Snow and Dreams by paxnirvana Format for use with submitting fanfic.
Snow and Dreams
by paxnirvana

Rating: PG

Author's Note: Just playin' in Logan's messed up head. I'm a Storm/Wolvie 'shipper, so run while you still can. La la la la la!

Disclaimer: They're Marvel's and 20th Century Fox's - not mine. Boo hoo. I make no money here; don't wanna.

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Beautiful women. This place is flamin' filled with beautiful women. First Jean; dark, smart, sexy. And very taken. Little Marie; young, lonely, trusting. And like my own daughter.

Then Ororo.

Do I have the words?

Cool and distant, exotic and powerful. Didn't even really notice her at first - I think that was her intent. Keep the beast at bay, the disruptive one contained until he proved himself.

I thought at first I was dreamin' about snow. Blowin' white and silky 'round me. Snow like I'd seen nearly every day during the blank years I wandered the North. Then I realized it was her hair. All cool and icy, so long and silky. Wrapping around me, cooling my rage, heating my flesh.

I want to touch it. Sometimes so bad I get the shakes.

She has that way, that lifting of one narrow brow, that chill in deep brown eyes that warns you to stay away. I'm no good at takin' orders, but less good at takin' a slap across the face. I don't have any stupid ideas about not hittin' a woman back - particularly not a woman tryin' to kill me - but it's not fightin' I want to do with her. I want to touch her. Worse, I want her to touch me back.

I wake up more often than not from dreams of her just as sweaty and panting and terrified as I do from those other kind. Because I don't dream about her the same way I dream about other women. I want to watch her sleep. I want to see those eyes warm when they look at me. I want her to see I'm not just that beast she first saw raging in the snow. But how do I show her?

Wind and white hair. Lightning and white eyes. Her power lifted me into the air like I was nothin'. Me. Weighted down by thirty kilos of metal on my skeleton. She blew me to the top of the Statue so I could save my little girl and didn't even work up a sweat. Mystery lives in her eyes.

Chuck told me once that he'd found her in Africa. A young woman living alone in the depths of the savannah; a pagan goddess worshiped by the scattered tribes around her. He'd convinced her, somehow, to give it up, the sky, the sun, the wild land and come back to New York with him. How, I'll never know. Chuck can be very persuasive when he wants to be - even without his mutant power.

Maybe he appealed to her soft heart. She has one. Well hidden. She rescues injured animals. She tends her garden like it was a child. She counsels the kids in the school - they seem drawn to her rather than Jean, which strikes me as odd. Jean's the doc and the mindreader, but that might just be why. What teenager wants some adult reading their mind?

She understands nature. She knows the necessities of life, the cycle, the savageness of it. Yet there's peace within her too. This deep center core around which power and wildness rages. But inside, there's always that silence.

Maybe that's what I crave, a glimpse of peace, a moment of silence. My past claws at my mind, slowly breaking free of the chains put on it either by some outside force or by itself, so I could survive. I see pain beyond. Horror. Blood. Death.

I know what I am. I'm the best there is at what I do.

And that ain't pretty.

Not like she is. Like the snow.

So I dream and watch and wait.