Soap Gets In Your Claws

Chapter Nine: Sunshine of Your Love

New York, 1974

I: Jean

Morning came, bright and fair and warm, a lovely late-summer morning.

She and Logan got dressed, and checked out of the room, and they drove into the city.

Jean had an urge to go walk in Central Park.

They were just walking along, like anybody else, taking a walk in the park on a sunny morning, and nobody was looking at them funny.

Jean looked over at Logan.

He didn't look like the man everyone said he was, hard to understand, almost impossible to like, a hard man, a bitter man.

He was smiling, bright as the sun overhead, and he looked as happy as a little boy.

"Logan, do you remember when you realised you were a mutant?"

"I always knew, Jeannie. My father was a mutant, and he told me that I would be what he was. Because blood is blood, and blood rules out."

"But when did you know?"

Logan shrugged.

"I ain't sure. I've lost a lotta my memories. But I remember Pa pretty good. I don't reca;ll my Ma, too much, an' I don't remember the man I got my name from, the man who raised mew, Squire Howlett, at all. But I remember everything about my Pa. An' some other things. Like how it usedta drive me crazy, bein' stuck in that big old house, all dressed up in a suit. An' I don't mean it like it is for most boys, I mean, I couldn't take it. I could hear the woods outside, I could smell 'em. On a still day, I could catch Pa's scent in the air. It was like me, but not like me, an' the minute I could, I'd escape and try an' find him. If he was mean an' drunk, he's throw rocks at me like I was a rabbit in his garden, or snarl, an' cuff me. But if he was happy an' drunk, he'd take me off in the woods. For days, sometimes. Teachin' me what I was, an' how I was to survive. That, I never forgot. What about you, darlin'?"

"It wasn't when I started to hear other people's thoughts in my mind. I learned to block them out, but my mother said that Grandma was psychic, so I dismissed it. One day, something happened at school, somebody called me a nerd, or a poindexter, or something, and I was furious. I must have been all of 12. I came home and I was still mad. I was looking out the window, and I was boiling mad, so mad I just wanted to break something. I heard this terrific crash, and I saw my father looking out the window, too, and his newspaper just fell out of his hands. Every car on the street had jumped up six feet in the air, and when they smashed down, all their windows broke. Some of the houses, too. That went beyond Grandma being psychic. With that and the Accident where I lost my friend, my father put two and two together and brought me to Charles."

They kept walking, and Logan was holding her hand.

"Logan, when I told you I loved you, I meant it. I'm not going to lie to you, and tell you I'm in love with you, but you are my best friend in the whole world. And I'm not going to give up our time together for anything."

"Not even Cyke?"

Jean sighed.

"I hate myself for loving that asshole. But I am in love with him, even though I really want to kill him, right now. And that whore bitch cunt Emma Frost!"

Logan chuckled.

"All three, huh? That's pretty bad."

"She's pretty bad! And there will come a time when I want Scott to explain to me what the fuck he's doing with her, and when all this started, and then I'll have to rescue him. But it's not now. I'm thirty years old, and you know I've never really had any fun? I spent my teenage years saving the world, and I've been with the same man since I was 14, except for one other guy, one year, in college. So, I'm going to have a little fun. I'm going to see you, and go out on dates, and play the field and, have a good time. Then, when I don't feel like killing him, anymore, I'll worry about Scott. And Emma."

Jean took a deep breath of free air.

"Okay. Let's go home."

Jean walked with Logan up to the doors of the Mansion.

"Until next Monday, huh, Logan?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. Ladies first."

They walked in, separately, and Jean walked through the common room, on her way to the stairs.

The roof did not fall in on her, and nobody gave her a dirty look.

Mel and Kurt were sitting in front of the television, watching a black and white movie, eating breakfast cereal, and talking in German.

It was earlier than Jean thought.

Logan was his usual self, he came back from the kitchen with a beer, and an empty bowl and a spoon.

"Hiya, Elf. Good mornin' Mel."

"Goot morning, Logan."

"Hey there, Daddy. Have a seat." Mel added

She poured some cereal into his bowl, and Logan cracked the beer and poured half of it over the cereal.

"How was Frisco? Everything go alright?"

"Yeah. Everything was groovy. Gypsy says hi. Can we switch to me going to Frisco, Wednesdays?"

Logan sat down with Mel, and put his arm around her, and she put her head on his shoulder.

"Fine with me." Logan replied.

They continued with breakfast.

Jean felt a little funny, but they didn't, and she figured, eventually, she'd get over it.

She went up to her room.

"Good morning, Scott."

He looked like he was having anything but, he looked like hell, and Jean didn't feel sorry for him.

Now he really was the bad guy.

"Jean, listen I—"

"Save it, Scooter. Dr. Manhattan isn't the only one who can reduce people to nasty smears of blood and sludge. You're lucky I don't just ionize your ass." Jean snapped.

She went into the closet, and dragged out the old steamer trunk she'd had since she first left home to come to the X-Institute.

Then she opened it up, and took all her clothes out of the closet, folded them up, hangers and all, and put them in the trunk.

After that, she went to work on the drawers.

"What are you doing?" Scott demanded.

"Packing."

"Packing? You're leaving the X-Men?"

"Of course not. I've been an X-Man since I was 13. I'm a professor here, my friends are here, and this is my home. I'm leaving you, that's all."

"Why? You've been unfaithful to me, too!"

"Scott, I had one, count it, one encounter with Logan at a drive-in, and we didn't even go all the way! That sure didn't look like your first time with Emma. I was willing to be honest with you. I would have been willing to have an open relationship. But you made me feel like a whore, and drove Logan out of his own home, and all the while, you were with Emma Frost! How long was this going on?"

"Not the whole time. Since Logan left."

"Oh, so you only started fucking that dirty whore bitch cunt after Logan left, while you were supposedly rebuilding our relationship all summer! Well, that's much better."

Jean continued to pack.

"Are you leaving me for Logan?"

"No, Scott. I'm not in love with Logan. He's my friend, my best friend and I love him, dearly. But, as a friend. Sure, he's very good in bed, oh, I'd say exponentially better than you, but I'm not leaving you for him. I'm leaving you for me. I've worked hard to get where I am in life, and now, I'm going to enjoy it. I'm going to see Logan on Mondays and I'm going to enjoy being young and free and uninvolved. Call back some of those guys who have asked me out on dates. Bruce Wayne. Tony Stark. Guys like that. Go to the movies on weekdays, by myself, if I want to. Do whatever I want, whenever I want, just because I can. Even if all I want to do is pull an all-nighter at the New York Public Library, or have a sandwich with Napalm at Grossmann's at two in the morning. I'm going to go out and enjoy my life, Scott. And you can enjoy Emma Frost."

"Jean, I'm sorry. I just…I just…"

"You're just a big fucking jerk."

"Jean, please. I'm sorry. I…I still love you."

"Bullshit. Be happy with Emma. Until she kills you. And then don't come crying to me."

"But you said we were going to be together and have an open relationship."

"Yes. That was before I decided you were a complete and utter piece of shit. For some unknown reason, I still love you, Scott. But I am incredibly fucking furious with you now, and I don't feel like I can trust you as far as I could pick Peter up and throw him. When that changes, if it changes, we'll talk. But if I were you, at this point, I wouldn't hold my breath. Move away from the door."

"I won't."

"Then I'll move you."

Cyclops found himself flying through the air, and landing on the bed, none too gently.

Jean opened the door, and after she couldn't lift her trunk, she sailed it out the door, as well.

"You made your bed, Scott. Now, lie in it."

***

As the end of summer stretched out before her, and became fall, and the students returned and settled into a new year, The Great and Powerful Miss Jean Grey enjoyed her new birth of freedom, and was well on her way to being Jean Grey, Marvel Girl, once again.

It was a wonderful thing, having only to worry about her professional responsibilities, and to otherwise be free to do what she liked, when she liked.

Although Jean had made it sound like she was going to have a new birth of nymphomania, that was not what she used her freedom from the tyranny of being Mrs. Cyclops in all but name for. As she had told Scott, she was going out and enjoying her life, and even if what Jean enjoyed was long nights in the New York Public Library, late nights at Grossmann's Diner, morning walks in Central Park, trips to the movies on a whim, and the occasional trip to jazz clubs in the city, that was freedom to her.

Even the freedom to get up when she wanted to and go to sleep when she wanted to, to arrange her things in her rooms the way she liked, to watch the shows she wanted, listen to the records she liked, to stay up till three in the morning listening to fusion and reading Edgar Rice Burroughs, that was like a little slice of paradise for Jean.

She quit being angry with Scott, because she quit thinking about him and obsessing over him.

As for Scott, he didn't have the breakdown everyone expected him to.

He never tried to blast Logan out of the dimension, or screamed outside Jean's door at two in the morning; if he was still seeing Emma Frost he was doing it discreetly, and off school grounds. Likewise, if Jean had other romantic interests than Mondays with Logan, she wasn't bringing them, or tales of them back to the X-Mansion.

Mondays with Logan.

If there were three more exciting words in the English language, Jean didn't know them.

Six days of the week, Logan was her friend, her teammate, and her co-worker.

A short, hairy fellow with wolfish eyes, powered by beer, junk food, and beef jerky who was smarter than he let on, her friend, her best friend, nothing more and nothing less.

On the day he was her lover, he was a different man.

He was, as Napalm suggested, the end product of a thousand years of evolution, what a piece of work is man, the paragon of animals.

Moonlight and adamantium, such stuff as dreams are made of.

The depth of his love for her, its force and its fury, consumed her, and that was just the way he felt.

You wouldn't think a hairy little Sherman tank of a man like Logan would be a great lover, and maybe a lot of women wouldn't have thought him so, but there were other men and there was Logan and never the twain would meet.

She would never have another lover like Logan, and she would never need one.

There never was one, and there could never be one.

However, the obvious elephant in the living room was that what to do about Scott.

But, right now, Jean was too happy to care.

A situation that would not last long.

II: Logan

Did you ever hear the story about the man who got everything he ever wanted?

As it turns out, he was very tired.

At first, Logan just shrugged it off.

You do have three women on your dance card, you old dog you, he reminded himself.

But, as springtime pressed onto summer, Logan could no longer ignore his deterioration; he was going downhill, fast.

He had these constant aches in his body, in his back and his legs and his arms; they neer went away, and he had begun to drag himself around.

Worse, he was sleepy all the damn time.

No matter how much he slept, he wanted to sleep more; he had episodes where he'd fall asleep and snore through an entire day.

And his mind was getting fuzzy, too; he found it hard to focus and concentrate.

The strangest part, though, was that he was often assailed by feelings of hopeless depression.

Logan began to spend entire days at the bar, trying to drink away his troubles; he became completely untidy and unkempt, wearing the same clothes for days on end.

He put up a brave face for Jeannie; he honestly had no idea through what well of strength he was able to perform for either of her it was probably instinct, but, with Mel and Napalm it had become a different story.

It was Mel who got him out of bed in the morning, and moving, into the odd bath and fresh clothes; and only with all the might of her focusing her powers did he have strength to function.

There was blood between him and Napalm, he didn't hide his despair from her. For the first time in his life, since he was a small boy, he was weak, and sick, and it scared the hell out of him. He spent his Wednesdays drinking, and crying, falling asleep in her arms.

Mel wanted to go to Frisco, there was going to be a big meeting of all the West Coast chapters of the Angels, and she wanted to go there with Gypsy, and show all her brothers that she was still alive and well, and go have a good time.

But she was afraid to leave him in the shape he was in.

So, Logan mustered up the last of his strength, and put a week into acting pretty normal again, and Mel, convinced, left on a Sunday.

He saw Jeannie on Monday.

She told him she was glad he'd gotten over whatever had been troubling him.

And Tuesday?

Tuesday was the end.

Logan opened his eyes which weighed about a thousand tons apiece and found that he didn't have the will to get out of his bed, at all.

He felt so tired.

And the window was shut.

He didn't want to die, inside, in a bed; all he could do was wait and hope that someone would come, to take him outside, so he could lie in the grass, and look at the sun.

The Bowery, New York, 1974

I: Victor

Vic Creed awoke in the middle of the night, feeling like his balls were on fire, the itch was so bad.

Rubbing his bush with the heel of his hand and gritting his teeth, he staggered into the bathroom of his two-room shithole apartment, and pulled the string that turned on the overhead lightbulb.

When he saw the innumerable little red blotches all around his cock and his balls, and a few of the crawly little bastards, he roared in fury.

Crabs.

One of those fucking diseased barroom junkie whore bitches had given him the motherfucking crabs.

That was the last straw, the very fucking last fucking straw.

He'd been thinking about it, lately.

No matter what kind of a pretty frame the run put around the picture, they were in the same business.

Killing motherfuckers.

Except the runt, there were no flies on him.

He's living in a fucking mansion in Westchester, teaching combat to teenage girls in tight tee shirts and tank tops and gym shorts, and shacked up with a genuine Nymph.

He gets three squares a day, free beer, three rooms, his own private fucking bathroom, and nice fat steady paycheck.

And what are you doing, Vic?

The same job for Magneto.

Living in a dump in the Bowery, eating mac and cheese, banging old junkie whores that gave him the crabs, and drinking cheap vodka.

Victor screamed at himself in his bathroom mirror, as he ransacked the shelves beside it for Rid-X.

"You fuckin' moron! So they made your runt brother a Colonel in Marines Special Forces in 1944, and he was Level 10 Covert with S.H.I.E.L.D. right from the get go, so what? It's not good enough for you, being Major Creed, and Level 9? So they fucked you out of your promotion after 'Nam? Who didn't the G fuck after 'Nam! They fucked over every grunt in the military, why not you?"

Creed found the Rid-X.

"Fuck, that BURNS! And how's that vendetta against Uncle Sam going? What? You mean your actions are hardly noticed? Kinda like when an ant tries to fuck an elephant? Well, imagine that!"

Fuck it.

Time to come in from the cold.

Who knows, maybe I can patch things up with the runt.

It's blood between us, he's the one holding the grudge.

Against his own fucking brother, who raised him like he was a father and not a brother, over a couple of fucking frails.

What was a couple of fucking frails, more or less?

Wolverine hated Sabretooth, but, Sabretooth didn't hate Wolverine.

He couldn't understand the grudge his brother bore him, or why he was so goddamn sanctimonious; every time he fought the runt he was hoping he'd get up off the ground and laugh it off.

He was always a goddamn softie, but Vic didn't give a shit; sometimes he just wanted his goddamn brother back.

Yeah, well, you ain't gettin' shit, workin' for Magneto.

Time to go see the Sarge.

Even though I'm on his shit list.

Col. Edward M. Blake, USMC Special Forces, late of the Invaders, Director of Covert Operations for S.H.I.E.L.D since 1954, the Comedian, was the only CO that ever had a hope in hell of getting Sabretooth to follow orders, since he was one of the few people on Earth that Victor Creed did not want to fuck with.

Better known to the men who were under him in his black ops commando division in 'Nam, and the mercs who worked with him under S.H.I.E.L.D as The Sarge, he was one of the few men Sabretooth ever encountered who was almost as big as he was, and almost as savage.

Maybe more savage, because the Sarge didn't have being a feral mutant to fall back on; he was just a big, mean, nasty sunnuvabitch.

The runt, Creed would fight him all day, neither of them could kill the other.

The Sarge, on the other hand, Vic wasn't too sure that the Sarge wasn't the man nature hadn't created to make him extinct.

Now, the Sarge had never been too fond of him, because the Sarge and the runt were old buddyroos, but he was really on the Comedian's shit list now, pretty much because of a certain, well, you really couldn't call her a frail.

Not Trivelino J. "Napalm" Napier.

Nothing frail about Red.

But Red was just part of his business at the X-Mansion.

They had a history, which started with her saving his life, and then, she killed him a couple of times.

Five feet, one or two inches, about a buck forty five, maybe a buck fifty of mad, bad and dangerous to know homicidal hellcat with D-cups, no less.

She got him out of a bad jam with the C of H back in the winter of '69, and the first thing he ever saw her do was beat one of those mutant-killing sons of bitches to death with her bare hands.

He bought her a beer or two, she bought him a beer or two, and she had a cheap flop room over the bar.

It was a cold night, and she was a bad girl with hot blood who liked bad men and wanted to know if Vic Creed was a real blond.

That was a cold winter, and there was another night or three where they had a couple beers and went upstairs, and then he borrowed one of her cars without asking while she was drunk and out of it, and wrecked it.

When she insisted he pay the damages, he said some things she didn't like.

Which resulted in him having a meeting with the hook she used to hoist up car engines, only to awaken chained in the adamantium alloy chains she used for the same purposes, secured to the hydraulic lift, while Napalm approached with a chainsaw and a very Jack Napier smile.

To be fair, she did leave his right arm on so that it would be easier for him to stick his legs and his left arm back on.

It was only later that he found out that Napalm had a little problem with quarterly outbreaks of major psychotic fucking rage brought on by nightmares and Herculean boozing that was tactfully known as "The Troubles"

After that meeting with the Society of Supervillians deranged daughter, Sabretooth decided to let it ride.

Until she emerged from the runt's tent roaring like a wild animal, naked, all that red hair flying around her like a halo of hellfire, with two .45 autos in either of her hot little hands.

Sure, she shot him to pieces, but that wasn't what was special about her.

Anybody can kill with a gun.

But it was when she got up close and personal to him, and he could smell her sweat, and her rage, and she took a machete and sliced him from shoulder to hip.

That got his attention.

Not many people could kill like that, up close and personal.

But that still wasn't what was special about her.

What was special about her was that she stuck her hand into the hole she made in his chest, closed her fist around his wildly beating heart, and ripped it out him.

Now that was something.

You would think that after somebody sawed off your limbs with a chainsaw, that would be the living end, but not Napalm.

She managed to do herself one better.

He'd never forget the sight of her, naked, covered in blood, holding his still-beating heart in her hand, laughing that maniacal Jack Napier laugh in triumph.

Well, he was all healed now, but you might say that ever since that day, his beating heart was still in Liv Napier's hands.

What a woman.

But, he could catch up with Red anytime.

Despite what Jimmy or the Sarge wanted, Victor knew that there would come another dark and bloody night, one day, when Red would want him to buy her a beer.

But that wasn't what was eating him up about Jimmy's gig.

No, Victor had a woman at the X-Mansion.

Not just some frail, a woman.

It wasn't as if Creed was just a vicious, murdering psychopath, some kind of sadistic sex killer.

He didn't set out to kill frails, it was just that a large amount of them had a tendency to not survive encounters with him.

Especially the ones that protested too much.

He wasn't one of this crazy weirdos who liked to cut women's heads off and take them to bed with him, or do unmentionable things in their guts, or visit their corpses a few days later like some of these whack jobs you heard about on TV.

They were frails, goddamnit, they just couldn't take it.

Telling him yes and changing their minds, thrashing around, screaming and yelling.

Even when they were willing, and they were fucking willing a lot, all you had to do was put your hand on their mouth the wrong way, or let one claw get away from you, and bingo, they were dead.

And it wasn't as if he carried on with screwing them if they died on him; you'd have to be some kind of weirdo to want to fuck a piece of dead meat.

Not to mention, you could locate a whole shitload of women he'd put it to who were still alive and kicking, why, more of them had made it than not, and some of them were beating his door down to come back for seconds.

But they were frails; there wasn't much to them.

No fun to be had.

The only thing was, both of the women he was thinking of could get him into a lot of trouble.

As for Red, it wasn't so much her being with the runt that stopped him in his tracks, and not even so much that she was the only child of the President For Life of the Society of Supervillains; the boss' daughter.

Because the runt never scared him, and big Jack found it very amusing that Vic Creed's reaction to having his daughter bloodily murder him in a way that would have horrified the Manson Family was something like a crush.

Twice.

No, there was one person and one person only who stopped Creed's pursuit of Liv Napier dead in it's tracks.

The Sarge.

And Liv Napier wasn't just his partner, she was his girl.

Maybe he looked the other way at her getting it on with her starstruck fans, and the Sarge went way back with the runt, and he didn't think Shellhead was anything like competition, but if another alpha male came sniffing around his alpha bitch, he wasn't about to back down from the fight.

Vic had fought the Sarge, once, a long time ago, during the Big One, when The Sarge was younger and smaller and less experienced, and Creed was real surprised that he got his ass handed to him, back then in '45.

A year or so back, all he had done was have a drink at Trivelino Mac's, which resulted in a visit from the Sarge in which Sabretooth could have sworn he delivered several death blows, but yet the Comedian splattered him all over the room.

"I'm warnin' you, Vic, you even show up three days later to sniff a seat at the movie theatre my partner sat on, I'm gonna tear your cock and your balls off and stuff 'em down your throat. Then I'm gonna wait for 'em to grow back. If they do. I'll do it again, an' again, until you finally fuckin' choke to death! I got all day, I ain't busy. You got me?"

Eddie Blake did not make idle threats, and on the list of bad ways to die, being repeatedly choked on your own regenerated tool kit until your healing factor gave up the ghost and you either choked to death or bled out was probably number one.

Of course, Creed knew the reason the Sarge wanted him to stay away from Liv, and it wasn't because he was worried about her welfare.

It was because he knew goddamn well that what his woman liked was big, bad men. Hell, she fell for the Comedian because he was the biggest, baddest, meanest son of a bitch she could find who wasn't a supervillain, a psychotic mass murderer, or both.

And there wasn't anybody who wouldn't tell you that Sabretooth was one big, bad, mean son of a bitch. He was pretty sure that after a couple of drinks and a few laughs, despite her loyalty to the runt, she wouldn't be able to help herself from having another look see if good old Vic was still a real blond.

That's what Eddie didn't want.

Competition.

And the other woman?

His woman?

That was more complicated.

Maybe she thought that you picked a side and stayed that way.

Maybe she thought that she could just say goodbye to ol' Vic Creed.

One thing was for sure.

If Vic was coming in out of the cold, then she was going to learn that the only way you left Victor Creed was feet first in the box he put you in.

But, then again, he was pretty sure she knew that.

So, it was final.

"Get a good night's sleep, Vic. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life."


S.H.I.E.L.D Headquarters, New York City, Office of Director Edward M. Blake


"So, Vic, ya want back in, huh? Well, ain't that nice. What are you bringin' to the table?"

"Information."

The Sarge laughed at him.

"Fuck your information!I know when the last time that crazy fuck Magneto took a shit. I got informants in the Brotherhood, I got informants in the Society, I got informants at Arkham. I got information up the ass."

"What were ya lookin' for, Sarge?"

"Y'wanna see somethin', Vic? Open up that closet on your left. Turn on the light."

"Jesus!"

There it was, John Stryker's pickled head.

"Nick didn't want it, so I kept it. Sometimes, for certain people, in certain meetings, I put it on my desk."

"You want somebody's head, Sarge?"

"Yeah, Vic. Yours. I want five years. I don't care who the fuck makes you what kind of motherfucking offer, if you wanna come in from the cold, I fucking own you for five years. I draw the line, you put your toes on it. No side jobs, no backsliding, no bullshit. That includes going up to the X-Mansion and starting shit. You and Jimmy can't get along, ya wanna duke it out on private, fine. On your own time, on neutral turf and nobody dies. That's the deal. You put on a fucking uniform and you give me five years. Me. Your old CO. When I say jump, you ask how high. When I say shit, you ask what color. Five years, then you fet your promotion, and that's my fuckin' word you got on it. "

"I dunno, Sarge. Thats' a pretty heavy bargain. I could just go see Charlie Xavier. He's a sucker for a sob story."

"Yeah. You could. But what can he give you? And how long do you think Jimmy would let you live?"

"Awww, that runt can't kill me."

"No, but he can make your life pretty fuckin' unpleasant. Youse can run your sob story past Charlie. He'll know if you're bullshittin' him. They, you're gonna do a few months there at the X-Mansion, in case you're a world-class bullshitter. I'm not gonna fuck you the way the G fucked you, Creed. I was falt on my back when they did it, or I never woulda let it pass, and I told those fuckin' pencil pushers in Dick's pocket of they fucked you that you were gonna go over to the other side. Did they listen? Fuck no. So I'll be straight with you. You'll get your former rank and your former agent level back, and we'll start from there. Full pay, full benefits. But first, ya gotta pass muster with Charlie Xavier. Now, should youse start fuckin' up, killin' people, terrorisin' your neighbourhood, you'll finish your five years in Hell. There's prisons in the world that'll hold you, Vic, and if I gotta get you there, myself, I will. You get me?"

"Yeah, Sarge. I get you. But five years? Jesus, a tour in 'Nam was only one year!"

"Oh yeah? Why did it seem longer to me that you was there?"

"Hey, c'mon Sarge, who was it helped you bury that gook broad who tried to kill you with the bottle? Gimme a break, huh?"

"Ya got six months, Vic. You got six months to drop out, no questions asked. But, if you do, don't come back to the US government lookin' to come in from the cold. If you go this time, you're out. Take it, or leave it."

Sabretooth thought about it.

He thought about where being in the Brotherhood had and hadn't got him, and he thought about the room in the Bowery, and the cops and the feds and the whores with the crabs.

"I'll take it."

"Good. And keep your mouth shut about who you work for. That's why they call it Covert Operations."

"I know that, Sarge."

"Yeah, Vic. You're a real low-down dirty sunnuvabitch, but I'd rather have youse on my side than their side. It's good to have youse back. Get you ass to Westchester. Don't worry about the flop. I'll have that taken care of. And one more thing. You do know what I'll do to you if you touch my girl, right?"

"Sarge, I'm not that dumb."

"Vic, that broad is catnip for sons of bitches. Ya wouldn't hafta be dumb. Just breathin'. An' there may come a time when she starts rubbin' up against youse, an Hell, I can see why you'd do it. Look, me an' Jimmy' we're like fuckin' brothers, and I gotta admit, whoever you did dirty, youse never did it to me, But I'll fuckin' kill youse just the same. You get me?"

"Yeah, Sarge. I understand. I got a woman up there in Westchester. And if she's taken up with one of those little fuckers, casually I don't care, but seriously? In my place? Or if Jimmy's been at her? Shit is gonna get bad. I can't promise you anything about that."

"I ain't gonna get in the way of you and Jimmy and your family shit. Youse two can't kill each other, if you hafta try, why should I care? But, listen, you can't be killin' any of Chuck X's people."

"What if I just beat the shit out of him?"

"Who?"

"The guy."

"Vic, what guy?"

"If there is a guy."

"He hasta be able to make a full recovery."

"Well... alright. Do scars count?"

"Naah. Some of those spoiled little fuckers could use a scar or two. Signs of character."

Sabretooth laughed.

"We got a deal, Vic?"

"Yeah, Sarge. We got a deal."


Westchester, New York

III: Victor

Sabretooth showed up at the X-Mansion on a Tuesday morning that was bright, excellent and fair.

He found himself the object of a lot of hard stares, and some dirty looks, and he was pretty sure that what Colossus said to him meant something like "fuck you" in Russian, but Charlie X had put the word around that good ol' Vic Creed was coming back to the fold to be a good little black sheep, so he moved into his rooms alright, and got to the kitchen unmolested.

And it was all go at the X-Mansion, you put that many mutants in one place and you're going to get a fucking soap opera.

Today's installment of As the Stomach Turns featured the White Queen, and Cyclops, and as he peaceably entered the kitchen to see about the possibility of food, Sabretooth walked right into it.

In this corner, a hastily and scantily dressed Emma Frost.

Fucked her, she's still alive.

"Hello, baby. Is that…sniff…Scooter I smell all over you? Shit, talk about a mercy fuck!"

"Victor, what do the conjunction of the words "fuck" and "off" mean to you?"

"Lemme see. How about I'll see you, your place, Friday, unless you'll be entertaining the Invincible Iron Man?"

"Fuck off, and fuck you!"

"So, I guess that means yes. Didja change your locks?"

"Yes. Knock. I'll know it's you."

Regally, the White Queen took her leave.

And, entering the room as Victor sat at the table with a half a bag of chips, the loser and still wimpiest, Scooter.

Who had no shirt on, and was holding up his pants.

"Jesus." He said

"Yeah, I know. Hope you wore a rubber, my man." Creed advised, laughing.

Cyke buckled his belt.

"Sure I did. She sleeps with you."

Sabretooth laughed.

"Hey, that's a good one! Took some balls."

"Yeah, well, when Jean left me, she gave them back. Poor Logan. He has no idea."

Cyclops got a donut from a box on the counter.

"You listen, Creed. I know you think I'm a sad little bastard, but, I'm the team leader, here, in combat situations. So this can go two ways. We can live here, and get along, and you can do what I tell you in the field, or I can fry your ass to a crisp. It won't kill you, but it'll hurt."

"Hey, Cyke, don't worry about me. I like this setup. I'm gonna be a good little Injun."

"I hope." Cyclops said, and took his leave.

Sabretooth couldn't help but think that ol' Cyke, he manned up, a lot. He thought about what he'd said about Jimmy.

Maybe me and Chuck X need to have a talk.

Vic polished off the chips, and then proceeded directly through the open doors to Professor X's office.

"So you see, Chuck, it's like this. I ain't gonna pretend that I'm all the sudden Mr. Sunday-Go-To-Meetin', but like Erik says, it's all economics. Here I am, I'm livin' like a hunted fuckin' animal in a flop in the Bowery with rats, roaches and junkies. And my old pal Jimmy, he's up here livin' in the lap of luxury. Three rooms in a mansion. Three squares a day. Steady work, steady paycheck. Nice lookin' broads with no track marks who won't steal your wallet while you're sleepin' and give you the crabs. And I'm alright by Nick Fury, then you got what they call the Full Faith and Credit of Uncle Sam behind you. I usedta have that. I had a rank, and full pay and full benefits. But then, like a dumb-ass, I went rogue. Now I've never been anything but a mercenary, and I've spent a lot of time workin' directly for Uncle Sam, and never against him. So what the fuck am I doin' workin' for Magneto, when I can feather my nest here, and maybe get in good with the G again? I got it all worked out with the Sarge, and he's got it all worked out with Fury. If they think I'm straightened up and flyin' right, I can slide back into government work, again. And finally get my fuckin promotion I been promised since 1945, in another 5 years. So, look, I just wanna come in outa the cold, Chuck. One mutant to another."

"Well, Victor, considering the degree of psi blocks you've put up in your mind, all I can discern from you is that you haven't come here to harm Logan, and that, indeed, violence is not on your mind."

"See? I know I can't lie to you."

"That said, you'll forgive me if I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. But, you are a fellow mutant, and I'm duty bound by my own charter not to just turn you away. I warn you, though, Mr. Creed, one slip up, and you are out. And I couldn't possibly let you stay here for more than a month."

"That'll be good enough. Chuck. I appreciate you givin' me another chance."

"I hope you don't misuse it."

Of course, there was no way you could explain that to Jimmy.

Jimmy always had a fucking temper, a worse fucking temper than he ever had.

Not only did he look just like Pa, he had Pa's temper, he'd fucking fly off the handle over goddamn anything, especially when he had a few beers in him, and although he didn't drink like Pa did, shit, nobody on Earth drank like Pa did, there wasn't a whole lot of times he didn't have a few beers in him.

Still, it was time to yank the runt's chain a little.

Sabretooth stalked back and forth outside the runt's door to his rooms, knowing he'd been sniffed out.

No Jimmy.

That wasn't like him.

"Hey, Jimmy? C'mon, runt, what are ya doin', hidin from me? I wanna tellya somethin'. I didn't come here to steal your woman, either of 'em, or beat the shit outa you, or kill anybody. I got tired of livin' in the Bowery like a fuckin' hunted animal, an' I'm tryin' to get back in good with the G. If this works out, I owe five years of my life to the Sarge, and that's some stretch. But at least I'll be off the shit list. I'm serious, Jimmy. I'm on the level."

Still no answer.

Sabretooth opened the door and went into Wolverine's rooms.

Immediately, an unsettling smell assailed his nose; it was sickness, but a strange, indefinable sickness.

SNIKT!

Wolverine sat up in bed, his claws out.

"You never been on the level in your fucking life, Creed!"

Sabretooth slammed his door.

Here we go, him and his fucking temper, and he was on his high fucking horse, again.

Nobody was around, so he let the runt have it, jabbing a clawed finger at his chest.

"No? So I wasn't on the level when I left a cushy job workin' days for Wells Fargo an' nights as the bouncer of the most high class whorehouse in the Dakotas to maroon my ass in the Great White North with you for almost ten years on that shit-ass little homestead of Pa's way up on a fuckin' mountain in East Central Shitsville with a coupla mangy chickens, an old milk cow, a work horse and a fuckin ten foot square patch of sorry fuckin' vegetables? How about that shit, huh? Was I on the level, then?"

That took the wind out of Jimmy's sails for about a minute.

"Oh yeah? Well, how about when you and me and Pa had that claim up in the Yukon during the gold rush and you decided that my woman, who had been my woman since I was 15 and who you never gave two shits for until she grew some tits and ass had to spread it around the whole family! It wasn't enough for you I had to leave my Pa, and my claim, and our land, and take her way up on the mountain, you hadda follow us! And you couldn't take no for and answer, you hadda kill her on my birthday!"

"I thought your memory was shit!"

"Some things a man don't forget!"

"Well she ain't dead, is she?"

"That's a little beside the fuckin' point!"

"I keep tellin' you, she came onto me! Goddamn it Jimmy, I admit I screwed the squaw, and I admit I killed her, but there was no rape involved! She was all over me like the stripes on the flag, that's why I killed her! That broad was no goddamn good!"

"Don't you say that about Silver Fox!"

"Why not? It's the truth! Goddamn you Jimmy, why is it you never fuckin' listen to me? Why the fuck are you always up on your get off your high motherfuckin' horse! You know what you do, here? You fuckin' kill things! You get three squares a day and a nice suite of rooms and a steady paycheck to teach sweet young things in tank tops and gym shorts how to fight, in exchange for your services as a guy who kills things. Any fuckin' thing. You got, count' em, three good-looking frails pantin' after you on a regular basis, an' everybody thinks my brother's a hero. Well, goddamn it, I kill things, too. An' I gotta live in the Bowery an' be a bad guy? Fuck that shit! You can't bullshit me, Jimmy. We came from the same crazy, drunken Mick of a father who never wanted to do anything but fight, drink, screw an' read books, an' neither of us is that different from Pa! So if you can be a hero, so can I! Fuck you if you don't like it. You're not fuckin' up my last shot!"

He headed for the door as Jimmy delivered his parting shot.

"I won't hafta fuck it up for you, Vic! You'll fuck it up, yourself! You'll end up sticking either your dick or your claws in the wrong place and Eddie'll put his boot right up your ass and you'll be back in the Bowery where you belong with the other fuckin' bums!"

Victor Creed went downstairs and sat himself in front of the TV.

Everybody who was sitting on the couch moved.

He sat there for awhile, thinking about his encounter with the runt.

Since when did he fight sitting up in bed.

Since when was he in bed at two in the afternoon, on a warm and sunny day?

And there was that sick smell.

The more he thought about it, the less he liked it.

Finally, he went back upstairs.

"Hey runt?"

No answer at all.

"Jimmy? Ya alright in there?"

Not even a sound.

Sabretooth went into the room a second time.

Jimmy was just lying there on the bed.

"Jimmy?"

Victor opened up the drapes, and let the sun in.

Jimmy's eyelids fluttered, and he groaned like a man who was a hundred years old.

"Jesus Christ, Jimmy, what the fuck is the matter with you?"

Victor couldn't help but notice Jimmy's unshaven chin, and his bloodshot eyes, ringed with purple pouches, and his unhealthy pallor.

Under the pale white, his skin looked grey, and his eyes were empty, distant and lifeless.

It took a while for them to focus on his brother's face.

There was a lot of bad blood between them, but, at a time like this, that kind of shit didn't matter.

Like Pa always said, blood is blood, and blood rules out in the end.

"You alright, there, little brother?" Sabretooth asked.

He leaned closer, sniffing around his brother, hesitantly.

Almost wishing Jimmy would take a shot at him.

"Vic? That's you, right?"

"Yeah, it's me, Jimmy. Jesus, what the fuck's the matter with you? You ain't been this sick since you were 13?"

Jimmy laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound.

"Sick? I'm fuckin' dying. Take me outside, willya, Vic? I don't wanna die in a goddamn bed. What would Pa think, his son, dyin' in a goddamn bed?"

"I'll take you outside, alright. I'm gettin' you the fuck outa here, right fuckin' now!"

Talk about he ain't heavy, he's my brother.

Vic Creed carried 300 pounds of jellified Wolverine out to his van, and started out for the thruway.

He had a pretty good idea what was eating his little brother up alive.

She did this to him.

Miss Fuckin' Mind.

She sucked the juice out of Cyclops slow, over a long time. But Jimmy was a man and Scooter was a little faggot, so she had battened onto Jimmy a lot harder.

She was riding him into the ground and sucking the life right out of him, faster than his healing factor could fix him.

All the healing factor in the world can't fix you when your mind's all blasted into mush.

He figured he had to take Jimmy someplace where he could hide out, with somebody he trusted.

That spelled out one person.

Red.

He stopped off at the sleazy bar he'd passed on the way in, and made a phone call.

"What?"

"Hiya, Sarge. Listen, I'm not blowin' this deal, but there's somethin' wrong with my brother. I'm takin' him to New York, to Red. You know, to Liv. I just wanted you to know I wasn't movin' in on her."

"What the fuck are you talkin' about, Creed?"

Sabretooth laid the whole story out for the Comedian.

"Jesus Christ! Well, the kid, she knows a lot about mutants, an' genes, and science, she'll take good care of him. Just goes to show you. Never fuck a broad who can get into your fuckin' brains with you. I fuckin' told him that. I said, Jesus, Jimmy, this broad, she's got a mortgage on your body an' a lien on your soul, an' if you get in deep with her, she'll stick a fuckin' straw in your brains and suck the juice outa youse like a fuckin' vampire. She's a fuckin telepath, she can't help it. Look what she's done to fuckin' Scooter. Did he listen? No."

"You think if I get him away from her, he'll be alright?"

"He'd better be. Because you and me and the kid, we'll be comin' for that high-toned witch, an' between the three of us, we'll find a way to stop her fuckin' clock. But yeah, I think he'll be alrright. Jimmy's tough."

"Yeah, but my brother's got a sixth sense for the wrong broads. That Mel dame, and Red are the only broads I've seen him with who never did anything to fucking destroy him."

"Yeah, well, you stay out of it, Vic. Let Jimmy figure it out for himself."

III: Liv

So I get this weird phone call from Eddie, which makes very little sense to me, but I understand Logan's sick, and everybody thinks I can fix him up, so I swing into action.

I leave the lab early, and I call home and talk to Alfred.

All I really told him was that Wolverine had been subject to a psi force for an extended period of time that had sapped his strength, and he was going to come and stay with me in my rooms for awahile, if he needed anything, could Alfred please help him if I was working.

Alfred was tactful enough to pretend he hadn't the faintest idea of what I was talking about, and said he'd inform Pop, but he was sure that would be just fine.

Of all the people to show up with Logan, it's Vic Creed, and I know he must be in a bad way if that evil SOB has suddenly become full of brotherly love.

Logan's tottering along with brother dear's help, and he manages to get out a wan grin and a "hello, darlin'" before I take charge of him.

I took him to my bedroom and put him to bed.

Now Alfred, he was a medic in the British Army, so he knows some basic medicine, and he went in to check Logan over.

And here's Sabretooth, in my living room, helping himself to my booze.

Okay, so it wasn't the first time, but still.

"You wanna tell me just what the fuck is going on?" he asks me.

Well, I had to tell the man the truth.

"I'm tellin' ya, Vic, that X-Mansion is like a fuckin' soap opera, anymore. Everybody's fuckin' everybody else on the QT, runnin' in an' out of each other's bedrooms all night, fuckin' themselves stupid, and then they all sit down to breakfast and pretend nothin's goin' on. I mean, take Logan, for example. He's got every broad in the joint tryna crawl in his pants with him. His girl, Yukon Mel, she wants to get him the fuck out an' I can see why. I got Wednesdays and I'm crowded in, and she's lucky if she can get in his bedroom, at all. He's got Jean Grey on Mondays, and if you think Jean doesn't get in where she can fit in on the weekend, you're crazy. She's wearin' the poor man down to a nub. Not like me an' Mel, we understand the man has to eat and sleep and stop and smell the fuckin' roses, ya know? But Jean, she spent so many years with Scooter, who, if ya want me to tell you the truth, I'd like to take for a spin just to corrupt the shit out of him, it's no wonder she acts the way she does, but she's ridin' Logan right into the ground. Look, I got no proof of this, but ever since him and Jean parted ways, Scooter's like a whole new man. I mean he's still Scooter, but he ain't tired, he ain't listless, and aint depressed. He's all fulla fuckin' energy, zoomin' around and fulla life an' just bustin' out with wholesome good cheer. At the same time, Logan, he's gettin' more an' more like Scooter was with every passing day. Worse even. So, I'd say that, an' probably without her knowin' it, when Jean digs a guy, and she's into him, she's into him further than he knows. Without gettin' to sciencey on you, what I mean is, she's not just crawlin' into his pants with him, she's his head with him, too. Got her fingers in his mind. Maybe that's just the way it is when you're into somebody, they're always on your mind, but with Jean, I think she's always in their minds. And she's gone goofy over Logan, so it only makes sense she's really leanin' on him."

"Yeah, I was thinkin' the same thing. But as soon as the stupid bastrd gets well enough, he'll be draggin' his happy ass right back there into her arms. An' he aint gonna listen to me."

Vic is, of course, 100 per cent right.

"He ain't gonna listen to nobody about Jean Grey. But, if you really wanna make an impression that you turned over a new leaf, somebody hasta tell Charlie that he'd better reprogram Jean so that she doesn't kill a guy with kindness. And as for the rest of the chicks in that joint, you better watch your pants, my friend. Every broad who gave you the evil eye this afternoon will be poundin' down your door by nightfall, rippin off your pants an' foamin' at the mouth. An' should you try and say hello to them in the morning they'll use this or that fuckin' mutation to put a powerful hurtin' on you. And, whoever their old man is, who is most likely fucking Emma Frost and several of the students that are 16 or older on the sly, he'll try and rip you a new one. It won't be long before they're all stampedin' to the principal's office, blamin' you for every little thing, and you end up on Eddie's shit list, and back in the Bowery. You better get back with your old lady, and forget the rest."

It took Sabretrooth a minute or two to process all that information.

"You're friends with her. How does it look?"

I just laughed.

How does it look, he wants to know.

"It looks like she's got a whole new life and she wants no part of the old. But that's bullshit. She doesn't want to change sides of the cape, but I know she wouldn't mind having her step-parents back in her life. Or a certain feral mutant that I hear about, more often than she thinks she's talkin'."

That was probably the first good news ol' Vic Creed had all day.

"Jesus, what a fuckin' mess. Tell me again why I'm the bad guy and they're the good guys?" he asks.

This is a question I often wrestle with, myself.

"I think it comes down ta who you kill, an' why. If ya kill in cold blood, or if ya like to kill, just to see some fucker bleed, or if ya kill innocent people, that makes you a bad guy. But, then, again, the good guys have killers, too. People like me an' Logan an' Eddie. I guess we skate right up to the line." I replied

"I've skated over it." Vic admits.

"Yeah. No shit. I guess you get to be a good guy because it's a shit world, and they always need more killers, and when a guy's good at his job, Uncle Sam can always find a bigger rug to sweep a few bodies under. That's life. Maybe the only difference between who's a bad guy and who's a good guy is what kind of suit you wear and where your money comes from."

"That's how i see it, Red. An' it doesn't surprise me about the X-Mansion. You know, Erik always usedta tell us that if Charlie X knew what went on behind closed doors at night in that place, he'd start putting saltpetre in the water."

"Hey, I been spendin' nights there since 1970, and you would not believe the shit I haven't seen. But lately, since all this shit with Jean and Logan started, it's really been go go go. If you want my advice, make nice with your old lady get back in her good books, have a happy reunion but otherwise, keep your dick in your pants. Those teenagers are the poison candy. Lock your door at night. Me, I go up on Wednesday, I spend my time with Logan, I teach my class on Thursday morning, I eat my lunch and I get the fuck outa that hubba-hubba hump-a-thon horny house of hysterical hypocrisy."

"Thanks for the advice, Napalm."

"No problem, Vic. If you really are goin' straight, you deserve a chance. If you ain't, Jesus, I don't know how to kill youse for an encore, this time."

That struck me funny, and I let out one of my best Joker Jack Napier laughs.

One thing about Vic, it don't bother him. He shrugged it off, and had another beer.

Then, he got in the wind.

Which leaves me to put the pieces of Logan back together.

So, Alfred comes out of my bedroom a few minutes after Sabretooth splits, and he tells me that, physically, there's not much wrong with Logan.

He's exhausted, somewhat dehydrated, and he has a slight fever, probably due to his poor condition, but his healing factor should be taking care of that.

"Now, it's beyond my expertise, but I would hazard a guess that Mr. Logan's problem is indeed due to that psi force you mentioned. It has most likely sapped his strength to the point where his healing factor is completely occupied in the minimum maintenance of his mental faculties. I would assume that since he's been removed from the force in question, he'll be able to improve. But, put his back in the purview of that force again, and he'll worsen, again."

"Don't worry, Alfred. Professor X knows about it, and he's going to take care of it."

"And you're going to take care of Mr. Logan?"

"Yeah."

III: Charles

"Thank you very much, cabbie."

"No problem, Professor. You just call and I'll be there in an hour."

The van marked "Westchester County Specialised Transport" pulled away, leaving Professor Charles Xavier to wheel down the neat, quiet, tree lined street on Central Park West, with the park on one side of him and a row of expensive old stately homes and dignified brownstones rising on the other.

He stopped and turned, wheeling himself up a tree-lined stone walk, to a set of steps, which had an intercom box woven into its tasteful wrought-iron grating.

Squaring his shoulders, resolutely, he pressed the button on the intercom.

"Hello? Good morning?"

It was a lovely spring morning, indeed.

After a pause, he heard the button click, and a sleepy voice.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, Raven. It's Charles. Did I wake you?"

"Professor Xavier? Where are you?"

"Erm, outside."

"I'll go wake Erik."

In a few minutes, the carved oak door opened and there was Erik, tying the front of his obscenely expensive dressing gown that was the same color as his costume, smoothing out his thick white hair, with a careless motion of his hand.

Same old Erik, lazily getting up late from a late night with a beautiful woman, and looking like he was ready for the cameras to roll.

"Charles! This is a surprise. Let me help you in."

Professor X found his wheelchair levitating smoothly through the doorway, and he wheeled himself after Erik through the foyer, and into a cosy but elegant dining room.

"I do appreciate you opening your school to Victor. I don't know why he wants to get back in bed with the government, but, it's his life. Or has he done something unspeakable, already."

"He never got the chance. He arrived, unpacked, had breakfast, and found that his, former comrade, Logan, was extremely ill. He took Logan to a…safe place to recuperate, and came to see me, to inform me of the situation. He's still at the Mansion, and he's been minding his p's and q's, and Logan is recovering but he won't be able to return until the…source of his illness has been taken care of."

Erik raised an eyebrow.

Charles thought about Victor Creed's words.

The man seemed genuinely upset.

As well he should be, for, unbeknownst to the rest of the X-Men and most of the world, but known to Professor X, Logan was Victor Creed's younger brother.

"Look, Charlie, I've known Jimmy Logan a long goddamn time. Since he was crawling on all fours, if you wanna know. An', next to the Comedian, and uh, Jimmy's father, and, well, me, he's the strongest son of a bitch I ever knew. I mean, they dropped that Hiroshima bomb right in his lap, and he walked away. When we were with Weapon X, I saw him do some shit, let me tell you. But that guy I saw there, lyin' in bed? That wasn't the Jimmy Logan I know. He looked like somebody stuck a fuckin' straw in him, right into his heart an' his soul an' sucked most of it right outa him. Like a wet paper sack. You know he asked me ta take him outside,m an'; let him die in the sun? I load him into my van, he couldn't walk. No offence to you, Charlie, but, until you can tell that telepath broad to turn off the juice. She's killin' him."

Charles thought about a way to sugarcoat the pill.

"It's come to my attention that I was slightly remiss in some of my training of Jean Grey. Apparantly, when she gets involved with a man, subconsciously, she leeches some of his vitality from him." He said.

"I see. And when you say that, do you mean he gets a little tired and cranky, or do you mean she slowly sucks away the marrow of his mind until he is a grey and lifeless melancholy shadow of a man?" Erik asked.

"More the latter than the former."

"I see. Well there are a lot of women, and I suppose, men who will do that to a person, even if they aren't a telepath. Let me guess. Scott Summers is flowering brightly, like a late-blooming rose. And poor Logan, upon whom Jean has likely battened herself with a vengeance, after a lifetime in the limpid arms of Mr. Milquetoast, is withering away at an alarming rate, having got much more of what he wanted than is good for him."

"Yes. He's left the Institute, for awhile, as I said. Trivelino is taking acre of him. He's been away two or three days and he's much better. But he wants to come back. Erik, this is serious. How can I tell him that it's the woman he loves that's killing him? And how can I tell Jean that the reason Scott fell into a deep dissociative depression that nearly destroyed his sanity was because she's been unwittingly feeding off him like a vampire, for all these years? My God, I must be blind. How was it I didn't see this, all these years?"

"It's very simple, Charles. Scott hasn't got much of a life force to suck away, and I imagine Jean's doing quite a bit more sucking away at Logan."

He smiled a little to himself, at his joke.

"We did program her together, Erik. When she was a child. At the time, we worked together. I'm not sure I can re-program her without your help. And, as you said, I am giving Victor another chance."

"Quid pro quo, eh, Charles? It's not necessary. I don't really see where my aiding you in helping a fellow mutant goes against my agenda. And you've told her nothing?"

"That I will undertake, alone."

"Charles, if you'll forgive me, you aren't exactly a ladies man. Perhaps I should help you in this matter from beginning to end. In the mean time, I think it would be best for Logan if he stays with Trivelino, don't you?"

Charles sighed, heavily.

"Yes."

"As for Logan, and Cyclops, no one needs to tell them anything. After we've helped Jean correct her problem, they'll never know she had it. Best to keep things simple. And I'll speak to Trivelino without Logan's knowing. Get her to hold onto him, for a little while."

Charles smiled a little.

"I forget, sometimes. The Joker and Magneto aren't to her what they are to other masks. Villains. To her, it's Daddy, and Erik, who taught German, classical music, and chess when she was growing up."

"As Trivelino is fond of saying, sometimes there's very little difference between one side of the cape, and the other. Now, let's put our troubles aside, and have breakfast, like civilised people. Raven, you can come in, now."

For a little while, Charles Xavier decided that was good advice.

"So, tell us, Charles, how is our stepdaughter doing?"

"You haven't heard from Rogue?"

Raven shook her head, sadly.

"Not for quite some time." Erik answered.

"I have tried to make her understand that just because she no longer works with Magneto and Mystique from the Brotherhood, that doesn't mean that she has to forsake Erik and Raven, who raised her. She doesn't quite get that, yet. She's trying to build a whole new life by simply forgetting the old one existed. She's very well liked by the team, and she's doing quite well, but, emotionally, Rogue has a long way to go."

"And having Victor around isn't going to help." Raven added.

"Actually, it might. She can't ignore what's right in front of her face." Erik replied.

"Especially not if it's Victor Creed." Charles interjected.

That struck them all as funny, and they had a good laugh.

Sometimes, that's all you can really do.


IV: Jean

It wasn't just that Jean knew because she was a telepath.

She wasn't blind.

She could see Scott flowering like a late-blooming tree, and Logan withering and dying like a sturdy plant that had suddenly been ripped from the ground by its roots.

But, when she went to Charles' office and found that Erik Lensherr was there, too, she realised that her problems were more serious than she had thought.

"Jean, you and I have to talk." Charles said

"About what? I know what's wrong with me. I almost destroyed Scott's mind, and I just about killed Logan. Napalm had to take him away from here, and if I so much as have lunch with my…one of my very best friends, it will destroy him. I want to join the Brotherhood, Erik. Get me out of here. I don't want to hurt anyone else I love."

Jean was glad she didn't sob; she felt like sobbing.

"It's not so bad as all that, my dear. You were a little girl, and a little girl in a coma, at that, the last time Charles and I tried to help you. How were we to know that when you became a woman, you would be the fortunate kind of woman who loves so deeply, with all her heart and soul, that she leaves a little of herself in the souls of the men she loves. You're just leaving a little too much. And Charles can fix that, I'm sure." Erik assured her.

"Everything will be fine, Jean. You and I will go on a voyage together, and Erik will be here to, spot us, as it were. Just like when you were a child."

"It's my fault, Charles. I've been, well, I've been wrong all these months. I was wrong to try and change my life."

"Jean, it's never wrong to desire to be free. Now, you must be strong. For Logan, because he loves you. You know he won't care if that would kill him, he'd gladly die for you. And for Scott. He loves you, and you love him, and he's tripping merrily down the path to misfortune, without you." Professor X explained.

"A path that many, many, many men have trodden before." Magneto quipped.

"That fucking whore! She's lucky I don't blow her into bloody blonde bits!" Jean seethed.

"Jean, please!" Professor X insisted.

"Oh, let her go, Charles. She has every right to be angry." Erik protested.

"Yes, but where we are going, it won't do her much good."

Jean was afraid to go into her own mind, with Charles, afraid of what she might find there, but, it was the only way.

(Author's Note: This is not turning into a movie fic, and although I didn't like Logan and Victor as brothers the way they were portrayed in the Wolverine Origins movie, as there was not enough there, I found the idea intriguing, especially after reading the Wolverine Origin and Sabretooth Origin comics. Also, I've written up some Sabretooth mayhem, but one gets tired of him just showing up and going nutso; there's more to the character than that, and I figured, well, let's see him at his best, and knowing good ol' Vic Creed, he'll be showing us his worst, soon enough. And if it's Much More Sabretooth you want, tune into "Soap Gets In Your Fangs, Too", for more of Victor's X-ploits at the X-Mansion.)