Story Notes:
Inspired by the scene from the novel where Logan tells Rogue about his attempted suicides, so brief mention of self-harm.
I own nothing.
Her voice echoed in his head. "Where am I supposed to go?"

She clearly didn't have a plan. She was alone – like him. She was scared, too, he could smell it on her the moment she entered the bar. She was so scrawny, she'd never be able to defend herself if it came down to it. He had no idea how far the next town was, but he knew her chances of survival out here were pretty slim.

He wasn't the hero type – actually, he didn't know what the hell type he was – but it didn't feel right to just leave her there.

“Shit.” He hit the brakes and bit down on his cigar, watching in the passenger mirror as she grabbed her duffel bag and ran towards the truck.

He didn't know what the hell he was doing. In the fifteen years he could recall, he'd never bothered himself with anyone else's personal life, and nobody had bothered with his. It was easier that way. There was nobody to complain about the smell of his cigars or how much he drank or how he didn't sleep for days at a time. Nobody to stop him when he tried to end his miserable life, or grieve if he ever succeeded.

No. He didn't want to go there now. Not with the girl clambering into the passenger seat, the scents of cheap perfumed soap and relief flooding the cab.

She thanked him profusely as she buckled her seat belt and he grunted in return, moving forward once again on the winding country road.

If you asked Logan, he'd tell you that when he stopped for her, he never expected they would be attacked by that...creature, or that some unknown time later he would be running around an old mansion in search of her with a disembodied voice following close behind.

He never would've seen himself stabbing her through the chest in the middle of the night, or her bringing him almost to the point of death with a simple touch.

He'd never have known he'd pour his heart out to her on a train headed north, or that he would later hold her seemingly lifeless body in his arms, wishing like hell he had guarded her more carefully.

He never would've imagined wanting to give in to her as she asked him not to go, or leaving his dog tag – his one connection to whatever his life had been before – in her small, gloved hand.

If you asked Logan, he'd tell you that when he stopped for her, he never expected she would save his life.
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