Coffee and Introductions

Posted on Thu Feb 19th, 2026 @ 9:38pm by Jean Grey-Summers & Logan

6,288 words; about a 31 minute read

Mission: Episode 7: Pathogens and Contagions
Location: X-Mansion
Timeline: March 7, 1992

In the short time that Logan had been at the mansion he had learned the routines of its occupants. The school schedule with its occasional lectures, the cafeteria and constant snacking in the kitchen, the medical care in the tent outside and the slow moving research in the lab below. All of it had a rhythm to it that made Xavier’s predictable and peaceful.

So when Jean had asked Logan to meet her for breakfast, he knew she would be late. She went for a run in the woods every morning when the sun first appeared and turned the sky a soft indigo blue. There was no way she would return from her exercise routine in time for the meeting she had scheduled. Nevertheless he arrived when she had asked him to and Logan indeed found it empty and quiet except for the ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantel.

The office was paneled in wood like the rest of the mansion along with tall, grand windows that looked over the front driveway and its bubbling fountain. It was decorated in soft, rich leather and expensive Persian rugs while the smell of tea lingered along with the smokey aroma of a frequently used hearth.

“Good morning, Logan. I’m sorry I’m late.” Jean said from behind him as she entered. Short of breath and still dressed in sleek workout attire, her checks were flushed from exertion and a few loose curls stuck to her neck. “I went for a run in the woods this morning and the time got away from me. I had to move in double time to make it back here.” With a few heavy breaths, she settled into her seat behind her desk, “Sometimes I get lost in the run, it clears my mind and helps me relax, then the next thing I know I’m miles away from the school with a self-imposed deadline waiting for me. Once again, I apologize.”

Logan didn’t turn right away. Just let the clock tick a few beats longer, eyes on the fountain out the window. When he did, it was with that faint crooked half-smile that never reached his eyes.

“Figured you’d be late, Red.” he said. “Smelled the trail comin’ in. Sweat, pine, bit of gravel dust. You don’t run light.”

Jean gave him a look that was a mixture of amusement and personal affront at the mention of her heavy feet, it resulted in the quirk of a single eyebrow along with a slight smile that made the corners of her mouth turn upwards while she cleared some paperwork from her large desk.

He shifted in the leather chair opposite her desk, the thing creaking under his weight. “Don’t owe me an apology. I’ve been sittin’ around worse places than this, waitin’ on worse people. Least here the rugs are clean and the fire’s warm.”

He reached into his jacket, fished out a cigar, then thought better of it with a glance at the polished wood panelling and put it back. “So,” he rasped, blue eyes steady on hers. “You dragged me up here for breakfast. I’ll bite. What’s on the menu—food, or questions?”

“Why not both?” She said while looking up at him, her green eyes and attention fixed on him and he felt the soft brush of telepathy move through his mind. Like fingers on silk, her telepathic touch was delicate and fluid. Jean reminded him of an ancient oracle, a divine creature that knew the answers before the questions were even asked, yet she still continued to inquire. “I wanted to see how you are doing, how are you fairing now that you’re feeling better. Sometimes when people are so accustomed to living in survival mode, they have a harder time in the moments of calm.”

Logan huffed through his nose, half a laugh, half a warning. “Fairin’ better than yesterday. That’s about as far ahead as I plan.”

He leaned back in the chair, eyes narrowing at the play of light off her desk lamp. “Calm ain’t really calm to me. Just means somethin’s waitin’ to break it. You live long enough lookin’ over your shoulder, peace feels like the part of the song right before the strings snap.”

His hand ghosted toward the pocket where his dog tags rested, but he didn’t fish them out. Just let the weight remind him. “Don’t get me wrong—I notice the roof, the bed, the quiet. I’m not spittin’ on it. Just learned a long time ago, kindness usually comes tied up with a knot. You take it, you better be ready to pay it back.”

“No one is expecting anything from you, Logan...” Jean replied but she considered Cecilia’s passing comments when she had finished her exam on Logan. Dr. Reyes was interested in his healing factor and what she could learn, or possibly use from it, to help with a Legacy Virus cure. But it was a point of interest that Jean had refused to explore, at least not without his approval. “At least nothing without your consent first.”

“I meant it when I said that Xavier’s is a safe haven for mutants, the calm and kindness that we provide is simply because we all deserve that. What if we could stop the cycle of peace before war for you? What if we could give you a life without fear of the next hardship?” Jean was a starry-eyed dreamer but there was something beautiful about having such conviction despite the horrors the world continued to provide. “I do want to help you, Logan.”

Logan gave a low rumble in his chest, not unfriendly. “Safe havens, peace without fear… sounds good on paper. Just not the kind of hand I’ve ever been dealt.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve learned to keep movin’, keep breathin’. That’s about as close as I’ve come.”

He didn’t say it to knock her down — if anything, there was a flicker of respect in his eyes. “Still… you’ve given me more choice in a week than I’ve had in a long time. That counts for somethin’.”

The heaviness lingered a beat, then he leaned back in the chair, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So… what’s actually for breakfast? ’Cause if it’s speeches and tea, I might’ve shown up hungry for nothin’.”

“You’re just as bad as the teenage boys.” Jean said with a smirk that told him she was teasing him. It was a crack in the professional façade, allowing Logan to see that she had a sense of humor. “Okay, let’s eat then.”

She stood up and made her way to the door with a few easy strides. Jean opened it and a cart was waiting outside with shiny, silver plate covers and a fancy insulated carafe. “I once again selected coffee over beer.” Jean joked as she pulled the cart into the office and set it next to her massive desk.

Jean placed a covered plate in front of him before she poured herself a cup of coffee and returned to her seat across from Logan. “Dig in before your stomach eats itself.”

Logan eyed the polished dome of the plate like it might be a trick, then gave her the ghost of a grin. “Coffee over beer, huh? Guess that’s your loss.”

He pulled the cover back, the clatter of metal against wood loud in the quiet office. Eggs, bacon, toast—simple, hot, the kind of thing he could smell before she even wheeled the cart in. “Better than I was expectin’,” he muttered, though the way he picked up his fork said he wasn’t about to complain.

First bite went down fast, second a little slower. He washed it with black coffee, strong enough to cut through the rasp in his throat. When he set the cup down, his eyes flicked to hers across the desk, steady and unreadable.

“Not bad,” he said, voice rough but lighter than it had been. “Could get used to this.” A beat, then he tipped his chin at her mug. “That how you start every day? Run the woods, then play hostess? Or am I gettin’ the deluxe treatment?”

Another forkful vanished before he spoke again, tone casual but edged with curiosity. “You always sit down with the kids like this, or just the strays that wash up?”

“Are you asking about my day?” Jean said with a chuckle as she added cream and sugar to her coffee, the more she talked to Logan the more he surprised her. “I usually start my day with some form of exercise, it helps me prepare and running is my favorite. I do try to see and speak with the students as much as possible but sometimes I can be incredibly busy. When Professor Xavier and my husband went into stasis for being sick, I became the benefactor and guardian of this estate and of all of Xavier’s corporations. While the school and its inhabitants are my number one priority, I find myself having to manage businesses and finances more than I would care to, there is a team of people to do the real work but I have to remain abreast.”

“Combine that with Cecilia and Moira’s research into the Legacy Virus and rogue mutants appearing on our front lawn in the middle of the night…” She smiled at her own comment before finally taking a sip of her coffee “I am divided in my attention but I do try to make time for everyone whenever I can, especially for those who want to see me or I would like to talk to.”

Logan’s mouth tugged at one corner, the hint of a grin hidden under the stubble. He speared a strip of bacon and pointed it at her like a half-hearted accusation.

“Rogue mutant on the lawn, huh? That what I am now—a landscaping problem?” He took a bite, chewed slow, eyes never leaving hers. “Could be worse. Least you didn’t call pest control.”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much, you’re not the only person to show up on your doorstep.” She looked out at the front yard and gestured at the fountain with a nod of her head, “I think that fountain has been smashed and rebuilt at least…four times? Not to mention the hedge maze being absolutely trashed… the whole south side of this building knocked down… or the fire.” Jean chuckled, “You’re not the first and I’m sure you won’t be the last.”

He washed it down with another swallow of coffee, leaning back in the chair with a rough exhale. “Truth is, you coulda left me in the snow, and you didn’t. That’s more than most would’ve done. If it takes a smart-mouthed label to earn a hot breakfast, I’ll live with it.”

His smirk deepened, just a shade meaner. “Hell, ‘rogue mutant’ sounds downright polite compared to some of the names I’ve picked up. Butcher. Weapon. Monster. Landscaping problem’s a step up.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” Jean admitted, her tone shifted from joking to something softer as a touch of pity overcame her. Despite his hardened exterior and the brutal rage that could flood his senses, Jean felt a tenderness inside of Logan. That part of him hungered for peace, comfort, and love even though he knew it was all fleeting. He was battle weary and tired of the blood that so often soaked his hands and that feeling made Jean want to help him. “How about I just call you ‘Logan’ then?”

Logan’s gaze held hers for a beat before he reached into his shirt and drew out the two metal tags that hung against his chest. They clinked softly together as he let them rest in his palm, the chain coiled between his fingers.

“Only name I had for a long time,” he said, offering them across the desk. The metal caught the morning light — WOLVERINE on one, LOGAN on the other, each stamped with the same long number beneath. “Found ’em on me after I came to. No memory before that. Just these and the mess that came after.”

He glanced down at them, thumb rubbing over the worn lettering. “Don’t know which one’s real. Maybe both. Maybe neither.”

A faint breath, almost a laugh without sound. “Still, I like the way you said it. ‘Logan’ sounds… nice.”

She offered him a small smile in response to his comment, any crack in his hardened exterior was a win as far as Jean was concerned. Connections to people, humanity, it mattered.

“Well, it’s something to start with…” Jean replied as she reached out and examined the dog tags. The femininity of her hand, with its slender fingers and french tip manicure was a sharp contrast to the cold, square steel of the military identification tags. There was a long string of numbers under the name on each tag but they meant nothing to her. “I have a friend who might be able to tell us more about these tags, he works for Interpol. We know you’re Canadian or at least lived there for an extended period of time thanks to your connection to Alpha Flight. ”

She paused after mentioning the previous team that Logan had been a part of, their deaths had been what had caused his last berserker rage and subsequently caused him to battle the X-Men. Jean’s recollection of the events had been provided thanks to Scott’s memories because she had been missing during that time. “Do you remember them? Do you remember Alpha Flight at all?”

He let her turn the tags as long as she needed; when she set them back into his palm, he closed his fist around the metal and tucked the chain under his shirt. “I get flashes,” he said, voice low. “Red-and-white suits in cold corridors. Department H—disinfectant and fear. A laugh I almost know—Puck, maybe. Then it slips.” He shook his head once. “Names don’t stick. Faces do. Feels like I’m chasin’ ’em through fog.”

“As for what happened after…” His jaw worked. “I remember the aftermath more than the fight—sirens, smoke, too much blood.”

He met her eyes. “You can ask your Interpol friend about the tags—just take it slow, and whatever comes back lands with me first. I’ll deal with what shakes loose.”

“I’ll go slow and anything I find out I’ll be sure to tell you. I don’t want to keep secrets from you, good or bad you deserve to know the truth about yourself and your past.” Jean finally reached out for her own breakfast. Removing the cover from her meal, it was oatmeal with berries and peanut butter rather than the meat and eggs that had been provided to Logan. “Is there anything that’s bothering you now? A memory or a piece of one that’s troubling you?”

He worked his thumb along the cup. “There’s more, sometimes. Gloved hands blue as bottle glass. Tile so clean it throws your face back at you, but it’s the wrong shape. That bitter, hospital taste that gets in your teeth. A beep-beep-beep like a metronome that won’t shut up.”

Logan took a breath. “Then the heat—like the bones are being filled, not cut. Skin goes cold while the inside goes white-hot. Edges turn red. Clamps pop. It’s not words after that. It’s move. Frost on the floor. Sirens like they’re under water. I hit the door so hard my shoulder sings.”

He stared past her. “Out in the snow I always do the same thing in the dream—I look at my hands to see if they’re mine. They’re not.”

Pausing Logan look down at his hands. “There’s metal where there shouldn’t be—three blades out of each fist, shining cold in the moon, steam curling off ’em. Blood on the edges—dark, sticky, smells like copper and heat. I can hear it pattering on the snow, see it web between the knuckles where skin used to be.”

His jaw worked. “For a second I don’t recognize the hands. Then I do—and that’s worse.”

He breathed once, rough. “There was rage first. Then shame came after.”

“It’s a double edged sword, isn’t it?” Jean said with a small sad sigh as Logan explained and expressed himself. “You have questions but the answers are awful. Maybe it’s worse to know than not know?”

Her questions were hypothetical as she started to think about and really consider Logan and what he went through. The Omega Sentinel programming was just more of the same experimentation that left his mind riddled with holes, eating away at the past while others consumed the present. Jean thought about him from a therapist’s perspective along with the sagacious teachings that Xavier had provided. “Right now, those memories still shape how you feel, react, and relate to others. You might not notice it consciously, but unprocessed memories leak into your life. By working to remember and understand your past, you gain the ability to make choices based on truth, not old pain. Avoiding bad memories doesn't erase their influence, it just leaves them in the dark, where they fester. But naming something, understanding where it comes from, then processing it, it will give you room to breathe. Pain that's acknowledged can eventually soften.”

“At least that’s what I hope we can achieve together.” Jean’s optimism continued despite the challenges she knew they would be facing. What little she had experienced in Logan’s mind had been painful at best. “Maybe the rage inside of you will soften if we face the ghosts that inspire it.”

Logan turned the cup in his hands. “You’re right—the blade cuts both ways. Digging hurts. Leaving it buried hurts different.”

He scratched his jaw, a thin grin. “I’m not big on head-doctors. Last lot who ‘helped’ me left me with numbers and scars, I left them with worse. But… I don’t want to live by reflex anymore. I'm tired.”

He met her eyes. “We try it slow. You talk me through it. The moment I tense, you back off. We have short sessions. With the window cracked, coffee on—something real to hold onto. Maybe even beer for me."

A beat. “I’m not promising soft. But I’ll face it—with you there. That’s the best shot I’ve got at keeping the ghosts from being in the driving seat.”

“I don’t think the goal is to feel happy about the past, but to no longer feel ruled by it. Not remembering can leave you feeling scattered, like parts of yourself are missing. By slowly and gently piecing together your history, we can build a narrative that makes sense.” Jean nodded her head in agreement to his terms and conditions for them working together. It was an act of trust for him to do this with her, and trust was something she had asked him to have in her when he first arrived. Now he was giving everything his wary self could provide. “That doesn’t mean every piece has to be uncovered, or that you have to force it. It means being open to what comes, when it’s ready.”

“A lot of the students living here come with their own baggage and scars. I never force them to face, I only help them when they’re ready because I’ve found they have to be willing to grow and to change, without that personal desire it’s just a shallow activity.” Jean finished her breakfast and offered him her hand to shake from across the wide desk. “I promise to move on your terms and at a pace that serves you, you’re safe with me, Logan.”

Logan took her hand—warm, steady—then let go. “Alright. We'll go at your speed, and try and keep it on my terms. We let my memories come when they're ready. We'll see what happens.”

He let that sit, then shifted the ground. “So the kids, and how it went.” He set the cup down, eyes level. “You brought me in, big tree guy came in hot, and you put a hand on the brake before it got stupid. I don’t blame him. Last time he saw me, I was the monster at the door.”

He paused; something hard flickered behind his eyes—an old, ugly picture of claws sliding out and tearing through bark and sap like wet paper—then it was gone, buried.

“You think the big guy is gonna be a problem?” Logan asked, voice even. “I’ll give him space, use the back paths, keep the hours no one wants. When you say the word, I’ll stand in front of him, say my piece, and take whatever he needs to throw. I’d rather sort it proper than wait for it to boil over.”

“Desmond.” Jean provided Logan with his name rather than just being the big guy on campus. “No, I don’t expect any long term problems, not with him or any of the other students. His reaction was instinctual but with a level head and little bit of time, he’ll come around. I think they all will. I am a big proponent of forgiveness, we have to forgive one another after wrongs have been reconciled just as we have to forgive humanity for the cruelty they provide to mutants. We cannot coexist if hate and mistrust lingers.” There it was again, that peaceful and kind heart that Jean possessed. It was rare to find people with such unconditional love and conviction.

“Which is why I think it would be good for you to train with them.” Jean continued and Logan suddenly felt like he was going to be put to work. “You’ve experienced the secret of this school first hand, that some of the students here volunteer to be X-Men. But that role requires them to stay sharp and hone their abilities in our training room. I think it would be an excellent way for you to get to know them and for them to learn to trust you.”

Logan nodded once. “Desmond,” he repeated, filing it. “If you say he’ll come round, I’ll take you at your word.”

He scratched at his jaw, considering. “If we’re talkin’ training, we’re honest about what I am. These”—he tapped his knuckles—“cut through damn near anything. I was built and conditioned to end fights fast—ground-and-pound, slice-and-dice.”

He leaned forward a little. “So: maybe no claws in the room. You’ll get grappling, breakfalls, ring craft, how to close distance without eating a punch, how to get back up when you do. I can run them on tracking, situational reads, and how to stay mean without getting sloppy.” A beat. “If someone needs blade work, we use rubber or wood.”

He exhaled. “I’m still sick. I’ll clear it with Reyes, and I’ll work inside what my lungs can give. Start with Desmond if you want. Mats down, clean rules, you or a spotter on the switch. He’ll see what I do when I’m not trying to hurt anyone.”

A flicker of dry humour. “If they need to tag me to trust me, fine. I can take a few dents. Just make sure nobody asks me to be something I’m not. I’m a fighter. I’ll teach ’em how to walk away in one piece.”

“Oh, we have something better than mats and rubber swords.” Jean said with a smirk that suddenly became mischievous. “Come on, let me show you.” Her quiet confidence without arrogance was inherently appealing and as she stood up and waited for him to follow that smirk turned into a grin. “This way.”

At the end of the hall was a rather unassuming elevator, one that fit the narrative for a wheelchair bound man needing to get around his home. But as Jean placed her fingers on the call buttons, the panel sprung to life and began to glow a brilliant blue. The doors opened to expose a sleek steel elevator that felt completely out of place when compared to the old wood of the old mansion.

“Step inside…” Jean said but then paused as she waited for Logan to comply, the space was a tight squeeze and only allowed for a single passenger at a time. Once he was inside, she reached in and across him to press the button. “Then count to five.”

The last thing Logan saw before the elevator slammed shut was Jean’s smug grin as she gave him a little wave. Then he felt the elevator drop at a rapid speed, taking him deep below the school’s mundane walls before opening again at its one and only stop. More sleek silver paneled walls and hallways that hummed with immense electrical power greeted him. Upon exiting the elevator, the motion sensors caught his movement and the hall illuminated, showing access to two massive sealed doors. He has never seen this level of the mansion before, another secret hidden on top of a secret.

A swoosh of the elevator behind him and then he smelt Jean’s perfume before he saw her or heard her speak. “Welcome to Danger Room and Cerebro.” She said before taking a step out in front of him.

He didn’t like the box.

Steel close to his shoulders, air still and thin. The blue flare on the panel put a cold taste in his mouth—antiseptic and glass, ghosts of the lab trying to climb his spine. He kept his hands loose and his breath slow, eyes on the seam where the doors would open, counting like she’d told him to. Four. Five. Drop.

He took a slow step into the corridor as the lights woke in sections, pupils tightening. Two doors like bank vaults eyed him back. He didn’t reach for anything; the claws stayed where they belonged.

The elevator sighed behind him and her scent reached him first, then her voice.

“Better than mats and rubber swords,” he rasped, mouth ticking. He nodded at the doors. “So that one’s the playground,” a chin-tip to the Danger Room, “and the other’s the big helmet that reads the world.”

He looked over the thresholds again, the fighter in him mapping corners, sightlines, places to breathe. “You’ve got safeties on your safeties, I hope. Kill-switch, dampeners, med kit within arm’s reach.” A beat, wry. “And maybe a fan—gets hot when you’re makin’ kids dodge death.”

He rolled his sore shoulder once, testing the glide. “Alright. Show me how your room tries to kill you without actually killin’ you.” He flicked her a glance, a sliver of humour under the gravel. “And if I start lookin’ like I’d rather be anywhere else than another metal box… I won’t. I’m here.”


Jean smiled at him briefly as she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, a moment of acknowledgement for what he was saying and what he was doing. She saw his efforts to remain present and focused to uphold the promise he made to her. But before the moment changed, Jean’s attention returned to the room in front of them.

“The Danger Room is an advanced holographic and mechanical environment powered by alien technology and the supercomputer, Cerebro.” She said while leaning forward and opening a panel next to the door. A scanner activated and took a brief scan of her eye before the vault-like doors opened. Visually, the room was a vast, metallic chamber with glowing grids on the walls and ceiling.

“When activated, it can simulate virtually any environment or opponent as well as any training scenario you desire. The Danger Room’s purpose is to train the X-Men to control their abilities under extreme conditions, test our new recruits, and prepare the team for real-world missions while minimizing actual danger.” Jean said as she stepped into the Danger Room and it began to hum and glow in anticipation of her request.

“Students who are scared of hurting others can learn to master and control their abilities in the Danger Room, teams can practice side-by-side to better learn and anticipate each other’s moves, and in a moment of frustration it can be a wonderful place to blow off some steam.” She turned around and looked at him, inviting Logan to step inside too.

As he entered, the doors swooshed shut behind him and the Danger Room’s safety locks closed them in, keeping the outside world safe from anything that might occur in here.

“Danger Room, show me Kamar-Taj.” Jean said out loud, and the metal walls vanished and suddenly she and Logan were standing in the hidden mystical city of the Himalayas. The air was cold and crisp, as the air felt thin from the high elevation.

“Danger Room, show me the Savage Land.” She requested and the city melted away and they were standing in a lush, dense jungle. Hot and humid, the sound of an ancient creature bellowed far off in the distance.

“Danger Room, show me Kyoto, Japan.” Narrow, winding streets lined with wooden machiya townhouses filled the space. Lanterns hang outside the doorways, casting a warm, golden glow through the night. The air carried the scent of incense and tatami as the ginkgo trees turned yellow from the autumn chill.

It all felt so real.

He stopped dead at the first breath of it—incense, rain on old wood, the clean bite of steel kept sharp out of respect, not fear. Kyoto folded around him and something in his chest remembered before his head could. Lantern light on lacquer. Paper walls that made sound behave. A hairpin catching flame and moonlight at once.

His hands didn’t rise, but the tendons in his forearms stood out; for a beat the claws thought about it. He made them think again.

“Yeah,” he said, voice gone rougher. “I know this one.” A beat. “Or it knows me.”

He took two slow steps along the machiya front, eyes tracking the curve of the street like it might curve into a life he almost had. “Tea. Steel. Autumn ginkgo.” He swallowed, jaw tight. “You can hold it here, or move it on. I’m good.”

A glance back to her, steady despite the flicker behind his eyes. “Just… don’t make it snow.”

“No…I wouldn’t do that.” Jean was caught off guard by his response to what she thought was a neutral location but the tension that suddenly tightened his muscles and his mind were undeniable. “Danger Room, end program.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” She took a step towards him with a slight frown on her face. While her eyes were new to him, the look of worry and concern in them wasn’t new. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He let the room drain back to metal and air, then blew out a slow breath. “You didn’t know,” he said, not unkind. The tightness in his shoulders eased a notch. “It’s… impressive. Like somethin’ out of a movie. Little too real, maybe.”

He glanced up at the grids, measuring. “Hell of a tool for training. Kids’ll learn fast in here.” His eyes came back to hers, steady again. “I’m fine. We can leave it there.”

“There are safety protocols that are installed based on the experience level of the lowest level user in the room.” Jean returned to the topic of the Danger Room since Logan wanted to move past whatever memories the scene in Japan had stirred in him. She wanted him to talk to her but whatever happened here but it appeared to be too ugly, too personal.

“And there is an observation deck for watching the scenario.” She gestured to the space above the door where oneway glass covered what appeared to be an office, the glass vanished when the training programs were running. “Cerebro will track changes and accommodate the users so they can experience new challenges and hone their skills. You can build your own or just ask it to run something for you.”

Jean placed her hands behind her back and kept her distance from Logan, he seemed cagy and uncomfortable in the space despite his affirmations that he was fine. “Any questions or concerns about the Danger Room? Anything I can show you?”

He shook his head. “No questions. I get it, Red.”

A glance up at the glass, then back to her. “Smart room.” A short pause, softer. “I’ll use it when I’m ready.”

He tipped his chin toward the elevator. “For now, I’ll take fresh air over steel walls.” A flicker of dry humour. “Call me old-fashioned.”

“I ran outside just this morning,” Jean said with a chuckle in an attempt to ease some of the tension the Danger Room had created. “But I think Desmond will learn to trust you more with some training sessions. Teamwork builds more than just success. I would say try it once or twice and if you hate it there is always wood chopping and ditch digging.”

There was a pause after her statement and eventually Jean huffed out a laugh. “That was a joke.”

Logan’s mouth twitched. “Could’ve fooled me. I’m hell on a woodpile, though. Ditches too, if you’re takin’ volunteers.”

He glanced back at the room, then to her. “I’ll give it a couple runs. If it helps Desmond and the others see I’m not here to start trouble, that’s worth the sweat.”

“Thank you Logan, I appreciate the effort. Even if it isn’t your thing, I do think the intentions matter.” Jean smiled at him once more and he could feel how hard she was trying. Trying to keep the school running, trying to keep the X-Men unified, trying to keep her own head above water, he had come to her for assistance but as time passed he saw how much help she really needed. “And I consider it a personal favor on my behalf.”

Taking a step past him, she placed her hand on the control panel next to the door and it opened for her, exposing the long hallway and the elevator up to the mansion. “If you ever want to talk about anything or review some of your fractured memories, please let me know. I’ll see what my friend at Interpol has to say about the dog tags, he might be able to give us a lead.”

At the door he paused, eyes on the elevator, then back to her. “Appreciate you chasing the tags. Go slow, and whatever comes back—good or bad—I hear it first.”

He tugged his jacket cuff, mouth ticking into something like a smile. “If you need more favors, you know where to find me. Boathouse, or out where the air’s doing the work. I’ll take the stairs, if it’s all the same.”

“You’ll get used to it…” Jean said with a laugh as popped a hidden door next to the elevator, exposing a long and tall staircase upwards. They were down deep underground. A few lights and alarms flickered and then calmed once they picked up on who had opened the door. “And that is a terrible trip back up to the top.”

She contemplated something for a brief moment before making an internal choice. “Or you could ride up with me? We’ll go together.”

He eyed the stairs like a promise, then looked back at her and the way she held the panel.

“Yeah… alright,” he muttered. “If you’re ridin’, I can stomach the box.”

He stepped in beside her, shoulder a hair from hers, hands loose, eyes on the seam. A faint, crooked smile. “Don’t get used to it, Red. But—yeah. With you.”

Jean’s lips slowly curved upwards into a warm and effortless smile. Her green eyes softened as the smile reached them and Logan felt a brush of her telepathy and the empathy that it brought. She was like sunshine breaking through the clouds, a brightness and kindness that was impossible to ignore.

“One day at a time, Logan.” She shut the door to the staircase and the dreary, lonely, and challenging path it represented. Jean pressed the call button for the elevator, which was already waiting for them. She stepped inside and waited for him to follow, pressing herself against the back wall so there was enough room for the two of them. “I promise it will get easier.”

He stepped in after her, turned his shoulders to give them both space, and fixed his eyes on the seam.

“Maybe,” he said, rough but warmer than before. “One day at a time works.”

The elevator hummed; he counted under his breath, letting the numbers keep the ghosts quiet. He angled a look up at her, the corner of his mouth ticking.

“Got easier already,” he murmured. “You’re in here, Red.”

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