CHAPTER 97 – FAMILY TIES
The mansion's parlor was alive with chatter, dishes clinking, voices overlapping. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, glinting off polished wood floors that still bore the scuffs of battles long past. It was almost domestic. Almost.
But upstairs, Jean's parents sat stiffly on the edge of a couch, hands clasped tight. Their eyes kept darting to her—like she was familiar, and yet a stranger.
Jean smoothed her dress, though the fire inside her burned too bright for any fabric to hide. She forced a smile. "Mom, Dad… you wanted to talk?"
Her mother's voice cracked. "Jean… what are you?"
The words sliced deeper than any blade. Jean felt the Phoenix stir, restless. She closed her eyes.
"I'm still your daughter," she whispered. "But I carry something now. Something bigger than me. A force of life, of fire. It saved me… but it also changed me."
Her father leaned forward, fists white. "We saw you. Flying. Burning. Fighting… creatures! That wasn't our Jean. That was—" He faltered, unable to finish.
Jean's eyes burned faintly green. "It was both. Jean Grey and the Phoenix. I'm still me… just more."
Silence stretched. Her mother's hands trembled. Finally, she reached out, fingertips brushing Jean's. "You sound the same. You sound like my Jean. I want to believe."
Jean smiled faintly, though it felt brittle. "Then believe. Please."
Across the hall, Cyclops leaned against the wall, arms crossed, visor humming with a low glow. He watched her through the doorframe, thoughts grinding.
She's changed. She's not just Jean anymore. She's brighter, stronger… but further away. Can I even reach her now? Can I hold on, when she's burning like a star?
His hand clenched to a fist.
---
Downstairs, the living room buzzed with lighter air.
Banshee sprawled across a couch, whistling an old Irish tune as Moira swept past him with a picnic basket. Colossus loomed nearby, holding a blanket the size of a ship sail, folding it carefully. Storm gathered fruit in a basket, the morning light haloing her white hair.
The door creaked. Logan stepped in, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, cigar clenched tight.
"I hear there's a picnic. Count me in."
Three heads swiveled his way. Banshee raised an eyebrow. "You? The social type? Thought ye'd rather chew glass than sit on a blanket."
Logan grunted. "Don't get used to it. I just need a lift across the river. Better hunting grounds."
Storm's eyes narrowed, her voice sharp. "Hunting? More killing, more blood? Have you learned nothing, Wolverine?"
Logan smirked around his cigar. "Relax, Ro. Don't mean killing. Just tracking, sneakin' up close enough to touch 'em without them knowin'. Predator's game. No corpses. Promise."
The room held still for a heartbeat. Storm's shoulders eased, her expression softening. "Then… I misjudged you. I apologize."
Logan tipped two fingers to his brow. "No harm done. Let's get movin' before Banshee eats all the sandwiches."
Banshee barked a laugh, clapping him on the back.
Storm shook her head, a rare smile tugging at her lips.
---
Elsewhere, Sunfire and Thunderbird stomped down the mansion steps together, muttering about "civilized nonsense."
"Picnics, flowers, talking to plants," Sunfire scoffed. "Bah. I need something stronger."
Thunderbird cracked his knuckles. "Bar with real drinks. Real men."
They strode off toward town, already planning to leave a trail of empty bottles behind them.
---
In the hall above, Jean stood at the window, staring at her reflection. Her parents' voices still echoed inside her. Scott appeared behind her, visor gleaming faintly in the glass.
"Jean," he said quietly. "We need to talk."
Her reflection smiled, but her eyes blazed. "Later, Scott. Not yet."
And then she walked past him, fire trailing faint in her wake.
Scott remained, silent, watching her go.
---
The mansion hummed with ordinary life. For once, no cosmic storms. Just people. Lovers. Friends. Family.
And one man sharpening his claws for the hunt.