Author's Note: 3 Things:
1) Sorry. . .
2) Forgive Me . . .
3) Thank you tremendously for not only reading & reviewing this little insignificant morsel of a fic, but for enduring all the waiting :)
I apologize for the quality, I'm still trying to work off all the rust.

Chapter Eighteen, Part 1

He had woken up with bleary eyes and through his confusion and lingering pain, was immediately met with the horrified visage of the spectacled librarian he had growled at earlier. He blinked slowly several times and groaned at the strange sensations and faint buzzing inside his head.

"Mister, I asked you if you're all right?!" he heard the librarian screeching above him. "Don't worry. I've sent someone to call an ambulance."

"No need," he heard someone else say. "I've got my cell phone."

"No," groaned Logan. "Don't. I don't need an ambulance."

"A-Are you sure?" the librarian stuttered in disbelief. "You had some sort of attack!"

"Happens from time to time," he groused. "Don't worry about it, lady."

Realizing that he was still sprawled out on the floor, Logan proceeded to stand on shaky legs. He stood firmly to his feet, only just then noticing the dozen or so people who had been staring on at the strange scene when he stretched up and all of the spectators that had been surrounding him and the librarian suddenly scuttled backwards like frightened sheep.

"Sir, are you sure you don't need medical help?"

Logan cracked his neck loudly, and several people winced and muttered amongst themselves disgustedly at both the sight and sound.

"I'm sure. I don't need any medical help, but there is something more along your lines, lady, that you could help me with."

Her hand was still laid across her rapidly beating heart (Logan could hear it pounding like a drum), and she looked at him with a queer expression, one eyebrow raised high up over the top of her glasses as if to say: "Huh?"

Two hours after that, Logan had swiftly left the library with a backpack containing a handful of old photocopied newspaper articles courtesy of the librarian; the dates of which were all from the late 1800s. Admittedly it wasn't much, only brief write-ups of one Jacob Howlett who had made a fortune, according to the papers, mining copper ore. Information regarding his personal life was scant. The librarian had recovered her senses and was busily rolling through the microfiche machine in attempt to assist his search as he had asked her.

"Howlett," he'd told her. "Look up anything with a 'John and Elizabeth Howlett'."

During their search one Jacob Howlett had turned up results, but as of yet, nothing about a John and Elizabeth Howlett, excluding a blurb about the endowment given to the library which had been in the library's own financial records.

Logan wasn't much for computers so he attempted to continue investigating the old-fashioned way. But his attention was hardly set on it, as his thoughts settled not on the books and papers he was rifling through, but that vividly clear memory that just earlier had left him reeling. The pain of remembering had been great, but Logan figured it was one of the clearest, most vivid suppressed recollection he'd experienced. He had not only seen the images of the man and the laughing young girl, but he'd felt the warm air, the ground beneath their feet, the skin on skin touch of two hands intertwined.

Though he'd been unsuccessful in finding any clues to a mysterious Department K, Logan felt perhaps he might not come out completely empty-handed after all. Just as such ponderings were crossing Logan's mind, the librarian (whose name he still didn't know, and hadn't bother to ask for) beckoned him over.

"I've found an article about the endowment and there's a photograph along with it."

Logan paused before looking at the photograph for himself, his heart pitter-pattering anxiously. Some innate sense told him this was consequential, and suddenly he felt slightly unprepared for its magnitude. Hunting down answers was one thing, discovering them was another.

"Hey . . . don't you want to see?" the woman piped, noticing Logan's uncertainty.

"Yeah . . ."

She glared at him. "All right . . . I'll leave you to it." She vacated her seat, and disappeared somewhere behind several rows of bookshelves.

Now alone and private, Logan took slow, wary steps and proceeded to sit down in the empty chair. He saw precisely what he knew he would as he glanced at the screen—the man from the memory that had called him in for dinner, and pictured next to him in the old black and white, was an attractive dark-haired woman, the caption below the photograph identifying the two as John Howlett Senior and his wife, Elizabeth. There was a small boy standing in front of them, and he wore a strange expression on his small face, one not unlike his mother's whose own visage seemed withdrawn and her features screamed of discomfort. The father was the only one with a pleasant, handsome expression in the photograph.

This man and woman were his father and mother, and he, the little boy. The realization of this stunned Logan. He could feel his head beginning to throb, thudding against his temples and behind his eyelids. This was his family. His lost, forgotten family – a family from the 1800s. Meaning – judging by his youthfulness in the photograph – currently he was a man now over a century old.

"Ya gotta be kiddin' me. . ." murmured Logan under his breath. The thought of it was astounding.

Logan scrolled through the rest of the slides out of a strangely curious hunch. He caught a split-second glimpse of something and scrolled back to view it. It was an obituary, written for one John Howlett Jr., age 12. Grazing rapidly over the details, Logan's heart sank with the realization that this young boy, whose obituary he stared at, would've had to have been his brother, his older brother. He suddenly felt sick. He knew that the other obituaries of his family had to be somewhere among these records, and he called the nameless librarian over to help him find them.

When he'd got back on the road, the library far behind him, the obituaries of Elizabeth and John Howlett Senior was tucked in Logan's pack, along with the other articles and the obituary of his brother. Logan hadn't read them yet; just collected them, thanked the librarian, and went on his way.

It was then that Logan felt acutely the hollow ache of loneliness, and he yearned for comfort of a particular kind. All this information had come quite unexpectedly. He hadn't come searching for this, but he'd found it, and now his heart felt weighted down with heaviness and the effort to absorb it all in. Since the beginning of his journey Logan's distance from Ororo had never smote him as terribly as it did just then, knowing that if she weren't hundreds of miles away than she wouldn't have been anywhere else but at his side as he grieved over his sad fragmented past. That knowledge was pressing down on him guiltily from all sides.

There'd been no contact with Ororo since his departure, although he had checked in with Charles via the older man's telepathy twice, just to alert the man that he wasn't dead. He thought he'd been making a wise decision in that regard, that he would be avoiding distraction that way for he knew she would plead for him to return. Suddenly he was doubtful that that decision had been wise, and worry was inexplicably creeping up along his metal spine like slow snaking tendrils . . .

XAVIER'S . . . . . .

Ororo had a question regarding the Boston itinerary so he stopped by Jean's room to inquire about it. The door was nearly half way open when she arrived and Ororo rapped gently on the door with her knuckles and called out to her friend.

No answer.

Ororo peeked inside and then came in fully.

"Jean?"

Rounding the corner, Ororo found the telepath leaning on the bathroom sink. One hand was pressed against her head, and her reflection in the mirror was that of a pained grimace.

"Are you all right, Jean?"

Jean snapped up immediately and turned back to find Ororo watching her with concern. Her painful expression immediately faded, and she smiled reassuringly at her friend.

"I didn't hear you come in, sorry."

"It's fine; I just had a question about our schedule this week. Do you have a headache? Is it your powers?" Ororo inquired.

"Oh, no . . . well . . . since the Professor's been guiding me through the beginnings of working with Cerebro my telepathy has been a little overexerted," Jean explained casually.

"Does the Professor know?"

"Yes, but it's my fault. He keeps telling me to take it slower, but I get a little over zealous at times. Though after this headache of mine I think I've properly learned my lesson," she chuckled.

Ororo grinned and held up a printout of the schedule. "Well, I just had a quick question about the itinerary. Do you mind?"

"Of course not, ask away."

Fifteen minutes later, an all too familiar mental summons from Professor Xavier echoed in their minds during the women's discussion, and they were called to the War Room at their mentor's behest. The two women shot each other wearily amused looks. A mission was unexpected and properly inconvenient what with Ororo, Jean, and the students leaving for Boston the following day, but Ororo, having been an X-Man since joining in her teens, found that mostly such things always proved to be at an inconvenient time and that nothing was new here.

"We should make our way down," said Jean. "I'll be down in a minute, you go on and go. I need something for this headache. If I don't find something in my medicine cabinet I'll have to run by medical bay."

On her way down to the lower levels, Ororo met Anna on their mutual journey towards the War Room. She said hello and smiled kindly to the other woman in passing. To her suprise, the southerner's reaction to Ororo's greeting was a hardly-concealed sneer, and an unpleasant look that instantly left Ororo feeling rudely taken aback. Coming from the opposite direction of the corridor, the pretty Mississippian brushed by Ororo as she passed, bumping her a bit, and her whole aura, which was quickly filling the corridor, was unmistakably chilly.

The not-so-subtle slight irked Ororo, as did the weather witch's own personal fancies about Anna's relation with Remy. And since Anna was her subordinate in regards to the X-Men, Ororo felt triply disrespected and justified in setting her straight.

"Is there a reason you're eyeing me like that, Rogue?" challenged Ororo, turning and narrowing her eyes on the other woman. The confrontation was a long timing coming and Ororo wasn't bothered with trying to avoid it.

Rogue stopped at the door and slowly turned on her heel to face Ororo directly. "Excuse me?"

"I think I spoke quite clearly. Is there a reason for your attitude?"

Rogue snorted nastily. "Is there a reason you're two-timing Logan 'n Remy?" she countered.

Ororo cut her a dangerous look, one that – if Rogue had been paying attention to – would've warned her to quit while she was ahead. The weather witch intoned coldly, "Oh is that what I'm doing?"

Rogue shrugged. "Looks like it."

"And what would you know of it, pray tell?" Ororo crossed her arms, a look of disgusted condescension gracing her face.

"Ah know you're supposed ta' be with Logan, but you're also sniffin' 'round Remy now that he's gone. Ah don't think it's right. What? Ya think ya can jus' have whoever ya want, goddess? What would Logan say, Storm?" Rogue's tone of voice had increased, and there was genuine hurt and effrontery in it. It tumbled out swiftly, a sign that it had been something she'd wanted to say for some time now.

Ororo took a bold step forward. "Let me inform you of something, Rogue, something that you obviously have failed to understand . . ." She stepped even closer to Rogue, barely an inch of space now existed between the two women. Those exotic features hardened nearly imperceptibly, and she ground out sharply, "You, Rogue, cannot tell me one single damned thing about Remy LeBeau. I know Remy on a level you couldn't even begin to understand. He and I have been through things you know absolutely nothing of, and the bonds between he and I go beyond the X-Men, beyond Logan, and most certainly beyond you."

Rogue swallowed and blinked several times.

Ororo continued knowingly. "You are not the first woman to have been captured by Remy's charms . . ." she said. Rogue opened her mouth in an apparent attempt to deny it, but Ororo would not be interrupted. " . . Nor will you be the last, but do not make the mistake of thinking that that entitles you to add your paltry two cents in regards to a relationship you know nothing about outside of little glimpses you may have caught here and there."

"And as for Logan, he left me, not the other way around. I have steadfastly been faithful to Logan even when he was not faithful to me. Where were you when he and Jean were skirting around behind my back? Did you give him a similar speech?"

Rogue opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again without a word.

"Nothing to say?"

". . . It wasn't my business," Rogue remarked defiantly, though the words were muttered softly. Not all like her remarks had been before.

"You're damned right it wasn't, and neither is this!"

"I'm allowed to care and be concerned."

"Care? Yes. Concerned. Yes. But not nosy. Not combative. Not rude. Not snide. If you are ignorant of the facts than you should not - open - your - mouth."

Rogue glowered ruefully.

"You know, I understand your motives, Rogue. You may not think so, but I do. You might very well have feelings for Remy, and I'm almost positive, judging from your history with him, that you have them for Logan as well, but never . . . project your insecurities or your anger unfairly on me again. Are we clear on this?" Ororo snapped.

"Hey, is everything all right?"

Beyond them were Scott, Warren, Kathryn, and Bobby. The quartet stopped abruptly in their tracks while mid-conversation and stared curiously at the two women engaged in the heated stand-still near the threshold of the War Room. Undisguised hostility radiated from the two X-Women, and if Warren wasn't mistaken, a subtle current of electricity was pleasantly tickling the feathers on his wings.

Her eyes not once drifting from the other woman, Ororo gritted out, "Yes. Yes, I think we are." Swiftly she strode into the War Room as the automatic doors opened and allowed her access.

"Rogue?" Their leader's mousy brown eyebrow was raised comically high over his glistening ruby visor.

"You heard her, didn't you? Everythang's fine," the southerner clipped in a sour, snippy tone.

Scott stared blankly at her vacated spot. What the hell had that been about?

"Ooookaaay," said Kathryn after Rogue had disappeared. She cleared her throat uncomfortably, and the four of them exchanged careful glances.

"Nice—a cat fight," commented Bobby, in his usual tactless fashion.

"Shut up, Drake."

"What! It's a war outside the war room!"

Warren looked over at his friend and shook his head pitifully. "Your corniness knows no bounds."

Kathryn giggled and Bobby scowled at him. Scott, disturbed and perplex, sighed shortly and strode into the War Room after the two women. From the look of things it wasn't the best idea to leave Storm and Rogue alone in the room together for long. When he entered however, he did not see a clash fists and lighting, but the sight of Ororo enveloped affectionately within two huge, fuzzy blue arms, beaming brightly at their longtime friend and colleague.

"Look who the professor found," Ororo grinned. The sudden change in her disposition was instant, and the abruptness of it startled Scott for a moment. He decided to simply roll with it.

"McCoy."

The Professor sat watching with a contented smile. Rogue, still miffed, looked on curiously. Scott strode over towards the large, hairy mutant covered from head to toe in soft blue fur, and shook his large hand. Both men clapped each other heartily on the back.

"Scott. Good to see you, my man."

Warren, Kathryn, and Bobby eventually straggled in and were watching as well. Scott proceeded to introduce them all. Introductions were made one by one as the Professor explained to those unfamiliar with the strikingly strange-looking mutant dressed in the handsome and expertly tailored three-piece suit, that Henry "Hank" McCoy was a longtime friend and collaborator of the X-Men, as well as Secretary of Mutant Affairs to the President of the United States. He was also a scientist, diplomat, verifiable genius, and scholar.

"Yes, Charles has told me about you all, the newest, most recent X-Members. It's both an honor and a pleasure to meet you finally; it won't be the last." He smiled broadly at each of them, his white teeth appearing incredibly stark in contrast to his blue face. His eyes scanned over the crew one more time. "Ah, but we seem to be missing one . . . where is Gambit, the scoundrel?"

"Y' know me, mon ami, got t' be fashionably late." And just as silent and fast as the thief he was, Gambit was at the door, propped against it with his casual grace and wearing his customary smirk. "Long time no see, Beast."

Hank strode forward, his large hand outstretched. "Good to see you again, Gambit."

"D'accord. Likewise, mon ami." Gambit stepped back after releasing the other man's hand. His eyes shot quickly over Hank's burly shoulders to Ororo. She stared back at him, those wide exotic eyes gleaming, and saying so much.

The tension became instantly thick . . . and apparent to all present.

Their last conversation had been emotional and unpleasant, unsettling enough even to make Ororo question whether or not she and Gambit's relationship would ever once more be the same. Things had changed drastically. Both friends had candidly admitted to loving the other, the cruel irony being neither one believed the other.

It seemed that they were now at an impasse.

Gambit hesitantly tore his eyes away and happened to catch gaze Rogue's gaze from where she stood glaring in the corner. Her green eyes glinted reproachfully. Guilt and regret prodded Gambit's heart as he saw the expression she wore. Solemnly, he recalled the conversation he and the southern brunette had had at Harry's — the same night he had come home and found Ororo waiting up for him in his bedroom — and the guilt he was experiencing increased.

The sudden palpable discomfort amongst the occupants was noticeably awkward; they deliberately avoided each other's gazes lest their faces reveal all. Hank McCoy, ignorant to what was happening, stared on with obvious, though not impolite, confusion.

Sensing the silent battle more acutely than anyone due to his unrivaled telepathic awareness, the Professor, ever tactful and clever, directed their attention to the cause of the initial summons. There was no mission as they had originally presumed, but important news that Henry had brought to share with them all, the Professor bidding them to congregate there in the War Room.

Ororo, though she was one of the main ones nestled in the thick of all the current tension, wasn't the only person grateful for the shift in attention. Warren, Bobby, and Kathryn were as well, the latter quietly exhaling a small breath in relief. After witnessing Ororo and Rogue out in the hall, and the myriad glances, scowls, and glares that had been exchanged amongst certain members since arriving, Kathryn figured even the smallest spark could start a proverbial blaze.

Settling silently around the familiar round table, the X-Men proceeded to give the preeminent blue mutant their ears, and their undivided attentions.

TO BE CONTINUED