Chapter 1: A Debt
Chapter Text
New York stank like money and rot.
Logan hated working here. Too many families clawing for a piece of the pie, too many eyes, too many rules he didn’t care to learn. But the payout on this job was too high to ignore. One clean hit. In and out. No name, just coordinates, a photo, and a deposit wired to an account he hadn’t touched in years.
He should’ve known it was too easy.
Logan tracked the target for two days before making his move. Kept to the shadows, as usual. The guy was sharp, changed his routine constantly, doubled back, eyes always scanning. A pro.
But pros still bleed.
The hit went down in an alley near the edge of Chinatown. Close quarters. Perfect for a guy with claws. One mistake. One swipe. Done.
Logan left the body slumped against a dumpster, throat torn open, twitching once before going still. He didn’t search the guy. Didn’t linger.
He just walked away.
The first text came the next morning from an untraceable number:
You killed my messenger, Wolverine.
His stomach sank. But not as much as it did when the second text arrived:
I’ll expect you at the Essex Building to discuss your options. Tonight.
Sinister ran his empire like a chessboard, and Logan had just kicked over the wrong piece.
The Essex Building stabbed into the sky like a sharpened blade.
Logan stood across the street, jaw tight. He watched the mirrored glass shimmer in the glow of passing traffic. From the outside, it looked like money and power, like it belonged to a tech mogul or oil titan. But inside, he knew, was something colder, crueler.
Sinister didn’t run his empire with brute force. He ran it with precision. With rot disguised as elegance.
Logan crossed the street.
The lobby was a cathedral of marble and steel. Rich types in suits moved like shadows, not one of them making eye contact. Logan’s boots hit the floor too heavy, too loud. He didn’t care.
Security clocked him the second he stepped through the doors. But no one moved. They didn’t have to.
Because someone else was already waiting.
“Look what the alley cat dragged in,” drawled a voice slick as oil.
Logan turned his head.
Ruckus. Sinister’s right-hand man. His pink hair was slicked back like a game show host. Too much charm. Not enough soul.
He stepped forward, arms outstretched like they were old friends. “Wolverine. You’re late. The boss hates that.”
Logan didn’t flinch. “Showed up, didn’t I?”
Ruckus tsked, grin widening. “Still full of piss and gravel. This is going to be fun.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the elevator. Logan followed, resisting the urge to leave claw marks in the polished floor.
The elevator was silent as a grave.
Ruckus rocked slightly on his heels, hands folded behind his back. “Y’know, you made quite the mess. George was a favorite. Well, one of them.”
Logan said nothing.
Ruckus chuckled. “That’s okay. Sinister loves cleaning up messes.”
The doors slid open with a soft chime.
Wolverine could smell blood in the office. Not the old, stale kind. Fresh. Still warm.
Behind the desk sat Sinister in a sharp suit, with an even sharper smile, swirling a glass of red wine like it was nothing more than a dinner party.
“You made quite a mess, Wolverine,” he said, like it was a compliment. “Your little outburst not only cost me a very reliable assassin, but also the priceless intel he alone could deliver.”
“Didn’t know he was yours.”
“Well. You do now.” Sinister leaned forward, wine glass cradled in one hand. “You owe me. And I don’t like letting debts rot.”
He let the silence stretch. Logan didn’t break it.
At last, Sinister stood and crossed the room. His movements were smooth, deliberate.
“You’re not the first man to come crawling through my city, claws bared, thinking you're outside the system. But here’s the thing,” He turned, eyes gleaming. “Everyone’s on the board. Whether they know it or not.”
Logan’s jaw twitched.
“Now,” Sinister said, stepping closer, “some would kill you. Quickly. Others would drag it out, make an example of you. Me? I’m more creative.”
He turned his back on Logan and walked to a framed photograph on the wall, a portrait of Sinister with his arm around a figure in a blood-red gown. The person had long brown hair, pale skin, and a smile that looked dangerous.
“My most valuable asset,” Sinister said softly. “Shapeshifter. Performer. Spy. Assassin. But they are…” He studied the photo like a man admiring a rare painting. “…temperamental. Special.”
He glanced back at Logan. “I need someone to protect them. Escort them. Keep them in line.”
“You want me to be a babysitter?” Logan growled.
“I want you to be a bodyguard. For someone worth more to me than five of you put together.”
“I don’t work well with others.”
“You’ll learn.” Sinister’s smile thinned. “You killed George. That leaves me with one less soldier and one more liability. You’ll be working it off. Every day. Until I say otherwise.”
He stepped closer. Too close.
“Of course, you can say no,” he purred. “But then I’ll have to find… other uses for you. One of my surgeons has been asking for a regenerative subject.”
Logan’s eyes narrowed. “You touch me, and I’ll—”
“Claw your way out?” Sinister chuckled. “Please. You’re not the first beast I’ve caged.”
He straightened his cuffs and looked to Ruckus. “Ruckus, go fetch Morph.”
Ruckus nodded once and slipped out, leaving the door open behind him.
“I’ll give you a piece of advice, Wolverine,” he said, voice low now. “Morph may look harmless. Playful. Fragile, even. But don’t be fooled.”
Logan didn’t respond, but his eyes were locked on the photograph. There was something about the smile on that face, something knowing.
Sinister turned his gaze back to him. “They were built to survive. Molded into something exquisite. I’ve seen them slit a man’s throat while laughing. I’ve watched them change into a grieving widow to lower someone’s guard and then, well, let’s just say the cleanup was expensive.”
He stepped closer again.
“They are mine, Wolverine. Mine to use, mine to shape, mine to keep safe.”
There it was. That flicker. The possessiveness coiled behind the polish. Not just control. Something darker. A twisted kind of pride.
“You’ll protect them with your life,” Sinister said. “Because if anything happens to Morph, anything I don’t authorize, then what I do to you will make George’s death look merciful.”
The door opened.
Morph moved like they weighed nothing.
They circled the edge of the office with a kind of lazy grace, like a dancer too bored to perform, or a cat deciding whether or not to bite. Their outfit was sharp, every line tailored to perfection, but the way they held themselves said they could vanish in half a second if they wanted to.
Sinister watched them with open pride, like a man admiring his favorite weapon.
Logan didn’t like it.
“Do I get a say in this?” Morph asked. Their voice was light, almost amused, but there was tension buried under it, tight at the edges, like a thread pulled too far.
Sinister swirled his drink. “Don’t be tedious, darling. You know how this works.”
Logan caught it then. A flicker. The way Morph’s jaw tensed just a second too long. Then they turned to him with a practiced smirk, smooth as silk drawn over barbed wire.
“So, you’re the new watchdog.” They leaned against the arm of the leather chair across from Sinister’s desk, eyes trailing up and down Logan in a way that was definitely more sizing up than flirting. “You any good at keeping things from breaking?”
Logan crossed his arms. “I’m better at breaking things.”
Morph chuckled, soft and brittle. “Lucky me.”
“Enough introductions,” Sinister said. “Wolverine, your first mission starts tomorrow night. You’ll escort Morph to a social gathering. One of my competitors is getting bold. I want you to keep your ears open and your hands off the merchandise.”
That last part came laced with a threat. Logan didn’t dignify it with a response.
Morph stood, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from their shirt. “Guess I should show you the penthouse.”
Logan raised a brow. “What, we’re roomies now?”
Morph glanced over their shoulder with something like a smile, but it didn’t touch their eyes.
“You’ll get used to it.”
They turned and walked out, not looking back. Logan followed, instinct already humming.
Something wasn’t right.
And he didn’t just mean the job.
The elevator ride was silent.
Morph leaned against the mirrored wall, arms loosely folded, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Logan kept his eyes on their reflection. The calm on Morph’s face was too smooth, too polished.
The doors slid open on the second-highest floor.
The penthouse stretched out in warm shadows and cool glass, the whole city glittering beyond the wall of windows. Dark mahogany floors. Dark red upholstery. Art that looked expensive but soulless. Everything curated. Controlled.
Morph strolled in like it was nothing.
“This is home,” they said.
They moved through the space with a casual sort of ease, gesturing to the sleek bar, the velvet-draped lounge.
“I spend most of my time here,” Morph added. “Unless Essex wants something.”
Morph moved to a hallway off the main room. “Your bedroom’s down here. Next to mine.”
They opened the door to a minimalist space. A bed, a desk with a chair, and a small closet.
“No hidden cameras that I’ve ever found,” Morph said with a smirk.
Logan stepped inside, scanning the room. It didn’t feel lived-in. It felt like a hotel room waiting for a guest who wasn’t meant to stay.
He turned back to Morph. “You always this friendly with your bodyguards?”
Morph leaned against the doorframe, that same smirk playing at their lips. “Only the grumpy ones with murder in their eyes.”
Logan didn’t smile. “You with him by choice?”
A beat. A flicker. Then Morph laughed, sharp and practiced. “Define ‘choice.’”
They pushed off the doorframe and started back down the hall. “Get some sleep, Wolverine. Tomorrow’s going to be a long one.”
Logan stood there a moment longer, listening to the soft pad of retreating footsteps.
That laugh hadn’t been real.
And Logan was starting to realize that neither was anything else around here.
Chapter 2: A Dress
Summary:
Morph and Wolverine go shopping
Chapter Text
Logan woke early out of habit. He dressed in silence and made his way to the kitchen area in search of a cup of coffee.
He was already halfway through his first cup when the elevator dinged. A servant stepped in, tall, silent, and dressed all in black. He wheeled in two covered trays and two crystal glasses of something that looked like orange juice but probably cost more than Logan usually made in a week.
“Breakfast,” the servant said flatly, then turned and left without a word more.
Logan lifted one of the lids. Eggs. Fruit. Something flaky and buttery that looked like it belonged in a museum.
Morph came into the room a minute later, barefoot in black silk pajamas, hair perfect. “Mmm.” Morph sat down at the table, tucked one leg under them, and pulled the tray closer. “Good morning.”
“‘Mornin’,” Logan muttered, stabbing a piece of fruit like it owed him money.
Morph popped a piece of croissant in their mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “We’re going to need to go shopping today.”
Logan glanced up, suspicious. “Why?”
“Because you can’t wear that,” Morph said, gesturing at Logan’s combo of flannel, jeans, and boots. “Tonight’s event is high-end. And Sinister likes his toys looking polished.”
“I don’t dress up.”
Morph smirked around a sip of juice. “You do now.”
Logan grunted. “No tux.”
“We’ll compromise. Something sharp, dark, dangerous. Less ‘wedding’ and more ‘mob enforcer who could kill you with a spoon.’”
Logan narrowed his eyes. “That’s a compromise?”
Morph shrugged and winked. “I’ll even give you a spoon.”
They locked eyes across the coffee table. Logan wasn’t sure if they were flirting, mocking, or testing him. Maybe all three.
Morph leaned back, balancing their plate on one knee. “Look, you can growl all you want, but Essex isn’t subtle. If you walk in looking like that, someone’s going to notice. And the wrong kind of attention gets us both in trouble.”
Us.
Logan clocked the word.
“All right,” he said gruffly. “But I ain’t tryin’ on anything.”
“Deal. I’ll just eyeball your measurements.” Morph’s smile curled around the rim of the glass.
Logan leaned against the elevator wall with his arms crossed, watching Morph stand beside him, back straight, shoulders squared.
“You always check in with him before leaving?” Logan asked.
Morph didn’t look over. “It’s easier than making him come find me.”
The doors slid open with a ding, and the two walked silently to the office door.
The air in Sinister's office still smelled faintly of blood.
Sinister was behind his desk, dark suit immaculate. He stood when Logan and Morph entered the room. “Morph,” he said smoothly, voice syrup-slick. “Looking radiant, as always.”
“We’re heading out. The Wolverine needs something to wear to tonight’s event.”
Sinister’s expression was unreadable. His eyes flicked to Logan. Then back to Morph.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card, extended it between two fingers like a magician revealing a trick.
Morph stepped forward to take it.
And Sinister leaned down.
He whispered something in their ear, too low and quick for Logan to catch, but he saw the way Morph’s body stiffened. The way their fingers tightened slightly around the card.
Then Sinister kissed them. Just the corner of their mouth. Precise. Possessive. Performed.
Morph didn’t pull away. But they didn’t lean in, either.
Sinister straightened and smoothed the collar of Morph’s jacket like he was arranging a doll.
“Pick something tasteful,” he said. “And remember who’s paying.”
Morph didn’t answer. They just turned and walked out the door.
Logan followed, but not before locking eyes with Sinister for half a second.
The black car dropped them off in front of a boutique with gold lettering and a name Logan couldn’t pronounce.
Morph hadn’t said a word since they left Sinister’s floor.
They just walked fast and silent, with sunglasses on.
“Whatever he said to you,” Logan said finally, “worth carryin’ that weight all day?”
Morph didn’t slow down. “You gonna pick a fight with him already? We haven’t even bought you pants yet.”
Logan grunted. “You tense up like that every time he touches you?”
Morph shoved open the boutique door a little too hard. Inside, the scent of polished leather and overpriced cologne hit Logan like a wall.
“Try not to bleed on anything,” they muttered over their shoulder. But their voice cracked, just barely.
The boutique was practically empty, soft music playing, air thick with money. A tailor hovered nearby, but one glance at Logan’s scowl and they wisely backed off. Morph moved like they belonged there. Already flipping through hangers, head tilted, lips pursed in concentration.
“Okay,” they muttered. “We need something that says ‘dangerous but respectable.’ You’ll be standing behind me, not throwing punches, so no leather.”
Logan crossed his arms. “I said I wasn’t tryin’ anything on.”
Morph didn’t even glance back. “You said a lot of things.”
Logan frowned. “I meant that one.”
Morph spun on their heel and shoved a hanger into his chest. It had a slim-cut charcoal blazer, crisp shirt, and tailored black pants on it.
“Try it on.”
“I already hate it.”
“Perfect,” Morph said brightly. “Means it’s working.”
The first few minutes were mostly grumbling. Logan glared at the mirrors. Pulled at tight collars. Said “no” a lot. Morph ignored most of it.
But the fourth outfit that did it. A navy-blue number. Open collar, no tie, sleeves rolled just enough to show Logan’s forearms.
Morph tilted their head, hand on hip. “…Okay,” they murmured, half to themselves. “You actually look good.”
Logan turned slowly toward the mirror. “You sayin’ I don’t usually?”
“I’m saying you dress like you are walking into a bar fight,” Morph replied. “This? This is a violent gentleman. This says I could kill you, but also I know what fork to use at dinner.”
Logan snorted. Then laughed. A real one, low, rough, and surprised.
Morph stared at him, and their whole face softened, like sunlight breaking through the clouds. “I like your laugh,” they said before they could stop themselves.
Logan glanced over, startled.
Morph blinked. “I mean. It’s fine. Very… gravel chic.” Morph turned quickly back to the rack. “Alright. Suit secured.”
Then they froze.
“Shit.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “What now?”
Morph held the sleeve of the navy suit against their wrist, squinting. “It’s going to clash with the gown I was planning.”
“So change the suit,” Logan muttered.
Morph smirked. “Absolutely not. This one’s perfect.”
Logan made a vague, unbothered grunt. “Then maybe you need a new dress.”
Morph lit up like a kid on Christmas. “In that case,” they said, eyes gleaming, “we’re going to my favorite place next. They have a mirror room and a piano, and the guy who runs it calls everyone ‘darling’ and gasps like it’s a sport.”
Logan sighed. “I already regret this.”
“Too late. You’re in it now, sweetheart.”
The gown shop looked more like an art gallery.
Velvet drapes, mannequins posed like they were rich, gowns displayed like museum pieces. The scent of fresh flowers mingled with high-end perfume and expensive fabric.
A man with sharp cheekbones and silver spectacles glided over to greet them, arms already outstretched. “Morph, darling,” he sang. “It’s been ages.”
“It’s been three weeks, Gabriel.”
“Which is eternity,” he huffed, then turned his eyes to Logan with theatrical curiosity. “And who’s this delicious slab of intimidation?”
“New bodyguard,” Morph said with a grin.
Gabriel’s expression shifted, just slightly. Less sparkle. “So… no more Dominic?”
For a moment, Morph’s smile faltered. They looked down, just briefly. “No.”
Gabriel pressed a hand to his chest, genuine concern tucked behind the drama. “Ah. Well. Then let’s find something worthy of a new beginning, hmm?”
He recovered quickly, sweeping them deeper into the shop. “I’ve saved three divine options that are so you, it’s criminal.”
Gabriel led them into a private room lined entirely in mirrors. Faint piano music could be heard, soft and elegant. Logan stood near the door, arms crossed. Trying not to stare too hard.
Morph disappeared behind a curtain with the first gown. After a moment, their voice said, “You'd better be ready to lie to me if it looks awful.”
“Wasn’t plannin’ to say much at all,” Logan muttered.
Morph emerged in crimson. The first dress was sleek, form-fitting, with a slit up the thigh and a plunging neckline that made Logan forget how breathing worked. The deep red glowed against their skin, catching the light like flame.
Morph raised an eyebrow. “Too much?”
Logan cleared his throat. “You askin’ me?”
Morph stepped onto the mirrored platform and twirled slowly. “Okay, fine. This one’s more vengeful widow than mafia trophy.”
“Who’s callin’ you a trophy?”
Morph paused. Looked over their shoulder at him. There was a flicker of surprise before they ducked behind the curtain with a smirk.
The second gown was black, all shimmer and shadow, with draped sleeves and a low back that left nothing to the imagination.
Morph didn’t speak this time. Just stepped onto the platform and did a slow twirl.
Logan tilted his head. “This one’s better.”
“You think?”
He nodded. “You look like you belong at the head of the table.”
Morph blinked. Slowly. Then smiled. “Huh.”
Logan crossed his arms again and looked away. “Don’t get used to me complimentin’ dresses.”
“No promises.”
The final gown was midnight blue, cut close at the waist and flaring dramatically at the floor. It had a high neck and sheer sleeves embroidered with tiny stars. When Morph stepped under the light, the stars shimmered like a night sky.
Even Morph paused. “Okay,” they whispered. “Okay. This one.”
Logan didn’t respond. He was too busy staring.
“Wolverine?”
“Yeah.”
“You gonna say something?”
He cleared his throat. Again. “You look…” His voice trailed off.
Morph tilted their head, amused. “Come on, tough guy. Spit it out.”
“You look like someone no one should mess with.”
Morph’s grin started slow and bloomed wide.
Gabriel reappeared, two glasses of champagne in hand, and gasped like it had been choreographed. “I knew this was your gown.”
Morph stepped down, the fabric rippling like water. “Wrap it. He’s sold.”
Logan didn’t argue and couldn’t quite stop looking, either.
The car ride back was quiet. City lights slid across the tinted windows like lazy fireflies, casting shifting gold and blue shadows over leather seats. The engine purred beneath them, steady and insulated, like the world outside couldn’t quite reach in.
Morph sat on the far side of the backseat, gown carefully hung in a zippered bag across their lap. Logan sat across from them, arms folded, suit jacket resting beside him.
He hadn’t stopped thinking about how their face changed when Gabriel asked about Dominic.
“How long was Dominic with you?” Logan asked, voice low.
Morph didn’t answer right away. They stared out the window like they were somewhere else entirely. Then they took a breath. “He was with me for seven months. Quiet guy. Not too different from you, actually. Liked fighting more than talking. But he was always gentle with me.”
They adjusted the garment bag in their lap as if it weighed more than it should. “One night, we were leaving a job, some gala uptown, and he… turned on me. Tried to take me out before we got back to the car.”
Logan narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“Who knows for sure. My best guess is he thought he could earn favor with a rival gang. Maybe the Brotherhood. Maybe someone smaller. Doesn’t matter,” they looked down at their hands. “I killed him before he could try twice.”
There was no bravado in it. No pride. Just fact. “He looked surprised,” they continued. “Like he forgot what I was.”
Logan’s voice came quiet. “You ever wonder if it was really you he was after? Or just to get at Sinister?”
Morph’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “Does it matter?” they asked softly.
Logan didn’t answer.
The city kept moving outside the windows, but it felt like the car had stopped.
After a long pause, Morph leaned their head against the glass. “Sometimes I wonder if he was the lucky one.”
Logan looked over. “You really believe that?”
Morph’s jaw flexed. “No.” A breath. “But some nights, I almost do.”
The silence returned, but heavier now. Not awkward, just full.
Logan finally looked away, jaw set. “For what it’s worth... if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have waited until after we went shopping.”
Morph snorted softly.
The car pulled up to the Essex Building. Morph straightened, mask already settling back over their face. By the time the door opened, they were smiling again. Polished. Untouchable.
Notes:
Trigger Warnings: Canon Typical Violence
Chapter 3: A Party
Summary:
Morph and Logan go to a party.
Notes:
Updating around once a month.
Trigger Warnings in End Notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The elevator carried Morph and Logan up to the penthouse in silence. By the time the doors slid open, Morph’s easy mask was back in place, gown draped carefully over one arm. The penthouse stretched out before them, dark wood gleaming under low lights.
There was a new addition to the coffee table: a neat stack of folders, waiting, with black leather covers stamped with Sinister’s seal in blood-red ink.
Morph crossed the room with unhurried grace and laid the gown on the couch. Morph sat on the floor, legs folded neatly, and slid the folders open.
Logan made his way to sit on the couch behind them and watched as they started arranging the photos, blueprints, and intel sheets with surgical neatness. When they were done, they passed Logan one of the photos. A man stared up at him from the glossy surface. Salt and Pepper hair, glasses, and cold eyes.
“That him, the competitor?” Logan asked.
Morph nodded. “Carl Denti. Arms dealer. Essex calls him a competitor, but he knows he can no longer compete with Denti on the weapons market. I think Essex is trying to form some kind of alliance.”
“You think?”
Morph looked up at Logan, “Essex doesn’t tell anyone his true plans. It’s what makes him so powerful. Not even those closest to him know his true intentions. But I’ve been around long enough to put the pieces together.” They reached forward and pulled a blueprint towards themself. Pointing to a large ballroom with a sweeping staircase and chandeliers like glass comets. They added, “The party’s on the main floor. Denti owns the building. The place will be full of people who work or buy from him. We’re there to gather intel, make nice, and map the rotation of the guards. Sinister wants all the details.”
Logan grunted. “So you play the social butterfly. I play the furniture that bites.”
“Exactly.”
Morph leaned back on their hands, studying the spread of photos and notes like the outcome of a chessboard already set in motion. Then, with a small sigh, their eyes flicked toward the sleek clock mounted on the far wall. Its hands ticked steadily toward evening.
“Time to get ready,” they said, voice lighter than the words. They began stacking the folders again, sliding photographs back into their sleeves with care. They turned toward the hallway to their rooms. Logan followed a moment later.
Morph emerged first. The midnight blue gown fit like a glove, stars glittering up their arms and throat. Their hair was slicked back into a low bun, makeup sharp and shimmering. In the dim light, they looked like danger in the shape of elegance.
Logan stepped out a second later, tugging at the cuffs of his navy sleeves.
Morph turned and froze.
He looked different in a suit. Still dangerous, but polished. Sharp edges smoothed out just enough to pass for someone who belonged in the rooms they were heading into.
Morph let out a low whistle. “Well, damn. You clean up nice.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “Still don’t see how I’m passin’ for high society.”
Morph stepped closer, smoothing his collar. “You’re grumpy. You’re silent. You look like you could kill someone with a butter knife. Trust me, that is high society.”
Logan looked at them.“You ready for this?”
Morph nodded. “It’s not the job I worry about.”
Logan didn’t ask what they did worry about and followed them toward the elevator.
The walk to Sinister’s office was silent. Morph’s heels tapped softly against the marble, steady and deliberate. Logan’s tread was heavier, slower.
The sound reached them before the door.
Sinister was yelling. Real rage.
Someone inside was getting torn apart, verbally, at least. Logan caught sharp fragments through the door: “failure,” “embarrassment,” “ungrateful bastard.”
Outside, leaning against the wall like a lazy guard dog, stood Ruckus. Grinning like someone who enjoyed the sound of other people getting punished.
“Morph,” he drawled, eyes dragging over them. “Don’t you look delicious.”
Morph didn’t slow. “Ruckus.”
“He’s busy in there. Some jackass screwed up a delivery in Jersey, and now Sinister’s gotta put out fires personally. Might even have to step out tonight.”
Morph’s brow lifted slightly. “During the party?”
“Mmhm.” Ruckus tilted his head. “You’re still expected to make a good impression. Smile, dance, collect dirt.” He paused, grin stretching wider. “And be in his bed after.”
That last part landed like a slap. Logan took one slow step forward.
Ruckus raised both hands, still smiling. “Hey. Not my rules. I just help enforce ’em.”
Morph lifted a hand, stopping Logan without looking at him. Their voice was calm as glass. “We’re expected at the event. Tell him we checked in.”
Ruckus gave a lazy salute. “Break a leg, sweetheart.”
The ballroom was all gold. Gold chandeliers, gold trim, golden light spilling across champagne flutes and sequined dresses. Exactly the kind of place where alliances were made, secrets were sold, and no one ever told the truth.
Morph descended the stairs like they belonged there. Their gown shimmered under the lights; their smile was infectious, their eyes gleaming. To the room, they were confidence incarnate. Untouchable. A jewel in Sinister’s crown.
Logan trailed a half-step behind. He didn’t fidget, but his eyes never stopped moving
Near the bar, a man whispered something to his date and gestured subtly toward Morph. Someone else raised a glass in their direction.
Morph made the first circuit of the room slowly, pausing to greet a few familiar faces.
Denti was in the far corner, at the bar, flanked by bodyguards in matching black suits. His glass was already half-empty, and his eyes followed Morph with interest.
Morph gave the faintest smile and turned their head just enough to catch Logan’s eye across the crowd before they disappeared into the throng.
Morph leaned against the marble bar, close enough to Denti to seem casual, far enough to make him come to them.
He did.
“Morph,” he greeted. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Hopefully not too much,” Morph replied smoothly. “I like keeping some mystery.”
They clinked glasses.
Logan watched from across the room, eyes locked on every movement.
Denti swirled the liquor in his glass, eyes narrowing slightly. “Funny. I expected Essex to be here himself. Seems… careless, sending only his favorite doll.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Almost insulting.”
Morph’s laugh was soft, playful. “Oh, you know him, he doesn’t leave the board unless the move is absolutely essential. He’d be here if he could. Believe me, he hates missing a chance to preen.” They tilted their glass against his, the faintest spark of mischief in their eyes. “But think of it this way: tonight, you get me all to yourself.”
Denti raised a brow. “All to myself?”
Morph leaned in, lowering their voice just enough to make him listen closer. “Sinister can be terribly possessive. If he saw us talking like this, he might even get jealous.” A quick smile curved their lips.
Logan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t miss the way Denti’s eyes lingered too long. He watched closely as Morph laughed and brushed their fingertips along Denti’s sleeve.
Then Morph excused themself from Denti, slipping through a knot of guests with effortless grace. They drifted toward a set of tall glass doors at the far end of the ballroom, pale curtains breathing faintly in the night air.
Logan followed, slow but steady, eyes tracking every move. By the time he reached the doors, Morph was already outside, the city lights spilling across their gown like a second layer of stars.
The night air was cool and Logan took a deep inhale, breathing in something other than perfume and lies.
“You okay?” he asked.
Morph leaned on the railing, champagne glass turning slowly between their fingers. “Define okay.”
Logan didn’t answer. He just waited.
Morph exhaled through their nose. “Denti’s exactly as gross as advertised, but he should be agreeable to meet with Essex. I should probably dance with him later to seal the deal. ”
Silence settled between them.
“You always step out like this?” Logan asked, still looking at the skyline.
“Sometimes. Rooms like that… everything’s so fake it starts to feel heavier than it should.”
Logan glanced at them, but Morph’s eyes stayed fixed on the lights.
“You ever get used to it?” he asked.
Morph’s smile didn’t reach their eyes. “You stop noticing the weight.”
Logan said nothing.
For a few seconds, all that moved was the city wind tugging at the edge of Morph’s gown, and the distant pulse of music leaking from the ballroom.
Then Morph straightened and sighed. “We should get back in. Still have a few more hands to shake and a few more exits to map.”
Logan nodded once. No complaint.
Morph turned and slipped inside first, their face already resetting into the expression people expected to see.
Later, the music faded behind the thick walls of the corridor, muffled into little more than a distant hum.
Morph stepped out of the restroom, posture perfect, dress flawless.
They barely made it two steps before a voice slurred from the shadows.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Sinister’s little showpiece.”
Morph froze.
A man emerged from the dim hallway, brandy on his breath and something cruel in his smile. Middle-aged, expensive suit rumpled and half-unbuttoned, tie askew.
His grin widened when he saw they hadn’t moved.
“Didn’t expect to see you out and about,” he said, licking his lips. “You used to be… more private.”
“Salmons.” Morph’s voice was cool, steady. “You weren’t on the guest list.”
“And Essex was,” he replied, lurching closer. “But I noticed he’s not here. I’ve got something for him. Something that'll get me back in good standing. Hellfire Intel. Names. Codes. Shipments. But I want something in return.”
Morph took a step back.
Salmons followed. “I want one more night,” he murmured. “Like old times. You remember, don’t you? You’d come in with that glass of wine and that fake smile, pretending I was worth your time.”
His hand lashed out, grabbing their wrist. Tight.
“I’ve got information,” he pressed, breath hot. “He’ll want it. So… how much for you, sweetheart?”
The growl came from behind him.
“Let go of them.”
Salmons turned, blinking blearily, just as Logan stepped from the shadows, shoulders filling the narrow corridor.
“I said,” Logan repeated, stepping forward, “let go.”
Salmons stiffened. “Who the hell are—”
Logan didn’t let him finish. He caught Salmons’ wrist in a single iron grip and squeezed.
A sharp, sickening crunch split the air. Salmons howled, crumpling, clutching his shattered hand.
Logan crouched beside him. “You ever touch them again, I’ll break more than your hand.”
Salmons whimpered, backing up against the wall like it might save him.
Logan rose, turning his back on him without hesitation.
Morph hadn’t moved. Still standing straight. Still silent.
Logan brushed a hand against their arm, gentle in contrast. “C’mon,” he murmured. “We’re leavin’.”
Morph didn’t argue.
They didn’t speak until they were back in the car.
Morph sat stiffly, one hand curled into the folds of their gown like they needed something solid to hold onto.
“You okay?” Logan asked.
Morph let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Is that a serious question?”
Logan’s jaw tightened.
“I didn’t know he was gonna be there,” Morph said after a beat. “That one was… early. One of Sinister’s first trades.”
Logan stayed quiet.
“I used to think if I was beautiful enough, charming enough, useful enough…” Their voice thinned, eyes turning raw as they met his. “He’d stop treating me like property.”
Logan held their gaze. “You ain’t property.”
Morph looked away, their reflection smeared in the dark window. “Tonight, I remembered I still look like it.”
The silence after was heavier, settling over them for blocks.
Finally, Morph kicked off their heels and tucked their feet beneath them, the hem of their gown spilling across the leather seat. “He’s gonna be pissed we left early.”
“Let him be,” Logan grunted.
Morph shook their head. “He won’t care about Salmons. He’ll care that I didn’t finish the sweep. Didn’t see if Denti’s wife showed up.”
“You got plenty,” Logan countered. “Guard rotations. Denti buttered up. Security panel in the corridor.”
Morph turned, surprised. “You were watching all that?”
“I don’t just stare at you in mirrors.”
That earned a faint smile. Tired around the edges, but real. “Yeah,” Morph said. “Sinister’ll like that. Enough to ease the rest, maybe.”
Logan shifted, uncomfortable. “We could use his jealousy.”
Morph’s brow arched.
Logan didn’t look at them. “He’s possessive. Treats you like… like a thing that belongs to him. I’ll say I was protecting his property. Making sure Salmons didn’t touch what’s his.”
The words hung bitter in the air.
Morph didn’t react right away. Just blinked, then nodded once. “Yeah. That’ll work.”
Logan finally turned to them. “It shouldn’t have to.”
Morph met his eyes, voice flat. “It’s just the way it is.”
Logan’s hand curled into a fist against his thigh.
The car pulled into the private garage of the Essex Building, the noise of the city falling away as the elevator doors slid open to meet them. The ride up to Sinister’s office was silent, glass walls reflecting their tired faces, the weight of the night pressing in from all sides.
When they arrived, the office was dark and empty.
A flicker of relief passed over Morph’s face, quickly hidden.
“He’s not back yet,” Logan said.
Morph didn’t answer. They just turned back to the elevator and pressed the button for the penthouse.
Another elevator. Another ride in silence.
When the doors opened, Morph walked straight to the bar. Their steps were quick and deliberate, like if they stopped moving, something might catch up to them.
They pulled out two crystal tumblers, uncorked something amber and expensive. They poured without measuring and handed one to Logan.
Logan raised an eyebrow but drank.
Morph downed theirs in one go, then poured another. And another. After the second, their shoulders dropped. After the third, they kicked off their shoes again and flopped onto the couch, laughing softly at nothing in particular.
“God,” they muttered. “I have a love-hate relationship with these gowns. Beautiful death traps. I can’t breathe in them. Can’t even stab anyone properly.”
Logan sat nearby, watching them with a guarded sort of amusement. “You stab a lot of people at parties?”
Morph leaned back on their elbows, eyes half-lidded. “Only the boring ones.”
That pulled a gruff laugh out of Logan, raw and unexpected.
Morph smiled. “See? Knew I could get you to laugh again.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m talented.”
Logan shook his head, still smirking. But when Morph reached to pour a fourth, he leaned forward and gently covered their hand.
“Hey,” he said, voice quiet. “Maybe slow down.”
Morph stilled. Their eyes dropped to the glass. Then to his hand. “It makes it easier,” they whispered.
Before Logan could say anything, the elevator chimed behind them.
The doors slid open.
Logan stood. Morph didn’t move.
Sinister stepped inside like he owned the air itself. Immaculate, long coat swirling, gloves in hand, his eyes gleaming with something… sinister.
“Ah,” he said. “My favorite pair of assets.”
The warmth in the room vanished like it had never been there.
Logan stood just behind Morph as they laid out the photos, maps, and notes across the glass table. The report was flawless, everything they’d observed at the gala, down to the number of steps between the guard rotations and the exact model of the keypad on the service stairwell.
Sinister lounged on the couch. “Impressive,” he murmured, flipping through the pages with gloved fingers. “And you gathered all this before slinking out early?”
“There was an incident,” Logan said. His voice was calm. “One of your old associates cornered Morph outside the ballroom. Tried to barter for them.”
Sinister raised a brow. “Who?”
Morph didn’t look up. “Salmons.”
“I assumed he’d show his face again. Vultures always do.” Sinister set the papers aside and leaned back. “Still doesn’t explain the early exit.”
Logan shifted slightly, keeping his face stone. “I didn’t want him tainting what’s yours.” The words scraped like glass in his throat.
Sinister stilled. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Oh,” he said softly. “Very good, Wolverine.”
His eyes slid to Morph, who smiled on cue.
Sinister reached over and ran a finger down Morph’s jaw. “You’re well protected, my dear. Aren’t you lucky?”
Morph didn’t flinch. Just tilted their head like it was expected. Like it was nothing.
Logan’s stomach turned.
Sinister’s hand moved to Morph’s shoulder. Then down their arm. Casual. Claiming.
“You’re learning, Wolverine. More useful than I assumed.” He stood, tugging gently at Morph’s hand to bring them to their feet.
“Turn in for the night,” he said to Logan, the command clear. “You’ve earned some rest.”
The elevator doors opened. Sinister guided Morph inside with practiced ease. Their eyes flicked to Logan’s in the last second before the doors shut.
Up. To the floor above. To Sinister’s room.
Logan was left in the penthouse, fists clenched, the taste of those words still rotting on his tongue.
Logan lay flat on the bed, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it owed him answers. He hadn’t turned the lights on when he came in. Didn’t bother changing out of the damn suit, either. Just lay there, running the evening on a loop.
Why did it bother him so much?
Morph was a stranger. Beautiful, sure. Smart. Dangerous. Quick with a joke.
But Logan had worked with people like that before. He’d seen survivors, players in the game.
This was different.
He’d seen the way Morph stiffened when Sinister touched them. The way they laughed with whiskey in their veins, then faltered when they whispered, it makes it easier.
And it had done something to him. Twisted something up inside.
Logan didn’t get attached. Definitely not in a day.
But here he was. Lying awake in a penthouse that reeked of money and power, unable to sleep because someone he barely knew was spending the night with a monster.
A monster he was working for.
The clock read 1:04 a.m.. Logan stared at it like he could will it to change.
Then—
Ding.
The elevator.
Logan sat up immediately.
Footsteps slowly made their way down the hallway. Slow and uneven.
His door creaked open before he even realized he was moving.
He reached the door to Morph’s room and saw that it hadn't quite shut all the way.
He hesitated. Then pushed it open.
The lights were off, but his eyes adjusted fast. The scent hit him first, unmistakably Morph, but layered now with copper and adrenaline.
They were on the floor by the bed, back against the wall. The midnight gown torn across the ribs, streaked with blood, one shoulder bare. And their body, not the one he’d seen before.
Gray skin. No nose. No hair. Eyes white as bone.
Their chest rose and fell in shallow, deliberate breaths. A tremor ran through their fingers. But it was still them. Logan could smell it.
Their head snapped up at his step. “Sorry,” Morph choked out. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Wasn’t asleep.”
“I—shit.” They looked down at their gray hands. “I’m sorry,” they whispered. “I didn’t mean to let it drop. I just…I was bleeding too much, I panicked. I didn’t have time—”
Their skin shimmered. Shifted. An arm rippled, reshaping, color returning, hair sprouting.
Then they winced. Hissed. The shape collapsed. Snapped back to gray.
Logan knelt in front of them before they could try again.
“Don’t,” he said. “Stop pushin’ yourself.”
Morph blinked at him, startled. They searched his face for disgust, for fear, for judgment. But there was none. Only concern. And a contained fury that someone had left them like this.
“I’m not scared of you,” Logan said softly.
Morph’s eyes flickered, unguarded for the first time all night. Not sharp. Not clever. Just exposed and exhausted. “…You should be.”
Logan shook his head. “Nah.”
He reached out slowly, giving them every chance to stop him. They didn’t.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Morph leaned into his arm more than they realized as he helped them up. Their body trembled with every step.
In the bathroom, Logan ran warm water. Found a towel. Morph sat silent on the closed toilet lid as he knelt beside them, carefully dabbing away the blood along their ribs and shoulder.
The fabric peeled back at the seams, revealing more damage beneath. What made him still wasn’t the fresh wounds. It was the scars.
Dozens of them. Thin lines across the torso. Burn marks on the upper arms. Narrow cuts along the sides and hips. Some faint and faded, others still raw.
Logan’s hand stilled. His voice was low. “How often does this happen?”
Morph stared at the tile wall. “Do you mean the sex or the beatings?”
His jaw clenched. “Both.”
A long exhale. “Now? I only get hurt if I make a mistake. Or if he’s having a bad day. Or if he’s feeling nostalgic.”
Logan gripped the towel tighter, almost tearing it.
Morph looked up, reading his face. “It’s not as bad as it used to be.”
Somehow, that made it worse.
They let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You know what I’m most upset about? I really liked this dress.”
Logan blinked.
Morph ran their fingers over the torn hem. “It made me feel strong. Pretty, even. And now it’s ruined.”
Logan stood after a long silence. Went to the linen closet and pulled out a heavy black robe. He handed it to them.
“It’s not your fault,” he said.
Morph didn’t argue. But they didn’t agree, either.
Logan helped Morph back to their room.
Their steps were steadier now, the worst of the tremors fading with the warmth of the robe around their shoulders and the solid presence beside them.
He didn’t rush them. Just stayed close, one hand at their back, guiding without pushing.
When they reached the bed, Morph sat on the edge carefully, holding the robe closed over their chest. Logan pulled the blanket down, smoothing it out like it mattered.
“You want me to stay?” he asked. “Just until you fall asleep.”
Morph looked up, surprised. “Yeah. I’d... like that.”
Logan dragged the chair from the corner, close enough to see their face.
Morph eased under the covers, one arm tucked beneath their head, white eyes never leaving him.
“Thank you, Wolverine,” they murmured.
“You can call me Logan.”
Morph’s mouth curled into a smile. Not the sly smirk they wore at the party. Not the practiced charm Sinister had polished into a weapon. A real smile. Small. Crooked. Honest.
It was the most beautiful thing Logan had ever seen.
Notes:
Trigger Warnings: Referenced Sexual Assault, Attempted Assault. Referenced Physical Abuse, Canon Typical Violence
Chapter 4: A Killing
Summary:
Sinister makes a request of Morph, and Logan learns something new.
Notes:
Updating around once a month.
Trigger Warnings in End Notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The smell of food pulled Logan out of a light, restless sleep. He hadn’t made it back to his room, just dozed off in the chair beside Morph’s bed.
When he stepped into the main room, a servant was setting down the second covered tray. The man nodded once and disappeared into the elevator without a word.
Logan went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee.
Morph appeared in the doorway a few seconds later. Their hair was tousled just enough to look effortless, their skin flawless, and their eyes a warm brown. No bruises. No scars. Good as new. Like last night had never happened.
“Morning,” they said lightly, crossing the room with a stretch. “Is that coffee for me, or are you hoarding it?”
Logan handed over a mug without comment.
Morph took a sip and sighed theatrically. “You may be grumpy, but you’re a saint with caffeine.” They drifted to the table and lifted the silver lids from both trays.
Logan stopped beside them. His tray was piled high with eggs, sausage, toast, fruit, and a glass of juice.
Morph’s tray held half a slice of toast, a small cup of yogurt, and one strawberry, halved.
Logan frowned. “That all you get?”
Morph blinked. “What?”
He nodded at the plate. “Your breakfast. That ain’t enough to keep a dog goin’, let alone someone who can shift their body mass.”
Morph’s smile thinned. “He must still be mad this morning.” They shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
Logan’s jaw worked, but he didn’t push. He just watched.
Morph felt it, the weight of his silence. They tilted their head. “What?”
He took a slow breath. “You sleep all right?”
Morph’s faint smile didn’t reach their eyes. “Like a rock.”
They looked away, nibbling at the toast like nothing was wrong. Like they hadn’t been bloodied and broken less than eight hours ago.
Logan sat across from them. Took a bite of egg. Swallowed.
“You don’t gotta pretend,” he said quietly.
Morph looked up. “Pretend what?”
“That you’re fine.”
“I’m not pretending,” they murmured. “I’m surviving.”
They sipped their coffee again and changed the subject.
Later that morning, the sound of the elevator chime cut through the quiet.
A servant stepped out, black suit immaculate, voice clipped and formal. “Morph, you’re needed for a demonstration on Sublevel Three.”
Logan saw it. Just a flicker of something. A tightening in Morph’s jaw. The barest pause before they smoothed it away and rose from the couch.
“Of course,” Morph said, all polished ease.
The servant waited by the open elevator. Logan fell into step beside Morph without asking.
As the doors slid shut, Logan glanced at them. “Sublevel Three?”
Morph’s eyes flicked to the servant and then back to Logan. “You’ll see.”
The elevator began its descent, its glass walls giving way to steel, as the air cooled with each drop. When the doors finally opened, the stench of blood hit Logan’s nose hard. He followed Morph down a narrow corridor to where Ruckus waited beside an open metal door.
Inside, three men sat bound to chairs. Salmon and two others. Their faces were beaten raw, shirts torn and stained dark.
Sinister stood behind a reinforced glass window, hands folded neatly behind his back.
When Morph stepped into the room, his voice crackled over the speaker. “Ah, good. Right on time.”
Morph didn’t acknowledge him.
“Morph.” Sinister said, “Remind Salmon and his associates what happens to those who touch my things.”
Morph stood motionless in the center of the room. Their fingers twitched at their sides, and then their whole body seized up, like something inside them was fighting to scream.
Then they shifted. Their arms extended, long, metal claws emerged from elongated fingers. Within a blink, Morph was gone, and Lady Deathstrike stood in their place.
Salmons made a strangled sound, half plea, half scream.
Morph moved before it finished leaving his throat.
Three strikes. Chest. Throat. Skull. The sound was wet, blood sprayed across the floor, spattering their arms and face. The chair toppled with a metallic clang. Then silence.
Sinister’s voice returned over the speaker, almost tender. “An elegant solution. Loyalty, obedience, and spectacle. All in one. Let the others go, Ruckus. So they can share the lesson they learned today.”
Morph stayed still for a long moment. Then their skin rippled, returning to its usual form. They looked down at themselves. At the blood drying against their hands and the pale fabric of their shirt. “Can I go now?” they asked.
Sinister smiled faintly through the glass. “Yes, my dear. You may go.”
Morph nodded once. No expression. No hesitation. They turned and walked out of the room without another word. Logan followed.
In the elevator, neither spoke.
When the doors opened into the penthouse, the warmth of the room felt jarring after the cold below.
Morph stepped inside first, past the couch, past the bar, straight toward their bedroom.
Logan didn’t stop them. He just watched until the door clicked shut, then turned to look out over the city through the windows.
By midday, the penthouse had gone still. Morph’s bedroom door stayed shut.
Logan found himself pacing the length of the main room more than once, his steps always drifting back to their door. He’d stand there for a beat, listening for the slow, even breaths on the other side. Then he’d walk away.
The hours crawled. The city outside shifted from white daylight to orange, then into the blue haze of evening. The noise behind that door didn’t change.
When the elevator chimed just after sunset, a servant appeared with dinner.
Logan stood over the trays for a long moment. Roast chicken, vegetables, and bread. Two full plates.
Morph wasn’t coming out to eat. He could feel it in his gut. So he picked up the plates, crossed the room, and knocked lightly on the bedroom door.
No answer.
“Morph,” he said, “Got dinner.”
Still nothing.
He tried the handle; it turned easily. Inside, the curtains were drawn tight, leaving only a thin line of city light across the floor. Morph was curled on the far side of the bed, back to the door.
Logan set their plate on the nightstand, pulled the chair from the corner closer, and sat down.
“You should eat somethin’,” he said.
Morph didn’t move.
He waited a few seconds, then added, “Ain’t askin’ for small talk. Just… keep your strength up.”
The silence stretched. Then Morph moved just enough to glance at the plate, then at him.
“You gonna sit there ‘til I do?” they asked, voice quiet, hoarse.
“Yep.”
Their mouth twitched, maybe the start of a smile. Finally, they pushed up to sit, slowly, like their body hurt.
Logan handed them their plate.
They picked up the fork but didn’t start eating right away. Just held it, looking down at the food.
Logan had just taken a bite from his plate when Morph spoke, “I didn’t have a choice.”
He looked up. “What?”
Morph’s gaze stayed on the food. “This morning. With Salmons.” Their voice was steady, but something brittle hid beneath it. “There’s a chip. Here.” They lifted a hand and tapped just above their right temple, fingers trembling before dropping back to their lap. “A neural chip. He can trigger it whenever he wants. Make me shift. Make me kill. Make me… whatever he wants, really.”
Logan froze.
Morph let out a slow breath, shaky on the exhale. “Sometimes I’m still in there while it happens. Sometimes I’m not. Depends on how hard he pushes. If he really wants control, I black out.”
Logan finally spoke, voice low, rough. “You ever try to take it out?”
They shook their head, “It’s like my body won’t let me.” Morph whispered. “Even if I could, it’s… fused into my nervous system. My brain. Sinister made sure of it. If anyone tries to remove it, it’ll fry everything around it.” They tapped the side of their head again, softer this time. “Including me.”
Logan put his fork down, appetite gone. “He ever use it when you’re not fightin’?”
Morph nodded. “When I talk back. When I hesitate. When he wants to remind me what I am.” Their voice cracked, just a little. “Sometimes I’ll lose whole days. I’ll wake up in different forms. Different rooms. Usually with no memory of what I’d done.”
Morph’s voice trailed off. The hum of the city filled the silence for a moment. Then, barely above a whisper, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’ve never told anyone.” They swallowed hard. “But I didn’t want you thinking I just—” their breath caught, “—that I want to do those things. That I kill for him because I like it. Or because I’m loyal.” Their eyes lifted, finally meeting his.
“I didn’t.”
Morph blinked, like they hadn’t expected that answer. “You don’t even know me.”
“Don’t need to, I saw your face after. That wasn’t someone who wanted it.”
For a long time, Morph didn’t answer. They just stared back down at the plate between their hands, watching the steam fade from the food they’d never really started eating.
Then, softly: “You should go.”
Logan frowned. “You kickin’ me out?”
“I just—” they started, then stopped. The words caught halfway, something raw flickering behind their eyes before they forced it down. A faint, practiced smile curved their mouth. “I’ve already spilled one secret tonight,” they said lightly. “Can’t afford to start handing out the rest.”
Logan saw the effort behind the smile, the way their fingers tightened slightly on the fork. But he didn’t push.
“Fine,” he said gruffly. “Long as you promise to eat.”
Morph’s smile softened, tired but real this time. “Yes, sir.”
“Mean it.”
They gave a small salute with the fork.
Logan shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. He stood, taking a slow breath. “Get some rest.”
“Goodnight, Logan.”
He paused at the door, glanced back. “Eat,” he reminded them quietly. Then he left, closing the door behind him.
On the other side, Morph’s smile faded. They stared at the untouched plate for a long moment before finally lifting the fork and taking a small, mechanical bite, because a promise was a promise.
Notes:
Trigger Warnings: Canon Typical Violence
Chapter 5: A Dinner
Summary:
Morph attends a dinner with Sinister.
Notes:
Updating around once a month.
Trigger Warnings in End Notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Logan was already at the table by the time Morph came out of their room. Morning light spilled through the penthouse windows, catching on the two trays the servant had set out before disappearing without a word. Beside the breakfast spread sat a neat stack of black folders.
Morph glanced at them, then at Logan. “Guess he’s starting early today.”
Logan handed them a coffee mug. “What’s all that?”
Morph slid into the chair opposite him, opening the top folder. Inside were photographs paired with printed bios. Name. Age. Affiliations. Known addresses. Known enemies.
“This happens a lot,” Morph said, flipping to the next page without hesitation. “Sinister has me memorize people. Names, faces, backgrounds. Who they work for, who they answer to.”
Logan picked up a photo. A young woman in her late twenties with sharp eyes. He glanced at the bio. Politician’s daughter. Harvard Law. Two DUIs buried under a list of donations, “And what? You gotta...turn into ‘em?”
“Sometimes. Or if I see them at an event, I need to know how to approach or avoid them. He likes me to be ready. Sometimes it’s harmless. Distract someone, keep them busy while a goon does the real work. Other times… less harmless.” They took a sip of coffee, then reached for the toast without looking at him. “It’s easier if I know more than just their face.”
Logan set the folder down. “So he’s got you rehearsin’ other people before you even know what the job is.”
“That’s the point. I’m not supposed to think. Just be ready.” Their tone was flat and practiced. Like they’d said the same thing too many times to count.
Logan didn’t push. He just reached for the next folder and slid it toward himself, eyes narrowing at the photo clipped to the first page.
An hour later, they were still sitting at the breakfast table, plates clean. Logan flipped the folder open. “Alright. Tell me about this one.”
Morph barely even glanced over. “Billy Russo. Runs a private security firm out of Miami, but that’s a front for smuggling high-grade weapons from South America. Prefers Scotch over bourbon, wears Tom Ford cologne, and has a bad knee from a skiing accident three years ago. He’s right-handed, but uses his left for handshakes because it makes people drop their guard.”
Logan furrowed his brow as he read the bio. “That part ain’t in here.”
Morph shrugged, chewing a piece of toast. “Sinister mentioned it once. I remember what’s useful.”
Logan slid another photo from the pile and held it up without showing the name. “Alright. This one.”
Morph’s eyes flicked to it for half a second. “Whitney Frost. Owns a jewelry store in Paris that’s actually a front for laundering money. Allergic to shellfish. Only drinks champagne. She’ll flirt only to distract you; she prefers women.”
Logan set the picture down slowly. “You weren’t kiddin’.”
Morph smiled faintly. “It’s a job.”
Logan leaned back in his chair. “Most folks can’t keep track of what they had for breakfast yesterday. You’ve got a whole damn rolodex in your head.”
“That’s why he keeps me,” Morph said simply, pouring more coffee. “And why I’m not allowed to forget.”
Logan didn’t answer. But he kept flipping through the files with them, testing names at random. Every time, Morph answered without hesitation.
After twenty minutes, Logan shut the last folder. “Alright, you win.”
Morph smirked. “What’s my prize?”
“Knowin’ you’re wastin’ your talent workin’ for him.”
Morph’s smirk faltered, just for a moment. But before either of them could say anything else, the elevator chimed.
A servant stepped out, approached the table, bowed his head slightly, and began gathering the trays with brisk, practiced movements.
“Morph,” he said without inflection, “Mr. Essex requests your presence in his office.”
Morph’s posture changed in an instant, shoulders pulling back, spine straightening as if a string had been yanked tight.
“Did he say why?” Morph asked.
“No,” the servant replied.
Morph pushed their chair back with measured calm, even though Logan could smell the spike of panic under their skin.
“Great,” Morph murmured as they collected the folders.
Logan rose as well. “I’m comin’ with you.”
Morph didn’t tell him no.
They just nodded once and headed toward the elevator without another word.
The elevator ride down to Sinister’s floor was silent except for the low hum of machinery and the soft, restless tap of Morph’s fingers against the folders. Logan noticed it. Sinister would too.
Sinister was sitting behind his desk, looking like someone who had never once known a bad mood. It made Logan’s skin crawl.
“Morph,” he greeted warmly, spreading his arms as if welcoming a favored child. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
He stepped out from behind the desk, his long coat whispering over the floor. He reached for Morph’s hand, brushing a kiss against the back of it. “You made quite an impression on Denti the other night. He and his lovely wife have agreed to join us for dinner here tomorrow evening.”
Morph gave a polite, measured smile. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“You’ll charm them,” Sinister said, almost purring. “As you always do.”
His gaze slid past Morph to Logan. “And you,” he said, tone still pleasant but edged with command, “will be present in the dining hall. Security purposes.”
Logan gave a short nod. “Fine.”
Sinister returned his attention to Morph, reaching to straighten a wrinkle in the sleeve of their shirt. “And about the folders you received this morning, those are for next week’s charity ball. It will be the perfect opportunity to network.”
Morph inclined their head in acknowledgment. “Understood.”
Sinister’s smile widened just enough to show teeth. “Good. Now, enjoy the rest of your day, both of you. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
The next day, after lunch and a shower, Logan wandered into the penthouse’s main room.
Morph was on the couch and Ruckus was beside them.
Logan’s shoulders tightened instantly.
Morph’s posture told him everything: sitting forward, elbows on their knees, jaw clenched. Their voice was clipped, sharp-edged, nothing like the smooth charm Logan was used to hearing.
“Just spit it out, Ruckus,” they snapped. “I don’t have all day.”
Ruckus lounged back like he was on vacation, ankle propped on his knee, grin oily as always. “Testy today, sweetheart. Must be the big dinner tonight. Nerves?”
Morph’s eyes narrowed. “Say what you came to say.”
Logan stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. Ruckus clocked him but didn’t move.
“Fine, fine,” Ruckus sighed dramatically. “Boss got wind of somethin’ interesting. Turns out Carl Denti, our delightful dinner guest, is anti-mutant.”
Morph’s expression didn’t change.
Ruckus continued, twirling a ring on his finger. “Apparently our boy Denti’s all for mutants bein’ used as living weapons. Oh, he looooves that. But mutants in positions of power?” He tsked. “He thinks it’s ‘dangerous.’ Real cute coming from an arms dealer.”
Morph’s jaw flexed once. “So what does Essex want?”
“Simple.” Ruckus leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “He doesn’t want Denti learnin’ what you really are.”
Morph sat back. “That shouldn’t be an issue. Essex doesn’t let me shift without permission anyway.”
“Oh,” Ruckus purred, lips curling, “he gives you plenty of permission when you’re in bed wi—”
“Get the fuck out.”
Logan’s voice hit the room like a hammer.
Ruckus closed his mouth with an audible click. Logan took a slow step forward, expression promising violence.
“You got anything else useful,” Logan growled, “say it. Otherwise get out.”
Ruckus held up both hands, mocking innocence. “Hey now, no need to get all territorial—”
“Out,” Logan repeated.
This time, the threat was unmistakable.
Ruckus glanced at Morph, who didn’t look at him, didn’t speak, didn’t defend him. Their face was stone.
Ruckus chuckled under his breath. “Touchy bunch.” He pushed off the couch and sauntered toward the elevator. “See you at dinner, darlings.”
When the doors slid shut behind him, the penthouse fell quiet again.
Morph exhaled and their shoulders eased just a fraction.
“You didn’t have to do that,” they said, voice quieter now.
“Yeah, I did.” Logan crossed his arms. “So. You gonna tell me why you hate him so much?”
Morph didn’t look up right away. Then they huffed a humorless breath and leaned back, gaze lifting toward Logan with a faint smirk.
“Because he exists,” they said dryly. “Isn’t that enough?”
Logan raised a brow.
Morph shrugged one shoulder. “He’s loud. He’s smug. He smells like a nightclub bathroom. And one time he told me he wanted to write a book of inspirational quotes. From himself. That’s a crime, Logan. A crime.”
Logan’s mouth twitched. “That supposed to be funny?”
“I’m trying,” Morph said dramatically laying sideways onto the couch. “On a scale from one to ten, how close am I to making you laugh?”
“Three,” Logan grunted.
“Three?” Morph gasped. “Ouch. Even tougher crowd than usual.”
Logan shook his head, but let a tiny smile escape. Morph smiled back.
The elevator chimed again.
Both of them turned as a servant stepped out, immaculate as always, carrying a long black garment bag draped over both arms. “Delivery,” he said.
Morph stood, accepting the bag with the same controlled grace they used for everything Sinister touched. “Thank you.”
The servant left without another word.
Morph unzipped the garment bag.
Logan watched their face tighten before he saw what was inside.
A red dress.
Deep, violent red. The color of wine and blood and bad memories. The kind of red Sinister liked.
Morph stared at it for a long second, their jaw tightening before they smoothed their expression back into something neutral.
“Of course,” they muttered. “Red. Subtle as always.”
They zipped the bag shut again. “Well. I guess that answers the question of what I’m wearing.”
Logan frowned. “You okay with that?”
Morph gave a soft, brittle laugh. “Doesn’t matter what I am okay with.”
Then they straightened the bag over their arm like a soldier carrying a shield.
“I’m gonna go get ready,” they said quietly.
Logan nodded once.
Morph started toward the hallway, then paused, before turning their head slightly.
“I’ll work on getting that 3 a little higher while I’m gone,” they said, weakly teasing.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Logan shot back.
Morph’s lips twitched and then they disappeared down the hall with the red dress.
He was really starting to hate red.
When Logan entered the dining hall, the table was already set for four, each place gleaming beneath the crystal chandeliers. Silverware aligned like soldiers, wine glasses perfectly angled, everything as elegant and sterile as the man who owned the building.
Morph arrived on Sinister’s arm.
Every line of their body was perfect; posture flawless, hair braided into an intricate cascade, smile soft and warm enough to pass as genuine. A diamond choker glittered at their throat like a collar, catching the light every time they breathed.
Logan took his post near the far end of the room, close enough to hear everything, far enough to look like just another piece of security.
The double doors opened again. Carl Denti strode in with his wife, Michelle, on his arm. She was tall and elegant in silver silk, her eyes moving across the room with a cool, predatory sweep.
“Ah, Mr. Denti,” Sinister greeted warmly, releasing Morph only long enough to clasp the man’s hand. “And Mrs. Denti, you look radiant. Welcome.”
The introductions unfolded smoothly, every word a performance. Denti took Morph’s hand and kissed their knuckles, eyes lingering with a glint Logan didn’t like one damn bit. Morph’s smile didn’t flicker.
They all took their seats.
Logan stayed standing, stiff-backed and watchful.
Dinner was theater. Sinister played gracious host, Denti the charming guest, Michelle the watchful shadow. Morph was the perfect ornament; laughing when required, angling conversations toward shipping routes and “investments,” all without ever touching the real negotiations simmering beneath the surface.
Logan’s attention kept snagging on Michelle. She was studying Morph, not with jealousy, but calculation. Cold. Assessing. As if she were cataloging weaknesses.
At one point, Sinister leaned close to Morph and murmured something into their ear. Morph’s shoulders stiffened for half a breath before smoothing out again.
Logan’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
By dessert, Denti was laughing a little too loudly, Sinister was smiling a little too broadly, and Morph’s wine glass had been refilled more times than Logan cared to count.
Eventually, the Dentis stood to leave. Sinister escorted them to the door. Morph followed, graceful as ever, until the elevator whisked the guests away.
The moment the doors shut, Silence settled over the dining hall. Logan lingered near the wall, waiting to see if they were dismissed or trapped for more.
Morph had just turned toward the elevator when Sinister’s voice cut through the air.
“Stay.”
Morph froze, then turned back, hands loosely clasped in front of them.
Sinister dismissed the remaining servants with a single flick of his fingers. The room emptied, leaving a thick, suffocating quiet.
He returned to the head of the table, trailing a gloved finger along the rim of his wine glass before lifting his gaze to Morph.
“You were excellent tonight.”
Morph offered a small, polished smile. “Glad to hear it.”
“Denti is a difficult man to charm,” Sinister continued. “He likes to think every move is his own idea. You—”he tilted his head, admiring “made him feel powerful without giving him anything of substance. That is a useful feature of yours.”
Logan’s jaw tightened at the word feature. Like Morph was a device. A function.
Sinister stepped closer. Close enough to touch if he wished.
“Tonight went very well,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Denti was generous in his offers. Quite generous.” His smile curved, thin and predatory. “Men like him never give without expecting something in return.”
Morph didn’t move.
Sinister ran a finger down Morph’s check. “At the charity ball next week, you’ll give him what he thinks he’s earned. Attention. Exclusivity. A sense that he is favored.”
Morph’s voice was steady. “Understood.”
“And his wife,” Sinister continued smoothly, “You’ll make her feel just as important.”
His hand lifted moved to brush along the diamond choker at Morph’s throat.
“They are snakes, my dear…but snakes can be taught to coil where you wish.” His hand pulled at the chocker. “And you guide them exquisitely.”
Logan felt every muscle in his body tighten like drawn wire, but he didn’t move. Not yet.
“Go get some rest,” Sinster said releasing Morph. “Tomorrow, we’ll discuss the charity ball.”
Morph nodded, turned, and walked toward the elevator Logan fell in behind them the moment Sinister’s back was turned, eyes fixed ahead until the doors closed, sealing them in with their reflections.
Morph reached up immediately, fingers sliding under the clasp at the back of their neck. The diamond necklace slipped free in a smooth, practiced motion.
They didn’t even look at it before setting it in Logan’s palm. “Put that somewhere I won’t have to see it.”
Logan closed his hand around the cool weight of it. “He give you that tonight?”
Morph’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “He gives me something every time he’s especially pleased. Jewels, clothes, trips. Like a cat dropping dead birds at your door.”
Logan looked at them sidelong. “You did good tonight.”
The elevator chimed on their floor.
Morph pushed off the wall, stepping out first. “Get some sleep, Logan.”
Logan followed, the diamond necklace still cold in his hand.
The scream ripped through the penthouse.
“—No! Get out!”
Logan was awake before he understood why. Instinct slammed through him. He was already at the door, hand twisting the knob. It wasn’t locked. Or maybe he’d forced it. He didn’t care.
Inside, Morph was on the floor.
Not tangled in blankets, writhing in them, curled forward, hands clamped to their temples so hard their fingers shook. Their breaths came in sharp, broken gasps, each one sounding like pain. Gray skin slick with sweat. Their whole body trembling like they were fighting something he couldn’t see.
“It’s not real,” Morph choked, rocking slightly. “It’s not—he’s not—it’s not real—”
Logan froze only for a heartbeat. Then he stepped inside, voice low but strong.
“Morph. Hey—hey. It’s me.”
Morph didn’t look up. Didn’t even seem to hear. Their fingers dug harder into their temples.
“He was here,” they whispered, voice cracked and terrified. “He was in my head—he—he was talking to me—touching me—he—” Their breath hitched, a sob strangled and forced back down. “I couldn’t wake up. I tried. I tried—”
Logan knelt in front of them. “It was a nightmare,” he murmured. “That’s all. You’re safe. Sinister ain’t here.”
Morph’s shook their head. “No, He wasn’t here—he was in my head.” Their hands tightened against their skull as if trying to pull something out. “He used the chip—he can make dreams—he can make them feel real—” A shuddering breath. “I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t shift. I couldn’t—”
Logan’s chest went tight. “Look at me.”
Morph didn’t.
“Hey,” Logan said again, firmer now. “Morph. Look at me.”
Slowly they lifted their eyes.
He didn’t flinch at what he saw. Didn’t recoil from the gray skin or the fear ripping through their expression. He just held their gaze like it was solid ground.
“You’re here,” Logan said quietly. “You’re awake. He ain’t in your head now.”
Morph’s breath hitched again, chest trembling. “I hate that he can do that,” they whispered. “I hate that he gets inside. Makes me see things. Makes me feel things.” Their voice cracked. “I can’t tell what’s real when he does it.”
Logan shook his head once, slow, steady. “This is real. Me. You. This room. Not him.”
Morph swallowed hard, throat working around the panic. Their hands finally slid away from their temples, fingers curling weakly in their lap.
“I’m sorry,” they whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You gonna be alright?” Logan asked.
Morph nodded. Then shook their head. Then rubbed their face with both hands and tried again. “Yeah. Just…need a minute.”
Logan stood but didn’t move toward the door. “You want me to stay?”
“…Would you?”
Logan didn’t answer. He just walked over and sat down against the wall beside them.
Morph leaned against him slowly, like they didn’t quite trust their body to hold them up on its own.
Their breathing stayed uneven for a long time.
Logan didn’t move or speak. He just stayed.
Morph’s breaths eventually softened, the trembling in their limbs easing until their weight settled fully against Logan, heavy now with exhaustion, their body finally surrendering to sleep.
Logan stayed there a moment, listening to their breathing steady out, feeling the last traces of panic fade from their muscles.
Then, carefully, he moved. “Morph,” he murmured, testing whether they’d wake.
They didn’t. Just curled instinctively closer, trusting in a way that hit him harder than it should’ve.
Logan slid an arm under their knees and another behind their shoulders, lifting them with the same quiet care he hadn’t shown anyone in years. Morph’s head dropped against his chest, breath warm against his collarbone.
He carried them to the bed and set them down, pulling the sheets up around their shoulders.
Morph didn’t stir.
Logan stood there a moment longer, watching the slow rise and fall of their chest.
Then he stepped back, keeping the door cracked just enough to hear if they needed him again.
The next morning, sunlight pushed weakly through the tall windows, pale against the skyline.
Morph was already at the table when Logan walked into the main room, coffee in one hand, a fork full of eggs in the other.
They looked like they always did; skin warm-toned, long brown hair styled, eyes a soft brown. Not a mark in sight.
Logan sat down across from them, studying their face for a long moment before finally asking, “Why d’you do that?”
Morph looked up, mid-bite. “Do what?”
“Shift. Even when no one’s around.” He gestured vaguely at them. “Last night…you were in your real skin. Now you’re not.”
The fork paused halfway to their mouth.
Morph set it down carefully. “Because Sinister hates it.”
Logan’s brow furrowed.
“He says it’s ugly. Alien. Weak. He says if I’m going to be on display, I should at least be something worth looking at.” They gave a short, humorless laugh. “And if he ever catches me in my natural form when I’m not supposed to be…”
They didn’t finish the sentence. They didn’t have to.
Logan’s jaw tightened. “He punishes you.”
Morph met his gaze briefly, then looked back down at their plate. “Severely.”
There was a moment of silence before they added, “So it’s a habit now. I stay shifted unless I’m sleeping…or healing from something big and can’t control it.”
Logan didn’t say anything right away. He just kept looking at them, like he was trying to see past the skin they were wearing now.
“You shouldn’t have to hide just to keep from gettin’ hurt,” he said finally, low but certain.
Morph’s mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “You’d be surprised what you get used to.”
Logan had barely finished his coffee before the elevator chimed.
A servant stepped out. “Mr. Essex requests your presence in his office.”
Morph’s eyes drifted to their half-eaten eggs, then to Logan. “Guess we’re skipping the rest of breakfast.”
Logan pushed back his chair. “Guess so.”
When the doors to Sinister’s office opened, Sinister was already rising from behind his desk, gliding toward them with the smooth confidence of a man who owned everything, and everyone, he touched.
“Morph,” he greeted warmly. “Wolverine. I trust you’re both well-rested?”
“Enough,” Logan muttered.
Sinister ignored him completely, reaching out to trail a gloved fingertip down Morph’s arm, a gesture that might pass for affection if you didn’t know better.
“We have an important evening approaching next week,” he said. “The Essex Foundation’s charity ball. Morph, you’ll attend as my date, of course.”
Morph nodded, face polite, smooth, unreadable.
“But,” Sinister continued, turning and striding back toward his desk, “Plans have changed for the end of the night.”
He picked up a folder, tapping it lightly against his palm.
“Bolivar Trask will be in attendance. He’ll be accompanied by his… date.” He practically spat the word. “Her name is Crystal Star. Everything we know about her is in this folder.”
He extended it to Morph. Morph accepted it with steady hands.
“At approximately eleven thirty,” Sinister said, pacing again, “you’ll take her place and leave with Trask. The man is notoriously inattentive once he’s drunk. That should give you ample time to retrieve a certain file from the safe in his study.”
Morph’s brow creased. “What kind of file?”
“Classified weapon plans,” Sinister answered, tone soft and indulgent, as if explaining something to a child. “Nothing you need concern yourself with beyond it’s retrieval.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Simply return before dawn, preferably without a bullet in you.”
Logan stepped forward. “And my role?”
Sinister didn’t bother looking at him as he answered. “Security. You’ll remain at the ball until the evening concludes. Make sure no one bothers my lovely date before the switch.”
Finally, his gaze slid sharply between the two of them. “Understood?”
“Of course,” Morph said, offering a perfectly polished smile.
Logan just nodded.
Back in the penthouse, Logan returned to his abandoned breakfast, but Morph didn’t even look at theirs. They were already on the couch, two folders open across their lap; the new one on Crystal Star, and the older, thicker file on Bolivar Trask from the stack Sinister had given them earlier in the week.
Logan watched them flip pages with quick, efficient precision before finally speaking. “What’s the real play with this Trask guy?”
Morph leaned back, rubbing a thumb along the edge of a photograph. “As far as Sinister’s told me? He’s a robotics expert. Used to work for the Pentagon.”
Logan snorted. “Sinister doesn’t send you home with some drunk robotics nerd just for a couple papers. He’s got somethin’ bigger in mind.”
Morph’s mouth curved wryly. “Logan, I rarely get the full briefing. Half the time I don’t even know what I’m stealing until it’s already in his hands.”
Logan didn’t like that answer, his scowl made that clear.
“And Trask’s date?” he asked. “Girlfriend?”
“Definitely not.” Morph shook their head. “She’s an escort. High-end. He’s paying her to be seen with him.”
“You think she knows what she’s gettin’ into?”
Morph sighed, closing the folder. “No. Not even a little.”
Logan frowned. “So what happens to her once you take her place?”
“Sinister gives me an injectable. Fast-acting, safe enough. Puts the target to sleep almost instantly. One of his lackeys shows up, takes the unconscious person home, or to their hotel room, sets them up in bed, and leaves.”
“So she’ll just wake up thinkin’ she drank too much,” Logan muttered.
Morph nodded. “Exactly. He doesn’t kill the people I impersonate. That raises questions. Questions he doesn’t like.”
“Still sounds like one a hell of a violation.”
Morph’s expression shifted, whatever humor they’d tried for fell apart. Their voice dropped, barely above a murmur. “I know.”
For a moment they just stared at the folder in their lap, thumb tracing the edge of Crystal’s photo. Then they exhaled. “Hopefully for this girl, Crystal, I won’t have to do anything ‘as her’ that…changes her life.”
Morph closed the folder, fingers lingering on the cover. “But, Sinister’s already planned every step of this. Doesn’t matter what I want.”
“It should matter what you want,” Logan said quietly. “It sure as hell matters to me.”
Morph’s eyes lifted, startled. For a moment they looked like they might say something real. Something honest. Something that terrified them.
Instead, they broke the gaze with a soft huff of laughter. “Careful, Wolverine. If you keep saying things like that, I might start thinking you like me.” They stood. “I’m gonna go take a shower,” already heading down the hall, mask falling back into place.
Notes:
Trigger Warnings: None
Chapter 6: A Theft
Summary:
Morph attends the charity ball and steals stuff.
Notes:
Updating around once a month.
Trigger Warnings in End Notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The week before the charity ball passed slowly for Logan. Slowly and poorly.
Every morning, the elevator chimed after he’d finished his first cup of coffee, and every morning a servant appeared with the same line: “Mr. Essex requests Morph in his office.”
And every time, Logan followed.
Not inside, Sinister had made that clear the first day. Morph was ushered into the office like a prized exhibit while Logan and Ruckus were left outside the door like mismatched bookends. Logan stood with his arms crossed, doing his best not to put his claws through the wall. Ruckus leaned against the opposite side of the hallway, chewing gum and making a show of rolling his eyes every time the meeting dragged on.
Apparently, Sinister didn’t want any mutants near Carl Denti except the one he could control.
Ruckus hated it. Logan hated it more.
Ruckus kept complaining under his breath, “I’m his right hand, I should be in there,” but Logan could tell it wasn’t ambition alone. Ruckus wanted to be seen, wanted Sinister to look at him the way he looked at Morph.
Logan was just pissed he couldn’t make sure Morph was okay.
And Morph…Morph came out of every meeting looking a little more washed out, a little paler around the edges. They kept their mask intact, but Logan wasn’t blind. He saw the tension, the flicker in their eyes, the too-quick swallow when Sinister called after them.
Twice, they emerged with faint bruises blooming along their arms. Hand-shaped, the kind that made Logan’s blood run cold.
Morph brushed it off with a shrug.
“Denti’s an idiot who thinks with his dick,” they muttered one afternoon, rubbing absently at a spot near their elbow. “Sinister says I make him more…amicable to deals.”
Logan’s fists clenched.
Ruckus just snorted. “Yeah, well, Sinister could charm a corpse if he wanted. But he likes using you. Some of us are just built for the spotlight, huh?”
Logan turned his head slow enough to make the threat clear. Ruckus shut up.
Every day was the same: meetings that ran too long, tension that hung too heavy, and Morph coming back a little more drained.
By Friday, even Morph wasn’t pretending anymore. They collapsed onto the penthouse couch after yet another meeting, heels kicked off, hair mussed, skin closer to gray than usual.
Logan sat beside them. “You good?”
Morph didn’t even open their eyes. “Just peachy.”
After a long stretch of quiet, Logan asked, “You ready for tomorrow night?”
Morph exhaled. “I will be.” Then they opened their eyes. “So,” they said, nudging his knee with theirs, “are you wearing your navy suit tomorrow?”
Logan huffed. “It’s the only suit I’ve got, so…yeah.”
Morph smiled. “Good. It looks good on you.”
Logan cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the couch fabric. “What’re you wearin’?”
Morph pushed up from the couch. “Don’t worry, Wolverine,” they said over their shoulder, already heading toward their room, “I’m not dragging you shopping again tomorrow.”
Logan lifted a brow. “No?”
Morph paused at their doorway, one hand on the frame. “I have to create my own dress for tomorrow night.”
“Create?”
Morph just smirked. “Part of the job.” They slipped into their room, the door shutting behind them.
Logan stayed where he was, staring after them longer than he meant to, thinking to himself that he wouldn’t have minded going shopping with Morph again. Not even a little.
The next night, Logan sat on the couch with his suit jacket slung over the back, running through the plan for what had to be the third time that day.
“You’ll be with Sinister for the first couple hours,” he said. “You’re sittin’ by him, the Dentis, and Trask for dinner. Sinister’s got his own security, but I’ll be at the perimeter. Always where you can see me.”
Morph sat sideways on the couch in sweats, one leg crossed over the other, painting their nails like they had nothing but time. “I know, Logan. Then once Trask is good and drunk, I’ll get Crystal alone and come back as her to—”
“—get into his place and crack the safe. Yeah. I know you know.” Logan’s mouth tightened. “Just makin’ sure you also know to watch yourself when you’re alone with him. If somethin’ feels off—”
“I bail,” Morph finished, giving him a small smile. “You’ve made that part very clear.”
“Good.” Logan’s voice was gruff, but his gaze lingered on them a second too long.
Morph noticed. “You sound concerned, Wolverine.”
“Just doin’ my job,” he muttered, looking away.
“Uh-huh.” Morph tilted their head. “Because you’ve been my shadow for two weeks, and this is the first time you’ve repeated a plan.”
Logan didn’t answer right away. His thumb dragged along the cuff of his sleeve. “…I don’t like the setup,” he said finally. “Too many variables.”
Morph’s smile softened. “Noted. And…thanks.”
Logan grunted something that might’ve meant you’re welcome and glanced at the clock. “Shouldn’t you be gettin’ your dress on?”
Morph blew on their nails, shrugging. “Told you. I have to create my own tonight.”
“I still don’t know what you mean by that, bub.”
Morph set the nail polish aside and stood. “Since I have to shift into Crystal, I don’t want to ditch a whole gown in a bathroom stall.” They lifted their arms slightly. “So instead…”
They twirled. Their sweats shifted mid-spin, melting into fabric that hadn’t existed a second before; a shimmery navy-blue gown that hugged their frame and flowed like water, silver cape draping from their shoulders and catching the light.
Logan’s breath stilled.
Morph slowed to a stop, gown settling around them like starlight. “I create my own,” they said simply.
Logan tried, tried very hard, not to stare, and failed immediately.
He swallowed, eyes dragging anywhere but directly at them. “That…uh. That’s convenient.”
Morph raised a brow. “Convenient?” They smoothed a hand over the gown. “That’s the best you’ve got?”
Logan cleared his throat, suddenly warm. “Didn’t realize your outfits were—uh—part of you.”
“You never asked,” Morph teased, stepping closer with a sly tilt of their head. “And usually they aren’t. It can be exhausting, so I only do it when needed.”
Logan didn’t answer because he couldn’t trust his voice.
Morph turned toward the bathroom, gown drifting behind them. “Meet you by the elevator in ten,” they called lightly.
Logan watched them disappear around the corner, heart thudding louder than he’d ever admit.
Morph met Logan by the elevator exactly ten minutes later, navy gown shimmering with every step. Logan forced himself not to stare too openly as they pressed the button for Sinister’s floor.
As the doors slid open, raised voices spilled into the hall.
Ruckus and Sinister. Arguing.
Logan lifted an arm slightly in front of Morph on instinct.
Ruckus’s voice rang out: “—it doesn’t make sense! I should be on the detail tonight! If something goes wrong out there—”
Sinister cut him off, voice cold as polished steel. “I’ve explained this already. Denti does not want mutants near him. And you are a known one. You know this.”
Ruckus scoffed. “So we’re bowing to whatever the anti-mutant bastard wants now? You’re starting to look like you’re working for him, not the other way around.”
Logan felt Morph stiffen beside him.
Sinister’s reply was quiet. “Ruckus.”
Ruckus was too angry and too stupid to stop. “He’s leading you around by the leash! You’re actually catering to him like he—”
“Enough.” Sinister’s voice snapped through the air like a whip.
“This is your one warning.” Sinister continued. “If you ever insinuate again that I answer to anyone but myself…I will take everything from you. Possibly your life.”
The office door flew open.
Ruckus stormed out, face twisted. He barely noticed Logan, but he did notice Morph.
His gaze flicked over them, envy and hatred in his expression. “Enjoy your night,” he spat bitterly, then shoved past them, disappearing into the elevator.
Silence filled the hall.
Morph didn’t move.
Logan saw it, the quiet dread coiling behind their eyes. They knew what Sinister was like after anger. Knew who he liked to punish for other people’s mistakes.
“Hey,” Logan murmured. “You don’t gotta be scared of him with me here.”
Morph didn’t answer, but they drew a steadying breath and stepped toward the office.
Logan followed, ready to put his claws through whoever needed it.
Sinister stood behind his desk, perfectly composed again, as though the argument had never happened. He looked up, and his entire expression changed.
“Morph,” he purred, eyes brightening with something possessive and delighted. “You look absolutely exquisite.” His gaze swept over them like they were a masterpiece he owned.
Morph dipped their head. “Thank you.”
Sinister stepped closer, admiring the gown. “Stunning. Truly stunning.”
Logan stayed behind Morph, refusing to move aside even when Sinister’s eyes flicked to him with irritation.
“Well, we'd better get going. The limo is waiting.” Sinister offered his arm, and Morph took it without hesitation.
The limousine slid to a stop in front of a building made of glass and gold light. The charity ball was already in full swing; music drifted through the open doors, mingling with the distant clink of champagne flutes and the practiced laughter of the wealthy.
Logan stepped out first, followed by three of Sinister’s goons. The cool night air hit his lungs as he scanned the perimeter, instinct sweeping for anything that felt wrong.
Sinister emerged next, with Morph on his arm. They didn’t just walk, they glided. The midnight gown shimmered like starlight poured into fabric, cape trailing behind them. Everything about them was flawless.
Inside, crystal chandeliers hung over polished marble floors. Perfume was heavy in the air, mixing with money, ambition, and the low hum of conversations. A string quartet played from the corner.
Logan followed three paces behind. Close enough to intervene. Far enough to be ignored. His eyes never stopped moving: servers sweeping past with silver trays, guests with wandering gazes, anyone who lingered too long near Morph. Anything that smelled like trouble.
Sinister steered Morph through the crowd with confident ease, pausing only to exchange pleasantries with donors and criminals dressed like aristocrats. Morph’s smile stayed perfectly polished, their laugh soft and melodic.
Near the entrance to the dining hall, Sinister turned his head slightly toward Logan without breaking stride.
“Here will do,” he murmured. “See and be unseen.”
Logan nodded, planting himself by the doorway. From here, he could see almost the entire room, and more importantly, keep Morph in his line of sight.
For a few minutes, he watched the movement of bodies, the shifting tide of conversation. But inevitably, his focus pulled back to Morph.
To the way they carried themselves like they belonged among the chandeliers and whispered deals, even as Logan knew they were already preparing for the moment they’d vanish into someone else’s skin.
Then Bolivar Trask arrived. Logan spotted him before the announcer could call his name. A gray-haired man with a small mustache. On his arm was his date, Crystal Star.
Logan had only seen her in photographs from Sinister’s file, but the real thing was impossible to miss. Tall, striking, wrapped in emerald silk that shimmered with every step. Her hair was a perfect cascade of brown curls.
Morph saw her, too.
Sinister’s lips curled faintly at the sight.
Trask clasped Sinister’s hand warmly, his mistress offering the same to Morph with a kind smile. Sinister launched smoothly into conversation with Trask, his hand brushing Morph’s back in that quiet, possessive way Morph had learned not to flinch at.
“Bolivar, tell me, how is your little pet project coming along? The one you mentioned last quarter? The prototype. What was it called?” Sinister’s voice purred with polite interest.
The men talked, which meant Morph could observe Crystal closer. Though she wore the emerald silk and perfect curls well, how she held herself told Morph a completely different story. She was stiff, and her fingers twitched around her clutch like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to breathe here.
Morph leaned ever so slightly toward her. “You okay?” they murmured, voice soft enough not to draw attention.
Crystal blinked, startled, then let out a breath she seemed to have been holding since she stepped into the room. “Nervous,” she whispered. “This is the fanciest event I’ve ever been to. I feel like everyone can tell I don’t belong.”
Morph smiled. “Trust me,” they said, “if anyone here is sticking out, it’s not you.”
Crystal gave a weak laugh. “Oh, please. Look at this place. You all look like royalty. And I…” She gestured to herself.
“You,” Morph interrupted gently, “look stunning.”
Crystal’s cheeks warmed. “You’re just saying that.”
“No,” Morph said with a little tilt of their head. “If I were ‘just saying it,’ I’d tell you your dress is nice. Instead, I’m telling you that when you walked in, at least three people forgot they were married.”
Crystal snorted, an ungraceful sound she immediately tried to hide with her hand.
Morph grinned. “Ah, a real laugh. Much better.”
Crystal relaxed by a noticeable degree, shoulders lowering, fingers unclenching from her clutch. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I…really didn’t think anyone here would give me the time of day.”
“Stick close to me,” they said. “I promise you won’t have to face any of these sharks alone.”
Crystal nodded gratefully.
Sinister and Trask continued talking, oblivious to the small moment happening beside them.
Morph kept their expression serene, polite, untouched. But inside, something twisted. They wished they could warn her.
Morph let the conversation wash over them, nodding when expected, smiling when required. But their attention drifted to Trask’s glass. More specifically, to the server who kept refilling it. The man hovered at Trask’s elbow like a shadow, topping off the whiskey the instant the level dipped below halfway. And Trask, already loose in the shoulders and overly generous with his laughter, didn’t seem to notice the speed of it.
A familiar voice cut through the hum of conversation.
“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite pair.” Carl Denti, flanked by a suited guard, approached with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked perfectly at home here, gold cufflinks, tailored suit, ego larger than the chandelier overhead.
Sinister greeted him with a smooth smile. “Carl, good to see you. I don’t believe you’ve met Bolivar Trask.”
The two men shook hands.
“And where is your wife?” Sinister continued. “I didn’t see her when you arrived.”
“Ah, yes. Michelle had a…last-minute engagement she had to attend.” He waved a dismissive hand. “You know how it is.”
Morph didn’t miss the way Sinister’s eyes sharpened a fraction.
A bell rang softly across the ballroom, signaling the transition to dinner.
Sinister placed a guiding hand at the small of Morph’s back. “Shall we?”
The five of them, Sinister, Morph, Trask, Crystal, and Denti, moved toward the lavish dining tables arranged beneath a massive chandelier.
Morph kept their steps smooth, graceful. But as they neared the table, Denti’s hand brushed a little too close to Morph’s waist. Not by accident and not subtle.
Morph stiffened, and their breath hitched. They looked to Sinister, expecting an explosive reaction.
But there wasn’t one. Sinister saw it. Morph knew he did. His eyes flicked down sharply, unmistakably catching Denti’s wandering hand.
But he did nothing. Didn’t correct him. Didn’t move Morph away. Didn’t even frown.
He simply smiled, polished and predatory, steering Morph closer to the table as if this were all part of some choreography.
Morph’s face returned to perfect, but inside, a cold knot settled beneath their ribs as they thought of what Ruckus had said earlier.
Dinner unfolded beneath the chandelier’s glow, the table glittering with crystal and gold. Sinister, Denti, and Trask fell quickly into conversation; hands gesturing, voices low, the discussion a strange cocktail of business, ego, and thinly veiled threats.
Morph nodded when appropriate, but their attention drifted to Crystal, seated beside them. Crystal wasn’t what Morph expected from her file. She laughed easily and asked Morph questions no one else in this room would bother with.
“How long have you worked with Mr. Essex?”
“Oh, that gown—did you pick it out ?”
“Do these things always have this much silverware? I keep grabbing the wrong fork.”
Morph found themselves smiling, genuinely, more than once.
It had been a long time since someone at one of these events spoke to them like a person instead of a prop.
As the courses dwindled and conversation loosened, Trask slipped further and further into drunken buoyancy. His cheeks flushed, his words slurred at the edges, and each time his glass neared empty the same server appeared like magic to refill it.
Crystal leaned in, whispering against Morph’s ear, her breath warm. “This is normal,” she murmured. “He always drinks too much at these things. I usually have to drag him out early before he embarrasses himself.”
Morph’s heart tugged. “That sounds exhausting.”
Crystal huffed a tiny laugh. “The money helps. But…yeah. It is.”
Her smile faded with a sigh. “I’ll be right back. Bathroom.”
She rose from the table, smoothing the emerald silk over her hips. For a moment, she paused, looking oddly small under all the ballroom’s glittering excess. “Save my seat?”
Morph nodded. “Of course.”
Crystal smiled gratefully and slipped away.
Morph hesitated. Then they felt Sinister’s gaze. They didn’t have to look to know his eyes were on them. When Morph finally did glance up, Sinister offered the slightest tilt of his head.
A silent order. Go.
Morph rose from their chair and slipped away from the table.
The restroom was quiet when Morph slipped inside. Crystal stood at the mirror, smoothing a curl that had slipped loose. When she caught Morph’s reflection, she startled, hand flying to her chest, then relaxed with a relieved breath.
“Oh god, you scared me.” She laughed softly. “I thought you were someone else.”
Morph managed a smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
Crystal turned, leaning against the counter. “I’m glad it’s you.” She lowered her voice. “Tonight’s been…a lot. But having someone to actually talk to? Someone not trying to impress or intimidate me? It’s been nice. Thank you.”
Morph’s throat tightened.
Their hand slipped into their clutch, fingers closing around the injector.
Crystal turned back to the mirror, pulling out her lipstick. “I really hope I see you at more events like this.”
Morph’s breath caught. Tears burned behind their eyes before they could stop them.
“I hope so too,” they whispered as they stepped close, close enough to smell her perfume, floral and warm. “I’m sorry.”
“What—?”
They pressed the injector to the bare skin of Crystal’s upper arm.
There was a soft hiss and Crystal gasped, eyes going wide, pupils blown with sudden confusion. “W-wait—what…?”
Her knees buckled almost immediately. Morph caught her, guiding her down gently, cradling her head before it could hit the marble.
“I’m sorry,” Morph repeated, voice breaking as Crystal’s lashes fluttered closed. “I’m so, so sorry…”
Crystal exhaled once with the kind of breath that meant she was sinking too deeply to feel anything else. Her body went completely limp.
Morph wiped at their eyes with shaking fingers, then forced themselves to move.
They shifted. The emerald gown melted into place across their body like liquid silk. Crystal’s face, her smile, her eyes, settled over Morph’s own.
When Morph was fully Crystal, they opened the door.
Two of Sinister’s men were already waiting. Morph gave a tiny nod, and the men slipped inside to retrieve the unconscious woman.
Morph glided down the hallway, steps light, posture poised exactly the way Crystal’s had been earlier. The gown shimmered under the chandeliers, the picture-perfect escort returning to her date.
Sinister stood just outside the dining hall with Trask, who was leaning on the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Ah, Crystal. Bolivar was just telling me he’s ready to head home for the evening.” His smile glittered like a blade. “Shall I have your car called to the front?”
“Yes, thank you,” they said in her soft, lilting tone.
Trask perked up and leaned slightly in Morph’s direction. “There’s my girl,” he slurred, cheeks flushed. “Let’s get out of here, hm?”
Morph linked their arm through his, steadying him with practiced ease. “Of course. Right this way.”
Trask let out a pleased hum, oblivious to the precision of the trap closing around him.
Morph didn’t look back as they guided him toward the main entrance.
Logan watched the two of them disappear through the doors, Trask swaying like a drunk oak tree, Morph steady beside him.
Sinister approached from the side. “And that,” he murmured, hands clasped behind his back as he watched Morph and Trask descend the steps, “is why they are my most valuable asset, Wolverine.”
Logan didn’t look away from the doors. Didn’t give Sinister the satisfaction of a reaction.
The laughter in Bolivar Trask’s study was too loud.
Morph perched on the arm of an overstuffed leather chair, whiskey glass dangling from delicate fingers. Crystal’s dimples, Crystal’s half-lidded eyes, Crystal’s soft smile; they wore them all like armor.
In their head, they were planning. The safe behind the desk. The timing. Five minutes, maybe more if the safe was newer.
“…and that’s why you never bet against a man with a private jet!” Trask roared, his laugh shaking the amber in his glass.
Morph laughed lightly. “You know…” they purred, sliding off the chair and drifting his way, “if you’re planning to keep me here all night, you’ll have to do better than one pour.”
Trask cocked a brow. “Better?”
“Mmhmm.” Morph let their voice drop, silk over steel. “There’s a bottle in your cellar, a Château Léoville Barton ’96. You bragged about it to Denti tonight.” They traced a finger down their collarbone. “I’ve never had it.”
“Not…not many have.”
“Then go get it,” Morph said. “Prove I’m worth it.”
That was all it took.
“I won’t be long,” Trask declared, tossing back the last of his drink. He set the glass down with a flourish before stumbling out of the room.
The door clicked shut.
Morph dropped the pose instantly. They crossed to the safe, pulling the slim set of lock picks from their clutch. The keypad cover lifted easily, revealing the keyhole beneath. Morph knelt, listening with practiced precision as the tumblers shifted.
With a final click. The door eased open.
Inside were stacks of documents. Jewelry cases. And tucked in the back corner, a flash drive.
Morph snatched it, slipped it into the clutch, and reset the safe in one smooth motion.
By the time Trask’s drunken footsteps echoed back up the hall, Morph was back on the chair, body angled just so, Crystal’s charm restored.
Trask reappeared, bottle in hand and smug grin firmly in place.
Morph smiled like they were thrilled to see him.
Trask moved to the small bar, uncorking the bottle with more enthusiasm than coordination, and poured two generous glasses. Morph accepted theirs with a smile.
“To making an evening memorable,” they said, tapping the rim of his glass.
The hard part was over. They could afford to drink.
The wine was rich. Dark. A little too sweet. They drained it in one swallow.
The wrongness hit instantly. A sharp chemical tang at the back of their throat. A creeping fuzz at the edges of their vision.
Shit.
Morph didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. They leaned in, fingers brushing Trask’s chest, voice low and teasing. “That’s strong,” they murmured.
His smirk answered everything.
Morph’s mind raced. The flash drive in their clutch felt heavier. Time shorter.
“I need a second glass,” they said, pushing him playfully toward the bar.
Trask laughed, turning his back. “Anything you want, dear.”
Morph moved the instant he did.
The clutch opened. The drive slid between their teeth. Their body dissolved, skin rippling into sleek black feathers.
A heartbeat later, a sharp-winged raven exploded from the floor, darting toward the open window.
The wind hit their wings, and Morph didn’t look back. They just flew.
Logan had returned to the penthouse after the ball alone.
The hum of the city was muted behind the glass. Every time the elevator clicked or sighed, Logan’s head snapped up, heart seizing in his chest.
He poured himself a whiskey he barely tasted and sat where he could see the door, elbows braced on his knees.
He kept replaying the plan in his head. Morph should’ve been in and out. Two hours. Maybe two and a half. It had been almost three.
He told himself Trask wasn’t the violent type. Told himself mission timing never went clean. Told himself Morph could handle themself. But the knot in his gut didn’t listen.
He paced. Sat. Stood again. He could still smell Morph on the couch cushions from earlier, and it only made the silence worse.
He checked the clock again. 1:07 a.m.
Then, something hit the balcony window. Hard.
Logan was on his feet instantly, glass forgotten, sprinting to the balcony doors.
“Morph—?”
They were sprawled on the concrete, one arm bent at a sick angle, the other still half-shifted, feathers where fingers should’ve been. Their hair flickered between brown curls and black plumage. Their eyes, brown and blurry, fought to stay open.
Logan dropped beside them. “What the hell happened—?”
Morph grinned, or tried to. It was more like their mouth twitched. “Got it,” they slurred, lifting a trembling hand.
The flash drive gleamed in their palm like a trophy.
Logan took it, slipping an arm around their back to pull them upright, and then the smell hit him. A sharp, chemical reek on their breath. Dilated pupils. Bruises blooming across one shoulder.
“You’re drugged,” Logan said. “And you’re hurt.”
“Mmm. Fell. And then that damn window,” Morph mumbled. “Flying…bad idea…” They laughed once, weakly, the sound dissolving into a groan.
“No kidding.” Logan hauled them gently to their feet, half-carrying them inside. “You’re gonna tell me what he gave you after you sit the hell down.”
They clung to his shirt, fingers barely hooked in the fabric. Their voice was thin, fraying at the edges. “Please don’t let him take me.”
Logan’s chest cracked open. “I won’t,” he said immediately.
But before he could say more, Morph’s body sagged in his arms. Their brown eyes washed white, skin losing its disguise in a single wash of gray. The shift happened without control, without intention.
“Easy,” Logan murmured, catching them against his chest and lowering them to the couch like they were made of glass.
Their breathing was shallow. But steady.
He was adjusting a blanket over them when the elevator chimed.
Logan’s stomach dropped.
Sinister stepped out, coat flowing behind him, eyes already scanning the room. “Where is my little chameleon?” he asked.
Logan didn’t move from where he knelt beside Morph. “They’re out cold. Drugged. Hurt. You’re lucky they made it back at all.”
Sinister strolled closer, gaze sliding over Morph’s unconscious form before narrowing with disappointment. “And instead of coming directly to me as instructed, they chose to…nap?”
Logan rose just enough to block Sinister’s path. “They didn’t ‘choose’ anything. They crashed into the damn window.”
Sinister’s eyes flicked to the flash drive in Logan’s hand. A hint of satisfaction curled through his expression. “I see they succeeded.”
He stepped forward, as if to touch Morph.
Logan moved instantly, arm barring Sinister’s way.
“They need rest. Here’s your prize.” he said, handing the flash drive over to Sinister. “You’ll get your briefing when they can talk without passing out.”
Sinister stared at him, expression smoothing back into polished calm. Then his gaze slid once more to Morph’s natural form, gray skin exposed, scars visible, and something colder settled in his eyes.
“Fix them,” Sinister said. “I don’t care how.”
He turned back toward the elevator. At the door, he paused, still not looking at Logan.
“And Wolverine…do make sure this…lapse in protocol doesn’t happen again. I’d hate to think you’ve forgotten who you work for.”
The doors closed.
Logan stood there, jaw locked so tight it ached. His whole body thrummed with the kind of anger that made his claws start to peek out of his knuckles.
He waited until the elevator hum faded into nothing.
Then he knelt by Morph again. Breathing steady. Pulse slow, but present.
“Hang in there, bub,” he muttered.
Morph’s natural form showed everything Sinister made them hide, every scar, every seam, every mark of what they endured. It made Logan’s hands shake.
He slid his arms under them and lifted them carefully.
In the bathroom, he braced them with one hand while he cleaned blood, dirt, and glass from their skin. Up close, he saw just how hard the impacts had been and how much they must have pushed themselves to reach the penthouse at all.
“Dumb move, flyin’ like that drugged,” he muttered, not because he was angry, but because he wished to hell they’d had another option.
When they were as clean as he could make them, he dressed them in soft pajama pants and an oversized shirt from their dresser.
They barely stirred, except once, when he moved their injured shoulder, and a faint groan escaped them.
He brought them to bed, pulling the blanket up to their chin, then he dragged a chair close to the bed and sat heavily.
He wasn’t leaving this room tonight.
Morph jolted awake with a sharp gasp, body tensing like they’d been dropped into cold water. Their breathing came quick and shallow, eyes darting in the dim light.
“Hey—” Logan’s voice was low, steady. He leaned forward from the chair, keeping his hands where they could see them. “You’re safe. No one’s here but me.”
Morph blinked, still halfway in a dream. “He—he was here—”
“No,” Logan cut in gently. “That was just the tail end of whatever Trask slipped you. You’re back in the penthouse. You’re fine.”
It took a few more breaths before their shoulders eased, just enough for them to sag back into the pillow.
“You don’t have to sleep on the chair,” Morph said groggily, voice muffled against the blanket.
Logan turned his head toward them.
Morph was looking at him now, expression unreadable but softer than usual. “It’s a king-sized bed. I’m not gonna kick.”
Logan snorted. “If you do, I kick back.”
“Fair,” Morph murmured, shifting over an inch in silent invitation.
Logan stood, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders before moving to the bed. He stayed on top of the covers, careful not to crowd them, just one leg bent, arms folded behind his head, gaze fixed on the ceiling.
It took less than a minute for Morph’s breathing to deepen again, the drug’s leftover pull tugging them back toward sleep.
Logan kept his eyes on the ceiling, letting his own pulse slow, until he felt it. A subtle movement, the mattress dipping, a weight inching closer.
Morph rolled unconsciously, their body curling into the space beside him, forehead brushing his shoulder before settling against his chest. One hand slipped across his ribs, fingers loosely gripping the fabric of his shirt like they were anchoring themselves without waking.
Logan froze. Not because he minded, hell, not even close, but because something in his chest squeezed tight, unexpected and sharp.
Morph murmured something incomprehensible, breath warm against him, and burrowed closer, their body relaxing fully.
Logan let out a slow breath. Careful not to wake them, he shifted just enough to settle his arm around their back, not holding, just…steadying. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, his eyes drifted shut.
With Morph tucked against him, Logan finally let himself fall asleep too.
Notes:
Trigger Warnings: Referenced Physical Abuse, Canon Typical Violence, Alcohol Use, Drugging, Implied Attempted Sexual Assault.
Some_dull_scissors on Chapter 1 Wed 24 Sep 2025 10:34PM UTC
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PileOfNerdShit on Chapter 1 Thu 25 Sep 2025 02:30AM UTC
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Some_dull_scissors on Chapter 2 Thu 25 Sep 2025 03:23AM UTC
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PileOfNerdShit on Chapter 2 Thu 25 Sep 2025 08:52PM UTC
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Domiramon17 on Chapter 2 Thu 25 Sep 2025 10:34AM UTC
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PileOfNerdShit on Chapter 2 Thu 25 Sep 2025 08:51PM UTC
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doesthemoonhaveeyes on Chapter 2 Thu 25 Sep 2025 04:57PM UTC
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PileOfNerdShit on Chapter 2 Thu 25 Sep 2025 08:51PM UTC
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knightofflames on Chapter 2 Fri 26 Sep 2025 04:37AM UTC
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PileOfNerdShit on Chapter 2 Fri 26 Sep 2025 09:12PM UTC
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Domiramon17 on Chapter 3 Tue 07 Oct 2025 05:39PM UTC
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PileOfNerdShit on Chapter 3 Wed 08 Oct 2025 05:24PM UTC
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Domiramon17 on Chapter 4 Thu 30 Oct 2025 05:23PM UTC
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PileOfNerdShit on Chapter 4 Thu 30 Oct 2025 07:32PM UTC
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knightofflames on Chapter 4 Fri 31 Oct 2025 05:27AM UTC
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PileOfNerdShit on Chapter 4 Fri 31 Oct 2025 11:27PM UTC
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Some_dull_scissors on Chapter 4 Sun 02 Nov 2025 07:20AM UTC
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PileOfNerdShit on Chapter 4 Sun 02 Nov 2025 02:56PM UTC
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Domiramon17 on Chapter 5 Mon 01 Dec 2025 12:52PM UTC
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PileOfNerdShit on Chapter 5 Thu 04 Dec 2025 03:31AM UTC
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Summer Starz (GreenGatorFluries) on Chapter 6 Sun 14 Dec 2025 02:23AM UTC
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PileOfNerdShit on Chapter 6 Mon 15 Dec 2025 12:28AM UTC
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