marifilue

[marifilue]

Part 9: Breaking Chains

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n.

Summary: You're an X-Men member with regenerative healing ability and skilled marksman. On a routine mission with the team things take a drastic turn when a mutant-inhibitor collar is forced onto you, leaving you vulnerable, unable to heal. With no quick fix in sight, Logan becomes your reluctant anchor, helping you get through each day as you fight to survive, unexpected bond with Logan begins to grow, one that becomes far stronger than either of you could imagine.

Warnings: MDNI (I won't spoil but please minors do not interact) Explicit content, Violence, Blood.

WC: 10.9k

<-Part 8

The first update on Fenris’ recovery was brief, but it was enough to ease a small weight off your shoulders. He was healing well, but still weak. Hank’s update on the collar’s chip wasn’t as reassuring. “I’m making progress,” Hank had said during the meeting, “but the delivery I need from Germany is delayed. Almost christmas, hectic weeks.” You had thanked him quietly, frustration simmering beneath your calm facade.

The tension in the briefing room was thick as Hank gestured to the holographic layout of the facility. A glowing blue section indicated a heavily secured room deep within its core.

“This is where the particle is housed,” Hank began, his tone serious. “It’s the final component needed to finish Killebrew’s collars. Without it, they can’t stabilize the technology. But breaching this room won’t be easy.”

“What’s the catch?” Scott asked, leaning forward in his chair. Hank adjusted his glasses, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “It’s a dual-security system: a retinal scanner and an access code. We’ve already intercepted the code, but the scanner... that’s another issue. As far as we know, only Killebrew’s retina is authorized.”

Ororo frowned, arms crossed. “Then we’re at a dead end unless we... what? Find Killebrew?” Jean raised an eyebrow. “That would never work, not without us ripping his eyes.”

“Yeah,” Hank replied, his voice calm but measured. “It’s a last resort. But without the retinal scan—”

“My retina is registered,” you said suddenly, cutting through the discussion. All eyes turned to you, the weight of their attention settling heavily on your shoulders.

Hank blinked, clearly taken aback. “What?” You nodded, your voice steady. “Years ago, when I was Killebrew’s right hand. I had access to most of his high-security facilities. My retina was registered as part of the system.”

A silence fell over the room before Logan spoke, his voice a low growl. “No.” Scott frowned, looking at Logan. “Logan, this isn’t your call—”

“She’s not going,” Logan interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “End of story.” Hank hesitated, clearly weighing his options. “It’s... possible her retina is still registered,” he said cautiously. “But it’s been years. Systems change. If it’s not valid—”

“Then we find Killebrew and take his eyes out,” you said bluntly, your gaze unwavering. “But we won’t know until we try. If there’s even a chance this works, it’s worth it.” Logan scoffed, his fists clenching. “Worth it? You think risking your life on a chance is worth it?”

You met his glare head-on. “Yes. Because this isn’t just about me. It’s about stopping Killebrew and everything he stands for.” Logan took a deep breath, his voice dropping dangerously low. “This isn’t happening.”

Scott interjected, his tone sharp. “Logan, back off. She’s right. We can’t ignore the opportunity”

“Opportunity?!” Logan’s voice rose, his frustration boiling over. “You’re gamblin' with her life. What happens if it doesn’t work? What happens when the alarms go off, and we’re trapped with her stuck in the middle of it?”

“Then we deal with it,” you said firmly. “Just like we always do.” Jean stepped in, her voice soft but firm. “Logan, we’re all at risk here. She’s not going in alone, and you know that. We’ll protect her.”

Ororo nodded in agreement. “This isn’t the first dangerous mission we’ve undertaken, Logan. And it won’t be the last.”

Logan looked around the room, his glare landing back on you. “You don’t understand what you’re walking into.”

“I do,” you replied, your voice unyielding. “Better than anyone here. And I’m telling you, I’m going.” Hank adjusted his glasses again, his tone cautious. “If we take her, we need to move carefully. The facility is heavily fortified, and once the retinal scan is attempted, there’s no turning back.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His silence spoke volumes. Scott glanced at you, then at Logan. “It’s settled. We’re going. And we’re taking her.”

Logan muttered something under his breath, turning away and shaking his head. You caught his words nonetheless. “Damn fools.”

“I’ll take that as agreement,” you said, forcing a calmness you didn’t entirely feel. The plan was set, but Logan’s stormy expression lingered in your mind.

The mission began under the weight of Logan's lingering glare, though the team remained focused as the Blackbird cut through the dark skies. Below, Logan’s motorcycle tore across the rough terrain, his lone figure a stark contrast to the team’s collective presence.

Inside the Blackbird, Hank, Scott, Jean, and Ororo were calm, but the air was thick with tension. You sat quietly, fiddling with the clasp of your collar. The thought of returning to a place so closely tied to Killebrew’s horrors churned your stomach, but you shoved it aside. There was no room for weakness.

“We’re coming up on the facility,” Scott announced. His hands gripped the controls with precision. “Ororo, get ready for a storm cover. Jean, stay sharp. We don’t know what kind of resistance we’re walking into.”

Ororo nodded, her serene expression belying the crackling energy around her fingers. “Consider it done.”

Jean glanced at you, her voice soft. “You okay?” You forced a nod. “Yeah. Just ready to get this over with.”

The Blackbird landed silently a few miles from the facility, the dense trees providing cover. The team moved swiftly, breaking through the perimeter with Logan’s voice guiding you through the comms. “Perimeter’s clear on the south side,” his gruff voice came through. “Move fast. Don’t get sloppy.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Scott muttered dryly, earning a smirk from Jean.

Inside the facility, the sterile white walls and sharp fluorescent lighting sent a chill down your spine. Every step felt heavier, memories clawing at the edges of your mind.

“We’re here,” Hank’s voice crackled over the comms as you reached the secure door. “Get the particle and get out.”

Scott gestured to the retinal scanner. “You’re up.” You hesitated briefly before stepping forward. The cold glass of the scanner pressed against your eye as a faint beep signaled recognition. The door hissed open.

Jean’s hand rested lightly on your shoulder. “Good job.” The team entered the room cautiously, retrieving the particle from its containment chamber. But as soon as the casing was breached, alarms blared throughout the facility.

“Time to go!” Scott barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. The team moved quickly, but the sound of heavy boots and shouting guards echoed down the halls.

Logan’s voice crackled over the comms. “Guards coming in from the west. I’ll handle them. Get her out of there.”

“No way,” you protested, your heart pounding. “Logan, you can’t—”

“Get moving!” he growled, the sound of claws tearing into something sharp in the background. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Scott grabbed your arm, urging you forward. “We don’t have time for this. Go!”

You stumbled out with the team, dodging through corridors as the guards closed in. Every gunshot and shout behind you made your chest tighten.

“Logan, what’s your status?” Scott demanded into the comms. “Busy,” Logan grunted, followed by the crash of something heavy. “Don’t wait for me.”

As the Blackbird came into view, the team shoved you aboard. The engines roared to life, and Scott took the controls. You turned back toward the facility, your pulse hammering.

“We can’t leave him!” you shouted. Jean grabbed your arm gently but firmly. “He’ll make it out. He always does.”

“No, we have to go back,” you insisted, your voice breaking. Scott’s tone was unyielding as he guided the Blackbird into the air. “Logan knows what he’s doing. If we go back, we jeopardize the mission and everyone on board.”

The comms crackled again, Logan’s voice growling orders. “Just keep flying. I’ll catch up.”

Then, silence.

“Logan? Logan, do you copy?” Your voice rose, panic creeping in. “Logan, answer me!”

Nothing.

Scott clenched his jaw but kept his eyes forward. “We’ll regroup at the mansion. He’ll find his way back.”

You sat stiffly in your seat, your hands gripping the armrests until your knuckles turned white. The weight of the silence pressed down on you like a vice as the Blackbird streaked through the sky.

By the time the Blackbird touched down at the mansion, the sun had long disappeared behind the horizon, leaving a chill in the air. It was nearly six in the evening, and yet the hours felt like they dragged on endlessly. Every minute that passed, every tick of the clock, only seemed to amplify the knot of anxiety twisting tighter in your stomach.

You'd searched for the Professor, hoping against hope that Cerebro could locate Logan, but he was away in Washington, attending a conference. Frustration flared, but you pushed it down. Jean, despite her powers being less refined, had offered to try. You watched in silence as she concentrated, her eyes flickering with the strain of her effort. But it was too much. The attempt left her gasping for air, clutching her head as though something was ripping her apart from the inside. Scott had rushed to her side, his worry written all over his face.

"Enough," Scott said firmly, his voice sharp with authority. "Logan will be back."

The words were final, but they didn't ease the gnawing in your chest. You had to wait. You had no choice. So, you retreated outside the garage, glancing the mansion's gate from afar, no sign of Logan approaching. You try to breathe in the cold night air, but it felt like ice settling into your bones. You pulled your cardigan tighter around you pacing back and forth, but the chill seeped through anyway. The minutes blurred together. An hour? Two? It felt like much more. Time felt irrelevant, slipping by in agonizing increments.

You walk toward the gate, the soles of your boots crunching against the gravel, the sound swallowed by the silence of the night. The streetlights cast a warm glow, but it does little to pierce the cold dread that grips your chest. The dark road ahead feels endless, stretching like the shadows of your own thoughts. Leaning against the gate, you stare at the mansion before you, its silhouette sharp against the starless sky. You try to focus on its structure, its stillness, anything to stop the storm of fear brewing in your mind. But it’s useless. Every attempt to ground yourself pulls you deeper into a pit of spiraling thoughts.

What if Logan was caught? The image of him being dragged through those iron doors flashes in your mind, his claws subdued, his body shackled like some kind of animal. What if they put a collar on him, like they did to you? The idea claws at your sanity, the thought of him powerless, trapped, suffocating. You think of him snarling in rage, caged like a beast, or worse—silent, defeated, his green eyes dulled by hopelessness.

The ache in your chest sharpens, twisting, burning. Your breath catches, and you clench your fists against the pain. You’re scared—scared in a way that feels unfamiliar, raw, and intimate. You’ve seen death before, stared it in the face, and walked away from it. But this fear isn’t like that. This isn’t the fear of losing a battle or even your own life. This is the terror of losing him. The thought of a world without Logan in it—without his gruff voice grounding you, without his quiet strength beside you—makes the air feel heavier, suffocating.

Your throat tightens, and tears pool in your eyes. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, fighting to keep them at bay. Crying feels like admitting defeat, like giving in to the weakness you’ve spent years burying. But it’s no use. The tears come anyway, hot and unrelenting, streaking down your face. A choked sob escapes your lips before you can catch it, the sound breaking the fragile silence around you.

You press your hands against your face, desperate to muffle your cries, to hide from the vulnerability you feel. But the harder you fight, the more it consumes you. You’ve been so careful, so cautious, keeping the world at arm’s length, burying your emotions under layers of steel. But tonight, you can’t pretend. You can’t lie to yourself. You care about Logan—more than you ever thought you could care for anyone. And the thought of losing him terrifies you.

“Rough night?” suddenly you heard a voice, gruff and familiar, cutting through your spiraling thoughts.

You froze, the voice like a jolt of electricity that snapped you out of your haze. "Logan..." you whispered, barely daring to believe your eyes. It was him, standing in front of you. Alive. Safe.

He was every bit the survivor you knew him to be. His leather jacket was scorched, the edges singed from something he��d fought through. His shirt was torn, dirt and ash smeared across his jeans, and his face was covered in soot. His hair, usually so unruly, was a tangled mess. He looked exhausted, but there was a strength in his eyes that made your heart swell.

Your breath hitched, and you hastily swiped at your tears with trembling fingers, sniffling in a desperate attempt to compose yourself. The sound of heavy footsteps approaching pulled you from the depths of your anguish, your heart leaping in both relief and panic. You looked up sharply, his silhouette backlit by the glow of the streetlights, his gaze already fixed on you.

His steps faltered as he neared, his green eyes narrowing in concern. He saw it—the sheen of tears in your eyes, the redness of your face, the way your hands still hovered near your cheeks. You knew he noticed because his brows knit together in that way they always did when he was worried. His head tilted slightly, the intensity of his stare making your chest tighten.

Before he could say anything, you turned away, angling your body just enough to shield yourself from his gaze. You quickly wiped at your face again, as if erasing the evidence would make it disappear, and tried to steady your voice. "Where’s the bike?" you asked, the words coming out quieter than you intended, betraying the storm of emotions still crashing inside you.

"Blowed up midway. Had to walk," he said with a shrug, but his tone softened as he took another step closer. You felt his eyes lingering, studying you like he was piecing together the cracks in your facade. His voice dipped lower, almost cautious. “You alright?”

Your breath caught, and you clenched your fists at your sides, willing yourself to meet his gaze without crumbling. “Yeah,” you said quickly, too quickly with a forced smile. “Scott's gonna be furious about his bike.” the words left your mouth slightly trembled, covering the emotion you tried to hide. You kept your face turned just enough to avoid the full weight of his gaze, but the vulnerability in the air felt inescapable, like it was laid bare between you.

Logan gave a low chuckle in return, stepping closer. His presence, though rugged and intense, was like a balm for your aching soul. Just having him there, near you, made everything feel more bearable. The urge to throw yourself at him, to let him pull you into his arms and wash away the tension, was overwhelming, but you held back, afraid to let your walls completely crumble.

Still, a tear escaped, slipping down your cheek. You tried to wipe it away quickly, shaking your head and putting another forced smile out of habit, but Logan didn’t miss it. Without hesitation, he closed the gap between you, bending down slightly to reach your height while wrapping his arms around you in a firm, reassuring embrace. His touch, so familiar and comforting, was all it took to break the dam inside you. The quiet sobs you had been holding back turned into something heavier, louder, as the weight of the day came crashing down.

The palm of your hands covering your face still pressed against his chest, trying to steady yourself, but it was no use. Your defenses crumbled, and you let go, moving your arm to circle around his neck, letting the tears flow freely. His familiar scent filling your nose, so comforting as you inhale deeply.

"I thought we lo—" Your voice broke, the words catching in your throat as the weight of your fear pressed down on you. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, but the emotion was too raw, too overwhelming. Finally, the rest spilled out, trembling and muffled against the rough leather of his jacket.

"I thought I lost you..." The words were barely above a whisper, yet they carried everything—the panic, the helplessness, the aching vulnerability you’d fought so hard to suppress. It wasn’t just fear you were voicing; it was the realization of how much he meant to you, how deeply his absence would carve into you if the worst had happened. Saying it aloud made the possibility feel all too real, and your grip on him tightened, as if anchoring yourself to the fact that he was still here, still alive.

Logan didn’t pull away. Instead, his arms tightened around you, lifting you slightly off the ground as he straightened, holding you against him with a strength that was both steady and gentle. His hands moved in soothing circles on your back, rubbing the tension away, as if trying to ease every ounce of fear and pain you’d been carrying.

“S'okay,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a growl, but there was a tenderness in it that you hadn’t expected. “I'm still here.”

For a moment, everything else disappeared. The cold night, the weight of your worries—they all faded into the background as Logan held you close, his warmth wrapping around you like a shield. You closed your eyes, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing against your ear, his heartbeat a solid, grounding presence in the chaos of your emotions. You let yourself believe him, just for a moment. He was here. Safe. Alive. With you.

Logan’s mind was a tangle of thoughts, but one thing cut through the chaos with sharp clarity—he couldn’t stand seeing you like this. Every tear you shed, every tremor in your voice, felt like a blow he couldn’t block. It unsettled something deep within him, something he didn’t quite know how to name. He had always told himself he was fine on his own, but now, holding you, he realized just how much he had come to rely on you—your presence, your strength, even your stubbornness.

The way you clung to him now, desperate and unguarded, only strengthened his resolve. You were more than someone to protect—you were someone he couldn’t imagine losing. As his arms tightened around you, he made a quiet, unspoken promise. Whatever it took, no matter the cost, he’d make sure you were safe. You’d never have to face the world alone—not as long as he was here.

As you pressed your face into his shoulder, feeling the rough fabric of his jacket and the heat of his body, a strange clarity settled over you. Logan’s presence, his steady arms around you, felt like the answer to a question you hadn’t dared to ask. It wasn’t words or explanations you needed—not right now. It was this. Him.

You remembered something you’d once read, a quote by Ernest Hemingway. In our hardest times, it said, we don’t need answers or advice. What we really need is connection—a calm presence, a soft touch, or just someone by our side, that's what makes us human. And as Logan held you, murmuring reassurances into the quiet night, you realized how true that was. These small gestures, these moments of unspoken understanding, were what kept you grounded when life felt overwhelming.

To see you like this. The sight of your tears, the way your voice cracked, how you trembled in his arms—it tore through him like claws against his own skin. Logan wasn’t the kind of man who dealt well with emotions, especially not his own, but right now, all he wanted was to take your pain and bear it himself.

He let out a slow breath, his grip on you firm but careful, as if afraid you might slip away if he held too tight. “Didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he said softly next to your ear, his rough voice carrying an unspoken apology. His lips pressed briefly against your temple, a fleeting gesture that surprised even him.

You didn’t respond right away, your face buried against his shoulder as you tried to regain control of your breathing. Logan didn’t push. He simply stood there, waiting for you to break the hug first, his body warm and solid against the chill of the night.

Finally, you pulled back just enough to look up at him, your tear-streaked face illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlights. Your eyes searched his, as if needing to confirm he was really there, that this wasn’t some cruel trick of the mind.

“You can’t do that again,” you said, your voice hoarse but steady. “Just disappear without a trace. I can’t—” You stopped, swallowing hard. “I can’t go through that again.”

Logan’s gaze softened, the hard lines of his face easing as he reached up to brush a stray tear from your cheek with a calloused thumb. “I ain’t plannin’ on goin’ anywhere,” he said quietly, his tone carrying a rare gentleness. “Not without a damn good fight.”

You huffed a laugh, the sound shaky but real, and it seemed to ease some of the tension between you. “You better not,” you said, your voice trembling but laced with a flicker of determination. “Because if you do, I’ll hunt you down myself.”

Logan smirked, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a way that sent a warmth spreading through your chest. “With your PCP rifle?” he replied, his voice low, his eyes holding yours.

Before you could reply, a faint warmth dripped from your nose. You hadn’t even noticed the nosebleed, but Logan’s expression shifted slightly, his sharp eyes catching the drop of blood just before it reached your upper lip. Without a word, he brought his hand up, his fingers curling gently against your cheek as his thumb carefully swept across your nostril, wiping the small streak away.

“Your nose is bleeding,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

Your breath hitched at the intimate gesture, and instinctively, your hand, which had been resting lightly against his chest, darted up to your face. Feeling the warm smear now trailing toward your cheek, you winced. “Oh, I didn’t even notice,” you whispered.

Logan’s grip didn’t waver. “Here, let me,” he said and you lower your arm, giving him the space as he pulled the hem of his shirt up with his free hand. He dabbed the fabric against your nose, carefully wiping away the blood. His left hand moved to the back of your head, steadying you as he worked. The contact was firm but unintrusive, his fingers warm against your chilled skin. His eyes flickered between your lips and your eyes, a quiet intensity in his gaze as if he was studying you as much as tending to you.

“There,” he said quietly, lowering his shirt now stained by your blood and pulling his left hand back. His right hand lingered, his fingertips brushing softly against your arm.

You smiled faintly, but Logan didn’t seem entirely convinced. His fingers, rough but careful, slid toward yours, seeking permission with a small, hesitant movement. When you didn’t flinch, he took your arm in his grasp, his thumb brushing over your skin. “Your arm's freezing,” he muttered, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that always seemed to settle something in you.

You managed a weak smile, and without thinking, you placed your other hand over his, a silent invitation. Logan didn’t hesitate. He took both of your arms, wrapping them in his larger hands before bringing them close to his mouth. His breath, warm and soothing, ghosted over your skin as he exhaled against your fingers, his attempt to chase away the cold.

“Better?” he asked again, his tone softer this time. “Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan glanced toward the mansion before his gaze settled back on you. “C’mon,” he said, still holding your hands as if reluctant to let go. “Let’s get inside before you turn into an icicle.”

You nodded, allowing him to guide you back, his hand never leaving yours. The ache in your chest hadn’t entirely faded, but with his warmth grounding you, it didn’t seem as heavy to bear.

The week had passed in a blur, marked by quiet moments with Logan that felt oddly comforting, even in your deteriorating state. The nosebleeds were getting worse. There's a few morning you woke to dried streaks of blood under your nose, a cruel reminder of how fragile you were becoming. Despite this, Logan stayed close, his presence steady and grounding.

One evening at dinner, you felt the familiar trickle of warmth beneath your nose. You tried to discreetly reach for a napkin, but Logan, seated beside you without a second thought, he grabbed his own napkin, turned to you, hold your arm that was going for your napkin, bringing his own and gently wiped away the blood.

“There,” he said casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, before returning to his plate, not even losing his appetite. The nonchalance of it, the way he didn’t flinch or show a hint of discomfort, left you feeling weak in the knees. You barely managed to focus on your meal after that.

In moments like these, you realized just how much he had grown to care. He wasn’t just watching out for you—he was looking after you.

Today the gym was quiet when you stepped inside, the air cool and tinged with the faint smell of rubber and sweat. Logan was already there, waiting near the punching bags in a white tank top and gray sweatpants that clung just enough to show off the powerful build of his legs. His broad shoulders glistened faintly with a sheen of sweat, and the sight of him rolling his neck to loosen up was enough to make your breath hitch.

You adjusted the hem of your red tank top, the tight black leggings hugging your figure as you pulled your hair into a high ponytail. The motion made your arm muscles flex, and though you didn’t notice it, Logan’s sharp eyes caught the movement. He let out a faint breath, briefly distracted, and had to consciously force himself to look away before you noticed.

“Ready to get your ass handed to you?” he called out, his gravelly voice pulling your attention.

You smirked as you approached, slipping on your gloves. “Pretty sure I’m the one who’s gonna be doing the ass-kicking.”

Logan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Alright, hotshot. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He raised his hands, the padded gloves protecting his palms. “Give me a few good ones. Aim straight.”

You stepped into position, rolling your shoulders back before throwing your first punch. The impact was solid, the sound sharp in the empty gym. Logan’s lips quirked into an approving smirk. “Attagirl. Not bad.”

The words sent a spark through you, and you bit your lip, focusing on the next punch. Your knuckles met his palms again and again, the rhythm building as you threw a quick combination of jabs. Every time he muttered another “Good,” or “That’s it,” his gravelly voice made it harder to concentrate.

After a few minutes, Logan lowered his gloves and raised a brow at you. “You’re warmed up now. Let’s kick it up a notch. Hit me for real.”

You blinked, momentarily confused. “Like actually hit you?”

“Yeah,” he said, smirking. He rolled his shoulders, stepping back just enough to give you some room. “C’mon, don’t hold back.”

You hesitated for a moment, but the challenge in his eyes was impossible to resist. “Alright, Howlett. I hope you're not a sore loser”

That earned a snort from him. “We’ll see about that.”

He claimed to be a great teacher, and while you didn’t doubt it, you knew he was holding back. The collar around your neck was a constant reminder of your vulnerability, and he treated you with a caution that both irritated and amused you.

“C’mon, old man, is that all you’ve got?” you teased after landing a clean punch to his jaw.

Logan smirked, brushing a hand over his face. “You're much better that I thought.”

“You’re the one holding back,” you shot back, grinning despite the exertion. “Afraid I’ll knock you out?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “I could take you down anytime I want. I’m just bein’ nice.”

“Sure, you are,” you muttered, lining up another punch. Despite the lighthearted banter, you knew he was careful. His strikes never landed with full force, and he always kept an eye on the collar, as if afraid to push too hard.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself as you lined up your stance. Then you threw the first punch—a solid one aimed for his jaw. He dodged it easily, his reflexes almost inhuman. “Too slow,” he taunted, his grin widening.

Gritting your teeth, you stepped forward, throwing a combination of punches aimed at his torso and face. Logan dodged or blocked every single one, though you noticed how careful he was not to retaliate with any real force.

“C’mon,” you huffed, landing a rare glancing hit on his side. “You’re not even trying!”

Logan smirked, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “I’m takin’ it easy on you.”

You scoffed, stepping back to catch your breath. “You’re holding back. Admit it.”

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging casually. “But you’re good.”

The praise made your heart skip, though you rolled your eyes to hide your reaction. “You know, if you actually put in some effort, I might learn something.”

Logan’s smirk softened, and for a moment, his expression shifted—something unspoken flickered in his eyes. “Alright, Varmint. Let’s see if you’ve got what it takes to keep up.”

He moved then, closing the distance faster than you expected. Though his strikes were slow enough for you to block or dodge, you could feel the raw power behind them. You ducked under one swing and managed to land a solid punch to his jaw.

Logan chuckled, rubbing his chin with a smirk. “Not bad. That all you’ve got?”

“Not even close,” you replied, grinning as you stepped in to take another shot.

The session continued like that, a playful back-and-forth that had your blood pumping and left you breathless. Even though Logan was clearly pulling his punches, you couldn’t deny how much fun you were having. For the first time in days, you felt almost like yourself again, the weight of the collar and your failing body momentarily forgotten.

By the end of it, you were sitting by the chair, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Logan stood a few feet away, his hands on his hips and his tank top damp with sweat. “Not bad” he said, his voice carrying that gruff warmth that made your chest tighten. "But you're far from the real deal."

“Guess you’ll just have to keep on coaching me,” you said, smirking up at him. Logan shook his head, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. “Oh, don't ya worry. I got all the time in the world.”

You didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than usual, and as you stand up from the chair, ready for another session he's willing to give.

Another day passed, and the weight of uncertainty lingered. This morning, Hank had promised the chip was ready to unlock your collar. You found yourself in the lab with him, Professor X, and Jean. As Hank worked, the minutes stretched into what felt like hours.

Logan entered midway, pausing to speak with the Professor across the room. You kept glancing at him, finding a strange comfort in his presence even as anxiety clawed at your chest.

Hank finally inserted the chip into your collar. You held your breath, waiting for any sign of release, any indication that the device was working. But nothing happened.

After a long pause, Hank removed the chip, frowning. “I need to reevaluate,” he said apologetically. “There’s something I might’ve overlooked.”

You sighed heavily, the disappointment sinking into your chest. “It’s okay,” you said quietly, forcing a small smile. “Thank you for trying.”

As you turned away, Logan caught your eye. He gestured to your face, and you instinctively reached up, feeling the unmistakable warmth of another nosebleed.

“Excuse me,” you muttered, quickly leaving the room before anyone could comment further. You felt Logan’s gaze on you as you left, but he didn’t follow immediately. He stayed behind, speaking with Hank and seeking updates.

In the bathroom mirror, you cleaned yourself up, staring at your reflection. The sight is still new to you—lines had begun to etch themselves into your face, and the slight sag of your skin reminded you of just how much you were aging without your regenerative abilities.

For the first time, you saw yourself as mortal, truly mortal. Fifty-five years old and aging like a regular human. The fragility of it all felt overwhelming, but it also filled you with an odd sense of appreciation. You had cursed your immortality countless times, muttering "fuck this shit" a good twenty times a day, resenting the ageless existence you once endured. But now, every wrinkle, every ache, every fleeting moment felt precious.

With a deep breath, you stepped out of the bathroom and glanced toward the lab. Logan was still there, standing near Hank, his arms crossed as they talked. You sighed, deciding not going back inside. You needed a moment alone, a chance to breathe in the fresh air and let the cool evening clear your thoughts.

You turned toward the exit, your steps quiet as you left the mansion’s basement behind.

The quiet hum of the mansion filling your ears as you wandered through its sprawling halls. It was late afternoon, and the golden sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting warm, moving patterns on the walls. Kids ran past you, laughing and shouting as they spilled out onto the expansive green yard visible from the open doors ahead. You lingered near the staircase, watching them for a moment.

The sight of them—their boundless energy, the way they seemed to find joy in the smallest things—made your chest ache. You used to be like that once, before life hardened your edges, before the world reminded you how cruel it could be. And now, after years of being practically invincible, you were fragile again. Mortal. Human.

You turned away and continued down the hall, your footsteps soft against the polished wood floor. The laughter from the yard faded as you ascended another staircase. The solitude felt strange, even disconcerting. When was the last time you’d been truly alone, lost in your own thoughts? These days, Logan seemed to be everywhere, his presence filling spaces you hadn’t even realized were empty. And you hadn’t minded. Not at all.

But this week, he’d been particularly persistent, as if he didn’t know what a personal space is. You’d catch him waiting outside the lab, sitting next to you at breakfast, or finding you in the library just as you’d settled into a quiet moment. Not that you didn’t enjoy his company—you had, more than you wanted to admit—but it left you with little time to think. To process.

And now, wandering through the mansion’s quieter stairs, you realized there was something heavy weighing on your mind.

Logan.

Not his usual gruff demeanor or sharp remarks, but the way he had been with you lately. He’d softened, his edges dulling just enough to make you question if it was intentional or simply… him being nice. You thought of the way he’d joked with Ororo, his low chuckle when Jean had said something only half-funny. Was this just how he was? Easygoing with everyone?

You paused mid-step, shaking your head. A simple conversation could probably solve this, but how could you even begin? What were you supposed to say? “Logan, I think I like you. Do you like me too?” The thought alone made you chuckle, the sound bouncing faintly off the walls. No, that was completely ridiculous. The idea of having that kind of conversation with him made your stomach twist with both nerves and embarrassment.

Still, you couldn’t shake the thoughts. You climbed the final set of stairs and turned down the hall toward your room. Your hand brushed the cool doorknob, and you slipped inside, closing the door softly behind you.

Your favorite spot by the windowsill called to you. The sun was still high, its rays painting the vast green yard outside in a golden glow. The kids were scattered across the grass, their laughter muffled by the thick walls. You perched on the edge of the sill, your knees pulled up as you leaned your head against the cool glass.

Your thoughts drifted again, as they always seemed to, back to him. Logan had been nice—overly nice—since this collar had clamped down on your abilities. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was just his way of protecting someone he saw as weak, fragile. Your lips pressed into a thin line at the thought. If the collar came off tomorrow, would he still act the same? You doubted it. You’d seen his ignorance firsthand before all this, most notably when he’d thrown down your rifle, cracking its polished stock.

Your gaze flickered to the bed, where the rifle bag lay beneath. You still hadn’t repaired it. Every time you looked at it, a small part of you bristled, reminded of the disdain he’d shown back then. Maybe he was just one of those guys—the ones who felt the need to protect the powerless but had little patience for strength.

And then there was the awkwardness of your very existence. A clone attempt, a genetic experiment sourced from him. The idea of bringing it up made you cringe. There was no way to approach the subject that wouldn’t feel humiliating, even if Logan had shown his sincerity, apologizing for something that isn't even his fault. You just refuse to ever talk about it.

What happens when I get my powers back? you wondered. Will he see me differently?

A heavy sigh escaped, your thoughts shifted, unbidden, to someone else. You hadn't experienced this complicated feeling since... Ivan. Sweet, soft-spoken Ivan, with his charming smile and those light amber eyes that seemed to hold the warmth of the sun itself. They glowed whenever the sunlight hit them just right, turning into a mesmerizing shade you’d never seen in anyone else.

His thick Russian accent always brought a smile to your face. The way he would pronounce your name and managed to get it wrong everytime, he’d mispronounce words in a way that made you chuckled, but he was never self-conscious about it. You could still hear him saying, “You and your boring American accent.”

The memory of his voice was both comforting and painful. You thought of his memorial, standing there without a body to bury, as no one could bring his lifeless form back home, to the country he served that had cost him his life.

His mother Katya told you then how much Ivan had spoken about you during his last leave. Katya had even used the word simpatiya—meaning crush in Russian—to describe the way she thinks he’d felt. A quiet snicker escaped your lips at the memory, the ache in your chest easing slightly.

And then a sound pulled you from your thoughts—a soft click. You turned your head sharply, your pulse quickening.

The door eased open, and there he was. Logan. His broad frame filled the doorway, his hair slightly disheveled, the white shirt clinging to his chest in a way that made your stomach flip. He leaned against the frame, his arms crossed as he looked at you, his expression unreadable.

“Didn’t see you back at the lab,” he said, his voice low, carrying that rough, familiar edge.

Your breath caught, your thoughts scattering under his steady gaze.

You turned your gaze back to the window, knees hugged tightly to your chest, your thoughts running wild. The stillness of the room seemed to magnify the thudding of your heart as you tried to collect your thoughts. It felt as if everything was on the verge of unraveling, but before you could say anything, Logan’s voice cut through the tension.

“I don’t like it there,” you muttered, your voice barely a whisper. Logan’s gaze softened. “I know.”

He straightened up, stepping into the room. He pulled something small from the pocket of his jeans, a chip that he held between his fingers. The light from the window caught it, the metallic surface gleaming.

“I think Hank figured it out,” Logan said, holding the chip up for you to see. You glanced at it, uncertainty still hanging in the air. “You think it’ll work this time?” Logan shrugged, looking at the chip with a quiet intensity. “We could always find out.”

He sat down infront of you, facing you by the windowsill. Leaning to the glass blocking your view entirely by his broad shoulder, the familiar warmth of his presence filling the space between you. The seconds seemed to stretch as you felt his proximity shift something in you.

He held the chip up again, his eyes meeting yours. “May I?”

The question was simple enough, but it made your heart race all over again. You nodded hesitantly, unsure whether you were ready for this moment to be real.

You held his wrist, stopping him mid-motion. “Hold on, just… wait,” you said, the words coming out more hesitant than you intended. The cool air from the window felt like it was swirling around you as your pulse quickened.

Logan’s brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes searching yours. He didn’t say anything but his silent inquiry left you feeling exposed. Gritting your teeth, you gently lowered his arm and released your grip, taking a breath to steady yourself.

“Logan… What do you think would happen after this?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper as your gaze flickered between him and the window.

“What would happened?” he repeated the question, his voice calm but puzzled.

You trailed off, unsure how to phrase it, the words tangled in your chest. “It’s just…” You stopped, frustration building, before muttering under your breath, “Ah, fuck this.” The words fell from your lips more raw than you’d expected.

You fidgeted with your fingers, feeling the weight of everything you hadn’t said. “I just feel like… You’ve been so kind to me. And I appreciate that, I really do. But I have this theory…

Logan’s quiet patience made you continue, his gaze never leaving you. “I think you might've be kind to me because I’m weak. That you feel this urge to protect me.” The words left your mouth, and the weight of them crushed you.

You watched him, trying to gauge his reaction, but his face was unreadable. The silence between you stretched thick.

“Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath, closing your eyes as a wave of vulnerability washed over you. “I’m not sure you’ll treat me the same once this collar finally fucking off.”

Logan let out a short laugh, but it wasn’t mocking—just genuine. “So.... you're saying that you.... don't want to take the collar off, because you think I'll change?” he asked, his grin just shy of teasing.

“What, no!” You frowned, your stomach flipping at the thought of your own emotions getting tangled up in this.

Logan raised his arm “I know, I know. I’m just messin' with ya.” he said with that stupid grin once again.

Logan softened, chuckling a little. “For what it’s worth, I’ve been wondering about you. That once you’re free, you’ll throw me away like someone shedding a crutch.” He made a face, mock-pouting, before you found yourself chuckling too.

“Good thing you're not a crutch, then,” you quipped, a hint of lightness sneaking back into your words.

Logan glance at the chip, then turned back to you. “Listen....” he muttered your name quietly, his voice serious now, “I’m really terrible at this, but I think… we’ve got something here. Tell me you don’t feel the same, and I’ll walk away.”

You watched him as his hand lightly brushed against your calf, his thumb tracing the soft skin. A shiver ran through you at the touch, and your breath hitched before you could stop it. He didn’t pull away—his hand stayed, comforting yet heavy with meaning.

“I care about you,” Logan said softly, “and I wouldn’t want anything more than to see you safe, to see you well.”

You swallowed, heart beating faster. He raise the chip again, lifting it with the same careful gesture.

“So, what do you say?” He smiled at you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t uncertain. There was hope in his eyes. “Let’s take this off and see where it takes us?”

You nodded, your throat tight, unable to tear your gaze from his. His hand moved steadily, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying his own tension. The click echoed like a gunshot in the silence, and for a single, suspended moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Then it happened. The collar fell open, its oppressive grip on your neck finally gone. You gasped sharply, the air rushing into your lungs like it hadn’t in weeks. Relief and something more—a raw, overwhelming flood of sensation—coursed through you as the familiar hum of your abilities began to stir.

Logan carefully removed the collar as you put down your knee, you didn't feel the urge to be defensive Infront of him anymore, you cross your legs comfortably sitting Infront of him. His fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary before setting it down on the windowsill. He didn’t say anything, his steady gaze meeting yours, as if waiting for you to make the next move.

You couldn’t help it—the first sound that escaped your lips was a soft, disbelieving laugh. The tension that had coiled around you for weeks seemed to unravel in an instant. The laugh grew warmer, filling the space between you. Logan’s lips twitched, and then he smiled.

“Haven’t heard you laugh like that in a while,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an almost wistful note.

You exhaled, shaking your head as the laughter faded into a breathless chuckle. Your body felt different—alive. Your hand reached for your shirt, tugging it up to check your side. The nasty scar from the four bullets that had haunted you for weeks was gone. The skin was knitting itself back together in real-time, smooth and unmarked.

A quiet moan of relief escaped you, your hand brushing over the area. “I can feel it,” you murmured, a spark lighting your voice as you turned to Logan. “I can feel that damn tumor leaving my brain.” You grinned, your eyes bright with renewed energy. “That’s right—the rent is fucking due, and they’re kicked the fuck out. They’re homeless tumors now!”

Logan huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he leaned against the windowsill. “That’s one way to put it,” he said, his tone warm, his eyes following the way your face smoothed, the tension melting away.

Logan's chuckle faded, but his smile lingered, his gaze steady on you. There was something different about the way he was looking at you—something softer, deeper. You felt it, too, an invisible thread pulling you closer, the space between you charged with an unspoken tension.

You shifted slightly, your hand falling to your side, no longer searching for scars but for something else—something you couldn’t quite name. The hum of your returning powers buzzed faintly in your veins, but it was the awareness of him, standing so close, that truly consumed you.

“Logan,” you said softly, not entirely sure where the words would lead. Your voice betrayed you, a little shaky, but his name came out warm, almost tender.

He didn’t respond right away, his eyes tracing your face like he was memorizing it. Finally, he murmured, “You feel better now?”

You nodded, unable to look away. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I do.”

His hand twitched at his side, like he was fighting the urge to reach for you. But then, as if some silent barrier had broken, he lean closer, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch was featherlight, hesitant, like he was giving you a chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Instead, you tilted your head slightly, searching his eyes. The raw honesty you found there made your breath hitch. Before you could think too hard about it, your fingers curled around his, grounding yourself.

And then he closed the remaining distance. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, rough and warm against your skin. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips. You leaned in just enough to give him the answer he needed.

The first press of his lips was cautious, almost unsure, but the heat behind it built quickly. He tasted like tobacco with the faintest hint of whiskey, a mix of bitterness and warmth that sent a heady rush through you. It was raw, unpolished, and undeniably him—a taste that grounded the moment in reality while leaving you craving more. The world seemed to fade away—no scars, no collars, no pain—just the two of you, caught in a moment that felt both infinite and fleeting.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. His voice was low, softer than usual. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.” You smiled, your fingers brushing against his.

Your smile widened, and without hesitation, you leaned in again. This time, the kiss was far from cautious-it was messy, urgent, a tangle of heat and need. His hands cupped your face, his rough fingertips grazing your skin as he tilted your head to deepen the connection. Your own hands found their way to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself in the intensity of it all.

The kiss grew bolder, his beard scraping lightly against your skin, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. Your breaths mingled, and when you finally broke apart, a thin string of saliva connected your lips, glistening in the sunlight. It broke as he exhaled sharply, his gaze heavy with something raw and unspoken.

You couldn't stop the soft laugh that bubbled out of you, breathless and giddy. "I think," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, "You should lock the door."

Logan smirked, his thumb brushing your cheek as he leaned closer again, his breath teasing your lips. "You don't like audience?"

You raised an eyebrow, your smile turning sly as your fingers toyed with the front of his shirt. “Not particularly. You?”

Logan’s smirk deepened, his voice dropping an octave. “Depends. If they’re taking notes, I might not mind.”

A quiet laugh escaped you, and you gave his chest a playful shove. “You’re a freak.”

“And you like it,” he shot back, his grin widening as his gaze met yours again, filled with a teasing heat.

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “I don’t know… maybe I just tolerate you.”

Logan let out a low chuckle, his hands sliding to your waist as he pulled you closer. “You sure about that? ’Cause a second ago, you didn’t look like you were just tolerating me.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you refused to back down. “Maybe I was just distracted.”

“Guess I’ll have to fix that.” His lips were on yours again before you could respond, this kiss deeper and slower, as if he were determined to erase any doubt you had.

You reached up, your fingers tangling in the back of his hair, pulling him even closer. You felt the texture of his hair, thick and slightly unruly, your grip tightening as you urged him to close the space between you.

You leaned back into the wall, the coolness of it a stark contrast to the heat building between your bodies. Your thighs spread open to invite him closer.

Logan followed, one of his palm grabbed your thighs aggressively, adjusting them in place. He didn't miss the way his jeans getting tighter, with his chest pressing against yours didn't make it any easier, trapping you against the solid surface. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that mirrored your own, urgent, desperate, like you were both starved for this connection.

You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt this way, intoxicating raw need, this electric pull toward someone. It felt reckless and all-consuming, like sneaking away with a secret crush, kissing in the dark of a party room, a high school girl stealing moments with her boyfriend before anyone could notice. But this was real, the fire between you two burning brighter than you ever thought possible.

Logan's hands slid to your back, pressing you tighter into him as his kiss deepened, every touch sparking something within you. The world outside seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you, tangled in this moment of desperate affection. You were both lost in it, savoring the feeling of each other, the freedom of being fully present.

You pulled back this time, breaking the kiss just enough to catch your breath, your chest heaving as your fingers slid along the sharp angles of his jaw, holding him steady. His heavy-lidded gaze bore into you, thick with restrained desire, his rugged breaths brushing hot against your skin. You could see it—all the hunger he kept caged, the raw need threatening to break free. God, you wanted nothing more than to give him everything he needed, to be his undoing.

A low growl rumbled from deep within his chest as he buried his face into the curve of your neck, the heat of him searing against your skin. You tilted your head instinctively, granting him the access he didn’t ask for but claimed anyway. A soft moan slipped from your lips as his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, nipping lightly, sending a shiver rippling through you. A spark of arousal ignited in your core, leaving you trembling.

"Logan..." you whispered, his name falling from your lips like a plea. Your gaze darted toward the open door, a pang of reality cutting through the haze of desire. "You should really go... lock the door," you murmured, your voice unsteady, breath hitching as his lips brushed against your pulse. The thought of someone walking past, seeing this- seeing him like this-made your cheeks burn.

He finally pulled back, just enough to press another gentle to your lips. Logan's movements were slow, almost reluctant, as if each step toward the door was against his instincts. He lingered there for a moment, his hand gripping the doorknob after locking it with a soft, almost final click. His gaze flickered back to you, a brief glimpse of uncertainty crossing his features before he leaned against the door, arms relaxed, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

You shifted to stand, your legs steady but your heartbeat anything but. The bed felt like the only sensible destination now, much more comfortable than the hard windowsill, where the collar sat abandoned like a ghost of everything that still haunted you. A fleeting glare toward it sparked the thought of smashing it beneath your heel. Later, you told yourself.

Right now, there were far more pressing matters, ones that had you walking toward the bed with purpose. You turned your head back toward Logan, tilting it slightly in silent invitation. The subtle curve of your lips carried a challenge, an unspoken dare for him to close the space between you.

He didn't move immediately, his body taut as though weighing the risk, the boundary that felt dangerously close to crumbling. Then, with a breath so quiet it felt stolen, he pushed off the doorframe and started toward you, his steps deliberate and measured, as though he already knew there was no turning back.

The familiar soft texture of the sheets brushed against your skin as you settled in, leaning back against the headboard.

Your gaze followed Logan as he approached, each step deliberate and eager. Your eyes drifted down, catching sight of a small, damp spot on the bulge of his jeans. The realization made your throat tighten as you swallowed hard. Was that what you thought it was? And you'd barely even touched him.

He crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, his movements fluid and deliberate. The flex of his arms beneath the snug white shirt caught your eye, and you couldn’t think of anything you wanted more in that moment than to strip it off him.

Without hesitation, Logan straddled your lap, his frame towering over you. His hands gripped your hips, squeezing firmly, and his lips claimed yours with an intensity that made your heart race.

His hands began to wander, gliding up your sides before tugging at the hem of your shirt. Understanding his intent, you raised your arms without protest, letting him pull the fabric over your head and toss it aside. His eyes darkened as they roamed over you, pausing at the snug sports bra you were wearing. A flicker of frustration crossed his face as his hands moved to your back, searching for a hook.

When he didn’t find one, he let out a low growl. “Of course,” he muttered, more to himself, before his hand curled around the fabric. Without a second thought, he pulled the material taut, one of his claws extending with a soft snikt. In one swift motion, the bra was sliced cleanly down the middle, falling apart and exposing you fully.

You gasped as the sharp edge of his claw nicked your skin in the process, a shallow cut that stung for a moment before the familiar sensation of your regenerative healing kicked in. The wound slowly began to knit itself back together, but not before Logan pressed the tip of his finger against it, applying deliberate pressure.

The sensation sent a jolt through you, and a soft moan escaped your lips before you could stop it. The combination of the fleeting pain and his touch was intoxicating, leaving you breathless.

“That was my fucking favorite,” you whispered hoarsely, glaring up at him, though your tone held more heat than anger.

Logan smirked, his finger still pressed against the now-healing cut, refusing to let go. “M'sorry,” he teased, his voice low and rough.

You couldn’t deny it. Gosh, he was such a freak—and honestly? You were all in for it, every bit of it. Logan leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmured, “I could still stop, if you want me to.”

The last thing you want right now is for him to stop, your hands moved instinctively, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, silently pleading for him to take it off. Catching your intent, Logan grabbed the fabric and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside carelessly. You couldn’t care less where it landed—your focus was entirely on him.

The sight stole your breath. His sculpted, toned torso was a masterpiece, each defined muscle catching the light and making your jaw slacken. Sure, you’d admired his biceps before, but this… this was something else entirely. Fuck you'd known he was jacked, but seeing this part of him so up close.

Logan’s lips curled into a faint smirk as he caught your reaction, clearly pleased with the effect he had on you. "You're eye fucking me already?" he murmured, his voice low and teasing, the gravelly tone sending shivers down your spine.

Before you could respond, his hands moved from your hips, trailing up your sides with a possessive slowness that made your skin tingle. He leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he whispered, his words laced with amusement and something darker, more primal.

His lips found your neck, brushing softly before trailing lower. Each kiss was deliberate, leaving a trail of heat in its wake as he worked his way down to your collarbone. His hands didn’t stop, roaming your body as though memorizing every curve, every inch of you.

You tilted your head back, your breath hitching as his lips explored, the sensation overwhelming. Your hands wandered up to his shoulders, fingers digging into the hard muscle there as though to ground yourself.

“Logan…” you breathed his name, barely above a whisper, and it only seemed to spur him on. His teeth grazed your skin, a subtle edge to his affection that sent a jolt of electricity through you.

“Say that again,” he growled against your neck, his voice thick with desire, and you couldn’t help but obey.

“Logan…” His name came out shakier this time, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his piercing gaze holding yours like a magnet.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said, his tone raw

It started with hands moving hastily, tugging at the waistbands of pants that felt like barriers keeping you apart. Logan made the first move, his fingers gripping the waistband of yours as he tugged them down in one swift motion, his strength making the task almost effortless. You kicked them off, watching the way his eyes darkened, roaming over you with a hunger that made your pulse race.

Your hands found his belt, fumbling briefly as he let out a low growl of impatience. “Come on,” he muttered, a teasing edge to his voice, but before you could get frustrated, he took over, unbuckling it and sliding his jeans down his legs with an ease that made you swallow hard.

There was a brief pause, both of you taking in the sight of each other, but the moment didn’t last long. Logan surged forward, his hands rough against your skin, claiming your lips again in a kiss that felt like it could consume you.

He takes really good care of you, preparing you for what's to come. Whispering sweet praise to your lips, you hadn't expected him to be so vocal in bed. First round was a whirlwind of intensity, his strength and control evident with every touch, every thrust. He pinned you beneath him, his teeth grazing your skin before biting down firmly on your shoulder. The sharp sensation sent a jolt through you, but as soon as the skin broke, your regenerative ability erased it, leaving nothing behind. Logan pulled back, his jaw tightening in frustration.

“Damn it,” he growled, his fingers brushing over the unmarked skin as though he didn’t believe it. Then his eyes met yours, and there was something almost dangerous in them. “Guess I’ll just have to keep trying.”

And he did. His teeth found your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder again, each bite a little harder, a little more desperate to leave a mark. You couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly at his frustration. “Logan,” you teased, your voice uneven, “you’re really bad at this.”

He growled in response, his lips crashing into yours to silence you, but you had your own ways of retaliating. Your claws slid down his back, digging in just enough to leave vivid, angry red marks. Logan hissed, his muscles tensing beneath your touch, and the sound he made was pure feral satisfaction.

Logan's claw was extended as the both of you earned the first orgasm, you were both breathless, your bodies tangled together in the wreckage of the bed. Logan’s hair was a mess, sticking to his damp forehead, and his chest heaved as he looked down at you. “Are you okay?” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, you nodded and before you could fully catch your breath, he was on you, again. "Good, cause M'not done."

The second round was wilder, you insisted to be on top, more chaotic, as if the restraint from earlier had completely vanished. Logan’s bites grew rougher, his frustration over his inability to mark you palpable in every movement. Meanwhile, you took full advantage, scratching his biceps again and again, watching the slow healing process with satisfaction.

“Fuck M'close,” you whispered against his ear, and his response was a deep, rumbling growl as he squeezed your grinding hips.

By the second orgasm, the bed was completely wrecked, the sheets hanging half off, and pillows scattered. Both of you lay in a tangled heap, chests rising and falling in unison, the air between you thick with the aftermath of shared chaos.

Logan’s hand slid lazily down your side, his fingers grazing the faintly healed scratch on your shoulder. “You’re good,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and low.

“And you’re a freak,” you shot back with a grin, your body still humming from everything you’d just been through.

“Damn right,” he replied, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, before he leaned in to steal one last kiss.

Part 10 ->

[marifilue]

Part 8: Edge Of Mortality

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n.

Summary: You're an X-Men member with regenerative healing ability and skilled marksman. On a routine mission with the team things take a drastic turn when a mutant-inhibitor collar is forced onto you, leaving you vulnerable, unable to heal. With no quick fix in sight, Logan becomes your reluctant anchor, helping you get through each day as you fight to survive, unexpected bond with Logan begins to grow, one that becomes far stronger than either of you could imagine.

Warnings: Explicit content, Violence, Blood

WC: 10,5k

<- Part 7

The lab felt colder than usual, the clinical sterility seeping into your nerves as you stood by the medbay bed. You wrapped your arms around yourself, glancing toward Logan, who leaned casually against the wall. His posture was relaxed, but the sharpness in his gaze said he was ready for what came next, even if you weren’t.

Your heart twisted as you looked at him. He was about to endure pain—for you. The weight of it settled in your chest, heavy and suffocating. Hesitating, you stepped toward him. He straightened immediately, his brows furrowing as he caught the nervous look in your eyes.

“Logan…” Your voice wavered, the words catching in your throat. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. “I just… I don’t know how to say this, but… thank you. For doing this... For putting yourself through—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, his tone gruff but not unkind. “You don’t have to thank me. It’s what needs to be done.”

His nonchalant response only made the emotions bubbling inside you stronger. Before you could stop yourself, you closed the distance, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face against his shoulder.

Logan froze for a split second, caught off guard, but then his arms came up, his palms settling firmly on your back. The hug was soft, grounding, and he held you with a kind of care that didn’t match his usual rough exterior. You felt his fingers curl slightly against your back as if anchoring you to him.

“I’ll be fine, you'll be fine.” he murmured, his voice low and close to your ear. “You just focus on getting better.”

You stayed there for a moment, tiptoeing to reach his height, feeling the solid warmth of him steadying you. Finally, you pulled back, your hands lingering on his shoulders before letting go entirely.

With a deep breath, you climbed onto the medbay bed, lying back as Jean approached with the sedative. “You’re going to feel a little pinch, and then you’ll drift off,” she explained gently.

You nodded, your gaze flicking back to Logan one last time. He gave you a small, reassuring nod, his expression calm despite the storm of emotions you felt swirling in the room.

The world faded into darkness as the sedative took hold, and you didn’t see the rest of what unfolded.

“Alright, Logan,” Hank said, his voice steady but tense. “We’re ready.”

Logan stepped forward, unbuttoning his flannel before laying down on his stomach. He eyed the thick needle on the tray, his jaw tightening.

“You're sure about this?” Jean asked, her voice soft but filled with gratitude.

“Yeah,” he grunted, climbing onto the chair next to the extraction equipment. “She needs it.”

Hank hesitated, looking between Logan and Jean. “We can’t sedate you,” Hank finally admitted. “The healing factor won’t let it work.”

Jean’s eyes widened slightly, but Logan didn’t flinch. “I’ve taken worse,” he said, his tone clipped. “Just do it.”

Jean placed a hand on his shoulder briefly. “Thank you for this,” she said sincerely. “I know it’s not easy.”

Logan gave a small nod but said nothing as he braced himself, laying face down on the medbay bed, his broad shoulders tense, his hands gripping the edges of the bed as if anchoring himself for what was to come.

The cool air of the room prickled his sweat-slicked skin, his position parallel to yours. You lay unconscious on the adjacent bed, wires and tubes connecting you to various monitors. The steady beeping of your heartbeat filled the room, its rhythmic sound a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside Logan.

Hank approached with the needle, its long, glinting steel catching the sterile overhead light. Logan didn’t flinch, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped the bed tighter.

“This won’t be pleasant,” Hank warned, voice steady but apologetic. Logan gave a small nod. "I know."

Jean stood on the other side of the room, her gaze flitting between Logan and the vitals on your monitor. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she observed Logan, admiration and concern mixing in her expression.

As Hank inserted the needle into Logan’s lower back, his entire body went rigid, muscles straining beneath his skin as though trying to repel the intrusion. The needle, long and unforgiving, sank deep into the marrow of his spine, guided by Hank’s steady hand. A low, guttural growl rumbled in Logan’s throat, barely contained, his teeth clenched so tightly it was a wonder they didn’t crack under the pressure.

The moment the syringe reached its destination, Hank’s fingers tightened around the plunger, creating a sharp suction. Blood and marrow, thick and viscous, began to seep through the clear tubing into the waiting chamber of the syringe. The rich, deep red fluid swirled within, flecked with tiny streaks of yellowish plasma—proof of life drawn directly from the core of his bones.

Logan’s breath came in short, labored bursts, his body straining to remain still against the searing pain. A bead of sweat rolled from his temple, tracing the line of his jaw before falling into the hollow of his collarbone. He growled again, the sound raw and feral, a primal expression of agony that he refused to let escalate into a scream. His claws extended instinctively, scraping against the surface of the metal bed beneath him as his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

Hank worked methodically, his face a mask of concentration. He adjusted the syringe slightly, his fingers precise as he applied a measured amount of pressure to draw more marrow. The sensation was unlike any other—an unrelenting, grinding ache that drilled through bone and into Logan’s very core.

"Almost there," Hank said softly, though his voice seemed distant to Logan’s ears.

The syringe continued to fill, the thick, life-giving substance pooling into its chamber. Logan’s breathing hitched as the needle shifted slightly, sending another spike of pain up his spine. His lips pulled back in a snarl, exposing his teeth as he let out another deep, guttural growl, the sound vibrating through the room like a warning.

Hank finally withdrew the needle, the metallic sheen of the tip glistening faintly under the lab’s fluorescent lights, stained with blood. Logan exhaled a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging slightly as the immediate intensity of the pain subsided and he retracted his claws back. But the raw ache remained, a deep, bone-deep reminder of what he’d just endured.

As Hank set the filled syringe aside, Logan’s jaw slackened, and he let out a low, rasping sigh. Despite the torment etched across his features, his eyes were steady, resolute. He didn’t speak—not yet—but his expression said everything: this wasn’t for him. It was for you. And that made it worth it.

When the procedure was over, Logan stayed motionless for a moment, the ache still radiating through his body.

Jean broke the silence, her voice soft but filled with meaning. "You care more than you let on.”

Logan shifted his head slightly, just enough to catch sight of your face, peaceful in unconsciousness. His gaze lingered there, a raw vulnerability flashing briefly in his eyes.

"She’s got a way of gettin’ under my skin." he said, his voice rough, the pain transcending the physical and dipping into something deeper.

He let out a slow exhale and pushed himself up onto his knees, his movements deliberate and controlled. Taking a moment to gather himself, he finally slid off the bed and stood tall, the only sign of discomfort being the tautness in his jaw. He picked up his flannel and buttoned it casually, pretending like he hadn’t just been through hell.

Jean was already running tests on the extracted marrow, her hands precise as she prepared the injection for you. Logan moved to the chair by your bed, his eyes fixed on you as if willing the procedure to succeed. The steady rhythm of your heartbeat from the monitor was his only reassurance.

Jean approached carefully, holding the prepared syringe. “This will go into her lower back,” she explained, almost to herself, but Logan listened intently.

As the needle entered your skin, Logan’s grip on the armrest of the chair tightened. He watched your face for any sign of reaction, though you remained still. The injection complete, Jean and Hank stood back, their focus shifting to the monitor displaying your vitals.

For a moment, everything seemed fine. But then your heart rate spiked, the beeping of the monitor quickening into a frantic pace.

“Jean?” Logan’s voice cut through the tension, sharp with panic.

Jean remained calm, though her movements quickened. “It’s a reaction to the marrow. Her heart rate’s spiking,” she said, glancing at Hank, who was already preparing the defibrillator.

“Ventricular tachycardia,” Hank confirmed, his eyes glued to the monitor. “If this continues, she’ll arrest.”

Jean adjusted the IV fluids, her hands steady but urgent. “We need to stabilize her rhythm. Grab the amiodarone.”

Hank handed her a vial, and she quickly administered the antiarrhythmic medication through your IV. The room was tense, the monitor’s beeping erratic as your body trembled faintly on the table.

Logan stood, fists clenched, his knuckles white. He was no stranger to chaos, but this—watching you on the edge of life and death—was different.

And then it happened.

The monitor flatlined.

The room went silent, the absence of sound more terrifying than the chaos before it. Logan swore under his breath, his fists clenched at his sides. “Do something!” he barked, his voice raw.

“Cardiac arrest,” Hank announced grimly. “Jean, prepare the defibrillator.”

Jean’s voice remained calm as she moved efficiently. “Starting CPR—Logan, stay out of the way.”

Logan didn’t move, his entire body tense with frustration and helplessness.

Jean worked quickly, placing her hands on your chest to administer compressions. Each press was firm, precise, and unrelenting. Hank adjusted your position slightly, turning you onto your back to ensure proper contact for the defibrillator pads.

“Charging to 200 joules,” Hank said, his voice steady but urgent.

Jean grabbed the defibrillator paddles, placing one on your chest and the other just below your left rib cage. “Clear!”

The shock jolted your body, lifting your chest slightly off the table. Logan flinched but remained rooted, his sharp gaze fixed on your face. The monitor remained silent.

“Again, 300 joules,” Hank instructed, adjusting the machine.

Jean repeated the process, her movements as precise as before. “Clear!”

Another jolt, and Logan couldn’t suppress a low growl of frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, his chest heaving as if he could will you back to life through sheer force of will.

The monitor stayed flat for what felt like an eternity—until a faint blip appeared. Then another. And another.

“She’s back,” Hank said, his voice softening with relief as the steady rhythm returned to the screen.

“She’s stable for now,” Jean said, wiping her brow. She glanced at Logan, her voice gentle.

Logan exhaled a shaky breath, his knees almost buckling from the weight of his relief.

He sank back into the chair by your bed, running a hand through his damp hair. For the first time in what felt like hours, he allowed himself to breathe. His eyes softened as they settled on you, a quiet gratitude mingling with the lingering fear.

“Fucking hell, that scared me.” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough but filled with a tenderness he rarely showed.

When you woke hours later, the world felt like it was moving in slow motion. The harsh glow of the lab lights buzzed faintly, and your limbs were heavy, refusing to obey your commands. Your eyelids fluttered open, and through the haze, you saw Logan sitting in the corner of the lab.

His posture was relaxed, leaning back in the chair, but his sharp eyes were locked on you. There was a tightness in his features, a weariness that hadn’t been there before. His knuckles rested on his thighs, still faintly bruised from clenching them so tightly during the procedure.

“Hey,” he said gruffly, the word sounding softer than usual. “Told ya we’d be fine.”

You tried to respond, but your throat was dry, and your voice barely came out as a whisper. Instead, you blinked at him, your lips trembling. The lump in your throat made it impossible to form coherent sentences, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Logan stood and walked over, pulling the chair closer to your bedside. His presence was steady, grounding, as if he were a barrier between you and everything that had just happened. His hand hovered over yours for a moment before he finally placed it down gently, his palm warm against your cold skin.

“Ya don’t gotta talk,” he said, his voice low. “Just rest.”

But the words began to tumble out, half-formed and slurred, the anesthesia still fogging your mind. “You—” you murmured, your head tilting slightly toward him. “You stayed?”

Logan’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. “Yeah. Figured someone had to keep you from tearing all this junk off,” he said, gesturing to the wires connected to you.

Your eyes fluttered again, unfocused. “You… y’always do that,” you muttered. “Take all the bad stuff. Keep it away from me. Why?”

Logan leaned back slightly, his brows furrowing as he processed your words. “Why?” he echoed, his voice low. “Because someone’s gotta, that’s why. Ain’t no big deal.”

“It is, Lo..” you murmured his name soft, your voice cracking. “To me.”

The corners of Logan’s mouth tightened, Lo? he thought to himself, you would never call him that way if it weren't for the influence of heavy anesthesia.

His hand shifted slightly, his thumb brushing the back of your hand in an unconscious gesture of reassurance. “You’re talkin’ nonsense, Varmint. Blame it on the drugs.”

But you weren’t done. The words spilled out, slow and unsteady, but with a raw honesty you couldn’t have managed in a clearer state of mind. “Lo… you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.. since all of this. I feel… safe, even when you’re just there, just… sitting.”

Logan stiffened slightly, his usual composure faltering. “You’re outta your head right now,” he said softly, though his voice lacked its usual gruffness.

Your lips twitched into a faint smile, and you turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

The room went quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitor. Logan didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes was unguarded for once—something between surprise and an emotion he didn’t quite know how to name.

“One step at a time, darlin’.” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. He leaned closer, his other hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “That’s how we win.”

The fog in your mind began to thicken again, pulling you under. But before you drifted off, you felt the warmth of his hand holding yours firmly, as if you were the most fragile thing in the world.

“Logan…” you mumbled one last time, barely audible.

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t leave,” you whispered, a small, fragile smile touching your lips before sleep claimed you again.

Logan stayed there, unmoving, his hand never leaving yours.

The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater. You were back in your bed, surrounded by the familiar comforts of your space. Pillows were stacked behind you, and a blanket was draped over your legs. The warm, golden glow of the bedside lamp cast soft shadows across the walls, creating a cocoon of calm. Though your body still felt heavy with exhaustion, there was a sense of relief in being out of the medbay and back in a space that was wholly yours.

In the lab, Fenris paced restlessly inside his enclosure. His growls were low, rumbling warnings that filled the sterile space. Hank stood a few feet away, his tablet in hand, watching the black fur of wolf-dog’s behavior with a furrowed brow.

Logan walked in, a bowl of shredded chicken in his hand. Fenris’s ears perked up immediately, his growls softening but not ceasing. Logan raised a brow at Hank. “What are you gonna do?”

Hank sighed, setting the tablet down on the counter. “Logan, this behavior is atypical. It’s important we figure out if the procedure or his injuries have caused—”

“Ask her first,” Logan cut in, his tone firm but low. He crouched near the enclosure, sliding the bowl through the slot. Fenris hesitated for a moment before sniffing the air and cautiously approaching the food.

Hank folded his arms. “This is a medical concern, not a personal matter.”

Logan straightened, fixing Hank with a steady gaze. “It is personal—for her. That dog means something to her. They’ve got a bond, and she’ll know if somethin’s wrong better than we ever could.”

Hank looked at Fenris, who was now eating in sharp, precise bites, his body still tense and on guard. “I understand,” Hank finally said. “But the longer we wait, the harder it might be to intervene.”

“Then I'll ask her,” Logan said firmly. “Though I think she’s got enough on her plate for one night.”

Hank nodded reluctantly, returning to his tablet. Logan lingered for a moment, watching Fenris settle slightly after finishing the food. His posture relaxed just enough to suggest he wasn’t as combative as before.

As Logan turned to leave, the thought crossed his mind that you’d want to know Fenris was awake, even if he wasn’t quite himself yet. The urge to check on you tugged at him.

Deciding he couldn’t show up empty-handed, Logan detoured to the kitchen. He rummaged through the pantry and fridge, throwing together something simple but warm—chicken broth with a bit of bread on the side. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

Soup in one hand and the other holding a glass of water, he walked the hallway, his steps heavier than usual but steady. Whatever came next, he knew you’d need someone to remind you that that someone's care.

“Mr. Howlett?” a soft voice stopped him in his tracks.

Logan turned to see Maya, the little black-haired girl standing hesitantly in the doorway. She looked smaller than usual, her nervousness written in the way she fidgeted with her hands.

“You aight, kid?” Logan asked, glancing down at her.

“Where is Ms…” Maya muttered your name, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t see her today.”

“She’s upstairs, resting in her room,” Logan replied, watching her expression closely. Then, an idea came to him. “You wanna come with me? We’ll bring her food together.”

Maya’s face lit up, and she nodded quickly. “Yes!” she chirped, the nervous energy replaced with eagerness. Logan chuckled softly, sniffing a bit as he handed her the glass of water.

“Careful with that,” he said as they started up the stairs together.

Maya held the glass with both hands, her small frame concentrating intently on not spilling. “Is she okay?” she asked nervously as they climbed. “She will be,” Logan replied, his tone steady.

“I want to tell her I’m sorry,” Maya said, her voice even smaller now. “I hurt her ears.”

Logan glanced down at her, his heart softening at her earnestness. “S’okay, kid,” he said, his voice quieter. “It’s not your fault.”

They reached the third floor, and Logan gave Maya a small pat on her head. She beamed at the gesture, gripping the glass a little tighter as they approached your door.

The quiet knock on your door startled you. You glanced up, pulling your blanket tighter around yourself as the door creaked open. Logan stepped in first, a bowl of steaming soup in his hands, followed closely by Maya, who held a glass of water carefully in her small hands.

You sat up straighter, a surprised smile lighting up your face. “Maya!” you greeted warmly. “What are you doing here, sugar?”

Maya’s nervous expression eased at your tone. “Mr. Howlett said I could help bring you food,” she said softly, her gaze flicking between you and Logan.

Logan shrugged, “Figured she could use the trip.”

You exchanged a look with Logan, a silent thank-you passing between you before turning back to Maya. “Well, you did an excellent job,” you told her. “Thank you so much for bringing me this.” You took the glass from her hand and took a sip before setting it to your nightstand.

Her cheeks flushed a little as she shuffled closer to you. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice full of concern.

You reached out to tuck a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “I am now. Thanks to you.”

Maya hesitated for a moment before stepping forward and wrapping her small arms around you in a gentle hug. You hugged her back, holding on just long enough to reassure her. “You’re such a thoughtful girl,” you murmured.

She pulled back, her shy smile making your heart ache a little. “I’m happy you're okay” she whispered before glancing at Logan. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Howlett.”

Logan ruffled her hair lightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Get some rest, kid.”

With that, Maya slipped out of the room, leaving you alone with Logan. The space she left felt calmer, quieter, yet still charged with the unspoken tension between you and him.

“Figured you could use something warm,” he muttered, stepping closer and setting the bowl down on the nightstand beside your bed.

You smirked faintly, adjusting your position. “Didn’t peg you for the nurturing type.”

Logan huffed, settling into the chair next to you. “Don’t get used to it. You’re just lucky I had some time to kill.”

“Sure,” you said, your tone light but teasing. “And I’m guessing this isn’t because you’re worried about me or anything.”

He didn’t respond, just nudged the table closer so you could reach the soup. You took a small sip, letting the warmth spread through you.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you admitted carefully bringing a spoonful of warm liquid in your mouth, steadying your hand the best you could not to spill it. “The soup, I mean. Not the hovering.”

Logan rolled his eyes, leaning back in the chair with his leg spreading. “I’ve picked up a thing or two over the years. You learn to cook for yourself when you’re always on the move.”

Your curiosity piqued. “Huh, what’s the worst meal you’ve ever made?”

A corner of his mouth twitched upward. “First time I tried to roast a rabbit. Thought I’d be smart and use some wild herbs I found.”

“And?” you raised your eyebrows

“And it tasted like I’d grilled it in the bottom of a boot. Even the dog I was traveling with wouldn’t eat it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound filling the small room. Logan’s eyes flicked to you, and for a moment, his usual guarded expression softened.

“You travel with a lot of dogs?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Here and there,” he replied, his gaze distant now. “They’re good company. Don’t ask questions. Don’t expect much. Just... stick around.”

You nodded, sensing the weight behind his words. “Sounds like you were good for each other.”

Logan's gaze flickered, softening just a touch. “Speaking of dog, Fenris is awake,” he said, breaking the brief silence.

Your eyes widened, excitement sparking instantly. “He is? How is he? Is he okay?” you asked, your voice rising slightly despite your weakened state.

Logan smirked faintly at your reaction. “He’s a little grouchy, but he’s eatin’. Hank wanted to run some tests on him, but I told him we should ask you first.”

“I mean yeah, of course anything for his safety” Relief washed over you, followed quickly by an eagerness to see Fenris. You started to push yourself up, only to feel a sharp ache all over your body that stopped you cold. Your body felt like lead, and the realization hit you hard.

Logan leaned forward, his expression steady but gentle. “Hey, take it easy,” he said firmly. “Fenris ain’t goin’ anywhere. I just check on him, he’s good.”

“But—” you started, your voice faltering as you glanced toward the door, desperate to see your companion.

Logan’s hand rested lightly on yours, grounding you. “He’s not in bad shape,” Logan reassured. “You’ll see him when you’re stronger, alright? No rush. We've got plenty of times.”

Your lips quirked into a small smile despite yourself.

Logan lean back in the chair, folding his arm with that relaxed stance. “So what about you? What’s the worst thing you’ve ever eaten?”

You grinned, leaning back against the headboard as a memory surfaced. “During a specialized operation. We spent days in the woods with no supplies. At one point, they taught us survival techniques—y’know, in case we were ever caught without rations.”

Logan raised a brow, his curiosity piqued. “Yeah? What’d they make you eat?”

You smirked, almost sheepishly. “Snake blood. Found a python, and the instructor insisted we drain it and drink it to stay hydrated. They said it was packed with nutrients or something.”

Logan’s expression shifted from surprise to amusement, a deep chuckle escaping him. “What’d it taste like?”

You scrunched your nose at the memory. “Metallic. Kind of salty. Definitely not something I’d order off a menu, but… I was starving, so it went down.”

Logan chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Military life, Bet you’ve got plenty of stories.”

“Oh, I do,” you said, smirking. “Like the time I tripped during an exercise and accidentally set off a smoke grenade. The whole squad had to run through the cloud, coughing their lungs out. I didn’t live that one down for months.”

He laughed outright this time, shaking his head. “Clumsy and dangerous. That’s a hell of a combination.”

“Hey, I’ve improved since then,” you shot back, feigning offense.

“Sure you have,” Logan teased, his grin widening.

The conversation flowed easily after that. Logan leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he began recounting another story—this one from his time in the military.

“Decades ago, I was stationed in some backwoods base during winter. Middle of nowhere. Snow up to your knees,” Logan started, his gruff voice laced with amusement.

You arched a brow, intrigued. “Sounds cozy.”

“Yeah, real paradise,” he muttered dryly. “There was this guy in my unit, Jenkins. Fresh outta training. Thought he was hot stuff. One night, he bet me I couldn’t track down a deer in the middle of a blizzard. Fool even put his week’s rations on it.”

You leaned forward slightly, already grinning. “And? Did you do it?”

Logan’s smirk deepened. “Of course, I did. Found one within the hour. Dragged it back to camp by the antlers.”

“No way,” you said, laughing. “What did Jenkins say?”

“He just stared at me, wide-eyed, like I was part of the damn blizzard,” Logan said, shaking his head. “Didn’t stop him from eating the stew we made outta that deer, though.”

You chuckled, imagining the scene. “Bet nobody doubted you after that.”

Logan shrugged, a glint of humor in his eyes. “They stopped betting against me, that’s for sure. Jenkins never lived it down. We used to call him ‘Blizzard Boy.’”

You laughed again, feeling the warmth of the moment as the tension you’d carried for days seemed to melt away. “Remind me not to challenge you to any bets.”

“Smart move,” Logan teased, his expression softening as he looked at you. “But I’ll give you this. He would’ve folded under half the stuff you’ve been through.”

The compliment caught you off guard, but you managed a small smile, your gaze dropping to the blanket over your lap. “Not a fair comparison.”

“Just calling it like I see it,” he said with a shrug, though the sincerity in his tone lingered.

The room grew quiet again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt natural, the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. You glanced out the window at the fading moonlight, realizing how much time had passed.

“Did you ever miss it?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. “The military,”

Logan’s expression shifted, a shadow crossing his face. “Not the military, no. But the structure... the clarity. Out there, things made sense. You knew who you were fighting and why. Out here... it’s a little more complicated.”

You nodded, understanding more than you wanted to admit. “Yeah, I get that.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of shared experiences hanging in the air. Then Logan’s smirk returned, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Still, I don’t miss freezing my ass off in a blizzard for some rookie’s bad bet.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Guess that’s one thing we can agree on.”

Logan chuckled, leaning back in his chair again, the smirk still tugging at his lips. After a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar, followed by a lighter. He bit down on the cigar, holding it between his teeth as he flicked the lighter to life, the small flame glowing faintly in the dim room.

Before he could fully light it, your voice cut through sharply. “I hate that.”

He paused, the flame hovering near the cigar. He raised an eyebrow, turning his head to look at you. “What?”

“The smell,” you said, your gaze narrowing as you sat forward slightly. “I hate it. Always have.”

Logan let the lighter burn for a second longer before snapping it shut with a metallic click. “You're one of those people, huh?” he said, cigar still clamped between his teeth. “Well, as long as it doesn’t kill you, maybe you oughta learn to live with it.”

Your eyes flared at his nonchalant response, irritation prickling under your skin. Without thinking, you lunged forward, snatching the cigar from his mouth. “Not a chance,” you said, your voice low and steady as you moved to press the lit end against the dark polished wood of your nightstand.

Before the cigar could touch the surface, Logan’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist in an iron grip. You froze, your breath hitching as his sharp eyes locked onto yours. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place, a mixture of challenge and calm amusement swirling in his expression.

You furrowed your brows, expecting him to wrest the cigar back from you. But instead, his grip shifted, guiding your hand—and the burning cigar—toward his free palm. Your eyes widened in disbelief as he pressed the lit end into his skin, he rolled his eyes quickly and the brief sizzle of burning flesh making your stomach churn.

“Why ruin a good table?” he muttered, his tone casual, almost bored, as if the pain didn’t even register. His eyes flicked back to yours, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You stared, watching as the burn healed almost instantly, his palm smooth again as if nothing had happened. His hand loosened on your wrist, and he deftly plucked the cigar from your fingers. Without another word, he shoved it back into his pocket and leaned back in his chair, looking thoroughly unbothered.

“You’re a freak,” you muttered, trying to sound indignant, but your voice wavered just slightly.

Logan’s laugh was a low rumble as he tilted his head to the side, his gaze raking over you. “You’re the one who's ready to set the room on fire,” he shot back, his tone teasing but edged with something heavier.

Your heart pounded in your chest, betraying the calm expression you worked so hard to maintain. The sharpness in his gaze, the careless way he handled pain—it was maddeningly infuriating. And yet, deep down, you couldn’t help but find it attractive in the worst way possible.

You clamped your mouth shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much he was affecting you. Instead, you leaned back against the pillows, forcing your posture to relax.

Logan smirked, as if he could read you anyway. “Thought so,” he muttered, his voice tinged with amusement, before settling back into his chair, the tension lingering like smoke in the air.

The hours slipped by without either of you noticing. The soup grew cold as the two of you talked, sharing snippets of your lives that felt almost surreal in the quiet of the room.

As the moon dipped below the horizon, its pale glow faded from the room, leaving shadows in its wake, you glanced at Logan. His posture had relaxed, his usual gruffness replaced with something softer, almost nostalgic.

“Thanks for staying,” you said quietly, your voice breaking the companionable silence.

He met your gaze, holding it for a beat longer than necessary. “Yeah, well... somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t trip over a smoke grenade again.” He said standing up from his chair now.

You rolled your eyes but smiled nonetheless. “Don’t let it go to your head, Logan.”

“No promises,” he said, smirking as he sat on the edge of your bed, across from where you are leaning. Settling in as if he wasn’t planning to leave anytime soon.

He'd been keeping an eye on you since the procedure, his protectiveness evident in the way he hovered without smothering. Though this time, you didn't bother at all.

“There's something I've been wondering” you finally said, your voice soft but steady.

Logan’s attention snapped back to you, his head tilting slightly. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket before looking him in the eye. “With your healing factor... you can’t be sedated, can you? Not like me, with this collar. I should know because they never bother to gave me any anesthesia back then.”

Logan’s expression didn’t change much, but you noticed the flicker of something in his eyes—acknowledgment, maybe. He leaned back a little, one hand scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Your brow furrowed, the weight of what that meant sinking in. “So... during the procedure—you were awake? The whole time?”

He gave a small shrug, as if it were no big deal. “Pretty much.”

You stared at him, struggling to wrap your mind around it. “Here I am, bitching about my past trauma with needles injections, and I get to go through the procedure unconscious. Meanwhile, you...” You trailed off, shaking your head. “ You didn't even said a word about it....”

Logan smirked slightly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Don’t beat yourself up, darlin’. I’m built for this kinda thing. Part of the package.”

“That doesn’t make it any less painful,” you said, your voice filled with genuine admiration. “I mean, you don’t just endure things—you choose to. You didn’t have to do this for me, but you did. And you never complain about doing the right thing, no matter how much it costs you.”

Logan’s smirk faltered for a moment, his eyes flicking toward you before settling on some invisible point in the room. “I ain’t one for speeches or medals, but… you deserve it. Like you said, I tend to keep all the bad things away from you.” He chuckled softly, the sound low and rough, recalling your jabs earlier, when you were probably half-conscious.

You blinked, puzzled by his words. “I said that?”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk twisting into something faintly sheepish. “You don’t remember?”

Shaking your head, you chuckled lightly. “When did I said that?”

Logan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if realizing he’d stepped into a trap. “After you woke up from the procedure. You really don’t remember a word?”

“No,” you replied, brows furrowed. “I remember waking up for a second and seeing you there, but that’s it. Everything else is a blur.”

“Well,” Logan began, his tone deliberately casual as he leaned back. “You said a lot of things you’d never say in your right mind.”

Your curiosity sparked immediately, and you leaned forward, ignoring the slight pull in your muscles. “What else did I say? C’mon, tell me.”

He shrugged, his expression perfectly neutral, though you caught a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Nothing important.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Logan…”

When he didn’t elaborate, you grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him. It landed squarely against his face, momentarily covering it. Logan didn’t flinch, just let the pillow drop into his lap, his eyes narrowing as he fixed you with a sharp, unimpressed glare.

“You know,” he said, clutching the pillow in his hand with an exaggerated grip, “if you weren’t half-dying, I’d throw this back at you. Harder.”

You grinned, a mischievous glint in your eyes, though your voice carried the weight of exhaustion. “Well, I’m counting my days. Better take the shot while you can,” you murmured, the playful edge softened by the heaviness in your tone.

Logan shifted in his seat, his expression tightening slightly. “I almo-... uh,” He trailed off taking a second before opening his mouth again, as if he's contemplating his choice of words.

“We almost lost you, y’know.” His voice was quieter than usual, but it carried the weight of something he’d been holding onto.

You furrowed your brow, your teasing smirk fading. “What do you mean?”

His hand absently clutched at the pillow as if grounding himself. “Your heart stopped. For a minute, maybe less. Felt like an eternity, though.”

You blinked, processing the words. “So… I died?” you asked, your tone casual—too casual.

Logan’s jaw tightened as he frowned, clearly not a fan of your nonchalant approach. He gave a small shrug, trying to mirror your tone. “Well, yeah. Technically.”

You tilted your head slightly, offering a small, almost apologetic smile. “M’sorry,” you said softly, though the corners of your lips twitched again as another petty joke formed in your head. “I can’t imagine what your life would look like if M'gone,” you added, chuckling lightly.

Logan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, but his amusement didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, me neither,” he said simply, his voice low and steady as he held your gaze.

The sincerity in his response caught you off guard. You’d expected him to snort or roll his eyes, maybe throw another sarcastic remark your way. Instead, there was a serious glint in his gaze that made your breath hitch.

Your heart thumped unevenly, and you found yourself breaking eye contact, suddenly feeling like the air had gotten heavier. “Well, lucky for you, I’m still here,” you muttered, attempting to lighten the mood.

Logan gave a small nod, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Lucky me.”

You were about to say something—anything to break the strange tension that had settled between you—when a yawn escaped, muffled by your hand. Logan’s eyes softened as he leaned back slightly in his edge.

“Get some rest,” he said gruffly, his voice steady again. “You’re still healing.”

You gave a faint nod, your eyelids growing heavy. “I know,” you murmured, your words slurring slightly as sleep crept up on you.

As you drifted off, you couldn’t shake the lingering warmth of his gaze or the faint echo of his words: Yeah, me neither.

When you stirred hours later, the room was cloaked in a serene stillness, illuminated by the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp Logan must have dimmed at some point.

The faint hum of the mansion was barely audible, leaving an almost tangible calm in its wake. Turning your head slightly, your eyes landed on him, stretched out yet curled slightly on his side, his face angled toward you.

His head rests at the edge of your bed, supported by the pillow you had thrown earlier. His left arm is slipped beneath the soft foam, while his legs are half-folded, almost next to your head. Despite his attempts to maintain a respectful distance, his broad frame betrays his efforts. The position is obviously uncomfortable for him—and once again, he's sleeping in those jeans with that huge belt clasping his waist. What kind of psychopath does that?

His face, so often marked by lines of tension and hardened resolve, now appeared softer, almost peaceful in the stillness of sleep, as though the weight he carried had momentarily lifted.

You held your breath, not wanting to disturb him, and took the rare opportunity to study him. His features were softer now, the tension erased from his brows. His breathing was deep and steady, a rhythmic rise and fall that was oddly soothing.

A month ago, the sight of Logan in your room, let alone on your bed, would’ve been enough to send you into a fit of bewilderment. The man who excelled at pushing every one of your buttons with his sarcasm and irritating confidence now looked almost defenseless, his usual edge nowhere to be found. You’d have thrown him out without hesitation back then, not even entertaining the thought for a second.

But now? Now you didn’t have the nerve to wake him up, not that you wanted to. He was probably just as tired as you were—if not more. You could still see the faint shadows under his eyes, a testament to how little rest he gave himself. And despite everything, he’d stayed. He always stayed.

You shifted slightly, careful not to move too much as you reached for the blanket. Pulling it up to cover yourself, you let your gaze linger on him for just a moment longer. He wasn’t the Logan who grated on your nerves anymore. Not entirely, at least. Somewhere along the line, that tension had shifted into something else, something you couldn’t quite name.

As his deep, steady breaths filled the silence, you allowed yourself to relax, your eyes fluttering shut. You’d deal with the strange mess of feelings later. For now, you let sleep take you, the quiet presence of Logan beside you strangely comforting.

Hours later, Logan stirred, the haze of sleep slowly lifting as he blinked groggily at his surroundings. It took him a moment to remember where he was, the familiar scent of the sheets and faint hum of the mansion grounding him.

His gaze shifted to you, still fast asleep beside him, your features relaxed and bathed in the silvery light. Your hair was slightly mussed against the pillow, and the steady rhythm of your breathing filled the quiet, a rare calmness in the chaos he was used to.

For a fleeting moment, he stayed there, unmoving, caught between the instinct to retreat and the odd comfort of the scene before him.

With a quiet exhale, he shifted, sitting up slowly and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He froze when you stirred slightly, but your breathing evened out again.

Logan ran a hand through his hair, glancing back at you one last time. He hesitated, his gaze lingering as if committing the moment to memory. Then, moving as silently as he could, he stood and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

You opened your eyes briefly, catching the faint sound of the door clicking shut. Turning your head, you glimpsed Logan’s retreating figure through the small gap before the door fully closed.

You didn’t say anything, letting the quiet settle over the room once again.

Days had passed since Logan’s bone marrow entered your system. The endless check-ups showed your condition was improving—marginally, but enough to give you hope. At least your blood wasn’t rotting anymore, and your brain activity had stabilized. The tumor was still there, lurking, but the transfusion had slowed its progression enough to buy you more time.

Hank didn’t waste a second, throwing himself into designing and refining the collar. He worked tirelessly in his lab, barely eating or sleeping, his dedication relentless. You did what you could to support him—bringing him meals, checking in when his voice got hoarse from hours of talking into his recorder. You would always be grateful for his unwavering determination and brilliant mind.

Fenris, on the other hand, was a project of his own. He didn’t recognize you at first; too many years had passed since you’d last seen each other. Despite everything, you approached him gently, letting him take his time. Once he realized who you were, his defenses crumbled. Hank confirmed he was in good health, though there was nothing to be done about the metal plates fused to a few part of his skin. They were a part of him now, a cruel remnant of what had been done.

Those first few days were rough. Fenris barked incessantly, snapping at anyone who got too close. But patience worked wonders. A week later, Logan glanced out the kitchen window and spotted you tossing a stick for Fenris to fetch. The once-frightened dog had mellowed, his black long almost fluffy tail wagging as he brought the stick back to you with a quiet whine.

The children in the mansion had grown fond of him almost immediately. In no time, Fenris became a celebrity, trailing after them in the garden or curling up at their feet during lessons. You watched him with quiet pride, knowing that even in the face of all he’d endured, Fenris had found a bit of peace—and perhaps, so had you.

You had spent most of the days in the kitchen, today like any other day, you were carefully preparing lunch for Logan. Cooking had become something of a refuge for you, a way to stay useful while you tried to avoid drawing too much attention to the collar that weighed heavily on your neck. The Professor had kindly suggested you return to teaching English, but the thought of stepping in front of a classroom again with this thing around your neck made you hesitate. For now, helping around the mansion with chores seemed like enough.

With the food packed neatly into a container, you made your way to Logan’s history classroom. It was nearing the end of his lesson, and you didn’t want to interrupt. Stopping just outside the door, you listened as his low, gravelly voice carried through the room. He was wrapping up a lecture on the French Revolution, his tone firm but steady as he explained the nuances of power struggles and political upheaval.

You glanced down at the container in your hands, shifting nervously. It should be over in a few minutes, you told yourself. Peeking in, you saw the students’ heads bowed as they took notes, hanging on his words.

“Remember,” Logan said, his voice cutting through the silence, “your essay on the French Revolution is due next week. No excuses, and I will know if you’ve been slacking.”

A murmur of acknowledgment rippled through the classroom, followed by the shuffling of books and papers. Taking that as your cue, you stepped inside quietly, entering from the back. The moment his gaze landed on you, Logan’s expression softened, but he finished dismissing the class without missing a beat.

The students began filing out, and a few greeted you by your last name as they passed. You offered polite smiles, nodding in return.

Rogue, lingering near the door, shot you a hopeful glance. “When will you be back for English classes?” she asked, her Southern drawl soft but insistent. “The Professor’s been busy lately, so all we get is reading work. It’s boring.”

You chuckled at her bluntness. “Soon, I promise,” you said, your tone gentle. “I miss your lectures, Ms.—” She muttered your last name with a faint smile before slipping out of the room.

The classroom was finally empty, leaving you alone with Logan. His sharp eyes flicked to the container in your hands, and a hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “That smells good,” he said, leaning back in his chair relaxed.

You stepped forward, placing the container on his desk. “Chicken and vegetables, with rice,” you explained. “Tried something new today.”

Logan opened the container, and the aroma immediately filled the air. He glanced up at you, his expression appreciative. “Looks good. You eat yet?”

“Nope,” you admitted, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. “Then grab a chair,” he said, nodding toward the one beside his desk. “No point in just watching me eat.”

You hesitated for a moment before pulling the chair closer. As Logan picked up the utensils and took the first bite, you watched him carefully. His expression didn’t change much, but the faintest grunt of approval escaped him. “Good,” he said simply, and you couldn’t help the small smile that broke across your face.

Before he could second-guess himself, his spoon dipped back into the container. Scooping up a piece of chicken along with a bit of rice and vegetables, he carefully lifted it, aiming the spoon toward you. His free hand steadied the utensil, ensuring nothing spilled.

You blinked, raising an eyebrow as you processed the gesture. Did Logan just try to feed you? “What?” he said, his voice low and gruff as always. “You said you haven’t eaten.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, trying to decipher the unusual mix of determination and nonchalance on his face. His steady gaze didn’t waver as he held the spoon just in front of your lips. You huffed softly, resigned. “Alright, fine.”

Opening your mouth, you let him feed you. The spoon gently brushed against your lips as he guided it closer, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes flickered between your mouth and your eyes. You chewed slowly, your heart skipping slightly at the intensity of his gaze.

A sheepish smile tugged at your lips, but Logan didn’t look away. His sharp hazel eyes held yours as if studying your every reaction.

Logan finally retreated the spoon, his movements slow, deliberate, as though he was reluctant to break the moment. His hand lowered back to the container, but his gaze remained locked on you.

“It's good isn't it? I wonder who cooked it” he said, his voice quieter laced with sarcasm, almost amused.

You nodded, swallowing the bite. “Definitely better than the chicken soup I had last week.” you murmured, the smile lingering as you leaned back slightly.

For a while, the two of you sat in a companionable silence. Logan didn’t say much—he rarely did—but his presence was steady, grounding. With the two of you shared lunch as you allowed yourself to relax, leaning in the chair and letting the quiet of the room settle around you.

“So,” Logan finally said, breaking the silence, “what’s the deal with you not teaching? You were good at it, from what I hear.”

You glanced at him, startled by the question. “It’s just... complicated,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the collar.

“Complicated’s the norm around here,” he replied, his tone dry but not unkind. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do what you’re good at.”

You looked away, the weight of his words sinking in. “Maybe,” you said softly, unsure of how to explain the knot of hesitation in your chest.

Logan didn’t push, simply nodding as he finished the last of his meal. “Well,” he said, setting the utensils down, “if you ever decide to get back teaching, let me know. So I can remember to bring my own lunch.”

You smiled at his teasing banter while his gaze lingered on you for a moment. “I’ll think about it,” you said, and Logan gave you a small, approving nod.

And then he picks up the empty container and handing it back to you. “Thanks for the food,” he said gruffly, his voice softer than usual.

You nodded, taking the container and standing now. As you headed for the door, you paused and glanced back at him he offered a smile. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a step forward.

The sharp scream of a terrified kid split through the air just as you were rinsing dishes in the kitchen. Your head snapped up, the sound so piercing it made your pulse jump. Before you had time to think, your feet were already moving, carrying you toward the back doors where the chaos unfolded.

"NO! Scott!" The scream tore from your throat when your eyes landed on the scene.

Fenris was on the ground, his massive black fur frame twitching in pain, blood pooling beneath his leg. There's a boy sat a few feet away, pale and trembling, his terrified eyes darting between Fenris and Scott, who stood a short distance away with his visor still glowing faintly red.

“Scott!” you shouted, your voice cracking as you ran toward Fenris. “What the fuck did you do!?”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Scott shouted back, his hands raised defensively. “He went ballistic and after the kid—I had to stop him!”

You dropped to your knees beside Fenris, your fingers trembling as you tried to assess the damage. “It’s okay, buddy. I’ve got you,” you murmured, your voice shaking. Fenris whimpered, his golden eyes dull with pain, and you felt a sharp pang in your chest.

Scott stepped closer, his voice desperate. “You need to control that creature, look at the kid!” He pointed toward the teenager, who flinched at the sudden attention, his arms wrapped tightly around himself.

“He is under control!” you snapped, rounding on Scott, your voice rising with each word. “Now he's hurt because of you!”

“He was going to kill him!” Scott shot back, his frustration cracking through his usual composure. “What was I supposed to do? Stand there and let it happen?”

“You could’ve done something else—anything else!” you shouted, your anger spilling over. “You didn’t have to—”

“Hey,” a low, gravelly voice cut in, silencing both of you.

You turned to see Logan jogging toward the group, his sharp eyes scanning the scene. His gaze landed on Fenris, then shifted to you, his jaw tightening.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with authority.

“She’s mad because I stopped her dog from attacking a kid,” Scott said bitterly, gesturing toward Fenris.

“You didn't just stopped him, you tried to kill him!” you snapped, your voice breaking slightly.

Logan held up a hand, silencing both of you. “Cool it. Both of ya'.” He crouched beside you, his attention immediately on Fenris. “How bad is it?”

You whipped your head toward him, your anger flaring. “How bad does it fucking look, Logan?!” you snapped, your voice shaking with emotion. “He’s bleeding, what's your fucking eyeballs 're for?”

Logan blinked, visibly taken aback, but his expression quickly hardened into something resolute. “Hey,” he said, his voice firm but calm.

“I’m not the enemy here.” He glanced at Scott briefly, raising one arm as if to make a point before looking back at you. “I want to help. But you need to let me.”

You froze, his words cutting through the fog of your panic. Your breathing was ragged, your hands shaking as you clutched Fenris’s fur.

“You’ve gotta trust me,” Logan said, his voice softer now, his hazel eyes locking onto yours.

For a moment, the anger in your chest warred with the desperation clawing at you. You hesitated for a moment before shifting to give Logan space.

“Good,” he murmured, pulling off his belt to looped it around Fenris’s leg, tightening it into a makeshift tourniquet. “Keep him calm. He knows you’re here. That’s what matters.”

Logan worked quickly, his movements steady and precise, and though your anger still simmered under the surface, his calm focus grounded you enough to stay by Fenris’s side, stroking his fur as Logan tied off the belt.

Fenris let out a low whimper, but his trembling began to ease, if only slightly. “There we go,” Logan muttered, glancing up at you. “See? We’ve got this.”

You nodded wordlessly, your throat tight with emotion. Logan didn’t say anything more, but his presence next to you felt solid, like an anchor in the storm.

Scott stood nearby, his shoulders tense. “I wasn't meant to hurt him,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You shot him a glare but didn’t respond. Your focus was entirely on Fenris. Logan glanced up at Scott. “Go get Hank. Now.”

Scott hesitated, then nodded and hurried off toward the mansion.

As the adrenaline began to wear off, your hands started to shake. Logan noticed and placed a hand on your shoulder, grounding you. “He’ll be alright,” he said softly, his voice steady.

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes still locked on Fenris. “He don't deserve this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“I know,” Logan replied. “That’s why we’re gonna fix this.”

His words, simple but firm, carried more weight than any reassurance you’d heard before. For the first time since the chaos began, you felt a flicker of hope.

When Hank arrived moments later, Logan helped lift Fenris carefully onto a stretcher. You stayed by his side every step of the way, Logan’s steady presence anchoring you as you followed them.

The medbay was eerily quiet, save for the hum of the machines keeping Fenris stable. You sat by his side, your fingers lightly stroking the fur on his good leg. His breathing was shallow, each rise and fall of his chest a painful reminder of how close you’d come to losing him. Hank worked tirelessly in the adjacent lab, occasionally stepping in to check Fenris’s vitals or adjust his IV.

Logan leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed and his gaze fixed on you. His presence was steady, grounding, but he hadn’t said much since you arrived. The tension between you and Scott lingered like an unspoken threat.

Hank finally emerged, pulling off his gloves and wiping his brow. “The surgery was successful,” he said, his tone clinical but kind. “The damage to his leg was extensive, but I managed to stabilize him. It’ll be a long recovery, but he’ll pull through.”

Relief washed over you, and you exhaled shakily. “Thank you, Hank,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion.

Hank gave a small nod, his gaze softening. “He’ll need rest and care. No stress, no excitement.”

“Got it,” Logan replied before you could, his voice gruff but resolute.

Before leaving, Hank hesitated, then glanced at the collar around your neck. “There’s one more thing,” he began, his tone measured but laced with cautious optimism. “I’ve made some progress on the chip that controls your collar. I’m not even halfway through unlocking it yet, but the framework is holding. If all goes well, I’ll need another two weeks—give or take—for the components I ordered from Germany to arrive. Once I have them, we’ll be one step closer.”

Your chest tightened, and you nodded, letting the weight of his words settle in. “Hank, I don’t even know how to thank you for everything you’ve done,” you said, your voice quieter but steady. “This... this means everything to me.”

He waved a hand dismissively, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t need to thank me. I’ll see this through, I promise.”

You nodded, your gratitude spilling into the warm look you gave him. “Still, thank you. For Fenris, for the collar—for not giving up.”

Hank’s gaze softened further, and he adjusted his glasses. “Take care of yourself in the meantime. And Fenris too.” With that, he gave you a reassuring nod and left.

As Hank left, Logan finally moved closer, standing beside where you were sitting. “He’s tough, like you,” he said, his tone quieter than usual.

You gave a weak smile, but your eyes were still locked on Fenris. “I should’ve been more careful,” you whispered, guilt clawing at your chest.

Logan frowned. “Don’t do that. Nobody could’ve known this would happen.”

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway. Scott appeared in the doorway, his face set in a grim expression. “How is he?” he asked, his voice subdued.

“He’s alive, no thanks to you,” you snapped, your voice icy.

Scott flinched but stood his ground. “Look I've apologized, alright? I told you I don't have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” you shot back, standing now. “You didn’t have to go for a kill shot.”

“Enough,” Logan interjected, stepping between you and Scott. His voice was firm, brokering no argument. “What’s done is done. Fenris’ll recover, and the kid’s safe. We don’t need to keep hashing it out.”

Scott hesitated, his jaw tightening before he nodded stiffly. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

“Yeah,” Logan said dryly, his eyes narrowing. “Start by not making things worse.”

Scott left without another word, his shoulders tense. You turned back to Logan, your anger giving way to exhaustion.

“He didn’t mean it,” Logan said quietly, his gaze steady on you.

“Doesn’t make it hurt any less,” you replied, sinking back into the chair beside Fenris.

Logan placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch light but grounding. “He’ll heal,” he said, his voice softer now. “So will you.”

Something in his words, steady and certain, made the tight knot in your chest loosen just a little. Without thinking, you shifted toward him, leaning closer. The weight of everything—the fear, the anger, the guilt—pulled you down, and you needed something solid to hold onto.

Logan didn’t flinch. Instead, his hand moved with quiet purpose, sliding from your left shoulder to rest on the other side, his arm subtly draping around you. The shift wasn’t dramatic or awkward; it was seamless, almost natural, as though he’d done this a hundred times before.

You didn’t speak, and neither did he. The silence was heavy but not uncomfortable. It was what you needed—a quiet moment to gather yourself while the world around you felt like it was crumbling.

Your gaze stayed locked on Fenris, his labored breaths matching the faint hum of the machines. You wanted to believe Logan’s words, to trust that time would heal the wounds, but all you could do was sit there and hope.

Leaning against Logan’s side, you let his steady presence ground you. His warmth seeped through the fabric of his shirt, the slight rise and fall of his chest calming the storm inside you. You closed your eyes briefly, listening to the rhythm of his breathing.

You took a deep, shaky breath, your lungs filling with the faint scent of cigar that clung to him. It wasn’t overwhelming, just a subtle trace of tobacco and something sweeter, something distinctly him. You swore you hated this smell all your life, the acrid sharpness of smoke that always turned your stomach. But with Logan, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

If anything, it suited him—earthy, rough around the edges, but warm in a way you couldn’t quite explain. You’d never admit it out loud, but you didn’t mind it now. Not with him.

Logan didn’t move, didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The quiet strength with firmly squeezing your shoulder was enough, the chaos within you eased just a little.

Staring at Fenris, knowing Logan was right there beside you, it felt like your world—the pieces of it that weren’t shattering—was still holding on. Maybe it wasn’t much. Maybe it wasn’t enough.

But right now, it was all you needed.

Part 9 ->

Taglist: @lizlil @spookyminxy @britttzy @beciiamsherlocked55 @hughjackmanxz

[marifilue]

It's been 7 days since my last update and I promise I'm writing something. I've been a bit slow lately and their chemistry is overwhelming, gotta take a lap once in a while. Anyway, I will gave a little snippet from chapter 8 Edge Of Mortality cuz ily all.

•••••••

Logan’s smirk faltered for a moment, his eyes flicking toward you before settling on some invisible point in the room. “I ain’t one for speeches or medals, but… you deserve it. Like you said, I keep all the bad things away from you.” He chuckled softly, the sound low and rough, recalling your jabs earlier, when you were probably half-conscious.

You blinked, puzzled by his words. “I said that?”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk twisting into something faintly sheepish. “You don’t remember?”

Shaking your head, you chuckled lightly. “When did I said that?”

Logan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if realizing he’d stepped into a trap. “After you woke up from the procedure. You really don’t remember a word?”

“No,” you replied, brows furrowed. “I remember waking up for a second and seeing you there, but that’s it. Everything else is a blur.”

“Well,” Logan began, his tone deliberately casual as he leaned back. “You said a lot of things you’d never say in your right mind.”

Your curiosity sparked immediately, and you leaned forward, ignoring the slight pull in your muscles. “What else did I say? C’mon, tell me.”

He shrugged, his expression perfectly neutral, though you caught a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Nothing important.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Logan…”

When he didn’t elaborate, you grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him. It landed squarely against his face, momentarily covering it. Logan didn’t flinch, just let the pillow drop into his lap, his eyes narrowing as he fixed you with a sharp, unimpressed glare.

“You know,” he said, clutching the pillow in his hand with an exaggerated grip, “if you weren’t half-dying, I’d throw this back at you. Harder.”

You grinned, a mischievous glint in your eyes, though your voice carried the weight of exhaustion. “Well, I’m counting my days. Better take the shot while you can,” you murmured, the playful edge softened by the heaviness in your tone.

Logan shifted in his seat, his expression tightening slightly. “I almo-... uh,” He trailed off taking a second before opening his mouth again, as if he's contemplating his choice of words.

“We almost lost you, y’know.” His voice was quieter than usual, but it carried the weight of something he’d been holding onto.

You furrowed your brow, your teasing smirk fading. “What do you mean?”

His hand absently clutched at the pillow as if grounding himself. “Your heart stopped. For a minute, maybe less. Felt like an eternity, though.”

You blinked, processing the words. “So… I died?” you asked, your tone casual—too casual.

Logan’s jaw tightened as he frowned, clearly not a fan of your nonchalant approach. He gave a small shrug, trying to mirror your tone. “Well, yeah. Technically.”

You tilted your head slightly, offering a small, almost apologetic smile. “M’sorry,” you said softly, though the corners of your lips twitched again as another petty joke formed in your head. “I can’t imagine what your life would look like if M'gone,” you added, chuckling lightly.

Logan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, but his amusement didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, me neither,” he said simply, his voice low and steady as he held your gaze.

The sincerity in his response caught you off guard. You’d expected him to snort or roll his eyes, maybe throw another sarcastic remark your way. Instead, there was a serious glint in his gaze that made your breath hitch.

••••••••

Fun fact. I've been writing the whole fics using my phone because apparently, I'm always inspired to write in the most inconvenient time ever, so it's me and my notes app against the world. (each note is limited for only 3k word it drive me insane) Like I'm writing this after my 5k run. Btw thank you for your sweet comments, it means a lot to me, I'll see ya in the next chapter <3

[marifilue]

Part 7: Silent Wars

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n.

Summary: You're an X-Men member with regenerative healing ability and skilled marksman. On a routine mission with the team things take a drastic turn when a mutant-inhibitor collar is forced onto you, leaving you vulnerable, unable to heal. With no quick fix in sight, Logan becomes your reluctant anchor, helping you get through each day as you fight to survive, unexpected bond with Logan begins to grow, one that becomes far stronger than either of you could imagine.

Warnings: Explicit language, Violence, Blood

WC: 10,6k

<- Part 6

Logan stood in front of the mirror, buttoning his white shirt before adjusting the black suit Ororo had picked out for him earlier. He tugged at the fabric with a grimace, the sleek cut far from his usual rugged style. The polished shoes felt unnatural, and the stiff collar made him want to rip the whole thing apart. Still, he attempted the tie after a failing a first try, fumbling with the knot until it resembled something passable. Or so he thought. After inspecting his reflection, he sighed. “Good enough,” he muttered, stepping out of his room.

The team was leaving soon for the gala to find Killebrew, and Logan made his way down the hall. That’s when he saw you, halfway up the stairs with a basket of clean laundry in hand. You were heading toward your room, but the sight of him stopped you in your tracks. Your steps faltered, and for a moment, you just stared. Logan in a suit was unexpected, he looked sharp, almost elegant, though the sight of him trying to fit into something so formal was oddly amusing.

Your lips twitched into a grin as your eyes swept over him and you couldn’t help but think he looked like a time traveler from some period drama. Except…

“What?” Logan asked, his brow furrowing as he caught your stare.

You smirked, gesturing vaguely at his neck. “You're not leaving with that tie.”

Logan glanced down, frowning. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Are you going to a nine-to-five job or a gala?” you teased, shaking your head. Standing outside your door, you pointed a finger at him. “Don't move.”

Before he could protest, you disappeared into your room, setting the basket of laundry on your bedroom floor. You returned moments later, Logan still rooted in place, his expression an unamused mix of confusion and impatience.

Without a second thought, you walked right up to him, fingers reaching for his tie. “Hold still,” you ordered, undoing the uneven knot with quick, precise movements.

“That took me two tries,” Logan grumbled, his breath brushing against you as you worked.

“Yeah, and it shows,” you replied without missing a beat , the corner of your mouth twitching into a smile.. Your focus remained on the fabric in your hands, but you couldn’t ignore the faint scent of cologne mixed with his usual tobacco scent. He’d tried to clean up for the mission, and you silently appreciated the effort.

Logan stayed quiet, his gaze dropping to your face. He watched the way your brows furrowed in concentration, the soft purse of your lips as you looped the fabric into a neat bow tie.

“There,” you said, tightening the knot one last time. “Perfect.”

You glanced up, your words catching in your throat when you realized he was already looking at you. His hazel eyes were unrelenting, and the intensity of his gaze made your pulse stutter.

“They’re waiting for you,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended, flicking your eyes to his left, then his right, trying to avoid the pull of his stare.

“Huh?” Logan blinked, his brows lifting slightly as if snapping out of a trance.

“The team,” you repeated, stepping back to create some distance. “They’re already downstairs.”

Logan reached up, tugging at the tie as if testing your handiwork. “Right,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Thanks.”

You offered a small smile. “Good luck.” You said, he nodded, clearing his throat. “I’ll see ya around.” his voice softer.

You turned, opening the door to your room as Logan walked down the hall and descended the stairs. Once inside, you closed the door and leaned against it, your heart racing in your chest. You glanced at laundry, waiting on your floor to be folded, but all you could think about was the way Logan had looked at you, and how it made your pulse quicken.

As you folded the last of your laundry. It was a simple, repetitive task, but tonight, even mundane chores couldn’t keep your mind from wandering. Yesterday’s news lingered heavily in your thoughts—a cancer diagnosis. Your mind refused to fully grasp it. How could it? One day you were fighting alongside mutants, the next you were grappling with mortality in a way you never imagined.

Pushing the thoughts aside, you grabbed the laundry basket and headed downstairs. Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters felt eerily calm tonight. Scott, Jean, Ororo, Logan, and Charles were at the gala, leaving you and Hank as the only adults in charge. The younger kids were scattered throughout the mansion, laughing in small groups or lost in their own conversations.

You walked down the hallway, glancing into the TV room where a small cluster of teenagers were gathered, the sound of an action movie blaring from the screen. Hank sat in an armchair nearby, his sharp blue eyes catching yours as you entered.

“Hey,” he said, giving you a small smile. “How are you feeling?”

You sank into the couch beside him, shrugging slightly. “I’m okay. Just the headache is a pain in the ass.”

He nodded knowingly. “Have the pills been helping at all?”

You shook your head, letting out a quiet sigh. “Not much. Jean prescribed me something, but I can only take it every twelve hours. By hour six, the pain’s already back.”

You didn’t elaborate. There wasn’t a point. The words felt hollow anyway. You knew Hank and the others were doing their best, and the last thing you wanted was to make anyone feel worse. They’d given you a family here, and you owed them everything. So, for now, you swallowed your emotions and tried to keep them at bay.

The movie played on, the chatter of the kids filling the room like white noise. Maya, one of the new students, eventually joined you, curling up against your side. Her small frame fit easily under your arm, her warmth grounding you in the moment. You stroked her hair absently, letting the comfort of her presence ease some of the tension coiled in your chest.

Then, the quiet started to unravel. A distant, rhythmic thudding filled the air, faint but unmistakable.

You froze, your ears straining.

Hank noticed it too, his gaze snapping toward the window. His expression darkened, and he glanced back at you.

“Helicopters,” you muttered, your voice low.

He nodded, his jaw tightening. The sound grew louder, closer. You both knew what this meant. It wasn’t your first time dealing with an attack. It never started quietly.

You gently nudged Maya off your lap and stood, your pulse quickening. “We need to move the kids. Now.”

Hank didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take the east wing, you handle the west.”

You turned to the teenagers. “Everyone, listen up. Go to your dorms, grab your essentials, and follow the evacuation route. No questions, no hesitation. Move!”

They scattered immediately, fear flashing across their faces as the urgency in your voice spurred them into action.

You bolted down the hallway, checking every room to ensure no one was left behind. The sound of the helicopters grew deafening, vibrating through the walls. By the time you reached the hidden tunnel entrance in the west wing, a group of younger kids had already gathered, their wide eyes filled with panic.

“It’s okay,” you said, kneeling to meet their gazes. “Follow the tunnel. Stick together, and don’t stop until you reach the safe zone.”

They nodded, some of them trembling, but they moved. Once they were through, you sealed the entrance and sprinted back toward the main hall, your heart pounding as you searched for any stragglers.

“Hank, how’s the east wing?” you shouted as you met him near the center staircase.

“Cleared!” he called back, his fur bristling with tension. “They’re in the tunnels.”

The unmistakable sound of metal boots hitting the ground outside sent a chill through you. The helicopters were landing.

You exchanged a glance with Hank, a silent understanding passing between you. The kids were as safe as they could be. Now, it was up to you to buy them time.

The sleek, polished floors of the Manhattan ballroom glimmered under the cascading light of crystal chandeliers. The gala was in full swing, with attendees dressed in tailored suits and elegant evening gowns. The room buzzed with polite conversation and the clinking of glasses, the perfect cover for the X-Men’s covert operation.

Charles Xavier’s connections had secured their invitations, giving them access to the exclusive event. The mission was clear: locate Killebrew and gather the information necessary to free you from the inhibitor collar. The team blended effortlessly into the crowd, their formal attire hiding the dangerous intent beneath the surface.

The team approached the grand staircase leading to the entrance, their polished shoes clicking softly against the marble steps. Ororo’s long, flowing red dress shimmered in the dim light, its elegant cut accentuating her regal demeanor. She walked hand in hand with Logan, a playful smile tugging at her lips as her gaze fell on his bow tie.

“I didn’t take you for a bow tie kind of guy,” Ororo remarked, her tone light but teasing.

Logan glanced sideways at her, his expression deadpan. “I’m not,” he replied gruffly, though the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

Just ahead of them, Jean walked hand in hand with Scott, her sleek black dress a stark contrast to his sharp navy suit. Hearing Ororo’s comment, Jean turned her head with a grin. “He’s definitely not. He didn’t even know how to do one,” she teased, her smile widening.

Scott, curious, leaned closer to Jean. “What does that mean?” he whispered, keeping his voice low.

Jean chuckled softly, glancing back at Logan. “Let’s just say it wasn’t his handiwork.”

Logan flushed slightly, the faint color creeping up his neck. Ororo’s teasing smile grew as she leaned in mock-conspiratorially. “Someone else do your bow tie?” she asked, her tone lilting as she searched his face for an answer.

Jean laughed at Logan’s evident discomfort, and Logan grunted, his usual gruff demeanor slipping into mild annoyance. “Red, if you peeked into my head, that’s really creepy, y’know. Should’ve been illegal,” he shot back, grumbling as his hand adjusted the offending bow tie.

Jean only smiled wider, clearly amused. “I wasn’t intending. Your mind’s really loud,” she quipped, her tone airy.

That set Jean, Scott, and Ororo laughing, their lightheartedness echoing down the steps. Logan rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as they finally reached the entrance, but the faintest smirk lingered on his face as he escorted Ororo inside.

Jean spotted Killebrew first, standing near the bar with a glass of champagne in hand, flanked by two bodyguards. Killebrew's posture was relaxed, his confidence oozing as if he had nothing to fear. She tilted her head slightly, signaling to Logan, who was nursing a drink a few feet away.

“Got him,” she murmured through their comms, her lips barely moving as she pretended to sip her wine.

Scott’s voice came through. “Stick to the plan. No improvisations, Logan.”

Logan grunted in response, his patience already wearing thin.

Jean, with an air of practiced elegance, glided toward Killebrew. A strategically placed stiletto misstep had her spilling her glass of red wine all over his pristine white suit.

“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed, feigning mortification. “I am so sorry.”

Killebrew cursed under his breath, brushing futilely at the spreading stain. “Watch where you’re going!”

Jean placed a delicate hand on his arm. “Please, let me help. The restroom is just over there.” She gestured to the nearby door with an apologetic smile.

Killebrew huffed but nodded, motioning for one of his guards to wait outside the restroom. He disappeared through the door, oblivious to the trap waiting for him.

Inside, Logan leaned casually against the wall of a stall, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. The door creaked open, and Killebrew stepped inside, muttering curses under his breath. Before he could notice anything amiss, Logan moved swiftly, grabbing him from behind and locking him in a chokehold.

“What the—” Killebrew struggled, but Logan’s grip was unyielding. Within seconds, the doctor’s body went limp, unconscious.

Logan let him drop to the floor, his expression grim. “Nighty night,” he muttered, dragging the lifeless form out of sight.

When Killebrew regained consciousness, he found himself tied to a chair inside the dimly lit interior of the Blackbird. His head lolled to the side as he groaned, his vision clearing to reveal Scott standing in front of him, arms crossed.

“We’re going to make this simple,” Scott began, his tone calm but firm. “Tell us everything you know about the inhibitor collars. How do we remove them?”

Killebrew chuckled darkly, his eyes glinting with malice. “Ah, you filthy mutants are cute. Trying to save her? Lemme tell you a thing—you can’t. She’s going to experience a slow, excruciating death. The kind that makes every second feel like a lifetime. No cure, no miracle. Just pain.”

Scott’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “Not under our watch,” he snapped, his voice steady despite the fire in his eyes.

Killebrew sneered, leaning back against the chair. “You think you’re heroes, don’t you? But the clock’s ticking. Tick-tock. And when it’s all over, you’ll realize just how helpless you really are.”

Scott stepped closer, his visor glowing faintly. “You’re going to tell us everything you know, or you’ll wish you had,” he said, his voice low with simmering anger.

Killebrew’s lips twitched into a defiant smirk. “Do you think tying me to a chair and playing good cop is going to work?”

Logan stepped out of the shadows, his claws extending with a menacing snikt. “I’m not here to play cop, bub.”

Killebrew flinched slightly at the sound but quickly masked it with a smirk, his pretentious bravado returning. “The wolverine,” he began, drawing out the name. “I’ve spent my years studying you, dissecting your genetic material, perfecting it. You’re an open book to me. Every scar, every growl, every feral instinct.”

Logan’s claws inched closer, the metal glinting in the dim light. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

Killebrew’s smirk widened, his tone turning sharper. “Oh, but I do. Just like I know about her. Fire and flesh, the perfect weapon. I built her, the way she moved on the battlefield, so precise, so merciless..”

Logan’s claws twitched, but his expression remained cold. “Keep her outta your fucking mouth.”

Killebrew tilted his head, feigning innocence. “She’s wasting her potential, playing house with your little band of mutants. But you're a bunch of fools if you think you've tamed her. It’s only a matter of time before she relapses, before she craves the chaos again. Because that’s who she is, war and death incarnate. You're just counting your days until she realizes it.”

Logan’s claws scraped against the wall as he slammed them dangerously close to Killebrew’s head, his voice a low growl. “Say another word, and I’ll make sure you don’t get a chance to regret it.”

Killebrew’s smirk faltered, but his voice remained mocking. “Touchy, aren’t we? Face it, Logan. You and she are cut from the same cloth. Weapons pretending to be people. How long until she burns everything down, just like she was made to?”

Logan leaned in close, his voice cold and unyielding. “You don’t know a damn thing about her.”

“Logan.” Jean’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. She stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, silently asking him to stepped back.

Logan growled under his breath but retracted his claws, stepping back reluctantly.

At that moment, Charles entered the room, his calm presence immediately commanding attention. “Apologies for the delay,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the scene. “There were matters to address.”

Killebrew’s smirk returned. “The famous Professor Xavier. Come to play the moral high ground?”

Charles ignored the taunt, his expression serene as he moved closer. “Dr. Killebrew, I don’t have the luxury of time for your games.” He placed his fingers gently against his temple, his eyes closing as he delved into Killebrew’s mind.

The room fell silent, the tension thick as Charles sifted through the layers of Killebrew’s thoughts. His eyes snapped open moments later, a flicker of something dark passing across his features.

“What is it?” Scott asked, concern lacing his voice.

Charles hesitated for a moment before answering, carefully withholding the full truth. “The collars are prototypes, unfinished technology. I can't find the key to unlock them. The only way to remove them is by destroying the metal. But…” He paused, his voice heavy. “…doing so could harm the wearer.”

Logan’s fists clenched at his sides. “That’s it? That’s all this punk knows?”

Charles nodded solemnly. “Unfortunately, yes. However, I’ve learned the location of another laboratory where these collars were developed. It may hold the answers we seek.”

Scott exchanged a glance with Logan, both of them visibly frustrated but resigned.

“What do we do with him?” Logan asked, his tone cold.

Charles’ gaze shifted back to Killebrew. “He’s of no further use to us.”

Without another word, they hauled Killebrew out of the Blackbird and left him unconscious in an alleyway near the gala. As the Blackbird ascended into the night sky, Charles’ thoughts lingered on what he had seen in Killebrew’s mind—the truth about the collar’s devastating effects. For now, he chose to keep it to himself.

You and Hank moved swiftly through the darkened hallways of the mansion, your steps careful yet purposeful. The power had been cut, leaving the intruders at a disadvantage. While they stumbled blindly, you and Hank knew every twist and turn of the mansion’s layout by heart.

Hank, already in his Beast form, was a formidable sight as he scanned each room. “Check every corner,” he growled softly. “We can’t risk leaving anyone behind.”

Nodding, you veered off toward the equipment room. The flickering emergency lights cast an eerie glow as you entered, your eyes immediately landing on the wall-mounted array of weapons. Among them, a bulletproof vest caught your attention.

For a moment, you froze, staring at it. You hated the thought of needing it. You were the bulletproof one back then, you thought bitterly. The collar around your neck weighed heavier than ever, a constant reminder of how vulnerable you’d become.

With a resigned sigh, you grabbed the vest and adjusted it over your torso, fastening the straps securely. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

A faint noise pulled your attention, a shuffle just beyond the room’s corner. Your heart skipped a beat as you approached cautiously, your gun drawn. Turning the corner, you saw a small figure curled up, hugging her knees tightly.

“Maya,” you breathed, lowering your weapon. Your heart sank as the young girl looked up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes.

“Are they here to take me?” she whimpered, her voice trembling.

You knelt beside her, checking for injuries but finding none. “No one’s taking you, sweetheart,” you reassured her, brushing a hand over her hair. “I promise. But we need to move now, okay?”

She nodded hesitantly, her small hand clutching yours as you led her back into the hallway. You moved quickly, guiding her toward the secret tunnel where the other children were already gathering.

Just as you reached the hallway’s intersection, shadows emerged from the opposite end. Guards. Their rifles were already raised, and without hesitation, they opened fire.

“Get down!” you shouted, shoving Maya behind the wall and throwing yourself beside her. Bullets ricocheted off the metal-lined walls, the deafening sound echoing in the confined space.

Maya was trembling, her hands clamped over her ears as tears streamed down her face. Then, she screamed—a piercing, unnatural sound that made your blood run cold.

The guards crumpled immediately, their hands flying to their ears as they collapsed, unconscious or worse. But the force of her supersonic scream was overwhelming. You cried out, your hands instinctively covering your ears, but it wasn’t enough. Pain exploded in your head, and you felt a warm trickle down your neck. Your ears were bleeding.

Maya was sobbing now, horrified by what she’d done. Gritting your teeth against the pain, you forced yourself to your feet, pulling her up with you. “It’s okay,” you said, your voice hoarse. “You did good. Now let’s keep going.”

You led her the rest of the way, your vision swimming slightly from the pain in your head. Finally, you reached the tunnel entrance, where Hank was ushering the children inside. He took one look at you and Maya, his sharp eyes narrowing at the blood streaking from your ears.

“She’s safe,” you rasped, gently pushing Maya toward him.

Hank nodded, his massive hand resting reassuringly on Maya’s shoulder as he guided her into the tunnel. “Now go,” he told her firmly.

Turning back, you adjusted your vest and readied your weapon. “Let’s finish this.”

Hank’s lips curled into a fierce grin. “Gladly.”

The two of you moved together, a practiced dance of coordination honed through years of training. You stayed low, firing calculated shots to disable the guards. Meanwhile, Hank charged forward, his claws slashing through their ranks with precision.

The intruders wore full black tactical gear, but even their advanced equipment couldn’t match Hank’s brute strength or your unerring aim. You fired at an enemy attempting to flank Hank, your shot hitting its mark and dropping him instantly.

Another guard lunged at you, but you sidestepped, slamming the butt of your gun into his temple. He fell unconscious, his weapon clattering to the ground.

Hank roared as he took down the last of them, his claws raking through the guard’s chest plate and sending him flying into the wall.

Breathing hard, you leaned against the wall for a moment, your hands trembling slightly. “Is that all of them?”

Hank sniffed the air, his sharp senses searching for any remaining threats. “For now,” he said, his tone cautious.

You reloaded your weapon, your ears still ringing from Maya’s scream. “I'm just getting warmed up,” you muttered.

Hank nodded, his gaze softening for a moment. “You’re doing good,” he said, his voice quieter now.

You offered him a faint smile. “So are you.”

With that, the two of you turned and began to sweep the mansion again, ensuring it was secure. But in the back of your mind, you couldn’t stop thinking about Maya’s terrified question. Are they here to take me?

And you wondered just how much longer any of you could hold out.

You and Hank stood in the backyard of the mansion, both watching as the remaining helicopters retreated in the distance.

“They’re aborting?” you asked, your voice laced with suspicion, your grip still tight on the rifle in your hands.

Hank adjusted his glasses, still in his Beast form, his expression grim. “Seems like it. But why?”

Your question was answered almost immediately as the Blackbird appeared, its engines roaring as it hovered on the other side of the mansion. You exchanged a quick glance with Hank, and without a word, the two of you sprinted toward the hangar, Hank flipping the mansion’s power back on with a flick of a hidden switch as you ran.

By the time you reached the hangar, the Blackbird had landed, its ramp lowering smoothly. Professor Xavier was the first to emerge, his calm gaze meeting yours. He didn’t ask a single question—he didn’t need to. The weight of what had happened was already evident in his expression as he absorbed the chaos from your mind and Hank’s.

Logan followed close behind, his movements hurried and purposeful, his bow tie askew and his black suit already unbuttoned. He barely glanced at where he stepped as his eyes immediately landed on you, scanning you from head to toe.

“What happened?” Logan demanded, his voice rough with concern. His sharp gaze zeroed in on your disheveled appearance, noting the blood smeared along your neck and the exhaustion evident in your posture.

You couldn’t even summon the energy to answer. Your limbs felt like lead, and the weight of the bulletproof vest dug into your shoulders.

Hank stepped in, his tone measured despite the tension. “There was an attack—three helicopters. Two of them left as soon as you arrived.”

Logan’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists as he continued to watch you. Your knees wobbled slightly under the combined weight of the vest and firearm, and with a soft grunt of frustration, you shrugged the vest off, letting it fall to the floor alongside with the firearm with a dull thud. The noise felt distant, your vision blurring slightly as nausea twisted your stomach.

The voices around you became muffled, distorted, as you pressed a trembling hand to your mouth. Acid burned at the back of your throat, and without saying a word, you turned and bolted for the bathroom down the hall.

“Shit,” you heard Logan mutter behind you, followed by the heavy sound of his boots as he moved after you. “I’ll check on her,” he called back to the team.

You barely made it to the toilet before throwing up, your body trembling as your stomach heaved violently. The pain in your head pounded in time with your heartbeat, making the world spin.

A moment later, you felt Logan’s presence behind you, his familiar scent of cigar smoke grounding you. He didn’t say a word, but you heard the sound of him pulling tissues from the dispenser.

When you felt his hands gently gather your hair and hold it back, you froze for a second, caught off guard by the tenderness of the gesture. He crouched beside you, one hand steadying your hair while the other offered a tissue.

Wordlessly, you took it, wiping your mouth as you flushed the toilet. For a moment, you simply leaned against the cool porcelain, trying to steady your breathing.

“I can see your night is much more fun than mine,” Logan quipped, his voice low but with a touch of that familiar sarcasm.

You let out a weak laugh, the corners of your mouth twitching despite everything. “Fuck off, Logan,” you muttered, though your tone lacked any real bite.

He smirked, releasing your hair as he stood, his eyes never leaving you. When he noticed the unsteadiness in your movements, he instinctively reached down, offering his hand.

For once, you didn’t argue. Placing both hands on his for support, you allowed him to help you up. Your legs wobbled slightly, but with his steady grip, you managed to stay upright.

As you moved to the sink, Logan hovered close behind, his presence both comforting and suffocating. You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on your face before catching sight of your reflection in the mirror. The dried blood on your ears and neck painted a grim picture.

Grabbing a tissue, you dampened it with water and started wiping the blood away from your left ear. Logan watched silently for a moment before stepping closer, his movements deliberate. Without asking, he grabbed another tissue, dampened it, and began wiping the blood from your right ear.

You tensed at first, but his careful touch surprised you. He was gentle, his rough fingers brushing against your skin with an unexpected softness. Through the mirror, you caught sight of him—still dressed in his suit, bow tie slightly loose, his expression unreadable.

“You okay?” he asked finally, his voice softer than before.

You leaned against the sink, your exhaustion catching up with you. “Maya,” you said quietly, your voice hoarse. “The intruder… they were shooting at us. She got scared and screamed. Her mutation, I think it's a supersonic scream.”

“Huh, explains why you look like hell.” He muttered, his voice low

You huffed a tired laugh, the corners of your lips twitching despite the pain in your head. “Thanks for the compliment, as always.” your gaze falling to the sink as you gripped its edges. “She saved us,” you added after a moment. “It nearly broke me.”

Logan didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he finished cleaning the blood from your neck and discarded the tissue in the trash. When he finally spoke, his voice was low but steady.

“You did good,” he said, his tone gruff but sincere. “Getting her out of there,” His tone was a bit different this time, you could sense there's something more coming.

“But you shouldn’t have gone in alone,” he said after a long silence, his tone gruff but not unkind.

You stiffened slightly, glancing at his reflection. “What choice do I have? Hank and I had to protect the kids. You weren’t exactly here.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his hazel eyes flicking up to meet yours in the mirror. “Still. You’re human now. You don’t have a healing factor to fall back on anymore.”

The reminder hit harder than you cared to admit. Your grip on the sink tightened as you felt your stomach twist, the weight of the collar around your neck seemingly growing heavier.

“I know what I am,” you snapped, more harshly than intended.

Logan didn’t flinch, his gaze unwavering. “Yeah? Then maybe you should start actin’ like it.”

Your temper flared, the exhaustion and pain boiling over. You turned abruptly, facing him. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Logan. I did what I had to do to keep Maya safe.”

His hands dropped to his sides, his shoulders tensing. For a moment, neither of you said anything, the air between you crackling with unspoken emotions.

Finally, Logan took a step closer, his presence overpowering in the small bathroom. “And what happens next time? Or the time after that? How many more of these do you think you can handle before—” He stopped himself, his voice catching.

“Before what?” you challenged, your voice trembling. “Before I die? Is that what you’re worried about?”

His eyes darkened, the intensity in them making your breath hitch. He didn’t answer, but the way he looked at you said everything.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then, as if sensing you were seconds away from breaking, Logan’s voice softened. “You’re not alone in this, y’know.”

The words hit harder than any argument could have. Your resolve wavered, and you let out a shaky breath, your shoulders slumping. “I know,” you murmured. “But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

Logan’s hand hesitated before reaching out, his rough fingers brushing against your arm in an awkward but sincere gesture of comfort. “It’s not supposed to be easy,” he said quietly.

You nodded slowly, unable to meet his eyes. The vulnerability in his voice, paired with his uncharacteristic gentleness, was too much. It threatened to unravel the fragile control you had left.

Logan seemed to sense this, because he stepped back, giving you space. “C’mon,” he said, his voice back to its usual gruffness. “Let’s get you back out there before the team thinks you’ve keeled over.”

You forced a faint smile, wiping your damp hands on your pants. “Right. Can’t let them think I’m weak.”

Logan smirked, though his eyes still held a shadow of concern. “You? Weak? Not a chance.”

Without waiting for a response, he opened the door, holding it for you as you stepped into the hallway. You didn’t miss the way he hovered slightly behind you, close enough to catch you if you stumbled.

Scott and Ororo led the children down the hall, their calm voices echoing softly as they reassured the kids that they were safe here, far from the chaos outside. You envied their composure, the way they seemed to have endless patience and strength to guide others. Meanwhile, you sat stiffly in the laboratory, your back against the cold surface of the examination table.

God, how you loathed this place—the sterile white walls, the smell of antiseptic that lingered in the air, and the bright overhead lights that always seemed too harsh. The memories tied to labs like these made your skin crawl, yet here you were again.

Jean approached with a syringe in hand, her movements calm and deliberate. “Just a quick injection,” she said, offering a small smile as she prepared the needle.

You didn’t bother asking what it was; you trusted her enough, but that didn’t make you feel any less like a test subject under scrutiny.

Your attention drifted across the room to where Logan stood in the corner, deep in conversation with Professor Xavier. Their voices were too low for you to hear, leaving you to wonder what they could possibly be discussing. Logan’s posture was tense, his arms crossed over his chest as he nodded occasionally to whatever the Professor was saying.

“Something on your mind?” Jean’s voice broke through your thoughts as she administered the injection.

You blinked, realizing you’d been staring. Jean followed your gaze to Logan, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “He cares about you,” she said casually, as if stating a simple fact.

“Huh?” You frowned, caught off guard.

“Logan,” Jean said, her tone light and teasing. “He has a soft spot for you.”

You stared at her, taken aback by her words. “Why are you so sure ab—” You stopped mid-sentence, realization dawning as you remembered Jean’s telepathic abilities. A sense of discomfort crept over you. “Never mind, forget I asked. Please don’t get into my head too. I feel violated.”

Jean chuckled softly as she set the empty syringe aside and reached for another to draw your blood. “The feeling is mutual, don’t worry.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” you said, feigning ignorance, though the slight heat creeping up your neck betrayed you.

Jean didn’t press further, her grin widening as she focused on her task. “Relax,” she said, her tone soothing as she carefully inserted the needle into your arm. “I’ll need to scan your brain again after this. Then you’re free to go.”

You nodded, your eyes drifting away as she drew the sample. The hum of the lab’s equipment filled the silence, a stark reminder of how much you hated being in spaces like this. Every second felt like an eternity, and you couldn’t wait to be anywhere else.

Jean capped the vial and stepped away to label it, leaving you to brood quietly. The endless tests, the needles, the scans—it all blurred together into an exhausting cycle that left you drained.

“Almost done,” Jean assured you as she returned, her hands already reaching for the scanner. “Then you can go back to pretending none of this ever happened.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you muttered, though you knew deep down that forgetting wasn’t an option.

Your business in the lab was finally over. Jean dismissed you with a reassuring nod, the tests done for now. Logan was leaning casually against the doorframe, waiting for you to leave. His sharp gaze softened when he saw you step out, exhaustion written across your face. Professor Xavier gave you a small smile as you passed, his voice calm and encouraging.

“Get some rest,” he said, his words heavy with understanding. As he turned back toward Jean to discuss something—what, you could only guess—you were already walking away, longing for your bed and the peace of sleep.

The hallway felt quiet, the weight of the night pressing down on you. Logan followed a few steps behind, still clad in the suit and bow tie you’d made earlier. The sight would’ve amused you under different circumstances, but now it only reminded you of how much had happened in a single night.

“We’ve got a lead,” Logan said, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, calm, yet purposeful.

You glanced at him, too tired to muster much of a reaction. “How strong of a lead?” you asked, your voice weak and raspy.

“It’s pretty solid,” he replied. “We’ll check out the lab where they made that collar first thing tomorrow—at dawn.”

You looked up at him, the weight of guilt settling heavily in your chest. The team had barely rested, and now they were preparing for yet another mission. You wanted to help more, to be more useful, but your current state made that feel impossible.

“So, you found Killebrew?” you asked, curiosity breaking through your exhaustion.

Logan shrugged nonchalantly. “Yeah. The bastard wasn’t much of a help. We left him unconscious in a dark alley.”

The way he said it, with that familiar gruffness, made you grin despite yourself. A small, satisfied chuckle escaped your lips. “Serves him right,” you murmured, the hint of amusement lightening your expression.

Logan gave you a sideways glance, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if your reaction pleased him. But he didn’t say anything more, letting the silence settle between you both as you reached your doors.

The two of you arrived at your floor, your footsteps slowing as you reached your respective doors. The soft light in the hallway illuminated Logan’s face, his usual stoic expression giving way to something gentler.

“Thank you,” you said, hesitating with your hand hovering over your door handle. “For everything. I wish I could be more of a help.”

Logan shook his head slightly, his gaze meeting yours. “You just need to rest,” he said, his voice low but firm. “We’ll handle it.”

His words, simple as they were, carried a weight of reassurance that made your chest tighten.

“Goodnight, Logan,” you said softly, pushing open your door.

“Night…” he muttered, your name slipping past his lips with an almost inaudible tenderness.

You stepped inside your room, closing the door behind you. The bed called to you, its promise of comfort irresistible. You swallowed the pill by your nightstand, the bitter taste barely registering as exhaustion overtook you.

Within minutes, sleep claimed you, pulling you into its embrace and silencing the chaos of the night.

The morning was cold and heavy with anticipation. The team gathered in the hangar just before dawn, their faces set with determination despite the early hours and you were still asleep, safe and sound in your room. The Blackbird hummed with power, its sleek frame ready to take them to their destination. Pennsylvania laboratorium, where the inhibitor collar was created.

Logan stood near the ramp, adjusting his gloves, his expression unreadable. Scott was at the helm, running pre-flight checks, while Ororo’s white hair shimmered faintly in the dim light as she prepared for potential weather manipulation. Jean, her brows furrowed, sat beside Charles, whose calm demeanor anchored them all.

“Alright, team,” Charles said, his voice clear and steady. “This lab may hold the answers we seek, but it is also likely to be heavily guarded. Be cautious and stay together. Goodluck” Charles gave a speech before wheeling down from the blackbird, watching the team before they take off.

The Blackbird took off smoothly, cutting through the early morning skies.

After an hour trip trough the sky, industrial park on the city’s outskirts was desolate, abandoned structures looming like ghosts in the dawn light. The lab was tucked away in one of the larger buildings, its entrance obscured by rusting machinery and overgrown weeds.

Logan sniffed the air as the team approached. “Blood,” he muttered, his jaw tightening.

Scott led the group, disabling a few rusted cameras with precise blasts. The entrance was locked, but Ororo’s lightning made short work of it. Inside, the lab was a stark contrast to its dilapidated exterior. Sterile white walls gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, and the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and something far darker.

Rows of steel tables lined the main hallway, some still holding remnants of experiments—tools, dried blood, and shattered syringes. Jean paused, her hand brushing the air as her telepathy picked up faint echoes of terror and pain.

“I can feel it,” she murmured. “Fear… desperation. The mutants they brought here…”

One side room caught Logan’s eye. He stepped inside, finding containment pods arranged against the walls. Some were cracked, their contents long gone, while others held lifeless figures suspended in fluid—mutants who hadn’t survived.

Jean entered behind him, her breath hitching. “Maya Fernandez” she said, spotting a file on a nearby desk. It contained detailed notes on her mutation, the experiments she endured, and a chilling final note: Subject released. No further use.

Logan’s hands tightened into fists, the claws threatening to unsheathe. “Bastards,” he growled.

As the team moved deeper into the lab, a sensor tripped. Alarms blared, and laser turrets descended from the ceiling, their beams sweeping for targets.

“Get down!” Scott shouted, blasting the nearest turret with his visor.

Ororo summoned a gust of wind, disorienting the remaining turrets long enough for Logan to charge forward, slicing through the machinery with brutal efficiency.

“It’s never easy, is it?” Logan muttered, shaking off sparks from his claws.

In a darkened corridor, a containment pod hissed open, releasing a creature unlike anything they’d seen before. It was part animal, part weapon—its skin patched with metal, its eyes wild with rage. The creature roared, lunging at Logan.

“Keep moving!” Logan barked at the team, meeting the creature head-on.

The fight was vicious, claws against metal, but Logan’s ferocity kept the creature at bay. Jean and Scott worked together, using blasts and telekinesis to pin the creature long enough for Ororo to incapacitate it with a precise lightning strike.

As it collapsed, Logan stared down at it, breathing heavily. “What've they done to you..” he said, his voice gruff. Logan didn't have the heart to abandoned the creature, he needs to bring it back with him, to rescue it.

In the lab’s control room, Jean hacked into the computers, her fingers flying across the keys. “There’s a lot here,” she said, her voice strained. “Blueprints for the inhibitor collar, notes on Killebrew’s research… and a list of other labs. This isn’t just one operation—it’s a network.”

Scott frowned. “How big?”

“Big enough,” Jean replied, pulling a hard drive from the terminal just as the screens flickered.

An automated voice blared: “Self-destruct sequence initiated. Five minutes remaining.”

“Damn it!” Scott cursed.

The team sprinted through the lab as explosions began to rock the building. Logan carried the unconscious creature over his shoulder, while Jean levitated files and equipment to safety. Ororo summoned gusts of wind to clear debris from their path, and Scott led the way, blasting through blocked corridors.

They barely made it out, the lab erupting into flames behind them as they boarded the Blackbird.

The creature Logan carried into the Blackbird was a massive hybrid, a mix between a wolf and a dog. Its fur was patchy, revealing scarred, raw skin beneath, especially around its back and legs where jagged metal plates were fused into its flesh.

The head was wolf-like, with sharp, predatory features. Its long tail was thick, partly covered in metal, giving it a monstrous, patchwork look. Its claws were unnervingly sharp, with metallic tips, and its muscular frame suggested immense strength. Despite its fearsome appearance, the creature lay still, unconscious, but radiated an unsettling power.

Logan carefully maneuvered the creature’s unconscious body into the back of the Blackbird, a low growl vibrating through its chest. Its enormous frame filled most of the space in the compartment. As he secured it, the creature’s heavy, metal-patched skin shimmered faintly in the dim light, and Logan's mind raced to piece together what had happened.

He muttered a low curse as he stepped back, making sure it wouldn’t move too much.

The door slid open just as he settled into the seat, and Scott stepped in, his eyes widening at the sight of the creature in the back.

“Why the hell is that thing here!?” Scott nearly yelled, his voice sharp with disbelief as he stepped further into the Blackbird. His eyes were wide, fixed on the unconscious creature sprawled across the rear compartment.

“It’s just a dog,” Logan muttered, grumbling under his breath as he sank into the seat. His tone was dismissive, but the way he avoided Scott’s gaze spoke volumes.

Scott wasn’t convinced. “A dog? Do you have any idea what you’ve just brought on board? Put it back where you found it, Logan,” he demanded, his voice rising again. “What happens if that thing wakes up while we’re flying fifteen thousand feet above the ground? You’re risking all of us!”

Logan shot him a sideways glance, his expression stony. “Then it’ll be my responsibility, I've got it under control just fine” he said curtly, flipping switches on the control panel. “Take your seat. We’re taking off now.”

Scott opened his mouth to argue further but stopped himself, his jaw tightening. Shaking his head, he muttered something under his breath and took his seat near the front.

Jean and Ororo stood near the entrance, both looking uncertain, unsure of how to respond. Jean’s eyes flicked between the creature and Logan, but she didn’t speak, sensing the tension in the air. Ororo, however, wasted no time, walking briskly toward the cockpit. Without another word, she slid into the co-pilot seat, hands already working to start the Blackbird.

The Blackbird’s engines roared to life as Ororo guided the jet into the sky, leaving the argument—and the mysterious creature—behind them for now.

The smell of sizzling eggs and freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen as you stood by the stove, flipping eggs with a practiced hand. You had only woken up half an hour ago, but there was already a certain rhythm to the morning. The soft buzz of the mansion's quiet atmosphere was comforting, but it didn’t help quiet the nerves in your chest.

You glanced up at the clock. It was almost nine. The team was due back soon.

A sense of anxious anticipation rolled through you. The mission, whatever had happened in that lab, still weighed heavily on your mind. You cracked open another egg, a quiet focus settling over you as you worked.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different. The Blackbird had landed a few minutes ago, its distinctive hum now just a faint noise in the background. You could almost feel the tension rising in the air as the team returned.

You finished plating the breakfast, glancing out the kitchen window and catching a glimpse of the Blackbird. It was always strange to see it land so quietly, its presence belying the intensity of what it carried inside.

With a sigh, you put the finishing touches on the breakfast and placed it on the counter. The team would need food and rest, but more than that, you were eager to know what had happened out there. What had they found at the lab?

The hangar buzzed faintly with energy as the Blackbird powered down. Hank approached the team, his sharp eyes scanning the group. "Everyone in one piece?" he asked, his tone calm but probing. His gaze lingered on Logan, who gestured toward the massive, unconscious creature slumped near the back of the jet.

Jean stepped forward, handing Hank the device she had collected from the lab. "This might help shed some light," she said softly. "And, uh, we’ve brought something else too." Her tone was less confident now, and her eyes flicked toward the creature.

Hank followed her gaze, his brows furrowing deeply. "What... is that?"

Logan grunted as he stepped closer. “A dog, It’s alive, and it’s staying unconscious for now. We’ll need it in containment.”

Scott descended the Blackbird’s stairs, his footsteps heavy with frustration. As he passed Logan, he purposely bumped his shoulder into Logan’s from behind. “It’s not a dog,” Scott snapped, his tone sharp. “That thing nearly killed us all.”

Logan stopped, turning his head slightly to glance at Scott, but he didn’t say a word. His silence was pointed, and his expression remained unreadable, a mix of restrained irritation and indifference.

Hank nodded slowly, clearly curious but deciding not to press further. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, motioning for help as he prepared to transfer the creature to a secure cage.

Logan sniffed the air suddenly, his nose twitching. A faint grin crept onto his face. "Anyone else hungry? I smell breakfast upstairs," he said, his voice carrying a rare lightness as he turned and walked briskly toward the exit.

Scott shook his head, his irritation barely concealed. “That super smelling sense is creepy. You can’t convinced me otherwise,” he muttered to Ororo as they followed Logan, Jean trailing behind after finishing her conversation with Hank.

Logan entered the kitchen first, his mood visibly lifting as the aroma of fresh breakfast hit him. His gaze immediately fell on you as you set glasses of orange juice on the table. “Thank god,” he said, his tone full of gratitude. “I’m famished.”

Scott, still simmering with frustration, let out a sarcastic comment. “Hm, someone’s in a good mood.”

Ororo laughed softly, and Jean placed a calming hand on Scott’s shoulder, rubbing gentle circles.

“Let it go, Summers,” Logan said dismissively, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Nothing happened.”

You sensed the tension hanging in the air and decided to diffuse it quickly. "Please, enjoy your breakfast,” you said warmly, gesturing to the plates you had set out. “It’s the least I could do.”

Ororo gave you a grateful smile as she took a seat. “Thank you,” she said, already reaching for her fork.

You put the juice carton back in the fridge, noticing the only seat left was next to Logan. Without hesitation, you slid into the chair, feeling his gaze shift briefly toward you. The table settled into a hum of quiet conversation as everyone began eating.

As the team chattered lightly, you noticed Logan staying out of the conversation, his focus entirely on his plate. Ororo and Jean were discussing something animatedly, their laughter a soft contrast to Scott’s occasional interjections. Taking the chance, you glanced at Logan, watching as he ate quickly, his large spoon practically disappearing into his mouth with each bite.

“Everything okay?” you asked quietly, leaning slightly toward him.

Logan raised an eyebrow and glanced to your side, pausing mid-chew before swallowing. “Yeah,” he replied curtly. “We found something big.”

You tilted your head, curiosity lighting your features. “Big as in… dangerous?”

Logan shrugged, pushing his plate slightly forward as he reached for a glass of orange juice. “Could be. Too early to say.”

The vague response left a sense of unease lingering in the air, but you didn’t press further—not yet, at least. You could tell he wasn’t in the mood to elaborate. Instead, you shifted your gaze back to the table, where the others were now discussing their next moves.

Logan’s voice broke through again, softer this time. “Thanks for breakfast,” he said.

You smiled faintly, your curiosity temporarily taking a backseat. “Anytime,” you murmured, turning your attention back to your plate, though your mind couldn’t help but linger on whatever big thing they’d found.

Charles’ voice suddenly echoed in your mind, clear and commanding, “Everyone, gather in the meeting room.” The slight shift in expression from those around the table confirmed the message had been sent to all of you. Without missing a beat, the team rose from their seats, leaving their dirty plates and glasses in the kitchen as they filed out.

In the meeting room, Hank stood by the central console, his face unusually serious as he worked through the data pulled from the hard drive Jean had recovered. The faint hum of the holographic display filled the room as he turned to address the team.

“I’ve gone through most of the files from the lab,” Hank began, his tone measured but heavy.

“There’s good news and bad news. Let’s start with the good. I believe I can build a chip to unlock the collar.” His gaze flickered to you. “But it’s going to take time. Weeks, at least. The components I need are specialized and will have to be sourced from around the world.”

The room was silent except for the faint shifting of chairs. Hank pressed a button, projecting scans of your brain and blood tests from the night before onto the screen.

“Now for the bad news,” he continued, his voice softening. “The scans show your condition is deteriorating. Your blood isn’t replenishing itself properly, and the tumor is putting more pressure on your brain. I know you’ve been hiding it well, but…” Hank hesitated, his usual confidence faltering. “I can’t let you keep suffering like this. Not under my watch.”

Your stomach tightened as his words hung in the air. You knew things were bad, but hearing it laid out so plainly made it feel crushingly real.

Hank exhaled deeply before continuing. “From the files, I’ve found a potential temporary solution. It involves a bone marrow transplant—from Logan to you. His healing factor could regenerate your blood temporarily, buying us more time until I can remove the collar.”

You’re immediately against it. The thought of another injection derived from his DNA dredges up memories of your transformation into a mutant, an experience you’ve never fully reconciled.

You fear the idea of becoming too much like him, as if losing more of yourself every time his DNA alters you.

Logan’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t hesitate. With a shrug, he muttered, “I’ll do it. No problem.”

Hank looked relieved, nodding gratefully. Before he could say more, Jean chimed in. “We can prep everything tonight. Hank and I will keep digging through the drive for more information.”

“I"m sure you both can ensure her well being,” Ororo added, her calm voice cutting through the tension.

Charles nodded in approval. Then Hank turned to Scott, seeking his input. Scott crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, he simply said, “If it’s what she needs, then we should do it.”

The team seemed to settle into agreement, but no one had thought to ask you. Finally, you broke the silence.

“No.”

The word came out sharp and clear, cutting through the room like a knife. Every head turned toward you. Logan’s eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned forward. “What’s wrong, Varmint?”

You met his gaze, your voice unwavering. “I can’t do that.”

Logan frowned, clearly trying to figure you out. “Nothing's gonna happened to me. I’ve been through worse, and if this gives you a shot at life, it’s worth it.”

You shook your head, the words you wanted to say stuck in your throat. It wasn’t about Logan—it was about you. But how could you explain that? Your voice cracked slightly as you repeated, “I’m sorry. I just… I can’t.”

Without waiting for a response, you pushed back from the table, rising abruptly. The team watched in stunned silence as you strode out of the room. You moved quickly down the hall, your steps echoing off the walls, climbing the stairs until you reached the sanctuary of your room. The door closed with a soft click behind you, sealing you off from the questions and expectations left behind.

Back in the meeting room, the team exchanged puzzled glances. Hank and Jean shared a quiet look, unsure of how to proceed. Charles, however, seemed unsurprised. His calm gaze turned to Logan.

“She needs a little push,” Charles said gently. “You can convince her, Logan.”

Logan’s jaw tightened. The idea of being in a room with two telepaths poking at his thoughts made him uneasy, but he couldn’t deny the truth in Charles’ words. He gave a slight nod, his mind already focused on finding you and trying to understand.

With a gruff sigh, Logan stood and left the room, determined to bring you around—even if it meant pushing you harder than he’d like.

Logan climbed the stairs to the third floor, his heavy boots echoing faintly in the quiet hallway. He paused in front of your door, hovering for a moment before reaching for the handle. It clicked open easily—it wasn’t locked. Stepping inside, his sharp eyes immediately found you sitting by the windowsill, your arms wrapped tightly around your knees like you were shielding yourself from whatever he was about to say.

You glanced at the door, spotting Logan, and cursed softly under your breath. Why didn’t I lock it?

“It wasn’t about me,” Logan said simply, his voice low but steady.

Your eyes stayed fixed on the view outside, refusing to meet his.

“It’s about you,” he continued, his tone firm but not unkind, reading you like an open book. It frustrated you how easily he could cut through your defenses, even when you tried so hard to keep him out.

“I’m not gonna do it, Logan,” you said, your voice quiet but resolute.

Logan stepped further into the room, his movements careful, as if trying not to spook you. He sat across from you, close enough to catch even the smallest flicker of emotion on your face. But you kept your gaze firmly on the window, refusing to look at him.

He tilted his head slightly, watching you for a long moment before speaking again. “I need to show you something downstairs. Come on.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. But then he stood, tilting his head toward the door in a silent invitation. Without a word, you unwound yourself from the windowsill and followed him out, your steps quiet against the wooden floors.

As you walked side by side through the hallway and down the stairs, Logan finally broke the silence. “Scott was furious because of this thing,” he confessed, his voice gruff but tinged with something softer.

You glanced at him briefly, the faintest flicker of curiosity in your eyes. “What is it?”

“A dog,” Logan said, his lips twitching into a humorless smile. “He was ready to toss it out mid-flight.”

Logan stopped in front of the reinforced cage by the lab, dragging it slightly into the light. The dog-wolf creature lay inside, still unconscious but breathing steadily. The harsh glow illuminated the jagged metal patches on its body, emphasizing its unnatural appearance. Logan's gaze fixed on the creature.

“This thing was made. Torn apart and put back together like it didn’t matter. It’s probably been through hell.”

But his words barely registered. As soon as the creature came into view, your breath hitched. Recognition struck you like a blow to the chest. You stepped closer, your eyes wide with disbelief.

“Fenris!” you exclaimed, your voice trembling as you dropped to your knees in front of the cage.

Logan froze, his sharp gaze flicking between you and the creature. “Fenris?” he repeated, his tone tinged with confusion.

Ignoring him, you unlocked the cage without hesitation, your fingers trembling slightly as you pushed the door open. You reached inside, gently placing a hand on the creature’s head. Despite the cold metal plating and the harsh scars marring its body, there was still something familiar in the way its chest rose and fell, the faint remnants of the dog you once knew.

“What have they done to you…” you whispered, more to yourself than to anyone else. Your fingers trailed over the patchy fur and metallic implants, your heart sinking as memories surged back.

Logan crouched beside you, his brows furrowed as he studied both you and the creature. “You know this thing?” he asked, his voice low and careful.

You nodded, your throat tight. “Fenris was…is…one of them. A weapon. The military used him for a short time, a biological weapon. They'd injected him with rabies to attack the enemies, back when they were developing experimental war assets. He was just a dog when they got him, but they…they turned him into this.”

Logan’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “You were there?”

You hesitated, your hand still stroking Fenris’s head. “I wasn’t on the battlefield, but I saw him after each mission. They’d send him out and…when he came back, it was worse every time. More scars, more metal. They kept adding to him, taking away the parts that made him…him.”

Logan didn’t say anything for a moment, but his silence spoke volumes. He glanced at the unconscious creature, his gaze heavy with understanding.

“I tried to stop them once,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Tried to tell them he was suffering, that he wasn’t just a machine. But they didn’t care. They didn’t see him as anything more than a tool.”

Logan sighed, leaning back slightly. “They never do. That’s how they see us, too. Tools, experiments. Nothing more.”

You met his gaze, and for a moment, you saw the shared weight of pain and loss in his eyes. Turning back to Fenris, you gently stroked the fur where it was still soft, untainted by the metallic implants.

“I used to sneak at night,” you said softly. “I’d sit with him. Bring him treats”

You swallowed hard. “…I don’t know if there’s enough of him left to bring back.”

You stayed seated by the cage, your fingers gently tracing the cold metal bars as Fenris’s slow, steady breaths filled the room. Logan crouched beside you, his gaze flicking between you and the creature.

“Fenris would still need you.. to be around.. Please…” Logan’s voice was gruff, and there was a hesitance in it, like he couldn’t quite believe he was saying the words. “You need to do the procedure.”

Your hand stilled, and you glanced at him. His eyes held something you hadn’t expected—concern, not just for you, but for Fenris too. You shifted your gaze from the unconscious creature to Logan, your heart heavy with doubt.

“What if It changed me?” you asked quietly, the vulnerability in your voice catching even you off guard. “What if I survive, but lose everything I have left?”

Logan’s palm rested on your arm, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. The touch was grounding, steady. His voice was low but firm. “You’re already more you than anyone I’ve ever met. A shot of me ain’t gonna change that...” He muttered your name softly.

His words held an unshakable confidence, and for the first time, you found yourself believing him. His gaze never wavered, holding yours with an intensity that made it hard to look away. You felt a strange sense of comfort in it, a reassurance that had been missing for so long.

Logan’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “C’mon, do it for Fenris.”

A soft smile broke through your uncertainty, despite yourself. “You’re not gonna stop playing that card now, are you?”

“Not a chance,” he replied, his tone lighter now but still laced with sincerity.

You glanced down at his hand, still resting on your arm, and then back at Fenris. There was a warmth in Logan’s touch, an unexpected solace that made the decision feel just a little less daunting. Finally, you exhaled deeply, the tension in your shoulders easing.

“I can’t wait to throw this right at Scott’s face,” Logan said with a quiet laugh, breaking the heavy atmosphere. “The dog I rescued that he hated for an hour straight? I was right, and he was wrong.”

You chuckled softly, your smirk growing. “Thank you, for not leaving him behind.” You said which Logan just silently respond with a small smile, flickering his eyes between your eyes and lips.

With a small shake of your head, you pulled your arm from his touch and reached to close the cage. As much as you hated breaking the connection, the moment felt less weighty now, more manageable.

“Let’s get it over with,” you said, standing and casting one last glance at Fenris. Logan followed, his hand resting briefly on your back as you both turned toward the door. “For Fenris,” you muttered under your breath, and though the words were small, they carried a growing sense of determination.

Part 8 ->

[marifilue]

Part 6: Thin Thread

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n.

Summary: You're an X-Men member with regenerative healing ability and skilled marksman. On a routine mission with the team things take a drastic turn when a mutant-inhibitor collar is forced onto you, leaving you vulnerable, unable to heal. With no quick fix in sight, Logan becomes your reluctant anchor, helping you get through each day as you fight to survive, unexpected bond with Logan begins to grow, one that becomes far stronger than either of you could imagine.

Warnings: Explicit language, Violence, Blood

WC: 7,7k

<- Part 5

The morning greeted you with a dull, relentless headache that pulsed at your temples, a buzzing ache that had been your unwelcome companion through the night. You’d tried ignoring it, relying on the painkillers Logan had slipped you last night, but the reprieve had been temporary. Now, as the sunlight filtered through your blinds, the ache roared back, louder than before.

You sat up in bed with a groan, pressing your fingers to your temples in a futile attempt to soothe the pain. A glance at the clock on the nightstand made your stomach drop. 9:00 a.m. Shit. You were supposed to be up an hour ago.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face to wake yourself up. The mirror reflected the exhaustion etched into your features—the dark circles under your eyes, the faint sheen of sweat on your forehead. You pushed the thought aside, finishing your routine quickly before heading downstairs for breakfast.

The kitchen was quiet, the usual chatter of students absent, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator to keep you company. You grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat at the counter, eating mechanically, the food doing little to ease the fog in your mind. By 10:00 a.m., you were already bored, the monotony of your restricted days weighing heavily on you.

With the collar limiting your abilities and activities, Charles had given you a break from teaching. “Take the time you need,” he’d said. You hadn’t argued. A day off, especially one where you weren’t feeling well, wasn’t something you’d pass up. But now, with nothing pressing to do, you found yourself wandering the halls aimlessly, searching for a distraction.

The library called to you like an old friend. The quiet space had always been a sanctuary for you, a place where the noise of the world faded into the rustle of pages and the scent of ink on paper. It wasn’t the same as your old life, back when you’d spent hours organizing shelves and helping readers find their next favorite story. But it was close enough.

You stepped inside, the familiar stillness wrapping around you like a warm blanket. The rows of books stretched out before you, their spines a comforting reminder of simpler times. Running your fingers along the shelves, you let your mind wander, the weight of the headache momentarily forgotten.

One title caught your eye: 1984 by George Orwell. Your fingers hesitated before plucking it from its place. The worn cover felt familiar under your touch, the pages yellowed with time. You’d read it before, years ago, but something about it called to you now. A story about control, about power, about losing oneself to forces greater than you, a theme that felt all too real these days.

Clutching the book to your chest, you left the library and stepped into the yard. The afternoon sunlight was bright but not overwhelming, the kind of warmth that invited you to linger. You found a quiet spot under a large oak tree, far enough from the students that you could sit undisturbed.

Settling into the grass, you opened the book, letting its familiar words draw you in. The headache still pulsed faintly at the back of your mind, but here, surrounded by nature and the quiet murmur of life around you, it felt manageable.

For a little while, at least, you could lose yourself in the pages, in the world Orwell had created, and let the weight of your own reality slip away.

The memories drifted through your mind like whispers from another life. You could still picture the shelves of your old job, rows upon rows of books arranged just how you liked, each with its own story, waiting to be found. You’d been happy there, in that quiet space, finding purpose in your work as a librarian. But your father had never seen it that way.

“Wasting your potential,” he’d say, the disgust clear in his voice. To him, every day you spent outside the military was another day you failed him. He couldn’t fathom why you’d choose books over bullets, college over combat.

You were supposed to follow in his footsteps. He’d trained you to handle a rifle from a young age, pushing you to perfect your aim until you could shoot as easily as you could breathe. He’d always wanted you to enlist. When you turned 18 and told him you wanted to study English, to build your life in your own way, the disappointment in his eyes had been searing.

Nine years passed. You’d found your own stability, your own peace, a steady job, an apartment you paid for yourself. You kept your distance from your parents, seeing them only on occasion, which kept the resentment at bay. But when you visited them that day, you hadn’t known your life would take a turn.

You still remembered the way your father had mentioned it over thanksgiving dinner, casual and offhanded, as if it were nothing. “I’ve got a friend coming over tonight. Wants to talk to you about an opportunity.”

That “friend” had turned out to be Dr. Emmy Killebrew, a name you would come to loathe. His glasses caught the light as he studied you, his expression unreadable but oddly pleased, like he’d found exactly what he was looking for.

“We’ve got a guy in the Marines who could use your particular skills,” he said. “It’s just a two-year contract, short and simple. Your family could really use the money.”

The words echoed back now, a dark, hollow promise that had lured you in. You’d wanted to help your parents; you’d agreed, believing it would be a standard military experience. Six months of training, intense, but doable. You thought you’d be home soon, maybe a little stronger, with stories to tell.

But instead, the injections had started.

There had been no way out once they began, no choice in the matter. They told you it was necessary, part of a new program to build “better soldiers.” You remembered the searing pain of each injection, the way it tore through your system, altering you, until you could feel it in your bones. Your father’s betrayal hit you harder than any training ever could. They’d manipulated your DNA, spliced it with something beyond human, the Wolverine's genetic material. You didn’t fully understand it at the time, but within weeks, your body began to change.

You were no longer just a soldier. You were a mutant, immortal, nearly indestructible. You could heal from any wound. The realization had terrified you. But to them, it was a success, proof that you were now a weapon, unbreakable, expendable, and no longer your own.

The sharp snap of fingers brought you back from the haze of your mind. You blinked, momentarily disoriented, the yard of the X-Mansion coming into focus around you. Afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows over the green grass. Logan was standing in front of where you were sitting, one eyebrow raised.

“You’re lost in there, varmint?” he asked, his gruff voice tinged with something like concern.

You scowled, brushing the memory away. “Stop calling me that.”

You stood up clutching the book, avoiding his gaze. The children in the yard caught your eye, some of them whispering to each other as they watched you. Some looked sympathetic, others fearful, their expressions reminding you of the weight of your condition. You glanced away, not wanting to see the pity in their eyes.

Without a word, you turned, walking toward the open expanse of the lawn, hoping Logan would leave you alone. But he didn’t. You heard his footsteps a few paces behind you, steady and unrelenting.

“Jean asked me to get you,” he said. “she and Hank needs to see you in the lab.”

You stopped, shoulders tensing. The last thing you wanted was to go back inside, to face whatever new test or evaluation they’d thought up for you. But you had no other choice. With a sigh, you turned, reluctantly heading toward the mansion. Logan kept his distance, letting you lead the way, but you could feel his presence, a steady shadow.

As you neared the doors, you heard more whispers from the students who lingered nearby. Their eyes followed you, wide and nervous. You caught a few of their words, murmurs of sympathy mixed with fear, as though they were hoping they’d never end up in your position.

Logan threw a sharp glance at the kids, his expression darkening. “Get back to class,” he ordered, and the whispers stopped instantly.

With clenched fists, wishing you could forget the eyes on you, forget the memories that still felt so fresh.

As you walked straight back to the library, the book still clutched in your hand. Logan followed close behind, his boots echoing against the polished floors. He couldn’t seem to help himself, his gruff voice breaking the silence. “Where are we going? They need to see you in the lab.”

“I’m putting the fucking book back!” you bit out, lifting the book over your shoulder for him to see without turning around. Your tone was sharp, your frustration bleeding through. You didn’t care if it sounded rude—your patience was wearing thin.

Logan snorted, clearly unfazed. “Shit, whaddya have for breakfast? Bees?”

You knit your eyebrows together, ignoring his remark as you pushed the library door open and stepped inside. “What do you care? Stop following me like I’m gonna fall on the floor any second,” you shot back, your words clipped.

Reaching the shelf where you’d found 1984, you slid the book back into its spot with more force than necessary. The neat rows of books, once soothing, only served to agitate you now. You turned on your heel, intent on leaving the library and Logan behind, but he wasn’t letting this go.

“You look like you’re about to,” he said, his tone dropping the playful edge and adopting something more serious.

You froze mid-step, glaring at him over your shoulder. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t move, just stood there watching you, his expression unreadable. Something in his gaze made you uneasy—not pity, but something close to concern, and it only made you want to push him further away. Without another word, you stormed out of the library, refusing to let him see how much his words rattled you.

As you walk through the mansion’s hall, you heard a small voice calling your name. It was familiar, one you’d heard just a few nights ago. You looked up, and there she was—Maya, the little girl you and the team had rescued from one of Killebrew’s facilities. She ran toward you, her short legs carrying her as fast as they could. Barely reaching your waist, she threw her arms around you in a tight hug.

Maya looked so much healthier than the day you’d found her, her face glowing with a newfound vitality. Smiling, you knelt to her height, returning her embrace with a gentle hand on her back.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her small voice laced with concern.

You managed a soft smile, touched by her care. “I’m okay, Maya. Do you like the school?”

Her face brightened, eyes sparkling with excitement. “I love it! I have two BFFs now! ‘Best friends forever,’ they said!” She beamed, and you reached out, stroking her cheek and running your fingers through her long hair. The relief of seeing her safe, healthy, and happy here filled you with a warmth you hadn’t expected.

"Yeah? What are their names?" You smile widely

"Ellie and Carter!" She exclaimed, announcing her new two BFFs to you.

“I’m happy to hear that, sweetheart,” you replied softly. You squeeze her shoulder gently. She glance down at the collar around your neck and place her tiny hand on the cold metal.

"What is this for?" She asked innocently. You sell her another smile this time didn't quite reach your eyes. "It's something like a necklace, but not a good necklace. I'm goin' to take them off." You told her reaching his arm on your collar. “I need to go now, okay?” You said as you rise from your knees.

Maya nodded, waving her tiny hand as she backed away. “Bye-bye!” she chirped, a sweet, innocent grin on her face. You waved back, matching her smile. “Bye, Maya.”

As she turned, she saw Logan standing a few steps behind, watching the two of you. She greeted him with a cheerful, “Bye, Mr. Howlett.”

He gave her a nod, his gruff voice softening as he replied, “Bye, kid.”

For a brief moment, you caught the look in Logan’s eyes as he watched Maya skip away down the hall. Something flickered there, a warmth, a tenderness. But as quickly as it appeared, he turned his attention back to you, that familiar, steely expression returning.

You walked through the winding halls of the X-Mansion, descending the staircase toward the basement. Logan was still following a few steps behind you. His heavy boots echoed softly against the polished floors, a constant reminder of his presence. You couldn’t help but wonder why he was trailing you. Surely, you could handle this on your own—Jean and Hank were waiting in the lab, and whatever test needed to be done, they had it covered.

Unless...did Hank need Logan for another one of those dangerous tests? The kind that required someone who could withstand extreme damage? You tried not to dwell on it, focusing instead on the approaching double doors.

As you entered the lab, the faint hum of machinery filled the air. Both Jean and Hank turned their heads as you arrived, their expressions tight with concentration. Jean offered a small, reassuring smile, but Hank’s focus was on a small device in his hand—a thin, rectangular chip that fit neatly between his fingers.

“Take a seat,” Hank instructed, gesturing to the chair in the center of the room.

You sat down, feeling Logan’s presence just a few feet away. He leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, but his sharp eyes missed nothing. Always observing, ready to step in if needed.

Hank moved closer, holding the chip up for you to see. “This is the latest iteration. It’s designed to interface directly with the collar’s locking mechanism. If it works, it should override the suppressive controls.”

You nodded, a flicker of hope sparking in your chest. God, you wanted this to work. Four days of living with your powers suppressed, your body weakening, and that persistent ache in your head, it had been pure misery. You gritted your teeth, refusing to let the desperation show, but deep down, all you wanted was an end to this nightmare.

Jean placed a comforting hand on your shoulder as Hank moved closer to the collar. “Just stay still,” she murmured.

“Got it,” you replied, your voice steady despite the tension tightening your throat.

Hank worked carefully, sliding the chip into the thin slot along the collar’s edge. The device emitted a faint beep as it connected, and the three of you waited, watching and listening for any sign of change. Seconds stretched into what felt like hours. The collar remained silent.

Hank frowned, his brows furrowing as he adjusted the device. Still nothing. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath, his tone tinged with frustration. He pulled back slightly, checking his equipment. Jean leaned over to assist him, her telekinetic abilities lifting tools to his side as they inspected the chip.

“Is it supposed to take this long?” Logan’s gravelly voice broke the silence.

“It shouldn’t,” Hank admitted, his voice tight. “But these things are notoriously difficult to bypass. I thought—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “I thought this would work.”

You sat there, staring ahead as the hope you’d clung to began to fade. Jean placed her hand on your shoulder again, her touch firm but comforting. “We’ll figure this out,” she said softly, though the strain in her voice betrayed her own frustration.

“I know,” you said flatly, your hands gripping the edges of the chair. You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your emotions in check.

Hank straightened, looking genuinely apologetic. “I’ll go back to the drawing board. There’s still more we can try—”

“No,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “Not today. I need...I just need a break.” You said as bringing your finger again to rub your temple.

Jean and Hank exchanged glances, unsure of how to respond. Logan, however, stepped forward, his sharp gaze locking on yours. “Then take one,” he said simply. “You don’t have to sit here feeling sorry for yourself. Hank’ll figure it out. You just focus on holding up until then.”

It wasn’t the most comforting thing anyone had ever said to you, but somehow, it helped. You nodded, slowly standing from the chair. “Let me know if you make any progress,” you said to Hank and Jean before heading toward the door.

Logan didn’t say anything as he followed you out, but the quiet strength of his presence was enough to steady you, at least for now.

You paced back and forth in the kitchen, the glass of water in your hand trembling slightly as you brought it to your lips. The headache was relentless, a dull thrum that echoed with every beat of your heart. You knew the painkillers Logan had given you earlier had worn off, but you weren’t about to ask for another. Not with him looming behind you like an immovable shadow.

Logan leaned against the counter, silent but watchful, his arms crossed over his chest. His presence only added to your growing irritation. You didn’t need his pity, and you certainly didn’t need him following you around like some overprotective watchdog.

The sound of footsteps broke the tense silence as Storm walked into the kitchen. She glanced between you and Logan, her expression curious but calm. “Good, you’re both here,” she said, her voice firm but warm. “Charles wants us in the meeting room. It’s important.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples as if the motion could banish the ache in your head. “Can’t it wait?” you muttered.

Storm’s gaze softened slightly, but her tone remained resolute. “It’s urgent.”

Logan pushed off the counter, his boots scuffing against the floor as he straightened. “Let’s go, varmint,” he said gruffly, his tone almost teasing. Almost.

You shot him a glare but said nothing, setting the glass down with more force than necessary before following Storm out of the kitchen. Logan trailed behind you, his heavy footsteps matching yours as the three of you made your way to the meeting room.

As the three of you walked down the hall toward the meeting room, Ororo turned her head slightly, her brow arching in curiosity. “What is a varmint?” she asked, directing the question toward you.

You shrugged, your tone dry. “I don’t know. Ask Logan.”

Ororo’s gaze shifted to Logan, who smirked and muttered your name. “She is. She’s a varmint.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Ororo’s lips quirked up as she observed the exchange. Something in the way Logan’s smirk lingered and the way you rolled your eyes told her everything she needed to know. You two were a fifty-year-old and a hundred-seventy-year-old mutant, yet somehow, the two of you bickered like high schoolers.

She chuckled softly, the sound low enough for only the two of you to hear. Both of you snapped your heads toward her, your glares sharp enough to cut through steel.

“What’s so funny, ‘Ro?” Logan growled, his tone defensive. “Nothing,” Ororo said smoothly, though the amused glint in her eyes betrayed her. “Absolutely nothing.” You crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes. “Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hummed with a knowing smile, turning her attention back to the hallway. “Let’s not keep the others waiting, shall we?”

Logan muttered something under his breath, and you let out an annoyed huff, but neither of you pressed further, though the irritation simmered between you like static electricity. Ororo, on the other hand, kept her quiet amusement to herself, thinking that perhaps this tension was more entertaining than it should have been.

The meeting room was brightly lit, the long table surrounded by familiar faces. Professor Xavier sat at the head, his serene expression tinged with quiet determination. Ororo took a seat to his left, while Scott stood at the opposite end, a tablet in his hand. Logan pulled out a chair next to you and sat down, his proximity both grounding and irritating.

Scott cleared his throat, tapping the tablet to project an image onto the wall behind him. It was a grainy photo of a familiar figure: Dr. Emmy Killebrew.

“We’ve got a lead,” Scott began, his voice clipped and professional. “Killebrew was spotted in Manhattan last night. Intel suggests he’s attending a private gala tomorrow night, hosted by the Manhattan Medical Research Society.”

“What kind of gala?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

“A high-profile event for medical professionals,” Scott explained. “The guest list includes pharmaceutical executives, genetic researchers, and biotech innovators. Killebrew’s name wasn’t on the list, but sources confirm he’ll be there.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Logan asked, his tone low but focused.

Scott glanced at the professor, who nodded before continuing. “We’ll infiltrate the gala and confront Killebrew directly. The goal is to extract information—discreetly if possible, but we’re prepared to use more... aggressive measures if necessary.”

You shifted in your seat, the headache pounding harder with every word. Before you could stop yourself, the question slipped out. “Do you even need me for the mission?”

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to you, and for a moment, you wished you could take the words back. But you didn’t. You held your ground, even as Scott’s expression hardened.

“No,” Scott said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This mission requires precision and subtlety, and you’re not in any condition to—”

“Then why am I even in this meeting?” you interrupted, your voice rising. Frustration flared, both at Scott’s dismissal and the relentless pounding in your head. “If you’re not going to let me help, maybe just leave me out of it!”

“Enough,” Xavier’s calm voice cut through the tension like a knife. His gaze was steady, his tone gentle but authoritative. “You’re here because this mission involves a key figure in your past, and we believe you deserve to be informed. That said, Scott is correct. This is not a mission you should undertake.”

Your hands curled into fists under the table. You wanted to argue, to demand that they let you go, but the professor’s words left little room for debate. Instead, you leaned back in your chair, exhaling sharply as the tension in the room eased slightly.

Scott continued, his focus shifting back to the group. “Logan, Ororo, and I will handle the infiltration. Jean will provide remote support. The priority is information. We need to know what Killebrew’s planning and if he’s connected to any larger operations.”

You tried to focus on Scott’s words, but the room felt stifling. The headache pulsing in your skull grew sharper, your breaths shallow. The walls seemed closer, the lights too bright.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cut through Scott’s explanation, and you stood abruptly, the scrape of your chair echoing in the room.

“I—uh—please continue,” you said, your tone soft but hurried. “I just need some air.”

Without waiting for a response, you stepped out of the room, your pace quickening as the door slid shut behind you.

Logan’s gaze didn’t leave you, his eyes locked on the door long after you’d disappeared. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered behind his sharp features.

Outside, you leaned against the cool wall, closing your eyes and focusing on your breathing. The tension in your chest loosened slightly, but the frustration remained. You hated the way they dismissed you, how powerless you felt, and most of all, how much you wanted to prove them wrong.

Back inside the room, Scott exchanged a brief glance with Logan. “We should move on,” he said, though his voice held a tinge of unease.

Logan didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening. Finally, he muttered, “You all know she’s tougher than you think,” before shifting his attention back to the plan, though his thoughts lingered elsewhere.

The equipment room was filled with the familiar scent of gun oil and steel. It was your refuge, the one place you could let your thoughts quiet and just be. You moved between the racks, your fingers grazing the cool metal of various firearms until you stopped at the DSR-1.

You grabbed the rifle, hefting its weight and feeling the sting in your side flare. The dull ache from the wound still hadn’t eased after four days, making you limp slightly as you adjusted the weapon in your hands.

“Fuck,” you cursed under your breath, the frustration bubbling up as you hung the sniper rifle back on its rack. Heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Logan stepped into the room, his presence unmistakable. “Knew I'd find you here” he said, with voice low and steady.

Your focus was on the DSR-1 still on its rack. “I was on sniper duty with this gal,” you said, your tone distant. “DSR-One. Guarding George H.W. Bush. Back in the 90s.”

Logan raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting you continue.

“He was visiting New York. I was stationed on one of the tallest buildings, just watching, waiting for a threat.” You traced a finger along the rifle’s edge. “Long hours. Quiet, but tense.”

Logan nodded slightly, his eyes not leaving you. After a moment of silence, he spoke. “If you really want to go on the mission tomorrow... I could convince the team. As long as you’re under my watch.”

You froze for a second, the offer catching you off guard. It wasn’t what you expected from him. Intriguing, maybe even tempting. After all, it was a simple gala—just find Killebrew and get information. You’d already thought of ways to hide the collar, like covering it with a scarf.

But reality set in as quickly as the idea tempted you. You shook your head, more at yourself than at him. “No, that’s dumb. I can’t risk the team any further.”

Your gaze landed on a Mini Uzi. Its compact frame was sleek and practical, perfect for your current state. You picked it up, sighting down the barrel with ease, satisfied with how manageable it felt.

Logan’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he could see through the lie you just told yourself. “Well,” he said with a shrug, “I just thought you could use a night out.” His nonchalance was infuriating and, somehow, comforting.

“Ridiculous,” you muttered, shaking your head at his suggestion, though you couldn’t deny the flicker of interest it sparked in you.

Logan smirked faintly, stepping aside as you moved toward the door. “Just say the word.”

You shot him a look "No." As you kept walking, heading to the indoor shooting range.

The muffled echo of gunfire filled the indoor shooting range as you fired the Mini Uzi, each shot sharp and precise. Your arms were steady, the stance you’d perfected over years of experience still second nature. The paper target at the far end of the range was riddled with neat, tight clusters—proof that, even with an annoying wound and a relentless headache, your accuracy remained impeccable.

Logan leaned against the doorframe behind you, arms crossed as he watched in silence. His eyes weren’t just on your shooting. If eye-fucking were a crime, Logan would’ve been guilty without a trial. The way you stood, with both arms raised, your figure outlined by the loose t-shirt tucked into your jeans, the sweats on the back of your neck made Logan notice a visible mark there.

With your hair in high ponytail, he stare the mark, it was a tattoo. But also looked like some codenames, he can't see clearly but they're a few bunch of random numbers. It held his attention far longer than it should have.

The faint dip of your waist, the slight shift in your stance as you adjusted between rounds—it drove him mad in a way he couldn’t quite name, and the way those jeans hugging your hips didn’t help. He’d never admit it aloud, but he’d lost track of how long he’d been staring.

The last of the bullets left the barrel, the magazine clicking empty. You lowered the Uzi and set it down, your hand instinctively rubbing at your temple. The gunshots noise didn't exactly help your headache, in fact they're worsen now.

“You should really ask Jean to look into those migraines,” Logan said, breaking the silence. His voice was flat, casual, but his eyes hadn’t softened from their earlier intensity.

You jumped slightly, startled by his presence. “It’s not a migraine. Just a headache,” you snapped, dismissing him as you turned to put the Uzi back in its place. “What are you still doing here?”

“Watching,” Logan said, shrugging lazily. “I like guns.”

You turned a sharp look over your shoulder. “No, you don’t. They’re not even your style.”

He smirked, the kind of smirk that made you want to wipe it off his face—or kiss it off. You couldn’t decide which. “Who are you to judge what my style is?” he countered smoothly.

You rolled your eyes, turning away again as you began walking out of the shooting range. He followed, his boots heavy on the floor behind you.

“Oh boy, does It not written all over your face,” you said, voice clipped but teasing.

“Really?” Logan asked, his tone carrying a challenge now. “Tell me, then. What is it?”

You stopped abruptly, swinging around to face him, your hands on your hips. His sudden stillness told you he wasn’t expecting you to turn.

“You think guns are toys,” you said evenly, holding his gaze. “A joke.”

Logan didn’t reply immediately, his expression unreadable. You could see a flicker of recognition in his eyes, though. Part of what you’d said rang true, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Guns weren’t his style—they never had been. He’d always relied on raw power, his claws, and the ferocity that came naturally to him.

“You don’t respect them,” you continued, your tone a little sharper now. “You think they’re a quick fix, a lazy shortcut. Like pulling a trigger is the easy way out instead of doing the work. You think it’s all about power, but you don’t understand what it takes to handle a weapon. Guns are precise. They’re not for show. They’re tools for survival. But you, you think they're some kind of crutch. You think they’re for people who can't fight their own battles face to face.”

You paused, watching his reaction. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his resistance, like you were pushing him into a corner he didn’t want to be in. “Thought so,” you muttered, half to yourself, but you knew he’d heard.

But there was something about the way you held them, the precision in your movements, that gave him pause. He didn’t know if it was respect, admiration, or something much more dangerous but whatever it was, it had him hooked.

His eyes lingering on your retreating form. You didn’t look back, but you felt his gaze like a weight on your shoulders.

He stood there for a moment longer, trying to decide whether to chase after you or let you go. But then he finds another reason to jab about, to chase you again wherever you go this time. He wants you to get checked. He's worried, or maybe even cares in the oddest way.

As Logan followed you into the medbay, the sharp scent of antiseptic stung your nose, mingling with the sterile chill of the room. You moved with purpose, throwing open cupboards and rummaging through their contents with a single-minded desperation. Your fingers tore through boxes and bottles, pushing aside anything that wasn’t what you were looking for.

Painkillers. That was all you needed.

The buzzing ache in your skull was relentless, a cruel reminder of your vulnerability. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt anything like it. Not after being thrown across war zones, not after enduring blasts that should’ve killed you. Back then, nothing had fazed you. But now, your head throbbed, sharp and insistent, as if mocking you for being weak.

Behind you, Logan entering the room, observing the frustration clear all over your face. His sharp eyes followed your frantic movements. He hated to ask, but he could see it—the way your hands shook as they rifled through the shelves, the tension radiating from your rigid posture.

“Are you okay?” His gravelly voice broke through the silence, laced with something unfamiliar: concern.

You didn’t stop, didn’t even look at him. “No!” you snapped, your voice sharp and raw. “Fuck, this headache is driving me crazy. I… I can’t even” You broke off, shoving another drawer closed with more force than necessary.

You kept moving, invading every inch of the inventory as frustration clawed at your chest. “Where the fuck is it?” you muttered, your voice trembling with barely restrained anger.

Logan stepped further into the room, his boots heavy against the tile. He scanned the shelves calmly, his sharp instincts making it easy to locate the bottle you so desperately needed. Without a word, he pulled it from its place and turned toward you.

“I can’t fucking do this anymore,” you said, your voice cracking as you slammed another drawer shut. “I hate it. I hate being h-” Before you could finish the sentence, a sting in your throat deepened, and for a moment, you froze, your hand gripping the edge of the counter to steady yourself.

Logan stepped closer, holding the bottle of pills in front of you. “Here,” he said simply, his tone steady.

You glanced down at his hand, at the label reading Painkillers, but didn’t reach for it. The tears you’d fought so hard to hold back began to blur your vision. Logan’s eyes met yours, his gaze unwavering, and something in the quiet strength of it made the walls you’d built start to crumble.

“You hate what?” he asked, his voice softer now, coaxing. His eyes stayed locked on yours, searching for an answer you were barely holding onto.

Your throat tightened, and you shook your head, your hand finally trembling as it took the bottle from him. “I hate being human,” you whispered, the words escaping before you could stop them.

There it was. The admission hung heavy in the air, as raw and unfiltered as the tears that threatened to spill.

Logan didn’t flinch. He didn’t pity you. Instead, he nodded slightly, like he understood. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady. “But bein’ human ain’t all bad.”

You scoffed bitterly, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand before they could betray you further. “Feels like it is right now.”

He leaned against the counter, his rough exterior softening just a little. “Bein' human is bearable, when you don’t have to carry this alone, y’know. Let someone help for once.”

You looked at him, startled by the sincerity in his tone. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his words lingered, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I’ll think about it,” you muttered, shaking a pill from the bottle into your hand and swallowing it dry.

“Good,” he said simply, straightening up. He stayed close as you leaned against the counter, waiting for the pain to ebb. “You needs to get checked for those headaches.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” you said quickly, hoping to end the conversation. Logan wasn’t having it. “What about tonight? After dinner.”

“Why the rush?” you shot back, trying to mask the fear bubbling beneath the surface. The idea of knowing made your stomach churn. You weren’t ready for answers, not yet.

“The sooner we know, the better,” Logan muttered your name, his voice gentler this time., and the way he said it made the tension in your chest tighten.

You didn’t respond immediately, letting his words hang in the air between you. Part of you wanted to argue, to push back, but the quiet insistence in his tone softened your defenses. “C’mon,” he urged, his voice low and coaxing. “I’ll keep you company.”

“What if Hank asks you to be the guinea pig for another experiment? I bet you won't be there.” you asked playfully, recalling the last time he got jolted by the electricity from your collar.

Logan’s lip twitched, but his tone was reassuring. “I don’t care. I’d still be there.” You raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly closer. “Did you secretly enjoy it? Being electrocuted?” He scoffed, his head tilting slightly as he shot you a deadpan look.

“Ha! Knew it! I knew you’d be one of those freaky masochists,” you teased, slapping his shoulder lightly with the back of your hand.

“That’s a little far-fetched, don’t ya think?” he grumbled, avoiding your playful accusation, though the corner of his mouth twitched in the faintest smirk.

The brief exchange pulled a smile from you, easing some of the tension lingering between you two.

With a heavy sigh, you finally relented. “Fine, after dinner.”

Logan’s lips twitched into a faint smile, his gaze never leaving yours. The intensity of it made you break the contact first, looking down as you pushed away from the counter. “I’ll see ya,” he said, his voice almost teasing but laced with relief.

You nodded, your throat tight as you headed toward the door. “See you,” you murmured, stepping out of the medbay and making your way to your room, trying not to think about what you’d just agreed to.

The team gathered around the long dining table, a comforting spread of food filling the air with warmth and familiarity. Charles was at the head, his serene expression softening as he listened to Hank animatedly discuss a recent breakthrough in his research. Scott interjected occasionally with skeptical questions, while Jean tried to keep the conversation light. Ororo added her own input with quiet humor, her calm presence a counterbalance to the lively exchange.

Logan sat across from you, his usual gruff demeanor softened by the glow of the evening. He wasn’t much of a talker during meals, but his sharp gaze flickered to yours more times than you could count. You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on picking at your food and chiming in when necessary.

“Logan, you ever consider shaving that beard?” Scott asked, smirking as he sipped his drink.

Logan raised an eyebrow, chewing deliberately before answering. “You ever consider mindin’ your own business?”

The table erupted into laughter, Ororo shaking her head as Charles chuckled lightly.

“You two are like oil and water,” Jean teased, her eyes glinting with amusement.

Logan’s gaze flicked to you again, and you felt your stomach tighten. He was watching you more than he should, and it wasn’t helping the creeping anxiety in the back of your mind.

The meal ended too soon for your liking, and as the others began to drift away, you found yourself trying to stall. Rising to your feet, you looked to Ororo, who was gathering plates. “Here, let me help with the dishes,” you offered quickly.

Ororo raised a brow but handed you a stack. “If you insist.”

Jean passed by, placing her glass in the sink. “Don’t forget about your check-up,” she reminded you, her voice tinged with gentle concern.

You hesitated, focusing on the plates in your hands. “I’ll be there in fifteen,” you said, keeping your tone light.

Logan knew immediately what you were doing. He's still sitting by the dinner table, his arms crossed. “You can’t keep puttin’ this off.”

“I’m not putting it off,” you replied briskly, focusing on scrubbing a plate. “It’s just a little delay. Fifteen minutes won’t kill anyone.”

Ororo glanced between you and Logan, sensing the charged air. She gave you a knowing look, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she patted your shoulder. “Alright,” she said lightly, though her eyes lingered on yours. “I’ll let you two talk. Maybe Logan can help with the dishes instead of lecturing you.”

The air grew heavier the moment Ororo left, leaving just you and Logan.

“You’re scared,” he said, his tone calm but insistent.

You clenched your jaw, scrubbing harder at the dish in your hand. “I’m not scared. I just don’t like being in that lab. It’s not exactly my idea of a fun night.”

“You’re lying to yourself,” Logan pressed, standing from his seat. “You’ve been draggin’ your feet on this. What are you so afraid of?” He said as he walk closer.

You turned to glare at him, your fingers still gripping the sponge tightly. “I’m not afraid of anything, Logan. I just—”

“You just what?” he interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “You’re tougher than anyone else, but right now, you’re actin’ like a damn coward.”

The word hit you like a punch to the gut, and you slammed the dish back into the sink. “Coward? Do you have any idea what it’s like to think something might be wrong with you? To not be able to fix it? To not even want to know because you’re terrified of what you’ll find out?”

Logan didn’t flinch, his eyes boring into yours. “So, admit it. You’re scared.”

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. The vulnerability was suffocating, but his relentless gaze refused to let you off the hook. Finally, you exhaled shakily, your voice breaking.

“Yes I'm fucking scared!” you confessed. “For the first time in my life, I’m scared...”

The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that pulled you under and made it hard to breathe. Logan stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between shock and something softer.

“Then let them help you,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Do this for the sake of yourself, you deserve to know.”

His words struck a chord, and you glanced away, blinking back the sting of tears. “I don’t know if I can handle it, Logan.”

“You can,” he said firmly, stepping closer. Muttering your name with his gravely voice. “And you will. C’mon, finish up here, and we’ll head to the lab.”

You sighed, picking up the sponge again.

Logan stayed close, leaning against the counter as you finished your task. His presence was grounding, even as your nerves buzzed with the weight of what was to come.

When the last dish was placed on the drying rack, Logan gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Let’s go.”

You nodded reluctantly, wiping your hands on a towel. As you walked toward the medbay, his steady presence at your side, you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of fear and comfort. Whatever the outcome, you wouldn’t face it alone.

The lab was dimly lit, the hum of machinery filling the quiet air. Jean gestured for you to take a seat near the MRI machine, her expression calm but tinged with concern. You followed her instructions, lying back and allowing the machine to begin its scan. The cool metal beneath you felt impersonal, amplifying the knot in your stomach.

Halfway through the procedure, Hank and Charles entered the room. Their quiet murmurs with Jean were a background noise you tried to tune out. As the scan concluded, you sat up, waiting in tense silence while the machine processed the data.

Fifteen minutes passed like hours. You stared blankly at the ceiling, your mind a mess of chaotic thoughts. Across the room, Jean and Hank hovered over the printed results, their conversation too quiet to hear. You could see the shift in their expressions—the furrow of Hank’s brow, the way Jean’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Your chest tightened when their eyes flicked to you, their gazes heavy with hesitation. Jean finally walked the results over to Charles, who studied the scan in silence. He didn’t look up, his expression grim.

Logan, standing off to the side, watched the exchange. His body tensed as he stepped closer to the group, his voice low but demanding. “What’s goin’ on?”

Jean glanced at him, her words too soft for you to catch. Whatever she said made Logan’s expression darken, his jaw tightening as his eyes flicked toward you. Sympathy radiated from his gaze, and you hated it.

You couldn’t sit still any longer. You stood, your movements stiff as you approached the group. “What is it?” Your voice was sharp, demanding an answer.

Jean turned to you, the scan in her hands. She hesitated, as if weighing how to say what she needed to. “There’s... a glioma. A mass of cells growing around the right side of your brain.”

Your breath caught. “It’s a damn cancer, isn’t it?” you asked flatly, cutting through her attempt at a gentle explanation.

Jean glanced back at Hank and Charles for support. The professor moved forward in his wheelchair, his tone measured but serious. “Yes. We believe it’s a brain tumor.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Your voice came out hollow, stripped of emotion. “How long do I have left?”

Hank adjusted his glasses, clearly uncomfortable as he answered. “Approximately six months.”

Charles rolled closer, his gaze steady. “We’ll find a way through this. Don’t you worry,” he assured you, his voice calm but filled with determination.

Your chest tightened, your breathing shallow. The words felt distant, like they were happening to someone else. You wanted to break down, to cry or scream, but all you felt was a cold hollowness.

Logan moved to your side, his presence grounding even as your world spiraled. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, his hand brushing yours for the briefest moment.

“You’re not facing this alone,” he muttered, his voice gruff but steady.

You couldn’t meet his gaze, afraid of what you’d see there. Instead, you stared down at the scan in Jean’s hands, the shadow of the tumor a stark reminder of what was coming.

“I’m dying,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

Jean stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm. “We’ll do everything we can to fight this. You’re not out of options.”

But you barely heard her. All you could feel was the weight of the diagnosis settling in, an immovable force pressing down on your chest. Logan’s hand finally rested lightly on your shoulder, the simple touch anchoring you just enough to keep you from falling apart.

For now.

Part 7 ->

[marifilue]

Guess who just updated the 7 chapters up to 10 chapters. Sorry not sorry people, I loveeee to write another dozens words of stolen glances and yearning. Anyway here's my newest edit

Part 1: New Guy In Town

Part 2: A Mission For Rogue

Part 3: Glimpse Of The Past

Part 4: Bound and Fading

Part 5: Losing Ground

Part 6: Thin Thread

Part 7: Silent Wars

Part 8: Edge Of Mortality

Part 9: Breaking Chains

Part 10: What Remained Of Us

Read here!

[marifilue]

Part 5: Losing Ground

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n.

Summary: You're an X-Men member with regenerative healing ability and skilled marksman. On a routine mission with the team things take a drastic turn when a mutant-inhibitor collar is forced onto you, leaving you vulnerable, unable to heal. With no quick fix in sight, Logan becomes your reluctant anchor, helping you get through each day as you fight to survive, unexpected bond with Logan begins to grow, one that becomes far stronger than either of you could imagine.

Warnings: Explicit language, Violence, Blood

WC: 7,2k

<- Part 4

A piercing, sterile light blurred above as you slowly blinked your eyes open, the muffled sound of voices filtering through the haze of your mind. Groggily, you raised a hand to shield yourself from the brightness, every muscle heavy and weak. Your throat was parched, lips dry and chapped, you swallow your saliva, wincing at the faint soreness that pulsed through your body.

Jean’s face soon appeared above you, her gaze gentle but assessing. "How are you feeling?” she asked, her tone soft yet concerned.

“Thirsty, actually,” you murmured, voice raspy. Feeling the dehydration, when is the last time you drink water, you pushed yourself and tried to sit since the headache from laying too long start taking it's toll. You noticed the IV in your hand. The sight of needle strapped trough your skin made your stomach twist uncomfortably, and you instinctively tried to tug your arm away.

“You’ve been out for about nine hours,” Jean explained, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder to steady you. “It’s seven in the morning now.”

Before you could respond, Hank’s voice caught your attention from across the room. “The collar,” he said with a slight frown, eyeing it with a mixture of fascination and concern. “It has a far more advanced protection mechanism than the ones I’ve dealt with before.”

He approached, adjusting his glasses as he examined it carefully. “I’ll need more time to determine how to disable it safely, without risking harm to you… or anyone nearby. Be careful not to accidently made skin contact with it, for now.”

A small grumble from your stomach made Jean chuckle softly, her gaze shifting back to you. You looked up at her, gesturing toward the IV with a faint grimace. “Can you take this out? I think I could really use a real food.”

Just then, the medbay door swung open, and Logan strode in, wearing a brown flannel tugged into his jeans with huge belt clasping around. You wonder how long did he spent Infront of the mirror with that hairstyle every morning, his usual gruff expression softening slightly as he took in the sight of you awake. Jean smiled, nodding at him. “Logan, could you bring her some breakfast?”

Before he could reply, you interjected quickly, “Can I eat in the kitchen instead? I…uh I don’t really want to eat in here.” Your gaze fell to the sterile surfaces, the clinical smell thick in the air, a sharp reminder of past memories you'd rather forget.

Jean glanced at Hank, who gave a brief nod of approval. “Alright,” he said, understanding in his gaze. “But take it slow.” With that reassurance, Jean turned back to you, gently taking hold of your arm.

“Let me take the IV out before you go,” she said, her tone calm and steady. You watched as she reached for a small gauze pad, her movements precise and careful. She placed it gently against your skin, then pulled the IV needle out in one smooth motion, pressing the gauze over the tiny puncture to stop any bleeding. “There we go,” she murmured, applying a bit of tape to hold the gauze in place. “All set.” You exhaled, feeling a small wave of relief as the IV was finally out.

Logan moved to help you, extending an arm, but you waved him off, determined to make it on your own. Despite the slight limp, you pushed yourself forward, refusing his support even as he trailed close behind, his expression a mix of amusement and mild exasperation. As always, you couldn’t help but meet his silent offer of help with a stubborn sense of independence.

“Good morning to you too, varmint,” Logan greeted with his gruff voice, the new nickname slipping off his tongue with a smirk. You shot him a look, eyebrows furrowed. “What did you just call me?”

“Varmint,” he replied with a casual shrug. You narrowed your eyes, clearly puzzled. “What the hell is that?” You said, clearly having a hard time taking a step by step, but refuse to visibly show the struggle.

Logan chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You don’t know what a varmint is? You sure you’re a marksman?” You rolled your eyes, correcting him with a quick retort. “Markswoman, this is the twentieth century.”

The teasing banter, even first thing in the morning, was so typical of you two, and Logan couldn’t help but enjoy it. But beneath the back-and-forth, he noticed every wince and shift of discomfort in your steps. Watching you push forward despite the obvious pain stirred a mix of pride and concern in him. He knew better than to offer again, yet every step you took, each moment you hid a grimace, tugged at him, wishing he could do more if only you’d let him.

All he could do now was stay close, ready in case you faltered, even as he watched you struggle with that damn stubborn streak he’d come to admire, and maybe even care for, a little too much.

Despite the high walls you kept around yourself, you couldn’t help but think about last night, the way Logan had stayed by your side, squeezing your arm gently as Jean stitched you up, how comforting and reassuring it was from him. You still hadn’t properly thanked him, but you’d get to that later. A flicker of appreciation settled deep down, where you rarely let anything get through. His story lingered, too, a shadow of a memory you couldn’t quite shake, making you wonder just how many other stories he had tucked away, left untold from fragments of a life lived through wars and loss.

Trying to shake off the thought, you refocused and glanced over at him. “What is a varmint, anyway?” you asked, as you stepped into the kitchen. You opened the fridge, feeling his presence behind you as he leaned against the counter. Logan’s eyes glinted with that trademark mischievous look. “I’ll let you figure it out. Where’s the fun in just tellin’ you?”

You gave him an unamused look, already making a mental note to Google it later. Turning back to the fridge, you grabbed a potato and a carton of eggs, shoving them directly into Logan’s hands. “Chop chop, mutton chops, you’re cooking. Mashed potatoes and scrambled egg.” you said, closing the fridge door with a smirk and easing into a chair, chugging a glass of water to freshen up your throat, relieved to take some of the weight off as the pain from walking flared again.

Logan chuckled, eyeing the ingredients in his hands. He shook his head, but there was a faint smile playing on his face. The comfort of the moment settled around you, and for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to relax, even if just a little.

Logan set the eggs and potatoes on the counter, rolling up his sleeves with the look of someone gearing up for a challenge. He glanced over at you, eyebrows raised. “So…mashed potatoes and scrambled eggs, huh? Easy enough.”

You leaned back. “Just make sure to wash the potato first before you start peeling.” He paused, giving you a look as if to say Really? but followed through, rinsing the potato under the tap before he started peeling it with a bit more force than necessary. The way he handled it was almost comically rough, chunks of potato skin flying in every direction. You held back a laugh, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

“What?” he muttered, glancing over. “Nothin,” you said, still holding back a smile. “Just…careful not to take off half the potato with the skin.”

He grunted, focusing intently on the task, but when it came time to mash the potato, he just dumped the chunks into a bowl and started mashing with a fork. Before he could pour in a carton of milk into the pan which he almost do, you warned him, quickly gesturing toward the pan. “Wait! Butter first. You don’t want to dry out the potato.”

Logan shot you an exasperated look but stopped, grabbing the butter and slapping a hunk of it into the pan a bit clumsily. He went to pour in the milk, but you cleared your throat again, eyes widening as he looked over. “What now?”

“Butter…then the milk. It mixes smoother that way,” you explained, the amusement in your voice barely contained. Logan gave a small, amused shake of his head, muttering something under his breath. “I knew you’d be a backseat chef.”

“Only because I’d like to avoid a disaster,” you replied, raising an eyebrow as he half-glared at you with a smirk. He continued to stumble his way through the basics, cracking eggs with more shell fragments than you’d ever seen and stirring the scrambled eggs a little too vigorously, sending bits of yolk flying. All the while, you couldn’t stop yourself from correcting him, feeling oddly comfortable as you did. Logan was an absolute disaster in the kitchen, and seeing him out of his element like this was almost endearing.

Eventually, he managed to get the eggs and potatoes onto plates, and he set one down in front of you, leaning against the counter with a triumphant grin. “Not bad, huh?” he said, crossing his arms.

You eyed the slightly burnt edges of the eggs and lumpy potatoes, your amusement evident. “Not bad, exactly,” you teased, taking a bite and managing to hide a grimace. “It's closer to inedible than it is to edible, kinda.” Logan chuckled, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, you think you could do better?”

“Definitely,” you replied, a spark of challenge in your gaze. The banter, the little corrections, his quiet grumbling, it all felt natural, easy. And as you ate, you caught him watching you, a warmth in his gaze that softened his rough edges. It was a strange moment, one you hadn’t expected, but the quiet rhythm of it felt like something you could get used to, even if you’d never admit it.

After a few bites you decided to fill your glass with some orange juice from the fridge. Pushing yourself out of the chair a bit too quickly, a sudden, sharp pain shot through your side, freezing you in place. You tried to brush it off, but Logan was already watching, his eyes narrowing as he took in your discomfort.

“Just sit down,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "Whaddya want to drink?" You sighed in frustration, muttering a few choice words under your breath as you lowered yourself back into the chair. “Orange juice,” you grumbled, arm clutching your side.

Logan poured the juice for you, setting the glass down beside your plate with a smug smirk. “Happy?” You gave him a reluctant nod, still annoyed but appreciating his help, even if you wouldn’t admit it.

As you both back to sit quietly eating, a thought lingered at the back of your mind. Eventually, you cleared your throat, looking down at your plate. “Thank you…for last night,” you said, hoping to keep the gratitude brief and to the point.

But Logan wouldn’t let it slide that easily. He let out a low chuckle, and you glanced up, eyebrows knitting in confusion. “What?” you asked, not sure what he found so funny. He grinned, his tone teasing. “You almost sound like every woman in a bar after spendin' a night with me.”

You rolled your eyes, regretting the thank you instantly. “Ew, gross. You know what? I take it back. I forgive you.” Logan looked genuinely amused and a little puzzled. “Forgive me? For what?”

“For crossing my personal space and boundaries,” you replied with mock indignation. “You carried me without my consent.” Logan chuckled as he leaned back in his chair. “Oh, you sure you don't want to sue me as well while you're in it?”

You gave him a wicked smile. “I’m considering it.” He shook his head, laughing, but beneath the banter, there was a hint of something softer, a rare moment of mutual understanding that neither of you needed to put into words. For now, the teasing would do just fine.

As you took another sip of juice, Hank and Professor Xavier entered the kitchen, their faces set with a hint of urgency. Hank’s eyes settled on you, then shifted to the collar around your neck. “I’ll need to run some additional tests on that collar of yours,” he explained. “It’s… more complex than I’d hoped. I want to apply a temporary layer that could block any accidental shocks, but for safety… well, I could use some assistance.”

His gaze landed on Logan, who arched an eyebrow, clearly not thrilled but not surprised either. “What?, you need me to play your guinea pig?” Logan drawled, voice a low rumble.

“Something like that,” Hank replied, a faint smile betraying his own unease. “Your healing factor can handle the worst of the shocks if the layer doesn’t hold up as expected."

With that, the four of you made your way to the medbay, footsteps echoing through the quiet hallways. Each step weighed heavily on you, soreness from the last night beginning to catch up. But as you glanced at Logan walking beside you, you felt a small surge of determination to keep up.

Once in the medbay, the sterile room filled with the faint hum of medical equipment, he could sense the quiet tension emanating from you. A subtle pulse beat in your throat, the sound of your heart quickening with each step though he knew you had no idea he could hear it.

Standing beside where you were sitting, he noticed how your breathing grew shallower. Despite the casual front you put on, Logan could tell his proximity unsettled you. When Hank gestured him forward, Logan drew closer, reaching out to help him adjust the protective device. His fingers brushed your shoulder as he steadied it, and your pulse sped up a quick staccato beat that only he could hear.

Logan couldn’t help but smirk slightly, feeling an odd amusement. He’d never been one for delicate feelings, but this was different. There was something about the vulnerability hidden behind your resolve that tugged at him.

“Relax,” he muttered under his breath, catching your gaze as his hand lingered on your shoulder. “This’ll be over before you know it.”

When Hank initiated the first low-voltage test, a shock traveled through the collar, and Logan took the brunt of it with a grimace, his skin tingling painfully. He heard you murmur an apology, voice slightly shaky, your expression a blend of guilt and concern. “Don’t worry, varmint,” he reassured, his tone gruff but soft. “Ya ain’t gon’ kill me.”

You bit your lip, and he caught the faintest quiver in your heartbeat again as he held your gaze, refusing to let you look away. Something raw lingered in the air between you both, neither of you could fully name. But he didn’t move back, didn’t break eye contact, letting you see that he was there, steady, no matter what.

The final layer was applied, and Hank sighed in relief. “All done. It’s stable now, and we shouldn’t have to worry about accidental contact.”

Logan's fingers brushed the collar one last time as he stepped back, catching one more pulse of your heartbeat a little steadier this time. He’d heard enough to know he affected you, even if you’d never admit it.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, though exhaustion settled into your limbs as the relief took its toll. The professor must have noticed, because he gave a slight nod. “You’re free to go,” he said gently. “Hank will monitor the collar’s function from here. Take some time for yourself.”

You nodded, already feeling the pull of sleep as you rose. Logan gave you a brief nod, his gaze lingering, but you brushed it off, determined to handle this last stretch alone. The stairs were a different story. Every step seemed to taunt you, the soreness sharpening with each push. By the second flight, your leg trembled slightly, but you gritted your teeth and continued, refusing to let the pain win. Finally, you reached the top, pausing to catch your breath.

As you approached your room, a faint shadow fell across the hallway, and you knew he’d followed. Logan lingered at the corner, watching with his arms crossed, that usual mix of exasperation and silent pride in his eyes. You almost said something, but he turned away before you could muster the words, leaving you with just enough strength to stumble into your room.

As you stepped into your room, the familiar, untouched stillness washed over you. The place was just as you’d left it before the mission, a strange reminder of all the events since. On your bed lay your cracked rifle, a heavy, silent witness to your day. You sighed, moving it carefully, feeling the weight irritate the still-tender stitches on your side. Gently, you slid it back into its case, then pushed the rifle bag under your bed, its worn fabric catching faintly on the frame.

The bathroom offered a quiet reprieve as you cleaned yourself up, the cool water refreshing against your skin. You changed into a comfortable T-shirt and shorts, savoring the soft, loose fabric after the tension of the day. With a sigh, you sat on the edge of the bed, reaching over to pull your laptop closer. Curiosity had been tugging at you since Logan tossed that new nickname at you: “Varmint.” The way he’d said it, half-smirked as he helped you, made it clear there was more behind it.

You typed in the word and read the definition that popped up:

Varmint:

noun, informal, dialect

• a troublesome wild animal.

• a troublesome and mischievous person, especially a child.

The words sank in, and you muttered a soft curse under your breath, though a smile pulled at the corners of your mouth. That asshole. You couldn’t help but picture the look in his eyes when he’d said it, that mix of teasing and something almost affectionate. He probably thought it was a perfect fit.

Still smiling, you closed the laptop and lay back on the bed, exhaustion pressing down on you like a weight. The stitches, the collar, and the strain of the day blurred into one heavy ache, and as your head hit the pillow, the last thought in your mind was of Logan’s voice and that infuriating nickname. The quiet drifted around you as sleep pulled you down, the sky still bright outside as afternoon slowly faded into evening.

Dust rises around you, stinging your eyes, blurring the world into a smudged haze of gunfire and shadows. The heat is unrelenting, baking down on your skin as the weight of the rifle digs into your hands. The sound of boots pounding against cracked ground, the shouts of soldiers, and the relentless thud of explosions make everything feel surreal. It's a landscape of Iran-Iraq chaos battlefield in the 80s.

Ivan's voice cuts through, clear and steady with his Russian accent. "Right flank, cover me!" His words are as familiar as your own heartbeat, grounding you in the nightmare. You turn, catching a glimpse of him. Young, so damn young, but his eyes have that determined look, that same fire he's always had since you met him at twenty one. He'd idolized you, looked up to you with a quiet, steadfast admiration. You'd taught him everything, every trick and tactic you knew. He had become your closest friend, almost something more.

But suddenly, that determination in his eyes falters. You see his lips form words, calling your name, right before a shot rings out. The echo of it slices through the noise, louder than anything else. In slow motion, you watch him stumble, that flash of surprise on his face as his body collapses, his rifle slipping from his fingers. There's blood on his temple, spreading, blooming against his pale skin like ink soaking into paper.

"No...no, no, Ivan!" you scream, scrambling forward, your hands shaking as you reach him, ignoring the chaos around you. You press your hands to his wound, feeling the warm, sticky blood seep through your fingers, knowing it's useless. "Stay with me, please," you beg, feeling your voice break, but his eyes have already gone blank, staring past you.

"I'm so sorry," you mutter, your voice strangled. You'd promised him- promised that when you both made it back, you'd show him New York. He'd laugh, light-heartedly mocking the idea of skyscrapers and traffic, but you knew he'd been looking forward to it. And now he'll never see it. You'll never see him again.

The scene shifts violently, flickering to his childhood stories of Montana, a place he once said was like no other. He'd wanted you to see it, too, promising you a tour of his small town, the mountains, the rivers. Now, it all fades, slipping from your grasp as you scream his name again and again, but it's just you alone in the dust, Ivan's blood staining your hands.

The scream still echoes as you jolt awake, drenched in cold sweat, Ivan's name a raw ache in your throat. After the long hours you drifted into a fitful sleep, only to wake up around two in the morning, feeling groggy and disoriented. The collar pressed against your neck, an uncomfortable reminder that even in your own body, you weren’t free. Frustrated, you shifted, trying to find a position where the collar wouldn’t dig into your skin. It was no use. Resigned, you pushed yourself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom.

The mirror reflected a pale, worn face back at you. You traced your fingers over the bandages where bullet wounds were still healing, noticing the edges of the injuries, raw and irritated. Changing into a warmer sweater to stave off the night's chill, you thought about grabbing a snack.

But as you made your way toward the stairs, a muffled noise caught your attention. You paused, listening. It was coming from Logan’s room. The sounds were low and garbled, but you could tell he was muttering, though the words were too distorted to make out. You hesitated, then shook your head. Probably none of my business, you thought, forcing yourself down the stairs.

After finding a bowl of blueberries and drink a glass of water, you turned to climb the stairs, heading back to your room, only to hear the sounds from Logan’s room again, louder this time. You stopped, an uncomfortable feeling settling in your chest. His voice sounded tortured, as though he were reliving something terrible. Without really thinking, you moved toward his door. You stood there, unsure, your hand hovering over the handle. Finally, you pressed down. The door clicked open.

In the darkness, you could make out Logan, tangled in his sheets, eyes shut tight but muttering as if in pain. You placed the blueberries on his nightstand and flicked on the light, he's wearing a white tank top with jeans, what kind of psychopath sleep in jeans? You extend your arm reaching out, lightly shake his shoulder, calling his name. He jolted awake with a sharp gasp, his claws springing out instinctively. You barely managed to jump back, waist stumbled at his nightstand roughly, avoiding the glint of metal, your reflexes saving you but the sudden movement sent a sharp, searing pain through your side.

Logan looked horrified, retracting his claws immediately with his heavy breath. “Shit. I didn’t mean.. are you okay?” He asked voice slightly trembled.

You took a shaky breath, clutching your side. “Fuck...M' fine. But you were yelling. I thought…” You smirked slightly, hiding your discomfort.

“I swear I thought you had someone in here, keeping the entire floor up ‘til two in the morning.” You told him with hitched breath.

He almost cracked a smile, though a flash of something haunted lingered in his eyes. "Not exactly."

Feeling another throb in your side, you sank onto the edge of his bed, letting yourself sit for a moment. He scoot over to give you more personal space next to him, you picked up the bowl of blueberries, offering it to him with a shrug.

“Blueberries?” Logan accepted, and you both sat in a quiet, unexpected moment of ease, passing the bowl back and forth, the silence a balm for both your wounds. It’s rare to see his hair not styled in the way he always wears it, almost resembling cat ears. You’ve always wondered if that was intentional, but you could never be sure. Now, though, you can see how thick his dark brown hair truly is, with a slight touch of untidiness. A rare sight.

Both of you sat against the headboard of the bed, the room dimly lit, the quiet hum of the night filling the space. You felt the sting in your side with every slight movement but tried to ignore it, distracting yourself with the blueberries as you popped one into your mouth. You weren't exactly sure what to say to Logan. Should you ask if he's okay? The thought felt ridiculous, considering the two of you hardly knew how to talk about such things. It was easier to just let the silence hang. But it was suffocating, thick enough to choke on, and you needed to break it somehow.

“So,” you began, forcing casualness into your tone, “The PTSD from a hundred and twenty years in the military really got you good, huh?”

Logan glanced over at you, the faintest amusement flickering in his eyes. “What does twenty do to a person anyway?” He raised a brow, a little playful edge creeping into his voice.

You shrugged nonchalantly, popping another blueberry into your mouth. “Same thing. Probably why we’re both here at two, eating blueberries.”

Logan chuckled softly, the sound low and rough, as if it hadn’t been used in too long. There was a comfort in that, his laughter, even if it was bitter at the edges. You got him in a way few could, the way he handled pain, how he tucked it away under layers of sarcasm and distance. You weren’t sure if he even knew how much you could read him, how the small moments the way he carried himself, the flicker in his eyes told a whole story.

“That’s a hell of a breakfast,” he muttered, shaking his head with a grin that softened the edges of his usual guarded demeanor.

“Breakfast, midnight snack, same thing,” you shot back, a smirk tugging at your lips as you leaned back against the headboard, clutching your side again in an attempt to ease the pain.

A long pause followed. You caught him watching you out of the corner of his eye, like he was trying to figure something out. It didn’t bother you, though. After all, you’d both been through things most people couldn’t even begin to imagine. And you understood that, understood him better than anyone else.

Logan glanced down at the bowl, then back at you. “Guess we just keep eating until we’re tired of it, huh?” he said with a half smile. You smiled, feeling a little lighter. “Sounds about right.”

The air in the room grew still for a moment, the light dim and the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging between you both. Logan's voice broke the silence, softer now, tinged with something he didn't quite want to admit.

"I could've killed you, y'know," he said, trying to sound casual selling his nonchalant face, but there was a slight edge to his voice that made it clear he was anything but nonchalant. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, a trace of concern buried in his usual guarded expression.

You met his gaze without flinching. "You didn’t," you said simply, your tone light, but you knew what he was getting at. His worry was clear, even though he was trying to mask it, you broke the eye contact now staring down at the bowl.

"You might've just opened my stitches again, which, I think, is worse." Logan's gaze hardened as he caught the scent of fresh blood. He pushed himself up from the bed, voice firm. “Wait here.”

You blinked, confused, watching as he stalked to his bathroom. He rummaged around for a moment before reappearing, his expression annoyed. Apparently, he hadn’t found what he was looking for. “Just wait,” he said again, sharper this time. “I’ll be right back.”

Left alone in his room, you found yourself glancing around. The room was sparse but lived-in: unfolded clothes thrown over a chair, a cigarette-filled ashtray on his nightstand, and a couple of empty beer bottles lining the windowsill. You smirked a bit at that, wondering how Charles hadn’t whipped his ass for sneaking those in.

Before you could delve deeper into the small details of his space, Logan stepped back in, a med kit in hand. He shot you a look that bordered on impatience and determination. Your eyebrows shot up as he set the kit down. “What do you think you’re doing with that?”

“Well,” he said flatly, “you’re bleeding all over my bed, and I’m not in the mood to be blamed for murder.”

You scoffed, moving to stand, still clutching your side as the pain spiked. The blood had already soaked through the fabric of your cream-colored Brooklyn sweater, stain spreading visibly. “No, I’m not letting you do that. Do you even know how to stitch?” You took a couple of steps toward the door, ready to brush him off and leave.

But Logan stepped in front of you, effectively blocking the doorway with his full frame. His expression was one of deadpan defiance. “Told you, I’ve lived too many lives. I know a thing or two. Now, sit down.”

You scowled, the pain now pulsing sharply with every movement, but his unyielding presence made it clear he wasn’t giving you much of a choice. “No, I’ll be fine,” you insisted, though your voice lacked conviction. Logan’s eyebrow quirked as he tilted his head, unconvinced, not budging an inch from the doorway. You tried to nudge him aside, but he didn’t even flinch. The effort triggered fresh pain from your wound, and you cursed under your breath, feeling the sting intensify.

“Just sit down,” he said with a faint irritation. “I even brought painkillers this time.” His comment was a jab at the last time you’d been stitched up, without any anesthesia, which had been a special kind of hell.

Reluctantly, you made your way back to the chair he’d hastily cleared of laundry, watching as he shoved the empty bottles in the windowsill aside to make room for the medical kit. With a quiet sigh of resignation, you sank down, your movements stiff and strained. You set the blueberries on the windowsill beside you, grimacing but knowing you didn’t have much of a choice now.

Logan handed you a small pill from the kit, his expression giving nothing away. You tossed it back but quickly realized you’d need water. Without missing a beat, he grabbed a sealed bottle of beer from his nightstand and held it out to you.

You looked at him, half-exasperated. “How’d you manage to sneak this in? Charles is gonna be furious.”

Logan smirked, giving you a quick, deadpan shrug. “Oh, it’s my weekly pay for teachin” he replied, clearly amused with himself.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you twisted off the cap. “Right. Because Charles would pay you in beer.” With no other choices you sip the beer anyway, sending the pill down your system.

Ignoring your jab, Logan prepared a syringe, carefully transferring a regional anesthetic from a vial. He seemed steady, his brow knit in concentration, but there was a faint tremor in his hands that told you he didn’t do this often at least, not like this. Still, he looked confident enough to keep you from second-guessing.

You took a breath and lifted the hem of your sweater, the chilly night air prickling your exposed skin as you braced for what was to come. Logan knelt beside you, his face softened by the dim light, he wiped down your skin with alcohol wipes to sterilize the area before injected the anesthetic carefully around your wound, aiming to block the nerves around your stomach.

The sensation was more disorienting than painful, and you clenched your jaw, trying to focus on anything else but the sharp reminder of how vulnerable this all felt. The pain had been long absent, a dull ache you’d forgotten, but tonight it was sharp and real, gnawing at the edges of your patience.

Logan retreated to the windowsill, waiting the anesthesia to function giving it at least ten minutes. He take a swig from the beer you’d just opened, his gaze flicking back to you as you reached for another blueberry. You caught him watching you, the hint of concern masked beneath his usual guarded stare.

“You don’t seem to do this often,” you said, popping the blueberry into your mouth, trying to sound casual.

He glanced at the bottle in his hand and shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t worry. I’ve got enough experience.”

You offered a small, skeptical smile, sliding your hand under the collar around your neck, scratching at the itch that had settled there. It was an irritating reminder of everything this collar had taken from you. Your power, your freedom, and, in a twisted way, even the luxury of forgetting what it felt like to be so breakable.

Logan’s gaze dropped to your hand at your neck, but he didn’t say anything, just took another swig of his beer. For once, the silence between you both felt almost...safe. He wouldn’t pry, wouldn’t push, and you knew that even if he did, he’d understand more than most.

As the two of you waited for the anesthetic to kick in, Logan walked over to his nightstand, rummaging through a drawer until he found a cigar. Meanwhile, you felt the trickle of blood from your re-opened stitches and reached for some gauze, pressing it against the torn wounds in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Four ugly, circular scars, a nasty reminders of where bullets had torn through you. Only one suture held, while the other three had unraveled under the strain. You sighed, wondering how long you could keep dealing with this before you could stepped in this damn collar.

Logan sit in the edge of his bed, lighting his cigar with a flick of his lighter, his eyes on you as you dabbed at your side. Frustration is written all over your face as he observed your attempt to manage the bleeding on your own. He sigh and walk towards you again, placed the cigar on the windowsill and pushed the window open, letting the smoky tendrils drift out into the night air, you despised that smell so much.

Finally, he grabbed the med kit and knelt beside you, extending his hand toward the gauze in a silent offer to take over. You didn't hesitated this time, willingly to let go when his rough fingers brushed against yours as you handed over the gauze. Your left hand still held the fabric of your sweater up, and your right arm rested on the edge of the chair, giving him room to work.

Logan’s face was set in concentration as he wiped the blood from your side, tearing open another alcohol wipe and cleaning the area around your wounds. He was careful, his touch firm yet unexpectedly gentle. After ensuring the area was sterile, he picked up a small pair of scissors and nudged it against your skin. “Feel anythin'?” he asked, his voice a little softer, making sure the anesthesia had taken full effect.

You shook your head. “No, it’s numb.”

Logan's brows drew together as he worked, his expression locked in that rare, focused intensity you’d come to recognize, and even find comfort in. The dim light from the windowsill cast shadows over his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the slight crease between his brows. You’d traced those lines in your mind a hundred times by now, memorized every edge, every angle. But tonight, as he worked with that raw focus, his face took on a different weight, a heaviness you could almost feel through the precision of his movements.

He held the metal scissors between his fingers, his hands steady, despite the faint flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Gently, he pull the teared suture trough your skin, putting all the old stitches down before guided the needle through your skin, pulling it through with a practiced care that made each puncture bearable. You could feel the slightest tug as he drew the suture tight, securing it with a small knot, his gaze unwavering, as if each stitch were a piece of armor he was layering over your vulnerability.

You tried to focus on his hands instead of the needle. He didn’t look up, not even once, and you wondered what was going through his mind as he stitched each small wound, patching you up like it was a matter of necessity, not choice. You felt his grip tighten a little as he threaded the next stitch, a silent determination in the press of his fingers.

Logan’s mind, however, was far from calm. Beneath his outward resolve, there was a nagging unease, an urge to make sure he didn’t cause you any more pain than you’d already endured. The sight of the torn stitches, the fresh blood trickling down your side, sent a quiet rage through him, one he was careful to keep hidden. He’d seen plenty of wounds in his time, but with you, each drop of blood felt personal, like a failure he hadn’t planned for. He pushed the thought aside, though, focusing instead on keeping each stitch even, precise. He couldn't afford to let his own frustration cloud the task at hand.

You studied him in silence, feeling the coolness of the anesthetic but still sensing the pressure as the needle punctured your skin again and again. Each pull of the thread was a reminder of how close he was, yet how distant he could seem. His breathing was even, steady, but every so often, you saw a muscle twitch in his jaw, a reminder of the strain he kept hidden. The Logan before you wasn’t the snarling fighter or the distant figure, he was here, in this quiet, steady moment, each movement deliberate, each pull of the suture a silent promise.

Another stitch slid through, and he adjusted his angle, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that left a faint warmth where his touch lingered. You felt yourself tense, not from pain, but from the awareness of his closeness, the weight of his hand pressed against your side. He glanced up briefly, catching your eye, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. He held it for just a second, before focusing back on the task, his jaw tightening as he continued to work.

In the silence, you found yourself grateful for this quiet, for the way he grounded you, even with the thick smoke from the forgotten cigar drifting through the air. Despite his own guarded nature, Logan’s presence carried a steady calm that dulled the ache, that let you release the fear of being so vulnerable in front of someone who’d seen it all, and maybe even felt it all.

Though he’d never say it. He could see the way you trusted him, even as your body flinched from each stitch. The way you held yourself still, giving him your silent approval, it did something to him, stirred something that he knew he couldn’t afford to dwell on. He finished the final suture, tying it off with a slight flick of his wrist, but he didn’t let go immediately. His hand rested against your skin for just a moment, almost like he was hesitant to break the connection, before he finally pulled back, a slight softness lingering in his gaze.

With the stitches complete, Logan finally sat back, his hand lingering near yours for just a moment before he pulled away completely.

As Logan returned the medical kit to the windowsill, your blood is staining all over his hands, he picked up his forgotten cigar, pressing it back between his lips, exhaling a thin trail of smoke. You sat quietly, should you even tell him to wash those blood stain? He doesn't seem to care.

Inspecting the new stitches one last time before pulling down your sweater. They were tight, clean, a reminder of his steady hands, though they left a faint, uncomfortable prickling sensation beneath the fabric. Logan perched by the windowsill, the soft glow from the moonlight outside casting a warm shadow across his face, lending a quiet stillness to the room.

Standing carefully, you felt the weight of lingering awkwardness. There was no reason to stay, no reason to let yourself get tangled up in his space any longer than necessary.

All of this, this wound, this time spent at his mercy, could’ve been avoided if you’d just ignored the sounds coming from his room earlier. A part of you wished you’d done just that, stayed in your own corner, kept your focus inward. But here you were. You picked up the half-empty bowl of blueberries, eyes drifting to him briefly.

“Thanks,” you muttered softly, not looking back as you turned toward the door.

Logan gave a small nod, his voice low, almost resigned. “You should rest.”

“I know,” you replied quietly, before stepping out. Closing his door behind leaving him and the thick, smoky air. Crossing the short distance to your room, you closed your door gently and set the bowl on your nightstand, then melted into the bed, the weight of exhaustion pulling you down. The collar pressed uncomfortably against your neck, a constant reminder that rest would be scarce tonight. You sighed, eyes tracing the ceiling as your body tried to settle, though the tight ache of tension lingered.

Meanwhile, Logan stood by the window, his gaze lost in the night sky as he took another drag of the cigar. The smoke drifted outward, mingling with the faint scent of antiseptic and the lingering trace of vanilla. Your presence hung thick in the room, an echo of moments both fleeting and unexpected. He found himself staring at his bloody hands, then the medical kit, its open lid and scattered supplies a strange, quiet reminder of you—your resilience, your stubborn refusal to back down.

A feeling twisted inside him, raw and unfamiliar. Something about you had begun to grow in his mind, a constant, persistent thought that clung to him no matter how much he tried to shake it off. It didn’t make sense, you two had only met two weeks ago, yet he could already recall the details of your presence in a way that both frustrated and intrigued him. The vanilla scent was etched into his senses, something that lingered even after you’d left, the scent of your soap, shampoo—probably even your perfume, he figured. Vanilla, sweet and subtle, weaving through the air as stubbornly as you.

He couldn’t deny it anymore, you were driving him crazy. Every instinct told him to let it go, to put some distance between the two of you. But your determined, relentless spirit was wearing at him, chipping away at walls he’d thought were firmly in place. He closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. Whatever was growing inside him, you were a part of it, a force that tugged at his thoughts no matter how hard he tried to push you away.

With a final drag of his cigar, he stared out at the moonlight, each one sharp and unwavering against the night. And as the smoke drifted into the cool air, he realized that maybe, just maybe you had already rooted yourself somewhere deeper than he wanted to admit.

Part 6 ->

[marifilue]

Part 4: Bound And Fading

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n, you have regenerative healing ability, skilled with guns and rifles, reader in her 50s but because of her ability looked like in her mid 20s. Logan is from the first X-Men movie era.

Warnings: Explicit Language, Violence, Blood

WC: 6.1k

<- Part 3

The afternoon stretched out, each passing minute heavier than the last. You lay on your bed, staring at the cracked rifle beside you, a hollow ache gnawing at you. Mr. Santiago’s face flashed in your mind, memories flooding back with bittersweet clarity.

Your first day meeting him replayed in vivid detail. Your father brings you, fourteen years old, almost tall enough to steady a rifle, standing awkwardly on a makeshift shooting range deep in the woods. There wasn’t much, a low wall cobbled together from old tires and scrap wood, set up to catch bullets. The place was rough, but it felt like a world apart from everything else you’d known.

Mr. Santiago had been there, a short, serious figure with a warmth that softened his intense gaze. He’d handed you the rifle, steadying your hands with a patience you hadn’t expected. "Hold it here," he’d said, his voice low but encouraging. "Every weapon is a good weapon, depends on who's holding it." You’d never felt more focused than in that moment, taking aim under his watchful eyes, your nerves and excitement blurring into one. He’d believed in you from that first shot, seeing potential where others hadn’t, and you’d dedicated yourself to the craft ever since.

Logan stepped out of his room, glancing toward yours across the hall. He headed downstairs for lunch, fully expecting you to show up any second. But as he took his seat in the kitchen, finishing his meal, he still hadn’t seen you. He frowned, tapping his fork against his empty plate, a hint of concern breaking through his usual indifference.

He found himself hesitating, but the idea had already taken root. Muttering a swear under his breath, he grabbed an extra plate and filled it with another serving of aglio olio, adding a few ice cubes to a glass of water before balancing it all carefully.

With a resigned sigh, he climbed the three flights of stairs back up to his and your floor, pausing just outside your door. He had no idea why he was doing this, really, except for some strange, nagging urge to apologize. The memory of your frustration and the guilt of seeing that cracked rifle pushed him forward.

“Here we go,” he muttered to himself, bracing himself for another one of your epic insults. With his arm balancing the water, he knocked on the door, keeping his face blank but already steeling himself for another epic insults you’d give him.

A gentle knock at your door broke your reverie, pulling you back to the present. You sighed, reluctant to answer, but the knocking continued, soft but insistent. You got up, crossed the room, and opened the door halfway, your eyes narrowing as you saw Logan standing there with a plate of aglio olio in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

You raised an eyebrow shocked by the small gesture but irritation still simmering beneath the surface. “What are you doing?” you asked, voice sharp. Logan held your gaze, unflinching. “Making amends. You skipped lunch,” he replied, his voice carrying its usual gruffness. You can smell his usual tobacco scent filling your nose, it made you sick most of the time. The man isn't gonna die because of tobacco poisoning, so he might as well smoke dozens of cigars each day.

“I’m not hungry,” you muttered, attempting to close the door, but Logan quickly wedged his foot in the doorway. You sighed, exasperated, and finally looked up at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone quieter than usual. “For throwing your rifle…and for, well, having my genetic material around.” The faintest hint of a smirk softened the line of his mouth, though he immediately sobered, sensing your struggle.

You turned away, letting the words hang between you. “Look, Logan. First, an apology won’t fix the rifle. And it’s not ‘just a rifle’—it’s a PCP rifle. My mentor’s rifle. I’ve taken care of it for years, and…” You paused, frustration flashing across your face as you admitted, “I don’t even blame you for the second thing, it's not fair for you to take the hit. I'll just hate myself even more now.. knowing I carry a part of you with myself all this time.” You said as the fact will now forever altered your mind, how can a guy you've never even heard of until two weeks ago is somehow have been a big part of your life?

Logan scoffs "Wow, you're makin' it sound even worse now." as you walked to the chair under the window ignoring him, folding your arms as you looked out over the mansion’s vast backyard. Logan hovered at the door, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Can I come in?” he asked, almost reluctantly.

“Fuck off,” you muttered, though there was less bite in your tone. With a faint chuckle, Logan stepped in and placed the meal on the windowsill next to you. He glanced at the rifle on your bed, the fracture visible even from here. “Always have a rifle on bed with ya?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

You shot him a look, your expression stern. “Too soon.” you said, your voice edged with a warning silently asking him not to joke about the rifle further. He nodded, the apology unspoken but understood. “Alright,” he replied, stepping back. “Enjoy your meal. I’ll uh.. see you tonight on the mission.” He lingered for a moment, giving you a look of quiet understanding before he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sank back into the chair, glancing at the plate of pasta Logan had brought you. Despite your earlier resistance, you found yourself eating, thankful for the warm meal. It wasn’t Logan who’d ruined your appetite today, it was the thought of facing Killebrew, the man responsible for turning your life upside down, the specter you’d dreaded for years.

As the sun began to dip, casting long shadows across your room, you steeled yourself, forcing your mind away from your fears. Tonight would be your chance to confront your past, to face the man who had altered your life without a second thought. You weren’t sure what would happen, but with the rifle at your side even damaged, you knew you wouldn’t face it alone.

The Blackbird loomed ahead, its sleek silhouette casting long shadows over the hangar. You moved quickly, bags slung over each shoulder, the weight of your weapons familiar and reassuring. You had your usual twin set of handguns holstered at your waist, a collection of firearms stowed securely in the bags. As you stepped up the ramp, Scott and Ororo were already seated inside, going over last-minute details.

You set your bags down, securing them beside you as Logan stepped into the Blackbird behind you. Scott made his way over, his expression serious. With calling your name he began, glancing down at your equipment. “We’re gonna need you to stay on high ground for this one, guarding the perimeter. Sniper duty.”

You frowned, caught off guard. “Sniper duty?” The confusion in your voice was unmistakable. “I’ll be useless out there—those kids will be inside.”

Scott’s expression tightened, but he didn’t look away. “Me and Logan will handle the retrieval. We just think it’s best for you to stay off the building, not face Killebrew directly. In case…” He trailed off, and the hesitation in his voice stirred something hot in your chest.

“In case what, Scott?” You could barely keep the anger out of your voice. "And who's we? I know this is your decision, without involving anyone's opinion because apparently you hate opinions." You spats back letting your voice echo inside the cockpit. Logan, standing nearby, caught the exchange but stayed silent, his gaze flickering over to you.

Scott sighed, muttering your last name. “You’re either in or you’re out, but I’m not risking anyone on this mission.” Your jaw tightened. “I’m not taking sniper duty, Summers. That’s useless, I’ll be sitting on my hands the whole night while you go in. I’m going inside with the rest of you.”

Scott opened his mouth to respond, but Logan was already stepping forward, clapping a firm hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Take your seat, bub,” Logan said, his tone steady, cutting through the tension. “We’re taking off any second.” Logan said while Scott let out a sigh, retreating to his seat without another word, though you could feel his frustration simmering.

Logan’s gaze shifted back to you, his voice a bit gentler than usual. “You okay?” It was more a rhetorical—he could tell you were far from okay. He heard the adrenaline in your heartbeat, sensed the tension in your stance. Without waiting for an answer, he squeezed your left upper arm, quick but firm and gentle. You tensed by the affection, no room left in your head to wander why did he just do that.

“M' fine.” you replied shortly, your voice tight. Logan gave a slight nod, accepting your answer, then moved away to take his seat.

As the Blackbird’s engines roared to life, you settled into place, securing your gear with practiced hands. The cockpit filled with a quiet, determined energy. Jean, Ororo, Scott, Logan, and you—all on edge, yet focused. This was your chance.

In the cover of night, the team advanced quietly through the dense woods, moving with purpose and precision. The jet was parked nearly ten minutes behind them, hidden under the canopy of trees, with Jean remaining on standby, ready to extract them if things went south.

You shouldered your MP5, feeling the familiar weight settling comfortably against your back as you moved, close to Ororo, who kept pace with you. Scott and Logan led the way, their silhouettes barely visible under the pale moonlight filtering through the branches, casting ghostly shadows across the ground. The night was cold, and a chill seemed to seep into your bones, but you pushed it aside, focusing on the task ahead.

As you reached the edge of the lab’s perimeter, you dropped into a crouch, scanning the scene. Through the brush, you saw a handful of guards positioned outside, their breath visible in the cool air. They were stationed loosely, some pacing, others standing guard by the entrance, the glow from their flashlights casting eerie beams into the night.

Scott signaled for everyone to stay low, his hand slicing through the air in a motion to hold position. Then, with a final nod to each of you, he made the call. There was no time for drawn-out tactics; the element of surprise was on your side. The group moved as one, slipping from the shadows in synchronized silence.

In a swift, decisive motion, Scott took out the first guard with a silenced shot, while Ororo summoned a quick surge of wind, knocking two others off their feet. You were already moving, twins set of gun raised from your holsters, firing short, controlled bursts as you closed the distance, the shots muffled but effective, guards dropping in quick succession.

Logan leaped forward, claws out, taking down the last guard standing outside with a fierce swipe, his movements fluid and feral. The team regrouped just outside the entrance, hearts pounding but movements steady. You exchanged a quick glance with Logan, his eyes narrowed and focused, the brief acknowledgment of your presence reassuring in the tension.

With the outer guards down, Scott led the way, his voice low but resolute. “We’re in. Stay close. We stick together and move fast.”

The alarm blared through the sterile, white-walled corridors, echoing sharply against the cold concrete as red warning lights flashed overhead. You tightened your grip on your MP5, heart pounding but focus unbreakable. Scott signaled, and the team split to cover more ground, leaving you and Logan to search the lower levels while Scott and Ororo handled the main floor, diverting as much attention as possible.

You hurried down the corridors, firing off rounds as guards swarmed toward you. One by one, they came at you, but with precision and practice, you dropped each of them, moving closer to the underground access. Logan cleared the way ahead, his claws flashing in the dim light as he tore through the remaining guards with brutal efficiency.

Reaching the stairs, you stopped for a second, recognizing the layout—Killebrew’s distinctive architectural style was unmistakable, every corridor and staircase designed to confuse intruders but familiar to you from the countless diagrams you’d studied. You knew exactly where the holding cells were likely kept and plunged down the stairs, each step echoing under the deafening wail of alarms.

At the bottom, another cluster of guards appeared, blocking your path. They fired at you, and you ducked, retaliating with short, controlled bursts. Logan took the lead, bulldozing through the last line of defense, his snarling presence clearing a path right to the heavy metal door of the holding room.

You burst into the room, heart sinking as you took in the sight. Twelve young mutants, barely more than children, huddled behind thick metal bars, their faces pale, eyes wide with terror. They were cramped, confined like animals, thin blankets and scattered food wrappers indicating how they’d been kept for weeks, maybe longer.

You pressed a finger to your comms device. “Scott, I’m with the kids. They’re in bad shape.” Static crackled, and Scott’s voice came through, urgent. “I’ve got the guards busy with Ororo’s help, she’s whipping up a storm, literally. But we’re running low on time. Get them out, now.”

You nodded, then glanced back as Logan came down the stairs, his gaze shifting from you to the caged children. His fierce expression softened, a flicker of empathy crossing his face as he stepped forward, his claws retracting. He approached the bars, nodding to you as he positioned himself to rip them open.

The children shrank back, eyes widening at the sight of Logan’s raw power. They’d likely heard the rumors about Wolverine, the man with metal claws, and you could see the fear twisting their young faces. Moving forward, you knelt beside the bars, speaking softly. “Hey, it’s okay," You said introducing your name to the kid "We’re here to help you. What’s your name?” You met the gaze of a young girl, no older than eight, with hollow eyes that darted nervously from you to Logan.

She hesitated, then whispered, “Maya.” You gave her a gentle smile, keeping your voice calm and soothing. “Maya, that’s a beautiful name. I’m here to take you somewhere safe. We won’t let anyone hurt you.” The children began to relax, inching closer, the fear in their eyes slowly fading as they sensed your sincerity. Logan watched the scene in silence, a mix of awe and quiet respect in his gaze as he saw the bond you created with the children. You exchanged a brief look with him, his nod of approval a silent message that he’d follow your lead.

“Alright, Maya,” you said gently. “We’re going to open the cage now, and we’ll need you and the others to follow us, okay?” She nodded, clutching a younger boy’s hand as Logan tore through the cage door with a swift pull. The metal bars groaned, breaking free, and he pushed the door open, extending his hand to help the kids out.

The children crowded around you, clinging tightly as you led them out of the room, Logan taking up the rear. You signaled Scott, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you. “We’ve got them, Scott. Moving to extraction now.”

“Good. Get them outside safe,” he replied, his voice firm but laced with relief. As you guided the children through the corridor, Logan stayed close, his silent strength a comforting presence for both you and the kids. The way forward was still uncertain, but for the first time, surrounded by those you’d come to protect, you felt hope replacing the dread you’d carried in.

Scott and Ororo stood at the edge of the lab's entrance, ready to lead the children to safety. Dozens of guards lined up between you and the way out, rifles raised, blocking the escape route. You took in the scene, heart racing, and shouted, "Scott, Ororo-get the kids out of here! Now!" Without hesitation, Scott nodded, signaling for Ororo to shield the children, and they slipped past the guards, racing toward the woods and away from the lab.

As Scott and Ororo led the kids away, you and Logan squared off against the wall of guards still blocking the path. The air was thick with tension, broken only by the echo of boots as the guards advanced. You quickly checked your MP5, reloading it with smooth precision, fingers moving on instinct as the magazine clicked into place.

With a curt nod to Logan, you raised the weapon and fired a controlled burst, dropping two guards instantly. Logan darted forward, claws flashing as he sliced through the first row of men, his ferocity drawing their attention. Using the opening he created, you stepped to his right, pressing forward as a group of guards rounded the corner ahead, weapons raised.

You fired again, each shot landing with sharp accuracy, taking down guard after guard. Moving in tandem, you and Logan flowed around each other with practiced ease. He charged ahead, clearing the way, while you provided cover from behind, your MP5 barking as more guards swarmed toward you both.

Logan lunged, taking out three guards in one swift motion, his claws slicing through their armor like it was nothing. As he dispatched them, you reloaded your MP5 with a practiced flick, feeling the weight of the new magazine settle in your hands. You fired at another guard aiming for Logan's back, the shots precise, dropping him before he could pull the trigger.

The guards kept coming, but you and Logan were an unrelenting force, holding them back with lethal precision. Another guard attempted to flank you, but you pivoted, firing a short burst that sent him crumpling to the ground. Logan was beside you in an instant, claws slashing in a wide arc, and together, you pushed forward, cutting through their ranks.

You'd barely caught your breath when another guard lunged at you from the side. You sidestepped, aiming and firing in one smooth motion, taking him down before he could get close. Pausing just long enough to reload, you watched as Logan cleared a path ahead, each movement fluid and deadly. The two of you had created a rhythm, an instinctive understanding that kept you one step ahead of the guards.

As the last of the guards lay unconscious on the floor, you felt a surge of satisfaction. But just as you lowered your MP5, you heard the click of a gun behind you, followed by a sharp, blinding pain. Seven bullets tore into your left side, four embedding themselves deep into your flesh, the pain staggering. You stumbled, your vision blurring as another guard closed in, grabbing you in a brutal chokehold.

You gasped for breath, trying to wrench free, but he held fast, forcing you to drop your MP5. Desperately, you struggled against his grip, only to see another guard approaching with a metal collar in his hand. The sight made your stomach lurch. You knew exactly what it was, and the mere thought of its effects turned your blood cold.

"No, no! Get off me!" you yelled, thrashing against the hold, but it was useless. Before your healing factor could spat out the bullets and close the wounds that is now flesh deep, the guard... Wait it wasn't just 'any' guard. You knew the malicious face, behind those thick glasses. It's Killebrew, snapping the collar around your neck, cold metal pressing against your skin with a final, menacing weight.

"Fire and flesh, my my.. look at you now, playing pretend hero with your new friends. Have you forgotten who you are? what we made you? your nature? Tell me, does your new friend knew what kind of weapon you are?" Killebrew voice echoes inside of your mind. Instantly you felt its effect-your powers suppressed, your ability muted by the collar's pulsing radiation. Logan, busy fending off a group of guards just a few steps away, heard your scream and whipped around, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the collar clamped around your neck. With a furious snarl, he abandoned his fight and launched himself at the guards holding you, ripping him away in a savage arc.

Before you could even warn him, his claws touched the collar in motive to break you free but an electric jolt burst from it, sending a shockwave through him. Logan staggered, his face twisted in agony, and he collapsed to one knee, his body spasming from the surge. The collar's hidden defense mechanism activated, shocking anyone who dared to touch it. He hadn't pay attention to Killebrew, the moment he turned his head, the man is gone. Leaving no trace behind like some ghost.

Panting heavily, you swayed in place, the pain in your side throbbing with each heartbeat, your skin clammy from the radiation. Logan shook off the lingering effects of the shock and struggled to his feet, his eyes blazing with a fierce protectiveness as he reached out to steady you.

You pushed yourself up, shaking off Logan’s arm with a wave of your hand. “I can manage,” you muttered, feigning toughness as you steadied yourself and started toward the exit, gritting your teeth against the ache in your side. Together, you looked over the guards lying defeated around you, the battle-worn corridor now quiet save for your labored breaths. Ignoring the pain that radiated from your side, the two of you began the slow trek back toward the exit, determined to get out alive.

Logan followed close behind, his sharp gaze tracking every movement you made. “You okay?” he asked, voice low and wary. “I will be,” you replied shortly, not bothering to look back. The tightness of the collar against your neck was irritating, and each step sent a fresh stab of pain from the bullet wounds hidden under your black leather suit, but you didn’t let it show. You kept your pace steady, refusing to let Logan see any weakness.

As the two of you entered the darkened woods, Logan pressed again. “You sure you’re fine?” His tone was gruff but layered with a trace of concern “Yes,” you answered curtly, quickening your pace. But he didn’t miss the slight stagger in your step, and his nostrils flared at the unmistakable scent of blood, though the suit concealed the damage. After a moment, he asked, “What’s on your neck?”

“It’s a mutant inhibitor collar,” you replied flatly, still not looking at him. “Hank’ll figure out how to take them off.” You kept your eyes forward, refusing to let him see the strain on your face as the pain intensified with every step.

Halfway back to the Blackbird, your legs gave a faint tremor, and you leaned against a nearby tree, pressing one hand to the rough bark for support. Your other hand drifted to your waist, where the bullet wounds throbbed beneath the fabric. Logan slowed, watching you closely as he stepped beside you, arms crossed.

“You’ve had enough?” he asked, a knowing look in his eyes. He could tell you’d never ask for help, even now. “Just… catching my breath,” you managed, struggling to keep your voice steady.

Logan narrowed his gaze, exhaling sharply. “Alright, that’s it. The team’s waiting for us.” Before you could protest, he slid one arm under your knees and the other around your back, scooping you up in a swift motion. The shift in position made pain flare through your side, and you couldn’t suppress the faint whimper that escaped your lips.

“Shit, put me down, Logan! You're making it worse!” you shouted, anger flaring as you tried to push against him. “Can’t do it, bub. You're slowin' me down back there, any second you'll end up bleeding to death” he replied, unfazed.

“I can walk just fine!” You clenched your fists, the irritation bubbling up despite the pain. “Yeah, sure you did,” he muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm as he carried you through the forest. "You're an asshole!" You spat again as he kept his gaze forward, determined, his grip gentle but unyielding as you realize he wasn’t about to let you go.

As Logan approached the Blackbird, your breath is already off the track since inhaling for air is even triggering the pain. You caught sight of Jean in the distance, her expression shifting to one of deep concern the moment she spotted you in Logan’s arms. Despite your efforts to hold it together, the exhaustion and pain overwhelmed you, and a tear slipped free, tracing down your cheek. Logan tightened his hold, his own eyes darkening with a hint of worry as he strode forward, determined to get you back safely.

Jean's eyes widened as she spotted you in Logan’s arms, her voice immediately edged with concern. “What happened?” she asked, leading Logan briskly toward the medbay in the Blackbird.

Logan followed closely behind her, keeping his steps steady to avoid jostling you. “She got hit. Bullets in her side, and they got a some anti mutant collar on her, she can't heal.” he replied, his voice gruff but calm. As Jean guided him to the narrow medical bed, Scott joined, his gaze sharp as he took in the situation.

“Everything okay?” Scott’s tone was tense, but Logan gave him a short nod. “She’ll pull through. Just get us back to the mansion.” he added, giving Scott a firm look. Scott nodded, glancing toward the rescued kids to reassure them, before returning to the cockpit.

Logan carefully laid you down, but the movement triggered another wave of pain. You clutched your side, stifling a cry, the pain was too much. Your breaths came shallow and fast as Jean quickly cut through the torn leather on your left side, exposing the deep bullet wounds, four of them. Blood seeped steadily, and Jean’s brow creased with worry as she assessed the injuries. Logan stood close by, his eyes never leaving you, a storm of worry in his gaze.

As the Blackbird’s engines hummed, Logan watched anxiously as Jean paced the room back and forth, her expression tense. After a moment, he cleared his throat, his voice edged with concern. “Anythin' I help with?”

Jean looked up, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Yes. Grab the rubbing alcohol, it’s near the door and check the cupboard for anesthesia. We’ll need it.”

Logan nodded and moved quickly, scanning the shelves until he spotted the bottle of rubbing alcohol. Grabbing it, he went to the cupboard, rummaging through the supplies, but there was no sign of the anesthesia. Frowning, he called out, “Jean… there’s no anesthesia here.”

Jean’s face fell, her brow furrowing as she crossed over to check herself. She reached into the cupboard and pulled out an empty box marked “Anesthesia.” Her lips tightened, and she closed her eyes briefly, clearly frustrated. “Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, then turned to Logan, her face a mix of determination and regret.

“We’re out,” she said quietly. “I forgot to restock after the last mission.” She took a deep breath, her gaze shifting back to you, lying pale and struggling for breath. “I have to get those bullets out now, or she’ll lose too much blood.”

Logan’s jaw clenched, a fierce protectiveness flickering in his eyes. “What do you need me to do?” Jean looked at him steadily. “Distract her. Without anesthesia, this is going to hurt—a lot. Keep her focused on you, talk to her, anything to keep her grounded.”

Logan nodded, moving closer to your side. He leaned over, his rough hand settling on yours, his touch grounding. “Hey,” he murmured your name, trying to draw your attention, his voice gentle but steady. “Listen to me, alright? We’re getting you patched up, so you gotta hang in there.”

You looked up at him, pain clouding your vision, but his voice cut through the fog, giving you something to focus on. Just as Jean started to work, she sterilize the open wounds with alcohol gauze as gentle as possible but the sharp pain still flared, stinging you as you gasped, squeezing Logan’s hand tightly. He sensed that you were hanging by a thread, the pain pushing you close to breaking. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a softer, steady tone.

“Alright… I’ll tell you a story,” he said, locking his gaze with yours, his presence unwavering. “Back in nineteen forty five, I was in Japan. Right there in Nagasaki.” You forced yourself to focus on his words, his voice grounding you in a way nothing else could.

“It was August 9th, middle of the summer,” he continued, his tone both gritty and somber. “The sky was clear, not a cloud in sight. I was with a guy named Yashida, a soldier. We were in this underground bunker, and I didn’t know what was coming. Nobody did. Then… the whole world lit up. The ground shook like it was tearing itself apart.”

Jean worked carefully, extracting a bullet with delicate precision, still the pain flared sharply, making you clench Logan’s hand even tighter you could feel the cold metal is now in your flesh. Sensing it, he went on without missing a beat, his voice steady, strong. “That bomb… it was like nothing you could imagine. Fire hotter than anything I’d ever felt—burned the whole city in a flash.” His gaze held a mix of haunted memory and strength. “I saved Yashida that day. Shielded him with my body, took the brunt of that blast so he could live.”

You gritted your teeth as Jean extracted another bullet, but Logan’s story held you steady, his words weaving through the pain like a lifeline. “After the blast, the world was unrecognizable,” he murmured. “Buildings leveled, people… gone. But I was still standing. Broken, after burned to a crisp… but still managed to be alive. Had to dig myself out of the rubble. Kept going, even when I thought I couldn’t.”

He paused, meeting your gaze with a depth of understanding that was rare for him to reveal. “You’re strong, bub,” he said quietly. “I know it hurts like hell right now, but you’re tougher than this. You’ll get through it.” Even when you're overstimulated by the constant pain in your side, the itching and yet burning sensation with cold metal around your neck, you find yourself comforted by Logan's presence, by his hold warming the palm of your right arm. The man you had screamed at just this morning, after throwing him a hurtful insults, he has proven himself to be a reliable friend once again.

Jean finally pulled out the last bullet, stitching the wound as swiftly as she could to stop the bleeding, you felt the first prick of the needle sliding into your torn skin. The pain was sharp and immediate, a fresh agony layered over everything you’d already endured. A quiet groan slipped out before you could catch it, and, on instinct, you started to turn your head, trying to see the damage Jean was working on.

Logan’s hand was there in an instant, his fingers gently but firmly guiding your face back to him. “Eyes on me, alright?” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, grounding you. “Don’t need to look at any of that. Just focus here.”

You bit down on your lip, the weight of his hand and the steady warmth of his gaze giving you something to hold on to, pulling you back from the edge of panic. You clenched his hand tightly as the needle continued its work, every stitch another reminder of the pain, but Logan kept his voice low and even.

“Think about something else,” he said softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Like where we’re going after this. Maybe somewhere with some sunshine, yeah? You, me, a little R&R… without bullets for a change.” A small, weary smile tugged at the corner of your mouth despite the pain. “Maybe... some place with a beach, I've had enough of woods today.” you murmured, your voice faint.

“There you go,” he said, his own lips twitching up just slightly. “Sand, sun, and no anti mutant collars. We’ll even make Scott carry the bags.”

The corners of your vision began to blur as Jean worked, but Logan’s face stayed clear, his gaze steady, unwavering. Every time you felt the sting of the needle, his hand held yours a little tighter, silently encouraging you to stay with him, to hold on.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Jean finished the last stitch, wiping her hands and casting Logan a relieved look. “It's all done,” she said softly, giving you a nod. “You did well.”

Logan’s eyes softened as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing a gentle arc over your hand one last time. “See?” he murmured, a hint of warmth in his voice. “You’re tougher than anything they could throw at us.”

Exhaustion washed over you, and despite the lingering pain, your eyelids began to flutter. The toll of the battle, the wounds, and the weight of the day’s events were too much. You slipped into sleep, breathing softly, the strain and tension fading from your face.

Jean glanced at Logan, giving him a reassuring nod before quietly stepping out of the medbay, leaving the two of you alone. Logan sank into a chair in the corner, watching you as you rested. The flicker of the medbay lights cast soft shadows, and he sat quietly, hands folded, absorbed in his own thoughts.

Seeing you like this—worn out, vulnerable, but resilient—brought a wave of unexpected protectiveness to him. You were stubborn, hot-headed, and determined to a fault, always refusing to let anyone in or ask for help, even when you clearly needed it. It irritated him, the way you’d snap at him, brush off his help, or dive headlong into danger. But, in a strange way, it also drew him in.

It was rare for anyone to challenge him like you did, to stand up to him without a second thought, and to never back down. As he sat there, his gaze softened, a small, almost amused smile crossing his lips. He realized that, as much as your defiance frustrated him, it also fueled something deeper—a respect and a connection he hadn’t expected.

Logan sat in the quiet of the medbay, half-asleep in the chair, his head resting against the wall. Hours had passed, and the steady rhythm of your breathing had lulled him into a light, restless sleep. But a sudden tremor shook the Blackbird as it began its descent, jostling him awake. He blinked, glancing around, his senses snapping back to focus. Outside the medbay’s small window, the midnight sky gave way to the lights of the mansion grounds below.

Jean, Ororo, and Scott stepped into the medbay, their faces tired but relieved. Ororo’s gaze shifted to you, still fast asleep despite the Blackbird’s rumbling descent. “Will she be alright?” she asked, her voice soft with concern.

Jean hesitated, her eyes lingering on your sleeping form. “Hopefully, yes,” she replied quietly. “We managed to get the bleeding under control, but she still needs further care.”

Scott looked at Logan, a flicker of worry crossing his face. “Think you can carry her again, Logan? Hank’s waiting in the lab, and he’ll want to take a closer look.”

Logan gave a single nod, already moving toward you. Gently, he slipped his arms under you, lifting you as carefully as he could to avoid disturbing the fresh stitches. You stirred slightly in his hold, but he held you securely, shielding you from any bumps as he stepped off the Blackbird with you cradled in his arms, Maya’s small voice suddenly piped up from the back of the Blackbird.

“Is she okay?” she asked, her eyes wide and filled with concern as she watched Logan carry you toward the exit.

Logan paused, glancing down at her. His usually gruff expression softened as he met her worried gaze. “Yeah, kid,” he said, his voice low but reassuring. “Don’t you worry.”

Jean stepped in beside Maya, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We’ll make sure she’s alright, okay?” she added softly. The little girl nodded, reassured but still watching as Logan carefully carried you down the ramp, her eyes following until you disappeared from view.

Ororo and Scott quickly took charge of the rescued kids, guiding them into the mansion’s warmth. The children, wide-eyed and visibly exhausted, followed closely, glancing back once at you and Logan before Ororo offered them a reassuring smile. “Come on,” she said gently, her voice calming. “We’ll get you all settled. You’re safe now.” She led them down a separate hallway with Scott beside her, and together they showed each child to a quiet room where they could rest and recover.

With the kids now taken care of, Logan turned his focus back to you, his hold steady as he made his way toward the lab. Jean walked alongside him, her expression thoughtful as she kept a close eye on you, her fingers brushing against the lab door ahead to push it open.

Inside, Hank was already waiting, his gaze sharpening as he spotted the two of you. Without hesitation, he moved to prepare the equipment, his worry masked by his usual calm. Jean gave Logan a slight nod, silently thanking him as they approached Hank, who was ready to begin your treatment with steady hands and a reassuring presence.

Part 5 ->

An: Told ya it's getting longer each chapter, thank you for interacting and I'll see ya next chapter

[marifilue]

Hell yeah

[marifilue]

Part 3: Glimpse Of The Past

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n, you have regenerative healing ability, skilled with guns and rifles, reader in her 50s but because of her ability looked like in her mid 20s. Logan is from the first X-Men movie era.

Warnings: Explicit Language, slight PTSD Mentioned.

WC: 5,5k

<- Part 2

Two weeks had passed, and nothing much had changed between you and Logan. You’d shared a handful of interactions, each one short and tense, just enough to remind you how much he got on your nerves. He was stubborn, quick-tempered, too much like you in all the wrong ways and it was infuriating.

Logan was settling into his new role, slipping into the position of history professor with a certain ease that only came from experience, a literal, first-hand experience. His lectures were magnetic, filled with anecdotes that felt too vivid, too personal. The students were enamored, hanging onto every word, captivated by the way he made history feel alive.

Still, you could feel the invisible wall he’d built around himself, his guard firmly in place. It made sense, you'd do the same in a new environment. Though it irked you at times. You still doesn't know much about him, not that he'd be interested to talk when the whole team held out a dinner occasionally and share some fun fact about his life for the past century. Everytime the table chats comes up with questions get asked, he'd quickly dismissed them. You remember one time Ororo was joking and teased Logan about his love life which he just shortly respond "Nothin much, it's boring." As far as you acknowledge, he's just old as fuck.

On a quiet Saturday morning, autumn breeze outside with the mansion still cloaked in early light, you found some refuge in the garage, preparing your gear and checking over your rifle before zipping it into your dark green bag as you planned a solo hunt. The stillness was just beginning to sink in when the faint sound of footsteps snapped you out of it. Glancing up, you saw Logan leaning casually against the doorframe, watching you with that same half-amused smirk.

“You goin’ somewhere?” he asked, his voice breaking the silence like a rock tossed into still water. You barely looked up, focusing on adjusting your scope. “Going hunting,” you replied tersely. Logan raised an eyebrow, his interest obviously piqued. “Hunting?” he repeated, amusement thick in his tone. “Out here?” Your patience was already wearing thin. “Yeah, out in the woods. It’s a quiet spot, about an hour away.”

He crossed his arms, clearly not dissuaded. “That so? Sounds like a perfect way to kill some time. I’ll come.” You stiffened, giving him a hard look. “Look, it’s a solo trip. Don’t need any company.”

A spark of defiance flickered in his eyes, and that irritating smirk just deepened. “Didn’t ask if you needed it. Just saying I’m bored. Got nothing better to do, so I’ll come along. Unless you’re afraid I’ll out-hunt you.” You clenched your jaw, the challenge hanging between you like a dare. He had no idea what he was getting into, but if dragging him along was the only way to shut him up, fine. You rolled your eyes. “Fine, whatever. But you’re bringing your own bike.”

A slight chuckle escaped him as he pushed himself off the doorframe, clearly pleased with his victory. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

With engines roaring, you hit the open road. The wind was cool against your face as the trees blurred by, and with every mile, you felt the tension of the mansion fading. Logan’s bike kept steady behind yours, the low rumble matching your own, and by the time you reached the forest clearing, you’d almost forgotten you had a company behind.

The spot was perfect: a quiet, open stretch beneath towering pines, with a lake gleaming in the early morning light just a few yards away. You slid off your bike and shrugged your rifle strap over your shoulder, taking in the familiar scent of pine and fresh earth. Logan dismounted, his eyes scanning the area with a skeptical look, as though it weren’t quite wild enough for him.

Reaching into your pack, you pulled out a second rifle and handed it to him. “Here. Pre-charged pneumatic rifle. Same as mine.”

Logan took the rifle in his hands, looking it over like it was a toy. He raised an eyebrow, chuckling as he examined it. “An air rifle? What, are we going after rabbits?” He scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You sure you don’t want to give me a slingshot while you’re at it?”

You felt the heat rise in your chest, your grip tightening around your own rifle. “It’s called PCP, Logan,” you shot back, voice edged with irritation. “These aren’t toys, and they’re not some cheap replacement for a ‘real’ weapon. Just because it’s not your style doesn’t mean it’s useless.”

Logan chuckled, clearly unimpressed. “Right. Just don’t expect me to take down anything serious with this thing.” You squared your shoulders, meeting his gaze with a defiant glint in your eyes. “You’d be surprised what I can take down with this thing. But hey, if you’d rather just watch, go ahead.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, something sparking in his eyes as if he was finally beginning to understand that this wasn’t a joke to you. Without another word, you turned and started toward the trees, steps purposeful, daring him to follow if he thought he could keep up.

The morning wore on, and Logan followed you through the dense trees, rifle in your hand but with no real intention of using it. Logan moved with the instinctive grace of a predator, completely at ease, his senses sharp, picking up on every rustle and movement around him. It wasn’t long before he spotted a squirrel perched high in the branches, his eyes narrowing as he took aim. A split second later, his rifle went off, and the small animal dropped to the forest floor. Logan glanced back at you, a smug satisfaction evident in his expression.

“See? Not bad for a ‘toy,’” he muttered, half-teasing. You managed a tight smile, adjusting the rifle in your hands, though it felt heavier than usual. As he scoped out his next target, you followed, keeping your expression neutral. Another squirrel appeared on a nearby branch, and Logan gestured for you to take the shot. You lifted your rifle, sighting down the barrel, but at the last moment, you let the bullet go wide, the squirrel darting up the tree and vanishing.

Logan gave a low chuckle, and his eyes gleamed with that knowing look. “Missed, huh?” he said, a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “Didn’t seem like your usual aim.”

You kept your gaze on the ground, shrugging slightly. “Guess I’m a little rusty.” But Logan’s scrutiny didn’t ease up, and he’d clearly seen through you.

Logan’s eyes were sharp as he watched you line up another shot, this time at a squirrel nestled on a higher branch. You steadied your aim, but when you squeezed the trigger, it was with just enough force to send the shot wide, the squirrel scurrying off into the trees. Logan’s low chuckle made you glance over, and you saw that familiar, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t miss that one by accident, did you?” he remarked, amusement glinting in his eyes. "I told you I'm just a bit rusty." You said again.

“You didn't squeeze the trigger, you flick em with your finger way too harsh. Tryna scare it off, maybe?” Logan teased which caught you off guard, you raised an eyebrow, studying his expression. “You sound just like my old man.” You told him, recollecting lost memories since you haven't heard those words in ages. Stop pulling the trigger, you need to squeeze it. Your father used to scream those combination of words every. Single. Time. A rifle is in your hand. Stop pulling it, just squeeze. "You two used to hunt together?" Logan voice a bit softer, suddenly brings you back from the pit and let the lost memories to float away once again.

You ignored his rhetorical question as your curiosity mingling with surprise. “Most people wouldn’t notice something so small about a trigger pull.” Logan shrugged, glancing down at his own rifle. “Been around long enough to pick up a thing or two,” he said. “One of my many lives, I was in the military, then special forces. Spent a lot of time with weapons—and people who didn’t always want to shoot straight.”

You nodded, absorbing the new bit of information, of course he'd been in the military at some point, though part of you wondered just how many “lives” he’d actually lived. Logan turned back to the forest, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible softness in his gaze now, as if he understood more than he was letting on.

“So, why come out hunting if you don’t actually want to kill anythin'?” he asked, watching you intently. The question hung in the cool morning air, and you felt a knot tighten in your chest. With a deep breath, you straightened, memories uncoiling in your mind.

“My father used to take me hunting when I was a kid,” you started slowly, eyes tracing the bark of a nearby tree. “Every weekend, he’d drag me out there, make me practice my aim. I hated it, the thought of killing something that didn’t even know I was there.” You paused, voice tightening, but pushed through. “Eventually, he stopped caring if I didn’t shot anything. I’d just aim for the fruit stems, watching them drop." You scoffs recalling another details "I'd bring home a bag full of persimmons, my mum loved them.” You smile sheepishly, remembering the sweet memories you used to have with your family. Even if it's for a really short time.

Logan’s expression softened just a bit, as if he were picking up on the edges of something deeper. When you fell quiet, his gaze never left you, and he waited in that steady, quiet way of his.

“It was… before he sold me to the military,” you added in a clipped tone, almost an afterthought. The words surprised even you, slipping out with a bitterness that had dulled over the years but still lingered. After your words hung in the air, Logan's face shifted, his usual hard expression momentarily cracking. He blinked, caught off guard, brows pulling together as he absorbed what you'd said. His mouth opened as if to speak, but for a beat, he just looked at you, his eyes carrying an unexpected softness.

Finally, his voice came low and careful, the rough edge softened. “I’m… sorry,” he murmured, like he almost couldn’t believe he was saying it.

You gave a short, almost dismissive shrug, lips quirking into a half-smile. “I’m not,” you replied, the words wry but surprisingly honest. Logan’s gaze lingered, his respect for you deepening as he caught the steel beneath your half-joking tone. Without another word, he nodded, the forest around you both settling into a silence that felt almost like understanding.

“You’re a strange one,” he finally said, his voice gruff but softer than usual. He glanced down at the rifle in his hand. “But I get it.”

You didn’t say anything, but you felt a small, unexpected weight lift from your shoulders. Logan turned, heading further into the trees, but he didn’t ask you to take another shot. Instead, he led the way, rifle lowered, the two of you moving together walked in silence for a while, curiosity gnawed at you until you finally asked, “So… how long did you serve?”

Logan glanced at you, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. He gave a short laugh, looking off as if doing the math in his head. “Since the Civil War,” he replied simply.

You stopped in your tracks, caught off guard, blinking as you took in his words. “The Civil War?” You’d guessed he might have been in World War I, but this was something else entirely.

Logan chuckled at your reaction, his lips quirking as he kept walking, and you scrambled to catch up. “What about after that?” you pressed, genuinely curious. “I mean… until when?”

He raised an eyebrow, thoughtful, and then shrugged. “After Vietnam around the 80s,” he answered. “Finally called it quits after a while.” Your mind raced as you did the math. “So that’s….. like more than a hundred and twenty years in the military?” You shook your head, a little awe mixed with something close to disbelief.

Logan just grunted, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but then he looked back at you. “What about ya? How long?”

“Twenty,” you replied with a half-smile. “Not even a quarter of your time.” The two of you shared a look, something unspoken but deeply felt passing between you, an understanding of battles fought, the weight of service, and the scars it left behind. Logan’s gaze softened a bit more, his voice quiet but steady. “Guess we both know a thing or two about how it changes you.”

You nodded, feeling a connection that went beyond words. As you walked further into the woods together, a quiet understanding settled between you, each of you carrying the weight of those years but somehow feeling just a little lighter with someone who understood.

As you and Logan trekked further into the woods, a flash of orange against the dense green foliage caught your eye. You stopped in your tracks, looking up at a tall persimmon tree, the branches laden with ripe fruit, a few of them dangling low within sight but just out of reach. It was like a piece of your past had somehow woven itself into this moment, in the middle of the quiet forest with Logan by your side.

Without explaining, you turned to Logan. “Hold still for a second,” you murmured, unslinging your rifle. He raised an eyebrow but complied, watching curiously as you stepped up behind him. Hoisting the rifle up, you positioned it on his shoulder, trying to steady the barrel.

Logan tensed as he felt the weight of your rifle settle. “So, twenty years in the military, and this is what they teach you on rifle safety procedure, huh?” he muttered, his usual sarcasm laced with a flicker of amusement.

You smirked, squinting down the scope as you zeroed in on a particularly plump persimmon. “Cry me a river, Logan. It’s not like if I accidentally blow off an ear, it wouldn’t grow back.”

Logan huffed, shaking his head slightly but careful not to disrupt your aim. “Real professional,” he grumbled. “I didn’t live over a century just to become someone’s human bipod.”

You stifled a laugh, your gaze still fixed on the fruit, the tiniest stem all that kept it hanging. “Do me a favor and shut up. Hold your damn breath my rifle's trembling." You said firmly with slight irritation in your voice.

Logan’s muttered complaints quieted, though his annoyance was clear as he held his breath, his whole frame going rigid beneath the weight of your rifle. “Unbelievable,” he managed to whisper, voice muffled as he exhaled in controlled bursts.

With a steady hand and laser focus, you squeezed the trigger just as your father had taught you. The shot rang out, clean and precise, and with a satisfying snap, the persimmon detached and fell gracefully into the forest floor. Stepping back with a triumphant grin, you patted Logan on the shoulder as if he’d actually contributed.

Logan exhaled, glancing between you and the fallen persimmon. “You really went through all that trouble for one fruit?” You shrugged, retrieving the persimmon and wiping it clean on your sleeve. “Not just any fruit,” you replied, studying it with a small, nostalgic smile before taking a bite. “It’s a piece of home.”

Logan watched you for a beat, his usual snark softened, something like understanding flickering in his gaze. But of course, he wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction without one last jab.

“Next time, maybe just ask for a ladder,” he muttered, though the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” you replied, biting back a grin as you stashed the persimmon for later.

Logan’s gaze settled on another branch of ripe persimmons hanging just out of reach, and you saw the challenge spark in his eyes. Without a word, he raised his rifle and took aim at the slim stem of a fruit, clearly bent on proving himself.

“Careful,” you warned, munching on your own persimmon. “It’s not that easy without something to steady your aim.” But he only smirked, cocky as ever. “Shut up"

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, I’d give you three chances with that,” you shot back, a teasing glint in your eyes.

Logan rolled his eyes, muttering "I don't need three bullets." something under his breath as he braced the rifle, using only his left arm for support. He took his first shot, and the bullet whizzed by the stem, barely brushing it. A slight frown replaced his smirk as he reloaded, now more focused.

“Still sure you don’t need three?” you taunted, crossing your arms as you watched. He grunted in response, taking aim again. The second shot missed by a hair, and he huffed in frustration, your expression already broadcasting an I told you so.

“Huh. Not exactly fair,” he muttered, a faint grumble in his tone. “You had my shoulder as a bipod, and it’s not like I can use yours.” His eyes flicked to your height as if to emphasize the point, a slight smirk tugging at his mouth.

Raising an eyebrow, you smirked back. “Have you ever thought about just asking for help?” Before you could second-guess the impulse, you stepped in front of him, lifting your right arm and offering it up. “Here, use this.”

Logan’s smirk faltered as he looked down at you, clearly caught off guard but game enough to try. He gave a short nod, settling his rifle on your palm with arm raised above your head, though he quickly realized it wasn’t quite steady. Without a word, he reached out, his calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist to gently adjust the height. The touch was firm, grounding, but the warmth of his hand sent a jolt through you, making your heart skip a beat. You hadn't fully thought this through, and now, standing this close to him, you became acutely aware of every detail. The roughness of his hand against your skin, and the subtle brush of his fingers as he guided your arm into position.

He adjusted your arm a little higher, bringing it closer to his shoulder, his focus entirely on the rifle. But for you, every second of contact felt charged. The way his hand lingered, steadying you, almost made you forget why you’d offered in the first place.

“Hold it there,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a growl. You nodded, words catching in your throat, as he finally let go, his hand slipping from your wrist, leaving your skin tingling where his fingers had been.

For a moment, you were hyper-aware of the closeness between you, his face inches from yours. Your heart picked up its pace as you took in every detail—the rugged lines, the odd yet charming mutton chops, and the hint of green that softened his hazel eyes. How could a man this old look so… timeless?

With steady focus, Logan finally pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, sharp and clean, hitting the branch dead-on. You turned your head just in time to see the cluster of persimmons break loose, tumbling to the ground with satisfying thuds.

Before you could react, Logan lowered the rifle from your raised arm, his smirk unmistakably triumphant. He looked at you, eyes twinkling with that signature cocky satisfaction, and held your gaze a moment longer than expected. The intensity in his eyes made you catch your breath, an almost silent exchange passing between you, his smirk softening just slightly as if savoring the moment.

But before he could notice the warmth spreading across your face, you quickly turned away, breaking the spell. Without missing a beat, you strode toward the fallen persimmons, dropping to your knees and reaching for them, your heart still pounding.

“See?” you said, grinning as you picked up the fruit, keeping your focus on them. “I don’t make the rules. Everybody needs a bipod.” Logan gave a low chuckle behind you, clearly amused, but you kept gathering the persimmons, not quite ready to face him again. The weight of that brief look stayed with you, lingering just like the warmth of his hand on your wrist.

As you pocketed the last of the fallen persimmons, you began walking deeper into the woods, Logan by your side. The familiar path led you to a small, serene lake you’d often visited. You knew these woods by heart, every hidden trail and shaded grove. The early morning sun cast a warm glow over the still water, and without a word, you both sat down on the soft grass by the lake’s edge.

The peaceful quiet settled around you as you leaned back, savoring one of the persimmons Logan had shot down. You glanced at him thoughtfully. “So, why did they call you Wolverine?” you asked, breaking the silence.

He shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Someone invented that name for me,” he replied shortly, brushing it off. "Why do they call you Hollow?” he asked, his voice low, almost as if he were reluctant to break the peace of the early hour.

You looked down at the half-eaten persimmon in your hands, a slight smile tugging at your lips. “I invented that name myself. Better than what they used to call me. Fire and Flesh,” you replied, your tone casual, though the weight of those words still lingered. His eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued. “Who called you that?”

“Jarheads,” you replied, using the old slang for Marines, which Logan seemed to understand. His face softened, a flash of recognition in his expression. “Semper fi,” he murmured, the famous Latin phrase among Marines meaning always faithful, familiar in his voice.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes a bit, though with a soft smile. “Oorah,” you replied weakly, echoing the battle cry you’d once shouted alongside fellow Marines. It had been years since anyone had greeted you with Semper fi and it stirred something within you, a sense of camaraderie, a reminder of a time long past.

But as you sat there, looking out over the lake, you felt an unexpected calm wash over you. The overwhelming weight you’d carried for so long felt lighter in this quiet moment. Sitting by the lake, eating persimmons with your new friend from work, far removed from the chaos of life, gave you a sense of peace you hadn’t known you needed.

As you pocketed the last of the fallen persimmons, you rose and dusted off your hands. The quiet of the lake had been soothing, but the early morning sun was beginning to creep higher, casting golden beams through the trees. “We should probably head back,” you said, glancing up at the sky. “It’s almost nine.” Logan gave a nod, and together, you began the walk back through the woods.

After a few minutes of silence, you broke it with a question that had been lingering. “Does it hurt…when your claws come out?” Logan’s eyes flicked toward you, then back to the trail. “Every time.”

There was something in his tone—a resigned acceptance that pulled at you. Logan then returned the question, his gaze shifting to you thoughtfully. “How did they…manage to push your mutations?”

You took a breath, the memories flooding back with an uncomfortable vividness. As you walked, you found yourself speaking, the words coming out slowly, almost reluctantly. “I was human. For 27 years, I think. Feels like a lifetime ago.” You paused, watching the path ahead. “They injected me with something. Then left me in an incubator for days, where the oxygen pressure would drop so low I’d pass out. Over and over again.”

Logan’s face hardened, but he didn’t say anything. Somehow, an apology felt empty, too small for what you’d endured. Instead, he shared his own story, his voice low. “My, uh…claws. They were bones naturally.” The admission caught you off guard, and you looked at him, silently urging him to continue.

“They coated them in metal,” he explained, his tone blunt. “Adamantium. Through injections.” You winced at the thought. “That’s…sick.” There was a beat of silence, so you added lightly, hoping to soften the mood, “Do you like them better now, though? You know, because they’re metal and unbreakable? I can’t even picture you with bone claws. Kinda gross, actually.” Logan shot you a sidelong glance, half-amused. “You’re a terrible person, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you replied with a smirk. “But, come on, do you?” He shook his head, chuckling softly. “Yeah, it’s better with adamantium.” You couldn’t help but grin, triumphant. “Knew it.”

The two of you kept walking, your conversation mingling with the crunch of leaves underfoot, the forest around you somehow feeling a little less heavy. The bond between you, shaped by shared scars and dark humor, felt surprisingly natural, like the start of a new kind of camaraderie.

As you both finally made it back to where your bikes were parked, the morning's warmth faded into a colder silence. You knelt, carefully unzipping your bag and placing your rifle down, adjusting everything with meticulous care, you're always taught PCP rifle is so fragile, the stock is carved with polished woods and not some metal. Just as you were reaching back, Logan called out casually, “Hey, here you go,” and tossed the rifle he had borrowed straight in your direction.

In that split second, you hadn’t been looking, and before you could react, the rifle fell to the ground with a harsh thud.

A bolt of panic and fury surged through you as you stared at it, horrified. You reached down, fingers trembling as you inspected the rifle. This wasn’t just any rifle. It was a gift from your late mentor Mr Santiago who had taught you everything about shooting since you're fourteen years old, who had trusted you with his prized possession. The wood of the stock had cracked upon impact, a delicate fracture spider-webbing across the finish.

“You dumbfuck,” you said, your voice icy and trembling with anger. “Couldn’t you just handed me the rifle like a normal person!?” Logan looked taken aback, his brow furrowing. “Whoa, relax,” he muttered, straddling his bike. “The rifle’s fine.”

You knelt by the rifle, running a finger over the crack. It was irreparable, and your hands tightened with suppressed rage. “You cracked the fucking stock,” you spat, not even looking at him. He shrugged, still unconcerned. “Alright, sorry, that’s on me. Look, I can get it fixed or just replace it.”

“Replace it?” You turned on him, anger boiling over. “Unlike you, Logan, I actually take care of things. People trusted me and this rifle was a gift. My mentor gave this to me before he died. I’ve kept it safe for years, not a single scratch. Here you go holding it for one fucking hour and you manage to crack it. You're unbelievable, I can't believe I trusted you with it.” Your voice trembled with the weight of disappointment and resentment.

Logan went quiet, his face darkening, but he didn’t say anything. For a moment, he looked like he was going to respond, but the words died in his throat as he looked away, feeling the sting of what he’d done. Without another word, you packed your bag, zipped it tightly, and got on your bike.

Without looking back, you started up the engine and took off, the roar of the bike carrying your frustration as you sped down the trail, the tires kicking up dust behind you. You left Logan behind in the dust, his figure shrinking in the rearview mirror, a mix of guilt and regret plain on his face. He sat in silence, the gravity of his small but thoughtless mistake settling over him.

As you arrived back at the X-Mansion, the grand building loomed before you, a familiar yet comforting sight amidst the turmoil of your thoughts. You parked your bike and headed toward the mansion's entrance, not even glancing behind to check if Logan had caught up. He was still somewhere on the trail, and that suited you just fine.

Entering the mansion, you were greeted by Ororo’s calm voice as she crossed the hall. “Good morning. Professor Xavier needs to see the team after breakfast,” she informed you, her usual serene expression in place, though her keen eyes picked up on your tension. You nodded, offering a faint smile, and continued upstairs without another word.

Once in your room, you carefully laid the damaged rifle on your bed, the fracture in the stock glaring up at you. Sitting down beside it, you ran your fingers along the crack, feeling a pang of frustration and sadness twist in your chest. Mr. Santiago’s face came to mind, and the disappointment in yourself for letting this happen stung. Fixing it wouldn’t be easy—it might not even be possible—and the thought weighed on you.

But you needed to gather yourself; there was a team meeting, and breakfast first. With a sigh, you stood, tearing your gaze away from the broken rifle, and exited your room, leaving the door cracked open. You resolved to focus on one thing at a time: breakfast, the meeting, and then dealing with this mess.

As you made your way downstairs, the usual chatter in the dining area barely registered as you sat down, grabbing a cup of coffee and some toast, lost in your thoughts.

Gathered around in Professor Xavier’s office, the team waited, exchanging curious glances. Scott, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, tapped his foot impatiently. “Where’s Logan?” he muttered.

Ororo stood near the window, arms folded. “He’ll be here,” she said, though a hint of curiosity flickered in her gaze. Jean, seated beside the professor’s desk, looked thoughtful, sensing the tension in the room.

Just as Scott opened his mouth to comment again, Logan entered, his gaze immediately locking with yours. You quickly averted your eyes, refocusing on Professor Xavier, who was already watching you both with a knowing look. Logan took his place, leaning against the wall, his expression unreadable but quietly remorseful.

Charles cleared his throat, signaling the start of the meeting. A hologram flickered to life above the table, displaying an image of a stern-looking man with a white lab coat and cold, calculating eyes. “This is Dr. Emrys Killebrew,” Charles began. “A former geneticist known for his experimentation on mutants and humans alike, pushing the limits of ethical science. Over the decades, his work has created…unintended consequences. He has targeted individuals he believed showed potential to develop powers, experimenting on them without regard for their lives.”

Your heart sank, a feeling of dread creeping over you. Professor’s gaze softened as he addressed you specifically, “Hollow, I believe you’re already aware of some of his projects, though you may not know the extent.”

You nodded, but then froze as Charles continued, “He’s the one responsible for the injections that changed you. Dr. Killebrew obtained Wolverine's genetic material in the late '70s…and used it in his experiments on you... when you were still human.”

Stunned, you tore your gaze from Charles and glanced at Logan, whose expression had gone dark with a mixture of guilt and confusion. His eyes locked onto yours, intense and searching, as though he was processing the news for the first time himself. For a heartbeat, the two of you were frozen in a silent exchange before you turned your head back to Charles as the memories of those experiments came back vividly, the painful injections, the endless tests, the way they broke you down. The odds that Logan’s DNA had been a part of it all felt surreal.

A solemn silence settled in the room, broken by Ororo’s gentle voice. “Professor…is he still conducting these experiments?”

“Yes,” Charles replied gravely, flicking to another image of a heavily guarded facility. “We’ve located another of his labs. Intelligence suggests he’s holding a group of young mutants there—twelve in total. They’re being kept under heavy surveillance and sedation, and they are in immediate danger. I need you all to work together tonight to bring them home.”

Scott stepped forward, his tone resolute. “We’ll get them out, Professor. Whatever it takes.” His gaze traveled over the team, determination in his eyes. Jean nodded, her expression fierce. “If Killebrew’s behind this, we can’t let him keep experimenting on innocent kids. He’s not getting away this time.”

Hank, adjusting his glasses, looked thoughtful. “It will be essential to understand the facility’s layout and any possible security measures. If this location mirrors any of his previous labs, it’s likely rigged with traps for mutants specifically.”

Logan spoke up, his voice tense. “I’ll handle any of those traps. This guy’s work is…personal.” He looked toward you again, softer, a silent apology in his eyes. “More than most of you might realize.” Ororo placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Then we move quickly. Every second counts if those children are suffering.”

Charles nodded approvingly, his gaze sweeping over the group. “Thank you. Prepare to leave after sunset. Coordinate together to ensure the safest extraction possible. We bring them back to safety tonight.”

Part 4 ->

An: It gets even longer through every new chapters, the ideas is buzzing in my mind. Thank you guys for interacting, I'll see you next chapter<3

[marifilue]

Since I've been kinda busy, here's a little peek for What Makes Us Human Part 3: Glimpse Of The Past

•••

Logan’s eyes were sharp as he watched you line up another shot, this time at a squirrel nestled on a higher branch. You steadied your aim, but when you squeezed the trigger, it was with just enough force to send the shot wide, the squirrel scurrying off into the trees. Logan’s low chuckle made you glance over, and you saw that familiar, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t miss that one by accident, did you?” he remarked, amusement glinting in his eyes. "I told you I'm just a bit rusty." You said again.

“You didn't squeeze the trigger, you flick em with your finger way too harsh. Trying to scare it off, maybe?” Logan teased which caught you off guard, you raised an eyebrow, studying his expression. “You sound just like my old man.” You told him, recollecting lost memories since you haven't heard those words in ages. Stop pulling the trigger, you need to squeeze it. Your father used to scream those combination of words every. Single. Time. A rifle is in your hand. Stop pulling it, just squeeze.  "You two used to hunt together?" Logan voice a bit softer, suddenly brings you back from the pit and let the lost memories to float away once again.

•••

I'm having so much fun with this miniseries since it's my first, I can actually write so much about rifles because I grew up with them, it's been a big part of my teenage years since I do target shooting as sport for years.

Read part 1 & 2 here!

[marifilue]

Part 2: A Mission For Rogue

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n, you have regenerative healing ability, skilled with guns and rifles, reader in her 50s but because of her ability looked like in her mid 20s. Logan is from the first X-Men movie era.

Warnings: Explicit language, Violence.

WC: 4,6k

<- Part 1

Evening settled over Westchester Station, the sun dipping low as a cold night began to creep in. A faint haze hung above the tracks, softening the clamor of bustling commuters and casting a muted glow over the crowd. Logan and you moved through the crowds of people, his sharp gaze scanning for Marie, focused and vigilant. The team had agreed Logan would be the best to approach her because she trusted him. You stayed close by, Ororo and Scott guards the station pacing back and forth with coms device on their ear.

“She's on the train,” Charles’s voice echoed in both your minds, calm and certain. “I’ll check the first few cars,” you told him, meeting his gaze. “You take the back.” Logan gave a brief nod, his eyes steady as he turned to the nearest car just before it began to pull away.

The dim interior was quiet, only a handful of passengers scattered across the red leather seats. Logan’s gaze flicked across them until it landed on Marie, hunched over by a window, her green hoodie pulled tight, gloved hands clasped in her lap. She looked so small, shoulders pulled up as if to shield herself from the world.

Logan approached slowly “Hey, kid,” Logan called softly, his voice gentle yet firm. Marie’s head turned, her eyes widening as a flicker of relief crossed her face.

“You runnin’ again?” Logan asked as he took a seat next to her. Marie managed a faint nod, her gaze dropping.

“I heard… the Professor was mad at me,” she muttered, looking away.

"Well, who told you that?" Logan’s eyes flashed with a hint of anger at the thought, but his voice stayed soft. “A boy at school” Marie looked up sharply, her eyes guarded. "You think I should go back" She continue. "No I think you should follow your instincts." He says with slight of encouragement.

After you were sure Marie is not on the passenger carriages you've checked, you paced towards the back, hoping Logan already find her first, which he did. You caught a glimpse of him sitting next to Marie, deciding to keep a respectful distance, you stood a few chairs away, listening to their conversations.

Marie’s mouth trembled, and she let out a shaky breath. “The first boy I ever kissed…” Her voice cracked. “He ended up in a coma for three weeks. I can still feel him… in my head.”

Logan reached an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a reassuring side hug and gently squeeze her left shoulder. You stayed back, observing the unexpected gentleness in him. This morning you had assume he's just another grumpy guy, with his guards as thick as ever. He probably couldn't care less about anyone else in his life, but there he is. Proving your assumption was all wrong, again. Something in your heart softened with the way he's comforting a teenage girl he had met yesterday. He looked up briefly as the train rumble and caught your gaze, you offered him a slight smile, both for acknowledging his care and letting him know you were here.

As Marie leaned into his side, her tears leaving faint trails on her cheeks, he whispered, “There aren’t many people who’ll understand what you’re goin’ through. But I think this guy Xavier’s one of ‘em. He actually wants to help. That’s rare, especially for people like us.”

Marie looked up at him, searching his face. Logan met her gaze with a quiet confidence. “Give these geeks one more shot, yeah?” He paused, adding softly, “C'mon I’ll take care of you.” He reached giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze one last time, and she nodded, wiping her eyes. “Promise?” she murmured. Logan nodded. “Yeah, I promise.”

After giving them a few minutes Logan's eyes find yours and gave you a small nod, a sign you can approach them now. You walk slowly before taking a seat across from them, catching her eye with a gentle smile. “Marie, you okay?” you asked quietly, wanting her to feel the team’s support. She gave you a small nod, visibly calmer now, though still vulnerable. “Good,” you said, reaching over to lightly pat her hand. “You’re safe with us. We’ve got you.”

Just then, the train gave a sudden, sharp lurch, rattling the carriage. Logan’s head whipped around, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the car for any signs of danger. You felt it too, a sudden unnatural tension in the air. The train door shuddered, then screeched open, metal bending under an invisible force. Magneto stepped through, his expression cold and calculated, his gaze zeroing in on Marie.

Logan shot up, moving in front of her in an instant, claws extending with a snikt. “Not today, Magneto,” he growled, placing himself between Marie and the older man. Magneto’s face was impassive as he lifted a hand, his voice smooth but forceful. “Move aside, Logan. The girl belongs with me.” Logan braced himself, but with a flick of Magneto’s fingers, he was yanked backward, his body slamming against the metal wall, pinned by Magneto’s power. Straining against the invisible hold, he grit out, “Marie, don’t listen to him.”

Magneto’s attention shifted to you, his brows raised slightly in amusement and with a blink he's dismissing you, pinning you to the side against the cold metal wall. Fuck you cursed under your breath as you remembered having a metal guns with you, strapped between your waist. Should've seen this coming and grab the plastics one you thought, seeing your stubborn head fighting back his strong force with gritted teeth, Magneto strip a piece of metal and lock your neck in place glued within the walls behind you. He's now focusing again on Marie. “They’re just using you,” he told her, his voice almost gentle. “With me, you don’t have to be afraid of your powers. I can teach you to control them to never hurt anyone again.”

Marie stared at him, wide-eyed, caught in a mix of fear and hesitation. Logan's voice broke through the tension, gruff but steady. "Kid, you want control? You've already got it. You just need the right people to help you and it's not him!" His shout echoed, but Magneto only scoffed, lifting a finger with chilling indifference. A thin slice of metal shot forward, pressing itself harshly over Logan's mouth, smothering his words into silence. His eyes blazed, defiant, but Magneto's sadistic gaze was fixed on him, unfazed. Without a word, he manipulated a jagged strip of steel to float between his fingers, then with a slight flick, split it cleanly into two, hovering the pieces in front of Logan's face as savoring the moment for his own sick twisted amusement.

Logan barely had a heartbeat to register what was coming. With brutal precision, the blunt ends of the steel impaled through the both of his palms, burying themselves into the wall behind him. His muscles tensed, body trembling, as blinding pain ripped through his hands, spreading like wildfire up his arms. His scream is muffled under the metal piece, leaving only his strangled, agonized breaths.

You watch in horror, unable to look away. Your neck was bound by a cold band of metal Magneto had twisted around your throat, tight enough to restrict your movements and there's barely a space for air, forcing you to stay still, vulnerable and helpless. It wasn't as brutal as Logan's suffering, but you could feel its cold bite against your skin, a constant reminder of your own fragility in Magneto's grasp. Your hands clenched into fists, nails biting into your palms, you scream for his name as his eyes widened with pain and fury, his silent agony twisting the insides of your stomach.

Magneto continue to extending a hand toward her. “Come with me, Marie. They can’t understand your potential. But I can.”

Her gaze flicked to Logan, then to you, poor girl didn't know what to do, she can't just attack him, it's not how her mutation works. “Marie,” you said gently, “you’re not alone. We’ll help you, just like we promised.” You said almost chocked by your own words as the grip tightened in your neck.

She took a step back, her shoulders squared with a new resolve. “I don’t want your help,” she said to Magneto, her voice shaking but determined. Magneto’s face darkened, his patience running thin. He gestured sharply, and metal restraints began to form around Marie, pulling her toward him. Panic flashed in her eyes as she struggled. “Marie!” You yelled, fighting against the magnetic hold.

The magnetic force on your neck faded, a harsh weight easing as Magneto took off into the distance, Marie in his possession. You drew in a shaky breath, adrenaline still pounding through your veins. Ignoring the pain in your own neck, you rushed to Logan, terror filling you as you saw his hands impaled to the wall, the steel pinning him in place with blood dripping staining the rusty metal. “Shit,” you muttered, reaching for the steel. “I’m so sorry, Logan. I’m sorry.” Your hands shook as you gripped the metal, pulling with all your strength, gritting your teeth against his muffled grunts of pain. “Hang on,” you whispered, glancing up to see the tight set of his jaw, his eyes locked on yours through the agony. You yanked the metal free with a final, determined pull, and instantly his hands started healing, the torn skin knitting itself back together as if it had never been wounded.

He flexed his hands, and for a moment, the raw tension between you eased. But his gaze shifted to your neck, where lines of red cuts were still visible from the steel that had choked you earlier. You could feel the wounds slowly healing, but it was nowhere near as fast as his. Logan’s eyes darkened as he took in the damage, and with a gentleness that surprised you, he reached up, brushing the tips of his fingers lightly along your throat. His voice softened, concern bleeding through his rough tone. “Does it always take this long for you?”

You forced a half-smile, shrugging as best you could without wincing. “Sorry, not everyone heals as fast as you,” you replied with a touch of sarcasm, hoping to deflect the sudden tension thrumming between you. His lips twitched, almost a smirk, but there was something deeper in his gaze, a quiet understanding, maybe even respect as he nodded. Before either of you could say more, the communicator crackled, Ororo’s voice breaking through.

“Logan?" Ororo voice surged, following her muttered your name. "We lost the signal. What’s going on?” Logan’s gaze lingered on you for a moment before he turned his attention to the comm. “He’s got her. Magneto took Marie.” A tense silence filled the line until Scott’s voice cut in, firm and unyielding. “We’ll head back to the mansion and planned further. Tell us your position.” You exchanged a look with Logan, determination settling in your eyes. “We’ll find her,” you said, your voice steady, your conviction mirroring his. A subtle, unspoken bond hung in the air between you, both knowing the chase was just beginning.

If there's any new skills you've learned since joining the X-Men, it's pacing from one to another side of the building and change your clothes so quick into a, well kinda uncomfortable tight leather suit which offer enough protection. Even though you don't really need it, because even a bullet hit would just sting and not kill you but here you go, you just thought it would be cool to have a matching sets of suit with the team altogether.

In the equipment room, harsh lights cut across the space, casting sharp shadows that make the room look almost sterile. Steel racks line the walls, filled with various weapons and gadgets neatly arranged in their designated slots. It's cold here, the kind of chill that gets under your skin even if you don’t feel the temperature the same way most people do. You take a breath, inhaling the familiar scent of gun oil and leather, the kind of smell that would remind anyone else of trouble. For you, it’s just another day.

You stand in front of the rack, eyes scanning the gleaming rows of firearms before selecting your special pair. You reach for the twin plastic handguns. Sleek, black, well-maintained—feeling their familiar weight settle in your hands. They’re custom models, modified to go against magneto and obviously with accuracy and grip, with a dark matte finish to avoid glare. The barrels are slightly shorter than standard, making them easier to draw in tight situations, and the grips are textured to keep steady even under pressure. They fit perfectly in your hands, molded to your touch after years of training, of both sanctioned and unsanctioned missions.

As you secure each gun into its holster at your hips, there's a pang in your chest, a familiar bitterness. Guns have been a constant in your life, a tool you were taught to wield with precision and detachment. Yet, no matter how skilled you've become, there’s a shadow that lingers. You've used these weapons to save lives, but you've also used them to take lives, choices that weren't always yours to make.

Your time in the Marines was a relentless cycle of missions, one target after another, where you were pushed to the edge of your humanity, fuck they treated you as a tool because of what you could endure. The regenerative healing meant you could take the hits, walk into gunfire, and still pull the trigger. They called you the "Fire and Flesh" a title that left you both proud and hollow. The memories flicker in your mind as you load each plastic magazine with a kind of practiced ease, slotting a few extra rounds into a small black pouch strapped around your upper arm. You slip a few spare magazines in there, securing them in place as you mentally map out the ammo you'll need.

The guns may be tools, but they’re also symbols. Each grip, each click of a magazine, each time you pull them from your holsters, it reminds you of choices, of freedom and of restraint. And despite everything, you can’t deny the comfort they bring. With these, you’re in control, deciding when and where to draw the line. With an exhale, your hands resting on the metal grips. For better or worse, this is part of you.

You hear voices from across the room and glance over to see Scott handing Logan a black leather suit. Logan takes it with an exaggerated snort, holding it up and making a face as he examines it. "Really, Cyke? You want me to wear this?" His voice drips with sarcasm, but Scott just crosses his arms, standing firm. “It’s for disguise reasons, Logan,” Scott argues, his tone as flat as ever. “Blend in with the team. Makes us look united.”

You can’t help but chuckle, strolling over already wearing your own suit in. “C’mon, mutton chops. It’s just a little leather. Not like it’s gonna kill you,” Your voice has that teasing edge, enough to prod him a little without crossing the line.

Logan scowls, holding the suit like it's something foul he stepped in. He shakes his head, tossing it onto the table with a grunt. "Ain't wearin' this thing," he mutters, crossing his arms, stubborn as ever. Who the hell in their right mind would go out with that pair of jeans and old flannel into a fucking mission, we don't even know what awaits for us.

Scott sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Logan, it’s just a suit. The rest of us manage to get by without complaining."

"Yeah, well, the rest of you don’t mind bein’ squeezed like a sardine,” Logan shoots back. "I work better in my own gear."

You stifle a grin, watching the way he bristles. Real insufferable putting up a fight over a damn suit, and you have to admit, it’s a bit entertaining watching him pushing Scott's button. "Think of it as a team-bonding exercise. Or, you know, try not to embarrass us by showing up like some lumberjack out of place." Scott shot back as you parted your lips shocked by his insults.

Logan retort "What are you sayin man?" His eyebrows now knitted together taking a step closer to Scott. Before Scott could respond, Ororo and Jean stride in, their black suits sleek and professional, eyes sharp as they take in the standoff. “Oh, still fighting it, are we?” Ororo says with a raised eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her tone. She steps over to Logan, crossing her arms. “Logan, it’s a mission. Just wear the suit. You won’t die from being uncomfortable for a couple of hours.” Jean nods, giving him a half-smile. “It’s true, you know. Besides, it would be nice if we looked like a coordinated team for once. Right?” She casts a look around, her eyes landing on you and Scott for support.

Logan snorts, glancing from Jean to Ororo, then back at the suit. “Fine. But if this thing rips while I’m movin’, it’s on you, Cyke,” he growls, grumbling as he reluctantly picks up the suit and walk to a change room, muttering complaints the whole time.

The three of you share a look, trying not to laugh as Logan fumbles with the tight sleeves and zippers, clearly out of his element. Once he’s finally suited up, he shoots each of you a warning glare, as if daring anyone to comment. And with Logan finally in uniform, the team heads out together toward the Blackbird, looking like the united force Scott always hoped for, even if it took a little persuasion.

The night air was sharp and biting, the lights of New York City stretching out in the distance, casting a dim glow against the cloudy sky. The team had arrived at Liberty Island, a cold wind whipping around them as they approached the massive silhouette of the Statue of Liberty, rising majestically above the dark waters. Logan, you, and the rest of the team moved swiftly and quietly through the shadows, each one of you alert and on edge, sensing the danger looming just ahead.

The plan was simple but risky: Ororo would create a mist to obscure your movements, giving Logan and you the cover needed to enter the statue and reach Marie. Scott and Ororo would handle any defenses Magneto might have put up outside, keeping him distracted while the two of you located Marie and found a way to disable whatever device Magneto was planning to use to amplify her powers.

As you continued up through the statue’s dim interior, an old metal detector blocked your path. Logan strode through it, triggering an immediate blaring alarm. Unfazed, he extended all his claws and ripped the detector apart in one swift motion. Scott, startled by the noise, looked back just as Logan retracted his first and last claws, leaving only his middle one raised in Scott’s direction. Scott stifled a laugh, shaking his head in amusement before they both moved on, the brief humor a stark contrast to the tension surrounding them.

Logan’s expression was focused and grim, his gaze scanning every shadow, every corner, for signs of trouble. You kept pace beside him, your weapons drawn, every sense heightened. Each step took you closer to the top of the statue, where you could sense Magneto’s energy, a pulsing, unnatural presence hanging thick in the air. When you finally reached the observation deck, you spotted Marie in the distance, slumped against the metallic structure, her figure dwarfed by the massive machinery Magneto had built around her. The device loomed ominously, wires and metal snaking around her like a cage, amplifying her powers without her control. She looked small and fragile, her skin pale and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, unconscious but alive.

Logan took one look at her and gritted his teeth. “Stay close,” he muttered to you, his claws extending with a soft snikt. “We’re getting her out of this.”

Just as you began to approach Marie, a powerful magnetic force slammed into both of you, sending you skidding backward. Magneto appeared on the platform, his gaze cold and unyielding, blocking the path between you and Marie. His voice echoed through the space, mocking and confident. “You really thought you could take her from me?” he sneered, raising a hand as metal shards hovered around him, glinting menacingly in the dim light.

Logan snarled, launching himself forward, claws extended. But with a flick of Magneto’s wrist, he was halted midair, the metal in his body binding him in place. You raised your weapon, aiming for Magneto’s exposed chest, but he caught sight of it and twisted his hand, forcing the weapon from your grasp and pinning you against the cold metal wall with a jagged piece of railing.

“Enough games,” Magneto said, turning his attention back to Marie. He began to activate the machine, its hum growing louder as power surged through its structure. Logan struggled against his restraints, fury blazing in his eyes as he watched Marie’s life slipping away, her body starting to weaken under the machine’s grip.

Just then, Ororo’s voice crackled over the communicator, barely audible over the machine’s hum. “Hold on, we’re almost there,” she said, her tone filled with urgency. In a flash of lightning, she and Scott burst onto the observation deck, Ororo unleashing a gust of wind that knocked Magneto back a few steps. Scott took the opening, firing an optic blast that shattered the device’s control panel, sending sparks flying across the room.

With the machine momentarily disrupted, the magnetic force binding Logan and you released, dropping you both to the ground. You staggered to your feet, wincing from the impact, but Logan didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, making his way to Marie as fast as he could, pushing past the debris and machinery in his path.

Reaching her side, Logan dropped to his knees, gathering her limp form into his arms. Her skin was cold, her pulse weak, but she was still breathing. He pulled her close, knowing he had to act fast. Without hesitating, he pressed his cheek to hers, allowing his healing power to transfer, knowing it was the only way to save her.

The process was agonizing. You watched as Logan’s skin paled, his breaths growing ragged as his energy drained into Marie, reviving her but weakening him. Marie’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze unfocused and scared, but slowly, she began to recognize him. She reached out, her gloved fingers gently brushing his face as she whispered, “Logan…”

Just as Marie started to regain her strength, you saw Logan’s energy faltering, his grip on her loosening as his wounds reappeared, reopening as his body sacrificed itself to save hers. But he didn’t pull away, even as his breaths grew shallow, determined to make sure she was safe, no matter the cost.

Finally, the machine gave a final, deafening crackle as Ororo and Scott managed to destroy it completely, its lights dimming as it shut down for good. Magneto, realizing his defeat, retreated into the shadows, his figure vanishing as he made his escape. You hurried to Logan and Marie, relief flooding you as you saw color returning to her cheeks, her breaths becoming steady and strong again.

Logan, however, was on the brink of exhaustion, barely able to stay conscious. You reached out, steadying him, offering him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “You did it,” you murmured, watching as Marie slowly came back to full awareness, glancing between you both with gratitude and a touch of awe.

With Magneto’s plan thwarted and Marie safe, you all made your way back down the statue, the midnight air now filled with the quiet comfort of victory. And as you helped Logan to his feet, his strength gradually doesn't seem to return any soon, you exchanged a look, knowing this was only the beginning of the battles yet to come but for tonight, we won.

The interior of the Blackbird was dimly lit, the faint hum of machinery echoing through the cabin. Logan wandered through the narrow aisles, his feet heavy, as if they were laden with lead. He fought against the growing urge to succumb to sleep, his body weary from the night’s chaos. The adrenaline that had kept him alert during the fight was fading, leaving him feeling unsteady. Each step felt like a monumental effort, his eyelids growing heavier with each passing moment.

Just as he reached the back of the aircraft, the world blurred around him, and he staggered before collapsing against the cold metal wall. A sharp gasp echoed through the cabin, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

Sixteen hour passed which Logan had spent being unconscious, a concern rippled through the team as they gathered outside the medbay. Inside, where Logan lay on the bed with thin cushion. Jean was monitoring his vital signs, her brow furrowed with worry. She looked up, meeting the anxious gazes of yours.

“He’s stable,” Jean assured, glancing at the screen displaying Logan’s steady heart rate. “Just needs rest.”

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, your heart heavy as you watched the man who had prove himself to be become a reluctant mentor, a fierce protector, and a complicated friend in such a short time. “I still can’t believe what happened yesterday,” you said, breaking the silence. “Magneto... he impaled him with a steel in the train wall." Jean nodded, her expression contemplative. “That kind of injury would take a toll on anyone. But with his healing factor, he’ll bounce back. He’s been through worse.”

You couldn’t help but fascinated by Logan’s resilience. “He told me he’s nearly 170 years old,” you murmured, glancing at Logan’s still form. “Can you imagine how much pain he’s endured in all that time? I mean, he might’ve fought in World War I. Who knows what he’s experienced?” You thought to yourself, because from your personal experience, being alive for half a century is miserable enough. Twenty years under the military command which you just gained a freedom from three years now. This guy is almost two century. Jean listened intently, her focus unwavering. “It’s hard to fathom,” she agreed. “He’s been through more than most could bear. But he’s still here, still fighting.”

The two of you continued to speak softly, unaware that Logan’s ears were attuned to your voices, even in his unconscious state. The warmth of your words and concern seeped into him, grounding him despite the darkness. After what felt like an eternity, Jean stood to stretch her legs, casting a final glance at Logan. “I’ll be right back,” she said softly, stepping out of the lab.

As soon as she left, you took a deep breath, the weight of the past hours crashing down on you. You approached Logan, your heart racing as you exhaled, “We still need you here, Wolverine.” The words escaped your lips, raw and sincere, a plea for him to return to you and the team.

To your surprise, a faint whisper broke the silence. “M not goin' anywhere, Hollow.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you turned, eyes wide in disbelief. Logan's eyes fluttered open, glimmering with the remnants of pain yet fierce determination. You felt a flush creep up your cheeks, embarrassment washing over you as you instinctively moved to help him sit up. “Logan! You’re awake!”

He winced slightly but managed a weak grin. “Where’s Marie?” he asked, his voice hoarse but laced with concern. “Still recovering,” you replied quickly. “She’s been a bit off since everything. Picking up your behavior all morning, actually.” A small smile tugged at Logan’s lips. “She’s got grit,” he murmured, his eyes shining with pride.

Just then, the door swung open, and Professor Xavier entered the medbay, his wheelchair gliding smoothly across the floor. “Welcome back, Logan. I’m glad you’re still with us.”

“Yeah, me too,” Logan replied, stealing a glance at you. His smile widened just a fraction, a hint of gratitude in his expression, making your heart swell with relief. In that moment, the weight of fear and worry began to lift, replaced by the warmth of camaraderie and hope. You all knew the battles weren’t over, but with Logan back on his feet, the fight continued.

Part 3 ->

AN: Whooo here we go fellas, I think I've wrapped the introduction now. Be prepared because we're heading for the next chapter where the summary would take place. Thank you for reading and interacting <3

[marifilue]

Part 1: New Guy In Town

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, you have regenerative healing ability, skilled with guns and rifles, no use of y/n, reader in her 50s but because of her ability looked like in her mid 20s. Logan is from the first X-Men movie era.

Warnings: Explicit language, nothing much but we'll get there

Wc: 4,2k

A voice echoes in your mind, Professor Xavier calling your name, his presence is sharp and commanding. God, he always knew how to make a grand approach. You jumped at the unexpected voice as he instructed you to meet him downstairs. You set down your book, breath caught. Then, with a quick step, you head for the door.

Grabbing a red cardigan from the hanger just behind your bedroom door and leaving your book, now neglected, by the bed, you walk down the hallway. Dusty windows let in streaks of morning sunlight, warming the cold, shadowed hallway.

You step down two floors via the stairs to reach the main floor. Just when you’re about to reach for the handle, the door swings open, and suddenly you’re staring at a stranger, a tall rugged man who left no room for the doorway, his shadow casting over you. Weird hair style, are those a mutton chops hanging by his chin? Those belonged in a period dramas, not in Professor Xavier’s polished hallway. His X-Men sweater is unzipped halfway, chest hair on full display, which he doesn't seem to be bothered. Could’ve zipped it all the way up, but for some reason known only to God, he left it halfway at seven a.m. in freezing cold.

"And, Logan, meet Hollow" Charles said, introducing the strange man to you by your mutation's name. As you peeked to the side and get a better view of Charles since this guy is blocking the entire doorway. You shot him a confused glance; must be another stray that Charles had picked up. Not that it’s a bad thing—you were a stray once, rescued by Charles after escaping some twisted government experiment.

The man turns back to Charles and points at Ororo, who’s already in the room with Scott. "Storm?" he questioned, pointing to Ororo. "Cyclops," pointing to Scott. Then, "Hollow," he said, pointing at you. You swear you've never heard a voice that deep, did he do that on purpose?

He scoffed, "And what do they call you? Wheels?" Mocking all of the names and even the Professor. Where did Charles find this guy?

You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "That’s a lot of attitude for a guy with mutton chops." you muttered, eyeing him warily as he turns his head back at you.

He scoffs, "Hollow? That even a real name?" he said, your eyebrows furrowed together, resisting the urge to show him exactly why they called you that. You ignored him and stepped forward, purposely bump his left shoulder so you could enter the room with force- since he choose to stand right in the entrance door.

"My name is Charles Xavier," Charles said. You manage to keep your voice steady as you ask, "What’s going on, professor?" But part of you wonders if you’re ready for whatever answer he’ll give.

"Logan here and his companion, a young mutant named Marie, were attacked by other mutants under the influence of an old friend of mine, Erik Lehnsherr. I'm not very fond of what Erik is currently engaged in, and I believe his intentions are not positive," Charles explained, and you catch a glimpse of the— what was his name again?mutton-chops guy looked utterly confused.

"You and Marie is safe here Logan, we need to figured out what is Magneto's up to first." Ororo said "Hollow, I believe there’s a room available across from yours on the third floor. Would you mind showing Logan around the school and then leading him to his room?" Charles glanced at you with his usual smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. You had to admit that smile was a bit creepy, and his request was now undeniable.

"Sure, Professor," you replied shortly. Glancing at Logan "Chop chop, mutton chops." prompting him to follow you as you leave the office. If looks could kill, you'd be the first to die staring into those hazel eyes.

"You seem really intrigued by my mutton chops, aren't ya?" he said, following your steps from behind as you show him the classroom through the hallway. The school bells ring, and the kids make their way into the hallway, minding their own business. You snort a little laugh, low enough for him to hear. "What?" he demanded, wanting an explanation.

Now entering the kitchen and finding the door to the backyard. "I've only seen those in period dramas they haven't exactly been in style for, like, what? A century?" you said,

"Oh, I know that just fine. I was there when it was still in style," he replied stoically, stepping outside behind you. He now zips his sweater all the way up, which he should have done earlier.

"So your mutation is time traveling, huh? That's a first," you jumped to conclusions. He scoffs "That ain't it, bub. I'm just ol'." Standing beside you and staring into the green yard a hundred feet across. He tucks both of his arms into the pockets of his gray X-Men sweater.

"Like a hundred years old?" you asked, raising your eyebrows in pure curiosity. "Now that bald fella in a wheelchair have restored my memory back after attempting all night. I'm pretty sure I'm pushing a hundred and seventy. A thing I couldn't even remember for the last ten years." Logan responded whilst staring into the green yard. With this new information, you suddenly feel a slight sympathy toward him. A decade, that’s a long time to be lost.

"I have regenerative healing abilities too. If I'm right in guessing this time that's your mutation?" you said, glancing to your left to catch his profile. "Really? How old are ya?" he asks, his tone now filled with curiosity.

"Whoa, whoa. I don’t think it’s socially acceptable in today’s society to ask a woman her age," you replied sarcastically, bringing your hand to cover your mouth. "Fifty-five years old, and nobody needs to know," you whispered just loud enough for him to hear. He can’t help but smile softly, amused by your humor.

Logan brings his left arm up, rubbing his temple with the tips of his index and middle fingers. "Listen, I, uh... I've had a long night. Can we just cut the tour short and show me the room?" He said with low voice, continues to rub his temple before pinching the bridge of his nose. His slight mood shift makes you want to question him further, but you simply nod in understanding. "Come, follow me," you say as you head back into the mansion.

The next three minutes pass in silence, filled only with faint echoes from the classrooms—the low murmurs of students, chairs scraping on floors. The mansion’s grandness always felt both comforting and isolating. Logan trails two steps behind, eyes flicking over the wood-paneled walls, the high arched ceilings, and the faint burn marks from past battles. After climbing two stories, you reach the third-floor hallway. This floor has eight rooms—four on each side—and now that Logan is the last person to occupy one. You on the other hand were the first, a little over two years ago. Sometimes you wondered if you’d ever truly settle in. This floor is more sophisticated than the students' quarters, designed for teachers and offering much more privacy.

You twist the cool brass doorknob and push the door open. The faint scent of wood polish and dust greets you both. Noticing his belongings already sitting near the bed just one bag with enough clothes. Ororo must've dropped them off.

"Find me if you need anything." You said as he nods, offering a faint smile before you close the door "Thanks," he muttered. You force a polite nod with a gentle smile before heading down the hallway, sensing his gaze linger a beat too long. Whether out of interest or suspicion, you weren’t sure. though something in his tone leaves you wary.

A few feet away from the kitchen, a polite voice stops you. “Excuse me?” You turn your head and find a young girl with brunette hair standing nearby. “Hi there,” you responded, waiting for her to speak.

“I saw you with Wolverine earlier. Do you know where he is?” she asked. You give her a polite smile, a bit puzzled. “I’m sorry, who’s Wolverine?” you said, genuinely confused.

“Oh… his name’s Logan,” she clarifies, a little awkwardly. Wolverine? The name catches you off guard, but somehow it suits him. You nod. “And you are…?”

“Rogue. Marie, sometimes,” she said, her voice soft. It clicks in your mind, and you smile as you introduce yourself, welcoming her to the school. “I showed Logan to his room on the third floor. He said he needed some rest.” She gives a small nod but seems hesitant to leave. You notice her gloved hands, the fabric stretching past her elbows as if it’s meant to keep something hidden.

"Everything okay?" you asked, noticing her hesitation. She glances down, fidgeting with the edge of her glove. “I… well, it’s different here. But I’m dangerous. My mutation, it's not like most people’s.” She hesitates, looking up at you with a worried expression.

"Tell me more about it, what's your gift?" You softly encourage her. "When I touch someone… I absorb their energy, memories, powers… everything. I could really hurt someone.” There’s a heavy silence as she waits for your reaction, her gaze searching for any hint of fear or judgment. Instead, you give her a reassuring smile.

“I can’t imagine what that must feel like,” you said gently. “But, Marie, you’re safe here. This school is a place for people like us. No one’s going to judge you, and no one’s going to turn you away because of who you are.” She bites her lip, a mix of relief and doubt in her expression.

“It’s hard, though… feeling like I have to protect people from myself. Sometimes I wish I could just be normal.” You place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We all feel that way sometimes. But you don’t have to go through it alone anymore. Here, you’ve got people who understand and want to help you.”

A small smile breaks through her worry. “Thank you. I didn’t think… I didn’t think anyone would get it.” You return her smile warmly. “We do. You’re welcome here, just as you are.” She give a polite smiles before disappear into the hallway, after all it's her first day. She needs time to settle in.

The clock reads 7:38. It's Wednesday, and you have an English class to teach at nine—a little over an hour away—leaving you enough time to make a simple breakfast. You tiptoe over to the cupboard to grab some flour and then open the fridge to take out two eggs and a cartoon of milk. Setting down a bowl, you mix the flour with some sugar, then crack in the eggs, pour down the milk. You stir the mixture well until it forms a smooth pancake batter. You wait for the pan to heat before carefully pouring the batter just enough to form the perfect circle.

"You mind sharing a bite of that?" a deep voice suddenly appear. You glance over your shoulder, careful not to take your eyes off the half-cooked pancake, and see Logan leaning against the doorway, arms crossed.

You nudge the spatula under the pancake, flipping it with a practiced hand. "I thought you were resting," you said. "I was, but then my stomach grumbled. Haven't ate anythin' in two days," he told you.

"Alright, I'll let you have some. Sit down," you instructed him, and he willingly obliges. "Anythin I can help with?" he adds.

"No, don’t meddle with my business in the kitchen," you replied with a cocky tone, Logan’s lips twitched into a half-smirk, one brow lifting as he watches from his seat behind you when you quietly stand still in front of the stove, humming a melancholic song he’s never heard before. Your hair is messy, pulled into a bun with your favorite floral hair clip. The ends of your red cardigan sway in rhythm with your movements.

A few minutes pass, and the two plates of pancakes are ready, each stacked three high. You place them on the table, but something’s still missing—blueberries and maple syrup, you think to yourself. You head to the fridge to grab some blueberries; there are only a few left, and you make a mental note to restock soon.

"Actually, can you grab the water?" you asked him, reaching into the cupboard above the fridge for the maple syrup. "I thought you hated anyone meddlin' in the kitchen." Logan scoffed as he shifts from his seat, grabbing a glass. He fills it with water, though you didn't exactly pay attention because you're too busy on pouring just the right amount of maple syrup, not too much, just enough.

Logan returns to his seat and places your glass beside your plate. You carefully add blueberries to each plate, and when you’re satisfied, you sit across from Logan, glancing at the empty glass he placed for you. You also catch a look at his own glass, which he’s now drinking from, fully filled with water. "Seriously?" You glance him a death stare raising your eyebrows. He puts down the glass and before he could even blink, you tossed your glass directly to his chest with enough force so his reflexes could catch it, which he did.

"Whoa, relax. I'll get em for ya." He said with stupid grin and you can clearly see how much he's amused with your reaction. He shifts once again from his seat and fill in your glass. "Don't forget the silverware. And if you're only grabbing one set this time, I can eat for two." You jokingly threatened him.

"Aight, no need to get harsh." He came back to the table and handle you the silverware whilst putting the glass with his other hand. With just two of you in the kitchen, you ate the first bites in uncomfortable silences, besides you just met him not even an hour ago. He doesn't seems to mind with the silence but you sure as hell mind, a lot.

"So I guess Storm and Cyclops picked you?" You said staring at your plate and stole glances at his. He shrugged "Yeah, funny names." Bringing another spoon into his mouth, good god he's starving. "It's a code names, just like Wolverine" you tease him after learning he had his own codenames, what a hypocrite. He caught off guard with you mentioning the name Wolverine but refuse to engage further and change the topic immediately.

"What's your actual name then?" He asked and you muttered your first name. He repeated it and tells you how much better it sounds rather than Hollow. "How long you've been here?" He adds whilst taking another bite. "A little over two years now." You said.

"The kid you brought, she’s more than she seems, isn’t she?" You curiously asked as you've interact with Marie earlier. Your best assume was that she might be a relative, probably cousin? Niece?

"I actually had no idea. She's uh, sneak in the back of my van yesterday. Real tough and a fearless kid I must say." Logan said, remembering his accident yesterday.

"You just met her? Could’ve sworn you two were blood, the way you two look alike." You said bringing a spoonful of pancake into your mouth "No, I don't have any relatives left." As Logan finishes the last bite, you take a deep breath, deciding to push just a bit.

"So, I guess...the van's your home?" you asked, glancing over at him before your gaze drops back to your plate. He sets down his fork, pausing. "Home's a stretch." He gives a half-smile, but there's something dark in his eyes that tells you not to dig further.

You nod, realizing he’s probably not one to share personal stuff. "Makes sense. Things like homes don’t seem to last very long around here, anyway." Logan raises an eyebrow, and there's a flicker of understanding or maybe sympathy? But he doesn’t respond.

The silence between you feels almost comfortable now. Almost. You force yourself to finish the last few bites, knowing he’s ready to bolt. You barely have time to look up before Logan’s already heading for the door. He mutters a casual, “Thanks for the food,” without so much as a glance back. His plate sits abandoned on the table, crumbs scattered around it like he didn’t even consider cleaning up. Typical. You narrow your eyes, letting out a small huff as you grab his plate, biting back a string of curses. The water splashes as you scrub, each scrape of the sponge a bit more aggressive than the last.

Men always have it so fucking easy, you think, gritting your teeth. They breeze in, make a mess, and then just walk off without a second thought. Meanwhile, you’re here, elbow-deep in soap suds, trying not to dwell on how much that annoys you. Maybe it’s just him, you try to reason. Or maybe it’s every guy who thinks that dishes magically clean themselves.

“Welcome to the X-Men, I hope you’ll have a great stay. We might actually come with free chefs and maids.” You muttered under your breath, doing a mock impression of Logan’s gruff voice. You can’t help but smirk as you scrub the last of the dishes, feeling a bit of satisfaction in your sarcasm. “A free maid, huh?” The voice makes you jump slightly, and you whirl around to find Logan standing in the doorway, eyebrow raised.

He holds up his hands, looking almost—awkward? “I, uh… went to bathroom. Wasn’t plannin' to ditch the plate.” Heat rises in your face, but you straighten up, not letting him off that easily. “Could’ve fooled me,” you say, crossing your arms. “Most people just disappear after saying thank you.”

Logan’s eyes narrow, clearly not used to being called out. “Didn’t think I needed to narrate every move I make.” He steps closer, reaches past you, and picks up his plate. “But if it’ll get you off my back…” He gives a quick rinse and sets it on the drying rack, as if to make a point. You both stand there in silence, arms crossed, neither willing to look away first. Finally, Logan gives a low chuckle. “Guess I’ll just have to remember the maid service isn’t included next time, yeah?” You can’t help the small smirk that creeps onto your face. “Yeah, and don’t expect turndown service either.”

Logan shakes his head, amused. “Duly noted,” he says, before heading back down the hall, leaving you with an odd mix of satisfaction and lingering tension in the now-empty kitchen.

As the clock ticks closer to nine, the realization hits: you have an English class to teach. You tidy up the kitchen in haste, wipe your hands, and check your watch, calculating that if you hurry, you’ll just make it on time.

Your days as a teacher at Xavier’s school tend to follow a steady rhythm. Teaching English to a room full of young mutants comes with its own unique challenges, but the reward is in the way they lean in during readings, or the curious questions they ask after class. You’ve found ways to weave classic stories into lessons on self-identity and resilience, lessons you wished you had when you were their age.

After the morning rush of class, the day usually settles into a pattern of planning lessons, grading papers, and managing the occasional classroom drama. You know each student’s quirks, their strengths, the places where they struggle. For many of them, this school is the first real place where they’re free to be who they are. And for you, teaching here feels a bit like giving them a piece of the acceptance and stability you found when you arrived.

As the day draws to an end, you're called to Charles’s office. When you arrive, Jean, Scott, Ororo, and Logan are already there. Jean stands with her arms crossed, tension clear in her posture, while Scott and Ororo share a concerned glance. Logan, leaning back with arms folded, looks like he’s ready to leave, but there’s something guarded in his eyes.

Charles waits until you close the door before he begins, his tone more urgent than usual. "Thank you all for coming. I have some troubling news. Rogue has run off." A murmur ripples through the group, and you can see the concern etched on their faces.

Charles holds your gaze a moment before addressing everyone. “Erik, as you know, has always been interested in advancing mutantkind, but his new plan could force that evolution at a catastrophic scale. He’s found a way to trigger latent mutations in humans, possibly by using a device.”

There’s a heavy silence as everyone takes in the implications. Finally, Scott speaks, his tone grim. "So he wants to make everyone in the city a mutant. But wouldn’t forcing a mutation be fatal for most humans?"

Jean nods, her voice steady but laced with unease. "Exactly. The human body isn’t equipped to handle that kind of forced change. If Erik’s power source is strong enough to reach across the city, we’re talking about widespread devastation." Logan shifts, his eyes narrowed. "So let me get this straight. He’s gonna flip a switch and hope people survive the change? Doesn’t sound like a well-thought-out plan to me."

Charles sighs. "Erik’s never concerned himself with risks to those he considers weak. In his mind, this is a step toward a world where mutants reign supreme. He may even believe this forced mutation is a ‘gift.’ But the outcome would be chaos, death—" Ororo interrupts, her voice sharp. "And even if he does believe it’s a gift, we know better. This will only lead to fear, violence… more division."

Jean’s brows knit together, concern flickering in her eyes. “But if he has a device powerful enough to reach so many people…where would he even get that? It would require immense energy.” Charles closes his eyes briefly, searching for the right words. "That’s where Rogue comes in."

A hush falls over the room, and the weight of his words sinks in. "Erik doesn’t just need power; he needs someone who can channel it. Rogue’s mutation, her ability to absorb the life force and abilities of others—it’s exactly what he would use to amplify his device. If he taps into her… he could make the entire city vulnerable."

Logan straightens, his face hardening. "So that's why he’s after her. To turn her into a… a conduit?"

“Yes,” Charles confirms, voice heavy. “If he takes Rogue, he could harness her ability to absorb energy and use it to power his machine.”

Scott’s jaw tightens as he glances at Charles. "But Rogue’s just a kid. She’s barely learned to control her powers, and he wants to use her in some twisted science experiment?"

"Precisely," Charles says gravely. "If Erik reaches her first, she might not survive. Her powers are still volatile. This would overwhelm her."

You feel a knot tighten in your stomach, thinking about your own past. "I'm familiar with how dangerous forced mutations can be. My.. uh" You trailed off not sure if you could ever say it out loud. "My mutation was thrust upon me with an experiment, and I was pretty lucky to develop generative healing ability which allowed me to survive. But for anyone else with different abilities, being forced into a mutation could be very fatal."

Everyone’s gaze shifts toward you, the gravity of your experience weighing heavily in the room. Logan’s eyes soften for a moment, filled with an understanding that only comes from shared pain.

Ororo looks pained, acknowledging the truth of your words. "It could create a wave of death instead of evolution." Charles nods gravely. “Indeed. The implications are terrifying. Erik sees this as a chance to elevate mutantkind, but the price is too high."

Logan’s voice cuts through the tension. "Then we get to her first." Ororo nods, her expression resolute. "Agreed. We can’t let him use her this way. But does she even know she’s in danger?"

Charles hesitates before answering, a shadow passing over his face. “I tried to warn her earlier, but… Rogue is a stubborn soul. She believes she’s a danger to those around her.” Jean nods slowly, her voice filled with sympathy. "And if she thinks she’s protecting us, she might have… left. To protect us."

You swallow hard, a sense of urgency building. "If she thinks she’s protecting us, she could be putting herself in Erik’s hands. She has no idea he’s after her." Scott stands, fists clenched. "Then we need to mobilize, track her down. We can’t afford to lose her to him."

"Where do we even start looking?" Logan asks, scanning the room. "If she’s got it in her head to run, she’s not just going down the block." Charles clasps his hands, his voice both weary and determined. "I will head to the cerebro downstairs, I need all of you to move, we can't afford wasting any seconds."

Everyone falls into a tense silence, the gravity of the situation pressing down. Logan’s eyes meet yours, and you see a flicker of worry there, maybe even something protective. “Alright then,” Logan said, his voice low but resolute. “Let’s go find her.”

Part 2 ->

an: Hi guys, thank you for reading this part. I'm honestly so excited since this is my first X-Men fanfic. My obsession came back since Deadpool & Wolverine released. I used to write a lot about Daredevil but never have the courage to post it. English is not my first language and I hope you can still enjoy it :)

[marifilue]

What Makes Us Human

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Summary: You're an X-Men member with regenerative healing ability and skilled marksman. On a routine mission with the team, things take a drastic turn when a mutant-inhibitor collar is forced onto you, leaving you vulnerable, unable to heal. With no quick fix in sight, Logan becomes your reluctant anchor, helping you get through each day as you fight to survive, unexpected bond with Logan begins to grow, one that becomes far stronger than either of you could imagine.

Status: On going

Part 1: New Guy In Town (4.2k)

Part 2: A Mission For Rogue (4.6k)

Part 3: Glimpse Of The Past (5.5k)

Part 4: Bound and Fading (6.1k)

Part 5: Losing Ground (7.2k)

Part 6: Thin Thread (7.7k)

Part 7: Silent Wars (10.6k)

Part 8: Edge Of Mortality (10.5k)

Part 9: Breaking Chains (10.9k)

Part 10: What Remained Of Us

[marifilue]

will be thinking about this family pic until further notice thanks 😭

[marifilue]

Is there any chance you'd do one shot still relating to Phobophobia series? Like how they both adjusting their lives back to the mansion after two years. I just loveeee their dynamic sooo much I physically need moree <33

turns out... yes. it seems there was a chance. a large chance... so here it is <3

'Til One of Us Keels Over' – A Phobophobia Oneshot

Pairing: Logan Howlet x F!Mutant!Reader

Warnings: None :)

Word Count: 5.6K

A/N: BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND! to other's who've sent in requests, IM ON IT DONT U WORRY, almost halfway through one of them already and have another planned out. though whilst idk if this counts as a request i simply couldn't say goodbye to Firefly and Logan quite yet. anon, it turns out i also physically needed more of them, so we shall both be feasting

Taglist: @badbishsblog @reidsworld @idioticstar @toogaytofunctiondangit @ghostyv @wolviesgirl @over-bi-the-wayside @justice4billiam @holyhumorliteraturelight @cxptainbuck @sseleniaa @sadslasher13 @yallgotkik @whyamistillontumbler @maddiedinosaur @bethexo07 @pwpwppeepeoor @y08h

The shrill ringing of the school bell interrupted the calm, studious silence of your classroom, instantly every single one of your students put down their pens and started to pack up their books. It was a shame since it had been forever since you could get them into a studying trance such as this, but they’d worked hard enough and you weren’t about to be one of those teachers who kept their students behind after the bell had rung just for the sake of wielding the power of being a professor. 

“I want that mission analysis on my desk by next Wednesday. No excuses, Bobby, I know there’s a game on Monday but you have ample time to work around that,” You gave the boy one of your hard stares that told him there was no room to argue before he could even open his mouth. 

“Will we be in the danger room next Wednesday?” Jubilee asked, almost skipping up to your desk, her books held tightly against her chest. You hummed thoughtfully, casting another raised brow to the rest of your students who’d each gathered in little groups with their friends to discuss whatever it was they were doing next. 

“That highly depends on the rest of your classmates and how many reports I have on my desk next week.” You didn’t have to worry about Jubilee, whilst yes she could be a chatterbox in class, and yes she could get easily distracted by the others, she tried exceptionally hard with her studies, and you had no doubt her report would be the first one on your desk come next Wednesday.

Her eyes lit up as you told her your terms and conditions, turning back to the small group of three and bounding up to them, explaining emphatically that they all had to get their homework in or they’d be stuck in the stuffy classroom for another week. You huffed an amused smile as they all turned to Bobby pointedly, Marie poking the centre of his chest with her gloved hand. You couldn’t believe they all only had one year left of studies before they were free to be whoever they wanted to be. You knew a large majority of them wanted to join the X-Men, but you also knew there were a few who wanted to attend university as well, further their education and find their place in the world. It warmed your heart to think you’d contributed somewhat to their futures. It made everything worth it. 

With a crack of your neck, stretching your hands high above your head to loosen up your shoulders, you exhaled a heavy sigh as the last of the stragglers left your classroom, muttering apologies by the door as they exited. You frowned in confusion, looking over to ask them why they were apologising, before your features relaxed into a fond smile, now understanding that they weren’t apologising to you, but to the man currently leaning against the doorframe, broad arms crossed across his chest.

They must have bumped into him on the way out. 

Your heart grew three sizes just seeing him, any tension in your body left over from a day’s teaching leeching from your body as you took in his soft, fond smile bathed in the afternoon sunlight. 

Six months. Six months and he was still trying to adjust to having you back. To not wake up soaked in sweat and choked with grief. To not wander the halls of the school aimlessly looking for you despite knowing you weren’t there. Six months and he still had to make sure you were alive and well at every opportunity he got—break times, small gaps between classes, lunches, and when classes ended. You never needed to go looking for him because he was always by your door waiting for you. 

“You’re gonna permanently dent my door frame if you keep leaning on it like that.” You said flatly, trying in vain to seem like seeing him didn’t light you up from the inside. You turned your attention back to the stray papers on your desk, aimlessly organising them to stop yourself from looking in his direction. It was just a little game the two of you played. Logan would show up at every opportunity he could and you’d pretend to find it irritating, despite the both of you knowing you still needed this. Still needed the reassurance that the both of you were still alive and well and here and breathing and–

“Jean’ll fix it.” He shrugged, heart blossoming as you huffed a reluctant smile, finally looking back to him, your one golden eye glistening in the amber glow of the afternoon sun. Nothing really had changed about you other than that. You had no scars left from your life before, and one of your eyes was now a completely different colour, but other than that you were exactly the same as the day he lost you. 

Well, almost.

With a wry smile, you sent him a wink before dissolving into the sunlight, reassembling yourself from the shadows in front of him cast from the breaks in the windows. That was something he still needed to get used to. You had a whole new host of powers to work on, but most of it came to you naturally. When he’d taken you back six months ago, he’d carried you straight to Charles and Jean, the two of them running test after test after test on you. For the most part, you couldn’t help lashing out, the poking and prodding of white coats flaring your fight or flight response, far too similar to the horrors you’d endured. Jean had to teach Logan how to take blood since you wouldn’t let her anywhere near you. 

But when the test results came back, he’d never seen Jean so excited. Your brother’s DNA had somehow bonded itself to yours, intertwining your mutations and granting you access to a whole new range of powers previously inaccessible. You explained how you could communicate with Rowan throughout the two years you were gone, and most of the time he spent arguing with you, spitting pointless insults. The only times he would fall silent were when Logan would visit, and after countless conversations, listening to everything he was saying, he’d finally come around to your side, realising what he’d done, and what he’d taken from you. 

Logan didn’t let you out of his sight for two weeks straight after that. You got back to teaching a week later, and he would just sit in the corner while you taught your students, refusing to leave your side until you had to sit him down and explain you weren’t going anywhere. You were back, and that was that. 

It took another week for him to accept it. 

You pushed up onto your tiptoes, wrapping your arms around his neck and softly pecking his lips with a swift kiss. His hands instinctively found your waist, lips pulling into a smile as they moved against yours. 

You hummed in contentment as you separated a fraction, leaning up to press your forehead against his, and he pulled you closer against him if that was even possible. 

“How’s your day goin’?” He asked, and you snorted a laugh, setting yourself back down on your feet before your calves cramped up. It was still slightly strange, to have limbs again after spending the last two years as nothing but consciousness, and you were still getting used to the sensation of muscles.

“As good as it was when you asked me an hour ago,” you responded with a playful grin. Logan rolled his eyes, biting back a smile when he flicked your forehead slightly, resulting in you waving him off. 

“No last class of the day bullshit from Bobby?” he asked with slight disbelief, following behind you as you returned to your desk to gather up your materials and various mugs of coffee. His surprise only increased when you shook your head, handing him the things you couldn’t carry.

“Nope, honestly they were great today. Probably because they knew this was punishment for fucking about last week,” You shrugged as Logan took your bag off you and slung it over his own shoulder. “They did grumble a bit when I said we’d be working with books today rather than their mutations, but accepted it when I reminded them of the consequences of their actions. After that, they were good as gold.” You drained the final dregs of your coffee, grimacing as little bits of bitter grounds flooded your mouth and you suddenly remembered why you’d left the little bit at the bottom in the first place. 

Logan set his chin atop your head for a brief moment and you leaned back into him, warm adoration wrapping around your heart. 

“What’d ya want for dinner?”

You felt his voice vibrate against the back of your head, reverberating through your skull in a way that had your mind blissfully blank, exhaling a relaxed breath caused purely by his proximity. 

“Not sure. Could make a stir fry? Oooo, or a curry? I think we still have some leftover rice somewhere. Chicken curry?” You asked, turning to face him only to find his eyes completely lost on your features, drinking you in as if it were the first time he laid eyes on you. “What…?” You prompted, watching him blink from his trance.

“Nothin’... just rememberin’ this isn’t a dream, s’all.” He explained, and your heart broke a little for him. Setting down one of the mugs in your hand, you cupped the side of his fuzzy jaw, brows pinching as he leaned into your touch as if to remind himself it was real. It was something that had happened a few times. You’d turn to find him in his own head as he looked at you, a faraway glaze hazing his eyes before you dragged him back to reality. He’d divulged once what he was thinking about, how fucking lucky he was you were back. How he didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve this twist of fate. How fucking terrified he was of suddenly waking up and you being gone again. 

“Still here…” you whispered, smoothing your thumb across his cheekbone. He breathed a gentle sigh, nodding infinitesimally, his eyes fluttering closed as he basked in your presence.

“I know.” He answered with equal quiet, readily accepting the much-needed reassurance before he placed a kiss against the heel of your palm. You stayed like that for what felt like hours, simply letting him feel you, letting his heart readjust to being able to love you freely once again when such an act would have caused so much pain six months ago.

“C’mon,” you murmured lowly, smiling softly as he breathed in your scent one more time, before allowing the moment to end. “Kids’ll be getting hungry and I really don’t wanna deal with a hangry Morgana either.” Logan chuckled in response. 

You were so fucking grateful Morgana stayed after your sacrifice. Not only for herself and her own mental recovery but also for those who had come to love her dearly. Logan had told you all the good she did in the two years you’d been gone, she’d been a key player in reminding him not to wallow as much, sharply kicking his ass the way he knew you would when getting out of bed seemed like such a monumental task. They’d been each other’s anchors. Each other’s rocks. Picking the other up when they fell. And when Logan returned with you in his arms, she almost fell to her knees in sobbing disbelief, racing across the hall to envelop you in an embrace that had the air in your lungs fleeing. 

That, and the fact she’d grown extremely attached to a certain German teleporter had her sticking around. 

“Can’t argue with that. Curry it is,” Logan placed a kiss to your forehead, picking up the mug you’d placed down and tucking you against his side as you both left to deposit your belongings in the staff room and make a start on dinner. You didn’t often cook for the older kids, they were content with making or ordering their own meals, but you found immense satisfaction in cooking for the younger ones. Calling them to the dinner table with Ororo in tow, sitting them all down, making sure they ate not only the ‘nice’ parts but the vegetables as well. Most of them were good at eating it all, but there were a few who stubbornly would try to hide broccoli beneath their cutlery. 

Thank fuck for Ororo, because honestly? You didn’t have the heart to make them eat it. 

You were just about to enter the staff room when Logan stopped in his tracks, pulling you closer to him as he sniffed the air, a snarl bubbling from his throat, arm tightening around your shoulders. Cautious adrenaline leaked into your veins as you looked from your partner to the closed door. 

“What?” You asked, placing a hand on the centre of his chest as if you could feel what was going through his head. But your question shouldn’t have been ‘What?’, but rather ‘Who?’.

“Erin.” He ground between clenched teeth, eyes narrowing at the panels of the door as if he could see right through it. Your whole body tensed, eyes blowing wide at his answer. What the fuck was she doing here? “Wha’d’ya wanna do?” His gaze slid from the door to your side profile, watching as you entertained the multiple courses of action. You could turn around, wait until she left and asked what the fuck she was doing later on in the evening, avoid her altogether and continue as if she never existed.

Or…

“Never been afraid of confrontation before…” you raised your chin at the unexpected challenge, a smile pulling at the corner of your lips as Logan pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

“Atta girl.” He murmured into your hair, and you steeled your nerves before pushing the door open and stopping as five pairs of eyes turned in your direction. Most of them you knew well, saw them every day. But there were two you hadn’t seen in a very long time. 

Atlas gasped your name, mouth agape in disbelief, his eyes welling up as you clenched your jaw. It wasn’t that you had a problem with him, specifically. After all, he’d practically brought Morgo back from the dead. It was the way he’d forgiven Erin for what she did. Not only that but found a way to love enough to ask her to marry him. The way she’d been allowed to get a happy ending whilst you and Logan had been forced to separate for two fucking years, neither of you knowing if you’d ever see the other again. 

Logan placed a steadying hand against your waist, and you could almost feel the waves of anger emanating from his body. His protective streak had only increased since getting you back. In unison, you both turned to look at Erin, who’d been staring at you in complete and utter astonishment that you were standing before her. Alive. Your eyes flickered down to the gnarled scar on her neck, and you couldn’t help the twisted satisfaction in your gut that she would forever have a reminder of what she did. 

The room was thick with unbearable tension, everyone waiting for someone else to be the first one to say something. You reserved the right to keep your silence, even if it meant you didn’t say anything for however long this situation was going to last. But, predictably, Charles cleared his throat, wheeling forward as Morgana stepped out of the way and closer to you, casting you a glance that you could only interpret as ‘the nerve of this bitch’. 

“I believe we should leave these four to catch up. Ororo, Logan, outside please.” 

“You’re crazy if you think I’m goin’ anywhere,” Logan growled, tightening his hand against your waist, his thumb swiping soothingly against your shirt. 

“I’m not gonna do anything… I just wanted to talk. To see if it was real.” Erin offered weakly, and Logan almost lunged for her throat for the crime of merely opening her mouth. But you settled a hand atop his on your waist, 

“‘S’okay. She’s harmless to me now,” venomous threat laced your tone as you pulled both light and shadow toward you as if to emphasise your point, allowing the molecules of each to fuse to your shoulder blades, two juxtaposing wings flaring from your back. One of glittering shadow, the other of glowing light. 

Logan’s chest flared with pride when Erin took a slight step back, fear dancing in her traitor’s eyes as she slowly put the pieces together of just how much stronger you were now, and how that had come to be. Morgana grinned with complete unrestraint at you, unafraid to show how delicious she was finding your lack of fucks to give now. 

“Okay,” he cupped your jaw, tilting your head to look at him before he descended on you, capturing your lips in a searing display of passion. You knew why. You knew it was a fuck you to Erin, a demonstration of what she almost took from the both of you and a message to say, despite everything, you’d made it through. “I’ll be outside, yeah?”

You nodded, breathing a long, grateful sigh against the lower half of his face, before turning to deliberately look at both Erin and Atlas. Logan sent them one final, knife-edge glare before turning to follow Charles out the door. Ororo placed a hand on your shoulder as she passed you, sending you a concerned look.

“You going to be okay?” She asked, loud enough for the two to hear her. You wondered if they’d all had a meeting about this, about how they would behave if Erin ever showed up again after you returned. You sent her a grateful smile in response, nodding with the surety you genuinely felt. 

“I’ll be fine. Like I said, she’s harmless now. I’m not the one suffering with the guilt of what I’ve done.” You shrugged, looking over her shoulder to see Erin’s expression falter slightly, her eyes meeting the floor. Ororo clamped her lips to stop herself from smiling, squeezing your shoulder briefly before heading out, shutting the door behind her. 

You’d lived through your fair share of awkward silences before, but nothing even came close to his. You could almost taste the unspoken words. 

“You’re looking well,” Atlas was the first to speak, attempting to break the thick ice with the verbal equivalent of a toothpick. “Both of you are–”

“Cut the shit, Atlas,” Morgana interjected with venom lacing her tone, eyes hard and lips taut. You blinked in surprise, before remembering that you weren’t the only one who suffered at the hands of Erin. Though they’d seen each other since, Logan had told you just how frosty Morgo was toward the girl, never truly forgiving her for what she did. “Why’re you here? I’m assuming it’s not for wedding gifts.”

Your eyes fell to the matching bands around their fingers, a kernel of spite curling in your gut. How fucking dare she have the audacity to get fucking married. To live a happy life whilst you were readjusting to being alive again. 

“No… Erin just wanted to–”

“Did Erin lose the ability to talk after my brother slit her treacherous throat?” You asked with a disgusting amount of faux sweetness in your tone. Atlas visibly bristled, and Erin narrowed her eyes to you.

“Obviously not, since you just heard me speak.” She spat back.

“Point still stands.” Morgo set her hand on her hip, jutting out her chin in challenge. The room fell silent again, charged tension humming in the space between you. Would this end in a fight? You honestly wouldn’t be mad. You’d been itching to beat the shit out of her ever since you returned. 

But the fight fell from the green-haired girl’s eyes, her shoulder slumping, a hand braced against the side of her temple. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. Nothing excuses what I did, but you gotta understand, there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do to get Atlas back.” She linked her fingers through her husband’s.

“Yeah? I hope that helps you sleep at night. We done?” You asked, not bothering to wait for a response before turning to head back out the door, already sick of this conversation. You weren’t about to give her the closure she needed. The villainous bitch didn’t deserve it. 

“What if it was Logan?”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes blowing wide as if you’d just been struck by lightning. 

“What did you say…?” your tone lowered dangerously, deadly clipped notes exaggerating your words. 

“What if Kreva had Logan? What would you have done?”

You whipped back, stalking toward her, every step measured. “I would have trusted my fucking team. My friends. I would have put my faith in them and worked together to get him back.”

Erin scoffed a harsh laugh. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Hell, you were ready to storm in there alone because Kreva had Rowan, so don’t stand there and tell me you wouldn’t have broken the world to get him back.” 

You were at a loss for words. Because she was right. Fuck, she was right. You don’t know what you would have done if Kreva had Logan rather than Rowan, but you sure as shit wouldn’t have waited around for two weeks planning meticulously. 

“That’s not fair, Erin–” Morgana started uncertainly, but Erin cut her off. 

“How? How isn’t that fair? Oh, it’s unforgivable when I do whatever I have to to get the man I love back but all of a sudden it’s a-okay for Miss Martyr over here to do it? How’s that fair?”

Your jaw tensed, expression steeling to dismissal as you squared your shoulders. “You live with the weight of what you did, Erin. We all know how guilt can eat us alive but honestly? You live with its teeth sunk into your neck.” You glanced down pointedly to the scar across her throat, before turning your gaze to Morgana. “We’re done here.”

Morgana nodded as you turned to leave, but a tight grasp around your wrist stopped you. 

“You don’t understand, I was so afraid of losing him… you don’t get it.”

You mimicked her sharp bark from earlier, raising a knife-like brow. 

“I don’t get it? Me? Of course I get it, Erin. But there’s a difference,” you yanked your hand back from her grip. “I wouldn’t be here begging for forgiveness. I wouldn’t be invading the lives of the people I betrayed looking for some pathetic form of closure. I have my closure. Good luck finding yours.” And with that, you stalked from the room, past an obviously eavesdropping Ororo who immediately shifted to look like she was inspecting the backs of her nails. You didn’t mind, though. Because honestly? You were pretty proud of how you handled yourself in there. But there was one thing replaying in your mind as you marched directionless through the halls, not even noticing Logan calling your name from the lounge as you made your way outside. 

‘What if it was Logan?’

“Leave her,” Charles placed a hand on Logan’s forearm as he made to follow you, pausing only to give the Professor an incredulous look. He nodded in emphasis. “Let her reflect. Whether she thinks she needs to or not, some things said in that room need to be considered.”

Logan sighed. He’d deliberately moved away from the door, rolling his eyes at Ororo who mentioned she was dying to hear you dress the bitch down. But he couldn’t let himself impose on your privacy like that. If you wanted to tell him, that was fine, and he’d listen diligently. If you didn’t, that was fine too, and he’d serve as a distraction from whatever the hell just happened. Of course, he had a preference, but he wasn’t about to tell you that.

It was dark by the time you returned, and Logan had already rearranged the plates on the table four times out of sheer lack of knowing what to do. He had to fight tooth and nail to save you some dinner, batting away the hands of both students and teachers alike, sending glares to anyone who dared approach the bubbling pot. He’d kept the bolognese at a steady heat, hoping to shit it wouldn’t be horrendously overcooked by the time you came back. 

And though he was certain the meat would be hard as leather by now, the concern fled his mind when you trudged back through the front doors, sighing heavily. His heart cracked at how exhausted you sounded, worry eating away at his chest. His brows pinched when you entered the kitchen, looking as if you’d just fought several wars. On instinct he crossed the floor, wrapping you in his arms and guiding your head into his neck.

It was your favourite place on Earth. 

“You okay…?” He asked hesitantly, and you breathed deeply against his collar. 

“Yeah… no. I don’t know,” you answered, an unnatural quiet hushing your words. Warm hands cupped either side of your neck as he brought you to look up at him, his thumbs smoothing either side of your jaw. “It was weird. Seeing her again. Didn’t really know how it would go but it went about as well as I thought it would.” You shrugged, your hands busying themselves with the buttons on his shirt, fiddling with them to serve as a grounding point. 

“Wanna talk about it?” He tilted his head to the side, palms sliding up to brace the sides of your face, the pads of his thumbs now gliding across your cheekbones, caressing the deep purple space beneath your eyes. 

Your teeth pulled at the skin of your lower lip in contemplation, and he immediately smoothed over the hurt. “I just– she asked what I would have done if our roles had been reversed,” you began, and Logan raised a brow, silently asking you to elaborate. “If Kreva had you, and not Atlas. She asked what I would have done if I were in her shoes… I don’t know, just kinda made me think that we’re not so different after all, she and I,” You fell silent, your mind still stuck on the conversation from earlier. Taking the last few hours to contemplate your answer, you still didn’t have one. You were ready to forsake the team and go after Rowan alone if you had to. What would you sacrifice for Logan? “I was so ready to hate her for the rest of my life. So ready to condemn her for what she did, withhold closure and forgiveness but… she has a point. Annoyingly.” 

Logan tilted his head, his eyes dancing with empathy. He knew exactly what you were going through because it was only thanks to Jean’s reasoning he didn’t come after you alone two years ago. And if he didn’t have the team behind him, who knows what kind of sick, twisted things he’d have done? And now you were struggling not only with the guilt of hating someone for doing something you yourself were capable of doing but also with the heavy realisation that you would do that kind of thing. 

“Just scared me, I guess…” you shrugged again, delicate hands gently holding either of his wrists as you gave up on grounding yourself with the buttons on his shirt and used his pulse points instead, your thumbs smoothing over the tendons. 

“I get it. Ya know I do. But realisin’ you’re capable of doin’ somethin’ like that doesn’t make you the monster,” he slid his hands from your jaw down to the backs of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly from the ground and placing you on the table, standing between your parted legs. “We had a plan. A plan that, if given half the chance, probably would have worked. Erin chose to sacrifice that chance despite knowin’ everythin’ Kreva had done. 

But you? You’re smart, sweetheart. Sure, you probably would have beat the shit outta Scott a few times, but you woulda known it was your best chance. You did know,” his hands found your jaw once again, angling your face back up to meet his eyes. “Just cuz you’re capable of it, doesn’t mean you’d do it. I’m capable of dismembering innocents if it meant I’d get you back, doesn’t mean I’d do it. Though I’d think real hard about it.” Your features scrunched as you fought to fight back the burning tears in your eyes, lips pursing, brows furrowing, you choked back the feeling of being both seen and accepted. 

“Okay…” you whispered, nodding a little before fully leaning into his touch as he planted a kiss to the centre of your brow and tucking you safely into the hollow of his throat, his arms slowly wrapping around your shoulders, his fingers winding through your hair. 

“Erin chose to act. You chose to trust. Not gonna pretend there ain’t similarities between you, but the differences are greater,” he murmured, the side of his cheek resting against the top of your head. Incrementally, you allowed yourself to feel his comfort, to wrap your arms around the side of his ribs and let yourself feel supported by him. “Although I’m not gonna stand here and say the idea of you tearing the world apart f’me ain’t somethin’ I’d say no to watchin’.”

You snorted a teary laugh, and the tight chains of concern dropped away from his heart with each slight, amused shake of your shoulders. Pulling back from his embrace a fraction, you exhaled your self-hatred and guilt, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. Logan looked down at you with nothing but sheer, crushing adoration, and you leaned up to press a soft kiss to his lips, finding yourself savouring the familiar scratch of his scruff against your cheek and chin. 

“Thank you.” While it was only a peaceful breath of gratitude, Logan saw the weight behind it in your mismatched eyes, felt the depth of feeling in his very soul. 

“Anytime, Firefly,” he smiled softly before the irritated rumble of your stomach tore the blanket of reverie over the two of you. “Hungry?” He asked with the slightest smirk, and you grinned back. 

“Starved, never got round to that curry. What did the kids eat?” A fresh wave of concern donned your features, and Logan couldn’t help but fantasise for the briefest moment that you weren’t talking about the students. But your kids. His kids. 

A family. 

“Made a bolognese. Can’t balance the flavours of a curry like you can and didn’t wanna subject them to somethin’ that might be way too spicy. Or not spicy enough. Or just tasted of cardamom pods.” He watched that brief picture of concern wash away from your face, replaced by small snickers. 

“Can’t argue with that. And you do make a mean bolognese.”

“Learnt from the best.” 

“Damn right, you did.”

Logan took a small step back so you could hop down from the table, finding himself lost in the satisfied craving for domesticity he’d found with you. His eyes followed you as you went to pull out a plate from the cupboard, taking a pair of metal tongs to serve yourself a hearty portion of slightly cold spaghetti and grossly overcooked bolognese. A realisation hit him like one of your punches. He was a damn idiot for not asking you before this. 

“Marry me.”

You froze, eyes flying wide as you all but dropped your dinner to the floor, bracing a hand on the counter to steady yourself. Setting the plate down, you slowly turned to face him, those same tears from before returning to your eyes, only for a completely new reason. 

“What…?” you whispered, and Logan took a breath.

“Marry me.” He repeated with that same matter-of-fact tone he’d used so long ago, it was achingly similar to when he’d told you to teach with him. “I don’t have a ring or anythin’ yet, wasn’t really plannin’ on askin’ you in the kitchen but–”

“Yes.”

Logan blinked. If he was being honest with himself, he hadn’t exactly thought much other than asking you. Or, telling you, he supposed. “What?”

“Yes. I’ll marry you. I said I wasn’t mad about it when you basically proposed two years ago. Ya think I would have changed my mind between then and now? Of course I’ll marry you.” You laughed, your smile unrestrained as he strode across the floor, crushing you in a tight embrace, his mouth instantly seeking yours, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, his heart singing for you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, a sudden and intense fervour enrapturing your soul. 

You could have whined when he pulled back, the loss of contact causing you near physical pain, but you pushed through it to see those very same tears in your eyes reflected in his own. It didn’t feel real. After everything you’d been through together, the fear, the agony, the grief. 

None of this felt real. 

“I love you, ya know that?” He murmured against your lips, and you elicited a soft laugh.

“I bloody well hope so, we’re getting married.”

Holy fuck… 

You were getting married. 

“Though…” You continued, a glint of mischief sparkling in your eye. “On one condition…” Logan raised a brow, once again silently asking you to elaborate. “We change the vows. From ‘Til death do us part’ to ‘Til one of us keels over’. 

He huffed a laugh of pure fondness, still reeling from the fact he’d finally had the opportunity to ask you what he should have asked you years ago.

“Til one of us keels over.”

[marifilue]

blame it on the ghost huh

𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴

𝘓𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵 𝘹 ��𝘦𝘮!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘓𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘯'𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘏𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘭 & 𝘞𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘦 (2024).

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵.

𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴.

𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘝𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘦.

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 2.7 𝘬

𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 / 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 / 𝘔𝘺 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

Special thanks to @marifilue and @n4muqr for requesting a Halloween-themed one-shot.

Laura watched as Logan cursed out the oven for what seemed like the fifth time today. The burly man had been set on making cookies for the past 45 minutes with minimal success. Jingle twisted his way through Laura's legs and meowed for attention.

Scooping up the cat, Laura got up from the kitchen table and walked over to Logan who was standing over a failed sheet of cookies. Laura dipped her finger into the bowl and pulled a small piece of the dough off to eat.

"It tastes fine." She comments, peering over his shoulder to see the oddly paper-thin, burnt cookies on the tray.

"Dunno what m' doing wrong." Logan sighs pulling the oven mitt off his hand

"Maybe you should just start over." Laura suggests, "Probably added too much or too little of something."

"I followed the recipe perfectly." Logan growls

Jingle meows in disbelief and Laura shakes her head, clearly, he's done something wrong.

"Keep baking then, chef, I'm going to watch a movie," Laura says walking off

She switches on the TV and clicks on Netflix, scrolling through the choices while Jingle sits down on the sofa cushion next to her. Logan's grumblings reach her sensitive ears and she looks at Jingle who seems unbothered by the man's distress.

Laura knew why Logan was trying to turn himself into the Pillsbury Dough Boy, he was trying to get out of the doghouse. For the past three days, Logan had been banished to the couch for some unspoken reason. Laura wasn't worried, things always worked out but it was certainly entertaining to see him so stressed.

Perhaps she should watch Coraline, it was the perfect movie for Halloween.

Logan wanted to rip his hair off his head. Not only were the cookies failing but he felt like he was wasting his time. You'd been giving him the silent treatment for three days now and had him sleeping on the couch like he was some animal unfit for your bed. Which, much to his dismay that stupid cat he had gotten for you, was sleeping in his spot every night now. It was an anarchy.

The worst part about all this was it all started with a stupid lamp.

Three days ago, Logan had been a bit drunk, he was sitting on the couch, his elbow dangerously close to the end table that held a lamp you had found at some thrift store. This of course was no ordinary lamp, it was a lamp that looked like a flower. Now, Logan didn't specifically care about this lamp, but you? Oh, you were obsessed with it. This flower lamp, with its baby blue shade and golden stem, had you completely bewitched. Every day he'd catch you staring at it like it was your kid or something.

Of course, he had ignored your request not to rest his elbow anywhere near this lamp and somehow knocked it over when he went to take a sip of his whiskey.

It was like it was slow motion, the way it fell. Logan had reached a handout, trying to catch it, but his reflexes were dulled by the alcohol and the lamp went crashing to the floor. With glass everywhere, and that fucking cat staring at him from across the room, Logan knew he was fucked.

Three hours after the death of the lamp, you were back from a shopping trip with Vanessa. He was sitting on the couch again, gaze fixed on the TV, hoping you'd focus on him and not the lamp that was now at the bottom of the garbage can. He adjusted his white tank top, and slightly pulled it up to show a sliver of his lower stomach off, you had mentioned how hot it was when he did that. Maybe, just maybe he'd be enough to distract you. He tried to subtly flex his arms in a way that looked natural while you pet Jingle who had greeted you at the door. He meets your gaze as your eyes scan the room slowly.

"Where's my lamp?"

Shit.

Now, he was standing over another sheet of cookies, praying these ones would turn out okay. So far every tray had come out paper thin and tasting terrible. He wasn't sure where he went wrong, the raw dough tasted good but the final product was shit.

His phone ringing had him sighing and tossing the next tray into the oven.

"Hey there, my hairy little beaver. HA! That sounds like a name for a vagina."

Logan groaned, he was too annoyed to deal with Wade right now.

"What do you want?" He sighed into his phone

"Just wanted to see what you and Pumpkin were doing tonight for Halloween. Ness and I are going to this huge haunted house, you three want to join?" Wade asked

"I dunno. I'm uh..." Logan trails off, not sure if he wants to tell Wade this.

"What? You're what?" Wade chimed

"I'm just in trouble right now," Logan says vaguely

"With who? I'll get my suit on and be over in 10. Actually, make it 20 I kind of need to take a massive shit." Wade says

Logan grimaces at Wade's oversharing. When was he going to learn not everything needed to be said aloud?

"Not that kind of trouble," Logan says, "She's mad at me."

Wade's laughter has Logan wishing he could strangle the other man through the phone.

"It's not funny, Wilson. I've been sleeping on the couch for three days and she won't even talk to me." Logan groans

"What did your hairy ass do to be in such deep shit? I mean seriously someone call Porta Potty company, get this man cleaned up!"

"I broke her fucking lamp and lied about it. " Logan says

"Oh c'mon that's no big deal." Wade scoffs, "One time I lied to Vanessa about shoving a ringpop up my ass and then-"

"You don't get it, man. She loved this lamp." Logan says

"Well, you better think of something to get you out of the doghouse, cowboy. Flowers, oral sex, probably a new lamp would be best though." Wade suggests

"Can't do that." Logan says

"You don't go down on your girl?" Wade gasps

"No!" Logan yells, angrily, "I mean, yes! But that's not-"

"I know. I saw you two once."

"What?" Logan seethes, he was so going to kill Wade for this.

"I'm joking. Anyone can look at you and tell you're a munch." Wade laughs

"I'm hanging up," Logan says exasperatedly

"No!" Wade says, "Why can't you buy a new lamp for her?"

"She got it at some thrift store. It's some magical unique shit." Logan says

Long silence follows and Logan's nearly sure Wade has hung up before he speaks again. Perhaps he'll have stellar advice for Logan's current issues.

"Well...let me know if you're going to the Haunted House. Good luck, Peanut."

The line clicks off and Logan rolls his eyes, Wade was no help at all. What a waste of time.

The sound of the front door opening has him rather nervous. His cookies were still shit so he was going to have to depend on words this time around.

"Hey." He greets walking out into the living room where you're holding Jingle and greeting Laura who is currently watching some evil clown dump...salt on...a lady with no skin? What was she watching?

Your eyes scan him up and down as Logan realizes he still has a bright pink apron on. He pulls it off and looks at you. You look extra pretty today, he wants nothing more than to walk right over and kiss you. Of course, he's aware if he does that you'll probably send him flying across the room, or perhaps blow a limb off his body, just because you can.

"Wade invited us to this giant haunted house. You two want to go?" He asked

Laura nodded enthusiastically and Logan looked over at you, expectantly.

"Laura, could you please tell Logan I'll go to this Haunted House tonight." You say

Laura opens her mouth but Logan stops her by raising a finger.

"So that's how you're playing it? Use the kid to communicate? What are you seven?" He seethes, upset you won't even look at him.

"So fucking annoying."

Your under-the-breath mutter has Logan's anger boiling over. He hasn't been this upset with you since before you two started dating. In a flash, he paces across the room and pins you against the wall, startling the cat away from you.

"You're driving me fucking nuts." He says ignoring Laura yelling at him, "I'll say it. I'm sorry about the fucking lamp."

He hopes you'll cave right there and accept his apology, maybe kiss him too. Instead, you're sending his ass flying across the room and into a fake witch, you insisted on putting in the corner of the room.

He hears the bathroom door slam shut and he remains on the ground. You were impossible.

You're dead silent for the entire subway ride across town to the Haunted House. He must not entirely be blacklisted in your book though since he catches you standing a bit closer to him during the ride when some shady-looking guy steps into the car, opting to stand near the three of you.

He feels you press your body to him and gently squeeze his forearm when the man inches even closer and is just two short feet away from you.

"Fuck off." Logan snarls at him as the man looks at you with desire.

"Pretty." The man compliments you in a lustful voice and then looks over at Laura on the other side of Logan, staring at her with even more interest.

"You want me to toss you out of this fucking Subway, bub? I'll beat your face into the fucking tracks so good they'll be mopping you up." Logan threatens, still a bit wound up from earlier when you tossed him into the wall.

Blowing off some steam would be nice right now. He looked down at this creeper, daring him to take another step or lay a single finger on you or Laura.

The man takes the hint though and disappears out the doors when they open.

Logan fights the smile that tries to worm its way across his face when you nuzzle your face into his chest, a small barely audible thanks falling from your lips.

Laura nudges him and wiggles her eyebrows, her face saying "Looks like you're winning this argument!". Logan feels embarrassment flood his system as he kicks her foot gently.

Much to Logan's dismay, the moment you step off the subway and see Vanessa and Wade, the tender moment is gone. Unfortunately, Wade greets everyone with a bear hug and if Logan wasn't in public right now, he'd be on the ground, with six new holes in his body.

He walks next to the toupee-wearing idiot while you walk ahead, chatting happily with Laura and Vanessa.

"Looks like you're still in trouble." Wade chimes

"Not even my fault." Logan dismisses with a wave of his hand, knowing full well he was wrong.

"Have you even apologized?" Wade asked

"Course I did." Logan scoffs, he wasn't an idiot.

"Clearly not well enough." Wade teases

The haunted house isn't all that scary. It was a bit darker than Logan would've liked, he's nearly tripped three times now as he tries to follow behind Laura, Wade, and Vanessa. Apparently, not everyone agrees with his definition of scary because he's pretty sure Wade and Vanessa have screamed at least 7 times already.

Laura seemed fine as she walked along a few steps ahead of him. He swore nothing rattled that kid.

Logan keeps glancing behind him where you walk. He's a bit worried about you but you don't seem scared at all either. You're silent as you walk along, letting him keep an eye on you.

He sighs and turns to face forward, watching as Wade converses with someone dressed as a clown who's been dipped in fake blood.

"Love what you've done with the place! I hope you're on HGTV soon!" Wade exclaims

Logan smirks a bit, Wade could be funny sometimes.

Wade snorts a laugh when he sees a guy holding a fake bloody arm, "Gordon Ramsey called, he's looking for the lamb sauce!"

A loud scream has Logan whirling around. At some point you must've fallen behind since you're absent from his side.

His long legs carry him quickly back through the rooms he'd already passed through and finds you facing off with an actor twice your size, a fake chainsaw in hand.

"Move." You order staring up at him

"You don't want to stay?" The guy asks in an over-the-top voice

In the low lighting, Logan can see another masked person, sneaking up behind you, clearly ready for a planned jumpscare.

"Wait!" He calls out to the actors, knowing how this is going to end,

He'd only seen it once but once he scared you in the middle of the night. He'd been waiting for the bathroom and you had opened the door and turned the corner. His sudden presence had you startled and before he knew it you'd used your powers on him. Warm blood had run down his right arm, soaking his clothes as you'd blown his arm clean off out of fear.

You'd apologized for an entire week out of guilt. Lucky for you he could grow that hand back. These actors however weren't blessed with such immunity.

Logan is of course ignored by the workers and the one from behind grabs your shoulders. Logan hears you let out a startled yelp before he's on his ass for the second time today because of you.

The chainsaw-wielding worker has landed on top of him somehow and Logan pushes him off with a grunt. He rushes over to you, checking to make sure you're okay before making his way over to the one who scared you.

To his luck, the stranger is whole and fully conscious.

"What the fuck?" the actor groans on the ground

Logan looks over at, trying to wordlessly assure you that they were okay. He steps away from them and grabs your hand, pulling you away before they ask questions.

"You okay?" He asked, his hand in yours as he led you along

He half expects you to continue to the silent treatment but much to his relief, you answer him.

"Fine." You sigh

"Good." He huffs and looks around to try to see if he's caught up to Wade yet.

Logan doesn't miss the way you refuse to let go of his hand for the rest of the night.

Back home, you're cuddled into his side, Coraline playing on TV after you nixed Laura's suggestion of watching Terrifier 2 aka the clown and salt movie Logan saw her watching earlier. The scent of the pumpkin spice candle you've lit fills his nose as he takes a deep breath.

"Dangerous what you did today, bub," Logan says, glancing at Laura who has passed out in the recliner. Jingle in her lap and a bowl of popcorn resting on her knee.

"I didn't mean to." You murmur, eyes fixed on the screen

"I know." He sighs glancing at the end table where your lamp once was, "Got lucky though. Remember when I lost a hand after you got scared?"

"Yeah..." You sigh, "I probably shouldn't go into any more haunted houses huh?"

"Nope." He says softly

Logan watches the movie as Coraline's other mother suggests sewing buttons into her eyeballs. He doesn't miss the way you're staring at him instead of the screen.

"Sorry, I made you sleep on the couch the past few nights." You say, "You can come back to the bed tonight."

"Apologize to my back." Logan chuckles

"You're fine." You scoff, poking his side with your finger.

The movie fills the silence as Logan sighs, knowing what he'll have to do now.

"I'm sorry about breaking your lamp." He says, sincerely this time

"I know you are." You say, head resting on his chest

"I'll find a replacement...somehow," Logan vows

"No, you won't." You giggle

"No, I won't." Logan sighs, knowing his chances of finding a perfect replacement are low.

Logan presses a kiss to the top of your head, happy that this fight has ended and he's survived his nights on the couch. He's excited to be able to sleep with you in his arms again tonight.

"Logan?"

"Hmm?"

"If you ever break something and lie and try to blame it on a fucking ghost again, I'll ship you off to Wade for a week."

Next Part- Coming Soon

Currently not feeling well. This will be the last update for a bit.

I fear this doesn't feel like Halloween enough. That being said. I have another Halloween part in the works.

For reference, here's the lamp Logan's dumbass broke:

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