Chapter 4
Scott wandered out of the kitchen, his thoughts spinning as he made his way toward Jean. She was seated at a table with Kurt, chatting and finishing her meal, while Ororo and Hank sat nearby. Their conversation continued in soft tones, but the moment Scott approached, something in the air shifted.
Jean looked up from her conversation, her smile fading as soon as she saw his face. There was no need for words, she knew something was off. Kurt paused mid-sentence; his usual cheer tempered by the silent tension that seemed to radiate from Scott. Hank and Ororo sat up, sensing there was something wrong. Scott sank into the chair beside Jean, his movements heavy, a dazed expression on his face.
"Scott, are you alright?" Jean asked, concern lacing her voice as she leaned closer.
“I. . . I think I messed up.” Scott admitted quietly, his gaze distant.
Jean gently took his hand. "What happened?"
Scott swallowed hard, trying to piece together the right words. “Logan came back down a few minutes ago, I just wanted to talk to him about what he said. I didn’t mean to. . .”
Hank let out a soft sigh, “Did you two get in another fight?”
Scott hesitated; his shock still palpable as he looked around the table at his teammates. “I’m not sure? But I think,” He trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper, “I think I made Logan cry.”
“Cry, what do you mean?” Ororo asked, her voice worried. She leaned forward slightly, her sharp gaze fixed on Scott, though her tone remained steady, as if trying to make sense of something that didn’t quite fit the image of Logan they all knew.
“I mean, he looked at me, and there were tears in his eyes!” Scott ran a hand through his hair, clearly rattled. “I made the man cry! I’ve never seen him be anything other than angry or flirty!”
His words hung in the air, thick with disbelief, and before anyone could respond, Scott stood abruptly. The restless energy that had been building inside him exploded out into motion as he began pacing up and down the length of the table, his steps quick and erratic. His shoulders were tense, and his brow furrowed deeply, as if he could walk away from the thoughts crowding his mind. Jean, Hank, and Ororo exchanged glances, each silently processing the enormity of what Scott had just admitted. Logan, theWolverine, tearing up? It was unthinkable.
Jean gently tugged on her husband’s hand, stopping him from pacing again. "Okay, calm down, Scott. Tell me exactly what you said."
"I was just trying to tell him that he’s an important part of the team. I don’t understand why he reacted like that!"
"Is that exactly what you said?" Jean asked, her voice soft but firm.
Scott hesitated, his brow furrowing. "Well, no. Logan was talking about how he was just the spearhead, a tool for the team. And I told him he wasn’t a tool. That’s when he growled at me and took off."
Jean's gaze softened slightly, but she remained focused. "What exactly did he say about being the spearhead?"
Scott sighed, running his hand through his hair again. “He made it sound like he’s just a weapon." Scott’s voice grew more agitated as he spoke, frustration bleeding into his words. "And I told him he’s more than that. I didn’t mean to upset him!"
He resumed pacing, his steps quick and restless, his mind still trying to process how a conversation meant to reassure Logan had spiraled so far out of control. After a few steps, he spun around, his tone sharper now. "Did any of you know Logan has a tooth that faces inward?"
Ororo exchanged a bewildered look with Jean, clearly unsure how that was relevant. Hank, however, nodded calmly. "Yes, it’s noted in his medical file."
Scott blinked, caught off guard by the casual response. "Wait, really?"
Hank adjusted his glasses. "Indeed. It’s a unique trait, tied to his mutation. A few animal species have inward-facing molars, so it makes sense given his adaptive biology."
Scott opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it, realizing the conversation had veered far from the point.
Ororo huffed in irritation, crossing her arms. "Can we get back on track, please? The main issue is that Logan is upset, not his usual angry upset, but upset enough to make him tear up. So, let’s go over what he said today. He claimed he’s the human shield of the team. Do any of you agree with that?"
Immediately, Hank, Scott, and Jean began talking over each other in a rush to deny that they saw Logan that way. The words spilled out, overlapping, voices almost panicked at the idea that Logan, of all people, could believe such a thing.
Ororo raised her hand, her calm presence slicing through the chaos. "Enough," she said, her voice firm but composed. The room fell silent, the tension still thick in the air. She let the silence sit for a moment, her gaze moving slowly between them before she continued.
"Alright, let’s break this down," she said, her tone more measured. "Let’s go over our last mission. Who went in first?"
Scott hesitated before sinking back into his chair, the weight of the question pressing down on him. His shoulders slumped forward as he stared at the table, his voice barely a murmur. "Logan," he muttered.
"And why?" Ororo pressed.
Scott hesitated before answering, guilt weighing heavy in his voice. "He’s the best way to test the combatants' abilities."
"Yes, but why?" Ororo asked, her voice firmer, pushing him to confront the truth.
Scott swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He glanced up at her, but the answer weighed too heavily on him to hold her gaze. Instead, his eyes dropped back to the table, unable to escape the truth he’d never even considered. His voice cracked when he spoke again, the confession raw and unsteady. "Because… because he can take a hit we can’t. I-I send him in to get injured."
Scott buried his face in his hands, his voice trembling with the weight of his realization. "Christ, I have been using him as a shield for the team! I just figured, since he can heal and doesn’t feel pain-"
“Wait, what did you just say?” Hank interrupted; his voice sharp with disbelief. His usually calm demeanor cracked.
Scott looked up, confused by the intensity in Hank’s tone. "I said... because he can heal and doesn’t feel pain," Scott repeated slowly, the words sounding wrong even as they left his lips. His confusion only deepened at the look on Hank’s face, pale beneath the soft blue fur, eyes wide with something close to alarm.
Hank glanced quickly at Jean and Ororo, who exchanged equally confused looks. Neither of them seemed to understand why Hank’s reaction was so intense.
“Who on earth told you that?” Hank demanded
“No one told me. I just. . . assumed since he’s always getting injured and never reacts.” Scott said slowly, horror starting to settle in, “Are you saying he can feel pain? Feel it like we do?!”
Scott felt nauseous suddenly. “He gets shot nearly every mission! I’ve been shot once, and it was the most painful thing I’ve ever felt!”
“Well,” Hank began, his voice measured but grim, “It wouldn’t be quite like how we experience pain. He would feel it, yes, but once the wound heals, the pain would disappear with it. That said, Logan’s adrenaline during battle likely dampens some of the immediate pain. . . but it doesn’t mean he’s immune to it. The only way to know the full extent of what he feels would be to ask him.”
Scott stumbled to his feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he pushed back from the table. His face was ashen, drained of color, and his hands trembled slightly as he braced them on the edge of the table. The familiar visor concealed his eyes, but the stunned shock in his voice was unmistakable. “I-I need to go speak with him. God, all those times I sent him in, not knowing. . . what kind of leader. . .” His voice trailed off, unable to complete the thought, the weight of guilt pressing down on him like a tidal wave.
Without waiting for anyone’s response, Scott turned on his heel and quickly left the room, his only focus now on finding Logan.
He rushed back to the kitchen and out the door Logan had left. There was no immediate sign of him, so Scott made for the stairs, heading towards Logan’s room. It didn’t take long for Scott to reach Logan’s door. His hand hovered over the wood for a moment before he knocked. He waited, listening for movement inside. There was a moment of silence, then the sound of shuffling footsteps. The door creaked open, and Logan stood in the doorway, staring up at Scott with a familiar gruff expression. Logan’s eyes were slightly red, but there were no fresh tears. Scott could see the exhaustion etched into his features, the irritation simmering just beneath the surface.
Logan huffed, clearly annoyed by the interruption. “I’ve talked to you more today than I usually do in a week,” he grumbled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “What do you want, Slim?”
Scott’s heart pounded in his chest, the adrenaline from his guilt and fear pushing him to speak before he had time to think. The words burst out, sharp and urgent, almost too loud for the quiet hallway. “Are you in pain?!”
Logan blinked, actually stepping back in surprise. He raised an eyebrow, eyeing Scott warily. “What? No? What the hell are ya yellin' about?”
Scott inhaled deeply, trying to tamp down the rising panic that made his voice crack. He was losing control of the situation, of himself, and he knew it. He took a breath, trying to force his words to come out more calmly, more reasonably, but the urgency was still there, just beneath the surface. “I’m sorry. I. . . I was under the impression that you didn’t feel pain. Hank just corrected me, and-” he stumbled slightly, catching his breath, “I wanted to check on you after yesterday’s mission. Are you. . . are you okay?”
“I don’t feel pain,” Logan said flatly.
“What? But Hank said-”
“Look, forget what Hank said. I think I would know. I don’t feel pain, not like you lot do,” Logan interrupted, his tone dismissive.
“But you do feel it?” Scott pressed.
Logan sighed heavily, clearly tired of the conversation. “Look, Scott. I do feel it, but for no more than half a second. It’s there and gone before I’ve had time to even fully comprehend it, let alone actually feel it.”
Scott stared at Logan, still unsure, his eyes searching for something more in Logan’s expression. Logan, catching the look, rolled his eyes in exasperation. Without saying a word, he lifted his fist in front of Scott’s face.
"Watch," Logan muttered.
Scott watched closely as Logan extended his claws. The process was slow, deliberate, and for the first time, Scott saw what he had always known but never truly understood. Logan’s knuckles split open, the skin tearing from the inside as the sharp, metallic blades pushed through, their edges gleaming under the dim light. The sight made Scott wince involuntarily. It wasn’t just the violence of the action, it was the rawness of it. The way the skin seemed to stretch and split, how the blood welled up for a brief moment before the flesh immediately began to heal around the blades.
Logan stood there, holding his fist out with the claws fully extended. Scott’s eyes remained locked on the torn skin around the base of the blades, watching as it knit itself back together but stayed open just enough to allow the claws to protrude from his hand. The skin didn’t close fully until Logan retracted the blades, the adamantium sliding back into place within his forearm with a soft, metallic sound. Scott watched in stunned silence as the wounds sealed seamlessly, the skin knitting itself back together as if nothing had ever happened.
It was a brutal and almost impossible thing to witness up close. For years, Scott had seen Logan extend and retract his claws in the heat of battle, but never like this, never so slowly. His mind raced, struggling to process what he had just seen. Every time Logan extended his claws, he was stabbing himself. Scott had known that, intellectually, but seeing it up close, watching the skin tear and heal, the blood and the sheer violence of the motion, it was different. It was real.
“And that didn’t hurt?” Scott asked, his voice quieter, more careful now.
“Not really,” Logan said with a shrug. “There and gone too fast to feel. I’m fine, Cyke. I swear.”
“Is there a wound that does make you feel pain?”
“Not much. I mean, being crushed wouldn’t be too fun, but I don’t plan on being in any collapsed buildings anytime soon.” Logan said with a dismissive shrug.
Scott hesitated; his voice softer. “And. . . and the crying? Don’t try to tell me you weren’t! I saw you, Logan.”
Logan shifted uncomfortably, looking away and scratching at the scruff on his face. “Just tired. Haven’t slept well these past few days, guess it finally caught up to me,” He didn’t meet Scott’s eyes as he said it, clearly hoping that would be enough to drop the subject.
But Scott wasn’t buying it. He frowned, his gaze sharpening as he recognized the deflection for exactly what it was, an obvious dodge, and not a very convincing one at that. Logan was usually better at hiding behind his tough exterior, but Scott had caught him off guard this time, and it was harder for Logan to wriggle out of it.
“And what about what you said earlier?”
Logan chuckled briefly, the sound easing some of the tension in the air. “We all got our place on the team, Cyke. I just happen to be up front. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ the first line of defense. I’d rather it be me than someone else who can’t heal like I do.”
Scott paused, searching Logan’s face. “So. . . we’re ok?”
Logan gave him a playful shove to the chest, knocking Scott off balance and causing him to stumble back. "Quit tryin’ to be all emotional and shit,” Logan growled, though there was no malice in his voice, just his usual gruffness. “This ain’t group therapy. Go bother your wife.”
Scott couldn’t help but smile, despite everything. That was as close as Logan would get to saying they were fine. “Alright, Logan. Thanks,” he said, his voice lighter, as if a small weight had been lifted.
Logan didn’t respond, just gave a small grunt in reply before turning back into his room, shutting the door with a firm click.
Scott stood there for a moment longer, letting the tension bleed out of his body. With a final glance at Logan’s closed door, Scott headed down the hallway, his steps quickening as he realized how much time had passed.
He had a class to teach, and it wouldn’t look good for the teacher to be late. Smiling to himself, Scott hurried off, feeling a little lighter than before.
Logan closed the door behind Scott, the sound of the latch clicking into place echoing in the stillness of the room. For a moment, he stood there, his back pressed against the solid wood as if using it to anchor himself. His breath caught in his throat, tension building in his chest until it felt like a physical weight. The seconds ticked by, each one dragging on longer than the last, and he strained his ears, waiting. It wasn’t until he could no longer hear Scott’s footsteps echoing down the hall that he allowed himself to exhale, but instead of relief, the air rushed out of him in a sharp, ragged gasp.
Another followed quickly after, uncontrollable, shaky. Panic crept up on him, slow at first, then all at once, tightening its grip around his chest. His breath came fast, shallow, the room suddenly too small, too quiet. Logan slid to the floor, his legs folding beneath him as he buried his face in his hands, fingers tangling in his hair. His body trembled, his heart racing.
The ghostly pain from yesterday’s bullet wound throbbed beneath his skin, pulsing with every panicked breath. The wound had long since healed, but the nerves echoed the first thing felt as they regenerated, a phantom ache that refused to fade. The bullet was gone, but in that moment, it felt as though it was still lodged deep inside him, twisting in his flesh. He wanted to scream, to call out for Scott, for anyone, to tell them that it hurt, that it never really stopped hurting. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let them see him like this, weak, vulnerable. It was better this way, to keep it locked down, buried deep where no one could see it. Where no one could see him.
His breathing grew quicker, more erratic, each inhale sharp and uneven as if the air itself was being stolen from his lungs. He couldn’t calm himself, couldn’t stop the panic from taking over. The walls seemed to close in on him, pressing in from every side, suffocating. His hands trembled violently, his pulse pounding in his ears as his vision blurred with the force of his hyperventilation. Desperation clawed at his insides, leaving him raw and exposed.
Logan shoved his wrist into his mouth and bit down. Pain shot up his arm and curled around his shoulder, sharp bursts of fire spread down to his fingertips and Logan thought for a moment he could put his hand on the door and burn his handprint into the wood. Blood flooded his mouth as he panted through his teeth around the limb. Blood sprayed each time he breathed out, drool mixing with the gore dripping down his chin and arm. His jaw ached, the muscles trembling as he forced his teeth deeper into the already mangled flesh of his wrist. And still he bit down harder, teeth reaching bone.
There were several loud cracks as his teeth shattered against the unyielding adamantium, splintering with each press down. He kept his wrist locked in place, ignoring the jagged edges of his broken teeth grinding against the metal beneath, fighting to control his frantic breathing, using the pain to ground himself.
His vision blurred, tears and snot dripping down his face to join the disgusting mixture of blood and spit. A stifled sob broke past his lips, so Logan bit down harder to muffle the sound. Blood poured from the torn skin, dripping down his arm and pooling on the floor beneath him. The metallic taste filled his mouth, thick and warm, as his healing factor fought to repair the damage. But the moment the wound began to close, Logan bit down again, his broken teeth grinding on his wrist, forcing the wound back open.
He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, a rapid rhythm against the erratic gasps of air that escaped around his mangled wrist. Slowly, his breaths began to steady, the ragged gulps becoming slower, more controlled and with that the hypocapnia faded.
After what felt like an eternity, Logan loosened his jaw, letting his wrist slip free from his fangs. Blood trickled down his forearm, staining the floor beneath him, but he ignored it. He let his head fall back against the door with a dull thud, closing his eyes as he tried to steady himself. His wrist hung limply at his side, still bleeding, but healing rapidly now that he wasn’t forcing it open. The skin stitched itself back together, pushing out fragments of his shattered teeth in the process.
The room was quiet save for the slow dripping of blood from his chin and the faint sound of his own breathing. He felt hollow, as if someone had scooped out everything inside of him, leaving behind nothing but a shell. He was spent, the act of tearing himself apart had drained the last bit of fight he had left.
His lungs still ached.
Logan closed his eyes, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. He wanted to get up, to move, to clean himself up and pretend none of this had happened, but his body refused to obey. Instead, he stayed there, slumped against the door, his mind spinning in the quiet aftermath.
He had come so close, too close to letting Scott see. To letting anyone see the cracks beneath the surface. The idea of anyone, even Scott, witnessing this. . . this weakness made his skin crawl.
But the truth, the part Logan hated to admit even to himself, was that he wasn’t invincible. Not in the ways that mattered. He could handle bullets, claws, and the worst the world had to throw at him, but this constant gnawing pain, the weight of living through every fight, every loss, every damned moment, it was suffocating. And no amount of healing could fix that.
Logan bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on the here and now. He wasn’t ready to face anyone yet. Not like this. He needed more time, more control.
With a shaky breath, Logan wiped the blood from his chin and wiped his arm on his sleeve, the front of his shirt already stained with blood, spit, and snot. He felt filthy, inside and out, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He glanced at the door he knew Scott had just left through. He wanted to call out to him, but instead, Logan remained silent. The walls were already back up; the moment passed.
Today had started off so normally. No overwhelming agony, no relentless waves of physical pain that usually defined his worst days. Just the normal pain of a day after a mission. But somehow, this day was turning out to be one of the hardest yet, and it wasn’t because of physical pain. It was the emotional weight pressing down on him, suffocating him more than any wound ever could. Why had a simple debriefing, something he’d done a thousand times, left him feeling so raw and exposed? It wasn’t the first time his wounds had been overlooked, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last. So why now? Why was he unraveling over this?
Logan clenched his fists, trying to make sense of the emotions clawing at his insides. His body had been through worse. His mind had endured more. But this? It felt different. Like something had snapped loose inside him, a thread finally worn too thin from years of being stretched beyond its limit.
And it wasn’t the pain of battle that was breaking him this time. It was something deeper. Something he couldn’t fight off with claws or grit his teeth through. Something that had been quietly building for years, and today, after that simple debrief, it had finally decided to try and tear him apart.
Logan closed his eyes again, feeling the hollowness inside him grow. He wanted to fight it, to push it down and move on like he always did. But the truth was, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this. How much longer he could carry the weight of it all without breaking for good.
He stayed on the floor, his back against the door, too tired to move, too hollow to care. And in the quiet, he let the exhaustion wash over him, knowing that, for now, he would just have to survive this, like he survived everything else.
Alone.