Chapter Text
Logan would rather have been fighting Reavers. Or the Brotherhood. Or Magneto. He’d rather have been sitting through one of Beast’s three-hour presentations about genetics.
Instead, he was sitting in a therapist’s office.
Logan eyed the tissues that were sitting on the table in front of him suspiciously.
The therapist sat across from him with a notebook balanced on her knee.
She seemed nice enough. That was part of the problem.
“So,” she said after a long moment. “What brings you here today, Logan?”
Logan folded his arms across his chest. “Nothin’.”
The therapist smiled slightly. “Nothing?”
“’M fine.”
“Then why are you here?”
Logan immediately regretted opening his mouth. The answer came out before he could stop it. “Promised somebody.”
The therapist’s expression softened. “Somebody important?”
Logan looked toward the window and shrugged. “Guess so.”
“Who?”
“My best friend.”
The words felt strange, not because they weren’t true, but because he didn’t say them out loud very often.
“What made your friend ask you to come?”
Logan shifted in his seat. “They worry.”
“About?”
“Me.”
“What specifically?”
Logan rubbed a hand over his face. “My temper.”
The therapist nodded. “Anything else?”
Logan laughed once. “Lady, where do you want me to start?”
“Where would your friend start?”
That caught him off guard.
His jaw tightened. Because he knew exactly what Morph would say.
The nightmares, the insomnia, the way Logan sometimes disappeared for days after a bad memory resurfaced, the panic attacks he pretended nobody noticed, the guilt, the grief, the anger, the endless list of ghosts he carried around.
Logan looked away again. Finally, he muttered, “They say I don’t talk about things.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Doesn’t help.”
“Have you tried?”
Logan frowned. “Course I’ve tried.”
The therapist raised an eyebrow. “When?”
He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Because now that he thought about it…
Not really. Not in any meaningful way. Not beyond the occasional conversation with Charles. Or Morph somehow dragging information out of him through sheer stubbornness.
The therapist leaned back slightly. “Can I make a suggestion?”
“Can’t stop you.”
“I’d like you to try journaling.”
Logan stared at her. “You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause it’s stupid.”
“What part?”
“All of it.”
She tilted her head. “You don’t think writing things down could help?”
“I think keepin’ a diary sounds ridiculous.”
“What if it wasn’t a diary?”
Logan crossed his arms again. “What would it be?”
“A letter.”
He frowned. “A letter?”
“Write to someone.”
“Who?”
“Someone you trust.”
The therapist watched a small smile tug at his lips.
“Someone comes to mind?”
Logan grunted. “Maybe.”
“Then write to them.”
“I’m not sending letters.”
“You don’t have to.” She reached into a drawer and set a plain black notebook on the table between them. “You can keep them.”
Logan looked at the notebook like it might explode. “You just carry these around?”
“I keep extras.”
Logan stared at it. Then he thought about the promise he’d made.
With a long sigh, he picked up the notebook.
The therapist smiled. “Try for one entry before our next appointment.”
Logan stood. “No promises.”
“That’s fine.”
He tucked the notebook under his arm and walked out.
“Logan!”
Logan looked over to the door to the rec room just in time to see Morph vault over the back of a couch. Why they couldn’t simply walk around furniture like a normal person, he’d never know.
Morph landed in front of him with a grin. “Well?”
Logan narrowed his eyes. “Well, what?”
“How was therapy?”
“It was therapy.”
Morph groaned. “Oh, come on.”
“You asked.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“It tells you everything.”
Morph folded their arms.
“You promised you’d actually try.”
“I went, didn’t I?”
Logan started walking toward the kitchen.
Morph followed. “What’d you talk about?”
“Stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Therapy stuff.”
Morph made a wounded noise. “You are the worst person to get information out of.”
“Funny, you usually manage.”
“Because I wear you down.”
Logan rolled his eyes as he entered the kitchen and grabbed an apple from a fruit bowl. Morph instantly stole it.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“That’s mine.”
“You don’t own the apples.”
“I was gonna eat that.”
Morph took an exaggerated bite while maintaining eye contact.
Logan sighed.
“So what’d the therapist tell you to do?”
“Nothin’.”
“Logan.”
“Nothin’ important.”
“Logan.”
He sighed heavily. “She wants me to write.”
“Like a journal?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
Morph stared at him for three whole seconds. Then burst out laughing.
Logan couldn’t help it. He found himself smiling too.
Shaking his head as Morph nearly doubled over. The sound echoed through the kitchen. The kind of laugh Logan never got tired of hearing.
“Okay, okay.”
“You done?”
“Maybe.”
They grinned.
Then gently bumped their shoulder against his.
“I’m proud of you, you know.”
“Didn’t do much.”
“You went.”
Logan looked down at the notebook tucked beneath his arm.
Then back at them.
“Yeah.”
Morph smiled. “Thanks for trying.”
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
Then Morph tossed the apple core into the trash. “Anyway,” they announced. “I’m gonna go bother Scott.”
Scott, who had just entered the room, turned around and left.
Logan watched Morph chase after him with a smile.
That night, the notebook sat on Logan’s desk. Mocking him.
Logan stared at it from across the room. Then from his bed. Then from the chair beside the desk.
He spent nearly forty minutes finding reasons not to open it.
Eventually, he growled under his breath. “Stupid,” as he sat down and opened to the first page.
Morph,
My therapist says I’m supposed to write things down.
This is stupid.
But I said I’d try.
You’re gonna laugh if you ever see this.
-Logan