Marvelous Meditations

The heavy oak doors to Xavier's office swung open with a force that rattled the bookshelves. Ororo Munroe stepped inside, her presence a storm unto itself. The air around her crackled with barely restrained energy, and though no thunder rumbled overhead, Xavier had the distinct feeling that it very well could have.

Seated behind his desk, Charles Xavier barely lifted his gaze from the papers in front of him. "Ororo," he greeted, his voice calm as ever.

"Don't 'Ororo' me, Charles." Her tone was sharp, her eyes narrowed as she shut the door behind her with deliberate force. "What were you thinking?"

Xavier folded his hands atop his desk. "You're upset."

"Upset?" she repeated with an incredulous scoff. "That doesn't begin to cover it." She strode toward his desk, leaning forward, both hands pressing against the polished wood. "You made Nathan Cross a combat instructor for the children? Without consulting the rest of us? Without consulting anyone?"

Xavier sighed, setting his pen aside. "Ororo—"

"He is dangerous, Charles." She cut him off, her voice low but firm. "You know that as well as I do. The kind of man he is… the kind of people he associates with… he could poison them simply by proximity."

Xavier studied her for a long moment before responding. "I had the same concern."

That made Ororo pause, if only briefly. "Then why?"

"Because Nathan himself shares that concern," Xavier said, his tone measured. "That alone tells me he will do everything in his power to ensure it doesn't happen. And in that, we have common ground."

Ororo shook her head, straightening. "I understand why you think the children need someone with his expertise." She began pacing. "I understand that learning to fight isn't just about skill—it's about surviving. But it doesn't have to be him, Charles." She stopped, turning to face him again. "We could find someone else. Someone who isn't a walking hazard. Someone who won't—whether intentionally or not—corrupt these children."

Xavier exhaled softly, tilting his head. "Ororo, do you truly believe Nathan Cross is a wicked man?"

Storm hesitated.

"He is troubled," Xavier continued, "but he is not wicked, and neither were you, Logan, or anyone in this school. I would know."

Ororo frowned. "I was a thief, a delinquent, perhaps... and Logan was a victim of an inhuman experiment... none of us were murderous psychopaths on the US government's payroll." Her arms crossed over her chest, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Yet, somehow, you think that makes him fit to mentor our students?"

"It makes him uniquely suited to teach them something we cannot," Xavier replied. "And it also makes this assignment as much for him as it is for them."

Ororo frowned. "What do you mean?"

A faint, knowing smile touched Xavier's lips. "Children have a way of mellowing men like Nathan Cross."

Ororo gave him a skeptical look, but Xavier simply held her gaze, his expression calm but resolute.

The storm in her eyes hadn't passed, but she sighed, shaking her head. "I still don't like it."

"Then keep an eye on him," Xavier said. "Make sure he doesn't become the threat you fear."

Ororo huffed. "You're insufferable, Charles."

Xavier chuckled. "So I've been told."

She turned for the door but paused. "I'll be watching, Charles. Closely."

"I would expect nothing less."

With that, Ororo stepped out, the door clicking shut behind her. Xavier sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He knew this wasn't the last he'd hear of the matter. But he also knew that, given time, Ororo might see what he already had—that even the most hardened of men could change.

And sometimes, all it took was the right kind of storm.

...

The cryo pod hummed softly, its frosted glass obscuring some of the bruises on Bucky Barnes' face, but not all of them. The fresh cuts along his cheekbone, the faint swelling around his eye—it was all proof of just how hard he had fought. How hard they had fought him.

Steve Rogers exhaled sharply, his fingers brushing against his own bruised jaw, a dull reminder of just how barely they had won this time. His blue eyes remained fixed on Bucky's sleeping form, a flicker of guilt creeping in.

"Well," Clint Barton muttered, shaking his head as he surveyed the wreckage around them—medical trays overturned, a reinforced chair lying in splinters, and, most notably, one of his bows snapped clean in two on the floor. "I gotta say, Steve… your best friend's got one hell of a left hook."

Natasha Romanoff smirked, crossing her arms. "You should've seen his right."

Steve didn't respond immediately. His lips pressed together in a thin line before he finally sighed. "He always was the tough one." His voice was quiet, distant.

Natasha glanced at him. "You knew each other since you were kids, didn't you?"

Steve nodded, his gaze never leaving Bucky. "Yeah… he looked out for me. Always did. When bullies tried to knock me down, he was there to pick me up. Hell, half the fights I got into were because he was defending me." He huffed, shaking his head. "And yet, when he needed me—"

Silence fell over the room like a heavy weight. No one spoke. They didn't need to.

Then the door opened.

Nick Fury stepped in, his expression unreadable but his presence alone enough to snap everyone to attention. His one good eye scanned the scene—Bucky in stasis, Steve standing rigidly before the pod, Clint casually leaning against the wall, and Natasha watching them both carefully.

Steve turned to face him. "What's next?" His voice was steady, but there was an underlying tension there. "How do we help him?"

Fury exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "With HYDRA still alive and very much embedded in SHIELD, our options are limited. We don't have the resources. We don't have the manpower. Hell, we barely have enough people we can trust." His voice lowered slightly. "We'll find a way. But it's going to take time."

Steve frowned. "Not necessarily."

Fury's gaze snapped back to him. "What do you mean?"

Steve held his gaze, his jaw tightening. "You and I both know a man who might be able to help Bucky."

Fury's expression hardened instantly. "No."

"Fury—"

"We both know," Fury interrupted, "that's exactly what he wants."

Steve scoffed. "We've waited long enough to not make ourselves look desperate, but let's face it—we are." He paused, then muttered, "At least, I am."

Fury's frown deepened, but he didn't immediately retort. For a moment, he simply studied Steve, as if gauging just how far he was willing to push this.

"Listen—"

"No, you listen." Steve cut him off sharply. "I've listened long enough. I've stood by, waiting, hoping that some miracle cure would just fall into our laps. But that's not happening, is it?"

Fury remained silent.

"I'm not leaving Bucky in that pod any longer than I have to." Steve's voice was firm, resolute. "I'm going to help him reclaim his mind, one way or another."

Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and strode toward the exit.

As he passed Fury, he spoke one last time—his voice quieter, but no less determined.

"I'm going to meet Nathan Cross."

And with that, he was gone.

...

Nathan Cross drove in silence, his gloved hands steady on the wheel as his car carved a path away from the Xavier Institute. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the soft hum of the engine was the only sound in the vehicle. The past two months had been... interesting, to say the least.

He hadn't planned on sticking around for long.

When Xavier strong-armed him into babysitting duty, he'd assumed it would be a waste of time—just another obligation he could check off before moving on to more important things. But now, two months in, he was already seeing results.

The security experts from Maximus Security had come and gone, their presence unnoticed by anyone at the mansion. Posing as pest control, they moved with precision, installing a network of sensors, hidden cameras, and early-warning systems—all without raising suspicion. Even Xavier hadn't known the full extent of what Nathan had arranged. It wasn't paranoia; it was pragmatism.

And sure enough, it had paid off.

CIA agents, FBI surveillance teams, black-bag operatives from intelligence networks Nathan didn't even bother putting names to—hell, there were even the occasional mobsters keeping tabs on the school. The X-Men were being watched from all angles.

No surprise there.

What was a surprise was that, so far, no trace of Sebastian Shaw or Nathaniel Essex had turned up. No whispers, no trails, nothing but dead ends. But Nathan wasn't the type to be discouraged by silence. Silence meant one of two things: either Shaw and Essex didn't need to use traditional methods to observe Xavier's little academy… or they had people on the inside.

He'd find out which. Eventually.

In the meantime, his focus had been divided. He'd spent weeks familiarizing himself with both the students and faculty, sifting through conversations and movements, looking for anything out of place. Someone had tipped the Foreigner off about Wolverine, and Nathan had every intention of figuring out who.

But so far? Nothing.

Whoever the mole was—if there even was one—they were either incredibly disciplined, or they had already covered their tracks. Neither possibility sat well with him.

But at least his work as a combat instructor had been more productive.

He'd drilled the students relentlessly, forcing them out of their comfort zones, breaking down bad habits and building new ones.

Some were resistant—Bobby still had too much bravado, Rogue relied too much on brute strength, and Jean still hesitated when she should have been acting.

But others had taken to his training like second nature. And none more than Nightcrawler.

Kurt Wagner was by far the most promising of the lot. Where the others grumbled or questioned, he listened. Where others hesitated, he adapted. His teleportation had always been impressive, but under Nathan's instruction, it had become something more—tactical, efficient, deadly.

Kurt still hadn't managed to land a single hit on him, but he was getting closer.

And that? That pleased Nathan more than he cared to admit.

Nathan adjusted his grip on the wheel, the low rumble of the engine filling the quiet cabin of the car as he cut through the evening roads. His mind, however, wasn't on the drive—it was still back at the mansion, in the training rooms, running through the past two months like a reel of footage.

If Nightcrawler had been the most promising student, then Kitty Pryde had been the most surprising.

She took to Baguazhang like she was born for it, weaving through attacks with a natural flow that made it seem effortless. The style's circular movements, redirections, and unpredictable counters fit her skillset perfectly. Her agility, combined with her phasing powers, gave her an unnatural slipperiness in combat—one that forced Nathan to constantly adapt just to keep up.

At first, she couldn't last three moves against him.

Now? She could exchange more than ten before he inevitably found an opening and took her down.

That kind of progress, in just two months, was unheard of.

To anyone else, it might not have seemed like much—ten moves was nothing in a real fight—but to Nathan? It was damn impressive. He had been fighting, training, and surviving since he was a child. His entire life had been a battlefield. And yet, here was a teenage girl, closing the gap at an alarming rate.

It wasn't just raw talent—it was the way she learned.

She didn't just memorize techniques; she internalized them. Adapted. Made them her own.

Much like Kurt, she wasn't just progressing—she was exceeding expectations.

Not that the others were slacking.

Bobby, Jean, and Rogue were improving as well, and at a rate that would've been considered exceptional under normal circumstances. It was just that Kurt and Kitty were operating in a league of their own.

Nathan wasn't sure how he felt about it.

Not because he was disappointed in the others—far from it. But because, in some quiet, unacknowledged part of his mind, he was starting to feel something foreign. Something unfamiliar.

Pride.

Seeing these kids sharpen their skills under his guidance… watching them evolve from reckless fighters into something more…

It was satisfying. Rewarding, even.

And if he had the self-awareness to admit it, he might have realized that he was starting to care. But Nathan Cross was not a man who reflected.

He was a man who acted.

His hands were too full with revenge to recognize what was happening. He was too focused, too determined, too consumed by the ghosts of his past to stop and acknowledge the fact that, for the first time in his life, he was a mentor. A guide. A teacher.

He didn't even realize it.

And so, as he drove, his thoughts drifted elsewhere. To Daniel.

The mutant boy he had helped Wolverine and Archangel rescue from Nessiros Island.

He had seen Daniel a few times at the mansion since then—just a glimpse here and there, watching him run, play, and learn with other kids his age.

And every time, Nathan's shoulders felt just a little lighter.

He never lingered, never spoke to the boy for long. But just knowing Daniel was safe… that he wasn't locked away, experimented on, turned into some tool for someone else's ambitions…

That was enough.

Nathan exhaled, his fingers tightening slightly on the wheel. Just a little longer. He would find Shaw. He would find Essex. He would burn down every last trace of what they built.

Soon enough, Nathan's thoughts were abruptly cut short by the sharp wail of a police siren slicing through the night air. His gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, catching the telltale glow of flashing red and blue lights trailing him.

A frown tugged at his lips. Déjà vu.

He had been through this before.

Still, he didn't react with alarm. Didn't speed up. Didn't run. He simply guided his car to the side of the road with measured ease, the tires crunching softly against the gravel as he came to a halt.

His fingers drummed once against the steering wheel before he exhaled, rolling down the window and settling back into his seat, his posture relaxed but his mind already working through the possibilities.

Who was it this time? Was this a legitimate stop? Or was it something else?

The crunch of boots on pavement signaled the officer's approach.

Nathan turned his head, and as soon as his eyes landed on the man standing beside his window, his frown deepened.

Recognition dawned instantly.

A beat of silence passed before Nathan's lips curled into a half-smirk, half-scowl. "I remember you."

The officer, a grizzled man with sharp eyes, didn't react much—just adjusted his belt and gave Nathan a slow, measured look.

He was the same cop who had pulled him over last time. The same cop who had told him his presence was needed at the station. The same cop who had led him straight to Steve Rogers.

And here they were again.

...

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