Chapter Text
Scott rarely slept through a night after Jean died. That fateful day on the moon stole half his soul; left a deep boring-hole on his psyche. Her presence vaporised in front of him at the same second a terrible emptiness ripped through his mind.
He attended meals in the X-mansion only to prove he was still alive to the other inhabitants. Sliding in late, he would take a small plate of whatever was left, force down a few bites without sitting and exit soon after. Logan was sure Slim chucked whatever food he held the second his bedroom door was closed. Nearly every member of the team tried to speak to their leader, to console him over the loss and convince him to keep living. Unsuccessfully.
The Canadian could smell the pain and fatigue on Scott whenever he appeared. The rigid lines of his body couldn't disguise the waves of bitter anguish Logan detected. Jean's death was a raw, gaping wound that wouldn't scab over unless it was treated.
Logan's tried for the past week not to provoke Scott, to let him deal with this in his way. After all, Logan had his own grief to tread through. But Scott is not improving. He can barely string a few words together when a member of the team addresses him. His voice scrapes at the sides of his throat despite the calm he attempts to project.
Logan has plenty of practice at shutting out the world. He can grit his teeth and barrel through the days. Unfortunately, the only thing the other X-Men want to discuss is Scott. Whenever their leader is in the room, the sour smell of fear overtakes Logan's senses. They are too gentle, tiptoeing with their words and body language.
Scott relies heavily on his visor to be the barrier between everything and his grief. The role he plays as leader–as Cyclops–is refined and polished to a stunning degree. But right now, the untouchable, unflappable leader guise must feel like a leaden weight where the visor rests on his temples.
It's a Wednesday when Logan has the thought: maybe Scott is stuck in denial and that something could be done to get him to anger. Start to relieve the pressure, turn the valve open, bit by bit. Who on the team has borne the brunt of Slim's ire over the years? Well, perhaps that's unfair, it was so easy to wind up the leader. Flouting authority made the Boy Scout's mouth harden into a thin line every time. At first he'd be terse, disapproving. Professional. The longer the interaction went on, Scott's impatience and annoyance would start to drip with every word. The way Scott's scent changed when he was angry, well, it was dangerous to notice something like that, Logan thought the first time he noticed his own pulse quicken during a verbal altercation in the Blackbird.
The Wolverine waits to corner Slim; he eats early so he can skip dinner and posts up far enough from Scott's room that he won't be seen when One-Eye leaves his room. Even deep in depression, Scott is a creature of habit. He leaves, dragging his feet toward the kitchen. Time has come to set up for an ambush when he returns. Logan decides that the hall is a poor place for a confrontation and slips into the empty bedroom to wait. This way the ensuing argument won't echo down the hall.
Slim's suite smells stale. The odors of sweat and beer mingle with the normal smell of dust. Underneath it all, if he concentrates, Logan can detect faint traces of Jean. His heart squeezes and his throat constricts as he confronts the truth that her mark on this room will fade soon. Logan forces his eyes to sweep over the furniture. Empty bottles are lined up on Slim's desk and dresser. Discarded clothes are strewn about the floor. Not that different from Logan's habits, truth told. At least he takes his cans out to the recycling.
Logan settles against the wall, where he'll be hidden by the door opening. He's confident Scott won't be scanning the room when he enters. Slim moves as though fog obscures all around him. Logan's plan isn't anywhere near as detailed as one Cyke would pen. It's really a single step: get Scott out of his head and back in his body. Prove that he's alive.
Soft footfalls approach the door. Breathe in, breathe out. Slim enters the room, plate in hand, and walks to the desk to dump the remaining food into the trash.
"Six hundred calories is enough for one day now, Scott?" Scott's body jerks in surprise at the sound of Logan's voice. Regaining his composure an instant later, Scott fixes the other mutant with the strongest glare he can muster.
"The hell are you doing in my room?" Any edges of his anger are rubbed dull by the exhaustion he cannot conceal. Logan shrugs, still leaning in the shadows.
"Trying to estimate how many days our fearless leader has left."
While Scott remains frozen, it's easy for Logan to look him over. His shirt would've clung to his skin a few months ago, now it hangs off his shoulders. His cheeks are hollow. It's easy to imagine dark rings around his eyes.
"Finally come to kick me while I'm down?" The words are hostile, but his voice sounds depleted. A string inside the metal-boned mutant stretches and then snaps. The snarl slips from his mouth without his input.
He wants to say 'Of course you think that, as if you haven't been holed here flaggelating yourself for something where you aren’t to blame' or 'Thanks for being honest about how you see me, kid' or just the good old fashioned 'Fuck you, Scott.’ Logan bites his tongue to suppress those thoughts. Don't make it worse, he hisses internally.
Instead he says, "Slim, you need a shower." Scott, as expected, sneers.
"You're giving orders now?" Logan takes two sharp steps off the wall and grits his teeth. Gentle cajoling isn't going to work. A corner of his mind privately finds it funny that Scott has somehow forgotten that being an asshole is something Logan is particularly good at.
"Take a fuckin' shower. You reek." Scott ignores him, turning away as though there is something else for him to do in the small room, and Logan closes the gap between them and fists a hand in Scott's shirt. He tries to make his voice more measured this time, but it still comes out harsh.
"If ya ain't gonna listen to 'Ro or Chuck or any of the kids, then it's up to me to kick and drag yer sorry ass back to the land of the living. I ain't gonna sit and watch ya do this."
The thought Jeannie would smack you upside the head if she saw you, rises in this mind but the idea of saying her name into this room that is blanketed in the smells of sadness, anger, and ghostly pain, it makes Logan's heart clench. Better not to invoke her. He muscles the emotion down and begins to tow Scott toward the bathroom.
"Don't make me actually throw you in, Cyke." Embarrassment seems to finally kick in when Scott rips away from Logan's grip and stalks the last few steps to the tiled room, slamming the door behind him. Praise be.
The thought of having to strip and scrub Scott isn't entirely unpleasant. Don’t get him wrong, the kid's always been pretty, but right now isn't the time. He needs to be treated like a man, not an infant. The sound of running water through the door helps Logan exhale.
What's next? The dark haired mutant eyes the window, before stomping over to yank the curtains open and lift the sash so fresh air can carry away some of the dust. Slim spends nearly forty-five minutes in the shower. At least it gives Logan plenty of time to consider his Step Two.
When Scott leaves the bathroom his hair is still damp but combed. A few drops of water run down his pale chest to be caught by the towel around his waist. Logan had plenty of opportunities to peek at Slim in the showers after a mission or a Danger Room session. Today is a far cry from any of those days. The outlines of Scott's ribs and hips make Logan want to avert his gaze.
The taller mutant pads to the bureau, pointedly keeping his head turned away from the other man. The petulance makes Logan want to roll his eyes. He shifts his stance slightly instead. He's been dying for a smoke for thirty minutes. Lighting up would only piss off Scott. He looks out the window instead. It's dark outside already, the ambers and reds of autumn nearly glowing in the last beams of sunlight. Crickets begin their evening chorus, trilling collectively. Logan carefully wrenches his focus back to Scott who is rifling through the drawers. His arms are much leaner, his elbows stick out more, exaggerating his gawkiness.
No way Slim is going to make this easy for him. Logan's hands twitch into fists for a second at this thought. Breathe. Let it go. His mind cries out selfishly, just leave. It's a thoroughly practiced option for him. Run away from this. Not your problem. Everyone dies eventually. Swallow it down. Scott will waste away because the rest of them don't know how to push. You can't wring your hands and expect that alone to fix someone.
"Wear something you can move in," Logan breaks the silence as Scott lifts a polo shirt from a drawer. Summers glowers down at the bureau instead of at the other mutant but chooses a tank top and some sweatpants. No space left in his mind for argument. Logan imagines the grief pouring over Scott like concrete. Need to pull him out before it hardens and traps him. Scott fumbles awkwardly with the towel for a second before Logan makes only a small show of magnanimously turning his back, and once he’s dressed, the Canadian says simply:
"Follow me."
"And what if I don't?" Scott's resistance is a good sign. It also pisses Logan off, as always. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob to stare back at the other mutant. He enjoys the small rush when he can tell that Scott's eyes are on him.
"Then I'll drag your ass through the halls. Ya want that? I'll make sure to shout too so everyone can come and watch." Logan never makes threats he isn't prepared to follow through. Scott knows this. He's witnessed many promises of violence made and kept by the shorter mutant. He steels himself for whatever hare-brained idea Logan has decided to subject him to.
The majority of the mansion is dark at this hour. Logan is unhurried and silent as he strides through the halls. Scott will take it as a small mercy that he doesn't have to muster up answers to questions he finds meaningless for a few minutes.
The place Logan stops at is the small studio space in the corner of the gym. Scott watches as the older mutant brings on the lights, opens a hidden closet, and extracts several floor mats to spread out. The tiniest flush rises to Scott's chest when Logan removes his sweatshirt. How many times has he seen his teammates in states of undress? Especially the one member that hurls his body into any form of danger. He diverts his eyes, sure that Logan can somehow detect the direction he's looking even if his head doesn't move.
"So you coerced me down here for a late night yoga class?" A glimmer of old Scott rises to the surface. Logan snorts.
"Not on yer life, Slim. Hand to hand, no beams, no claws. Knockout or pin. We go until you win one." It's cocky but calculated. Scott is nowhere near peak condition, but his instincts and training haven't disappeared. It'll take time, Logan certainly has plenty of advantages he can't really turn off, but he's sure in a few months Scott will be ready to get back in the field. The sting of defeat is at least better than the scraping, consuming emptiness of grief.
How can being the locus of Scott's anger feel like the most natural thing in the world to Logan? You're deranged, he tells himself, to have missed this. It’s endlessly amusing, to watch a kid who could obliterate anything wrestle with his temper.
While Slim considers the offer, Logan carefully unlaces his boots and places them by the wall. He steps onto the mat barefoot and relaxes into a combat-ready stance, arms raising, knees slightly bent. Scott's shoulders are stiff as ever for a second before he leans down to untie his shoes and pull off his socks. It's strange to see Cyclops without a hand to his visor, ready to release a beam.
"Why not do this in the Danger Room?" Slim asks as he steps onto the mat.
Because you don't need simulations right now, Logan thinks. You need to experience something real again, you need to be knocked back into the world.
Also, he wouldn't be able to get Scott to agree to a 'no powers' stipulation in the Danger Room. It's what the place was built for, after all. In there Scott would have a much easier time winning with his optic blasts. But most importantly, the Danger Room keeps records of its use that are easily accessible. This is a thing that requires privacy. This room has only one window, but it has blinds that can be drawn.
"It's quiet and private here," Logan offers in response.
The gym is rarely used late at night. Chances are, they can do this every night and not be disturbed. That’s as far as the plan goes in Logan's head. It brings him no satisfaction to beat Scott while he's in this pitiful state. Logan is familiar with the quick, clean way one ends a weak thing's suffering. He’s not exactly playing nurse, but this arrangement will demand so much attention and deliberate action Logan isn't sure what the toll on him will be. He's no stranger to pain, but he's never spent much time one on one with Cyclops. They've certainly never sought each other out to bond; but Logan has some respect for the guy. He's gotten the team through many, many scrapes in his tenure as leader.
"Look, we don't gotta talk, but if we ain't talkin', we better be sparrin'." Scott's face is grim. His thoughts must be a maelstrom. Logan tries again.
"Try not to look so excited, Cyke. It's only a chance to finally take a swing at me." No hint of a smile from Scott.
"You hit as hard as you can, and I'll try not to break any of yer bones. Alright?"
Slim’s impressive stone wall impersonation cracks and he nods, bringing his hands up, palms open. It's quiet for a moment. The sounds of their breathing and heartbeats reach Logan's ears. Slim moves, a feint to the left, a jab on the right. Logan dodges easily, shifting his weight, and hits Scott in the chest, just hard enough to make him gasp.
"Pretty slow, kid," he imagines his voice as gravel digging into Scott's skin. Remind him how much he hates you. Make him really want to win. Logan weaves in and out of the range of Scott's fists, concentrating on pulling his punches enough that they hurt but aren't causing more than bruises. While trying to conceal this from the man he's sparring with.
Logan hooks a foot around one of Scott's ankles and yanks, sending him tumbling to the floor. Slim rolls out of the fall, but Logan pounces, aiming to pin Scott's arms by his sides. The frenzied excitement of fighting feels akin to a feedback loop, a rising tide of buzzing sound that drowns out everything else in Logan.
Logan prefers to fight with his claws, of course. Few places allowed that sort of thing. Bare fist brawling is a long-lived back room pastime on many continents, among other forms of bloodsport. Whether it was dogs, roosters, gladiators, or just two random dudes desperate for cash, gruesome spectators clamored to places where they could watch and bet on who would win. Logan knows how to find these places. Drive until you see the bars that seem downtrodden but alive. Listen for the excitement of a crowd, slightly muffled by concealing walls. Smell the sweat, blood, spit. Get noticed by the bartender or a regular. Make a bet if you have to, just to get in on the action. Get your name on the roster.
Number of opponents varies, it depends on the crowd's tastes. Most small places are strictly dedicated to one-on-ones. It's easier to hone in on your competition that way.
In the studio, Logan gives all his attention to Scott. His skin is pale, stubble uneven on his cheek. His legs remind Logan of a young tree in winter. How much weight has he lost?
As he extends a hand to help Slim up off the ground, Logan realizes that Scott doesn't smell drenched in despair for once. Exertion and frustration with tinges of happiness flow from him. The smell of his sweat is familiar. It's the easiest way for Logan to identify people. There's a small pang deep in his gut.
Scott takes advantage of the momentary lapse on Logan's end to connect his fist with Wolverine's jaw. Despite himself, Scott's face breaks into a wolfish grin. Logan fails to suppress the urge to smile back.
"Don't gloat too quickly. I'm still on my feet."
After a particularly quick round, Logan drops his guard and pronounces, "We're done for tonight." Scott looks slightly offended.
"I was just starting to work up a sweat," Scott catches himself protesting. The shorter mutant raises an eyebrow.
"You're delusional, Slim. You lost the last match in ninety seconds." He removes a small towel from the closet and starts to wipe the sweat off the mat.
"You said we would go until I won one," Scott feels like a child resisting bedtime, something the strict schedule and monitors of the orphanage had no patience for. Logan's mouth curls into one of his sardonic smiles. When he speaks, his voice is the kind of placid he knows will drive Scott mad.
"It's gonna be a while before you can hit hard enough to KO me, Summers." Logan resists the urge to lay any more bait, trusting the flash he sees under Scott's visor and how he draws in a breath in preparation to retort. It was impossible on most days for most people to ascertain where Scott's eyes were directed. Through years of careful observation, Logan could detect and read the subtle shifts in the intensity of the light shining behind Cyclops' 'eye.' Right now, Logan would bet whatever cash he could find in his room that Scott's attention is trained on him, trying to pick apart his motives. Instead of saying anything, Scott simply helps stack the mats back in the closet and puts his socks and shoes on.
Something in Logan compels him to walk with Scott back to his room. Slim hesitates with his hand on the doorknob, his eyes locked on the floor. Logan waits, unsure what the other mutant might say. Scott's voice is a murmur in the quiet hallway.
"Thanks, Logan."
"G'night, Slim." The door closes between them and Wolverine waits, listening for the soft thump of Scott's body falling onto the bed. Then he walks away.
+++
The next morning, Logan waits outside of Scott's door like a bodyguard. Escorts him through the halls and directs him to sit at the table so he can't run away. Fills a plate and drops it in front of him, ignoring how Scott glowers at the mound of food in front of him. The process repeats at lunch and dinner. Around 10pm, Logan quietly raps his knuckles on Cyke's door and they walk down to the gym in silence.
Logan can tell Scott's presence at meals makes everyone else breathe easier. The facade of Cyclops is up and they all know it, but he manages to say more than a handful of words now. Kitty, Kurt, and Rogue remind him of the leader role he was cast in so long ago by Charles. He still sees them as kids. The thought makes Logan scoff internally. Slim was just a teen when he joined the X-Men. Rather fucked up. Of course, they're all kids compared to the man starting to approach 200. Considering what Sinister did to Scott and Alex and dozens of other mutants in that orphanage makes Logan's blood boil. Even so, he doesn't know what his answer would've been if he had been given Scott's choice. Underage mutants shouldn't have to constantly imperil themselves to prove their worth to humanity writ large. Adult mutants can at least make the choice themselves.
Logan likened Scott to a deep burn, the way heat lingers even after the source is removed. Slim was able to get under Logan's skin with the most infuriating ease. Summers's pale, thin frame haunted Logan, ate at him like flames devouring paper. Burns scream onto your flesh, the smell nauseates your stomach.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of memory, Logan recalls a forest fire when he was out in the forest hunting with his father. The scent came to him on the wind but it wasn’t enough of a warning, the flames arrived too quickly. Birds and rodents rushed by their feet as Logan and his father tried to escape the heat. When he woke from the deep blackness of unconsciousness, his head pounded. His body cried out in pain an instant later. He felt chewed and spat out, like whatever mouth that bit him had acid spittle. His back was the worst, it screamed a torturous symphony that his finely tuned senses were unable to ignore. The stench of his own charred skin provoked a bout of retching and deep, heavy coughs. He staggered to his feet and tried to lift his father, both of them covered in ash and soot. Logan, (but he wasn’t Logan then, somewhere in him knew but could not recall what his father named him,) clenched his teeth against the protestations of his muscles and began the trek home, half-carrying, half-dragging his father through the blackened, silent trees.
The memory of that burn stayed with Logan; he dreamt of it several times a year. In his mind, it wasn't always the fire. Sometimes he was dipped in boiling oil, or roasting on a spit. Sometimes his flesh was ripped to ribbons by some animal, or hooks were embedded in an effort to tear the entirety of his skin off of his muscles.
When he awoke, he'd lay in bed and remind himself that pain is a part of life. Embrace it, run toward it. Remember it cannot stop you.
+++
Scott has always known, strictly factually, that Logan is heavier than he looks. Being reminded of it, over and over, as the shorter mutant pins him to the mat, is starting to fray an invisible cord in Scott. He's unsure what will happen when it unravels fully. Logan's hands are grounding and torturous at once; feeling the heat of the other man's body makes Scott ache painlessly, confusingly, shamefully.
Whenever Logan calls it for the night, Scott has to bite his tongue. He wants another round every time. After they grapple, the places where Logan touched feel bright in a way he doesn't want to acknowledge. Logan's gaze on him used to be a challenge, or a trap ready to snap and close him in. Here in the studio, it doesn't feel dangerous to meet Logan's eyes. Maybe it's as close as they'll ever get to understanding one another. To being at peace. Scott knows what's expected when they spar. No sudden wrenches thrown in, no new variables. Just skin, sweat, breath.
Logan doesn't tell Scott to keep their sparring matches secret, but Logan is a private person. He rarely shares details of his business with anyone. Scott likes having a secret. Years spent in close proximity to two telepaths made Scott value privacy. Even though Jean and the Professor try not to peek into other people's heads, their power isn't always tightly contained, like steam leaking from a lidded pot.
When Scott speaks to members of the team, he can tell they're less anxious about him. He doesn't know how any of them would react to him sneaking down to the gym at night to fight Logan. Maybe they'd be amused. Definitely surprised if they knew Logan had been the one to instigate the arrangement. Hiding the evidence is easy enough. Logan is careful not to strike Scott in the face. Any bruises that develop on Scott are covered by long sleeved shirts and pant legs. Any mark that he might leave on Logan disappears overnight. Sometimes when Scott lays alone in his bed, he drags his fingers across the purple and yellow flesh, presses down, pain blooming, a ghost of Logan's touch. He imagines his teammates laughing at his eagerness to lose a few rounds of combat to Logan every night.
Some nights, Scott wakes from dreams of Logan above him, holding his wrists against the floor. His mind's projection of Logan only becomes more detailed as the weeks pass. The lines in his forehead, the unruly sideburns, which of his teeth are slightly crooked, the smell of tobacco on his breath. His hands leave Scott's wrists and stroke over Scott's arms to shoulders, his chest, neck, face. Dream Logan's hands are soft; real Logan's hands have evidence of calluses and blisters. The dream-projection of Logan smiles in a soft way, no teeth bared, and leans down, his eyes on Scott's lips. Scott's body seizes up out of the bed as he tears out of the dream. No warm body pressed into his. No dark eyes drinking him in. The room is still and lonely in the night.
His feet meet the carpet and he walks to the bathroom, filling a cup in the sink and drinking it down quickly. He steels himself for a second before setting the cup back down and returning to bed.
When he falls asleep, Logan is in front of him again. The stocky mutant is shirtless, he pushes Scott backwards until he feels the rough bark of a tree trunk stopping him. It's cold out, they must be in the small thicket behind the mansion, but the heat rising off Logan's skin keeps the chill at bay. Scott swallows any questions. He curls his hands around Logan's biceps and tries to pull him closer, but his fingers slip and clutch at thin air suddenly. Logan is disappearing between the trees, far away, and the cold rushes in. His surroundings darken and twist, the trees growing taller and wider as the woods become a dense forest. Snow nearly reaches his knees, his thin clothes offer no protection. When he wakes again, the sun is just peeking over the horizon. He lays in bed, trying to summon some other image to overwrite the ones of Logan his thoughts cling to. He barely moves a muscle until the knock he's come to expect that means breakfast is ready.