Chapter 17 – Smoke, Fire, and First Glances
The Blackbird rumbled to life, the battered X-Men filing aboard like a pack of wet dogs after a storm.
"Uh…" Colossus stopped halfway down the aisle. "There… are not enough seats."
Nightcrawler flicked his tail, smirking. "Mein Gott, Charles never expected he'd need a bus license."
Sunfire crossed his arms, fiery arrogance in place. "I told you—this team is overcrowded."
"Quit whining," Thunderbird shot back. "I'll sit on your lap if it shuts you up."
"Try it, and I incinerate you."
Storm raised her hands, eyes flashing with irritation. "Children. Please."
Cyclops pinched the bridge of his nose beneath the visor. "We're not here to debate seating charts. Pack in. Wings and tails tucked. It's a short ride."
"Short ride, big egos," Logan muttered, elbowing his way to the back with his cigar still unlit between his teeth. "Hell of a team."
The banter turned into awkward shuffling. Kurt perched upside down like a bat in the overhead compartment, Bobby froze a makeshift seat, and Colossus gave up, sitting cross-legged in the aisle. Finally, the jet cut through the clouds, leaving Krakoa behind like a bad dream.
---
Westchester greeted them with silence. Charles Xavier sat waiting in the hangar, his face a calm mask that didn't hide the tension around his eyes.
"My X-Men," he said softly as the group filed out. His gaze lingered on the old team, weary but alive. "You've been through more than I can imagine. And you—" his eyes swept the newcomers, "—have shown courage beyond expectation. Tonight, we heal. Tonight, we stand together."
Logan grunted. "And tonight, maybe we drink?"
Xavier's lips twitched. "Yes, Logan. Tonight, you may drink."
---
The party filled the mansion with warmth. The wariness of battle washed off in laughter, clinking glasses, the shuffle of records playing from Hank's old stereo. Xavier took his time, introducing one by one.
"Ororo Munroe—Storm," he said, gesturing as she glided into the room, her white dress flowing like thunderclouds split with moonlight.
"Piotr Rasputin—Colossus," the farm-boy awkward in a clean shirt too tight for his shoulders.
"Kurt Wagner—Nightcrawler," all charm, bowing in a secondhand suit with a grin too wide.
"Shiro Yoshida—Sunfire," crisp in a tailored jacket, radiating the same fire as his power.
"John Proudstar—Thunderbird," stiff in his leather vest and jeans, refusing to pretend to be something he wasn't.
"Logan," Xavier finished with a faint smile. "Our Wolverine." The man stood in a wrinkled white shirt, cigar finally lit, looking more weapon than guest.
Then came the old guard.
"Warren Worthington—Angel," immaculate as ever, wings folded like golden drapery behind a midnight blazer.
"Bobby Drake—Iceman," tieless, sleeves rolled up, already juggling ice cubes for anyone who'd laugh.
"Jean Grey," Xavier said with warmth, the woman radiant in emerald silk, her hair loose flame over her shoulders.
Introductions done, conversation bloomed. Angel and Thunderbird clashed immediately—two alphas circling. Bobby teased Colossus into blushing through half the night. Storm soothed tempers with her soft voice. Nightcrawler played the clown.
Logan? He stayed near the drinks, letting the others laugh. He felt older than them. Harder. A knife at a dinner table.
When the laughter got too loud, he slipped to the balcony, lit his cigar, and poured a glass of something sharp. Smoke curled around him as the night air cooled his skin.
"You isolate yourself, Logan."
He didn't flinch—Xavier's voice just arrived in his mind before the wheels of the chair whispered behind him.
"Yeah," Logan said, blowing smoke toward the stars. "Crowds ain't my style."
"They'll need you," Xavier said softly. "As much as you may not believe it, they'll need your strength. And you…" His eyes were kind, steady. "…you need them."
Logan smirked bitterly. "We'll see about that, Wheels."
The Professor chuckled, unoffended. "Yes. We'll see."
---
The party dwindled. Laughter faded. Mutants drifted to their rooms. Logan stepped back inside, intent on another drink before the night died. And then—
Her eyes.
Jean Grey's.
Across the room, her emerald gaze caught his. Not long. Not deliberate. But enough. For a heartbeat, time bent—not in his bullet-time way, but in something crueler. Deeper.
He didn't know why he looked away first. Didn't know why his chest tightened like he'd taken a blade. All he knew was one thought, sharp as his claws:
This was the start of a struggle that would never leave him.