Little Man Jack

by

Moviemom44

Marie stands in the doorway of our room, watching me zip shut the backpack that will be my only luggage for this trip. I'll only be gone for the day this time, instead of the whole weekend, so I packed light - a couple of water bottles; an extra shirt, in case there's another ketchup mishap; a coloring book and crayons; and Ororo's borrowed iPod, freshly loaded with music she swears is popular with pre-schoolers. If she wondered why I was asking what the tricycle set was listening to these days, she didn't let on. Thank God for iTunes. Where else would a guy like me find songs sung by talking vegetables?

"So, are you ever going to tell me?" Marie asks.

It's the first time in three months that she's questioned me about my twice monthly weekend disappearances. I have to admire her restraint. Her perturbed tone is a far cry from the indignant growling I'd be doing if our positions were reversed.

I wish I could tell her. She's my wife. I shouldn't be keeping secrets from her, especially not this secret, but for now I have no choice. I can't say anything yet, not until I'm absolutely sure there's really something to tell.

"Tell you what?" I reply, shooting her my most charming smile. "That you're the best thing that ever happened to me? I thought I made that perfectly clear last night—four times."

Hey, it ain't braggin' if it's the truth. True or not, however, my attempt to distract her with flattery and a rehash of our lovemaking is a dismal failure. Not only is she not swooning, she doesn't even crack a smile.

"What's at the other end of Route 87?" she plows on tenaciously.

Oh, shit.

After a split-second panic attack—how the hell does she know that?—I figure that she's fishing. Most of my travels take me north into Canada and 87 is a fairly common route from New York to Quebec.

As I shoulder the backpack and dig the bike keys out of my jacket pocket, I decide to go with the tried and true stalling tactic of giving her an answer, just not the one she wants.

"Uh, depends on how far north you go. Once you hit Quebec, it turns into Route 15 and then from there—"

"Stop it, Logan! Stop actin' like you don't know what I'm talkin' about. I know you take that road to wherever it is you end up on these mysterious trips of yours. I saw the exit sign…last night…when I touched you…"

So that explains why I passed out after round four last night. I feel the angry growl start to rise in my chest. How dare she take advantage of my sexually sated state to pick my brain like that? To say nothing of blowing my shot at a Round Five. But then I see the guilty look on her face and my fury quickly dissipates. I know she did it out of desperation, not spite.

"Did you see anything else?" I ask, holding my breath.

Please…

She nods as tears well up in her big, brown eyes and her chin trembles.

...oh, please…

"A windshield, like in a van or SUV." Her face crumples and the tears flow as she chokes out the last detail. "And a child's car seat…in the back."

Aw, fuck!

How does that line go? Something about being 'just inches from a clean getaway'?

One more day. Not even that - a lousy eight or maybe ten hours and I'd have had the whole mess settled, one way or the other. And with only one little lie of omission to make up for. OK, a big lie of omission. Still, she'd have forgiven me for that — eventually. But actively refusing to answer her? That's a whole other animal. One that I just know is gonna come back and bite me squarely in the ass.

Even so, I can't explain now. Even if I could, I don't have time. A glance at the clock on the nightstand tells me I have to leave in the next ten minutes or I'll hit rush hour traffic which will add more than an hour to my travel time. And that doesn't include picking up the rental car and wrestling with the car seat. Shit, I gotta go!

The boy's mother has already proven that she means it when she says she won't wait more than thirty minutes past our scheduled meeting time. If I blow it again, she might do more this time than cancel the weekend; she could deny me visitation altogether. I can't let that happen.

But I can't just walk away from Marie either, not with her eyes so full of hurt and fear.

In my wildest dreams I never imagined being in this position. How on God's green earth did an eternal loner like me end up with more family than I know what to do with? And how do I tell Marie, my wife who I love more than anything, that my appointment at the last exit on Route 87 is with a woman I spent one weekend with five years ago and a little boy with dark, curly hair and hazel eyes who may—or may not—be my son?

"Marie, darlin', I'm so sorry I haven't told you about…where I'm going, but I swear to you it's not a bad thing. It's complicated, because there are…other people involved, good people…innocent people…who I have to protect, at least until I know everything I need to know. But honest to God, baby, none of it changes how I feel about you." Listening to myself say the words, even I know it sounds like so much bullshit, but it's as close to the truth as I can get for now.

I walk around the bed and stand in front of her. With my empty hand, I reach out to brush away a tear, but she steps back, avoiding my touch. She glares up at me, her eyes like two brown lasers burning holes in my face, daring me to cross the threshold without offering more than that anemic apology.

"Oh, Christ, Marie, I don't want to leave with things like this between us, but I have to go. If you can just trust me, darlin', for one more day, I promise by tonight you'll know more than you probably want to about all of it."

She considers my plea for a minute, her expression softer now, but still far from completely trusting. Then a flash of something—inspiration?—brightens her features and suddenly she leans in close to me and inhales deeply.

What the—?

And then it hits me. When she switched her skin on last night, she didn't just get those revealing bits of my memory, she also absorbed my powers, including my feral sense of smell. For a few hours at least, her nose will be as good a lie detector as mine is.

"So, am I lying?"

She studies me for several seconds and I get a real sense of how the gladiators must have felt while they waited for Caesar's thumb to decide their fate. My own nose tells me I'm sweating like a whore in church. I just hope Marie won't mistake the stench of anxiety over missing my fast-approaching deadline for the foul odor of falsehood.

She shakes her head slowly. "No," she finally says. "You're not lyin', but what you're not sayin' is scarin' me to death."

"I know. I'm sorry for that, too."

She looks at me expectantly, hoping I'll say something—anything—to ease her mind, but I can't. I simply don't have the answers she needs, not until I know for sure whether or not the boy is mine.

Another glance at the clock. Six minutes and counting. "Marie—"

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Logan stares back at me, his eyes issuing a desperate plea.

Let me go.

In that tiny instant, my inner bitch rears her ugly head and I resolve to do whatever it takes to keep him standing here in this room until the end of fucking time.

Let him go? Uh-uh. Not this time.

I have let him go, time and time again, without a single question about where he's going or who's waiting when he gets there. I don't ask before he leaves or after he comes home. I don't ask in the middle of the night when the nagging suspicions come creeping in, sounding like Jean in my head.

He's stepping out on you, Rogue. You knew this would happen. You're not enough for him. You'll never be enough.

Christ, the woman's been dead two years and still her running narrative on how wrong I am for Logan drones on, providing a vicious script for all my insecurities.

Look at him. Better yet, smell him. He reeks of panic. He can't get out of here fast enough. What's his hurry, I wonder? Getting to her - or getting away from you?

I never laid a bare hand on Jean, not once, but I might as well have, as firmly as she's entrenched under my skin.

Son of a bitch! I was past all that. We were past all that. We're married, for Christ's sake! You'd think the fact that Logan put on a tuxedo, stood up in front of every person we know a year ago and promised to love, honor and cherish me til death do us part would be enough to quell any doubts - even Jean infested ones - wouldn't you? Sure you would. And so did I.

Until three months ago. Until the Friday he came home early from cage fighting, made the most passionate love to me we'd ever shared - which is really sayin' somethin', 'cause our wedding night was nothin' short of legendary -- and then got out of bed, dressed, packed a bag, kissed me breathless and left, tossing "See you Sunday" over his shoulder on his way out the door. I was too drained from our hot monkey sex to protest, let alone speculate on where he might be going or why, so I just tossed "Be safe" back at him as the last shimmering waves of ecstasy hummed through my body.

Looking back, I can see the pattern clear as day. Every other Friday night, world's greatest lover. Saturday and Sunday, absentee husband. Sunday night, a guy whose best friend and his dog both died...on his birthday. I think it was that last thing that kept the voice of suspicion from screaming in my head from the very beginning. Certain kinds of missions have always affected him that way. He never talks about those. Not even with me.

But sometimes Hank can get him to open up, not about the gory details, just enough to prevent spontaneous combustion. So I asked him after Logan's last trip if he knew what had happened on the mission and, oh by the way, what the hell is up with all these solo missions that turn my husband into a walking ad for Prozac?

Hank eyed me over his spectacles like I'd just turned as blue as he is and informed me that no one had sent Logan on a solo mission in over six months. My expression must have been eloquent, because he immediately tried to backpedal his way to a cover story, but it was too late. Hank's a great friend, but he's a lousy liar.

I should have been hurt at being deceived all these weeks, but the first thing I felt was stupid. The stupid, naive little wife who sits at home and laps up the crock of shit she's being fed by her cheating husband like it's caviar and champagne while he uses her love - her trust -- to stab her in the back again and again.

And then the pain hit. Why? What had I done? Or not done?

Next came the fear. Doesn't he love me anymore? Is he going to leave me? And finally, finally, the fear and pain did what fear and pain always do; they became anger.

Oh, I was pissed. On an apocalyptic scale. But with the rage, oddly enough, came clarity of thought and I knew that I couldn't confront him without any evidence. I had to find out where he was really going and what -or who - he was doing there before I came at him with all the fury of a woman scorned. And while it about killed me to spend last week pretending everything was fine, I knew my best opportunity would come after our Friday night shagfest, so, like it or not, I had to wait.

I'd prepared myself for whatever brand of whorin' around I might see, but that car seat...Holy Christ, a car seat!

Shocked would be an understatement. Blindsided was more like it. Nothin' in my memories or his could have softened that blow. I've always known that Logan has a tender spot for children, for all kinds of young, helpless things, really. But the feelings attached to that blip of memory were so strong, so turbulent they literally took my breath away, forcing me to let go of him before I got any real answers. And with even more questions than when I started.

Clearly, the seat's occupant is no random kid. This child - some other woman's child - means a lot to Logan, so much that he's been sneakin' off every other weekend to see...him. If I don't know anything else, I know that much; that vibe was definitely male.

In the hours between last night's mental invasion and now, most of the anger has shifted again, back into fear and pain and the awful, naggin' certainty that this boy -and his mother? - belong to Logan as much - or more - than I do.

But possession is nine-tenths of the law, which means until he tells me otherwise, Logan is still mine. He swears that whatever is happening hasn't changed how he feels about me and I know he isn't lying, so I'll do like he asked and trust him - for now. But I don't have to like it. And I goddamn well don't.

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Marie moves aside to let me pass, but her eyes remain fixed on mine with an almost predatory determination. Somehow, while I was peeking at the clock, she's gone from scared to scary.

"Just don't make me sorry I trusted you, Logan. 'Cause in case you forgot, I'm not just your wife, I'm the Rogue."

With that, she grabs me by the shirt front and pulls me into a fierce, bruising kiss. It's obvious she's staking her claim, but the tiny sizzle of her mutation across my lips is also a reminder -a warning - that she's more than capable of kicking my ass to kingdom come and I'd damn well better not forget it.

"You sure as hell are, darlin' and I wouldn't have it any other way," I say with profound sincerity on my way out the door. "I gotta run. Bye."

And I do, literally, run down the steps. I'm halfway down when I hear Marie yell.

"Logan, wait!"

I consider pretending I didn't hear her so I can keep going, but she knows full well how keen my senses are and I'm in enough trouble as it is. I stop and turn around. Precious seconds tick away as I wait for her to catch up to me.

"What?"

"The child…who is he?"

The answer that damn near bursts from behind my teeth is 'My son', but that's just my heart talking. The truth is, I won't know for sure until after Hank analyzes the blood sample I won't be able to stand to watch him take out of that skinny little arm.

"Marie, I can't-"

"His name, Logan. Can you at least tell me his name?"

Before she agreed to let me meet him, his mother made me promise not to reveal his existence to anyone in my world, and so far I've kept my end of the deal - Marie's unauthorized snooping notwithstanding. But Marie is my wife and I made promises to her, too.

"It's Jack, darlin'. His name is Jack."

As I expected, traffic is a bitch. But thanks to some just plain crazy driving maneuvers-if they didn't want me to drive on the berm or the median, why the fuck did they pave them?-I pull into the rest area ten minutes ahead of my deadline and circle the parkin' lot once lookin' for the dark blue van Jack's mother drives. Looks like I've gotten here ahead of her for once. I park the rented SUV in the row opposite the cinder block hut housing the bathrooms and make it inside as quickly as my burstin' bladder and my bad-ass reputation will allow. Guys like me do not run to the bathroom, but it's been a long drive and stoppin' along the way was not an option. I wasn't about to risk missin' Jack just because I couldn't wait three hours to pee.

The kid seems to like hangin' out with me and I'd have hated to disappoint him.

I exit the bathroom, feelin' about ten pounds lighter and considerably more relaxed, and scan the lot for the blue van. No sign of it yet, so I park my butt at one of the picnic tables across from the building to wait. As usual, my anticipation of her arrival brings back memories of the night we met.

The first time I laid eyes on Kiran McBride I knew I'd never forget her. This despite the fact that I'd had my entire lifetime of memories forcibly expunged from my consciousness at least once before. Her waist-length auburn hair, elfin features and cobalt blue eyes were seared into my gray matter right along with every one of her sin-inspiring curves. Nothin' short of jackin' my brain clean out of my skull would ever erase that memory.

Of course, the same is true for the first time I spied Marie sitting in that bar in Laughlin City six years ago. Strength cloaked in innocence, trying so hard to go unnoticed, to pass through without touching or being touched. That hooded cape she wore made a good shield against everyone but me, 'cause it couldn't hide her scent.

I caught it first during a cage match. I was a little too busy knockin' heads with my opponent to try to locate the source of that unknown yet somehow familiar smell, but I knew I wouldn't leave that bar without finding her, come hell or high water. When I did finally see her with all that long, dark hair fallin' around the face of a fairytale princess—a very, very young fairytale princess—I was sure my nose had gotten it wrong. Surely, this girl—this kid-could not be who I thought she was. She couldn't possibly be who she smelled like, 'cause if she was, I was seriously fucked.

She was my mate. My life partner. My soul's other half. And she was jail bait.

Without the influence of my feral hormones, which had launched an all-out Mardi Gras from my brain to my balls in celebration of findin' the one female on the planet who was literally created just for me, I might have done the decent thing—the human thing—and left her alone.

God knows, I tried. I left that bar, got in my truck and hauled ass, all the while tellin' myself that those bastards who'd mucked around with my memories must have scrambled my instincts somehow, too. No way was I gonna tie myself forever to a half-grown girl who didn't know better than to stay the hell out of places like Laughlin City, places where grass-green kids like her were like puppy chow to old wolves like me - a quick snack, tasty but not enough to satisfy the true hunger. But afterward, those girls were still just as ruined.

And it was that thought, the thought of some other horny old bastard gettin' his hands on her, that really made me stop on that frozen road and let her in the truck. She was mine, like it or not, and I couldn't leave her in harm's way. I had no idea then what I was going to do with her. I sure as hell had no plans to take her as my mate, but life -and instincts - have a funny way of carryin' on without my say-so.

Which brings me back to Kiran and the night we met...

Five years earlier…

I was havin' my last beer before hittin' the road after six hours in a cage in some bar in Quebec, half-heartedly scopin' the crowded tavern for a comely companion for the evening, when I heard an Irish brogue—a decidedly pissed off Irish brogue—slicin' its way through the din of French accents surrounding me.

"…born in a swamp, ya damn frog, or are ya merely daft? Servin' Guinness cold! That's sacrilege, I tell ya, sacrilege!"

Whoever she was, the lady knew her brew. That and the accent were enough to turn my half-hearted scope into a full-scale honey hunt. Followin' the sound of her voice, I shouldered my way toward her, but that was takin' forever. So from deep within my chest, I said…

Grrrooowwwlll.

Presto. Instant Red Sea. And through the parting in the wave of humanity, I saw her.

It was like a scene from that hokey TV show the Kit-Kat used to watch, the one with the angels—the kind that work for God, not that disembodied perv Charlie—when they tell the folks they're helpin' who they really are and there's this golden aura of heavenly light shinin' around 'em. The Irish Beer Angel glowed like that, I swear, which made me think I was imagining her. Right up until she tossed her pint of incorrectly chilled Guinness all over me. There I stood, wet, cold and sticky, thoroughly convinced that she was pretty fuckin' real…and too fuckin' pretty to be leavin' that bar with anybody but me.

Not that I'd have had to lop off any heads to claim her. Argumentative, insulting women who throw full pints of stout at unsuspecting bar patrons—even if they were actually aimin' for the culturally backward bartender—are apparently not in high demand in that part of Canada. Go figure.

"Now wha'dya go and do that fahr, steppin' into me line o' fire like that? I wanted t'see that pitiful excuse fahr a barkeep wearin' that ruin'd ale, not…you!"

She all but shrieked that last word, pointing at me like she was pickin' me out of a police line-up. A mixture of surprise and recognition flared in her eyes, but disappeared just as quickly. It was as if she knew me somehow, but hadn't expected to see me there and then.

Suddenly the flame-haired lass was more than a potential bed partner; she was a possible link to my past. Had she really recognized me? From where? And how was I gonna find out without scarin' the bejeezus out of her or pissin' her off any more than I already had?

As it turned out, I was worried for nothin', 'cause next thing I knew she had taken matters, including the front of my wet shirt, into her own hands and commenced to reamin' me a new one while draggin' me toward the door.

"Lucky y' are, ya sorry, no good alehound, that I dinna bring me shillelagh, 'cause I'd be crackin' yar skull like a walnut, I would. How dare ya come in here, drinkin' away the money fahr yar little daughter's medicine. Poor wee Maeve. She's gettin' sicker by the hour and her only three years old…"

A menacing silence had descended on the bar and I felt more than saw several dozen pairs of hostile eyes boring holes into my back. I was just about to remind the feisty beauty -loudly - that she'd plunked down five bucks of poor wee Maeve's medicine money for the Guinness I was currently wearin' when I realized there was no such child, or if there was, she couldn't be mine. I'd forgotten more of my life than I remembered, but the last fifteen years—let alone the last three—were crystal clear and, as stated previously, had I met this woman during that time, I would not have forgotten her. Ergo, if I'd made a baby with her, I'd have remembered that, too. Since I had no such recollection, it stood to reason the kid was fictitious. By the time that revelation surfaced, however, my accuser had hauled my ass out the door and into the parking lot.

I gotta say I was getting' a little tired of her callin' all the shots up to that point, even if I did still wanna screw her silly.

"OK, darlin', you can drop the fishwife act and let go now."

I planted my feet, figurin' that'd get her off me. She was tough, but at maybe a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet, no way was she strong enough to pull my two hundred plus pounds of metal and muscle anywhere I didn't wanna be pulled. So imagine my surprise when she yanked and I nearly toppled over, stumbling for a stride or two before righting myself.

Jesus Christ! Who was this chick? The Hulk's long-lost sister?

When we reached my bike, she let go of my shirt and without so much as a 'by your leave' settled her gorgeous bottom on the back of the seat with a move that had me jealous of the friggin' motorcycle for gettin' between her legs before I did.

"Well? Are y' comin' or not?" she inquired, all perturbed like.

Too much surly, not enough sultry. I fuckin' snapped.

"Alright, goddammit, that's enough! Lady, I have had it with you takin' shots at me, first with the beer, then with makin' me out to be the devil incarnate in a room full o' God-fearin' drunks, then draggin' me out here, and now by takin' liberties with my bike. So I'd suggest you tell me right fuckin' now who you are and what you want with me or so help me I'll march you back in that bar and force feed you ice cold Guinness till you puke! Now start talkin'!"

I'll say this for her. She knew how to disobey an order. Well, not exactly disobey. More like creatively interpret.

She kissed me. Grabbed me by the shirt and hauled me up against her while her mouth had its way with mine 'til there was absolutely no doubt about what she wanted with me. And I guaran-damn-tee you she got it, all of it—all of me—all night long, in every way I'd ever done it and a few new ones we improvised on every flat surface in her loft.

Of course, that was after we got to her loft.

I took her the first time right there on the bike, parked under a goddamn streetlight where anybody and their mother could have seen the whole live sex show—me sittin' sidesaddle on the seat, my jeans down around my hips; her straddlin' me with her mini skirt hiked up and her panties danglin' from the handlebar, swaying with our rhythm as she impaled herself on my cock over and over again, takin' me so deep inside her hot center it felt like our bodies were fused together, joined by a passion so powerful, so intoxicating, I no longer knew or cared where my body ended and hers began.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I recognized how exposed we were, how vulnerable out there in the parking lot. My feral instincts told me to stop just long enough to seek shelter, even if only in the shadows at the edge of the lot, but a different instinct, something more ancient, something not entirely me, forbid me to do any such thing and for once I wanted to obey, blindly and without reservation. So I held on for dear life, crushin' her against me, her shirt shoved up so I could fondle and suck her tits while she rode me and rode me and rode me to a climax that had both of us screamin' in ecstasy—first her, and then me, a few seconds later—as we found the ultimate release, our uncontrollable cries echoin' across the night.

And mingled with our panting and nonsensical sounds of satisfaction, in the distance, I heard bells. Swear to God. Tempted as I was to believe the triumphant caroling was all part of the afterglow of magnificent sex, when the melody faded into a steady Bong-Bong-Bong that went on for a count of twelve, I realized it was merely a church bell tower announcing the time.

As the last chime floated away on the midnight breeze, my mysterious lover whispered something in a language I had never heard before.

"Ta se deanta," she murmured against my sweaty neck.

I don't think she meant to say it out loud, or if she did, I don't think she meant for me to hear it. Either way, something about the way she said it, like an 'amen', made me uneasy. Part of me wanted an explanation for her oddly musical benediction, but another part of me was already gearing up for a repeat performance and that part not only didn't give a damn what she said, it preferred she not talk at all.

Still, I had to call her something besides 'Irish Beer Angel'.

The question "What's your name?" formed in my head, but what I said was closer to what I really wanted to know. "Who are you?"

"My name is Kiran. As for who I am, that will have to wait until we get back to my place." She looked up at me from under her long, sexy eyelashes. "Ya do want to come back to my place, don't ya?"

I don't actually remember very many details after that. The rest of the weekend remains a blur of satisfied appetites, most of them sexual. It wasn't until I rode away from her place and crossed the border into New York that I actually felt the cloud lift from my consciousness, felt my free will return to my mind like an errant spirit slipping back into its physical body after a near-death experience. Only after I had my full consciousness back did I notice it had been missing, or at least, not under my control. Naturally, I was furious. My first instinct was to go back and demand - at claw-point, if necessary - that she tell me how she had cast her spell and why. Why me of all people? But the fact was I couldn't have found her loft again if my life had depended on it, nor could I remember her last name, or if she ever even told me what it was. I couldn't even recall the name or location of the bar where I'd first seen her. I only knew that the place existed somewhere in the Great White North and that I would never be the same for having been there.

Beep. Beep.

The van's horn yanks me back to the present and I look up to see the familiar blue van pulling into the parking space right next to the bathrooms. The driver's door opens and Kiran, Jacks' mother, steps out. Her unruly mane of auburn waves is corralled into an intricate braid down her back. Dressed in a denim jacket, black National Finals Rodeo t-shirt, pricey-looking jeans and the most broke-in pair of cowboy boots I've ever seen, she looks every bit the expert horsewoman she is. I stand and start toward the vehicle. She nods to let me know she's seen me standing there and I return the gesture as she quickly circles to the passenger side, opens the sliding door and frees Jack from his car seat.

"Hi-Logan-bye-Logan-I-gotta-pee-BAAAD!" A small dark-haired blur shoots past me on a dead run into the rest room.

"Would ya mind...?" his mother calls, anglin' her chin in Jack's general direction, as she retrieves his kid-sized suitcase from the storage area under the van's rear seat.

I nod and spin around, entering the bathroom mere seconds behind the boy. Who is nowhere to be seen. A kamikaze wasp of panic stings my heart, but before I can even fully acknowledge the attack, I hear from two stalls away the unmistakable sound of a high velocity stream splattering against wet porcelain, accompanied by, "Aww, yeaaah."

The utter relief in his voice is an echo of my own feelings from moments ago and I can't suppress the tiny bubble of pride that floats through my chest any more than I can stop myself from thinkin', Like father, like son.

It's the best moment of my day, until the stall door swings open and Jack launches himself at me, throwing his arms around my knees and squeezing hard like only an excited little boy can. Nobody except Marie has ever been that happy to see me and I gotta say the feeling is definitely mutual. All it takes is one smile or a hug from this kid and I'm over the damn moon.

And that's dangerous in a get-my-heart-crushed-if-I'm-not-careful kinda way, 'cause I still don't know if he's mine.

Well, to be honest, there was never any real question that Jack is biologically mine. From the moment Kiran showed me his picture I knew it had to have been one of my little swimmers that got him started. He's the spittin' image of me, only smaller. Dark hair that grows like it has a mind of its own. Hazel eyes that are identical in color and shape to the ones I see every time I look in a mirror. He even walks with a feral swagger. No shit.

What I don't know, what I'm taking him back to Hank and his lab full of medical miracle gizmos to find out, is whether or not he's mine to keep.

Jack relinquishes my legs and looks up at me with pure glee. "Ma says I get to have a sleepover at your house, Logan. Isn't that awesome?"

"It sure is, little man," I reply as I steer him out the door to where his mother is waiting for us. Her unusually stoic expression is my first clue that she doesn't share Jack's enthusiasm for our sleepover. She's putting on a brave face for Jack, but I can smell the barely-contained apprehension squirming beneath her skin. Can't say as I blame her. So far as I know, this is the first time she's ever allowed Jack out of her sight for more than a few hours, let alone to spend a whole night a couple hundred miles from the only home her boy has ever known. And in a mansion full of mutants, no less. My estimation of her rises several notches on the 'helluva-woman' scale as I realize how hard she's fighting the urge to call the whole thing off. But she won't, because, like the impeccable mother she is, she'd rather break her own heart by letting him go than break his by making him stay.

"Hey, sport, how about stowing your gear in that dark green SUV over there at the end of the first row? I need to talk to your ma for a minute."

Jack squints into the late afternoon sunshine as he scans the lot looking for my rented ride. "Found it!" he hollers. Grabbing the handle of his SpongeBob suitcase, he starts to dive off the curb when Kiran and I each grab an arm, hauling him up short.

"Watch for cars!" we bark, in stereo.

"I did!" he fires back. "Sheesh, chill out, guys. I'm not a baby, y'know."

Kiran wastes no time dispelling that notion. "Oh, yes ya are, Jack McBride. You're my baby and I'll not be lettin' ya forget it." To prove her point, she scoops Jack up in her arms, cradling him against her chest like an overgrown newborn. Jack drops the luggage, squealing with surprise and delight. My heart melts right down to my toes.

How can I even contemplate separating these two? I cannot imagine what madness would have caused me to even suggest such a thing. But then I remember that it wasn't my idea.

"Kiran, are you sure-"

She shuts me up with a sharp glare and a nod toward Jack. Back on his feet, suitcase handle once again in hand, he stands at the very edge of the curb, craning his neck to and fro in a rather exaggerated search for cars.

"See, Ma, no cars! Now can I go?"

Kiran hunkers down so she's eye-level with the boy.

"Aye, you can go, but first I'm gonna steal a kiss!"

Jack's eyes widen and he tries to turn and run, but Kiran loops an arm around his waist, hauls him to her and plants a smacking kiss on his cheek. "Gotcha!"

"Aw, Ma!" He tries to sound like he's complaining, but the giggling sort of ruins the effect.

Kiran lets him go and we watch as he safely crosses the parking lot toward the green Jeep Cherokee. I hit the remote trunk latch button on the key, giving Jack access to the rear compartment behind the back seat. With a mighty heave, he slings the luggage inside and then tries to jump up and grab the rear gate to pull it shut.

"How about I give you a hand with that?" I ask, as Kiran and I cross the lot.

"I wanna do it!"

In one smooth motion, I grab both of Jack's hands, haul him up and over my head and sit him on my shoulders. "There, now you can do it."

It takes a minute to get the right angle for him to grab the door and push it down hard enough to latch, but when it goes thunk and stays put, he's practically beaming.

Man, I really love making this kid smile.

From up on my shoulders, Jack spots a playground on the other side of the building and eagerly points it out. "Hey, Ma, can I play over there?"

"It's fine with me, luv, but Logan might be wantin' to go sooner rather than later. Better ask him."

"Can I, Logan?"

"Sure. You wanna ride over or walk?"

"I wanna ride!"

I know I should get back to Marie as soon as possible. I still owe her a full explanation and it ain't gonna get any easier the longer I wait. But I still need to talk to Kiran and Jack might as well have some fun while we're at it.

"You wanna try the swings first?"

"No, I wanna climb on that!" Jack points to the red and blue plastic jungle gym with a yellow spiral slide attached at one end.

"OK, down you go!" I lift him off my shoulders and he literally hits the ground running, making a beeline for the tallest section of the jungle gym.

Kiran and I settle on a bench at the outer edge of the mulch that covers the ground beneath the equipment.

"To answer your question, Logan, aye, I'm sure. I have to know if what Jack can do comes from your genes or mine."

"And if he's got the X gene, if he's a mutant, you want him to stay with me...for good?"

"It's not what I want, Logan, but it's what has to be. He already loves you, so if it turns out he is like you, he'll accept that he has to stay with you."

"Watch this, Logan!" Jack hollers as he climbs fearlessly to the highest rung of the jungle gym. Initially, I'm proud as punch, until he proceeds to flip over the top bar and hang by his knees, dangling upside down a good ten feet from terra firma. I'm on my feet in a heartbeat, headed for the playground, about to holler something that sounds fatherly, like "Get your ass down from there before you fall and break your damn neck", when I hear Kiran laugh.

"Take it easy, monkey," she calls up to him. My approval of her intervention knows no bounds, until she adds, "You're scarin' the big, brawny fella here."

Jack's answer is a near-perfect imitation of a chimpanzee's excited screech complete with underarm scratching and Tarzan-style chest pounding.

Unable to take my eyes off a now-swinging, still-upside down Jack, I call over my shoulder, "So, you're OK with this?"

"I'd have thought you'd be the one tellin' me to calm down. 'Boys will be boys' and all that."

"Well, yeah, I mean I don't want him to be a pansy," I say as I force myself to back up and sit down again. "But he's so...he's just so...little." Oh, hell, could that have sounded any more pansy-ish?

"Actually, he's kind of tall for his age," Kiran says with a smirk. She always was a cheeky lass.

"Gimme a fuckin' break, smart ass. I'm new here," I snap back, deliberately using the profanity to blow the pansy stink off myself. Everybody knows pansies can't curse worth a motherfuckin' damn.

"You get used to it."

Really? My eyebrow issues a silent demand for clarification.

"Oh, not because you want to, mind you, but because you realize he'd be miserable with the alternative."

"Which is?"

"Me wrappin' him in baby bunting and holdin' him in me arms forever."

Funny, that idea doesn't sound half bad just now, because the mere thought of Jack in any kind of danger, let alone actual pain, sends my feral instinct to protect what's mine into hyperdrive. But instead of busting out with the Wolverine's claws and teeth and patented growl that's been known to make battle-hardened Marines stain their skivvies, for some crazy reason, my mind conjures an image of Jack strapped to my chest in an oversized version of one of those papoose gizmos. Damn, are all dads this goofy? Is there a cure for this? Maybe a support group - Pansies Anonymous? Sign me the fuck up.

"Ya see, Logan, the thing is, this isn't what scares me."

Talk about grabbing my attention. That's a loaded statement if I've ever heard one, especially since I know Kiran to be the second most fearless woman I've ever met. If something has her mama bear radar pinging, I need to know what it is and damn fast.

"Spill it, Kiran. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Well, aye and nay."

"Dammit, woman, what the hell does that mean?"

~~end~~