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DISCLAIMER: I literally own nothing recognizable.
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Ororo gripped her bags tightly, her knuckles whitening over from the stress and strain. She wasn’t ready and she doubted she ever would be. And yet, she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. With two knocks, she announced her presence. A beat later, the door opened.

“Ororo,” said Jean, her voice slightly surprised. “Hello.”

“Hello, Jean,” Ororo said calmly, not even letting on just how distressed she actually was. There was a pause; the two women took each other in, mentally remarking at just how different they were. But that didn’t matter now; there would be time for them to talk. “May I come in?”

“This is your home,” Jean said softly. “Always was.” Ororo nodded and stepped across the threshold. She flicked her eyes around the immediate area, noting how some of the statues she’d grown up seeing were covered in white cloths. Ororo put her bags down and looked around, her heels clicking on the wood floor. “Everything’s pretty much the same,” Jean said.

Ororo turned back to Jean and nodded. “Does that include my room?”

“Everything’s pretty much the same,” Jean repeated, her voice carrying a slight edge to it. Ororo nodded, holding Jean’s stare. “Do you want some help with your bags?” she asked civilly.

“Oh,” Ororo said, almost forgetting herself. “No, I’ll be...” Ororo sighed and tipped her head at Jean. “I didn’t want to come back like this--”

“But you did,” Jean said, folding her arms to her chest. She clicked her tongue and looked away. “Let me get Scott to help you.”

“Scott’s here?” Ororo asked, slightly excited. Jean nodded once. “Yeah. Great!” Jean walked away and Ororo watched the redheaded woman go. When she was firmly out of sight, Ororo sighed and palmed her forehead. This really was the worst-- coming back home when everything had changed.

“Ororo!” said Scott. Ororo turned and faced a smiling Scott, dressed in his signature khaki pants and polo shirt. He opened his arms and enveloped her into a hug. Squeezing once, Scott rested his chin on Ororo’s snowy head. “Missed you!” he said, his voice cheery. He pulled away and grinned, then rubbed her head. “All your hair has grown back.”

Ororo laughed and smacked Scott’s hand away. Despite what everyone said, Scott wasn’t a total jerk. There were times when the strict man would show his true colors. “Of course it’s all back. Hair grows.”

“And I guess eight years doesn’t hurt.” Ororo felt her genuine smile turn into something tight and forced. Scott squeezed her shoulder, his smile just as tight. “Let’s get your bags, hm?”

“Yeah,” Ororo said softly.



A few hours passed. Twilight passed and Ororo ate dinner alone; Scott and Jean had already made dinner plans that couldn’t be broken. Ororo... didn’t begrudge them; had it been Scott or Jean who randomly returned, Ororo would act just as strangely. At least they had the common sense to mask their true feelings in polite conversation.

They would have to let everything out in the open eventually, though. Ororo dreaded the day, and yet she looked forward to it for some dark reason.

When midnight rolled around and Scott and Jean still hadn’t returned, Ororo decided she would take a walk around the premises. When she was a girl, she used to spend more time outside than inside. Ororo loved nature; she couldn’t get enough of the foliage and the weather that borne the plants. Moreover, she loved the lake hidden in the forest.

She left her childhood room-- now a mausoleum of a life Ororo could hardly remember-- dressed her sweatpants, sweatshirt, and sneakers and began her trek to, and through, the forest. She had no intention of getting her cute nightie dirty and certainly not the silk robe Charles bought her dirty.

Charles.

The name filled her chest with ache and she hated herself for it. Not the emotion, but the reason behind it. She’d... ruined things between them. It took until the very end for her to stop acting the way she had and accept what was. While she was thankful she had, she still wished she had done so earlier. She became one of those people who wanted to fix a problem, but willfully remained ignorant to the solution. She’d been so stubborn and young; Ororo hated herself for it.

She shook her head and reached the lake. It was late, but she still checked the immediate area for people before she stripped down to her birthday suit. As a child-- and later teenager, she would swim in the very same lake stark naked. Charles often admonished her for it, saying that while HE could understand the human body was both beautiful and unremarkable, others wouldn’t get that; she had to cover up to respect Western customs.

Memories kept battering her mind and she swam hard, trying to tire herself out before she could cry herself to sleep. When she finished, she struggled to shore and collapsed on the grass and sand, not caring how gritty her back was getting. Her chest was heaving from exertion. Ororo looked up at the stars, her mind blessedly blank. It was so nice, not having to think about anything.

“Excuse me, but who the fuck are you?” Ororo jerked up, a gasp falling from her lips. She e reflexively crossed her legs and pulled them up to hide her bare chest and crotch. “Taking a little dip in the buff, darlin?” asked the strange man. He cocked a brow and sauntered over to her, a pack of beer in one hand and a cigar in the other.

Was this guy serious? Ororo wondered.

“You a mute?”

“I think you mean deaf,” Ororo corrected nastily, annoyed by the man’s presence. Had he not shown up, Ororo would have most likely fallen asleep outside. Not that that was a problem; there was a gate surrounding the premises and really: Who would break into a forest?

“No, I meant mute. I knew you could hear me but you weren’t saying nothing.” He stopped where her clothes were and kicked her sneakers. “Huh,” he grunted, but said nothing after.

Ororo pursed her lips. “And how would you know that? I’ve never seen you before and you’ve never seen me.”

The man scoffed. “Actually, you’re wrong.” He stepped over her clothes and continued towards Ororo. He popped his cigar into his mouth and reached into his pocket, fished out a lighter, and then lit his Cuban. He puffed twice and went back to regarding her. “You’re in Charles’ office. Roro, or some shit.” Ororo rolled her eyes at the man’s words, but felt her heart swell and sting at the information he shared with her. “And I knew you weren’t deaf because you covered yourself up and I shouted at ya. You were faced the other way. Were you deaf, you wouldn’t have known I was there.”

Ororo hummed her agreement, but stayed quiet. She wasn’t about to bare herself to this man, not when she could feel the heat of his gaze on her body. Which was odd, because Ororo felt the body wasn’t sexual or anything worth hiding. She argued that it was because she didn’t know this man and she didn’t like showing off her nude body to strange men.

“It’s Ororo, not ‘Roro,’ and certainly not ‘some shit,’” she snipped.

The man gave her a bemused look before snorting his laughter. “Well, Ororo,” he said, dragging her name out sarcastically, “it’s a pleasure to finally meet ya,” he said, bowing low to her. “You are much prettier than yer picture; Charles got that one right.”

Ororo hated herself for it, but she actually giggled. She bit her lower lip and looked away, shaking her head. “Er-- who are you?” she finally asked.

“Logan,” he said, hunkering down beside her. “Logan Howlett at your service.” He put his hand in hers, shook it once, then stroked her knuckles with his calloused thumb. “And I do mean service,” he drawled, kissing the back of her hand.

Ororo rolled her eyes and grinned. “Are you always this smooth, Logan Howlett?”
Logan smirked. “Nope. Usually I’m smoother.” He puffed on his cigar while Ororo laughed. When she calmed, he popped the tab of his beer and offered it to her. Ororo respectfully declined. “Suit yourself,” he murmured before slurping the white foam into his mouth.

They fell into a strangely amicable silence. Logan alternated between drinking his beer and smoking his cigar while Ororo watched the sky. It was comfortable, Ororo assumed, because she could sense some kind of hurt coming from the man as well. Or maybe she was reading too deeply into herself and wanted to transfer some of her pain onto another. What was the expression--

“Misery loves company.”

Ororo looked at Logan, startled. He was staring intently at her, his second beer in hand. “I’m sorry?”

Logan shrugged. “I’m thinking we’re both out here for the same reasons. Can’t be in that house without remembering every fucking good time without feeling like shit for it.” Logan rubbed his chin and put his beer in the sand. “But I could be wrong.” He took a long pull on his cigar and exhaled slowly. “Probably not, though.”

Ororo scoffed. “I didn’t know you were so philosophical.”

“And what do you know about me, darlin’?” he asked immediately, though not nastily. It was more... curious than cruel. “Hm?”

“Well,” she started, feeling nervous. Ororo shifted in the sand and shrugged a shoulder. “He didn’t... really mention you. When we wrote each other, it was always more about me. About how everything was fine and how...” Ororo looked down at her toes. “I never asked about anyone else.” She paused. “I regret that,” she admitted quietly. Without warning, her body began shaking.

Logan gave her a soft look she missed and began rubbing her back. He put down his beer and snubbed his cigar, then pulled her to him. She went without much argument and buried her head in his shirt. She wasn’t crying; Logan recalled the proud stories Charles told about Ororo, how she wouldn’t shed a tear and how she was able to remain composed.

This was the woman Charles was so proud of: this strong, resilient character he’d groomed since she was little.

Logan frowned. While he didn’t know why Ororo ran off, he was beginning to see what might have caused it.

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Author's Note: This story is a little half baked so if there is ANYTHING you want to see happen (that would fit) JUST LET ME KNOW. Seriously-- I've sort of got an idea but it can become very dark very quickly and I don't think I want that to happen.





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