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1: The Danger Room
Massive holographic Sentinels loomed in the distance, their mechanical joints groaning as they moved with eerie precision.
“Bobby, ice the legs! Kurt, teleport Rogue up top! We need to take down the high ground before it retaliates!” Scott's voice cut through the noise of battle like a sharp blade, clear and precise.
The team, consisting of Ororo, Hank, Kurt, Bobby, Rogue, Piotr, and Logan, moved like a well-oiled machine. For once, Logan wasn't challenging Scott's orders, wasn't sneering with his usual growl. Instead, Logan was focused, his claws gleaming under the pale light as he darted between the hulking Sentinels, slicing through their metallic limbs with terrifying efficiency.
"Logan! Left flank! Take it down!" Scott shouted, his heart pounding—not just from the adrenaline of battle but from the strange, unexpected ease with which they were working together. Logan turned briefly, his eyes locking with Scott’s, and without a word, he launched himself at the approaching Sentinel.
For once, he’s listening to me, Scott thought, caught off guard by Logan’s lack of resistance. Usually, the older mutant would toss in a snide comment or question Scott's judgment. But not today.
Logan landed a devastating blow, his claws ripping through the Sentinel's armored leg. The machine collapsed with a thunderous crash, sending vibrations through the room. Rogue and Piotr had already taken down another, and Ororo hovered overhead, summoning a lightning strike that reduced a third Sentinel to smoldering debris.
“Last one!” Scott called out, pointing at the final towering machine. “Logan, with me.”
The two of them moved in perfect synchrony. Scott's optic blasts tore into the Sentinel's chest as Logan lunged forward, his claws driving deep into the machine’s core. The Sentinel staggered, sparks flying, before crumpling to the ground in a defeated heap.
Scott’s breathing was labored, more from the tension of the moment than the physical exertion. He turned to Logan, who wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow, his expression hard but somehow… lighter. There was no animosity, no smirk. Just the two of them standing together, victorious.
“That was... good work,” Scott said, his voice quieter than before, his usual commanding tone softened by something else. His heart raced, and the words he’d been holding back for months, felt like they were lodged in his throat. It was the perfect moment. No audience, no interruptions.
Logan looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Good work?" he repeated, his voice low, gravelly. “Didn’t think you were the kind to hand out compliments, Summers.”
Scott chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, you didn’t question a single order today. That’s rare.”
For a moment, there was a pause—something hung between them, unsaid but heavy with meaning. Scott took a breath, feeling the weight of all the things he had never said but desperately wanted to.
“I, uh… I’ve been meaning to—” Scott started, the words coming out awkwardly, his usual confidence faltering. His pulse quickened, and he wondered if Logan could hear it. "Logan, there's something I need to tell you. I—”
Before Scott could finish, Professor Xavier’s voice crackled over the intercom, urgent and commanding.
“Scott, Logan, we’ve just intercepted a distress call. The Brotherhood led by Mystique are assaulting a hospital in Brooklyn. They’re taking hostages. I need the team assembled immediately.”
Scott closed his eyes briefly, frustration gnawing at him. Of course.
Logan’s eyes shifted from Scott to the ceiling, where Xavier's voice had come from. “Guess that’s our cue, huh?” he muttered.
Scott clenched his jaw, nodding curtly, pushing back the whirlwind of emotions that had nearly spilled over. “Yeah. Looks like it.”
Logan, completely unaware of what Scott had been on the verge of saying, grabbed his jacket from the side. “Let's get moving, Summers. Ain’t got time to waste.”
2: The Morlock's Lair
Scott’s body ached. The heavy, rusted chains biting into his wrists didn’t help either. But the pain wasn’t the problem—not for him, anyway. Pain had become almost comforting in its consistency, a sharp reminder that he was still here, still alive. And even if it wasn’t Jean by his side anymore, there was someone else.
He glanced at Logan, shackled a few feet away. The Wolverine, motionless for once, his head bowed, chin resting on his chest as if he were just waiting for the next battle. Ready, Scott thought. Always ready. The firelight from the Morlock camp outside their cage flickered, casting strange shadows over Logan’s face. Scott swallowed hard, feeling that old gnawing guilt rising in his chest.
“I don’t get it,” Scott said, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Why didn’t they just kill us?”
Logan’s head snapped up, and his eyes gleamed in the dim light. “Maybe they like playin’ with their food,” he grunted, testing the strength of his chains with a low growl. “Doesn’t matter. When I get out of here—”
When. Scott should’ve expected it. Logan always thought in terms of when, not if. But Scott, for once, felt different. The Morlocks weren’t playing around. There was something final about this whole situation that made Scott think it might be the end of the line—for both of them.
“Logan—”
“Yeah?”
Scott hesitated. His throat was dry, heart pounding with a rhythm he hadn’t felt since... since Jean. But now wasn’t about Jean. It was about someone else entirely.
“I... I’ve been thinking,” Scott said slowly, shifting uncomfortably as the words clung to his tongue like tar. “After everything that’s happened... Jean... I—” He swallowed again, his palms sweating despite the cool underground air. “I can’t keep running from this. There’s something I need to say.”
Logan turned, eyes narrowing as if trying to read Scott’s face beneath the visor. “What are you talkin’ about, Cyke?”
Scott hated when Logan called him that—Cyke. It felt impersonal, a reminder of the distance between them, no matter how many times they'd fought side by side.
“I... I’m not sure we’ll get another chance, so I just need to say it.” He exhaled, his breath shaky as he leaned forward, the chains rattling softly. “Logan, I...”
And then—
BAMF.
A flash of sulfuric smoke exploded into the cage, and suddenly, Kurt Wagner appeared. “Scott! Logan!” he cried out, his voice filled with urgency.
Scott froze, blinking, his heart lurching as the world around him rushed back into focus. No, no, not now—
Logan was already on his feet, snapping the chains like they were nothing as Bobby and Ororo came in behind Kurt, freezing and electrifying the Morlocks outside. Hank was there too, ripping the metal door off its hinges with a ferocity that rivaled Logan’s.
“Nice of ya to show up,” Logan grumbled as he rolled his neck, his muscles tensing in readiness for the fight.
Scott felt the words he'd wanted to say slipping away, dissolving like mist under the weight of the rescue mission. Not now. Not here.
“Time to go,” Ororo said firmly, her white hair glowing in the light as she extended a hand to Scott.
Scott took it, pulling himself up, his body aching from more than just the chains. He glanced at Logan, who was already moving, growling something about “payback” as he launched himself at the remaining Morlocks. Scott sighed; the moment lost.
Again.
3. The X-Mansion's Kitchen
Scott wasn’t sure what had pulled him into the kitchen that night. He’d been planning on heading to bed early—God knows he needed the sleep—but the distant clatter of glass bottles and the low hum of a refrigerator door closing had lured him downstairs.
When he reached the kitchen doorway, he paused.
Logan stood by the fridge, half-lit by the dim yellow light spilling from its open door. He was barefoot, wearing only a pair of well-worn jeans and a white undershirt that clung to his broad frame. His muscles moved fluidly as he rummaged through the fridge for a beer, completely at ease in the quiet of the mansion.
Scott felt something catch in his throat, like the sight had physically hit him. It wasn’t just that Logan looked... good. No, that wasn’t it. It was something more, something deeper. Logan always seemed larger than life in battle, an unstoppable force of nature. But here, in the stillness of the kitchen, he was just a man. A man who had lost as much as Scott had. A man Scott could—
Logan straightened and, as if sensing he was being watched, turned around. His eyes, sharp as ever, landed squarely on Scott, and one eyebrow rose.
“What’s wrong, Cyke?” Logan asked, his gravelly voice breaking the silence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Scott blinked, shaking off the trance that had held him for what felt like an eternity. His heart raced, but he forced himself to focus, taking a slow breath.
“I, uh... no. Just... thinking,” Scott muttered, mentally cursing himself for sounding like an idiot. He glanced away, trying to find something else to latch onto, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his visor. “The professor... he’s been thinking about having you teach next semester.”
Logan paused, twisting the cap off his beer and leaning back against the counter. He gave Scott a slow, unreadable look before taking a long sip.
“Teach, huh?” Logan’s voice was casual, but Scott could tell he was turning the idea over in his head. “Doesn’t bother me. Long as it’s not math. I’m not dealin’ with that crap.”
A smile tugged at Scott’s lips, despite himself. “No,” he said, his voice more relaxed now. “The professor was thinking... maybe a language class.”
Logan’s brow furrowed for a second, then he grunted, scratching at his stubble. “Languages, huh? Japanese, maybe? Or some other stuff I’ve picked up over the years.” He shrugged. “Fine by me. Doesn’t sound too bad.”
For a moment, there was an odd sort of peace between them. Scott watched as Logan set the beer down on the counter, his muscular arms crossing over his chest as he considered the prospect of being a teacher. It was strange—this man who usually tore through enemies like a wild animal was now casually mulling over the idea of grading papers. The thought of Logan in a classroom almost made Scott laugh.
“You drinkin’ or just standin’ there lookin’ like you’ve got something to say?” Logan’s question broke through Scott’s reverie.
Scott hesitated. This was it. The moment felt right, casual, without the weight of battle or old wounds hanging over them. Just two men, alone in a kitchen, sharing a moment that felt real. Scott’s heart thudded in his chest as he stepped forward.
“I—actually... there is something I wanted to talk to you about,” Scott said, his voice soft, almost tentative. He took a deep breath, his eyes flickering up behind his visor to meet Logan’s. “It’s... been on my mind for a while, and I just think—”
But before he could finish, the kitchen door swung open, and Bobby and Rogue burst in, laughing and talking animatedly about something. The sound crashed into the quiet space between Scott and Logan like a tidal wave, and Scott immediately tensed up.
“Yo, Logan! You got any more of that Canadian beer left?” Bobby asked as he headed straight for the fridge, his breath misting slightly from the cold air outside.
Logan’s eyes flicked briefly toward Scott before turning back to Bobby, a small frown crossing his face. “Check the back. Don’t take all of ’em.”
Rogue wandered over, giving Scott a curious glance as she perched herself on the counter. “What’re you guys doing up so late? Thought you were the early-to-bed type, Mr. Summers.”
Scott forced a tight-lipped smile, his heart sinking as the moment slipped further and further away. The words he’d been building up lodged painfully in his throat. “Just talking,” he said, his voice sounding more distant than he intended. “I was about to head out.”
“You sure, Summers?” Logan asked, his voice low and almost unreadable. There was something in his eyes, a flash of something that Scott couldn’t quite place.
“Yeah,” Scott replied quickly, too quickly. “I’ll... catch you later.”
Before Logan could respond, Scott turned on his heel and made a beeline for the door, his pulse thudding in his ears. The noise of Bobby and Rogue’s chatter followed him as he left, drowning out the sound of his own regret.
4: The Mutant Cage Fight Venue
The venue was loud. Too loud. The roar of the crowd around them echoed through the dimly lit warehouse, the scent of sweat, blood, and cheap beer hanging thick in the air. The clatter of bodies crashing into the cage in the center of the room punctuated the rowdy cheers of onlookers. It wasn’t the first place Scott Summers would have chosen to go undercover, but here they were—on the outskirts of Vancouver, sitting at a grimy wooden table under the pretense of watching illegal mutant cage fights.
Scott shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glancing at the people around them. Most of the crowd was made up of mutants and a few unlucky humans. Some cheered on the fighters, others just watched in grim silence. The professor had sent them to investigate rumors of forced mutant participation in the matches. It wasn’t the kind of mission Scott was thrilled about, but it had to be done.
Across the table, Logan sat, arms crossed over his chest, his signature scowl in place as he scanned the room with sharp eyes. His leather jacket was slung over the back of his chair, leaving him in just a simple black shirt, tight across his chest, and worn jeans. The light glinted off the metal of his dog tags as he tilted his head toward the fight.
“These places never change,” Logan muttered, almost to himself, his voice low enough that only Scott could hear over the chaos.
Scott glanced at him. “You’ve been to one of these before?”
Logan’s eyes flicked toward Scott, his lips pulling into a humorless smirk. “Yeah. Before I met Rogue. I used to fight in places like this. Cage matches, bar brawls... whatever paid.”
Scott nodded, not entirely surprised. Logan had mentioned his old life once or twice before, in passing, but never in detail. Still, the image of Logan, fists flying inside a metal cage, covered in blood but grinning like a madman, was all too easy to picture.
Logan let out a low grunt, not quite a laugh but close enough for Scott to feel the tension between them ease a little.
For a moment, they sat in silence, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as they watched the ongoing fight. Then, Logan shifted slightly in his seat, his voice softer than usual.
“How you holdin’ up?” Logan asked, his gaze fixed on the cage, but Scott could feel the weight of the question between them. “It’s been... almost a year now. Since Jean.”
Scott stiffened, the mention of Jean sending a pang through his chest. It was always there, that dull ache, though it didn’t burn quite as brightly as it used to.
He swallowed, his fingers tightening around the glass of water in front of him. “I’ll... I’ll always love Jean. Forever.” His voice was steady, almost too steady, like it had been rehearsed. “She was my world, Logan.”
He didn’t notice Logan’s face harden slightly, his jaw clenching as he looked away. The noise of the crowd and the violence inside the cage masked the shift in Logan’s demeanor, but if Scott had been paying attention, he would have seen the brief flash of something raw in Logan’s eyes. Something more than just concern.
Logan’s heart sank, even if his expression barely changed.
Scott exhaled, his words slow and careful as if he was still working through them. “But... I think it’s time I move forward,” he continued, his voice barely audible above the noise. He hesitated, feeling his heart race, the words that had been buried for so long pushing their way to the surface. “There’s something I need to tell you, Logan. I—”
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed behind them, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Scott froze mid-sentence, his words dying on his lips as a drunken man staggered into another table, fists swinging wildly. The other man—likely a mutant by the looks of the sparks flickering from his fingertips—wasn’t having any of it. Before either Scott or Logan could react, the two men were brawling, knocking over chairs and tables, their fight spilling dangerously close to where Scott and Logan sat.
Logan’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring as he rose from his seat in one fluid motion. “Damn it,” he muttered. “I’ll take care of this.”
Before Scott could say another word, Logan was already moving, shoving his way through the chaotic crowd with ease. He grabbed the drunk by the collar and pulled him back, tossing him aside with a force that was almost casual. The mutant with the sparking fingers turned to Logan, eyes flashing with anger, but one look at the feral gleam in Logan’s eyes stopped him in his tracks.
“Cool it,” Logan growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Or I’ll cool it for you.”
The mutant hesitated for a moment before backing down, his hands lowering, the sparks fading. Logan gave him a final glare before turning back toward Scott, his expression hard and unreadable once more.
Scott stood there, his heart still racing, the confession that had been on the tip of his tongue now swallowed back down into the pit of his stomach. The moment had passed.
Again.
5: Logan's Bedroom
It had been weeks since the mission at the cage fights, weeks of awkward silences and half-finished thoughts hanging between Scott and Logan. But Scott had made up his mind. He couldn’t keep carrying this weight—this secret, this ache. He was done rehearsing what he wanted to say. Done imagining every possible outcome, from rejection to acceptance. He needed to get it out, even if it meant risking it all. Even if Logan didn’t feel the same.
Scott stood outside Logan’s door, his heart pounding harder than it should have been. The mansion was quiet, the hallways empty, and for once, it felt like the perfect moment to finally say what had been stuck in his chest for so long.
His hand hesitated only for a moment before he knocked—three firm taps against the wood.
No answer.
Scott waited, listening for any sign of movement inside. He knocked again, this time a little softer, hoping not to disturb anyone nearby. When he still didn’t hear anything, a strange knot twisted in his gut. He inhaled deeply, hand trembling as it reached for the doorknob.
Maybe Logan was asleep. Maybe he was out. But something urged Scott to open the door anyway. He needed to see him. He needed to get this off his chest before it festered any longer.
The door creaked open, and Scott stepped inside cautiously. The room was dimly lit, the faint scent of cigar smoke still lingering in the air. Scott’s eyes immediately went to the bed—and the sight stopped him dead in his tracks.
A woman. Lying tangled in Logan’s sheets. She was asleep, her dark hair falling over her bare shoulders, her chest rising and falling in soft rhythm.
Scott’s heart dropped like a stone.
Then, he saw Logan. Shirtless, standing in the bathroom doorway with a towel draped around his neck. His dog tags gleamed in the dim light as he rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes hadn’t landed on Scott yet, too focused on the floor as if he were deep in thought.
Scott stood frozen in place, his breath catching in his throat. His fingers tightened around the doorframe, and for a moment, all the carefully rehearsed words dissolved into a sharp, bitter ache. He had prepared himself for so many possibilities, but not for this.
Logan finally glanced up, his eyes locking onto Scott’s face. “Scott?” His voice was low, gravelly, confused. “What’s goin’ on? You need somethin’?”
Scott could feel Logan’s eyes searching his face, trying to read his expression. But behind the ruby-quartz visor, Scott’s eyes were hidden, his feelings masked. Yet his body language—stiff, shoulders tense, fingers still gripping the door like it was his only anchor—spoke louder than any words ever could.
Scott cleared his throat, forcing the knot in his throat down. “No... I... I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice hollow. “I didn’t mean to—”
Logan’s eyes narrowed slightly, something flickering across his face. He could sense the shift in Scott’s demeanor, the way his usual calm had fractured. “Somethin’ wrong?” he asked, his voice softer now, more cautious.
Scott swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “I... just needed to talk to you about something. But...” He glanced at the woman in the bed, his chest tightening with a pain he wasn’t prepared for. “It can wait.”
Logan followed his gaze, noticing where Scott’s attention had landed. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw as if trying to figure out what to say next, but Scott didn’t give him the chance.
“I’ll come back later,” Scott said quickly, turning toward the door before Logan could respond. His hand tightened on the doorknob, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.
“Scott—wait,” Logan’s voice was firm, a mixture of confusion and something else, something unreadable.
But Scott didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. If he stayed a second longer, his carefully built walls would crumble. And he couldn’t afford to let Logan see that.
“Forget it,” Scott muttered, his voice tight with the weight of unsaid words. “It’s nothing. Just... forget it.”
Before Logan could say another word, Scott slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him. He stood in the hallway for a long moment, his chest heaving, his heart racing.
It’s nothing, he repeated to himself. Just forget it.
But the truth was, he couldn’t forget it. And for the first time since Jean's death, Scott Summers felt truly, utterly heartbroken.
+1: Scott's Bedroom
Logan hesitated outside Scott’s door, knuckles hovering just inches from the polished wood. His heartbeat was louder than usual, thudding in his chest in a way that unsettled him more than any battle ever had. This wasn't a fight he could walk away from, and that terrified him more than any clawed fist he'd ever thrown.
He knocked once.
No answer.
Logan sucked in a breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.
Scott was at his desk, back rigid, jaw clenched, pretending to be focused on some paperwork. The air between them was thick—Logan could feel it, the weight of all the things left unsaid. Scott didn’t turn, but Logan didn’t expect him to. Not after what happened.
“What are you doing here?” Scott asked, voice sharp, tinged with exhaustion.
Logan shut the door behind him, leaning against it. “We need to talk, Summers.”
Scott’s shoulders tensed at the sound of his name. He placed the paper he’d been pretending to read down with deliberate calm. “About what? I think we’ve covered everything.”
“No, we haven’t.” Logan pushed himself off the door, moving toward Scott, each step deliberate, as if he were stalking prey. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. Ever since—” He paused. The image of that girl, sprawled on his bed, flashed through his mind. He shook it away. “—since that day.”
“I have nothing to say.” Scott’s voice was tight. His fingers curled into fists on the desk. He didn’t turn around.
Logan’s patience frayed. He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping just behind Scott’s chair. His reflection glared back at him from the glass window behind Scott, but it wasn’t anger burning in his gut this time. “Bullshit, Summers. You’ve been trying to tell me something for weeks—months, even. But you never finish. And I never pushed. But now I need to know.”
“Know what?” Scott finally snapped, standing up from the desk so fast the chair almost toppled over. He turned to face Logan, eyes hard behind the red of his visor. “What exactly do you need to know, Logan?”
Logan’s throat went dry. He swallowed, closing the distance between them with a step. His voice lowered to a whisper. “I need to know if it’s the same for you.”
Scott’s breath caught, his lips parting slightly as though the words were stuck in his throat. “What... what are you talking about?”
Logan didn’t answer. Instead, he raised a hand, fingers rough and calloused, and cupped Scott’s jaw, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone, barely a whisper of touch. He felt Scott flinch, but he didn’t pull away.
“Tell me, Summers,” Logan murmured, his voice rough with something raw and unspoken. His thumb brushed the corner of Scott’s lips. “Tell me it’s not just me.”
Scott’s eyes closed beneath the visor, the hard lines of his face faltering. His breathing was uneven now, ragged. The tension that had been so thick between them melted away, leaving something else in its place—something fragile, something real.
“Logan,” Scott whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Is it the same for you?” Logan repeated, leaning in just enough that Scott could feel his breath against his lips.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing. No sound, no movement. Just the weight of the moment.
Then, finally, Scott gave the smallest of nods. “Yes,” he whispered, so quiet it was almost lost in the space between them. “It’s the same.”
Logan didn’t wait for anything more. He closed the last inch between them, capturing Scott’s lips in a kiss that was as tentative as it was inevitable. Scott tensed for a moment—just a breath—before his hands found Logan’s jacket, pulling him closer.
The kiss was slow, gentle, a silent confirmation of everything they’d left unsaid for too long. Logan’s other hand slid around the back of Scott’s neck, holding him steady, like the man was something precious he didn’t want to break.
When they finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, both breathing heavily, Logan whispered, “About time.”
Scott huffed a laugh, shaky but real. “You have no idea.”