Chaoter 228--"The Soul Scent"
The gates of Xavier's mansion loomed like iron arms ready to cradle or cage, depending on your sins. Logan staggered through them with the half-limp, half-proud gait of a man who'd lost a fight to whiskey but would never admit it. His boots scuffed against gravel, his breath a fog of sour malt and nicotine, but his senses — damn them — never slept.
The night air carried the bite of autumn. Beneath it, layered like threads in a tapestry, came the scents: pine sap, ozone from a storm brewing somewhere, the faint perfume of lilies from the garden beds. But something cut through it, sharp and wrong. Soul scent.
He froze at the edge of the lawn. A figure stood in the garden, gazing up at the stars, auburn hair catching silver moonlight. Rogue. But the smell was off. Not her usual cocktail of warmth and teenage gumption and that undercurrent of fear she tried so hard to hide. This was brighter, hotter, wild with solar flare.
Logan's lip curled. Hell. Not her. Not tonight.
He staggered closer, a hiccup snapping out of him like a gunshot. "Hiccup — what're you doin' out here, darlin'?" His words slurred but his eyes were knife-sharp, watching.
Rogue turned with a smile too cheerful, too unlike her. "Just lookin' at the stars, Logan. They're beautiful tonight."
His stomach knotted. Stars? No. You ain't the girl who hides from her own reflection. He scratched at his beard, then asked flatly, "Then what's yer name?"
Her smile widened, careless, confident. "Did you already forget? My name's Carol Danvers."
Logan let the silence hang a beat, let his nose and instincts confirm it. The soul scent told no lies. As I figured. Poor kid's slipped again.
He grunted. "Heck. Knew it." His gaze flicked up toward the mansion windows, empty and dark. Charley ain't here. Would've been his game, not mine. But that leaves it to me.
He took a step closer, boots grinding. "Wait here fer me, sweetheart. Don't wander off. I'll… hiccup… borrow somethin'."
Ten minutes later, Logan trudged back across the lawn, more sober than before. In his hand: a small, gleaming bracelet of Xavier's design. He tossed it to her.
Rogue caught it, puzzled. "What's this?"
"Prototype," Logan muttered, fastening it around her wrist. "Charley whipped it up fer trainin'. Suppresses powers so kids can scrap without meltin' each other."
She looked down, then back at him. "Why'd you make me wear it?"
His eyes narrowed, whiskey-bloodshot but unflinching. "To wake you up."
Before she could ask again, his fist drove straight into her gut.
The air whooshed out of her lungs. She staggered, gasping, eyes wide. "Why—"
"'Cause you ain't you right now." His voice was low, growl-soft. Then the storm came.
Logan laid into her, a blur of fists and claws held back just enough not to cut. He didn't give her space to think, only to feel. Every strike carried intent: to drag Rogue back from the edge by pain, by fury, by force.
She hit the dirt, rolled, came up spitting blood. "Logan, stop!" she choked.
But he didn't. Fifteen brutal minutes passed, her ribs cracking under his assault, bruises flowering like ink. She cursed, clawed at him, screamed Carol's defiance — and then, finally, Rogue's voice burst through, raw and desperate.
"Logan, STOP! It's me! I'm back, dammit!"
He froze mid-swing, claws an inch from her cheek. He sniffed, nostrils flaring. Soul scent — familiar now. Fear, anger, pain, but hers. Hers. He squinted, lowering his fists.
"Ahh… you're right, darlin'. I was… engrossed." He smirked, ugly and proud. "Didn't notice your smell went back to normal."
Rogue clutched her ribs, wheezing, eyes blazing through tears. "You're insane. You broke three of my ribs."
"Yer the perfect punchin' bag, sweetheart." He offered a hand, which she slapped away.
"I'll take that as a compliment," she muttered, trying not to cry. "And… thanks. I didn't know how to claw my way back."
"You're welcome." He spat blood into the dirt. "Come back to me whenever it happens again."
"No thanks." She coughed, grimacing. "I doubt she'll ever dare after the beating you just gave her."
Logan's grin was wolfish. "Then I did my job."
Morning came with the smell of bacon, coffee, and burnt toast — Kitty's handiwork.
The breakfast table was full: Xavier at the head, serene but watchful; Storm graceful with her teacup; Nightcrawler perched with tail flicking; Colossus towering and polite; Kitty flustered; Rogue bandaged and bruised; Lockheed gnawing at toast; and Logan, nursing black coffee like it was penance.
Silence hovered, thick with suppressed laughter. Xavier cleared his throat, but his lips twitched.
Logan's eyes narrowed. "What the hell's so funny?"
Nightcrawler's shoulders shook until he couldn't hold it. He burst out laughing, blue face scrunched with glee. "Ach! I cannot! Look at Rogue!"
Logan turned. Rogue glared back at him from across the table — her face swollen with two blackened eyes and a puffed lip. Panda eyes. Sausage mouth.
For half a second, Logan just stared. Then the laughter hit him like a gut punch. He doubled over, cackling loud enough to shake the windows. "Darlin', I'm sorry! I didn't expect my hands were that heavy. Drunk, y'know? Thought with your body you could endure."
"Can't you be gentle with ladies?" Rogue snapped, muffled by swelling.
"Not when I'm savin' 'em." He winked, still laughing.
The table cracked. Colossus chuckled deep in his chest. Kitty snorted milk through her nose. Storm covered her face, shoulders trembling. Even Xavier gave up the fight, laughter bubbling out despite himself.
Nightcrawler thumped the table, tail lashing. "Logan, you have created art! Rogue, you are magnifique — a warrior and a cartoon character at once!"
"Shut up, elf," Rogue growled, though the corner of her swollen lip twitched in reluctant humor.
Logan raised his mug in a toast. "To Rogue. Toughest damn bag I ever punched."
The room roared with laughter, even Rogue breaking at last, shaking her head. For a brief, fragile moment, the mansion rang with family.
But as the laughter faded, Logan sat back, inhaling the scents around him: maple syrup, burnt toast, the warmth of friends. And beneath it, his own unease. His senses didn't let him forget — the shift in Rogue's soul, the crack in their fragile peace, the monsters waiting outside their gates.
He swallowed his coffee, bitter and black, and muttered to himself: "One day at a time, bub. One day at a time."