"Falling Angels"

Author: Notmanos

E-mail: notmanos at yahoo dot com

Rating: R

Disclaimer: The characters of Angel are owned by 20th Century Fox and Mutant Enemy; the
character of Wolverine is also owned by 20th Century Fox and Marvel Comics. No copyright
infringement intended. I'm not making any money off of this, but if you'd like to be a patron of the
arts, I won't object. ;-) Oh, and Bob is *my* character - keep your hands off!

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“I never even saw you with Stryker,” she told him, shoving the cup of coffee aside. “I’m not sure I ever saw him at all, except on the news. He was only “hands on” with certain people.”

“Lucky me,” he said sarcastically, running a hand through his own hair. He was nervous, and he abhorred the feeling. Wasn’t he a big tough guy? He couldn’t handle words that might not be true? ( But the worst part was they could be true, wasn’t it?) “I was, uh, “ he didn’t even know how to say this. “I was their killing machine, wasn’t I? I found out about Chimera.”

She canted her head to the side, and clearly combed her memory before finally saying, “Oh, right, the mutant that freaked out in England.”

“He didn’t just freak out. He was experimented on like I was. He was supposed to be my replacement without adamantium. It didn’t work.”

“I heard he was insane.”

“He went insane over what they did to him. I guess he wasn’t the only one, was he?” Logan dry washed his face, and wished this place served beer. He didn’t care that he’d made himself queasy on bad beer, waiting for Xia to show; beer was comfort food, so to speak. He let his hands fall to the fake linoleum table, and to his surprise she reached across and put her hand over his. His first instinct was to withdraw it, and he partially did, but then he stopped himself. Her touching him wasn’t so bad. Her hand was slightly cold, in spite of the residual heat from the coffee cup, and he knew she didn’t have her field up.

“You were,” she began, but paused, as if unsure how to finish that. “You are the strongest man I’ve ever known. I can’t believe you were ever crazy.”

“I was. I might be now, I have no idea. Tom was right, I’m a head case.”

“He was not; he was just being a jealous asshole.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

She licked her lips nervously, glancing off to the side as if there was something there to see. “You have quite the legend, you know. You’re hard to live up to.”

He had a feeling that wasn’t the entire story, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pursue it further. “You’re being truthful with me about the discs, aren’t you?”

The confusion that briefly flashed through her eyes seemed genuine. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“Because Xavier had a point. Shooting Scott and Storm seemed … excessive.”

She colored slightly, a dark blush giving her porcelain hued skin a glow that had nothing to do with her powers. “You once told me that most people’s motives were based on a few simple things. It wasn’t always the reason, but they were more often that not. The psychology of people was not as complicated as you might think.”

The waitress got up from her stool and went to serve a guy who’d just come in, still wearing his mini-mart uniform and looking like he really wanted to punch something. They switched back to English.

“I said that?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

That made her smile once more, briefly squeeze his hand. “You don’t remember it? The core motivations of people who step outside the law?”

He was going to repeat the bullshit, but then suddenly, he remembered. “Money, gain in status or power, sex, revenge.” How the fuck did he know that? Was he guessing?

She smiled approvingly. “See, you do remember.” But her smile faded quickly. “Which do you think applied to Clive?”

Clive? The name of the sniper. Maybe he was the British guy on the phone that Xavier couldn’t read. “Revenge?”

She nodded. “Many of them blame Xavier’s people for the collapse of the Organization, and the rift that’s caused us to split apart. It was a method of counting coup, I suppose. There is a majority in those of us remaining who want to kill Xavier, and … punish you.”

“Punish me? What, do they want to spank me? Should I assume the position?”

That made her laugh, and she seemed relieved that he took it that way. “No, unless you really want to. It’s just that some of them see you as a traitor for leaving when you did.”

“Yeah, why would I leave a group that vivisected me alive? Makes no sense.”

She winced, and now covered his hand with both of hers. It was a gesture both familiar and slightly intimate, and it made him feel uncomfortable. “I really didn’t know what was going on. I couldn’t believe … no, I didn’t want to believe they would hurt another mutant so badly. They were the closest thing I had to family.”

“So what was I?”

“I was scared and stupid. I know that’s no excuse - ”

“Not really, no.”

She scowled at him for that, but not for long. “I just couldn’t believe anyone could really hurt you, Logan, not like that. I mean … when you have a power that makes you virtually indestructible, you don’t have a lot of people in the way of role models. You were mine. I should have known something was wrong, but I just didn’t want to know. I mean, if you were vulnerable … where did that leave me?”

“Fucked. Right along with the rest of us.” He pulled his hand from beneath hers, but almost instantly regretted it. He wasn’t sure why. “I’m gonna tell you some things, and you’re gonna tell me if I’m right or wrong, okay? I was a killer for the Organization?”

She hesitated, but he gave her a fierce stare; he didn‘t want explanations, he didn‘t want gray areas - right now he just wanted black and white. He could bother with the details later. “Yes.”

“I was made into Weapon X, to kill other mutants?”

“Yes.”

“They fucked over my head to make me controllable?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t join voluntarily, I was taken?”

She paused, and he could tell by the way her eyes seemed to turn inward, the way her lips parted slightly, that he may have just stumped her. “Into what, Weapon X?”

“No. I mean yes, but also into the Organization.”

“You didn’t volunteer into Weapon X,.”

Okay, she just parsed that. He stomach burned in anxiety, and he knew he’d really had too many bad beers waiting for her to show. “What about the Organization?”

She shook her head helplessly. “As far as I know … no, not exactly.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“The Organization, from what I was told, was once a deeper than black ops espionage department. You know how the NSA is more secretive than the CIA? Well, this section was more secretive than the NSA and had even less official accountability. I don’t know its actual name, only its “code” referral, Ops.”

“And I signed up for that?” He didn’t want to believe that, and yet, wouldn’t that explain so much? He always suspected he was some kind of assassin as well as a spy. Of course, it also sounded like something out of a John LeCarre novel, and he hoped things had gone a little better for him than that.

She looked very dubious. "I think so."

"You don't know?"

"I was led to believe that was the case. But can I prove it? No."

"Who led you to believe that?"

"Control."

"Who was he, anyways?"

"Right hand man of Stryker, usually the hands on manager of the Organization."

"Usually?"

"He died suddenly and mysteriously several months ago. He was found dead in his bed. No violence, no poisons, it seemed as though his heart just stopped. He was healthy, though, only forty six, Stryker had every autopsy test run on him imaginable, but nothing pointed to foul play at all. It was like he just stopped. And considering he was believed to be heartless, the irony was rich."

Hadn't Bob said he'd have to have been dead by now? How had Bob known that? He didn't do it, did he? He could have - he could have just shown up, told him he was dead, and in that instant Control would have been. But he didn't think Bob would do such a thing without a provocation. "Can I assume Control wasn't trustworthy?"

"He was as trustworthy as Stryker."

"So is that a yes?"

She nodded. "They had their own agenda. I'm still not sure if they knew of the mutant underground in the organization or not."

He rubbed his eyes, and tried to make sense of this in his own head. It was difficult to say the least; his mind kept shying away from it, kept focusing on all the holes that made the narrative of his life resemble Swiss cheese. "I was an American spy?"

"No," she instantly replied. "Ops was a North American intelligence agency. From what I understand, it was a joint project split between American and Canadian intelligence agencies in the wake of World War Two. Then, when it became the Organization, Britain joined, as well as Ireland, Australia, Japan, Spain, France, and Mexico, although they weren't exactly interested in intelligence anymore."

"No, they were interested in mutants." He wished that part was surprising, but it wasn't. He felt like such a complete fucking fool he couldn't believe it.

He told himself it was possible it wasn't true, that she could be serving him up a bunch of bullshit, but he didn't believe that. Instinct was telling him that she was being truthful, as far as she knew. Xia wouldn't lie to him; he honestly believed that. Never mind the fact that he didn't know her at all.

Xia leaned forward slightly, spreading her hands flat on the table. "I have to be honest here, Logan. I came here tonight to make a deal with you."

Okay, here it was. He sat back in the vinyl booth, eying her warily. "What kind of deal?"

She took a breath, and seemed to steel herself before continuing. "There has to be some records of yours still in existence. I will do everything in my power to help you find them. Understand that that stands no matter what."

"What do you want from me?" He wasn't being watched; he felt no surveillance on him. But now he knew he should be on alert.

"Your help," she said simply, holding her hands open as if in supplication. "What I told you about project Armageddon is true; what I told you about the Organization splitting in half is also true. The human part now wants to get rid of us - the perennial "we know too much" syndrome."

"Which probably got my mind fried, right?"

She grimaced. "Probably. And I know the others don't trust you, but they don't know you. And you're the best tracker I've ever known. They used to say you could follow someone for days on scent alone; I've never known anyone to escape from you."

In a way, he had been expecting this, but then again, he hadn't. This must have been what being flabbergasted felt like. "You want me to join up with you?"

"Not exactly. Just help me - help us - find those discs, find Mystique. We're not interested in coercing you to stay - the Human half has all the facilities; we just have what we were able to abscond with - and in fact, I'm pretty sure the rest of the group would crucify me if they knew what I was doing right now. But if we're going to get to this thing first, I know we'll need your help."

He felt a sudden surge of lethal rage; he wanted to put his fist through the table and maybe just trash this entire dump. "Some of those fuckers did this to me, Xia," he hissed. She must have seen the hate in his eyes, because she leaned back as if scalded. "Do you really think I would help them?"

“They’re not with us anymore. I wasn’t about to work with people I knew could betray me if they thought it was in their best interest. They’re on their own, freelancing, or whatever the hell. I can’t say I care.”

He was sure he shouldn’t believe her, no matter how sincere she seemed. “You realize I’ve got no reason to trust you.”

She bowed her head in shame, and she nodded in agreement. “I know. I wish I could do something to convince you of my sincerity.”

He shook his head and looked away, briefly watching the cook in the back, through the horizontal gash of the pick up window. It smelled like grease and sweat and coffee boiled to the consistency of mud; it smelled like burned bagels and Old Spice, Joy and soda a little too heavy on the syrup. In other words, a normal diner full of normal people, without a hint of gun oil or pre - performance flop sweat. No one was watching them, or even - to the best of his senses - listening. “Maybe you have,” he admitted. She had come alone, like she said she would; so had he. Maybe they were half way there.

She glanced up, and he could see the war in her eyes: she wanted to be hopeful, but she didn’t dare. “Will you help me, Logan? Not them - just me. You can leave at any time; I assure you no one will harm you.” She tried to smile, but it twisted as tears filled her eyes. “I’ll take care of you.”

She obviously tried to make it a joke, but her voice fractured, and she closed her eyes hard to try and hold back the tears. It didn’t work; a couple rolled down her cheeks anyways. Although he had no idea how it applied to them specifically, it was a familiar line, and he realized he must have said that to her … some time. What was she to him? She had conveniently avoid talking to him about that. He couldn’t imagine they had ever been lovers; she appeared far too young, and the conflicted feelings he had for her didn’t skew that way … did they?

It was impulse to reach across the table and brush away a tear with the pad of his thumb. “Don’t cry,” he said, knowing it didn’t matter.

Oh god, he was a moron. A complete fucking moron.

13

Xavier knew Logan had returned to the mansion last night, but very late. He hadn’t been woken up by the motorcycle - which seemed to now be Logan’s by default - but simply by his presence in the house. Xavier had ignored it, although he was glad he had come back.

He knew he’d let his temper get the better of him, and lashing out at Logan was probably the worst thing he could have ever done. But he was clearly being swayed by that woman, a woman he couldn’t read in any manner, which was suspicious enough on its own. They must have had a connection, as some part of Logan’s unconscious mind recognized her, and not in a bad way, but Xavier knew better than to trust her. She was Organization, part of the group that exploited, brainwashed, and mutilated Logan, not to mention shot Scott and Ororo and threatened the school. No matter what she had once been to him, she was little more than a terrorist thug.

But no matter what Logan tried to tell himself, he still yearned to explore his past, to discover who he was and what his life was like before they took it away from him. He could hardly blame him; it was human impulse to want to “know yourself”, especially if all your memories were taken from you.

What disturbed him was Logan knew more than he had ever let on - he didn’t trust them. Even after all this time, he didn’t completely trust them. Xavier knew there would be a problem, as of all of them, Logan seemed to trust Jean the most, and with her gone, he felt even more apart from the rest of them. But what Xavier found the most disturbing of all was that Logan had figured out he was Weapon X … and had never told any of them.

He was fairly certain he’d never told Jean, because he was sure she’d have mentioned it in the strictest confidence. Instead of them, Logan had confided to Marcus, who seemed to be a dubious character at best. To be fair, though, Marcus clearly cared a great deal about Logan; his loyalty to him was unquestionable, and perhaps Logan had intuited that.

Logan was upset with him because he felt he was “holding out” on him. Xavier wished he could tell him how awkward all of this was; how afraid he was of making the trauma worse. Certainly being told he had been groomed to be the ultimate weapon in killing his own people might have been more than he could handle, certainly in the fragile state he was in when he was first brought here.

If Logan ever realized that Xavier knew exactly who he was when he saw the scans of his adamantium skeleton, he’d probably never forgive him.

He’d had contacts in the government for some time. Certainly he’d heard of Wolverine - even Erik had heard about him: death on two legs, a ruthless killer without a conscience, unstoppable, seemingly deathless; a mutant’s worst nightmare given form. Of course, some of these tales - and details about Wolverine himself - had been exaggerated in that way that all rumors and second hand information were. But when he ended up here, Xavier had no idea how much of it was true and how much of it wasn’t; what was clear was his mind had been damaged quite severely, and his instincts - while often true to his ruthless reputation - didn’t fit the profile of a remorseless serial killer. As usual, there was more to the story than had ever been told.

Should he have said something? He knew now he should have been more deliberate in his hints about Stryker. But he didn’t regret not telling him about Weapon X - how could you tell a scarred man something like that? “Oh, by the way, while you were under someone else’s control, you murdered an awful lot of people. Not to worry, those things happen.” Logan had already unsuccessfully attempted suicide several times - it was quite possible if he kept at it, he’d finally get it right.

And what happened then was clearly not his fault. He had control of his body but not of his mind; he’d been telepathically raped so many times his core self was broken into shards, tiny pieces that was still, with the relentlessness of most biological processes, trying to pull itself back together again. The problem was, some of these memories and fragments of memories were coming back almost too quickly and too randomly for Logan to have any hope of making sense of them. He was more lost - and more confused - than ever. He was at sea, and he needed friends and people to help him make sense of it all - and not loyal but morally slippery Marcus, or the even more morally slippery and mysterious Bob. And Jean’s “death” - so to speak - had unsettled him even more.

Xavier did not reach out mentally to Logan until he was outside the door of his “room”, and even then he only took a telepathic “peek” - it was morning, and there was a good chance he was still asleep. Getting a glimpse of the tortured memories in Logan’s mind was not something he relished at any time.

But there was nothing there; no sense of Logan behind the door. He was not asleep, and he was not in his room.

Xavier pushed the unlocked door open, and let his mind roam the grounds, searching for a glimpse of Logan. Just as he feared, there was none; Logan wasn’t here anymore.

Not a shock in the scheme of things, as Logan was always here and gone. He’d just been hoping to catch him before he left …

… there was something wrong with his room.

Actually, in most other cases, it would be considered right. It was neat, almost impeccably so, as if no one had ever stayed in here. The bed was made as if no one had slept in it, but the coverlet was slightly rumpled on one side, suggesting someone had at least sat there long enough to make a slight impression. A book sat on the nightstand, the recent translation of Beowulf by Seamus Heaney that Logan had borrowed from the “library” and hidden, as if embarrassed about reading it. It was just like he was too embarrassed to admit his favorite movie was “L.A. Confidential” - was he afraid this cut into his tough guy image somehow? Neither of these things were considered “wimpy”; if anything, it showed he actually had very good taste, fashion sense aside. Perhaps they were just more things he found frightening about himself because he didn’t understand them.

There was a sharply creased piece of note paper resting on the center of the bed. Even before he maneuvered over to the side of the bed and picked it up, he had a bad feeling about it. Xavier told himself it could be anything, a “sorry about telling you to go fuck yourself” note ( okay, that was unlikely ), or just a note saying where he went and when he may be back.

But it said neither of those things. It read, in Logan’s sharply angular script, in black ballpoint ink: “Gone off with an old friend to fix a problem. Don’t come after me.”

Xavier stared at the note a long time, hoping there was something he was missing between the lines. But there wasn’t, was there? He wanted to believe it was Marcus, but Marcus had left long before Logan returned late last night, and while a good friend, he was hardly an old friend.

Had he blown it? Had he played this all so very badly that he had lost Logan too? Xavier mentally cursed himself as a fool. The problem with being such a natural telepath was sometimes you assumed you could predict people’s behavior to the letter, just because you could see their thoughts. But sometimes it wasn’t as easy as all that, and people were capable of the most unpredictable things.

There was a brief knock on the open door, and Rogue began, “Logan? We were - “ She paused as she saw it was him and not Logan in the room. Xavier turned to find Bobby was also there, standing behind her and looking around Logan’s room curiously. He’d figured Logan’s room would be something of a bachelor’s paradise, maybe with a pyramid of empty beer cans, or pictures of centerfolds on the wall, or at least a weight set, which would explain his muscles. He was slightly disappointed to see it was not only just a room but an empty one, devoid of any personal artifacts whatsoever ( except for Beowulf, but Bobby couldn’t see that from where he was standing ).

“Oh, Professor,” Rogue said, sounding ever so slightly suspicious. She didn’t know why he was in Logan’s room, but she immediately assumed it was bad news. He had to give her points for being amazingly perceptive, but then again, she had absorbed Logan twice; she probably knew him better than any of them. “We were looking for Logan. Do you know where he is?”

“He’s gone,” he told her somberly, aiming his wheelchair towards the door.

“Gone?” She repeated. Not shocked, just wondering if he meant off the grounds or out of the city.

When he was close enough, he handed her the note, figuring that Logan didn’t just leave it for him; he left it for all. “He’s gone back to the Organization.”

Logan had chosen his side. God help them all if he decided he was finally home at last.

***

THE END (?)