Disclaimer:  Marvel owns X-Men, I own the OC's, and the pixies in my brain own themselves.

Kia Ora to Wahinetoa, fellow Kiwi (okay, so I'm only half), and rampant reviewer!  Here, have a pixie (squashes pixie between two large books, hands it to Wahinetoa).  Trust me, they're less trouble that way.

Ororo walked along the beach barefoot, watching the sunset.  It reminded her of another sunset she'd seen a few months back; that had been Florida, this was California, and she was no nearer to finding an answer than she had been when she'd left.  She plonked herself down on the sand in a most un-goddess like fashion; rain was beginning to fall, as it had every night, wherever she was.

There were days she wished she'd never even met Remy; there were days she wished the X-Men had never found her.  Storm, the X-Man, had loved Logan, with the quiet dignity that she was known for.  Silver, the more reckless daughter of the Way, had loved Remy with an abandon that still made her breathless to think of it.


And somewhere squeezed in the middle was plain old Ororo, and she still hadn't a clue.

Not for the first time over the last few months, she sent a formless prayer up into the air.

~Bright Lady, send me guidance.  Help me.~

But there was only the rain, mingling with her tears, for an answer.

Scott wrinkled his nose in distaste as he looked at the bar.  The door to the 'Freak-House' (how charming), was guarded by a giant of a man and a heavily tattooed woman wearing an obscene outfit composed of strips of well-placed black leather; both of them seemed to find the presence of himself and Jean on their doorstep fairly amusing.

"Are you lost, kiddies?" asked the tattooed one.

"We're looking for Wolverine." Scott replied.

Giant and Tattoo exchanged another amused look.

"Never heard of him.  Sorry."

"Oh, sure you have – Ink." Jean's voice was lilting, but her eyes were cold.  Scott frowned – not at all like her to pluck information out of a mind like that.

"Canadian, grumpy, temper like a wounded bull with a red flag waved in front of it." She paused.  "Kinda cute, too."

Scott scowled at that sentiment.  He had been agreeing with the description up until that point.

Ink however, chuckled, gestured, and her oversized friend moved out of the way.

"He's by the bar, as if you couldn't guess."

As Jean passed by, she added "And if you ever tell him he's 'cute' to his face, I want the photos."

Scott knew that Logan didn't get drunk easily; however, it looked as if he was trying pretty hard.  Bottles and shot glasses surrounded him; despite the fact that the bar was incredibly crowded, there was a clear circle around him – one look at the bar stool to the left of him, slashed to pieces, gave you some idea why.

One of the bartenders beckoned them over, as Wolverine took another three shots of tequila, one after the other.

"Please tell me you've come to take him home!" she pleaded, indicating their friend with one out of six arms.  The others prepared drinks and took money, while she continued.

"Not that we don't appreciate the business, but there are going to be limits to the amount of furniture he destroys before the boss decides to throw him out; and when that happens, I was planning to be hiding in a corner; 'cause it's going to be messy."

Jean smiled.  "I think we can convince him to come back without too much bloodshed."

"Says who?" muttered Scott.

Wolverine took a break from his shots to scowl at them.

"Logan..." started Jean.  She received a one clawed salute for her troubles.  The clear circle around Wolverine widened.

Ever the optimist, she tried again.

"When Storm comes back – which she will – she's going to take one look at your drunken, unshaved, uncouth self and head right back down to Pennsylvania and her Cajun thief.  You're no good to her like this – in fact, you're no good to anybody like this."

"Nice speech, Red.  Now piss off."

"Don't make me hurt you, Logan."

"You think you could, Jeannie?"

Scott rolled his eyes, and shot Logan with a low-level energy beam.  Okay, so maybe it was overkill, but at least Wolverine was unconscious and not threatening Jean, and his healing factor would make sure there was no permanent damage.

Besides, it had been really, really, fun.

There was only one flaw in his plan, and that was that now, they were going to have to lug his metal-laced, heavy-ass body out to the car.  The second flaw was that when Logan woke up, he was going to be pretty pissed at Scott.  That came with an upside, though – maybe Wolverine would attack him, and Scott would then have an excuse to shoot him again.

Jean had given up on telling him off, and was convincing a few of the regulars to help them lug the sleeping Logan out to their car.

Maybe even if Logan didn't attack him, he could find some other reason to shoot him again.  It wasn't that he hated the man, there was just something fundamentally satisfying about giving him a concussion.

"Scott!  Are you coming, or not?"

Scott Summers sighed, grabbed a leg, and helped cart Wolverine out of the bar.

Remy woke up with a start, glancing at his battered clock.  4:13.  The house was fairly quiet, except for the faint rhythmic banging and murmurs of affectionate German that could only mean that Kurt and Rogue were at it again.  Darkling always complained about Violet being 'loud' – telepathically, that was, because Remy had never heard anything from them (Thank God for small mercies). – but in his opinion their two attic dwellers took the cake.

He lay on his front and put his pillow over his head, but he could still hear them. 

"Merde." he said softly, pulling on a pair of jeans and slipping out the window.

He hadn't slept a full night since she'd left; and that couldn't be blamed on Fuzzy Elf's night-time activities.

Remy let his feet wander, thinking.  Sure, in Nawlins he'd had his share of petites – and he'd not cared a bit about any of them.  He'd liked Belle, and the rest, for the most part, had just been conquests, but he'd never been in love before.

There had never been a woman he'd found more difficult to judge – one minute he thought she was going to zap him, the next, she was kissing him… those kisses!  He sighed.  As usual, his traitorous legs had brought him to the little hollow in the crest; he sat down, stretching out his legs before him and closing his eyes.

He hadn't seen the other man coming, hadn't heard him.  He'd been too wrapped up in the taste of her, the feel of her lips on his, the caress of her delicate hands.  For a few precious moments he'd forgotten everything he was – all his sins washed away, every particle of doubt, fear, self-loathing, gone.

And then he was ripped away from her.

His shoulders slumped.  Who was he trying to kid, anyway.  She'd be heading back up north to the X-Men and her scowling boyfriend – perhaps she was already there.  He'd never have that love back again – he hadn't deserved it in the first place.

As usual, his wandering steps took him back up to what had been her room; as usual, he reached under the mattress, pulled out the thin blade.  The sharp point trailed over his wrist, but he didn't break the skin.

Instead, like he did every night, he hid the knife again, crawled into the bed, and fell back into a fitful sleep.

Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe tomorrow he'd be strong enough to end it.

"Do you want your fortune told?"

"No thank you" replied Ororo, not even looking as she continued down the street.  There were usually street hawkers in this area, and she'd learnt to just ignore them.

"You see two paths in front of you, child, and you do not know which to take."

She spun around, staring at the old woman.  She seemed to be blind; yet she focused directly on Storm.

"There is another path that you can take.  It is not about love, it is about where you belong."

"Irene!"

A pretty brunette woman rushed up, taking the old woman by the hand.

"I'm very sorry." she said to Ororo.  "Irene, you know you aren't supposed to wander off like that.  You gave me quite a fright!"

"Oh hush, Raven.  There was no harm done."

"I've told you before, don't call me that!"  She smiled and nodded at Ororo, leading the old woman off.

~Where I belong~

The thought wandered around in her mind; it was not till much later in the day that it suddenly hit her.

"A third path."

"Excuse me, lady?"

She realized she'd spoken out loud, and smiled sheepishly.

"Nothing.  Could I have that to go?"

She laughed to herself as she left.  She'd been enlightened – while ordering frozen coffee at Starbucks.

Whoever was looking out for her sure had a strange sense of humor.

That night, as she stopped to rest at a little motel in the middle of nowhere, it didn't rain.

A/N:  Drum roll…….  he he he.  The pixies are refusing to let me give you any hints about who it's going to be, so sorry.  But you'll find out next chapter, I promise!