100 Degrees Celsius
Logan had gone walking through the woods with the intention of doing a perimeter check and getting some alone time. Stop himself from snapping at anyone. Good intentions.
The road to hell was paved with ‘em, he heard.
Now it was the middle of the day and Logan was shitfaced, almost-empty bottle of whiskey in hand, having tore his way through most of the liquor that was supposed to be lasting him the next few days, maybe help him get some sleep. He got three or four hours on the floor of the house, and that had been his first in… two days? Three? More?
He'd been as busy as Scott recently, if not more. Not that you'd hear him whining about it. That did mean, though, that he was getting even less sleep than usual. Even his healing factor had its limits, and he knew it was getting to him. Irritable, stressed, strung out. What was he supposed to do about it? He was everyone's go-to for dangerous shit. Like a set of keys, no one wanted to leave the house without him. He couldn't say no when he was needed.
Logan was unsteady on his feet moving through the trees. Objectively speaking, this was stupid and a bad idea. However, he wasn't ready to admit to himself that he was only there because he didn't want to hear people complaining about his drinking, and he couldn't think of a sober way to deal with his other self seething in his direction with his arm wrapped around Scotty that didn't end in blood.
When ‘Ro had cornered him in the garage, she said he should forgive the other Logan. Well, more specifically, she said he should “forgive himself,” which he took some offense to, but couldn't argue with. He was no Xavier, no Elf. If she wanted someone who could forgive him for his worst, she could go to them. Someone around here had to keep people accountable.
Then she told him to forgive Scott. And, well, that was a whole other beast, wasn't it?
Logan was a ways away from the cabin. He knew full well that he shouldn't be out there, and that someone was going to come looking for him. He just thought he'd be able to smell them coming a bit sooner.
He heard a body moving through the trees before he caught their scent, which startled him something fierce. Closer than he would have noticed it normally, too. He chalked it up to the alcohol.
Logan slowed and remained silent to wait for their approach to let them think he hadn't noticed. He tried harder to sniff them out, but wasn't picking anything up over the stench of booze all over him, which pissed him off further.
Only once the other entity was close enough did he turn to face them, where he realized right away why he didn't pick up on another scent coming.
“Are you drunk right now?” the other him accused with barely-contained rage.
His anger flared. “So? Fuck do you care?”
“I care when I go to get a charger from the van and find half a dozen empty liquor bottles instead.” The other him stomped closer, his nostrils flared. “It's been what, a day? Weren't you all mad ‘cause we're waiting around instead of fighting? Who the hell are you going to help like this?”
Logan laughed loud. “I'm helping a hell of a lot more than you are- than you can.” he corrected himself with a drunk stutter and a gesture of the bottle, and his reflection’s eyes narrowed. “Why don't you run along and go play house with Scotty some more, huh?”
“You're a pathetic fucking mess, you know that?” the older man kept on closing the distance, only a few feet between them now. “Wanna know why Scott spends his time with me? Hell, why everyone does? I ain't shit.” he spat. “Try looking in the mirror. They're sick of you.”
A growl rose in Logan's throat and his claws slid out. “Yeah? You think I'm the jealous one? ‘Cause I heard all about how Red stayed gone here.” His other self shifted in alarm. “Not surprising, that's the only reason anyone would end up with a useless fucking waste of anyone's fucking time like us. How does that feel, huh? Being the consolation prize?”
Logan got socked in the face for that, and it was all the invitation he needed.
He hunched, ready to strike, and the other him did the same. Logan sneered and forced his claws back in to even the playing field. It was a wordless insult to his other self’s ability, and the bared teeth grimacing back at him told him that his message was received.
He pounced shoulder-first. Rather than try to bear the oncoming force, the other him took the hit as he swiveled to the side. The change in direction of his momentum effectively threw Logan off, sending him to all fours as he skidded.
Logan ran back at him without hesitation. They traded punches to the body, Logan coming at his older self with incredible force that the other him had no choice but to dodge to the best of his ability. He retaliated by sneaking blows in in the gaps that followed his drunken lack of coordination. This older Logan fought way differently than him; with no mutant powers, he had to play it safe and avoid hits that Logan with healing would have taken without issue.
He could tell right away that his other self had sharpened his moves, brute force traded for attacks that leaned more martial than his own, with focus on redirecting motion and aiming for openings with precision. Sober, Logan would have been able to adapt, but in his current state he was only capable of pushing forward harder.
But a drunk Wolverine was still a fucking problem and a half. His other self got good hits in, but he was stuck on the defense. One of Logan’s fists collided with his other self’s face and pure, cleansing rage cracked out from inside him. Logan grew more aggressive, more impassioned, the elbow blow to his neck spurring him on further.
And then there was a sharp pain in his gut and blood in his throat. His other self had a sparking fervor in his eyes, and Logan knew he was giving in, too.
Logan felt something between a smile and a sneer spread across his own face, and a laugh gurgled out through the blood as a mean snarl was bared back at him. But he knew that look. The knife in his gut twisted, and was removed by way of being slashed out through the layers of muscle and guts.
Logan stumbled back and let it heal. There was a hunting knife in his alternate self’s hand, now bloodied. The pain was igniting something awful, something wonderful in him. He had been itching all over for an outlet like this, and was rapidly losing the good sense not to take it.
They were back on each other, the other him now stabbing and slashing in response to Logan’s increasingly ferocious attacks. His blood covered them both, hot and sticky, and his other self’s unrestrained yells rang in his ears. His control was teetering as the sounds and smells rang bells in head that sent his better self careening out of grasp.
The other him launched the blade at his throat and Logan's instincts- slowed by the alcohol- didn’t kick in in time to stop it. It was plunged into the side of his neck, and its retraction sent a spray of blood across the other him like spray paint. The fucker cried out as he pulled back, not even trying to hide the battle-hungry pleasure in his contorted face.
Did you miss it, old man?
The pain was the push on his creaking, bowing resolve. Anger took him over. The animal in him barked at the end of its chain, about to pull the stake out from the ground.
He leapt forward and rammed into the other him hard, pinning his back against a tree. The older man yowled in pain and plunged his blade repeatedly into the base of Logan's neck, and with that Logan's own cries joined him. They faded to sick, manic laughter on Logan’s own end.
“Look at you!” Logan yelled as he kept him pinned. The other him pulled the knife out and stabbed him several more times in the back and neck with a crazed howl.
“You think you're better than me? Better than this?!” Logan continued, his own voice sounding foreign to his ears. “You wanna pretend like you're all better now?!” hands occupied with forcing the other man against the tree, he headbutted him in the nose. Only one of them had the adamantium in their skull to bear the brunt with dignity.
“You're NOTHING!” Logan screamed in his face.
A knife made contact with a lung and knocked the air out. Teeth were on Logan’s throat, they dug in and tore out and the air wheezed wretchedly as it entered his windpipe directly. His hand flew up instinctively to cover it. A few more rapid shanks hit his torso, and the other him wrenched Logan's free arm behind his back and twisted him around, sending the blood from his jugular spraying out across the ground like a hose. A kick to his lower back sent him stumbling forward.
“Do you fucking hear yourself right now?!” the other him shouted, holding a hand beneath his bleeding nose. “You sound like fucking Creed, you dickhead!”
It didn't matter that he was right, because his goal was to hurt Logan and he was achieving it. All higher functioning was starting to peel back, leaving only rage, rage, and rage.
The claws were out. He lunged forward and missed the other him’s ducking shoulder by an inch, splintering gouges into the tree behind him. A scream tore through his throat that he almost couldn't hear over his own anger, equal parts hostile and euphoric as he finally had some kind of release from everything he’d been keeping pent up. There were about three seconds of mutual panting to catch their breath before they were on each other again, the other him missing a surge forward with the knife and taking a three-clawed slash to the back as a result.
He had to use his words while he was still able to. He could feel himself slipping away, but he wasn't ready yet. He wanted to dig them both in deeper, hurt him like Logan was hurting.
“Don't take the fucking moral highground with me. You don't give a shit about us!” one of Logan’s claws nicked his other self’s bicep on his next attack. “As long as your Scotty’s safe, who cares how many of us are killed? Is that it?!”
The other him dodged a punch but took a knee to the side. He was quick enough on the rebound to get his knife between Logan’s ribs, but a gash to the forearm forced him to retract.
“Fuck off!” the other him spat through the nose blood dripping down his mouth.
“‘They're from another universe, so it doesn't count’?” He was taunting him relentlessly, saying whatever he had to to push him further. He wanted him to look as mad as Logan felt. “It won’t even matter! You can't do jack shit to protect them! It’s the only fucking thing we’ve ever been good for, and you can’t even do that!”
His words were hitting their mark, he could see it in his eyes. The other him was breathing hard, trying to recuperate while Logan cut deeper, watching from his distance.
“There's only one good thing you got on me.” Logan breathed, manic to his own ears. “You can die.”
The other him darted forward. Logan moved to block his neck from next move, but the other him managed to juke and lodge the knife directly in his eye socket.
The last shred of Logan left with the animalistic roar that echoed all around him.
After that was blood, sweat, and pain. He was so hot inside that he felt needles all over his skin. Energy rippled through his core and out to his claws where they tore dirt, tree, body, dirt, clothes, body.
Sight was becoming little more than motion-based as his focus dialed in completely. Every crunch and snap of leaves, every heartbeat and panted breath, every swish through the air and shifting of weight, grunting and shouting, it blared in his ears. There were smells all around him, but the only one that mattered was the blood. There was no room for thought, it was sensory input to twitch-muscle output.
All he wanted was to hurt.
Time passed, but he had no idea how long, it didn't matter.
At some point, he forced to a sudden halt by being knocked back harder than expected. A force slammed him painfully against a tree, sending him to his knees.
And then he got cold. Real, real cold, all over. He couldn't move. He pulled and thrashed but his body wasn't moving and getting colder.
Voices. Voices in front of him. Enemies. With a surge of strength, he broke his limbs free and tried to attack. A burst of smell behind him, so familiar. He couldn't reach the new bodies behind him, and his arms were wrenched painfully behind his back and immobilized again. Cold. He went numb from the waist down.
He growled and screamed and writhed against his restraints, but he was making no progress. The panic served only to make him sloppier, less effective.
Arms and legs held down, it conjured memories of sterile rooms, cold tables, sharp scalpels. He thought of needles and beeping and pain. Pain. He couldn't escape it. He never would.
A snarl ripped through his throat. He gnashed his teeth.
Something like warm hands placed themselves on him. Not on his body, but inside his head. It felt familiar and calm, but he didn't want to be calm. He needed to escape. He whipped his head violently back and forth to try to clear the presence. It hurt his neck.
There was a body in front of him, a hand reaching out. He tried to bite it, but his teeth missed with a clack.
“He’s too far gone.”
He recognized those words, but the meaning was lost on him. That was all he caught, the rest of the voices falling back to a muddle in his foggy mind.
His arms broke free again, but a sudden feeling around his neck startled him to stillness. It was soft. Gentle.
The smell, he knew it. It was awful. It was rotting eggs. It was… brimstone? No, what…
He tried to shake it off. He was confused, upset. He growled.
Other smells came into definition. Something homely and strong, something else gentle and sweet.
The voices were quieter now. In the rhythm of sounds, he heard the same thing repeating.
Logan.
It drew something out of him, from deep below the anger and noise. A trail of words, an inner monologue, floating back up to the surface.
Kitten, it told him. Rogue. Elf. You don't hurt them.
You don't hurt them.
Logan was let go and his face fell in the dirt. It was sticking to the blood and sweat there and getting his open, panting mouth. His heart was pounding in his ears and a growl was dying in his throat.
He could smell he was in a forest. He tried to lift his head, but it was heavy, like he was waking up.
The light hurt Logan’s eyes, forcing him to to squint. In front of him, he made out the shapes of Anna Marie, Kitty, and Kurt. They were crouched on the ground in front of him and watching him closely. His entire body was buzzing.
“Wh-” he tried to speak, but it was like puling himself out of molasses. He had to stop and swallow, trapping dirt. His voice was shaky and his mouth was full of blood. He didn't know why. “What's going on?”
Instead of an answer, he got arms around his neck and on his back as he was embraced by multiple people at once. Logan flinched at the contact, but was powerless to fight it and rapidly losing the desire to. The cool of their skin against his was nice. He couldn't tell exactly whose hands were where, but Kitty was at one shoulder and Kurt was hanging off the other. Logan's face was situated somewhere between one of the fuzzy blue arms and Rogue’s chest, the latter of whom was cradling his head. All of them smelled of adrenaline and fear.
He picked up more scents. Cold air, sweat, cotton. Musk, aftershave. Bobby and Scott.
Logan tried to look around, but he had to keep squeezing his eyes shut from the combined disorientation and bright daylight.
One pair of hands pulled away.
“You can let him go.” said Kitty.
“You sure?” said Bobby.
“He's talking. Let him go.” said Scott. Angry. Logan felt like he should know why, but couldn't recall.
The cold was replaced by a light cooling sensation, then warmth again. With his arms free, Logan tried to support himself on his hands, but the fading effects of adrenaline were being replaced with exhaustion. He fell further into the hold of Rogue and Kurt.
“Here.” said Kitty, putting her hands back on his arm. Turns out he couldn't move his legs because they were in the ground; she had phased him into it up to the waist. She raised him back out, but he wasn't able to steady himself in time to become solid.
The three of them caught him and Kurt pulled him into a hug to help ease him up onto his hands and knees. Logan couldn't for the life of him figure out what he'd done to earn this kindness.
Able to keep his eyes open at last, he looked at the trees around them. He didn't recognize any of it. Bobby and Scott were standing back a ways, but the other three were surrounding him, Kitty on her feet and Kurt and Rogue with their hands still on him in an act of both physical and emotional support. Everyone was watching him.
“Where am I?” he hazarded the question, and wasn't surprised by the worried and alarmed looks that were exchanged by his companions. He didn't have to think in it long to figure out he'd lost control hard, but he didn't couldn’t remember why. He didn't smell anyone he didn't recognize.
Everyone was looking between each other to see who would answer first. Logan's chest tightened, and he prayed he didn't hurt anyone he didn't mean to. Or worse.
“We're at a cabin, in another universe.” Scott’s voice was curt.
Logan focused his vision on a stick on the ground and tried to orient himself while everything came back to him slowly. He knew he should extract himself from Kurt's hold, but he could feel his body trembling.
“You got in a fight with the other Logan here. It got pretty serious.” Scott said slowly.
“Oh.” his voice was small. Flashes of violence jogged his memory. It was returning in pieces. “Is… is he okay?”
There was silence. His chest tightened.
“Please.” his words came out in a begging whisper. He had to close his eyes again. “Tell me he's okay.”
Rogue’s arms returned around his neck. “He's alive, sugah. Just beat up and a little bloody.”
Logan released the breath he was holding with a shudder.
“He’ll be fine.” added Kitty, hand on his shoulder. “He's you, after all.”
Logan shook his head.
“I didn't mean… I didn't-...” the words stopped coming out. Getting in a mutual fight was one thing, trying to hurt each other was one thing. Completely losing control of himself was another. If it was someone else, they could have been killed.
His other self really did have every right to hate him, and so did every one of his friends.
Logan was stuck in place. He had no idea where to go or what to do from there. His instincts were telling him to run away and put as much distance as he could between himself and anyone else he could hurt, but his legs were like jelly, and if Kurt and Anna Marie decided to let him go he'd probably fall right back down again.
He wanted to ask what was wrong with him, but he already knew.