DISCLAIMER:  Girls just wanna have fun.
NOTES:  Hey, sweet thing.  I started this thing a year ago-- shows, yes?-- and would have forgotten about it if not for invaluable Kaylee Christmas spirit.  
DATE:  December, 2000.  Surprised?

A Christmas Story

There's a common misconception about Christmas.

People seem to think that when this magic happy time rolls around, a fog of peace and goodwill descends, and everybody gets nice and lovey.

This just ain't true.

The truth is that Christmas just happens to fall in the middle of winter, when the cold in the air slows down the blood. Not only do people's bodies get lazy, but their hearts do as well, falling into old niches, familiar reactions.

It's not that people are getting nice; it's that they just ain't getting any meaner.

Of course, that don't apply to me. I'm getting meaner all the time. 

Name's Creed. Happy holidays.

*   *   *

"C'mon, Logan, it's a tradition! And it'll only take a few seconds!!"

Jubilee runs off and he sits down on the park bench to wait. As I watch, he lights a cigar, and though I'm too far away to smell it, the familiar smoke curls through my mind like an old warmth. A moment passes, then two, and I remain unnoticed in the brush surrounding the park. A flicker of doubt comes over me; maybe I've underestimated the taming he's gone through. But then, from across the way, I see him go perfectly still. He sniffs the air, twice, and his lip curls into a snarl. He's caught my scent.

He stands, and his eyes cast through and over the crowd around him and then the treeline, until, bam, our eyes meet across a sixty-foot expanse of snow and pedestrians. Here I am, Logan. Come and get me. 

I take off through the undergrowth, at full speed. I don't take the time to make sure he's behind me; I know he is, I could always trust in him for that. Doesn't matter where he goes or what he's calling himself, he'll always be a hunter. And he'll always hunt me. A stray branch catches in my flesh and rips through as I run.

Jee-zus, I love this.

The plan here is to head for the northwest corner of the park. It's pretty much abandoned at this time of year, and it's surrounded by a-- yeah. By a wall. I stop as I see it come into view. I wait, and soon I hear him approaching. I turn around to greet him.

"Fancy meetin' you here," I say, smiling.

He pulls to a stop a good few feet away from me. His answer to my smile is a snarl.

"A dead end, Creed. Real smart."

"Just wanted t'wish you a merry Christmas, runt. Even gotchya a present." 

"Unless it's yer head, keep it." He replies, lip curling.

I just shrug. "Maybe it is my head. Zat what you want?"

His eyes glint wickedly in that way between us. 

"On a platter."

"Sorry," returning the bloody smile. "No platter." 

I lunge. He moves at the same time and we meet in midair, ripping and taking in equal measure. There's no warm-up time, no testing the water. I know him an' he knows me. We hit it heavy right off the bat. Move and counter-move, bluff and call. 

This is the first time we've really thrown down since he put a claw through my brain months ago, lobotimizing me. Setting me free. Things've changed a little between us because of that, I notice as we move-- for all intents and purposes, he won the Big Win. I shouldn't've woke up. But I did.  Wonder how he's feeling about that.

I take a swipe at him and he rolls to avoid it-- gracefully, effortlessly-- and the look on his face is pure concentration, except for the slight tug of one side of his mouth. 

No, I don't. I don't wonder at all. 

But things've still changed between us. I broke the rules that night, begging him to kill me. I broke down, I made it human, and it's not supposed to be that, ever. But I did, and it was, and it was perfect. Except for the waking up, it was perfect.

He lunges for me again, and I'm filled with the memory of that night, and it seems so easy . . to just-- go there. I relax my body, bring down my defenses. We both slam against the wall with the force of him. It startles him, and he loses his balance for just a moment. He recovers quickly, and he could kill me, but he backs up a few spaces, watching me warily. 

Watching me. His eyes are narrowed and dilated, his body is coiled and ready, and every speck of his consciousness is zeroed in on me. I *love* that. 

But me, I just lean up against the wall behind me and grin lazily, and wait to see what he'll do. We stay like that for several moments, him eyeing me like a hawk, angry confusion creeping in around the corners of that attentive gaze-- and me returning the look carelessly, all hint of contest gone from my frame, indifferent and excited. 

Finally, he breaks the silence, not moving a muscle except to say in an annoyed voice, "What d'ya want, Creed?"

What do I want? What a question. 

I shrug flippantly. "Told ya, wanted t'give ya a present. You said ya wanted my head, Logan. So come'n get it. Merry Christmas." 

He looks mad for a second, and then suspicious, and then his face goes blank completely. He looks at me, and I have no way to tell what he's thinking, but I can venture a pretty good guess.

He takes a step toward me, and I can feel the blood moving through me. This is it. 

Maybe he'll pop those claws and lop my head right off, and I'll die-- even I can't survive a severed head. And maybe he'll bury me. Of course. Reverently, I know, 'cause that's his style. Maybe he'll even lose something of himself with my death. He'll cry over me like he cried over Mariko. And it'll be perfect.

Another step. My breath hitches. Maybe he'll want to throw me around first. I won't be able to keep myself from fighting back. That night when he killed me before, I was already beaten-- but now I'm healthy and relatively whole, and I won't be able to stay still. But that's okay, we'll throw down then, heavy, and that'll be perfect too, like it always is. 

Or maybe-- He stops in front of me. I watch him, wait for him to pop his claws, but there's something in his eyes. Something wrong. He brings his hand up and around where the hard tissue of my neck turns into the softer tissue of my throat, which every animal guards above all else, fingertips digging in to not-quite crush. Because he's daring me to, I bend my head back a little, baring the vulnerable flesh. I've submitted. I wait. To my surprise, the grip loosens, but doesn't fall away. He whispers,

"What're you doin' here, Vic?"

No, that's not what's supposed to happen. At the sound of his voice, I try to rear back, away from his touch, but I'm already pressed flat against the wall. 

aw, fuck.

This is bad. We can't *both* break the rules, we can't do that. What does that lead to, and we can't do that. I try to get away, but I've already, submitted, and it's too little too late. I bare my fangs and growl a hollow warning.  He growls back-- a growl of anger and frustration-- and shakes me hard against the wall.

"What're we DOIN' here, Vic? What?? This is YOUR fuckin' game, so you tell me!!"

Yeah, this *was* my fuckin' game, until he broke the rules. Now it's his game. Now it's not a game. SHIT, I can't see. Through my eyes, there's only a field of red with yellow splotches and his scent. This is my world reduced to its barest elements. And I can't, talk.

I feel him ball my shirt in his fists. He leans forward and breathes against my shoulder, "Fuck you. FUCK you." 

Shifting our weights he flips my still form over and throws me to the ground. I bust a rib, I think, and the pain of it brings me back to myself a little. I growl out and look up at him. At least I can see him. There's no moving or saying anything. This is crazy. It's out of control. I've got to stand up, fight, but I don't want to, really. 

--Yeah, it's a little perfect.

He stoops down and leans over me. With a hand around the back of my neck, he brings his mouth down on my throat, teeth bared, ready to bite, ready to tear and claim. Instead, he speaks. His voice isn't accusing; it's angry, and soft and low. 

"this is your idea o' fun. you're bored, so you come down here and play yer little games. you get to lay yourself all out like this, fuck yourself all over, not carin'-- knowin' it's *my* head that gets torn all t'shit. an' it doesn't mean a thing to you. you got nothin' to lose. yer fuckin' hollow."

Per-fect.

"but me? you know how sick i am of games, vic? everybody, everywhere. can't get away from it. makes the air dirty. gotta get somethin' real, vic. that's what i want for christmas." 

The dirty truth is I'd give it to him if I could. But there's nothin' to give. Nothing real. Except for one thing. One honest thing I can say.

"Lo. gan."

Merry Christmas.

He pulls away with a deep breath, sinking back onto his haunches. I turn my head to follow his movement with my eyes-- I can do that at least. I push off from the ground a little on my elbows so I can watch him, a small movement.

His eyes're closed. His hands're clasped laxly in front of him. The torn shirt hanging raggedly from him rises and falls with deep, even breaths. He's-- what? Meditating? Practicing some of that Eastern stuff he learned? 

Trying to get some control. Doesn't he realize that control means culpability? He should take a cue from me.

The laugh is out of me before I can stop it. Logan's eyes open and fix on me, and my face must've not been too unkind or mocking, because the half-smile he gives me is sardonic enough for me to recognize it as affectionate. He leans forward again and knocks me back flat with a light shove. 

"Asshole."

My head slams back against the packed snow and my eyes blur and focus upward at the clinging tops of dead, bare trees. I grin. "Girls just wanna have fun."

I feel a pressure against my side then, and knuckles against my chest, and then another pressure against my other side. I look at Logan straddling me, and he looks at me, and he says, "Yer a complete fucking lunatic."

See, there's something you gotta understand about Logan. He don't hate me for the things I done. That's why I feel okay kicking his ass-- 'cause he ought to. He hates me for whole other reasons. Good reasons, but not hero reasons.

I say, "Yeah. S'not all I am."

I laugh, then-- 'cause, yeah, it is. But he gets my meaning. His knees tighten against me and he grabs my jaw and kisses me rough. He fists his hand in the material at my shoulder and pushes it down into the snow, and my hips tilt up. His other hand takes the collar of my shirt and rips down. 

I like it. I like him.

Because I'm a complete fucking lunatic, I say, "Welcome home."

And he snorts and shakes his head, and then there's sex. Sex in the snow with Logan, and that takes me back. 

He stays there with me for a while after, breathing slowly, with his hand still pinning my shoulder to the ground. Then he shakes his head again and lifts off of me. He stands and looks down at me looking up at him, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. We both hear Jubilee, a ways off, calling for him. 

"We can't always get what we ask for." He adds, "Fer Christmas."

I grin-- and he looks for a heartbeat longer, and then turns and heads back into the woods, towards civilization. I raise myself up on my elbows and glance around, and then lay back down and close my eyes as the snow falls steadily from above.