Disclaimer: Marvel owns them. I just have my wicked way with them. :)
Warnings: Explicit sexual content and some violence.
The forest was dark, so dark that Jean could barely see her hand in front of her face. The trail was a blurred outline among the black trees, and she followed it, brushing branches out of her way. After a few minutes, she caught a glimpse of light among the trees, flickering as leaves and branches swayed in the light breeze.
*Come here.*
The words weren't really spoken, but rather echoed around in her head like a thought. Jean pushed the branches of a blue spruce out of the way and headed for the light. It got clearer the closer she came to it, and she realized that it was a building. She stumbled through a tangle of bushes and found herself in front of a small pagoda.
A pagoda? She blinked, but the building did not change. Dark wooden walls reached up to a curved red roof. A flickering light shined through the two windows on the front of the building.
*Come inside, Jean.*
The thought-voice echoed again and Jean slowly pushed the door open, peering into the dim interior. . . the inside of a dojo. How she knew the building was a dojo she couldn't figure out. She slipped out of her shoes and padded silently inside.
She was in a foyer of sorts, separated from the rest of the single room by a thin paper wall. She could see the flickering light of torches through the paper, and a dark figure, moving slowly, rhythmically. Jean crossed the room and slid a hidden door open, peering into the other half of the dojo.
Two flambeau torches hung on the walls, casting red-orange light around the bare room. There was no furniture, only a mat in the center of the room. Three swords, a katana, a wakisashi and a tanto, lay on the mat beside a neatly folded keikogi and a pair of straw zori. Jean shook her head and tried to remember where she'd learned the names of the swords and clothing in front of her. 'Wait. . . I'm in Logan's mind. He knows, so I know,' she thought, feeling a bit foolish for not realizing it before.
Logan. . . Logan was in the middle of the room, slowly moving through a kata, the movement of his legs hidden by a black hakama. He was shirtless and barefoot, and the light from the torches played over his straining muscles. Jean felt a flare of heat deep inside of her as she watched him. For a man his size, he was surprisingly graceful, each punch, kick, thrust, and lunge like steps in a dance. Logan was a beautiful specimen of masculinity.
He came to a stop, panting slightly, and bowed to an invisible partner, then turned and sank to his knees on the mat in front of the swords. Jean looked at the array on the floor again and suddenly realized that this was the equipment of a samurai. Was this a part of Logan's past?
"Yes, it is," he said, startling her.
Logan beckoned to her, and she sat cross-legged across from him. His eyes were startlingly clear, completely devoid of the pain, the haunted look she was so used to seeing in them. He watched her silently, waiting for something. Jean didn't know what, so she stared at the clothing in front of her. The material of the shirt, the keikogi, was beautiful, a fine black cotton that almost shimmered in the torchlight. Each shoulder was embroidered with a silver design, a dragon and a phoenix entwined. She idly wondered what he would look like dressed in the keikogi, with the three swords strapped to his waist. They were beautiful as well, lacquered black and red, the handles ivory wrapped in black silk, the hand guards bronze. These were the swords of a rich man.
"You're showing me your past, aren't you?" she asked, not taking her eyes off of the weapons.
She could see his little half-smile out of the corner of her eye. "I think so," he replied.
"You were a samurai?" she said, looking up at him.
Logan pressed his lips together thoughtfully. "In a way. I was trained in Japan by a master named Ogun. He was my sensei. I killed him in battle. I am ronin now."
Jean could see the fine trembling in his hands. "Do you want to go on?" she asked.
Logan looked at her, his dark eyes pinning her. "This is a part of me. Until I've remembered all of it, I won't be whole. I have to go on, Jeannie," he paused and lifted the katana into his lap.
She watched him unsheathe the sword and run a reverent fingertip down the polished steel blade. "I have to remember," he continued, "but I need you. I need your help."
Jean swallowed hard. "Logan, I'll always be here for you."
He pinned her with his gaze again. "Will you? Deep down inside o'me, I know that you love me. But sometimes. . . you're so distant. Like you won't let yourself love me. Why?"
Jean's eyes burned. "I. . . I guess I was afraid. I felt like I was betraying Scott's memory by loving you."
"Do you still feel that way?"
Jean closed her eyes and concentrated on him. *I love you, Logan, and I'll always be with you.*
She felt rather than saw his smile, and smiled herself. "I love you, Jean Grey. Don't think I'll ever let you go," he said quietly.
She opened her eyes in time to see him brushing the keikogi and zori aside. She didn't have time to ask why before he pulled her close, into his lap, and kissed her. She melted against him, let him mold her and support her. He was pouring all of his love, his fear, his devotion into this kiss and it was overwhelming. She tasted tears on his lips and wondered if they were hers or his, and decided that she didn't care. They were together, bonded by these tears, by this pain. It healed them.
After a long moment, Logan disengaged and stood, smoothing the pleats of his hakama. "I'm ready. Are you?" he asked.
Jean nodded and let him pull her to her feet. "Then let's go, koibito," he said, leading her through the back door of the dojo.
Jean gasped as she was pulled into the stream of his consciousness again and held tight to his hand. Memories flew past them so quickly that she could only catch glimpses of them: fighting in a cage, the laboratory, sparring with a man in a red mask, a battlefield. . . Jean tugged on Logan's hand and stopped at that memory.
Men were falling everywhere. The air stank of blood and burnt flesh and some kind of chemical. She felt Logan's grip tighten on her hand; looking to her right, she saw why he had tensed. His memory doppelganger was coming over a rise, rifle in hand. He was covered in blood and his eyes were wild with a killing lust. A man jumped out from behind a tree, wearing a gore-splattered German uniform and brandishing a handgun, and Logan opened fire. Bullets ripped into the German soldier, and the man was dead before he hit the ground.
"Let's go. . . " Logan whispered in her ear, his voice pained, and they were whisked back into the stream.
Jean tried to stay quiet, but she couldn't. "You're much older than we thought," she said.
Logan looked numb. "I looked the same then as I do now."
Jean couldn't think of anything to say to that. Instead, she leaned toward another memory and watched.
The laboratory. . . Jean jumped and looked at Logan, but his face was a stony mask. "Can you handle this?" she asked.
His answer was a terse nod. Gripping her hand tightly, he watched the experiments, the adamantium bonding as it played like a movie. He flinched a few times, but Jean thought that he was handling it well. He sucked in a breath and she turned her attention back to the memory. For a second, a man's face was startlingly clear. . . a man with cold eyes. . . and then it disappeared, swept away with the rest of the memory.
"I will find that man," Logan said, his voice quiet, "and kill him."
Jean stayed silent this time, letting him come to grips. Then, she steered them toward another memory; 'Hopefully, a happier one,' she thought. This one was short; it disappeared before they could get a good look. It was Logan and a beautiful Japanese woman, holding each other. . . Jean felt her stomach clench, and she stamped the emotion down.
The next memory was also brief. It was Logan as a child, held by a woman Jean assumed to be his mother. She looked to be at least part Native American, with long, black hair falling to the sides of her pretty face. The memory turned and a tall man came into view, a man with Logan's hawkish features and penetrating eyes.
"My parents. . . " he whispered.
And they were whisked away again.
-----
Jubilee stretched and looked at the clock for what felt like the millionth time. She had been sitting watch in the lab for the past hour and a half. Rogue had watched for two hours before her, and Storm three before that. The Professor watched them all of last night.
She tried to ignore the hollow feeling of dread in her stomach. She liked Wolverine a lot; he was a really good guy. . . She suddenly sat up in surprise. Logan was moving.
Jubilee hit the intercom button.
"Professor! I think they're awake! Storm, somebody, get down here!"
-----
Jean groaned and opened her eyes, squinting into the light. Her head was spinning, making her feel mildly nauseated. "God," she said, stretching her back until it popped.
Motion caught her attention, and her eyes suddenly flew open. Logan was moving! "Logan," she whispered.
His eyelids fluttered and he cleared his throat, scrunching his forehead. "Wake up, Logan," she said, smiling.
Logan blinked a few times and looked up at her, confused. "Where the hell am I?"
Jean laughed, nearly kicking her chair over in her haste to get closer to him. "The med lab."
"Why am I in the med lab? Waitaminute. . . " he paused, his eyes widening. "I remember things. . . "
"I know," she murmured, crawling up onto the bed.
He wrapped an arm around her as she curled against his side. "I. . . there's so much. . . "
"Don't try to recall everything right now, Logan."
She jumped at Professor Xavier's voice. He wheeled into her line of sight, a relieved smile brightening his tired face. "There will be time later for that. You two need some real rest. Dr. Millar will examine you, and then I want you to sleep for a good long time," he continued.
Jean looked over her shoulder and saw Jubilee and Storm standing in the door. The younger woman was practically bouncing with happiness. Jean smiled at them and let her head fall back onto Logan's shoulder. She barely noticed gentle hands examining her and pulling a blanket over them. Logan was safe. . . relief washed over her. She was exhausted, and she finally gave herself permission to feel it. "I love you, Logan," she mumbled, nuzzling his neck.
His arms tightened around her. "I love you, too, Red," he replied. "See ya when we wake up."
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