X-Men: Catalyst

The server set down the trays efficiently, the plates landing with soft thuds against the worn formica tabletop. Steam rose from golden-brown fries piled high next to burgers that looked like they could feed a small army. The smell of grilled meat and melted cheese filled their corner of the diner, making Clark's stomach growl in anticipation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten—the fight at the library felt like it had happened days ago instead of hours.

"Let me know if you need anything else," the server said, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. Her name tag read 'Sarah' in slightly faded letters.

"Mais oui, cher," Remy caught her hand with a smooth confidence that seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing. His red-on-black eyes sparkled with charm as he smiled up at her. "You been tak'n such good care of us already. Don't know what we'd do wit'out you."

The server—Sarah—flushed pink to her ears, her free hand fidgeting with her order pad. "Oh! I... thank you. That's... that's very sweet."

"Sweet? Non, just honest, cher. Ain't that right?"

"I... um... I should check on my other tables."

"Don't let me keep you den. But maybe when your shift—"

"Oh my god," Dutch muttered into his coffee cup. "Is he actually—"

"—Is he seriously hitting on—" Clark started simultaneously.

"—the server?" Harper finished, giggling around her straw.

Sarah practically fled back to the kitchen, her face now bright red. Remy watched her go with an expression of satisfied amusement, like a cat who'd just gotten away with something.

"Wow," Clark said, shaking his head as he reached for the ketchup. "That is... that is definitely an accent."

Harper's giggles turned into full laughter. "It's like... it's like if molasses could talk!"

"Petite, you wound me." Remy pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, but his grin never faltered. "This here's as authentic as it gets, straight from de bayou."

Dutch turned to Logan, who was determinedly staring out the window as if he could pretend the rest of them didn't exist. "This is who you were in Louisiana for? Really? I would've left him in a ditch the moment he opened his mouth."

"You say the sweetest things, mon ami," Remy drawled, stealing one of Dutch's fries with nimble fingers.

"Touch my food again and you'll lose those fingers, Cajun."

"So sensitive. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Anyone ever tell you that your accent sounds like a bad stereotype come to life?"

"Hey," Clark cut in, trying to head off what felt like an impending argument. "I wouldn't say bad. Different, yeah, but kind of cool once you get used to it. Like something out of a movie."

"See?" Remy gestured at Clark with a fry. "De boy gets it. Got good taste, this one."

Harper nodded enthusiastically, the chocolate milkshake forgotten for the moment. "I like it! It's like... it's like music, almost? But talking?"

"Petite knows what she's talking about," Remy winked at her. "Unlike some people at dis table who wouldn't know culture if it bit them on their—"

"Finish that sentence," Dutch warned. "I dare you."

Logan finally turned from the window with a growl that silenced everyone at once. "If you're all done acting like children..."

The table fell quiet for approximately three seconds before Harper started giggling again, which set Clark off, and soon, even Dutch was fighting back a smirk. Logan just shook his head and went back to staring out the window, but Clark could've sworn he saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of the older man's mouth.

They piled back into their vehicles after the diner, Logan's gruff voice cutting through the post-meal haze. "Alright, wrap it up. We've got thirteen hours of road ahead of us, assuming nothing tries to kill us." He paused, considering.

"Don't jinx it," Dutch muttered, sliding behind the wheel of their borrowed Chrysler.

Harper bounced on her toes next to the motorcycle, practically vibrating with excitement. "Can I ride with you, Mr. Logan? Please?"

Logan's expression softened. "Yeah, just don't shoot any lightning while we're moving."

The first few hours passed in a blur of highway lights and classic rock. Remy, relegated to the car's backseat, seemed determined to make everyone as miserable as he felt. His hand kept creeping toward the radio dial until Dutch finally snapped.

"Touch that radio one more time, Cajun, and I swear to whatever god you believe in, I will drive this car into the nearest tree."

"Mais, mon ami," Remy drawled, his fingers hovering near the controls. "You can't expect me to suffer through another hour of... what even is dis? Sound like someone stepping on a cat."

"That 'cat' is Bruce Springsteen, and I will not have you disrespecting The Boss in my stolen car."

The miles rolled by states bleeding into one another as they pushed north. Somewhere around hour fourteen, they switched passengers. Harper's excitement about the motorcycle had given way to exhaustion, and she now dozed in the backseat, her head pillowed on Clark's shoulder. Remy had somehow managed to sprawl across most of the remaining space, his long legs propped against the window.

Clark drifted in and out of sleep, his dreams a confused jumble of blue energy and masked figures. He jerked awake once to find Dutch swerving to avoid what looked like a deer, but he was asleep again before he could process what he'd seen.

"Holy shit," Clark said suddenly, sitting upright around hour seventeen. The movement startled Remy awake, the Cajun nearly falling off his precarious perch in the backseat.

"What? We being attacked?" Dutch's hand was already moving toward his gun.

"No, I just..." Clark ran a hand through his hair, laughing despite his exhaustion. "I just realized we're literally driving a stolen car across state lines. That's like actual federal crime territory."

"Technically," Dutch said, "it's only stealing if you don't plan to return it. I prefer to think of it as an aggressive borrowing situation."

"That's... that's not how the law works. At all."

"Relax, petit," Remy chimed in, somehow having regained both his balance and his swagger. "De way I see it, we stole dis car to help people. Makes it more like... what you call it? Civil disobedience."

"Pretty sure that's not how that works either."

Finally, after twenty-one hours of driving, multiple caffeine stops, and what felt like several minor miracles, they turned onto a tree-lined drive in Westchester County. The rising sun painted the sky in shades of pink and gold, casting long shadows across manicured lawns and elegant architecture. A brick sign emerged from the morning mist, its letters carved with dignified precision: "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters."

Clark stared up at the massive building beyond the gates, his throat suddenly tight. He'd seen fancy houses before, but this was something else entirely—a perfect blend of old-money grandeur and welcoming warmth. It looked like something out of a dream or maybe a movie about a better life than the one he'd been living.

Harper pressed her face against the window, her eyes wide with wonder. "It's like a castle," she whispered.

The mansion loomed before them, its architecture a stark contrast to the modern security systems Clark could spot cleverly integrated into the stonework. Morning sunlight caught the massive windows, making them gleam like diamonds. His neck hurt from trying to take it all in at once.

"This is..." Clark gestured vaguely at everything. "I mean, when you said 'school,' I was thinking more public high school, less Hogwarts meets MI6."

"Mais oui," Remy agreed, looking equally impressed despite his casual demeanor. "Dey certainly ain't hurting for funding, non?"

They reached the circular driveway, the Chrysler's tires crunching on perfectly maintained gravel. Dutch killed the engine but made no move to get out. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel for a moment before he turned to face them.

"Well, kids, this is where I get off. Been down this road before, and once was enough."

Clark shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Listen, about everything back at the library—"

"Don't," Dutch cut him off, but there was a hint of warmth beneath the brusqueness. "You start getting sentimental, and I'll have to shoot someone."

"Thank you," Harper's voice was small but fierce as she suddenly launched herself forward, wrapping her arms around Dutch. "For saving us. For driving us. For everything."

Dutch froze for a moment, looking down at the tiny figure attached to him like he wasn't sure what to do with it. Finally, he patted her head awkwardly. "Yeah, well... try not to need saving again, okay, kid? I've got a busy schedule."

As they watched Dutch's taillights disappear down the driveway, Clark couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't really goodbye. Something about the way Dutch had looked back just once in the rearview mirror like he was memorizing their faces for later.

"He'll be back," Remy said, as if reading Clark's thoughts. "Ones like him? They always come back, even when they say they won't."

Logan led them through massive oak doors that looked like they could withstand a siege. The entrance hall beyond was something out of an architectural magazine—sweeping staircases, crystal chandeliers, and wood paneling that probably cost more than everything Clark had ever owned combined.

A security guard—Marcus, according to his nameplate—sat behind a sleek modern desk that somehow didn't look out of place among all the old-world grandeur. He shot them a grin and a wave that were both professional and genuinely welcoming.

"New arrivals, Logan?" His voice carried a warmth that immediately put Clark at ease. "Must've been some trip."

"Something like that," Logan growled, but there was no actual heat in it. "Any problems while I was gone?"

"Just the usual. Bobby froze part of the lake again, but we're handling it."

They continued through corridors that felt like a maze, though Logan navigated them with the confidence of someone who'd walked these halls a thousand times. Finally, they stopped at a door with a tasteful brass nameplate that read: Administrative Assistant Diana Chen.

The office beyond was a perfect blend of efficiency and comfort—modern furniture mixed with antique touches, and walls lined with both filing cabinets and framed artwork. Ms. Chen herself rose from behind her desk with a smile that reached her eyes. She was younger than Clark expected, maybe in her early thirties, dressed in a way that suggested both authority and approachability.

"Thank you, Logan," she said, her voice carrying just a hint of an accent. "I'll take it from here."

Logan nodded, already turning to leave. "Try not to break too much on your first day, kids." He paused in the doorway. "And... welcome home."

The word 'home' echoed in Clark's mind as Logan disappeared down the hall. After years of temporary shelters and careful distance, after learning to never get too comfortable anywhere... maybe, just maybe, this time, it would stick.