Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lightning. Steel. Blood.

The warehouse district exploded into violence at 9:47 PM, industrial shadows erupting with the kind of controlled chaos that separated legends from corpses. Twelve terrorists. Douzen of kidnapped hostages. Three city blocks of rusted death traps and broken dreams.

Game time.

"Storm. Northeast. Thirty seconds." Logan's voice cut through static like a blade — cold, fast, lethal.

"Copy that, Wolverine."

Seventy feet above the chaos, Ororo Munroe danced between storm clouds she'd woven from nothing, white hair streaming like captured lightning as wind bent to her will. Rain fell in measured patterns — each drop placed to short-circuit cameras while leaving their own equipment untouched. Every gust calculated to mask footsteps that could mean salvation or death.

Logan pressed against shipping containers, adamantium skeleton humming in harmony with her electrical charge. His enhanced senses cut through the storm like surgery — diesel fuel, terror sweat, and underneath it all, the metallic tang of fresh blood. Someone was dying.

Thunder rolled overhead like war drums.

"Cyclops, status?" Logan's whisper barely disturbed the air.

"Team Gold in position," Scott's voice was stern, bearing battlefield authority through the comm static. "Nightcrawler, southeast exit secured. Phoenix, telepathic blackout active — we're ghosts. Wolverine, Storm — you are weapons free."

Through industrial rain, Logan caught the electrical hum that meant Ororo was charging the atmosphere above him. In three seconds, she'd drop lightning that would fry every electronic device within fifty feet. In four seconds, Logan would be through the wall and among their enemies before the echo faded.

They'd run this play a dozen times in the Danger Room. Never missed.

"Light 'em up, Storm."

The bolt came down like heaven's wrath, searing white-blue energy that turned night to day for a heartbeat. Logan felt every hair stand as electricity crackled inches from his skin — close enough to taste copper, precise enough to leave him breathing.

Trust. The word thundered through him as he launched through corrupted steel. Absolute faith that Storm knew exactly where he was, exactly what he needed, exactly how much divine fire to unleash without incinerating everything worth protecting.

The warehouse interior strobed with emergency lighting as Logan moved like liquid violence through smoke and confusion. Enhanced senses dissected chaos — heartbeats spiking with panic, the metallic taste of fear, wounded civilians breathing shallow in the eastern corner.

"Package located," he reported, voice steady despite carnage unfolding around him. "Twelve hostages, mixed ages. Medical attention needed."

The captives weren't random — they were inconvenient. A journalist who'd dug too deep into anti-mutant trafficking. A social worker asking dangerous questions. A federal prosecutor whose investigation threatened someone powerful enough to make problems disappear. Her eight-year-old daughter, collateral damage that turned kidnapping into something uglier.

Above, Ororo banked hard, silver hair streaming as she adjusted storm patterns. Not destruction — redirection. Wind funneled remaining terrorists toward the building's north exit where Scott waited with geometric precision.

"Gambit, northwest corridor," she commanded. "Three hostiles incoming. Non-lethal."

" Avec plaisir ," Remy's voice crackled back, kinetic energy already charging the air.

Logan reached the captives — twelve people bound with zip ties and duct tape, eyes wide with the particular terror that came from knowing too much, becoming inconvenient to powerful men who preferred shadows.

"Easy," Logan said, his voice dropping to gravelly gentleness that had talked traumatized people back from ledges before. "We're the good guys."

The restraints yielded to adamantium claws with surgical precision. Logan helped each person stand, noting injuries, assessing who could walk and who'd need carrying.

The eight-year-old pressed against her mother's legs, wide eyes trying to decide if he was monster or hero.

Logan dropped to her eye level, claws gone.

"Hey, what's your name?"

"Sophia," she whispered.

"Pretty name." His voice became the gentle rumble he used with the mansion's youngest students. "You did real good staying brave for your mom."

A tiny smile flickered across tear-stained cheeks. The prosecutor — her mother — met Logan's eyes over her daughter's head with desperate gratitude.

"Thank you," she mouthed, one hand stroking her daughter's hair while the other gripped Logan's shoulder with surprising strength.

Logan nodded. Understanding passed between them without words. Some things don't need saying.

"Nightcrawler," he called into his comm. "Three hurt. Priority extraction."

"On my way ," Kurt's voice came back immediately.

"Package secure," Logan continued, helping the prosecutor stand despite her obvious concussion. "Multiple injuries but all breathing. Moving to extraction."

"Copy that," Scott replied. "Phoenix is maintaining telepathic shielding — they won't remember faces. Beautiful work, everyone. Storm, bring it down easy."

Rainfall gentled, lightning fading to distant rumbles as Ororo descended through the storm she'd carefully dismantled, already calculating the weather patterns she'd need to restore before dawn. She touched down as Logan emerged with the hostages, both of them bearing the mission's marks but moving with the synchronized efficiency of practiced partners. When his eyes found Ororo's across rain-slicked concrete, something passed between them that transcended rehearsed combat techniques.

Recognition. Partnership. The quiet certainty of two people who moved through violence like they shared one soul.

As their gazes held across the courtyard — her descending through mist like an angel of war, him shepherding the rescued toward safety — Logan felt the mission's adrenaline transform into something deeper. The way she'd placed that lightning strike with surgical precision, trusting his position absolutely. The way he'd moved through her storm without hesitation, knowing she'd never let him fall.

"Clean work," Logan muttered, eyeing the slagged circuits.

"Nice footwork," Ororo replied, her smile carrying warmth that could drive back winter.

***

The mansion's kitchen buzzed with post-mission energy. Springsteen's "Born to Run" provided soundtrack to pizza boxes and Chinese takeout covering every surface, while someone's telekinesis kept spills away from the antique Persian rug.

Logan nursed a cold beer, watching Ororo move through celebration with fluid grace that made her seem more force of nature than woman. She paused at conversations, offering quiet encouragement to students who'd monitored the rescue on emergency frequencies.

"You two fight like you share the same brain," Kitty observed, phasing through the counter to snag an egg roll. "It's actually kind of unfair to the rest of us."

"It's all about timing," Ororo replied, accepting a plate from Jean. "Logan understands weather patterns almost as well as I do."

"And Storm knows exactly how much voltage I can handle," Logan added, voice carrying undertones that made several teammates exchange knowing glances.

Remy leaned against the island, beer bottle catching light as he gestured. "More than timing, mes amis . Y'all move like you been fighting together for centuries." His accent was thick tonight, emotions running closer to the surface. "Makes a man wonder what else you two got synchronized."

Logan's enhanced senses caught something underneath the bravado — tension in Remy's shoulders, the way his fingers absently worried at his wrist. Nothing concrete. Just... off.

"You know what this team needs?" Jubilee announced, dramatically gesturing with pizza. "We need to clone Logan. Imagine having six Wolverines!"

The comment hit the room like a stone dropped in still water. Conversations paused. Logan's beer stopped halfway to his lips.

"God help us all," Scott muttered.

Good-hearted laughter erupted — Bobby nearly choking, Jean hiding her grin, Kurt's distinctive chuckle mixing with Ororo's musical laugh.

"One's plenty," Logan said dryly, raising his beer in mock toast.

"Speaking of which," Warren said, leaning against the doorframe with wings folded carefully behind him, "Logan's been developing some interesting training concepts. Care to share with the class?"

The kitchen's energy shifted, playful atmosphere gaining weight as Logan felt the team's attention focus on him. These weren't just teammates anymore — they were family who saw through his deflections.

"Been thinking about real-world combat prep," he said carefully. "Black ops training. For situations where playing by the rules gets kids killed."

"X-Force," Scott said quietly, recognizing the concept he and Logan had been developing together. "Small unit tactics for missions that can't go through official channels."

Ororo set down her plate, studying him with strategist intensity. "That's not about training fighters, Logan. That's about creating weapons."

"Sometimes weapons save lives."

"And sometimes they destroy everything they touch."

The edge in her voice made the music seem too loud. Outside, distant thunder rumbled — natural weather, but the timing felt ominous.

"Easy, chère ," Remy said, moving to Ororo's side with casual familiarity that made Logan's jaw tighten. "Logan ain't talking about turning kids into killers. Just giving them options when the world gets ugly." His hand brushed her shoulder — brief, supportive. "Right, mon ami ?"

Logan's beer bottle creaked under his grip. When had Remy gotten so comfortable with casual touches? When had Ororo started letting him?

"Right," Logan said, voice controlled despite the tension coiling in his chest.

Scott cleared his throat diplomatically. "It's getting late. Everyone should rest. Especially our returning heroes."

The celebration began dissolving, students drifting toward dormitories with tired contentment. Music faded to background whispers as laughter gave way to yawns and the comfortable quiet of a family settling into night. Logan found himself alone in the kitchen with Ororo as she rinsed her plate with methodical precision — probably a pretext to linger.

"You were something else out there," he said quietly, finishing his beer.

"We both were." She didn't look at him, but her voice softened. "The lightning strike — that was closer than usual."

"I trusted you." The words came out rougher than intended, carrying weight neither was ready to name.

"I know." She turned from the sink, meeting his eyes directly, and he caught something vulnerable flickering beneath her composure. "That's what scares me."

The air between them charged with more than residual electricity. Logan's voice bore quiet certainty.

"Charles is waiting for you, isn't he?"

Ororo blinked, caught off guard. "I... how did you — "

"Your breathing changed when Scott mentioned leadership earlier. Plus you've been unconsciously checking the time since we got back." His enhanced senses had catalogued every tell. "Whatever he wants to discuss, it's been weighing on you all evening."

The realization that he'd been reading her so closely — that he knew her well enough to sense what she hadn't even fully acknowledged — sent electricity crackling faintly through the air between them.

"I need to go see Charles before I turn in," she said finally, but her voice held reluctance now, like leaving was the last thing she wanted to do.

Logan's expression softened, understanding flickering in his eyes. "Whatever he's asking of you — you're ready for it."

Ororo's shoulders relaxed, tension she hadn't realized she'd been carrying finally easing. A small smile touched her lips — grateful, warm, and entirely for him.

"Goodnight, Logan."

"'Night, Storm."

She left him standing in the empty kitchen, energy still crackling faintly in the air where she'd been standing.

***

Ororo was laying in the darkness of her room, moonlight streaming through sheer curtains as her mind refused to quiet. The mission's adrenaline still hummed beneath her skin, mixing with Charles's words until sleep felt impossible. She stared at the ceiling for another restless minute before admitting defeat... she needed air, needed space to think clearly. The mansion's roof had always been her sanctuary when decisions felt too heavy to carry alone, where she could touch the sky and remember her own connection with the earth.

She pushed through the access door and breathed deeply, letting cool night air fill her lungs with the scent of approaching rain and distant pine. Wind whispered across slate tiles, carrying the earth's pulse she could feel in her bones, while overhead, stars struggled against gathering clouds that responded to emotions she couldn't quite control.

Charles's words still echoed in her mind  —  leadership transition, operational command, the future of the X-Men  —  but out here, surrounded by sky and possibility, the weight felt different. More terrifying. How could she accept responsibility for lives when decisions came so easily in the field but felt impossible in quiet moments?

She'd come seeking solitude  —  or perhaps something else she couldn't name  —  and found Logan already standing at the roof's far edge where slate met open air.

He'd changed from mission gear into civilian clothes  —  dark jeans, flannel shirt rolled to the elbows. The way he stood, perfectly still but coiled with potential energy, reminded her of an apex predator at rest. Dangerous even in quiet moments. Especially in quiet moments.

She should leave. Should go back inside, process Charles's offer in the safety of her room where she could think clearly about command structure and tactical protocols. But her feet carried her forward instead, drawn by the same curiosity that made her want to understand how he'd read her so easily in the kitchen.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Logan called across thirty feet of roof space, not turning but somehow knowing she was there. His voice was full of that rough edge, grounding in its particular familiarity.

"Sleep requires a quiet mind," Ororo said, her voice low, shaped by the wind. "Mine's been anything but quiet since Charles's conversation."

“Since realizing how easily we work in tandem. Since wondering what else we might be capable of, should we chose to move that way beyond the field.”

Logan turned then, and the look in his eyes  —  understanding mixed with something hungrier  —  made her breath catch. He began moving toward her with that careful, deliberate pace that spoke of a man who knew his own strength, who'd learned to temper power, violence with precision. Each step was controlled, purposeful, like he was approaching something that might bolt if he moved too fast.

"Whatever's keeping you up," he said quietly, "it's bigger than mission adrenaline."

His observation hit too close to truth. "Charles offered me operational leadership," she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "Full command authority."

The admission hung between them like a live wire. Logan halved the distance between them, close enough now that she could see the way his shoulders filled the flannel, the careful way he held his hands loose at his sides  —  never quite relaxed, always ready.

Ororo found herself turning toward the mansion's grounds spread below them, hands resting against the roof's stone ledge as wind lifted her hair. The night air felt good against her skin, cooling the restless energy that had driven her from her room. Up here, surrounded by sky and stars, the weight of leadership felt less overwhelming.

"You'd be good at it," he finally admitted, moving to stand beside her at the ledge, voice carrying conviction that made her chest tighten.

"Would I?" The question came out more vulnerable than intended as she looked out over the darkened gardens rather than at him. "Or would I become someone who trades lives for outcomes? Who learns to silence the heart in service of the mission?" Her voice steadied as she spoke, finding strength in naming her fears rather than hiding from them.

Her hands clenched, electricity arcing between fingers as Logan stepped closer still. Close enough that she could smell his scent. Leather and pine and something she couldn't name that made her powers respond in ways that felt both familiar and strange.

The mission tonight. How easily they moved together. How naturally the lightning found its mark around him. She wondered, was that what command truly was? Not control, but clarity within the storm. A knowing that needed no words.

"You think I don't wonder the same thing?" Logan's voice dropped, rough with honesty that scraped against her defences. "Been thinking about that training program. Real combat prep. But what if that’s all I am? Turning kids into weapons."

Something flashed overhead, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, his face struggling with an internal battle. Ororo felt her power seeking the adamantium in his skeleton with hunger  —  the same electrical charge that could stop his heart was drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet. The metaphor made her stomach clench. How many ways could she hurt what she was learning to value?

"If I accept," she said, taking the final step that brought them within touching distance, electricity crackling between her fingers as she fought to understand why her powers responded so strongly to his presence, “I become the one who sends them into fire.” Her voice was quiet, but she went on. “The one who decides who returns... and who does not. What if I choose wrong? What if the mission survives… but someone I care for does not?" She stopped, unsure how to finish the thought.

The air crackled with more than her electrical field. Logan's hand rose toward her face, callused fingers that had dealt death now moving with infinite gentleness. He was close, just short of contact, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his palm, before settling his hand on her shoulder instead. Steady, encouraging.

"Maybe you don't get to choose. Maybe you just trust I’ll take the hit if it goes bad."

Trust. The word thundered through her as if of her own making. This man, who fought with the grace of something ancient and unyielding, who somehow made tactical decisions feel less overwhelming. And now, without demand or plea, he offered her the one thing she withheld from herself: belief. In judgment. In care. In what might still be spared.

Thunder crashed directly above them, and Ororo lost control for a heartbeat. Her power sought his adamantium skeleton, electricity wanting to complete some circuit she didn't understand. Lightning struck the mansion's lightning rod, the sound deafening as her connection with the weather responded to proximity that felt both natural and terrifying.

“I could hurt him like this,” she thought, staring at the energy dancing between them. Not because he was weak, but because she was not careful. Because power, even when tempered by purpose, could still betray the hand that held it.

When the thunder quieted, she found herself trembling from the strain of holding back what longed to be released. As she swayed, Logan's hand slid from her shoulder to steady her wrist where electricity still buzzed beneath her skin, the movement natural and protective.

The touch stirred something elemental  —  electricity whispering across their skin, not in warning, but in recognition. As if her abilities, her connection with the nature knew him before she did, drawn to a truth her mind had not yet named.

"This," she whispered, staring at the energy connecting their hands, "This could end both of us. My power moves toward you without permission. When I'm near you, the electrical field becomes..." She met his eyes directly, refusing to look away despite the intimacy of the moment. "But I won't let it. I never would."

"I trust you not to," he meant it. His thumb moved across the quiet thrum of her pulse, grounding her in sensation that had nothing to do with electricity and everything to do with the way he looked at her like she was worth the risk.

His hand settled at her waist, a quiet claim made without force. She did not retreat. The space between them narrowed until she could feel the steady weight of him  —  solid, unshaken, real. Her hand rose without thought and came to rest over his heart. Not to hold him back. To hold herself still. She could feel the strong, steady beat beneath her palm, life force that her mutant gifts recognized and wanted to protect rather than destroy.

A bright flash broke the sky again, brief and bright, casting their silence in silver intervals. She did not speak. Words would have only scattered what gathered between them. She found herself drifting toward his warmth, not by choice, but by some quiet gravity.

"You'd follow me?" His question came out uncertain, vulnerable in a way Logan rarely allowed. "If I started X-Force, if I trained a team for missions the others couldn't handle... you'd trust me with that?"

"Anywhere," she breathed, the word carrying absolute certainty even as her hand slid up his chest to curve around his neck. The admission surprised her with its honesty. "But Logan, what if I hesitate? What if the closeness clouds what must be clear?"

His eyes darkened, and she could feel his pulse quicken beneath her fingers.

“Then we fight through it. You and me.”

Lightning stirred between them as he leaned in, her power answering his nearness the way air bends toward pressure. They hovered, breath to breath, a fragile distance bridged by electricity, not longing, she convinced herself, but instinct. A reflex of energy meeting metal. When  — 

Every light in the mansion died simultaneously.

Complete blackout. Emergency power failed to engage. Even the stars seemed dimmer, as if something was actively draining illumination from the world.

Ororo felt the wrongness immediately, not just power failure, but absence where energy should flow. Her connection to the earth's electromagnetic field screamed warnings that made her skin crawl. She pulled back slightly, electricity settling as she regained her composure.

Logan's enhanced senses exploded with alarm signals, his body going rigid against hers, every line of him shifting to a fighter in an instant. The transformation was breathtaking  —  the way he positioned himself between her, the mansion and potential threat without thinking, how his hands moved into a combat stance even as his nostrils flared, catching scents that made his jaw clench.

"That's not electrical failure," she said, her mental focus on the mansion's circuits, her finding... nothing. Void where electricity should dance.

"Not just a blackout," Logan said, low and sharp. "They’re already in."

The moment shattered like glass. Ororo stepped back, loss of contact making them both flinch as electricity earthed through steel and stone. Her storm began to dissipate, pulled inward as duty crashed over them like cold water.

“The students…”

"I know," Logan said, but his eyes held hers for one more heartbeat. The way he'd steadied her without hesitation even when her power was at its most unpredictable - it left her feeling strangely centred despite the chaos.

Maybe that was all this had been. Mission adrenaline finding an outlet, her restless energy finally grounded by his steady presence. Whatever had been building between them on this rooftop. It could wait. Had to wait. She was stronger than momentary confusion.

"We should go," she said, she said softly, already rising toward the sky and flying with the wind to get a higher ground.

"We should," he agreed, picking the pace toward the access door, but there was something in his voice she couldn't quite identify.

Behind them, storm clouds that had gathered in response to her turbulent emotions began to dissipate as Ororo consciously cleared the sky. With the mansion plunged into darkness, they would need every bit of natural light available. No room for clouded judgment now, literally or figuratively.

Moonlight streamed down clear and bright, illuminating their paths.

The storm was coming. Despite the clear skies she'd just created, Ororo could feel it building in her bones, could taste electricity in the air between them. She just didn't know it would arrive wearing the face of someone they'd already learned to trust.

Chapter Text

[A couple of weeks later]

Sunlight cut through the tall windows of the Xavier mansion's kitchen, hitting polished surfaces that looked too damn clean for a place where kids lived. Room had good bones — old wood, solid counters, steel that didn't pretend to be anything fancy. Coffee burned hot in the air, mixed with toast and the buzz of powers waking up.

House was stirring. Students moving around upstairs. Adults attending to their tasks. Place hummed different than anywhere else — like living next to a power station, but warmer.

Chuck built this place right. No wonder the kids felt safe.

Coffee burned Logan's hand just right — real heat, real sensation, real morning. Everything the dreams weren't.

He sat in Xavier's kitchen watching sunlight lie to itself about being safe, one boot propped on the chair across from him like he owned the place. Like he belonged.

Both lies, but better than the truth.

The scarred wooden table creaked under his weight. Room was quiet. He stared out the window where the sky couldn't make up its damn mind — rain or shine, same as always in last couple o’ weeks. Clouds building in the distance, but nothing Storm couldn't handle if she wanted to. The thought of her brought unwanted flashes of moonlight and electricity, the weight of her hand over his heart — 

“Don't.”

Didn't think much after that. Just sat. Breathed it in. House wasn't his, but it felt close enough.

Some kids were still asleep.

Good. Let 'em dream while they could.

The scuff of boots in the hallway broke Logan’s solitude before Remy appeared in the doorway — all swagger and charm, coat billowing as he moved with that predatory grace that never quite looked casual. Something was off in the way he carried himself, tension bleeding through the performance.

"Well, well, look who's domesticated," Remy said, grinning as he headed for the fridge. "If I'd known you could sit still this long, I would’ve brought cards."

"Bring 'em next time. I'll still win." Logan didn't look up for the usual banter, but his enhanced senses catalogued everything — heartbeat slightly elevated, scent carrying undertones of stress, the careful way Remy's fingers drummed against the refrigerator door.

Remy chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You ever think maybe the rest of us don't wanna lose money to a savage man with six claws who can never die?"

"Then maybe don't bet stupid." Logan's voice carried dry amusement, muscle memory keeping the smart-ass remarks flowing. "Not my fault you go all-in with nothing but a joker and a pretty face, Cajun."

Remy made a show of mock offense, hand to his chest in pantomimed heartbreak, but his eyes glittered with something that wasn't quite mischief.

"Fair enough." He grabbed an apple, bit into it with deliberate casualness, then moved closer to Logan's position — elbow against the counter, that particular stance that meant he wanted something.

“That look. Like he's working up to ask for a favor. Fun's over.”

But before Logan could growl out whatever refusal was building in his throat, footsteps echoed through the hallway — precise, familiar, carrying a rhythm he knew by heart.

“Her.”

Heels hit the floor — sharp, sure, light. Logan caught the hitch before the doorway, the shift in her breath when she started thinking moves ahead.

Ororo Munroe stepped into the doorway, and the air shifted around her. She moved like she owned the ground, like space would bend to accommodate her rather than the other way around. Hair caught the light — silver and sharp. White suit cut to kill. Boardroom armor.

She walked in like thunder waiting to speak. Damn near broke something in his chest every time.

The weight in her shoulders stopped his breath — leadership settling on her like snow, cold and inevitable. New tension in her movements, sleepless nights and decisions made in quiet hours. She moved with the grace of someone aware of being constantly judged. 

Weather didn't happen to Ororo — it happened with her.

“Stop.”

Nearby, Remy observed Logan's lingering stare and leaned in, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Careful, mon ami ," he drawled quietly, humor twinkling in his eyes. "You gon' burn a hole through the wall starin' like that."

Logan immediately looked away, grumbling under his breath as he put on sudden interest in the coffee's surface. "Ain't starin'. Just... awake."

"Morning, Logan. Remy." Ororo's voice carried warmth as she moved toward the refrigerator, calm and steady. Small smile, nothing more than she'd give anyone else.

"Morning, 'Ro," Logan replied, his tone softer than usual despite his efforts to keep it neutral. The careful façade he'd been building for weeks cracked just enough to let warmth seep through.

Remy leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for Logan's enhanced hearing. "She say your name different too? Or is that just in your head?"

Logan's growl was low, warning. Cajun was pushing, and Logan's patience had limits.

Ororo caught the undercurrent but chose not to acknowledge it. Some battles weren't hers to fight. She selected a small glass bottle of milk, movements efficient and graceful. When she turned, her eyes met Logan's for a moment — brief, professional — before she set the bottle on the counter.

"You're quiet today," she observed, tone light but curious. "That usually means you're either brooding... or planning something reckless."

Logan shifted in his chair, arms crossing. "Ain't doing either. Just takin' in the weather."

His smart-ass comment got him a smile — small, real, and dangerous as hell for his peace of mind.

"Then I suppose you're in luck," she said, glancing toward the conflicted sky outside. Her gaze flicked down, pausing on his worn flannel. "And you're still allergic to proper shirts, I see."

Logan gave a faint smirk, then gestured toward her white suit. "You clean up real nice, 'Ro. That new?"

She looked down at herself, brushing an invisible wrinkle from the lapel. The pristine white was perfectly tailored, emphasizing both strength and elegance — the uniform of someone who'd accepted Charles's offer to step into leadership. "Mm-hmm. Hank's stopping by — complete with his government badge now." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Turns out our resident genius looks different in a suit and tie."

Logan's teeth ground together, something cold settling in his stomach. "He still visitin' you regular?"

The question came out rougher than intended. Ororo gave a soft shrug, her tone remaining light. "He checks in now and then. Old habits from the original team, I suppose. Hard to let go of some rhythms when you've been through what we have."

Before Logan could process the implications of government oversight visiting their Storm, Remy straightened from the counter, tossing his apple core toward the garbage with casual precision.

"Still rockin' the blue fur, huh?" Remy said with a crooked grin. "Man looks like a Nobel Prize got into a fight with a loofah."

Ororo stifled a laugh, eyes glinting with genuine amusement. "He's brilliant, Remy. And kinder than most give him credit for."

Remy held up his hands in mock defense. "I said what I said. Genius or not, he needs better conditioner."

"Don't let him hear you say that ," Ororo chuckled, shaking her head.

"Why not?" Remy's grin widened. "You defendin' him now?"

"I'm defending manners, Remy." Her tone carried the authority of someone accustomed to keeping teammates in line.

"Mmm," Remy said, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Guess I'll be on my best behavior. Would hate to be scolded in that voice."

Logan caught the flicker in Remy's expression — something calculating beneath the charm. The way his gaze lingered on Ororo, like he was cataloguing reactions.

Something primitive twisted in Logan's chest. His claws ached to extend. The instinct hit hard, then backed off.

"Oh, and that suit — " Remy continued, voice dropping to something warmer, " — really brings out the storm in your eyes, chère ."

The endearment hit Logan like a slap. His coffee mug creaked under his grip as something territorial and ugly unfurled in his chest. The warning in his look was quiet but unmistakable.

Ororo glanced between them, catching the sudden tension. "Alright, children," she said dryly, turning back to the refrigerator. "Play nice."

Remy's smirk sharpened. "I'm always nice, 'Ro. Just depends who's watchin'." He shot a pointed look at Logan — loaded, deliberate. "Though I gotta admit... some of us get real territorial when the weather turns warm."

"Keep talkin', Cajun." Logan pushed his chair back with a sharp scrape against tile. He set his half-finished coffee on the counter with more force than necessary, the ceramic ringing against stone.

The dismissal was clear. Logan headed for the door, but not before catching Ororo's surprised expression in his peripheral vision.

"Is Logan okay?" he heard her ask as he stepped into the hallway.

Remy's response followed him out: "He's fine, ma chère . Just needs some air."

But there was something in Cajun's voice that made Logan pause just outside the kitchen door. Something that didn't match the casual words. Like Remy was working toward something larger than morning banter.

Logan's enhanced hearing caught the subtle shift in conversation as Remy's voice dropped, became more urgent.

"Actually, Storm... there's somethin' I been meaning to talk to you about. Privately."

"There it is."

Logan continued down the hallway, jaw tight. Whatever game Remy was playing, it involved Ororo. And that made it Logan's business whether Cajun wanted it to be or not.

Outside, the morning air hit him like a reset button, but the feeling that something was off stayed with him. Logan stepped onto the gravel drive, the mansion casting its long shadow behind him. 

Footsteps crunched on gravel. Remy appeared in the doorway, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with tension Logan had been picking up on all morning.

"Don't tell me I hurt your feelin's, mon frère ," Remy called out, but his usual swagger was forced. Strained.

Logan stopped, turned. "You'd have to get a lot closer than that."

But now he could see it — the way Remy's eyes kept darting to the tree line, how his fingers worked restlessly in his coat pockets. Kid was spooked. Had been for days, Logan realized. Maybe weeks.

"What's eatin' you, Cajun?"

Remy's casual mask slipped for just a moment. "Nothing I can't handle."

"Bullshit." Remy's heartbeat stuttered like an engine in forty-below. Fear-sweat cut through expensive cologne — sharp, animal, honest. "You been jumping at shadows since you got back from New Orleans."

"Just some old business catchin' up with me." Remy tried for his usual grin, fell short by miles. "The kind that don't stay buried, you know?"

Logan crossed his arms. Waited. Sometimes silence did the heavy lifting better than words. His ‘gona be a leader’ shtick.

The ace of diamonds trembled between Remy's fingers — no kinetic charge, just raw nerves.

"There's someone from my past," Remy said finally, voice barely above a whisper. "Man who came to my father with promises. Said he could fix what was wrong with me."

Pause. Breath. The truth.

"I was eight. Powers going haywire, destroying everything I touched. My own family was scared of me."

Logan's jaw tightened. He knew that particular brand of isolation — being too dangerous for the people who were supposed to love you.

"Papa was desperate. Thieves Guild heir who couldn't control his mutation? That's not just embarrassing — it's dangerous." Remy's voice cracked like old leather. "So when this doctor showed up with surgical solutions..."

The card stilled completely.

"When I woke up, part of my brain was just gone. Carved away like cancer."

Christ. Logan had survived Weapon X, but they'd tried to make him into a weapon. This was different. This was taking a scared kid and cutting away pieces until what was left fit someone else's design.

"What's he want?"

"To finish what he started." Remy's laugh held no humor — hollow, bitter, broken. "See, the surgery worked. Made me controllable, manageable. But it also made me his . Every time I charm someone, every time people trust me without knowing why..." His accent thickened with self-disgust. "That's his programming."

The admission hung between them like a live wire.

"When?"

"Soon. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow." Remy looked directly at Logan, desperation flickering behind his usual mask. "If something happens to me, look after Anna-Marie. She blames herself for things that ain't her fault. Don't let her carry this too."

The words hit Logan harder than expected. He didn't much trust Remy — too many secrets, too many angles — but the fear was real. The guilt was real. Logan studied Remy's face — really looked at him for the first time. "This creator of yours got a name?"

"Calls himself Sinister." Remy's fingers went white around the card. "And before you ask — no, I don't know what he really wants. Just know that when he's done with his experiments, the subjects don't usually survive."

Sinister. Logan filed the name away for later violence.

"I'll come with you," Logan said, surprising himself with the offer.

Remy's laugh was too quick, too bright. "What, don't trust me to handle my own mess?"

"Don't trust you to come back from it."

"This is my mess, mon ami. My past catching up. You got enough ghosts without mine."

"Kid's got a point," Logan thought, but something about Remy's refusal felt wrong. Too quick. Too practiced.

"Besides," Remy continued, forcing his usual grin, "man probably expects me to bring backup. Show up with the Wolverine, he'll know I'm desperate. Better he thinks I'm still the same scared kid who ran away all those years ago."

Logan studied Remy's face, reading the shift from terror to something that looked almost like relief. Like refusing help was exactly what he'd wanted to do.

"You sure about this?"

"I'm sure." Remy pocketed the card with practiced ease. "Some debts, you gotta pay alone."

"Bullshit."

Logan watched the Remy’s car disappear toward the tree line, Remy's heartbeat still audible through the engine noise — irregular, scared, the rhythm of a man driving to his own funeral.

Smart move? Alert the team. Get Storm. Let Scott coordinate a proper extraction with contingencies and backup plans and all that Boy Scout bullshit.

Problem was, Logan's gut said there wasn't time for this.

Through the kitchen window, he could see Ororo still inside, white suit catching the light. She'd mobilize the whole damn team if she knew. Hell, she'd probably call down lightning and teleport half the mansion to wherever Remy was headed.

"And get herself killed in whatever trap's waiting."

Logan's enhanced senses caught something else — the faint tremor in Remy's scent trail. Fear, yes. But underneath it, something that smelled like... relief?

"Kid wanted me to refuse. Wants to face this alone."

Which meant whatever was waiting for him, it was personal. The kind of personal that turned teammates into casualties and family into collateral damage.

Logan thought about Rogue. First time he'd seen the kid really smile since she'd gotten to the mansion was when Remy showed up with that stupid grin and those ridiculous sunglasses. Sure, Cajun's smooth-talking, card-flipping act made Logan want to punch something most days, but Anna was happy.

That counted for something.

The car’s engine faded to nothing. Gone.

Logan stayed put. Word was word, even to Cajuns with death wishes.

Counted to ten. Twenty. Thirty.

"Long enough."

He glanced up at the mansion's windows — empty now, no more witnesses, no well-meaning teammates who'd want to help or, worse, lecture him about proper protocols.

Coast was clear. Everyone inside, pretending the world stayed safe on its own.

"Ah, hell." Logan headed for the garage, each step feeling like falling off a cliff he'd been trying not to jump from all morning. "Can't let the smooth-talking idiot get himself killed on my watch."

Besides, Rogue would never forgive him.

And Logan had learned the hard way that an angry Southern belle was scarier than most supervillains.

“Some fights you walk away from. Some fights find you anyway.”

Logan's boots crunched across gravel toward the garage, each step taking him further from safety and closer to whatever hell was waiting for Cajun with a death wish.

Chapter Text

The Harley's chrome reflected Logan's scowl back at him — distorted, fractured, honest. He'd been standing in the mansion's garage for ten minutes, hand resting on the bike's seat, knowing that once he threw his leg over and fired the engine, there was no taking it back.

"Some fights find you anyway."

Remy's scent trail was already fading from the gravel drive. East toward the industrial district, where honest people didn't go after dark and dishonest ones went to disappear. Logan pressed his nose close to the Harley's handles where Remy had leaned against it that morning, breathing deep to capture every trace of fear - sweat and expensive cologne. Motor oil and old leather too filled his nostrils, mixing with the fading traces of Remy's scent. The garage's familiar smells — grease, metal, gasoline — usually grounded him. Not today.

"You planning to stare at that bike all day, or you actually gonna use it?"

Logan looked up from where he'd been running his hand along the Harley's chrome, muscle memory checking for tampering that wasn't there. Ororo stood ten feet away, holding two steaming mugs, white hair catching afternoon light like spun silver.

The sight of her hit him like a sucker punch to the ribs. Always did. She was still in that sharp white suit. Still running errands. Had no reason to be here with him.

"Didn't hear you coming."

"You left your coffee half-finished," she said, approaching with measured steps. "And you never waste coffee."

The observation was accurate and somehow intimate — the kind of detail only someone who'd been watching would notice. Logan accepted the fresh mug.

"Didn't realize you were keepin' track."

"Hard not to when someone storms out like that." Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "What did Remy say to you?"

Straight to the point. No dancing around the obvious. Logan took a sip, using the moment to study her face. Concern etched around her eyes, tension in her shoulders that spoke of sleepless nights and difficult decisions. The weight of leadership was settling on her like snow—beautiful, cold, inevitable.

"Remy's in trouble," Logan said without preamble.

Ororo exhaled slowly, the sound carrying weight she'd been holding back. "I know." She settled against the bike beside him, close enough that Logan's awareness sharpened. Her heartbeat was steady, breathing controlled, but underneath he caught heaviness in her actions. "I've been watching him for weeks. The way he holds himself, like he's waiting for something to catch up with him. Question is whether you're planning to help him or follow him."

Her words and the way her breathing changed when she mentioned Remy confirmed what his gut already knew. Everyone had been watching him, but no one had acted.

He straightened from the bike, muscles coiled with decision. The Harley was fueled, ready. Same as him. His choice to follow — no one else's call to make. Not even 'Ro needed that weight on her shoulders.

"Cajun doesn't want help."

"Since when has that stopped you?" She paused, studying his face with the same intensity she used to read weather patterns. "You're planning something. I can tell."

"How?"

"Same way I know when you're about to go left in the field before you signal it." Her voice had the quiet confidence of someone who'd fought beside him, learned his rhythms, trusted him with her life more times than either could count. "You get that look. Like you're calculating angles nobody else can see."

The admission rang true. They'd developed their own language in combat — reading each other's intentions through micro-movements and battlefield telepathy that had nothing to do with Jean's powers and everything to do with earned trust.

"Remy's been a ghost for weeks," Logan said, the words scraping his throat raw. "Walking around like a man who ain't got a face anymore. Whatever's eating at him, he's been lying to himself about it, not us." He met her gaze directly. "I know what that looks like."

"So you're going after him." Not a question. She'd already read his decision in his posture, in the set of his shoulders, in the way his hands had unconsciously clenched into fists, ready to hop on the bike to follow the trace of the fugitive.

"Yeah."

"Even though he doesn't want you to."

"Especially because he doesn't want me to." Logan's voice roughened with something that might have been pain. "Kid's scared. Trying to protect everyone by facing this alone. Problem is, guys like that don't survive what's waiting for them."

Ororo was quiet for a long moment, and Logan could practically see her running tactical scenarios in her head.

"What's your exit strategy?" she asked, arms crossing.

The question caught him off guard. Not 'don't go' or 'it's too dangerous.' Pure tactical thinking.

"Don't have one yet."

"Logan." Her voice was filled with the patient authority of someone who'd planned a hundred missions. "You taught me that going in without backup is how good people die badly."

True and fair. He had taught her that, during those early joint training sessions when they'd been learning to fight as a unit instead of rogue soloists.

"Can't ask you to — "

"You're not asking. I'm offering." She shifted closer, and he caught that familiar spark of electricity that meant her powers were responding to emotional intensity. Her voice softened, the crisp consonants relaxing into something warmer, more natural. "We work better together, Logan. Always have. And that boy..." Her accent thickened slightly, revealing the woman beneath the leader's mask. "That boy's carrying something heavy. You can see it in how he moves, how his smile never quite reaches his eyes."

Her dropping the careful pronunciation... Logan knew that tone. Meant she'd already made up her mind.

"Can't promise I'll come back in one piece," he said quietly.

"Then don't go alone." She moved closer, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "You matter, Logan. Not just what you can do for others, but who you are. And if you think I'm going to let my partner walk into hell without backup..." She shook her head. "You don't know me as well as I thought."

Partner. The word punched deeper than it should have. Not just teammate. Not just friend. Something more complex, more dangerous. Trust that went bone-deep. Understanding that needed no words.

Something shifted in his chest. Want mixing with need, respect braiding with desire until he couldn't separate protection from possession. She was his partner, his equal, his —

"Stop."

"Save the speech, 'Ro. Kid's in trouble. That's all that matters."

Logan had been down this road before — good people following him into hell. Not all of them came back. Remy was running from something that wouldn't stay buried. Logan knew that particular brand of hell.

"Keep an eye on the kids," he said, swinging his leg over the bike. The trail was getting colder with each passing minute. 

"Always do." She stepped back as the engine roared to life, but her expression said the conversation wasn't over. "And Logan?"

"Yeah?"

"When you figure out where you're going, call me." Her voice had quiet certainty. "And if you don't... then I'll come find you."

The certainty in her voice almost made him believe her.

Logan pulled away, gravel spraying under his tires. In the mirror, he watched her solouhette grow smaller until the trees swallowed her up.

But he could still feel her watching. Still hear her voice: Partner.

The word echoed in his chest as he rode toward hell. Partnership. Trust. Vulnerability. In a man like him, that could turn into something worse. Something that'd claw its way out when control finally broke.

Maybe that was enough to bring him home.

Maybe it was what would destroy them both.

***

The industrial district squatted like a cancer on the city's edge. Rusted warehouses and broken dreams, the kind of place where people disappeared and nobody asked questions.

Logan had been tracking Remy's scent for twenty minutes through a maze of wrong turns and backtracking. Remy wasn't just nervous — he was being herded. Driven like prey toward a specific kill zone.

The Pontiac sat abandoned behind a chain-link fence, driver's door hanging open. Engine still warm. Remy had left in a hurry.

Broken glass glittered across the cracked asphalt, fresh enough to catch what little light filtered through the smog. Logan's nose caught motor oil, piss, and something metallic that wasn't rust.

Every instinct screamed warnings. Too quiet. Too clean. Even the rats had fled this place.

Logan circled the warehouse perimeter, cataloguing exit routes and sight lines. Three loading docks, all sealed. Single personnel door on the east side—unlocked, which meant trap. Windows too high and too few. The building had been modified, reinforced. Steel plates welded over most openings, ventilation redirected through a single system. Someone had turned this place into a fortress.

Or a prison. Or a hospital. Or a lab.

He found a fire escape, scaled it silent as death. From the warehouse roof, he could see into the main floor through gaps in the corrugated metal. Movement below. Voices echoing up through the stillness.

Logan eased toward a rusted ventilation grate, peered down into hell.

The warehouse floor had been converted into something that belonged in nightmares. Medical equipment. Restraint tables. Surgical lights casting harsh shadows across concrete stained with things Logan didn't want to identify.

In the corner, a male figure lay motionless on a gurney — too still, breathing too shallow. Dark skin, black hair, intricate tattoos visible along one exposed arm. Tubes snaked from their arms to machines that beeped with mechanical patience. Alive, but not awake. Not for a long time, judging by the way their muscles had atrophied.

This wasn't a warehouse anymore. It was a lab.

And in the centre of it all, Remy LeBeau stood facing his demons.

But this wasn't the smooth-talking charmer from the mansion kitchen. This was a man barely holding himself together. Remy's hands shook as he pulled out a playing card—not to charge it, but to ground himself. The way trauma victims clutched comfort objects.

"I came," Remy said, voice steady despite everything. "Just like you wanted."

"What I wanted was never your presence." The voice that answered made Logan's blood freeze. "It was your utility."

Sinister straightened from behind the surgical table, peeling off bloodstained gloves with languid satisfaction. Each finger deliberate, unhurried—a man savouring a moment he'd orchestrated perfectly.

The gloves hit concrete with a wet slap.

"Punctual as always," he murmured, genuine pleasure warming his voice as he studied Remy like a collector admiring his prize specimen.

He moved with predatory grace — not rushed, but measured. The confidence of a spider feeling vibrations along his carefully laid web. Logan heard the whisper of expensive fabric, footsteps that fell with metronomic precision. Sinister's smile was surgical steel. This wasn't a simple reunion — it was vindication. Every manipulation, every thread pulled across months of orchestration had led here. Without breaking stride, he withdrew a small device, pressed a single button with his thumb, and slipped it back into his pocket — all with the casual efficiency of checking the time. His smile never wavered.

"Did you miss me, my dear boy?"

Remy took an involuntary step back as Sinister approached, his heartbeat spiking audibly. Logan could smell his terror-sweat from forty feet up, mixed with the metallic tang of old blood soaked into the concrete.

"You promised this would be the last time," Remy said, unconsciously shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. Fight-or-flight reflexes kicking in, even as his rational mind knew running was pointless.

"Oh, my dear boy." Sinister began circling him slowly, clockwise, like a shark testing the water. Each footstep deliberate, calculated to ratchet up the psychological pressure. "There is no 'last time' for specimens like you. You are my finest work. My proof that evolution can be... guided."

Remy's breathing hitched — Logan caught the stutter in his chest rhythm. The kid was fighting a panic attack, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His head tracked Sinister's movement, but his shoulders stayed hunched defensively.

"The nightmares," Remy whispered, the playing card bending under the pressure of his grip. "The ones where I can't control what I charge. Where everything I touch turns to death." His word choice stattered as stress overwhelmed his practiced English. "You did that to me. When I was just a child."

Sinister paused directly behind Remy, close enough that Logan could see the kid's whole body tense. Predator positioning — making his prey feel vulnerable, exposed.

"I gave you purpose," Sinister corrected, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. Close enough that his breath would be hitting the back of Remy's neck. "Though I admit, the early work was... imprecise. Children are so fragile. But you survived, didn't you? Even thrived."

Remy's knuckles went white around the card. Logan caught the micro-tremor mixed with anger running through his shoulders — muscle memory of being helpless, being hurt. The kid probably had scars no medical equipment could heal.

But he didn't break. Didn't run. Just stood there, trembling but defiant.

Sinister resumed his circling, slower now, savoring the psychological torture. "Tell me, Remy — do you still wake up screaming? Still feel my hands on your skull, reshaping your neural pathways?"

The taunt hit home. Remy flinched visibly, took another step back—right into the path Sinister wanted him to take. Being herded toward the restraint tables without realizing it.

"Rogue," Remy said suddenly, desperation making his voice crack. "You said if I came willing, you'd leave her alone."

Sinister stopped circling, positioned himself directly in front of the medical tables. Blocking Remy's only clear exit route. "Rogue is quite safe." His smile was plain steel. "Though watching her absorb your memories has been illuminating. All those suppressed recollections surfacing through her touch. The laboratory. The procedures. The way you screamed when we — "

"Arrête!" The word tore from Remy's throat like a wound. His whole body jerked backward, the playing card finally cracking under the pressure. 

But he didn't run. Didn't break. Just stood there, bleeding inside but still breathing, still fighting. "Don't charge it up yet, Cajun."

Sinister took a step forward, and Logan's animal senses caught the subtle shift in air pressure as hidden machinery hummed to life around the warehouse perimeter. The bastard had activated something.

"But we're not here to reminisce," Sinister continued, his gaze flicking upward. Not quite in Logan's direction, but close enough to make his skin crawl. "Are we, Mr. Logan?"

"Shit."

Logan froze. Moving now would confirm his position — and Remy was still down there, vulnerable. If this was a bluff, Logan had to hold his ground. If it wasn't...

"I know you're there," Sinister said conversationally, and Logan's gut twisted with the realization that it wasn't a bluff at all. "Did you really think I wouldn't account for your protective instincts? The moment Remy mentioned his troubles, I knew you'd follow."

Logan's mind raced. How long had the bastard known? How long had he been watching?

"You see, this was never about Remy," Sinister explained, still addressing the ceiling. "He was simply the lure. Perfect bait to draw out Weapon X's most successful creation."

Remy's head snapped up, eyes wide with horror and guilt. "Non. Logan, if you're up there — "

"Too late for warnings, I'm afraid." Sinister withdrew the device from his pocket again, the same transmitter Logan had watched him activate moments earlier. "You've been breathing my gift for the past several minutes."

"What?"

Logan analyzed every breath. Nothing. Clean air, rust, Remy's fear-sweat... wait. Something else. Faint, almost undetectable. A metallic tang that hadn't been there when he'd entered the building.

"Airborne nanoparticles," Sinister explained helpfully. "Designed to bond with adamantium on contact. The moment you chose to follow Remy, you chose this outcome. Heroes are so predictable. Quite ingenious, really. They lie dormant until activated by the proper frequency."

The transmitter in Sinister's hand began to pulse.

Logan tried to surge forward, muscles bunching for the leap down to Remy. His legs locked mid-crouch. Arms wouldn't respond. Even his claws stayed sheathed when he willed them out. His healing factor stuttered, slowed to a crawl as the process in his bloodstream went active.

"Paralytic agents that specifically target regenerative cellular structures," Sinister continued as Logan fought against the spreading numbness. "I've had years to perfect the formula, ever since I first studied your tissue samples."

"Fucking samples. From Weapon fucking X."

Logan had catalogued every threat, every detail — except the one that mattered. His protective instincts had blinded him to the obvious. Remy's fear had been real, but so had Sinister's manipulation underneath it.

But Logan's mutation was stronger. Even poisoned, even compromised, it began burning through the chemicals with desperate fury. Feeling crept back into his fingers. His vision cleared just enough  —

"Now."

Logan drove his elbow straight down, shattering the rusted grate beneath him.

Steel shrieked. Rust cascaded like bloody snow. The three-hundred-pound drop of adamantium-laced bone and muscle punched through steel like it was paper. He twisted mid-fall, using the skeleton's weight to build momentum, shoulder-rolling to absorb impact as he crashed into concrete — ribs, hip, the metallic crack of bone hitting stone.

SNIKT!

Claws punched out mid-tumble, sparking against concrete, carving furrows as he used them to wrench himself upright.

Legs fighting for balance. Vision fracturing at the edges. Vertical.

Still lethal.

Remy whirled — cards igniting between white knuckles, relief and horror colliding across his face as he catalogued Logan's damage. The way enhanced coordination had been stripped down to raw survival instinct.

No hesitation. Remy stepped back fast, shoulders slamming against Logan's spine. Two fighters becoming one weapon, defensive arcs overlapping in practiced synchronization. Logan's claws flared wide, arms shaking but steady. Remy's cards fanned like razored petals, kinetic fire crackling pink-white death.

"Well," Remy's voice cut through chaos, "you come here often?"

The joke was a lifeline-like slap. Remy clinging to humor when everything else was drowning. Logan's growl held appreciation. "Next time I'm picking the venue, Cajun."

Facing outward.

Back to back, surrounded. But for one heartbeat, they weren't just prey.

Sinister's delight turned predatory. His laugh was delighted, clinical. "Fascinating. The healing factor is more resilient than anticipated." He gestured, and shadows moved from the warehouse corners — figures in tactical gear, moving in a coordinated order.

"This changes nothing," Remy snarled, charging a handful of cards. "You still — "

The truth hit him like a physical blow. Logan's presence wasn't rescue — it was the real objective. Remy saw it in Sinister's satisfied expression, in the way the mercenaries moved to surround them both instead of focusing on the immediate threat.

"Merde," Remy breathed, cards faltering in his grip. "This was never about me. I led you here, Logan. shit, I led you right to him." His voice cracked with desperate regret. "I'm sorry. Mon Dieu, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, but it was," Sinister corrected gently, fingertips pressed together in a perfect steeple. "You were perfect bait. The one person Logan would follow into obvious danger."

Logan lunged, claws seeking Sinister's throat, but his legs gave out halfway. The second dose of nanoparticles was already flooding the ventilation system, overwhelming even his mutant metabolism.

Remy moved to cover him, kinetic energy exploding outward in desperation — cards tearing through the first wave, dropping three soldiers before they could raise their weapons. But more kept coming, flooding in from multiple entrances. Too many. Stun weapons crackled to life as they swarmed him.

"No!" Remy fought like a wildcat as gloved hands seized his arms, dragging him away to restrain. "Logan! Get up! Get up!"

But Logan couldn't. His vision was blurring again, consciousness slipping away like sand through his fingers. Through the growing darkness, he saw Remy suspended between two mercenaries, legs kicking frantically at empty air, face twisted with desperate fury.

"NOOOO!" Remy's voice echoed through the warehouse, raw with anguish and - yes - guilt.

Logan tried to reach for him, claws extending one last time. But darkness was stronger than adamantium. Too late. Always too fucking late.

The last thing he heard was Sinister's satisfied whisper: "Sleep now. When you wake, we'll revisit some familiar places. The place where you were truly born."

Thunder rumbled in the distance — couldn't tell if it was his skull hitting concrete or her coming for him. 

Then darkness.

Chapter Text

Ororo rubbed her temples, the headache blooming behind her eyes, pressure building too fast. The video conference still flickered on the wall-mounted display — senators, bureaucrats, and policy makers reduced to muted faces in thumbnail squares, arguing over mutant registration protocols with the passion of people who'd never had to hide their own nature. She'd silenced her microphone twenty minutes ago when the urge to call down lightning on Senator Gyrich's self-righteous face became too tempting to ignore.

"That went about as well as expected," Hank McCoy said dryly, closing his laptop with a soft click, rubbing the dried out eyes behind the glasses. The virtual conference dissolved, leaving them in blessed silence broken only by the grandfather clock's steady rhythm and rain pattering against diamond-paned windows.

Night had fallen hours ago, but neither had noticed until now. The study felt smaller with darkness pressing against the glass.

Ororo leaned back in Charles's chair. Leadership had weight that settled between her shoulder blades and refused to lift.

"Gyrich's Digital Identity Protection Act," she said, fatigue roughening her voice. "Shapeshifters banned from public spaces, telepaths flagged as election threats, AI algorithms screening out X-gene markers from job applications. All packaged as 'protecting democracy'..." Ice spread through Ororo's veins, her voice trembled. "What next? Morph arrested for buying groceries? Quentin banned from polling stations? Surge unemployable?"

"Worse — they want 'educational oversight' of the school," Hank said apprehensively, leaning forward. "One photograph of the Danger Room, and we're done."

She nodded grimly, mind already cataloguing the implications. This was her world now — not just weather manipulation and acting the combat, but budget meetings and congressional hearings and the endless, grinding work of keeping a dream alive when half the world wanted this reality dead.

A distant rumble of thunder made her pause. Natural weather, not her doing — but something felt off about the atmospheric pressure. Restless. Unsettled.

"You feel it too," Hank observed, noting how her attention had shifted to the window.

"Feel what?"

"Whatever's been making you check your watch every ten minutes for the past hour."

Had she been? Ororo glanced down at her wrist, realized she'd unconsciously noted the time again. 11:47 PM. Logan and Remy should have been back hours ago. Not that she was tracking them — grown men could handle their own business — but something prickled at the edge of her awareness like approaching lightning.

Before she could analyze the feeling further, something crashed against the mansion's front door — hard enough to rattle the study's windows.

***

Seconds later, the foyer was chaos. Students, trainees, senior X-Men — all had converged instinctively. Ororo and Hank descended the stairs as voices collided in urgent confusion.

At the center: Remy LeBeau, collapsed against the doorframe, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other still clutching a half-charged... Card or paper or god knows what he needed to survive till here. His coat hung in shredded tatters, dripping rain and blood onto marble. Hair plastered to his skull, one eye swollen shut, face a map of fresh violence. He looked like he'd been dragged through metal and left to crawl home through a storm.

He saw Ororo - understanding immediately shared in their gaze - and exhaled like she was the only person who understood.

"Been there maybe five, six hours," he gasped, accepting Jubilee's steadying hand as she rushed to support him. "Lost track after... after they started on Logan."

"Started what?" Scott rushed down the main staircase, still pulling on his shirt, clearly awakened by the commotion. His posture shifted, shoulders squaring as he stepped forward. "Remy, where the hell have you been?"

"What happened?" Jubilee's voice cracked. "Where's Logan?"

"Who took him?" Kurt appeared beside them, smoke still dissipating from his bamf.

"Is he hurt?" Kitty pushed forward from the back.

"How did you get away?" Hank's analytical mind was already working.

Through the chaos of overlapping voices, Remy's eyes found Ororo's across the room. His expression crumpled — guilt and desperation written in every line of his battered face.

"The man from my past," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "He... he got us both."

Ororo froze, shocked, desperation and anger crawling into her heart, unable to find her words.

"What man?" Jean pressed, moving closer with healer's instincts. "Remy, you're not making sense."

"Sinister," Remy whispered, and the name silenced the room instantly.

Even the students who didn't recognize the name could feel the weight of it settling over the adults like a shroud.

Hank moved without conscious thought, placing himself between the younger students and Remy's broken form. "Kitty, take the others back to the dormitories," he said quietly to her as a senior student, his gentle guidance more effective than any command. Old instincts.

"They had Logan strapped down, but he was fighting it. Whatever they pumped into him... it was eating away at his mind. Layer by layer." Remy's voice cracked, accent thickening with exhaustion and trauma. "Heard him calling names at first — yours, Scott's, even mine. Then just... growling. Like something was being stripped away."

Ororo moved before conscious thought, crossing the room in three quick strides. Her hand found Remy's shoulder, and when she pulled it away, her palm came back dark with blood.

"Get Elixir! Someone!" she called sharply. "Now!" But her eyes never left Remy's face, searching for the answer she dreaded. "Logan?"

Remy's expression crumpled completely. "It was a trap, Storm. All of it. He wanted Logan, not me. Knew Logan would come if..." His voice broke. "Mon Dieu, I led him right to that bastard."

"What happened to Logan?" The question tore from her throat before she could stop it.

"The seizure came after hours of... whatever experiments Sinister was doing. Logan went completely feral — broke his restraints, tore through three guards like paper." Remy shuddered, trauma making his hands shake. "Broke my cage lock in the chaos, not sure if to hurt me or free me. But when I looked in his eyes..." He swallowed hard. "Nothing. Just pure violence. No recognition. That's when I knew we were both in trouble."

Rachel Summers stepped forward, fingers hovering near Remy's temple. "May I?"

Remy nodded weakly, and her telepathic touch was gentle but urgent.

"Oh my God," she breathed, pulling back from Remy's mind. "I can see fragments... medical equipment, restraints. Logan strapped to a table while Sinister..." She shuddered. "There were needles. Extraction procedures. And Logan was conscious for all of it, fighting against something that was tearing his mind and body apart."

Remy looked up, meeting her eyes with desperate clarity. "Then he went feral. Completely. Destroyed the lab, tore through everything like a hurricane. My cage, the equipment, the guards..." His voice cracked. "Then he just... ran. Into the forest. Moving like he'd forgotten he was ever human."

"Where is he now?" Scott's voice carried urgent command tempered by careful concern for Remy's condition.

The room exploded into controlled chaos. Scott was already barking orders about prepping the jet, medical teams, containment protocols. Jean moved to assist Rachel with reading Remy's traumatic memories.

But Ororo stood frozen in the center of it all, Logan's protective instincts toward Remy echoing in her mind. "He went because he knew you were lying about handling it alone." Their rooftop conversation. His trust in her judgment. The way he'd looked at her before riding after Remy.

She'd let him go without backup.

Rogue burst through the crowd, nearly flying the last few meters to steal Remy away in a desperate embrace. His blood stained her clothes as she pulled him close, as if she could absorb all his pain through touch alone.

"Pumpkin, what happened? Ah need to know..." Her voice broke on the words.

Remy's good eye found hers. "I'm sorry, chère. I led him right into a trap. Sinister... he wanted Logan. Not me. Knew Logan would come if I was in trouble."

"We need containment protocols," Scott was saying, his voice cutting through the emotional chaos. "If he's genuinely feral, if he doesn't recognize us. Logan's adamantium skeleton and healing factor make him nearly unstoppable when he's confused and defensive — "

Ororo stepped forward, cutting through Scott's words. "He's not an animal to be caged."

"Ororo, we have to be realistic. If he doesn't recognize us, if he sees us as threats — "

"He's one of us." The words came out fierce, protective. "Logan would never hurt innocents, even like this. And if he's lost, confused..." Her voice softened with something that might have been pain. "He needs help, not containment."

Every voice in the room was a weight on her shoulders. Rachel's terror radiating like heat. Kurt's whispered prayers. Scott's tactical calculations. People looking to her for answers she didn't have. Charles had trained her for this — managing crisis, making impossible decisions while keeping everyone safe.

But Charles had never told her what to do when the crisis was Logan.

The air pressure in the room shifted as her control wavered. She could feel the storm building thirty miles out, every electrical current in the mansion's wiring humming in response to her racing pulse. This was the burden of leadership — when she lost control, everyone felt it.

Ororo's hands clenched into fists. She looked at Remy — soaked, bloodied, barely standing after crawling through rain and darkness to reach them. One of Sinister's victims had made it home. The other was still out there.

Static crackled through her hair as the thought crystallized: Logan, alone in the forest with senses that could detect a heartbeat from miles away but couldn't tell friend from foe. Every instinct he'd honed to protect others now twisted into potential threats against innocents. The man who'd fought so hard to trust, to build connections — now trapped in his own mind, suffering without understanding why.

"We need to approach this systematically," Scott continued, falling into command mode that felt too slow, too careful. "Tracking teams, medical support, containment protocols —"

"Systematically?" Wind rattled the mansion's windows as her emotions bled into the atmosphere. "He's not a mission parameter, Scott. He's lost."

She was already moving toward the door, each step feeling like tearing away from everything she knew about patience and team work. 

The leader in her knew Scott was right. 

But Logan had never needed patience. He'd needed someone to come for him.

"Ororo, if we go in unprepared..." Jean started, concern for her friend bleeding through her telepathic shields.

"Then we adapt." The words came out harder than intended, authority cracking like a whip. "Logan went after Remy because it was right. Because family doesn't leave family behind." Her voice caught slightly, revealing the fault line beneath her control. "I won't let fear and procedure make us less than that."

"You're abandoning your post," Scott said quietly. Not accusation — fact.

He was right. Every student upstairs, every teammate in this room — they all depended on her leadership. Charles had built his life around never choosing one over many, never letting personal feelings override calculated decisions.

But did he ever had to choose between duty and the one person who made duty worth having?

"Someone has to reach him before he reaches someone else," she said desperately, meeting Scott's eyes. "Leadership isn't following rules — it's knowing when to break them."

Before anyone could stop her, the doors yielded to her will, and wind exploded outward as Ororo stepped into the sky. 

The world below shrank, and the only sound was her own pulse thundering in her ears, matching the rhythm of clouds gathering overhead.

***

The eastern woods way past midnight felt wrong.

Ororo followed the disturbance forty feet above the canopy — scarring where something powerful had passed in rage. Tree branches snapped at precise angles. Undergrowth flattened in straight lines, then chaotic spirals. Logan moving fast, then stopping, confused, starting again.

Her second hour of searching. Power burning through her like fever. Exhaustion clawing at her bones, but stopping wasn't an option. Miles of empty forest behind her, and now the dense wilderness near the Connecticut line — the kind of isolation a wounded predator would seek.

The cottage ruins materialized through mist as she descended, following the scent of ozone and old violence. Not just abandoned — torn apart from within. Fresh claw marks gouged the doorframe at shoulder height.

She stepped through the broken doorframe, boots crunching on glass and debris. Twenty feet inside, she stopped. The single room felt like a tomb — cold air thick with the metallic tang of blood and something wilder. Deeper gouges scarred the walls. A perfect circle worn into the floor where something had paced endlessly.

Ororo's breath caught. She recognized the pattern. Caged animal behavior.

Rain began falling through the collapsed roof in a careful pattern. Not to flush him out, but to mask her approach. Each drop calibrated to dampen sound, scent, the familiar signature of her powers.

Movement in the shadows. A growl that didn't sound entirely human.

Then she saw him.

Logan crouched in the darkest corner, claws extended, every muscle coiled for violence. Blood and dirt matted his hair. His eyes...

Empty. Feral. Tracking her movement with predatory precision.

But he hadn't attacked. That was something.

Ororo raised one hand slowly, palm open. No sudden movements. No powers. Just a woman approaching a wounded animal who might remember, somewhere in the depths of mental chaos, that she had never been his enemy.

"Logan," she whispered.

His head tilted. Nothing. No spark of memory, no flicker of the man she knew. Only feral calculation behind eyes that had forgotten everything except survival.

The rain stopped.

In the sudden silence, they stared at each other across twenty feet of broken ground. Ororo calculating how fast he could close the distance. Logan calculating whether she was prey, predator, or something else entirely.

Something that might require a different kind of response.

The cottage held its breath.

And Logan's nostrils flared as he caught her scent.

He began to move in the darn shadows - not toward her, but around her. Circling. Each footfall deliberate, testing. She turned to track him, never letting him slip to her blind side. This was Logan's body, Logan's grace, but the mind behind those movements...

Taking the ultimate risk, she stepped forward when his arc brought him closest. Her breath caught as he stopped mid-stride, every muscle going rigid. Another step. His lips pulled back in something between snarl and smile.

One more step, and she could see her own reflection in pupils blown wide with predatory focus. 

Close enough to touch.

And in the space between one heartbeat and the next, she realized the truth that made her chest turn to ice.

Logan was gone. The thing wearing his face was deciding if she was prey.