by Lady J
He watches her from the shadows, barely concealed in the farthest corner away from the doors of the room. It's against the rules to be here: anyone who wanted to watch a Danger Room training session had to watch it from the confines of the observation room.
He's never been one for rules.
She comes, as she does every night, long after the others have gone to bed. Her clothes are soft, worn, easy to move in; leggings, black T-shirt, and a sweat jacket. Thin-soled boots made of supple brown leather that tied just below the knee. Her mohawk pulled tight against her skull and secured with a short piece of leather. Her only weapon is a knife sheathed at her side.
He braces himself for the room's programming to kick in. After a few months he is used to it. The holographic imaging processors feel like tiny fingers dancing across his skin as the room morphs into a back alley.
Yep. She's run this scenario before. Harlem, New York. Somewhere near 135th Street and Madison Avenue. He has to admit the programming was even better than before. She's added more sounds and scents since the last time, including the stench of the Harlem River.
She takes a moment to center herself before she begins her nightly stroll.
Every night she comes here, he only watches. Tonight that's all going to change.
Divinity manifests in many forms. Legends and mythology are rife with stories of gods and goddesses who once walked the Earth in human guise, only to return to the lofty skies above.
So what becomes of a goddess who loses her power?
The first month he had watched her struggle with the knowledge that her power was gone and might never come back. Grounded, she floundered. Her steps were no longer light. Winds no longer nipped at her heels. She was cut off from the thing that she thought made her life worth living.
The rest of the team drew around her, offering what comfort they could
But fate still had a few cards to play.
According to the government, she was still a mutant. Power or no power, genetics didn't lie. In fact, the lack of power would make her easier to kill.
Or so they thought.
He took more of a notice when she called upon long forgotten survival skills that saved her child self in the streets of Cairo. Those same skills enabled her to keep up with the team. When she needed more, she enrolled at a dojo in Salem Center. She didn't ask him to help her. She didn't ask anyone. And as the others fretted about the external changes: the clothes, the hair, her new found hardness, in particular, he sat back and watched. Waited.
She was becoming.
He shakes himself and sniffs the air, catching her scent on the night wind. Tonight's ramble brings them to Central Park, late in the evening. A time of night particularly unsafe for any woman in her right mind to be wandering alone. She wraps her palms with cloth to soak up the sweat then checks the edge on her knife before she plunges into the park.
He is right behind her.
He knows she knows he's there but they've never talked. And normally, he watches and leaves after she does. But not tonight.
Tonight her assailants are both human and mutant. All of them try very hard to kill her.
She still has power. It's different now. It is raw steel and silk. Passion and rage. She is the lightning strike come to Earth.
He's beside her now, steel claws flashing in holographic moonlight. He can smell her: sweat and musk muted by her clothing. He can hear her: slightly labored breathing catching as she narrowly misses being gutted, the hiss of satisfaction as her own knife finds its home in flesh.
They fight on until the program runs down.
The images fade leaving the two of them in the steel gray room. Her clothes are slightly torn where she sustained some injuries. He, as usual, has already healed.
She slips the knife back in its sheath then walks to the doors without favoring him with a glance. As they open, she pauses.
"Coming?"
He is by her side in only a few steps and together they walk to her room in the attic.
Clothing is discarded on a nearby chair. A light touch on his arm leads him into her bathroom and the shower. Under piping hot water he checks her injuries, his touch gentle and reverent. Well aware that he is the first person she has allowed this close since Forge. He does not abuse the gift. There will be time enough for other intimacies later.
Now he is an acolyte serving at the altar of this new being.
It is he who dries her off and wraps her in a thick white robe before leading her back into the moonlit bedroom. Settling her on the edge of the bed, he walks back in the bathroom gathers some supplies, and comes back in.
The moonlight flashes on the steel of the straight razor as he holds it up. "May I?" he asks.
She slides off the bed to sit on the floor, her fingers drifting up to lightly touch the fuzz growing on her exposed scalp. He sits behind her, a bowl of water, a towel, and the razor on a short table he has appropriated from a potted geranium.
Callused fingers slowly spread shaving cream over the baby fine hair on the sides of her head. Carefully, he shaves it away, leaving the skin cool to his touch. Her body is relaxed now. Pliant. Trusting him not to cut her. Trusting his touch.
When he's done, the supplies are put away, and he joins her in the big, wide bed. His body curves around hers, learning her contours. Her heartbeat.
In the morning, they will talk. Or she will talk and he will listen. She will speak in a language he understands, one born of pain, loss and acceptance. Of old ways and new beginnings.
Of death, life and all things in between.
Disclaimer: Ororo, Logan, the X-Men and all associated characters and locations belong to Marvel Comics, Inc. and its various minions. I am not making any money off of this story and have written it only for the enjoyment of other fans