The tires of the motorcycle screeched against the asphalt as Logan drifted into the empty parking lot of Bayville High. The engine idled with a low, aggressive rumble, cutting through the silence of the deserted school grounds.
He killed the engine and swung his leg over the seat, his boots hitting the pavement with a heavy thud. The sun was dipping lower, casting long, stretching shadows across the brick building, but Logan wasn't interested in the view. He just needed the trail.
He pulled his helmet off, shaking out his hair, and took a slow, deep breath through his nose.
The world exploded into an orchestra of scents. He smelled the lingering rubber from the school buses that had left hours ago. He smelled the chalk dust from the classrooms, the cut grass from the football field, and the faint, metallic tang of the chain-link fence.
But underneath it all, cutting through the noise like a beacon in a storm, was her.
Vanilla. Old books. A specific shampoo she used that smelled like rain. And beneath that, the sharp, acidic spike of fear.
Gotcha.
In his vision, the scent materialized. Becoming a visual trail, a ribbon of soft, scarlet-pink light that hovered in the air, winding its way out of the parking lot and down the main road leading away from the suburbs. It was faint, fading with the wind, but to his enhanced senses, it might as well have been a neon sign.
Logan jammed his helmet back on, his jaw set in a grim line. He fired up the bike, the machine roaring in protest as he twisted the throttle. He didn't just drive; he hunted.
As the wind whipped past him, tearing at his suit, Logan's mind raced faster than the wheels beneath him. He knew where this trail led. If his memory of X-Men: Evolution—and the specific scent of grease and industrial solvent mixed with Jean's perfume—was right, he was heading to the old Iron Works.
And he knew who was waiting there. Fred Dukes. The Blob.
Great, Logan thought, leaning hard into a sharp turn, the footpeg sparking against the concrete. Just what I need. A giant marshmellow throwing a tantrum.
In the comics and the shows, the Blob was a juggernaut. Immovable. not invulnerable but close. He had seen the guy take tank shells to the fist and laugh. He could generate a localized gravity field that rooted him to the earth. That's right kids, I read marvel wikis ;)
I could end it in two seconds, the darker voice in his head—the Weapon X programming—whispered. Pop the claws. Sever the jugular. Take the head. He can't regenerate a head. He can't regenerate in general.
Logan gritted his teeth, shaking the thought away. No.
He wasn't that animal. And more importantly, Fred was a kid. A misguided, bullied, angry kid who had just manifested his powers and didn't know how to handle the rejection of a girl, the story of 2026 teenage boys, though Freds lucky, Jeans not secretely a dude. Liam, the man inside the monster, wouldn't kill a child. And Logan, the X-Man, wouldn't either.
So, blunt force it is, he decided.
He thought back to the X-Men Origins movie. He remembered the scene in the boxing ring. The Blob's head was hard, but it wasn't invulnerable. The skull underneath that thick, thick layer of fat was still bone. And Logan had a skeleton laced with the hardest metal in the universe.
System, he called out mentally.
The blue semi-transparent screen flickered into existence in his HUD, overlaying the rushing pavement.
[Name: Logan / James Howlett]
[Status: Combat Mode]
[Adamantium Skeleton: Passive - Indestructible]
[Adamantium: LOCKED]
He sighed internally. The adamantium bar was still locked. That was a bummer. It meant he couldn't do any fancy, physics-defying moves he had seen in some comics yet, the ones where he could heat up the claws to cut through anything. But he didn't need fancy. He needed heavy.
He checked his Stat Points. He had a stockpile saved up from the sparring sessions with the students and the Danger Room simulations. He was tempted to dump them into Strength, to try and match the Blob pound for pound, but he held off.
Not yet, he told himself. Save them for a rainy day. Or for when Magneto decides to show up.
For now, he would have to make do with what he had: centuries of combat experience and a head harder than a coconut.
The suburbs gave way to the industrial district. The clean streets of Bayville were replaced by cracked pavement, rusted chain-link fences, and the skeletons of factories that had closed down in the eighties. The air here tasted of rust and soot.
The scarlet trail led straight to the largest structure in the south end—the Bayville Iron Works. It was a massive, hulking cathedral of corrugated steel and smokestacks, surrounded by a high fence.
Logan slowed the bike, the tires crunching over gravel and debris. He killed the engine a block away, letting the momentum carry him silently to the front gate.
He hopped off, kicking the kickstand down. He looked at his wrist. The X-Communicator, a sleek device disguised as a rugged field watch, was blinking red.
He pressed the top button. "Found 'em."
"Logan!" Professor Xavier's voice crackled in his ear, sounding relieved but urgent. "Where are you? I have telepathically located Jean, but her signal is erratic. She is distressed."
"I'm at the Iron Works, south side," Logan replied, walking toward the massive steel blast doors of the factory. "The trail leads right inside."
"Wait for backup," Charles ordered. "Scott and the others are suiting up. The Blob is a formidable opponent, Logan. We do not know the extent of his strength. Do not engage alone."
Logan looked at the massive steel doors. He could smell Jean inside. He could smell the fear.
"Sorry, Chuck," Logan grunted. "The meter's running. I'm going in."
"Logan! Do not—"
He clicked the comms off.
He stood before the entrance. The doors were made of solid steel, inches thick, locked with heavy industrial deadbolts. A normal man would need a tank to get through.
Logan just smirked.
Snikt.
Six ten-inch claws of pure adamantium extended from his knuckles, glistening in the dying light.
He crossed his arms over his chest. With a primal growl, he slashed outward in a violent X-shape. The sound was a high-pitched shriek of metal being tortured as the claws sheared through the steel like it was wet cardboard. The metal glowed red hot from the friction.
He retracted the claws instantly. He stepped back, lowered his shoulder, and charged.
KRANG!
He slammed into the center of the X. The steel groaned, buckled, and then exploded inward. Logan bulldozed through the wreckage, pieces of the door clattering onto the concrete floor of the factory.
The inside of the Iron Works was a cavernous space filled with shadows, rusted catwalks, and old machinery. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light cutting through the high windows.
And there, in the center of the floor, standing on a makeshift stage of wooden pallets, was Fred Dukes.
The kid was massive. He looked even bigger up close than he had in the arena. He was holding an old-fashioned record player in his hands, looking like a toddler caught with a cookie jar. He froze, staring at the smoking hole in the wall where a door used to be, and then at the shorter, stocky man in the hero costume standing in the debris.
Logan straightened up, dusting a piece of metal off his shoulder. He looked at the boy.
"Fred Dukes," Logan said, his voice echoing in the empty factory. "You look like the creature that ate Fred Dukes."
Fred blinked, his face twisting from surprise to annoyance. He set the record player down gently on a crate. "Hey! You're that guy! That was with Jean last night!"
"I'm the guy who's gonna turn you into a speed bump if you don't start talking," Logan said, stepping forward, his boots heavy on the concrete. "Listen here, kid. I know you took a girl. Red hair. About yay high. Where is she?"
Fred crossed his massive arms over his chest. The fat on his arms rippled, looking less like flab and more like pressurized rubber. "I don't know what you're talkin' about. I didn't take nobody. We're just... hanging out."
"Hanging out involves consent, junior," Logan growled, his eyes narrowing behind the mask he had pulled up. "Kidnapping is a felony. Now, I ain't leaving till you give her back. So make this easy on yourself and hand her over, bub!"
The factory went silent.
Fred's eyes went wide. His face, already flushed, began to deepen into a shade of violent crimson. His hands balled into fists the size of hams. He began to shake, his teeth grinding together with a sound like rocks being crushed.
"Did you say..." Fred whispered, his voice trembling with a lifetime of insults. "Blob?"
Logan paused. He replayed the sentence in his head. Hand her over, bub.
"I said bub," Logan corrected, taking a step closer. "It's a word. Means friend. Or pal. Or in your case, pain in the—"
"NOBODY CALLS ME BLOB!" Fred roared.
The sound was deafening. The sheer rage in the kid's voice shook the dust from the rafters.
Fred didn't move like a fat kid. He moved like a charging rhino. He exploded off the pallet, closing the distance between them with terrifying speed.
Logan barely had time to brace himself. He raised his arms in a guard, but it was like trying to stop a freight train with a picket fence.
WHAM.
Fred's fist slammed into Logan's chest. The impact lifted Logan off his feet and sent him flying backward. He soared through the air, crossing thirty feet of factory floor before slamming into a brick wall.
CRASH.
The bricks shattered. Logan slumped to the ground, groaning. His healing factor instantly went to work, knitting bruised ribs and torn muscle, but the wind was knocked out of him.
Okay, Logan thought, wheezing as he pushed himself up. Kid hits harder than a garbage truck. Smells like one though.
"You better hope there's a stretcher big enough to get you out of here," Logan growled, spitting a wad of blood onto the concrete.
He scrambled to his feet. The beast inside roared, demanding blood, demanding he cut this kid down. But Logan held the leash tight. No claws. Blunt force.
He charged.
Fred stood his ground, a smug grin plastering his face. He puffed out his massive gut.
Logan threw a right hook, putting all his enhanced strength into it. His fist connected with Fred's stomach.
THWUMP.
It was like punching a memory foam mattress wrapped around a concrete pillar. The flesh rippled, absorbing the kinetic energy completely. Fred didn't even flinch. He just laughed.
"That tickles!" Fred taunted.
Logan threw a left, then a right, hammering the kid's midsection. Nothing. It was like fighting a rubber wall.
"My turn!" Fred yelled.
He grabbed Logan by the collar of his jacket and the leg of his pants. He lifted the three-hundred-pound mutant like he was a ragdoll.
"Fly away!" Fred shouted, spinning around.
Centrifugal force took over. Logan's vision blurred. Fred released him.
Logan flew through the air, crashing through a wooden crate and tumbling across the floor. He used his agility to flip mid-roll, his boots skidding on the ground as he came to a stop, crouching low.
He let out a beastly roar, his frustration boiling over.
"GRAAAAAAAAAH!!!"
Fred took a step back, a flicker of genuine fear crossing his eyes at the feral sound. He looked around for a weapon. His eyes landed on a massive industrial boiler bolted to the floor near the wall. It was a cast-iron cylinder, easily weighing half a ton.
With a grunt of exertion, Fred ripped it from its mountings. Screws popped like bullets. Metal groaned and twisted. He lifted the massive object over his head, his muscles trembling.
"GET SQUASHED!" Fred screamed, hurling the boiler straight at Logan.
It tumbled through the air, a massive projectile of death.
Logan didn't dodge.
Snikt.
The claws popped.
He sprinted forward, running straight at the flying boiler. At the last second, he leaped.
He met the object in mid-air. With a savage cross-slash, his adamantium claws sheared through the cast iron. The boiler split perfectly in two, the halves flying past him to crash harmlessly against the walls.
Logan landed, his momentum carrying him forward. He was inside Fred's guard now.
The kid was wide open, eyes wide with shock that his weapon had been sliced in half.
Logan roared, launching himself upward. He targeted the face. But as he flew through the air, he made a conscious choice.
Snakt.
He retracted the claws.
He twisted his body, bringing his right arm up high. He didn't use his fist. He used the point of his elbow—the sharpest, hardest point of his adamantium skeleton.
"RAAAAAAAAAH!!!"
He brought the elbow down like a hammer.
CRACK.
It connected squarely with the bridge of Fred's nose.
Fred's head snapped back. His eyes rolled up into his head. The immovable object finally moved. His legs turned to jelly, and the massive teen crumbled, crashing to the floor with an earth-shaking thud. He was out cold before he hit the ground.
Logan landed lightly on his feet, breathing heavily. He looked down at the unconscious boy. Fred's nose was definitely broken, crooked and swelling rapidly, but he was breathing. He'd live.
"Logan!"
The voice was muffled, coming from a room up on the metal catwalks overlooking the factory floor.
"Jean!" Logan shouted, his head snapping up.
He didn't bother with the stairs. He leaped, catching the railing of the catwalk and hauling himself up in one fluid motion. He sprinted toward the foreman's office, the only room with a closed door.
"Jean, I'm coming!"
He reached the door. It was locked, but the handle was old and rusted. He didn't even use his claws; he just kicked it. The wood splintered, and the door swung open.
"Jean, are you o—"
He stepped into the room.
Jean was there, standing in the corner, her hands raised defensively. Her eyes were glowing with telekinetic energy, panic etched onto her face. She had heard the fighting, the roaring, the crashing. She was keyed up, her powers flaring out of control in self-defense.
As the door flew open and a dark figure rushed in, her instincts took over before her brain could register who it was.
She thrust her hands forward.
"Stay back!"
A heavy, four-drawer metal filing cabinet sitting next to the door launched itself across the room at the speed of a fastball.
Logan turned his head just in time to see a wall of beige metal filling his vision.
"Aw, cra—"
CLANG.
The sound rang out like a church bell. The cabinet slammed squarely into Logan's face.
The force of the telekinetic throw was massive. It knocked him flat on his back, his head bouncing off the floorboards.
For a moment, the world spun. Colors danced in his vision. He wasn't unconscious—his skull was too hard for that—but his brain was definitely rattling around inside. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling fan, blinking rapidly as the ringing in his ears harmonized with the throbbing in his nose. Why was the roof shaking.
"Oh my god!" Jean's voice cut through the dizziness. The glow faded from her eyes as she realized what she had done. She rushed over, dropping to her knees beside him. "Logan! I didn't—I thought you were him! Are you okay?"
Logan groaned, lifting a hand to touch his face. His nose felt flat, but he could feel the cartilage already snapping back into place with a sickening series of clicks.
"I'm fine," he mumbled, his voice thick. He cracked one eye open to look at her. She looked terrified and apologetic. "Remind me... next time I rescue you... to wear a helmet inside the room too."
Jean let out a half-sob, half-laugh, relief flooding her features. "I am so sorry."
"Don't worry about it, Red," Logan grunted, sitting up and shaking the cobwebs loose. "I've had worse. Let's just get out of here before Sleeping Beauty downstairs wakes up."
The ringing in Logan's ears was slowly fading, replaced by the heavy thudding of boots on metal. He shook his head, clearing the last of the dizziness from the filing cabinet impact, and allowed Jean to help him sit up. Her hands were gentle on his arm, her eyes still wide with a mix of adrenaline and residual guilt.
"Jean!"
The shout echoed through the cavernous factory, desperate and cracked.
Jean turned her head, her red hair whipping around. "Scott?"
Scott Summers came sprinting up the metal stairs of the catwalk, taking them two at a time. His visor was glowing faintly, a sign of his heightened stress levels. He looked frantic, his usual composed leadership demeanor completely shattered by panic. He rushed into the office, ignoring Logan entirely, his focus laser-locked on Jean.
"Jean! Are you hurt? Did he touch you?" Scott was breathless, his hands hovering over her shoulders as if afraid she might break. He scanned her face, checking for bruises, for tears. "I heard the crash—I thought—God, Jean."
"I'm fine, Scott. really," Jean said, her voice soothing. She placed a hand on his chest to calm him. "I'm okay. Logan got here just in time."
Scott finally exhaled, his shoulders slumping as the tension left his frame. He pulled her into a tight, desperate hug, burying his face in her hair. Logan watched from the floor, leaning back against the dented wall. He didn't feel jealousy. He just felt a quiet understanding. The kid was terrified of losing her. Logan knew that feeling well.
Below them, the sound of tires screeching on concrete broke the moment.
The X-Van, a modified blue transport, drifted into the factory floor, kicking up dust and debris. It hadn't even come to a full stop before the side door slid open.
"Jean! Logan!"
Kitty Pryde didn't wait for the stairs. She phased straight through the floor of the van, then through the factory floor, and finally came phasing up through the metal grating of the catwalk right next to them.
"Oh my gosh! You're okay!" Kitty squealed, her face streaked with tears of relief. She threw her arms around Jean, joining the hug and sandwiching Scott in the process.
Down on the ground floor, Rogue and Kurt Wagner spilled out of the van.
"Logan!" Rogue called out, her Southern accent thick with worry. She looked up at the catwalk, squinting through the gloom. "Are you alright up there, sugar?"
"Is everyone in one piece?" Kurt shouted, his tail twitching anxiously.
Logan groaned, pushing himself up to his feet. His nose gave a sharp click as the last of the bone knit together. "We're good, stripes. Just a little banged up."
He walked over to the railing and vaulted over it, landing on the ground floor with a heavy thud, his knees bending to absorb the impact. Rogue and Kurt rushed over to him immediately.
"You look like you went through a grinder," Rogue noted, eyeing the dust on his jacket and the dried blood under his nose. She crossed her arms, trying to look unimpressed, but her eyes betrayed her. They were scanning him, checking for serious injuries. "Why do you gotta be so reckless. runnin' off without backup."
"Had to be done," Logan shrugged, dusting off his sleeves. "Jean needed savin."
Up on the catwalk, the reunion was warm. Kitty finally let go of Jean, wiping her eyes.
"I am never letting you out of my sight again," Kitty declared, grabbing Jean's hand. "I mean it. Next time you stay after school, I'm coming. Or I'm phasing a GPS tracker into your shoes."
Jean laughed, the sound bright and clear in the gloomy factory. "Deal."
She looked down at Rogue, who was standing near the van. "Rogue?"
Rogue looked up, shifting her weight. She pulled her collar up slightly. "I'm just glad you ain't dead, Jean," she called up, her voice gruff but lacking its usual bite. "Would've been a pain to find a new roommate."
Jean smiled warmly. She knew Rogue well enough to hear the 'I was scared for you' hidden in the sarcasm. "Thanks, Rogue."
Kitty tugged on Jean's arm. "Come on. Let's get you to the car. The Professor is freaking out back home. He's been projecting his anxiety into everyone's heads for the last twenty minutes. I like have a headache or something."
She guided Jean toward Scott's convertible, which he had parked near the entrance. Scott hovered behind them, his head on a swivel, glaring at shadows as if expecting another attack. He was still in overprotective mode, unable to switch it off until Jean was safely behind the mansion walls.
Near the van, Kurt had wandered over to the center of the room. He stood over the unconscious form of Fred Dukes.
Fred was sprawled on his back, his arms and legs spread wide like a starfish. His nose was swollen and purple, blood caking his upper lip, but there was a goofy, slack-jawed smile on his face. He was snoring loudly, a sound that vibrated the loose screws on the floor.
"Mein Gott," Kurt chuckled, poking Fred's massive side with the tip of his tail. "He really is... substantial."
Kurt looked over at Logan, a mischievous grin spreading across his blue fuzzy face. "What did you hit him with, Logan? A bus? Look at him. He is smiling like he is dreaming of a buffet."
Logan snorted, walking over to join the elf. "Elbow to the face. heavy duty."
"You knocked out Fred," Kurt laughed, shaking his head. "Remind me never to steal your beer."
Rogue didn't join in the laughter immediately. She walked up to Logan, ignoring the sleeping giant. She stopped a foot away from him—the safe distance she always kept to avoid accidental skin contact.
"You really okay, Logan?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. She looked at the bruising on his face that was already fading to yellow. "You took off like a bat out of hell. We thought..." She hesitated, looking down at her gloved hands. "We thought somethin' bad happened."
Logan looked down at her. He saw the genuine fear in her eyes, the vulnerability she usually kept hidden behind layers of sarcasm and leather. It touched something deep in his chest—that old, protective instinct that he was slowly learning to accept wasn't just the old Wolverines but his now.
"I'm fine, kid," he said softly. "Takes more than a filing cabinet to keep me down."
"A filing cabinet?" Rogue raised an eyebrow.
"Don't ask."
He reached out. Usually, people flinched when he moved his hands near them—the claws, the violence associated with him. But Rogue didn't move.
He placed his large, calloused hand gently on top of her head. He ruffled her hair, messing up the white streaks she spent so much time styling.
"Hey!" Rogue squawked, her eyes widening. She swatted at his hand, but there was no real force in it. "Watch the hair! I spent twenty minutes on that!"
"You did good coming out here," Logan said, ignoring her protest and keeping his hand there for a second longer, offering a grounding weight. "You got a good heart, Rogue. Even if you try to hide it."
Rogue's face turned a bright, furious pink. She slapped his hand away this time, fixing her hair frantically, but she couldn't suppress the small, pleased smile that tugged at the corner of her lips.
"Whatever," she grumbled, looking away to hide her face. "Don't get mushy on me, Wolverine. I just came to make sure you'd be fine for saturday."
"Aww," Kurt cooed, teleporting to appear on Rogue's other side. He leaned in, grinning. "Look at that! Is that a smile? I think she is smiling!"
"I ain't smilin'!" Rogue shouted, her embarrassment turning into playful aggression. "Shut up, elf!"
"She is!" Kurt announced to the empty factory. "Rogue has feelings! Alert the media!"
"Come here, you fuzzy little pest!" Rogue lunged for him.
BAMF.
Kurt vanished in a cloud of sulfur, reappearing near the van door. "You have to catch me first!"
"I'm gonna turn you into a rug!" Rogue yelled, sprinting after him, her boots clomping on the concrete. The tension of the last hour evaporated, replaced by the bickering of siblings that didn't even know who they were to each other.
Logan watched them go, a genuine smile breaking through his stoic mask. They were good kids. They were a family, even if a dysfunctional one.
He turned to follow them, but something made him stop.
He looked back at the center of the room. At Fred.
The boy was still unconscious, alone on the cold concrete floor of a condemned factory. The record player sat on the crate nearby, silent.
Logan's smile faded. His eyes, usually sharp and predatory, softened with a profound sadness.
He knew what it was like. He knew what it was like to be looked at as a freak. To be laughed at. To be treated like a monster until you finally decided to act like one because it was the only way to make the hurting stop. He lived through it, every night, every nightmare was a memory Logan lived through, that he now lived through.
Fred Dukes was a bully, sure. He had kidnapped Jean. He had made bad choices. But looking at the sleeping boy, Logan just saw a lonely kid who wanted someone to be kind to him instead of laugh, Jean was the first person to be kind to Fred, but unfortunately she was the only one.
If the world was a little kinder, Logan thought, the weight of his long years pressing down on him. If people gave a damn... maybe you wouldn't be lying here in the dirt, bub.
It was the tragedy of mutants. The tragedy of anyone different. Society created its own monsters, and then asked men like Logan to put them down.But should he change that, Wolverine was an X-men who fought for mutants but that never really changed the fate of his kind, they still suffered, they still burned like witches in Salem...Could he change it, their future ?
"Logan!"
Jean's voice drifted from the entrance. She was standing by the convertible, waving to him. "You coming?"
Logan blinked, snapping out of his reverie. He took one last look at Fred, silently hoping the kid would find a better path, before turning his back on the darkness of the factory.
"Yeah," Logan called out, his voice gruff again. "I'm coming."
He walked out.
The drive back to the Institute was quick. Scott led the way in his car with Jean, while Logan rode his bike, flanking the X-Van driven by a surprisingly competent Kitty (who had insisted on driving since she was 'the least traumatized').
They pulled up the long, winding driveway of the Xavier Institute just as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges.
The front door was already open. Professor Xavier sat in his wheel-chair at the top of the steps, with Storm standing beside him.
Charles looked like he had aged ten years in the last hour. His hands were gripping the armrests of his chair tightly. But as soon as Jean stepped out of the convertible, the tension drained from his face, replaced by a radiant relief.
"Jean!"
"Professor!" Jean ran up the steps.
Storm met her halfway, wrapping the girl in a fierce embrace. "Thank the Goddess," Ororo whispered, burying her face in Jean's neck. "We were so worried."
Jean hugged her back, then pulled away to look at the Professor. She took his hand. "I'm okay, Professor. really. I'm sorry I scared you."
"You have nothing to apologize for, my dear," Charles said, his voice thick with emotion. He looked up, his eyes scanning the group until they landed on the man parking his motorcycle. "We are just glad you are home."
Logan walked up the steps, helmet under his arm. The students parted to let him through.
Charles looked at him, his blue eyes shimmering with gratitude. "Logan. Thank you. You brought her back."
Storm looked at him too, her eyes soft and warm. "You saved her, Logan."
Logan shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't good with praise. He preferred the insults; they were easier to deflect. He looked at Jean, who was beaming at him.
"He really did," Jean said, placing a hand on Logan's arm. The look in her eyes made Scott clench his fist and his eyes flash red. "He came charging in and took down the Blob single-handedly. I don't know what would have happened if he hadn't shown up."
Logan rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. He glanced at the students, then at Scott, who was nodding at him with begrudging respect.
"Eh, don't give me too much credit," Logan grunted, a smirk playing on his lips. He tapped his healing nose. "Truth is, Jeanie here did half the work."
"I did?" Jean looked confused.
"Yeah," Logan chuckled, looking at the Professor. "She hit me with a filing cabinet. Thing hit harder than the Blob did. If I hadn't shown up, I'm pretty sure she would've flattened the guy with a desk eventually."
The group stared at him for a second, and then burst into laughter.
"I said I was sorry!" Jean laughed, her face turning red.
"A filing cabinet?" Scott looked at Jean, bewildered. "You threw a filing cabinet at Wolverine?"
"It was a reflex!"
The tension of the day finally broke completely. Laughter filled the air of the mansion grounds, chasing away the shadows.
Logan watched them—Charles smiling, Storm laughing with her hand on her chest, the kids teasing Jean. He stood on the edge of the circle, half in the light, half in the dark.
Mission accomplished he thought, the system notification pinged in his mind, but he dismissed it. No missions still but stat points came in every now and again.
He didn't need the points. This—this moment of peace, of family—was reward enough.
"Alright, alright," Logan grumbled, feigning annoyance though his eyes were crinkled with amusement. "Show's over. Everyone inside. I'm starving, and if Kurt eats all the leftovers, there's gonna be another fight."
"I resent that accusation!" Kurt shouted, already Bamfing toward the kitchen.
As they filed inside, Storm lingered for a moment. She touched Logan's arm as he passed.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice meant only for him.
Logan nodded, a small, genuine smile surfacing. "Anytime, 'Ro."
Storm smiled before looking at her watch" Oh, the time Logan we must be off, my sister family is waiting for us". Logan nodded his head " right, let me just change and i'll be down soon". Ororo nodded her head and Logan quickly headed up stairs.