Chapter Four: Lunar Pull
And she gets sad sometimes
She'll never show it
You might make her mad
But you'll never know it
She don't wear her heart out on her sleeve
She only gets that way with me
~Toby Keith
Night had fallen some time ago, bathing the inky black lake and dark lawn in silvery moonlight. The boathouse was quiet as his housemate tidied up in the kitchen; her music of choice was something he recognized as popular among those in her age group. The sort heard in her nightclubs and on the Top 40 station. Tonight’s selection wasn’t too bad; a low, male whine accompanied a soft, throbbing tune.
Outside on the front porch, which faced the spots of light coming from the mansion across the lake, Logan sat in the porch swing he’d built for Storm’s house, his feet propped on the opposite armrest so he was sprawled comfortably.
She’d ushered him outside into the chilly evening, telling him that fresh air would do him some good. He knew the real reason, of course. With Logan’s improved mobility, he would start bugging her for something to do. Cleaning the kitchen was something Storm always did herself and would brook no interference.
Taking his beat up guitar, a steal at a pawnshop some time ago, he leaned back on the armrest of the porch swing, looking out at the ripe waxing moon. Everything at the boathouse was as its mistress. Serene, beautiful, safe, and filled with that soothing scent of rain and earth. Some of his best memories were of this house.
Idly strumming the guitar strings without any real tune in mind, he dropped his head against the back of the swing, staring up at the moon that seemed framed by the posts and railings of the porch. The bright moon outshone the stars, he could see far into that blue-black sky, the isolation of the boathouse providing little in the way of artificial light to obscure such a fantastic view.
While he sat alone, his mind drifted back to Magneto. In the six weeks since the attack, Ororo never mentioned him by name. In fact, Wolverine was starting to wonder how her mind was holding up. She withdrew from even him when questioned about her reaction to the incident.
Though he could not remember the actual process Magneto used to tear the adamantium sheathing from his bones, just imagining what his best friend had seen was painful. When he asked her to detail the memory, that beautiful face would crumble for a moment before she regained control.
“Now is not the time,” she would say, quickly changing the subject.
Logan put up with it because he loved her. It wasn’t a stretch for him to admit he loved the woman that acted as his savior, best friend, closest confidante, and personal bodyguard. They shared a companionship he likened to pack animals. They were the best kind of family, the sort you choose.
He could tell her things that no other would ever hear and the same held true for her. They kept one another’s secrets, helped when needed and delivered loving kicks to the ass when required.
So why wouldn’t she talk about Magneto? Logan pondered this while his fingers stroked the strings of his guitar, his eyes locked onto that striking moon.
The attack left him with some lingering emotional issues, he wouldn’t deny it. Every night, he told Storm a little more, let her in a little further. She knew about his physical recovery, had helped him every step of the way. When he’d wanted to drown in depression and maybe several bottles of Jack Daniels, she’d easily emptied all liquor from her house and guilt tripped him into staying with her.
Nothing on the planet would make him knowingly abandon her, even to mental illness. She knew that and exploited it, clever wench.
Nightmares were another constant companion. He told her about each nightly terror, revealed the fear he carried that someday someone would tell him she’d been killed. That was his motivation for jumping in when Magneto held her in his grasp. Logan’s often-feral mind would not allow anyone to harm her. That action cost the mutant a part of his body, his life.
Did she feel guilty about it? Sure, he knew her better than anyone, but she could still throw him for a loop. Especially when she kept changing the subject.
Shifting sore legs until they crossed at his sock-covered ankles, Logan pulled the guitar closer to his chest, playing the intro chords to an old Fleetwood Mac song. She’d worked him hard today, on the lawn of the boathouse. In that crisp autumn air, they sparred and exercised until he could almost take his friend down in a few moves.
His timing was still a little off, his center of balance just to the left. Storm insisted that his equilibrium would repair itself in time. His body was almost completely healed, though he tired easily. Ororo trained him with the compassion of an angel and the determination of a hell demon.
One day he’d get her to open up to him, he’d make sure she wouldn’t run off and do something stupid the moment she caught wind of where Magneto was holed up. They were very similar creatures, Storm and Wolverine. He knew if the tables were turned and it was he nursing Storm back to health, he’d thirst for vengeance as well. He would have to keep both eyes on her at all times.
Going up against Magneto alone was akin to suicide.
The music drifting from the open boathouse windows clicked off a moment later, a low humming echoing it. Logan allowed himself to smile, knowing she would appear any minute to hang with him in the chilled night.
Squeaking hinges and soft footfalls brought her to him and he tilted his head back, greeting her upside down. Ororo gave him that simple little smile he loved, placing what smelled like a cup of strong Turkish coffee on the small table beside the swing.
She came around him slowly, holding a cup of coffee herself. She was wearing an old sweatshirt of his, obviously stolen from his laundry. The garment was short on her tall frame, but she seemed to swim in the over-large arms, her shoulder bared by the wide neckline. On those impossibly long legs, she’d donned a pair of very short women’s sleeping boxers, the ass of them marked with “Very Sexy” written in an arch.
Impervious to the cold, she could get away with being barefoot as she moved to the porch railing. He watched in silence as she hopped up on the rail, using a thick post as a backrest while she stretched those dark legs out. One of her knees propped up to give her balance as she settled in, her face turned to the moon.
Now, Ororo was his best friend and he would never take advantage of that relationship in any way, shape, or form. But she was so attractive it sometimes knocked him momentarily stupid. Above all things, Logan was still a man and yes, he looked at her. Often.
Aware that he was almost drooling, Logan put his coffee cup down, enjoying the scalding his tongue received during his lingering stare. His hands went back to the strings of his guitar. His friend turned her head slightly, her dimpled cheeks giving away the profile of her smile.
“Beautiful night,” she said in that serene voice.
“Yeah, I was thinkin’ that,” he rumbled in reply.
“Play something,” Ororo said, shifting so she could turn her face to his fully. “Something lonely, mournful.”
“In that sorta mood, eh?” Logan nodded, tuning his instrument quickly.
“It is the night,” she replied. “I have always found the moon to be a lonesome creature.”
Raising a brow, Logan cleared his throat. “We havin’ an identity crisis, darlin’?”
“Hush,” Ororo gave him a mock glare, lifting her coffee cup to her lips.
Slowly, Logan began with a few bars of Johnny Cash’s “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”, his now-lighter fingers stumbling for a moment on the strings. Ororo’s soft voice hummed with him, her knowledge of such old music a direct effect of Logan’s tutelage.
He’d once heard her say “And who is Johnny Cash?”. That was something he considered sacrilege and set out to school the woman properly.
Without really meaning to, Logan began to sing. He could feel Ororo looking at him, her braided head resting against the post. Instead of closing his eyes, he kept them open, watching the small smile appear on his friend’s face. She tapped her fingers on one dark thigh in slow time with his playing.
There, bathed in the light from that ripe moon, the pair of them listened to his song. Perhaps loneliness of a sort he could not alleviate touched her tonight. He knew something about that. Their relationship was nearly perfect, but that did not mean they weren’t prone to bouts of aloneness even in each other’s company.
When he stopped playing, she set her coffee cup on the rail between her thighs and clapped politely. He set the guitar aside, taking his coffee in his hands with a short bow of his head in thanks for her praise.
“Very lovely,” she said in a soft tone. “I do enjoy your Johnny Cash impersonation.”
With his voice purposefully dropped to a rendition of Cash’s, he placed a cocky smile on his face and nodded to her curtly. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen, I’m Johnny Cash.”
This brought forth peals of silvery laughter from the woman perched on the porch railing.
“Hey,” he chided her with a mock glare. “Yer s’posed to say “Hi an’ I’m June Carter!”
She nodded immediately, swinging her legs down so she could place a very fake simper on her lovely face. With an accent that would have made Rogue cringe, she batted those long white lashes.
“Hi, ya’ll, I’m June Carter!”
Logan roared with laughter. She joined him a scant second later, succeeding in nearly falling from her precarious perch on the railing. Their mirth bounced over the still lake, likely reaching anyone sitting outside at the mansion.
When they both calmed, that strange look crossed his friend’s face. This time Logan pounced, knowing her guard was down.
“What’s wrong, darlin’?” he asked carefully.
She shrugged one shoulder, occupying her hands by taking up her mug again.
“Come on,” he pressed. “You’ve been down for the last few days.”
Ororo turned her face over her shoulder, obviously using the pretense of looking at the moon for an excuse to not answer him.
“Magneto?” Logan growled, trying to get a rise out of her. She always let too much slip when he irritated her.
“No,” she responded immediately. “Not entirely.”
“Then, what? Gettin’ tired of babysittin’ this old man?”
The look she shot him was filled with annoyance and disbelief. “Do not ever think that.”
“Well, spill.”
She sighed and Wolverine inwardly danced with glee. He won.
“My leave is up next week,” she explained in a low tone. “But I am not ready to rejoin the team. Charles and I left things…unresolved.”
Wincing outwardly at the admission, Logan nodded while he processed this information. Of course, she’d told him all about her last confrontation with the X-Men’s benefactor. He understood both sides of the story. Unlike Ororo, he felt for Chuck. Logan didn’t think he’d have the balls to kill his best friend, no matter what the costs.
“Then resolve ‘em,” he grunted. “You love yer work too much to just walk away.”
Ororo went quiet for a moment, that crumbling look coming over her face. Logan sat up, facing her directly now.
“’Ro?”
“It is nothing,” she waved him off, collecting herself.
“Nuh-uh,” he shook his head. “Somethin’s wrong. What?”
She met his eyes, sucking her pouting lower lip between her teeth. Years of Storm-ology told him she was about to reveal something she did not want to. Logan braced himself.
“I do not settle blame on Magneto for your injuries,” she cleared her throat. “At least, not completely.”
Logan was more than a little surprised by this. He knew she’d told the older man that she felt Magneto should be terminated, but how deeply did this resentment go? Frowning, knowing that if he approached her she would only bolt on him, he inhaled deeply.
“You blame Chuck fer tellin’ us to not kill him?”
“Yes.”
“’Ro, ya can’t go around thinkin’ that,” Logan said soothingly. “What happened…well, it was Magneto. Don’t ya think Chuck’s carryin’ around enough guilt?”
“No,” she retorted sharply. “How many people have died because of Magneto and his delusions?”
“Ya can’t fool me, darlin’, I’ve known ya too long,” he countered. “This ain’t about innocent people or Magneto’s delusions. This is personal.”
“He dropped me!” she threw her hands up. “And tore your adamantium from your bones. I nearly watched you die because I was too weakened by him to intervene.”
Logan stood, all but shouting at her now. “Even if ya had intervened, what makes ya think he’d’ve stopped? Huh? Yer not all-powerful, Storm. Yer human, just like me.”
She leapt down from her place on the railing, her coffee cup shattering on the porch at the sudden movement. He saw the clouds roll above them, a warning that her hold on the elements was weakening. It equated to watching another woman’s eyes well up with tears.
“I should have done something,” she ranted over the boom of thunder. “Anything.”
“Hey, hey,” Logan shushed her, bringing her into his arms by force. She fought him for a moment, then collapsed even as the clouds released heavy raindrops. Against the splatter of wet sky on the roof of the porch, Logan rubbed her back comfortingly.
“It was terrible,” she whimpered, muffled by the sweatshirt he wore. “You were screaming, blood splashed on the ground and I could not move. I felt as though he were tearing me apart as well.”
“I know that feelin’, more than ya think,” he whispered, rocking her gently. “An’ you’ve spent all this time healin’ me when you need time, too.”
“I will be all right,” she sniffled stubbornly.
“Sure ya will, with more time,” Logan kissed her cheek, pulling back to look at her. “You’ll tell Chuck an’ One-Eye that you need more time off. Psylocke an’ Angel can help out a little longer.”
Before she could protest, he clapped a hand over her mouth. “Mind yer elder, girlie.”
Ororo chuckled and the skies began to clear. “A few more weeks, perhaps. But no more.”
“All right, all right,” he agreed, pulling her onto the swing with him.
She let him wrap her into his arm, her head resting on his chest. That simple, intimate touch was something she alone could ever do. He trusted her completely and with that trust came great privileges.
And so they sat in that gentle, companionable silence well into the night, staring up at the glowing moon until neither could hold their heads up any longer.
~**~
Logan was dosing in the hammock at the south end of Storm’s boathouse, his white Stetson pulled over his eyes. His workout finished, he was able to lie in the afternoon sunlight while Storm went to the mansion to square away her leave issue.
They’d not talked about it since the previous night. She’d simply gotten up this morning and run him back through his rehabilitation exercises. Once completed, Ororo told him she would spend an hour or so talking with Cyclops, so that pretty much left Logan to his own devices.
Deciding to surprise her, he’d started dinner early. His four-alarm chili was a personal favorite of his best friend and when coupled with homemade cornbread, she’d swoon like a teenager at a Backstreet Boys concert. Preparation was complete, so he stole a quick nap out on the hammock, listening to the distant sounds of birds and the washing machine churning inside.
His heightened senses detected her presence long before she announced herself. Stealing himself for the intrusion -- not surprised that she had waited until ‘Ro and Cyke were battling it out -- he waited until she was directly behind him.
Without so much as twitching, he spoke.
“Ya know she hates it when ya come over uninvited.”
Jean’s scent of fresh roses wafted toward him, surrounding him as it always did. There wasn’t anything particularly inviting about this scent. It was pleasant enough, but for some reason it lacked the personality that many carried. It was too clean, without any hints of natural undertones. In essence, whenever he was near Jean, she didn’t feel real.
That’s what made her safe, easy to toy with. While “pursuing” her, he avoided any other entanglements. All women that came to the mansion were told by any and all that Logan had a “thing” for Jeannie. This tiny little falsehood kept everyone, save Ororo, out of his hair.
“I know,” Jean was saying. “But I wanted to talk to you alone.”
“Now, that’s just gonna piss her off more,” Logan replied, still unmoving. “I know why yer here, Jeannie, there ain’t any reason to hide it.”
He heard her sigh, a frustrated puff of air forced through her lips. “You two shouldn’t be out here, hiding from everyone. Its not good for you.”
“Really?” He drawled the word, stretching it into three syllables. “Seems like we’re doin’ just fine all on our own.”
“I love Storm as much as anyone,” Jean continued stubbornly. “But she’s not a psychologist or a doctor. You both need counseling and medical care.”
With his hands still folded behind his head, he used one to tip his hat back so he could see her.
“I’m healed,” he said somewhat coldly. “She’s healed. As for the psych check, are ya outta yer fuckin’ mind?”
“Logan,” she sighed again.
Jean, as always, looked beautiful. All that fire-red hair was pulled away from her face in a loose ponytail. Her green silk blouse rippled a little in the autumn wind, her smart khaki pants pressed perfectly.
There was nothing wild about her. She was completely dominated by civilization and society. Logan thought to himself that if she so much as made out on the back porch, her delicate sensibilities would be mortally offended.
He couldn’t really remember when or why he went from thinking she was God’s gift to being annoyed at her mere presence, but it wasn’t a hard leap. Something in this woman just turned him off after a while. Logan once told ‘Ro that Jean’s effect just “wore off” after repeated exposure.
“I’m not goin’ back to the mansion til I’m good an’ ready,” he grunted, settling his Stetson back over his eyes. “An’ I’m not lettin’ you or Chuck poke around my head.”
“You’re being unreasonable,” she countered, jutting her jaw forward defiantly.
“Yeah, an’ technically, yer trespassin’.”
“I am not!” Jean’s voice immediately climbed several decibels. “This is the Professor’s land.”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered. “An’ he gave it to ‘Ro. She don’t want anyone botherin’ her right now.”
“Wolverine,” his irritating companion fought back. “She isn’t even here.”
“Yeah, but I am.”
She was quiet for a long moment and Logan assumed she would give up. He did not expect her to reach out, touching his forearm. Startling, he pulled the Stetson from his head and sat up, making the hammock swing slightly.
“Back off,” he ordered Jean in a gruff tone.
“I’m sorry, I…”
“What?” he snarled. “Forgot yer married? Ya don’t go touchin’ other men, especially ones that tend to not give two shits about marriage licenses.”
Her cheeks flushed, making her pale skin look almost sunburned. He always jumped when she touched him now, more because he feared someone besides ‘Ro would discover she no longer had any effect on him. His heart no longer leapt when she smiled, his loins never heated at simple contact. It was as though whatever hold she’d once had on him died, leaving no trace of it behind at all.
“I didn’t mean to,” Jean said, her eyes welling up with tears.
“Shut up,” Logan snapped, turning his head so that his ears faced the mansion.
He’d heard a familiar shout just seconds ago. Something was wrong at the mansion. Directing his hypersensitive hearing toward the building across the lake, he closed his eyes. Logan blanked out everything else as he directed his ears toward the enormous school.
There were sounds of electronics, the television had been left on…voices.
Concentrating harder, he honed in on those voices. Though he knew they were shouting, it came to him in soft, almost incomprehensible whispers.
“Storm! Oh, shit! Where’s Wolverine?” Rogue.
“Stop it!” Angel.
“Don’t! You might hurt her!” Cyclops.
“’Ro.”
Logan’s claws extended out of pure instinct, frightening the woman standing beside his hammock. Jumping out of the canvas quickly, he crouched to the floor. Pure rage colored his vision to a thick crimson.
“Logan?”
“Somethin’s goin’ down at the mansion,” he growled in reply to Jean. “Storm’s in trouble.”
~**~
A man possessed, Wolverine burst through the sliding glass door of the mansion with his claws extended. He sniffed the air, looking for Storm’s scent amid the fear and fury cloaking the school. She was close by; he could hear the sound of blows landing on metal, and the frantic shouting of what seemed to be the other X-Men.
Jean was still a ways behind him, but Wolverine left the kitchen area at a dead run. A quick search brought him to the living room, where dozens of mutants seemed to have gathered.
“MOVE!”
His shout dispersed enough of the crowd so that he could muscle through to the foyer. His eyes searched the frightened faces before they landed on the most terrifying scene he had ever before witnessed.
On the floor of the foyer lay a magenta-clad man, weakly holding his hands up in defense. Atop the folds of purplish robes, a fierce looking Storm was exacting her vengeance. She straddled her foe, legs locked about his thighs so that he would remain motionless. Logan had taught her that move, actually.
One bloodied fist raised and lowered with furious speed. The other gripped the fallen enemy’s shirt, pulling him up for each astonishing blow. She was shrieking curses, tears staining those lovely cheeks as she beat Magneto into a pulp.
“Wolverine!” Cyclops came up beside him as he retracted his claws. “He walked in the door and she just lost it.”
“You have to do something,” Angel chimed in, looking worriedly at the woman. “She’s hurting herself.”
“Logan.”
He turned from the frightening scene to see Professor Xavier watching it with a pained expression. Growling with barely-restrained anger, Logan marched to his wheelchair, meeting his eyes.
“Why haven’t you stopped this?”
Chuck’s eyes were more pained than Logan had ever seen them, which caught him completely off guard.
“Because if I interfere, she will never forgive me,” the bald man replied sadly. “Had she not surprised him, I fear Magneto may have killed her to protect himself.”
“Why isn’t he usin’ his powers?” Logan demanded.
“Her first blow nearly incapacitated him, I do not think he is able to use his mutation.”
“He’s lucky,” Logan grunted. “Cause if he had, I’d’ve killed him.”
“If someone does not stop this, she will.”
At Psylocke’s sudden comment, Wolverine turned his attention back to Ororo and Magneto. He knew she was hurting and that this old enemy was the cause, but he feared for her. If she managed to kill him, she would be breaking a vow she made to herself several years ago. Though she knew Magneto needed to be terminated, Storm was not the one with the emotional courage to withstand the aftermath.
“Yer gonna hate me, darlin’,” he whispered to no on in particular, nodding to Cyclops to disperse the crowd.
Logan approached the mutants slowly, noting that Magneto’s self-defense was almost gone completely. Ororo’s punches, however, had not lost their power. Blood stained her clothing and skin, some even finding it’s way into the snow-white of her hair. Her face, usually so calm, was twisted with pain, with rage. Wolverine had never seen his friend this way and for a moment, it terrified him.
Crouching over Magneto’s body, he came up behind Ororo. As though she sensed him, she punched Magneto harder.
“Stay back!” she cried through tears and anger.
“I can’t,” Logan replied thickly. “That’s enough, darlin’.”
“No!” she shook her head. “Never enough.”
“Shh,” he whispered, bringing his arms around her. “It’s all right, just breathe.”
His hands grasped her wrists, stopping the constant torrent of aggrieved blows. She slumped against his chest, letting him wrap her arms tightly with his. Slowly, Logan drew her back, stepping away from Magneto’s prone form.
“Shh,” Logan continued, pulling Storm back toward Jean. “I’m here, darlin’. Go with Jean. That’s it. Let’s get you looked at.”
As Jean pulled Storm toward the living room, Logan released her, turning back to where Angel and Hank were looking over Magneto.
“He gonna live?”
“Barely,” Hank replied promptly. “She dented the helmet, we will have to cut it off. So long as the internal bleeding is minimal, we will be able to restore him.”
Nodding absently, Wolverine approached the medical types looking over Magneto. In his nightmares, this aging mutant was larger than life, maniacal and malicious. On the floor of the foyer, he seemed nothing more than a bitter, wasted old man, not worthy of hatred or fear.
“Hey, Chuck?”
Xavier wheeled forward, pain still etched into his features. “Yes, Wolverine?”
“When he wakes up, make sure you tell him to stay the hell away from the X-Men. If he so much as breathes wrong at a human or mutant, I won’t stop ‘Ro an’ she sure as hell won’t stop me.”
“I understand, Logan,” Charles said in a weary tone. “Please, take her back to the boathouse. I believe she will be more comfortable at home.”
“Yeah,” Logan nodded, turning to Scott. “Her leave?”
“Effective until she’s ready to come back,” Cyclops clapped his shoulder in that strangely masculine manner that resembled comfort. “I’ll come by to talk to her tomorrow.”
“Right.”
Logan collected Ororo from the living room, letting Jean escape to the med-lab to grab her kit. Other than a few deep gashes on her fingers, Storm was relatively uninjured. Physically.
He wondered how much her impromptu brawl had helped her emotionally as he half-carried her back to their boathouse haven.
