She came awake slowly this time, aware first of the crick in her neck. She opened bleary eyes to bright sunlight, her hand automatically reaching down but finding only warm blanket where the man had been. She sat up with a start, wincing at the pain that caused in her neck. A few worried seconds later she spotted him, sitting in a chair on the back deck, staring out over the lake. She heaved a sigh of relief and rolled her neck, trying to get the crick out.
She looked at her ankle. Ugh, it was pretty puffy. She should have iced it last night. She stood up, weight on her right foot, and gingerly put it to the ground. Okay, it didn’t feel great, but it could bear her weight. Just a sprain. She picked up the duffel, pulling out a change of clothes and discovering with pleasure that her toiletry bag had been packed as well. She fished out a bottle of ibuprofen and swallowed three dry.
She made her way through the bedroom towards the master bath. The french doors were open, letting the crisp morning air inside. She could tell by the slight movement of the back of the man’s head that he was tracking her path, but he made no move towards her nor she towards him. She let the hot water of the shower ease the pain of her sore neck and ankle. She pulled on her clothes, jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, and rubbed her hair dry enough to keep it from dripping before running a quick comb through it, careful of the sore spot where she had hit her head the night before.
The man was still looking out over the lake when she passed through again, and she found a spot on the living room couch where she could keep him in view and called the mansion, dialing the number that rang through directly to the medbay.
“McCoy,” a warm voice said, and Rogue grinned.
“Hank, how are you?” she said.
“How are you, young lady, I should be asking,” he replied.
“So you heard about our guest, huh? We're doing all right. How are things there?” Hank sighed. “Hank, have you been up all night?” she asked.
“I think I got an hour or two here and there,” he said. “Are you ready for the scoop?”
“Lay it on me,” Rogue said.
“This is something very different from what we’ve seen before. The chemical cocktail these mutants have been given is completely new -- it’s leagues beyond anything I’ve ever heard of. It’s a synthetic compound that specifically suppresses function in myelinated neurons, particularly connective fibers and long white-matter tracts. Callosal tissue, arcuate fasciculus, dorsolateral frontal pathways...”
“Hank,” Rogue interrupted. “English, please.”
“Knock it off, Rogue, you were always brilliant in bio,” Hank said, “Think it through.”
Rogue had to like how Hank never condescended to her. “Okay, call it too early in the morning, and I haven’t had my coffee,” Rogue said, trying to shift back into student mode. “What you’re describing -- it’s going to affect their higher brain functions specifically, right? Language, planning, abstract problem solving...”
“Excellent, Rogue,” Hank said, and she smiled at the pride in his voice. “Autoregulatory functions would be unimpaired -- sleeping, eating, temperature regulation, breathing -- and the power of their mutations.”
Rogue saw the picture suddenly come into focus. “Shit,” she said. “It’s perfect. The mutations are active so they can experiment all they want on them, but they don’t have to worry about them using the mutations against the guards, talking to each other, forming plans, trying to escape. They’re automatons.” This is what they make us, she thought again.
She gave her head a quick shake to clear it of the horrifying picture. “So, what about the man who’s here,” she said. “He wasn’t like the others. I mean, he’s still not right, but he’s more aware than they were. What’s different about him?” Hank sighed again, and she felt her heart clench. That wasn’t tiredness, that was sorrow. “What is it, Hank? Tell me straight.”
“We found some records,” Hank said. “Kitty is still decrypting them, but we can make out parts. There seems to be a lot different about that man. They called him the Wolverine, but they also refer to him as having the name Logan.” Rogue filed that bit of information away, still on edge waiting to hear the bad news.
“Even the lab didn’t have complete records on him,” Hank continued. “The metal of his claws is something called adamantium, and I can’t even begin to know how that happened. As far as I know there is no way to render that metal malleable, but they must have done it, because it is apparently forged to every bone in his body, throughout his skeleton.” Hank took another weary breath. “They must have flayed him alive,” he said flatly, and Rogue felt a lurch of nausea imagining it. “But, strangely, this seemed to happen before he was captured by the lab we rescued him from,” Hank continued. “They documented the work but they aren’t the ones who performed it, it had been done at least a decade earlier.”
“He was captured twice?” Rogue said, her heartrate picking up at the thought. Her deepest fear was being recaptured, knowing what imprisonment in the labs meant. The man must have seen that fear realized.
“Yes,” Hank said, and she could tell he felt the impact of that too. “He’s a superhealer for certain, that is documented in...all too much detail. Feral as well, heightened senses and the rest. He may have had rudimentary claws before they were reinforced with the adamantium, but now of course they are far more lethal. He is virtually indestructible.” All Rogue could think of was that at the lab, that must have been so much more of a curse than a blessing.
“So, what does it all mean?” she asked. “Now that we know, can we counteract the drugs? Help him think clearly again?” She heard the pause, and knew it wasn’t good news.
“For the others, the drug seems to be clearing their system naturally. It’s a slow process, but time alone should do the trick.”
“Why not for him, then?” Rogue pleaded. “Shouldn’t it be easier?”
“It’s hard to say,” Hank said, “especially without having run any tests on him. I fear however...I fear that his unusual reaction means that they gave him the cocktail in infinitely higher and more frequent doses than were used to control the other mutants. They must have had to, to override his body’s natural immunity to such things. There is a chance that exposure at such levels...well, it may have actually broken down the myelination of his cell axons. The damage may be permanent, Rogue.”
“I don’t believe that!” Rogue said. “I won’t believe that.”
Hank’s voice softened. “I know it’s hard to think about, and I’m not saying it’s a certainty,” he said. “But you have to be prepared for the possibility.”
Rogue sighed. “Okay, Hank,” she said. “I’ll keep it in mind. I won’t dismiss it just because I don’t want it to be true. But, I know he’s in there somewhere. And he spoke -- just one word, but he said my name.”
“That’s great news,” Hank said, and she took heart at the surprise in his voice. “How about this. Charles wants you to have transportation, in case you need anything. Do you think he might be up for a visitor? I can drive the Jeep over and walk back, I could use some time to clear my head. And we’ll see what we can get from him. Blood and tissue samples would be best to look for markers of neurodegeneration, but even a cheek swab and saliva might give us some hints.”
Rogue looked out at the man. Logan, she corrected herself. He had been out there for at least an hour, virtually motionless. “I think it’ll be okay,” she said. “Maybe plan on coming by in an hour or so? If something goes wrong and I don’t think he’ll take it well, I’ll call back.” Hank agreed.
She made her way out towards the back deck. The man turned his head slightly, and she saw sadness darken his eyes when he took in her limping progress. He looked down, and then back out over the lake. She sat next to him, enjoying the cool morning air, and the various rustlings and chirps that came from the woods all around. The sun was low enough to mark a golden path over the surface of the lake, and she simply watched the shimmer for awhile.
Tentatively, the man reached out a hand for hers, and she smiled. They sat for awhile longer, watching the water hand-in-hand, as she wondered how much of the conversation he had overheard -- probably all of it -- and if he had understood any of it. “Is your name Logan?” she asked him softly. He jerked his head around at the word, and she thought that was answer enough. She saw his lips moving as if in an attempt to reproduce the name, but if he said it it was too quiet for her to hear. She gave his hand a squeeze, and then stood up. “Are you hungry?” she said. “Food? I’m in the mood for pancakes.”
This time he prowled around the kitchen as she cooked, opening cabinets, poking around in drawers, looking through the fridge, jumping at the sound of the garbage disposal as she washed the eggshells down. “Oops, sorry,” she said.
She wondered if adding caffeine to his neurotoxic mix would kill him. It would be just plain mean to make coffee and not give him any if he was a fan. She decided that she could make the ultimate sacrifice of foregoing coffee this morning to avoid that possibility, but it was a close call. She was certain now that he had more intentionality to his actions than he had demonstrated before. He watched attentively as she flipped a pancake, and for the next one she gave the spatula to him. He did a pretty good job with his flip, and they both smiled.
She tried to prepare him for Hank’s visit while she cooked, letting him know that someone was coming, and that he was a friend. He appeared to listen closely, but gave no other sign of understanding.
As she got the plates ready, he moved toward the table, and she saw him stumble for a moment. He sat down, but instead of wolfing down his food as he had the night before, he ate slowly, and stopped while his plate was still pretty full. “Are you okay?” Rogue asked. “Not a fan of pancakes?” He looked at her, and she saw suddenly saw the dullness in his eyes and the flush in his face. “Logan!” she said, getting out of her chair. Suddenly he arched backwards, the leg of his chair splintering beneath him as he tumbled to the floor.
Marie fell to her knees at his side, pushing the chair and table aside to give him room as he convulsed. His body was helplessly wracked, back arched, muscles twitching wildly, face drawn into a grimace. Marie realized she was sobbing his name when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Let me see,” Hank said.
“Hank -- thank God -- you have to help him!” Marie said. She moved to the other side, still on her knees, getting a dishtowel under Logan’s head to protect it from the cold tile floor. She tried to gather her wits, thinking what Hank might need to know. “He was fine -- he seemed fine -- and then he stumbled, and he didn’t eat much, and I just noticed that he seemed out of it and flushed when the seizure started. He’d been seizing for about a minute before you got here. What can we do?”
“I have medication to stop the seizure if it goes on too long,” Hank said. “But for now...ah, there.” Logan’s body was finally easing -- a few more muscle contractions and his body seemed to relax into total unconsciousness. Rogue helplessly stroked his hair. “Let’s move him,” Hank said. “Then I’ll examine him, and we’ll see where we are.” He gathered Logan up in his arms and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. “Well, he certainly is heavy.”
Rogue held open the bedroom door. She could tell that Hank had noted her limp, but was diplomatically refraining from commenting. He laid Logan’s limp form out on the bed, and Rogue couldn’t restrain herself from giving Hank a big hug. “I’m so glad you were here,” she mumbled into his chest, as his furry hand smoothed the back of her head.
“Take heart, Rogue,” he said. “I have a feeling this may be a very good sign.” Rogue pushed back in surprise, looking into Hank’s face, but she could read no more in his furry blue expression.
“Do you mind if I stay while you examine him? I -- I don’t want him to wake up scared.” Hank looked at Rogue, and she suspected he was seeing a bit more than she wanted to share. “That’s fine. In fact I think that’s a very good idea,” he reassured her.
He went back out to the living area, and returned with an honest-to-God black doctor’s bag, which made her smile despite her worry. She watched as he looked into Logan’s eyes and ears, took his temperature with an ear thermometer, listened to his heart and breathing, gauged his pulse and blood pressure, tested his reflexes, ran a thumb down the bottom of his foot.
“This may be our best opportunity to take samples,” Hank said neutrally, looking at Rogue for her decision. Rogue felt the weight of the responsibility -- and finally nodded. She held the man’s hand -- carefully keeping her arm out of the potential path of the claws -- but he remained unaware as Hank drew several vials of blood, swabbed the man’s cheek, and finally used a small black instrument that snapped like a stapler to remove several tiny dots of skin. They both watched as the dots healed up almost immediately, leaving only smooth skin behind. Rogue ran a finger over the place the samples had been taken, wonderingly.
Finally Hank appeared done with his exam, and pulled a chair up to sit in front of Rogue at the man’s bedside. He smiled, and Rogue felt something she hadn’t realized was clenched in her chest release a little.
“I think this is a good thing,” Hank said. “It is my belief that the torment they put this man through at the mutant laboratory -- and I mean, daily torment -- had overtaxed his natural healing ability. It was still present, but the combination of drugs and physical stress was more than it could handle. I think now that this man has had some good nutrition and rest, his healing factor is making up for lost time. He spiked a very high fever, and that is what caused the seizure. Now it has lessened, and I think his body is repairing the damage that has been done to it. Right now the fever is our greatest concern. If we are able to keep that under control, however, I am hopeful that he will make a full recovery -- physical and cognitive.”
Rogue looked down at the man, amazed. She stroked his warm forehead. “So, he could wake up, completely -- himself?” She wondered at the feeling of loss that struck her. It didn’t make sense, she had been hoping for his recovery all along, but the man she had gotten to know so intensely over the last day may be gone for good.
Hank reached out a hand, and she felt comforted again as he squeezed it. “I know given this man’s experiences you will not want him moved to the medbay, and I think that is wise. Do you need someone from the mansion to come help you take care of him? You will mostly need to keep him hydrated, and cool him if his temperature climbs too high.”
Rogue was strangely resistant to the idea of someone else helping Logan. “I’ll do it,” she said, and listened carefully to Hank’s instructions. Hank insisted upon wrapping up her ankle before he left, and provided instructions for that as well. He left her with the thermometer, the keys to the Jeep, and a final request for her to call him if things got better or worse.
“I look forward to meeting him,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye behind his small round glasses, and again Rogue couldn’t help but hug him.
Rogue gathered a few things, and went back to the bedroom. She lay down beside Logan, examining his profile. He looked so peaceful. She placed her palm against his bare chest, and let his strong steady heartbeat reassure her.
Throughout the afternoon and long into the night, she watched the man. He roused for only moments at a time, eyes glassy, and she encouraged him to drink as much as she could. At times his fever spiked high, and she laid cool washcloths on his burning skin, feeling them heat almost instantly. She helplessly watched the shivers wrack his body, stroking his hair and hushing him until his temperature finally eased.
Rogue stirred towards awakeness, grasping for the memory of something she had forgotten. The man -- she was supposed to be watching him, and she must have fallen asleep! She opened her eyes, and gasped in a startled breath. He was lying on his side, facing her, inches away, and she was looking right into his clear hazel eyes. She dazedly marveled at the flecks of gold and green in his clear gaze. She smiled. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” he rumbled back.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Sorry if this seems like a lot of blah, blah, blah. Don't know if anyone but me cares, but I wanted a reasonably sensible reason for the state Logan has been in, as well as for his recovery. Plot picks up in the next chapter or two, I promise!