Chapter Text
Logan sat hunched at the bar, his silhouette illuminated only by the soft amber glow of the overhead lights. The air was thick with the smell of old beer, stale smoke, and something sour that lingered just beneath it all. The jukebox in the corner played a crackling rendition of an old country song, its mournful tune blending into the low hum of conversation around him. The clack of balls behind him.
He barely registered the noise. The glass in his hand was steady, but his mind was anything but.
He downed it in one smooth motion, feeling the burn as it slid down his throat. It wasn’t enough to dull the ache in his chest, but it was something.
Forty-five years. Forty-five years since Wade had died.
He tilted the shot glass in his hand, watching the light refracted through it. He thought about all the years that had passed. Years spent wandering, never staying in one place for too long. Towns blurred together, the faces of strangers forgotten as soon as they were out of sight.
His one true companion had been his memories. He thought about the cabin, the life he and Wade had built together. The mornings by the lake, the nights spent curled up by the fire, Angel’s tail wagging excitedly at their feet. It had been the only place that ever felt like home, and it had been ripped away in an instant.
Along with the memories, came the nightmares. They were sharp and vivid, cutting through the haze of alcohol like a blade. The bloodstained snow outside the cabin. The look in Wade’s eyes, blank and lifeless, when Logan had no choice but to kill him.
Logan clenched his fists, his claws itching to break free. He had tried to run from those memories, but they followed him, haunting every quiet moment. He couldn’t escape them, no matter how far he went or how much he drank.
He sighed, allowing the feeling of the alcohol to wash over him as he thought about the one time in decades when he’d felt a flicker of purpose.
The early 2000s. A girl named Rogue, scared and lost, hitchhiking her way through life. He’d found her on the side of a road, her wide, haunted eyes reminding him too much of himself. Against his better judgment, he’d let her into his truck, offering her nothing but silence and the hum of the road.
For a brief moment, he thought maybe he could help her, even if he couldn’t help himself. But then he had crashed into a tree stump. Then Victor showed up.
The memory of that fight made Logan’s knuckles tighten around the glass. Victor had slammed into him like a freight train, his claws out, his sneer feral. Ever since the island in 1979, he had made it his life’s mission to hunt down Logan wherever he was and make his life miserable. Logan had fought him tooth and nail, rage and grief boiling over as they clashed.
Rogue had watched from the sidelines, frozen with fear. Then, the X-men came. In their bright-colored suits, clashing horribly against the snow. They fought alongside Logan and helped push Victor back.
That fight had led him to being taken in by the X-men and to the X-Mansion, a place that should have been a haven. But it had never felt like home.
Logan smirked bitterly. The memory of the X-Men made his chest ache differently. They were good people, but he couldn’t let himself get close.
Scott had tried to get under his skin, all cocky smirks and confidence. “You’re not as tough as you think,” Scott would say, trying to provoke him into something.
Jean had been subtler, her lingering touches and soft invitations. “You could join us sometime,” she’d said one night, her voice low and inviting.
Ororo had been the kindest, her warm gaze and gentle words offering a kind of friendship that Logan hadn’t known in years.See Also15 Great Movies with 'Hot' or 'Heat' in the Title, Ranked
Even Kurt had tried to reach him, his easy smile and quiet wisdom hinting at a desire to break through Logan’s walls.
But Logan couldn’t let them in. None of them understood.
The love of his life had died at his hands. No flirtation, no lingering touch, no kind word could undo that.
He still remembered the day it happened. The memory came to him like it was yesterday.
~~
“Leaving again?”
The voice came from behind him, sharp and accusing. Logan turned to see Scott standing in the hallway, arms crossed and a scowl on his face.
“What’s it to you?” Logan growled, his voice low and rough.
Scott took a step forward, his tone softening but his words no less pointed. “You’re always running, Logan. Why can’t you just stay for once? Be a part of something bigger than yourself?”
Logan’s jaw tightened, anger bubbling under the surface. “You think I haven’t heard that before?” he snapped. “Everywhere I go, people want me to be part of something bigger. You think that’s what I need? What I want?”
Scott sighed, exasperated. “You could belong here if you just opened up to us. If you let us in—”
Logan cut him off with a sharp laugh, bitter and biting. “Let you in? For what? So you can tell me how to live? What to be? That’s all any of you ever want.”
Scott’s brow furrowed, his expression shifting to something closer to confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Logan dropped his bag to the floor, his voice rising. “All of you want me to pour my guts out so you can feel like heroes like you’ve saved some broken man.”
Scott started to protest, but Logan wasn’t done.
“You don’t know me,” Logan said, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “You don’t want to know me. Not the real me. All you see is the animal”
Scott was silent, his mouth slightly open as he struggled to find words.
Logan shook his head, his anger giving way to a deep, aching bitterness. “You all want to mold me into whatever shape fits your needs. And I don’t need you.”
Scott’s shoulders dropped slightly, the weight of Logan’s words sinking in. “Logan, I didn’t—”
Logan raised a hand, cutting him off again. “You didn’t think. None of you ever think about what I actually want.” He slung his bag back over his shoulder, his gaze hard and unwavering. “I’m not staying, Summers. Not now, not ever. You want someone to play hero, go find someone else.”
He turned on his heel and walked down the hallway, leaving Scott standing there, speechless.
~~
With a sigh, Logan pushed the empty glass away, signalling for the bartender to bring him the bottle. The memories were still with him, and he had a feeling they always would be.
Logan felt the rough wood of the bar beneath his fingers as he tapped it again, his voice low and gravelly. “Again.”
The bartender shot him a glare, his mouth curling into a sneer. “I told you, you’re not welcome here. You’re not welcome anywhere. Now get the hell out of my bar.”
Logan sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of years and regret. He didn’t even look up. “Just give me one more drink, then I’ll leave,” he muttered, his voice hollow.
The bartender leaned closer, his voice sharp. “That’s not how it works.”
Before Logan could respond, a voice cut through the tension. “It does now. Leave the bottle.”
The voice was startlingly familiar, yet Logan couldn’t quite place it. His head turned slowly, his weary eyes landing on a figure clad in red and black leather standing a foot away.
Logan narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowing. “I know you, bub?”
The man tilted his head, his mask giving away no emotion, though his voice carried an unmistakable smirk. “Nope, but I know you.”
Logan sighed, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Everybody knows me. I’m the Wolverine.”
The man stared at him intensely. “Yes. You. Are. And I’m gonna need you to come with me right now.”
Logan looked at him with a mixture of confusion and disgust. He waved a dismissive hand, leaning back on the bar. “Look, lady, I’m not interested.”
The man let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Really getting into your cups here, huh?” Before he could finish his sentence, Logan poked him square in the forehead with his thick, calloused finger.
“And why,” Logan drawled, his tone dripping with disdain, “would I go with you?”
The man leaned back slightly, his head tilting in exaggerated thought. “Because, unfortunately, I need you. And even more unfortunately, my whole entire world needs you.”
The bartender passed by, chuckling to himself. “You two gonna fuck or fight?”
Logan’s gaze dropped to the bar, his expression darkening. He didn’t argue or snap back, just sat there like a man already resigned to the weight of the abuse.
The red-clad figure looked at Logan, his head tilting slightly in confusion. “Are you seriously gonna take that from him?”
Logan lifted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Yup.”
The man scoffed, his tone incredulous. “I can tell you’ve got a whole ‘don’t get too close to me, I’ll only break your heart’ vibe going on here, but, seriously, any other Wolverine I’ve met would’ve really hurt me by now. And I’m sort of on the tick-tick, so... upsy-daisy!”
Before Logan could react, the man grabbed him by the arm and yanked him out of his chair with surprising strength. Logan stumbled, his claws instinctively sliding out but only partway, stuttering to a stop like an engine that wouldn’t start.
The man looked at Logan’s partially extended claws, tilting his head like a curious bird. “Oh. Whiskey dick of the claws. Very common in Wolverines over 40.”
Logan growled low in his throat, his voice rough with exhaustion. “You don’t want this.”
But there was something else in his tone, something softer. He wasn’t warning the man. He was pleading.
The man pulled out a gun, pointing it directly at Logan’s forehead, his voice darker. “And you don’t want this. Unless you’d like to take a deep breath through your fucking forehead, I suggest you reconsider. Let’s go, Peanut.”
Logan stared at him in disbelief for a moment before letting out a low, amused laugh, and pushing his head further into the gun.
“Hold on, hold on,” he laughed while holding up a finger.
He reached for the bottle of whiskey left on the bar, lifting it with deliberate slowness. The man’s gun tracked his movement, but Logan grabbed the gun and held it steady. “Easy.”
And with that, he tipped the bottle back and started to chug.
The man stared, completely confused. “Good God,” he muttered, watching the display. Logan’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank, his throat working steadily to down the amber liquid.
“Thirsty little honey badger, aren’t ya?” the man quipped, his voice almost impressed.
Logan opened one eye mid-gulp, giving the man a flat, unimpressed look before continuing.
“It’s okay, keep going,” the man said, gesturing with a gloved hand. “Audiences are accustomed to long run times.” Logan couldn’t place the emotion in his voice.
Finally, Logan finished, letting out a satisfied “Ahhh.” For a brief moment, his hazel eyes glimmered with something close to triumph, until he swayed on his feet and collapsed like a felled tree, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.