Chapter Two: Rapport
Everything’s gonna be alright
Just lay down by my side
Let me love you through this life
-Jason Aldean
Jean Grey-Summers watched with a heavy heart as two raven-topped girls walked across the Great Lawn. Though there were plenty of boys and girls their own age splashing in the lake and playing basketball, the girls did not look up. Their trek across the grounds was made arm in arm, huddled together in sadness. Jean frowned, wondering what the poor girls were thinking as their father was, in essence, yanked out of their lives.
Ignoring her husband as he set about to make dinner for the skeleton crew that ran the school during the ‘off’ season, Jean moved to the fridge and removed a pint of ice cream. Reaching around her handsome husband, she kissed his cheek, then reached into the drawer beside him to remove three spoons.
She settled at the cheerful breakfast table, waiting as the Howlett twins came in from the lawn. Both girls made a beeline for their ‘Aunt’, who opened her arms eagerly to hold the girls in her arms as she had since they were born.
Without a word, Jean kissed the girls’ dark heads, rubbing their backs as they cuddled into her embrace. Scott’s ruby-red gaze met hers over the girls, the line of his mouth pulled tight in sorrow. They knew next to nothing about Logan’s former life, before he stepped back in time.
Scott’s worry about losing his best friend didn’t need her telepathy to be palpable.
“Come on, girls.” Jean said soothingly. “I got some Bovinity Divinity for you.”
Anna-Marie’s face was burrowed in Jean’s shirt, muffling her voice.
“Mama says no ice cream before dinner.”
Jean rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh? Mama’s not here. Just you and me and Uncle Scott. And he’s a softy, he won’t tell.”
Laura sent her uncle a mischievous look, before she and her sister slid into chairs opposite Jean. They were going to be attached at the hip for a while, as they always were when their parents fought or were on a mission or something sad had happened. It was common knowledge that the Howlett twins were as close to being one person as humanly possible.
After slipping the top from the ice cream, Jean settled into the chair. Scott made himself scarce after dropping kisses on the girls’ cheeks. Since their son had gone off to NYU last year, it was the girls that got most of Scott’s attention. He doted on the girls from the day they were born and Nathan Summers was no better. He called every three days to talk to his psuedo-sisters.
“Daddy’s talking with Mama.” Laura offered after a moment of silent contemplation and chocolate overload. “He looks the same.”
“But he isn’t.” Anna-Marie whispered miserably. “He didn’t know us. I could see it.”
Heartbroken by the admission, Jean reached out to touch little Anna-Marie’s hand. She remembered the day the girls were born. Ororo had a blissfully uncomplicated pregnancy, even with the heightened risk of carrying twins. Logan held her hand when the worst of the pains hit, commenting a hundred times that she should have gone to a hospital instead of delivering the twins at home, with only Jean’s medical training to aid her.
Luckily, the twins were born without issues and Ororo basked in the glow of having done well. Jean recalled handing the once-feral mutant known as Wolverine two tiny baby girls, watching as he reverently clutched them to his chest. He had just stood there, Jean remembered, for several minutes, staring down at his daughters.
No one had spoken. When he finally looked up, he had eyes only for his wife. Ororo smiled bashfully under the pure, unabashed adoration shining from her husband’s dark eyes.
“Nothin’s ever been this perfect,” he had said, handing each twin to their mother as though the minute separation was painful. “They’re so beautiful, ‘Ro.”
Blinking back tears at the memory, Jean focused on the nearly-thirteen year old girls sharing her favorite ice cream at the kitchen table.
“He’s still your father, even if he can’t remember it.” The telekinetic said softly. “He still loves you. Once he’s gotten used to the idea of having girls all his own, he’ll come around.”
“What if he doesn’t?” said Laura moodily, her melting ice cream dripping from the spoon. “What if he decides he wants to leave? Or what if he was in love with someone else, had babies with someone else? Then what? Mama can’t live without Daddy.”
That was true. There was no way ‘Roro could live without Logan. For 13 years, they functioned as a unit, even on X-Men missions. It was never a doubt that Storm and Wolverine were made for one another. They were good people, exceptional teachers, both carrying that hint of the wild they explored in one another.
Just as there was no Jean without Scott, there could be no Ororo without Logan.
“They’re soul-mates,” Anna-Marie shot back to her sister angrily. The quieter twin didn’t get riled up often, but when she did, it was with flair. “They’re forever. They’ve both said it, Daddy more than Mama. There’s no way Daddy will leave Mama.”
Shushing the angry girls quickly, Jean reached out to take one dark hand with each of hers. These were her goddaughters, her nieces, a part of her family that was chosen for love, not blood. It hurt her to see them hurting.
Thinking of Ororo, Jean sent out a soft, silent thought.
’Roro?
Yes, Jean?
I have the girls.
Are they...how are they coping?
Like teenagers. Are you alright?
No. I’m talking with Lo- Wolverine. I’ll be up shortly to collect the girls.
Alright. I love you.
“Is Mom ok?” Laura asked when Jean tuned back in, gently pulling her thought from Ororo’s.
Telepathic thought was as natural to the Howlett girls as the spoken word. They knew when one of the three resident telepaths was talking to someone. Jean and Ororo in particular, had an acute bond.
“Yes. She’s speaking with your father and she’ll be up here shortly.” Jean eyed the ice cream, a slow, sly smirk on her lips. “So, we had better finish this up quickly, loves.”
Anna-Marie managed a smile as she and Laura went back to the chocolate.
***
In Boathouse #1, Logan stood across the room from the woman he had apparently been married to the better part of 13 years. She was a good looking thing, but that wasn’t a shocker. Since the day he had met Storm all those years ago, it was obvious to anyone with a pulse that Ororo was attractive.
Much like her alternative universe self, she wore her age well. There might have been a few lines about her eyes, from years of laughter instead of war. Her eyes were bright, warm, and tinged with new sorrow, not worn down by the horror of watching friends die.
She wore a pair of pressed khaki slacks and a soft silk blouse in stark white. It matched her hair, which was cute short and had the black streaks she liked so much.
On her left hand was a gold band, simple, tasteful, engraved with a series of symbols, slightly worn by time. Logan looked down at his own hand, having noticed the ring about 30 seconds before she walked into the Professor’s office.
Removing the ring, Logan noticed his healing factor hadn’t touched the groove in his flesh that came from wearing his wedding band for so long. Inscribed on the inside of the band were the words: “For Logan, my love.”
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Logan slid the band back on his hand. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember this life. He had lived it, breathed it, made decisions. His loss of memory changed none of that. He hoped. He didn’t want to inadvertently destroy what looked like a happy family.
A family. His family.
“I’m sorry.”
Logan spoke without really thinking about it. The woman in front of him had already stood, adjusting the cushions of the well-loved sofa she’d been sitting on.
“For what?” Storm turned to him, confusion crossing her face. Logan found he could read her emotions by the flickering of facial muscles. Right now, she wore an expression of confusion, hurt, and minor irritation.
How do I know that?
“Logan,” Ororo’s voice was sharp. “I’ve been preparing for this for almost 15 years. Charles did not want me to wake up one morning to find my husband doesn’t know me.”
“I know you, darlin’.” Logan said softly, unable to help it.
Storm gifted him with a smile he had never seen directed at him, one of soft understanding and overwhelming love.
“So, you knew me? I’m not some strange woman running around claiming to be your wife?”
Startled by the warm humor in her tone, Logan smirked. “Well, you’ll always be strange.”
“Touché,” the beautiful woman finished fussing with the pillows, turning to Logan with her hands in the back pocket of her pants. “Can you tell me how well we knew one another? Were we enemies? Friends? Lovers?”
Logan did not have to search his memory for a recent one of Storm. He could see her standing beside the Professor and Magneto, that look she gave him as he agreed to the craziest plan in history, knowing she might never see him again.
He saw her in his memory, flushed with desire, chest to chest, breathing his name as they lost themselves in the only escape they could find in war. Logan recalled her taste, her breathy sighs and wondered if the woman before him was at all the same…?
“Logan?”
Looking up, he found that the woman occupying his thoughts had moved closer. She rested one caramel-hued hand on his forearm, the touch at once very familiar and completely alien. This was going to be a long rest of his life.
“We were lovers,” Ororo said without hesitation, her dark eyes searching his face. Logan found that when he met her gaze, it was almost impossible to pull away.
“Yeah.” Logan admitted with a nervous clearing of his throat. “Wasn’t roses and moonlight, ‘Ro. It was war, it was sex, it was something to get us through the night.”
To his surprise, instead of being sad or insulted, Storm tossed him a particularly naughty look.
“Well, you didn’t ask me to wear your high school pin in this lifetime either, Wolverine.” Her snowy brows wriggled saucily, a blatant invitation that went directly to his nether regions. No matter what was wrong with his head, his body definitely knew this woman in more ways than one.
When she did step back, a quick sniff brought Logan the scent of saline and ozone. The familiarity of the scent could have been a memory from either life time. The Logan that married this woman had seen her cry, he had to. Logan himself had seen it too many times to count.
He reached for her, the act of grasping her shoulder bringing him a feeling of being home. He hadn’t wanted to upset her, but he had to know.
“What kind of man am I?” Logan asked gruffly. “You married me.”
“I would again.” Storm turned toward him.
“We have kids.”
“They may not make it, they keep acting like you.”
Logan arched a brow of his own. “You always a smartass in this ‘verse?”
Ororo bit her bottom lip saucily. “Why, yes. I am. I had a good teacher.”
There were still tears swimming in her eyes. She missed him, Logan realized. She could see her husband in front of her, but he didn’t know the stories. He didn’t know how they started their affair, or which of the twins broke a bone first, or the color of her wedding dress. All of that was gone or locked in his mind, perhaps forever.
“You love me.” Logan said, almost in awe. “Don’t you?”
“Yes.” Her answer was simple, her gaze honest. Logan gave in to the pull, reaching up to cup her cheek.
He smiled, feeling the characteristic hum of her mutation under her skin. In the relationship he could remember, that hum had lulled him to sleep more than once.
Ororo’s skin kept the nightmares away.
She leaned into his touch, reaching up to cover his hand with hers.
“Will you help me?”
Ororo closed her eyes, turning her head so she could kiss his palm before they opened once more. The fierce determination in her eyes was humbling, thrilling.
“I’ve never let you down, Logan. I won’t start now.”
Without another word, he reached for the woman that was his wife, pulling her into his chest for a quick, desperate embrace.
He would learn about the man he had been, maybe he could be that again.
Had life really given him a second chance?
***
Scott Summers tucked blankets around the girls that were his goddaughters, before he stepped out onto the porch of Boathouse #2. Low murmurs of familiar voices greeted him, an easy smile covering his lips when Peter handed him a beer.
It was a tradition, once school let out. The core X-Men, the regular teachers, gathered on one of the porches of a boathouse, had a few beers and talked.
Something Charles had instilled in them all was a need for family, the need for one another, to remember what they were fighting for. Since Scott and Jean became his first students so very long ago, they were a family.
He glanced around, smiling a little as he took up a post against the railing of the porch. Kitty Pryde was talking with Jean, who sat in the wide swing with Marie. Kitty glanced at the silent, solid block of mutant that was her fiancé, that beautiful smile lighting that youthful face.
They were the first of what Scott liked to call the Second Generation X-Men. Backed up by Marie and Bobby Drake, it was something to be proud of. Xavier’s Institute for the Gifted had a solid reputation among the mutant community for tending the wayward, training for peace.
Little else could have brought him more pride.
“So, Wolvie finally caught up, huh?” Kitty asked, raising her beer to her lips. “Did he explain how he did it?”
“No.” Scott shook his head. He still hadn’t seen the man that spent twenty years as his best friend. What did he remember of Scott? Were they friends? Was he even alive?
“I talked with Storm earlier,” came the Southern drawl from Rogue. “She said they had a nice talk, but it’s harder than she thought.”
“Of course it is,” Jean chimed in softly. “She’s looking at her husband who has a completely different set of memories. I don’t know how the weather’s held up.”
A smattering of the gathered mutants glanced at the sky. It was warm for this time of year, and the cloudless heavens assured that their resident weather goddess was holding on to her wits.
For now. Scott took a silent pull from his drink, wondering how the rest of them were going to proceed.
They lapsed into a sort of comfortable quiet, though Scott saw several sets of eyes dart toward the little white boathouse nearby. They all wondered what was happening over there, how the Howletts were handling this new struggle.
“Does anyone know who’s taking Logan’s history class tomorrow?” Bobby asked, his arm thrown carelessly around his lover’s shoulders.
“I am,” chimed in Piotr Rasputin, earning him another of Kitty’s heart-stopping smiles. “He was suspicious several weeks ago when I asked for copies of his summer school lesson plans.”
“He was even more suspicious when I asked for them over Christmas.” Marie chuckled. “At least that part of hiding is over.”
“Has Charles told you how much we’re allowed to tell him?” Jean questioned Scott, reaching out to squeeze his hand.
“Everything.” Scott shrugged one shoulder, regarding his friends through the ruby-haze of his quartz glasses. “We aren’t changing the future here. What Wolverine did is already done. There shouldn’t be any problem with giving him the memory of his life.”
“Is there anything our telepaths can do?” Kitty questioned as she continued to swing with Jean. “Maybe we can each give him a few memories of him? It’d be from our side of things, but he’d be able to see it.”
Jean chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. Scott knew she had spoken with the Professor about such a thing. “We can do a bit, we think. We don’t want to confuse his head further with someone else’s thoughts and feelings.”
Marie sat up with interest. “Why not just Storm? Her memories are the ones that really matter.”
Noticing that his wife was glancing at him, Scott offered her a small, soft smile. He didn’t know the right answers, since this had never happened before. More than anything, Scott wanted his old friend to be in love with his wife, hold his daughters, be the man he was grateful to call his friend.
“I think that’s a decision Logan and Ororo need to make.” Scott said, finally. He tossed the empty beer bottle to Colossus, accepted another from Kitty.
“How are the twins?” Bobby asked as Marie shifted to sit in his lap.
“Sad,” Jean answered honestly. “I think they expected him to look different.”
“I did, too, really.” Scott threw the comment into the wind, shrugging one shoulder. “He’s the same, just…different.”
Jean reached across the meager space between them. Scott remembered last year, when the Professor told the X-Men about meeting Wolverine in 1973. It made sense, now, the quick trust the Professor set in the assassin sent to kill him. Scott hadn’t trusted Logan for years.
When they learned that Wolverine had changed time, Scott was humbled. They had almost no details as to why the history had to be changed, but whatever it was couldn’t have been good. Scott wondered if Logan would tell him about that now-defunct timeline. What could it hurt?
“We’re all gonna ask him, aren’t we?” Kitty chuckled from her seat beside Jean. “I can literally see everyone wondering when they can corner him.”
Bobby let out one of his trademark easy laughs, relaxing the group enough that they all chuckled.
“It’s hard to resist,” Jean said thoughtfully. “A look through to the other side, a real sense of what might have been.”
Kitty hopped from the swing, bouncing up to the hulking mutant that was her intended husband. Scott rolled his eyes at Jean, who slightly psi-slapped him in retaliation.
“Well, I don’t wanna know.” Kitty said as she wriggled into Peter’s embrace. “I have what I want and who I need. I don’t need to know if I died or turned into Magneto’s sex slave.”
Bobby spit beer across the porch, which was relatively good distance since propelled from his nose.
Marie thumped her boyfriend on the back with one gloved hand, shaking her head at Kitty’s antics.
“You’re damaged.” Rogue observed clinically.
“I know.” Shadowcat said impishly. “But right now, I’m going to have my hunky Russian take me home so we can break some furniture.”
“Yeah,” Scott drawled with a roll of his eyes. “That was an overshare, kid.”
Before she could retaliate, Peter covered her mouth with one hand, lifting her teeny form over his shoulder. With as much dignity as a blushing, over six-foot-tall mutant could manage, he bid the others goodnight before carrying his fiancée back to boathouse #3.
“Ah,” Jean giggled. “I love that girl.”
“Never a dull moment,” Scott chimed in.
***
Lying on the sofa in the boathouse, Logan was awake long past midnight. Open windows had brought him the murmuring of voices, though he couldn’t pick up individual words. He recognized the voices. Pete. Bobby. Rogue. Kitten. Scott. Jean.
He hadn’t had the balls to ask Ororo about Jean. Had he come into his mansion as Charles showed him, then fallen for his first love all over again? Had his attraction to Storm come after that? How in the hell had he convinced a woman to marry him?
Was he worthy of that kind of love, that determined faith that radiated from that beautiful woman?
And kids? Seriously? What in the name of hell convinced that arguably intelligent woman to breed with him? It hadn’t been an accident. No. Something in his gut told him they walked into those two hellions with eyes wide open.
The girls worshipped him; that much was obvious. They hadn’t come back to the boathouse, which Ororo said didn’t surprise her. When the twins were upset, they bailed out. They were at Scott and Jean’s place, staying in their son’s room, probably trying to figure out how to jog his memory.
As Logan was lost in thought, he found himself twisting the ring on his left hand. It was a habit, Logan thought. He worked the ring off of his finger with a thumb, tapping it against his fingertip in thought. It seemed to be a well-worn tick, something he did when consumed by thoughts and lost in his own mind.
Wasn’t it weird? He felt familiar things, as though he knew what he should be doing; as though he had done them before.
It was that feeling that jarred him from his thoughts when he smelled saline on the air again.
From his position on the couch, Logan looked up at the ceiling. The boathouse was a loft style, probably due to his wife’s claustrophobia. The kitchen, living and dining rooms were all located downstairs. Down a little hall, was the girls’ room.
Upstairs, where he had not the heart to tread, was the room Logan shared with Ororo.
A glance outside told him the weather hadn’t shifted, but he knew.
Without any idea why he made the decision, Logan untucked his arm from behind his head and kicked the blanket off. Silent feet met the hardwood, bringing him to the airy staircase that would lead to the spacious bedroom upstairs.
As he reached the landing, he noticed with a pang that this was the room of a couple. A soft white bathrobe lay over the post of the large bed. Dirty boots sat beside a pair of feminine heels, probably kicked off after a long day. The bathroom door was open, a drying towel tossed over the edge.
Pictures dotted the dresser, depicting a happy couple, goofy friends, and the growth of two raven-haired girls.
On the bed, however, lay the one thing Logan could not ignore.
He could see the outline of her slender body, curled up on the left side of the bed by habit. The right side, his side was empty. Ororo wasn’t crying. She made no sound. Anyone who didn’t know her would assume she was fine, she was sleeping.
For some reason, Logan knew better.
Out of pure instinct, he crossed the room soundlessly. He stared down at the woman’s back, noting the almost imperceptible tremble in the muscles under soft yellow sheets and silk nightclothes. Swiping his palms on the sweats she’d brought him earlier, Logan contemplated what to do.
He didn’t know how he knew it, but when Ororo cried, her husband held her. Reaching out, he pulled the back the coverings and slid into the bed behind Storm. Following the same instinct, Logan scooted closer, draping one arm over Ororo’s waist.
There was no surprise when she reached back, tucking his arm into hers with the ease of someone who had done it a million times. Logan rested his head on the pillow, breathing in the scent of Ororo’s hair.
It was then the tears started. Her body trembled with it, as gentle rain peppered the windows of the skylight above them. Not the torrential rain that poured after the death of her mentor. It wasn’t devastation, just a sort of slow, lingering sadness.
“I’m here.” Logan whispered, curling his arm to bring her closer. “’Ro, I’m here. I swear.”
She did not respond, except to wriggle closer, burying her face in the pillow.
“Shh.” Logan soothed. “Sleep, ‘Ro. Just sleep.”
