Prologue: Trouble

The Wolverine inhaled deeply as a puff of warm air exited the seedy bar. The outside was little more than a shed row barn that had been walled in with plywood and aluminum siding. The smell of illegal homebrew and body odor combined with the sounds of drunken carousing, the roar of the crowd accompanying the pained sounds of someone losing a cage fight, badly.

In short, it was the perfect environment for a predator, particularly one with his set of…unique skills. Smirking confidently as the announcer called out for another challenger, Wolverine slammed open the half Dutch door. Silence crept over the crowd as whispers spread like wildfire. Wolverine scowled on the outside, but grinned eagerly on the inside. Apparently his reputation preceded him. The only sound was that of his boots creaking on the loose pine floor boards as he approached the cage. He dropped his fifty-dollar entrance fee on the bookie’s table, then removed his bomber jacket and flannel shirt.

Standing in his tight, worn jeans and tank top, he smirked as he smelled the wave of arousal that washed over the half-clad bar flies sitting next to overweight, unwashed truckers. Not that he smelled particularly nice himself, having walked twenty miles to reach Laughlin City before nightfall after his truck gave out on Route 10. He flexed his muscles lightly, skin rippling over taught, tanned flesh. The sigh that came in response was almost comical. The announcer turned to him, unshaven, his breath thick with the smell of liquor, “What’s yer name son?”

“Wolverine.” He replied, climbing the steps. The heavy metal gate swung open, granting him entrance to the cage. His opponent stood in the corner, a tiny thing, hidden beneath a heavy green cloak and hood that covered his face. Wolverine took in his appearance. Tiny, bare hands protruded from the arm holes cut into the heavy flannel fabric. Bare, chapped feet tipped with flaking toenail polish in a faint pink color peeped from beneath frayed, high water jeans. He raised one eyebrow in skepticism, glancing back at the announcer.

“You want me to fight that?” he asked, scorn thick in his voice.

The whole bar erupted into laughter. The announcer shrugged his shoulders, “Take it or leave it bub. Undefeated, that one is. Beat ‘im and you win yourself five grand.”

“So be it.” He scowled, turning as the barkeep hit a solid brass bell, the loud DING signaling the first round of the fight. Not that it would go past a minute, he thought with a grin. Papa needed a new truck.

Wolverine stepped forward, and swung, hard, at his immobile opponent. His adamantium enhanced fist slammed, hard, into grating beside his opponent’s head.

“I’ll give ya one chance to get out of here, kid.” He growled, voice gravelly. He hated the idea of whooping someone so small. It felt wrong. He jerked the small body forward, swinging it into another grating panel for the amusement of the crowd, who gasped as a small cry of pain came from their undefeated champion.

The bare hand of his opponent snuck out wickedly fast, gripping the bare flesh of his arm clenching the green cloak lightly. “Don’t bet on winning then, sugar.” A husky, southern voice drawled as the green hood fell backwards, long brunette hair cascading down in waves of chocolate. Wolverine had a second to stare in shock at his opponent before he collapsed, gasping on his knees.

He couldn’t understand what was happening, it felt like the life was being sucked clean from his bones. His healing factor couldn’t even keep up with the rapid suction. His eyes rolled back in his head, one last glimpse of the tiny boy, no, the beautiful girl caught in his vision as the announcer roared, “Our winner, the Rogue!”

Logan groaned as he rolled over, the sunlight creeping in from behind vertical hotel blinds making his head pound. What the hell had he drank the night before? The rough feel of shag carpeting rubbing on his bare arms made him grimace. His mouth felt dry and parched, and he shivered lightly from cold. He glanced over at the radiator, his over sensitive hearing picking out the deteriorating metal pipes that leaked precious heat. His normal morning wood was crammed uncomfortably in his jeans. What the hell had possessed him to wear them to sleep? He didn’t even remember checking into a hotel, much less bringing in his duffel bag, which was crammed with his boots, flannel shirt, and bomber jacket in the corner.

And dammit, if there was a bed, how had he managed to get so shit-faced to fall fast asleep on a floor this uncomfortable? He didn’t even remember opening a Molson last night, much less consuming liquor.

Hell. What had happened last night?

The sound of a key scraping in the lock made him jump to his feet. He slunk, quickly to hide behind the door and out of sight of whoever was coming inside. The door swung open, and he held his breath as it opened inwards, propped by a boot clad foot. The lights flicked on, a small, green cloaked figure stepping inside to drop several heavy parcels and the cloak on the unmade bed as the door slammed shut.

He roared, unsheathing his claws and leaping forward. Faster than lightning, his companion whirled, but tripped over one of the packages, falling backwards onto the bed. His eyes were wide with blood lust as he stopped his claws less than a centimeter from his captor’s face. Wide, brown eyes stared at his claws, soft lashes ensconcing them. Cheeks, pink from the cold, a barely freckled nose, and full, rose colored lips were surrounded by waves of brunette hair that spread alluringly across the faded coverlet.

Tiny, gloved hands pushed lightly on his chest, a knee resting just below his groin. A long, creamy neck and lithe body were hidden behind a light burgundy turtleneck, warm black leggings tucked into snow boots completed his rapid observation of his enemy.

One long inhale confirmed sex, and startled at the overwhelming smell of female that washed upwards, his claws slipped a fraction of an inch. A scream of pain made him glance downwards. The tip of his claw had imbedded itself in the girl’s cheek, slicing through flesh and bone like butter.

“Shit!” he hissed, jumping backwards and sheathing the twelve inch, lethal claws that protruded from his knuckles. Blood gushed from the beautiful face, then stopped suddenly as he watched the inch long gash heal from the inside out, bone, muscle, tissue and skin knitting back together in seconds.

“How…?” he asked, stepping forward, surprise evident on his face. The girl slipped past him to the chipped and cracked mirror hanging over the bureau, relief evident in her face as she touched the faint pink line that now covered where her wound had been.

“That’s one helluva convenient mutation sugar.” She muttered, eyebrows lifting. Her thick, southern accent made his senses scream. Where had he heard that before?

Like a mac truck, his memory of last night slammed back into his skull. The dim lights of the bar, his skinny, tiny opponent, that phrase, "Don't bet on winning then, sugar" echoing in his ears. He stalked up silently behind her, his rough hands slamming roughly into the wood on either side of her body. His firm chest and thighs pinned her tight to the dresser. Her breath caught in her throat as he extended his claws to cross over her fingers. There was no way she was getting him this time.

"What the fuck kinda trick was that kid?" he snarled. His breath was warm on her neck and made her long hair shift. It smelled like cheap shampoo and sunshine. He shuddered at the scent. She smelled...nice.

"My skin...it, it's not safe." she stammered. He clicked his claws together, a slick "shink" noise making her shake slightly.

"Continue." he growled.

"I'm...I'm a mutant, like you." she supplied.

"Got that part." Shink, shink, shink went the claws. The girl was trembling now.

"Look, I needed the money. With a normal person, a slight touch from me will knock them out. I'll get parts of their memories, things they've...done." she trembled harder, "With a mutant...I take their powers. I know you've got claws and that your skeleton is metal...I know that you heal quickly and that you woke up in the middle of nowhere twenty years ago without a memory to your name, except of course, your...name...Logan."

At the sound of his name, a snarl ripped through Wolverine's throat. He slammed his fists hard into the chipped lacquered wood, dents forming in the surface. Grabbing her clothed sleeve, he flipped her around. His nose was inches from hers, his breath hot on her face, "You fucking with me kid? Nobody knows that shit. Nobody!"

Her eyes were wide, fingers gripping the wood. A slip of his claws and she could be missing digits for the rest of her life, and regeneration or not, those things didn't grow back.

"If it's any consolation," she stammered, "My name is Marie."

"Where am I?" he demanded, teeth clenched.

"A hundred miles northwest of Laughlin, little town called Oaktree. Listen, when I absorbed you last night I got a hard core dose of your mutation...as well as your shattered memories. Needless to say, I freaked out the crowd." she gulped under his intense gaze, and continued, "I collected half the winnings, dragged you outta there and threw you in my jeep. People aren't very nice to mutants nowadays, I just couldn't leave you there."

Her reasoning resonated with Wolverine, who calmed down enough to let Logan step forward to control his animalistic urges. He sheathed his claws, and pulled his face back slightly, but he refused to renege his grip on her fingers.

"Let me tell you something," he began, slowly and quietly, "I appreciate what you did for me back there kid...but I ain't taking charity from nobody. I'll be leaving now, thank you." He turned to pull on his boots, but didn't miss the look of hurt that dashed across Marie's face. Glancing back at her sharply, he took in her appearance once more.

Marie was obviously 19 or 20 years old. Her face was smooth and unlined, skin a healthy, creamy peach color. The baggy burgundy sweater hid the fact that she was drastically underweight, her curves had melted away with hard travel, replaced by lean muscle and protruding bone. Her legs were far too thin, and her boots were one size too big. The leggings that at first glance had appeared to be warm, were worn and fraying around the knees. The only decent piece of clothing the kid seemed to have was the pair of leather gloves she had on her hands.

He then glanced at the groceries she had purchased. Junk food mostly, beef jerky, canned tuna and chicken that didn't need to be cooked, saltine crackers, and a six pack of cokes. Not exactly the breakfast of champions. On the bed, tucked in a corner, was a ragged stuffed animal that looked like it had been through the ringer. A faded polaroid sat, edges tattered, pictures of a smiling family sitting on a porch swing.

If she had seen inside his head, felt his memories, seen some of his past crimes, and still wanted to talk to him, she was damn lonely.

"Look...Logan," she whispered, face frowning, "I know this ain't your cup of tea, but I'd really appreciate it if you'd ride as far as the next town with me. Having a guy along would really help keep me from you know, having to...touch."

He scowled at the way she phrased her question. It implied that Marie had had to do some touching just to get by, not the kind a girl her age should have to be doing. His better nature railed against the animal inside. The Wolverine screamed to run, to leave the girl and hit the road. It desired the basest of needs only, eat, sleep, fuck. Logan...Logan on the other hand. He appreciate the fine things in life. A good havanero cigar, a cold beer on a crisp autumn morning, the warm feel of another body curled against his in the morning. Logan's morals rebelled against the animal, the need to protect almost overwhelming him.

"I could try and help, you know." she whispered, "Maybe take a look inside your memories to try and find something you haven't noticed."
He glared at her sharply. He didn't want anybody messing around with his fucked up life. Her lower lip trembled slightly. This kid played the badass, but in reality, she was just as messed up as he was. He sighed and sat down on the bed, which sagged, then collapsed under the full weight of his adamantium skeleton.

"Aw fuck!" he mumbled from underneath the bed. Canned goods were scattered around him and he spit fluff from the down coverlet that had exploded when his claws had shot out spontaneously to try and steady his position.

"Logan!" Marie yelped. He felt her soft weight on top of the chaotic pile around him, her hands frantically pulling back the pieces of box spring and mattress fluff covering him up. His dark brown eyes glared at her, his eyebrows furrowed. Her lips quivered, a smile obviously trying not to break out on her face. He blew a feather off of his nose, and she burst out into laughter.

Her gloved hand gripped his, lifting him easily out of the rubble. He raised his eyebrow once more, astonished. "Super strength came along with an absorption once." she explained, softly, her laughter dying as a dark memory flashed across her eyes.

Logan dusted himself off and reached forward to grasp her shoulders. He had made up his mind.

"I think I'll stick with ya for a little while...Marie."

He tried to tell himself that her slight smile didn't make him swell with desire as they walked to the motel office. Marie dropped an extra hundred on the counter.

"Sorry about the bed." she whispered to the attendant, who glanced at the two of them warily. Logan grunted in a domineering-male sort of fashion, making the skinny, acne faced boy jump. Leaving the office, they marched towards her rust red jeep Wrangler. All terrain floor mats kept the interior looking fairly neat, but the jeep held all of the signs of having been used for living in far more than just traveling.

A yell of fury from their newly vacated room made Marie giggle under her breath. Logan chunked the rest of their stuff into the back, his duffel underneath the groceries. Laughing, she opened his door for him from the inside, and they jumped in, tires squealing as they peeled out of the gravel parking lot, almost hitting a small sedan as they ran the stop sign.

"Whoops!" she laughed.

Logan decided then, as the Wolverine rumbled, pleased, inside him, it would be worth staying with Marie, just to hear her laugh.

Logan’s boots crunched on the snowpack, his breath a white patch of mist in the frigid winter air. He’d been pleasantly surprised by Marie’s survival skills when they’d abandoned the jeep halfway up Mount Athabasca in a remote part of Canada. Two weeks into their trek “to the next town,” as Marie so charmingly put it, the girl had spent the last of her accumulated funds from her cage fight domination across the lower Canadian states and Alaska buying enough dry goods, preservatives, fuel, warm clothing, and, as she quaintly said, “her feminine supplies,” at the last supply store within 25 miles. As a surprise, she had splurged on a good deal of cheap cigars and beer for Logan, who had given her a toothy grin when the swarthy, mullet-headed store clerk had helped them load the back of the jeep.

Logan had checked the anti-freeze levels on the jeep, then helped Marie push it into a warm, dry cave. She had, of course, insisted he check it for bears first. It was well below freezing, and Logan assured her that most bears would be heading to sleep by now, and most definitely not in this particular cave.

“Come on Logan, I ain’t putting my jeep in that cave without knowing that Smoky isn’t going to birth babies in it this winter!”

“Look, kid,” Logan began, but was rudely interrupted by the growl of, yes, a bear, standing in the doorway of the cave. “Sonufabitch.” he hissed.

“Don’t worry Logan,” Marie called. He glanced upwards to see her floating well out of reach of both him and the bear, smirking in a self-satisfied-female sort of way, “I saw on a documentary that bears are scared of Wolverines!”

“Thanks, kid.” he yelled upwards, sarcasm thick in his voice "When's the last time she watched basic cable anyways?" he grumbled.

"I heard that." she drawled, "I borrowed your super sensitive hearing when I touched you, remember?"

Turning, he faced down the bear, which roared and lifted onto its massive hind legs. All two thousand pounds of kodiak grizzly towered an easy three or four feet over Logan’s head. He popped his neck, feeling a vein throbbing in his forehead in exasperation. If there had been another cave nearby, he’d have rather just moved the damn vehicle, Marie, however, had insisted that this was the only cave worthy of hiding anything valuable within a thousand miles.

Personally, he thought she was full of shit, but then again, it must be a damn good cave if a grizzly that big was planning on making it home for the winter. His thoughts were interrupted by a vicious swat from the bear, which sent his body slamming into the nearest pine tree. Dashing water from his eyes, Logan let out a roar that was far more vicious than anything the bear could ever have hoped to compete with. His claws unsheathed, wickedly sharp.

The bear froze, glancing, confused, from the claws to the feral roar exploding from Logan’s body as the Wolverine stepped in, blood lust enhanced haze turning his vision a pale shed of red. In response, it promptly fled up the nearest tree, which happened to be a young sapling frozen solid. It snapped and flipped backwards with a loud ‘thwack!’ The embarrassed bear promptly disappeared down the nearest embankment, much to Marie’s amusement.

The Wolverine snarled, intending to rip his opponent into pieces. He charged towards the bear's path of retreat. Soft hands suddenly encircled his waist, each with a grip like iron. Firm fingertips rubbed gentle circles on his stomach through his layers of clothing, leaving warm trails behind them. His back sank into the oh-so-soft curves of the Rogue. His mouth ran slightly dry at the blatant reminder of her femininity, the cold air suddenly burgeoning on steamy. His claws slid back into his fists slowly as his now leather gloved hands gripped the small, gloved hands below his own. He felt the Rogue tense as Logan gained control of the Wolverine, allowing the animal to bury his instincts deep inside him. As he relaxed, so did Marie, who gently pulled herself away from their backwards embrace with the half-smile he'd grown so fond of over the past few weeks.

He wistfully glanced after her as she hefted her massive pack with ease, shlepping it onto her back and turning to face a narrow, snow covered trail, "You coming?" she asked, eyebrow raised.

Logan winced, slightly embarrassed she'd caught him staring. He grunted noncommittally, lifted his half of the goods, and turned to follow her. A crisp, cold breeze blew her hair in all directions, the scent slamming into his olfactory glands like a freight train.

Damn she smelled good. Like food, sunshine, shampoo, and underneath a scent that was subtly her, something that, maybe, was what he imagined home would smell like.

Three hours later, the sun sinking behind the mountains, they had reached the tiny, well kept cabin hidden away in a cleft of rock that blocked most of the wickedly sharp wind that howled throughout the mountains. The evidence of the rock's protection showed in the lack of snow directly around the house. Logan glanced appreciatively at the well chinked walls and the sturdy stone chimney. Someone had built this cabin to last. Marie had fumbled through one of her hiking packs until she found a large, older brass key which fit into the iron lock with a 'click.' He heard the tumblers clink together as she turned the key gently, the lock snapping back with an audible 'thunk!'

The door swung open to reveal a large open room with a set of open backed stairs leading up to a second story loft. A large natural stone fireplace took up one corner of the room. Across from it, an old leather chair and a beat-up aztec patterned sofa were situated in an 'L' shape facing the fire place. A massive natural pine coffee table held a stack of battered board games and a deck of dog-eared cards. The great room also held a round, claw legged dining table with a set of battered woven-bottomed chairs, which led into a small but functional kitchen. The stove was natural gas while the fridge was a battered, fifties style model that looked like it could only hold half of the food they had brought with them.

A tiny bathroom with claw foot tub and pedestal sink caught his eye down the small hallway next to the kitchen. He grunted, pleased. At least he had somewhere to drain the weasel, it would be rather mortifying to look at piss-yellow snow outside the door every morning. A door next to the bathroom smelled strongly of earth and cement, so it was easy for him to assume that the rest of the food was going in the basement, which would be cold enough to keep milk as the first heavy snowstorms settled in for the season.

"Well," Marie began, slightly awkward as she settled her bags down on the floor, "It's not much, but it'll do."

Logan followed her lead and dropped his pack on the oh-so-broken-in looking couch, "Where're we sleeping?"

Marie looked at the open backed stairs and tilted her head. Logan unlaced his combat boots, leaving them on the muddy mat by the door, then trotted up the stairs as Marie began doing the same. Upstairs, the loft held a queen sized bed with one shabby art deco night stand parked in the corner. A beat up, tube television was settled on an old card table against the half wall that protected you from falling from the second story into the great room below. Next to the television was a VCR-DVD combo and a pile of random DVDs ranging from old Disney flicks to hard core horror flicks like Saw.

"If there's a TV, how do we turn the power on?" Logan said, turning as he heard Marie's feet creeping up the flight of stairs.

"There's a vented generator in the basement. I've got quite a stock pile of gasoline, so should have plenty for the winter. Heat's the only problem. We've got the fireplace, and ourselves." she chuckled. The pair walked back downstairs, Marie cobbling together a small dinner from tuna and some noodles. Hot tea accompanied the dinner, and the two ravenous travelers were quick to devour the meager spread before them.

"Where'd you get this place?" Logan asked, later, as he lit a roaring fire and battened down the hatches. His keen nose could smell the wicked winter storm boiling there way from several counties over. Marie frowned, sadness enveloping her as she sat in the overstuffed armchair, facing him where he lay on the couch.

She whispered, "Once, when I first got my powers, I met a lady named Carol Danvers." Marie said, lip trembling. "I killed her."

"To get the cabin?" Logan asked, almost horrified.

"NO!" Marie yelped, "I touched her and I just couldn't let go... before I knew it, she was inside my head. Permanently."

Logan watched as a silent tear slid down Marie's cheek to drop onto the cold hardwoods below. Fuzzy, woolen socks and all, he knelt next to her chair, his finger sliding along her bare skin to scoop up the next tear before it could hit the ground. "It's alright," he whispered, hand cupping her cheek through a curtain of her silky hair, "Did she build this place?"

"Yes," Marie replied, "When I took her powers, I sort of inherited all of her earthly possessions. This cabin was really the only thing I was interested in. I just wanted to get away from it all, to, well, forget."

"You want to forget, and I want to remember." Logan mused, "Ki...Marie, I think we're quite the pair."

The half-smile beamed through the twilight of the firelight shrouded room. Laughing, Logan scooped Marie up and carried her up the stairs to bed. Dropping her unceremoniously into a massive pile of quilts, he snagged one for himself and headed back down to bar the doors and windows before crashing on the couch. Just as he dropped the bar over the door, which opened inwards, a tiny voice called his name from above.

Worried, he walked upstairs, his spiky hair poking over the half-wall protection. "You say something, Marie?" he asked.

"Yeah..." The girl whispered. Blankets were pulled up to her chin. "I'm cold...would you stay, please?"

Logan blushed profusely beneath his sideburns, then shrugged off his tank top, jeans, and socks. Sliding into the bed behind her, he positioned himself so that he wasn't touching her skin, tugging her long john clad body into his muscular arms.

Marie's phenomenal scent was already permeating the room. A comfortable warmth spread throughout his body, muscles relaxing as something primeval uncurled in his gut. The Wolverine snarled in a satisfied, I'm-eventually-going-to-get-my-way sort of mode. Logan could already tell, it was going to be a long damn winter.

Logan shivered beneath the heavy layer of quilts he had first tucked Marie into, then climbed beneath the night before. It wasn't quite dawn, but something rankled in the back of his mind like the smell of rotten meat. Sitting up slowly, he tried not to shift Marie, who was curled up next to his side, sound asleep. His eyes, reflecting light like those of an animal in the darkness, easily adjusted to the dim surroundings. A faint glow from the living room below and the faint sound of barely crackling logs made Logan grunt irritably.

Of course he was freezing. Not only did he have metal bones, which ached in the biting cold, the stinkin' fire was running low.

Grumbling beneath his breath, Logan attempted to extricate himself from Marie's grasp. Her long, lithe fingers were wound tightly in his long john top, her socked feet entwined around his ankles. It was highly irritating that he happened to be wearing clothes to bed. Normally the Wolverine enjoyed sprawling, naked, enjoying the ne'er do well attitude that generally accompanied those comfortable in their bare skin. However, the past few nights, the temperature had dropped so low that even someone with an almost instant healing ability needed a little something-something to keep his nipples from freezing into a permanently erect state.

Wiggling forward, he managed to slide out of Marie's amazingly strong grip. He began to smirk, then let out a small hiss as his painful, scratchy-pajama-pant-covered early morning erection brushed against her flannel covered breasts. It didn't help matters that Marie had taken to wearing his flannels to bed over her long johns in the three weeks since they'd arrived at the cabin. Not only did she look delectable, she smelled like him. Every time her long, legging clad legs peeked from beneath his extra large tartan plaid shirt while she walked around fixing breakfast of a morning, something positively feral uncurled within him.

The Wolverine purred, thinking of something that involved a little more than snuggling together for warmth...something that called for a good deal of...friction. Without control, his hand slipped forward, tenderly, to brush a lock of Marie's hair back from her face. Fingertips trailed, millimeters above her dangerous skin to drag across Marie's flannel covered collar bone. Unknowingly, Logan leaned forward, the Wolverine drinking in Marie's tantalizing scent. His lips hovered, barely above her skin, wanting to taste the junction of neck and body...

Logan shook his head, shuddering at the carnal thoughts that surged through his mind. "Fric...fire." He muttered, dashing sleep from his eyes. Standing up, he almost yelped when his feet touched the frigid floor. The creeping cold slid up his legs and over his body, producing the most undesirable action possible in the Wolverine's opinion.

For once, Logan had to agree. "Way to make my dick deflate," he muttered. He stuck his feet into his boots, then clumped quietly down the stairs. He frowned at the dwindling stack of firewood. There were only five logs left in the log box, the rest of the wood was stored in a shed some 50 yards away from the cabin. Logan reached for one of the ornate pokers and stoked the fire, adding several more logs. The fire hungrily devoured its newest fuel source, precious heat flowing outwards and upwards. Logan heard Marie sigh contentedly. Good, she was warm.

The Wolverine smirked. She'd be even warmer when he got back in bed with her... he'd make sure of that. He felt himself grinning as his foot mounted the bottom step. Suddenly, the rotten-meat-feeling slammed across his senses with a vengeance. He doubled over, his nose and ears listening keenly to something beginning to howl outside. No, not an animal.

Mother Nature.

"Sonufabitch," he hissed, "It's a whiteout."

Whiteouts were the worst possible winter storms that Canadian weather was capable of producing. Not only were they wickedly cold, even more so than now, they completely destroyed perception. Snowfall was often so rapid and fast that complete mountain ranges could disappear to the naked eye. The 50 yard dash to the shed was now a matter of life or death. Not his, but Marie's.

Scrambling, Logan wiggled his way into his jeans, a flannel shirt, a vest, and his bomber jacket. He tugged a cap down over his unruly hair, then gloves to prevent his hands from chapping. Outside the door, four paces to the left, was an old Radio Flyer sled. If he could get to the sled, he could easily bring back enough wood to outlast the vicious storm.

Wolverine smirked, hell yeah he'd be bringing the wood.

Logan shoved his feral side down and dashed into the basement. There, sitting on one of Carol Danvers craft benches, was a roll of industrial twine.

"Just in case," he grunted. He tied one end of the twine to the leg of the heaviest piece of furniture available, the sofa. Then, as if he was preparing to go on a hike, Logan belayed the twine around his middle, providing him with plenty of room to maneuver. Glancing at the Scrabble game he and Marie had abandoned when it became too cold the night before, he reached out and snatched the score tablet and stubby pencil from the coffee table. He scribbled a note to Marie on the paper, in case she woke up, and stuck it beneath her favorite coffee mug on the kitchen counter.

Gritting his teeth, Logan turned to face the door. He could feel the pressure the wind was exerting against it. It was absolutely mind-boggling. He yanked inwards, a mound of snow falling to the wooden floors then melting in the heat of the cabin. As a last ditch measure, he wrapped a scarf around his face. The air was much easier to breathe now. It barely stung his lungs.

Taking one step outside, Logan confidently walked forward towards the firewood shed.

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

Marie yawned as a bitterly cold chill swept up the loft stairs and scurried beneath the covers, making her jump. She groped blindly for Logan, her hand finding nothing next to her in the bed. Her rapidly fading Wolverine-esque senses picked out his delectable scent, trailing downstairs to the first floor. Damn it was cold without him.

Marie floated out of bed, taking the quilts with her as she hovered her way to the first floor. The smell of snow was overwhelming, and the draft was obviously coming from the barely cracked front door. The snarling wind stirred up the paper beneath her favorite coffee cup, and the sudden smell of recent Logan made her step forward to pick up the yellowed notebook paper.

Five words were scribbled there in practically illegible handwriting, "Marie, Whiteout, Firewood, Back Soon."

Her eyes glanced around the room towards the dwindling pile of wood and tiny fire, then to the slack piece of twine that was wrapped around the sofa edge. Glancing at the military time notice also scribbled on the paper, Marie knew Logan had to have left around two in the morning. It was now six o'clock AM. Panic settled in like a freight train. Marie glanced at the instructions on the paper, crumbled it, and reached for the twine that led towards the open front door. Pulling, hard, on the twine, Marie was shocked to find its frayed edge come skidding into the cabin, no Logan attached.

She dashed foward, glancing into the blindingly white snow to try and find Logan's body. Visibility was nil, and her eyesight was already poor enough as it is.

"LOGAN!" she yelled, desperate.

Frantically, Marie scrambled around, tucking her feet into her snow boots and pulling a warm jacket over her head. She took her gloves out of her jacket pocket, slid them on, and stomped forward resolutely. No less than five minutes later, when no answer came, Marie staggered blindly out into the snow.

Theme song is "Gravity" by Sara Bareilles: "You hold me without touch, you keep me without chains, I never wanted anything so much than to drown in your love and not feel your rain."

Logan grunted as he unloaded the last of the wood into the large log box in the basement. Reaching up, he wiped away the sweat that was dripping from his brow, wincing as the thick leather work gloves he had exchanged his warm, fur lined pair for popped a blister that had developed across his palm. It healed almost instantly as he gripped the index finger of one glove in his mouth, pulling it from his tired fingers, then doing the same with the other.

Taking up the axe that was propped in the corner, Logan reached for the pile of wood he had designated for the fire upstairs. The thick scent of cedar permeated the room as he split the logs, then piled them into the smaller, portable log box to haul them up the stairs. He hoped the sound of his chopping and stacking hadn't woken Marie. He deemed it unlikely, however, as the howl of the storm outside hadn't subsided in the slightest. It had been hell on earth to trek in the bleak weather, blinded by snow with hardly enough clothes on. He was sure in the hour it had taken him to reach the shed and return with his load of wood, his toes had frozen solid in his boots. He felt like Sisyphus, doomed to roll his boulder uphill for eternity; every time his body healed the damage from the cold, it gave him only momentary satisfaction before it ate away at his extremities once more.

Half-way back to the cabin, his twine had snagged around a thin tree. Growling, his claws popped out of his practically arthritic hands, the mind-numbing wind icing the adamantium protruding from his skin. The twine was demolished quickly. Luckily, he could see the faint glimmer of light from the cabin's windows some twenty yards ahead. The drastic change in temperature when he had staggered through the unbarred door made his eyes water. He hauled the sled across the distressed floors, deposited his load of wood, then returned the sled to the left of the door inside. If he had returned it to its original position, he was sure it would have been buried by dawn.

He barely thought of the note, trembling in the draft hissing through the cracked doorway as he stomped down the stairs to finish his job. Pushing the basement door open with his back, he turned and walked into the living room. Depositing the box of wood next to the fire, he unloaded several of the massive cedar logs, which popped merrily as the flames leapt higher. Inhaling deeply, he turned towards the stairs, rolling his neck from side to side in the process. Maybe he could convince Marie to give him a back massage before they slept off the rest of the storm.

A collideascope of color caught his eye as his foot settled upon the first step, and he glanced, alarmed at the pile of quilts deposited on the kitchen floor.

"Marie?" he asked, stepping forward. He jerked the quilts back, hoping to find her lying beneath them; she wasn't there. His crumpled note lay next to the quilts, Scrabble scores taunting him from the reverse side. Marie's coffee cup was upturned, the remnants of her evening hot chocolate spilled across the table. Logan, trying not to panic, flew up the stairs two-at-a-time. Marie was not in the bed, and the sheets were cold.

It sounded like the cabin was going to come down around his ears when the Wolverine vaulted over the retaining wall, landing with a thud in the great room below. He slammed open the closed bathroom door, jerking the shower curtain back from the tub.

It was empty.

He roared, angrily, inhaling deeply. It was difficult to discern Marie's freshest trail over the scent of the burning cedar. His claws slammed into the sofa, flipping it with ease. His muscles strained beneath his long shirt, sinews and veins popping out in his rage. The Wolverine's keen eyesight glanced at the peg board where their jackets were hung. His, still on his body, was missing.

So was Marie's.

Her gloves and jacket were gone as well. The beast inside of him roared in despair when her trail vanished into the smell of bitter winter outside. He flung the door open, snow blinding him.

"ROGUE!" he shouted, the rapid snowfall stinging his exposed hands. With her meager garments and lack of a healing ability, she couldn't have gotten far before succumbing to the elements. The Wolverine's keen eyesight scanned the white ground, the gray mist around him disorienting. He spun in a circle, losing sight of the cabin behind him. His voice was hoarse from yelling. His claws outstretched, he sliced clean through a massive pine tree, it slammed to the ground, the sound of the storm barely muffling its descent to earth.

The tree's fall disturbed the snow, the wind blowing away from a tiny, dark lump beneath a low hanging tree. Wolverine's heart thudded painfully loud in his ears as he ran towards the lump, the distance between he and that tiny, vulnerable thing stretching farther with every step. Suddenly, he was there. His feet tripped in a large snow drift, and he crawled on hands and knees, soaking wet, to the form below him.

It was Marie.

He brushed the snow back, Marie's frozen hair crackling. Her lips were blue. A howl of absolute despair tore from his throat. Jerking his coat off, he gathered her up in his arms, wrapping the quilted leather around her too still form. His eyes glanced, squinting for a sign of the cabin, lost in the distance. Following the line of the fallen tree, he used it as a landmark, staggering back towards the cabin, which radiated light, heat, and warmth.

He kicked the door open, slamming it shut as he hauled Marie into the upturned living room. Disregarding the Wolverine's screams of alarm that she wasn't breathing, Logan fumbled with the zipper on Marie's coat, removing the drenched garment. The Wolverine's impatience overrode Logan's sensibility, and brutally sharp adamantium claws sliced the flannel shirt and long johns from Marie's body. The Wolverine growled at the sight of Marie's bare skin. Jumping up, he grabbed a quilt from the pile in the kitchen, gently toweling Marie's body. He gulped, anxiously, as his hands grazed over her breasts.

She still wasn't breathing. Panicking, Logan shucked his clothes off, and hauled Marie into a skin-on-skin embrace.

"Oh God, Marie, please, breathe." he almost sobbed, rocking her gently by the fire. He wrapped them both in the quilt, holding her as tight as possible. Her skin was bitterly cold. His hands rubbed vigorously along her back and arms; her mutation didn't even pull against his skin. Gently, oh so gently, he leaned his forehead against Marie's cheek, his breath hot on her pale as snow skin and blue lips.

"Bub," he whispered, eyes glancing upwards, "I don't ever ask you for much, but please...God...help me." His lips gently touched Marie's lips. They were as soft as he imagined, He held her tightly, one hand nestled in her long, tousled chocolate hair. Her chest was smashed into his own, her legs tangled in his, every inch of their bodies touching in a most intimate fashion.

Suddenly, the breath caught in Logan's chest. Alarm shot through his system as what felt like a bolt of lightening rocked his system, his nerves felt like they were on fire. Marie's eyes shot open, wide and shocked. She tried to pull away, but Logan held on tightly, his desperate kiss evolving into something far more passionate. Unconsciousness loomed as her bare skin sucked him dry, causing his eyes to roll back into his head.

The solid thunk of his adamantium skull on the stone fireplace sounded in harmony with something far more precious, the sound of Marie's heart beat.

Logan awoke to the feel of a cool wash rag gently stroking his forehead.  The roar of the storm outside had died down to a lull, but the wind still whistled angrily through the bottom of the window sill behind the headboard.  Heat soaked into his skin, oozing from the fireplace and drifting upwards to the pile of quilts on top of the bed tucked securely around his body.  Keeping his eyes closed, he gingerly winced at the faint feeling of throbbing, agonizing pain pulsing through his skull.  His nose whiffed slightly in the air.  Marie’s warm, healthy scent poured over him like a waterfall, making him curl his toes in pleasure.
 
“Logan?”  Marie’s soft voice asked.  Her voice sounded scratchy, as if she had a cold.  He could feel the heat of her body laying next to his own.  Angrily, the Wolverine snarled at the feel of her soft cotton flannel pajamas, still caught in the memory of flesh molding to flesh.
 
Attempting to push his feral feelings aside, Logan peeled one eye open, lazily.  The sound of her voice made his heart beat slightly faster, a mild adrenaline rush flooding his system.  The beast inside of him roared, claws unsheathing, at a mental image of her too cold, so still body in his bone breaking embrace.  The Wolverine’s half-lidded hazel eyes fluttered beneath thick lashes.  A gloved hand reached out to stroke the side of his cheek, supple calf leather inadequate compared to the feeling of lips on lips.
 
Marie moved closer, he could feel her breath on his cheek.  The Wolverine pounced, three hundred pounds of naked, virile muscle and sinew pinning Marie’s body to the bed, which creaked ominously.  A faint yelp of surprise slipped from between Marie’s lips as he leaned in closer to her neck, nose inhaling her scent.  Marie was flushed, her cheeks a brilliant red, eyes swollen and red from crying.  Instinctively, she avoided eye contact, exposing her neck to the Wolverine in submission.  Each time the tip of his nose slid across her skin, a gentle electric shock rippled through his nervous system, making Wolverine let out a throaty growl-like purr.
 
His knees still pinning her lower body to the bed, his hands explored her tense body, gently checking for any earlier, unnoticed damages.  Every time Marie attempted to wiggle way from him, his teeth closed gently on the junction of her neck and collar bone through the collar of her flannel shirt, disciplining her for her actions.  His nose followed his hands on their trek downwards, broad, weathered hands pinning her wrists down to the bed on either side of her body. A tiny squeal slipped from Marie’s clenched lips as the Wolverine’s teeth nibbled along the edge of her pajama bottoms, making her stomach flip upside down.  The Wolverine purred loudly again, and she crossed her ankles, determined not to let him catch a whiff of the heat that thundered through her veins.  It was a lost cause though.  Marie could smell her own arousal, could taste it in the air.  She could smell Logan, his enhanced senses letting her over-sensitive nose pick every whiff of the maleness he exuded.  Marie didn’t need her nose to feel the rock hard organ pinned beneath his heavy hips on her thigh, nor did she need her now over-sensitive ears to play her the rhythm of her pounding-almost-to-the-point-of-exploding heart.

"Sugar...," Marie managed to squeak out, "My skin's invulnerable, remember? You don't gotta..."

The click of teeth slamming together and a sharp growl from the general area of her nether regions made her breath catch in her lungs. Inside her head, Logan chuckled slightly.

'Let him figure it out for himself,' the calmer alter-ego soothed.

Marie was hardly pacified, she felt as if the Logan in her head wasn't helping, only watching eagerly. Wolverine's nose snuffled its way into the apex of her thighs, a sharp nip to the tender, soft flesh startling her and making her uncross her ankles. The Wolverine chuckled delightedly, taking the opportunity to gently maneuver one adamantium enhanced elbow between her legs, prying them apart delicately. Firm fingers trailed their way up her legs, causing Marie to tremble. Her body felt like it was on fire. One metal claw shot out of Wolverine's right fist. Grinning devilishly, he slit the crotch of her pajama pants, revealing the funky, full coverage satin striped undies she'd yanked on after situating him on the bed earlier that evening.

'Nice.' head-Logan growled, 'You know what's coming next, right kid?' He laughed at her silent admonishment that 'NO! She was not a child!' as he bombarded her with several graphic memories of what a Wolverine could do with lady parts.

"Oh...God." she whispered, hips bucking slightly in response to his mental onslaught. Marie imagined her over-sensitized skin could feel every molecule of hot air that Wolverine breathed, and her eyes rolled back into her head when something hot and wet slid gently across her satin covered crotch. Was that his...tongue?!

A quick glance downward confirmed, that YES, that was his tongue, and holy stinking shit, where did he learn to do that?! A guttural groan tore from her lips, every inch of her skin quivered as the Wolverine switched from tongue to teeth, gently grabbing and pulling on something that made her almost careen over the edge of something unbelievably amazing.

"Beg." a soft, calm voice commanded. The sudden loss of sensation made her writhe beneath him. "I said, beg!" he repeated, teeth accompanying his command. She let out a breathless moan, looking down into the lustful eyes of the Wolverine crouched between her legs. Did Logan know what was going on right now, or did the Wolverine completely consume control like some evil twin lurking beneath the surface?

'You gotta understand,' head-Logan whispered, 'We're a package deal. We know what we're doing.'

Marie barely comprehended what he said, almost screaming as another, gentle, firm tug made her hands fist tightly in his damp black hair. "Please...," she whispered, plaintively.

"I didn't hear you." he snarled.

"Please...Logan!" she hissed, "Please?"

Chuckling, the Wolverine pulled back from her abruptly, leaving her dangling on a precipice of pleasure. "No."

"What?" Marie whispered, mouth gaping open like a fish out of water. Her skin was fiery red, her hair strewn about her in a chocolate mess. Head-Logan thought she looked delicious enough to eat. "Why?" she almost wailed.

It wasn't the Wolverine who grinned back at her, but a very self-satisfied, snarky Logan,"Because maybe the next time you do something effin stupid like walking out into the middle of a blizzard, you'll think about the consequences."

With that, he turned and trudged downstairs. "Taking a shower, mind making dinner?" he called from the bottom of the stairs.

"Fuck you! See if I try to save your life, EVER again!" she hissed, under her breath, then flopped over miserably into one of the pillows that adorned their bed.

"I heard that!" snarky Logan called.

"Sonufabitch!" Marie growled, fingers fisted in the covers nearby. It was going to be a long damn winter.

 Marie cursed under her breath when her hand encountered the hot burner on the gas stove.  Her invulnerable skin protected her from injury, but that didn’t mean that her nerves didn’t scream in agony beneath its protective shield. Despicably enough, her hand wasn’t the only thing burning. She rubbed her legs together uncomfortably, trying to soothe the aching fire that burned between them.
 
Preoccupied, she didn’t notice the tan arms sliding around her, brushing against her breasts to reach for the injured hand. She jumped, whirling, back pressed against the edge of the hot cook top. Hands grasped her waist and shifted her sideways before she could burn herself again, and cool butcher block countertop pushed uncomfortably into her buttocks.
 
“Clumsy,” Logan teased. His adamantium laced hips leaned against her, pinning her against the cabinets. She resisted the urge to pick him up with one finger and slam him into the floor, repeatedly.  Here she was, sexually frustrated as hell, making him dinner, and he had the balls to insult her! A little Wolverine-esque growl slipped from her throat, its feral rumble making her chest shake, arousal quickly morphing into anger.
 
“What’s for supper?” he asked, casual as hell. His hair was damp, swept casually into his favored, scruffy style. His sideburns had been groomed, probably with one of her disposable razors. He smelled deliciously of Lever 2000 and bland suave shampoo, a tantalizing fresh and clean combination that made her pulse pound just a little bit faster.
 
“Don’t you have better things to do?” she hissed, words laced with as much venom as she could muster.
 
Logan nonchalantly glanced toward the iced over window, his eyes burning with intensity.
 
“Actually,” he smiled, “I do.”
 
Keeping her pinned, he snagged an ice cube from one of the glasses behind her. Logan never understood why Marie preferred iced, sweet tea in the middle of a damn blizzard, but he was willing to permit her eccentricities. Careful to touch only her covered wrist, he tugged her burned hand towards his mouth, bare skin far too close for Marie’s comfort.
 
Her eyes watched his lips as he popped not one, but two ice cubes into his mouth. He yanked her hand closer, sliding the burning digit between the two ice cubes and his lips. He suckled gently, and Marie’s knees weakened dramatically. Everything Logan seemed to do exponentially weakened her ability to fight back. Unwillingly, a moan escaped from her throat, and she was unable to tear her gaze away from Logan as he watched the skin of her throat contract as she swallowed nervously.
 
Her whole body trembled uncontrollably, her other hand gripping his flannel covered bicep as if it were all that anchored her to the earth.  Wolverine howled in approval.  He desperately wanted her to be dependent upon him.  Only him.  For everything.  Pleasure, sustenance...life.  Not because the Wolverine desired ownership, because the Wolverine desired companionship, someone waiting, expecting his return…someone who wanted him.
 
The smell of smoke brought Marie back to reality, and her finger slipped from between the ice cubes, zapping Logan slightly.  He stepped back and shook his head dizzily, tension rolling off of him in waves as a panicking Marie attempted to salvage what had once been toast, preserves, and green bean casserole.
 
“Fuck!” she yelped, hand slamming down onto the butcher block.  Logan winced at the dent she left in the surface, a massive crack splitting the stained wood from stove to refrigerator.  Grimacing, she shook her hand vigorously. He could tell she had probably bruised a bone from the force of the blow.
 
“I just can’t keep you in one piece, can I?”  Logan grumbled irritatedly as she flipped the burners and broiler to low, then off.
 
Oven mitts on, she removed the casserole dish from the oven, the tops and edges blackened and burnt.  Her nose wrinkled uncomfortably, and scrunched up her freckles.  She gasped in pain as she held the heavy casserole dish in her bruised hand.  It slipped from her fingers, heading for a direct collision course with the floor.  Logan caught it bare handed, the scalding hot dish burning the skin on his hands.
 
“Sheee-it! That’s hot!” he growled as he gingerly placed the dish on the cracked counter.  Marie couldn’t help watching as she scraped the worst burned pieces off of the toast.  His blisters healed in moments, revealing fresh, pink, skin. Turning back to the toast, she had to concede defeat as it was far more burnt than she originally thought.
 
“Great, di…dinner’s ruined.”  Marie half-way sniffled, hand throbbing and tumultuous emotion threatening to get the better of her previous resolve.

 “Aw, damn darlin’, don’t cry.” Logan half-groaned.

Faster than lightning, Logan’s finger reached out to brush a lock of damp, sweaty hair from her face.  Her lower lip trembled slightly at the gesture.  He reached for a clean dishrag and used it to cup her chin gently. Marie stepped backwards and bumped into the counter, and his arms cupped her beneath her legging clad knees, lifting and pushing her to sit beside the ruined, burnt food.

Logan stood between her legs, his face inches from her own. Marie’s breathing was erratic, her mouth was bone dry. She was unable to look away as his tongue slid across his lips. His scent overwhelmed her senses as her heartbeat accelerated rapidly. Logan’s lips crept closer, and anxiety overwhelmed her. She gently placed her un-injured hand on his chest, stopping him.

“Wha...what about dinner?” she whispered.

“I want dessert first.” Logan rumbled, his chest vibrating.

“I’ve never been kissed, you know.” Marie murmured, cheeks flaming red.

“Then I better make it good.” he crooned.

Marie’s eyes fluttered shut as Logan placed butterfly-soft kisses on her eyelids, nose, and cheeks, each one lasting no more than a second. Finally. he trailed from her nose to her mouth. Gently, his lips touched hers, and she held her breath in suspense.

Then he moved against her, lips devouring, hands sliding up her back, crushing her into his muscular chest. He paused and moved back just as her mutation began to kick in, and she moaned in protest. Swiftly, he lunged in again, tongue moving in time with lips. This time, he waited until he felt that familiar, electric tug, pushing all of his thoughts and emotions into the brain-draining void.

Marie’s heart was an out of control avalanche pounding hard against his muscular chest. Her fingers kneaded his muscles, holding him gently as he shook off the mutation induced haze her power had produced. His hazel eyes looked straight into her own, and suddenly she was overwhelmed by emotion.

Not hers, the Wolverine...no, Logan’s.

Possession, passion, caring, desire, and need swirled around in her head like a tornado. Only one potent emotion, however, throbbed in time with her swollen lips and hummingbird heartbeat.

It was love.

Outside, the storm increased its intensity once more, snow piling into new drifts, pinning them inside the cabin. A dark, lurking figure slipped through the trees to steal around to the back of the house where a set of unused, boarded up storm cellar doors lay in disrepair. A keen nose pressed tightly against the seam, inhaling deeply, long, frozen hair falling into a feral face.

“Soon,” he whispered, “soon.” Then curled up to wait.

The smell of dry, crisp air gradually roused Logan from his slumber, toes stretching and curling leisurely as he took inventory of each and every sleepy muscle on his body. Limbering up slowly was one of his favorite ways to start the day, especially when he actually felt comfortable in his surroundings. Normally that either meant he was so drunk or hungover that he didn’t give a damn, or well laid. This, however, was different. Scratchy flannel rubbed against his whip-cord lean stomach, abs tensing as tips of soft as silk brunette hair tickled his tan skin.

His nose whuffed delicately along the arm that Marie had strewn up behind her head. Her pale skin and rosy red lips looked ravishing in the early morning sunlight that trickled through the wooden blinds and dusty curtains, motes dancing on sunbeams to kiss her cheeks.

“Mmmm....” Marie mumbled in her sleep. He felt her bare legs slide up against his sweat pants and socks, knew that if he peeked beneath the covers he would see chipped, plum toenail polish atop toes, that led to ankles, knees, thighs, and oh...

Damnit he was hard.

Which reminded the Wolverine of his favorite way to wake up. Inside a woman. Logan railed against the Wolverine, desire for Marie colliding with the need to go slowly, to not mess up this feeling of safety, closeness, companionship, and love. Things that Logan had never had, or did not remember having, and thus they were all the more valuable, precious, even.

Marie’s breath hitched and sped up, her heart beat fluttering like her eyelids as she blinked in the bright sunlight. Logan feigned sleep, watching her stretch, a deadly, thin, pale expanse of stomach peeking from beneath the long nightshirt. Sleep tousled, Marie looked like a goddess, her hair crimped and curling alluringly as she turned to look at him, cheek resting on her gloved hand and wrist which lay gently against the pillow.

“Logan...,” she whispered, lips hovering over his sideburns, the hairs gently twisting underneath her breath. “Wake up.”

Gloved fingers slid up his bare chest and arms. Lips brushed quickly once, twice, then slightly longer on his lips. It was everything he could do not to flip her underneath him...and her hand was, oh God her hand was suddenly sliding into the hem of his pajama pants.

And she froze there, inches away from grasping him. He could barely continue his charade, but moving now would only startle her. Hands pressed on either side of his chest, and Marie slid one leg over his pajama clad hips. Through his eyelashes he watched her straddle him, he could barely breathe when he caught a glimpse of her plain, cotton panties in the early morning light.

“I know you’re awake.” Marie whispered, letting her hips rock against his straining erection.

Logan’s eyes opened slowly. Marie’s fingers were trailing along the lapels of his shirt, and with lithe little finger twists, button after button came undone. The creamy swell of her breasts made him salivate, and his hands reached up to grasp her hips through the worn flannel fabric.

“Listen, Marie,” Logan murmured as she wiggled distractingly on his lap, “I don’t wanna rush you into anything...” his remaining words were swallowed by a quick, breathless kiss from Marie.

“Sugar, I think it’s painfully obvious,” Marie teased, dragging her hands across her chest to expose her breasts fully, “That I’m just a little crazy about you.”

Then she kissed him again, just as quickly, but teeth nipped his lower lip, making the Wolverine purr. His hands fisted in the fabric of her shirt, and he gently thrust upwards, his member dragging upwards and across Marie’s nether regions, a small gasp of pleasure slipping from her lips despite the fabric between them.

He rocked into her again, the Wolverine growling in pleasure at the sight of her breasts bouncing lightly above him. He could smell Marie’s arousal pouring over him in waves, and suddenly he wanted more than just fabric on fabric...god he wanted to be inside her, to feel her...

“Ma...rie.” Logan growled as she gyrated her hips slowly, eyes rolling back into his head. This was better than passing out from making out with her in the kitchen...this was...mindblowingly...was that a condom in her mouth?

Sure enough, Marie had tugged a little foil packet from the front pocket of his flannel shirt, one eyebrow raised suggestively at him. “Is this your lucky shirt?” she giggled. She tousled her hair, and the smell of her overwhelmed him. He reached up like lightning and snatched the packet from her.

“I dunno darlin’, you’re the one wearing it,” Logan teased, “Maybe you’d like to get lucky?”r32;
“Oh, yes, please.” Marie whispered.

With that, Logan flipped Marie onto her back, careful not to touch any of her bare skin as his fingers teased her core through her practical underwear. One claw sliced a very convenient hole into his sweat pants as Marie opened the foil packet with practiced ease.

“What, did you think I was a virgin?” she purred, one eye lustily winking at him.

“Baby, I know you’re a virgin.” Logan said, “which is why we’re gonna do this slow and easy.”

She flushed as he slipped the condom over his well equipped package, and Logan couldn’t help but love those pink cheeks, feathering them with kisses, then his mouth laved at her nipples through the textured flannel, each sigh he tugged from her making him quiver with anticipation. His fingers hooked lightly in the thin pieces of fabric that kept her underwear up, tugging it down until she was able to kick the slight piece of clothing over the half-wall and into the great room below with a throaty giggle.

And then, her hand closed over his member, guiding him to her...

“Are you sure?” Logan whispered, sweat dripping in a faint sheen across his upper body, he could smell her nervousness. Unintentionally, his tip slid across her heated center, and she bucked against him uncontrollably.

A whiff of something that might have been anger, or frustration swept across his senses as Marie rocked into him, dragging herself across his painful erection. “Dammit, Logan, if you don’t hurry up,” she threatened, panting.

That crooked grin she adored so much shot across Logan’s face, and then he slid into her without warning, gently stretching her until he was buried as deep as he could go. His hips quivered and his breath caught in his throat. He felt her wince in pain, her inner muscles twitching around his cock.

He wanted to give her longer to accommodate his size and girth, but then he felt her hips tentatively rock into his, her pleasure center dragging across the rough elastic edge of his sweatpants, making her squeeze him unintentionally as she let out a breathless combination of his name and omigosh.

It was all the incentive Logan needed. He thrust into her, gently at first, each stroke stretching her. Her gloved hands clenched his biceps, her head thrown back against the pillows. Logan added an upwards twist to his thrusts, each time he withdrew hitting a spot that made Marie buck wildly.

Slowly and carefully, while steadily increasing rhythm of his thrusts, he slid one finger to Marie’s folds, rubbing her until that familiar electric jolt shot up Marie’s nervous system from the tips of her toes to the tip of her chocolate colored waves. Her back arched off the bed, legs gripping his hips tightly as she let out a breathless scream, her climax washing over her and dragging him with her as he finished, almost catatonic moments later.

“Holee...Logan...wow...,” Marie mumbled, as he withdrew from her slowly. Her legs trembled uncontrollably, her hands stroking his arms as he leaned in to steal an electrifying kiss.

Distracted as he was with his hands fisted in her hair, Wolverine barely had time to catch a whiff of the intruder standing in their loft. Leaping backwards, he unsheathed his claws with a feral roar, crouching over his freshly ravished lover like some territorial animal. Marie pulled the sheets up, face flushed as she pinned herself against the head board behind Logan.

“Who the fuck are you?” the Wolverine spat out, every nerve in his body screaming ‘danger’ at the sight of the lithe, tattooed covered youth leaning against the half-wall. Black ink swirls spread from his finger tips to his shoulders, crossing his chest, up his neck, and onto his face. The sides of his scalp were shaved, a messy ebony mohawk like top knot trailing down his back. He only wore lycra running pants stuffed into well worn combat boots. His eyes were the same shade as Logan’s.

“Don’t you recognize me?” the stranger spat, and Wolverine tensed as three bone claws slid from his adversary’s hands, two from the knuckles, one from the underside of his wrist. “I’m Daken, Wolverine, your only son.”

Having touched Logan, Marie knew exactly how fine the line between rational man and feral mutant actually was.  This creep, whoever the fuck he was claiming to be, didn’t seem to realize how far gone the Wolverine had retreated from his morality.  The tense, sweating, angry mutant crouching over her was deadly, as well as unbelievably pissed at being taken by surprise. 

Absolutely lethal.

“Easy, old man,” the youth Daken said laughingly, “Wouldn’t want to toy with this, now would you?”
Marie’s eyes widened as Daken pulled a long, menacing sword out of a sheath strapped to his back with a thin piece of braided leather.  The blade was pewter gray, almost black in color with a thick metal ridge running from tip to hilt.  Along the tang of weapon, oriental glyphs were engraved deep into the metal, each character glowing red with its own inner fire.

“You think you can take me down with that pig-sticker?” the Wolverine scoffed, eyes narrowed cunningly at his supposed son.

“Worth a shot, don’t you think?”  Daken growled, patting the flat of the blade against his muscular shoulder.
Marie shrank behind Logan as he crouched precariously on the mattress, claws extended. As he crept closer to his opponent, she gingerly wiggled her fingers out of their gloves.  If the Wolverine needed help, she was more than willing to suck this fellow’s soul slam out through his skin.

Almost faster than her eyes could follow, Daken lunged towards Wolverine with a fearsome snarl, sword gripped tightly between his three-pronged bone claws.  Roaring, Wolverine leapt to meet him, neatly dodging a swipe from the sword, sinking adamantium claws deep into Daken’s torso.  The youth roared in pain, and the two of them crashed over the landing to slam into the tattered sofa below.  One howling swipe from Daken’s wickedly sharp blade split the couch in two as Wolverine’s adamantium slammed into bone claws, snapping the extensions off with a wicked crack.

Daken howled, and the claws were sucked back into his skin quickly, an obviously hereditary healing factor knitting the flesh around the claws back together in seconds.  The Wolverine cocked one eyebrow upwards in surprise.  Perhaps they were related.  If so, it was about time “Daddy” gave his son a spanking.

“The hell do you want?”  Wolverine snarled, and pounced, growling viciously.  Daken barely moved away fast enough, three equidistant slices opening in his right boot. 

“Dammit, I liked these boots.” Daken hissed, and a bone-claw right hook skinned the side of Wolverine’s face. Bone met adamantium once again and shattered, Daken cursing in pain as the wound exposed Wolverine’s skull.

“Seems like we keep running up on your inadequacy, kid.” Wolverine laughed, turning just so to reveal his wounds in the sunlight pouring in from the windows. One rough finger tapped the bone as flesh reknit itself around it, “Adamantium versus bone, son? You’re gonna lose every time.”

Rogue, who had been gingerly creeping down the stairs towards the fight, bare hands and skin ready to rumble, gasped at the glimpse of Logan’s skull, shining silver.

And Wolverine turned at the sound, took his eyes off of Daken for just one second.

Daken seized the opportunity and struck.

The sword he held ran the Wolverine completely through, a full foot of blade protruding from his back and slicing cleanly through his spine.

“NO!” Rogue screamed, propelling herself into flight and slamming full force into Daken, superstrength hurtling him into the stone fireplace. A son-of-Wolverine sized crater opened, stone crashing down around him, locking him in as Rogue rushed to Wolverine, who lay gasping on the floor. She shielded him from the ceiling, falling in due to sudden structural instability, invulnerable skin protecting him as his hands, slick with blood, scrabbled to grasp the handle of the katana.

He jerked it out with a hoarse yell, and Rogue panicked as blood poured from the wound. Something was clearly wrong. Logan faded in and out of consciousness, the wound refusing to heal. Rogue ripped off her shirt, exposing her bare chest and wadded it into the wound, placing pressure to try and stem the worst of the bleeding. The sword lay forgotten, glittering in the light streaming in from the hole in the roof.

“M’rie, hurts.” Logan panted, voice faint, eyelids fluttering, “S’not healing.”

“It’ll be okay, I’ll get some help.” Marie whispered, eyes tearing up.

“Don’t cry, least not for a jerk like me” Logan said, a half-assed smirk on his face, “...always knew this’d happen...’ventually.” he coughed, blood burbling up, trickling from between his lips and into his mutton-chops.

“Logan, I’m not going to let you die!” Marie shouted.

Turning away, she leapt up and managed to wrangle one of the worn blankets from underneath the remains of the couch. She whirled around, and growled unintentionally as a tattooed arm reached out to grab the bloodied sword. She should have broken the damn thing when she had a chance.

“I’m going to drain you dry, Daken!” she hissed, clenching the blanket so tightly the fibers began to stretch and tear from the pressure of her hands. She gulped as the tip of the sword rested precariously on Logan’s neck. His breathing was becoming more and more labored with every passing second. Blood bubbled out of his mouth with ever exhale.

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Daken said, a toothy grin on his face. He leered at Marie, and she jerked the blanket over her exposed breasts. “Nice rack, by the way.”

“Fuck you!” Marie snarled, taking one step towards him.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Daken laughed, wagging a finger at her, “Don’t move, or I’ll chop his goddamn head off.”

Marie watched as the blade slipped a fraction of an inch, a fine line of blood appearing on Logan’s neck. “Stop!” she yelped, frozen in panic.

“That’s what I thought.” Daken said, an audible purr rumbling out of his bare chest. “You know, father-figure problems and all it’s not him I want Rogue.”

“What do you want then?” she whispered, shaking.

“You.” he laughed, and the blade jiggled against Logan’s throat.

Logan growled, “Don’t listen to him, M’rie...heal, I always do...”

“Hah!!” Daken crowed, running one hand through his mohawk topknot, “That, my dear father, is where you are wrong, fatally so. You see, this is the only weapon in the world that can permanently put you down, Wolverine. This is the Muramasa sword, and its entire, sole purpose in life, is to kill you.”

“Now, Rogue, or should I call you Marie?” Daken smiled, “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you to, like a good girl, right?”

“Yes.” Marie stammered, “Please, please don’t kill him.”

“Here,” Daken said, refusing to step away from Logan’s neck. He chunked a small pill towards Marie, she caught it easily. “Eat this.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Don’t fucking ask why bitch,” Daken growled, claws sliding out, “just do it, or he dies.”

Marie gulped, trembling hands placing the pill in her mouth. She choked as she downed it dry, gagging on its foul taste. As soon as it hit her stomach she felt her senses shift and roll. Her head felt completely empty, as if it was full of air. She collapsed on the floor, coughing violently, her body trying to retch up the pill.

“The fuck did...you...do?” Logan snarled, managing to halfway lift one arm towards Daken. His legs were paralyzed, useless. Pain riddled his body to the point that he could no longer concentrate on anything else, every heartbeat poured precious ounces of blood onto hardwoods that greedily drank the dark fluids.

“You see, old man,” Daken said, crouching down and patting the side of Logan’s cheek in mock sympathy, “I wasn’t really here for you, I was here for her.” Daken nodded his head towards Marie, who was halfway tangled up in the blanket she had grabbed, trying to crawl on all fours towards the two of them.

“Pity you won’t get to use her anymore,” he chuckled darkly, “She’s mine now, don’t forget it.” He leaned closer until his lips touched his father’s ear, “It’s a pity you won’t get to hear her screaming my name from now on.”

“Fuck off.” Logan snarled. Daken’s foot had strayed too close to his limp arm. Claws shot out spontaneously, slicing through leather, bone, and flesh.

Daken hissed and gritted his teeth. “Bastard,” he spat at Logan.

“That would be...you, Daken,” Wolverine laughed, eyes glazing over, “I don’t have a son.”

“Have it your way, douchebag.” Daken growled. He stood up, staring in disdain at the dying man on the floor, slid his foot off its adamantium bear trap with a “FUCK,” and slammed the sword blade home.

Marie screamed as Logan’s head separated cleanly from his body, arteries spewing blood across the floor. His decapitator kicked his face callously, and his head lolled, jaw open, eyes unseeing to lie on the kitchen linoleum.

“YOU!” Marie screamed, planning to pummel Daken into non-existence. She leapt up, staggering across the space between them. Her bare hand slapped onto Daken’s blood spattered chest. She waited for the pull of her skin, to suck his mutation up, up, up, and out of his body.

She wanted him to die.

And Daken laughed, laughed in her face as nothing happened, as she pummeled him with her fists weakly, strength gone. Laughed when she tried to fly, to disappear to get anywhere, anywhere but here.

“So, Marie,” Daken said, grinning toothily as she stumbled away from him, desperately trying to make the front door, “How do you like your first taste of cure?”

He leapt after her, dragging her by her foot into the kitchen. Daken pinned her to the remaining kitchen wall as she cried shamelessly, his foot knocking into Logan’s head again.

“Now, let’s see,” Daken purred, his tongue sliding from her breast to her ear, teeth nibbling suggestively, “How about we defile the impromptu tomb of the Wolverine with a quick fuck?”

His lips slammed into hers. Marie’s head swam as it slammed into the wooden wall behind her, dizzying her. She slapped, she bit, she screamed bloody freaking murder. Her teeth ripped a chunk out of his ear and tore into his lip and tongue, attempting to dissuade him from his current course of action. Marie’s fingernails dragged bloody scratches down his chest. She kneed him in the groin.

“Fucking bitch!” Daken shouted, hand, claws extended, slamming into her face. Marie collapsed, the left side of her face split from forehead to chin with a bloody gash. Daken could already tell he had ruined her eye. She lolled, unconscious in his arms.

“Well where’s the fun in fucking someone whose comatose?” he grumbled. Marie’s limp form was slung over his shoulder, somewhat wrapped in the tattered blanket. He slammed open the front door, picking up the Muramasa sword and wiping the blood off onto his pants. He sheathed the weapon, then stalked out into the snow with his hostage.

Magneto would be very pleased.

Scott Summers curled his nose as he picked through the remains of the small cabin in the Canadian wilderness. Even a mutant without hefty sense enhancements could easily pick out the scent of death permeating the ruins. Something, or someone, had demolished the entire open area of the home by either blasting, or throwing someone clean through the four foot thick stone fireplace.

His first thought was Juggernaut, but there were no other signs of damage in the forest immediately surrounding the area. Juggernaut, as strong as he was, still needed a hell of a lot of steam to shove someone that hard. He would’ve had to have been charging in from a hundred yards out -- there was no entrance hole either. Which left the team leader of the X-men puzzled.

Nightcrawler had been on recognizance for this particular mission, and had been following the young female mutant and her male, feral mutant companion for some weeks. Having captured Toad poking his nose around the Pentagon, as well as the information they had procured from the now deceased Senator Kelley, they had had reason to compile quite the dossier on the chocolate-haired nubile beauty and the cage-fighting superhealer. Nightcrawler, with the help of Shadowcat, could even tell them exactly where they had stashed their vehicle for retrieval after the spring thaw, what provisions they had taken with them to the cabin, and that the two of them seemed to be in an amicable relationship before they had retreated from their observations due to inclement weather.

They had thought that waiting through the whiteout was the safest course of action. Even Storm, as powerful as she was, wasn’t capable of holding back nature’s worst for days on end, and he had been very sure that convincing the feral to let them take Marie, even if it was for her own good, wouldn’t have ended well. Hell, just look at the disaster zone around him. That was now painfully obvious.

That his students hadn’t been caught by a mutant as well renowned as the ‘Wolverine,’ of whom Scott had heard quite a bit, and not all of it good, impressed him greatly. His training methods must be superb, either that or the Wolverine had been hyperbolized like some immortal Paul Bunyan, fucking up the Canadian wilderness for all eternity.

“Scott!” Jean called from where she crouched inside.

Signs of a struggle, ruined furniture, dents in walls, as well as blood spatter were difficult to avoid. He almost lost his lunch when he caught a glimpse of what Jean was holding in her hands.

“I take it the Wolverine is KIA?” he gulped, hand over his mouth. At least she couldn’t see him shut his eyes behind his ruby-quartz glasses.

“It would seem likely,” Jean whispered, “Have Nightcrawler transport the body onto the Blackbird, I’d like to give him a proper burial. It seemed like everything was going well between them.”

“Were you able to get anything?” Scott asked, nodding to where her fingertips gently touched the Wolverine’s temples.

“His consciousness seems to be non-existent at this point, but I’m sure the Professor will want to check him on our return.”

“Any sign of the girl?” Scott hummed, bile rising in his throat again as he caught a glimpse of the Wolverine’s hand beneath a pile of rock, adamantium claws still extended.

Jean lifted up one eyebrow and nodded towards the hole in the ceiling, the crater in the fireplace, and the literally demolished cabin. “Looks like our super strength gravity defier sent someone packing, at least for temporary.”

“Cyclops!” Shadowcat called, phasing through the front door. Scott could hear Jubilee cursing up a storm as she fumbled with the frozen knob.

“Can’t open the damn door for anybody!” Jubilee snarled, and a shock of electricity shot the door clean off its hinges.

“That tickled,” Shadowcat said, beginning to giggle. Her eyes suddenly caught a glimpse of the deceased Wolverine and she swallowed her laughter abruptly. “Oh, dear.”

“Did you have something to report?” Jean asked, slightly peeved at Shadowcat’s behavior.

“Tracks, leading from the cabin to a clearing two miles east. Left print deeper than right, indicating an added weight on that side, possibly that of a body or large parcel. The swept nature of the snow in the clearing seems to indicate helicopter pickup, drifts are concurrent with snow movement due to heavy winds.” Shadowcat recited methodically.

“Very good, Shadowcat.” Jean said, slightly mollified.

“I was the one who figured it out.” Jubilee grumbled.

The two girls gently helped Scott and Jean clear the rubble from atop the Wolverine’s body, then assisted Nightcrawler in transporting him to the plane. It took all five of them to lift his body due to the added weight of adamantium bones. Scott took charge of the arm with claws extended. He knew very little about adamantium, but something told him it could easily compromise the outer hull of the Blackbird with little effort or a minute mistake on the handlers part.

As the girls cleaned up in the front of the plane and cleared it for take off, Scott placed the Wolverine’s head back where it was supposed to be. Jean gently wrapped the two pieces of what had once been a living, breathing being back together with a neck cast and adhesive bandages, then tugged the soiled flannel shirt from his gaping stomach wound. Out of respect, she covered the wound with a gauze pad and tape. Finally satisfied, she tugged a white sheet over the body and returned to her co-pilots seat. Scott always worried her when he flew the plane.

~~@~~@~~

Marie opened bleary eyes, bright, white light shining down into her face through what seemed to be a sheer veil. She strained to turn her head, memories jumping and bouncing around her pounding skull. Her hearing was muffled. She could hear her heart beating in her head, could feel the vibrations as someone’s footsteps clumped across the floor towards her.

She drew on her memories of Logan, trying to access his enhanced senses. Only a small twinge of him came back. It felt like she was dragging herself through quicksand to use his powers, and what little strength she had drained out of her as militarized, heightened senses alerted her to the physical attributes of the man who approached her.

She could smell his expensive cologne. It made her nose hurt. He was elderly, approximately six feet tall, one hundred and seventy pounds, in fairly good health - she could tell from the way he breathed, the more sluggish beat of his heart opposed to the rapid, youthful beating of her own, as well as the smell of gold bond powder and glucosamine joint supplements. His shoes were leather, expensive leather, they didn’t squeak on the industrial tile floors. He shuffled slightly on his right foot, indicating a weakness in the hip or knee, perhaps ankle, possibly due to an old injury? Who knew? It could also be age. Fabric flapped around his neck, most like a cape. These super villain types always seemed likely to don capes.

She wasn’t as good at identifying emotions, but the overwhelming smell of lust -- not lust of the flesh, but lust at having something one has coveted for some time well within one’s reach -- that kind of Christmas morning surprise lust overwhelmed her senses. Combined with that lust, however, was anger.

Rolling, thunderous, anger. Anger that made the hands now clenching the rails of the cot she lay on tremble.

“Daken,” he murmured, a thin European accent accompanying his vocalization, “I cease to understand exactly how you could bring me someone in this condition for the amount of money I offered you on this particular contract.”

Marie slowed her breathing. Her face throbbed agonizingly. Suddenly, she realized that there was no blindfold on her face, only a bandage obscuring her sight. Bile rose violently in her throat, but she refused to move. She couldn’t.

“You didn’t specify.” Daken snarled. Marie could hear him lean against the nearest wall. God she was itching to rip him a new asshole...

“It was implied explicitly that I wanted this one to come to no harm. She is of the utmost importance, you imbecile!” the elderly man snarled.

“Look, Mags, I really can’t tell you how sorry I actually am,” Daken purred. Marie could almost hear the sneer smeared across his face, “But what are you going to do about it now? You got what you wanted, now keep your end of the bargain, 1.5 million.”

“I owe you nothing, Daken, you have had the pleasure of disposing of your father, and therefore can be of no further use to me.” the man, Mags, apparently, stated, then lifted one hand away from the bed rails.

The metallic click of Daken’s sword being unsheathed and the wet squelch it made when slammed home into flesh made Marie want to cry. She didn’t want to remember what Logan looked like when she left the cabin. Couldn’t bear to think of him that way.

Now it was Daken gasping in a puddle of blood and innards on the floor, she could hear him flailing, feet scrabbling. Something shifted in the air around her, everything in the room magnetized as she managed to make out the shape of the feral mutant rising off the floor to dangle in the air, sword blade entering from behind the shoulder blade and protruding from the hip. How was this happening? Her vaguely enhanced senses could smell the metal of the sword resonate with the man next to her. Perhaps that was his power?

“Fu...fuck, Magneto,” Daken gasped, “Please, put me down.”

“No, I think not.” Mags, no, Magneto said austerely, “I believe you owe this young lady an apology.”

She felt Daken floating over her, the tips of his boots hitting her bare stomach. Blood dripped down and ran across her chest, so much for the cheap soap smell from the sponge bath she had apparently been given some hours before. Frozen in the air, Daken’s hand brushed against her stomach, then lay against it, palm down, fingers splayed.

Slowly, oh so slowly, as Daken groaned above her, Marie felt her skin begin to inexorably pull him in.

And it was so slow. He died so slowly that Marie felt as if she had lived an entire life time -- he was sixty years old. Sixty! How old was Logan then? Eighty? A hundred?

Slowly, her face healed, the throbbing deteriorating and returning to a dull ache.

And Daken screamed inside of her head, the Wolverine roared. The two clashed all over again inside her mind, and it was too much, too much.

Daken breathed his last as Marie fell into unconsciousness once more, and Magneto?

Magneto laughed.

~~@~~@~~

Jean, assisted by Hank, pulled on her latex gloves as the two of them prepared to autopsy the body of Codename: Wolverine. His file lay open next to them, and the body lay in the chilly, three body mortuary in the mansion’s lower levels. Together, they walked through the double doors. Bespectacled Hank reached into a drawer for a tape recorder, and Jean smiled, the furry doctor was proud of his meticulous record keeping.

“Codename: Wolverine, approximate age at death, unknown, suspected at a minimum of thirty years.” Jean began, lifting her gloved hands and pulling the white sheet down to the man’s waist. “Weight, approximately 350 to 400 pounds, skeletal structure, adamantium coated bone.”

“Known mutations, feral adaptation and rapid healing. Cause of death, decapitation.” Hank supplied as Jean moved her hand gently down to lift the gauze pad from the stomach wound below. She would sew the wound back together before burial and preservation.

“Oh. My. Gosh.” Jean gasped, and Hank raised an eyebrow as she peeled the rest of the dressing back.

The wound was gone. Unmarred, rippling abdominal muscles tensed under her fingertips.

“Holy shit, did he just breathe?” she gulped.

“Oh my stars and garters,” Hank whispered, glancing at the post-mortem photos in the file. “Jean, what exactly is going on here?”

A thick, muscled hand caught Jean’s wrist. She fought the urge not to scream.

A dead man. A clinically dead man was holding her hand.

“M’rie, that tickles...” he mumbled, eyes closed.

A clinically dead man was holding her arm and talking to her.

Jean tried not to hyperventilate.

Hank tried not to panic.

The undead Wolverine inhaled deeply, the hand not holding her arm coming up to scratch the edge of his face and tug at the neck brace. “Marie, shee-it it’s cold in here, fire go out overnight?” he mumbled.

“Yeah, fire went out.” Jean whispered, hoping that she sounded enough like this “Marie,” to keep him calm.

His eyes shot open and stared straight at her.

A dead man was staring at her. A dead alive man. Six adamantium claws sprung from their sheathes.

No dice. She was not a convincing impostor.

“Who the hell are you and where the fuck is Marie?”

Jean couldn’t answer that.

She fainted.

Marie?

Marie’s eyes shot open, her neck jerking in a spasm as she attempted to launch herself upwards and into a standing position.

No dice.

Glancing rapidly from side to side, she bit back a terrified scream that threatened to well up uncontrollably from her throat. Her head had been forced into some sort of device that completely covered her cranium. A gag had been shoved into her mouth, her tongue was bone dry.

Harsh metallic arm bands bolted her down into the arms of the chair that held her captive, gloves made of metal pinned her fingers individually, spreading them painfully away from each other. A thin bandeau top made of white fabric, as well as a pair of white shorts covered her necessities. Her legs had also been imprisoned.

It was futile to struggle.

But she did so anyways.

Marie clenched her teeth and summoned Carol’s superstrength, straining against the bonds with ever fiber of her being. She roared behind the gag, frustrated. Tears streamed from her face as the metal refused to give, didn’t even bend under the massive force she applied.

The sound of footsteps shuffling towards her echoed in the cave-like room she was being held inside. Her wide, bloodshot eyes could see brilliantly in the dim light, a side-effect, she supposed, of permanently absorbing a feral mutant.

A larger, hairier than usual feral appeared in her line of sight. Scraggly ginger-blond hair hung down his mid-back, matted in places. Wickedly sharp claws protruded from the tips of his fingers, cat-like eyes glowing with reflected light. r32;
Sabretooth.

The males embedded in her psyche went from casual observers to all-out-rebellious sonsofbitches. If the Wolverine had been able to physically separate his astral projection doppleganger from her head into the cave she sat in, she was almost certain she would have been witness to a massive mutant death match. Daken was clearly his father’s son, he too, had no love for the animal that stood before her.

The picture the two painted was one of a snarling, blood thirsty killer. Apparently, murdering innocents for fun should have been the number one hobby on his match.com profile.

So she was completely surprised when he sat down where she could see him, hands and claws clearly visible.

“Hello,” he said, cordially, almost...amicably, “I’m Victor.”

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

“What do we do with him?” Hank asked. His blue, furry arm was being held in a vice grip by Colossus. Storm and Jean were dabbing strong smelling antiseptic on three wickedly deep gashes that still spewed copious amounts of dark red blood onto the pristine tile floors below, sustained while attempting to subdue the newly acquired undead feral. If Colossus hadn’t tackled him and knocked him into the holding room...

Hank shuddered. He didn’t want to think about that.

“That is a good question, Hank,” Xavier replied, pursing his lips as he held his hands together thoughtfully. Kind and knowing eyes watched through a two-way mirror into the isolation chamber the medical bay had installed many years ago in case of an adolescent mutant rampage.

The Wolverine was completely naked, claws unsheathed. A faint, pale pink scar circled his neck completely, refusing to fade despite his extraordinary healing abilities. The wound on his stomach was the same - healed, but massive scar tissue still lingering behind. Claw marks dug gouges into the three foot thick chamber walls, puncture marks showing where the Wolverine had attempted to climb up the walls to reach the two-way mirror some ten feet above his head.

Well, the kids didn’t call it the “Pit” for just any old reason.

“Professor,” Kitty’s voiced asked, breaking his train of thought, “I was unable to find any current information on the network about any “Son of Wolverine, however, I did find mention of a mutant going by the name ‘Daken,’ in some of our archived FoH files from several decades ago, he seems to match the description you picked up from Cerebro, but he would be much older now.”

“Thank you, Kitty, but age is not a factor for those who possess this particular level of cellular regeneration,” Xavier murmured, “In fact, I believe that the man in the pit below us could possibly be hundreds of years old, despite his youthful appearance.”

“Hundreds,” Jean asked, incredulous, “Are you serious?”

“Jean, my dear,” Xavier said, smiling, “There have been many mutants who aged irregularly in the past. What is to say that this man’s mutation is not the ultimate tool for survival? He is natural selection at its best. Not only does he regenerate, he is apparently capable of surviving extreme, debilitating trauma. If this Daken is indeed his son, it would be apparent that he also passes on this valuable characteristic to his offspring.”

“I suspect that valuable characteristic of almost-immortality resulted in his value as a case study subject,” Hank interjected, nodding towards his cuts, “One isn’t born with adamantium claws sticking almost a foot out of your hands, the make-up of that particular alloy does not occur organically.”

“So an inorganic compound was grafted onto his bones?” Jubilee asked, appalled.

“Not everyone is as civilized as you or I, my dear,” Xavier said, relaxing his hands onto the arms of his wheelchair. He glanced down into the pit and sighed, “And if they are civilized, it does not guarantee that they will stay that way.”

“Who do you suspect?” Scott’s firm voice rumbled. He leaned, tense, against the metal doorframe.

“I believe you already know, Scott,” Xavier replied. Closing his eyes, he leaned forward and placed his forehead against the glass.

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

Logan.

The Wolverine snarled. In his head.

They were in his head.

They had Marie, and they were in his head.

He howled, claws dragging sparks against the immovable walls, “Get out!”

We can help you.

“Where. Is. She?!”
Fucking needles. Fucking doctors. Fucking constantly messing with his head. The man, Logan, had retreated far into the recesses of his mind. Primal, urgent rage, tempered by fear, the overwhelming need for self-defense reverted Logan from man into beast.

The true Wolverine.

Not just a piss-ant piece of him, allowed to annihilate weaklings inside a cage made of flimsy metal and plywood. This was a creature born to be a perfect weapon, the next step of the evolutionary chain that truly embraced the primacy and brutality of life.

One with needs.

Needs that must be met.

First was the girl. He saw her, swimming in his head, a teary eyed brunette. He barely knew who Marie was - fuck, he had just regrown his own damn head and spinal column after all - but she was his. He knew it, something deep within him roared and swaggered at the thought of her.

His.

And the Wolverine protected what was his.

So need number one. Find the girl.

Need number two, get the fuck out of this cell.

We know where she is... The visitor’s voice whispered, that caress of a male-mind against his own.

He snarled, lips curling up and spittle spilling from them as he glanced upwards at the tiny window letting light into the pit entrapping him.

Dammit.

Wolverine was going to have to play nice.

His hackles rose, irritation overwhelming him. But the quickest way to any point as via a straight line. And even if he didn’t like it, the psychic hotline upstairs might be the easiest way of getting to need number one.

“Let me out then,” he called, voice deeper than Logan’s, raspier almost, “I promise to play nice.”

Listen first. Then you may come out.

“Afraid I’m going to hurt another one of your pet mutants, Doc, or maybe you?” Wolverine cackled. He knew what this place was. Knew they were hiding Marie from him.

Afraid that you might hurt one of my mutants? Perhaps..., the voice said, But you, Wolverine, hurt me? My dear boy, you have no idea what I am capable of. So listen, think, contemplate, decide the best course of action to take - besides gutting myself and my entire school.

Suddenly exhausted, and certain he was being mind-rolled, he plopped to the padded floor of the cell and leaned back against the cool wall.

“Okay, I’ll listen,” he hollered. Glancing down at his claws, he smirked.

Just because he would listen, didn’t mean he still wouldn’t gut someone.

Good compromise.

I heard that, the voice chided, If you attempt to gut one of my students, I will liquify your testicles.

“Grrrr...fuck!”

Watch your mouth.