Chapter 49
The sun was shining the day they brought Jean home.
There were five of them in the sphere: Magneto, Charles, Logan, Liz, and Jean. Jean was seated in a wheelchair that Magneto had fashioned for her. Logan hated the sight of it. Jean was powerful and graceful and strong; she could run and kick and even fly. And there she sat, fragile as a flower, her eyes wide and innocent and devoid of ferocity or wisdom.
Logan wanted to fight something. He wanted to shake her and shout at her, to wake her up somehow. He didn't do well with problems that couldn't be solved with violence. But he kept himself still, because to move would only do harm, and because Charles was watching him with all the cool impassivity of a bird of prey. Charles, who saw the good in everyone -maybe there were some things even he couldn't forgive.
The sphere opened onto blazing sunshine, almost the sunshine of high summer. The front lawn was crawling with activity. The students were everywhere, hauling tools and garbage bags, clearing away the mess the military had left behind. Several people Logan didn't know crossed the lawn carrying cameras. They were too plainly dressed to be reporters; probably insurance adjustors.
He could hear shouting and laughter. The kids. The resilient, courageous, dedicated kids. His kids, he'd called them, for years. They were cleaning shell casings out of their house and laughing about it.
Logan jumped out of the sphere. Liz climbed after him, and Magneto brought himself and the two weelchair-bound telepaths last of all.
"Are you okay?" Liz crouched down to check with Jean eye-to-eye. "Are you cold?"
"No," Jean murmured, "I'm not."
"Okay. If you get cold, just let me know."
"Okay."
Logan struggled not to flinch.
Scott was the first person to run across the lawn to them. It was no coincidence; Charles had to have called him.
He was glowing. His face and t-shirt were both soaked with sweat; apparently he'd already put in a hard morning's work. But even without the sheen of sweat, he would have been glowing. He looked . . .
He looked exactly like Jean had, that morning in Mariko's suite. Love and hope did that to a person.
Logan wished he could hate him. It would make everything so much simpler.
"Jean!" Ignoring everyone else, Scott went straight to Jean and dropped onto one knee in front of her, looking up into her face. "Jean," he said again, obviously not working too hard on the originality of his dialogue. "Hey. Hi. How're you feeling?"
"Um . . ." Jean looked uncertainly up at Liz for guidance.
"I'm Scott," Scott offered. "I know you don't remember me, but we've been best friends since we were little. Ask anybody. Ask Logan."
Jean turned in her chair to look up at Logan.
He shrugged. "If he's lyin', it's the most convincing he's ever been in his life."
"See?" Scott asked. "I know how freaked out you are, but I promise: everything is going to be okay. Everything already is. We're home, and we're safe, and everything is going to be just fine now. Okay?"
Jean couldn't see his eyes, of course, but there was no way it could have mattered; even blocked by his visor, Scott had the most open, expressive, trustworthy face in the entire human species. Jean Grey, who had only the vaguest idea of who, where, or what she was, could know with absolute certainty that she trusted Scott Summers. For the first time since she'd woken up, she smiled, and her bone-pale face seemed to get some life back in it.
"Okay," she whispered, and Scott grinned back. They could have used his face as a reading lamp.
"Okay," he echoed, beaming. He stood up and stepped behind her chair, politely excusing himself as he took the handles from Liz. "I'll show you around. Hold on tight!"
"Are you folks gonna need me?" Liz asked as her patient was rolled away across the gravel. "I can stay, if . . ."
"You've done so much already, Liz," Professor Xavier assured her. "I can't thank you enough."
"It was my pleasure."
"If you'll step inside," Magneto told her, indicating the sphere with one hand, "I'll drop you at your house. I'm sure you're anxious to be home."
She nodded. "It seems like home would be a great place to be today."
Yeah, Logan silently agreed. Wouldn't it just.
The sphere closed and lifted away from the ground in almost perfect silence.
I remember the day they met, Charles observed, turning back to watch Scott and Jean retreat across the lawn. That was before your time, of course.
Of course, Logan echoed dryly.
Scott was so insecure back then. He'd lost so many homes, and he was working so hard to do everything just right so that no one would throw him out again. He begged and begged to be allowed to come along the day I went to meet Jean in person. And when he saw her . . .
He looked like that, Logan guessed.
Exactly like that. Charles shook his head. I just don't understand, Logan. How could you have done this to him?
If that's the question you're asking, I'm never gonna be able to give you a good answer.
To Jean, then. She's only a child, and . . .
Logan heard a snap of anger creep into his mental voice. If that's what you think of her, then you haven't actually talked to her once in the last three years. You've been talking to the person you wanted her to be. I didn't do a thing to Jean. She made every choice on her own, eyes wide open. And I don't give a damn if you believe that or not.
He turned and walked away, towards the open garage.
Don't go after her, Charles ordered.
I'm goin' after my bike, so I can go pick up Velocity. That okay with you, Chuck? The nickname escaped him with a viscousness that scared even him. He'd known there'd be costs to his other relationships . . . known that Scott would be shocked and furious, Kurt confused, Kitty betrayed, Charles disappointed . . . but he hadn't counted on facing all that without Jean.
It was a good time to not be here. It was a good time for hours and hours alone on a motorcycle. It was the only grieving space that he had.
The invitation was hand-delivered on Monday morning.
To the Students and Staff
of
The Xavier Institute for the Gifted
The President of the United States
requests your presence
at a formal reception in your honor
Friday, the 3rd of May
At 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington, District of Columbia
"We're going to the White House?" Tabitha demanded.
"We're going to the White House!" Bobby crowed.
"It's not that great," Scott insisted. "Believe me."
"What am I possibly gonna wear?" Kitty wailed in horror, running her hands over her purple headscarf. "What are any of us gonna find to wear?"
"We'll manage something," Professor Xavier assured her.
"Like hell!" Oddly enough, Gambit seemed to be the most upset. "All my good clothes is in N'Awlins!"
"You own black tie?" Rogue demanded.
"I did. I gotta make some calls." He started shoving his way out of the crowd of people pushing inward towards the embossed invitation in Professor Xavier's hand.
"Phone's still down," Bobby told him.
"Den fix it!"
"Don't answer him, Bobby. You'll just make him worse." Rogue turned away from her boyfriend, rolling her eyes. "But what the crap are we gonna wear?"
"De leather pants!" Gambit called over his shoulder from the next room.
"You kin just shut your face!"
"Wait, we're going to the White House?" Jean was up and about today, though she was being gently steered towards non-strenuous, non-dangerous tasks like sweeping. She was, in fact, still holding a broom.
"You remember the White House?" Scott asked.
"Well, I don't know if I've ever been there, but I do know what the White House is. I'm amnesic, not stupid."
This won some chuckles from the gathered group; Scott grinned.
"All right, everyone. This is very exciting, but we have a lot of work left to do." Professor Xavier took the invitation back as it completed its circuit of the assembled students. "The phone lines, for a start, Bobby."
"Fine, fine."
The White House invitation gave them all a deadline to work towards. Of course, there was no rule that said the house had to be done by the first week of May, but somehow no one liked the idea of returning from such a party to sleep on camp beds in the emergency shelter. One step at a time, the walls came back up, the paint was painted and carpets were laid, fresh sod graced the lawn, replacement furniture and appliances arrived in delivery trucks and were settled in their places, and the general chaos in the kitchen, bathrooms, and bedrooms was gradually set to rights.
The hangars were left as a lesser priority, which meant that when Logan got back with Velocity, she had to be parked in the empty swimming pool.
The helicopter wasn't the only thing that came back with him. Trailing in his wake was the fierce-eyed little girl that the others only knew as X-23.
"Laura," he informed Professor Xavier. He didn't elaborate.
Charles only nodded. "You are very welcome here, Laura."
Laura scowled and didn't answer. It would be hard to imagine three people less pleased to be in a room together. Laura was on the defensive, Charles was still angry, and Logan was as impassive as a brick wall.
"How is she?" Logan asked, after a silence of acceptable awkwardness.
"I don't want you going near her, Logan."
"That's why I'm askin' you, Charles."
Charles accepted this reluctant gesture of goodwill with a slow and disapproving sigh. "She's all right," he admitted reluctantly. "The damage to her brain is . . . extensive, but it's not nearly as bad as it could have been. She's not remembering anything specific, but she's doing well."
"I should have gotten to her faster," Logan said, through teeth clenched together with frustration.
"I could have," Laura announced mercilessly.
"I know you could have, Kiddo."
"You should have taken me with you."
"You were right. I owe you a Coke."
Laura snorted, giving a curt summation of her opinion on the proffered hypothetical Coke.
Charles said nothing. He continued to say nothing as Logan retreated from the office, his scowling shadow trailing behind him. He continued to say nothing as Eric emerged from the kitchenette, where he'd been repairing the plumbing and the shaft of the dumbwaiter when Logan had entered.
"You neglected to inform him that the damage to Miss Grey's brain was not a consequence of her injuries," he pointed out. "Or even of her brief death."
"He doesn't need to know."
"Because if he knew that you'd done this to her, there's a very real possibility that he might kill you."
"I don't know what he would do."
"Mad dog with a metal collar. I told you so."
"Would you like me to buy you a Coke as well, Eric?" Charles snapped, his composure finally cracking. "You were there. You saw what happened. What she was. There was nothing else I could have done. I was lucky to manage what I did."
"Because whatever was happening to her was very bad, according to a vision you had while possessed by an ancient and thoroughly insane mutant entity. A vision you believe so absolutely that you were willing to kill a woman you love like a daughter."
"I had to. I had to."
"As you say," Eric responded, his voice carefully neutral.
"Are you planning on telling Logan?"
Eric shook his head. "I'm not planning on doing anything, for now. But I'll be interested to see how this mess unfolds—particularly if your young student ever recovers her memories of the incident."
"I doubt that. Her mind's too damaged."
"And I've no doubt it will stay that way, with such a powerful telepath in the house to keep an eye on her."
Before Charles could articulate his angry protest, Eric cut him off with a gesture. "You surrendered the moral high ground, Saint Charles of Westchester. And you're never getting it back, no matter how many bets you win."