Voices.
Hushed.
Murmurs speaking in confidential tones.
The sterile smell of antiseptic.
Something in his arm. A needle.
Tubes; invading is body. His nose. His throat.
Flashes of fragmented memories filtered through his hazy mind. Phosphorous tanks. Men in masks. Pain, endless pain. Blood. Screams.
He tried to move; couldn’t. He tried to open his eyes, but even that small feat proved to be alarmingly futile. His head felt too heavy. He was trapped within his own body, wanting to roar against his helplessness. Where was he? Who had him? His heart rate accelerated causing a machine somewhere in the room to blip incessantly.
Immediately something cool and soft touched his forehead, smoothing his hair back. He caught the scent of rain and flowers as a soft voice whispered in his ear, “Shh. You’re safe, Logan. You’re safe. Sleep.”
A fleeting touch and a soothing whisper and he was instantly calming, the hazy darkness in his mind’s eye replaced by flowing snow, and silken strands wrapping themselves around him, cocooning him. Keeping him safe.
The gentle voice whispered her command once more, “Sleep.”
He slept.
Ororo watched him sleep.
Over twelve hours had passed since Logan’s revival from his ‘dead-as-a-doornail’ state, and in that time Ororo had cleared her desk of every piece of paperwork she’d had. Documents had been signed, mailed, or filed; each and every e-mail, fax and piece of postal had been read, deleted, shredded or saved. Phone calls to worried parents had been returned, staff interviews rescheduled, meetings and training planned.
She had grossly miscalculated how long those tasks were going to take her and despite her much grumbled about opposition to paperwork, she was not altogether thrilled to find herself momentarily caught up. She wanted to bury herself in work, as was her habit when she was stressed, because sitting idle was not good for her. Every paused moment she had was spent thinking about Logan and she worried.
She still hadn’t openly acknowledged how close they had truly come to losing the indestructible Wolverine, and she was relatively certain that she never would admit that fact aloud to anyone. It scared her too much. If she admitted it, voiced it, then she’d have to deal with the emotions that came with that acknowledgement; and not dealing with those feelings, though perhaps a bit cowardly, was far more preferable than facing them.
Even as she told herself that he was fine, that he would heal, that he didn’t need her, she had found her feet carrying her towards the elevator and the sublevels where he rested. Her inexplicable need to assure herself that Logan was indeed still with them plowed through any wall her rational side tried to throw up in protest.
Once inside the slate and steel room she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes off of him. She had to, more than once, fight down the completely irrational fear that if she looked away from him, then he’d be gone. Taken from her in a cruel twist of fate as her beloved mentor had been.
She knew it was ridiculous. Henry had all but guaranteed her that Logan was well past the worst of it and now all that was necessary was recovery; which for Logan would take hardly any time at all. The man brushed of injuries that would kill any normal person like they were scrapes on the knee.
“How’s he doing?”
She inclined her head toward the door, but her eyes remained locked on Logan‘s prone form. “Still sleeping.”
Henry entered the room, nodding his head as though expecting that answer. A long white lab coat hung over his great frame, sweeping against dark brown pants with each step. “Sleep is good for him. It is what he requires most right now.” Henry removed the chart hanging from the foot of the single bed, scanning his previous notations before checking the machines. “How is young Jimmy?” He asked Ororo over his shoulder.
Her sigh was quite telling. Ororo shifted her weight from one foot to the other, crossing her arms and drumming her fingertips along her forearm. “Withdrawn. He seems even more reluctant to come out of his room than before, if you can believe that.”
Hank frowned. He felt a deep pang of sympathy for the child that had endured so much pain in the past year. Someone so young should not have such a tremendous burden placed on his shoulders.
Ororo felt the same way. Not wanting the boy to feel anymore guilt than she knew he must already be feeling, she had attempted to speak with Jimmy about the events in his room. Apparently the entire situation had been one bad turn upon another. It all started with a nightmare, one that Jimmy refused to revisit--even with her.
Logan had been passing in the hall when Jimmy had rush from his room, searching for Ororo in a blind panic. Logan had reached for the boy, most likely to calm him or to halt his mad dash, and the immediate shutdown of his healing factor had caused his body to respond violently to the metal lacing his bones. He had seized and fallen forward through Jimmy’s door. Try as he might, Jimmy had been unable to move away fast enough and Logan’s weight had trapped his legs. Because of this he had been unable to wiggle out of range for a minute and when he had scrambled free Logan‘s healing factor had failed to kick back in..
The incident weighed heavily on him, and though Ororo had tried to comfort him, Jimmy was determined to avoid people once more. His self inflicted alienation reminded Ororo eerily of young Marie when she had first came to the team. Like Marie, he was such a loving, gentle soul, that to see him isolate himself broke her heart.
“He’ll come around,” Henry said, jarring her from her thoughts. He flashed her a toothy grin, scribbling some numbers. “No one can resist you for very long, my dear.”
“I hope so. He’s come so far, it’d be such a shame for him to retreat from us now.”
“I know you, you won’t let that happen.” Henry lowered the clipboard. “Losing Jimmy to his self doubt and fear is no more an option for you than letting Wolverine die.” Hank knew, better than most, that the idea of failure and the ability to give up were completely foreign concepts to his white haired friend. She would face insurmountable odds and never back down. That inner strength was the very essence of who she was, and what made her such an important pillar in Xavier’s house.
“No,” Ororo agreed on a whisper. “I won’t lose him.”
Seeing the glimmer of resolve in her eyes Hank did not doubt she meant it, but he was not altogether certain as to whom Ororo referred to in that moment; Logan or Jimmy. From the faraway look on her face, Hank doubted that she knew either.
The voices were back again.
One deep and solid like a bass drum. One soft and smooth. Comforting. Like warm velvet.
He tried to turn his head towards that sound. The one that eased the pain and chased away the demons, but found, as before, that he was unable to do so. Something was holding his head in place.
Padding of some sort.
Smelled of vinyl.
There was a silence between the room’s other occupants and some motion. They were milling carefully around him. He followed the sounds as best he could, still unable to come fully awake.
Buttons being pushed.
The scratch of pen on paper.
Breathing.
Heartbeats.
In his foggy state he was incapable of making his thoughts connect coherently; everything was free floating and random. He could shake off elephant tranqs if he needed to, but he couldn’t shake this. He didn’t know what drug they were pumping him with, but it was a strong one, whatever it was. Or he was really weak. That thought put a chill in his body.
“He hates the med-lab,” warm velvet was saying, drawing his scattered attention once more.
Bass Drum replied with, “At the rate he is healing, he will be out of here soon.”
“Not soon enough.”
Fingertips brushed his cheek, there and gone almost in the same instant, bringing with them the scent of the outdoors and peace. He wanted to reach up and take hold, but before he could even try she was moving away, her voice becoming more and more muffled as sleep overcame him. “How soon can we move him…”
Ground Metal.
His mouth tasted like ground metal. It was as though he’d eaten a case of his beer cans as opposed to drinking out of them. Logan smacked his too dry lips together, attempting to rid himself of the horrid, bitter tang.
“Here.”
Hank was seated on a small stool beside the bed, water bottle in hand. Logan levered himself up onto his elbows and took the offered beverage, drinking heartily, taking in the room with a quick glance. Dark curtains, hardwood floors, the scent of cigars and Molson. His bedroom.
“Ororo insisted you wake in you room,” Hank provided by way of explanation, though Logan hadn’t asked. The larger man bent at the waist, reaching for his medical bag.
Logan gave the good doctor a cocked eyebrow when Hank pulled out a tongue depressor and light.
“Say ‘Ahhh’.”
“You stick that thing anywhere near me, Bub, and you’ll be the one needin’ a doctor,” Logan warned.
Henry lowered his arms, giving an exasperated sigh. “Must you be so difficult?”
Logan didn‘t budge. “It’s my nature.” He laid back down, his strength still nowhere near performance level. He felt weak as a newborn, to tell the truth, and that pissed him off.
“You will require an abundance of H2O, my friend. And rest.” Hank stated matter-of-factly. “I strongly recommend avoiding any type of physical excursion, at least for the remainder of this evening--”
Logan snorted dismissively. “Quit yer henpeckin’, McCoy. Gimme a few minutes and I’ll be good as new.”
Hank paused in snapping his case shut. “You do realize that you have been unconscious for the better part of a day.”
Logan scowled. Had he really been out of it for that long? He rubbed his fingers against his temples, forcefully recalling exactly why he felt like a bus had mowed him down. He swallowed back another drink. “How’s the boy?” he asked after a moment of collecting his thoughts.
“Jimmy is understandably upset, but otherwise he is unharmed.”
“Good.” Logan hadn’t liked the idea that perhaps he had hurt the child inadvertently.
“Storm is looking after him,” Henry added, almost as an afterthought.
“The kid’s lucky to have her,” Logan commented sincerely.
“She saved your life, you know.”
No he hadn’t known, but he had suspected as much. He took another drink from his water bottle, grimacing, wishing he had a beer. “Did she now?”
“Her and young Kitty.” Henry concisely relayed all that had transpired in Jimmy’s room.
It took Logan a full minute to digest everything the Fur-ball had just laid on him. Fuck. He’d been close, damn close to dying countless times in his miserable life, but to be done in by a kid and a nightmare…that kind of irony would surely be a great jest in hell.
A quiet knock sounded, interrupting.
“Henry?”
Every muscle in Logan’s body responded to that soft voice. Shadows of remembrance flitted just beneath the surface of conscious thought like trout beneath water. Come back. I need you. His bedroom door opened a fraction allowing amber light from the hall to spill in. His gut clenched expectantly.
“Sorry to bother you, but you have a phone call.” Ororo’s head peeked around the corner. Her eyes traveled to the bed and where Logan lay in the shadows. The grin that spread across her face could have dimmed the sun. “Hey,” she greeted, moving into the room and making her way towards him.
Hank pat her on the shoulder as he passed her, headed to take his call. “See that he rests,” he instructed sternly before closing the door.
Ororo took Hank’s still warm seat, rolling it beside the bed. She reached for Logan’s hand, grasping it within her own.
Logan welcomed the gesture and the firm presence of her hand over his. “Hey.”
“How are you feeling?” She asked, concern evident in the darkness of her molasses eyes.
“I’ll live.”
She squeezed his thick fingers, hiding her true emotions behind a veil of humor. “Good. I don’t have time to hunt down anymore staff.”
He smiled a bit at that. “I hear I owe you and Kitty some thanks.”
Her eyes flared with an emotion that Logan didn’t recognize. “No thanks necessary. It’s what we do, you know. We’re a team.”
“A team. Right.” He seemed to mull over that term. “I ain’t never been much of team kinda guy.”
She made no comment. He had proven time and again that despite his say to the contrary, he was indeed a valuable team member. If he chose to still see himself as the lone wolf, who was she to correct his misconception?
“Is there anything I can get you?” she asked looking around the room.
“Beer.”
She shook her head, mouth quirked in a way that was fast becoming endearing to him. “Aside from that.”
He lifted his eyes to hers, their gazes holding. A long, drawn out moment passed between them, and all the tension from the previous few days was erased, both grateful for the chance to let bygones be just that.
Ororo stood, releasing his hand. “I should get back downstairs. Peter and Bobby are attempting to cook dinner this evening.”
Logan ached with the absence of her warmth. He shook that feeling off, disgusted at his own weakness. “Popsicle and Tin-Man are cookin’ dinner. Feeling rather brave, aren’t ya, ‘Ro?”
She shrugged but he caught her sly smile. “Whatever doesn’t kill you, right?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Ororo?”
She paused, nearly at his door, startled by his use of her full name. “Yes?”
He halted, searching for the right words. All he came up with was a raspy, “Thank you.”
They shared another heavy look. “Get some rest, Logan. I’ll send you up some dinner.”
~X~
The facility was certainly large enough, Bolivar Trask thought, his polished boot heels echoing against the concrete as he strode through one of the long abandoned government warehouses along the property. The size of two jumbo airline hangars, this building was more than adequate to serve his purposes.
Put up for private auction, with only the who’s who of officials even aware of the sale, the clandestine base in the heart of the Midwest had served its purpose and was now up for bid.
The young, prematurely balding, junior executive named David, giving him the tour was talking. “Along with the sturdy frame, the walls are reinforced--”
“I’ll take it.” Bolivar interrupted.
The man blinked rapidly behind his glasses giving Bolivar the impression of an owl. “Ex-excuse me, sir?”
Bolivar turned on the younger man his hard face impassive. “I said I would take it.”
David spluttered for words. “Very good, sir.”
“To which agency should I have the money wired?”
A small rectangle with appropriate account numbers was hastily thrust forward. “Here, sir.”
Bolivar pulled out his thin cell phone, giving the younger man a pointed look.
David beat a rapid retreat, turning his back and moving several feet away.
Into the cell Bolivar said, “It’s a go.”
Twenty minutes later he signed on the dotted line, taking possession of the facility that would become ground zero for Project Wideawake.
He had been fortunate enough to find and secure a significant amount of funding almost immediately. Bolivar had made it a point over the course of his long career to know exactly who held similar viewpoints and ambitions as he did. Who would cave, who stood firm, who was influenced and who was influential. As it stood now he had several high ranking politicians in his corner as well as a dozen commercial businesses and companies. Owners, all too eager to share their bottom dollars in order to control the ‘mutant menace’ as Senator Kelly had dubbed it when he had been alive.
Normally, Trask avoided playing into the propaganda surrounding the debates involving mutants, he much preferred cold, hard, logical facts to heated, emotionally charged exchanges, but if it helped him achieve his goals, then he’d fan the flames of insecurity for as long as necessary.
He held no unfounded bias towards mutants, he told himself. The ones that obeyed the laws and led normal lives should be allowed to do just that, like every other law abiding citizen. So long as they were monitored and understood that they were not exceptions to the laws governing them. It was the handful of others, vigilante law bringers and corrupt criminals alike, running roughshod over the democracy he was alleged to that needed to be corralled and brought to heel.
Bolivar was a man of few words, and lived by Roosevelt’s credo of “Walk softly; carry a big stick.” Well, he was about to swing a two by four across this country and to hell with anyone that stood in his way. Especially the X-Men.
~X~
Kitty knocked on the door for the hundredth time. “I told you I wasn’t leaving. Now open the door, Jimmy. Your dinner is getting cold.”
“Not hungry,” came the muted, muffled response, again for the hundredth time.
Kitty sighed, rolling her eyes heavenward, asking for patience.
“What’s going on, Kit-Kat?”
She turned towards Peter Rasputin, who looked adorable as ever in his Xavier sweatshirt and jeans. “Trying to get into Jimmy’s room.”
He nodded once, his dark eyes full of understanding. “You sure do have a soft spot for that kid.”
Kitty smiled, the gentle look softening her already delicate features. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
Peter gestured toward the door. “Mind if I give it a shot?”
“Sure.” Kitty said, motioning palm up. “Knock yourself out.”
He gripped her shoulders, setting her aside carefully. She raised a brow at him. He winked. With barely a nudge he shouldered his way into Jimmy’s room, startling both the boy and Kitty.
“I think your dinner is here,” he said mildly as if busting open a door to talk to someone was an everyday, normal occurrence. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t such a far fetched notion considering.
Jimmy’s eyes widened to the size of small saucers. “You broke my door.”
Peter shrugged, pushing the wobbly door. “It’s fixable.” He gave Jimmy a searching look. “It’s all fixable. Nothing stays broken forever.” With a nod and a smile for Kitty the taller X-Man left the room.
Kitty watched him go, admiring his broad shoulders and lean backside. She turned back to Jimmy, her face a little pinker than before. “So, where were we? Oh yes…You need to eat.” She marched purposely into the room.
Jimmy, mouth still agape, shook his head. “You people are so weird.”
Kitty set his tray on his desk, her smile brilliant and welcoming. “Get used to it, kiddo. You’re one of us.”
The hope that ignited into Jimmy’s eyes touched her heart.
She regarded him openly, letting him see that she held no ill will towards him at all. He was still just Jimmy, and she was still just Kitty and their friendship had not changed, nor had his position in the makeshift X family. She told him so.
“But I almost killed Mr. Logan,” he protested.
Kitty made a peeshaw motion with her hands, rolling her eyes. “Like you’re the first X-kid to try that.”
Jimmy looked even more confused.
Kitty laughed gently, patting the bed beside her. “C’mere and I’ll tell you about when Logan first came to this school.”
Jimmy went forward, his expression a mixture of hopefulness and caution. Once he was seated near her Kitty wasted no time, gathering him to her side. She knew how very important human contact could be when a person wanted to flee from themselves, so she didn’t let Jimmy withdraw from her.
With her natural flare for the dramatic Kitty told him of Logan and then Rogue’s encounter, which had also occurred after a nightmare. He listened with avid interest, flashes of relief passing his young face when Kitty told him how both X-Men had survived the incident and had learned from it, and formed a near unbreakable bond because of it.
Outside in the hall Bobby Drake listened to Kitty comfort Jimmy, his heart doing a small flutter flip that he often associated with his teammate. He closed his eyes, dropping his head forward. He had hoped that his feelings for Shadowcat would diminish, but after her bravery on Alcatraz and her constant caring and nurturing of her fellow classmates, he was finding it harder and harder to suppress them.
Later…
Ororo sat up in bed, her heart hammering, a scream lodged in her throat. “Jesus,” she whispered shakily, running her hands over her face and into her hair, pushing the damp mass back.
She pulled her blankets up around her suddenly chilled body. It was the same nightmare as before, a reliving of the day Xavier died, only this time not only had she been too late to save her beloved teacher, she had failed to save Logan as well.
She inhaled a tremulous breath, attempting, without success, to calm the erratic tattoo of her heart. He’s fine, she told herself. It was just a stupid dream. Even as she thought it she was throwing her covers back and reaching for her wrap. Her footsteps were near silent as she padded down the hall, then stairs. The soft illumination provided by the wall lanterns sent her shadow skittering at odd angles.
She paused outside of his closed bedroom door, trying to justify her illogical behavior. When still the niggling of doubt tugged at her mind, urging her to check on him, she opened the door and stepped into the pitch dark of his room.
She paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Her heart nearly stopped its dreadful hammering when she saw him peacefully asleep on his bed, but not quite. Her apprehension was not entirely eased by her visual confirmation. Slowly, drawn towards him by a will that was not her own, Ororo hovered bedside. Her fingers twitched with the urge to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
He looked peaceful, vulnerable and…young, she noticed. With his perma-scowl removed and his face relaxed, Logan looked more youthful than she’d ever seen him…and more appealing.
Letting her unreasonable emotions be her guide, Ororo knelt on the ground beside the bed and laid her head over Logan’s beating heart, needing to hear the steady thump. Needing to assure herself on the most basic level that he was alive and well. She closed her eyes, listening to the steady drumming.
Fragmented remains of her nightmare caused her to tense, screams that were not her own tore through the confines of her mind, causing her to bury her face more fully into the thick mat of hair beneath her cheek.
For his part Logan had remained impassive, knowing the very second that Ororo had entered his room. Her scent had stirred him well before he ever heard the faint click of his doorknob turning. He had very nearly called out to her, to alert her of his wakeful state, but something prevented him from doing so. Curiosity, he would later surmise, as to why she was in his room and to what her next actions would be.
However, his impassivity was torn away the moment he felt the press of her skin on his. His fingertips bit into the sheets below him and his breathing hitched. She seemed not to notice, and he made no move to draw attention to himself. The feel of her against him was too good to pass up. He could berate himself later, but for now, he indulged in a bit of selfishness.
It wasn’t until he felt the cool drops of moisture against his chest and scented the saline in the air did he allow himself to fully react. Of their own accord his hands clutched her head, fingers threading through her thick tresses, fisting there. He lifted her tear streaked face to his, his mouth claiming hers with scorching intensity.
No words passed between them. No questions or hasty explanations. No apologies or forgiveness. All that truly needed to be said was being said in the frenzied nature of their kiss. Logan levered her more fully on top of him, not breaking contact, not allowing the space between to be filled with those accursed words.
Ororo clutched his face between her hands. Soft, throaty sounds hummed against his lips, her frantic touch sending fire through him. With a low rumble he flipped her onto her back, looming over her in the darkness, his eyes shrouded by shadows. The back of his hand trailed the line of her jaw, his touch achingly gentle. He shifted his position, lifting his hungry mouth from hers.
She stared up at him, her eyes luminous, like cats eyes. She watched him as he watched her. Her hand moved, her fingers stroking the grain of his stubble. “Logan.” His name. It sounded like a prayer. He had never heard it sound so beautiful before.
With a growl he dropped his head so that their foreheads touched; his breathing sounded harsh in the silence of the room. When he lifted it again there was hard resolve etched on his rugged features and a lingering vulnerability that ate at Ororo’s heart. “If you’re gonna run,” he rasped. “Now would be the time to do it.”
