Chapter 235: The Cat and the Storm
The smell of steak and garlic filled the dining hall. Logan sat hunched over his plate like a man at war, fork in one hand, steak knife in the other, sawing through meat with the same intensity he'd bring to a barroom brawl. Kurt bowed his head, tail curling in a neat spiral under the table as he muttered a quick grace in German. Rogue poked at her mashed potatoes, half-hearted, while Colossus ate like a tractor running full tilt. Lockheed, perched on Kitty's chair, snorted out a puff of smoke at the meat scraps Kurt slid his way.
Ororo, hair mohawked to defiance, reached across the table and plopped another slab of steak onto Kitty's plate. "Eat more, kitten. You're still growing."
Kitty stiffened. Her fork clattered against the plate. "I don't want to eat anymore," she said coldly, standing up so abruptly Lockheed flapped his wings in protest.
The table went silent. Everyone turned to watch her storm off, footsteps echoing against the wooden floor.
Logan didn't move. He just chewed his steak with exaggerated slowness, eyes narrowed at her retreating back. Something twisted in his gut, but he said nothing. Not yet.
An hour later, Logan cracked open a beer can, the hiss of carbonation loud in the empty hallway. He padded barefoot toward Kitty's room, scratching at his jaw. Without knocking, he shoved the door open with his boot.
"Hey, kid," he grunted, stepping inside like he owned the place. He tipped the beer back, foam dripping into his beard. "What's with the ice-cold act at lunch?"
Kitty sat on her bed, knees drawn up, hugging a pillow like it was life support. She shot him a glare. "Nothing."
"Sure," Logan said, leaning against her dresser. "Nothin' makes you stand up like you've seen a ghost and run off like your pants are on fire." He sipped, burped low, then added, "Spit it out."
Kitty's lips trembled, but she forced the words. "She changed, Logan. Ororo… I can't find her old self anymore. I don't recognize her."
Logan scratched the side of his nose with his thumb. "Hnh. True enough. The wind-rider's gone leather and steel. But what's the problem?"
Kitty looked down. Her voice was small but sharp. "You don't get it. I respected her. She was—she was like a figure I wanted to be like. Graceful. Strong. Beautiful. Now she's… she's—" Kitty gestured wildly. "Some punk rocker with a gang jacket! How am I supposed to respect her now?"
Logan stopped mid-sip. He lowered the can, staring at her like she'd just grown horns. Then he let out a low whistle.
"Seriously, kid?" he said, voice gravel rough. "Now I gotta correct you. Lemme lay it out plain." He stalked closer, planting himself at the edge of her bed.
"If all you see in Ororo is the dress-up doll version, then you didn't like her. You liked the costume. You slapped your own dream onto her and called it respect. But the second she swaps clothes, suddenly she's not worth it? That ain't respect. That's cheap admiration, and it shatters like glass soon as it doesn't fit your picture."
Kitty froze. His words hit like punches.
Logan jabbed a finger at her chest. "Real respect means you stick with someone even when their choices make you itch. Even when they look wrong to your eyes. 'Cause those choices—they come after blood, sweat, and struggle you can't even imagine. You throw that aside 'cause of a haircut and a jacket? Then you just undermined every damn thing she's been through."
Kitty's eyes welled. She slapped her hands over her face, muffling a sob.
Logan leaned back, cracked the can again. The fizz filled the silence. He let her cry, watching her through the corner of his eye, his face carved out of stone.
Three minutes ticked by, slow as molasses. Finally, Kitty peeked up, sniffling. "Gimme a sip."
Logan smirked, wolfish. "Shoo, shoo. You're just a kid. Go get yourself some powdered milk."
Her face flushed scarlet. "I'm not a kid!" she shouted, voice cracking.
Logan rose, stretching his shoulders. "Then prove it by actin' like an adult, not a brat who hates her teacher for a new haircut." He tipped the last swallow of beer, crushed the can in his hand, and headed for the door.
Kitty shouted after him, voice raw. "I'm not a kid, Logan!"
He waved a hand lazily without turning. "Sure, sure."
Logan strolled through the garden, the evening air cool in his lungs. He lit a cigar, puffing slow, eyes squinting at the fading sun. The mansion was quiet behind him—too quiet. His ears twitched.
A faint sound floated down, thin as a whisper. Sobbing.
Logan cocked his head, listening harder. Above, in the attic. Storm's attic. He could hear Kitty's broken voice, stammering through tears, and Ororo's deeper tone, soft but steady, murmuring comfort.
He exhaled smoke toward the sky, lips curling into the ghost of a smile.
"The cat got it straight," he muttered.
For once, he didn't feel the need to barge in, fix it, or toss more harsh words. He just leaned against a tree, puffing on his cigar, letting the sound of healing drift down from above.
The mohawk queen was still Ororo. The kid was still learning. And him? Logan figured he'd always be the rough-edged hammer teaching lessons the hard way. But hell… someone had to do it.