Demon In My View
Chapter Six: A Dream's Remembering
by
Libby Edwards
Disclaimer: Property of Marvel Comics. I do not own them. I sure-as-hell wish I did.
Author's note: I originally posted the first two chapters of another X-Men story of the same name on ff.net, as well as on a personal page I had created. After the second chapter, and despite some very nice reviews (thank you, those that gave me feedback!), I decided that I really wasn't happy with where the original story was going, although I was excited about the basic premise (which unfortunately was not made very clear in the initial posting). I took some time off, rethought my idea, and this story you are now reading is the result of that retooling process.
While I have tried to stick as close to canon as possible, I am a firm believer that canon is there to be a support, and not a stranglehold, so if there are a few departures from canon here and there it is because I truly did not feel that those elements were necessary. Also, as in all my Logan-centric stories, Wolverine is tall, because I don't like a short Wolverine. Call it artistic license, if you like. :)
Enjoy!
Lunch with Remy and Rogue had been the best two hours of Rebecca's life. She loved just listening to them talk...there was apparently some old history between them, and it set them to arguing and teasing each other throughout most of the meal, but Rebecca didn't mind...she was content to sit and watch them...the fire in Rogue's eyes, and the animated expressions on Remy's face, coupled with the soft, languid drawl of Rogue's voice and the muddled French cadence of Remy's Cajun patois.
That had been earlier, though. Rebecca had reluctantly left them early in the afternoon, knowing she had to be back in her father's hotel room in plenty of time to lay out his clothes for the evening, as well as get a shower and get dressed herself. She had said goodbye to them in the lobby, waving her hand a little as she watched them walk toward the front doors of the hotel...still bickering all the way.
It wasn't until they had already left the building that Rebecca realized she was still holding Remy's coat. "Here...hold dis for a minute, chère," he had asked her, and she had taken the duster's heavy bulk into her arms as Remy stopped to light a cigarette...but he hadn't asked for it back and now she had forgotten to remind him. A ghost of familiar fear scrambled up her spine...would he be angry? Her father would have been furious...would Remy...?
Don't be a dummy, she scolded herself, absently studying the duster's soft suede as she ran her fingers over it lightly. Remy's not like that...none of them are like that. And not for the last time, she felt her heart grow a little lighter at the thought. She was actually going to school with these people...they would be her teachers. And maybe, just maybe, her father would be kinder there...once he had seen how kind and good these mutants really were.
Rebecca looked up again at the doors, wishing she could have gone out them and followed after Rogue and Remy, basking in their lighthearted banter...but instead she turned slowly and began to make her way back to the elevators and her father's suite.
There was time. She was going to Xavier's school...hopefully there would be all the time in the world.
* * * * *
Logan stood in front of the gilded mirror over his dresser, scowling at himself. He had finished dressing, for the most part...black dress pants, shoes, crisp white shirt with the little black thingies that went through the button holes. Cufflinks, of course...Xavier had thought of everything. He even had on the tailored black coat that completed the ensemble...everything, in fact, except for the bowtie.
It was that offending piece of clothing, however, that was making Logan scowl.
He tried buttoning the collar of his shirt up, like you were supposed to if you wanted to wear one of those things, but it looked stupid...at least in his opinion. Maybe my neck's too thick, he mused, feeling vindicated by the thought. Yep, that's it...too muscular. Can't wear the bowtie...oh well...
He heard the bathroom door open behind him, and the sigh of fabric swishing together that could only be Ororo coming into the room.
"I ain't wearin' it," he said aloud.
"You are not wearing what, exactly?" Ororo asked.
"This." He turned around to face her as he answered, intending to shake the bow tie at her in disgust...but instead his words died on his lips as he got a look at the vision that had just walked through the door and into his room. "I...oh..."
"What?"
Logan suddenly had trouble finding words. Ororo was standing just inside the room, perfectly motionless and unabashedly divine, clad in a white silk gown that draped itself over one shoulder and clung to the rest of her body on the way down to its floor-length hem...leaving the other shoulder, her slender arms, and just the tops of her breasts gloriously bare. She had swept her hair up into a crown of white, with a few loose curls falling free to frame her face...Logan let the hand holding the bowtie drop to his side, the damn thing forgotten for the moment. He was too busy drinking in the gleam of Ororo's honey-brown skin, and the way the dim lamplight seemed to make it glow with an inner light of its own.
Ororo's lips curved slightly...and Logan was suddenly aware that she knew exactly the effect she was having on him. Dammit, he thought, laughing inwardly at himself. You just saw the woman naked, for Chrissakes...seeing her with clothes on shouldn't be that great.
"What were you saying, Logan?" she asked. "What are you not going to wear?"
He shook himself a little, then gestured with the bowtie once more. "This damn thing," he said. "It doesn't fit."
"Of course it fits," she said soothingly. She came towards him, the silk of her dress rustling as she moved, and Logan held his ground as she glided in front of him and gently took the bowtie from his fingers. "Hold still now, and I will fix this for you."
"I'm tellin' you, it's too tight..."
"Hush." She reached up and flipped his collar, then began refastening it with nimble fingers. "You look very handsome, by the way," she said, her eyes flickering briefly to his face before returning to his collar. "You should dress up more often...it suits you."
"If you think this suits me, darlin', you don't know me half as well as I thought."
She laughed lightly. "Perhaps I know you better than you know yourself." She finished buttoning his collar, then slipped the tie around his neck quickly and began to knot it with expert hands. "The trick is all in how you tie it, Logan," she continued...then she looked up at him again, her blue eyes glittering with amusement. "I thought all men knew how to tie a bowtie."
"Sorry to disappoint you," he said, his look of irritation fading a little into what might have been a smile. She smiled back, then dropped her eyes to the tie as she finished knotting it, leaving Logan to watch her face, his nostrils flaring slightly as he inhaled her scent. Ororo always smelled good...like rain and sun-warmed laundry...but she had added some kind of perfume tonight. As she bent her head close to his chest, he fought the sudden urge to bury his face in her crown of curls, inhaling deeply...her perfume was faintly spicy, faintly wild...making him think of savannas, and sand...and lonely places where only the sun walked. The scent of Africa.
"There...all done," she said at last. She gave the knot a last pat, then flipped his collar back down, buttoning it quickly before stepping back and surveying her work.
"I feel like an idiot," Logan growled softly.
"You do not look like one."
"Are you ready?"
"Yes." She stepped lightly away from him, her hand brushing against his chest playfully as she walked away and exited the room through the sitting room door. He glanced at himself in the mirror...scowling again as he did so...then followed after her, shutting off the light as he left the room.
Ororo had retrieved a small evening purse from the Queen Anne sofa, and now she stood by the door, waiting patiently for Logan. Logan grinned...he couldn't help himself. It wasn't often he got to play escort to such a damn fine-looking woman.
"I don't know, 'Ro," he said, picking up one of the room keys from the small table by the door. He slipped it into his pocket, watching her with a teasing expression. "I don't think you should go out tonight, lookin' like that."
Her brow furrowed. "Why?"
"I don't want to spend the whole night beatin' the guys off you."
She rolled her eyes at that. "Are you coming?" she asked, an impatient note sneaking into her voice.
"Yeah, I'm coming."
He opened the door for her, allowing her to go out into the hall first, then he shut it behind them and fell into step beside her as they walked to the elevator. They said nothing to each other, coming to the elevator doors in companionable silence...Logan pushed the down button, then they waited for what seemed an endless amount of time before the doors dinged softly and rolled open to allow them to enter.
"After you, darlin'."
"Thank you."
The elevator was empty except for them...Logan leaned against the back wall, his arms folded over his chest as the elevator began to make its smooth, soundless descent to the ground floor, where the after-convention dinner was being held in the Imperial's ballroom. Ororo stood in almost the middle of the car, her head tilted slightly as she watched the illuminated numbers above the door ticking their way slowly down, down...Logan watched the numbers, then her, then he would force himself to watch the numbers again...but his eyes kept getting dragged back to the smooth line of her bare neck, and the soft wisps of hair at her nape. Sheesh, you'd think it was Jean standin' there...
The elevator slowed to a stop, dinging again as the doors rolled open on another floor. Ororo backed up, coming closer to Logan as a small group of people boarded the car...dressed in various formal outfits, they were obviously going to the dinner as well. They cast a few cursory glances at Ororo and Logan...then the doors slid shut and they were collectively dismissed, the elevator once more rolling down to where the party awaited.
Fourth floor...third floor...second floor...
The elevator stopped on the ground floor at last, vomiting the passengers it had accumulated into the lobby with a babble and murmur of conversation. Ororo and Logan came out last, allowing the rest of the passengers to disperse through the soft light of the lobby and into the crowd of guests milling about.
"Down there," Logan said, indicating a short flight of wide, carpeted steps to their right, leading down into the hotel's ballroom.
"I did not expect there to be this many people," Ororo commented softly. Logan's hand was on the small of her back, the warmth of his fingers somehow comforting in the huge press of people. "How will we ever find Rebecca and her father in all this?"
"Already done," Logan replied.
"What?"
"There's Rebecca, over there." Logan nodded toward the foot of the stairs, even as they began to descend. Ororo was temporarily unable to look where Logan was indicating, for she had to attend to her own steps down the stairs in her long dress...but Logan seemed to read her mind, his hand leaving her waist and holding her elbow gently as he helped her down the stairs.
Ororo looked up once they reached the bottom, her eyes scanning the crowd of people...then she spotted Rebecca standing slightly in front of her and to the left. The girl's small frame was nearly lost beside a row of ornamental ficus trees standing to the left of the stairs. She stood with drooping shoulders in their shadow...and the shadow of a large, blond man, who stood beside Rebecca with one hand on the girl's thin shoulder.
"That must be Dr. Shaw," Ororo murmured to Logan.
Logan only nodded, his hand removing to her waist once more as Ororo swept gracefully over to where Rebecca and her father stood. Rebecca looked up at Ororo, giving her a smile that looked a bit sick...but the blond man at her side raised himself to his full height and extended his hand.
"Jeremiah Shaw," he said, his voice deep and cultured, touched with a warm Southern accent. He took Ororo's proffered hand firmly in his. "You must be Ms. Munroe."
"Yes. It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Dr. Shaw," Ororo said graciously, studying her first look at the man Rebecca called father. Jeremiah was extremely tall, almost a full head taller than Ororo, and although his face was weathered and seamed with the lines of middle-age, he was still a very handsome man. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, he had a square chin and a warm smile...although something in that smile seemed a little predatory. Ororo found herself thinking of sharks.
"The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Munroe."
"This is Logan," Ororo continued, gesturing smoothly toward Logan behind her. Logan stepped forward slightly and shook Jeremiah's hand.
"Pleased to meet you, sir," Jeremiah said.
"Dr. Shaw," Logan rumbled, pleasantly enough.
"Please...call me Jeremiah." He turned and waved a hand toward the tables in the sparkling darkness of the ballroom. "Let's get a table...we can talk more once we've sat down."
Ororo gave him a lovely smile, then swept past him, Logan still at her side as he guided her gently into the ballroom. The ballroom of the Imperial was truly beautiful...conceived in a dome-shape, it soared in a perfect curve some four stories, the walls and ceiling covered in clear glass set in a steel framework that gave the impression of a giant greenhouse. Huge crystal chandeliers hung from the struts high above their heads, but they were dimmed low tonight, the majority of the room's illumination coming from varying levels of white pillar candles that graced the centers of the tables scattered profusely about the room. Ororo looked up in wonder at the ceiling as they walked along, weaving their way between tables and small knots of people...she looked at the myriad lights of Manhattan surrounding them through the glass, and thought of the domed ceiling Kurt had shown her in that book about world religions.
I wonder if he would like this ceiling half as much as the cathedral, if he were here to see it, she wondered...and for the briefest of moments, she wished he was.
"Here...how's this?" Jeremiah called from behind them. Ororo and Logan turned to see him indicating a nearly empty table, gleaming among the milling guests. Only two people sat there, at a table most likely meant to hold six...it was a middle-aged couple, both sitting ramrod straight and watching them curiously. "This is Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell," Jeremiah continued. "Friends of mine from my church in North Carolina. I thought we could share a table with them."
"Of course...that would be lovely," Ororo replied. She turned and approached the table, the stopped in mild surprise as Jeremiah pulled out her chair for her and waited for her to sit. "Why, thank you..."
"My pleasure." He took the seat closest to Mrs. Mitchell...a heavy-set woman, with an overabundance of makeup on her face and a fluffy semi-bouffant of salon-curled hair atop her round head. Rebecca slipped silently into the seat between her father and Ororo, leaving Logan to sit down between Ororo and Mr. Mitchell...who was every bit as skinny as his wife was corpulent, his bald head, watery eyes, and scrawny physique next to his wife's multiple wagging chins making Ororo think briefly (and with an inward giggle) of Jack Sprat and his wife.
"This is Ms. Munroe and Mr. Logan, from Westchester," Jeremiah said. "They are teachers at the school Rebecca will be attending."
"The one you'll be teaching at," Mrs. Mitchell said.
"Yes, that's the one," Jeremiah agreed.
"Well." Mrs. Mitchell eyed Logan first, her nose wrinkling slightly as if she smelled something bad...then she looked at Ororo and smiled thinly. "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Logan. And Ms. Munroe."
Ororo didn't miss the emphasis on the Ms., or the way Mrs. Mitchell looked rather pointedly at Ororo's neckline in disapproval. Oh, but this one was going to be a problem...
"Please," she demurred. "Call me Ororo, if you like."
"Ororo?" Mrs. Mitchell raised a penciled eyebrow. "Unusual name, dear. And your accent...you're not from New York originally, are you?"
Ororo shook her head. "I lived in Africa for the vast majority of my formative years, Mrs. Mitchell. And my name is from the Mwimbe, the native tongue of my mother's people."
"What does it mean?" Mr. Mitchell asked in a high-pitched, quavering voice.
Ororo smiled slightly. "It means 'beauty'."
She was aware of Logan stirring slightly beside her, and Mrs. Mitchell making a polite noise...but the older woman's eyes continued to roam over the exposed curve of Ororo's shoulders, before she sniffed skeptically. The moment was broken, however, by the arrival of a waiter, pushing a huge serving cart with that evening's planned dishes on it.
The assembled group at the table remained silent as their waiter placed steaming tureens and various covered, silver dishes on the soft white linen of their tablecloth...another waiter appeared, making quite a show of snapping out their napkins and filling wineglasses with a flourish...and after a few murmured thank yous and the soft clink of silverware and china, the waiters disappeared as quickly as they had come, melting into the shadows of the other tables as they continued their odd little choreography.
"Do you get the feelin' they've done that before?" Logan muttered. Ororo smiled and nudged him under the table with her foot.
"Let us say grace, shall we?" Jeremiah said, looking at everyone with a brief smile.
"Will you say it for us, Jeremiah?" Mrs. Mitchell simpered.
"Of course." Ororo bowed her head politely, closing her eyes as Jeremiah began to murmur a prayer. "Lord, we thank thee for the blessings which we are about to receive, and the good health which you have seen fit to give us. In your most holy name, Amen."
Short and sweet...very good, Dr. Shaw. "Amen," Ororo said aloud, a secret smile on her lips.
"What church do you go to, Ororo?" Mrs. Mitchell asked. "We’re Church of God."
Ororo lifted her eyes, regarding the other woman steadily. "I do not attend a church, Mrs. Mitchell," she replied. "I do not believe in organized religion."
Mrs. Mitchell's expression looked as if she expected no better. She instead turned her attention back to Dr. Shaw and effectively dismissed Ororo from the conversation...much to Ororo's relief.
"Pass the salt, 'Ro," Logan said quietly. Ororo picked up the shaker and handed it to him, meeting his dark, irritated glare for just a moment. She shook her head slightly and smiled.
"So, Jeremiah," Mrs. Mitchell continued, lifting the cover from her plate and inhaling with relish. "How do you feel about teaching at the same school that your daughter will be attending?"
"Oh, it should be quite exciting, Mrs. Mitchell," Jeremiah replied. He picked up his knife and fork and began cutting his roast beef casually. "And good for Rebecca, of course," he added. "She was a bit nervous about going away to school without me...she's never been away from home before."
Ororo lifted her wineglass to her lips, regarding Rebecca over the rim as she sipped. Never been away from home before? "How old are you, Rebecca?" she asked. "Thirteen?"
"I'm seventeen," Rebecca said softly.
Logan suddenly choked on his drink...Ororo's eyes widened momentarily, then she recovered quickly and smiled at the younger girl, placing her glass back on the table gently. "I apologize, Rebecca...but..."
"Don't apologize, Ororo," Jeremiah said, pausing in his meal long enough to wrap his arm around Rebecca's thin shoulders. He gave her a quick hug. "Everyone thinks Rebecca's younger than she is."
"It's because she's so skinny," Mrs. Mitchell said waspishly. "I've always said the girl needs to eat more...look at her, picking at this good food..."
"Maybe she's just nervous about going to a new school," Logan suddenly growled, startling Mrs. Mitchell off her warming tirade. The older woman blinked, then her face slid into her former sour expression as she found herself unable to hold Logan's challenging stare.
Jeremiah popped a forkful of potatoes into his mouth and chased it with a swallow of wine. "So," he said, when he could speak again. "Charles said that Rebecca and I would be flying back to the school with you in the morning. Is that still true?"
"That is what we have planned, yes," Ororo replied. She tried a small portion of the creamed potatoes...they were delicious, but she found she was no longer hungry. Her eyes kept drifting to Rebecca, sitting with her head down and her fork idly mashing her food into various abstract patterns. Jeremiah had removed his arm from around the girl's shoulders, but not before Ororo had seen the way Rebecca had flinched when her father's hand first touched her.
Something is wrong here...
"Tell me, Ororo," Mrs. Mitchell said. "Were both your parents black?"
"Emma!" Mr. Mitchell hissed.
"What?" she snapped, rounding on him angrily. "That's a reasonable question! Don't be..."
"Yes, Mrs. Mitchell," Ororo replied, picking up her wine. "Both my parents were black."
"But your white hair, dear," Mrs. Mitchell continued, snatching up a yeast roll and beginning to pluck it apart with her pudgy, bejeweled fingers. "And your blue eyes...of course, they're colored contacts, aren't they? I know they're all the rage..."
"No, they are real," Ororo replied patiently. She drained her glass, suddenly needing the warm spread of the wine inside her...Goddess, but this woman was a harpy. "It's a recessive gene, I believe...every generation of women in my family has had at least one blue-eyed, white-haired daughter."
"How odd," Mrs. Mitchell said, her eyes glittering in the candlelight.
Ororo met the other woman's stare in silence, aware that she was deliberately being baited. Was it because she was black? Because she didn't attend church? Oh, well...this was one person that wasn't going for it...
"What do you do for a living?" Ororo asked sweetly, turning her attention to Mr. Mitchell just as a waiter materialized next to her again, refilling her wineglass.
"Me? Oh, I...well.." Mr. Mitchell stammered into silence, appearing flustered now that Ororo was paying attention to him.
"Earl is in the nursery business," Mrs. Mitchell said. "You know...flowers and stuff."
"I know." Ororo smiled briefly. This line of conversation and polite small talk always bored her, but she knew the surest way to discomfit Mrs. Mitchell was to allow her husband to talk about himself. "So, how is the nursery business?"
"Good, good," Mr. Mitchell said. "But busy, you know...we're gearing up for the fall season, now, and things are so hectic..."
Ororo drank some more wine, draining half the glass at once. Her eyes drifted to Rebecca again, who was still mashing the food on her plate into new and interesting shapes. Seventeen? she mused. I never would have guessed it...
"And then we'll have the Christmas tree season, of course..."
Mr. Mitchell continued to wax philosophical on his nursery...Ororo sipped her wine, savoring the fruity taste, nodding in all the right places as Mr. Mitchell talked and Jeremiah ate and Rebecca huddled...she was suddenly aware that Logan wasn't eating either. He was fiddling idly with his wineglass, tapping his fingers against the side randomly as he listened to the conversation...
"Of course, we don't grow the trees ourselves. We have to truck them in..."
The room seemed to be getting more and more crowded...Ororo closed her eyes briefly, shutting out the press of people...awfully warm in here, don't you think...
"Excuse me for a moment," she said suddenly. Ororo put down her wine glass and touched Logan lightly on the arm. "I think I need a breath of fresh air...all these people..."
"Sure, babe." Logan stood up without hesitation, taking Ororo's hand and helping her to her feet.
"We'll be back in a moment," Ororo said, smiling apologetically.
The Mitchells nodded, Mr. Mitchell barely breaking stride mid-discussion of the pros and cons of flowering boxwoods, but Jeremiah stood up as Ororo slid her hand over Logan's arm tensely.
"Are you all right?" Jeremiah asked solicitously.
"I am. Please, sit down." She shook her head. "I am just a little claustrophobic. I will be all right after a bit."
"If you're sure."
"I am. Please, sit."
Jeremiah smiled slightly and sat back down, replacing his napkin in his lap as Ororo allowed Logan to lead her away from the table and back through the ballroom to the lobby stairs. Logan said nothing as they walked up the short flight...he brooded silent at her elbow, leading her gently into the lobby and escorting her to a brocaded bench just to the left of the ballroom entrance. It was much quieter here, the loud hum of conversation from the ballroom muted considerably by some trick of the lobby's acoustics...Ororo sat down gratefully, leaning her head back against the silk-papered wall behind her as she closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.
She heard a rustle as Logan sat down beside her. "You okay, darlin'?" he asked softly.
She opened her eyes and turned her head slightly, giving him a warm smile. The gentle concern on his face was touching. "I am fine now, thank you," she replied. "And I am sorry. Sometimes being in crowds of people makes me nervous."
"I figured as much. I was wonderin' how long it would take you to get the hell out of there."
She gave him a questioning look. "If you knew, why didn't you say something?"
He chuckled quietly and leaned back against the wall beside her. "Because I know how you are, darlin'. You don't like havin' your weaknesses pointed out."
"Claustrophobia is not a weakness," she said indignantly.
He turned his head and grinned at her. "As I was sayin'?"
"Oh, you." Ororo tossed her head haughtily, but it was a fight not to laugh with him. They sat in friendly silence for a moment, Logan with his hands clasped loosely between his knees and Ororo with her eyes closed, leaning still against the cool surface of the wall.
"What do you think about Dr. Shaw?" Ororo asked at last, deliberately keeping her voice casual.
"I don't trust him."
She opened her eyes again and regarded him with surprise. "You too?"
"Yeah. Did you see the way the kid stiffened up every time her dad touched her?"
Ororo nodded thoughtfully. "I saw it."
"Somethin' ain't right there, if you ask me."
Ororo leaned forward, placing her hands together palm to palm and pressing the fingertips against her lips. "No, I agree with you," she said thoughtfully. She glanced at Logan, her expression subdued and serious. "And I think we need to tell the professor, Logan. This is a problem that needs to be addressed sooner rather than later."
He surprised her by shaking his head. "Nope. Bad idea, darlin'."
"What do you mean? Charles needs to know..."
"Why? So Shaw can snatch his kid right out of the school, as soon as he gets wind that we suspect somethin'? Come on, 'Ro," Logan growled. "The only chance we have of helpin' Rebecca, if there is somethin' wrong, is to keep our damn mouths shut and let her get to Xavier's. There, we might be able to do something."
"But what if he's abusing her, Logan?"
"We don't know that, 'Ro," Logan said.
"He gives me the creeps..."
"Me too, but that doesn't mean a damn thing. Not really." He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes in unconscious imitation of Ororo. "You know...accept that the clouds will move and all that shit."
"Accept that the clouds will..." She stared at him in confusion. "What?"
He chuckled lightly without opening his eyes. "It's some Japanese poetry. Come gather flowers with me, my love, and accept that the clouds will move...basically just a fancy way of saying wait and see." He smiled a little then, but a shadow seemed to pass across his face. "Mariko sent me that poem once."
She glanced at him curiously. "Mariko?"
"Yeah."
"There you are!" They both looked up in surprise as Jeremiah rounded the corner of the stairs, coming toward them casually. "Feeling all right, Ororo?" he asked.
"Yes...much better, thank you," she replied. She glanced behind him curiously, then looked at him with a questioning expression and a smile. "Where is Rebecca?"
"That is why I came to find you," Jeremiah said, folding his hands together earnestly. "Rebecca isn't feeling well, I'm afraid, so I'm going to leave a little earlier than I originally planned."
"Is she all right?" Logan asked gruffly.
"I'm sure she'll be fine," Jeremiah replied. He gave them a quick smile, but something else seemed to flicker in his eyes...something indefinable. "It is probably just as you suggested, Logan...she is excited and nervous about her new school. A good night's sleep should work wonders."
"Please tell Rebecca we hope she feels better," Ororo said softly.
"I will. Now, if you'll excuse me...I do apologize for cutting the evening short," Jeremiah added. "But feel free to continue your meal. I'm sure the Mitchells would love to have you rejoin them."
Ororo forced a gracious smile. "I am sure."
"I will see you in the morning." He nodded to them both and flashed that same, strange smile. "Good night."
"Good night." Ororo watched in silence as Jeremiah turned and retraced his steps to the ballroom, then she looked at Logan's face with lifted eyebrows. Logan wasn't looking at her at first...she watched the hard profile of his face as he stared after Jeremiah, then he slowly turned his head to look at her, the expression in his dark eyes both cryptic and somewhat unsettling.
"So what do you think?" he said quietly, his voice a raspy growl.
Ororo studied his eyes in silence, then looked back toward the ballroom with a small shrug. "I do not think anything...not tonight, at least. Wait and see, as you said."
"Yeah." He looked back in the direction Jeremiah had gone, then sighed. "That had to be the shortest dinner in recorded history, 'Ro."
Her lips twisted in a humorless grin. "It is safe to assume, then, that you do not wish to rejoin the Mitchells."
"Jesus," he groaned. "Hell, no."
"Then look at us," she sighed, leaning against his shoulder and smoothing a slender hand over the silken folds of her dress. "All dressed up with no place to go...what a colossal waste of time." She looked up at him and smiled, feeling more relaxed now that Jeremiah's oppressive presence was gone, and pleasantly warmed by the wine she had consumed as well. "Any ideas, Logan? I am not quite ready to call it a night."
He reached up with one hand and pulled his tie loose, threading his fingers through it until it was undone and then letting the ends dangle loosely around his neck. "I don't know, darlin'," he said, glancing down at her where she leaned against his shoulder. One of his rare, warm smiles flickered across his face. "How about a drink, though, while we decide what to do with the rest of the night?"
"Mmm...where?"
He nodded toward the far side of the lobby. "There's a lounge over there...I saw it while I was wanderin' around, while you were takin' your nap. Want to go there and have a drink?"
"Sounds lovely."
"Good deal." He stood up, then took her hand and pulled her gently to her feet before placing his hand at her waist once more. They moved across the lobby, past the massive pillars that held up the towering ceiling and the small groupings of potted plants here and there. The faux candelabra that lined the walls filled the lobby with dancing shadows and yellow light as guests milled about talking, soft laughter ringing lightly in the air...Logan escorted Ororo through the crowd, conscious of the way heads turned curiously to look at Ororo. Only she seemed oblivious to the attention her rare beauty garnered from those she passed...eyes watching, caressing her body through the silk of her gown, and stopped only by the dark-haired, glowering man that walked beside her with one powerful hand resting at the small of her back.
The Imperial's small, intimate lounge was nestled in the far right corner of the lobby, behind a set of glass-fronted double doors that opened into the lounge's sunken, shadowy interior. Logan stepped slightly ahead of Ororo and opened the door, then held it for her as she glided inside, the white silk of her dress shimmering like moonlight in the lounge's smoky darkness.
It was quiet in here, the only sound the subdued murmur of isolated conversations coming from gloomy booths that lined the rounded walls, and the muted tinkling of glasses as they were touched and filled and emptied again. Logan's quick ears picked up a soft, rhythmic throb...there was music playing from an unseen source, but it was turned so low that whatever it was seemed robbed of a good deal of its thumping power...Logan looked around, then followed after Ororo as she moved through the murk of cigarette smoke and slid into an empty booth, cozied up in a secluded corner of the room.
"How's this?" she asked, her voice automatically softening to match the voice level of those around them.
"Fine." He slid into the booth beside her, lifting his head and locking gazes briefly with one of the servers moving through the gloom. He nodded to beckon him over. "What'll you have, darlin'?"
"Whatever you are having."
He cocked his eyebrow at her and grinned. "You sure about that, babe?"
Ororo folded her arms on the table and leaned close, giving him a wicked smile. "Do your worst, Wolverine."
He looked at her incredulously, a deep chuckle rumbling up from his chest. "All right, beautiful...you asked for it." Logan looked up at the server with a grin. "Two shots of your best whiskey, kid...and bring the bottle."
"Room number, sir?"
Logan gave it to him, then turned back to Ororo as the young man disappeared back toward the bar. "Whiskey, hmmm?" she asked, smiling up at him from beneath lowered lashes.
"Only the best for you, darlin'." He winked at her, and they both laughed.
Within seconds the waiter returned, bearing a small drink tray with two shot glasses full of amber liquid, and a large, jewel-cut flask, which he placed almost ceremoniously in the middle of the table. "Crown Royal, sir," the waiter said. "Will this be satisfactory?"
Logan picked up his shot, then tossed it back with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Damn straight," he muttered. "Satisfactory as all hell, bub."
"Will there be anything else, sir?"
"Not right now."
The waiter nodded politely and moved away once more. Ororo picked up her shot glass and raised it in toast to Logan, eyeing him playfully over the rim. "Cheers," she said, then downed the shot in one swallow.
"Not bad, darlin'," Logan said, observing her with some amusement.
The whiskey went down smooth, only searing her tongue and throat the slightest bit before hitting her stomach in a warm explosion. Ororo gasped a little, her eyes watering, but she laughed gamely and thumped the empty shot glass on the table. "Not bad at all," she said hoarsely, her fingers curling around the bottle as she refilled her glass carefully.
Logan laughed. "Be careful. You don't have my tolerance for the stuff."
"I am only going to have a little."
"That's how it starts." Logan refilled his glass as well, then lifted it to his lips, sipping it slower this time. "Wait and see, 'Ro...you'll be drunk before you know it, if you don't watch yourself."
"Wait and see, hmm?" She dipped a finger in her glass, then sucked a droplet off the tip thoughtfully. "Not to change the subject, Logan...but I want to ask you something."
"Sure."
"Tonight, when you talked about that poem of Mariko's," Ororo said, watching as the smile slowly faded from Logan's face. "I do not wish to upset you...I mean..."
"No, no...it's okay." He downed the rest of his shot, then refilled it again, carefully avoiding her eyes. "Go ahead."
"That...well..." She bit her lip uncertainly, watching the play of light and shadow on his face as he frowned down at his drink. "That was the first time I have ever heard you speak of Mariko, since...since..."
"Since she died." His voice was expressionless, and when he lifted his head to meet her eyes again, they glittered black in the restless, flickering light in the room. "It's okay, 'Ro...you can say it. She's dead."
Ororo looked back steadily, her glass suddenly feeling very cold in her hands. "The bit of poem you quoted," she asked softly. "Did Mariko write it?"
"No." Logan leaned back, one hand playing idly with his glass as he moved it in slow circular patterns on the table's surface. "It's an old Japanese verse...she had a real thing for translating them into English. That just happened to be one she sent me...I'm not sure why."
"Do you remember the rest of it?"
He said nothing for a long moment...Ororo wondered if he had heard her, but then he took a deep breath and began to recite in a low voice:
"Come gather flowers with me,
My love,
And accept that the clouds will move.
One smile from you when we meet,
I become speechless
And forget every word.
My love,
Let me build you a red-painted boat
And carry you away.
For I love you more than life,
Or death,
Or a dream's remembering."
"That's all I remember," Logan said, and he tossed back another shot, then reached for the bottle once more. "I think there was more, but, well..." He smiled at her bitterly. "It's been a long time."
Ororo studied him for a long moment. "Why did you never speak of her after her death, Logan?" she asked softly.
He laughed shortly and without humor. "Who was I supposed to speak to?"
"You could have talked to me, Logan."
"I could have...but I didn't want to." He met her eyes steadily, and Ororo saw the weary look return to his face...the same look he had worn the morning she had gone to awaken him for their training. "And I still don't want to...it's just one more bad memory I'd like to forget."
"You cannot hide from the past forever, Logan."
"I know." He looked back down at his glass and laughed bitterly. "You know, it's funny you should say that...I've been havin' weird dreams lately. A lot."
"Your nightmares?"
"Yeah, but different." He traced his finger around the rim of his glass slowly. "I've been dreaming about Mariko lately, if you can believe it."
"I can." She smiled then, tenderly, and reached out to take his hand across the table. "I am sorry, Logan...I truly am. I wish I had known before now."
"Hey, don't sweat it, darlin'." He returned her smile, looking almost wistful. "Like I said...it was a long time ago. I've got plenty of nightmares to keep this one company."
She squeezed his hand lightly. "Would you like me to change the subject again?"
"Yeah." He lifted her hand to his lips and surprised her with a fleeting kiss to her fingers. "Sounds like a good idea."
* * * * *
"My God, girl...how could you have been so stupid?!"
At the top of the Imperial hotel, floors and floors away from the two people in all the world that might have helped her, Rebecca Shaw cowered on the floor of her father's hotel room, curled into a tiny ball as Jeremiah stalked around the darkened room like a rabid beast. "Are you insane?" he hissed, stopping his furious pacing long enough to grab the girl by her upper arms and haul her up to face him. "What were you thinking?"
"I just...I-I just..." Rebecca couldn't talk...her sobs were choking her, and the fierce, numbing pain of her father's fingers digging into her arms was making it hard to think clearly.
"You just what?"
"I thought it would be okay," she wept, her tears making her father's rage-reddened face blur before her eyes. "The others...Ms. Munroe and Logan and Remy...they don't care who knows..."
"That's because they're all sinners, girl! Have you learned nothing that I've taught you? They wear their mutation...their sin...proudly, like a badge for all the world to see!"
"Please," Rebecca wept brokenly. "It's not like that..."
"Don't be a fool!" Jeremiah shoved her back to the floor, stalking away from her again. "Just look at that Ororo woman...walking around in that dress, without shame..."
"It's not like that!" Rebecca cried.
She never had time to react. Jeremiah lunged at her viciously, his hand swinging back and then connecting with her face, the sound as huge in that room as a whipcrack. Rebecca's head snapped back from the impact and she was knocked across the floor, sprawling in an untidy heap against the dresser as a hot flare of pain exploded in her face...one of the handles from the dresser drawers dug sharply into the small of her back, sending another burning stab of agony into her kidneys.
Jeremiah walked across the room and stopped in front of her, watching impassively as Rebecca moaned. She lifted a shaking hand to her lips and pulled it away again, staring at the blood on her fingertips in a pain-filled haze.
"Don't ever argue raise your voice to me again, Rebecca," Jeremiah said with deceptive softness. "Not ever. Do you understand me?"
"Y-yes..."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir," she whispered.
"And the next time you get the urge to tell someone you're a mutant, like the cute little number you pulled with the Mitchells tonight," he added, crouching down beside her. "What you got tonight won't even begin to compare to what you'll get then. Do you understand that?"
"Yes..." Her voice broke on a tortured, wracking sob. "Yes, sir."
"Good." He stood up again, surveying her in silence, then he turned on his heel and walked toward the door. "Now go to bed, Rebecca."
The door closed, filling the room with complete darkness. Rebecca crouched on the floor, hugging her knees, her burning, aching face pressed into the soft material of her skirt as she continued to cry. How could she have been so dumb...meeting the teachers, spending the afternoon with Remy and Rogue...she had thought, for the smallest of moments, that everything was going to be all right. Her father would see...they were good people. And maybe he wouldn't hit anymore, or yell anymore.
Stupid girl...she scourged herself inside, ripping the memory of this beating from her soul and burying it deep inside with all the others. This was not healing, of course. It would fester there...but Rebecca didn't know this.
She tried to stand up, but the pain in her back was still too fresh...it throbbed angrily, and she expelled a whispered cry of pain and fell back to her hands and knees, her head lowered, her hair hanging in her eyes as she panted with eyes closed. After a moment she began to crawl toward her bed...her questing fingers brushed against the bedspread, and she grabbed it tightly, using it to pull herself onto the bed where she collapsed on her stomach, her eyes still tightly closed against the pounding in the small of her back.
Something beneath her cheek...her hand crept up, her fingers slipping lightly over whatever foreign piece of fabric was against her face. Suede...it was Remy's coat, which she had placed on her bed just before getting a shower and getting dressed for dinner. Only a few hours ago...when she had been with him and Rogue, laughing a little, feeling happier than she could ever remember.
Rebecca curled up in a little ball in the middle of the bed and pulled the duster over her like a blanket. It was long enough to cover her completely...she hugged her arms around herself and closed her eyes, imagining herself safe again, secure again, hidden in the warm, tobacco-scented darkness of Remy's coat.
* * * * *
Two hours and a bottle of whiskey later, Logan watched Ororo with a bemused smile on his face. She wasn't drunk...not yet, anyway. Ororo seemed to have a tolerance for alcohol that almost rivaled his...still, she was definitely tipsy, and it was a charming, giggling side of Ororo that Logan had never seen.
Watching her blue eyes sparkle at him as she sipped from her glass once more, Logan decided that he liked this side of her. He liked it very much.
"This stuff is going straight to my head, Logan," she moaned, her laugh low and warm from drink.
"That's the only problem with expensive liquor," Logan replied. He poured himself another shot and grinned at her briefly. "It goes down so smooth, you don't know how much you've had 'til it's too late."
"I think..." She suddenly hiccupped, her hand flying to her mouth as her eyes widened in surprise...then she dissolved into laughter again. "I think I need to stop, before I cannot walk."
"Don't worry, darlin'," he chuckled. "I'll carry you if I have to."
"Okay." She laughed again, her head thrown back a little as she did so, and Logan regarded the smooth line of her neck as she tilted her head, his eyes watching her with a curious expression from over the top of his glass. He never got tired of watching her...but he would never tell her that, of course. There was nothing to his watching...he loved to look at Ororo the way some people love to look at works of art or listen to symphonies. An appreciation for beauty...but Logan knew that telling Ororo that would make her uncomfortable. There was no reason to tell her anyway...she was his friend. His best friend, in all honesty. Telling her that he found her as beautiful as a Greek sculpture would just be weird.
Best friend. He snorted to himself and drained the shot in one quick swallow. Ororo finished her shot as well and picked up the bottle again, her face falling a little when she realized the bottle was empty.
"What do you think?" she asked, waving the bottle a little as she smiled at him.
He returned her smile with amusement. "I think we've both had enough."
"Then our evening is over?" Her lips drew down in a small, teasing pout, but she put the bottle down anyway. "I wanted to hear more about your travels...finish telling me about your last trip to Madripoor."
"Another night, maybe." He put down his shot glass, then stretched, feeling the bones in his spine pop comfortably. "It's late, darlin'...and I want to fly back early, if we can."
"All right," she sighed. Logan stood up and gave her his hand, then helped her to her feet as she slid free of the booth. She swayed unsteadily for a moment, leaning against his chest briefly...which prompted a grin and a shaken head from Logan, and another soft giggle from her...then he put a steadying arm about her waist and guided her from the lounge.
She seemed to be fine after that. They walked in silence through the nearly deserted lobby, to the row of elevators...one of which had apparently been waiting on the ground floor anyway. The doors opened instantly at the touch of Logan's finger on the button, and he guided Ororo inside...only to be forced toward the back again as another small party of people joined them before the doors closed.
Logan leaned against the back wall with Ororo in front of him. The group of people that had joined them...mostly young, and obviously drunk...kept laughing and jostling each other about the car as it journeyed upward, and Ororo stepped back slightly and leaned against Logan's chest. It startled him a little...he had been lost in his own thoughts, and now the length of her silk-clad body was pressed back against him....best friend, yeah, right. Best friends aren't supposed to feel this good...
Ororo tilted her head and looked back at him, giving him an apologetic smile. "Sorry..." she murmured. "Crowded..."
"Yeah." His hand lifted of its own accord and touched her upper arm, reassuring her...tight spaces, and all that...but he found his fingers caressing the skin there, until he caught himself and patted her arm instead, a trifle uncertainly. Well, hell, he mused, watching as the car stopped briefly to let off the group of people. I'm a man, ain't I? And we've both been drinking, dammit...
He dropped his hand from her arm, trying not to breathe in her perfume if he could help it.
The elevator skimmed upward, empty now of everyone except themselves, but Ororo didn't step away. She waited, comfortably pressed against his chest as the car climbed...only moving away when the elevator stopped at last on their floor and the doors opened. Then she slipped through the doors and into the hall beyond, Logan following...and watching with a bemused grin as she staggered a bit and was forced to lean against the wall.
"You okay?" he asked, biting back a chuckle. He needn't have bothered, though...Ororo was leaning back against the wall, giggling, and after a moment Logan laughed as well.
"I think I had a little too much to drink," Ororo said.
"You think?" He shook his head, then moved closer and slipped one arm about her waist. "Come on, then..."
"What are you doing?!"
"What's it look like?" He bent and slipped his other arm under her knees, then swept her off her feet and into his arms easily. "There...now you won't fall on your ass before I can get you to the room."
"Put me down, Logan!" Ororo protested, still laughing as she pushed ineffectually on his chest.
"Nope." He grinned down at her as he carried her to their room. "You're going to have to open the door, though," he added. "Got a key?"
"In my purse."
"Might want to get it, then."
She fumbled inside the purse still clasped in her hand, and after a moment withdrew one of the electronic cards that opened the door. "Ta-da!" she giggled.
Logan chuckled and shook his head. "Note to self...don't let Ororo drink anymore."
"You're no fun."
They came to the door of their suite, and Ororo reached down from the cradle of Logan's arms, fumbling with the lock and still laughing in fits and bursts. The door finally snicked open, and Logan swept inside, pausing only long enough to kick the door closed behind them before walking across the room to the dark rectangle of Ororo's bedroom door.
"You left the light on," Ororo remarked, looking over Logan's shoulder into the sitting room as he moved through it. "How clever of you..." And she giggled again.
Logan rolled his eyes heavenward, still shaking his head, and he crossed to her bed and deposited Ororo on it as gently as he could. After a moment of fumbling he found the bedside lamp, which he turned on...leaving him to stare down at Ororo on the bed, his hands in his pockets as he regarded her with amusement.
"What?" she asked, smiling up at him sweetly, her eyes sparkling with drink and her dusky skin seeming to glow in the golden lamplight.
"Think you can get undressed by yourself?"
"Of course." Her smile seemed to grow more languid, and she reached up and began pulling the pins from her hair while still lying against the pillows. "Are you going to bed?" she asked.
"Yeah, I think so."
"I had a good time tonight, Logan," she said. He watched as she pulled her crown of hair free, the white tendrils falling against her shoulders and around her face in lovely disarray. "Thank you...it was fun."
Logan said nothing for a moment...her hand relaxed against her stomach, the slender, delicate brown of her fingers a startling contrast to the white silk of her gown, and Logan found his attention held by it. "It was fun," he said at last, his dark eyes drifting to her face. "We'll have to do it again sometime."
"Yes."
"Well, good night, then," Logan said.
"Good night."
He smiled briefly, then left the room without looking back, slipping quietly through the adjoining door of their bathroom and disappearing into the darkness of his own room. He felt funny leaving her room...somehow off-balance.
Maybe it was just too much drink, and Ororo's reaction to the whiskey.
Or maybe it was something like regret. Logan shut the door between their rooms, turned on the light, and began to undress...the scent of Africa still clinging to his clothes and filling the room like a half-remembered dream.
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