Day 97 
The situation has not improved.  Something has gone wrong at the processing lab; I have lost contact with Courtney II.  I have been relegated to Ottawa.  This guise is not foolproof.  Eventually one of them will put two and two together.  I postulate Wyre; my failure to recruit him into the Marauders will make me stand out in his memory.  In any event, I must take measures to ensure my safety. 

They were there, in the hallway next to the door to the Department H common room; he standing, she kneeling, her hand at the back of his head and his caressing her face, their lips touching and their tongues dancing the prelude to the oldest dance there is.  It was a shock to her when he broke the kiss, air flooding into her lungs as she realized she'd been without air for several seconds. 

"Need to breathe, eh," he said, short of breath himself, his craggy face scarlet.  He watched her; looked deep into her eyes and waited for it to come.  Waited for the rejection.  'I'm sorry, Judd,' she say, any second now, 'I didn't realize what I was doing.  We can't.  I can't.  What with rebuilding the Flight, and Mac, and -- ' and her voice would trail off, and she'd walk one way, and he'd walk another.  It was okay, he insisted to himself, though he didn't believe that for a second.  He'd had his moment of paradise.  It was over.  He could live with that.  But he couldn't move his hand from her cheek. 

"Judd -- " she said, looking into his eyes.  He looked at the floor.  Here it came.  Time to pack it up, soldier.  Incoming hailstones, dig in deep and get ready to run for the planes, boys, 'cause when these suckers hit it's gonna hurt. 

"Judd," she said, and her voice was gentle. [Oh, God, Heather, just say it and have it said.  The sooner you say it, the sooner I can find a bar and drown the memory of this moment away.] "I think we'd better go upstairs?" 

His head snapped up, his eyes met hers.  "Wh-what?" he asked in a choked stutter. 

"Well, unless you want to do this in the hall," she smiled at him, her green eyes twinkling.  "Me, I'd like a little privacy." 

"You want . . . ." he couldn't bring himself to say it.  To give it words might mean she'd realize what she was saying. 

She brought her hand to her cheek, covering his.  "Yes," she said softly. 
"I want." 

He considered that for a moment, then moved one hand to the middle of her back and the other to the back of her lower thigh.  "All right," he said, and using his leverage, he swept her off of her knees and into cradled her into his arms -- the way one would cradle an infant, even if the infant was a full foot and a half taller than you: with complete gentleness and utter tenderness. 

"Judd!" she laughed, elbowing him in the shoulder.  "What're you -- " 

"Taking you upstairs," he said shortly, walking down the hall to the stairwell.  He nudged the door open with his foot and began to climb. 
"I'd've taken the elevator," he said, his eyes never leaving hers, "but I would've had to put you down to work the buttons." 

:So you and Lil got back together?: the metallic voice rang from the Box robot's mouth. 

"Yeah," Madison Jefferies said.  "Got married and everything." 

:Wow,: Roger Bochs said from inside the armor. :That's great, Madison. I'm happy for you.: 

"'Preciate the thought, Bochsie," Mr. Jefferies said.  "Whaddaya think of the new design, if you don't mind me asking?" 

Box's cameras focused on the brown-and-silver armor that Jefferies had used during his days as Box, leaning against the training room's wall. :I don't know.  The design's great, and of course your power makes it really versatile, but . . . .: the mechanical voice trailed off. 

"But what?" 

:But it seems a little bit cold.  Inhuman, almost.: The mighty metal shoulders shrugged. :That's just my opinion, Madison.:  There was a long pause. :I'm sorry, buddy, I shouldn't have -- after you came all this way just to help me check out the bugs in my armor -- : 

Jefferies waved him off.  "Nah, it's no big deal.  The Department picks up the tab.  And to tell you the truth, I was glad to get a little break.  I love Lil -- love her a lot, don't get me wrong -- but I needed a break, y'know?" 

:Nope,: Bochs said. :But it's okay, Madison.  No harm done.  Here, I was up last night working on a schematic I want to show you . . . .: 

It was late, very late, but the Alphan called Wyre was not sleeping.  Not late in the day; it was only four o'clock in the afternoon, but Wyre had been unable to sleep for the last few days.  Something had been nagging at him, a memory of a night in a bar on the island of Madripoor some three and a half years ago . . . . 

They'd come in looking for him, or at least that's what O'Donnell the bartender told him later.  Three men who couldn't look less alike if they'd been trying.  One tall and darkly handsome, wearing a dark trenchcoat with reddish brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.  One taller still, with dead-pale skin that stood out against his sleek, black Armani suit and eyes that looked as blank as any corpse Wyre'd ever seen.  One short and scruffy, blond hair bristling, cracking leather jacket with the Royal Canadian Army unit patches still sewn on the sleeve -- "First Royal Armoured Division: the Immortals" -- and the bullet hole in the upper left back, from the night Wyre had shot him, when Scruffy had made his escape from Alpha Base almost twelve years before: [Creed,] Wyre had thought at the time. [His name is Victor Creed.] 

"M'sieu Wyre?" the handsome one asked, strolling up to his table, the others by his side. 

Wyre could see the other mercenaries who frequented the Princess Bar staring at him -- Patch, Wisdom and Culley, Cole Cash, Wilson, Lynch, Helmut Hess, Craven, Dayspring, Constantine, with Judd deep in conversation with Darkhölme and Adler at the bar -- and he narrowed his eyes.  "Sit down and keep your voice low.  This is a quiet house, you know what I mean?" 

Handsome nodded.  "Oui, yeah, we understand."  He and the others sat. 

"Creed," Wyre said, breaking the silence that followed.  "How you doing these days?" 

Victor Creed bristled.  "My shoulder hurts whenever it's colder'n 10 C -- and I live in Alaska these days.  How the hell d'you *think* I am?" 

"Enough talk, mon ami," Handsome said, cutting in his not-quite-French accent.  Wyre couldn't place it, but it wasn't Québécois either.  "We come here tonight to talk business.  You gonna listen or what?" 

Wyre raised an eyebrow, lighting a filterless Marlborough.  "I'll listen. 
But make it quick.  I finally got the Prince's permission to unload my cargo and get off of this miserable piece of rock.  And it has to happen before midnight, or I owe his highness another cut of the proceeds.  I don't like that.  I have to be in Nova Scotia by six tomorrow night."  He spread his hands on the table.  "But go ahead and talk.  I have a few minutes to kill." 

"Fair enough," Handsome said.  "Me and Victor here are putting together a team for a very special job.  Strictly hardcase professionals, no bubblegummers.  We hear you're the best." 

"You're wrong," Wyre said around the cigarette. 

Handsome blinked.  "That so?" 

"Yup," Wyre said.  "Patch, John Lynch, Nate Dayspring, Slade Wilson -- all four of them are in this bar tonight.  All four are better than me. 
Where'd my name come from?" 

The heretofore silent man in the middle spoke, his voice colored with an British accent.  "You're a man who doesn't ask questions, Mister . . . . 
Wyre." 

Wyre nodded.  "That's right," he said quietly.  "I don't.  Not usually." 

Handsome looked at the tall, pale man.  The pale man nodded.  "The job we're recruiting you for pays three million English pounds.  In gold bullion.  Stick around afterwards and you get another ten thousand a month, with bonuses every Christmas."  Handsome grinned.  "Not bad, eh, mon ami?" 

"Impressive," Wyre allowed, his face inscrutable. 

"Don't you want to know what the job is?" Creed demanded suddenly. 

Wyre didn't blink.  "You're going to tell me sooner or later anyway, whether I ask you or not." 

"No," the pale man with the British accent said.  "We won't.  But I do have one question for you, Mister Wyre." 

Wyre inclined his head.  "Ask your question." 

The pale man leaned forward. "What are your feelings on . . . ." his mouth pursed in distaste, "'wet work,' Mister Wyre?  That is to say, would you be able to kill if hired to do so?" 

Wyre's face was a immobile mask.  "I've done it before." 

"Ah, yes," the Englishman's hypnotic voice went on.  "But have you ever attempted to kill a large number of persons?  Say . . . . one thousand or so?" 

Wyre ground his cigarette out in the table's ashtray and got up.  "Find somebody else.  I don't do wholesale murder." 

"Okay, bon," Handsome said.  "Thanks for your time, M'sieu Wyre." 

The Englishman stood, the other two standing with him, as if they'd practiced.  "If you change your mind, Mister *Beltane* . . . ." 

"I won't." 

They turned, then, walking right out of the Princess like they owned the place.  Creed turned back at the door.  "See ya 'round, smart guy." 

He'd heard about it about six months later, from Nate Dayspring, of all people, in a tiny hole-in-the-wall diner on Bleeker Street in Brooklyn. 
Victor Creed and a team of killers called the Marauders -- including an old friend of Wyre's, Michael Baer, a German gun-for-hire who called himself Blockbuster -- had killed the Morlocks, a group of mutants living under the streets of New York City.  They'd left maybe ten or twelve survivors out of the original one thousand, three hundred twenty-nine people. 

Not honest work, he and Dayspring had agreed at the time.  Not fair.  Not right.  It wasn't that either he or Dayspring were particularly nice people, or that they hadn't done nasty things themselves in their time . . 
.. . but there were rules in the business, rules you didn't break, and one of them was that killing women, children, and helpless old men just wasn't *done.* 

He'd caught up on the rest of the story back on Madripoor a few months later -- the very night, in fact, that he got the tip he'd been waiting for, the one that sent him back to Canada on the trail of Kyle Gibney.  He was sitting in his usual dark corner of the Princess Bar in Lowtown, waiting on information from a contact, when he overheard Slade Wilson and Pete Wisdom bitching about the Princess' regulars who'd dropped out of sight -- Lynch, Dayspring, Lynch, Cash, Patch, Craven, Constantine -- and a few like Judd and Darkhölme who'd gone legit and started working for governments long-term -- Judd for the Canucks, Darkhölme for the Americans. 
 And it was Wisdom's casual mentioning of a former advisor of his organization, Black Air . . . . a tall, dead-pale man who favored Armani suits and sometimes flamboyant, tattered capes . . . . a man who was a regular mad scientist, and had more than enough cash to do whatever he wanted, including kill the Morlocks . . . . a man called Sinister. 

He'd talked Wisdom into finding him a copy of the man's file.  There wasn't much in it -- just a name, a picture, and the consulting work he'd done for Black Air; no date of birth, no phone number, no pager, nothing -- but Wyre always remembered the face.  How could he not?  After all, the last time he'd gone by the name of Henri Beltane had been forty years before.  How had the pale man known his name? 

And how was it . . . . what kind of a coincidence was it . . . . that he could swear that he'd passed a man in the hall three days before, a man getting off of an elevator that Wyre *knew* he'd never seen before, and hadn't seen since . . . . an ice-pale man with a dead look to his features. 
 It was impossible, Wyre knew . . . . and yet, maybe not.  He wasn't sure. 
When he was, he'd take it to Judd, or Hudson.  The woman, not the man.  He didn't know James Hudson, didn't know if he could be trusted.  He knew that Eugene Judd and Heather Hudson could be trusted.  And he knew that whatever steps he took against this man who might or might not be the mysterious man in the Armani suit, he could count on them to stand by him.  That simple. 

"I can get the door." 

"I want to do it.  I'm trying to make this special, eh." 

"I understand.   You're a true romantic, Judd, and I love that about you -- " she paused to watch his ears turn red -- "but rest assured that my opinion of you isn't going to go down if you let me open your door for you. 
 Okay?" 

Judd sighed, giving her a gentle squeeze.  "Okay.  Fine.  I'm sorry." 

"Your hands are full," she noted, still cradled in his arms.  "It's only fair that I help out."  She reached out, one delicate hand closing around the doorknob and turning it, pushing it open. 

Judd, for all his usual solid calm, seemed very nervous as he looked around for a place to set her down.  She grinned at him.  "It's okay to put me on the bed, you know." 

The blush spread from his ears across his face. [Dammit, what am I, a schoolboy or something?  I've done this before.  I've had women in my room before.] He sighed, almost inaudibly. [But never this woman.]  He set her gently on the bed, sitting down gingerly. 

"I guess there're a couple of things that need be said now," he murmured, looking quietly at her.  "First thing, this bein' the nineties, you should know that I've had all my shots, and I've been prodded by the best docs they could throw at me.  I haven't got any nasty diseases, and I haven't . 
.. . ." his voice trailed off.  "Hell.  No way to do this delicately, eh? 
I 
haven't slept with anybody in . . . . seven years." 

Heather felt her eyebrows attempt to nest in her hairline. [Seven years . . 
. . that's when the Flight started up . . . . but why wouldn't he . . . . 
unless . . . .] Heather's eyes clung to his, her face unbelieving. 

Judd smiled quietly.  "You look like you think I'm fibbing, eh?" 

"Judd, you haven't . . . . I mean . . . . you didn't . . . ." 

He shook his head, his craggy face a bright red.  He rubbed his bald pate slowly.  "Nope.  Not since I walked into that run-down apartment in Ottawa the day they shut down the Flight and I saw you . . . ." 

She looked down, her pale face matching her fiery hair as she murmured slowly.  "Oh, Judd . . . . I . . . ." her words faltered, but her hands went to his face, gently cupping it in her hands and bringing her lips to his, molding them to his and gently teasing them with her tongue until they parted. 

She was surprised by the dull moan that echoed as she slipped her tongue into his mouth, probing lightly. 

His arms wrapped around her by instinct, plain and simple, and he felt himself moan again as he pulled away.  "Heather . . . . wait. Stop a second.  We . . . . I have to say something." 

Her green eyes looked up at him, a flash of hurt echoing.  "Wha . . . . 
what did I do, Judd?  Was I . . . . too fast?" 

He laughed then, a brief bark of laughter that matched the twinkle in his eyes.  "Not by a long shot, after seven years."  He shook his head, tracing her jawline with his fingertips.  "It's just that I want to make sure about something."  His voice trailed off, and he looked out the window for a moment, thinking. 

Her soft lips on his cheek brought his head back around.  "Please, Judd, what is it?" 

"Well . . . ." he sighed, shrugging slightly, "I want to make sure that whatever's about to happen isn't just going to be a one-time thing.  I don't want it be because you're mad at Mac, or because you're frustrated. 
I want it to be the first of many times, Heather -- and I want it to be because we love each other." 

[Poor guy - he looks like the Sword of Damocles is hanging over his head,] thought Heather as she reached out and took his face in her hands. "Eugene Judd, I love you. It took me a long time to figure it out, but now that I know it, nothing is going to tear me away from you side, do you understand?" she asked, holding him close after the first few words and pillowing his head on her breasts. "I love you." 

He smiled then, and it was a grin, a boyish grin, that made his chiseled features lose forty years.  "You do?"  He looked up at her, brown eyes dancing.  "Well, good.  Great!"  He winked.  "And now that we've said all that, would I be outta line if I asked what we were gonna do about it?" 

Laughing gently, and none to coincidentally causing the bosom he was resting on to shake suggestively, she stroked his scalp fondly. "Line is not what you would be out of, Eugene. Your clothes, however, are," she grinned, taking hold of his shirt and yanking it over his head, pressing her full lips to his as soon as it had cleared, her fingers, caressing his compact torso. 

Impishly, he nipped at her chin.  "Well, if the lady insists."  He winked, laughing quietly.  "But only if you join me, eh?"  He lifted her gently, efficiently removing her shirt and extending his hands, stopping an inch short of her bra.  He blushed again.  "May I?" 

This time she did not laugh, but placed her hands on his and guided them onto her breasts, a small gasp escaping her lips as he lingered there before unsnapping the infernal contraption and throwing it off to the side, her full breasts shaking gently as she leaned into him, running kisses along his jaw. 

A small huff of laughter escaped his lips.  "Y'know how many times in the last seven years I dreamed of us . . . . doing this?" he asked.  His eyes still twinkled.  "And d'you know what I always thought I'd do next?" 

Kisses punctuating every word, she worked her way up his neck and jaw to his ear. "What. Is. That. Dear?" 

He grinned.  "This!"  With that, he spun her down, his small, muscular body pinning her below him.  "The center of gravity is a wonderful thing," he grinned, slowly kissing from her neck towards her hardening nipples. 

"Um . . . . Eugene . . . . there's probably something I should tell you about now," 
she started, her hands flying up to graps the sheets in an attempt to maintain some sanity. 

He froze, his eyes looking upward, meeting hers. His hand gently stroked her face.  "What is it, eh?" 

"I'm. . . . umm . . . . I'm a scratcher, so it might be best if you didn't do that 
for a while....I don't want to hurt you but I can't help it," she blushed, the flush suffusing down to the tops of her breasts. "Y'see?" 

He grinned.  "Aw, I'm a tough old bird.  I can take it."  He inclined his head.  "'Sides, if it makes you feel good, you can rip up my back all you want, so long as you help me patch up later, eh?" 

She muttered softly. "You might not think so, once it's happened..." 

Judd grinned down up at her.  "Remember what I told you years ago?  I live with pain every day of my life.  I learned to focus past it a long time ago.  Take it from me, Heather, I can take it.  Question is . . . ." he let his tongue slide gently to her nipple and began to caress her with it, "can you?" 

Her eyes flew open quickly, her hands coming up to grasp his shoulder, her nails digging in as she arched herself, her mouth curved into a blissful smile. "They . . . . say experience is a good teacher, Judd. Are you going to 
teach or am I?" 

"Well, I got the practical experience end all covered," he smiled.  "What can I say . . . ." he moved to her other breast, suckling, "you live sixty-three years, you meet people." 

"Oh . . . . really?" she asked, the second word coming out as a slight moan. "J-Judd . . . . you really, really should stop that. I - I'm starting to muss the bed," she blushed, running her hand over his head. 

He shrugged, nibbling.  "It's the Department's bed.  I don't even have to do my own laundry.  And . . . . you mussing this bed is not an entirely unpleasant prospect, eh?" 

Her voice dropped about two octaves, coming out a deep whisper. "I'd rather you muss it with me," she breathed, sitting up and disengaging his mouth, gently running her tongue over his lips. 

His own tongue extended, dancing with hers for a long moment.  "Tempting offer . . . . but . . . ." he blushed.  "I'd wanted our first time to be perfect, and certainly last longer than . . . ." 

Nodding, a blush of her own coming, she drew him back down with her. "Pick your own pace, love. I'll be right there, at the end." 

"Well . . . ." he grinned, his voice husky, "once again, if you absolutely insist . . . ."  He stopped suddenly.  "Heather, could you do something for me?" 

"Of course, darling," she said, running her hands over his arms slowly. 
"Anything." 

He swallowed.  "Get off the bed?" 

With a confused and startled glance, she rolled off of the bed and stood beside it, watching him curiously. 

He rolled over on his side, removing something from his bedside table and rolling back.  "Sorry.  But . . . . well, you know I'm not exactly tall, eh?  Gonna have to be me below, this time," he said, pulling on his beard and trying to force his blush to recede. 

Leaning over, she took his chin in her hand. "Makes no difference at all to me. I knew everything about you before we got in here, dear. Now, what is all this about, Judd? You didn't make me get off of this contraption just to tell me that I've got about a foot on ya." 

 He grinned up at her.  "I'm already lying down.  I'd Like it if you'd join me again, though.  Other stuff'll keep, I guess."  He twirled the packaged condom between his fingers.  "Maybe get started?" 

Smiling softly she snagged the package from his hand and, darting her head down to place a kiss on the tip of his penis, she ripped it open. "I'd love to get started," she practically cooed. "The sooner I do that, the sooner I can polish you off." 

"Ahhh . . . ."  He smiled, almost blinking back a tear.  "Sorry.  Just a foolish old man, under it all.  But I love you, eh." 

"Not foolish, Judd. Never that," she whispered, kissing his eyelids softly. 
"You've always been the sweetest man I've ever known - and you always shall be, my love. Now, shall we get this thing on you then?" she asked holding up the small sheath of latex. 

He looked up at her, his eyes sparkling. "On one condition." 

"Name it, love. Anything you want." 

Judd's face was sober.  "Question for you, Heather.  Answer the question and then . . . . then'll come.  I know you and Mac haven't . . . . been together in the way married people are in a long time.  What I'm asking is, if you leave him . . . . if you're ready for that . . . . would you . . ." his voice trailed off.  "Dammit.  Heather McNeil Hudson, I'm asking you to marry me, eh?" 

The expression on Heather Hudson's face grew positively rapturous. Her strong arms twined around his neck and her head pillowed on his shoulder as she squeezed him close. "Of course, I'll marry you, you silly fool! If you want me to," she murmured, tears springing to her eyes. "I'll have a lawyer draw up the divorce papers in the morning. There's nothing left for me there and there's the whole world waiting for me here." 

Eugene Judd cried like a baby. 

He cupped her face in his hands.  "I love you.  I always will, eh.  Now . . 
. . come here and let me show you how much." 

Her arms still twined around his neck and her legs knees hiking up to wrap around his legs, she looked at him with unshed tears in her eyes. "So what're ya waitin' for, eh?" 

He reached down, rolling the condom onto himself.  "That, eh.  Don't want you getting pregnant on the first go-round." 

She looked down, still blushing. "Well, if it helps love, we're double insured. I've been on the pill since Mac and I went splitsies." Her fingers traced around the thin sheath, leaving small trails. 

Swallowing hard, he looked up at her.  "Then let's get to it, then, eh?" His lips reached up to brush hers.  "Could I get a kiss, eh?" he whispered quietly. 

"You could get more, if you liked," she breathed back, her lips fusing with his, her tongue gliding along his lips as they parted and then into his mouth, slowly encircling his as she rubbed her stomach against his hard penis. 

"Heather . . . ." a soft growl left his lips, "I'm sorry, but I can't reach . . . ." he blushed.  "Please . . . ." 

A look of understanding entered her eyes as she broke contact with him and felt him slide down her body until hid head was positioned just above her throat. She took hold of him and turned so that she lay flat on her back with him atop her, making the difference in size less noticeable. 

He looked into her eyes, his lips pressed to her throat.  "Ready?" was all he could say. 

"Always, my love....please," her breath caught in her throat, her pelvis curving up to receive him. 

He took a long, slow breath, nibbling at her throat, and then thrust forward with all his might, entering her fully.  He looked into her eyes, deep brown dancing with bright green.  "Not small everywhere, eh?" he grinned. 

Her eyes widened dramatically, her nails coming down and digging sharply into his buttocks as she thrust up against him with a small, animal groan. 
"Not . . . . at all . . . . oh, love." 

"What?"  Judd asked, awash in the moment. "I'm doing all right, aren't I?" 

For a response she dug her claws in deeper and started to buck, sporadic jumps catching them both by surprise. All throughout her breath was caught so that all she could do was sob happily or moan his name when the air returned for the brief seconds between thrusts. 

He moaned above her.  "Heather, love . . . . remember what I said . . . . about being  . . . . an old man?"  He swallowed hard.  "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to keep this up much longer . . . ." 

Her shudders increased at his heart-wrenching moan, her hands slowly scratching down her back. "N-neither am . . . . I . . . ." she hissed, arching sharply and crying out as a particularly hard spasm gripped her. She knew her body well enough to know when it teetered on the brink of orgasm and, at this moment, she was amazed she hadn't already fallen in. 

Judd gathered himself, covering every inch of her he could reach with kisses.  "Love you, then," he said, and delivered on last stroke, as hard as he could, thrusting into her with all the strength in his body. 

At that word she cried out, her muscles contracting around his penis as she bucked and writhed, unable to escape the sharp shudders of pleasure that shot through her. After what seemed an eternity it stopped and she felt truly sated, truly fulfilled as she had not in a very long time. 

He cried out himself, holding her to him, shuddering against her and whispering into her throat.  "Love you, love you, love you . . . ." 

When both of their orgasms had finally subsided she still held him close, keeping him from disengaging from her. "Please...please, I want to feel you now, like you are, just for a little while longer." 

He laughed against her.  "I'm not moving ever again, eh." 

"So we're gonna fight like this, eh? That'll be good for the team's image." 

Chuckling, he shrugged.  "Just wait until Clarke finds out.  He'll have his own private fit." 

Laughing even harder, a note of wry amusement crept into her voice. "Clarke? Wait until *Logan* finds out!"

He held her close.  "So . . . . feel like sleeping, future Mrs. Judd?" 

Smiling, she reached down and touched the slippery condom, still dangling limply. "I don't know -- do you think we could survive that twice in one night?" 

Sighing, he grinned up at her.  "Gimme another half an hour and I'll show you just what you can survive." 

And he did just that. For the record, she survived nicely.