Irritated beyond measure, the inspector was not happy about the way the day was going, for in her attempt to catch the school she was to inspect next week off guard by going to it this morning, she had hit a few snags. First her heel broke on the way out the door, so she had to hurriedly change into another pair of shoes, which then necessitated changing outfits to match. A snarl of traffic decided to make sure she would not have time to run by the office before heading to the school and, when she called to inform the departmental assistant of this, the stupid girl put her supervisor on the line. He had been rabid, demanding a report she had already turned in to him, though he repeatedly ignored her assertions of this fact, thus wasting precious minutes on the rapidly fading cell phone she had neglected to charge last night. Finally, just as she arrived on the school property, she ended up getting deluged by a thunderstorm the Weather Channel had not predicted. Waiting in the car was not an option at this point, even when a thorough search of the car produced no umbrella. Her severe and authoritative hair bun had to be abandoned in favor of the 'drowned rat' look.
By the time she had made it from her car to the front steps of the educational establishment, her temper was on the rise, despite the cold rain and wind. She grimly smiled in anticipation of the inspection she could use to vent her anger with; the school would never know what hit it, she promised herself. Her eyebrows rose when the school's mechanic opened the door. With such an outward appearance of dignity, the school should know better than to allow a grease monkey in a T-shirt, faded jeans, and boots to tend to the entrance, she thought with satisfaction. This would be the first mark against it.
"I wish to see Professor Charles Xavier," she said crisply, ignoring the squelching sounds from her shoes and the trickle of water running down the back of her neck. "I've come to inspect the school."
"He's not here and you're a week early," growled the surly-looking man with the funny haircut.
"Let me speak to one of the teachers, then," she said in an exasperated tone.
"You are," he replied evenly. "Show me some I.D."
She blinked. Rain was still pouring down behind her, the entryway outcrop was barely enough to keep her dry, and he wouldn't even invite her in. Another mark was mentally taken for his stupidity. Angrily she rummaged around in her soggy purse and found her wallet. She flipped it open and thrust it at him. "Satisfied?"
"Yep,” he responded, not bothering to take a close look at the card. “Come back next week." The door slammed in her face.
Shocked, she stood still for a moment, mouth agape. "Are you mad?" she shouted at the thick wooden door in frustration. "You are required by law to let me in!"
There was no response, and no window in the door to let her know if the man was even there anymore. The wind intensified at that moment, making her realize she needed shelter. She deliberated between pounding on the door or making a run for it. She decided to run. Back in the car now, she discovered it wouldn't start. Not only that, her cell phone let out the 'kiss of death' chimes that indicated it would be shutting down momentarily from lack of power. Unabashedly cursing under her breath, she trudged back to the door, as soggy and sorry a mess as she had ever been in her life.
He seemed to have been watching through a side window, for the man opened the door before she had time to ring the bell again. An edge of desperation crept into her voice that she hated to hear, but found necessary.
"May I use your phone?"
"Yep," came the amused reply.
"There are no tow trucks available at the moment," she said as she replaced the receiver on the foyer telephone. "They will come when they can."
He eyed her sharply but said nothing. Outside, torrents of rain beat mercilessly on the windows nearby, providing background noise for a few moments while each sized the other up.
"Do you at least have a bathroom I can use?" She knew she must look a sight as water had begun to puddle at her feet. "A towel would be a thoughtful gesture, you know."
"It would," he admitted, "for someone considerate of other's schedules."
She had the decency to blush at that remark and some of her anger dissipated a bit. "I suppose I deserved that." She swallowed hard. "I really do need to do this inspection today, Mr…"
"Logan." He cocked an eyebrow in a rude but comical way. "You should have called. None of the other teachers, including Xavier, are available."
"I understand. Are the student's on a field trip, Mr. Logan?"
"Just Logan. No, they're finishing their final exams this morning." He glanced at his watch. "Should be done soon." He eyed her with what she hoped was compassion, though it was hard to tell with the rest of his face revealing nothing emotional. "I'll get you a towel."
By the time the students had finished and had assembled in the foyer to greet the inspector, she had toweled off and was wearing one of Xavier's bathrobes while her clothes hung out to dry. Slippered and warm now, she was clutching her clipboard and pen in preparation for her notes, a pair of reading glasses perched authoritatively on her nose. She looked the group over yet again and concentrated on the oldest youth, Logan noticed. Sure enough, she started with them.
"From what you've just said, I'm to understand that you six have graduated and are taking higher-level courses at the nearby university, yet you continue to provide services for this establishment?"
"Yes," replied Jubilee. "We get credit for doing the practical chemistry labs and other tutoring here. That's why we were overseeing the history, math, and science tests for the students this morning." Jubilee hesitated before continuing. "I'm Jubilation Lee. This is Robert Drake, Remy LeBeau, Katherine Pride, and Samuel Guthrie."
"I'm Mrs. Portiere, Jubilation." She looked up from writing down the names and frowned at Marie. "You were not introduced."
Logan bit his lip to halt a scathing reply. Marie could take care of herself, he reminded his temper.
"Ah'm Ms. Rogue," Marie offered politely. "Ah help out mostly with the younger students."
"Rogue, Jubilation, Remy…odd names, but so common for today's trend away from tradition." Mrs. Portiere finished scribbling and sniffed disdainfully. “Still, it's commendable that you've continued your education and are willing to help out your old school." She rounded on Logan. "What is your specialty, Mr. Logan?”
Her tone was grating, but he could deal with it. “Logan,” he reminded her.
She frowned again. “How can you command the students’ respect by allowing that kind of familiarity…”
He opened his mouth to reply, but Samuel jumped in to save the situation. “Er…Logan is our Physical Education Coordinator and usually goes by his first name or ‘Coach,’ right guys?”
Most of the children caught on quickly and nodded enthusiastically, much to Logan’s amusement.
“He does Survival…” Megan began.
“Substitute work. He does substitute work, too,” Jubilee hastily added, quickly reaching forward to give Megan’s shoulder a squeeze.
“Yes, and also the languages,” chimed in Illyana. As if to prove her point she asked Logan a question in Russian and he kept a straight face as he answered back in kind.
The woman's eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes. I can see how a coach with language skills would be instrumental in a small educational operation like this.” She paused in her writing, looking carefully at Megan’s yellow eyes. “Excuse me, but are you wearing contact lenses, young lady?”
“Art,” threw in Bobby, hoping for a distraction. “Logan also teaches art.”
Logan lazily raised an eyebrow at that one but said nothing.
“Indeed?” Suspicious now, the inspector frowned and looked over her glasses at him. “You seem to have many talents mist….er….Logan. What medium do you prefer? What artistic period and style do you favor?”
Logan cleared his throat. “I don’t.”
For a moment no one said anything and Logan heard the heart rate of several of his students speed up dangerously.
She looked angry for a moment, then caught Logan’s eyes as he flicked them toward the students. Understanding dawned on her face and she nodded, scribbling as she spoke. “Of course. You can’t be expected to challenge your students to the best of their abilities if you constrain them to your own ideals. I should have asked that question in private while the children weren’t around.” She looked up from the clipboard. “Don’t let me interrupt the normal routine.”
“Logan nodded, biting off a grin at the emotions he could almost taste, as the air was so thick with them. “You heard her – normal routine. Get to the dining room, now.”
Although he didn’t raise his voice, his low, growling order was obeyed with haste and joy, much to the surprise of the inspector, he noted. She checked the grandfather clock behind her.
“The dining room? Is eating now considered a sport? Don’t tell me you feed them this early. It's only ten o’clock.”
“Dance lessons,” Logan muttered, still a little amused that he had been roped into this as a rainy day activity. He would have preferred to let them have a go with some tumbling in the gym, but Hank had mentioned teaching the students some of the more social graces and Xavier had agreed, asking Logan to work in dance lessons once a month, saving them for rainy days. “Today’s too wet for an outdoor workout.”
She blinked. “I must say I am impressed. Hardly any school remembers the social niceties anymore. I look forward to seeing just what…” she glanced again at his faded jeans, large belt buckle, worn boots, and T-shirt, “lessons you offer,” she added dryly. She walked beside him from the foyer to the dining facility, which was hastily being cleared to provide room for the lessons. “You said you’re the only teacher present at the school at the moment, correct?”
Logan frowned. “Nope. I said I was the only one available. The chemistry and mathematics teacher is in the lab at the moment, working on his research.”
“I wish to meet him,” she stated flatly.
He grew irritated. “No can do. He’s under a deadline and needs to finish his reports today so he can overnight his research results to a university. Come on the day you’re supposed to be here next time, lady.” He entered the room first and let the door close on her when she followed him.
Shocked, she scolded, “Mrs. Portiere, to you, young man. How will the children learn respect for their elders if you continue to set such a bad example?”
“To earn respect, you have to give it,” Logan said simply and walked to the center of the room, instantly commanding the attention of the students.
“Last time,” said Logan, to a chorus of groans.
“Can’t we do one or two more?” a few voices whined.
Logan looked at his watch. “No can do. Lunch in half an hour and you still have to cook it. Besides, you guys were the ones who talked me in to giving you time to decorate this place and bake a welcome-home cake.”
Grins lit up the room, and Mrs. Portiere was again struck by how enthusiastic and attentive the students seemed to be. Not that there hadn’t been arguments, frustration, and self-recriminations while trying to learn the difficult steps of the jitterbug, but Logan had handled each in turn with a gruff, but patient manner the students accepted willingly.
As the music began again, she glanced up from her notes and surreptitiously observed the dancers. This was as strange a group of students as she had ever seen before, some with blue hair and yellow eyes, some with strange skin and misshapen limbs, yet no one belittled anyone else. All kidding was done with a familiarity that spoke of acceptance, not degradation. Her brow furrowed as she remembered how her own teaching days had been disrupted with such cruelty. Why was it absent here?
The door to the dining room burst open with a surprising bang and she dropped her clipboard, jolted out of her reverie. Blushing at her faux pas, she hastily retrieved her notes from the floor. When she looked up, she was shocked to see a giant, dressed in work clothes and dripping wet, make his way into the room with a huge smile on his face.
“Dancing! I want to dance, too!”
Logan let go of the girl he had been dancing with so the huge man would have a partner, and Portiere watched in astonishment as the group continued without missing a beat.
“Who is he?” she whispered when Logan joined her at the edge of the room. “He sounds Russian.”
“He is. His name’s Piotr,” Logan replied. “He works here. That’s his sister over there.”
“Does he work here to put her through school? I’m impressed. Is he the gardener?”
“Sometimes. He also teaches art workshops.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Art seems to be a popular subject,” she said gravely.
“I don’t teach art and you know it,” he replied evenly. “I’ll give you a tour while they finish their dance and start lunch.”
She gave him a knowing smile. “They’ll only start the music over again as soon as you’re out of the room.”
“Not if they know what’s good for ‘em.”
The tour had been impressive, if only because it was the first time she had been treated in such a manner. Long used to the sycophantic yessing of other headmasters and headmistresses in private schools around the state, Logan was nothing like them, though he turned out to be somewhat of a gentleman, in a gruff and reluctant way. She was reminded of some of the characters she had seen actors like Humphrey Bogart play, and it was both amusing and sobering to think of those ancient moments she had spent in theaters, her very young eyes glued to massive screens filled with her now dead heroes.
Lunch, too, had been eye opening. Most of the schools she had been in had some sort of staffing for meal preparation. Here, all aspects of life were explored as the children were required to participate in making shopping lists, preparing meals, choosing nutritious menus, setting tables, and making presentations of even the most ordinary meals. They laughed, joked, scolded, and socialized in general, creating a relaxed situation that, again, struck her as odd for a school to have.
For so many years she had taught in public schools, each year becoming worse than the last until she had literally followed a line of promotion in order to escape those desks full of unknowns. Unknown faces, unknown feelings, unknown intelligence, and unknown aggressions: unknowns that seemed more and more threatening as her body changed from strong to fragile.
Now, as she finished putting her shoes on and stood in front of a mirror on a dresser in a spare room in the dorms, she took a good, hard look at herself. Had she become a bitter old woman? Had she become so wrapped up in scrutinizing others’ jobs in education, she had made it an obsession? When had that happened? Her fingers hesitated as she adjusted her hair and, to her surprise, she pulled it up and put it in a loose twist, something less severe than the harsh bun she usually wore. She had become dissatisfied with her lot of late. It wasn’t until she came here and had things go so wrong she was thrown out of her usual rut of tyranny that she realized her obsession wasn’t her dream. Her dream had always been to create a school like this. How ironic – she had become an inspector to help schools improve to this level and had ended up mentally tearing down everything she inspected.
Checking the room with one last look, she opened the door, flipped the light switch off, and almost ran right into the Russian giant waiting right outside.
“Oh, I’m…I was expecting Logan to wait for me,” she stammered.
He presented her with a charming grin and held out an elbow. “He thought you might like a change for the better, now that I have cleaned up and dressed. I also asked that I could give you the escort,” he admitted, his fair cheeks blushing slightly. “I have not said I am sorry for breaking in on the dancing and making you drop your notebook.”
She felt her cheeks heat with amusement and a bit of embarrassment, too. “It’s all right,” she assured him. “No harm done, young man.” She glanced around. “The instructors rooms are around the corner here, correct?”
“Yes, these are some of their rooms,” he pointed out as they rounded the corner and headed for the stairwell. “In fact, that is Logan’s right there.”
“He seems an unlikely teacher,” she said indifferently as they passed the door. She hesitated, but said nothing more.
To her surprise, he stopped and grinned down at her. “Go ahead and look. He is not what you expect. He may not wear his heart on his sleeve, but his feelings for the children run very deeply.”
A Spartan room addressed her, one with only the essentials and nothing else – no photos, no colors, no shoes lying about – as if he did not frequent the room at all. But, when she turned disappointedly to go, six small frames on the wall near the door caught her eye. Carefully preserved behind glass and framed very simply were six childish expressions of love. Her eyes teared up in remembrance of how she felt when such works of art were given to her. What had she done with them? Crumpled them up after a laugh of amusement? These had never been folded, as if Logan had realized the great honor the artist had bestowed. What would she give to have that kind of appreciation nowadays, she wondered?
Portiere did not remember walking back to the foyer. It seemed the dark-haired young giant had noticed her need for reflection and kept silent. She was grateful. This day had become far more disturbing than she had originally deemed possible. The sunshine now streaming in through the windows served only to augment her clouded thoughts.
She absently thanked her escort and moved over toward the foyer table to use the telephone once more. But instead of picking up the receiver to make her call, she strayed instead to the door of the dining room nearby. Her ears had picked up the faint strains of an old song on the other side of those wooden panels, music she hadn’t heard for a great many years – something that spoke of love and romance in a graceful way musicians nowadays seemed unable to duplicate.
She opened the door quietly and, for a moment, was transported back in time. She felt young again, reminded of watching great screen romances blossom in front of her eyes, with chemistry between the actors so thick with sexual tension the films seemed in danger of melting with the heat, though no love scenes were ever used.
Here was Bogart and Bacall, as if new again, slowly circling the dance floor in a sensual, stately manner. Noting how their eyes sparkled and their mouths curved into soft smiles meant for one another. Portiere realized she was watching magic in the making. When it dawned on her that the man was Logan, not Bogart, and the young Bacall was none other than the young college student with the funny name of ‘Rogue,’ she knew she should be furious. He was taking advantage of her youth and his position of teacher; Portiere had seen it a thousand times before. Still, her mind stayed numb - dumbstruck with the knowledge she was watching something special, something that didn’t happen often. And somehow she couldn’t bring herself to tear it apart.
He saw her, but the girl did not, and when Rogue left through the side door after planting a kiss of thanks on Logan’s cheek, Portiere advanced.
“I should hang this school out to dry – slap it with so many violations its doors won’t open again for years, if ever again,” she began sternly.
He cocked his head. “But you won’t.”
“No, Logan, I won’t,” Portiere admitted reluctantly. “It’s a rarity to see such an atmosphere of learning, acceptance, understanding, tolerance, and patience. If I were twenty years younger, I would have taken quite a pay cut to teach here.”
Logan shrugged. “I work for room and board.”
“You’re one of a kind.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She eyed him sharply. “How old is she?”
“Old enough.”
“And you waited to make sure of that, didn’t you?”
He seemed surprised for a moment, then nodded. “I guess I did.”
Portiere sighed longingly. “Where were you thirty years ago?”
Logan shrugged. “Around.”
“Around about then I could have used you,” she said sadly. “I never found the right person to share my life with. It could have made a difference. I’ve lost so much time.” She stared at him, willing him to understand her mistakes.
His eyes held hers as he replied softly, “I can relate.”
He could, too. She could sense it – they were kindred spirits. But now he had a place to belong in, and someone to share his life with him. Would she, could she turn things around in her own world?
“The tow truck should be here any minute,” she finally said after a long, pregnant pause.
“No, it won’t. I called them off when I discovered you had some moisture under your distributor cap. Should start right up whenever you want to go.”
“Whenever I want, not whenever I need?” She almost laughed. “You are quite the teacher, Logan,” she admitted with a small smile.
He snorted softly and said nothing.
“Logan, I wonder if you might do a favor for an old dog learning some new tricks.” She saw his look of suspicion and her smile broadened slightly. “Would you…dance with me? No strings attached, I assure you,” she offered quickly.
She noted later that his touch was warm, like sunshine on a chilly day.
Portiere waited patiently while he reread her words, noting that he checked out of the corner of his eyes frequently to see if she wriggled and squirmed in her seat - as if he could intimidate her with such an obvious ploy. Portiere smiled to herself. She always wrote the truth, even if she had been misguided before this. That way she didn’t have to eat her words later. He should be that smart, or at least that decisive, she thought of her supervisor. Still she could understand that this report had thrown him for a loop, as it was not one she would normally have written.
From his dapper little suit and tie to the large oak desk he was entrenched behind, he was every bit the type of man she despised, and she grinned ruefully to herself as she remembered Logan. Logan would never use a desk as an intimidation device, she accurately concluded, and that was a good thing to remember.
“You don’t expect me to believe this is your final report on Xavier’s school, do you?” He snorted. “That pinhead snared you into his web all right. He does this every year…”
“He wasn’t there, this is my final report, and I’ve already submitted it to the board.”
His face swelled, turning three different shades of red in the process. “How dare you!”
“Oh, I dared,” she said smoothly. “What’s more, the board agreed with me that this office has been run somewhat haphazardly and with something of a chip on its shoulder these last few years with you at the helm. Not that I specifically mentioned you inviting me to catch schools off guard by going early, or that you encourage your employees to find fault with every little thing.” She eyed him warningly. “No, I expect you will be relieved that such information will be kept out of your record as you look for another job, if you leave peaceably. And you can take your ‘administrative assistant’ with you – she would only pine for you anyway.”
One hour later, she was sitting in her former supervisor’s chair with the other inspectors and administrative personnel looking at her nervously from opposite the monstrous desk. She smiled warmly.
“We are no longer in the interrogation business. Our inspections with be conducted with the aim of improving the quality of the schools we look over, not tear them down.” They seemed a little relieved at this, she noted, so she continued. “How about we start our new views on assistance and approachability by chopping up this wooden beast and feeding it to the dumpster?”
“Yes ma’am!”
Xavier wheeled himself silently along one of the dark corridors, intent on finding one of the other occupants of the mansion who normally did not sleep much at night. The brilliant flare of a match right beside him startled him momentarily before he grinned, watching the much older man light his cigar.
“Logan, I believe I said no smoking those inside the school.”
There was a grunt as smoke curled silently between them. “I believe you did. Chuck. You also made sure I was out of the way the last time this school was inspected.” The cigar glowed again as Logan took another draw. “You knew she was coming early – that’s why the sudden teachers’ conference getting everyone but Hank off the grounds. And that rain had all the earmarks of Storm. What gives?”
Xavier chuckled appreciatively before answering. “When I realized who the office was sending, I knew I had to find another person to meet her at the door, so to speak. I picked the best man for the job, one she had much in common with and could learn a great deal from.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “I believe you made a difference in her life, my friend.”
Logan eyed him sharply. “I don’t help people live, Chuck. I usually help them die.”
“I beg to differ, as would so many under this roof.”
Logan shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. “You see things through rose-colored glasses.”
“And you are quite good at the art of dodging. Now about that cigar…”
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
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Story Notes:
Blame Rex Stout for this one. Happy birthday, DD. 07/05