Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Logan sits in the chilly, sterile environment of Hank’s lab and tries not to seethe. 

Exhaustion weighs him down in the too early gloom, without coffee to even convince himself he can function because Hank just had to look him over before their typical morning routine. 

Stumbling from Jean and Scott’s room at the crack ass of dawn, Logan hadn’t even remembered what they did last night, only that it took too fucking long and he’s fucking tired. He tries not think about the fact that he doesn’t ever really remember what they do together anymore — and hasn’t in a very long while. 

Hank busies himself with gathering the supplies he needs for Logan’s bloodwork, humming gaily and obtusely ignoring Logan’s glare directed at his back. 

“ James ,” Hank sighs in that long-suffering way of his, turning to level Logan with a look, “thank god your mutation does not allow you to kill people with your mind or I fear I may have been obliterated four times over just this morning alone.” He drifts closer to the exam table, posture amicable and open, knowing that it still makes Logan nervous to be around all the equipment. 

Only Hank is allowed to call him James like that, and he uses it sparingly enough that it’s still special sometimes, catching Logan off guard enough to actually get whatever message Hank is trying to tell him across his walls.  

Disgruntled, Logan crosses his arms with a scoff. “Coffee,” he growls out. “Need it.” They always have coffee together after Logan slips away from Jean and Scott’s rooms, escaping to the lab for a breath of fresh air and better company. He’ll hide out around the place for as long as he can get away with it, prowling around the tables and chairs on quiet predator’s feet so as not to disturb the blue furry genius hard at work. 

“Yes,” Hank hums, grabbing for Logan’s wrist, “and I need you to stop squirming and let me do this.” He sweeps a clawed thumb under the rolled sleeve of Logan’s flannel to push it up just a bit more above the crease of his elbow, readying a needle in his other hand. Tilting his head to catch Logan’s eye, a bid for distracting him, he presses the needle into his vein so gently that there’s no pricking feeling, just the odd warm sensation of his blood being drawn. 

Reluctantly, Logan meets his eyes, mesmerized by the bright blue of them no matter how many times he’s stared into them. 

“Tell me about your symptoms lately.” 

Jaw clenching, Logan just grunts wordlessly. Fighting the urge to bare his teeth, though it’s useless without his fangs. 

“Excellent, truly remarkable,” Beast deadpans, finishing the tube of blood and withdrawing the needle from Logan’s arm. “Cut it out , and give me a verbal reply.” 

He’s also the only one in the entire Mansion allowed to talk to him like this. Because Logan knows that Hank gets things in ways no one else would. And he really only wants what’s best for Logan, won’t take any of his self sabotaging bullshit. Every comment like this is wrapped in affectionate exasperation, enough to slip through some of Logan’s defenses. 

“Much of the same. Everything aches, m’not healing properly, and I can’t see for shit anymore, Blue. Told you all of this last time, and the time before that.” 

“Oh, but you tell it so well, my boy,” Hank teases him, labeling the blood samples with an efficient scrawl. “And you’re still documenting this? I’ll need a well established baseline when I finish the antidote for your poisoning.” 

“Whatever, Hank.” Logan rolls his eyes, flexing his forearm by making a fist a couple of times, a low rumble caught in his throat that he only ever lets out around Beast. Eventually there’s no evidence the needle ever pierced his skin, watching in real time as the small puncture closes over. He’s too busy being a baby about it to notice Hank grabbing something from one of the small wheeled carts and turning back toward him. 

When Hank clears his throat, Logan finally looks up only to be met with an object being carefully guided onto his face — a cheap pair of reader glasses, the kind you can find at any general store in various scripts, designed for small print and screens. 

Logan blinks behind the glass, stunned into silence. Every detail of Hank’s smug grin is suddenly crystal clear, fangy and pearly white. 

His playful mood evaporates as the exam continues, having Logan remove his shirt reveals mottled bruising across his chest and collarbones. Hickeys, as clear as day, though their presence bothers both of them for a myriad of reasons. First and foremost, they shouldn’t be there anymore, not after this long, his healing factor should have eradicated them easily hours ago. 

Shifting uncomfortably, Logan swallows down an apology, hating the way Hank so politely feigns clinical disinterest. He can’t fool Logan anymore, though. That thing that they never talk about, but both of them know exists hanging heavy in the room. 

Hank has been in love with Logan nearly as long as he's been at the Mansion; just too shy and much too late for his feelings to have any effect after Jean Grey’s magnetism ensnared the Wolverine into her orbit. 

He knows he’s not done anything wrong, at least he doesn’t think, but guilt still eats at him nonetheless. Uncomfortable and stiff, he lets Hank look him over without another fuss. 

Logan dresses quickly once he’s allowed to, tucking the glasses into the pocket over his heart of his flannel shirt. 

“I should go—,” he starts, awkward and fumbling like he always gets when they broach this subject, skirting around the edges of something serious and world shattering. Threading his fingers through his greying beard, he tugs on it in an anxious habit. 

Hank’s sad eyes track the movement, deep pools of blue revealing a depth that scares Logan more than the poison clinging to him; more than the thought of dying. 

“Have to pack. Leaving soon.” 

“ What? ” Hank turns icy in a moment, eyes freezing over and hardening sharply. “And just where are you going? Logan, I truly cannot stress enough how critical it is that you remain as stable as possible and avoid any undue stress while I finish this antidote. I’m nearly there, surely this outing can wait a few simple weeks at most.” 

“It’s not my choice , Hank. Take it up with Charles, he’s been hounding me for fucking days. Talking about some mutant in Mexico that I absolutely have to retrieve. Like fucking cargo,” Logan spits this last bit, letting Hank know he really isn’t on board with any of Charles’ methods or means. “I’ve begged him to send fucking anyone else, but he won’t budge.” 

Hank starts to growl, balling his clawed fists and slamming one against the nearest flat surface. His jaw works as he struggles for the right words. It’s the biggest tantrum Logan’s ever seen him throw, but he doesn’t flinch — knows Hank would never hurt him. 

“I’m going with you. And— ,” he holds up one massive furry paw of a hand before Logan can think about interrupting. “I will deal with Charles. You are my patient and I am not going to let his misguided, asinine drive at increasing our already plentiful numbers risk your health. Not on my watch.” 

The tirade leaves Logan stunned just as much as the surprise glasses had, mouth a little agape as he just stares at the other mutant. 

“Is there a problem with that?” Hank dares him outright, goading him into a confrontation that he won’t get. Logan’s tired of arguing, tired of everything really. Except being around Hank. 

“Whatever you wanna do, Blue. I don’t care. Don’t even want to go on this fucking trip in the first place. It’s useless. I can’t even… it’s already hard enough to stomach the thought of dragging another person into this mess here. Back to the Mansion while he’s like this.” 

“Maybe we’ll be unsuccessful in our labors. Anything could happen on the road, you of all people know this,” Hank reminds him, raising a furry brow. “I’ll discuss my accompanying you with Charles later. For now, though, I believe I owe you a coffee.”

And Logan’s just a man, a weakened one at that, so he sighs and slips off the exam table, allowing Hank to brew them both cups of black coffee from the same shitty pot he’s always kept in the back room of the lab. Bitter and watery at the same time, it tastes like it always does upon the first scalding mouthful until Logan catches Hank's eye once more across the rim of his mug and somehow — somehow his next sip tastes a little bit like hope.

Chapter Text

“That is the third time you’ve swerved in the last twenty minutes, would you please pull over and let me drive? I don’t want to end up a blue smear on this random highway in Pennsylvania,” Hank sighs deeply, put upon. “You know, they’d see the fur and probably assume I was an animal. They’d call the highway patrol and cart me off like a deer before you even regenerated at the rate you’ve been healing lately.” 

They’ve been driving for a day and a half after managing to sneak away without tipping anyone off at the Mansion that Hank was accompanying Logan on his trek. Hank had taken his own car, leaving at a different time and going in an opposite direction only to circle back and meet up with Logan on the road, a designated safe difference from any interference. 

Despite Hank badgering him so hard, Logan can’t bring himself to regret allowing him to come along. That doesn’t mean he’ll show it of course. 

Logan snarls sideways at him, lip curling to reveal flat, perfect white teeth and tightens his hands on the wheel. So he’s swerved and jerked the wheel a few times and the tires have rubbed the rumble strip occasionally but that doesn’t mean Hank needs to drive. He’s fine. 

“Would be much more threatening with your natural teeth,” Hank mutters lowly, but not so low that Logan can’t hear him. 

“Why don’t we stop talking for a while.” He can’t remember the last time he grew his fangs, doesn’t even know if they’d lengthen anymore anyway after so much disuse. But god do they ache sometimes to come out. 

Stealing a sidelong glance at Hank has Logan’s stomach twisting, watching as the blue mutant scribbles notes in a well loved, falling apart notebook that he now knows has been dedicated entirely to him. Notes on the metal running along his bones and the side effects and treatments Hank wants to try out when he deems them viable. The back of the car is packed with as much lab equipment he could take on the run; the glass tinkles faintly every so often in their padded cases. 

Blessedly, Hank listens, shutting his mouth to mull over his notes and leave Logan alone. 

Logan misses the sound of his voice immediately. Stupid furry fuck. 

—

The day drags on; as the sun starts to set, Hank fishes Logan’s glasses out of his shirt pocket and hands them over to him, wordlessly like he’s been for the last several hours at Logan’s insistence. 

He takes the next exit off the highway, pulling the car into a dreary motel parking lot and killing the engine. 

Hank looks up at the sudden quiet, resurfacing from where he’d been buried in his notes. 

“Am I allowed to talk now—”

“Listen, Hank—”

Sighing, Logan cuts himself off and leans forward to rest his forehead against the steering wheel. He catches a glimpse of the fangy grin Hank throws his way, paired with a rumbling laugh at his misery. 

“I’m sorry,” he grits out, squeezing his eyes shut, breathing in the scent of paper and ink and Hank — it’s been suffocating him the whole car ride, much more concentrated in the confined space, unwavering without the continued sterilization process his lab requires so often. It settles his nerves, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I don’t want you to shut up anymore.” 

“Mighty kind of you, my boy,” Hank answers sardonically in the way only he’s allowed to be with Logan. “Go check us in, I’ll take the car and grab dinner.” 

It’s not a request. Another thing only Hank is allowed to do. 

Beast fumbles in each of his pockets, searching for cash, mumbling a small aha when he finds the wad he’d stashed. Both of them have bank cards attached to Xavier’s account — perks of being a grandfathered in X-man employee — but that’s not very helpful when they’re attempting to not draw attention to the fact that they’re together. 

“Get going,” Hank pats Logan’s shoulder with a clawed hand, warm and familiar, “I know what you like. I’ll call on my way back so I don’t startle you in case you’re napping.” 

Logan doesn’t remember the last time someone he was with cared about what he liked or didn’t want to disturb what he was doing. All they ever did was demand things from him, turning volatile when he had nothing left to give. 

—

He’s not napping when Hank calls to tell him he’s outside, he’s pacing in an agitated manner, incredibly close to growling if that instinct hadn’t been so thoroughly smothered. 

“What’s wrong, James?” Hank asks, setting take out bags on the table by the unlocked door, immediately at Logan’s side. He takes his chin in hand, tipping his face to look him over. Assessing for any potential injury. The contact has Logan’s pupils blowing black, dark and expressive. Hank thumbs over his beard across the divot of his chin, shockingly unprofessional for the blue mutant. “What happened?” 

Releasing Logan he surveys the room next, but nothing seems glaringly amiss. Its an average cheap motel room with dingy carpet and peeling, yellowed wallpaper. The bathroom, at least what Hank can see of it through the crack in the door, doesn't look like a crime scene, and the sheets on the bed appear laundered. 

Oh . 

The bed. Singular. 

“Apparently, they didn’t have any more rooms with two beds. Been arguing with the kid at the front for a half of a fucking hour. Neither of us can sleep on the flimsy cot they want to send over, we’re too fucking heavy and I’m not paying for the damages of breaking it.” Logan runs a shaky hand through his hair, distracted now that the food is there, mouth watering a little as he scents the air. 

Hank blushes deep purple, clearing his throat and stepping away from Logan hastily, “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, we’ll figure something out. Just eat, alright?” He stuffs his hands in his dress pants pocket, shuffling toward the bathroom in what he hopes is a nonchalant manner. Luckily for him, Logan is too busy unpacking their dinner to really notice. 

The bathroom barely fits Hank’s bulk, squeezing in between the door and the sink, he runs the water at full blast to cover up his ranting to himself. 

“ Stupid , foolish fucking— ,” he groans, cupping tepid water to splash over his face. “Logan does not need you to slip up now.” He reminds himself with a low growl, staring himself down in the mirror. Disgusted with himself, he dries off and returns to the other room. 

Logan is already halfway through his burger, sauce at the corner of his mouth that he wipes with a hasty smear of the back of his hand, straightening up at Hank’s reappearance. 

“Thank you,” he grunts, sliding Hank’s own container over and pulling out his chair. Ever the gentleman. “For goin’ to get this. S’good. You picked good.” 

“I picked ‘well’,” Hank corrects his grammar automatically, settling down with lead in his stomach that he wants to bury and never let see the light of day. “I think I’ll eat mine later, I’m going to grab our bags—,” he makes to stand up, but Logan’s too fast for him, even worn out as he always is anymore. His right hand shoots out to grab Hank's forearm in a gentle, restraining grip. 

“Sit. Please?” He fixes Hank with a pleading look, eyes shining in the dim lamplight of the room, gold glistening amid forest green. And Hank? Well, Hank is a weak, weak man. He caves with a small wounded noise in his throat. 

Satisfied, Logan makes an answering sound around his next bite, stifled with a cough on his next breath. 

If Hank had a shred more hope in his life, he’d almost think Logan had tried to purr. 

— 

Logan gets ridiculously, adorably sleepy after they eat; eyes going soft and heavy lidded as he stretches his arms above his head with a yawn, white t-shirt pulling up to reveal a sliver of tanned skin. Tearing guilty eyes away from the sight, Hank’s pulse jumps as he digs the claws of one hand into his own thigh to stifle his thoughts. Logan is too preoccupied with rubbing his fists over his eyes like an overtired toddler to catch onto his actions, though, oblivious to his effect on the other man. 

Every part of Logan is practically begging that he needs taken care of , and by fucking god does Hank think he could be the one to do it. 

He fetches their bags while Logan cleans up their meal, deigning to let Logan have the first shower while he re-reads over more of his notes, setting up a small travel microscope and some samples to test while he waits his turn. He’s so close to a cure, he can just feel it. 

Chuckling at the sight, Logan throws a soft, teasing punch to his furry shoulder, “nerd,” he calls him, voice laced with affection before gathering his change of clothes and retreating to the bathroom. 

Hank groans over the sound of the shower running, burying his face in his hands. 

Fresh out of the shower, Logan calls the left side of the bed, curling up on his side and pouting at Hank, “Ya know I don’t bite, right? Can just share. S’big enough.” 

“I know, Logan.” 

Grumbling, Logan turns over and is snoring within minutes. 

A stillness settles over the motel room as Hank holds his breath. He dims the lights just low enough that he can still make out the dark scribbles in his notebooks and gets back to work, pointedly trying to ignore the small, sleepy noises coming from the Wolverine in bed a few feet from him. 

Sometime after midnight, Hank gives up, packing up his work bag and padding to the door. The knob turns without a sound and he slips undetected from the room, out into the cool dark parking lot. 

Unlocking the car with the key in the door handle instead of the automatic fob allows him to deposit his bag in the backseat and recline the passenger’s seat into a makeshift bed. Resigning himself to a sore back in the morning, he drifts. 

—

Hank wakes at dawn, sharp slanted sunlight peeking over the horizon to cut across his eyelids. He groans, gathering his wits and prepares to face Logan, who he knows is an absolute bear in the mornings. 

Slipping a note under the motel door with his plans to get coffee, Hank hopes Logan will merely remain sleeping until he gets back. 

Running to the nearest gas station is mindless and easy, snagging two black coffees in an in and out mission that Hank is happy to complete without incident. It isn’t often that he leaves the Mansion anymore, his days of politics and being in the public eye long behind him. But the cashier doesn’t stare nor comment on his mutation so he counts it as a win and goes on with his day, humming quietly to himself as he unlocks the motel door to get back to Logan. 

“Where the fuck did you sleep last night you fucking asshole?” Are the first words out of Logan’s furious mouth when he greets Hank, standing sleep-rumpled by the unmade bed with his fists clenched and even teeth bared. 

Distantly, a voice in the back of Hank’s mind rings out that this feels a bit like he’s being accused of cheating by a lover. 

“Whatever do you mean, Logan?” He feigns mild disinterest, playing a little dumb. “I was just running to get coffee, no need to make accusations.” 

“ Henry ,” Logan snarls, “don’t you bullshit me. This bed doesn’t smell like you at all, you haven’t been in it all night.” He gapes as Hank stands there, cataloguing his appearance and putting the pieces together. “Did you sleep in the fucking car? Are you insane? What if something happened to you? Some fucking lunatic tried to carjack us or rob you?” 

The thing about their friendship is that Hank never lies to him — there is only one singular exception to that rule, and it’s still only a lie by omission rather than outright deceit. It’s almost mutual, that long held, I acknowledged thing between them. Standing there in yesterday's clothes, wrinkled and disheveled with deep purple bags under his eyes, Hank can’t and won’t lie to Logan about this. 

He sets their coffees down and sighs. “ Yes , okay? I slept in the car. Logan, I couldn’t— I didn’t want—,” he struggles to complete a sentence in such an un-Hank-like fashion. It pierces a hole in Logan’s chest. 

“You didn’t want ?” Logan’s voice breaks, unbidden. 

Hank has to physically bite his tongue to prevent the next sentence from coming out of his mouth. I didn’t want the first time we shared a bed to be against your will. 

Instead, he fires back, “when was the last time you had a bed all to yourself? Got to sleep alone?” 

Logan growls then, an actual honest and true growl from deep within his chest. Rumbling like a motorcycle. 

It’s the best sound Hank thinks he’s ever heard. 

“I won’t do it again,” he swears. “Whatever happens at our next stop, I’ll stay with you in the room.” 

At his promise, Logan breaks the ensnaring eye contact, stalking over to grab his to-go cup and taking a swig of the scalding liquid. “Good. Fine. Alright.” 

“Alright.” 

It’s a long way still to Mexico.

Chapter Text

If Hank were a religious man, he might imagine that this trip would be in the list of reasons he’s going to hell. When he forgets what they’re doing, forgets the history behind Logan and himself and just enjoys the stupid little mundane moments of their roadtrip together. 

Days pass with the mile markers and exit signs, slow going but much too quickly at the same time. Hank would get lost on purpose if it meant more time with Logan. 

“Gotta piss,” Logan grunts before the next exit and it’s a testament to the depth of Hank’s feelings for him that he finds even that to be worthy of repeating indefinitely. 

Hank sighs good naturedly and changes lanes, obliging Logan’s not-quite-request. He pulls into one of the bigger gas stations, deciding they should fill up while they’re there. 

It’s been a quiet day, neither of them talking much, still a little tense from their last argument a few days and states before. Hank follows Logan into the spacious store, needing coffee for an afternoon pick me up and something to do with his hands. He busies himself at the counter, losing track of Logan in the process and heads back out to the car after paying without him. 

He’s sipping his coffee and pumping gas when Logan struts out of the glass doors with a crooked grin and a seemingly newly purchased Stetson-style cowboy hat perched on his head. Cheaply made and poorly fitting. 

It makes the Wolverine look younger, much more like his carefree self that he used to be before they snuffed it out of him. Swaggering toward Hank with his hands stuffed casually into his jean pockets, flannel flapping with the wind cutting through the parking lot. 

The sight makes Beast’s heart flutter and his stomach flip, suddenly nervous and fumbling. 

“So, whaddaya think, Blue? Suit me?” Logan tips his hat like a gentleman, leaning against the side of the car, oblivious to the effect he’s having on the other mutant. 

Hank nearly spills gasoline, making a choked off sound somewhere between a scoff and a snort. “Y-yes, Logan. Sure. You look fine in that. Excellent choice.” He plays it off haughty and sardonic, just the way Logan set him up for. Falling into their typical banter. 

It’s exactly what Logan wanted, snort laughing in response and shuffling into Hank’s space to return the gas nozzle for him, their chests brushing in the process. The wide brim of Logan’s hat barely bumping Hank’s nose. 

“Let’s get goin’,” Logan says, eyes flicking to Hank’s bright purple face. “My turn to drive.” 

On second thought, maybe he’s already made it to hell and this is his punishment.  

—

Logan wears the damn hat the rest of the day, setting it beside him on the booth of the diner they stop at for dinner, deciding that they’re far enough away from the Mansion to finally have some breathing room and take things a bit slower. His mood improved considerably after their last stop, humming to himself as he peruses the menu, tapping his fingers on the laminated page. 

He flirts with the waitress enough when she takes their order and refills their drinks that he earns them both a free slice of pie. 

A thought occurs to Hank and he rumbles lowly with distaste and barely concealed jealousy, “what exactly happened in that truck stop bathroom that has you oh, so delightful right now?” His lip curls without his permission, claws flexing. He knows it’s not his business at all, but he can’t help himself. 

Fucking masochist that he’s always been. 

It’s just the two of them tucked into a dusty, low lit corner of the diner but Logan looks mock offended as if Hank had asked it in front of mixed company. 

“Are you implying what I think ya are, Hank?” He asks, scandalized, stabbing a bite of apple pie with his fork and waving it around. When Hank thins his lips, Logan lowers his brow in a sultrier gaze, drops his voice into a growl, “and besides, wouldn’t you be able to smell it on me? Don’t even have to ask.” 

Hank’s nostrils flare, reeling back in the booth until his back makes the shitty faux leather squeak indignantly. He wasn’t aware that Logan knew the extent of his mutational senses, how his own instincts and nose rivaled that of Logan’s own. 

And he’d forgotten in his delirious, jealous angst that he can and has smelled Logan after a night of love making at the Mansion with Jean and Scott. 

His stomach turns and he pushes the last half of his own pie away in disgust. Unsure who it’s entirely directed at. 

Logan’s expression shifts another time, eyeing Hank and the pie with pure puppy eyes, soft and begging. 

“Yeah, take it, I’m finished with it,” the blue mutant mutters before scrubbing a hand over his face. His counterpart spins the pie plate his way, tucking into it after shooting Hank that same crooked grin beneath his graying beard. 

“You’ve really got to shave, Logan,” Hank muses when he thinks he can manage words without misguided venom. “I so dearly miss the mutton chops, they made a real statement.” He pauses, tilts his furry head like he’s assessing him, “would go better with that hat, too.” 

And there’s that funny noise again, choked off and stifled like Logan means for something else to escape but aborts it halfway. Stomping out the instinct or the urge with a firm press of a metaphorical heel. 

“Real funny, Blue.” 

—

It was almost too easy to tease Hank, Logan thinks. 

The cowboy hat was truly a stroke of genius, tempting him on a rack near the restroom. It was payback really for the way Hank had looked this afternoon — the same as he has every afternoon for the last couple years, but this time he’s just Logan’s to look at. 

Which he knows is unfair; it’s not Hank outrunning spoiled love right now. He’s always been available to Logan, was never the one chained and changed, and broken down into something unbelieving in the simple pleasures of life anymore. 

Without the ghosts of lingering touch on him, Logan has the chance to really, truly appreciate the other mutant. 

He watched the broad expanse of his back as he hummed and muttered to himself, fixing coffee at the dumb little kiosk. Stared at his hands when he pushed his glasses up his nose absentmindedly with a clawed fingertip. 

And Logan schemed. 

Hank was being much too careful with him. A fact that grated and pricked his nerves. He needed to show him that he wasn’t delicate, liable to break under the barest pressure. 

So he saunters around in that dumb hat, makes sure to tip it like a gentleman, pushing close into Hank’s space as often as he can. 

He scores them both pie at the diner and preens knowing he’s still got it. Belatedly feeling a little bit bad that the poor waitress is just a means to his end, but he leaves her a nice tip after helping his companion shrug into his coat when they head out. 

And if Logan silently prays at every new motel they stop at that there’s only one bed again, well that’s between him and his own thoughts this time. 

He takes a long puff of the cigar clenched between his teeth, relishing the peace that thought brings. His head has cleared more and more with every bit of distance between him and the Mansion. 

His thoughts slowly but surely become his own through and through. 

And he thinks he knows what he wants now, catching sight of Hank walking toward him, twirling a key ring on his finger and whistling fucking Beethoven of all goddamn things. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he felt like anything was as possible as this. 

Too focused on Beast’s approaching form, Logan’s unaware of the headlights clicking off on the car that’s been tailing them for a few days now. 

—

There’s two beds when Hank opens the door, much to his relief after Logan’s been testing his self restraint all damn day. The blue mutant had wanted nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders and kiss him underneath that stupid fucking hat after dinner. 

Logan’s face does a funny thing at the sight, but Hank shoves this observation down, calling the first shower. 

The quiet knock startles Logan, springing into a standing position with his claws drawn before cautiously approaching the door. 

Another knock, a little less soft but still gentle enough that he knows Hank won’t hear it in the shower. A look through the peephole reveals a single man. Wolvie could take him if he had to. 

He sheathes the claws of one hand, wrenching the door with it. 

The man on the other side doesn’t startle despite the way Logan brandishes his claws, just tips his head to the side and says with a long drawl, “The Wolverine. As I live and breathe. And he’s an old fucker now. Years catching up to ya, aren’t they?” 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

The asshole is wearing aviators at night, yellow tinted and wire rimmed. “Just call me a concerned citizen, how ‘bout that?” 

Logan scowls, flexes his fist, eyes flitting helplessly over his shoulder before he can school his features again. The shower is still running — Logan hopes to take care of this fucker before Hank has to know about it. 

“Get out. Now.” 

“Has she found you yet? Gabriela?” The man asks slowly, like he’s talking to a child. He scoffs when Logan’s face remains blankly impassive. Unresponsive. “I’m not lookin’ for you, mutey. Not really. I’m lookin’ for someone who’s lookin’ for you.” He stuffs one of his hands in his pocket, bringing out a business card. 

“Listen, she took somethin’ of mine. Something for which I am responsible. And I know she’s trying to get in contact with you.” 

Logan squares his shoulders, blocking more of the doorway, casting the intruder into even more shadow, “I don’t know any Gabriela, so get the fuck out.” He lies through his teeth. 

“And what about that poor blue fucker you’re runnin’ around with, huh? He know of any Gabriela?” 

“What the fuck do you want?” 

The man grins, “a little … cooperation.” He shoves the business card into Logan’s chest. “If she does find you. Call me.” He walks away without a second glance, leaving Logan standing in the doorway with trembling hands and a building snarl in his throat. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He slams the door, instantly regretting it and runs shaky fingers through his already disheveled hair. 

And to think he was just starting to get comfortable. But that’s the price he pays for thinking he could forget the stupid mission and be happy with Hank. 

The water shuts off hastily in the bathroom, and a few seconds later Hank emerges in a cloud of steam, white motel towel wrapped around his waist and a concerned look on his face. He whips his head back and forth, assessing the state of their room before demanding an answer from Logan. 

“What the devil are you doing out here? Slamming the door like that? Stars and garters, Logan, you’re going to give me a heart attack.” 

Logan can’t breathe at the sight of him, dampened fur clinging close to the muscles hidden underneath the fluff when it’s dry. He tracks a droplet down Hank’s chest, follows the line of it down, down, down until it hits the edge of the towel. 

Shit. Fuck. 

He swallows, throat clicking dryly. This is getting too goddamn complicated. 

Hank huffs, aggravated and rolls his eyes, “fine.” 

“W-wind took it. S’all. No biggie,” Logan stutters out an explanation, double checking the lock. He’ll bar a chair there later after Hank falls asleep, too. And he’ll watch the door all night if he has to. 

—

Logan’s plan to stay up that night goes awry quickly, exhaustion creeping up on him in slow increments until he’s nodding off for longer and longer each time. 

Finally, he rests, slipping into a fitful sleep. 

—

Hank wakes to the sound of Logan’s howling cries, caught in the throes of a vicious nightmare. He shoots upright, fumbling for his glasses and warily approaching Logan’s bed across the room. 

The other man thrashes and cries out again, swinging his claws in a wide arc above him. 

“Logan!” Hank calls loudly, hoping to wake him up with just his voice. “Logan, you’re alright. I’m right here. You just have to wake up.” 

Logan just whines a terrible sound, breathing raggedly. He shows no signs of stirring despite Hank’s efforts. 

Slowly, carefully, Hank gets closer and closer until he can reach a furry hand out to shake Logan’s shoulder, “Logan, it’s alright. I promise. It’s just a nightmare.” 

Finally, Logan wakes groggily, clearly still half asleep, “Scott?” He asks, slurred with sleep and distress. 

“No, my boy,” Hank replies, throat tight and stomach sinking. “Just me. It’s Hank.” He removes his hand from Logan’s shoulder, folds it awkwardly in his lap where he sits on the edge of the mattress. “You were having a nightmare.” 

The reminder of Scott sours in Hank’s own mouth like it were him who spoke the name. How many times has Scott helped (or not helped) Logan through a nightmare like that? 

He makes to stand, leaving Logan alone until a hand shoots out to grasp his wrist in the darkness. 

“Wait—,” Logan croaks. “Will you… will you stay? I can’t— it’s hard alone.” 

“Logan…” 

“Please.” 

This is definitely a ring of hell. 

“Let me get you some water and I’ll come back, I promise.” He fetches a glass, offering it to Logan who sits up to drink noisily, slurping it down like a parched man in the desert. 

The glass clinks on the nightstand as Hank shuffles to the other side, climbing in beside Logan in the too-small bed. He pretends not to notice the way Logan relaxes instantly, lying back down to sleep. 

Hank lays on his back, staring at the ceiling and holding his breath until Logan settles down again. He listens to the quiet snuffles and shifting the other man goes through. 

In his sleep, Logan clings to him, curling into Hank’s side to snuggle against his arm and shoulder, resting his bearded cheek against Hank’s fur. 

If he’s already damned… 

Steeling his nerves, Hank rolls onto his side, welcoming Logan into his arms and against his chest. Holding the other man close. 

Logan cuddles closer instantly, tucking into soft blue fur and burying his face in the solid chest. 

Deeply asleep, a purr rumbles from Logan’s throat, rough with disuse but stronger with each passing minute.