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Disclaimer: Don’t own don’t sue


Thank-you to my reviewers.


Chapter.5.


“What’s that...?” Ororo whispered absently to herself as she sat up on the bed, spying a silver chain hanging out the side of an over-stuffed chest-of-draws. Its chunky rounded links caught and reflected the light of the bare bulb that shone its raw, stark one hundred watt glare, emphasising the sparseness of the room. She’d lain in here, on Logan’s bed, whilst he sat in the living room, for close to two hours now, such were the relations between the pair of late. Things, like the weather outside, had turned distinctly frosty between Ororo and Logan. She was no longer as eager to go over to his place to see him, staying away for two or three days at a time on occasion. Two weeks had passed since the fight and all was not well. But it was not for the reason he suspected. The---situation--- had changed on that night, and she wasn’t sure she liked where they were headed.


But she was here tonight; though she saw little point in the endeavour at the moment. Slipping off the edge of the bed, Ororo padded over to the draws, pulling at the exposed chain. The metal was cold in her warm hand and made an ungainly racket as it dragged against the chipped and splintered edges of the old, pine draw. Eventually, it was out and Ororo held its ‘crown jewel’ up in front of her; dangling it before her eye line like it were an object of infinite fascination. Lowering the small, oblong plates into her cupped palm, she studied the inscription on their back. Embossed into the thin, pale metal was the word ‘WOLVERINE’ and a serial number underneath: 78631542. Ororo then held them up in the light, for there were two of them, absolutely identical in execution. She recognised what they were; nobody who’d been exposed to the long arm of American cinema could have failed to realise that they were military identification tags. And the name, ‘Wolverine’; it came back to her now that when she’d forced her way through the crowds of sweaty and inexplicably irate men at the fight last week in order to get to the dressing room, in the mire of shouts and screaming male voices she’d heard that word several times. Although she had not been concentrating and paid its mention no particular attention at the time. Now it caused a definite, if a little baffled, curiosity. Running her finger over the raised word like brail, she wondered about their origin.



The couple’s emotional alienation from one another had become compounded ever since the fight and maybe, she thought to herself, just maybe this was a way to bridge the gap. At least it would be something of a conversation stimulator as their verbal exchanges had become even fewer and further between than they were before. But at times, over the past week, Ororo was thankful for that. She could barely stand to acknowledge the thoughts that were running through her head to herself, never mind making Logan privy to them.


But she had decided; she would take the ‘dog tags’ now and ask him about them. He could go crazy on her or he could fob her off in his usual unbecoming manner and say nothing at all. Anything was better than the static state they found themselves in right now. And so, Ororo strode over to the door, with the tags clutched tightly in her hand and went into the lounge.


* * *


Logan looked down at the object that Ororo had just dumped in his lap, tinkling as it fell until it hit his jeans with a blunt thud. Bending forwards he rested the bottle of beer he’d been drinking from, by his feet and when he lent back again into the high backed chair, he picked up the tags. He studied them, almost as intently as Ororo had; almost as if he’d never seen them before. Then in one swift movement he swung the metal plates and chain upwards so as to clutch them into his fist, shifted forwards and rammed them in the back pocket of his trousers. Scooping up his recently deposited Carlsberg, he took a long swig from the cold, wet green glass bottle, blanking her completely.


It was a straw, not quite the last but certainly close. Ororo had always been known to those who were close to her, back in Africa as understanding, but this was almost too much. This...relationship was unlike anything she’d ever had before and it was beginning to take its toll.


For a moment, she tried to think of something to say but then it came to her---what was the point? And if she stayed here a minute longer she might say something she regretted. So, without a word, she picked up her bag and then grabbed her coat that was hanging over the chair that was tucked underneath the dinner table. Then she left, letting the door slam shut behind her.


*


After Ororo had gone, Logan looked over at the front door and it pained him on the inside even if it didn’t on the outside. Finishing off the last of his beer, he stood and headed for the kitchen to get another. But on his way there he stopped at the window as something scratched at his left arm. The dried and dead leaf of the geranium had caught his arm as he passed it. He looked at it now; its pitifully shrivelled leaves and once brightly coloured flower heads, their once proud stance nothing more than ‘burnt offerings’, littering the dry soil of the plant pot beneath.


Moving past it, Logan carried on into the kitchen.




* * *


Three weeks later...



A high pitched whistle pierced the relative quiet of the candle-lit squat, startling Ororo from her almost meditative state. The rumbling sound of the old-fashioned tin kettle coming to a boil over the camper-style gas stove filled the dingy room until she’d taken it off its elevated stand with a dish cloth to protect her hand. Setting the steaming hot pot of water down on the low table next door to it, Ororo kneeled down in front of it, picking up the kettle once more, again with the dish cloth in hand and poured the scorching liquid into the old and chipped-about-the-edges cup beneath; the water infusing with the dried tea leaves, instantly turning it’s pure clarity a dark terracotta colour. The cloudy bellows of the steam rose up into Ororo’s face, making her close her eyes. But far from being a cause of discomfort to her, moreover they warmed her up, cutting through the frost-bitten night. With a few quick stirs and disposing of the thin paper bag, the tea was done; clasping the hot cup in both fingerless gloved hands, she shuffled over to the chair near the fire place. Curling up on it, pulling her thick duffle coat tightly around her, Ororo gazed into the small, dancing flames of the fire whilst she blew lightly over the edge of her cup before taking a tiny sip.


This was the third week in a row that she’d sat in this small, dank room alone. But she wasn’t alone really, for she was never alone in her thoughts, she was never away from him in her mind. He was just...there. As one is always with oneself, Logan, it seemed, was always with Ororo. And it wasn’t that she resented this fact, it was more that she was uncomfortable with the idea of such a man having a potent hold over her. In all of her life, Ororo Munroe had never, EVER depended on anyone. But there was an attachment here...a definite attachment that she could not shake. It had become deeper than what one would normally term love. There was something much more...unsettling about it than that. For what she feared from the events of the night of the fight was not Logan and his capacity for violence---his seemingly uncontrolled capacity---but her reaction to it. It had repulsed her yes, his unrelenting attack on his opponent, but something had made her go to the ‘dressing room’, something had made her stay there when he came in, something had made her fuck him...she did not have to. It was not simply love, for she did love him she now realised, but it wasn’t the kind of love one was led by Disney, through their saccharine perceptions, to believe was the acceptable mode of love. Ororo was a powerful woman, but Logan was equally as powerful. She had willingly submitted to him, and the shame of that had made her feel a certain kind of guilt and caused her to flee from him, by gradual---little steps. If she had not been aware of it before, the events after the fight had shown her this in the clearest of lights. But she did still love him, she really did...but still, to simply call it by that overused four letter word would be to belittle its strength.


Suddenly there were three thunderous knocks at the door, but Ororo remained were she was, sipping carefully at her tea. It was advisable never to open your door to anyone when your abode was an illegal squat---the result when one did invariably led to trouble. So she sat, and she stared into the dying flames in the old, cast iron set fireplace; it’s dancing orange lights flaying greedily for the oxygen that would sustain further life. Then the three thunderous knocks came again but this time accompanied by a familiar voice.


“‘Ro?”


The cup stopped halfway up to Ororo’s lips as her heart leapt into her mouth. How’d he found her? She’d never told him were she lived.


“‘Ro?” Logan’s muffled voice came again but this time he tested the doorknob as well. Ororo stared at the dull brass ball as it twisted this way and that a few times. The door did not budge and so he called out again. “‘Ro, I know yer in there, so just open up.” Still, she remained were she was, only moving forwards to set her cup onto the hearth. Then, she receded back onto her chair, pulling her legs into her. The banging on the door resumed, with more force this time as he bellowed, “I’m not movin’ darlin’, until you open this door and talk to me!” This continued for a few minutes more; intermittent shouting and pounding on the door. It was fortunate that she had no neighbours. When it seemed he would continue all night unless she let him in, Ororo relented, slipping off her chair and taking down the blank of wood that, resting on two nails either side of the door, served as her lock. She said nothing to him as she opened the door, turning around and immediately heading back to curl up on her chair.


Logan stood on the threshold, suddenly unsure as to whether he wanted to enter or not. But eventually, he did. Meandering into the small room, eyeing the place almost critically. Ororo caught the look and Logan abandoned it quickly. His place wasn’t exactly a palace. But to be fair, this was significantly worse. It was getting dark outside and the windows of the squat were partially boarded to keep out the drafts so that the only light was coming from the fire. He stood more or less in the centre of the room, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. After all the shouting, he was suddenly at a loss at what to do or say next. Until Ororo solved the problem for him.


“How did you find me?” She interned quietly, looking at the fire and not him.


A slightly furtive guilt suddenly came over Logan when he realised that he’d have to admit that he’d followed her for most of the day to ascertain her location. At first he shrugged, one of those inexplicable knee jerk reactions to ‘being found out’, before saying, with an unerring unapologetic tone, “I followed you.”



“You...followed me.” She echoed his words as she looked up at him, at once unnerved and stirred by the predatory actions those words implied. But she had not the heart to contest him on the matter, simply turning from him once more. Then she abruptly stood up, snatching a lighter from the mantle piece as she went and proceeded to light the dozen or so candles that were strewn about the room, shedding at least a little more light on the subject. Whilst she went about this, Logan pulled out a stool and sat down. Delving into his pocket he pulled out a cigar and his Zippo, lighting up.


Ororo went back over to the fireplace but preferred to stand this time around as she cut through the thickness of the cold silence that was starting to prevail, “So, are you going to ask me?”


“Ask you what?”


Ororo was only too perfectly aware of the game they were entering. “Ask me why I have stayed away.” But she entered it none-the-less.


He shrugged again, inhaling deeply on his thick cigar, and in a wafting cloud of smoke replied, “O.K, so why’d you stay away?”


And like most situations in the game of honesty, Ororo found herself stumped at the first post, unable to provide him with an answer, despite initiating the scenario. She stood in silence, acutely aware of Logan’s intense gaze being fixed on her as he chuffed away on his stogie. “It---I can not---It isn’t simple enough to---“


“To what?”


“To---to---to explain, after the fight, I---.”


“You what?” Logan blurted as he stood from his stool, taking the cigar from the corner of his mouth and nestling it between two fingers, the defensiveness kicking in again. The fact that she hadn’t fled from him immediately after the fight had indicated to him that maybe things weren’t as bad as he’d feared they’d be. And then, after the incident with the dog tags, she’d disappeared from his life. But she really did have no idea how he had felt since that night and the awkward weeks since. He’d felt like the vilest creature alive. An animal, in fact. Not being one to have ever been proud of the violent tendencies he exhibited in the ring, her shirking of him had not made it any easier to deal with. The natural conclusion he had come to was that that was the reason she was being so distant with him. And to lose her now, it was just...unthinkable. But he could only take so much. So if she were to end it, he’d rather cut his losses right now than cling on desperately, his damnable pride gave him that particular instinct. But he needed to be certain; he needed to be really sure that she wanted to end things. That was why he’d come here tonight, to make it clear one way or another.


Ororo shook her head slightly, a mild look of bewilderment on her face. “You have no idea, do you?” He didn’t answer. “This whole---whatever it is we’ve been doing---the fact that I have not been to see you, it did not really have anything to do with the fight, I just can not---.” She turned from him, inhaling deeply with her frustration at not being able to explain or articulate her confused feelings. Closing her eyes, she tensed as she sensed him coming close to her; instantly desperate for his touch and apprehensive of the further confusion it would occasion. So, she adopted a pre-emptive reaction, at once heading of the situation and changing the course of the conversation. As he came up to the side of her she reached to him and plunged her hand under the crew cut T-shirt he was wearing and grasped at the dog tags that for a reason known only to him, he’d chosen to where tonight. Ororo had noticed their distinctive chain peaking out from beneath the crew-cut collar the moment he’d come in. “These for instance,” she launched into her distractive argument, “you said that I did not really know you---then why not tell me?!” Releasing the tags from the clenched fist she’d made around them, she brought them up to his eye level in proof of her accusation. If only she’d done that when she’d first confronted him with them. All this may have been avoided or at least confronted sooner, so not as to prolong the hurt and agonising for both parties. But lovers can never be so practical.


Logan snatched the flat, metalic panels from Ororo’s grasp, “These ain’t got nothing to do with what’s going on between us.” He muttered as he stuffed them back underneath the collar of his T-shirt.


“But don’t you see Logan, it has---I never know where I stand with you.” She stated quietly. At that he made a face and went back over to the stool. “At times---at times I get a glimpse into you that is so...different from the way you are most of the time.”


Logan wanted to say he felt the same, that he too felt like he was on the outside looking in at her but he was never one for grand emotional proclamations, the whole situation only served to make him uncomfortable and caused him to clam up even more. But maybe that was just something he’d have to learn to change. He looked up at her now, the platinum of her hair shone like strands of silver in the gentle orange of the flames, creating a glowing outline. It was times like these that caught him off guard and suddenly Ororo wasn’t someone he’d just been sleeping with, but she was now a being with an unearthly beauty, something that simply took his breath away. And he felt a retched fool for thinking he could ever possess such a thing. But all it would take would be for her to say those words, to say that she wanted him and he would be hers completely. Everything would be different.


Ororo crossed the room and kneeled down at the side of him, her hands clasped over one another, resting comfortably on his thigh. She looked up at him as he stared straight ahead, but she’d stay were she was until he faced her. Eventually, he did and then all she needed was some encouragement from him, some sign that her love was not being wasted, that he did feel more for her than the passionate sexual desire that had dragged them into each others lives. “Logan...” She whispered as he brought his hand up the her face, at first running one outstretched finger down her cheek, turning it so it slipped across her full, soft bottom lip. He could feel the warm, light gust of her sweet breath that sighed through her barely parted lips, caressing his finger as it trailed across them. A sound almost like a whimper escaped her mouth as she closed her doe-brown eyes.


“Maybe yer right darlin’.” He said so softly she almost didn’t catch it.


“Right about what?” She replied, enjoying the feel of his light and gentle touch, something she hadn’t felt enough of.


“You were right to stay away from me.”


“Logan, I’ve told you, it wasn’t about the fight...well not in the way you think.”


“What does that mean?”


“It doesn’t matter.” She replied; her voice being little more than a noise on a breeze.


“Ororo?” He nudged her chin up and their eyes met; holding their communion for the longest time. And at that moment, gazing into her soul almost, he just had to say it, the words that boiled inside of him like a latent volcano, apt to erupt at any moment, he simply had to... “Sometimes, at night, when you’re with me, I lie at yer side and watch you sleep.” He paused, looking down at his own finger as the rough digit traced its intimate pattern back along the dipping curve of her bottom lip, “...just watching...and it frightens me how much I want you.” Taking his hand away, Logan turned his face from her, not wanting to see her reaction to his declaration.


Ororo was left reeling as he got up from the stool, almost tipping it over in the process before striding to the door and left, without hesitation or a glance behind him.



~TBC~





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