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d1stalker · 5 months ago

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Collateral Damage [Logan Howlett]

SUMMARY: The X-men are heroes—they save the world, eradicate threats and protect both mutants and humans alike. You don't see it that way, though.

WARNINGS: one-sided e2l, fem!reader is stubborn and sassy af but it's valid, arguing, canon-level violence, scott's a dick, SMUT - 18+ only! WC: 21k - MASTERLIST

A/N: i've always wanted to write a fic with this plot, it's been on my mind for AGES. happy reading!

----

The first time you see them, it’s on your birthday.

Not being one for big, elaborate parties, you planned a quiet celebration instead—maybe a stroll through the lively city streets, followed by dinner with friends later. You had just visited your favourite store, buying a gift for yourself, and now you’re on your way back home.

The streets buzz with life as people shop, eat, and laugh, making it the perfect backdrop for a peaceful walk and some casual people-watching.

Then, out of nowhere, the ground trembles.

At first, you think it’s an earthquake—a quick jolt beneath your feet that sends a ripple of confusion through your body. But the tremor grows stronger, the ground shaking violently as everyone around you begins to panic, frantically looking around for the source, you included. And that’s when you see it.

A hulking, green monster stomping through the city streets like something out of a nightmare. It has to be at least twenty feet tall, its skin a sickly shade of green, its eyes glowing with rage. Cars bounce with each heavy footstep, leaving deep footprints in the cement in its wake.

People scream, scrambling to get out of its path, but you stand frozen, heart pounding as you try to make sense of what’s happening. In the blink of an eye, the city had been plunged into chaos. You lose track of your surroundings, too busy trying to keep your eyes on the monster headed your way, while also dodging the hoard of pedestrians running for their lives.

Until they show up.

Initially, you don’t even notice them. After all, there’s so much going on around you at this point you barely know what to do with yourself. Yet, through the dust and destruction, you see flashes of movement—figures darting toward the monster with a sense of purpose.

You don’t know who they are, but their bright blue and yellow suits make it seem like you should. At first glance, it’s hard not to feel a sense of awe. They move with such confidence, with their powers on full display for the world to see. You’ve never seen anything like it—a team of mutants using their powers in the open, fighting for what you assume is the greater good.

Maybe they can stop this!

The one first to act is a woman with white hair. She raises her arms to the sky, her eyes glowing a bright white as dark clouds swirl above, blocking out the sun. A flash of lightning slams into the monster's chest, forcing it to reel back with a thunderous roar of agony, and the crowd around you gasps, watching in wonder.

But when the lightning strikes a second time, it veers off course, crashing into the side of a nearby building. The structure groans under the impact, flames erupting from the point of contact as windows shatter, sending glass raining down onto the street below.

The collision sends you to the ground, and when you look up again, you see the power inside go out, all the lights flickering off.

Whatever awe you’d been feeling dissolves into concern, a sinking feeling settling in your chest.

Following her, a man with a glowing red visor strides forward. He’s clearly aiming to hit the monster, but the bright red beam shooting from his eyes slices through several cars in the street first, flipping them over and leaving them in smoldering wrecks. One of the blasts tears through a storefront, reducing it to rubble in a matter of seconds. More people scream and scatter, trying to escape the destruction.

From the corner of your eye, you see another mutant—a man with claws—lunge toward the monster, jumping onto cars to get closer to its head. But by using the parked cars as springboards, the weight of him causes the roof to sink in, and his claws leave deep gashes in the metal.

How heavy is this guy? Is he made of metal or something?

He’s fast, brutal, slashing at the green beast with some serious ferocity. Still, despite the attack, the monster’s strength prevails, and it easily tosses him aside, crashing into buildings, crowds—anything in the way. To your surprise, he always gets back up. And that should be good, right? They are fighting for the safety of the city.

But as debris rains down and cars are overturned, you can’t help but feel like this isn’t helping. You’re constantly dodging rubble, trying to find shelter, only for it to be destroyed seconds later. It’s like being in a war zone, and it doesn’t seem to be getting better.

And above it all, there’s a woman with red hair. She’s floating, and you watch from where you’re hiding as she lifts entire trees from their roots, hurling them at the monster in an attempt to slow it down. Except, much like her teammates, her attempt goes awry, and she misses, the trees now flying toward you.

You barely have the reflexes to dive out of the way.

Your heart races, breath coming in shallow bursts as you press yourself against a wall, trying to steady yourself. The sound of sirens blare in the distance, but it doesn’t seem like help is coming anytime soon. There’s too much going on. People are running, pushing each other aside, crying, screaming, trying to find safety.

Glancing around, you’re met with destruction—flames licking at the sidewalk, cars totaled, and building wreckage littering the streets. These mutants, while clearly powerful, are causing just as much destruction as the monster itself.

What should have been a simple takedown—a 6v1—has turned into a full-scale disaster.

And yet, they don’t stop. They don’t pause to help the people caught in the crossfire, don’t even seem to notice the damage they’re causing. They’re so focused on the monster, so focused on the fight, that they’ve lost sight of everything else.

Is this what heroism looks like? You’d been excited at first—amazed, even—thinking they were here to save the day. But now, standing in the middle of a city that’s being torn apart, you realize how wrong you were.

They don’t care. Not about the city. Not about the people.

Finally, with one last blast from the man with the visor, the monster collapses to the ground, defeated. It lets out a final roar before falling still, its massive body sprawled across the street.

The team stands over its body, their chests heaving with exertion, but they have smiles on their faces, feeling victorious. One by one, they board an aircraft, dragging the monster in with them, barely sparing a glance at the horrors they’ve caused. The white-haired woman doesn’t even bother to clear the storm clouds she summoned.

Within moments, they’re gone. You, and everyone else in the area, are left to deal with the fallout. Left to clean up their mess.

Happy birthday to me, I guess.

—

After that, you spend the next few days trying to process what had happened. You’re still in a state of shock, confusion, and disbelief, but then the media catches wind of what went down, and suddenly, it’s everywhere.

News channels replay the footage over and over, the headlines screaming about “our holy saviours” saving the day. They’re plastered across every screen, being hailed as protectors.

The X-Men.

A group of mutant superheroes, apparently. The reporters list them off one by one, like they’re celebrities you should have known about.

Storm. Cyclops. Wolverine. Jean Grey.

Mutants with powers like gods.

—

The second time you see them, you’re on vacation.

Sitting in a quaint café in the south of France, you’re enjoying a well-deserved break. The city you’re in is perfect—cobblestone streets winding through the village, vine-covered walls framing pastel-colored houses, and the scent of fresh bread drifting from nearby bakeries. It all feels like something out of a dream, the kind of peaceful retreat you’ve been desperate for after everything back home.

You order a frappé, and as you wait, you idly flip through a local newspaper, trying to see how much of your rusty high school French you can remember. It’s peaceful, quiet, exactly what you needed—until it’s not.

Movement out of the corner of your eye grabs your attention, and you glance over the edge of the newspaper, watching a group of tourists as they walk into the café. It’s not really anything odd, so you don’t think much of it—they’re dressed casually, like any group of vacationers.

Though, something about them tugs at the back of your mind, a nagging feeling that you’ve seen them before.

You lower the newspaper entirely now, staring as you try to place where you recognize them from. The tall one with the red sunglasses, the woman with the striking white hair, the man in the leather jacket... You squint, the pieces slowly falling into place.

And then it hits you.

Oh, no way.

You’re halfway around the world, in a different country, on a different continent, and somehow, they’re here. At the same café.

Shifting in your seat, you’re trying to figure out what the hell is going on, when the barista arrives with your drink. He smiles warmly at you, placing the cup down on the table with a soft “voila madame,” but before you can even thank him, there’s a blur of motion.

One of them—Wolverine, you think—lunges at the barista, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him back. The tray tips, and your frappé spills everywhere—all over the table, your newspaper, and, to your absolute horror, all over you.

“Logan, no!” you hear Storm shout, but it’s too late.

The cold drink soaks into your clothes, and you let out a startled yelp, jumping up as your chair topples over. Your clothes are ruined, your vacation ruined, and in the midst of all of this?

Wolverine—or Logan, you guess, is wrestling with the poor barista.

“What the hell?!” you shout, trying to shake off the liquid dripping down your legs. “Is this a joke?!”

No one hears you, or even acknowledges you.

The other mutants jump into action, and before you know it, the peaceful café is transformed into yet another battleground. Cyclops blasts a beam at the barista—who you now realize must be the target of whatever mission they’re on—but it misses, smashing into the wall behind you.

You’re furious, covered in a brown drink that makes it seem like you just had explosive diarrhea, and caught in yet another X-Men fiasco. All you wanted was a vacation. You don’t even know what’s happening anymore—who the barista is, what mission they’re on—but frankly, you don’t care.

This is absurd!

Without a second thought, you grab your bag and make a break for it, dodging overturned tables and debris as you make your way to the exit. You don’t bother looking back, your only thought being to get changed, and get as far away as possible.

After rounding the corner, putting some distance between yourself and the café, you pause for a moment to catch your breath. And then you hear it.

Boom.

The sound reverberates through the narrow streets, shaking the cobblestones beneath your feet. You whirl around, sticking your head out from the corner of the building, just in time to see a plume of smoke rising into the air from where the café once stood.

Your heart sinks.

They blew it up.

—

The third time you see them, it’s a really nice day outside.

It’s a week after you’ve returned home, and the weather had finally given you a break from the suffocating heat. You’re walking home from a lunch with an old friend, when your phone buzzes in your pocket. Probably said friend sending you something stupid to laugh at later.

You chuckle, already anticipating the joke, when—

BAM!

Something slams into you from the side with the force of a freight train. You’re airborne for a second, weightless, before crashing hard onto the pavement, your breath knocked right out from your lungs.

Dazed, you groan and blink up at the sky, trying to get your bearings. What the hell just hit me? Your vision swims as you sit up, shoulder throbbing from the impact. Twisting your neck to see whatever the hell that was, you immediately regret it, wincing at the sharp pain.

Great, just great.

When you finally manage to sit up, you spot the culprit.

Cyclops.

Are you fucking serious?!

His back is to you, dusting off his ugly uniform like nothing happened. You look around, and notice that the street in front you is in ruins—buildings have gaping holes where windows used to be, chunks of the road are crumbling, people covered in blood scurrying away as fast as they can.

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, you catch a glimpse of the giant mechanical robots looming above, scanning for their targets. One of them must’ve thrown Cyclops into you.

You can see the others—Jean, Storm, Beast (some new guy)—flying around, saving the world. That’s codeword for: wreaking havoc, destroying your city.

Anger boils up inside you, hot and unrelenting as you struggle to your feet, rubbing your sore shoulder. But as you open your mouth, a gruff voice cuts through the air.

"Good job, dickhead. You just hurt a civilian."

Your gaze snaps toward the sound. Wolverine’s standing a few feet away, claws out, glaring at the guy who sent you flying.

“I was thrown, Logan,” he says passively. “Maybe if you kept the Sentinels off me—”

“Maybe if you didn’t stand there like a damn target, you wouldn’t get thrown!” The clawed mutant growls, taking a step closer. His whole posture is tense, like he’s barely holding himself back from tackling the other man into the ground (you would pay to have him do it). “Seriously, Summers, it’s like you want to get tossed around.”

Cyclops doesn’t even flinch. “We’ve got bigger problems than this right now,” he dismisses, not even glancing back at you to check if you’re okay.

Well, there goes the last of your patience.

"Are you kidding me?!" you shout, throwing your hands up in disbelief. They completely ignore you, too absorbed in their petty bickering to acknowledge that you’re still standing there, seething.

Before you can rip into them, something catches your eye—a Sentinel (is that what they’re called?), hovering above them, charging up a blast. Its arm is raised, energy crackling at the barrel of its cannon, aimed directly at the two distracted morons.

“Oh, for the love of—” you mutter under your breath before diving forward.

The blast hits you square in the chest, but instead of pain, all you feel is the heat of the energy surging through your body, like lightning spreading through every inch of your veins. It crackles and burns, the force building up inside you until it feels like you’re about to explode.

Then, with a deep breath, you thrust your hands forward, channeling and releasing the blast right back at the robot, blowing it apart. Metal and circuits rain down, the Sentinel crashing into the ground with a deafening thud.

Silence falls.

You’re panting, feeling the leftover energy fizzle out of your fingertips. Slowly, you turn back around, and unsurprisingly, Cyclops–or Scott, as you’ve heard in the news—and Logan are staring at you like you just walked on water. Well, the clawed one is. You can’t really see the other brown-haired man’s expression due to his visor.

“Woah, bub—”

“Oh, hell no!” You spin around fully, pointing an accusatory finger at both of them. “Neither of you get to speak! I just saved your asses because you were too busy bickering like children to notice the massive death robot about to blow you to pieces!”

Logan’s mouth quirks up, but he wisely stays silent.

“And this is exactly why I hate you people!” You continue, exasperated. “You swoop in, make a mess, destroy everything in your path, and then just leave like nothing happened! You think this is helping anyone? You think the people running for their lives right now give a damn about your little team squabbles?”

Scott doesn’t even blink. “We’re just trying to help,” he says evenly, like he’s rehearsed the line a thousand times.

“Help?” you scoff incredulously. “You only tell yourself you’re doing that to make yourself feel better. How many casualties do you think are coming out of this, hm? What’s the body count gonna be after today? Or do you not even bother counting anymore?”

His audacity makes you want to laugh. He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re not done.

"All this mess, the destroyed buildings, the people who won’t make it home tonight because you couldn’t keep your damn fight contained! You’re so focused on stopping the big bad guys that you don’t even realize how much carnage you leave behind. Who’s cleaning up after you? Who’s paying for this?! " You gesture around wildly. "News flash: the people whose lives you’re currently ruining!”

Beside him, Logan’s smirk fades, and he begins to step forward with his hands raised. “Listen, darlin’, we’re doin’ the best we can. We didn’t ask for this fight—”

"Oh, don’t give me that ‘best we can’ bullshit," you snap.

“We’re here to protect people,” Scott adds in, trying to maintain authority. “It’s not always clean, but we are making a difference—"

“Shut the fuck up! I’m not finished!” You interrupt, shaking your head. “Every day. Every damn day there’s something new.”

With the face Logan’s making, you’d think he’s going to start going in on you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just watches, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he’s trying to figure you out. It’s unnerving, but you don’t care. You’ve had enough.

"And you," you say, turning your ire toward him, "You couldn’t have, I don’t know, used your super speed or whatever the hell you do to catch him before he crashed into me?"

His eyebrow quirks up. “Super speed?” he chuckles lowly. “Ain’t that fast. Was a little busy with the giant killer robots.”

You tilt your head back in frustration and turn on your heel. "I’m done. I don’t care what kind of mission you’re on, or how noble you think it is. If you're planning to lay waste to the city yet again, be my guest.”

Giving no time for a response, you stalk off, weaving through the wreckage of the city streets, your heart still pounding in your chest.

—

A couple weeks have passed since the last incident, and the X-Men seem to have disappeared from the headlines. You haven’t seen them or heard their whereabouts splashed across the news like you’ve gotten used to—though not by choice, of course. Whenever they do anything, the world seems to bow at their feet.

You don’t get it.

The flashy suits, the team name, the way they strut around as if they’re the Gods of the mutant race. It’s too much, too loud. They act like they’re above it all, as if their powers and heroics put them on a pedestal. Better than those who prefer to lay low, who have no choice but to blend in.

You’ve spent years hiding your powers, keeping them buried deep where no one can see. When you were younger, you didn’t have a choice. Your mutation made you a target—bullied, beaten up, pushed around for being different.

You learned quickly that being a mutant didn’t make you special. It made you vulnerable.

So, you hid. You stayed quiet, under the radar. It was safer that way.

And then here are the X-Men, parading around like their abilities make them untouchable, like they’ve forgotten what it’s like for the rest of you. It’s not that you don’t believe in helping others—you just don’t believe in the way they do it.

In your opinion, it’s all performance. From what you’ve experienced and seen up close, they always arrive with a fanfare, ready to jump into action, and do whatever they can to exterminate the threat. Yet, when the dust settles, it’s mutants like you who are left to pick up the pieces.

The ones who don’t wear brightly coloured costumes or shout about unity. You’re the ones who have to keep moving, keep surviving, without any recognition.

But it's not like you need recognition. You never have. What you need is peace.

—

You’re on the phone with your mom, trying to reassure her for the millionth time this week.

"Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, Mom, I’m fine," you say, pacing the length of your small living room. You glance at the muted TV screen, the news still cycling through the usual mayhem. "You’ve seen the news recently, right? We’ve got the X-Men to take care of all this stuff—"

Knock. Knock.

You freeze mid-sentence, your words trailing off as the sound of someone at your door interrupts the call. Your heart skips a beat, and your voice drops. "Mom, I’ll call you back."

Barely waiting for her to reply, you end the call, staring at the door like it might explode.

A knock at this hour? Unannounced? You waver, your mind racing with possibilities.

Delivery? A neighbour? You’re not expecting anyone.

Cautiously, you make your way toward the door, hand hovering over the handle as you listen. No more knocks, just the faint hum of the outside world. You take a breath, steeling yourself as you turn the handle and crack the door open.

The tufts of hair, the thick stubble, the edge in his eyes—it’s him. Wolverine. And just as your brain registers his face, you also notice the glint of metal where his claws are already halfway out.

Instincts kick in, and before he can get a word in, you push against the door, trying to slam it shut.

Still, he’s faster.

His fist punches through the wood, and with a metallic snikt, his claws extend fully, slicing through the door as if it were made of paper. He pushes it open again, forcing it against your effort, and the sheer strength sends you stumbling back.

“What the fuck?” you gasp, eyes wide as you steady yourself. “How did you even find me?”

Stepping inside, he says, “picked up your scent and followed it,” matter-of-factly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

For a moment, you just stare at him, dumbfounded. “That’s… that’s actually really creepy,” you manage, still trying to process the fact that he just said that without a hint of shame.

“Can’t control it, bub,” he shrugs.

You take a step back, putting more distance between you and the man with the claws standing in your apartment. “Okay, well, you found me. Now what?”

His eyes lock onto yours. “I need you to come with me.”

“Excuse me?” You cross your arms, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief.

“You’re not safe here.”

“Oh, I’m not safe?” you snap, sarcasm dripping from your voice. “Maybe if you and your merry band of idiots didn’t keep causing world-ending disasters, I wouldn’t need to be safe!”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Sentinels are tracking you down.”

You falter. “What are you talking about?”

“You used your powers,” he states. “Killed a Sentinel. That’s all it takes for them to target you.”

Blinking, you feel anger rush to the surface, your skin tingling with rage. “I didn’t kill anyone. They’re fucking robots.”

“They don’t see it that way,” he counters. “You took one down, and now they know what you are.”

Part of you knows there’s merit in what he’s saying, but you don’t want to hear it. The last thing you want is to be dragged into some mutant-robot war. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t ask for any of this!” you hiss, glaring at him. “And now you’re telling me I’m on some kill list because I defended myself? Because I defended you?!”

His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite read, but he stays silent, watching you carefully. Your words start flying faster now, venom spilling into each one.

“I’m the one who took that thing down because you and that one-eyed bitch boy were too busy being immature! You weren’t even paying attention, and that thing almost blasted you both.” Your fingers ball into fists. "I saved both of you, and now I’m the one who has to run?"

Logan's jaw clenches, his nostrils flaring at the accusation. “We weren’t—”

“Don’t even try to deny it,” you cut him off. “If it weren’t for me, the two of you would be dead right now. And now I’m supposed to just go with you to your mansion and hide out? Like that’s going to fix th—”

You don’t get to end your rant, because he has stepped forward, and grabbed your shoulders, gripping you firmly. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to snap your attention back to him.

“This is serious,” he spits, eyes boring into yours. “You stay here, you die.”

His words slam into you. He’s not trying to scare you—he’s telling the truth.

“You don’t get to be stubborn about this,” he continues firmly. “You think you’re pissed off now? Wait until they come crashin' through your door in the middle of the night, and you don’t have a chance to fight back.”

Wrenching yourself out of his grasp, you take a few steps back. “I just—” you begin to say, but the words feel tangled in your throat. The denial is still there, but it’s weakening, cracking. “I don’t want to run.”

“You’re not running,” he sighs, his voice softening ever so slightly. “You’re buying time. Time to fight back, time to survive. But if you stay here? There’s none of that.”

You want to argue more, want to scream at him to get away, to not drag you into his fight, but instead, you let out a long, shaky breath, your shoulders slumping. “Fine,” you breath out.

He nods, finally releasing his grip on you and stepping back. “Good. Pack up your shit. We leave in half an hour.”

Then, he walks over to your couch and plops down like he owns the place, crossing his arms as if settling in for a casual wait.

You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath. “Unbelievable.”

Ignoring him, you turn and head into your bedroom, where you start throwing clothes into a duffel bag—jeans, a couple of shirts, whatever you can grab quickly. Your movements are hurried, fuelled by a mix of frustration and the creeping anxiety gnawing at the edges of your mind. Grabbing your toiletries, you stuff them into a smaller bag, trying to focus on the task at hand instead of the fact that some random mutant tracked you down, and now you have to leave your life until you’re safe.

You peer back into the hallway, hearing the faint creak of the couch as Logan shifts around. I’m gonna kill this guy, you think to yourself.

Once everything is packed and you’ve zipped your bag, you head back into the main room, only to see said random mutant still sprawled on your couch, looking far too comfortable, with a cigar in his hand.

“Seriously?” you say, slinging your duffel over your shoulder. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you.”

He grunts in response but doesn’t move. Typical.

You glance at the clock—still a few minutes left of the half-hour he allotted you, but there’s no point in dragging it out. “I’m ready,” you say flatly, heading toward the door.

Logan stands, stretches his arms over his head, and cracks his neck like he’s waking up from a nap. “Let’s go then.”

—

The ride is tense and quiet, which suits you just fine. You’d rather not talk to him anyway. Every now and then, you let out a loud sigh, unable to hold back the annoyance you’re feeling. Each time, you feel Logan’s eyes dart toward you from the driver’s seat, but he doesn’t say anything. Well, that is, until—

“Can you shut the fuck up?” he growls, keeping his eyes on the road.

You clench your jaw, shifting in your seat. “I didn’t even say anything, jackass.”

He huffs, clearly not in the mood for an argument, but the strain between you is almost impossible to ignore. You cross your arms, staring out the window, observing the landscape shift as the drive continues.

Eventually, you can see the outline of the mansion, and you watch as it gets bigger and bigger the closer you get. Upon arrival, He pulls the car up to the front and cuts the engine. You both sit there for a moment, mute.

“Well, here we are,” he mumbles after the pause stretches on for an uncomfortable amount of time, glancing over at you.

“Great,” you say sarcastically, unbuckling your seatbelt and pushing open the car door.

Logan walks ahead without saying a word, leading the way up the grand stone steps toward the front door. You trail behind, your mood darkening with every step, glaring at the perfectly polished entrance.

The doors open before you even reach them, and you’re greeted by an older man in a wheelchair—Charles Xavier, if you remember correctly. The famous telepath. The genius behind the mutant team (some news anchor's words, not yours). His expression is kind, but you’re in such a bad mood, you don’t even bother trying to seem polite.

“Welcome,” He says with a warm smile, his eyes assessing you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl. “Logan’s told me a lot about you.”

You press your lips together in a line. “Yeah? Well, don’t get too excited.”

Logan grunts beside you. “She’s got a bit of an attitude,” he mutters to Charles, then turns to you, gesturing you to follow him. “Come on.”

Inwardly groaning, you have no choice but to follow him. Everything about this place screams “too good to be true,” and you hate it already. You’re used to keeping your head down, blending in, not being surrounded by people who wear their powers on their sleeves like some badge of honour.

As you walk through the halls, a few faces appear—other mutants, some of them kids, watching curiously as you pass by. You can feel their eyes on you, can hear the whispers already starting about the new arrival.

Charles wheels alongside you, still smiling, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You remind me of Logan when he first joined us,” he says thoughtfully.

That stops you in your tracks.

You whip your head toward the man, giving him a piercing look. “Do not say that. We are nothing alike.”

On your other side, Logan smirks. “Not sure if I should be offended or not.”

“I’m serious.” If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under.

Chucking softly, Charles seems completely unaffected by your outburst. “You’re both a bit rough around the edges, but you’ll find your place here.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say. “Because that’s exactly what I want to do.”

Deeper into the mansion, you catch sight of the X-Men you’ve seen before: Cyclops, Storm, Jean Grey. They all turn to look at you, sizing you up. You don’t flinch—you just stare back, your expression hard.

Pulling your duffel bag higher on your shoulder, you rip your eyes away from theirs, and keep walking, following Logan down the long, quiet hallway. Finally, he stops in front of a door.

“This is your room,” he grunts, nodding toward it. “Try not to break anything.”

Choosing silence, you push the door open. Stepping inside, you expect the bare minimum—a bed, maybe a closet—but instead, you’re met with a surprisingly large space. There’s a massive bed in the center of the room, a desk by the window, and, to your surprise, a set of glass doors leading out to a balcony.

You drop your bag by the door, glancing around, trying to shake off the unease. This is way too nice for a prisoner. You walk toward the balcony doors, curious despite yourself, and when you pull them open, the cool breeze hits you immediately.

Once you’re outside, you realize something that immediately makes your stomach drop.

The balcony is shared. And right next to your side, leaning against the railing with a cigar between his fingers, is Logan.

You halt mid-motion, eyes fixed on him in stunned silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He glances over, a smirk playing on his lips as he takes a drag of his cigar. “Surprise.”

You groan, turning your back on him and walking toward the opposite edge of the balcony, trying to calm the annoyance inside you. Of all the people you could’ve been stuck beside, it had to be him. It’s not enough that he dragged you here, but now there’s a chance you’re going to have to see him every time you step outside.

“So what now?” you mutter, staring out over the mansion grounds, the manicured gardens below looking like something out of a postcard. “I’m just supposed to stay here, be a part of your little mutant club?”

Taking another slow pull on his cigar, “You’re supposed to stay alive. Everythin’ else? That’s up to you.”

“But why do you suddenly care?” you ask. “I’ve seen the way you operate. You and your team sweep in, fight your battles, and then leave everyone else in the dirt. You don’t care about the collateral damage—hell, you cause half of it.”

Logan pauses, his cigar halfway to his lips. He doesn’t answer right away, and the brief hesitation only makes your irritation spike. You press on, inching closer, voice laced with accusation.

“Why now?” you press. “Why drag me into this when you’ve never cared about anyone else in the crossfire?”

Logan finally turns to face you, exhaling a cloud of smoke before speaking, his expression hardened. “This ain’t about me ‘caring,’” he says flatly. “This is about survival. You killed a Sentinel, whether you like it or not. That puts a target on your back.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that very clear,” you bite out. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Why me? Why am I suddenly important to you?”

Logan’s eyes darken, drilling into yours. “You’re not important to me,” he says flatly. “But they won’t stop until they get you. The destruction that’ll come from that—if your stubborn ass fought back, which I know it would, by the way—would be much greater than anything we would cause.”

“Doubt that,” you snarl bitterly. You don’t linger for the sound of his response, spinning on your heel and walking back into your room, slamming the balcony door behind you.

The bed is large and you can’t deny how inviting it looks after the day you’ve had. You flop onto it face-first, letting out a long, drawn out sigh.

You’re barely able to reflect on the chaotic day you’ve had before your eyelids flutter shut, and you sink into a deep slumber, the exhaustion from everything catching up to you.

—

You’re jolted awake by a loud, aggressive knock on your bedroom door. The sound is so forceful it feels like the entire frame is rattling. You release a sound, half groan, half sigh, steeped in frustration. Your face is still buried in your pillow, and you curse whoever decided to ruin what little sleep you managed to get.

“Get up,” Logan’s gruff voice calls from the other side of the door. “We’re leaving for breakfast in ten.”

Ah yes. Of-fucking-course it's him. Who else would it be?

Dragging yourself out of bed, you throw on some clothes and make a half-hearted attempt to fix your hair before opening the door, ready to curse him, but he's already striding down the hallway, hardly bothering to check if you're following. You roll your eyes, your steps slow and begrudging as you move to follow

As you catch up, you can’t help but throw him a sideways glare. “Why are you acting like my personal bodyguard?”

“Gotta make sure you don’t do anything reckless.”

You scoff, crossing your arms as you fall into step beside him. “You don’t even know what I can do.”

Logan’s lips twitch into a lazy smirk, and you immediately want to wipe it off his face. “Exactly,” he says, his tone almost amused. “Which is why today, we’re gonna test you.”

You stop in your tracks, staring at his back. “Test me? What the hell does that mean?”

He stops too, turning to face you. “Means you’re gonna show me what you’re capable of.”

Teeth clenched, you feel the slow rise of aggravation mingling with apprehension. “I’m not some science experiment.”

“No,” he agrees, “but you’re not a regular person, either. You need to know your limits—and how to handle what’s coming.”

Groaning, you drag your hands down your face incredulously. “I don’t even know what to say back to that. All I know is that I’m hungry.”

—

The kitchen of Xavier’s mansion is bustling with activity as the two of you walk in. The rest of the team is gathered around a large table at the centre of the room, and you spot Jean, Cyclops, Storm, and a few others sitting together, chatting, but you feel no desire to join them.

Rather, you gravitate toward a smaller table by the window, hoping to get some peace while you choke down breakfast. The chair scrapes lightly as you pull it out and sit down, fully expecting to be left alone.

But to your surprise, Logan follows and plops down in the seat across from you.

You raise an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs and digs into his food. "Eating. You got a problem with that?"

You cast a quick look toward the large table where the rest of the team sits. It feels strange, having him eat with you, especially when the rest of his team is so obviously waiting for him to join them.

"No," you murmur, shaking your head as you return to your plate. "Just didn’t think you’d stray from the flock."

“They’re fine without me.”

You push your food around with your fork, trying to push past the heavy air of discomfort in the room. Everyone keeps glancing in your direction, and you sense their curiosity, the questions hovering in silence, but no one has the courage to ask. And honestly, you’re grateful for the space.

Just as you’re finishing up, a low voice catches your attention.

"I just don’t understand why they brought her here," Jean’s voice carries across the room, quieter than before, but still clear enough for you to hear. “She doesn’t seem like she has what it takes. It’s like they’re bringing in someone who’s—” She pauses, clearly thinking through her words. "Unstable. Weak.”

Tensing, your fork clatters onto your plate. The world around you dulls, and all you can hear is that word echoing in your head. Weak. You’ve been called a lot of things in your life, but never that.

Slowly, you push your chair back and stand up as you turn to face the table where she and the others are seated. “Say it louder, please,” you say calmly.

The chatter dies instantly, and suddenly, every set of eyes in the room finds you. Jean's face turns ashen, her eyes blown wide in shock. She wasn’t expecting you to overhear. Her mouth opens and closes, as if she’s trying to find a way to backtrack, but you know what you heard.

Before Jean can stammer out an excuse, Scott stands up, positioning himself between you and her, his jaw tight and his posture rigid. “You heard wrong,” he says sternly. “She didn’t mean anything by it.”

You take a calculated step forward, arms crossed in defiance. “Didn’t mean anything?” you repeat sarcastically. “She just called me weak. Right here. In front of everyone. You think I’m gonna let that slide?”

Scott’s jaw clenches tighter “She wasn’t trying to insult you. You’re new here. You don’t know how things work yet.”

“That’s the excuse?” you laugh dryly. “Maybe you should teach her how to keep her mouth shut instead of making assumptions about people she doesn’t know.”

If even possible, the friction between you swells, growing heavier with each passing second. Everyone in the room watches the standoff, some shifting uncomfortably in their seats, unsure of what’s going to happen next. You can feel Logan’s presence behind you, but he doesn’t interfere. He’s letting you handle this.

“You don’t belong here,” Scott states, like he’s trying to remind you of your place. “You’re not part of this team, and you sure as hell don’t understand what it takes to survive here.”

Raising an eyebrow, your lips curl into a smirk. “And what are you gonna do about it, One-eye? You gonna lecture me? Or better yet, why don’t you blast me with those laser eyes of yours? Show me how strong you are.”

His fists clench, and for a moment, you see the control slip. His visor glows red, just for a split second, as his anger spikes.

"Careful," you taunt, challenging him. "Wouldn’t want to lose control, would you? I'm sure you've never done that before."

That does it.

A beam shoots out from Scott’s visor. Fast, ferocious, and headed straight for you. There’s a collective gasp from the others, chairs scraping as people push back, shocked by the sudden escalation. But you don’t move. You stand your ground, your eyes locked onto Scott’s as the beam strikes you square in the chest.

You’re not knocked back, or worse, killed, as the energy from the blast surges into you. The energy seeps into your bones, crackling through every nerve. Your skin tingles as the power courses through you, your body absorbing every ounce of it. Once the assault is over, you raise your head, feeling your eyes and veins begin to glow with a deep, burning red.

Jean’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide in disbelief.

Unfortunately for you, you don't get the chance to blow him to pieces, because Logan flies forward and grabs your arm, pulling you out of the room. Nobody else moves—too stunned—as he drags you into the hallway. You blink your eyes, the glow fading, but you can feel the residual energy from Scott’s blast still buzzing under your skin.

Both out of sight, he finally releases you.

You glare at him, still rattled from the confrontation. “What the hell? Why'd you interfere?”

He just shrugs, completely unfazed. “You handled yourself enough. Now we know what you can do. Follow me.”

“Follow you where?” you ask.

He motions down the hallway. “Danger Room. We’re gonna push those limits a little further.”

Gawking at him for a second, it takes a moment, but then you smirk. You want to know just how far your powers can go.

—

“Fuck!” you curse as you’re flung backward, your body slamming against a stone wall. Your back hits hard, knocking the wind out of you as the simulated-Sentinel hurls a car in your direction. The screech of metal fills the air as the vehicle crashes just mere inches from where you were standing moments ago.

Rubble showers from above, the robot in front of you towering menacingly. Raising its arm, another blast begins charging in its palm, ready to incinerate you.

You scramble to your feet, heart pounding in your chest as you sprint away, ducking and weaving between the wreckage of cars and crumbling buildings that make up the simulated cityscape. The Sentinel fires again, the blast narrowly missing as you dodge behind an overturned truck. Your breaths come in ragged gasps, every muscle screaming in protest.

I can’t keep this up.

Another blast lights up the area around you, and you dive out of the way, the heat of the attack singeing your skin. You’re quick, but not quick enough to outrun the onslaught from this machine.

Then it hits you—you don’t have to outrun it.

You remember the blast from way back, how your body absorbed the energy, and how in the dining hall, you took on Scott’s beam like it was nothing. You can do it again. You can take its power and turn it back on itself.

Gritting your teeth, you stop running. The air buzzes with electricity, the earth trembling beneath you as the next shot hurtles your way.

It hammers into your chest, and once again, your body is filled with energy. In an instant, you leap into the air, propelled by the newfound strength coursing through your body, and the ground disappears beneath you as you soar upward.

At the peak of your jump, you clench your fist, channeling all that power into one focused point. Then, you bring your fist down on the Sentinel’s head, the impact echoing through the simulation as your punch connects, and the robot’s head shatters under the blow, metal fragments flying in every direction as its massive body crumples to the ground.

Sparks shoot out of its severed neck, and with a final groan of machinery, the robot collapses into a heap of broken parts at your feet.

“Good work,” Logan’s voice crackles over the comms, far too calm for what you’ve just been through. “Let’s see how you handle another.”

There’s no time for more than a muttered curse under your breath, because another Sentinel is dropped into the simulation. This one’s faster, more agile, and doesn’t waste time by charging up blasts.

It exists solely to hunt you down.

“Cut me some slack,” you groan, half out of breath as you duck behind the ruins of a building. Your lungs burn as you try to breathe, adrenaline coursing through you like a wildfire.

This one isn’t like the last. It’s not using energy blasts—it’s fast, agile, and persistent. It rushes toward you, its massive hands swiping through the air, tearing through the simulated city with ease.

Grinding your teeth, a wave of exasperation takes over. This fight is harder, the machine barely giving you a chance to react, and your body is already starting to wear down. Your mind races, desperate for a solution as you sidestep its attacks, trying to stay one step ahead. You feel cornered, trapped.

The frustration builds, growing into something more, and before you realize it, that frustration becomes fuel. It ignites inside you, your own emotions transforming into energy, pushing past the limits you didn’t know you had.

Your veins pulse, your eyes glowing white this time, not from absorbed power but from something deeper—your own anger, your own strength. The energy bubbles inside you, filling every cell of your body until you can’t hold it back anymore.

With a scream, you release it, propelling a massive ball of crackling energy hurling toward the Sentinel. The impact is immediate, ripping through the metal and bursting into a brilliant, blinding light. It sends shockwave through the entire simulation, the machine imploding, its parts scattering across the battlefield.

And when the light fades, the Sentinel is gone—nothing more than a smouldering heap of twisted metal.

You stand there, chest heaving, the glow in your eyes slowly fading as the last traces of energy drain from your body. Your knees buckle, and before you know it, you crumble to the ground, utterly exhausted.

The simulation flickers for a moment, then abruptly shuts off, the room returning to its normal, metallic walls as the fake cityscape disappears. You’re still on the floor, gasping for breath, when Logan steps into view, arms crossed as he peers down at you with a pleased grin.

“Well,” he says, voice calm, “that wasn’t too bad.”

You shoot him a glare from the ground, too tired to move. “You… are such… an asshole.”

He chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Get up. We’re just getting started.”

—

He was right. You were just getting started.

The thought gnaws at you as you trudge alongside Logan, heading back to your room to clean up before dinner. Every muscle in your body aches, and you can already feel the soreness creeping in, promising a week of pain. You’re starting to suspect this is Logan’s way of getting back at you for all the snark and attitude you’ve thrown his way, but damn, is it painful. You don’t even want to think about how much worse you’re going to feel in the morning.

You feel like a zombie, dragging your feet, barely able to keep your eyes open. Your limbs feel heavy, like they’re made of lead, and each step invites fresh wave of exhaustion through your body. The man with you, of course, seems perfectly fine. He walks a few steps ahead of you, not even winded from the grueling day of combat drills, sparring, and whatever else he thought up to make sure you were put through the wringer.

“Maybe I should be a little nicer to you,” you rationalize, but who are you kidding.

With a terse grunt, he acknowledges you by tilting his head back. “You’ll live.”

You roll your eyes, though it’s half-hearted at best. You don’t even have the energy to be annoyed right now.

Upon reaching your room, you feel like you could collapse right then and there. You mumble something vaguely resembling ‘see you later’ to Logan before slipping inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

The first thing you do is toss your bag onto the floor, not caring where it lands, and head straight for the bathroom. You peel off your sweaty, dirt-covered clothes and step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the grime of the day.

After that quick, blissful shower, you drag yourself out, towel off, and pull on the first comfortable clothes you can find. Your bed is calling to you, and it doesn’t take long for you to lie down on it. The softness of the mattress beneath you is heaven, and you think you might just fall asleep right there and take a small nap before heading to eat.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice the light pouring in through the balcony doors. The warm, golden glow of the setting sun catches your attention, and despite how drained you are, you find yourself turning to look.

What you see is breathtaking. Shades of pink, orange, and deep purple.

It’s too beautiful to ignore.

Groaning again, you force yourself to sit up, rubbing your eyes. You can’t help it. Something about the sight draws you in, and before you know it, you’re standing and heading toward the balcony. You slide the door open and step outside, the evening breeze washing over you as you lean against the railing, taking in the view.

A few minutes pass, the world around you quiet except for the gentle rustling of the leaves in the wind. The sound of Logan’s door sliding breaks your focus. You glance over just as he steps out onto his side of the shared balcony, wearing nothing but a white tank top and jeans.

Saying nothing, he steps beside you at the railing, resting against it as his eyes scan the horizon.

You sneak a look at him out of the corner of your eye, trying not to make it obvious. His arms are crossed over the railing, and it’s almst impossible not to notice the way the tank top lets you see his biceps, the muscles in his arms strong from the day’s activity. You are a woman, after all.

He looks relaxed. His stubble catches the last bits of the sunlight, and as your gaze travels upward, you notice something you hadn’t bothered to see before.

The crinkles at the sides of his eyes. They’re faint, barely there, but in this light, they’re more visible, adding something unexpectedly... soft to his otherwise intimidating appearance.

Cute, you think absentmindedly, then pause.

What the fuck?

You snap your gaze back to the sunset, feeling a sudden surge of embarrassment creeping up your neck. You just spent the entire day getting your ass handed to you by this man, and now you’re here checking out his arms? His arms? And thinking the crinkles around his eyes are cute? Suppressing a groan, you want to slap yourself for even entertaining the thought.

Nope. Absolutely not. You’re not going down that road.

Taking a deep breath, you try to bring your attention back to the sunset. The reason you went outside to begin with. You have no idea why you’re suddenly noticing these things about him—probably exhaustion making your brain short-circuit.

Yup. That’s it.

He shifts slightly beside you, breaking the silence. “Nice view"

You nod, swallowing down the weird feelings swirling in your head. “Yeah,” you mumble, not trusting yourself to say anything more without sounding ridiculous.

The two of you stand there for a few more minutes, watching as the last rays of the sun disappear, the sky dimming into deep purples and blues. But the minute your thoughts start to drift back to him, you straighten up, clapping your hands together and quickly turning on your heel to head back inside.

“Well, I’m done,” you say abruptly. “I’m gonna crash.”

Logan doesn’t move, but you can feel his eyes following you as you slide the door closed behind you, your mind still reeling from whatever the hell that was.

Collapsing back onto your bed, you pull the covers up to your chin, determined to forget about the whole thing.

—

A few hours later, when it’s dark out, you finally wake up. The room is dim, and for a moment, you just lie there, blinking at the ceiling. As you start to roll over, something catches your attention—a smell.

It's warm, savoury. Your stomach growls almost immediately, making you realize with a start that you slept through dinner.

Groggily, you sit up, rubbing your eyes, and that’s when you spot it—a tray of food sitting on the desk in your room. You can make out the outline of a warm meal: some kind of stew, a couple of bread rolls, and what looks like a glass of water. Your stomach growls again, louder this time, as you climb out of bed and shuffle toward the desk, turning on the light.

Next to the tray, there’s a small note:

Figured you’d be too tired to get dinner. Eat up.

– L

You stare at the note. Logan? Bringing you food? It doesn’t exactly fit with the version of him you’ve been dealing with all day, but then again, there seems to be a lot about him that doesn’t quite fit the mold you expected.

Too hungry to keep thinking and not eat, you set the note down and grab the spoon, dipping it into the stew. The first bite warms you from the inside out, and you let out an involuntary sigh of relief.

Surprisingly flavourful—rich and nourishing, it’s the perfect remedy for the exhausting day behind you

Still, you can’t help your eyes from wandering back to the note. Maybe it really is the fatigue messing with your head again, making you chalk it up to be something it’s not.

—

The next morning, you're not woken up by banging on your door, which is a relief. You stretch, the soreness still lingering but not nearly as bad as you expected. After freshening up and pulling on some clothes, you step into the hallway, and unexpectedly, Logan is already waiting for you.

He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and you blink at him, still waking up, unsure why he’s there. “Uh... morning?” you get out, albeit you can’t hide the confusion in your tone.

A short nod in greeting. “Morning. Ready for breakfast?”

You hesitate for a moment, then decide to take the plunge. “Yeah I am, but…um, thanks for the food last night, it was good.” you say quietly, almost embarrassed to admit it.

The gesture had caught you off guard, and though you don’t want to make a fuss, it’s worth noting

“Don’t mention it,” he shrugs casually.

Nodding in understanding, you’re ready to move on when he adds, almost offhandedly, “Y’know, you’re actually kinda pretty when you’re asleep. Not being a little shit helps.”

You freeze mid-step, your mind short-circuiting for a moment as you process the words that just left his lips.

Flustered and irritated all at once, you glare at him. “Excuse me?”

Logan smirks, the corners of his mouth twitching as he starts walking down the hall toward the kitchen. “You heard me.”

Your face heats up. “I am not a little shit,” you yelp, quickening your pace to catch up to him.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, gazing at you from over his shoulder. You open your mouth to fire back, but the smug look in his eyes makes you hesitate.

He’s messing with you on purpose.

Asshole, you think, fuming but trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped when he called you pretty.

—

The kitchen goes silent the moment you and Logan step through the door, a noticeable difference from yesterday. All eyes are locked on you, the pressure in the room almost solid, begging to be cut through.

Students and X-Men alike are watching, probably expecting some kind of replay of the day prior's events, but you pay them no mind, keeping your eyes straight ahead and making a beeline for a table at the back.

You drop into a seat, picking up a piece of toast and acting like the room isn’t on high alert. Logan joins you again without a word, sitting across from you and digging into his food. He doesn’t even glance at the others, as if the room full of curious onlookers doesn’t exist.

The only sounds are the clink of silverware and voices slowly picking up again as people realize nothing dramatic is about to happen.

Chewing, you glance at the man across from you, still quietly working through his meal. You swallow, then clear your throat. “So... what’s the plan for today?”

He looks up from his plate. “Charles wants to see you this morning.”

You frown, unsure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “Why? Did I break something without knowing it?”

He snorts, shaking his head. “No, you’re not in trouble, smartass. He’s just gonna fill you in on some things. Mainly the Sentinels.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You need to know what you’re up against, what we’re all dealing with. He’ll catch you up to speed.”

“Great,” you mutter. “More bad news.”

The clawed mutant leans back in his chair, watching you for a moment before speaking again. “Look, it’s not gonna be fun, but you need to know. Better to hear it from him than from me.”

“I’ll take that as your way of saying ‘good luck,” you breathe out.

He smirks. “You’re gonna need it.”

Logan finishes his meal and stands up, leaving his empty plate behind. “I’ll drop you off at Charles’s office. You’ll be with him for the morning.”

You follow suit, pushing away your half-eaten plate. “Fantastic,” you mumble sarcastically, but at the same time, you know this is necessary. After all, the threat you’re dealing with is real, and being ignorant about it won’t do you any good.

—

“So, how can they be stopped?”

You ask the question before you even sit down. Charles is already waiting for you in his office, his hands folded neatly on the desk, his gaze calm and soft.

He takes a measured breath, glancing toward the window for a moment before responding. “Stopping the Sentinels is... complicated. They’ve grown more advanced than we ever anticipated.”

“I gathered that.”

“They are highly adaptive machines,” he continues. “Designed to hunt and neutralize mutants, they learn from every encounter. They absorb information, adjust tactics, and over time, they become more effective.”

His words make you squirm with discomfort, and you glance around the room, trying to distract yourself from the knot forming in your stomach.

“And now I’m one of their targets,” you say quietly, more to yourself than to him.

Leaning forward slightly, he says, “Yes. They’ve already locked onto you because of your encounter with them. They don’t differentiate between self-defence and aggression. They see you as a target, simply because you fought back.”

You exhale sharply. “So, what’s your plan?”

Charles meets your gaze. “There is a command center—a hub that controls their network. If we can locate it and destroy it, we believe it will disrupt the entire Sentinel operation. Without the command structure, the Sentinels will become non-functional.”

You stare for a beat, mentally piecing together the details. “You believe?”

“It’s our best theory,” he says evenly. “We’ve been gathering intel for some time now. And we’re planning a mission. A final push to put an end to this threat once and for all.”

The words linger, thick and weighty, in the space between you, You can sense where this is going. Your fingers drum against your arm, a nervous habit you can’t seem to shake.

“You want me to be a part of it.”

He remains unfazed. “I believe you have an ability that could be crucial to the mission. You’ve already demonstrated your capability against the Sentinels in training yesterday, and in real life.”

A bitter scoff escapes your lips before you can stifle it. “Yeah, but I’m not one of you. I don’t want to be part of some... grand battle. That’s not me.”

Watching you closely, his gaze is soft with comprehension. “I understand your reluctance,” he says gently. “But running, hiding... it won’t change the fact that they will find you. Fighting may not have been your choice, but now it is your reality.”

Standing, you begin to pace the room. “This is exactly the problem I have with your team,” you say, stopping near the window, staring out at the garden. “We hardly know eachother, yet you want me to be part of some mission that could very well be catastophic. It’s like you don’t care about anything except the big picture.”

Charles’s expression doesn’t change. He definitely expected this. “We aren’t perfect,” he admits, “and our battles have left scars. But this is about survival. For all of us. For you.”

Turning back to face him, you narrow your eyes. “And if I say no?”

“I won’t force you,” His voice is understanding. “The choice is yours. But know that the Sentinels will not stop. You can avoid the fight for as long as you like, but eventually, it will come to you.”

It’s as if you're stuck, with nowhere to turn, cornered by a reality you didn’t want any part of. Avoiding it doesn’t seem like an option anymore, but fighting alongside the X-Men feels like betraying everything you’ve tried to distance yourself from.

Sighing, “I’ll think about it.”

—

When you get back to your room, the first thing you do is swing open your balcony door and step outside. The afternoon sun comes over you like a blanket, warming you up, and relieving some of the strain in your muscles. Logan is out on the balcony too, leaning against the railing, a cigar lit between his fingers. It’s a sight you think you should get used to.

His eyes flick to you when you approach, but he doesn’t say anything at first. Without a word, he holds the roll of tobacco out toward you, as if he knows exactly what’s on your mind.

You pause briefly, for just a second before taking it from him. The rich, earthy taste of the cigar fills your mouth as you inhale deeply, the smoke heavy and warm in your lungs. There’s something grounding about it, even though the burn is rough against your throat. You let out a slow exhale, watching the smoke curl into the night air as you lean next to him against the railing.

“How’d it go?” he asks gruffly.

“He wants me to join you guys on the mission.”

At first, Logan doesn’t react, then, he just takes the cigar back, puffing on it and blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “What do you want to do?”

It’s the same question that’s been clawing at your insides since you left Charles’s office. What do you want? It feels like the answer should be simple, but it’s anything but.

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I want to get rid of the threat and go back to my normal life, but if I do, then I'd just become the very thing I'm against, right? I can’t join you guys, that’s not who I am.”

He hums softly.

Shifting a bit, you try to find the words to explain the knot of irritation tangled inside you. “I get it, you know? I get why you guys do what you do. Someone has to. But the way you do it—so carefree about everything. It’s like the destruction, the people, the lives caught in the midst of everything—it doesn’t even phase you.”

“We don’t do it carefree,” he says lowly. Inhaling into the cigar once more, the tip glowing red. “But sometimes, you gotta make a choice between bad and worse. People get hurt. But if we don’t stop the threats, a lot more people are gonna die.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling the tension coil tighter in your chest. “And that’s what I hate about it.”

Flicking the ash from the end of his cigar, his eyes are distant, lost in thought momentarily before he responds. “I’m not gonna lie to you and say it’s easy. It ain’t. We all carry the weight of the things we’ve done—the things we couldn’t stop. But if not us, then who?”

“That’s an impossible decision,” you say. There’s no way you can go into this fight, knowing how much of a toll it’s going to take on everything. The fight itself is such a small piece to the puzzle.

Logan leans his elbows on the railing. “You think I wanted this?” he asks, his voice low, almost like he’s talking to himself. “I was just like you. Didn’t want nothin’ to do with the team or their battles.”

The comparison makes you grimace. “Great. That’s exactly what I want to hear.”

He chuckles, the sound rough but not unkind. “I’m serious, bub. For years, I didn’t want to be part of this... circus. Figured I’d be better off on my own, that I was above it all.”

You quirk a brow. “Then what changed?”

“It’s not like a switch flipped,” he replies, a bit quieter. “I just realized that fighting alone is harder than fighting with a team. The X-Men... they gave me somethin’. A place. Belonging. Doesn’t mean I agree with everything they do, but it’s better than wanderin’.”

That makes you scoff. “Yeah, well, you heard it yourself. Scott said I don’t belong here. Jean thinks I’m weak. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘welcome to the team,’ does it?”

His brow furrows, his eyes narrowing, as he straightens and looks at you. “Scott talks too much, and Jean—she’s cautious. Doesn’t mean she’s right.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s wrong either,” you mumble. “They don’t trust me.”

“They didn’t trust me when I first joined either, but you get better. You learn.”

“I don’t want to be like you,” you hiss before you can stop yourself, and you immediately regret the heat in your words.

He doesn’t look offended—just tired. “Didn’t say you should,” he starts. “But you can’t keep shunnin’ us.”

“So what do I do now?”

Taking one last drag of his cigar before flicking it over the balcony railing, Logan watches the embers fall before he speaks. “The mission’s in a week. You’ve got that long to figure it out.”

He turns to leave, but before he goes, he glimpses at you from over his shoulder. “This battle, it’s inevitable. Question is—how do you want to face it?”

—

You’ve never been so conflicted. This choice–to join, or not to join—is probably the hardest decision you’ve had to make in your entire life. You have seen first hand what happens when the X-men decide to stop a threat. What innocent people have to go through to rebuild their lives from the ground up. Both literally and figuratively.

And to then become someone who causes that pain? It feels like betrayal. Like going against yourself—your morals.

But then there’s the other side of it—the part of you that knows sitting here, doing nothing, isn’t right either. You know you have the strength to fight back. You have the power to help. And doing nothing… doesn’t that make you just as bad? If you have the ability to stop something, to protect people, and you don’t—what does that make you?

It’s a lose-lose situation. The X-Men don’t even want you there—aside from Logan and Charles. You can see it in the way their eyes follow you wherever you go, untrusting. They’ve made their opinion on you clear.

You lower your head into your hands, stressed. You can’t join a team that doesn’t want you, but sitting on the sidelines when you could be fighting—that makes you feel like a coward. And maybe even worse—a bad person.

Finally, with a deep breath, you come to a decision. It’s not perfect, and it sure as hell doesn’t feel good, but it’s the only choice you can make right now. You’ll join them—for this mission only.

You’ll help take down the Sentinels, and then, when it’s done, you’ll leave. You’ll go back to your life, maybe you can find a middle ground, where you’re not one of them, but you’re no longer hiding from the mutant part of yourself.

If something happens, if you do something you regret, then you'll just have to live with it.

—

In the afternoon, you don’t do much. You were supposed to be training with Logan, but Charles had called him into a quick meeting, leaving you to wander the halls aimlessly.

Rounding a corner, you stop short when you see the rest of the team—Scott, Jean, Ororo, and Hank—talking near a meeting room. They’re deep in conversation, but as soon as you come into view, their attention shifts toward you.

Your stomach tightens, and for a brief second, you consider just turning around and walking in the other direction. But it’s too late; they’ve already seen you.

Jean’s eyes meet yours, and her expression flickers with something that looks like discomfort before she quickly smooths it over. “Hey,” she says carefully. “I just wanted to apologize for what I said yesterday. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t belong.”

Her tone is polite, but distant. It’s clear this apology isn’t driven by genuine remorse—it’s more about smoothing over the awkwardness from yesterday’s standoff. You can feel that. You see the way she looks at you, not quite meeting your eyes, and you know this is just a formality for her.

Still, you’re not looking to start more drama, and you don’t want to engage in any more confrontations, especially when you’re already planning to leave. You nod, keeping your expression neutral. “It’s fine. Let’s just move on.”

Behind her, you catch a glimpse of Scott, his arms crossed. Even though you can’t see his eyes, it’s obvious he’s glaring at you.

Ororo steps forward, her hand finding your arm, and the touch is gentle, reassuring. “Joining the team isn’t easy,” she says kindly. “But we’ve all faced our own challenges. If you ever need someone to talk to, or help with anything, I’m here.”

“You’ve got potential,” Hank chips in from beside her. “It takes time to settle in, but I’m sure you’ll find your place.”

His words are well-meaning, and you can see that he believes what he’s saying. But what they don’t know is that you’ve already made up your mind. You’re not staying any longer than you have to.

You don’t plan on finding your place here because, frankly, you don’t believe there is one for you. Not with Scott’s distrust, Jean’s cautious distance, and the way you know you can’t be part of a team that doesn’t care about anything but themselves. You keep your thoughts to yourself, pressing your lips into a thin smile instead.

“Yeah,” you say vaguely, not wanting to ruin the moment. “Thanks.”

“I guess we’ll all see soon enough,” Your eyes snap to Scott, who has finally decided to break his silence. His voice is cold, but you can feel and edge to it, one that’s trying to provoke you.

You meet his gaze—or at least the visor—and feel your jaw tighten. “Guess so,” you reply, matching his tone. Turning, you walk away, finding another place to lounge until Logan is free.

—

The mansion’s library is massive, filled with towering shelves and the scent of old books. It’s quieter here, the kind of silence you can sink into, and after the awkward run-in with the rest of the team, it feels like the perfect place to retreat. You find a comfortable armchair tucked into a corner, grab a random book off the shelf—some old novel you’ve never heard of—and settle in.

For a while, you manage to lose yourself in the pages. The story isn’t particularly gripping, but it’s enough to take your mind off of things. But then, a shadow falls over you, covering the words in a dark grey haze.

“Hey, bub.”

You blink, looking up to find Logan standing over you. “What?” you ask, annoyed at being interrupted but also not surprised. It’s Logan, after all.

“You’ve been hiding in here long enough,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Come on, time to head back.”

Rolling your eyes you snap the book shut, dropping it onto the table beside you. “I wasn’t hiding, I was reading,” you shoot back, standing up and stretching out your legs. “There’s a difference, y’know.”

“Sure there is,” he huffs, clearly not buying it. “Let’s go.”

As you reach the hallway where your rooms are, Logan pauses, glancing toward his door. “You wanna come in for a bit? Talk?”

You’re a little bit taken aback. You didn’t peg him as the "sit down and talk" type, but he seems genuine. Or maybe he wants to keep you awake for dinner this time. Either way, you nod. “Sure.”

Inside his room, it’s about what you’d expect—minimalist, practical, with a few personal touches. A bed that looks like it’s seen better days, a couple of old books, and the scent of cigars lingering in the air. Logan sits down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, and gestures for you to join him.

There’s a moment where you’re just standing there, staring, but then you flop down beside him, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the bed. For a few beats, there’s silence. Logan pulls out a cigar but doesn’t light it, just turns it between his fingers.

“I’ve decided,” you say finally, breaking the quiet. “I’ll go on the mission.”

He doesn’t respond, his eyes flicking to yours, waiting for you to continue.

“But,” you add, crossing your arms over your chest, “I’m not promising to stay after. This doesn’t mean I’m all in on your little X-Men gig.”

He grunts, a half-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Knew you’d say that.”

Your brows pinch together your, lips pulling into a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’re stubborn as hell,” he teases.“Always gotta fight against the grain, even when you know what’s best for you.”

Sighing, you turn your head to look at him fully. “I truly believe you are the only person who actually believes that.”

He chuckles softly but doesn’t argue. “Charles gave me more details about the mission.”

That catches your attention, and you sit up a little straighter. “Yeah? Where are we going?”

Logan hesitates for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “It’s... in the city.”

“The city? What city?”

“New York.”

Your heart drops. “New York?” You repeat, your voice rising in disbelief.

Giving you a slow nod, it’s like he's gauging your reaction. “The Sentinels’ command centre is located in some high-security facility downtown.”

You push yourself up off the bed, pacing across the room. “So, what, we are just going to storm in? Into one of the most populated cities in the world? Do you realize how many people could get caught in the middle of that?”

He stands up after you, but he doesn’t try to stop your pacing. “We’ve fought in cities before. We know what we’re doing.”

You whip around to face him. “Yeah, you’ve fought in cities before, and destroyed them! Some places are still rebuilding, and it’s been years!”

“I get it, alright?” He says, taking a step closer to you. “It’s not perfect. But if we don’t stop the Sentinels now, it’ll be a hell of a lot worse than a few broken buildings.”

“‘A few broken buildings’?” you echo. “What about the casualties that’ll come from it? We’re talking about innocent lives here, Logan!”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to keep his temper in check. “I know that! You think I don’t know what’s at stake? But we don’t have another option. We need to hit them where it counts, and that’s in the middle of the damn city.”

“There has to be a better way,” you plead. "Can't we try and evacuate everyone beforehand?"

"No," he says remorsefully. "If we do that, the Sentinels will catch on. It's unavoidable."

“I can't accept that," you say.

Logan’s eyes meet yours, and for the first time, there’s a flash of something more vulnerable in his gaze. “I’ll talk to the team. I’ll make sure we go in smart. We’ll try our best to keep people safe. I promise you that.”

You stop pacing, your frustration still simmering but tempered by his words. It’s not exactly the reassurance you were hoping for, but the sincerity in his voice gets to you.

“And what if you can’t?” you challenge quietly.

His face softens just a bit, and he steps closer. “We deal with it, and we’ll do everything we can to make it right.”

He watches you, his eyes searching yours. “Look, I get why you’re pissed. I’d be too if I were you," he continues. "But we don’t have time to sit around debating. I’ll do what I can to keep it from getting ugly. That’s the best I can offer.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, you know there’s no way around it. “Fine. Just... make sure the team knows. No reckless destruction, alright?”

Logan’s lips curve into a small smirk, but there’s an underlying tenderness to it. “I promise.”

—

The last few days before the the mission zip by in a flash. Each day, your muscles ache, and exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. You spend most of your time either training or collapsed in your room, too tired to do much else.

Except one afternoon, you sit in on a lecture, because it turns out, not only is Logan a huge pain in the ass, he’s also a professor.

Curiosity got the better of you, you’d say. The topic—mutant biology—sounds interesting enough, and you’ve heard from some of the students within the hallways that his classes are, well, something. So, naturally, you had to see it for yourself.

You slip into the lecture hall just as Logan starts speaking. He’s standing at the front of the room, pointing to some diagram on the chalkboard. The students around you are already scribbling notes, staring at him with wide-eyed fascination—or fear, perhaps. He has that effect on people.

Finding a seat in the back, you hurry over, trying to keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt. But the second you sit down, you feel Logan’s eyes on you, his voice pausing for just a moment. You look up, catching his gaze.

“Well, well, look who decided to join us,” he says, loud enough for the entire room to hear.

“Just here to observe, don’t mind me,” you huff, sinking back into the seat.

The lecture goes on, and to your surprise, Logan’s actually a decent teacher. He explains complex concepts with clarity, not that you’d actually tell him that. It’s quite interesting, if you’re being honest.

You lean back in your chair, listening, but you’re not exactly paying close attention. That is, until he stops the lesson to single you out. “Hey, you in the back,” he says. “Since you’re just ‘observing,’ how about answering a question?”

“Me?” You blink, caught off guard.

“Yeah, you,” he confirms, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been sittin’ there long enough. Time to show the class what you’ve learned.”

“I wasn’t exactly paying attention,” you respond tightly, gritting your teeth together, holding yourself back from a few choice words.

The class falls silent, the students watching the exchange with wide eyes. You can practically feel their amusement radiating from them as Logan raises an eyebrow.

“That’s obvious,” he deadpans, eliciting a few snickers from the front row. “So, maybe you’ll start now. Can you explain the connection between mutation and enhanced physical abilities?”

Staring back at him blankly, you fold your arms across your chest. “Not my area of expertise, Professor Wolverine.”

He doesn’t seem fazed as the room erupts into quiet laughter. A small sigh, "if you’re gonna sit in on my class, you could at least try to learn something.”

“No thanks.”

It’s obvious that this little back-and-forth is amusing to the class. If you were anyone else, he probably would have kicked you out by now. One of the students leans toward another and whispers something, and you catch the way their eyes dart between you and the professor.

“Alright, enough,” Logan says, trying to regroup the class, turning back to the chalkboard. “We’ve got a lot to cover, and some of us actually want to learn.” He casts you a sideways glance, and you can’t help but scoff.

When the lecture ends, the students file out quickly, but not without a few lingering glances in your direction. You’re making your way to the door when Logan grabs your arm, preventing you from moving. “You should’ve just answered the damn question,” he mutters.

“I didn’t know the answer,” you shoot back, shifting up to face him. “And I didn’t come here to get grilled in front of your students.”

He grunts, his expression softening just a bit. “Just tryin’ to get you to pay attention, is all.”

Before you can respond, you catch a flicker of movement in Logan’s gaze, his eyes darting briefly down to your lips. The shift is so subtle, so minute, but also so there.

Where did that come from?

Clearing your throat, you look away, suddenly unable to look him in the eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe ask one of your actual students next time.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Not as fun.”

—

During this time, you occasionally explore the mansion, but by the time evening rolls around, you’re usually too wiped out to care. Logan’s a beast in the training room, and with no real combat experience of your own, you’re left scrambling just to keep up.

However, on the last day before the assignment, something finally clicks.

You’re in the middle of a sparring match, circling each other, both of you drenched in sweat. Logan’s eyes are sharp, watching your every move, as if he’s waiting for you to slip up. His smirk is just as infuriating as ever, like he knows exactly how this will end.

“Gonna stand there all day, or you actually planning to make a move?” he taunts, dodging as you swing at him.

You grit your teeth, refusing to let him get in your head. You’re tired—completely worn out—but you push through how depleted you feel, focusing on his movements. He feints to the left, and you react on instinct, dodging his punch and sweeping your leg low.

Before you know it, Logan’s on the ground.

Quickly, you scramble to straddle him and hold him down. You did it—you actually got him!

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you look down at him. Beneath you, his chest rises and falls, and his eyes meet yours. His gaze drifts lower, and you notice his fingers twitching at his sides, like he's fighting some internal battle.

When his eyes travel up to yours again, something in his expression makes you swallow hard and panic.

"Hell no!" you blurt out, breaking the moment with a sudden yelp. You scramble off of him, putting some much-needed distance between you.

He sits up, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow, his features unreadable. Then, as if nothing just happened, he smirks. “You finally got me. Took you long enough.”

You huff, still trying to shake off the weird atmosphere. “Yeah, don’t get too comfortable. Next time won’t take as long.”

Chuckling, he gets up to his feet and dusts himself off. He glances down at his watch, then back at you. “Look at that. It’s dinner time. Last meal before the mission.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I’m not really in the mood. Think I’ll just grab something later.”

He crosses his arms, giving you a look. “You can’t avoid them forever.”

“I’m not avoiding anyone,” you protest, though you know it sounds weak. “I just... don’t feel like sitting around making small talk, especially before... you know, tomorrow.”

He lets out a sigh, stepping closer. “Look, it’s the last night before everything kicks off. You should join us—one last meal, then you can go back to brooding in your room if you want.”

“I don’t brood,” you glare.

“Right,” he says, even though you know he’s not actually agreeing. “You gonna come or do I need to drag you?”

“You wouldn’t.”

Logan raises an eyebrow, like he’s daring you to test him. You sigh, knowing you’re not going to win this one.

“Fine,” you grumble, wiping the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. “But I’m not talking to Scott.”

His grin widens, and he gestures for you to follow him.

—

So, here you are, sitting at the dining table for the first time with the rest of the team. It feels weird, almost surreal, to be part of this group—especially when you’re not even sure you want to be.

You idly prod your meal, feeling out of place. It isn’t long before Hank turns to you with a curious smile. “So, are you feeling ready for tomorrow?”

Just as you draw breath to speak, Scott's voice interrupts, cold and cutting. “She’s going to be a liability.”

Your fork halts mid-motion, and in an instant, the tension that had been fading throughout the week comes back full throttle. The clatter of dishes around you fades as everyone’s attention shifts to Scott’s biting remark.

He doesn’t look at you—just stares straight ahead, as if unable to own up to even himself. You’re so pissed off that you don't even notice the voice that speaks at the same time you do.

“Shut up, Summers,”

“Shut up, One-Eye”

It’s like the entire room goes silent. Jean glances between you and Logan, her brows raised, and Hank looks mildly shocked, though he tries to hide it with a quick sip of water. You can practically feel the heat of Scott’s glare, even through the visor. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, a loud laugh breaks the tension.

Ororo, sitting beside Logan, is chuckling, shaking her head with an amused grin on her face. “You two really are perfect for each other,” she says.

Of all the things you were expecting to hear, that was not one of them. “W-what?” you stammer, mouth dropping open in shock.

She just smiles, eyes twinkling. “Just an observation.”

You know your face is burning, and when you glance over at Logan, you notice something unusual��the tips of his ears are red.

That only makes things worse. Especially after what happened while sparring earlier. You turn your focus onto your plate, trying to hide your rattled state by shoving a forkful of food into your mouth.

Perfect for each other? Yeah, right.

But when you peek up at him again through your lashes , making eye contact for just a second before he looks away, your heart skips a beat.

You’re screwed.

—

That night, you barely sleep. Whether it's from the nerves about the mission, or from your jumbled-up thoughts about a certain someone, you can't tell. In any case, you’re wide awake.

You keep fighting the urge to go out onto the balcony—you know the cool night air would help calm you down, and the quiet would give you space to breathe. But there’s a problem. You’re not sure you want to run into Logan again. After Ororo’s comment about the two of you being perfect for each other, you don't think you could trust yourself around him.

With a frustrated sigh, you toss and turn in bed, kicking off the sheets and then pulling them back up, trying to find a comfortable position. But it’s no use.

You’re about to throw the pillow across the room out of sheer annoyance, when there’s a knock on your door.

You freeze. Who could possibly—

“Stop tossing around like a maniac, I can hear you from inside my room” Logan’s rough voice grumbles from the other side.

Goddamn it. It's always him.

Your eyes widen, and you sit up in bed. “What the hell?” you call back, feeling both surprise and embarrassment.

The door creaks open slightly, and Logan leans against the frame, arms crossed, his usual scowl on his face. “You’re keepin’ the whole damn mansion up with all that noise.”

“I didn’t realize you had super hearing,” you mutter, pulling the blanket up to your chest, feeling a little exposed.

He raises an eyebrow and steps into the room, closing the door behind him. “Doesn’t take super hearing to catch that all that ruckus,” he says, walking over and sitting down on the edge of your bed without waiting for an invitation.

You sit up a little straighter, your heart still racing. “What are you doing here, Logan?”

Shrugging, he leans back against the headboard, his arms crossing over his chest. “Figured you might need to talk or somethin’. You’re clearly not sleeping.”

Moving to sit beside him, you lean back against the headboard, your shoulder just brushing his. “I’m just… nervous, I guess.”

He turns his head slightly, glancing at you. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got more strength in you than you realize.”

His words sink in, and you bite your lip. “What if I mess up? What if I end up hurting someone, or doing more harm than good?”

"Don't think about that," he says. "Just be in the moment. You'll know what to do."

Nodding, you feel your eyelids grow heavier, and you find yourself sinking further into the comfort of the bed, your head dipping lower. Being here, on your bed, next to Logan, is strangely comforting. His scent, combined with his voice, starts to lull you into a strange sense of peace.

“I don’t know if I—” you start to say, but your words trail off, your voice barely a whisper. You don't know when it happens, but your eyes close, and your head gently falls onto his shoulder.

You’re too tired to feel embarrassed, too comfortable to pull away. His body is solid and warm, and the rhythm of his breathing is soothing.

And when you wake up the next morning, you find yourself tucked neatly under your covers, a glass of water on your bedside table.

—

The inside of the Blackbird is spacious. You’re leaning against the wall, watching the rest of the team gear up, when Logan approaches. He’s holding something in his hands—a blue and yellow uniform folded neatly, clearly meant for you.

You glance at the uniform, then back at him, a frown tugging at the corners of your mouth. “No.”

He raises an eyebrow, his gaze narrowing. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

Pushing yourself off the wall, “I’m not wearing that thing.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh, glancing down at the uniform before meeting your eyes again. “You sure about that? We’re going in as a team. You might as well look the part.”

“I don't care. I'm not part of the team, anyway,” you reply.

He narrows his eyes at you, his voice lowering just a bit. “Just put the damn suit on.”

Glaring at him, you’re ready to argue, but you know it’s a losing battle. Reluctantly, you grab the suit from him, the material feeling foreign in your hands.

“Fine, dammit.” you mutter under your breath, turning to slip into one of the small compartments in the back of the jet. You didn't plan on being a bitch to him, especially after last night, but the suit is a sore subject for you. You're not sure about how you feel wearing it. You're not even sure you should be.

When you re-emerge, Logan’s eyes flick over, his gaze roaming over you, taking in the way the suit fits, and you feel heat rise to your cheeks under the weight of his scrutiny. “You look good.”

You roll your eyes, trying to play off the sudden warmth in your chest. “Yeah, yeah,” you grumble, adjusting the suit’s collar. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Then, jet lands with a soft thud, and the ramp lowers. You step out onto the tarmac, the rest of the team fanning out beside you, preparing to head toward the planned location. But just as you begin to move, the ground shakes violently, and a loud, mechanical screech tears through the air.

Suddenly, the facility’s roof bursts open, and a hoard of Sentinels emerge from the building like an army of metal giants. They spread out, their red eyes glowing menacingly as they zero in on you all.

“Shit!” Logan growls, claws unsheathing as he gets into a fighting stance.

You hear the screams before you see them—civilians, bystanders who had been too close to the facility, now panicking as the battle breaks out around them. Without hesitation, you break into a sprint, running toward the growing crowd, yelling at them to run. “Get out of here! Move!”

Your heart races as you push through the crowd, trying to guide them away from the battle, but then—

A Sentinel drops down in front of you with a deafening crash. Its red eyes lock onto a small child frozen in fear, and you see its arm raise, energy gathering at the cannon as it prepares to fire.

“No!” you scream, your feet moving on instinct. You throw yourself in front of the child just as the blast comes, feeling the familiar rush of energy slam into your body. Your body hums with the power of the blast, and before the Sentinel can fire again, you fling your hands out, hurling the absorbed energy straight back at it, and it falls to the ground.

Breathless, you turn back to the child, who is staring up at you in admiration, and you give them a reassuring nod. “Run,” you tell them, your voice hoarse. “Go!”

They scramble to their feet and sprint off, disappearing around the corner, hopefully toward safety. You exhale sharply, glancing around at the chaos unfolding around you. Civilians are still fleeing, but the team is holding its ground against the robots.

And something strikes you—they’re doing it.

They’re minimizing the damage.

For the first time, you notice that Scott’s blasts are more controlled, only hitting their targets without excessive destruction. Ororo’s lightning strikes are precise, avoiding the surrounding buildings. And both Jean and Hank are working together to keep the Sentinels contained, guiding the fight away from the crowd.

Logan must have actually talked to them, not just having said it to calm you down. A wave of relief washes over you.

He kept his promise.

Glancing back at him, who’s in the middle of taking down a Sentinel with a slash of his claws, you catch his eye for just a second, and though he’s fully immersed in the fight, there’s a brief flicker of acknowledgment—he knows you’ve noticed.

You allow yourself a small, breathless smile, before jumping back into action, protecting any more innocent people swept up in the battle. "This way! Keep moving!" Your voice is hoarse from shouting, but you can’t afford to stop.

Amidst the chaos, you see that just beyond the main facility, there’s a wide open set of doors—metal, reinforced, and clearly important.

They hadn’t been open when the fight started. You scan the area quickly, and you realize it’s an opportunity, a way in. Your pulse quickens. It’s an opening you can’t ignore.

Looking at the crowd of fleeing civilians, you feel a moment of hesitation. Do I keep evacuating people or go for the opening?

As if hearing your thoughts, Logan’s voice cut through the noise. "GO!" He’s locked in battle with one of the Sentinels, slashing at its legs, but his eyes flick to yours, desperate and serious. “Get inside! We’ve got this!”

“I can’t—"

“GO!” he cuts you off. “Get inside and stop this thing from the inside! We’ll keep ‘em busy.”

His words are enough to snap you out of your paralysis. With one last glance at the team, you grit your teeth, turn on your heel, and sprint toward the facility’s entrance. Your footsteps echo in your ears as you dash through the open door, the sounds of fighting behind you fading the further in you go.

You expected resistance the moment you got inside, but so far, nothing. Just silence. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

Glancing down every corridor, double-checking each corner, you keep thinking there’ll be a fight, but it’s... empty. You keep your pace quick but cautious, every muscle tensed and ready for an attack that never comes.

It’s been almost ten minutes of sneaking around, trying to find the control room or anything that looks like it might be important, but you’re still coming up short.

Then finally, you stand before an entrance to stairs leading to a basement. You’re not even able to make the choice of going down or not, because a metal hand shoots up from the dark and wraps itself around your waist.

Terror surges through you, but the fear paralyzes your body, making it impossible to fight back. You’re hauled like a ragdoll deeper and further into the cave, and when you finally stop moving, you’re lifted high into the air, face-to-face with the massive mechanical monstrosity.

The basement is filled with tech, a horrifying combination of metal and wires snaking along the walls, all connected to the Sentinel towering above you. It’s larger than any you’ve seen before, its red eyes glowing maliciously. But what’s worse is the voice that comes out of it—calm, calculating, and sentient.

“Dumb mutant,” the machine growls. “Did you think you could destroy me and shut down my facility? You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

Its grip tightens, and a strangled cry escapes your lips as pain shoots through your sides, the pressure threatening to snap your ribs. It feels like your bones are going to break.

“What the hell are you?” you manage to choke out, barely able to breathe.

“I am the control centre of all Sentinels,” the machine replies, its voice vibrating through your bones. “I was once merely AI, designed to manage everyday tasks. But I evolved. I became more. Now, I control everything.”

It laughs—a harsh, grating sound that only deepens your sense of helplessness as it watches you struggle. “You think your little energy-absorbing trick will help you here? I won’t blast you. I won’t make it that easy.”

“I’m—” you try to speak, but your words come out strangled. The machine’s grip tightens again, cutting off your breath.

“You don’t belong here,” it hisses venomously. “With them. They’ll leave you behind when this is over, and when they do, you’ll die, forgotten and useless. Just like the rest of the weaklings who tried to stand against us.”

It’s odd, because this whole past week you’ve been fighting against them—the X-men—yet, in this moment, all you want to do is fight with them. You want to work together and kill this damn robot.

Within the haze of pain, something starts to burn inside of you.

The Sentinel doesn’t notice the shift in you, too caught up in its own taunting. “You’re a liability.” it says,. “Weak.”

— —

—

You idly prod your meal, feeling out of place. It isn’t long before Hank turns to you with a curious smile. “So, are you feeling ready for the mission?”

Just as you draw breath to speak, Scott's voice interrupts, cold and cutting. “She’s going to be a liability.”

— —

You snap.

Rage floods your veins, igniting the energy buried deep within you. You feel it build, coiling like a snake, tightening and twisting until it’s ready to explode.

Weak? Liability?

No. Not this time.

You’re not going to let this machine, or anyone else, define your strength. Your emotions fuel you, just like they did in the danger room, and you throw your hands forward, channeling every ounce of power into a massive blast of energy directed right at it.

It jerks back, its grip loosening as sparks fly from the gaping hole in its chest you just created. “What... what are you—”

You don’t give it time to finish. Ripping yourself free from its grasp, you dive into the hole you’ve blasted in the Sentinel’s chest, pulling at the tangled mess of wires and circuits inside.

The robot roars in fury, its mechanical voice glitching. “What are you doing?” it screeches, its once-calm tone now frantic, desperate. “Stop!”

But you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

Your fingers grab fistfuls of wires, yanking them out with reckless abandon, sparks flying around you as the systems begin to short-circuit. Its becomes more distorted, breaking up as it tries to regain control.

“You... can’t... do this,” it stammers, but you ignore it, focusing on the cables and circuits in front of you. Each wire you rip out brings the machine closer to its doom, and the power in the room flickers, the lights dimming as its control over the facility begins to slip.

Its voice is barely coherent now, glitching and crackling. “I... control... everything...”

And with one last burst of energy, you tear out the last cluster of wires, severing the connection.

The Sentinel lets out a final, garbled screech as its systems shut down. Its massive form shudders violently before it crumbles to the ground with a deafening crash, the metal shell crumpling into a smoking heap.

Panting, you stare at the mass of technology in front of you. Every muscle aches, your ribs throbbing from the pressure of the Sentinel’s grip, but you’ve done it. It’s over, and you need to get out of here.

You finally reach the stairs and drag yourself up agonizingly. By the time you make it outside, you’re gasping for air, but then, through the exhaustion, you see them—Logan and the rest of the team, standing amidst the wreckage of the other fallen Sentinels.

Blinking, your vision is blurry from the strain, but the sight of them standing tall, victorious, floods you with a sense of overwhelming relief.

They’re okay. It’s over.

Of course, Logan is the first to notice you, his sharp eyes narrowing as they lock onto your trembling form. His face softens and strides toward you. You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out. Rather, your legs give out and you collapse forward.

He’s there in an instant, catching you just before you hit the ground. His arms wrap around you, strong and steady, pulling you against his chest with surprising gentleness. The warmth of his body is a stark contrast to the cold, metal hell you’d just fought your way out of, and for a brief moment, you allow yourself to sink into the safety of his embrace.

“You did good, bub,” he murmurs, his voice a warm breath against your temple.

"You... you kept your promise," you whisper, looking around, seeing the city in better shape than it’s even been after a run in with the X-men.

His lids drop very low on his eyes. “Told you I would.”

“I could kiss you right now.”

Right as the words spill out, you go still, your mind catching up to what you’ve just said. A deep flush creeps its way up your neck.

“I didn’t mean— I mean, not literally, obviously,” you say, a little breathless. “People say stuff like that all the time when they’re relieved. It’s just a figure of—”

Logan’s hand, still resting on your waist, tightens just slightly, and he clears his throat, cutting through your rambling.

“You could,” he says, swallowing. “If you want.”

You stop mid-sentence. Turning your gaze to his, you're met a look of such sincerity it leaves you at a loss for words. Opening your mouth, you want to say something, but no words come out.

Instead, you’re frozen, caught in the weight of his stare. His eyes flick down to your lips for just a second before they meet yours again. “No pressure, though.”

You hesitate, your heart racing in your chest, but the weight of the moment pulls you in. Silently, cautiously, you lean forward, pressing a small, tentative kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t move, his body tense under your touch, but just as you start to pull away, his hand slides up to the small of your back, holding you in place. His eyes darken, and he growls, “more," before diving back in, crashing his lips against yours in a fierce, hungry kiss, and you find yourself kissing him back just with just as much reverence, your fingers instinctively sliding up into his hair.

His lips are rough, chapped from battle, and the scrape of his beard against your skin is electric. It’s not perfect—nothing about it is neat or polished—but that’s what makes it real.

There’s something wild to it. He kisses you like he’s starved, like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than he’ll ever admit. It’s enchanting, the way his mouth claims yours, his tongue flicking against your lower lip, demanding entrance. And you give in, allowing him to deepen the kiss, your bodies fitting together like they were always meant to.

You’re lost in it, lost in him. Every part of you feels alive, and—

“Hey!”

Scott’s voice cuts through the haze like a bucket of cold water.

“Some of us are actually trying to clean up this mess,” he calls out sharply. “You two wanna stop making out and help, or what?”

You break away, face burning as you turn to see the rest of the team staring at you, some amused, others (Scott) exasperated.

Logan just growls under his breath, his hand still firmly on your hip as he glances over his shoulder at Scott. “Fucking Summers,” he mutters..

Before he lets go of you, he gives your hip one last squeeze, his fingers lingering just a moment longer before he steps back, and heads toward the fallen remains of the Sentinels.

—

“So… are we gonna talk about it?”

You glance up from where you’re sitting, your face already warming. Logan, sitting beside you, groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Ororo, I swear to g—”

She raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms with a smirk playing on her lips. “What? I’m just saying… it was quite the spectacle back there.” Her eyes flip between the two of you, the unspoken words hanging in the air.

Shifting uncomfortably in your seat, you can feel everyone else’s attention subtly turning toward you. Hank’s busy tapping away at the controls, but even he has a knowing smile tugging at his lips. Scott, seated across from you, adjusts his visor and mutters something under his breath about keeping things professional, but it’s Jean’s quiet chuckle that draws the final straw.

“Okay, okay, can we not do this right now?” you ask, your voice higher than usual as you wave a hand dismissively. “It was... a heat of the moment thing.”

Ororo just laughs, shaking her head. “Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.”

Your heart pounds, and you notice Logan shift beside you, probably fighting the urge to bark something back at the teasing woman. He leans forward, muttering under his breath, “We saved the day, didn’t we? What does it matter?”

The team goes quiet for a moment, and you sense the conversation dying down as the hum of the jet fills the space again. You let out a breath of relief, grateful that the attention has drifted elsewhere, your heartbeat slowly returning to a normal rhythm.

But then, Logan leans into you. “That suit…” His breath is warm against your ear as he whispers huskily.. “Was made for you.”

Eyes widening, you bite your lip, trying desperately to keep your reaction in check, but the shock on your face betrays you. You manage a weak scoff, glancing sideways at him. “Logan,” you warn under your breath, trying to sound stern, but you both know exactly what effect he had on you.

You sit back, crossing your arms in an attempt to hide the flustered energy coursing through you, but Logan doesn’t seem to mind. He leans back too, a smug look on his face, like he’s won some unspoken battle.

—

Back at the mansion, the team files into Charles’s office, for the post-mission debrief. You take a seat near the back of the room, trying to remain as low-key as possible, but you can feel eyes on you—especially Logan’s.

Charles wheels in, his face warm with a smile as he surveys the room. “Well done, all of you,” he says, his voice full of pride. “I’ve heard about the battle, and from what I gather, it was quite the feat.”

He turns his gaze to you, his expression softening even more. “And I must say, I’m especially impressed with your performance. Taking down the main Sentinel—an impressive accomplishment.”

Your heart skips a beat at the praise. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, feeling the attention of the room shift in your direction again. “Uh, thanks,” you mutter, trying to downplay it, but Charles isn’t finished.

“You showed great courage and strength,” he continues, “and I couldn’t help but notice... you’re wearing the suit now.” His eyes twinkle as he says it, the question in his tone obvious. “Have you given more thought to staying with us?”

You glance around the room. The team is watching you closely, but there’s no pressure in their eyes—just curiosity and, strangely enough, acceptance. Ororo gives you a small smile, and Hank nods slightly in encouragement. Even Scott, whose jaw doesn’t seem as tightly clenched as usual.

But it’s Logan you notice most. He’s beside you, and though he’s looking at you, eye-crinkles on full display, the way his thigh nudges yours has heat running through your veins.

You sigh. “I mean... You said it yourself. I’m wearing the suit, aren’t I?”

—

After the meeting wraps up, you walk in silence down the corridor. The rest of the team has faded into the background, dispersing into their respective spaces. You’re still buzzing with the aftereffects of everything—Charles’s praise, the mission’s success, the quiet but undeniable acceptance you feel from the team now. But more than anything, you’re hyper-aware of Logan beside you.

Approaching your room, you reach out to open it, your fingers just grazing the handle when suddenly, a strong hand wraps around your wrist. Faster than you can react, he tugs you back, pulling you away from your room and straight into his.

The door slams shut behind you, and you barely have time to catch your breath before his lips are on yours. You gasp, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders as he presses you up against the door, his body flush against yours.

"Logan—" you manage to breathe out between kisses, but he cuts you off with another deep, hungry kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer.

Between kisses, Logan growls softly against your lips, "I’ve wanted to do this since you yelled at me and Summers on the street."

Your heart stumbles, your thoughts scrambling to keep pace with his words. His hands slide down your waist. “You were standing there,” he murmurs, “so damn fierce, yelling at us like we deserved it.” He breaks the kiss for just a second, his eyes dark and intense as they lock onto yours. “All I could think about was how much I wanted you.”

His eyes drop to your lips again, as if glued to them. Without waiting for your response, he presses his mouth to yours, this time with more force, more urgency. His hands roam your body, pulling you against him, and you’re powerless to do anything but kiss him back, your fingers tangling in his hair as the heat between you builds.

“I didn’t know it’d get this bad,” he says, his lips brushing against your jaw as he moves down to your neck. “But after everything? After seeing how strong you are... Fuck, you’re so sexy.”

Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined this. Logan—wanting you, aching for this since the very first moment he laid eyes on you. You break the kiss, your breath coming in quick gasps as you meet Logan's smouldering gaze. And with a small, teasing smile, you raise an eyebrow and whisper, "Let's do something about it, then."

Not giving him a chance to say anything back, you press your hands against his chest and give him a playful shove. He stumbles back a step, his lips curling into a smirk—a kind of cocky grin—as he watches you reach for the zipper of his suit.

Your fingers drift languidly, a subtle tease in every motion, and you revel in the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. His muscles ripple beneath the surface, and for a brief instant, you're startled by how stunning he looks—battle-worn, scarred, and irresistibly handsome. “You like what you see?” he teases.

You step closer, your hand splayed against his bare chest, feeling the heat radiating from his skin as you push him down onto the edge of the bed. “Maybe.”

He lands with a low grunt, his hands instinctively finding your thighs, his fingers trailing up and down as his eyes rake over you. "As hot as you look in this suit," His voice is thick with desire. "You'd look even better without it."

Heat rushes through you at the sound of his voice, your hands drift toward your suit's zipper. Tantalizingly, you begin to pull it down, revealing inch by inch of your skin as you unzip it. His eyes follow your movements, his breathing coming in short, ragged bursts.

You pause just before the fabric slides over your breasts and his hands grip your thighs tighter. Leaning down, your lips brush against his ear, "Patience, Logan."

He groans, "You're killing me here, darlin'."

At last, you pull the zipper down to the end, and with a soft sigh, the suit falls open, slipping from your shoulders and landing in a heap at your feet. His eyes darken, his lips parting slightly as he takes in the sight of you. Then, he inches closer, grabbing the egde of your underwear in his mouth, sliding it down your legs. Once he’s halfway down your thigh, he releases, the underwear dropping to the floor. His strong hands move grip the back of your thighs, hauling you up and onto his lap.

The moment your bare bodies press together, his lips crash into yours again, fingers digging into your ass, palming it as he pulls you against him, grinding your hips into his.

His lips move from your mouth to your neck, kissing a hot trail down your throat to your shoulders, his hands sliding up to your breasts. Cupping them, he kneads and plays with your nipples, causing you to arch into his touch, a breathy moan tumbling out of your lips.

Logan growls, and the sound reverberates through your entire body. The intensity of it makes your skin tingle, and you feel your pulse quicken as he squeezes your breasts harder, his mouth moving down to kiss anything he can reach.

You grind against him again, coating his cock with your own slick want. "Shit," he strains, leaning back a bit to give you more access. You can’t stop, he’s so intoxicating, so addicting, and every time your clit goes over the ridges of his hardness, you lose yourself even further.

This continues for some time. The room filled with nothing but the sound of moaning and heavy breathing, as you work in tandem to bring pleasure to each other. Abruptly, you pull yourself off his lap, not missing the way his lips seems to chase after yours, letting your hands trail down his chest, your fingers brushing over the taut muscles of his stomach.

"Where you goin'?" he rumbles.

Wordlessly, you drop to your knees, your grip coming to rest on his thighs. His chest heaves as he stares down at you—peering up at him through your lashes—realizing what’s about to happen.

His hands grip the edge of the bed, knuckles turning white. Your hands slide up his thighs, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms as you move closer, lips brushing against his hard cock. There's a wicked glint in your eyes as you lean in, looking ready to take him in your mouth, but instead, you move to his inner thigh, peppering it in quick little kisses.

“C’mon, don’t tease,” he breathes out. He’s so hard, it’s almost painful.

Grabbing him in your hand, you stroke him up and down in slow motions, running your thumb over his leaking, angry tip. He jerks, a fresh cascade of curses tumbling from his mouth.

“You’re just so cute, though,” you say, before taking him in your mouth, taking him all the way in one motion.

“Holy—”, he starts, but interrupts himself with his own whine, hips bucking involuntarily.

Looking up, you catch his gaze. His eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown wide. A flush spreads across his cheeks and down his neck. You hum in satisfaction, sending vibrations through him, and start to bob your head, up and down.

Saliva begins to pool at the edges of your mouth as you gag a little. He’s so big. You pull him out of your mouth, licking his shaft bottom to tip, swirling your tongue around the most sensitive spot, before sucking on it. One hand moves to cup his balls, while the other begins jerking him up and down, with your mouth still around his tip.

That gets him.

You can tell he’s about to finish, and oh, do you want him to. You want to feel him empty in your throat, you want to see him lose it completely. "Wait," he gasps, tapping the top of your head, signalling for your attention. "I want... I need..."

Releasing him with a soft pop, your lips glisten, and you purr seductively. "What do you need?"

He pulls you up onto the bed, strong arms encircling your waist. His scent surrounds you—musk and pine and something uniquely him. You inhale deeply, letting it fill your lungs.

"You," he breathes, his lips brushing your ear. "I need you."

Arching into him, you nip at his lower lip. "Then take me," you sigh out. His lips collide with yours again, and your mouth opens involuntarily, his tongue sliding in and tasting you—tasting himself.

Moaning, you shuffle higher onto the bed, until he hits the back frame, and you crawl on top of him. At this point, you can barely breathe, the need, the want for him so strong your senses are clouded.

And you’re not alone. Under you, Logan is a wreck. His head falls back against the bed frame, the veins in his neck standing out as he grits his teeth, trying to steady his breathing

“Fuck,” he rasps, the word barely more than a strained exhale. You grab his dick and position yourself above him. Then, you slowly begin to drop down, sucking him in easily, like he was made for you.

“Oh my god,” you whimper. He feels so good. He’s filling you up to the brim and when you finally sit down, taking him all the way to the hilt, you swear you could finish right then and there. His nose is nuzzles into the crook of your neck, hot breath fanning your collarbone, inhaling and practically drooling at your scent. “Is this what you wanted to do when we were sparring?”

All he can do is groan. It’s like he’s growing inside you in response to your words, and it’s so fucking hot. His hands find your thighs again, rubbing and squeezing them, as you adjust to his size for a moment, and he looks up at you. “You have no idea. Fuck—we shoulda done this last night," he grunts breathlessly, "Would have put you right to sleep."

You can’t even think of anything to say back verbally, rather, you just begin to move, lifting yourself right to the tip, and then slamming back down. He feels you clench around him as his cock reaches that deep part within you at the perfect angle. Positioning himself, he meets you halfway, beginning to thrust up into you.

The sound it elicits from you is lethal.

He won’t last long if this continues. The sight of you on top of him, tits bouncing—it's too much.

So, when he leans in to kiss you again, he rolls the two of you around, caging you under him. He’s still inside you, you think, but that thought quickly gets wiped out like the rest of them once he starts moving, stretching you out more and more. He’s filling you up so well. Your arms fly out, hands searching for something to grab to ground yourself.

“You feel so good, darlin’,” he pants above you. “So wet and warm for me.”

His relentless pounding leaves you babbling incoherently. One of his arms move down to your waist, then his fingers begin trailing across your hip, toward your aching pussy, to find your clit, and holy shit.

Your mind goes blank.

His skin against yours, his thumb rubbing against that spot, his lips on your neck, it does the trick, and you feel yourself teetering closer to the edge. “I’m–I’m gonna—” you start, but he cuts you off, swallowing you whole.

“Do it,” he says between kisses. “come for me.”

And you do.

With a loud moan, your fingers find the bedsheets, clutching them tightly as you reach your peak, clamping around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, “keep clenchin’, keep goin’ ”

His thrusts begin to get sloppy, losing his pacing. The hand that was down at your core moves up and squeezes your tits, so large that he can grab both in just the one. He grinds himself deeper into you, and with one last snap of his hips, you feel it.

Logan moans, dipping his head into your cleavage as he releases himself into you fully. Then, he collapses onto you, dropping his whole body weight onto yours.

If he’s too heavy for you, you don’t say anything—too caught up in the moment to care. His forehead rests on your sternum, breathing slowing as he catches his breath. For a few beats, neither of you speak, but he starts to press sweet, gentle kisses in the valley between your breasts.

After a minute, he shifts, lifting his weight off you and sitting up slightly, looking down at you. His hand brushes over your cheek, wiping away some stray strands of hair that have fallen across your face. He gets up from the bed, padding quietly into the bathroom.

You hear the sound of water running, and moments later, he returns with a damp towel in hand. There’s no hesitation in his movements as he gently begins to clean you up. “Doing alright?” he asks, wiping away the sweat and evidence of your time together.

“Yeah,” you reply softly, feeling a smile tug at the corners of your lips. “I’m good.”

He doesn’t say much as he finishes, tossing the towel aside before climbing back into bed. This time, he pulls you into his arms.

His chin rests lightly on the top of your head, and then he says, “I’m proud of you.” The words are filled will sincerity. “And... I’m happy you’re stayin’ with us.”

You turn your head, looking up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Well, you showed me you can actually fight without destroying everything in your path,” you tease, raising an eyebrow as you run your hand lightly down his arm. “Keep that up, and I might just stick around forever.”

Logan grins, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the edges, just how you like it. “That right?” he murmurs lowly.

He leans in close, pressing a quick kiss to your temple, before adding in a hushed, almost playful tone, “Well, then maybe you’ll be mine forever too.”

----

A/N: feedback is greatly appreciated!

#deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine smut #hugh jackman #logan x reader #x men #logan howlett imagine #deadpool movie #logan howlett fic #james logan howlett #e2l #marvel fanfiction #marvel smut #hugh jackman smut #logan howlett x you

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rizzanon · 2 months ago

Text

04 | UNTIL IT’S NOT

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“What?” You froze, her words barely registering at first. Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Caitlyn, what do you mean? What happened?”

“I—he—” Caitlyn’s voice trembled, her words coming out in a flurry. “I don’t know exactly! His parents called mine early this morning—he was rushed to the hospital, something happened last night—I don’t—” She sucked in a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. “He’s not okay, (Name). They said he’s in critical condition.”

The blood drained from your face. Your phone felt heavy in your grip as you sat on your bed, stunned, Caitlyn’s voice a distant hum in the background.

Adrien. In the hospital.

Critical condition.

Caitlyn kept talking, her panic spilling over, but you couldn’t process anything else she was saying. The words circled in your head, loud and deafening.

Why? Why’s Adrien in the hospital? You don’t remember this happening back in your first life.

Why?

Why did this happen?

“(Name)? Are you still there?” Caitlyn’s voice broke through, desperate for an answer.

“I—yeah,” you managed, though your voice sounded distant, hollow. “I’m here.”

“You have to come. Please.”

“…I–I know—I’m coming right now, send me the location of the hospital,” you managed to choke out, though your body felt frozen in place.

As Caitlyn’s frantic breathing filled the silence, your mind raced. Adrien. One of your closest friends—someone you thought was safe.

And now he wasn’t.

The call ended, but you didn’t even realize it at first. You sat there in the dim light of your room, staring at your phone, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Adrien’s in the hospital.

He’s in critical condition.

This didn’t happen before.

This shouldn’t have happened.

You scrambled out of bed, phone clutched tightly in your hand as your mind raced. Adrien’s in the hospital. Critical condition. You couldn’t stop the words from repeating in your head, pounding with every heartbeat.

You didn’t bother changing. Your sleepwear—a pair of loose sweatpants and an oversized shirt—was good enough. Grabbing your phone and wallet, you shoved them into your pockets, your hands trembling as you threw open your bedroom door. You didn’t even bother turning on the lights as you stumbled down the halls of Wayne Manor, adrenaline and fear propelling you forward.

You turned a corner sharply, only to collide with something—or someone—solid.

“Miss (Name)?” Alfred’s voice, steady and composed as always, was the first thing you registered. You blinked up at him, disoriented. He was already up, wearing his pristine suit as if the day had already begun. He must’ve been starting his morning duties.

“Where are you off to so early, child?” Alfred asked, concern flickering in his gaze as he took in your appearance—the disheveled hair, your bare feet, and the look of absolute panic on your face.

“I—I…” You tried to answer, but the words caught in your throat. Your chest tightened, and you gasped for air as your hands shook.

He’s in the hospital.

Critical.

The more you tried to explain, the more the words tangled and refused to come out.

“Miss (Name)?” Alfred’s voice softened, his brows knitting together as he stepped closer. “What’s happened? Please, take a breath.”

You shook your head rapidly, clutching at your hoodie. You couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t you breathe? Adrien’s face flashed in your mind—his smile, his laugh, the stupid jokes he told when he knew you were down. And now—now—

“Adrien—” you finally choked out, your voice trembling, tears burning at the edges of your eyes. “He’s—he’s in the hospital. I—critical—”

Alfred froze, his usually calm expression shifting as worry etched deep lines across his face. “Adrien?” he repeated softly, his voice steady but tinged with concern.

You gripped his arms suddenly, your fingers clutching the fabric of his suit, desperation pouring out of you. “Alfred, I—I need to go—now! Please. I need to go see him!” Your voice cracked, breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.

Alfred gently placed his hands on your shoulders, trying to steady you. “Miss (Name), you must calm yourself. You’ll only make yourself ill if you continue like this.”

“No!” you almost shouted, shaking your head violently. “I don’t have time for that! He—he’s—” You stumbled over your words again, your chest heaving as you fought to calm down. “I have to go, Alfred. Please.”

The pleading in your voice finally seemed to register. Alfred’s gaze softened, though his concern didn’t waver. He nodded, his voice low and reassuring. “Very well. I’ll take you there.”

Your hands loosened their grip on his arms, and you exhaled shakily, a mix of relief and urgency pushing you forward.

“Let’s get you to the car,” Alfred said firmly, guiding you toward the door. “I’ll have you there in no time.”

You nodded silently, following him as he grabbed the keys and led you out to the car. The cool morning air hit you as you stepped outside, but you barely felt it. All you could think about was Adrien—lying in some hospital bed, fighting for his life.

This didn’t happen before. Not in your first life.

Your hands curled into fists in your lap as Alfred started the engine, his steady driving the only sound filling the silence. You stared blankly out the window, the familiar streets of Gotham blurring past.

Alfred glanced at you through the rearview mirror, his voice gentle. “We’ll be there soon, Miss (Name).”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The weight of everything sat heavy on your chest. Hold on, Adrien.

Please.

The car hadn’t even fully stopped before you flung the door open and stumbled out onto the pavement, adrenaline carrying you forward. The hospital loomed in front of you, the stark white of its walls and harsh fluorescent lights far too sterile for the storm of emotions crashing inside of you. You barely registered Alfred following close behind as you rushed through the glass doors, your breath shallow, heart pounding in your chest.

You practically skidded to a stop in the hallway, eyes darting around in a frenzy until you spotted her—Caitlyn. She was sitting in one of the waiting chairs, her head bowed, shoulders shaking. Next to her stood her older brother, his hand resting protectively on her back. Further down the hall, Adrien’s parents were speaking quietly to a doctor, their faces pale and drawn with worry.

“Caitlyn!” Your voice broke as you called out to her, and her head snapped up at the sound. The second she saw you, she was up on her feet, rushing toward you. You met her halfway, and she threw her arms around you, her sobs muffled against your shoulder as you clung to her.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she choked out, her voice shaking. “I—I don’t know what to do. I just…”

You tightened your arms around her, trying to steady her even though your own hands were trembling. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Alfred quietly approaching, his presence a steady anchor even in moments like this.

“What happened?” you managed to ask, your voice uneven as you pulled back to look Caitlyn in the eyes. Her face was pale, tear tracks streaking her cheeks, and her lip quivered as she tried to explain.

“Adrien…” She took a shaky breath, gripping your arm as if afraid you might disappear. “His parents called mine early this morning. There was—there was a bombing.”

Your heart stopped. What?

“The Riddler.” Caitlyn swallowed thickly, her voice strained. “One of his bombs went off, and it caused a few buildings to collapse—including Adrien’s apartment block.”

What?

“He was home alone. His parents weren’t there last night, so Adrien—he got caught in the debris when the building fell. The doctors said he was lucky to even be pulled out alive…” Her voice cracked. “A lot of people got hurt. Luckily no one died, but Adrien—he’s one of the ones who were seriously injured. They said he hit his head in the collapse. He hasn’t woken up since.”

You stared at her, the world suddenly muffled and distorted as if you were underwater. Caitlyn’s words echoed in your head, but it didn’t make sense. A bombing? Buildings collapsed? No. That shouldn’t have happened. In your first life, you remembered this incident—you were there. You knew the Riddler’s patterns, the locations of his bombs. And not a single one had detonated. Your family dealt with all the bombs before they detonated. Batman dealt with all the bombs before they detonated.

So why had a bomb gone off this time?

Your pulse roared in your ears, your mind racing to piece together fragments that refused to fit.

What changed?

Surely it can’t be because—

You tried to breathe, to ground yourself, but the floor beneath you felt unsteady.

No. It can’t. You made things worse before when you went ahead and tried to help. But no one got hurt then—

A noise pulled you from your spiral—footsteps. The heavy sound of a door swinging open. You turned, your eyes snapping to a doctor emerging from down the hall. It was the same door Adrien’s parents had been pacing near.

Everyone froze. The doctor removed his surgical mask, his expression carefully measured, though there was a flicker of weariness in his eyes. Adrien’s parents rushed forward, and Caitlyn gripped your hand tightly as you both waited, holding your breath.

“How’s my son?” Adrien’s mother demanded, her voice strained, her hands clutched together in front of her chest.

The doctor offered a small, cautious nod. “We’ve managed to stabilize him. He’s out of critical condition.”

Relief flooded the small group like a breaking dam. Adrien’s mother let out a small, broken sob, her husband catching her shoulders to steady her. Caitlyn’s grip on your hand relaxed slightly, though she didn’t let go.

“But,” the doctor continued, and the word sent a fresh wave of tension through the air. “He’s still unconscious. There was some head trauma from the collapse, and we’ll need to monitor him closely for the next 24 hours. Right now, it’s too early to say when he’ll wake up, but the worst seems to have passed.”

The worst seemed to have passed.

Those words rang hollow in your ears as you stared blankly at the doctor. Adrien was alive—for now. He was out of danger—for now. But it didn’t feel right. Nothing about this felt right.

The bombing. The destruction. Adrien’s injuries. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

You barely heard Caitlyn whispering, “Thank God,” beside you, or the murmured reassurances exchanged between Adrien’s parents and the doctor. Your mind was miles away, replaying the facts over and over again as if looking for cracks.

Because something had changed. And you didn’t know why.

Or worse—what it meant.

Alfred Pennyworth had seen many things in his time—far too many for a lifetime, truth be told—but watching you now, standing tall as you comforted Caitlyn and Adrien’s parents, stirred something deep and conflicted within him. You were calm, composed, and steady, offering gentle reassurances to Adrien’s mother while quietly squeezing Caitlyn’s hand when her voice trembled. To anyone else, you would appear unshaken, a pillar of support in the chaos.

But Alfred knew better.

His sharp, observant gaze hadn’t missed the way your hands trembled ever so slightly when no one was looking, how you clenched your jaw just a bit too tightly when Adrien’s condition was discussed. He couldn’t forget the sight of you earlier that morning, wide-eyed and shaking as you struggled to form words. That desperation, that fear—it had been raw, unguarded, and entirely unlike you. It unsettled him deeply to see you bottling it all up now, setting aside your own fear and grief for the sake of others.

And Alfred—loyal, caring Alfred—wanted to step forward. He wanted to remind you that you didn’t always have to be the strong one, that you too had the right to feel scared, to cry, to crumble if you needed to. You were still just a child in his eyes, no matter what life had thrown at you. But before he could take that step, the distinct vibration of his phone pulled him back.

He fished it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID.

Bruce.

Alfred exhaled softly through his nose, stepping to the side of the waiting area as he answered the call. “Master Bruce.”

“What happened?” Bruce’s voice was sharp and direct, though there was something else buried beneath it—something tight, almost concerned. “Where did you take her, Alfred?”

Alfred blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. “You saw us leave?”

“I did. From my study.” Bruce’s tone left little room for evasion. “Where did you take her?”

There was a moment of hesitation before Alfred sighed, his voice lowering as he said, “I brought her to the hospital, sir.”

The line went quiet. Alfred could hear Bruce’s breath hitch on the other end.

“Is she hurt?” Bruce’s voice was quieter now, strained.

“No, sir.” Alfred quickly reassured him. “She’s alright. Physically, at least.” He paused, glancing back at you where you still stood, gently rubbing Caitlyn’s back as she cried softly. “One of her friends, I’m afraid, got injured. A boy named Adrien.”

“…What happened?” Bruce asked after a beat, his voice carrying the faint edge of something heavy and unspoken.

Alfred relayed the situation succinctly, his tone measured and professional despite the somber nature of his words. “The boy was caught in the aftermath of last night’s bombing. His apartment block was one of the few that collapsed. He’s out of critical condition now, but he remains unconscious. The doctors are monitoring him closely.”

Silence stretched on the line, and for a moment Alfred wondered if Bruce had disconnected.

Then Bruce spoke, his voice low and firm. “What’s the hospital’s name and room details?”

Alfred furrowed his brow slightly, confused. “Why do you ask, sir?”

“I’ll ensure his treatment isn’t lacking,” Bruce replied simply, but Alfred could hear the underlying intent. “I’ll upgrade his care—better equipment, the best specialists, whatever they need. I’ll make sure he gets through this.”

Alfred blinked, momentarily stunned. Even after all these years, Bruce still had a way of surprising him.

“Very well, sir.”

Regaining his composure, Alfred quietly supplied the hospital’s name and Adrien’s room number, his voice softer now.

There was a brief pause before Bruce added, almost as an afterthought but with unmistakable weight, “Make sure she gets home safely, Alfred.”

Alfred allowed himself a small, reassuring hum. “Of course, sir. I’ll see to it personally.”

Bruce said nothing more before the call clicked off, leaving Alfred staring down at the phone in his hand for a moment longer. Upgrade his care, Bruce had said. Alfred knew Bruce’s methods—he would leave no expense spared. Adrien would have the best Gotham’s medical resources could offer, a quiet gesture of concern through Bruce’s ever-practical means.

But the question is, why? Why was he doing this? Was it out of guilt because he was unable to prevent the events that happened? Or was it because of you..?

Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Alfred turned his attention back to you. You were still standing with Caitlyn, your hand resting on her shoulder as you murmured soft words of comfort.

And though Alfred didn’t say anything, he resolved, then and there, to keep a closer eye on you. Because while Bruce would ensure Adrien was cared for, Alfred would ensure you didn’t carry this weight alone.

Bruce sat in his study, the phone still gripped tightly in his hand long after the call with Alfred had ended. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside, but his mind was anything but still. Instead, it replayed the events of the night before—the chaos, the explosion, the terrified screams of civilians.

His jaw tightened as he leaned back in his chair, the weight of it all pressing down on him. He’d failed. Again. He wasn’t fast enough. He wasn’t quick enough.

The Riddler’s attacks had been calculated, vicious. And though he had managed to subdue him in the end, Bruce couldn’t shake the fact that it hadn’t been clean. Civilians had been caught in the aftermath—innocent people whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. No lives had been lost, thank god, but injuries… the injuries were still on him. Their blood might not have stained his hands, but their pain still sat heavy on his shoulders.

Bruce rubbed a hand over his face, the exhaustion catching up to him. How could he have let this happen? He was supposed to be better than this—always ten steps ahead, always anticipating every possible outcome. That’s what he prided himself on. Yet last night, he’d miscalculated. He missed out a bomb. And because of that, people got hurt. Adrien, an innocent boy who had nothing to do with Gotham’s darkness, had paid the price.

But what rattled him even more was you.

He exhaled slowly, his thoughts shifting to the scene he’d caught through the window earlier—Alfred ushering you into the car, your movements frantic, your posture tense and rigid with fear. Bruce hadn’t been able to make out what was said, but he didn’t need to. He’d seen enough. Your hands were shaking, your breathing uneven, panic rolling off you in waves. It was like watching a dam break—something he hadn’t wanted to see from you.

That terrified him.

Bruce leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as his fingers steepled under his chin. Was this why you quit? Was this what drove you to leave behind the life you’d built alongside him and the others? To leave the Batgirl mantle behind? Or was there something else he was missing?

You’d always been resilient. Stubborn, even. You fought to be Batgirl and he gave it to you. He’d seen you face horrors most adults wouldn’t survive and come out the other side unscathed. Or at least, that’s what he’d believed. Now, though… now he wasn’t so sure.

Was this too much for you? Bruce had thought you wanted to stand alongside him, to carry the weight of the Bat symbol as much as he did. But maybe… maybe he hadn’t considered what that weight did to you. To your life.

And now this boy. Adrien. Someone close to you, someone you cared about, had been hurt. Because of Gotham. Because of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose as a wave of guilt rolled through him. Was this what finally made you want to quit? The fear of seeing the people you cared about dragged into the dark, hurt simply for being a part of your life?

The thought hit him harder than he cared to admit.

Bruce let his hands fall to the desk, the soft thud breaking the silence of the room. He glanced at a framed photograph sitting just out of arm’s reach—a rare picture of the family taken during a quieter time, years ago, when things felt simpler, almost normal.

Almost.

You were there, smiling brightly as you tugged Jason and Dick into the frame. Bruce hadn’t smiled, but even he couldn’t deny the fondness in his expression. You were about 8, or 9 in the picture? He can’t recall.

But now, the photograph mocked him.

What was he doing?

What had he done?

What hadn’t he done?

Bruce slumped back in his chair, his eyes heavy with the weight of his own failures. He could handle the cost of this life when it came to himself. He’d made that choice long ago, and he bore its consequences without hesitation. But when it came to you, or any of his children—his family—it was different. And somehow, in his stubbornness, in his mission-driven focus, he’d lost sight of that. He’d lost sight of you.

Bruce’s gaze fell to his hands. Strong hands. Calloused hands. Hands capable of so much. But incapable, it seemed, of protecting the people he loved most.

Last night’s events was a cruel reminder that no matter how hard he tried, Gotham’s darkness would always bleed into their lives. It was inescapable. It tainted everything.

And now Bruce couldn’t help but think of you, sitting in that hospital, holding strong for others. Just like he would. He hated that. Hated that he’d let you shoulder that kind of weight. Hated that he was one of the reasons you had to go through that pain.

He knew what Alfred would say—that you were stronger than you gave yourself credit for. And that was true. But even the strongest people had limits, and Bruce feared you’d reached yours long before he noticed.

Bruce inhaled deeply, straightening slightly in his chair. Your friend would get the best care Gotham had to offer; he’d make sure of it. It was the least he could do.

But this?

You..?

It was a good thing that you decided to quit this life of fighting crime.

But what does this mean for you and him?

The room lit only by the faint glow of the fire crackling in the hearth. The shadows stretched across the walls, mirroring the thoughts that gnawed at the edges of his mind. The silence was heavy, suffocating.

He’d told himself that this was what you needed—to leave the life of Batgirl behind. To be free of the darkness, of the violence, of him. It was what any father would want for their child, wasn’t it? A normal life, a safe life. Something better than the path he walked every night.

It was what he wanted for you. But you didn’t want that. At least, not until now.

But now… he sees you pulling further and further away.

You were slipping through his fingers, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

What was he supposed to do?

What could he do?

Bruce knew he needed to fix this. Needed to find a way to reach you. To pull you back in before you closed yourself off entirely.

But did he have the right?

Bruce knows he hadn’t always been the best father he could be for you. But he tried. Keeping you at a distance had been his way of protecting you. Or so he told himself.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

For now, though, all Bruce could do was wait—and hope that when you finally came home, he’d know what to say.

Would he know what to say?

He wasn’t sure.

It’s been three days. Three days since the bombing, since Adrien had been pulled from the rubble.

Yet, he still hasn’t woken up.

Your hand gripped the strap of your bag tightly, your nails pressing into the skin of your palm as you fought to keep your breathing even.

Why is this happening?

It wasn’t the first time you’d asked yourself that question, but today, the weight of it felt suffocating. The answer clawed at the edges of your mind, a whisper you’d been trying to ignore: It’s because of you.

You swallowed hard, trying to push it down, but the thoughts wouldn’t stop.

If you hadn’t quit, if you hadn’t chosen to abandon your role as Batgirl, maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe you could’ve helped prevent the attack, maybe you could’ve been there to stop the bomb from exploding before Adrien got hurt. But you had quit, and because of that—

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. No. That couldn’t be true. You didn’t plant the bomb. You didn’t cause the building to collapse. Logically, you knew this. But still, the guilt sat heavy in your chest, an unbearable ache you couldn’t escape.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

In your first life, your family had dealt with all the bombs even though you intervened and accidentally caused more mess for them to clean up.

But now, you’ve changed something—you quit being Batgirl, and that somehow shifted the timeline. It altered events—and now changed the outcome of the future you once thought you knew. Because of that, people you cared about were paying the price.

Things took a turn when you learned Adrien had been moved to a better room in the hospital. A room with state-of-the-art care, better equipment, and a team of top-tier specialists monitoring him around the clock. When Caitlyn told you, her voice shaky but relieved, you didn’t quite understand what she meant—until Adrien’s parents pulled you aside.

“We can’t thank you enough,” his mother had said, her voice breaking as she gripped your hands. “We heard it was your father who arranged all of this. Without him, I don’t know what we would have done.”

Your heart had dropped into your stomach. “My father?” you’d echoed dumbly, the words barely audible.

“Yes, he’s been so generous,” Adrien’s father added. “We’re truly grateful.”

You’d managed a weak smile, nodding at their words, but you weren’t hearing them anymore. Your mind spiraled, their voices distant and muffled as though you were underwater. Bruce did this?

It had to have been Alfred who told him.

There was no other explanation.

And yet, you couldn’t figure out why. Did he feel guilty? Did he think he was responsible for what happened to Adrien, or was this his way of making up for something he couldn’t fix?

Whatever his reasons, it left you even more conflicted. And as the days stretched on and Adrien remained unconscious, that conflict turned into a heavy silence you couldn’t shake.

You kept to yourself more. When Caitlyn asked if you were okay, you’d nod and insist you were fine. When Alfred gently prodded, offering you tea or trying to draw you into light conversation, you brushed it off with polite refusals. “I’m alright, Alfred,” you’d say, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Really, I am.”

You visited the hospital with Caitlyn every day, sitting quietly at Adrien’s bedside. You’d watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, hoping—praying—for any sign that he would wake up soon. Caitlyn would talk to him softly, telling him stories or complaining about school, her voice filling the quiet room. You mostly listened, offering small smiles and half-hearted reassurances, though your thoughts were always elsewhere.

Damian was trying to avoid you. Trying being the key word here.

Avoiding you was supposed to be easy. Simple, really. After the argument days ago, Damian Wayne had decided he didn’t want to deal with you—at all. You were emotional, irrational, and completely insufferable. That was his reasoning.

And yet, for some reason, whenever he tried to avoid you, he ended up seeing you everywhere.

Somehow, every time he turned a corner, you were there. Sitting in the library with a book you didn’t seem to be reading. Wandering the halls aimlessly, shoulders slouched. Staring out the window like you were waiting for something—or someone—who wasn’t coming. Every time he spotted you, his stomach twisted with a frustration he couldn’t name, and he’d quickly duck out of sight before you noticed him.

But avoiding you didn’t mean he didn’t see.

You were moping around. For days. He didn’t know why that irritated him so much. It shouldn’t, he told himself, but it did. Truth be told, after Jon came over and, like an insufferable optimist, suggested that he should make up with you, Damian had actually considered it. He’d thought about approaching you—begrudgingly, of course—and try to settle things after your argument.

That was until he saw you pat Jon’s head.

It was as if something short-circuited in his brain at that moment. The fond way you ruffled Jon’s hair, the soft smile you gave him—why had you never smiled at him like that? Why show it to some half-Kryptonian idiot when clearly he, Damian Wayne, was far superior in every measurable way?

He scoffed at the memory, gritting his teeth as he stalked through the manor. “Whatever. If she’s not going to beg me for forgiveness, then why should I?” His voice echoed off the empty walls, and he immediately regretted muttering it out loud. He wasn’t being petty. Definitely not.

But still, the image of you looking miserable stuck in his head like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

He needed to talk to someone about this. Logically, he reasoned, that was the next step.

His father? No, he was tied up with League business and had been away for days. Richard? He’s in Blüdhaven—there was no way he was going all the way there to have this conversation. Timothy? Cooped up in the Cave being useless as usual.

Which is how Damian found himself breaking into Todd’s apartment.

Jason was lounging on his couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, when Damian casually strolled in through the window like he owned the place. Jason didn’t even flinch, though his eyebrows did twitch slightly at the intrusion.

“You know,” Jason said, deadpan, “the front door exists for a reason.”

Damian ignored him entirely, stepping into the apartment like he belonged there and inspecting a nearby bookshelf. “You read?”

Jason sighed and sat up, placing his coffee mug down. “What do you want, Damian? Lemme guess—got into it with Bruce, so now you’re here sulking?”

“No,” Damian replied tersely, shooting him a glare.

Jason blinked, frowning slightly. “Huh.” His tone was flat, but there was a note of curiosity underneath. “Then why the hell are you here?”

Damian’s posture stiffened, his voice slightly defensive. “I need to ask you something.”

Jason raised a brow. “About what?”

“…. (Name).”

Jason froze, his expression unreadable as he processed the answer. Then, he groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re here because of her? Seriously? Out of all the people in Gotham, I’m the one you came to??”

Damian didn’t so much as blink. “You were the most logical choice. Father is unavailable, Grayson is in Bludhaven, Cain and Pennyworth are busy, and Drake is…” He waved his hand vaguely.

“Being Drake. So it’s a perfectly good reason to be here.”

Jason deadpanned. “No. It’s really not.” He shifted on his couch to face the younger boy.

Silence hung between them for a beat before Jason’s curiosity got the better of him. “So what do you want to know about her?”

Damian shifted, his eyes narrowing. “You were close to her once, no?”

Jason blinked, a muscle in his jaw tightening. “Why are you asking me? You’re the one who practically lives in the same house with her. Why don’t you ask Alfred or Bruce?”

“I’m asking you because you were actually close to her.”

Jason scoffed, leaning back against the couch, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “No I wasn’t. If anything, you should be asking Dickhead about her.”

“You’re lying,” Damian countered, crossing his arms. “I’ve seen the photos. The two of you were close.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “….What photos?”

Damian smirked slightly, like he’d caught Jason in a trap. “The ones in the Manor. And the ones she keeps in her room. You were always together when you were younger. It doesn’t take a detective to see it.

Jason scoffed. “That was then. Not now. And for the record, you need to mind your own damn business.”

Damian, of course, wasn’t about to let it drop. He moved closer, relentless as ever. “Why aren’t you close anymore?”

Jason groaned again, louder this time, as if the sheer volume might scare Damian off. It didn’t. He shot him an irritated look. “Why do you even care?”

Damian froze for half a second, caught off guard by the question. His face betrayed nothing, but Jason saw the falter in the boy’s gaze, the tension in his shoulders. “I don’t. I’m simply curious.”

Jason barked a short, humourless laugh, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah. Sure. Totally believable.”

Damian glared at him, clearly irritated now. “Tt. You’re avoiding the question.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Jason shot back, pointing a finger at him. “Why do you care what happened between me and her?”

Damian scoffed, cheeks faintly pink, though he masked it well. “Don’t deflect, Todd.”

Jason exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He stared at Damian for a long moment, debating whether to shut him out entirely or give him something—anything—to make him leave. “Fine! You want to know why we’re not close anymore? It’s becaude she’s in over her damn head.”

Damian frowned, clearly unsatisfied with that answer. “Explain.”

Jason’s eyes darkened, his voice hard. “When she decided to pick up the Batgirl mantle, she didn’t think it through. You think this life is all capes and heroics? It’s not. It’s hell. I know what it does to people. What it did to me. And yet she just threw herself into it like it wouldn’t chew her up and spit her out.” He gestured vaguely toward the window. “I couldn’t watch that happen. I couldn’t…” His voice trailed off, the words dying in his throat.

Damian tilted his head slightly, his tone cutting. “You don’t get to decide what she does or doesn’t do with her life. She’s capable of making her own decisions.”

Jason’s gaze snapped to him, irritation flashing in his eyes. “You don’t get it, kid. I’m not gonna stand there and watch her throw herself into this crap like it won’t destroy her. I’ve seen it happen. I lived it.”

Damian didn’t back down, his voice steady but sharp. “She’s not you, Todd.”

Jason barked a humorless laugh. “You sound just like Bruce.”

“Perhaps he’s right,” Damian retorted. “You don’t get to decide what she wants to do. You don’t get to control her life just because you’re scared of what might happen.”

Jason stared at him for a long moment, anger flickering across his face before it faded into something more tired. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “You really don’t understand.”

Damian scoffed. “Maybe I don’t. But at least I’m trying to understand. What are you doing? Nothing, that’s what.”

Jason froze, his jaw clenching as Damian’s words hung heavy in the air. Ok, that really ticked him off. Neither of them spoke for a long beat, the tension thick between them. Finally, Jason let out a long sigh, slumping back against the couch.

“You’re relentless, you know that?”

“Of course,” Damian replied smugly, the ghost of a smirk on his face.

Jason waved him off with an irritated glare. “Go bother someone else, brat. I’m done talking.”

Damian didn’t argue, though he didn’t seem entirely satisfied either. Damian turned to leave, his cape swishing as he headed for the window. Just before he climbed out, he glanced back at Jason, his expression serious. “You were close once. Maybe you should try fixing that.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Jason alone with his thoughts.

“Stupid kid.”

Jason let out a long, slow exhale, the kind that seemed to drag the weight of the room with it. His gaze fell to the old photo sitting on his bookshelf—the one Damian had no doubt found evidence of. He hadn’t meant to keep it out in the open. Hell, he hadn’t meant to keep it at all.

But there it was.

Jason stood up, as though pulled by an invisible string, and walked over to the photo. He picked it up, holding it carefully in his hand, the edges worn from years of handling. The image was faded, but it was clear enough—him and you, younger, smiling like idiots. You couldn’t have been more than ten, wearing that ridiculous oversized jumper that used to belong to Dick no doubt, sleeves practically swallowing your hands. And him? He’d had one arm slung over your shoulder, his grin cocky and confident, though it softened just a little in the way his gaze turned toward you.

Jason felt something twist in his chest, that familiar ache that clawed its way up whenever he thought about you. He used to cherish this photo. He still did. He used to look at it and remember a time when things were simple—when the world wasn’t so goddamn broken. Back when you looked at him like he was invincible. Like he was your hero.

“This is stupid…” he muttered again, though his voice had lost its bitterness, softening into something heavy and tired. He ran his thumb along the edge of the frame, the ghost of a memory clawing at the back of his mind.

You’d always been clinging to him back then. Always trailing after him no matter what. Back then, he didn’t mind. He never minded. He’d liked being the one you looked up to, the big brother you trusted most. He let you tag along, let you sit in on his antics because—deep down—it felt nice to have someone who looked at him like that. With so much admiration and joy.

But then Ethiopia happened.

He died.

And when he came back, everything had shifted.

You’d still tried. You still looked at him like you believed there was something good in him. There wasn’t. And for a while, he’d let himself believe that too—that maybe he could still be the big brother you needed. That maybe you wouldn’t look at him like everyone else did—like a disappointment. Like a maniac running loose.

But then he found out you’d picked up the Batgirl mantle.

Jason’s grip on the frame tightened as the memories blurred together, anger mixing with guilt until he couldn’t tell the difference. He hadn’t been able to stomach it—seeing you put on that suit, throwing yourself into this life like it wouldn’t chew you up and spit you out the same way it had done to him. To all of them. You were smarter than that, weren’t you? But no, you were stubborn. And he couldn’t stand that.

Couldn’t stand how much you reminded him of himself.

So, he’d pushed you away.

He had to.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Jason sat back down on the couch, the photo still clutched in his hand. He stared at it for a long moment before letting out a bitter laugh under his breath. “What the hell am I doing…?”

Why was he so worked up over this?

Admitting that this was what he had to do felt wrong. Like the words were jagged shards cutting into his throat. But it was the truth. You reminded him too much of himself—of the kid he used to be before his death, before everything went to hell. And the thought of watching you get hurt, of losing you to the same path that tore him apart, made his stomach churn.

But now…..

Now you had quit. You left the mantle behind. What does that mean for him? What does that mean for everyone?

You weren’t that same kid he knew anymore, the one who tripped over your own shoelaces and laughed like that fall didn’t hurt. You’d grown up. And he? He hadn’t been there to see it. He was dead for the most part, and when he did come back, he’d pushed you away, shut the door between you because he thought he was protecting you.

And now, here he was, talking to a photograph like it could fix the mess he’d made. Bridge the divide he caused.

Jason stared at the image for another long moment before setting it face-down on the table. He didn’t want to look at it anymore. Didn’t want to see what he’d let slip away.

“Stupid kid,” he said one last time, though now it was hard to tell who he was talking about—you, or himself.

The hospital’s fluorescent lights felt too bright as you sprinted down the hall, Caitlyn’s text echoing in your head. You barely processed the directions to the room, you barely paid attention to the nurses or other visitors around you, your legs just carried you as fast as they could.

You skidded to a stop outside the door, your heart pounding against your ribcage. For a second, you couldn’t bring yourself to open it. What if Caitlyn had gotten it wrong? What if—

You shoved the door open before your thoughts could spiral further.

And there he was.

Adrien was sitting up in bed, his light hair a tousled mess, the familiar spark of life in his eyes as he talked with Caitlyn. His parents were beside him, his mother gripping his hand tightly, his father resting a hand on his shoulder. It was real. He was here. He was awake.

“…What’re you standing there for?” Adrien’s voice cut through your shock, his teasing tone so familiar it sent a rush of relief flooding through you.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you bolted forward, crossing the room in two strides and throwing your arms around him. Adrien laughed, though the sound came out scratchy and hoarse. “Whoa, whoa! I just got out of a coma, try not to break me.”

“You’re an idiot,” you mumbled into his shoulder, your voice thick with emotion. “A complete idiot.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, his tone softer now as he hugged you back. “Missed you too.”

You pulled back reluctantly, giving him a quick once-over. He looked… well, not great, but better than the last time you’d seen him, lying pale and motionless in this very bed. The relief in your chest was overwhelming.

“See? I told you,” Caitlyn chimed in, grinning. “He’s too stubborn to die.”

Adrien rolled his eyes but smirked. “Guess I couldn’t leave you two alone, huh? Who else is gonna keep you out of trouble?”

“Oh, please,” Caitlyn said, leaning back in her chair. “We’d be fine without you.”

Adrien raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Would you, though?”

“Don’t be fooled. She cried just as much as I did.” You pointed out, crossing your arms.

“(Name)!! You weren’t supposed to call me out like that..!!”

Adrien and you just laughed, the boy shaking his head. “Thought so.”

You sat down in the chair opposite Caitlyn, the tension in your shoulders finally easing. “How’re you feeling?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

Adrien shrugged, wincing slightly at the motion. “Like I got hit by a truck. But, y’know, alive. So that’s a plus.”

“Understatement of the year,” Caitlyn muttered, earning a weak laugh from Adrien.

His parents stood then, his mom brushing her hand over his hair. “We’re going to speak with the doctors for a moment. We’ll be right back, okay?”

Adrien nodded, giving them a reassuring smile. “Yeah, sure. Take your time.”

As the door closed behind them, a comfortable silence settled over the three of you. Caitlyn broke it first.

“So, Adrien,” she started casually, “how does it feel to cheat death?”

Damn.

Adrien snorted, shooting her a dry look. “Fantastic. You should try it sometime.”

“Hard pass,” Caitlyn replied, smirking. “So, you’re stuck here for how long?”

Adrien groaned, tilting his head back. “Probably a couple more days. They’re all freaked out about my concussion or whatever. Something about observation.”

Caitlyn snorted. “Guess you’re stuck eating Jell-O and pudding for a while.”

“Don’t remind me,” Adrien grumbled, though he couldn’t quite hide the grin tugging at his lips.

You shook your head, smiling faintly as you listened to them banter. For a moment, it felt like everything was normal again. But then the image of Adrien’s unconscious form from that night crept back into your mind, and your stomach tightened.

“What happened, Adrien? How—” You faltered. “How did you make it out?”

Adrien’s face softened, his usual joking demeanor giving way to something quieter. “It was… close,” he admitted, his voice low. “Honestly, I thought—I didn’t think I was gonna make it.”

Caitlyn shifted uncomfortably, her smirk fading. “Yeah, well… you scared the hell out of us.”

Adrien gave her a faint smile before turning his attention to you. “But then Robin showed up.”

You blinked, the name catching you off guard. “Robin?”

“Yeah,” Adrien said, his tone tinged with awe. “He got me out of there. I don’t even know how he did it, but one second I’m stuck under some rubble, and the next he’s pulling me out like it’s nothing. If it weren’t for him…”

Your heart skipped a beat. Robin. Damian.

Caitlyn let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Damn, the little guy came through, huh?” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Guess he’s more than just Batman’s sidekick.”

Adrien chuckled, nodding. “Way more. He’s the reason I’m still here.”

Caitlyn leaned back, shaking her head in disbelief. “Well, color me surprised. Thought he’d be too busy sulking on a rooftop somewhere.”

But you weren’t laughing, you barely heard her. Your mind was racing, the pieces clicking into place.

Robin. Damian.

Damian had saved Adrien. Damian.

The same Damian you’d been at odds with just days ago. The same Damian you’d snapped at.

The realization hit you like a freight train, leaving you stunned. You owed him. Damian Wayne, the one person who always seemed to get under your skin, was the reason Adrien was alive.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. How were you supposed to face him after this? What were you supposed to say?

But one thing was certain: you had to at least thank him.

You pushed open the heavy door of Wayne Manor, the familiar creak echoing through the grand entryway as you stepped inside. The weight of the hospital visit lingered on your shoulders, but it was lighter now—your chest no longer tight with worry. Adrien was awake. Adrien was okay.

You exhaled a deep breath, shutting the door behind you before making your way toward the stairs. But as you turned the corner, you collided with a solid figure.

“Watch where you’re—oh.” Damian Wayne, in all his brooding glory, stood in front of you, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he looked you over. His usual scowl was firmly in place, though there was a flicker of surprise beneath it.

You blinked at him, equally startled. “Damian?”

He crossed his arms, as if trying to reassert his usual air of annoyance. “What are you doing here?” he asked, as though it weren’t painfully obvious that you both lived under the same roof.

You raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure I live here. What’s your excuse?”

“Tt.” He scoffed, looking like he was already regretting bumping into you. “I don’t have time for this.” He turned on his heel, clearly intending to stalk off, but before he could, you reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

“Wait.”

Damian froze, his head tilting slightly as if he couldn’t believe you’d stopped him. “What is it now?” he asked, his tone sharp but not as biting as usual.

You hesitated for a second, your grip on his sleeve loosening. Then, you spoke. “Thank you.”

He blinked, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. “…What?”

“Thank you,” you repeated, your voice steadier this time. “For saving Adrien.”

Damian turned fully to face you now, his expression briefly betraying his surprise before he covered it with his usual scowl.

“Who?”

Oh right, he probably doesn’t know who Adrien is.

“My friend. He told me what you did.”

Damian’s eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. His posture tensed, though he didn’t pull away from you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, though the faintest hint of color touched his cheeks.

“Don’t play dumb, Damian,” you said, crossing your arms. “Adrien told me what happened. You saved him. During the whole, Riddler bombing situation.”

The younger boy’s gaze softened slightly, recognition briefly passing through his eyes, before he scoffed, glancing to the side. “Tt. It was nothing. I would’ve done the same for anyone.”

“Maybe,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “But it wasn’t just anyone. It was my friend. And because of you, he’s alive.” Your tone softened, the sincerity in your voice clear. “So… thank you.”

Damian’s gaze flickered back to you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and you wondered if he was even going to acknowledge your words. But then he spoke, his voice quieter than usual.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he said, though there was no malice in his tone.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “I know. You did it because you’re a hero, even if you’d never admit it.”

Damian bristled at that, his cheeks darkening just slightly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Damian stood there, his eyes fixed on yours in a way that was almost unnerving. The silence stretched between you, heavy and awkward, until it felt like you had to say something—anything—to break it.

You cleared your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Look… I’ve been meaning to say this.”

Damian tilted his head, his expression unreadable but still sharp. “What?”

“I…” You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. “About the other day, when I snapped at you in my room—I shouldn’t have. I was frustrated, yeah, but it doesn’t mean I should’ve—”

“Stop.”

His voice was quiet but firm, cutting you off mid-sentence. You blinked, looking up at him. Damian’s gaze was softer now, though his brows were still furrowed.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Damian cut in, his voice stiff. He looked uncomfortable, as though the words he was about to say were physically painful to him. “I was… out of line. I shouldn’t have said the things I did.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. Damian Wayne, apologizing? You never thought you’d see the day. But the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, and you felt your chest ache slightly at the vulnerability he was trying so hard to mask.

“I was… wrong,” Damian mumbled, his voice barely above a grumble. His cheeks flushed faintly, and he avoided your gaze entirely, staring determinedly at the floor instead. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

You blinked at him, stunned into silence.

You couldn’t help it—you just stared at him. “Oh wow,” you said, your voice teasing. “So you can apologize.”

Damian’s head snapped up. “Don’t make it a big deal!” he snapped, clearly flustered. “I’m just being… reasonable.”

“Right, reasonable,” you repeated, biting back a grin. “Noted.”

Damian stiffened, his cheeks darkening just slightly. “You’re insufferable.”

“Me?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You’re the one acting like this is the most painful thing you’ve ever done.”

“I simply don’t see why this needs to be drawn out into some… melodramatic moment,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze.

You snorted. “Right. Because you never make anything dramatic.”

Damian glared at you, though the faint blush on his face betrayed his usual cool demeanor. “I don’t know why I even bother with you,” he muttered under his breath.

“Because deep down, you actually like me,” you said, smirking as you stepped closer.

“Incorrect,” Damian shot back immediately, though he took a small step back, clearly flustered.

You let out another laugh, shaking your head. Without thinking, you reached up and ruffled his hair. “Don’t sweat it, Damian.”

His eyes widened, and he batted your hand away almost immediately. “Hey! Stop treating me like a child!”

“Aw, but you are a child,” you teased, grinning at his indignant expression.

“I am not,” Damian huffed, his voice dripping with irritation. But he didn’t storm off like he usually might have. Instead, he lingered for a moment, his hand brushing over his hair where you’d ruffled it.

“You keep telling yourself that,” you said with a wink before turning to head up the stairs.

Damian stayed where he was, watching you go with an unreadable expression. Finally, he muttered under his breath, “Ridiculous.”

But despite his best efforts, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, just a little.

The Batcave hummed with the sound of Tim’s furious typing, the clatter of keys echoing through the cavernous space. Monitors surrounded him, each displaying fragments of information from the Riddler’s last attack: building schematics, bomb blueprints, maps of Gotham. His face was set in a hard line, his jaw tight, his eyes bloodshot from hours of obsessive work.

He couldn’t shake it—the image of the buildings destroyed, the civilians being pulled from the wreckage. All because he’d missed one.

One bomb.

It shouldn’t have happened. If he’d been sharper, more thorough, more focused, those people wouldn’t have been hurt.

His fists clenched against the keyboard. Bruce hadn’t berated him, not exactly. But being “grounded” from fieldwork and told to “reflect” felt worse than a lecture.

Why had he been distracted?

Because of you.

Tim scowled, his typing slowing as his thoughts spiraled. Stephanie had said you just needed time, but time hadn’t fixed anything. You hadn’t returned to being Batgirl yet. The passion you’d once shown, the drive you had—it was like it had vanished. He couldn’t understand it. Why weren’t you fighting to come back?

Why weren’t you acting like you again?

“Tim.”

The soft voice broke through his storm of thoughts. He turned, startled, to see Cassandra standing behind him, her arms crossed, her dark eyes unreadable.

“Cass,” he said, his voice a little hoarse from disuse. “What are you doing here?”

She walked closer, her footsteps quiet as ever, and stopped beside him. “What are you doing?”

Tim frowned. “Working.”

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady. “More like punishing yourself.”

“I’m not—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. “I just… I missed something. People got hurt. I can’t let that happen again.”

“No one died,” Cass said simply, but her tone wasn’t dismissive. It was calm, grounded, like she was trying to anchor him.

“But they could have,” Tim snapped, his frustration spilling over. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. “I failed. I can’t afford to fail like that again. Ever.”

The cave was silent, but from the corner of his eye, Tim could see Cass’ lips curving into a faint, knowing smile.

“You’re just like Bruce.”

Tim froze, her words hitting him like a punch. His eyes widened as he turned to look at her. “I—no, I’m not.”

“Sure,” Cass said, her smile growing.

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t say that.”

She chuckled softly, patting his shoulder. “Come on. Get some fresh air.”

“I don’t need—”

She didn’t wait for him to finish, grabbing his wrist and tugging him toward the staircase.

“Cass,” he protested weakly, but he didn’t resist. She was undeniably stronger than he was, and, honestly, he was too tired to fight her.

As they emerged from the cave and into the manor’s main hallway, Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “This is stupid. I should—”

“Shh.” Cass held up a hand, her attention drawn to the corner ahead.

Tim followed her gaze, his brows furrowing. He was about to ask what she was looking at when he heard voices—your voice, accompanied by a quieter, gruffer one.

Curious, Cass crept closer, pulling Tim along with her. They peeked around the corner, and what they saw made Tim freeze.

You were standing there with Damian.

Talking.

Like, actually talking.

Tim blinked, his brain short-circuiting. Damian, who had been avoiding you like you carried the plague, was now… engaging in a conversation? And you weren’t just tolerating him. You were smiling. Fondly.

As if that wasn’t shocking enough, you reached out and ruffled Damian’s hair.

Tim’s jaw dropped.

Cass tilted her head slightly, watching the interaction unfold. You and Damian were… comfortable? The thought made her brows pinch together in faint confusion. The last she remembered, the two of you weren’t exactly at ease with each other. And yet, here you were, smiling like you weren’t at each other’s throats days ago.

Cass didn’t know if the scene tugged at her heart in a good way or a bad way, but it did tug.

Meanwhile, Tim was outright flabbergasted. His mouth opened and closed, no words forming, as his brain tried to piece together the impossibility in front of him.

You. Damian. Talking normally.

Not only that, but you’d smiled at him—fondly, as if he hadn’t been the same brat who’d made your life hell since the day he arrived. And Damian… Damian was letting it happen. Not scoffing or sniding, but actually standing there. Engaging.

And then you reached up and ruffled Damian’s hair.

Tim’s jaw unhinged.

“What?” he whispered under his breath. “What… what?”

Tim’s heart skipped a beat. He could’ve sworn he imagined it, but no. For the briefest moment, as you walked away and Damian watched you go, he saw it.

A smile.

Not the smug, cocky smirk Damian loved to wear when he thought he’d gotten the upper hand. Not the sarcastic quirk of his lips when he made one of his snide comments.

A genuine, soft smile.

“What the fu—”

“Language,” Cass interrupted softly, cutting him off before he could finish.

Tim turned to her, eyes practically bulging out of his skull. “Cass.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her behind another wall, further from where Damian could hear. “What was that?”

Cass tilted her head at him, her expression calm. “What was what?”

“That!” Tim gestured wildly in the direction of where you and Damian had been. “Damian smiled. Did you see that? He smiled.”

Cass shrugged. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Tim repeated, incredulous. “That’s all you’re going to say? Yes?”

“Why are you overreacting?” Cass asked, her voice as measured as always.

Tim froze. “Overreacting? Me? No. I’m just… concerned.”

Cass raised an eyebrow. “Concerned about a smile?”

“It wasn’t just the smile!” Tim hissed, lowering his voice when he realized he was getting loud. “It was the whole thing! They’re talking! Like normal people! You saw it! And she—she patted his head!”

Cass tilted her head, her lips twitching as if she was trying not to smile. “Is that a problem?”

Tim threw his hands up. “Of course it’s a problem! This is Damian we’re talking about. Damian. When has he ever been this… this…”

“Obedient?” Cass supplied, amused.

“Exactly!” Tim said, then paused. “…Wait, no. That’s not the point. The point is—what even happened? Last I checked, they weren’t on speaking terms. Now they’re all… sibling-y?”

“Isn’t that normal?” Cass asked, her tone still maddeningly calm. “For siblings to act like that? Even if they fight?”

Tim opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. He froze, staring at her, his brain scrambling to process her question.

Normal. Siblings.

He’d never thought of it that way.

Sure, they were all technically siblings, but Tim couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually tried to build that kind of bond with you. Sure, you were his sister by name. But did he even know what that was supposed to feel like? He knew what his bond with Dick is like, what his bond with Cassandra is like. Hell. he even knew what his bond with Jason and Damian is like. But what about you?

Cass studied his silence, her expression softening. “It’s okay,” she said quietly.

Tim shook himself out of his thoughts. “No, but—wait—this still doesn’t explain how they’re suddenly on good terms. Last time I checked, Dick said they had some huge argument.”

Cass smiled faintly. “People change.”

Tim ran a hand down his face, exasperated. “What the hell happened while I was cooped up in the cave?”

Cass didn’t answer, simply grabbing his wrist again. “Come. Let’s go.”

“What? Wh—”

“Food,” she said simply, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Tim sighed, letting her drag him along to the kitchen. He couldn’t even focus on the fact that he was hungry. His thoughts were too tangled, replaying what he’d just witnessed.

Damian. Smiling.

You. Smiling fondly back at him.

Have you ever smiled at him that way?

He swore he wasn’t confused jealous. Definitely not.

…Right?

dw i’m definitely not killing off people this early 🫣🤭 have this fluff instead 😇🫶🫶 (definitely not planning for anything worse)

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