Fix You by OriginalCeenote
Summary: Logan. Brash. Tough. Hard-Nosed... And a real huggie bear. Just read it. Alternate verse, so no claws and lightning bolts, unless the weather’s bad, and they purchase a house cat…
Categories: General Characters: None
Genres: Romance
Warnings: Adult language
Challenges:
Series: None
Chapters: 6 Completed: No Word count: 18674 Read: 12593 Published: 07-23-07 Updated: 10-22-07

1. Groceries by OriginalCeenote

2. Overcast Days by OriginalCeenote

3. Broken by OriginalCeenote

4. Careful by OriginalCeenote

5. When You Feel So Tired, But You Can’t Sleep by OriginalCeenote

6. Out of Order by OriginalCeenote

Groceries by OriginalCeenote
When you try your best, but you don't succeed
When you get what you want, but not what you need
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse

When the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

Fix You, Coldplay



Ten years ago:

Logan tugged the crumpled grocery list from his pocket and smoothed it against the red handlebar of the shopping cart, studying it absently as he wheeled his way through the produce section. The girlish swirls of Jean’s handwriting were marred by the creases in the paper, which sported one of those quaint little homey pictures of girls in sunbonnets with cherries in a basket. Jean held sway in the kitchen; she worshipped at the shrines of Mary Engelbreit and Martha Stewart, so everything was quaintly covered in fruit, pastel plaid or dried flowers. Logan’s refuge in the spare room was thankfully untouched. The full-sized guest bed was dressed in the plainer extra linens Jean bought on clearance at the Bed and Bath store, and there wasn’t so much as a frill of Battenburg lace or cherry to be found, thank God.

The list was thankfully short. The cart had one jerky wheel that made it list to the left, and it wobbled and squeaked while he was pushing his way past the avocadoes, out of season and overpriced. The balls of his feet throbbed, and he craved a shower just to peel off his street clothes. The thick, black leather jacket was halfway zipped, and he was already sweating while his body adjusted its core temperature from being out in the icy wind to coming inside to 70 degrees Fahrenheit-heated air.

Six Fuji apples found their way into a plastic bag that he knotted shut, even though they weren’t on The List. Two for one special on bread. Two for one special on eggs. Buy two for a discount on milk. Bagels. Yogurt, 12 for $7.00. Butter, unsalted. Sugar. Spaghetti sauce. The “Big Trip” to the supermarket downtown could wait til Friday, she’d reminded him. Payday.

His eyes were watery from the weather, and they ached from his long shift. It was the kind of burning, throbbing ache he knew would follow him into an uneasy sleep. Black typeface still swam in his vision like fish. Logan hated writing reports with a passion.

He snagged an issue of Sports Illustrated on his way to the toiletry aisle; his Old Spice sports stick was already down to the last smear. It was hard enough smelling good at all with Jeannie swiping his cologne that she bought him for Father’s Day, but he couldn’t complain, especially when it smelled pretty good on her, and she’d buttered him up by telling him “It’s not as good as having you with me, but I can enjoy smelling you anyway.” Stinker.

He used the automatic checkout and bagged his meager purchases in plastic, since he agreed with Jean that buying kitchen-sized garbage bags was a big, fat waste when the grocery bags were free. A gaggle of kids out past their curfew ceased their raucous scuffle inside and hurried past him, hunched in conspiracy to avoid the inevitable ID check when they went to the register. He cocked an eyebrow and flattened his lips when a girl wearing more makeup than he’d ever allow Gayle to wear peeked back to see if he was still looking. Logan’s eyes followed them through the snack aisle on his way out, and then caught the eye of a handsome woman of middle years manning the register, also peering after the kids and sighing gustily at the inevitable ID check. He winked. She grinned. Now, he could go home.

She’d left him a light on out front, and pulled her CRV into the garage, making him settle for the driveway. He grabbed the bags from the backseat and kicked the door of his black sedan shut, carrying his keys between his teeth. He wasn’t expecting her to be up.

She’d surprised him. He found her still awake, her familiar crown of titian hair muted to a rusty chestnut by the dim kitchen lights. She squinted and scowled over her day planner, scribbling in the margins. Tired green eyes met his before she spied the groceries.

“Oh, honey, did you remember the olives?”

He grunted. “What am I, chopped liver? I come home ta my lovin’ wife, an’ all I get is ‘where’s the olives?’ No ‘Hi, honey, how was yer day, d’ya want me ta peel ya a grape an’ rub my feet?” He thrust the bags onto the counter and began to unzip his jacket, but her faint smile turned into a mulish line.

“Hang that up before you go upstairs,” she carped.

“I’ll get to it, sheesh!”

“Sure. ‘I’ll get to it’ means I’ll still find it tossed on the chair in the morning. The last time that happened, Gayle went through your pockets and found your cigarettes and scattered the tobacco all over the kitchen floor. I had to call Poison Control because I was afraid she’d swallowed some!” She began to root through the bags, emptying their contents onto the Corian surface. “No olives.”

“Nope. Not on the list.”

“Errrrrrg…I needed them for the potluck tomorrow. PTA. Mother-Daughter Night. I promised a seven-layer dip.”

“So make it six.”

“It’s not the same,” she insisted, but her voice lost some of its petulance when he embraced her from behind, tugging her against his broad, solid chest. His breath steamed the side of her neck as he murmured against her skin, and she felt a delicious shiver at the contact. She still smelled like his cologne and her own shampoo and facial cleanser. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and her curves begged for attention, to be held, stroked and enjoyed. His hands snuck beneath the flap of her pink terry cloth robe and teased her until she squirmed.

“Ya’ll make do. Ya always do.”

“It’s hard enough just trying to pull it all together. I’m driving the carpool tomorrow, and Gayle has a Brownie Scout meeting at three-thirty, so I have to get off work early and make up the difference on Friday. I’m swamped.”

“So why ya stayin’ up?”

“I’ve got the day planner from hell. The more things I cross off that I get done, the more crap that jumps up and takes its place.”

“Yer overdoin’ it.”

“Just hook me up to a caffeine IV, and I’ll manage, thank you.” Blunt, gentle fingers scraped back the sheaves of soft, shining hair from her throat, and he replaced it with his lips, nibbling her flesh until she began to respond; her low moan distracted him from how exhausted he was as he felt himself stirring to life against the curve of her rump.

“Ain’t gonna be needin’ that now,” he murmured huskily, his breath warm as it steamed her ear, making her shiver with want. “Come t’bed, baby.”

“I’ve got to put everything away!”

Logan never broke his embrace, waltzing them over to the bag of food on the counter, grasping it with his free hand and waltzing them toward the fridge. “LOGAN!”

“Hush up, woman, ya wanna wake Gayle?” he nagged petulantly as he slung the bag onto the almost empty top shelf and kicked the door shut. “There. All put away. Now come t’bed.” She sighed wearily, but he knew she was smiling as they wandered up the steps.

She didn’t turn on the lights. Logan let her go long enough to shower and brush his teeth. He was still dripping, a towel slung around his waist as he crossed the bedroom to meet Jeannie by the edge of the bed. He felt her before he saw her; the moonlight landed in slivers across the hard wood, barely creating enough light to pick out her silhouette as she freed him from his towel and used it to begin buffing him dry. His mouth sought hers and found them as she briskly rubbed his damp hair. She still smelled like his aftershave. His supple skin felt warm beneath her hands, which kneaded and stroked him, releasing the tensions of the day. It was their ritual. He moved to turn on the lamp, wanting to see her, but she pulled him back for another kiss, distracting him with her touch, and he gave into the urge to strip off her robe. He let his hands map out her body better than his eyes ever could, and she cried out her approval to the night.


Now:


“Is that your daughter?”

“Yup.”

“She’s darling! How old is she?”

“I think so too, but I’m biased. She’s ten. Takes after her daddy.” Her expression hardly faltered with the admission before she got up from the desk behind the nurses’ station and stretched, rotating her upper body right, then left to work out a kink in her lower back.

“Got a fractured wrist in room five.”

“That’s my next stop.” The hall wasn’t that crowded yet, but all of the exam rooms were occupied in the ER ward for the moment. Any moment now, she thought, before we’re swamped.

The boy sitting on the bed was young enough to still swing his legs with boredom as he cradled his arm. His mother looked harried and tired, reading a dog-eared issue of People beside him. She raised her head from it as she greeted their visitor.

“He had an accident; my son was playing by the creek,” she explained breathlessly before Ororo could even ask their names or introduce herself.

“I’m going to take him over to Radiology in a minute, they’re just getting the suite ready. What’s your name?” she asked him, offering him a smile that she hoped would win him over so she could take him down the hall.

“Stephen,” he replied, and he stared at her shirt with interest. “You’re wearing Spongebob,” he informed her. Her smile widened.

“He’s my favorite,” she admitted. Her scrubs were blue, but her top was printed in the characters that were also her daughter’s favorites, complete with bubbles and pink jellyfish. She reached for his wrist, allowing him to lay it in her palm. The limb was swollen and tender to the touch, judging by his wince and muted gasp. “I bet you’re being really brave and good for your mom, Stephen.”

“Hurts,” he complained, and his mother ruffled his hair fondly.

“I told him to be careful down by the water. He and his brother were running and he slipped on some wet rocks,” his mother added, her expression anxious but not unfamiliar.

“I can relate,” Ororo assured her. “How old are you, Stephen?”

“Ten.” He sat up more proudly.

“Ahhhhh. You’re one old man, my friend.” And he was her daughter’s age, she considered. She made more small talk with him on the way to Radiology and made sure his mother was garbed in a lead apron while she stood by nervously to the side. She silently gave thanks that her own child wasn’t lying on that table.
Back to index
Overcast Days by OriginalCeenote
Ten years ago:



“I can’t find Gayle’s shoes.”

“Look under her bed, Jeannie.”

“They weren’t there.”

“Dunno. I’m runnin’ late, darlin’.” Logan hit the stubborn spot below his chin with his Quattro blade, trying to avoid a wicked cut and getting shaving foam in it. So far, so good…not that it mattered worth diddly-squat. By five o’clock, it’d all grow back.

“Honey, it’d help me if you’d look!” Her voice took on that wheedling pitch that told him ‘Don’t even think of touching me tonight if you don’t drop everything to help me right now.’ A man didn’t argue with “The Voice.” Not if he wanted any peace… He sighed and chucked his razor in the sink. Gayle came running around the corner at a fast clip, nearly barreling into him. She shrieked at his appearance and ran back in the opposite direction, hiding behind her mother’s back. He completed the image of a rabid dog by curling his fingers into claws and snarling through bared teeth. Gayle’s green eyes crinkled at the corners and danced at him from her hiding place. Her mother sighed.

“Can’t do anything with you two. Gayle, we need your shoes NOW, honey! Mommy doesn’t have time for this.”

“Ya heard yer momma, Punkin’, go find ‘em.”

“I don’t know where they arrrre,” she whined back.

“Ya ain’t gonna find ‘em if ya don’t look,” Logan pointed out. Gayle went through her usual motions of opening her closet door and peering inside before looking in her toybox. Jean intervened by searching more aggressively under overturned and discarded clothes before opening the laundry hamper in her daughter’s room. Logan shook his head and headed downstairs, following his daughter’s invisible path through the house from the night before.

“Got ‘em,” he yelled up to Jean, brandishing a pair of hard leather loafers. She looked relieved as she met him halfway and caught them when he tossed them to her.

“When ya gonna be home, Jeannie?”

“Around four-thirty. I’m coming home early so I can start cooking and get a move on her homework.”

“Ain’t gonna see much of me today, either, Jeannie.”

“I know.” He was already laying out his jacket and pouring himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. “If you’re not too hungry before you get home, I’ll leave you the leftovers from the potluck, if I have any.”

“That’s what ya always say.” Jean’s offerings always disappeared as soon as she even set her baking dish down on the table at those things.

“Then I’ll make you something when I get back.”

“That ain’t what I had in mind,” he grumbled, his voice suddenly by the crest of her ear. She laughed and slapped at his hands as he embraced her from behind, right as she was bending to put on her pantyhose. “I’ll tell ya what I wanna eat when ya get back…better yet, what time is it? We got ten minutes, fifteen if ya skip yer makeup…”

“Nooooooo…stop that! We don’t have time for this!”

“Sure we do.”

“No we don’t…sheesh, leggo!” She wriggled loose and chastised him, “Go finish shaving.”

“Then will ya give me some?”

“Uh-uh.” Logan tsked with disgust before doing escaping back to the bathroom to finish his interrupted task. He peered out through the tiny bathroom window vent and scowled. “Better bundle Gayle up today, babe. Looks ugly outside already.”

“She won’t be outside for most of it. Her jacket has a hood.”

“Famous last words. By the time ya get to the school, yer both gonna be swimming outta the parking lot.” He shrugged at Jean’s choice of open-toed slingbacks that shod her narrow feet.

“It doesn’t look that bad,” she argued, even as she grabbed her taupe nylon trenchcoat out of the closet. Almost on cue, the first few drops of rain hit the bedroom window. Logan spied it as he wiped his face dry.

“Toldja.” Jean stuck out her tongue. “Mmmmm, hold that thought!” He yanked her against him and gave her a proper kiss, smothering any protests. Her palm cradled his freshly shaven cheek.

“You’re awful.”

“Ya love me.”

“I’m just insane.” She confirmed it further by giving into the impulse to kiss him more deeply, enjoying his faint groan and the feel of his smooth, stubble-free lips.

Another chaste peck for Gayle, a quick search for his keys and one last swallow of coffee and he was off.

Jean peered up at the sky briefly as she loaded Gayle into the back of her CRV and buckled her in. Dark, brackish clouds rolled sonorously across the horizon, allowing mere white slivers of light to shine through. She felt a faint chill shiver down her neck despite her warm coat. She returned Gayle’s impish smile and dispelled the thought as quickly as it came. She tucked her silver Starbucks coffee mug into the holder and pulled out of the driveway, chuckling to herself that Logan’s suggestion would have cost her more time on the freeway in traffic, but that it was infinitely more fun.


~0~


Now:



From the moment Ororo parked her car and strolled into the ER entrance of West Salem Memorial, she knew a calm day was highly unlikely, if not laughable. Despite being early, she ended up in the last row of the “boonies” of the employee lot. A quick glance at the visitor lot told her it was packed, and she saw the beacons flickering on the ambulance pulling into the docking ramp. She took one long gulp of her latte, regretting that she wouldn’t get to finish it as she chucked it into the trash receptacle by the sliding entry doors.

Anna shot her a smile on her way into the locker room, where they almost collided at the door.

“Aintcha glad ya got here just in time for the fun, shoog?”

“Thrilled,” she muttered with a roll of her eyes. She was shrugging out of her windbreaker before she even reached her locker door and fiddled with it, slamming it open and searching for her brush. Her long, thick mass of hair was skinned back and restrained in a chignon that would likely feel like it weighed a ton by the end of the day; she had no time for her usual braid.

“You’re backing up the desk for the first shift, Ororo,” Emma announced crisply as she scrubbed her hands at the sink.

“Works for me.”

“They’re also training the junior volunteers this afternoon. Cassandra tapped you and Anna to demonstrate all the good stuff at three.” Ororo opened her mouth to protest, but Emma stalked out before she could gather her wits.

“Great. Sure. Isn’t like I was gonna be that busy today, or anything.” On the one hand, she didn’t mind. The volunteers were usually eager and a nice distraction, but to Ororo’s way of thinking, they couldn’t have picked a worse time to break in the newest class.

She looped her ID badge around her neck by its beaded lanyard that Katie made in her after school program and turned it so that the picture of her tucked into the plastic sheath was visible before she clocked in.

“Before you log on, Ororo, take some vitals in room two.”

“I’m your girl.” Judging by the hiss of oxygen that greeted her when she reached the door, she surmised the patient had been there a while. His color was waxy, and he made a feeble attempt at a smile.

“My name’s Ororo, how are you feeling?” She already knew the answer to the question before she even retrieved the blood pressure cuff from its rack on the wall.

“Crappy,” he huffed as he fiddled with the tube of his cannula. Ororo gently covered his hand with hers, halting it.

“Don’t do that,” she suggested. “Let’s check your pressure.”

“This wasn’t how I planned to have a day off.”

“I don’t blame you. Tell your boss you had a good reason to play hooky.”

“You can vouch for me,” he suggested wryly. “Twenty years. That’s how long I’ve worked for that company and never once taken a sick day.” His voice wasn’t boastful.

“Sorry we broke your record,” she mused as she checked his pulse and made a note on the chart.

“Doesn’t help me if I die keeping it.” Sharp, clear silver eyes peered up at her as she adjusted his blanket. “Is that your little girl?” She reflexively clutched her badge and nodded.

“My pride and joy. She’s a pistol.”

“Enjoy her now before it’s too late.” His voice was rueful. “When the children are young, learn to take days off. I’ve worked hard all my life, and I never expected anyone to hand me anything. I supported my family and did what I had to do so we’d have a comfortable life. But when I look back, I didn’t have the time to spend with my son and my daughters because I didn’t make the time. Work’s important,” he pointed out, settling back against the pillow, “but it isn’t worth a thing without spending time with the family you’re working for.” He nodded at her badge again. “What’s her name?”

“Katherine. I call her Katie.”

“She’s a little knockout,” he pronounced.

“I won’t disagree, but I’m biased,” she chuckled. “Do you need anything, sir?”

“Erik. And some water would be nice.”

“I can handle that. Back in a flash.” He closed his eyes and seemed to nod her out the door in silent dismissal.

Work’s important, she reasoned, mulling his words, especially when you were the only one putting bread and butter on the table.

She stopped to peer outside again, counting the droplets as they hit the pavement in the loading dock. The air tasted the same as it did that day. It had been forever since she thought about it, and now it came hurtling back.

She blamed it on the rain. She went back to her shift.

~0~



Ten years ago:


“Check in wit’ Summers after you sign in, homme,” Remy murmured as he pulled on his jacket, offering Logan a brief smile.

“The hood of my car ain’t even cooled off yet, and he’s already at it.” Logan slammed his locker door shut and went to clock in and log his entry on his way to the armory.

“He ain’t in the mood t’joke ‘round, mec. Still ain’t quite up ta snuff. Has his shades on.”

“Shoulda taken more time off,” Logan muttered.

“You tell him, den,” Remy chuckled. “Bein’ sick ain’t in his lexicon.”

“Lexicon ain’t in yer vocabulary.”

“Just sounded good,” he admitted. Despite his syrupy patois, accent, and gee-shucks demeanor, Remy was one of the best and brightest in the 7th Precinct. Jean kidded Logan that his partner had a way of making a girl forget herself and the ring on her finger. That earned her a snort of disgust and the threat that she’d be subjected to a “sniff test” at the front door for the Cajun’s aftershave.

“Meet ya out front.”

“Gonna grab a quick cup first.”

“Knock yerself out.” Remy whistled his way down the hall, mug in hand, winking at the chief’s admin as she came around the corner. She nearly turned her head off his shoulders and dropped her manila files while returning his wave. Logan snickered.

Scott was seated at his desk, everything laid out in front of him, neat as a pin. Like Remy mentioned earlier, he still wore a pair of polarized sunglasses protecting his eyes from glare following a surgery. The consensus was that he came back to work too early, but no one complained. Summers ran a tight ship, and no one envied his job as Watch Commander enough to want to fill his shoes.

He looked up from his log when he heard Logan approach his desk and handed him a folder. It was familiar; Logan spied his name on the tab.

“This is my report from yesterday.”

“It was mislabeled. Think of the logistical nightmare that would have fallen into our lap if Anna Marie hadn’t recognized your notes. She says you always use certain buzz words that stick out like a sore thumb. But not all of us are well versed in those details.” Logan sighed but took it in good grace.

“I understand.”

“Good. Since you’re being so understanding, you’re on to relieve Nate. He’s out sick with walking pneumonia.” Logan bit back an indignant grunt at the news. Two doubles in a row. He could see Jean’s annoyed look of resignation in his mind’s eye; he wasn’t looking forward to returning home to it.

“Where are ya stickin’ me and LeBeau?”

“Gifford and Main. Whole block’s been pretty active since that theft at Kappy’s. Perps boosted a few cases and cleaned out the registers.”

“Expectin’ anybody to stand there looking guilty?”

“No. But I doubt you two will get bored today.”

“Boredom ain’t in my lexicon,” Logan deadpanned, but Scott’s smile was watered down. Remy was right: Summers wasn’t in the mood.

“Be careful out there. That report goes in my hands as soon as it leaves your desk.”

“I’m on it.” He nodded a goodbye and headed for the armory. He signed out his .45 and holstered it securely, saying his customary silent prayer that this wasn’t the day he’d have to use it.

The day felt wrong. Despite Remy’s usual banter as he regaled him of the Bruins game he’d missed, Logan felt a prickle of unease that gripped him as soon as they had pulled out of the lot. The scent of ozone hung thickly in the cool air, and even its brisk bite against his cheeks give him any relief from the feeling of someone walking on his grave.

Anna’s voice piped up over the crackle of their radio, and Remy answered it with gusto.

“Officer LeBeau 10W-42, we received a domestic complaint on Dillingham Avenue. Two-story brownstone, neighbors reported a disturbance involving the couple and their two children inside. Apartment seven.”

“Ten-four.” Remy steered their patrol car up the busy street that was devoid of children; it was late enough in the morning for all of them to be in school.

“My favorite kinda call,” Logan lied casually.

“Walk in de park.”

They followed the sounds of commotion up the stairs, and an elderly woman stumbled out through her apartment door, nearly barreling them over in her haste.

“Hello, officer, I’m the one who placed the call.” She was trying to stifle her voice despite the din, which made understanding her nearly impossible. “They started up about twenty minutes ago. This isn’t the first time they’ve just gone at it like this!” Her statement was punctuated by the sound of crashing plates, and Logan thanked her before Remy knocked on the door.

The face that greeted them was young, male and belligerent until his eyes rested on Remy’s badge. He peered at them over the chain of his dead bolt, and Logan could have sworn he saw him begin to sweat.

“We received a complaint,” Remy informed him. “We’d like a few minutes of yer time, sir,” he added, dispatching with his usual vernacular.

“Who complained?” he demanded, peering out into the hallway, but his neighbor had already disappeared back inside her apartment.

“That’s irrelevant,” Logan replied. “We’d like to talk to you for a moment.” His gaze brooked no delay. The young man fumbled with the dead bolt and jerked the door open. At first glance, it was a pleasantly appointed living room with framed photos scattered across every surface and a few children’s toys littering the floor and coffee table. The scent of breakfast foods still lingered in the air, and Logan heard hushed voices coming from the kitchen. Not too many signs of a scuffle, except for a book that was knocked to the floor and an overturned lamp. Their host promptly righted it as he walked past them toward the couch.

“Your neighbors were concerned about a scuffle that sounded like it was coming from your unit. They mentioned it wuzn’t de first time, either.”

“I ain’t got a problem. We were just…havin’ a misunderstanding,” he offered, standing up stiff as a poker. His gaze shifted nervously toward Logan, who was peering at the photo on the settee. Three kids, two boys and a girl.

“Doesn’t sound like a great way to start the day. Your place has thin walls, so people might occasionally hear things you don’t want them to. May we speak to your wife, or girlfriend?”

“She-she’s in the bathroom,” he stammered. Logan heard a small whimper from the direction of the kitchen again.

“Yer kids here?”

“Sick. They’re home sick,” he explained. Before he could elaborate, a tiny child of about four scampered free and appeared in the living room, having abandoned her perch in the kitchen. A female voice called her back inside, and she darted back. She didn’t look sick. Logan merely followed her back and turned the corner, peering inside and seeing all he needed to know.

All three children were huddled around their mother, who was bleeding from a wound in her forehead. Bits of white ceramic crockery were clinging to her hair, and the shards of a plate were lying on the floor. The rest of the breakfast dishes were still steaming from the rack beside the sink.

Without any further preamble, she exclaimed “He hit me! In front of the kids! I was on my way to work, and he didn’t b-believe me!”

“Shut up…shut the fuck up!” he roared, banging his fist down on the Formica counter, and his face was thunderous until Remy turned on him with a stern glance.

“You’d want t’lower voice, sir,” he warned him. “Settle down. Right now this doesn’t look too good. Your wife’s bleeding. Your children are here after when they’re supposed to be in school. You’re looking at a charge of domestic assault, as well as keeping your children truant.”

“I didn’t touch her! She…the plate fell out of the cabinet and hit her on the head! I swear!”

“That wasn’t the way it sounded when we came to your door,” Remy argued calmly.

“It’s none of your damned business,” he snapped. “She’s my wife, and it’s nobody’s business what we do up in here. I didn’t touch her. A plate fell on her fucking head!” The younger of the two boys burrowed his head into his mother’s shirt sleeve as she shook her head in denial. “A man can argue with his fucking wife!” Logan suppressed a sigh and gave it to him straight.

“Your wife’s bleeding, your kids are scared, there’s damage of property in your residence, and you’re not convincing us that you did more than argue.” Logan watched him bristling as he leaned back against the counter.

“I didn’t do anything.” He pointed at his wife. “There’s no way you’re pinning this on me!”

“You’ll have the chance to fill us in at the station.” Logan loomed large and imposing in his dress blues, giving the kid the stare that was legend back at the station house. “You have the right to remain silent…” He struggled briefly as Remy cuffed him, and his shoulders slumped in resignation when he realized that they wouldn’t back down. His wife said nothing in his defense, despite his oldest son’s querulous tones as he asked where Daddy was going. He exited his apartment on a tide of profanity, ignoring his Miranda rights with abandon.

A man can argue with his wife… Logan had never once laid a hand on Jeannie; the urge to tell the kid he was full of shit if he thought they just had an argument nagged at him for the rest of the ride back. He felt a surge of relief and protectiveness toward his wife, but his stomach still twisted with the same unease, even though they’d just ensured the safety of another wife and children. It never ended.



~0~

Jean flicked the switch to her windshield wipers, increasing their tempo to keep up with the rain spattering down in a steady rhythm. She hated conferences with a passion, and she made sure the laptop was tucked securely on the floor of the passenger side, safe in its carrying case. With any luck, the Q&A would be short, and she wouldn’t have to take minutes. She must have done something heinous in a previous life…

Wind buffeted the CRV, making it hard to correct herself on the two-lane road. She thought back to their last trip to the Vineyard by ferry and longed to do it again soon; the sky was almost clear enough to see Woods Hole from the beach. The wipers’ swish almost sent her into a lulling reverie.

She cursed as she was cut off by a pickup truck switching into the fast lane too slow, and she impatiently honked her horn.

“Mommy, you honked the horn,” Gayle announced dryly from the backseat. Jean grumbled her assent, frustrated at her progress so far. They’d had to drive right back to the house when Gayle piped up that she forgot her book report that Jean slaved over with her two nights before. She was already running a half an hour behind, and this wasn’t the day to make up for lost time. Jean hated driving in the rain.

“Mommy’s trying to drive, sweetie,” she chided through her teeth. She hit the “play” button on the CD changer, and her daughter’s favorite Cheetah Girls tunes tumbled out from the speakers. Jean adjusted the balance to the backseat so she wouldn’t have to hear the worst of it. Gayle settled quietly back into her seat, entertained for the moment and peering at her book report. Hand-drawn pictures and magazine photographs were pasted onto each page, and she was proud of her work.

Jean planned her day methodically from behind the wheel. Conference. Memos. Email. A second team meeting. Leave early for Scouts and get Gayle read for the PTA dinn-

“Oh, my God! Are you CRAZY?!” she accused the second car that edged into her lane before changing his mind. She restrained the urge to honk at him, and he waved at her in apology with his cellular phone. She was a mile from the off-ramp and making appalling time.

He hadn’t learned his lesson yet. This time his victim was a bright red Windstar van with New Hampshire plates and an honor student bumper sticker.

He clipped it, and its harried driver, more than likely a woman in Jean’s slingback shoes, overcorrected to avoid crashing into the guardrail. The van spun out, its squealing tires scarring the asphalt. Jean’s voice was stolen from her throat as her hands jerked the steering wheel to the left. Her brakes locked.

She felt the impact of the guardrail first, gouging her door and buffeting her so hard her teeth clacked. She felt the wrenching of her neck as she skidded to a brief stop before the white Suburban hogging her blind spot completely filled her rearview. The deafening crunch of metal echoed in her ears, and everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Gayle’s shriek cut through the din, and her book report flew past Jean’s ear, smacking the windshield.

GodhelpmeGodhelpmeohGodGAYLE! Her heart seemed to explode. She saw stars. Her world upended itself, rolling…rolling…rolling…

Everything stopped.

Outside, traffic came to a complete halt. The man with the cell phone looked dazed, sitting on the opposite side of the road. He dialed 911 with shaking hands.

Inside, everything was silent. Jean never heard the strains of Gayle’s dreadful music die down to nothing.
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Broken by OriginalCeenote
Ten years ago:



Gayle’s hands.

Logan had held them, marveling at their strength for treasures so small, counting her wrinkly pink fingers as they escaped her receiving blanket.

He’d grasped them as she lay on his lap, wanting to be pulled upright and blowing raspberries to watch him laugh.

They batted at his face in the dark when he’d gotten up with her at night and put a few hundred miles on the rocking chair, watching Letterman.

He’d led her across the kitchen linoleum during her first stumbling steps, unwilling to let go.

He’d held them firmly when he’d shown her how to properly cross the street, still unwilling to let go.

When he’d led her into kindergarten that first day, smart in her pigtails and new lunchbox, he’d had to let go. A piece of him stayed with her.

They were still and lax tucked within his own, which had gone numb. He still couldn’t let go.




Seven hours ago:

Red traffic flares sparked and hissed against the asphalt, glowing starkly against the gray sky. Cars bottlenecked and skirted around the long line of orange cones. Oncoming headlights turned the shards of glass to diamonds as the highway patrol stood vigil, watching the ambulance’s departure.

Two-car wreck, 9:05AM. One reported casualty.




Six hours earlier:

Logan aimed the balled-up white paper bag and aimed for the wastebasket. He shoots. He scores. The crowd goes wild. He finished the last gulp of his Coke and carried it down to the water fountain at the end of the hall, dutifully giving it a rinse before chucking it into the recycle can with the circular hole cut into the lid.

“Logan!” He heard Remy’s hurried footsteps approaching him from the stairwell as he craned his head around the swinging door. “Summers wants t’see ya before we head back out.” He grunted thoughtfully and headed back in the opposite direction. He planned to call Jeannie, but it’d have to wait.

Summers was up to his elbows in a report and talking on the phone when he saw Logan approach his desk. Logan felt a disconcerted, sinking feeling in the pit of his gut when he saw him remove his glasses and set them down. His voice slowed down mid-sentence with whomever he was talking to, and his gaze was weighty and grim. Logan stood and waited for him to finish his call, peering curiously at a paperweight laying on the corner of his blotter.

His brown eyes were still slightly bloodshot from his surgery, but they didn’t lack intensity as he beckoned to him, “Sit down, Logan.”

“What can I do for you?”

“We got a call for you; Anna Marie took the message for you this morning. Here.” He handed him a long, blue “While You Were Out” slip.

“What time did ya get the call?”

“About an hour ago.” His lips were a thin line.

“Coulda had dispatch let me know; I would’ve called them back before I went to lunch,” he mused, and he peered down at the slip, scanning the date and time. “Phone number looks like the hospital.” His voice wavered and hesitated on the final word.

“Don’t sign back in yet. Call them,” he suggested. Logan nodded, all hint of his relaxed demeanor gone.

His steps gained speed once he closed the door to Summers’ office behind him, and his shoes sounded hollow against the grey linoleum tile. His pulse jumped as he reached for the phone at Anna’s desk and dialed back the number. No extension. Just a name: Dr. Reyes.

A chill tickled his neck as he waited for someone to pick up. Three short, staccato double rings. “Salem Medical Center, Emergency Department?”

His heart dropped into his shoes, and he tasted bile.

“I’d like to speak with Dr. Reyes, p-please,” he stammered, attempting to steady himself as he leaned the heel of his hand against Anna’s desk.

“May I ask who’s calling?” The voice sounded young and harried; it was the middle of the day, and the whole unit was probably a mad house. It didn’t bear contemplating…

“She called and left me a message. My name’s Howlett. James Howlett,” he specified. His breath was still hitched in his chest. He hadn’t had any lab work or broken bones. Neither had Jeannie or Gayle…

“May I put you on hold? I’ll see if she’s still on the ward?”

“Please.” His tone was brusque. He barely heard her mutter a response before he was rolled over to phone limbo. All he could hear was the roar of blood in his ears.

Thirty of the longest seconds of his life passed before he heard the sharp click of the line being picked up. “Good afternoon, Mr. Howlett, I’m Dr. Reyes, and I work in the E/R over here at Salem. We were wondering if you could please come down here. You were listed as next of kin on your wife Jean’s records.” His arm wouldn’t support him anymore where he was leaning; his elbow buckled sharply as he sucked in air through his mouth.

“Next of kin?” he choked.

“There was an accident on the highway, and your wife and daughter were involved in a wreck and transported here. I was one of the doctor’s treating your wife and daughter today.” A heavy pause where he heard her clearing her throat on the other end stopped his heart. “Mr. Howlett, I’m sorry to have to report that we did everything for her that we could. We lost her. She didn’t make it.” Clinical. Calm. Steady.

Useless…

“Ah, God!” His voice sounded hollow and strange. He felt a pounding in his temples and saw spots. He stumbled back into Anna’s chair just in time for Remy’s voice to find him, drifting over his head with concern.

“What’s wrong, homme?” he murmured gently, not wanting to interrupt the call. He watched his partner’s face drain of color and heard his breath heaving from his lips.

“Mr. Howlett…please come to the hospital. Your daughter is in critical condition, and we still need to run some tests.”

“Gayle!” he choked. His throat was clogged. Gayle. He nodded, knowing she couldn’t see.

“I’m coming,” he croaked. “I’ll be right there.” The phone clattered down onto the cradle from nerveless fingers. He met Remy’s black eyes, understanding and anguish in their depths.

“Jean,” he cried. “Jean!” Remy shook his head, sharing his disbelief. “Jeannie…I’ve gotta go.” Remy’s hand felt hot through his work shirt when he clapped it over his shoulder to offer him support, breaking through the chill that washed over him. He felt so cold.

“And Gayle?”

“She needs me,” he insisted. That was all he had to say.

“Keep yer phone turned on, homme. No matter what.” Then he thought better of it. “Wan’ Remy t’drive?” Logan didn’t even feel himself nod. Remy strode down the hall to alert Summers that he was clocking back out.



Three hours ago:

Ducks. The pedes ward was painted in ducks.

Gayle loved ducks.

He hadn’t tried to stand again since he arrived. He couldn’t rely on his legs to support him.

The doors to the morgue yawned open and waited to swallow him up when they escorted him inside. He couldn’t tell the chill of that ward from the one that wrapped itself around him from the time he’d arrived. LeBeau was quiet and waves of tension and sympathy rolled from him in the front lobby.

When they lowered the sheet, exposing Jean’s still form, his legs buckled again, but this time Remy caught him by the elbow before he could collapse. Suddenly he was outside his own body, looking in. This was someone else’s life.

He’d kissed her goodbye that morning. They were going to buy groceries. The Big Trip. He’d promised. She had a PTA dinner, and she was bringing six-layer dip. Gayle had a book report due. She wasn’t going to hand it in on time.

“Jeannie,” he whimpered. That wasn’t his voice. That wasn’t his hand shaking, reaching out to smooth aside her hair. That wasn’t his wife, lying there refusing to open her beautiful eyes, so wan and broken. He hardly heard LeBeau murmuring above him hoarsely, his own voice choked, insisting that he was there, that he wasn’t leaving him.

He’d joked with him before, often enough, “Do you need a hug, muffin?” when they’d met for poker night on the rare weekend when they could enjoy it, whenever the bet was too rich for their blood. Tears dripped down his nose like liquid fire. Remy’s embrace was fierce, almost painful, but he hardly felt it.

It was some time later that he saw Gayle. He gave his name at the front desk; they’d fastened a visitor’s bracelet around his wrist, and he tugged at it restlessly as he took up vigil by her bed.

All he could do was hold her hand. Hold her hand, murmur promises and cry out prayers that wouldn’t be silenced.

She wouldn’t turn in her book report on time. He’d found her shoes downstairs…

I don’t know where they arrrrrre… The hiss of the blood pressure monitor and the tick of the clock on the wall drummed a tattoo in his ears, mocking him. Her heartbeat was a flashing number, blinking red on the tiny console. The day shift nurses paraded in and out of the room in calm pastels; their voices all sounded the same. Let me know if I can get you anything…

She looked small, bundled in sterile white sheets. Cinnamon red hair fanned across the pillow in matted tangles.

One hour bled into the next. Fatigue burned his eyes and made his lids weigh a ton. He ignored the hunger clawing in his gut. She might open her eyes. He couldn’t let her wake up and not see him. Dusk settled outside, extinguishing the faint rays of light seeping in through the rough curtains.

Soft footsteps crossed the threshold, this time without hesitation or the perfunctory knock. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone tall and slender, garbed in pale blue scrubs lay something on the empty neighboring bed.

“Dinner’s due to be sent up at five,” she murmured. Her voice was smooth and deep. He couldn’t place the inflection she put on her words. “In the meantime, I’m wheeling in a cot so you can stay the night.” He only took his eyes off his daughter’s face long enough to watch her motion to the bedside table. “Dial nine to call out, if you need someone to bring you anything from home.” She didn’t suggest the hospital gift shop. Parents in the pediatric intensive care unit never budged. Ever.

He followed the length of her hand inch by inch, taking her in slowly, reluctant to pull his eyes from Gayle. A voice in his head nudged him: Show her some respect. She’s here helping her.

She was bundled against the chill in the ward, wearing a spotless white turtleneck beneath her blue scrub top. She was pregnant. Six months along, unless he missed his guess. Jean had carried small like that…he swallowed thickly. He tried to focus on small things. Her clean white Nike sneakers, cross-trainers. A name badge with a ten-year service pin punched through the name plate: Ororo M., RN. A blood pressure cuff tucked into her shirt pocket. Mercilessly short, clean nails, shiny with clear polish.

His lips moved. “What time was Gayle brought in here?” She peered at the chart and turned the page to the ambulance trip ticket.

“Nine thirty-one.” He looked drained and exhausted. She busied herself, heading back into the hallway and returning with a pink plastic water pitcher. He heard the splash of ice chips inside as she set it down. “My name’s Ororo. I’ll be on the shift for the next two hours. The NOC nurse will be in around eight.”

“Thank you.” As an afterthought, he muttered “Call me Logan.”

“All right.” For the only time since she entered the room, they met eyes.

Her beauty wasn’t something he could appreciate. Eyes of some indiscernible light color were barely visible as she stood by the door, the light slanting at an angle to partly conceal her face in shadow. He caught a patrician profile and gleaming hair, a blazing white; it was coiled in a thick, tight bun at her nape. Long bangs feathered around her face, softly framing it. The top of her head was mere inches below the doorframe; she was at least as tall as LeBeau. She padded out. Her walk would have been graceful, he mused, if not for the waddle that struck around the second trimester.

He wondered dimly if she was having a boy or a girl. He wondered if she wanted to find out.

He didn’t remember the meal, only that it was tasteless. He didn’t remember what time he’d fallen into a shallow sleep. All he remembered was the shrill alarms of the heart monitors, and then all hell broke loose.


~0~



Now:


Ororo’s feet were killing her. The uppers on her sneakers were worn paper-thin. Emma nagged her that it was best to replace sneakers once every six months or more frequently to protect your back and arches. Her meager budget stretched it out three months too long.

The bus was packed to the rafters; she caught the last one for the night on her route before the driver rolled the marquee to read “Out of Service.” Leftover chicken and noodles were calling her name.

Stevie’s car was packed in the small lot of her four-plex. She checked her watch as she hurried to her mailbox. Junk mail, junk mail, you may have just won a million dollars, junk mail, cable bill, electric bill, Victoria’s Secret catalog “ what secrets could Victoria possibly have? In Ororo’s case, it was more like “Ain’t Nothin’ a Secret!” after having had a baby. She rifled through the thick packet, strapped together with a rubber band.

Still no check. Luke’s ass was grass, she fumed. Back to the DA…

The hallway smelled stale as she keyed her way inside, using the lobby intercom to call upstairs.

“Stevie! I’m on my way up!” Her voice crackled back at her, sounding slightly relieved.

”All right, girl, I ain’t goin’ anywhere!” Even so, Ororo jogged up two flights, sore feet notwithstanding. Katie ran her babysitter and godmother through the gauntlet.

Before she could even jiggle her key in the lock, Stevie pried it open and gave her a weary smile. “Home girl takes after you, so you know she’s a little heathen.”

“She’s MY heathen,” Ororo chuckled. “Did she do her homework?”

“Under extreme duress. G’wan ahead and use that math book of hers for kindling. It sure as hell didn’t help when I was going over it with her to figure out what she was working on tonight. Since when did fifth grade get so damned hard?”

“I loves ya, but I ain’t got any answers for ya,” she jibed as she pulled off her black London Fog coat and hung it in the hall closet.

“Didn’t seem that hard when we were kids,” she complained, and she pulled the tin foil from a saucepan of something on the stove before turning on the burner at low heat.

“What’d you make?”

“Beans. Katie and I had a jones for some cornbread, too. Help yourself.”

“Mmmmmmmm,” she moaned, already searching for the honey in the cupboard. “Life is good!”

“Don’t forget to pick up a new stapler.” Ororo made a sour face.

“What happened to the old one?” As if she had to ask…

“It went by way of all good things when someone was trying to staple too many pages today. She wanted to make a book.” Stevie held up the product of her labors. Piles of notebook and construction paper were haphazardly fastened together. Great. One more thing to replace. Ororo noticed the broken stapler lying on the counter.

“Before I forget, girl, check your voice mail.” Stevie was already winding a thin fleece scarf around her hair and preparing to go. “It rang three times before I could pick up. Sounds like Luke.” Ororo grumbled obscenities under her breath.

“He doesn’t want me to call him back.”

“Mmmp, mmp, mmmp,” Stevie tsked, shaking her head. “I heard that. She’s already in bed. Kid was pooped. Fell asleep in front of ‘Secondhand Lions.’”

“Thanks, Stevie.” Before she forgot, Ororo dug in her purse and snagged her checkbook. She scribbled an amount that would put a dent in her week’s pin money; her hair appointment would have to wait until next week. She tucked the check into her friend’s hand.

“I’m gonna be on my trip this weekend.”

“I’ll ask my mom if she can back me up,” Ororo informed her. “Drive safe. Road was slick on 99.”

“’Night.”

“’Night.” The front door clicked, and Ororo followed after her to put on the deadbolt.

The microwave hummed while she heated up the chicken and some steamed broccoli she remembered before it was due to become a science project. Ororo hated to cook. She heard familiar feet pad down the hall, and Katie stood rubbing her eyes and opening her mouth on a leonine, noisy yawn.

“Hi, Mom.”

“What are you doing up?”

“Heard you come home.” Without further preamble, she embraced her mother in a way that could only be defined as “plastering”. Ororo patted the top of her fuzzy head and kissed it.

“It’s late. Get back into bed.”

“Gotta use the bathroom.”

“All right. Then bed.” One more kiss and she padded off again. When Ororo heard the whirr of the fan light in the commode, she headed to the answering machine.

*BEEP* “Hey. It’s me. Call me back, O. Need to talk to you, all right? Don’t ask me about the check. Something came up. I know it’s due.” His voice held that belligerent note she’d grown accustomed to, the same one he used when he knew he’d done wrong. It never failed. She got mad at him, and he got mad preemptively at her for being mad.

Katie’s head leaned around the corner. “Was that Dad?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can we call him back?”

“Not right now. Go on back to bed.”

The next half hour was spent finishing dinner, opening and chucking out mail, and ruminating in front of Letterman. It was the only time she ever had to herself.

Her last stop was Katie’s room. She untangled the covers from around her skinny legs and tucked her back in, kissing her warm cheek. The “heathen” was nowhere to be found in this room right now, she beamed. When she was asleep, all of the years fell away, and Ororo was looking at her baby again.

She was all she had.
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Careful by OriginalCeenote
Now:

“Katie, stop that,” Ororo snapped. She reached over to snatch her from the ledge of the sidewalk where she pretended to walk a balance beam. Her right foot dipped centimeters shy of the street as she cat-stepped, letting her backpack bounce against her body. The morning was overcast again, and Ororo smelled and tasted a hint of rain in the air.

In typical Katie fashion, her daughter had to keep pushing the envelope.

“I’m not doing anything. I’m just walking,” she insisted. Her footing wobbled as cars whizzed and roared past at the green light. Katie stood out amongst the crowd of sedate people in trench coats and business beige, buttoned up snugly in her red fall jacket with a brown corduroy collar. Baby blue sneakers with Tinkerbell smiling out from the sides stomped through the shallow remains of puddles from the day before.

“Don’t do that, Katie, you’ll get people wet and your pants will be dirty!”

“I’m not getting anybody wet,” she sang innocently, but she found herself hauled firmly against her mother’s side by the hand. Ororo raised her eyebrows and lowered her voice.

“You’re getting your mother upset. I wouldn’t keep that up if I were you. Unless you feel like having a talk when we get home.” Katie peered up at her through solemn hazel eyes. “Talks” meant groundings and time-outs.

“Uh-uh.”

“Look both ways.” She diligently hooked her hand through the crook of Ororo’s arm, and they swam through the crowd of people crossing Main Street. The car was still in the shop, and the muffler was the tip of the costly iceberg. Her alternator was acting like it wanted to go out, and she was three hundred miles away from needing a tune-up.

So she was hoofing it to the Katie’s school from the route five transit, groaning at how much longer her day was just from waking up at the crack of dawn. The blankets whispered seductively, Don’t go. Stay. Feel how soft we are. You know you want to. She wrested herself from their embrace; they seemed to tangle around her and cling like Velcro to her flannel pajama bottoms. Oh, the humanity. They ran the gamut of their morning routine that found Ororo hunting down Katie’s backpack and nagging her to finish her cinnamon toast.

She was just so damned tired.

“I need a new lunch box,” Katie informed her before she resumed her cat-stepping along the curb.

“What happened to your old one?” Of course, it had actually been pretty new.

“I don’t know.” Ororo already promised her lunch money for pizza day, so she hadn’t noticed that it had gone missing over the weekend.

“You need to find out, then. I don’t have new lunch box money every time you lose your belongings, baby. You need to be more careful than that.” They were approaching the next intersection, four blocks from the school.

Before Ororo could launch into the rest of her lecture “ falling upon deaf ears “ she heard the ominous snap of Katie’s backpack’s toggle clasp giving way. Several items tumbled out, scattering across the pavement.

A pink rubber ball rolled free, bouncing into the street.

“I’ll get it!” Katie was off like a shot before Ororo could blink.

“KATIE! GET BACK HERE!” Her heart trip-hammered in her chest, and her voice rushed out in misty puffs into the frosty air. She didn’t think. Her own vinyl cold pack fell from her fingers, and her feet leapt from the curb. “KATIE!” Her flight stunned passerby for five breathless seconds.

The screech of brakes was shrill and deafening, followed by the thump of the rear tires bouncing to a halt. Her arms flew around her daughter’s slender, sturdy body, and she curled her own around her, sliding to her knees to avoid knocking them into the next lane. Her breath shuddered out from her lips, and the slam of a car door punctuated the murmur of voices in the street.

“Oh, my God,” she panted, “Katie, you can’t ever do that again! Do you hear me?”

“My ball fell out,” she answered in a small voice, and she looked stunned, suddenly afraid in the wake of what almost happened. Ororo stood on shaky legs, and she was greeted by the angriest looking man she’d ever seen. A long line of cars behind his made a stark backdrop, making her stomach roil. She tugged her daughter to safety, and she searched for words to appease the driver, who’d surely been scared out of ten years of life.

“Are ya okay?” he barked, his dark eyes pinning Ororo and her daughter to the spot. His face was regaining its color, and he was just getting warmed up. “She ran right out in front of my car!” he accused.

“I know; I’m so sorry,” Ororo began, hugging her daughter against her side. He scowled and relaxed his shoulders a bit; they’d locked themselves against his ears when he lurched to a stop.

“This woulda been the worst day of my life, lady, and yours, if I hadn’t stopped in time,” he snapped. He turned his gaze toward Katie, staring into her gamine face. “I know ya wanted yer ball back, kiddo, but ya coulda been hit by my car. When that happens, people don’t just get back up. There could’ve been an awful accident.”

“I dropped it,” she explained petulantly. His frown was still pasted firmly in place, even as his eyes roved over her to make sure she was all right. Ororo felt the tension thrumming within him like a plucked string.

“It’s important to remember yer street safety rules, kiddo.”

“Katie,” she little girl insisted, feeling a long, well-deserved lecture coming on. Two cars drifted into the next lane, edging around his once the spectacle was over and honking impatiently.

“Wait one sec,” he ordered Ororo tersely, and he turned sharply on his heel to retrieve and move his car. He pulled it up two spaces to parallel park. She was inwardly impressed with how easily he manipulated the wheel and parked on a dime. He hopped back out before she could begin to walk away; Ororo was restless with how late her watch said it was, and she had to get her child to school.

“Ya never run into the street,” Logan puffed. “I don’t care if the ball’s made out of solid gold. I’ve seen too many kids get hurt.” Ororo’s mouth settled into a mulish line when he said “I watched ya for two blocks. Keep your girl off the curb.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” She gathered up her lunch pack and Katie’s backpack, stuffing the contents inside. She was bristling and muttering under her breath when she felt a gentle nudge through her sleeve.

Katie’s ball, gripped in a broad, large-boned hand. She followed the line of his arm to his face. It seemed familiar, and intense. Anger still tightened his features, but there was nothing unkind in his eyes or tone.

“Here. Don’t let anything happen to it.”

“Thanks.” She plucked it from his grip and stuffed it inside. The momentary contact when her fingers grazed his made her shiver; his skin felt slightly rough and warm.

“M’sorry, Mom,” Katie murmured. Ororo spared her a glance, and her daughter’s face was crumpling, the first sheen of tears appearing in her eyes.

His rough demeanor softened just for a second. “I don’t want anything to happen to ya.” His words were earnest. Ororo emitted a ragged sigh. She was glad he’d stopped and shown some concern; his hard demeanor rankled, and it was scaring her daughter.

“We’ll get going,” Ororo announced. Then she added, “We didn’t mean to hold you up like this, or practically give you a heart attack.”

“Ya did a fair job of both,” he admitted. Her hair had come slightly loose from her bun. It was a startling, blazing white, even though she was only in her mid-thirties. He’d bet on it. His fingers itched to touch it; he had no idea where that urge came from. “Please. Just stay safe.”

“Say goodbye to Mister…?” Ororo waited for him to supply a name. Katie looked at him expectantly.

“Howlett.” He cocked his head at the woman’s little girl. Her mannerisms reminded him of Gayle.

It still hurt. It pained him a little more when she ducked behind the flap of her mother’s coat when he stared too long. “Goodbye, Mister Howlett,” he heard her mumble.

“Bye,” Ororo murmured, and she tugged Katie along with her. He got back into his car and cursed at the spilled coffee dripping onto his upholstery. He spied the clock; he had ten minutes to get to work for a fifteen-minute drive, and he was already fishing his cell out of his pocket. She was nearly out of sight by the time he rejoined the stream of traffic, but he caught tresses of that remarkable hair whipping loose, a sharp contrast to her daughter’s sandy crown of curls.


~0~

Ororo was in a lather by the time she reached the women’s locker room and signed in. Bella stared at her grimly as she shucked her coat.

“Emma’s on the war path,” she quipped. “We’re short today.”

“Great,” she groaned. She checked her hair in the mirror above the sink. It was hopeless; she took it down and re-pinned it anyway.

“What held you up?”

“Just my little girl, almost getting herself killed,” she replied cavalierly, even though she was still shaken. Bella’s intake of breath was accompanied by wide blue eyes as she covered her mouth.

“Shit!” she cried before smothering the profanity.

“S’okay. I said and thought worse.” She still sounded rattled. “It was bad enough trying to get here on the bus with no ride for Katie today and no car. But her backpack flew open and this damned ball rolled out right into traffic.”

“Wow. I would have been seriously upset and then crying my thank you’s to God.”

“Everything stopped,” Ororo replied. “Even when I’m old and gray “ really gray,” she qualified, “I won’t forget how horrible that was.”

“So what happened?”

“The driver hopped out of his car and gave us good tongue-lashing. I don’t blame him, but that didn’t make me feel any better. It’s just lucky he didn’t end up rear-ended, too.”

“But Katie’s okay?”

“She was shook up; she cried when we got to school, and she didn’t want me to leave.” The feeling was mutual. It was always hard to let go.

Emma breezed inside, meeting Ororo’s apologetic look with one of annoyance. “You need to get out there, we’re understaffed, and we just had two air transports from a wreck a hundred miles from here.” She peered down at Ororo’s lunch sack. “Put that away,” she huffed. Ororo’s eyes screamed No, duh. Emma hurried back out in a pink blur.

“Back to the salt mines,” Bella sighed, and Ororo gave a weak wave as she went to stow her lunch. She unzipped the flap and frowned.

“Great.” Everything had spilled. Her bread was soaked. She ended up emptying the contents and rinsing out the pack. Hello, vending machine.

Her morning was complete when she found a sticky note on her timecard. Luke had called her at work. She swallowed back the beginnings of indigestion.


~0~


“Ya seem mighty quiet, homme,” Remy remarked as they navigated through the business district, on their way to a call about public fighting and disturbing the peace. Logan scrubbed his hand over his face.

“Day’s been crap, and it ain’t even noon.”

“Who pissed in yer coffee?”

“It wasn’t like that.” After a pregnant pause, his voice rumbled through thin lips. “I almost ran down a little girl.” Remy sobered, his black eyes full of concern. “Damn. She all right?”

“Yeah. I ain’t. Her mom looked pretty shook up. That ain’t how I wanna start my day. Scared the crap outta both of us.”

“How old was the girl?”

“’Bout ten. Old enough to know better. She ran after her ball.”

“I hate that. Damn it, I hate that more’n anyt’in’.”

“Ya know me. The speed limit’s my Bible. And ya know why.” Remy listened intently as he turned right. “So I guess if anybody had ta have a near miss, it had ta be me.”

“Ya think?”

“Yep. Anyone else wouldn’t have missed.” Remy nodded thoughtfully. They didn’t have any trouble finding the source of the disturbance. A small crowd of bystanders were blocking the sidewalk when they parked.

The crowd dispersed as soon as they approached. Logan’s eyes looked like flat chips of black ice. Two young men who were old enough to know better broke apart when they saw them and attempted to rearrange rumpled clothing. Both of their faces bore myriad cuts; the shorter of the two had the beginnings of a swollen lip. Remy took up the gauntlet first.

“We’ll need you folks t’clear out of the area now,” he informed them, his tone crisp and once again all business. Logan’s eyes swept over the two men, searching for bulging pockets. When the onlookers weren’t moving fast enough, Remy strode forward and continued to wave them away. People dragged stubborn feet away from the curb while Logan approached them.

“We received word of a disturbance. Physical altercations aren’t allowed in public places like these, and I think ya know that,” Logan mused. The taller one already had scars across his nose from previous conduct, marring an otherwise clear, almond brown complexion. His eyes flitted between the two officers, and Logan saw dawning realization that he wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of this one.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t try.

“We weren’t doin’ nuthin’, officer, we just had an argument, you know, and my boy was just messin’ with me…” This was met by a scowl from the other one, who was rocking back and forth from one foot to the other, looking like he wanted to bolt.

“Yer boy, eh?”

“We weren’t doin’ nuthin’,” he insisted. “I was on my way to work!”

“Looks like y’might end up bein’ late,” Remy sighed as he beckoned to him, tugging him by the arm toward the squad car. He patted him down quickly and found no blunt objects or weapons; he ignored the muttered curses of disgust. Logan followed his partner’s example as he took down their names, mentally cataloguing the details that would end up in his report before the day was through.

When they were securely cuffed and tucked into the car, Remy was just radioing dispatch when Logan’s eyes gave the street one more sweep. Various sets of eyes stared back at them from shop windows and a nearby newsstand. His glance hesitated at the sight of a tall, dark-skinned man clad in a Minnesota Vikings jacket, rifling furtively through the magazines and taking his time selecting a pack of gum at the register. He continued to peer at the squad car, trying to sneak looks inside.

His eyes were still following them as they pulled away.


~0~


Ororo’s stomach rumbled noisily as she crammed the key into her lock, but her first priority was to call her mother to let her know she was home so she could drop off Katie. She ran through her to-do list, mentally ticking off points on her fingers. Homework. More permission slips. Bills. Balancing her checkbook. Calling Belladonna to RSVP no to her Pampered Chef party that weekend. Calling the shop back to see when her car would be ready.

She drew herself up short as soon as she set foot in her empty apartment. Something felt wrong. Something smelled wrong. Her sneakered feet lightened their steps as she made her way down the front hall without shutting the door behind her.

She clapped her hands over her mouth on a hollow, hoarse cry. “Oh, my God!”

Her kitchen was a shambles. Sofa and couch cushions were overturned, her kitchen jars lay smashed across the counter and floor, leaving fresh scars in the linoleum. Food that she hadn’t left out of the refrigerator was lying open on the kitchen table, spilling from the Tupperware bowls. A small wooden jewelry box that she used for spare change instead had been emptied except for a few pennies winking up at her from the carpet.

A photo of herself and Katie was missing from a frame on the side table, its glass cracked. Terror bloomed across her flesh, leaving icy tingles in its wake.

She felt weak in the knees as her feet carried her toward her bedroom, her heart pounding its way out of her chest. She felt violated and raw, but she already had her cell phone out of her purse as she rounded the corner to peer inside. A voice of reason screamed at her to get out, and move it as fast as she could, but she squelched it.

Nothing had been spared. Bed sheets were flung aside, her hamper was emptied, and her clothes littered the floor, the wire hangers hanging crookedly and tangled together along the rack. More of her personal effects were strewn about. Her underwear drawer hadn’t been spared; it even hung slack from the runner, gaping open and about to fall loose.

Her computer was missing from its nook in her desk.

“Oh, God, no,” she moaned. All of her personal information. All of her pictures of Katie, taken. Her hands were trembling as she made her way out again, knowing she had to see one more thing before she exited her ruined home.

Katie’s room. She nudged it open with her elbow, letting her eyes sweep over her daughter’s belongings.

Everything was intact except for the same disregard for the drawers in her bureau. Her clothes were still hanging but were shoved askew, as though whoever it was couldn’t be bothered to do a more thorough search. The biggest offense was that the tiny jewelry box that Kitty had given her as a gift for her First Communion was gone, and the keepsake gold identification bracelet engraved with her name with it. The covers on her bed were rumpled and folded aside as though someone looked under it.

She’d finished dialing 911 before she even left the apartment.
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When You Feel So Tired, But You Can’t Sleep by OriginalCeenote
“How soon can you get here, baby?”

“Not yet. Just, not yet. I’m just tired, Momma.”

“Come straight over here, do you hear me, Ororo N’Dare?” Ororo heard the sounds of Law and Order: SVU and a whistling kettle in the background.

“They’re getting ready to do a walk-through, Mom.”

“I just put Katie to bed.”

“Thank goodness!”

“She overheard me when you called. Child’s eyes were so big…she’s in bed fretting, baby. Come home soon.”

“I want to get some of Katie’s things, once it’s okay.” She bowed her head into her hands and rubbed her throbbing temples. The sound of footsteps on the slick pavement roused her from her numb haze. “Momma, I’ve got to go. Be home soon.”

“I’ll be waiting.’ Her mother’s sigh was heavy, but her voice remained steady. “Love you, baby.”

“You, too.” Her hands fumbled as she folded her phone shut.

“Ms. Munroe? I’m Officer LeBeau. We’re respondin’ to yer call ‘bout a burglary?” She nodded and tried to stand on shaky legs before he nudged her back onto the front stoop. “It’s all right, ma’am, don’t get up yet. Ya look a little overwhelmed.”

She nodded again. “Sure. You could say that.” Her breath froze in little puffs as it left her mouth. Old tear tracks felt clammy on her cheeks; she hadn’t checked her watch. It was past Katie’s bedtime, and hers, too. There was no help for it. She dimly heard a door slam on the patrol car. The red and blue lights atop the vehicle spun eerie prisms over the walls of the brownstone building where she’d waited for them to take her report.

“Ma’am, I’m Officer Howlett, and I’ll be joining Officer LeBeau in our search of your home.” His voice was calm, a deep and soothing rumble with an accent that was familiar.

Her breath caught as she looked up into the face of the man who’d handed her back Katie’s ball and chewed her a new one that morning. The gruffness was gone, and gradual recognition dawned on his face. “Ya just arrived home and walked in ta find yer home had been broken into?”

“Yes. I just came back from work.” He made thoughtful sounds as he made notations, nodding and training intelligent dark eyes on her face. “Thank God my daughter wasn’t here.”

“Can ya wait inside, close by, while we do a walk-through, Ms. Munroe?” Officer LeBeau and his partner were as different in their appearance as night and day. The taller man with the slightly southern patois was slender, almost “pretty” rather than handsome and he was built on long, lean lines. He was fairer skinned than Mr. Howlett, too, and wasn’t quite as hairy; he wouldn’t be one of those men who was cleanly shaven every morning and showing signs of new growth by mid-afternoon. Mr. Howlett, on the other hand, was exactly that kind of man.

Ororo had situated herself in a neighboring apartment building in the front lobby while she’d waited for them earlier, inside the door with a reinforced glass window. It unnerved her to be outside of her apartment building, feeling violated. It didn’t look like a home anymore.

It was a crime scene, now.

“I don’t want you to have to look far for me while you’re doing this,” she assured him weakly. Her nose tried to betray her; the tip was numb and she kept sniffling against the cold air. She heard a faint rustling, and a wad of clean, folded Kleenex was pressed into her hand.

“No, you’re right. I just don’t want ya ta get too cold while we’re working inside. Were gonna take a look around, ma’am, and look for signs of where they might’ve come in from. We’d also like to talk to your landlord.”

“Landlady,” she corrected him. “Her name’s Carol. She lives on the first floor.”

“We’d like ta ask her if she heard or saw any signs of a scuffle or anything out of the ordinary.”

“Great,” she muttered. “Maybe if she had, I wouldn’t have come home to such a mess. I’m just glad…glad that Katie wasn’t here with me when I came home!”

“Thank goodness fer small favors. Have ya got someplace ta stay tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Then give me a few minutes.” LeBeau had already gone inside. Officer Howlett was already checking his flashlight and preparing to enter the apartment.

He looked imposing, even powerful in his dress blues and black jacket; the uniform seemed to lend him more height, and he was a very compact man. She hadn’t noticed that before at the intersection.

It still nagged at her, the strange sense of déjà vu that she had the moment he’d rushed out of his car. Where on earth did she know him from?

Logan, on the other hand, had an epiphany when he spied her lanyard peeking out from the open flap of her coat.

Ororo M., RN. He hadn’t paid attention that morning to the fact that she was wearing scrub bottoms and sneakers. All he remembered were those eyes, that hair, restrained sensibly for work.

She’d witnessed the single worst day of his life. Now, he was an audience for hers.

His face was a mask. Neither one of them acknowledged the connection as he nodded to her one last time. She watched his broad, straight back disappear through the apartment door before she gave into the trembling shock and more tears.

“They were pretty thorough,” Remy informed him matter-of-factly. He paused by the smaller of the two bedrooms. “Looks like her daughter ain’t that old.”

“She ain’t,” Logan replied. Remy gave him a curious look. “That’s the woman I met this morning.”

“Damn,” Remy muttered under his breath. “First dat. Now dis.”

“Yeah. Ya don’t know the half of it. Check under the bed,” Logan murmured, pointing to the disheveled sheets. The room was a study in pinks and purples. A satin-covered picture board trimmed in ribbons and half-peeling stickers crowned the twin-sized bed. A grinning Katie and several of her friends hammed it up in what looked like Chuck E Cheese.

“Yep. They sure didn’t leave much.” He perused the kitchen, scanning the open cabinets and the overturned change box. Something red caught his eye. A construction paper Valentine’s Day card with “I love you, Mommy” spelled out in white puff paint was trimmed in macaroni noodles, hung up with a pizzeria magnet. Something inside Logan twisted and began to ache.

Gayle. Jean had kept a small cardboard memory box of goodies like that from their daughter in the attic. Keepsakes that they’d enjoy long after she was grown. Logan’s favorite had been a similar masterpiece she’d given him of a sunny sky with cotton ball clouds.

The interiors of closets were illuminated by their flashlights. There were signs like scratch marks and scuffs along the walls and doors where they’d been jerked open.

“Looks like they took dere time, mec,” Remy remarked. “Dey ate a san’wich.”

“Are ya kiddin’ me?” He huffed, taken aback by the otherwise spotless counter holding a plate of crumbs and a crust of bread. “Sheesh.”

“Dey came in through de front door. Someone had a spare, or dey got someone t’let ‘em in.”

“Time ta interview Ms. Munroe. I ain’t gonna enjoy doin’ this report.”

“Ya hate ‘em anyway, mon ami.”

“It’s one thing when ya answer a call on a 459 when ya haven’t met the caller before. But it’s different when they have a face.”

One of the last details he noticed was the cracked picture frame in the bedroom. He’d bet anything that whoever did it knew Ororo. And that unsettled him.

Just as telling was the lack of a father in the picture, in any picture in the house.

By the time they reached her again, she was flanked by an attractive blonde woman approximately the same age who was gently rubbing her back. Ororo’s eyes were red-rimmed and still moist, and the tissues were crumpled and tattered in her grip.

“Was that it? Can I get some of my things?”

“Yes,” Logan replied. “In a minute. I’d also like ta talk with yer landlady?”

“That’s me. My name’s Carol. How can I help?”

“Didja hear anything or see anything outta the ordinary?”

“No. Not so much as a scuffle. The only thing I heard before Ororo got home were some male voices in the front lobby, but none in the hall outside her door. They could have been anyone, and I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry,” she apologized, to Ororo. “You might want to ask her downstairs neighbors if they heard feet overhead.”

“Ms. Munroe, can ya think of anyone that had access ta yer home?”

“The only person who has a spare key anymore is Stevie, my babysitter.”

“When’s the last time ya talked ta her?”

“Yesterday. She wasn’t due to come over today because my mom’s watching Katie.”

“All right. The two of ya get along fine?”

“She’s my best friend.” Logan made some more notes. Both men listened with intent interest.

“Anyone else ya come into contact with that knows where ya live?” He saw the wheels turning in her head and watched her lips move silently until she met his gaze.

“My ex. I mean, Katie’s father. He and I haven’t lived together for about five years.”

“Okay.” He made a few more notes. “Thanks for filling us in, ma’am.”

“Of course. I’ll let you know if I think of anything else.” Remy gave her the police station phone number and directions for contacting them. She thanked him quietly and turned to Logan.

“Could you let me inside to collect some of my things?”

“I’ll escort you in.” Logan motioned for her to follow him. He brushed past her as he held open the door. She picked up various scents, including aftershave and something faintly metallic and fresh. She nudged open her door and the flood of emotions from her first sight of the damage came rushing back. Something inside her snapped.

“Oh, God, I can’t handle this right now,” she wailed. She leaned back against the wall, not trusting her legs to support her, until she finally slumped to the floor and hid her face behind her knees. She sobbed loudly, unabashed and unchecked. Her shoulders shook. “Why the fuck would someone…someone just come up in here and do this? What did I do? What did I ever do!”

“This might be a lot ta expect of yerself right now, comin’ back in when it looks like this. Do ya need a couple of minutes?” She nodded. Her voice was a hoarse squeak in the back of her throat, and when she peered back him, messy tendrils of hair framed her blotchy face. She looked vulnerable and deflated. Frustration on her behalf mingled with a need to protect her as he knelt beside her. “I’m not leaving ya alone for the moment, let me know what ya need, Ms. Munroe.” He didn’t touch her, but his eyes seemed to stroke her, cataloguing the emotions that flitted over her face, the grip of her arms around her knees.

“I’m okay,” she insisted. She pushed away from the wall, and a strong hand caught hers, helping her rise to her feet. “I’m getting Katie’s things,” she announced.

“That’s fine.” She paused uncertainly at the bedroom door, her chin set as she once again surveyed the damage.

“They’d do this to a little girl’s room.”

“I know.” He nudged her gently forward. “It’s okay, get what she needs.”

“I almost don’t want to bring her back here. I just need to get back to her. This was a jacked up, messed up thing to do.” She moved more purposefully around the room, peering in drawers and removing clothing, folding it neatly on top of the bed. She dug a handful of hair elastics and barrettes from a cup on the dresser, and she tugged three paperback books from the pink case.

“I know. Yer home’s yer sanctuary. And a kid’s room is their own place ta think.” She paused a moment to stare at him.

“Yes, it is.” The silence between them was charged and heavy. He moved aside as she stepped into the hall, heading toward her own room.

She selected fewer things for herself: Pajamas, socks, underthings (Logan turned away for a moment as she dug in the upper drawer), a hairbrush, and a fresh pair of scrubs. Now she was in more of a hurry to leave. She shoved everything into a small blue duffle bag and zipped it.

“There. Let’s go.”

“All right.”

“D’ya need a ride, ma’am?” LeBeau inquired.

“She’ll be fine,” Carol intervened. “I’ll take her. Her car’s in the shop.”

“That sounds good,” Ororo agreed. “No offense,” she offered, “but I don’t want my momma’s neighbors to see me getting out of the back of a patrol car.” Remy suppressed a smile.

“Keep in touch,” Logan admonished. Aside from a call back to dispatch, their ride back to the station was relatively quiet.


~0~

Luke Cage sat huddled deep in his lumpy sofa as the large screen television broadcasting the UFC match threw bluish light over his face in the dark.

Easy in, easy out was what he told himself as he keyed his way into O’s place. She didn’t know he’d made himself a copy of his old key, and she never had her apartment manager change the locks. He fished his key ring from his pocket and examined it in the dim light, fiddling with it as he turned the volume up with the remote.

Danny played it cool outside his old place, parking three buildings down in Luke’s battered old Dodge. He’d sold his Charger, even though it was two years old, and he’d taken care of it like a child.

~0~

He’d come up short the last time Fisk’s right hand man, Bullseye, knocked on his door. He never knew his real name, only that he was one mean sonofabitch with a wicked tattoo on his cheek of a leaping cobra. Several more of them seemed to drip down his neck, bleeding beneath the collar of his Southpole jerseys.

Eyes as hard and flat as old pennies sized him up when Luke exited his apartment the night before.

“Ya fucked up,” he told him by way of greeting.

“S’up,” Luke shrugged, reaching into his pocket for a pack of gum to give himself something to do with his hands.

“Word’s out that you were there when Tiny got busted with Farouk’s man on Gifford.”

“Tiny? Who dat?” Luke cracked his gum, but he began to sweat. “I dunno shit.”

“You don’t, eh?” Luke shrugged.

“Some of Fisk’s shit didn’t make it where it was s’posed ta go.”

“Don’t lay that shit on me, ese!” Bullseye’s smile was reptilian, revealing a chipped tooth and stretching his tattoo more tightly against his cheek.

“Fisk is gonna lay some shit on you if he doesn’t get his goods back. Or if he doesn’t get his money. One or the other, dumbfuck! Make up your mind, eh?” He closed the gap between them, coming close enough for him to smell the clove cigarettes on his breath and to see the broken capillaries in his eyes. “Between you an’ me, might be easier t’get him the money!” he muttered, elbowing him to let him in on the joke. Luke reared back as if he’d been stung.

“You didn’t see me. I didn’t see you.”

“It’s like that?”

“It’s like that. I’ll talk to Fisk. Not you.”

“Wrong answer, ese. When you talk to Fisk, you talk to me.” He shoved his hands into deep denim pockets, and Luke noticed his hand wrapping ominously around something inside. Word had it, Bullseye was handy with a blade… “Be seein’ you.”

“Where you think you’ll be seein’ me, huh? HUH?” he called after him as he sauntered away, ducking into a subway tunnel. His blood ran cold.

~0~

Luke knew the best way to cover his tracks was to make it look like he had nothing to hide. Ororo’s computer ended up in an old box, packed on a handcart. He looked like a delivery man, dressed in nondescript clothes, smiling at her neighbors in passing as he made his way out through the security door.

He knew her habits. She squirreled away spare change throughout the house, whether it was laundry money, or a rainy day stash in the kitchen cabinet for things like car parts or a late utility bill. He felt no compunction about the jewelry he’d taken; he’d bought her the gold necklace back in the day, when she knew how to treat a man. Before she started bitching and picking him apart. Memories of those first days sometimes rocked him to sleep, or sometimes made him sour. He refused to let them make him guilty.

He needed the money more than she did. Hell, she’d get it back from him, anyway, if she went to the DA about the late payment.

Danny Rand eyed him coolly as he climbed back into his car with the take. “Let’s roll.”

“No shit.” He had to meet his fence by three. He silently fingered the tiny gold identity bracelet engraved with his daughter’s name. Katie had to be big by now…

And that brought him here, still short by a grand and with no alibi for where he was when he saw Tiny and Mick riding away in the back of the Crown Vic. The drop had gone wrong. All wrong.

He finished watching the fight and a movie he didn’t remember the name of until his eyes grew heavy and dry. He ignored the dirty dishes in the sink on his way back to bed. He stripped off his clothes and chucked them at the hamper, then paused as something fluttered out of his sweatshirt pocket.

He stooped to pick up the photograph of Katie and Ororo and gently smoothed it before setting it on his bedside table.


~0~

At home in the dim lamplight of his bedroom, Logan stared at the faded blue piece of construction paper, scrawled in crayon of a rainbow and smiling sun. He fingered the deteriorating cotton balls before returning it to the box by his bed and extinguishing the light.

Red-rimmed blue eyes dogged his sleep.
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Out of Order by OriginalCeenote
Logan cursed as he closed the panel on the dryer. It was official: His machine was dead. D-E-A-D. The heating element was out and it needed a new drum. The cost of repair was more than it cost to schlep out and buy a new one.

His laundry hamper loomed tall and imposing in the corner of his room, stacked to overflowing with clothes that he’d stretched two days too long. His whites still lay dripping in the Rubbermaid laundry basket where he’d tossed them while the old Kenmore gave up its death rattle. It was Saturday.

No way was he missing the Bruins game. No freakin’ way.

He sighed and rose from his uncomfortable crouch, glancing at the basket once more before he retrieved his cap. He fetched his large black duffle from the hall closet and returned to the hamper. Logan scooped armfuls of clothes into it and zipped it shut, not without struggle since it bulged.

“Keys, keys,” he muttered to himself, patting his pockets before heading into the living room. They gleamed up at him from the coffee table. Logan seldom used the small, wooden key holder Jean brought back from their trip to Mexico, but it still hung by the patio door. Aqui Estan Tus Pinches Llaves was painted on the plaque, flanked by cactuses and tumbleweeds. It didn’t match a damned thing in the kitchen, something that still baffled Logan to that day. Jean hated things that looked out of place.

Minutes later he was balancing his basket of whites and the duffle slung over his shoulder as he pushed through the door of the Laundromat. The large bottle of red PowerAde gleamed and sloshed atop his damp, dirty socks.

He plunked his wash beside the heavy duty washer and fished in his pockets for his spare change. The laundry detergent dispenser was out of Tide; he settled for two packets of Cheer granules instead, and some of the dry bleach.

The Laundromat was nearly empty; two college-aged girls chatted over textbooks as they dried their delicates and stole looks at him, telling him he’d gotten there early enough to beat the rush of students. Weekends sucked.

An elderly woman was just folding up her belongings and tucking them into an old-fashioned wicker basket while he loaded his darks. He eyed the dryer she abandoned covetously, since it was closest to the television in the corner.

Now he could watch his game.

~0~

“I don’t wanna do laundry,” Katie complained sourly as she fiddled with one of her Barbies. The doll was had copper-colored hair and was wearing an outfit Ororo would have been sent home from high school for, back in the day. Toy companies should be ashamed of themselves…

“Gran-gran doesn’t have a machine, baby.” Ororo was reluctant to voice her real concerns out loud: She didn’t feel safe in her apartment building anymore. Her trips back to gather more clothing for herself and Katie were brief; she always fled like hounds were nipping at her heels.

Luke wasn’t answering his phone. Ironically, he’d sent half the check before she could head back to the DA. Way to cover your ass, Luke.

Ororo didn’t trust her ex as far as she could throw him, and she couldn’t budge him an inch. Her daughter had switched gears and quit grumbling in favor of singing the theme song to Hannah Montana under her breath. Her mother sighed her relief as they parked Gran-gran’s car outside and fed the meter for the full two hours.

Katie was garbed in her blue coat that she’d barely outgrown so that Ororo could wash the red one. Katie was getting Ororo’s money’s worth out of it, diligently wearing home half of the playground grunge everyday, making the fabric appear dingy and gray. She nagged Katie to hold open the swinging door for her as she balanced her laundry basket on her hip.

Two girls who looked fresh out of high school turned and shot Katie a smile. Katie glanced at them shyly and froze in her tracks for a moment, then grinned before she ran off toward the television in the back. She was such a little flirt.

“Katie! Come help me load the wash!”

“Cartoons, Mom! They’ve got cartoons!” Ororo looked in the direction her daughter had run and only saw what looked like a hockey game on the set, getting somewhat poor reception. She heard muted cursing from over the edge of the machines, seeing the top of a dark head. Great. Now Katie would learn more new words.

“You can watch it when we get home!”

“They’ll be over,” she whined back, pouting back at her from around the corner of the washing machines. Ororo’s expression was full of warning and contained no nonsense.

“Katie, what did I say about not listening the first time I ask you something?”

“Mom…”

“Come over here and help load the wash. Now.” Katie sulked, stomping her sneakers the entire way and flinging her doll onto one of the hard vinyl chairs bolted to the floor. “That’s not how we act like a big girl.”

“Don’t wanna be a big girl.”

“Acting like a little girl will get you in trouble, Katie. Straighten up and wipe that look off your face.” Ororo could picture her own mother shaking her head and grinning like the Cheshire cat, hearing those age-old words she’d bestowed upon her when she first brought Luke home: One of these days, child, you’ll have a hardheaded daughter who’s just like you. Grandmothers across the world worked their voodoo with those wicked, vengeful words, including but not limited to You want that, sweetie? You can have it, or Ororo’s favorite, Mine are grown, I get to come on over, play, and then hand her back to you.

Katie reluctantly threw herself into the task, picking up individual items like single socks, panties or Ororo’s brassieres and dropping them into the machine. Ororo scolded her on a hiss when she inadvertently dragged one of them onto the floor, out in the open. Just what she needed, with a man on the other side of the row of dryers who could come see her unmentionables out in the open. Her scrubs went in last, right after she emptied change out of the pockets. She gave Katie two quarters and sent her skipping to the soda machine to get them a Sprite.

Ororo was so absorbed in the drowsy thrum of the machines and the Terry McMillan book she brought that she didn’t notice when Katie disappeared. Her Barbie lay all on her lonesome on the chair.


~0~


Logan was stealing glances at the screen every few minutes as he folded his whites, finally dry, and searched for missing socks.

The puck fouled, costing his team a goal. “Are ya shittin’ me?” Logan griped. “No friggin’ way!”

He thought he felt eyes on him, but every time he peered around to see, there was no one there. He headed back to the heavy duty machine to remove his darks and replace them with an old blanket that had seen better days.

When he got back to the set, he was greeted by the theme song to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He made a low sound of disgust under his breath. From the back, he saw a head full of fuzzy brown curls bobbing back and forth to the tune.

As though she had forgotten something, she darted off, never seeing him. Her build and that hair were both oddly familiar, but he never saw her face.

He punched the channel to his game into the remote and went back to sorting his socks. You snooze, you lose, he reasoned.

He still felt eyes watching him, this time catching girlish sneakers disappearing around the corner of the row of washers before he could see the culprit. Stinker. Logan suppressed a grin.

Ororo looked up from her book to spy Katie peering around the corner of the machines, being entirely too quiet and pensive.

“What are you up to, Katie?” She looked impish and entirely guilty as she spun to face her mother.

“Nothing,” she chirped, running to retrieve her doll and studiously watching the white load swirl around in the machine.

“Uh-huh,” Ororo muttered, cocking an eyebrow over the edge of A Day Late and a Dollar Short. “Likely story. Be good.”

“I am!” Katie swung her legs back and forth and fiddled with the doll’s hair, rigorously abusing it with a pocket-sized comb.

She was so damned much like Luke.

One chapter of Ororo’s book later found Katie missing again.

Logan had one more rinse cycle to go and one last quarter (of his game). He drained the last swallow of PowerAde and chucked it into the garbage, gaining two points.

When he came back from the vending machine with his Coke, he was greeted by Go, Diego, Go!

“Shit!” he yelped before he could stop himself.

“Oooooooo! You said a bad word!” a childish voice informed him, nearly making him drop his soda.

Wide hazel eyes stared up at him accusingly as she stood with her arms folded, a battered Barbie clenched in her grip.

It was the troublemaker with the ball. That meant…

“KATIE! What are you doing over here?” Ororo saw the cause of her daughter’s continued absence. “You can watch that mess at Gran-gran’s, Katie. Let the nice man watch…oh. Hi.” A lecture on bothering strangers evaporated on her lips as she recognized him, taking in his Saturday rags and the well-worn Ropers on his feet. The brim of his Yankees cap was pulled low over his face; he tipped it up in greeting as she approached.

“Yer daughter here don’t much appreciate my taste in TV,” he explained with a shrug.

She looked harried and mussed, but she was still striking, even without makeup. A pair of flannel sweats just one step shy of pajama bottoms draped long, slender legs. Her sweatshirt was a faded periwinkle blue embroidered with an Old Navy logo.

Katie picked that moment to beat a hasty retreat, darting off toward her mother’s machine. Ororo’s hands rose to rest on her hips. She tsked under her breath as she faced him.

“I wondered why she was so quiet all of the sudden.”

“That’s the signal to run,” Logan drawled. “Never trust silence in any kid under the age of 18.”

“You sound like an expert.” Her error only struck her after the words were out of her mouth. His smile faltered slightly, but he recovered.

“I always considered myself a novice at that kinda thing.” They shared a long, tense look, loaded with unspoken questions. Ororo’s eyes projected an apology.

“You can put it back on whatever you were watching. Unless you were enjoying this.”

“Still better than half the crap they show on TV nowadays,” he admitted.

“You don’t worship at the shrine of ‘Survivors’ or ‘American Idol?’, then?”

“Ya’d hafta hand me a letter opener ta stab myself in the eye with before turnin’ on either of those. Thinkin’ ‘bout downgrading my cable package ta just show the stuff I’m gonna watch. I don’t need that many choices.” He didn’t add that it was because he lived alone. Instead he popped open his can of Coke and took a thirsty gulp. Ororo silently watched his throat working down the liquid. Lean cords of muscle stood out in his neck, and he was slightly stubbled. He had on his “weekend face.”

She decided she liked it.

She was stirred from her reverie when he asked “How ya holdin’ up, darlin’?”

“Excuse me?” The question momentarily confused her. “Oh. Me? I’m…okay, I guess.” She motioned to Katie, who was oblivious to the grownups’ conversation and making her doll dance to her offkey singing.

“It can be a shock, havin’ something like that happen to ya…ya said yer name was ‘Roro?” Somehow, he knew he had it wrong, but she smiled, taking several years from her face.

“Ororo,” she corrected him, but she was flattered he remembered. He catalogued it briefly as he began to fold his laundry and pile them in a huge duffle on the bench. He was meticulous, flattening each shirt and smoothing out the wrinkles before folding them in threes. Then she realized she was staring at his hands.

She reached around him to pluck the remote from atop the washer, grazing him. He stiffened, taking in the faint whiff of her scent that brief contact had given him. She flipped through the channels until she landed on his game. “That it?”

“Yup.”

“I’m in your way. I’ll let you get back to-“

“Don’t worry about it. Yer not in my way, Ororo.”

“Was my daughter in your hair?”

“Didn’t occur to me it was her til she heard me…ah, sneeze.” It was a feeble lie.

“Gesundheit,” she offered. Her lips twisted, telling him she didn’t believe him, either. “Little rabbits have big ears, too.”

“That one does,” Logan retorted, drawing her gaze back toward Katie, who was diligently studying them and kicking the leg of her seat in time with the thump of the tumbling clothes. Ororo beckoned to her to come over.

“Say hello to Mr. Howlett, Katie.”

“Hi,” she mumbled. Her hand crept into her mother’s and she swung it back and forth, a universal sign of impatience.

“Ya keepin’ yer mom busy? And are ya stayin’ on the sidewalks?”

“Yes.” Her expression was indignant this time.

“Good girl. How old are ya, Katie?”

“Ten.” She puffed up with pride.

Gayle’s age. He was right. That took him back. Way back. The memory of a slender nurse watching him from the hospital doorway, round with child, returned to him in a rush.

“Do ya still work in Pedes?” he asked. She seemed startled.

“Sometimes. I’m an ER nurse now.”

“Don’t sound like a walk in the park.”

“Neither was Pedes,” she admitted quietly. “But I still love my job.”

“At the end of the day, that’s kinda all that matters.” Katie picked that moment to intervene.

“Why do you watch hockey?”

“It’s my favorite.”

“It’s boring,” she complained.

“Why do you watch Ninja Turtles?” he challenged. He planted his hands on his hip and waggled his eyebrows at her.

“Because it’s not boring old hockey.” That’ll put you in your place. The look Ororo gave him screamed it. Katie had graduated from merely swinging Ororo’s hand to hanging on her and trying to drag her arm out of the socket.

“Katie, stop that, please.” She excused herself. “We’d better go. The natives are getting restless.” Her feet didn’t want to obey her.

He smelled good. She caught a faintly metallic scent on him, coupled with detergent and fading cologne. When she’d leaned past him earlier, she could have sworn she caught the scent of his hair.

He was handsomer than she remembered, seeming less intimidating when he wasn’t wearing his dress blues. When he raised the brim of his hat to scratch his forehead, the overhead lights shone in his eyes, not black like she’d assumed before, but a dark coffee brown with a warm amber cast. Like the Coke he was drinking, she mused, if he’d poured it into a glass. Fine lines flared out from the corners, naming him a man who knew how to laugh, despite the sadness in their depths.

Katie had already taken off again. “Mom, let’s go!” She yanked open the door to the dryer and hastily pulled items into Ororo’s basket.

“Cheemaneez!” Ororo hissed, or what sounded like it, to Logan’s ears. She hurried to rescue her delicates.

Logan enjoyed watching her move. He stole looks at both females as he finished his own chore and slung the duffle over his shoulder.

He called back to them on his way out. “See ya around, Ororo. Katie.” Ororo looked up and waved, still distracted by Katie’s attempts to gather the rest of the clothes from the machine.

“Oh. Sorry! ‘Bye, er, Logan!” She wondered why he did a double take as she waved at him.

Too late she felt the article of clothing she clutched in the hand she was waving with.

It was the same bra she’d nabbed from Katie before. She crumpled it and jerked it behind her, feeling a hot flush spreading through her cheeks. His smile widened to a grin she could only describe as…what? Amused? Smug? Full of devilment?

No. None of these.

Shit-eating.

She could have sworn his shoulders shook as he disappeared out the Laundromat door.
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