The summer sun was pouring its heat onto the institute grounds, shimmering on the surface of the sea and gleaming off the tree leaves. The intense heat smothered all activity of birds, animals and humans, a tired silence laying on the whole area.
The institute was empty - the students were gone for vacation, and so were Charles and Hank. The big mansion was almost deserted, hosting only one person - Ororo.
She was savouring the peace and quiet that was rare around here, tending the greenhouse, exercising and reading. She had been looking forward to this period of respite, because she needed some time alone. She needed to think.
Most of the people who knew her thought her a calm, serene, almost aloof person, wise and sensible in a mature kind of way. And she was, up to a point, but not because such was her character. She was an immensely powerful mutant, and every day she fought to control her powers, to keep them in check, to prevent them from ever slipping her grasp. There was no telling what could happen if she lost that control, but she was determined never to find out.
And that was the point, really. She has been exercising her self-control for so many years that she smothered her personality and became a cold, aloof statue. She was no longer a Storm, she was a Dead Calm. And yet, underneath, there was a boiling cauldron of passions, a longing for adventure, excitement and danger that was always trying to break loose. She was doing her best to keep it subdued, but it was becoming harder every day. She would fly out at night to bring fearsome storms down from the sky, far out over the ocean where no one would be hurt. But the relief was temporary and shallow, leaving her craving for something more satisfying.
She tried to keep herself occupied, hoping it would chase the strange restless longing away, but in vain. Even tending the beautiful plants in the greenhouse could not soothe her temper. Exasperated, she threw an empty flowerpot at the wall where it shattered, and ran outside. Enough with this heat! She wanted a cold rain, and she would have it.
As the cold raindrops hit her skin and soaked her hair, she could feel the fire inside her diminish, but not die out completely. Oh no, she knew very well that no amount of rain, no flood in the world could douse that kind of fire. Why was she burning so fiercely for him? A day couldn't pass without her thinking about him. The way he moved, his body tense and ready to spring, like a trap, like a predator looking for its prey. The way he could remain silent, and yet occupy the whole world, just standing there being quiet. The way he looked at her, his eyes never, ever giving her a clue to what he was thinking.
She remembered the last time she saw him, two weeks ago - he was working on his motorbike in the garage, and she felt the sudden urge to see him. She got two beers from the fridge and went there, drinking on her way down to give herself both courage and alibi. She offered him the other beer and he took it, his fingers brushing over her hand for a moment. He growled a thanks, but he looked away as if he was angry. Not that it mattered - the only thing that counted for her was the fleeting touch. His hand was just like him, strong, hard and just rough enough to make it even more exciting. She wondered what would it be like to feel those hands on her waist, trailing up to her breasts...
She cursed angrily and there was an answering flash from the sky. The rain was not working anymore, so with a wave of her hand she chased the clouds away. Stop thinking about him. Stop imagining his body on yours, his touch, his breath... Damn! She had to do something about it. Get tired, maybe, run a few miles, exhaust her body so that it has no other desire but to sleep. With that thought, she set out towards the woods.
Logan was irritated. He was passing his time in this stinking joint, winning easy money in laughable pool games with some flea-ridden bikers that thought they could intimidate him with their skull-and-bone jackets. Usually he'd take care not to win too much, because otherwise the patrons would protest and it would all get ugly pretty quick, but today he had such a lousy temper he was practically looking forward to gutting someone.
One of the reasons for that was the hooker on the other side of the pool table. She started her working day trying to get some other guy, but transferred her attention to Logan almost immediately. He was winning more money, he was cleaner, and he was actually good-looking. She wasn't so bad herself, insofar as a hooker can look good, but she was scraping on his nerves like a file because apparently she decided to make herself more exciting by dying her hair white. Every time he looked at her, he thought of Storm, and the fact that this whore was in any way connected to the exquisite weathermistress was enough insult to make him want to kill her on the spot. Unfortunately the hooker mistook his angry stare for a lustful one and advanced on him, hips swaying and eyes sparkling.
"Want a good time, stranger?" she said, loud enough for the whole bar to hear. Logan fought back the urge to let his claws out.
"Sure" he said, instead, "but I don't think ya could give it to me." He spoke as loud as she had, and enjoyed the silence that followed.
"Ooo, excuse me" she said, slowly and deliberately. "I didn't think you were into boys."
Logan sighed. So much for having a good time. He would really have enjoyed picking a fight here, seeing the patrons go from amused aggression to terrified submission in seconds. He would have enjoyed their incredulous stares as they realized he was fully capable of single-handedly slaughtering them all. But he needed a good excuse for that, and this wasn't even an insult. The hell with it.
"Take my advice, baby. Stick to your regulars, and don't start something ya couldn't handle." He pocketed the money he'd won, leaving enough to cover the bill, and put on his jacket. A few men were already rising in their seats when the hooker spoke again.
"Yeah..." she began, thoughtfully. "I'll do that. I had strange men in my time, but you... You look like a real beast. I don't think I could handle you."
Logan smiled a mirthless smile and left. Only when the sound of his engine died away did the locals resume their conversation.
He rode aimlessly for a while, trying to arrange his thoughts. He knew there was nobody in the institute but Storm, and that was the chief reason he was cruising around and pretending to be busy. Everybody in the mansion thought him a secretive loner, a man who disappeared all the time running some strange errands, and it was partly true. He would get involved with HYDRA, track Sabretooth and whoever it was who did this to him, but it was much rarer than they all thought. Mostly, he needed time away from Storm.
Her beauty, her cold, statuesque appearance and calm manner were bringing out the worst of his violent instincts. It didn't help that he could smell her excitement whenever she was near. He knew she wanted him, he could practically taste her arousal in the air, but she was too much of a lady to ever mention it. And try as he might, the beast in him growled at the mere sight of her, the primal, animalistic lust boiling in his veins as he inhaled her scent. It took all his self control to keep the beast on a leash, to prevent his instincts from guiding his actions. To stop himself, in fact, from throwing her on the ground and ravishing her there and then.
He wanted to own her, to possess her, to ride her lust like he rode his motorbike. He wanted to turn her from the perfect, icy statue into a burning hurricane. And he was terribly afraid that if he ever lost control he would hurt her, he would let the beast loose and it would brutalize her. He fought the instincts back, but he simply couldn't banish the image of her naked body stretched under him, her hair spread out on the bed, her chocolate skin too delicious for words. He dreamt of her voice, usually so regal and majestic, calling his name in between ecstatic moans. He dreamt of her screaming and writhing under him...
The wail of a car horn brought him brutally back to the here and now. He barely managed to escape a truck speeding from the opposite direction, his knee passing inches from its bumper. He maneuvered dangerously for a moment, trying to avoid crushing into the lorry on one side and the cliff on the other, and growled at himself for being so stupid. Ya won't regenerate from being a mincemeat, ya stupid mongrel, he thought trying to shake off those visions. When he regained some control of his bike, he saw he was not far from the institute.
His stomach intervened at this point, trying to remind him that the organ that was occupying his attention lately wasn't the only one he possessed. He battled with himself for a moment, but he was tired and hungry and in need of a shower, and while he could see to all that elsewhere, the institute was his home lately and it was a comfortable one. He decided to get in by the side gate, leave the bike in the small shed there and walk the rest of the way. He would make sure she doesn't even know he's there.