Chapter Three: Boxing and Beer
Lying here with you
Listenin' to the rain
Smilin' just to see
The smile upon your face
These are the moments
I thank God that I'm alive
These are the moments
I'll remember all my life
~Sara Evans
Ororo’s boathouse was something out of dreams. She loved the peaceful quiet it afforded her when her teaching and mutant-rights work allowed it. The four-room space had been left to rot for many years and only after she rediscovered it was it put to good use. With Logan’s help one hot summer two years ago, she’d converted the house into her home.
Security panels linked her home to the mansion, but she could turn them off if she wanted to be left completely alone. That was the first thing she did when Logan was relocated. After tucking his weakened body into her bed, she’d activated her private security field and cut all contact with the mansion.
No one questioned her nor came to recover Logan. She let her friend drift into sleep while she kept careful watch on him.
The loft bedroom covered the entire second floor, the wide, open space protecting her from the constant grapple of her phobia. In this instance, she was able to watch Logan’s sleeping form while cooking or sorting laundry in the washroom by leaving the door open. Content that they would be left alone, Ororo went about her day.
A shower was in order, though she left the bathroom door ajar in case Logan required her help. She changed in her bedroom; even if her friend had woken, he’d seen her clad in naught but her skin enough times that modesty no longer befuddled the relationship.
She cooked, tidied up, and waited for him to wake again. He would need to eat soon, fuel was desperately required in his weak state. Ororo hated seeing him so tired, so broken. Though his body would heal with time, she knew the psychological repair could be months or even years off.
It did not matter, she would be with him for every step.
“’RO!”
Startling at the hoarse call of her name, Ororo turned her face toward the loft bedroom; jumping up from the chair she’d been patiently folding laundry in.
She could hear the rustle of her sheets and frantic, panicked panting. Ororo overturned the laundry basket as she vaulted over the chair, rushing for the rail-less staircase that would take her to Logan.
The sight that greeted her in the bedroom was heartbreaking. Logan’s half-nude form struggled in her tangled sheets, his entire body coated with sweat. She’d seen his nightmares before, but the look on his face was neither rage nor pain.
Almost able to feel his agony, Ororo leapt for the bed, clasping his flailing arms with her hands and dodging. It was not easy to bear the brunt of Logan’s hellish nightmares, but years together had taught her how best to avoid injury.
Unfortunately, time did not cease the ache in her chest at seeing him so afraid.
“Logan,” she called softly. “Logan, I am here.”
“Let her go,” he rasped. “No, don’t hurt her. Take me. Take ME!”
Heart all but bleeding, Ororo fought to keep Logan’s hands away from her, knowing any injury she might sustain would hurt him far worse than her. She called his name again. And again. Desperate to break him free from the hold of his inner demons, she was screaming seconds later.
“LOGAN!”
“NO! She ain’t dead! I don’t believe it, she AIN’T DEAD!”
“Goddess,” Ororo breathed, shifting so she could sit on the bed beside his thrashing form.
She knew this nightmare, intimately. Shortly after Logan and Ororo returned from Canada armed with his birth name, the X-Men were training in the Danger Room. An explosion courtesy of a faulty electronic coil sent many of the team members to a nearby hospital. Storm, unfortunately, had taken the brunt of the explosion.
When doctors pronounced her dead shortly after she arrived at the hospital, Wolverine flew into a rage. He frightened many of the X-Men in his grief-induced fury and was only stopped when Rogue stepped forward to absorb his powers.
Just moments after she was given a time of death, Ororo’s heart began to beat again. They never discovered why or how her life was spared, and she could not remember what happened in those brief moments. Neither she nor Logan questioned it, though she was certain Henry and Jean looked into it more than once.
Logan still dreamt of those few minutes, when he heard the doctors say, “We’re sorry, we lost her.” He spoke of the incident to her alone, refusing the counseling the Professor wished to give him. Her heart broke to hear him relive that terrible incident in his mind.
He would do anything “ possible or not “ to keep history from repeating itself.
“Logan, it’s only a dream,” Ororo tried to soothe her friend. “I’m here. Alive and well.”
Why was he not reliving the experience of Magneto removing his adamantium? Was that not the most recent horror? She vowed to question him and get answers, whether he wanted to speak or not.
A moment later, Logan’s eyes opened. She could see the barely controlled sheen of tears in his eyes as he immediately sat up, wrapping her in his arms. Relaxing against his chest, Ororo wove her arms around him, holding him closely.
“Fuck,” was the first thing he said. “That’s a new one.”
“Shh,” she soothed, kissing his temple gently. “Just relax, my friend, breathe.”
“It was a jumble,” he continued uneasily. “They were tellin’ me yer dead an’ the next thing I know, Magneto’s rippin’ my bones out an’ yer lyin’ on the floor.”
“It was a dream,” Storm said quietly.
“Yeah, an’ a fucked up one, damn it.”
She released him, tilting her neck so he could take in her scent, as he always did. For so long Logan was only assured of her status as alive and well when he could hear the beat of her heart and inhale her scent.
“Yeah,” he grumbled after a moment. “It’s you, but I ain’t goin’ back to sleep.”
“It is all right,” Ororo wiped the tousled locks of hair from his face. “It is not yet midnight. Why don’t you clean up and I will heat you a plate of dinner? We can stay up all night watching Westerns.”
“Ok,” he agreed, watching her carefully as she stood up from the bed. “Did ya wash my jeans?”
“Yes,” Ororo nodded, pointing to the closet. “Your usual cache is here. Tomorrow I will get your things from the mansion.”
“Good,” Logan grunted, giving her a small, tense smile. “Go fix me some dinner, woman.”
Shaking her head, Ororo moved back out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Once she heard the water turn on in her bathroom, coupled with the off-key sound of Logan singing his favorite Johnny Cash tune, she balled her hands into fists.
Rage and cold hatred filled her veins with the speed of light. She turned, in a fluid motion, and punched the wall leading into the kitchen. Still infuriated and pained, she followed it up with two more, leaving a score of indentations where her hands met drywall.
She kept her mutation in a tight check, even as she stared at her swelling hand.
Magneto had done this. He’d taken something from Logan’s body and instilled more fear inside of her friend. If she ever saw him again, she would kill him with her bare hands. Charles had let the mad criminal live too long as it was. If Logan had only killed him three weeks ago, none of this would have happened.
“If Charles had killed him years ago, so many lives would not have been lost,” she growled to herself.
When the water turned off above her, she took several deep breaths, calming herself. It would not do for Logan to see her so angry and filled with thoughts of revenge. She would take care of Magneto at the right moment.
No one in heaven or hell would stop her.
~**~
“Logan is in need of physical and psychological care, Ororo. You cannot shoulder this burden alone.”
Storm glared at Charles, who sat, dignified as ever, in his wheelchair as she faced him in the foyer. She’d only come to collect Logan’s belongings, not expecting Charles and Jean to waylay her as she left.
“Logan has never been and will never be a burden to me, Xavier,” Storm retorted hotly. “He does not wish to undergo any more experimentation.”
Her last comment was spoken as her gaze flicked to Jean, standing so serene and perfect beside her mentor. The woman’s green eyes held compassion and understanding, but beneath that Ororo found determination.
“We only want what is best for him,” Charles continued. “He should be observed by medical professionals.”
“He still retains free will,” Ororo replied, crossing her arms under her breasts. “And he wishes to remain at the boathouse.”
“Ororo…”
“Do NOT patronize me, Charles,” Storm shot back at his placating tone. “I am not a child and I am doing what I feel is best for Logan’s recovery.”
“How do you know what is best?” Jean piped up at last. “He’s healing, I agree, but the damage was extensive.”
“Yes,” said Ororo coldly. “Unlike you, I was there when it happened. I know, better than any of you, how extensive the damage was.”
“Please, be rational,” Charles tried again.
“Rational? How is it rational to give your family an order to not kill when your best friend wreaks havoc on the world around you?” her voice neared the level of a full-on shout.
For a moment, looking at the stricken expression on Charles’ face, she felt a twinge of shame. It was his failing, she thought, to see potential for hope and good inside everyone. She did love his unwavering faith in humans and mutants alike, but not at the cost of lives. Not when Logan’s life had nearly been taken from her.
“I know you are hurting,” he began, silenced when she held a hand up.
“No, you do not,” said the weather witch sadly. “And I cannot understand how you feel losing Magneto this way. But, Charles, he must be dealt with. You must allow us to terminate him.”
“Storm!” Jean’s shocked gasp went unanswered.
Charles pinned Ororo with his gaze, though they both knew neither would back down. He looked away a moment later.
“Could you do it?” he said in a quiet tone she’d seldom heard before. “If the tables were turned and you found yourself at odds with Wolverine, could you kill him?”
“Yes,” she admitted just as softly. “You taught us all that one person’s life should not be protected if innocents are in danger.”
For a moment, there was silence and Ororo sighed, shaking her head.
“Perhaps you are right,” Charles turned, as though to wheel away.
“You know I am, Charles. Your hypocrisy did this to Logan,” she said coolly. “Leave Logan alone until he is ready.”
She could not help but watch him wheel away, the slouch of his shoulders saying she’d struck an exposed nerve. Though she was slightly ashamed of her behavior, she could not take the words back or her feeling that she was right.
Collecting Logan’s battered duffel bag, Ororo turned to leave. Jean rushed forward, grabbing her arm and turning her by force.
“How could you say that to him?” Jean hissed angrily. “Do you realize how much you hurt him?”
Not surprised by Jean’s stubborn dedication to her mentor, Ororo sighed, slinging the bag over her shoulder.
“Jean, I love Charles, you know that,” she shook her head. “But this…I cannot forgive. Magneto has grown too powerful and it should have ended, at the latest, at Liberty Island.”
“Storm, it’s not that simple,” Jean’s green eyes plead.
Disappointed in her friend, Ororo gently shifted to remove her arm from her grasp.
“It should be,” she said quietly, opening the front door. “Logan will come next week for a checkup. You may want to call Angel and Psylocke back from England.”
“Wh--”
“I am taking a leave of absence until Logan has recovered.”
“Storm, you two aren’t an island,” Jean tried again. “You can’t do this alone.”
“We are not alone,” she replied with a small smile, kissing her friend’s cheeks. “We have each other. Give my best to Scott and ensure Rogue finishes her college applications, please.”
Before Jean could stop her, Ororo stepped out of the mansion, shutting the door quietly behind her.
~**~
Ororo balanced the bags filled with Thai food and dessert in her arms as she fought to open the boathouse’s front door. Two weeks had passed since she’d last spoken to Charles or set foot in the mansion.
Charles, it seemed, had taken Ororo’s leave of absence and parting words to heart. No one invaded the sanctuary of the boathouse and at Logan’s weekly medical checkups, they never tried to detain him or run scientific tests on him.
They got along fine, just the two of them. Wolverine was largely healed, but still bore great pain. His sore muscles had to be exercised every day, an excruciatingly slow process that consisted of cursing and Ororo dodging flying objects.
Logan was relearning to walk, much to his horror. His metal skeleton had weighed more than one hundred pounds and without it, his balance was altered. He could not take more than three steps without overcorrecting and landing on his backside.
The loss of the metallic sheathing on his bones was playing havoc on his senses as well. He described it as feeling “slightly to the left” at all times. He often sat with his head tilted, and even more often looked uncomfortable in his own skin. Ororo felt for him, though she attempted to keep him from wallowing in depression.
“Where the fuck ya been?” came the growling voice from in front of her.
She’d not even seen the front door open nor could she catch a glimpse of the speaker over the bags in her arms. Sighing, Ororo took a cautious step forward.
“You should be sitting down,” she chided the short man. “I have this.”
“Yeah,” he grunted. “And ya shoulda been back four hours ago. What gives?”
Nervous, Ororo glanced at the portion of tiny braids resting on her shoulder. He’d made her leave the boathouse for the first time today. Complaining about her desperate need for a haircut and inability to leave him alone, he’d pushed her out early that morning.
Ororo elicited his promise that he would work on his muscle exercises and left with a heavy heart. She spent most of the day pampering herself, as Logan insisted that if he did not smell the chemicals of a facial and shampoo from the hairdresser, he’d put her over his knee.
It was a common threat, but she knew he would make good on it.
So, freshly returned from a day of reveling in the fact that she was female, she’d stopped to get take out for them both, intending to spend the rest of the evening watching the boxing match with her friend. Of course, her trip to her hairdresser had taken far longer than usual. It was, after all, about time she did something drastic.
By memory, Ororo moved to the kitchen, depositing her armload of food onto the counter and setting her Neimen-Marcus bag on the floor. That, she thought, she was saving for Logan’s first trip out of the boathouse.
“Whoa.”
Looking up, she noted Logan staring at her. Trying to not blush, she raised a white brow, silently challenging him as he came around the counter, holding on to the tile so he would not fall over. Sharp dark eyes locked on to her hair and he reached forward, tugging a few of the teeny braids.
“That’s new.”
“Jenny and I thought something new was in order,” she explained as he moved behind her, looking at her hair carefully. “This is what took so long.”
“Damn,” Logan muttered, standing beside her again. “Looks nice. How long will it stay like that?”
“A while,” she grinned, her feminine side giddy at the compliment. “It is comfortable and easy to manage.”
“Good,” Logan began digging through the bags of food. “I did my exercises, Warden. And soaked in the hot tub for an hour.”
“Good. Here, boy,” Ororo whistled to get his attention, taking a pot sticker from the bag and tossing it at him as one would to a dog. He easily captured the hot item in his mouth, winking at her.
“Fight starts in ten,” her friend announced as he grabbed plates and flatware. “I put a hundred on Brock, so he’d better win.”
“Logan,” Ororo chided, though she knew his instincts were usually correct. “Have you no respect for Timur Ibragimov?”
“He’s a pansy.”
“Fascist.”
“Wuss.”
She turned as he left the kitchen, armed with another pot sticker. To her horror, Logan overbalanced, the plates falling from his hands to crash to the linoleum floor.
“Logan!”
Too late. The 200-pound mutant fell onto his stomach with a loud and sickening thud. Ororo jumped forward, spilling the contents of the pot sticker bag in her haste to assist her friend.
Logan did not move, but as she knelt at his side, he shrugged her away. Hurt, though understanding that his pride was more wounded than his body, she folded her hands into her lap. She would wait until he was ready to stand.
“This is fuckin’ ridiculous,” he snarled, muffled with his face pressed into the floor. “I’m a grown man can’t fuckin’ walk without a girl’s help.”
Her own pride stinging, Ororo immediately stood, stepping over his prone form.
“Fine,” she said coolly. “If you want to feel sorry for yourself, stay there.”
He did not reply as she hastily scooped up the dropped pot stickers. Like every recovering patient, Logan had his good days and bad days. There were times he did not want her help, choosing instead to attempt everything on his own. She knew Wolverine had a stubborn, rebellious streak. His traitorous body insulted that independent nature. Ororo, however, would not put up with it.
If Logan wanted to sulk, he always sulked alone. She was far too thankful he was alive to bother with feeling sorry for him.
She retrieved more plates, gathered up the food and stepped back over him into the sitting room. Laying everything out like a take-out buffet on the polished oak coffee table, she waited for her friend to either join her or ask for help. Once the television was switched on to the proper channel that would broadcast the HBO sponsored match, she prepared to take a seat, studiously ignoring Logan.
Just minutes after she sat, she heard a grunt come from the kitchen. The tinkling of broken glass and scattered silverware as Logan tried to stand. After several seconds, she heard him collapse again.
“Hey, ‘Ro?”
Without waiting for him to ask, she stood and came back into the kitchen. Kneeling beside him, she took his offered hand and pulled him to stand. He seemed so small now as she took on much of his weight as he stood. Without the adamantium, he felt as hollow as he claimed to be.
“Are we finished with the pity party?” she questioned, brushing the glass from his clothing and arms.
“Shut up,” snarled Logan in response.
Ororo grabbed his chin with her hand, yanking his face upward so she could look down at him.
“Am I your enemy? Do I deserve such treatment?” she demanded, knowing his weak spots intimately. “Have I, for one moment, treated you as an invalid as Jean would have? If you believe any of that, you can get the hell out of my house.”
For a long, tense moment, blue eyes locked onto dark brown, challenging him. She would not allow her friend to be lost to depression and pity. If she had to kick him in the ass “ figuratively and literally “ so be it. He would not find himself coddled in her presence.
“Sorry, darlin’,” Logan said at last. “I shouldn’t snap at ya.”
“No,” she agreed, wiggling under his arm after releasing his chin. “You should not. If you want to be babied, I will have you sent right back to the med-lab.”
“Yer mean, threatin’ me like that.”
“You are no angel,” she deposited him on the sofa, watching him settle in before she dropped into the space beside him. “You must give it time. Enjoy your vacation.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he waved her off, wiping away small bloodstains from his arms. “Give me the remote.”
She handed him the controls, taking a plate and fork so she could fill her plate with the richly scented food laid out before them. The main fight was a few hours off, but they could amuse themselves with the “smaller” fights leading up to it.
They ate in silence for a few moments, Ororo cheering on a few of her favorite medium and lightweight fighters. She did live for non-violence, but there was something about boxing matches that wound her up.
“Who do ya like for Julio versus Quintana?” he grumbled.
“Quintana,” she replied promptly, eyes glued to the screen. “He has more patience and power. He will draw Julio in, wait him out, and then pow.” Ororo punched the air for emphasis.
“Huh,” her companion grunted. “Could be right. Julio’s young, rash. But I still say Brock’s got the rights an’ Ibragimov just don’t got the defense.”
“I believe you count him out far, far too easily,” Ororo defended her favorite boxer. “Still, two of these men will walk out of that ring without their perfect 0’s.”
“Sad, sad day.”
When the Brock versus Ibragimov match began, Logan reached over, touching Ororo’s shoulder. She turned her head, swallowing a mouthful of rice with her eyebrow cocked.
“Ya know I don’t mean it,” he said quietly, heedless to the announcer blaring from the television’s speakers. “When I talk like I did.”
“I know,” she replied with a small smile. “I know you are impatient but taking it out on me will not help, nor will pushing yourself too soon.”
Logan nodded silently, then cleared his throat. “Ya know I wouldn’t hurt ya on purpose.”
“If I believed you capable of hurting me intentionally, you would still be at the mansion.”
They both nodded, the tinge of discomfort now gone between them. Many would have fainted at the very thought of Logan apologizing for anything, but Ororo knew him well. They rarely let anything come between them, preferring to keep their relationship in tact. They fought, often, about anything at all, and yet both were quick to heal any rift.
Ororo folded her legs under her backside, placing her now empty plate back on the table. She gasped as she remembered her “gift” for Logan, still waiting in the kitchen. Without a word to her friend, she hauled her body over the back of the sofa, ducking into the kitchen to retrieve a six-pack and cigar she’d purchased for him.
When she returned to the living room, she set both on the sofa beside him, then crawled over the back of it again to sit down.
“Ah hell,” Logan practically gushed. “Yer an angel, a goddess, I bow to yer greatness.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she answered with a grin. “You are not only president of the Storm Fan Club, but also a member.”
Logan laughed as he twisted the tops from two beers, handing her one of them. Smiling at his reverent expression, she sipped calmly, sniffing at the scent of his cigar smoke.
“You’ll make some man a very good wife some day,” he said, blowing out a lungful of smoke.
“Very funny,” she retorted, wincing when Ibragimov hit the canvas. “Get up! Up! Up! Up! Timur, you are not a pansy!”
“Sic ‘em, Brock!” Logan countered. “Go for the body!”
“Traitor!” Ororo punched Logan in the shoulder, not turning to him.
“Ha! Yer jus’ mad that ya backed the wrong…oooh that’s gonna leave a mark!”
They continued cheering on their boxers for the next few rounds, Ororo growing more and more discontent with her favorite. In the end, Logan’s Brock took her Ibragimov down, leaving her to pout.
“Come on,” Logan chucked her under the chin, giving her a very fake pout. “Quintana’s up next and he usually don’t disappoint.”
Still smarting from the loss, Ororo scooted until she could lie down, resting her head on Logan’s massive thigh. As he usually did, one of his hands fell to her hair. She cuddled close, reveling in this peaceful and quiet moment, nearly purring when he stroked the braids covering her head.
“Feels weird,” he grunted, making her look up at him. “Interestin’ though. Makes yer eyes look huge.”
“Why, Wolverine,” she simpered, holding back laughter. “You will make me blush.”
“Hush, woman,” he tugged on a braid. “Watch yer fight.”
The Julio versus Quintana fight went much better than the previous match. Ororo and Logan cheered on their favorite, her head still resting on his leg. Her eyes began to droop as the hour wore late, but she was far too comfortable to even contemplate moving.
Logan continued to stroke her cheek and hair absently, giving her that warm, sleepy feeling one only has when completely safe and secure. It was a perfect night for the two of them. Eating and having a beer while watching boxing matches. That was, as a matter of fact, something they had originally become friends over.
Soon after the X-Men returned to the rebuilt mansion following the incidents at Alkali Lake, Logan had come upon Ororo hiding in the recreation room late one evening. She’d been watching a match without volume, silently cheering on de la Hoya when no one was around. Ororo was not considered one that would enjoy boxing, so she usually partook in her hobby when no one was around to ask questions.
That night, Logan simply sat beside her, asked which round it was in and watched with her. Since then, they took in a match whenever possible.
She drifted off shortly after the Quintana win, as Logan stayed awake to watch the interviews from the fights. Ororo felt him cover her with the blanket resting on the back of the sofa, but his hand immediately came back to idly stroking her cheek.
It was perfect. Home. And she fell into a deep sleep for the first time since the battle with Magneto.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I made a wallpaper for this fic and thought I'd share it for anyone who wants it. (I'm still working on one for To Survive.) It can be found here Have a good one everybody!
