**08.00. GMT-6, 13 February 1980, Quiet Dinner, Nome, Alaska, USA**
LOGAN
The Alaskan cold bit at Logan's neck as he pushed open the diner door, a bell jangling a tinny announcement. Inside, the warmth was thick with the smell of old grease, cheap coffee, and fried onions.
He slid into a booth by the window, the vinyl seat cracking under his weight. He opened a file. Another recruit Stryker needed him to meet. 'Anna Marie Wilson. Codename: Rogue. Approx. 25 years olds. Mutation: Absorption through skin-to-skin contact. Super Strength. Flight. Ex-member of The Brotherhood of Mutant. Considered volatile.' The black-and-white photo really didn't do her justice as Logan glanced at the waitress coming to take his order.
Skin-to-skin huh? Wonder if his healing power could take it.
The waitress approaching the counter made him glance up. Her name tag–Marie–practically confirmed it. She looked younger than he'd expected, auburn hair with that striking white streak tied back in a simple, no-nonsense ponytail.
Damn she is gorgeous.
When she finally came over, he put the file down and offered a slow, deliberate smile.
"Coffee? Sugah?" she asked.
"Black," he replied shortly. "Do you guys serve breakfast yet, darlin'?"
"Well… it's usually served at nine. You did come a little bit early, sugah."
"That's a shame."
"Hang on, I'll see if Mike will make an exception." She hurried off, her ponytail swinging, the simple motion somehow captivating in the quiet diner. Logan watched her go, appreciating the view.
When she returned, he managed to refocus. "It's your lucky day, sugar."
"Thanks, darlin'," he said, his eyes softening at her easy smile. "So, what's a girl like you doin' in a place like this?"
"A girl like me?" She was taken aback, a flicker of caution in her green eyes.
"Well, ain't exactly common to hear a Southern accent from a beautiful little lady way up here at the edge of the world."
"Well, says the guy ridin' a motorcycle into a small fisherman town in Alaska in this weather."
"Well, I am a Canadian…"
"You're a really funny guy, huh?"
"Logan." He chuckled, finally introducing himself. The sound was bit rougher than he intended. He saw her note it, her own posture relaxing a little bit. So, she likes it that way huh?
"Marie. Anna Marie…"
"Yeah. I know."
Marie froze. The casual warmth vanished from her face, replaced by instant, razor-sharp tension. Her hand drifted behind the counter. Her eyes, which had held a spark of playful flirt a moment ago, now glared at him.
"Who. Are. You?"
"So, Marie. Or should I call you Rogue?" He finished his coffee calmly as the girl before him whipped her hand forward, throwing a knife perfectly into the center of his chest.
"Aimin' straight for my heart already, darlin'? This is gonna be an interesting first date…" he said, pulling the first knife from his chest. The wound sealed shut before her eyes.
"Who the fuck are you?" she demanded again, not waiting for an answer as she grabbed another knife from the counter and started slashing at his throat. Logan leaned back to dodge, letting it whistle past.
"Hey! Hey! Let's talk this over, I am not here to fight!"
"Did Erik send you? Or was it Raven?" Marie ignored his teasing, slashing again while Logan dodged lazily. He finally caught her wrist, but she immediately dropped the knife, caught it with her other hand, and stabbed him again—this time in the groin.
"Fuck!" The pain was blinding, a white-hot jolt that even his healing factor couldn't mute instantly. "Now that one really hurt, darlin'!"
"Answer my question!" Marie snarled, twisting the knife.
"Argh! Stop it! Fuck!"
"Answer. My. Question."
"No! But I do know about your not-so-secret fallin' out with them."
"Well, that's none of your business."
"You're right. But I do have business with you."
She glared, chest heaving. The tension was a live wire in the quiet diner, and for some insane reason, Logan found the whole thing intensely hot. Her ferocity, the lethal skill, the fire in her eyes—it was the most alive he'd felt in months. Ouch. Still hurts like a bitch, though.
"Marie! Here's the–" A voice cut through the standoff. A middle-aged man stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, holding a plate of eggs. He looked from Logan to Marie to the knife still lodged in Logan's crotch. He sighed heavily, shook his head, and slowly backed away.
"Nope! Nope, I'm not gonna deal with this today!"
"Smart guy," Logan gritted out.
"Well, that's Mike for ya!" Marie said, though her eyes never left Logan's.
"You gonna let go of that knife now, darlin'? I'm not here to fight you or turn you in. If that's what you're worried about…"
She searched his face, looking past the pain and the smirk for the truth. Slowly, the killing tension eased from her frame. "Fine. But no funny business." She finally pulled the knife out.
"Fuck!" Logan grunted, a fresh wave of agony coursing through him as the blade came free. He took a steadying breath, the healing already knitting the worst of it. "Warn a guy next time."
"So," she said, wiping the blade on a napkin with a casualness that was both alarming and impressive. "What's your deal, sugar?"
"There's a way for you to get a pardon. A real one, from the feds. I know you're hidin' here 'cause Lensherr and Darkholme are after your hide, not just 'cause you like the scenery."
"Oh really?" Sarcasm dripped from her words.
"Here." Logan slid the official-looking file across the table.
She opened it, her eyes scanning the documents. The glare returned. "Really? Black ops?"
"I was in the same boat before I started. The pay's good, you get the pardon, and they cover dental… You just gotta do their dirty work once in a while. And between the two of us?" He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rasp. "I don't think that's really a problem, is it?"
"You don't know me."
"I'd like to," he said, the double meaning hanging in the air between them. "If you let me."
"Shameless."
"That's me, darlin'."
She studied him for a long moment, her gaze calculating, weighing the risk against the promise of freedom. He saw the exact moment curiosity and a flicker of that earlier spark overrode her suspicion. "Fine… Only because you're so irresistible, sugar."
"Oh, flirtin' back now, are we?"
"Gotta build a good rapport with my new teammate, don't I, sugar?"
"I'll take that as a yes, then?"
"Ah don't really have a choice, do I?"
"No," he said, standing up with a slight, lingering wince. "Not really."
"Let me say goodbye to my boss first. We did scare him good back there."
"I'll wait outside."
MARIE
The kitchen door swung shut behind her, muffling the world to the familiar, comforting sounds of the grill and the rush of the sink. The air was warm and smelled of soap and home fries.
Mike stood at the big steel sink, his back to her, shoulders shaking slightly.
He turned around, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "Well," he drawled, "Is it done? Can I come out safely now? Who is he anyway? Crazy ex-boyfriend of yours?"
"No, Mike no, we just met." A laugh burst out of her, shaking with relief. "I'm so sorry about that, Mike. It was a mess."
He shrugged, his eyes kind. "Pssh. Diners see worse before noon on a Tuesday. Is the guy dead? Do I need to get the shovels and the tarp out of the shed?"
"No," she said, her smile softening. "He's alive. And… I'm leaving with him. He knows a way to get my life back."
Mike's teasing smile faded into something more solemn. He stopped fiddling with the towel and gave her his full attention. He sighed, a deep, knowing sound. "I knew the day would come. Knew you weren't meant to be hiding out here washing my coffee mugs forever. You got too much fire in you for that."
"I appreciated it, Mike. These last two years… you didn't have to. But you did for me." Her throat felt tight. He'd been the first person in a long time who offered shelter without wanting something from her in return. He'd seen a lost girl and given her a cot and a job, no questions asked, because she'd reminded him of the daughter he'd lost to a forever years ago.
"Ah, hush. You earned your keep." He waved a hand, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. "You'll write? Or call when you can?"
"Every day!" she promised, the words feeling both true and impossibly hopeful.
"Well, let me meet this walking pincushion first, yeah?" Mike said, his gruffness returning. "Can't have you running off with just anybody. Taking my little girl just like that, but considering you just lodged a knife to his dick..." He waggled his eyebrows, and she groaned.
"He's like me," she added quietly, the significance of it settling between them. "Got a healing factor or somethin'. He's already healed but why does it matter to you anyway?"
"So I could still have grandchildren then?"
"MIKE!" She felt her face flush, but she was laughing again. It was ridiculous and wonderful and felt so normal.
"Hahaha! I'm just kiddin'! C'mere." He opened his arms.
She didn't hesitate, stepping into his bear hug. It was safe, parental, the kind of touch she once always longed as a child. The kind that she was missing ever since she was kicked out from her home at fourteen. Not even Raven gave her this comfort when she took her in.
She hugged him back tightly, burying her face in the soft flannel of his shirt, smelling like coffee and fry oil. Safe.
"You be good, you hear?" Mike murmured into her hair. "And you be careful. But mostly, I'm glad. I'm real glad you finally got a shot at what you need."
"I'll be back to visit," she whispered, pulling back. "I promise."
Mike cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. "Damn onions," he muttered, turning to gesture at the three plates he'd set on the pass-through. They held perfect eggs over easy, crispy hash browns, and buttered toast. "Can't send you out on an empty stomach. You and Sir Stabs-a-Lot better eat up before you hit the road. My treat."
She looked at the food, then back at Mike's kind, weathered face. Her heart ached with a sweet, sharp pain. This was her goodbye to peace. But for the first time in years, it wasn't a frantic escape or running away. It was finally her own choice.
"Thanks, Mike. For everything."
Marie pushed through the kitchen door, balancing three heavy plates of breakfast. She slid one in front of Logan with a look that was half-apology, half-warning, then set another at the place next to him before taking her own seat opposite.
"My old boss insists we eat together before we hit the road," she explained, a softness in her voice for the man in the kitchen.
Logan, who'd come here for breakfast in the first place, nodded. The rich smell of the food was a siren's call. "Yeah, I could eat."
Before he could pick up his fork, the kitchen door swung open. Mike emerged, his eyes widening as he took in Logan's completely healed state. "Well, I'll be damned," he breathed, then offered a rueful smile. "Feisty one, isn't she?"
A slow grin spread across Logan's face. He glanced at Marie, who was focusing very hard on her eggs. "I don't mind. I like 'em feisty."
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Marie reached over and smacked the back of Logan's head, then gave Mike's arm a matching swat. Both men chuckled.
Mike slid into the booth beside Logan, digging into his food. "So, you two a package deal now? Partnered up?" He wiggled his eyebrows between them.
"Professionally," Marie stated firmly, shooting a glare at Mike.
"Uh-huh," Mike said, unconvinced. He nudged Logan with an elbow. "She's a terrible liar, this one. And a lousy poker player. Blushes every time she gets a good hand."
Marie kicked him under the table.
Mike roared with laughter. "See? Fire! I'm tellin' ya." He leaned in conspiratorially to Logan. "She's act like a tough shell alright, but she's a real softy inside. Cries at those sappy movies on the TV."
"Mike!" Marie hissed, her face flushing a brilliant scarlet.
Logan's grin turned wolfish. "Is that so?"
Mike's eyes dropped to the metal chain just visible at the neck of Logan's shirt. "You serve?"
Logan took a long drink of coffee, nodding. "Yeah. Vietnam."
Mike's face lit up with the camaraderie of shared service. "Vietnam, huh? Tough theatre. I was in the Big One myself. 101st Airborne. Saw action all over Europe." He puffed his chest out a little, a sparkle in his eye. "Fought my way to the Rhine. And I'll tell you this–at the end of it all, I even got to see the Star-Spangled Man himself. Fought in the same sector as Captain America during the final push on HYDRA. Saw him once, throwing his shield like it was made of paper. Something else."
Logan just smiled at him. He nodded, chewing a mouthful of perfectly crisped hash browns. "Heard the stories. Sounds like it."
After the plates were cleared and the friendly interrogation about Logan's military service–which Logan navigated with vague, polite nods. Mike saw them to the door. He clapped Logan on the shoulder.
"You look after her, son. And you," he said, turning to Marie, "Don't you forget to write, you hear? Every week. I want postcards!"
"I will, Mike. I promise," Marie said, throwing her arms around him in one last, fierce hug.
"Good." Mike's voice was gruff with emotion. He released her and gave a final wave as they walked toward Logan's bike. "Stay out of trouble! Or at least, the kind that leaves a stain!"
Laughing, Marie climbed on behind Logan, wrapping her arms carefully around his waist. As the bike's engine roared to life, Mike stood framed in the diner's glowing doorway, a silhouette against the warmth, waving until they turned the corner and disappeared down the snow-lined road.
"Hold on tight, Darlin'."