Hello there, party people.

Yes, it is almost three am. I am on meds, terribly sick and I want my own Logan. No wait, backtrack to the word sick…. and I had a few beers in celebration of stuff. Read some good fics. That is one valid reason to celebrate. Also the fact that I did find my inspiration again. It was under the couch, in between some old newspapers, candy wrappers and dust bunnies. Right under the Australia DVD I keep there for emergencies. Don't ask. I haven't mentioned my very important kidnapping suitcase on purpose. That is classified information I will share with only a few choice nutcases like me that share my unhealthy interest in everything Hugh Jackman.

Thank you for being so patient, life has been hell of a ride once more. But my bunny Logan is still alive and happy, he will move into a new home outside soon with one or two friends-I am still looking for the perfect companion. Which means a bunny that looks like Rogue, we will settle for no less.

And thanks to my boss who makes me come to work relatively late so he gets to sleep in and have breakfast. When I'm too early I can either have breakfast with him or do whatever I please. So I wrote this chapter by hand, typed it up just now so it is all fresh.

Surprise. This story isn't over just yet. Had an idea that made me take another road, this is what happens when I plan something. You can still review this chapter, it does not hurt. Quite the opposite, it could inspire me to draw this story out even further :P

I have no idea how long I've been sitting in this damn truck, all I know is that I'm at a point where I have to make fun of myself, punch myself repeatedly, get the girl or leave forever. I do enjoy making fun of others-not myself. I heal but that doesn't mean I enjoy the pain. And I just came here, after a few years of being… well, gone. And all these options also mean handing over my balls and I am about as attached to them as they are to me. Enough for the pep talk, I'll just go up there and see what happens.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment, but at some point the Wolverine has turned into a giant wuss. Maybe it's the tight jeans and all the motorcycle riding, I don't know. I'd blame it on too much time spent in Scooter's company, but talking about the deceased like that ain't considered very nice, even by my standards.

As I climb gracefully out of the truck my eyes shoot up automatically. Gotcha, old hag. There is a hint of a grin on her face, she didn't even try to hide this time. That yappy little furball of hers is busy spraying spit all over the glass he's barking so hard. Would make a nice slipper that one. But you'd need another and I highly doubt Marie would appreciate the gift. Sticking her foot up a former lap dog's ass to keep her feet warm ain't something I picture her doing. Falling asleep in my arms after a round or two of fun in her bed, in my arms, now that I can see happening.

And here I go again, wussing out.

The hall smells like old lady, wet dog, soup and Marie. And sick. The way a sick person's breath sometimes smells to those without heightened sense of smell, only amplified. Before I can get my hopes up that Mrs. Purple Hair is dying of pneumonia I hear Marie cough hard, followed by a terrible retching sound.

Oh shit.

It would be easier for me if a dozen mutant assassins were attacking her. Claws can fix that. They can't do anything against germs, not even if they are made from the finest adamantium.

Before I made up my mind weather I should walk up to her door or not, the door right next to me opens and old lady shuffles out, holding a suspicious looking little pot in her old hands. When she sees me she smiles that thin lipped old lady smile that never fails to creep me out. She continues to shuffle across the hall for about three paces, then apparently makes up her mind and turns around to shuffle over to me. She extends her arms with that little pot, surprise, there are flowers on it.

"Here, warm that up for her, it will do her good. Just like your company, you do her good. Unlike that little prick she so rightfully beat the other night."

I like that old woman, though she really looks like an old, dried up peach.

"You are not like him at all, I can see that. And you have been here so often and haven't laid your hands on her. You are decent, unlike that other man. You know, I can tell you haven't, because she really is a loud one. You are in for a treat."

With a chuckle she shuffles back into her apartment and leaves me doubting my sanity.

"But so is she, Mr. Fusspot. That man out there isn't one you should scare away, because mommy might be old but she likes looking at fine young men in tight jeans. Has a motorcycle, too. Reminds me of my dear Hugh, may he rest in peace…"

And her voice gets muffled, must have walked into another room soundproofed by needlepoint and quilted everythings. Okay, now she is definitely back to creepy again.

Marie's door opens and she peeks out, finding me in the hallway, probably pretty pale, holding a little flowery pot with chicken soup and my jaw somewhere on the floor.

"I thought I smelled you, but with my nose all plugged up I wasn't too sure. Your senses are wearing off again. Come in!"

She looks sick, too. Eyes swollen, nose red, pale, a little sweaty.

She'd still beat any competition by miles, at least in my book. Which is the only one that counts, really. Or else.

"What is that in your hands?"

"Old lady next door gave me some soup for ya. Go lie down, I'll warm it up for you."

Maybe I can find a frilly apron somewhere to underline my newfound wussyness. I behave like Scooter. Sorry pal. Go on resting in peace.

I pour some of the soup into a microwave safe bowl, I have learned my lesson, and heat it. After that I take out another bowl because this one is too hot. I don't want to add blisters to the list of her maladies. This is not about me going soft. I have to take care of my… mate. Usually I fight against being seen as an animal, but seeing that the other choice would depict me as a complete wuss it is the lesser evil, definitely. And the smile I get when I bring her the soup definitely makes up for everything.

"Thanks Logan. But I'm not really hungry."

"Don't make me hold you down and force feed you!" I growl.

See. A wuss would have whined. I growl. Still got it. She starts to eat, tentatively, but it is something. There are all kinds of vegetables in there, I gave it a little sniff to check for hazards before I gave it to her. Relatively harmless. Of course you should never underestimate celery. That stuff is disgusting. Who in their right mind eats that on their own, free will?

"Okay, really. Uncle. I can't eat any more."

I sit on the edge of her bed and lean forward to check the bowl. Ate half of it, good.

"Alright, you can eat the rest later."

She moans. It's just not what I envisioned originally. It contained her in her bed and lots of moaning. But no soup and heaps of tissues.

"You don't have to stay Logan. I feel like crap and I'm sure I look like it, too."

If I were a real pansy I'd start to write poems about the beauty of her chafed nose right about now. I am not.

"You promised me a decent breakfast, you can't get out of that just because you're a little under the weather. Besides, your nose makes a great night light."

She giggles and I feel a little better. To make her feel better in return I haul over her TV from the living room, get myself a beer from the fridge and sit down on the bed next to her to settle for an evening filled with movies from her collection. She slides over instantly so I take off my boots and prop my feet up, curling an arm around her because she is sick after all, she needs this now. And it is not like I don't enjoy it, too.

Half way through a movie with lots of cars, chases and explosions she coughs so hard I am afraid her head will explode. Her face still red she drives her fist into the mattress.

"Damn cold. It should be illegal!"

I can't help it, that was funny. I try to hold back the laughter-only partially successful because I snort. She turns her head sideways to glare at me, which is about as frightening as a hissing kitten.

"Don't make fun of me or I'll drain you, Logan."

"Go ahead, try it. It will get rid of the cold, too."

"I am not using you as my personal medicine cabinet, Logan."

As much as that flatters me, this is stupid. But I know her and her stubbornness, there is no way I can argue around that. So I shut my mouth, watch the movie and play with a strand of her hair that happens to trail down my arm. Her head is now resting on my chest and her breathing slows down again. Could get used to this.

"Logan?"

Her voice sounds sleepy, too.

"Yeah?"

"Don't sleep on the couch tonight."

"You sure? You could end up as shish kabob."

"Well, in that case you can be my personal medicine cabinet."

So we got that settled then. Maybe I should stab her on purpose. I know it is kind of harsh, but it is for a good cause. She wouldn't be sick after that. Then again, she would see my thoughts, too. More than she has during that brief thing when I got rid of her hangover. And I am not sure I want her to see the new wuss in me.

"And don't worry, I have my skin under control when I sleep. Mostly. I won't drain you completely, if anything happens at all it would be like when I took a little. Just a little buzz."

To be honest, that was very low on my list of worries. It just now dawned on me that sleeping in her bed with her consent is an entirely different story than falling asleep watching TV on the couch with her. So I mull over that while the movie goes on, more cars explode and people shoot each other. I listen to her soft breaths and keep playing with that strand of hair. When I am sure she is really deep asleep I lift my free hand carefully up to her face and trace my index finer down her jaw line. Nothing happens. I venture down her throat and up again. Nothing. I stub her nose with it, just slightly, and she smiles. Across her cheek and down to her lips, she is still smiling and now I can feel it, the slight pull. After a few moments her breathing relaxes, the nose is free again and her body temperature goes down.

It's not like she can blame me for it the next morning. Accidental brushes while we were asleep and look at that, she is back on track again.

I pull her a little closer and make sure she is all tucked in before I reach for the remote, turn the damn TV off and close my eyes.

Yes, I could very easily get used to this. And the scary thing is… it doesn't scare me.