Part I – Reflections of White

Ororo Munroe stood perfectly still, watching the aquamarine waves roll through the restless sea, plummeting onto the serene shore and pulling back, bubbling into the great mass of liquid she had come to recognize and know so well. It had taken her forever to learn how to sleep through that constant noise, the endless sound of waves crashing over each other and hissing onto the beach. Now it seemed like something she had grown up with, as though she had been here since the beginning.
Ororo raised a hand and pushed a stray strand of shockingly white hair from her forehead, pushing it back into her low pony tail, remembering that her class would start in only a few minutes. A few children, young teenagers really, wandered into her classroom early, smiling tentatively and sitting down in unassigned seats.
The classroom was not anything like those she was accustomed. She was used to high ceilings, hardwood floors, and the wide windows that the mansion had offered her at Xavier's academy in New York. In fact, that was all she had known.
It wasn't so long ago, Ororo kept telling herself. Five years. Not so long in the grand scheme of things. Not long at all. But here it was again – the first day of class. Another year gone by.
The bell rang and suddenly students were swarming in her classroom, sliding behind desks and dropping assorted bags onto the floor, unzipping them hastily and pulling out new three ring binders, setting them on their table tops.
Ororo smiled, pulling away from her thoughts and calling out to them in Greek, laughing as she made her way to the front of the room. She wrote her name on the small black board in bright blue chalk.
Ms. Ororo Munroe.
"I am Ms. Munroe," Ororo said, turning around and facing her students. She knew them all from last year. After all, she was the only English teacher on the island and the group of children was never a large one. She had been refining these girls and boys for years, teaching them the proper grammar of a language she herself had learned at their age.
"However," Ororo smiled at all the bright faces. "I think most of you already know that."
She went through the lesson plan for the day. Reviews, mostly, with a reading assignment on the side. Ororo never let her students slack, even though many tried, and had tried at the academy in Westchester.
The day moved quickly as Ororo taught her classes, mainly English and a new History class she had managed to push through the school board the year before. She was halfway through a sentence in her last class as the bell sounded loudly in the hall and all fifteen students jumped up and made a beeline for the door.
"Hold it!" Ororo called in Greek, something she only did when she had to. She had learned most of the language quickly, but she had never been entirely comfortable with it.
"Your homework is to read chapter one of the text by tomorrow. There may be a quiz."
The students groaned and collected their things, chattering amongst each other as they left the desks and sped out into the hall, leaving Ororo alone in the suddenly empty classroom.
She stood for a moment, watching the students walk down the small hallway, by her open door, smiling at the familiar sound of lockers opening and shutting, loud voices calling out in both Greek and English.
Turning, she picked up the eraser and wiped away all the blue chalk, watching the fine powder drift down the black board, collecting in the tray underneath.
By the time Ororo left the school it was already late into the afternoon and the winds were dying down on the island, the waves out on the sea becoming less prominent and less white, slowly transforming back into the crystal clear blue and green.
Ororo walked through the town, passing by the startling white buildings and the colorful doorways and walkways, almost all painted a vibrant blue. Some deviated from the norm, painted a pastel green or a shocking red, maybe even a yellow here and there. She walked through the small alleyways, stepping around the old women and their donkeys, making her way up the freshly outlined walk to Taxi Square, where she had no intention of picking up a taxi.
Her means of transportation usually meant walking. She would have flown if she didn't think the locals would be completely frightened into an uproar. It had been so long since she had even used her powers for something other than a little rain to help her plants. It was so painfully dry on the island that they could go months without ever seeing rain. Ororo's exotic plants could not go without water, so she allowed herself small showers, and only at night.
She walked down the busy main road along the shoreline, walking along the sidewalk, her bag lightly banging against her hip as the motorists drove quickly by. If there was one thing that was entirely different from home it would be the motorists. The numerous accidents she had seen in the past five years astonished her, but it was another aspect that she had also become accustomed to. The sea, the constant wind, and the roads of cars. She had been terrified at first, but things fell into place slowly.
Of course, people did treat her with a certain air of hesitance. No one quite knew what to think of her long white hair and blue eyes. Many of the men had followed her about, enchanted by the mysterious differences, which was a sudden and severe surprise for Ororo. Never had she been looked at like that while at Westchester, save once. But, flattered or not, Ororo turned them all down until the last available men knew not to ask. It was just another mystifying quality of Ororo Munroe.
Ororo turned onto a more rural street, heading up the suddenly sharp rise on the rugged island, and Jean flashed into her mind. She had kept a constant touch with her friend over the years, listening to the new developments at the academy. At first they had all wondered if Jean could handle taking over. Even Ororo had her reserves then, but Jean had pulled through fine. Scott was there with her and the academy was pushing on, even without Charles Xavier. There was talk of even putting together a new team of X-Men, since word of mutant registration was again rising its ugly head in Congress.
Up ahead, Ororo could spot the abrupt pink of the large oleanders lining her drive, their vibrant magenta flowers hanging in heavy clusters all over the thick bushes. She unconsciously began to walk faster, reaching the bushes and stopping, rising up on her tip toes to inspect the nearest, perfect blossom. She had planted them herself five years ago, and already they had grown magnificently, flourishing under the hot Greek sun.
She plucked a small cluster off the closest bush and turned to survey the island, squinting her eyes as the bright light bounced off the shimmering sea and over the white town, reflecting off the buildings. The large ocean liners were sitting at port, docked as their passengers splashed in the extra salty water further up the shore.
Pulling the tie out of her hair, Ororo shook her blinding white tresses out and pushed the two oleander blossoms behind one ear. Then she walked up the drive, watching her long shadow skip across the pebbles and over the tall oleanders.
She couldn't wait to kick off her shoes and relax, to settle into her overstuffed chair with a book and occasionally glance out at the sea to check on the goings of the boats, and on the small ferry to Delos.
Her gaze must have been too caught on her shadow to notice, her attention too busy with digging in her bag for her keys to see the tall figure waiting for her on the porch.
She pulled the ring of keys from the bag and glanced up, the sight before her sending her stumbling to a halt. There, between her body and the front door, stood a man she hadn't seen in over five years. He was leaning against the post of the porch, perched on the last step casually, looking down at her with a neutral face, the same one that had left Westchester so many years ago. To her horror, she could feel that same warmth spreading through her, the warmth that had been absent for so long.
With effort, she swallowed, pushing the warmth away, feeling herself slowly being filled with undeniable anger.
"Ororo," he said hoarsely, as though he didn't know of what else to say.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment, trying to contain herself.
"Logan."

Part II – The Scarred Earth


Without the wind whistling over the sparse landscape everything seemed deathly silent. Now even more so, since Ororo found herself staring into the face that she had paused in her mind for the last five years. Suddenly she remembered the oleander blossom in her hair and she quickly removed it, tossing it down on the pebble walk.
"I know this may look a little strange," Logan began, straightening up and shoving his hands in his pockets like a small, guilty child.
"Really," Ororo nearly growled, forcing her heart to remain calm in her chest as she walked up onto the porch, willing her body to keep from shaking. "You seem to be the definition of unpredictable, Logan."
"‘Ro," he tried, watching her as she turned her back on him, finding the right key to the front door.
"Don't, Logan," Ororo said, jerking the dead bolt aside and wrenching the door open, pausing to look down at the bag he had at his feet. She arched a regal eyebrow at it and scowled up at him, sending a silent question his way.
He picked up the duffel bag and shrugged. "Had another lead," he uttered as his best explanation.
"So I see," Ororo sighed, turning and leading him into the house, dropping her keys on the small table by the door. "I assume you want a place to stay for the night."
"Yeah," he said, stepping into the house, his heavy boots clunking on the hard wood floor. "Something like that."
"Something like that?" Ororo asked from the kitchen as she threw down her bag on the table, raking her fingers through her hair in silent anger. She took a deep breath and pulled her hair back into that low ponytail again, composing herself before she turned to face him.
"What else did you have in mind?" She asked, refusing to come too close. He put the bag on the floor and sighed deliberately.
"I wanted to talk to you," he said, his dark eyes hidden with his back turned to the window, the scorching sunlight filtering into the room, making him glow.
Ororo snorted, letting out a cold laugh. "After five years? Logan, what makes you think I would even want to listen to you? You're lucky that I let you into the house as it is."
"‘Ro, I think we can both be adults about this," he growled, taking a few steps forward as Ororo stood her ground, glaring at him.
"Good. It's about time you realized that," she hissed back, ice blue eyes cutting.
Ororo watched him walk up to her, stubbornly refusing to step back. She suddenly picked up that familiar smell of him, and she remembered, letting all the quiet memories flood forward.


"It can only be a matter of months," Jean said under her breath. "Maybe less, maybe more. It's hard to tell at this point."
Ororo sat silently at the kitchen table, a cup of tea set before her, spreading her hands on the cool wood and watching the steam rise from the hot liquid.
"But how is he doing, Jean?" Scott asked, leaning forward with both elbows on the table, his open palms supporting his forehead.
"Not well," Jean sighed, rubbing her blood shot eyes wearily. "I'm doing everything I can, but it doesn't seem to be enough."
"This is Chuck we're talking about here," Logan replied gruffly, sitting sprawled out in his chair. "If anyone can get through this it's going to be him."
"I don't think you realize the severity of the situation," Jean sighed, playing with her wedding band. Rotating the golden ring around her finger had become a nervous habit, and Ororo had caught her friend doing it much more as of late.
"Well, can't you take him to a real hospital or something?" Logan asked, frowning over at Jean.
"He won't let us," Scott said, shaking his head.
"And even if we do," Jean sighed. "He's too far gone. I don't want to risk moving him at this point."
"So you're saying there's nothing we can do," Logan said, voice rising in anger. "We're all just sitting here waiting for him to die. Is that what you're saying, Jean?"
"Logan, that's not it at all," Jean shook her head vigorously. "It's just that the cancer has begun to spread and I can't stop it."
"That is Xavier we're talking about," Logan growled, hitting the table hard enough to make Ororo's tea cup jump, nearly spilling its contents. She looked up, her vivid blue eyes taking in the seething anger uncoiling in Logan's face. "We've been sitting around here since this as hit talking about death and making all sorts of unneeded arrangements. He's going to pull through this."
"Logan," Jean tried, reaching out to grab his arm, only to be shaken off.
"I'm not going to sit around here like I'm in a coma," he said, shoving his chair back and standing up.
"Logan," Ororo said suddenly, standing up as well, catching his gaze with hers. He stopped and stared at her, the intensity rolling off his body shocking her. She paused for a moment, watching him cautiously. "He's slipping," she managed to say quietly, keeping her eyes locked on his. "He was slipping before you returned."
"Fuck this, ‘Ro," Logan snarled, pushing away from the table. "I'm going for a ride."
With that he turned and stalked out of the kitchen, leaving them gathered in silence.

Weeks later, the mansion was obviously changing, silence growing in the places that were once the loudest corners of the house. Ororo sat staring at her desk in the empty classroom, trying to find a reason to do the work that had been backing up on her over the past few days. There were ungraded quizzes and essays to look at, but she couldn't force herself to pull the first one down from the stack she had before her.
She remembered the last time she spoke to Charles Xavier. He had smiled at her, lifting his hand to close around her's certainly. She knew that he hadn't been afraid. Not for himself, or for them. He had always been like that.
Without notice, the first tear slipped down her cheek. Then a second, and a third. She folded her arms on the desk and lowered her head, trying to control the sobs that wracked her body. But she couldn't find the strength in her, so she remained like that, crying until she drifted to sleep.
A light shaking woke her and she jerked her head up, immediately lifting a hand to push her disheveled white hair out of her red rimmed eyes. She turned in the chair and saw Logan there, looking down at her with concern written all over his face.
"Are you okay, darlin'? He asked, frowning deeply.
Ororo let out a harsh laugh, shaking her head. "What time is it?"
"Nearly midnight," he said, keeping the attentive gaze on her.
Ororo groaned and rubbed her eyes. "It's too late. Have I been here that long?"
"I don't know," Logan said, taking her arm. "You should probably go get some rest. The funeral is tomorrow."
"Today," Ororo corrected quietly, standing up only to find that her legs would not support her. Luckily, Logan reached out automatically and caught her, scooping her up into his arms.
"This is not necessary, Logan," Ororo protested, beginning to struggle, but he only let out a small growl, pressing her to him harder as he left the dark room.
"Don't argue with me right now, ‘Ro," Logan said, climbing the staircase. "You know it's nothing."
"I know," Ororo sighed, letting her head rest against his shoulder, her long frosted hair cascading down his arm as he made his way to the last floor, unceremoniously kicking the door open and entering the cool room. She had left the doors open to her porch, and a cool autumn breeze was lifting the lace drapes, billowing through them and sending them into the air like clouds.
He let her down and she climbed onto the bed, sitting with her legs dangling over the side.
"Seriously, ‘Ro. Are you alright?" He asked, squatting down in front of her, looking up at her with a calm expression.
"Do you know how long I knew him?" Ororo asked, looking over his head, staring at the walls with dilated eyes. Before he could answer, she continued: "He was like a father to me. To Jean and to Scott. It's like losing my family all over again."
After a silent moment, she looked down at Logan, who was there before her legs, balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet. Without a word, he brushed her silky white hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear.
"At least you have a family to lose, ‘Ro," he whispered hoarsely, brushing away a newly formed tear before it could trickle down her face.
She shook her head, giving him the faintest hint of a smile. "You have a family, Logan, and I mourn for them as well."
She felt his hand still on her face for a moment before moving back to weave into her hair.
"I'm so sorry, ‘Ro," Logan murmured, bringing his other arm to rest on the bed, looking up at her with startling black eyes.
She didn't say anything. Instead, she let the steady pressure of his hand lower her head until her hair was brushing against his face, almost to the point where their noses were just barely touching, and she closed her eyes, feeling another tear slip down her cheek.
Logan rubbed his fingers through her hair, feeling her scalp underneath the mass of white silk. She breathed heavily, taking in his scent with each breath, coming to memorize it quickly.
He let out a small, strangled noise and pushed back, running his hand down to her chin to push up her face, looking up into her eyes as she slowly opened them. What she saw in him shocked her.
Ororo could suddenly feel her heart pounding in her chest as he fell to his knees in front of her, abrupty closer than before, his eyes glossy, as though he were seeing her for the first time. The rush of warmth through her limbs made her gasp, the feel of his other hand on her waist making her eyes flutter shut again.
"Open your eyes, ‘Ro," Logan growled softly, and she complied, finding him closer than before, their faces hovering so close.
She knew this was not a smart thing to do, and she knew that they would both come to regret it. Yet there was something inside her that seemed to overpower her instincts, telling her to forget about logic for just one night, insisting on forgetting the grief for just a moment.
"I'm here," she whispered into his mouth, just before he kissed her.
"I know," he said, tightening his arm around her waist as he picked her up, laying her back on the cool white sheets.

The next morning, the cool autumn wind was still lightly breezing through Ororo's open window, filtering through the lace drapes, making them fly gracefully into the air, twisting and untwisting, falling only to be lifted up again.
The tangy air drifted over Ororo's back, meeting her warm skin with a small explosion of sensations, making Ororo smile in her sleep, snuggling closer to her pillow. She laid casually on her stomach, white hair tumbling down her back until it began to mingle with the white sheets, becoming indistinguishable from the silk.
In her dreamless sleep she began to stir, restlessly moving out her legs in the tangled sheets, unfolding a long arm to slide it to the other side of the bed, where warmth was missing.
The surprise woke her with a start. She laid there for a moment, staring at the empty space, not bothering to push her wild hair from her eyes. Through the tiny strands of silver she saw the tossed back covers, the dent in her feather pillow, the winkles in the sheets.
Silently, she closed her eyes, wishing him back, hoping that if she were to turn over he'd be there, stepping out of the shower, or standing on the porch, watching her like he had that night.
But he was not in those places. When she turned there was nothing to greet her but an empty room, silent except for the almost inaudible rustle of the air over the lace.
In a daze, she got up and showered, staring at the tile walls, running the warm water through her hair. She wouldn't seek him out, she decided. It would be better to wait for him after the funeral, to say what they needed then.
Ororo calmly turned off the shower, stepping out with a plume of steam.

"‘Ro, have you seen Logan?" Jean called, walking out of the kitchen in a knee length black dress, her long red hair pushed back from her face in a multitude of careful curls.
Ororo shook her head, standing by the window, staring quietly, watching the changing leafs on the trees. "No," she said, keeping her voice even. "Not since last night."
"Well I can't seem to find him anywhere," Jean frowned, tapping one polished black shoe against the hard wood floor.
"I wouldn't think so," Scott said from the couch, turning to look at Jean. "His bike isn't in the garage."
"What?" Ororo asked, spinning around to face Scott.
On the other side of the room, Rogue looked up, the small smile on her face disappearing before Ororo could even come up with a full thought.
"I'll go to his room," Ororo said without thinking, moving almost blindly to the hallway, striding on instinct to his door, Jean behind her.
Ororo opened the door, shoving the hard wood aside, stepping into the room. The bed was still made from the previous day, everything clean and tidy.
She didn't have to search through the room to discover the answer. Instead she stood by the bed, breathing raggedly, wondering if she could pick up that smell of him as Jean whipped open the closets, finding nothing. Ororo closed her eyes and sat down on the bed as Jean moved to the bathroom, rummaging through the drawers.
"This just can't be right," Jean was muttering to herself. "He would've told us."
Ororo opened her eyes with a shaky breath, looking around her as if she were stuck in some surreal world. She could feel nothing. She could recognize nothing. Suddenly she realized that she felt like screaming.
In the hazy blur, she noticed a plain envelope sitting on the bedside table, a set of dog tags sitting on top of it. Reaching out, she grabbed the envelope and the metal chain, hearing the clinks of the tags. She stared at the word on the envelope, trying to keep the anger from rising up in her.
Marie.
"Ms. Munroe?" She heard Rogue's tentative, shy voice from the doorway.
She whirled around, the chain almost slipping from her fingers.
"What is that?" Rogue said hoarsely, staring at the envelope Ororo had in her hands, gripping onto desperately.
"He left you something," Ororo said, trying not to sound like her heart was breaking.
Rogue walked around the bed, stopping in front of Ororo. Reluctantly, Ororo loosened her hold on the envelope, stretching out her hand to the young girl standing in front of her, a confused frown etched into her beautiful face.
Rogue picked up the chain, the tags sliding down the small ball links, clattering softly. She gripped it tightly and picked up the envelope. Jean stepped out of the bathroom, stopping just short, watching Rogue slide the paper flap open and pull out the paper within.

That night Ororo was still in her dress clothes, the black material wrinkled and worn, her black shoes tossed on the floor by her feet as she sat on the leather couch silently, watching the television with blank eyes.
She had only three words running through her head. He had left. Over and over again they spun through her consciousness, as though taunting her with their finality. The more she watched those words spin, and the more she thought of the night before, thinking about touching bare skin, so hot in the cool room, the more she began to hate herself for her weakness, and for his cowardice.
"Ororo," Jean said softly from behind her.
"Yes, Jean?" Ororo asked without turning around.
"Besides the obvious, what's wrong?"
Ororo watched her friend round the couch, taking a seat next to her, curling up in her sweats.
"You wouldn't want to know, Jean," Ororo said, lifting a hand to pull her hair from its ponytail, finding the white bobby pins and pulling them out, leaving them discarded on the table.
"Ororo," Jean sighed, reaching out and touching her arm. "Please tell me. It won't get any better if you don't."
"I know this," Ororo bowed her head, finally feeling tears spring to life in her eyes. Strangely, she hadn't cried at all during the day. Somehow she couldn't make them come, yet here they were now, amazingly ill-timed.
"Oh, ‘Ro," Jean whispered, scooting closer and sliding an arm around her, hugging her hard. "What is it?"
"It was all a mistake," she whispered through the tears.
"What was?" Jean asked, knowing she wasn't going to delve into her best friend's mind. She didn't allow herself that.
"Logan," Ororo spat, pushing her hair out of her face and taking a deep breath. "I don't know why I allowed it. It was just that at that moment everything seemed to fall into place."
Jean stilled for a minute, catching Ororo's eyes with her own. "What are you trying to say, ‘Ro?"
"Logan and I," Ororo tried to say, attempting to calm her nerves. "Last night."
She found that she couldn't say more, but it seemed to be enough. Jean closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against Ororo's shoulder, taking a deep breath. Ororo kept staring straight ahead, tears streaming down her face, wanting to laugh at herself for her mistake, but finding that she couldn't.
"I feel like such a fool," she whispered, and to that Jean raised her head, making Ororo look at her.
"You aren't a fool," Jean insisted, shaking her head. "Logan is the one at fault here, ‘Ro, not you."
"But I allowed it," Ororo groaned, pulling her gaze away from Jean's intense green eyes. "I knew I would come to regret it the moment it happened but I never expected to feel this."
"What is that?" Jean asked, and Ororo turned to look at her friend again, blue eyes wavering.
"Such emptiness."

Part II – The Scarred Earth (c)


Months slipped by and it was soon too cold to keep the doors open. Even Ororo valued the peace of her comforter and warm sheets, snuggling in them, watching the bare trees through the windows and the still lace.
She was slow in getting up that morning, even though her usual routine was to start with the sunrise. Instead she laid in her freshly changed white flannel sheets, since it was heading into deep winter and flannel was the most obvious choice for the season. No one had come to rouse her, as Jean had done in the past when Ororo had accidentally slept late, although it had been a rarity even then. They all seemed to know now not to disturb her.
When she was ready, Ororo made her way down the stairs and into the kitchen, noticing the already brewed coffee and the box of donuts on the counter. She avoided the donuts and pulled out a mug, heading to the coffee maker, a small smile on her lips as she looked at the Christmas decorations Jean had strewn about the kitchen in preparation for the holidays.
The academy was officially on winter break, much to Ororo's relief. She had found her mind wandering in class lately, her eyes always dropping on Rogue and those cursed dog tags, watching them gleam off the winter sun like a small beacon, refusing to let her forget.
"There you are!" Jean exclaimed as she bounded into the room, holding a line of lit Christmas lights. "I was wondering if I had to go up there and haul you down."
"No need," Ororo said, putting the pot back, picking up her mug. "I am here."
"You want to come and help?" Jean asked, smiling, brushing her red hair away from her
face.
"Of course," Ororo nodded after sipping her coffee, the steam gliding up around her face, following Jean into the large lobby, where Scott was balanced precariously on a ladder, hanging large green boughs over the door of the mansion.
Ororo stopped on the hard wood floor, looking at the pine green and the red ribbons and the white lights. It was a myriad of cheer, and she wouldn't expect anything less from Jean. Before Ororo could open her mouth to commend her friend, the door opened with a rush of cold air and twinkling of bells from the garland, Rogue slipping in with a fist full of mail.
"Watch it," Scott warned gently, eyeing Rogue from above. Rogue looked up and smiled apologetically.
"I didn't know you were up there," Rogue said in a quiet southern accent, reaching out and steadying the shaky ladder with one hand.
"I told you to be careful, Scott," Jean said without looking up, engrossed in untangling the line of lights.
Ororo smiled, setting her coffee cup down to help steady the ladder as Scott climbed down, jumping to the floor.
"It looks wonderful," Ororo said, smiling at his work. The door was now completely outlined in tree boughs, ribbons, and small silver bells that sparkled underneath the white lights. Rogue nodded her agreement, looking back to the mail.
"Wait until we get the whole thing up," Jean laughed, pulling on the lights. "If I can ever get this knot undone."
"You got something, Ms. Munroe," Rogue said, holding up a plain envelope. "From Maria Ragsdale?"
Ororo frowned and took the letter, murmuring, "How odd."
"Who's that?" Jean asked, sighing at the lights, brushing her hair out of her green eyes.
"A friend from long ago," Ororo murmured, taking a look at the postage stamp, not recognizing it, wondering why on earth Maria would be writing her instead of just giving her a call.
"Oh my gosh," Rogue suddenly cried, pulling another plain envelope out of the stack. "This one's from Logan!"
Ororo snapped to attention, her eyes darting over to the young girl and to the letter she had clutched in her hand.
"He didn't leave a return address, did he?" Scott asked wryly, receiving a sharp look from Jean.
"What?" He shrugged, picking up the other end of the tangled lights with a cocked eyebrow. Jean was busy watching Ororo, a frozen expression of concern on her features. Ororo ignored her, focusing on the envelope in Rogue's hand, frowning at Logan's handwriting that scrawled out Marie's name.
Rogue grinned wildly, handing the rest of the mail to Ororo has she scurried off to her room, ripping open the envelope with shaking hands.
Ororo glanced down at the stack of junk mail that Rogue had deposited in her hands and sighed inaudibly, turning and setting it down on the antique table in the hallway. Without a word, she looked at her own piece of mail and left the room, leaving Scott and Jean to wonder behind her.

She sat in a chair in the quietest room in the house, the open letter in her lap, head back, eyes closed, with the cold winter sun slanting through the glass panes of the window. Strangely, she wasn't thinking about the letter. In fact, it was the furthest thing from her mind. Instead she was thinking about those damned dog tags.
"Ms. Monroe?"
Ororo opened her eyes to the brilliant light and saw Rogue standing next to the chair, Logan's letter in her gloved hands.
"Yes?" Ororo asked, bringing a soft smile to her lips for both their benefits.
Rogue glanced down at the letter, a hand reaching up to play with Logan's chain around her neck, fingering the ball links softly. "He says he wants you to read this," she said hoarsely, looking down. "He says he's sorry," she continued after clearing her throat, frowning with confusion at Ororo. "But I don't understand. What is he sorry about?"
Ororo paused, her hands drifting down to Maria's letter, shaking her head. "A minor disagreement. It's nothing."
"Well," Rogue shrugged. "Here it is anyway."
Ororo took the letter Rogue held out to her, smiling until the girl turned and left the room, giving her privacy.
She took one look at the letter and closed her eyes again, leaning back in the chair, feeling the sun beating down on her, not making her any warmer. In the back of her mind she could replay every moment of that night so long ago, feeling the cool breeze drifting through her open window, playing along their heated skin, sliding underneath her white sheets. Then she folded the paper back along its original creases and slid it back into the hastily torn envelope, and opened her eyes.

"What are you talking about!" Jean cried, aghast, sitting behind her desk, staring with shock at Ororo's determined face. "That's ridiculous, ‘Ro," Jean continued, shaking her head. "You can't just up and leave."
"I've already called Maria back," Ororo shrugged, watching her friend calmly. "They have to have the position filled as soon as possible."
"And you said you would do it?" Jean asked, still grappling with words.
"Jean," Ororo tried quietly. "You're on your feet here and several students have graduated as it is, many looking to take a position as a teacher, and the X-Men are no more without Xavier."
"But we still need you," Jean insisted stubbornly, refusing to back down.
"I'm doing this for an old friend," Ororo said, keeping her eyes on Jean. "She's leaving her position and she's asked me to fill it for her. They're desperate to find someone, but they'll take anyone she recommends. I think it would be a fantastic experience, and perhaps I can come back here after all this with something more to offer. Please don't make me ask you twice, Jean."
Sighing, Jean rubbed her temples, letting a few awkward moments pass before looking at Ororo from under her hand. "This has nothing to do with Logan, does it?"
"No," Ororo said after a second's pause, running her mind over that man. "I'm doing this for myself."
"And what should I tell Logan," Jean began to ask, "if he should return?"
"It is not his affair where I go," Ororo said. "He demonstrated that very clearly."
After a long moment, Jean asked, "Will I see you often?"
"Whenever you should want to see me," a smile curling on Ororo's lips.



Now here he was striding up to her, all flesh and blood, vividly alive in front of her face, as though daring to test her. Here he was, Ororo thought, trying to block all those images from her head, desperately wanting to stop the flow of memories. She no longer wanted to remember the touch of his hands or the feelings of shock when she stood in his empty room, watching Rogue, batting away the tears in her eyes, reading the note he had made almost as an afterthought.
Here Logan was. Logan in his trademarked battered jeans and simple shirt, dark boots, black hair wild from the wind, the ever constant stubble lining his jaw. This was the Logan that she had been waiting to yell at, or slap, or turn away from and silently cry. It didn't seem fair that the last remnant of him she had stored in her mind was the sight of his body, tangled in her white sheets, just before she had fallen asleep.
Yet here he was and all she could do was watch him stop in front of her, dark eyes burning, and remember the smell of him.

Part III – Over the Vast Sea


"Did you think it was romance?"
Ororo's jaw dropped at his first words, pulling her gaze to his smoldering eyes, her mind suddenly being bombarded with seething anger. Without even thinking, her hand rose automatically and swung, hitting the left side of his face as hard as she could, feeling the biting sting of his metal-lined skull slamming into her urgent hand. She didn't allow the small satisfaction to register on her face when his head shot to the side, a bare grimace in his features. It wasn't enough for Ororo.
"How dare you," she almost screamed, rubbing her hand slowly, feeling the throbbing in her finger tips and along her palm. "Of course I didn't think it was romance. Of all things, romance is most definitely not how I would describe it."
"Fuck, ‘Ro," Logan growled, turning back to glare at her, his eyes hot.
"Don't call me that," Ororo spat, staring up at him with equal intensity, her glistening blue eyes wavering.
"Fine," Logan snarled, squaring himself with her, his hands unconsciously gripping and releasing, as though he were preparing for a fight. "How would you describe what happened between us? Was it the lust of the moment? Or did you just want to forget the grief?"
"I would describe it as me giving you all my trust and then you taking it and leaving," Ororo hissed back. "Without a word, Logan. Without any mention at all where you were going, or why. Instead you left me to realize what we had done alone."
"I had a lead," Logan snapped. "I had known for weeks before Chuck died. It was the last fucking thing he told me. I figured I should follow up on it."
"And you figured you would just go do that after I fell asleep next to you?" Ororo asked, her voice tauntingly bitter. "I'm sick of these excuses," she muttered, turning around, rubbing her hands over her forehead wearily, closing her eyes, wishing he had never found her.
"What was I supposed to do?" Logan asked behind her, his voice hoarse. She could hear the heavy thuds of his boots against the hard wood floor, and she knew he was standing right behind her. She kept her eyes closed, trying to force out the images of him in her head.
"You were supposed to stay," Ororo whispered almost inaudibly, opening her eyes to stare at the wall.
"And then what?" Logan asked, his voice softer, his breath on her neck. "You regretted it. I could practically see it in your eyes the moment of. We were supposed to wake up next to each other in the morning and then pretend like it had never happened at all?"
"No," Ororo said, turning around, taken aback at how close he was standing to her. She didn't take a step back. "We wouldn't have pretended, Logan. We could've remembered it together, tried to find a way to work things out after everything."
Logan let out a sad laugh, shaking his head. "You know me, ‘Ro."
Ororo stared up at him in silence, and after a moment: "Yes, I suppose I do know you," she said, looking away. "But didn't it mean anything at all to you?"
"Yes," Logan said gruffly, without hesitation, reaching out and tipping her chin up so he could see into her face. "Why do you think I came back?"
"Then why did you leave me nothing?" Ororo asked, confused, and she laughed haltingly at the memory. "You left me standing at your bedside, watching Rogue read the note you left for her. And those damned dog tags..."
"Shit," Logan breathed, running a hand through his thick hair, another wrapping around Ororo's waist, pulling her to him. She resisted for only a moment before she allowed herself to be dragged in, suddenly finding her face burrowed in Logan's neck, the smell of him flowing through her, making her wish for Westchester, making her want to go back and change the past that she knew was so horribly set.
"I wanted to kill you," Ororo muttered, her voice muffled by his shirt.
He turned his head and deposited a kiss in her hair, whispering, "I'm so sorry, ‘Ro. I guess I thought it didn't matter so much to you."
She closed her eyes, blinking back the inevitable tears she could already feel forming on her lashes. When she opened them, she could make out the familiar ball links of the dog tags he had around his neck, the soft metal giving off a light sheen under the sun that filtered through the windows.
"Why is it that whenever you left, those tags always stayed behind?" Ororo asked into his collar, feeling his other arm wrap around her body, drawing her snugly against him.
"They didn't stay behind this time," Logan murmured, his voice gravelly against her smooth, white hair.
Ororo didn't say anything, but lifted a hand to the ball links, running her fingertips down the rounded metal, fingering the smooth curves all the way to the tags, feeling the small letters press into her skin.
He watched her hands for a moment and finally said, "I came back and you weren't there. Jeanie refused to tell me where you were. She seemed to delight in holding it over me, and God knows I deserved it."
"Good for her," Ororo mumbled, letting the dog tags drop to his chest.
"One day she let it slip," Logan went on, "She was showing me another compound I may be interested in – down in Crete. In the middle of the fucking sea."
"Four hours away," Ororo said, shrugging. "By hydrofoil."
"And she let it slip," Logan murmured, looking down into Ororo's bright blue eyes, noticing the breath that was caught in her throat, lifting a finger to brush away the wetness on her eyelids.

The late afternoon sun beat against the windows, slanting in through the glass panes and falling through the room, hitting the small prism Ororo had hung from the ceiling, making the pale walls of her bedroom explode into a flurry of vibrant rainbows, the small stripes of light twisting as the prism turned slowly back and forth.
Ororo could see the town of Mykonos across the small bay, the establishments of white houses and churches glistening in the heat and the wind, which was kicking up again, sending the blushing oleander blossoms quivering.
"Is it always so damned windy?" Logan asked from behind her, tightening his arm around her stomach, his rough tan shocking against her smooth skin.
"The people here have a saying," Ororo said, smiling when she remembered Maria telling it to her nearly five years ago. "They say that the wind is so strong it can lift chairs and throw them over houses."
"Something tells me that's happened more than once around here," he replied gruffly, nuzzling into her brilliant tresses, his breath hot on her bare neck.
"You would be surprised," Ororo laughed, rolling over, turning to face Logan, settling against the warm, white pillow, watching him intently.
He rested his forehead against her's, pulling her close to him, his nose rubbing against her's as he lifted his head to deposit a kiss between her eyebrows.
"You know I've got to go do this thing," he said, pulling away to judge her reaction.
After a moment, Ororo nodded, her eyes glancing down to the tags around his neck. "I know," she said, pressing her hand against his side, digging her short nails into his skin until he flinched, reaching down to pull at her slim fingers.
"What happens after that?" Ororo asked, not looking at him, unable to find the courage. Instead she watched her hand in his, wondering if it was real.
He tipped her chin up for her, his dark eyes direct and deep as he viewed her, taking in a shaking breath. "Is this what you want?"
"Is it what you want?" Ororo asked him in return, unsure of the answer.
"You know," Logan said, running his hand into her hair. "Even if you don't believe it."
Ororo nodded and smiled quietly, resting her forehead against his again, murmuring, "Then go."

When Ororo woke the next morning the sun was just barely over the horizon, spilling light over the deep sea, darting through the green-blue of the water and the waves. The famous wind of Mykonos was beginning to generate its forces, picking up speed over the water and stirring up the waves, capping them with white froth as they drove toward the land.
Ororo stirred silently, curling up in the white sheets, drawing her bare legs up to her body like a small child. The warm wind was swiftly coming in through the open windows, carrying with it the salt smell of the sea and the sounds of water breaking on sand.
Hesitantly, Ororo opened her eyes blearily, yawning and stretching away the fuzzy sleep. Then she paused, her blue eyes motionless when she saw the glint of metal on the pillow by her side. Slowly, she unwrapped her arms from the sheets and leaned forward to the empty side of the bed, the sheets cool under her hands. She reached out to the other pillow and plucked the chain up swiftly, watching the dog tags slide down, catching on each ball link.
She laid down on her back, holding the chain above her, observing the way the Greek sun slid over the surface of the metal tags, glowing just how Ororo remembered. She watched the tags for a moment, wondering how far Logan was on the Aegean, skipping over the waves in the droning hydrofoil, picturing the wind from the air vents blowing through his jet black hair. If she thought hard enough, she could almost picture his eyes, looking out onto the vast sea.
Silently, she smiled and gathered the chain in her hand, feeling the warm metal against her palm, and placed it back on the pillow beside her.