** Note: I know the Wolverine in the comics is a small, wiry animal. My Logan is a big hulking slab of man meat… as he should be. Hope you like it.**
And war was what it turned out to be, after all. Charles often thought of that sunny afternoon when he'd spent a little too long in his wheelchair, back aching, and wondered what life could have been like if he'd never gotten involved in Moira's little project. Perhaps things would be better without his best friend and erstwhile lover torn from him, hiding in the underground with an army of revolutionaries and an elevated thirst for bloodshed. Perhaps Charles would have been happier if Erik Lensherr - no, Magneto - had perished long ago, at the bottom of the sea, and left him to continue his life as a lowly geneticist picking up women in bars and running three miles a day on hale, whole legs.
But then Shaw might have achieved his final solution. And there certainly wouldn't be this little school, growing each day as more and more misunderstood children showed up at the door with their belongings. Charles may have lost his mobility, his naiveté and a portion of his hair, but he hadn't lost his need to nurture. He was born to be Professor X. It was a hard life, but a good one.
He let his vast mind out to stretch at last, confident that the night was roomy enough. He touched a dozen sleeping minds, his contact gentle and warm. The manor was at peace and no harm lurked on the grounds... except... mm. Logan. Even with his eyes still closed Charles frowned.
The man was a menace. He cursed constantly and he nicked the good scotch out of the study. He filled the icebox with beer and left empty bottles all over the kitchen for the children to find in the morning. He was surly and rude and he never stayed around more than a few days before absconding into the night like a feral cat with a backpack full of sandwiches. Still, Charles had to admit, the man's heart was mostly in the right place. And despite being an absolute shite role model, Logan would protect the kids with his life, no hesitations.
He still remembered walking up to Logan's back in that god-awful pub. "Go fuck yourselves," had been Logan's immediate response. Open and shut, no conversation required. Even Erik - Magneto - laughed about it later. Magneto had admired the man. "We should go back for him," he'd said. "That one's got chutzpah." Charles suspected his old partner had looked for Logan when the mutant uprising began, but the truth was the big man didn't give a damn about revolutions, politics, or society. He didn't want a 'cause.' All he wanted was a warm place to sleep and solitude. He would barely accept the tiniest gestures of love or affection, and camaraderie was right out.
The fourth or fifth time the muscle-bound mutant had shown up, Charles had steered him to the study. "Do you play chess?" he offered as an opening gambit.
"Nope," the man shot back, chewing an unlit cigar obnoxiously.
Charles had raised a brow. "Fair enough," he replied in kind. "Do you drink?"
"Yep." Charles had poured him two fingers of whisky, then done the same for himself.
"How old are you, Logan?" he'd asked, after they'd both settled into a faintly pleasant haze.
"Don't know." A wary pause. "Don't age." Charles was encouraged by this slight capitulation. He poured the man another drink. Behavioral conditioning and all that.
"Where do you live?" he'd asked casually. "Because you surely don't live here."
Another suspicious look. "Nowhere. I move around." In a sudden defensive display, Logan shot a length of sharp metal out of his hand and used it to pick his teeth. He examined whatever he'd picked out nonchalantly, projecting not-so-subtle menace.
"Don't get huffy," Charles said mildly. "You know you're always welcome." In a show of his own, he leaned back in his chair, the picture of fearless ease. "In fact, if you'd give us some notice, I'd have a room ready for you. Perhaps a pack of... what is that swill you drink? Natty Light?"
"Beer's beer," the man said, shrugging. He tipped the tumbler back into his mouth, downing expensive whisky like it was water. "Listen, Doc, I ain't exactly a man with a plan. I go where I go when I go, you catch me? If you don't want me crashing here that's fine by me. I got other places I could be."
"That's not what I meant and you know it," Charles said with a sigh. "Honestly, I'd rather you stay. But I won't make you. And I won't ask your reasons, if it agitates you so much."
"You won't make me," said Logan bluntly, and the fierce intelligence he tried so hard to mask was suddenly there and palpable in the room. "You won't, but you could."
"I'm not a threat to you," Charles said gently. "As far as I'm concerned, you're one of mine." He paused, rubbing his forehead where a whisky headache was building. "You have a home here if you want it. That's all."
The other man laughed bitterly. "I've never had a home and I never will. In a hundred years this will all be rubble with the smoke long cleared, and I'll be the same fucking animal I've always been. No offense, Professor." He stood, letting his long formidable body straighten in the night air, and thunked his empty tumbler down on the desk. "Thanks," he said abruptly, striding out of the room and leaving the door swinging.
The exchange had lingered with Charles. That graceless 'thanks' had ostensibly been for the drink, but now Charles wondered if it hadn't meant more. Without violating the snarling sanctity of Logan's mind the man was extremely difficult to read or predict, but after that conversation, he'd stayed away for months, then just as suddenly started showing up again, this time more frequently than before. He was still a grumpy son of a bitch but he kept a change of clothes in the downstairs coat closet now, and that was progress.
Charles pulled his mind away from this unpleasant study at the faint chime of a doorbell. Who could be ringing so late? Whoever it was, their brain was fuzzy, veiled. He made his way to the study door, frowning worriedly.
He didn't beat his hostile ward to the door. Wolverine was in full force against intruders, his sharp teeth bared in a wolfish smile. "What's the password?" he growled as he pulled the door open.
A face from Charles' past peered shyly around Logan's bulk. The visitor gave an uncertain little wave, and Charles felt his breath catch. He wheeled forward, placing a restraining hand on the other man's massive arm.
"Hello, Alice," he said.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
She looked nearly the same as she had all those years ago, her hair an unruly black mop over that wide ingénue gaze. Next to Logan she looked like a child. "You know this person?" Logan demanded, and Charles couldn't help smiling a little at his protectiveness. "An old friend," he assured him. She held out an amiable hand, and Logan frowned. "A quiet friend," he huffed.
"She can't speak," Charles corrected. Logan ignored her outstretched hand and she let it drop with a rueful glance at the telepath. The big man fixed her with that feral glare, and she let him look his fill, passive and relaxed.
"A chick that can't talk," he remarked after a moment. "I think I like that." She bared her teeth at him, and Charles saw a brief flash of humor cross the man's face. "Fuck, I need another drink. Have fun." He trundled off toward the kitchen.
"It's good to see you, Miss Cantor," Charles said, leading her to the study. She followed his chair placidly, her silence after years of rowdy teenagers a little unsettling. Even her little feet were quiet. Charles held the door for her chivalrously and she gave him a polite nod before entering the room. He waved to a leather chair and she sat gracefully, crossing her ankles. "So," he began. "Tell me how you've been."
I can't complain, she thought easily, and he was struck again by how neatly she spoke to his mind, as if they'd been conversing this way for years. I'm impressed with what you've accomplished here, she continued.
"It's been a struggle," Charles conceded. "But ultimately worth it, I think. The children are making excellent progress." He paused to collect his thoughts. "I must confess I'm surprised to see you here, although you are more than welcome. After our initial meeting I was under the impression that the mutant cause was not of interest to you."
On the contrary, she said. I was disappointed I couldn't join you that day in the bar. But I sensed that your companion, and to a lesser extent yourself, were gearing up for a fight, and I'm not suited for them. My... her thoughts trailed. My particular disposition makes any sort of conflict... unpleasant.
"I see," said Charles. "Even when the cause is just?" He couldn't help the thread of judgment that laced his tone.
Her mental voice was wry. Even so. Yet I must point out that your friend was not much interested in just causes. His soul was bent on vengeance.
His eyes prickled. "Yes, I'm afraid you're right about that," he replied heavily. "I wish you could have told me. It might have spared everyone a lot of heartache."
You wouldn't have believed me, she said. A judicious pause. You were very much in love.
"What?" he asked, startled. "Even then?" he blurted. Her eyes were compassionate. He let his breathing even out. "You have quite a gift," he acknowledged shakily.
Some days it doesn't feel like one, she replied, clearly affected by his feelings. If it helps, he loved you back. Even then.
Charles bowed his head. "It does," he murmured. He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his face, then handed it to her for her own. "So." He cleared his throat. "You've come all this way, I'm sure it's not merely to reminisce."
No, she agreed with a mental sigh. They're asking for blood samples at my workplace. To check for drugs, they say, but you and I know better. It's beginning. He shook his head angrily. "I suppose it was only a matter of time. Damn it." He desperately wished he could stand and pace, but settled for wheeling his chair to the window restlessly. "Thank you for warning us." He was absently grateful for her silence as he sorted through his thoughts. It took him several minutes, but she was patient. Her mind did not prod at him.
"You cannot go back," he affirmed, not unsympathetically.
It would be dangerous, she agreed.
"What is your occupation?"
I was a teacher, she told him. I taught elementary at a school for the deaf.
At last, a genuine smile broke over his face. "Brilliant," he said. "When can you start?"
