Logan had lived, for so many years that he couldn't recall, amidst the flashes of pointless bloodshed appearing in his dreams, long since buried at the back of his mind. He'd lived in murky thoughts, submerged in the blank spots in his memories, and late night whispers dissipating as quickly as they'd appeared, and he'd never found clarity. It was a futile struggle, and a near tangible thing that was just beyond his reaching grasp, and each day grew harder to endure, knowing that some essential part of him was missing.
Something was off about him, and he woke up every morning with a harsh awareness of it, resting against the pillows with the feeling that someone had once rested there beside him. Nothing made sense, and Logan could find no peace-until Ororo.
At first glance, she was all exterior, an impermeable wall built with the stones of prejudice, hard stares filled with wariness when she thought he wasn't looking, and he could only smirk as she looked away each time he caught her glares, his eyes gleaming with mirth. Storm was angry, thrived on the emotion when nothing else could give her motivation, and she called fury her reason, named rage her godsend. Stoically passing him deterring comments, she was defensive, and only when he made an offhanded joke to himself did he see through the miniscule fractures at the surface of such an unbreakable wall.
She laughed, a small, choked sound that reverberated through his head, and, suddenly, Logan could see. He could see faces, smiles that were now long vanished, eyes that had once shone so vibrantly back at him from across the bed, covers lit with pale moonlight slipping through the windows. He could find the missing pieces, link them together to find sense at last, and when he smiled at Ororo for her outburst, she looked away, confused.
Maybe it was the fact that she had given him clarity, or maybe it was the way she'd laughed, or even the glimpse he'd taken into the deepest inner part of her, but Logan was enthralled from that moment.
He strived to make her laugh, and discreetly followed her around the large mansion, trying his best to gleam from her that tiny ounce of fragility he'd witnessed.
It took months upon months of dedication and hard work, but he made her smile, and the flare of light within her chocolate eyes pulled from him a grin of his own, and the slight darkening of her light, smooth mocha skin had his heart pounding like nothing else.
She murmured pieces of her stories to him from across the breakfast table, and he could see images of Victor, of Kayla, of Striker-all jumbled together to create a medley of voices and laughter and bright smiles, a pat on the shoulder and a pitying look from across a examining table.
She smiled and he was running through the forest, his small hand clutching at the boy beside him as their bare feet beat harshly upon the cold, dirtied earth, bone claws extended as he shook with raging terror.
She livened, her dark eyes glowing as white as her hair as she called the clouds to her will, and Logan could remember all the days of warfare, lost in the lust for blood he'd once shared, remembering the moment that it had left him so swiftly, unexpectedly leaving a desire for more in his heart.
She touched his hand lightly, jokingly, as a friend would, and Kayla was glancing over at him, forever carefree, from across the car console, her hand cupped as she extended her arm out the window, letting the wind lift her palm with the most joyous kind of laughter ringing in her throat.
Storm squeezed his fingers, tightly and surely, imploringly, even, and he was staring down the barrel of a gun, a cooling body in his arms as Kayla curled against him, her blood staining his shirt crimson as he cried in anger.
She leaned in, hesitantly and slowly, to press her lips to his, and Logan was home, and that was all that had ever truly mattered in all of the mixed up memories in his head-this, this moment and this pressure and this woman, wrapped up in his arms in the twisting shadows of the corridor as her heart, so steady and reliable and caring, beat frantically against his chest, perfectly in time with the rush of his pulse as it sounded in his ear.
And no matter what bullet pierced him, no matter what amnesia befell him, he could never forget the soft sigh she made against his lips, forever ingrained into the deepest part of him.
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Some RoLo requested by The Scribe2.
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