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Seeing Red

Shades of Red

counter reset 01/18-01

They’re all Marvel’s. No money. Don’t sue.

Okay, this series is the sequel to the one-shot, "Seeing Red."
This first chapter deals with reactions among the X-folks, andthe next chapter is gonna head on over to check on how Scotty’sdoing.

Comments to Kaylee1109@aol.com. I will say this very, very clearly—

I WANT FEEDBACK ON THIS STORY.

Feedback will help determine what’s going to happen with Scott in the future. Suggestions/ideas are welcomed/adored. Send ’em!

Enjoy!

*note from the archivist* Part six of this series was published in the fall 1999, since then no new parts has been made, rumors has it that Kaylee has handed it over to another writer, anyway I don't know if and when new parts of this series will be here, if they do I'll be put them up as fast as possible. that should not discourage you from reading these parts however. oh.. and remember to read 'seeing red' first :) 

Shades of Red.

by Kaylee

She sat on the bed and tried not to think too much. Thinking wasn’t a good thing right then...there was too much going on inside her head for any sort of real coherence. Once, she would have been able to reach out with her mind...to find her husband as easily and naturally as breathing. One small thought would have brought them instantly into contact... instantly into that warmth and caring she’d come to know so well over the years.

Or thought she knew. It had been so strange, so different, to hear his words without the emotions backing them. To see him, for almost the first time, as everyone else must see him. Aloof. Cold. Distant.
<But he’s not that way. I know he’s not. He just... has trouble expressing himself.>

But that wasn’t good enough, was it? It wasn’t enough to know that in her mind...she had to know it in her heart. And when she’d looked there for the answer...she’d found only doubts. Emptiness.

And she’d tried to fill it.

<Scott...what have I done?>

Did she tell him? <Oh sure. "Honey, you know I love you. I slept with Logan. We dropped our clothes and went at it in the hangar bay. I feel much better now. How about you?"> She laughed shakily, bitterly. <What was I _thinking?_>
Filling the aching chasm inside...

She glanced around the room to turn her thoughts outward instead of in. They’d settled into this one temporarily after their return from Alaska. As tense as things were with the team, Scott had wanted to be very close in case things erupted.<Always duty...> But she hadn’t objected. No, she hadn’t objected to much since that...that day...

<Gone. Everything...empty.> Powers stripped from her...telepathy defunct. An awareness as vital to her as breathing raped away in the space of a heartbeat, taking with it so much of her confidence and surety in herself and her husband.

An object on the chest of drawers caught her eye. As sparse as the decoration was in here, little things out of place stood out. She stood and walked to it, as much to find something else to do other than think as to satisfy curiosity.

The black-on-red ’X’ stared at her like an alien eye. A glint of gold broke the crossed lines...a ring of gold.
A wedding ring.

She felt a strange little shudder along her shoulders. Looked up, only now noticing the other new thing in the room. An off-white box clamped to the wall. Recently installed. Not even a small layer of dust marking the speaker. The brand new intercom looked out of place on the wooden planking.

An intercom.

A wedding ring.

An ’X.’

"Oh, god..."

Scott never removed his ring. It was a constant reminder of her...he said it reassured him...

"Oh...my god..."

Could he...could he have accidentally torn the ’X’ from his uniform? Could he...

The ring. The intercom.

"No," she whispered. "No...please..." A slim-fingered hand reached out. Touched the golden band. Nudged it off the ’X’ until it fell to the wood of the dresser with a little "clink." "Scott..."

Instinctively, she tried to reach out for him again. Nothing. Her thoughts were trapped neatly inside her own skull; locked away more effectively than any prison could make her. She couldn’t reach Scott. She couldn’t even reach past herself. _Alone._

"Oh my god...what have I done?"

***

The short, hitching breaths reached Ororo even over the laughter from downstairs—Bobby, doubtless trying to lessen the tension again. She followed the sounds and found herself at the door to the room Scott and Jean had taken as theirs upon their return. Jean was sitting on the bed, staring fixedly down at something in her hands and taking in short little gasps in between what sounded like...sobs?

"Jean?" Ororo entered the room and walked quietly to the bedside. Jean’s fingers closed over the object in her grasp, but she didn’t look at the other woman. "Are you all right?"

The redhead’s fingers tightened. She took in a long, shuddering breath. "I..." Eyes were wide with apparent shock, newborn dampness making them shine. "Ororo...Ididn’t know..."

Ororo sat down beside her, putting a supportive hand on one tense shoulder. "Didn’t know what, Jean?"

Glossy hair shifted across the woman’s back as she shook her head dazedly. "It was all...so distant. So quiet. And I just wanted...wanted..." Words were choked off with another hitching half-sob. "Oh my god..."

Dark fingers closed over the tightly clenched fist. "What is it?" Beneath her hand, Jean’s fingers slowly loosened. Ororo dropped her eyes to see what her friend held to so tightly. "That’s...that is Scott’s ring..." Jean shuddered, eyes closing. Ororo looked sharply to her face. "What has happened? Where is he?"

A tear slid down one cheek. "He must...he must have heard us...the intercom. He must have heard us..."

Blue eyes narrowed just a bit. "Heard...what?"

"I was so alone..."

The tone hardened. "Heard what, Jean?"

"I don’t know what...what I was thinking..."

Ororo’s hand tightened over the other woman’s, causing the emerald eyes to snap open and meet hers. "_What happened?_"

Jean looked into the eyes of her closest friend, feeling walls inside crumble to mounds of dust. Surging emotion battled with protective numbness. "Ororo..." She swallowed hard, searching for strength. "I...Logan and I..."

Dawning realization on the dark face before her. "Jean...?"

Another sob escaped, bearing with it the confession. "Ororo...I slept with Logan. And Scott...Scott heard us."
Outside the mansion, the sky darkened ominously.

***

He exhaled a stream of smoke, following the dispersing cloud with his eyes. The sun was sinking down to where it waited out the nights, leaving stars to creep past the velvet darkness. It was shaping up to be a beautiful night.

Of course, it could have been hideous weather and he’d still think that.

<Jean.> One word. One thought. A thousand emotions. Years - an eternity, it seemed - of waiting, of watching, of wishing... Fire and passion that called to him. A strength that he knew better than most could match even his own oft-mentioned will. And finally, only hours before, she’d been in his arms. He closed his eyes and inhaled the perfume of the growing night past the thick stench of burning tobacco. His memory supplied the jasmine and musk of her scent, instead. The taste of that so-sweet flesh...those creamy limbs wrapped around him...that heart-stopping voice calling his name. His!

<Oh, Jeannie...it was worth the wait...>

The air thickened with the heavy dampness of a coming storm. Frowning just a little, he opened his eyes and gazed upwards. Looming clouds steadily choked out the blackening canvass of night sky. <Looks like ’Ro’s in a mood.> He took a step forward off the porch to get a better look at the growing storm.

Wind snatched him from the ground unceremoniously, tearing the cigarette from his mouth and sending his Stetson flying. He caught in a sharp breath at the suddenness. "What the— "The invisible hand bore him up through the sky in the midst of the newborn lightning that crashed dangerously close to him. He gritted his teeth against the shocked exclamations that wanted to escape and sent a narrow-eyed gaze around him. Rain lashed from nowhere, cutting into him with icy fingers and plastering hair and clothing against him.

>From behind him— "*Honor,*" she spat. He tried to turn to face her, but had no leverage for the motion. "*Giri.* *Obligation.*" Every word was mocking, cold. He felt a numb finger of ice tickle up his spine.

"What’s this about, ’Ro?" he asked as levelly as he could -though he was suddenly sure he already knew.

Her words continued, scathing. "*Indomitable will.* How many times has that label been given to you?"

"I never asked for it."

With a wrench, the seething air that held him whirled him around. She was mere feet away. Her eyes blazed with a rarely seen fury, seeming to catch the dancing lightning in her gaze. "And what of your honor, Logan? What of your duty as an X-Man... your loyalty to your leader?"

He said nothing, staring silently with his jaw clenched tight.

Her voice dropped to a hiss. "I had respect for you. I believed in you... believed you were a man who would try to do the right thing." No answer, not by voice, and his steady gaze didn’t flinch away. A roll of thunder deafened them momentarily. Ororo didn’t even try to calm it.
"He. Heard. You." Each word enunciated clearly, distinctly; the impact all the stronger for it. Even the mask Logan was trying to maintain slipped just a bit at that, dark eyes widening marginally. Her lips drew up just a little in a trace of a snarl. "He’s gone."

Something cold clenched in his gut. "... Scott?"
Another crash of thunder. From the expression on her face, he wondered in a distant corner of his mind if she would drop him. "Of course, Scott. Jean’s husband." She drifted even closer, hands fisted in fury. "I did not bring you here to listen to excuses. I care nothing for your explanations. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," he growled.

"Good." Rain streaked her snowy hair around her face, sent it streaming in wet runnels over her shoulders. "Now you listen to me, little man... You will find him. You will go after him. You will stand there and let him beat you within an inch of your worthless life, if that is what he wants!" One fist raised, golden electricity crackling around it in unsubtle warning. "Because if you do not...you will learn _exactly_ what it means to face the wrath of the gods!"

She didn’t wait for an answer, and the air that held him was suddenly gone. He dropped like a stone...ten feet, twenty feet... earth met him with bone-jarring force, knocking all air from his lungs and slamming his teeth together hard.

The storm didn’t abate in the slightest...it even seemed to grow fiercer as he raised his aching head to stare upwards. Pain didn’t help chase skittering thoughts away, and his mind was left reeling with the multiple blows it had just taken. He clutched for the one thing that would give him some grounding, some support... <It was worth it.> Even the thought rang hollow in his mind.

With a curse he shoved himself to his feet. Something that the fall had damaged tried to give in his leg. He ignored it. Unsteadily, he forced his way through twilight gloom and downpour towards the mansion, still trying to bring order to the chaos in his head.
He found her in her room. <No,> he told himself forcefully.<_Their_ room...hers an’ Scott’s.> She was sitting on the bed as if frozen there, red-rimmed green eyes staring blindly at something in her hands. He wanted to cross the floor and go to her, take her in his arms, hold her tightly and chase the pain away.

Instead he stopped in the doorway and waited for her to see him. Water from his drenching pooled beneath him on the wooden floor, little drops splashing down with an out of place cheerfulness.
Slowly, almost mechanically, she looked up. Those brilliant emerald eyes met his deep brown ones. For just a heartbeat their gazes locked in silence.

Then she broke it with a rusty whisper. "Go away."

It was a plea, not a command. From this woman, he would have taken either.

A muscle tightened in his jaw. He held her eyes for another moment... but then the green ones flinched away, and somehow that hurt more than the words.

He didn’t even try to speak. Heart thundering a matching tempo to the now almost constant rumbling outside, he turned silently... and did as she asked.

Shades of Red

Part 2

By Kaylee

He was "the other man."

He's been that before. More than a few times. He figured he'd probably be it again at some point.

But this time was different. Somehow. And he didn't know how to make it right. Or if it _could_ be made right.

Because this time the man he'd replaced -- however temporarily -- was a teammate, and his leader, and yes...even his friend.

Or had been.

("Now you listen to _me,_ little man...")

Her words had bitten deep...closed razor teeth on something important and vital inside.

("_*Honor. Giri. Obligation.*_")

He'd built himself around these things, needing their stability to keep himself together more times than he could count. He _believed_ in them where other people put faith in religion and deities and divine commandments.

("And what of your *honor,* Logan? What of your duty as an X-Man...your loyalty to your leader?")

Yes. What of all that?

<It was _Jean,_> he growled to himself. That changed things. Made them fundamentally different, and made what he'd done something less than a crime against himself.

Right?

("He. Heard. You.")

Logan dragged deeply of his lit cigarette, jetting smoke out between clenched teeth. The bartender looked up, then sauntered over and casually refilled his glass without asking. Logan didn't even find voice to thank him.

She'd ordered him to go after Scott; to find him, to bring him back.

No...actually, she'd ordered him to stand there and play punching bag for a severely pissed mutant with the ability to level a mountain by blinking at it.

Just a small difference there.

Orders or no, he would have done this. In fact, being _ordered_ to had almost been enough to turn him _away_ from doing it. Almost. But when horrified emerald eyes had fixed on him and a voice so recently sultry had asked him to leave, he'd had little choice left.

He still didn't know what he'd say to Scott. He was hoping the words would find a way to come once he saw the other man. But for now...no, he just didn't know.

Though he _did_ know just how easy it would be to find Scott Summers. Either Slim had been careless, or he wanted to be found. He'd used his credit card to rent a car and pay gas along the way, and Logan had friends in the right high and low places to put that information to good use. But yeah...careless or intentionally sloppy, from all appearances.

<Or maybe he was so messed up he wasn't thinkin' straight,> some part of his mind whispered.

He growled softly and tipped the whiskey back again, welcoming the near-painful burn as it seared its way inside...

...though nowhere near as deep as this cold, sickening knot lodged firmly in his gut.

***

The modified SR-71 Blackbird that the X-Men had lost so recently and so long ago to Bastion's Zero Tolerance was positively slow, Ororo decided, when compared to the faster- than-light speed at which gossip traveled around the dilapidated mansion.

She was fairly certain that Marrow had been the first. The girl was the most likely to have overheard and not been seen, considering her penchant for skulking in shadows and spying on her 'teammates.' No doubt she'd taken cruel glee in having this bit of news to spread -- realizing, of course, that this tiny rip could very well tear apart the foundations of the team.

<Goddess, please do not let it travel farther than this team.>

Logan had barely been gone a day before the first observations were made that Jean was spending an awful lot of time alone in her room. And where exactly was Scott? It wasn't like him to take off without informing the team. Had they had a fight? What could be bad enough for him to forget his duty to the X- Men? And what was this...? Logan was missing, also? Not that he didn't frequently take off on his own, but the team was in a precarious situation right now, and even he didn't typically abandon them in the midst of need like this...

And so soon after that, the whispers-- "Did you hear...?" "Do you think it's true?" "Can't be. Jean wouldn't--" "Forget Jean, _Logan_ wouldn't--" "How could he _do_ that?" "How could _she_ do that?" "This can't be true." "It has to be true." "Look at Storm. She's so tense..."

Tense. Yes. That was one word for the feeling trailing cold, lazy fingers over her heart and the stiffness that seemed to have taken hold of her muscles.

The weather over Manhattan stayed unseasonably foul throughout the first day, then the second, then the next...

She did what she could to quiet the rumors. She told them that the 'situation' was being handled, and that Scott should be back shortly. She gave no details and hoped someone would mistake her lack of communication as a leader's reluctance to discuss a dangerous mission two of their number had been sent on.

For a short time she almost believed it was working.

And then the phone calls started, reminding her once again that anyone wearing an 'X' automatically became a member of this bizarre extended family, and that somehow the inclusion sparked off that most annoying of traits-- nosiness.

***

He'd followed the course Scott had, tracking him by credit card use and occasionally even the lingering scent of the man when he chanced across an exact area that Scott had been. That first flavor of scent had chilled him. Even nearly a day old the raw anger and pain was obvious to his enhanced sense of smell. He'd known Scott Summers a long time; been with him through battles domestic and more foreign than most people could imagine. Never in all that time had the X-Men's leader smelled like this.

Logan wasn't a man who believed in apologizing, but he _was_ a man who took what responsibility was his. It went against his nature to put any of the blame on Jeannie. She'd been hurting and needing...seeking comfort that Scott wasn't able to give her. With her mind teetering so precariously over irrationality, he wouldn't hold her responsible for what had happened.

No. He could have said no. He could have taken her hand and led her to her room, tucking her into bed and telling her she'd feel differently in the morning. He could have--

But was what happened really _wrong?_ There'd been something between the two of them from the first moment they came into contact. Simple lust on his part had become something more complex over the years as he came to see what more there was to her than physical beauty. A strength to rival -- and in some ways dwarf -- his own. Courage enough to do any soldier proud. Passion that had saved and destroyed worlds.

<Phoenix,> he reminded himself tersely, irritated with the way his thoughts insisted on wandering down that starry-eyed path that he was _way_ too old to walk. <Phoenix wasn't Jean.>

No. Just based off Jean's body and mind and soul.

But damnit, he _loved_ her! Had for so long the emotion was firmly linked with her name and image in his mind. And he'd learned through too many hard, cold lessons that love had to be grasped and held tightly, for it was a nebulous thing that could be yanked away at any heartbeat.

It wasn't _wrong,_ then. He hadn't used her. Hadn't taken pleasure in her flesh and discounted the gift afterward. She'd needed something he could give, and after his reservations had faded he'd done what he could to help her to _feel_ again. She cared for him...wanted him...maybe even loved him, in her way. And it had all been for one purpose-- to help her.

("Go away.")

His face was expressionless as he swung leg over the Norton he'd been riding halfway across the country. No one looking would have guessed that he was mulling over what were nearly the most painful words he'd ever heard in his life; words that wreaked havoc on defensive illusions and brought him back once again to the ones that bit hardest:

("_*Honor. Giri. Obligation.*_")

***

They were talking about her. She knew it even though she could no longer reach out with her mind and touch those thoughts turned in her direction. They were talking about her, and she...she couldn't blame them. Couldn't hate them for wondering _if_ she'd done it, _why_ she'd done it.

No. There was only one person worthy of _blame,_ here...and she wouldn't shrug it off onto other shoulders. She'd made a decision -- out of desperation, yes, but it was still _her_ decision -- and two men had suffered for it. Logan had even tried to refuse her. His half-hearted protests had meant nothing against the void within her begging to be filled.

She'd used him. Manipulated him by the very love he had for her.

And then Scott...her _husband_...

Her eyes dropped to her unsteady hands and the objects she hadn't let go of since discovering them. A ring and an 'X.' Symbols that couldn't be misunderstood, no matter how hard she tried. As she held them her mind insisted on imagining what he'd heard, what he'd felt, what he'd done.

Did he hate her now?

Did Logan?

The tears were still falling, but the wracking sobs had quieted to occasional shuddery breaths. Outside the window, the world continued on without her. She wondered again when...or if...she'd feel ready to rejoin it.

Then the reality crashed down once more when a single glint of afternoon sunlight dashed through the window to set the gold ring to glowing, and she drew her knees up, burying her face against them, wishing with everything in her soul for a way to undo it all.

***

This was it. Just past the border into Texas...a little no-name town that boasted nothing more grand than a single saloon with a faded sign swinging listlessly outside like a prop from a cheap western.

<Helluva place to catch up to him.>

Scott was headed towards Houston, from what Logan had been able to piece together of his trip so far. He might just be traveling aimlessly...but the man Logan knew rarely did _anything_ aimlessly. So maybe he had some idea of what he'd do or where he'd go.

That might make it harder to convince him to come back.

Of course, Logan wasn't one hundred percent sure he _wanted_ him to come back.

<One of us is gonna hafta leave.> After this...he just didn't see how anything resembling peace could ever be restored between them. One of them would have to leave, and even though he'd spent a short while trying to convince himself otherwise, Logan knew that the most logical choice was _him._ Maybe it was time to throw a carrysack over his shoulder and wave goodbye to the place and people that had made up his home and family for years now. He always left, sooner or later. This was just one reason for it to be "sooner."

He wouldn't admit to himself that he didn't think he could stand seeing the pain in those beautiful green eyes again, _knowing_ he'd put it there.

The Norton's engine died with a rumbling chug-chug. He didn't budge from the big bike for a long moment, newly-lit cigarette forgotten between his fingers, eyes fixed on the dingy door that was the only thing between him and a confrontation he'd give his right arm to not have to force. Rebellion tried to rear up, complaining that _he_ didn't take _orders,_ and that he should crank up the bike then and there and get his ass back on the road.

Honor. Giri. Obligation.

Time for him to pay more than lip service to those words he'd used more often than he could recall.

A jeans-clad leg swung over the bike. Booted soles touched down on cracked pavement, clunking with a hollow, permanent sound.

<All right, Cyke,> he thought, taking a final drag from his cigarette before flicking it to land smoking a length away from him. <Let's get this over with.>

The sky rumbled approvingly overhead, and some distant corner of his mind wondered again if Ororo really _was_ a goddess, and if she watched him even now.

Shades of Red

Part 3

by Kaylee

The beer stung his taste buds with its bitter aftertaste. No matter how much of the stuff he drank, he just couldn't seem to get rid of that initial grimace-response it brought out in him.

But he drank it, because it tasted terrible and it numbed him.

Not that he wasn't already numb.

Just not numb enough.

Out of habit, he looked up when the door to the outside opened. Standing there dully illuminated in shades of red stood Logan, eyes searching for and finding him instantly, face still and unreadable.

Scott's stomach turned over, slowly, once.

Logan made his way over, stopping at the bar to get himself a tall, foaming glass of beer. Scott had looked down after the smaller man broke eye contact, and now he stared with great focus into his beer. He'd known this would come. Invited it, really, with his casual use of credit instead of cash to pay his way. But it still hit hard, seeing the man. Seeing him and hearing only _her_ voice crying out to him. To _him._

The man stopped by his booth. Scott didn't look up. For a moment there was nothing -- no silent understanding, no fumbling for words. Just an instant of absorbing the reality of it all; Logan standing over Scott, taller than the seated man, victorious...

Then, as if relinquishing that claim, Logan slid into the booth across from him.

"Either you were careless, or ya wanted to be found. Used your credit card to rent the car and pay gas." Scott said nothing. Logan took a lengthy swig of his beer. "Easy to find ya."

And then he waited. Scott swallowed beer. Didn't look at him.

"I wasn't running, Logan," he said at last, levelly. "I was leaving."

A moment of nothing. Logan lit a cigarette, then grunted acknowledgment. "Got some people worried about ya. Back home."

"Well you can head back and tell them I'm fine."

"Tell 'em yourself."

"Don't think I'll do that."

"An' why not?"

No answer. Scott drank his beer and watched the weak light from above turn the amber color to flame in his vision.

"'Ro's lookin' to hear from ya," Logan commented after a moment. Scott nodded, once. A brief scowl crossed the Canadian's face, then was chased away. "Might wanna give her a call. Woman's pretty stressed, havin' the whole team dumped on her shoulders like that."

"She can handle it."

The faintest rumble of an irritated growl, barely audible. Then an intentionally callused voice: "Jeannie'll be lookin' to hear from you, too."

Scott took another swallow and watched moisture bead on the side of the glass like watered down blood.

"'S that what you're gonna do, Cyke? Gonna just ignore everything?"

"If I was ignoring everything you wouldn't have a reason to be here," came the answer in a level, inflectionless voice. "Consider your message delivered." <And leave. Leave before I snap, Logan. Leave before I lose it completely.>

Logan's glass thumped down on the table hard enough to rattle it. "Goddamnit, Cyke," he growled. "Don't gimme this shit. Be a fuckin' _person._ Get _mad._"

Very, very slowly, Scott raised his ruby-shielded eyes to look directly into narrowed dark eyes.

"Oh," he said in a strangely soft voice. "I am."

Logan's gruff tone lowered to match his volume, but the rumble was there, just beneath the surface. "Then why don't ya _do_ somethin' about it?"

"Do something?" Scott let the words settle a moment before his mind fully caught up to them. "_Do something?_ What would you have me do, Logan? Hit you? Or better yet, blast you?" A slight headshake. Scott was amazed at how calm he sounded, because underneath those level words was a raging torrent of something that... frightened him. A lot. "Pound on you 'til the sun goes down? Lemme guess... this is all to make me feel _better._" Logan's face didn't change, but his eyes narrowed more. What was visible of Scott's face was expressionless. "Is that what makes a _man_ in your eyes?" Now just a trace of disgust crept into voice and face, curling Scott's lips faintly as if he'd tasted something particularly vile. "I've seen your version of being a 'man,' Logan. And you know... I can't think of anyone I'd rather be _less_ like than you."

Logan's hands fisted on the table, though he made no move to raise them or to make any threatening moves. "An' you're so much better? You walk out on your whole life 'cause your wife cheats on ya. You forget all your responsibilities 'cause ya _can't handle it._"

"_Don't,_" Scott said sharply, then smoothed the tone as he continued, visibly fighting for control, "lecture me. Don't even _think_ you have the right to do that."

Logan's lips were drawn back in a half-conscious snarl, teeth grinding together. "You know how I feel 'bout her."

Breath rattled harshly into Scott's lungs, drawn past his own bared teeth. "Get out of here, Logan."

"It wasn't about _you._ She was _scared._"

<Oh god,> Scott realized as that torrent inside rose, rose. <I'm going to kill him. Right here, right now. I'm going to blast him into a smear on the damned pavement outside...>

Somehow he found voice. "Get _out_ of here before I forget why I hate killing."

Something glinted in the other man's eyes... satisfaction? At what? At bringing just a trace of that anger to the surface? "We can settle this here and now, Cyke. Right here in this goddamned bar, easy as sin."

"Easy as _sin,_" Scott echoed in a strangled voice. "You _want_ me to fight you. You want me to think it's for my own good." Neck was tight, muscles across his chest tensing. "But it's not for _me_ you want that, is it? You don't care about what I think. This is for _you._" His chest hurt in a distant way, reminding him of too-recent surgery, of pain, of that deep-rooted certainty that he would die and lose everything he cared about. Logan had been there -- had played a vital part in saving his life. His claw had cut right into Scott's chest and dug down to the threatened heart.

Just like now, really.

<God, no, please don't let me kill him, don't let me lose it, don't let me snap...>

"You don't know whatcher talkin' about," came Logan's disgusted answer. Scott ignored it as firmly as that rising voice of alarm somewhere just below consciousness.

"Would it make you feel better, Logan? That's always been your way, hasn't it? Get hurt inside... go out and get yourself hurt outside to match it. Do you handle guilt the same way? Does it help to get your tail handed to you?"

Very low, very quiet-- "I'd like to see ya try."

Scott forcibly swallowed more beer, nearly choking on the liquid and the emotion that constricted his throat. "I'll just bet you would." Another rapid swig, fighting for distraction, for any way to keep his mind from--

("I need you to... make me feel _alive_ again.")

--all that had changed. "Leave, Logan."

"I ain't ashamed o' what I did."

<Just look at the beer... focus on the beer...> "Good for you. Then there's no reason for you to stay."

"You're makin' a mistake, Cyke. Walkin' away from everything like this." A pause, then the voice continued more coarsely: "Walkin' away from her."

The ice cracked.

His head raised slowly. Deep inside, beneath the fracturing surface, burned the thing that would shatter it, would shatter him, would shatter the man sitting across from him and pound every bone in his body to slush and destroy everything that would steal what was his and take his life and take his _wife_ and take his goddamned _soul_ away from him...

And Logan saw it. Logan wanted it. For him or for Logan or for some twisted sense of balancing the scales, he _wanted_ this.

It was only that realization -- nothing else -- that allowed Scott to shove it all back down, down, down beneath the failing ice. Down to where it couldn't push him to murder. Down and...

... lower, and...

Lower.

Until the pain nestled in its accustomed home and the explosion was locked behind iron doors that would never hold it once it truly cut loose.

Scott finished his beer with a long swallow. "Tell Ororo that I think Kurt would be a good choice to replace me as Blue Team's leader." He went on, eyes cold, voice steady, not giving Logan a chance to cut in. "I'll be traveling, and I can't be sure of where I'll be or when. If 'Ro needs to reach me, she can call my grandparents in Alaska. I'll be checking in with them periodically."

"Cyke, the team needs ya."

Scott stood and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. "Excalibur's returning. There's plenty of manpower."

"Your _wife_ needs ya, you dumb shit."

Money in hand, Scott froze. Gradually dragged his eyes to meet the other man's again.

"Jean got exactly what she needed," he said quietly.

Then threw money on the table and pulled keys from a pocket. "End of the credit card trail. Cash from here on out. Don't come after me again." <Because if you do I won't be able to control myself, god, I know it, don't make me do this, don't make me be a fucking animal like you.> Still calm, still frozen. "Tell Ororo I'll be in touch."

Logan didn't rise. His cigarette was burned nearly to the butt. "Slim..."

"No," Scott said suddenly, looking him dead in the eye, probing at the pain with bitter, masochistic fascination. "I'm gone, Logan. Free road for you with... with her. She's--" Oh god, his throat was strangling him. "--made her choice." Just say it... just get it out... "You won't even have to bother hiding in the hangar bay now."

"It ain't _like_ that, Cyke!" He crushed out his cigarette furiously. "It never happened before." A strange look; conflicted and hurt and distant all at once. "And it ain't happenin' again."

"That's your business."

"I came to bring you back."

"I'm not going back."

"This ain't the answer."

A short, bitter laugh. "There is one?"

Silence.

Scott turned. Claws in his chest. Claws in his heart. Ice cracking, lines spreading like a network of fine cobwebs across the shield of protective numbness that cupped his emotions. Saving him and killing him.

"You're makin' a mistake, Scott." And for the first time yet this conversation, there was nothing but conviction in the other man's voice.

Scott didn't even pause on his way out the door. The road was calling him west. Away from the mansion and the only life he knew.

Away from the man who came too damned close to making him a murderer.

Logan's eyes stayed on him -- he could feel them even as the door swung shut behind him -- but the man didn't come after him, didn't call out.

And somehow Scott hated him as much for that lack of action as for all the rest combined

Shades of Red

Part 4

by Kaylee

The phone hadn't stopped ringing for three days.

Ororo swallowed down the knot of tension in her throat and wished for a miracle -- for something to undo everything that had changed. It couldn't be happening this way. The X-Men were a team... a _family._ They were there to support each other... to keep resolve strong against the animosity of the world.

Like any family, they'd always had a cheerful element of gossip running through them. It carried as readily to the other teams, linking them, keeping that undercurrent of deep connection strong. Even when she'd heard others complaining over some little tidbit they found 'outrageous,' that spirit of affability hadn't left. The bitterness hadn't run so heavily in the words.

Until now. The conversations she walked in on. The tense, uneasy expressions set on more than a few faces. The silence where there should have been irritated shouts or raucous banter. It drove home what she'd instinctively realized from the moment Jean's halting, tear-soaked words had touched her ears:

Other women could lie. Other women could cheat. Other women could be unfaithful.

But not Jean Grey. No matter what words the gossip put to it... this was _different._

The phone calls. The damned _phone calls_...

***

There were other names she was called by, but the one she was most comfortable with was simply 'Domino.' It described her personality, her powers... even her appearance. She was willing to put up with the inevitable nicknames: Dom, 'Mina... even Dominatrix from one brave man who'd proven to be a very loud screamer.

Nicknames aside, if there was one thing she understood it was the domino effect. It was a cumulative sequence produced when one event initiated a succession of similar events. Set up a line of carefully ordered pieces... find that fretful balance, that delicate steadiness, that reassuring solidity...

And the moment the lead piece fell, watch the whole structure come tumbling down.

X-Force had been only tangentially associated with its parent team for a while now, but there were still friendships maintained between the children and their predecessors, and individuals still kept in contact with the extended family that came with wearing an 'X.' She'd always considered that a good thing, actually -- the camaraderie there, the assurance that if it all came down to brass tacks they wouldn't have to face the dark _alone_... definitely a good thing.

Until she'd overheard a stunned-sounding Tabitha whispering to Roberto late one afternoon, saying something that struck a cold chord in even Domino, one of the most detached members of this family:

"Sam told me... god, I can't believe it... but Jean slept with _Wolverine._ And Cyclops is _gone._"

Swearing a bloody streak that would've made a sailor blush, Domino called the team together as soon as they were all in residence. Her words were simple, direct, and delivered in a voice that brooked no argument: "Nate is _not_ to hear about this from any of you if he calls."

There was a quiet hush. Shocked faces and dropped jaws as the uninformed absorbed her prior words.

And then an uncomfortable shuffle of feet as Tabitha dropped guilt-filled eyes to the floor. "I thought... I thought he already knew... he acted like he already _knew_..."

Dom's eyes closed tightly for only a moment, then snapped open as her face set in a blank, carefully guarded expression. She could feel it now, almost as if she was a telepath herself and sensitive to such things. The lead domino tipped, wavered, and fell crashing into the next.

Without another word, she went for the phone.

***

"Xavier's."

"Who's this?"

"Who's _this_?"

"Never mind, I recognize you, Drake. I need to talk to Storm or Xavier. Now."

"Domino?"

"_Now._"

"He's still on Muir, and she's outside... can it wait? I'll have her call you..."

"No it cannot fucking _wait._ I've spent the past hour trying to reach Nate, and he's _not_ making it easy."

"What does that have to do with Storm?"

"It has to do with her getting really goddamn creative really fast if she expects to find that hairball of yours before Nate does, that's what. And I can pretty much promise that he's not going after Logan for idle chitchat, Drake."

"..."

"_Drake._"

"... I'm getting her now..."

***

Nathan Summers. More comfortably known as Nate.

Logan had always called him Cable. An extra bit of distance, there. A way to depersonalize him -- make him less of the man behind the mission and more a soldier who was very dedicated to irritating the hell out of him. Cable had been the recipient of a careful combination of respect and disgust from Logan over the years, and that mix had only gotten more muddled since he'd ended up shepherding Xavier's hope for the future and turning them into a respectable and not- particularly-ethical strike force.

And if that wasn't enough, then it turned out that Cable was the son of a man he'd always seen as a rival and a woman he'd wanted from the moment he'd laid eyes on her.

Sort of her son. Sort of not.

But Scott's son... that he was. Down to the Summers' stubbornness that hardened his square jaw into a mirror of his certainty that he would make decisions, and that they would be followed.

Scott's son.

Scott's son was very, very angry. It showed in the way he carried his tense shoulders. It stared at him in the form of tendons standing out sharply on a muscled neck. It shouted at him from narrowed, furious eyes and the mouth that was set in a carefully still line.

And Cable's sweat poured the scent of adrenaline and rage into the air like the heady musk of a stag preparing for battle.

Logan had debated avoiding him. Word was out that he still hadn't recovered his telepathy, and without that, no matter _how_ good he was, he didn't stand a chance of tracking a man who'd made sneaking around wild things an art form.

But it went against his nature to hide from the consequences of his actions. He tended to go _looking_ for those consequences, more often than not.

And he sure as hell wasn't hiding from _this_ man. That wasn't something he'd even consider.

So he stepped out and leaned against the corner of the bar he'd been imbibing in, watching and waiting for the man to step back out of the establishment and see him. Cable had walked in with all the quiet readiness of a gunfighter in the old West preparing to face an enemy. His expression and bearing left no doubt in Logan's mind as to his intentions.

Calm on the surface, he lit a cigarette and bided his time with every appearance of patience.

He didn't have to wait long. Cable must've questioned the bartender in record time and gotten the story: Logan and Scott meeting there yesterday, Scott's abrupt departure, Logan's staying on in town and coming back again today... What was he thinking of his discovery so far? Did he realize that Logan couldn't decide which way to jump? That he didn't know if he could face going back to the team and seeing the light dim further in those emerald eyes when Jean realized that he'd failed to turn Scott around?

Did he care one way or the other?

Defunct telepathy or no, it didn't take the man long to see him when he stepped off the little wooden porch and scanned the street with his sunglass-shielded eyes. The moment the unreadable gaze settled on him Logan nodded once, slightly, keeping himself relaxed and ready. Cable didn't move for what seemed a long time. The anger was still obvious, but more obvious was the control he was calling on, the reservation that was part and parcel of having survived numerous years of mercenary work.

When a door slammed somewhere down the road Cable blinked once, then walked forward slowly. Logan didn't budge. An unexpected gust of wind skimmed down the street and stirred up loose dust over the hard-packed dirt street, whispering a quiet, anticipatory howl.

~All we need now is a damned tumbleweed,~ Logan thought with a trace of sardonic amusement, welcoming the momentary distraction of the thought. ~Couple o' six- shooters, maybe...~

Cable stopped a few strides away. His hands were empty. He looked almost casual, so far as dress went; brown hiking boots, blue jeans, a white T-shirt, leather jacket, matching gloves... but it didn't hide what he was to Logan's eyes. Clothes couldn't cover up what made a man a soldier.

Neither spoke. The silence wasn't heavy -- it was electric. Dangerous. Living and angry.

He was so much like his father... and yet so very different in many ways...

Logan smoked the cigarette and longed distantly for a Havana cigar. The warm, heavy air didn't disperse the smoke very quickly, letting it sit in an oppressive blanket in the air around them. Cigar smoke would've smelled better. Not so sharp and bitter.

Cable watched him as the cigarette burned lower and lower. His left hand -- the metal hand, Logan knew -- flexed slightly in the glove, making leather creak. It was the loudest sound between them for the length of a minute, maybe longer.

Logan tossed the cigarette. "He's gone," he said simply, gruffly. "West."

Cable's jaw clenched and loosened. His chin dropped slightly until his mismatched eyes could be seen over the top of the shades, staring coldly from beneath lowered brows. "When?"

"Yesterday. Late afternoon."

"You spoke with him."

"Yeah."

"And?"

Logan's eyes flickered across the gray and gold gaze. "He... ain't ready to come back."

Cable's nostrils flared slightly. The anger in his scent was more prominent, the adrenaline thicker. "_You,_" he said heavily, the word sounding choked. "_You_ did this."

Since that was obvious, Logan only narrowed his eyes and waited. Some part of him was already stirring in preparation. He knew it was his fault, he knew it was his responsibility, and goddamnit, he _knew_ that the reckoning would come when he had to account for all of this... but it sure as hell wasn't _Cable's_ place to judge him. Frustration, confusion, seething, half-smothered rage... they all boiled low in his gut and waited for the opportunity to funnel the explosion towards a ready target.

But somehow he held back, reminding himself with all his willpower that he'd already done enough damage. He had no ground to stand on, here.

"As if you hadn't done _enough,_" Cable growled, seeming to echo his thoughts and making him wonder for a brief moment if the telepathy really _was_ out of action. That gloved hand flexed again, curving as if mentally he held something -- a weapon, probably. "You..." For once, the man seemed unable to find words to express his fury. He stopped. Shook his head once, sharply. His eye flashed as if filling in the sudden silence.

~Control,~ Logan reminded himself, feeling his heartbeat kick up a notch. "This ain't between you an' me, Cable. It's got nothin' to do with you."

"Stab your eyes, Logan..." Low and grating. "These are my flonqing _parents._" Colder still-- "_Rachel's_ parents."

The words weren't reaching into his mind anymore... Logan was growing increasingly aware of the tone, the body language, the scent and the sound of quickened respiration and the glimmer of sweat on the other man's brow. It'd always been this way between them -- two alpha wolves walking a fine line between treading on each other's territory.

And that territory had been irreversibly breached, now. Even Logan at his most obtuse couldn't deny that.

He made a last effort to stave off his rising temper, shifting back a half-step, trying to keep his voice level. "How'd you find me?" If Cable would just willingly accept the redirection... if he'd work with him to keep this to words instead of fists... If he'd just... if only... "What _fucking_ business is it of _yours_?!" Logan snarled suddenly, losing that tenuous internal balance, throat tightening and making the words rumble. "Stay the fuck _out_ o' this, Nate, before one of us pushes too goddamn far and--"

A step forward; just one. A brighter flash from that golden eye and a glint of teeth as Cable's lips drew back in something nothing like a smile. "It's already there, Logan," he hissed in a strangely soft voice. "It's already been pushed too far."

The light dimmed as the sun sank. This supernally quiet town quieted even more. Logan felt that bare rumble rise to something stronger in his chest.

Cable was right. It'd gone too far. The conflict inside him focused on one detail of crystalline clarity:

Control be damned. The beast inside him was ready to cut loose.

And Cable's not-smile broadened in invitation.

Shades of Red

Part 5

by Kaylee

Ororo hung up the phone with stunned, dreamlike slowness. Her eyes stared blindly at the bare paneled walls, her mind spinning over and around the words she'd just heard, the tension in Domino's businesslike tone. One line played repeatedly through her head as if a broken record had been lodged between her ears:

"Nate's gone after him, Storm. He _knows._"

Her heart remembered to thump after a few seconds that felt much longer, and she swallowed hard while her battle-trained brain wound up and kicked into gear. Xavier's telepathy was as out of action as all the other telepaths', so there was no point in contacting him on Muir. He didn't even know about... this... yet, and she'd be happy to keep it that way until things were resolved one way or another. Letting Jean hear this was out of the question; her friend was teetering on the edge already. One push might be enough to...

One push might be too much.

Logan would've used his own resources to track Scott, probably through identification he'd have to use... credit cards, then, since Scott had left the mansion on foot. Inter-US travel meant credit cards. He'd either have bought himself a bus ticket or rented a car. They kept records of credit card numbers, among other things, here at the mansion just in case. Bastion's damned housecleaning had destroyed everything they'd gathered prior to his operation, but after that Scott himself had insisted on reinstating the same system of record- keeping.

So she had the numbers... all she needed was someone with the connections to put them to use.

All she needed was...

"Remy," she murmured. Her head turned, keen ears picking up the chug of a motorcycle revving up out towards the garage. He was planning on heading out for the afternoon, then.

His plans were about to change.

***

Of one wordless accord they moved through the alley, coming out behind the bar in the small lot that was probably used for deliveries. It was empty, now, and the single streetlight rigged to illuminate it sported a broken bulb. Just through the solid brick wall were a handful of drinkers who hadn't needed to wait for sundown to start on their hangovers. Logan walked lightly on the balls of his feet, his physical training near at hand and ready, his emotional discipline buried somewhere beneath a more instinctual response to Cable's presence.

There was no talk, no debate, no taunting. They faced each other in silence, sizing up preparation and condition. Cable shrugged out of his jacket, then pulled his shades from his face and tucked them into a pocket before tossing the jacket over an upturned barrel against the wall. Almost as an afterthought he peeled off one glove, two, revealing the metal hand and flexing it lightly.

Logan watched for a moment, motionless, then abruptly pulled his own battered bomber from his shoulders and flung it to hang over the crumbling concrete wall that divided this lot from the next. His matches fell from a pocket and scattered over the cracked pavement that for some reason covered the ground here and yet not the street itself. He ignored that, staying focused, staying ready.

The bigger man had lost weight; he could see that now that the jacket was off. His T-shirt was still snug enough to show the musculature that hadn't suffered overmuch, but Logan thought he spotted a deeper hollow below the ribs than should've been there, and without the sunglasses Cable's eyes seemed somewhat sunken into his head, surrounded by dark shadows. His skin was drawn tighter, his face was definitely gaunter... All in all, he didn't look nearly as ready for something like this as he might've thought he was.

At the moment, Logan didn't really give a damn.

Just enough distance between them to allow a chance to regain perspective... a moment to reconsider. Logan wasn't sure if it was his own move or Cable's that made that so, but he wasn't in the mood to take advantage of the opportunity.

And neither, from the looks of things, was Cable.

"Last chance," Logan said levelly. "Back out now, Cable. Let it go." But his voice said nothing even vaguely similar to his words, and neither did his eyes or stance or slightly-curled lip.

Cable walked forward. Logan didn't move. "You can't think past your libido, can you, hairball? You can't consider for one second what your actions might mean to the future."

Logan's lip curled farther in disgust. "Hidin' behind that old line, huh? That's got nothin' to do with why you're here, bub, and you know it. Your pop may not be much o' one for dealin' with his anger... but you always were, weren'tcha?"

Cable stopped a bare pace in front of him as if hesitating, listening to his words. For just a heartbeat he looked very, very much like his father debating a course of action, weighing options and morality and long-term effects.

Then, flat-footed and seemingly unprepared, his feet suddenly shifted and his fists flew into motion, crashing a respectable uppercut to the underside of Logan's jaw with his flesh-and- bone hand. Logan had half-expected it, but even so the blow knocked him back two staggering strides as his head snapped away from the force of it.

"Yeah," Cable agreed with that cold not-smile. "I guess you could say that."

He had time for nothing else as Logan, a low growl building in his chest, gathered himself and lunged directly back for his opponent.

***

"Y' sure y' wan' do dis, Stormy?"

"Positive."

"Maybe dis is somet'ing we should be stayin' out of..."

"If you disagree you're welcome to stay."

"I'm not lettin' y' go after 'em alone."

"In that case, sit down and fasten your seatbelt."

"Dere somet'ing wrong wit' havin' _backup,_ chere?"

"At the moment, Remy, I do not trust everyone to keep a clear head."

"Ah. So y' jus' gon' t'row de two of _us_ in de fire, neh?"

"There will be no fire."

"Dey ain' gon' listen t' reason."

"There will be no fire."

"Don' see how y' can be so sure a dat, chere."

Thunder cracked loudly, drowning out the roar of the waking Blackbird's engines. It rumbled for a long moment and vibrated through the skin of the plane itself.

A moment of quiet afterwards, with only the sound of machinery to be heard.

Then a grunt of acknowledgment. "Right. Dere ain' gon' be no fire."

There was no answer.

***

It'd started rough, slow. Logan's retaliation for the first punch had been nothing more elegant than an all out tackle, but the brief wrestling match on the ground had broken apart swiftly, both opponents reeling aside to gain feet and balance. Neither was comfortable with that limited range of motion.

A wary circling, watching... a snarl on one mouth, a firm line to another. Logan had tried feints, testing reactions, and had found that though Cable might've lost condition, he hadn't lost his reflexes. The other man had tested him likewise -- a bit of body-motion here, a half-lunge there...

Then Cable finally paused for half a second as their eyes met solidly again. Logan's snarl twitched briefly towards a grim smile. He nodded once; Cable's eyes narrowed.

And then they clashed for real.

***

The room was perfectly silent save for the sound of her respiration. She tried to ignore even that, shoving her awareness down, down, down. If she went deep enough... fought hard enough... maybe she could forget what she'd done. Maybe she could escape the shame and horror that'd overwhelmed her since she'd first realized that her secret rendezvous was anything but. Maybe...

Farther down. She had to go _farther_...

There was no light on in the room, but the sun crept past the soft maroon curtains she'd hung only weeks ago and dappled the floor in light and shadow. Her eyes were hidden against her knees in an effort to stave off the headache that'd been pounding at her for hours, her arms hugging her legs as close to her as possible. She didn't want to see or hear or think or know that--

That...

Her head snapped up. Green eyes glistened with tears and sunlight, staring blindly at the wall and for the first time not seeing that damned intercom and all it meant.

Not telepathy, not quite. Something on a fundamentally deeper level, connected to another in a manner that perfectly mundane mothers had touted as biblical truth for centuries.

Her lips parted. Her breath caught.

"Nate," she whispered. "No..."

The pain in her skull stabbed deeper as she instinctively reached for that part of her mind that she shouldn't be able to access now.

***

Nate grunted as his back slammed into the wall. The stabbing pain in his chest spoke of a bruised rib at least, a cracked one in all likelihood. That shouldn't have been enough to make his breath come so short, though. It shouldn't be making his muscles burn with an all too familiar agony.

Logan wasn't letting up, so Nate didn't either. The smaller man got in a few solid licks to his abdomen before Nate managed to twist and drop an elbow to guard his short ribs. Logan shifted targets readily and jabbed for his face, but Nate jerked his head aside just in time. Logan gave a grinding shout of pain as his fist slammed full force into the bricks. Nate took the opportunity to lash his elbow out, hard. Bone connected with Logan's temple and sent the man stumbling, cursing. A hand went to his head and his left eye fluttered shut.

A vise tightened around Nate's chest, constricting his lungs. His teeth ground to fight back the cry he wanted to give.

He moved swiftly, unwilling to let an opportunity pass... and though he saw, his mind didn't acknowledge that his left arm was slowly distorting, jagged peeks forming along the ridges of techno-organic muscle as an external sign that something internal was going very, very wrong.

***

"How we gon' find 'em when we hit de town?"

"We shall worry about that when we arrive."

"Can' really be sure dey'll be dere, y'know. All I got from de trace is dat _Scott_ was dere yest'day..."

"I know Cyclops. If his trail ended there, it was because he wanted it to. He would have known that someone would follow. He was allowing the confrontation. Logan would have found him there."

"Den how y' know de fuzzball hung 'round?"

"I know Logan, as well."

"Den how y' know--"

"I _don't,_ Remy," she admitted at last, strain making her voice sharp. "But we must _try,_ and this is the only lead we have. Presumably it is the only lead Cable had, as well."

"So maybe dere's not'ing goin' on dere at all."

Her voice dropped to a murmur he could barely make out: "We would not be so lucky..."

***

Cable wasn't holding back, and Logan dug into his anger and let it fuel him to match the other man. There was no refinement to either of their tactics, no finesse. Two furious, frighteningly strong men tore into each other with nothing resembling restraint.

At least, not to any uninformed observer. Anyone who knew these particular men would realize that there was something still in store if they didn't make an end to this soon. Logan was already feeling that curiously pleasant itch in his forearms as the muscles that extended his claws flexed in preparation.

But he fought the urge, held it at bay. No matter how enraged he was, he wouldn't breach that final barrier. The moment he popped his claws he invited Cable to retaliate with everything in his arsenal... and even if that weaponry no longer included telepathy, Logan wasn't about to tempt fate and see just how badly his telekinesis might have suffered along with his other psi-powers.

There was more to it than that. Something beneath the anger that reminded him that even though they'd been at odds before, and even though they battled furiously now, this man was an ally. Not a friend, no, but someone he still owed a certain debt of honor to. They fought the same fight; they wouldn't kill each other while doing so.

Yet still it was all too easy to see-but-not-see when Cable's knee took his abdomen at an angle and almost made him rid himself of the beer he'd had for breakfast, when his own counter-punch did more damage to his knuckles than the metal side of the man's face, when that devastatingly strong left hand slammed a blow right into his solar plexus and left him trying to draw air into lungs that wouldn't obey...

He called on all his martial skills to rally from that; jumping, spinning, shin crashing into Cable's head just above his ear and finally knocking the man down a notch.

But he still saw-but-didn't-see, so somehow it made no impact on him when he noted distantly that Cable's arm and chest were sprouting spike-like growths, except to serve as incentive towards caution when facing that left hook. The techno- organic virus didn't cross his mind once.

Cable lunged for him, arms outspread, and Logan swore as the impact took him down.

His arms itched to release the claws... damn, how they itched...

***

She clutched at her head, gasping. Pain... she hadn't felt pain like this since... since...

"God," she breathed, her voice sounding hoarse after two days of disuse. "It hurts..."

... since the Shadow King had battled Psylocke and the astral plane had been violently disrupted.

Sweat beaded on her brow, dripping down into her eyes and stinging. Her teeth clenched tightly enough to make her jaw ache, but she couldn't feel it past the pounding ache in her brain.

And that unidentifiable _something_ still battered at her with the whisper-- _Nate_...

***

"Be ready... the town is coming up."

"I'm ready, Stormy. Are _you_?"

"Of course."

"Y' sure y' know what y're doin'?"

"If you ask me that one more time..."

"All I'm sayin'... maybe it ain' our place t' interfere."

"_Remy_..."

"De more people get in dis, de more mess we gon' have t' clean up."

"You don't know Nathan very well, do you?"

"Why?"

"If we don't 'get in this' now, there may not be much left to clean up."

"Y' don' t'ink Logan can handle himself?"

"I don't think either of them will know when to stop."

"Dat's no answer."

Engines shrilled as the Blackbird prepared to land. "We will have all our answers shortly, my friend."

***

~Flonq you, Logan... go _down_...~

Nate didn't think he could keep up this pace much longer. He was growing increasingly aware that something was Not Right, and finally had to acknowledge that he was falling into increasingly more serious trouble. Against an ordinary opponent he might've been able to get away with fighting in this condition, but against Logan...

His breath was coming too short and his head was feeling light. ~_Damn_ you, you dishonorable wretch... _go down!_~

Logan twisted back and away from his uncoordinated punch-- ~Losing focus left and right, damnit...~ --and pivoted on a foot to plant a thrusting sidekick just above his pelvis. Nate doubled over, seeing stars, hearing a roaring in his ears. His heart constricted, almost seeming to seize up for a moment.

~No,~ he growled to it. ~You're not. You're _not._~

Even now, he knew he could end this with a word. Hold up his hand, let himself go down... and that would be it. Logan would back off. They'd tangled often enough over the years that he knew that.

But there'd been a night in the distant future and in his own past... darkness and a small fire and utter solitude surrounding himself and the people raising him... a moment when they'd thought him asleep, and he'd heard a quiet male voice say simply, "I love you, Redd," and she'd answered with, "Forever, Slym"...

Aliya had even taken their _names_ as her own. Jenskot. The union of the two.

And if that union was destroyed...

He spat blood from his mouth. "Weak... Logan..." he gasped out with a wet chuckle. "Can't you do... any better than that...?"

A growl was his response.

***

He was hurting, but he was winning. Because of the latter, the former didn't mean a thing. Adrenaline sang in his blood with the pain, quickening his reflexes, making the world slow down in response. Every breath brought him the scent of byproducts of exertion in his opponent's sweat. Cable was slowing, fading more with every brutal engagement.

A snarl twisted Logan's lips; almost a smile. Cable was slower to move this time when he dove in, and he managed a clean forearm strike to the man's nose before Cable could raise a block. The larger man staggered back -- reeled back, actually. Logan balanced on the balls of his feet, weight shifted forward and ready, eyes tracing every move as he waited for Cable to rally and counter.

Cable caught himself on the wall, half-turned away from him. His breathing was very loud, very quick. Logan shifted, readying himself, feeling that itching ache of a rib knitting itself back together again.

The man turned, silver hair hanging in sweat-darkened hanks around his face. Blood ran from his nose freely. He pushed away from the wall and took a step, another, faltering. His body shifted, left side coming to the fore, and Logan started to tense in preparation...

And stopped. Froze, actually, brain finally kicking in and acknowledging what his eyes had been seeing for half the fight, now. The growl seething in his chest died down to a bare rumble, then ceased entirely.

"Can't... handle it?" Cable gasped out, taking another step. "Come on... old man. Let's... finish this."

He tried to speak. It was a growl. Tried again, and managed-- "Cable... your arm..."

Another step. That golden eye was flickering; blazing, then dimming. The gray one was still hard and unmoved. "We _finish_ this," Cable hissed, forcing the words out in a single breath. Logan almost backed a step in uncertainty as the man's shirt rippled on the left side, cloth being pushed out by the not-quite-flesh underneath.

Teeth bared, Cable lunged. "_Now!_" His right fist lashed out, blazing suddenly with brilliant luminescence. It took Logan squarely on the jaw and sent him literally flying with the force of it. Plastic trash barrels broke his fall none-too- gently, and he swallowed blood. Snarling, mind burning, he shoved himself to his feet and leaped forward, claws snapping out at the ends of clenched fists.

Cable swayed. Started to dodge. Stumbled and went down, the left side of his upper body bristling with angry ridges and peaks.

Logan stopped his lunge and almost fell with the suddenness of the motion. His body was trembling; he didn't know which emotion caused it. His lips were still drawn back and his claws were still out and ready.

He didn't even see the furiously glowing card before it hit him and exploded.

***

Remy hadn't claimed much knowledge of Nathan Summers, but he'd thought at the very least that he understood his teammate Logan well enough. A hard man, uncompromising, with a core of honor that he alternately fought for and raged against.

He'd never have thought Logan would attack a downed man. Especially not a downed man who was, in theory at least, his ally.

Ororo was a step behind him, and he didn't wait for her orders. A hand disappeared inside his pocket briefly, then whipped out with a card already charged. He didn't even call a warning before flinging it directly for Logan.

And then he didn't bother watching as the explosion threw the man back to collapse against the dividing wall. He rushed to Cable-- ~Merdi, what _happened_ t' him?~ --and dropped to crouch beside him, fingers going unerringly for the pulse.

Rustling nearby as Logan started to stand... what sounded like a curse in that familiar rough voice...

Then a blast of hurricane force wind that tossed his hair wildly in the close confines of the back lot. He spared a glance to see Logan pinned against the wall, muscles straining against the force of the wind.

Ororo stopped beside him and Cable and let the wind die. "Do not move," she told Logan coldly, in a voice that would've made ice seem warm. "Or I will make it so that you cannot."

Logan braced a hand on the wall, breathing hard, and said nothing.

Remy dismissed him from his mind. ~C'mon, y' stupid lug... where's y' heart... make de damned t'ing work...~

"Remy?" Ororo said, levelly.

He didn't answer. ~_C'mon,_ homme...~

"The... virus..." Logan's voice was gruff. Grating. "'Ro, I didn't mean..." But he stopped, as if unwilling to make an excuse. Turned his words towards Remy instead, asking bluntly, "He alive?"

Remy ignored him and put a hand on Cable's shoulder to turn him to his back, tipping his head back and checking his mouth for obstruction before closing his mouth over the man's and exhaling one long breath, two... He shifted back and linked his fingers, straightening his arms before placing them just up from the solar plexus. Counted mentally-- and _one_ and _two_ and _three_ and _four_ and _five_...

Ororo paced past him and stood between them and Logan. Remy could feel the electricity crackling in the air and doing strange things to his hair.

"If he dies," he heard her say quietly, "you will have much to answer for."

... and _one_ and _two_ and _three_ and _four_ and _five_... breathe... breathe...

Pacing, at a distance. Logan didn't try to approach, but walked back and forth along the wall, eyes glued to the effort Remy was making. The Cajun spared another heartbeat-swift glance at him.

He saw something all too familiar in the haunted self-loathing staring back at him.

... _one_ and _two_ and _three_ and _four_ and _five_...

~_C'mon!_~

And _one_ and _two_ and _three_ and _four_ and _five_... breathe... breathe... and _one_ and _two_ and _three_ and _four_ and _five_...

~Team's already pullin' apart at de fuckin' seams...~ He blinked sweat from his eyes and gave two more breaths. Nothing. Put his arms back into it and went back to chest compressions. ~Got too much muscle...~ "_C'mon!_"

Not another sound in the lot. No witnesses. No bystanders.

~Either y're gon' breathe or I'm gon' break all y' ribs tryin' t' _make_ you...~

And _one_ and _two_ and _three_ and _four_ and _five._ Breathe. Breathe.

And _one_ and _two_ and _three_ and _four_ and _five._ Breathe. Breathe.

And _one_ and _two_ and _three_ and _four_ and--

Cable choked, body arcing upwards in a spasm. Remy jerked his hands back, then darted them down to the man's shoulders, disregarding the jagged protrusions on the left one. He noted Ororo's low breath of relief distantly as the tremor passed, but he was busy snaking fingers along the man's neck, feeling for...

He blinked, then wiped a slightly unsteady hand over his eyes to dash sweat away. A shaking breath escaped him, along with a bitter chuckle.

"Dere ain' gon' be no fire, eh, chere?" He sat back slowly and let tired arms fall to brace him, watching the broad chest before him rise and fall, rise and fall. "Merdi."

Ororo hadn't turned. "Remy...?"

He took a breath and pushed it out slowly. "He's breathin', his heart's beatin'... but I ain' sayin' anyt'ing else 'til Henri gets a look at him."

She nodded, still not turning. "Go. Find a stretcher or some way to transport him to the Blackbird."

It made sense -- the medevac beds were gone along with the more advanced version of the Blackbird that Operation: Zero Tolerance had destroyed -- but he wasn't too sure about leaving Ororo here like this. "Stormy..."

"Go."

He looked long and hard at Logan just past her. The man met his gaze unflinchingly, but there was no mistaking what he'd seen in his eyes before, and what burned out of them now.

Remy _knew_ that feeling.

Without a word, he stood and slipped into the lengthening shadows.

***

She gazed at him. Her heart was a cold rock in her stomach, but she knew her face was serene and composed.

His face wasn't serene, but it gave little away. One way in which they could be very alike.

"Scott," she said flatly.

He didn't blink. "He ain't comin' back. Not now. He said to tell you..." He shook his head, once. "Leader-stuff. You already know."

She nodded, listening carefully to the breaths of the man on the ground behind her. ~Hurry, Remy.~

Logan brushed a hand through his hair roughly. "So."

"So."

He looked past her. Looked at Nathan. "Finally did it, didn't I?"

"Did what."

"Outstayed my welcome with the team."

She didn't answer.

Mere moments later she heard the soft bump-bump of wheels over rough ground. Remy pushed the stretcher into the ally, looking over his shoulder. When he glanced back at her his expression was bemused. "What a crazy town... I jus' had t' ask. Dere's a little clinic... I promised t' return it..." He trailed off, then moved to collapse the stretcher beside Nathan. She took a step back, still watching Logan... then turned and crouched by the downed man.

~Scott is gone mere days, and already I've allowed this to happen.~

Remy rechecked Nathan's pulse and respiration, then nodded once. "Doin' okay. Faster we get him back, de better."

She traced her hand along Nathan's face, expression blank. ~Nathan... I should have foreseen this...~

Remy cleared his throat. She looked at him, and he bobbed his head slightly towards Logan. Ororo closed her eyes for a heartbeat, composing herself forcefully.

Then she turned a steady gaze on Logan. "Help us to get him moved. We need to keep his neck braced."

He blinked silently, twice. A trace of something crept through that carefully still expression... remorse, she thought.

Wordlessly, he stepped forward to help.

***

Jean leaned against the wall, breathing hard. She'd bitten through her lip a moment ago during the worst of the pain- spikes, and now she barely noticed the trickle of blood running down her chin.

It was all wrong. It was very, very wrong.

And it was her fault.

Whatever 'it' was.

Her heart was still racing as if she'd just fought a very long battle. Her mind whipped frantically from one thing to the next to the next, little caring for order or rationality.

Slowly, green eyes opened. She swallowed hard and waited for the pain to hit again.

It was gone.

But something was back in its place.

~... don't understand... where'd they go?~

~... think something's happened. I've never seen Storm so tense.~

~Is it about Scott, you think?~

~Maybe.~

~Has anyone told Jean?~

~Your little upworlder whore?~

~That's _enough,_ Sarah.~

~Ooh, who knew Sammy had teeth?~

She closed her eyes again and took a deep breath... then set about rebuilding her shields.

Shades of Red

Part 6

by Kaylee

The man in front of him had been driving with his left blinker on for forty-three minutes.

The actual number was probably closer to fifty-three, but Scott had only noticed the blinker forty-three minutes ago. Forty- four, now. And it had only _really_ been getting on his nerves for about thirty minutes.

Thirty-three, actually.

He'd debated honking his horn, then flashing his own left turn signal a couple of times to tell the man what was wrong. But every time he considered that he found himself gazing at the snow-capped head hunched forward over the wheel and the loving care so obviously lavished on the mid-eighties model Buick, and... he just couldn't. Surely the old man would realize the blinker was on in a minute. Surely he was just so utterly focused on his destination that he wasn't paying attention to the persistent 'click - click - click' that it would be making inside the cab. In a minute he'd notice the sound or the flashing indicator light, and then he'd reach a wrinkled hand to the side of the steering wheel and flick the lever back up into the neutral position. Surely...

Forty-seven minutes.

Scott could've gone around him, he supposed. This stretch of westbound highway just off the main Interstate was a two- lane, and he hadn't seen another car for half an hour. He could've zipped on by the crawling Buick and pushed the rental from fifty-two miles per hour to a more comfortable cruising speed of sixty-five or seventy. And then he'd've been all alone on the open road... just himself and the car and not even this simulacrum of human contact.

He sighed faintly and let his speed drop back to forty-six as the old man slowed to swerve with painstaking care around a lump of black tire lying in the road.

A stanza of a poem kept playing through his head insistently, tapping at his skull every time he tried to ignore it. Even playing the radio in the nice Toyota he'd rented did nothing to drown out the inner noise.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright; The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; But there is no joy in Mudville-- mighty Casey has struck out.

"I hate that poem," Scott muttered to no one in particular. "I really hate that poem."

But there is no joy in Mudville--

He turned the radio up again and tried to lose himself in whatever happened to be playing.

#... a _tear_ in my _beer_ cuz I'm cryin' for ya, _dear_#

Snarling slightly, he switched the station.

#... my broken heeeaaart...#

Click.

#... told him 'this is the queen of my double-wide trailer, with the polyester curtains and the redwood deck... Sometimes she runs an' I've got to trail her--#

Click.

#... whose bed have your boots been under...#

"Damn it." Eyes narrowed behind his shades, Scott turned the radio off.

But there is no joy in Mud--

Desperately, he clicked the radio back on.

And paused as the words of the latest warbling country song registered.

#Well I guess I was wrong. I just don't belong... but then, I've been here before. #Everything's all right. I'll just say g'night, and I'll show myself to the doo-oor. #Hey I didn't mean to cause a big scene. Just wait 'til I finish this glass... #Then I'll be as high as that ivory tower... and you can kiss my _ass_!#

He blinked behind his shades. Slowly let his hand fall away from its ready position by the radio.

#Cuz I've got friends in low places, where the whisky drowns and the beer chases my blues away... and I'll be okay... #Well, I'm not big on social graces. Think I'll slip on down to the Oh-Asis! O-oh, I got friends... in lo-o-ow places!#

Scott's mouth twitched against his will. Country music was on the list with 'Casey at the Bat' for things he didn't like, but _this_ was a refreshing change for a moment...

#I've got friends in low places...#

He didn't exactly have friends in low places. Out of the way places, though... those he had. Small in number, maybe, but there, standing outside of his life as an X-Man. Family, too, which was more than some of his teammates--

_Former_ teammates.

--had. His father wasn't exactly within easy reach, but his grandparents were, and he could probably find where Alex's latest lurking spot was if he looked. He hadn't talked to his brother since... well, since Alex had called him in Alaska during his convalescence from impromptu open-chest surgery. It'd been an odd conversation even for them, with Alex starting it off with an apology for nearly killing him.

Scott smiled, just a bit, and thought that he'd at least done _something_ right. He'd made peace with his brother before either one of them could go out and do something stupid enough to make that impossible. And now he had the time... he tried not to think of _why_... and there was no reason he couldn't find a few weeks to go spend with Alex. Male bonding. Sibling stuff.

Talking about...?

No. Not that. Not... yet.

The song ended and he turned the radio off before another could start. Casey and Mudville had thankfully retreated to hide somewhere in the depths of his memory for now. Scott's mind hadn't really been on... the future. The next step, yes, but nothing past it. Nothing beyond tomorrow.

But... spend a few weeks with Alex? He could _do_ that. Or his grandparents... a week, a month. Friends. He had friends who weren't in the hero business. He had friends who lived _mundane_ lives, or as near as to make no difference. Even -- and his heart quickened just a bit involuntarily -- friends who _flew._ Not people who could just jump into the sky and make it their own, but _humans_ who braved the wild blue yonder on silver-winged birds, defying natural law and proving that ingenuity could make even the lowly earth-bound like unto eagles.

Scott shifted on his seat restlessly. The left turn signal still blinked reliably on the Buick. The old man still hunched over his wheel. Greatly daring, he'd pushed the heavy car up to fifty-three.

The last letter he'd gotten from Lee had put her and her crew as working out of Long Beach, California. She'd signed the Arcadia up with a shipping company there, saying it was steady work, if not as exciting as some. That was weeks ago, but she might well still be there.

Was he ready to see Lee? Or anyone, really, who'd ask the wrong questions?

The point was really that he _could_ see her, wasn't it? He could show up on the dock in rugged clothing with nothing but a bag on his shoulder and the glasses on his face. No connections, nothing holding him back, nothing tying him down.

He could work all day in the sun as saltwater made the breeze fresh and sharp in his lungs.

He could lie awake nights on the deck, hands behind his head, watching the ruby-dark night sky twirl slowly past his vision with twinkling red-hued stars forming faithful patterns.

He could take a job going out to sea that could last anywhere from two weeks to two months, little caring when he'd get back to shore again.

Or he could exercise other talents, hit an airfield, take his life in his hands again as the plane rocketed up from the runway and into the sky.

One hour and four minutes. The old man still hadn't noticed. Maybe he just didn't care. Who cared about toeing the line when there were only these two men surrounded by endless miles of empty Texas pasture? Out here there weren't any narrow parameters for what was 'proper.' No 'duty,' except to himself. No constant awareness that others were depending on him.

A smile -- slight, but any smile was a welcome change -- broke through and pulled his lips to the sides. He felt a sudden wave of fondness for that old man and his slow Buick. The man was going wherever he wanted to go, and he'd get there in his own time. And damn anyone who didn't like it.

The smile broadened. Teeth glinted. He sat back in his seat comfortably and reached to flick a lever beside the wheel with his left hand.

Click - click - click...

The indicator light blinked at him in complaint, a split-second out of synch with the one on the car in front. A glance at the speedometer put them at nearly fifty-five. Scott hit the cruise control and settled in for a long drive.

But there is no joy in Mudville--

Well. No one said Casey had to _stay_ in Mudville, did they?

The thought was satisfying, bringing a chuckle, and he decided to keep it foremost in his mind for the rest of the trip. However long that would take at fifty-five--

He braked as the old man slowed to edge around a small depression in the road.

--fifty-one miles per hour.

end of part 6

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