Nineteen
Logan
His vision is blurry and his head is throbbing. There’s a weight, pulling from somewhere, or pressing down, but he can’t sort out what or how. In the background his ears pick up on voices that begin to grow sharper, along with the radiating pain in his skull.
“You bring some crazy feral mutant onto my jet...”
“He was there, Scott. Someone had to have initiated the blast!”
“How do you know he’s not part of the Army himself?”
“He’s a mutant, Scott.”
“How naive are you, Rogue? You know they attract more and more mutant sympathizers every damn day.”
Rogue.
Rogue.
And then the memories of earlier begin to float back into his brain, the last one of her slugging him. How the fuck had that happened? And fuck, it had hurt. Then, as if on some sort of masochistic cue, his eyes lazily blink open, and he realizes, very quickly he’s been restrained to a chair, his arms fastened to the arm rests with metal clamps, making his claws useless. He snarls, as the animal writhes from being caged, even as he wildly takes in the scene before him. He’s in...a fucking plane, and there are...four, five people around him, plus Rogue.
Rogue.
She’s three feet in front of him currently in a shouting match with a man with a visor. She’s decked out in all black leather, undeniably a woman in all her lethal glory. He snarls again, pulling against the restraints, and this time she whips her head around to look at him.
They lock eyes for a minute, and even through that scowl, for a moment, he think he sees a glimpse of the girl he pulled out of a ditch on an abandoned Alberta road. Then he remembers the rest. The General. The Army. The plan. All fucked. Because of Rogue and this gaggle of freaks.
“You fucked up everything, ya idiots,” he mutters under his breath at her and the others, and Rogue’s look turns sour.
“You’re welcome for me saving your ass back there,” she hisses, crossing her arms. He pulls once again against the restraints, growling, until one of the others steps closer to Logan.
“You wanna be a little kinder to the lady, homme,” the man in a ridiculous get-up and a cajun accent scowls, deftly pointing a bō staff in Logan’s face. Now everyone has turned to face Logan and he realizes he’s sorely outnumbered. He turns to look at Rogue, a sneer present on his features, playing the only card he has.
“Always wondered what became of ya, kid. Thought you might’ve ran off and joined a circus act like this, babe” he growls, catching eyes with the blue one with the German accent, who frowns deeply at him in response.
The cajun immediately whips around to look at Rogue, throwing her an accusatory look. Rogue only rolls her eyes, stalks forward, and squarely slaps Logan in the face. Hard. Harder than it’s possible for her to do.
“ Fuck! ” he growls. He suddenly remembers the knee kick to the gut from earlier, and this matched the pain radiating in his jaws ignites his anger once more.
“This circus act is my family. And we were on a mission to extract and study whatever it was the government was cooking up to hurt us, which you ruined with your stupid preemptive explosive device!” He can only cock his head at her for a moment, trying to sort out what she’s saying before it comes together.
“Sorry to break it to you, darlin’. Didn’t set off the fucking blast,” he mutters. She only blinks at him once more, before regaining her composure and doubling down on her anger.
“Do not call me darlin’,” she scolds. Logan’s eyes fly to Gumbo, who is watching the whole tête-à-tête cautiously. Finally, the man with the visor, who Logan assumes from his stance alone is the leader of the gang, stalks forward.
“My name is Scott Summers,” he says formally, and Logan almost wants to fucking laugh.
“Nice to meet ya,” he growls. “Now you think you can let me the fuck out of here?”
“Not yet. Rogue says she knows you, but we’re still suspicious of your... motives. Why were you at the lab?” Logan’s eyes fly to Rogue once more, who has retreated to the corner of the plane, arms crossed and eyes pointed downward.
“None of yer business,” Logan snarls, turning back to one-eye.
“That answer is not going to suffice,” Scooter says bluntly. Logan growls, before trying to reign in his temper, pulling on the chain of the animal. He hates being caged, and he can barely stay human when it happens.
“Listen,” he grounds out. “I got a shitty bike and some money stashed at a place in Hoboken I gotta get back to, so if you’d be so kind as to drop me off,” he begins, until Gumbo interrupts.
“Sounds like a good idea. Let’s push him out of de plane,” the Cajun grips his bō staff more tightly.
“You know how to use that thing, bub?” Logan goads, glaring at him.
“You mean have I trained my whole life in Savate and Bojitsu and could thoroughly lay you out on your ass? Why, oui, homme poilu,” he spits, pressing the bō into the side of Logan’s neck.
“ Savate, eh? Watashi wa itsumo nihon'nobudō ga sugurete iru to omotta ,” he spits. He can sense that Rogue’s once more staring at him, even though he keeps his eyes on the cajun.
“Both of you quit your pissing match,” Summers butts in. “Sorry, pal, but until we get some more answers out of you, you’re sticking with us.” At this, Logan can only help but chuckle.
“Hate to break it to ya, Slim, but as soon as you let me outta here, I’m gone,” he snarls, popping both sets of claws, even though they jut out uselessly at his sides. “And yer lucky if I don’t slice off the dirty cajun’s hand as pay back for wasting my fucking time.”
“ L'animal a des griffes ,” Gumbo taunts, and Logan decides a hand’s not enough and he’s gonna gut this guy as soon as he has the means to.
“Uh huh,” Scott says, ignoring this exchange and instead walking toward the front of the plane. He’s gone only momentarily and comes back with one of the two woman operating the jet: this one a tall, thin redhead, dressed in the same ridiculous black leather. Instinctively, he retracts the claws, but keeps his guard up.
“Meet Jean. She’s a telepath, and my wife. She won’t poke around too much, but she’s going to take what she needs,” Scott bristles.
“Scott…” Jean trails off, looking cautiously at Logan once more.
“Just do it,” Summers mutters. She sighs, and then Logan’s headache triples. He snarls as he feels a presence invade through his fucking eyeballs, but just like that, it’s gone again. He watches the redhead closely as her eyes go wide and she puts a hand to her mouth, but then she shakes it off, and looks to Scott once more. Rogue, of course, is watching all of this, a passive, unreadable expression on her features.
“672 Washington Street,” she practically whispers to Scott. Hell.
“The fuck?!” Logan snarls, but Summers is already communicating with someone else through what looks like a comm.
“Bobby I have an errand for you. Retrieve…” Summers stops, and looks to his wife once more. “What’s his name?”
“James Howlett,” Jean murmurs. At that Rogue lifts her head up again and stares directly at Logan. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Retrieve Mr. Howlett’s things from the address I’ll text you and report back to the mansion. Yeah. I don’t care you don’t know who he is. Just do it.” One-eye ends the call, and then looks to Logan again. “We’ll be holding your money for you in a secure place until you answer our questions. Doubt you wanna leave without it,” he says curtly.
“Why don’t ya just have the redhead zap it out of me if you want answers?” Logan growls, but Scooter is already shaking his head.
“I wouldn’t ask Jean to use her powers unethically,” he says. Logan snorts.
“But you’d stoop to a little extortion?”
“Yes. Yes I certainly would,” Summers mutters. “We protect our own. Now, relax. We’ll be landing in Westchester shortly. And in the future, Mr. Howlett, might I suggest a bank account?,” he says through a smirk before he walks off to the front of the plane once more. Logan is still seething, and throws the girl he once knew as Rogue a bitter look.
“You’ve come a long way, kid,” he spits. “Real fucking proud of ya.” She goes red for a moment, then the look is replaced with one of anger, before she stalks off towards the front of the jet as well, leaving him behind.
--
The grandfather clock ticks loudly in the background and a large, mahogany desk sits between Logan and an aging bald man who has just introduced himself as Professor Charles Xavier. Considering the fucking mansion he had just walked through to get here, the office is modestly sized. The walls are lined with bookshelves with thick, leather volumes, the kinds of books you would assume a guy like this would read. It’s the middle of the night, and Xavier is in a full suit and tie, complete with pocket square. Meanwhile, Logan’s still in the bloody, tattered remains of the suit he rented, and the exhaustion of the evening is finally settling in. Between the highrise, the lab, getting the shit kicked out of him by Rogue and dealing with the clown show on the jet, he’s spent.
“You look exhausted, Logan. Can I offer you some tea?” Xavier asks, and Logan is surprised to see a spare yunomi mug and the smell of ryokucha , as he settles into a chair across from Xavier. It’s a traditional japanese green and a staple of his diet up until a few weeks ago. Something deep inside his chest lurches.
“No….uh... thanks,” Logan mutters, before staring at the steam rising off the gold-etched japanese mug. “Real nice fucking place you got here,” he mutters to his boots.
“Thank you,” Xavier murmurs, still staring intently at Logan, but doesn’t continue on. Logan growls lowly, before adding, “So Slim says yer a telepath too.”
“I am,” Xavier responds simply. Logan’s level of frustration spikes. He ain’t at his best to engage in whatever mind games the Professor has in store for him, and that’s a bad thing.
“So we done here? Got what you need?” he asks bluntly.
“Excuse me?” the older man blinks.
“You just read my mind, find out I’m not part of the fucking Army, and let me be on my merry fucking way,” he mutters. Despite Logan’s foul mood, Xavier offers a slight smile and takes a sip of tea before responding.
“I already know you’re not part of the Army, Logan. Simple observation and a little research can tell me that,” Charles says politely. Logan can’t help but be impressed by Chuck’s poker face. Even with a deep sniff of the air and throwing out his hearing, he can’t tell what game the old man’s playing.
“Research?” Logan asks, through even eyes. Another slight smile from the old man, and, despite himself, Logan picks the spare mug and takes a sip of tea. It’s the best fucking thing he’s tasted, and he realizes he hasn’t eaten in days. Xavier continues talking.
“Well, for starters, there were reports of a clawed mutant on a murder spree in a New York high rise earlier in the evening,” Xavier says. Logan sets down the mug carefully, suddenly feeling trapped. It’s a feeling he hasn’t been able to shake since being strapped down to that chair on the jet, even though his circumstances have somewhat improved. He stares at Xavier, who continues.
“Your vendetta seems deeply personal….”
“It is,” Logan can’t help but snarl.
“And also, might I add, sloppy,” Xavier says curtly, and Logan frowns through a sneer.
“You must have already have guessed we do things differently around here, Logan.”
“Yeah, might’ve heard about yer ‘high standards’,” Logan growls. He hasn’t forgotten about how fucking patronizing Summers was or the way Rogue looked at him, altogether disgusted.
“We don’t often encourage revenge-” Xavier begins, before Logan cuts him off.
“-Spare me the lecture. I got a few years on ya, pop,” Logan growls, and Xavier raises his eyebrows in suspicion.
“You have regenerative capabilities, a healing factor,” Xavier says simply. It’s not a question. “And...if you would let me finish, I was saying I am willing to make an exception in regard to helping you seek it.”
“And why would you wanna do that?” he asks narrowly. Xavier sighs, and pours himself more tea from the Kyusu.
“I don’t pretend that I am not motivated by my own reasons, obviously,” Xavier says carefully. “The General is an illusive, toxic presence for us right now. And it’s not just the secret laboratories that are popping up all over the nation. It’s the legislation. The recent federal intergenetic marriage ban troubles me greatly. The X-Men have a right to be concerned.
“The X-Men. Huh. Clever, Chuck,” Logan retorts, to which Xavier smiles once more. “So this is what you do, work to quietly take out threats against mutants?”
“We are first and foremost a school, Logan,” Xavier points out, and Logan raises his eyebrows in surprise.
“School, eh? And how is it that Adams hasn’t shut a place like this down?”
“Obviously we operate rather covertly,” Xavier murmurs.
“Heh. We’ll that’s fucking obvious. Don’t know if yer aware, Chuck, but you got a jet underneath yer basketball court,” Logan mutters, and, to his surprise, Xavier laughs slightly. There’s a beat of silence, and Logan gets to the point.
“You know I plan to kill ‘em, right? The General,” Logan says simply.
“Looking at your brief history since we’ve crossed paths, yes I would assume that,” Xavier murmurs, when there is a brisk knock on the door. Logan instinctively stands.
“Come in, Bobby,” Xavier says, and then a young man, no older than early twenties, walks in carrying all of Logan’s shit. The duffle and the pack.
“Sorry it took me so long, Charles. He’s a messy bastard,” Bobby grumbles, plopping the stuff in the floor. Logan growls slightly, but Xavier interrupts. “Thank you, Bobby. That will be all.” Bobby nods once, and he’s gone as soon as he’s arrived. Charles gestures to Logan’s bags.
“Your money, your things, returned to you,” he says simply. Logan’s already rifling through the bags. The thick manilla envelope with all of he and Itsu’s savings. Two spare changes of clothes. His cell phone. And a couple of personal items Logan doesn’t pull out, but secretly thanks the God he doesn’t believe in, are there.
“So you ain’t holding me hostage no more, Chuck?” Logan asks, zipping up the pack once more.
“Of course not. Scott acted...rashly. Although, he was put in a difficult position considering Rogue’s...unexpected actions. I would, however, invite you, Logan, to stay here not as a hostage, but as a guest,” Xavier finishes, and Logan can’t help but snort.
“Sorry, pop, but whatever kool-aid yer selling, I ain’t drinking. And I work alone,” he finishes, grabbing the duffle from the floor. He wants the fuck out of here, and quick.
“The door is open for you to leave. And I wouldn’t ask any of the X-Men to accompany you to kill anyone anyway, even the General. But ...there are many ways one might offer help..” Xavier trails off. Logan turns back to Xavier slowly, considering. The old man’s smart, maybe too smart, because he’s waited this long, finally, to dangle the carrot.
“You’ve got intel,” Logan says. Xavier nods.
“On the zoo in Staten Island, yes. The last place on your list?” Charles asks carefully. Logan suppresses a growl, but finds himself seated once more.
“You sure you ain’t reading my mind?” Logan mutters. Xavier shakes his head.
“No. Our team recently tried to extract and save the children, and we failed. The zoo has been moved. And we’re not sure where or for what purpose,” he says solemnly.
“And you wanna spring those kids,” Logan guesses.
“Of course.” Logan crosses his arms, considering.
“You think the General is with them?” Logan asks. He’s skeptical at this point, especially after the clusterfuck at the lab. Xavier sighs.
“Honestly I do not know, Logan. You’re tracking a man that seems impossible to find. But there is a great likelihood of it. And if that is a dead end, I encourage you to at least stay until Dr. McCoy tests what we were able to extract from the lab. It may provide us more clues…” Logan sighs, his hand gripping his pack, as Xavier presses.
“A warm bed, a couple of decent meals, and more information on the man you seek...” Charles says, clear blue eyes staring at him.
“Two days,” Logan finally snarls. Xavier smiles again.
“Excellent,” he murmurs. “I’ve just sent a message to Kurt. He’ll escort you to a guest room. I’ll have some dinner sent up too.”
Logan nods, and then stands once more, just as the blue Elf materializes in the office.
“ Fuck,” Logan mutters under his breath.
“My apologies for startling you, Herr, ” he says, nodding to the Professor, before opening the door to show Logan out.
“Oh, and Logan,” Xavier says, and Logan once more turns to the man he knows has just bested him in this battle of mental wills. “If what you say is true, and I sense that it is, as a younger man, I do not have to tell you that revenge will not make up for whatever it was you lost,” he murmurs to his tea. The Elf turns and looks with wide, yellow eyes to Logan, and Logan clears his throat.
“I know, Chuck. I know that better than most,” he mutters, nods, and lets the blue one show him out. The hallways are dark and the place feels abandoned. The silence between the two mutants is awkward as they slowly climb the stairs in what Logan assumes is the main foyer. It has to be a little past three in the morning, and his exhaustion is now pressing down on him like a weight.
“So you’re staying?” the Elf asks, turning to him as they make their way down another long corridor.
“Couple days,” Logan grunts, and Kurt sighs exasperatedly. There’s a moment’s silence, before curiosity gets the better of Logan.
“Where you from, Elf?” he asks. Kurt whips around to him in response to the nickname, but chooses to answer him nevertheless.
“You would not know it, Herr. Winzeldorf, mostly, in the Bavarian Alps,” he says simply.
“ Ich weiß es. Ich habe dort einige Zeit verbracht, ” Logan mumbles, plucking out words from the elementary German he knows. I know it. I’ve been there. Kurt stops, and turns to him slowly.
“Listen, Fremder,” he says quietly. “I am not impressed by your Deutsche. And Rogue is a dear, dear friend of mine. Your...intentions. They have nothing to do with her, ja?”
At this, Logan snorts, shaking his head bitterly.
“Trust me Elf, nothin’ at all, ” he says. Kurt just stares at him, before unlocking and opening a door.
“I will send up food and a bottle of wine,” the Elf mutters. Logan is about to walk in, when a wild hair strikes him.
“ Any way I could get something stronger?” Kurt narrows his eyes, pauses for a moment, and suddenly disappears in a puff of black and blue smoke. He’s back in an instant, and he’s cradling a full, unopened bottle of very expensive scotch.
“A welcoming gift,” he mutters, handing it to Logan.
“Hrmph,” he says through a wry smile. “Seems more like a bribe,” Logan mutters.
“ Ja, Fremder,” Kurt says, his voice even and clipped. “Stay away from Rogue.” Logan’s already shaking his head.
“Trust me. That chapter’s over,” he mutters. Kurt only blinks at him, before frowning.
“Sleep well, Mr. Howlett,” Kurt says.
“It’s Logan. And Elf…” Logan murmurs, and Kurt turns back around.
“Sorry about the circus comment earlier. Life’s shitty enough without hearin’ slurs,” Logan mutters. Surprisingly, at this Kurt smiles, almost genuinely.
“ Mache dir nichts aus, Logan. As once literally being a part of one, you are not wrong. Gute nacht.”
`
Rogue
The faculty women’s locker room quickly fills with plumes of steam that seep into her pores. She scrubs shampoo into her long hair until everything is soap and froth, then stands under the spray for a long time, trying to mentally detach from the evening. So far, she isn’t succeeding.
She hasn’t spoken to Logan since she’d slapped him on the jet, and, miraculously, after they had landed Logan had agreed to go and speak with the Professor. At the time they’d landed in the basement of Westchester and taken off the restraints, she had half-expected Logan to stab Scott in the chest and flee down the hallway, but the money seemed to be enough of an incentive for Logan to comply. And that made no sense. The Logan she’d known wouldn’t have cared about the money, especially if it meant risking his freedom.
At least, she didn’t think so.
It had been ten years since she had left him behind on his bike, and she hadn’t looked back. She shouldn’t care, wouldn’t care, but things had not necessarily gone over the way she had wanted at the lab or on the jet afterward. However, if she was being honest with herself, she hadn’t known how she wanted them to go. She isn’t sure if she rescued him from a burning building or was trying to hold him hostage, and now she’s not so keen on finding out which it was.
Remy had tried to ask her more about him, but she’d just shot him a look. As late as it was, the debrief had been put on hold until the morning, leaving Rogue with little to do and no hope of sleeping. Ever since Logan had disappeared into the Professor’s office, she felt uneasy and more than a little guilty. She had put them all in this situation with a split-second, rather foolish decision. After only a handful of minutes, she decided to hit the showers, exhausted as she was from being cooped up in a tiny apartment for the last three days. But now, it’s obvious to her she’s hiding out in here. Hiding from Remy. From Scott. From Kurt. Maybe even from Logan. How pathetic.
She frowns and flips off the faucet, padding over to a stack of thick, fluffy white towels, all embroidered with the Xavier logo. She shivers as she bundles up in one, wrapping her hair up in another. Slowly, she walks over to a line of sinks, and wipes one of the mirrors clean. A woman with a thin, hardened face and clear brown eyes stares back.
She gets dressed in a simple white tank and black shorts, headed back to her room on the far wing of the second floor of the mansion silently. The hallways are deserted, and she’s grateful for it. She silently slips inside the place she’s called home for almost eight years. Aside from a small desk and bookshelf that’s neatly organized, there are only a few touches that distinguish the same wood paneled walls and thick lush carpet from anyone else’s room. A map of the places she’s been to, a journal she uses to plan and update her training, a collection of postcards she had started in the early days, most of them faded and water logged, strapped together by a couple of rubber bands. Rogue sighs, running her hands through her still-damp hair, and decides to pour herself a generous glass of wine from one of the half-empty bottles she keeps on the desk.. She has no way of knowing if Logan is still here or not, and this unnerves her. She takes a large swallow, unsurprised to find herself pacing in the tiny room.
Why the fuck is he the same? Mean and brooding and secretive, although considering the situation she had just plopped him in, maybe he had the right to be. What’s even more unnerving, though, is that he looks exactly as she remembers him, save the full beard he’s sporting. It had done a number on her, seeing him like that. It had flooded her with memories, making her feel volatile. Logan was tied to everything, and was the catalyst for the worst part of her life. He’d used her, over and over again, for sex. He’d hooked her on booze and drugs, an addiction so bad that when she had shown up to Xavier’s she had endured hellish withdrawals to come back to herself. And of course...he was the reason she had Carol inside her head now, forever. He was a selfish, foolish bastard who for most of her life she had desperately wished she hadn’t met...
Just then, the mostly-empty wine glass she’s holding shatters in her hand. If her skin wasn’t impenetrable, she’d need stitches. Instead, she blankly stares down at the pieces of shattered glass over the floor. Carelessly, she steps through the shards and fetches another glass, this time topping it with a half-bottle of gin she’s got in a desk drawer. It bites and burns as she swallows it, just as a gnawing fear that’s been growing in the back of her mind makes itself known.
What if you’re still that little girl, that can’t let go of the first man you fell for and that’s why you dragged him here?
She frowns deeply, before carefully setting down the glass on the desk with a shaking hand.
She had, for a fleeting amount of time, viewed him as a sort of god. She had idolized him, thought that he was the answer, when all along the answer was inside of herself.
Rogue frowns, walking over to the vanity in the far corner again staring into the mirror. A woman, again, stares back.
She’s being silly. She’s being irrational. The only reason she’d chosen to pluck his ridiculously heavy body off the floor of a burning building is the same reason Scott chose to hold Logan here until further notice. Logan knows something they don’t. He’d been killing guards left and right, but why? She hardly saw Logan as the type to become some random vigilante for mutant rights. The man she’d briefly known had shown little or no interest in idealism. Why had he infiltrated the lab? What incentive did he have in doing so? And, if he wasn’t lying about not setting off the initial explosion that had thoroughly complicated the mission, who had?
The gin bottle’s empty in ten minutes. She flops down on her bed then, letting her mind float and drift, until, finally, it settles back on Remy. She’d been awful to him, distant. And none of this, none of it at all, is his fault. She hazily decides to pick herself up. It’s a short jaunt down the hall in bare feet, and even though the Monets and Rembrandts hanging in the corridor are spinning, she still manages to rap on Remy LeBeau’s door anyway.
Remy LeBeau , she drunkenly thinks. His name sounds like someone made it up.
Another knock. There’s a muffled groan from inside, and suddenly a freshly showered man in just a tight black t-shirt and boxers opens the door. His too-long hair falls across his forehead in thick auburn pieces, and his black and red eyes burn as he stares down at her. She sways on the spot.
“Someone’s been hitting the bottle, oui?” he asks, although his voice doesn’t contain one drop of judgement.
“I want you to fuck me,” Rogue says fairly loudly, even though she’s still standing in the hallway. Remy exhales a bit, running a hand through his hair tiredly.
“It’s late, petit,” he mutters. This is an all-out first for Remy. He never turns her down. Never. And he’s good in bed, exceptionally so. There’s a reason Rogue’s chosen him to sleep with most nights.
She says nothing and simply stares at him from the hallway. Finally, Remy adds, “Dis about him ?” Rogue looks down for a second, feet sunk into the plush Persian rugs that line the hallway.
“No,” she mutters, hugging her arms for a moment, before letting them drop.
“He an old flame though, oui ?” Remy asks through narrow eyes.
“Hardly,” Rogue mutters. “And this isn’t about that. I want...I want to say sorry.”
He says nothing, running a hand along his five o’clock shadow.
“Please,” she finally murmurs, and that does it. Something in his eyes changes, and he mutters, “I’m a fool for making you ask twice, ma belle femme .” He pulls her inside and shuts the door quickly, and in moments he has her up against the wall, kissing the side of her neck. She moans loudly, over a stream of heady cajun french he’s whispering in her ear she doesn’t understand: “ Je suis tout à toi. L'oublier. Je te veux pour toujours, ma chérie.”
He’s got a hand under her shirt and another snaking down her shorts, and she moans louder. Knowing the guest rooms are across the hall, she wonders, idly, if he can hear.
She hopes he can.
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