Crazy Like A Fox

By Madripoor Rose

Disclaimer: Marvel Entertaimnent owns these characters, no copyright infringement intended.

Author's Note: Google Russian Domesticated Fox. You want the National Geographic page with the pictures

CV-119 stopped running and paused, assessing the situation. Her escape had been a lucky thing, confusion and alarms while she was in one of the labs for testing. One of the scientists had panicked and it had been easy to slip out, evading trampling feet, and eventually exiting a broken window.

Finding two young people this close to the facility who didn't smell like any of the staff was a possible way to make this escape permanant. And better yet, they had food.

She approached cautiously, making sure to cant her ears in the cute position. She chose the smaller one to approach.

"Oooh! Hi puppy!"

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"I swore I wasn't going to do this," Shadowcat groaned. "I swore I'd learn from what Susan Richards went through and we were going to keep the superheroing and the parenting separate."

Colossus stopped to kiss her cheek, and then took the copied zip drive from the rogue genetics lab's main computer. "You're a good mother. This mission was on the way home from our family vacation at the dasha. The children are in the cloaked blackbird, they will be fine."

He flinched slightly, when they reached the drop point and found the plane uncloaked and their son outside guarding it with his Harry Potter wand.

"Gregory Michael Rasputin," Kitty began dangerously, "When we tell you to wait in the plane, what do you do?"

"Mom! We're in costume. You're supposed to call me Mage!"

"First, you're not in costume, you're wearing your Xavier tee-shirt, but that's not a costume. And second, you were supposed to wait in the plane, young man." Piotr told him sternly.

"We heard a noise. And you took forever." Greg pointed to the treeline of this little clearing. "And Stasia was getting scared."

Their six year old was running around from the other side of the plane. "Mommy, Daddy, can we go home now?"

Piotr caught her up in his arms and frowned at their son. "We are going home. And we have having a talk, Greg, when we get there."

Greg kicked at the grass. "Aw."

The flight went quietly, and they were halfway across the Atlantic ocean when Kitty spotted their stowaway, curled up asleep on one of the seats.

"Peter...there's something small and hairy back here and guess what, it isn't Logan."

"Shto?" he called from the cockpit.

"Looks like one of the genetically engineered foxes from the lab. Their cover-work. It must have snuck aboard..." she stopped, looked at the innocent expressions, and sighed. "Oh no. You didn't."

"She's just a puppy, mommy! And she's lost! I looked but couldn't find her mommy or her den or anything. And you said it was dangerous outside the plane! Please, can't we keep her, please. Please! I love her, please?"

"You said we could get a dog when we got back to New York. Please, Mom?"

Kitty stared into the two sets of pleading brown eyes and knew the curse of every spoiled brat...that your children are you, ten times worse.

"We can get you a dog when we go home, yes..." Anastasia began to wail and Kitty had to raise her voice over the heartrending sobs. "But this isn't a dog. Sweetheart, this isn't a puppy, it's a fox kit. It's one of the projects the lab we just raided was working on..."

Greg's eyes widened. "So she's a mutant, just like us, and you rescued her! Cool! And her name is Kit, like you Mom, so she's supposed to be one of the family. We are powerless before such an omen of fate and destiny!"

Kitty looked at him and gave up.

"Well...Peter?"

"The fox breeding project was legitimate work...we will have Henry examine her...experts examine her. If she is safe, children, truly tame and domesticated and not feral, we can keep her. If she is sick, or liable to attack you, we will find a safe place for her. Agreed?"

"Yaaaay! I love you Mommy, Daddy, thank you! I love you, Kit, we get to keep you!" Stasia shouted.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Uncle Logan's feral, and he attacks Uncle Scott all the time. And we keep him," he argued.

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Lockheed, perched on a chandelier, glared at the interloper. Kit was curled up on the couch surrounded by admiring students. One brushing her fur, the other feeding her tidbits of rare roast beef. His people! His table scraps!

Kit looked up and winked at him.

This. Meant. War.

The End