Archive of Our Own ^beta

Scott woke up with the bitter taste of blood in his mouth and the pounding reminder that whiskey wasn’t a solution—it was a delay.

His skull throbbed like someone had taken a metal bat to the inside of it, and the sun leaking through the curtains wasn’t doing him any favors.

He groaned.

It was the sixth time this month. Different bars, different cities. Same ending: a few too many drinks, some asshole mouthing off about mutants, and Scott losing the last bit of control he still pretended to have.

What was new was the snoring.

It wasn't loud, but it was steady—measured in that infuriatingly calm way that only Logan could manage. Scott didn’t even need to open his eyes to know who it was.

Still, he did.

And yeah, there he was.

Logan. Lying on the couch like it was his goddamn room, one arm slung over his head, boots still on, a rip in his shirt and dried blood on his knuckles.

Scott didn’t remember the end of the fight. He didn’t remember Logan dragging him out, either. But the bruises on his ribs told him enough of a story.

With a grunt, Scott sat up, ignoring the screaming in his back. He reached behind him, grabbed his pillow, and chucked it across the room with enough force to rattle Logan awake.

It hit square in the face.

Logan blinked once. Then again. Grunted. “Morning, princess.”

Scott glared, jaw tight. “Get yourself out.”

Logan rolled the pillow off his face, not moving. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I didn’t ask you to follow me. Didn’t ask you to babysit me. And I sure as hell didn’t ask you to crash on my couch.”

Logan yawned. “You also didn’t ask that guy at the bar to break a chair over your back, but that happened too.”

Scott clenched his jaw. “Out.”

For a second, he thought Logan might say something else—make some snide remark, push a little harder. But instead, Logan slowly got up, rolling his shoulders until they cracked. He didn’t say anything. Just walked toward the door, stopping only to glance back.

“You’re running out of bars, Summers,” Logan said, voice low. “Sooner or later, you’re gonna run out of chances too.”

Then he was gone.

Scott sat there in silence, staring at the dent in the pillow where Logan’s head had been.

“Good,” he muttered to no one.

But it didn’t sound convincing. Not even to him.

The office was colder than he remembered.

Scott stood in the middle of it, cardboard box in hand, letting the silence settle over his shoulders like dust. The room hadn’t changed. Same bookshelves. Same desk.

But Scott couldn’t stay here.

Not anymore.

Not after Magneto's prison. Not after Alkali's Lake. Not after her.

He exhaled slowly and set the box down on the desk. The photo frames on the shelves caught the afternoon light, the glass glinting softly like they were trying to get his attention.

He ignored them.

Instead, he moved to the cabinets, pulling open drawers that hadn’t been touched in over a year. Files, old mission logs, pens that probably didn’t work anymore. It was all useless now. Outdated. Like him.

He didn’t hear the door open—just the low scrape of boots on the floor, followed by that unmistakable scent of cigar smoke and leather.

Logan.

Scott didn’t turn around. “What do you want?”

“I figured I’d find you here,” came Logan’s voice from behind.

Logan stepped closer. “You, uh… redecorating?”

“The professor gave me permission to switch offices. Told him I didn’t want to keep working in a tomb.”

Logan didn’t say anything. Just nodded, eyes landing on the boxes.

Scott finally turned to him, the framed wedding photo in his hands. It was small—8x10. Jean’s veil had been caught in the breeze, her mouth open in a laugh. He remembered that moment. How she’d laughed when he tried to kiss her too early. How happy she’d looked.

“Would you help me put the other pictures in a specific box, please?” Scott asked, quieter now.

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

Scott pointed. “That one. The one without a label.”

Logan didn’t argue. He moved toward the desk, picking up the frame with the two of them at a fundraiser—Jean in red, Scott in black tie, both younger.

He placed it gently in the box.

For the next ten minutes, they worked in silence. 

Scott broke it, eventually.

“She picked most of these.”

Logan nodded. “Figured.”

“She liked to frame memories. Said it kept them safe.” He held up a picture of Jean and Ororo, arms wrapped around each other at one of the school picnics. “I didn’t understand it then.”

“You do now,” Logan said.

Scott nodded once. “Yeah.”

They kept working. By the time the last frame was placed gently on top, Scott stared down at the closed box like it might bite him.

“She should have had more time,” he said suddenly.

Logan didn’t answer.

Scott looked up. “She would’ve made a great headmistress.”

Logan met his gaze, steady. “She would’ve made the world better. Just by being in it.”

Scott swallowed hard, then bent down to tape the box shut.

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the sound of the tape ended.

Logan reached for a marker. “Want me to label it?”

Scott hesitated.

“No,” he said after a moment. “Just leave it blank.”

Logan didn’t argue.

Scott looked at him. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This,” Scott said, gesturing around them. “Showing up. Cleaning up after me. Playing the silent support system.”

Logan’s voice was quiet. “I’m not doing it for her anymore.”

Scott stilled.

Their eyes met—just for a second too long.

Then Scott looked away.

“I’ve got one more box to tape up,” he said, voice flat. “You can go.”

Logan stayed a second longer, then gave a small nod.

It was always the same dream.

The roar of rushing water. The metallic groan of the jet tearing apart. Jean’s scream.

The dream always started the same.

Then darkness.

Then nothing.

Scott bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat.

His hand clutched at his chest like it might keep his ribs from cracking open.

His breath came in shallow bursts, and his eyes darted toward the clock on the nightstand.

3:08 a.m.

Of course.

He didn’t bother trying to go back to sleep. The sheets were soaked, and the room felt like a coffin.

Scott shoved them aside and stood. The air was cold on his skin, and the floorboards creaked under his bare feet as he moved quietly through the mansion’s darkened halls.

He knew exactly where he was going.

He didn’t know why it had become a habit — this window at the end of the east hallway. It wasn’t the best view. The glass was a little fogged at the corners, and the radiator under it made the air smell faintly metallic. But still, he went.

Maybe because it looked out at the lake.

Maybe because this was where he could pretend to see her, standing at the shore.

He stood there, arms crossed, the water below barely visible in the moonlight.

He didn't hear the footsteps.

But he felt him.

Logan stepped into view a few moments later, wordless, barefoot, wearing nothing but his worn blue pajama pants and that threadbare white T-shirt he never threw away.

Scott didn’t turn. 

Logan stopped beside him. Close enough that Scott could feel the warmth of his presence, but not so close that it felt deliberate.

They stood like that for minutes.

Neither of them spoke.

They stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, both staring out into the darkness like it might give them answers if they just looked hard enough.

Minutes passed.

Maybe ten. Maybe twenty.

Scott exhaled. The window fogged beneath his breath.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

Logan didn’t ask for what.

He didn’t have to.

Scott didn’t say anything else.

And Logan didn’t leave.

They just stood there, in the stillness.

He loosened the collar of his button-down and walked toward the kitchen, shoes in hand, tie half-untied and hanging around his neck.

The date had been fine.

Fine. That was the problem.

She was kind. She taught environmental biology. They talked about the school's budget and laughed about the new mutant kid who turned every book he touched into paper cranes. She had touched his hand once across the table.

And Scott had felt nothing.

Not discomfort. Not disgust.

Just... nothing.

He stepped into the kitchen and paused. The overhead light was off, but the small one over the stove was on.

Logan sat at the table with a drink in his hand, the bottle beside him already opened. His flannel was undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, white undershirt wrinkled. He looked tired. Maybe more than usual.

He didn’t look up when he spoke. “You’re home early.”

Scott kicked his shoes aside and walked to the fridge. “It’s almost midnight.”

Logan glanced at the clock. “Yeah. Early.”

Scott pulled out a bottle of water and leaned against the counter. “You always drink alone in the dark?”

“Only when the bar’s closed,” Logan muttered.

Scott huffed a laugh.

Logan looked at him properly now. “So?”

Scott didn’t answer immediately. Just took a long sip from the bottle, then set it down.

“She was nice.”

“That bad, huh?”

“No,” Scott said. “That’s the thing. She was... nice. Smart. Funny.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Told me she liked guys with impossible cheekbones.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You blush?”

Scott gave him a flat look. “I don’t blush.”

Logan shrugged. “You do a little.”

Scott looked away, letting the silence stretch.

“She’s not gonna call,” he said eventually. “I think she knew. That I wasn’t really there.”

“Were you?”

Scott didn’t answer.

Logan tipped the bottle back again, then looked at him, something softer in his expression. “You want a drink?”

Scott eyed the label. “I’ve been sober for about five months.”

Logan nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “You offering me temptation?”

Logan reached under the table, opened the mini fridge beside it, and pulled out a second bottle.

He slid it across the table to Scott.

“It’s Dr. Pepper.”

Scott blinked, then snorted. “Seriously?”

Logan gestured toward the chair. “Take it or leave it.”

Scott hesitated. Then walked over and sat down across from him, unscrewing the cap with a soft fizz.

They drank in silence for a moment, the carbonated hiss of Scott’s bottle the only sound.

“Jean used to hate this stuff,” Scott said absently. “Said it tasted like chemicals and regret.”

Logan smirked. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Scott looked down at the bottle, then shook his head. “God, I’m terrible at this.”

Logan leaned back, chair creaking under his weight. “At what?”

“Moving on.”

“You’re doing better than most.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

Scott rested his elbows on the table, fingers tracing the condensation ring his drink was making.

“I thought dating would help,” he said. “That maybe if I went through the motions, the rest would follow.”

“And?”

Scott exhaled. “Turns out grief doesn’t care about dinner reservations.”

Logan tilted his head slightly. “You think dating’s what you need?”

Scott considered that.

Then shook his head. “No. I think I just wanted to prove I could.”

Logan nodded, like that made sense.

They lapsed into silence again, this time more comfortable than before.

“You ever feel like everyone’s waiting for you to be the version of yourself they remember?” Scott asked suddenly. “Like if you just smile enough, show up to meetings, teach your classes, they’ll forget you were ever broken?”

Logan didn’t respond right away. He just looked at him.

“You’re not broken,” he said finally.

Scott looked at him. “Aren’t I?”

“No,” Logan said. “You’re just... still healing.”

Scott didn’t speak for a long time. Neither did Logan.

Eventually, the soda was gone, and the stillness of the night pressed in around them again.

Scott stood. “Thanks for the drink.”

Logan looked up. “Anytime.”

Scott turned to go, then paused.

“I think I liked this better than the date.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Because of the drink?”

Scott met his eyes.

“No.”

Scott stirred in the med bay, blinking slowly as consciousness crawled back in pieces. His mouth was dry. His head was pounding. And everything hurt.

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it.

“Don’t.”

Scott turned his head—slowly—and found Logan sitting in the chair beside the bed, one boot propped on his knee, arms folded. He looked tired. Not in the way Scott usually saw him after missions, but in that quiet, wired sort of way that came from worry.

“What happened?” Scott rasped.

Logan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Took a hit to the head. Some energy weapon. Fried your comms. You were out cold before we could reach you.”

Scott exhaled through his nose. “The recon sweep?”

“Botched.” Logan frowned. “Wasn’t your fault. Intel was bad.”

Scott tried to sit up again. Logan was already on his feet, hand pressed to Scott’s shoulder, easing him back down.

“Easy,” Logan said. “You’ve got a busted rib and a concussion. Hank’ll kill me if you tear your stitches.”

Scott winced. “Fantastic.”

“Glad you’re awake, though,” Logan added, softer.

Scott looked around, noting the empty room. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Storm’s debriefing. Kurt, Bobby and Kitty are resting. Chuck wanted to give you space.”

“And you?”

Logan gave him a look. “You really gotta ask?”

Scott swallowed hard, gaze falling to the clean bandages on his arm. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah,” Logan said quietly. “Still here.”

Scott shifted slightly under the blanket. His ribs protested, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain.

“You didn’t have to stay.”

“I wanted to.”

Scott looked at him.

There it was again—something in Logan’s eyes. 

It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t duty.

It was care.

And it scared the hell out of him.

Logan noticed his stare and straightened slightly. “You were bleeding pretty bad. Hank stabilized you, but I stuck around. Just in case.”

Scott’s voice was hoarse. “You could’ve gone back to your room.”

Logan huffed. “Didn’t feel right.”

Scott was quiet for a moment, then shifted again, trying to adjust the bandage on his side.

Logan stood, gently brushing his hand away. “Let me.”

Scott tensed. “You don’t—”

“I want to,” Logan said again, softer this time.

There was no argument left in Scott, so he nodded.

Logan sat on the edge of the bed and carefully lifted the hem of Scott’s shirt. His hands were calloused, but his touch was gentle—more than Scott expected, more than he knew what to do with.

As Logan worked, Scott stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds to stay grounded.

He felt the brush of gauze. The subtle warmth of Logan’s palm steadying his side. The silence between them wasn’t tense—it was delicate.

“You always do this?” Scott asked quietly.

“What?”

“Take care of people.”

Logan didn’t answer right away. “No. Not usually.”

Scott glanced down. Logan’s eyes were focused, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Like this mattered. Like he mattered.

When the last bandage was in place, Logan sat back.

“You should rest,” he said.

Scott’s voice was rough. “You gonna hover until I do?”

Logan smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe.”

He turned to go, but Scott’s voice stopped him.

“Logan.”

He looked back.

Scott met his eyes. “Thank you.”

Logan gave a small nod. “Anytime, Scott.”

Then he left, door hissing shut behind him.

Scott let his head sink back into the pillow, eyes still fixed on the place where Logan had stood.

Something had shifted.

He didn’t know what.

But it felt like the start of something he wasn’t ready for.

The 5 p.m. bell rang, and Scott’s geometry students practically trampled each other on their way out.

He let them go without a word, watching the last straggler — a third-year girl with the power to manipulate light — beam him a small goodbye as she slipped through the door. He gave a faint nod in return before turning to erase the board.

Two weeks.

That’s how long Logan had been gone — on a mission to Central Europe with Storm and Kurt. Some mutant trafficking situation, low-profile but risky. Nothing new. Nothing Scott hadn’t handled himself a dozen times before.

But something felt different this time.

He hadn’t thought much of it at first. Logan had left him with a gruff “See you soon,” and a half-smile that might’ve once annoyed the hell out of him. Scott had just rolled his eyes, said “Don’t get stabbed,” and gone back to grading midterms.

But as the days passed, something subtle began to settle in his chest.

A kind of ache.

He turned off the classroom lights and locked the door behind him, as he made his way back to his office.

His new office.

It was smaller than the old one — fewer windows, fewer memories. He liked it that way. It gave him room to breathe.

He walked in and flicked on the desk lamp.

And then he froze.

There, against the far wall, sat the bookshelf.

He’d arranged it himself a few months ago — mostly texts on leadership, some field reports, a couple of physics volumes he liked pretending he still understood. Above it, pinned to the wall in clean, straight lines, were a few photographs.

He hadn’t really looked at them since he’d moved in.

But now he did.

And the first one stopped him cold.

It was a photo Bobby had taken during the last school retreat — Logan and Scott standing side by side near the grill, laughing at something Rogue had shouted from the deck. Logan’s head was slightly turned, mouth open mid-sentence, and Scott—Scott was smiling.

A real smile.

The kind that reached all the way to his eyes.

There were others too — Logan standing behind Scott during a Danger Room session, hand resting casually on his shoulder. The two of them sitting on the steps out back with Dr. Pepper bottles in hand, their knees almost touching. One from Christmas last year: Logan asleep on the couch, Scott draped in a blanket beside him, his head tipped unconsciously toward Logan’s shoulder.

Scott felt his throat tighten.

He hadn’t realized—

Or maybe he had.

Maybe he’d just been ignoring it.

He stepped forward, gaze moving from one photo to the next like he was seeing them for the first time. And in a way, he was.

Because suddenly, it was obvious.

It was in the way his body relaxed when Logan was around. The way he’d wake up less and less in the middle of the night when Logan was at the mansion. The way his mood soured when Logan was gone too long — like now.

And the way his chest had fluttered—actually fluttered—when Logan had touched him in the med bay, fingers brushing gently against his skin as he wrapped the gauze around his ribs.

He stared at the wall a moment longer.

Then whispered, “Fuck.”

It wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t scared.

It was just... real.

Because now he knew.

He was in love with Logan.

He sat down slowly in his chair, like the truth had physically knocked the wind out of him. His fingers pressed against his temples, the weight of it all suddenly very heavy.

It wasn’t something he’d planned. It wasn’t something he’d even thought possible. Not after Jean. Not with Logan.

But it was there.

In every careful glance. Every silent moment at three in the morning. Every stupid bottle of Dr. Pepper slid across the table without a word.

He was in love.

And the worst part?

He had no idea what the hell to do about it.

Logan had been back for four days.

Four long, awkward days.

Scott hadn’t spoken to him once.

It wasn’t subtle. He had dodged Logan in the halls. Skipped shared meals. Switched Danger Room shifts with Ororo without explanation. Hell, he’d even left his own staff meeting early when Logan sat down across from him.

And Logan, to his credit, hadn’t said a word.

Hadn’t chased him down.

Hadn’t pressed.

But that only made it worse.

Because Scott knew Logan had noticed.

Knew he was giving him space.

And the thing was, Scott didn’t even know what the hell he was waiting for. A sign? An answer? A sudden disappearance of the feelings he’d been trying not to name for two years?

It didn’t happen.

All that happened was the ache in his chest whenever he saw Logan.

And now here he was again.

Same corridor. Same window at the end of the hall. The same view of the lake that always looked too still, too quiet.

He leaned against the cold glass, watching the tree line blur against the dusk, heart drumming a steady rhythm of something he didn’t want to feel.

Footsteps.

Logan.

He didn’t speak at first. Just came to stand beside Scott like he always did — a respectful, infuriating distance between them.

They both stared outside.

Finally, Logan said, “You mad at me or something?”

Scott shook his head.

“Then what is it?”

Silence.

Logan turned to look at him. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Scott didn’t move.

“You okay?”

“No.”

The word came out smaller than he intended.

Logan’s brow furrowed. “Something happen?”

Scott forced himself to meet his eyes. “I realized something.”

Logan waited.

Scott’s throat felt dry. “You know, after Jean, I didn’t think I’d ever feel anything again. Not like that. Not real.”

A breath.

“But then… you kept showing up. You stayed. Even when I gave you every reason not to.”

He paused, pulse pounding in his ears.

“And I hated it. Because it meant I had to feel again. I had to hurt. I had to care.”

Logan’s voice was low. “Scott—”

“I missed you,” Scott cut in, voice barely above a whisper. “When you were gone. More than I should have.”

Logan’s eyes softened.

“I saw those pictures in my office,” Scott went on. “And I realized I didn’t have any of Jean up on the wall. Just you. Us.”

Logan said nothing. Just watched him quietly.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what the hell that means,” Scott said. “Why it made my chest feel like it was about to split open.”

“And?”

Scott swallowed.

“It means I’m in love with you.”

Logan looked at him like he’d been waiting to hear those words for a long time — and never thought he would.

“I know that’s not fair,” Scott continued. “I know it’s complicated, and messy, and I don’t know what you feel or if you feel the same or if this is just…”

He trailed off, jaw tight.

“I just needed you to know.”

The wind outside shook the windowpane.

Logan exhaled slowly. “You done?”

Scott blinked. “What?”

Logan stepped forward, closer than before. “You done talking yourself into knots?”

Scott opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Logan reached out, slowly, giving Scott time to pull away.

He didn’t.

His hand settled on Scott’s jaw, thumb brushing lightly across his cheekbone.

Scott’s breath caught.

Logan’s voice was low. “You think I stuck around for the hell of it?”

Scott didn’t answer.

“I stayed because I couldn’t walk away from you,” Logan said. “I didn’t want to.”

Scott’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Say it again,” Logan murmured.

Scott opened them, just enough to meet his gaze. “I’m in love with you.”

Logan leaned in.

Their lips met like a question being answered, like something inevitable finally finding its place.

Scott kissed him back.

He wasn’t even sure when that part happened — only that Logan’s hand slid behind his neck, anchoring him, and Scott was pressing in like he’d been waiting years for this.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Scott’s forehead rested against Logan’s, eyes still closed.

“I kissed you,” he whispered.

Logan chuckled. “Yeah. You did.”

“Are you gonna punch me for it?”

Logan grinned, crooked and warm. “Not unless you stop now.”