there are no more guns in the valley (director's cut)

“Mail call!” Bobby says, tossing a stack of envelopes onto the kitchen counter. 

Ororo sorts through the pile, picking out bills and letters from parents. Kitty grabs her National Geographic, and Jean picks up a thick folder with a piece of string tied around it. 

“Hank wanted me to look over the first draft of his new bill,” she explains when Scott raises an eyebrow at it. 

He grimaces. “Good luck.”

“Hey, Scott, look,” Kitty says suddenly. She pushes a small card towards him. “Hello from the sunny skies of New Mexico,” she reads, smiling. 

Scott swipes the postcard up. He turns it over and smiles when he sees Laura’s neat handwriting filling up the back. 

It has been 209 days in New Mexico. Did you know that? Logan says hi. 

Below that line, a scrawl of letters that Scott recognizes as Logan’s signature. 

Tell Charles to send more books please. We will see you soon. 

She signed her name, just as scribbled as Logan’s, and drew a small sun next to it. He stares at it for a second, his eyes flitting between the signatures, the sun, the cactus gradient that takes up half of the card. Signatures, sun, cactus. He blinks. 

“Well?” Kitty says expectantly, and when he looks up she and Bobby are giving him the same look of bugged-out worry.

“They both say hi,” he says, shrugging, slipping the card into his jeans pocket. 

Everyone smiles and leaves it at that. 

Scott heads to his room, overcome with the sudden need to catch his breath. He clicks his door shut. He takes the postcard out of his pocket and looks at the signatures again, tracing the lines with the pad of his finger. 

Two hundred and nine days. Almost seven months. 

He hasn’t talked to either of them since that day in April. Just a postcard every couple of weeks, all of which have been more or less the same; Laura telling him how many days it’s been since they arrived in New Mexico, and Logan signing at the bottom but never giving any updates himself. He misses them both a ridiculous amount, and it’s been hell not knowing when he’ll be able to call or see them again.

He thinks about it, sometimes. He hovers over Logan’s name in his phone, considering, debating. Open, close, on, off. He never calls. 

Seven months of nothing. He’s really, really tired. 

Someone knocks on his door. He shakes his head, clears his thoughts, and quickly opens his nightstand drawer to put the postcard with the others. 

He is admittedly a bit startled when he opens the door and sees Kitty standing there, arms crossed over her chest, her expression tense and rigid. She doesn’t look at him but instead at the door frame. She reminds him of himself, a little, standing awkwardly in the Professor’s office and working up the nerve to speak. 

“I don’t want to overstep, but you kinda… ran out of the kitchen,” she says, and shrugs. Scott looks down, embarrassed. 

“Sorry about that. Just — got a little overwhelmed, I guess.”

A few silent seconds pass. Kitty doesn’t leave, and it’s clear she wants to say something. She worries her bottom lip with her teeth.  

“You’re not overstepping,” Scott says, voice gentle. She finally flits her eyes over to him, and Scott thinks that, despite her being well into adulthood by now, there is still something indescribably teen-aged on her face. 

“You’re never — you’re my friend, yeah? Even if I’m a thousand years older than you.”

“And very lame,” she chimes in, and her eyes have gone bright and happy. 

He mirrors her grin. “Exactly. I know I haven’t been all — well, yeah. Don’t think you can’t talk to me.” 

Kitty nods. She uncrosses her arms, still looking like she wants to say something, but less like she’s worried it’ll blow up in her face. Scott is distantly regretful that he spent so much of his twenties and thirties being so volatile, so unwilling to compromise when it came to the way he was feeling and the things he did to cope with that. 

He’s since learned how to direct his anger to other channels, so to speak, but he knows a lot of the kids (the kids that aren’t kids anymore, and haven’t been for awhile) still see him like that sometimes: moody, snappy Cyclops who yelled during training and gave out too much homework. 

Asshole, a rough voice in the back of his head says. 

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Kitty says in a rush, a little giddy, a little embarrassed. “And to see Logan again, of course, but — ”

Scott laughs. Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but her nervous smile evens out and she fiddles with the pendant on her necklace. A silver band wrapped around a small blue stone, a present from Rogue for her twenty-first birthday. Scott doesn’t think she’s taken it off since. 

“It shouldn’t be exciting, but it is,” she says a bit sheepishly. 

Scott hums thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s wrong to be excited. She is certainly — ” he hesitates, but settles on, “ — she’s certainly something. I’m sure she can’t wait to meet all of you.”

(Scott thinks about the only postcard Logan didn’t sign, about two and a half months back. Logan doesn’t say hi this time, so I’m saying hi for him. He could sense Laura’s frustration in the angry scratch of her handwriting. It seemed like Logan was finally going to understand what it was like to be on the receiving end of his own brand of stubborn fury.)

The big grandfather clock at the end of the hall chimes. Kitty looks down at the watch on her wrist. She mumbles shit, and looks back to Scott. 

“Sorry,” she apologizes, “I have class in five. I’ll see you at lunch!”

She gives him a wave and heads off. Bobby catches her in the hall, and Scott rolls his eyes as they bend their heads together to whisper. 

He quickly glances over at his alarm clock, because if Kitty has class in five minutes that means he, also, has class in five minutes. 

“Shit,” he mumbles, and heads off down the hall. 

—

Scott is in the rec room watching Colossus absolutely destroy Bobby in darts after classes are done for the day when his phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket without looking, because Bobby chucks a dart too hard and it lands in the wall. The three of them wince in unison. 

“Hello?” he says, turning away from the group. 

“Hey, Scotty,” Logan says on the other end. Scott freezes. “How ya been?”

Scott shuts his eyes for a quick moment so he doesn’t yell. Fuck you, he says wildly in his head, taking a deep breath. Fuck you you fucking son of a bitch. 

“Seven months,” Scott hisses as quietly as he can. “Seven months of radio fucking silence, and that’s what you open with?”

“Laura sends postcards,” Logan reminds him, like that’s what Scott means at all. He takes another deep breath, and grinds his teeth for a second while he thinks. He’s somewhat aware that the other two have quieted down, standing awkwardly next to the hole in the wall and pretending to talk about it. 

“Is everything alright?” Scott says finally, briefly terrified. 

But Logan just snorts. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

“Fuck off,” Scott says, automatic, fond. 

“I called ya up because, uh — I need a favor.”

Scott chuckles but it comes out bitter and harsh. “Last time I did you a favor — ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan grumbles. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Scott murmurs. Logan laughs, and Scott takes a second to appreciate how good it is to hear from him, even if he’s still managing to piss him off over the phone. “What do you need?”

“I need you to come and watch Laura tonight.”

Scott closes his eyes again in frustration. “You do realize that you guys are more than a day’s drive away, right? The air still isn’t safe.”

“Of course I know that,” Logan says angrily. “Get that blue son of a bitch to pop you over here. Now, preferably.”

“I can’t do that!” Scott says, exasperated. Bobby and Piotr finally look at him, concern written all over their faces. He waves them off. 

“Logan, you have to tell me what’s going on. And don’t just fucking hang up on — ”

Logan hangs up on him. 

“So,” Bobby says, and Scott clenches his fist because he knows that it is morally wrong and against school code to slap his colleague, “Logan called?” 

“Yes,” Scott says through his teeth. “Logan called.”

Piotr whistles sympathetically, and Bobby nods solemnly. Scott stalks off to find the Professor. 

Ororo is in his office when Scott barges in. She’s rifling through his filing cabinet, and he’s reading a book. He looks at Scott, face mild, while Ororo whips her head to the side, startled. 

“Fuck,” she exhales. 

The infuriating phone call with Logan leaves his mind for a moment, because he is briefly shocked at Ororo saying fuck in front of the Professor. 

“Language,” he scolds, and she rolls her eyes. 

“I take it from your sudden entrance that Logan called,” Charles says at last, closing his book. 

“Yes,” Scott says. “He said he needed me to come watch Laura tonight.”

“And?” 

“And? That’s ridiculous! He doesn’t get to ask people to drop everything for him, especially if he isn’t willing to tell us what’s going on!”

“The only person Logan asks that of is you, Scott,” Charles reminds him, and it is both insulting and mortifying to hear him say. “And I don’t think I need to remind you of the history behind his reasoning.”

Scott nods. He really doesn’t. 

“It sounds like he needs your help,” Charles continues. “I suppose he suggested Kurt take you?”

Scott nods again. 

“Well then. What’s the problem?”

“The problem, Professor, is that — ”

“Just go, Scott,” Ororo interrupts. She has three manila folders under her arm, and she’s looking at him like he’s stupid. “If he needs your help, you should go.”

“But why bother me?”

She and Charles exchange a look, and Scott wonders when they started doing that, having secret conversations over peoples’ heads. 

Charles sighs. “I don’t know what Logan plans to do, exactly — though if my suspicions are correct I can’t say I’m thrilled about the course of action he’s chosen — but his window of opportunity must be closing, and I assure you, Scott, he will do what he believes he needs to whether you agree to watch Laura or not.”

Scott isn’t sure what to say. Charles seems to recalculate, and he fixes Scott with a knowing, firm look. “Don’t think of it as helping Logan. Think of it as protecting Laura.”

He can’t argue with that, of course, and he sighs, resigned. “Alright. Fuck. Yeah, alright,” he mumbles. 

“Language,” Ororo says. He scowls at her. 

“And don’t pry, Scott,” Charles says as he starts to leave. 

“But — ”

“You and I both know that Logan only reveals what he is ready to reveal. From what he said in our most recent conversation, I’ve come to think that he simply doesn’t want to be talked out of this. I suspect we will all know, soon enough.”

“Okay,” Scott says, and he has a hand on the doorknob before he stops, turns again. “Your most recent conversation?”

“Yes. He calls me about once a week, if I had to guess. Though, they’ve been more infrequent as of late — ”

Scott doesn’t hear Charles' grand theory on why Logan has begun to grow distant these last few weeks, because he promptly turns around and walks out of the room. Storm calls after him, once, and he ignores her. 

Once a week. Once a week. 

Whatever it is that Logan is trying to do, trying to tell him — he’s had it. He’ll go watch Laura, and then — well, that will be that, won’t it? Logan has made it clear enough that he doesn’t want to talk to any of the rest of them, and that’s just fine by Scott. 

Just fine. 

He finds Kurt in the library, hanging upside down from a curtain rod and reading. 

“Hey,” he calls. Kurt looks up at him, then poofs to where he’s standing. “I need a favor.”

“Yes?” Kurt asks. 

“I need you to take me to New Mexico. Right now.”

Kurt considers this. He puts a hand on his chin like he’s really thinking. “And why do you need me to do that?” 

Scott sighs. “Logan wants me to babysit Laura. I don’t know what for, but I think I have to.”

Kurt nods. He raises his arms up over his head, stretching, and rolls his neck until it cracks. 

“Do you need to pack?” 

Scott pats the front of his jeans, finds his phone and his wallet where they always are. He shrugs. 

“I don’t think so.”

“Alright, mein freund. Hold on.”

Kurt puts a hand on his shoulder, holding tight, and Scott nods. He shuts his eyes. 

Teleporting isn’t something Scott thinks he will ever get used to. It feels like being suspended in midair, and he always awaits the inevitable plummet to Earth. The drop of his stomach, the weightlessness of his limbs. 

But then his feet touch solid ground, and he opens his eyes. He’s in Logan’s living room. Laura is on the couch. She looks at them, not startled but more in awe.

“Hey, Laura,” Scott breathes out, only then realizing he had been holding his breath. Next to him, Kurt looks a little queasy, but he smiles at Laura all the same. 

“So, this is the Laura I’ve been hearing all about?” he says cheerily, and a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “How nice it is to meet you! I am Kurt Wagner!”

Laura nods, and gives Kurt a small wave. Logan steps into the room from the kitchen and her smile drops. She turns back to the television. 

“I’ll be back sometime tonight,” Logan says instead of hello. “We usually eat around seven. Keys to the truck are on the counter.”

“You got her running?” Scott says, because it is for some reason the only thing that comes to mind. 

“Finished it up yesterday.” He grins, but it’s sharp and awkward around the edges. “Told you I’d call.”

Scott rolls his eyes. 

Logan goes and sits by Laura on the couch. She doesn’t look at him. He turns to her, eyebrows furrowed like he’s thinking. “I’ll be back, kiddo, I promise. You wanted to see Scott again, yeah? Well, here he is.”

She whispers something tight and furious in Spanish, and he makes a face. 

“Behave, alright? See ya soon.” He stands, and ruffles her hair. 

“Fellas,” Logan says, nodding. He walks past them and out the front door. A car starts, and drives off. Scott blinks. 

“Scott,” Kurt says, but he sounds very, very far away. Scott is vaguely aware that his hands have clenched themselves into fists, and that Laura has perked up, alert. “May I speak with you in the kitchen, please?”

Scott wants to tell him that Laura will be able to hear them, anyways. He doesn’t. He lets Kurt drag him into the kitchen by his bicep. 

“Should we go after him? Make sure he is not in danger?” Kurt says quietly. 

“No,” Scott shakes his head. “Let him do what he wants. He’ll be fine.”

Kurt looks at him like he knows, and Scott pushes that thought away, the rough wheeze of Logan’s voice and the grey hair overtaking his head. 

“He’ll be fine,” he repeats firmly, because he has to believe it. It has to be true. 

Kurt lets it go. He finds the cups and fills up two glasses of water, handing one to Scott. They stand in the kitchen for a minute more, silent, thinking, until Kurt sets his glass down and claps his hands together. 

“As much as I’d love to stay, mein freund, I must be on my way.” 

He strides back into the living room, and Scott follows him. He watches as Kurt extends a hand towards Laura. She takes it, a giddy smile on her face. He half-bows and gives her hand one firm shake, and she giggles, bending her head in return. 

Kurt steps back, putting one hand behind his back and the other up in a wave, giving Scott and Laura a brilliant smile. 

“Goodbye!” he salutes, and with another flash, he is gone. 

Scott and Laura look at each other. He moves to sit next to her on the couch.

“What are you watching?”

—

Dinner is spaghetti with jar sauce. Laura eats her whole serving and even helps Scott do the dishes. 

She switches between watching television (reruns of old sitcoms, ones that Scott recognizes from his own childhood) and reading. He tilts his head to the side to read the title running along the spine of her book: The Secret Garden. 

“Is it any good?” he asks, tipping his head towards the book even though Laura isn’t looking at him. She just nods, eyes still on the page. 

They settle into a comfortable silence for a few hours. The light in the living room slowly shifts from bright yellow to burning gold, the shadows growing longer as the minutes pass. Scott doesn’t know what time Laura should be in bed but he trusts her to tell him. He has a feeling she’ll want to stay up until Logan gets back, and he braces himself for the upcoming argument, one he knows he will lose. 

He doesn’t get the chance to lose it, though; all of a sudden he wakes up, and the living room is dark, save for the blue glow of the television. For a second Scott thinks he’s back in a hotel in North Dakota and the last seven months were all one painfully detailed dream. 

But then he feels the crick in his neck and, more importantly, the weight of Laura on his shoulder. He looks down and sees her sleeping face, her soft features illuminated in the dark. She looks calmer, the way Logan does when he’s asleep, less furrowing of the eyebrows, less irritated downturn of the mouth. 

Scott blinks. She looks a lot like Logan, actually, now that he’s really looking at her, in a way he hadn’t necessarily noticed before. 

He isn’t sure of the time but it doesn’t look like Logan is back yet. He quickly and carefully readjusts so he can slip an arm under Laura’s legs, hoisting her up off of the couch. He holds her to him, and she doesn’t stir except to throw her arms around his shoulders and burrow her face in the crook of his neck. She makes a quiet, tired sound, and he closes his eyes for a second, temporarily overwhelmed. 

He takes her to her room and gently sets her down on her bed. He goes to place a hand on her shoulder, but thinks better of it, some old muscle-memory telling him to reconsider. He pulls his hand back.

“Laura,” he says quietly. “Laura, you should change into your pajamas. And I think you still need to brush your teeth.”

She blinks awake slowly, squinting at him as her eyes adjust to the dim light. She grumbles, but sits up nonetheless, rubbing her eye with the back of her hand. She hops off of her bed and makes her way to the bureau on the opposite wall. Scott leaves her to it. 

He goes and switches the television off, then the fluorescent lights in the kitchen. The room is washed in a strange, dirty glow from the bulb over the stove, casting odd shadows against the linoleum. 

Scott opens the fridge, grabs a beer, and sits down at the table in the chair closest to the window. He adjusts the blinds so that he can see out of them without anyone seeing in, and he waits. 

The clock on the microwave says it is just after one a.m. Something tells him Logan will be back soon. He’s spent enough of his life waiting around for Logan to come home. He just knows these things now, in his bones. It’s only a matter of time. 

He ends up waiting longer than he would like. Fifteen minutes tick by, then thirty. Scott’s beer remains mostly untouched, seeping condensation into the wood under it. 

He watches, oddly blank and calm, and waits. A car passes but doesn’t stop. Across the street, a light in a window turns on and then off. 

He makes note of these things, storing them away for future reference. Though future reference for what, he doesn’t know. He isn’t staking out Logan’s neighborhood. He’s babysitting his friend’s — daughter, he wants to say, but small angry clone sounds more like something Logan would be comfortable with. 

It isn’t a mission and he doesn’t need to lock away details like this. He figures someone more well adjusted (who, he doesn’t know, all of his friends are their own special type of traumatized and “dealing with it”) would consider it an unhealthy habit. A harmful defense mechanism, even. 

He’s more nervous than he wants to admit but if he can catalog everything and figure out how to get from Point A to Point B, then maybe he can figure out how to fix whatever it is that’s making him anxious. If he can figure out why Logan hasn’t come back, then maybe he can find a way to get Logan back. 

He glances at the clock again. It is nearly two in the morning. Scott is tired. 

Scott is fucking exhausted.

He’s been in New Mexico for almost twelve hours and he doesn’t know any more than he did when he got here. 

Logan could very, very well be dead. There is a good chance that in the morning he will have to tell Laura that Logan is dead because he decided to go out on some dumbfuck vengeance quest without telling anyone. Scott’s heart picks up as he slots the pieces together, because he isn’t as stupid and sensitive as people like to treat him. 

Logan is probably full of bullets in a warehouse somewhere and he didn’t even say goodbye. 

Their last real goodbye was stilted and awkward in the face of their odd new reality. He thinks that, at the core of the anger and distress that has been churning inside of him for the last several months, there is something still shook up about how they left things. It hadn’t been normal, at least not normal for them; it had been raw and open, honest like they could never stand to be with one another. 

He misses Logan because he’s been left so without, the past two hundred and nine days. The embarrassing truth is that Logan fills some kind of gap in his life, and when he’s gone Scott is left walking around partially empty, unsure of how to handle it. 

Logan doesn’t get to just die. He doesn’t get to do that to Laura, or to Charles, or to Jean, Marie, Storm, or to him, not most importantly but he especially doesn’t get to die on Scott and leave him with the burden of knowing. Of knowing and being the one who could have stopped it. 

He waits. He wills Logan to be alive. 

He wills it so hard that he can’t find it in him to be surprised when, at half-past two in the goddamn morning, a small black car pulls into the driveway. 

He is, however, surprised to see a bloody, fucked up Logan stumble out of it and take not two steps before collapsing onto the pavement. 

“Fuck,” Scott says under his breath. 

He rushes to the front door, out to where Logan has fallen. 

“What the hell!” he hisses, making a grab for Logan’s shoulders. 

He rolls him onto his back and is relieved to find him blinking up at him like he has no idea where he is or how he got there. Scott jostles him a little bit, bunching up Logan’s ruined shirt in his hands. 

“You fuck,” he says shakily. “You fucking fuck.”

Logan furrows his brows, and it takes a second, but at last murky recognition blossoms in his eyes. He reaches a hand up, smearing blood on Scott’s shirt sleeve. 

“Scott,” he says weakly. 

“Yes, yes, it’s me, you big fucking idiot,” Scott laughs, wet and broken. “Of course it’s — you’re home, Logan. You made it home. You did it. But you need to come inside now. Let’s go inside.”

He lets Logan lay on the front walk for a few more seconds before standing up. He takes Logan’s hand in his and slowly, slowly pulls him into a sitting position, rubbing his shoulder and murmuring small, nonsense reassurances to him. 

“Up, up,” he says softly. “Up and at ‘em, buddy. We’ll get you sorted out. You’re gonna be fine.”

Logan uses Scott to pull himself up, groaning as he does. He grips Scott and pulls him closer, almost like a hug, and Scott brings his hands up to settle on his back, instinctual. He takes another choked breath in, and Scott can feel how his skin is searing, can feel the sweat and dirt and blood, so much blood, can feel how it’s stuck to him. 

Somehow, he manages to get Logan inside quietly. He guides him to the bathroom, makes him sit on the toilet lid. He flicks on the light and grimaces when he sees the full extent of what has happened. 

The skin on the bridge of Logan’s nose has split and swelled, the accompanying black eye doing nothing to help the bruising. A deep gash runs along his cheekbone, and one of his eyebrows has been cut and matted in the blood. 

There is a nasty cluster of bruises surrounding what look like small pieces of glass sticking out of his right bicep, like he was smashed into a window. 

“Will I need to cut your shirt off?” Scott asks, because he’s trying his hardest not to look at the giant puncture wound in Logan’s stomach that is steadily leaking blood. 

Logan shrugs, half-gone, and something in Scott’s head snaps into place. He takes a deep breath in, and gets to work.

He finds the first aid kit under the sink. He uses the tiny pair of scissors to snip at Logan’s undershirt until he can peel it away. Deep bruising hugs both of his ribs, and Scott winces. 

His hands hover over Logan’s body, unsure of where to start. He needs to take Logan to the hospital. He needs to call 911. 

But he can’t. 

Logan has his own hands hanging limply by his side, and there’s enough gore and blood stuck to his knuckles for Scott to know what he’s spent his night doing.

“You are such a fucking idiot,” Scott reiterates. 

Logan just groans. 

Scott takes out a wad of cotton and wets it under the faucet. As an afterthought, he grabs the hand towel hanging next to the sink and holds it in front of Logan’s face. 

“Bite,” he instructs, and makes a chomping motion with his jaw in case the words don’t reach Logan in his current state. 

Logan bites down, fear making his eyes sharp and awake. Scott winces at the smell starting to permeate the room, the overwhelming stink of iron hot and bright in his nose. He carefully drags the cotton around the wound on his stomach, trying to clean up as much of the blood as he can. 

There is a needle and thread in the kit, and Scott wonders if it was bought for this very reason. If Logan was counting on needing to be put back together after he got finished doing whatever it is he was doing. 

He flinches, takes sharp breaths in through his nose, his eyes water, but he stays still enough that Scott can get the area cleaned up. 

He disinfects it first. Logan maintains a steady whine as Scott dabs an alcohol wipe around the worst of it. 

“Okay,” Scott says, crumpling the wipe and tossing it in the trash can. He reminds himself to put the bag in the outside bin so Laura doesn’t see. “I’m about to start sewing it up now, and I know it’s going to hurt, but you can’t scream, alright?” 

Logan nods, and his eyebrows furrow and quirk like he wants to snipe back. Scott smiles to let him know that he knows. 

Something settles over Scott as he kneels over Logan, expertly stitching up a wound that would have killed a lesser man. 

Lesser probably isn’t a fair or accurate word, but for the first time in a long time he is able to fully appreciate the other man’s resilience. Logan is the only person in the world who would go and do something as dumb as this, because he knows he’s the only person in the world who could survive it. 

Scott wishes that just once, Logan would have the decency to be wrong about something. 

He snips away the excess thread once he’s done. The stitches are ugly, thick and black and not as neat of a job as Scott had thought. He chalks it up to his shaking hands and the shitty lighting. 

The blood gets easier to clean up as it dries, but it’s still not enough. Logan is covered in it. It’s gotten all over Scott’s hands, the front of his shirt, and he’s sure it’s somehow on his face. He grimaces. 

“I think — “ he starts, but he doesn’t want to say it, but now Logan’s looking at him, confused and worried and dying, so he takes a deep breath and swallows his pride. “I think you have to take a bath. There’s too much — Logan, it’s everywhere, and — ”

“What,” Logan starts, and Scott looks at him, alarmed and relieved to be hearing his strained voice. He’s taken the bit out of his mouth and now holds it loosely in his hand. “Worried… you’re gonna see somethin’ ya haven’t seen before?”

There is a moment of silence where he stares at Logan, who is still bleeding out in front of him but is cracking jokes about their sex life like he isn’t. 

Then Scott makes a hysterical, choked off sound that would be a laugh if he wasn’t certain he was crying. 

He stands, looking down at his red slicked hands and wanting, suddenly, to vomit. 

“Fuck,” he says, just to say it. 

He turns on the faucet, somehow, scrubs off enough of Logan’s fucking blood to be able to touch anything else in the bathroom. “I’m gonna — sit right there, alright? Don’t — don’t move.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Logan grumbles. Scott wants to smack him, so he leaves and goes to get them both a change of pajamas, because he figures he shouldn't hang around in wet, bloody clothes for too long. 

He switches out the trash; he stands outside and takes a few deep gulps of fresh air before heading back inside to bathe his dying ex-not-boyfriend. 

He, for a ridiculous moment, feels like screaming at the top of his lungs. 

He bites his tongue and heads to the bathroom. He pokes his head into Laura’s room on the way, and he’s pretty sure she’s awake, given how she shuts her eyes and rolls over. He lets it go, and closes her door. 

He sets the clothes down on the bathroom counter, then looks around. Two towels on the towel rack, one grey, one bright blue. He takes an educated guess. 

There are washcloths under the sink, and Scott grabs a couple for Logan’s face, his arm. 

“Okay,” Scott says. “We’ll get you… undressed, and then get you in, uh, in the tub. And then — ”

He glances down at Logan, who is smiling up at him, amused and clearly enjoying himself. Scott scowls at him, but some of the nervousness in his stomach dissipates. He rolls his eyes for good measure. 

He helps Logan stand and strip his tattered undershirt the rest of the way off. Logan is gripping Scott’s shoulder to keep himself steady, and it almost hurts, the way it always almost hurt when Logan would hold him a little too hard. It’s a pleasant, familiar ache. 

Scott points his head down for barely a second. “Do I need to — ?”

When he glances back up, Logan looks even more amused than he had a moment ago. Scott flushes like he’s twenty-eight years old and Logan is giving him those stupid bedroom eyes across the dinner table, in front of everyone, because he was and still is an asshole. 

Logan seems to be recalling the memory too, and he grips Scott’s shoulder harder as he leans forward, laughing. 

“Ya tryin’ to get my pants off?” he says, giving Scott one good flash of his usual shit-eating grin. 

He manages to reach down and undo his own belt buckle. He shimmies out of his jeans after he kicks off his boots. 

He stands in his boxers in front of Scott like — Adonis, a teasing Storm from fifteen years ago says. In the memory he swats at her and she dodges him, laughing. 

He takes off his underwear and turns, and Scott reaches out to hold his shoulders. Carefully, Logan lets Scott lower him into the tub. 

He goes through the motions of turning on the faucet, letting the water heat up, pulling the lever to turn on the shower head. The pressure is gentle enough that he feels alright about using it in tandem with his hand to get the worst of it off. 

Logan sits there, fairly quiet, save a few grunts of pain. Once or twice Scott hears the sickening snap of a bone fusing back together. He keeps his eyes fixed to the ceiling, but occasionally he’ll glance over at Scott and smile a small little smile like he figures Scott isn’t looking at his face. 

A net benefit of his opaque red lenses: no one, or at least anyone whose super sense is on the fritz, can ever really tell where he’s looking. 

Scott is, of course, looking at Logan’s face, making sure it doesn’t twist in pain or blank out into milky unconsciousness. 

“Alright?” he murmurs after a few minutes. He reaches over and grabs a washcloth, wetting it before carefully wiping at Logan’s neck and jaw. 

“Alright,” Logan says quietly. 

Scott dabs at his nose, his eyebrow, gently scrubbing away dry flakes of blood. Logan keeps a steady, burning gaze on him the whole time. 

He’s getting better, Scott thinks, as they sit in the warm bathroom. He looks less white, like some of his blood has replenished itself, and the bruising around his eyes and on his arm has faded into something less purple and more yellow-green. Scott catches the glass before it manages to push itself all the way out, picking out the small shards and placing them in the trash. He swipes a gentle thumb over the area, and Logan sighs. 

He scrubs at Logan's hands, making sure to get in between his knuckles. The gore washes away to reveal scar tissue that normally isn’t there, three separate clusters of pink skin between each of them. 

Scott holds one of Logan’s hands in his for a moment longer than he probably should, staring down at it and ignoring the urge to bring it to his mouth and press a kiss to the back of it. 

Eventually, he moves his hand to Logan’s hair and runs his fingers through it, frowning. 

“It needs to be washed, okay?” he says, and Logan says nothing, which will absolutely not do. 

“Logan,” Scott says, gently. “Did you hear me? Can I wash your hair?”

“Yeah,” Logan snaps, but he mostly just sounds tired. “You don’t gotta ask.”

“Of course I do,” Scott says. 

Logan mumbles something, too quiet for Scott to hear, but he gets the gist. 

He moves to stand, and Logan looks at him, confused. He looks away. 

“I have to take my jeans off,” he explains lamely. Logan half-smiles and leans back against the shower wall.

Scott figures he should take his shirt off too, blood-stained and sweaty as it is. He pretends not to notice how Logan sweeps his eyes up and down his form and goes to sit on the edge of the tub. He maneuvers Logan so that he’s sitting semi-behind him, one foot in the bath and the other on the bathroom floor. 

He cups his hand and fills it with water from the shower head, then delicately pours it over Logan’s hair, running his fingers through it again to wet it thoroughly. He repeats the process a few more times, and by the time he reaches for the shampoo Logan has closed his eyes and practically melted into Scott’s hands. 

It makes Scott wonder when the last time Logan had this was. The last time he had someone treat him like he was capable of breaking. Logan isn’t made out of glass but sometimes it’s nice to handle him as if he is. 

Scott suddenly remembers a handful of quiet evenings, early mornings, Logan’s head in his lap like he pretended to hate and Scott combing his fingers through his dumb hair, combing it down from the sides of his head and all the way back. Logan would practically butt his head against Scott’s hand if he stopped, make grumpy noises in his throat like an old cat. 

Scott then wonders how it took him so long to see that Logan likes being treated like this, at least in the privacy of a bedroom or, in this case, bathroom-turned-emergency-room. 

“I’m going to use some shampoo now,” Scott explains quietly, popping the cap. “So keep your eyes closed.”

Logan mumbles something that sounds like no problem. 

He lathers up Logan’s hair. He goes extra-slow, because fuck, if Logan doesn’t deserve to pampered, even if he would never admit to wanting it. He scratches lightly at Logan’s scalp with his nails, and Logan tips forward in relief, his muscles untensing. Scott smiles. 

He rinses the soap out, passing the water over the back of Logan’s neck and shoulders. His back is fairly bruised, and in an odd pattern, like he was thrown against something. Scott presses the heel of his palm in, massaging the more serious bruising in hopes of reducing the severity of it. Logan makes a peculiar sound, stuck in his throat, barely a growl and not quite a whine. 

Scott makes sure all the shampoo and blood and dirt is rinsed down the drain. He shuts the water off, then stands. 

Logan manages to stand on his own, but he looks woozy as he steps out. 

“I’m gonna dry you off,” Scott decides. “Yeah?”

Logan rolls his eyes but nods anyways. He’s back to gripping Scott’s shoulder and leaning most of his weight into him. Scott grabs the grey towel and wraps it around him, careful over his arm. He towels off Logan’s hair last, grinning at the way it sticks up when he does. 

He helps Logan into his clothes then pulls on his own too-big t-shirt and sweatpants. He makes Logan sit back down on the lid of the toilet, ignoring his annoyed, grumbled protests. 

“You have to tell me,” Scott says quietly as he reaches into the kit and takes out gauze, tape. He cuts out what he needs and starts bandaging over the stitches. 

“I don’t care if you — I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m sure that whatever you did, it was justified. So I don’t care if you think I’ll be mad, or whatever. I don’t care why you didn’t say anything before. But you have to tell me now.”

Logan takes a deep, labored breath. He fixes his eyes to the ceiling, and he looks older than Scott has ever seen him look. 

“I found out where they were keeping those fuckin’ scientists, or whatever those assholes call themselves,” he starts, voice rough and pained. “Spent the last few months gettin’ things together. Had to pull a few favors, but — ”

He stops, and looks at Scott. He doesn’t need to spell it out, because he is also the only person in the world who ever knew just what Scott was capable of understanding for himself. 

“I did what I had to do. For her,” Logan tells him, like it really is that simple. It’s not, but maybe it should be. For right now. 

Logan has killed for her. Big deal, Scott knows he shouldn’t say. But they all have, over the years. For each other. It’s probably their longest kept secret, because sometimes life does just come down to a horrifying inevitable. 

God, Logan, he doesn’t say, because he shouldn’t. Who haven’t we killed for? 

He finishes dressing the stitches, making sure the tape is taut and smoothed out. Logan's skin is still fever-hot from the injury. Scott wishes that he could somehow cool it down. He drags the pad of his thumb along the side of the gauze pad, and listens to Logan's breath hitch. 

“That should help keep it clean while it heals,” Scott says casually, like he isn’t talking to a man he’s watched get flung around, cut up, beaten down, and then get back up again like it’s nothing. Scott is scared out of his mind at what this means, but he tries not to be. For Logan’s sake. 

He sets to work on the rest of Logan’s injuries. He wraps his arm carefully, though the small scabs have already begun to scar. He’s extra gentle on Logan’s face, tilting his head so he can put a bandage on the almost-sealed cut there. Logan shakes his head when he tries to wrap his ribs, murmuring something about how he’s pretty sure they’re almost healed anyhow. The less busted he looks the more exhausted he seems. 

Once Logan is no longer on the verge of keeling over right then and there, and once the bathroom is blood-free and everything is put back in its proper place, Scott lets himself run a hand through his wet hair, just the once. 

Logan catches Scott's wrist anyways and holds his hand to his chest. “Thanks, Scotty. ‘ppreciate it,'' he mumbles. 

“Hey,” Scott says. “Welcome back.”

“Will ya help me to my bed?” Logan asks quietly. 

Scott hesitates. They’re too old to do whatever Logan's adrenaline-drained mind is trying to bait him into, no matter how much he might want it. But Logan is still his friend, and he’s hurt, and he’s not going to leave him in the bathroom for Laura to find in the morning. 

“Sure thing, old man,” he chides, and Logan huffs in what Scott can only hope is laughter. 

He stands, then helps Logan stand, securing his arm safely around his shoulders. Logan leans most of his body weight into Scott, seeming to forget that his skeleton is made out of metal. Scott loses his footing for a moment, but readjusts and pushes Logan up a bit. 

“If we fall over, I'm not helping you back up,” Scott swears. 

“Liar,” Logan snipes. 

Scott knows he’s right. 

They walk down the short hallway to Logan's room, extra slow as they pass by Laura's door, open once again in anticipation of a belated goodnight from Logan. The man lets his gaze linger, regret clear in his eyes. But Scott knows why he doesn’t stop, and he agrees; She doesn’t need to see him like this. 

He lowers Logan gently onto his mattress, minding the stitches and all of his other aching fractures and bruises. Logan grunts, grateful, pained. The bedside clock reads 4:47. 

“Goodnight,” Scott sighs, patting Logan's shoulder one more time. 

Logan grabs Scott's wrist again, holding him in place. 

“Keep me company,” Logan says suggestively, waggling his eyebrows. Scott rolls his eyes, knowing that even if Logan can’t see the gesture he’s familiar enough with Scott to fill in the blank. 

Logan grins, and he thinks, there we go.  

He shakes out of Logan's grasp, and Logan’s grin turns into a frown. “You need to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning, alright? I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s nothing we haven’t done before,” Logan presses on. 

Between motel beds and whatever cramped quarters they found themselves in on missions, sleeping in the same bed wasn’t anything they hadn’t done before. 

But Scott knows that making the choice out of want rather than necessity is something they haven’t done in years. He knows it’s a line he probably shouldn’t cross right now. 

Still, he hesitates. 

Logan places a firm hand on Scott's hip, slipping his thumb under the soft cotton of his t-shirt and dragging his finger across the skin above his waistband. Scott’s whole body blooms with heat, no longer used to Logan’s touch the way it was way back when. 

“I won't hurt you,” Logan murmurs. 

Scott moves to stand at the foot of the bed. He drags his eyes over Logan's shadowed form, taking in the solid lines of his silhouette, the injured way he’s holding himself. 

He walks to the other side and pulls back the covers. Logan looks up at him with reserved astonishment, as if he can’t believe Scott is actually here in front of him. Scott climbs in and turns onto his side so he can face him. 

“Will you go to sleep now?” Scott says quietly. Logan reaches his hand out and cups Scott's cheek. 

“Don’t go,” he murmurs. Scott can tell he’s slipping into unconsciousness, now that he’s been tended to and put to bed. 

He puts his own hand over Logan's, and smiles. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeats. 

Logan's eyebrows furrow like he wants to say something else, but then his face smooths out, and Scott figures he’s fallen asleep. 

He watches his sleeping face for a quiet moment, committing the image to memory. Who knows when he’ll see Logan this peaceful again. 

He drifts off with Logan's hand still cradling his cheek. 

—

Scott wakes up to Laura readjusting, having wormed her way in between the two of them some time in the night. She’s curled up against Logan, her face tucked into his chest. His arms have settled around her, holding her close to him. 

Scott looks at them both fondly, wondering how it all boiled down to this. His best friend and this little girl in New Mexico, sunlight coming in yellow through the curtains. 

He brushes a loc of hair behind Laura's ear, and she leans up into the touch, seeking out more. He combs his fingers through the length of it once, and she sighs contentedly, nestling further into Logan. His heart lurches up his throat. 

Scott uses the opportunity to carefully inch out of the bed. He silently makes his way to the kitchen, and roots around in the fridge for something to make breakfast with. 

He sighs. Eggs and toast will have to do. 

He sets a pan to heat and digs up some butter. There’s salt and pepper in the cabinet. Scott is surprised; he knows better than anyone that Logan has accustomed himself to eating things straight off of the stove, no seasoning or cool down time needed. Maybe waiting five minutes and buying spices is part of the responsible, grumpy guardian thing he’s trying out here. Scott won’t complain. 

He's halfway through frying up his own food, Logan and Laura's sitting neatly next to him on the counter, when he hears the swish of feet being dragged along the carpet. He pauses, waiting for Laura’s sleepy face to emerge in the doorway. 

When it does he grins at her and says, “Breakfast is almost ready.”

She nods blearily. Scott tries not to be too endeared. 

She swings her backpack up onto the table, letting it land with a soft thump. She rummages through it for a second before producing two small vials filled with green liquid. Scott watches out of the corner of his eye, transferring his eggs from pan to plate. He wills his voice to come out as casual as possible. 

“What are those?”

“It will heal him,” she says simply. Scott winces at the idea of Laura seeing Logan, and knowing what happened. 

“I think he’s got that covered. You like scrambled, right?”

Laura shakes her head, but Scott knows she’s not responding to his question. She nudges the bottles forward. 

“This is faster,” she explains. 

Scott sets the cookware down and turns off the stove. He makes his way to the table, glancing at Laura for permission before picking up one of the vials to inspect. 

“Oh, my God,” he mumbles to himself as he reads the label, and he quickly pulls out his phone to call Hank. 

When he looks back at her, Laura has swiped her plate from the counter behind him, and he watches as she shovels eggs into her mouth and rips off pieces of toast. The lack of table manners screams Logan, and Scott gets her a glass of milk as the phone rings. 

“I don’t know where she got it, but I think this is it. The key to whatever you’re trying to do for him and the Professor,” Scott explains to Hank. He is standing on the porch in his pajamas, clutching the two vials close to his chest. 

He hadn't wanted Logan to hear, or see, and get upset or refuse before Scott was given a chance to explain. 

We’re trying to help you, Scott would say. How many times had Logan heard that in his life, and then been punished for believing it? How many times had Laura?

“I think you might be right, Scott,” Hank says, and Scott can hear the tired drag of his voice. The last few months have been weighing on all of them. “If I had to guess, I would say Laura acquired that serum from the very facility she came from.”

Scott feels his stomach sink. Logan probably wouldn’t be thrilled to put something in his body that was manufactured by the same people that made him and Laura the way that they are.  

“Oh,” is what he says to Hank. 

“I'll send Storm your way to pick up one of the bottles,” Hank says suddenly, and Scott hears papers rustling on his end. “But I wouldn’t recommend giving Logan any until I can run all the proper tests, though I suspect that might not be an issue. Now as for actual medical care — ”

“Hank,” Scott interrupts. “I’ll bring them with me. Logan’s here now, and I’m due home anyways. No need to send anyone.”

Hanks tsks. “Logan needs someone with him right now, I’m afraid. Someone over the age of twelve,” he amends before Scott can argue. 

“I’ll have Ororo bring some clothes of yours. Your classes have been covered. Think of it as some spontaneous vacation time.”

“Mandatory vacation time,” Scott corrects. 

“Yes,” Hank confirms casually. 

“Looking after that big lug.”

“Mhm.”

Scott groans. He squints up at the brilliant New Mexico sun, and listens to Hank shuffle more papers around. 

“Oh, and Scott,” he says just as Scott is thinking about going back inside to see if Logan has woken up. “Try to grant him a little patience. He’s probably doing much worse than he’s letting on.”

The weight of Hank's words pushes Scott's shoulders down. He glances through the front window and catches a glimpse of Laura reading at the table, her mouth moving like she’s reciting it for someone. 

“I know,” he says, and a gritty wind picks up, blowing sand across the front walk. “I’ll take care of him, don’t worry.”

When Scott comes back in, he hears the low rumble of Logan's voice from the kitchen. He strides over there, set to scold Logan for getting out of bed, but he halts when he hears Laura, soft but firm and strong, reading out a passage like Scott saw her doing through the window. He listens. 

“ — Then, sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with the millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure,” she reads, slow and careful, the words crisp in the air. “And sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true, and sometimes a look in someone's eyes.” 

Logan hums approvingly. “S’good. Which book are ya reading next?”

There’s a soft rustle as Laura, presumably, shrugs, then nothing but the quiet scrape of silverware on plates. Scott steps into the kitchen, regretful of breaking the ritual quiet of their breakfast. He hastily shoves the vials into his pocket. 

“Mornin’, Slim,” Logan says cheerily. He gestures to where a place has been set for him. “Are ya gonna let your own cooking go to waste?”

He looks better, Scott thinks. He’s still sitting with his weight awkwardly shifted to one side, but he doesn’t seem as run down. Not as ragged as he had seemed last night. 

The slit in his eyebrow has scarred, and Scott thinks it suits him. 

“Sorry,” he laughs, quickly sitting down and pulling his plate towards him. “Had a phone call. What are you doing up?” 

“Woke up to the two of you gone,” he points at them in an accusatory, joking way, and Laura sticks her tongue out. “And it smelled like breakfast. Saw Early Riser here sitting all alone, but no Cyclops. I was startin’ to worry you’d ditched out on us.”

Scott shakes his head, looking down at his food. “I didn’t mean to — I just figured I'd fix something up. Assumed you could use a decent meal.”

Logan shrugs like he couldn’t care either way. Scott looks at him and smiles. 

“Did they need something?” Logan asks, taking a long pull from his mug. Scott notices his own coffee in front of him, and his heart swoops. 

“The school? Nah.” Scott stabs a piece of egg with his fork. “Just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

Logan nods, satisfied. The lie feels dirty on Scott's tongue but he tries to let it slide. Had Logan not lied to him, those first long stretches of road? Had he not refused to tell him the truth of who and what they were meeting in North Dakota? Scott found out eventually, and he assures himself that Logan will too. 

“Anyone got any big plans for the day?” Logan asks around a mouthful of food. Scott grimaces and rolls his eyes. Laura shakes her head, still glued to her book. 

“Well,” Scott says, a little conspiratorially, looking over at Logan who looks back, pleasantly confused, “I don’t want to make any promises, but I think Storm might be paying us a visit.”

That gets Laura to look at them, eyes gone wide with amazement. She looks from Scott to Logan, back and forth, and Logan beams at her. 

“Isn’t that something? It’ll be like a little X-Reunion,” he teases, but she nods, dead serious. 

“Is Nightcrawler coming back, too?” she says. Her hand is flat on the table, palm down, like she’s bracing herself for something. It makes Scott smile. 

“I would think so,” Scott says honestly, because he can’t imagine Hank is making her drive all that way just to exchange some clothes for a vial of super-something. 

She settles back in her chair, momentarily satisfied,  before taking her plate and cup to the sink. Then, she pulls her book off of the table, and waves goodbye to them before running out to the backyard. 

“Bring me inside,” she calls behind her, “when they are here!”

When Scott looks back over at Logan, he’s still looking at the doorway she ran through, something fond and exasperated playing on his face. 

“She does that every morning,” he says, shaking his head. “Goes out there and reads. That’s her third book this week, I think. Lost track o’ how many she’s read since we got here. Just keeps eating through ‘em, sendin’ them back to Charles in exchange for new ones.”

Logan laughs, then looks over at Scott, eyes bright. “I think he’s runnin’ out.”

Scott laughs as well, loud and unburdened. “Well, that’s something she didn’t get from you.”

Logan scowls at him in a familiar, disdainful way. He flicks a bit of his breakfast over at Scott, and it lands softly on the tablecloth between him and his plate. 

“Shut up. I’m assuming ‘Ro’s bringin’ ya something to wear?” 

Scott nods, still chuckling to himself. Logan kicks him lightly under the table. 

“There should be a spare toothbrush somewhere in the bathroom. Deodorant and a razor too,” Logan sniffs, and makes a face. “Cologne if you need it. Which,” he shrugs. 

“Oh, whatever. Like being around you after a month in the Canadian wilderness was ever a delight.”

Scott stands up, grabbing his and Logan's plates to deposit in the sink. He balances both on one hand, waiter-style, like he learned after years of playing in-house cook for the kids, and uses his free hand to pat Logan on the shoulder. Logan reaches up and grabs it, keeps it there for a moment, grins at Scott like he really shouldn’t.

“You have to do the dishes,” Scott says sweetly.  

Logan's smile grows. He nods. “So, this mean you’re stickin’ around?”

Scott's hand is still on Logan's shoulder, and he grips it lightly, like he would to check for leftover bruising on himself. 

“For now,” he says softly. He could absolutely kiss Logan, so he walks over to the counter and puts the plates in the sink basin. He washes his hands before heading to the bathroom. 

He shaves, brushes his teeth. He puts on deodorant and dabs some of Logan's cheap cologne into the space under his jaw. He feels better for it, no longer in that cloudy, terrifying haze of last night, wondering why Logan was bleeding and how he was bleeding so much. 

Right now Laura is reading in the backyard and Storm is on her way over with clothes for him, and he gets to take some time off for the first time in... too long.

“What’s the hold up?” Logan says from the doorway. Scott looks over at him in the mirror, feeling warm affection flood through him. 

“You’re a good — you’re taking good care of her,” he stammers, and Logan glances away. 

“I mean it,” he says, turning to face him. “She’s great, Logan, she’s — ” she’s just like you, and that’s a good thing, “ — you’re doing a fantastic job. You know that, don’t you?” 

“I don't know what the hell I'm doing,” Logan admits. He is still looking at the ground. 

“Nobody ever does, at first. I mean, do you think Charles did? In the beginning? You tell me, you were there. And she hasn’t even killed the president.” 

Scott reaches out and shoves lightly at Logan’s chest, and Logan grabs hold of his wrist so he can loop his arms around his own waist. 

“Yet,” he says, jaded, and Scott shakes his head. Logan circles his arms around Scott's neck. 

“What are you doing now?” Scott says quietly.

“Nothing. ‘M just glad to see you, Scotty.”

“Come on,” Scott whispers. “What are you doing, Logan?”

Logan doesn’t say anything, though, seemingly content just to stand there. Scott wants to tell him, we’re too old to do this. But then he thinks, too old for what, exactly? Retirement isn’t something you grow out of. What is he waiting for?

For him to ask, Scott thinks. For him to ask me to stay. 

And hadn’t that always been their problem. Except this time, the script has been flipped, and Scott is left with the choice. He wants it to be easy. 

“Hey,” Logan murmurs. “Quit thinkin’. You’ll kill yourself worrying all the time.” He pulls back and fixes Scott with a disapproving glare. 

“I'm definitely not the one with the death wish here,” Scott says. He grazes his fingers over the spot on Logan's shirt where he knows, underneath, sits a bandage covering a wound that should be healed by now. Or, if Logan were someone else, should have killed him. 

Scott is so, so glad he isn’t someone else. 

“Do you — do you actually want me to stay?” he manages to get out, more nervous than he should be, meeting Logan’s surprised gaze. 

“Scotty,” Logan says. 

They are interrupted by a poof, then the soft thud of feet landing on carpet. 

“Scott! Logan!” Kurt calls. “We’re here!”

Logan quickly detangles himself from Scott and walks away, leaving the other man angry and hurt. 

Whatever, he thinks. What the fuck ever. 

He takes a second to collect himself. He looks in the mirror, and somehow his hair looks more disheveled, his cheeks redder than they had seemed a moment ago. He looks a little drowned in Logan’s shirt, the cuffs of his borrowed sweatpants brushing the floor. He bends down to roll them up and finds it only worsens the weird humiliation he’s faced with. 

He braces his hands on the counter for a moment, and he doesn’t think about how not even six hours ago he was in here stitching up the shredded remains of Logan’s left side. His stomach churns. He takes a deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and heads out. 

Laura has beat him to the living room. She is standing in front of Storm, eyes wide like she’s never seen anything like her. She hasn’t, Scott realizes. There’s no one out there like Ororo. 

“Scott!” Ororo exclaims like she hasn’t seen him in ten years. 

She yanks him into a hug, and he laughs, wrapping his arms around her in turn. She squeezes him. He quickly slips the vials out from his pocket and into her blazer, wincing when the glass clinks together. 

When she pulls back, she quickly flits her eyes over to Logan, then back to him, and he shakes his head just enough to let her know that they can talk about it later. 

Laura tugs on Logan’s wrist. He looks down at her. She speaks again in Spanish, low and secretive, and he shrugs. 

“Sure, kiddo, knock yourself out.”

She jerks her head in Storm and Kurt’s general direction, and Logan drops his shoulders, sighing. “You gotta ask ‘em. You can do it, c’mon.” 

Laura twists her mouth downwards, irritated, but turns back to the other two adults. She sets her eyes on them, firm and determined. 

“I want to show you something,” she says quietly. She then turns and runs out of the room, and Ororo and Kurt exchange an amused look before following her. Scott watches them go, fondness bubbling up in his chest. He turns to Logan but finds him sour-faced, clearly angry. 

“Ororo tells me Laura gave you some super juice,” he says, bitter and betrayed, and Scott feels his face drop. 

“Logan.”

“You should have said something,” he hisses. “Where the fuck — do you know what that shit is? Huh? What it can fuckin’ do?”

“No!” Scott says, throwing his hands into the air in exasperation. “Logan, when the hell has anyone ever told me anything?”

“She shouldn’t be carrying that junk around,” Logan continues, ignoring him. He crosses his arms over his chest. 

Scott doesn’t say anything, and so Logan presses on, getting angrier and quieter as he does. His voice is tight. “Storm also told me that Hank is gonna use it to cook up some sort of fix-it serum for me and the Professor. Is that right?”

Scott looks away, ashamed, because he knows he should have said something last night, or at breakfast, but it had all seemed so inconsequential, so much like background noise after he had watched Logan nearly die and then slowly come back to life in his hands. How could anything else have possibly mattered?

“Yes,” Scott admits, voice small. “He just wants to see what it is, if there’s something in it that could slow down your — ”

He makes a gesture to indicate auto-induced adamantium cancer. Logan narrows his eyes. 

“And you have to know that Charles isn’t doing well. Hank can stop the seizures, but the migraines the medication gives him are getting to be too much. He’s laid up in bed most of the time, and — ”

“Fuck, Scotty,” Logan stops him, and his voice has gone thick and funny like he’s trying not to cry. “I know that. Jesus, I know that.”

He turns partly away from Scott, shaking his head. “This shit — it won’t help him. You gotta tell Furball that it’s no good for anyone.”

“We’re not injecting him with it, Logan,” Scott says. “What do you think Hank is gonna do besides stick it under a microscope, or whatever the hell he does in that lab all day?” 

Logan huffs. 

“It’s not ideal but it’s what we have. If it’s poison, if it can’t be fixed, then we go back to the drawing board. But we don’t have forever.”

Logan remains stony and silent, and something in Scott tugs him down. He sits on the couch, and fixes his eyes to the floor. 

From the other room, he can hear Storm and Laura and Kurt all laughing at something. In front of him Logan hesitates, hovering between the couch and the wall until Scott rolls his eyes. He pats the seat next to him. Logan sits. They both stare ahead, though Scott uses his natural advantage and discreetly steals glances of Logan out of the corner of his eye. 

“There’s room for you here,” Logan says after a few quiet minutes. What are those three up to, Scott thinks before turning his attention to Logan. 

“The couch pulls out?” he says, mostly as a joke. Logan shrugs, and Scott swears he sees a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“I wouldn’t make you sleep on this old thing,” Logan says simply, and Scott turns his head away. 

“Jesus, Logan,” he says under his breath. 

Logan smiles, more to himself than at Scott. He knocks his knee into Scott’s, trying to get him to push back. Scott doesn’t take the bait, but he does lean into him, thankful he’s sitting on his right so he doesn’t hurt him. Logan sighs, pleased. 

“I mean it, though,” he continues, to Scott’s surprise. “There’s always gonna be room for you here, if you want it.”

Scott thinks. He rolls his answer around on his tongue, tries to imagine saying it out loud, what it would mean to him and to Logan and to Laura. He settles his hand gently on Logan’s knee. 

“I think I do,” Scott says, quiet, just for the two of them.

They are interrupted, yet again, by the sound of voices coming towards the room. Logan stands, too quick, and clutches his stomach for a second. Scott follows him instinctually. He places a steady hand on the small of Logan’s back, and when Ororo sees she gives Scott a surprised, thrilled look. He averts his eyes. 

“Your things are in the bedroom,” Storm says pleasantly, smugly. “We have to get back before classes start. Laura,” and she turns to Laura, crouching down in front of her, “it was very, very nice to meet you. Thank you for showing me your stories. You’re very talented.”

She holds her arms out, and Laura throws her own around her neck and Storm laughs, hugging her back tightly. 

Kurt and Laura exchange another bow, Laura still giggling. Ororo turns to Scott and puts her hand up to her ear, call me. She looks serious and stern all of a sudden. He nods. 

“Bye, boys,” she says. The next second, they’re gone. 

Laura looks over to where Scott and Logan are standing, side by side, Scott’s hand still on Logan’s lower back. He drops his hand like Logan has burned him but it’s too late. She tilts her head, narrows her eyes suspiciously. 

Scott clears his throat, then says, “Laura, do you wanna go to the store with me later? Get away from this guy for a little bit?”

“Hey!” Logan says indignantly. He knocks his shoulder against Scott’s, and Scott moves out of the way, laughing. “Come on, not fair.”

Laura laughs, and she gives Scott a thumbs up. He beams at her. She runs off again, back to the yard to keep reading. 

“Mind if I join you?” Logan says once she’s out of the house, turning to Scott, all fake-bravado and charming smirk. Scott rolls his eyes. 

“Yes, actually. I’m definitely getting sick of your face,” he says. Logan gawks at him, affronted. 

His hands betray him, though, and he reaches out, places his palm flat on the bandage, over Logan’s shirt. He can feel it through the fabric, the gauze and the stitches. He wonders how long they’ll stay in before Logan’s body pushes them out for him. At the rate the rest of him is healing, he imagines they’ll be gone by tomorrow. 

“Redress that if you need to. I put the first aid kit in your room,” he says, low and soft. Logan nods. He puts his own hand over Scott’s, resting on his stomach, and looks at him, expectant. 

“I meant it, too,” Scott says. He knows what Logan is waiting for. “I’ll stay, if you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll have you,” Logan repeats, going for a smile but landing on a scowl. 

He moves his hand to Scott’s face, sweeping his thumb over his cheek, just under his glasses. Scott looks at him, helpless. 

“Please, Logan, just — ”

“Can I?” Logan asks, tipping his head forward a fraction of an inch, eyes darting down to Scott’s mouth as he does. 

“You’ve never had to ask,” Scott says.  

Logan shrugs. “Maybe I should have.”

Scott swallows. He closes his eyes. He nods, minute and stiff. 

Logan leans forward and kisses him. 

Scott tilts his head and adjusts to the angle easily. It’s not new or odd, and Scott relishes in that, in the grounding feeling of Logan against him, simple and solid, their old push and pull. 

Logan breaks away too soon. Scott makes up for it by leaning his forehead on Logan’s shoulder, sliding his hand around to hold him by the waist. Logan wraps his own arms around Scott in turn. 

“I missed you,” Scott says into the fabric of Logan’s shirt, because he might as well. 

“I know,” Logan hums, solemn and mellow.

Scott lets them stand there hugging like that for a long while. All he can think about is how good Logan smells, how warm he is, how his hands are rubbing small circles into his back. 

He isn’t sure how much time has passed but eventually he makes himself pull back. He presses one more kiss to Logan’s mouth, then another to his cheek. He makes himself walk away, towards the bedroom, makes himself dig through the bag Ororo left and pulls out a shirt, some pants, a pair of boxers. 

He goes to the bathroom and turns on the water. He undresses, and then he showers. 

He lets himself think about all the things he has spent seven entire months pretending not to miss. The solidness of Logan in his hands, his presence steady and constant, firmly there in a way Scott often finds himself mildly envious of. 

He thinks of Logan naked, but not to scandalize. Logan is just so unforgiving in the way he exists, all muscle and metal-bones and deep voice, staunch arrogance. Scott admires it and hates it and adores it all in stride. 

He thinks of Logan naked in the bathtub letting Scott clean him, and he has to take a second to lean against the tile wall of the shower.

Last night he had wondered about the last time someone did that for Logan, but really, when’s the last time Scott sat in his underwear on the rim of a tub and carefully washed the blood out of someone’s hair? 

More importantly, who has he ever done that for besides Logan?

After he showers, he gets dressed. He checks himself in the small bathroom mirror, pushing his hair back with his hands, straightening out his shirt. He looks tired, but these days he always looks tired. 

Logan is sitting on the couch when he comes back into the living room, listlessly flipping through channels. He settles down next to him, feeling less rumpled now. Logan stretches his arm across the back of the couch. He brushes the back of Scott’s neck with the tips of his fingers, and it makes Scott shiver. 

“You good?” Logan asks, but he’s not teasing. Scott realizes it with a fluttering beat of his heart; he’s not being mean, he just wants to know. 

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Same old, same old.”

Logan frowns like it wasn’t the answer he wanted. Scott pokes his thigh, gets in his face a little. 

“What about you? Seriously.” 

Logan looks at him, and he smiles. “Seriously? I feel fine, Scotty. I’m doin’ fine. You fixed me up nice.”

“Well, I couldn’t do much about what was already there,” and he reaches up, grabs Logan’s face in one hand, pulling it down like he’s examining it. Logan lets him. “But I think I got everything back where it’s supposed to be.”

“Yeah, ya did,” Logan says softly. Scott touches a finger to the tip of his nose, runs it over his newly scarred eyebrow. He finds that now that he’s started touching Logan again, he’s not sure he has it in him to stop. 

“Christ,” he says under his breath. It’s not like seven months is forever, but Logan does look different, even under all the bruising and healing scars. He looks fuller, somehow, like he’s filled with something he kept tamped down before. “I’m glad you came home last night.”

“Me too,” Logan says. He remains still under Scott’s hand. 

“So that’s it? It’s over?”

“It’s never gonna be over,” Logan answers automatically. “How have you not gotten that yet? The world is never gonna change.”

“We can pretend.”

Logan chuckles, and it is bitter, it is torn. “That’s all we do.”

Scott realizes, shame and guilt mixing together in his chest, congealing into sludgy black misery, that Logan is right. 

Times haven’t changed; Scott got kicked out when he was seventeen and now it’s three decades later and people are still so angry at the idea of someone being different. He and Logan have had to bend and fold themselves in order to be respected by the majority population. They’ve had to tear themselves apart to be considered worthy of living and even that isn’t enough for some people.

He looks at Logan’s hands and sees them as they were last night, dark-red-almost-black around the nails, in the creases of his palm, wet and sticky with too much blood. Logan made a choice, and now he will bear a mark in order to protect what is his. 

“You should have told me,” Scott says, repeating his own words from a hallway in North Dakota. “I could have helped. If I had beenthere, then maybe — ”

“You’re an idiot,” Logan says. “You’re a fuckin’ moron. Hey,” he pokes Scott in the chest. “You got metal on your bones I don’t know about? You think you could have — fuck, Scott, don’t start that shit.”

“You can’t save the world by yourself,” Scott tells him. He grabs Logan by the shoulders and shakes him, even though he probably shouldn’t. 

Logan says, “I’m gonna be the only one left to do it.”

Scott gathers up his shirt in his hands like he had last night. He sets his mouth in an angry line, and says, “Not anymore. It doesn’t have to be like that anymore. What about her, huh? What about Laura?”

After all this time, the name still makes quiet relief wash over Logan’s face. He smiles, dumb and dazed and blissfully happy for a short moment. 

“Your little girl,” Scott says, tentatively. 

Logan closes his eyes then. He settles back against the couch, face tilted toward the ceiling. 

“I’m scared out of my goddamn mind,” he says. “I’m so fucking scared that she’s gonna end up like me.”

“You turned out fine,” Scott assures him, concerned, confused. “Look at you.”

“I’m a — ” monster, animal, beast, a thousand voices over the years say. “I’m not sure how to show her she can be better. Better than this.”

“She’ll figure it out,” Scott says, lighthearted but earnest, the way you learn to talk when you make a living watching kids run around battlefields. “Give her some credit, Logan. She’s smart as hell.”

“She is,” Logan laughs. “Christ, she is.”

They’re quiet for a minute. It’s early enough that it feels like the day is stretching on endlessly in front of them. Scott thinks they could sit here the whole time and be just fine. 

He’d forgotten why fighting with Logan was so bad; Logan has always seen right through his stony exterior, and Scott has always been able to look past his barbed-wire defenses. They can’t bullshit each other, no matter how hard they try. 

“There’s more of them,” Logan confesses. Scott turns to him, aching to do something, all geared up with nowhere to go. “You knew that, didn’t you? It never stops.”

“They keep coming and coming,” he murmurs, sullen. “I figured there were, yeah. What? Are you gonna go after them?”

He prods at Logan’s stitches and Logan bats his hand away. 

“Quit it. I have to.”

“You don’t have to do shit,” Scott scolds. 

Logan glares at him, and he glares back.

“Send the kids,” he says, then winces at how it sounds. “Bobby is chomping at the bit to head his own mission. Won’t even have to convince him.”

“I don’t wanna make ‘em do that.”

“They will, if you ask them. Of course they will.”

We look out for each other, he thinks, as he watches Logan’s face contort with pain. 

“I was gonna ask you to stay,” he starts, forcing it out through his teeth. “Then I would have — I had leads, I told you, I called in some favors. I was plannin’ on heading out and starting with the big two, then working my way down.”

Scott stares at him. He doesn’t know what to say. Logan continues. 

“Wasn’t expecting to run into what I did. Had to circle back. Regroup.”

Scott wants to hit him. Scott wants to feel his knuckles split on the hard curve of his jaw. He clenches his hand into a fist. 

“I can’t believe you,” he decides to say, and he cannot fathom how Jean refrained from knocking his teeth out when he stood there in their tiny bedroom a hundred years ago and told her what he had done. He is still baffled as to how she manages their friendship, stubborn and hot-headed as he is. 

But as he looks at Logan and refrains from socking him in the face, he knows that it is because she loves him. She loves him and she carries that burden. 

Scott understands completely. 

“Death wish doesn’t even begin to cover it. Stop trying to put yourself on the fucking cross, you asshole. Aren’t you sick of repenting?”

Logan laughs and it crashes over Scott like ice water. “I gotta be, right?”

“Eventually,” Scott agrees. “Eventually, you have to come home.”

“I did,” Logan reminds him. 

“Then youhave to stay. If I stay… If I stay then so do you. Alright?”

Logan nods. He smiles. He keeps looking at Scott. He starts laughing again. 

“What? What?” Scott says, annoyed. 

“Nothin’. C’mere,” he reaches out, practically tries to tug Scott over onto his lap. “Nothin’, you big fucking dork.” 

“Shut up,” Scott says. He grabs Logan’s face, pulls him closer. “You’re not going anywhere?”

“I’ll get the kids to do it. I guess I have a few more calls to make.”

Logan kisses him. Scott doesn’t take the bait, because he knows to never take the bait. He pulls back, Logan chases him. 

“You talk to Charles on a weekly basis?” 

“That’s an exaggeration,” Logan argues, and Scott tries to elbow him. “It’s Charles.”

Scott knows what he means. 

He says, “Call Marie. Wait, no, call Kitty.”

Logan laughs, and laughs, and laughs. 

“Call Jean. Shit, I’m gonna call Jean.”

“Fuck yeah. God, I miss Jean.”

Scott pulls his phone out of his pocket, except Logan keeps turning his face to kiss him. He twists away, tries to stand up. 

“You always did,” Scott grumbles. 

“Missed you too, most of the time.”

“Whatever you say, pal. Stop pulling on me,” Scott complains, and he lands back on the couch with a thump. 

Logan laughs. 

—

Scott takes Laura to the grocery store. 

The truck runs nicely (the little black car had been gone when he went outside, and he didn’t ask, because he didn’t want to know), and Laura fiddles with the radio the whole way, but Scott doesn’t mind. 

Laura tries to put all the junk food in the store into their cart and Scott almost has to physically restrain her to keep her from sprinting off. She sits in the basket with the other groceries, legs crossed, staring at him grumpily. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “Hey, I told you — no, do not do that in here. Do you like apples?”

Laura shrugs. He steers them towards the produce section. “Let’s get some apples. Do you think Logan knows how to bake?”

Scott buys her apples and peanut butter and mini donuts and chocolate milk. He gets the kind of coffee creamer that Bobby uses, the kind that’s made out of oats or something, and he manages to find the ridiculously expensive cream cheese that Storm likes and gets that as well. 

He even gets a bouquet of lilies because he wants to see the look on Logan’s face when he comes home with flowers. Laura rubs a petal between her thumb and forefinger. 

He gets things like cereal, real butter, a carton of orange juice. Things he knows a home should always have. 

He gets good beer, expensive whiskey. He gets a loaf of bread just because it looks nice. 

They check out and carry their treasures to the car. Laura looks at him over the cart, her face turned towards the bright sun, smiling like they’ve gotten away with something, and he smiles back. He smiles the whole way back to the house and even as they bring everything inside. 

He presents the flowers to Logan like a joke. He whips them out from behind his back and offers them, holding them out, shaking them in Logan’s face. He snatches them out of Scott’s hand and gives them an admiring once over. 

“Nice,” he declares, and Scott wants to reach out and grab at him, but he doesn’t because Laura is moving things around in the fridge behind him. He does tug at the collar of Logan’s shirt, once, nervous energy building up in his hands. 

He fills up a glass with water and puts the flowers on the kitchen table. They do look nice. 

The sunny day bleeds into a warm night. Dusk is sticky-hot, and the three of them eat on the living room floor, balancing plates on their legs. 

Laura sips at her soda and picks her pizza apart with her fingers. She seems happy and full and she wiggles in between Scott and Logan, leaning her head on Logan’s shoulder. 

When it’s time to go to bed, Scott throws the couch a mournful glance and Logan smacks the back of his head, then drags him into his room. 

He gets his hands under the hem of Scott’s shirt, not quite tugging but clearly trying to get him to take the hint. His fingers skim across Scott’s waist, up his sides, and Scott leans into it, lets Logan press him into the bed and grope him. He accuses him of being thirteen, and Logan laughs, clear and delighted. 

Logan pulls his own shirt off in one fluid motion, and Scott unashamedly runs his hands over his stomach and his chest, relieved to see that most of the bruising has gone away. Logan has taken the dressing off of his stitches and they stand awkward and protruding in his skin. 

“How do you still have clothes on?” Logan murmurs. Scott bites back a laugh, and he leans forward so Logan can finally help him out of his t-shirt. 

Scott wants to say a million different things but he figures he’ll have time. Instead he kisses Logan again. 

Despite both of them getting each other down to just their boxers, they don’t do anything but lie there, Scott tucked up against Logan’s chest, his mouth resting on the hollow of his throat. He falls asleep easily; he could get used to this. 

The next day is the same easy routine. Laura reads in the backyard, Scott toys with the engine in Logan’s truck. He calls Ororo, and he fills her in on the previous night’s events. She’s only mildly horrified, which is a lot better than he was expecting. She tells him to keep an eye on Logan and he promises to do just that. 

They call Bobby too, and Logan talks to him for a while, quiet and secret in the kitchen. Scott is okay with not knowing. He lets it go. 

One day turns into two which turns into five. He does laundry and cooks dinner and lets Logan kiss him slow and heated in his bedroom. They watch T.V. and Scott teaches Laura how to play cards even though Logan is a filthy cheater and ends up winning every time. 

It is spectacularly normal. 

It is two in the morning, the beginning of Scott’s sixth day in New Mexico, when he is woken up to his phone buzzing on the bed next to him. He blinks, readjusting his shades, squints at the bright screen. 

“Jean?” he says as he answers, his voice low and rough with sleep. 

“Scott,” Jean says, a rush of panic, and Scott tries to sit up. 

“Is everything alright?”

“No,” she says, and her voice cracks clean in two. “It’s — it’s Charles. He’s not doing well. Hank doesn’t know if he’ll make it through the night.”

He doesn’t say anything. He detangles himself from Logan, sitting against the headboard. 

“Kurt says he’s pretty sure he can get the three of you at the same time, and he can be there in twenty minutes or however long you need, just — ”

“Jean,” Scott interrupts gently. 

“Scott,” Jean breathes on the other end. He hooks onto that, the soft whisper of her voice breaking over a phone line, and he can be whatever she needs him to be in that moment, just like he could when he was nineteen and twenty-five and forty-three. 

All Jean says, after she takes a ragged, tired breath in, is, “Come home. You need to come home.”

He nods even though she can’t see him. “Twenty minutes. See you then.”

He shoves his phone into his pocket, then leans over Logan and turns on the bedside lamp. He jostles Logan’s shoulder, taps the side of his face. 

“Logan, wake up,” he hisses. Logan grumbles. “Logan. We have to go.”

“Huh? Where?” Logan grunts, his eyes still closed. 

“Jean called. Charles is — Charles isn’t doing well. She wants us home.”

“Kurt?”

Scott nods. “Twenty minutes. Do you want me to get Laura?” 

“No,” Logan pulls himself up, groaning. He coughs once, twice. “I’ll get her and uh — pack her bag, and you should get our stuff. A few nights’ worth.”

Scott nods, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. 

He makes room in his backpack for Logan’s clothes, his toothbrush. He finds his glasses in the nightstand drawer and puts them in the front pocket. 

Bag packed. 

He runs his hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. He goes to Laura’s room. 

Logan has her green backpack hanging off of his arm. He’s holding Laura on his right hip, and she’s trying to get comfortable, fidgeting with her face pressed into the space where his neck meets his shoulder. Scott walks over and helps settle her against him. He takes the bag off of Logan’s arm and swings it over his own. 

Scott walks through the house, making sure they have what they need, turning off lights and locking doors. He finds a pouch of colored pencils, a sketchbook, and puts them in Laura’s bag. He doesn’t know how long they’ll be at the mansion but he figures it won’t hurt to be prepared. 

Logan is waiting in the kitchen. Laura is still asleep on his shoulder. She spent most of the day racing herself in the backyard, making Scott time her so she could keep track of her own records. The knees of her jeans had gotten grass stained, and they are still laid out on top of the washing machine, ready to be cleaned. 

Scott reaches his hand out and hovers for an awkward moment between Laura and Logan, before straightening out Laura’s sleeve and brushing her hair back over her shoulder. 

“He’ll be alright,” Scott says, both to Logan and to himself. 

Logan shrugs one shoulder. His face is replete with dread. 

They stand in the kitchen, waiting.