Chapter Text
I would rather not go
Back to the old house.
There's too many bad memories.
Too many memories there.
- "Back to the Old House," The Smiths
Memory has always been a fickle thing for Logan and through time, he’s come to count that as a blessing rather than a curse.
He’s been alive for over two hundred years, so he’s bound not to remember what happened during all that time. And that isn’t taking into consideration the times when the fuckers that created him a lab took it as their liberty to dip their fingers into his memories and muddle around as they felt fit.
Logan remembers the fighting - glimpses of it, at least. Specifics are more difficult. He remembers dodging mines down South … wait, but they didn’t have mines during the Civil War. Or did they? It must’ve been during the Great War then. The first or the second? Had he even been in the States for those?
Right. Specifics are difficult.
The things he remembers, he sometimes wishes he didn’t. Splashes of blood over the camouflage-spotted fabric of uniforms, bullets piercing through his skin only for his body to reject them a moment later.
He remembers comrades dropping like flies around him. He learned quickly that it was foolish to befriend any of them - even more foolish to climb into their beds. It changed you, seeing the chest you’d watched rise and fall the night before ripped apart by shrapnel from a bomb on the battlefield, white ribs glistening with blood sticking out of the mess.
He remembers his first few kills, the way his finger had shaken on the trigger and the pain in his ears as the shot rang out. He remembers Victor bumping him on the shoulder with a grin as the bullets found their mark and bodies thumped onto the floor. He remembers the thin, glossy film that would settle over his victims’ unseeing eyes, reflecting the sky until the crows came down for their feast.
Logan really wishes he didn’t remember that. It isn’t only the passage of time that has wiped parts of the slate clean, though. It’s a strange thing, really. Some memories … Logan never really had them in the first place. He still isn’t sure what triggers it - noises, emotions or pain - but he loses time, entire chunks of it. One moment, he’ll be standing in the middle of the battlefield, shouting commands to his soldiers and the next, he’ll find himself in the mess hall, nursing half a flask of whiskey.
It isn’t like he’s paralysed or anything during these blackouts. He asked Victor as much the first few times. But no, no one had realised that there was anything different about him, save that he was maybe quieter than usual. Then again, no one really expected Logan to talk much. He was simply … gone and then back again.
Sometimes, the blackouts last only an few minutes and sometimes, a couple of hours. Logan doesn’t mind, not really. The things he’s seen are enough to make him lose every night of sleep for the rest of his life. His body shutting down, recoiling in horror from reality, is a justified response if you ask him. Besides, it doesn’t make him a worse soldier. Maybe it even makes him better, but Logan wouldn’t exactly know that, would he?
The wars ended but the fighting never stops. Humans are a curious lot. They grasp for power, clawing their way to the top regardless of who gets hurt. They form alliances with those who are like them and pull those who are different limb from limb. When their allies get stronger than them, they turn on each other. The weak fight for their freedom and once they have it, lace up their boots and kick in the teeth of those beneath them.
Logan knows how it works. As long as the world needs a soldier, he will be on the front lines. Of course, it gets a bit better as time passes. Fighting for the X-Men is better. It isn’t as brutal or senseless as the wars he’s fought in before. Besides, the people behind him are people he cares for and that makes it easier. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t still black out sometimes, attempting covert missions with Kurt or fighting side-by-side with Hank. But it gets better.
It gets better and Logan refuses to admit it to himself, let alone anyone else. They ask him to fight, to protect them and their home. Then, they ask him to stay. Logan stays, with a lot less reluctance than he lets on. They ask him to teach, to wear the uniform, to be one of them. Logan complains, makes snarky remarks and even flat-out refuses their requests at times.
Scott, in particular, is persistent. He can’t take a hint, has all the personality of a used tissue and the most attractive thing about him is his girlfriend.
That is, until the one drunken brawl when Logan punches him in the face and breaks his stupid red glasses in half. Right before the beam of focused red energy hits Logan in the face, he realises two things. The first: he really, really fucked up. The second: Scott has been hiding the most enchanting blue eyes Logan has ever seen beneath those glasses. Glass shards scratch his skin and yet, he closes his eyes tightly immediately afterwards, palms pressed onto them, so very terrified of hurting Logan by accident.
Logan, are you okay? Logan, fuck, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to!
After that, Logan decides that Scott is the one who hung the moon in the sky and pricked holes in it to let the stars shine through. Of course, he still refuses to take his classes or join in on missions and tells Scott in explicit detail where he can shove that ugly yellow suit. Scott flips him off when they pass each other in the hallway and pours Logan’s beers down the drain but he always saves him a seat at dinner.
They live together and fight together and when Scott walks into his bedroom behind him after a particularly bloody mission, Logan can’t find it in himself to be surprised. He doesn’t pry too deep into the situation with Jean but gets the sense that she doesn’t mind. He doesn’t either. If Scott wants to hold her hand during the day and crawl under Logan’s sheets at night, that’s up to him.
They never really get around to putting a label on it. What starts as a way to release tension, a solid body to keep the sheets warm, turns into something more. Logan can no longer watch Scott’s fingers intertwined in Jean’s without longing for them to stroke through his hair instead. When he’s inside Scott, pulling honeyed moans out of him with every move, Logan gets closer than he’s ever been to believing in a God that exists.
But Jesus Christ, Scott can really be an insufferable little prick when he wants to be. For example: now.
The plane waits in the bay, doors open and ready for lift-off. They could’ve been up in the air by now, half-way downtown, where the latest anti-mutant riots have been going on in full-swing. Their newest target is a mutant shelter on the outskirts of the city. They’re targeting children now. And they call mutants monsters.
It’s meant to be a relatively simple mission - protect the children, bring them relief and supplies where needed. Logan doesn’t expect there to be much fighting. They’ve been up against much scarier enemies than an angry mob before, but he understands that the X-Men can use all the manpower that they can get. They’re spread too thin these days. Between trying to douse every fire springing up around the country, there’s barely any time left for teaching at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.
It’s meant to be a simple mission - if they ever get off the ground, that is.
“Get out of the way, Summers,” Logan growls, looking past Scott to where the others - Jean, Ororo, Hank - wait by the plane. Charles watches from the side with a slightly exasperated expression.
“No,” Scott crosses his arms, the lights of the bunker glinting off the red glass of his visor.
“I said, outta the way,” Logan threatens, claws sliding out languorously with the dull hiss of metal.
“Not until you put it on,” Scott scowls, taking a step forward, “You’re part of the team, Logan. It's about time you fucking acted like it.”
Logan glares at him and his gaze slides to the side, to the unworn spandex suit on the mannequin. It’s an ugly fucking thing. All their uniforms are ridiculous, Scott’s too. He doesn’t understand why it’s such a big deal. He can save orphans just as fine in jeans and a shirt as he can in yellow spandex. Maybe he can even do it faster. But Scott always makes such a big deal out of this, about ‘being part of the team.’
He isn’t part of them, though. Logan doesn’t do teams. He doesn’t do family or friends or attachments. Bad things happen when he does. Things are just better this way. It’s better for everyone if he holds them at arm’s length.
“I’m not wearing that,” Logan scowls, “We’re wasting time here, dipshit. Get out of my way.”
“What is your fucking problem?!” Scott throws his hands up in the air in exasperation, “Jesus Christ, Logan. What is it? Are you embarrassed? This is who you are, Logan. It wouldn't kill you to have a little pride.”
Logan laughs bitterly and shakes his head. “You're lecturing me about being embarrassed of who I am?” He shoots back, feeling vengeful as he watches the words cut through Scott, "Tough talk from a guy hiding in a closet." Behind them, Jean tenses as well and Scott turns to exchange a slightly panicked look with her.
“Logan, that’s not-” Scott begins.
“Save it,” Logan shakes his head and turns away, “You don’t need me for this mission. Go save the dying orphan babies or whatever.”
“Logan, wait!” Scott calls after him but Logan doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t have the patience to deal with Scott’s bullshit tonight. The heavy doors slam behind him and he makes his way up to the mansion.
It’s a night like any other and the hallways are quiet, soft murmurs coming from inside the rooms where the children sleep. It’s past their bedtime. Logan’s footsteps echo down the hallway as his boots clack on the varnished wooden floorboards. The lights have been turned off and moonlight filters into the corridors through the large glass windows.
He stomps through the foyer and makes his way to the garage, hearing the rumbling sounds of the plane engine starting up. There, see? They’ll be just fine without him. He rummages in his pockets, rooting around for the keys he nicked from Scott’s trouser pockets earlier. As a fighter, Scott is always alert and vigilant. As a man receiving a blowjob, he’s decidedly less so.
Logan pushes the garage doors open and makes his way to the motorcycle Scott finished restoring a couple weeks ago. It’s a sleek Harley-Davidson and he calls it his baby, his pride and joy. If Logan is still feeling vengeful by the end of the night, it’s going to be mangled at the bottom of a ditch very soon.
He turns the switch to open the front doors to the garage and they creak on their hinges, the grating sound of metal on metal ringing out. Logan finds his leather jacket discarded by Scott’s workspace and pulls it on over his shoulders. No need for a helmet. He makes his way back to the bike and dusts the leather seat off. Before he can get on, a voice interrupts him, cutting through the silence.
“Logan? Where are you going?”
He turns to find Rogue standing in the doorway dressed in her nightgown, a hesitant look twisting her features.
“Out,” Logan mutters in response, “Go back to bed, kid. It’s late.”
“It is late,” Rogue agrees, eyebrows furrowed, “Weren’t you going on that mission for the kids from the shelter?”
“They have enough people on that,” Logan runs a hand through his hair, “Look, I’m just going to have a drink or two. Guy’s gotta unwind, right?”
Rogue frowns again, pink lips pressing into a thin line in the middle of her pale face. He can tell she doesn’t approve. Logan usually gets along fine with the kids in the mansion, and they know well enough not to piss him off. But with Rogue, there’s something more.
Ever since he found her hitchhiking on the back of his truck all those years ago, he’s felt a sense of responsibility for her. They’d both been alone but they’d found each other. Or, well, she’d found him. He supposes that it isn’t the strangest thing that she would feel that same responsibility for him.
“You shouldn’t go out,” Rogue blurts out, twisting her dark hair uncertainly, “Remember what Professor Xavier said? He said it wasn’t safe for mutants to go out alone. Especially not at night. They’re out to get us, Logan.”
Logan laughs without humour and shakes his head. “What’s new?” He smirks at her. Rogue’s expression remains just as tense and he eventually sighs, deflating a little bit. “Look, kid, I can take care of myself,” he tells her, “I have these, remember?” He pushes his claws out and they glint in the dim light. “Besides, they can’t hurt me in any way that lasts. I’ll be fine.”
The wrinkle between Rogue’s eyebrows smoothens a little bit although she still looks unsure. “Well, if you say so,” she replies in that drawling accent of hers, “I could … I could come with you? Keep you company?”
Logan’s lips twitch with amusement at the terrible lie. She doesn’t want to keep him company. The bags under the girl’s eyes are purple, for Christ’s sake. She wants to protect him.
“Rogue, I’ll be okay,” Logan replies softly, “Now, get back to bed before Charles comes upstairs and puts you in detention for walking around at night.”
Rogue hesitates and then grins, her teeth flashing in the darkness. “He doesn’t give out detentions, silly,” she teases him.
“Oh yes he does,” Logan swings a leg over the bike and slots the key into the ignition, “One wrong move and he’ll make sure you’re listening to Wonderwall in your mind for the rest of the month.”
Rogue giggles and then claps a gloved hand over her mouth to stifle it. Once she regains her composure, she drops her hand and nods. “Okay then,” she says, “Buh-bye, Logan. Drive safe.”
“Sweet dreams, kid,” he nods and turns away, twisting the key and feeling the motorcycle rumble to life beneath him. The door falls closed behind Rogue and he gives it one last look before twisting the handlebar and shooting forward into the night.
The bars are mostly empty at this time of the night. Especially the ones that Logan frequents. There’s a place a few miles down the road, usually filled with a sparse crowd of bikers stopping by for a pint. No matter how fucked the world gets, Logan doesn’t feel like he has to keep his guard up there. No one pays him much mind since he’s a paying customer and if they do know who he is, they know well enough to keep away.
Logan parks his bike out front and makes his way into the short stone building. The warmth hits him first, spreading out through the room from the crackling fire in the corner. The music is light and mellow, nearly inaudible over the soft murmurs of conversation. Logan counts five other customers other than himself, huddled into groups by the walls of the room.
He makes his way up to the bar, tapping two fingers against the flat wood for the usual. The bartender - Shane - nods at him in greeting before reaching up for a bottle of whiskey and pouring him a glass. He slides it across the bar to Logan who takes a seat on the stool opposite him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigar, lighting it before putting it to his lips.
“Didn’t think we’d see you in here tonight,” Shane says and nods at the TV screen mounted in the corner of the bar, “You lot have sure been busy these days.” Logan takes a sip of the amber liquid in his glass and sighs as it burns through his system. He lifts his gaze to the news broadcast which shows the X-Men plane landing a few yards away from the shelter. Angry rioters scatter in every direction, unwilling to take on the powerful mutants. It’s only the defenceless ones that they feel comfortable fighting.
“They don’t need me,” Logan replies, eyes fixed on the screen where the X-Men file out of the plane. He spots him immediately, the dark blue suit criss-crossed with yellow, red visor glinting under the bright lights. Logan grumbles and turns away, taking a long drag of his cigar. “Change the channel, would you?” He asks Shane.
The bartender nods and presses a button on the remote, changing the screen to display a basketball match instead, the players running up and down the court after the ball. Logan has never cared much for sports so he turns away.
“I’m sorry,” Shane grimaces slightly as he wipes a glass down with a towel, “I’ve been watching the news all week. I’ve seen the attacks. Are your folks all safe?”
Logan shrugs and nods noncommittally. “So far,” he replies.
“That’s good,” Shane replies and his gaze softens, “It’s awful, what’s been happening. People can be fuckin’ dense sometimes. I don’t get it, why they can’t just see that you lot are just like us. In the ways that count, at least.”
Logan frowns and considers it. He’s lived through enough wars to find their predicament glaringly familiar. “It’s the stories they tell each other,” he replies after a moment, “They don’t understand, they feel afraid and they need to make up stories to make themselves feel safer. More in control. Their stories … they get more detailed. More people start telling them. And then, before you know it, they’re tellin’ the same stories to justify attacking a children’s shelter.”
Shane crosses his arms over his chest and sighs. “Depressing shit.”
“Cheers to that,” Logan mutters and takes another sip of whiskey. Shane doesn’t try to make much more conversation after that.
One glass turns to two, turns to three and Logan finds himself thinking about an old friend. Well, friend may be generous - acquaintance more like. Erik always told them it would come to this, told them Charles’ mission was futile. He spoke of divides and hatred and the vengeful, pitiful urge in humans to wipe what was unfamiliar to them off the face of this earth - in the times when he hadn’t been trying to bend Logan’s bones backwards, at least.
Perhaps Logan ought to have paid him more mind. He isn’t sure why he didn’t. Logan isn’t the most optimistic guy around either. And yet, the allure of seeing the world the way Charles saw it was just too great. Charles saw the best in everything - the fucked-up world, his students, his deranged ex and Logan himself. Maybe Logan hadn’t wanted to believe he was wrong about the world because he hadn’t wanted Charles to be wrong about him.
He pushes the thoughts out of his mind and takes another sip. How many glasses is that now? Logan can’t keep track. He turns around, sneaking a glance at the closed door.
“Looks like the missus gave up on you,” Shane smirks, following Logan’s gaze. His voice sounds like it’s travelling through water - faraway and distorted. Logan scowls and looks away.
“Pour me another,” he mutters. Shane snickers but obliges him. He’s referring to Scott. Usually, when Logan has been out for this long, Scott inevitably trails after him to drag him back to the mansion. It’s annoying, really. Can’t a man have a drink in peace? And yet… Logan’s gaze drifts back to the door again.
If Scott hasn’t come for him, that must mean he’s angry. He must be really pissed about this thing with the suit. Logan can’t see why, it’s the same argument they have every time. But then, why isn’t he here? Logan shifts uncomfortably on his seat and tips the glass back, downing its contents in one.
“I’m callin’ it a night, bub,” Logan gets to his feet and pulls his wallet out. He takes out a few ten-dollar bills and slides them across the bar before putting his jacket on.
“A'ight. Drive safe, man,” Shane waves goodbye to him and goes back to stacking the glasses behind the counter. Logan nods and makes his way back to the door, the world tilting slightly around him.
The bikers in the corner lower their voices and shoot him a dirty look as he passes by. Logan bares his teeth at them and growls, relishing in the way they shrink back in fear. He doesn’t want the world to see him as a monster, to be afraid of him without ever knowing him. But well, if they do already, he might as well take advantage of it.
On a different night, he might stick around and poke at them for a while, stirring up a fight for no reason other than his own entertainment. But tonight … he kinda wants to get back. Now that he has this idea in his head of Scott being pissed at him, it gnaws at him like a disease.
He just wants to know that things are okay between them. Maybe he’ll apologise but … well, who is he kidding? That’s okay, Scott acts like all that but he’s a man when it comes down to it. Once Logan gets a hand down his pants, all his sins will be forgiven and forgotten. The thought of it brings a tipsy smile to Logan’s lips and a spring to his step. Yeah … the sex is fucking great.
He stumbles over to the motorcycle and sighs heavily. Right, another reason why he prefers it when Scott comes after him: he doesn’t have to drive back home. Logan’s head feels all woozy and he fishes another cigar out of his pocket to smoke while he waits to sober up.
Thankfully, it doesn’t take all that long because of his regenerative healing. He exhales smoke up into the sky, staring up at the full moon as he feels the alcohol wear off. He would heal if he got into an accident, but he can’t say the same for any innocent civilians he may mow down. Anti-mutant hate is rising as it is and he probably shouldn’t add to that with vehicular manslaughter.
When he feels that the alcohol has sufficiently worn off, he climbs onto the motorcycle and revs it into life. The roads are blissfully empty at this time and Logan relishes in the feeling of the cold wind sluicing through his hair. He leans down, close to the handlebars and drives up the familiar road to the mansion, hearing the engine roar in his ears.
As he gets closer, the faint smell of smoke pricks at his nostrils. Logan frowns, trying to place where it might be coming from. It’s far too late for a barbecue and besides, it isn’t even that kind of smoke. A second later, it doesn’t matter anymore, because he climbs up the hill and the large, looming mansion comes into view. Logan’s heart squeezes in his chest, seizing up as the icy tendrils of fear wrap around it. Logan accelerates and the bike shoots forward, the smell of burning rubber rising into the air.
He sees the fire first, shining out like a beacon against the dark night sky. It perches atop the roof of the mansion, snaking its glowing limbs down into the broken windows and turning their contents to smoke. The mansion itself is in disarray, entire chunks of it blown apart - stone foundations blasted through and smouldering where they lie upon the burnt grass. It’s dead silent, save for the rustle of the fire and the dismal creaking as parts of the building slowly collapse into themselves.
“No,” Logan croaks as he drives forward.
The first body he spots lies curled on its side in the grass. Logan brings the bike to a jarring stop and nearly falls over in his haste to get off. The hunk of metal thunks to the ground as he sprints across the trampled lawn to the motionless body. He hates himself for the overwhelming feeling of relief that washes over him when he realises that he does not recognise the corpse. He’s young - probably a student - and his chest is riddled with bullet wounds.
In the corner of his eye, Logan spies another body lying on the grass and he half-runs, half-crawls over to investigate. This one … she’s a human. Her shirt betrays as much, bearing the logo of a prominent anti-mutant group. Logan looks up and sprints towards the mansion. They were here. They’d come for the Institute. Logan pieces together the truth that he really does not want to accept.
The attack on the shelter had been a distraction, then. They must’ve tried to lure the X-Men away from the mansion so they could launch their attack here. By the time they returned, it must’ve been too late and- and what had happened to them? The X-Men are strong. They were strong enough, right?
Logan’s eyes rapidly scan the fallen bodies scattered over the lawn as he runs up to the mansion, relieved every time he doesn’t recognise a face. But even though he can’t recognise them, these are children. They’re students, who went to bed waiting to wake up the next day and attend classes. They didn’t fucking deserve this, to be slaughtered like lambs in their own homes.
Logan’s breath is ragged by the time he reaches the large doors. He raises his fingers to it and they shake in terror. Beyond, he can smell the overwhelming scent of iron; the thick, portentous smell of blood that curls into his lungs and threatens to choke him. Tears prick at Logan’s eyes as he pushes the door open and slips through the crack. The sight that lays beyond hits him like a rusty knife to the stomach, except much deeper and infinitely more painful.
They’re here, his friends. All together, even now, limbs slung over one another.
Logan takes one look and turns away, stumbling into the heavy door as his guts heave. He pukes their contents out all over the stairs, feeling the alcohol burn more on the way out. He heaves and retches until his chest hurts and hears low, agonised sounds coming from his own throat. He wipes his mouth and turns to head back into the mansion, wishing more than anything for this to be another one of his nightmares.
Past the doors he goes, and feels like he might puke all over again. They didn’t die here, Logan can infer that much. Their wounds aren’t consistent with the way they’re laying - Jean half draped over Ororo, Charles dumped on top of Hank, Scott… Scott. Trails of blood mar the hardwood floors as if they were dragged into this grotesque arrangement after they were murdered.
Distantly, Logan hears a sound like a dog whining, which he momentarily recognises as his own weeping. They killed Ororo with a stake through her chest and Hank with a bullet in his forehead. Jean’s head is covered in blood and Kurt lies in a whole pool of it. For Charles, they’d slit his throat, and his head hangs back at an awkward angle. Atop the pile, someone with a sick sense of humour has erected a large wooden X out of wooden stakes to commemorate their corpses.
“Scott,” Logan breathes, moving forward as if in a trance. He drops to his knees and they smart upon impact. “Scott,” he repeats and reaches for him. His skin is cold under the blue suit and Logan pulls him into his arms.
“You’re okay,” he whispers, brushing Scott’s brown hair back from his face. He’s missing his glasses. What did they do to his glasses? He shouldn’t … He shouldn’t be without his glasses. He might hurt someone by accident, and he would feel terrible if he did that.
“Baby,” Logan murmurs, shaky fingers tracing over the contours of his pale face, his sharp, stubbled jaw. “I’m sorry- I’m sorry about the suit,” Logan tells him, “It was so stupid, right? I’m so sorry, Scott. I’ll- I’ll fucking wear it next time. I’ll wear it.” At that, Logan breaks, his voice cracking dismally. A sob cracks up out of his ribs and his shoulders shake as he buries his face in his lover’s chest, warm tears soaking the front of Scott’s suit.
Logan’s hand trails down the man’s side, cupping his waist gently and he makes a choking noise as he feels the gaping wound beneath his fingers. That was what killed him, then. Logan wonders if it was a stake or a knife or- Actually, Logan doesn’t want to know at all.
His lips remain pressed to Scott’s collarbone as he inhales the vague remnants of his distinct scent. Scott always smells like fresh linen, like laundry that has just been taken out of the machine. He used to be warm like it too. Logan catches a whiff of his aftershave and sobs quietly into his cold skin. He knows the taste of it, knows how Scott looks when he pats it into his skin. How Scott looked.
Logan isn’t sure how long he spends like that, Scott’s limp body held tightly in his arms. Maybe if he holds him tightly enough, Scott will regenerate too - his flesh will knit back together and his broken bones will mend. His blue eyes will flutter back open. He deserves to, more than Logan ever did. Scott - a leader, the best of them - should’ve been the one to live, should’ve been the one who could never die. Logan would give anything to make it that way.
The night eats into itself and the air around them grows warmer and warmer. It’s only then that Logan can bring himself to get up. The mansion is on fire. He needs to get his friends out.
Scooping up Scott’s motionless body in his arms, he staggers towards the front door and out onto the lawn where he lays his lover’s body down - closed eyes faced up to the stars. Logan heads back to the mansion and carries them out one by one, tears dripping down his cheeks as he cradles each of them in his arms in turn.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers to Charles as he lays him down on the cold ground, the last of the bodies in the entryway. After a moment, he heads back into the mansion. The fire has eaten away at most of the right wing of the mansion and it warms Logan’s cheeks when he turns toward it. That’s where the dorms were, once.
Logan swallows thickly, his throat dry, and walks into the fire.
The heat of the fire sears his skin, scalding as it embraces his limbs, pulling him further in. The burns sting - they must - but Logan can barely feel it. Compared to the agony ripping his soul apart, any physical pain would be bearable.
He rushes into the first dorm he sees, a sense of urgency returning to his limbs after the paralysing grief wracked through his limbs. He finds children there, slumped near the entrance, bodies riddled with bullet-holes and lifts them into his arms. Outside, he sets them down next to Charles’ lifeless body.
Logan repeats the process over and over - diving into the burning hallways again and again until his clothes are charred and his hair singed. Burn-wounds open up on his skin and close up, only to be opened once more when the flames lick over them. He pulls children’s unmoving forms from their beds or off the bloodstained carpets and carries them out, laying them all in disorganised rows upon the grass that is beginning to gather dew as dawn approaches.
The task becomes mechanical at some point, Logan’s mind numbing itself to save him the pain of realising the horrors he’s seeing before his eyes. It must’ve been an ambush, an attack when the mutants were asleep. The humans had known they couldn’t take on them all at full power so they’d resorted to trickery and deceit and finally, senseless bloodshed. They’ve always been good at that.
The trance that Logan has put himself under finally breaks when he gets to the second floor - to the third door specifically. He knows this room.
Logan breathes in shakily before turning the knob. He feels like someone punched him in the gut as he steps across the threshold. She lays motionless on her pillow, dark hair splayed across her pillow, silver streak glimmering in the moonlight. They killed her in her sleep. It’s a mercy, Logan supposes.
He smells blood but he makes a point not to look. Instead, he focuses on her face, her delicate features, as he steps forward. He reaches out, thumb trembling as it wipes a spot of blood off the underside of her chin. Better.
The mansion creaks around them and Logan is reminded of the fire. He peels the blanket off Rogue and reaches down, slipping an arm beneath her back and under her knees before lifting her up to his chest. He considers it a minor miracle that he doesn’t break down the entire time that he carries her out of the mansion. He stumbles through the entryway and makes it out onto the lawn once more.
The smoke in his lungs makes his head spin as he lays Rogue down on an empty patch of grass. The moment he bends to crouch down, he knows that he can stand no longer, and instead falls along with Rogue. His knees buckle beneath him and Logan cradles her limp body tightly, crying raggedly into her cold neck.
“Please,” Logan gasps, “Please. I didn’t mean to- I didn’t know.” Rogue’s head drops back and he reaches out to support it with one hand.
There’s a threshold of physical pain that a body can bear before the brain sends out an impulse to knock it unconscious - a protection mechanism. Logan has had it happen to him enough times to know it well. And yet, he can’t help but wish it did the same for the pain he feels now, rending his very soul apart with the intensity of it. There must be a threshold for the emotional pain a man can withstand before he can no longer get back up, right? A heart can only break so many times, right?
Distantly, he recalls a train carriage - leather seats, smudged windows, dull chatter in the air. He remembers the weight of a head on his shoulder, he remembers making a promise.
The stakes were high, they knew that Erik could find them at any moment. Every survival instinct that Logan had in him screamed at him to run. But it wouldn’t work that way, she would never listen to him. He needed to be careful, he thought, as he stared at the pale-faced girl opposite him.
“So, what do you say?” He asked, as the train jolted into motion around them, “Give these geeks one more shot?” He wasn’t sure if he was getting through at all but then, the slightest quirk of her lips, a flash of a smile, gone before it was ever really there.
“Come on,” Logan lowered his voice, carefully returning the smile, “I’ll take care of you.”
Rogue blinked and looked away, seeming to consider it for a moment. She looked up at him, eyes wide and sceptical. “You promise?”
This was all she’d ever wanted, someone she could put her faith in. Logan could be that for her, he thought.
“Yeah,” he replied with a soft sigh, “Yeah, I promise.”
The guilt is too much to bear, perching upon his shoulders and driving him into the ground. He failed. She trusted him, and he failed. The weight of the broken promise sits on his chest, pressing at his lungs until he can barely breathe anymore.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks, holding Rogue tighter. Being injured and maimed in every way possible means that he has a pain tolerance higher than most. But this, he can’t- he can’t live with this. It’s too much, too much and-
Logan reaches down, fumbling to take Rogue’s hand in his. He pulls at the fingers of her soft glove, haphazardly yanking it off. She started wearing them to sleep as well after the incident with Logan, he remembers. The knowledge pierces him like an icepick but he doesn’t stop. Once he has the glove off, he flings it away to the side.
“Please,” he breathes, lacing their fingers together. No. His fingers tremble as he forces Rogue’s apart, hand shaking as he brings hers to rest upon his cheek. “Marie, please,” he begs as the lifeless hand cradles his face.
He wishes it would do something, he wishes for the pain. When Rogue touched him, it had felt like someone ripping the very atoms he was made of apart. Logan wishes for it more than anything. If he feels her powers work, she could be saved. If he feels her powers work, it could kill him. He prays and begs but isn’t entirely sure which one he wants more.
The hours of the morning bleed into each other as Logan holds a silent, heartbroken vigil over Rogue’s still body.
“Hey, over here! Looks like we missed one of the freaks, boys.”
“What the fuck are you on about? Oh, looks like we did. What kinda fuckin’ idiot…”
Logan lifts his head slowly, tear-stained eyes lazily refocusing on the three figures standing above him. Three men, well-built, seemingly middle-aged. They carry guns, slung over their shoulders casually, and their clothes are splattered with dried blood.
“Shouldn’t have come back here, asshole,” the one in the middle sneers, “What, the message wasn’t clear enough for you?”
“Apparently not,” the one to his right smirks, “No problem. We can always send another one.” His friends laugh as he lowers his gun, aims and points it at Logan’s chest. Logan stares at it blankly, making no move to get away. He sees the man’s finger flex on the trigger before he feels a powerful blast hit him in the chest, searing pain as the bullet lodges itself in his chest.
For a moment - one glorious moment - it seems as though the wound won’t heal. And then, the pain alleviates itself, the sting simmering down to a dull ache as Logan’s flesh closes up and pushes the bullet out. He growls and sits up, glowering up at the men standing over him.
“Oh, fuck,” the man who shot him stares at him slack-jawed.
“Don’t just stand there, dickwad! Shoot him again!” His friend squeaks, slowly backing away. A whole round of bullets pierce into Logan’s chest and he sneers up at his attackers as he slowly gets to his feet. The bullets drop to the ground one by one and the men grow pale.
“Oh shit, is he-”
“The Wolverine,” the man breathes, half in shock and half in reverence.
Logan growls deep in his throat and the hiss of metal whispers through the air as his claws slide out. The men’s eyes flick down to them and - as if in slow motion - one of them turns to run. Another hesitates before following. The last one - the one who shot him - seems to be smart. He knows he cannot run.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpers.
“You’re all going to die,” Logan tells him.
He barely needs to move for it to happen, it’s only a quick punch in the face - except, with three adamantium claws attached. One claw pierces clean through the man’s open mouth, poking a hole into the back of his throat. Logan doesn’t stay to watch him die.
He crouches to the ground and growls, more and more parts of his brain clocking out, before he pounces. He leaps across the ground on all fours, covering far more distance than the humans and their spindly legs before him. He hunts the first one down with ease, jumping on him from behind and pinning him to the ground with claws through his chest.
The last one looks back in terror and wails, tripping over his own feet as he neglects to look where he’s going. He collapses to the ground and Logan is upon him in a matter of seconds.
“Please- Please, I’m sorry,” he begs. Pleading for forgiveness, just like Logan. Logan gives him the same fate he would give himself, putting his knuckles underneath his chin before unsheathing his claws, slowly watching the lights go out behind those eyes. He feels the flow of blood around his claws drip and bubble from the wound, a buzzing noise filling his entire head until he can no longer hear his own thoughts.
He lifts his head, sniffing the air. He senses life nearby. Nowhere around the mansion, of course, but further away, where these men came from. No sooner does the thought cross his mind that the bastards who did this might still be nearby than he knows he needs to go after them, needs it like an addict needs to shoot drugs into his veins, like he will positively die if he does not go after them.
Logan’s claws stay out and blood drips off of them, soaking the soil below. The buzzing noise grows louder and a red stain colours the edges of his vision. He breaks into a run and the noise grows still louder, filling his skull and banging at the metal walls of it. He no longer feels anything. He feels no pain, no sadness, no grief. He doesn’t want anymore. He doesn’t want to see his dead friends and he doesn’t want to die. All he is and ever was, all his ambitions, hopes and dreams, are washed away and replaced in an instant by the overwhelming, teeth-gnashing urge to kill.
Hours later, Logan comes back to himself in a fluorescent-lit hallway with his claws halfway through a woman’s chest. Or at least, he thinks it’s been hours. He gasps and pulls his claws out, letting her body fall to the floor. She isn’t … She isn’t dressed like the rioters were.
Logan’s own clothes are drenched with blood, both new and old. His hands shake as he reaches into her pockets, patting them down in search of her phone. He finally finds it and flips it open to check the time. His blood runs cold. It hasn’t been hours, it’s been days.
He drops the phone to the ground and slowly rises to his feet. He looks behind himself fearfully and his stomach plummets at the sight of the bodies littering the hallway. They weren’t armed. Shopping bags and half-eaten snacks lay scattered around the bodies. An overwhelming feeling of dread rises in Logan’s chest. He’s never blacked out for this long. What did he do?
As if in response, a loud police siren blares in the distance. Shit. Logan breaks into a run, passing even more bloody corpses in his search for an exit. He didn’t- He didn’t do this, right?
Right?
Logan dashes into the fire exit, running down the stairs and through the basement in his haste to exit the building. He needs to get away from here. The fire exit takes him out the back of the building where the dumpsters and old mall decorations rest. Upstairs, the police have entered the building and Logan hears the static of their walkie-talkies, growing ever closer.
He sprints towards the metal fence and scales it, jumping over it and landing heavily on the other side. He doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t have anywhere to go. And yet … he can’t stay here. He stops a car idling in a nearby parking lot and runs over. The driver has his feet up and is listening to music. Logan punches the window in, making him startle.
“What the fuck, man?” The driver scowls.
“Get out of the car,” Logan tells him and unsheathes his claws. Realisation slowly dawns upon the man’s face.
“Okay, okay,” he sticks his hands up fearfully, “Please- Please don’t hurt me. I have a family.”
Logan glowers at him and briefly considers hurting him anyway but then he thinks of the bodies at the mall. Had he really done all that? Stryker had called him an animal, a weapon, a soldier and Logan had tried every day of his life to prove him wrong. Logan thinks of the mess of bodies he left back at the mall and realises that he's lost that particular battle.
“Get the fuck out,” he tells the man, who needs no further prompting. He scrambles over the console to the passenger’s side and then opens the door to crawl out onto the asphalt. Logan gets in the car and slams the door shut, turning the key in the ignition and bringing the car to life. The police sirens grow louder and Logan steps on the accelerator, seeing the blue-red lights flash in his rear-view mirror. He drives and drives until he gets onto the highway, stretches of dark road ahead of and behind him as he finds himself blissfully alone.
The tears begin to fall once the adrenaline wears off. It starts as a trembling in his fingers, which grows into the shaking of his shoulders, which in turn turns into the shuddering of his entire body. He pulls the car onto the shoulder of the road and brings it to a stop as the panic seizes him, growing in his chest and blocking his airway. Logan heaves over the steering wheel to take another breath, hot tears welling up and dripping down his cheeks as he thinks of the heaps of bodies back at the mall, the streaks of blood that coloured the floor. There were children among them.
Logan squeezes his eyes shut and cries, begging over and over for forgiveness from a God he does not believe in.
What has he done?
After months of driving about listlessly, Logan ends up in Canada for a while. He spends his days getting banned from various bars. Maybe they recognise him, maybe they don’t. Logan doesn’t care. He just wants a fucking drink. He can’t bear the guilt of it, otherwise. The guilt of letting his friends die, the deep red blood on his hands that will never go away.
He no longer has a home. He sleeps in cars or on bar floors or on park benches. Occasionally, someone will take him home. Logan is never sober enough to remember any of it. He makes sure of that.
It isn’t for a lack of trying that he hasn’t died yet. He’s tried all the classics: adamantium claw through the skull, through the chest, through just about any vital organ he can hit. He watches in disinterested despair every time as the wounds heal back up. And so, he drinks. He drinks until the voices go quiet and his brain feels like mush, until he can feel the alcohol scalding his organs and corroding them away.
All in the hope that maybe - just maybe - he might not heal back up one time.
It takes years for Logan to work up the courage to return to the mansion.
They pass unmemorably, bleeding into one another as he drinks them away. There’s an urge in him that he cannot seem to drown no matter how much alcohol he pours down his throat or how many beds he stumbles into.
He misses Scott.
When he lies on the bathroom floor, unable to summon the will or energy to get up, he thinks of Scott. When he finds himself in a strange woman’s bed, his fingers sluggishly roaming over her supple skin, he thinks of Scott, of how different he felt under Logan’s touch. He thinks of the noises Scott would make, those little stifled gasps as if he could never quite allow himself to enjoy it fully.
When the leaves turn brown and fall from the trees, he thinks of Scott. He thinks of the gentle curve of his jaw and the way his hair curled over his temple. He thinks of the bow of his lips and the bite in his words. In every breath he takes, Logan misses him and misses him until there’s far more missing from him than what remains.
He doesn’t have anything left of Scott, nor the other X-Men. He doesn’t even know where they were buried. He drives through Westchester, only mildly sober, down the roads that were so familiar once. The humans aren’t hunting him down anymore. Perhaps they’re afraid. Perhaps they decided he wasn’t important enough.
Logan returns to the mansion, unsurprised to see half of it burnt to the ground. They didn’t bother to knock it down, either out of laziness or as a warning. Here lie the mutants that dared to call a home their own.
The building is covered in graffiti, mostly anti-mutant slurs and insults that still make Logan’s fingers curl into fists. Ash crunches softly under his shoes as he walks. Upon one of the doors that are still standing, he spies a large, neon-green X spray-painted over it. It’s probably nothing, he knows. And yet, the foolish hopeful part of him - the part of Charles that lives on through him - imagines a young mutant coming to this place that once stood for their protection, eager to pay their respects. But that’s just wishful thinking.
He stumbles down the stairs, feeling them creak under his weight and makes his way down to the bunker. The looters couldn’t have gotten in here. The place was meant to withstand a nuclear bomb, for Christ’s sake. If only the human’s hadn’t caught them so off-guard, Charles might’ve had time to get the mutants down here.
Logan presses random buttons on the control panel impatiently and, by chance, activates the facial scanner.
Welcome, Logan.
The metal doors slide apart, admitting him into the underground bunker. Logan makes his way through the cold hallways, bright white light guiding his way. He looks at the branching hallways as he passes them. This was where they used to have their training sessions. This was where Hank’s lab was. This was the hangar. These were the dressing rooms.
Logan pushes the door open and makes his way into the room. A thin layer of dust covers every piece of furniture. He walks in and the mechanical display cases whir to life, rising up out of the ground. Encased in glass, the X-Men’s suits rise up out of the ground and Logan’s eyes sting. Most of the display cases are empty, the mannequins bare. They were wearing their suits when they died.
Logan pushes the thought out of his head and steps forward to the only unworn suit - bright yellow, blue detailing cutting across it, boots, gloves and a cowl to match. What a hideous fucking thing. The display case slides open for him and Logan balks at the confrontation. This was it, he thinks, looking up at the faceless mannequin. This was all that Scott ever wanted him to be.
Logan swallows and shrugs his leather jacket off, letting it fall to the floor. His flannel shirt joins it a moment later and then he reaches up to unbutton the shirt under it. Scott always complained that he wore too many layers. Logan’s lips quirk into a weak smile at the thought. He takes his shirt off, and then the undershirt as well before unbuckling his pants. They fall to the floor, metal of his belt buckle clanking against it and he steps out of them. He crouches down to unlace his boots and toes his socks off as well.
Shivering in the underground room, in nothing but his underwear, he takes a step forward, reaching out and running his fingers over the yellow spandex. Scott wanted him to wear it. It was the last thing he wanted from him.
Several minutes later, Logan stands in front of the mirror, staring blankly at a man he doesn’t recognise. The man looks ridiculous frankly, in his tight-fitting, bright-coloured costume that contrasts with the stark emptiness in his eyes. Logan blinks and he blinks too, strangely enough. He looks … old. And tired. So very tired.
He doesn’t feel what he thought he would feel when he put on the suit. He doesn’t feel like an X-Man. And yet, he knows he cannot take it off. He will remember them, remember his failure, everytime he sees the familiar colours. He will remember how he let them down and how he sliced up everything Charles had ever worked for with his claws. He knows this even as he puts his clothes back on over the yellow suit.
He doesn’t deserve to forget.
Indiscernible amounts of time pass after that. Logan doesn’t know where he is or where he’s going. His life has ceased to have a direction or meaning. Something with such little purpose … logically, it should end.
He blacks out and tunes back in from time to time, in different bars. This time, when he tunes back in, it’s in a lively establishment, music playing from a speaker in the background. A few men are playing pool behind him and Logan stares at the amber liquid in the shot glass in front of him. That’s a nice start.
He picks it up and pours it in his mouth, knocking it back with ease, well on his way to escaping consciousness once more. He savours the burn as it works through his system. Now to wait…
A loud crash behind him breaks through his haze but Logan doesn’t turn. Probably some fight that broke out between the guys playing pool. Male egos and alcohol never mix well. Unfortunately, Logan is never so lucky.
“This one looks promising,” a voice quips behind him. The sounds of a brief struggle ensue and Logan rolls his eyes. He taps his fingers against the bar.
“Again,” he tells the bartender.
The man, old and greying, sighs and tightens his grip around the bottle. “I told you, you’re not welcome here,” he says, “You’re not welcome anywhere.” Doesn’t Logan fucking know it. “Now, get the fuck out of my bar,” the bartender demands.
“Just give me one more drink,” Logan mutters without meeting his eyes, “Then, I’ll leave.”
“That’s not how it works,” the bartender replies sharply. God, Logan really doesn’t want to do this right now.
“It does now,” a figure sidles up to the bar beside him and leans on it, “Leave the bottle.” The stranger is clad in red-and-black spandex from head to toe, the white eyes of his mask fixed on Logan.
“I know you, bub?” Logan raises an eyebrow at him.
“Nope,” he replies, “But I know you.”
“Everybody knows me,” Logan sighs heavily, “I’m the Wolverine.” Does he want to fight Logan? Does he want to put him behind bars for the things he did? Would Logan even fight back?
“Yes. You are,” the man replies, “And I’m gonna need you to come with me right now.”
Logan frowns at him, looking him over. Must be some kind of cop then, even if he’s dressed like a fucking clown. “Look, lady,” Logan makes a dismissive gesture, “I’m not interested.”
“Really getting into your cups-”
“Why would I go with you?” Logan reaches out and pokes him in the middle of his masked face before he can finish the sentence. For a moment, he almost seems to be offended.
“Because, unfortunately, I need you,” the stranger sighs, “And even more unfortunately, my entire world needs you.” He points at Logan when he says this. He must be mistaken, then. He must not know what Logan is. Logan briefly contemplates telling him but the bartender interrupts his thoughts.
“You two gonna fuck or fight?” He chuckles. Logan shoots him a dark glare but then looks back down. Fight … unlikely in this condition. Fuck, even more unlikely. Logan just wishes this joker would pick one and stop wasting his time.
“You’re gonna take that from him?” The man asks, sounding astonished.
“Yup,” Logan replies, turning back to his drink.
The stranger huffs a soft laugh before speaking again. “I can tell you have sort of a ‘don’t get too close, I’ll only break your heart’ vibe going here,” he says, “But every other Wolverine would’ve really hurt me by now.” Logan is starting to understand why. “And, I’m sort of on the tick-tick, so, upsy-daisy, here we go,” he continues, taking a step behind Logan and grabbing him under the arms. What the fuck?
“Whoa, whoa, hey!” Logan scowls and stumbles off the stool. He glares at the stranger and unsheathes his claws. They both turn to stare at his knuckles for a second as the adamantium tips barely peek out of his skin. Fuck his life.
“Oh,” the man notes, “Whiskey dick with the claws. It’s quite common in Wolverines over forty.”
So, he’s an entertainer, this one - covers up whatever it is he’s hiding with those little comments and jokes, barely ever shutting up once he starts talking. He doesn’t understand what he’s walked into. Not everything is a joke.
“You don’t want this,” Logan tells him in a pained tone. Please, leave me alone.
“You’re right, I don’t,” the man replies and Logan nearly breathes a sigh of relief before the bastard whips out a gun, holding the barrel to his forehead before Logan can even blink. “And you don’t want this,” he continues, “Unless you want to take a deep breath through your fucking forehead, I suggest you reconsider.”
Logan stares at him in shock. Smile, read the letters around the barrel of the gun, Wait for the flash.
“Let’s go, Peanut,” the stranger tells him, his voice a tone lower, more threatening now. It stirs something in Logan. A slight buzz of adrenaline fills his veins and his limbs tingle with anticipation. This fucking bastard, hunting him down from God-knows-where, interrupting Logan’s drinking time and threatening him with a gun to the forehead…
Logan can already imagine a hundred different, creative ways to kill him.
Logan hasn’t felt this alive in years.
The man in the mask stares him down and it makes Logan’s lips twitch in amusement. He leans forward, his forehead pressing into the barrel of the gun and a soft laugh shakes his frame.
Well, Logan thinks as he slowly grins up at the stranger, What can you do, then?