Logan stumbled out of the burning saloon and in to the tranquility of the night. His breaths, sharp and rapid, tasted of a freshness that had cleaned away the sour taste of the smoke. By the time he had escaped from the building, Sabretooth was gone. Part of him had expected his mysterious opponent to be waiting, ready to battle Logan as he held Rogue in his arms. The other part of him was thankful that the beast had decided not to finish the job.

With the slumbering lithe body balanced in his arms, he managed to open the back door of the truck and climbed in. He kicked away some of the rubbish scattered on the floor—his toe flicking away crumpled up newspapers and a shirt laden with holes and dried blood.

Logan lay her down on the bed, his hands treating her like fragile cargo. Her face had been blackened by the smoke, fragments of wall were dusted through her hair but even with the thick layer of soot over her skin, it was easy to see the pretty girl beneath it. He wanted to make sure she was okay, but the faint wails of sirens gave Logan the hint that the burning building would bring a lot of attention, and he didn't want to be here when it all came. Wolverine shut the door with a hard slam that did nothing to disturb the deep dreams that she was lost in.

He walked to the driver's door and took one last look at the display of carnage that had taken over the bar, the fingers of the fire reaching as high as they could, the smoke polluting the beauty of the night sky. Logan got in to the truck and started the engine, taking off in to the unknown. The radio hummed a comforting requiem to the bloody battle that had preceded it, a soothing blues number that provided a soundtrack to the highlights of the fight in his mind.

Who the hell is he?

Sabretooth's movements had been unusual, yet strangely predictable, as though Logan had encountered it before. However, he had still been given a beating so bad, it nearly knocked a few images back in to his head.

Right now, he didn't care about the defeat, nor did Sabretooth's words linger on his mind. Rogue lay on the unkempt bed, her chest pulsing gently beneath her jacket. His hands had wrapped around the steering wheel with the tightest of grips, fighting with the jaded suspension of the truck as it bounced against the country road. The dim lights of the vehicle beamed the twisting road in front of them, Logan's foot remained hard against the floor, unwilling to pull away for even the most dangerous of bends. By now, even the glow of the wreckage had disappeared from the wing mirrors, leaving them to speed through the shadows of the midnight canvas.

x x x

The door to the motel room opened with a slow squeak, the prolonged noise more disruptive than a quick push would have been. The over-powering light of the morning sun soaked Rogue's eyes with a tingle, and her hand went up to shield away the strong shade of warmth. Logan closed the door with the sole of his boot, a brown paper bag cradled in his arms.

The room was small, the interior filled with dark woods and dull colours. A double bed with a emerald cover dominated the room, leaving little space for an uncomfortable-looking armchair in the corner. A small television, almost as old as Rogue was, sat perched on a small chest of drawers near the end of the bed. It had been the second motel that Logan came across, wishing to remain as far from the memories of last night as possible.

"How long you been awake?" He asked, pocketing the keys.

"A while." Her hand returned to her face, this time to block a yawn from escaping.

"How's the head?" Logan replied with a yawn of his own.

"It's not so bad. Still hurts a little. Shoulders are kind of sore, too."

"Here." His paws rummaged through the bag, fingers grabbing a small box and tossing them in her direction. "These should help with the pain."

Rogue caught the box and studied the words on the side, opening the flap and pinching the tray of tablets with the tips of her fingers. "They'll help with the pain all right. . . take too many of these, and ya could put down an elephant."

"Painkillers ain't usually part of my shoppin' list."

"Well. . . we can't all be lucky enough to have fast healing powers."

She got a smile out of him, and the Canadian mutant wandered over to the edge of the bed, sitting at what seemed like the furthest corner away from her. The smirk soon faded, his expression turning as cold as stone, eyes catching a spot on the floor rather than catch a glimpse of hers.

"Last night. . ." He began. ". . .with Sabretooth. . . you got hurt because of me."

"What. . .?"

"Just listen, kid." He interrupted, finally locking eyes with her. "This is what happens. I get hurt and I heal. But it's people like you that get hurt the most. I always said it would be dangerous. But this time, I thought I could protect you from it all. I promised myself that I'd never let anything happen to you. . ."

The pounding against the back of her skull remained at a constant beat, blurred memories swirling around her head like the flutter of ash from the burning bar. Not for a moment did she blame him for what happened to her. He had sheltered her from the harsh winter. . .

"So. . . what? We're just going to part ways? You think I'll be safer wandering around Canada alone?"

His lips parted, but no words were able to come out.

"The only way I can be safe is if I'm with you."

"Trust me." Logan frowned. "I don't have a good track record of that."

Rogue's slender form shifted upon the crumpled landscape of the linen, rising to her knees while leaning back in to her heels. "Then let's do something about it."

"Darlin'. . . it ain't gonna be long before this Sabretooth shows back up. Or some other freak. For all I know, I've pissed off a thousand people in my life and I don't remember a single one of them." His head swiveled towards her. "I wake up every mornin'. . . every day, bracing myself for a fight. Do you really want to do the same?"

Her knees shuffled across the soft emerald, closing the gap by a few inches. "It's your choice, Logan. We either say goodbye. . . or you show me how to defend myself."

Almost as soon as she shuffled towards him, he stood up and glided across the carpet towards the window, two fingers prying open the blinds as he looked out to the scenery. "I can't even defend myself anymore."

"So ya lost a fight. . . every one does."

Logan's eyes were distracted by the flutter of a trench coat waving to him from a pay phone in the distance. The figure marched in front of the booth, one hand scrubbing his hair while the other strangled the neck of the receiver.

"Yeah. . ." He growled, returning to the conversation. ". . .But it feels like this isn't the first fight I've lost to him."

x x x

Earlier that night, everything had went bright. The yellow glow of headlights splashed over the windscreen, stabbing at Logan's eyes through the gaps between the dried muck. Many people describe their moment with near-death as having their life flash in front of their eyes—unsurprisingly for Wolverine, he didn't get much of a replay. A loud roar, belching like a trumpet, spat at the old truck as a stampede of machinery rushed past—their thick metal skins splattered with the earthy colours of the Canadian landscape. Their rubber feet churned through the dirt road, their glaring eyes shining the path in front of them. There was only one direction for them—the scene of the battle between the beasts. But they were arriving at the party too late, the guests had already gone, and they would find nothing but the wreckage of the war left behind.

Wolverine's pick-up was sent scurrying off the road in a panic. His foot reacted quick, kicking down on to the pedals while his hands hugged the wheel tight. The tyres remained rooted to the ground as his truck came to a stop. His head spun round to the rear of his motor-home, relieved to find his sudden swerve had not caused Rogue to be thrown from the bed. . . though the same could not be said for the scraps of rubbish that had tumbled around the floor for the previous few months.

Logan opened the door and jumped out in to the wet mush at the side of the road. The vehicles—five in total—howled in to the distance, trampling everything in their path. But Logan's sharp eyesight caught something etched on to the rear of the last truck, printed on to the rusting olive shell. . .

Department X.

Logan recognised the name, a signature left by an artist whose work he was familiar with.

Very familiar.

The Wolverine's eyes drifted down towards his cracked palms, as his wrist rotated to show his knuckles painted with red.

He was their work of art.