Chapter Ten:

Of Changes

It was just slipping from false dawn to true dawn when Logan found Harry on the roof. The mutant picked his way across the singles with a grace that seemed incongruous when considering his bulky frame, and sank down to sit beside the wizard, staring at the rising sun.

The silence held for several minutes before Logan finally sighed and growled, "You said it was a long story, why you weren't with Gumbo. What's up?"

At first, Harry didn't answer. He looked across the grounds, seeing the light slowly creep across the dew-wet grass and damp stone of the drive, edging up the sides of the buildings and illuminating the crowns of the trees. The words that he needed—the ones he should have said—lodged in his throat, as thick as treacle in December. He wanted to speak—wanted it more than anything—but he couldn't. Thoughts of Remy flooded his mind, first meeting and last glimpse and everything in between, and he buried his face in his hands as guilt swamped him like a breaking wave.

"I…left," he finally managed, though those two words were all but strangled by remorse, shame, and agony. "I had no choice, but…I don't even know how long ago it was! I don't even know if he's still—" He cut himself off, unable to ever think about what finished that sentence. "And I'm took cowardly to ask the Professor to look—what if he hates me now?"

Logan looked at him with strangely grave eyes, taking in the fine tremors that ran through the other man. With a soft sigh, he wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders and pulled him close, tucking him tightly against his side. "Look, Shorty," he said gruffly, "Gumbo ain't gonna hate you for somethin' you had no choice in. The Swamp Rat's too smart for that. You two were happy, right? He won't let you go just for that."

Harry rubbed a hand through his unbraided hair, tugging on the dark locks with something close to despair. "You can't know that," he protested, then froze, his eyes widening. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and took five deep breaths, and then exhaled on a long sigh. His trembling stopped, and when he looked up, some measure of calm had returned to his face.

"You're right," he said after a moment, and smiled. It was wan, and a bit shaky, but Logan returned it with a quirk of his own mouth. Harry chuckled softly and leaned against his shoulder, inhaling again. "Thank you, Logan," he whispered fiercely.

When he looked up, Wolverine was still watching him with the intensity he had lost along with his memories. His dark eyes burned with some banked emotion that Harry couldn't name. It stole his breath, though, and he found himself unable to move as Logan leaned in closer, lifting his hand towards Harry's cheek. For one wild moment, Harry didn't know whether to expect a touch or another blow, recognizing that bright gaze from their daily sparring sessions, when Logan came at him with claws and teeth bared, whirling through strikes and away from attacks that would have left a lesser man gasping on the ground.

Instead, what Harry received was a caress. Logan's rough, blunt fingers traced over his brows, ghosted along his cheekbones, and slid back into his hair. He drew the wizard forward, his touch soft enough that Harry could have resisted, if he had wanted to.

But Harry didn't want to.

It had been years, it felt—centuries, millennia, perhaps—since someone had touched him like this. And while Logan was not Remy, he nevertheless felt right, in a way only the Cajun had before.

So Harry didn't resist. He slid closer to meet Logan, and when their lips collided, it was just as fierce and harsh as their sparring—a battle of give and take, two fighters looking for weaknesses and finding them in the glide of hands and tangle of tongues, the nips of teeth and the breathless gasps that were surrendered. There was nothing soft or gentle about their kiss, but neither of them needed soft or gentle right then.

They drew apart, both breathing hard, but Harry was smiling softly again.

"We wanted this, you know," he said fondly, tracing his fingers over Logan's cheek. "If you hadn't left, we might have tried to see if you were open to the idea."

Wolverine's pupils dilated and he sucked in a short breath, and then released it in a rough laugh. "Shorty, if ya were trying to calm me down, you failed." He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Gumbo, too? Or just you?"

"Remy also," Harry affirmed, flashing him a mischievous grin. "But perhaps it was good that you left, then. I don't think any of us were ready, really. Now…" He smiled and tangled their fingers together, caressing the faint scars where his claws emerged. The Time Turners shifted just enough to give him a glimpse of auburn hair and hazel eyes, though the backdrop was one he wasn't familiar with. His smile widened, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the tingling warmth of the new sun on his face. "Well, we'll see."

Logan was still watching him, focused and intent, but he snorted softly, muttered something about damn cryptic bastards, and leaned in for another kiss.

Scott watched them kiss from his room, where the window faced the wing on which the pair was currently perched, each lost to any world but the one that contained the other.

"I hope they remember that they're in a public place, and that students can see them," he muttered, but there was no venom in the words, and he seemed more amused and resigned than anything.

Jean smiled and leaned against his side, cradling a cup of coffee in her hands—his cup, Scott noticed, raising an eyebrow at her. She just grinned unrepentantly and took a sip, her gaze straying to where Logan and Oracle sat. "I think they're cute. Come on, you have to agree, right?"

"I 'have' to do no such thing, and if they get any further then second base right now, I'll fry them," he retorted, stealing his coffee back and making a face. She had added milk and sugar, while he usually took it black. Nevertheless, he took a sip, settling onto the couch under the window and pulling Jean down with him. He cast one more glance at the rooftop and rolled his eyes. "Maybe the mysterious Oracle will actually be good for Logan. He'll keep him out of trouble, at the very least."

Jean's eyes grew distant for a moment, and she frowned thoughtfully. "Oracle really is mysterious. I wish I could read him, sometimes. He's quite polite about keeping us out, and he doesn't block everything, only his thoughts. His emotions are usually clear." She bit her lip, worry overtaking her features. "He feels tired, Scott, in a way no one that young should be. Maybe…" She trailed off, watching a pair of students zigzag across the lawn, laughing, as a third chased after them. Her smile, when it came again, was full of peace. "Maybe the school will be good for him."

"Mm. Crazy people do seem to flourish here," Scott agreed blandly, then grunted as Jean planted an elbow in his ribs. He raised his free hand in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'll stop! Can't you take a joke?"

A second elbow followed the first. "Want to rephrase that?"

"No." Scott wriggled out of the way of the next blow, standing and shooting her a sour look. "Your sense of humor is extremely lacking."

Jean got up to follow him, her smile charming. "Oh, really?"

Scott took a step back and she matched him. He lifted an eyebrow. She lifted one back.

"You should run, Scott," the telepath advised sweetly, and took a step forward.

Magneto eyed the weather witch as she fiddled with a handheld computer. Mystique sat beside her, watching what she was doing, but it was more out of curiosity than with the intent to do future harm. He wondered at that, at how his most loyal follower could have been turned so soft after only a day here. It could have been Charles and his ever-present aura of peace and acceptance, but Erik rather suspected that it was the young man from before, with his long hair and neat glasses and ancient eyes, his quiet amusement when speaking of the principles upon which Erik had built his whole life.

The boy, Oracle, was strong—quite possibly stronger than anyone else in the mansion. But it was an odd strength, one that seemed passive, and content to be that way. He had a fighter's lean grace, but nevertheless, there was no feeling of overt power around him. Had Erik not see his eyes, not been faced with every ounce of that eerie regard, not seen the distant, detached amusement that filled his face when Erik spoke of gods and insects, Erik would have thought the boy as weak as any normal human.

And there it was, that damned influence Oracle seemed to spread like a touch of plague—he was already thinking of them as normal humans, as compared to other humans, such as mutants. How could all his views have shifted with only a few simple sentences? Why did he have to recall every time a human had shown strength in front of him? Why did he have to remember Charles's quiet insistence—so like the young man's—that humans were not weak, even if they were not mutants?

The doors of the infirmary slid open, and the soft sound of wheels on the tile made him glance up, to see the subject of his thoughts moving closer.

"Charles," he greeted warily, noticing that Storm and Mystique were standing, slipping out of the room to give them privacy. "Come to gloat that I've thrown myself on your mercy once again, old friend?"

Charles simply smiled, and Erik was again reminded of Oracle's peaceful expression, though he couldn't tell if Oracle was affecting Charles or if it was the other way around. Xavier shook his head and stretched out a hand, as though he wanted Magneto to take it.

"Erik," he said, and there was something gentle and almost glad in his eyes. "Welcome back. It's been a long time since we could meet on equal ground."

Erik gave him an incredulous look. "Charles, I am well aware of your age, but surely even you cannot be going senile already. Last time we met, I was trapped in a plastic prison that you helped put me in, while you were—" He broke off, afraid to say too much, to give away anything that could be used against him.

The other man was still watching him, and there was neither recrimination nor guilt in his face as he clasped his hands in his lap again. "Erik," he said quietly, "what I did was nothing more or less than what I had to. You were not prepared to listen to reason, and I was not prepared to give it. I believe that the events on Liberty Island were a touch too close to the past for either one of us to feel comfortable with them."

Wanting to laugh, but unable to because of the stitches in his side, Erik settled for shaking his head. "Charles," he repeated, snorting softly, "old friend, you have always had a gift for understatement."

Charles smiled, humor glittering in his hazel-green eyes. "Well, dear friend," he countered, "you have always had a gift for dramatics." Seriousness flickered across his features, and he sat back in his wheelchair, surveying the other man intently. "Erik, surely you are aware by now that I do not blame you for what happened, and I never have."

Erik looked away, closing his eyes briefly.

"It was an accident," Charles insisted evenly. "I could hardly have wished that you did not shield yourself from Moira's shots, and I have adapted. It did not ruin my life." He reached out and touched the back of Erik's hand, the faintest brush of fingertips on skin. "Dear friend," he repeated. "I would not call you that if it were an empty sentiment, and I believe that you feel the same." Leaning back, he picked up the book Oracle had left there earlier and glanced at the title, his mouth quirking into a crooked smile as he showed Erik the page it was open to. "A little light reading?"

Erik glanced at the cover and couldn't help but chuckle, even through the pain and haze of drugs. Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment. "Mikolka's confession," he murmured, scanning the passage. "Is the boy trying to tell me something?"

"'If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be punishment—as well as the prison,'" Charles quoted, his own chuckle rich and warm as he met Erik's eyes again. "Raskolnikov might have been a villain, but he was ever an interesting one."

"And I?" Erik asked before he could help himself. "Am I an interesting villain, old friend?"

This time, their fingers slid together, old reminiscences and muscle memories working in tandem so that it felt as though they had never parted.

"Always," Charles confirmed, still smiling. "The most interesting villain of them all."

Harry dropped onto his bed, feeling the strange sensation of the world spinning wildly on its axis, with him at the very center.

"What to do?" he whispered aloud, watching moonlight creep across his floor. "What to do, what to do?"

There was no answer, but he wasn't looking for one. He already knew. Closing his eyes, he thought of Sirius, and Remus, and Dumbledore, and Snape. That grief was an old wound, finally manageable after all his years away. He still missed them, of course, but he had accepted the fact that they had moved on.

"Thank you for saving Ron," Hermione had told him once, her eyes just shy of desperate. "I don't know what I would have done without him."

"You would have lived," Harry whispered into the darkness. He hadn't answered her then, but he did so now, even knowing his words would never reach her. "It's the hardest thing in the world, but it's the only thing we really can do—pack away the bad times, cherish the good times, and live as best we're able."

He reached over and picked up the pack of playing cards he had set on the bedside table, flicking through them. They spun through his fingers, a trick Remy had shown him, until he paused, staring at the card on top of the pile. Carefully, he plucked it off the stack and held it up the bright moonlight, his gaze unwavering.

The joker stared right back at him, laughing.

"One change," Harry murmured, watching the future shift with each plan he considered or discarded. "One wildcard upsets the whole deck."