Disclaimer: I own nothing. Well, except for my X-Men DVD, a quickly acquired, embarassingly large collection of comics, and two action figures, but other that that, I own nothing.

Summary: What if Rogue's mutation is stronger than anyone suspected? What if she not only borrows other mutants' powers but also steals a portion of them? Learn what happens when a mutant desperate to be human again uncovers the extent of Rogue's abilities, and see how far Logan is willing to go to save her. Discover the price of love.

The Wolverine is back.

He shows up every few months, ready for a fight, and no one knows he's a regular but me. Everyone else is too drunk, distracted, or high on bloodlust to notice. He only fights one night, starting with his first opponent early in the evening and leaving early in the morning after defeating all takers. He pockets his share of the profits, at least a few thousand dollars, and then he's gone. He can't stay for longer than that or even the dimwitted bar-bums will start to figure out what I have: that he can't lose.

He's a pretty good actor. He lets the rubes get in a few hits and stumbles around dramatically before he fights back, and even then, he takes his time. If he took them out right away, no one would bet against him and there wouldn't be nearly as big a purse at the end of the night. It's only when someone pisses him off that he takes them down fast.

I know his secret, though. He takes too many hits to keep fighting all night unless he has an advantage. I've seen it in action out behind the bar after a particularly bloody fight when he didn't think anyone was looking. He heals. Sure, he covers it up pretty good, leaving old blood from wounds hours ago healed on his skin, but I can tell. He's a mutant.

I've never let on that I know. Every time he comes in, I pretend like it's the first time, greeting him like I would any of the hardened men that drag themselves off the highway and into my run-down bar.

"What'll ya have?" I ask with a touch of disinterest, my eyes never leaving the bit of bar I'm swabbing.

"Gimmie a beer."

I grab him a Molson Golden and return to my bartending duties. During the fights, he usually drinks whiskey, but before and after, he always drinks beer.

"There a fight tonight?" he asks.

"There's a fight every Friday night," I answer.

"When's it start?"

"Talk to Pete," I say, pointing over at the 6 foot 5 inch mass that is my brother.

Dad's owned this place since before I was born, and I've practically grown up in here. When I was younger, Pete and I'd help Mom clean up in the mornings after the bar was closed and Dad was asleep. When she died, he needed our help even more. Pete worked there from the time he was old enough, and I peeked in so many times, that Dad got sick of yelling at me to leave. Could you blame me? It was the only really interesting place in our whole, backwoods town. When I was old enough, I insisted on becoming a waitress and helping out, too.

Dad didn't want me there, and he made me dress so conservatively at first that I felt like a nun. He had Pete follow me like a shadow for days. It was only after he saw I could handle myself with the rough clientele, that he loosened up a little.

Right before he died, he told Pete and me to sell the bar and leave. He wanted us to move on with our lives. We tried to obey his wishes, but that was easier said than done. Who wanted to buy a run-down bar in the middle of nowhere with the scum of the earth as the preferred customers? Besides, if we left, I'd never get to see the Wolverine in action again. Speaking of which, where was he now?

Scanning the steadily filling bar, I finally saw him by the cage, unbuttoning his shirts. You know, I might not have figured out the little scam he's running if it wasn't for one thing. I mean, he's gone for so long between fights and he only fights for one night. If he'd kept his shirt on, I might not have even noticed him. Of course, after one glimpse of that magnificent chest and back, I knew I would never forget him.

That's one of the main reasons I've never ratted him out or given him any indication that I know. To deny myself the pleasure of watching that man brawl, fluid and raw, sweaty and energetic, would be almost physically painful. Not only that, he was also one of the better behaved customers outside of the fighting cage. He never tried to grope me, never came on to me with lewd comments and crude gestures. He just drank, fought, and left.

I heard the squeal of feedback as Pete turned on the microphone. He never could get the thing to work without that high-pitched grating noise, and to me and the regular crowd, it meant that the fights were about to begin.