Reminisce, Chapter Five
THE NOT SO DISTANT FUTURE:
Sometimes now, his hands hurt. They felt cumbersome, and the claws foreign despite how many years (how many years?) he’d carried them. The sheaths they left throbbed, a reminder that adamantium was not the material Nature had designed them to hold. He felt the slice of tissue he couldn’t see, the protest between his knuckles. More and more he was aware of what was on the claws when they retracted--blood or soil or brain matter. Was that what made the pockets itch? Was that what made them burn?
Sometimes now, he felt heavy. His muscles were still crisp lines, he could lift and throw and run the same as ever. But some days he felt the earth pulling at him, asking him to set down weight he hadn’t chosen to carry in the first place.
Sometimes now, the words on the page went blurry around the edges. Sentences shrank and hid in the paragraphs. He used to be able to read in the dark; now he turned on lamps and still the tension coiled in his forehead.
“I think I could be getting old,” he told the Professor one evening, sitting in the armchairs in the latter’s study, watching flames colonize the logs in the fireplace. They were splitting the contents of a crystal decanter, although doing so in secret, as this supposedly interfered with his medication. Logan committed to silence willingly enough. It wasn’t his place to tell Charles what to do. And Hank was, in all likelihood, being his usual fussy self. Last month he’d tried to tell him to cut back.
“Mm. Nice of you to join me,” murmured Xavier. Pale, soft fingers shifted a white pawn on the chessboard, and then a black horse. He picked up his glass with both hands and took a careful sip, eyes still on the game--he was playing himself, not Logan. Minutes passed, not so much in ticks of the clock but in moves and countermoves. “Are you really coming to the gala next weekend?”
“You already asked me that.”
“And?”
“It’d be a shame to waste that fancy suit you bought me.”
For a second, he wondered if it had been a mistake, to remind him of the suit and the reason for its purchase, the funeral. The Professor’s face wobbled for a moment, and he bowed his bald head too far over the chessboard. But perhaps only for Logan did the room contract, like corset strings tightening things into airless, dignified discomfort. He stared at the crackling wood chips in the fireplace. Each time one flared, bright and brilliant red, he thought about Scott. Scott, and--
“I’d rather like that, you know,” Xavier said, abruptly straightening.
“What?”
“The idea of us being old men together. Quite funny, really, if it were you and I, in the end.”
“Don’t know if that joke would be on you or me.”
“Shame, though, that we couldn't have been young men together too.”
“Bet you were quite the stud, Chuck.” Logan forced a smirk. The embers were just embers. They didn’t remind him of anything. There was nothing to be reminded of.
The Professor, lips wrapped over his teeth, glanced sideways--that half-pride of the virtuous performing the profane. “Mm. I could have given you a run for your money. Nothing promises afterglow like knowing a lady’s fantasy.”
“Well, nothing says longevity like a healing factor, so--” He watched Charles snort so hard that the ice clattered against the sides of his glass. A little wave of cognac washed over the side, landing on his carefully creased trousers and unflinching knees. "--so there was never a ‘lady friend’ special enough to push your chair into happily ever after? You’ve never wanted to settle down, have a few kids?”
“I have kids,” the other man protested, gesturing around him, though the room was empty. “Everyone who has ever passed under this roof, been taught here, has been a child of mine.” He picked up the corners of his mouth--and then dropped them. “Except for you, maybe. Good lord, we were lucky you were even housebroken when we brought you in. Running around, sniffing at every door, looking for threats.”
“Well, I’m glad you decided to keep me.”
Xavier responded as if it were natural gratitude instead of sarcasm, nodding. “But I thought you had potential if only for the way you’d looked after her. And she vouched for you, of course.”
“Who did?” He topped up his glass, lifted the decanter by way of asking if the old man wanted more.“Who vouched for me? Jean?”
Xavier was staring at the board, at a queen he’d just laid on its side. He’d done so gently as if the piece had feelings.
“Someone being special has nothing to do with getting to keep them,” he murmured. Lately, Logan noticed, no conversation with the Professor followed a straight route. He darted from topics, doubled back, circled them like an animal.
“When you’re young, you think birthdays are about cake and balloons--I know what Hank is planning, by the way. You tell him it has to be ganache or nothing--”
“You know I don’t know what that is.”
“--and then, when you grow up, then it’s all about goals, whether you’ve missed or met them. But...by the time you get here, where I am, you understand time to be...this relentless...this accumulation of-of apologies you were not able to make.” All through the speech, Xavier’s voice had gone up and down, as if someone were fiddling with the volume button. He did not look at Logan, but into some further, nothing space. Something in his neck was trembling.
Logan felt his mouth go dry. “Jesus, Charles. Way to take it to a morbid fucking place.”
“Language,” the old man said, suddenly and quite normal. He began resetting pieces on the board.
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Jubilee’s nose dripped steadily onto the back of Bobby’s head, like rain from a leaking roof. It stained his curls red. She pushed her knee into the boy’s back, bending his arm until it lay parallel with the bumps of his spine. He bucked and grunted, nostrils twitching fast against the sweat and fibrous threads on the mat. They were both hot, despite the patches of ice--both light frost and the kind that made cars slide off of bridges--surrounding them. In the hall, they’d said,this time, no powers. They’d shaken hands on it. She continued to hold up her end--until Bobby coughed, “Yie-ield.”
After that, lightning-quick, Jubilee gave his backside an electric slap and jumped to her feet. She took a few steps backward, half-crouched, watchful, palms-up.
“Good.”
Until Logan spoke, Jubilee’s face had been stiff with concentration. But his approval broke that mask, and delight bubbled from the cracks. She wiped her nose on her arm, a slug trail of red, and--God help him, there was no other word for it--danced over to the Wolverine. She raised her hand as if she wanted him like to shake it, but instead made a fist. “I don’t know what you want me to do with that,” he lied. “Go and tell the next pair, they’re up in twenty.”
“Right-o, Wolv-o. No? That’s still not okay? Okay. I’m going.”
He didn’t watch her skip out, but he heard her bouncing footsteps, a staccato patter on his eardrums. He crossed his arms and studied Bobby’s slower ascendance, the boy pushing himself to his elbows and then his knees. He’d have a talk with him about playing by the rules, and another one about how he could have shaken Jubilee’s grip. And then he’d have him mop up that ice shit so that the next team would get a clean fighting space.
It had been Scott’s practice to supervise these matches with all the students present. Logan put a stop to that. Helping the losers save face didn’t matter to him, but privacy cut down on theatrics. Xavier’s students were addicted to it; he wasn’t sure if that was something inherent in young mutants or young people in general, being new to and short of patience with both. The dramatics were difficult to squash--he didn’t entirely want to. For instance, he could hear Jubilee out in the hall now, describing how she had “smashed Iceman like the patriarchy.” And that was funny as hell.
“Sorry,” said Bobby, preemptively. He sounded like a toddler who’d been found scribbling on the walls. He was still rubbing the seat of his shorts; they were smoking from the sparks Jubilee had let off. Logan opened his mouth and rather than the reprimand, a sound strange and harsh, like a bark scrubbed with sandpaper, fell out. He snapped his teeth together. Bobby’s head had popped up from its contrite pose, but Logan found he couldn’t look at the boy without that sound coming back, batting against the walls of his teeth. It tickled his cheeks and the corners of his eyes.
“Shit, kid. Go ahead, get out of here.”
“That’s it?”
He glowered. It was difficult. Something was wrong with Logan; he had to focus on holding his lips tight--otherwise, they shook, and that sound burst out again. But he looked at Bobby in such a way as to promise unspeakable fury at a later date. The boy scurried. It had worked, Logan thought.
But as the door to the training room closed, he heard his voice, not afraid but incredulous--
“The Wolverine is laughing.”
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Logan worried about what they’d try to get away with, if the secret got out if they noticed if they discussed it. If they knew...the students knew that the Wolverine would do violent and incredible things for them because violent and incredible things came to him naturally. But there were other things at risk when people were aware that you cared about them. They expected things, then. Permanence. Safety. Promises he couldn’t deliver.
And then there were the other concerns. What if they thought he was going soft? What if he was going soft?
He worried.
But, still picturing Bobby in the morning’s session, he knew he wasn’t worrying enough. He kept finding a chuckle waiting around every bend of his thoughts. He hadn’t felt this close to contentment since--
here, Logan’s thoughts skipped, like a needle over scratched vinyl.
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The bed was covered in her clothing. Dresses with matching accessories set on or beside them. Earrings--tasteful diamond, tasteful ruby, tasteful silver. Purses--tasteful black clutch, tasteful red clutch, tasteful white clutch. On the floor, a row of shoes--tasteful black, tasteful red, tasteful silver with straps. Not heels, because who knew how quickly they’d need to move tonight. He looked at them, noted that Jean was, as ever, prepared for something to go wrong.
She was leaving the bathroom now, steam spilling like fog across sunrise pavement. She had a towel wrapped around her hair, another around her body, long legs pink with heat. If he touched one of them, his hand would leave a print. He knew because he’d taken several showers with Jean. She liked them to burn. “Hey,” she said, with the kind of sweetness that made him go crazy for her--once.
“Are these for me?” He flicked a skirt, not hard enough to wrinkle it. He wouldn’t dare.
“Ha. Not one of those necklines would suit you.” She walked over to the wardrobe and drew out a plastic garment bag. “But I had this pressed.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. I wanted to.” She kissed his cheek as he took the bag from her.
He put his nose down into her shoulder, breathing hot skin and expensive conditioner, and felt, not aroused, but a strange absence of reaction, as soft as sadness.
He leaned back. “You smell nice.”
“You don’t. Are you going to clean up before the mission?”
She wrinkled her nose as if she was teasing. She wasn’t.
“Yup.”
“I could help you. I don’t mind hopping back in.”
He kissed her. The press of his lips over and between hers, the light touch of her tongue. Nothing. He backed away. “That’s alright. I’m going to be quick.”
Later, he zipped up her dress (the red), and she knotted his tie. They were capable of doing both themselves but went through the motions of helping each other. The tie was red too. She’d chosen it to match her dress, unrolling it from a dresser drawer. He watched her make the loops, noting that she’d done it before, noting that she’d tied this tie before, noting a scent deep in the threads, a signature that wasn’t his.
“Did you get this for me?”
She straightened the ends, though they were already even. “Mm-hmm. I picked it up when I got the suit from the cleaner’s.” Up this close, the lie burned his nose.
“Jean.” He tried to think of a gentle way to say it. Couldn’t. “I don’t want Scott’s things.”
That brought her gaze up to his, defiant. “Well, nobody else does.” Her expression brought to mind smoking dynamite. But the little shudder and the promise of salt water behind her eyes quickly put it out. “I just thought it would look nice. You don’t have to wear it. I’m sorry.”
Logan wore the tie. It was tight.
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Logan scanned the room, watching for liars. There were plenty of open seats, but he leaned against the left wall. Most faces stayed pointed at the speaker, except when a baby started crying in the second row. Then, a collective wave of tolerant smiles and rolled eyes washed through the crowd, like a breeze through stalks of corn. Behind the podium, the woman stammered, not yet comfortable with her speechmaking to break script and joke about the disturbance. He wondered who would bring their child to this. Maybe the baby was part of a distraction, the deliberate kind. He took slow breaths, seeking sweat, listening for a heart beating harder than it should. So far, there was little that didn’t come from the speaker. The second most distressed person in the room was the baby, diaper thickening by second. The third, from the man holding jiggling the child on his lap, but Logan thought that was just embarrassment.
Nothing else to alarm, so far. He was bored. The FOH had been targeting campaigns that diverged from their agenda. And a month ago, the woman stuttering into the microphone had gone on the record saying that she would oppose a bill requiring separate bathroom facilities for mutants. Logan doubted that she’d serve a day in Congress with that kind of decency, but the team had decided to try keeping her alive through the election.
After the candidate’s speech, and the Q&A session (nothing aggressive asked, nothing inflammatory answered), guests were encouraged to visit the open bar and the donation table, in that order. The aspiring representative moved through the crowd, shaking hands. She shook Logan’s, smiling with what seemed like a predetermined degree of teeth. She shook Hank’s, with only a little less. Guests moseyed around the hall, slandering the opposition and helping themselves to the fruit platter. He clocked Hank, hovering around the candidate’s family as unobtrusively as someone blue could manage, and Jean, laughing in a huddle of donors. This must have been the first event she’d attended like this, without Scott at her side. She was bearing it well.
Logan left them, trailing a group that wandered out of the lecture room, down a gallery of student artwork. Not for the first time, he reflected what a bad idea it was to hold an event like this at a college. Too many buildings, too many entrances, too many children within a blast radius. It would be easier to cover if Ororo was still with them. If Scott was still with them.
Two men who’d been ostentatiously examining the exhibits ahead of him ducked suddenly into a classroom. Logan thought, finally, and picked up speed. But listening at the door betrayed sounds of public trust rather than public threat. They’re having a better night than I will. He did a full loop of the gallery, watching people admire or pretend to admire the sculptures and paintings. By the time he passed the classroom, the couple was slipping back out--breathless and disheveled and proud of themselves. One of the men registered Logan’s stare, winked.
Far from what Hank might joke, Logan did have an appreciation for art. That didn’t mean he understood what a lot of this bullshit was. A splash of yellow on an otherwise blank canvas looked like piss in the snow to him, not--as he read on the placard--Raven’s Love. And he had no idea what the vase full of green teeth had to do with “Fear of my Father’s Failure.” But the rest weren’t too bad. He rather liked that one, of the two soldiers by the campfire. And the child, in the woods. And--
He didn’t know how long he stood, without moving, without blinking, before Jean joined him. “There you are. I thought I’d lost you.”
“Something happened?”
“No, nothing. Everything seems normal here. We think we should shadow her to the airport, though. Make sure she boards okay.”
“Right.” Speaking took effort, and he seemed to draw the words as one might scrape water from parched well.
“I thought I’d find you enjoying the bar, not the exhibits. What’s next, poetry nights?” He didn’t reply. It would have been too hard. Jean leaned against his arm, tipsy and affectionate with it. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone if you start carrying around a copy of Byron. Charles might, though.”
In the space where his snarky answer should come, the silence snagged her attention. She glanced up at his face and then turned. And she went very still, as together they looked at the painting, and the little placard that read, “View from Liberty Torch--mixed medium, acrylic, glass, metal.”
Gradually, like a needle sliding through his brain, stitching together his thoughts and reality, Logan became aware of two things in the woman beside him: the rising patter of her heart, and a smell of fear.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Hey, guys! I'm so happy to be posting this today--I was up until three, typing it up. You're wonderful for being a part of this site, wonderful for reading this story, and wonderful for giving feedback to crazy insecure authors like me. And away we go!
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Chapter End Notes:
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If you made it this far, thank you again and endlessly for your patience and support with this story. I hope you'll drop a line in the comments!
If you made it this far, thank you again and endlessly for your patience and support with this story. I hope you'll drop a line in the comments!