Title: Tryst and Contention

Author: Eightcrayondon

Pairing: RoLo

Rating: PG

Summary: Storm and Wolverine share a complicated romance. First RoLo. Beware fluff, melodrama and subtle grown up situations.

Disclaimer: Marvel owns all known X-Men characters, I make no profit from this story or the use of the characters. Just tooting my own horn but I do have a 1986 Cadillac with a radiator and oil leak.

Ororo Munroe had not known how truly lonely she was until that night when Logan came to her loft and without warning took her into his arms, kissing her. His kisses were hard and unrelenting, she could almost cry in the wake of his caress. He pressed himself against her and she shivered, recognizing his enthusiasm.

They lay in her apartment, his fingers running through her silver hair; his touch incited a relaxation in her; she had never known anything like this, not with any man. She lay on top of him, still close to one another, looking in to his pale brown eyes. He smiled a little, touching her face with his cold hand; she rested her face in the nape of his neck. His breath came in short gasps and he squeezed her shoulders, grunting quietly.
The skies outside cracked open, pouring rain and she squeezed him back.
“I love you ‘Ro,” he said. His voice was shaking and his bearing juvenile. He felt it too, as though he were fifteen and this were the first woman he had ever held this close.
“No you don’t,” she replied, looking into his eyes and resting her head on his chest once more.
“I love you, Storm!” he said, grabbing her shoulders once more and pulling her to him to looking at her closely.
He whispered his affection once more.
“As I do you,” she says, pulling his head to rest against her chest. She was avoiding the word “love“ and implied responsibilities. She was only able to whisper the vow while alone on the nights since their tryst but she had not yet allowed the to word part her lips in his company.
She feared that he mistook her need of secrecy as shame; she loves this man leaps over bounds, however, she doubts his feelings for her. In the past Ororo had seen Logan fawn over other women; there have been few and far occasions where he has shown anything beyond the intentions of close friendship toward her.
For all of her life Ororo Munroe has been among the best in most of her endeavors but when it comes to relations of the heart she has found herself inept. How could she answer Logan’s frustrations? How could she tell him of her concerns or her fear of submitting every molecule of herself to him without giving offense?
She has already given inches and miles of herself to him, she is taken by his gruff charm and his calloused hands against her soft skin do not repel her, for her they are testament to who he is: A man who has lead a life of privation, not unlike her own, who shows the world this unpolished and brusque exterior yet on the inside he is soft and loving. She has come to know him to be far gentler than she in some matters, but unafraid to make difficult decisions. While Logan is known by most for his temper, once it has passed there is no one she would rather have close to her.
They meet at Harry’s again, as they have been in three months since the encounter and he caresses her knee under the table.
“Do you love me, ‘Ro?” He asks, teeming with fear that she will tell him no, that she will stand from the table and say that she has nothing in her heart for him.
“Yes,” she responds, without looking directly into his eyes but at his face; her cheek twitches a little.
“Liar,” he whispers, like spit, turning his eyes to the table and moving his hand from her knee to the tabletop. He holds them together, clinched, glaring ahead and tapping his feet rapidly against the brick tile.
“When have you known me to untruthful, Logan?” She finds speaking his name bittersweet. Her hands shake so she hides them in her lap.
“Darlin, there ain’t no other explanation!” His tone is exasperated and yielding.
She reaches for his hand but he pulls it away. He feels like a woman, shaking inside heartbroken and pathetic because of a broad. She isn’t just any woman though, this is ‘Ro, a woman that he fears is too classy, too beautiful and too smart to demean herself to loving him.
“I am confused Logan,” she says looking to the table. “Every pore in my body, everything in me feels hampered by this uncertainty.”
She hesitates.
“I am bottled by these contentions, unable to even focus on the most mundane things. I fear that once I say that I love you, and I do, that I will have lain myself bare for you and I cannot deceive you and say that I do not have reservations about your feelings.”
His expression is hurt. He doesn’t speak but his eyes present his questions to her.
“Logan, we have known each other for years and I trust you in many things but I have seen your love for women and your affections for me seem novel.”
“I loved you, ‘Ro, from the second we met,” he says, looking at her, wishing that he were suave, that he knew the way to endear himself to her, to prove his affections. He wished that he had her knack for words, that he could speak eloquently and that she would know that he loved every mannerism in her. That he could make her aware that her confrontations were met with obedience because he could not find the will in himself to meet her challenges with the same brutality that he would that of another’s.
He would tell her that he had loved Jean and Mariko and others but none of them have humbled him in the way that she has. That he has never been taken with anyone in this manner. How could he express that when he touched her, that when they kissed it was as though it were a gift that he knew he did not deserve but needed nonetheless.
However, he is not that man, words and romantics were never a guiding part of his life. His declarations to her alone were far out of character and putting himself on the slab anymore would only lend to his embarrassment.
He slides his body away from her, to leave the booth but she grabs his arm.
“Please don’t go,” her face is tear stained; her voice thick and muddied with sadness.
He slides hurriedly toward her, swelling inside because while this is not what he wanted from her it is far more than what he needs.
“I won’t go nowhere,” he says, holding her in his arms, touching her hair once more.

She doesn’t feel neurotic when they are this close but sometimes she replaces his hands on her hips, because when he touches her there she cannot deny the sense of security. Her legs burn and his breath comes in gasps, he says her name as if it were a prayer that has always gone unanswered. Here, in this moment she does not fear that he has ever loved another more than he loves her and that her love, that surmounts the affection that she has had for any other does not make her feel small.
The idea is not ever voiced, not even in her mind; she dismisses it so quickly that it is as elusive as the girl that she once fancied her daughter. However, no matter how ethereal the thought her miniscule jealousy of Jean Grey or Mariko and every other woman who has known the touch and the affection of this grizzly man is still a picturesque vision in her minds eye. She can dismiss the words --mental or otherwise-- that give form to these thoughts, yet the visions of his fantasies of them are not underwhelming.
She does not know that he often considers his feelings for these other women, women that he found to be leagues beneath her. It would not ever be evident to her, a woman that has never felt pretty, that he transferred his love to Jean Grey (her best friend) or Mariko (someone like her, in responsibility, but lacking in fundamental characteristics) to be closer to her, someone that he felt would ultimately reject him.
How could he forsake natural human instincts, setting aside vanity, becoming weak to make himself all that she deserves in a companion: Something totally different from what he had been programmed for most of his life to be; a murderer, a man who fights but rarely for cause. For years he never left her side but his affections did not wane, he felt himself hating even her because his love grew so strong, so nagging.
He sits up abruptly, shivering, feeling the culmination of his affection and wrapping his arms tightly around her, praying to any god that would have this beseech, that existing in her regard is not fleeting.
Logan leans back, his hug is softer, more loose and she leans with him, rolling onto her side and scooting her body down to rest her head on his chest, silently inviting him to play with her hair.
Later that night she and Logan meet Jean, Scott, Remy, Rogue, Kitty and Kurt at Harry’s for burgers, beer and pool. Ororo is known for her observational skills more than her prowess as a casual conversationalist. It isn’t in her nature to open up, even with these people who serve as her family. However, with Jean Grey she feels comfortable bearing her soul, having a confidence with her that she could not ever imagine investing into another.
They’re in the small women’s restroom, Jean looks into Ororo’s eyes through the reflection in the mirror.
“Is it Logan?” Jean asks, leaning closer to the mirror and leaning on her left arm.
Ororo had not shared or admitted to her affair with Logan to anyone but she was not surprised that her psychic, best friend knew. Not that Jean Grey would glean a single thought from her mind, although no one would even know if she did, her sense of morality is to firm to ever do such a thing; a crime akin to rape.
“Goddess,” Ororo responds, exasperated, placing both hands on the sink’s countertop, shoulders lifted, the full weight of her upper body on her arms. She lets her head hang forward, looking down the draining he sink. “Why do I hate him Jean?”
“Hate him?”
“I feel like he has done something to me; I have always had,” She pauses, considering her words, “intentions but now everything is muddy. I doubt him, I’m jealous of anyone he has ever loved. Sometimes I cannot even stand you!”
Jean blinks, tilts her head, and allows a slight smirk but removes the expression quickly.
Ororo begins to cry and Jean moves comfort her but she raises her hand in a casual but halting manner.
“I know,” she says through the tears. “I know that this seems so juvenile and why can I not just be happy? It does not seem like something to fall apart over but Logan, I love Logan with every pore in my body, more than anything I ever thought that I could love and Jean, I am afraid that if you were to express an interest in him that he would jump at the opportunity.”
“Ororo, I would never…”
“I know that you have no designs toward Logan, ” Ororo interjects, lowering her head again and covering just her eyes with the closed fingers on her left hand. “It is not about something that I believe that you would do with Logan, it is about the possibilities.”
Jean reaches, taking Ororo’s busy hand and cupping it her own as if it is cold.
“He never loved me Ororo,” Jean confesses, looking into her friends eyes emphatically. “Not in the fashion that he loves you or that I love Scott. He cared for me, yes, but that is not love and even if it could be called that, it’s nothing in comparison to what he feels for you. I don‘t need to read minds to see this Storm.”
“I’m an idiot.” she replies, reclaiming her hand to wipe her eyes and looking at the two girls that enter the restroom watching her evasively.
“They’re starring because you’re a giant.”
Storm laughs, surprised at the soreness in her throat.
She feels outside of herself, it isn’t in her nature to fall apart like this; if anything her past has helped fortified an ability to steel herself against these kinds of outbursts. In this case she feels overwhelmingly frustrated with no outlet. No matter how overly punishing she is to enemies on the battlefield or those in the danger room she is stifled by the repercussions of her powers.
“Don’t be tragic,” Jean says, looking at her intently.
They leave the restroom, no visual or proof in demeanor of the mini-crises left unsolved.
“There ain’t that much powder in the world, sugah.” Rogue says, looking to them.
Ororo considers Rogue and Remy’s proximity to one another, it’s as if they are two piecing fitting perfectly into the others nooks. He holds her so close.
Why when the dangers are more immediate, more catastrophic for the two of them does she find herself claustrophobic when ever Logan embraces her in a nature akin theirs? She scoots herself close to her love, closer than before she left, clutching his hand beneath the table and sitting it on the tabletop. Advertising to their family that everything that they have been whispering about, all of the rumors, are true.

There’s a twinkle in her eyes when she smiles; when her throaty laugh roars, unbridled from between her lips. Something about her sets her apart from everyone else, and he catches himself smiling too, just watching her; captivated and jovial in her presence.
She hasn’t let go of his hand since she and Jean returned from the restroom and he catches her brushing against him and he’s almost positive that she only wants an excuse to touch him, in the same way that he has brushed against her, giving into his cravings.
He squeezes her hand, lightly.
She rubs her thumb against his, turning to him, smiling and squinting her eyes.
Ororo, Xavier’s voice is an alien thought shouting in her head. Gather a team and meet me in the War Room for briefing.
“I must go,” she says abruptly, touching Logan lightly on his shoulder so that she can make her way out of the round booth.
“Where ya goin’?” he asks, standing from his seat, wondering why she’s moving so quickly.
“Xavier needs me,” she says, looking to him and almost dismissively moving her attention to Jean. “I need you to contact my team and David tell them to meet me us in the War Room.”
“I’m coming,” Logan interjects, bending to pick up his coat that fell to the floor when Ororo moved from her seat.
“No,” Ororo says, almost too quickly, standing in front of him and resting the palms of her hands against his shoulders.
“Why not?”
“We will talk about this later,” she replies, turning and walking briskly for the door.
“To hell with that,” Logan says loudly, “I’m coming!”
She turns and looks at him angrily.
“I have precious little time and I will not entertain your objections,” she says, her eyes are narrowed and angry. “We. Will. Discuss. This. Later.”
“Rogue, Remy, I’ll need the two of you as well.”
“Them the breaks homme,” Remy says, facing Logan while walking backward. “I’ll give you the play by play if Stormy don’t see you first.”
Logan is unsure of what is restraining him; he’d like to take that Cajuns head right off but somehow he finds himself resisting the overpowering impulse.
He returns to his seat, glowering.
“Why do you think that Jean is on Ororo’s team, Logan?” Scott asks after they have gone.
“Why not ask me if I care, Bub?”
“How much creditability as a leader do you think she would have with you on her team?”
“You’re the leaders One Eye, I ain’t much interested in politics.”

He waits for her in her loft, they have been gone a long time and he’s become fidgety; more angry at the unknown than he is with her. His anger soon relaxes into a subtle fear: His hands clutch the front of the lazy boy’s armrests and he broods, becoming angry with her once more.
He stands abruptly and looks out the window, wishing there were something that he could do about his demeanor.
“What kind of lapdog has this broad turned me into?”
Nonetheless, the heaviness in his chest is gone when he hears her hand rest on the doorknob. She opens the door and he stays at his post by the window, pretending to stare at the basketball court below.
“Logan,” she says, sounding tired. “Your behavior this afternoon. I cannot have our relationship sully my ability to make sound leadership decisions and I will not have you contesting my authority.”
He lets out a low, grumble and she walks lazily to her private bathroom where he can hear her turn on the water. Suddenly, he remembers himself; no one is his boss, not ‘Ro, not One Eye, no one and he won’t have that change today.
“Sorry skirt but that ain’t good enough,” hey yells slamming the already cracked door wide open.
He pauses, stalled by the scene that he witnesses in her reflection in the large mirror. There are superficial cuts on her face and a bleeding wound across her midsection, her right arm hangs lifeless at her side.
She offers a halfhearted smile, ignoring his outburst.
“I can’t pop it back in,” she smiles again, lowering her eyes to her shoulder.
He walks over to her slowly, touching her shoulder lightly and waiting for her eyes to close and when they do he forces it back into the socket. She only betrays herself with clinched teeth and an exaggerated squinting of her eyes.
Here in this bathroom, while wishing to touch her, the realization hits him: she will die in the field; one day he’ll wait for her in that chair and she won’t ever return. Someone, maybe Jean or Betsy will come to the door and deliver the news; God help the one that delivers the news.
It’s a sad staggering wave that hits him and she notices it in the gentle way that he speaks to her; asking if she need go to the infirmary.
“Cecilia and Hank are busy enough, I’ve survived worse without attention, Logan.”
“Who else has been hurt?”
“Remy, I believe his skull has been fractured, something; he was delirious and then he lost consciousness,” she says, sighing. “Betsy is burnt badly; I am ashamed to say that I am unsure of what Rachel’s wounds are but her psychic shields are gone, she can ‘hear’ everything.”
“They’ll be fine, ‘Ro.”
“I should attend to them,” she says in a tired low tone, stepping to the side to exit the bathroom.
“You can’t do nothing for them, Darlin’,” he says, stepping to stand in front of her.
He’s relieved when she listens to him, knowing her stubbornness; if her mind were made up there would be nothing he could say to dissuade her.
They lay awkwardly in her bed, her shoulder is too sore for their usual embrace; he holds a gentle handful of her hand in his fist, clinching it so tightly that the soft strands cut his calloused hands. He has no worry that she’ll wake with wonder of the ruby stains in her silver hair, she is too broken to believe that it belongs to someone other than herself.
He just got her, he reasons, how will he survive without her after all of these years wanting to have her and not having her was like being held under water and now, after being let up for air he feels it coming, a dark shadow over him and his ‘Ro and he’s afraid that after he loses her that he’ll never see her again. There’s no place for him in heaven or hell, he reasons that he has been murdered a hundred men’s deaths but it seems that there’s no reprieve for him.
He moves down to embrace her, she sighs a little, painfully, but pulls his arm around her waist, he smells her scruffy hair, pressing his lips to her neck.

Title: Tryst and Contention
Author: Eightcrayondon
Pairing: RoLo
Rating: PG
Summary: Storm and Wolverine share a complicated romance. First RoLo. Beware fluff, melodrama and subtle grown up situations. One shot, not anymore. Chapter 3 is up! Please R&R.
URL: www.fanfiction.net/s/2930547/4/
Disclaimer: Marvel owns all know X-men character, I make no profit from this story or the use of the characters.


Jean knows; how in the world could she keep something like this from Jean Grey? Ororo is relieved that the team’s psychics do not know, Jean reassures her that in the first trimester a fetus’ brainwaves aren’t strong enough for a telepath to pick up unless they were looking for these patterns.
Hank knows; he’s the only physician that she has ever known, it would be odd for her to be examined by someone else. Strangely, he seems more jubilant about this than she could even imagine Logan being. Hank had enveloped her in a huge bear hug, forgetting himself and bending to pat her stomach, apologetically.
“Henry Howlett,” he says, bending again to speak to her unborn child.
“And if it’s a girl?” Ororo asks, smiling incredulously, absently touching her stomach.
“Henrietta,” he responds, raising his eyebrow as though the answer were obvious.
“If you name her Henrietta,” Jean interjects, “you better teach her how to cross stitch.”
“I hope that Logan is as delighted as you two are.” Ororo says, laughing.
She has not told anyone else; she feels guilty enough for not telling Logan when she first suspected but she wanted to be certain. Deep down she was already sure of it, she was never late, and she could predict her cycle better than she could predict the weather.
Why must I make everything so complicated? She asks herself, making her way back to her attic loft, Logan will be as delighted as I am.
And she is delighted; she hadn’t ever pictured herself as a mother, her duties as an X-man had eclipsed any designs she may have had toward the maternal. She had actually convinced herself that Kitty Pryde is the closest thing to a child that she would ever have.
She is apprehensive though, she worries about Logan’s reaction; she knows that this will not change the way he feels for her but they had not ever discussed children or family. Their tryst had not yet even inspired talk of marriage or anything concerning the long run, so she found herself daunted in telling him that they have now found themselves bound to one another in a manner that supersedes the title of teammate or surrogate family.
He was away with Scott and the rest of the team; a mission that she had not had the presence of mind to ask about. She decided to make him dinner, which only confused her more; she wanted to make something fancy, something as grand as the occasion called but Logan would not be caught dead eating something that he cannot pronounce. Then what about refreshments, champagne seemed best but Budweiser is the only thing he ever drinks.
“I don’t even have ground hamburger,” she says, scurrying around her kitchen.
Psychic projection requires a certain finesse for a non telepath, it took Ororo Munroe years to master the complicated skill.
JEAN!!!
Good God, Ororo, are you trying to send me into an epileptic seizure?
I need to make Logan a ‘soft landing’ dinner but he does not like anything in my refrigerator and I need beer!
You shouldn’t be drinking.
Jean!
She can hear the sound of Jean laughing in her mind.
We’ll go to the grocery.

It’s difficult for her to make eye contact during their dinner; she drinks her sparkling cider and watches him eating his burgers.
Why does he eat so fast? She asks herself, looking from the candles to him. We aren’t racing; I doubt he can even taste it.
He belches and if not for the noise she would swear he was yawning.
I did not know that he could get his mouth opened up that wide. She thinks, squinting at him.
“Well babe,” he says, pausing to chug the last of his beer.
If he smashes it on his forehead I will throw myself from the balcony!
“I’m gonna go grab myself a shower.” He says, leaning to kiss her forehead, still a little food in his mouth.
As soon as the bathroom door closes she starts to clear the table.
What have you done Ororo? Oh my Goddess, he is the most ill bred man I have ever met; how could I have thought this to be a true match?
She drops the dishes in the sink and looks down at her hands that already cradle her flat stomach.
Oh child, she sighs aloud, I do not repent you. It is just that your father and I, she hesitates. Were we driven by our ideas of one another? Had I fallen in love with what I believe your father to be, flouting the things about us that make us so different? Rapt in lust or loneliness?
She waits for the sink to fill with water, starring at the running faucet pondering the word “quandary“. She finds the word to be inappropriate; she wonders if something this profound can be simply described with the use of a simple, minute word?
Epiphany; a better word.
She looks at the picture that takes the place of the window that should be above her kitchen sink and she’s overtaken with embarrassment, silently asking her child not to share her stupidity. Logan and Ororo have been friends for years and it would be stupid for her to discount that time or the quality of their familiarity with one another.
The X-men are her family but she could not ever say that every member holds equal shares of her heart, along with Jean, Elizabeth and others Logan is one that she counts as immediate in the familial.
She runs to the bathroom, throwing the shower curtain open.
He stares at her in shock.
She looks down; he is urinating.
“I’m pregnant!”

“Ok,” he says, wide eyed, mouth agape and standing in the urine stained shower water.

“Ok,” she replies after realizing that was all he has to say. She closes the shower curtain, applying pressure to the back of the small suction cups so that they stick and leaves the bathroom, carefully closing the door.

He is unsure of how long he stands there, unable to manage even one somewhat coherent thought, it is as though he’s standing there, completely paused. By the time the shock settles his shower water has gone cold.

“’Ro!” he yells, emerging from the bathroom, completely naked and dripping wet.

Where the hell did she go?

He dries himself with the shirt that he had worn the day before, hoping that the damage done is reparable.

Ok? He lambastes himself, he hasn’t ever been very good with self expression but this was a total let down.

A tiny rush of sadness comes over him; not profound enough for him to give much notice but he wonders what Ororo must think. He is sure that she obviously has the wrong impression, he was shocked at first but he teems with joy at the notion of starting a family with her.

In his life there have not been many chances to mull a normal existence; his enemies, his calling, his past, all of these factors have exorcised any thoughts that lend toward having a wife and child. However, with Ororo, his worries are in the background; he completely gives in to the romantic idea of having children, being a father and living a long life with the woman he loves.

Happiness.

Ororo

Ok? Jean screams on the inside, suppressing her violent impulses.

She doesn’t insult Logan to Ororo, she simply holds her friends hand in her own and listens to her talk about her worries and like a friend Jean reassures her, makes excuses.

Ororo’s voice is murky, dark and hoarse with tears but she isn’t one for histrionics; there aren’t sobs accompanying her tears.

“Ororo,” Jean says carefully, “you’re being crazy; you just shocked him, that’s all.”

“Maybe,” Ororo considers, wiping her runny nose on an embroidered handkerchief.

It is a possibility, Jean thinks, but what about after the shock passes.

“It’s just that,” Ororo says, pausing. “I feel so unloved.”

She clears her throat, trying to conceal the crack in her voice.

Jean’s eyes well and she leans in, hugging her friend and she can feel Ororo physically hardening herself against sobs, it’s almost as though she’s holding her breath.

She laughs, a practice in stoicism, and leans away.

“I’m being ridiculous,” Ororo says, exhaling and smiling dismissively.

“Hey, it’s your turn to be melodramatic,” Jean says, laughing, wondering if she should be supporting Ororo’s emotional staving.

Her powers obviously demand a measure of emotional control and she has seen what can happen without that control but, on a personal level, is the tradeoff really worth it?

She’s the most caring human being I’ve ever known and she’s muzzled.

Logan

Logan has been waiting in her loft for an hour, frustrated and although he doesn’t know what he will say, he can’t wait to say it. There’s an amalgam of emotions surging through him, his apprehensions are ethereal but existent nonetheless. He wants to leave the mansion before she begins to show; he can’t imagine raising his child in this environment, a freak among freaks, sheltered with no concept of reality or too real a concept of reality.

He wants his child to be naïve, he knows too well what enlightenment does to a person; he and ’Ro are products of the harshest circumstances. He wants his children to grow up with no concept of privation; he doesn’t even want his child to know how to make a fist, least of all be a fighter. Although these people are the closest thing he’s known to a family, he refuses to raise his child as an X-anything.

Ororo

They say goodbye and she leaves Jean’s apartment, wondering what will be said when she gets home. A large part of her hopes that he isn’t there while there is a conflicting fear of him not being there; she doesn’t feel that she can address the issue but if he isn’t there then she’s fears that his choice has been made.

She open the door to her loft, carefully as though it were someone else's home and finds Logan sitting in the lazy boy recliner.

He stands abruptly, almost as though he were coming to attention and he stares at her, eyes wide and unable to be read.

He approaches her, his hands shaking lightly; he’s never felt this vulnerable.

“Marry me?”

“No.”

Ororo
At a very young age both of her parents were killed; casualties of the conflict in the Middle East and since that moment, for better or worse, Ororo Munroe has taken care of herself. She has had mentors over the years but she was never a ward. Logan would have her be his responsibility and she knows that her response was in pride and stubbornness but she will not be party to a marriage of convenience or necessity.
What defines us if not our standards?
“Why the hell not?” He asks, indignantly.
“Wolverine,” she says, sighing.
“We’re not in the field ‘Ro!”
“You do not have to marry me to be a good man!”
“This isn’t about that! I love you!”
She stares at him.
“We’re getting married!” He yells as if it were an order, heading toward the door.
“Ok,” she manages to mumble before he slams it shut.
Jean, I am getting married!
Huh? Get your ass down here!
“So,” Jean says, smiling and dragging out the O, “how did he do it?”
Ororo laughs.
“Ah, well that part was less,” she pauses to consider, “romantic than the usual proposal."
“How is that?”
“Ah, well you know Logan; he has not ever been much of a conversationalist.”
“Actions do speak louder than words.”
“Here’s to action then.”
Ororo lifts her tea to drink.
Logan
“Scoundrel!” Beast yells, dropping his arm heavily on Logan's shoulder. “Who ever said ‘dreams are for sleepers’?”
“Shakespeare?”
“You totally missed the sentiment didn’t you?”
“Mercutio?”
“Excuse my over familiarity but Jean is unable to sit still since news of your engagement has come to fore.”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“I am in a mood, gentle fellow.”
“Could ya knock it off?”
“Non.”
“Could you get the hell away from me then?”
“Non.”
“Do you wanna be one of Emma’s coats?”
“Alas my anal compatriot it seems that a more pressing matter beckons.”

Charles Xavier
They have been the truest stalwarts of my dream; even when I or Scott were unable to Ororo and Logan were there, charioting ideals that I sometimes question.
Both have challenged me when no other would. As their teacher I wonder if I have not learned more from them than I could proffer.
Logan, in his own fashion, is elegant and dapper in Versace. He tries to stand still at the alter but he shifts his weight nervously from one leg to the other and I know that he would much rather the ceremony were over.
The organ heralds her march and we all take pause: The day has stripped her stoic regality and she bubbles with joy; it’s an ethereal quality that glows from her. She is not detached or divine; no one would ever know that she is a goddess.
Her dress is conventional; white with a pearls beaded into the bodice and an extravagantly long train. She carries white and pale pink roses and even beneath her veil we can tell that she wears no makeup.
The Wolverine appears to be in shock and when he settles into the sight of her, his expression becomes soft and longing. He hates formalities but he would marry her a million times if he could look at her like this for the rest of their lives.
Hank clears his throat and I catch him bring his hand to his face to dry his furry cheek.
There is something secret between them, I’ve know the secret with Lilandra and it is heavy and prodigious to serve as a witness to how completely enamored they are.
They exchange vows and when Ororo fumbles her words Logan touches her hand and smiles, dreamy eyed. His voice is thick and groggy when he professes his undying love and commitment and he fully appreciates that on the surface there are men who are a better match for her as there are women better matched for him.
In the end polarity can still hearts.
Alison Blair’s soubrette is a beautiful touch to the exchange and when they kiss the women sob and the men - save Hank, who is choking on his tears - cheer.
Neither would ever submit to having their children live among the X-men. Nor are they sure that they are capable of leading the life of plain folk but they refuse to leave the chance untaken. They will leave the Institute tonight and I do not feel any regret for losing my students; I hold fast to optimism.
There are no more jitters; they run to the limousine through the maelstrom of breadcrumbs. Not even the most jaded cynic could witness this scene and resist thinking, “and they lived happily ever after.”