The air in the Danger Room smelled like shredded circuitry and hydraulic fluid.The floors covered in bits of pieces of what were once robots.
"GRAAAAAAH!!"
The roar tore from Logan's throat, a raw, primal sound that bounced off the cold metal walls. He was a blur of motion, a shirtless unit of muscle and rage clad only in jeans, boots, and a sweat-soaked white singlet.
A training drone, modeled to resemble a spider, lunged at him. Its pincers snapped with enough force to crush a sedan, but Logan didn't dodge. He dove into the attack.
Snikt.
The sound of Adamantium slicing through titanium was a high-pitched screech that would make a normal man grind his teeth. Logan's claws, gleaming and indestructible, tore through the drone's leg joints. As the machine collapsed, falling to the side, Logan used the momentum to spin, his back muscles bunching and coiling like steel cables. He slashed upward, disemboweling the robot's central processing unit in a shower of sparks and oil.
He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The thoughts flowing through his mind wouldn't let him.
Another turret dropped from the ceiling, its targeting laser painting a red dot on his chest. Before it could cycle its energy cannon, Logan leaped. He cleared twelve feet in a single bound, defying gravity with an explosive power that felt less like human athleticism and more like the launch of a missile.
"GRAAAAAAAAH!!"
He embedded his claws into the turret's housing, ripping it from the ceiling mount and riding the wreckage down to the floor with a heavy clang.
He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his nose, surrounded by the smoking ruin of the simulation.
"Computer," he panted, his voice a gravelly rasp and deeper than usaul. "Reset. Level 9."
As the room began to reconfigure, the holographic scenery flickering, Logan's mind drifted into dangerous territory. It had been two days since the park. Two days since he had nearly gutted Sabretooth. Three weeks since he had woken up in this world, in this body.
I'm getting stronger, he thought, flexing his hands. The Adamantium claws extended and retracted with a fluid ease that was terrifying. But I'm losing the line.
When he first arrived, the memories of Wolverine—the original James Howlett—had been like watching a movie in a dark theater. They were vivid, yes, but detached. He was Liam, watching Logan's life. Like he watched it back in his past life through a tv screen.
But since his Mutation Level reached 2, the screen had vanished. The memories weren't movies anymore. They were his. He remembered the cold snow of the Yukon not as a scene, but as reality, the senation that chilled his bones. He remembered the smell of the Weapon X tank and the acid that seeped into his skin. He remembered the faces of men he had gutted in wars that Liam had only read about in comic books.
And then there was the system.
Logan focused, and the semi-transparent blue screen flickered into existence in his mind's eye.
[Name: Logan / James Howlett / Liam]
[Mutation: Level 2]
[Status: Elevated Aggression]
His eyes drifted lower, to the new line of text that had appeared yesterday without warning. It pulsed with a rhythmic, silent dread.
[System Countdown: 03 Days : 23 Hours : 14 Minutes]
"What happens in three days?" he muttered to the empty room. "And why is this showing up now? Will the system shut down? Do I die?"
There was no answer. Just the ticking clock.
And then there was the silence inside him. The Wolf—the lycanthropic heritage he had aquired with him, the beast that had roared in his soul when he met Rogue—had gone quiet. Not gone, but... sleeping. Dormant. It terrified him more than the rage. When the Wolf was awake, he felt like he had a partner. Now, he felt like he was alone in a cage with the Wolverine, and the Wolverine was restless.
A new drone materialized, the largest one the Danger Room could fabricate. A "Tank-Class" suppression unit. It leveled twin energy cannons at him.
Logan didn't think. The strategy, the tactics—that was Liam. This response was pure Logan.
He charged.
Beams of concussive energy slammed into him, burning his skin, but the healing factor was already knitting the flesh back together before the smoke cleared. He roared, a sound of pure rage, and leaped onto the drone's chassis. He drove his claws in, ripping, tearing, shredding until the machine was nothing but scrap metal.
Panting heavily, adrenaline flooding his system like battery acid, Logan looked down at his hands.
For a split second, the oil slicking his claws wasn't black. It was red.
Thick, viscous crimson blood. Human blood.
He gasped, stumbling back, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He looked around wildly. Did I hurt someone? Are the kids here?
He blinked, and the hallucination shattered. Just oil. Just metal. He was alone.
"Pull it together, old man," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
He concentrated, and with a wet snikt, the claws retracted into his forearms. The phantom pain of the skin parting and healing—a stinging reminder of his biology—grounded him. He walked over to the bench in the corner, grabbing a rough towel. He wiped his face, burying his eyes in the fabric for a moment, trying to find the center of his mind.
Am I still Liam? Or am I just a ghost haunting a weapon?
He threw the towel over his shoulder and exited the Danger Room, the heavy blast doors hissing shut behind him.
The mansion was quiet, bathed in the soft morning light that filtered through the high windows. It was a stark contrast to the violence he had just left behind.
As he walked down the grand staircase, tugging his shirt back on, he took stock of the house. His senses, dialled up to eleven, picked up everything.
In the living room, Jean Grey was buried under a mountain of textbooks. She was chewing on the end of a pen, her brow furrowed, a low hum of stress radiating from her.
Further down the hall, the sounds of video games and laughter drifted out. Kurt and Kitty. Logan allowed a small, genuine smile to crack his stoic expression. After the fight with the Brotherhood, those two had become inseparable. Trauma bonded people, and fighting back-to-back against killers like Sabretooth had forged something strong between them.
He could hear Rogue in the kitchen, her voice low and hesitant. She was running lines for a play with Scott. Or rather, Scott was enthusiastically reading lines, and Rogue was grumbling them back.
"Thou art... ugh, Scott, do I really gotta say 'Romeo' like that?"
"It's the entire point of this play, Rogue! It's all about the rhythm!"
Logan shook his head, amused. Domesticity. It was strange, alien, and fragile. Or at least that's what it felt like now.
He turned toward the corridor leading to the faculty wing, intending to head to his room, when a voice stopped him.
"Logan?"
He turned. Jean had scrambled up from the couch, her red hair slightly messy, looking relieved to have an excuse to stop reading.
"Morning, Red," Logan said, leaning against the banister. "You look like you're about to fight that history book."
Jean let out a breathless laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm considering it. Finals are coming up, and Professor Xavier's expectations for the advanced placement... it's a lot." She paused, her green eyes scanning him. "You look... tense."
Logan stiffened slightly. "Just a workout. Clearing the cobwebs."
Jean stepped closer, her expression softening. "I can feel it, you know. Not reading your mind," she added quickly, raising her hands defensively. "Just... the edges. You're wound up tight, Logan. Tighter than usual."
Logan sighed, looking away. "Comes with the territory, darlin'. What can I do for you?"
Jean bit her lip, looking suddenly shy. It was a look that made her seem much younger than the powerful telepath she was. "Well, actually... I was hoping I could help you out. And me. Mostly us."
Logan raised an eyebrow. "Us?"
"My dad's friend," Jean explained, rushing the words out. "He gave my dad two tickets to an event downtown today. VIP box seats. My dad can't go, and I really need a break from studying before I crash out completely." She held up two colorful tickets. "Monster Jam. Monster trucks. Destruction. Noise."
Logan stared at her, genuinely baffled. "Monster trucks? You?"
"I have layers!" Jean defended with a grin. "So... wanna go?"
"Why me?" Logan asked, hooking a thumb toward the kitchen. "Why not One-Eye? He'd give his left arm to take you anywhere."
Jean's smile faltered slightly, looking a bit uncomfortable. "Scott is... great. But this isn't his scene. He'd spend the whole time talking about how dangerous everything there is or worrying about the noise levels. I just want to go, yell at some cars getting crushed, and not think for a few hours. And I figured..." She looked him in the eye. "I figured you could use a few hours of not thinking, too."
Logan looked at the tickets, then at Jean. She wanted to hang out with him and have fun. A normal, stupid, human afternoon. God that sounded amazing.
"You're on, Red," Logan said, a grin finally breaking through the gloom. "Give me twenty minutes to scrub the oil off. Meet me in the garage?"
"Yes!" Jean pumped a fist, beaming. She rushed forward and gave him a quick, impulsive hug. "Thank you! You're a lifesaver."
She pulled back, smelling of vanilla and paper, and dashed back to her books to pack up. "Don't be late!"
Smiling to himself Logan walked up stairs to his room, shutting the door behind him before stripping off his claws and turning on the shower, the heat of the water creating steam as he stepped in. The slight burning of the water cleaning his body, calmed his restless thoughts and as he washed he couldn't bring himself to think of anything. Finally after 10 minutes he calm out the water, shutting down the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist.
Logan stood in front of the bathroom mirror, steam filling the room. Still just having stepped out of the shower, the water turned up as hot as he could stand it. His skin was pink from the heat, water droplets tracing paths down the scars that crisscrossed his chest.
He placed his hands on the sink, leaning in until his nose almost touched the glass.
The face staring back was rugged, dangerous. The mutton chops, the heavy brow, the eyes that had seen too much. Less like Hugh Jackman now, but not like the comics he'd known or the shows he'd watched.
Who are you? he asked the reflection.
I am Logan, the reflection seemed to say. I am the Wolverine.
No, he thought, gripping the porcelain tight enough to hear it creak. I am Liam. I have a life. I have choices.
But the weight was there. The Adamantium laced to his skeleton made him heavy. He weighed over three hundred pounds, a dense, metallic anchor that dragged him down toward the earth. It was a constant reminder that he had been manufactured, forged into a weapon against his will. He didn't feel like Liam.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. The heat of the shower had loosened the knots in his back, if only slightly. He wasn't a weapon today. Today, he was just a guy taking a girl to a monster truck rally.
"Just a guy," he whispered.
He dressed with practiced efficiency. Black t-shirt, tight enough to show the muscle but loose enough to move. Black jeans. Heavy brown combat boots. And finally, the leather jacket with the orange stripes. It felt natural, in a way.
The garage door rumbled open, revealing the bright afternoon sun. Logan sat astride his motorcycle, the engine idling with a low, purr.
The door to the mudroom opened, and Jean stepped out. She had swapped her study clothes for a pair of fitted jeans and a dark green jacket. She looked happy. Lighter.
"Nice ride," she said, walking over.
"Only the best," Logan replied. He picked up the spare helmet from the handlebars and tossed it to her. "Safety first, Red. Professor would skin me if I brought you back with a concussion."
Jean caught it, pulling it on and buckling the strap. She swung her leg over the seat, settling in behind him. Her arms wrapped around his waist—tentative at first, then secure.
"Ready?" Logan asked.
"Punch it," Jean laughed.
Logan grinned, kicked the gear shift, and twisted the throttle. The bike surged forward, tires biting into the gravel of the driveway before transitioning smoothly onto the asphalt.
They didn't talk. The wind whipped past them, roaring in their ears, making conversation impossible. But the silence wasn't empty. It was a warm, companionable silence. Logan focused on the road, the vibration of the engine syncing with his heartbeat. Behind him, he could feel Jean leaning into the turns, trusting him completely.
For an hour, the countdown in his head didn't matter. The memories didn't matter. There was just the road, the speed, and the girl who treated him like a man instead of a monster. It was no wonder the original Wolverine obsessed over her to the point he'd spent years suffering with only a memory of her fleeting love. She felt worth it.
The Westchester Fairgrounds were a chaotic mess on the senses. The smell of high-octane gasoline, deep-fried dough, and exhaust hung thick in the air. The roar of engines was constant, a backdrop to the cheers of thousands of people.
Logan parked the bike in the sea of cars, kicking the stand down. Jean hopped off, removing her helmet and shaking out her hair. Her face was flushed with windburn and excitement.
"I can't believe we're here," she said, looking at the massive 'MONSTER JAM' banner.
"I still can't believe this is your scene," Logan chuckled, hanging the helmets on the bike lock. "I figured you for a museum girl."
"A girl likes what a girl likes, Logan," she teased, bumping his shoulder with hers as they joined the line. "Besides, there's something therapeutic about watching a Toyota Prius get flattened by a truck the size of a house."
Logan rolled his eyes playfully. "Remind me never to let you drive the van."
The line moved quickly. The crowd was a mix of families, gearheads, and rowdy locals in cowboy hats. Logan felt a few eyes linger on them—the striking redhead and the dangerous-looking biker—but he ignored them. He wasn't on guard duty, but still alert. He wouldn't let anyone sneak up on him like Sabertooth and Raven did.
Once inside, the noise was deafening. Massive trucks with names like 'Grave Digger' and 'Maximum Destruction' were revving their engines in the center of the dirt arena.
"Hey, wait here," Logan said, spotting a merchandise stand. "I'll be right back."
"Okay! I'll save us a spot near the railing," Jean shouted over the noise.
Logan ducked into the shop. It was packed with overpriced foam fingers and t-shirts. He scanned the shelves and smirked. He grabbed two cheap, but well made cowboy hats—one black, one pink. He slapped some cash on the counter ignoring the clerk's wary look, and headed back out.
He spotted Jean near the entrance to the seating area. But she wasn't alone.
Two guys, early twenties, wearing varsity jackets and reeking of cheap beer, had cornered her. Jean had her arms crossed, looking away, her body language screaming discomfort.
"Come on, sweetheart," one of the guys was saying, leaning in too close. "Ditch the old guy. Come party with the winners."
"I said I'm fine," Jean said, her voice tight. "Please leave me alone."
"Don't be like that," the second guy sneered, reaching out to grab her arm. "We're just being friendly."
Logan didn't run. He didn't shout. He just walked. But the way he walked changed. The casual stroll vanished, replaced by the stalking gait of an apex predator. People instinctively parted ways for him, sensing the sudden drop in temperature.
"She said beat it," Logan's voice was low, cutting through the ambient noise like a razor.
The two guys turned. They looked Logan up and down, sneering. He was a little taller than them, but also wider. Much wider.
"Get lost, gramps," the first guy laughed, puffing out his chest. "We're talking to the chick. Mind your own business."
"Yeah," the second guy added, stepping forward aggressively. "Unless you want trouble."
Logan stopped two feet from them. He didn't blink. He slowly straightened his spine, looming. He let the mask slip.
For a heartbeat, his eyes shifted. The brown melted away, replaced by a luminous, piercing gold. A low growl vibrated in his chest—a sound too deep for a human throat, a sound that triggered the primal 'run' instinct in the lizard brain of every mammal within twenty feet. And in those sharp eyes of his, the boys knew that they shouldn't fuck with this man.
"Trouble," Logan whispered, the word heavy with a promise of violence. "You have no idea what trouble is, bub. Walk away. While you still have legs to walk on."
The mental pressure of Gabriel Van Helsing—the monster hunter, the killer—slammed into the two college boys. Their eyes glazed over. They felt a sudden, inexplicable terror, the kind a prey feels when the apex predators shadow falls over it. Their minds locked up.
The first guy swallowed hard, turning pale. "Uh... we... we were just leaving."
"Yeah," the second guy squeaked, stepping back. "Whatever. She's not worth it anyway."
They turned and hurried away, trying to look tough but practically tripping over themselves to put distance between them and the man with the golden eyes.
Logan watched them go, the gold fading back to brown. He relaxed his shoulders, the tension bleeding out.
"You okay?" he asked, turning to Jean.
Jean looked at him, her eyes wide. She had felt the spike of aggression, the raw power he had projected. It was terrifying, but it was also... safe. He had aimed it away from her.
"I'm fine," she said softly. "Thanks, Logan. They were... persistent."
"Punks," Logan grunted. He held out the pink cowboy hat. "Here. Figured if we're doing this, we're doing it right."
Jean stared at the hat, then burst out laughing. The tension evaporated. She took it and jammed it onto her head, tilting it jauntily.
"How do I look?" she asked, striking a pose and batting her eyelashes flirtatiously.
Logan placed the black hat on his own head, tipping the brim down. A genuine, warm smile transformed his face, making him look ten years younger.
"Beautiful, Jeanie," he said softly. "You look beautiful."
Jean's breath hitched slightly at the nickname. She smiled, a radiant thing that outshone the stadium lights. She reached out and took his rough, calloused hand in her gentle one.
"Come on, cowboy," she said, squeezing his hand. "Let's go watch some trucks break stuff."
"Lead the way, darlin'," Logan replied, letting her pull him into the crowd, the countdown in his head forgotten for just a little while longer.
Timeskip:
The roar of the engines was a physical force, vibrating through the stadium seating and rattling the fillings in Logan's teeth. Down in the dirt arena, "Maximum Destruction," a truck painted with jagged lightning bolts and sporting tires the size of a small cabin, launched itself off a dirt ramp. It hung in the air for a breathless second, defying gravity, before coming down with a bone-shaking CRUNCH onto a row of hapless sedans. Glass shattered, metal screamed, and the crowd went absolutely feral.
Beside him, Jean Grey—the terrifyingly powerful telepath, the straight-A student, the model of composure—was practically vibrating.
"Did you see that?!" she shrieked, jumping up from her seat, her pink cowboy hat tilting . "He flattened it! It's like a pancake! A metal pancake!"
Logan sat back, one boot resting on the knee of the other leg, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Seeing Jean like this, unburdened by the weight of her powers or the expectations of the Professor, brought a strange sense of peace to his chaotic mind. Because right here, right now, watching a girl cheer for destruction, the noise in his head went quiet.
His nose twitched. Beneath the heavy scent of exhaust and burnt rubber, a new aroma drifted through the air. Salt. Grease. Sugar.
He turned his head to the left. A vendor was making his way down the aisle, balancing a heavy tray.
"Hey, bub!" Logan called out, his voice cutting through the din.
The vendor, a sweaty guy in a stained polo shirt, stopped. "Yeah?"
"I'm starving," Logan grumbled. "Gimme two hot dogs. Two nachos—extra cheese. Two trays of wings. And two Cokes. Large."
The vendor blinked, looking at Logan's physique, then at Jean, then back at Logan. "Hungry, huh? Alright." He loaded up Logan's arms with the cardboard trays. "That'll be thirty-ninety-five."
Logan shifted the food to one arm with practiced ease, dug into his pocket, and handed over the cash. "Keep the change."
He turned back to Jean, nudging her arm with his elbow. "Fuel up, Red. Can't cheer on an empty tank."
Jean looked at the mountain of food, her eyes widening, then lighting up. "You are literally the best person ever," she declared. "I am starving."
She grabbed a hot dog and a Coke, and for the next thirty minutes, they were just two people in a sea of thousands. They ate with gusto, Logan demolishing the wings and nachos while Jean surprisingly kept pace with the hot dogs. They laughed as a truck spun out and sprayed mud into the front row, and cheered when another did a backflip.
Suddenly, the lights in the stadium dimmed. A spotlight cut through the haze, illuminating the center of the track.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer's voice boomed, echoing off the concrete walls. "Prepare yourselves for the main event of the evening! A feat of strength that defies explanation! Give it up for the Strongest Teenager Alive... Fred 'The Blob' Dukes!"
The gate swung open, and two monster trucks rumbled out, positioning themselves back-to-back in the center of the arena. Between them stood a large, round figure shrouded in a heavy cape.
The figure threw off the cape, revealing a massive teenage boy. He wore a wrestling leotard that did no favors for his bulk, and his hair was styled in a short, aggressive blonde mohawk. But despite his size, there was a nervous energy to him. He beamed at the crowd, waving enthusiastically.
"Alright, Fred!" the announcer shouted. "Let's show 'em what you got!"
Fred grabbed two heavy industrial chains, each hooked to the rear chassis of the monster trucks. He wrapped them around his forearms, planting his feet in the dirt.
The engines roared to life. Smoke billowed from the exhaust pipes as the drivers gunned the throttles.
"GO!"
The trucks lurched forward, tires spinning, digging deep trenches into the earth. The chains snapped taut.
Fred gritted his teeth. His face turned a deep shade of beet red. The veins in his neck bulged like ropes. He roared, a sound lost under the engine noise, and pulled.
He didn't budge. The trucks whined, their tires smoking as they fought for traction, but the boy in the middle was an immovable object.
"He's... he's holding them," Jean whispered, her half-eaten nacho forgotten. "He's actually doing it. Is he like us..."
Then, with a sudden, explosive exertion of force, Fred screamed and yanked his arms inward.
The two multi-ton trucks were dragged backward, their tires skidding uselessly, until their bumpers slammed together with a deafening CLANG.
Fred released the chains and leaped into the air—a surprisingly agile move for his size—landing with a heavy thud right between the two smoking vehicles. He threw his arms up in victory, his chest heaving.
The crowd erupted. It was a deafening wave of applause and cheers.
"Yeah! Whoo!" Fred shouted, basking in the adoration. He turned to wave to the upper decks, a wide, innocent smile on his face. He was so caught up in the moment, so desperate to acknowledge the love, that he tried to pivot too quickly on the uneven dirt.
His foot caught in a tire track.
Fred flailed, his arms windmilling, and then he went down hard, landing face-first in the mud with a wet splat.
The cheering stopped instantly.
For a second, there was silence. Then, a single laugh rang out. Then another. Within seconds, the stadium was shaking again—not with applause, but with laughter. Thousands of people pointing, jeering, mocking the fat kid in the leotard who had fallen in the mud.
Fred scrambled up, his face covered in muck. He looked around, his smile shattering. His face went from red with exertion to purple with humiliation.
"Stop it!" Fred screamed, his voice cracking. "Stop laughing! I did it! I showed you!"
But the crowd didn't stop. They laughed harder.
Jean slowly lowered herself into her seat, the joy draining from her face. She looked at Fred, then at the cruel faces of the people around them. "Logan..." she whispered, her voice thick with sudden emotion. "That's horrible."
Logan sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable behind the shadow of his cowboy hat. He sighed, a heavy, weary sound, and shook his head.
"Show's over," he muttered.
The walk back to the parking lot was somber. The adrenaline of the event had drifted away leaving something heavy.
Jean walked beside him, kicking at a loose stone. "I'm glad we came, Logan. Really, I am. But... that poor boy. Fred. He didn't deserve that. He was amazing, and then... they just turned on him."
Logan stopped near his bike, fishing the keys from his pocket. He looked at her, his eyes serious.
"That's people for you, Jeanie," he said, his voice rough. "Mob mentality. One minute you're the hero, the next you're the clown. They don't care about the feat; they care about the entertainment. As long as you dance, they clap. You stumble? They eat you alive."
Jean looked up at him, her green eyes searching his face. "Is it right though? To be that cynical?"
"It ain't about being cynical," Logan said, handing her the helmet. "It's about knowing the nature of people. It doesn't matter what they think. It doesn't matter if they cheer or if they laugh." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping an octave. "The only thing that matters is having a clear conscience. You didn't laugh, Red. While everyone else was pointing fingers, you felt for him. That already makes you better than ninety percent of the people in that stadium. Hold onto that."
Jean stared at him for a long moment. Then, a soft smile returned to her face. "Thank you, Logan. You're... surprisingly wise."
"Don't let it get around," he grunted, swinging his leg over the bike. "Ruins the reputation."
Jean giggled and hopped on behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, tighter this time. Before she put her helmet on, she leaned forward and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek. The stubble pressed against her lips, but she didn't mind.
"Thanks for today," she whispered.
Logan froze for a millisecond, a warmth spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the healing factor. He cleared his throat, pulled his hat down, and fired up the engine.
The drive back was peaceful, the vibration of the bike lulling them into a comfortable silence. When they pulled into the garage, the sun had set, and the mansion was quiet.
Jean hopped off, handing him the helmet. Her mood was lighter again. "I'm gonna head in. I think I can actually face those history books now."
"Night, Red," Logan said, racking the bike.
He watched her walk to the door. As she opened it, the sound of voices drifted out from the kitchen.
"Jean? Where were you?" It was Scott. His voice was laced with that mix of concern and possessiveness that always annoyed Logan. "We were supposed to run lines for the play, and I couldn't find you anywhere. Were you... out?"
Logan paused, his hand on the garage door switch. He could go in there. He could make a comment, stir the pot.
No, he thought, rubbing the back of his neck. Not tonight.
He turned and headed for the side entrance that led directly to the faculty stairs. He didn't want to deal with teenage drama. He just wanted the sweet release of sleep before dealing with another day.
He made it to his room, stripped down to his boxers, and collapsed face-first onto the bed. Sleep claimed him instantly, black and dreamless for the first time in weeks.
.
.
.
.
"Logan... Logan..."
The voice was persistent. A hand, small but firm, was shaking his shoulder.
"Come on now, sugar. Wake up."
Logan groaned, burying his face deeper into the pillow. "Go 'way," he mumbled. "M'sleepin'."
"I know you are, but I need ya," the voice insisted.
Logan cracked one eye open. The room was bathed in the gray light of early morning. Standing over him, fully dressed in her green and black layers, was Rogue. She looked anxious, biting her lip.
"Rogue?" Logan rumbled, rolling onto his back and rubbing his face with a calloused hand. "What time is it?"
"It's barely seven," she admitted, looking a little guilty. "I'm sorry to wake you, really. But... I was wonderin'..." She trailed off, fidgeting with her gloves.
Logan sat up, the sheet pooling at his waist. He blinked the sleep away. "Wondering what, kid? Is there trouble?"
"No! No trouble," Rogue said quickly. "I just... I was wonderin' if you'd be willin' to drop me off at school? On the bike?"
Logan frowned, confused. "Drop you off? Why didn't you go with the others in the van? Or with Scott?"
Rogue looked away, her cheeks flushing slightly. She scuffed her boot on the floor rug. "I just... I didn't want to go with them. I wanted to go with you. That's all." She looked back at him, her eyes wide and vulnerable. "If it's too much trouble, don't worry about it. I can walk to the bus stop or—"
She turned to leave, looking flustered and aggravated with herself.
"Hey," Logan's voice was gruff but gentle. "Hold your horses."
Rogue stopped.
"Give me five minutes to put some pants on," he said, swinging his legs out of bed. "Meet me downstairs."
A bright, brilliant smile broke across Rogue's face, dispelling the gloom instantly. She tried to mask it, ducking her head. "Okay. Thanks, Logan."
She hurried out of the room. Logan watched her go, shaking his head. "Teenagers," he muttered, but there was no heat in it.
He dressed quickly—jeans, a white tank top, the leather jacket. He splashed water on his face, trying to scrub away the fatigue.
Downstairs, the house was starting to wake up. Rogue was waiting by the front door, bouncing slightly on her heels. In the living room, Storm was sitting with a steaming mug, reading a weather report.
"Good morning, Logan," Ororo said, her voice melodic. She looked surprised to see him up this early. "Coffee?"
"Nah," Logan grumbled, walking past. "Save me a cup, 'Ro. gotta drop the kid off."
Storm blinked, her cup pausing halfway to her lips. "You are taking Rogue to school? Yourself?"
"Yeah. Don't make a thing of it," he muttered, opening the front door. "Let's go, stripes."
Rogue followed him out, shooting a quick, smug look back at the empty hallway where Scott usually stood.
Logan brought the bike around to the front steps. "Helmet," he commanded, tossing it to her.
Rogue caught it, put it on, and climbed onto the back. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his leather jacket. It felt solid. Safe.
They tore down the driveway, the cool morning air biting at their exposed skin. Once they were on the open road, heading toward Bayville High, Logan shouted over his shoulder.
"So! You gonna tell me what's really going on?"
Rogue tightened her grip slightly. "Nothin's goin' on!"
"Bull," Logan called back. "You don't ask for a ride at seven AM just for the scenery. Spill it."
Rogue sighed, the sound lost to the wind, but she leaned closer to his ear.
"It's Scott," she admitted, her voice projecting just enough for his enhanced hearing. "He's drivin' me crazy with this play. 'Stand here, Rogue, project your voice, Rogue, feel the emotion, Rogue.' He's stressin' everyone out. I just couldn't sit in that van with him lecturing us all the way to school."
Logan chuckled. "Cyclops is a tight-ass. Tell me something I don't know."
They rode in silence for another mile. Then, Rogue spoke again, her voice smaller.
"And... I saw you leave yesterday."
Logan's eyes narrowed slightly behind his sunglasses. "Yeah?"
"With Jean," Rogue said. "You guys were gone for hours. When you came back... she looked really happy."
"We went to a monster truck rally," Logan said simply. "She needed to blow off steam."
"A monster truck rally?" Rogue sounded incredulous. Then, quiet again. "I like monster trucks."
"I know you do, kid."
"If you wanted to go out..." Rogue whispered, so softly that a normal human would have missed it entirely over the roar of the engine. She buried her face into the back of his jacket. "...you could have asked me. I would have gone."
Logan heard it. Every syllable. The jealousy, the hurt, the longing to be included. It tugged at something in his chest—the protective instinct that Gabriel Van Helsing had left him, mixed with Logan's own gruff affection.
He didn't say anything immediately. He just let the bike glide down the road.
They pulled up to the curb of Bayville High. Students were milling about, staring at the massive motorcycle and the leather-clad man dropping off the goth girl.
Rogue hopped off, handing him the helmet. Her mood had dipped again; she looked a little pouty, her shoulders slumped.
"Thanks for the ride, Logan," she said quietly. "I'll see you at home."
She turned to walk up the steps, melding into the crowd.
"Hey! Rogue!" Logan barked.
She stopped and turned back, looking confused.
Logan leaned forward on the handlebars, pushing his sunglasses down his nose to look her in the eye.
"Next Saturday," he said loud enough for the nearby kids to hear. "I'm thinking of taking a drive up north. Check out some trails. Maybe grab a burger at this dive bar I know that makes 'em the size of your head."
Rogue stared at him.
"I could use a navigator," Logan continued, a small smirk playing on his lips. "You interested?"
The transformation was instantaneous. Rogue's pout vanished. Her eyes lit up like high beams. A smile, wide and genuine and full of Southern charm, stretched across her face.
"You bet!" she exclaimed, her drawl thickening with happiness. "I'm there! I'll be ready!"
"Good," Logan nodded, pulling his shades back up. "Get to class. Don't let Summers give you another lecture."
"Bye, Logan!" she waved frantically, then turned and practically skipped up the stairs, ignoring the stares of the other students.
Logan watched her go until she disappeared through the double doors. He shook his head, the smirk lingering.
"Kids," he muttered.
He kicked the bike into gear and peeled away from the curb, leaving the high school behind. As he drove, the smile faded, replaced by the stoic mask, but the weight in his chest felt just a little bit lighter.
I know some people dislike how sappy this Logan is but i'm sure as you've read so far, you notice the subtle small changes I slow make to my guys personality !
_Peace out!