Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Logan woke with a start, heart pounding as he sat up suddenly. He gasped a few times before slumping back onto his elbows, sweaty hair falling into his eyes. The remnants of a nightmare lingered in his mind after having chased him to wakefulness. There were words on the tip of his tongue, a cry for someone, or perhaps a warning, but he couldn't piece them together. It was all slipping through his fingers like sand, disintegrating into the void of his forgotten memories.

He tried to take a deep breath and winced at the sharp pain that shot through his chest; the effort to inhale deeply seemed impossible. Sleeping on his back had left his ribs acting as a heavy, unrelenting weight on his lungs and each breath Logan took was labored and shallow. There was a throbbing spasm that resonated with each beat of his heart, but as Logan sat up further in bed, the pain dissipated into a gentle ache. He shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the heaviness remained; a reminder of just what lay below his skin.

Adamantium was heavy.

Logan swung his legs out of bed, hanging his head as he groaned. He rolled his shoulders carefully, hoping to ease the stiffness that had settled in overnight, but it was pointless. He’d injured his shoulders and chest yesterday and the new nerve endings that had replaced the damaged ones were still echoing the first thing felt: pain. It would take the day for the echo to fade.

He glanced around the room, the early morning light casting a long shadows on his wall and only seemed to add to his weariness. Did he really want to get up today? Surely he had a sick day in bank he could call in? Logan snorted at the thought and rubbed his forehead tiredly, no one would believe he was sick and would see it for what it was. A poor attempt to skip out on work.

With a weary sigh, Logan gentl6 reached into his mouth and pulled out his mouth guard. The mouth guard was something Logan had come up with a few years ago, one he'd had custom made for him by a farrier he'd met on the outskirts of Terrace, British Columbia.

No other metal workers would make what Logan asked for, most of them found it too horrific. He wanted a mouth guard forged from solid tungsten, not nearly as strong as adamantium or even vibranium, but it would do the job.

All but the farrier had balked at the design, and even the farrier had refused until Logan sat down and explained it to him. The mouth guard had thick, unyielding hooks that curved into the flesh of his gums on both the top and bottom of his mouth. The hooks had to be precisely shaped, making sure they dug deep into his gums, anchoring the guard in place. This kept his jaw clamped shut, making it impossible to open his mouth without tearing his own flesh and potentially ripping out several teeth.

Wearing it was agony, the pain from the hooks was constant and searing, an unrelenting reminder of the mouth guard’s presence. But Logan needed that pain; it was nothing compared to what he endured on those nights when his body fought the unrelenting invasion of the adamantium grafted to his bones. The metal that was fused to his very skeleton was a constant burden. Most saw it as a masterpiece of weaponization, but it came with the price of indescribable suffering. His mutant healing factor was continuously trying to reject the foreign metal. This battle waged endlessly beneath his skin, each attempt at healing met with resistance. The adamantium was unmovable, but that didn’t stop Logan’s body from trying.

When the waves of agony hit, they were all-consuming. Logan’s body would seize as if trying to reject his very bones themselves. The pain felt as if his soul was being ripped apart and he was unable to escape the torment of his own unbreakable bones. On those nights, the mouth guard became his last line of defense against himself. Tying his jaw shut, it was the only thing that stopped his screams from tearing through the silent halls of the mansion.

For Logan, this brutal contraption was more than just a muzzle; it was a necessary cruelty, a self-imposed restraint that kept his suffering locked inside. The mouth guard kept his pain private, his screams muffled, and his torment his own.

Spitting a thick glob of blood into the trash can by his bed, Logan winced as the coppery taste lingered on his tongue. The blood was fresh, dripping from the raw wounds the hooks had carved into his gums. Even as the wounds quickly healed, Logan could still feel the metal in his mouth. Felt the echo of the hooks on the roots of his teeth.

Logan cleaned the mouth guard with a damp cloth, wiping away the stains that clung to the tungsten hooks. He inspected the guard one last time, running his thumb over the cruel, curved hooks. Satisfied that it was clean, he placed it carefully into the drawer of his nightstand, tucking it away like some dark secret.

Logan stood, feeling the familiar protest of his muscles as he rolled his shoulders, the tension knotted deep in his bones. He flexed his hands, feeling the stiffness in his fingers, the slight tremor that betrayed his exhaustion.

“Fuck.”

Logan had known before he even crawled into bed that sleeping on his back would be a bad idea. It always was. But last night, after the mission, he hadn’t had the strength to care. His body was spent, wrung out from hours of combat and the relentless toll that his healing factor took on him with every injury. By the time he’d stumbled out of the shower, every step felt like dragging a dead weight. His muscles had screamed in protest, everything stiff from the endless cycle of tears and regeneration. He’d barely made it to his bed, collapsing onto the mattress. Without the energy to turn over, he’d slept where he fell.

As he’d drifted off, the familiar weight had settled on his chest, the feeling of being slowly crushed by his own body. The adamantium was heavy and unforgiving, pressing down on his lungs as he lay flat on his back, each breath shallow and strained. His muscles overcompensated, working overtime to keep him alive even in sleep, but no amount of healing could alleviate the sheer weight of the metal within him.

Throughout the night, Logan’s body fought a losing battle against itself. His overworked muscles pulled and cramped as they struggled under the pressure, his heart beating hard in his chest, trying to force air into lungs that never seemed to fully expand. Though his healing factor worked tirelessly to mend the strain, knitting together any damage as soon as it occurred, it couldn’t keep up with the constant suffocating pressure. Even in sleep, Logan was fighting.

The healing had already done its work, fixing the minor tears and strains in his muscles, but it couldn’t touch the lingering sensation of having been trapped beneath a crushing force. The phantom feeling of being pinned down lingered.

Logan knew the echo would stay with him all day, a terrible feeling of breathlessness that would remain.

A sharp knock on the door startled Logan out of his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. He must have truly been lost in thought for someone to be able to reach his door without him hearing them. Logan’s senses flared instinctively, body tensing as he turned his attention to the door. He caught the familiar scent that drifted through the air; soft, floral, and unmistakable. A quick sniff confirmed what he already knew: it was Jean.

“Come on, Logan,” Jean called through the door, “We still need to give the Professor our mission briefing.”

“Yeah, be there in a minute,” he replied, voice rough. He waited, listening intently as Jean’s footsteps retreated down the hallway, each step growing fainter until they disappeared completely.

Only then did Logan let out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping as he turned his attention to the bottom drawer of his dresser. He knew he was cutting it close, but if he was quick he could get what he needed and not be late. He crouched down, opening the drawer, fingers finding the familiar spot, and pressed down hard, feeling the click that released the false bottom with a practiced ease.

Logan reached in, pulling out a thin, unmarked lockbox. It was small and unassuming, the kind of thing you could easily overlook unless you were looking for it. The lock needed a four-digit PIN to open it, a number he had never shared with anyone, not even the people closest to him. He dialed in the code with quick, sure movements, his mind already focused on what he needed. Inside, the box was a careful array of vials, bottles, and blister packs—opioids, benzos, muscle relaxers, and other illicit drugs that Logan had collected over time. It was his own private pharmacy, a dangerous mix of desperation and defiance.

His eyes settled on the small blue pills nestled in one corner: fentanyl, one of the stronger medicines in the box. Logan grabbed six of them, his hand steady despite the tremor that ran through his body. He dry-swallowed them, feeling the bitter taste as they slid down his throat. He grabbed two more pills, this time biting down, feeling the chalky bitterness coat his tongue before he forced himself to swallow. The drugs would dull the edges of his pain on bad days like today, blurring the sharp lines of agony into something he could at least pretend to ignore.

Logan knew it wouldn’t last; it never did. The relief was temporary, but he was past caring at this point. He just needed to break the cycle, even for a moment. If he could stop it now before it worsened, then this day may not turn out to be one of the really bad ones.

Once the pills were down, Logan quickly locked the box, making sure it was secure before slipping it back into the drawer and clicking the false bottom back into place. He couldn’t afford any mistakes. The students had an uncanny knack for getting into places they weren’t supposed to be, and the last thing he wanted was for some kid to stumble upon his stash. Not only could it br dangerous for them, but Logan’s problems were his own, and he was determined to keep it that way. He couldn’t let his weaknesses spill over into their lives, couldn’t let them see just how much he struggled.

He grabbed a half-empty can of old coke from the floor by his bed, taking a quick swig to wash away the bitter aftertaste of the pills. The coke was warm and flat, but it did the job of cutting through the chalky taste left on his tongue. Logan closed his eyes, feeling the faint stirring of the drugs working their way into his system. The tightness in his chest began to ease, just a little, and the sharp pain that circulated through his muscles softened to a dull throb. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get him moving, enough to face the team without flinching.

It would be enough for now.

And maybe, if he was lucky, it would be enough to get him through another day.

Logan slouched in the back of the meeting room, his eyes half-closed as Scott yammered on about yesterday’s mission. The rhythmic cadence of Scott’s voice, precise and controlled, rolled through the room like white noise. Logan had heard it all before; Scott’s measured recounting of tactical maneuvers, enemy positions, and team movements. The way he spoke was almost soothing in its predictability, lulling Logan into a half-asleep state that he would never admit to. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; it was just that these meetings always felt like more of the same; detached and clinical, devoid of the blood and grit that clung to the team afterwards.

Logan leaned his head back, feeling the cold wall against his skull, and let his eyes slide shut. The drugs were wearing off, their brief reprieve fading as the ache in his joints began to seep back in. It wasn’t the worst pain, just a dull, ever-present reminder. The slow grind of cartilage rubbed raw against adamantium coated bones. His healing factor was always struggling to keep up, knitting together microtears and patching up the damage, but it could only do so much, and arthritis sucked.

Turns out, metal bones were hell on a body’s natural cushion. Logan’s joints were under constant assault, the soft tissues were never meant to withstand such strain. The pain wasn’t unbearable, not this early in the day, but it was enough to make Logan more growly than normal.

Still, the deeper agony, the kind that flared up when his healing factor fell behind, turning his entire body into a war zone of pain, had been held at bay for now. The beginning pings of that hurt were quiet, starved off by the pills. He could sit here, be soothed by Scott’s voice droning on, and pretend that everything was okay.

“Were there any injuries?” The Professor’s voice cut through the haze in Logan’s mind. Logan blinked, opening his eyes and turning his gaze toward Scott. He watched the younger man, waiting to see how he’d respond. Would he tell the truth? Acknowledge the chaos, the blood, the close calls? Or would he keep it neat and tidy, just like always?

“No one was injured,” Scott replied smoothly, his expression calm and unbothered. Logan felt his stomach tighten, anger bubbling up at the dismissal, even though he knew it wasn’t meant that way. Scott wasn’t trying to erase what Logan had gone through, not really. To Scott, it was simple: if they walked away without any visible wounds, then they weren’t injured. They were fine. Even if, just minutes before, Logan had to spit out a bullet that had lodged itself in his chest, tearing through muscle like tissue paper.

Logan almost snorted at the absurdity but held back, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It wasn’t the lie that angered him, it was the complete disregard of it. He knew Scott wasn’t trying to hurt him, but that didn’t make it sting any less. For Logan, every hit, every wound, was a painful reminder of what his body was. But to everyone else, those moments didn’t count. They were just part of the job, an inconvenience that his healing factor was supposed to clean up without a fuss.

Charles’s gaze shifted to Logan, a quiet question in his eyes. Logan felt the gentle nudge of the Professor’s mind, a light probing touch that sought to understand, to offer comfort. But Logan wasn’t in the mood for comfort. He wasn’t in the mood for anyone to try to peer inside his head and tell him how to feel. He threw up his mental shields, shoving Charles back with a forceful, silent rejection. The anger he let slip past before the shields closed was deliberate, a clear message: stay the hell out.

Logan didn’t wait for the meeting to officially end. As soon as Scott finished, Logan pushed back from his chair, the legs scraping loudly against the floor as he got up and stormed out of the room. He didn’t bother with a word to anyone, didn’t care about the questioning looks or the silent judgments. He just needed out, needed to be away from the sterile, suffocating atmosphere of the mansion and its endless routines.

Logan made his way to the back doors and shoved them open, the sudden rush of warm air hitting his face like a splash of water. The woods loomed ahead, dark and dense, a sanctuary that Logan retreated to more often than he’d like to admit. Without a second thought, he took off at a run, his boots pounding against the earth as he slipped into the cover of the trees. He moved silently, instinct guiding him through the twisting paths of the underbrush, each step pushing him further away from the mansion, from the team, from everything that had been gnawing at him since the mission.

No injuries. What a fucking joke. Logan’s thoughts ran angry and fast, his rage burning beneath the surface as he tore through the woods. So what if he healed quickly? Did that mean the injuries didn’t count? Was getting shot not considered an injury just because the wound sealed itself up in a matter of seconds? What about the sucking chest wound that had nearly dropped him mid-fight? Or the moment when, even after his flesh had knit back together, the air had stayed trapped inside his chest, crushing his lungs? Logan had been forced to puncture between his own ribs just to let the trapped air escape, a brutal desperate act that had left him gasping and bleeding all over again. Was that not an injury?

Or was it just that Logan’s suffering didn't matter? His pain and blood didn’t even register to the people he fought beside.

Logan slowed as he reached the deeper section of the forest, where the trees grew tall and close, their branches weaving together to block out the sky. The air was cooler here, fresher in a way Logan could not explain. This was his place, a hidden pocket of solitude that no one else bothered to venture into. Logan climbed up into his favorite tree, the one with thick, sprawling on branches strong enough to cradled him. He settled into the crook of the trunk, pressing his side against the rough bark and letting himself sink into the familiar embrace of the woods.

He curled up, tucking his knees close to his chest, and stared out at the quiet expanse of green. Up here, surrounded by the rustling leaves and the distant calls of birds, Logan could finally let his guard down. He could think without the noise of the mansion, without the constant reminders of everything he wasn’t supposed to feel.

Did he really mean that little to everyone? Logan’s thoughts turned inward, twisting painfully as he tried to make sense of it all. He knew he was different, knew that his healing factor made him an outlier, someone who was expected to take the worst hits and keep going without complaint. But he was still human, or at least he liked to think he was. He still felt every bullet, every stab, every moment of agony that his body tried so hard to erase. And he felt it all over again when it went unacknowledged, dismissed like it was nothing more than a footnote in Scott’s debriefing.

What was the point of staying if no one cared? If every painful sacrifice was just brushed aside? Logan had spent his life fighting, but sitting here alone in the branches, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was worth it.

If he was worth it.

Logan pressed his forehead against the tree, closing his eyes as the weight of everything settled over him like a heavy blanket. He didn’t have the answers. He didn’t know what kept him going, what kept him coming back when it felt like no one would notice if he disappeared. But for now, this quiet, hidden corner of the forest was enough. It was the one place where Logan could let himself be vulnerable, where he didn’t have to be the unbreakable Wolverine.

It would be enough.

Chapter Text

Logan stayed in the tree for several hours, curled up among its branches as he let the soft sounds and smells of nature sooth his headache. As lunch started to approach, he knew he needed to make an appearance for the mid-day meal or someone would soon come traipsing loudly through the woods calling for him. On most occasions it was Rogue or Jubilee, or even Kitty on a blue moon; a strategic plan since the team knew Logan had trouble denying the youngsters. Besides, Logan didn’t want anyone else to find his small glade, his tiny sanctuary, so it was best to head back now to stop his team from discovering it.

With a deft leap from the tree, Logan rolled into a landing on all fours and took off. He didn’t often get the chance to run on all fours, he rarely did it in battle, only dropping down if more speed and agility was necessary. Logan never ran on all fours outside of battle, he knew the team saw it as strange and animalistic. If they caught him doing it, Logan knew exactly what they’d think.

Feral.

Even Hank didn’t have to deal with the side eyes Logan got. Hank may look more like a beast, but he was often kind and gentle that most people saw past his appearance and saw the man underneath. Logan had the exact opposite problem. Logan may look like a man, but underneath he was a monster. A wild animal that everyone could subconsciously detect, their prey brains activated by Logan’s mere presence.

Out here, though? In the woods? Logan could let go and run. It not only helped him feel less disgusting in his skin, but the evenly distributed weight helped ease any pain in his hips and knees. The adrenaline rush also helped with any small aches, and Logan couldn’t help but laugh as he bound through the trees, using the sturdy trunks as springboards. The distant sound of the kids gathering for lunch reached his ears, and Logan could picture the chaos in the kitchen as students and teachers grabbed food before dispersing. Most of the kids found places to eat around the campus, grouping up in their cliques. The X-men usually gathered in the dinning room, although it wasn’t uncommon for them to also scatter once they’d all checked in. Even if you weren’t eating, it was an unwritten rule that all X-men currently on the grounds had to stop in. Skipping would have the team out searching for you, worried something had happened. Logan had only ever broken that rule once, and he’d spent the next several hours apologizing for the fear he’d stirred up.

Logan slowed from a run to a walk and came to a stop just before the edge of the forest, standing up and brushing the leaves and twigs out of his hair. After a quick shake to rid himself of any lingering dirt, he headed toward the back door. Rogue was sitting on the back patio stairs, waiting for him. She smiled when she saw him and the knot in Logan’s chest untangled slightly. Whenever he had any doubt about his place in the team, at least he knew that he mattered to one person. Logan never said it, neither did Rogue, but they were family, even more so than the team was. Marie was the closest thing to a kid Logan would allow himself to have.

A low content rumble started in Logan’s chest, but he kept the sound quiet so Rogue could not hear. Best not to let the sound escape, it wouldn’t do to frighten her with something too inhuman.

“Hey, kid, I didn’t miss lunch, did I?” Logan asked, his voice gruff but there was a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He knew full well he hadn’t missed it, and Rogue knew that too. They both played along with the pretense, a little unspoken ritual between them; a way to ease into conversation without acknowledging the things that went unsaid.

Rogue tilted her head, a knowing smile already forming as she stood up from her spot on the stairs. "You know you didn’t, Logan," she replied, teasing. "But nice try."

There was laughter and screams as the younger kids scattered out of the kitchen, food clutched in their hands as they ran from one of the older students. Jubilee was right behind them as they gave chase after the younger ones, a game of some kind it seemed. Inside Logan could hear the team chatting and there was, oddly, the smell of smoke.

He turned his head slightly to look at Rogue. "You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on in there?" he asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He wasn’t one for small talk, but with Rogue, it came easier.

She shrugged. "Oh, you know. The usual chaos. Jubilee nearly set the microwave on fire again. Kitty's trying to convince Ororo to take the students on a camping trip next weekend. And Scott. . . " She paused, raising an eyebrow. "Let’s just say he wasn’t too thrilled about you runnin’ off during a meetin’ again."

Logan snorted, shaking his head. "Figures. Guy never misses a chance to give me a hard time."

"That’s just 'cause he cares," Rogue said, the playful tone fading from her voice. She looked at him then, her expression serious. "We all do, Logan. You know that, right?"

Somehow, she’d sensed the shift in his mood, as though she could feel the tension he carried just beneath the surface. She could always read him better than anyone, better even than Jean with her telepathy. It was uncanny how she just knew, like she could pick up on the small cracks he tried so hard to cover.

Logan forced a smile, hoping to mask whatever was stirring inside him. "I know, kid," he replied, the words coming out with more ease than he felt. He kept his tone light, casual, the same way he always did when people got too close.

The lie tasted bitter, like ash on his tongue.

Rogue eyed him suspiciously before sighing and following Logan into the chaos of the kitchen. The room was loud and it grated against his nerves, the sounds and smells jarring after the quiet calm of the woods. Students were gathered around the long table, laughing, joking, and shouting across the room. Ororo was standing near the counter, helping serve food while keeping a watchful eye on the younger kids. Bobby and Kitty were engaged in some kind of playful argument, while Kurt teleported in and out of sight, grabbing snacks from various parts of the kitchen with mischievous glee. The kids started to pile out, Rogue grabbing her food and bumping her hip into Logan’s as she left as well, following her friends. Jean and Scott were standing together over by the counter, chatting. Ororo smiled at the last straggling students before she went to get her own food. Hank was seated at the table, food in one hand and a book in the other, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. Charles was playfully chiding Kurt down off the counter where the man was crouching as he ate.

Logan made his way toward the fridge, but before he could reach it, Jean let out a sharp, scolding noise. He stopped and turned to look at her, already anticipating the lecture. Jean stood there, one hand resting firmly on her hip while the other was draped lazily over Scott’s shoulder.

"Logan," she said in a tone that brokered no argument, "you are not touching anything in this kitchen until you wash your hands."

Logan glanced down at his hands, cracked with dried mud, dirt packed under his nails. He let out a resigned sigh. She wasn’t wrong. Grumbling under his breath, he made his way to the sink and quickly scrubbed his hands, casting an annoyed glance at Jean as he did so.

"Honestly, Logan," Jean teased as she watched him. "I don’t know what you do out there, but you always come back looking like you’ve been rolling around in the dirt."

Logan shot her a look over his shoulder. "Might be exactly what I’ve been doin'," he said, his voice low and playful. He dried his hands and made his way back to the fridge, grabbing two raw eggs from inside. He shoved one into his mouth, cheeks bulging before he bit down with a satisfied crunch. Scott, who had been watching the whole scene unfold, wrinkled his nose in clear disgust.

"Forget about the woods," Scott said, frowning. "It’s what you’re doing now that concerns me. Logan, you’re going to give yourself salmonella."

Logan swallowed the egg and the shell with a smirk. "Come on, Cyke," he drawled, his tone dripping with amusement. "You know damn well I ain’t gonna get salmonella."

Scott opened his mouth to argue, but before he could say anything, Logan tossed back the second egg with ease, biting down as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The crunch echoed faintly through the room, and Scott could only shake his head in disbelief.

Truth was, Logan always had trouble eating the processed stuff they stocked in the kitchen. At best it tasted like cardboard and at worst it tasted like chemicals. Even canned food tasted like the metal it came in. He much preferred raw, unprocessed meals. It wasn’t uncommon for him to disappear into the woods to hunt, and he’d eaten things that would make the others’ stomachs turn. Hell, he’d even scavenged carrion before; sure, it wasn’t gourmet, but it wasn’t anything a cold beer and a good cigar couldn’t wash out.

Jean chuckled, bringing Logan back out of his head. "One of these days, you’re going surprise us all and actually sit down to a proper meal."

"Don’t hold your breath, Jeannie," Logan replied, closing the fridge. He leaned against the counter; arms crossed over his chest as he watched the others.

“Logan,” Scott began, his voice taking on that measured, authoritative tone that immediately made Logan bristle. He could feel the tension creeping into his muscles, his body instinctively reacting to what he knew was coming. It was the same tone Scott used when he was about to deliver one of his many lectures on team responsibility or proper protocol, things that Logan had heard a thousand times before.

Logan paused, his jaw tightening slightly as he turned to face Scott. His arms over his chest, his expression unreadable, though a simmering irritation flickered behind his eyes.

"We need to talk about the mission debriefing earlier today," Scott continued, his gaze steady behind his glasses as he held Logan’s. "It’s not okay for you to just leave midway through. You know these debriefings are important, and you can’t just walk out when you feel like it."

The kitchen had fallen into an uncomfortable silence, the usual clatter of plates and chatter evaporating as the tension between Logan and Scott thickened the air. Every eye in the room had slowly shifted toward the two men, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

Logan clenched his teeth, a low growl starting in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it before normal human ears could hear it. Though he was pretty sure Hank could hear it. He wasn’t in the mood for this, not now, not while he still felt the throbbing pain of yesterday’s wounds and the dull ache in all of his joints.

"Look, Cyke," Logan said, his voice rough as he leaned slightly forward, his posture more animalistic than he probably realized. "I don’t need to sit around listenin’ to a bunch of talk about what went right or wrong. I was there, I know what happened."

Scott didn’t flinch, but Logan could see the familiar frustration building in the other man. "That’s not the point, Logan. The debriefing’s not just about you. It’s so the team can learn what worked and what didn’t, so we can all do better next time. You leaving in the middle of it-"

"I don’t need you tellin’ me what I already know," Logan interrupted. He balled his hands into fists, though he kept them at his sides, forcing himself to stay in control. "I do my job, and I do it damn well. If I wanna leave halfway through a meeting, then I will. What you call a ‘debriefing’ is just a lot of shit to me."

Scott held his ground, but Logan could see the cracks of irritation in his usually stoic demeanor. "It’s not about whether you think it’s important or not. It’s about being a part of a team. We all rely on each other out there, and that means everyone has to be on the same page. You can’t just. . . just check out whenever you feel like it."

Logan's eyes narrowed, his gaze hardening as he leaned in just a little more. "Team, huh? Some team, ‘cause half the time I’m out there, I’m coverin’ for people who can’t handle the heat. Don’t talk to me about what it means to be part of a team when I’m the one who’s the goddamn human shield."

There was a bitter edge to his voice now. Logan didn’t mind fighting, didn’t mind bleeding, it was what he was made for. But being treated like a weapon, like a tool the team could use when things got too hard, that gnawed at him. He wasn’t just a blunt instrument to be thrown into the fire and forgotten about until the smoke cleared.

Jean jerked in surprise at his words, her usual calm demeanor slipping for a moment as the weight of Logan's words landed. She glanced at Scott, whose mouth had dropped open, his features now tense and uncharacteristically still. The argument had shifted into something raw and personal that couldn’t just be reasoned with or debated away. For once, Scott wasn’t firing back, and the room felt as though it had lost its oxygen.

It was in that silence that Charles moved, his wheelchair gliding forward as he positioned himself between the two men. "Logan," Charles said softly, his voice gentle but firm, "no one sees you as a human shield."

Logan’s jaw twitched, and he flicked his gaze toward Charles, the anger in his eyes faltering. For a split second, he looked like he was ready to argue, to push back with the same fire that had fueled his words before. But then something shifted, his own words caught up to him, the weight of what he’d almost said, of what he had almost let slip.

With a slow, deep breath, Logan’s shoulders sagged, and he unclenched his fists, letting the tension drain from his body. The anger in his chest softened into something else, something more vulnerable, more fragile than he was comfortable admitting. He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling a long breath as if he could let go of the frustration just by releasing the air from his lungs.

"Shit, Chuck," Logan muttered, his voice quieter now, worn down by the exhaustion of the fight. "I’m sorry, I know that. I didn’t mean-" He stopped, the words catching in his throat. Logan ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right words. "I’m just tired," he finally said.

“Look, yesterday was tough and I didn’t get much sleep last night. I. . . I didn’t mean to take it out on you guys.” Logan glanced at Scott and gave the man a small nod, the closest he’d get to a full apology right now.

Scott nodded back, his expression shifting from anger to concern. "I get it, Logan. We’ve all had rough nights. You don’t need to explain."

Hank stood up from his seat, approaching Logan, his doctor mindset kicking in.

“Do you normally have trouble sleeping?”

"No more than any other person here," he muttered, the words gruff but honest. And it was true. The entire mansion had its share of restless nights, no one was immune.

Everyone, from the most seasoned team members to the youngest students seemed to carry their own burden of sleeplessness. The X-men were haunted by nightmares that replayed the horrors they'd seen, or missions earlier that had left them too wired to relax. Jean and Scott, Ororo, even Kurt, they all had their fair share of nights where sleep felt impossible, their minds too full of strategy, loss, or the weight of responsibility.

But it wasn’t just the team. The kids suffered too. A lot of them came from broken or abusive homes, places where nightmares had started long before they ever came to the school. It was the kind of trauma that didn't just disappear with a warm bed and a safe place to stay. You could give them all the comfort in the world, but their pasts followed them into the dark, into dreams that twisted and turned until they had no choice but to wake up hearts pounding, wide-eyed in the middle of the night.

In truth, there wasn’t a single night at the mansion where someone wasn’t up after hours. The lights in the halls were dim, but they were always on for someone wandering the corridors in search of peace they couldn’t find in their own rooms. A glass of water, a late-night snack, or simply the quiet company of someone else who couldn’t sleep, it was an unspoken reality at Xavier’s. The house was rarely ever fully asleep.

Hank nodded thoughtfully, his sharp blue eyes softening as he absorbed Logan’s words. He, too, knew about the mansion’s undercurrent of insomnia. He’d walked the halls himself on more than one occasion, passing a student or a teammate whose eyes were bleary from restless nights.

"You’re right," Hank said, his voice low. "This place has more than its share of sleepless souls."

Logan gave Hank a humorless smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes, before turning to leave. "I’m okay, doc," he said, his voice a little softer now, though still rough around the edges. "Just gonna head up and get some rest."

He could feel the weight of their eyes on him as he turned his back, the concern lingering in the air like a thick fog.

Logan turned on the shower in the bathroom connected to his room. He turned it to the coldest temperature it would go, and with slow mechanical movements, he stripped off his clothes and stepped into the freezing stream. The shock of the cold water made him gasp, but he ignored it. He sank down to the bottom of the tub, curling up on his side, pulling his knees tightly to his chest and buried his face in his arms. The water began to spread the numbness on his skin, but the pain inside increased. It was the kind Logan knew no pain medicine could touch; it was too late into the cycle of agony. He should have left lunch at the first twinges, instead he’d stayed and ended up nearly spewing the truth out to the team.

His breath hitched as he kicked the lever with his heel, closing the drain. The water started to rise around him, pooling in the bottom of the tub and slowly climbing higher. The coldness crept over his legs, his torso, until it began to lap against his chest. Still, he didn’t move. The sensation dulled the sharpness of everything: his mind, his body, the lingering memories that clawed at him. But it wasn’t enough.

As the freezing water filled the tub, Logan squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, his body shivering uncontrollably now. The water reached his neck, then his chin, before finally submerging his head. His ears filled with the muffled sound of the water, and the world outside became distant and muted.

Beneath the surface, the cold was all-consuming, wrapping around him like an icy prison. Logan’s breath was caught in his chest, every instinct screaming at him to surface, to breathe, but he didn’t. Instead, he let the water close over him completely, its frigid embrace almost peaceful in its intensity. For a few brief moments, the icy numbness drowned out everything else.

Then, under the water, Logan took a deep breath in.

Chapter Text

Go back, Logan. You cannot stay here. The voice was gentle but firm, Logan was sure he knew the person speaking, but he couldn’t place them. He floated in an endless black abyss, cradled by the nothingness. He could see no one around him, but he could sense multiple presences.

Not yet. Please, just a little while longer. He begged back, desperate. There was a gentle brush against his forehead, and Logan felt tears build in his eyes.

Even if we could keep you here, we wouldn’t. You belong to a life beyond what we can offer, where your true worth far surpasses anything we could hold within our grasp. Go home, dear one.

Logan felt like he was falling and he opened his eyes, gasping. There was cold water already in his airway, and Logan surged up out of the bathtub, coughing and vomiting up the fluid that had sat stagnant in his lungs as he drifted away. His heart pounded hard in his chest, having kickstarted back up, healing factor dragging him back. Logan draped himself over the edge of the tub, coughing and slowly catching his breath. He shivered and smiled tiredly, body stiff and cold from the water, but the pain was lessened to almost nothing, only a slight ache in his bones. Drowning himself probably wasn’t the healthiest way to deal with his chronic pain, but sometimes Logan’s body needed a hard reset. He glanced at the clock on his wall; only twenty-two minutes since he’d turned on the water. That was probably around fifteen minutes he was out. If he wanted to, he could go back under and get some more rest. He didn’t have a class to teach for several more hours.

Logan knew he wouldn’t. It was dangerous to do this, not because he could stay dead; he never did. It was risky because a sudden mission could come in, or someone could be looking for Logan. Logan made sure he wasn’t needed before he drowned himself and tried to pick calm days when there was less likely to be a mission. One time, there had been a mission, and the alarm on his comm had gone off, but it was a tone Logan was so aware of in his mind that it immediately dragged him back from the abyss.

He shivered, but it was enough for now. It was enough. It had to be enough. It was never enough.

His head spun, and for a moment, he just stayed there, bent over the edge, his chest heaving with the effort of pulling air back into his lungs.

The room was still. His reflection stared back at him in the mirror, dripping, pale, haunted. His eyes, dark and sunken, told the story his team would never hear. He didn’t know how long he sat there in the cold bathroom, but the water had long since stopped feeling like relief and more like a reminder of how inescapable his reality was.

Logan let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless. Death meant nothing to him. There was no true escape, not for him.

He stood slowly, shivering and grabbed a towel and dried himself off, moving with mechanical efficiency. He dressed in clean clothes, the old ones dirty from his run in the forest; each movement was stiff but with the purpose of keeping his hands busy and his mind clear.

Logan didn’t bother looking at the mirror again as he stepped out of the bathroom. There was no need. He already knew what would be waiting for him in the glass, the same haunted eyes, the same shadowed face, a reflection of the beast lurking beneath his skin. Facing it wouldn’t change anything. The monster, and the pain of his body, were always there, etched into his very being, a constant presence that no amount of running, fighting, or drowning could ever escape. Staring at it would only be admitting what he already knew: the real battle was never outside; it was always within.

He headed for the door, pausing only briefly before opening it. The mansion was still bustling with life, the distant sounds of laughter and conversation drifting through the hallways. Logan’s hand lingered on the doorknob for a moment longer than necessary, the cold metal grounding him as he took a deep breath and stepped back into the world.

Logan could feel the weight of everything he carried, but for now, he would push it down. It was how he survived. For them, for the team, for the people he cared about, even if he wasn’t sure he deserved them.

He drew in another deep breath, his lungs still aching, but his body finally found a small measure of relief. Logan stepped out into the hallway, sunlight streaming through the large windows, casting bright streaks of light across the floor. He was hungry again.

Scott sat alone in the empty kitchen, the quiet settling in after everyone had grabbed their lunches and scattered. He stared at his untouched plate, not feeling much like eating. Logan’s words from half an hour ago still echoed in his mind. Human shield? Did Logan really believe that’s how the team saw him?

At first, the idea seemed ridiculous. Scott didn’t think of Logan that way; at least, he never consciously did. But the more he turned it over in his head, the more he could see the truth in it. Logan was always the first one sent in, the one Scott relied on to charge headfirst into danger. Logan was the litmus test for how tough their enemies were. And why? Because Logan would survive. If he got hurt, he’d heal. If he fell, he’d get back up.

Scott felt a weight settle in his chest. He hadn’t meant for it to be that way, but now, looking back, he could see how Logan might feel like nothing more than a weapon in their arsenal. Scott rubbed a hand over his face, frustration and guilt swirling inside him. He’d always thought of Logan as tough, resilient, the kind of person who could handle anything. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Logan could handle everything, so they’d let him. Scott had let him.

And now it had all come to a head.

Replaying this morning’s debriefing, Scott couldn’t help but flinch at the memory. When asked if anyone had been hurt, he’d answered automatically: No. At the time, it had felt like the truth. By the end of the mission, no one was bleeding or visibly broken. But that wasn’t the whole truth, and deep down, Scott knew it.

His mind flashed back to the mission. There was a moment, brief but seared into his memory, where he glanced over and saw Logan down on one knee, blood flowing freely from a deep wound in his chest. Logan had pressed a hand against the injury, breathing heavily as his healing factor did its work. Scott had moved to cover him without hesitation, keeping the enemies at bay while Logan recovered. But that was it. Once Logan was back on his feet, Scott hadn’t asked if he was alright. He hadn’t checked in afterward, hadn’t even considered whether Logan needed medical attention once they returned.

Because it was Logan, right? The Wolverine. He always got back up, always kept going. No one had thought twice about it. Sure, the man had a healing factor and couldn’t feel pain, but surely being brushed off like he always was had to be mentally taxing. Maybe he had justified it to himself by thinking Logan’s healing factor made him invincible. Maybe it had been easier to focus on the tactical side of things, where sending Logan in first made sense. But it didn’t change the fact that, intentionally or not, Logan had been treated like a tool, not a teammate.

Just as Scott was starting to get consumed by his thoughts, the very person occupying his mind strolled in, freshly showered, wearing clean clothes, and with damp hair. Logan didn’t say anything; he just raised an eyebrow at Scott as he rummaged through the fridge. Scott briefly tensed, half-expecting Logan to pull out more raw eggs. The thought alone made his stomach twist, but to his relief, Logan emerged empty-handed, frustration creasing his face.

Logan leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed, casting a sideways glance at Scott. This was Scott’s chance, his perfect opportunity to apologize, to let Logan know he’d do better as team leader, to show him that he wasn’t just a tool but a valued part of the team.

“Out of eggs?” Scott blurted out instead. Coward.

Logan grunted a wordless acknowledgment before pushing himself away from the counter and heading toward the pantry. Scott followed, watching as Logan opened the deep freezer and began digging through it.

“Look, Logan, I… I just wanted to-”

“Ha!” Logan exclaimed triumphantly, pulling out a frozen trout from the depths of the freezer. Before Scott could get another word out, Logan bit through the frozen fish’s head with a loud, crunching sound that made Scott wince.

“Jesus, Logan! That’s disgusting!” Scott grimaced, covering his mouth as he watched Logan casually chew through the frozen fish scales, bones, and all. The sound echoed in the large pantry, sharp and unsettling. Scott backed away as Logan, unfazed, walked by him, still happily crunching through the frozen fish.

“You need to relax, Cyke,” Logan mumbled, or at least that’s what Scott was pretty sure he said; it was hard to tell around a mouthful of fish.

“You’re going to crack a tooth!” Scott shot back, his voice tinged with both disbelief and exasperation.

Logan just smirked, his toothy grin that somehow seemed even more disturbing with bits of fish sticking out, and shrugged. “Ain’t like I can’t grow it back,” he said after swallowing. “Besides, I’ve got a special tooth designed for this kind of stuff.”

Scott blinked, confused. “Special tooth?” he asked, his mind trying to process the bizarre statement.

Logan nodded, leaning back against the counter, clearly enjoying the baffled expression on Scott’s face. “Yeah. My back molars, top on both sides, are rotated ninety degrees inward. Makes it easier to break through tough stuff, like this fish. It’s one of the reasons my codename’s Wolverine. It’s a common Mustelidae trait.”

Scott stared at Logan, completely taken aback. Of all the things he’d expected to learn about Logan today, this wasn’t one of them. He’d always assumed Logan’s codename was just a nod to his demeanor, short, growly, with a set of claws to match. The fact that Logan shared an actual trait with the animal was both surprising and, for some reason, made him rethink everything he thought he knew about the man.

For a moment, Scott just stood there, processing. “Huh. I never thought…” He trailed off, shaking his head with a faint smile. “I just figured it was the claws and the attitude.”

Logan chuckled. “Well, those too,” he said, finishing the last of the trout with another loud crunch before tossing the fins into the trash.

Scott leaned against the counter, watching Logan finish his meal with a mixture of fascination and mild disgust. He still couldn’t get the image of Logan crunching through that frozen fish out of his head, but something else stuck with him, the ‘special tooth.’ The idea that Logan had actual physical traits similar to a wolverine hadn’t fully clicked until now.

“Do you have any other traits like that? Besides your, uh, special tooth?” Scott asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Logan paused for a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He raised an eyebrow as if considering whether to indulge Scott’s question. After a beat, he shrugged. “Yeah, a few. Not just wolverines, mind you. I share most of my. . . differences with wolverines, but I’ve got a few traits similar to wolves as well. I’m more of a beast than Beast it.” Logan said it with a chuckle, but something about his eyes made Scott feel uneasy.

Scott watched him for a moment. It was strange how a conversation about something as odd as Logan’s ‘special tooth’ had shifted the dynamic. Logan was more than his gruff exterior, and for once, Scott felt like he was seeing past the layers the man kept so carefully guarded. He couldn’t help but think about all the assumptions they’d made about him, how easy it was to forget that Logan was just as complex as anyone else, maybe more so.

Logan wiped his hands on a towel, his gaze flicking back to Scott with a knowing look. “Something on your mind, Slim?”

Scott hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, actually,” he admitted. “What you said earlier… about being a human shield. It’s been bothering me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Logan muttered, brushing it off. “I was tired, didn’t mean anything by it.”

But Scott wasn’t going to let it slide that easily. “No, I should worry about it. You’re right. I haven’t, we haven’t been treating you like part of the team. I didn’t even think about how we rely on you to take the hits, to charge in first every time.” He paused, the weight of his words hitting him as he spoke. “That’s not fair to you.”

“It’s fine,” Logan replied, his voice gruff, closing off the conversation with a shrug.

“It’s not fine, Logan! We-”

“Scott. Stop.”

Scott froze. It wasn’t just the fact that Logan had used his real name instead of one of his usual mocking nicknames. It was how he’d said it; deep, raw, his voice cracking like something barely held together. For a second, it sounded as though Logan was fighting back the start of something more, something vulnerable.

Scott shut his mouth so fast he bit his tongue. Logan stood there, staring at the floor, his shoulders tense, his posture defensive in a way that was rare for him. Scott could see the battle raging inside Logan’s mind, the tension in his stance more telling than anything.

“I don’t need an apology,” Logan said quietly, his voice rough, almost resigned. “I don’t want an apology. We all have a place on this team, and mine. . . is to be the spearhead.”

Scott opened his mouth again, ready to argue. “You’re not a tool, Logan-”

Logan cut him off, this time with a low, rumbling growl, a sound that seeped across to Scott and vibrated deep in his chest and forced him to stop mid-sentence. When Logan finally lifted his gaze, Scott’s breath caught in his throat. While Logan’s cheeks were dry, his eyes shone wetly. Scott realized, in that moment, he had pushed too far. In trying to make amends, he had crossed a line he hadn’t seen.

He had overstepped.

Logan turned to leave, giving Scott one last look, before he walked out of the room, leaving Scott alone in silence.

Chapter Text

Scott wandered out of the kitchen, his thoughts spinning as he made his way toward Jean. She was seated at a table with Kurt, chatting and finishing her meal, while Ororo and Hank sat nearby. Their conversation continued in soft tones, but the moment Scott approached, something in the air shifted.

Jean looked up from her conversation, her smile fading as soon as she saw his face. There was no need for words, she knew something was off. Kurt paused mid-sentence; his usual cheer tempered by the silent tension that seemed to radiate from Scott. Hank and Ororo sat up, sensing there was something wrong. Scott sank into the chair beside Jean, his movements heavy, a dazed expression on his face.

"Scott, are you alright?" Jean asked, concern lacing her voice as she leaned closer.

“I. . . I think I messed up.” Scott admitted quietly, his gaze distant.

Jean gently took his hand. "What happened?"

Scott swallowed hard, trying to piece together the right words. “Logan came back down a few minutes ago, I just wanted to talk to him about what he said. I didn’t mean to. . .”

Hank let out a soft sigh, “Did you two get in another fight?”

Scott hesitated; his shock still palpable as he looked around the table at his teammates. “I’m not sure? But I think,” He trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper, “I think I made Logan cry.”

“Cry, what do you mean?” Ororo asked, her voice worried. She leaned forward slightly, her sharp gaze fixed on Scott, though her tone remained steady, as if trying to make sense of something that didn’t quite fit the image of Logan they all knew.

“I mean, he looked at me, and there were tears in his eyes!” Scott ran a hand through his hair, clearly rattled. “I made the man cry! I’ve never seen him be anything other than angry or flirty!”

His words hung in the air, thick with disbelief, and before anyone could respond, Scott stood abruptly. The restless energy that had been building inside him exploded out into motion as he began pacing up and down the length of the table, his steps quick and erratic. His shoulders were tense, and his brow furrowed deeply, as if he could walk away from the thoughts crowding his mind. Jean, Hank, and Ororo exchanged glances, each silently processing the enormity of what Scott had just admitted. Logan, the Wolverine, tearing up? It was unthinkable.

Jean gently tugged on her husband’s hand, stopping him from pacing again. "Okay, calm down, Scott. Tell me exactly what you said."

"I was just trying to tell him that he’s an important part of the team. I don’t understand why he reacted like that!"

"Is that exactly what you said?" Jean asked, her voice soft but firm.

Scott hesitated, his brow furrowing. "Well, no. Logan was talking about how he was just the spearhead, a tool for the team. And I told him he wasn’t a tool. That’s when he growled at me and took off."

Jean's gaze softened slightly, but she remained focused. "What exactly did he say about being the spearhead?"

Scott sighed, running his hand through his hair again. “He made it sound like he’s just a weapon." Scott’s voice grew more agitated as he spoke, frustration bleeding into his words. "And I told him he’s more than that. I didn’t mean to upset him!"

He resumed pacing, his steps quick and restless, his mind still trying to process how a conversation meant to reassure Logan had spiraled so far out of control. After a few steps, he spun around, his tone sharper now. "Did any of you know Logan has a tooth that faces inward?"

Ororo exchanged a bewildered look with Jean, clearly unsure how that was relevant. Hank, however, nodded calmly. "Yes, it’s noted in his medical file."

Scott blinked, caught off guard by the casual response. "Wait, really?"

Hank adjusted his glasses. "Indeed. It’s a unique trait, tied to his mutation. A few animal species have inward-facing molars, so it makes sense given his adaptive biology."

Scott opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it, realizing the conversation had veered far from the point.

Ororo huffed in irritation, crossing her arms. "Can we get back on track, please? The main issue is that Logan is upset, not his usual angry upset, but upset enough to make him tear up. So, let’s go over what he said today. He claimed he’s the human shield of the team. Do any of you agree with that?"

Immediately, Hank, Scott, and Jean began talking over each other in a rush to deny that they saw Logan that way. The words spilled out, overlapping, voices almost panicked at the idea that Logan, of all people, could believe such a thing.

Ororo raised her hand, her calm presence slicing through the chaos. "Enough," she said, her voice firm but composed. The room fell silent, the tension still thick in the air. She let the silence sit for a moment, her gaze moving slowly between them before she continued.

"Alright, let’s break this down," she said, her tone more measured. "Let’s go over our last mission. Who went in first?"

Scott hesitated before sinking back into his chair, the weight of the question pressing down on him. His shoulders slumped forward as he stared at the table, his voice barely a murmur. "Logan," he muttered.

"And why?" Ororo pressed.

Scott hesitated before answering, guilt weighing heavy in his voice. "He’s the best way to test the combatants' abilities."

"Yes, but why?" Ororo asked, her voice firmer, pushing him to confront the truth.

Scott swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He glanced up at her, but the answer weighed too heavily on him to hold her gaze. Instead, his eyes dropped back to the table, unable to escape the truth he’d never even considered. His voice cracked when he spoke again, the confession raw and unsteady. "Because… because he can take a hit we can’t. I-I send him in to get injured."

Scott buried his face in his hands, his voice trembling with the weight of his realization. "Christ, I have been using him as a shield for the team! I just figured, since he can heal and doesn’t feel pain-"

“Wait, what did you just say?” Hank interrupted; his voice sharp with disbelief. His usually calm demeanor cracked.

Scott looked up, confused by the intensity in Hank’s tone. "I said... because he can heal and doesn’t feel pain," Scott repeated slowly, the words sounding wrong even as they left his lips. His confusion only deepened at the look on Hank’s face, pale beneath the soft blue fur, eyes wide with something close to alarm.

Hank glanced quickly at Jean and Ororo, who exchanged equally confused looks. Neither of them seemed to understand why Hank’s reaction was so intense.

“Who on earth told you that?” Hank demanded

“No one told me. I just. . . assumed since he’s always getting injured and never reacts.” Scott said slowly, horror starting to settle in, “Are you saying he can feel pain? Feel it like we do?!”

Scott felt nauseous suddenly. “He gets shot nearly every mission! I’ve been shot once, and it was the most painful thing I’ve ever felt!”

“Well,” Hank began, his voice measured but grim, “It wouldn’t be quite like how we experience pain. He would feel it, yes, but once the wound heals, the pain would disappear with it. That said, Logan’s adrenaline during battle likely dampens some of the immediate pain. . . but it doesn’t mean he’s immune to it. The only way to know the full extent of what he feels would be to ask him.”

Scott stumbled to his feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he pushed back from the table. His face was ashen, drained of color, and his hands trembled slightly as he braced them on the edge of the table. The familiar visor concealed his eyes, but the stunned shock in his voice was unmistakable. “I-I need to go speak with him. God, all those times I sent him in, not knowing. . . what kind of leader. . .” His voice trailed off, unable to complete the thought, the weight of guilt pressing down on him like a tidal wave.

Without waiting for anyone’s response, Scott turned on his heel and quickly left the room, his only focus now on finding Logan.

He rushed back to the kitchen and out the door Logan had left. There was no immediate sign of him, so Scott made for the stairs, heading towards Logan’s room. It didn’t take long for Scott to reach Logan’s door. His hand hovered over the wood for a moment before he knocked. He waited, listening for movement inside. There was a moment of silence, then the sound of shuffling footsteps. The door creaked open, and Logan stood in the doorway, staring up at Scott with a familiar gruff expression. Logan’s eyes were slightly red, but there were no fresh tears. Scott could see the exhaustion etched into his features, the irritation simmering just beneath the surface.

Logan huffed, clearly annoyed by the interruption. “I’ve talked to you more today than I usually do in a week,” he grumbled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “What do you want, Slim?”

Scott’s heart pounded in his chest, the adrenaline from his guilt and fear pushing him to speak before he had time to think. The words burst out, sharp and urgent, almost too loud for the quiet hallway. “Are you in pain?!”

Logan blinked, actually stepping back in surprise. He raised an eyebrow, eyeing Scott warily. “What? No? What the hell are ya yellin' about?”

Scott inhaled deeply, trying to tamp down the rising panic that made his voice crack. He was losing control of the situation, of himself, and he knew it. He took a breath, trying to force his words to come out more calmly, more reasonably, but the urgency was still there, just beneath the surface. “I’m sorry. I. . . I was under the impression that you didn’t feel pain. Hank just corrected me, and-” he stumbled slightly, catching his breath, “I wanted to check on you after yesterday’s mission. Are you. . . are you okay?”

“I don’t feel pain,” Logan said flatly.

“What? But Hank said-”

“Look, forget what Hank said. I think I would know. I don’t feel pain, not like you lot do,” Logan interrupted, his tone dismissive.

“But you do feel it?” Scott pressed.

Logan sighed heavily, clearly tired of the conversation. “Look, Scott. I do feel it, but for no more than half a second. It’s there and gone before I’ve had time to even fully comprehend it, let alone actually feel it.”

Scott stared at Logan, still unsure, his eyes searching for something more in Logan’s expression. Logan, catching the look, rolled his eyes in exasperation. Without saying a word, he lifted his fist in front of Scott’s face.

"Watch," Logan muttered.

Scott watched closely as Logan extended his claws. The process was slow, deliberate, and for the first time, Scott saw what he had always known but never truly understood. Logan’s knuckles split open, the skin tearing from the inside as the sharp, metallic blades pushed through, their edges gleaming under the dim light. The sight made Scott wince involuntarily. It wasn’t just the violence of the action, it was the rawness of it. The way the skin seemed to stretch and split, how the blood welled up for a brief moment before the flesh immediately began to heal around the blades.

Logan stood there, holding his fist out with the claws fully extended. Scott’s eyes remained locked on the torn skin around the base of the blades, watching as it knit itself back together but stayed open just enough to allow the claws to protrude from his hand. The skin didn’t close fully until Logan retracted the blades, the adamantium sliding back into place within his forearm with a soft, metallic sound. Scott watched in stunned silence as the wounds sealed seamlessly, the skin knitting itself back together as if nothing had ever happened.

It was a brutal and almost impossible thing to witness up close. For years, Scott had seen Logan extend and retract his claws in the heat of battle, but never like this, never so slowly. His mind raced, struggling to process what he had just seen. Every time Logan extended his claws, he was stabbing himself. Scott had known that, intellectually, but seeing it up close, watching the skin tear and heal, the blood and the sheer violence of the motion, it was different. It was real.

“And that didn’t hurt?” Scott asked, his voice quieter, more careful now.

“Not really,” Logan said with a shrug. “There and gone too fast to feel. I’m fine, Cyke. I swear.”

“Is there a wound that does make you feel pain?”

“Not much. I mean, being crushed wouldn’t be too fun, but I don’t plan on being in any collapsed buildings anytime soon.” Logan said with a dismissive shrug.

Scott hesitated; his voice softer. “And. . . and the crying? Don’t try to tell me you weren’t! I saw you, Logan.”

Logan shifted uncomfortably, looking away and scratching at the scruff on his face. “Just tired. Haven’t slept well these past few days, guess it finally caught up to me,” He didn’t meet Scott’s eyes as he said it, clearly hoping that would be enough to drop the subject.

But Scott wasn’t buying it. He frowned, his gaze sharpening as he recognized the deflection for exactly what it was, an obvious dodge, and not a very convincing one at that. Logan was usually better at hiding behind his tough exterior, but Scott had caught him off guard this time, and it was harder for Logan to wriggle out of it.

 “And what about what you said earlier?”

Logan chuckled briefly, the sound easing some of the tension in the air. “We all got our place on the team, Cyke. I just happen to be up front. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ the first line of defense. I’d rather it be me than someone else who can’t heal like I do.”

Scott paused, searching Logan’s face. “So. . . we’re ok?”

Logan gave him a playful shove to the chest, knocking Scott off balance and causing him to stumble back. "Quit tryin’ to be all emotional and shit,” Logan growled, though there was no malice in his voice, just his usual gruffness. “This ain’t group therapy. Go bother your wife.”

Scott couldn’t help but smile, despite everything. That was as close as Logan would get to saying they were fine. “Alright, Logan. Thanks,” he said, his voice lighter, as if a small weight had been lifted.

Logan didn’t respond, just gave a small grunt in reply before turning back into his room, shutting the door with a firm click.

Scott stood there for a moment longer, letting the tension bleed out of his body. With a final glance at Logan’s closed door, Scott headed down the hallway, his steps quickening as he realized how much time had passed.

He had a class to teach, and it wouldn’t look good for the teacher to be late. Smiling to himself, Scott hurried off, feeling a little lighter than before.

Logan closed the door behind Scott, the sound of the latch clicking into place echoing in the stillness of the room. For a moment, he stood there, his back pressed against the solid wood as if using it to anchor himself. His breath caught in his throat, tension building in his chest until it felt like a physical weight. The seconds ticked by, each one dragging on longer than the last, and he strained his ears, waiting. It wasn’t until he could no longer hear Scott’s footsteps echoing down the hall that he allowed himself to exhale, but instead of relief, the air rushed out of him in a sharp, ragged gasp.

Another followed quickly after, uncontrollable, shaky. Panic crept up on him, slow at first, then all at once, tightening its grip around his chest. His breath came fast, shallow, the room suddenly too small, too quiet. Logan slid to the floor, his legs folding beneath him as he buried his face in his hands, fingers tangling in his hair. His body trembled, his heart racing.

The ghostly pain from yesterday’s bullet wound throbbed beneath his skin, pulsing with every panicked breath. The wound had long since healed, but the nerves echoed the first thing felt as they regenerated, a phantom ache that refused to fade. The bullet was gone, but in that moment, it felt as though it was still lodged deep inside him, twisting in his flesh. He wanted to scream, to call out for Scott, for anyone, to tell them that it hurt, that it never really stopped hurting. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let them see him like this, weak, vulnerable. It was better this way, to keep it locked down, buried deep where no one could see it. Where no one could see him.

His breathing grew quicker, more erratic, each inhale sharp and uneven as if the air itself was being stolen from his lungs. He couldn’t calm himself, couldn’t stop the panic from taking over. The walls seemed to close in on him, pressing in from every side, suffocating. His hands trembled violently, his pulse pounding in his ears as his vision blurred with the force of his hyperventilation. Desperation clawed at his insides, leaving him raw and exposed.

Logan shoved his wrist into his mouth and bit down. Pain shot up his arm and curled around his shoulder, sharp bursts of fire spread down to his fingertips and Logan thought for a moment he could put his hand on the door and burn his handprint into the wood. Blood flooded his mouth as he panted through his teeth around the limb. Blood sprayed each time he breathed out, drool mixing with the gore dripping down his chin and arm. His jaw ached, the muscles trembling as he forced his teeth deeper into the already mangled flesh of his wrist. And still he bit down harder, teeth reaching bone.

There were several loud cracks as his teeth shattered against the unyielding adamantium, splintering with each press down. He kept his wrist locked in place, ignoring the jagged edges of his broken teeth grinding against the metal beneath, fighting to control his frantic breathing, using the pain to ground himself.

His vision blurred, tears and snot dripping down his face to join the disgusting mixture of blood and spit. A stifled sob broke past his lips, so Logan bit down harder to muffle the sound. Blood poured from the torn skin, dripping down his arm and pooling on the floor beneath him. The metallic taste filled his mouth, thick and warm, as his healing factor fought to repair the damage. But the moment the wound began to close, Logan bit down again, his broken teeth grinding on his wrist, forcing the wound back open.

He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, a rapid rhythm against the erratic gasps of air that escaped around his mangled wrist. Slowly, his breaths began to steady, the ragged gulps becoming slower, more controlled and with that the hypocapnia faded.

After what felt like an eternity, Logan loosened his jaw, letting his wrist slip free from his fangs. Blood trickled down his forearm, staining the floor beneath him, but he ignored it. He let his head fall back against the door with a dull thud, closing his eyes as he tried to steady himself. His wrist hung limply at his side, still bleeding, but healing rapidly now that he wasn’t forcing it open. The skin stitched itself back together, pushing out fragments of his shattered teeth in the process.

The room was quiet save for the slow dripping of blood from his chin and the faint sound of his own breathing. He felt hollow, as if someone had scooped out everything inside of him, leaving behind nothing but a shell. He was spent, the act of tearing himself apart had drained the last bit of fight he had left.

His lungs still ached.

Logan closed his eyes, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. He wanted to get up, to move, to clean himself up and pretend none of this had happened, but his body refused to obey. Instead, he stayed there, slumped against the door, his mind spinning in the quiet aftermath.

He had come so close, too close to letting Scott see. To letting anyone see the cracks beneath the surface. The idea of anyone, even Scott, witnessing this. . . this weakness made his skin crawl.

But the truth, the part Logan hated to admit even to himself, was that he wasn’t invincible. Not in the ways that mattered. He could handle bullets, claws, and the worst the world had to throw at him, but this constant gnawing pain, the weight of living through every fight, every loss, every damned moment, it was suffocating. And no amount of healing could fix that.

Logan bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on the here and now. He wasn’t ready to face anyone yet. Not like this. He needed more time, more control.

With a shaky breath, Logan wiped the blood from his chin and wiped his arm on his sleeve, the front of his shirt already stained with blood, spit, and snot. He felt filthy, inside and out, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He glanced at the door he knew Scott had just left through. He wanted to call out to him, but instead, Logan remained silent. The walls were already back up; the moment passed.

Today had started off so normally. No overwhelming agony, no relentless waves of physical pain that usually defined his worst days. Just the normal pain of a day after a mission. But somehow, this day was turning out to be one of the hardest yet, and it wasn’t because of physical pain. It was the emotional weight pressing down on him, suffocating him more than any wound ever could. Why had a simple debriefing, something he’d done a thousand times, left him feeling so raw and exposed? It wasn’t the first time his wounds had been overlooked, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last. So why now? Why was he unraveling over this?

Logan clenched his fists, trying to make sense of the emotions clawing at his insides. His body had been through worse. His mind had endured more. But this? It felt different. Like something had snapped loose inside him, a thread finally worn too thin from years of being stretched beyond its limit.

And it wasn’t the pain of battle that was breaking him this time. It was something deeper. Something he couldn’t fight off with claws or grit his teeth through. Something that had been quietly building for years, and today, after that simple debrief, it had finally decided to try and tear him apart.

Logan closed his eyes again, feeling the hollowness inside him grow. He wanted to fight it, to push it down and move on like he always did. But the truth was, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this. How much longer he could carry the weight of it all without breaking for good.

He stayed on the floor, his back against the door, too tired to move, too hollow to care. And in the quiet, he let the exhaustion wash over him, knowing that, for now, he would just have to survive this, like he survived everything else.

Alone.

Chapter Text

Scott kept a quiet watch on Logan over the next few days, but outwardly, nothing seemed amiss. Logan was his usual self, isolating in the woods for hours on end, teaching his classes with his normal passion, and showing up for meals. But the more Scott observed, the more he noticed.

He began to notice that Logan’s meals were. . . strange. Logan’s diet consisted almost entirely of raw foods; raw eggs, raw fish, unseasoned, untouched by heat or spice. Now that he thought back, Scott couldn’t remember a time when Logan had ever eaten anything cooked. He never bothered with cooked dishes. In fact, the only other thing Logan seemed to consume regularly was alcohol, which, Scott thought, probably didn’t really count as nourishment.

The realization gnawed at Scott. Had it always been like this? Had he just never paid attention before? He couldn’t remember Logan ever eating a proper meal. Was it a taste issue for him or a part of his mutation? It must somewhat be a part of his mutation if his dentition was different in such a way to allow Logan to more easily eat frozen meat. It was something he needed to ask Logan, but how could he bring it up without making it seem like he was prying? Logan was notoriously private, and such a personal question might not sit well with him. Yet, there was something in the back of Scott’s mind that told him it was worth asking. He did readily share the tidbit about his special tooth, so maybe Logan would be open to talking about it?

Still, Scott knew Logan well enough to understand that pushing too hard would only make him retreat further. It was more likely than not that Logan wouldn’t give him a straight answer. But the question lingered in his mind for days. He’d have to find a way to ask, without stepping on Logan’s fiercely guarded privacy.

Truthfully, what was bothering Scott the most was the sudden realization that Logan saw himself as a human shield, explaining why he was always throwing himself first into battle. Scott had known Logan to be self-sacrificial, always willing to take the hits for others, but he had never fully understood the depth of that mindset. Now, having heard Logan voice it so plainly, it made Scott nervous about their next mission.

It was only six days later that the X-Men were called out. A small armed militia of the Purifiers had taken a small town called Newcastle down in Utah hostage. The population had a high density of mutants to human ratio, many of the mutants were transplants from fleeing higher-density areas where they were not welcome. This influx of marginalized individuals seeking safety and acceptance had drawn the ire of the Purifiers, who viewed Newcastle as a breeding ground for the mutant threat.

The situation escalated rapidly when a group of Purifiers, armed and organized, stormed into the town. They barricaded themselves in key locations, taking several residents hostage, including families, shopkeepers, and even some local schoolchildren. The group, led by Matthew Risman, had come to Newcastle with a clear mission: to send a message to the mutant community that they would not be tolerated, no matter where they sought refuge. They had set up makeshift barricades at the town's entrances, fortified buildings, and used loudspeakers to broadcast their extremist ideology, instilling fear in the hearts of those trapped inside.
As the X-Men team flew toward Newcastle, anticipation crackled in the air. They all sat in the back of jet, strapped in facing each other across the small aisle. Scott gathered everyone’s attention.

“Alright, once we arrive, we need to act quickly and quietly to disarm the extremists and rescue the hostages,” he instructed, his voice steady but urgent. He paused for a moment, gauging the determined expressions of his teammates before continuing. “Jean, you’ll go in first to draw their attention. Your telepathy will help us gauge their thoughts and movements, keeping their focus on you.”

Jean nodded, her expression serious. She understood the weight of her role in this mission and the risks involved.

“Shadowcat and Rogue, you’ll move through the buildings to free any hostages you find,” Scott said, looking directly at them. “Use your abilities to get in and out undetected. Stay alert; we don’t know how many of them are armed or what they might do to the hostages.”

“Got it,” Kitty replied, her determination evident. Rogue smirked, taking off her gloves. “Just leave the rescuing to us.”

“Iceman, you’re on the east side,” Scott continued. “Take out the guards positioned there quickly and quietly. Use your ice to create barriers or distractions if needed.”

“On it, sir!” Bobby grinned, cracking his knuckles as he envisioned how to handle the guards with his powers.

“I’ll cover the west side,” Scott added, his tone resolute. “Nightcrawler and Jubilee, you two will approach from the back. Use your teleportation and agility to get the drop on anyone who might be watching.”

Nightcrawler nodded enthusiastically, his eyes shining with excitement. “We’ll be like shadows, my friend! They won’t see us coming!”

Scott took a breath, his gaze sweeping over the team, ensuring everyone was prepared. “We’ll start at the edge of town and work our way in. We have to be synchronized, every move counts. Remember, we’re not just dealing with thugs; these are the Purifiers, and they’re dangerous. Protect the hostages at all costs.”

“Any questions?” Scott asked, preparing to clarify anything before the operation kicked off.

“Yeah, I’ve got one, bub. What am I supposed to do, just twiddle my thumbs?” Logan replied, annoyance evident in his voice. Scott glanced over at Logan, frowning at the tension brewing.

“You’re our backup,” Scott stated firmly.

“Backup? I’ve never been backup for any mission!” Logan growled, crossing his arms defensively. The rest of the team shifted uncomfortably, casting nervous glances between Logan and Scott, bracing for a potential confrontation.

“Well, now's a good time to start. With Jubilee, Bobby, Kitty, and Rogue being new to the team, I want them to experience different formations and learn to adapt,” Scott explained, trying to maintain a calm demeanor.

“That’s bullshit, Summers, and you know it! This is about what I said last week, isn’t it? You don’t want me on the front lines because you’re afraid! My place on this team is at the front for a reason, Cyke! I can handle the heat better than anyone else. It makes more sense for me to distract those guys while Jean acts as our backup, keeping us connected mentally without the need for loud communication while sneaking around.”

“Well, now we’re changing it!” Scott insisted, his voice rising.

“Yeah, and what if Jean gets shot at?!” Logan shot back, his frustration boiling over.

“She has her powers! She can sense if they’re going to fire at her, and even if they do, she’s stopped bullets plenty of times before,” Scott argued, trying to remain calm.

“When she sees them coming! What if she doesn’t?!” Logan countered; his voice thick with concern and anger.

Jean opened her mouth to interject, to reassure Logan that she was perfectly capable of taking point, but as she brushed against his mind, she felt the turmoil within him. Logan’s mental shields shoved back against her and she gave them a telepathic pat as an apology for attempting to invade his privacy. But the small glances of feeling’s she got from him had her concerned. It wasn’t anger driving him; it was fear. Logan had always been the one to charge in first, the one to take the brunt of the danger. What did that make him if he couldn’t fulfill that role? What if someone else got hurt?

“I can take a hit you all can’t! Let me go first!” Logan snarled at Scott, unbuckling and standing up from his seat. It wasn’t often Logan would venture from the safety of his seat while flying, but it seemed anger had his fear pushed aside.

“But you don’t need to take a hit! You’re not a human shield, Logan! You are a part of this team and I think it’s time for you to stop putting yourself in harms way! We need to be better, and we can’t do that if we rely on you to step in front of us every time! It’s our turn!” Scott was now standing as well, yelling back at Logan. The plane had reached the area just outside of Newcastle, but it was still several hundred feet in the air as it descended.

Logan snarled and did something none of them had ever seen before. He ripped open the plane’s door and jumped out. Scott lurched forward, reaching to stop him, but Logan was already gone, plummeting to the ground below. Jean ripped her seatbelt off, tearing the strap and warping the metal as she surged towards the open door, wind buffeting her. Scott grabbed her arm as she leaned out the door to look down. She made to reach out after Logan, use her powers to stop him or at least soften the landing, but Logan had already reached the ground. Both herself and Scott winced as they saw Logan hit the rocky soil, rolling to lessen the impact, but it was violent enough that even as far up as they were, Jean and Scott could see blood on the ground. Logan stood up from where he tumbled, as a sudden cloud of smoke appeared and Kurt was next to him, attempting to check Logan over. Logan waved him away and stalked off towards the town, not cloaking himself at all. He was going to take point no matter what, he wouldn’t let his team be hurt when he could prevent it.

Logan bit back a sharp hiss of pain, shaking his head and waving Kurt off as he struggled to his feet. Despite the throbbing ache in his body, he started moving toward the town, each step deliberate but strained. There was a faint, unsettling pop as his right shoulder snapped back into place, the one that had taken the brunt of the impact when he hit the ground. Dislocating a joint usually required a lot of force, but the fall from such a height had done the job easily enough.

Logan drew in a slow, steadying breath, focusing as his healing factor went to work. Each injury was counted off in his mind, a silent tally of pain that he buried deep within himself. A ruptured spleen, the jagged remnants of shattered teeth lodged in his gums, a bitten tongue that sent a sharp throb down his throat. His body was a canvas of damage, muscles torn, skin split open like burst seams, blood steadily seeping from the long, raw gashes. He spat out a mouthful of blood and broken teeth, the metallic taste lingering as he wiped his face with a trembling hand.

Kurt darted around him, his movements a blur, his voice distant and muffled, unable to reach Logan's ears through the ringing in his head. The world felt distant, every sound distorted by his burst eardrums, but he didn't need to hear Kurt's words. He could feel the urgency in the air, the tension that hung over them.

Then, once again, Jean’s presence brushed against his mind. This time, it wasn’t a gentle probe, this was a more insistent knock, one filled with desperation. He could feel the pressure of it, a mental pulse that demanded his attention, pushing against his mental barriers harder than before.

Logan let his mental barriers slip just enough to allow a surface connection with Jean, and almost instantly, her voice flooded his thoughts, sharp with concern.

‘Logan! Are you okay?’

He snorted, a rough laugh escaping his lips, and blood sprayed from his once-broken nose. The sound of his own voice seemed to break through the dull, ringing noise in his head as his eardrums finally healed. The rush of sound hit him all at once.

‘I'm fine, Jeanie. Stick to Scott's plan, but you and I are switching spots’

For a heartbeat, there was silence, and Logan could feel the tension on the other end. He knew Jean and Scott were talking. But that the situation had already shifted. Scott wouldn’t be able to do much from a distance now that Logan was on the ground. Trying to change plans now would only serve to highlight their numbers, drawing unwanted attention.

An alarm blared through the air, its shrill sound cutting through the tension. The unmistakable wail echoed through the town as the first wave of chaos was set loose. The Wolverine roared in response, a sound of pure fury that vibrated in his chest, and in the next breath, he was charging forward. His muscles screamed with the effort as the first rounds of gunfire rang out from Purifier soldiers, their weapons aimed at him. The bullets hit him, but they were insignificant right now. He had a job to do. Without hesitation, Logan dropped to all fours, his claws extending with a sharp metallic snikt. He threw himself into the fray, the air thick with the scent of gunpowder, his movements fluid and his mind focused entirely on the battle.

“What the fuck was that?!” Logan froze, taken aback by Scott’s words. His gaze swept over the scene, the aftermath of the battle. Scattered around him were the Purifiers, most of them dead, the others subdued and being handcuffed by Rogue and Kitty. Former hostages, cautiously emerging from their hiding places, were being tended to by the cops and the emergency medical teams who had finally arrived.

Logan blinked, still processing the situation, and then looked at Scott, completely confused. "What?" he asked, his voice thick with bewilderment. He looked around again, trying to figure out if he’d missed something vital.

"You, Logan," Scott snapped, his tone shifting from anger to something colder, more calculating. "You could have-" He cut himself off, his gaze flicking to the humans and civilians slowly gathering around, still shaken but safe.

"Nightcrawler." Scott’s voice was sharp, commanding. Kurt appeared beside Scott in an instant, his eyes darting from one man to the other, uncertainty clouding his expression.

"Take Wolverine back to the mansion and rejoin us once that's done."

Logan's eyes narrowed, his anger flaring up once more. "Now wait just a second! You can't-" he started, his voice rising, but Scott didn’t hesitate. He cut him off with a cold finality.

"I can and I will. I’m the leader, and what you did today could have cost us the mission, and worse, it could have gotten innocent people killed." Scott’s voice was frigid, more distant than Logan had ever heard it before. The words stung, harder than any physical blow. Logan stood frozen, mind racing.

Kurt hesitated for a moment, glancing between them both, before he gently placed a hand on Logan’s shoulder. Without a word, he teleported them both away, leaving the chaos and tension behind.

When Logan opened his eyes, he was standing in the foyer of the mansion. The familiar walls seemed suddenly cold, the silence in the air thick. Kurt offered him a quick, wavering smile before disappearing again, leaving Logan standing alone. The mission was over, but the weight of Scott’s words hung heavy in the air, gnawing at him.

Logan moved through the mansion in a daze, his steps heavy and deliberate as if each one took more effort than the last. His body was stiff, still trembling from the aftershocks of the battle, and the rush of adrenaline was quickly fading. As it did, the echoes of his injuries hit him like a freight train, the pain from the battle coursing through his body in sharp, unrelenting waves.

He reached his room and stumbled to the bed, collapsing onto it with a grunt. His eyes locked onto the floor, his hands clenched into fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his teeth grinding against each other with a loud creak.

Logan knew that once his body fully settled, the true extent of the pain would come to the surface. It wasn’t often he fell from such heights, but when he did, the aftermath was always brutal. The impact and subsequent injuries were ones that caused massive amount of agony.

Logan looked longingly at his drawer where his hidden stash was. The temptation to reach for what was in that drawer was primal, urgent. He ground his teeth together, staring at the drawer, fighting the urge. His whole body was screaming at him but Logan knew soon enough Scott would be back and there would be an emergency meeting about what happened. Even if the drugs wore off before then, he’d be tempted to take more after such a massive injury and he couldn’t fall to the call of the narcotics.

His own will would have to be enough for now.

Chapter Text

His own will was not enough. The call of the narcotics, of no pain, grew as the pain did.

An hour had passed since he was dropped off at the mansion, and in that time, the rush of adrenaline that had kept him moving through the chaos of the mission began to fade. As the world slowed, the agony surged back into his body like a flood breaking through a dam. He cursed inwardly, his mind running back over the events of the mission. Jumping out of the plane had seemed like a good idea at the time, a way to run from the conversation and to throw himself into the battle. A reckless, spontaneous move, but now, as the pain clawed at him from every direction, he knew it had been a mistake. The fall had jarred his entire body, brutalized by the impact with the ground.

Logan sank to his knees in the center of his room, unable to stand any longer. His body trembled with exhaustion, the weight of his injuries settling deep within him. He reached into his drawer, undoing the flase bottom, his fingers trembling as he fumbled for the small lock-box. He had promised himself, over and over again, that he wouldn’t resort to this. But now the pain was too much, and his will already worn thin from constant battle, faltered. His breath came ragged as he dug through the bottles and vials, searching for the one he had only used once before, the one that would provide the kind of relief he so desperately craved.

Carfentanil.

It had taken Logan a long time to track down the drug, a careful and methodical search, but in the end, it had been worth it. Fentanyl, the opioid he relied on to dull his chronic pain, worked wonders—but it never lasted long enough. The relief usually faded within thirty minutes or so, leaving him to chase the next dose. That was fine because Logan really only used Fentanyl to break the pain cycle caused by his adamantium. As long as it wasn’t a chronic attack, fentanyl did the trick. But Fentanyl wasn’t enough when the pain source was different. When the agony lingered, when the damage to his body was more than just the constant strain of his healing factor fighting the adamantium. The echoes of a fresh wound, the kind that burned and gnawed and refusing to be ignored, something so large that it made a gunshot seem trifle. When he couldn’t silence the pain with his usual methods. He needed something stronger, something that would go beyond the surface of his pain and numb the sharpest edges. That’s where Carfentanil came in.

The first and only time Logan had used Carfentanil was during a mission that had gone sideways. He’d been on his own, a lone operative deep behind enemy lines, when he found himself trapped in a warehouse set ablaze by enemy forces. His healing factor had allowed him to survive the initial chaos, but the fire tore through him with an intensity he hadn't anticipated. By the time he’d escaped, his body was a map of burns, third-degree over his arms and chest, fourth-degree in some areas. His skin had been blackened and charred, and even his healing factor couldn’t erase the torment fast enough, and even after healing, the echoes had been so severe. In desperation, Logan had turned to Carfentanil, knowing it would give him the release he needed to escape the pain, even if just for a few hours. He’d never taken it before and tried not to make the decision lightly, but in that moment the unbearable suffering left him no choice.

It worked. The pain vanished almost instantly, and for nearly five hours, Logan was blissfully numb. The relief was like a drugged haze, wrapping around him like a warm, dark cocoon, and for the first time in a long time, he could breathe without feeling like his body was being crushed under the weight of the agony. But the price was steep. The drug wasn’t meant for humans, immediately causing an overdose. His body went into a vicious cycle, overdosing and healing at the same time. His mind became foggy, barely able to keep track of time, and his body trembled uncontrollably, caught between the drug’s effects and the desperate attempts of his healing factor to fix the damage. He’d been catatonic, his thoughts slipping through his fingers like water, leaving him unable to process anything around him.

At least when Logan drowned himself, he was never out for too long. Sure he was technically dead, but it rarely lasted more than fifteen to twenty minutes. Even then his mind would remain tethered to the surface of consciousness, vaguely aware of himself and the slow drift into nothingness, but still able to summon the will to climb his way back faster than normal, to return to the world with a gasp of air.

But Carfentanil wasn’t like that.

When he used the drug, everything slipped away. The numbness didn’t just take the pain, it took his awareness too. For those hours, Logan was a passenger in his own body, locked inside a haze so thick he couldn’t reach out. The connection between mind and body was severed, like a machine operating on its own with no pilot to steer it. The darkness would come over him, swallowing him whole, leaving him helpless, unable to fight against it.

It terrified him, the thought of being lost that way, no control, no awareness of time or space, of anything but the numbing pull of the drug. There was a part of Logan that knew he was running out of options. The numbness felt like an easy escape, but it came with a price that scared him.

Logan didn’t care at this moment. All he could feel were the raw, lingering echoes of his body tearing itself apart—the sensation of skin splitting, flesh pulverizing, and organs rupturing and shifting, displaced from their natural place inside him. And even after healing, he could feel the flutter in his gut that indicated his intestines were still realigning themselves. It made him feel nauseous and Logan wanted nothing more than to feel nothing. The temptation of Carfentanil was right there in front of him. It came in a small, inconspicuous bag full of blotter papers, something so easily overlooked. His hands shook as he fumbled with the bag, the need for relief overpowering every rational thought in his head. His fingers trembled as he tore open the bag, tearing at the corners with a desperate force that betrayed just how much he needed the escape it promised. He didn’t care about the consequences, didn’t care that soon Scott would be back from the mission in a few hours, that he would want to speak with him.

Logan wasn’t staying.

Logan grabbed a single paper and clenched it tightly in his fist, the familiar feel of the drug a reminder of the relief he so desperately craved. He quickly tucked the small bag of Carfentanil away, ensuring the false bottom of his drawer was placed back with care. He stood slowly, using the wall as a crutch. The temptation to take it now still gnawed at him, insistent, begging him to give in. With shaky hands, he pulled out his comm device and pinged Kurt. It took a moment before Kurt replied.

“Yes, mein Freund? I’m sorry about earlier, but Scott- ”

“Kurt, I’m cashin’ in that favor you owe me. Now.” Logan’s tone was sharp, curt, a harshness in his voice that made his stomach churn. He hated that he had cut Kurt off, hated the roughness of his words, but all he could focus on was the agonizing pain surging through his body, an unrelenting wave that threatened to tear him apart. He could barely stand, his legs trembling, but he forced himself to hold it together, to seem as normal as possible.

Kurt was silent for a moment before replying, “Where are you?”

“My room.”

There was another beat of silence, then Kurt appeared in Logan’s room in a soft puff of smoke. Logan glanced at him quickly but immediately looked away, knowing he probably looked like hell. The exhaustion, the pain, it was all visible on him, and he didn’t want Kurt to see it.

“Logan, mein Gott, you look terrible. Are you ok? That fall from-”

Logan growled, cutting Kurt off before the words could fully leave his mouth. Kurt frowned, but gently placed a hand on Logan’s shoulder, as though he was trying to steady him.

“The same place, Ja? The one you showed me before?”Logan nodded, his body rigid, and with a quick jerk, Kurt’s teleported them both. The familiar disorienting sensation hit Logan’s chest as the world spun around them. When they landed, Logan staggered slightly, his boots sinking into the wet, slushy snow of the clearing, the remnants of spring’s thaw underfoot. The forest around them stood silent, disturbed by their sudden presence.

Around a year and a half ago Logan had saved Kurt’s life in a mission gone wrong and the man had demanded to pay him back, so Logan had taken Kurt here to show him this one clearing so it could be in his memory. The favor was that no matter when or where, if Logan asked, Kurt would take him here. Just once, no questions asked, no mention to the team. Logan hated using Kurt like this. He was one of his best friends, and yet here Logan was, taking advantage of his trust and willingness to help. If Logan could speak without feeling like his body might tear itself apart from the force of his pain, he would thank Kurt, would tell him he was okay. He would let Kurt know that he understood what had happened at the end of the mission, that it wasn’t his fault.

But he couldn’t do that. Not now. Not when the pain was too much, and all he could focus on was the searing agony clawing at him from every direction. So, he stood there stiffly, his body rigid, waiting for Kurt to leave.

Kurt looked around the clearing before glancing as Logan. He opened his mouth to speak but then seemed to think better of it and left without a goodbye. As soon as the smoke from Kurt’s teleportation vanished, Logan dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into a den he’d dug out a few years back under the roots of a tree nearby. He crawled inside, the earth cool against his skin, and curled up tightly, drawing his knees to his chest, trying to shield himself from the world. With trembling hands, he brought the blotter paper to his mouth, hesitating for just a moment.

His breathing grew shallow and ragged. He could feel the weight of the drug in his hand, the temptation to take it, to lose himself and escape the pain, but something in him rebelled against it. He sat there, breath coming in short gasps, torn between the relief the drug promised and the reality of what it would cost him.

With a scream that tore from deep within his chest, Logan slammed the blotter paper into the moist earth below him, grinding it into the ground. He couldn’t do it. Even as the agony of his body was breaking him apart, and the last of his resolve snapped, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take the drug. The small paper lay there in the dirt, useless now, rejected.

In the wilds of northern Canada, hundreds of miles from the nearest town, Logan screamed and sobbed, the rawness of his emotions spilling out in ways he couldn’t control. He couldn’t outrun the pain. He couldn’t escape the reality of his existence.

Logan wasn’t sure how long he had been lying there, drifting in and out of consciousness, the sharp edges of pain gnawing at him like waves crashing against a helpless shore. Time had become a meaningless concept, slipping through his mind like sand. The world around him had dissolved into a blur of fleeting moments, a constant cycle of pain and faintness. If he had to guess, he’d say it had been about four days. His body, battered and bruised from his reckless actions, had been running on nothing but fumes, and the pain had pushed him to the very edge of his limits. Each wave of agony came like a crashing tide, only to fade and return again, relentless, unforgiving. It was an odd sensation, fading between the depths of pain and a disorienting numbness, where his mind felt detached from his body, as though he was observing himself from afar. Even without the aid of the Carfentanil, his body had begun to shut down in protest. But even then, if pushed hard enough, Logan was certain that he could have clawed his way to full wakefulness, something he’d never be able to manage while under the haze of the drug.

Eventually, the pain began to fade, its echoes retreating as if it had finally grown tired of tormenting him. In its place, a deep, overwhelming exhaustion settled in, one that felt all-encompassing and more profound than anything Logan had experienced in years. The kind of sleep that took hold of him, not just physically, but mentally, like an oppressive darkness that covered every part of him. For the first time since that reckless leap from the plane, Logan fell into a sleep so deep that it felt like a true escape. It was more a rest for his mind than for his body, a reprieve he’d desperately needed but hadn’t been able to find in weeks.

When he awoke the next morning, it was like surfacing from a long, submerged dive. The pain was still there, but it was no longer a sharp, biting force; it had faded into a dull ache that seemed almost manageable in comparison. He stretched his stiff limbs, the cool earth beneath him grounding him in the present moment, the familiar smell of the forest filling his senses. As he inhaled deeply, he couldn’t help but smile. The dense woods, the quiet surrounding him, felt like home in a way that nothing else could. For all the chaos in his life, this was the place where he felt truly himself.

Another deep breath brought something else to his attention, a scent that made his heart quicken and his smile widen. The forest around him wasn’t just a sanctuary; it was home to one of his closest companions, a bond that stretched far beyond the usual connections Logan had with people.

His eyes flicked toward the entrance of the den, and there, peeking curiously through the roots of the tree, was a large, wet black nose. The nose snuffled and snorted, pushing its way in as if to say hello, unafraid and inquisitive. Logan chuckled softly under his breath.

Pushing himself up with effort, he gently nudged the nose away, his rough hand meeting the soft fur of the animal’s snout in a tender but firm motion. He reminded the animal to give him space. The animal backed up a few steps, its huge frame shifting with graceful strength, and Logan crawled out from beneath the tree roots and onto the wet earth. He stood to his full height, stretching as his muscles groaned, feeling the cool morning air against his skin.

The animal before him was enormous, towering at around four feet tall on all fours. Its reddish-brown fur was thick, its shoulders marked by the large, powerful hump that signaled its strength. Its eyes, a soulful honey-brown, met Logan’s gaze with an understanding that only years of familiarity could breed. The grizzly bear sat down on its haunches, its massive paw swiping at Logan’s shoulder in an affectionate, playful gesture. Logan laughed, a sound that felt strange coming from him after so much silence and pain. The bear pulled him in, gently tugging at his shirt sleeve with its jaws, and began to chew on it, its teeth soft despite their size.

“Sasha!”

Chapter Text

15 Years Ago

Logan trudged through the dense forest, bare feet silent as he made his way across the underbrush. The scent of pine and damp earth filled the air, but his mind was elsewhere. It had been six years since he’d woken up alone, lost, with no memory of who he was or how he’d ended up there. A pain he’d been unable to describe throbbing through his body. The only thing that had grounded him in the chaos of his mind was the small set of dog tags around his neck. They were the only clue he had, the only tangible piece of himself.

The name Logan had been etched into the metal, and the moniker Wolverine on his second tag, but beyond that, everything was a mystery. With a fierce determination to uncover the truth, Logan had spent countless days in several public libraries, scouring through military records, old government documents, anything that could shed light on the significance of the numbers and letters on his dog tags. The search had led him down many dead ends. He’d learned a lot about military identification methods, such as how tags were used to record vital information like a soldier’s name, blood type, and serial number. But when it came to his own tags, things didn’t add up. The closest match he’d found were American dog tags, but even those didn’t quite line up with what was stamped on his. The serial number, 45825243, seemed like it could be his own, but the rest of the markings remained a puzzle.

T78 was a mystery he couldn’t solve. The closest theory he could come up with was that it might have been a remnant of old military practices. There was a time when dog tags used to be stamped with a record of vaccinations, particularly the tetanus vaccine. The T would signify that the soldier had received the shot, and the number that followed would indicate the year. It made sense, at least in theory. But the practice had stopped in the fifties, and Logan knew that the year 78 didn’t fit. Then there was the A, which Logan assumed represented his blood type, which was the standard in military identification. Beyond that? Nothing. No answers, no explanations. Just a handful of numbers and letters that meant something, at least to someone, but were utterly meaningless to him.

So, that was it. That was all he knew about himself: his name, his moniker, his serial number, and his blood type. He might as well have been a ghost, wandering through life without a past, a future, or any clear understanding of who he was.

Nothing else.

He didn’t know how old he was, if Logan was his first or last name, or if he had a family or friends. If he’d had a family, they obviously weren’t looking for him; there had been no missing person report, no one even remotely close to his description that turned up in the records. It was a cold truth he’d come to accept: whatever his past had been, it was gone. And if he had family, they had long since forgotten about him. He suspected that part of the reason for this was his mutation. The claws, the enhanced senses, the unyielding healing factor, everything about him made him a freak in the eyes of the world. He was unwanted and unwelcome by society. Even the people who should have cared, if there had been anyone, probably didn’t. Mutants were feared and reviled, and Logan had no illusions about where he fit in.

So, Logan had slunk off away from humanity. At first, he had lived on the outskirts of small towns, keeping to the edges, hiding in plain sight but never getting too close. Moving on from town to town when people began to look to closely at him. Maybe it was because he growled and chuffed more than he spoke in the first few months after waking up, maybe it was the constant scowl on his face as some days were more pain-filled than others, or maybe it was simply because he screamed predator to human instincts; the reason didn’t really matter, the truth was that everyone was leery of him. It was a life of isolation, one that allowed him to survive but never really live. Over time, as his presence in these places began to make people more wary, more suspicious, so Logan had spent less time in every small town he’d wandered into. Each new place was less and less welcoming, and soon, he’d gone from the outskirts to further and further into the wilderness until one day Logan realized he hadn’t seen another human in over six months.

Maybe that was for the best.

Here, in the wild expanse of the Canadian Rockies, Logan was free; free to be who he truly was, unburdened by the expectations of society. In the mountains, he didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t have to hide. He could hunt when he was hungry, tearing into a fresh kill with the primal instincts that surged through his veins. He could snarl, chuff, and howl to his heart’s content without the judgmental stares of strangers or the quiet whispers behind his back.

Out here, he was just another creature of the wilderness. No one would call the cops on him for being dirty, shoeless, and wandering aimlessly through the streets. No one would question him as he moved through the landscape, a shadow blending into the forest, his presence barely a ripple in the untouched natural world around him. He didn’t need to be anything else. He didn’t need to be anyone else.

Logan had found a cave at the base of a cliff in the Rockies, a place where the wind didn’t disturb his rest and the earth was still. It wasn’t much, but it was his. He’d made it his home, creating a nest with blankets and pillows he had scavenged or stolen over time. The simple comforts of warmth and rest were enough.

It wasn’t a life that anyone would envy, but Logan liked it. He had no obligations, no duties, no expectations. There was no one around to judge him for who he was, or what he was. Out here he could simply exist, a man stripped down to his most basic form, living off the land, free from a past he could never remember.

In a way, he was content. Maybe even happy. It was a strange word to think about, a word he hadn’t let himself entertain in a long time. But in the quiet of the Rockies Logan felt a peace he hadn’t known before. He might not have known who he truly was, but out here, in the wild, it didn’t matter.

As Logan made his way through the towering trees on his way back to his den, the thick forest floor crunching softly beneath his bare feet, a deep sense of comfort that had settled over him. He was mostly pain free today, only a slight ache. His steps were unhurried, Logan’s sense of familiarity with his surroundings made happiness rise in his chest. The peace of the wilderness had lulled him into a false sense of security, and in his tranquility, he made one simple mistake.

He had let his guard down.

Since he’d moved into the area, most large predators had stayed well away from him, skirted the territory lines Logan had claimed. But that didn’t mean the wilderness was free of danger, nor did it mean that every creature would heed his boundaries. Logan, too comfortable in his familiar routine, allowed his senses to wander. His mind wandered in the stillness of the forest. He wasn’t as focused on the sounds around him. It was a mistake he would only make once and never do so again.

Logan heard the bear before he saw her, the sound of her massive body crashing through the underbrush. She had been downwind of him, catching his scent before he’d even had a chance to notice her. By the time Logan turned, it was already too late. She was upon him, barreling into his side with the force of a freight train, slamming him into the rough bark of a tree. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and he barely had time to register what was happening before he was on the ground, the bear's powerful claws sinking into his shoulder as she dragged him with terrifying ease.

Her grip was unrelenting. Logan struggled, his back hitting the dirt as she quickly pinned him, her massive form looming over him. Before he could fully react, the bear’s teeth sank deep into his right collarbone, her powerful jaw shaking his body violently as she tore into him with primal fury. Pain exploded through his chest; a searing burn that made bile rise up his throat.

Logan’s instincts surged. His claws shot out from his knuckles, and he slashed blindly at her. The claws sank into the thick muscle of her forearms, drawing blood, but not enough to stop her. The bear roared in pain, rearing back slightly, but she wasn’t done. She was only getting started. In a blur of motion, the bear lunged again, this time grabbing hold of Logan’s left leg. Her jaws clamped down on his upper thigh, her teeth slicing through fabric and flesh with a sickening tear. His jeans shredded, and Logan felt the brutal pull as she yanked him upward, ripping a chunk of flesh from his leg in the process.

The pain was indescribable, a burning, agonizing flare that made every part of him scream in protest. Logan kicked at her, his heel connecting with her nose in a desperate instinctive strike. But it didn’t faze her. Her jaw tightened, and she didn’t let go. Warmth flooded below him and Logan wondered if it was his blood or if he’d soiled himself. He couldn’t afford to care. Adrenaline flooded his system, sharp and bright, but the pain was there too, raw and undeniable. There was no time to focus on it, though. Logan’s breath came in ragged gasps, and his thoughts were scattered.

Nothing mattered but getting away. The instinct for survival surged up within Logan, drowning out the pain that radiated from his body. With a snarl he swiped at the bear, his claws extended, but she was just barely in his reach. His claws raked across her face instead of plunging deep into her throat as he’d intended. Blood spurted from the shallow gouges and she dropped him to shake her head, trying to clear the blood from her eyes.

Logan seized the opportunity. His heart hammered in his chest as he scrambled to push himself to his feet, but his left leg refused to cooperate. The wound was too severe, a massive chunk torn from the muscle, exposing the gleaming metal of his femur beneath. His leg was useless. He collapsed back to the forest floor, head hitting a rock, his body heavy and uncoordinated as he tried to move. There was a sudden cold sensation creeping through his limbs, quickly replacing his adrenaline-fueled panic. The world seemed to slow down as his vision blurred and he stared up at the canopy above, his breaths coming in shallow gasps.

Before he could even attempt to think of a plan, the bear was back. Her massive form loomed over him, her nose sniffing the air, her dark eyes narrowing as she studied him. She sniffed at his chest, his face, her hot stinking breath a sickening contrast to the cold creeping through his body. Logan tried once more to swipe at her, but his arms felt too heavy and uncoordinated to land any blows. His claws barely extended before his arms drooped uselessly to the ground.

The bear ignored his weak attempt, her focus fixed on him as she sank her teeth into his stomach. Pain exploded across his abdomen as her powerful jaws tore through his shirt, ripping it open, and the sharp bite dug deep into his flesh. He screamed, but the sound was hoarse and weak. With a brutal swift movement, the bear flipped him over, her jaws releasing him only to shift her position, pinning him to the ground. Her enormous paws pressed down on his back, the weight of her claws sinking deep into his soft flesh. His body bucked instinctively, but it was no use. Every movement felt sluggish, each attempt to escape weaker than the last.

The bear paused, sniffing at Logan for a moment. Then, just as suddenly as she had come, she stepped back. Logan groaned in relief, the crushing weight of her lifting. The coldness from the blood loss was still there, but it was beginning to fade, his healing factor working overtime to repair the damage. It was slow, but it was enough.

Logan turned his head, his vision blurry with pain and adrenaline, and his gaze locked onto the bear. She was still there, watching him. Logan growled low in his throat; his teeth gritted as he tried to push himself up. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it. He couldn’t afford to lie there anymore. With a fierce snarl, he lunged upward from his splayed-out position, using whatever strength was left in his limbs. The bear jumped forward with a roar, and Logan screamed back at her, a primal sound that echoed through the trees. His claws flashing as he raised his arms in defense.

Before he could get fully to his feet, the bear’s massive jaws clamped down on his upper right arm, the pain flaring as her teeth sank into him. But Logan wasn’t done. He wasn’t finished. His left arm shot out, bracing himself against the bear’s barrel chest, his claws stabbing deep into her. He repeated the motion, each strike fueled by sheer willpower, the only thing keeping him going now. Her fight left her quickly and she stumbled back from him; her body could no longer keep up with the damage. She swayed, her massive frame teetering as she fought to remain standing. Then, with a final tremor, she collapsed onto the forest floor, her body hitting the earth with a heavy thud.

For a moment, she breathed slow, shallow breaths, and then, just as quickly as the fight had begun, she went silent.

Logan lay back on the forest floor, his breath ragged and uneven. His heart pounded in his chest as the adrenaline slowly faded away, leaving a numb emptiness in its wake. The world around him felt distant, as if it were happening to someone else somewhere far off. His body trembled, and a strange shifting sensation twisted in his gut, pulling his attention downward. He winced, his eyes widening as he looked at the gaping wound across his abdomen. The bear had torn him open, disemboweling him in a single, brutal strike. He watched with detached fascination as his body began to heal itself.

With the adrenaline gone, pain, raw and unfiltered, surged in its place. It hit him like a flood and Logan groaned, his muscles tensing as the full weight of his injuries finally registered. His vision blurred, but he pushed through, fighting against the burning sensation that crawled under his skin.

Logan gritted his teeth and began to drag himself away from the bear’s still body, his limbs heavy and uncooperative. Every movement felt like it cost him something: his strength, his focus, his very will to keep going. But he knew he had to. He had to get to the creek, to the cool water that would help soothe the pain to numbness.

The soft moss and leaves beneath him felt like glass, sharp and unforgiving as he dragged his battered body across the forest floor. Each scrape against the earth was a reminder of how badly he had been hurt, the echoes of his injuries reverberating through his nervous system with every tortured inch he crawled.

Finally, after what felt like hours of slow, agonizing progress, Logan reached the creek. His body felt like lead, every inch of movement a test of sheer willpower. With one final, desperate crawl, he tumbled down the small incline and landed at the edge of the water. The cold, mountain-fed creek rushed past him, its icy waters gleaming in the sunlight. Logan didn’t hesitate. His parched throat burned with the need for water, and he drank greedily, gulping it down until it swirled in his stomach and threatened to make him sick. The coldness burned as it went down, a sharp relief that felt almost too much. His vision blurred, body overloading on the sensations.

After a few moments, he collapsed forward, unable to hold himself up anymore. His head hung low over the creek, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. Black spots at the edges of his vision grew larger, moving in like dark tendrils. His senses were slowly fading, and in that moment, Logan realized the truth: he was going to pass out and if he didn’t move, he’d drown in the creek. He tried to push himself back, to lift his body away from the water, but it was no use. The overwhelming pull of exhaustion, the toll of the battle and the injuries, was too much for him. His body simply refused to cooperate.

The darkness came too fast.

His body slumped forward, tumbling into the cold, rushing water. The icy shock of it sent a shudder through him, but it was a faint sensation. His lungs filled with the freezing water, and his body convulsed in reflex, but it was too late. His consciousness slipped away.

The last thing he felt was the icy coldness in his chest as the darkness overtook him. And then, there was nothing.

Logan came to with a sharp gasp, his lungs seizing as cold water rushed in, flooding him once more. Panic shot through him as the icy water filled his chest, choking him. With a violent heave, he pushed himself back, his hands scrambling for purchase as he fought to get out of the creek. His body trembled from the shock, every muscle screaming at him as he coughed violently, expelling the cold water from his lungs in a harsh fit. His stomach lurched, and with another gut-wrenching cough, he vomited the remaining water up, the icy fluid splattering onto the forest floor.

For a moment, he stayed there, on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. His chest burned from the strain, his body still reeling from the relentless cold. The world spun around him, and all he could do was sit there, panting, staring at the creek with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Logan sat back, staring at his hands as the realization slowly dawned on him. He had drowned. It was an undeniable fact, an event that had happened in the space between one breath and the next. He had felt the icy water invade his lungs, the way it burned as it filled him, drowning him in cold darkness. He had passed out in the water, helpless as the world slipped away. Then, somehow, he had woken up, his lungs still full, but the tightness of the suffocating darkness had given way. And the pain.

Logan blinked, still sitting at the edge of the creek, looking down in disbelief at his body. The pain was there, a dull throb from the battle. But it wasn’t the searing, all-encompassing agony he had expected. He’d been through enough pain to know what it felt like when his body had been pushed past its limits. There had been times when the pain had nearly brought him to the edge of unconsciousness, times when he had lain in cold water or snow, letting the chill numb the pain, but nothing had ever worked like this.

Had. . . had drowning somehow dulled the pain? Logan sat there for a long moment, the question echoing in his mind, but he couldn’t find a satisfying answer. The cold water had taken him, but now it seemed to have done something strange to his body. The echoes of pain were still there, remnants of the brutal attack, but it was nothing like he expected. It was muted, almost distant.

Shivering in his soaked clothes, he looked up toward the sky. The sun was beginning to set, casting an orange glow over the forest. Time had passed without him even realizing it. He had been dead. Something in his body told him that was the truth. His heart had stopped, and now, here he was; alive, breathing. It was unsettling, but for now, there was little time to think about it. Logan sighed, his breath hanging in the cool air, and leaned back against the soft earth. His muscles ached, his mind swam with confusion, but he forced himself to shake it off. No use dwelling on things he couldn’t explain.

Life in the wilderness didn’t pause for anyone. You either survived or you didn’t, there was no point in sitting around. Slowly, with a grunt of effort, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs wobbled for a moment, still weak from the water and the drain on his energy, but he steadied himself. He didn’t have time to waste. The bear’s body was still out there, and scavengers wouldn’t waste any time in claiming it. He’d be damned if he let that happen. He’d won that fight and he would claim at least some of the meat as a prize, he’d earned that right.

As Logan walked through the forest, his mind couldn’t shake the memory of the fight, the bear’s attack, the violence of it all. But there was one moment in particular that kept coming back to him, replaying over and over in his mind. When the bear had sunk her teeth into his thigh, tearing away a massive chunk of flesh, Logan had seen something that didn’t make sense.

His femur.

It wasn’t bone. Not like it should’ve been. It was metal. He’d barely registered it at first, too focused on the immediate threat to process the sight, but now, as he moved through the woods, it gnawed at him. He had always assumed his claws were the only part of him that were metal, maybe an enhancement he’d had done. But that assumption had been wrong. His femur was metal. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

Logan’s mind raced. His claws, yes, he had always known they were metal. But his bones? That was something entirely different. It wasn’t something he had ever considered or thought about, not until now. He’d been injured enough in the past to have his body battered and bruised, but he’d never been hurt badly enough to see his bones exposed, to realize that they weren’t like anyone else’s. His femur was metal so it was probably safe to assume the rest of his skeleton was as well. It would explain why he weighed so much more than what his frame suggested. Was this part of his mutation?

We are about to begin bonding Adamantium to Weapon X's skeleton.

The voice echoed through Logan’s mind with such clarity that it startled him, nearly causing him to trip in surprise. The words seemed to come from nowhere, yet they were so sharp and distinct that it was as if they were spoken directly into his ear. Weapon X? Adamantium? The words spiraled in his mind, his breath catching as he tried to process what he’d just remembered. He stopped in his tracks, looking down at his hands as if they might offer some kind of answer, some clue to what this voice meant. Had he been experimented on? Had he been part of something called Weapon X?

Logan’s mind raced, thoughts flashing through him faster than he could catch them. The name Weapon X sounded hauntingly familiar, like something buried deep within his subconscious, a whisper he couldn’t quite place. A surge of anger cut through his confusion.

“Fuck it.” He growled the words under his breath as he took a few heavy steps forward, pushing through the muddled thoughts. So what if he had been experimented on? His fists clenched as he stomped onward, his pace quickening. What did it change now? What did it matter anymore? He had survived, hadn’t he? He was here. He was still breathing.

Yet, despite the defiance in his mind, despite the resolve to shut it all out, something inside him cracked. The sting of tears pricked at the back of his eyes, a sharp ache in his chest that he couldn’t deny. Logan blinked hard, pushing the emotion away, furious at himself for feeling it. It didn’t matter. It didn’t change anything. He swallowed hard, wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, and forced his focus forward once again. No more dwelling. No more looking back. Whatever had been done to him, however his past had been shaped, it was done. And it was time to move on.

Finally, Logan arrived at the spot where he had left the bear’s body, but as he stepped into view, he stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. What he saw shocked him to his core. Two tiny cubs, no larger than house cats, were pressed up against their mother’s lifeless body, shivering in the cooling dusk air. Their little bodies were trembling from the cold, but it wasn’t just the chill that made Logan’s stomach twist. It was the sheer vulnerability in their eyes, the helplessness that came from being so small, so young, and now, so alone.

The cubs noticed him almost immediately. One of them, with a burst of frantic energy, scrambled up a nearby tree, its claws digging into the bark as it climbed higher. The other cub, however, stayed put, its wide eyes narrowing as it growled at Logan, trying to be brave in the face of a much larger threat. It didn’t back down, but neither did it approach. It stayed by its mother’s side, its small form trembling as it faced the man who had killed her.

Logan’s heart tightened. The realization hit him like a physical blow. The bear had attacked him with such ferocity, driven by pure instinct to protect her young. No wonder she had been so relentless in her assault; she had seen Logan as a threat to her cubs. He stood frozen for a moment, watching the cubs, his mind racing. This early in the spring, and based on their size, they couldn’t have been more than three months old. Barely old enough to begin exploring the world, to learn how to fend for themselves. And now they were orphans, with no mother to care for them. The weight of it settled over Logan like a heavy cloak.

They were helpless. They weren’t even close to being weaned yet, still too young to survive on their own. Logan sighed heavily, the air slipping from his lungs in a slow, frustrated exhale. His claws clicked out of their sheaths on his right hand, the sound sharp and unnerving in the quiet of the forest. The cub on the ground winced at the movement, its growl deepening, but it didn’t back away. It stayed close to its mother cowering close like she could still protect them. The other cub high up in the tree watched him warily, its little chest rising and falling as it tried to stay hidden.

Logan stood there for a long moment, the weight of the decision pressing down on. He knew what needed to be done. The cubs were too young, too helpless, to survive on their own. They were so small, and in the wild, they had no chance. If he let them live, they would be picked off by predators or starve to death. A slow, painful death. It was the kindest thing he could do for them, a quick and painless end, and Logan knew it was the right choice.

The cub on the ground snarled, its tiny teeth bared trying to make itself appear fierce, but Logan wasn’t fooled. He watched it, his gaze softening as he saw the fear in its eyes. Those soft baby blue eyes, so wide, so innocent, and so full of sorrow. They were the eyes of someone that had just learned the cruelty of the world. Logan’s breath hitched in his throat. He couldn’t do it.

With a heavy sigh, Logan retracted his claws, the metallic hiss of them sliding back into his hands barely registering. He stepped closer to the cub, his movements slow and careful. The little creature hunched up in a defensive posture, its tiny claws swiping at the air in a futile attempt to protect itself. But Logan was too fast for it, and he easily scooped the cub into his arms, holding it gently despite its squirming and the sharp little swipes that barely grazed his skin. The cub wriggled in his grip, still trying to escape, but Logan was relentless. He lifted it up, his hands steady as he turned it over to check.

A boy.

He paused, holding the cub for a long moment, listening to its soft, frightened breathing. The thought of leaving it to die alone, of killing it, seemed impossible now. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Logan held the cub close, feeling its tiny body tremble against his chest. The poor thing shivered, but despite its fear, it instinctively leaned into the warmth he provided. His eyes flicked upward to the second cub, still up in the tree, watching him warily. Logan sighed and settled himself on the forest floor, not wanting to make any sudden movements that might scare the cub off. He knew he had to wait, give it time. The cub in the tree was too small to have much of a fight left in it, and eventually, it would come down.

While he waited, Logan’s mind shifted into problem-solving mode. He needed to figure out what to do next. He needed to get milk, at least one bottle to start, and probably some new clothes for himself, some blankets to keep them warm. Logan ran through a mental checklist, his mind calculating, prioritizing. There was a farm not too far down the mountains, maybe half a day’s jog if he moved quickly. He could steal some supplies there. The cubs would need to be carried; they were far too small to keep up with him, and Logan knew they wouldn’t follow him this early on, not trusting him.

When he glanced back at the cub in the tree, still perched high on the branch, Logan knew it would be a while before the little one came down. So, he turned his attention back to the task at hand. He moved over to the mother bear’s body, careful not to disturb the cub he was holding too much. The bear’s form was large and heavy, but Logan was strong enough to shove it slightly to the side. He placed the cub down gently next to the bear.

The cub squirmed, still cold and unsettled, trying to press up against the heat of Logan’s hands, but Logan kept a firm hold on its back. He pried open the cub’s mouth carefully, not wanting to cause it any harm. Then, with gentle hands, he guided the cub’s mouth toward one of the bear’s teats. The body was still warm to the touch, so Logan guessed he’d only been gone an hour or so. The milk would still be good for a little while longer. The cub hesitated at first, confused and hungry, but after a moment of resistance, it latched onto the teat, and Logan let out a quiet sigh of relief. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

As he sat there, watching the cub drink, he let his mind drift back to the second cub in the tree. He could see it now, slowly starting to climb down. Logan’s jaw tightened. It wasn’t going to be easy; he had a lot to do, and the journey ahead would be tough. But for the first time in his memory, he had something to protect and care for. He wasn’t alone anymore.

Logan sat still, watching the cub nurse, the soft sounds of the him drinking calming the air around them. The weight of everything that had happened today, the violence and the decisions, was still hanging heavy on his shoulders, but in this moment, with the cub in his care, there was a flicker of peace. He looked down at the little creature, trying to focus on something positive, and found his thoughts drifting to something simple.

“I can't call you cub one and cub two, can I?” His voice, rough from the day’s exertions, startled the cub under his hand. Logan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, despite the overwhelming circumstances.

“I suppose I’ll have to name you,” Logan mused aloud as he looked to the nursing cub.

“Misha. It’s a strong name. I think it’ll suit you.” Logan gave the cub a gentle rub, his thumb smoothing over the soft fur, a quiet promise forming in his chest. Logan’s attention shifted as he heard a small rustle. The second cub was lower in the tree now, shivering in the cool evening air as the sun sank behind the mountains. Logan stood up slowly.

With a brief glance back at Misha, Logan quickly moved to the base of the tree, his movements swift and determined. The cub saw him coming and let out a small, desperate cry before scrambling to climb higher again, trying to get away. But Logan was faster. His hand shot out, catching the cub before it could make it any further up. The cub cried out again, its tiny claws scraping the bark as it was lifted into Logan’s arms. Logan didn’t flinch as he held the squirming cub close. The little creature’s body was warm, but its fear was palpable. It was frightened, confused, and still so young.

“Another boy,” Logan murmured, feeling the little one wriggle in his grip.

“Sasha,” Logan murmured softly, giving the second cub its name. The little one, newly dubbed, looked up at him with a defiant glint in his eyes and tried to bite Logan’s hand in protest. Logan couldn’t help but chuckle at the cub's feisty response, his grip tightening just enough to keep the tiny creature from causing any damage. With a gentle push, he placed Sasha next to Misha, making sure the two cubs were close together for warmth.

Logan pried Sasha’s mouth open just enough to get him to nurse. Sasha squirmed, pulling away and snapping at Logan’s hands with tiny, sharp milk teeth. The cub’s growls were soft but insistent, his fear and frustration apparent in the way he fought back. But it didn’t take long for Sasha to give up, hunger eventually overcoming his resistance. The cub’s little body shuddered with each suckle, and Logan felt a sense of quiet relief. Both cubs were feeding now.

Logan kept his hands gently on their backs, making sure they stayed close together, both for comfort and to help them stay warm. He watched them for a moment, feeling the weight of responsibility settle in. They were so small, so vulnerable, and here they were, depending on him for survival.

Logan knew that they couldn’t stay here much longer. The scent of the carcass would attract predators, and it wasn’t safe to stay in one place for too long. The danger was already present, but as the night sky darkened and the air grew colder, it was only going to get worse. The last thing he needed was to draw the attention of something bigger, something that would see the cubs as easy prey. Logan looked up at the canopy above, noting the way the last rays of the sun had disappeared, leaving the forest steeped in shadow. He could hear the sounds of the night creeping in, the rustling of leaves, the calls of distant animals, and he knew time was running out. They needed to move.

As the cubs continued to nurse, Logan quickly assessed his options. The farm he had thought of was a half-day’s jog away, but it was better than staying here. At least there, he could steal the needed supplies for the cubs. Misha and Sasha finished nursing, their tiny bodies growing heavy from the warmth and nourishment. Logan sat back and watched them for a moment, their small forms nestled against their mother’s body.  Logan reached out and placed a gentle hand on the mother’s still side.

“I’m sorry. I’ll take good care of them, I promise.”

His shirt, already torn from the fight with the bear, was barely holding together, the fabric ragged and soaked in sweat and blood. But Logan quickly made use of what he had, tearing the shirt into strips with swift, practiced movements. With his strength and focus, he fashioned a makeshift sling, a simple but effective means to keep the cubs close to his chest. He carefully placed Misha and Sasha into the sling, making sure they were nestled against him, secure and warm. The cubs squirmed at first, but soon settled into the warmth, their small bodies calming against his.

Logan adjusted the sling carefully, ensuring the cubs were comfortable and stable before he stood up. He could feel their tiny weight against him, but it wasn’t an unwelcome burden. As he moved, he instinctively kept them close, adjusting his pace to accommodate their fragile size. Logan paused briefly, looking around to make sure no predators were lurking in the shadows. He felt exposed, vulnerable with the cubs in tow. His eyes scanned the trees, his senses on high alert before he set off. Step by step, he moved through the forest, the cool air biting at his skin. The cubs shifted occasionally in the sling, but they seemed content for now.

Logan’s eyes flicked from one shadow to another, every noise making his muscles tense, his heart rate picking up. The forest was alive with sound and it made him feel like he was being watched. He’d never been so nervous in the forest before, but now he had something small and helpless to protect. He pushed forward, the supplies he desperately needed were out there. He couldn’t stop now.

For Misha. For Sasha.

Present Day

Logan heard as Misha came out of the forest behind Sasha. Misha was bigger than Sasha, more imposing, but still the same gentle giant he’d always been. The massive bear sniffed at Logan, his warm breath brushing against Logan’s face before Misha licked him with a wide, slobbering tongue.

“Hey, boys. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Nearly a year.” Logan chuckled, scratching both grizzlies behind their ears. Misha settled in with a contented grunt, while Sasha, ever the more playful of the two, kept nudging his head against Logan’s arm, silently demanding more attention. Even now, at fifteen years old, the two bears still had their cub-like tendencies. Sasha's exuberance hadn’t faded with age. It was mostly Logan’s fault. At the age a mother bear would have chased them off, Logan hadn’t. Instead, he’d kept them close, treated them like cubs far longer than nature intended. And now, all these years later, here they were, his not-so-little cubs, still sticking around.

Eventually Logan had gone into small towns, earned some money cage fighting to buy small treats for his cubs, and in doing so had reentered human society. Logan wasn’t sure what urged him to eventually buy an old junker truck and a topper. He never wanted to leave the Rockies, the place where the air was clean and the mountains stood tall, timeless. But as his need to find jobs took him further and further away, Logan reluctantly adjusted. Misha and Sasha had become more used to him being gone for long stretches of time. They’d stayed in the cave Logan had set up for them. But one day, Logan came back from a trip, expecting to find the usual chaos of his two bears, only to find the cave empty.

For nearly a year and a half Logan had feared the worst, that Sasha and Misha had been killed by hunters or some other terrible fate had befallen them. It ate at him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of loss. But then, just when he thought he had lost them for good, the brothers came back, strong, healthy, and as wild as ever. They’d moved on to better hunting territory further north, but come spring, they’d returned. It wasn’t common for bears to stay together past the typical age for separation, but Logan hadn’t minded. In a way, his decision to keep them close, to raise them differently than nature intended, had made them stay together. And Logan didn’t care if it was unnatural. They were his family.

Logan smiled as Sasha bit at his sleeve again, tugging at the fabric with that same playful determination. He shoved at Sasha’s side, laughing as the bear gave a low, contented growl, still trying to get more attention. Logan couldn’t help himself; the bond he had with these two was deeper than he could describe. Even with everything that had changed in his life, his connection with Misha and Sasha remained constant, unbreakable.

“Alright, alright,” Logan muttered, shaking his head with a grin. “You two never change.”

With that, he turned and began walking into the forest, the sound of their paws following him as they fell into step behind him. The day was peaceful, and for a few moments, Logan allowed himself to enjoy the serenity. Life had gotten more complicated in the past few years after joining the X-Men. The missions, the responsibilities, the constant shifting of his life, it all weighed heavily on him. But moments like this, when he could escape into the wilds with his cubs, reminded him that no matter where he went or how far he strayed, he had a home out here.

Chapter Text

Scott didn’t want to do this. He hated the idea of breaking the fragile trust he and Logan had spent years carefully building, but he wasn’t sure what other choice he had left. Logan had been gone for a month now and it was one of the longest months of Scott’s life. It wasn’t unusual for Logan to disappear for a while. He had his habits, his need for solitude, Scott had learned that the hard way over the years. When Logan first joined the team, Scott had hated the unpredictability of it. The long stretches of time where Logan would just vanish with no word, no warning. It had taken years for Logan to start leaving notes, quick, blunt messages pinned to the refrigerator, saying things like Gone hunting. Back in three days, and even longer for Logan to reach the point where he would actually tell someone where he was going and when he expected to be back.

It had been a slow process, painfully slow, but Scott had eventually learned to trust that Logan would come back.

Until now. Now he wasn’t sure if the man would ever come back.

At first, Scott had assumed Logan’s disappearance was in anger about the argument. One of the biggest they’d ever had. Maybe Logan just needed space to cool off. Honestly, Scott had needed some space too. They had fought before, heated, sharp-edged arguments that left bruises on their already tenuous relationship, but this one had felt different. Scott had moved too quickly in his plans, organizing the battle with clinical precision but this time placing Logan at the back of the formation instead of at the front where he always was. It had been a calculated choice; one Scott had agonized over for days before the emergency mission was called. Logan was always out front but this time Scott had him as backup, he’d thought it would be safer. Let someone else take the heat for a bit, show Logan they didn’t see him as a human shield. That was his first mistake.

But Logan had seen it differently.

Scott remembered the way Logan’s eyes had narrowed the moment he’d heard the plan. The way the man had looked at Scott with a flash of betrayal and hurt before he masked it behind anger.

Then Logan had torn open the plane’s door.

Scott had lunged toward him instinctively, his hand outstretched, but Logan was already gone, free-falling toward the rocky ground below. For a few terrible seconds, Scott had been frozen. His mouth had gone dry, his stomach had plummeted, and the sound of the wind rushing through the open door filled his ears like a deafening roar. He’d barely had the presence of mind to grab Jean before she jumped after Logan, her eyes wide and terrified.

It was worse when Logan hit the ground.

For one agonizing, terrifying second, Logan hadn’t moved.

Scott remembered the sickening sensation of standing at the open hatch, staring down in disbelief as Logan’s body accelerated toward the rocky soil below. His brain had screamed that Logan would survive; he always did. But his heart hadn’t listened.

Scott’s breath had seized in his throat as Logan hit the ground in a brutal impact. The sound of it, the sharp wet crack, had cut through the roar of the engines and the howling wind, turning Scott’s stomach to ice. Blood had splattered in wide arcs around Logan’s body as he tumbled across the uneven ground. His body rolled once, twice, and then stilled.

Completely still.

Jean’s telepathic screams had ripped through Scott’s mind, raw and jagged with panic. Her psychic presence had crashed against his mental walls, frantic and terrified. Scott’s knees had nearly buckled under the weight of her fear. Her grief had flooded through their bond like a physical thing, hot and suffocating, and for one horrible moment, he’d thought he was going to be sick.

He hadn’t been able to breathe. His mind had been blank.

He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead-

The mantra had taken over his mind, blotting out any rational thought. Scott’s knees had then given out beneath him. His grip on Jean’s arm loosened. He’d seen Jean’s face, wide eyes and pale, but it had felt distant. Faded. Like he was standing outside his own body, watching the scene unfold from far away. His mind had already spiraled ahead, cataloging the aftermath, the body retrieval, the funeral, the empty space Logan would leave behind.

Scott’s mouth had opened but no sound came out. His hands had shook. His chest had closed in. He hadn’t been able to breathe. He was falling. Falling-

And then Logan had moved.

He had stood, unsteady, but he was up. He’d waved Kurt away and began the mission as planned, switching places with Jean.

Logan was alive, but it had been with sudden sinking clarity that Scott realized one day Logan wasn’t going to get up.

And Scott would have to be the one to live with it.

Hot anger had surged beneath Scott’s ribs, hands curled into fists; jaw locked. He had been able to still feel the cold sweat sticking to his neck, the phantom echo of Jean’s terrified screams in his head. His heart had been hammering in the hollow of his chest. Logan had just dropped out of the fucking plane without warning, without a parachute, without any goddamn backup, and now he was storming into the Purifier’s camp.

Like Logan, when faced with any uncomfortable emotion, Scott turned it into anger. They were very much alike in that aspect, both wired to lash out when vulnerable, both more comfortable with rage than fear or grief.

So, after the mission, still burning with adrenaline and the raw sting of fear, Scott had sent Logan home. That was his second mistake of the day.

Hours later, after the team had cleaned up and the adrenaline had faded to exhaustion, Scott’s anger had cooled. Beneath it had been a raw, hollow feeling that he hadn’t want to name. Guilt. Concern. He’d wanted to apologize, to tell Logan that they could go over the mission another day, when the rush of it had gone completely and they weren’t both standing on the edge of their nerves. When Scott wasn’t still wound up so tight that every muscle in his body ached with the tension of it. He had just wanted to clear the air, to stop the fragile ground they’d managed to build beneath them from cracking apart entirely.

Only Logan hadn’t been there. Logan hadn’t been anywhere.

Logan’s comm had been on the floor by his dresser, having been dropped there. It had been laying at an odd angle and Scott had stared at it for a long moment before crossing the room and crouching down to pick it up. His hands had been shaking. The cold weight of the comm in his palm had sent a sharp spike of alarm through him. Logan never left without his comm. Even when he was angry or hurt, even when he wanted to disappear for a while, he always kept it with him. Just in case.

Scott’s mind had raced, jumping to the worst-case scenarios. Logan had been taken. Or attacked. Or worse.

“I’m setting off the emergency alert,” Scott had said, already reaching for his comm. His hand had hovered over the button, the one only used when the school was infiltrated or when a teammate was in life-threatening danger.

Jean’s hand had closed gently over his wrist.

“Scott.” Her voice had been steady, calm, even as her eyes had mirrored his alarm.

“He’s gone, Jean,” Scott’s voice had cracked as he’d fought back tears. “Something must have happened to him.”

“Or he left,” Jean’s reply had been soft.

“Logan wouldn’t-”

“You don’t know that.” She had brushed the edges of his mind, the softest touch, trying to keep him grounded. “Think rationally."

Scott’s hand had hovered over the button for another second, then two as he’d fought the instinct to press it. To pull everyone in, to raise the alarm, to search every inch of the grounds for Logan.

“I don’t like this,” Scott had murmured.

“I know.” Jean’s hand had lingered on his wrist for a moment longer before she’d released it. “But we need more information before we set off that kind of alarm.”

Scott had nodded stiffly, but the cold knot in his chest hadn’t eased.

Kurt. Kurt had been acting off since he’d gotten back from dropping Logan off at the mansion. There had been something strange about him, a subtle shift in his usually demeanor. And if Scott thought back, hadn’t Kurt left a few minutes after returning to the mission, only to return again later? During the ride back to the mansion, Kurt had avoided eye contact the entire time. That wasn’t normal. Kurt was one of the most attentive members of the team, when he was in the room, he was in the room. But then, his eyes had been distant, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Scott and Jean had gone straight to him after that. Kurt had been in his room, pacing as he rubbed his fingers over his rosary beads.

“Kurt,” Scott had said. “Where’s Logan?”

Kurt’s gaze had flicked away, his tail stilling. He’d fiddled with the rosary beads before setting them on the table with deliberate slowness.

“I don’t know,” Kurt had replied, but the slight hitch in his voice made Scott’s stomach drop.

“Nightcrawler.” Some of the team went exclusively by their aliases, others only did so during missions and training. Kurt was one of the ones who liked to go by his name. Using his alias had been Scott going into mission mode.

Jean had shot him a quick look, but Scott’s restraint had been hanging by a thread. His heart had been thundering in his ears, skin prickling with the aftermath of cold fear and dread.

“Kurt,” Scott had pleaded. “Where is he?”

Kurt’s expression had softened with something that might have been pity. “He’s safe,” he’d said, carefully.

“That’s not what I asked,” Scott had snapped.

“I know.” Kurt’s gaze had been steady, the familiar calmness had settled over his features.

Scott had felt sick. “Where?”

Kurt had sighed, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Logan cashed in a favor,” Kurt had said finally. His voice had been quiet but certain. “He asked me to take him somewhere. Somewhere private.”

“Where?”

“I can’t tell you. I promised him,” Kurt’s voice had been remorseful, but steady. “He asked me not to tell anyone.”

“That’s not good enough!” Scott’s voice had cracked and Kurt and Jean had both stepped forward to offer comfort.

“Scott,” Kurt had spoken gently, voice calm but unyielding. “He’s safe.”

Scott’s chest had tightened painfully. He’d wanted to push, wanted to demand. But Kurt had already made up his mind, and Logan had made his choice.

Jean had brushed against his mind again, but Scott had barely registered it. His head had been already spinning with possibilities. Logan was gone. Logan was out there somewhere, alone, and Scott had no idea where to start looking.

Which brought him back to now.

Scott, Jean, Kurt, and Ororo stood in front of Logan’s door, the quiet hum of the mansion around them feeling heavier than usual. The hallway’s familiar stillness was almost suffocating, pressing down on them as they stood there, unsure of what to do next.

Scott didn’t want to do this. He hated every second of it. Invading Logan’s privacy felt wrong, like crossing a line they couldn’t uncross. Logan was private, intensely so, and Scott knew that stepping over this boundary would have consequences. If Logan came back and found out they’d gone into his room, that they’d rifled through his things, he wouldn’t take it well. Scott could practically hear the growl already forming in Logan’s throat. The sharp flash of anger in his eyes. The accusation.

But it had been a month.

A month was the limit they’d agreed on, the amount of time they were willing to give Logan before they started looking for him. At the time, Scott had thought it was generous. Logan had disappeared for weeks before, but never this long. Never without warning. Never without at least a vague sense of when he’d be back.

Scott had agreed to the month-long deadline reluctantly. He’d wanted to go after Logan immediately. Every day Logan was gone had sat in Scott’s chest like a lead weight. But Kurt had insisted Logan was safe. Kurt had been so sure. And Scott, after a lot of arguing, had eventually relented.

But now the month was up. And Logan was still gone.

Kurt had made good on his word. Two days ago, Kurt had teleported them to the forest Logan had been dropped off at. A stretch of wilderness so remote Scott was pretty sure it didn’t even have a name. They’d searched the area for hours, combing through trees and brush, calling Logan’s name until their voices were hoarse. Logan was long gone.

Kurt had barely spoken in the two days since. Scott knew Kurt felt guilty. He might not have known Logan was going to disappear entirely, but he had helped him leave. He’d been part of it. And now Logan was gone, and none of them knew where he was or if he was safe.

So now they were standing here, in front of Logan’s door, trying to figure out what to do next.

Scott stood closest to the door, his hand hovering just shy of the handle. The wood under his palm was worn smooth from years of use. Scott knew Logan’s room was surprisingly neat inside, simple and sparce, but carefully maintained. Logan didn’t hoard things. He had a few personal items, a weathered leather jacket, an old hunting knife, a collection of yellowed paperback books, but beyond that, his space was practically spartan. The only thing Logan seemed to truly value was his privacy.
Scott’s hand hovered there, unable to close the gap between his skin and the cool metal of the handle.

“We need to look,” Jean said softly, her voice barely more than a breath.

Scott’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look at her. He could feel her presence in his mind, just beneath the surface, a quiet hum of warmth and concern. She wasn’t pushing, but he knew what she was thinking. Jean was worried.

“If we do this,” Scott said slowly, “there’s no going back.”

Jean stepped closer, until Scott could feel the faint heat of her arm against his. “We’ve already crossed that line,” she whispered. Scott closed his eyes for a brief moment. He hated that she was right.

“Maybe he left something,” Ororo said from behind them. Her voice was calm, steady, the same way it always was in the middle of a storm. She was standing slightly apart from the others, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her gaze sharp and thoughtful. “If Logan’s in trouble, this might be our only chance to help him.”

Scott exhaled through his nose. His hand flexed near the door handle.

Kurt was the only one who hadn’t spoken. He stood a little behind Ororo, his golden eyes low, his tail curled close to his side. His hands were clasped in front of him. He hadn’t moved since they’d arrived.

Scott turned toward him. “Kurt,” he said carefully. “You know Logan better than any of us. Would he want us to do this?”

Kurt’s eyes lifted slowly. He hesitated and Scott felt his stomach tighten.

“No,” Kurt said at last. His voice was quiet. “He wouldn’t want you to.”

Scott’s chest clenched. “Then why aren’t you stopping us?”

Kurt’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His tail twitched. His gaze drifted toward the door and for a moment, Scott thought Kurt wasn’t going to answer.

Finally, Kurt’s shoulders sagged. “Because Logan needs you.”

That was it, then. He’d known all along. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself. Logan was gone.

And now it was up to Scott to bring him back.

Scott’s hand closed around the door handle and pushed the door open. The room was just as it was last time he’d seen it. Logan usually didn’t have a problem with any of the adults going into his room when he wasn’t there, but he was protective of his stuff. And now they were going to break any trust Logan had in them by going through it.

Jean moved around Scott, her steps swift but controlled, her expression tightening with quiet focus. Scott stood frozen in the doorway, his mind caught between the weight of hesitation and the pressing need to do something, anything, to find answers. He watched as Jean made her way toward the small walk-in closet, brushing past him without a word. Her shoulders were set with that sharp determination she always carried during missions, but Scott knew her well enough to sense the tension beneath it.

Ororo was already at the dresser, her slender fingers skimming over the surface of the wood before she pulled open the first drawer. She sifted through its contents with methodical precision, her eyes sharp and calculating, the way they always were when the team was handling delicate fieldwork.

Kurt moved toward the bathroom, disappearing inside without a sound. Scott could hear the faint noise of him opening the medicine cabinet, the soft rustling of bottles and toiletries as he searched for any clue about where Logan might have gone.

Scott sighed and forced himself to move. His feet felt heavy as he crossed the room toward Logan’s bed. Scott crouched beside the bed, peering beneath it. A single, battered box sat pushed back against the far wall. Scott reached for it and pulled it out, the worn cardboard edges rough beneath his fingertips. He settled the box in his lap and opened it carefully.

Inside was an old leather jacket, cracked and weathered from years of use. Scott’s brow furrowed as he brushed his fingers over the worn sleeves. The leather was soft, pliant from years of wear, and the faint scent of tobacco still clung to it. Beneath the jacket were several folded shirts, old flannel, threadbare T-shirts that were faded almost to gray. Scott lifted one of them, feeling the thinness of the fabric, the fraying edges of the sleeves. Clothes that were long past usefulness, but Logan had kept them anyways.

Scott’s chest tightened. Logan didn’t keep much. If he’d held onto these, it was because they meant something.

He replaced the contents of the box carefully, sliding it back under the bed, and straightened. His eyes drifted toward the mattress. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled the edge of it up. His face flushed immediately at the sight of two worn magazines tucked between the mattress and the bedframe.

Playboy and Playgirl.

Scott coughed and looked away, face burning, then carefully slid the mattress back into place. Not exactly a shocking discovery, well maybe the playgirl was a bit of a shock, but it wasn’t exactly what he was looking for either. He shook his head, forcing himself to refocus.

Moving toward the nightstand, Scott pulled open the top drawer. At first, his gaze skimmed over the contents without registering them, a couple of loose receipts, a small switchblade, a battered metal lighter, and a dog-eared paperback novel with the cover worn thin from use. But beneath it all, resting against the polished wood, was something else.

Scott frowned. It looked like a mouth guard. The kind boxers or football players wore, molded to the shape of the mouth, designed to protect the teeth from impact. But this one was different.

Scott picked it up, surprised at the weight. It was heavier than it had any right to be, solid metal, smooth and dark with a faint sheen beneath the room’s soft lighting. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the cold bite of the material against his fingers. It wasn’t the weight or the design that unsettled him the most, though. It was the hooks.

There were two pieces, top and bottom, welded together with precision. The hooks were long and sharp, curving inward from both the top and bottom. They weren’t decorative, or even just uncomfortable. They were designed to dig in. The angles were brutal, calculated to pierce soft tissue and sink deep into the gums if someone actually wore this thing. Scott winced just imagining it. The hooks would bite down on the wearer’s mouth, locking into place, the sharp ends piercing flesh and holding fast.

He pressed his thumb to one of the hooks, testing the sharpness. It was almost surgical, the kind of sharpness that could easily break skin with the slightest pressure. Why would Logan have something like this?

It wasn’t for protection; Logan didn’t need a mouth guard. Even if his teeth were knocked out, they’d grow back. His healing factor would fix any damage long before it could become a problem. No, this was something else. Something darker.

Scott turned it over again, his heart dropping. It was a gag.

“Scott?” Jean’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, quiet and sharp with tension. His feelings must have bled over their bond and she was drawn in by his anxiety.

Scott didn’t look up. His eyes were locked on the mouth guard. His grip tightened as the implications of it settled in his chest like a weight.

“This. . .” his voice trailed off, low and cold.

Jean was at his side in an instant. Her eyes narrowed as she examined the object in his hands, her brow furrowing.

“What is it?” Ororo asked as she stepped up next to them, Kurt looking over their shoulders.

Scott held it up, his jaw tightening as the hooks caught the light.

“It’s a muzzle,” Scott said grimly.

Kurt’s brow furrowed. “A muzzle?”

“Think about it,” Scott said, his tone hard. “The hooks. The way it’s designed to clamp down. If someone was wearing this, the hooks would pierce their gums, hold them in place. They wouldn’t be able to open their mouth without tearing themselves apart.”

Jean’s face paled. She took the guard from Scott with shaking hands and turned it over carefully, studying the hooks and the sharp edges. Her eyes darkened as she connected the same dots Scott had.

“Why would Logan need something like this?” she whispered.

Scott’s mouth twisted into a grim line. He remembered the first night Logan had stayed in the mansion. They’d all heard his whimpers and cries, but he wasn’t the only one to suffer from nightmares and it was a common curtesy to leave others alone unless they asked for help. It wasn’t until Logan was screaming for help that they’d all rushed to his room. Only to find Rogue healing herself and Logan seizing as her powers sapped his away.

Scott’s gaze sharpened. “It’s to stop himself from screaming.”

Jean’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

“His first night here. The nightmares. It drew Maria in, and she got hurt. Have any of you heard Logan have a nightmare since? Because I haven’t. He must have had this made soon after so he wouldn’t make noise in his sleep. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, so he made sure he stayed quiet.”

Scott saw it in his mind, Logan grabbing the torturous metal device from his bedside drawer, tilting his head back slightly, baring his teeth as he positioned the mouth guard.

Then the hooks.

Scott’s stomach turned.

He pictured Logan pressing the guard into place, the hooks curving inward, catching soft flesh. Piercing the gumline. The sharp little crunch of tissue giving way. Jean flinched next to him, dropping the mouth guard in horror and disgust. It bounced onto the covers of the bed and sat there, gleaming in the light of the room. Scott sent her a soft mental apology, not realizing he’d accidentally been broadcasting the imagined scenario over their bond.

Ororo picked up the mouth guard, looking down at it in sorrow. “Logan found a way to scream without sound.”

Kurt’s breath hitched, soft and sharp in the quiet. A faint sniffle escaped him, betraying his heartbreaking emotions. His golden eyes shimmered faintly in the light and within the blink of an eye, Kurt vanished in a burst of sulfur and smoke. The faint scent lingering in the air.

Scott stared at the empty space where his friend had been. He wasn’t sure where Kurt had gone. Maybe he’d teleported somewhere private, a quiet spot in the chapel or the roof where he could breathe without eyes on him, maybe whisper a prayer with shaking hands and closed eyes. Or maybe he’d gone back out into the wilderness, retracing old steps, hoping that Logan might have doubled back. That there might still be a trail, a sign, a shadow of him.

Scott didn’t know. He didn’t know where Kurt had gone, or if Logan was ever coming back. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do next.

He felt untethered, like someone had cut the line that anchored him to everything he understood. The certainty he’d once worn like armor had cracked, and now there was just this gnawing sense of helplessness hollowing him out.