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It's like something out of a sci-fi comic. She watches her father die, grieves him, takes the pain into her chest knowing she'll carry it with her forever — and then, years later, when the wound has healed to a slightly less gaping hole, Logan stumbles back into her life and saves her again. She knows he's different, he's not the same man who brought her to her friends and gave her everything, who loved her with his broken eyes and scabbed knuckles and poisoned blood. But he's still Logan, a version of him with more brown hair than gray, who smells healthy. A version who's going to live.
But he doesn't love her, and why should he? She's a grown woman who can fend for herself and he's only known of her existence for two months. He has enough to worry about as it is, adjusting to a new universe where the worst day of his life never happened. It would be unfair to expect anything of him.
(Sometimes she hates him so much she buries screams in pillows and punches holes through walls. She hates that he looks at her like she terrifies him, that he left her. She hates that there are infinite universes where infinite versions of Logan live, but her Logan, the Logan who loved her, is the one who's gone forever.)
She's not that lost little girl anymore; she doesn't need a father, and that's good, because her real father, the man she was made from, the man who told her to be more than what they made her, is dead. She tries to live her life at the X-Mansion without thinking about her not-father who lives his life at Wade's apartment. Some days she succeeds, pours all her focus into her training; some nights she stays up growling and sniffling and obsessing over the fact that somewhere in this world, in this city, just a half-hour drive away, is a man with her father's face, her father's voice, her father's heart. And she's not with him; he doesn't want her.
When she was a grieving little girl she imagined in agonizing detail how their lives would've been if he hadn't died there in the forest. She imagined that he would've come with her and her friends over the border, helped them, let them help him in return. He would've gotten better, not just in his body but in his mind; he would've learned to smile at her and hug her and tell her everything, like the fathers in comic books. They would've been a family and, anchored to him, she never would've been sucked into the Void. Blah, blah, blah, happily ever after, the end. She was just a kid then, just a desperate little kid.
(In her favorite recurring dream she's eleven years old again, with those perfect people in their perfect house. She's sitting at the dinner table between Charles and Logan. They all smile and laugh and eat pie forever, and the rest of that night never happens.)
She's nineteen years old now. She gets over it in the good, healthy way: by beating the snot out of her sparring partners and annoying the professors until they agree to let her come along on missions. And she's good. She learns to hold back, to punch instead of stab, to only thrust her claws into non-vital areas — or else she would never be allowed on X-Men missions — and to take deep breaths when her blood feels close to boiling. Charles (not her Charles) promises that he'll make her a full-fledged member of the team as soon as she turns twenty-one.
She wants to be called Wolverine; her not-father is retired and won't be using the name anymore.
"It will be good to have Wolverine on the team again," Charles tells her warmly, with his kind eyes and calming presence and his powerful brain that doesn't need medicine. She wonders if someday the seizures will start and he will.
Sometimes, idly, painfully, she wonders if her father would be proud of her. If Gabriela would be proud of her. They both died so she could live; would they regret their sacrifice, if they could see her now? Does being an X-Man who exercises restraint and hardly ever kills anyone count as being what they made her, being a weapon? She hopes not. She doesn't feel like a weapon here with the team.
She likes them all, and they all seem to like her, and she's loyal to them, but she doesn't really make friends. She's finished with friends, and family. What's the point when they all wind up dead and gone in the end?
Logan's made friends, though, in that little apartment with that old lady and that funny looking dog and Wade Wilson. Logan chose them over the X-Men and Laura, though he could've rejoined the team and been a hero again. Scott practically begged him the day he dropped Laura off at the mansion, and he didn't even pause to consider before growling Hell no. Before leaving. Wade was waiting for Logan in the taxi.
It was Wade who Logan showed up for, back in the Void. Not Laura.
"Laura?" Hank asks softly. "Are you alright, my dear?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah, sorry." She shakes this familiar stormcloud thought and resumes sparring, aims a swift kick at Hank's chest. He dodges, darts around her. She had to bother him for days to get him to agree to train her for an afternoon; she needs to lock in and make the most of it.
"You've seemed distracted lately," Hank says mildly, stepping back from the barrage of kicks and punches she throws at him, leading her across the Danger Room. He's annoyingly skilled at dodging, for someone so huge. "Are you quite sure you're alright?" he asks. "Nothing you might like to get off your chest? I'm not just the science and mathematics professor, you know, I'm also a counselor."
"Uh-huh." She brings out her claws and takes a swipe at him, though she's careful to worsen her aim. She's getting a little frustrated that he's not hitting her, just dodging. "I thought we were sparring, not dancing."
"I'd much rather just coach you today, if that's alright," Hank says, and dodges again. "You're an excellent fighter, Laura, but I worry that you may not be getting an adequate amount of sleep. Did you know that a young mutant your age should sleep seven to nine hours per night?"
She stops, baffled. "¿Qué se supone que significa eso?"
"Perdóname," he says with a gentle smile. "But you've seemed less alert and more agitated lately, as if something were weighing on you." She scowls at this, and he raises his clawed hands in surrender. "I don't mean to pry, but you did ask for my help —"
"Yeah, with fighting! I didn't ask for a shrink." She snorts, crosses her arms over her chest. "You're not my —"
She cuts off, furious at herself. You're not my dad, she wanted to say, like a petulant kid arguing with an uncle. She's supposed to be mature now.
"I am well aware," Hank soothes, his voice low and appeasing. He lays one massive hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps you'd like to speak to your father about whatever is troubling you?"
"Nothing's troubling me," Laura growls, shrugging him off. "And my father's dead."
"Yet a version of him is alive and available for conversation." Hank follows at a distance as she stalks to the Danger Room's exit. "It's entirely up to you whether or not to pursue a relationship with the other Logan, but perhaps a simple discussion would provide you with closure."
"I don't need closure, I need to hit someone," Laura says, then pauses at the door, turns back. "Besides," she grits out, "he doesn't want anything to do with me."
Hank furrows his bushy blue brows. "I doubt that very much."
"Well, he doesn't." Laura scoffs. "He brought me here two months ago and I haven't seen him since. If he cared at all he would've visited by now. But that's fine," she says darkly, a little desperately. "I don't care either."
"Oh, dear." Hank studies her for a second, sighing. "I've learned from my experience with Logan that avoidance is a sign that he does indeed care. He tends to mistakenly believe that by getting close to someone he is endangering both himself and his prospective friend. I'm sure you also noticed this from your time with your father." She shrugs, and Hank continues, "It's very likely that Logan wants everything to do with you but is staying away out of some misplaced fear that if he gets too close he could hurt you."
Bad shit happens to people I care about. Laura closes her eyes and sees the impression of his pained, pleading face, hears the echo of his tattered voice. Misses him so much.
"Maybe," she concedes.
"So break the cycle of miscommunication, please," Hank says, exasperated. "Your quality of sleep and general mental health will improve dramatically, I guarantee it."
"How am I supposed to talk to someone who doesn't want to talk to me?" she asks, entertaining this though it's impossible.
"Reach out.” Hank says this as if it should be obvious. "Call him, text him, anything. Tell him you want to meet and have a conversation. Suggest a day and time — preferably soon. Perhaps at a park, Logan has always been more comfortable outdoors than in."
Laura considers this, and hesitates. "What if he says no?"
"Then you can move on with your life assured that he is an unfeeling prick and you want nothing to do with him," Hank says, making her smile.
"I'll think about it." All she can think about now is: What if he says yes?
He said yes. She stares at her phone screen for a long time in bed that night, reading and rereading and re-rereading their texts.
Hey it’s Laura
(Logan gave her his number when he dropped her off here, but she's never used it before now, never tried to reach out. She didn't want to bother him, or to be crushed when he ignored her, which seemed likely.)
u ok?
(This response took less than ten seconds. She was shocked, had really expected him to not respond at all.)
Yes. Can we talk?
wanna call me?
(She doesn't want to call him, doesn't want his voice warped by the phone. She wants to smell his scent and see his face when they talk.)
Let's meet up. U busy Friday?
where and when
(This response took two hours. Laura watched TV in her room with anxious unseeing eyes and had several back-to-back crises while she waited for her phone to buzz.)
She asked if he could meet her at Vanier Park at noon (she did her best to pick a place that's exactly between the mansion and Wade's apartment), and he said he could. And now there's no turning back. They're going to talk. Mierda.
She gets to the park a half hour early, picks a bench and sits down, bouncing her knee and glancing around at all the happy families and waiting torturously for him to not show up. It's a warm, clear-skyed, beautiful, horrible day out. There's a middle-aged man and a small girl who is presumably his daughter playing across the park, the girl squealing with laughter as her father catches her up and spins her around only to set her back down again so she can run from him while he chases her, though it's obvious to Laura that the last thing she wants is to get away. They're so far away Laura wouldn't be able to hear them without her mutation, but as it is she can't focus on anything else. Just that man and that girl. That perfect little life.
They have the same shade of brown hair.
Logan's familiar rich forest-walk scent catches in her nose, aged wood with a pang of pine (without poison), but she forces herself not to leap up and spin around and search for him like her instincts ache to do. She stays down, keeps her eyes fixed straight ahead, and waits with dignity while he approaches the bench, his scent thickening.
"Hey," he says, and sits down beside her. He's wearing a green flannel, blue jeans and, alarmingly, slide sandals with socks. What she can see of his skin, his face and neck and hands and arms, is smooth and healthy, no blood or scabs or scars or pus, none of her father's sickly pallor.
He looks good. He looks like he slept a full nine hours last night, lucky him.
"Hey —" She clears her throat when her voice thins, starts again. "Hey. Thanks for coming." She sounds stiff and detached even to her own ears, and hates it. There's so much between them. Not the trip to North Dakota, not Charles, not Shane — but still so much.
"'Course I came." He shifts his weight. He's sitting a full foot away from her, on the other side of the bench. It feels like an ocean of separation. If he were her father, if he were gray-haired with poison in his blood, she would fling herself into his lap and pour her heart into his battered hands, and he would clutch her closer. But he's not her father. He's awkward and tense, because he doesn't really know her. "So, uh," he begins. "What's goin' on? Everythin' okay?"
"Everything's great. I just thought we should, y'know, talk," she says. "It feels kinda weird that we haven't yet."
He scoots half an inch closer to her. "You wanna talk about the Void, then? Yeah, it was pretty fucked up. I can't imagine what it was like for you, bein' there so long."
She shakes her head. "Not the Void," she says. "I just... I want to know you. I don't want to just avoid each other forever." When he gives her a slightly terrified look, she amends, "I'm not asking you to be my father, I'm fine, I'm a grown woman. I'm just asking to be your friend, that's all."
It would be safe to be his friend. He can't die like her father, like everyone else.
"Oh." He shrugs and gives her a small smile. "Sure, okay. So, uh, how've you been? You settlin' in alright at the mansion?"
"The mansion's great." She hesitates, then continues, because she's been aching to tell Logan this, and he's not her Logan, but he's still Logan. If she looked away from his brown hair and well-rested eyes, just heard his voice and breathed his scent, she could almost pretend he's hers. She resists the impulse; she doesn't want to cry. "I'm doing really well in training. I've assisted on twelve missions so far, that's more than any other trainee."
"Twelve, nice." He smiles approvingly at her — proudly — and something in her preens, a remnant of that desperate little girl. "Tell me about your last one, what're the X-Men up to these days?"
"We broke up a Friends of Humanity riot," she says.
Logan shakes his head. "Fuck them. Can't believe they're still up and runnin’ in this day and age."
"Yeah, those guys are cabrones," she growls, then takes a deep calming breath like Hank taught her. "I wanted to kill some of them, for the things they were saying, but I stayed in control. A lot of what I'm learning is less about fighting and more about not fighting. About holding back."
Logan nods, his expression soft and thoughtful. "You're a good kid. Better than I ever was."
"A kid?" Laura latches onto this and forces some offense, mostly to temper the beaming, embarrassing warmth inside. "I'm nineteen, actually."
"Ooh, nineteen." Logan rolls his eyes, his tone so familiarly infuriating she can't tell if she wants to hit or hug him. Maybe both, one after the other. "And I'm so old I literally lost count. So, like I said, you're a good kid."
"Whatever," she says, though she wants to ask him about his past, everything her father didn't have time to tell her. Where were you born? What were your parents like? Who was the first person you killed? If you could do something differently, anything, what would it be? "How's Wade?" she asks instead. "You're still living with him, right?"
"Uh —" He coughs, clasps his hands in his lap. "Wade's good. Althea and the dog are good, too. How's Hank and Storm and Scott and everyone?" He obviously wants to change the subject, and the suspicious hint of pink in his cheeks clues Laura in. Ahh. So he's done more than just make friends.
"They wish you'd rejoin the team, or at least come talk to them," she says, a little pointedly, but softens when he lowers his head. "I get why you don't, though. You probably think they'd want you to be someone you're not, like a replacement Wolverine."
To be fair, he's not wrong. But she still wishes he'd reconsider.
"Kinda," he admits. "Anyway, my X-Men days are behind me. I just wanna rest now."
"With Wade." She smirks.
He snorts, the pink spreading across his face. "Get your head outta the gutter, we're just friends. What about you? You got a boyfriend or a girlfriend or anythin'?” When she hesitates, he asks, “Or any friends generally?"
"There are people I like," she offers. "But..."
"But not friends," he finishes, and sighs. "Oh boy. I did the same thing, kid."
She frowns. "What thing?"
"The 'pushin' people away' thing. It's a miserable way to live, you should stop doin' it," he tells her. "I stopped two months ago. It ain't perfect, I got things that are gonna haunt me forever no matter what, but it's better. I'm better."
"Yeah, well." She shrugs, refrains from asking why he hasn't so much as called her if he's so social now. "Bad shit happens to people I care about."
"Bad shit happens to lots of people, all day every day," he counters. "That's no reason not to care."
Laura stares at him and his brown hair and earnest eyes, astounded. So he really is better. "You believe that?"
"Damn right, and so should you," he says. "If you're gonna be an X-Man, your heart's gotta be in it. You gotta care about people, mutants and humans alike, and the team ain't just friends, they're family." He pauses and sighs, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "I know I should visit the mansion sometime, talk to everyone, but... They were my family, and I lost 'em, and I don't know how to talk to freaky alternate-universe versions of people I loved.” Then he mutters, “It's not like there's an instruction manual for this kinda thing."
"It's not that hard." She smiles at him, reels at his openness. "I'm doing it right now."
"Fuck, yeah. Sorry." He winces. "I know this is tough for you. It's why I haven't called or anythin', just... I didn't wanna put you in a painful situation."
"I don't need you to protect me," she snaps, sharper than she means it, then softens her voice when she says, "And my heart is in it. Charles says he'll make me a full member of the team in a couple years. I've decided to be called Wolverine."
"Oh." Logan seems surprised, eyebrows shooting up. "You sure you wouldn't rather pick somethin' else? There's a lot attached to that name, not all of it good."
"I know." She stares at him, challenging. "I want it. All of it, the good and the bad."
For a moment he's speechless, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, until he chuckles and shakes his head. "Alright, then it's yours. Consider the torch passed down," he says. "You have my blessin', kid."
She nods. She didn't need his blessing, wasn't asking his permission — but it's nice to have it.
"You're gonna be great." He lifts his arm, hesitates briefly, and pats her shoulder once. "Your old man would be real proud of you. I sure am."
Her eyes sting. She looks away to hide it, though she can't keep the smile off her face. "Thanks."
(“This is your father,” Gabriela said one night, pointing to the bold cover of a comic book. Laura was small and clinging to Gabriela’s dress where they huddled together on the stiff motel bed. “He's a hero, a good man.” And he was. He is.)
The perfect father and daughter are no longer playing across the park when Laura looks for them. They must've gone home.
For a while Laura and Logan just sit side-by-side on the bench, watching the park, the people passing by with their dogs and baby strollers and pleasant chatting voices. There's a comfortable silence between them, and every time she glances over at him (she does this every other second) she finds him with a soft smile on his face, his eyes bright, his shoulders slumped and relaxed. She finds herself mirroring his smile and posture, but a seed of dread takes root at the thought that their meeting might be coming to an end, that any second now Logan will stand and say he should be heading home.
"Hey," Laura says, turning to him, scooting closer so their knees almost bump together. He looks at her with his soft smile and bright eyes. "What if we make this a regular thing? Like, we could meet up every Friday and talk. We could get coffee next time, or maybe lunch."
"Sure," he answers easily, soothing her fears of rejection before they can sink their teeth into her. He doesn't even hesitate. "You can come to the apartment if you want, you're always welcome there. And, who knows, maybe someday I'll be brave and come to the mansion. It won't be so bad if you're there."
She can hardly breathe, she's so happy. "I'll be there," she promises, managing not to sob. "But — I'd like to come to your apartment again, that was fun, we should do that."
Logan grins with all his sharp teeth, as sharp as hers. "You're just sayin' that 'cause you wanna see Mary. She really is so ugly she's cute, huh?"
"Literally the ugliest cutest dog in the world. In all the worlds." Laura grins back, but falters. "You don't think Wade would mind?"
"What, are you kiddin'?" Logan scoffs. "Wade thinks you're great, he was over the moon when I told him I was goin' to meet you. Al also thinks you're great, if you're wonderin'. Seriously, you're always welcome at our place."
Laura just smiles and tries not to break down.
"And we don't gotta wait 'til next Friday," Logan continues, frowning as if that would be ridiculous. "Hell, I know it's short notice, but do you wanna come back with me now? Wade's gonna try and make tacos later, should be interestin'."
"Okay. Yeah." Laura doesn't have any plans for later, and even if she did, she'd clear it all from her schedule to take him up on this. "That sounds perfect, Dad."
He tenses for half a second, then smiles very softly at her. It takes her a beat to realize her mistake.
"Mierda." She could slap herself. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to —"
"Shh, hey." He touches her shoulder again, leaves his hand there this time. There's no fear or fury or disgust in his eyes, only deep green understanding, and it snares her. "It's okay. Really, it's okay." His voice is achingly gentle, the same voice that whispered, Laura, Laura, Laura…
And he only grumbles a little when she throws her arms around him and hugs him crushingly tight.
Her father's dead, except he's right here, whole and healthy and holding her. She's a grown woman who doesn't need him, except she always has and always will no matter what she pretends. They were born centuries and universes apart and had no business finding each other, except they did and now they're finally figuring it out. A man has to be what he is, can't break the mold, except he did.
Laura's proud of him, too.
She tucks her face against his chest, her ear to his heart, and listens.