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The Difficult Kind (2/?)(PG)(Movieverse)(Vy, Logan)

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  • alexsisterwolf@netscape.net
    ***The Difficult Kind, part 2 of ?, by Alex SisterWolf, part of the Forest of the Night series, archived at http://www.angelfire.com/mn2/AlexSisterWolf. This
    Message 1 of 1 , Nov 5, 2000
      ***The Difficult Kind, part 2 of ?, by Alex SisterWolf, part of the Forest of
      the Night series, archived at http://www.angelfire.com/mn2/AlexSisterWolf.
      This section rated PG. All recognizable characters belong to Marvel Comics
      and no copyright infringement is intended. Vy is my creation. Archive
      story with permission. Send feedback to Alexsisterwolf@.... Pretty
      please, with sugar on top, darlin'.***
      ***Note: I've decided to officially set the Forest of the Night series in
      the Movieverse. If you're curious, the time frame is about four years after
      the movie. However, my Logan is still short, darn it! :) ***
      ***And, finally, the PSA: Big cats are not pets and should NEVER, EVER be
      kept as pets. Don't try this at home, kids. Or Vy and Logan will hunt ya

      The rest of the day was pretty well dominated by getting everything arranged
      for the cub. I guess I really hadn't realized how much _stuff_ kids require.
      Jean and Scott gave us a really adorable crib (steel-reinforced bars and a
      Winnie the Pooh theme… I have no idea where they found it.) It looked pretty
      weird in our room, with Logan's katana and cowboy hat hanging on the wall
      next to my posters: Minnehaha Falls (to remind me of home) and The Empire
      Strikes Back (yes, I have a Han Solo fetish).

      Then again, the thought of it being _our_ room still took a bit of getting
      used to. Officially speaking, Logan and I had been living together for
      almost a year, but I really only remembered about the last month of it. Long
      story, involving lost memory and a razor-toothed mad scientist who still
      gives me nightmares. Oh, we're quite a pair, Logan and I. At least four
      times a week, one of us wakes the other up with nightmares. He hasn't really
      told me what his nightmares are about. Have I mentioned that both of us have
      problems with communicating? Yeah, we're a real pair, all right.

      So, eventually, the stream of people coming by the room to drop off presents
      and coo over the cub stopped. Logan opened up the window and sat on the
      windowsill, lighting up a cigar. I hate the damned things. Our compromise:
      he can smoke as long as I don't have to breathe it. I gently placed the
      sleeping cub into his crib and then flopped onto the bed.

      "Long day," Logan commented.

      "No shit."

      We sat for a while in comfortable silence. One wonderful thing about Logan:
      he doesn't feel the need to talk all the damned time. I think I'd pitch
      Rogue's lover, Remy, out the window if I had to listen to his endless
      chatter. She seems to like it, though.

      "You know anything about raising a kid?" I asked. Not having had any younger
      siblings or cousins, I really didn't know the first thing about childcare.



      "Don't worry. Jeannie and 'Roro 'll be all over it. An' the kids-Rogue,
      Paige, Jubilee-they'll be standin' in line to babysit."

      I snorted at the fact that he still calls the younger members of the team
      kids. They're all probably around twenty, but he still acts like they're
      giggly teenagers. Then again, sometimes they are just like giggly teenagers.

      I watched him leaning against the window frame, gazing out over the grounds.
      He was wearing tight faded blue jeans and a white tee-shirt that hugged his
      muscular chest and shoulders. I glanced over at the cub. Completely crashed
      out. Good.

      I stretched languidly on the bed, arching my back, stretching my claws.
      Logan glanced over at the rustle of fur on sheets. I smiled at him, the tip
      of my tail twitching.

      A sudden gleam appeared in his eyes and he tossed the cigar butt out the

      "The Prof hates it when you do that," I said teasingly.

      "I know," he said, and came over to the bed, and there wasn't really much
      talking after that.


      A whimpering mewl woke me out of a deep sleep. I raised my head and looked
      at the clock. Three a.m. Bloody hell.

      But it was pretty clear that the cub was hungry, and wasn't going to stop
      crying until he got fed. So I attempted to move the hairy, muscular arm that
      was draped over my midsection. It was like trying to move a steel girder.

      "Shit." I tried to wiggle out from underneath his arm. Logan murmured in
      his sleep and pulled me closer to him.

      I sighed. This was really adorable and all, but I had a cub to feed. And
      his squeaky yowls were growing louder.

      "Logan." No response. I tried it again, louder. "Logan!"

      He started to snore lightly. I considered punching him in the nose, but it
      would have been a little difficult, since I was lying curled up with my back
      to his chest.

      "Fine." I wriggled around until I was facing him, which took some doing,
      since adamantium-coated bones are _heavy_. Once I was facing him, I took a
      deep breath and shouted, "Logan!"

      His eyes flicked open and he rolled quickly over me and to his feet,
      crouching with his claws out, ready for attack.

      I sighed. There are certain disadvantages to sharing a bed with the ultimate
      weapon. "Logan, it's okay, we're not under attack."

      Logan's claws slid back into his knuckles with a quiet *snikt*. "Oh," he
      said, sounding almost disappointed. "Why's the cub crying?"

      "He's hungry," I said, getting out of bed. "I've gotta go downstairs to heat
      some formula up."

      He picked up the cub, whose cries quieted a little. I held out my arms for
      the cub and Logan shook his head. "I'm comin' with ya."

      "Okay, but you might consider putting pants on."

      "Why?" Logan's a nudist at heart. I can't really blame him (hey, I run
      around in nothing but orange and black fur), but sometimes he's a little hazy
      on what is and is not appropriate.

      "Because we might run into someone, a student, for example." I held out my
      arms for the cub again. Logan handed him over and grabbed a pair of

      Naturally, we didn't run into anyone on the way down to the kitchen. Logan
      insisted on holding the cub while I heated the formula. I tested the
      temperature on the inside of my elbow, as Ororo had taught me, and brought
      the bottle over to the table.

      "I want ta feed him," Logan said.

      I stared at him. "Are you sure?"

      He shrugged uncomfortably. "I gotta get used ta this fatherhood thing."

      I gave him the bottle and showed him how to hold the cub and bottle properly,
      then sat down at the kitchen table across from him.

      He concentrated on the cub for a few minutes, then seemed to feel my puzzled
      stare boring into his brain from across the table. "What?" he said, somewhat


      He frowned. "He's yer son. I'm yer mate. He ain't related ta me, no, but
      that doesn't matter. Kid needs a father and I'm here." He glared at me

      I stood up, walked around the table, leaned over and kissed him deeply. "You
      are the sweetest man in the world," I told him.

      "Don't spread that around. I got a reputation ta keep up," he said, but he
      was smiling too.


      After settling the full and sleepy cub back into his crib, we laid back down
      on the bed, Logan flat on his back and me curled against him with my head on
      his shoulder.

      He ran his hand over my side absently, staring up at the ceiling. "What're
      ya gonna name him?"

      "Name him?" I echoed stupidly. I hadn't even thought about it. I'd just
      thought of him as 'the cub'. "I guess we can't call him 'the cub' forever,
      can we?"

      Logan grunted.

      After a while, I said, "M'rgaraj."

      "That's a hell of a mouthful."

      "Means 'lord of the beasts'. We can call him Raj for short."

      "Good name."

      "So are you ready for this? This fatherhood thing?"

      "Yeah, I think so. You?"

      "Honestly? No."

      He rubbed a hand over my back. "S'okay. We'll manage."

      "You ever have kids before?"

      A long pause. "Not that I know of."

      "Not that you know of?"

      "Can't remember anything more'n about twenty years ago."

      I pulled myself up onto an elbow and leaned over him, pretending to carefully
      examine his features. "Well, hon, unless you were a really active
      twelve-year-old, I don't think you have much to worry about."

      He winced. "I'm older than that."

      "Fine, maybe you're a well-preserved forty," I said teasingly.

      He rolled off the bed and went to stand in the window again, staring out into
      the dark. "Darlin', with the things that keep surfacin' from my memories, I
      could be a well-preserved hundred and forty."

      "Hundred and…" I whispered, shocked.

      "Yep. Seems my healin' factor does more than just put me back together again
      after a fight. I don't age, darlin'. Not so ya can tell, anyway." He
      turned to face me, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed and a
      challenging look on his face. "Ya gonna run away now?"

      His question confused the hell out of me for a second, then I made the
      connection. Some other woman had run out on him because of this. I shook my
      head and crossed the room to him, aware that a lot hung on how I handled
      this. Logan's a proud man, and it was clear that this woman, whoever she had
      been, had hurt his pride badly.

      I grabbed his shoulders and stared him in the eye. "Logan," I said, "I don't
      give a shit how old you are. For goddess' sake, honey, I'm covered in orange
      and black striped fur. I'm a freak, you're a freak. You know what? It
      doesn't make a goddamned bit of difference to the way we feel about each

      He crushed me against his chest, kissing me until I thought I'd pass out from
      lack of oxygen. At last, he came up for air, and I started walking us
      backwards toward the bed. My knees bumped against the side of the bed and I
      fell back, pulling him willingly down with me.

      "Besides," I said, between kisses, "Now at least I know your sex drive won't
      poop out on me in a few years, old fella."

      He growled at me. "Old fella? I'll show you…"


      (Soon to come: Part Three of The Difficult Kind!)

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