Logan came back at dinner hour. Jean was entertaining Sean Cassidy, down from Massachusetts in the private dining room, and Jubilee and Kurt were overseeing the student diners. Logan came into the private room without even a knock, his clothes slightly more rumpled and his hair messy, or messier than it usually got. "Logan, good to see you," said Sean in surprise.
"Yeah, hi," said Logan. "Jean, let's talk."
"Not now," said Jean coolly, keeping her seat.
"Yes now," said Logan, a growl coming into his voice. Sean sat back, his pale cheeks coloring at bit. Jean knew the Irishman hated being in on private matters. Jean threw her napkin on the table and jerked Logan out into the hallway.
"I have a guest!" she hissed.
"Too damn bad for him then," said Logan. "We need to talk. Seriously." Jean thew up her hands.
"Fine. This way." She went into the Professor's old office, now occupied by file boxes, some broken desks, and the professor's own oaken specimen, untouched since he left for the Shi'ar Empire. Jean took a seat on the edge. "Talk, Logan. What's so hellaciously important?"
"Jesus Christ, would you stop being a bitch for two seconds?" demanded Logan. Jean's eyes became slits. A firelight of anger came into them.
"Don't you dare talk to me that way, Logan. Don't you ever try that again." Logan's neck hairs lifted as he felt the buzz of Jean's psionic field rise. An angry telepath was something no one wanted.
"Sorry," he mumbled, though even to his ears he didn't mean it. "I just wanted to work this mess out. Guess you don't want to so bad." Jean sighed and pressed her face with her hands, then faced Logan again.
"This isn't working, Logan. I'm just going to say it outright. I want it to work. But in order for us to be together you have to be willing to make some sacrifices."
"Don't start talking like a goddamn self-help book," snarled Logan. "I got enough of that when Xavier was around. I still get it from Ororo and Jubilee. If you start I'm leaving."
"You're a jerk!" Jean shouted suddenly. Her voice rattled the hanging lamp in the center of the professor's ceiling. "You're a goddamn self-centered, selfish jerk! You don't care about me! I was an easy go!" She glared burningly at him. "Isn't that right? I was just your latest diversion, and now that the novelty of the male conquest has worn off, I'm discarded." She folded as the words sunk in.
"No, Jeannie," said Logan quietly. "I care for you. I waited years, years to get what I wanted. I pushed myself aside the entire time Cyclops was alive, even when I had a clear shot." He raised her chin with a knobby finger. "Give me some credit here. I was in love with Jean Grey, that little firebrand who took shit from nobody. She liked living. You don't. You're a different Jean."
"My husband is dead," said Jean viciously.
"Get over it," Logan snapped back. Jean started to spring for him, hurt him, but she realized the truth. Scott was dead. Had been dead for a long time. Long enough so she shouldn't still be turning herself off to everything. So this angry shell she'd made could have cracked a dozen times.
"Let's give this a rest," she said, looking at her skirt-covered knees, anywhere but Logan. He let his breath out in a frustrated huff.
"Whatever you say, darlin'. You're the boss." He turned, calmly Jean thought, and opened the door. It was only when he slammed it so hard he put a crack through the hundred-year-old oak that Jean realized what she'd done.
Jubilee's phone rang again as she was changing into her special silk pajamas. Logan had brought them from Japan on his last visit. They were brilliant red and intricately embroidered by hand, in black. Jubilee contained herself to one wearing a month, but the silk sure felt heavenly against her skin. The phone buzzed insistently. Jubilee realized she was looking at it with trepidation, until she saw the blinking light on the case and realized it was the school phone, being routed to a night line. Jubilee was the teacher of the month, mostly meaning she had to answer the phone after hours. "Hello?"
"Jubilation?" the voice was fizzing with static and distance, coupled with a thick Asian accent.
"Yes," said Jubilee. "This is she."
"This is Mariko," said the voice, sounding hesitant.
"Hi, Mariko," said Jubilee. "Are you calling for Logan?"
"Um, no," said Mariko. "I'm coming to see Logan." Jubilee sat on the bed.
"Really."
"I don't know if I'm imposing…" began Mariko.
"No no," said Jubilee. "We'll be happy to see you. When do you arrive?"
"Around ten tomorrow night," said Mariko. "JFK Airport."
"Right," said Jubilee, scribbling on the back of an empty tissue box. "Flight numbers and stuff?"
"Korean Air flight 22317," said Mariko. "Gate number is 34, I think."
"Okay," said Jubilee. "We'll pick you up, and I'll tell Logan you're coming. He'll be happy to see you."
"I don't know about that," said Mariko. "But I am coming, nonetheless. For better or worse."
"Yep," said Jubilee. Both women chuckled politely.
"I must say goodbye, the cost of this call is prohibitive," Mariko said. "Pleasure speaking with you, Jubilation."
"You too, bye," said Jubilee.
"Sayonara," said Mariko as she hung up.
This time, Logan didn't even bother to use the doorknob, never mind knock. He kicked Jean's door open, startling her, waving a tan envelope and papers. "What in the hell is this?" Jean's breathing returned to normal when she saw it was just Logan.
"It came for me today, in the mail," she said, recognizing the photo and printed sheet.
"WHAT IS IT?" Logan shouted, brandishing it in her face.
"It's a picture of you, in the tube. At Department H, I assume," said Jean. Sweat stood on Logan's forehead and he ground one booted heel into the floor.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I forgot," said Jean.
"FORGOT?" Logan bellowed.
"Stop shouting at me, or you can leave," said Jean, her tone making it clear Logan would not have a choice in the matter. His fist closed around the papers, and he took a few caged steps away from her, moving because he was helpless.
"Sorry, darlin'," he said finally. "Who sent it? Where did it come from?"
"I don't know," said Jean. "Jubilee found it."
"Saw the person leaving it, too?" said Logan anxiously.
"No," said Jean. "No one did."
"Victor," said Logan. "He ain't been the same since I gave him that little prick in the brain."
"You think Victor Creed is responsible? But he works for the government now," said Jean.
"So did Hitler," said Logan. Jean conceded a point. "I'm gonna tear his moth-eaten hide right off his bones," Logan growled. "And then sew it back on and kill him again."
"You don't even know if he did this," said Jean. "For god's sake, calm yourself down." Her phone trilling saved Jean from the brunt of Logan's anger. "Late," she muttered to whomever was on the other end. "Hello."
"Logan, please." The voice was clipped and low, sounding like a cross between a telemarketer and a calm politician. Jean wordlessly handed over the phone.
"Hello," Logan growled his word again, still seething over Victor's alleged mischief.
"Logan. How nice to hear your voice once again." Logan felt the blood leave his face. Jean saw it.
"Logan?" she said, doctoral concern surfacing.
"Who the hell is this?" he demanded. The voice tsked.
"Why Logan. Don't tell me you've forgotten my name."