Chapter 9: Scream
I see you over there so hypnotic
Thinkin’ bout what I’d do to that body
Got no drink in my hand
But I’m wasted
Gettin’ drunk on the thought
Of you naked
--Usher
Tango
New York City, New York
The throb of music hit him in the chest as he stepped into the nightclub. Though flashing, colored lights covered the dance floor, the light was still dim, almost smoky in appearance. Male and female bodies writhed together on the dance floor, the heavy thrum of music pounding from hidden speakers.
Tango was filled with young people, club dancers, those who couldn’t face another night alone. Clothes didn’t seem to matter, not when bodies were pressed so close, so eager.
Piotr Rasputin stood tall, intimidating, scanning the crowd. He hadn’t intended to follow her, but when she’d left the mansion without telling anyone, he couldn’t help himself. Something about her was intoxicating, thrilling, dangerous.
Another scan of the crowded dance floor brought Piotr what he was looking for. She stood at the center of the floor, body pressed close to those around her. Long, muscled legs were capped off by needle thin heels in midnight black. Far above her knee, what might be considered modest, started the hemline of a scrap of material some designer dared call a dress.
The rich violet of the dress clung to her generous curves like a lover’s hand, thick hair only a few shades dark hung limp at her back, damp with sweat. Her arms were above her head, moving in time with the music while her hips and torso writhed seductively.
Never in all his life had he seen something that made him ache like this.
As though she felt his heavy, penetrating gaze on her, eyes the shade of fresh summer lilacs met his, widening with a hint of surprise. Piotr allowed himself to smirk. It wasn’t easy to get one over on a telepath after all.
She never stopped her body, turning the slow undulations toward him, a balatant invitation for Piotr to come closer. He moved toward her, a man entranced. No matter how he told himself that romantic or even strictly sexual entanglements were unwise, the 21 year old man couldn’t deny himself anymore.
Piotr wanted Betsy. God damn him, he would have her.
Wide hands reached out for her hips as he came closer. Betsy’s expressive lavender eyes remained locked on his, her luscious lips parting. Want, desire, fervent need came off of the beautiful woman in waves. Piotr had fought the attraction for long enough, not wanting to hurt Katya’s delicate feelings.
Tonight, he was done with that. Betsy wanted him. He would give in to the pull between them at last.
She pressed that tight, lithe body against him and all thought was drowned out. Piotr flattened his hands to her back, drifting lower until he could cup her firm backside in his palms. She gasped, the tiny sound almost lost over the pounding music, the roar of blood in his veins. Her head dropped back, revealing pale flesh. Piotr wanted to kiss her there, on that wildly jumping pulse point.
He did. Betsy arched closer, whispering something that might have been his name.
Nothing will ever be the same. Her entreating presence whispered into his mind.
I know, Piotr sent the thought back a heartbeat before he crushed his mouth to hers.
Psylocke opened her mind to him, allowing him to feel what she felt, see what she saw. Piotr staggered under the onslaught of her feelings for him, pulling her away from the dance floor. His preternatural strength kept her in his arms as Piotr located an empty booth. Without preamble, he slid them both into the darkened corner, pulling Psylocke onto his lap.
She got comfortable immediately, straddling his thighs, rocking those impossibly perfect hips against him. Piotr clamped his hands on her backside, dragging her closer as his mouth plundered hers. Betsy went pliant in his arms, almost melting. They were away from the others, away from the mutant fight and for one blessed night, they would be together without any of that.
They keyed into the hotel room at just past 2 in the morning, tumbling inside and kicking the door closed. Without paying any mind to the room itself, Piotr backed Betsy up toward the bed, her slender body pressed against his. She yanked his shirt over his broad shoulders without missing a kiss, as Piotr tried in vain to find the zip on her skin-tight dress.
“No zip,” Betsy’s accented voice said as she nibbled his bottom lip. “Peels off.”
“God.” Piotr gulped, bending at the knee so he could grasp the hem of her dress. He pulled it up in one graceful motion, revealing that Betsy had worn not a blessed thing under it.
She giggled at his gasp, falling back against the bed and pulling Piotr’s heavy form on top of her. He chuckled, settling between her thighs as the last remaining barriers of cloth were tossed over his shoulder. Betsy looked up at him, a soft expression in those beautiful eyes. Piotr touched her cheek reverently, offered a small smile.
“Let me in.”
Betsy seemed to understand, for he felt her mind open to his a moment later. Feelings, images, and thoughts flowed freely, even as Piotr kissed his lover again.
Linked together, Piotr held nothing back as he and Betsy made love until dawn.
***
Two weeks after the attack at the Worthington charity ball, Logan was still in Washington. Having come to check on his friend, Logan made sure he was on hand, should anyone else take a shot at Hank or Patricia.
Since she was pregnant at the time of the explosion and shooting, the doctors kept her for three days, finally releasing the woman into the capable hands of her fiance. Logan went with them to Washington, simply to stay the hell away from the mansion.
As Patricia slept, Logan knew that it was time for Furball to start sticking his blue nose where it didn’t belong. His friend came into the living room, a matching pair of Jamesons in his hands. Logan took it, knowing that by doing so he was inviting a talk. He didn’t mind that much. Furball was a good listener, at least.
He couldn’t seem to get that night in his room out of his mind. He thought about it almost constantly, wondering what would have happened if she’d said his name, instead of the man she loved until the day he died. It was killing him. Maybe he should talk about it...
“‘Ro kissed me.”
He threw the words out there for the first time, voicing the experience that haunted him now. If he closed his eyes, he could still see her coming into his room, approaching him as though desperate to make sure he was alive. She smelled of oranges from her shampoo and that earthy tang she carried with her, no matter what fragrance she spritzed on her neck.
“Go on.”
It was all Hank said, all that needed saying.
“She came into my room after the bombing,” Logan explained, hissing when his sip of whisky burned his throat. “I could smell her before she reached the door, hear her. I heard her nightmare, too, her crying out for me like I was back under that ceiling. No one’s ever worried about me like that. It was comforting. And sexy, for some damn reason.”
Beast remained quiet, listening to the quiet pop of the fire in the fireplace. His blue eyes were on Logan, remained on him even as the Wolverine stared into the fire, sipping his whisky. Hank wasn’t one to jump in with questions or suggestions. Logan could go on or drop it, whichever suited him.
Because Hank was his friend, Logan went on before it killed him.
“Then, she called me Scott.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yeah.”
It took several moments for the utter lack of surprise in Hank’s voice to filter through the memory. Logan was thinking of soft, yielding lips, dark, mysterious eyes and caramel hued skin. He wanted to be back in that moment, touching her, wanting her.
That was annoying as shit.
“You knew.” Logan asked of Hank, finally turning from the hypnotic fire. “About Scott.”
“Ororo isn’t as clever as she thinks,” Hank affirmed. “Scott knew, to some degree. He never mentioned it, hoping she would move on, find someone else.”
Logan grunted. “That didn’t work.”
“Sadly, no.”
They lapsed back into silence for long, tense moments. Logan stared at the fire again, wondering why he couldn’t get one kiss, one moment out of his mind. It haunted him, replacing nightmares of gunfire and pain with erotic fantasies he hadn’t been able to shove away.
“You want her.”
It wasn’t a question. Hank laid out the three words as simple, undeniable truth without the baggage of his unwanted opinion. Logan sipped the last of his whisky, hissing once more as the burn traveled from throat to stomach.
“Yeah.”
“She is not Jean.”
“No.” Logan chuckled. “Jean wasn’t an uppity, icy headmistress with a stick up her ass.”
Hank’s smirk was audible. “Then, why?”
“I don’t know.” Logan answered honestly, turning his head to look at his friend. “I just know I do, but I can’t be Scott. I won’t be Scott. If she can’t get over that, there’s no need for me to want her.”
Hank said nothing for a long moment, as though he didn’t have anything to say to that. Logan thought about it, all those endless hours waiting for Trish to get released. Their kiss had ended badly, Logan knew that. He’d shocked himself by not flying into a feral rage, demanding that he be the only male to touch her.
Ororo wasn’t unused to touch, she often smelled of that Cheyenne called Forge now. Logan tightened his hand around the glass Hank was deftly refilled with one dexterous hand. Though he hated to admit it, Logan realized his attraction to his teammate about the same time as she asked for another.
Her kiss was consuming, fire on hot coals, burning through him to leave ash in her wake. The taste of her lips was burned into his memory, his hands ached to run over her soft curves, to figure out how she felt against him. Logan couldn’t deny she was gorgeous, but he hadn’t wanted her imprinting herself on his heart like that.
Damn it.
“Is there anything I can do?”
At Hank’s question, Logan shook his head. It hit him, right then, that he couldn’t go back to the school. He should. He should get up tomorrow morning, catch a plane, and get back into the swing of things. There were training sessions and missions and kids that needed looking after.
All of those things, however, required being around Storm. That, he felt, was a dangerous undertaking. If he went back, if he kissed her again...and he would...if she called out for Scott again, there would be no containing his temper a second time.
Since when was he so damn possessive over a woman he couldn’t stand on a daily basis?
“No, I think I just need to take off for a while.” Logan said, though the thought was painful. “I’ve been stationary too long.”
There was immense sadness in his friend’s eyes.
“On your own?”
Logan jerked one shoulder up, then down in a careless shrug.
Brightening, Hank leaned forward a moment later. “Or, you can stay in Washington with me! My head of security is looking to retire for health reasons. Perhaps you can take his place.”
With a sardonic smirk, Logan arched one dark brow. “You need security?”
Hank laughed again, that same merry sound that always made Logan smile. “I do! You’ll be well compensated, even if its only temporary. Should you want to return to Westchester, I certainly won’t be put out. What do you say?”
He hesitated a moment before tilting his glass at his friend.
“I say you’re a genius, that’s what I say.”
They clinked glasses to seal the deal.
***
Logan laid her on the bed with tenderness, her back arching from his sheets in a desperate attempt to get him closer. He chuckled darkly, hands smoothing up the line of her torso, his thumb catching the hem of her camisole. He revealed her breasts with that same languid movement, slow and delicate, as though he wanted to savor every moment.
Ororo gasped when Logan dipped his head, pressing hot, wet kisses to heated flesh. She whispered his name, a grunt, a groan, a prayer. Her hands fisted in his unruly hair, desperate for more contact, even when she thought the pleasure of being in his arms was going to kill her outright.
“Logan.”
“‘Ro.”
His kiss was hard, deep, stealing her secrets and making them his own. Their bodies strove together, entangled, enraptured as darkness surrounded them. She only knew him, only knew the pleasure of being in his arms.
Save me.
She opened her eyes, looking up at the heartbroken face of the man she loved. He stared at her with horror, with loss, with the overwhelming need to save her. Ororo reached out to touch his face, wanting to soothe, to comfort...
I love you.
The wind rushed from her lungs when she felt the blades enter her belly. Looking down, she saw the blood pooling on her dark nightgown, the thick, syrupy texture darkening the material immediately.
“No!” Logan screamed, retracting his claws from where they had slid into her belly. “No! ‘Ro! Not again! NO!”
“LOGAN!”
Ororo sat up so sharply in her bed that she fell out of it, landing in an undignified heap on the floor. She looked around wildly, her heart all but beating out of her chest as she tried to find Logan. There were bloody footprints leading to the balcony, a crimson handprint on the doorframe. Where had he gone?
“Logan.” the wintry mutant whispered, curling her feet under her bottom. “Logan?”
Looking down at herself, Ororo noticed the blood. In the distance, she heard the Wolverine scream as he ran into the wilds.
“Logan.”
Her telephone rang.
Storm opened her eyes, jarred from confused dreams as AC/DC’s Black In Black blared from her mobile. It was the ringtone that denoted Logan was calling. Without thinking, she checked her abdomen, surprised to find that it was not covered in blood.
Grasping the phone from her bedside table, Ororo groaned at the clock. It was almost midnight.
“Logan?”
“Storm? Sorry, thought you’d still be up.”
His voice sent shivers down her spine, at once pleasurable and foreboding. Her dreams had gotten worse since he’d gone to Washington with Hank and Trish. Storm didn’t have to be a telepath to know he had not returned because of her. Logan was extremely close with Hank - as close as he let anyone - but she knew that Logan didn’t want to see her.
The thought made her sad.
“No, it’s alright,” she assured him. “Is something wrong?”
Logan paused. She heard the distinctive inhale and exhale through the phone. If she thought about it, she could smell the signature scent of his cigar.
“I’m taking some time from the school,” he said the words carefully, as if gauging how much they would hurt. “I think I’ll do more good watching Furball’s ass for a while.”
On her bed, Ororo felt as though someone had just punched her in the stomach. He wasn’t coming back? Of course he wasn’t coming back. Hadn’t she expected that, yearned for it? Logan didn’t want to be here, haunted by memories of the only woman he had loved.
He didn’t want to face Storm, knowing that if he touched her, she might be thinking of someone else.
“I see.” Storm endeavored to keep her tone even. Without seeing his face, she knew she wasn’t fooling him. “I’ll keep your room empty, you’re welcome back whenever you like.”
“Thanks, Storm.” There was genuine pleasure, a little surprise in his tone. “Tell Rogue she can call whenever, and make sure Pete finishes that Danger Room session in one piece. The one with the robotic trees.”
She smirked, recalling the last time he had run that program. “Got it.”
There was a heavy, weighted pause. Ororo thought back to her dream, the image of Logan’s horrified face as she died at his hands, his scream of not again rebounding in her mind until her head spun. Her heart ached, wondering how it would feel to know he wouldn’t be irritating the shit out of her in the morning.
“Logan?”
“Yeah, darlin’?”
Deciding to say what she had wanted to that night, Ororo swallowed hard.
“I didn’t mean it.” She said softly. “I didn’t mean to say his name. I wasn’t thinking about him.”
Logan’s sharp intake of breath made Storm bite her lip. “I just wanted to clear the air.”
He exhaled again, sharper this time. “Can I ask you one thing?”
Her heart pounded so hard in her chest, Storm thought it was entirely possible he could hear it through the phone. Why was she nervous? Why was she talking about this?
“Sure.” Her flippant reply sounded too breathy to be really flippant.
“Did you want to kiss me again?”
Without thinking, Storm closed her eyes. “Yes.”
Logan was quiet again. “Ok.”
Swallowing hard, Storm shifted on the bed, trying to shake her dream off.
“Take care of Henry. I’ll hold down the fort.”
“You do that.”
With that, Ororo clicked her phone off, tossing it back onto the nightstand. She settled against the headboard, wondering what the hell she was going to do now.
***
While Storm was on the phone with Wolverine, Kitty was pacing her bedroom. In the two weeks since the bombing and her fantastic night with Warren, he hadn’t come back to her room. Truthfully, they weren’t allowed much time to be together, but she thought he would come down to her room at least once or twice.
She wanted to talk to him about everything. The morning after her night with Warren, she’d walked into the kitchen to find Pete talking with Psylocke. The two leaned close together, whispering so as to not wake anyone. For a moment, Kitty had tilted her head, thinking how adorable they looked together, what a good couple the outrageous Betsy and quiet Pete would make.
There was no jealousy, no anger. Kitty didn’t understand it...until War walked in.
He’d seen her and flushed a rosy red, obviously recalling their evening and morning spent in passion. All Kitty had wanted to do was rush over and kiss him like crazy, but he’d seemed a little...reserved.
Now, as midnight faded, Kitty decided she’d had enough. He was avoiding her, her best friend. That just wasn’t going to work.
Slipping out of her room, Kitty crept down the hall toward the room Warren slept in. She passed Bobby and Marie’s room, not surprised to hear their bed still squeaking this late in the night. Pete’s door was open. He wasn’t there. Kitty smirked, waiting for the jealousy when she realized he was probably with Betsy.
It never came. She continued on until she could knock on Warren’s door.
At first, he didn’t answer, so Kitty moved to walk away. When she knocked a little louder, though, Warren’s soft voice called for whoever was in the hall to come in.
Shadowcat phased through the door, figuring it was less likely to wake someone. She clamped her bottom lip between her teeth, fidgeting with the bottom of her Grateful Dead t-shirt.
“War?” the young woman whispered, moving toward the bed.
His wings lay flat on his back, with Warren sleeping on his belly. Blonde hair caught the moonlight streaming in from his window, giving him that angelic look that reflected his code name. Kitty felt her heart skip several beats.
Nothing could be as gorgeous as this geeky angel.
She crept closer to the bed, knowing he was a hard sleeper. Instead of talking and making a mess of things, Kitty simply shimmied under the covers, pulled Angel’s arm over her waist. Sighing happily, the mutant woman laid her head on his pillow, rewarded when Warren pulled her close to his chest.
“Kitty.” Warren, still asleep, whispered her name.
“Yeah.” She whispered back, aware he couldn’t hear her. “I’m here, War. I’ll always be here.”
