X Men Have You Ever Had A Dream

Disclaimer: Characters portrayed in the following are not mine and I did not create them.

*

Have you ever had a dream (Nosce Te Ipsum):

I'm on a gurney, no, an operating table. Is that iodine? Must be in the med-lab, smells of j-cloth and windowlene, disinfectant and dishwasher liquid-tabs on surgical equipment. The smells come wafting on the snail trail breeze of air-con. I can't hear the hum of whirring blades but I know it's there, vacuuming out the hot stench of copper and innards, saline and type-o. But forget it, this isn't lucid thought, this is extreme exploration of my sensory range; basic brainwave functions speaking increasing whispers to my animal side. I see Nevada hills behind my closed eyes, rocky borders of my decaying mental state and they're crumbling; last vestiges of human perception. I see a darkening skyscape, a desert dust-bowl with one long coyote trail for tourists to peak at the roots of civilisation and then pee at the wayside. Signposts reading nowhere. Blanket of stars, the swirl of memory and the real.

But more smells, beakers lined up near me their odours fighting for priority: povidone-iodine, lidocaine. Bitterness, something burning -- a bushfire, stones and Joshua alight in the night. I think it's actually hydrochloric leaking out of me. I'm fazing in and out of sleep; am I lying down? It feels like it; damp linen clung to my person. Bloody sheets?

Then suddenly a light strikes the Springs and all of the Mojave is ablaze, I can't see, I can't feel, so much burning, the hand of God flattening the mountains to get me. Time to smoke with the old man and howl out my sins, but the wind is fighting me, turning, twirling passing me by and hurling the sticks and weeds and pebbles and breaking up the tarmac thumping louder and louder my name WAKE UP it screams the sky on fire! Pulling at my hair, there's a band tied round me; a neck restraint, it scrapes against my stubble, I still can't see, damn it!

LOGAN!

LOGAN!

LOGAN!

'It's me: Jean, hon, wake up!'

Sun glowing in the skyfire going to burst! Firework fallout all over the desert, and as I lower my sight a figure walks out of the mist, a shape, all locks and lipstick, I'm coming to. 'Jeannie, Jeannie, why can't I see?'

'He's panicking.'

'Give him another shot.'

The Mojave is receding, I'm flying away from it, hurling back through memory to the present, the painted hills and dust a vague powder in the pestle. It all swims around the plughole, the bubbling of distilled water following down to clean the pipes.

'We've uh, we've drained the bottle folks. Remind me to note it down on the shopping list under Ibuprofen and loo roll.'

'That's not funny --'

'His healing factor will finish the rest, honey.'

'You can't see Logan because we've got penny and tape on you. I don't want you opening your eyes in spasm with the lights so hot in here.'

Urgh... I can't function, I think my claws just popped. That's it, I can smell fresh blood, and the wind is calling me back, back, back into the realm of shaman and twilight. A blackness only confessors and the damned recognise. Where do I belong... where do I belong...

Sometime later the doors opening wakes me. The room was still before; the lonely exhale of my ventilator the music of the ICU. I stir; cramps and undone stitches the wind tugging at my heels, threatening to toss me back to oblivion. I crouch and brace, facing head on the currents of unconsciousness and fighting them off for two minutes. Enough to catch my breath if I pull my chest-tube out. I paw for it; gagging, but foreign fingers stand and block the search. I can't focus my head. They are thin but firm, lessons from Ninpo Taijutsu. Huh. My nose isn't working but if it was I'd catch Sandalwood. Betts has been wearing that on her Kimono for weeks. It's funny she has it on; I could use a little clear-headedness in my mental mire. Shapes swirl across the backs of my eyelids, I breathe for the first time on my own, but there's a block and I convulse something fierce. The shapes don't materialise, they just dance and pirouette, blossoming out with warm arms. I must have burst something else inside.

A hand rests on my forehead, something to anchor me down; my mental avatar treading water in the whirlpool of pain and memory. Struggling and splashing his arms, he's pulled under and circles the drain of consciousness my tongue lolling out of my mouth hands all sweaty and heart racing. I'm under those great waves again, pain suffocating and filling my being with a non-sensory fog, denying me freedom, air, wind in my face and sun on my skin the prairie on fire all over again. I howl into the cushion of nothingness, holding on tight, clawing at a wall a ceiling a foothold before flailing into the big nothing. Down, down, down I can't breathe, down deep into the clutches of death, and in talons of her great big pink butterfly my avatar is lifted into the air and my cornered animal given an exit. Her mental cleanse is thrust against the deathly fog, a tugging bringing me up through the abyss, closer to the shore and the many other sights and flashes and sounds and sensations my mind cannot catalogue. I see only in colours and vapours, no precision, just the gut, and with a hand on my forehead and another at the chest-tube disconnecting it, I know my chest can unravel and my tensions begin to dissipate. My temple starts to rebuild itself and the unidentifiable memories can be swept back for a sharper image. Not this awful jumble of emotions and past transgressions, it can be drawn anew, the present the right image to graft in my mind.

Too many times I've slipped into the feral past under physical disintegration, and too many times I've resorted to struggling the only way my animal self knows how: instinctually. It all becomes a giant mess.

The closed-eye shapes recede as the tape is peeled away from my pupils. There is a blinding, savage exposure, so I squint and turn away, my arms drooping into spaghetti junction of tubes and bloodpacks. The mind is restructuring, I feel it reassemble. That smell of sandalwood helps clear out the temple of the dust and snapped synapses. Trying to concentrate on meditative blankness of thought I keep my eyes closed, raised on an elbow, acutely aware of the stabbing in the same shoulder. The presence is still here in the med-lab, the smells making room for her sweating alarm. She's stepped back; I was snarling too much.

Moments pass before she loops the tubes around her wrist and delivers them into the sink.

'Was that you, darlin'? Trying to slow down my thoughts back there?'

'You looked like you could use a little help... It's chaotic in there, Logan...'

Not wrong. Like a dust devil in the desert.

'I can't control my own brain sometimes. The animal side takes over.'

'I know. It feels so... primal.'

She's still sweating.

I peel away the swabs and ease out a needle point from my wrist.

'The duality inside, Betts. I can't get it myself. I see the med-lab an' I see deserts. Baths of nutrients or somethin', pipes and wires all comin' outta me.'

'Nasty stuff.'

A crick in my neck pops.

'Nasty indeed.'

But the fog of the blackness doesn't go. I need to sit down. I keep feeling this phantom wind whispering in my ears. It comes from my Mitchell going down at Midway, when everything was on fire. Nothing raises the hackles any better.

She stays away, watching me from the corner of the med-lab, slowly packing medical paraphernalia. I'm not sure what she's looking at, or judging, but I'll leave it for the time being. I need a rest away from shadows and broken flesh. I set back down and close my eyes. The re-stitching of my body takes time and patience. Patience not to shed a tear. Slight footsteps come around and I hear a few drawers slide out. Finally I feel the peck of her lips on my cheek, soft and sweet before she whispers: 'thank you' and leaves.

I wonder what for.

***

Hours later, when my eyes are watching the rotation of the ceiling fan and I'm comforting myself with a large bottle of bourbon, I hear voices outside my dorm. The low sun shoves its glare through the slats bathing the room in yellow. It's like a hot water bottle or something.

'What are you doing outside his room?'

'I can go where I want.'

'I asked you a question, don't be flippant.'

'In case you haven't noticed, Jean, this is a house, and I do live in it. If I choose to walk into the boy's dormitories it's my choice. I shouldn't have to be interrogated; I'm not doing anything wrong. Which begs the question, are you? What are you doing here? I believe the path to the boathouse starts outside.'

'I'm just checking up on him --'

'Oh, and how is he?'

'... He's fine --'

'Did he tell you that, or are you just guessing?'

'...'

'You know, I think I hear Scott calling. The home fires must have grown cold, wouldn't you say?'

I can't help laughing; those two ain't never gonna be friends.

'What's going on? Is Wolvie ok?'

Huh? Now Jubilee's in the picture.

'Yeah, he's fine. Betsy's attending to him, aren't you Betsy.'

'Yes Jean, I am. Goodbye. He needs someone who can take care of him, child. Besides...'

''sides what? He ain't exactly in tip-top shape, and can't do with either o' the two o' you poking about, rubbin' ya... salves and shit inta his skin.'

'Watch your mouth, Jubilee!' Jean shouts from down the hall.

'Aw, come on; she's already married! What you got there? Champagne? I tol' you he's hurting and you just wanna go in there and flash all your bits in his face --'

'Jubilee!'

'What?'

'My concern for Logan is purely... sisterly. I simply want to thank him for saving my life, and make sure all his wounds are tended to and his worries taken away.'

A pause. I hear some rustling and take a long sip on the bottle.

'Right.' Says Jubilee.

'Yes! right. Now run along, child.'

A knock. My eyebrow's up in preparation. Whatever this is, I don't need it. I just do what's gotta be done sometimes, and I don't expect to have my friends try and impress me no matter how attractive I think they are or are not.

Still.

'Yeah?' I say, my voice a little crooked from the liquor.

'Logan? It's Betsy. Have I woken you?'

'Nah,' I roll over and sit on the side of the bed 'door's open.'

She walks through, breezy, in heels no less and stands at the foot of the bed, perching her hands on the wooden frame. She's wearing something low cut and free, a crimson colour which shimmers in the gold of the hiding sun and brings out the mark she's got on her left eye. Always kind of liked that after she got it; made her look dangerous. I watch her for a minute; she's got some sort of clip holding up that hair of hers. I smell that sandalwood on her again.

'Just came to see how you are.' She says, mouth open, leaving a gap for either me to fill or for her to actually say what's on her mind.

'I mus' be real top dog for everyone to be lining up to see me. I tell you it's nothin' a hardy dose o' morphine and a weekend atta cathouse wouldn't cure.'

She laughs, and even though I'm playing a bit of a bastard, I see a thin chain drooping between her breasts holding the low cut sides together. Strange how a mind works. But I like her laugh; she's got that same sense of humour I let out once and a while.

'I'll see what I can do about the one,' she says, eyeing the floor and grinning 'but I'm not too sure about the other.'

'Oh you're not are you?'

She's stopped in her tracks, and stares at me. Incredulous?

I heard her talking outside, I see what she's wearing, how she's carrying herself walking in here in her heels. She's casual, in a I-can't-believe-actresses-dress-like-that-outside-work kind of way. I can smell her too, and see what's in her hand.

'No I'm not. Not sure what you're getting at Logan.'

'Why'd you come here and scare away all the others then, Betts?'

There's that trickle of palm sweat again.

'I wanted to know you're ok, see how you're feeling, but it turns out you're much better than the last time I saw you. A new man, a whole new man. Quite full of yourself actually.'

I want another taste of bourbon, quick.

'Full o' myself? Or is it that you came here, to be 'full of myself'.'

'You rotten --'

'S'at why you shooed Jeannie away?'

Her chest is going a little red. Looks weird on a Japanese girl every time I see it.

'So's you can take care of me? Check my stitches? Take my temperature, play doctor?'

'You arrogant son of a bitch, how dare you presume to know my intentions?'

'I can smell your intentions from across the hallway, Betts, and your not denying them just gave a whole lot o' weight to my argument; what I wanna know is why?'

'I was clearly mistaken, Logan; my sympathy misguided, how could I have been so stupid as to enquire as to my friend's wellbeing after a hit like that, what was I thinking?!'

'So you know that's how you feel about me, yeah?'

'WHAT?'

'I want you to admit to yourself exactly what you're doing.'

'What I'm doing, mister, is heading for the door -- you can keep those stitches in, I'll tell Hank to rip them out with a pneumatic drill!'

'Cos you scared away Jeannie from here, you know that.'

'Of course I did! She can't have both you AND Scott, who else does she want, Hank and Warren too?'

'So what does that say about you? Do you want me, or are you just pissed because she already has him and wants me as well?'

'I just want to see if you were ok.'

'As a friend?'

'Yes, goddamn it, as a friend!'

'Cos you acting like it's somethin' else.'

She stops.

'Do you want it to be something else, Logan?'

'I want you to know what you're doing.'

'I do know what I'm doing.'

'What's in ya hand?'

'What...?' She pulls it up to me. '... It's arnica salve. Helps reduce the bruising. Is that innocent enough for you?' She presents me with cheek.

'I'd say if it reduces swelling, I'm not gonna want that anywhere important.'

'Ah, you are the living end.' She slaps my shoulder.

'You sure you wanna go through with this?'

'Go through with what?' She asks, exhausted. 'I'm not doing anything wrong.'

'Yeah,' I say 'as long as you actually feel that way about it.'

'We're just friends Logan! Jesus!'

'Well be a pal then,' I tell her 'and open the wine while I get some glasses and we can jaw till the wee hours.'

'Oh my god, you're reading way too much into all this.'

I step into the bathroom and hunt under the sink for some glasses. All I find is shot glasses. That won't do.

'Fine, I'm reading too much into this. It's all very sweet o' you Elisabeth.'

'Am I going to have to hit you? You make me sound like some gutter tramp that has this psychological compulsion to sleep with everyone.'

'I ain't saying zero about what you do or do not do, I was jus' saying you stopped Jeannie from comin' in here to see me with my shirt off. So you better have a good explanation.'

'You heard all that?' She bites her lip. Come on.

'Ya weren't exactly quiet about it.'

She eyeballs the shot glasses. 'That was all you could find?'

'Yeh, this is all I got. Now take your top off.'

'Excuse me?'

'I said take the cork out the top of the damn bottle, girl. Are you alright?'

'Yeah, yeah, I'm fine.'

Hiatus while I knock out a few drops into the glasses. About two fingers each they fit. Huh.

Betts just needs to know what she's doing. I don't want her acting rashly or out of spite or whatever I don't know, all I know is she needs to have a clear picture or she'll be hitting herself in the morning, and yeah I'll act like a bastard to cement it in her head for her. I'm just looking out for her.

She tips her head back down having necked another shot. I pour my third. We used to do this in Kobe with Rose back in the day. The real talk flows once you're getting some distance.

She balances the ridge of her wrist along her top lip with the empty glass at the end. Her eyes are closed. Even with rosy cheeks, and a throat working to contain the repulsive method of wine drinking she looks great. Beautiful, even. Those days I spent with her, a naked vulnerability, that tentative vigour once she found out she was some living weapon were some of the most inspirational I ever had. Us and Jubilee, it was a riot.

'Logan this is a foul way of doing this. You've bewitched me. You got my blood up and now you're replacing it with wine. In a shot glass, my god, if Grazia saw me now.'

'Hey you remember when we were in Genosha, years ago and Hodge was in charge. Time when we met up with Jean and Scottie and the others?'

'What of it? I remember a lot of guns and a hell of a lot of threats being tossed around and little done about them.'

'What are you talking about? Havok blew the citadel to dust? Anyway,'

'Anyway,'

'When we were on those skycycles, dressed as Magistrates, and we got onboard that carrier and Alex was there and saw us, and you remember he went berserk. You remember what you said to me?'

'I remember you were at death's door and for a while there we thought you'd die. I remember that.'

'No, you said: our teammate's lookin' to be one of the enemy -- and we had no choice but to treat him like one.'

'That was a horrendous experience for all involved.'

'That whole thing was standout. You really pulled through for us, Betts. For me. I thought I was supposed to be protectin' you, and you just went hell for leather at them acting like a real hero.'

'A psychopath is what you're trying to say.'

'No, you really pulled through. Really gave it to 'em, just like we should. I'm proud of you. I am.'

'... Thanks Logan. I don't know what to say.'

'Say nothin'. It's nothin'.'

We stare.

I crack down the shot glass on the bedside tabletop. The vision, it was better earlier. Now it's a little hazy again, but in a good way. Rockin'.

'... Arnica salve! Let's give it a go then huh?'

She smiles and chugs from the bottle of bourbon, washing it down.

'Holy god, this has to be fifty percent proof at least!'

I take it by the neck and swig. I taste her lips on it. 'Eighty, isn't it?'

'Eighty? My god you'll go blind drinking that!'

'It says exactly on the label somewhere.' I twirl it in hand.

'You've scratched it off you dope.'

'Oh.'

She inhales and stifles a burp.

'Do you want that rub then?'

'What exact part of me are you gonna rub?

'Not your cock if that's what you're thinking.'

Don't expect that kind of language coming out of her mouth. She is British though.

'Uh, what about my shoulder. It's really aching.'

She pushes me so I'm sitting on the floor, legs crossed and resting against her knees.

'I'm not surprised, you took a large piece of shrapnel in it. But look... oh my god... there's not even a scar or anything.'

'Yup.'

'It's like it never happened.'

'Why you sound surprised, you've seen me with my clothes off before.'

'Just can't help but be astounded. I mean, it is a miracle of nature.'

'Thought you didn't believe in religion, Betts.'

'No, no, but I'm just saying it's like you're this... Adonis, this Omega man... David; you can't be harmed and you won't show it if you are.'

'Not like some people then,' I stare into the red marking over her eye.

'No, not like some people.'

This is getting morbid.

'Let's not dwell on the shitty past, Betsy, it ain't the way forward looking behind ya.'

'...Yeah.'

''Sides, it's gettin' cool in here.'

'Right. Gottcha.'

And the instant she touches my shoulder it's like icicles melting into my neck.

'Sorry, hon, my circulation isn't all that.'

I turn and face her and onto my knees between her long legs.

'Warm 'em up then!' Taking the fine fingers into my thick hands I give them a rolling pin graze. I think she's looking at my face.