Dream took him again, as it did every time he dared to close his eyes. Blades digging in to his tissues, cold liquid flowing in to his veins, hot molten metal burning his bones. Stench of charred flesh and blood filling his nostrils. Every muscle and tendon paralyzed. Unable to move. Unable to scream. Bubbling champagne and celebrating crowd around his coffin. A coffin it was even though they liked to call it containment tank. Watery grave for him.

He had died thousand times, and tonight he would die again. In the name of science. For the good of the mankind.


As abruptly as it started, it ended. His eyes opened to darkness, and finally he was able to scream and lash out with claws they had given to him. And again they sliced through thin air without purchase. Only blood they had ever drawn was his own, in long sleepless hours when he had courted death. But to him she was an elusive lover. He would run himself through with sharp blades just to wake up few moments later, not a single scar marring the skin on his torso.

Full moon was guarding him through the window. He laid his head back on the pillow, lifting one hand so that light reflected from the metal protruding from between his knuckles. Nine inches of death. But not for him. For others. But for whom? They had implanted claws in to him fifteen years ago and yet he hadn’t come across a good enough reason to use them. He had fought, taken few beatings, but he had kept himself always in check. After dreams claws made often an unwanted and painful appearance, but he had never unsheathed them when in full consciousness. What would it be like? Feel them cut through something else than just air or his own flesh? He flicked his wrist and claws slid back in with a silent hiss. Somebody was behind the door of his room.

She stood there, hand hovering hesitantly in the air. Should she knock? She had heard him scream. Another nightmare. He seemed to suffer of them every night. Before she could decide the door opened.

“Hi.” She greeted him and took in his disheveled appearance, sweatpants, bare chest and rumpled hair.
“What do you want?” He growled.
“I heard you. You had a nightmare?”

Kids today. They had no common sense. At least not this one. Tiny slip of a girl, swathed under layers upon layers of cloth from head to toe. Long, brown hair and big, curious eyes. Not a hint of fear in her. And yet she had to know that he wasn’t the safest person to hang around with. That was why they had given him a room from the third floor, away from kids and themselves. A nightmare?

“No. I like to scream,” he told her. And what did she do?

He looked utterly tired, hurt and scared. She had listened his dreams night after night nearly two weeks now. She couldn’t help herself. She leaned closer to him, wrapped her hands around him and gave him a hug, hoping it would ease some tension. He just stood there, stock still, not even breathing, so she released him and retreated for few steps.

That was a hug. And she was leaving.

“Wait,” he gasped.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Startle him? She had nearly given him a heart attack, but it had felt rather nice. And before he got his brain back in working order she was gone. Only few traces of her scent lingered in the air. Vanilla and peppermint.

He lay on his bed. A week without sleep. He felt dizzy, but he knew he could make it through one more night. Just one night. Maybe after this he would be tired enough to sleep without really dreaming.

He could feel his eyes drifting shut and he forced himself to sit up. Must stay awake. He had tried drinking coffee, listening music and reading, but best way to stay awake was to keep moving.

He started pacing beside his bed, restlessly back and forth. Step, two steps, three steps… Five steps from the window to the door. Four steps from the door to his bed. Three and a half to the bathroom door. Four and a half to the window from there. His eyes drifted shut and he fell.

Heavy thud from the room next to hers woke her up. So he was in there after all. Had he gotten rid of his nightmares? Or had he been away? She knew this floor was for guests and extremely dangerous mutants only. For those who couldn’t be trusted enough around other students. She wasn’t a guest. Her skin was the reason they had given her a private room. It was flawless, nearly snow white and deadly poisonous to touch.

With a mighty effort he dragged himself back to reality before dream world pulled him under. Not tonight. Tomorrow he would sleep, but not tonight. He stood up and shook his head. Went in to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Cringed when coldness seeped to his fingers, making all joints ache. For a moment he pondered if he should tape his eyelids open. Decided against it. It would work, but they had used to do it. In the lab. Days after days, bright lights and he had been unable to close his eyes. He walked to the window rubbing his knuckles. Several hours before dawn.

She was tossing and turning now, sleep escaping from her grasp further every passing minute. She flicked on her bedside lamp. It cast a soft glow to her tiny room. She could hear footsteps from the other side of the wall. Was it him? Or had he been just a visitor? Was there somebody else now? Insomniac like her? Curiosity won. She got up, donned her clothes and went to investigate.

Footsteps. Stopping in front of his room. Silent breathing. Steady heartbeat with a slight murmur. Scent of vanilla and peppermint. He waited for a knock. It never came. Instead he could hear the same footsteps retreating. He hurried to the door and yanked it open. Saw a door next to his closing. She lived up here too. Must be a guest. She hardly was a danger to anyone, such a tiny little thing. Not like him. They had pegged him dangerous from the moment they saw him and they didn’t even know the half of it. They hadn’t seen the claws. And if it was up to him, they wouldn’t. Never. It was enough that he knew they were there, buried inside of his forearms.

She had come to her senses. So what if it was him? First, and probably the last time she had seen him she had scared him. They had probably warned him about her. Told him about her skin. Why else had he frozen to statue when she had hugged him? He may have had nightmares, but probably not a death wish. She slipped back in to bed and switched off the light. Concentrated to breathing. In and out in monotonous rhythm. Wishing sleep to come.

He was ready to keel over. Gruesome week without sleep was finally over. Tonight he would sleep, dreams or not. He lay down on his bed and let out an exhausted sigh, curling to his side. Just before drifting off he thought about his neighbor. He had asked about her earlier. They had told him she was a student. They had told him about her skin. He felt sorry for her. They were much alike. Neither had any way of disarming themselves. Both were lethal and carried their weapons in plain sight, but still hidden. Hers were under layers of clothes, his under his own flesh and skin. They had told him that her name was Rogue. Couldn’t be her real name. No creature that beautiful should carry a name like that. Image of her floated to the front of his mind and accompanied him to the slumber.

He was a guest. A long-term guest. Too dangerous for students, yet valuable asset for the team. So they had told her when she had asked about her mysterious neighbor. Unbreakable man. When they had found him he had told them that his name was Wolverine. Surely it couldn’t be his real name? What parent would name their son after an animal? They had warned her off from him. He had mental problems. Who didn’t in a place like this? And what could he do? Heal her to death? Healing was his power. He healed from everything. And was very talented in hurting others. So, stay away from him, Rogue, they had told her.

She was sketching his face to a notepad from her memory when animalistic roar from his room made her jump and sprint out of her room. Another nightmare. And judging from the sound of it, pretty bad. On a scale from one to ten maybe twenty.

She knocked on the door. There was no answer, just silence. She knocked again. Now she could hear silent sobs from the room. She tried the doorknob. Door opened with a silent squeak.

He was sitting under the window, leaning his back on the wall. Window was partially open and his chest was heaving when he kept gasping cold night air. There were knives coming out from his hands.

She stood on the doorstep, unsure of what to do. He had been afraid of her earlier. She wanted to help him, but how could she do it without scaring him even more?

Dream had been interesting. It had had some totally new aspects. She had been in there, watching when they cut him open, all the time screaming and crying, praying them to stop. And it seemed to have followed him to waking world. She was standing in his room when he came back to his senses. It felt so real. He could even hear slight murmur from her heart and smell vanilla and peppermint. Then it dawned on him. This wasn’t a dream anymore. She was really there. Watching his hands with those big eyes of her. Claws. Throbbing pain in his arms and palms. They were out. Busted. He could start packing. They would throw him out before dawn.

She took a cautious step towards him. He started to stand up little clumsily and she backed up the same step she had just taken. She really had scared him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered. She looked ready to bolt if he moved an inch more. Now she started to look puzzled.
“Does it hurt when they come out? Is that why you scream?” She asked and his knees gave up. He fell gracelessly on his ass and bumped his head against the wall behind him. Of all the things he had expected her to do this was not on the list. She should have gone running from the first glimpse of the claws, not stay and ask if they hurt him.
“Every time,” he grunted.

She wanted to go to him and hug him again, but she wasn’t sure how he would react. She inched slowly closer at him, and this time he didn’t try to run. She kneeled in front of him and reached one finger to touch the blades. They disappeared with a silent hiss, sliding back inside of his hands. Wounds they left healed over instantly.
“Careful. They’re sharp,” he said, tucking his hands under his thighs, hiding them from her eyes.

Still he couldn’t smell fear. Only vanilla and peppermint. And she had tried to touch him. Touch the claws. Now she was looking at him with those big brown eyes and looked so sad. She brushed a strand of hair back from his forehead and he jerked his head away from her touch. It felt too good.
“It’s ok. I won’t hurt you. I got gloves on, see.” She wriggled her fingers in front of his face. Thick white cotton gloves covering her hands up to her elbows, disappearing under the sleeves of her nightgown. Hurt him? And what was with the gloves? Her skin, he remembered and barked a short, gruff laughter.

He laughed. It sounded a bit scary. Low, rumbling sound rolling from him, almost like some big animal. Why did he laugh? Usually people just huffed and rolled their eyes when she told them she couldn’t hurt them through clothes and then they asked less politely not to touch them.
“I’m not afraid of you. Why aren’t you afraid of me? Everybody else is,” he asked.

“Is… Is it okay if I touch you?” She asked. Do wonders never cease? She had seen the claws, and still she wanted to touch him. He remembered how it had felt the last time when she had hugged him, and nodded. Maybe she wanted to hug him again? He hoped she wanted. Then she surprised him again. She climbed on his lap, straddling him and wound her small hands to his unruly hair. And smiled.
“I could give you a back rub. That could help you to relax. Maybe you would sleep better after that.” A back rub? Sure. But not right now. He threw his arms around her and squeezed hard, crushing her to him. She was so soft and warm. She started to struggle and he let her go.
“Watch the skin,” she smiled, turned her head to a better position and returned to his embrace. He sighed contended and hid his face behind curtain of her hairs, taking in her scent.

His breathing started to slow down. His grasp from her loosened. He was falling to sleep. She reached a blanket from his bed, wrapped it around them and let the steady beat of his heart lull her to slumber too. She hoped that this time he wouldn’t have nightmares.

He woke up to unfamiliar feeling of something warm curled against his back. He saw one small hand draped over his chest. His neighbor. They were on the floor. Alarm clock in her room was beeping. He sat up groaning, waking her up reluctantly.
“Good morning. Slept well?” She asked yawning. He nodded. No new nightmares. Go figure. Maybe she kept them at bay.
“Your alarm… You should go and turn it off,” he told her. She jumped up.
“Oh! You can hear it? That’s handy. Um… I’ll better go now. I don’t want to be late from class,” she babbled. She was at the door and he didn’t want to let her go. Not now, not ever. But he knew he had to.
“Wait! What’s your name?” He tried to stall. And he really would have liked to hear it from her. She stopped and turned around.
“You can call me Marie,” she told him. He smiled. Marie. Much better than Rogue. Angel called Marie.

He wore a dog tag around his neck. Wolverine and a series of numbers engraved on it. But she had to ask. She didn’t want to call him with a name of an animal.
“What’s yours?” She asked. He frowned and for a moment she was worried that she had hurt him in some way. Then he lifted his head and slight smile tugged the corner of his mouth.
“I think its Logan.” Logan. Good, strong name. She collected her courage.
“Logan, would you like to do something today? I have lots of time after classes. Maybe we could go for a walk or…” Her voice drifted off when he squinted his eyes. Maybe she had gone too far?
“Your alarm. Go and turn it off. My ears are starting to hurt,” he hissed and staggered in to his bathroom, slamming the door shut after him.

When she returned to her room after school there was a small package in front of her door. A gift? From who? And why? Her birthday wasn’t until next month. She picked it up and went to her room. She sat on the bed and opened the package. A brand new alarm clock. A note slipped to floor from under it. She picked it up. “Gone to mission with the team. Be back later tonight. Logan.” She tucked the small shred of paper between her diary laughing at her own foolishness. Logan was a grown man. Why would he want to hang around with a kid half of his age anyway?

He glanced at his watch. Ten PM. Tomorrow would be Saturday. No school. Was she awake? He could have used her company. He would have liked to go for a walk with her in the garden. It was a warm, calm night. He climbed the stairs to their floor. Their floor. There were no other occupants in there. He liked it that way. There were no disturbing noises and smells. She was pretty quiet neighbor. He still couldn’t understand how she could have stayed in the room next to his for two weeks without him noticing her. He walked to her door and listened. She was in. He could hear faint scratching sounds. Pen on a paper. He knocked on the door.

She opened the door. Logan stood there, dressed in skintight black leather from head to toe. Silvery x insignias gleaming on his collar. An X-Man.
“I… I know it’s late… But I was wondering… Would you come for a walk with me?” He asked. She twirled a lock of her hair around her finger and tilted her head surprised.
“Um… Could you wait for a minute? I have to get dressed,” she said, indicating her nightgown. He shrugged his shoulders and leather creaked. She closed the door and hurried to her closet.

Thank god she had had time to do her laundry yesterday. She didn’t have many clothes, at least not nice ones. Almost all of her shirts and trousers were baggy, intended to give maximum security for those around her. She picked up her favorite pieces of clothing. Fuzzy white and long sleeved shirt made from angora and tight, white jeans. They had cost a fortune and Jean, teacher who had driven her to shopping, had clucked her tongue disapprovingly, warning her not to wear them in public. Shirt revealed a tiny strip of skin from her waist. She put them on, brushed her hair and grabbed her gloves and cloak.

He shrugged off his leather suit. Took a minute to shower. Toweled his hair dry. Put on jeans and a black t-shirt. Grabbed his jacket and went to door. Returned to his dresser and put on his gloves. He opened the door and there she was. His breath got caught in his throat. She truly was an angel, dressed in all white and smiling. Clothes on her now fit her much better than those she wore in daytime. Ugly baggy numbers that made her look like a welfare case. He took in her curvy body and swallowed. He knew he was not going to dream about doctors and scalpels tonight. Dirty old man. But he didn’t care. As long as he kept his thoughts and hands to himself, why should it matter.
“Ready to go?” He asked. She nodded and he took her hand. Together they walked to downstairs, to first floor. Realm of the non-dangerous animals.

She put on her cloak. Ugly and green one. But warm and safe. Safe for the others and safe for her. Logan looked disappointed, and she smiled to herself. She knew she had chosen her other clothes well.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Logan’s hand froze on the doorknob from the sound of Scott Summers’ voice. She turned to look. Scott stood behind them, hands on his hips. Marie couldn’t see Scott’s eyes because of the visor he wore, but his whole posture told her he was not pleased.
“Can it, Summers. She’s with me. We’re just going for a walk outside,” Logan growled.
“I wasn’t talking to her. I was talking to you. We had an agreement, didn’t we?” Scott asked. Logan turned and stalked to him.
“You had an agreement. I didn’t. I’m not one of your students, One-Eye.” Scott scratched his head and yawned, looking suddenly ashamed.
“Sorry about that, Wolverine. I guess I’m still little wound up about earlier. But could you inform me when you go out? So that I could adjust alarms.”
“I already took care of that. Good night, Scott,” Logan told him and returned to her.

The night was silent. Moon loomed above them.

“I thought that you didn’t want to come,” she said.
“Of course I wanted. You’re pretty much only one around here who I can tolerate,” Logan said. She furrowed her brow to his odd choice of words. He noticed her confusion.
“I have enhanced senses. I can see, hear and smell much better than average Joe. For some reason you’re under my radar, and I like it. I can tell that you’re there, but you’re not invading my whole space,” he explained. She thought about it for a moment. What it would be like, to be like him? Constantly aware of the other people around you, alert on every hour of the day? That couldn’t be nice. Suddenly she was very happy that her skin was her only problem.

“Let’s sit down for a moment,” she said. There was a bench beside decorative fishpond. She sat on it but Logan stayed on his feet.
“I don’t think it would hold my weight,” he told her. More riddles. He was tall and well built, but not overly muscled. He would weigh much more than her, but bench she sat on was relatively sturdy. She told him that.
“Remember last night? My claws?” He asked and she nodded.
“They were some kind of metal.”
“Yeah. My whole skeleton is covered with it. Gives me a little extra weight. But I’m good. I can sit here,” he said and sat on the ground beside the bench and leaned his head against her thigh.

“So. I was curious. Asked about you. Is it true you can’t control your mutation? Or is it just same kind of bullshit as the name you gave to them?” He asked.
“Name is a fake. Everything else is real,” she told him.
“Sorry.” He really was.
“Don’t be. I was on the road nearly eight months before I ended up in here. My skin kept me safe from all kinds of freaks and creeps,” she said and now he could smell a faint hint of fear from her. Eight months? Christ! He had been on the run much longer, nearly fifteen years, but he was better equipped to take on dangers that lurked on the road. And she had survived eight whole months on her own.

“I was curious too. I asked about you,” Marie confessed and he quirked an eyebrow, amused.
“You haven’t been exactly open to them either.” Nope. And for a good reason.
“All they told me was that you heal and have problems with your mental health.” He suppressed a chuckle.
“And you decided to go stargazing with a certified nut job?” He asked instead. She giggled and he noticed that he liked it. He was slowly starting to like everything about her.
“I don’t think you’re a nut job. And you’re only one in here who doesn’t treat me as a leper,” Marie said.
“Desperate, are we?”
“I think I’m entitled to. Last time I touched another person was nearly two years ago. My boyfriend.” A boyfriend? Logan shifted uncomfortably, not liking the idea.
“Where is he now?” He had to know. He would have liked to check out the competition. She lowered her gaze to ground.
“David is dead,” he could hear her whisper.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” she said vehemently. He turned to look at her, surprise evident on his face.
“When I touch other people, I can see what they think. His last thoughts were ‘mutie freak’,” she said.
“What a dickhead,” Logan blurted out. And Marie giggled again.

“We should probably head back in,” Logan said, standing up and brushing grass off from his butt. She nodded.
“I like it out here. But you’re right. I won’t get out of bed in the morning if I stay up any later.” They walked back to the mansion in companionable silence. At her door they stopped.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you… What’s with the new alarm clock?”
“Trash the old one. I don’t like the sound of it. Hurts my ears.”
“You told me the truth. You didn’t do it just to get rid of me,” she said smiling, and for a moment he was lost. Then he remembered what happened in the morning. How he had escaped in to bathroom in hopes to mute beeping that grated his nerves. He pulled her closer and enveloped her to his embrace.
“I don’t want to get rid of you, little one.” She hugged him back, and they just stood there a moment, holding each other and enjoying the simple pleasure of being held.

He went to sleep without a single worry in his mind. Dream took him with crushing grip, pulled him under, to dark paths. Scalpels, doctors. Searing pain. Bright flashes from welding torches. Cold fingers poking his internal organs, pushing them out of the way when they cut deeper and he screamed, he was screaming but only inside of his own head. Tears streaked his face. Hand delved deeper in to him. Grabbed a hold of something and pulled. Wet sound of tissues tearing. Blood and bile were rising to his throat. He could see from the corner of his eye one of the doctors, kneeling beside him on the operating table, right hand disappearing inside of gaping hole on his stomach up to the elbow. The doctor was pulling out bits and pieces of him, throwing them to a trash can near the table.

“Let’s clean him up before the final stage,” he could hear doctor saying. His vision turned red and he knew he was bleeding through his tear ducts. Then suddenly a small hand landed on his forehead, fingers combing through his tangled, bloodied and sweaty hair with soothing motion and he was able to open his eyes and crawl in to the bathroom on his hands and knees.

She could hear him gagging and retching. She must have gotten here just in time. No screaming and claws this time. But utter terror in his eyes made her nearly cry. She had no idea of what he was dreaming, and no way to take away the pain. She could hear him flushing the toilet. Brushing his teeth. Bathroom door opened and he returned to bed, pulling her with him under covers. She could feel his heart hammering against her back.

“Close your eyes, little one. I don’t want you to see this,” he whispered with pained voice, still in clutches of his nightmare.

Sunlight streaming through the window woke him up. She was on his arms. Marie. And he had no recollection of how she had gotten there. He didn’t mind. She smelled all right. His hands felt all right. No claws last night, then. Good. He shifted a bit and she muttered something he couldn't quite catch and burrowed closer to him. He glanced the watch on his bedside table. Nearly ten. They had missed the breakfast. He couldn’t bring himself to care about that. This was the second time she had slept beside him. Second time she had chased the nightmares away. He closed his eyes and drifted slowly to a peaceful slumber, holding his angel.

He had beer, he had cigars, and there was a good game in TV. Scott hadn’t been at his back lately; Jean had been a pleasure for his eyes. Professor and Ororo had been planning something that involved him and the Danger Room. Life was good. Then there was a knock on the door, and things took a sudden turn for the worse. Marie, bawling her pretty eyes out, stumbled in when he opened the door and burrowed her face against his chest. In a matter of minutes his shirt was soaked through with her tears. Something told him this would be a good time to turn off the TV.

“Hush. What’s the matter, little one?” He tried to coax her to speaking instead of crying. She just clung to his shirt tighter and sobbed harder. He backed them on to his bed and cradled her next to him, rubbing small circles on her back with his strong fingers. This was going to be a long night. He reached for his beer, took a sip, put it back on to the table and took a cigar from the ashtray beside it, taking a long drag from it. He lay there, holding her and smoking the cigar until she started to calm down and relax.

Runny nose, red and swollen eyes, messed up hair. Not a pretty sight. But she still was the cutest little thing he had ever laid his eyes on.
“Don’t have a Kleenex. This will have to do,” he murmured, shrugged off his flannel shirt and wiped her face with it, discarding it to the floor afterwards.
“So… Ready to talk?” He asked. She hiccupped and sniffed a bit, then nodded.
“Want to tell me what happened?” He asked.
“They’re mean.” He sighed.
“Other kids giving you a hard time?” He really wasn’t equipped to deal with the drama that she called everyday life, but now he was forced to make an effort. She usually sought him out when she needed a shoulder to lean on.
“They talk about you.” Her words made him tense.
“Talk about me?” He asked. They really were mean. He had heard few of the rumors circling around the mansion, and they were not pretty stuff.
“They call you names. And they make up stuff about you. About us.” He couldn’t resist the urge to growl. She fished a tattered piece of paper from her pocket, and unfolded it for him to see.

“Have you told the Professor about this?” He asked, staring at the picture with disbelieving eyes. There were so many things wrong in it that he couldn’t even start to pinpoint every messed up detail. In the picture they were both naked, Marie kneeling in front of him, Lady Liberty’s crown on her head. He was stuffing something that looked like the torch from the same statue up to her ass while plundering her with his personal weapon to an other orifice. He couldn’t believe that a talented artist had squandered his or her time and effort to draw that kind of crap.
“I haven’t told to anybody. That is just so wrong, and ugly and… I’m going to be sick!” Her eyes widened almost comically, but there was no comedy involved when she barged in to his bathroom and kneeled in front of the toilet bowl, puking her guts out.

He left the picture on to his nightstand and walked in after her. He crouched next to her and spun her long hair around his fist to keep it out of her face.
“Maybe you shouldn’t come to me so often?” He tried to offer a solution to the situation. She misunderstood him and started to cry again. His T-shirt got smeared with generous dose of snot and puke. He grimaced, trying to remember if he had any clean shirts left.
“You don’t like me anymore!” She wailed, and he really didn’t know what to do. Except to tell her the truth.
“I have never liked you. I have loved you. And I still do. I don’t want you to stay away, but if they are teasing you because of me, wouldn’t it be the wisest move?” Now she cried even harder.
“Kid, I really don’t know what to do. Help me out a little? Give me a hint?” She didn’t. She just cried.

After she was calm enough to return to her own room he sat on his bed and stared at the picture. He had had a good life in here. He had made one, cherished connection to humanity. He got up and started packing. Dirty clothes to bottom of his battered knapsack, cleaner ones on top of them. Few knick-knacks and mementoes to side pockets. Shaving kit and soap. Most priced possession however went to breast pocket of his worn jacket. Long, white scarf, still carrying scent of vanilla and peppermint.

Oh, dear lord.

It was almost impossible to breathe.

He sat on a bed, in a nameless, dingy motel room. He was alone, her scent had faded from the scarf months ago, and all he had left were memories of her voice and small, delicate fingers running through his unruly, thick hair.

For hundredth time he contemplated whether to call her or not.

For the hundredth time he dialed the number, and then cut the line before she had the time to answer.

Last time he had dared to sleep was two weeks ago. After he had demolished the room he was sleeping in, and nearly gutted the curious inhabitants from the next room, he promptly decided not to sleep anymore. Now he was cornered. It was quite impossible task to stay awake any longer. Two days ago he had nearly fallen asleep when he waited the clerk to punch in his groceries.

One, two, three…

He counted every tone. He got nearly to twenty before he hung up the phone.

Where was she after eleven PM?

In the middle of the school week?

He fiddled with the scarf, brushing his cheek with it, trying to call up her scent from his memory. He nearly panicked when he noticed he couldn’t remember it anymore. He dialed her number again. Phone rang. This time he let it ring, determined to wait until she answered. Seconds ticked by, turning to minutes. Finally, when he was about to hung up, somebody answered.

“Summers? What the fuck are you doing in her room?”

Pain and exhaustion are jarring his movement and he stumbles, falling on his knees on cold, hard floor. There’s something wrong he realizes, watching lazily as his blood pools around him. He isn’t healing fast enough. Blood colors his claws and flows from the bullet wounds on his chest. He tries to stand up, slips on his own blood and falls on his back. Darkness invades his field of vision. Numbing coldness seeps through his frame. He can feel every ounce of extra weight of his metal enforced skeleton. Nausea grips his insides, and he barely manages to roll back on his knees before he chokes to his own bile. He forces it back and focuses to his surroundings. Darkness recedes slowly and he can see again. Dimly lit corridor. Red emergency lights blinking. Light. Movement behind him. Darkness. He jumps on his feet and swipes with his claws blindly. Light. Scream. Darkness. Hot blood warming his hand. Light. Uniformed young man clutching his stomach, crumbling to the floor.

Familiar scent floats around him. Strong hand on his shoulder and around his waist.

“I got you. We have to go now. More people are coming.” Cyclops.
“No. She’s here. I have to find her.”
“Wolverine. We have to go, before they catch us.” He growls and pushes Cyclops to against the wall, bloodied claws pressing slightly his throat.
“I’m not leaving without her. Not this time.” Cyclops struggles until he loosens his grasp.
“How do you know Rogue is here?” He asks. Wolverine taps his nose and grins.
“I can smell her. She’s close.”
“You got five minutes. After that we’ll leave, with or without you”, Cyclops promises and together they start tearing open doors that line the corridor.

These are the holding cells for mutants brought to this lab complex. All empty except one. Young girl, dressed to rags huddles in the furthest corner of the filthy cell, trying to shield herself from what ever it is that’s entering there.

“Go. I’ll bring her out”, Wolverine tells to Cyclops. Other man leaves. He crouches on all fours and approaches the girl carefully.
“Hi, little one”, he whispers. Marie stops shivering, but doesn’t look at him. He crawls closer.
“I came to take you home.” Big brown eyes peek through tangled veil of long, brown hair. He reaches his hand and she jerks backwards.
“I’m not going hurt you. I’ll get you out of here. Come on. Take my hand”, he urges her. She shakes her head.
“Don’t touch. Don’t touch”, she hisses and drags herself to a standing position. He can smell her fear. But it’s not fear of him. She fears for him. He retreats to the door.

“Come with me. I won’t leave you. I promise nobody touches you.” He turns to leave and hears soft footsteps behind him. He doesn’t turn to look. He walks out from the cell, and the footsteps follow him. His feet give up and he falls on his hands and knees just few meters from the main door. Footsteps stop, and he can hear a soft gasp. He tears himself back on his feet, every tendon and muscle trembling. He pushes the door open and falls face first to a snow bank, and he knows this time he won’t get up. He has lost too much blood.

“See that jet over there?” He points towards the Blackbird that has landed hundred meters from the compound. She doesn’t answer, but he continues.
“Rest of the team is there. Go. They will take care of you.” Darkness shrouds his vision again. He can hear footsteps. Her scent surrounds him.
“Are you going to be alright?” She asks. He can hear soldiers inside of the building, approaching rapidly.
“Go. Run. They’re coming”, he warns her. Fear mingles in her scent. Suddenly stench of it rises. She’s in panic. He feels her small hands circling his larger ones and she starts to drag him through the snow. He can hear her heart pounding.
“Clothes on… I can do this… He has clothes on…” She mumbles. All his senses give up one after another. His body is shutting down. This time he doesn’t fight the darkness.

There’s an angel with him.