December is on its way in, and winter’s getting ready to make its dramatic entrance.
Here at the mansion, it’s always easy to tell when fall is about to turn into winter. The days get noticeably shorter, the snow blows in so fast it might as well have Sabretooth on its tail, and the kids start complaining—big surprise there—that the mansion is so cold their lips are turnin’ blue. (Funny how they never whine about the temperature when they’re outside for hours on end building crazy-looking mutant snowmen.)
I’m not generally given to deep contemplations—give me a couple of beers and a good hockey game on TV, and I’ll be fine for hours—but lately, the start of winter has been kicking up some old memories and urges I thought I’d buried a while ago. I’ll be walking past a window, minding my own business, when I happen to glance out and see something as ordinary as a tree covered with snow—and suddenly the instinct to roam comes flooding back, and all I want is to dump everything, grab the bike and take off for the Canadian wilderness. But at the same time, I know I can’t. Not anymore.
It’s right about then that Jean’s face pops into my mind, twisted with contempt, and hits me with that accusation she leveled at me years ago. Look at you, Logan. He’s tamed you!
I know it wasn’t really Jean who said that—the Phoenix had pretty much taken over by that point. But even so, sometimes I think back to those words, play them over and over in my head. And I wonder if she was right.
The Wolverine, tamed. Domesticated. And if the Phoenix thought I’d lost my edge back then, she’d laugh herself senseless if she saw me now.
She thought it was the professor who “tamed” me, but I know better. It was Marie who was my downfall. She started the whole thing when she climbed into my trailer back in Laughlin City. When my long-dormant conscience got the best of me and I decided to let her ride along in the truck, I figured nothing more would come of it aside from having to put up with her chatter for an hour or so—that and being out one pack of beef jerky. Never in a million years would I have guessed that I’d end up married to her, of all things. Not only because she was just a kid at the time, but because the Wolverine doesn’t do commitment. Or so I thought, anyway.
As if “until death do us part” wasn’t enough of a blow to my masculinity—well, you can probably guess what happened not long after that. And if not, here’s a hint: it follows me around on chubby legs, looks up at me with big, dark eyes, and calls me Daddy.
I sniffed out Marie’s pregnancy right at about the same time that she began to realize something wasn’t quite the same in there. My brain refused to process it at first—I blamed it instead on all the weird food she’d been eating lately—but then the doctor confirmed that she was in fact expecting a little bundle of mutant joy.
I went ballistic. I’m not proud of it, but I won’t deny it. I could make endless excuses for exactly why I reacted the way I did, but what it all boils down to is that I was scared. Terrified out of my wits.
I don’t scare easily, and for good reason. There’s virtually nothing that can threaten me physically, thanks to my healing factor and the indestructible metal grafted to my skeleton. Throw an army of Magneto’s goons at me and I hardly blink an eye. But the prospect of being a father to a tiny, helpless infant? Different matter entirely.
Don’t get me wrong, I actually get along with kids a lot better than you might expect. The fact that I’ve lived in a school for almost a decade now and haven’t mauled any of ‘em yet is a pretty good testament to that fact. But teaching self-defense to a group of the little beasts is one thing. Parenting one is a whole other story. Especially since I have no memory of my own parents, or my own childhood. Then there’s the part about the nine-inch claws hiding in my fists. Point is, I’m the last person in the world cut out to be someone’s daddy.
Marie swore up and down that she hadn’t gotten pregnant on purpose, the birth control must have lapsed, and so on, but all that barely registered in my brain. I was less than interested in why it had happened—all that mattered was that it had happened.
I’ve always been prone to wanderlust, but the temptation to run has never been stronger than at that point. As I stood there in our bedroom, Marie looking at me anxiously with her arms crossed protectively over her abdomen, every instinct I had was screaming at me that this was an unwinnable situation. My best option was to pack my bags, head north and fall back into the familiar oblivion of driving, drinking, and fighting. Maybe if I tossed back enough beers and pummeled enough cocky punks on the cage-fighting circuit, I wouldn’t have time to think about the look that crossed Marie’s face when I blew up at her after she came back from the doctor’s office.
I remember grabbing a duffel bag and shoving clothes into it, resolutely trying to ignore the salty smell of Marie’s tears that burned in my nostrils like acid. Finally, my almost-frantic movements slowed, then stopped. I threw the duffel bag halfway across the room and went to sit on the bed, holding my head in my hands.
I don’t have much recollection of exactly what happened after that, but in any case, I didn’t wind up in Canada. In the end, I could no more abandon Marie to raise the kid by herself than I could have left her by the side of that frozen road up in Alberta.
And there I go, bein’ all domesticated again.
Over the following eight months or so, I learned more than I ever wanted to know about mood swings, morning sickness, and other delights of pregnancy. Such as, for example, a pregnant woman’s endless cravings for obnoxious food combinations—all of which I was expected to provide, usually at ungodly hours of the morning. I did, however, put my foot down at the notion of watching videos of actual deliveries, or attending classes on stupid stuff like special breathing techniques to use during labor. Maybe Phoenix was right when she said I’d been tamed, but still. I can only be pushed so far. Besides, breathing is breathing. It can’t be all that hard, right?
I will admit, the stuff I learned about breastfeeding was kind of fun. Unfortunately, the rest of it was not nearly as interesting, which led to disappointment on my part and lots of eye-rolling by Marie.
Now, don’t think that for the entirety of those eight months, that everything was all daisies and sunshine and nauseatingly cute pink and blue booties. We still had our rough spots. Sometimes I snapped at Marie when her hormones were driving both of us insane. And I still fought the urge to run, almost on a daily basis, although some days were worse than others. Especially when The Day started getting real close, and Marie’s belly looked about ready to explode. I started feeling a swell of panic that I didn’t care for at all. It was really going to happen—she was going to bring a squalling infant into the world, and we were going to be responsible for it.
Me, responsible. The thought churned my insides like no other.
But I stuck it out. I had come within an inch of succumbing to the temptation to run once before, and I was determined that it wouldn’t happen again.
Fortunately, I can be pretty stubborn once I set my mind on something.
As for the labor and delivery…I would rather just forget about most of that, to be honest. Pretty excruciating process—slightly moreso for Marie than for me, I admit. Still, for once in my life, I was almost glad to have that adamantium on my bones. Otherwise, I’m pretty sure my fingers would’ve been broken in a few places, thanks to Marie grabbing onto my hand for dear life during the contractions. That woman doesn’t know her own strength.
The labor lasted for a very, very long time. Marie could tell you the exact number of hours down to the minute, but to me, most of it is a blur. All I can say is that I wore a path in the hospital room floor with my incessant pacing. I think I made the nurses pretty nervous. But anyway, after some final screaming and pushing and cursing of my name, the ordeal came to an end at last, and the doctor held up our newborn offspring.
You know all that stuff you see on TV, with parents weeping in joy and cooing over their “beautiful” new baby? It ain’t always like that in real life. My immediate reaction was that, with the possible exception of Sabretooth, that red, wrinkled and writhing kid was the ugliest creature I’d ever seen in my life.
I didn’t voice this thought out loud, of course.
To their credit, the hospital minions did a quick job of getting it all clean and bundled up, and despite my best efforts, I could just feel myself softening by the second. The look of elation on Marie’s face probably had something to do with it.
I was fine with just standing there, watching my wife hold the baby and whisper sweet nothings to it. I had to admit, they did kind of make a cute picture. But then Marie looked up at me from the bed, her eyes all wide and soft, and asked, “Do you want to hold her, Logan?”
I must have looked like a deer in the headlights, because Marie seemed far too amused at my expense. I shrugged one shoulder and tried to look away. “I dunno, darlin,’ she looks pretty comfortable with you.”
Somehow she managed to pull out the puppy-dog eyes while still maintaining the amused look. “C’mon, Logan,” she said, laughing softly. “She’s not going to break. I promise.”
I meant to just come right out and say no, but some traitorous part of my brain had other ideas. Almost before I knew what was happening, I found my arms full of baby. “Full” in the relative sense, anyway. The kid was so tiny she practically fit in the crook of my elbow.
I stared at her for a minute. She stared right back. Finally, I decided some kind of introduction was needed.
“Hey,” I said gruffly, clearing my throat a little. “Uh, I guess I’m your…” I choked on the word, paused, and tried again. “Your daddy.”
The kid looked at me intently through her big, solemn eyes, then screwed up her face and screamed. I firmly believe that it should not be humanly possible for a sound that loud and shrill to come from such a tiny mouth.
Marie, naturally, thought the image of me stuck holding a hollering newborn was the funniest thing ever. I had the feeling she would have burst into a fit of giggles if her abdominal muscles hadn’t felt like they were eating themselves alive. I was slightly more miffed. After all, I wasn’t entirely thrilled with the arrangement either, but you didn’t see me screamin’ about it.
You might say it was a bit of a rough beginning. Like most new parents, we had our share of sleepless nights (not like I’m unused to those), along with lots of cleaning up puke, dealing with temper tantrums, and so on. And I about had a conniption the first time Marie insisted I change a diaper. But to my surprise, things got better from there, for the most part. Yeah, it took me a little while to get warmed up to the kid, but my protective instincts kicked in before too long. And, truth be told, I didn’t think much about how close I’d come to leaving, back on that day Marie found out she was definitely pregnant. I didn’t forget it completely, just stuck it in the dark corner of my brain where I file away all the things I’ve done that I don’t want to remember. And for a while, I thought maybe that was the end of it, thought that maybe I’d kicked that wanderlust for good. I guess I should’ve known better.
Which brings me back to the present—winter coming, the snow piling up, and with it the increasing itch to head north.
And Jean’s voice in my head almost constantly now, tellin’ me I’m a pansy.
I’m standing in the hallway, in front of an open door that leads to one of the mansion’s rec rooms. My daughter, now almost three years old, is sitting on the floor in front of the TV. She’s thoroughly engrossed in her movie—some animated flick about singing lions, or something equally ridiculous—so she doesn’t notice me standing in the doorway, watching her. One of the mansion’s older students is sprawled on the couch, doing homework and keeping an eye on the kid. That’s one of the perks of living in a school—there’s never a shortage of babysitters.
Don’t get me wrong; regardless of any reservations I have about having been “tamed,” I love my kid. If anyone ever threatened her, I’d skewer him so fast he’d be shish kebab before he knew what was happening. But even so, as I stand here in the doorway and watch her, I can’t help but get the sense that this isn’t me.
I have a tendency to see things in black and white. I’m not much for middle ground. And so the way I see it, I have to make a choice between two extremes. On one hand, I have this nagging feeling in my brain that maybe I’ve just been fooling myself these past few years—maybe it was only a matter of time before this animalistic instinct popped back up again. Maybe I’ll never be able to bury it completely. Maybe I don’t want to bury it.
Maybe Stryker was right when he told me that people don’t change—that I’ve always just been an animal.
But at the same time, I know that’s not the case. I’ve proven that to myself on more than one occasion—like when I let Marie in my truck, or when I threw my dog tags at Stryker’s feet back at Alkali Lake, or whenever I’ve taken my little girl to the park and pushed her on the swingset for hours on end, listenin’ to her shriek with laughter.
I know they’re both part of me—the husband and father versus the animal, battling inside my skull like some kind of parody of Jekyll and Hyde. I’ve never actually read that book, but I remember Marie telling me about it years ago, when she had to write a report on it for one of her classes. I can’t remember for sure, but I’m thinking it was Hyde who won out in the end.
I’m so absorbed in my thoughts that I don’t pick up on Marie’s scent from a mile away like I normally do. I don’t register her footsteps, either, until she starts walking down the hallway towards me. Finally, I shake myself out of my contemplations and look over at her.
“Hey, Logan,” she greets me with a smile, stopping in the doorway next to me. Almost automatically, I reach over and pull her against my chest, leaning down to nuzzle her hair, and she tilts her head back against my shoulder so she can look up at me. She has a drowsy, contented look in her eyes, and I’ll bet she was taking advantage of the opportunity to get a quick nap. Chasing a three-year-old around the house all day can be tiring.
Unfortunately, she’s not content just to snuggle. “Something on your mind?” she asks me, quirking one eyebrow.
“What makes you think that?”
She grins a little, smothering a yawn. “You have that scowl on your face that means you’re deep in thought.”
I snort and give her a half-smile. I was hoping she was too sleepy to notice, but no such luck. “I always scowl.”
She laughs at that, but pokes my arm to let me know she’s not dropping the subject. “Stop trying to avoid the question.”
My lips tighten a little and I break eye contact with Marie, looking over her head into the rec room again, watching our daughter without really seeing her. Suddenly, I feel like I could really use a beer. Or a cigar. Of course, these days, I’m banished to the outdoors whenever I want to smoke. Somethin’ about not wanting to give the kids lung cancer.
Marie shifts in my arms slightly to get my attention, looking both curious and a little concerned at my failure to respond. Finally, I blow out a sigh, knowing she won’t be satisfied until she gets me to spill my guts. “Wasn’t really thinking about much. Just the snow.” I shrug one shoulder, the one she’s not leaning on. “And Canada.”
She stiffens, and I sense her heart rate speeding up slightly. Then she pulls away and looks at me, her eyes widening, wary. “Canada?”
“Yeah, Canada. Y’know, country to the north of us? Big, cold, lots of snow?”
She ignores my sarcasm, licking her lips—a sure sign that she’s nervous—and chooses her words carefully. “What about Canada?”
I shrug one shoulder again, nonchalantly. “Just haven’t been there in a while, is all.” Eight years, to be more specific.
“Are you thinking of…” she trails off, and I know she wants to say “running,” but instead, she finishes with “…going back?” She swallows hard, pushes her white hairs behind her ears anxiously. I know she’s flashing back to that day in our bedroom when I almost walked out on her.
I grind my teeth and growl softly, suddenly feeling agitated. “No. Maybe. I dunno.”
She reaches for me, looking really worried now. “Logan—“
“I don’t know, Marie,” I cut her off. I’m trying to keep my voice down, but the growl comes out a little louder anyway. “Can we just drop it?”
She stares at me for a second, then laughs, her voice more high-pitched than usual—a decidedly unpleasant sound in contrast to her quiet, sleepy laugh of only a few minutes before. “Drop it? You want to just drop it?” she repeats incredulously, and her accent gets thicker, the way it always does whenever she’s worked up about something. She continues on without giving me a chance to respond, which is just as well since I don’t really have an answer for her anyway.
I hear everything she’s saying, but most of it doesn’t register beyond a word or two here and there. She’s gone from worried to angry, and her eyes are flashing sparks as she hisses at me and pleads with me at the same time. Finally, I speak up, stopping her mid-sentence.
“I’m not going to Canada, Marie. I’m staying. I’m not going anywhere.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I blink, surprised at myself. Where did that come from?
Marie apparently wonders the same thing, as she crosses her arms and glares at me. The expression looks like something I might see in the mirror, and I wonder if she’s picked up on it because she’s got me in her head, or because she’s been married to me for five years. “Are you just saying that to get me to calm down?”
I look at her for a long moment. The hall is oddly quiet, the noise from the TV having faded into the background. Marie is holding her breath, and I can hear her heart thundering in her ribcage. After a second, I realize I’m holding my breath as well, and finally I let it out slowly. I’ve made my decision.
“I’m gonna stay,” I tell her, my tone so low I wonder if she can hear me.
She tilts her head a little, looking at me steadily. The fury has faded from her eyes, replaced by something close to sorrow. “Is that really what you want?” she asks me, her voice barely above a whisper.
I narrow my eyes at her. “What, would you rather I left?”
She gives me one of those looks I’ve gotten used to seeing over the past several years—the “how can you be so dense?” glare. “Of course not. I want you to stay more than anything; you know that. But I don’t want you to stay just because you feel like you have an obligation to us—just because we’re some kind of responsibility or burden you brought on yourself. I want you to stay because you want to. So I’ll ask you again.” She takes a few steps closer, her eyes holding mine. “Is it really what you want?”
The question catches me off guard; I have to admit. Not that this is the first time Marie’s done that. And she does have a point.
Regardless of what I want, I’ve already decided to stay. I chose this life years ago, and I know that if I were to walk away now…the roaming and the fighting and the beers and cigars might satisfy my darker instincts, but none of it would get rid of the guilt and the slowly growing self-hatred that I know would be nagging at the back of my mind.
I promised Marie, more than once. I promised her back when she was a scared kid on a train, and I promised her again a few years ago, when she was standing in front of me wearin’ a dress that matched the streaks in her hair, reciting vows and beaming at me with the biggest smile I’d ever seen on her face.
I may not be the most noble man in the world, but I keep my promises. And yeah, I do want to be here. I might not be willing to admit it to myself all the time, but I know that if this were something I didn’t want, I would have left—for good—long ago.
And I know that every day I stay here, every time I beat this urge to run, I prove to myself that there really is more to me than my animal instincts.
I look at my wife again, meeting her eyes. “Marie, I can’t tell you that someday I’m going to just stop feeling the instinct to run, because I don’t know if that’ll ever happen. But I’m not gonna let it control me.” I take a step toward her, closing the distance between us. She doesn’t back away. “Yes, I want to be here. And you’re not just an obligation to me—you never have been. You know that.”
She watches me for a moment before nodding slowly. Her heart rate is returning to normal, and her eyes close as she lets out a deep sigh of relief. I take the opportunity to pull her into my arms again, resting my chin on her hair. She returns the gesture, winding her arms tightly around my shoulders.
As I stand there in the hallway with Marie, the scene from the infirmary plays itself again in my head, one more time. Phoenix’s voice is low, seething and disgusted as she lets me know once more how tame I now am. But for the first time in a while, I find it easier to tune out her accusations.
When I woke up on Stryker’s operating table and fought my way out of the facility, wet, naked and covered with blood, I was an animal. I was still more animal than human for the fifteen years after that, when I roamed around Canada feeling little more than barely controlled rage. And that animal will always be part of me, but he’s not who I am anymore. The way I see it, maybe I have been domesticated just a little…but it’s a small price to pay for feeling human.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This takes place about eight years after X3.
Disclaimer: X-Men and its characters don’t belong to me, and I’m not making any profit from this fanfic.
Disclaimer: X-Men and its characters don’t belong to me, and I’m not making any profit from this fanfic.