Ororo did not speak of her time with Logan, even to the concerned Jean. If she were to help her friend at all, it seemed that privacy would be paramount to him.
Which made her consider, as she worked silently with the plants lovingly scattered around her room, that none of them really knew much about the life of the man they called a team-mate outside of thier own concerns.
When they needed him, he was there. Always, without comment or judgement, a bolstering presence of gruff affection and boundless strength.
Was the opposite true?
Once she would have immediately answered in the affermative.
Now she wasn't so sure.
Did it take this complete loss of him to make them realize how alone he truly was? Even within the group that claimed to love him?
Her heart ached at the thought of the man she knew trapped the rest of his life in the realm of madness, unwilling - and perhaps unable - to accept the help offered him.
He deserved so much more than the enforced austerity she saw in his life.
But what truly puzzled her was why this moved her as deeply as it did.
She was a skilled leader, practiced in detachment and observation, and naturally gifted as such. This was not arrogance, rather acceptance of a facet of herself.
But why did Logan's situation matter so very much to her, even beyond the emotions she would have expected? The more she tried to understand it, the more elusive the answer became.
Logan seemed to be curious as to Ororo's latest toy, and sniffed it repeatedly before sticking his finger in it. His expression was almost comical as the finger-paint dripped onto the floor, splattering over his hand and down the simple one-piece jumpsuit he wore.
He shook his hand violently, and Ororo laughed involentarily as bright red paint flickered against her skin, leaving ridiculous stains on her cheek and hair.
More cautiously, Logan stuck a finger in the small container, and Ororo gently caught his hand, guiding it to the floor, encouraging him to make small circles against the metal.
Logan gave a strange little chuffing sound and promptly began to make a grand mess.
Greens and reds and blues were soon blended together in myriad shapes as he slid his hands over the floor, glancing occasionally at Ororo as she did the same.
She was secretly enjoying this game immensely. It had been years - so many years - since she had played so freely, and made such a mess with such enthusiasm. With her natural need for order, this was a secret little thrill that appealed to her in a way a more "sophisticated" game would never be able to match.
Logan abruptly brought a hand up, smearing greeny-blue paint over her nose and cheek.
It was the first time he had touched her.
She blinked, coming back to the moment and smiling reassuringly.
Mud. was the simple sensation-thought-scent-awareness. Color. Flashes of colors unseen normally by any human eye, faceted through sunlight and sparkling on the wind.
Was he asking for more? Ororo wasn't sure.
"More, Logan?" she tried to use his name as much as possible, in the hopes he would grasp onto it, remember, show some kind of awareness.
Color. Mud. His golden eyes held her's, feral and sharp, but not threatening.
"More color?" the weather mutant tried again, holding up a small can.
More. Color all. Bring. It was slightly forceful. A command that she found entirely natural to obey until thought kicked in, and she wondered at it.
"I will bring more tommarrow." she took his hand, felt the tension, watched his eyes for recogniton, saw only golden fire.
Bring. Dawn. Come. Were the thought-eddies she found pressed against her senses, and she smiled.
"I'll be here in the morning, with more colors."
Go. Sleep. It was a dismissal, and Logan returned to the corner he had claimed as a sleeping place.
The bed had not survived that choice, but his nest was clean and soft, and he seemed more comfortable on the floor than in bedframe, so Ororo had merely made the observation.
The next morning, Ororo dressed as she had the last two days - simply, in old jeans and a clean, unscented shirt. Absently, she wondered if Logan smelled all the scents around him, all the time, and suddenly halted in the process of brushing her hair.
Constantly? she thought, a little awed by the prospect.
Always aware of the smell of clothing machine-washed, smelling clean to them, did it's scent only register as metal and processed soap to him? Did it mask their scents, muddying them, making one more distance between Logan and those he should be able to trust, hold fast to?
Her mind wandered into a mental corridor she had never quite explored, and she had to return to brushing to keep her hands from trembling.
Did he always smell Scott's scent on Jean? Another slap in the face, a hurt constantly reinforced as she flirted with the Canadian?
Was it one more absent comment, not said but constantly flung at Logan's feet, that he was an outsider?
Ororo finished and looked down at her hands.
For once, she wasn't sure if they were shaking with pain - or anger.
Professor Xavier tried to be kind, tried to reach Logan a few more times, but it simply seemed that he was either ignored or all but forced from the room with irritated swats at his face with extended claws.
Clearly only irritated, or the telepath might well be missing a head.
Ororo could tell he was puzzled, even slightly bewildered, at the utter rejection of his help.
She was entering the room as Scott was standing there, trembling with pent-up frustration, wanting Logan to respond. Needing that control back, that lifeline that made him leader, kept him from looking too closely at confusion and pain, kept him sane.
With terrifying speed, Logan exploded from the shadows, and Ororo felt a cry of, "Logan! No!" torn from her throat.
But the shorter man's claws were not extended. With incredible, feral grace, he slammed Scott into the wall, then forced him down, against the floor. Fangs touched his neck, held, refused to let go as Scott tried to turn his head and trigger a stunning optic blast.
"Scott! No!" Ororo's voice was desperate as she recognized, suddenly, crazily, that if he did Logan would doubtless react even more violently.
The mutant known as Cyclops tried to move his head, but Logan bit down tightly, drawing a thin rivulet of blood, shaking his head firmly enough to nearly cause whiplash. It was clear Scott was not to move.
Scott refused to lower his red-visored gaze.
Logan growled, low in this throat, a warning, harsh sound.
"Logan, let go!" he ordered, but it came out a gasp.
Another growl, another bone-rattling shake, less gentle this time.
Ororo held her breath, not daring to speak as the silent battle of wills reached it's climax.
Before, Logan would have simply walked away, cracked a joke, done something. But now he held the younger mutant's gaze with eyes of golden fire, all the games stripped away.
Scott swallowed hard.
Logan rumbled.
Finally, almost painfully, Scott looked down.
Immediately, he was released. Pinning the younger mutant with one hand, Logan licked the blood off his throat and gave a softer rumble, reassuring now.
The battle was over, and Scott was released, and Logan was now in charge.
That was all, and nothing else.
Logan let him up.
Scott tottered to his feet, staring with eyes clearly wide behind the ruby quartz.
Cub. Was that sensation-eddy of soft fur and mischeif, of not knowing one's place until it was given, of being young and uncertain and finally defined kind?
Yes. Perhaps moreso than a frightened and desperately lonely boy being forced to become a leader. Losing himself in that. Having no other identity than that. And in the end, suffering for the lonliness that he could not put down because he did not know how.
Even Scott felt it, as those golden eyes followed him, as a strange burden lifted from him, a tight knot beginning to uncoil in his soul.
Beta. came the swirling senstation-image-scent-thought. Of running free and being unfettered, while remaining part. Lead. A rumble of approval. Well.
Scott bolted out the door.
But what Ororo saw on his face moved her deeply.
Scott's haggard features had been marked with relived tears.