Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spring, 1983.

“Scott, honey—don’t forget I promised the L/Ns you’d babysit for them tonight.”

Scott groaned, loud enough to make a point. He slumped further into the couch, hand lazily swiping at his Atari joystick. His mom didn’t even look back from the kitchen.

“Seriously?” he muttered. “I’m a senior. I’ve got finals. I’ve got, like, a life. ”

Didn’t matter. The decision was made without him. Again.

Babysitting the L/Ns’ kid used to be Alex’s job, back when he wasn’t so busy with- his ‘job’. Now it had been unofficially passed down to Scott like some weird neighborhood heirloom. He wasn’t even sure why they still needed a sitter—half the time they came home so late she was already asleep, and the other half, they barely said thanks.

He sighed, pushed the joystick aside, and grabbed his backpack. A few textbooks, the extra homework Mr. Valenti assigned for mouthing off in History again, and his eye drops. His eyes had been bothering him lately—burning, blurry, off. Probably stress.

The sun was dipping behind the trees when he crossed the L/Ns’ yard, kicking at the cracks in the pavement. He knocked on the door, which was already half open.

“…Hello? Mrs. L/N? Mr. L/N?”

No answer. Just silence and a faint buzz from the old ceiling fan inside. He stepped into the foyer, sneakers squeaking against the tile.

“Scott?”

A tiny voice pulled his attention to the stairs. Soft footsteps followed. And then—there she was.

Wide eyes. Pajamas with faded stars on them. A mess of bedhead and a worn-out stuffed blue bear clutched in one arm. Y/N looked up at him like he was the only person left in the world.

“Your parents just… left you here?”

She nodded. “Said they had somewhere to be.”

Scott blinked. “Okay… uh, cool. Want to watch Sesame Street or something?”

Her face brightened just enough. “Yeah.”

The two of them settled in the living room, the TV flickering light across the floor. He sat on the carpet, backpack still hanging off one shoulder, and she curled up beside him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

But hours passed. The sun set. The TV started playing late-night ads. Scott checked his watch, annoyed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He raised his brows. She mirrored him.

“You’re mad,” she said quietly. “Are you mad at me?”

Scott laughed, awkward and surprised. “No—no, not at you.”

“But you are. I can feel it.”

Her head tilted, and he didn’t have a good answer. Lately, she had this weird way of knowing things she shouldn’t. Not words or thoughts—feelings. Like she was syncing up with people without meaning to. Honestly, it creeped him out sometimes.

“Right… uh.” He rubbed at his eyes, feeling that same sting. “Why don’t we head back to my place? You can crash in the guest room.”

That night, upstairs at the Summers' house, Y/N hid under a pile of blankets, pillow tucked over her ears. Still, she could feel it—Mrs. Summers’s warm concern, thick and sticky like syrup. It pressed into her chest, made her breath catch.

Downstairs, voices.

“What do you mean they haven’t come back yet?” Alex’s voice—sharp, already suspicious.

“I-I don’t know. Mom just told me to watch her. I figured it was like usual. They left some cash, but…” Scott’s voice dropped. “I think some stuff was missing.”

“No note?”

“No. Just money.”

Alex let out a slow, angry breath. “Alright. Then we wait.”

They waited a day. Then two. Then five. On the seventh day, just after dinner—

The sound of tires on gravel. Headlights lit up the driveway.

Alex had been sitting on the front steps for hours, arms crossed tight, eyes trained on the road. When the sedan rolled in—newer, shinier than the rusted beater they used to drive—he was already on his feet.

They were back.

“Really?” His voice cracked through the still air. “You think you can just show up now?”

Mr. L/N looked up, startled. “Alex—hey, we’re just here to grab the last of our things. We won’t be long.”

Alex stepped into the path of the car, glare locked on them. “Right. Gonna grab your junk and pretend like you didn’t leave your kid to rot in an empty house?”

Mrs. L/N looked smaller than he remembered. Tired. “You don’t get it. You didn’t live with her. She feels things. She would cry out of nowhere. Panic for no reason. It was like… like she was pulling emotions out of us.”

“She’s four,” Alex growled. “You left a four-year-old . You don’t get to spin this like you’re the victims.”

Mr. L/N’s voice was low. “We were scared.”

Alex stepped closer. “Yeah? So was she. But she stayed. Sat on that rug for hours, watching the door. Waiting for you to come back. She thought she did something wrong.”

Mrs. L/N folded her arms. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see it. It was—unnatural. Like she was…inside us.”

Alex laughed—sharp, humorless. “So she’s a freak, and you’re just innocent bystanders?”

“That’s not what we said.”

“No. But it’s what she believes. She thinks she made you leave. Thinks if she was quieter, softer, more normal, you’d still be here. That’s on you. ”

Silence hung in the air, thick as storm clouds.

“You don’t have to raise her,” Alex said, voice steady. “We’ll do that. But don’t you dare rewrite this in your heads. You didn’t run away out of love. You ran because she scared you. And now you’re here to grab your crap and vanish again.”

Mrs. L/N’s voice cracked. “We didn’t mean for it to be like this.”

“But it is,” Alex snapped. “So take your shit and go. And don’t come back unless you’re ready to tell her you’re sorry. Not to me. To her. ”

***

The week dragged.

The Summers tried to figure out what came next—how to talk to the right people, what kind of help Y/N might need, whether this was something they could even handle. But before they made a decision, progress made one for them.

The kitchen phone rang, its shrill chime slicing through the quiet. Mrs. Summers flinched slightly, setting down the half-sliced tomato on the cutting board, wiping her hand on a dish towel. She answered with the same calm tone she used for PTA calls and parent-teacher check-ins.

“Summers residence?”

She cradled the receiver between her shoulder and cheek, knife still in hand.

“Oh my... what did he do now?” Her voice dropped into something between concern and resignation.

At the table, Y/N’s crayon paused mid-stroke. She looked up, drawn in by the nervous flutter of energy Mrs. Summers now gave off like heat from a stove.

There was a pause, then a firmer, more clipped response. “Right—I'll be there right away.”

Click.

Then a second number dialed, her fingers quick and familiar on the rotary. “Alex, dear. I need you to go pick up your brother from school. It’s... happening again. And you’ve got more experience with this sort of thing than me or your father.”

Her eyes flicked toward Y/N. The corners of her mouth turned down in a tired sigh.

Things were about to get more complicated.

They returned about an hour later. Y/N ran to the door the second she heard Alex’s voice in the hallway. Her face lit up. She nearly tripped over herself sprinting across the floor.

Alex caught her easily, tossing his stress aside just long enough to swing her up in his arms. “You weren’t waiting on us, were you?” he teased, pinching her cheek.

She shook her head no, giggling, eyes squinting from the wide grin on her face.

But then she saw over his shoulder.

Scott stood in the doorway, a red bandana tied tight across his eyes like some kind of last-minute costume. His arms were tense. Shoulders locked. He didn’t say anything—just stood there, not really looking at anything at all.

Y/N’s chest tightened. Her smile faltered. Her palms started sweating and her heart racing. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, hard. As if trying to block it out. As if that would stop the wave of anxiety pushing through her like static.

Alex noticed. He glanced at Scott, then back at her, brows pinched.

“Maybe we should take her too,” he murmured, half to himself, half remembering the long conversation he and Scott had in the car. The one that hadn’t really ended by the time they pulled into the driveway.

Scott didn’t argue. He just sighed and nodded, head bowing slightly like the weight of it all finally got too heavy.

***

Y/N sat still in the oversized leather chair, legs swinging above the floor. The office was huge. Old wood everywhere—carved shelves, polished furniture, the smell of books and time layered into the air like dust.

Across from her, a redhead sat stiffly, hands clasped in her lap.

Jean.

She kept glancing at the door like she was waiting for it to open again.

“I’m Jean,” she said finally, voice quiet. Soft, but flat. Like she wasn’t totally present.

Y/N didn’t answer. She didn’t move. She felt it too clearly—Jean’s nerves, twisting and turning beneath her skin like knots in a garden hose. It was worse than usual. Worse than anyone else’s emotions she’d picked up on before. Heavier. Harder to tune out.

The door opened suddenly, swinging wide. A man entered, maybe in his forties, maybe older. Dark blazer, neatly brushed-back hair, calm expression. He moved with a kind of practiced ease even as his wheelchair hummed softly against the floor.

Alex walked in behind him.

“Ah, Jean,” the man said, his tone gentle. “Thank you for keeping her company.”

Jean gave a small, polite smile, probably hoping that was her cue to leave. It wasn’t.

He rolled forward and stopped just in front of Y/N.

“Hello,” he said. His voice was kind in a way that didn’t feel fake. “You must be Y/N. I’m Charles Xavier.”

He smiled again, soft and slow.

“This might sound a little strange, but I’d like to take a quick peek in your mind. Just to understand what’s going on, and how we can help you.”

Y/N’s brows pulled together. Her head tilted slightly, unsure. A peek?

She didn’t answer, not right away. But her legs stopped swinging. Her lips pressed into a line. Then—slowly—she nodded.

“Thank you,” Charles said. He brought two fingers to his temple and closed his eyes.

The stillness that followed was almost too quiet.

Then—

He felt it.

A flood of noise and color and emotion all at once, as if the door to her mind wasn’t just open—it had been ripped off its hinges. He couldn’t even make out specific thoughts at first. Just waves. Fear. Tension. Raw nerves stretched too thin. It felt like drowning in everyone else.

Jean’s anxiety was the first thing he registered—burning hot, coiled in her spine like a spring. His lungs tightened. His heart pounded faster.

Then Alex. A dense swirl of concern and protectiveness, heavy like concrete.

Then—himself.

From her perspective, he felt like calm. Safe. Like air after being underwater.

He pulled back gently, grounding himself again in his own body.

“Extraordinary,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

When I was little, I lived next door to two brothers. One of them, Scott, was seventeen and always seemed kind of tired, like being a teenager was a full-time job. Still, my parents had him babysit me all the time. He never complained, at least not to me.

His older brother, Alex, was louder, sharper, always coming and going. I didn’t know what he did, just that he was gone a lot, and when he was home, everything felt more solid. More safe.

Back then, Scott would walk me to the park down the street. I’d pump my legs on the swings and he’d stand nearby, pretending not to watch but never really looking away. 

But behind all the fun times with the Summers, something in me started to shift.

I couldn’t explain it at the time—I didn’t even have the words for it—but when someone around me got upset, I did too. If someone cried, I cried. If someone yelled, I’d shut down. And it wasn’t just copying. It was like I absorbed it. Like their emotions lived in my skin. I didn’t know how to turn it off.

At first, my parents called it a phase. Then they started avoiding me. Whispering. Leaving me with the Summers more often. And eventually… they stopped coming back.

No big scene. No final goodbye.

One night, they had Scott come over to babysit, and that was it. They never returned.

I didn’t find out until later that Alex had seen their car pulling into the driveway a week later—saw them come back just to grab the last of their things. He was the one who confronted them, who called them out for leaving a child behind like she was a broken lamp.

But by then, it didn’t matter. They were already gone.

And I was the freak they didn’t know how to deal with.

The Summers took me in when they didn’t have to. That’s when I learned the truth about myself—what I am, what they are. A mutant. The memories of my life before the Summers are hazy, fragments of a past I can barely recall. I don’t remember much about my parents, their faces or voices. After that, I was sheltered, and kept myself away from people, terrified at the idea of being around others. My ‘mutation’ was far from a gift—it was a curse. I could feel people’s emotions as if they were my own. If someone nearby was scared, that fear would consume me too—my heart racing, breaths coming in short, staggered gasps, the hair on my neck standing on end.

When Scott’s mutation manifested not even a week later, Alex sat us down and told us about him—Professor Xavier. The idea of leaving the place I had grown up in terrified me; they were the only people I ever felt safe with. But Alex reassured me, and before long, I found myself in Westchester, New York, far from the familiar world I knew.

Seventeen years have passed since then, and not much has changed. I’m now a counselor at the school for gifted youngsters, a place where those like us can find solace. Charles believes my abilities can provide comfort to others, a safe space for those who need it. For the longest time, I kept to myself, hiding away in my room, until the professor taught me how to safeguard my mind. I can now lightly influence others’ emotions with a touch, though nothing extraordinary—I’m still working on that with Jean and Charles.

***

Nails pick at each other under my desk as I muster an awkward smile, as Bobby continues rambling. I can’t believe Charles is making me do this.  

“Sometimes I just can’t stand John, he’s such a dick and acts like hes better than every one else!” He huffs, and I try not to become frustrated on his behalf. 

“Right-” I manage nodding my head. “Reminds me of how I act with my brother.” I tack on a smile, but it lands stiff and unnatural.

Bobby seems excited that I can somewhat relate. “I haven’t thought of it that way! You’re totally right, he is like a brother, constantly nagging. I mean, he’s my friend and all, but god-”

“Just give him the cold shoulder if he pisses you off,” I mutter, only half-joking. The words tumble out, and I immediately regret trying to be clever.

The teenager laughs and smiles. “Right- cold shoulder.” 

A soft knock on the door interrupts our ‘session’.

The presence is level-headed and confident. Storm. “Come in,” I close my notepad, shoving it back in the drawer where I want it to stay forever. “Sorry to cut this short, Bobby, I’ll see you later.”

The cool-headed boy nods, sitting up and slinging his bag over his shoulder as Ororo enters the room. She smiles kindly at Bobby, wishing him good luck on his history test he has today.

“Have you had the chance to check on the news? Senator Kelly is still pushing quite hard for the mutant registration act. He doesn’t know when to give up. Her arms cross over her chest while she sits on the armrest of the chair across from me, glancing up at the mounted, muted TV in the corner.

I sigh, “Frankly, I’ve just been ignoring it…hoping it will all blow over.” I murmur, and she nods in understanding, knowing I’ve never been one for confrontation.

“Charles has been keeping me updated regularly, Jean seems to be holding her own.” She hums, my lips form a tight line, lost in thought.

“So, do you think she’ll be able to convince them we aren’t a threat?” I ask, my gaze lingering on the flickering images.

Ororo’s voice is calm and reassuring, as it always is. “I don’t know, we can only hope,” she replies, her eyes still on the screen. But then, she suddenly looks toward me, her expression shifting. I raise an eyebrow in silent question.

“It’s Charles…they’ve found something Magneto’s planning,” she says, her tone serious now. She rises from her seat, pushing the chair back with a gentle scrape against the floor. “You coming?”

I laugh softly, shaking my head as I reach for the remote to turn off the TV. “The day you convince me to get on that jet is the day I lose all my sanity.”

Ororo grins with a playful light in her eyes. “It was worth a try.” I stand up from my desk, circling around it to meet her at the door.

“I’ll always be there to see you off, though,” I say with a smile as we exit the room. Just then, we spot my brother speed-walking toward us, his expression determined.

“I see you got the news as well, Boy Scout,” I comment as he approaches.

“Yeah, Charles wants us to head out right away,” Scott replies, his focus shifting to Ororo.

The elevator doors slide open, and the three of us step out, our footsteps echoing against the metal floors as we move with urgency. We make our way to the room where their uniforms are stored, the air thick with anticipation.

“This will always be here for you if you change your mind, you know?” Ororo nods toward a case that holds a suit tailored perfectly to my size.

Scott chuckles as he sits on a bench, zipping up his boot. “Still trying to convince her?” 

I flick the side of his head, earning an exaggerated wince from him as he instinctively cradles his ‘wound.’ “Ow,” he scoffs.

“Oh, please, you’re fine,” I say with a smirk, watching him stand up. He pinches my cheek with a gloved hand, a familiar gesture that brings a small smile to my face.

“Stay in touch, yeah?” he asks, even though we both know the answer.

I nod, the unspoken promise we’ve had for years hanging between us.

***

I sit in a swivel chair beneath the mansion, anxiously waiting for someone to update me. By now, Jean and Charles have made their way back. My fingers drum restlessly against the table, the silence pressing in on me.

“Come on, you can do it,” Jean encourages, her arms folded as she leans forward from across the table. Her red hair frames her face like a fiery halo.

“Jean, I don’t know…the average teen, I might be able to persuade, but you’re… you ,” I laugh, trying to brush off her suggestion. She raises a brow, her expression unimpressed, her lips pursed in disappointment.

“Alright, alright…” I whine, taking a deep breath. I focus on how I want her to feel… let’s try…sad? I reach across the cold metal table, placing a tentative hand on hers. I channel my own memories of anguish, letting the emotions wash over me. My breath becomes shaky, tears welling up in my eyes as my heart races. But Jean doesn’t budge, her composure unbroken.

Frustration bubbles up inside me, and I pull my hand back with a scoff, turning away from her. “See, it’s no luck.”

“No…look,” she says softly, drawing my attention back to her. I turn in my chair, watching as a single tear escapes from her eye.

“Progress,” Jean smiles, wiping the tear away with a gentle hand.

A beeping noise suddenly cuts through the moment, coming from the consoles near us. Jean quickly stands from her seat, hurrying over to them. 

“They’re back.” She looks up from the computers, closing her eyes, likely sensing if any of them are hurt. “And they brought company…”

I watch the monitors as the jet hovers above the basketball court, waiting for the ground to open up. As soon as it lands, I rush out of the room and down the hall, my heart pounding with anticipation.

The door to the hangar slides open, revealing Ororo guiding a young, anxious girl beside her. Scott appears behind them, supporting a man who seems to be unconscious.

“Y/n!” Scott calls out with a smile as he drags the body along with him, pretty slowly if I might add. 

“Who’s this? Friend or foe.” I ask, motioning to the stranger trying to lighten a likely dark story.

“The girl said his name is Logan. She found him in a cage fighting ring in Canada…so we’ll find out. He got knocked out by one of Magneto’s associates- Sabretooth." I nod, processing the new information, though, frankly, distracted by the girl. 

Turning my gaze to her, her eyes wide with fear, her entire body trembling. “My name’s Y/n,” I say gently, extending a hand for her to shake.

“Marie--I mean, uhm, Rogue,” she replies, her voice shaky with a noticeable Southern accent. Her gloved hand wraps around mine, and I give her a reassuring squeeze.

Jean appears beside me, now wearing a doctor’s coat as she wheels a gurney over. “I’ll take him from here,” she says, nodding toward the stranger.

Scott obliges, hefting the man named ‘Logan’ onto the gurney with a heavy thud and the metal groans. I scan the man up and down, noting the absence of visible wounds. “What exactly happened to him?” I ask, my voice tinged with concern.

“He got thrown onto a car, among other things,” Scott replies nonchalantly.

“Jesus,” I murmur, scanning our new patient, Logan. My eyes were full of curiosity; most introductions I make are with awake people, and with him so out of it, I couldn’t distinguish a single thing about him. 

Scott notices my staring and grows a tad protective. “You alright?”

I turn to him sharply, surprised by his question. “Oh- uh- yeah, just thinking.” my lips form a tight line.

Chapter Text

“So what was it you called me over for?” I ask, though I have a feeling I already know what this is about.

“Y/n, I want you to be there when Logan wakes up,” Charles says in his calm, soothing voice as we move side by side toward his office.

I hesitate, wincing slightly at the suggestion. “I don’t know, Professor. Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I ask, my uncertainty clear as I open the door to his study for him.

“Yes, my dear,” he replies, his tone full of warmth and reassurance. “My confidence in you and your abilities grows with each passing day. Jean is heading down there now. Perhaps you should join her.”

I nod, offering him a brief goodbye as he heads off to teach his physics class. 

The pad of my finger presses the elevator button to the desired floor, and I rock back and forth on the heels of my feet, anxiety building in my chest. The elevator dings softly, and the doors slide open. I step out and let my senses guide me to the calm, collected presence that is Jean.

I find her in the lab, hunched over a table, her white lab coat pristine as she prepares a tray of vials and syringes. “What do you have there?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Something to draw his blood, as well as a sedative,” she hums, her tone light but focused. “Hopefully, we won’t have to use the latter.” Jean turns to me with a confident smile that’s meant to be reassuring.

“Right…” I mumble under my breath, doubt still gnawing at me.

We walk down the corridor to the small infirmary, Jean effortlessly levitating the tray beside her with a mere thought. The metal doors slide open with a quiet hiss as we enter the room.

I approach the unconscious figure of Logan, leaning over slightly to take in his rugged features. “So, how long do you think we have until he wakes up?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Jean places the tray on a table that emerges from the floor, her eyes flicking to me as she moves around Logan’s prone form. “Not long,” she replies, her gaze steady. “Would you like to try what we’ve been working on? He may be a bit disoriented when he wakes up, and it would be best if he were more relaxed.”

My hand twitches nervously, hovering above his bare shoulder. The heat of his skin feels almost tangible, but fear roots me in place. I pull back quickly, shaking my head. “I’d rather not…”

Jean nods in understanding, turning her attention back to the medical tools. With a flick of her wrist, she levitates a syringe, moving it towards her open palm where she easily clutches it before carefully twisting off the cap and prepping it with a steady hand. She leans in, inserting the needle into his arm with precision.

Suddenly, Logan’s eyes snap open, wild and feral. In one swift motion, he springs up from the table, his legs swinging over the side as his hand darts out, clamping around Jean’s neck in a vice-like grip. He stands, towering over her, pulling her back against his chest, his arms locked tightly around her throat and torso. Jean’s eyes widen in panic, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps as she looks to me for help.

Logan’s gaze shifts to me, his eyes burning with a mix of confusion and rage. The only thing between us is the table he was just lying on, but I know it won’t stop him if he decides to lunge.

My heart pounds in my chest, faster and faster, until it feels like it might burst. I clutch the sides of my head, my skin suddenly burning with the intensity of his emotions. Fear, anger, paranoia—they crash over me in waves, each one more suffocating than the last. I fall to my knees, the overwhelming tide of his feelings too much to bear. My vision blurs as hot, angry tears spill down my cheeks. My breath comes in short, ragged bursts as I start to hyperventilate, the weight of his emotions crushing me.

Logan’s grip on Jean loosens as he seems to realize neither of us is a threat. He tosses her aside, and she lands with a thud against the floor before he darts out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. The sound of his departure mingles with Jean’s staggered breaths as she struggles to regain her composure.

Slowly, the suffocating fear and rage begin to fade, my breathing returning to something resembling normal. I manage to gasp out, “What the hell was that?”

Jean, still panting, pushes herself to her feet, her eyes wide with lingering shock. “I don’t know…” Her voice is hoarse, clearly shaken by the encounter.

The two of us quickly brush ourselves off and make our way upstairs toward the professor’s office. As we approach, we find the door already open with Scott standing in the doorway, engaged in a hushed conversation. 

“I believe you’ve already met Dr. Jean Grey, as well as Y/n Summers,” the professor announces, his voice calm and welcoming.

Jean moves around Scott and Ororo to stand beside Charles in an authoritative manner, while I choose to cling behind my brother, trying to hide myself despite our height being the same. The thought of being close to Logan again unnerves me, even though his emotions have slightly calmed. I’m not willing to take any chances.

Logan turns to face Charles, his eyes narrowing as he listens. “You’re in my school for the gifted… for mutants. You’ll be safe here from Magneto,” the professor continues.

“What's a Magneto?” Logan grunts, his voice rough and skeptical. His voice is about what I expected, yet still surprising to hear him finally speak after watching him brood at the professor.

“A very powerful mutant who believes that a war is brewing between mutants and the rest of humanity.” Charles’ words are met with an unimpressed look from Logan, who seems more annoyed than concerned. “I’ve been following his activities for some time. The man who attacked you is an associate of his called Sabretooth.”

“Sabretooth?” Logan smirks, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. The professor merely nods in response. Logan’s gaze shifts to Ororo. “Storm?” He points at her, clicking his tongue before returning his focus to Charles. “What do they call you? Wheels?” Logan huffs, a low laugh escaping him. Oh, so he’s a dick.

Charles looks momentarily taken aback, and I have to stifle a laugh, quickly covering my mouth with my hand and biting my inner cheek to regain my composure.

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Logan mutters, turning to my brother, who is still blocking the doorway. “Cyclops, right?” He tilts his head, then suddenly grabs the collar of Scott’s cardigan, causing him to stumble slightly. Logan pulls him close, his voice a harsh whisper. “You wanna get out of my way?” His hazel eyes flick briefly at me, and I feel a spike of tension.

Scott’s gaze drops to Logan’s hands, which are tightly gripping his knit clothing. The atmosphere is thick with unspoken threats.

“Logan,” the professor speaks up, his tone steady and serious. “It’s been almost 15 years, hasn’t it?” There’s a heavy pause, and I see a flicker of recognition in Logan’s eyes. His curiosity spikes as he slowly releases his hold on Scott’s clothes. “Living from day to day, moving from place to place, with no memory of who or what you are.”

“Shut up,” Logan huffs, his voice laced with frustration as he turns toward Charles.

“Give me a chance. I may be able to help you find some answers,” the professor offers, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“How do you know?” Logan mutters, suspicion evident in his tone.

A tense silence falls over the room, and I can only assume Charles is communicating telepathically. Logan’s head whips around, trying to locate the source of the voices that are now invading his mind. His gaze finally lands on Charles, a mixture of confusion and anger in his hazel eyes.

“What is this place?” he asks with a grin, a flicker of mischief playing across his features.

Charles dismisses Scott, Jean, and Ororo, sending them back to their classes, but he keeps me by his side. He explains telepathically that this would be a good test of my strengths, a chance to push myself.

“Anonymity is a mutant’s first defense against the world’s hostility…” Charles begins as we start to tour the school, moving through its corridors and classrooms. “To the public, we’re merely a school for gifted youngsters. Cyclops, Storm, Y/n, and Jean were some of my first students. I protected them, taught them to control their powers.”

I roll my eyes. Control is debatable.  

“And in time, they teach others to do the same. Most of the students here are runaways—frightened, alone. Some with gifts so extreme that they’ve become a danger to themselves and those around them. Like your friend Rogue…incapable of physical human contact, probably for the rest of her life, and yet here she is, among others her own age, learning, being accepted, not feared.”

“What’ll happen to her?” Logan asks, his voice softened by a hint of concern as he watches Rogue through a classroom window.

“Well, that’s up to her,” Charles replies. “She can rejoin the world as an educated young woman or stay on to teach others, to become what the children have affectionately called X-Men. But the school is merely our public face. The lower levels, however, are an entirely different matter.”

It’s here that Charles dismisses me, signaling the end of my involvement in the conversation as they make their way to the basement.

The bell chimes just as the students file out, chattering and laughing as they head off to their next class. Rogue lingers behind, collecting her books with that signature worried look of hers—shoulders drawn up, eyes darting like she’s waiting for something to go wrong.

Bobby throws her a flirty, overly confident smile. She blushes, fumbling with her folders.

I wish I could find it cute. But the second one of these hormonal teenagers develops a crush, I get hit with the full emotional blast—giddy, anxious, slightly nauseating. I shake it off.

“Rogue!” I call, flashing a grin as I wave her over.

She brushes a gloved hand through her brown hair, giving me a small, uncertain smile. “Hey, Ms. Y/N.”

“I just wanted to check in—see how your first day of classes has been going.” I put on a polite smile. Truth be told, I wasn’t in the mood to play counselor, but Ororo has been breathing down my neck about it lately.

Her emotions stir the second I mention it—doubt, sadness, a pinch of panic.

“Well… I’m still figurin’ everythin’ out,” she mumbles, eyes flicking toward a group of students casually showing off their powers in the hallway. “It’s just… a lot to process.”

“I get that. Why don’t we step into my office for a bit?” I offer, already halfway turned toward the hall. The noise, the energy—it’s always so overwhelming..

She nods and follows, keeping a good few feet between us like she’s afraid to breathe too close.

Once we’re inside, I push the heavy wooden door shut and exhale slowly. The quiet is a relief.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I say, circling around my desk and sinking into the chair. I reach for my notepad—my ever-dreaded notepad—and flip it open.

Rogue glances around the office. It’s kind of bare. A few framed photos, a soft throw on the couch, a stack of books I keep meaning to read. It looks lived-in, but just barely. Like I’m ready to move out of the space at a moment's notice.

 “So,” I begin, tapping my pen. “What brought you here? Or… I guess more accurately, what brought you to Logan?”

She lowers herself onto the chair across from me, her fabric-covered fingers twisting together in her lap. “I had all these big plans with my boyfriend,” she starts, voice soft. “We were gonna travel, see the world together. Just the two of us.”

Her solemn words cut through me, and I felt the pain of her heartbreak as my heart hung heavy in my chest, and words unable to form.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she continues, voice trembling now. “We were kissin’, and then… he just froze. Like—he couldn’t breathe. His skin turned pale and cold, and he started shakin’.”

She’s unraveling fast, panic lacing every word.

“My parents—they didn’t understand. They were scared of me. I was scared of me. So I… I took some money outta my mama’s purse and left. First bus I could catch.”

My throat tightens as she speaks, but I stay quiet, listening.

“I hitchhiked all over. I didn’t know where I was goin’—I just wanted to disappear. One of the places I’d always dreamed of seein’ was Canada. So I kept movin’ north. A trucker dropped me off in this nowhere town. I stumbled into sleezy bar, stopped in for some water and maybe somethin’ to eat. I even thought about takin’ some of the tip money when no one was lookin’.”

She pauses, eyes flicking to mine, as if gauging how much judgment she’s getting.

“But then I saw him…There was this big cage in the middle of the bar. Like… an actual fight cage. People were screamin’ and cheerin’, and he was in there—the 'Wolverine'. He wasn’t even breakin’ a sweat. The way he hit people… the sound it made- it was like metal on metal. And he didn’t get hurt. Not even a bruise.”

I nod slowly, letting her keep going.

“He seemed so… sure of himself. Like he wasn’t scared of anything. And when he got into trouble, I snuck into his haul. Figured if anyone could survive out there, it was him.”

“And he didn’t kick you out?” I ask gently.

“He tried to, though I persisted. But… somethin’ stopped him from arguing further. He ain’t exactly warm, but there’s somethin’ about him.” She shrugs, a tiny blush rising to her cheeks. “He looks out for people, even if he pretends he doesn’t care.”

There’s a moment of silence between us, both of us sitting with everything she just unpacked.

“I’m glad you found us,” I say finally, voice softer now. “And I’m glad you found him, too.”

She nods, eyes glistening. “Me too.”

The door shuts softly behind Rogue, and the quiet settles in fast.

I don’t move at first. Just sit there, staring at the empty chair she left behind. The air still hums faintly with the emotions she brought into the room—guilt, fear, that flicker of fragile hope she’s too scared to trust yet.

God, she’s so young. She’s carrying around that trauma like it’s stitched into her skin, and she doesn’t even realize how heavy it is yet. I remember what that felt like—wondering if your own parents were right to be afraid of you.

That kind of thing doesn’t fade, it settles.

I press my palm flat to the desk and take a deep breath, trying to calm the tightness in my chest. She wasn’t the only one reliving something in there.

When she talked about her boyfriend—how it just happened —how no one told her what she was, or how to stop it, or what to do afterward… I felt that panic. The shame. The loneliness. Like you're some walking disaster just waiting to hurt people without meaning to.

And Logan? That man may act like he’s all muscle and sharp edges, but the fact that he didn’t dump her on the side of the road the second he found her stowed away—that says something. Rogue sees it, even if she doesn’t know how to name it yet.

I lean back in my chair, eyes closing for a second.

This place is supposed to be a school, but most of the time it feels more like a sanctuary for broken kids trying to figure out how to live with the parts of themselves no one else could handle.

It’s hard not to see myself in them...maybe that’s why I took on this stupid role.

Chapter Text

In the chrome med room, I help Jean prepare Logan for the MRI scan, though I can't help but wonder how this is going to work with his metal claws.

The stinging scent of rubbing alcohol tingles in my nostrils as I pour the liquid onto a circular cotton round, focusing on that rather than the man’s intriguing nature. Tentative hands swipe the damp cotton over his chest, carefully cleaning the surface after detaching the sticky wires from his skin. Jean hovers over my shoulder, eyes scanning my work, making sure I don’t miss a spot. She and Charles tend to treat me like a protégé—sometimes I find it endearing, other times stressful.

Logan’s brows furrow as he stares blankly at the ceiling, lost in thought. A wave of guilt emanates from him and burrows deep in my chest. His face shifts into something regretful as he breaks the silence. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, voice gruff but sincere, looking past me toward Jean.

Jean’s attention flicks from my hands to his face, her brows knitting in confusion. “For what?”

Logan lifts his right arm and points at her neck, ignoring my hands still working on his chest. “If I hurt you.”

Where’s my apology, prick? I think to myself, though I keep my mouth shut in a tight, irritated line. I watch Jean’s face, expecting her to say something more, but she only offers him a curt smile before moving away. She walks behind me to the large moniter, her fingers deftly turning knobs, dials, and switches setting up the scan.

As I finish wrapping the cords around my hands, Logan turns his head toward me, his change in conversation catching me off guard. “So, couldn’t wait to get my shirt off again, huh?” He smirks, a teasing glint in his eyes.

I scoff, rolling my eyes dramatically. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just here because I have to be,” I shoot back, turning my attention to Jean, who looks equally unimpressed. With a harsh press of a button, she sends the table he’s lying on into the MRI machine.

Our eyes widen in surprise as the computer screen lights up with each image the machine takes. “It’s all metal?” I whisper, more to myself than Jean.

Later, I find myself sitting between Ororo and Scott as we gather around to watch Jean showcase our findings. She gestures across the screen where snapshots of his bones are displayed, illuminated in stark contrast.

 “The metal is an alloy called adamantium. Supposedly indestructible,” she explains, her voice tinged with fascination. She raises her hand and pans down the image of Logan's skeleton. “It’s been surgically grafted to his entire skeleton.”

Jean crosses her arms, her expression shifting serious as she walks to the other end of the projector screen. The room is heavy with the weight of what we’re seeing, testing mutants like we’re animals…it’s sick.

“How could he have survived a procedure like that?” Ororo hums from beside me, her voice filled with curiosity and a hint of disbelief.

Jean’s eyes scan over the images again, her mind clearly working to piece together the puzzle. “His mutation- He has uncharted regenerative capability, which enables him to heal rapidly.” She pauses, taking a moment to let the information sink in. “This also makes his age impossible to determine.” She turns her gaze to Charles, her expression thoughtful. “He could very well be older than you, Professor.”

“Who did this to him?” Scott asks, his voice cutting through the quiet tension in the room.

“He doesn’t know. Nor does he remember anything about his life before it happened,” I reply, shaking my head. I can hear the wonder in my own voice— this whole situation is as confusing to me as it is to everyone else.

“Experimentation on mutants…” Charles’ voice is grim, a dark shadow passing over his face. “It’s not unheard of.” He sighs deeply, wheeling himself closer to the screens. “But I’ve never seen anything like this before…”

“How could we not have known about this- how couldn’t we have seen it coming?” I stammer, my voice panicky amplified by Ororo’s disbelief, Scott’s anger, Jean’s guilty fascination, and the Professor’s shock.

Charles' wrinkles fall flat as his mouth forms a tight line; he knew…

“What do you think Magneto wants with him?” Scott’s question hangs in the air, the implication of it unsettling.

“I’m not entirely sure it’s Logan that Magneto wants,” the professor answers truthfully, his tone measured, as if weighing every possibility.

I can’t help myself. “I mean, he’s practically made of metal... but what, Magneto wants to toss him around like a rag doll?” I try to keep the tone light, but the anxiety in me betrays it.

Charles turns to look at me, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps not just to toss him around. Magneto’s intentions are often complex, layered. He might see Logan as a tool—a weapon to be used, or perhaps a piece of a larger plan. Whatever it is, we need to be prepared.”

Scott nods, his jaw tight. “We need to keep an eye on him. If Magneto’s interested, it can’t be for anything good.”

Jean’s gaze shifts to the screen one last time before she turns it off. “We’ll run more tests, see if we can uncover anything else.”

I rub my temples as I rise. “I just hope we can figure it out before it’s too late.”

Ororo places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “We will, Y/n. We always do.”

The professor’s voice cuts through our moment of solidarity. “We’ll discuss our next steps in the morning. For now, everyone should get some rest. We may need all our strength soon.”

As we disperse, the weight of the unknown lingers in the air, heavy and foreboding. I can’t shake the feeling that whatever is coming, it’s going to test all of us in ways we’ve never been tested before.

In the chrome hallway, Charles rolls up beside me before cutting me off, effectively stopping me, his voice soft and reassuring. “Will you take him to his room, please?” he asks, his eyes settling on a figure behind me. I turn to find Logan standing there, giving me a lopsided smile and a brief wave.

“Right, uhm, this way,” I nod toward the elevator, motioning for him to follow. As we step inside the narrow tube, his presence fills the space, radiating an aura of allure and mischief that’s almost suffocating. I can feel the weight of his emotions pressing in on me, like a thick fog I can’t escape. It’s overwhelming, unlike anything I’ve felt in a long time, not since Charles taught me how to shut out the intense feelings of others. The elevator dings, and I rush to step out, taking a deep breath as soon as I’m free of the confined space.

“So, you’ll be next door to me,” I say, trying to muster a casual smile as I lead him up a set of wooden steps, the old boards creaking underfoot. He nods, a smirk playing on his lips as he follows me down a dimly lit corridor. The shadows stretch long across the walls, adding an eerie stillness to the moment.

When we reach the vacant bedroom next to mine, I push the door open and quickly move through the space, creating some distance between us, turning on a lamp. Its warm glow barely touches the corners of the room, casting long shadows. 

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” I say, turning to face him. I find him standing in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unchanged.

Logan saunters across the room, opening the double doors of the closet with curiosity. “Chuck said your name was Summers. You and ‘Cyclops’ married ?” His tone is laced with sarcasm as he emphasizes Scott’s codename.

I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity. “No, Scott’s my brother,” I say, watching his reaction closely. His brows knit together in confusion, so I add, “Adopted.”

“Is that your gift? Putting up with that guy?” he snickers, his tone teasing but curious.

“Actually, I’m an empath,” I correct, stepping a little closer, drawn to him despite myself not wanting to be. “I can sense other people’s emotions.”

“Really?” he asks, turning halfway to face me, and I stop in my tracks. “What kinds of things do you feel?”

I raise an eyebrow, meeting his gaze head-on. “All kinds of things…” I pause, barely needing to open myself up to the swirling emotions around us. “You feel lost… confused, and a bit agitated.” He seems unimpressed, like it’s some sort of party trick, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. “I also have some ability to change how others feel.”

“What, like your professor?” he inquires, his voice low and probing.

“No,” I chuckle, considering it for a moment. “Well, I mean, kind of. He’s teaching me to develop it.” I watch him carefully as he steps closer, his presence magnetic.

“I’m sure he is…” Logan stops about two feet away from me, leaning in slightly. “So how do I really feel?” he teases, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper.

“I’d rather not,” I challenge, trying to keep my composure.

“Come on… You afraid you might like it?” he eggs on, his smirk widening.

“I doubt it,” I whisper back, fighting to hide a smile of my own.

He eyes me curiously as I slowly raise my left hand, hesitating just for a moment before placing it gently beside his head, closing my eyes to focus. Suddenly, flashes of images flood my mind—large machines, scientists, men in government uniforms, Logan’s body marked with surgery lines. My heart pounds in my chest as fear and pain surge through me, raw and intense. I gasp as he grabs my hand, pulling me out of the trance, and places it over where his neck meets his chest to ground me.

“What do you feel?” he whispers, his voice softer now, his eyes searching mine for answers.

I take a deep breath, still reeling from the visions. I’ve never been able to read someone’s thoughts before, and even then, I’m not sure if that’s what just happened. 

My eyes drift over Logan's shoulder and catch sight of Scott standing in the doorway. 

“Scott,” I say, pulling my hand away from Logan's chest. Logan looks less than thrilled by the new company, but I don't let it bother me. “Good night, Logan.” I give him one last, curious glance before moving past him, heading toward the doorway. As I pass Scott, I awkwardly avoid his gaze, my steps quickening as I make my way toward my bedroom.

Logan watches me go, then turns his attention to Scott. “You gonna tell me to stay away from your sister?” Logan asks, his tone taunting.

Scott doesn’t miss a beat. “If I had to do that, I would think I had raised her wrong,” he retorts, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

Logan raises his brows, amused by Scott's confidence, stepping closer to him in a challenging manner, hands clasped behind his back. “Well, then, I guess you’ve got nothing to worry about, do you, ‘Cyclops’ ?”

Scott remains unfazed, his expression shifting to one of cool confidence. “Yeah, it must just burn you up that a guy like me saved your life, huh? You ought to be careful, Logan. I might not be there next time.” He gives Logan a cheeky grin, removing himself from the doorway. Before leaving, he turns back, his grin widening. “Oh, and Logan, stay away from my sister.” Scott closes the door behind him, leaving Logan to ponder the exchange with an amused smile.

There’s a presence hovering in my doorway. Heavy. Judgy.

Refolding the blanket at the end of my bed doesn’t stop the weight of his stare boring into the back of my head. “What do you want?” I huff.

Scott stares at me in the doorway, behind red ruby lenses, his hands tucked into his jean pockets. “You know what-” He probes.

“God, can’t you take it down a notch? I can sense your impending temper tantrum,” I groan, turning to face him.

“I do not have temper tantrums,” Scott mutters, already exasperated.

“Alex would’ve begged to differ,” I mumble under my breath.

He hears it and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t take the bait. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you and-” Scott inhales sharply, “ him. ” he points to the adjoining wall.

I roll my eyes and toss the folded blanket a little too hard onto the bed. “Of course it is.”

“I want you to reach out to people. I do,” Scott says, stepping into the room. “You’ve been alone for too long, and I know that. But just—don’t talk to him. We don’t know anything about him. And I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like him?” I echo, crossing my arms. “Wow, compelling argument, Scott. Should we all base our relationships on your personal opinion?”

He moves closer, his voice hardening. “I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to protect you. You’re my sister. He’s got knives in his hands and holes in his memory—how is that not a red flag to you?”

I don’t answer him, letting him leave, closing the door behind him.

Chapter Text

In my restless dreams, I find this place. Needles—no, drills—pierce my skin all over, scorching hot liquid seeping onto my bones, melting all tissue and muscle nearby. I hear hushed conversations as if they’re far away—‘take her memory…’. I’m drowning in shallow water, my eyes bursting open, hit with the stinging sensation of liquid against my irises. My lungs gasp for breath, my strapped-down head whipping around the tank, finding men in lab coats standing before me, their eyes wide with fear. They’re afraid of me.

My eyes fly open, and I shoot upright in bed, pawing at my chest, trying to calm the rapid thudding of my heart. The remnants of the nightmare cling to me, making it hard to breathe. Before I have time to gather my thoughts, screams pierce the silence from the next room over, then eerie silence. Panic surges through me, and my legs swing over the side of the bed as I scurry to the door, tearing it open, not even pausing to put on my slippers.

The door to the room next to mine is ajar. I step into the hallway, the cold wooden floor chilling my bare feet. “Help me,” a distressed voice calls out, and fear starts to seep into my skin, mingling with my own as I feel his emotions ripple through the air.

“Logan?” I whisper, my voice shaky as I stand in the doorway, frozen in place. The sight before me sends a jolt of terror down my spine.

“Somebody help!” Logan shouts louder, his frantic eyes finally locking onto mine. 

“Rogue?” I stammer, quickly shuffling into the room, trying to make sense of the chaos in the dark. The light from the hallway casts an eerie glow, revealing three deep puncture wounds in her back, blood dripping down her pale skin, staining her muted lavender nightgown. She chokes on her words, her entire body convulsing as she reaches out a trembling, bare hand to Logan’s temple in some last-ditch attempt.

His eyes go wide, his breath catching in his throat as he becomes paralyzed by her touch. The veins on his face darken, pulsating as if something is being drained from him. Then, like some kind of transfer, the dark veins creep across Rogue’s wounds, and they begin to heal before my eyes. Her mutation…a temporary transfer of abilities…

More children gather in the hallway, drawn to the commotion, their faces pale with fear. I whirl around, shooing them away from the spectacle. “No, no, don’t look,” I urge, guiding them back down the corridor. I catch sight of Scott, Jean, and Ororo rushing toward us, their expressions alarmed.

I turn back just as Scott flips on the light. The harsh brightness floods the room, revealing the full extent of the chaos. Rogue’s wounds are now completely healed, and she lets go of Logan’s head, causing him to collapse to the floor, gasping for air.

I rush to his side, falling to my knees beside him. “Scott, grab a pillow,” I call out, my voice tinged with urgency. Scott nods, his movements quick and efficient as he retrieves a dark green-lined pillow from Logan’s bed. 

I roll Logan onto his back, cradling his head in my hands as I feel his emotions begin to fade away, leaving a familiar emptiness. “Here,” Scott murmurs, handing me the pillow. I slip it under Logan’s neck for support, my fingers trembling slightly as I try to steady my breathing.

“It was an accident,” Marie’s broken voice trembles behind me. I glance over my shoulder just in time to see her tear-streaked face before she rushes out of the room, guilt and despair radiating from her in waves.

***

The next morning, the professor, Scott, and I find ourselves studying the images of Logan’s skeleton beneath the school once more, the room illuminated by the cold glow of the projector. The stark lines of metal grafted onto bone create a haunting silhouette, one that holds more questions than answers.

“What are you looking for, Erik?” Charles wonders aloud, spinning in his chair with a pensive expression. Scott moves away from me, uncrossing his arms as he leans in to examine the photos more closely. The tension in the room is palpable.

“It’s strange,” the professor continues, his brow furrowing. “There are more powerful mutants out there. Why should this one be so important to him?”

“Maybe it’s his way with people,” Scott remarks dryly, his tone laced with sarcasm. I raise a curious brow at my brother, thinking of our brief conversation from last night.

“Here we go.” I sigh, crossing my arms over my chest.

“You don’t like him,” Charles observes, causing Scott to glance back at the professor with a wry smile.

“How could you tell?” Scott replies, his voice light, though there’s an edge to it.

“Well, I am psychic, you know,” Charles quips, raising a brow in return, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Our lighthearted moment is abruptly cut short as the metal doors hiss open, revealing Ororo and Logan. Ororo’s expression is tight with stress, while Logan’s is set with determination.

“Where is she?” Logan demands, his voice rough, cutting through the tension like a knife.

“Who?” I ask, my brows knitting together in confusion.

“Rogue…” Charles murmurs, realization dawning in his eyes. “She’s gone.”

“She ran away? Why would she do that?” I ask, the sting of hurt lancing through me. She hadn’t come to talk to me, hadn’t reached out for help. I swallow hard, the weight of my role as a guidance counselor feeling heavier than ever. I didn’t know her well, and not for long, but it still stings.

***

A blue light scans Charles’ eye from the locked door. “Welcome, Professor,” the robotic voice states as the vault-like doors slide open with a soft hiss.

Charles wheels into the room, moving with the familiarity of someone who’s done this countless times. “Welcome to Cerebro,” he announces, his voice echoing in the cavernous chamber as he heads toward the central console.

I stand with Scott, who has his arms tucked into his front pockets, Jean, who has her arms crossed tightly over her chest, and Ororo, who leans casually against her own weight with her hands folded into her back pockets. Together, we watch as Logan trails behind the professor, his gaze darting around the massive, circular room.

“This certainly is a big, round room,” Logan mutters, his voice filled with a mix of awe and skepticism as he takes in the strange surroundings.

Charles flicks on a series of switches and buttons, his movements precise and practiced. “The brain waves of mutants are different from those of average human beings,” he explains. “This device amplifies my power, allowing me to locate mutants across great distances. That’s how I intend to find Rogue.”

Logan nods toward the machine. “Why don’t you just use it to find Magneto?”

“I’ve been trying,” Charles responds, his tone matter-of-fact. “But he seems to have found some way to shield himself from it.” He reaches for the headpiece, the fishbowl-like object gleaming under the dim lights.

“How would he know how to do that?” The tall brunette presses, suspicion lacing his voice.

“Because he helped me build it,” Charles admits, his voice tinged with an old, unresolved pain. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He places the headpiece on his head, and Logan takes that as his cue to leave, rejoining the rest of us outside the Cerebro chamber. The door slides shut behind him with a soft whoosh, cutting off our view of Charles.

Logan turns to Jean, his curiosity piqued. “Have you ever—” He taps his temple in a silent gesture.

“Used Cerebro?” Jean cuts him off, holding his gaze for a moment before looking away, shaking her head. “No, it takes a degree of control, and, uh, for someone like me, it’s—” She hesitates, searching for the right word.

“Dangerous,” Scott finishes, his voice curt and protective.

A heavy silence settles over us, tension thick in the air, but it doesn’t last long. The doors to Cerebro slide open again, and Charles wheels toward us, a determined look on his face.

“She’s at the train station,” he announces.

“Where is it?” The animal asks, ready to spring into action.

“A few miles west of here,” Charles answers, but Logan is already walking off, determined to make things right.

“Logan,” Charles calls out, stopping him in his tracks. “You can’t leave the mansion. It’s just the opportunity Magneto needs.”

Logan turns back, frustration evident in his stance. “Listen, I’m the reason she took off,” he argues, his voice rough with guilt.

“We had a deal,” Charles counters, his tone firm yet understanding.

“She’s all right. She’s just upset,” Ororo interjects, her stark white hair bouncing slightly as she shrugs, her calm demeanor a sharp contrast to the tension in the room.

“Storm, Cyclops, Y/n, find her. See if you can talk to her,” Charles instructs, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Scott and Ororo start down the hall, their steps quick and purposeful. I hesitate for a moment, concern flickering in my chest. “Professor, I’m not so sure—”

“They’ll need you to sense Rogue, maybe you can even convince her to stay.” Charles interrupts, his voice softening as he gives me a reassuring smile. He’s always had a sure-fire way to calm me down- In the past, that used to be by entering my mind and helping dull my senses.

I sigh, nodding reluctantly. As I turn to follow the others, I notice Logan is already gone. That’s odd. My brows knit together in confusion, but I push the thought aside as I head upstairs to catch up with Storm and Cyclops.

We gather our things, then head for the garage, the echo of Storm’s heels against the concrete floor filling the otherwise silent space. I follow close behind her, sensing my brother lagging behind.

“What?” Ororo and I ask simultaneously, turning to face Scott.

“Where’s my motorcycle?” Scott deadpans, his voice laced with irritation.

I fight to hide a shit-eating grin, knowing what the most likely answer is. “I think your new best friend might have beaten us to the punchline,” I remark, my tone teasing.

Although I can’t see his expression, I can feel Scott rolling his eyes, a scoff escaping him before he lets out a half-smile. We exchange a look, a shared understanding passing between us, before making our way toward Storm’s car.

Chapter Text

“Scott, you look around, and Y/n, try to see if you can sense her anywhere. I’ll check with the ticket agent,” Ororo instructs, her tone sharp and focused.

The three of us exchange a quick, understanding nod before splitting up. I decide to stick close to Scott since I’m not accustomed to the whole ‘missions’ thing, and being near my brother makes me feel more secure.

Cyclops’s eyes scan the bustling room, his gaze methodical and intense. I close my eyes, trying to block out the noise and chaos around me, focusing on what I felt the first time I met Rogue, and the time we chatted in my office. Part of my mutation works like a personal miniature Cerebro, allowing me to sense others based on their emotional blueprint. But it’s tricky with Rogue—she and I never really got the chance to connect, and finding her through the haze of unfamiliar emotions is proving to be a challenge. I just remember she was so…scared.

My brows knit together in frustration. “Sense anything?” Scott asks, his voice cutting through my concentration. I shake my head and open my eyes.

“No, nothing. You see anything?” I ask, turning to him with a hint of desperation in my voice.

“No…” He exhales a disappointed sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Come on.” He takes my hand, gently tugging me toward the departure board.

We scan the list of destinations, hoping for a clue. My gaze drops down, where I spot a young boy staring in awe at Scott, his small face lighting up with a grin he’s trying to hide. Scott notices and offers a subtle smile back, an apparent softness in his expression. But the moment is cut short when the boy’s mother notices and quickly pulls him away, her posture tense as she hurries him along. My heart sinks a little, feeling the sting of rejection for mutants, even if it’s not directed at me.

Scott’s jaw tightens, the brief moment of connection with the boy slipping away, replaced by the familiar weight of being seen as something dangerous, something ‘unnatural’ . But before we can dwell on it, a commotion breaks out behind us at the ticket counter.

We whip around to see Ororo being lifted off the ground, her throat caught in the grip of a tall man with wild, long blonde hair. The sight sends a jolt of fear through me.

“Is that Sabretooth?” I ask, taking in the feral figure. Cylcops nods grimly, his entire body tensing like a coiled spring.

“Stay here!” he commands, pointing a finger at me before charging through the crowd toward Storm.

“Scott, wait!” I shout, my voice tinged with panic as he barrels forward, determined to help Ororo.

But before he can reach her, something whips down from the ceiling—what looks like a long, slender rope, but with some kind of sheen— it snatches Scott’s glasses right off his face. My heart leaps into my throat.

“Scott!” I scream as red lasers erupt from his eyes, the uncontrollable beams slicing through the ceiling, shattering a massive skylight. Glass and debris rain down around us, sending people scattering in terror. I instinctively throw my arms over my head, crouching low as shards of glass and chunks of the ceiling crash to the ground.

The beams vanish as quickly as they appeared— Scott must have closed his eyes, rendering him vulnerable. A low rumble of thunder echoes from above, and I know what’s coming next. I glance up just in time to see a bolt of lightning streak down, striking Storm and Sabretooth. The impact sends Sabretooth flying across the room and crashing through a wall.

I rush over to Scott, who’s struggling to regain his bearings, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder. He winces at the contact, his body still tense from the attack.

“It’s me,” I say softly, trying to calm him. “Come on, let’s go.” My eyes flicker to Storm, who gives a slight nod, motioning with her head toward the exit. 

***

I rest my hand on the back of Charles’ wheelchair, while Ororo stands in the doorway, my eyes catching Logan's reflection in the mirror across the room. He splashes cold water on his face, droplets trailing down his neck before he shakes them off and pats his skin dry with a towel. His movements are sharp, almost aggressive, and animalistic as he tosses the towel aside, the tension in his body palpable.

Logan turns toward us, his expression hard and frustrated. He tugs down the sleeves of his maroon shirt, grabbing his leather jacket off the back of a nearby chair with a rough, impatient motion. “You said he wanted me,” he growls, the accusation thick in his voice. I feel my forehead muscles twitch in sudden anger, and I opt to clasp my hands in front of my waist, gripping one of my wrists tightly to control my newfound aggression.

Charles meets his gaze with a heavy sigh, the weight of his mistake evident in his eyes. “I made a terrible mistake,” he admits, his tone hushed, almost regretful. “His helmet was somehow designed to block my telepathy… I couldn’t see what he was after until it was too late.”

Logan’s frustration is palpable as he shrugs on his jacket. His every movement radiates determination, an urgency that’s practically contagious to me. “Where are you going?” Ororo asks, her voice firm but laced with concern as Logan pushes past her.

“I’m gonna find her,” Logan huffs, his voice tinged with impatience.

“How?” I ask, trying to catch his eye, but he’s already moving toward the door.

“The traditional way: look,” Logan snaps, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he darts out of his bedroom.

Storm and I exchange a quick, worried glance with the professor before rushing after Logan, our footsteps echoing down the hall. “Logan, you can’t do this alone,” Ororo states, picking up the pace as we descend the steps.

Logan doesn’t even slow down, his voice sharp and biting as he retorts, “Who’s gonna help me? You? So far, you’ve all done a bang-up job.” The bitterness in his tone cuts deep, but he keeps walking away from us, his focus singular.

“Then help us. Fight with us,” I plead, my voice rising as I try to reach him, try to make him see reason, trying my best not to match his agitation in my tone. “Stay.” 

He stops abruptly, turning to face us, his eyes flashing with anger. “Fight with you? What, join the team? Be an X-Man? I didn’t even think you had it in you to be an ‘X-Man’ ,” he sneers, his gaze settling on me with a scornful look before shifting to Storm. I bite my tongue in shame, knowing he’s right. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’re mutants. The whole world out there is full of people that hate and fear you. And you’re wasting your time trying to protect ‘em? I got better things to do.” 

Logan starts to leave again, but just as he reaches the door, he pauses, turning back to throw one more cutting remark over his shoulder. “You know, Magneto’s right. There’s a war coming. You sure you’re on the right side?”

“At least we’ve chosen a side,” Ororo asserts, her voice steady and unwavering despite the tension crackling in the air.

Logan’s gaze flickers, a brief moment of hesitation crossing his features, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. He moves to open the door, ready to storm out, but instead, we’re greeted by an unexpected sight—a panting, disheveled Senator Kelly stumbles into the room.

“I’m looking for Dr. Jean Grey,” the senator gasps, his words barely audible before he collapses into Logan’s arms, the sudden action catching all of us off guard.

***

I stare out one of the windows in the Professor’s office, my teeth anxiously gnawing at my thumbnail as a wave of unease ripples through me. The room feels tense, filled with the gravity of the situation. Charles’s voice breaks the silence, drawing our attention. “The machine emits radiation that triggers mutation in ordinary human beings,” he explains, his tone grave.

“But the mutation is unnatural,” Jean adds, her voice tinged with concern. She glances at Logan, who’s pacing the room, his jacket slung over his shoulder. “Kelly’s body is rejecting it. His cells began to break down almost immediately.”

Scott’s voice cuts through the room, steady but worried. “What effect does radiation have on mutants?”

“There appears to be none,” Charles responds, though his expression remains troubled. “But I fear it will seriously harm any normal person exposed to it.”

Logan stops his pacing, leaning against one of the ribbed wooden support beams, his brow furrowed in thought. “So what does Magneto want with Rogue?” His voice carries a mixture of frustration and urgency.

Charles shakes his head, the uncertainty in his eyes only adding to the weight in the room. “I don’t know,” he admits, and Logan’s frustration reignites, spurring him to start pacing again.

Scott’s eyes narrow as something clicks in his mind. “Wait a second,” he says, his voice picking up speed. “You said this machine draws its power from Magneto, and that it weakened him.”

“Yes,” Charles agrees, a note of realization creeping into his voice. “In fact, it nearly killed him.”

Logan’s eyes dart around the room as he pieces it together, his face paling as the conclusion dawns on him. “He’s gonna transfer his power to Rogue and use her to power the machine.” His voice trembles with urgency as he turns to the Professor, eyes wide with alarm.

“That could kill both of them-” I say what’s on everyone’s minds.

Charles wastes no time. “Cyclops, you and Storm ready the jet. Jean, come with me, I’m going to find Rogue. Y/n, get Logan a uniform.”

“Whoa, wait a minute,” Scott rises from his seat, his tone incredulous, overprotective as always. “He’s not coming with us, is he?”

“Yes,” Charles responds firmly, leaving no room for argument.

Scott’s disbelief quickly turns to frustration. “I’m sorry, Professor, but he’ll endanger the mission. And if—”

“Hey, I wasn’t the one who gave the train station a new sunroof, pal,” Logan snaps back, pulling on his jacket with a defiant glare.

“No, you were the one who stabbed Rogue through the chest,” Scott fires back, his voice laced with malice.

“Scott,” I warn, sensing the growing tension between them.

Logan’s anger is like a storm brewing, filling the room with intensity. “Hey, why don’t you take your little mission and stick it up your—”

Before Logan can finish, the door to the study bursts open, revealing a shaken Ororo. “Senator Kelly is dead,” she announces, her voice grim.

“Shit…” I mutter under my breath, a stressed hand grabbing my temple, the situation growing more dire by the second.

Charles looks between Scott and Logan, his expression stern. “Settle this,” he orders, the authority in his voice undeniable.

The Professor wheels out of the room without another word, and Scott storms off after him, clearly looking to blow off steam. Jean hurries after him, and I follow close behind.

We find him in a classroom—his classroom, the one for mathematics and engineering. He’s pacing in tight, agitated circles, the tension practically radiating off him.

“Scott, you two are acting like children,” I scoff, stepping inside.

He whirls around, jabbing a finger in my direction. “No, he is! He doesn’t respect anything we’re doing here, and he doesn’t even try to pretend to!”

Jean steps up beside him, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. Her voice is soft but firm. “Not everyone is going to be like us, Scott. Not all mutants have to follow in our footsteps. But we do need his help—why can’t you just admit that?”

Scott ignores her, his attention laser-focused on me. “Why do you keep defending someone you hardly know?!”

“I know when someone’s drowning, Scott!” I snap. “I can feel it, remember? That’s kind of my whole thing.” My voice cracks from the intensity of it, my hands balled into fists. “You want me to reach out to people, to connect—and the second I try, you treat me like I’m a child playing with matches.”

Jean winces between us, caught in the crossfire. Her hand twitches like she’s about to speak, but she doesn’t get the chance.

Suddenly, the air pulses. Like someone hitting me with a tranquilizer. The room dims around the edges—then warps.

We’re not in the classroom anymore.

It’s a memory. But not mine.

The sun is overcast, a gray wash across a lonely green field. A freshly dug grave in the center. Y/n is small. Swallowed in a stiff black dress, her little shoes muddy and scuffed. She’s sitting on the grass with her knees pulled to her chest, not crying. Just... blank. Quiet in the way that’s wrong for a child. Her eyes flick to everyone around her like they’re shouting, though no one says a word.

Scott stands nearby next to Jean in a suit that doesn’t quite fit—shoulders too tight, tie crooked. His arms hang awkwardly at his sides. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. The grave has been filled, the mourners are drifting back toward the mansion, and it’s just the two of them now.

He hesitates, then sinks to the grass beside her.

Y/n doesn’t look at him.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” he says softly.

Still nothing.

He chews his bottom lip, like he’s thinking hard. Then, carefully, he pulls off his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders.

“I guess I’m gonna have to figure it out, huh?” he says to no one in particular.

Her tiny fingers clench in the fabric. She still doesn’t speak—but she doesn’t pull away.

Back in the present, the memory unravels slowly, like mist.

We’re back in the classroom.

No one says anything for a beat.

Scott swallows hard. Jean’s hand is now pressed over her chest like she’s protecting her likely racing heart.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” she whispers, dazed.

I blink away the burn behind my eyes. “It’s okay.”

Scott’s jaw tightens. “I remember that day,” he says, voice low. “You didn’t say a word for weeks.”

“I couldn’t tell which feelings were mine,” I admit. “Everything hurt.”

“You didn’t have to say anything,” he replies. “I just wanted you to know I was there.”

I nod, barely.

There’s a long silence before he speaks again.

“I’m worried about you…I see how he sets you off,” he says.

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud.

“I know,” I whisper.

And this time, he doesn’t pull away.

***

The five of us found Charles collapsed inside Cerebro, his frail body now hooked up to monitors, unconscious on a cold metal table. The sight of him like this sends a chill down my spine, the severity of the situation sinking in.

Logan turns to me and Scott, his face drawn with regret. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly before rushing out of the room, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Scott stands tense, his fist pressed against his chin as he tries to process everything. I hesitate for a moment, then follow Logan out the door, trying to track his presence.

I find him outside, his hands shoved deep in his denim pockets as he stares up at the moon, lost in thought. The night sky is calm, a stark contrast to the turmoil swirling around us. Logan seems conflicted, yet there’s a determination in his posture, a resolve that’s hard to ignore. 

“It’s rude to stare,” he calls out, not bothering to turn his head. His voice is rough, but there’s an edge of humor in it. I blink in surprise. How did he know I was here?

“Sorry,” I mumble, walking up to stand beside him. The silence between us is heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts. Normally, I’d find the quiet comforting, but right now, next to him, it feels like a ticking bomb. “So… Rogue told me you go by ‘Wolverine’ ?” I try to lighten the mood, my voice hesitant.

He scoffs, a small, bitter laugh escaping him. “Talkative, isn’t she?”

I shrug, offering a small smile. “Not sure. We only talked on two occasions,” I reply, thinking back to my brief interactions with her. “Once when we first met, then briefly again the next day when I checked with her in the counseling office.”

Logan turns his gaze toward me, his eyes searching mine. “You got a name?” he asks, his tone softer, more curious. “Hopefully it’s not as dumb as your brother’s.” Wolverine jabs.

I shake my head, chuckling lightly. “No, uh, I don’t really go on ‘missions’, ” I admit, using air quotes. “Like you said earlier, I’m not fit to be an ‘X-Man.’ ” My gaze drops to the ground, the doubt creeping into my voice.

“I—”

“Hey!” a voice shouts, cutting Logan off. I turn to see Scott approaching, his expression serious. “Group meeting,” he announces, motioning for us to come back inside.

Chapter Text

The five of us stand around the circular table in one of the many rooms beneath the mansion, the cool, dim lighting casting long shadows on the walls as the nanotech display begins to rise and fall. The map of New York City materializes in the center, the small ‘ ticks’ of the nano-tech weaving together as it moves. We watch as it enlarges in on a specific spot, pinpointing a location.

"Magneto is here. Liberty Island," Scott says, his voice steady yet laced with tension. The map focuses on the small island, just off the southern tip of Manhattan. "Presumably, his objective is to mutate the world leaders at the U.N. Summit on Ellis Island."

As the display shifts, Ororo crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing at the display. "He doesn’t know his machine kills. And judging from what the professor saw, if Magneto gave Rogue enough power—"

"He could wipe out everyone in New York City," Jean adds, her tone grim as she watches the map expand to include the towering skyscrapers of the city.

Scott's focus sharpens. "All right. We can insert here at the George Washington Bridge, come around the bank just off Manhattan, and land on the far side of Liberty Island here." The metallic pieces on the map shift and adapt to Scott's every word, forming a path. I study the map, my fingers tapping anxiously against the cool metal surface of the table. 

Logan leans against the table, shaking his head, skepticism clear in his eyes. "What about Harbor Patrol? Radar?"

 "If they have anything that can pick up our jet, they deserve to catch us," Scott remarks.

***

I'm the last to change into my uniform, the tight black leather feeling foreign and stiff against my skin as I march up the jet hangar. The large space is filled with the low hum of machinery and the scent of fuel in the air.

"So, did you finally lose your mind?" Ororo teases, turning in her seat to give me a once-over. A smirk tugs at the corners of her lips. "It looks good."

"Thanks," I murmur, holding my hands up to my face and wiggling my fingers. The fingerless gloves seem oddly fitting, likely designed so I can still use my powers without hindrance.

Cyclops glances over his shoulder, and the grin that spreads across his face is almost boyish. "Not one word, Scotty," I warn, raising my index finger at him.

He chuckles, turning his attention back to the console as he flicks on various switches and adjusts the knobs. The jet hums to life, vibrating underfoot with a low, powerful rumble.

I take a seat directly behind Jean, the chair across the aisle from me empty. The seatbelt clicks into place as I buckle in, and I pull on the headset, feeling the slight pressure on my ears. I watch Logan out of the corner of my eye as he struggles with the zipper on his own uniform, the leather squeaking in protest with every movement.

"You actually go outside in these things?" Logan groans, his frustration clear.

"Well, what would you prefer, yellow spandex?" Scott sasses back, not missing a beat.

Logan throws a skeptical glance over his shoulder, and our eyes meet. For a brief moment, there's a flash of something akin to amusement in his eyes. I can’t help but smile at his discomfort. But just as quickly, the moment passes, and his expression hardens again.

The engine revs, the sound rising to a deafening roar as Scott pushes the lever forward. The jet lurches, and we're airborne. The sensation of the ground dropping away is almost disorienting.

"Whoa!" Logan mutters, gripping the armrests.

"Not fond of flying?" I quip, raising an eyebrow as I study his tense posture.

"Yeah, something like that," he sighs, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I watch him closely as he examines his gloved hands, his brow furrowing in concentration. Then, with a sharp snikt , three metal claws shoot out from each hand, tearing clean through the leather. The metallic sound echoes in the confined space of the jet. Logan moves his hands back and forth in front of his face, studying the gleaming blades as if seeing them for the first time. 

I can't help but be fascinated by the casual display of raw power. The reality of what we're about to do starts to sink in. We’re not just heading into a fight—we’re walking into a war. Though if I feel scared, I know all I have to do is focus on Logan, who radiates confidence.

***

The flight is swift, not just because we're close to the location but also due to the Blackbird's capabilities. The hum of the jet’s engines fills the cabin as the Washington Bridge comes into view, its illuminating lights standing out against the night sky.

“Okay, there’s the bridge. I’m taking her down,” Scott narrates, his voice calm but focused. The jet dips rapidly toward the water, and I clutch the lip of my seat, my knuckles growing lighter from the sensation of gravity pulling at us.

“Storm, some cover, please,” Scott adds, almost as if it's a routine request. The nonchalance in his voice makes it clear he’s done this countless times before. So this is what it’s like...

Ororo tilts her head down in concentration, her eyes narrowing slightly as she summons her power. Almost instantly, a dense fog begins to roll in, blanketing the area in a thick mist. The low rumble of thunder follows, adding a layer of sound to our descent.

Scott flicks a few more switches, and the cockpit is plunged into darkness as the remaining lights shut off. The windshield dims, then a red grid lights up, scanning the statue of Lady Liberty in the distance. Scott expertly hovers the jet just above the water before cutting the engines, the Blackbird settling with a subtle splash as waves ripple outward.

I glance at Logan, who whips his head around at the sudden change in motion. The orange-red light inside the jet casts an eerie glow over his features.

“Sorry,” Scott mutters, glancing over his shoulder.

“You call that a landing?” Logan critiques, his voice edged with disbelief.

The five of us disembark, moving in silence and stealth. Scott and Logan lead the way, their eyes scanning the area ahead, while Jean, Ororo, and I follow closely behind. The night air is cool against my skin, and the sound of the waves lapping against the shore is the only thing breaking the stillness.

Once out of the jet and near the platform below the seawall, Logan and I huff and puff in our new, tightly stitched leather uniforms.

It makes me feel a little better that I’m not the only one struggling here.
“Just who designed these things?” I groan as we move in stealth .

“As long as you look good, that’s the main thing. Right?” Wolverine smirks, joining in on my remarks. “X-Men—that’s all we’re here for.”

Cyclops merely glares at our childish antics. “I designed them,” he grunts.

Ultimately distracted by our chastising, he trips as he hops over the wall. Logan laughs—until he does the same.

They merely glance at each other and make a silent agreement not to bring it up again.

“The torch,” Scott murmurs, nodding toward the top of the statue. We move with purpose, our footsteps barely making a sound on the concrete.

Jean uses her telekinesis to open the locked doors at the base of the statue, and we slip inside. The entryway is filled with the soft glow of security monitors and the occasional flicker of fluorescent lights. The walls are lined with historical artifacts, but there's no time to admire them. We move quickly through the metal detector, Scott in the lead and Logan bringing up the rear.

After I pass through the detector, the sudden wailing of the alarm startles me. I spin around just in time to see Logan react instinctively, his claws shooting out as he stabs the blaring device. Sparks fly, and the scent of burnt metal fills the air. Of course—his skeleton...

Scott and Logan exchange a look of mutual annoyance, Logan retracting all but one of his claws in a mock salute. He flips Scott the middle claw, and I stifle a laugh. My brother, ever the professional, flashes a grin before refocusing on the mission.

Logan glances at me, raising an eyebrow, before trudging forward again. I quickly jog to catch up, falling in step beside him. Something feels off, a nagging sensation at the back of my mind. I glance over my shoulder, sensing a presence just out of sight.

The Wolverine stops abruptly, his nose twitching as he sniffs the air. “There’s someone here,” he mutters, his voice low and wary.

“Where?” Scott asks, his eyes darting around the dimly lit room.

“I don’t know. Keep your eyes open,” Logan warns, his tone tense.

Scott narrows his eyes at me, silently asking if I sense anything more. I shrug, uncertain, and he turns his attention back to Wolverine, who’s already moving ahead, determined to find the source of the unease. “Logan,” Scott calls out, his voice a harsh whisper.

Logan signals for us to stay back as he ventures further into the shadows, disappearing from view. “Damn it,” Scott curses under his breath, his frustration palpable. He scans the room again, his posture rigid.

Logan reappears moments later, his expression serious. “Anything?” Scott asks, hope mingled with impatience.

“I know there’s someone here. I just can’t see ‘em,” Logan replies, his eyes darting around as if trying to catch a glimpse of something just out of reach. But there's something off about him—his usual gruff demeanor seems...different.

The telltale sound of claws unsheathing cuts through the air. “Scott!” I shout, just as the real Logan barrels into his doppelgänger, slamming him into another room. The two roll around on the floor, indistinguishable from each other in the chaos. Their feelings and instincts intertwine, making it impossible for me to differentiate them.

The four of us rush toward the struggling pair. One Logan manages to pin the other against the wall, but the pinned one kicks his opponent between the legs, causing him to stumble backward. Claws reflect the light as they stare each other down.

Scott presses a hand to the side of his glasses, ready to shoot. Both Wolverines look at him in fear, shouting simultaneously, “Wait!”

Before Scott can act, one of the Logans swings a claw at a weighted rope, causing a heavy metal door to slide shut between us. “Shit!” I curse, feeling the frustration radiating from Scott.

A series of clangs and grunts echo from behind the door, the sound of the battle continuing.

“All right, back up. Back up,” Scott orders, and we all take large steps away from the door, preparing for Cyclops to blast it open.

Suddenly, a slimy, wet sound comes from behind us. We spin around to see a man with an elongated tongue swinging down from a hanging pipe. He kicks Scott with brutal force, sending him flying and crashing into a glass display case. I run to my brother as he groans, his head lolling to the side. I slip through the door just as soon as it’s pulled closed behind me.

“Scott, can you get up?” I ask urgently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he grunts, struggling to his feet, glass crunching under his boots. “Stay back.”

He shakes off his daze, then blasts the door across the room with his optic beam. We rush through, finding Jean thrown against a nearby wall.

“Jean!” Scott runs to her side, his voice filled with panic. Jean is flailing her arms, her face covered in a dried, greenish-yellow substance that restricts her breathing.

“Scott, do something!” I urge, my voice tinged with desperation.

“What do you think I’m doing?!” Scott snaps his focus entirely on Jean.

He rises to his feet, backing away slightly to adjust the dial on his visor. A thin, precise laser shoots from his eyes, cutting through the substance on Jean's face. As the material breaks away, Jean gasps for air, her chest heaving.

“It’s alright, Jean,” I try to reassure her, placing a hand on her temple in an attempt to calm her racing heart and thoughts. It works, but only slightly.

Jean takes a deep breath, a soft smile appearing on her face. “Nice job,” she says weakly, and Scott and I help her to her feet.

We move cautiously through the room, Scott leading with Jean and me close behind. Every creak, every shadow, feels like a potential threat.

The large metal door that trapped Logan earlier slides open, revealing a breathless Wolverine. Scott doesn't hesitate—his hand goes straight to his glasses.

Logan raises his hands in defense, a momentary flicker of fear in his eyes. “Hey, hey, it’s me,” he says, tilting his head slightly.

“Prove it,” Scott demands, his voice hard as steel.

“You’re a dick,” Logan replies exasperated.

“Okay,” Scott says, removing his hand from his glasses, seemingly satisfied.

Logan nods, dropping his hands. The tension eases, but only slightly.

“Hey,” a voice calls out from above. We look up to see Ororo leaning over the railing, her expression serious as she motions for us to follow her up.

The climb up the metal spiral staircase feels endless, our footsteps echoing ominously in the narrow space. When we finally reach the top, we're inside the crown of the Statue of Liberty, the view of the torch looming ahead.

Logan steps forward, his eyes fixed on the torch visible through the hole in the ceiling. “Everybody, get out of here,” he orders, his voice grim.

“What is it?” Storm asks, her gaze shifting between Logan and the torch.

“I can’t move,” Logan murmurs, his body suddenly tensing as he’s unnaturally turned toward us. Before we can react, he's flung across the room and pinned high up on the wall, his teeth gritting in pain.

Suddenly, pieces of metal shoot out from the walls, wrapping around us like vines. Ororo grunts as she's pulled back sharply, a copper band tightening around her neck. Scott, Jean, and I are similarly ensnared, our bodies pressed against the cold metal.

I find myself trapped between Ororo and Scott. Cyclops and Jean are positioned facing each other, while Storm and I are forced to stare at the opposite wall, where the ‘Wolverine’ is pinned.

A figure descends from above, his cape billowing out behind him as he lands gracefully on the metal floor. Magneto...

“Ah, my brothers. Welcome,” Magneto says, his voice dripping with mockery as his eyes sweep over us. He turns to Logan, who struggles against his restraints. “And you, let’s point those claws of yours in a safer direction.” 

Magneto raises a gloved hand, and the metal restraining Logan twists, forcing his arms to cross over his chest in an X shape. Logan snarls in pain, but the more he struggles, the tighter the metal binds him, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead as he glares at Magneto with a mix of fury and fear.

Sabretooth crashes through the roof, landing with a thunderous impact that reverberates through the entire room. He strides confidently toward Scott and me, his massive frame casting a shadow over us. My heart pounds as I instinctively turn my head away, squeezing my eyes shut, dreading the thought of what he might do next from the bloodlust he radiates.

“You’d better close your eyes,” Magneto's voice hums with a sinister calm, and the footsteps stop just in front of Scott. 

I risk a glance and see Sabretooth looming over my brother, his claws poised and ready. He reaches down, yanking Scott's glasses off with a cruel smirk. My brother’s breath comes in shallow gasps, a clear sign of his fear.

“Storm, fry him,” Scott orders, his voice trembling but resolute.

“Oh yes, a bolt of lightning into a huge copper conductor,” Erik muses, strolling casually toward us, unimpressed. “I thought you lived at a school,” he adds, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he takes in our predicament. He moves away, his gaze wandering around the room as if searching for something or someone. “Mystique,” Magneto calls out, his voice echoing ominously. “Mystique…”

“I’ve seen Senator Kelly,” Jean breathes out.

“Hmmm? So the good senator survived his fall and the swim to shore?” Magneto muses, his interest piqued as he turns back to Jean. “He’s become even more powerful than I could have imagined.”

“He’s dead,” Jean clarifies, her voice tinged with sadness for the man who hated our kind.

“It’s true,” Ororo confirms, her tone firm as she recounts what she witnessed. Magneto’s eyes narrow as he shifts his gaze to Storm, clearly intrigued by her words. “I saw him die. Like those people down there will die,” Ororo asserts, her voice steady despite the tension in the room.

“Are you sure you saw what you saw?” Erik leans in close to her, his tone almost patronizing, before stepping back in frustration. “Why do none of you understand what I’m trying to do? Those people down there, they control our fate—and the fate of every other mutant.” His voice rises with anger, his frustration weighing down on me. “Well, soon our fate will be theirs,” he finishes, his voice returning to its usual calm, collected demeanor.

A frightened voice suddenly pierces the tension, desperate and pleading. “Help! Please help me!” Rogue’s voice echoes through the room, filled with fear.

“You’re so full of shit,” Logan grits out between his teeth, his anger barely contained. “If you were really so righteous, it’d be you in that thing,” he growls, glaring daggers at Magneto.

“Help! Somebody help me!” Rogue’s voice cries out again, more desperate this time.

Magneto says nothing, simply turning away and levitating back toward the torch, his expression unreadable. Logan’s gaze follows him, his face twisted with anguish at hearing Rogue’s pleas.

“Somebody please help me!” Rogue’s voice breaks, filled with despair.

Sabretooth growls at Logan, sensing his intentions. Logan grunts, straining against his restraints, his muscles bulging as he struggles to break free.

Sweat drips down my forehead, and I can feel my heart pounding in my throat. I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I watch the scene unfold. “Logan!” I warn.

Wolverine lets out a primal roar, and with a powerful thrust, his claws shoot out, piercing through his own chest and into the wall behind him. The force of the attack breaks his restraints, and he collapses to the floor, seemingly lifeless.

For a moment, he lies still, and my heart skips a beat. But the rage radiating from him is unmistakable. Sabretooth approaches his prone figure, growling as he leans down to grab Logan by his suit jacket. But in an instant, Wolverine springs to life, plunging his adamantium claws deep into Sabretooth’s chest. The beast howls in pain, then, with a roar of fury, he hurls Logan up out of the statue. The sounds of crashing and thudding reverberate from above as Sabretooth joins him up top.

I turn to Storm, my body trembling with fear as the sounds of battle continue to echo from above. The clash of metal and the heavy footsteps of Sabretooth create a cacophony that fills the air.

“It’ll be alright,” Storm’s calm voice soothes me, though the fear in my chest remains.

A piercing shriek from the torch interrupts the moment, Rogue’s voice echoing in agony.

The screeching sound of claws on metal reverberates through the room, and I whip my head around just as three metal claws pierce through the wall beside me. The claws retract quickly, and my heart plummets.

Sabretooth crashes back into the room, his eyes wild as he leans in close to Storm, the back of his claw dragging menacingly down the side of her face. “You owe me a scream,” he threatens, his voice a low growl.

But before he can make another move, Logan drops from above, landing in a crouch, down on one knee, his fist pressed into the ground in a three-point stance. He rises to his feet, his eyes locked on Sabretooth. “Hey, bub. I’m not finished with you yet,” he growls, his voice deadly.

Everyone’s attention shifts to the torch, where a blinding white light suddenly flashes, accompanied by another agonized shriek from Rogue.

“Jean,” Logan grits out, his tone urgent.

“Scott, when I tell you, open your eyes,” Jean directs, her voice steady despite the tension.

“No!” Scott winces, the very idea of it causing him visible distress.

“Trust me,” Jean reassures him, her voice soft but firm.

Logan turns to Sabretooth, his expression cold and determined. “You drop something?” he taunts, holding up Scott’s glasses as a mocking grin spreads across his face. He tosses the glasses toward Jean, who uses her telekinesis to bring them to Scott.

Sabretooth whips around, snarling in rage. “Now!” Jean commands.

A bright red beam of energy erupts from Scott’s eyes, striking Sabretooth with incredible force. The brute is blasted backward, crashing through the wall of the statue’s crown and falling out of sight.

The loud crash from below signals Sabretooth’s impact, and I can only assume he landed on a building below. Logan quickly moves to free each of us from our copper restraints.

“Thanks,” Scott says, his voice filled with relief.

“Don’t mention it,” Logan mutters, already rushing toward the window where we can view the torch where Rogue is trapped inside the spinning metal contraption. 

The device hums with energy, a dangerous light flickering ominously from within. “We gotta get her out of there,” Logan says, turning to Scott. “Cyclops, can you hit it?”

Scott steps forward, squinting as he studies the device. “The rings are moving too fast,” he mutters, frustration clear in his voice.

“Just shoot it!” Logan huffs, his impatience evident.

“I’ll kill her!” Scott argues, his voice rising as he turns to Ororo. “Storm, can you get me up there?”

Storm shakes her head from beside me, her expression grave. “I can’t control it like that. You could fly right over the torch.”

“Then let me go,” Logan suggests, his tone firm. “If I don’t make it, then at least you can still blast the damn thing.”

“All right, do it,” Scott nods, his tone resolute.

“How is he going to be any different than you?” I insist, my voice tinged with concern.

“‘Cause I can regenerate,” Wolverine huffs, and I feel a bit foolish for not realizing it sooner.

“Jean, use your power, try to steady him,” Cyclops instructs.

“Hang on to something,” Ororo suggests, her eyes turning white as she summons her abilities. Thunder rumbles, and the wind howls around us as she creates a powerful updraft.

Jean reaches out with her telekinesis, guiding Logan as he’s lifted into the air by the wind. He flails for a moment, struggling to find his balance, but then latches onto the device, pulling himself down with all his strength. Logan rises to his feet on the narrow beam, his eyes fixed on the center of the machine, before hopping down.

The light from Magneto’s device grows brighter, spreading rapidly as it cascades around us, threatening to engulf everything in its path.

Scott places a hand on his glasses, ready to take the shot. “Scott, wait!” I plead, my voice filled with panic as I watch Logan struggle to slow the rings with his now-bending claws.

“Y/n, I have to!” Cyclops insists, his voice strained with urgency.

“Just wait!” I shout, my heart pounding in my chest.

“I have a shot,” Scott declares, his voice resolute. “I’m taking it.”

He clicks the rim of his glasses, and a bright red beam shoots out, perfectly striking Magneto. Erik is blasted backward, his grip on the device slipping as he falls.

Logan, freed from Magneto’s hold, swipes his claws at the spinning rings, tearing them apart. The metal machine shatters into hundreds of pieces, the bright light dissipating as the threat is finally neutralized.

I take a deep breath, relief washing over me as the danger passes. Logan rushes to Rogue, breaking her free from her restraints. Her head lolls back, and I can feel her aura fading with each passing second. Logan cradles the young girl in his arms, calling out to her. I watch closely as he removes a glove with his teeth. What is he-

He presses his bare forehead against Rogue’s, closing his eyes in a desperate attempt to transfer his healing abilities to her. A deep sadness radiates from him, and even from where I stand, the weight of it wraps around my chest, squeezing tight. He pulls Rogue closer, cradling her head against his chest as if trying to will his life into her. His body, once so full of ferocious energy, suddenly goes still, and then he collapses to the floor, lifeless.

“Logan!” I scream, panic gripping me.

***

Hours later, I find myself at Logan’s bedside in the med bay, watching over him as he lies unconscious, hooked up to various machines. Bandages wrap around his torso, but I can tell the wounds beneath are slowly healing. His once vibrant emotions now feel distant and faint, like an echo in the back of my mind. I can’t help but study his face, tracing the rugged lines and the way his hair still stubbornly spikes into those familiar points. For someone called ‘the Wolverine’ I wouldn’t expect him to be more like a confused kitten all the time.

“Welcome back,” Jean whispers from a few feet away, drawing my attention. I turn to see Professor Xavier awake, his eyes bright with relief. I had been too preoccupied studying the man before me to notice. “I knew you’d find your way.”

“I had you to guide me,” Charles replies, his voice warm as he shifts his gaze to me. “How did we do?”

I wince slightly, stepping aside to reveal Logan’s unconscious form. “We’re all here, thanks to him.”

Jean helps the professor back to his quarters, leaving me alone with Logan. I glance back at him, noticing how his head wounds have completely healed. My fingers ghost over where his former wounds lay, and my hand trails down to his chest, checking beneath his bandages, which have now healed completely. My eyes widen with wonder as I inspect each one, next checking the ones on his abdomen.

Suddenly, a hand grasps mine, making me gasp softly. “Oh! That tickles,” Logan murmurs, his voice hoarse. I look up to find his green eyes fluttering open, meeting mine with a sleepy smile.

“Hey,” I whisper, relief flooding through me.

“Hey…” he mutters back, his voice still scratchy.

“How’re you feeling?” I ask, concern knitting my brows.

“Fantastic…” he sighs, the word heavy with exhaustion.

“That was a brave thing you did,” I say, squeezing his hand gently.

Logan winces as he tries to turn his neck toward me. “Did it work?”

“Yeah. Thanks to you, she’s fine… though, she took on a few of your more charming personality traits for a while,” I tease, earning a soft chuckle from him. “But we lived through it…” My eyes soften as I gaze at him. “I think she’s a little taken with you.”

“Well, you can tell her my heart belongs to someone else,” he murmurs, and I can feel the sincerity in his words. A new feeling radiating from Logan pings in my chest, one of love. My face winces at the sensation as he studies me.

“You know, you and I—” I start to speak, but he cuts me off.

“How’s the professor?” Logan asks, shifting the subject, noting the obvious discomfort on my face and body language.

“He’s good,” I reply.

“Good,” he echoes, his gaze lingering on me as he lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against my knuckles.

***

Later, Charles, Ororo, Scott, Jean, and I sit around the TV, the room filled with a tense silence as the news plays. We all exchange looks of frustration when we realize Mystique has taken the form of the now-dead Senator Kelly.

“Son of a bitch,” Scott mutters, unpausing the footage before slumping back into the couch.

“We’ll find them, don’t worry,” I say, determination flaring in my voice. My eyes drift to the kids playing foosball nearby. “Where’s Rogue?” I ask Bobby.

He points toward the hallway, his attention already back on the game.

I get up and find Rogue standing alone in the hallway, fidgeting with something in her gloved hands. “What is it?” I ask gently.

She turns to face me, the new streaks of white hair framing her face perfectly. She opens her palm, revealing Logan’s dog tags. “He left,” she says softly, with a brief smile, though her presence radiates sadness.

I half-sprint to the front door, just in time to see Logan riding away on Scott’s bike. He doesn’t look back, not even once, and a heavy ache settles in my chest as I watch him disappear into the distance.

Chapter Text

My hands tremble as I finish filling up my drink. The crowd around me feels like a suffocating wave, each person's emotions bleeding into my own, the intensity almost reminds me of Logan… 

Jean and Charles insisted I chaperone, but being in a place this crowded is nearly unbearable. It’s as if they forget that my experience is different, that my sensitivities make this more than just a normal field trip, I know they just want me to push myself... And besides, I hate that they lump me in with the older kids, even though I’m half a decade older than them; they’re like Scott, viewing me as some child.

“Hey!” John’s voice cuts through the din, and I quickly abandon my drink, weaving through the sea of people to get back to him, Marie, and Bobby. I find John being held back by two boys, while Marie and Bobby remain at the table, tension rolling off them in waves.

“What’s going on here?” I demand, my voice tinged with a protective edge as I take in the scene. The boys holding John sneer, clearly enjoying the chaos they’ve stirred up.

“They took his lighter,” Bobby explains, nodding towards one of the boys, who now arrogantly blows smoke into John’s face.

“Suddenly, you’re not so tough, huh?” the curly-haired teen taunts, taking another drag from his cigarette, a smug grin spreading across his face.

I feel a flicker of mischief rise from Pyro, and my instincts kick in. “John, wait!” I grab his shoulder, trying to pull him back, but it’s too late. Flames burst from the cigarette, igniting the boy’s clothes in an instant.

The boy stumbles backward, shock and fear flashing across his face as he crashes into a nearby table, pulling it down with him. The crowd erupts into gasps, fear and panic spreading like wildfire through the room. My heart races, beating in sync with the chaos around us.

John, however, merely laughs, the sound sharp and unsettling. His satisfaction is short-lived as Bobby quickly steps in, raising a hand to release a ray of frost that extinguishes the flames. The boy’s relief is palpable as he gasps for breath, his eyes wide with terror.

Suddenly, the room stills. The chatter dies down, the collective emotions of the crowd falling into an eerie silence. I feel a familiar presence brushing against my mind, and I know it’s him. 

“Bobby, what did you do?” Rogue asks, her voice filled with awe as she glances around the room, her eyes wide with wonder.

“He didn’t do this,” I murmur, my gaze drifting toward Professor Xavier as he wheels himself into view.

“No, I did,” Charles says, his tone measured but firm as his sharp eyes settle on me. His gaze is heavy with expectation, and I squirm under his scrutiny, guilt creeping up my spine. His attention shifts to John, his expression hardening. “And the next time you feel like showing off… don’t.”

John flinches slightly, his bravado wavering under the professor’s stern words. 

Then, the TV above the bar crackles, the regular broadcast cutting to an emergency alert. “...Live from Washington, where there’s been an attack in the Oval Office at the White House. Details are still coming in, but we have been informed that the President and Vice President were not harmed. Sources say the attack involved one or more mutants…”

A heavy silence falls over us as we absorb the news, the implications hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

“I think it’s time to leave, Professor,” Scott’s voice breaks through the tension, his eyes fixed on the television screen, the weight of the situation settling in.

“I think you’re right,” Charles agrees, his voice low, the gravity of the moment not lost on any of us.

***

Scott stands by the window in Charles' study, his back tense as he watches the world outside. The afternoon light filters through the glass, casting long shadows across the room. He finally turns to face the rest of us, his expression a mix of concern and resolve. “In my opinion, Magneto’s behind this,” he states, his voice edged with certainty.

Jean, always the calm in the storm, adds thoughtfully, “No, I don’t think so, Scott.” Her voice is soft but carries weight, like a soothing balm on the tension in the room.

Charles nods, his fingers steepled as he considers her words. “While Erik is capable of organizing something like this from prison, for him, it would be irrational. It would only hurt his goal of mutant prosperity.”

Scott, never one to back down, moves across the room and takes a seat beside me, his presence solid and reassuring. “You mean superiority,” he counters, his tone laced with skepticism.

“You’re right,” Charles admits with a sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly. “If Erik had his way.”

Ororo, who’s been quietly leaning against the wall, steps forward. Her movements are graceful, deliberate. She takes a seat beside Scott and me, her gaze thoughtful. “Of course, you know how the government will respond,” she says, her voice low. “They’ll reintroduce the Registration Act,” 

“Would they really?” I ask, anxiety threading through my voice as I nervously fiddle with my thumbs. Scott places a protective hand over mine, trying to calm my nerves. His touch is steady, grounding.

“Or worse,” Charles adds, his tone darkening. “The President could declare a state of emergency—place every mutant in the country under arrest.”

Jean, always perceptive, shifts slightly, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Do you think the assassin was working alone?” she asks, setting down a chess piece she had been absentmindedly toying with.

“We’ll only know that if we find him before the authorities do,” Charles replies, his voice carrying a weight of responsibility. He licks his lips, a small gesture of unease, before he continues. “I’ve been trying to track him using Cerebro, but his movements are inexplicably erratic. When I have more exact coordinates, Storm, Jean, I’ll need you to take the jet and try to pick him up.” He pauses, his gaze shifting to me. “Y/n, I’d like you to stay here with the children.”

I nod, understanding the unspoken concern in his eyes. Charles finishes his instructions, dismissing us with a slight wave of his hand. 

***

As the sun begins to set, a warm, golden light spills through the windows, casting a soft glow over the room. I sit with Colossus and a young boy, guiding him through his math assignment. The gentle rustle of pages and the occasional murmur of voices create a comforting backdrop. Bobby and Rogue are on the couch, engaged in a playful game of thumb war, their laughter light and carefree.

Colossus taps a pencil against the boy's side, a mischievous grin on his face as he hands him a cartoon sketch of Rogue and Bobby kissing. The boy chuckles, but I quickly snatch the drawing from their hands, raising an eyebrow in mock sternness.

“Back to work,” I warn, holding the sketch just out of reach. “I can always ask the professor to assign you more studies.”

They both sheepishly return their focus to their textbooks, though I catch a small, shared smile between them. The familiar hum of a motorcycle reaches my ears, and I instinctively lift my gaze to Rogue. Her face lights up, and she rushes out of her seat, her excitement palpable as she dashes down the hall.

I place a supportive hand on the young boy's shoulder before excusing myself. “We’ll resume this in a bit, yeah?” I say with a smile, watching Bobby as he springs out of his seat to follow Rogue, his eagerness matching hers.

I walk down the hall, my steps quicker than I’d like to admit, but I can’t help the pep in my step. I feel his presence before I see him—warm, inviting, different from the last time I saw him, though it’s distinctly Logan. He’s clearly happy to be home.

“Hello, Logan,” I greet him with a smile, leaning casually against the corner of the hall.

“Hi, Y/n,” he nods, returning my smile with a tight-lipped one of his own. His eyes soften as they meet mine, a subtle warmth flickering beneath his tough exterior.

Storm, who had been watching our exchange from a distance, shifts awkwardly, the discomfort evident. “Uh, I should go get the jet ready,” she excuses herself quickly, disappearing down the hall.

“Yeah, well, it was good to meet ya,” Bobby says, grabbing Rogue’s gloved hand. “Come on, let’s go,” he adds, pulling her along with him.

“Bye, Logan. I’ll see— I’ll see you later!” Rogue calls over her shoulder, a wide smile on her face as she trips slightly in her hurry.

“Okay,” Logan responds, his smile lingering as he watches them leave, his gaze softening.

I push off the wall and stride over to him, a playful glint in my eyes. “Charles and Scott are off to see Magneto. They won’t be gone long. The professor has Jean and Storm headed to Boston, they’re tracking down the mutant who attacked the president.”

“So it was a mutant,” Logan mutters, his jaw clenching slightly as he processes the information.

“Unlucky for you, you’re stuck with me. Unless you plan on running off again,” I tease, rocking back on my heels with a lighthearted grin.

Logan raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, I can probably think of a few reasons to stick around.”

I can’t help but grin in return, my expression softening at his words. There’s something about Logan that pulls me in—maybe it’s the intensity of his emotions or the unique way he interacts with my mutation.

Before I can respond, Scott rushes down the steps, almost tripping in his haste. His eyes are locked on Logan, a flash of anger simmering beneath the surface. “Find what you were looking for, Logan?” he asks, his tone clipped.

Logan turns back to me, his expression shifting slightly. “More or less.”

I glance between the two of them, sensing the tension thickening. “I’ll see you boys later,” I murmur, turning on my heel to head back the way I came. I pause, glancing over my shoulder at Scott, my voice softening. “And Scott, be safe, okay?”

He doesn’t look at me, his focus still on Logan, but he nods, his jaw set in a hard line. “Bye, Logan,” I add, my tone lightening as I offer Logan one last smile.

“See ya,” Logan nods, his gaze dropping to the wooden floor as I walk away. His voice carries down the hall, a teasing edge to it. “Aren’t you gonna welcome me home?”

I stifle a laugh at the dry humor in his tone, shaking my head as I continue down the corridor.

***

I exit the elevator, the cold metal walls reflecting the stark light as I make my way down the corridor. The faint smell of sweet tobacco lingers in the air, almost reminiscent of the comforting scent of old books. I find Logan standing alone, a cigar hanging from his mouth as he looks around, his expression somewhere between curiosity and frustration.

“You do realize this is a school, right?” I chuckle, stepping up beside him.

“I know,” he nods, removing the cigar and holding it between his index and ring fingers. “What brought you down here? Thought you had kids to teach.” He raises a brow, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah, I thought that too, but they didn’t want me around. Said I ‘killed their fun,’” I shrug, clasping my hands behind my back as I walk alongside him. He chuckles, placing the cigar back between his lips as we approach the room that holds Cerebro.

The doors to Cerebro are already open, and we find Charles seated at the console, his hands poised over the controls. Our footsteps echo in the cavernous space as we walk down the runway toward him.

“Logan, my tolerance for your smoking in the mansion notwithstanding, continue smoking that in here, and you’ll spend the rest of your days under the belief that you’re a six-year-old girl,” Charles hums, not bothering to look up from his work.

Logan pulls the cigar from his mouth, his expression a mix of surprise and amusement. “You’d do that?” he asks, glancing between Charles and the cigar.

“I’d have Y/n braid your hair,” Charles responds over his shoulder, and I stifle a laugh, covering my mouth with my hand to hide my grin.

“Welcome back,” Charles adds, his tone softening as he places the Cerebro headpiece atop his head.

Logan looks around, unsure of where to put out the cigar. The doors clank shut behind us, the sound echoing ominously in the large, metallic room. His gaze settles on his open palm.

“No, Logan, wait,” I stammer, reaching out a hand, but it’s too late.

He presses the burning end of the cigar into his flesh, the pale skin sizzling beneath the heat. He gasps, his head tilting back as he grimaces at the pain, though there’s a strange satisfaction radiating from him. “Oh~” he pants, his eyes fluttering shut as he removes the cigar. I watch, mesmerized, as the burn wound quickly heals, the flesh knitting back together in a matter of seconds.

The room grows darker as Cerebro powers up, the soft hum of the machine filling the air. “You want me to leave?” Logan asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“No,” Charles replies, his voice calm and steady. “Just don’t move.” The circular room illuminates, revealing billions of small white dots across the globe. Logan’s eyes widen in amazement, and I can’t help but smile at his reaction. “These lights represent every living person on the planet,” Charles explains. The map shifts, the number of lights reducing and changing to a red hue. “The white lights are humans,” he continues, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “And these are the mutants.” Murmuring voices echo around us, Cerebro acting like an antenna, amplifying the thoughts and emotions of every person Charles connects with. “Through Cerebro, I am connected to them, and they to me. You see, Logan…we’re not as alone as you think.”

***

After a brief chat, we walk slowly back to the mansion, our shoes scuffing against the dewy grass, neither one of us in a hurry to break the silence. The stars hang heavy above us, mirrored in the still water of the lake we leave behind.

“I got your letter,” I say, almost casually, as if the words might spook him if said too loudly.

Logan slows a step. His head tilts, just slightly—not quite looking at me, but enough to betray he heard me. “Oh,” he mutters, his tone awkward in a way it rarely is. For him, it may as well be blushing.

I smile softly, bumping my shoulder lightly into his. “You gonna pretend like you didn’t write it?”

He huffs, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t think you’d still have it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Logan glances over, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. A beat passes. “Did you keep it?”

There’s a twinkle in my eyes that tells him all he needs to know. “Maybe.”

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Figures.”

He opens the door for me, and we walk into the mansion, trying our best to be quiet. The man carefully slinks back up to his room, likely attempting to go back to bed. Meanwhile, I return to my office—the space is more filled in than the last time Logan was here.

I didn’t want to admit it, but the more I was pushed into a more central role in the X-Men, the more I found myself consoling in Logan’s letter. He sent it about a year or two after he left, and never sent another. His handwriting—a mix of cursive and print—making it a little hard to decipher at first.

My fingers graze over the blue, dried ink, and I reread the words once more.

“Y/n,

I’m not good at this.

It’s been a while since I left. Longer than I meant. I’ve been trying to find out who I was—where I came from. Thought maybe if I kept moving, I’d run into something that made sense. So far, I haven’t.

But I haven’t stopped thinking about that night. When you looked at me—really looked.

I don’t remember much about my past, but I remember that. The way you didn’t flinch. The way you stayed.

You didn’t see a weapon. Or a project. You saw me.

I don’t know what that means yet. But I know it matters.

I needed you to know I’m still out here. Trying.

Don’t wait on me. Just—don’t forget me either.

—Logan.”

A cheeky smile and a tinge of heat runs across my face when a sudden knock erupts at the door. I try to put the paper back when the door opens, revealing Bobby. “Dude-” I relax, glad to see it’s not Logan. “What’re you doing up?” I sigh.

He reveals a tub of Baskin-Robbins ice cream he was hiding behind his back with a nervous smile. “Want to chat?”

Chapter Text

The kitchen is dimly lit, the warm illumination surrounding us, as Bobby and I sit at the island, sharing a tub of Baskin-Robbins. The pink plastic lid is carelessly tossed aside on the counter. The hum of the refrigerator and the clinking of our spoons against the cold, creamy ice cream are the only sounds that fill the space.

I take a moment to savor the sweetness, then glance at Bobby. "So, how are things going with Rogue?" I ask, licking my spoon clean.

Bobby hesitates, his expression faltering as he shrugs. "Good, I think… It’s hard, not being able to touch her." His voice drops, tinged with sadness, as he stares at the melting ice cream. After a moment, he forces a small smile and refreezes the sweet treat. "She seems happy Logan is back."

I reach out, my voice gentle. “Hey—”

But before I can finish, Bobby's mood shifts, and he grins mischievously. "What’s the deal with you and Freddy Krueger?" he teases, his grin widening.

“Who?” I furrow my brow, confused.

He chuckles, setting his spoon on the lid. “‘ The Wolverine’~ ” he says, mimicking air quotes with dramatic flair.

I laugh softly, rolling my eyes. “Don’t you think that’s a bit inappropriate to be asking your ‘teacher’ or ‘counselor,’ I guess?” I mimic his air quotes playfully.

He shakes his head, smirking as he grabs the spoon for another bite. "I don’t really see you that way… When I came here three years ago, I saw you as one of us, someone who was alone, afraid of their powers."

“You’re starting to sound like my brother,” I scoff, trying to mask the warmth his words bring with a playful eye roll.

“Well, maybe that’s because I see you as a sister.” Bobby’s smile is genuine now, his eyes softening.

I blink in surprise, my eyebrows shooting up. "Really?"

“Really,” he chuckles, the sound light and sincere.

Before I can respond, a ripple of discomfort washes over me from down the hall, followed by the sound of footsteps echoing through the mansion. I lift my head, instinctively turning toward the doorway just as Logan appears, his presence instantly recognizable by the warmth he radiates.

Bobby barely acknowledges him, focused on his ice cream. “Hey,” he offers nonchalantly.

Logan saunters in, his gaze sweeping the kitchen. "Doesn’t anybody sleep around here?" he grumbles, making his way toward the fridge.

“Apparently not,” Bobby hums, his amusement evident as he watches Logan open the fridge.

Logan rummages around for a moment. “You got any beer?” he asks, his tone gruff.

“This is a school,” Bobby replies, grinning at the absurdity of the question.

“So that’s a no?” Logan raises an eyebrow, his expression unamused.

“Yeah, that’s a no,” Bobby chuckles, shaking his head.

Logan closes the fridge, sighing in mild frustration. “Got anything other than chocolate milk?”

“Bold of you to assume,” I quip, grinning at the interaction between the two.

Bobby points with his spoon toward a wooden cabinet. “There should be some soda in that small cupboard.”

Logan strides over, grabbing a Dr. Pepper. He twists off the lid with ease, not bothering to use a bottle opener. As he steps closer to the island, he pauses, his gaze shifting between Bobby and the soda. He extends the bottle toward Bobby.

Without missing a beat, Bobby grabs the glass bottle, his breath misting over the beverage as he cools it with his powers. The drink frosts over instantly, and Bobby hands it back to Logan with a nod.

“Thanks,” Logan murmurs in appreciation.

“No problem,” Bobby replies, offering a tight-lipped smile.

Logan takes a seat on the other side of Bobby, the silence growing thick and uncomfortable as he sips his soda. “How long you been here?” he finally asks, breaking the tension.

“A couple of years…” Bobby answers, scraping at the ice cream, his tone subdued.

“And your parents just sent you off to mutant school?” Logan’s question is blunt, catching Bobby off guard.

My eyes widen, and I shoot Logan a warning look. “Logan!” I chastise, sensing Bobby’s discomfort.

“It’s fine, Y/n,” Bobby sighs, redirecting his attention to Logan. “Actually, my parents think this is a prep school.”

Logan nods slowly, eyeing Bobby with a newfound curiosity. “Oh, I see. I suppose lots of prep schools have their own dorms, campuses—”

“Jets?” Bobby cuts in, his tone dry and almost sarcastic.

Logan smirks, tilting his head. “So, you and Rogue, huh?”

“Yeah… I mean, it’s not what you think. I’d like it to be, but it’s just…” Bobby trails off, unsure how to express his frustration.

Logan leans in slightly, his brow furrowed in curiosity. “It’s just that it’s not easy when you want to be closer to someone… but you can’t.”

The truth in Bobby’s words lingers in the air, and I feel a pang of sympathy for him. This feels like guy talk… I stand up from my seat, tucking the stool back under the island counter. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna go check in on Jones.” I squeeze Bobby’s shoulder reassuringly and give Logan a nod before leaving the kitchen.

*** 

Bobby glances up at Logan again, his late-night dessert momentarily forgotten. “You know, I’ve seen how you look at Ms. Summers.”

Logan freezes, tilting his head slightly as if he misheard. “Excuse me?”

Bobby shakes his head quickly, retreating into himself. “Nothing,” he mutters, dismissing the topic.

*** 

I step quietly into the living room, hoping to find Jones asleep on the couch, but instead, the room is empty, the television on the nature channel still playing softly in the background. Something’s not right. My heart skips a beat, a sense of unease creeping up my spine as I step further into the room. That’s when I see it—a body lying unconscious on the floor. Jones- I look up quickly to find a group of men with guns sauntering slowly into another room, too focused to notice me.

A chill runs down my spine, and I rush back to the kitchen, my footsteps quick and silent. Logan is already on edge, out of his seat, his head whipping around as he senses something is amiss. He strides through a corridor, intent on investigating.

“Logan!” I whisper urgently, but he barely glances over his shoulder before continuing forward.

Bobby pushes himself up from his seat, following a new unfamiliar sound. The murmur of helicopters approaching fills the air, the whirring blades sending a jolt of alarm through me. Together, we move toward the window, peering out into the night as the tension tightens its grip around us.

“What’s going on?” I whisper nervously, glancing at Bobby, even though I know he doesn’t have the answers. 

Before Bobby can respond, the sharp crack of a gunshot rings out, echoing through the room like a death knell. We whirl around, and my breath catches in my throat as I see Logan—his hulking form is a shadowy silhouette against the low light, his powerful arms locked around a man dressed head-to-toe in tactical gear. “You picked the wrong house, bub,” Logan growls into the man’s ear, his voice low and menacing. The soldier thrashes in his grip, trying to break free, but Logan’s hold is unyielding.

A high-pitched, ear-splitting scream erupts from upstairs, and I feel a wave of fear wash over me, paralyzing me on the spot- Theresa . My heart pounds as I realize that these men have made it upstairs. The thought of what could happen next makes my body freeze in place.

Logan winces, his face contorted in pain as the sonic screams assault his heightened senses. The world explodes into chaos, as the soldier Logan holds captive squeezes tight on the trigger. Bobby yanks me down to the floor, and we huddle together as bullets tear through the air above us. They rip through walls, shatter windows, and embed themselves in the granite countertops. The sound of gunfire mixes with the sonic screams, creating a hellish cacophony that rattles my bones. I press my hands over my ears, desperate to block out the noise, but it’s useless. Every fiber of my being is screaming in terror, overwhelmed by the sounds, the fear, the failure.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the gunfire stops, the sound now replaced by grunts and thuds. The awful screaming finally stops, and Logan wrestles the soldier, the two of them locked in a brutal struggle. Cautiously, Bobby and I peek over the edge of the island, our eyes wide with horror and awe. Logan is a blur of motion, his face twisted in a snarl as he battles the soldier. The man manages to pin Logan against the counter, but with a furious roar, Logan unsheathes his claws. The sound is unmistakable—a sharp, metallic snikt —and in one fluid motion, he shoves the soldier into the fridge, then drives his claws deep into the man’s chest.

The soldier’s body goes limp, and Logan lets out a primal war cry as he yanks his claws free. The man collapses to the floor with a sickening thud, blood pooling around him. Logan stands there, chest heaving, his eyes wild as they dart over to us. “You two all right?” he asks, his voice ragged with exertion. We nod quickly, too shaken to speak.

Logan doesn’t waste any time. He grabs us and pushes us toward the hallway, his hand firm on my back. “Stay here,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument. We freeze, our eyes drawn to the sight of dozens of soldiers at the end of the corridor, their guns and flashlights luckily pointed down another hall.

My heart pounds in my chest as Logan charges toward them, extending the claws on his right hand, a force of nature bent on destruction. He cuts through the men with brutal efficiency, their bodies dropping to the ground as he moves. The sounds of their muffled cries and the clang of metal against flesh blend with the distant echoes of children crying, and it’s enough to snap me out of my daze. 

“Come on!” I mouth to Bobby, and we bolt for the elevator, knowing the stairs are swarming with more men.

We tumble into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft ding. As we step out into the hallway, a figure crashes into us, nearly knocking me off my feet. 

“John!” Bobby shouts, catching sight of the young mutant further down the hall. “Hey, where’s Rogue?”

“I don’t know!” John stammers, his eyes wide with fear as he looks around. But Bobby is already running off in another direction. “Hey!” John clamors after him, giving chase.

“Boys, wait!” I yell, my voice strained with urgency, but they’re already halfway down the hall. I have no choice but to follow.

We finally spot her, and Bobby calls out, “Rogue!” 

She skids to a stop in front of us, breathless. “Bobby!” she gasps, “This way!” Rogue points behind her, and we all take off again, sprinting down the hallways. But as we round a corner, we come to a sudden halt. Two shadows loom in front of a window, which shatters into a fiery explosion. Glass shards rain down around us, and Rogue’s scream pierces the air.

We change course, running back the way we came, desperation fueling our movements. The familiar halls of the mansion now feel like a twisted maze, every corner filled with danger.

Our footsteps echo as we sprint down the stairs, only to be met with a gruesome sight—collapsed soldiers and pools of blood staining the floor. I swallow hard, trying to block out the horror. “Come on!” I urge, forcing the kids to look away as we dash for the to the doors that lead to the entryway.

The doors burst open before we get the chance, and we’re blinded by a plethora of tactical lights mounted on the barrels of guns. Four soldiers stand in our path, their weapons raised. But before they can react, a loud roar tears through the air. I look up toward the source of the animalistic cry to find Logan leaping from the upper railing, his claws gleaming in the darkness as he lands on two of the men with deadly precision, knocking them to the ground. His claws rip through them like butter, blood spraying across the floor. The remaining two don’t stand a chance—he drives his claws up into their calves, spearing through them with brutal force, then flings them backward with a violent jerk. They fall off his claws midair as he rises to his feet, breathing hard.

Logan’s claws retract with a metallic ‘ snikt’ , and he turns back to us. “Let’s go,” he orders, and we don’t hesitate, scrambling after him.

We walk toward the entryway, a little hopeful about our potential escape, only for the front doors to break open to a set of floodlights paired with the deafening whir of helicopter blades. Logan glances over his shoulder at the four of us. “This way,” he directs, motioning with a nod.

Bobby leads the charge, with Logan covering our rear. Our footsteps pound against the wooden floors until Bobby skids to a stop in front of a false wall. “This is it,” he huffs, pressing against the etched wood. The wall opens with a hiss, retracting upwards, and we all scramble inside. Logan yanks the panel closed behind him before any of us can object.

“Logan!” Rogue’s voice trembles with worry, as Logan is cut off from our view.

“You want to shoot me? Shoot me!” Logan’s voice is a harsh challenge, echoing through the wall. 

But then, a voice counters, “Don’t shoot him!” There’s a tense silence that follows, one that makes my skin crawl.

I strain to hear anything, so instead, I choose to feel it—Logan’s presence, once a storm of rage and bloodlust, now shifting into confusion and something resembling recognition. A calmness, however fleeting, washes over him.

“Shit!” I curse under my breath, realizing the kids have left me, I scramble to my feet and running after them. 

The concrete steps are slick under my slippers, and I nearly slip as I rush down, only to nearly collide with Rogue as she and the boys come running back. “What’re you guys doing?!” I exclaim, my heart pounding in my chest.

“No time to talk!” Bobby shouts, pushing past me. He forces the door open, and we’re met with a blast of cold air as Bobby creates a thick wall of ice between us and the soldiers. 

“No! No!” Logan’s voice cracks as his hands slide against the ice with an open palm, trying to make sense of it all. Logan slams his hands against it in desperation, his voice a mix of anger and fear as he pounds on the frozen barrier.

“Logan, come on! Let’s go!” Rogue pleads, her voice breaking.

A shadowy figure reaches out resting a palm against the ‘glass’. Logan returns the gesture, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Logan!” Bobby urges, his voice snapping Logan back to the present.

“Come on!” I shout, desperation edging my voice.

Logan’s head snaps toward us, his breaths coming in sharp, shaky gasps. I’ve never seen him so afraid, so lost. “Go. I’ll be fine,” he insists, though there’s a note of uncertainty in his tone.

“But we won’t,” Rogue counters, her eyes pleading with him to understand. It’s in moments like these that I wish my mutation was something more—something that could help.

With a final, lingering look at the ice wall, Logan starts moving toward us. “Go. Keep going,” he orders, shoving us back through the door and pulling the trapdoor shut behind us.

An explosion rocks the ground beneath us as we race down the damp, concrete corridor, the dim, flickering fluorescent lights guiding our way.

We climb a ladder and find ourselves in the garage. I flick on the lights, and we sprint toward Scott’s blue Mazda.

“Come on, get in, get in!” Logan barks, urgency sharpening his voice.

“I’m driving,” John declares, reaching for the driver’s side door.

Logan shoves him aside with a firm hand. “Maybe next time,” he mutters, popping open the back door.

I scramble in, wedged uncomfortably between fire and ice, as Rogue’s unable to sit in the back because of her proximity predicament. “This is my brother’s car,” I pant, out of breath, as Logan searches for the key.

“Oh yeah?” he hums, smirking as he extends a single claw from his right hand. He jams it into the ignition, effectively jump-starting the car, which felt a little personal.

The engine roars to life, and Logan throws the car into gear, swerving down the curved roads and putting as much distance between us and the mansion as possible.

“What the hell was that back there?” John exclaims, his voice tinged with lingering shock.

“Stryker,” Logan growls, the name dripping with contempt. “His name is Stryker.”

“Who is he?” Rogue presses, her eyes wide with fear.

“I can’t remember,” Logan grunts, frustration gnawing at him. I can feel it, the suffocating weight of his anger and confusion making the air thick.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” I groan, my head lolling back against the seat as the tension in the car becomes too much.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Bobby reassures me, his hand cooling as he reaches over and places it gently on my forehead. The icy touch helps calm my nerves.

“Thanks, kid,” I mutter with a weak smile, appreciating the small comfort.

“Anytime,” he nods, his expression earnest as he removes his hand.

Rogue yanks the chain off from around her neck, the worn dog tags clinking softly in her hands. She’s been wearing them for the past three years, a constant reminder of Logan while he was gone. “Here,” she says quietly, offering the metal tags to him. “This is yours.”

Logan takes the dangling chain, his expression softening as he nods in appreciation. He wraps the chain around his fist, the cold metal familiar and grounding in his hand.

A heavy silence falls over the car, thick with unspoken fears and uncertainties. John lets out an exasperated sigh, clearly uncomfortable with the tension. Without warning, he leans over me, his palm digging into my knee for support as he leans into the front between Logan and Rogue. 

“Hey! Ow—” I grunt, shifting uncomfortably as he intrudes on my space.

“I don’t like uncomfortable silences,” John stammers, his voice tinged with nervous energy.

“What’re you doing?” Rogue asks, a mix of curiosity and irritation in her voice.

John fumbles with the car’s stereo, his fingers brushing over the buttons. The speakers suddenly blast NSYNC’s ‘Bye Bye Bye’ the upbeat pop song jarring against the grim atmosphere. We all groan, wincing at the loud music that seems so out of place. Realizing his mistake, John quickly switches it off, his face flushing with embarrassment.

But as he presses more buttons in an attempt to fix his error, the stereo panel suddenly drops down with a mechanical whir, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside, a sleek communicator sits, its design similar to a flip phone but with an ‘X’ flair.

“I don’t think that’s the CD player,” John remarks dryly, his voice laced with surprise.

Logan reaches out, grabbing the X-phone. He twirls it around in his hand, examining the device before clicking a button. It emits a soft beep in response, but no sound follows. “Whoa~” Logan brings it to his ear, listening intently for any sign of life. When nothing comes through, he glances at John with a slight smirk. “Sit back,” he instructs, closing the device and placing it in his lap.

“And buckle your seatbelt,” I add, my voice stern as John reluctantly leans back into his seat, clearly annoyed.

“Where we going?” John asks, his tone edged with curiosity.

“Storm and Jean are in Boston. We’ll head that way,” Logan replies, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.

“My parents live in Boston,” Bobby murmurs beside me, his voice distant as if his mind is elsewhere, perhaps thinking of home, of safety.

“Good,” Logan grunts, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as he presses harder on the gas, the engine roaring in response. The car speeds forward, the dark road stretching out before us as we race toward an uncertain future.

Chapter Text

After three and a half hours, we finally pull up to Bobby’s family home in Boston. The car creaks to a halt, and I eagerly step out of the cramped back seat, stretching my stiff limbs. The fresh air is cool, a slight breeze rustling the leaves in the quiet suburban neighborhood. The house stands before us, an ordinary two-story, with a wrap-around porch and a neat front lawn. I follow the others up to the front door, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound breaking the silence.

The door creaks shut behind Logan, and the house feels eerily quiet. “Mom! Dad! Ronny!” Bobby calls out, his voice echoing through the empty halls as he peeks around the corner. “Is anybody home?”

Pyro fidgets beside me, his shark lighter flicking open and closed in a steady rhythm that betrays his nervous energy. Bobby turns to Rogue, his expression softening. “I’ll try and find you some clothes,” he offers, his gaze drifting to John. “And don’t burn anything,” he adds with a pointed look before jogging up the stairs with Rogue.

Logan and I linger on the first floor, the atmosphere heavy with anticipation. Pyro heads for the nearest sofa, flopping down with a sigh as Logan and I make our way into the kitchen. The space is bright and spotless, the countertops gleaming under the overhead lights.

“Try the com again,” I suggest, nodding toward the X-phone hooked on Logan’s belt loop.

He nods, pulling the device free and pressing a button. A soft ‘bleep’ fills the silence, followed by static. “Hello?” Logan’s voice is laced with frustration as he brings the phone to his ear. “Hello? Come on, Storm… Where are you?” His brows knit together in a deep frown as he inspects the device, the frustration in his voice palpable.

“Do you think something happened to them?” I ask, my concern growing as the silence stretches. I quickly shake off the thought, trying to reassure myself. “No, Jean and Storm are way too powerful for that.”

I lean my lower back against the island counter, gripping the edges with my hands as I watch Logan open the fridge. He sniffs the air, his nose twitching in search of something. I can’t help but laugh at the sight. “What are you sniffing for? Beer?”

Logan turns to me triumphantly, a bottle of beer in hand. He twists off the cap with ease and takes a long swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulps down the drink. 

A soft clattering behind me snaps my attention, and I push off the counter to investigate. Logan’s head whips toward the noise, his muscles tensing as he raises his right arm, claws unsheathing with a metallic 'snikt' . His expression softens, and I chuckle as the Drake family’s fluffy gray tabby inches closer, its curious eyes locked on Logan. The cat sniffs his claws before licking them tentatively, its purrs growing louder with each gentle lap. Logan smiles, a rare moment of softness breaking through his usual stoic demeanor.

The front door swings open, and Logan’s claws retract with a sharp shing . The cat lets out a small, disappointed ‘meow’ as Bobby’s family steps into the kitchen, their expressions a mix of shock and unease.

“Who the hell are you?” Bobby’s father steps forward, his posture protective as his wife quickly scoops up the cat.

“Uh…” Logan and I exchange an uncertain glance, unsure of how to respond. Before we can speak, footsteps thunder down the stairs, and Bobby appears, his face a mixture of relief and dread. 

“Bobby?” His father’s voice is stern, demanding answers.

Bobby’s mother’s gaze softens, her concern shifting from the strangers in her kitchen to her son. “Honey, aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

“Bobby, who are these people?” His father’s eyes dart between Logan and me, suspicion clear in his tone as Rogue hesitantly creeps down the stairs.

“That is the school counselor, Ms. Summers, and…” Bobby hesitates, his gaze landing on Logan. “Uh…this is Professor Logan.” Logan raises a brow at the title, clearly amused by the idea of being called a ‘professor.’ The cat’s mournful meows fill the tense silence as Bobby shifts uncomfortably. “There’s something I need to tell you…” Bobby winces, his voice trailing off.

***

I lean against the doorframe to the living room, my eyes tracking Logan as he paces back and forth beside me, tension radiating off him in waves.

“So, uh, when did you first know you were a…” Bobby’s mom starts, her voice hesitant as her eyes flit nervously to Pyro, who can’t seem to stop fidgeting with his lighter. Each click of the cover echoes through the room, making everyone more on edge.

“A mutant?” John finishes for her, his tone laced with defiance.

“Would you cut that out?” She insists, eyeing the open flame with a mix of fear and irritation.

“You have to understand, we thought Bobby was going to a school for the gifted.” His father tries to explain, his voice strained.

“Bobby is gifted,” Rogue interjects, her tone defensive.

“We know that. We just didn’t realize…”

“We still love you, Bobby.” His mom cuts off his father, her voice softening. “It’s just…this mutant problem is a little…” Her words hang in the air, and I raise a brow at her choice of the word ‘problem’.

“What mutant problem?” Logan’s voice cuts through the tension, his arms crossing over his chest as he finally stops pacing.

“...complicated,” she finishes, her hands trembling slightly as she sets down her teacup.

“What exactly are you a professor of, Mr. Logan?” Bobby’s father tries to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortable topic.

“Art,” Logan hums, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. I stifle a laugh, covering my smile with the back of my hand as Pyro and I exchange amused glances.

“Well, you should see what Bobby can do,” Rogue insists, her eyes narrowing as Bobby’s younger brother, Ronny, grows visibly more agitated. I don’t have to be an empath to feel the anger radiating off him.

Bobby reaches out a single finger to his mother’s teacup, and in an instant, the steaming liquid freezes over. His mother gasps, dumping out the now solid chunk of tea, which clatters loudly onto the saucer. “Bobby…”

“I can do a lot more than that,” Bobby smirks, the relief evident in his voice now that he no longer has to hide his abilities from his family.

His mother quickly sets down the cup and saucer on the coffee table, her hands trembling. The family cat hops up onto the table, its rough tongue eagerly licking at the frozen treat. 

Ronny bolts from his seat, his face twisted in anger as he storms out of the room and up the stairs. “Ronny?” Their mother calls after him, worry etched in her features. She shakes her head, a sigh escaping her lips. “This is all my fault.”

“Actually, they discovered that males are the ones who carry the mutant gene and pass it on, so it’s his fault,” John remarks, pointing a finger at Bobby’s father, his tone matter-of-fact.

The com device beeps loudly, cutting through the tense silence like a knife. Logan startles, patting down his pockets before pulling out the communicator. “Oh, god…” He mutters, “It’s for me.” he adds quickly excusing himself from the room. The heels of his boots click against the wooden floor as he strides out onto the back porch, and I follow close behind.

We step out onto the porch, the crisp morning air cool against my skin. Logan places a hand on his hip, the other holding the communicator up to his ear as he paces back and forth, the wooden boards creaking under his weight.

“No one’s left, Jean… Soldiers came,” Logan’s voice is low, tinged with frustration and concern. I try to lean in closer, straining to hear the other end of the conversation.

“What about the children?” Storm’s voice crackles through the device, worry evident in her tone.

“Some of them escaped. I’m not sure about the rest…” Logan’s voice trails off, the weight of the situation heavy on his shoulders.

“We haven’t been able to reach the Professor or Scott, either…” Jean’s voice adds another layer of anxiety to the already tense situation.

“Where are you, Logan?” Storm presses, her voice firm.

“Boston, with Bobby Drake’s family,” Logan replies, his gaze distant as he stares out at the yard.

“Okay. We’re on our way,” Ororo’s voice is urgent.

“And Storm?” Logan glances over his shoulder at the open sliding door leading back into the living room, then turns back to the dark yard. “Make it fast,” he huffs, the tension in his voice unmistakable. He drops the communicator to his side, the device beeping off as he exhales deeply.

As we walk back toward the glass sliding door, the rustling of leaves catches our attention. My instincts flare, and I let my guard drop just enough to sense the dozens of new presences surrounding us.

“Logan…” I whisper, my voice tense with warning. He nods slightly, his eyes scanning the reflection in the glass, catching sight of shadows moving in the periphery. Without hesitation, he quickly pulls us inside, closing and locking the door behind us.

“We have to go. Now,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for questions.

“Why?” Rogue asks, her voice laced with curiosity.

“Now!” Logan repeats, his urgency cutting through the room.

“Logan, what’s wrong?” Marie presses, concern furrowing her brow as she rises from the sofa. John, sensing the tension, pushes himself off the side table he’d been leaning on.

Logan doesn’t respond, instead rushing to the front door. His claws extend with a metallic snikt as he swings the white wooden door open, leading us outside. We follow closely, our nerves on edge.

Two cops rush up the side steps from opposite directions, their guns drawn and pointed at us. The street and driveway are lined with police cars, their red and blue lights flashing ominously.

“Drop the knives and put your hands in the air!” one of the officers yells, his voice shaky with fear.

“What’s going on here?” Logan asks, his voice betraying a hint of uncertainty.

“Ronny…” Bobby murmurs, realization dawning on him.

“I said, drop the knives!” the officer repeats, his finger trembling on the trigger.

The sound of breaking glass and startled yelps echoes from inside the house, making the situation even more volatile.

“This is just a misunderstanding…” Logan says, trying to calm the situation.

“Put the knives down!” the officer demands again, his voice rising in panic.

Logan glances over his shoulder at the officer to his right. “I can’t,” he sighs, lifting his arms in surrender as he retracts his claws. “Look…”

The officer doesn’t wait. A loud BANG rings out, and Logan’s head snaps back as the bullet slams into his forehead. Rogue screams in horror, her voice piercing the air.

“Logan!” I shout, my heart racing. I quickly take a step forward, wrapping my arms around his chest, bracing myself as I catch his heavy fall, dropping with him onto the wooden porch.

“All right, the rest of you—” The officer points his gun at the teens, his voice shaky with adrenaline. “On the ground now!”

Bobby and Rogue drop to the ground, their movements quick and obedient.

“Look, kid, I said on the ground!” the officer barks at John.

“Y/n, do something!” Rogue whispers frantically, her voice thick with fear.

“We don’t want to hurt you, kid!” the female officer on our left says, her gun still trained on John.

I glance over my shoulder, my mind racing. “I can only change how they feel, not persuade them! Do you want me to make them happy while they shoot us?!” I whisper back, the absurdity of the situation making my voice harsh.

I can feel John’s anger and fear building, a volatile mix ready to explode. “You know all those dangerous mutants you hear about on the news?” he says, flicking open his lighter, his breath shaky. “I’m the worst one.”

The flame in his hand suddenly roars to life, swelling into a massive inferno. With a flick of his wrist, John sends the fireball hurtling at the male officer, the force of the impact sending the man flying back, crashing through the railing with a scream of agony. The officer’s cries echo in my ears as John turns his attention to the female officer, repeating the attack without hesitation. Flames explode through the house, igniting everything in their path as John directs the inferno at the men inside who had guns trained on us just moments before.

The firestorm spills into the front yard, the intense heat setting the parked cars ablaze. A series of explosions follow, sending officers flying through the air, their bodies tumbling across the once-quiet suburban street. The wailing of sirens grows louder as more police cars race down the street, their lights flashing in a chaotic blur.

“John, stop!” I scream, my voice hoarse as I watch the destruction unfold.

Just as the flames seem to reach their peak, they suddenly sputter out. John groans in pain, collapsing to his knees as the fire dies. I whip my head around to see Rogue, her bare hand gripping John’s ankle tightly, siphoning off his powers to extinguish the flames. His body trembles as he falls to the ground, spent.

I turn back to Logan, my stomach churning as I watch in a mixture of disgust and awe. The bullet that had lodged itself in his forehead slowly works its way out, the wound sealing itself shut, leaving no trace behind. His hazel eyes snap open, locking onto mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.

A low whirring sound draws our attention upward, and we look up just in time to see the Blackbird descending from the sky, its sleek form landing gracefully on the narrow street. I offer logan a hand but his warm calloused hand embraces mine, though if anything he pulls me up more than I him. He releases my hand, cracking his neck as the last of his wound heals over, his eyes scanning the yard with a wary gaze. They linger on Pyro, knowing full well the destruction the boy has caused.

John and Rogue sprint toward the jet, their movements frantic, while Logan and I cautiously make our way through the smoldering yard. Our eyes land on a shaken officer, his expression one of utter disbelief as he stares at Logan, struggling to comprehend how the man could survive a gunshot to the head without so much as a scratch.

I glance over my shoulder, my heart sinking at the sight of Bobby standing alone, his eyes fixed on the house that betrayed him. The pain and betrayal he feels is almost too much to bear.

The five of us jog up the ramp into the jet’s hangar, our breath ragged and hearts pounding. We’re greeted by an unfamiliar blue figure, his face adorned with a friendly smile despite the chaos we’ve just escaped. “Guten Tag,” the strange man greets us, his voice thick with a German accent.

I take a seat opposite Logan, quickly strapping myself in as the jet begins to power up. “Who the hell is this?” Logan grumbles, glancing back at the man seated behind me.

“Kurt Wagner,” the blue man introduces himself, his tone upbeat despite the situation. “But in the Munich circus, I was known as the Incredible Nightcrawler.”

“Ah, save it,” Logan groans, clearly not in the mood for pleasantries. “Storm?” He calls out, looking for reassurance.

“We’re out of here,” she replies, the engines roaring to life beneath us.

The jet shakes slightly as it lifts off, and I can’t help but smirk at Logan’s white-knuckled grip on his armrests. “Still haven’t gotten over that fear, I see,” I tease, earning a scoff from him as we ascend into the safety of the sky.

Chapter Text

The plane levels off, reaching its ideal altitude, and Logan rises from his seat, his movements fluid yet purposeful. He strolls over to Storm, his arm casually leaning against her headrest as he gazes out through the windshield. The vast sky stretches before them, but his focus remains sharp, alert.

“How far are we?” Logan’s voice, though calm, carries a note of urgency.

“We’re actually coming up on the mansion now,” Jean replies, her fingers deftly pressing the control buttons. She glances over her shoulder, offering Logan a brief, reassuring smile.

Ororo’s brows knit together as she stares intently at the radar. “I’ve got two signals approaching…” Her voice lowers as she exchanges a look with Logan, her eyes filled with unspoken concern. “Coming in fast…”

A sudden hiss of static cuts through the air before a harsh voice crackles over the radio. “Unidentified aircraft, you are ordered to descend to 20,000 feet. Return with our escort to Hanscom Air Force Base. You have ten seconds to comply.”

Ororo’s lips twitch into a wry smile. “Wow, somebody’s angry…”

“I wonder why,” Logan muses sarcastically, his gaze shifting to John, who sits a few seats behind. The tension in the cabin thickens, palpable and heavy.

The voice on the radio returns, this time more insistent. “We are coming up alongside you to escort you to Hanscom Air Force Base. Lower your altitude now.” The two fighter jets outside close in on the Blackbird, their engines roaring ominously. “Repeat—lower your altitude to 20,000 feet. This is your last warning.”

“They’re falling back…” Storm murmurs, her voice tight with apprehension.

~~~

Everything happens in a blur. The plane dives nose-first toward the earth, the force pinning everyone to their seats. In what feels like a final moment, I glance at Logan, his expression a mix of focus and something more—determination.

The Blackbird’s hull, torn open moments ago, begins to rapidly repair itself, the metal fusing back together with an almost supernatural speed. The aircraft slows to a halt, jerking everyone forward as it stabilizes.

“Jean?!” Storm’s voice is sharp, eyes darting to her co-pilot.

“It’s not me!” Jean responds, her tone urgent and defensive.

Through the windshield, Magneto and Mystique are seen down below, Erik’s powers keeping us afloat.

***

The four of us—Logan, Ororo, Jean, and I—exchange tense glances before turning our attention to Erik as he explains the gravity of the situation around a crackling fire.

“...his name is Colonel William Stryker, and he invaded your mansion for one purpose. He wanted Cerebro… or enough of it to build one of his own.”

Jean’s brows furrow in confusion, her mind racing to piece together the puzzle. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Stryker would need the professor to operate it.”

Erik’s voice drops, his words laden with a grim realization. “Which, I think, is the only reason my old friend is still alive.”

“Oh, my god,” Storm breathes out, her usually composed demeanor faltering as the full weight of Erik’s revelation settles over us.

Logan’s gaze darts around our shaken faces, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “What are you all so afraid of?”

Erik’s tone is steady, measured, as he explains, “While Cerebro is working, Charles’s mind is connected to every living person on the planet. If he were forced to concentrate hard enough on a particular group—let’s say mutants, for example—he could kill us all.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and foreboding.

Storm’s tone turns accusatory, her eyes narrowing on Erik. “Wait a minute. How would Stryker even know where to find Cerebro in the first place?”

Erik takes a shaky breath, his voice tinged with regret. “Because I told him… I helped Charles build it, remember? Mr. Stryker has powerful methods of persuasion… even against a mutant as strong as Charles.”

I let out a deep sigh, my worry for Scott gnawing at me. My gaze lifts from the forest ground, meeting Erik’s. “So, who is this Stryker, anyway?”

“He’s a military scientist. He’s spent his whole life trying to ‘solve’ the mutant problem. If you want a more intimate perspective, why don’t you ask Wolverine?” Erik’s eyes shift to Logan, whose aura becomes a tumultuous mix of confusion and agitation. “You don’t remember, do you? William Stryker, the only other man I know who can manipulate adamantium.” Erik’s gaze sharpens, watching Logan’s methodical stare. “The metal on your bones? It carries his signature.”

Logan’s face twists in disbelief. “But the professor…”

“The professor trusted you were smart enough to discover this on your own,” Erik sighs. “He gives you more credit than I do.”

Storm’s suspicion deepens as she eyes Erik. “Why do you need us?”

Erik’s gaze drifts to Mystique, who watches me with a curious intensity. “Mystique has discovered plans of a base that Stryker’s been operating out of for decades. We know that’s where he’s building the second Cerebro, but we don’t know where this base is. And I believe one of you might.”

Logan’s frustration boils over. “The professor already tried,” he grits out.

A look of mischief crosses Erik’s face. “Once again, you think it’s all about you.” He shakes his head at Wolverine before glancing upward at Kurt, who I sensed long ago but didn’t bother to rat out.

“Oh… hello,” the Nightcrawler murmurs nervously from above, hanging upside down from a tree branch.

I stand between Mystique and Logan, watching as Jean sits in front of Kurt beside the fire. “I didn’t mean to snoop,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with anxiety.

“Just try and relax,” Jean hums soothingly, placing her hands gently on either side of Kurt’s temples.

We watch as Jean’s hands begin to tremble, her anxiety spiking, causing the flames beside her to flicker erratically. Kurt and Jean both gasp for air, the Nightcrawler pulling away abruptly. “I’m sorry…” Jean whispers, catching her breath. “Stryker’s at Alkali Lake.”

Logan’s eyes widen in surprise. “That’s where the professor sent me. There’s nothing left,” he huffs in disbelief.

Jean shakes her head, lost in thought. “There’s nothing left on the surface, Logan. The base is underground.”

***

Logan paces beneath the jet, the tip of his cigar glowing as he takes a drag, the smoke curling around him like a shroud. I jog down the steps, wiping my hands clean after trying to assist Jean with the jet’s repairs, though my efforts proved mostly futile.

He glances over his shoulder, nodding in acknowledgment as I approach. “Hey…” I sigh, taking slow, measured steps toward him.

“Hey,” he grunts, placing the cigar back in his mouth for another quick puff.

“Are you okay?” I ask, watching the smoke leave his lips, dissipating into the cool night air.

“Yeah,” Logan sighs, though the word carries little conviction.

“You know I can tell that you’re not—”

“How we doing?” he interrupts, glancing up at the jet, clearly changing the subject.

I follow his gaze back to the hangar, where Jean is still hard at work. “Not good. It’s gonna take her four or five more hours before she thinks she can get it off the ground.”

“That’s not what I meant…” He presses, taking a step closer, his presence commanding yet oddly comforting.

I hop off the last step, letting out a weary breath. “I’m just worried about Scott.”

Logan’s voice softens, a rare tenderness in his tone. “I’m worried about you… You’ve been awfully quiet since we left the mansion.”

“I couldn’t help them… I couldn’t protect the kids,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper as I look down at my feet, shame weighing heavy on my heart.

“Hey, hey, come on,” Logan murmurs, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder before moving it to cup my cheek. His thumb brushes against my skin in a soothing gesture, his touch warm and grounding.

My breath hitches at his touch, a familiar warmth spreading through me, my heart pounding in my chest as Logan’s emotions wash over me, overwhelming in their intensity. “I can’t…”

“Why not?” he asks, his voice gentle as he plays with the collar of my jacket, his eyes flicking between my lips and eyes, searching for an answer.

“I can’t control my powers around you… I need someone more calm, more collected, someone I can count on… like a ‘good guy’ in my brother’s terms.” I hum, putting ‘good guy’ in air quotes.

A playful smile tugs at Logan’s lips as he raises his brows, nodding his head. “I could be the good guy.”

I can’t help but grin at his childish antics, the happiness he radiates now impossible to resist. “Logan, the good guy sticks around—”

Logan's hands clasp both sides of my face, pulling me in with a forceful need. Our lips meet in a fierce collision, his touch sending my mutation into overdrive. My heart pounds in my throat, and a deep ache forms in my lower abdomen. I struggle to keep my breaths steady through my nose, but I kiss him back just as hungrily. His stubble scrapes against my skin each time he shifts, seeking the perfect angle.

A warning flickers in the back of my mind, urging me to stop, but I ignore it, my left hand drifting to the base of his neck. My fingers curl into his brown locks, desperate to hold onto him. I let go and pull away from his soft lips, creating a small gap between us.

“Y/n…” Logan pants, leaning in, eager to continue.

“Please,” I whisper, my voice trembling as I force my gaze away from his lips and into his hazel eyes. “Please, don’t make me do this.”

“Do what?” Logan breathes, confusion etching his features.

“This,” I murmur, gesturing to the space between us, heavy with unspoken feelings. “I have to go…” The words spill out in a rush, and before I can second-guess myself, I tear away from him, retreating up the steps. I leave him standing there, bewildered and alone.

Jean looks up from the control panel, her brow furrowed in concern. “What’s wrong?” she asks, rising to her feet.

“Scott’s gonna kill me,” I mutter, collapsing into a seat. My hand flies to my chest, trying to calm the wild rhythm of my heart.

She chuckles softly, her hand finding my shoulder in a comforting gesture. “It’ll be alright…”

Chapter Text

I approach Bobby as he finishes setting up the last of our tents, my right hand tucked behind my back, gripping my left arm nervously. “Hey… Bobby,” I call out, my voice soft. He looks up from where he’s locking the inflater to his tent, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

“Can we talk?” I ask, my tone edged with uncertainty.

Bobby nods, standing up and dusting off his hands. “Sure,” he says, his gaze warm as he falls into step beside me. We start walking, the cool night air wrapping around us as we leave the campsite behind.

I glance over my shoulder, checking to see how far we’ve wandered from Logan’s tent. I need to be out of earshot. “You said you see me like a sister, right?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Bobby’s brows knit together in confusion. “Yeah, why do you ask?”

The ground beneath us crackles with the sound of twigs and fallen leaves as we continue our slow pace. “I just… wish I could talk to Scott about something,” I admit, my words trailing off as I wrestle with my thoughts.

“I’m all ears,” Bobby grins, stuffing his hands into his pockets. The look on his face is one of genuine happiness, glad that I trust him like a brother.

“You and Rogue…” I begin, my mind wandering. “You guys can’t really touch because of her powers… but you still seem happy together.” I hesitate, my thoughts tumbling over themselves. “I’m in a similar situation right now. I want to be closer to someone, but I’m scared of my mutation.”

Bobby suddenly tugs on my forearm, halting our walk. His expression is more serious now. “Is this about Logan?” he asks, amusement creeping into his voice.

“Keep your voice down!” I hiss, glancing around nervously, my teeth gritted in warning.

Bobby chuckles, shaking his head. “Look, you’re 24 years old. That’s a whole-ass adult. You shouldn’t be scared of who you are… you should embrace it, like we all do.” He smiles, his eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and understanding. He brings his hands together, and I watch as a swirl of ice forms between his palms, slowly taking shape. When he opens them, a dog tag—familiar and unmistakable—rests in the middle of his palm.

The cold substance touches my skin as he places it in my hand, the ice beginning to melt immediately, water dripping down my wrist. “Just… think about what I said,” Bobby says with a nod, his voice softer now, before turning and heading back toward camp.

I stand there for a moment, my gaze fixed on the miniature ice sculpture slowly dissolving in my hand. The water trickles down, cooling my skin as the dog tag—Wolverine’s dog tag—catches the faint light of the stars above.

*** Logan’s POV ***

I lay in my tent, idly fiddling with my dog tag, running my thumb over the cold metal like I’ve done countless times before. The weight of it feels heavier tonight, a reminder of the past I can’t seem to remember. The night is still, the only sound is the occasional rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets. But then, the soft crunch of grass underfoot catches my attention. A familiar silhouette approaches, the dim light revealing her figure as she draws closer.

The zipper of the tent is slowly pulled open, and Y/n steps inside, her movements deliberate and silent. She doesn’t say a word, just moves toward me with quiet determination. She lowers herself to her knees, her eyes never leaving mine. I sit up, my body tense, already sensing something’s off.

“Look…” I begin, trying to find the right words, but she silences me with the gentle press of her fingers against my lips. Her touch is warm, and comforting in a way that makes my chest tighten. Her e/c eyes flicker between mine and my mouth, and then, without warning, she leans in, her hand cupping my cheek as she presses a soft, tender kiss to my lips.

I don’t hesitate to kiss her back, our lips moving together slowly, sensually, as if savoring each moment. She pushes me back onto my sleeping gear, her legs straddling my waist. My right hand instinctively grips her hip, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss as our mouths move in sync, growing more heated with each passing second. Her fingers tangle in my hair, and I can feel the intensity building between us.

But then, as my hand slides up from her waist, tracing the smooth skin of her stomach, I feel it—three small, raised scars. My heart skips a beat, dread creeping in as the realization hits me. These scars… Mystique.

I pull away abruptly, my head falling back onto the ground as disappointment and anger flood through me. Her form shifts, her skin turning a deep, unnatural blue, scales appearing as her familiar features melt away to reveal Mystique, with her slicked-back red hair and piercing yellow eyes.

“No one’s ever left a scar quite like you,” she purrs, her voice dripping with mockery.

I scowl, my anger flaring. “What do you want, an apology?” I grunt, trying to keep my voice steady.

She leans in closer, her lips brushing against my ear in a way that makes my skin crawl. “You know what I want,” she whispers, her tone seductive, but it only fuels my disgust. “But what do you want?”

Before I can respond, she starts shifting again, her form morphing into Ororo, then Jean, and finally back into Y/n. The sight of her wearing Y/n’s face makes my blood boil. I shove her off me, my strength fueled by a mix of fury and revulsion, sending her sprawling toward the tent opening.

As she lands, she shifts back into her natural form, a smug smile playing on her lips. “What do you really want?” she taunts, her voice echoing eerily as she morphs into another figure, one that sends a shiver down my spine— Stryker.

My chest heaves as I struggle to regain control, my breath coming in ragged gasps. “I want you to get out,” I snarl, the words barely contained behind gritted teeth.

Mystique’s eyes linger on me, curiosity flickering in their depths before she rises to her feet. Without another word, she darts out of the tent, disappearing into the night.

I’m left alone, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind reeling from the encounter. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to shake off the lingering sense of violation. “Jesus…” I mutter to myself, my voice hoarse with exhaustion and anger.

*** Y/n’s POV ***

We fly over the Canadian mountains, entering the province of Alberta. Rogue and Bobby stand side by side, staring at Scott’s X-Men uniform encased in glass. Their gazes are filled with a mix of awe and longing. 

“Why don’t we get uniforms?” Rogue hums, tilting her head slightly as if imagining herself in one.

“Yeah, where’s ours?” Bobby presses, turning towards Logan and me with a playful glint in his eyes.

“They’re on order,” Logan grumbles, pulling down his sleeves as he shoves the display case back into the wall. He does the same to the case that has caught Rogue and Bobby’s attention. “Should arrive in a few years,” he adds dryly, before striding off towards the cockpit, leaving the two teens standing there, stunned.

I smirk at their bewildered expressions as I zip up the side of my boot, sitting beside John. “He means well,” I reassure them, rising from my seat. From a few rows back, Erik and Mystique exchange mischievous glances, their soft laughter carrying over.

Magneto grins, leaning forward slightly. “We love what you’ve done with your hair,” he says with a touch of mockery.

Rogue’s expression hardens as she hastily begins removing her gloves, her intent clear. Bobby quickly grabs her arm, holding her back. “Hey, hey! Come on, let’s go,” he says, his voice soothing but firm.

I nod in agreement, and we move towards the front of the plane, leaving Erik and Mystique snickering behind us.

***

Everyone has gathered at the back of the jet, circling around the projection that emanates from the floor. The holographic map hovers in the air, casting a soft blue glow on our faces.

“All right, this is a topographic map of the dam,” Ororo begins, pointing to the image. “This is the spillway. You see these density changes in the terrain? They’re tire tracks.”

“That’s the entrance,” Logan points, his arm brushing against mine as he lowers his hand.

“Mm-hmm.” Ororo nods, her eyes scanning the projection. “And this shows the depth of the ice that’s covering the ground. Now, this is recent water activity.”

“If we go in there, Stryker could flood the spillway,” Jean notes, her voice edged with concern.

Storm turns to Kurt, hope evident in her eyes. “Can you teleport inside?”

Kurt shakes his head, his expression apologetic. “No. I have to be able to see where I’m going. Otherwise, I could wind up inside a wall.”

Logan’s brows furrow as he mulls over a plan. “I’ll go,” he says, the decision firm in his voice. We all turn to him, intrigued by his resolve. “I have a hunch he’ll want me alive.”

“Wolverine,” Erik’s voice cuts through the room, commanding our attention. “Whoever goes into the dam needs to be able to operate the spillway mechanism.” He strides towards us, passing through the holographic map as if it were nothing. “What do you intend to do? Scratch it with your claws?” A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth as he stops in front of us.

Logan steps forward, his posture tense. “I’ll take my chances.”

“But I won’t,” Magneto retorts, turning to Mystique with a knowing smile. She meets his gaze, and it’s clear the decision has already been made.

***

We huddle anxiously behind Storm as she peers at the control panel.

“I’m in…” Mystique’s voice echoes through the radio, her tone calm and confident.

Logan nods, a rare expression of respect crossing his features. “She’s good.”

“You have no idea,” Magneto hums, his gaze sliding over to me with an intensity that makes me squirm.

Ororo rises from her seat, her voice steady and commanding. “Let’s go.”

The five of us stride towards the open hangar, and I glance back over my shoulder, my eyes narrowing at the three teens who are watching us with eager expressions. “You three, stay here,” I order firmly.

“We can help!” Pyro shouts, his frustration evident as he watches us descend the steps.

“Stay. Here.” I snap, turning back one last time to ensure they understand the severity of the situation. My voice is sharp, laced with agitation, leaving no room for argument.

***

Magneto tears the door to the communications room apart with a flick of his wrist, the metal crumpling like paper.

Jean hovers behind us, soldiers suspended in the air by her telekinesis, their bodies colliding with the wall and slumping unconscious to the floor.

We race into the room, adrenaline surging through us. “Have you found it?” Erik demands, his breath coming in short bursts.

“A large portion of energy from the dam has been diverted to this chamber,” Mystique says, her fingers flying across the keyboard. The blueprint of a circular room glows on the screen.

“Cerebro,” Storm breathes, the word heavy with realization.

“There it is,” Magneto says, his eyes narrowing as he studies the map.

“Can you shut it down from here?” Ororo presses, her voice tinged with hope.

“No,” Mystique replies, her tone regretful.

“Come. There’s little time,” Erik urges, turning to Mystique.

“Not without us,” Jean insists, her voice firm.

“Oh, my God. The children,” Storm gasps, her attention snapping to the monitors. “Kurt, will you come with me?”

“Yes,” Nightcrawler agrees without hesitation.

“Where are they?” Ororo asks, her eyes locking onto Mystique.

“They’re being held in a containment cell one level down,” Mystique replies, her voice as calm and soothing as ever.

“Alright. We’ll get the children and meet you at Cerebro,” Storm instructs, determination in her eyes.

“Okay, I’ll try to find Scott and the Professor,” Jean nods, already mentally mapping out her path.

“I’m coming with you,” I say, stepping forward to join her.

“Where’s Logan?” Ororo’s gaze sweeps the room, searching for the missing piece of our team.

I turn to where I last saw him and find an abandoned earpiece lying on the floor. “Shit,” I mutter, closing my eyes and reaching out with my mind, trying to sense him. “He’s gone,” I say, shaking my head in frustration.

***

Jean and I trail behind a determined Magneto and Mystique, our footsteps echoing down the corridor.

The tension in the air is palpable, an aura of hostility that makes my skin crawl. Suddenly, Jean gasps, and with a flick of her wrist, Erik and Raven are flung forward as a bright red light shoots past us, narrowly missing our heads.

“Go! I’ll take care of him!” Jean shouts, stumbling to her feet and racing down the hall.

“Jean, wait!” I call after her, my heart pounding as I pull myself up and sprint after her.

I watch in horror as she uses her powers to lift my brother and hurl him down the seemingly endless corridor. His body collides with a wall, the impact sending him crashing to the floor below with a pained grunt.

Jean rushes forward, skidding to a stop as she peers over the edge where Scott fell. “Scott! Scott?” Her voice echoes, filled with panic.

Breathless, I catch up to her, my chest heaving as I look down at the spot where my brother disappeared. “Did you have to throw him so hard?” I wince, unable to hide my concern.

“Come on,” she says, nodding towards a nearby stairwell, and we race down, our footsteps pounding against the metal steps.

“Scott?” I call out, cupping my hands around my mouth, hoping to amplify my voice. 

“Scott!” Jean echoes, her voice laced with urgency.

We navigate the maze of corridors, the industrial surroundings of the dam looming over us, every shadow a potential threat. Our footsteps echo against the cold, hard concrete, the sound eerily hollow.

Suddenly, a red blast shoots out from behind us. Jean reacts instantly, using her powers to deflect it. The force of the blast sends me flying across the room, my body slamming into the wall. Pain explodes in my head as I hit the ground hard.

“Scott, don’t do this!” Jean cries out, her voice strained with desperation. The words pound in my head, each one intensifying the throbbing pain. 

I glance up, my vision blurred, and see Jean flinging Scott back with all the power she can muster. The entire room shakes, glowing an orangey-red hue, metal pipes groaning and creaking under the strain. The floor beneath me gives way, and I fall another story, landing hard on the concrete below. Debris rains down from above, and a heavy slab of concrete pins me to the ground. I try to cry out, but the weight crushes the air from my lungs. My vision darkens, black spots dancing before my eyes as the world spins around me.

“Scott…Alex…” I whisper, my voice barely audible as everything fades to black.

*** 3POV ***

Mystique and Erik stride down the corridor toward the exit, their footsteps measured and confident. They’re pleased with themselves, their plan to redirect Cerebro’s victims executed flawlessly. But as they walk, Mystique’s sharp eyes catch sight of a familiar figure, pinned beneath a pile of rubble.

“Erik?” Mystique murmurs, her voice laced with curiosity as she notices that Magneto has stopped.

With a flick of his wrist, Erik uses his powers to lift Y/n’s limp body from the debris, manipulating the metal embedded in her uniform to free her. Her head lolls to the side, unconscious, her face smudged with dirt and bruises. Her uniform is torn, tattered, and stained with blood, a testament to the brutal injury she’s endured.

Erik studies her for a moment, a calculating grin spreading across his face. “I believe this one can be useful…” he says, his voice tinged with a dangerous edge.

***

The dam groans under immense pressure, deep cracks splitting the concrete walls as the group sprints toward the area where the helicopter was last seen. Panic sharpens Logan’s voice as he holds the young boy close. “The helicopter was right here!” His frustration echoes, mingling with the roar of the crumbling structure.

Everyone’s eyes dart skyward, locking onto the Blackbird as it wobbles through the air, struggling to maintain altitude. It crashes into the snow with a screech, the metal hull scraping against the frozen ground.

Bobby hovers protectively over Rogue, who is gasping for breath, her chest heaving uncontrollably. He quickly presses the button, lowering the jet's ramp, urgency tightening every movement.

Five of the children, along with Scott, Jean, and Storm, rush up the ramp, the cold air biting at their heels. Kurt and Charles suddenly appear inside, teleporting with the precision of necessity. Bobby’s eyes scan the group, searching with a frantic edge. Jean disentangles herself from Scott’s grip, and Bobby’s voice trembles as he asks, “Where’s Y/n?”

Jean’s expression shifts to one of dread. “Oh, God,” she whispers, closing her eyes in concentration, trying desperately to locate her. Frustration and fear battle across her face as a tear slips free, realizing what she’s done. “I can’t feel her,” her voice cracks with despair.

Scott’s face pales as he grips Jean’s shoulders, his voice shaking. “What? No, no, no, that’s not true. It can’t be.” His lip trembles as denial takes hold.

From the front of the plane, Charles’s voice, heavy with sorrow, cuts through the air. “Scott, we have to get to Washington. This has gone beyond Alkali Lake.” The gravity in his tone is unmistakable, each word weighted with loss.

Logan, the last to board, quickly hands the child to Bobby, who secures the boy in a seat, his movements automatic but gentle. The Wolverine's eyes dart around, searching the faces for any sign of Y/n. “Where’s Y/n?” he demands, though dread has already started to curl in his gut.

Storm bites her lip, the truth reflected in her downcast eyes. She shakes her head, a silent admission that sends a cold wave of grief washing over Logan. “Jesus Christ.” His voice is almost a whisper as he stumbles, gripping a headrest to steady himself.

The jet’s engines sputter, struggling to come to life. “What’s wrong?” Logan’s voice is edged with urgency.

“Vertical thrusters are offline,” Scott snaps, his agitation a thin veil for his deeper turmoil.

“So fix them!” Logan growls, leaning over Scott’s shoulder, desperate for action.

“I’m trying!” Scott’s voice rises in frustration, his hands moving frantically over the controls.

Rogue, still shaken, looks around the cabin. “Hey, has anyone seen John?” Her voice is small, laced with worry.

“Pyro?” Logan turns, realization dawning. “Where the hell is he?”

Jean’s eyes narrow in concentration before her voice, low and resigned, cuts through the air. “He’s with Magneto.”

“I’ve got something…but I don’t know how long it’ll last,” Storm mutters, her eyes flickering across the controls as she fights to stabilize the jet.

“I’m trying to override it, but it’s not responding,” Scott hisses, the strain evident as he battles with the uncooperative machinery. “Come on!”

The Blackbird’s systems start to power down, the cockpit lights flickering ominously. “Oh, no, we’ve lost power,” Ororo’s voice trembles slightly, the gravity of the situation pressing in.

“It’s coming! Come on!” Logan’s voice is urgent, almost pleading as the ground beneath the jet begins to rumble. In the distance, the dam finally gives way, water bursting forth in a cataclysmic wave.

“There’s power in the fuel cells. They’re just not connected,” Scott bites out, his frustration peaking.

“Okay, I’ll try to reroute it this way…” Ororo’s fingers fly over the controls, desperate to find a solution.

Jean sits in silence, her thoughts racing until the realization hits her like a blow. Tears well up in her eyes as she stands, the weight of her decision heavy on her shoulders. She takes one last, lingering look at those she loves before rushing out of the plane, her mind set on what she has to do.

***

Scott gazes out the window in the professor's office, his eyes clouded with grief. The last few days have passed in a haze, each moment blurring into the next. Charles, seated nearby, breaks the heavy silence, his voice gentle but firm. “You know, even when Jean was a student, she was always hesitant about her powers. She often looked to others, feeling as though she was somehow left behind.”

Scott’s shoulders tense, but he remains silent, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

Charles continues, his tone reflecting years of understanding. “When Alex brought you and Y/n to me all those years ago, I immediately saw the potential in both of you. But Y/n... she struggled under the weight of everyone’s emotions. I had hoped that with time and care, she would become a pillar of this school. That’s why I made her a counselor—I wanted her to feel connected to the students, to understand that her abilities weren’t a burden she had to bear alone.”

Scott’s breath catches, his voice trembling as he finally speaks. “Do you think... that we could have done more to save them?” His question hangs in the air, heavy with guilt and uncertainty.

“In the past, Jean might have let us,” Charles says softly, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “But your sister… she was always so stubborn.”

“There had to be another way,” Scott insists, his voice edged with desperation. “Why did Jean leave the plane?”

“Because she made a choice,” the professor replies, his tone heavy with the weight of that decision. His gaze shifts to Logan, who stands silently, lost in his own thoughts.

A soft knock at the door breaks the moment. Charles turns, his expression composed. “Yes, come in.”

The doors swing open, revealing the professor’s next class, and Scott and Logan quickly make their exit. 

As they move down the hallway, Logan calls out to Scott, “Hey, listen… Your sister loved you more than anything. She would’ve done whatever it took to save you.” His voice is gruff but sincere, his hands resting on his hips as he watches Scott’s hesitant figure.

Scott pauses, his jaw clenched, eyes betraying his inner turmoil. But he says nothing, only sighing deeply before continuing down the corridor.

*** 1POV ***

My eyes snap open, assaulted by the harsh glare of fluorescent lights above. The brightness sears my vision, and I instinctively try to lift my head, but it feels impossibly heavy. A respirator covers my mouth, and I raise my right arm—though it feels like it’s weighed down by lead—only to find IVs and wires embedded in my veins.

“You’re awake,” Mystique’s voice drifts through the room, a cool calmness in her tone as she observes the monitors tracking my increasing heart rate.

I try to speak, but the words catch in my throat, triggering a violent fit of coughing. Mystique swiftly removes the plastic mask from my face, her blue fingers deft and efficient.

“What happened?” My voice is raspy, barely more than a whisper.

“We saved your life,” Magneto’s voice answers, filled with an unsettling confidence as he strides into the room.

I glance around, disoriented. “Where’s my brother? Where are the others?”

“Oh, your brother is quite fine,” Magneto assures me with a sly smile. “As for where we are… I’m afraid that’s not something I can disclose.” Magneto replies, a sly grin forming as he approaches my bedside. “We managed to acquire a rather interesting serum from the base. It’s derived from Wolverine’s DNA. It should heal your scars nicely, though the effects won’t last forever—just until the serum runs out.” He taps the IV bag, filled with a strange green liquid, dangling beside me.

“I want to go home,” I murmur, my lips cracked and dry.

Magneto’s smile fades, replaced by a calculating look. “Are you sure about that? It seems the X-Men didn’t give your loss much thought…” His words hit like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless. “Wouldn’t you prefer to stay here with us? Develop your abilities to their fullest potential?”

My brow furrows in confusion. “Develop my abilities? But Charles said—”

“Charles was afraid of what you could achieve,” Magneto interjects smoothly, his voice laced with persuasion. “He didn’t have faith in you. But I do, my dear. I see your true potential.”

Chapter Text

“Again.” Erik’s voice reverberates through the cold, metallic walls of the training room, the command echoing with an almost tangible authority.

I hunch over, hands on my knees, gasping for breath. Sweat drips from my forehead, and every muscle in my body protests in agony. Across the room, Pyro stands, smirking, his posture relaxed, annoyingly confident. The flicker of flames dances at his fingertips, as if mocking my exhaustion.

My eyes drift upward to the one-way mirror where I know Erik and Mystique are watching. “This is never gonna work!” I shout, my voice hoarse and filled with frustration, my breath ragged. “Six months of this bullshit…” I mutter under my breath, the weight of the grueling training settling heavily on my shoulders.

“Focus on what you want… and let your feelings guide you,” Mystique’s voice whispers in my mind, a distant echo of a vague instruction she gave me long ago. 

“Giving up already, Aristotle?” Pyro taunts, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. His smirk widens, reveling in my frustration.

I grit my teeth, pushing down the urge to snap back. “I told you that name once, and you’ve never let it go,” I reply, forcing a half-smile, though it feels hollow.

“Suits you, is all.” He hums, “ ‘Aristotle treats emotions as purposeful responses to our world,’ ” Pyro mocks, his tone dripping with condescension as he mimics my voice.

Straightening up, I force myself to breathe steadily, willing the anger and frustration to fuel me instead of consuming me. My eyes close, blocking out the sterile, metal walls and Pyro’s infuriating grin. I let my mind quiet, focusing on the flicker of emotion deep within. When I open my eyes, I close the distance between us with deliberate steps. My hand, almost gentle, rests on his shoulder. “Let me out of here,” I murmur, my voice soft but commanding.

John’s pupils dilate, his expression shifting to one of obedience. Without a word, he turns and strides to the door, opening it as if in a trance, his movements robotic and precise. I rush past him and out of the training room.

“Very good,” Magneto’s voice hums from the hallway, his presence looming as he approaches, helmet gleaming under the harsh lights. Mystique follows, her eyes observing with a sharp, unreadable expression.

“I want to leave,” I state, my tone flat, devoid of emotion. The seriousness in my voice cuts through the air like a blade.

“But my dear, this is just the beginning,” Erik replies, his voice smooth, almost patronizing. He opens his arms wide, a grin spreading across his face, as if inviting me into some grand plan.

“I don’t need you people,” I spit back, the words laced with venom. The thought of staying here, of becoming what they want me to be, churns my stomach.

Erik’s eyes narrow, the lines of his face deepening with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. “Of course… if that’s what you truly wish.” With a casual flick of his wrist, a set of car keys flies through the air, landing in my palm with a metallic clink. The metal walls of the hallway part, revealing a blinding light at the end of the corridor, a stark contrast to the oppressive darkness of the compound.

I hesitate for a moment, fidgeting with the keys, my mind racing. But I don’t give Erik the chance to change his mind. I turn on my heel and start walking briskly down the corridor, toward the light, my steps echoing off the walls.

“Erik,” Mystique murmurs, her voice tinged with confusion as she watches me go.

“She’ll be back,” he smirks, his gaze fixed on my retreating figure.

***

11:32 PM, New Orleans, Louisiana, 2004.

I stride into the dimly lit bar, the familiar scent of alcohol and old wood filling the air. The place is alive with the hum of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses. I find a seat at the worn counter, the leather stool creaking slightly under me. “One water for now, please,” I sigh, feeling the exhaustion of countless hours on the road settling into my bones.

The bartender, a warm-eyed woman who’s seen more than her fair share of nights like this, smiles kindly as she slides a glass of ice water across the counter. “Let me know if you want anything else, hun,” she says, her voice carrying the soft drawl of the South, before she moves down the bar to tend to another patron.

Just as I take a sip of the cold water, a commotion erupts behind me, the sound of angry voices cutting through the low murmur of the bar. I swivel in my seat, eyes narrowing as I catch sight of a man gripping the collar of a kid’s worn brown leather jacket. The kid, no older than a teenager, breathes heavily, his auburn hair hanging in his eyes as the man shakes him roughly.

“Listen, punk,” the man growls, his voice dripping with menace. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but nobody walks away after taking all my money. You were hustling me.”

The kid’s grin is cocky, but there’s a flicker of nerves behind it. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout there, ace,” he says, his Cajun accent thick, adding a playful edge to his words despite the tension in the air.

Without thinking, I rise from my seat and rush over to the men, my heart pounding in my chest. I grab the man’s shoulder, pulling him back with more strength than I thought I had. “Leave the kid alone!” I snap, my voice firm.

The man barely glances at me, his grip still tight on the boy. “Stay out of this, little lady,” he spits, his eyes flicking to me dismissively. Little?

I take a deep breath, my chest heaving as I tighten my hold on his shoulder, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. “Leave him alone ,” I repeat, my voice low and commanding.

Something shifts in the man’s posture, his shoulders relaxing as his grip on the boy loosens. The kid drops to the sticky bar floor with a thud, his eyes flashing a brief, eerie purple as he scrambles to his feet. He’s out the door before I can react, a blur of movement as he bolts from the bar.

“Hey, kid!” I call out, running after him, my feet pounding against the pavement as I push through the bustling streets of New Orleans. The crowd is thick, bodies pressing in on all sides, but I don’t let it slow me down. I catch a glimpse of the boy as he darts down a narrow alleyway, and I follow without hesitation.

The alley is dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the moon overhead. The kid stands at the end of it, his eyes glowing a vivid purple in the shadows. A single playing card is poised between his index and middle fingers, its edges glowing with a faint, ominous light.

“Hey, look…” I raise my hands in a gesture of peace, my palms open and facing him. “I’m not gonna hurt you, kid.” My breath comes in heavy pants as I try to calm my racing heart.

I can sense the fear rolling off him in waves, the loneliness and uncertainty. “You’re like me…” I say softly, trying to reach him.

“I ain’t like nobody,” he shoots back, tilting his head with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re a mutant,” I clarify, my voice gentle but firm. “My name’s Y/n… I’m an empath.” Slowly, I lower my hands to my sides, trying to show him that I mean no harm.

The boy hesitates, his guard dropping just slightly as he studies me. The moonlight casts long shadows across his face, and I can see now that he can’t be any older than Rogue. “What’s your shtick?” I nod toward the glowing card in his hand.

“The name’s Remy LeBeau,” he says with a grin, his accent wrapping around the words like a caress. “Le diable blanc. But you can call me the Gambit.” With a flourish, he flicks the card into the air, catching it with ease as he pulls a full deck from his coat pocket, shuffling them with a speed and precision that’s almost hypnotic.

“Quite an accent you got there,” I say, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips despite the situation. “What’s a kid like you doing in a washed-up bar, anyway?” I take in his appearance, the light brown leather jacket that hangs just past his hips, the dark purple turtleneck peeking out from underneath, and the worn black jeans tucked into a pair of scuffed Doc Martens.

“Gotta make money somehow, mon chère,” he replies with a sly smile, strolling toward me with a confidence that seems too big for his young frame. “An’ you ain’t from around here, are ya?” He circles me slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey.

“Yeah, you could say that… And don’t call me ‘mon chère,’ I’m too old for you,” I reply, returning his smile with one of my own.

Gambit shrugs, pursing his lips in a gesture that’s almost playful. “Alright,” he concedes, but the mischievous glint in his eyes doesn’t fade.

“Come on,” I say, my tone softening. “Let’s get you home…”

Chapter Text

Two years later… 2006

I unlock the door to the small dingy apartment, the familiar creak of the old hinges echoing in the hallway. The air inside is warm and comforting, the scent of home mixed with the faint aroma of the dinner Remy must have cooked earlier. I toss my keys onto the entry table, the metal clinking softly against the wood. “I’m home!” I call out, slipping off my jacket and hanging it on the coat rack beside Remy’s worn trench coat, the tan fabric weathered from countless adventures.

Strolling into the living room, I spot Remy sprawled across the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table. “Hey, hey!” I exclaim, pushing his feet off the table with a gentle shove. “What did I tell you about shoes on the furniture?”

Remy chuckles, his accent rolling off his tongue as he shuffles a deck of cards with practiced ease, his fingers moving with the dexterity of a magician. “Sorry ‘bout that, cap’n,” he says, hopping up from the couch with a mischievous grin. “Got ya somethin’.”

I eye him suspiciously as I collapse onto the sofa, exhaustion from work settling into my bones. “I hope you didn’t steal it…” I huff, but my tone is more playful than accusatory. Before I can react, a small, surprisingly heavy white box is tossed at my chest. I catch it, inspecting the sleek design and familiar logo. My breath catches as I recognize the iconic apple symbol. 

“No way… You managed to get one of these?” I murmur, my fingers tracing over the box with reverence. Tearing it open, I pull out the device, my eyes widening in awe. “They’ve been sold out for months!” I lift the white rectangle, revealing a pair of headphones nestled beneath it. “An iPod shuffle…” I stare at it, the tiny device feeling almost magical in my hands.

Remy leans against the back of the couch, his smirk widening. “Let’s just say I know a guy,” he says with a wink. “Think of it as a thank-you gift for all you’ve done for me.”

I rise from the couch, ruffling his auburn hair affectionately. “Thanks, kid,” I say, my voice soft with gratitude. Without another word, I sprint off to my room, eager to load the little device with all the music I’ve been missing. Ever since I chose not to return to the mansion, luxuries like this have been hard to come by, and this feels like a precious connection to the life I once had.

In my room, the familiar glow of my computer screen illuminates the space. I type into the keys, each click creating a satisfying rhythm, and plug in the iPod, starting the transfer. The progress bar inches forward, a small comfort in its steady movement. But an email alert catches my attention at the top of the screen, a bold headline flashing ominously.

“Breaking News! Cure for X-Gene Mutation.”

“What the hell…” I murmur, my hand trembling slightly as I move the mouse to hover over the notification. I click on it, and the screen fills with an article that makes my blood run cold. “Hey, kid!” I shout over my shoulder, my voice betraying the rising panic.

Footsteps approach my bedroom door, and it creaks open. Remy’s face appears, his expression curious. “What’s the problem, huh?” he asks, his voice laced with concern.

I swivel in my chair to face him, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Care for a trip to New York?”

Remy’s eyes light up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Oh-ho! I’ve been waitin’ for this! Changed your mind ‘bout the X-Men, did ya?”

“Not quite… but I need to meet with an old friend…” I sigh, my mind racing. I had felt Charles reach out for me once since my ‘passing,’ but I pushed his efforts away, effectively masking myself. But deep down, I know he knows I’m alive. But do the others? 

***

The drive is long, the hours stretching endlessly as the miles blur together. We’ve been driving for nearly 15 hours, with only a few brief stops to refuel and stretch. I pull into a gas station, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on the pavement. 

A single white earbud dangles down my chest, the other in my ear, the familiar beat of Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” attempting to soothe my foul mood. Handing the cashier a few crumpled fives, I murmur, “$15 on pump 6, please.” The teen nods, barely paying attention as they chew their gum, the rhythmic snapping grating on my nerves.

I glance at the maps hanging by the counter, a brief thought of getting one crossing my mind. I brush the thought off quickly, remembering the MapQuest printout. My gaze drifts back to the car, where Remy sits in the passenger seat, absentmindedly playing with his cards. That’s when my heart sinks, and a sudden wave of anxiety crashes over me. My breathing becomes labored, my chest tightening as a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead.

The cashier eyes me curiously, her loud gum-chewing pausing for a moment. “Uh, miss, you alright?” She asks, their voice tinged with concern.

I nod weakly, pawing at my chest as I gasp for air. “Yeah, I just need some air,” I manage to choke out, snatching the receipt from her hand before stumbling out of the gas station store. 

The glass double doors swing open as I push through them, but my legs give out beneath me. I fall to my knees, the rough pavement biting into my skin. Tears stream down my face uncontrollably, my hands shaking violently as I struggle to catch my breath. My vision blurs, my cheeks burn hot, snot drips from my nose, and saliva dribbles down my chin.

“Hey! Hey!” A familiar voice calls out to me, distant and muffled like it’s coming through a thick fog. A hand touches my shoulder, and in response, I let out a scream that echoes through the night, piercing and desperate.

The world around me explodes in a shockwave, a boom rippling out in all directions. The force of it spreads within a 20-yard radius, knocking over anyone in its path. Remy, who had rushed out of the car to my side, falls to his knees, clutching his ears as tears spill from his tightly shut eyes.

But I can’t feel him anymore… I can’t feel Scott. The connection that has always been there, faint but constant, is suddenly gone, leaving an empty void in its place. The realization hits me like a freight train, and I curl into myself, sobs wracking my body as the overwhelming sense of loss consumes me.

***

Hours have passed since then, and the emptiness gnaws at me. 

“Turn here…” My voice is soft, barely audible as I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the car window, my breath fogging up the surface. The familiar landscape of Westchester County rolls by, bringing with it a flood of memories, both sweet and painful.

Remy glances at me, concern etched on his face, but he says nothing, his eyes flicking toward the sign that looms ahead.

‘Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters.’

The tires crunch on the gravel driveway as we approach the mansion, its grand facade just as imposing as I remember. The weight of my return presses down on me like a physical force. “Stay in the car… or don’t—I don’t care, just don’t start trouble,” I instruct, unbuckling my seatbelt with a sigh. There’s an edge to my voice that even I don’t recognize, a mix of weariness and dread.

Remy nods silently, his usual smirk replaced by a rare moment of solemnity. He parks the car, but I don’t wait to see if he follows. I push open the giant wooden double doors of the mansion, the creak of the hinges echoing through the foyer.

The sight inside is both familiar and foreign. A throng of students fills the hallways, their chatter a comforting hum that seems to drown out the chaos in my mind. The mansion feels alive, bustling with the energy of young mutants learning to control their powers.

“Y/N?” A voice calls out, shaky and uncertain, breaking through the noise like a beacon.

I whip my head around, my eyes locking onto the source of the voice at the top of the grand staircase. There stands Bobby, his face a mix of shock and disbelief, his usually composed demeanor shattered.

“Bobby…” I murmur, my heart skipping a beat as he barrels down the steps, engulfing me in a tight embrace before I can react. The warmth of his hug, the familiarity of his scent—it’s all too much, yet exactly what I need.

“The Professor—we thought… where have you been?” His voice cracks as he clings to me, as if letting go would mean losing me again. I freeze at his touch for a moment before my arms slowly wrap around him, the familiarity of it all grounding me in the whirlwind of emotions.

“I’ve uh… I’ve been busy,” I say, my voice thick with emotion, avoiding his question as I pull back slightly, placing my hands firmly on his shoulders. I can’t afford to get lost in explanations right now. “I need to find the Professor.”

“He’s downstairs with Logan. They found Jean,” Bobby says, his words hanging in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst.

“Found Jean?” The words slip out before I can fully process them. Jean was gone?

Bobby’s gaze shifts over my shoulder, and I turn to follow his line of sight. “Who’s this?” he asks, nodding toward Remy, who’s now standing just inside the doorway, hands casually in his pockets.

“The name’s—” Remy begins, his voice as smooth as ever.

“His name’s Remy or the Gambit. Take your pick,” I cut him off, my tone curt. I don’t have time for pleasantries. I step away from Bobby, my feet already carrying me toward the elevator.

***

My footsteps echo loudly on the metal floors of the sub-basement, the weight of each step reflecting the storm brewing inside me. The doors up ahead to the infirmary room hiss open, and I’m greeted by the sight of Logan, his presence as commanding as ever. He’s wearing a white t-shirt that clings to his muscular frame.

Logan’s eyes widen in shock as he nearly stumbles over his own feet. “Y/n…” he breathes out, his voice filled with a mix of surprise and something deeper—relief, perhaps.

“Logan…” I reply, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady. I told myself I wouldn’t care when I saw him again, that I had moved on. But the moment our eyes meet, all those feelings I’ve tried to suppress come rushing back. The flutter in my stomach, the quickening of my heartbeat, the burning heat in my ears—it all reminds me that he still affects me like no one else, even after all this time.

“I thought you were gone.” Logan’s voice is raw, filled with an emotion that he rarely lets anyone see. He steps closer, his hands gripping my shoulders, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric of my shirt.

“I was…” I mumble, my gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips, the magnetic pull between us as strong as ever. I place my hands atop his, gently removing them from my shoulders. “Where is she?” My voice hardens as I force myself to focus on the reason I’m here.

Logan’s brow furrows in confusion, his eyes searching mine for answers I’m not ready to give.

“She’s in here…” A familiar voice calls out, echoing down the hallway. Charles rolls into view, his expression calm but his eyes piercing, as if he can see right through me. “We have much to discuss,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I follow Charles into the room, my heart pounding in my chest. The sight before me sends a chill down my spine. Jean lies unconscious on a medical bed, her face serene, almost angelic. But I know better. I know the destruction she’s capable of, the power that lies dormant within her.

My arms cross over my chest, my fingers digging into the plastic of Scott’s sunglasses that I clutch like a lifeline. My gaze hardens as I stare down at her, anger and grief warring within me. “She killed him,” I spit out, the words tasting like poison on my tongue.

“It wasn’t her,” Charles says softly, his voice steady and calm as if he’s trying to soothe a wild animal. “The Phoenix--”

I whip around to face him, my eyes sharp as knives. “I don’t give a shit! Phoenix or not, it was her! She killed my brother!” The rage I’ve kept bottled up for hours finally erupts. I lunge toward Jean’s unconscious form, my intent clear.

Before I can reach her, strong arms wrap around me, lifting me off the ground. I kick and flail, my legs thrashing in the air as I scream in agony, tears streaming down my face. “She killed Scott!” I shout, my voice cracking, the pain in my chest too much to bear. I’m like a wounded animal, desperate and dying, unable to escape the torment.

“Y/N…” Charles’s voice is a soft whisper in the back of my mind, but I barely hear it. He presses his fingers to his temple, and before I can deflect him, the world around me goes dark, the pain and anger slipping away as consciousness fades.

Chapter Text

My eyes flutter open, the dim light of the moon casting soft shadows across the familiar ceiling. The room is quiet, almost eerily so, but there’s a presence— I tense, my senses sharpening as I push myself up, tossing the covers aside.

“Whoa, it’s just me.” A firm but tender hand presses gently on my shoulder, coaxing me back into place. The touch is familiar, and grounding.

I squint into the darkness, the outlines of the room slowly coming into focus. The scent of leather and cigar smoke lingers faintly in the air, unmistakable. 

“Logan…” The name escapes my lips, a mix of relief and something deeper, something I’m not ready to face. My body relaxes, sinking back into the bed as I rub my eyes, trying to shake off the lingering drowsiness. I rest my head against the headboard, letting out a slow breath.

“The professor put you to sleep,” Logan says, his voice low and rough, tinged with something I can’t quite place. “Didn’t know how else to calm you down.” His gaze shifts to the nightstand, where Scott’s sunglasses sit, a reminder of everything I’ve lost.

I follow his gaze, then glance around the room. It’s like stepping into a memory, with everything exactly as I left it. “It looks… the same…” I murmur sluggishly.

“When you died—or rather, when you were left behind—Scott insisted it stayed the same,” Logan explains, his voice thick with regret. “He refused to accept the idea of anyone else taking your room. The professor, who seemingly lied to everyone, agreed, not wanting to upset your brother any more than he already was.” He nods, his eyes roaming the room, taking in the details that have remained untouched by time. “I found myself in here a couple of times… It’d be late at night, and I’d wake up from a nightmare, and for some reason, I’d always end up here.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken pain. The thought of Logan, haunted by his past, seeking solace in the remnants of my presence, tugs at my heart. Maybe it’s my mutation, or maybe for once- it’s my own feelings.

“I was going to come back,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “But a nagging voice grew in my head. Erik’s words haunted me. He said you all didn’t think twice about my loss… That I was just a hindrance to you all.” My eyes drift up, meeting Logan’s gaze, searching for some kind of reassurance.

Logan sighs, the sound rough and weary. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, the frame groaning under his weight. For a moment, he’s silent, trying to get his thoughts to form into words, something I know he can struggle with. Then, finally, he looks at me, his gaze momentarily flickering between my eyes and my lips.

“Look…” Logan begins, his voice softer now, more vulnerable than I’ve ever heard it. “What Erik said… it’s bullshit. Yeah, we all got our own demons, and maybe we didn’t show it the right way, but losing you—it hit us hard. It hit me hard.” He pauses, swallowing thickly, the tension in his shoulders betraying the calmness of his words. “You were never a hindrance, Y/n. Not to me. Not to Scott. Not to anyone.”

His words, spoken with such raw honesty, broke what little sanity I had left. The wall I’ve built around my heart cracks, and for the first time since I left, I feel the full weight of the grief I’ve been carrying. The tears come undone, hot, and relentless, streaming down my cheeks as the reality of it all crashes down on me.

Logan shifts closer, his hand finding mine, squeezing gently. “We’ve all made mistakes,” he murmurs, his voice like a balm to my wounded soul. “But you were never one of them.”

“Stop talking…” My voice shakes, the urgency is clear. My gaze flickers between Logan’s eyes and his lips, the tension between us thick and undeniable. Before I can second-guess myself, I close the distance, pressing my lips to his.

Logan exhales a deep sigh against my lips, his breath warm and intoxicating. His hand flies to the base of my neck, his touch both tender and possessive. My hand cups his rugged face, fingers brushing against the rough stubble, while the other grips his muscular shoulder, feeling the strength coiled beneath his skin. The kiss is slow, sensual, each movement deliberate, as if we’re communicating all the words we’ve never dared to say out loud. Feelings of love.

Our lips smack, and slide against one another, the occasional teeth clashing in our urgency. His tongue grazes my bottom lip, a gentle request for more. I part my lips, welcoming him in, our tongues meeting in a dance that’s electrifying. If it wasn’t already, the taste of him is intoxicating, a mix of whiskey, cigars, and something uniquely Logan. I bite and tug at his lower lip, a desperate flare of need sparking within me, and he responds with a deep, hungry breath through his nose, his chest pressing against mine as he leans forward.

Suddenly Logan pulls away slightly. “Y/n…” His voice is low, calling my name in a rough warning.. My hands clutch the maroon collar of his button-up shirt, pulling him back to me with fervor and our lips begin to clash once more.

“Just touch me…” I pant between kisses, my words a plea and a command all at once. My fingers weave into the thick locks of his brown hair that I’ve always admired, tugging with a mix of need and want that I can’t hold back any longer.

Logan doesn’t hesitate at my request. He shifts his body, gently pushing me down by the shoulder to meet the plush mattress once more. A hand travels down my body landing on my hip, the grip tightening with a delicious mix of harsh and protectiveness as he pins me down with a force that makes my heart race. His other hand plants itself beside my head, a steady anchor as he deepens the kiss, claiming me with every breath, every movement.

In a rather awkward motion, as I work my body around his my brain trying to keep up with my lust, I wrap my legs around his hips locking my ankles. I rub my clothed heat against the hardened point at the front of his jeans, and my hand trails beneath his white-ribbed shirt. My fingers roam from his happy trail to the side of his waist, and up his back clawing at the tanned skin. He groans in pleasure, head lulling back as my fingernails cut into his flesh.

Our lips react harsher and sloppier with every new inch of skin claimed, his hand moves from my hip to the hem of my shirt. He fiddles with the fabric teasinly before his calloused hand travels up my bare stomach to settle on my right breast which runs a chill down my spine, and a soft gasp escapes my lips. He kneads and paws at the flesh through the fabric of my bra. I whine and writhe through breathy moans beneath his touch, wanting- no, needing- more.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” Logan groans, between kisses enjoying every sound that escapes my lips, attempting to swallow every vocal cry.

My back arches up off the bed dying to feel more of his touch- to be closer to him. Logan uses this chance to rip my shirt and bra right off my back. The tearing of the fabric echoes through the room, the stinging of the sensation still raw on my skin. He tosses his maroon button-up aside and tugs at the collar of his white tank top yanking it off efficiently. Which reveals his rugged, toned, jagged figure. I stare at him for a moment admirning every inch of bare skin before my need for more returns to the front of my mind.

I hook a finger in one of his front belt loops, tugging him back down to meet my lips. The hunger and heat building within me.

A rough warm hand grapples my chest, pinching my nipples, rolling them back ‘n forth between the pads of his fingers and I whimper into his mouth as he smiles at my actions.

Logan pulls away, the cool air of the night meeting my skin instead. I lift my head from the pillows, leaning on my elbows to see what’s wrong when I watch him tug my pants clean off my legs, throwing them to the floor.

He comes crawling back his breathing labored and heavy, his chest glistening with a light sheen of sweat underneath his body hair. I squeeze my thighs together at the sight of him. Logan chuckles. “You know…” he lulls, his head dipping to my chest, placing soft delicate kisses across my breasts. “I can smell you.”

“Oh…” I whisper. “Oh.” My eyes widen in realization and my face grows more heated by the passing second.

I can feel him grin against my skin, his kisses travel south, planting short wet splotches across my abdomen. He reaches for the hem of my panties. “Cute…” He notes the color and style, hooking two fingers beneath the fabric and yanking them off.

Before the icy chill of the room can reach my cunt, his middle and ring finger greet me instead, spreading open my folds, my breath hitches as fingers glide up and down the damp surface gathering as much of my fluids as they can. “All this for me?” He grins, removing his hand, placing his fingers in his mouth, licking them clean. My pupils dilate at his actions, and I feel like I’m under a spell.

My hands fly to either side of his face, trying to pull him close. “Not so fast, princess.” He remarks, taking my hands and pinning them above my head with a singular hand. “I wanna watch you squirm first.”

Logan’s warm palm hovers above my aching heat once more, his middle and ring slipping down, the pads of his fingers swirling over my clit, pressing against me with the perfect amount of intensity. I push my head back into the pillow, biting my lip down hard not daring to make a sound in fear of being too loud. His fingers inch down a little further, gently circling my entrance, teasing my cunt. I let out a shaky breath as a singular finger slips in, and he groans at the sensation clearly enjoying himself. Logan’s finger curls inside me, sliding in and out before adding a second digit. He repeats his motions, going in and out over and over again, tinkering his movements noting what I like more, whether that’s going deeper and harder or faster. The tips of his fingers reach my cervix and I moan in pleasure, his eyes flicker up to mine as he places his thumb over my clit, coaxing me to cum all over his hand. “That’s it…” He murmurs.

“I’m on the pill.” The words tumble off of my lips in a drunken haze.

He grins, leaning down, placing a rewarding kiss atop my mouth, pushing his tongue through with haste as he claims my mouth once more. Logan finally lets go of my hands which immediately fly to the base of his neck pulling him as close as I can- as close as he’ll let me. I hear his belt unshackle and he curses under his breath as he sets his dick free, kicking off his boxers and jeans. Logan’s lips leave mine, and he glances between me and the belt wrapped around his hand. “Here, bite down on this…” I reluctantly open my mouth to bite down on the worn leather.

The head of his member rubs up and down my core, collecting fluid to act as a lubricant. His tip presses against my entrance, and a string of swears falls from his mouth. “You’re gonna be the death of me…”

He grips either side of my hips, his fingers digging harshly into my flesh as he lines himself up, before pushing into me. My teeth dig into the leather, wincing at the pain due to his size. “It’s alright, it’s alright…” He murmurs, talking me through it as he slides in more, holding back his own grunts and whines. “I’m gonna move now,” He grits possessive eyes flickering to mine and I nod.

Logan pulls back slightly then pushes back in, he repeats the motions over and over till he notices my eyes rolling back into my head. He lets out a soft laugh, taking my reactions as a sign to keep going. My legs wrap around his waist once more and I lift my lower back so my hips can meet his every time he pushes forward.

“That’s it…” He breathes out.

My hands claw feverishly at his back, likely drawing blood but it doesn’t matter because any wounds I leave will heal right up in seconds. Beads of sweat form on my forehead from each and every movement. His hips pound into mine with a slapping sound, and his hands slide down from my hips to my thighs, squeezing the plush flesh and using them as leverage to ram himself further into my pussy. Logan’s pubic hair starts to scratch against my clit perfectly every time he ruts forward causing me to lose focus, as a result the belt drops from my lips and I start gasping breathlessly into his ear chasing this high.

“Logan, I’m gonna…” I whimper.

“Wait, just wait.” He pants hips crashing into mine.

His movements stagger, jutting faster into me, the bed starting to creak under the pressure. “Cum all over me, Y/n.” He groans. “P-please.” He begs.

I squeeze myself around him and cry into his ear as I reach my climax. Logan moans in pleasure, sputtering out his release inside me. He rests his forehead against mine as we catch our breath.

He pulls out tentatively, trying to be conscious of my now sensitive parts, and collapses beside me. “Been wanting to do that for six years.” He chuckles.

“Shut up,” I grin turning my head to face him.

“I know a few ways you could do that.” Logan grins devilishly before opening his arms up. “C’mere.”

I snuggle up to his side, our bare flesh sticking together. I practically melt into his warmth.

Chapter Text

A bright light pierces through my closed eyelids, forcing me to instinctively squeeze them tighter, trying to block it out. The warmth of the room surrounds me, enveloping me like a comforting hug from someone larger, someone safer.

“Y/N…” A soft voice calls out, pulling me from the depths of sleep.

I open my eyes, blinking rapidly as I adjust to the light. The gentle chirping of birds fills the air, and I notice a butterfly fluttering across my line of sight. The warmth of the sun caresses my skin, and I realize I’m standing in the field by my childhood home. Before now, I could barely remember what it looked like, I was too young to remember.

Spinning slowly, I take in the familiar surroundings. My gaze falls upon a bench in the distance, where two figures sit with their backs to me. My heart leaps, and I nearly stumble as I rush toward them, the swishing of the tall grass filling my ears. I come to a halt beside the bench, my breath catching in my throat as I recognize the two men.

“It’s you,” I murmur, astonished, my eyes wide with disbelief.

Alex turns to me, his long blonde hair brushing past his shoulder. He flashes me a grin, his pearly whites gleaming in the sunlight. “Yeah, it’s been a while,” he says, his voice warm and familiar, and I realize, I had forgotten what he sounded like…

“Y-you… you’re here,” I whisper, a tear escaping and tracing a path down my cheek.

“Of course, I’m here. I’ve always been here,” Alex replies, rising from the stone seat. “We’ve always been with you.” He places a supportive hand on my shoulder, his touch grounding me.

I look past him to the other figure on the bench. It’s Scott, a teenage version of him before his mutation awakened. They both look exactly as they did when I first met them—young, full of life. Scott stands, brushing off his clothes with that familiar smirk.

“We couldn’t help but keep a close eye on you,” he says, his tone light but full of affection.

“Eye—eyes…” I stammer, getting lost in Scott’s gaze. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him without his glasses, and the sight of his clear, unshielded eyes practically whisks me back in time.

“We love you… you know that, right?” Scott’s brows furrow in that reassuring way he had, and he steps closer, his presence soothing.

“But it’s my fault that you’re—” I try to speak, but my voice falters, unable to finish the thought.

Before I can continue, I’m engulfed in a pair of strong arms. Scott’s hand cradles the back of my head as he pulls me close, and another set of arms- Alex, wraps around us both. We stand there, the three of us, not saying a word, but the emotions between us speak louder than words ever could—the regret, the sorrow, the love, the warmth, their unyielding protective nature.

Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the warmth dissipates, leaving me cold and in darkness.

I groan softly in my sleep, tossing uncomfortably as I start to wake. My head pounds as I force my eyes open, focusing on the open windowsill. The wind whistles through, bringing with it a chill that contrasts sharply with the warmth I felt in my dream.

“Hey,” a gruff but gentle voice calls out from behind me, an arm wrapping securely around my waist. “Are you alright?”

I turn over, meeting his concerned gaze. The worry etched into his features is unmistakable. “Yeah, just a strange dream…” I whisper, trying to shake off the lingering emotions from the dream, yet unable to fully let go of the embrace I just lost.

I place a hand gently on top of his, squeezing it in reassurance before slowly removing it from me. “I’ll be back. I just need to get some air,” I whisper, feeling the remnants of the dream still clinging to my senses.

As I rise from the bed, Logan sits up, gripping my wrist softly but firmly as he tugs me back. “I’ll come with you,” he offers, his voice low, filled with concern.

“No,” I reply, letting the calmness of my dream wash over me like a soothing wave. “I’ll be fine,” I add, my eyes meeting his in the dimly lit room. “Stay… please.”

Logan’s shoulders relax, the tension easing from his body. His aura, once a storm of worry, calms significantly. “Yeah,” he murmurs, furrowing his brows as if confused by the sudden peace. But he shakes off the feeling and nods. “Alright, I’ll stay.”

The corners of my lips curl into a soft smile, a silent thank you before I turn and quietly leave the room. The door closes behind me with a soft thud, and my footsteps echo faintly through the quiet halls of the mansion.

The night is still, the air thick with an uneasy calm as I make my way down the grand staircase. I reach the elevator and press the button with a fierce determination, my heart pounding in my chest. The cool blue light of the lower levels casts an eerie glow as I step out, my breathing heavy and uneven, matching the rhythm of my hurried steps.

The metallic doors of the infirmary slide open with a hiss, revealing the sterile, quiet space within. My heart pounds as I enter, my feet coming to an abrupt halt as I gaze at her—Jean, lying unconscious, seemingly harmless. But the weight of what I’m planning hits me like a ton of bricks, and I stumble, gripping the wall for support as doubt creeps into my mind.

What are you thinking? She’s practically a sister to you!

She killed Scott. She deserves it.

No! That wasn’t her. Jean could never do such a thing.

I clutch both sides of my head, my teeth grinding together as I silently beg for the angel and devil on my shoulders to stop their relentless bickering.

Do you think she even feels guilty? Do you think she regrets it?

Those words echo painfully in my brain as I take a hesitant step closer to her, my hand hovering uncertainly over her shoulder. Why can’t I sense how she feels? Why is there nothing…?

Suddenly, a pale hand shoots up and grips my wrist with a vice-like strength, nails digging into my flesh. The helmet Charles placed over her floats ominously across the room as Jean’s eyes snap open, her brown irises dark and unreadable.

“J-Jean—” I stammer, stepping back, desperately trying to pull my arm free from her grasp.

“What were you doing?” Her voice is cold, her pupils dilating as she narrows her gaze at me, suspicion flickering in her eyes.

“I—I just—” My words falter, the fear and confusion tangling them into a useless jumble.

She radiates an overwhelming aura of bloodlust and desire, the intensity of it crashing into me, amplifying the storm of emotions already raging within me. It hurts—her emotions, my emotions—they’re too much, blending into a chaotic symphony of pain and anger.

“Why did you do it?!” I shout suddenly, the words spilling out before I can stop them, my voice trembling with a mix of rage and grief. My brows furrow, a deep line creasing between them as I meet her gaze with desperate intensity.

Jean tilts her head inquisitively, a disturbing calmness in her expression as if she’s considering my outburst like a puzzle to be solved.

“Why did you kill Scott?” I demand again, my voice breaking as a hot, angry tear cascades down my cheek, the grief choking me.

The room begins to tremble, the very air thick with tension, and Jean’s demeanor shifts completely. Her lip quivers, and the hardness in her eyes softens into something far more fragile. “Oh my God.” Her voice is a whisper, shaky and filled with sudden panic. “Where am I? What happened?” She whips her head around, disoriented, fear creeping into her tone.

Her eyes fall on the pair of sunglasses clutched in my hands, gripped so tightly that my knuckles have turned white. The glass cabinets lining the walls shatter, the monitors beep frantically, and objects around the room begin to float, suspended in midair by her rising panic.

“Jean?” I press, my own voice shaking now, as her eyes flicker around the room, her breath coming in rapid, uneven gasps. Fear seeps into my veins, paralyzing me, as tears prick at my eyes. My legs feel like they’re about to give out beneath me.

“Just kill me!” she suddenly screams, her voice filled with anguish, as the metal trays warp and twist under the pressure of her power.

“I can’t!” I cry back, my voice cracking with the force of my emotions. “But maybe the Professor can help you!”

Her expression darkens instantly, her eyes narrowing with a dangerous edge. “I don’t need help!” she screeches, and with a violent thrust of power, she hurls me across the room like a ragdoll.

My body crashes into the wall, pain shooting through me as I slump to the ground, the world spinning. The last thing I see before darkness claims me is Jean, her face a twisted mask of rage and despair, as she loses control completely.

Chapter Text

The distant thud of footsteps vibrates through the floor, rousing me from unconsciousness. I groan, every inch of my body aching as I roll onto my back, squinting against the jarring overhead lights that burn my eyes.

“Oh my god, Y/N!” Ororo’s voice trembles as she rushes to my side, dropping to her knees. Her hands hover over me, unsure of what to do first, panic laced in every movement.

“What have you done?” Charles’s voice is grim as he wheels into the room, his presence heavy, almost suffocating.

I hear another set of hurried steps, louder, more determined. Logan barges in, pushing past Storm without hesitation, his hands already on me, pulling me to my feet. “I should’ve come with you,” he mutters, shaking his head, guilt flooding his face. “If I’d known this is where—"

“No, Logan. It’s fine,” I stammer, avoiding his gaze. The guilt of using my powers against him settles in, weighing me down deeply.

Charles’s eyes narrow, his expression shifting as if a realization hits him, and he tilts his head forward, staring at me with that unnerving, penetrating look—the Kubrick stare.

My heart skips, and I widen my eyes, instinctively shielding my mind. No… not again. “You’re trying to put me to sleep!” My voice cracks, panic clawing its way to the surface as I stagger back from the three of them, my breath coming in shaky bursts.

“Y/N,” Charles sighs, his voice gentle but firm, “I just want to keep you and Jean safe.”

“Safe?” I spit, my anger boiling over as my fists clench. “But keeping Scott safe is where you drew the line?!” My voice reverberates through the room, sharp and raw. I can sense their fear rising, prickling at the edges of my mind.

A hand grips my shoulder, but before I can think, I whip around, eyes burning as I stare at Logan. “Let me go,” I hiss, my voice dark, cold.

Logan, almost in a trance, his usual steady resolve cracking under my influence, slowly removes his hand, his eyes clouded with confusion.

“Y/N, don’t do this.” Charles’s voice is steady, but there’s a warning beneath it, a plea. “Be a part of the cause… help humanity. Be an X-Man.”

I laugh bitterly, the sound hollow and sharp. “Save your sales pitch for someone else,” I snap, my words cut like glass.

Without waiting for another response, I bolt from the room, my footsteps echoing through the cold, metal halls. The adrenaline pulses through my veins as I rush toward the elevator. Get Remy. Get the hell out of here. That’s all I can think of. The walls seem to close in, the weight of everything crashing down around me as I slam my fist against the elevator button, desperate to escape the once familial home.

*** 

Rogue stands in her room, her hands trembling as she stuffs clothes into an old duffel bag. The soft thud of boots coming down the hall makes her freeze, heart pounding in her chest. It must be Logan…

“Chère, what ya thinkin’ you doin’?” Remy’s voice rolls out like warm honey, a little teasing, a little serious. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes studying her closely.

Rogue clenches the zipper on her bag and glares. “What’s it look like?” Her Southern drawl drips with defiance. “It’s non’ your business, stranger.” She sighs as his heavy eyes scan her. “I’m leavin’. Goin’ to get that cure. Ain’t no reason to stay here.”

Remy doesn’t move, his expression shifting from playful to concerned. “That what you think, huh? That this… this gift of yours is somethin’ to run from?” He pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room, his trench coat sweeping around his legs. “You ain’t cursed, chérie.”

Rogue’s eyes flash with anger, and she tosses the bag onto the bed. “Gift? Ya think this is a ‘gift’ ? I can’t touch anyone! I nearly killed my first boyfriend because of this… this ‘curse’ .” She wraps her arms around herself, her voice cracking. “I forgot what it’s like to feel someone’s skin against mine without hurtin’ ’em.”

Remy walks closer, his expression softening as he sees the pain behind her words. “I know it’s hard, chère. I do. But you gotta see, the thing that makes you different, it don’t make you less. It makes you strong.”

Rogue lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Strong? I’m a danger to everyone around me. That don’t make me strong.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Dangerous to some, maybe. But to others? You’re a protector. An’ if ya don’t believe me, well… maybe you just ain’t met the right person yet.”

Rogue glances up, her brow furrowed. “What do ya mean?”

Remy grins a flash of charm beneath his worry. “Someone who don’t mind gettin’ close, who sees what you are and don’t run the other way. Someone like me, maybe.”

Rogue scoffs, trying to hide the flicker of hope his words stir in her. “You’re crazy. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

He reaches out, his ungloved hand lightly brushing her clothed arm. “I know what it’s like to feel different, like you don’t belong. But you ain’t alone in that. This place, these people—they need you. I betcha ain’t even thought ‘bout all the lives you could save with your gift.”

Rogue’s lip quivers, her defenses cracking. “I just… I don’t wanna hurt anyone else. I wanna be normal…”

Remy takes a step closer, his voice low and soothing. “You won’t. You learn to control it, an’ you gonna see the beauty in what you can do. Ain’t no one else like you, chère. An’ that makes you special.”

For a moment, Rogue is silent, staring down at her bag, her mind racing. Remy watches her, his heart beating a little faster, hoping his words are sinking in.

“Hey, kid!” A voice calls out from down the hall.

The two young adults whip their heads in the direction of the voice. Remy mockingly salutes Rogue before dipping out of her room. 

***

I speed down the roads of Westchester, the trees blurring into streaks of green and brown. The hum of the engine and the rush of wind are the only things anchoring me, pulling me away from the chaos left behind. I grip the steering wheel tighter, hoping that driving faster will somehow help me outrun this suffocating fantasy.

“Where to now?” Remy asks, flicking a card up into the air lazily, watching it spin before catching it between his fingers with practiced ease. His voice is calm, but I can sense the curiosity underneath.

“I don’t know…” I murmur, brows furrowed as I bite my lip, lost in thought. My eyes dart to the horizon, the sky darkening as evening approaches. “Maybe… we’re done with the East Coast for now.”

Remy shifts in his seat, his long legs stretching out comfortably. He raises a brow, his signature grin curling the corners of his lips. “Where you go, I go.” There’s a spark of mischief in his eyes, a glint that says he’s ready for whatever comes next.

I let the silence settle for a moment, weighing our options, the road stretching endlessly ahead. “What do you think of Nevada?” I glance at him, catching his eye. “Not a bad place for you to practice your tricks. Vegas and all.”

He chuckles, leaning back in his seat. “Vegas, huh? Full o’ people lookin’ to lose somethin’. Sounds like fun.” His grin widens, but I can tell he’s serious, too—ready to follow, no matter where we end up.

***

A few days later, after selling the car and scraping together the most cash we could, we stand in line at the airport ticket counter, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The air smells like coffee and tired travelers, and the constant hum of people rushing through the terminal grates against my already frayed nerves.

But the uneasy calm shatters as I feel it. A heavy wave of sorrow, grief, and betrayal rolls through me, tightening like a coil around my heart. I turn slowly, dreading what I already know.

Storm and Logan stand there. Ororo’s expression is somber, her eyes glassy, while Logan stands stoic beside her, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ground. His jaw clenches like he’s holding back something he can’t say.

“What are you doing here?” My voice is sharp, eyes narrowing as I stare them down. Ororo’s usually calm face is drawn with grief, her lip trembling ever so slightly as she steps forward.

“He’s dead.” The words come out broken, barely a whisper, but they hit me like a punch to the chest.

For a moment, everything stills. My breath hitches, and a sharp pang ripples through my chest, twisting into a sick knot in my stomach. I swallow hard, trying to push down the rising tide of emotion. “I can’t do this. I can’t help you, I never could,” I say, my voice barely above a murmur as I shake my head, more to myself than to them.

“Y/N, the Professor believed in you,” Storm steps forward, her eyes pleading, the hope she clings to wavering.

I let out a hollow laugh, bitterness lacing every word. “Believed in me?” I point at my chest, my voice rising despite my best efforts to remain calm. “He wanted to keep me asleep, keep me out of the way while he brainwashed Jean back to ‘normal.’ ” I sigh, the weight of all the years of being on the sidelines, of being needed but never really seen, settling in. “Being an X-Man was always for you two,” I continue, my voice softer now. “I was just there… in the background, good for emotional support.”

I glance over my shoulder at Remy, who watches silently, leaning against the counter with that ever-present coolness. “Charles was right about one thing—I’m better suited as a counselor.” For a fleeting second, I think of Bobby, of John, of Rogue—the people I’ve left behind, the ones who shaped me. But the ache in my chest reminds me I’ve made my choice.

“Just go,” I whisper, turning back to them, my eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Ororo’s face falls, her shoulders sagging as she exchanges a look with Logan. He grunts, his face hardening into a mask as he turns on his heel, leaving without a word.

I can feel the weight of Logan’s disappointment, the unspoken anger simmering beneath his silence... but that’s a conversation for another day—if we ever cross paths again.

“Ahem.” The airline representative clears their throat, pulling me back from the spiraling emotions.

“Sorry—yes, uhm, where were we?” I stammer, hastily wiping at the tears threatening to spill.

“I have you down for two tickets to Las Vegas, Nevada, arriving at LAS, but all we have left for a last-minute flight includes a layover and plane change in San Francisco, at SFO,” she explains, her voice calm and steady.

“That’s fine,” I murmur, a flicker of annoyance in my tone, but I let it go. “Thank you.”

As she processes the tickets, I steal one more glance over my shoulder, knowing there’s no turning back now as the two figures are now gone.

Chapter Text

I rise from my seat at SFO strolling over to the large windows, stretching out the stiffness in my limbs after the long first half of the flight flight. The low hum of the airport buzzes around me, the surrounding feelings are a mix of calm and chaos, soothing in its own way—far more relaxing than everything I left behind back home. The wires of my headphones dangle lazily from my ears, swaying with each stretch. David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’ is the next song to play, the melody weaving through one ear and out the other, momentarily offering a distraction.

My gaze drifts toward the runway, watching the planes ascend and descend against the backdrop of a setting sun. The golden light bathes the tarmac, making the commercial jets gleam like polished metal. For a split second, I swear one of them looks like the Blackbird, the sleek design triggering memories of missions past. I blink hard, shaking off the thought, and it morphs back into an ordinary commercial plane.

“We can be heroes, just for one day…” The lyrics echo in my ears.

I drop my arms from my stretch and exhale, murmuring under my breath. “Shit…” The weight of everything I’ve been running from hangs in the air, settling back onto my shoulders.

Suddenly, shouts and gasps ripple through the terminal, fear spiking. My head snaps toward the commotion, and I immediately lock eyes with Remy, who’s sitting on a nearby bench, looking bored out of his mind. We don’t need to exchange words. Instinct kicks in, and we grab our bags, darting through the sea of people toward the growing crowd near the TV screens.

The live news broadcast shows footage of Alcatraz Island—and a now broken Golden Gate Bridge before the feed cuts off. A live alert scrolls across the screen: Mutant Attack in Progress . All flights will be halted for sure.. . The grip on my bag tightens as my pulse quickens. I can feel the weight of it, heavier now, and the images on the screen send a cold shiver down my spine.

Without another thought, I dash toward the nearest bathroom. The ‘family’ restroom with its private lock feels like a sanctuary compared to the bustling women’s restroom with its endless stalls. I push through the door, hurriedly turning the lock behind me.

“Sorry, moms who need to breastfeed…” I whisper under my breath, already unzipping my duffle bag.

Inside, I find it—the old, worn suit, tattered from countless battles but sewn back together like a patchwork of memories. I pull it out, the leather rough beneath my fingers, the smell of it still familiar. "Why Erik let me keep you, I'll never know…” I mutter with a bittersweet smile.

I struggle against the stubborn zippers, and clips refusing to cooperate as I fight to get the suit on. The leather creaks and resists, as if it’s as tired as I am. But with determination, I force it to close up, piece by piece. The mirror reflects someone I barely recognize—a relic of the past, but still standing, still fighting.

The bathroom door slams open as I rush out, my boots hitting the tile with a sharp echo. Remy stands just outside, casually leaning against a nearby wall, a deck of cards flipping between his fingers like he’s got all the time in the world. His eyes flick up and down, taking in my get-up—a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“An’ here I thought we were done with those friends o’ yours,” he drawls, his thick accent dripping with amusement.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, gripping my duffle bag tighter. I break into a jog through the bustling concourse, dodging travelers left and right. “Come on, let’s go!” I call over my shoulder.

For a second, he just stands there, smugly flipping the cards between his fingers. “Come on, let’s go!” I shout again, my voice sharp with urgency.

Finally, Gambit pushes himself off the wall, striding after me. “Y’know,” he says, catching up to me with that effortless grace he always has, “I ever told you I know how to fly a helicopter?”

I stop dead in my tracks, turning to stare at him, wide-eyed. “No. No, you did not,” I say, my voice incredulous. I shake my head in disbelief, the adrenaline making everything feel surreal. “What exactly did you do before we met?”

Remy’s grin spreads wider, that devilish charm glinting in his eyes. “Trust me, cap’n, you don’t wanna know,” he chuckles, nodding toward the emergency exit that leads down to the tarmac.

***

The ride to the island is anything but smooth. The chopper jerks and shakes under us, the dark sky swirling like a storm, pressing down from all sides. I keep my eyes on the horizon, but the constant turbulence makes it hard to focus.

“Land over there!” I shout, pointing to the far end of the island, well away from the chaos of the fighting. “And let’s pray to God Magneto doesn’t spot us.” My voice crackles through the microphone, tense but steady.

Remy glances down, struggling to keep the helicopter steady against the harsh winds. “Ain’t exactly a clean shot, mon amie!” he calls back, the strain showing as his hands grip the controls tighter.

I glance out the window, my heart racing as we sway dangerously close to the ground. “Do you think this thing’s got parachutes?” I ask, half-serious, my voice rising over the roar of the engine.

A devilish grin spreads across his face, his red eyes gleaming. “Got a better idea. You trust me?”

I whip my head around to face him, eyes wide. “No shit! I let you fly a stolen helicopter!” I snap.

Remy chuckles, that infuriating laugh of his filling the cramped cockpit. Without missing a beat, he flips a few switches, setting the chopper to autopilot, then unbuckles his seatbelt—and mine.

“What the hell are you doing?!” I exclaim, panic clawing at my chest.

“Been practicin’ my skills,” he says coolly. With one swift kick, he slams open the helicopter door, the wind rushing in, howling around us. 

Before I can even process what’s happening, we’re free-falling out of the chopper. The cold air bites at my skin, and for a moment, all I see is the dark, rushing ground below us. My stomach lurches, but Remy’s arm is wrapped around my torso tight. A faint purple glow bursts from him as he twirls a purple staff above our heads, the energy crackling in the air. 

The staff doesn’t do much to slow our descent, but it’s something—just enough to keep us from completely splattering on the ground. He twists us mid-air, positioning himself beneath me, so he takes the brunt of the fall.

We hit the ground hard, a massive purple explosion erupting around us, almost like a force field popping under the pressure. Dirt and debris fly in all directions, but when the dust settles, we’re mostly unscathed. I roll off him, coughing, my heart pounding in my ears. 

“Never make me do that again,” I groan, pushing myself to my feet.

Gambit laughs, getting up and dusting off his trench coat. “Thought you’d never ask.” Remy shakes his head in an attempt to get his auburn hair out of his gaze, he offers me a hand and helps me to my feet. “Where to cap’n?”

I close my eyes, pushing past the searing pain and fear swirling through me, searching for the familiar fire—determination and rage. My senses sharpen, honing in on Logan. “This way!” I shout, breaking into a jog and weaving through the jagged remnants of debris scattered across the battlefield.

Remy follows closely, the tension thick between us as we round a corner. There, a chaotic scene unfolds. Dozens of soldiers line both sides and in the middle, the X-Men make their dramatic entrance, splitting the forces like a wedge driven between the armies.

“You men, cover the doors! Everybody, get together!” Logan’s voice booms across the battlefield as he runs toward Storm. His presence is commanding, larger than life, and the air around him feels charged. “And hold this line!” he orders, his voice echoing off the walls. 

The six X-Men line up, staggered and ready for battle. I swallow hard, feeling the pressure of the moment. “Is it too late for a couple more?!” I shout, trying to add some levity as Remy and I emerge from behind a cracked concrete slab.

Logan’s eyes meet mine, softening for a brief moment. His heavy breath catches, and I can see the unspoken tension between us. My brows crease as I give him a small nod, acknowledging the moment before turning my focus back to the battlefield.

Then, Magneto’s gaze falls on me. His expression hardens, his mouth curling in disdain. “I should’ve known years ago you’d stick with them,” he sneers, his voice filled with contempt. “Traitors to their own cause…” His words sting, cutting through the air like a blade. “Finish them!” he roars, raising his arm as a war cry erupts from his soldiers.

They charge at us without hesitation, their boots thundering against the ground. The eight of us hold our ground, planting our feet and bracing for impact. Logan, always the first to act, slashes through a nearby light pole, sending it crashing down onto the oncoming horde.

I try to steady my breathing, but self-doubt creeps in. I’ve never felt less confident in my abilities as an X-Man. But standing beside Remy, who radiates pure confidence, makes it easier to push forward. His eyes glow with excitement as he leaps in front of me, the purple hue of his energy lighting up the space around us. “Don’t worry, mon amie! I got you covered!” he grins, throwing his charged cards into the crowd with expert precision.

Suddenly, a large man adorned in a helmet barrels through the battlefield, knocking out anyone and anything in his path with terrifying ease. “He’s going for the boy!” Beast’s voice rises in panic.

“Not if I get there first!” Kitty shouts, already sprinting toward the danger.

“Kitty, wait!” I call after her, my heart skipping a beat. Her impulsiveness reminds me of when she was just a kid, always running into my office at the mansion, startling me with her sudden appearances. Before I can chase after her, she phases through the walls, disappearing from sight.

The battle rages on around me, and I focus on what I can control. If anyone gets too close, I reach out to touch them first, my powers convincing the enemy to fight each other instead. I can’t afford to lose control—not now.

“Y/n!” Storm jogs up beside me, her breath labored, and her face etched with exhaustion. She’s just been toe-to-toe with a speedster, and it shows.

I huff after sending an enemy to jump off the nearby cliff. “Actually,” I say, glancing down at myself in my patched-up X-Men uniform, “It’s Aristotle now.”

Storm raises a brow, cautiously stepping closer. “Finally one of us, then?” she asks, her voice soft, unsure.

My smile falters, and my expression turns grim. “I’m doing this for Cyclops. For Havok.” The weight of my words hangs heavy between us.

Before we can continue, the sky darkens further, and flaming cars rain down from above. We split, sprinting in different directions to avoid the debris. I duck behind cover, but not before I catch sight of a familiar face. 

“Bobby!” I shout, eyes wide. It’s weird seeing him like this- stronger, more confident, part of the team. “I mean, Iceman,” I correct myself, stammering as the gravity of the situation settles in.

“Good to see you back!” he calls over the chaos, his face a mix of relief and focus. “Not exactly the best timing, though,” he pants, glancing at the fiery wreckage around us.

“Bobby!” Logan’s gruff voice booms from nearby, snapping us both to attention. “You think you can take down your old friend?”

Bobby’s expression falters as he stares at Pyro, who’s engulfed in flames, teasing him from across the battlefield. Bobby nods reluctantly, stepping forward. My heart sinks— everyone’s grown up now, thrust into the thick of war. There’s no room for hesitation anymore.

“Storm, we’re gonna need some cover,” Logan mutters, urgency lacing his voice.

“Right,” Ororo responds, her eyes glowing white as she summons a thick mist, cloaking us in its cool embrace.

I watch tensely as Bobby and Pyro engage in a deadly dance of fire and ice. John edges closer, taunting him. Bobby struggles under the heat of John’s flames, and I can see the frustration in his movements. “You’re in over your head, Bobby,” Pyro taunts, edging closer with a wicked grin. “Maybe you should’ve stayed in school.”

Then, in one swift motion, Bobby’s entire form crystallizes into solid ice. He lunges forward, grabbing Pyro by the wrist and freezing his flames midair. With a powerful headbutt, Bobby sends John crashing to the ground. The sound of bone crunching is unmistakable. “You never should’ve left,” Bobby says coldly.

That’s my brother. I grin, heart at ease.

Before I can even catch my breath, the world around us starts to dissolve, disintegrating into nothingness. My heart skips a beat. Jean.

“Everybody, get out of here!” Beast’s voice booms across the field, panic evident in his tone.

Storm and I rush over to Logan, who stands frozen, staring at Jean, before turning to me with a look of pure guilt. “I’m the only one who can stop her,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Logan don’t do this!” I plea.

“Just once,” Logan pants, his eyes brimming with guilt as they lock onto my face—a painful reminder of Scott and the Professor. “I want to do something right, just once in my life.” His gaze softens momentarily, then he turns away, the weight of his words heavy in the air. “Get everyone to safety. Go!” His voice is strained, but firm. Storm doesn’t hesitate, taking off into the air and heading toward the jet.

If I can’t convince him… “Jean!” I cry out, but before I say anything further, my body locks up. I’m frozen, suspended in the air by her power. I can only watch in horror as a syringe, filled with the cure, pricks my skin. The injection burns, draining me of everything that’s ever made me… me . I’m thrown across the field far past where Logan and Jean stand, crashing into Gambit’s arms.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. The emotions of everyone around me fade into nothingness. I should feel relief and peace, it’s all I ever wanted for as long as I can remember. But all I feel is fear—crippling, paralyzing fear. For the first time in years, I can’t feel the emotions of those around me. And I realize I don’t know who I am without my powers.

The entire island trembles, the buildings, the jet, the people, everything starts to evaporate under Jean’s immense power. The waters around us rise, forming towering walls like prison bars, trapping us in.

My body trembles uncontrollably. Everything is so quiet, so foreign. “Remy,” I stammer, my voice barely a whisper as I reach for his shoulder. “I’m scared.” A tear slips down my cheek. “And for the first time, in a long time…I can’t blame it on someone else.” My breath hitches, and I start to hyperventilate.

“It’s alright,” Remy murmurs, his eyes softening as the purple glow fades. He wraps his arms around me, holding me close, his usual bravado gone. “It’ll be alright, chérie. I gotchu’.”

But I can’t stop the panic. “Make it stop. Make it stop!” I scream, flailing in his arms, desperate for the chaos to end. “Just kill me! Let me be with my brothers!” I wail.

***

I sit in my old office, the polished wooden desk beneath my fingertips feeling cool and smooth. I anxiously tap my fingers against it, my gaze fixed on a worn photograph of Scott and me, the edges slightly frayed from years of handling.

The door creaks open, its sound piercing the stillness and making me jump. I look up sharply, my heart pounding as I see the visitor.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya,” Logan says with a half-smile, closing the door gently behind him.

“It’s fine,” I reply, my voice wavering slightly. “It’ll just take some getting used to is all.” I try to steady my breath, pushing away the remnants of my surprise.

Logan strides over to my desk, his heeled boots making soft thuds on the floor. He perches himself on the edge of the desk, his presence grounding amidst the chaos of my thoughts. “See the news?” he asks, his tone casual but with an underlying concern for my well-being.

I shake my head, my eyes not leaving the photo. “Hank is now the United Nations Ambassador.” He hums.

A wistful smile crosses my face. “I remember when that furball practically terrorized Charles around the mansion.” I laugh somberly, the memory both bittersweet and comforting.

He chuckles softly, the sound deep and resonant, like honey dripping from his lips. “You sticking around this time?” he asks, his gaze steady.

I meet his gaze, feeling the gravity of the moment. My eyes drift back to the name placard on my desk that he idly fiddles with.  “Funny that you’re the one asking me that,” I remark, my voice laced with a hint of irony. “Yeah, I think I will. Even though I feel more useless than ever, I can’t deny that this is my home.” I meet his eyes, letting the word ‘home’ linger between us.

I rise from my chair, pushing it in with a soft scrape and circling around the desk to stand beside him. “I’ve had to do a lot of thinking…about people I—uhm, care about,” I confess, my voice steady but reflective. “Now that I can’t sense how others feel, it’s put a lot of things into perspective.”

Logan leans back slightly, raising a single brow, his usual smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he crosses his arms. “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?” he prompts, his voice teasing but tender.

Taking a deep breath, I steady my voice as I grow closer to him. “That I love you,” I say, my tone calm and resolute. “And I don’t want to lose you.”

His lips part, and Logan’s hazel eyes dance between my own. “You won’t lose me…if you don’t leave me.” He breathes out. 

“I won’t leave you…not again,” I murmur, a tentative hand reaching out to grasp his cheek.

A warm hand wraps around mine and he leans in close, pressing his forehead to mine, peacefully closing his eyes as he takes in this moment. “I love you too, Y/n.”

Chapter Text

It’s been a few months since the chaos in San Francisco, and the scars left behind have begun to fade. Slowly, I’ve reclaimed my place at the school, easing back into the rhythm of daily life here. The once constant buzz of tension has quieted, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s a sense of calm that lingers in the air, as if the school itself is taking a breath after holding it for so long.

The rhythmic tapping of a metal pen echoes through the small, ornate room as I flip through the stack of schedules for the new semester. ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ by The Rolling Stones plays softly from the record player, its familiar melody offering a brief distraction from the monotony of administrative work. I let out a sigh, leaning back in my chair as I murmur, "This is going to be more difficult than I thought."

The sharp clicking of heels outside the door interrupts my thoughts. A brief knock raps against the wood, followed by the slow creak of the door swinging open.

“Not busy, are ya?” Logan’s gruff voice cuts through the quiet, his head nodding toward the paperwork scattered across my desk as he steps into the room, closing the door behind him.

I glance up, noting the tension etched into his usually composed features. "No," I say with a sigh, pushing the papers aside. “Trouble with the kids again?” I ask, my eyes scanning his face for the telltale signs of frustration. I’ve gotten used to studying body language now that my powers are gone.

Logan takes a deep breath, the rise and fall of his broad chest betraying his unease. “Yeah,” he mutters, his voice heavy.

I push a few items to the side, clearing a space on the desk as I gesture toward the chair in front of me. “Come on, sit,” I offer gently, the corners of my mouth curving into a soft, supportive smile. “I’m all ears.”

Logan hesitates for a moment, his hands running through his messy hair before he takes the seat in front of me. He slouches slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his usual tough exterior crumbling in the quiet space between us. “I subbed for Scott a couple of times, but this…” He shakes his head, his fingers rubbing at his temple. “It’s different. They don’t listen. Hell, I don’t know if I’m cut out for this.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk as I study him. “You’re doing better than you think, Logan. Trust me, they’re not easy, but neither are we.”

He huffs, his frustration clear. “I’m not exactly the nurturing type. Every time I try to show ‘em something, they push back. They’re not soldiers.”

“They’re not,” I agree. “But they need someone who’s been through it, who knows what it’s like to be on the battlefield, and how to survive. You’ve got that experience. You’re just not used to having to be... patient.”

Logan's brow furrows, his fingers absently tracing the edge of my desk. “Patience ain’t exactly my strong suit.”

I chuckle softly, shaking my head. “No, but you’ve got something else. These kids respect you, even if they don’t always show it. They know you’ve been through hell and back, and that means something.”

He looks up, his eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, the weight of everything he's feeling is laid bare. “What if I mess ‘em up? What if I don’t prepare them enough for a real war?” he asks, his voice quiet, vulnerable in a way that Logan rarely lets anyone see.

I pause, letting the question hang in the air for a beat before answering. “You won’t ‘mess them up’ . They’re not expecting you to be perfect, Logan. They just need someone who’s gonna stand by them, show them the ropes, and not give up on them when things get tough. And that’s what you’re good at.”

He grunts in acknowledgment, but the tension in his shoulders seems to ease just a little. “How do you deal with it? The constant back-and-forth?”

I smile, leaning back in my chair. “Patience, a lot of patience. But also knowing that every single one of them is going through their own battle, just like we did. You just gotta meet them where they are and push them when they need it.”

Logan lets out a deep breath, staring down at the floor. “I dunno how you do it. I can fight off an army, but a group of teenagers? Different kind of battlefield.”

I laugh softly. “Trust me, some days it feels like the same thing. But you’ll find your way with them. It’s not about being the best teacher. It’s about being someone they can look up to, someone who’s been in the trenches and knows how to survive.” I watch his rugged features soften ever so slightly. "I know you feel like you need to do everything for them, but they're growing up. So guide them, help them…just loosen your grip. Take your hands off the wheel and let them lead for a change."

Logan’s gaze flickers to the picture of Scott on my desk, his expression softening for a moment. “God,” He laughs softly shaking his head. “He was much better at this than I’ll ever be.”

I smile sadly, my eyes also drifting to the photo. “Scott was a natural leader, but he wasn’t always patient. He had his own way of teaching... You’re not Scott, and that’s not a bad thing. The kids don’t need another Scott. They need you.”

He nods slowly, standing up from the desk, his usual confident posture returning. “Guess I’ll give it another shot.”

I rise from my chair and walk over to stand beside him. “You’ll figure it out, Logan. Just remember, you don’t have to do this alone.” I rest a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m here, whenever you need me.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as his eyes search for a witty comeback. “I see why the Professor put you here…Guess you’re not such a bad shrink after all.”

I roll my eyes and give him a playful shove, though he barely budges. “Alright, alright, now get out of here. I’ve got schedules to finish.”

“What? No kiss goodbye?” Wolverine teases as he rises from the chair, his stressed demeanor fading completely from his features.

***

I kneel quietly in front of the three graves in the courtyard, the weight of three bouquets heavy in my hands. The stillness around me only amplifies the emotions swirling inside—grief, guilt, and an overwhelming sense of loss.

For Charles, I chose purple irises. Their delicate petals represent the wisdom he shared with all of us, the way he guided us not just with knowledge, but with compassion. Each blossom feels like a small tribute to the lessons he gave me, the purpose he instilled in every mutant who crossed his path.

Scott’s bouquet is a mix of white and yellow daisies, simple but meaningful. They take me back to our childhood—those carefree moments when we were just siblings, not burdened by the world or our powers. They symbolize the innocence we shared before life got so complicated, before we were forced to grow up too fast.

And for Jean, I hold a bunch of purple hyacinths. Their meaning—sorrow, regret, and forgiveness—feels almost too fitting. There’s so much left unsaid between us, so much I wish we could have resolved. The hyacinths are my quiet apology to her, a gesture for all the things I never had the chance to express, and a plea for the forgiveness I may never receive.

As I place each bouquet down, the weight of the past presses heavier against my chest, every memory sharper in the cold winter air. The sharp bite of the wind cuts through my coat, making my breath hang in the air like fog. I stare at the graves, struggling to find the words that could possibly capture everything I’m feeling—the grief, the regret, the unbearable sense of loss. My lips tremble as I open my mouth, barely able to get the words out. “I—I’m sorry—”

But before I can continue, a voice—a familiar, steady voice—echoes in my mind. “Now isn’t the time for apologies, Y/n.”

My heart skips a beat, and my head spins around, my gaze darting across the courtyard, searching the empty space. "Charles?" I murmur, the name barely leaving my lips, but the recognition is instant. I know that voice, yet it can't be real. Can it?

From the shadow of one of the old trees, a figure emerges, his posture calm but commanding. His head is dipped low, the brim of his hat casting a shadow across his face, but I know that presence. Even without seeing his eyes, I can feel the weight of his words. "The war isn’t over yet," Erik murmurs, his voice carrying the same steady authority. "I’m afraid things are about to take a turn for the worst, my dear."

I stumble backward as I stand, my boots slipping on the frost-covered ground. “You have no power here,” I manage, my voice shaking as I struggle to make sense of the scene before me. I glance back toward the graves, feeling Charles’ familiar presence lingering in my mind.

“He’s here to help,” Charles’ voice echoes, a quiet reassurance that washes over me like a gentle wave.

The man tips his hat back, revealing a smirk that chills me to the bone. “He’s right, you know,” Magneto hums, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous edge.

Chapter Text

The distant future….

The mansion’s defenses fell in an instant, the crackling of energy barriers failing rung in the air like a final death knell. I couldn’t even sense the intruders coming- they weren’t human.

“Protect the children!” I shout over the roaring sounds of destruction, gesturing frantically to Iceman and Kitty as the walls shake around us. Sentinels are pouring in from every side, towering machines of death, their eyes glowing with a cold, calculating menace. 

“I’ve got the jet ready to go! Erik’s taking care of the Sentinels!” Storm’s voice cuts through the commotion as she rushes past, her cape billowing behind her like a streak of lightning.

Logan and I lock eyes in silent agreement, nodding as we dash toward the broken staircase that leads to the Blackbird. The floor beneath us trembles with each footstep, a reminder of the looming battle outside. But as I hit the last step, a sharp, overwhelming sense of fear grips me—not my own. My head snaps to the side, following the source of the emotion like a beacon.

“There’s still someone left!” I shout, turning on my heel and sprinting back up the shattered stairs toward the children’s bedrooms. The air smells of smoke and scorched metal. 

Logan’s voice booms behind me. “Y/n! Wait!” But I’m already gone.

The thunder outside intensifies as Magneto wrestles with the last of the Sentinels, but I ignore the sound, focusing solely on the terrified heartbeat I feel. I crash into the child’s room, and there, huddled in the far corner, is a young boy, shaking with fear. 

“Come on,” I kneel down, extending my hand with a soft smile. My voice trembles with urgency. “It’s going to be alright, just take my hand.”

The roof above groans ominously, and before I can react, pieces of Sentinel fall through the shattered ceiling, debris raining down around us. The child flinches, but I keep my hand out, willing him to trust me.

The ‘drip, drip, drip’ of liquid on the floor snaps me back to the present. Something feels wrong. My clothes are warm, damp… My gaze drops to the growing pool of blood spreading beneath me. The realization hits me like a truck—there’s a gaping hole in the right side of my chest. My lungs grow heavy, each breath labored as I cough, specks of blood flecking my lips. 

“Shit…” I rasp, my body growing weaker by the second. 

“Y/n!” Logan’s voice bellows as my knees buckle and I collapse to the floor, my back slamming against the cold ground. My vision blurs, but I can just make out the jagged edges of the ruined ceiling, and beyond that, the night sky. The moon and stars hang overhead, distant and unreachable things that call my name. 

“Logan…” I murmur, barely above a whisper, as his figure bursts into the room. His face is a mask of desperation, wild and frantic. 

“Get him out of here!” he roars at Blink, who rushes in, eyes wide with shock. Her gaze flicks to the boy, and without hesitation, she grabs him, portaling them away to safety. 

Logan drops to his knees beside me, his strong arms sliding under my limp body, pulling me close against his chest. “You’re gonna be alright,” he whispers, his voice a shaky contradiction of his usual steel. His brown leather jacket is soaked in my blood, darkening in the moonlight. “It’s gonna be fine.” 

The warmth of his embrace feels like a distant memory, fading with each shallow breath I take. “Logan…” I breathe out again, my voice hoarse.

“Storm’s coming around with the jet. They’ll patch you up, okay?” His hazel eyes are brimming with tears, and I feel them as they drip onto my face, down onto my lips the salty taste mixing with my iron blood. “You’ll be fine.”

“James…” I murmur, calling him by the name few ever use. My trembling left-hand reaches for his face, brushing against the strands of gray now woven through his hair. He’s finally aging. “It’s okay… let me go.” I struggle to smile, my lips trembling as I take this moment to admire him, to remember him.

“No!” he growls, his pain cutting through the night like a blade. 

I cough again, more crimson splattering onto his chest. “Remember that I love you,” I whisper, my eyelids growing heavier with each second. “And… despite what they say… despite what the government says…” I pause, gathering the last of my strength, my hand still resting against his cheek. “You’re not an animal, Logan… So don’t be what they make you…out to be.” The world fades around me, the last thing I hear is the raw, broken sound of Logan’s voice calling my name.

~~~~

***Third Person***

Logan’s hazel eyes flutter open, squinting at the bright sunlight streaming through the half-drawn curtains. His head pounds with disorientation, and Roberta Flask's ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’ drifts softly from his bedside table, an oddly tender melody in the haze of his thoughts.

Did I do it? He wonders, blinking slowly. Is this all a dream?

He sits up, scanning the room around him. It feels familiar, yet distant, like a place he once knew but hasn't seen in years. The Wolverine's sharp hearing picks up the distant chime of the school bell, followed by the sounds of children's laughter and chatter, bouncing off the hallways beyond his door.

Still groggy, Logan rises and steps toward the door, his hand gripping the knob, almost unsure if it’s real. As he opens the door, his gaze catches the small figure of a child, their giggles trailing down the hall. His hazel eyes follow, and there, leaning casually against a doorframe stands Bobby. A wide, boyish grin spreads across his face as Rogue emerges from the room beside him. She takes Bobby’s hands in her own, her gloves a reminder of her powers. She catches Logan’s eye and flashes him a soft smile before walking away with Bobby.

Logan tilts his head, his heart pounding in disbelief. It worked. He draws a deep breath, chest tight with the awe of it all. 

He steps into the hallway, passing room after room, his senses alert to every sound, every sight. Kitty is teaching a class, her youthful face animated as she speaks to her students. Colossus stands beside her, arms crossed, nodding in approval. Both alive. Both here. A grin tugs at Logan’s lips as his gaze drifts to the unmistakable figure of Hank strutting down the corridor, a stack of books in hand, his blue fur glowing in the morning light.

“Morning, Logan!” Hank’s deep voice rumbles. “Late start, huh?” He chuckles, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he continues down the hall.

Logan grips the handrail as he descends the stairs, his mind still spinning. He spots Ororo in the foyer, her gray-white hair catching the light as she greets the children. “Storm…” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. She disappears down the hall before he can say more.

Then, he sees it—the door to the professor’s office, slightly ajar. His heart clenches with an unshakable guilt. He steps closer, glancing inside. His breath catches in his throat.

There she is. Jean. Alive. No longer the friend lying in a coffin thanks to him.

The world tilts beneath his feet.

“Jean…” His voice breaks, barely more than a whisper. 

She turns, her fiery hair glowing in the morning sun, offering him a soft smile. “Hey, Logan,” she greets casually, but her expression shifts to concern as she reads his face. “Are you alright?”

Logan takes a step closer, still in shock. “You’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” Jean furrows her brows, confused by his intensity.

Before Logan can say more, a familiar voice interrupts. “Whoa! Easy, pal,” Scott pushes Logan back gently, smirking.

Logan blinks, looking at Scott—his brother-in-arms, his rival, alive. He shakes his head in disbelief. “Well, some things never change.” He lets out a chuckle, resting a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Good to see you, Scott.” His mind flickers to Y/N, wondering if this reality has brought her back too.

“Uh-huh,” Scott responds, a smirk lingering on his face as he moves away, casting a glance toward Jean. “See you later.” He walks off, leaving Logan standing there, breathless.

“Professor…” The words tumble out of Logan’s mouth, almost in a trance.

Jean’s eyes widen with concern. “Logan, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I am,” Logan replies softly, nodding to her as she walks away.

His feet move of their own accord, taking him deeper into the office. There, behind the desk, is Charles. Logan exhales, his heart swelling with gratitude. 

“You did it,” Logan says, his voice raw with emotion. He steps closer, marveling at the sight of his old mentor.

“Did what?” Charles asks, tilting his head curiously as he tosses the book he was holding onto his desk. “Logan, don’t you have a class to teach?”

“A class?” Logan blinks in surprise. “T-to teach?”

“Aye. history.” Charles nods, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“History…” Logan exhales, shaking his head with a sigh. “Actually, I could use some help with that.”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “Help with what, exactly?”

Logan rubs the back of his neck, a smirk forming. “Pretty much everything after 1973… I think the history I know… might be a little different.”

The realization dawns on Charles, his eyes widening with understanding. He leans forward in his chair, his voice lowering to a gentle whisper. “Welcome back.”

Logan smiles, his chest tight with emotion. “It’s good to see you, Charles. It’s good to see everyone.”

Charles nods, his expression softening. “Well… I had a promise to keep. You and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

Logan exhales deeply, his breath shaky, the weight of his past decisions hanging heavy in the air. “Yeah…” His voice falters as his mind drifts back to a time that now feels like a distant dream. He remembers the words he told Charles days- no, years ago, the urgency of their mission and the promises made. But more than that, he remembers her—her face, her laughter, the way her presence had grounded him amidst the chaos. A dull ache forms in his chest, tightening around his ribs. 

“Is she here too?” Logan asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He doesn’t say her name, doesn’t have to. The question alone carries enough weight to sink the room in silence. He watches Charles closely, searching his face for hope, for some sign of a reunion he’s longed for.

Charles’ gaze drops to his lap, his hands resting lightly atop his knees. The air in the room shifts, thickening with unspoken truths. “Something...changed,” Charles begins, his tone hesitant, as if searching for the right words. His eyes are far away, lost in the intricacies of fate and time. “I suppose it makes sense... the probability of it all, the delicate balance.” He trails off, his voice distant. “With so many variables, something was bound to go astray.”

Logan’s brow furrows, impatience gnawing at him. His heartbeat quickens. “Where is she?” His words come out sharper than he intended, a mix of fear and hope tightening his chest.

Charles lifts his eyes, meeting Logan’s gaze with a heavy sadness. His voice is barely a murmur, each word weighed down by sorrow. “Logan… she never met you.” The room feels colder, darker. “She never became a Summers. She was taken off the street... by Stryker, when she was a teenager.”

The name hits Logan like a tidal wave. Stryker . His fists clench at his sides, muscles tensing with old rage. “What?” Logan’s voice cracks, barely able to hold back his disbelief.

“I had been keeping a close eye on her,” Charles continues, his own grief apparent in every syllable. “But sometime around 2000, she vanished. I’ve tried to find her—Jean has tried—but... she’s simply gone.” His voice echoes through the room, heavy with regret. 

Logan’s breath catches in his throat. A surge of anger, guilt, and helplessness wells up inside him. Gone. The word repeats in his mind like a death sentence. He pictures her, young, scared, pulled into the clutches of the man who had taken so much from him, from all of them. Stryker. The same bastard who had scarred him, shaped him into a weapon. 

He stands there, fists trembling at his sides, his mind racing with every possibility, every alternate path that could have saved her. But the reality remains. The timeline has shifted, and the woman he knew, the one who had filled a void in his soul, had been lost to him long before this new future even began. 

Logan swallows hard, his throat thick with emotion. “You can’t find her?” His voice is strained, tinged with desperation. He looks to Charles, searching for any glimmer of hope. 

But Charles shakes his head. "No." The finality of it feels like a punch to the gut.

Chapter Text

"Ya know, running isn’t gonna solve anything…” A slow, taunting voice echoes through the facility’s speakers, its drawl crawling over the concrete walls. My bare feet slap against the wet floor, each footfall sharp and frantic, reverberating through the endless corridors. The cold air clings to my skin, mingling with my ragged breath as I sprint, my pulse pounding in my ears.

I round a corner, chest heaving, lungs burning. The dim fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting long shadows that stretch like claws across the cold, gray concrete. Every hall looks the same—an endless maze beneath Alkali Lake, and I’m lost in it. Panic claws at the edges of my mind as I try to orient myself, every turn twisting deeper into uncertainty.

A low hiss fills the air, insidious, like the whisper of a predator. My breath catches in my throat, eyes widening as I see the thin tendrils of fog unfurling from the vents above. The gas is thick, heavy, curling toward me like an unseen hand ready to choke the life from my body. 

“It’s a shame you wouldn’t cooperate with us…” The voice is closer now, almost mocking, watching from some unseen vantage point. The threat in his words lingers in the air like poison.

My hands tremble as I grit my teeth, anger swelling in my chest. “Go fuck yourself!” I shout, my voice bouncing off the steel and stone, but the words feel hollow against the growing haze.

I stumble forward, dizziness settling in, the edges of my vision blurring. The gas is working fast, creeping into my lungs, making each breath more labored than the last. Footsteps thunder in the distance, growing louder, sharper, until I can hear the unmistakable clink of boots on metal and the rattle of guns being raised.

The guards pour in from the adjoining corridors, closing in like wolves. For a moment, pure instinct takes over. I reach out with my mind, pushing past the fog in my head, grasping for control. Their minds snap to attention—an invisible tether linking them to me. With a surge of will, I twist their perception, turning their weapons on each other. The sharp crack of gunfire echoes through the corridors as they fall one by one, the air thick with the scent of blood and smoke.

But the victory is fleeting.

The gas dulls my senses, my hold on their minds slipping like sand through my fingers. My legs give out beneath me, muscles turning to lead. My vision narrows, the world around me becoming a blur of gray and red. I collapse to the cold, unforgiving floor, the concrete biting into my skin. 

Numbness seeps into my limbs, heavy and paralyzing. The last thing I feel is the chill of the floor beneath me, the fog thickening in my lungs as my body succumbs, limp and defenseless. 

The voice crackles through the speaker again, distorted and distant. “Sleep tight…”

***

Sometimes the darkness recedes, and fragments of my past flicker through the void, like old film reels half-faded and stuttering. I catch glimpses of my childhood—the rough, lonely years on the road after my parents kicked me out. The smell of gasoline and dirt roads fills my mind, the sting of rejection biting at the edges of every memory. I see my teenage self, desperate and sorrowful, drowning in the haze of mind-numbing pills. They dulled my empathetic powers, blurred the edges of the world so I wouldn’t have to feel the weight of everyone else’s pain. But they also dulled me—left me hollow, drifting through those years like a ghost, half-alive.

Sometimes, I see him. An old man with a bald head, eyes full of purpose, always searching for something—someone—but never finding them. His face is a distant silhouette, his presence like a whisper at the edge of my consciousness, haunting but never close enough to touch. His search feels endless, like a dream that loops without resolution, just out of reach.

I don’t know how long it’s been like this—this strange limbo, floating between memories and darkness, caught in the space between life and death. Time doesn’t exist here. The weight of it presses down on me, heavy and suffocating, like I’m suspended in an endless night. Not dead, but not really living either. Always close to the edge, but never quite crossing over.

Suddenly, an icy chill runs through my veins, my body stiff as though frozen in time. My chest convulses, forcing a ragged breath into my lungs, bringing me violently back to consciousness. “Welcome back…” A voice, sharp and foreign, greets me, cutting through the daze clouding my mind. I stumble forward, disoriented, stepping out of the suffocating glass coffin that held me, only for my legs to buckle beneath me. I crash to the cold floor.

“Whoa there! Where you think you’re going?” The man’s laughter grates against my ears, his tone mocking. 

Blinking, I lift my head, forcing my gaze up to meet his. My brows furrow as I try to focus, but he waves a robotic, metal finger in front of me, his motion slow and chastising, like scolding a child. “Ah-ah-ah!” he clicks his tongue, eyes gleaming with smug amusement. Two guards step out from the shadows, their presence sudden and looming, and before I can react, they fasten a cold, heavy collar around my neck. 

The instant it clicks into place, the cacophony of emotions swirling around the room—the fear, the tension, the chaotic noise that I’d sensed—snuffs out. What did he do to me?

“Can’t have you turning us against each other now, can we?” the man continues, his voice dripping with superiority. “We’ve had you stashed in storage for God knows how long, now it’s about time you made yourself useful. ” He chuckles again, a cold, empty sound that crawls under my skin.

I grit my teeth, struggling to form words as my body fights to regain control. “Who the hell are you? And where the hell am I?” My voice is hoarse, the words thick and heavy on my tongue.

“Name’s Pierce,” he drawls, hovering over my broken form as though savoring the moment. “And you, my friend, have been asleep for twenty-five years. Gotta say, you haven’t aged a day.” His lips curl into a cruel smile. “Looks like that shitty cryosleep tech held up after all. Good thing too, considering you’ve been bounced around from place to place since Stryker went down.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut—twenty years. Stryker . My mind reels, fragments of the past clawing their way to the surface. 

Pierce kneels down to my eye level, his cold, metallic hand gripping my chin with a vice-like force, making my skin burn where the metal meets flesh. His eyes narrow as he studies me, as though I’m some kind of specimen rather than a person. “Hmm…” he mutters, his head tilting slightly, lost in thought. There’s a calculating coldness behind his gaze, one that makes my stomach twist with unease. 

“Hold her down,” he orders, his voice casual, like he’s asking for the time. The soldiers obey without hesitation, their hands gripping my shoulders, lifting me off the floor with a brutality that sends pain shooting through my limbs. They slam me down onto a metal gurney, their hold unrelenting. I thrash against their grip, but it’s useless, I’m too tired.

The nurses, standing in their sterile white uniforms, move closer, some of them with guilt flickering in their eyes. But that guilt doesn’t stop them. They reach for needles, cold and gleaming, jamming them into my veins with precision, siphoning off my blood like I’m nothing more than a resource to be harvested. The sharp sting of each needle is nothing compared to the cold dread that sinks deeper into my chest.

Hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Staring up at the harsh, sterile light of the hospital ceiling, I force my voice to work, though it trembles with fear. “What do you want with me?” My lip quivers, the question hanging in the cold, clinical air between us.

Pierce strolls over, his steps slow and deliberate, hands clasped in front of his waist like he’s enjoying the show. “Stryker tried to tame you,” he says smirking, voice dripping with disdain. “Tried to manipulate you, bend you to his will. But we both know that’ll never work, don’t we?” His eyes flick to one of the nurses, who labels a vial of my blood with careful precision. The label reads, ‘Y/n L/n Genes.’

Pierce’s eyes gleam with twisted satisfaction as he turns back to me. “So, we’re just gonna nab that DNA of yours. And from it, we’ll create something new. Something better. Something improved.” His smile widens, cruel and full of dark promises. “You’re just the blueprint, sweetheart. Nothing more.”

Chapter Text

Logan shuts the metal door behind him with a heavy clang, the sound echoing through the rundown warehouse. It’s a far cry from the world they once knew—his home, his hideout, his sanctuary now reduced to this dilapidated shell of a place. Charles’ voice drifts through the air, rambling in disjointed sentences, audible even from this distance. Logan lets out a weary sigh, dropping his duffle bag onto the nearby table with a loud thud, the weight of it matching the exhaustion in his bones.

“He’s having a bad day,” Caliban’s voice pierces through the quiet, the albino man standing off to the side, arms crossed as he observes Logan’s entrance.

“They’re all bad days,” Logan mutters, fishing a small white prescription bag from his pant pocket and tossing it onto the counter. The weariness in his voice betrays the toll of too many long nights, too many fights that never seem to end.

“He needed these six hours ago,” Caliban replies, inspecting the crumpled paper bag with a critical eye. Logan limps over to the sink, the slight hitch in his step evidence of a wound that never quite healed.

“This is not enough, you know.” Caliban moves about the dingy kitchen, his movements calculated as Logan pops open the fridge and grabs a beer. “Won’t see us through the week.”

“I’m working on it,” Logan responds through a sigh, turning just as Caliban holds out the medicine toward him.

“Your turn.” Caliban’s tone is flat, but the unspoken weight lingers in the air. “I’ve had a rough night.”

Logan rolls his eyes and snatches the bag, the pills rattling. “Well… poor you.” His sarcasm is as sharp as ever as he slams the beer down on the counter with a dull thud, heading down the hall.

“In other news,” Caliban continues, watching Logan with a knowing gaze. “He told me last night he’s communicating with someone.”

Logan shakes his head, flicking on the lights illuminating the space as he searches for something. “He’s not talking to anybody.”

“Don’t be so sure…” Caliban presses. “He’s got all these details. Even says they have a friend that you know.”

Logan pauses for a moment, his brow furrowing, but he quickly brushes it off. “I thought that tank was supposed to act as a barrier,” Caliban adds, his voice trailing after Logan. “It’s got them cracks in it.”

“Just please stop,” Logan snaps, rifling through a drawer with quick, irritated movements. 

“Bottom left,” Caliban directs, his tone calm amidst the tension. Logan grabs what he needs, a quick nod of thanks passing between them before he heads toward the door, prepping the vial and needle as he walks.

“You’re not listening,” Caliban persists, his footsteps following Logan’s down the hall. “He’s been asking questions again—about why we’re here. I think he’s trying to read my mind.”

“That’s what these are for.” Logan raises the bag of pills over his shoulder, pushing open the heavy door that leads to the sun-scorched exterior of their hideout.

The wind whips against him as he strides toward the water tank, its rusted frame standing like a grim reminder of the life they now lead. He opens the door, the metal creaking as he steps inside, shutting the world out behind him. 

Inside, the chaos of Charles’ mind is palpable—his voice echoes in waves of confusion and pain. Logan fights through it, trying to remain steady as Charles’ seizure hits with brutal force. After a desperate game of cat and mouse with the delirious professor, Logan finally gets the needle in, watching as the medicine flows into Charles’ veins, calming the storm raging in his mind.

Carefully, Logan lifts Charles’ frail body, placing him back in his bed with the tenderness of someone who’s been through this too many times. He hands him the pills, the same routine they’ve done a hundred times before. 

“What are these?” Charles asks, his voice faint and confused.

“You remember what they are,” Logan replies, holding out the cup of water. “The shots mellow the seizures. The pills keep them from happening.” Charles stares at the pills, suspicion clouding his features. “How about you blow on them to make them safe?” Logan quips, leaning over the bed with a hint of his usual dry humor.

“Fuck off, Logan,” Charles grumbles, his old defiance flickering for a brief moment.

Logan smirks. “Oh, so you remember who I am now.”

“I will always know who you are,” Charles says softly, his voice tinged with regret. “It’s just sometimes I don’t recognize you.”

Logan sighs, watching as Charles hesitates, still holding the pills. “Take the pills,” he orders, standing up to clean the clutter of the room. 

“You leave me alone with that fucking albino,” Charles complains, his frustration boiling over. “He doesn’t listen to me. I know a damn speciation when I see one.”

“A what?” Logan turns, eyebrow raised in confusion.

“Speciation. A new mutant—a young one,” Charles mutters urgently. “There are forces trying to kill them.”

Logan shakes his head at the notion. “Forces?” He scoffs, moving to pick up Charles’ overturned wheelchair. “It’s too bad you’re not in that business anymore.”

“They don’t want me,” Charles presses, his voice hoarse. “They want you. They have her, but it’s not enough.” Logan stops what he’s doing, almost laughing at the absurdity of it all. “Oh yes, that’s how fucking stupid they are…They’re waiting for you at the Statue of Liberty,” Charles continues, his voice a shadow of the man he once was.

Logan sighs heavily, rolling the chair to his bedside before taking a seat on the edge. “The Statue of Liberty was a long time ago, Charles. There are no new mutants. There haven’t been in 25 years. And Y/n is dead—you told me so yourself, understand?” His voice is low, pained, as he tucks Charles into bed. “You always thought we were part of God’s plan,” Logan murmurs, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “But maybe… maybe we were God’s mistake.” Logan shakes his head, his hands folded in his lap. Charles had been going on about Y/n being alive for 4 years now, but he spent his time looking for her in the past--before everything went to shit. She was gone.

For a moment, silence fills the room. Charles reaches up, gripping Logan’s bearded jaw with surprising strength. “What a disappointment you are,” he breathes, his voice a mix of sorrow and frustration. Logan pulls away, not meeting his gaze. “When I found you,” Charles continues, his voice rising, “you were pursuing a career as a cage fighter. A warm capper to a life as an assassin. Hooked on barbiturates. You were an animal.”

Logan rises to his feet, not wanting to hear more, grabbing Charles’ old meal tray and heading for the door. 

“But we took you in,” Charles calls after him. “I gave you a family.”

“They’re gone now,” Logan responds grimly, his voice cracking just slightly.

“Logan,” Charles pleads, gripping the bedrail as Logan steps through the doorway. “Logan… what did you do? What did you do? Answer me!”

Logan doesn’t look back as he opens the door. “It’s for your own good,” he mutters.

“No, no, it’s not!” Charles’ anguished cry echoes through the round room, but Logan slams the door shut behind him, his heart as heavy as the silence that follows.

*** Y/n’s POV ***

Gabriela’s voice is quiet, almost fragile, as she peers out the window. Her eyes track Laura, who’s playing with a ball in the damp motel parking lot, completely unaware of the gravity hanging in the air inside the room. "In case something happens to me... I need you to look after her. You know that, right?" Her voice is steady, but the weight behind it tugs at my heart.

"I know," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper, heavy with the looming sense of loss. After everything we’ve been through, it’s hard to even entertain the idea of her not being here, but she speaks about it as if it’s inevitable—like a natural part of life. I can't fathom it, yet there it is.

Suddenly, Gabriela tenses, her gaze narrowing as headlights cut through the dim motel room. "He’s here..." she mutters, her voice filled with quiet urgency. Without a moment's hesitation, she practically throws the door open. The cold night air rushes in, but all my focus is on the man standing just outside.

"Mr. Logan," Gabriela calls out, her voice stronger now, filled with desperation. I pull the curtain back slightly, allowing my eyes to fall on the figure by the car. He’s not what I expected. Something about him is…different…than others. So much hurt and pain that could only be explained by lifetimes of anguish. His steps are slow, and deliberate, with a limp that shouldn’t be possible for a man with his supposed powers. This is the Wolverine, the legend of whispers and rumors. But in front of me, he just looks… tired.

Logan mumbles something under his breath, barely audible, before turning back toward his limo with that noticeable limp. His silhouette under the dim streetlights speaks volumes about the man’s battles, both external and internal.

"Please, we need a ride," Gabriela pleads, stepping out further into the night. Her hands are buried deep in the pockets of her worn coat, a futile attempt to hold herself together. 

"Not available," Logan huffs, his tone dismissive as he keeps walking toward the car. "Call a cab."

Gabriela glances back at me, her eyes filled with silent pleas. "My name is Gabriela Lopez—"

"I don’t wanna know your name, lady." Logan cuts her off, his tone sharp and unfeeling. The bitterness in his words stings, a stark reminder of just how far the mighty have fallen. Some hero, indeed.

"There are men after us. We need to get out of here. We need to get out of here, go north, cross into Canada," Gabriela persists, her desperation rising with every word. She follows after him, not ready to give up, even though I can see it in her posture—the exhaustion, the weight of too many close calls.

From inside, I glance at Laura again, watching her play with that ball. There’s an innocence to her movements, a carefree nature that contrasts sharply with the dark world we’re running from. I feel a pang of protectiveness stir deep in my chest, like the motherly instinct that drives Gabriela to keep fighting for her. I can’t help but feel it too.

"Anyone can do that job," Logan mutters as he opens the driver-side door, his indifference stinging.

"I’ll give you $50,000," Gabriela presses, her voice steady but strained. It’s enough to catch his attention.

Logan pauses, turning toward her. "How did you find me, huh? 'Cause you are fucking up my life, lady! The people after you—they’re on my ass now!" His voice rises, frustration boiling over as he points accusingly at her.

"Sightings were posted," Gabriela explains, keeping her composure. "Laura, go inside to Empática."

His eyes flick toward mine, just for a moment, before I hastily pull the curtain closed. There’s something in that brief glance, something unspoken. A familiarity, perhaps, or maybe just recognition of the weight we both carry.

"What sightings?" Logan growls, his eyes narrowing.

"People said someone who looked like the Wolverine was in El Paso. Driving. Said he looked old."

Suddenly, the sharp sound of shattering glass breaks the tension, and I flinch. My body tenses as my mind jumps to the worst, but it’s only Laura. She’s accidentally broken a windowpane while playing with her ball. Relief washes over me, but it’s short-lived.

"Hey! I told you to stop it with that ball!" The motel manager’s voice is shrill, and my heart leaps into my throat. Without thinking, I rush out the door, positioning myself between Laura and the approaching woman.

"Hey! Stop! Leave her alone!" I stammer, my arms instinctively rising in a protective stance. Laura’s wide eyes stare up at me, confused but trusting. 

A fiery gaze burns into my side, one of recognition and of love-- but before I can react to the newfound feelings, Gabriela is by our side pleading with the middle-aged lady to leave. “No! No! Please!” She rambles before falling to her feet out of exhaustion. 

 "Gabriela!" I drop to my knees beside her, panic flaring as I check her wounds. The stitches have torn open. Damn it, she didn’t tell me.

The hotel manager glares at us, pointing her rolled-up newspaper accusingly. "They’re gonna have to pay for damages! And they have cash! I seen it!"

Logan steps in, his voice a low growl. "You should get your fat ass back in your office. You’ll get your money." He helps Gabriela to her feet, his gruffness barely hiding the concern beneath. There’s more to him than he lets on.

"Don’t let her call anyone, please," Gabriela begs as we limp back into the dingy motel room. "They will find us. They will kill us."

I nod, trying to keep it together, knowing full well how high the stakes are. "It’ll be alright," I whisper to Laura, rubbing her small shoulder. I don’t know if I believe it, but I need her to feel safe. 

As Logan and Gabriela speak, I notice Laura lingering by the door, drawn to the conversation. Logan’s eyes flick toward her briefly before returning to Gabriela. "Is that your daughter?" His voice is softer now, less gruff.

"Yes," Gabriela pants, the word heavy with meaning. "I know you’re still good inside. I know you want to help us."

"You don’t know anything about me," he spits, but there’s a hesitation in his words now. A crack in the armor.

"Please!" Gabriela’s voice breaks. "I promise, there will be no problems if we leave now."

Logan runs a hand through his hair, clearly torn. "I can’t just leave to North Dakota!" His frustration spills over.

"We have to be there by Friday," Gabriela insists, her breath labored.

"Or what?" He grunts, clearly at his limit.

"Or we miss our chance to cross. Please." Her eyes shift toward me, pleading. I don’t say a word, but when Logan turns to me, his expression is raw—broken in a way that mirrors my own.

"You have to. Please. Please," Gabriela begs again, and with one last look in my direction, Logan nods. He doesn’t say anything, just leaves the room, the weight of his silent agreement hanging in the air.

"You know what you have to do," Gabriela says, her voice faint as she tightens her bandage, wincing. I don’t say anything, but I feel it—the unspoken responsibility settling over me like a shroud.

"Protect them," I answer grimly. I cross my arms tightly over my chest, the grip firm, bracing myself for what’s to come.

Chapter Text

“Just stay quiet,” I murmur to Laura, our bodies squeezed into the cramped, dark trunk of the car. The air is thick with tension, the tight space forcing us to breathe in shallow whispers. I can't see her, but I hear the soft rustling of her clothes and the subtle shifts of her small frame, letting me know she’s nodding. 

The car slows, jerking slightly as it pulls into park. Without warning, Laura clamors to push the trunk open, desperate for freedom from the oppressive heat. “Laura, wait!” I hiss, my voice barely above a whisper. I stumble out after her, blinking against the sunlight that assaults my eyes.

Ahead, Logan strides toward a worn-down building, his broad frame tense with purpose. Another man, shrouded in layers of clothing, his face not visible, calls after him. We duck behind a cluster of overturned barrels, my heart racing as I peek between the gaps. 

A military-type car pulls into the driveway. Pierce, the man with the robotic arm, steps forward, exchanging words with Logan. His voice is calm, too calm.

Beside me, Laura stands gripping a lone metal pipe she found on the ground, her knuckles turning white as she eyes Pierce with dangerous intent. Before I can stop her, she lets out a feral roar and hurls the pipe with unnerving precision, knocking Pierce to the ground. The clang of metal against flesh echoes in the still air as his body hits the dirt, unconscious. 

I remain crouched, tugging at Laura’s wrist, her small hand gripped tightly in mine. My pulse quickens as a new presence fills the air, their emotions a tangled mess of confusion and sorrow. 

“Logan… Logan!” an old man’s voice calls out, crackling with age. The man rolls into view, wheeling himself forward in a battered old chair. His presence sends a chill down my spine, recognition blossoming deep in my chest. It’s him—the man from my dreams, the one who feels like home and heartbreak all at once.

“This is Laura,” the old man says gently, “Caliban, come!” The shrouded figure from earlier steps forward at his side. “This is who I’ve been telling you about. This is Laura... and an old friend, Y/N.”

I freeze, my body stiffening at the mention of my name. Old friend? My eyes dart between them, unsure of what to think. Laura steps forward, her usually hardened expression softening as the man speaks to her in soothing tones, his words in Spanish. I don’t understand much of it, but whatever he says seems to calm her, and she inches closer.

“No, Laura, wait,” I call out, rising to my feet, but the old man waves us over, his frail hand gesturing for us to follow. 

“It’s alright,” he reassures, his voice soft but commanding. “Come, come here.”

That feeling—grief, sorrow, love, and recognition—hits me again, stronger this time. I turn and meet Logan’s gaze, his eyes heavy with something I can’t quite place. He looks at me like he’s seen a ghost, and for a brief moment, the air between us is thick with unspoken words. But Laura’s impatient tug on my hand breaks the spell, and I follow her to the man in the wheelchair.

Charles, the old man, rolls forward, leading us through the ‘yard’ toward a dingy, makeshift home. “It’s safe here,” he assures, leading us into the kitchen, handing Laura a bowl of cereal. He hands me a glass of water, my parched throat grateful for the relief. His eyes linger on us, filled with wonder and something deeper—hope. 

Without a word, Laura begins eating, her tiny hands clutching the bowl as if it’s the only solid thing in her world. Charles starts communicating with her, but not with words. There’s something unspoken, something telepathic, passing between them. 

Logan enters the kitchen, his steps heavy with exhaustion. His gaze sweeps over us, then lands on Laura’s bag. Without warning, he grabs it, tugging at the worn fabric. Laura’s eyes narrow as she grips the bag in return, and they’re locked in a silent battle of tug-o-war.

“Logan… Logan!” Charles warns, his voice edged with concern.

“Hey, hey!” Logan growls, yanking the bag again. “You’ll get it back after I figure out what the hell you and your mother got us into.”

“No, Logan,” Charles pleads, wheeling himself closer. 

Logan’s grip falters, and the bag slips from his hands, clattering to the counter. Laura snatches it up immediately, clutching it to her chest like it holds her entire world. She glares at him before resuming her meal, spoon clinking against the bowl.

Frustrated, Logan storms down the steps into the ‘living room’, and Charles follows, his wheelchair creaking under the pressure. I’m left standing there, torn between following Logan and staying with Laura. But I made a promise to Gabriela—I can’t abandon Laura.

“That wasn’t her mother you met,” Charles murmurs as they head further into the room.

Logan’s voice drifts back, laden with sarcasm. “So she talks.”

“We’re communicating,” Charles says, his voice a soft rebuke.

“Communicating,” Logan scoffs. He grabs a bottle of pills and pops the cap, dropping a few into Charles’ hand. “Take these. We need to leave. It’s not safe anymore. You can’t have an attack out there.”

Charles nods, his gaze distant. “Yes, but... this is the mutant I told you about, and Y/N is still alive like I said. They need our help.”

Still alive? My brows furrow.

Logan glares at Laura, his voice low and bitter. “She’s not a mutant.”

“Yes, she is!” Charles argues, his tone rising with insistence.

“What’s her gift, Charles? Eating? Pipe throwing?” He rebuttals.

Logan’s frustration bubbles over, and before he can argue further, the ground begins to tremble. Laura’s eyes widen with fear, and I instinctively reach for her hand. Logan goes to investigate out the window.

“It’s okay. It’s just a train.” Charles repeats the saying to Laura in broken Spanish. “It’s okay—choo-choo,” He says softly, trying to ease the tension, his voice fragile with age. But the moment is shattered by Logan barging back inside.

“It’s not a choo-choo,” he huffs, his limp pronounced as he storms toward a security camera monitor. His eyes narrow, taking in something ominous outside.

I sit up, heart pounding. “Then what is it?”

“Just sit down,” Charles insists, his voice wavering. He’s trying to calm us, but the air is thick with a growing sense of dread.

Logan doesn’t stop moving. His hands clamp down on Charles’ wheelchair, the muscles in his arms taut. “We gotta go. Now.”

“What?” Charles whips his head toward Logan, confusion plastered across his weathered face.

“Stay here,” Logan growls at us, not bothering to answer Charles.

“What’s going on? Where?” The old man presses.

His eyes dart to Laura and me. “Don’t move.”

He begins wheeling Charles out, but the older man looks back at us, alarm flaring in his eyes. “Where are we going?” Charles asks again, his voice climbing in pitch. His gaze shifts between Laura and me, softening. “Don’t worry. He’ll come back for you two,” he says gently, though there’s a tremble in his voice. They disappear out the door, leaving us alone.

I reach out to Laura, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Laura, it’ll be okay. They won’t leave us.” I try to keep my voice steady, but the rising tension in my chest betrays me. “Gabriela said he would protect us.”

Suddenly, a swarm of emotions floods the vicinity, swirling like a storm—hostility, anger, anticipation. I rush to the window, my breath catching in my throat. Soldiers—at least a dozen—are encircling the limo outside.

The door bursts open. Soldiers flood the room. Panic surges through me. “Laura, we need to—” Before I can finish, Laura explodes into action. Her claws unsheath with a sickening 'snikt', and she slices through the men like paper, a whirlwind of lethal precision.

“Shit,” I mutter, ducking for cover. Blood splatters the walls, and in seconds, the soldiers lie dead at her feet. Laura strides toward the front door, her bag slung confidently over her shoulder as if nothing happened.

I scramble after her, bursting into the open air just in time to see Pierce standing out amongst the crowd, his cocky smirk making my blood boil.

“That’s my girl!” he calls out, voice dripping with twisted admiration. “Hey, baby!” His hand wiggles mockingly in our direction. Pierce’s gaze drifts from Laura to me. “Where d’you think you’re going? Not like you can do much anymore.”

I grit my teeth, the rage burning through my veins, but Laura remains focused, her dark eyes gleaming with something far more dangerous than fury.

Without a word, she flings the decapitated head of one of the soldiers at Pierce’s feet. It bounces, rolling to a stop, a silent threat.

Pierce sighs, shaking his head like a disappointed father. “Laura…” He steps forward, raising a finger in warning as more soldiers close in behind him. “Hey, you wanna stay where you are.” His voice is laced with fake concern. He shifts his gaze to me, hoping I’ll back him up. “You wanna see your friends again, right? Y/N, tell her.”

I stay silent, my jaw clenched. There’s nothing to say. Laura’s eyes narrow, her grip tightening on her bag.

Behind us, one of Pierce’s men shouts something in Spanish, a command that ripples through the squad. Pierce raises a hand, silencing him. “Command, stop.”

The soldier speaks in English this time. “You said alive or dead.”

Laura takes a step closer, her posture calm but coiled with lethal intent. She shrugs her bag off her shoulder, holding it loosely by one strap in her right hand.

“Laura. Laura!” Pierce’s voice wavers as he points at her, but it’s too late. The unmistakable sound of her claws slicing free echoes in the tense silence. Guns cock in response. 

“No. No!” Pierce backs up quickly. “Move! Go!”

Chaos erupts. I duck behind the limo as bullets rain down, the sounds of steel cutting through flesh and bone filling the air. Laura moves like a shadow, leaping atop the building, after slicing through soldiers with ferocious speed.

“Stop shooting!” Pierce shouts desperately. “She heals! Move! Go!”

Logan emerges from the other side of the car, eyes wide. “Holy shit,” he mutters, rising to his feet.

I hear a voice, low and hoarse, calling my name. “Y/N…”

I rise cautiously, opening the car door to find Charles, worn and exhausted, looking at me like he’s seen a ghost. “It’s been a long time,” he whispers as I sit beside him.

“Who the fuck are you?” I almost laugh, baffled by the strange familiarity he holds toward me. But before I can respond, another soldier lunges inside the car, though they’re quickly thrown out by Logan.

Logan tears open the driver’s side door and collapses into the seat, his eyes dark with determination. “As I told you, Logan,” Charles says from the backseat, “she’s a mutant… just like you.”

The car roars to life, and I’m thrown back into my seat. “Hold on!” Logan shouts.

I scramble to keep myself upright, glancing frantically toward the windshield. “Hey, wait! What about Laura?” I yell, but my words get swallowed by the noise.

Suddenly, I see her. Laura is locked in battle with a soldier up ahead, her claws gleaming in the sunlight.

Logan slams the brakes, kicking up a cloud of dust. Laura leaps onto the hood, her small frame agile as she clambers over the car and dives in through the moonroof, landing beside Charles. 

Bullets pepper the car, and Laura immediately shields Charles with her body. She lets out a feral growl as one of the shots hits her, crawling over to a nearby seat to dig the bullet out of her arm with her teeth.

I stumble toward the front, gripping the back of the passenger seat as Logan floors it. The limo speeds forward, the rusted metal gate looming in front of us. My heart races, panic surging. We’re going to hit it.

“Hold on!” Logan yells. The car slams into the gate with a sickening crunch. We all lurch forward, and the limo stalls, wedged against the metal.

“Fuck!” Logan spits, slamming the car into reverse. But the barbed wire is hooked into the grill, and armed trucks are closing in on us from all sides.

Logan growls in frustration. He jerks the wheel, dragging the fence with us as he backs up. Soldiers on motorcycles surround us, their guns trained on the limo.

More bullets pierce the windows, and Laura lets out another guttural scream as soldiers reach inside to grab her. But she’s faster. Her claws flash out, slicing the man’s arm clean off, then piercing the other's skull.

As we ride along the up coming train a massive SUV slams into us, shaking the limo violently. Logan grits his teeth, gripping the steering wheel, then guns the engine. The car swerves across the road, launching us over the train tracks just as an oncoming train smashes into the SUV behind us, obliterating it.

For a brief moment, we’re free, the long, endless train separating us from our pursuers.

Logan glances at us in the rearview mirror. “Sit back,” he barks.

I do as he says, sinking into my seat, my hands shaking.

We get back on the road, the chaos momentarily behind us. Logan glares at Laura through the mirror, his knuckles white on the wheel. “You!” he snaps, his voice low and dangerous. “Hey, I asked you a question. Who are you?”

Laura stares at him silently, her small hands tracing the bullet holes in the window.

“You know who she is, Logan,” Charles murmurs from the back, his voice soft and tired.

Logan doesn’t look at him, shaking his head. “No, I don’t.”

Charles smiles weakly. “Does she remind you of anybody?”

Chapter Text

The sun beats down on my back as I lean against the red metal railing, the warmth seeping through my clothes. The heat feels heavy, almost comforting, as I watch Laura, for once, just being a kid. She’s perched on one of those old, coin-operated electric ponies you’d find at the mall, the kind I used to beg my mom to let me ride. Laura’s tiny hands grip the worn reins, her face serious despite the childishness of the moment.

A sharp metallic clatter pulls me from my thoughts. Laura’s rattling the change machine violently, frustration etched on her face as the ride grinds to a halt.

"Laura, honey, it's done," I call out gently, but she doesn’t stop, her little body still shaking the machine as if sheer force will make the pony move again.

“Laura, stop!” I snap, pushing myself off the railing when I spot Logan stepping out of the limo. He strides over, and before I can reach her, her claws 'snikt' out of her hands, glinting in the harsh sunlight. The sight of them—those deadly weapons on such a small child—sends a chill up my spine.

Logan reaches her in two long strides, grabbing her wrist before she can do anything reckless. She lets out a low growl, her eyes blazing, but Logan doesn’t flinch. With his free hand, he digs into his pocket, pulling out a single quarter.

She tugs her arm free from his grip, her claws retracting with a hiss. “Last ride,” he mutters, his voice gruff but steady. He drops the coin into the machine, the mechanical pony jolting back to life. 

A brief silence follows, thick with unsaid words. Logan turns, his eyes meeting hers for a moment longer. “You’re welcome,” he huffs before striding past me, heading toward Charles, who’s already wheeling himself into the restroom.

I watch Logan disappear inside, their voices rising in a muffled argument. For a moment, I allow myself peace, resting my elbows against the red pipes.. I close my eyes, letting the sun wash over me, its warmth mixing with the occasional cool gust of desert wind. It’s peaceful, the vastness of the desert stretching out endlessly before me, like an oasis of solitude amidst the chaos of everything.

Then, a familiar ping hums deep in my chest, feelings that aren’t my own. I sigh, the weight of it pressing against me like a second skin. “It’s rude to stare,” I mutter, not even bothering to look over my shoulder.

“Do I know you or something?” I ask, turning lazily to my left.

Logan stands there, lingering in front of the restroom door like a man caught in a memory. His shoulders are slouched, his face worn and tired. He shakes his head slowly as if the answer weighs him down. “No,” he replies, his voice low, gravelly, and full of regret. “But I know you--knew you.” He corrects himself, eyes distant, as though he’s seeing something—or someone—else in my place.

I open my mouth to ask what he means, but before I can, his hazel eyes snap back to the present, scanning the area quickly. “Where’s the kid?” he asks, his tone sharpening.

“Shit.” I spin around, my heart dropping into my stomach. The pony sits there, no longer rocking, and Laura nowhere to be seen.

Logan clears his throat and moves past me, his limp more pronounced now, heading toward the convenience store. There’s a tension in his step, an urgency that sends me scrambling after him.

Inside, I hear it—Laura’s growl, low and menacing. Logan practically rips the glass door open, his voice raised. “Not okay!”

I rush over peering through the window, and there she is, her wrist gripped tightly in Logan’s hand, her claws out again, their wicked points aimed at the now pale, wide-eyed store clerk. The poor man lies frozen on the floor, too terrified to move.

Logan pulls her away, holding her tightly as she struggles, her eyes wild with defiance. 

His gaze flicks to me, frustration written all over his face. “Come on. Get in the car,” he orders, dragging Laura along behind him. She glares at him, but there’s something else there too—something softer, almost like trust.

I fall into step beside them, my heart still pounding from the close call, but I can’t help but glance at Logan. The way he handles her, the weight of his protectiveness—it’s like watching a man caught between duty and something much deeper, but it’s something he won’t let himself fully acknowledge.

***

Hours have passed since that moment, and I find myself sitting on the hood of the car, my legs dangling over the edge, swinging idly. The distant lights of the city blink in and out on the horizon like faint beacons, and the cool night air whispers against my skin, sharp with the bite of desert chill. It's quiet out here, too quiet. In the stillness, memories creep back in—dark, suffocating memories from that place. That hell. They took everything from me, and tore me apart piece by piece until there was almost nothing left. Part of me wishes they’d just killed me.

Hot tears slip down my cheeks, unwelcome, their warmth contrasting with the night air. I wipe them away hastily with the back of my hand, my chest tight with the pain of it all.

The car shifts beneath me, and behind me, I hear the creak of a door opening and then the soft thud as it closes again. I stiffen, forcing the tears back. “Did you find what you were looking for?” I ask, keeping my voice low, mindful not to disturb Laura and Charles, both asleep inside.

Logan sighs as he strolls over, his footsteps slow and tired. He leans against the hood next to me, his presence solid and familiar. The car groans slightly under his weight, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.

“Just still trying to figure out where you fit into all this,” Logan grunts, his voice rough, yet softer than usual, though still heavy with unspoken thoughts.

I let out a bitter laugh, lifting my hand and holding it in front of my face, studying it like it’s a stranger’s. “I’m one of the few people who can calm her down,” I say quietly, my eyes tracing the lines of my palm as if the answers are written there. “Gabriela…she was one of the only nurses who knew about me, who actually cared. When they set us free, she took me with her. I helped soothe Laura during the escape. I made a promise to her.” My voice cracks as the memories of Gabriela flood back. “I promised I’d protect them.”

My hand drops limply into my lap, and I feel the angry sting of tears pricking at my eyes again. “But I can’t do shit. Haven’t been able to for years. Not after what they did to me.” My voice breaks, my bottom lip trembling.

Logan takes off his glasses, rubbing at the tense muscles in his face, his fingers pressing hard against his temples like he’s trying to hold back something, too. 

“Sorry,” I hum softly, embarrassed. “I’m not used to being able to talk about this stuff.” My fingers begin tapping anxiously against the cool black metal of the hood, the motion doing little to quell the storm inside me.

He still doesn’t say anything, but I notice his hands—clenched into fists, shaking. His emotions swirl around us, heavy and suffocating. They build, storming and crashing inside him, spilling over and crashing into me. My chest tightens under the weight of it, breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else.

I haven’t felt like this in a long time, not since Stryker put me to sleep.

“Logan,” I choke out, reaching for him instinctively. My trembling fingers brush his shoulder, hoping I can calm him down. The moment my fingers make contact with the rough fabric of his suit jacket, something surges through me—like a current of electricity, but more intimate. Flashes of memories not my own—images—slam into me.

Me, but not me.

Laughing. Smiling. Happy.

A surge of memories floods my mind, images flashing before my eyes. I see myself, I look different, with Logan— a younger Logan . We’re sharing kisses, quiet moments, conversations too intimate for strangers. And then, a glimpse of me in an X-Men suit, standing beside him, part of a team, part of a family. It’s a life I don’t remember living. A version of me older than I’ve ever been, the age I’m supposed to be.

I gasp, stumbling back, my hand flying away from his shoulder like it’s been burned. “What the hell was that?” I pant, heart racing as I jump down off from the hood, nearly tripping in my haste to put distance between us.

Logan stands there, staring at me, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—they hold the weight of a thousand unsaid things. He removes himself from the car without a word, heading back to the driver's side. “Let’s get moving.” He grunts, getting into the car.

***

The bright neon lights of Oklahoma City blur past as the broken-down limo crawls through the busy streets. The flashing signs reflect off the cracked windows, casting flickering colors inside. Laura stirs, lifting her head from my lap, her eyes wide with wonder as she peers out at the city’s dazzling chaos. 

“Is this where we’re hiding out?” Charles asks softly from his spot beside me, his voice tired but tinged with curiosity.

“We’re not hiding out,” Logan grumbles, his voice rough and low. “We’re gonna get a couple hours’ sleep, clean up, get some new clothes, find a new ride, and get outta here.” His words are clipped, practical, always focused on the next step.

As the limo lurches to a stop in front of Harrah’s Hotel and Casino, the neon lights overhead pulse in time with the music spilling out from inside. I push open the door for Laura, and the sound of broken glass clinking onto the pavement follows her small frame as she hops out.

Logan approaches the valet, his gait heavy with exhaustion. “Hey,” he mutters, placing a wad of cash into the valet’s hand. “Keep it out front, all right?”

The valet glances skeptically at the wrecked limo, its windows shattered, bullet holes dotting the sides, but Logan’s hard glare stops him from asking any questions. With a sigh, Logan opens the trunk and pulls out Charles’ wheelchair, his movements stiff and weary.

Laura walks beside me, her tiny face now partially hidden behind the stolen sunglasses she wears like a shield. Logan wheels Charles alongside us as we make our way toward the casino entrance. “Come on, let’s go,” he orders, his voice carrying the weight of the long, brutal day we’ve had.

Inside, the air is thick with the sound of laughter, the pungent smell of alcohol, the chiming of slot machines, and the hum of conversations. Bright lights flicker everywhere, making the entire place feel like a fever dream of excess and noise. It’s overwhelming, and I can feel the tension in Logan’s every step.

Laura drifts away, her attention snagged by a shop window displaying girls’ clothing. Her small hand presses against the glass, her reflection staring back at her, and for a moment, she seems like any other child, curious and mesmerized by what she sees.

“Come on, honey,” I say gently, touching her shoulder to pull her attention back. But before I can say more, Logan’s voice cuts through the noise. 

“Hey, Laura,” he calls out, stepping away from the elevator, his patience thinning. “Let’s go.”

Charles glances back at the shop window and then at Logan, his expression soft. “We need clothes,” he says, his voice calm and matter-of-fact.

Logan sighs heavily, his shoulders sagging as he trudges back toward us. After a quick detour into the store, we emerge with bags in hand, the weight of normalcy clashing with the reality of who we are.

Inside the elevator, Charles eagerly pulls out a new hat from one of the bags, tossing aside the tissue paper with a small grin. He places it atop his head, clearly pleased with his new accessory. I can’t help but smile too, seeing how something so simple brings a glimmer of happiness to the old man.

Logan scans the room key and presses the button for our floor. Laura, always restless, reaches out to press all the buttons at once, her mischievousness shining through.

“No, no, stop,” Logan growls, catching her wrist gently. He softens his voice, though, trying to show restraint. “Not a toy.”

The gold elevator doors slide open again as more people attempt to squeeze in. Logan’s eyes dart around, taking in the small, confined space.

“Uh, no, no, no, sorry—uh…chair,” Logan says, gesturing toward Charles with an apologetic nod. The newcomers hesitate, then nod in understanding, stepping back.

“Thank you,” Logan hums under his breath as he presses the close button. Just as the doors slide shut, Laura lunges forward again, eager to press the buttons despite Logan’s earlier warning.

“Come here,” he mutters, gripping her shoulders and steering her back to her spot. “Stand there. Just stand there.”

Laura grunts in frustration, crossing her arms with a scowl. I shoot her a stern look, but she only huffs in response, her little body coiled with barely contained energy.

Charles, oblivious to the tension, pulls out another hat from the bag and extends it toward Logan with a smile. “Logan…it-it’s yours.”

Logan turns, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looks at the offering. “What?” He raises a brow, his tone skeptical. “I’m not gonna wear it now. Just in the room. We’ll get changed in the room.”

Charles shrugs, satisfied with his small victory, and settles back into his chair, humming quietly to himself. The elevator hums upward, and for a brief moment, the chaos of the world feels like it’s held at bay, if only by a thin thread.

Chapter Text

The warm water cascades over my worn skin, soothing my aching muscles as I lean into the comforting embrace of the steam. For a brief moment, it feels like all the weight I’ve been carrying dissolves with the dirt and sweat that clings to my body. I close my eyes, massaging the stress from my temples, letting the water wash away the grime of the past few days.

But the moment my eyelids flutter shut, a vision—no, a memory—flickers behind them. I’m standing across a room, my gaze locked on someone familiar. A woman stands with her back to me, arms crossed, her posture both defiant and relaxed. There's something in the way she holds herself, something I know instinctively. She glances over her shoulder, flashing a side smile, mischievous and carefree. It’s me. I’m looking at a version of myself—one I don’t remember but feel deep in my bones. This is one of Logan’s memories.

I open my eyes abruptly, the stark white walls of the hotel shower pulling me back to the present. The memory evaporates with the steam, leaving me unsettled. I let out a shaky breath, the moment lingering in my mind longer than I want it to. I’ve been in here too long.

I dry off, the soft hotel towel a poor substitute for comfort, and lather my skin with the complimentary lotions, the floral scent a faint reminder of simpler days. Dressing in the new clothes Logan bought me, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The reflection stares back, wearing something that doesn’t feel like mine. I’d say it’s not my usual style, but the truth is—I don’t remember what ‘my style’ even is anymore. It’s been so long since I’ve picked something out for myself.

Laura is perched in Charles’ wheelchair, her small frame almost lost in the oversized seat, while Charles sits on the edge of the hotel bed, watching an old Western on the TV. As Laura moves her small frame to move up onto the bed beside the old man, my gaze drifts to the adjoining room where Logan sits hunched over, reading through files. His aura, thick with sadness and disbelief, fills the space, pressing against my chest like a weight. A chill runs down my spine as I watch him, his face etched with exhaustion and something deeper, something darker.

He begins to rise, and I quickly shift my focus back to the TV, pretending to be engrossed in the grainy film. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him approach.

“You read these in your spare time?” Logan asks, his gruff voice aimed at Laura. He lifts a comic book in his right hand, flipping it toward her.

“She’s just a kid,” I huff, my brows furrowing in defense of her.

“Oh, yeah, Y/N. We’ve got ourselves an ‘X-Men’ fan.” He sounds almost amused, like we’re old friends like I’m part of this team—part of something I don’t even remember. “You do know they’re all bullshit, right?” His tone shifts, growing sharp as he flips through the pages with disdain. “Maybe a quarter of it happened, and not like this.” Logan’s voice drops low, his eyes darkening as he closes the comic with a snap. “In the real world, people die. And no self-promoting asshole in a fucking leotard can stop it.”

“Logan—” Charles’ voice cuts through the tension, a quiet warning.

“This is ice cream for bed-wetters,” Logan growls, tossing the comic into Laura’s lap.

“Logan…” Charles starts again, but his voice is gentler, almost pleading. 

“Her nurse has been feeding her some grade-A bullshit,” Logan huffs, the bitterness in his voice palpable.

“I don’t think Laura needs reminding of life’s impermanence,” Charles says softly, glancing at the young girl beside him. “Didn’t you say something about finding us a new ride?” Laura sits silently, her gaze fixed forward, but the tension is there—unspoken, heavy.

Logan sighs deeply, pulling a pill bottle from his coat pocket. He tosses it to me without warning, the rattling sound jarring. “Two more pills in one hour. Give ’em to him,” he mutters, already turning to leave.

“Hey, wait!” I call after him, handing the bottle to Laura. “Like he said, two more pills in an hour,” I instruct softly before hurrying after Logan.

In the hallway, Logan pauses, exhaling a long, frustrated sigh before continuing down the dimly lit corridor. His shoulders are hunched, his aura bristling with tension.

“Stay with them,” he grunts without turning around.

“Like I trust you to go off on your own,” I snap, jogging up to walk beside him. He doesn’t respond, but his jaw clenches, his emotions churning like a storm just beneath the surface.

***

The ride to the junkyard is heavy with silence. Logan’s emotions pulse off him in waves—anger, guilt, sadness—it’s a dizzying mix. My brow twitches in irritation as I struggle to block out the torrent, my heart racing too fast for comfort. I can’t stand it any longer.

“What is your problem with me?” I huff, glancing over at him, my patience wearing thin.

“I don’t have a problem with you,” he grunts, his hands tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

“Bullshit,” I snap, turning in my seat to face him fully, the leather creaking beneath me. “You know I can sense how you feel, right?”

“Yeah, I’m well aware,” Logan growls, his tone filled with annoyance.

I narrow my eyes, my frustration bubbling over. “And how is that exactly? Because I think I’d sure as hell remember your grumpy ass.”

“Just forget about it,” Logan sighs, his voice tired but firm.

“No,” I insist, the tension between us growing. “Being anywhere near you is suffocating, and I want to know why.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly ask you to come along,” he bites back, his teeth gritted.

“Hey! I’m not the one who asked for this ability!” I snap, my voice rising with frustration. 

“What?! You think any of us did?” His voice sharpens, cutting through the air like a blade. His eyes darken with something deeper than anger—something raw.

I sink back into my seat, uncomfortable in the thick silence that follows. My gaze drifts to the windshield, the bullet holes creating a spiderweb of cracks that seem infinitely more interesting now. The weight of his words, the weight of everything, presses down on me as the car rattles along toward the unknown.

***

As we wait for the new car to be ready, I sit on a creaky, worn barstool beside Logan.

My fingers tap nervously on the rim of my glass—a sweating glass of iced tea that feels cold and distant against my warm palm. The bar around us hums with low chatter, the clinking of glasses, but my focus stays on Logan. He flips through the pages of Laura’s comic books, the ones Gabriela had given her, each turn of the page a reflection of the weight he carries. His emotions are palpable—grief mixed with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, pulling him into the past. But as I watch, I feel the sudden shift. His melancholy hardens into frustration, tension knotting in his shoulders as he reaches into his coat pocket.

“Jesus…” Logan mutters under his breath, his tone sharp.

My brows furrow at his reaction. “What?” I ask, leaning closer, but he doesn't respond. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire, and I press again. “What? Still not talking to me?” I try to mask the sting of being shut out with a sarcastic edge.

“Shut up,” Logan growls, his voice raw as his eyes fix on something in the comic panels. His grip tightens on the envelope of cash Gabriela had given him, his eyes narrowing as he stares at the numbers scribbled hastily across the papers. His disbelief radiates off him like heat.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” He finally huffs, turning toward me with a gaze that could cut glass. His finger trembles as he jabs it toward the papers. “Did you know about this?”

I shake my head, utterly lost, not even sure what he’s accusing me of. “No,” I murmur, confusion threading through my voice. Before I can ask more, Logan stands abruptly, tossing some bills onto the counter. His grip is rough as he grabs my arm, pulling me out of the bar and into the daylight, dragging me toward the auto shop where they’re finishing the tires.

***

The truck screeches to a halt in front of the hotel valet. I leap out, my feet hitting the pavement hard, rushing to keep up with Logan’s storming pace as he tosses a few bills at the valet without a second glance. His face is a mask of grim determination, and when he glances back at me, his eyes flash with urgency.

“Stay in the truck!” he snaps, pointing a finger at me, charged with all his barely-contained frustration.

I raise my hands defensively, nodding, my heart pounding as I climb back into the truck. “Fine, fine,” I mutter under my breath, watching him disappear into the hotel. 

As I settle into the seat, I glance around—and that’s when I see them. Men in black uniforms are scattered around the perimeter, their presence sending a chill crawling up my spine. “Shit,” I whisper, slamming the door closed, hoping I’m not too late. The air feels thick with tension, like the seconds before a storm breaks.

Then, without warning, it hits.

The entire city shudders as if gripped by a violent earthquake. My body freezes, every muscle locked in place, paralyzed as a blinding pressure seizes my brain. It feels like my skull is going to crack open, my thoughts scrambling in chaos. Through the truck’s window, I watch in horror as people around me go rigid, unmoving, their faces twisted in silent terror. Cars lose control, veering off course and crashing into anything in their path. The world outside becomes a surreal nightmare, frozen in time.

The paralysis feels endless, my body straining against the invisible force that holds me captive. And then, suddenly, it releases. I collapse forward, gasping for air, my breaths coming in ragged, desperate gulps as I try to steady myself. My limbs feel weak, and I can barely lift my head to peer out the window.

Through the haze of my dizziness, I spot them—Logan, Charles, and Laura emerging from the hotel. Logan’s moving quickly, cradling Charles as he hurries toward the truck, his expression dark with urgency. Laura follows close behind, her small form tense and alert.

I blink heavily, trying to keep my focus as Logan loads Charles into the backseat, the old man looking drained, his frail frame slumped. Laura climbs in and settles herself on my lap. Her weight feels oddly grounding, a reminder that the world hasn’t entirely shattered, though it feels like it might.

I sit there, my breaths slow and heavy, as we prepare to move again.

***

It’s been nearly a full day since the incident, and the silence between us has stretched long and thick like the never-ending highway beneath us. I’ve shifted to the backseat now, sitting beside Charles, who looks utterly worn, tired, and burdened by a weight of regret I can almost feel radiating from him. Almost . His frail form slouches, head resting against the window as the car hums down the road. The only sound breaking the heavy quiet is the low drone of the radio.

"Emergency personnel are still on the scene at Harrah’s Casino Hotel in Oklahoma City, where at least 400 guests were stricken with temporary paralysis yesterday. Many are noting a similarity to the Westchester incident over a year ago, which left over 600 injured and took the lives of seven mutants, including several of the X-Men—”

Logan’s hand flies to the radio, slapping it off with a rough, irritated motion. His expression darkens, and without a word, his gaze shifts toward Laura in the front seat. She’s mindlessly fiddling with the car’s lock, the rhythmic click of the mechanism breaking the uneasy quiet.

“Knock it off,” Logan snaps, his voice tense with fraying patience.

Laura doesn’t react, her fingers continuing to press the lock, her eyes distant as they gaze out the passenger window.

“I said, knock it off!” His voice rises, sharp with frustration, cutting through the air.

Charles stirs beside me, lifting his head slowly, his voice soft but steady. “She’s a child, Logan. And, point of fact, she’s your—”

Logan doesn’t let him finish. “How long has it been since you took your meds?” he interrupts, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder at Charles, the grip on the steering wheel tightening. Laura keeps fiddling with the lock, each click punctuating the conversation like a countdown.

Charles avoids Logan’s eyes, his shoulders sagging with a deep sigh. “I don’t know…” He whines. “Two days.” His voice is weary, almost apologetic.

Logan shakes his head, disappointment etched into his features. “You saw what happened yesterday. If that shit had gone on any longer, everyone in that casino would’ve been dead.”

“I did what I had to do to save Laura,” Charles murmurs, his voice calm but laced with defensiveness.

“You didn’t do anything,” Logan bites back, the frustration building in his tone. “You just freaked out and had a fucking seizure!”

Charles winces, but he doesn’t back down. “I guess you prefer me pharmaceutically castrated, rambling on like a lunatic. So much easier for you, isn’t it?”

The tension in the car feels suffocating, and I instinctively shrink back in my seat, sensing this conversation is too private, too raw. The weight of their words presses down on me, heavy and uncomfortable.

“Easier? Jesus, there’s nothing easy about you, Charles. Nothing!” Logan’s voice cracks, the strain palpable.

Charles’ reply is slow and deliberate, a quiet challenge. “Yes, yes. Please, be like the rest of the world... blaming someone else for your boring shit.”

Logan exhales sharply, his tone bitter. “I know, Pop. I’m such a giant disappointment.”

Charles hums softly as if weighing his words carefully. “You honestly derive no sense of purpose... from what we’re doing?”

Logan shoots him a skeptical look. “Okay, what *are* we doing, huh?”

Charles’ eyes soften as he gestures toward the front seat. “There is a young mutant sitting in our car. And one we thought long dead.”

“Yeah, I see that.” Logan glances at Laura, then his eyes flick to the rearview mirror, catching my reflection.

“The girl you searched for so long,” Charles continues, his gaze now firmly on me, “she’s right here.”

Logan’s jaw clenches. “Charles, that’s not her. She’s a stranger!” His voice is thick with a mix of anger and pain.

Charles doesn’t relent, his words carrying a quiet conviction as his gaze drifts to Laura. “And where we’re taking her, there are others. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Logan’s eyes harden. “Yeah, means nothing to me. Especially since Nurse Gabriela made all that Eden shit up with fucking comic books.”

The sudden shift catches me off guard, and I turn to Logan, confused. “What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches into the center console and pulls out a rattling pill bottle, handing it to Laura. “Give those to him. Two pills.”

“Logan!” Charles protests, his voice rising in frustration.

“Give ‘em to him,” Logan repeats, his tone firm, brooking no argument.

“Logan, wait,” I urge.

“Now!” he barks at Laura.

Laura doesn’t hesitate, her small fingers deftly popping open the bottle. She hands Charles two pills, and he takes them without a word, washing them down with water from a half-empty bottle beside him.

Logan turns in his seat, his eyes narrowing. “I wanna see it.”

With a weary sigh, Charles sticks out his tongue mockingly, the two pills nowhere in sight indicating he’s swallowed them.

Chapter Text

My eyes grow heavy as I stare out the window, watching the landscape blur past, a swirl of greens and yellows in the fading daylight. My head leans against the cool glass, the gentle rumble of the car lulling me toward sleep. My eyelids droop, barely able to stay open, and before I know it, the world outside slips away, overtaken by the comforting haze of dreams.

A streak of golden sunlight floods my vision, blinding me, and I wince, my hand instinctively shielding my face. I blink hard, realizing I’ve drifted off. I feel a familiar nudge against my arm, and I glance sideways. A hand—his hand—shakes me awake gently.

“Seriously?” I groan, shifting in the passenger seat, still groggy from sleep. “When you drag me out of the house, the least you could do is let me rest.”

He flashes that annoyingly perfect smile, the one that’s both charming and cocky. “Yeah, well, when you get your license, I’ll think about it.”

I roll my eyes, feeling the frustration rise. “Hey, I do have my permit, you know.”

“I know, Y/N,” The familiar figure replies, his voice teasing. “You never let me forget.”

I glance out the window again, the scenery slipping by, but my mind is elsewhere, restless. “Where are we even going, anyway?” I shift in my seat, fidgeting with my hands, picking at my cuticles.

He hums softly, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the steering wheel. “Just for a drive. I... wanted to talk.”

There’s something in his voice that sets me on edge. It’s too casual, too calm. I can feel the undercurrent of his emotions—a swirl of nervousness and worry. His attempts at masking it are pointless around me. I can feel everything. “You’re nervous,” I mutter, my tone sharper than intended. “And worried.”

Their grip tightens ever so slightly on the wheel. “Y/N, it’s just that—”

“No, Scott!” I interrupt, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “I’m so sick and tired of this conversation. We just go round and round. When are you going to get it? I’m not Jean, and I’m not the professor.”

Scott’s concern washes over me in waves, and I can’t help but feel the weight of it. He sneaks glances at me, his jaw tense. “We’re just concerned. You don’t go out, you don’t make friends, you hardly even go to class!” His voice rises, a mixture of exasperation and helplessness.

I close my eyes, squeezing them shut, trying to keep the tears from falling. But it’s no use—the dam’s about to break. “It’s different with you,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “I’ve known you my whole life. I know how you react to things. Your feelings are like second nature to me.”

My chest tightens as I recall the moments in class, the overwhelming flood of emotions. "I don’t just feel what they’re feeling, Scott. It’s like I become them — their sadness, their desperation. It’s suffocating.” My voice is barely a whisper now as if saying it aloud might pull me under again. "The heartbreak… the loneliness of the runaways. It’s so deep that it feels like I’m drowning in it." The words crack, my throat tightening around the memory of those moments.

My gaze shifts, momentarily lost in the passing scenery, before I speak again, quieter this time. "And when someone likes me, even just a stupid crush, I feel everything. My skin gets hot, and I start stumbling over my words. My heart races so fast, it feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest.” I shake my head, swallowing hard. “And the pity— your pity, Jean’s, Ororo’s, the professor’s... I can feel it, and it just makes everything worse.”

Scott stays quiet, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but I know he’s listening. He always does.

The tears I’ve been fighting finally spill over, and I quickly wipe them away. “So, I’m sorry if I’d rather hide in my room all day,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Ever since I turned 18 a few months ago, it’s like you four have been trying to push me out of the nest, like I’m supposed to spread my wings and soar. But why can’t you just accept that not all of us want to be extraordinary?”

The car falls into an uncomfortable silence, the only sound being the steady hum of the engine. Scott shifts in his seat, his jaw clenched. I can feel his emotions—he’s torn between wanting to protect me and wanting to push me to be more. But I’m tired of being pushed.

“To be an X-Man?” I finish, my voice small but firm. “Maybe that’s what you want for me, but it’s not what I want.”

Scott’s hands tighten on the wheel, his knuckles turning white. He sighs deeply, but the words don’t come easily. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, less insistent. “It’s not about being extraordinary, Y/N. It’s about not running from who you are.”

Looking past the red lenses, I meet his eyes, and for a moment, I see the vulnerability in them. The fear that he’s losing me to something he doesn’t understand. But I can’t be what he wants. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

“I’m not running, Scott,” I say quietly, turning my gaze back to the passing scenery noting we’ve returned to the mansion. “I’m just trying to survive.”

I barely let Scott pull into park before I practically jump out of the sports car, wanting to escape the conversation. Instead of making the usual B-line to my bedroom, I opt to head toward the small lake that sits on the property.

The plops of failed skipped stones 'skrt' across the water, the ripples breaking the sunset that reflects in them. I sit crisscrossed on the old wooden dock, and I rub my eyes in frustration, before leaning over and scooping up some water letting the cool substance meet my skin. 

"Something on your mind?"

I whip my head around, startled, and find the familiar figure approaching, his stride steady, hands buried deep in his pockets. The gruff tone pulls me from my thoughts, grounding me.

“Yeah, uhm…” I trail off, furrowing my brows. What was I upset about again? Scott? Who’s Scott? The memory slips away like water through my fingers. The answer falls from my lips before I even have the chance to think about why I know it. "You missed it," I mutter, trying to steady my voice. I pull my knees to my chest, hugging them close as if I could hide from the gnawing feeling inside. "There was a field trip today, and when the kids — the older ‘kids’ — needed me, I froze."

They say nothing at first, but their presence settles beside me on the wooden dock. He leans back on his hands, one leg crossed over the other, his posture as casual as ever. Even though his expression remains gruff, there’s a warmth beaming from him, wrapping around me like a warm blanket, so comforting, and caring. Yet, I still I feel it, that quiet concern of his, though he’d never admit to it. 

"But everything worked out, didn’t it?" His voice is low, pressing just enough to pull the truth out of me without coddling.

I let out a sigh, unenthusiastic and frustrated. "Yeah, Charles showed up," I mumble, tracing a random line on the weathered wooden planks beneath us. "But what if he hadn't? I just... I froze."

Logan doesn’t respond right away. His silence feels deliberate, like he's giving me the space to unravel whatever mess is in my head. Finally, he hums, his gaze fixed somewhere out over the water. "You’re too hard on yourself, bub. You ain’t gotta carry the weight of the world on your shoulders."

I turn my head so my cheek rests upon my knee, knowing I likely look childish as I pout with pursed lips. "What’s it like?" My voice is quieter now. "To have people depending on you all the time?"

His jaw tightens for a moment, the question sinking in deeper than I’d meant for it to. His brows furrow, and for a second, I wonder if he’s going to shrug it off or deflect like he usually does. Instead, he relaxes his form, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as his hazel eyes are fixed on something in the distance.

"Stressful," he grunts, his tone blunt but not without weight. He shifts his gaze to me, piercing yet curious, as if weighing how much of the truth to give. "But it also keeps me going. Makes me fight harder." His voice dips low, almost like he’s speaking to himself as much as to me. "When you know people are counting on you… it’s hard to walk away, even when you want to."

I swallow hard, his words hitting closer than I expected. I try to find something to say, something to fill the space between us, but all I can manage is a nod. 

For a long moment, we just sit there, staring out at the water, the unspoken understanding between us settling like the dusk around us. 

The cool night air bites at my skin, but warmth floods through me just as quickly, familiar and all-consuming. I glance to the side and meet those piercing hazel eyes. He was watching me…

“You’re different…” I murmur, my voice trailing off. It’s been three years since I last saw him, and in that time, I’ve worked hard to build up my emotional defenses. But somehow, Logan still breaks through them like they’re nothing.

He lets out a brief snort, barely a laugh, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, yeah?" His tone’s rough, but there’s a glimmer of amusement beneath it.

I shift on the wooden planks, turning to face him fully, crossing my legs beneath me. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, studying him carefully. "That day, when you were brought here..." I start, trying to find the right words, though they feel clumsy on my tongue. "When you asked me to read your emotions, I didn’t just feel them. I saw the memories tied to them. And that night…" My voice lowers, almost hesitant. "I dreamt your nightmares. Like they were my own."

Logan’s smirk fades, his brows knitting together just slightly as a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe even fear—washes over him. But, in true Logan fashion, he doesn’t let it show for long. "No one else has ever made me feel like that," I add softly, the weight of the admission hanging between us.

He chuckles, a low, rough sound that cuts through the tension. His smirk widens just enough to show a sliver of that flirtatious edge he’s so good at. "Guess I’m full of surprises," he mutters, leaning back on his hands, his eyes never leaving mine.

Logan’s emotions seep into my own, blurring my sense of self. My ears start to burn, and my heart skips in my chest. Logan’s always had this way of getting under my skin—no matter how hard I try to keep my distance, he feels things so fervently that there’s no point in putting up barriers I know he’ll tear down with the blink of an eye.

I roll my eyes, trying to regain my composure. "You always do that," I say, my voice a mix of frustration and something softer.

"Do what?" he asks, his smirk growing a little wider, teasing now.

"Make everything feel like a game," I huff, though I can’t keep the warmth from creeping into my tone as I hide a smile.

Logan’s gaze softens, just for a second, before he shrugs. "Life’s already too damn serious. Figure I gotta balance it out somehow." He looks at me with that quiet intensity of his, like he’s seeing something beyond my words.

The air between us shifts again, heavier this time, and I feel that familiar pull, the one that always seems to draw me closer to him whether I want it or not.

My head drops, eyes fixed on my lap, as I let out a shaky laugh. I squeeze my hands into fists, trying to ground myself before I finally lift my head to meet his gaze again. But something’s changed.

The man in front of me—no longer the rugged, cocky figure in a ribbed tank and tight jeans—looks… older. So much older. His hair is streaked with gray, thick with years, and his beard’s grown out, rough and wild. His eyes, once sharp and playful, now carry the weight of exhaustion, and the scars etched across his skin tell stories I can’t even begin to imagine.

“Who are you?” I try to speak, but the words catch in my throat. My voice doesn’t reach him, like I'm trapped in some kind of nightmare, my confusion growing as I stare at this stranger who somehow feels so familiar.

Then, everything starts to blur. The world around me twists and distorts like it's being ripped apart at the seams, spinning faster and faster until I’m jolted awake.

My hands instinctively fly to the seat in front of me, gripping the leather tight as the car lurches, my heart pounding in my chest. “What the hell just happened?” I gasp, rubbing the side of my head as a dull ache sets in.

“We spun out,” Logan growls from the driver’s seat, the Logan I know, the one I recognize. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, tension in every line of his body. “Damn auto-trucks.”

I blink, trying to make sense of the whirlwind I just woke up from, but before I can respond, the man beside me—a bald figure with sharp, all-seeing eyes—leans forward, his presence too intense for what should be a simple question. “Did you get some good rest?”

The way he asks it makes my skin crawl. My brows knit together as I start to piece things together, my pulse quickening in realization. He’s been feeding me something—memories, emotions, maybe even dreams. “You—” I start, but the sound of horses neighing outside pulls his attention.

He turns his head to look out the window, the brief moment of distraction allowing me to catch my breath. He glances back at Logan, his tone shifting to something almost commanding. “We should help them.”

My mind is still spinning, trying to catch up with the rapid shift between- whatever that was, but there’s no time to dwell on it. Logan’s gaze flicks to the bald man, then out the window, his jaw tightening.

Chapter Text

I shift in my seat, watching Logan’s gaze flick outside, catching sight of the family struggling to wrangle their horses. His jaw tightens, a subtle sign of the internal struggle brewing inside him. He doesn’t want to stop.

“No, we have to keep going. Someone will come along,” he mutters, his tone gruff, almost like he's convincing himself more than anyone else.

“Someone has come along,” Charles replies calmly, eyes forward, not missing a beat.

Laura, seated in the passenger seat, watches Logan closely. There’s a spark of curiosity in her eyes as if she’s studying him, watching how the sight of people in need tugs at something deep inside him—something rusty and long buried. He glances at Charles, conflicted, before letting out a long, drawn-out sigh.

The car begins to move again, and we veer across the highway toward the stranded SUV and trailer, stuck deep in a ditch. Charles inches closer to me, and I can feel the anticipation rolling off him in waves as Logan pulls the truck to a stop.

“Roll down the window, please,” Charles urges softly, his voice gentle but firm. 

I comply, pressing the button and watching as the window lowers with a soft whir. Outside, the horse wranglers are still struggling, their voices tense as they try to calm the spooked animals. 

Charles closes his eyes, taking a slow, deliberate breath. I watch, fascinated, as the distressed horses suddenly grow calm, their frantic movements easing as they start to walk toward us. He’s guiding them—mentally, effortlessly as if he’s done this a thousand times. Even at his age, his power flows with an ease that leaves me in awe.

Laura hops out of the truck, her small figure framed by the oversized pink sunglasses perched on her nose. Logan steps out too, watching the professor with a look of mild confusion, maybe even surprise. The family, now visibly less frazzled, looks around, equally puzzled by the sudden change in their horses.

“Hey, you, uh, need a hand?” Logan offers, his voice softer, tinged with a rare tenderness that makes me instinctively smile for reasons I can’t explain, but if I had to try I would say…familiarity.

With a little effort—though likely nothing for Logan—they manage to push the SUV out of the rut and reattach the trailer. The older man of the family taps the hood cheerily with his gloved hand, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Ah, good, got it.” His voice is warm, filled with gratitude as he looks toward his wife and son, smiling. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Laura, curious as ever, makes her way to the trailer and props herself up on a tire, peering through the small window to watch the horses. She seems almost entranced by them and I can’t blame her after being raised in what was essentially a cage.

“Thank you so much for your help,” the woman says, stepping forward and extending a hand. “I’m Kathryn.”

Logan hesitates for a moment before accepting the handshake. “James,” he responds, his voice gruff but polite.

“And this is my son, Nate,” Kathryn adds, motioning toward the teenage boy beside her.

“Hi,” Nate mumbles shyly.

“Hey,” Logan hums, barely glancing up.

Kathryn’s gaze shifts to Laura. “That’s your daughter?”

Logan stammers for a moment, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, that’s, uh… Laura.” He half turns, pointing toward the truck where Charles and I sit. “And that’s my dad. Chuck.” Charles smiles and waves, completely unbothered by Logan’s half-baked introduction. “And this is Y/N… uh, a close family friend.”

“Well,” Kathryn hums, clearly eager to express more gratitude, “can we show our appreciation and treat the four of you to a decent meal? We don’t live far from here.”

My stomach growls audibly at the offer, but before I can speak, Logan mumbles, “Uh, no, thanks.”

“That would be lovely!” Charles cuts in, practically shouting in his excitement, though most of it is directed into my ear.

***

The brief car ride to their home is tense, the air thick with unsaid words. Once we arrive, everyone cleans up, attempting to play their part in this awkward charade of normalcy.

I stand beside the dining table, my hands resting on Laura’s small shoulders. She’s fiddling with her sunglasses again. “Laura, honey, give me those.” I sigh, gently pulling them off her face and folding them into my pocket. 

Kathryn bustles in from the kitchen, her arms full of steaming bowls of food, with Nate trailing behind her, balancing plates stacked high with more. The smell of freshly cooked meat and warm potatoes fills the room.

“That’s wonderful,” Charles comments, his eyes twinkling as the food is set before him.

“Everybody, have a seat,” Kathryn instructs, pulling out a chair for her son.

Will, the father, glances over at Logan, his gaze firm but friendly. “James, why don’t you sit at the end of the table?”

Logan nods wordlessly, and we all settle in. I’m seated between Logan and Laura, squeezed into an extra chair that doesn’t quite match the rest of the set. 

“You wanna say grace?” Kathryn encourages Nate, her voice soft and motherly. “Say grace, baby.”

Nate shifts uncomfortably before lowering his head. “Uh, thank you, God, for this food… and for our new friends, the Howletts.” He stumbles over the words, clearly unsure.

Kathryn beams. “Mmm. They came to our aid.”

“Amen,” the family echoes, their voices in unison.

“Here you go, sir,” Will offers a bowl of corn to Charles, who accepts it gratefully.

“Thank you, sir,” Charles beams, his politeness shining through. If I had a real,  supportive, loving family, I’m sure my grandpa would’ve been like him…

Laura wastes no time digging into the mashed potatoes with her hands, and I can’t help but widen my eyes in surprise. I reach over and tug at her arm, giving her a look of stern disapproval. Logan’s hand follows mine, tapping her shoulder gently and guiding her toward the fork in his hand without a word.

With her hands still covered in mashed potatoes, Laura grabs the bowl from Charles, scooping out two heaping portions before Logan snatches it from her, cutting off her overeager serving. They share a quick glance before Laura drops the spoon into the bowl with a clatter.

Silent, confused looks are passed around the table, and I can’t help but feel a surge of embarrassment.

“There’s plenty more if she wants,” Kathryn offers kindly.

“She’s fine. Thank you,” Logan grunts, his eyes focused on his plate.

I watch as Laura resumes eating, this time using the fork Logan had given her, though she’s still eating with a ferocity that makes me cringe.

“This is delicious,” Charles says, breaking the silence, and I nod in agreement, stuffing a forkful of salted green beans into my mouth.

Kathryn blushes. “Oh, thank you.”

“So good,” Charles adds, cutting into his meatloaf.

Will clears his throat. “Where are you all headed?” he asks, trying to keep the conversation light.

“Uh… South Dakota,” Charles says just as Logan grunts, “Oregon.”

They glance at each other, and I can feel the tension rise as they try to sort out their lie.

After a brief moment of awkward confusion, Charles clears the air with a smile. “Well, Oregon, and then South Dakota.”

“Vacation,” Kathryn concludes, nodding as if that explanation makes perfect sense.

None of us bother to correct her.

Charles beams. “Yes. Long overdue. We’re city folk, always wanted to take a road trip. See the country… and meet the people in it.”

“Well, that sounds lovely,” Kathryn replies with a smile. “Been trying to get Will to take a vacation for years.”

Charles chuckles lightly. "I bet you will."

Will leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Oh, if we go traipsing all over the country, who’s gonna take care of this place?” His tone is laced with practicality, and I can tell he's the type who sees responsibility as the backbone of life. 

As he speaks, I pick up my napkin and reach over to Laura offering it to her. She stares blankly at the gingham cloth, confused, I shake my head giving up on my silent urging and I gently wipe the grease from her cheeks. Her wildness always lingers, even in calm moments like this.

“Exactly. I say let it go.” Kathryn leans in, smiling at her husband. She’s teasing, but there’s something genuine in her voice, a yearning for a life beyond the farm.

Will chuckles, shaking his head. “And live off what?”

“The Lord will provide,” Kathryn says earnestly, though the conviction in her voice wavers. If only.

Will lets out a hearty laugh. “I’m still waiting for the Lord to provide me with a new thresher.”

Nate chuckles, the sound carrying through the room. There’s a warmth in this family, a rhythm that makes me feel like an outsider observing something rare and precious, something I never had…

“Well, all the same, I’d love to travel someday,” Kathryn adds with a sheepish smile, a wistful look in her eyes.

“And I bet you will,” Charles says, pointing at her with his fork, his grin warm and genuine.

“I could drop out of school,” Nate jokes, leaning back in his chair with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Okay, now let’s not go that far,” Kathryn laughs, shaking her head.

Nate shrugs. “I mean, I’ll do it. Why not? You wanna travel, I wanna travel.”

Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “I dropped out of school.” The words hang in the air awkwardly, and I feel the weight of their stares. “To, uh, to travel,” I add quickly, forcing a smile. 

Kathryn and Will exchange a glance, clearly confused as parents.

“Yeah, my parents were... really lenient. They said I spent too much time in the house,” I laugh dryly, rubbing the back of my neck. “Heck, it’s almost like they wanted me out. So, you know, I went out. Didn’t get very far since there was no GPS back then, but hey, I had fun!”

Will chuckles softly, raising an eyebrow. “Back then? You can’t be older than what, twenty-five?”

“Right, right,” I mumble, my smile tight. “I was just joking. You know, technology has come so far it feels like the old days we were working with sticks and stones. Anyway...” I glance at Logan, Laura, and Charles. “It’s better to travel as a family. You’ve got each other.”

There’s a brief, awkward silence before Charles steps in, saving me. “Why would you want to drop out, Nate?” he asks with a friendly smile.

“Careful now,” Logan chimes in, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “You’re speaking to a man who ran a school… for a lot of years. Right, Charles?”

Will looks genuinely surprised, his eyebrows shooting up. “Really?”

Charles shifts slightly in his seat, struggling for the right words. “Well, yes, it was... it was a kind of special needs school. Um...” He trails off, glancing at Logan for backup.

“Uh-huh. Yeah, that’s a good description,” Logan adds with a hint of sarcasm, but there’s something in his voice that softens it. Maybe it’s the way his eyes flicker to Charles with a mix of respect and nostalgia.

Chuck points at James. “He was there too.”

Logan smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, yeah, no. Um… I got kicked out a few times.”

Charles laughs, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I wish I could say you were a good pupil, but the words would choke me.”

The room bursts into laughter, even Laura lets out a small giggle. The sound is so pure, so innocent, that it almost catches me off guard. I glance at her, my heart sinking a little. She looks happy, truly happy, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her like this, so carefree. 

For a brief moment, I wish we could stay here forever, in this warm kitchen with this kind family, pretending everything was normal. But deep down, I know better.

A deep ache rises in my chest, tightening like a vice around my lungs, and suddenly, it’s like I can’t breathe. The muffled voices around me fade into a blur, their conversation distant and warped, something about a motel… The edges of my vision blur, the ringing in my ears drowning out the world as I shoot up from my seat, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor.

“Excuse me,” I manage, turning to Kathryn, the mother, feeling the smallest sliver of safety in her presence. “I’m just going to pop outside for some air.”

Her brows furrow with concern, her voice gentle as she asks, “Are you alright, honey?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” The lie tumbles out in a shaky rush. “I just have a breathing problem. It’s okay though, nothing serious, just acts up sometimes, like—uhm, like asthma.” I stammer.

I feel Logan’s gaze burning into me, cutting through the buzzing fog in my head as I dart out of the kitchen, barely managing to keep my steps steady. The side door creaks loudly as I push it open and step out onto the wraparound porch, the humid air hitting my skin like a heavy blanket. I stumble down the old wooden steps, my feet barely making a sound, and drop onto them, hunching over, hands pressing into the back of my neck, trying to soothe the tension knotting there.

The night is alive with sound—the rhythmic chirping of crickets, the low croak of frogs, the gentle rustle of grass swaying in the evening breeze. It all blends into a lullaby of white noise, one that I cling to desperately. "It's fine... you’re fine," I whisper to myself, my voice trembling, but I keep repeating the words like a mantra, squeezing my eyes shut as if I could shut out the world along with the memory.

But the conversation inside seeps through the cracks of the door, faint but persistent. The sounds around me—the insects, the grass, the distant murmur of voices—meld into one overwhelming hum, pushing against the fragile walls I’ve built around myself.

"Stop, just stop," I murmur, my hands digging into the nape of my neck, nails pressing into my skin. The pulse in my ears thumps louder, faster, until it’s the only sound I can hear. I focus on it, forcing my breathing to slow. 

The pounding in my chest begins to ease, my fingers unclenching from my skin, and I open my eyes just a sliver, like a scared child peeking from beneath the covers. But there’s no safety here. Not anymore.

It’s that day again. It’s always that day.

I’m sitting on the porch, smaller now, staring down at the dirt beneath my shoes. My hands are clenched into tight fists, trying to hold on, trying to be strong. The door slams open behind me, and the voices crash out like thunder, shattering the fragile quiet. 

“She’s not normal!” my Dad’s voice booms, filled with an anger that makes the air thick and suffocating. “She’s a freak!”

The words hit me like a slap, but what hurts more—what always hurts more—is the feeling behind them. The anger, the disgust. It rolls off them in waves, burning hot, sinking into my skin, my bones. It’s like poison, and I can’t stop it. I can’t escape it.

My heart races, the pressure building behind my eyes, and my chest feels too tight, too small to contain the weight of their hatred. Why do they hate me so much? What did I do wrong?

His rage is a fire, scorching everything it touches. My mother’s fear is like ice, cold and biting, wrapping around my chest and squeezing until I can’t breathe.

They hate me. I feel it. I feel it so deeply, like it’s a part of me now, a shadow that clings to my every breath.

“Go away!” I scream, covering my ears, but it doesn’t help. Their voices don’t need to be heard for me to feel them. The resentment is everywhere, swirling around me, thick and suffocating.

And then she steps outside—my mother. Her eyes find mine, and the wave of shame and fear crashes over me. It’s her fear now, seeping into me, twisting my insides. “Why does she keep doing that?” she asks, her voice shaky, but it’s not the words. It’s the feeling behind them—the way she looks at me, the way she wishes I wasn’t there, that I wasn’t born.

“I didn’t do anything!” I cry, my voice breaking, my body trembling. My father’s disgust burns hotter, sharper. He looks at me like I’m something broken, something wrong, a mistake. My mother’s guilt twists into something darker, something that makes me want to disappear. 

I feel it all, every single emotion they throw at me, and it’s too much. It’s too much for me to hold.

This was the day I ran away, I was twelve.

Chapter Text

Curiosity prickles in my mind, pulling my gaze over my shoulder. Laura’s wide brown eyes fix on me, brimming with wonder, almost a question.

“What’re you doing?” I ask, brows pinched in confusion.

“They left,” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Who left?”

“The Wolverine…and the man…for the sink,” she says, glancing at the doorway as if expecting them to reappear any moment.

I push myself up from the porch steps, brushing dust off my pants. “I see,” I mutter, laying a gentle hand on her small shoulder, nudging her back toward the door. “Come on, let’s go in.”

As we step back into the kitchen, Kathryn looks up with a warm, slightly weary smile. “Hey, sweetie. Would you like some pie?”

Laura looks to me, her gaze searching, unsure. She’s not really asking for permission, more like assurance, needing to know it’s safe. “Go on,” I encourage her softly, offering a small smile. Her face brightens, and she scurries to the dining table where a thick slice of apple pie awaits, her expression torn between excitement and suspicion, as though the pie itself might be a trick.

“I’ll be back in a bit.” I nod toward the staircase, catching Kathryn’s eye. She nods in understanding, though I sense the question lingering behind her gaze.

“She, uh, doesn’t talk much,” I say softly, pressing my lips into a tight line, then I turn toward the stairs, each step a hesitant, creaking climb upward.

As I reach the top, a strange feeling tightens in my chest—an unease I know too well but can’t seem to shake. Why am I scared? Light from the hallway spills into the room, illuminating Charles’s figure lying in bed, turned away from the door, his frail shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths.

I slump against the doorframe, arms crossing over my chest as I watch him. “What was that back there?” I murmur, my voice a mixture of frustration and wariness.

Charles’s voice is low and hoarse, muffled by the pillow as he answers, “I think you know.”

I frown, irritation spiking. “No, I don’t know! So quit feeding me some made-up fantasy.”

“It isn’t made up,” he replies, voice steady but weary.

“Oh, yeah?” I scoff, trying to mask the tremor in my voice. “Then what is it? My long-lost twin sister?” My voice is sharp, mocking.

“Another life, belonging to a different you,” Charles says, slowly turning onto his back to face me, his eyes full of that infuriating calm.

I let out a hollow laugh, bitter and short. “Right. A ‘different me’.”

“It’s true, Y/N. Those visions you saw—those were memories from an alternate life,” he insists, his tone a mix of patience and conviction that only makes my anger spike higher.

I shake my head, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “So why am I not living in this ‘alternate life’? Why am I not this ‘different me’?” I sneer, mocking with finger quotes.

Charles’s face softens, sadness clouding his gaze. “For one, you died. And second, the course of time was altered by the X-Men, in a last-ditch effort to save humanity… to save mutants.” His voice lowers, the weight of his words bearing a somber resignation.

I scoff, bitterness biting deep. “The X-Men,” I repeat, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, that turned out great for them, didn’t it? Mutants are a dying species. We barely even got off the ground.”

“In exchange for changing the flow of time, we delayed the deaths of others,” he explains quietly, regrets heavy in his tone. “We thought we saved them, but ultimately… they still perished. And you, it was as if you disappeared from the equation entirely.” Charles pauses and licks his cracked lips before explaining. “You were taken in as a child by Alex Summers, raised by him and his brother. You grew up with them—sheltered, cautious. You even attended my school and, at one point, were our counselor, studying under Jean and myself.” A faint, nostalgic smile pulls at his lips. “That’s how you met Logan. You became an X-Man, and lived a relatively happy life, even with its struggles.”

Heat rises in my cheeks, anger and something else tangled within it. “So essentially this ‘other me’ lived with a loving, supportive family, had a home, aged properly, and, oh, let’s not forget, wasn’t tortured!” My voice breaks into a near-shout, emotions crashing over me in waves. “And you thought it was perfectly fine to show me these things—when that isn’t even me?”

Charles opens his mouth, eyes full of sympathy. “It is you, Y/N. You were merely lost, led astray. I can help you see again, I can help—”

“No!” I interrupt, hot tears pricking at my eyes, blurring my vision. “Do you know what life has been like for me?” I press an index finger to my chest, my voice cracking. “I grew up with parents who despised me, left me neglected, hoping I’d just die due to their negligence. I ran away at twelve, only to end up with some monster who manipulated me, abused me, turned me into a weapon. And when I wouldn’t play his game? I lost twenty-five years of my life!”

My voice shakes, my breaths coming in shallow gasps. “When I finally woke up from that nightmare, they treated me like a science experiment—poked, prodded, cut me open for ‘samples,’ all because I wasn’t born a man, because I couldn’t bear the X-gene children they wanted so badly! So do you know what they did instead?” Tears spill down my cheeks, my voice raw and broken. “They made me a brother, accelerated his life! But do you know what the best part of that was?” I turn the finger pointed at me to him. “I had to watch him die because even after all that, the genes taken from a ‘mere’ woman weren’t enough.” Poison practically drips off my lips with every word I speak.

I pause, wiping away the streaks of tears with shaking fingers, my chest heaving. “So you don’t get to tell me who I am, or worse—who I was. You’re so full of shit, Charles Xavier. I’m done playing make-believe.”

The teenage boy in the hallway barely notices me as I bolt past him, flying down the stairs and out the front door. I don’t have a plan, don’t even know where I’m going—all I know is that I need to get away, need time to breathe. I’ll come back for Laura…but right now, I can’t handle any more of this.

I stumble across the lawn, heading for the large, knotted tree near the edge of their yard. My knees buckle as I drop down against its trunk, pressing my palms into the earth. Then, in a burst of frustration, I dig my fingers into the dirt and slam my fists down, over and over, as though hitting the ground hard enough might somehow pull this anger, this pain, out of me.

A raw, strangled cry rips from my throat, though it catches in my chest, coming out broken and guttural. My breath staggers as my head swims; my vision blurs as I gasp for air, each breath feeling more strained than the last. I force myself to keep breathing, to keep moving, flailing my arms, kicking up clouds of dust until a haze of loose dirt whirls around me, settling slowly as my body stills.

I slump against the trunk, eyes cast downward, feeling a cold numbness sink in where the rage was. But then, I catch a glimpse of movement, and I look up. There he is, standing a few meters away, backlit by a lamppost—a silhouette I know too well.

“Don’t act so high and mighty,” I spit, venom dripping from my words. “I’m sure ‘the Wolverine’ has had his fair share of shit days too.”

Logan doesn’t respond, just stares, his eyes dark and distant. He does this a lot with me—this unreadable, stoic gaze—but tonight, it chills me. My skin prickles, unease sinking in, but I brush it off. “Just…” I shake my head, kicking a clump of dirt toward him in frustration. “Just fuck off, alright?”

Instead of leaving, he takes a slow step forward, then another, each one cold and calculated. He keeps coming, his shadow stretching as he closes the space between us until he’s towering over me. I look up, defiance flashing in my eyes, but before I can react, he reaches down, grabbing a fistful of my shirt and yanking me up off the ground. I’m caught off-guard, fumbling against his grip.

“Hey—what the hell are you—” I start, my voice tight with confusion and anger. But then I look into his eyes, and dread floods my veins.

There’s no life in them. Cold, empty, like staring into a black void. This isn’t Logan. I’ve heard rumors, whispers about another—a twisted version of him, a copy. I thought it was just a story, just—

My voice dies in my throat as I register the familiar metallic ‘snikt’ while three claws plunge into my chest. Pain slams through me, sharp and blinding, as the blades tear into my lungs. I choke, the taste of copper flooding my mouth as blood fills my throat, forcing out a strangled gasp. I try to scream, to warn someone, but the sound gurgles, lost in the crimson spilling past my lips.

Then he releases me, and I fall, my body hitting the ground with a sickening thud. My muscles spasm, twitching uncontrollably as my lungs fight for air, but it’s useless—the blood is thick, pressing down, drowning out every attempt to breathe. It bubbles up, coating my lips, and dribbles down my chin in hot, sticky trails.

Through my blurred vision, I watch him- X-24, turn away, heading toward the house, disappearing through the front door as if I’m already dead.

A truck pulls up, its headlights cutting across the yard. Logan. The real Logan. He climbs out, moving with that familiar stagger, but as he surveys the scene, his face changes, a sharp, desperate awareness taking over.

His gaze locks onto me, and I see panic flash across his face. Logan’s face goes white, his stride breaking into a staggering run despite the limp that slows him

“No, no, no…” His voice is thick with fear, his eyes frantic as he reaches me, dropping to his knees at my side. The Wolverine grips my shoulders, steadying my head with a trembling hand, his gaze searching, and desperate. “Not again, not again…” His voice is barely more than a whisper, raw with desperation, as he presses a calloused palm over the wounds, a feeble attempt to stop the bleeding.

“Stop…get your girl,” I manage, my voice thick and slurred as I fight to stay conscious. “They…want her. Save Laura.” My hand reaches up, fingers brushing his, giving a weak, trembling squeeze, the blood on his hands now smearing onto mine.

He takes a shuddering breath, his eyes squeezing shut, and for a split second, I see him differently. He’s younger, his face unmarked by scars, his hair full, slicked back just like in the visions. His expression softens, desperation melting into something raw, something heartbreakingly familiar.

“I can’t lose you again,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. His hands press against me with an urgency that feels almost protective, like he can shield me from this, like he can turn back the clock, make it so this never happened, and for a moment I feel...safe.

A faint, bitter laugh bubbles up from my throat, interrupted by a cough that splatters fresh blood down my chin. “Sounds…like we’ll have another chance,” I rasp, forcing a pained smile. Despite the agony, I give a fearful smile as I feel my heart slowing but an overwhelming amount of love radiates from a man that I should deem a stranger.

Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, hazy and thick, and I tilt my head, nestling into the warmth of his hand cradling my neck. I sink into it, savoring the rare comfort. “In another life…” I murmur, each word clawing its way out of my lungs. “I hope she finds you…” A broken breath rattles in my chest. “I hope… we find you.”

With trembling effort, I lift my hand from his, my thumb grazing his lips, leaving a faint tinge of blood. The memories- or visions flicker like shadows in my mind—the flashes of a life where I loved him, deeply and irrevocably, a bond that feels just out of reach, yet etched into my very soul.

My blood-stained lips curl into a weak, sad smile, and everything fades to black, held in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of something that almost feels like home.

Chapter Text

The soft chirping of birds filters into my awareness, each note gentle and distant, as though carried on a breeze. Faint echoes of laughter ripple in the background, warm and inviting. A delicate scent—citrus with a trace of vanilla—wafts around me, grounding yet otherworldly. My head throbs with the remnants of a migraine, each pulse sharp but waning, like a fading storm. My chest aches faintly, but the pain ebbs as my breathing steadies. I’m too scared to open my eyes, to face the unknown, I’ve been in a black void before and I loathe the idea of going back there once more. 

“It’s alright. You’re safe.”

The voice is soft and soothing, like a balm to my frayed nerves. It comes from behind me, familiar yet unplaceable.

Tentatively, I open my eyes, blinking against the warm light that fills the space. I find myself opposite an ornate oak desk, its surface polished but weathered- clearly an antique. It’s cluttered with mementos: a cluster of photographs capturing moments of joy—a smiling couple, an awkward family portrait. A deck of violet playing cards sits askew, edges worn from countless shuffles, the most odd chachki being a delicate snow globe that glints faintly, the glitter inside swirling lazily.

Footsteps thud softly behind me, deliberate but unhurried. They circle until a figure moves into view, settling into the chair behind the desk. Her presence is warm, inviting, like stepping into a sunlit room after hours in the cold.

I study her. Her features are kind, with soft laugh lines and crow’s feet beginning to etch their stories into her face. Strands of gray glint among her hair, catching the light. She clasps her hands together, resting them on the desk, and crosses one leg over the other. The wheels of her chair rattle slightly against the hardwood as she adjusts her position.

A faint smile crosses her lips as she watches me study her. “I know what you’re thinking…” she says with a quiet chuckle. “We aged well.” 

Her words draw my gaze to the nameplate on the desk.

‘Y/n Summers - Aristotle’

I clear my throat, my mouth dry. “Uhm, yeah,” I murmur, licking my lips nervously. My brows furrow as I agree with her statement.

A buzzing sensation rises from my tippy toes, to the crown of my head. “I know you have questions.” Aristotle tilts her head observing me.

“That’s an understatement.” I huff, sinking into my cushioned seat. “Ya know it’s weird having someone else read me, but I suppose you’re not really someone else, huh?”

Summers lets out a brief laugh through her nose. “I figure you’re right about that…” She takes a deep breath, her fingers fidgeting for a moment before she steadies herself. “So, uhm,” she pauses, searching for the right words, “if it wasn’t obvious enough… I’m you. In an alternate timeline. I guess that’s the best way to describe it.”

She hums softly, her gaze drifting to some distant point as though caught in a memory. “In my—our—timeline, we were taken in by our neighbors. Though, I think you were too young to remember them. We grew up sheltered and afraid, living at the X-Mansion. My brother, Scott, really tried to pull us out of our bubble, but we were stubborn. Then we met Logan, and things changed. Our powers evolved, growing in ways we didn’t expect. I started to connect with the students at the school. They became like family to me.”

Her eyes flicker to the trinkets scattered across her desk, lingering on one as if it holds a story only she can hear. “We were… relatively happy.” Her lips twitch, almost forming a smile before her expression darkens.

“But humans were still afraid of us,” she continues, her tone quieter now, heavier. “As the years went by, we were targeted again. And I—” she swallows hard, her voice faltering, “I died. Protecting someone.”

Her gaze drops, and for a moment, the room feels smaller, suffused with the weight of her words. When she looks back at me, guilt clouds her eyes. “A few years passed, and I watched the X-Men do their best to carry on. But it wasn’t enough. They reached their limit. With no other options, they resorted to time travel to stop a global disaster.”

She sighs, the weight of it all visible in the set of her shoulders. “And it worked. But in doing so… things changed. Many of my friends got another chance at life. Their pasts were altered, reshaped in ways that gave them hope.” She hesitates, her voice cracking slightly. “But not all of us got to be happy, to live life.”

Her words sting, reverberating in my mind. “To be happy, to live life.”

“It hurts me to see Logan as the man he’s become. It breaks me.” Her voice trembles, tears threatening to spill over. “Though you were forced to draw the short straw, I’m glad you brought Laura to him.” Her broken smile falters, a glimmer of gratitude amid her sorrow.

“So, what now…” I murmur, my gaze fixed on the floor. I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes, the weight of her words too much to bear.

She clears her throat, the sound slicing through the tension. “That’s up to you.”

My head snaps up, confusion etched into my features. “What do you mean?”

“Do you want to move on? Or… be with me and our family?” She rises from her chair, her movements slow and deliberate as she steps around the desk. Extending a hand toward me, she continues, “To put it simply… combine our souls. Share our life experiences, I suppose.” She shrugs, the vulnerability in her posture betraying her struggle to articulate such an extraordinary concept.

Her hand hovers in the space between us, waiting. I lift mine, hesitating as it trembles midair. My fingers twitch, caught in an internal war of doubt and longing.

My brows knit as I rise to my feet, now standing eye-to-eye with her. I search her gaze, desperate for answers, for reassurance, for… something. But her eyes reflect only a quiet patience, an unwavering certainty.

Before I can think further, instinct takes over. With a jolt, I grasp her hand and pull her into a tight embrace. Aristotle stiffens at first, her arms frozen at her sides, before she slowly melts into the hug, her arms encircling me with a tentative warmth.

A blinding light engulfs us, and suddenly, a cascade of memories surges through my mind like a flood.

“Scott!” The deep, exasperated voice booms across the yard, cutting through the still summer air. The man with the blonde mullet, steps forward with an authoritative stride. His rugged features are stern, but there’s a flicker of softness in his tone that betrays his concern. “What did I tell you about teasing her? Just let her be!”

The teenager he’s addressing, a boy with neatly combed brown hair and a pair of sleek, ruby-tinted sunglasses perched on his nose, the same one I’d glimpsed in fleeting visions, turns around with an indignant huff. “I wasn’t teasing her!” Scott protests, his arms thrown wide in frustration. “I was just trying to get her to talk! She’s been quiet since… the incident.” His voice trails off, and a flicker of guilt crosses his face.

Despite his defensive tone, there’s an undercurrent of genuine worry in his words. He glances toward me—or at least the version of me sitting a few feet away in the memory, knees pulled to her chest and face half-hidden behind a curtain of hair. The younger me barely flinches at the sound of their bickering, her gaze locked on the ground as if searching for answers in the blades of grass.

The man sighs, running a hand through his unruly blonde hair, and steps closer to Scott. “She doesn’t need you to push her right now. Just give her some space, alright?” His voice softens, and he places a hand on the teen’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.

Scott shrugs him off, but there’s no real malice in the gesture. “Fine,” he mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Yet, as he walks away, he casts one last glance toward the silent figure in the grass, his brow furrowed in quiet concern.

Another whirl of light passes, and I find myself seated on a plush carpet surrounded by soft pillows and flickering candles. The faint scent of vanilla and jasmine lingers in the air, mingling with the sound of giggles that echo through the room. 

“So…” Ororo, the beautiful woman with dark skin and striking white hair, leans closer, her lips curling into a mischievous smile as she dips a brush into the pale blue nail polish. “Any boys pique your interest lately?” Her voice is teasing, but her eyes sparkle with genuine curiosity as she expertly paints my nails.

I open my mouth, unsure of how to answer, when another voice cuts through.

“Ororo,” Jean’s warm but firm tone comes from behind me. I glance over my shoulder, catching her fiery red hair illuminated in the soft glow of the candles. She’s seated cross-legged, fingers weaving through my strands as she braids my hair with practiced care. “We discussed this—no boys allowed at the sleepover! Not even a mention.” Her tone is mock-stern, but there’s a playful edge to it as her green eyes meet Ororo’s with a knowing look.

Ororo rolls her eyes dramatically, chuckling under her breath. “Fine, fine. I’ll behave,” she relents, but the smirk tugging at her lips says she’s far from done stirring up fun.

The room erupts into laughter as Jean playfully telepathically tosses a pillow toward Ororo, who deftly dodges it, her laugh ringing like a melody. “Careful! I’m painting here!”

Jean finishes the braid and places a gentle hand on my shoulder, her voice softening. “You’re officially a teenager now. Big day, huh?”

I nod, glancing down at my freshly painted nails, the soft blue gleaming in the candlelight. “Yeah,” I whisper, feeling a strange mix of excitement and uncertainty swirling inside me.

They share a glance and then look at me, their smiles warm and reassuring. The world outside my bedroom feels far away, and for the first time in a long time, I feel safe.

The laughter lingers in the air as the memory begins to shift, fading into the next one.

I studied him deeply from afar, the cool night air biting at my skin. I had never seen anyone like him before, nor had I ever felt someone’s emotions with such intensity. There was something captivating about him, something I couldn’t quite put into words.

I found myself secretly admiring the way he styled his hair, even though Scott scoffed at it and called it “stupid.” The man took a slow drag from his cigar, and for the first time, I realized I liked the smell of cigars. The mix of leather and woodiness, with just a hint of spice, was strangely comforting. It wrapped around me like a memory I couldn’t place, making me feel both at ease and inexplicably at home.

He exhaled another puff of smoke, the creamy cloud swirling and dissipating into the night sky.

“It’s rude to stare,” he calls out, not bothering to turn his head. His voice is rough, but there’s an edge of humor in it. I blink in surprise, How did he know I was here?

“Sorry,” I mumble, walking up to stand beside him. The silence between us is heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts. Normally, I’d find the quiet comforting, but right now, next to him, it feels like a ticking bomb. “So… Rogue told me you go by ‘Wolverine’?” I try to lighten the mood, my voice hesitant.

He scoffs, a small, bitter laugh escaping him. “Talkative, isn’t she?”

The bubbly feeling in response to his laughter makes me giddy. I shrug, offering a small smile.

The memories fade, leaving me standing once again in her office. My heart feels heavy, and tears well in my eyes as I pull back from the warmth of our embrace. “Those were beautiful,” I whisper, my voice trembling with emotion.

She smiles softly, a bittersweet understanding flickering in her gaze, and extends her hand toward me once more.

I stare at it, my mind torn between gratitude and hesitation. “I—thank you,” I murmur, crossing my hands in front of my waist like a shield. My gaze shifts around the room, lingering on the mementos scattered across her desk. “But this…” I gesture faintly, my fingers twitching toward the space around us. “This is your life, not mine. Thank you for inviting me in, though.” A faint smile curves my lips, sincere but tinged with sadness.

Turning toward the door, my hand hesitates on the cool metal of the handle. I can feel her presence behind me, steady and patient. Finally, I glance back over my shoulder, meeting her eyes one last time. “Tell him… thank you. For taking care of Laura.” My voice cracks slightly, but I manage to hold my composure.

“Of course,” Aristotle replies, her tone calm yet weighted with the same emotion swirling within me.

The handle creaks as I push the door open. A golden, radiant light spills through, its warmth enveloping me like a gentle embrace. I take a deep breath, feeling its comforting glow seep into every part of me, and step forward, leaving the office—and her—behind.

The light grows brighter, consuming everything, as I move into whatever lies ahead.

Chapter Text

I watch her walk into the next plane, the door closing softly behind her. The moment it shuts, I feel her presence fade. A pang of loss settles in my chest, but I lower my head with a bittersweet smile. “I hope she finds peace…” I murmur, my voice barely audible.

Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes, and my gaze drifts to the photo on my desk—a snapshot of me and my brothers. Scott stands in the middle, trying to look serious, while Alex wears his signature smirk. And there I am, caught mid-laugh. My lips twitch upward, but the smile doesn’t last. With a sigh, I grab my coat from the back of the chair and drape it over my arm, the soft fabric of an old X-Men sweatshirt nestled in the crook of my elbow.

I approach the door, its hinges creak faintly as I push it open. “Scott, Alex!” I call out, expecting their usual banter to echo back at me. But when I step outside, I’m not met with the familiar hallways of the X-Mansion.

Instead, I find myself in the woods.

The air is damp and heavy, the earthy scent of moss and fallen leaves surrounding me. My heart skips a beat, startled, but I recognize this place—it’s not real. It’s a memory, or perhaps a vision. And it only means one thing: someone is dying.

The crunch of leaves underfoot draws me forward. Then I see him.

Logan lies slumped and impaled by the roots of an overturned tree, bloodied and battered, his breaths shallow and labored. Laura kneels beside him, clutching his hand with desperate strength. Her small frame trembles as she tries to hold onto what’s left of him, her tears soaking the collar of her shirt and coat.

“Don’t be what they made you…” Logan whispers, his voice weak but filled with conviction. His chest heaves with effort as he fights for one last breath. “Laura… Laura…” His lips twitch into a faint, ghostly smile.

“Daddy…” Laura chokes out, her voice breaking as she sobs. She clings to him as though her grip alone can keep him from slipping away.

“So… so this is what it feels like…” Logan murmurs, his words barely audible as he exhales one final breath.

“No…” Laura wails, her cry raw and filled with anguish. “No…” Her voice shatters as she hyperventilates, struggling to form words through her tears.

His death overwhelms me. My eyes sting, and tears blur my vision. I step back, and the crunch of leaves gives way to the solid thud of hardwood underfoot. I whip my head around, the sudden motion making me dizzy, and find myself back in the mansion.

Without thinking, I sprint across the room, my legs moving on instinct, and drop to my knees beside him. Logan’s body lies slumped in the chair, his hand limp on the worn leather armrest. I grasp it tightly, my fingers trembling. “Logan…” I whisper, my voice cracking as I squeeze his hand.

His once-brown hair is streaked with gray, and deep lines etch his face, each one a testament to the life he’s lived. His lips part slightly, and I hold my breath as he draws in a shaky inhale.

His eyelids flutter open. For a moment, confusion flickers in his hazel eyes before recognition sets in. His gaze softens as it lands on me.

“It’s you…” he murmurs, his voice raspy but more alert than before.

“It’s me,” I reply, a shaky laugh escaping me as tears streak down my cheeks.

With surprising strength, Logan sits up and pulls me to my feet, his calloused hands cradling my face. His rough exterior melts away, replaced by a look so tender it takes my breath away.

“You did good, Logan,” I whisper, resting my hands over his. The warmth of his touch feels like home. “It’s time to rest now. You don’t have to fight anymore.”

His brows knit, and his throat works as he tries to speak. His voice breaks when he finally manages, “I… I missed you.”

“I know,” I answer, my hands tightening over his reassuringly. “We missed you too. But me the most.”

His lips twitch into a faint smirk, though his eyes remain misty. “We?”

“The others. Our family. The X-Men,” I say softly, a smile playing on my lips.

“So, I don’t get you all to myself then?” he teases, the familiar gruffness in his voice tugging at my heart.

I chuckle, the sound light despite the tears still wet on my cheeks. “No.”

A short laugh rumbles through his chest, his signature humor shining through even now. “You gonna kiss me, or you gonna make me beg?”

I grin, my heart swelling at his words. “I’m not that cruel.”

“C’mere,” he says, tilting his head with a crooked smile.

And as he leans in, I meet him halfway, the world around us fading until it’s just the two of us, together at last.

I kiss him fervently, my hands clutching his shirt as if holding him tightly will keep him from vanishing. His lips are soft, warm, and familiar—just as I remember. The faint scent of cigar smoke mixed with pine lingers on him, grounding me in the reality that he’s here, truly here.

As our lips move together, flashes of memories flood my mind—moments when we were younger, happier, and untouched by the crushing weight of the world. I see stolen kisses under the stars, shared laughter over drinks, and whispered promises in the dark. They swirl through me like a bittersweet song, leaving an ache in their wake.

When we finally break apart for air, our foreheads rest together, and our breaths mingle, uneven and ragged. My cheeks are flushed, my heart racing. But as I open my eyes, the man before me isn’t the tired, worn-down wolverine. He looks as he did when we first met—young, vibrant, and full of life. His thick, chocolate-brown hair perfectly styled, and the hint of curiosity in his eyes that always reminded me of a stray cat.

I hesitate, lifting a trembling hand to run my fingers through his hair. It’s impossibly soft, and I can’t help but wonder if what I’m seeing is real.

He leans into my touch, his eyes fluttering closed as a contented hum escapes his lips.

“Logan…” I whisper, my voice shaky with disbelief.

“Hm?” he responds dreamily, his eyes opening slowly to meet mine.

“Do you see what I see?” I tilt my head, studying him as though he might dissolve before my eyes.

Logan’s lips curl into a smile, his perfect teeth flashing in the dim light. “I just see the woman I fell in love with.”

His words hit me with the force of a tidal wave. I blink back the sting of tears, taking a moment to look at him. Truly look at him. The years of hardship and battle have melted away from his face, leaving behind the man who first captured my heart.

I recall what Charles told me when he appeared moments before my alternate self, his own youthful form disarming me, and more surprising me his lush locks of hair. He explained that, in death, we return to how we see ourselves—when we felt whole, content. I will say, it always stung having Scott call me an ‘oldlady’. But now, seeing Logan’s boyish grin and shining eyes, I understand.

He watches me with a puppy love gaze, and his thumb brushing gently across my cheek in slow, soothing strokes.

“Are you ready?” I ask softly, my voice barely audible.

Logan doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulls me into his arms, his chin resting on the crown of my head. “Can’t we just stay here for a while?” he murmurs, his voice muffled against my hair.

A laugh bubbles from my chest, light and unrestrained. “Of course we can,” I reply, my arms slipping from around his waist to take his hand.

I lead him toward the loveseat by the window, the warm glow of the setting sun casting the room in shades of gold and amber. We sink into the cushions together, curling up as though no time has passed since we last shared such intimacy. I rest my head against his shoulder, and he runs his hand up and down my arm in slow, comforting strokes, his touch soothing me to my core.

For a moment, there is only silence. The weight of the world doesn’t exist here—only the steady rhythm of his breathing and the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

“I love you,” Logan says softly, his voice filled with a depth of emotion that makes my heart swell. He presses a tender kiss to the top of my head.

“I love you too,” I hum, my voice thick with contentment.

The world beyond fades away as we sit together, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and love. For once, there is no war to fight, no loss to mourn—only us.

Chapter Text

I roll left to right, then right to left, flipping my pillow over in a futile attempt to convince my restless brain to let me sleep. With an exasperated huff, I flop onto my back, the bedframe groaning softly under my weight. Today was a disaster. So much for having my mutation ‘under control’. No wonder Charles stuck me with those three. If I’d been with the younger students, who knows what could’ve happened.

Warm, wrinkled sheets twist around me, and I clutch the edge of the blanket with white-knuckled determination, hoping that cocooning myself tightly enough will somehow lull me into unconsciousness. A sliver of moonlight sneaks in through the curtains, catching my eye, and I groan inwardly.

Giving up, I fling the covers aside and stride to the window nook, dropping onto the narrow bench with a soft thud. The cushion is so thin it barely softens the wood beneath, and I already know my backside will ache if I stay here too long. Tugging at the curtains, I find them stuck on a notch in the rod, and it takes a few sharp yanks before the fabric finally slides free. The moonlight floods in, and I let myself bask in the pale glow.

The wooden frame creaks as I nudge the window open just enough to let in the cool night air. Resting my forehead against the cold glass, I gaze at the night sky. The stars shimmer like tiny jewels scattered across black velvet, and the moon—just shy of being new—hangs like the sly grin of a Cheshire Cat. Waning or waxing? I can never remember the difference, so I settle for simply appreciating its beauty.

Should I talk to him?

The thought creeps into my mind unbidden, and my brows knit together as my heart races at the idea. When we shared those fleeting days together three years ago, he was so overwhelming I didn’t even get the chance to judge his character properly. Yet now, when I think about Rogue standing in the foyer after he left, a strange emptiness gnaws at me, like my life is missing something.

I should be grateful that not everyone affects my mutation the way he does. But when it’s him... it’s exhilarating, like an addict chasing a high.

Why am I thinking about him?

Warmth floods my cheeks, spreading to the tips of my ears. Acting on impulse, I grab my slippers and slip out the door, carefully pulling it closed behind me to avoid waking my newly returned neighbor. The mansion is silent as I weave through its hallways and out onto the damp lawn, the grass freshly trimmed and cool beneath my feet.

The pond—or maybe it’s a lake; I should really look up the difference someday— comes into view, its surface reflecting the glowing moon and shining stars. I drop onto the old wooden dock with a dull thud, letting the stillness of the water attempt to calm my racing thoughts.

It doesn’t work. My hand instinctively reaches out to trace the weathered wood grain, but my fingers find a small pile of stones instead. One of the kids must have been skipping them earlier.

The stones plop and skitter across the water, each ripple distorting the reflection of the night sky. Sitting cross-legged on the dock, I rub my eyes in frustration before leaning over to scoop up a handful of the cool water, letting it trickle through my fingers.

“Something on your mind?”

The voice startles me. I whip my head around to see a familiar figure approaching with steady strides, his hands buried in his jacket pockets. Logan.

“Yeah, uh...” My words falter as I try to steady my voice. I pull my knees to my chest, hugging them tightly. “You missed it.” The admission feels heavy on my tongue.

Logan settles beside me, his posture is as casual as ever, one leg crossed over the other as he leans back on his hands. Even though his expression is gruff, there’s a quiet warmth radiating from him that wraps around me like a blanket.

“But everything worked out, didn’t it?” His tone is low but firm, urging the truth from me without coddling.

I let out a frustrated sigh. “Yeah, Charles showed up,” I mumble, tracing patterns on the planks beneath us. “But what if he hadn’t? I just… I froze.”

Logan doesn’t respond right away. His silence feels deliberate, like he’s giving me space to untangle the knot of thoughts in my head. Finally, he hums softly, his gaze fixed on the water.

“You’re too hard on yourself, bub. You don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

I rest my cheek on my knee, pouting like a child. “What’s it like?” My voice is softer now, barely audible. “To have people depending on you all the time?”

His jaw tightens for a moment, the question clearly hitting deeper than I intended. His hazel eyes narrow, thoughtful, as he finally speaks. “Stressful,” he admits, his tone blunt but honest. “But it keeps me going. Makes me fight harder. When you know people are counting on you... it’s hard to walk away, even when you want to.”

His words settle heavily between us, and I find myself nodding, unsure what else to say.

For a while, we sit in companionable silence, the cool night air wrapping around us. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, catching the way his hazel gaze seems to flicker with unspoken thoughts as he watches the moon.

“You’re different,” I murmur.

He snorts softly, a flicker of amusement in his smirk. “Oh, yeah?”

I nod, shifting to face him fully. “When you asked me to read your emotions that day... I didn’t just feel them. I saw the memories tied to them. That night, I dreamt your nightmares like they were my own.”

Logan’s smirk fades, his brows knitting together. There’s something raw in his expression, but he quickly hides it behind a shrug. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

The tension in the air thickens as his emotions seep into mine, blurring the line between us. My heart skips, and I roll my eyes, trying to mask the vulnerability creeping in.

“You always do that,” I huff.

“Do what?” His smirk widens, teasing now.

“Make everything feel like a game.”

“Life’s already too damn serious,” he replies. “Gotta balance it out somehow.”

The air between us shifts again, heavier this time, and I feel that familiar pull, the one that always seems to draw me closer to him whether I want it or not.

My head drops, eyes fixed on my lap, as I let out a shaky laugh. I squeeze my hands into fists, trying to ground myself before finally lifting my head to meet his gaze again.

“Did I wake you?” I ask, shifting the conversation, embarrassment lacing my tone. My voice feels too loud against the quiet night.

Logan furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly, the gesture oddly cat-like. “No,” he hums, his voice low and curious. “Why d’you ask?”

I shrug, playing with a fraying thread on the edge of my sleeve. “I was tossing and turning, moving around my room. I’m not really sure how your powers work. Heightened senses, right?”

Logan nods, the motion slow and deliberate. “Yeah, I heard you,” he admits, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, “but I was already up.”

A tight-lipped smile forms on my face, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. The conversation feels heavier than it should, like we’re both dancing around something unsaid. My gaze drops again, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. With a sigh, I push myself up from the dock, the wood groaning softly under my weight.

“I think I’m gonna try to get some sleep,” I say, brushing off invisible dirt from my pajama pants.

“Good luck,” he replies, his tone dry but not unkind as his gaze drifts back to the moon.

He must like it, too.

Chapter Text

“Do you want to see them?” I murmur against his chest, my voice barely audible.

I feel his heartbeat quicken beneath my ear, his breath hitching slightly at the question.

“You did nothing wrong, Logan,” I say softly, lifting my head from the comforting warmth of his embrace. “You did everything you could, and they understand. You did more than enough.” My hand moves gently, brushing a stray curl of hair out of his gaze before trailing down to cradle his jaw.

“I—” His voice falters, his lip trembling. I catch the glimmer of tears welling in his eyes, the glossy sheen reflecting years of pain and unspoken fears. “I was so afraid…” His voice cracks as he finally meets my gaze. “So afraid…” he whispers, the words almost breaking apart. “That you wouldn’t be here, and that horrible second chance I gave you was all there was of you…”

My brows knit together in concern as I cup his face more firmly, grounding him. “And even now, after seeing me, you’re afraid it might still be that way for them,” I say, gently finishing the thought he can’t bear to.

Logan closes his eyes, his lashes damp with unshed tears. He takes a shaky breath, the sound heavy with the weight of years of pain. “They died… and I wasn’t able to do anything,” he murmurs, the rawness of his voice cutting through me.

“That’s not your fault,” I whisper, the conviction in my words unwavering.

He shakes his head slightly, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “I had to watch them die, not once but twice… I failed. Twice,” he says, his voice weary and broken, the long years of his life etched into each syllable.

“And yet,” I reply, leaning closer, my voice steady and soothing, “they’re here. I’m here. And I know they don’t hate you for it.” A weak smile plays at my lips, trying to coax him from the darkness he’s spiraling into. “Maybe Scott hates you for stealing his bike… then his car… or maybe Gambit’s mad about you ruining his cooking…”

A small, reluctant smirk tugs at his lips, his sorrow cracking just slightly.

“Or Jean,” I continue, my tone playful now, “for playing mind games on her.” I let out a soft laugh, the sound light and teasing, and his smirk grows a little stronger.

“That sounds about right,” he mutters, his voice quieter but touched with the faintest hint of warmth.

For a moment, the heaviness between us lifts, replaced by something fragile but hopeful. It’s not an end to his pain, but it’s a start—a thread of light weaving its way through the shadows.

“You’ve waited long enough, Logan,” I say gently, my eyes holding his. “They’re waiting for you. And I know they’ll be glad to see you. Just as I am.”

His eyes search mine, and I can see the fear still lingering, but there’s something else there now—something softer, a glimmer of courage peeking through the cracks.

Logan rests his head against mine and takes in a deep breath. I comb through his hair in effort to soothe him a tad more before turning and kissing his cheek. 

“Everything turned out alright…” I smile softly holding him close.

“I love you…” Logan utters against my skin.

“I know…” 

Chapter Text

Out of everything wrong with the world… everything wrong with how us mutants were treated, it seemed it could always get worse. Heavy bags lined my undereyes, leaving their mark in dark splotches paired with red corneas. The heavy, rusted collar weighed down my neck and shoulders, leaving me slouched on the cot, hands clasped in my lap with nails clipped down short, still a bit sharp in places. Shaky irises raked over my skin. It felt foreign, but there had been countless pricks and cuts, samples cut from my own skin and stitched back together raw, with hair inconsistently chopped in messy segments.

“She’s done for the day. Any more and she’ll pass out, and we need her functioning to study her.”

A male doctor hummed, looking at his clipboard, studying my charted vitals before looking back at me as if I was nothing.

Pierce tapped his chin in understanding. “Is there really nothing more that we can do?” he turned to the man.

“Look, you asked us to make a clone — what you don’t understand is how hard that is to do without the male genes. And she was sterilized by Stryker, so even if we had the technology to push forward, we don’t have the proper controls.”

“The twin is failing,” he huffed. “What is it that’s so hard to do here?”

“The brother just hasn’t caught yet. Each one that has hasn’t carried over the X-gene, causing us to restart and look for new samples on the subject.”

Subject. What was I, some cow to be farmed and scoured? Only good for meat, milk, and leather.

“It isn’t my fault she couldn’t be properly controlled in the first place.”

Pierce sighed deeply, smoothing out the crease between his brows. Arguing wasn’t going to get them anywhere.

“Alright, alright. When can we resume the process?”

The doctor’s eyes wearily traveled over my meek figure once more. “A couple of weeks. It might be a good idea to take the collar off — boost her serotonin.”

Pierce makes a ‘tch’ sound. “Yeah, and have her make us kill each other.”

“You want good results? Well, then listen to what I have to say.”

They rang for an assistant nurse before clearing the room. She was new — new to me, at least. A fearful look in her eye, with a compassionate smile.

“We’ll be moving you along now.”

I’m barely able to bob my head in response, and I lay back down on the table.

The gurney wheels down the hallway, a few faces passing by in a blur, but I don’t bother to look. I just stare at the vacant ceiling, fluorescents catching my gaze every so often.

The woman helps me up off the bed, carefully removing the IV and leaving a bandage in its place before guiding me back into my padded room.

They left it dark for me, illuminated by a soft, warm light. That was different — usually, it was stark and bright or completely off.

“We’ll check in in a bit,” she murmured, closing the door behind her with a thud.

The rubber grips on my socks occasionally caught on the floor as I shuffled in. A beeping sound near my ear caught my attention, paired with unlatching gears and the small red light changing to green.

I didn’t think they’d actually do it , and my chapped lips parted as I hesitantly reached up with shaky hands, removing the metal chunk off my neck. It fell to the floor with an unenthusiastic thud.

A gasp tore through my lungs, and I clutched my arms tight, hugging myself harshly as my breath caught and my eyes clamped shut. The presence of the ‘hospital’ rushed to greet me — a roaring cacophony of mixed emotions. It was as if someone pumped the life back into my lungs. Angry tears sprouted from my eyes and I heaved, nails digging into my skin as ragged breaths escaped me. 

I struggled to get down to the floor, too busy losing myself. My stiff fingers reached out, groping the floor in hope of finding something to grip that wasn’t the stupid device. Internally, I knew there was nothing, but I still craved something. Instead, my hands traveled upward and brushed through my hair in some attempted comfort as cries ripped through me, leaving me in rambles and dripping snot.

If I was given the opportunity, I would claw my own chest open, letting the flesh tear and ooze with blood, so I could emerge from the broken shell I am now — leaving the corpse to rot behind me, along with the youth it carried.