"Hi Logan."
Logan looked up at her with immeasurable relief. He looked grizzled and grumpy, even more than usual.
"Ro, thank God."
She couldn't help but smirk. "So your day was that good, was it?"
"You have no idea," he said, rising stiffly from the chair where he had been trying to read a motorcycle magazine. "Sorry, you had to come back from the great outdoors for this," he murmured. The team had taken to speaking in low voices around the inmates. Not that they said anything of importance when in their presence, per se, but everyone in the house felt uncomfortable having Sabretooth and Mystique learn any more about them than was necessary.
"It's okay," she whispered. "I have some papers to grade."
"Good luck with that," he grumbled as he headed back up stairs. "And Ro, be careful. You need any help, just call me."
As Ororo settled into the chair, sorting her papers on a side table, she heard Sabretooth's voice. "You were hiking." So much for whispering, she thought.
"Yes, I was," she responded with her best attempt at a combination of politeness and curtness. She kept her head down at her papers to show that she was uninterested in starting a conversation, but she couldn't help glancing briefly out of the corner of her eye toward him. He was watching her intensely.
It was like deja vu. He had looked at her the same way in the train station when he had grabbed her by the throat. The look was predatory, and in her memory, it had been bloodthirsty. But now, seeing it again, it seemed the sanguinary undercurrent she had remembered wasn't there. The drive she saw in his stare wasn't a homocidal urge, but something else.
"You like to be out in the wild?" His voice was rough, and there was an implication in it, but his tone wasn't overly salacious and she reminded herself to be professional.
Be polite, Ororo. Xavier is trying to build a rapport with them. She looked up at him, with an impassive countenance. "I do sometimes."
"Your real name's Ro? Just Ro?" That question gave her pause. Should she tell Sabertooth her first name? Would it matter? It wouldn't be hard for him to find it out later if she refused. Before, she could answer, though, Mystique spoke.
"No, Victor. Her name is Ororo. Ororo Munroe." Mystique smiled at Ororo. The way the cells were set up, Sabretooth and Mystique could not see each other, but they could both see Ororo, and Ororo could see both of them fully. Mystique continued to talk to Sabertooth, all the while staring at Ororo. "She's from Africa, Victor. Did you know that? She used to be a little thief, but Xavier reformed her, just like he plans to do with us."
Sabertooth sneered. "Fat chance with that." Locking eyes with Ororo, he said, "So is this what Xavier did to you? Did he lock you up until you...yielded?"
"No!" Ororo responded, disgusted at the implication in Sabretooth's voice. "The only reason Professor Xavier has chosen to restrict you here is because you two are a serious danger to the public. Do you think we enjoy spending our time down here watching you when we could be doing other things?"
Sabretooth stood up and walked toward the security glass that acted as the front wall to his cell. Coming as close as he could without pressing himself against the barrier, he said, "I don't know. Do you enjoy watching me?"
It was nothing more than an insolent comment, she knew, yet she hesitated. And he seemed to have anticipated her hesitation, sought it even. He hadn't simply muttered the words from a corner of the cell; he had drawn himself up and placed himself on full display for Ororo's appraisal. And much as she did not want to admit it, his form was magnificent. When Scott and Jean had put him in the cell, they had taken away all superfluous items. Now he stood with just a pair of jeans, old enough to cling to the curves and corners of his powerful legs, and a tee-shirt that stretched across his bulging chest.
But she couldn't say 'yes,' so she lied. "No." He stared hard at her, as if trying to determine her truthfulness. But why would he even care?
"Maybe," Mystique said, her voice suddenly a sonorous baritone, "she would prefer watching me." While Ororo had been looking at Sabertooth on display, Mystique had changed to look like an amalgam of Ororo's favorite movie star and an exquisitely muscled athlete from a local sports team. How did she know who I...? The man, or Mystique rather, looked as though she had been carved in polished ebony with a pair of ivory teeth flashing welcomingly at her. Despite the illusion, Ororo gazed in admiration and wonder for a moment.
Watching Ororo's face, Sabretooth questioned Mystique. "How do you look, Mystique?"
"Oh, a little George Bruno, a little Demetrius Taylor." Mystique's smile became even more welcoming and reassuring than it already had. "You know, you can take a closer look. I can't bite you through the glass." Then, her face grew subtly seductive. "Although if you were to come inside, I could show you how real an illusion can feel."
Seeing the involuntary dilation in Ororo's eyes, Sabretooth's own black eyes narrowed very slightly. "So Ororo, you only like black guys?"
Pulled out of her mesmerized gaze by Sabretooth's question and by his use of her first name, she sputtered a response. "What? No."
"You know, I heard George Bruno likes to beat up his girls. Is that what you like, Ororo? You like it rough?" There was a clear edge to his voice, a threat, a lewd promise, and something else. Was it bitterness?
His creep toward increasingly inappropriate questions lit a flash of anger in Ororo. "No, Sabretooth. I realize it's probably beyond your ability to comprehend, but I do not like it rough. I like it gentle. I like gentle, kind men." Calm, Ororo. They're starting to get to you. Shaking her head, she wondered with no small bit of alarm at having been lead into a discussion about desires with Sabretooth and Mystique.