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Now where did I leave that saucepan?

Let’s look here…Lids. More lids. Collander. Big salad bowl. Saute pan…need that. All righty. Now we’re cooking. Almost. Any moment now…

“Might help if everything wasn’t constantly rearranged in this house.”

“Can’t be helped. Place gets blown up too damned often. New faces in the place, new hands rebuildin’ the joint every time, everybody has their own idea of where all the stuff’s s’posed t’go.” Ororo’s head whipped around to meet the raspy, deep voice rumbling out from the doorframe. She was surprised to have been thinking aloud, let alone caught in the act.

“Good afternoon to you, too, Logan.” Logan’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he watched her puttering around amongst the cupboards. Ororo nimbly maneuvered in the spacious kitchen using her cane as she searched for the utensils and elusive saucepan.

“Afternoon?” He glanced at the clock on the microwave. “Geez. I thought the sun looked high in the sky.” Logan reached into the refrigerator and perused its contents, finally reaching for a Molson.

“Long night?” Ororo’s eyes twinkled knowingly as she set the sauté pan on the front burner of the electric range and adjusted the heat to medium-high.

“Not long enough.” Ororo contemplated him as she remembered back to the low rumble of Logan’s Harley pulling into the garage shortly before dawn. She woke with the feeling that her head had only just hit the pillow, unable to recall when she had finally fallen asleep. Ororo lay silently in her sumptuously appointed queen-sized bed and stared up through the skylight, watching the last of the stars fade as she sky changed from deep cobalt to sapphire. There it was, the shuddering creak of the garage door. Ororo’s eyes glowed white, briefly summoning a light breeze to carry the nighttime sounds closer, making them more distinguishable.

“Where’s the song, Logan?” she whispered. “You always sing me the song.” She was almost disappointed, until the familiar, rusty baritone voice began to hum the opening bars to a tune that made her chuckle every time she heard it.

“I’ve got friends
In low places,
Where the whiskey flows
And beer chases
My blues away
I’m here to say…”

Gravel crunched beneath his boots “ Ororo assumed he wore his favorite, faded brown leather boots “ as he made his way up to the kitchen door. That was typical, too. The Institute was no longer a “hostel” and headquarters for a couple dozen X-Men to train and spend downtime between missions. It was truly a school, teeming with powerful, and of course, impressionable children and teens, none of whom needed the spectacle of their combat teacher stumbling inside the front door, reeking of Jack Daniels and warbling Garth Brooks.

Juicy tidbits of gossip were already abundant, even rampant around every corner of the mansion as it is, she mused. They’d still be sweeping up bits and pieces of Emma if not for Jean showing the mercy they all loved her for and putting her back together again. Why stir the pot?

For the moment, it was good to have him home. Even if she was just up here, listening to his light steps in the dark. She sighed in relief at the faint click of his bedroom door as he locked it behind him. Ororo visualized him removing his dark suede Stetson and hanging his leather jacket on the hook. Simple bedtime rituals by the man who seldom slept.

Foolishly, briefly, Ororo wondered who had shared Logan’s stolen hours away from the mansion. She dismissed it with a pang. “He’s an adult, Wind-Rider. Keep your nose out of it,” she chastised herself before flipping back onto her stomach to doze for another half-hour.

Ororo looked at him now, enjoying the play of sunlight in his thick, dark hair, uncovering glints of lighter brown and auburn highlights. In the light of day, she also noticed the faint dark smudges under his deep-set brown eyes that his healing factor hadn’t attended to quite yet. Logan uncapped the beer and raised it to his lips, taking an appreciative gulp. Busying her hands with the mundane tasks of coating the sauté pan with nonstick spray and digging in the rotating spice rack for the onion flakes and black pepper, she treated herself to a long look. Logan’s skin was burnished an even golden brown from the more frequent workout sessions that they lately took outdoors. Ororo had come to think of the Danger Room and the various gym suites in the mansion, as well as the huge workout room in Anna’s New Orleans manor as her second homes, on good days. On the odd days in between, when her shoulders ached from wobbling strolls between the parallel bars and her lower back screamed from the constant, crooked posture of holding herself upright on crutches, the well-equipped training suites felt like nothing more than a gilded cage.

Ororo mentally slapped herself for the traitorous realization that she had come to think of Logan as her warden.

“It’s still a little early for that,” Ororo suggested, nodding at the beer bottle. Logan sucked a droplet from his lip as he pulled a bar stool up to the kitchen counter.

“Or a little late, depending on how ya look at it. Hair o’ the dog, ‘Ro.” Ororo sighed in defeat. She wasn’t in the mood to lecture him. Then again, she mused, she could take it, why not dish it out?

“Must’ve been one mean dog,” she muttered. Logan snorted appreciatively, eyeing her over the edge of his beer as he took another gulp.

“Whatcha cookin’?” Ororo indicated the chicken breasts still in their packaging thawing in the sink.

“I was in the mood for chicken and rice. Hungry?”

“Eh. I could eat.” Logan was hungry. But Logan wasn’t in the mood for chicken.

“You haven’t been even been down for breakfast, Logan.”

“Keepin’ tabs on me, Boss?” Logan set his beer on the counter. Ororo’s blue gaze bore into his.

“Perish the thought. Could you please hand me the garlic?” Ororo turned back to the sink and peeled away the plastic from the chicken. Logan’s eyebrow quirked up as he returned to the refrigerator. Now why, he asked himself, was I just sidestepped? Logan silently approached her, drinking in the perfectly curved silhouette of Ororo’s body, outlined in the afternoon light. He inhaled her scent, subtle but still distinguishable over the other aromas. He restrained the urge to bury his nose in her lush, thick tumble of hair as he nudged the back of her arm. Her skin, even in that brief touch, felt cool and satiny in the heat of the kitchen.

Ororo paused and glanced down at the snowy white bulb of elephant garlic resting in his wide palm. Her eyes again traveled up to his face. “Thank you.” She reached for the bulb, her fingertips grazing his, just for a second. There it was again. That tiny tingle that shivered up the length of her forearm lately. His skin felt hot.

“Sure.” The space beside her felt empty now as Logan returned to his stool and beer. She bit back a protest. You were fine where you were… She popped a clove loose from the bulb, breaching the thin layers of skin. She selected her favorite cutting knife from the butcher’s block and laid it across the clove, deftly smashing her fist against the flat of the blade. She sifted out the bits of hull and the green root at the core and began rhythmically chopping the pulp. “Yer enjoyin’ that too much.” Ororo’s smile was mischievous this time.

“Speakin’ of enjoyin’ things…I slept through our workout, I take it?” His voice held a note of warning. Ororo sighed again.

“Yes. You did. I thought it best to let you rest.”

“Ya mean you thought it best ta go on without me,” he corrected her. “Thought we agreed I was here t’help ya, ‘Ro.”

“I followed the whole routine, Logan, I didn’t skimp.”

“I know that,” he growled from just over her shoulder. Ororo had been concentrating on julienning some red bell peppers and didn’t notice at first that he’d slipped so close. He laid his hot palm over the back of her left hand and wrested her grip from the pepper. “Let me see.” He turned her palm face-up and examined it, running the pad of his thumb over the thickened layer of callouses. “These look fresh,” he murmured. “Ya overdid it again.” Ororo’s stomach quivered at the light touch, coupled with his growling tone.

“I did what I could handle.”

“And then some. We talked about this.”

“Yes we did.” Ororo twisted her hand gently from his grasp, loathe to leave it.

His hand clapped onto her bare shoulder instead. The garlic sizzled in the sauté pan as Ororo scraped it off of the flat side of the blade, which she nearly dropped at the insistent touch. Steeling herself, Ororo faced him squarely this time.

“Don’t even bother actin’ all high an’ mighty with me, or trying to play it off. I can smell the chlorine in yer hair. Even without touching ya, I know yer lower back’s all knotted up again, and your shoulders are practically kissin’ yer earlobes with tension. And yer standin’ bowlegged like you just got off the stationary bike from a full-throttle race. Am I missin’ anything, darlin’?”

“No. You didn’t miss a beat.” Her expression was placid except for the subtle tightening around the corners of her mouth. Logan felt the pulse in her throat quicken, almost imperceptibly, but it was there. His strong, thick fingers drifted of their own accord along her trapezius muscles, testing the taut cords of muscle for strains. Ororo’s dark lashes fanned her cheeks as her eyes fluttered shut at the skilled touch. She recovered quickly, her tone matter-of-fact.

“All you missed was my workout. I certainly can’t miss them myself. I won’t recover if I spend all day in my chair or up in my loft, grading papers or watching my plants grow.”

“You’ll make it worse on yerself if you keep pushing it and overdoing it. Wanna undo all that hard work? Keep using yer powers before you’ve healed.” Logan waved his hand out the window at the plants outside. Ororo’s herb garden was damp, glistening with fresh rain.

“Undoing my hard work? Or undoing yours? I wouldn’t think of it. I know there are places you need to be, villains you need to take down.” Ororo added dryly, throwing the peppers in with the garlic. There. She’d placed her barb. Wait for it…

“Damn, yer a stubborn frail!” He hadn’t released her shoulder yet. His fingers tightened their grip as he studied her. “I’ll decide where I need t’be. If I didn’t know any better, ‘Ro, I’d think ya were trying to chase me outta this joint.”

Ouch. Ororo stiffened. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He released her then, flicking a stray lock of hair back over her shoulder just for the excuse of touching her. Ororo took that opportunity to resume searching for the saucepan. Logan watched in amusement as Ororo released her cane, letting it clatter to the floor as she stooped down and began opening up lower cabinets. “Where is that bloody thing?” she cursed. Logan enjoyed the uncharacteristic string of profanity escaping her lips, barely audible over the bang and clatter of metal against metal as she rummaged through the shelves.

To avoid overtaxing her back, Ororo shifted to all fours.

Logan swallowed around a huge lump. “Er, need any help?”

“Relax. I’ve got it.”

“The saucepan?”

“Mm-hmm. It’s in here somewhere.”

“The dark blue one with the black handle?”

“Uh-huh, that’s the one.” Ororo’s enticing backside wiggled and jutted up in the air like a happy Valentine’s day present. Damn. No panty lines. None. The waistband of her black Lycra biking shorts was slightly visible when the hem of her periwinkle blue T-shirt rode up as she struggled with the handle of a skillet.

“Ya mean, this one?” The clattering and banging stopped as Ororo glanced up, incredulous. She met his eyes, crinkling at the corners as he fought to suppress a laugh. She barely missed where his eyes had rested a mere moment before flicking back to her face. Ororo made a disgusted noise and blew up against the slender lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes with a sputter.

Now Logan treated himself to a chuckle. He removed the pan from the hook hanging over the range and placed it on the front burner. “Never know when you’ll find what yer lookin’ for til it’s starin’ ya right in the face.” He extended his hand to her. Ororo pouted at it before taking it, pulling herself up from the floor.

“Shut up,” she purred nonchalantly.

“Yes, ma’am.” Logan reached for the rice bin on the counter and popped up the lid. He measured out two scoops into the pan, watching the grains dance and bounce up from the enamel. He was still grinning as he covered the rice with two inches of water and a snug lid and turned the heat to medium.





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