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Logan could have sworn he felt Ororo’s eyes boring into his back as he rushed away. The last thing he saw before taking his leave was Jean’s green eyes roaming over him slowly, nervous and curious, with none of the affection and profound respect that lived in them the night he ended her life.

His senses reeled, screaming at his mind and heart that yes, this was Jeannie. No one else looked like that. Smelled like that. Stood like that or made a beeline to Scooter as though not so much as a moment had passed since she left.

Common sense told him that she died in his lap, by his hand. They were stained with her blood. His fervent dream that she’d walk back in through their front door as sweetly as you please wasn’t supposed to come true literally. He didn’t trust what he saw enough to believe that she had. He brooded over it on his say to the Danger Room. He’d almost barreled right over Peter in his mad rush.

“What’s the hurry, tovarisch?” Peter grunted slightly as Logan clipped him in the shoulder on his way around the corner, taking it too fast for caution. He caught his arm and stopped him, his blue eyes registering surprise at the look of intensity and shock on Logan’s face.

“Go,” Logan rasped. “Look for yerself, Petey. I gotta go.” He flicked his head back in the direction of where he came from, unable to put what he saw into words. “Get ready ta be shocked.” He stomped off, ignoring Peter’s low curse and remarks about him making a hasty retreat. He winced as his acute hearing picked up his gasping, sobbing reaction that had mirrored Ororo’s as he fled downstairs.

What the heck was gonna happen next? Was Charley gonna show up on their doorstep next, doin’ a little tap dance like Fred Astaire?

Logan cursed to himself in the locker room as he donned his uniform. He mentally kicked his own ass for not staying around to find out more. To prove that she was tangible. Close enough to reach out and touch. Jeannie. His Jeannie.

Wait…wait.

It was plain as the nose on his face that she wasn’t his, even now. The tender look she gave Scooter as he hung onto her for dear life was his first clue. You marry the good guy, she’d told him. And Scooter was it. Where did that leave him? Wasn’t he trying to be the good guy, for a change? Last time he’d checked, he’d changed. He traded in taking out the latest mark to teaching ‘tweens pre-algebra and American history.

That begged the question that had him stumped ever since his little “clinch” in the kitchen after breakfast: Where did that leave him and Ororo? Did she consider him “the good guy?” Did he want her to? Could he begin to be good enough?

These things hadn’t plagued him a few weeks ago. The occasional nightmare haunted his sleep, broken up by the occasional wet dream involving Jeannie, wearing a smile and precious little else. He taught a class or two. Broke stuff in the Danger Room. Fixed stuff around the house. Drank beer. Smoked the occasional stogie. Nowhere in that daily routine did he worry about living up to a haughty schoolmarm’s sky-high expectations.

Problem was, now that he was worried about it, he didn’t have a friggin’ clue of what to do about it.

Upstairs in her office, Ororo stewed.

She barely remembered walking there. Once Scott drew back long enough to stand (with Hank’s help; he’d been trembling so violently), he and Jean lumbered into the house, his arm draped around her possessively, completely unwilling to release her. The children had already made their way into their classrooms, which gave the senior members and teachers a brief snatch of time to absorb what happened and drink their fill of Jean’s presence.

“Scott?” Ororo asked on a stuttering breath.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Can I hug Jean now?” Her luminous eyes swept over her friend, taking in the bemused but warm expression playing over her face.

“Yes. Yes, you can!” Jean nodded her assent before stepping out of Scott’s grip to engulf her in a hug that overpowered her emotions. It was really her best friend, her sister back in her arms again, whispering “I’m really back. I promise.”

“Jean,” Ororo sobbed. She closed her eyes against the tears, but Hank and Peter heard the faint rumble of thunder outside. Her normally proud posture slumped and leaned into Jean’s hesitant but welcoming warmth, and she felt Jean’s fingers caressing her hair, as if ensuring that she, too, was real.

“I belong here with you. I know it. We were friends,” she claimed.

“Yes,” Ororo murmured.

“Best friends.”

“Yes,” she agreed with alacrity, her voice almost desperate. Ororo’s breath became shallow and hitching all of the sudden, choking itself in her throat, and she felt Jean tense as she drew back.

“What’s wrong?” Her coppery brows furrowed with concerns. Ororo’s soft brown eyes dilated and widened in alarm as her fingertips turned icy cold. She gasped like a guppy that flipped itself out of the fishbowl, unable to speak.

“Easy does it, she’s just…a little overwhelmed. Right, Ororo? There’s my girl, come to Henry,” Hank cajoled, trying to hide his own panic at Ororo’s reaction to Jean, making a note to himself to corner Ororo and explore her feelings and how often she was having these episodes. He gently enveloped Ororo against his chest, and she collapsed against him limply, still holding Jean’s gaze; her breathing didn’t improve much, and no one liked the pallid loss of color around her lips and cheeks or the trembling that refused to stop until Hank urged her onto the Grecian upholstered fainting chaise in the corner. Hank’s bulk was comforting and steadying as he sat beside her and urged her to breathe into her palms. She mentally shook away the image of Logan kneeling before her with similar concern those few weeks ago, frustrated that he wasn’t here now.

She’d even appreciate one of his gruff, profanity-laced lectures right about now. But deep in her heart, she understood why he fled. She pitied him. And yet, she wanted to go outside and howl and rage at the sky.

Once Hank fetched Ororo a glass of water and she’d convinced him that she didn’t need a dose of Valium or other anti-anxiety remedy, she absconded to her office to begin the day’s obligations and lesson plans. Peter didn’t trust her to make it there without an escort; even though she looped her arm through his just to put his mind to rest, her wobbly knees betrayed her, and he practically shouldered her down the hall. She didn’t object when he brought her a steaming cup of chamomile, generously sweetened with honey a few minutes later.

“You should be upstairs, resting. Quit overdoing it,” he grumbled, grateful to see her posture resuming its customary stiffness in the sleek leather chair.

“Quit babying me,” she sniffed. “Jean’s the one you should be worried about,” she added.

“Oh, I am. It wouldn’t have been a picnic for any of you to scrape me up off the floor. I nearly died when I looked out that front door. If it wasn’t so early in the morning, I’d be knocking back a shot of Logan’s whiskey, even under threat of being filleted.”

“I’d give you an alibi if you shared it with me,” she admitted. She begged work as her excuse to shoo him out, and she spent the next two hours brooding over the scene in the foyer, rewinding it and replaying it in her thoughts.

He hadn’t stood there, falling at Jean’s feet, granted; but on the other hand, he hadn’t any room. Scott was in the way. Her confrontation with him in his uncharacteristically spotless room came back to her unchecked, chafing her to the core:

”That wasn’t Jean. The Jean I…know is still in there. I mean to reach her, to find a way to bring her home.”

“You truly believe that?”

“I have to.” As she looked back, even then it tugged at her to witness the depth of feeling that he had for her best friend, already a promised woman. It merely frustrated her then; she loathed it now.

“Why can’t you accept the truth?” she’d railed at him, hating that she sounded like a whining schoolgirl. They were both adults, and he wasn’t in the habit of explaining such things to anyone, even her. That didn’t mean she didn’t want him to try. She wanted to mean something to him. The possibility that she didn’t kept her awake at night.

“Not my truth, ‘Ro.” There it was, that little nickname that she tried so hard not to like. She enjoyed the sound of it too much when it came from his lips.

“Damn it, Logan, why can’t you let her go?”

“Because…Because…” His eyes burned bright and beautiful, full of something unnamed and intense that sparked soul-deep envy; she wanted him to feel whatever longing and need in his heart toward Jean for her. She felt herself slumping slightly before she caught herself.

“Because you love her.” It was the death knell of any hopes that she had that she could mean something to him. The first time that he’d kissed her senseless in the autumn leaves at Alkali, he turned her tidy world onto its ear, leaving confusion in his wake.

Her own words echoed in her troubled mind. Because you love her. She bowed her face into her hands and tugged on her silver hair, wanting to rip those words and her growing feelings for him to shreds. Anything not to hurt like this. She’d give anything not to feel this confusion.

The headmistress was falling in love with the brooding, potty-mouthed self defense teacher.

“Oh, Goddess help me,” she muttered.


Elsewhere in the mansion:

Jean had a visceral reaction to the steel walls and chrome instruments and fixtures when they escorted her to the infirmary. She twitched and fidgeted during the ride in the elevator, and looked positively frantic as the scent of medicines and cleanser saturated her nostrils.

“I-I c-can’t stay here, please, H-hank, don’t make me stay here,” she pleaded. Hank could see the whites of her eyes and actually heard her quickened pulse.

“Jean, it’s all right. You’re safe and sound! I just want to examine-“

“NO!” Her voice rose sharply and paralyzed Hank, leaving him with his stethoscope clutched limply in his fist.

“Jean…please. It’s okay,” Scott insisted, trying to steer her toward the exam table, patting the downy white pillow at its head.

“NO, damn it, I WON’T! I won’t let you HURT ME! BACK OFF! Don’t you TOUCH ME!” Her voice cracked, becoming shrill as the muscles in her jaw strained and pulled her skin tightly, and her face bloomed with florid color. She paced the room like a caged animal, her eyes darting from Hank to Scott, and then back as she considered escape routes from the oppressively sterile suite.

“I’ve got to get some artwork to brighten this place up a bit,” Hank murmured. He was still recovering from Scott’s reaction upon his arrival, hating himself for having to sedate his oldest friend before he could receive adequate explanations or get his bearings.

“Jean…” Scott extended his hand, lightly stroking her upper arm. She backed off and bared her teeth at him in a savage grimace that rivaled Logan’s snarl, then swung her arm back and cold-cocked him, throwing him back and sending his goggles skittering across the floor.

“UNNNGGH!”

“Oh, my stars and garters! Jean, surely that wasn’t necessary…” Hank kept his eyes trained on Jean as he knelt to check on Scott, who was studiously clenching his eyes shut and rubbing his chin.

“Ow,” he groaned. “Jean…we get it. Hank can give you a check-up in our room, okay?”

“Oh, God! Scott…I’m so…”

“I know,” he soothed, pulling himself upright and scrambling blindly for his glasses before Hank roused himself from staring at Jean to retrieve them. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Any time. Jean, what’s the matter?” He spread his arm toward the gleaming cabinets and counters, and the spotless bed. “What does seeing this do to you?”

“It’s cold. And hard,” she began, trying to assemble her thoughts and put her feelings back on a leash. “This is a bad place,” she declared.

“We help people here.”

“I was a prisoner here,” she corrected him. A tiny clattering sound behind him startled Hank, and he turned to see his doctor’s bag shoot forward off the counter, landing on the floor with a thud.

That was the tip of the iceberg.

“Jean…? Relax, sweetheart, please,” Scott pleaded, but she still backed away from him when he came too close.

“You won’t hurt me,” she promised him through clenched teeth, her jaw working spasmodically.

“I would never hurt you,” Scott agreed. “Ever.” His mouth was tight. He clenched and unclenched his fists, the perfect picture of a man in love who would kill anyone who so much as harmed a hair on her head.

The previously silent suite was soon filled with rattling, clattering sounds of metal striking metal as the cupboards and cabinets started to jiggle, then open and slam rhythmically of their own accord. Jean’s long red hair began to float in an eerie halo around her piquantly beautiful face.

“I love you, Jean. Please, stop this! Calm down.” Her eyes softened for a moment, then she flicked her hand shut with a tiny flourish, bringing the noise to an awkward halt. Her face crumpled in sorrow, and she wouldn’t look at Scott as he rushed forward and enveloped her.

“I love you. I love you,” he whispered into her hair. “Never doubt that for a second. Let’s go upstairs,” he suggested again. She met his look with a rapid, wet nod, and Hank followed them out after re-packing his instruments into his fallen medical bag.

At least they knew her powers were intact, now. To what extent, he didn’t want to guess.

The rest of Jean’s exam went smoothly enough, once she’d had a chance to settle back into their suite. She trailed her fingertips over random, previously cherished objects, staring intently at photographs and trinkets. The suite had what she and Ororo had dubbed “that old lived-in smell” that a house had when you walked in through the front door after a short trip. It was still impeccably neat; Scott wasn’t a slouch when it came to housekeeping, and he was perhaps as fastidious as Ororo. Jean’s eyes narrowed as they rested on a small vase of white begonias. Hank felt the hairs on his neck rise as she raised her hand and slapped the vase off its perch, shattering it and drenching the floor with slimy water.

“Why did you do that?!”

“I…don’t know.” And she didn’t. The flowers were lovely, but there was something about them that felt…intrusive. Out of place. She couldn’t describe it, but it felt as though whomever left them was encroaching on her territory, even though she had only regained her place there mere hours ago. The fervent embrace that the beautiful white-haired woman had given her lingered; she still felt her touch, mingled with something else, as hot as a firebrand.

Wordlessly, Peter brought up the mop and dustpan and deposited them outside the bedroom door once Hank assured him everything was fine, and the rest of the examination continued without incident. He’d pressed for a CAT scan, which was met with rigid refusal. Scott’s face was pensive, his eyes unreadable once more behind his scarlet goggles. Hank’s eyes held enough tension for both of them.

Scott’s voice was shaky and unsure after Hank departed for his senior honors seminar.

“Jean…baby, where have you been? You were gone so long, and…and I wasn’t…here,” he finished. “I don’t know where you sent me, so I can’t tell you where I’ve been.” He leaned against the dresser, in the same spot Ororo had occupied not too long ago when Scott had been the one lying on the bed, trying to get his bearings. “All I know is, you weren’t there with me. I was all alone.” She read his fear that he couldn’t handle the dismal prospect of not being with her, even in the afterlife, such as his had been. The trauma was etched into his features. “Where were you?”

“Somewhere dark. Cold. It hurt.” She hugged herself tightly. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.” The creeping sensation of murky, viscous fluid caressing her flesh, and of floating in it, returned unbidden to her, making her shudder. She scrubbed the memory away.

“Soon?”

“Soon.” She opened her arms, and he caught the faint quiver of her lips when she grated out “Come here. I need you. So much.” He crossed the room and folded her into his arms, nearly crushing the breath from her lungs. His lips found their way into her hair, whispering reassurances that he never wanted to let her go. She accepted these little gifts, releasing tiny sighs and whimpers, begging him to continue.

“Jean,” he told her reverently, cupping her face as he kissed the orbits of her eyes, stirring her lashes with his warm breath. Slow, familiar hands plucked at her, undressing her and paying her homage by stroking every curve and hollow as he worshipped her with his mouth.

“Scott!” she moaned, sighing with contentment as she allowed him to welcome her home.

The tiny scar of burnt flesh on her nape itched and tingled slightly, but she ignored it.


Alkali Lake:

Yuriko riffled through the bloodstained cabinets, perusing the impeccably maintained manila folders and Stryker’s familiar, copperplate handwriting. Always the good little soldier, she mused, except that he was sloppy. He actually left her a paper trail.

The folder marked “Weapon X Project” caught her eye and occupied the next hour as she sat behind William’s old desk “ which should have been hers to begin with “ and perused its content. Her fingertips followed the ambling narrative and tidy script. Slowly, her fingers shifted and warped, flattening against the page, and tiny filaments of microcircuitry lit up, illuminating the network of her body’s mainframe. Her skin glowed with energy as she accessed the complex’s mainframe, communicating with it as she scanned the files, recording everything within her reach, literally, with just a touch.

Jason chose that moment to speak to her again, sensing the tentative happiness within her that was completely foreign to him. Having fun?

“I’m keeping myself entertained,” she said aloud, responding to the light mental contact with a gentle push. What bits and pieces of his thoughts and impressions that he’d shared with her were always chaotic at best, but for the first time in her life, Yuriko knew shared suffering and empathy for another human being. For all of William’s ranting and ravings of his son’s attack on his mother’s sanity, driving her to kill herself, he’d never shown his son “ his HEIR “ love even before his gifts manifested themselves. Always the taciturn military man, Stryker blamed his son’s shortcomings entirely on his mother; she was his punishment for sins that he’d committed in his youth, he always shouted. He waved his leather-bound Bible in her face, quoting scriptures of “a wife of good character” and likened her to a whore of Babylon. A Delilah. Or a Jezebel. More “spare the rod, spoil the child” quotes made their way into almost daily beatings when Jason didn’t excel.

To Yuriko’s twisted way of thinking, they were both orphans, after a fashion. Where her father kept her safely under his thumb, and used Stryker as the steward of both her education and punishments as a child, limiting her to useless pursuits, Jason’s father lashed out at his too-soft son, Devil’s spawn, by expelling him from his home. Xavier extended his hand in welcome to him, only to find that Jason didn’t want to control his powers; he wanted to control those who’d hurt him, who’d misunderstood and punished him.

He’d started with his mother, whose last thoughts were rife with her fear of him before she reached for the drill and turned it on. His father’s survival skills and his .38 were the only thing that stopped him from “punishing” him in kind; a brief call to his associate, Doctor Cornelius, put the wheels in motion to control his son, once and for all. A steady battery of narcotics and aggressive therapy tamed the gibbering, drooling wreck that he became after the lobotomy. He gave up on speech, since his was incoherent even on the best of days and with the least challenging of words.

Inside his mind, he screamed in outrage. Every minute of everyday.

Yuriko brought out his eloquent side after he’d reached out to her, shortly after her change. He’d stumbled over her seething thoughts amidst the constant babble of his father’s minions and technicians during his confinement; her psychic screams drowned his out. He never knew that was possible.

As Yuriko slowly healed from her immersion in the nutrient baths and adamantium feeds, writhing as the nannite probes infected her with the microbial filaments and rewrote her brain waves with codes and signals, she found a friend in Jason that she never expected. He calmed her at night, sending her beautiful visions of herself as a strong, independent and beautiful businesswoman admired by her peers. She was steadfastly loyal to him the night that he rewrote her memory of her father’s death, allowing her to plunge the gleaming katana blade into his belly and twist it through his vitals, instead of the laughably merciful death that he’d suffered from poisoned wine.

She rose and stretched, enjoying the movement. She wanted to meditate for a while, but it was such a lovely night. Jason deserved a little stroll before they retired for the night.

She strode through the hall, making a note to herself to bring the installation’s cleaning crew inside with the discreet instruction that there was a bonus for ensuring the utmost silence when they burned the files and swept the facility clean of any biological residue or signs of death.

She reached Jason’s room, and nodded a terse hello to the nurse who was feeding him some broth. She’d contracted her own skeleton crew of staff through her father’s connections within the Yakuza, and she almost liked this woman from the moment they met. She always managed to look her in the eye without turning away.

“You may go,” she said, indicating the door. Yuriko approached Jason, taking in his nondescript but comfortable clothing. She’d insisted that he be dressed in reasonable apparel every day without fail, since the hospital gowns had been his constant garb every day, and they were a humiliating reminder of his condition, and his status as less than human. She spent generously from her trust to outfit them both, once she had her father’s estate release her funds and revisit the codicils in his will for a more flexible interpretation. She was sitting pretty. And thanks to her past few weeks of training, reconfiguring her neural net so she could function independently once more, she was back at fighting strength.

It was time to find the Wolverine and make him pay. Then it was time for Stryker to die. She’d already downloaded the schematic and blueprint of that blasted school in Westchester, and the surrounding suburbs. It was just a matter of time.

She released the brake on Jason’s brand new chair and wheeled him steadily from the suite. He projected the vision into her mind of the two of them holding hands in the buttery sunlight, and she smiled.


Westchester County, later that evening:

Ororo loathed the notepad clutched in her hands. None of her words were adequate for the task of telling the children that Jean was back. She’d scheduled the auditorium for nine the next morning to announce her return, but her eyes swam over the multiple, messy scratch marks from her pen. She tried and failed to remember how Charles had broken the news of her death when they returned home from Alkali with the Blackbird in battered condition. Explaining John’s departure had merely been awkward, but his former friends received the news with stoic acceptance. He’d been their bud, kinda.

But Jean had been their teacher, and a cherished friend and mother figure who understood their problems, soothed their hurts and fears. They were dealt a body blow when she was taken away. A pall of mourning had fallen over the institute, made more raw by Scott’s continuous decline and retreat into himself.

They’d finally dealt with her loss. How in the Goddess’ name could she explain her return? She hated herself that much more when she pondered, How long would she stay with them this time?

“I’m so tired of losing you, sister,” she whispered. “I hate feeling so alone!”

“Yer not alone, ‘Roro.” Logan stood in the darkened doorway, bathed in the shadows as he took in Ororo’s bedraggled form, seated in the pool of light from her desk lamp and still looking so beautiful that she made him ache. Wary brown eyes darted disapprovingly to the lit cigar in his hand.

“Don’t drop ashes on the Persian,” she chastised.

“I won’t,” he grumbled back. He approached her desk and made himself comfortable in the chair facing it. “Ya look like hell.” He wanted to kiss away the worry lines between her eyebrows, particularly that sharp little divot in the middle that always surfaced when she was about to really let him have it.

“Thanks.” She plowed her hands through her soft waves of hair, mussing it and calling forth an image of her the way she must look first thing in the morning, tousled with sleep and tangled up in warm sheets. He endeared himself further by tapping his ashes into her mostly empty Styrofoam cup of old, weak coffee.

“Happy ta oblige, Boss.” He heaved a gusty sigh that she’d come to recognize as the prelude to bad news. “I’m goin’ out.”

“Of course you are,” she replied, her voice too soft. Her chocolate brown eyes glimmered at him as she straightened up. “I won’t wait up,” she lied.

“I need some time ta think.”

“I was unaware that I’d thrown obstacles into your path in that regard.”

“Quit it, ‘Ro! Ya know this is hard on me right now.” If only she knew how hard she’d made it for him to think. Memories of how sweet she felt pressed against him, moaning his name and returning his hungry kisses were turning him into a nutcase.

“I know nothing of the sort. Jean’s back,” she purred, folding her hands on top of her notepad. “I have my best friend back, more or less in one piece. And you have the woman you love within arm’s reach, once you nudge Scott aside, unless you want to pick up where you left off. Driving him crazy was part of the appeal, wasn’t it? He wasn’t really in the way at all, was he? Making him mad was just a fringe benefit!”

“What the flamin’ fuck…?” He stubbed out his cigar in his fleshy palm, wincing slightly at the singed flesh before he chucked the stub into her waste basket. “What’s this about, ‘Ro? Why do ya have yer back up? Did I do something wrong? Why are you acting like this all of the sudden?”

Because you’ll only hurt me once I get too close. You’ll leave me once I get used to having you around. I can’t let myself care for you if you can’t bring yourself to stay.

Those would have been the sensible explanations. Instead, she took the tack of beating him to the punch, deciding that misery loved company.

“You don’t have to waste your time on me anymore. No more settling for second best, Wolverine. It was fun for a while,” she forced out, smiling harshly and running icicles down his spine, “but these things happen. Couldn’t let things get too stale, and play the game until it got old.” She clapped her notepad shut. “I won’t be someone that you just settle for.”

“Are ya kiddin’ me, darlin’? Is that what ya think?” His brows slammed together in a look that normally would have admired for its ferocity if she wasn’t the direct target. “I’m playin’ a game?”

“Yes,” she huffed, without hesitation.

“And ya think I’m settling for ya?”

“Correct.”

“Hell, no! Wrong, wrong, wrong. Try again.” He flattened his palms against the desk to keep himself from reaching across the desk to shake her, or haul her over it to kiss her. Both options sounded appealing at that moment. “I’m s’posed ta go back ta moonin’ over Jeannie now that she’s back? And I’m just s’posed ta ignore what’s been happenin’ between us like it was just a way ta pass the time?”

“There’s nothing between us,” she informed him. The lie twisted her gut into a hard knot.

“Bullshit!”

“It is bullshit when you try to tell me that you didn’t entertain the idea of resuming the chase,” she said crisply. “I saw how you looked at her. You were like a little boy who found his favorite lost toy.”

“Ya’ve got it all wrong,” he snarled. “I think yer the one takin’ an opportunity right now, darlin’. Jeannie bein’ back keeps ya from havin’ ta deal with what we have.” He was chafed by the fact that she couldn’t give him more credit than that; a guilty voice in his head reminded him that he hadn’t given her much reason.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No it ain’t! Yer afraid.” He nodded and stared at her as though it were just dawning on him. “The bad ass Weather Witch is afraid. Ya don’t wanna own up ta yer feelings.”

“And what feelings,” she asked dangerously, “might those be?”

“That I’m gettin’ under yer skin. That ya like it when I look at ya. That it makes ya burn up when we touch. And that ya were havin’ a ball before the kids showed up in the kitchen.”

“If you like. Tell yourself that if you want.” She leaned back in her chair and cross her arms over her narrow ribcage. “Go. Pull your disappearing act. Peter, Hank and Kitty are my backups tonight. I don’t want to keep you from anything,” she offered, “or anyone.”

“Ya don’t wanna keep me?”

“No.” It didn’t matter that her hands itched to bury themselves in his hair and tug his head back far enough to taste the vulnerable spot behind his ear.

That was it. He’d had it.

She jumped back, rolling backward in his seat as he scrambled over her desk, swinging his long legs over the back of it before he grabbed her and pulled her from the chair.

“Fine,” he growled, right before hauled her against him for a bruising kiss that made every nerve ending sing. He felt her struggle for a moment, planting her fists against his chest in stubborn defiance, but her ragged moan against his lips betrayed her, as well as the greedy way she nipped and bit at his, demanding entry. Her hands went slack, flattening before they roamed their way up to his shoulders, then cupped his face desperately as she tilted it to an angle to suit her.

“Maybe I wanna keep you,” he rasped. “The fun ain’t in the chase. I want a woman who won’t run.” He stroked her lithe back, molding her to him like a glove, and she ground herself against him instinctively, unable to get close enough. They groped each other almost like teenagers, discovering different secret spots and kisses and what affect they had when each one was thoroughly explored. This time, it was Ororo who tugged his shirttails from his waistband, searching blindly for his heated flesh and nearly cheering when she found it. He groaned at her caresses traveling over his taut muscles, and her fingernail lightly scratched his nipple, making it pebble. Heat and dizzying sensations flooded into every inch of him that she touched.

“Shit,” he muttered, “don’t plan on goin’ anywhere for a while yet!”

“You’re the one making the hasty exit,” she accused, her eyes hot with want and lust as she wrenched open his shirt, popping buttons from it and sending them skittering across the floor. She zeroed in on his neck and licked his pulse mercilessly. It was all he could do not to come right then. Her hands were wild, shucking his jacket from his shoulders as she nipped his chin. His stubble rasped her vulnerable, silky skin, enflaming her.

He buckled beneath the assault of her passion, his breath rushing out through his nostrils as they kissed again and again. He’d have never guessed a few months ago that someone so buttoned-up could make him so hot, tight, and riled up. The throbbing between his legs only grew more insistent when she leaned into it, fitting her pelvis against him like a puzzle piece from his vantage point against her desk.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, darlin’!”

Famous last words. It never failed, he would gripe to himself later, that whenever things between him and Sunshine got interesting, that’s when it would all go to hell.

The rattling beneath the legs of her desk caught Ororo’s attention, halting her mid-yank as she fought to pry off Logan’s wifebeater tank. His lips were still snugly fastened to her earlobes, summoning wetness and heat to her core.

“Logan…”

“Damn, yer so hot!” Mentally, she cursed the unfairness of it all as he skimmed his thumb over her plump bottom lip.

“No…LOGAN! Look!” She wrenched herself free, even though it nearly killed her, and his lambent hazel eyes were full of pained surprise. He jerked his face in the direction of her pointing finger.

The Styrofoam cup that he’s used as his makeshift ash tray rattled and shifted on the flat surface, jiggling until it was pitched from the desk blotter, landing with a hollow splash. Ororo jumped back to avoid splashing her good boots with ashes and stale coffee, making Logan grunt with the girliness of the gesture, until he realized that the entire room was rumbling around him. Shocked voices rose in a clamor from the hallway and over their heads.

“This isn’t good,” he pronounced, grabbing her wrist and dragging her against the wall of his chest, tucking her head beneath his jaw to protect her from falling rubble or debris, even though nothing was collapsing on them yet. Books wiggled loose from the shelves, clattering to the floor, and furniture around the study vibrated and shifted, sliding across the floor.

“It’s Jean,” Ororo whispered. “Logan…we need to get to Jean!”

“What the hell ““

“NOW! Come on!” She yanked him after her and they bolted up the stairs, calling out instructions to the students not to panic on their way.

Ororo flung Jean and Scott’s door wide without bothering to knock. “What’s happening?” She found Scott kneeling by the bed, clad only in a tank and his boxers as Jean convulsed and trembled on the bed, her face twisted in agony.

”The Phoenix must rise…the Phoenix…must rise…find the mutants…punish the sinners…!” She jerked spasmodically and thrashed on the bed, punishing the pillow beneath her head with her never-ending jerks. Ororo and Logan’s blood ran cold.

“Jean,” Scott moaned, clutching her hand and planting himself in her line of vision, leaning in close, “stop this! For the love of God, don’t do this! Calm down. You’re home. You’re safe. We care about you.” He paused to stroke her sweat-soaked hair. “I care about you.”

“S-save m-me, Scott,” she pleaded. Her eyes glowed with a strange energy before they dilated completely, obscuring the green irises with discs of black.

“Tell me how,” he cried. “This isn’t you. This isn’t you, Jean.” His words echoed Logan’s from the other day, something that he would have found ironic if the circumstances weren’t so troubling and urgent.

“Jean’s not here,” growled a savage, foreign voice from her lips.

“I know you’re in there,” Scott insisted. “All you have to do is come back. Remember why you came back.”

Her red tresses slowly drifted down from the eerie halo, settling back onto the pillow in lank heaps. Logan and Ororo were clinging to the doorframe and each other; she untangled her fingers from his shirt and loosened her grip but never completely released him. His heart was slamming beneath her palm. “You guys all right?” Scott inquired.

“Fine an’ dandy, Summers,” Logan grunted. “What the fuck was that?”

“Little touch of night terrors,” he flipped back. “No harm done.” Logan smelled his fear anyway, and felt his anguish from across the room. What really held his attention was Jean’s sudden awareness that she had company. Her eyes were riveted on him, holding him in a weighty stare.

To his horror, she muttered “You said you could be the good guy, Logan,” right before she passed out. He felt Ororo stiffen against his chest, and when he dared to look at her, her face was stony, draped in betrayal and hurt. She shook his arm off, withdrawing herself from his heat and support as she tersely informed him that she needed to calm the students and fetch Hank. She schooled her expression as she made her way down the hall, vowing to lock herself in the study and compose her notes for tomorrow morning’s meeting with the children. They deserved to know what was happening, as soon as she could inform them. Their safety depended on it.

She could sort out this mess with Logan later. Much later. She had notes to write…and she wanted to punch something.

Logan watched her retreat and looked as though someone had kicked him in the gut. Ororo…go after her, ya dumb fuck!! screamed the beast in his head. Don’t leave it like this! Tell her Jeannie wasn’t in her right mind! Tell her anything! Don’t let her just storm off! His feet were rooted in the spot. Nothing he said right now would make this right.

“Lemme know if ya need anything, Summers-“

“No. Just…go. We’re fine,” he snapped. Logan suspected his eyes were sparking with fire beneath the ruby lenses. He nodded sharply and left without further comment.

Time to make himself scarce.

The wind caressed him voluptuously as he tore down the road on the bike, never looking back at the pristine mansion or searching for a glance of curious eyes from any of its windows as he took his leave. Watching a few g-strings and pasties wiggling in his face for the next couple of hours might not solve the immediate problem, but at least it would provide a little distraction. Even he didn’t believe that, but it was worth a try to lie to himself.

He wanted Ororo so badly he wanted to howl.

He pulled the bike into the parking garage and smoked his cigar on the way to Harry’s, so he could enjoy a decent shot of whisky that wasn’t watered down before hitting the pricey tittie bar “down the other block.” This time he ignored disapproving onlookers that grimaced at the odor of his Cuban, and he didn’t extinguish it until he was good and ready, drawing the rich smoke deeply into his lungs.

Skintights was hopping tonight. He quirked a crooked smile as Vanity Six’s “Nasty Girl” assailed his ears, the universally accepted stripper anthem of any good gentleman’s club. Three girls graced the stage, wearing various skimpy versions of superheroine costumes that were amusingly “missing” fabric in interesting places. Last he remembered, Supergirl wore a little red skirt, not a red sequined thong with a yellow ‘S’ emblazoned over her goodies. She was charming enough, but he watched her dispassionately as he ordered a beer out of courtesy and to keep his hands busy and above the table. He noticed that it was a mixed crowd. He saw bachelor and bachelorette parties in various corners of the club, and he almost laughed when a bride-to-be in an ugly homemade tulle veil covered in condoms tipped over to the stage, clearly sauced, and wagged singles at the girl in her Wonder Woman costume, doing her own little dance to mimic her expert glide down the pole. The dancer licked her lips at her in blatant greeting, then dropped on all fours, crawling over to the edge of the stage to accept the offering with her teeth.

All of Logan’s senses went on full alert. She was a looker, but he’d seen that look of wanton invitation before, and a similar lapping of that full mouth.

Mystique. She even smelled the same. He watched her sashay down the little catwalk, cavorting with another dancer in abandon, yanking off her “Spider-Girl” bikini top to reveal pasties shaped like shiny vinyl spiders. She shimmied, triumphantly brandishing the top over her head and blowing the audience a kiss to thunderous applause and approval. Logan tossed back half of his drink in one gulp as he caught a glimpse of the telltale scars. Three evenly spaced, identical gashes marring her creamy skin, right over her ribs.

“Don’t quit yer day job, toots,” he muttered. She might look different. She might not be hanging out with Magneto. But Raven Darkholme running loose spelled trouble for anyone foolish enough to step into her path, especially since she’d been granted amnesty by the President for her part in disclosing Magneto’s whereabouts after the incident at Alcatraz. She sang like a friggin’ canary!

Her body was flawless aside from that tiny little defect, he’d admit that readily enough. Still sinuously tall and slender, with high, firm breasts and the muscled, lithe thighs of a dancer, Raven’s sapphire blue eyes scanned the crowd with little interest, something he understood too well. Never let yourself get drawn in. Focus on the job at hand. Get in and get out. Or in this case, make them get off. He shuddered at the memory of her looming over his supine body in the tiny tent at Alkali, morphing and squirming against him, changing from Jean to innocent little Marie, her expression a lewd mockery of her smile, and then to Ororo, making him want to throttle her for desecrating her image that way. ‘Ro wasn’t a whore. Not by far. She was a classy lady, and he took small satisfaction in watching her revert to her signature blue form when he threw her off of him.

That night left him frustrated with visions of Ororo lying on top of him, daring him to kiss her ever since. Shit. A guy could only take so much!

Raven’s dark tresses had grown past her shoulders, swinging in a glossy curtain as she bent forward, granting the onlookers with a birds-eye view of her creamy cleavage as Supergirl came up behind her and spanked her shamelessly.

Of course, that’s when her eyes met his. Murphy’s Law. His face reddened but he held his sober look.

The dancers wrapped up their routine, wearing significantly less than what they’d had on when they began, and retreated off the stage. He reminded himself that even Raven wasn’t stupid enough to revert to her old ways so soon after receiving a pardon from the government.

She was, however, still willing to poke her fingers in through the tiger’s cage to prod it and make him mad. Several minutes later, Logan hissed out a breath when “Ororo” came out clad in a tiny police woman’s uniform, the hem of the navy blue skirt ridiculously high. She smacked the billy club her palm and twirled a pair of handcuffs with libidinous intent. She shot him a look that dared him to act on the rage she saw bubbling within him.

“That’s just wrong,” he muttered. He snapped at the waitress more harshly than he meant to when he confirmed that he could use a refill, then tipped her generously when she returned. All was forgiven.

It was a crime to see Ororo’s chocolate brown eyes glazed with fake lust as she writhed and gyrated, running her hands over her curves and flinging the silly little vinyl hat into the crowd. He had a visceral reaction to seeing her body exposed when she allowed the girl previously sporting the Supergirl getup to yank her dress open, revealing a tiny navy blue triangle cup bikini with a ludicrous gold badge over each supple mound, and “NYPD” embroidered in white thread across the tiny, boy-cut briefs. It was wrong, but he couldn’t look away, and Raven knew that. “Supergirl” had fallen in with the wrong crowd, too, now clad in inmate stripes and pretending fear at Raven handcuffing her to the pole. The simulated display of them debauching each other created a lump in this throat that choked his breath.

They were a hit. He fought the urge to bash in the heads of every single punk that drew closer to fling dollar bills “ even twenties! “ onto the stage.

He had more pressing concerns.

How the hell did Raven get her powers back???

Logan sat through the next three acts and surreptitiously ignored the bartender’s bellow of last call. He made his way back toward the dressing room before the bouncers and stage security could nab him and slid inside.

Raven was already back at her vanity, putting away her handcuffs. She made a startled noise when his hand clamped around her mouth, and her dragged her behind a large changing screen.

“Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret,” he hissed. “Cute little show. Yer gonna take us where we can talk,” he informed her. He felt her body relax as she craned her face back around to look at him with amused eyes peering over his fingers. She snorted under her breath. He released her when he realized she wasn’t going to cry out.

“This isn’t the champagne room. That costs extra, you know that, don’t you?” She planted her hands on her hips, boldly eyeing him before she morphed back to her gestalt blue form, yellow eyes glowing and serpentine in the shadows. It still unsettled him to watch those odd scales slithering over her flesh and rippling into place. The thought occurred to him that when she changed her appearance, she “synthed” any clothes that she had on to suit her needs. She was unabashedly, brazenly naked now, even though her scales preserved the modicum of modesty that she didn’t give a damn about, anyway.

“Don’t let me catch ya soilin’ Storm’s image and draggin’ her through the mud like that if ya don’t want me ta treat ya ta some more cosmetic surgery, the old-fashioned way. Why’re ya here?”

“Career change,” she said idly, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Boredom. I was…outsourced. Yes, let’s go with that,” she purred.

“What’s the big flamin’ deal? How’d ya get yer powers back?”

“There were a few holes in that cure,” she smiled. “They don’t remove the genes necessary to have powers; they only limit a person’s access to them. The serum reroutes the neural pathways in your mind that allow the mutant to wield their abilities and send out messages to the nervous system. My body has a photographic memory of every form I’ve ever assimilated, did you know that? And I can always revert back to my gestalt, with every molecule fully intact. I’m always the same old me, at the end of the day.” She stroked the tiny scars, drawing his gaze there, right before she skimmed her hand over her own breast, just to piss him off, emitting a kittenish moan just for effect.

“Knock that shit off, Smurfette,” he growled. “Enough of the parlor tricks. So ya got a job. Nice ta see ya making yer contribution ta society.”

“It’s a living,” she shrugged. “There’s been rumors creeping through the grapevine, Wolverine.”

“What kinda rumors?”

“This place is ‘protected’ by the local good fellas. Most of the clubs on this strip are,” she explained nonchalantly. “Word on the street is, people have been showing up dead. Identical, execution-style hits. All of them have been impaled. Organs flopping out of them, and their skin peeled off like curling ribbon.” She gauged his reaction carefully. “They think a mutant did it.”

“What’s yer point?”

“They were all affiliated with the Styker Crusade, when it was still active. And the killer had claws. Not knives,” she clarified, “claws.” The flesh over his nape tightened, and a cold sweat broke out over his skin.

“Damn.”

“Makes you feel silly coming back here and wasting your time with me, doesn’t it?” In a twinkling, she reverted back to the brunette bombshell, but he was annoyed to see that this time she was naked without the benefit of her scales. “I’ve gotta change into my street clothes and go home. Gotta feed my cat. Buh-bye.” She shot him an unrepentant pout and a babydoll wave of her hand before sauntering back into the dressing room. Logan stifled a curse before disabling the alarm on the emergency exit with a flick of his claw before he bailed.





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