Pieces of Your Soul
by
Zerelda X


X-Men belong to Marvel, no quibbling from me. Charlotte and Thomas are mine, as are the Quapoa tribe and the Torelans. Anything mystical I made up. Luna Foundation and its inhabitants belong to MGM/Showtime/Trilogy. No profit, no foul. Strictly for entertainment only.

---

He'd noticed the big man staring at him. He didn't like it.

The large man was sitting in a booth in the back of Harry's Hideaway nursing a beer, looking like he was waiting for someone. He was Native American, long dark hair shot with gray at the temples, high cheek bones, copper-toned skin. The moment Logan stepped foot in the place, he'd felt the man's eyes on him. Hell, it was usually Gumbo that got that kind of attention, from women and men.

He was about to go over and bury some claws in the man when Hank, wearing his image inducer, strode through the door and took a seat across from the stranger.

Logan settled back down. That's all it was, he told himself. The stranger was waiting for Hank, probably recognized him as a friend of Blue's. Not a potential victim about to make a pass, thank God. That was one complication he didn't need right now. All he wanted to do was take a break from the crowd at the mansion.

He'd had a few beers and shot a game of pool solo before Hank waved him over to join them.

"Logan, this is a friend of mine from San Francisco, Thomas Ashcroft."

Logan stood by the table and nodded politely.

"Thomas is an authority on the tribal rites and practices of North American native peoples. He was asking about the medallion you wear." Hank's voice was calm, hoping to avoid the scene that might happen. Logan was touchy about the subject of his medallion. Not remembering exactly where he got it and what it meant didn't lessen the idea it was important to him. He never took it off, calling it his good luck charm. Swore nothing bad ever happened to him when he wore it. Would swear nothing good ever happened to him, either, after a couple of six-packs.

Logan's lip curled as he turned to the stranger, glaring a warning into the man's amber-colored eyes.

"I was telling Dr. McCoy that the medallion is known to me. I asked if he knew where you obtained it." His voice was soothing, non-threatening.

"You can tell me what it is, what it means?" Logan pulled up a chair to the end of the booth and set his beer down.

"Yes, if you want to know."

"I'll just leave the two of you alone to talk," Hank murmured, rising.

Logan shook his head. "Nah, that's okay, stick around." He wasn't sure about what he might learn and wanted the backup.

Hank sat back down.

"May I look at it?" Thomas gestured to it.

After a moment's hesitation, Logan removed it and placed it in the Indian's hand. He had to consciously restrain himself from snatching it back.

The man touched it reverently, turning it in his large hands. He had a bemused smile on his face. "It is a bonding gift, part of a set, approximately 200 years old. The Quapoa tribe used these to symbolize the union of two souls. This one is the male medallion. When a man wore it, he publicly announced his intention to love and protect his 'soulmate' for time and all eternity. This particular piece was specially crafted for a shaman by the name of Raven. The shaman's personal totem guide is on it, the raven," he indicated the bird etching, "along with the bonding spell etched on the back. 'Love knows no boundaries, my soul will find yours.' It's said the wearer can remove it, but it can't be taken from him."

He handed it back. "The legend also says that when each is worn by mated hearts, their love will protect them. The tribe practiced magic, symbols such as this held great power for them. Do you know where the other piece is?"

Logan held it in his hand and shook his head. "Don't even know where I got this one. I've had it a long time. Since...." He couldn't even remember that far back.

"Up until about 100 years ago in the Northwest wilderness, if a woman gave you this you would be considered her mate if you accepted it," Thomas explained. "Same thing for a man who gave the female counterpart to a woman. It was a form of marriage, as binding in the eyes of the tribe as a Christian ceremony. It's also believed to connect the couple to each other, even over long distances."

"Well, I ain't got the urge to go find a woman," Logan muttered. Damn thing was like a brand, was it? He slipped it back on and tucked it under his shirt.

Thomas regarded him with bland amusement. "My mother is very interested in these symbols. She has made a study of them over the years. Would you mind if I told her about yours? She might get in touch with you about photographing it. She's currently at work compiling a history of the Quapoa tribe. Unfortunately, the tribe has nearly died out. She may even know where the female piece is."

"How is your mother?" Hank inquired. "I have searched for her on-line but she doesn't appear to be spending much time there lately."

"Charlotte's in rewrites now. She's been overworked lately. Can't hardly get her to admit the sky is blue, she hasn't seen it in a while."

"Lady Charlotte should take a breather and come visit me. I have been anxious to meet her. She has provided many helpful resources for my research into folk medicines."

*Lady Charlotte* rolled over Logan, echoing in his brain. It was so familiar, but he just couldn't make that leap. He stood up abruptly, his chair falling over. "See ya back home, Hank." He rushed off, throwing some bills on the bar. If it wasn't enough Harry would let him know.

Hank looked worried, but shook it off. Logan was inexplicable most of the time. The sounds of his Harley revving up and speeding away stilled their conversation. He made a shrug of apology to his friend.

Thomas watched his mother's chosen consort through the window leave the parking lot at a dead run. Time for a long talk with the old lady. She had a lot of explaining to do.

~*~*~*~*~

"I will be returning late this evening or possibly in the morning," Hank informed Jean. He patted his pockets for his car keys, feeling rushed and excited.

"Got a hot date?" Bobby teased from his spot in the doorway. "Need a few pointers? I know it's been awhile for you, buddy."

"If I were looking for advice on dating, I believe I would seek out someone who has had a date within the last year," Hank retorted.

Professor Xavier frowned at Bobby, who mimed a fatal blow, hand to his heart.

"A friend of mine, Thomas Ashcroft, is flying in today with his mother to spend some time in the city. She and I have been e-mailing each other now for several years. He has finally persuaded her to take a break from her work and I don't want to miss the opportunity to make her acquaintance." He looked around irritably. "If I could locate my car keys...."

Jean spotted them on the side table in the hall and floated them over to him.

He smiled gratefully at her. "We will be having dinner tonight. I believe a concert or an opera occupied a special place on her itinerary, and Thomas assures me he won't go." He flicked the switch on his image inducer and picked up a garment bag with his evening clothes packed inside.

Jean waved him off. Hank had been working too hard lately, it would do him good to get out and socialize. Even if it was with his friend and his friend's elderly mother.

~*~*~*~*~

Thomas was easy to spot in the crowded terminal. At 6'4", 275 lbs of solid muscle, his dark head was conspicuous. Hank waved at him from the behind the barricade where the Indian was entering the terminal. An older woman followed behind him, and Hank smiled and waved at her, believing this would be Thomas' mother. He knew Charlotte herself was British by birth, she'd told him so during their many on-line conversations.

The woman looked at Hank in a fearful manner, then scurried to her own family waiting patiently for her, no doubt to tell them about the 'masher'.

Thomas shook Hank's hand. He was alone.

"But where is Lady Charlotte?" Hank asked.

"She had to catch a different flight," Thomas looked at his watch. "It should be landing in about a half hour. Time for some coffee." He took a firm grip on his shoulder bag. "One word of caution, Hank. Call her Lady Charlotte and you're likely to get toasted."

"She does not care to use her title?"

"No, not in the least." He smiled. "A friend of mine at the Luna Foundation insists on doing that and he never knows what he'll find booby trapped after she visits."

They caught up over lattes from the Starbuck's concession. "Has your friend remembered anything else about his medallion?"

Hank shook his head. "Logan was the subject of several government experiments years ago and it left him a man without a background, with pieces of a past that may not have existed. He was disturbed by the information you gave him, yet I understand he appears to be coping, perhaps even recovering some of his lost history. The question is whether or not what he is recalling is actually history or memory implants."

"I didn't realize his problem," Thomas frowned. "I shouldn't have told him so much."

"You could not know."

Charlotte's flight was called. They finished up their coffee and made their way to the gate to wait.

The plane landed and the passengers disembarked. "Please, don't tell me, let me guess which one is your mother," Hank told him. He began scrutinizing every woman over the age of 60 years.

Thomas shrugged. He'd spotted Charlotte first thing. She'd waved to him, then continued through the throng. He stood by Hank, answering his running monologue with a 'no', 'oh, please!', 'are you kidding?', 'be serious' and 'if we're picking, can you pick me a young one? I like 'em young.'

Charlotte approached them from the side. She slipped an arm around Thomas' waist, getting a one-arm hug from her son, and looked at Hank curiously. He was still staring at every elderly lady coming through the door. There seemed to be quite a few.

"What's he doing?" she asked.

"Trying to see if he can guess which one is my mother."

"Oh." She watched him for a moment. "May I offer a suggestion, Dr. McCoy?"

Hank heard his name and turned towards them. "Pardon me?" he said to the young woman standing with Thomas. She smiled brightly at him.

"You'll never spot his mother that way. From what I understand, she's so much older than those women she probably looks like a raisin by now. Perhaps if you narrowed your search parameters to women who look like they've dried up, you may have more success."

Hank looked from the pretty young thing to Thomas trying to hold in a chuckle. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Would you be Charlotte Ashcroft?"

"I don't know that I'd want to be her. As far as I can tell, being Charlotte Ashcroft is no fun. Recluse, workaholic, long suffering keeper of the Thomas baby pictures," She released an equally long suffering breath. "But no one else will claim the boy, so I get stuck with the chore."

Hank stood, stunned, staring at her. "But you are....your appearance....I...." She looked about 22 years old, dressed in tight faded blue jeans and a white tank top, scuffed leather boots and a leather jacket slung over her shoulders. Her cinnamon brown hair hung over her shoulder in a long, thick braid. Now he could see where Thomas inherited his unusual eyes. Hers were the same golden amber, and they were twinkling at him.

"Not bad for a dried up old woman, wouldn't you say?" She handed Thomas her bag and took Hank's arm. "Did I hear Thomas right? You're willing to go with me to the opera?"

~*~*~*~*~

Later, ensconced in the kitchen of her Manhattan penthouse apartment, Hank was still in shock. Thomas' mother was behaving so normally for a mother, making sandwiches and chatting about everything and nothing, but she appeared to be so far out of the maternal scope he was accustomed to, he could do little more than stare at her.

Thomas sat back, pleased with himself for the joke he'd played on his friend.

Charlotte waved a hand in front of Hank's face. "Dr. McCoy?"

He was startled out of his trance. "Forgive me, dear lady, I was not expecting... That is to say, Thomas did not warn me..."

She patted his hand, then slid a plate in front of him. "Yeah, he's like that. I'd ground him, but then I'd have to stay home and play jailer." She offered him a beer, which he took absentmindedly. "Switch off your image inducer, Doctor. You don't need it here."

He'd forgotten he was wearing it. After a tap on the device fastened to his wrist, his normal visage appeared.

It was her turn to stare. "May I touch you?" she asked.

Hank nodded. She reached out a gentle hand and stroked over the soft fur of his cheek. He reciprocated, running a nail-tipped finger over hers. They both grinned at each other and Hank relaxed.

"Call me Hank, or Henry if you prefer."

"I'll stick with Hank, it's friendlier and has worked so well up to now."

"I have been warned not to address you by your title."

She laughed, setting a plate in front of her son. "Well, he saved you from that one, at least."

"You are a mutant." She had to be, Hank thought to himself.

"Yes. Not my appearance, though, that is a legacy from my mother."

"How old are you?"

She set a beer in front of Thomas. "Didn't you tell the poor man anything?"

Thomas eyed the medallion she was wearing. "I may have told too much." Hank's bemusement over her youthful appearance failed to notice she wore the companion piece to Logan's. "So I enjoy the reaction from my friends, almost as much as you enjoy calling me grandpa and asking for money in front of strangers."

"Hank and I are old friends by now," she smiled at him again. "I will be 305 years old next December."

"But if your age is not a mutant factor, how do you explain it?"

"It is genetic; however, it's alien in origin. My mother was a Torelan. They have extremely long lifespans with slowed aging. Thomas is 200 years old himself."

"I see," Hank responded with a look at the other man. "And the mutantcy?"

She smiled again. ~Telepath, some telekinetics, a very little energy absorbtion and manipulation.~

Hank blinked. Her psi voice rang loudly through his head.

"I'm sorry," she winced and patted his hand, "I'm afraid age makes me stronger. Helpful if I want to communicate from the middle of nowhere, painful up close and personal if I'm not careful." She looked at his plate. "Now eat before it dries out."

He obediently picked up his sandwich and took a bite. He let his eyes roam down from her face and spied the pendant she wore. Almost identical to Logan's, it was smaller, more delicately made. He looked at Thomas with consternation.

Charlotte missed the by-play. "I'm going to unpack and check the computer. I made an appointment to see William in the morning, Thomas. Are you coming with me?" She didn't wait for an answer, but made her way up the stairs in the kitchen to the second floor.

"You knew all along, didn't you?" Hank said.

"No, not the whole time. Not until I met your friend." Thomas finished his lunch. "You better eat, or she's going to raise the roof. She's always trying to feed everyone in sight." He sat back with his beer. "As for the talisman, she wore the raven piece in WWII, during a wartime assignment, but she didn't come back with it and she wouldn't tell me where it was."

"So you didn't trace it to Logan?" He finished his sandwich.

"No. That was a surprise." She'd come back from London a badly-wounded emotional wreck, but she came back alive. He hadn't been inclined to push his luck. "I tried to ask her about it after I saw you last month, but she won't talk. Got downright nasty with me."

~So, I've got four tickets for tonight. Do you know anyone who'd like to go?~ This time she exercised some control and it didn't hurt. The door opened a few seconds before she breezed through.

"You really do not desire to attend?" Hank asked Thomas.

"No war drums." He grinned, very white teeth against his copper skin.

"Barbarian," his mother chided him fondly. She leaned against the counter. "I've got a box at the hall this time, could seat two more. Any of your friends appreciate the finer things in life? I'll treat for dinner."

Hank couldn't resist her smile. "I may know of one or two that might be interested."

"Well, call 'em." She handed him the cordless phone. "Got a landing pad on the roof." She gestured to Thomas. "Let's give the man some privacy."

Hank waited until they were out of the room before dialing the mansion. He closed his eyes. This promised to be an exciting evening, one way or the other.

Scott answered. "I thought Jean said you were out for the day with friends."

"I am. Is the professor available?"

"Yes, hold on a few moments."

"Beast? Is there a problem?" Xavier's voice indicated his concern.

"No, all is well. My friend's mother has two extra tickets for tonight and asked if I knew anyone who might be interested in attending with us. I thought of you and your appreciation of opera."

"That's very kind of her, but I wouldn't want to intrude."

"You have been invited, and I do believe you will want to meet her."

"Why is that?"

"She is a mutant, 300 years old and looks about 22. There are some other twists to the story, but I believe it will be worth your time."

He managed to catch Xavier's interest. "In that case, I will accept the invitation."

"There's room for a fourth if you would like to bring a companion." He rattled off the address. "She says there is a landing pad on the roof. She has the penthouse apartment."

Charlotte stuck her head back in the door. "Dinner reservations are at 6:00 to give us enough time."

He motioned her over. "Did you catch that, Professor?"

"Yes. I'll be there at 5:00. See you then, Henry."

~*~*~*~*~

The doorbell rang just before 5:00 pm. Thomas left off proofing Charlotte's work in the library to answer it.

He swung one of the double doors open to find a man in a wheelchair, dressed in a dinner jacket, accompanied by a group of people. The man in the chair, Charles Xavier, he recognized from the newspapers, TV and magazines.

Xavier looked rather put out. "I am to meet Dr. Henry McCoy here," he said.

"Of course," Thomas opened the other door to allow for easy entrance. "Come in." He led the way to the two story great room. "Please, everyone, have a seat."

Hank bounded down the stairs, wearing the suit he'd just changed into, with a smile on his face. "You all had to come?"

Xavier let out a breath. "Cable is attending with us, the others have plans of their own and wished only to stop by and meet your friends."

Jean and Rogue both gazed at the tall Indian, clearly infatuated. Scott nudged his wife, then again when he didn't get her attention. "Honey..."

"So, where's your date, Hank?" Bobby asked, ready to meet the granny he was going to tease Hank about for the next decade.

Bishop glared at Thomas as a matter of routine, then did a slow circle of the room, looking into corners and through other doors. The weapon in his hands was on and primed. He moved to the staircase and looked up, frozen in his footsteps.

Charlotte stepped down carefully, carrying her shoes in one hand and an evening wrap in the other. She wore a black silk sheath, the fabric skimming her curves to fall in a straight skirt, ending mid-thigh. Her hair was pulled back, the long curls brushed her bare arms to fall past her waist. Her only piece of jewelry was a black medallion on a matching chain. She wasn't paying attention and didn't see the large black man in the way until she nearly bumped into him.

"Hi," she said, using the bannister to balance herself as she slipped on her shoes.

Bishop's jaw dropped. He didn't move.

"Bishop?" Hank said.

"Grandmother," the XSE officer whispered.

Different, but she'd been in similar situations over the years. She smiled and stepped around him to approach the group. "Boy, Hank, I had no idea you'd get this kind of response." She offered her hand to Xavier. "Good evening, Professor. It's nice to finally meet you. I feel I know you, all of you," she included the group with her smile, "from my correspondence with Hank."

"Let me perform the introductions properly." Hank took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. "Charlotte Ashcroft, Scott and Jean Summers."

She shook hands with both of them. "I understand you both moonlight as den parents."

Scott reddened while Jean grinned.

"This is Rogue."

"Rogue, Hank says you are a quick draw with a credit card."

Rogue grinned. "Ah like ta shop."

"Doesn't every woman?"

Remy took her hand and bowed over it, pressing a kiss to the back, gazing at her over his dark glasses, his red on black eyes gleaming. "Bonjour, chere. Remy LeBeau."

"Bonjour." Her accent was quite acceptable. "How is Jean-Luc these days?"

His eyes shuttered, the grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly. "You know my father?"

"I knew your adopted father years ago. It has been a long time since I lived in New Orleans."

"Last I heard he's okay."

"This is Robert Drake."

Bobby's jaw was still agape, giving Hank a rare moment of satisfaction.

"Does he speak or is he a mute?" she asked Hank.

"Bishop you've met," Hank indicated the armed man still staring at her. "This is Nathan Summers," he turned her towards the last man. He also wore a formal suit, indicating he was the fourth in their party this evening. His face was set in stern lines, belying the undercurrent she felt flow out of him. He extended his hand to her. "We've met."

She placed her hand in his and felt him draw her away from Hank. "We have? I don't recall..." Almost like she had no will of her own.

"It hasn't happened yet." He looked down at her, holding her eyes, closing off his mind. It was an intimate moment.

This was just a bit more than she could take at one time. "I'd like you all to meet Thomas, my son." She gently tugged her hand away from Nathan and looked back at her son, willing him to come to her aid.

He obeyed the call, the good son that he was, stepping forward and nodding to everyone. He stood next to her, one arm around her shoulders.

"See, Jean, y'ain't the only one with a boy lookin' older than you," Rogue observed.

Charlotte gave her an inquiring look, then comprehension dawned. Nathan Summers.

"Will you all join us for dinner?" she asked. "I'll call the restaurant and add more people to the reservation."

The others all claimed other plans, backing out of the apartment. Bishop remained. "I will wait for you here," he told Xavier abruptly, his eyes still on Charlotte. "Wolverine will come down shortly."

Charlotte looked at Thomas. ~Okay with you he stays here?~

He smiled at her. "Go have a good time. Everything will be fine here. The car should be waiting for you." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Must we discuss your curfew?"

She laughed, the tense moment passing, and picked up her wrap. Hank stepped forward, but Nathan beat him to it, taking the fragile length of black cashmere and settling it across her shoulders, moving her hair from underneath the confining folds. He tucked her hand under his arm and drew her towards the door.

At the elevator, Hank finally registered Bishop's last statement. His face paled, not that anyone noticed with image inducer, and he stepped back. "I neglected to tell Thomas something. I will meet you downstairs." He went back to the apartment door.

The elevator doors opened just as the access door to the roof slammed shut. Logan saw the group at the elevator and hung back, waiting for them to leave. The woman got his attention; he saw her profile as she looked up at Cable, then her face as she turned to answer Xavier. He felt something twist up inside. He knew her.

Just before the the door closed she looked up and right into his eyes. Her mouth opened as if she was about to say something.

The elevator door closed on them. He saw Beast entering an apartment and went to knocked on that door.

It opened immediately, and he saw Hank and Thomas both staring at him. "Problem?" he asked darkly.

~*~*~*~*~

"So, what's with Cable?" Rogue asked. The five of them stood outside the movie theater waiting for their turn to get in. They were seeing '8 mm', the new Nicholas Cage movie. "Cuttin' in on Hank's action like that. It don't seem like him a'tall."

"Did you get a good look at her?" Bobby was still in denial. "That couldn't be anybody's mother."

"It doesn't," Jean answered thoughtfully, not listening to Bobby. "I don't know why he acted that way. When he got a look at her there was a flash of recognition that got by him, then he went dead, psychically. He deliberately shielded everything, even the everyday 'normal' things that get out. I think he knows her."

Remy laughed. "Jeannie, dat be an understatement. Your boy 'knows' her. Dat look he give her could've set de house on fire."

"Ah don't think she knows him," Rogue added, ignoring Remy completely.

"Not yet," he smirked.

~*~*~*~*~

Hank managed to escort Charlotte into the restaurant, leaving Cable to push Xavier's wheelchair inside.

He seated her, then appropriated the chair to her left. The maitre'd made himself helpful and removed the chair from her right to accommodate the wheelchair. Cable sat across from her, the ideal position to make her nervous, if she were prone to nervousness. Which she might be any moment if he didn't stop staring at her like she had grown another head.

"Ms. Ashcroft, Henry told us you are working on a written history of an Indian tribe." Xavier opened the conversation, very displeased with the other two. The testosterone level seemed to have jumped a thousand points.

"Please call me Charlotte. Yes, I am. I lived with the Quapoa tribe for a time. Thomas' father was a shaman."

"When was that?"

"During the early 1800s."

The waiter chose that moment to offer Xavier the wine list. As the oldest male at the table, the waiter gave him the honor of choosing their wine.

Xavier took it gratefully, needing the distraction. Henry had mentioned something about her being 300 years old, hadn't he?

~*~*~*~*~

Logan stood in the library near the balcony. He didn't know what he was doing here. He hadn't intended on coming with them at all, but he felt...compelled to be here.

He was looking at the portrait over the fireplace, a painting of a young woman. She had golden amber eyes that seemed to share secrets with him, a mouth made for passion, and a humorous slant to her face. The face was alive, vibrant. She looked like someone he dreamed about sometimes, dreams that were always half forgotten before he was fully awake, that never quite seemed real to him. He'd always assumed the girl in the dreams was either a face he'd glimpsed long ago or a false memory.

Thomas sat at the desk, a large book in his lap, a laptop open and running in front of him. Bishop was elsewhere in the house. He wasn't too worried about strangers in here. There was nothing here that wasn't disposable, all the important things were stored at truly secure sites. He wore his body armor, just as Charlotte did. Short of being thrown off the balcony, he couldn't be harmed. Besides, she wouldn't have left if she thought Bishop was a risk. And Logan? Well, he knew what she thought of him, didn't he? The man wore it around his neck.

"Who's that?"

Thomas looked up at the question. Logan pointed to the painting.

"Lady Charlotte Katherine Ashcroft. It was painted in 1785 in New York."

"She's a relative?" Stupid question. They both had the same eyes.

You could say that. "Yes." He closed the book and the laptop. "How about a beer?"

Logan nodded. "Sounds good. How long ya think they'll be out?"

"Wait till you try the beer first, will you?"

After giving Thomas a blank look, it dawned on Logan the other man was making a joke. He chuckled a bit, feeling the rusty machinery inside kick into life. He'd been angst-y way too much lately, even for an X-Men.

~*~*~*~*~

During intermission, Xavier finally found an opportunity to speak privately with Charlotte. Hank and Cable both left for fresh air, the air clearing somewhat of tension.

"Hank mentioned that you're a telepath." His voice was low pitched to avoid eavesdroppers.

She nodded, turning in her seat and slipping her shoes off. ~Yes. My father was what you would classify these days as a gamma level telepath. Back then he was just considered a very shrewd businessman. His family produces quite a few 'paths, really. Not very strong, they tend to blend in well with the population.~

~You are strong, though.~

~That's due to my mother. She was Torelan.~

~Torelan? You mean an alien?~ No wonder her thought signature was different.

~Yes. She came to this world in the 1400s, ended up marrying my father in 1690. They didn't have a chance to grow old together. A carriage accident took them in 1723.~

~You've seemed to have adjusted to this life rather well.~

~I had a purpose. Thomas was born in 1799, gave me a reason to keep on living. I continue to find a reason everyday.~ Most days it was enough.

~I noticed Bishop's reaction to you.~ And Cable's, though he wasn't going to mention that here and now.

~You know, I am occasionally confronted with the past, but I have no clue as to what I did to earn him.~

~He is from the future.~

~I see. That explains the hardware, and his attitude. Does it explain Nathan's?~

~*~*~*~*~

After a few bottles of good beer, he had to admit the kid had taste in malts, Logan was finally relaxing. Bishop refused alcohol, but unbent long enough to have a soda.

Thomas searched the cupboards for something salty to snack on. "I know there has to be some," he said aloud. "Mom had the place stocked and cleaned yesterday." He reached overhead to the cabinet above the industrial refrigerator. "Aha!" He pulled down bags of chips, pretzels and cans of nuts. "Damn. Mom probably told the housekeeper no pork rinds."

"Man's got a right to pork rinds."

Thomas chuckled. "Not in this household. Man's got a right to not tick his mother off, especially when she can take you in a fair fight. And between the three of us, I've never seen her fight fair yet."

"What, yer mother?" Logan mocked him. He looked around. "Where is yer ma?"

"She went to dinner and the concert with Hank and his friends."

"I only saw a girl with 'em." Now he connected the woman in the elevator to the portrait. They resembled each other.

"That's her. Doesn't look her age."

Bishop frowned at him. "You don't even remember what your mate looks like?" Sometimes he believed Logan's claim of not remembering anything was a crutch he leaned on to forget things he didn't want to acknowledge.

The bottle paused midway to Logan's mouth. "Wha'cha talkin' about, rookie?"

Thomas suddenly wished to be anywhere but here.

"You are bonded to her. You wear the magic."

Logan turned his eyes to Thomas. "You want to explain?"

"Not particularly."

"Wrong answer." The pleasant little buzz he had was gone. His face was white, his eyes burning into the other man's.

"It's not my place to explain anything." Thomas took his beer and left the kitchen. Before he got to the door, a hand spun him around, adamantium claws poised to run him through.

"I gotta know if I'm crazy."

"You're not crazy." But he had to be, just contemplating this conversation. "Let's go talk in the library."

~*~*~*~*~

The curtain fell for the last time, the house lights went up. Charlotte reached down for her shoes, not realizing she'd kicked them under her chair.

"'Lotta." The Italian diminutive of her name caught her attention, rather appropriate as they had just seen an Italian opera. She looked up into Cable's eyes. He'd managed to manuever Hank into assisting Xavier now, the two had already exited the booth to a side entrance where the car waited.

"Lost my shoes," she admitted with a smile.

He knelt down beside her chair and pulled the offending articles from underneath. She reached for them, but he held them back. "Allow me."

He slid one warm hand around her ankle and lifted her foot, slipping the shoe on. He did the same for the other foot. She didn't wear stockings; his touch was smooth, disturbing against her skin.

His familiarity with her made her uneasy. "You know me. When?"

He took her hand in his, still kneeling by her. "A long time from now. When I was younger."

"I don't quite understand."

"I know. I used to think about seeing you when I grew older, wondering if you would be different, if I would perceive you differently. I never thought it would be in the past."

"Well, I can't comment on either condition. I haven't been there yet. You have an unfair advantage here."

"You had all the advantages the last time." One side of his mouth curled up. "Including all the underhanded chess moves. You made me earn my defeats."

She smiled and touched his face. "May I?"

He nodded and opened his shields a little, feeling the strong presence he remembered from the years past. She didn't explore his mind, just absorbed his essence. Her eyes closed as the emotions he held in check washed over her. Leaning forward, she touched his lips with hers in a brief caress.

She withdrew from his mind and his person. ~You are my friend,~ she stated simply.

~Always,~ he answered. He moved to his feet and took her hand, drawing her against him. ~I think I'm hungry. What do you say to some ice cream?~

~With hot fudge? Whipped cream?~

They exited the building and were in the car when he laughed at her eager acceptance of his suggestion. Hot fudge! Really laughed. It startled Xavier and Hank. That made him laugh even louder.

Charlotte shook her head at him. There was nothing funny about hot fudge.

~*~*~*~*~

The apartment was dark when she and Hank entered a little more than two hours later. Due to the late hour, Xavier and Cable refused her offer of coffee and went directly to the roof. Bishop was already up there, the others had left hours before in the second runabout.

All but Logan. He waited in a dark corner of the library, still staring at the portrait over the mantle, mulling over what little information Thomas had been able give him. His friends hadn't cared to stay in the same house with him, not when he was so explosive. Thomas assured them everything was fine, he would take care of the situation. Bishop considered staying anyway, but had to concede to Thomas' wishes. She could take care of herself.

She flipped on a light and removed her wrap, drapping it over a chair. Thomas appeared at the top of the stairs. He had been waiting up, his hair was braided for sleep and he wore the exercise shorts he slept in. "Did you have a good time?"

"We did. You missed out."

"We had our own excitement around here. Saved some for you, it's in the library. Hank, you'll want to go to bed."

Henry looked up at him curiously. While the Indian's words were light, the look on his face wasn't. "Goodnight, dear lady," he kissed her hand. "Thank you for a wonderful evening."

"Goodnight Hank. See you in the morning." Thomas' odd words went right over her head. She felt old tonight. Dealing with the past was hard enough at times, every contact taking a piece of her soul, few ever giving any in return. The realities of Bishop and Nathan may well do her in; she was going to have to deal with them sooner or later. She wondered if there was any part of her left in the future, or if all she had were pieces of those she'd loved and cared for over the years. There were so few of them left.

She slipped off her shoes again and dropped them by the library door. Moving over to the desk, she turned on the small light and sat down, shuffling through the papers Thomas had been editing earlier. She frowned at a few of his markings, one hand absently touching her medallion.

"It is you."

The raspy voice didn't scare her, though she thought briefly she should be scared. "Logan?"

He got up from his chair in the corner and walked to the edge of the light. "I thought you were a dream. A nightmare."

"I always knew you were real." Her mind hadn't been playing a trick on her. She had seen him. After all these years.

"I didn't know anythin'. Just felt like I needed to be here, like somethin' was pullin' me here. Didn't know it was this." He dropped the medallion on the desk in front of her.

The gesture sent a sharp pain through her, not wholly emotional. With trembling fingers she tried hard to still, she picked it up, holding the warm metal in her cold hands. Oh, please, not tonight. She'd give the rest of her soul to be free of this.

"For longer'n I can remember I've been dreamin' about a girl, about you. Dreamin' about a little shack in the middle of nowhere, an' a girl comin' out of a waterfall. Thought it was just somethin' they put in my head to mess me up."

"An' I still kept lookin' for that face, still kept wearin' that thing."

Charlotte sat frozen, letting his words, his hurt and anger flowing over her.

"You got nothin' to say?"

"You want to hear what I have to say? Do you, really?" She set the medallion down and reached for her own around her neck. She took it off and set it down next to the other one. The close proximity caused them both to glow with an eerie green light. Her rage began to build, loosening her control. She was going to do something foolish, all the signs were there.

Her words took him back. Did he want to hear her side of this? He was the one with the deception issues here, not her. This intimate stranger had no right to be angry at him. He looked at the two medallions on the desk.

"Or would you rather see what happened? I could show you. Invite you into my nightmares." Her eyes began to glow. She stood up and moved around the desk to stand in front of him, face to face. "You want to see?" Her words ground out, exposing more than her own pain to him. "Do you?!"

"Yeah," he growled at her, goaded into answering. "I want to know."

She took his face in both hands, sending tendrils of power into his mind, storming it, bringing his mouth to hers, taking rough possession of his mind, his body.

Then the icy sensation of falling took him over, dropping him into the black bottomless void....

~*~*~*~*~

Austria, summer 1942.

For the umpteenth time that day, he cursed the colonel. Well, he'd started with the colonel, then moved on to his predecessors, both military and familial, and had finally started in on his pets. He still couldn't believe he was doing this. Him, Sgt. John Logan, highly skilled soldier, hand-to-hand combat a specialty, veteran of more wars than he cared to name since he hadn't used his real name in any of them, sent to find a missing man.

He didn't have time for a special assignment, but he was requested special by top brass. Even that bastard colonel had been awed and impressed by the name on the bottom of the orders.

The report came in four weeks ago, two of the Nazis best agents spotted near the Dansheitz chateau in the Austrian Alps. The bodies of an Allied infiltration team found torn into little pieces outside. There was some discrepancy about the number of bodies found. Out of the five-man team, one was unaccounted for. It was that one he was sent to find, the one that apparently had enough information in his head to end the war tomorrow-for the Allies.

He had no useful information about the missing man other than a general description, brown hair, 5'6", and a name. Cash. Whether that was a first name or last, he had no idea. Didn't matter. He was willing to bet his entire year's pay the man was now sitting with Adolf, drinking beer and reminiscing about the old times they were gonna have. Damn, a beer sounded pretty good right now.

His orders included bringing Cash back for the brass to interrogate personally. Hell with that. He'd seen the pictures of the bodies. If he found Cash, he'd lose him, quick. He wasn't going to waste a second on any goddamn traitor.

It was the rumors that led him here, the stories of monsters that attacked the team. It was hard to believe, but his instincts told him to start with the rumors at the Dansheitz estate. Sooner or later it'd lead him to the truth. Or another solid lead.

He followed a faint scent trail from Dansheitz into the surrounding mountains. He found the second stop about a day away from the carnage site as the bird flew, four days to hike over and around the peaks. The scent was almost like an odor a rabid animal would emit, a mixture of rage and fear.

He found the laboratory hidden away, startling himself with the discovery of Hitler's secret. It was in ruins, a fire merrily consuming the converted military base. There were more bodies, one-two days old, sliced into small pieces rather neatly. Different from the Allied team. This was deliberate and methodical. The ground around the pile was a dull reddish brown from the copious amounts of blood shed. The stench was almost too much for him to take. Even he had a limit.

He pushed the pieces around a bit with the bayonet, trying to get a body count, but gave up. Without the skulls he couldn't be sure and those were nowhere to be seen.

Circling the buildings, he encountered two more bodies strung up in the trees. Below each corpse was a small pile of skin and fur, with a head. The features showed they had been some nightmare werewolf mutation. Their bodies had been gutted, ropey gray muscles still glistening in the sunlight, entrails spilled out on the ground. The skinned, mutilated bodies sent a very dangerous message to someone. He couldn't be more than a hour or two behind.

From there he followed the blood trail, now easier to track. Up to this point he'd ended up backtracking quite a bit, but this one was practically an engraved invitation. Whoever killed the occupants and set fire to the base didn't care about being found now. Maybe the killer at the end of this would be able to tell him about his missing double agent.

He continued to follow the trail for most of the day to a small valley, a wide crevasse in the mountain, really. A small lean-to sat at the far end, a waterfall flowed down the mountainside aways from the shack, ending in a small stream that disappeared underground. It couldn't have been there long, the vegetation hadn't grown back enough, but it was sheltered from the air and private.

He slipped in with the evening shadows, wondering at the ease he penetrated the hiding place. He could smell smoke from a small campfire and food, hot food. His stomach growled. He nearly growled back.

Finding an uncomfortable spot next to the entrance, he settled in to observe.

Movement in the waterfall drew his attention. To his surprise, the slender nude figure of a woman emerged from the wall of water. She picked up a blanket on a nearby rock and wrapped it around her body, then stopped and looked around, reminding him of a doe that had picked up a strange scent. After a long minute, during which she stared at his hiding spot, sweat bathing his body, she turned and went inside.

He wondered briefly if he'd gotten off track somewhere, but he couldn't have been that wrong. Not when the smell of blood still lingered heavily.

Full dark descended quickly, the only light a dim glow around the door of the shack. He didn't notice the chill right away, his metabolism allowed him a lot of leeway. It was the smell of hot food that twisted his guts, made him edgy.

~If your stomach gets any louder, you'll be able to signal London. Let the Nazis try to break that code, eh?~

He looked around, but didn't see anyone.

~You sure you don't have a whole platoon out there with you? You're making too much noise to be just one man.~

He held perfectly still, not even breathing. He hated mindsnoops, he really did.

~I'm willing to share dinner if you're willing to set the rifle down.~

He whirled around at a deliberate sound behind him, the bayonet pointed at her mid-section. She stood calmly, eying him expectantly.

He still didn't move. Her scent was the one he'd been tracking for the last week, she reeked of rage and pain.

"One more chance, cowboy, then I'm leaving you out here," her voice was soft, smooth, caressing. "I know you speak English."

"How many?" he rasped, gesturing towards the lean-to.

"Just me and my dinner. If you're not hungry, I'll be more than happy to leave you alone. Just trying to be friendly." She stepped past him and made her way back, her movements sure and steady in the dark.

*How'd she get past me?* he asked himself as he followed her in. He didn't sense anyone else around, and his instincts never steered him wrong, when he bothered to listen.

Inside, the lean-to was small and cramped, a smokeless fire kindled on one side, an open can with what looked like stew bubbling in it. He could just make out her features in the flickering light. She was a girl, barely twenty years old if that. She wore buckskin, her short hair curling wildly around her head, the firelight picking out red and gold highlights. A pile of furs on the ground near the fire. Several canteens of water and cans of stew sat on the floor, along with a canvas bag. Wet clothes hung from nails on the other side.

She gestured for him to sit down by the fire. He set his pack aside, his rifle right next to him. Using a rag, she took the hot can off the fire and deftly poured it into a bowl, then handed him the bowl with a spoon. He hesitated, this was all a little too weird. With a sigh, she took a bite and chewed, then held the bowl out again.

He took it this time, tasted it warily, then shoveled the stew into his mouth quickly. Before she got another can opened and on the fire, he was done. Reaching into the bag near her, she pulled out of sack of bread, fresh bread his nose told him, and a couple of bottles of ale.

She offered him the bread, then reached back in for a bottle opener. "I know I've got one somewhere," she said aloud. She pulled a knife out of the bag, a 12 inch, double edged weapon that gave him pause. With a frown, she shoved it back in.

"Here," he held out his hand for one. She passed it over; he twisted the cap off and passed it back, reaching for the other one. At the first swallow, he relaxed. "Good stuff."

"Glad you approve," she smiled at him. "What are you doing so far from your unit?"

"Lookin' for you, I think." Now that the words jumped out of him, he could see she fit the general description. It was a stretch, but no one ever said the fifth man was a man. Following that instinct thing again.

"Can't imagine why. Just doing a little camping."

"In a war zone?" His senses were hopping around at every lie out of her mouth. Yeah, he was right. It was her.

"Free entertainment."

He gestured to the wet clothes. "I can still smell the blood on 'em. I followed ya from the base."

"Some business to take care of before I go home. What's your name?"

"Logan."

"You can call me Charlie." She took the bubbling can off the fire and poured it into his bowl. It disappeared in quick bites with a good deal of her bread.

He had the grace to be embarrassed at his unseemly haste in eating; she hadn't had any yet. "Sorry, I just ain't had a hot meal in a long time."

"It's okay, I did invite you. I don't have much of an appetite tonight. More?"

He nodded, relaxing even further.

"Who sent you after me?" She opened a third can with a knife. He hadn't noticed that, as distracted as he was. It was small and sharp, made of a black oily metal that cut through the tin like butter.

"General Forkner. British army. Requested me special."

"Hal would know you're a mutant, he keeps track of those pesky little details. He probably thought you'd be able to bring me back."

"Hal?"

"General Harold Forkner. He's a cousin of mine. Did he know you intended to dump my body somewhere and claim you never found me?"

"Didn't expect to find ya." He really hated the mindfuckers.

She finished her drink, setting the bottle aside. "He's smart. Send a mutant to find a mutant. It's his fault I'm here to begin with. You can tell him for me I'm going home and I'm taking all my dirty little secrets with me."

"Can't do that. Gotta take ya back."

"I'm not going back, he'll just find me a new team. I can't do this again."

"What happened?" The pictures flashed through his head.

She caught that. "You saw what happened. What those monsters did to my team. I was there! I watched and I couldn't help them!" Her voice rose. She stopped and fought a hard battle to regain control. "If Hal thought I'd just let that go, he sadly misunderstood me."

"You killed all those men? An' set the fire?"

"It was justice."

"An' those...things?"

"That was necessary. The Nazis were creating those...things, feeding humans to them. I destroyed any chance they had to start over." The ritual killing of the enemy was her right, she wasn't going to defend her actions to him, or anyone else.

The silence lengthened between them. She silently handed him another bottle of ale, then more stew.

"I have to take ya back."

She didn't bother to correct him. "You can try. Right now, I am so full of death, I'm afraid I'll never get it out of me. I never get used to it. I'm too damn old for this."

He snorted. "Old? Yer still a baby."

"I'm older than I look, and that's beside the point." She picked up a blanket. "Why don't you go wash up. You'll feel better if you're clean."

He took it and his rifle with him, shaking his head. This was all a little too domestic for his taste, but he knew how to follow orders. At least the ones he wanted to follow.

When he returned, wearing his pants and shoes, the blanket around him, he saw she'd already cleaned up and had moved the pile of furs closer to the fire. She was wearing old fashioned long johns with the drop seat, fire-engine red. A chuckle escaped him.

She looked up and smiled faintly at him. "Well, got to stay warm."

He chuckled some more, pulling his own blanket from his pack and wrapping it around him, preparing to sleep on the other side of the fire.

She stopped him. "Would you sleep with me?"

"What?" That snapped him out of his brief humor so fast his head spun.

Her eyes squeezed shut. "There's been so much death lately. I want to hold a man in my arms, feel him breath." The words wrenched painfully out of her. "It's okay if you don't want to..." Could a person bleed to death inside from the emptiness?

He moved over to her, looking down at her sitting in the nest of furs. He set the blanket and his boots aside and slid in next to her, gathering her up in his arms and settling her against his chest.

After a moment, he felt hot tears against his skin, her shoulders trembled. He held her tighter. She was too young for this. And he was too old.

~*~*~*~*~

The heat woke him up. It was coming from the body curled around his, the arm across his chest, the leg over his hips. A soft whimper escaped her and her entire body tightened. He reached out blindly with his free hand and stroked the soft curls that caressed his skin, trying to give her comfort. He'd lost friends in war, teammates. It wasn't something you ever really let go of.

Her face curved into his hand, seeking his comfort. She quieted down, snuggling closer, her face in his neck. He inhaled the scent of her hair, her skin.

The hand that rested against his chest moved up to tangle in his hair, holding his face against hers. She pressed kisses against his ear, his neck, down his jaw line, heavy beard stubble scraping her tender skin.

He tried to stop her, wanting her but unwilling to take advantage of her pain, but she wasn't giving him a choice. Her eyes opened, a golden glow filling them. Hell with fighting her. He pulled her face to his and took her mouth in a tender kiss.

~*~*~*~*~

He woke the next morning alone, wrapped in his blanket next to a smoldering fire. Not one sign of her, not a scrap of cloth, a piece of fur, or an empty can. Next to his boots was a canteen of water and two cans of stew, along with four bottles of ale. He could still smell her on his skin, he hadn't imagined her.

He sat up and rubbed his face and neck, frowning. Looking down he saw the medallion she'd been wearing around his neck, the strange black metal gleaming in the weak light. One hand clutched it reflexively. He remembered her slipping it over his head, the soft words she spoke. A piece of her soul for the piece of his he'd given her.

~*~*~*~*~

Ten days later he stood in front of the colonel's desk at attention, thinking of all the things he'd like to do to the pissant officer. The pissant in question was in the midst of berating him for dereliction of duty. He hadn't brought back the missing man and his report was short and to the point. No man had been found.

The office doors swung open, the colonel's eyes widened as he snapped to his feet. "General Forkner, sir!" He threw a smart salute.

The general, an older man with graying hair and a good deal of humor in his blue eyes, returned the salute casually. "Yes, Colonel. I'd like to have a word with the sergeant, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, sir." The colonel offered the general his seat, then stood behind the chair.

After a moment the general spoke. "In private."

The colonel glared at Logan, then left.

Logan stood staring at the wall over the general's head.

"Have a seat," the general instructed. "You're not being reprimanded. We're just going to chat a little."

Logan's eyes flickered at him, then he took a seat.

"I read your report. 'No man found.' That told me you found Cash." It wasn't a question, and it didn't get an answer. "She visited me last night and dressed me down for sending anyone after her."

Logan looked at the man directly. There was a resemblance between Charlie and the general, around the eyes and mouth. He didn't still answer.

"I sent you because I knew you would be able to find her and keep her safe. She's a lot to handle, even for a normal man. She is very good at her job."

"She said she ain't comin' back."

"She's not. She's home by now."

"No disrespect, sir, but how could ya let a kid lead a spy team?" His tone had little respect, but Forkner chose to ignore it.

He actually laughed. "She's not a child. When the idea first came about, I tried to talk her out of it, but she's well past the age of consent. She's a mutant, as you've discovered, one that doesn't age normally. She's 246 years old, son, and she won't be told where to go and what to do. Besides, with her talent for breaking and entering, anyone would have taken her. At least I could keep an eye on her."

"She said you an' she were cousins."

"We are, in a very distant fashion."

This was a lot to take in all at once. He could use a drink. Lots of drinks.

"She said she owes you for helping her get out of there alive. I told her I'd take care of it. What can I do for you?"

Anger flashed in Logan's eyes. Paying him off?!

Forkner shook his head. The man was jumping all over in his head, even Hal's limited telepathic ability could follow his train of thought. "She said that after all that had happened, the only thing she wanted to do was kill herself, she felt that guilty being the only one left alive. She said you gave her the most convincing reason to keep on living. Said you shared your soul with her."

Logan bowed his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair. It was that and more, but it wasn't anyone else's business.

"In anyone else, I'd think the words were overly dramatic, but I've never known her to say anything that she didn't mean. If she was that close to taking her own life, whatever you did is worth anything I can do for you."

"You can answer some questions for me."

"If I can."

"Her name ain't Charlie, or Cash."

"No. Her full name is Lady Charlotte Katherine Ashcroft. She doesn't use the title outside the family, her father was the fourth Duke of Masters, after his older brother died without a male heir. The current duke, a descendent of the younger brother that inherited the title, doesn't have any daughters. Cash is the code name. C. Ash. It helped hide her identity. Very few people call her Charlie, and they all tend to be close to her."

"What's this?" He pulled the medallion from under his shirt. He hadn't removed it.

The general's eyes widened. "She gave you that?"

"Don't know 'bout give. She was gone an' I was wearin' this." His hand tightened on it.

"It's symbolic, one of a pair that was given to her by the man she married 150 years ago. As far as I know, that medallion was worn by her husband until his death, then she wore it. It is supposed to protect the wearer." He regarded the other man in a different light. "That certainly puts a new spin on things."

Logan scowled at him. "Whaddaya mean?"

"I mean, you and she have unfinished business. You'll meet again in the future.

"Where she live?"

"That I can't tell you, I don't know. She's American, but she could reside anywhere. Charlotte keeps in contact with the family, but we don't know much about her. There must be something I can do for you to thank you for your service."

Anger bubbled up at her, but he tamped it back down. He'd find her again. Right now he had a job to do. "You can get me out of this outfit an' into somethin' useful."

Forkner regard the small man. "You tell me where you want to be, and I'll personally cut the orders for you."

I want to be with Charlie, Logan thought, but didn't say it out loud. "I want to take her place. I'll lead the next team."

"Done. I hope you know what you're doing. The work she did was dangerous and she has some unusual mutant powers. I've got your file, and I know about your healing power, your acute senses."

"Then ya know I can do it."

"I know. You better stay alive, though. I don't fancy finding her standing over my bed in the middle of the night holding a knife to my throat." Or any other of the unpleasant things she learned from that Indian husband of hers.

~*~*~*~*~

. . . he landed hard, dazed, the sun breaking over the city skyline. He was on the floor, every part of him hurt. His eyes were thick, his head ached. But for the first time in many, many years, he had memories. And they were real.

The warmth of the body next to him caused him to look over. She lay in a tight ball, hugging herself, dried tears on her face. 'I loved her' he thought, and knew the truth of the words. He pulled himself up to a sitting position, then reached for her, lifting her to his lap, cradling her in his arms.

Her arms went around him, her face pushed against his neck. Tears dampened his skin as she wept again, his own eyes were moist. "I remember, darlin', I remember," he whispered into her hair.

He remembered it all; the bodies, the monsters, the fire. Following her, looking for the '5th man'. Sitting across the fire from her, drinking ale and eating stew. Watching her step out of the waterfall naked. The red long johns. Her face when she asked him to share her furs. The feel of her skin against his, her body moving on him, under him. The whispered conversations. He'd fallen in love with her that night, the blood and passion binding them together.

He remembered the medallion now. She'd removed from her neck and put it over his head, pressing the disk against his skin, over his heart. "To keep you safe," she'd told him. "As long as you wear it I am yours. Love knows no boundaries, my soul will find yours." He now understood the formality of the words.

He'd tried to convince her to come back with him, but she wouldn't consider it. "When the war is over, I'll be waiting for you," she promised.

Then he woke alone in the morning. Nothing left of her, except the medallion.

He squeezed her tighter. He couldn't remember much of what happened after that. He knew the war ended, but by then he'd been taken by them. The mind wipe, the experiments. They took the most precious thing he had and turned him into the animal he still struggled to control.

Through it all, he wore his talisman, believing blindly in something he couldn't name.

He had her back. Now what?

"Anything you want," she murmured against his skin.

"What?" His throat felt like he'd been screaming for hours, rough, sore.

"You said 'Now what?'."

"I was thinkin' it, darlin'."

"Oh." She'd forgotten they were still psi-linked. She pulled away slowly, mentally and physically, to avoid causing him pain. She tried to rise to her feet, but her body wouldn't support her. Wobbling, she fell back onto him, knocking him over. He struck his head on the hardwood floor.

She couldn't help herself. She starting laughing.

Logan growled hoarsely at her, but she laughed harder. It was infectious. He smiled reluctantly. Then a chuckle escaped him.

Outside the door, Thomas heard them laughing and sighed with relief. He hadn't been looking forward to picking up the pieces of his mother's life again, nor killing the man responsible. With a smile, he headed for the kitchen to start the coffee.

~*~*~*~*~

After showing Logan to a guest room, Charlotte showered and dressed, opting for her usual jeans and T-shirt. It made her look about twenty, but it was comfortable. She considered taking a nap, but decided coffee was a better prospect. It was time for breakfast, she had guests. And plans for the day.

She came down the backstairs directly to the kitchen. Thomas and Hank were both up, having coffee and reading the papers. They looked up at her entrance.

She smiled at them both, dropping a kiss on Thomas' forehead; he was sitting down, she could reach him now, and then on Hank's forehead. "Morning, boys. What will it be? Pancakes? Waffles? Omelets? Sausage, bacon, steak? Speak up or get oatmeal." She poured herself coffee, then topped off their cups.

"Waffles and bacon," Thomas said promptly, "and maybe the access codes to your files?"

She shot him a teasing look. "On my deathbed, and not a moment sooner." She pulled out a mixing bowl.

"I take it everything is...satisfactory?" Hank asked, tentatively.

"Things aren't bad," she hedged. "I'm seeing William at 11:00 am, sweetheart. Are you coming with me?"

Thomas shook his head. "Took care of my business last month. I want to get back to your manuscript."

"And leave poor Hank on his own? Why don't you come with me, Doctor. We'll have lunch afterwards."

"I do not want to intrude. I do have a few errands of my own. I could meet you somewhere for lunch?"

"You wouldn't be intruding. I need to take care of some legal work. It won't take long" It was time to check her final wishes, see who died and who didn't.

The telephone rang. Thomas went to answer it. By the time he returned, the smell of bacon filled the kitchen and the first waffles were out and being consumed with gusto by an appreciative Hank.

"That was Jean Summers," he told them. "We've been invited for dinner."

"It took you that long for an invitation to dinner?" Charlotte questioned.

"It took that long to get off the phone. The big guy, Bishop, got on and started grilling me about what happened last night after you got back. Then the other guy, Summers, he wanted to know what went on after they left."

Hank looked confused. "Scott asked about that?"

"No, the other one. The first was worried Logan hurt her. The second was wondering where to pick up his corpse."

"I'll get back to him on that," Charlotte said. "Here." She put a plate in front of him.

Footsteps from the great room announced the arrival of the 'corpse'. Even freshly showered Logan looked worn out, but he didn't seem angry. Charlotte poured him a cup of coffee, then refilled her own.

She set a plate of waffles and bacon on the table for them, and forked a waffle onto her plate. "We were discussing the disposition of your body. Any last wishes?" She lifted her brow at Logan.

"Can't leave ya people alone for a minute, can I?" he grumbled. "An' by the way, the boy should get pork rinds if he wants 'em."

"What, did you run through 200 years of complaints last night?" she narrowed her eyes at her son, clearly ready to laugh.

"I was making conversation," Thomas said loftily, "while you bailed out last night and left me to entertain Conan the Dark and the What-the-Cat-Dragged-In."

"Which one did you get to be?" she asked Logan.

Hank smothered a laugh.

~*~*~*~*~

Hank soon finished and took his leave, promising to be at the restaurant at 1:30. Thomas made good his escape into the library to continue wreaking havoc with her manuscript. Charlotte and Logan were left facing each other over the breakfast table.

She began stacking the dishes and clearing the table. He got up to help her.

~Sit down, relax,~ she told him, loading the dishwasher.

He watched her move around the kitchen, motions sure and quick, admiring the way she moved. Comparing her to his newly recovered memories of her.

~Knock it off, you dirty old man, unless you'd like to share that thought out loud.~

"Get outta my head," he said with some heat.

"Sorry, it's more or less a habit." She turned on the dishwasher and wiped down the counters. She poured herself more coffee and took the seat across from him. "Perhaps if you would shield your thoughts a little more..."

His eyes flashed at her. His mental blocks were still weakened from the experience and he resented her intrusion.

"I apologize. I'm at a loss here." She swirled the liquid in her cup, suddenly finding it fascinating. "I don't know what to do. Where do we go from here?"

"I don't know. I finally got some part of me back. I looked for ya that mornin', looked for months."

"I know. I gated out before you woke up. I knew I'd stay if you asked me again, and I'd just had enough. I went back frequently, kept an eye on you."

"Why didn't ya let me know?"

"I was less than human then, still struggling with the pain. And why did you take my place? That's what got their attention. They took you just before the war ended, and I couldn't find you. I led that last mission in your place."

"The general let ya do that?"

"Let me? Hal begged me to, promised me everything he could think of to get me to agree. I was the only one who could come close to doing it as well as you." She lifted the hem of her T shirt, exposing her abdomen. A long jagged scar ran from her right hip up her side, surrounded by dozens of smaller scars, and disappeared under the shirt. "A momento of the bomb left where I'd find it."

He reached out to touch the thick ridge. "Meant for me."

"I gated out of there before the worst of it. Thomas stitched me up, then put my head back together. By the time I could get around again with falling apart, I'd lost all trace of you. When I did pick up some information on your whereabouts, it was clear you didn't remember me. You were in Japan at the time."

That he remembered, his time in Japan, and his face flushed a dull red.

She nodded. "Yes. I had no right to barge into your life and demand you return to me, not when you loved her. I left without ever making contact. I made a point of keeping track of you over the years, until the Weapon X program. After that, you went underground and I had no idea where you were. I wasn't sure I had the heart to keep looking, not after that. For awhile I put away my medallion, rejected the meaning of it. It hurt."

"I didn't connect 'Wolverine' to you, or even Hank's mentions of Logan in his e-mails. Not till last night. Even then I thought I was seeing another figment of my imagination. It had me seeing you in every dark corner for years."

"The only thing that ever gave me hope was that medallion. You were never without it. I hoped some part of you remembered me, and frankly, I had time on my side. Some years ago I put mine back on, started looking for you again, and prayed to the gods it wasn't too late."

"I hated you, loved you, cursed you, dreamed of you. I just don't know what to do with you now."

"What do ya want to do?" Her words and the scars she wore shamed him.

She felt that from him. "Don't feel sorry for me," she said harshly. "I don't need your pity. You won't be doing either of us any favors if you feel obligated to me."

His temper flared up. He couldn't say what he felt, couldn't find the words. He held out his hand and waited.

Cautiously she placed hers in his. He tugged her out of her seat and over to him, placing her hand against his face, taking the other and doing the same. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the scent of her and hoped she'd understand. His mental blocks fell away, letting her in.

The intensity of his emotions hit her hard, her body jerking back in his arms. His anger, passion, lust, love rolled over her, every cell in her body caught fire. Her head spun out of control; she would have fallen if he hadn't been holding her.

He brought her down to his lap, tucked her head against his shoulder. For long minutes they sat together.

"What do you say we try something old-fashioned and date for awhile," she said, when her heart slowed its wild beating and she could speak coherently.

"On one condition, darlin'." He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew the raven medallion, placed it in her hand, folding her fingers over the warm black metal. "Give this back to me when ya think the time is right. I can wait."



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