusement and irritation. Usually, one look at Logan convinced the average, misguidedly amorous drinker to leave well enough alone. If that failed, he would stare challengingly and utter a low, menacing growl. Helena was convinced he quite liked playing the protective, jealous lover, something she sometimes teased him about.

"Sorry, dear," she said firmly, contemplating a swift psionic blast to render him unconscious. "No can do. . . Dontcha think he looks good without his shirt on?"

The young Canadian's spine stiffened with umbrage, drunken lasciviousness metamorphosing into rage as he purposefully misunderstood the comment designed to persuade him to search for easier prey.

"Yer sayin' I'm some sorta fag?" he demanded, slapping his beer down on the bar so foam dribbled down the sides of the glass.

He loomed over her, hands threatening knots, mouth a beery wet twist. To his immense surprise and increasing fury, she looked bored and sipped a little more of her neat vodka. Straightening to his full height, which fell shot of hers by several inches, he scowled.

"I said. . . Are yer sayin' I'm some sorta - "

"I heard what you said," she interupted, eyes flashing. "And you know full well that's not what I meant. Now piss off and leave me alone before you get hurt."

He laughed, the sound made raucous by inebriation and scorn, and hitched up his patch-kneed jeans.

"Yer boyfriend's busy, babe. Ain't nobody ta help yer out."

"Who says I need any help?" she asked, steel in her tone.

The middle-aged barman leaned over and flapped a stubby hand at the young man, causing his scowl to deepen.

"Leave her alone, John," he advised. "Yer've had too much ta drink an' yer makin' a spectacle of yerself. Take some advice an' go home."

John's chin lifted and he flipped up his middle finger at the barman, who growled an insult and stumped off to serve more beers, having neither the time nor the patience to deal with him. He stepped closer to the English mutant, who frowned as she sensed his thoughts. She turned to look him in the face, hazel green eyes glacial, slender hand bunching around her shot glass. At the ringside, there was a ripple of applause punctuated by groaned curses as the latest fight ended.

"Hey, John," a new voice drawled. "Quit slobberin' an' get yer ass home. Now."

Catching a whiff of expensive cologne, a rarity in the kind of places she had frequented since meeting Wolverine, Helena turned to see a tall blond dressed like he had stepped out of a men's lifestyle magazine. An eyebrow lifting, she took in his immaculately-pressed blue jeans and thick dark fleece sweater. Everything he wore was some sort of designer label. Flashing an amiable smile at her, a butter-soft leather jacket hung over his arm, he jerked a thumb at John, who scowled and slunk away.

"Sorry about that," he apologised politely. "He never could hold his liquor. Can I get yer another?"

Wondering what a city slicker was doing so far out in the backwoods, the English mutant nodded, watching as he strode over to the barman and pointed to a bottle on the shelf. His accent was local, though less pronounced than the flannel-shirted fight spectators. She surmised he was a country boy made good, possibly a graduate from the University of Montreal. Turning her attention back to the ring, she saw Logan grab his latest opponent by the seat of his pants and slam him headfirst into the wooden barrier.

"Thanks," she said as another vodka slid into her hand. "Don't mean to be rude, but you don't seem the type for this kinda. . . establishment."

He laughed sunnily and arranged himself on the vacant barstool next to her, cornflower blue eyes crinkling at the corners with good humour.

"It's my dad's place - he owns this bar an' one the next town back. When I'm home visitin', this is where yer'll find me." Seemingly remembering his manners, he offered his manicured hand. "I'm Dan, an' yer don't seem the type fer this kinda place, either. . . ?"

"Helena," she supplied, finding his grip firm. "Yeah, well, we all find ourselves in places we'd never expect to every now and then."

He grinned again and raised his Budweiser to his lips, wiping away a small dribble of foam with the back of his hand. Blue eyes tracking over her shoulder to the seething crowd gathered around the fight ring, he watched dispassionately as the emcee disgustedly motioned for his cronies to drag away the broken-nosed, unconscious loser.

"Much as I love my dad, this isn't the place fer nice girls," he commented seriously. "Too many guys with too much beer inside them."

Helena laughed lightly and tossed back the remains of her drink, glancing at her watch. It was close to one a.m and the fights were due to end. Although licensing hours were rarely enforced so far out from the major cities and local police usually turned a blind eye, they took a dim view of fights continuing into the early hours.

"Who says I'm a nice girl?" she asked with a sly smile, holding his gaze until he seemed slightly taken aback. So he's a dental-flossed clothes horse who's definitely not my type, but he's the cutest thing I've seen since I woke up after ten years. At least he doesn't smell like week-old socks. Come sit on my lap, little boy. . .

Dan's forehead momentarily clouded when she did not giggle or bat her eyelashes as expected, but he quickly recovered.

"That accent," he began. "Whereabouts in England are yer from? London?"

She chuckled and shook her head, "Nah, lot further north than that."

"Glasgow?"

"That's in Scotland."

"Oh. . . um, Manchester?" he guessed hopefully.

"Close," she grinned, seeing that the fight ring was empty, groups of spectators shuffling away now the entertainment was over. "But no cigar."

"I got plenty of them, darlin'," a familiar voice growled over her left shoulder.

Looking up, she saw Logan standing with his arms folded, shirt partially unbuttoned. A sheen of sweat clung to his forehead and chest, hair mussed and knuckles reddened from repeated punching. Twitchy with unspent adrenaline and roused aggression, he eyed the young blond Canadian with ill-concealed contempt.

"Hey, Logan," Helena greeted, seeing the wad of fight-spoils in his pocket. "It's your round."

"Who's the frat-boy?" he demanded bluntly.

"Dan. . . good fight, by the way." He offered his hand with a toothpaste-advert smile.

Logan regarded the extended hand with disdain, not bothering to unfold his arms as he leaned back on the bar.

"When I'm talkin' ta yer, college boy, I'll let yer know," he sniffed. "An' one more thing; whatcha doin' botherin' Hels here?"

Dan's blinding smile sagged and he looked to Helena, who clenched her teeth and glared at her travelling companion.

'What the hell d'you think you're doing?' she exclaimed wordlessly, her telepathic voice bouncing around Logan's head, leaving angry red swirls in its wake. 'Back off, Sir Lancelot - this damsel isn't in distress, far from it.'

Lighting a cigar, blowing a long plume of smoke directly at the uneasily smiling blond, Logan rubbed his knuckles as two now-conscious fighters dragged a third away. As they passed, they scowled sidelong at him, sporting a collection of bruises, cuts and fractured bones.

'Guy's too damn respectable,' he sent back. 'Guy like that in a place like this has gotta be up ta somethin'.'

To Dan, it seemed that the two were simply frowning at each other like a pair of tethered dogs. Puzzled, he took another mouthful of beer and nodded a greeting to a burly man in a blue flannel shirt.

'Bugger off!' Helena told Logan. 'I don't get all snitty when you decide to screw whatever slapper catches your eye. Who d'you think I am - the Virgin bloody Mary?'

Aloud, she said, "Dan, be a sweetheart and get another round in."

Almost gratefully, he hurried to the other end of the bar and beckoned to the barman, conscious of Wolverine's distrustful gaze following his every step. The English mutant waved her hand in a shooing motion.

"Go crack a few heads," she ordered. "Smoke a few cigars, chase your tail or somebody else's, I don't care - just leave out the He-Man act. I've got a new toy to play with, okay?"

Blue eyes growing turbulent, Logan held her gaze, and a battle of wills began. At length, he shrugged and pushed himself away from the bar.

"Okay," he acquiesced. "Just don't come cryin' if yer shiny new boy-toy don't have the right accessories."

"I won't," she said firmly. "Now move it - I'll catch up with you later."

Lips pursing in a disinterested 'whatever' gesture, he strolled away towards the door, barging it open with his shoulder. Helena watched him go, bemused by the vehemence with which he rammed into the door.

If I didn't know better, I'd say he was jealous, she thought. We stick together 'cos nobody else in their right mind would put up with either of us. Two walking sets of steak knives with varying degrees of bad attitude and enough emotional baggage to fill a B52. . .

The clink of a full glass on the bartop drew her attention and she looked up to see Dan's clean-shaven face. Settling onto a stool, hooking his foot under the rung, he flicked a glance around the murky bar. When he failed to see Wolverine amongst the patrons, he visibly relaxed.

"Yer, er, friend's gone?" he asked.

"Yep," she nodded, looking him up and down, noting that he obviously worked out. "He's just a bit over-protective. . . but you've got me all to yourself now."

Dan's lips curled in a self-satisfied smile and he pointed to the brimming shot glass in front of her with the neck of his Bud bottle.

"Gotcha a double measure," he confided. "Seeing as yer friend wasn't gentleman enough ta buy yer one himself."

"Why, are you trying to get me drunk?" she exclaimed with mock horror, throwing up her hands. I'm gonna have a hard time explaining why I'm not drunk after this much vodka - he's already seen me drink three!

"Not at all," he returned with an arch grin. "Cheers."

"Cheers," she echoed, raising her glass.

Glass poised at her mouth, the English mutant's nostrils twitched as she detected a slight chemical odour to the drink. Almost drowned by the sharp distilled tang of the vodka, it would have been indetectable to a normal human nose, or even that of most dogs.

The little shit! He's spiked my bloody drink! What is that. . . LSD? No. . . . Jelly? Rohypnol. . . ! So he wants to play that way, huh?

Not pausing to ask herself how she knew what he had slipped into her drink, she set down her glass, feeling the muscles in her jaw jump as it clenched.

"C'mon, drink up," Dan urged, smiling all the while.

The smile faded like evaporating water as he saw the fury disfiguring her features. Mouth twisting, she slithered down from her barstool, eyes electric jade.

"What's up, babe?" he asked, puzzled.

"Don't you 'babe' me, sunshine," she hissed. Snatching up the glass, she threw the contents in his face, causing him to splutter as the alcohol stung his eyes. "How many times have you gotten away with it, eh?"

Dan backed away, wiping at his streaming eyes. Sneaking realisation that she knew he had spiked her drink bobbed around his mind.

"What?!" he exclaimed, spreading his hands with feigned righteous indignation. "What did I do?"

"You spiked my drink, arsehole!" she accused, stabbing a finger at his chest, her temper rising to boiling point. "I could smell it!"

Laughing, glancing around to gain support from his father's cronies and employees, he fished in his pocket for a handkerchief. Several of the drinkers gathered around, shaking their heads or murmuring disparagingly as they eyed the woman in black. The laughter died on his lips as he accidentally caught her gaze, precipitating a sensation akin to a thousand insectoid feet crawling inside his head.

"Crazy English bitch!" he suddenly growled, trying to shake off the feeling something was rummaging around inside his mind.

Helena glanced around, counting eight men to her back and five behind Dan. The fight crowd had thinned considerably, leaving only hardened drinkers, bar staff and hundreds of empty bottles. Rolling her shoulders, she gave a thin smile and pantomimed cringing terror.

"Oh, no! Please don't hurt me!" she shrilled, flapping her hands, eyes rabbit huge.

Dan laughed nastily, echoed by his flannel-clad hangers-on. He was still laughing when his lips were smeared across his teeth in a bloody wet rag by an adamantium fist. The bar erupted as he went down like a bowling pin, shedding several broken teeth. Jabbing her elbow back into the gut of the man behind her, hearing his pained exhalation, the English mutant brought back her fist. It met yielding cartilage, provoking a bellow of pain. Lips peeling back over her teeth, she kicked a barstool into the path of three more rednecks, felling one. Jumping back to gain more leg room, she whirled into a flying roundhouse, taking down two more. Feeling her claws shift and itch in their sheaths, she smothered the urge to pop them and buried her fist into the nearest lardy stomach.

Glass smashed and furniture flew, smaller fights breaking out between drinkers disgruntled by their lack of success in subduing a single female. Catching a blow to the chin, her head snapped back and she staggered, but did not fall. Snarling like a roused vixen, her leg flashed out, metal-heeled boot connecting with an unshaven chin. Eyes narrowing, a telekinetic lash whipped out the legs of another assailant. Temple striking the foot rail around the bar, his eyes rolled back as he sucumbed to unconsciousness. Leaping up onto the bartop, discarded glasses and bottles smashed explosively in her wake as she stomped her heels down. Stalking the length of the bar, she spotted a disorientatedly swaying Dan holding his bleeding mouth.

With a vengeful quirk of her lips, she launched herself at him, all whipping hair and lithe muscle. The air whooshed from his lungs as her full adamantium-increased weight ploughed him to the floor and he croaked a breathless insult.

"What was that, Danny boy? Didn't quite catch that," she spat coldly, her knee grinding into his abdomen as she backhanded him across the face. The young Canadian's nose broke in a hot crimson spray and he let out a sound peculiarly like a whimper. "You bloody pervert, drugging and raping women."

Features contorted with pain, nose at right angles to the rest of his face, he groaned incoherantly. Watering eyes filling with fear, the sounds of an all-out brawl battering at his ears, Dan struggled, only to be slapped hard across the face.

"Can't leave yer alone fer a minute, English."

Looking up, Helena saw Logan drop down to avoid a sweeping punch. Leaping up, he headbutted the immensely-surprised redneck, sending him reeling away with a mashed nose. Fast and ruthlessly efficient, dropping the pretence he used while cage-fighting, he delivered hammerblows, chops and forceful kicks. Bulldozing his way through the chaos of flying bottles and bodies, he squatted down at her side, fists resting on his knees. Peering down at Dan's bloodied face, head held askance, he grinned and indicated his broken nose.

"Yer boy-toy disappoint, darlin'?" he asked with amusement, attention briefly diverted as he jabbed the solar plexus of a redneck who lurched unsteadily into his path.

"You gloat and I'll break your neck!" she snarled, pinning a struggling Dan down by sitting on his chest. He squawked, face turning mottled crimson as her adamantium-enhanced weight made his ribcage groan protestingly. "This prick spiked my drink with Rohypnol."

Wolverine's mouth hardened dangerously, brows dipping as his incensed blue eyes moved to spear the young Canadian.

"That so?" he growled, then looked at Helena. "Yer didn't drink it, did yer?"

"No," she shook her head. "I smelt it in time." 'Not that it would've done much with my healing factor - but that's beside the point.'

Looking from one to the other, desperate to save himself from a further beating, Dan opened his torn-lipped mouth.

"Smelt it?" he exclaimed, voice slurred by his split, rapidly-swelling lips. "Yer can't smell Rohypnol! Probably just detergent on the glass! She's crazy!"

He continued to gabble accusations and insubstantial claims of innocence until Helena gave a snort of annoyance, her clenched fist pulling back in preparation to strike. A muted electronic tone reached Wolverine's sharp ears and he glanced up to see the barman crouched over the payphone, muttering a report to the police. Briefly torn between planting his boot into Dan's ribs or breaking both his legs, he ground his teeth ferociously.

Be sensible fer once in yer life, he commanded himself, seeing an animalistic thirst for vengeance in the Englishwoman's narrowed eyes. Much as it'd be fun ta see her really cut loose, yer've gotta split before the cops get here. . . before she loses it an' goes on a rampage. Jesus, Hels, yer've got a temper ta rival mine when yer get goin'.

Hearing the young Canadian cry out, he estimated they had less than ten minutes before the barman's 911 call was answered by a cruiser or three.

"Can it, Hels," he rumbled, catching her wrist. "This place'll be crawlin' with cops pretty soon."

Reluctantly, she got to her feet, eyes blazing with contained fury. Sobbing with relief, Dan lay spreadeagled on the dusty rough planks, his designer jeans torn, formerly perfect teeth broken. Suppressing the urge to shoot his claws and turn the would-be-rapist into steak tartare, Logan indicated the door with a jerk of his chin.

"Wanna spend the night in jail?" he demanded, seeing her fighting a compulsion to beat Dan to a broken-boned jelly. 'Some stations do blood tests fer mutancy, darlin'. This sack o'shit ain't worth the risk.'

Nodding to signify she understood, she stepped over Dan, kicking aside a broken barstool that was spilling yellow foam stuffing onto the floor. The two mutants had almost reached the door when he began to chuckle, hacking and spluttering.

"There's plenty more fish in the sea," he muttered.

Super-acute ears picking up the mumbled threat, Helena spun about and sprinted back before Logan could hold her back. Shrugging resignedly, he leaned against the wall and waited, glancing at his watch. They still had a few minutes before the police arrived. To his surprise, she did not set about beating him, merely pincered his face in her hand until he gaped like a landed fish and scowled hotly into his eyes. Without another word, she tossed him a final, contemptuous glare and strode away, blocky metal heels clicking.

"What was that all about?" Logan asked as they made their way to the trailer. "If the barkeep hadn't called the cops, frat-boy there would've ended up wearing his innards as a hat if I'd anythin' ta say."

She smiled humourlessly and clambered into the trailer, propping her feet on the dashboard. As the engine grumbled into life and they pulled away, she spotted the blue flashing lights of a police cruiser in the near distance.

"Let's just say he's gonna have an irresistable urge to confess all when the police arrive," she confided.

"Didn't know yer could do that, Hels," Logan grunted, admiring the appropriateness of her actions. Dan would spend the next decade or so locked away in a maximum security prison, placed there by his own treacherous tongue.

Fixing her eyes on the darkened road unwinding before the twin beams of the trailer's headlights, her brow furrowed and she flexed her right hand, rubbing at the knuckles.

"Neither did I," she confessed, leaning over to rummage in the glove compartment for a cassette tape.

Shoving the tape into the dashboard player, she poked a finger at the play button and cranked up the volume.

"Next town?" she asked over the music.

"Next town," Wolverine agreed, stamping the accelerator to the floor.

* * * * *

"That place is almost, well. . . respectable. The ladies' room even has locks that work. You sure they have fights there?" Helena asked dubiously as she trudged up the snowy track, her breath drifting white steam in the cold, motionless night air.

Logan nodded, feeling the frigid air nip through his battered leather jacket. Winter had arrived with a vengeance, spitefully dumping vast quantities of snow and hail. He glanced up at the sky and sniffed, catching the pungent scent of pine, a nearby scavenging fox and fresh snow. The sky was a dark cobalt blue fudge overhead, the absence of cloud causing the temperature to plunge. Stopping, her boots coated in powdery snow to the ankle, Helena looked back at the scattering of yellow light that proclaimed the presence of a small town.

"This cabin better have a huge fireplace," she grumbled. "'Cos I'm just about to turn into an ice-lolly."

The trailer's engine had unceremoniously expired the previous day, refusing to start despite Logan's vehement cursing and tinkering under the bonnet. He had finally admitted it needed new parts and reluctantly booked it in at the single local garage, where the mechanic had quoted an exorbitant amount for the necessary work. A single glower accompanied by a low growl had convinced him to calculate a more acceptable price. Without a place to stay, Helena had asked around and found a shopkeeper who owned a cabin a little way outside the town limits. Some hard cash and a telepathic nudge had secured them the use of it for two nights.

"You planning on moving your arse sometime this year?" she asked, seeing Logan was staring into the surrounding pine thickets.

When he did not respond, she frowned, then bent down and scooped up a generous handful of crisp white snow, patted it into a ball and threw it at him. Hitting him square in the chest, it splattered spectacularly, dusting his hair and beard with whiteness. Logan looked down at his chest and slowly brushed off the snow, wiping it from his beard. He turned to look at her, seeing her mischievous grin. His mouth turned down, eyes narrowing, and he suddenly dived at her, grabbing her around the waist to sling her over his shoulder.

Abruptly finding herself hanging upside down like a hobbled deer, her eyes widened as she saw where he was heading. Thumping on his back, she was rewarded with a sharp slap to her rump, causing her to yelp indignantly.

"Put me down!" she ordered. "Right now!"

"Alright, darlin'," he agreed.

"No!! Logan, not in the-"

She shrieked as he dropped her headfirst into a waist-high snow drift. Spluttering, flailing about, she spread her arms like a swimmer and broke the surface, spitting out an icy mouthful. Arms, legs and head protruding, she blew the clumps of snow from her hair and glared. A smile tugging the corners of his mouth, he unrepentantly shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Well," she huffed, then sneezed explosively. "I s'pose you think that's funny?"

He inclined his head affirmatively, the almost-smile becoming a grin. When, as expected, he made no effort to fish her out of the drift, she slapped at the snow and scrambled upright.

This is new, she thought. Logan with a sense of humour beyond sarcastic one-liners. . . Looks like I've got you to loosen up a bit after all.

Patting the snow from her jeans and long black leather coat, shaking it from her scarf and hair, she pointedly looked over his shoulder to the opposite snow bank. Following her gaze, he scowled suspiciously.

"Y'know what they say," she grinned archly. "You shouldn't spit in the wind - you'll only get your own back."

Concentrating on the snow, she reached out with her telekinetic power. A large, roughly circular portion of snow detached itself from the drift and rose into the air above their heads, shedding small motes. Neck craning, Logan watched it with a degree of apprehension, realising what was to follow.

"Now wait a minute," he protested, backing up a few paces. "You started it!"

The English mutant smiled sweetly, bringing the mass to directly above his head before releasing her hold. He cursed loudly as the dead weight of snow cascaded down on him, knocking him flat on his back. Waiting until the last flake dropped, Helena laughed gleefully and padded over, kicking at his booted foot, which was the only part visible through the uneven mountain of snow. She was still laughing as she scraped it away from his face, shovelling handfuls aside until his glaring blue eyes bored into her own.

Almost helpless with laughter, she extended her hand and pulled him to his feet, his growling under his breath only serving to heighten her amusement. Shaking like a dog to rid himself of excess snow, he stomped up the slope towards the cabin, which was a vague black lump on the horizon.

"C'mon now," she chuckled, catching up to him. "Don't throw a sulk. Admit it, that was fun. You must remember fun, and I don't just mean the kind that involves beating someone to a pulp in a cage fight."

He glanced sidelong at her, jaw set, brows drawn together over the bridge of his nose, then he relented and gave a fleeting genuine smile. Within a quarter of an hour, the two mutants reached the cabin and hurried inside, closing the door against the pervading cold. Stamping her feet to regain some feeling and rid her boots of snow, Helena crossed to the brick fireplace and gratefully stacked it with wood and screwed-up sheets of old newspaper she discovered in an iron rack. Glancing about, she found a box of safety matches on the mantel and lit the fire.

Crouching down, she warmed her hands on the gradually increasing blaze, sighing thankfully. Despite her healing factor, extreme cold tended to seep into adamantium and stay. Logan perused the room, taking in the rusty tin stove in the corner, two broken-down couches covered with bright crochet blankets, a small portable television on a three-legged table and two closed doors on the far wall. Ambling over, he opened the first, discovering a bathroom complete with a large round wood panelled hot tub. A delighted exclamation to his back heralded Helena spotting it. Rushing past him to lean over the edge, she beamed, eyes alight at the prospect of a long hot bath.

"Bags I first use of this little darling," she announced.

"Best light the stove," he shrugged. "An' hope the pipes ain't frozen."

"Spoilsport," she said, giving him a withering stare.

Grunting noncommittally, Logan shouldered off his jacket, wandered to the couch closest to the hearth and slung himself onto it. Opening the hatch on the stove with a protesting squeak of hinges, the English mutant quickly filled it with kindling. Striking a match, she coaxed a small fire into life. Meanwhile, Logan dozed off with his feet propped on the arm of the sofa, only to be woken an hour later by the sound of briskly running water.

"I'm gonna soak until I wrinkle," she declared happily from the bathroom doorway, soap, shampoo and various other unidentifiable toiletries clutched in her hands. "Oh, there's a pot of coffee on the stove if you want some."

Already heading for the robust aroma that screamed caffiene, he heard the bathroom door click to, followed a while later by a contented sigh. Cradling a full mug in one hand and a lit cigar in the other, he settled back in the sofa to watch the fire, half-listening to the splash of hot water and clatter of plastic bottles in the bathroom. Some time after his third cup of coffee, he realised how quiet it was. Cocking his head, he listened to the absence of sound and put down his mug. He had not survived so long by taking things for granted. Crossing to the bathroom door, he tapped lightly with hard adamantium knuckles.

"Hels?" he called.

When she did not answer, he frowned and glared at the cracked, peeling varnish on the door. Knocking again, he leaned closer to the wood.

"Yer alright in there, English? Yer ain't washed yerself away?"

She did not answer. Finding his hand resting on the worn door handle, he turned it and cautiously opened the door, ready for whoever or whatever lay inside. Blinking in the thick steam, his foot encountered material and he looked down to see black cotton knickers and a bra. Nudging them aside with the toe of his boot, he approached the wood panelled hot tub and stopped short. Towel-wrapped head tipped back against the lip of the tub, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, she was fast asleep. A wet tendril of dark hair had escaped from the towel, trailing down her neck, across her collarbone and into the water.

Logan swallowed, watching the hot soapy water lap against her breasts as she breathed. One suds-dripping leg was propped against the enamel edge, pale skin glistening in the humidity. A spectrum-chasing soapy bubble clung in the bend of her knee. Suddenly fervently wishing that the bathwater was not an opaque, concealing froth of bubbles that reached her upper chest, he pushed aside the impulse to lean down and sweep away the foam then run his hand up her calf.

Whoa, there, bub, he reproached himself. She catches yer ogglin' where yer shouldn't an' there'll be hell ta pay. Strange as it is, yer don't have that kinda thing with her. Dammit. . .

Surprised with himself, he backed out of the bathroom and shut the door, realising he had never before turned away from an attractive naked woman lounging in a bathtub. Thoroughly puzzled, he sat reflectively on the sway-backed sofa nearest the fire and took a long drag on his cigar. A few minutes later, he heard the sloshing splash as she woke and climbed out of the bath.

She emerged from a haze of steam, glowing pinkly from the heat, wrapped in an outsize fluffy blue bathrobe she had found hung behind the door. Throwing herself onto the other sofa with an exaggerated sigh, she tucked her bare feet beneath her and began combing out her damp hair.

"There's enough hot water left if you want a bath," she said, concentrating on a vicious tangle.

Logan threw the butt of his second cigar into the fire and tapped out the dregs of his mug on the grate.

"I'll wait until the place ain't smellin' like a whore's boudoir," he said, catching the scent of apple shampoo, plain soap and antiperspirant.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, popping a single claw to whisk a hair she had missed from her calf.

As always, Wolverine found himself a tad uneasy at the familiar hissing click as the adamantium spur broke the skin. Unaware of his reaction, she retracted the claw and continued combing her hair.

There's the difference, he thought. I use mine ta kill, she shaves her damn legs. She ain't soft, she's proved that. Hell, she beat the livin' shit outta ten guys last town back, but would she use 'em against anyone, if it came down ta it? Be stupid ta imagine it'll never happen, livin' this kinda life.

In the three months since she inexplicably acquired her claws, she had adapted well. Learning not to accidentally take out her own eyes had been hard, but not as difficult as getting used to the pain when they popped. Though she appeared to use them as naturally as he did, Logan often caught her staring at her hands, usually just after one of his lessons. He recognised the haunted look - it was one he sometimes saw when he looked in the mirror. At least she had some idea how she came to have a metal-coated skeleton. Many a tree in the Canadian outback bore the scars of her training as he taught her to incorporate the scythe-sharp talons into her fighting technique. Gaze shifting to his worn leather jacket slung over the back of the sofa, he looked at the long, inexpertly stitched slash in the sleeve where she had caught him a few weeks previously. Any other man would have required at least ten stitches to close the wound she left.

"Don't be apologisin'," he had growled when she grimaced regretfully, inwardly impressed she had managed to get a strike past his defences. "D'yer think whoever yer fightin' would stop ta if it was yer ass they were kickin'? Stop being so damned English - yer a mutant in a world that hates an' fears anythin' different. Offerin' ta make tea won't stop them grindin' yer face inta the dirt."

His last comment had made her eyes narrow with annoyance and she had given him the middle finger with the central claw on her right hand, a gesture that made him scowl and then chuckle. The sudden chatter of the television caused Logan to drag his attention away from the sinuous dance of red orange flame in the fireplace. Helena had not moved, curled up inside her voluminous blue bathrobe like a newly-washed cat, and he realised she had turned it on with a deft touch of telekinesis.

"Don't need a remote with you around," he commented, watching as the channels flicked over until she found something to her liking.

Suffused with self-righteous indignation, the bespectacled face of a white-haired US Senator filled the small, grainy screen, the camera slowly drawing back to reveal an auditorium filled with people. Gesticulating, the senator spoke in a determined, powerful voice, advocating his cause. Alone on the podium, the speaker he was heckling, a pretty auburn-haired woman in an expensive red suit, looked sorrowful and angry.

"The truth is, mutants are very real, and they are among us. We must know who they are, and above all, what they can do!" he thundered.

"Bloody Senator Kelly," the English woman sniffed. "This mutant register of his will get us all hounded to death, 'cos you can be sure Canada will follow Congress."

Panning across the crowd, lingering over the reaction of the various conference delegates and attendees, the camera zoomed in on Kelly's stern profile before the picture cut to an immaculately groomed newscaster wearing a severe dark blue suit. Head tilting to one side, Helena ceased to pick at a stray thread on her bathrobe and raised an eyebrow.

"Interesting."

"What?"

"In the crowd, did you see the bald feller in a wheelchair?"

"No," Logan grunted, stretching his feet closer to the fire.

The television clicked off, the picture folding in on itself until it disappeared with an almost inaudible pop of static.

"Well, looked like Professor Charles Xavier - he's a big noise in genetics, wrote all sorts of papers on mutancy. Calls the difference in DNA between flatscans and mutants the 'X factor'. He runs a 'school for the gifted' near New York. . . A mutant I met in Toronto reckons it's really a school for mutants and that this Xavier is a super-strong telepath. Apparently a cousin of his is studying there."

Logan looked thoroughly uninterested, getting up from the sofa to add more wood to the fire. Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, Helena sat up, knowing better than to try to get him interested. Stubborness was a character trait they shared. Yawning, stretching luxuriously in the warmth from the fire, she stood and crossed to the window, looking out at the still snowy forest. Surmising from the colour of the sky that more snow was imminent, she spotted a lone figure trudging up the incline, silhouetted in the headlights of a stationary green pickup, and groaned softly.

"Hey, Lothario," she called. "You're about to get a visitor."

Crouched at the fireplace with a stick of wood in his hand, his eyebrows rose enquiringly. Pulling the thick floral curtains closed, Helena fluttered her eyelashes and pouted imitatively, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Not the bar owner's kid?" Logan asked, frowning.

"The same - and it looks like she's come bearing gifts. . . How d'you do it? Are you a mind-controlling telepath on the sly or sommat?"

The Canadian mutant's frown deepened to a scowl as he jabbed at the fire with the poker. A podgy, bovine blonde with huge china blue eyes, the girl had mooned over him from the moment he had set foot in her father's bar. Not old enough to legally serve alcohol, she collected glasses for pocket money and was more than precocious enough to borrow her father's truck to get to the object of her teenaged lust.

"Not interested then, I gather?"

"The kid's jailbait - I got some standards, Hels," he growled, bristling.

Helena shrugged dismissively, seeing the teenager was within a fifty feet of the cabin, struggling slightly to traverse the snow-laden slope. An idea suddenly popped into her mind and she turned to Logan.

"Give me your shirt," she ordered.

"What. . . ?"

"Quickly, before she gets here."

"Didn't know yer wanted ta get my shirt off so badly," he observed with an obligatory leer.

Planting her hands on her hips, the Englishwoman cocked her head, a sock-clad foot taping impatiently on the bare floorboards.

"Look, this kid isn't going to quit unless she thinks you're already spoken for. D'you want to spend the next few days with her as your faithful shadow?" she demanded. "No? Then hand over your shirt - pronto."

Understanding what she was up to, Logan unbuttoned his red and black flannel shirt and threw it over to her, leaving him in jeans and a tight black T-shirt. Disappearing into the bathroom, she re-emerged wearing nothing but the shirt just as a hesitant knock sounded at the door. Tousling her hair, Helena winked and pattered over to answer it, motioning for him to go back to the couch. Lounging full length out of sight, he listened as she opened the door, a draft of cold air rushing in.

"Oh. . . ," the girl squeaked, taken aback, holding a large wrapped earthenware pot to her chest. "I-I. . . erm. . . I mean, is 'Wolverine' there?"

Toying with the soft collar of the shirt, Helena rubbed at the back of her left calf with her bare right foot, regarding the blonde teenager with amused tolerance.

"He's kinda busy at the minute, sweetheart," she said, positively dripping patronising kindness. "Can I do sommat for you?"

The girl turned a deep beetroot from neck to hairline, frozen to the spot with embarrassment as she began to think exactly what she was supposed to. Sensing the fervid imagined scenarios come crashing down inside her head, Helena carefully schooled her features into obedience, inwardly laughing.

Poor kid. . . Come this time next week, sweetie, you'll have spotted another feller that takes your fancy and forget all about Mr Claws 'n' Attitude here.

Shoulders visibly slumping, the girl thrust out the tea towel-wrapped pot she was carrying. Whatever was in it smelled hot and liberally seasoned.

"I-I brought some stew," she offered. "In case the stove didn't work. . . Mr Jackman ain't been up here since the Fall, an', well. . . "

She trailed off and placed the pot in the English woman's hands, muttering a quick "Bye" before fleeing down the slope back to the waiting truck, hands thrust miserably into her coat pockets. Within moments, the pickup roared away in a spray of kicked-up snow. Pushing the door closed with her foot, Helena leaned on it, shaking with laughter. Wiping her eyes on the sleeve of Logan's shirt, she sighed, biting back more chuckles, and padded over to the sofa.

"I think yer enjoyed that a little too much," he said dryly, ankles crossed, head pillowed on his hands.

She grinned, "It's a mutant power. I call it 'superbitchiness'."

Sniffing appreciatively at the pot, detecting beef, potato, carrots, beans and various herbs, she crossed to the stove and moved the coffeepot from the hotplate. Head turning to follow the stomach-rumbling aroma of the stew, Logan watched the shirt ride up her bare legs as she lifted her arms to leave the pot to keep warm. He saw the merest flash of the top of her thigh where it curved into her buttock, realising she was naked beneath the shirt. His shirt. The animal in him had already marked her as his the moment she put it on. He caught himself wondering if her skin was as soft as it looked, if the flesh beneath was as firm as it seemed. All he would have to do would be take four steps and reach out.

Then she'd cut my balls off an' make me eat 'em raw, he told himself, gaze travelling from ankles to slender, sleek-muscled thighs and back again. She cusses an' drinks an' makes smart-ass remarks, but she ain't like bar room hussies. . . she's better than that. What were yer like before all this? Yer told me once yer owned a business. . . Did yer have a nice house, good car, expensive clothes an' a pretty-boy lover? Nah, scratch that last one - yer ain't the type fer pretty-boys. Yer don't talk much about what yer 'remember'.

She gave a jaw-cracking yawn and stretched, treating him to another tantalising glimpse of upper thigh. Squatting down, she added more wood to the stove, blinking a little at the heat emitting from the interior. Wandering back to the comfortable circle of warmth cast by the fireplace, she perched on the edge of the sofa near his feet.

"Look a tiny bit disappointed there," she teased, venturing to prod him in the knee. "Thought you weren't interested?"

He glowered, but said nothing, unconsciously inhaling her scent. A hint of apple shampoo mingled with the freshness of soap and a sweet note of jasmine that was uniquely hers, overlaid by the smell of the flannel shirt she was wearing.

Neither did I until I saw yer laid out in the bath like some kinda mermaid. Then yer go an' put on my shirt an' nuthin' else, he thought, determinedly trying not to wonder if she would taste as good as she smelled. I gotta get yer ta get dressed before I do somethin' that'll make yer slap my face.

Noticing a slight change in his scent, an increase in male pheromones, Helena's nostrils flared imperceptibly. He was still stretched out, hands beneath his head, but there was an almost palpable sense of tension in his body. Abruptly extremely aware of the pressure of his boot flank at the base of her spine, the heat of his leg through his thick jeans, she dropped her gaze to his chest.

That was a mistake, she thought self-rebukingly, seeing the contours of muscle beneath the soft, tight cotton. Even a blind lesbian would have trouble ignoring that stroke-able, lickable, bite-able chest of his. . . Never mind that the only men I've seen out here, excluding Designer-label Dan, who turned out to be a sicko, have been thick rednecks I wouldn't touch with a bargepole.. Christ, don't start thinking below the belt, 'cos the next thing you know it'll be post-coital cigars and staring at the trailer's tail lights as he runs for the hills.

"Am I gonna get my shirt back any time soon?" he asked, voice a low growl, almost a purr.

Fingers involuntarily rising to the buttons, feeling the soft flannel slide against her skin, she met his gaze. It was so tempting to just undo the buttons one by one until his self-control broke.

"How badly d'you want it?" Shit! That came out all wrong, you silly cow.

Logan sat up, features washed in the glow of the fire, eyes lost in shadow, and reached out. His fingers settled on the collar of the shirt, smoothing it back. Centimetres from brushing bare skin, he paused, almost afraid to touch. Torn between diving on him to expunge nearly a year of loneliness and making a joke to diffuse the situation, she did neither. He looked at her for a long, intense moment and withdrew, moving to the end of the couch.

"Put somethin' on, Hels, before yer catch cold," he said roughly, folding his arms.

All instinctive reaction, act first, ask questions later, he had stopped himself and did not consciously know why. Unaccustomed to denying himself anything, it surprised him. As she stood to head for the bathroom and her clothes, filled with relief and disappointment, Helena knew why, knew why she had felt a similar nagging reluctance. Becoming closer would probably drive them apart, leaving them more alone than before.

I don't know who this scares most, me or him. Let's hope he gets it outta his system with the next cage fight. He knows I'm not some cheap bar floozy he can screw and leave behind, and he feels threatened. This could get very, very messy if we're not careful.



All references to characters belonging to the X-Men Universe are (c) and TM the Marvel Comics Group, 20th Century Fox and all related entities. All rights reserved. Any reproduction, duplication or distribution of these materials in any form is expressly prohibited. No money is being made from this archive. All images are also (c) and TM the Marvel Comics Group, 20th Century Fox and all related entities; they are not mine. This website, its operators and any content used on this site relating to the X-Men are not authorized by Marvel, Fox, etc. I am not, nor do I claim to be affiliated with any of these entities in any way.