Work Text:
Truthfully, there wasn’t anything usual about the start of his day.
Logan wakes up tired, blinking sleepily at the wood paneled ceiling, morning light seeping through the living room curtains warm and golden. A group of students rush past the door, feet thudding against the halls outside as they ready themselves for the start of the school day.
He grumbles, allowing himself only another few moments of closed eyes before he pushes himself up, couch creaking beneath his weight. He must’ve fallen asleep during last night’s movie. He goes through the motions of getting ready, blearily making his way back to his room. He takes a quick shower, dresses, brushes his hair, his teeth, grumbling when he can’t find his favorite belt, settling for one of his older ones.
His room at the x-mansion had looked more or less the same since he’d first arrived at the mansion all those years ago. And it’d been only a short while since Rogue had forced one of those new age clocks with the holograms into his room— so the return of his old digital one, and the change of comforter, and the subtle shift of the clothes in his wardrobe go completely unnoticed.
Logan slips out of his room a short while later, still half asleep despite his shower. He makes his way towards the kitchen— walks the same hall he’d walked for the last thirty odd years. He doesn’t notice the return of the old carpet, or the few paintings missing along the walls. One of the kids coming from the kitchen nearly barrels into him, Logan narrowly dodging them at the last second. When he doesn’t quite recognize them he only assumes it must be one of the new students. “Careful, kid.”
“Sorry!” They call back, continuing their race down the hall.
Logan only shakes his head, fighting back a small smile as he pushes into the kitchen— the smell of coffee and sausage drawing him in. He makes a b-line for the coffee pot, pulling a mug from one of the cabinets.
“Good morning,” Hank greets. He’s stood at the stove, plating another serving of sausage for the students. Hank glances at him, a curious expression on his face. “When did you start going gray?”
Logan rolls his eyes. “Round the same time Chuck did,” he jokes.
Hank laughs softly, returning his attention to the food again. “I thought you left last night?” he asks absently, changing the conversation.
Logan raises a brow at him. “No? Gotta class ta teach,” he reminds him over the rim of his mug. He takes a long drink. He can tell it’d been brewed far earlier in the morning, likely by Scott or the Professor. Still, it goes down warm.
Hank chuckles, moving to rinse his hands in the sink. “That makes two within the last minute. I didn’t know you knew how to make jokes, Logan,” the mutant teases, an amused expression on his face.
Logan pauses, mug halfway to his lips. “I thought the kids started back today?” He looks briefly towards the students at the table behind them, chattering away with one another, talking around the food in their mouths. He doesn’t recognize any of them at a glance, assumes they’re part of the new wave of students the professor said were coming in for the new semester. “I get the date wrong?”
Hank hesitates at Logan’s question, turning to him with a quizzical expression. “Did the Professor actually convince you to start teaching?”
Logan’s brows furrow. “I’ve been teachin’ history for the last ten years, McCoy. You feelin’ alright?”
“I think that’s a question best reserved for yourself, Logan,” Hank replies, studying him for a long moment before his expression shifts to something shocked and revelatory.
And now Logan was getting frustrated, he glances at the kids again, still eating, still chattering away, and decides to hold back what he actually wants to say to the man. Because being a teacher for ten years had taught him that sometimes holding his tongue around them wasn’t just in their best interest, but his own. Because then they’d start repeating shit and then Logan had to deal with Charles and really in the grand scheme of things telling Hank to ‘cut it the fuck out’ wasn’t worth dealing with another lecture from Charles on responsibility. So, instead he says: “I don’t have time for this.”
Logan then proceeds to down the rest of his coffee in one go, shove a sausage patty in his mouth, and walk right back out of the kitchen.
He’s got a fresh wave of students for the start of the semester. And when he walks in sixty seconds before the first bell they get wide eyed and quiet. “Mornin’” he greets, “Name’s Logan, this is history, make sure to take notes.” And Logan, the man that he is, gets right into teaching as the bell rings. He turns his back to them, drawing an empty timeline on the chalkboard— a relic kept solely for Logan’s preferred use.
He’s in the middle of filling out a few dates on the board when he catches Ororo slipping through the classroom door from the corner of his eye. He raises a brow at her but she only motions for him to continue with a bright smile on her face. Her hair is different than it’d been the day before— he thinks it makes her look younger.
The students watch her as she moves towards the back of the room, taking a seat in one of the empty chairs. Logan huffs softly, hiding his smile. He writes another few important dates on the board. “World War I ended in 1918,” he starts, “but it’s important context for a lot of the stuff that went on in the 1920’s—”
None of the students talk much as he teaches, there’s a few questions about the lesson that Logan answers with ease before he gets sick of listening to his own voice and turns to face the kids. He settles on the edge of his desk for a proper discussion. “1920’s, anyone know anythin’ else about ‘em?”
Someone he thinks might be Kitty’s cousin raises their hand. He motions for her to speak. “Um, they banned alcohol?” She says, more like a question.
“Half right,” Logan replies, a hint of a smile on his lips. “They tried to ban alcohol. Couldn’t stop everyone from drinkin’, just made it illegal and harder to get.”
“If it was illegal how’d people get any?” Another kid asks.
Logan scratches at his chin. “There were a whole bunch of ways. In 1923 or so I worked for a couple of moonshiners, they had a place set up just outside New York where they’d brew illegal alcohol. Tasted awful, but at that time ya couldn’t afford to be picky. They hired me to smuggle it into the city.”
Excited whispers start up amongst the students.
“They sold to a few illegal bars called speakeasies,” Logan continues, turning to write the word on the board. He’d never admit it out loud, but Logan thinks this had always been his favorite thing of teaching— because it was a way to look fondly back on his past rather than getting bogged down in it. “It was my job to get the moonshine to their buyers.”
“Did you ever get caught?” Someone calls, interrupting.
“Once,” Logan hums, turning to face them again. There’s an immediate clamoring of questions following the admission, kids poised at the edge of their seats.
“Did you get arrested?!”
“What’d you do?!”
“How long were you in jail?!”
“Hey, hey, just cause I got caught doesn’t mean I didn’t get away.” Logan explains with a grin, arms folding over his chest. “Ended up in a three hour manhunt in the city, spent half of it weaving in and out of alleys with the cops on my tail.”
“But then how’d you get away?!”
Logan recalls the memory, racing down the streets, pressing himself into alleys. “I managed to find a shop to hide me, offered ‘em a bottle of moonshine and they let me hunkerdown in their backroom till the police gave up.”
“Wait,” one of the kids says suspiciously, eyes narrowed at him. “But 1920 was like— ninety-years ago. That would mean you’re like, old, old.”
Logan huffs, amused. “Yeah, kid, I’m like old, old.”
“Then how old does that make Professor Xavier?” someone calls, “Isn’t he older than you? He looks older than you.”
The bell rings, signaling the end of class. It gives him an opportunity to dodge the question, keep them on their toes for their next lesson. He dismisses the students with a wave, fighting back his smirk. “No homework.”
The students chatter excitedly as they file out, bouncing on their heels, riding the high of Logan’s story. Charles’ had been right all those years ago when he’d said Logan would do good as a history teacher, not that he’d ever admit it. It’d helped that most of what he taught were things he’d experienced first hand— kept the students engaged at least.
“What a riveting lesson,” Ororo says with a smile, pulling herself out of the seat she’d taken in the back. The kids have all cleared out by now, leaving them alone.
Logan raises an amused brow at her. “Don’t you have your own class to be teachin’ ‘Ro?”
“Not until later, it appears,” she responds. She rests a hand on his arm as she passes. “I’m glad you’ve found a place here, Logan.”
The words strike him as odd, he frowns, eyes following her path out of the room. “Thanks?” he calls after her, confused.
When Logan first started teaching he spent most of his time between classes day drinking. He’d had a hard time adjusting and it hadn’t gotten much easier over the years— discussing the past and the role he’d played in all of it. No matter how much he may enjoy it, teaching would always be a complicated affair for him.
The moonshiners he’d worked for had died in a shootout with police not two months later. He hadn’t been particularly close with the brothers, but they’d been friendly with one another, had traded stories over a campfire a few times, drinking moonshine so strong that even Logan felt drunk. He’d buried them shortly afterwards, downed a bottle or two next to their graves, sent a short letter to their parents, and got a job working construction in the city.
He’d gathered a few better ways to cope besides trying to get plastered between periods. One of which involved wandering the grounds outside, far enough away from his stash of alcohol for it to be much of a temptation. Another one was smoking.
He puffs on the end of his cigar, watching from a distance as Scott runs a group of kids through some basic exercises.
“Smoking kills, you know.”
Logan glances over to see Charles approaching. He huffs, smile twitching at his lips. “Other people, sure,” Logan replies. He puts the cigar out in the palm of his hand with a twist of his brows, looking down at it almost mournfully despite knowing it was worth sparing himself a scolding from Xavier.
“How have you been settling in these days?” Charles asks, gracefully ignoring him. He pauses beside Logan, turning his wheelchair to look out towards Scott and the kids. “I understand it’s likely an adjustment, even now.”
“Not any different than it usually is,” Logan says, going to take another puff of his cigar only to remember he’d already put it out. “Lot’s a new kids though,” Logan continues absently, lamenting his cigar, “Was a bit surprised.”
“There are a few new students, yes,” Charles agrees, amused.
From this distance they can hear when Scott calls an end to the lesson, the kids rising from the ground with far off groans.
“Jean told me what happened yesterday,” Charles says, not looking at him.
Logan’s brow furrows, confused for only a moment. “That whole thing?” He asks. There’d been a bit of an incident the day before with one of the new students. They’d arrived a few days ahead of the new semester and it’d been clear in that short time alone that they were having a difficult time controlling their mutation— things in their hands popping out of existence only to reappear some time later without warning.
“I’m sure Rogue will want to thank you,” Charles continues as if in confirmation.
Out of all the x-men, Rogue knew best what it was like to be restricted in who or what you could touch. It’s why when the kid— Skyler, he thinks— had pulled a magician act with a new set of gloves they’d only just received, Logan had gently guided the bawling kid into one of the empty offices and called for Rogue. Because she understood kids like that— the ones who hurt people without meaning to, who destroyed the things they loved. Logan understood them too. It’s why he’d understood Rogue from the start— why he hadn’t kicked her out when he’d found her stowed away in his trailer all those years ago.
Those had been special circumstances, however. Despite being a teacher Logan would never claim to be good with kids. So he’d left them in Rogue's careful hands, only offering the odd word of encouragement where he could.
“Don’t know what she’d have ta thank me for,” Logan grunts, “Didn’t do much.”
“Your words mean more than you think, Logan,” Charles says as Scott starts towards them, “She looks up to you.” Charles urges his chair forward, going out to meet Scott, leaving Logan to his thoughts.
He really didn’t think he’d said anything special the day before, maybe a few ‘you’ll be alright’s or ‘just takes time’s after Rogue had gotten there. Still, Logan huffs, a smile twitching at his lips as Charles and Scott head inside together. “I’ll never know why.”
The rest of his classes go much the same as the one before, lessons on the 1920’s turning into discussions of what he’d been up to at the time. Ororo occasionally peaks her head in, only smiling in greeting before continuing on her way. Logan raises a brow at her every time, but she doesn’t come in again like she’d done for his first class.
Hank also makes a stop in the doorway, staring for a long moment, mouth partially agape. Logan won’t admit it aloud. But the sight unsettles him somewhat. He’d thought this morning was Hank’s sad attempt at a joke— seeing him now makes Logan think otherwise.
“Woodrow Wilson was the president for the start of the Prohibition, but he didn’t actually have anythin’ to do with it,” Logan explains, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He keeps Hank in the corner of his eye as he talks. “There was a big religious revival in the years leadin’ up to it. Probably had three people a week knockin’ on my door tryna’ preach to me back then. Course, it also made things a lot more dangerous for what mutants there were back then—”
Hank comes back to himself after a moment, shaking his head as if to clear it, shoulders pulling back before he marches down the hall. He’d need to have a talk with Charles about the mutant’s weird ass behavior after class.
It isn’t too much longer before he’s dismissing his last class of the day, ushering them out with a grunt as he flicks the lights off and makes a b-line for Charles’ most likely location. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, brow furrowed in thought as he walks the halls, slipping around the occasional group of students.
The students thin out as he reaches Xavier’s office. He takes a moment to think over what to say, stopping just outside the door. It’s there that he picks up on conversation from inside.
“—sounds like he’s joking, Hank,” Scott’s voice carries, making Logan pause.
“I’m telling you,” Hank defends, “He genuinely believes he’s a history teacher.” Logan frowns, listening closer to the conversation.
“He more than simply believes it,” Ororo voices and Logan’s frown only deepens. “I arrived rather late to my class this morning to find him teaching it. He seemed to be doing a fine job of it, so I watched from the back.”
“Are you telling me he actually taught a class?” Scott asks, sounding flabbergasted. “Like a real class. And you let him?”
“Multiple,” Ororo clarifies. “He kept to a defined lesson plan, kept the students engaged. He even discussed his time during the 1920s.” She lets the words hang there, lets them sink in. Though Logan’s not entirely sure what the others must draw from it— doesn’t know why they all seemed to be acting like Logan hadn’t been teaching history for the last decade.
Hank clears his throat. “Professor, he must have unlocked some of the memories of his past— perhaps he’s begun to confuse it with the present. It would better explain what’s been happening.”
“I agree,” Ororo seconds. “It is the only good explanation.”
“You can’t be serious,” Scott says, “Logan? A teacher?”
“I’m sure that whatever it is, is easily explainable with a conversation,” Charles assures calmly. “Isn’t that right, Logan?”
Logan startles, cursing internally, debating the pros and cons of walking away. He mumbles a few choice words under his breath before pushing through the office doors. “If this is supposed ta be some joke, I’m not laughin’,” he grunts, walking in. He shuts the door behind him, expression set in a defensive glare.
“It’s no joke, I assure you,” Charles says, wheeling himself out from behind his desk and towards Logan. “They’re merely concerned by your recent behavior.”
“My recent behavior?” Logan asks with a bark of a laugh, “What about yours? ‘U’re all talkin’ like you forgot the last decade!”
The others trade concerned looks.
Logan rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Unbelievable,” he mutters.
“Logan,” Hank starts, “Yesterday you told me you couldn’t even remember your own birthday and today you’re teaching students about your life during the 1920’s. You must see why we’re confused.”
Logan’s scowl intensifies. “The hell are you on about? I know my own damn birthday, Hank. Hard to forget when Victor keeps showin’ up with those damned gifts of his.”
Scott’s frustration rises to meet Logan’s own. “Will you listen to yourself?”
Logan’s teeth grind down against each other. He takes a breath to center himself, breathing out harshly through his nose. “I’m goin’ ta get Jean,” Logan announces, turning sharply on his heel. “She’ll talk some sense into the lot of ya.”
There’s a clamoring of protests from behind him, calling him back, asking him to sit. He throws open the doors to the office despite them, freezing only when he finds Rogue on the other side, her hand half raised to knock.
Logan can only blink down at the girl, dumbfounded. “What the hell happened to you?”
She looks up at him, equally confused. She lets her hand drop back to her side as the others move closer. “What do you mean?”
“You look like a kid.”
The confused look on her face is replaced by exasperation. She rolls her eyes. “I’m eighteen,” she huffs, shoving at his chest with a gloved hand. “Not funny. You had me thinkin’ there was something wrong.”
But there is something wrong. Because Rogue is eighteen— more than twenty years younger than she should be. He turns slowly, realization settling, undeniable and ugly. He glances at the others over his shoulder. It’s hard to see on Hank even now, but the hair he’d thought made Ororo look younger goes far beyond that, and Scott’s youth can’t be hidden by his visor now that Logan was really looking at him. Even Charles, who’d been an old man long before they’d met, didn’t have the deepened wrinkles Logan had come to associate him with.
There’s a real reason they were surprised by Logan of all people teaching a class so far removed from the danger room— why they didn’t seem to know half as much about Logan as they should.
Rogue peaks around him nervously, looking at the others gathered inside. “Sorry, didn’t realize you guys were busy. Um—” she hesitates, looking searchingly at Logan, “Come find me after you’re done?”
Logan’s mouth opens as if to say something before he closes it again, at a loss for words. After a second he forces out: “Sure, kid.”
She nods, rocking back on her heels. “Cool.” There’s a moment of silence where Logan can do nothing but look at her, watching as she steps back and retreats down the hall with a wave.
He’s still staring after her when he distantly hears himself asks the others: “What year is it?”
“…2002,” Hank answers carefully, studying the look on Logan’s face.
Logan lets his head thump against the doorframe. “2002,” he mutters to himself, “Sure, why not.”
“Logan?” Charles asks, the mechanical whir of his wheelchair kicking up as he guides himself forward.
“1973,” he says instead of answering. It gets Charles and Hank’s attention rather quickly. He pushes away from the door, plopping down on the couch, tired suddenly. He doesn’t know how it’d taken him so long to realize— the mansion had always been a place separate from the passage of time, but there were plenty of little things that would have changed over the years. He should’ve noticed sooner, it probably spoke a bit too much on how comfortable Logan had gotten over the years that none of those little things had raised red flags.
“Welcome back,” Charles breathes, moving closer to him with an almost awe-inspired look on his face.
Logan grimaces. “We’re not supposed to have this conversation for another twenty years.”
Scott looks between them bewildered. “Sorry, am I missing something?”
“I must admit I’m also rather lost. What is this about 1973?” Ororo asks unsurely.
“I’m gonna need everyone ‘sides the professor to clear out,” Logan grunts, “Too much shit to deal with otherwise.”
“No,” Scott denies immediately, frustration returning as he stalks forward, “You’re going to sit there and explain to us just what—”
“It’s okay, Scott,” Charles reassures, resting a hand on his arm in passing. “Let Logan and I speak alone for a moment.” He doesn’t look at Scott as he says it, can’t tear his gaze from Logan. Behind them, Logan catches Hank standing a bit straighter, the same sort of bright understanding glinting in his eyes.
He can tell Scott’s not happy about the decision, and a furrow has formed between Ororo’s white brows. Scott’s fists clench at his side, unclench, clench again. “Fine,” Scott grits out painfully, “But I expect a full explanation after.” He turns on his heel, stalking past the others on his way out the door. Ororo follows after him without protest, only hesitantly glancing at them over her shoulder.
Hank too lingers in the doorway for a moment, the last out. Logan can tell he’s looking him over like some long lost polaroid. “It’s good to have you back, Logan,” he says softly, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Logan lets Charles walk through his memories, nothing timeline altering, only the events leading up to waking up here. “My best guess is one of the kids,” Logan grunts, shifting slightly in his spot on the chase lounge. It’d taken a bit to explain that he wasn’t quite the same Logan they’d left in 1973— that it’d already been years for Logan since he’d returned. “We didn’t have anythin’ planned that I can remember, certainly nothin’ world endin’ like the last time,” he grumbles, “New semester, new mutant powers. First week back ‘s always a mess.”
Charles hums a note of agreement, fingers still pressed to Logan’s temples, finding something that catches his interest. “Hello there,” Charles murmurs, settling on a familiar memory that he gently pulls Logan into.
His own voice settles in his head. “Trust me, kid. I’ve seen monsters. And not one of ‘em looked like you.” He’s in an empty office, crouched in front of a sniveling student he’d been waiting for Rogue to arrive, searching for something to say in her absence. In the memory Logan hands them a tissue that disappears the moment they go to grab it, watching as they break into a fresh round of tears.
“Do the items they touch ever come back?” Charles asks, appearing beside Logan in the memory.
“Sometimes,” Logan murmurs, studying the kid’s crying face with a constipated look, “‘S not everything they touch. From what I’ve heard it’s pretty random. You hadn’t had much of a chance to study it yet.” He pulls his gaze away from the kid, studying the professor’s expression.
“What of organic material?” Charles presses, “Living things?”
Logan pauses. “You think they’re the one who sent me back?” He looks back at the kid, their face scrunched up, eyes red, cheeks striped with tears.
“I believe they are the most likely explanation,” Charles confirms. They watch the rest of the memory play out together, backing away when Rogue slips into the room with a gentle smile. She comforts the kid with a quiet ease, soothing them with words he’s sure she would’ve wanted to hear at their age. Logan hangs back for most of it, though they watch closely when Rogue takes the child’s hands in hers. She doesn’t disappear like the tissue or the gloves but not everything the kid touched ended up like that to begin with.
“Did you see the child again after this?” Charles asks, moving closer to them. He studies Rogue’s face with a fond smile.
“Maybe, some of the kids and I were watchin’ a movie in the living room ‘fore I woke up here. Don’t know if they were there or not.” He scratches idly at his chest. “I fell asleep on the couch.”
The memory shifts. Logan is settled on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table. The lights are dimmed, the room packed with kids. Some have set up camp on the floor with blankets and pillows they’d dragged from their rooms, a lucky few made it to the couches, others had dragged chairs of all kinds from elsewhere in the mansion.
There’s a mess of snacks all over the room, popcorn, candy, chips. Logan himself steals a handful of popcorn from the bowl of the kid curled up on Logan’s left side, already asleep.
Charles sits on his other side, raising an amused brow at him as Logan stuffs another handful into his mouth. He feels much more relaxed than he had previously, and he idly wonders if the feeling is part of the memory. The Barbie movie plays in the background, catching Logan’s attention even now.
“The future suits you,” Charles murmurs softly, voice low as if worried to wake the child beside Logan.
Logan huffs through his nose, a hint of a smile at his lips. He stuffs another handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Suits us all.”
They spot the kid from earlier rather easily, tucked into one of the chairs from the kitchen, their knees pulled to their chest, hands folded out of sight. They’re sat off to the side, watching the movie with a gloomy sort of melancholy.
They stay in that memory for a long while, riding out the rest of the movie, watching them from the corner of their eye. Some kids return to their rooms part of the way through, tiredly rubbing their eyes. Others fall asleep where they are. The room is a minefield of sleeping bodies by the last half hour of the movie and it’s not long before the room begins to fade at the edges before dissolving completely into darkness where Logan falls asleep.
“Perhaps they tried to wake you?” Charles asks from beside him. They’re still on the couch, surrounded by a quiet void of lapping dusk.
“‘S possibility,” Logan mumbles. He feels tired, likely rollover from his memory.
“I am happy to see you again, Logan,” Charles says quietly, sensing Logan’s fatigue. “Seeing what memories you’ve shared, it gives me courage for the future.”
Logan does his best to pull himself into wakefulness, only somewhat succeeding. “Don’t go tellin’ current me about any of this,” Logan warns, yawning. “I doubt I’d take it well.”
Charles smiles fondly. “I don’t know how well the students would keep your secret.”
Logan only grunts, eyes heavy.
Charles pulls them gently from the memory, hands falling from Logan’s temples. “Sleep some more, we can talk more later.” So Logan does.
When Logan wakes the sun casts fading golden light through the office windows. There’s a quiet shifting of papers, the distant sound of kids moving back and forth in the halls. “Welcome back,” Charles greets softly from behind his desk. He glances up at Logan, setting aside a few papers.
Logan narrows his eyes blearily at the man, still waking up.
“I’m sure young Skyler will be glad to hear you’re back.”
“Skyler?” Logan mumbles, confused. He blinks harshly, pushing himself up. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, blinking the sleep from his eyes.
When he looks up again Charles is watching him with an amused expression. “Welcome back to the future,” Charles clarifies, wheeling himself away from his desk. He continues around the side of it, making his way towards Logan. “Or present, depending on how you wish to perceive it.”
Logan studies the other man, eyes flickering over his face, taking in the deepened wrinkles. It’s a version of Charles far older than the one he’d fallen asleep next to. He doesn’t appear to be surprised by Logan’s undoubtedly sudden arrival in his office, in fact he seems to have been expecting it.
“You knew this would happen,” Logan grunts.
“Not until you went back, no,” Charles says, amused. “Time travel is tricky business as I’m sure you’re well aware. Even such a short trip was bound to rewrite a few things.”
Logan stares for another long moment before he groans, collapsing back onto the chase lounge. He throws an arm over his face to block out the light, more than ready to fall back into sleep. “I’m gettin’ too old for this,” he mutters.
Charles only laughs softly, agreeing with him.