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Author's Chapter Notes:
Summary: Ororo doesn’t mind Logan’s impromptu visits as much as he thought. Go figure.

Author’s Note: I wish this had any socially redeeming value. The author is a horrible person. You know this about me by now.
Ororo wished she found Logan’s visits more disturbing. Sure. That would have been the sane response to seeing the same guy showing up naked on her front lawn with almost clockwork regularity.

Truth be told, she wasn’t even annoyed.

Concerned? Certainly. Confused? Oh, heck yes. Scared?

Surprisingly… No.

That was the weirdest part.

For some reason Ororo couldn’t put her finger on, Logan James Howlett didn’t scare her at all. Her work name tag didn’t even have her last name on it, but she recognized that “Ororo” wasn’t the most common name on the planet. He could have certainly Googled her, or he could have done a 411 search. A home address wasn’t as hard to find as it would have been a few decades ago.

He’d looked so lost in the ER, like he couldn’t figure out why the world was kicking him when he was already down. She glimpsed him when they first bought him back. He looked dazed, and blood dripped from ragged tears in his skin.

Ororo winced at the wound, shuddering as she read the physician’s note and discharge orders. Follow-up with primary doctor in one week. Wound care center referral. Lab redraw. Return to ER in the event of fever, pus or swelling to screen for infection. Standard stuff.

By the time she showed up with his papers, he was fussing with the bandage, only pausing from it when she called his name.

For a moment, when their eyes met, her breath caught. They were dark and intense, and there was something there. Warmth. Gratitude. And if she wasn’t mistaken, pure, unadulterated awe. His pupils dilated and she realized she was staring. Ororo’s stomach did a little flip and she cleared her throat, donning her professional smile.

She felt his eyes on her, assessing her. Drinking her in.

She sent him on his not-so-merry way.

She went back to business as usual, but he never quite left her thoughts.

Three weeks later, she was back on her usual morning shift, glad she didn’t have to float again until Anna went on vacation. She could have sworn she heard low whuffling and growling outside her window about a half an hour before her alarm went off. “Grrrrr,” she moaned as she threw her arm loose from the covers, rolling over to check the time. It had to be her neighbor’s dog; he must have gotten loose again. Ororo shook her head every time she eyed the loose boards in his fence, which he tapped back in place with the same rusty nails. He was a yappy, auburn Pomeranian who constantly growled and barked at Ororo when she was in her own yard. She detested him.

It was almost time to get up, anyway. Ororo got up and fixed her morning pot of coffee from blonde roast beans before stepping into the shower. She multitasked, shaving and brushing her teeth while she was in there, leaving the conditioner on her hair when she got out so she could comb it through. Ororo found her favorite pumps, black suede, well broken in, and she eased into her skirt, regretting only slightly that it wasn’t sized in “tall” when she scored it from the clearance rack at Anne Taylor Loft.

Her morning went smoothly because she was organized and well rested. If she got out the door soon enough, she could beat the traffic on the exit ramp. She had just stepped out the door and dug the keys out of her purse to lock up when she spied the inert form on the edge of her lawn.


Ororo dropped her keys and could only stare, not processing what she was seeing. He was compactly built and he had ruddy, slightly hairy skin. He lay facedown on her grass, completely limp. "Someone partied too hard last night," she decided aloud, tsking. Ororo didn't know whether to find it a) awkward, b) amusing, c) unnerving, or d) concerning. He could have been the victim of a robbery. She contemplated calling the police, but her instincts told her calling an ambulance might be more prudent.

First, though, she figured, let's see if he's alive.

She tiptoed over to him, glad that her neighbors hadn't emerged from their houses quite yet, and she hovered over him for a few moments. His back rose and fell evenly, and he wasn't even shivering, which surprised her. On closer inspection, he was very muscular, but she slapped herself for that thought. Focus. Can't be rude. He wasn't bruised, and he didn't have any contusions or cuts.

Good. Now she could get back to the business of evicting him from her front yard. "Buddy. Hey. Hey, you. You forgot to get dressed this morning."

"Nnnnnggggh... huh?"

"Yeah. How should I put this? You're kind of naked."

That drew his head up sharply, and he snapped awake, twisting his head around to stare. "Oh. Oh, wow. Hi. This... this looks bad, doesn't it?"

And in an instant, she recognized him. Same deep, scratchy voice with a slight drawl. Same angular bone structure and deep, dark eyes. He had a telltale scar on his wrist that looked well healed and pink.

"The view from here is stunning."

"Oh, God... oh, God..." He scrambled up and immediately knocked his knees together, cupping his privates.

"Logan. Right?"

He looked stupefied at the sound of his own name. His cheeks flooded with color. "Uh, yeah. Look, darlin'-"

"Can I at least-"

"No! No, no, no! Sorry!" He glanced around, eyes frantic, until he saw her newspaper lying in her driveway. "Sorry, darlin', I'm gonna need this!"

"What... hey!" He ran over and scooped it up, flinging off the rubber band, and he flapped it open, draping the pages around his hips like a towel.

"I'll pay ya back, I swear!"

"I wanted the circulars!" she called after him as he sprinted off. But it was too late. He looked and sounded so contrite and embarrassed. He moved in long, even strides, barefoot and heedless of the hard ground.

It was too bad. She almost offered to drive him home.

Ororo glanced at the news and saw a brief local report that a man had been seen running down a bike path close to her house, with the banner "Monday Morning Streaker" running along the bottom of the screen. Ororo snorted into her coffee.


*


He never accepted the ride home. She still had no clue what brought him to her doorstep, and why he seemed so confused every time he woke up.

She began asking him questions. "Do you drink?"

"Not often. Not much... sorry, kiddo. Be seein' ya... you'll see less of me... aw, y'know what I mean!"

And off he'd go.

She kept at it.

"Low blood sugar?"

"No."

"Recreational street drugs?"

"What, do I look like a junkie?"

"No. Here, put these on."

She'd had the urge to buy a pack of men's underpants the last time she went to Costco. Just in case. He kept himself cupped in his hand, hunched over, but he reached out and plucked the briefs from her grip. Their fingertips touched, and he felt a little shock go through him with the contact. She cleared her throat and turned her back politely to let him cover himself.

Once again, off he went.

"Seizure disorder? Fraternity prank?"

"I ain't even been that much of a joiner, darlin'. And I'm not seizure-prone."

"So... what, then? Are you sleepwalking all the way over here, then?" Then she had a thought. "Or are you just lonely?"

That question took him aback. Ororo realized she hit the nail right on the head, but he told her, "I gotta go. Have a good day at work, 'Ro."

"'Ro?'" she murmured as he dashed off, this time in her kitchen apron; the rest of the briefs were in the laundry. That... wasn't the worst pet name she'd ever had.

She'd keep it.

His butt cheeks, round and firm, flapped in the breeze where the apron didn't reach.

She was starting to not mind his visits. But his exits continued to leave her flummoxed.





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