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Disclaimer: Same as before.


Thanks for all the enthusiasm about this story. Makes it a joy to write it!


Chapter.10.


Mayor Warren Worthington rushed down the corridor towards Chief of Police Scott Summers office like a man possessed. Arms stiffly swinging back and forth, like a soldier on parade, he grabbed at the brass door knob of Scott’s office and flew in with the momentum of his stride; the door slamming back shut behind him, blinds rattling against clear glass.


“What the hell could have been so goddamn important Scott?”


Chief Summers looked up at Mayor Worthington, the head of the telephone still pressed to his ear, his hand temporarily over the mouth piece to block out the noise of Warren’s ungainly intrusion. With his eyes firmly fixed on the man stood before his desk, he slowly removed his hand, saying, “Look, honey---yeah, I understand that, it’s just---yeah, yeah---JEAN, will you listen? This isn’t a good time right now---I-I-I know---I’ll call you later.” With that he practically slammed the phone back down onto its raised housing, causing the bells inside to jingle meekly. He was about to explain himself, but Warren didn’t give him the chance.


“Do you realise who I was arranging a meeting with, Scott? Do you?!” A truly angry Warren slapped the palms of his hands down onto Scott’s desk, his ever-so-carefully preened hair shaking off the weight of the gel that slicked it to the side, allowing one thick bang to droop down into his irate face.


“No Warren,” Scott started with customary calm, “But this is---.”


“THE PRESIDENT, SCOTT! I was sorting out a meeting with the fucking President!” He stood back from the desk, swiping at the loose lock of blonde hair and pushing it back with the rest. “Do you re---.”


“He’s got them Warren.” There was no need to explain who ‘he’ was or what ‘they’ were. Warren felt his mouth become as barren as the Nairobi Desert; his face became as white as deadly Nightshade as the blood drained from it. All of a sudden he had to sit down, so with trembling hands he dragged the padded visitors chair back and plonked himself into it, slumping against the back support, arms draped between parted knees.


“When?” The word was spoken so faintly it was barely audible.


Scott shifted uncomfortably in his seat, scratching at his forehead before raking his hand up through his light brown hair. “This afternoon.” There was a long silence which was eventually harshly interrupted by an unexpected laugh from the Mayor. “What?” Scott inquired sharply, as far as he was concerned this was very far from a laughing matter. Warren looked his oldest friend straight in the eyes as he continued to laugh in more of a pronounced chuckle now, so much so in fact that his shoulders began to convulse in time with his misplaced ‘merriment’ and he let his head fall back. “WHAT?!”


Bringing his head back forwards in accordance with Scott’s more than annoyed exclamation, any hint of him taking this situation lightly disappeared. His features took on a completely sombre look as he replied flatly, “Well what else did you expect Scott?”


Scott Summers hated conceding to the fact that he ever made mistakes. Maybe it was the spectre of his adoptive father; growing up with this example of outstanding humanitarianism, this seemingly perfect moral being gave him the complex he now lived with. It was all very well and good adhering to the idea that ‘the sins of the father will be passed onto the sons’ but what if the said father had no sins to pass onto his son, only a blinding beacon of righteousness, a man who died for his beliefs no less. The whole ‘calling in the Mancini’s’ debacle was a prime example, as far as Scott was concerned, of him not living up to the irreproachable bench-mark Charles Xavier had set, failing him yet again. When the ‘hit’ had gone awry, Warren had been hysterical with worry, but Scott had convinced him that Forge would be scared now, that he wouldn’t do anything rash, especially after him planting the seeds of doubt in the Cheyenne’s mind about who was responsible. But the call from ‘Shortie’ Malone two hours ago had proved his confidence ill-founded. That, plus the added annoyance that Remy Le Beau was the supplier of the papers. That was what confused Scott the most; what the hell had all this got to do with ‘Le Blanc Diablo’? And how had he got his hands on them? Well, that was a no-brainer, seen as he was the best goddamn thief working on the east coast, (although it was some years since he’d deserved that reputation), but why? Why would he want to help Erik Lensherr?


“Look, it wasn’t even Forge who gave the fucking papers to Lensherr, O. K?” Scott snapped by way of justification of his original advice.


“Well that doesn’t matter all that much now does it?” Warren replied in the most sarcastic manner. “He’s got them---now what are we going to do Scott?” He was rapidly regaining the angry demeanour he’d walked into the office with, he knew his ass was on the line here, this had been he outcome he was dreading.


Scott stood up from his chair, once again scratching his forehead, but this time feeling the small beads of sweat that colleted on the worry-creased skin. There was nothing else for it; he had to admit that he’d made an error of judgement---that he, Scott Summers at el Chief of the New York Police Department, Scott Summers the model of repressed conformity, had made...a mistake, a grievous one at that. He sauntered slowly over to the coffee pot that was placed on a small table, just by the wide window, that had a stunning view of the city. Pouring out a strong, steaming cup of black liquid, the only measure of comfort he could give to Warren was, “We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.” They were scant words of comfort indeed.



* * *



Ororo carefully stepped out of the free-standing porcelain bath-tub onto the cold, white linoleum floor. She was about to turn to reach for the bath towel when she felt it being wrapped around her from behind, it soft woollen texture instantly soaking up the stray droplets of warm water that ran down her body. “Thank-you.” She whispered huskily as she felt welcome, hot lips bare down on her exposed left shoulder, making their way up her statuesque neck with slow, attentive care. Logan, who was still sopping wet from their shared bath, small ‘tear-drops’ of water falling down from his hair onto Ororo’s glistening skin, eventually brought his mouth to her delicious small ear. He nibbled at the soft, fleshy bottom of the lobe for a moment, eliciting wistful laughs of pleasure from the goddess, that he now had his strong arms wrapped around at the waist. Moving his lips up to her actual ear, his warm breath and stubble brushing against her skin, he said, “Yer welcome darlin’.” Before taking his mouth back down onto her neck, kissing it much more intently now.


It was almost completely dark outside, dusk fighting to stave off the inevitable march of nights black blanket and the new lovers hadn’t set foot outside all day, save for Ororo’s little trip to the store hours ago. All other concerns had been lost to them in their seemingly endless exploration of each other, even in the bath-tub, their cavorting had not stopped. Logan turned her round to face him now, never letting his lips leave her fragrant flesh as he snaked his way up to her inviting lips, entangling his hands into her wet, tussled hair. Ororo smiled beneath from his mouth as she felt yet another eager erection pushing against her through the thickness of not only the towel that covered her from breast to upper thigh, but also the similar length of material that was wrapped around his lower body.


“Do you ever tire?” She jested, before letting him slip his tongue into her mouth as he reached down and shoved his hand under the hem of her towel. Ororo groaned as she felt his course hand once again searching out her sex.


“Never!” He growled as he gently slipped his fingers inside her warm opening, penetrating her with a measured rhythm.


“Ahhh...” She sighed as she let her head fall back and her eyes drift closed. Every time he touched her like this it was like magic of sorts, she’d never been so enraptured. Letting her head come back forwards, she rested her forehead on his muscled shoulder and her hands gripped at his wet hair as his fingers stirred her into a heated frenzy, until she yearned for him once again to enter her. “Logan...please...” She rasped and was rewarded with him removing his hand in order to push her towel right up about her waist, using the upward momentum of that action to grip at her hips, lift her from the water-covered flooring and place her on the edge of the sink. Ororo gasped in pleasant shock at the coldness of the bathroom fitting on her bare bottom, but that was soon forgotten as Logan ripped his towel away and pressed his groin to hers; his hard penis immediately gaining a modicum of entry. Her pleasing moan caused him to thrust into her deeper, the hours of love making that were already behind them giving him the confidence to plunge inside her without fear of causing her any discomfort, although she was still wonderfully tight but also impossibly slick.


“Grrr---grrrrgh---.” Logan started to fuck her, one hand placed firmly on her damp, long thigh, the other holding tight to the ledge that he had perched her on. As he impaled her over and over, Ororo gripped tightly at his hair, in part trying desperately to sure up her perilous position but also in response to the orgasm that was already building inside her; a burning sensation that throbbed between her widely parted thighs and was rising ever higher through her trembling, damp body; sweat clinging once more to the recently cleansed flesh. As she felt the heat beginning to claim her for the umpteenth time today, she squeezed her thighs together tightly about Logan’s waist, preparing herself for the earth-shattering explosion that was certain to come shortly.


“Ah-ah-ah---yes, yes---arg”arr-arghhh-ah, LOGAN!” She shuddered through her final release, clinging to his tensed body ever tighter as she bathed in the glory and warmth of her climax, enjoying also the feel of him coming inside her; his feral grunts close to her ear, his fingers digging into her hips with possessive intent. They stayed as they were for a while, chests heaving in time, breaths hot and hoarse. Ororo could hear nothing except his rough exhales into her ear and the pounding of both their hearts, blood pumping at twice its normal rate. She let her long fingers trail down his taught back, enjoying the surprisingly nice feel of the fine layer of really quite soft, dark hair that covered it. But then her dextrous digits came across something hard; touching carefully at a long, raised scab of a cut that had been inflicted last night by...she realised then that she didn’t actually know, but most definitely had a fair idea as to the identity of the culprit. “Who did Forge use?” Her question asked between panting breaths.


Logan pulled away from her, letting his hands slid down to her mid-thighs, facing her with an unintentional scowl. The fact that she had used that name after what they’d just done together severely pissed him off. “What?” Ororo questioned innocently, letting her hands slide up to cup over one another on his thick neck; she didn’t have any idea of the ill she’d just caused him.


“I don’t wanna hear you say his name.” He more or less commanded as he pulled her towards him again, forcing her to wrap her arms around him fully to stop from falling. She nodded, conceding to his order without question, even though it was most unlike her to pander to male demands. Somehow, this didn’t seem to bother her because she knew that she’d be happy if she never thought of that man again, much less set eyes on him. With that in mind, Ororo reached for the small band of gold that nestled at the bottom of her second finger on her left hand and quickly began to pry the offending object off. Although she had to shimmy it up with small movements from side to side, the wedding ring did come off relatively easily. Logan pulled his head back once more as she brought the item around to hold up between their faces. He eyed it darkly, before shifting his gaze to her cerulean eyes, letting it drift down to the smile that was playing on her gorgeous lips.


“He...” She said most pointedly, “...is forgotten.” With those words she tossed the finely crafted piece of twenty four carat gold over her shoulder, not turning to see it bounce about the bowl with an at first slow *tinking* sound that rapidly sped up as the ring near the black gaping plug-hole, eventually disappearing down it, never to be seen again.


“That’s more like it.” Logan said quietly, close to Ororo’s mouth before kissing her lovingly and stamping his official claim on her. And for the first time in years he felt truly...alive.


* * *


Remy Le Beau wasted no time when he got to the door of his hotel room; opening the door quickly and making a bee-line straight for the bottle of whiskey that sat on his bedside cabinet. The room was only lit by one stream of cold moonlight that had somehow managed to find its way through the thick curtains but he didn’t need light, most of all he didn’t want it. His revulsion at himself seemed less cutting, less vicious when it was bathed in darkness, he had no idea why this was and nor did he care. He twisted the cap off, dropping it to the floor and clasped his lips around the top of the bottle like a babe around its mother’s teat, threw his head back and gulped for all his worth. #Again# came the taunt in his tortured mind, #you’ve done it to her again.# This wasn’t the first time he’d let Ororo down in order to save his own skin, although technically he hadn’t let HER down, but he got the impression that she liked that hairy little grump and as far as he knew he’d probably killed him.


“Even if I didn’ kill de homme, Monsieur Forge probably did.” He grumbled ruefully to himself before going to take another long swig.


“Not Mr. Forge, Swamp-rat.” Remy dropped the bottle in shock, its shattering noise on contact dulled by the carpet, but he didn’t dare turn to see where the deep, gravelly voice was coming from because he recognised its owner instantly. “But I sure did have a good go---he may be dead, he might not.” Victor Creed stood up from the stool that he’d been sat on ever since he’d broken in and awaited the Cajun’s eagerly anticipated return to his abode. Walking slowly to where the tall thief stood stock-still, back still turned, he continued, “My employer has eyes and ears everywhere Le Beau, it didn’t take him to long to figure out it was you. Besides, I recognised yer handy work on the safe, plus your name was the first thing the Runt said when he eventually came round. He was royally pissed and make no mistake!” Creed laughed as he stopped, about twenty inches away from Remy. “Sure, I could have come clean but then that would have robbed me of the pleasure of beatin’ the shit outta that cocky little ass-hole. Although I have to commend ya, that was quite some job ya did on him before ya high-tailed it---yer nasty little fucker at heart ain’t ya Le Beau.” He laughed again and it took all of Remy’s self-control to stop from turning and bringing his leg up in a Roundhouse kick to break the bastard’s neck.


Clenching his fists tightly at his sides Remy said, with obvious fury seething through his hissed words, “What de fuck yo’ want?” He turned slowly to face his old adversary, staring him down in the pitiful light from beneath a deeply furrowed brow. “Lensherr’s got dem. Dere ain’t much I can do about dat now, is dere?” His breathing began to increase in speed as his anger rose.


“Well, that all depends now doesn’t it Swamp-rat.” Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Creed suddenly put his finger to his temple, in mock gesture of thought. “Hey, that reminds me, I never did pay you back directly for that caper ya pulled did I?...Well, I did pay ya back in a way, but Henri---.” Remy snapped on hearing his little brother’s murderer mention his name, rushing over to make up the small distance between them and thumping him expertly in the jaw. As Victor rolled with the punch he reached into the inside left-hand pocket of his dark trench-coat, quickly drawing out his small and nifty revolver.


Remy halted as the gun was brought up swiftly into his face, but he was still too furious to feel fear, his mind focused on Henri and the vengeance he’d never had the opportunity to exact on his killer. “Heh, heh, heh...not so tough now, are ya boy?” Victor sneered as he took a step closer, rubbing idly at his smarting face with his free hand.


“Dat shit had nuhddin’ to do wit mon frere.” Remy thrust an accusing finger at the other man as he continued to shout, “Yo’ shoulda left Henri outta it! De boy was fifteen years old yo’ sick fuck! He didn’ deserve ta die like dat! He didn’---.”


Creed knocked Remy’s hand to the side with the revolver. “Quit yer whinin’! He was a member of the Guild; he got what was comin’ to him! Ya live a dangerous life, ya run with dangerous people, then ya know what to expect when it all goes wrong! Wasn’t my fault that he had a dumb fuck like you for a brother.” He wrapped his thumb around the hammer and cocked it, readjusting his grip on the handle to account for his sweating palms. “Ya shoulda heard him Cajun, beggin’ for his life like a little fuckin’ girl he was---even when I let him drop off that twenty story buildin’, screamin’ all the way down he was!”


“I fuckin’ swear, gun or no gun homme, yo’ say one more word, JUST ONE!” He was practically shaking with anger now, which is probably what prompted him to go through with his next rash action. Remy’s hands flew up making a grab for the gun, but Creed held it fast, raising it above his head. Both men struggled to pry one another’s fingers from the gun, stumbling about the dark room haphazardly, bashing into furniture, turning small tables over as they snaked their blind path, empty drinking classes and unused flower vases smashing to the ground. They grunted with effort through gritted teeth, unexpectedly matching each other in terms of strength, perhaps a little more through sheer determination on the Cajun’s part though. Somewhere in the struggle the gun went off with a loud and painful bang, sending plaster down on the men, where its lead projectile had hit the already flaking ceiling. The black revolver fell from both of their grasps, skidding and bouncing across the carpet to some unseen destination. Lunging in its general direction, Remy was brought crashing to floor by a stinging kick to the small of his back by Creed, smashing his chin on the floor.


“OOF!” He inadvertently let out the ‘comical’ sound as his chest contacted with the floor, winding him, groaning meekly as he felt his mouth fill with blood from where his top teeth had bitten down into his bottom lip. He was dimly aware of his enemy making his way past him, chuckling smugly, thinking the battle was all but won. But he was wrong, severely wrong; Remy pushed himself up just enough to swing his lower body round to the front, close to the floor, tripping the retreating Creed so that he fell into the chest of drawers, the object they both presumed the weapon had scuttled under.


“Fuck!” Victor bellowed as his forehead connected with the sharply carved edge of the pine piece of furniture with a sickening crack, splitting the vast space of skin open across its entire length; a waterfall of crimson bursting forth to stain his pain contorted face. Remy leapt up from the ground, automatically wiping the blood from his chin with the back of his hand as he did so. Purposely stepping on Creed’s broad back, when he could have easily stepped over him, Remy bent down and quickly found the gun, which had settled close to the front of the gap between the drawers raised bottom and the carpet.


“Get up!” Remy ordered curtly as he pointed the revolver down at Creed’s head; right index finger firmly on the trigger, pushing the hammer back down, ready for the next shot from the six barrel (sans one) chamber. But all the while the question raged in him; Can I? Even as Victor Creed raised slowly to his knees, holding Remy’s gaze the whole time with unnerving guts, the thief questioned himself relentlessly on the inside of the seemingly uncompassionate and unmoved exterior. Could he? Could he pull that trigger, right into a man’s face? “I should fucking kill yo’ for what yo’ did.” His words were dark but measured---controlled even.


Despite the fact that he now had the end of his own gun pressing against his bleeding forehead, Victor Creed grinned, his usually sharp, white teeth were now a pinkish-red with blood. “You better pull that trigger Le Beau, because no man holds a gun to my head and lives.” Small streams of blood infused spittle sprang from his sinisterly twisted mouth as he spoke, all the time continuing to stare at his would-be killer, no fear in his eyes, most of all no fear in his heart and he knew Remy could sense this. It was the ultimate move that had saved his skin thus far; show your opponent no weakness in the face of the abyss and you have won. It wears them down, makes them question their own strength, gives you an inch...and sometimes that inch is all you need. Sometimes...


“Den Remy guess he’d better pull it den.” Without a second more for thought, for doubt to creep in Remy Le Beau applied just the right amount of pressure with his ‘trigger’ finger, unloading one round square into the centre of Creed’s head; the bullet passed straight through in a downwards, diagonal trajectory, exiting out the back of his neck, just at the base of his skull with an explosion of bone, brain and thick blood. The shot man’s mouth fell open, his eyes wide and disbelieving at what was presumably the last thought to run through his head; the realisation that he really was about to die, that he really had just been shot. His massive bulk gradually started to crease downwards, to Remy’s, eyes in slow motion, before ‘real time’ resumed and his lifeless body fell backwards, hitting the floor with a muffled thump. A black-looking pool began to spread beneath Creed’s head as his light blue eyes ‘stared’ up at the ceiling, his legs bent almost parallel against his back.


For a moment Remy thought he would retch, he couldn’t move. Frozen to the spot; his mind didn’t seem to be able to absorb the enormity of what he’d done. The murder weapon slipped from his sweat-slicked hand, hitting the floor to the left of its victim, making a dull thud. There were no thoughts of justice, of revenge, of ‘the-bastard-got-what-he-deserved’. At this point Henri Le Beau was the farthest thing from Remy’s mind, his own guilt wasn’t. Only a day prior, yes, he’d smashed a man over the head and potentially left him for dead, but it was never his intention to kill him, just keep him out of the picture for a while. This was much different. He’d pulled that trigger with the fullest intention; he had pulled it and known the inevitable consequence. Survival at all costs? If this was survival, the true face of it, then he really wasn’t sure if he wanted it. He really wasn’t sure if he wanted it at all.



In a state of severe confusion, Remy left the hotel room, leaving everything as it was, with no immediate idea of where he was headed or what he was going to do once he’d gotten there. The body, the gun; everything that would probably earn him a not to welcome seat in the electric chair.


* * *


*BRIIING, BRIIING!* The telephone practically rattled, threatening to gyrate off the sideboard. *BRIIING, BRIIING!*


“You’d better answer that.” Ororo admitted reluctantly as she pulled back from Logan’s mouth, smiling up at him as she ran her hand affectionately down his arm. He ignored her request initially; leaning in toward her to kiss her some more as they both lay on his bed, entangled in sheets. She laughed through it, weakly pushing him from her again. “Seriously---it may be important.”


*BRIIING, BRIIING!*


“Yeah...alright.” He muttered disappointedly as he stole another kiss, but after everything that had happened he supposed that there was the quite distinct possibility that the call might be important. So with one last lingering taste of her irresistible lips he disentangled himself and went to answer the phone, pulling on his trousers as he walked into the living room. Getting to the phone, he quickly picked up the receiver. “Hello.” The short tone of his voice indicated that he clearly wasn’t happy at the interruption. There was no answer. “Hello.” Even more irritated this time. And then, much to his chagrin, the phone went dead. “Fuckin’ idiots.” He grumbled under his breath, although the cut off call did bother him, he tried to dismiss it because he had a habit of reading too much into things.


“Who was it?” Logan’s head snapped round as he placed the phone back down, taking in the alluring sight of Ororo wrapped in nothing more than a white sheet, one long silky smooth leg visible through the gap at the front of the hastily constructed covering. A most beautiful sight if ever there was one.


“Oh, no-one darlin’---nothin’ important.” Running a hand through his dishevelled hair, he fought the urge to go over to her and take her, yet again, and instead moved into the kitchen. “You want a coffee?” He called back out to her.


“Umm, yes---black, no sugar.” Ororo wasn’t completely convinced by his reply about the phone call, but she was willing to let it lie. Anyway, her attention had turned to the heavy rain that was pounding outside; she did so love extreme weather. The loud and never ending thud, beating on the windows mesmerised her to an extent, as she moved towards the window to look out at it, holding the sheet up about her breasts with a strategically placed clenched fist. What she really wished for though was a storm, they were her favourite. She looked out through the rivulets and random specs of water that ran down the dirty window-pane, getting lost in thought...


*BRIIING, BRIIING!*


“OH!” Ororo jumped, her hand that was not holding the sheet in place, flying up to the exposed area of her chest as if to still her briefly rapid beating heart. “I’ll get it!” She started to go for it when she heard Logan’s protestations.


“Just leave it ‘Ro, it’s probably nothin’.” He came into the living room then, to check that she wasn’t answering it.


“Why?” She asked confused as she picked it up anyway, moving her thick hair from blocking her ear with a quick toss of her head before bringing the phone up to it. “Hello?”


There was a brief pause, in which she could hear the pounding of the rain through the receiver, whoever it was, was calling from an outdoor call-box. Then came the reply. “Stormy?”


-TBC-





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