Consolation Prizes

06. If I Only Had the Nerve

Summary: It isn’t a good idea to cross Wolverine or mess with his friends. Never tease a wounded animal…

Author's Note: Lost my original intent to this story, namely to tie in different story arcs that had common characters, but the thought occurred to me that I could make a part two to this without dragging this one on forever.

“Mariko, get DOWN!” Bits of glass from the remaining intact window sprayed across the hardwood floor, without the benefit of an area rug to protect its glossy finish this time. Ororo’s eyes glowed white, murky swirls billowing in their depths. The evening calm following the storm was completely decimated now by the crack of renewed thunder overhead. The ninja footmen were clad in their customary black, covered nearly head to toe, but Ororo could still make out their eyes beneath their hoods, glittering with malice and cunning. From down the hall, Ororo could hear Keiko’s panicked cry, cut short on a gurgle of pain and outrage.

“Ororo, what…?”

“DOWN! NOW!” Ororo tore herself loose from the thick comforter and flung herself from the bed with some effort, legs unsteady. Her dinner tray clattered to the floor, scattering food here and there and shattering Mariko’s delicate tea cup. “Behind me,” Ororo hissed. She summoned gusting winds to buffet their attackers – five so far – backwards and to deflect the shuriken zooming toward them. Ororo yanked the IV line from her arm, releasing a thin gout of blood, and she swung the pole in a mad arc, clipping the closest attacker in the sternum. She feinted and danced with the next two, allowing one of them to take hold of the end, then tipping the end attached to the medicine pouch to slam it into the other’s jaw with a savage clack. Ororo mourned the loss of her morphine drip momentarily, but she needed to be clearheaded to protect her hostess. More shuriken flew, and this time Ororo didn’t hesitate. She hoisted Mariko against her chest and spun around, then shoved her into the adjacent, cramped closet, kicking the door shut behind her. She cringed apologetically at Mariko’s shocked cry but there was no help for it.

“Mariko…stay in the corner, do you hear me?” SWIIISSSHHH…THUNK-THUNK-THUNK! As if on cue, the shuriken found a futile target in the heavy closet door. Ororo wouldn’t allow them too many other opportunities.

SHRAKA-SKARA-BOOOOOOMMMMM! CRACCCCKKK!!

Lightning sizzled and leapt into Storm’s palm as she sized up their attackers once more. The bedroom door was flung open by three more of Viper’s henchmen, and this time Ororo saw the tattoos on their arms that marked them as Yakuza. Their careless lack of regard for their own flesh was reflected in their flagrant disdain toward innocent lives, and the “Goddess” still lingering in Ororo’s heart was outraged at the desecration of what she held dear.

“Infidels,” she intoned. “You dare?” The wounds in her chest tingled and stung with renewed fire. She wrested a bo staff from a wild-eyed thug before he could get the drop on her and landed a volley of thuds with uncanny speed for someone who nearly died that very evening. “Don’t let the bandages fool you.” It was time to clean house.

The one thing that none of Viper’s hired hands could realize is that no matter what kind of attack they threw at Storm, she was perfectly capable of throwing it right back. Nunchucks whipped and flew through the air, perilously close to taking her head off; her attackers found themselves yanked by the expertly wielded weapons into her waiting fists. Lightning left smoking, gaping holes in their clothing where it struck them mid-leap. Ororo’s eyes still glowed a blinding white, but she saw their confident leers above edges of their masks turn to dawning terror that the more dangerous of the two X-Men they were paid to eliminate might NOT have been the one who sauntered out the front door with his Stetson on at jaunty angle and chewing a Cuban cigar between his teeth.

Can’t let them get to Mariko. The thought beat like a tattoo in her head as she fought, and struck, and brawled. Ororo never left her place in front of the wardrobe as the gangsters flooded inside from the shattered window frame and bedroom door. A stray shuriken zipped by her face, grazing her cheek. “OWWWNNNGGHH!”

CRRACCCRRKK! Extreme moments sometimes called for extreme measures, she decided, harnessing her thunder in her fist, much like she had her lightning, and swinging with all of her might…her attacker flew backward from the force of the blow, the thunder resounding and sending shockwaves through the entire upper story. Low-voltage lightning bolts took out the fleeing remainder of the thugs, and Ororo’s eyes reverted back to their customary, benign blue. She hurried to the window, not liking what she saw; two of the men were making their way into the thickly wooded copse behind the house.

“Not so fast,” she murmured. The air grew frosty and the sky turned a sickly gray, and two hailstones the size of baseballs pelted them with unerring accuracy, knocking them out. Then she remembered her charge.

“Mariko?” Ororo flung open the closet door. She found Mariko huddled behind a huge pile of thick coats, shivering. Tear tracks stained her cheeks, and her carefully done hairstyle was slightly mussed.

“Please…Ororo, if you could, call downstairs…have Masao call the authorities.” Ororo strained against a pain in her shoulder, but reached down to help Mariko up, and didn’t even wince when Mariko clung to her for dear life.

Down by the docks:

“There isn’t all that much to you, is there? You’re just a sorry little snip of a girl,” Viper purred, stabbing Yukio’s toned abdomen with her unfiltered, lit cigarette. A low gurgle of outrage issued from her lips as the scent of singed flesh filled the already ripe, dank chamber. Viper kept the blowfish toxin on a low dosage, enough to prohibit broad movements, but little enough to allow the sporadic jerks and muscle spasms when she introduced any painful stimulus.

After all, it was so entertaining watching her squirm.

The floor was decorated in her blood. Viper took out her aggression against Yukio’s previously insolent tongue with a savage beating; in-between doses of the venom, Yukio swore that she would make her pay; promising methods that would make Viper’s tortures these past few hours look like a tea party.

Yukio tried to speak from swollen lips. “Nnnnnnggggh. Nnnnhh. MMmmmmmmbbb. Mbbb. ‘tch. Mmb-tch.” She finally succeeded: “Bitch.”

“So feisty,” Viper chortled to Kenuichio as he sat quietly in the corner, wiping the blade of his katana with a soft cloth. He polished it until he could see his wavering reflection in its surface.

“You’re taking too much joy in this. We’re wasting time. For all we know, Logan could be back at my sister’s estate, convincing her to pledge herself to him after all.”

“Do you honestly think he has a snowball’s chance in hell?”

“He did with you,” he reminded her, his face still lowered to his sword as he raised his eyes to meet hers. They glittered with emotions she couldn’t name.

“Once, perhaps.” THWACK! Viper’s palm came into sharp contact with Yukio’s cheek again. “I came to my senses. I was young. Young and foolish.”

“B-bet h-he said the little porcelain doll’s name with you, t-too, eh?” Yukio’s smile was watery but wicked.

“That’s enough out of you,” Viper growled.

“It sounds like she hit her mark,” the Samurai murmured, tucking his blade back into its sheath.

“She’d be wise to speak only when spoken to.”

“Where’s…the fun in that?”

The electric prod hummed as Viper flicked it on, stabbing it into Yukio’s vulnerable ribs.

“AAAAAGGGGGHH!”

“That’s better.”

“Don’t you ever get bored with this, Viper?” Kenuichio shucked off his helmet and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.

“I never get bored with my favorite toys.”


Minutes later:

Logan strode up the pier, watching the skiffs and fishing boats bob in the harbor, the scent of low tide nearly overwhelming his sensitive nose. He almost regretted having seafood stew for dinner…

There was no chance of being inconspicuous on this side of the tracks wearing fancy duds like these, he mused. But if luck was on his side, he wouldn’t be there too long. He kept walking, taking in the surroundings and casing the cars in the lot. One in particular caught his eye. It was a gleaming black BMW sedan, with a cracked tail light and a few scratches on the bumper. Looked like someone made a hasty getaway. It was flanked by two other cars that weren’t remarkable other than having expensive accessories that made them an easy target for a carjacking.

Someone had been spending their blood money.

Logan breathed in the final curl of nourishing smoke from the well-chewed stump of his Cuban before stubbing it out with his foot. He had work to do. The dilapidated boathouse that drew his attention wasn’t well-lit from without or within, and it seemed like the perfect place to take a peek. He crept around the boats, his ears perking up at the night sounds and the low voices traveling more easily across the water.

“The Samurai…picked the wrong side of town…can’t believe they dragged the ronin over here, don’t they know what kind of company she keeps?”

“All that matters is that we’re getting paid.” Their voices grew closer, and Logan could smell cheap alcohol on their breath.

“It’ll never be enough. That sonofabitch is small, but he’s crazy!” A pause. “We’ll never live long enough to spend any of it.”

“Got that right, bub!” A flash of shining claws and merciless black eyes were the last things they saw. SNIKT. The last one was clutching his bleeding stump of a hand, his severed fingers lying on the dock like discarded party poppers. Logan’s cigar-kissed breath steamed his face as he dragged him by his collar to meet his gaze. “Ya picked the wrong guy, on the wrong day. You’ve got a friend of mine stashed away somewhere in this stink hole. Yer gonna tell me where, or yer gonna say hello ta yer ancestors for me.”

“B-b-but V-viper will k-kill me,” he stammered.

“Gettin’ warmer, bub.”

“You don’t know what she’s capable of!”

“Sez who? We practically drank from the same tit.” Logan’s thoughts drifted back to Seraph; ah, the old days…what he could remember of ‘em. “Die slowly now by me, or live to lie, cheat an’ steal another day by pretending ya never heard of a guy named Patch.”

“Never heard of who?” Logan grinned. “She’s in the back.” He motioned with his head to the boathouse that Logan has suspected. “The Samurai is in there with them.” Logan’s smile faded.

“Get the hell outta here. Take yer flamin’ fingers with ya.” Logan released him and shoved him away. His informant still wasn’t convinced that Viper was the lesser of two evils, and Logan smelled steel coming at him from behind.

SNIKT!

That’d teach him to write him off…

Overhead:

Ororo’s winds carried her along on a maelstrom, buffeting her aching limbs and nearly knocking her off-balance, but still she forged ahead, summoning fog to mask her flight. The cold air sliced into her wounds, making them sting and bite, but she used the pain to keep herself focused and alert.

It had been easy enough to pry Yukio’s location out of the only conscious remaining attacker before the police came to collect them from the premises.

“You’ll get nothing from me; death before dishonor,” he coughed.

“You don’t call what you’ve done dishonorable?” Ororo’s eyes gleamed white, and thunder rumbled overhead. “Your death can be arranged.” They didn’t have to know about her vow never to take a human life. It had various, loose interpretations lately. She was willing to redefine it again… “Lightning is an irrestistible force of nature, and one of the earth’s most effective tools for cleansing its atmosphere. I could call down a blast large enough to incinerate you to mere ashes, if you would prefer that to rotting in a local jail.” Her grip on his jaw was gentle but firm. Mariko’s teary eyes swam before Ororo’s vision, reminding her why being the ever-diplomatic Wind-Rider was not an option.

It struck Ororo as ironic, later, when she hurled herself aloft, that the boathouse was so close to the source of where it all started. She flew over the charred remains of the fireworks warehouse, shuddering as she remembered the Phoenix effect. From her aerial vantage point, she saw a familiar stocky yet graceful figure forcing his way into the boathouse, through the front door.

“Subtlety, Logan, subtlety,” she sighed. She swooped lower in the sky, hovering above the now-misty docks.

Inside the boathouse:

“What took you so long?” Viper beamed, as though Logan were merely a tardy guest to a tea party.

“Yer gettin’ sloppy, woman. Thought ya didn’t believe in leavin’ loose ends.”

“It brought you here, didn’t it?”

“Logan-sama…don’t let…” Yukio’s face jerked before she sagged back against the cold wall, blessedly unconscious. Logan swore under his breath at her swelling lip and bruises. He smelled the tang of her blood and worse in the chamber. A rat scurried over his foot, which he kicked away savagely, getting warmed up.

“Don’t give away the surprise, Sunshine.”

“I don’t have the patience for this nonsense,” the Samurai growled. “I’ve waited long enough. I’ve had time to recover since the last time you saw me, little man.” He assumed his stance with broad and fluid grace, positioning his sword so it gleamed in the scarce light. “You won’t walk away from this.”

“Bub, I walk away from everything.” SNIKT!

“How about Hobson’s choice?” Viper chuckled. “Surely you don’t just expect me to leave a ripe, juicy hostage like your little friend here untouched while you two indulge in a testosterone-fueled frenzy? Your choice is simple, Wolverine. I want you to swear to terminate whatever’s left of your betrothal to Lady Mariko, and give up your allegiance to Clan Yashida, leaving the way clear for Harada to take his rightful place in his father’s seat of power.” Viper pointed her blaster at Yukio’s temple.

Logan drank in the night sounds and scents, unavoidable in the drafty boathouse. Suddenly he found himself downwind of the faint scent of English tea roses and sandalwood, swearing to himself that it was impossible…

…until he remembered that he was an X-Man, and that he kept extraordinary company.

When we get outta this, ‘Roro, so help me, I might hafta kiss ya again…

“An’ if I don’t?” As if he would even consider it.

“What do you think?” CLICK. She chambered the next cartridge.

“I think someone’s been playin’ possum.” His senses never lied, particularly his hearing, which had picked up a steady pulse in Yukio’s neck from several feet away.

“Boo!” Yukio swung her foot up in a near-impossible fan kick, knocking the blaster from Viper’s hand with a loud clatter. Her dark eyes shone mischievously out from the bruised and swelling flesh as she allowed Viper to reach for her throat, then rammed her forehead into the bridge of her patrician nose.

“OOOWWWWWWHHH!”

“That’s for waving that stinky cigarette smoke in my face!” Yukio twisted her fingers and sprung the latch on the left manacle. “That’s for wearing that sickening cologne!” she crowed, twisting her fingers through Viper’s long green hair and driving her face down into her lifted kneecap. She kicked her soundly in the ribs. “That’s just because I felt like it!”

“Knew ya’d come around, darlin’,” Logan drawled.

“You should be more worried about yourself, gaijin dog. My sister was right about one thing: You’re unworthy. I intend to cure you of those illusions.”

“I intend ta cure ya of a few limbs, bub.” Ororo’s soft whispers on Yukio’s balcony came back to him in that instant, charging him with new strength and determination. The Beast whispered to him, too, reminding him how easy it would be to slide his claws through the Samurai’s vitals, how satisfying it would be to beat him into the stinking floorboards…

Like it or not, this man was the half brother of his betrothed. Eliminating him would protect her. Yet it would kill her, and kill the love between them as surely as though Logan had broken off the engagement himself. Hobson’s choice, indeed.

The roof shifted and clattered, creaking beneath the onslaught of the gale outside.

“WHAT?” The Samurai’s eyes were riveted to the ceiling as it continued to creak and buckle. Suddenly the entire roof, rafters and all, were torn off the boathouse, unleashing the full fury of the winds on the occupants inside. Despite his heavy silver armor, he was suddenly ducking more of the softball-sized hail that was coming at him in a battering frenzy as he stared into the eyes of the weather witch.

“I will protect those close to him with my life,” Storm cried, her voice hard, repeating the promise she had made to Mariko moments earlier. “That includes him. You won’t threaten the ones I care about, behemoth!”

“I hardly need protectin’, darlin’, “ he reminded her, guarding his face with his hand and moving closer to Yukio to shield her with his broad bulk.

“Don’t argue with me, little man!”

“Got it, Boss.” The Samurai couldn’t get in a clear shot with his shuriken this time amidst the hail and wind; Storm wouldn’t let him, having learned from their last skirmish. So Kenuichio harnessed his own kinetic energy and advanced on the two huddling against the wall, sword drawn. Viper lay unmoving on the floor like a fallen rag doll, her flesh growing blue from the cold. Storm released a blast of lightning from her fingertips, aiming for his sword. It conducted the electricity, naturally, like a lightning rod, interrupting the flow of his own energy. This time Storm reigned it back in with little effort.

“YEEEARRRRHHHH!”

“That was a warning shot. Perhaps you’d like to save your paramour, she’s looking the worse for wear.” Two inches of rain had accumulated in the boathouse, flushing out the vermin and rising perilously, bathing Viper in its murky waves.

“Yukio ain’t looking much better, darlin’,” Logan grumbled, a look of genuine worry marring his features. She was still bleeding from multiple shallow wounds and her pallor was a sickly gray. Storm hovered aloft, shoulders back and eyes fierce, like an avenging angel. Logan recognized that look, having only seen it once or twice before.

“I’m fine. Gut that pompous fuck,” Yukio snarled, waving him away. Kenuichio was still weaving from the blast but readying his sword. Yukio sagged against the wall when he released her, and he turned to face the Samurai, claws extended. He advanced on him – CLANG! – and grunted as the Samurai parried the blow from his blades. PPPHHTT! Logan’s claws slashed up in a wicked arc, nicking Kenuichio neatly across the jaw, taking first blood this time. Metal struck metal, as both men pushed the limits of their reserves and their mutant abilities, shedding blood and sweat but nary a tear.

“Storm…a little hand, here?” Yukio held her hand out limply, beckoning to her.

“Always, wild one.” She descended into the boathouse at last, mere inches from the filthy, flooded floor, and gathered her into her arms, taking to the air once again.

“Storm…take her to the hospital. Her apartment’s got eyes!” Logan warned before she was fully airborne. His eyes never left the Samurai

“I hear you, my friend.” Ororo wouldn’t endanger Mariko’s life any further by asking her to harbor another thief in her home.

“What…a way t’go, Wind-Rider!”

“You’re not going anywhere yet,” she promised, clutching her close, reading the intent of her words loud and clear.

“I’m not afraid of death.”

“No. But that doesn’t make your life any less precious. Promise me you are done scaring me for one day!”

“I love getting a rise out of you,” she grimaced. “Ow.” Ororo tried to suppress her smile and failed miserably.

Ororo soared above the rooftops, admiring the relative calm of the late night and giving silent thanks that she wouldn’t be there to witness whatever justice that Logan chose to mete out to those who caused their friend such pain and horror.

Some time later:

Logan winced as he made his way up the front walkway of Mariko’s manor house, gritting his teeth as a cut over his eye healed shut. The feel of tissue mending and knitting itself back together was second only to the grating of fingernails over a chalkboard in excruciating sharpness, but as Logan had said earlier, he always walked away. He popped his knuckles before he paused, noticing the lines of yellow police tape strewn across the porch.

“Holee…!” He rushed forward and rapped on the door. A harried looking house maid opened the door and stared at him cautiously. “I need t’see M’iko, where is she?”

“You don’t belong here, Logan-san. Please leave this place.”

“Not til I see M’iko, goddamn it!”

“Haven’t you done enough?” Masao came up from behind her, clutching a folded rag over his cheek and nudging her aside. “You’ve brought trouble to Lady Yashida’s front doorstep, gaijin. You’re a magnet for it. If you love her as you profess, you will leave her alone and never trouble her again.”

“I do love her. I just came ta say goodbye.” There was no malice in his eyes.

“Consider it done. She left you this.” Masao reached into the pocket of his cleaning smock and handed him an envelope that smelled like Mariko and was addressed to him in her girlish script. The door was slammed in his face, and for the first time, Logan didn’t try to stop it.


In the hospital waiting room, at the start of visiting hours:

Logan folded and unfolded the letter in his scab-encrusted hands, re-reading it as he continued to punish himself. A magnet for trouble. That was him.

“I’m…quite certain that it says the same thing now that it did the first few times you read it, my friend.”

“Ya think?” He finally crumpled it and shoved it deeply into the pocket of his jeans. “Don’t hurt any less.”

“I know. That doesn’t mean that it won’t eventually.” Her voice was hopeful.

“I’ve been around a long time, darlin’, it never really hurts less. The old hurts just get replaced by new ones.” Logan scratched his knuckles out of old habit, and he was slightly surprised at the soft, cool hand covering his, stilling his restless fingers.

“Or sometimes the old hurts are put away long enough to let in new joy. A very wise man once told me when I was feeling sad about some troubles that I was having with someone that I care about to just be patient, she’ll come around.” Logan grunted.

“Wise, huh? Sure he wasn’t just talkin’ out of his ass?”

“Positive. Absolutely certain. I trust his wisdom.” Ororo’s cerulean eyes deepened as she smiled and gave his hand a squeeze. “Although, he usually dispenses it with startling profanity that curls what remains of my hair. He means well,” she finished. Ororo put her sunglasses back on with her free hand, resuming her “disguise.”

“Ya don’t hafta keep on fussin’ over me, ‘Roro, I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” He didn’t take back his hand, and he even shifted it, lacing his fingers through hers. They walked down the hall toward Yukio’s room that way when the desk nurse signaled for them to go ahead. They had a busy morning already. When they returned to Yukio’s apartment, Logan ferreted out the video cameras and left the first one a pile of gutted wires; Ororo zapped the other two with her lightning, destroying the footage. Logan mentally kicked himself for not sniffing ‘em out sooner, until he’d remembered that a good portion of his night had been spent out on the balcony helping a certain weather goddess to sober up.

They were an odd couple of sorts; her, garbed head to toe in black raw silk, with a silk chiffon scarf wrapped around her hair and supple leather boots on her feet; and him, wearing his customary Stetson, black denims and a red and black plaid flannel shirt. Ororo knocked gently on the door. “’S’open.” Yukio’s voice rang clearly across the private room.

Ororo let the door click quietly shut behind them as they let themselves in, letting Logan seat himself in the chair beside the bed. She crossed to the other side of the bed and leaned her hand against the cool rails. Thankfully the room was devoid of the intimidating monitors and other equipment that had flanked Ororo’s bed during her stay at Mariko’s, but Yukio didn’t look much better. She bore no deep wounds, but her arms were wrapped in snug bandages, and her right eye was swollen shut. She smiled warmly at them despite cracked lips.

“Brought ya flowers,” Logan announced without preamble. He laid the bouquet of pink chrysanthemums and white carnations on the side table. Ororo thoughtfully poured Yukio a glass of water from the brimming pink pitcher before she unwrapped the flowers, then arranged them in the pitcher, using a self-contained rain shower to fill the water back up to the top.

“Don’tcha just love the way she does that?”

“Yup. She’s handy to have around.”

“I came to check up on you, Wild One. And I came to say goodbye. I have a team to go home to who needs me.”

“Going back to be a good little Girl Scout?”

“No. I’m going back to my life.”

“You could have a life here.”

“Not the life that matters most to me. Not the one where I can do the most good in the long run.” This time she took Yukio’s hand. “I will miss you, ronin.” Yukio tsked.

“Sure. That’s what they all say.”

“Cut her some slack, will ya?” Logan growled. “Don’t make it harder on her.”

“What’re you gonna do, threaten to beat me up after last bell?”

“Nope. I won’t be here.” Logan removed his sunglasses and twiddled them by their stems. “I’m goin’ back with her.”

“What do you have back there? It’s a school, Logan. What’s a grizzled old thief and assassin like you doing in a school?”

“Learning new tricks. Teaching the next generation how ta get by without endin’ up like me.

“And you’ve already taught me some new tricks, Yukio, for which I’m forever in your debt.”

“Like what?” A faint sheen of unshed tears glazed her eyes. “How to order drinks with the most alcohol per ounce?”

“That will come in handy occasionally,” Ororo admitted, clasping Yukio’s limp hand in hers, her eyes beseeching her, but Yukio wouldn’t return her gaze. Logan saw her shoulders tense up and felt a pang of sympathy for Yukio, a rare instance, indeed. She was losing the thing she wanted most, too.

“However…I was thinking that you taught me how to feel. All of my emotions, without reservation or regret. Without fearing the consequences. Without being a slave to my power. And of course you imparted your impeccable shopping sense to me! Those are invaluable gifts, Wild One.” The meaning wasn’t lost on Yukio when she added “You’re an amazing woman whom I’m proud to call my friend.”

“God, you X-Men and your inflated speeches,” she sniffled, wiping her eyes.

“We’ve always believed in cutting a dash, even when we’re makin’ a grand exit.” Logan swept off his Stetson and ducked to kiss Yukio’s lips, still slightly puffy from her ordeal. She sighed beneath the caress. When he pulled away, she reminded him “I only tolerate your crap for her benefit,” jerking her face toward Ororo.

“And I find that very flattering.” Ororo was mindful of the scratches on Yukio’s cheek as she gently tipped her jaw around to face her, tilting it up and capturing her lips in a kiss that quickened her pulse and stole her breath. Logan’s brows shot up as he tilted his hat back on his head, not expecting that at all. What was it about these two and making a spectacle? They parted, and Ororo’s smile was warm as she trailed the backs of her knuckles down Yukio’s cheek. Yukio collapsed back against the pillows, speechless. “Logan and I have a plane to catch, before he changes his mind. And next time, you can visit us in the states. I’ll take you to Bloomingdales. It’s absolutely addicting!”

“Promise?’

“Absolutely!”


Two hours later:

Logan and Ororo browsed the gift shop near the gates and came away a few small parcels apiece. A wad of gum crackled between his teeth as Logan prepared himself against his ears popping during takeoff. Visions of overpriced Jack Daniels shots danced in his head. Ororo sat beside him on the rotating chair in the waiting area, hoping that the airplane seating wasn’t as uncomfortable.

“I wish I were stronger.”

“You’ve forced yerself ta be stronger than anyone should expect ta be on any given day, darlin’, just relax.”

“I wish I could fly us both home myself,” she corrected herself. “I hate planes. I hate being closed up with that stale air and tiny interior.”

“I know, darlin’. Don’t help much that we’re gonna be up in the air for the better part of the day, either.” Logan thumbed through his copy of People magazine. “Howsabout a rousing rendition of ‘Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall?’”

“Bright Lady preserve me…no.”

“Guess we’ll hafta settle for the in-flight movie, then. Just fer giggles, d’ya want me ta go through the X-ray machine again?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Yep. I glow in the dark now, too, after they made me go through the first six times.”

“You could have fabricated that story of having a steel plate in your skull after the first time through, you know.” Her look was deadpan.

“Wouldn’t have been as much fun.” Logan feigned interest in the latest escapades of Princess Di on the Features page. “Bought us a little more leisure time ta stretch those long legs of yers, darlin’.”

“What happened to the Samurai?”

Logan snorted. “Whaddya think?” He tried to blow a bubble with his gum, until he remembered it was Wrigley’s, so it wouldn’t. “I gave him an out. We fought til the bastard remembered that Viper was snorting rainfall over in the corner. Sneaky bugger used that handy little teleportation ring of his to beam ‘em outta there.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll heal. Shit, I always heal.”

“Yes, but are you all right?” Fire coiled in his gut as she laid her hand on his thigh. He looked up at her sharply, laying down his book.

“’Roro…” He clenched his fists in his lap. “Ya don’t wanna poke around in this. Not now. Inside my head’s not a pretty place ta be.”

“So you say. You don’t give yourself enough credit. Your heart is enormous and full of love. A woman could count herself lucky to belong in it.”

“I’m gonna take some convincin’, ‘Ro.” Yet he already sat a little taller at her declaration, enjoying the faint flush of warmth that ran through him at her words. He dug into his pocket and fished out the crumpled letter, handing it to her. Ororo read it silently as their seat numbers were called. The last line echoed in her chest and made her stomach do flip-flops:

Don’t let a good thing pass you by, my love; especially when that good thing is closer than you think. Perhaps even right under your nose.

Ororo and Logan boarded the plane; Logan thoughtfully gave Ororo the window seat, earning him a grateful smile. He almost needn’t have worried. After a few games of gin rummy and Go Fish, Ororo collapsed against his shoulder, sound asleep. Logan smiled and moved the armrest aside to cuddle her across his lap.

To be continued in next installment, Wounded Animals.