The damn bartender didn't know what he was talking about. Causing trouble? Like hell. Like he'd actually have bothered with that little punk if he'd had a choice. Logan snorted, raking a hand through his dark hair as he cracked his neck, enjoying the hot sting of skin knitting together over the cut across one cheek. If anybody else had taken that bottle to the face, they would have been out for hours. Logan, it just pissed him off.

Still, he reflected as he made his way down the stale New York streets, boots thudding against the cracked pavement, maybe throwing the guy through a window hadn't been the best way to handle it. As Storm might say, it lacked a certain diplomacy.

"Whatever," Logan muttered, feeling around in the pocket of his jeans for his keys. The bike was in need of some serious repairs after his last little joyride, so he'd taken one of Scott's cars; it didn't even occur to him to think twice before getting ready to drive. Alcohol and Logan did well together. His metabolism and healing powers made it almost impossible for him to get drunk... unless he wanted to. Now, the memory of Jean's strained face was nice and fuzzy, and his fists felt good. Punching people always left him with a solid satisfaction that even getting tossed out of a bar couldn't dull. Logan thought about whistling, decided against it, and shoved his keys back in the pocket he'd just dug them out of.

"Come on, beautiful, leave the loser and we'll show you a real good time!" The voice, slurred just enough to be threatening, slid past Logan from one of the alleys that branched off from the main street like dozens of dark, spiny veins. Laughter followed, and Logan paused. His nostrils flared, the intoxication fading into a predatory stillness. He smelled... fear.

"Leave us alone! Come on," a girl's voice shrilled, the last words dropping almost a full octave. No less scared, though, and ending in a hiss that said one word: desperate.

"Aw, don't be like that," a third voice said, much lower now. Gritty. Cajoling. About as cajoling as a gun to the face, in fact. Logan's heartrate increased, his eyes narrowing. His fingers tensed, the bones flexing, ready. Here we go.

............................

"Oh, god," Kitty breathed, her arms faltering. She couldn't pull him anymore, and she wasn't that strong as it was, and goddamnit, he was heavy. Her hands under John's arms, gripping the thin material of his shirt as she dragged him one more step further into the alley, his head drooping onto his chest as he fumbled one hand up and then let it drop--

"Let him go, babe," the one in front said then, head lowering. He had something in his hand now, something short and shiny and--

"Fuck you!" she cried, almost sobbing with it, jerking John one more step and stumbling, tripping, going to her knees. She lost her grip and John slid down, his shoulders landing in her lap, on her thighs, a low groan slipping through his chapped lips. Fear snuck through her, lived through her, fear that made it hard to breathe. Kitty tried to move, tried to phase, tried to do something- anything!- useful, but her throat was closed off and they were getting closer and John wasn't opening his eyes, wasn't getting up, and she was so tired now, so tired.

"Not so big and strong now, are you?" one of the men (god, men? Boys, really) asked darkly, spitting towards John's crumpled legs. "Not gonna set us on fire now, you fucking freak?"

"Please, just go," Kitty whispered, barely able to get the words out. John's head lolled against her stomach, his hair plastered to his cheeks. She wrapped her thin arms around his neck, hands wringing into his chest, aware of the shallowness of his breaths and the cold sweat that dotted his forehead.

"Not without a little something from you, princess," the leader said, voice like poison honey. The knife in his hand glinted, and she heard the sounds of traffic from the street beyond, and felt like dying. Dying like- like John was dying. Oh, god, no, her brain insisted, the yammering terror giving way to a lower dread.

"Stay back!" Useless. It was all useless. They were going to take her and John was going to die and then they'd kill her, cut her throat like a pig, and even if they didn't there was no way she could help her boy, no way she could ever save him like he'd saved her.

"Who's gonna make us?" the boy with the knife asked smugly, advancing another step. Only a few feet away, now. "You got no one, mutie."

"Neither do you," someone said behind him, the gruff snarl so low that Kitty almost didn't even register the words. "Three guesses as to who's gonna hurt more." And then there was something moving, something moving faster than Kitty could follow, the darkness mixing into the noise of the city and the startled shouts of the men who'd stalked her into this alley. Someone screamed, there was a horrible wet tearing sound, the salty stench of blood. Too much blood. Kitty closed her eyes, lowered her head to press her forehead against John's, and bit her lip hard enough to burn.

It was over in less than a minute. It was over in a lifetime. The fear was bigger now, wilder, more viscous; she could feel it in every part of her and people kept screaming, and there were those awful ripping sounds and something like tumbling wet steam...

When the hand fell on her shoulder, Kitty did the only thing she could think of. She bit it. A man yelped, surprised, and then shocked her even more by doing the last thing she'd expected: he laughed.

"It's okay, kid," came that rough voice. The anger, though, was gone. Slowly, carefully, Kitty looked up.

A man stood over them, his gray shirt spattered with blood. His hair, thick and dark and oddly brushed back, bared his whole, rugged face. He wasn't smiling... but his eyes, very hard and very old, were gentle.

"What... did you do?" she asked, her own voice soft and crumpled. She didn't look behind him. She didn't want to look.

"I took care of it." He pointed his chin at John, eyes not leaving Kitty's face. "Looks like your pal there is in a bad way." Her first instinct was to draw John closer and curl around him, to protect him, to say He's fine! until this stranger left them alone... but the truth of the broken way John's chest rose and fell was stronger than that instinct.

"He's sick," she said finally, cursing herself for the stupid obviousness of those words. "I don't... I don't know what." The stranger hesitated, licking his lips as his brows lowered thoughtfully. Then, one hand scratching at his stubbly chin, he hunkered down to their level.

"I can help you," he said simply, keeping her gaze, eyes steady and as honest as she'd seen in a long while. We're okay. I don't need your help. Leave us alone. The automatic answers rushed around inside her head like water, the answers drilled into her since the day John found her... but when she opened her mouth, none of them came out. After a few long beats of her silence, the man slid one arm beneath John's shoulders and the other beneath his knees, lifting him in one smooth motion. "Let's go," he said to Kitty as she scrambled to her feet. John's arm dangled down by the stranger's knees, and, her heart tripping in her chest, Kitty grabbed his hand.

"Okay."