Summary: The walls come crashing down.
“I wish…” Rahne stifled what she was about to say, and Kevin set down his rook.
“What?”
“It’s nothing. I’m sorry, laddie buck. Just me thinking out loud.”
“Sounds dangerous,” he agreed, but he prodded her. “Tell me anyway.”
“I wish you could come out,” she blurted. “I wish things were different.”
He turned away from the game between them and closed himself off. “I’m sorry,” she told him again, fearing that she’d ruined their blossoming friendship.
“Tisn’t yuir fault.”
“I know what it’s like tae be locked up,” Rahne told him softly. He wouldn’t quite turn around, but she saw his profile from just over his shoulder. “He locked me in my room or in the cellar all the time. He beat me. Sometimes so hard that I bled. He told me that I was a sinner.”
“We all are,” Kevin corrected her. His spooky eyes met hers again, and they held sympathy for her.
“Aye. But he said it was his responsibility to cure me of my evil ways.”
“How much evil can ye do at yuir age, lass?” Kevin scoffed. “Did ye rob spend all night in the pubs?”
“Nay,” she muttered, tsking at him, but a hint of a smile played with the corner of her mouth.
“He beat her. My father,” Kevin told her.
“Och! Not the professor! He seems so kind!” Rahne was horrified.
“Nay! Not him. My dad. He’s dead now.”
“I thought the professor was yuir father.”
“Shut up with that talk. He’s no such thing.”
“Well,” Rahne sniffed, slightly taken aback.
“My dad was an important man,” Kevin said. “He was a politician.”
“Fancy that.”
Kevin didn’t know why he was defending him, but the thought of acknowledging Charles Xavier as his father rankled him. “He and Mum didn’t get along.”
“Kevin… did he hurt her?”
He sighed. “Aye.”
“He beat her?”
“I’m tired of this game. Let’s watch Doctor Who.”
“That’s fine.” Rahne had been losing again, anyway, but she knew she struck another nerve. She let Kevin turn on the television set in his chamber, and she turned up the speakers in the lab so they could both hear the program. “I wasn’t allowed to watch telly before.”
“Never?” Kevin couldn’t conceive of being deprived of the one bright spot in his day. He looked appalled.
“Ever.”
“You poor, miserable wretch.”
*
Later that night:
The dream was the same every night for a while now. Sometimes Ororo and Farouk chose a different door. Sometimes she found herself in the mountains or in a dark cave. She hated the confined, clammy space, and she squirmed and whimpered.
“You can shine a light and chase away the shadows, darling.”
“I don’t know how,” she complained petulantly, and he gathered her up against his chest, stroking the soft fall of hair.
“You have the power within you. Never fear the darkness. You own it. Embrace it.”
Outside Ororo’s bedroom window, thunder rumbled and the winds picked up, rattling the petals off the roses in Moira’s garden. She tossed, finding the bedclothes too stifling. “No, Uncle!” she moaned. “Please! Don’t let it get me!”
*
“Let it become part of you,” Farouk murmured. His voice was silky and benevolent. Ororo felt something winding around her ankles, and she screamed.
“NO!” Inky black tendrils were lapping at her, working their way up her legs. When she tried to run, they snared her wrists and slithered before her. The gloom around her became more oppressive, and her heart pounded. She didn’t understand why Farouk was letting it pull at her, dragging her back. Suddenly she was small again, five years old, helpless, alone with no one to love and protect her. The more she struggled, the more it choked her, making her muscles burn with the effort. Her breath felt hot as it sawed in and out of her lungs, and the worst part of it all was that she was losing sensation wherever the writhing black mass touched. It was unnerving, frightening, despite that it was painless.
It covered her like a spill of paint. She no longer knew where it stopped; it no longer felt separate from her, like a garment that she could remove. It mimicked her skin, sharing her nerve cells, warming to the same temperature, smelling and tasting identical to her own essence. Her blue eyes flashed white, glowing orbs that broke through the darkness.
Her darkness.
*
Rain lashed the windows and roof, and the wind buffeted the manor in hard gusts. Ororo wasn’t the only one having a fitful night. Several of the residents of Kinross Keep huddled and tossed in their beds and listened to the howling gale, almost feeling the building electricity in the air.
Jean gave up in her struggle to sleep after the first crack of lightning. Something about the storm felt… off. She could remember thunderstorms from when she was a little girl living in upstate New York, how she would count the seconds before each roll of thunder and feel it shake the house. She always felt a sense of helplessness until it was over, never content to close her eyes until the last rumble died down and the rain settled to a rhythmic drumming against the roof and windows.
There was no rhyme or reason to the maelstrom outside tonight, no structure, no rhythm. Jean felt a flash of worry. Yet it felt familiar…
“Ororo!” Jean hissed. The revelation made her bolt upright in her bed, heart pounding. Something was wrong with her friend. Before she could fling away the covers, a hand reached for her, pulling her back down to the pillows. “Scott, let me up, please.”
“Come back to bed,” was the sleepy reply. Scott wore his sleeping goggles, so she couldn’t make out his eyes. She knew they couldn’t look as bad as hers; she’d had so little decent sleep lately. They were ringed in shadows and looked like burned-out holes in her head. His expression was tolerant and amused. “Scared of the dark?”
“No,” she argued. She settled against him, feeling resigned and frustrated, but the warm bulk of his body was almost comforting. He stroked her long hair dutifully, but she was in no mood for the smile in his voice.
“You sound scared.”
“Don’t give me a hard time, please.”
“What?” he pleaded innocently.
“Seriously, Scott, let me up.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she claimed, hoping that would be enough to make him release her. He sighed and loosened his grip on her enough to let her sit up, but his arms snared her again, briefly, and she saw his eyes flash beneath his crimson goggles.
“Be quick about it.”
“Scott. Leggo.” Her eyes glinted dangerously at him, full of green fire. She gave his chest a small, sharp swat as he released her, but he didn’t let her go without a warning shove. The bed bounced as she evaded him, and she glared back at him briefly as she reached for her robe. Jean trotted out of the room.
“You could close the door,” he taunted. She didn’t look back. The door swished shut with a low slam, courtesy of one pissed off telekinetic.
Jean grumbled her way down the hall, heading in the opposite direction of the guest bath.
*
Logan nursed a beer, for lack of anything better to do. He was fond enough of the dark ales and stouts that Moira stocked in her fridge, and he spent some time sampling each brand. A short row of empty bottles gradually lined up before him on the table, and he sighed.
The night felt wrong. It wasn’t just the storm.
It was Ororo. She was avoiding him, and he didn’t know why. She retired to bed, and Logan noticed that her eyes looked hollow and exhausted.
*
“Darlin’? Ya okay?”
“Tired. That’s all. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
“Ya sure? Ya need anything?”
“Like what?” Her lips curled into a smirk. “A bedtime story?”
“I might know a few. Gimme some credit, ‘Ro. I know how ta read.” His eyes twinkled with humor. She sagged against the doorframe, drawing his attention back to her fatigue. “Are ya feelin’ well?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” She didn’t sound overly worried, she just didn’t know what answer to give.
“I wanna help ya, darlin’.”
“I don’t need help. Just rest.”
“Ya’ve been sleepin’ in a lot lately.”
“It’s jet lag,” she offered impatiently.
“Not after three weeks. That’s long enough for yer internal clock ta reset, Ororo.” She made a sound of surprise.
“You never call me that.”
“It’s yer name, ain’t it?”
“I wasn’t sure you remembered,” she teased. “Logan, I’m just tired. There’s nothing wrong. Don’t worry about me.”
Tell me not to breathe. “Yeah, yeah. That’s what they all say. I know when I’m not wanted.” She tsked at him.
“Awwwwww. Muffin.” She feigned a pout and reached for his hand, squeezing his fingers in her light, cool grip. “Good night, Logan.”
“I can’t sell ya on that bedtime story?”
“I’ve heard it all before.” She freed her hand when he wanted to keep her there, but she brushed her fingertips over his lips. “Good night.” She closed the door in his face, and Logan grunted in frustration.
She’d left him hard. She shut him out. And now he was wide awake, while she’d be out like a light. He retreated downstairs to his beers and a leisurely smoke by an open window in the kitchen. In the dark, he watched the rain come down in sheets, feeling a frisson of excitement as flashes of lightning illuminated the hills and woods. Moira’s estate was beautiful, and he almost wanted to run into it for a while and feel the elements, let his bare feet slap the slick grass…
The storm stirred the wildness in him and beckoned to him to let go of his restraint. The woman who controlled the storm did the same, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He couldn’t reach her. He didn’t know what Charley expected of him anymore. Obviously, the old man didn’t want him to fall in love with his daughter. Logan couldn’t even justify it by insisting that ‘Ro felt the same about him, because truthfully, he didn’t have a fucking clue.
His instincts told him that ‘Ro needed him. Something inside him called out to her, and she wasn’t ignoring it, but… what the hell. What was wrong? What was missing? Surely she wasn’t afraid of him? She’d never been afraid of him. Not that it wasn’t for the best if she was; she’d be better off. Logan faced a decision that kept him up at night, not just on this one:
Should he leave, and never turn back.
He was growing restless. The simple, quiet life in the mansion was the softest he’d ever known. Charles suggested that he grow more involved with the students, with teaching them, and he scoffed at the idea.
“You’re a man of knowledge and experience.”
“That ain’t the same as sittin’ behind a desk and havin’ kids bringin’ me apples.”
“You paint a quaint picture.”
“I try.”
“Consider it. This is an opportunity to finish this chapter of your life and write a new one, Logan.”
“What chapter might that be? The one where I slay the beast and rescue the girl? Only one problem with that idea, bub. I am the beast.”
“You give yourself too little credit.”
“You give me too much, Chuck.” Logan turned from him and sighed. “I’m a career killer.”
“Not anymore. You don’t have to fill those shoes anymore.” Charles paused. “Not unless you choose to.” Logan jerked his head around to face him, and his heavy brows beetled.
“Ya think I like bein’ like this? Ya think I’m like Vic?”
“No. But on some level, you think you are. Victor took the easy road and embraced the darkness within his soul, but he also had help. Farouk made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. But even in the end, Logan, Victor sought redemption. You’ve already turned yourself on that path. It’s not too late to start over again. I have faith in you, or you wouldn’t be here.” Charles sipped his tea and gave him a pointed look. “And so does she.”
Logan turned away from him, and his fists curled at his sides.
“Ya know that?”
“Ororo often tells me volumes without saying a word. Listen to her. Be there for her, Logan, if you can believe in yourself.”
*
The trees lashed back and forth as the wind picked up, and its howl coursed through Logan’s bones, keening in his ears. His enhanced senses suddenly overloaded, and he was aware of everything around him. The drip of the faucet, the ticking clock above the sink, the faint hum of the refrigerator. The raindrops slapped sharply against the glass and he heard the cries of faraway crows and sparrows, the splash of tires on the puddle-swamped gravel road less than a mile from Moira’s property.
He set down the bottle, losing interest in it. Something was wrong…
His feet automatically spun him from the kitchen. The wood floor felt icy even through his socks. He took the stairs two at a time, not caring about the creaking planks, and the lightning illuminated all of Moira’s knick-knacks. Hummel and Tiffany porcelain figurines grinned benignly at him in the darkness, and the eyes of a portrait of Moira’s father seemed to follow him as he made his way toward Ororo’s room.
He had to see her. He needed to touch her, hear her, see with his own eyes that she was all right.
If he didn’t know better, Logan could swear she was afraid. What was worse, was that fear aside, she could still be in trouble.
*
A hand reached out to her, and Ororo clutched at it desperately and with all of her might.
“It’s all right, darling. I have you. I’ll never let you go.”
“Uncle!” In a burst of light, she emerged from the darkness, and Farouk pulled her to him. She heard his heartbeat, slow, steady and serene. She shivered against him and sobbed.
“Don’t…don’t let me go, Uncle. Please.”
“Never,” he insisted. “I’ll never let you out of my sight.” They were back in the white corridor, and Ororo felt disoriented and out of place.
“I want to go home.”
“This is your home, child. With me. Together, we can make this into anything that you want. You’re the one in control.” His voice was a soft, comforting purr as he guided her toward another door. She hesitated, but she peered up into his face, and he nodded. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Her hand didn’t tremble as she reached for the shining brass knob. She closed her eyes, and she felt his light nudge against her back.
She smelled stewed chicken and rice mingled with laundry soap. When she opened her eyes, she saw her heart’s desire, and startled laughter clogged her throat.
N’Dare Monroe stood at the stove in a battered but clean yellow calico apron, stirring the large pot with a wooden spoon. The sunlight shone down on her chocolate brown skin and soft, short kinky hair. She turned and smiled down at her pride and joy. Ororo pitched herself at her, running to the stove and flinging her arms around her mother’s waist.
“Mama!”
“Baby! There you are! Do you want to help Mama make Daddy’s dinner?” But Ororo couldn’t speak; she only clung more tightly, and she felt as well as heard her mother’s low chuckle. She smelled sweet and familiar, and her skin was so soft. She leaned her head against the faint swell of her mother’s belly, and her mother rocked her into the hug, not eager to dislodge her yet.
“Don’t get too close to the stove, it’s hot,” she chided.
“I love you, Mama. I missed you.”
“For how long? Were you hiding in the closet?” N’Dare asked, puzzled.
“No. I was playing with Uncle.”
“Silly goose. With who?” Her mother paused in stroking Ororo’s long plaits. Her smile was quizzical when Ororo looked up at her. But before Ororo could offer her an explanation, there was a loud bang outside. The house rumbled around them, and a chip of plaster from the ceiling landed in the stew with a plop. “OH!”
“MAMA!”
“It’s all right, baby! Come with Mama, don’t be afr-“ The house shook again, and this time, they heard staccato rounds of gunfire, the rapid pel-mel of automatic artillery. N’Dare shielded Ororo with her body and dragged her daughter with her into the corner of the kitchen, huddling against the wall. Continued bursts of gunfire and rumbling engines assailed their ears. Ororo was terrified.
Terrified. She burrowed further into her mother’s body, clinging with all of her might.
“Mama, I’m scared!” she cried. Hot tears rolled down her plump cheeks. Her mother looked just as rattled and didn’t even pause to wipe them away.
“It’s all right, baby, don’t-“ Her mother’s words were interrupted by her screams as the ceiling above them exploded, sending the drywall and beams crashing to the floor. Ororo heard her screams mingling with her mother’s before she mercifully blacked out.
Dark. Cold. Hurts.
Her body regained an awareness of where she was over torturously slow seconds. She wiggled her fingers; her arm felt trapped beneath something jagged that scratched her vulnerable flesh. Ororo’s nose and mouth were clogged with dust. The odors of smoke and gunpowder drifted around her, and she couldn’t see past the irregular shapes that crowded out the sunlight. In dawning horror, Ororo realized that she was trapped.
“Mama?” she whimpered. Her mother didn’t answer her; there was no reassuring caress of her hair or low sweet hum of her voice. Her familiar fragrance of Dove soap and Shalimar perfume was missing. “Mama! Where are you?” Ororo’s voice was a hoarse croak. She tried to move, but it was difficult.
She heard voices; they were a low hum at first. They spoke her mother’s dialect.
“I watched him walk up the steps, right when I was on my way out,” one of them explained impatiently. Ororo heard footsteps and felt the rubble around her shifting. She struggled and managed to push aside a chunk of drywall, but she was still pinned under a beam. She wriggled around, trying to find purchase against something more yielding.
Her cheek brushed against something soft. Ororo wiggled again until she freed her arm, and she reached up toward the yielding cushion. It was growing more difficult to breathe, and she began to sob. “Mama,” she cried, breath hitching in her throat. “Help me, Mama… help me, Mama…”
“I just heard someone!” a voice called out. Ororo heard a scuffling outside, and dimly she wondered where her Uncle went.
“Uncle?” she called out plaintively.
“It sounds like a child,” the voice insisted again. She heard banging outside, and it sounded like someone was pushing against their apartment door. “We need something heavy,” she heard. Roughly two minutes found Ororo cringing at the sounds that grew progressively louder, closer. Cursing and shouts mingled with the banging, making her heart jump. A crash almost as startling as the one that caused the ceiling to cave in preceded the return of the voices, closer than ever.
“I want Mama!” Ororo called out, hoping they would hear her.
“It’s a child!” a male voice cried.
“This is N’Dare and David’s place,” one of them announced grimly. “My God, they have a little girl…”
“Mama,” Ororo repeated, wanting them to listen to her and fix this and free her from her trap. She felt more of her body’s pains gradually, and warm blood seeped from myriad cuts. Her arm throbbed and her chest felt tight.
The rubble around her shifted, and Ororo whimpered at the additional pain that caused, but fragments of precious light broke through the darkness, and Ororo could hear the voices directly above her.
“It’s all right, sweetheart, we’re coming! We’ll get you out!”
“Want Mama!” Ororo pushed at the rubble, willing it to move, and their efforts made it jostle against her, creating more scrapes and dust. The debris shifted, and finally the beam pinning her was lifted away. Ororo tried to take a deep breath but choked on the dusty, smoky air.
“Shit,” one of the men hissed before he remembered himself. “It’s okay, sweetie, let us take you away from here.” His dark hair was almost white from the dust, and there were scrapes and bleeding nicks on his hands; his clothing was slightly tattered. Ororo struggled weakly as he reached for her, attempting to pluck her body from its nest of mangled, crushed plaster and wood.
“Where’s Mama?” Ororo demanded. Tears streaked through the dirt on her cheeks, and she leveled them with the fiercest glare that her young features could manage. She read heartbreak on the man’s faces and on those of her other saviors. The stranger’s grip was careful and warm, but her young heart only knew panic, whether he meant well or not, to be at the mercy of a stranger.
“She’s here,” he admitted, nodding down toward the floor. Ororo’s eyes followed his, and she screamed, a keening, piercing wail that seemed to echo through the demolished flat. The sound never ended. It was all she could hear, all she could feel…
Her screams rocked her core, and suddenly Ororo was falling, taking the memory of her mother’s broken body with her, the image of her hollow, empty dark eyes. Everything around her was dark. Everything was cold. She was alone, vulnerable and defenseless. She felt herself sucked down into a void, unable to grip anything to stop herself…
She struggled in her uncle’s grasp when he caught her. She was still screaming even as he set her gently on her feet. Her blue eyes were wild and her hair was a cascading tumble of tangles, but she was grown and mature once more. Farouk stared down into her face and embraced her, shushing her, crooning her name into her temple.
“It’s all right. Uncle’s here,” he soothed smugly. She trembled, and her teeth chattered despite the warmth that he offered.
“She’s… gone,” she insisted. “She left me alone. Mama left me all alone, Uncle.”
“There was nothing she could do,” he agreed. “But no one will ever take me away from you, darling. We’re family. I love you, and I promise you, Ororo N’Dare, that I will never leave you alone.”
“Make…make the bad things go away,” she hiccupped.
“I promise, child. You only have to do one thing for me.” Ororo licked her dry lips and clung to him more firmly.
“Anything, Uncle.”
“Let me in.” She pulled back in his embrace, staring up into his face. His gaze was kind and loving, indulgent of her grief and desperation.
Her fear was a potent drug to him. He couldn’t wait to unleash it, and in doing so, consume her. Her eyes pleaded with them, ageless and too used to violence and disappointment. His smile was reassuring, and she nodded quickly. His fingers caught her chin gently, and her mouth dropped open in mute surprise.
His mouth opened wide and wisps of glowing red energy rushed toward her, filling her, suffusing her soul with him. All she could feel was Farouk, and she could only heed his will. Her world began and ended with him, with the need to please and obey him.
Once again, she descended into darkness, but this time, it was like coming home.
*
To hell with leaving her alone. Logan kicked the door down, nearly splintering it after her third scream. Outside, the storm raged; tree branches slapped her bedroom window, and lightning threw dappled shadows and eerie blue light across the walls of Ororo’s suite. She lay locked in a nightmare, writhing and twisting herself free of the bedclothes.
“Ro! Baby! Wake up! C’mon, now, wake up, darlin’! I’m here!”
“UNCLE!”
“Shit,” Logan hissed. He worked her free of the stifling blankets, and she was garbed in a paltry camisole and tiny flannel boxer shorts, ridiculously little clothing for a cold Highland night. The chill never touched her, thanks to her mutation, or merely her disregard of it. Nothing bothered Ororo, or so they all assumed. There was comfort in the lie. Logan insisted that he hadn’t been lying to himself for so long. Confronting the truth staggered him.
Her body seized, every muscle locked and rock-hard. Corded veins stood out in her neck, and a tiny network of them rose up beneath her skin, raised in relief and pulsing with energy along her jawline and temples. She thrashed against Logan’s hands when he reached for her, but he couldn’t let go. Her skin felt icy and electricity made her seem to thrum against him like a live wire. He steeled himself against it; holding her was almost painful. The energy lifted her hair in a cloud of static, clinging to his hands when he tried to brush it back.
“RO! Wake up!”
Her blue eyes snapped open, but the woman who stared back at him wasn’t the one he knew. Her lips curled in derision, and Farouk tsked at him.
“So smug, James. So certain that you were watching out for her and that you’d driven the wolves from her door. You poor, pitiful bastard.”
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Author’s Note: I’m pouring a lot into this fic, because this is going to be one of my last, or might even be my absolute last, comics-based fic for this pairing. There isn’t enough source material in canon anymore to build new stories from, and the old issues and cartoon episodes have been drained dry by people like me who saw the obvious chemistry and “story that REALLY should have been written.”
After this, I see maybe two more chapters to finish this. Goodness knows when I will write them.
After this, I see maybe two more chapters to finish this. Goodness knows when I will write them.
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