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A/N; You’ll notice some universe blending (or character thieving”depends which way you look at it, lol! I was getting a bit lazy on the OC front.) from this point on but only some minor ones. A couple of comic characters will make appearances”of sorts. But rest assured”no Jean! Or any other X-Men for that matter...But don't worry, it won't affect the tone of the story.

Thank-you again to everyone who reviewed---as always your response to the story inspires the writing. BIG virtual hug from me, M’iko, xx


Chapter.12.


It took a while for Smitty to register that the banging was for real and not in his half-waking imagination. Sitting up in his bed he scratched idly at his bare chest and yawned loudly; fingers ploughing through the smattering of greying hair. The banging came once more and this time he could make out the distinct rattle of the frosted glass in the kitchen door. He yawned again, more stifled this time before rubbing both his hands over his face as if washing himself awake.


“That damn mine.” He grumbled under his breath as he swung off the edge of his bed; the feel of the floor boards cold under his bare feet. Whenever even the slightest thing went wrong up at the coal mine---the most stupidly insignificant thing---he had some guy coming down, waking him up at the most annoying times of the night. He may have been the foreman but half of the crap they came to him with they could sort it out by themselves, he was sure. Bone-fucking-idle, that’s what they were, every last one of them.


Leaving the bedroom, Smitty scratched sleepily at his crotch as he made his way down the stairs; left arm lucid and swinging at his side like it was lame. The door rattled again with three pounding bangs that resonated through-out the large house. “If that’s you Kevin,” He shouted gruffly, “I’m gonna kick yer ass!” By now he was in the spacious kitchen and heading for the door but he could tell at a glance that the dark figure distorted and mottled through the frosted glass wasn’t his deputy foreman from the mine. He stopped for a moment, running a hand through his longish greying hair as he ponder who it could be; considering asking who was out there before opening up. But instead, he told himself not to be so paranoid as he simply flicked on the kitchen light and unlocked the door. The figure on the other side turned away from it as it began to whine open on its aged hinges, back out into the night, as if he were about to leave; dark, thick hair plastered down to his scalp with the weight of the miserable weather.


Smitty pulled the stiff door open fully, the toggle from the rolled up cotton blind hitting the glass in a quick rhythm. He was greeted with a blast of cold and the wet, heavy flakes that had turned to icy sleet that had wetted the unexpected stranger through to the bone. But the man was no stranger...“Logan?”


His back was still turned, the hard sleet smacking without mercy into his unprotected face---stinging like nettles and turning the already somewhat coarse skin an aggravated red. “Logan? Izzat you?” He pivoted slowly, as if reluctant to reveal himself to his old friend. Facing the doorway he looked up from his step; the brawny form a black nothingness against the acid yellow that flooded out of the room and illuminated the front porch. He looked up at him but said nothing.


“Why you sonovabitch!” Smitty bellowed with friendly insult and a healthy measure of disbelief as he reached out and wrapped Logan in a bear hug, pulling him half into the light and relative warmth of the kitchen, “It is you!” He patted his back with manly gruffness before pulling back, his hands gripped about each of Logan’s arms as he held him at arms length and looked over him as if trying to discern whether it was really him. Perhaps he believed his eyes deceived him; a ghost in his midst. “Goddamn,” He said quietly, “Goddamn...I never thought I’d see you again---c’mon, come in.”


Not uttering a single word Logan stepped over the threshold.


*


With a pop and a fizz, Smitty opened the two bottles of beer. He closed the fridge door by hooking his foot around it and kicking it shut and then made his way back over to the table where Logan sat, rubbing a white towel quickly through his hair restoring it to its former haphazard disorder that it was accustomed to.

“Thanks.” He took the slim brown bottle that Smitty offered out to him and hung the now damp towel over the back of the chair at his left-hand side.

Smitty took up the chair opposite and with a loud exhale leant back into the wooden slatted back-support, placing his beer on the table but keeping his hand around its neck, his arm outstretched. “So.” He began, a simple word said in the stead of all else that needed to be spoken. Just one word that held so much; its banks bursting.


“So.” Logan said back with a half sardonic smile before crushing the curved rim of the bottle against it and gulping down the bitter bubbles.


“Twelve years Logan---it’s a helluva long time.” Smitty looked across the table thoughtfully and then took a sip of his beer too.


Logan nodded as he leant forwards in his chair, resting his elbows on the table; one hand still on the neck of the bottle the other pulling half-heartedly at the soggy corner of the red label as it began to peel off; the white glue resisting the water. “Just thought it was time to come back here---I dunno,” He shrugged and then took a small sip, “Sort some things out in may head.” The beer sounded like a stone plopping into a well as it sloshed up the sides and then fell back down onto itself with its thick weight.


“Ya know, you could’ve phoned---sent a letter, whatever, just ta let us know--.”


“Us?---Do’ya think anyone would’ve cared?” Logan cut in darkly, looking up and the other man before dropping his gaze back down to the bottle in his grasp.


“We cared, bub.” Was the dry, matter-of-fact reply.


Logan looked up at him again, the beginnings of a thankful smile, but not quite. “Appreciate it.” He said shifting in his chair, straightening up a little; their where small pools of wet where his elbows had been resting, turning the wood a slightly darker colour than the rest of the table. “Where is Rose anyhow”sleepin’?”


Smitty shook his head. “No.” He answered quietly, the question piquing something in him that was so well contained even Logan missed it; he that usually can be relied on to notice anything and everything.


“What? She leave you? Again?” Logan half jested, knowing the history of the notoriously on again-off again marriage of his two oldest and closest friends. But he stopped short of taking another mouthful of beer when he noticed the look that ran through Smitty’s grizzled features; unable to hide it efficiently this time round. The bottle held pensively close to his lips, he asked, “What is it Smitty?” He felt an icy droplet from his hair hit the back of his neck, running down slowly, but he didn’t bother to wipe it away, letting it run beneath his collar, “Smitty?”


Smitty shifted, running his hand over his bottom lip once or twice before holding it there. Taking in a deep breath, he let his calloused hand drop from his face; laying it lightly on the table. “She died----a few years back.” There was a brief silence---a painful blankness. “Five years this fall.” He stated and then took a drink of bitter hops---blocking out the need for further words.


Logan gazed vacantly for a moment, his eyes lost in nothingness. Finally, he moved himself to speak. “Jesus Smitt---I’m sorry.” He shook his head and met the eyes of his friend, “I didn’t know, bub---I’m real sorry.”


Smitty raised a dismissive hand and then leant forwards on the table in mirror of Logan’s stance. “It ain’t yer fault---you weren’t ta know.” He sniffed casually, quickly running a finger along the under side of his nose. “It was the Big C.” He told him quietly, “Breast cancer.”


Logan nodded in the way people do when there is simply nothing to be said; just the cold hard facts of the mundane truth of mortality, staring one in the face.


“Well,” Smitty said after a time of just the hitting of slick sleet against the window and the background buzz of the refrigerator engine being the only sounds of life to pass through the room, “It was a while ago now---you get used to her not bein’ around. Sounds callous I know, but ya do.” He gave a short laugh under his breath but it was more wry than self-pitying, as was his way. “Don’t stop me from missin’ her like hell though.” He added, almost bitter-sweetly.


“No...I don’t suppose it would.”


“They say times a healer, an all that bullshit---but what do you think?” He tipped the neck of his bottle towards his friend and raised a questioning eyebrow. “S’that right?”


Logan grinned, lop-sided and downed the last of his beer. The bottom of the bottle made a dull thud as he replaced the empty vessel down and shook his head slowing the mouthful of mainly froth. The bubbles popped in his mouth and all the way down his throat. “I wouldn’t know anythin’ about that.”


“Would’ya not?” He asked sceptically, “What’s this about ‘sortin’ some things out in yer head’ then bub? I’m sure you didn’t come all the way up here just ta say hello to a few ol’ faces around the neighbourhood.”


“Nah”they’d sooner stick a rusty damn knife in my gut than look at me.” He laughed bitterly.


“Alright, forget about why yer back,” Smitty stood from his chair and went back to the fridge behind him, taking out two more cold bottles of beer and bringing them and the opener back over to the table. “Tell me what you’ve been doin’ with yerself then the past twelve years.” He uncapped them and handed one across the table. “For a start,” He briefly pointed a finger at Logan, looking at a particular point on his face, “where’d ya got that shiner?---that’s a damn beauty, I’ll give you that.”


Logan self consciously ran a bent finger over the bruised cut, turning slowly into a purple colour, lined with a hint of sallow. “Been doin’ a little fightin’.” He muttered, perhaps slightly ashamed but he wouldn’t admit that to himself or anyone else. The way he saw it; he did what he had to do.


“Boxin’? Or do’ya mean cage stuff?” Smitty asked, quite surprised at first and then when he thought about it for a moment, no---not really that unexpected at all. If anyone could handle himself with that kind of shit then it was Logan.


“Sort of,” Logan replied and took his first swig from his fresh beer, “---got inta the circuit”bare knuckle crap. It’s a fucked up life---but it’s a livin’.”


Smitty shook his head, somewhat bemused, “You been doin’ that ever since ya left?”


“More-or-less---it beat livin’ rough, I’ll tell ya that much.”


“I’ll bet.” The grizzled veteran miner intoned quietly as he watched his friend carefully---what was he hiding behind those often cold, dark eyes? He knew the man perhaps better than anyone and what everything he went through, so long ago now, did to him. But what about these missing years? Who knew what the hell had been going on in his life? He was probably more fucked-up now than he had been when he left Bistcho for all he knew. “What else ya been up to?”


“Wound up in Japan fer a while---few years back now, mind.” He threw out casually to a man whose idea of travelling far and wide meant crossing the boarder south into the U.S.


“Japan?!”


They chatted for a while longer, falling back into the easy way of years gone by; a few more beers drunk one or two cigars smoked, the conversation kept light. They talked about old times, old friends, old fights but avoided old loves---only the matter of new ones barraging in of its own accord.


“Listen, I should get outta here,” Logan said as he exhaled one last lungful of dense yellowish smoke and stubbed out the spent cigar in the black thick plastic ashtray. “It’s nearly five---yer gonna have t’ be at the mine in an hour.”


Smitty made a nonchalant face and waved a dismissive hand---the early morning beer having much more of an effect than he’d anticipated. “Don’t worry about it---what the hell if I’m late.” He laughed, the drunkenness showing through, “Those boy’s couldn’t mine their way out of a paper bag whether I’m their or not,” He threw his hands up, “So what’s the fucking point?” Both man laughed.


“Anyway Smitt, I’d better get goin’.” Logan went to stand up and as he did so he felt the full force of the early morning beer buzz too.


“Hey, what’s the rush.” Smitty enthused.


“I’d love to stay but I gotta get back,” He moved behind his chair and took his denim jacket from the back of it. Pulling it on it was deathly cold from the soaking it had earlier, enthused with a deep chill. But at least it was no longer wet, that was one small mercy. “‘Ro’ll wake up and wonder where the hell I am.” He mentioned her without thinking.


“‘Ro?” His interest was piqued, “Who’s ‘Ro?”


Logan slowly sat back down, a kind of reluctant reaction that he didn’t even realise he was doing until his arse hit the seat again. “She’s---.” Suddenly he realised he didn’t know what to say...in all the months, this would be the first time he’d ever spoken to anyone about her. Where to begin? He thought to himself. There was so much to say in truth and not the words to express it all. He picked up the beer he’d intended to leave half finished and downed a quarter of it in one great gulp, leaving his lips with a wet sheen. “She’s someone I met in New York a few months back.” He looked into the middle of nowhere, “Ororo”that’s her name. Ororo Munroe.”


Smitty smiled; Logan’s attempts to act casual completely defunct. He could read the man like a book. Even after all this time. There were certain things about people that never changed, no matter what they’d been through...


“So how’d you meet her?”


Logan laughed and bowed his head---it was a general enough question, but the details of the answer were best kept to himself. “After a fight.” He told the other man simply. It was the truth after all.


“Strange place to be picking up girls, huh?” Smitty raised a playfully suspicious thick dark grey eyebrow.


“You’d be surprised.” Logan muttered in reply with a puckish grin.


Smitty shook his head and started to gather up some of the empties from the table, taking them over to the bin by the back door, tucked into an alcove in the kitchen unit, under the marble effect counter. He stepped on the small black peddle, the lid flipping open noisily, bashing against the wall behind it. With the high pitched chink of breaking glass he threw the eight clear brown bottles into the waiting hollow below. “So, why’d she come up here with you?” He pried. “It serious with you two?”


Logan nodded, not needing to think about it. “Yeah...yeah it is.” He took another sip.


“Love?” Smitty smirked and cocked his greying eyebrow once more.


Logan ran his finger around the rim of his bottle thoughtfully, tracing the hard ridge from the mould, feeling it digging into the skin. “Yeah.” He practically whispered and then drank some more; it was rather flat and warm on his tongue.


“Good fer you, bub---,” Smitty nodded, “Good fer you.” He could see it, right there in his eyes, beneath the hardened exterior. “You got somethin’ good with this girl, you hold onto it, bub.”


“I intend to Smitt,” he said earnestly, his mind far off and thinking of her, every eternally potent aspect of her; her scent, her touch, her taste... “I’m gonna try anyway.”


“Where are you stayin’?” He asked suddenly.


“That motel---Country House, up on the old highway.” Logan motioned his head in the general westerly direction of the place.


“Oh yeah, John’s old place.” He scratched at his beard as if he were thinking, “He sold up a couple of years ago---went with Maggie to retire in Florida.”


“The smart move on his part.” Logan muttered against his bottle, continuingly questioning himself for coming back here. It had only been six hours and already he was itching to leave, although he was glad to have seen Smitty again. “ I’m gonna shoot off,” He turned to look out the window behind him, the sky coloured a rich royal blue, “it’s been good ta see ya Smitt.” He said genuinely as he stood from the table again and tucked his chair back under. For the last couple of hours at least, past guilt had been pushed from the mind and a sense of relief had been allowed to prevail. Perhaps he had it in him to do this after all. Maybe this wasn’t a monumental mistake on his part. Whatever. All he wanted now was to get back to the hotel and Ororo. Just to lie against her...



Smitty stood too and made his way over to Logan’s side of the table, holding out his hand. Logan took it in a firm grip. “How long’re you thinkin’ o’ stayin’?


“Not sure yet.”


“Well, you bring Ororo up here one day before you leave.” Smitty told him, releasing Logan’s hand.


“No worries,” Logan said amiably, “We’ll come back ta see you before we go.”


“You’d better.” He replied in playful threat. Then his countenance became serious. “I admire yer nerve fer comin’ back kid---if there’s anythin’ you need, just come straight to me, you got that?”


In lieu of a verbal answer, Logan slapped Smitty on the back, comrade-like and then started for the door. He felt refreshed as the early morning cold hit him through the open door, the sleet having stopped an hour or so ago, leaving nothing more than sludgy puddles of melting snow in its wake. He went quickly down the few steps that led from the small porch and away from the white clapboard house, heading back for the motel as Smitty watched from the door; finally turning back into the kitchen and flicking off the light once Logan had disappeared around the bare cusp of trees at the bottom of his driveway.


* * *


Pulling the sheet about her naked body, Ororo walked towards the dresser---blank of items except for a travel kettle and a tray with two small coffee cups and some miniature single serving milk and sugar packets. She picked up the kettle, unplugging it at its base, and then took it over to the small bathroom at the other side of the room. Turning on the cold tap she watched absently as the water ran in; loud and frothing white in its pressure.


Her body was still buzzing from earlier; she could feel him in the places he had been; touched, kissed, penetrated...as if he were still there. The hot throb, the left over pleasure, the aching desire in his imperishably possessive touch...It had come as no surprise to her when she’d woken up and Logan wasn’t in the bed next to her. In fact, she respected and cherished the space---they were both solitary creatures at heart. His return was in no doubt to her.


The kettle was full and she closed the tap with a simple twist; the pipes clanking loudly somewhere behind the wall. She crossed the dark room---unable to switch the lights on due to their prior destruction---and re-plugged the tiny white plastic kettle into the rubber insulated lead. Going back over to the bed she waited for it to boil, idly running her hands through her long hair, untangling the gentle knots and sweat-induced clumps; straw bales in the wind. Closing her eyes she lost herself for a moment, falling into the incendiary after affects of Logan’s presence in her body. She ran her hand down her chest, letting it push down the white sheet about her breast in order for her hand to trail over them, accentuating the memory of his mouth on them, his teeth biting into them in desperate hunger, the moist, hot trail of his tongue...Her other hand stole down between her legs---the mere remembrance, physical and imaged, of his attentions enough to renew the fervour betwixt them. She pressed her hand to her sex through the sheet, forcing herself to calm the sultry sensation as she pulled the top of the sheet back up over her exposed breasts.


A low rumble started on the dresser top, water bubbling to a frenzy within the confines of the plastic container. A hot jet of steam arose, buffeting against the Artex ceiling as the on switch clicked off audibly. Clumped whitish swirls bathed in clear hot beads. But now it was ready, she wasn’t entirely sure that she wanted a drink at all, going about the motions in order to pass the time. She went over to the window and pushed back the half hanging curtain to witness the royal blue light; the only source available to her at present. But it was enough. Dark clouds drifted like loners across the rich canvas; separate in their journey, in between the persistent presence of one or two night diamonds, reluctant to leave, masking themselves by the daylight. It was so tranquil here---every moment they’d resided in this country had been bliss compared to the chaos of New York.


Leaning against the window frame, Ororo began to hum to herself quietly, the familiar tune. Second nature in her mind---a life long gone by.


“Malaika, nakupenda Malaika...” Murmured soft as a summer breeze...


She could feel the arctic temperature from the glass of the window, like a conductor, falling over the areas of exposed skin. It cooled her desire---made her longing sedate. It was a relief to feel that she could contrive to exist without him, no matter how short a time. This was something she would have to train herself in, she realised. A smile touched her lips and she bowed her head, touching against the glass; her finger drawing a crude pattern in the condensation on the window. She knew that there was no chance---the fire would always burn bright, the need would never die...


Turning from the window, she went back to the bed. Perhaps she should get more sleep. Her body warranted it after all. As she shuffled over, clasping the sheet about her, trying not to tread on its trailing corners, she noticed his leather jacket still on the floor. Something of him for her to be near. Bending down, Ororo gathered the heavy item from the floor and took it over to the bed with her. She climbed up onto the malleable mattress, tucking her legs underneath her body and pulling the blanket up over her legs, up to her hips. Her bare arms remained chilled though. She reached for the old jacket that she’d laid on the bed as she’d covered up the rest of her prone body with it. Pulling it up to her face with both hands, she inhaled deeply---that beautiful smell of used leather, the left over aroma of cigar smoke and public houses, the scent of him...Whipping it around her body she slipped the coat on---half to guard her against cold, half to have the feel of him near her, touching her skin by proxy. She snuggled into it, getting comfortable in its shell, adjusting to its texture. Almost instantly, Ororo felt at home...safe.


Leaning back, she slipped her slender hands into its pockets, snuggling down, for once content...


“Oww!” The surprised yelp disturbed the quiet of the room as she quickly withdrew her right hand from the pocket of Logan’s jacket. Bringing it up into her line of vision she held the finger with her other hand, a large globule of dark emerging from the tip. She squeezed it slightly, hastening the flow of blood so that the black bead broke from its rounded form and spilt down her finger, dripping onto the sheet below. It spread across it, reaching out with a slow yearning. The finger stung like hell, but she was determined to find out what it was that had cut her. Reaching across with her left hand, her right one still held in an upwards position to stem the flow, she carefully delved in. There was something hard in it, covered by the thin layer of the silky smooth black cotton lining. Searching up, she found a tear, just above the seam, frayed at the edges. She entered it with some trepidation but also curiosity as her hand closed around something, hard, heavy and cold. By the feel of it she knew instantly what it was...when she pulled her hand out she also took out a ridged black plastic handle. Holding it up in front of her, she examined it; just above its flat top there was a small, shiny point, just barely peeking its way above the black.


Ororo ran her thumb down the bumpy black body until she came to a raised square. Her digit hovered over it for a moment---her mind aware of what would emerge once she pressed it. Even so, she jumped slightly as with a sharp *snikt* a sliver blade shot out from its housing. She turned it slowly, this way and then that, so that it caught what light there was, gleaming distinctly, casting a light over her dark skin. Its precise point appeared a steeple in the moon light...but she found no beauty in its presence.


Touching her thumb to the small button once more, the blade disguised itself, cowering into its shell, only the very point daring out. Quickly, Ororo placed the knife back where she’d found it and then lay down on her side, pulling the leather tighter around her, suddenly cold against her skin---mocha eyes looking out blankly into the burgeoning morning.


-TBC-





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