It was a lazy Sunday morning in the Xavier Mansion.
The kind where even the occasional explosion from the Danger Room felt more like background static than an emergency. The usual suspects were gathered in the kitchen, hovering over coffee, waffles, and half-burned toaster experiments courtesy of Bobby.
Jean sat with her feet propped on the bench, flipping through a novel with one hand and telekinetically stirring her tea with the other. Nightcrawler dangled from the light fixture above, reading a newspaper upside-down. Beast was muttering about syntactic telepathy over a bubbling skillet. Jubilee was face-down in a bowl of Lucky Charms, softly snoring.
Peace.
Then the door creaked open.
Storm stepped in, barely visible behind a tower of mail. Parcels, envelopes, glittery boxes—at least two of them wrapped in duct tape and brown paper like someone was smuggling armadillos. She staggered toward the table.
"I need… a flat surface," she groaned.
BAMF.
Nightcrawler landed gracefully and swept the cereal and Jubilee's elbow aside. Storm dropped the stack.
THUMP.
Dozens of cards and boxes spilled out. All bore the same destination:
"To: James Howlett
Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters
Westchester, NY"
The room went still.
Beast raised a brow. "James… who?"
Storm adjusted her jacket. "That's what I'd like to know. They're all marked Father's Day."
Jean frowned. "We don't have a James Howlett enrolled."
"Maybe it's a code name?" Bobby suggested. "Spy alias?"
"No way," Jubilee muttered through cereal. "Sounds too polite."
Nightcrawler held up a glittery card with a cartoon moose and "#1 Dad!" scrawled in crayon. "If this is spy mail, it's… very low security."
Then came a familiar voice from the hallway.
"…Huh. They actually found the address this year."
Everyone turned.
Logan stood in the doorway, towel over his shoulder, boots muddy, cigar smoldering.
Jean blinked. "You know who James Howlett is?"
Logan walked in, eyes on the pile. "'Course I do. That's me."
Silence.
Storm twitched. "You're… what now?"
"James. James Howlett. That's my real name."
He scooped up a stack of envelopes, expression softening in a way few had ever seen. Not sarcastic. Not menacing. Just—smiling.
Beast short-circuited. "You have a legal name?"
Logan grunted. "Yeah. Ain't just 'Logan' and 'bub.' Shocker, I know."
He turned over a glittery envelope shaped like a bear claw. "This one's from Buzzcut. Ha! Sent it early this year."
Jean frowned. "Buzzcut?"
"My kid."
Storm stepped forward. "Wait—all of this is from your children?"
Logan blinked. "Uh. Yeah. It's Father's Day. What'd you think it was?"
He sat like it was any other Sunday, stole the last waffle off Bobby's plate, poured a half-inch of coffee, and casually started reading.
The cards spilled across the table like a shrine built out of chaos. Some typed on fancy stationery. Others were crayon explosions sealed with Band-Aids and electrical tape. One envelope was taped shut with dental floss.
Jean leaned in, cautious. "You're telling us these are all from your kids?"
"Yep."
Storm frowned. "You have… children. Plural."
"Yep."
Beast squinted. "As in more than—two?"
Logan peeled open an envelope with a claw. "Try fifty."
The room exploded.
"FIFTY?!" Bobby choked.
"At least," Logan added. "Stopped countin' after the Dozen Claws situation."
"…Dozen Claws?" Kurt asked.
"Quadruplets. All girls. All claws. Birth certificate looked like Sudoku."
"You just never mentioned this?" Jean sputtered.
"Didn't come up."
Storm stared. "How do fifty people exist without us knowing?!"
"I see 'em every weekend. Family dinners are a big thing with us."
"You. Have. Weekly. Family dinners."
"Every week."
Jean sat back, stunned. "And they all send you Father's Day cards."
He gestured at the pile. "Looks like thirty-eight made it this year. Not bad."
Bobby whispered, "I didn't even get my dad a card…"
Nightcrawler asked, "Do they all have powers?"
"Most."
"They live here?"
"Heck no. Canada, Madagascar, prison. One runs a food truck. Good shawarma."
Storm's voice went thin. "And this never seemed… relevant?"
Logan raised a brow. "You ever ask?"
Jean opened her mouth. Closed it. Point taken.
Jubilee croaked, "…What?"
Logan smiled, opening another letter. "Family's complicated."
Beast started scribbling math on a napkin.
"If we stagger birth cycles—"
"Are you trying to solve Logan's love life with math?" Storm asked.
"If science doesn't attempt to explain it, who will?"
"Buddy," Bobby muttered, "that napkin's gonna catch fire."
"Oh—Groundhawk's on the way," Logan said, as if that explained anything. "Bringing ribs."
"…Groundhawk?" Jean echoed.
"Kid twelve."
"Is that a codename?"
"Nope. Legal."
"Let me guess—he makes spikes erupt from the ground?"
"Nope."
"Wings of stone?"
"Good aim."
Beast blinked. "That's… his mutant power?"
"Terrifyingly accurate."
Storm looked ready to combust. "Why 'Groundhawk,' then?"
"He's got a hawk eyes. He never misses."
Jean: "…Of course it does."
A distant rumble outside. A motorcycle.
They rushed to the window as a black Harley rolled up. The rider dismounted—a grizzled sixty-year-old biker in a leather vest, dragging a cigar in his hands. He stomped inside.
"Yo, old man!" he bellowed. "Brought ribs! And a folding chair!"
"That's my boy," Logan said with pride.
Jean whispered, "He looks older than you…"
"Didn't get the healing," Logan said. "Just the attitude."
Groundhawk flopped into a chair. "You weirdos got potato salad, or am I breaking into the danger fridge?"
He lobbed a toothpick into the espresso thimble on Beast's desk. Ping. Dead center.
Logan grinned. "Good aim."
Storm shook her head trying to wrap her head around all of this. "How have we never met any of them?"
Logan sipped his coffee. "You sure about that?"
The room froze shocked and worried.
Jean: "…What do you mean?"
"You've met their kids' kids. Great-grandkids."
Beast: "WHO?!"
"Beast. Spike."
Storm: "Spike?! My nephew Spike?!"
"Bone manipulation. Same as my claws. Before they got dipped. Shared bloodline."
Beast gaped. "But I'm blue!"
"Most feral mutants are related to each other in some shape or form."
Spike wandered in, banana in hand. "Wait—I'm what now?"
Groundhawk: "You got a bone stickin' out your elbow."
Spike looked down. "Ah. Happens when I get confused."
Logan patted him. "That's how you know you're mine."
Storm dropped into a chair. "This is going to ruin every family reunion from now on."
Groundhawk casually tossed a rib bone over his shoulder. It bounced off the microwave, hit the light switch, and landed perfectly in the garbage disposal.
Logan didn't even look up.
"Good aim."