Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Still unbetaed, mistakes are all mine.

CHAPTER NINTEEN

The Loaner was making Marie nervous.

Not so’s anybody else would notice. Certainly not enough to put Storm’s nose any further out of joint, or to have the geeks calling fer Beast. But Beth “Psi-lock,” Braddock, the MI: 13 “data retrieval specialist,” Hank’d brought in to investigate Project Witch-breed was making Marie uncomfortable. Scared, even. And she’d been doing it from the moment she set foot in the Mansion. Soon as Marie heard the word “telepath,” she’d gone jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full o’ rocking chairs, and no matter how many times Logan asked her about it, she refused point blank to explain herself. He didn’t entirely blame her: Now he had his memories back, he knew exactly what kinda work spooks like Braddock specialised in. And thanks to his link with Marie, she knew as well as he did what “data retrieval,” might entail. But that wasn’t the whole story, and he knew it. What Braddock was, not what she did, had Marie spooked. He just couldn’t get her to open up and admit it to him-

After all, she’d been closed off from him ever since she knocked him out.

Logan had opened his eyes in the Infirmary to find her sitting beside his bed, her face a mask of worry and guilt. Breath coming raggedly, the scent of her tears still wafting through the air. He’d felt his face crack into a smile at the sight of her, the pain in his bones secondary to the happiness of seeing her awake and okay. Had even tried to sit up, reaching out to touch that lovely cheek and then- She’d pulled away from him. Winced. Just for a second he’d seen disgust flash through her eyes and it had stopped him in his tracks. She was scared. Of him. She’d given a broken sob of something that sounded like “Sorry,” and then hightailed it outta his room like a bat outta Hell. Her upset trailing like perfume in her wake. Leaving him confused and angry and worried as Hell because he knew what she’d seen when she touched him-

That had been five days ago and ever since- He came into a room, she left it. He even attempted to mention Smokey- Forget about it. Woman could clam up like a pro. He couldn’t even ask her what she’d seen when he was feral: whatever she’d found in his subconscious had retained its slipperiness on the jump from his mind to hers. She remembered saying the word “witch-breed,” and it being important, but just like Logan she could offer no earthly explanation as to why. And when he tried to question her about it, she bailed on him. Disappeared to the Danger Room, and locked the door. The day Braddock arrived she’d spent six straight hours there: In the end he’d pulled the electricity at the mains to shut the programme down. She fought until her knuckles bled, almost as if she were doing…penance. Making up fer some great sin. Next to all that her dislike for Braddock should have been unnoticeable but it was careening outta control, anyone could see that. And yet, she still refused to admit there was a problem. And he was still too worried about what had happened with Smokey to push her on it like he should. Because he didn’t wanna hear her say that it was over. That what she’d seen through their link when she touched him had made her heart turn cold, had shown him to be the monster he was-

She just needs time, he told himself. It’s the least I can give her.

Yeah, yeah, bub, his inner Wolverine growled, You just keep telling yourself that.

Logan skulked into the main conference room then, the thoughts of his problems with Rogue already setting his teeth on edge. The Loaner had called this meeting to give a summary of her results, and she’d damn well better have found something good for him to haul his ass in here. He watched as Braddock set up her power point equipment, already impatient as Hell to hear what she’d found. Rogue entered the room right after, head bowed in deep conversation with Nightcrawler. He knew she was aware of his presence because of a slight tensing of her shoulders, a slight hitching of her breath. But she didn’t look up from Nightcrawler’s side when he sat down, and she chose the empty seat beside Hank rather than the one beside him. A fact which made Storm stare and Beast wince-

Braddock cleared her throat then.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your attention,” she began formally. She tucked her long black plait over her shoulder, looking like nothing so much as a real life version of Lara Croft, and began flicking through her presentation as earnestly as any college professor. Logan suddenly really wished he’d brought a beer. “As requested, I have checked through every database we can access to find reference to a Project Witch-Breed,” she inclined her head formally to Marie then, “And up until this afternoon I didn’t have much to report.” She began passing out papers (which Logan pointedly ignored), pushing her glasses up on her nose. “There is no reference to funding on a Project Witch-Breed in any American or Canadian governmental database,” she continued, “Nor could I find one in the UN or Genoshan files. Department H, S.H.I.E.L.D., I even checked out S.W.O.R.D and W.H.O. The usual suspects came up dry. And I did look back quite a few years, lads.” She gestured to an overhead projection, showing a photo of Logan standing in a WWI infantryman uniform. “As you can tell from this handsome devil here.” She shot him a flirtatious grin and Logan ignored her: he remembered that shot being taken now. It wasn’t nothing to grin about, considering the body count that had followed in its wake.

“So have you nothing to tell us then, Betsy?” Beast inquired.

The brunette threw him a fond grin. She’d been his student, after all. “I didn’t say that, Henry. I just said it wasn’t in the usual government files.” And she gestured once again to the screen. “The only reference I could find to the term “Witch-Breed,” is here, in an English illustration from an anti-Catholic pamphlet published in 1602.” A scanned wood-cut appeared as she did so, the language obviously English thought written in an early modern alphabet. “This is a polemic against Catholicism, accusing Catholics of having sex with demons and producing “vile, unseelie creatures,” which use their magical powers for ill-”

“Sounds like the front page of the Daily Bugle,” Marie muttered.

“Unfortunately prejudice never goes out of style,” Braddock agreed. “But here’s the interesting thing: This pamphlet details a series of incidents, which had they happened today, would have been ascribed to a burgeoning mutation. The author talks of a boy who could levitate and speak to his twin sister over great distances. He also states that this boy didn’t age as normal men do-”

All eyes went to Logan then. “He’s not that Goddamn old!” Marie groused. “And he don’t fly neither, Ah checked.” She blushed a little and looked away.

Once again Logan really wished he had a beer.

“Never said he was, love,” Braddock corrected hastily. “But the amount of detail is unusual for an Elizabethan document. The boy’s name is given only as the Earl of Essex, an alchemist apparently-”

“That could just mean he was a scientist,” Beast pointed out.

Braddock nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. But given how little I had on this, I decided to pursue it. So I searched for anything I could find on the man. And then- Well then it gets a little… odd.”

Beast cocked an eyebrow. “Odd?”

“Well, for odd read really bloody weird.” Braddock began flicking through more scanned images. “This is the Earl of Essex in 1602,” she began. “Note the diamond-shaped birth mark on his forehead-”

“Wunderbar,” Kurt muttered wryly, “Harry Potter is responsible for all zis trouble-”

Braddock ignored him, bringing up another portrait. “This is Earl Cedric Essex, in 1672. Note the same diamond shaped birthmark, and the same general features.” She changed the picture again. “This is Earl Richard Essex, circa 1732. Nice birthmark, Ricky.” Another image. “This is Earl Ranulph Essex, painted 1800, and ooh, what’s that on his forehead?-” She flicked to another image, and another and another. Each with a different name and date, but all clearly of the same man. “Are you people getting where I’m taking this?” she asked dryly. The table nodded its assent. “Which brings me to this dandy gentleman here.” And she pulled up the last photo, a smudged black and white image from WWII showing Essex, with that tell-tale birthmark, and Logan with that tell-tale I’m-pissed-n-something’s-about-to-be-gutted expression. The pair of them standing outside an influenza clinic that looked like it had seen better days. Essex was wearing a doctor’s coat and gloves. “This was taken in Mapripoor, some time in the late forties. The notation on the back names a Major Jim Howlett and a Dr. Nathan Essex-”

“Wait, Nathan Essex?” Rogue interrupted. “You’re sure it was Nathan?”

Beast frowned and the table followed suit. “Why Marie, is something coming back to you?”

She shook her head angrily. “No, t’aint about that.” She pointed at the photo, her face darkening. “But Remy was looking into a Nate Essex before Ah came here. Had a file on him at home far as Ah know. Guy was CEO of Left Hand Genetics, the ones who mass-produced the mutant Cure.” She stood up suddenly, studying the picture. Anger washing through her fit to set Logan’s teeth on edge. “When Worthington Industries were trying to synthesize Leech’s mutation, they had trouble replicating the protein strands in his blood,” she explained impatiently at the others’ looks. “Left Hand was brought in because they were the market leaders in the field: Essex was supposed to be brilliant. A miracle-worker.” And she shook her head, her mouth twisting in bitterness. “Three days after the Cure went public Left Hand mysteriously closed its doors and wound down. Burned their files; all their equipment disappeared. Left a whole lotta share-holders pissed off, and a whole lotta mutants infected with a Cure that was lethal.” For the first time in days she looked at Logan. Her eyes bored into his. “I went to their offices: It was salted earth, sugah. Even the cockroaches had left the house.”

“But what has that to do with your friend here?” Braddock interrupted. “Do you know this Essex character, Mr. Logan?”

Suddenly all eyes were on Wolverine, including Marie’s. He fought the urge to growl. “I don’t think so,” he muttered. He hated admitting this in front of Rogue, but- “Every time I try to think on the word witch-breed my brain pushes it away. Which suggests telepathic manipulation, don’t it?” He grimaced and Braddock blushed. Everyone knew what work she did for MI: 13. “I don’t even remember that picture being taken,” he continued. “And I don’t know no Nathan Essex either. At least, I don’t remember him if I did. Though I did work Madripoor for a spell.” He ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. “If I could answer this fer ya, darlin’, I would do…” and he trailed off.

Everyone in the room knew that was said only for Marie.

Braddock cleared her throat then. She looked a little surprised.“Well, if you need any help with recall, I could try my good old Vulcan mind-meld…” she offered, raising her eyebrows questioningly at Wolverine. “I know I’m not Charles Xavier, but still…”

“No.”

Marie snapped it, not Logan. Her mouth pursing into a flat line. For the first time in three days she made to move towards Wolverine, everything about her screaming defensiveness. She stood in front of him, folded her arms. Glared at Braddock like Logan used to glare at LeBeau. “No telepaths,” she bit out, “No mind-melds. No poking about in memories, and no dredging up the past.” She turned to look at him, her eyes pleading. He could hear her heartbeat speeding, smell her upset on the air. The idea of a telepath touching his mind was…scaring her? Infuriating her. But being Marie she was trying to pretend that wasn’t so.

“Don’t you think that’s his decision, darling?” Braddock asked sarcastically. And she smiled again at Logan.

He cocked an eyebrow in return. “No can do, sweetheart,” he drawled dryly. “Only person gets to see the inside o’ my cranium is her.” And he nodded to Rogue.

Braddock rolled her eyes heavenward. “Oh for God’s sake,” she scoffed, “It’s just a little bloody telepathy. Don’t you want to find out what’s going on here-?”

“No,” Marie bit out, “Ah don’t.” Her gaze flicked guiltily towards Logan and for a second Smokey’s form appeared, faint and wavering in the room. Rogue closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and immediately the thought form faded. Though it didn’t disappear. “Ain’t no Goddamn telepath going into mah brain,” she muttered, eyes still squeezed shut in concentration. “Logan and me and telepathy just don’t mix. Ah won’t hurt-” And her eyes flew open, flicking to Wolverine’s. Her face puckered up in pain. “You wanna find out about this, Ah’ll try to track Remy with mah New Reliable. Ask him what he found. But you-” and she turned to growl at Braddock. “You stay outta mah head, woman. You got no right to push.”

And with that she stalked out without another word. “Seems a little tetchy, doesn’t she?” Braddock muttered.

“Trust me, sweetheart,” Logan growled, “She’s got licence to be.” He followed after Marie, nearly slamming the door behind him, and pretended not to hear Storm’s next muttered words. “And that, Betsy, was today’s instalment of the Rhett and Scarlett Show.”

You’re damn right, Snowflake, he thought. You’re damn right.