Nobody likes to talk about mom with me. I have tried to ask dad, but he’s always too busy. I tried asking mister Summers, but he’s never in the mood. Professor is gone, so is Jean, Mr. Summers’ wife. And miss Munroe… She has her own worries. World has changed a lot, but there’s always a new group of bigots ready and willing to wipe out all the mutants.
Only person who’s willing to talk about mom at all is Wolverine. He’s a little creepy. He often seems to think that I’m mom, but that’s… It’s kind of okay. I think. He can’t help it. Especially if he’s drunk. But the best time to go looking for him, the best time to lure him down the memory lane is late at night when he’s sitting on the front porch with a good cigar and a glass of old whiskey.
“Marie?” This is the part I hate when dealing with him. He’s blind. Blind as a bat, but his other senses are every bit as sharp as they were when he was younger.
“No. Just me.”
“Anna? I could have sworn… How’s it going, kid?” He changes the subject fast. He doesn’t like being confused, and lately he has been confused often. He still insists going on missions with the younger team, and usually he gets his will. Last week was no exception. He hit his head pretty bad, and it must have stirred his brain. He’s still not completely healed from the blow he took.
“Fine… Just fine, uncle Logan.” I curl at his feet like I have done countless of times before, my head resting against his knee, one hand looped over his leg.
“School okay?”
“It’s okay.” I’m teaching the first grade. Math and English. Wolverine… I think this is one of those nights when he thinks I’m still at the first grade myself. Soon he’s probably going to tell me to go to sleep.
“Something bothering you, Anna?”
“No. Yes… It’s nothing…” Cruel and crooked. To use old and confused man like this. I can already feel him tensing.
“Bullshit. Spit it out.”
“I miss mom, that’s all.”
“Oh…” Large hand lands on top of my head. He flinches, then a new look settles over his features. My hair is short. When I was a little girl I had long hair and I wore it on pigtails. Feel of short stubble under his fingers seems to help him to remember who we are and what year we are living.
“I miss her too. Sometimes… I just suddenly get this feeling like she was still here. That if I reach out I can grab her. Scents and sounds…” And whose fault is that? I have often been told how much of a mirror image of my mother I am.
“Can you… Can you tell me about her?” I look up from where I’m sitting. He has shifted a bit. He’s looking down at me. Well, not really looking, his eyes are all wonky, but he’s turned his face towards me.
“What do you want to hear?”
“What was she like? Dad never talks about her. Nobody talks about her.”
“Yeah. That’s because… Because they miss her so much.”
“But you talk about her.”
“Just with you, kid. Just with you. But not tonight. It’s… It’s already late. I’m… I’m already late…”
And with that said he stands up and steps over me. Almost floats down the stairs and disappears to the darkened garden. Several minutes later a matchstick flares briefly. He’s at the graves. Their graves. Jean, Professor Xavier, and mom. He’s kneeling in front of Jean’s grave, placing a small candle near the gravestone. Professor Xavier’s grave gets the same treatment. But not mom’s. Never a candle on to her grave. Just a loving caress over the smooth surface of the granite before he calls a cab.
Sometimes I follow him. Follow him all the way to the institute. I don’t know if he knows that I have been sitting outside of the room listening. I think he knows, because after those nights he’s avoiding me. But I can’t help it. Sometimes I’d like to walk in to that room after him. Walk in and sit in the corner just watching, but I’m too much of a coward. Once, when there still was a window on the door I took a quick peak. Just a short, stolen second. It was enough for me. Almost too much. Everything looked so ordinary.
He was sitting next to a bed. On the bed was a girl. She looked as if she was sleeping. Long brown and white hair spread over the pillow, hands folded neatly over her stomach, fingers laced together. I could hear him talking. Low, hushed voice telling the girl everything there was to tell about everyday happenings in our lives. And he was crying. His voice didn’t crack or falter, but tears were falling down over his cheeks.
My mom. Dead to the world. Dead to everybody except for the Wolverine.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Short drabble that came in to my mind last night. Basically AU, but everything that has happened in the movies has happened prior this. And then some more.