Drafted

Chapter 3: To Need

Pinwheel Universe: Original Timeline, April 2015

Richmond, Virginia

It wasn’t like this shit was easy, Logan reminded himself as he awkwardly stepped out of  the rented car, courtesy of Yashida industries. The building was a sprawling one-story, basic and almost utilitarian in style. Red brick, box-like windows. The smells instantly hit him. Incontinence. Windex. Vinyl. The sky was overcast and there was still a residual winter chill in the air. Something in his chest felt wrong, off, and he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. Shoulda brought fuckin’ flowers , he thought to himself. 

It had been a short but painful homecoming from Japan. Everywhere he went, memories springing up like weeds. Memories he thought were lost forever. The wars were one thing. Nagasaki. Vietnam. Normandy. But the women...Jesus. The women were another.

Most of ‘em he hadn’t given a damn about. Settling between a woman’s thighs after a drunken night out had happened more times than he’d care to count. Whole parts of centuries of whorin’ around. But every few decades or so, somebody would make him forget. Forget the pain, the loneliness, the nightmares. He was still goin’ by the name of James for all three, and they all were long before Stryker got his filth fuckin’ hands on him. 

Three women, from what he could guess, that had meant somethin’ more. He was still puttin’ it all together, the flashes of image. The late nights, the dinners, the wooing. One, he’d got down on one knee for, after the first World War. But the marriage hadn’t happened. She’d found out what he really was after a nightmare had turned bloody, and afterward she had left him. 

One in the late nineteenth century too, from what he guessed by the attire. He’d gone through all the fuckin’ trouble of getttin’ on her parents’ good side too, until Tuberculosis struck the entire family. He’d helped bury everyone but her younger brother and a great aunt. More bodies than there were living souls sendin’ em off on that day. Death, always knockin’ on every door but his own.

The last had been in the fifties, before things really went off the rails and he smoke and drank and did a hell a lot of stuff he didn’t have a name for from Vietnam on. But before that...before…

Her name had only recently come to him. Evelyn. Evelyn Belle Burnstein. Her family had been from Virginia, just north of Fredericksburg. The first memory that had come back to him...he’d been sulking at a bar on the northside of town after being laid off from the local paper mill, emptying his wallet on a few bottles of booze, when a couple of assholes had been givin’ her and her girlfriend trouble. He’d scared ‘em off, broke one of the guys’ noses, and they had scrammed. The little blonde friend had been spooked by the violence and had found a pay phone for a ride home, but Evelyn, she stayed, even as the bartender tossed a rag his way and he wiped the blood off his left hand where he’d socked the kid. He shoulda been kicked outta the joint for that, but he was a regular, and often a generous customer with his wallet. She didn't seem phased by any of it, and, instead, she asked him questions, smiled boldly. After another drink, she had even goaded him into walking her back to her place, since her car was still in Williamsburg at school. It took ‘em less than ten minutes, strollin’ near the empty streets of the suburb, edging the fields of a civil war battleground that was now a public park. 

“I intend to be a lawyer,” she said, her cute, button nose held proudly in the air, after admitting she was a senior in her undergraduate coursework at William and Mary.  She was home visiting family in Spotsylvania county over her spring break, and had gone out dancing with “Mary, but she’s sometimes a real flake.”

“A lawyer, eh?” he said with a smirk, hands once more in his pockets of his leather jacket, an odd smile playing on his lips. 

“What? You don’t think women can be lawyers?” she asked, obviously having to come to her own defense dozens of times in the past. Still though, he was having a hard time focusing on anythin’ but the way her curled, brown hair graced her shoulders. He threw her another grin, and shook his head slightly.

“‘Course they can. And from everything I’m seein’, that’s about the only career field you should consider. Although maybe stop wearin’ pink if you wanna be taken seriously,” he grinned devilishly at her. She blushed, staring down at her dress and matching gloves for a minute as she wrung her hands, and for a second he thought he had mistaken a wallflower for a spitfire, prey for predator, but then she came to her senses and smacked him with her purse as they got closer to her street. 

“I’m staying at my parents’ place. I have to dress like this. They only pay for college because they think it’s how I’ll find someone to go steady with, even though it’s nearly been four years and I’m two months away from my degree,” she said with a devious, beautiful smile. “Most of the girls in my graduating class are married with babies already. And honestly, I’m the only Jewish girl in my town so maybe they always expected something...more.”

“What’s you being Jewish gotta do anything with graduating college?” he asked, and she sighed. 

“We’re all supposed to be smart,” she said, looking at him with concern, as if he was supposed to know this. 

“That ain’t quite fair. Sounds like some stereotyping bullshit,” he muttered. 

She only shrugged her shoulder. “Some stereotypes are based on truth.” 

“Guess so….” he drifted off, before adding, “So...that ain’t in the cards for you?” 

“What?” she asked. 

“Finding someone to ‘go steady with’?” he pressed. Again, she blushed the color of her dress.

“Well...if the right guy came along. But he’d have to be Jewish. And tall. And a straight-A student. And he’d have to accept that my career comes first. No General Electric housewife horse shit for me like Nancy Meyers and her three blonde brats,” she retorted, and his smile grew. She talked the rest of the way back. Animatedly, with her hands, and he found himself oddly clinging to every word. Usually he avoided women this young, they didn’t have their heads on straight yet, but this one…..well. Anyway, he hadn’t told her he had a bike, takin’ the opportunity to talk to the brunette with such staunch opinions of Eisenhower and how he shouldn’t be in office. 

“I trust Republicans as far as I can throw them,” she said with a curt nod of her head. 

“And what if I’m a Republican?” he asked through a wink and she laughed out loud, an infectious, warm laugh, before threading an arm around his own, pretending to shiver in the spring air just so he’d pull her a bit closer. He noticed, and he grinned, sloughing off his jacket and offering it to her. She smiled widely, placing it over her delicate shoulders and then went back to holding his arm.

“Being a Republican is not as much of a crime as being a gentile in my parents’ eyes,” she said. “Because...I’m assuming….you’re not Jewish?”

Never went to school. 120 fuckin’ years old. Got bone claws that jut outta my hands. Haven’t been in a church or synagogue or whatever in decades, he thought tiredly, before responding with a simple, “Nope.”

“Damn,” she murmured, still grinning.

--

Shoulda brought flowers, he thought again, just as he sighed, awkwardly making his way to the front desk. The smells were triple of what they had been, and just over a partition, he could see the lunch crowd finishing up. Wrinkled, elderly men and women, in clothing that matched, and sometimes clothing that didn’t. The place was nice, sure. Nicer than most. But he could hear the sound of pills being dispersed. Taste the chocolate pudding in the air. Smell the denture glue. Something heavy again in his chest. There was a reason why he’d never done this when he went by James. Why he never knocked on old doors, callin’ on the past to answer for itself. Usually it was the business of visiting gravesites at best, or seein’ people at the end of their lives at worst.

But Logan, the man after Stryker, he didn’t know better. A bumbling idiot, this guy, relearnin’ all the things it had taken decades for the former man to learn. Needless to say, some part of him knew he was in for some heartache. 

He cleared his throat, and the woman in scrubs clutching a clipboard in thick, tortoise shell glasses glanced at him, giving him the up and down.

“I’m here to pay Evelyn Burnstein a visit,” he said, and he realized his voice was hoarse. Probably all that fuckin’ liquor from last night, he thought grimly.

“Miss Burnstien doesn’t normally have visitors, unless she needs to sign something regarding a matter of the firm. Are you... from the firm?” the woman stated, taking in his worn leather jacket, belt buckle, flannel shirt and boots. Logan frowned.

“No, uh, I’m not, ma’am. I’m...an old friend,” he barely ground out. Another once over, then a sigh from the woman clutching the clipboard. 

“Alright. What’s the harm? I’ll call down to her room and ask her. Can I have your name?” 

He blinked at her for a moment, and then muttered, “James.”

--

“You can’t stay here,” she whined, throwing the comforter over his bare ass before tossing him his briefs. 

He’d only grinned at her. “Give a man a second, Evie. I just woke up,” he said, and yawned loudly. 

“Shhhhh!!!!” she chastized him. 

“What?” he asked through a tilt of his head.

“This is the girl’s dormitory, Jamie! What do you think?!”

 He only snorted as he lackadaisically sat up a little, running a hand through his hair.

“God, you gotta quit callin’ me that kid. No one’s ever called me that. Not even my own mother. And what? Can’t have a little fun with someone you been seein’ for a while now? Haven’t I taken ya to the pictures enough times to warrant it?” he muttered. At this, she only rolled her eyes.

“ Sure. Fine. Whatever. But we weren’t supposed to fall asleep until morning. And if they knew I brought a man, not a boy, but a fully grown, hairy man back to my dorm, I’d be toast,” she said crossing her arms, brown hair mussed from sex, still standing over him from her side of the twin bed, completely naked. Something in his chest rumbled in contentment at the sight of her, as a wicked thought struck him. 

“Hate to break it to ya, but from last night alone my guess is that you like sex. You like it a lot. And my other guess is that you’ve been with more men than boys, sweetheart,” he joked. And that’s when she looked him straight in the eye, frowned, and then smacked him clear across the face. 

“Fuck!” he yelled, and she only glared at him, hands on her hips. “That hurt, Evs,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. 

“Language,” she teased, before he growled lowly, pawing for her once more, and her anger instantly disappeared as she giggled, despite herself.

--

Room 328.  It seemed cold, really, that a woman’s life would be confined to a single room now, with a single number. And it didn’t make sense, if she had any say still in the firm that bore her name. She could afford her own place, with round the clock care, he assumed. He’d done enough research to know that.

The woman in the glasses had only been on the phone for seconds, before hanging up and muttering, “She says she’ll see you. Room 328.” He sighed, head bowed, half terrified that he’d catch sight of her in the hallway or in the TV room or some place where they wouldn’t be able to talk in private. Would he even know it if he did see her? Yes, yes he would , something from deep inside told him. A person changed much over their lifetime, but their spirit, what Yukio had sometimes called a Seishin , that stayed the same. And Logan could sense that on anyone, better than most. 

--

“Why are we here?” she asked, carefully peering over the menu for Le Voltaire, the fanciest restaurant he knew of in Williamsburg. 

“What do ya mean, Evie? I told ya I was takin’ you out, didn’t I? A year of law school in the books and all,” he muttered, pulling on his neck tie uncomfortably. 

“You wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this usually. Something’s up,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “You just ordered wine. I haven’t seen you drink Merlot a day in your life.”

“Kid…” he muttered. “Let me just do one nice thing for ya...without you makin’ a damn argument out of it for once,” he growled, and the pout that overtook her features had him feelin’ just a smidge of regret. But he’d taken a job at a smelting plant outside of Williamsburg for her. Rearranged his life. Had stayed put for more than his usual six months. 

“You’re...not gonna propose or anything...right, Jamie?” she finally said, and just as he whipped his head up from the menu in surprise, the bread and wine came. He muttered a vague thank you to the waiter, and then looked at Evelyn wildly. She was adorned in a black silk dress, her hair longer now and put up.

“Are you crazy, woman? No. No fuckin’ way,” he said a little too harshly, downing the Merlot in one single gulp and reachin’ for the bottle to refill it. 

So what if he had been thinkin’ about it? He’d done it once before. Got down on one knee and everything. So, what if he had?

Before you didn’t know you’d live so fuckin’ long, ya creep, a voice whispered in his ear. 

And anyway, that was only until the claws came out one night in he and Clara’s shitty, rented one-bedroom that had just been wired with electricity and every once in a while would spark and start small fires. The claws, the blood, and her then bags were packed the next day. He’d started bouncin’ for mobsters and runnin’ the booze circuit after that. 

Meanwhile, she was still frowning. 

“Good, because…” she finally said, before abruptly stopping.

“What?” he said through a mild groan.

“What, Evelyn?” he asked again, in a rare moment using her full name.

“Well...you’re different than me, aren’t you?” she said, a knowing, taciturn look in her eyes.

“You mean, because I’m not Jewish?” he asked, knowing that wasn’t it. That had never been it.

“No,” she murmured. “Because...you’re...older. Different,” she barely whispered.

“Ten years ain’t such a big difference,” he lied through his teeth. She only looked at him sadly, as he once more downed the rest of his wine.

--

With every step, he regretted his decision. With every step, he cursed Yukio’s name. It had been her, who had suggested this, before they parted ways. All that shit about Seishin. And, sure, she’d been by his side for over a year, helping him settle old scores, payin’ up old debts. But that was different. That was different than when she’d suggested going back stateside, suggested burying the people who needed to be buried. 

She might still be alive, Yuk.

Then she is lucky, and you need to speak with her, at least one last time. 

They’d parted ways then. He’d willfully ignored her advice, and had drifted around Tokyo another few months. And then, he had his made home. A puppet to her, or maybe to Mariko, or Jean, or even Rogue, or to all the other women in his life he’d let down. Maybe he could make it up to just this one.

Room 328. No flowers, no card, no gift, damnit. Fifty-eight years since the last time he’d laid eyes on her. Hell, even a bottle of whiskey would’ve done the trick. He paused outside of the door, quietly pacing it for a few moments, trying to get a hold of the beast barely restrained inside him, when he heard a quiet, yet somehow sharp, “Well, if you’re going to come in, come in.”

He sighed, breathing out quickly, before pushing open the door. The room was filled with warm light, thank fuck. An elaborate bedspread, simple furnishings, the Torah on a nightstand, and, by the window, a thin woman with silver hair, a blanket around her shoulders, hands folded in her lap. She had to be... what? Eighty or so, he guessed. She didn’t turn to look at him, and instantly it put him on guard. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he hovered there just inside the door he had just gently closed. For a moment, no one spoke, until Logan struggled to find his voice.

“Evie,” he finally muttered under his breath, and that’s when she turned to glance at him, the same piercing brown eyes quickly looking him up and down. They widened slightly, the only sign she was taken aback by what she saw, that is, until she spoke.

“Damn. Damn it to hell. I was right,” she muttered, and he frowned, sighed, and walked closer to her. Her voice was just the slightest bit deeper than it used to be, most women’s voices were as they aged, but it was still undoubtedly her.

“Hey kid,” he muttered, pulling up the only spare chair in the place, taking a seat on the opposite side of her wheelchair. “Thanks for agreein’ to see me.”

“You didn’t give me much notice,” she said kindly enough, but, still, Logan’s frown deepened as he leaned an elbow on his knee, trying to casually run a hand through his unruly hair and coming off even more nervous. She continued to stare at him for long moments, before she realized she had stared too long, and tried to correct herself. 

“I’m sorry, James. It’s just…”

“I know,” Logan muttered, finally lifting his gaze to stare directly at her. 

“You’re lucky you caught me after blackjack. What took you so long to visit me?” she asked, her tone light and airy, as if he were only a month or two late, instead of fifty eight years. But Evie always played her cards close to her chest, and he knew better. Once more, a guilty feeling settled in his gut.

“Hell, Evie. I’m sorry. It’s been-” he began, until she cut him off.

“Decades. I know that,” she murmured. “I haven’t lost my sanity, James.” At this, he snorted a little, and she smiled.

“You look good, kid,” he said, nodding to her. At this, the old woman rolled her eyes a little, in an exact imitation of a woman sixty years her junior.

“Oh, please, James. I think we’re past that act,” she murmured, and Logan frowned.

“Ain’t no act, Evie. S’the truth. I’ve seen a lotta people be born, live and then die. Ya look better than most of ‘em,” he said, and, when she realized she’d hurt his feelings slightly by accusing him of lying, she offered him an apologetic glance.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m caustic in my old age,” she said with a wave of one wrinkled hand. 

“Now that is a lie. You were always a little spitfire,” he muttered, and she glanced up to him in surprise, as if she hadn’t been offended, or perhaps even teased, in a very, very long time. 

“So, other than insulting me, why are you here, Jamie?” she asked, and the nickname made something deep in his chest quiver, throwing him off his rhythm. In his entire life, he’d allowed Evelyn and Evelyn alone to call him that, if only because the woman was so goddamn stubborn about sticking with the nickname. Jamie. A boy’s name. A way to pull him down to her size, her level. Or, a term of endearment, if nothing else.

“I hate to have sprung it on ya,” he finally grumbled, unsure of where to look, afraid he’d look at something in her room too long, and he’d know too much. “And I know it’s been a long time. Too long. But it wasn’t... all my fault. Why I never...well. Let’s just say I’ve been trying to piece back together a lot of my life from the eighties onward…” 

She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing as she continued to stare at him. Then, remembering what the woman at the front desk had said about the firm, he broke out into a genuine smile and changed the subject.

“You get that law degree?” he asked playfully. And, at that, she grinned, the lines on her face hinting at the spark, a Seishin he’d forgotten, but then had remembered once again.

“Yes,” she said.

“You run your own firm?”

“Yes. Burnstien and Bach. Forty-five years,” she said, a hint of obvious pride in her voice.

“Damn, baby. Well done. I’m assuming the building still has yer name on it?” he asked through another grin.

“What do you think?” she retorted, and he smiled once more, but then, as he remembered something else the woman had said, his smile fell.

“Burnstein. Yer maiden name,” he murmured through a frown. At this, her smile dwindled, as she rearranged the blanket around her thin shoulders before responding.

“Well... who has time for any of that when you’re running one of the top firms in Manhattan,” she muttered, and Logan’s frown deepened. 

“I’m sorry, kid,” he practically whispered, and she looked up to him sharply.

“ Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare, after all this time, offer me pity, James. Not after…” she drifted off, and Logan felt his frustration  surge.

“What? After what, Evs? Because...it’s drivin’ me insane. I lost it all, kid. You know...at least I feel you always gotta sense of who I am. What I am. So it shouldn’t surprise ya when I tell you they experimented on me. I became the government’s favorite weapon for a while, kid. Decades, wiped. I…” he stopped, staring down for a moment, realizing that these truths, these truths, he had never admitted out loud, to anyone. “After I escaped, I was lost, baby. Stumblin’ around the forest like an animal. For years. Until about the time I remembered how to fuckin’ read.”

She simply blinked at him for a moment, a surge of black fire burning in her eyes, always the only outward sign Evelyn Burnstein saw something in the world that was unjust. “I’m sorry to hear that, Jamie. I really am. Can I ask… what they did to you?” 

“I’m gonna spare you those gruesome details, kid,” he muttered, and then he felt her hand, cold and thin and frail, gently grasp his own warm and large and strong one. 

“One night. You cooked for me when I had the flu. It was awful, but I wanted you and your company and your terrible taste in jokes. But you... burned your hand, right...here,” she said, brushing a thumb across where his index finger met his palm. “And-”

“Yeah, I know, kid. I know you saw it,” he muttered. “I knew you knew.”

“How old, James?” she asked quietly. “I...I always wanted to know.” When he said nothing, she gently nudged him by saying his name once more, a name foreign on practically anyone’s lips, except hers. “James?”

“My best guess,” he grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “From the memories returnin’...two hundred, give or take,” he said, glancing down at the ground.

“Jesus christ ,” she murmured, and he felt her hand leave his, and something in him darkened. 

“You know,” he muttered running the abandoned hand now along the scruff of his beard, sitting back in his chair a little. “I always wanted to meet yer father. Wanted to tell him I fought in the first world war and the second. That I tore through dozens of camps, killin’ Nazis left and right.”

“And you think that would have made him accept you any more?” she said, a sad smile on her face. At this, Logan laughed, genuinely so. 

“No, I guess not. Just a goddamn pipe dream, I s’pose,” he said through a shake of his head, before glancing at her again. 

“So. Never married. Hopefully some sorry loser to love for a while though? Some good sex with a string of decent men?” he asked raising a brow at her and she snorted. 

“I know what you’re really asking, Jamie. And I’m not going to boost your ego even more by saying you were my best, but, well...hmm. Some men got close,” she muttered, and he chuckled despite himself. 

“God damnit, woman. You always knew how to hit me where I live,” he said, and she smiled at him for a moment, before the conversation died again, as a dark cloud, much like the gloomy April weather outside, loomed over them both.

“Things aren’t good out there for you right now, are they, James? For mutants?” she asked quietly.

“No, they ain’t,” he muttered simply.

“And what are you gonna do about it?” she asked, and he lifted his head up to her once more, staring at her in mild confusion. 

“I say that because,” she said thoughtfully, practically reading his mind, “When you knew a law was wrong, or something was unethical, it would bother you or drive you so mad that you would have to do something to try and fix it.”

At this, Logan smiled sadly, and shook his head a little.

“Nah, kid. I wasn’t in the habit of fixin’ things. That was yer gig. Me...I broke ‘em worse than they were before,” he tapered off, and she frowned, but was silent, as if encouraging him to keep at it. Meanwhile, he was already hatin’ where the conversation was headed, but, just like back then, he seemed desperate to talk to her, hangin’ onto every word, no matter what topic was broached.

“I…” he muttered. “Well. For a while..I was helpin’ a rich guy. Before he died, he ran a school. Had this...ideology. Mutants and humans livin’ together in peace. He was tryin’ to help set the world straight. But he died, and then I left. Been gone a long while, long enough that, while I was gone, the world changed.”

“You ran again?” she said suddenly through a slight frown, and Logan felt his defenses once more shooting up around him.

“Evie, I never ran from you,” he hissed leaning forward to look in her eye once more. Something in her own eyes had darkened as she shook her head a little.

“Three months, James. Three months , no word, no contact. Second year of law school,” she said, then stopped, breathing out.

“What happened, Evs? What’d I do? What’d I say?” he asked, desperate for more.

“ Nothing, James. We had dinner, and you left,” she murmured, and something in him slumped. Suddenly his thoughts were on Rogue. He had wondered, often, where she was now, especially since he knew the mansion had been overrun. He tried not to think about how he’d let her down, like how he’d let this woman down, like he’d let all women down.

“Why’d you run, Jamie?” Evelyn said under her breath, and Logan stared at her evenly.

“Because…” he murmured. “Because you knew, kid. You saw right through me. You knew, and you didn’t like it.”

“ Bullshit,” she retorted, and he practically snarled at her. 

“I knew, sure. As much as I could know. And I loved you….” she stopped, and sighed. “I loved you more because of it.”

“Never fuckin’ said so,” Logan retorted, and she shook her head. 

“Neither did you,” she hissed.

“Look,” Logan muttered. “I meant it with you. I had a ring, alright? I knew yer parents would have burned me at the stake fer askin’ you. And I knew I was likely to outlive ya, kid. That we’d be fuckin’ married, maybe as old as we are now, and I’d look like how I look now, and you would look how you do. But I was willin’ to give it all up for ya. I was. The life I knew. The past I couldn’t escape. But you goddamn told me you didn’t want me because of our differences.”

“I was lying, Jamie,” she said, a lone tear seeping down her cheek. “And from what I had figured out about what your….gifts were, had you been focusing on me, you would have been able to tell. I was terrified of how much I loved you. How much we fought like cats and dogs. How...much it all was. But I was lying that night. Out of bloody fear. And if you’d stayed long enough to figure that out, well...” she dropped off, catching her breath, a thin hand clutching the side of the wheelchair chair in defeat. 

He said nothing as he looked at her, eyes blinking, senses on fire, trying to read the lie. Trying to sniff out the truth. But the truth was plain as day, written into her every word.

“Fuckin’ hell, Evs,” he said, once more sitting back in his chair, his hands in fists. But then he was shaking his head, recalling the other thing he had witnessed.

“And a few months after, you know, I came back to check on ya. And yer roommate said you were down at Clancy’s, and there you were hanging off another man’s--no, a boy’s-- shoulder.”

“I would assume you’d know a shoddy rebound when you see one, sweetie,” she snapped, and he glared at her once more. 

“Goddamnit,” he cursed, immediately standing, pacing the space in front of her, every once in a while stealing a glance out the window, longing for escape. To put himself somewhere else. To run. 

Jesus christ, she was fuckin’ right.

“James, calm down,” shesaid sharply, and he practically growled at her, and she raised her voice even more.. 

“James Johnathan Howlett, sit down. Do not make an eighty- three year old woman, who just had a birthday, stand and make you,” she commanded, and that stopped him. He glared at her, took in a deep breath, and then plopped down in his chair once more.

“Seems like your maturity ages about the same rate you do,” she said, and after a moment’s pause, they both laughed, despite themselves. 

“I still have more questions for you ,” she finally said, and he growled a little, but stayed quiet. Something softened about her as she mentally toiled with her question before asking it.

“Did you ever find love after me? The kind you were so desperate for?” she asked quietly, and he looked up to her sharply. 

“No, kid. I...I thought I had. But...I was wrong. So, no,” he said. 

“That’s the real tragedy, then,” she murmured, and he swallowed, hard. For long moments, no one spoke, until finally he cleared the air.

“Thinkin’ of tracking down some of the old team. See if we can fight back against the work camps,” he muttered, changing the subject.

“Good,” she said, through a sharp nod of her head. “Those ghettos, those camps. It’s Hitler all over again.”

“I know, Evie,” he replied.

“James…” she trailed off, once more sitting up slowly, moving to grasp his hand again, and he let her, running the pad of his thumb along the top of her hand, over protruding veins and wrinkles alike.

“Even if it can’t love you back, fight for the things you do love. Fight for freedom. Fight for them,” she said, a new fire, that same spark, once more smoldering in her eyes. 

“We won't win, kid,” he murmured. 

“Then die trying,” she whispered, and he simply stared at her for a moment before moving to stand. Silently, he closed the distance between them, gently bending over, his mouth hovering just beyond her ear. 

“I did love you, Evs. And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. For fuckin’ it all up,” he muttered, and then his lips grazed the base of her ear where it met her neck, and he kissed her there, where, years ago, he’d routinely nipped her pulse, always apologizing after if he felt he was too rough. 

I like it like that, she would say, through a cheeky grin and a knowing smile. 

As his lips brushed her skin, he felt her clutch his still-warm hand more tightly, before he pulled back just so, and her hand then cradled his face, as he noticed fresh tears in her eyes. 

“Time to leave,” she whispered, even as she ran a light, papery thumb over his bottom lip, so quickly it might not have happened. “And do what I said. Take orders like a good soldier,” she whispered.

“It’s what I do best,” he muttered, before gently kissing the top of her head, along her silver hair, squeezing her hand one final time, before standing once more, nodding, and turning on his heel to leave, too much of a goddamn coward to steal one more glance. 

---

Pinwheel Universe: Original Timeline, February 2021

At Taj, Libya

“ Logan! ” Storm shouted as she grabbed one of his arms and he whirled around from where he had been running, stopping them dead in their tracks. She shook her head at him slightly, not that way, and Logan snarled, turning this way and that, as his lungs fought the smoke he was inhaling, everything burning, what was left of the mosque engulfed in flames.

The mission had been a failure. A mutant children’s death camp. They had been weeks too late, all of them executed, decaying bodies in the dirt basement of a mosque. The Blackbird’s presence had been immediately detected and targeted. A code red had been issued. They had two minutes, or Charles and Erik would leave without them.

There were tears in Storm’s eyes as she shook her head slightly. We’re too late. Logan snarled, looking this way and that, sniffing the air, feeling like a trapped rat, when his senses gave him three seconds’ notice of more bombs falling. 

One: instantly, he shoved his full weight into Storm and pressed her against a dirt wall, screaming “hold on to me!” before covering her with his body. 

Two, his mind counted, as he was staring her directly in the eye, so close to her he could see the details in her brown irises as he tried to willfully communicate the words: prepare yourself. Prepare yourself for incredible pain. Maybe death.

Three: she only had time to give him the slightest of nods, and her face was the last thing he saw as a fiery ball of flames ate its way through the narrow corridor. 

He could hear them both screaming as the flames licked their skin, the sound of a building collapsing through the roar of the explosion, the heat unbearable as his uniform eroded along with the skin of his back. And then the ceiling around them gave, the basement falling in, and they both fell to the ground under the debris as he used the rest of his energy to not crush Storm under his own weight, sheltering her from the worst of it, stone and mortar and sand falling down around them both like a harsh rain.

Let her live, is all he that he thought as the last of it ended, and he collapsed beside her, consciousness going fuzzy from the pain, and for a few critical seconds, time he couldn’t have back, the world disappeared.

--

He realized he was on his back as he hacked and weezed, waking up suddenly. As his vision focused, he realized it was dark, almost pitch black, but even with his good vision he could only see smoke, smoldering ash. He tried to move, tried to use his arms to lift himself off the floor, and realized he couldn’t- body still healing, still missing whole muscles, partial biceps, triceps, no skin in places- when he heard her groan.

Storm.

Again, he struggled to move, and, finally, was able to drag himslef across the floor, snarling at the blinding pain of his body still healing, most of it still fuckin’ useless- legs fucked up, would’ve broken both femurs if not for the adamantium- as he found the her. Quickly, his eyes assessed his teammate, and he realized he’d blocked most of the debris- no blunt-force trauma - but she was burned badly in places. Third degree if not worse, he realized, her shoulders and upper arms singed a ghostly white and deep red where he hadn’t been able to block the flames, her skin entirely eaten away in places. And hers wasn’t growin’ back any time soon. She’d also lost consciousness again. Fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Once more he tried to sit up, growling through the pain as he succeeded this time, his clumsy and stiff fingers struggling with his utility belt, or what was left of it. Thank fuck, he thought, fumbling with a booster shot, chalk-full of morphine and antibiotics, and willed his raw hands not to shake as he hovered over to the unconcious woman. Heart still beating, slow, but steady. Atta girl, he thought, as he stabbed  the needle in her arm, and then collapsed beside her wearily, breathing out, using the small amounts of energy left to sniff the air, perk his hearing, to make sure they were gone. 

Gone. The sentinels, but also the Blackbird. 

For long moments, he lay there, and he realized, through the debris and smoke, he could see the night sky. The fire had entirely leveled the building then, he thought, as he gazed wearily at a swath of brilliant white stars. They were in the middle of the Sahara desert- would need to build a fire soon, gets cold at night-- in the small village of At Taj, and he guessed, like the mosque, the rest of the town lay in rubble, too.

Sirius. Canis major, his mind thought wearily, the pinpricks of white light gazing down at them both as, once more, he slipped out of consciousness.

--

Again, he woke, this time confused, even as his muscles now flexed, completely whole. As his eyes focused, he tried to remember the year, tried to remember the place. 2021, his mind sluggishly attempted. The...desert. Desert. Dead kids. Decaying kids. Storm...dying? No. No. But injured, badly. Fuck. FUCK. 

Now, he shot up, whipping his head around this way and that, only to find Storm now sitting up against a dirt wall. She was awake, occasionally grimacing, as she ripped off tatters of fabric from her uniform, applying ointment from her utility belt to the wounds, then binding them tight, tears slipping down her cheeks in pain. He blinked at her, amazed by her goddamn resilience, just as he realized it was warmer around them, despite the lack of a fire, and then he understood why. She was fuckin’ contollin’ the temperature. She shouldn’t be using her powers at all, as much as it stole her energy. Stubborn woman wouldn’t fuckin’ stop for nothing. 

“‘Ro,” he finally coughed, wearily standing, making his way over to her and then kneeling, placing a hand on her own to get her to stop. 

“Let me take care of that,” he said shaikly, and she whipped her head up to him, tears still in her eyes. 

“I can do it,” she hissed, recoiling from his touch, and he snarled, reaching for another vial on his belt. 

“Save it,” she muttered, “I’m fine.” He ignored her, and this time he tapped the needle and aimed directly for a vein. She didn’t fight him, and once he found it, pushing the meds into her system, he could see her eyes drift as the drugs hit her bloodstream. Instantly, the temperature around them dropped to normal as she lost her concentration. She had enough morphine in her now to where he hoped the worst of the pain would be numbed, and then she was staring at him, a world of hurt and confusion etched onto every feature. 

“Th-They…” she began, and he sighed. 

“I know,” Logan muttered. The children. Hundreds of mutilated bodies, executed quickly. They’d been all over the world, never in one place for too long, but he hadn’t seen a sight like that since stumbling on a school house full of corpses during the second world war. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Mutant children, the ones whose mutations manifested early, were considered some of the most dangerous. No wonder they had smuggled ‘em here, in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere. It was illegal to experiment on mutant children. The UN official order was to kill mutant children on sight, not keep ‘em alive, for however long. 

For years now, the unending, useless fight. With every month that passed, the more hopeless it all became. This mission had been sloppily planned, only a couple of days’ worth to prepare; most missions, if they even happened anymore, were like this, and they had paid for their carelessness. They’d lost contact with the Blackbird, in the middle ofthe goddamn desert, with a wounded soldier, who’d likely need fuckin’ skin grafts to heal. He only hoped Charles would come back for them, because they were grounded without the bird. 

Slowly, Storm breathed in and out as he finished the job, both of them silent as he carefully applied the ointment, tearing off strips of her uniform to cover the worst of the burns, as occasionally she winced and cried out in pain. After it was over, she began to shiver, and he lay her against a wall before collecting scraps of wood from the fallout to start a fire. It was small, but the basement blocked the worst of the harsh wind, which he was fuckin’ grateful for.

He sighed then, sitting across the fire from her, and Storm winced at the sight of flames as she stared at him across the dancing light. 

“Charles will come back for us,” she finally murmured, eyes heavy as the orange haze cast shadows on the far wall. 

“Gotta come up with some sort of fuckin’ plan if he doesn’t, ‘Ro,” Logan muttered, a shaking, weary hand running through his freshly grown-in hair. His scalp itched, his skin itched. It always did after he fuckin’ seared it off his body and grew it back. Like it wasn’t entirely his yet, like it was settling onto him still. 

Meanwhile, Storm ignored his comment, staring off into the dark surrounding Logan.

“You know…” Storm barely murmured, voice weighty under the dulling of the drugs. “I used to...I used to be terrified of basements,” she finished with a bitter laugh. 

At this, Logan looked up to her sharply. For six years, he’d been her teammate, her co-lead on most missions. He and Storm knew each other better than he had ever known most people. And, for over half that time, they had spent prolonged periods underground. Never had he heard her admit to this, except for maybe… early on, when he was torn up about Rogue... . I know a panic attack when I see one. And I get it, ok? You think I like it down there? It’s ok that you’re not ok, for now, but I need to know you’re gonna pull through this...eventually.

As she took in his expression, a sad smile played on her features, as she folded more into herself.

“Don’t look so...shocked. It was, well, any narrow, confined space, really…” she drifted off.

“Claustrophobic?” he asked carefully. Routinely, he had been secretly checking her heart rate, her pulse, trying to get a read on her temperature. Even with the drugs, she could spike a fever, pick up a deadly infection. They needed to be someplace sterile. They needed a fuckin’ doctor, or a healer. They needed out of this place. 

Meanwhile, Storm nodded. 

“Parents...you know. Killed during an airstrike. I was six. Buried under…” she drifted off, and then, more tears. “ Sharp and violent ways my breath would just...leave me. I couldn’t breathe in tight spaces, felt like..I was dying…” she muttered, and then he could tell the drugs were workin’ on her, toyin’ with her fears, her emotions. Sensing her need, Logan growled, slowly standing, once more walked over to her and sinking down next to her against the dirt wall.

“S’alright, ‘Roro,” he muttered, as his rough palm ran through her cropped white hair at the base of her neck and he looked her in the eye. She began crying then, even as she lay her head on his shoulder. Again, he sighed, as he put his arms around her and held her, tightly.  “Calm down,” he heard himself murmur.

“I can’t die here,” she finally whispered, without looking at him. “Not so close to Egypt, not without being there.”

“Hey,” Logan snarled, inching away from her slightly to force her to look at him. “No one’s dyin’ . Understand me? S’just the drugs talkin. Charles’ll come back for us, like you said, and you’ll live to see another goddamn miserable day of this fuckin’ war, alright?” he growled, and she simply smiled a ghostly smile at him that put him off, irked him. 

“ What?” he muttered through a frown.

“Logan. Always alive. Always strong. Always...watching us all perish around you,” she whispered, and, despite his standoffishness, he simply clutched her tighter to his chest. 

“S’enough of that kinda talk,” he muttered. “And, anyway, it’s not you who’s perishin’, ‘Ro. It’s never you.” 

He could feel her frown from where she lay her head, but no one spoke now, for a long while. She seemed to drift in and out of sleep, but his mind was racing. Their comms were off-line, but Charles could track them with the Cerebro that was on the bird. If they weren’t back in 48 hours, which was always the re-extraction deadline, because that’s all the provisions they carried on them, then Logan would figure out somethin’ else. But Storm couldn’t be moved yet, that was for fuckin’ certain. There was nothin’ but scorching desert out there for hundreds of miles, and even if she could control the climate, she couldn't forever. 

As she clutched his arm tighter, he swallowed, hard. He usually never let himself get this close to her. They weren’t like that, never had been, had always maintained that professional boundary. Good friends, better colleagues, but never lovers. It wasn’t that she wasn’t beautiful- because she was fuckin’ goregeous- it simply was...that he wouldn’t do that to her. No matter what he himself sometimes thought, no matter what other people thought, he wasn’t a goddamn animal, and he didn’t need his hands on every woman he could find. But...it had been a long time. A long damn time, since he’d been this intimate with anyone. It wasn’t even about the fuckin’ sex; it was the rest of it. The feeling of a head lying on his chest, movin’ up and down with his breath. How soft her hair was, how his body could envelop another. It was about bein’ close, and wishin’ to never be apart again. 

Suddenly, a flash of Rogue’s smile, which he immediately shut down in his mind. 

Not today, kid. You ain’t tormentin’ me today. 

He sighed heavily, breathing out, as he checked in on Storm’s heart beat once more. Finding it a little unsteady, he moved her closer to him, running gentle patterns on her back, trying to sooth her to sleep again, and he frowned when it had the opposite effect and she was giggling to herself. High as a kite, he thought through a frown.

“What?” he managed to grumble, and she looked up to him, a devilish spark in her eye.

“I’ve tried...sometimes. In weird moments...not in any sort of deliberate way, but...just to imagine what you’d be like...you know, as gentle. As an intimate creature, if only because...well. I couldn’t picture it. Now I know,” she smiled, and he snorted in response.

“Come on, now,” he muttered, unsure of what to say, and she laughed a little again.

“I mean it,” she whispered. “It’s...actually kind of nice. To know you are capable of... gentle. I kinda see how Rogue fell for you…” she trailed off, and he immediately frowned, but let the comment go. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, but didn’t pull away from her, and, instead, muttered, “Don’t get used to it, soldier,” before kissing the top of her head amidst her short, white hair. She laughed a little more, and then sighed, leaning into him more, and he knew she needed him, needed someone, and, for fuck’s sake, he was gonna be what she needed, for as long as she needed it. 

For a long while, no one spoke again, and he thought she had drifted off, until she murmured something under her breath. “ Al Taj,” she said, and he simply listened. “It means “crown” in Arabic. This place...was a holy site,” she said. 

“I remember...they used it in the wars. At least in the second,” he said, and she only nodded. More silence, and then he couldn't help but grin to himself. 

“You know I don’t believe in all that religious stuff, ‘Ro, but… if this place is holy, it’s only because it’s graced by a weather goddess,” he muttered, squeezing her hand, and he felt her smile, before once more falling off into a fitful sleep.

---

After an hour or so, sleep also overtook him. It always did when he had to heal like that, most of his energy fuckin’ drained from the process. It was distrubed, uneven sleep though. Most of the dreams disparate and faint, until they warped into something clearer, something akin to another fuckin’ memory. Alternative rock. Fake, plastic planets hanging from the ceiling. Balloons. A gymnasium, darkened, playing… Matchbox Twenty? 

Logan sighed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the stacked up gym bleachers, watching a bunch of awkward kids travel the floor in packs, boys with boys, girls with girls, while “If You’re Gone” played over head on the loudspeakers. No one was dancin’ with anybody, and, once again, he thought this was a terrible idea.

“I can’t believe you roped me into this,” he growled to Storm, who was currently serving punch, while she rolled her eyes at Logan. 

“Listen, you’re about to go off to find answers in Canada? Fine. But you can see a few of the kids off before you go, and we needed an extra chaperone. Try to have a little fun,” she muttered, and he grumbled something noncommittal. It had been two weeks since the torch, and he was itchin’ to get out of here. He’d been awkward around the girl especially, and the last thing he needed was some kid clingin’ to him, watchin’ his every move like she was. She was only seventeen for fuck’s sake, and from what he understood about what the professor said about her powers, he didn’t want to even begin to know what she’d picked up. As he glanced out at the gym though, the music replaced by some insufferable boy band slow song, he couldn’t find her. Made sense, too, since her skin was a factor. Still though, he was leavin’ in the morning, and he thought...well. Maybe not. Didn't smell her anywhere, either. 

Quickly, his eyes shot over to Jean. She was currently in a short, red dress, talking to Scott animatedly, punch in hand. Something deep in his chest convulsed--he hated seein’ her with that dickweed--and he snarled, pulling his glance away, now in an even worse fuckin’ mood as the song switched to “Kryptonite,” and he snarled. 

“Gonna go get some air,” he growled to Storm, shoving past the punch table, through the throngs of kids, and whipped open the door, only to be greeted by the kid, Rogue. She was adorned in a midnight blue dress, sleeveless, he noted, but also long, dark gloves, her hair was curled, like she took time with it. She looked, well, older. He simply blinked at her, dumbfounded, as she smiled shyly.

“Oh, hi, Logan,” she murmured quietly, looking down at the floor, wringing her hands. “Already leaving?” she asked, finally her eyes glancing up to him sharply. Then there it was, the scent of him on her. Had been there since the torch, and the way she was actin’...just the slightest bit...off. Like she knew more. Like she knew….

“No, kid. Just, uh, gettin’ some air. Boys puttin’ on too much damn cologne,” he said, and she blushed again, obviously expecting more of an answer.

“I’ll see ya in there kid. Go...uh...enjoy yerself,” he muttered, and she smiled, and he realized he was blocking the entrance to the gym and quickly moved to the side, as she politely scooted past him. He watched her go toward a few friends who waved to her, including the little firecracker he had met last week...what was her name? Jubilee. Yeah. He smiled after Rogue, until he realized he was supposed to be in a bad mood, and he walked down the long hall, intent on the veranda. Maybe he would stick with his story and actually get some fresh air. As soon as he was out of the double doors, it was, of course, relieving, and even though the sun long since had set, he still stood out there for long moments, arms crossed. 

His bike was packed. He had a full bottle of whiskey in his coat pocket. He could leave now, if he wanted. Stop obsessin’ over the woman he couldn’t have. Stop worryin’ about the kid and if he’d scarred her fer good. Get back to the life he’d known , not as a fuckin’ superhero, but as a man on the move, a man who only had ta look out for himself. He sighed, taking a nip of the whiskey, and then quickly lit a cigar, sucking in the rich tobacco. He didn’t know how long he was out there like that...but when he stomped out the butt of the cigar with a boot, thoughts on whether to stay or leave still swirling, he heard her, a bit tearful from the sound of it, as suddenly she burst out the doors and on to the veranda, mascara runnin’, and when she laid eyes on him, she looked horrified.

“Oh! Shitfire,” she cursed. “Sorry, Logan. I forgot-”

“S’alright, kid,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets, if only to do somethin’ with ‘em. “You ok?” 

“Yeah,” she muttered, wiping her face quickly before crossing her thin arms and shivering in the autumn weather. “Just...a lot in there.” 

Somethin’ about the way she said it, or the way she looked at him, had him guessin’ at the truth. Jesus fuck. So she had picked up some of his senses, like he might’ve thought. 

“I think...I’m ta blame for that. No one deserves to listen to Backstreet Men or whatever with heightened hearin’,” he muttered, and, at that, she truly did smile.

“It’s Backstreet Boys ,” she corrected, now walking a little further out onto the veranda, although she was sure to keep an almost animalistic distance from him. 

“Sounds about right,” he muttered, grasping for the bottle of whiskey in his jacket pocket, and drinking from it again. She seemed moderately surprised by this, offering him a tilt of the head. 

“Storm would kill you if she knew you snuck alcohol into the dance,” she murmured, and he snorted. 

“Kid, four other brats in there at least are already drunk,” he muttered. “And trust me, I ain’t sharin,” he said, and, surprisingly, she blushed.

“Oh, well. I don’t drink. Neither does Jubilee, or Bobby,” she murmured, and Logan grinned, despite himself. 

“Plenty of time for that later,” he murmured, setting the pint down on the edge of the veranda and leaning beside it. Meanwhile, she shivered again, and he sighed.

“Why don’t you get on back inside and go dance some more?” he asked her, but she shook her head. 

“I haven’t started dancing. No one has. All the boys are just standing there. And the music was just so loud, and Jubes is being pushy and-” she said, before realizing who she was talking too, and immediately shut up. At this, Logan chuckled a little. 

“So noone’s dancin’ with ya, eh? Can ya blame them for bein’ nervous?” he asked, and her smile fell, and then he instantly realized his mistake. She thought he was talkin’ about her skin, when he’d really been referring to how pretty she looked tonight. 

“Fuck, kid. I didn’t mean-” he began, but she shook her head with a quiet sigh. 

“It’s alright. It’s true,” and something in her chin quivered again. “They’re...scared of me,” she drifted off. 

“Maybe that’s alright,” he grumbled, and she looked at him with that look again, like she knew him. Then, once more, she shivered. 

“Yer killin’ me. Here,” he muttered, sloughing off his leather jacket and plopping it on her thin shoulders before she could protest. She looked at him, mildly shocked, but nestled into the warmth of the jacket all the same.

“Thank you,” she murmured. 

“Don’t mention it,” he said, awkwardly, before nodding upward.

"Stars are out," he said, and she looked at him partially confused, until she looked up. 

"They're nice, I guess," she murmured. "Do you know any of them? The constellations?"

He looked back down to her, and frowned. Did he? He couldn't be sure. But as he stared at the swath of sky, no familiar patterns, no familiar names, came to him. "Nah, kid," he finally responded. 

For a few moments, no one spoke, until she said his name, barely under her breath.

“Hey Logan?” she asked.

“Yeah?” he responded, turning away from the line of pine trees beyond, lookin’ at the teenager once more.

“You’re leaving tomorrow, right?” 

Somethin’ in his chest tightened then. She looked at him with all the longin’ in the world, as if she was tryin’ to will any other scenario to come to pass. He knew it was likely due to their connection, the way he’d saved her and now was a fuckin’ hero in her eyes, but it was too hard to explain to someone so young just why he hadta leave. Just what he was after.

“Yeah,” he finally muttered, all he offered in way of a response.

 He watched as she bit her lip in deep thought, before she carefully added, “Then...I wanted to ask you something.”

“‘Course. What is it?” he asked, before taking a heavy drink from the liquor bottle once more. 

“The...woman in the pink dress. The one you walked home from a bar?” she said, so quietly he had to use his gifted hearing to pick it up. His mind was already racin’ trying to think of all the times he drunkenly stumbled out of bars, most of them with women. Somethin’ in him was fuckin’ distrubed at the thought of her seein’ any of that…

“Listen, kid, if you saw some stuff you didn’t wanna see, like, uh, grown up stuff, adult stuff, I”m sorry-” he began, but she cut him off.

“No! NO. Not like that …Well, I did see some of that stuff. But not this,” she was a deep shade of crimson now, half-hiding her face in the leather of his coat, as Logan ran a hand over his face in mild horror. “I meant… you just walked her home. She had a pink dress on. She said...she was Jewish? You might’ve..dated her. It looked like...I dunno. Maybe the fifties? I just...wanted to know her name.”

Logan simply blinked at her, unable to call a single memory of sleepin’ with a Jewish woman, let alone dating one.

“Sorry. I got nothing for ya. You said the fifties ?” he asked carefully, through narrow eyes.

“Yeah,” she blinked. “There was a jukebox with records and everything.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, drinking from the bottle again, and she realized she’d spooked him.

“Sorry," she apologized, and then sighed, slinking off his jacket and handing it back to him.

“Thanks,” she said, nodding her head. 

“Goin’ back in?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s my first real dance, even if I hate it. And Jubes will kill me if I don’t. She’s ‘on the hunt’ tonight, whatever that means,” she said meekly, rolling her eyes as Logan snubbed out his cigar and sloughed on the jacket once more, sliding the pint of whiskey back into one pocket. 

“I’ll walk ya back in there,” he muttered.

“You don’t have to,” she said. 

“Marie. It’s yer first dance. I wanna,” he murmured, and she was blushing once more at the use of her name, even as he opened the door for her, the clink of her midnight blue heels echoing down the wooden floorboards of the hall as he followed silently behind.

From the gym, the music was blasting, “ Tell me why, ain’t nothin’ but a missstakkkee! I nevverrr wanna heearrr you ssayyy, I wannntt itt thattt wayyyyy! ” and thankfully, to Logan’s amusement, Rogue scrunched her nose in distaste. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, staring at the door to the gym like it was the mouth of the beast, suddenly feelin’ real bad she had to ride this night out. 

“Walk me back in there at least?” she asked, and he grinned, nodding.

“Sure. From everythin’ that’s happened, it’s the least I can do, he said, and he offered her his arm sarcastically, and she laughed a little nervously as she took it, both of them bracing for the blasting impact of the synthetic sounds of early 2000’s pop music. 

---

He awoke suddenly, and, instantly, he sensed them. The sun was blinding, the basement of the destroyed mosque thick with heat, the smells of decaying bodies and the buzzing of flies  ringing in his ears. He could feel Storm’s weight still on him, and he remained stone still, as he picked up on more voices. They were speaking Arabic, and Logan knew just enough of it to know they were in danger. 

“ Masah almuhaytu. Aljihaz hu ailtiqat athnyn min almusukh , ealaa qayd alhayati. Yuqal bed min aleashir lilrajal ,” the soldier said. Scan the perimeter. The device is picking up two mutants, alive. Reportedly some of the X-Men. 

He only had to squeeze Storm’s hand a little, and she was awake, sucking in a pained breath. The morphine had to have worn off by now, and her skin was radiating heat that had nothing to do with the sun. Fever, over 103. Fuck. She looked at him, even through the sickness, a fear in her eyes as he gave her a look of warning. She knew to trust what he sensed, and she knew his silent tells. Stay alert. We’re being hunted. 

“Awamir bieadam alqatl. Alsaaeiqat watahtawi ealaa alyaqat almane ,” another voice said. Orders not to kill. Stun and contain with inhibitor collars.

Logan slowly rose, using the wall they were leaning on to hide himself in the shadows, and sniffed the air again. Fuck, fuck, FUCK. They were descending into the basement via a mechanical ramp. They had tracking devices then, designed to sniff out mutants from miles away. At least they didn’t have fuckin’ Sentinels with ‘em, he thought.

Quickly, he darted behind a stone column, still in sight of Storm. He gave her a reassuring look as she still lay huddled in the dirt, fear in her eyes. The soldiers were in the basement now, feet away, about to turn the corner…

Logan lunged from the spot he’d been hiding shoving his claws into the chest of a Lybian soldier. He screamed, and then there was gunfire, and he snarled, whirled around, only to see that had ambushed them both from the other hall, too, and a guard had Storm by her injured arm, pulling her up like a rag doll as he slapped a collar on the back of her neck, and Logan growled loudly, as a guard held a gun to her head.

“ Laday 'awamir bieadam alqutl. la tajealuni 'asheur 'anani mithl taghyir altawjihi ,” the leader shouted, before spitting on the ground next to Storm’s feet. I have orders not to kill. Don’t make me feel like changing my directive. 

And then, he felt it, the cold steel insert in his spine, something he hadn’t felt in years, while another gun was pointed at his temple, the echo of barrel sounding in his ear. Right then, something in him knew to withdraw the claws, even as Storm looked at him wildly in confusion. 

“ Min alsahl tarwid alwahsh ,” the man taunted. Easy to tame the beast. Then, the leader was dragging Storm, who screamed in pain, forward, while handcuffs were placed on Logan. Meanwhile, he gave Storm only the slightest of nods, as he felt the inhibitor collar drain his energy, make him feel the exhaustion of the past few days, and then, a guard was knocking him up the side the head for good measure, and his brain rang in his metal skull, the pain uncanny as he felt hot blood seep from his nose. 

“ Arzr! Walafayrin alshahira! Alan, ynzf !” one of them shouted, and several of them laughed. Behold! The famous Wolverine! Now, he bleeds!

“I’ve always bled , you stupid motherfucker-” Logan began, and then, another blow to the gut. A steel-toed boot stomping the back of his calf, the crisp snap of tendons loud in his ears, even as his tibula and fibula held. Instantly, in his mind he was back in Two Rivers, the last and only other time they had gotten a collar on him…

The pain cracking and sizzling, his vision fading as the knife was lodged in his chest. Rogue’s face completely, absolutely blank, as she made her decision, gave up her life...for him. For the fuckin’ asshole who’d left her, over and over again, fleein’ to Canda, runnin’ scared. Only a few weeks of gettin’ to know each other again, a few fleeting moments together that were deeper, and she was givin’ up her precious life for his sorry excuse for one….

Another blow to the head, all of them gettin’ in on the fun now, as Storm screamed for them to stop. He spat blood and what might’ve been a molar out of his mouth, an eye going black and his vision disappearing to his right, and he gave Storm only the slightest shakes of his head. This had to be believable. They had to think he wasn’t a threat, and he needed her to be clear of most of the gunfire, he thought, as he tried to stay conscious. 

“ Anqataea! Sawf yaqtuluh !” the man who had Storm’s arm said, scowling at the others as her jerked Storm forward. Cease! You’ll kill him! 

 “ Alhusul ealaa alhayawan yasilu, yamshi lah munhadar 'iilaa alshshahina,” he commanded. Get the animal up, walk him up the ramp back to the truck. Then, Storm and the leader both disappeared, stalking back toward the idling truck he heard above them. It was then that Logan smirked, realizing, despite bein’ stranded in the Sahara desert, with an injured teammate, on the losing side in a war for the fight for mutant kind, he had all the luck in the world. They had just moved Storm out of harm’s way, out of range of gunfire, and, as they did, another voice from another woman he had loved like hell whispered in his ear, “ Then die trying.” 

Just as one soldier dragged him to his feet by the cuffs, Logan grinned savagely.

“Hey, bub. You wanna know a secret?” he muttered in English through a bloody, feral smile.

The man only stared at him, confused, shooting a look to his comrade.

“Just 'cause they're a result of a genetic mutation, doesn't mean claws are a fuckin’ superpower,” he snarled, and then adamantium tore through his fists, and the cuffs fell off him like ribbons as he stabbed the man in the heart. Gunfire reigned down on him, but he was too quick, too exacting, as he shoved the claws into heart and brain and spine, taking hits, but not feeling them, as he carved his way through all eleven men. He heard Storm shout, and he ran, limping as he did so, toward the idling truck, desperate to get there in time, until Logan noticed she’d somehow apprehended the leader, knocked him over the head with his own gun, and then had shot him in the fucking face. 

“Took you long enough,” she breathed hard, leaning against the side of the vehicle. Then, though, she frowned, staring at his bullet-addled body as he stumbled a bit, whipping a hand out toward the truck for support, but then sank down to his knees. Over twenty times, he thought dazedly. Over twenty times he’d been shot, mostly in the torso, some in the head, all at close range, and the only reason he wasn’t already dead was because of the goddamn adamantium skull.

“Logan!” Storm muttered, stumbling over to him, getting close to the collar. 

“Pull the damn thing off,” he murmured to her.

“But...the poison,” she started, but he only shook his head at her.

“I have this theory, ‘Ro. Somethin’ I’ve been toilin’ over and over in my head for a long time now. Years,” his words came more slowly, as internal bleeding tan rampant and a stuttering heartbeat began to slow.  

“See...I have this theory….that someone lost their life, all those years ago, in vain,” he managed, as Storm hesitated near the device, then he was reaching his own bloody hand around before she could stop him, quickly yanking if off his neck. He winced, and then he could feel the poison in him, pumping through his veins- Is this what it felt like? Is this what it felt like for you, baby? When you were outta time?-- and then, his body, his goddamn hyperactive, manic white blood cells were fighting back the poison. His own physiology, the only antidote.

Still though, his vision in and out of focus….

“Storm….gotta...gotta get to Charles…” he said, and she was crying, and he was trying to reassure her, tell it was fuckin’ working, because it was, and god, god, she died in vain. She died in vain…

“‘Ro…” he managed, while he heard her screaming through sobs, “Hold on, Logan!!” 

And then, black.

--

Everything fuckin’ hurt. It was the first thing he realized as his vision came into focus. He sniffed the room, only to be greeted with the sterility of the jet. He was in one of the converted spaces that acted as his living quarters, on his bed, flat on his back. He breathed in, and then shot up suddenly, whipping his head around, to be greeted by Charles, sitting calmly in his chair, studying the older man. 

Logan must’ve looked confused, because then Charles was clarifying. 

It’s 2021, my friend. We’re on the jet, headed to a safehouse in Mongolia, Charles offered him before Logan could ask. 

“Storm-” Logan croaked, and the Professor faintly smiled. 

“Fine, Logan. We have been able to obtain some cellular generation injections for her, courtesy of your successful raid of medical supplies in Boston a few months back, and she will heal. I was also able to remove the collar from her neck, although it was no easy telekinetic feat,” he said, but Logan’s eyes still shot toward Storm’s room across the narrow hall where the door was only partially closed.

“She is sedated. The biological process she is going through can be painful, and we thought it best for her to sleep through it. You can see her a few hours,” Charles clarified, and then a woozy feeling overtook him again, a rare wave of nausea accompanying it. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Chuck. Feels I got hit by a fuckin’ semi,” Logan snarled.

“It was miraculous, Logan, that your body was able to fight such a strong toxin. I’m not sure all healing factors would have been able to overcome its effects. Although, next time, I’d rather you not gamble with your life like that,” Charles said curtly, and Logan only frowned, thinking of the events that had transpired. 

“Yeah, well. I know I’m usually a sure thing when it comes to livin'. But don’t forget you gamble with Storm’s life every time you send her out in the field, Charles,” he growled, and the younger man frowned.

“You’re right, of course,” he murmured and sat back in his chair, hands together, as a prolonged silence overtook both of them. Something about it irked Logan, as the memories of the rest of the last couple of days became known to him. He needed time alone. He needed whiskey. He needed to check on Storm. What he didn’t need was a lecture from the old man right now, of all fuckin’ times.

“I know what plagues you, Logan,” Charles still said, even though Logan had thought he was projectin’ loud and clear. 

“ Don’t,” he hissed, but Xavier pressed on. 

“Because you survived the removal of the inhibitor collar, because you yourself could have taken off yours and saved you both, you think that her sacrifice was in vain, but you are wrong,” Charles said simply, but Logan was already shaking his head bitterly.

“No reason. No fuckin’ reason,” he rambled under his breath, his anger spiking once more, as he restrained himself from the strong urge to grab fistfuls of his hair in anger as this realization settled within him. 

“Logan, I hate to chastize you, but you are only thinking of yourself as you come to this realization. Remember, Rogue absorbed the memories of the man who designed Two Rivers. If Rogue hadn’t pulled her own collar off herself to regain her powers and absorb the scientist, she would have not known the codes to unlock the medbay that contained the remaining three children at Two Rivers you both helped to rescue,” Charles explain clearly, as Logan’s mind struggled to catch up, but then, a memory of North Point in smoky ruin, broken bodies everywhere, filled his mind, and Logan shook his head once more.

“And then dead two years later anyway.” Logan’s tone was acrimonious now, as he clenched his fists, his claws itching under the joints and ligaments, everything in his hands crowded and painful, while the animal paced dangerously to the surface as more self-hatred flooded him. Charles held firm, though, and continued on.

“But weren’t those two years of relative peace reunited with their parents worth experiencing? Those children had the privilege to experience  joy and happiness and love for two whole years before their demise, all because of Rogue’s efforts,” he murmured. “Even if you had survived the collar’s poision, that was only possible because she sacraficed herself and offered up her gifts to help free them,” he said quietly, and as Logan looked up, he could feel the fuckin’ hot tears in his eyes, and he cursed under his breath, quickly running both rough hands over his face, before brining one solid fist down beside him on the bed, saying nothing.

It was only then, that Charles frowned deeply.

“You still do not feel it was worth it,” Charles murmured. “Her life...meant more.”

Logan only looked up at the Professor, the man he had poured all his trust into, the man who he had followed, blindly at times, for the last six fuckin’ years, and said nothing. 

“I have asked too much of you,” Charles said simply, and Logan finally sighed as he tried to fuckin’ collect himself.

“No, Chuck. That ain’t it. I-”

“I have, my friend,” Charles interrupted. “I have...taken advantage of you...in ways you will most likely never understand, but, I need you to know, you’re done repenting.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Charles, trying to figure out what the hell he was gettin’ at.

“Reprentin’ for what?” Logan asked carefully.

“The reason you’re here…” Charles nodded at him, as Logan caught on to what Charles was insinuating.

“You think I’m here outta guilt? For what? For killin’ Jean? For runnin’ scared afterward?”

“I know you are, Logan. The disappearing, the inability to keep certain promises...to loved ones,” Charles clarified. “And I refuse to take advantage of your guilt any longer.” At this, despite himself, Logan only bitterly shook his head through an odd, off-putting smile.

“If yer tryin’ to get rid of me, Charles-” Logan began, and he was relieved to see the Professor carefully return the smile. 

“Of course not,” Xavier clarified. “You’ve proven yourself invaluable to the X-Men, to me, to mutant kind hundreds if not thousands of times over. But I need you to understand, you are not beholden to us, or to her, any longer.”

Logan simply stared at him for a few moments, blinking at the younger man, as images raced through his mind. Women, mostly. Clara and the look of blame on her face, Evelyn and the curious spark in her eye, always trying to figure him out, Jean and look she gave him when she dared him to misbehave, to push her into wanting him, and...Rogue. Who had simply seen him. Who had loved him, even though… 

“Sorry, Charles,” he managed to say, now wearily standing, running a hand through his hair. “But you don’t get to decide that for me,” he managed. “So do you want an official debrief or what?” he asked, hopefully projecting that he wanted the conversation to come to an end, and Charles simply frowned for a moment, but then shook his head quietly.

“No, I don’t think that’s necessarily, my friend,” Charles said, and Logan nodded before leaving the room, stalking up to the front of the jet to get a read out of the Bird’s coordinates, offering a simple “Mags” to Erik, who looked at him with a still mild disgust, before stalking back to the living quarters, snagging a cup of coffee from the burner. Lukewarm, but drinkable. 

Slowly, then, he pushed open the door to Storm’s tiny living quarters, ignoring Charles’ wishes to wait to see her. He sighed as he slumped in the steel metal chair next to the small desk flush with her bed, glancing at all of her notes, ideas for missions, paraphrased debriefs, lists for provisions, all dutifully clipped with a metal fastener to the desk so they wouldn’t fly off during take off and landing. He frowned as he looked at them, before stealing a closer glance at the woman, and he sighed in relief to see her in one decent piece. She was properly bandaged now, but he could tell her skin was growin’ back. No fever, either. He found himself smiling then at Storm’s toughness, and after some time, he realized he’d open his mouth to talk to her, if only because...well, she was the only one left he could be completely honest with. 

“You...shot that fucker in the goddamn face,” Logan laughed a little, recalling what he had little time or energy to comment on at the time. “I got to hand it to you, ‘Roro. Yer aim is better than it used ta be,” he said, but as he glanced at her serene features, something in his smile fell, and he set his mug down on her desk before quietly taking a hold of her thin hand. 

“Not sure what we’re doin’ anymore, ‘Ro,” Logan muttered to the floor, shaking his head slightly. “You told me once, after North Point, you had fooled yerself. Fooled yerself into thinkin’ we could have lives still….that we could...I don’t know. Maintain our humanity or somethin’ somehow...” Logan drifted off, unsure of what he was saying, of what it all meant, but he kept going. 

“And, cynic that I am, I thought you were crazy to think that...but…” he stopped, breathing out heavily, before stubbornly continuing on. “But... I think a tiny part of me, ‘Ro, was hoping for it. Deep down. I think I was hopin’ we could...just...go back. To how it was. In the mansion, teachin’…” he muttered, stopping for a moment as he thought of a younger Rogue, the one in the pretty midnight blue dress, the one he had made promises to he hadn’t been able to keep. 

Ok, so, what do ya say? Give these geeks one more shot? C’mon, I’ll take care of you. 

You promise? 

Yeah. Yeah, I promise.

Another life, sugar, a better one.

Logan closed his eyes indignantly, shaking his head as he did so, but kept talkin’. 

“I ain’t suicidal, sweetheart,” he murmured. “But... I think I was hopin’ that poison would fuckin’ end me. That I was wrong about it all. That…” he stopped, right then and there, knowing full-well Charles was probably listenin’ in. He glanced once more around Storm’s room, and he realized it looked like he was fuckin’ praying to the woman, whispering a stream of inane confessions in her ear, all at thirty thousand feet in the air. Finally, he sighed, shaking his head slightly as he squeezed her hand tighter. 

 “Just... if I don’t get to die, you don’t get to die, alright?  In fact, don’t you ever get that fuckin’ close again. Don’t you dare leave me alone in this... fuckin’ wasteland ,” he ordered the sleeping woman, taking a moment to brush a lock of her white hair off her forehead, before finaly sitting back with his coffee, studying her, intending to stay awake and by her side until she woke once more, to intend that she was real and alive and there, done with prayin’ to false idols, done listenin’ out for the whispers of ghosts.